The Beautiful: An Introduction to Psychological Aesthetics — Reading Notes
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Read the Text
When did I say or imply that he was _aware_ of doing any of it? It is not only possible, but extremely common, to perform processes without being aware of performing them. The man was not _aware,_ for instance, of making eye adjustments and eye movements, unless indeed his sight was out of order. Yet his eye movements could have been cinematographed, and his eye adjustments have been described minutely in a dozen treatises. He was no more aware of _doing_ any measuring or comparing than we are aware of _doing_ our digestion or circulation, except when we do them badly. But just as we are aware of our digestive and circulatory processes in the sense of being aware of the animal spirits resulting from their adequate performance, so he was aware of his measuring and comparing, inasmuch as he was aware that the line A--B was longer than the line C--D, or that the point E was half an inch to the left of the point F. For so long as we are neither examining into ourselves, nor called upon to make a choice between two possible proceedings, nor forced to do or suffer something difficult or distressing, in fact so long as we are attending to whatever absorbs our attention and not to our processes of attending, those processes are replaced in our awareness by the very facts--for instance the proportions and relations of lines--resulting from their activity. That these results should not resemble their cause, that mental elements (as they are called) should appear and disappear, and also combine into unaccountable compounds (Browning's "not a third sound, but a star") according as we attend to them, is indeed the besetting difficulty of a science carried on by the very processes which it studies. But it is so because it is one of Psychology's basic facts. And, so far as we are at present concerned, this difference between mental processes and their results is the fact upon which psychological aesthetics are based. And it is not in order to convert the Man on the Hill to belief in his own acts of shape-perception, nor even to explain why he was not aware of them, that I am insisting upon this point. The principle I have been expounding, let us call it that of the _merging of the perceptive activities of the subject in the qualities of the object of perception,_ explains another and quite as important mental process which was going on in that unsuspecting man.
But before proceeding to that I must make it clearer how that man stood in the matter of _awareness of himself._ He was, indeed, aware of himself whenever, during his contemplation of that landscape, the thought arose, "well, I must be going away, and perhaps I shan't see this place again"--or some infinitely abbreviated form, perhaps a mere sketched out gesture of turning away, accompanied by a slight feeling of _clinging,_ he couldn't for the life of him say in what part of his body. He was at that moment acutely aware that he _did not want_ to do something which it was optional to do. Or, if he acquiesced passively in the necessity of going away, aware that he _wanted to come back,_ or at all events wanted to carry off as much as possible of what he had seen. In short he was aware of himself either making the effort of tearing himself away, or, if some other person or mere habit, saved him this effort, he was aware of himself making another effort to impress that landscape on his memory, and aware of a future self making an effort to return to it. I call it _effort_; you may, if you prefer, call it will; at all events the man was aware of himself as nominative of a verb to _cling to,_ (in the future tense) _return to,_ to _choose as against some other alternative_; as nominative of a verb briefly, _to like_ or _love._ And the accusative of these verbs would be the landscape. But unless the man's contemplation was thus shot with similar ideas of some action or choice of his own, he would express the situation by saying "this landscape _is_ awfully beautiful."
Vernon Lee opens The Beautiful by addressing readers with no prior knowledge of psychology, grounding her explanation in familiar mental facts rather than elementary processes. The book's central concern is aesthetic preference for visible shapes, and Lee repeatedly distinguishes between shapes as two-dimensional and things as three-dimensional, arguing that qualities like weight and texture belong to things, not shapes. This distinction underpins her discussion of empathy (Einfühlung), where effort and resistance are extracted from bodily experience and attributed to shapes. The excerpts show a methodical, example-driven approach, using everyday observations—such as a floor pattern appearing convex or concave depending on how we interpret it—to illustrate psychological principles.
Shapes versus Things
Lee insists that visible shapes, though often aspects of cubic objects, have no body: they are two-dimensional and bodiless. The perception of three-dimensional space, she argues, is not directly given by vision but inferred from locomotor experience—muscular adjustments that become associated with two-dimensional arrangements of colour and light. She offers a striking test: making one colour of a floor pattern seem convex or concave by thinking of it as a light flower on a dark ground or a white cavity banked by a dark ridge. This shows that we do not really see three-dimensional objects but infer them by connecting visual data with locomotor results. The philistine who objects to unfamiliar painting styles, Lee notes, is often merely unable to identify two-dimensional shapes as representing three-dimensional things.
The Role of Empathy
Lee defines empathy (Einfühlung) as the extraction and schematisation of effort and resistance, achieved by eliminating the thought of weight and awareness of bodily tensions. This elimination allows us to attribute activities to two-dimensional shapes and feel those activities vividly. She anticipates the objection that effort and resistance must involve weight, which shapes cannot possess. Her answer is that empathy has schematised these qualities by removing incompatible elements. The process is thus a refinement, not a contradiction, of the shape-thing distinction. Lee's approach is consistently psychological: she treats empathy as a mental operation that transforms bodily experience into aesthetic response, without invoking metaphysical claims about beauty.
Method and Audience
Lee explicitly addresses two audiences: the lay reader, for whom she explains aesthetic problems using familiar mental facts, and the psychologist, to whom she offers the volume as a possible addition to facts and hypotheses. She acknowledges that her terms correspond only approximately to psychological fact, and she avoids misleading readers about complexes like memory and association. The book's structure—twenty-one chapters moving from the adjective 'beautiful' through contemplative satisfaction, aspects versus things, sensations, perception of relations, elements of shape, and empathy to aesthetic responsiveness and irradiation—reflects a systematic but accessible progression. Lee's tone is apologetic and careful, aware of the gap between everyday vocabulary and scientific precision.
Readers should note that Lee's argument is built on a series of precise distinctions—between shape and thing, sensation and perception, subject and object—that she develops incrementally. The excerpts reveal a writer who tests her claims with concrete examples and anticipates objections. The book rewards attention to these distinctions and to the way Lee uses everyday experience to ground psychological theory. For those interested in the history of aesthetics, The Beautiful offers a clear, non-technical entry into early twentieth-century psychological approaches to art.
Reading Lee’s careful separation of two-dimensional shapes from tactile things, I recalled standing before a fresco as a child, tracing its flatness with my eyes while my fingers itched for relief. Another day, I found that same strange hunger in The Ethics of the Dust — A Reader’s Guide — how Ruskin made stones feel like waiting bodies.
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