Every scientific discipline, in order to determine with the greatest possible exactitude the phenomena that come within the scope of its particular domain, creates a vocabulary of technical terms with specific significances which it uses as indispensable tools in its research work. On many occasions, when one and the same phenomenon is considered according to the fundamental concepts of related disciplines, various designations are used, giving different meanings and nuances in the development of the analysis. This leads most frequently to an enrichment of the given interpretation, but sometimes also obscures it.

Being is, above all, a vocation to continue to be. In the inanimate world, pure inertia achieves this ambition by means of its insistence on maintaining every conceivable state of equilibrium or else of movement. That which is persists in remaining as it is; a stone, for instance, insofar as nothing prevents it from continuing to exist in its condition as a stone. Certainly, this is the earliest and most remote origin of that which, at a later stage, is destined to manifest itself in art in a form that is not recognizable; in this case one might well say that, in the Beginning, was Classicism.

My purpose in this article is to bring out the basic features of Hindustani music—the music of North India. Karnatik music, or the music of the South, is different. Fortunately, however, some basic concepts are common to both the styles. More important of these are: alāpa, rāga, tāla. So, a treatment of Hindustani music is not to be regarded as throwing no light on the Karnatik style. The bases of my attempt are provided essentially by my own experiences as a listener. But I have also drawn upon established musicology; and, what is equally important, upon the aesthetic insight revealed by our master musicians in intimate conversation.

Ever since Durkheim it has been a commonplace of family sociology that marriage serves as a protection against anomie for the individual. Interesting and pragmatically useful though this insight is, it is but the negative side of a phenomenon of much broader significance. If one speaks of anomic states, then one ought properly to investigate also the nomic processes that, by their absence, lead to the aforementioned states. If, consequently, one finds a negative correlation between marriage and anomie, then one should be led to inquire into the character of marriage as a nomos-building instrumentality, that is, of marriage as a social arrangement that creates for the individual the sort of order in which he can experience his life as making sense. It is our intention here to discuss marriage in these terms. While this could evidently be done in a macrosociological perspective, dealing with marriage as a major social institution related to other broad structures of society, our focus will be microsociological, dealing primarily with the social processes affecting the individuals in any specific marriage, although, of course, the larger framework of these processes will have to be understood. In what sense this discussion can be described as microsociology of knowledge will hopefully become clearer in the course of it.

Markandeya told King Vajra in the Vishnudhar-mōttara Purāna that he must learn the art of dance before he learned the art of icon making, and the art of music before he learned the art of the dance; he added that rhythm (tāla) was basic to them all. This story is significant from the point of view of the Indian Arts, since it points towards the inter-relationship of the arts not on the level of the aesthetic experience alone, but also that of technique.

In his Trattato di Pittura, written in 1435, Leon Battista Alberti recalls Zeuxis, who, judging his own paintings invaluable, refused to put a price on them. The nobility of art and the artist's interests are thus defended in a work which expressed above all the tendencies of a new generation. But it was also the first manifesto in a propaganda campaign whose fruits were to be fully realized a century later. The artist would finally come to be respected, paid for his pains on an equal basis with the man of letters (until he surpassed the latter), be renowned and assured of meriting his fame. Michelangelo rejoiced in the hardness of marble and bronze because these materials would assure the survival of his works over a long period. When Vasari sent him a copy of his Vite, he thanked him with a sonnet, in which he congratulates Vasari for his work on behalf of artists —and not only contemporary artists, since he also refers to those who, having lived in less fortunate times, had fallen into, or risked falling into, oblivion: Or le memorie altrui già spente, accese…

Ever since the mediaeval quarrel over universais, there have invariably been minds for whom every general concept is a flatus vocis. And for many African intellectuals, the term “negritude,” introduced by Aimé Césaire and Léopold Sédar Senghor around the years 1933-1935, is no more than just a word. Yet the mere fact that it came into being, even though it should have no intelligible content, is in itself significant. It is indicative of the same growing awareness that led to the struggle against racial discrimination and the liberation movements of colonial peoples. But a growing awareness of what?

Just a very few years ago no one would have thought of introducing an article with this title, because only more or less isolated religious traits and complexes of traits were known to be common to Mexico and China on the one hand, like the series of animal etc. names used in the calendar, and to Mexico, India and Indianized Southeast Asia on the other, like the belief in four or five destructions and re-creations of the world, the pachisi-patolli game connected with the four directions, the tearing out of the heart of a still-living victim of human sacrifice, the piercing of the tongue by priests and the pulling through of thin objects, and a considerable number of motives in religious art, including the representation of specific gods with their characteristic paraphernalia.

A national theatre is a representative, specific, and unique image of a community's ethos, and is created through the living idiom, the distinctive tone, and the particular form that a community evolves in its process of living. Whatever is dead, irrelevant or alien cannot be an attribute of a living national theatre. A vigorous theatre is always rooted in patterns of public behaviour. The moment an experience is severed from these patterns of public conduct, at that moment we knock out the dramatic tensions, and the generative action which define the quality of a theatre. The theatre, as an art, emerges out of vital social contexts and miraculously images a community's awareness, its identity, its potentials, and its particularity. If a theatre does not draw its nourishment from the detailed facts of life it remains a toneless and anaemic exercise.

Crimes committed in the name of God are a recurrent theme in the history of Christian Europe. The ancients practiced torture and murder in war, on slaves (who were supplied by the wars) and as a form of entertainment: the circenses. But in spiritual matters the emperors were relatively tolerant. If the Christians were singled out as scapegoats, it was because they did not yet at that time place the state above all else and still recognized something higher than the empire. But since Constantine in his unscrupulous way singled out Christianity from among the existing religions to fill in the cracks in his crumbling empire and elevated it to the state religion, Europe has stood under the sign of that doctrine and betrayed it again and again. If the words of the founder, his recorded will, his precepts had been put in practice instead of being interpreted by the scholars, neither the unified Christians of the middle ages nor the disunited Christians of the modern period would have had their splendid careers. Whatever teachings could have been taken over from the Old Testament, glory in battle was no part of it. Under the heathen emperors, the commandment to render unto caesar what was caesar's could bring Christians into conflict with the state and, when they rightly refused to observe it, to the cross. But the Christian emperors would have untertaken no wars of conquest, they would have named no tribunals to punish those who had offended against them. The victorious course of Christianity since Nicaea and especially since Augustine, which was not unlike the expansion of Buddhism since the reign of Asoka, sealed its pact with that worldy wisdom which it had originally professed to renounce. Its readiness for fanaticism, without which its ascendancy would have been unthinkable, testified to a secret and indomitable hatred for that attitude of mind for which its founder had earlier been put to death.

Degradation has been associated with earning a livelihood in the arts since at least Plato, who showed disdain for the sophists who taught rhetorics for money. Aristotle with his concept energeia—which he designated as all activities that do not pursue an end but exhaust their full meanings in the performance itself—infused into western tradition the idea that only what we do for its own sake is noble. The lucre-versus-glory conflict pervades all writings on art from Leonardo and Vasari to the 19th century idea of the “pot au feu” and “making concessions” to the public. Only to paint for glory and immortality is noble, to submit to the whims of a patron is treason to art itself. These attitudes are rejected by many contemporary artists as anachronistic and sentimental snobbishness. Many artists, on the other hand, consider them viable. For them, living up to these ideals and subsisting at the same time is a dilemma. Patronage has virtually disappeared and the public purchases paintings from the well-established artists. Many resolve their dilemma by entering commercial or, as many prefer to call it, advertising art because there is a large and increasing demand for their skills. These circumstances, together with the historical sentiments referred to, led me to ask the following questions: What social-psychological conflicts do artists experience when they enter advertising art? What changes do they undergo in their identity as they mature as commercial or advertising artists? And what are the implications of working in advertising art for the artist, his art and for the mass society of which he and his work are a part? These questions formed the basis of an empirical study of 53 commercial artists who were living in Chicago. Part of that study is described in this paper.

If the Royal Commentaries of the Incas, published in 1609, for a long time enjoyed an authority and exceptional prestige, if this work created the image in the French 18th century of an ideally ordered, just and virtuous society, it was no doubt due more to the admirable skill with which Garcilaso presented an especially brilliant and fascinating picture of the civilization of his maternal ancestors, the lords of Peru, than to the title of Inca, in which he could take pride—as the son of a Peruvian princess and a noble Spanish conqueror—or to the fact that he witnessed the aftermath of the conquest and the fall of the empire. It was perhaps a too attractive picture, and toward the middle of the 19th century it raised some doubt and scepticism. The Commentaries were then considered to be a romanticized history of the Inca civilization, even a utopia pure and simple. Modern criticism has reversed this view. It has pointed out that many facts in the book were valid, and that some were indisputable. Recent works tend to revindicate in their conclusions the historical importance and the sincerity of Garcilaso, without denying in the process the stylization, idealization and prejudices of the book. The viewpoint of the erudite Peruvian scholar Porras Barrenechea is in this respect significant: “The image of the Inca Empire that Garcilaso projects,” he writes, “is neither false nor deceptive. It is only one-sided. He gathered and related essentially favorable facts, those which exalted the memory of the lost empire and not which would have justified its disappearance…”

The people of Iceland enriched the literature of the Middle Ages with a genre of epic prose that is found nowhere else in Europe. It takes the form of narratives depicting people and events belonging to a period of about one century, which begins in 930 and extends up to 1030. The Icelandic people had established themselves along the entire shore of the deserted island, and the settlers had divided among themselves the arable soil. During the first hundred years the population, composed of wealthy landowners who had left their native soil of Norway, bold adventurers and Vikings, tired of their unstable life of pillage, were looking for the stability that would be conducive to a permanent and ordered society. The settlers were rude, ambitious and avid for power; hence there were many instances of embittered and sometimes bloody clashes. This period abounds in personalities of great stature, fighting for their real or usurped claims. It can well be described as a heroic period, which gave men the opportunity to utilize all of their physical and mental faculties. Later on, in the thirteenth century, when the people of Iceland attempted to revive the memory of their ancestors from the earliest years of the country's history, their conception of them was magnified by the admiration of a generation of men who believed themselves to be the epigones of true heros.

Samuel Butler sees the nightshirts of the master and the lady of the house drying on the line in the garden next door. The following year he notices that a small baby's shirt has been added. As a superficial onlooker he could be led to believe that the two large shirts have engendered the small one. We make a somewhat similar mistake, says Butler, in believing that the bodies of the parents have made the baby. The body of the baby has no more been made by the two grown babies, on whose pattern it is modeled, than the small shirt has been made by the two large ones… What makes the small shirt as well as the baby is something we know absolutely nothing about. In any case, it is always risky to “place” the organic lines of continuity or of “genidentity.” One risks taking the resulting and secondary forms for the constituent reality itself, the machines for the machinists, especially within the organism, where the machines and machinists are intimately bound together.

That the Indian approach to literature has always been different from the Western one would be a trite observation. To add that the Indian tradition distinguished literature, or more specifically poetry, from art, because the aims of the two were different would be correct but not sufficiently explanatory. To arrive at a fair appreciation of the predicament of the contemporary Indian writer who is heir to two incompatible literary traditions, it is most useful to compare the traditional or classical author-audience relationship in India with the one obtaining now and set the two in the perspective of historical development.

We think of the Indian as our problem. We think of him as a biological entity within our collectivity. He is not exactly the proletariat, the working class of our society. He is the underdog, the outcast, the untouchable.

We admire the sheer ability of the Indian to live as an animal, to procreate his image without change century after century, to lie drunk in the cool soft air of the Andes muttering bad words and supplications to the virgin and all the pagan gods. “The Indian always works slowly, at a retarded rhythm, a monotonous and unchangeable beat. Never, or very rarely, can he be seen running, jumping, excited, realizing rapid action, violent, energetic, of nervous impulse. In his music, in his dance, in his song, we see the repercussion of this physical state and from it the sobbing monotony of his cultural manifestations. The reciprocal action of the physiological on the psychological and vice versa complete the group of factors that account for the morbid languor in which the Indian vegetates.” Yet despite all of this the Indian is eternal. Since he does not enter into the cycle of evolution, of progress, he neither lives in the true sense of civilization, nor does he die. This phenomena of stagnant purely biological existence may be explained from many points of view.

Unlike recent proponents of indigenismo I shall try to show that the physical phenomenon of the colonial city in Latin America was entirely European in genesis and in form. I shall also review some recent theories concerning the psychology, the transmission, and the reception of European urbanism in colonial America. Finally I hope to set colonial metropolitan centers into perspective with the longer span of archaeological history as well as with events in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

In the minds of the leading Marxist theorists of before 1917, the triumph of the proletarian revolution, the socialisation of the means of production and the setting up of centralized planning would inevitably lead to a society organized in such a manner that, after a preliminary phase of democratic dictatorship of the proletariat, the social body would then cease to be divided according to classes and the exploitation of man by man would be abolished. This would subsequently lead to an integration of the major values inherited from middle-class humanism (universality, individual freedom, equality, the dignity of the human person, freedom of expression) so as to endow them, for the first time in the history of humanity, with a quality of authenticity instead of the purely formal status that they had previously been granted in a capitalist society.

Professor Northrop, in his introduction to Professor Heisenbergs volume in the World Perspectives series entitled Physics and Philosophy, makes the following significant observation:

It is frequently assumed by native leaders of non-Western societies and also often by their Western advisors, that the problem of introducing modern scientific instruments and ways into Asia, the Middle East and Africa is merely that of giving native people their political independence and then providing them with the funds and the practical instruments. This facile assumption overlooks several things. First, the instruments of modern science derive from its theory and require a comprehension of that theory for their correct manufacture or effective use. Second, this theory in turn rests on philosophical as well as physical assumptions… one cannot bring in the instruments of modern physics without sooner or later introducing its philosophical mentality, and this mentality, as it captures the scientifically trained youth, upsets the old familial and tribal moral loyalties. If unnecessary emotional conflict and social demoralization are not to result, it is important that the youth… must see their experience as the coming together of two different philosophical mentalities, that of their traditional culture and that of the new physics.