Had jesting Pilate asked “What is Art?” he would have waited quite as many centuries for an answer as he has for the answer to his question about Truth. For art to the artist, and art to the rest of us, are two very different things. Art to the artist is quite simply Life, his life, of which he has an amplitude and intensity unknown to us. What he does for us is to thrill us awake to the amplitude and intensity of all life, our own included. And this is a miracle for which we can never be thankful enough.

This, at least, is what Rockwell Kent’s Alaska drawings and Alaska journal do for me; they take me away from that tired absorption in things of little import which makes up most of our human life and make me see, not an unreal world of romantic illusion, that fool’s pleasure given by the second-rate artist, but the real wonder-world in which I live and have always lived. They make me see suddenly that there is a vast deal more in the world than embittering and anxious preoccupations, that much of it is fine, much is comforting, much awe-inspiring, much profoundly tragic, and all of it makes up a whole so vast that no living organism need feel cramped.

No other of the qualities of the journal and drawings goes home to me more than the unforced authenticity of the impression set down by this strong and ardent artist. Emerson’s grandeur is infinitely more convincing to me because of his homeliness, and I feel a perverse Yankee suspicion of those who deal in sublimities only. The man who can extract the whole quaint savor out of that magical, prosaic, humorous moment of human life, the first stretching yawn of the early morning, that man can make me believe that I too see the north wind running mightily athwart the sky. And the artist who can put into the simplest drawing of a man and a little boy eating together at a rough table in a rough cabin, all the dear solidity of family and home life, with its quiet triumph against overpowering Nature, that artist can make me bow my head before the sincerity of his impressive “Night.”

The homeliness of the diary, its courageously unaffected naturalness, how it carries one out of fussy complications to a long breath of relief in the fewness and permanence of things that count! And the humor of it ... sometimes deliciously unintentional like the picture of the artist finishing a fine drawing, setting the beans to soak, bathing in the bread pan, and going to bed to read a chapter of Blake, sometimes intentional and shrewd like “a banana-peel on a mountain-top tames that wilderness,” or “colds, like bad temper and loss of faith, are a malady of the city crowd”; sometimes outright and hearty like a child’s joke, as in the amusingly faithful portrait of the pot-bellied, self-important personality of the air-tight stove!

There are only three human characters in this quiet, intense record, all of them significant and vital. First of them is the artist himself, who in these notes, written originally for the eyes of his intimates only, speaks out with a free unselfconsciousness as rare in our modern world as the virgin solitude of the island where he lived. Here is the artist at work, creating, as Henry James said he could not be shown; the artist, that is, a man violently alive, full-blooded and fine, fierce and pure, arrogant and tender, with an elate, boastful, well-founded certainty of his strength, rejoicing in his work, in his son, in his friend, in the whole visible world, and most of all in himself and his own vigorous possibilities for good, evil, and creative work.

The other two human characters in this adventuring quest after great and simple things are acquisitions to be thankful for, also; the touchingly tender-hearted, knight-like, beautiful, funny little boy; and lovable, dignified old Olson ... a fiction writer wonders in despair why old Olson so vividly, brilliantly lives in these unstudied pages, solid, breathing, warm, as miraculously different from all other human beings as any creature of flesh and blood who draws the mysterious breath of life beside you in the same room.

Fox Island lives too; we walk about it, treading solidly, loving “every log and rotten stump, gnarled tree, every mound and path, the rocks and brooks, each a being in itself,” just as little Rockwell does; and we climb with the “two younger ones up the sheer, snow-covered ridge till across the great jagged teeth of Fenris-the-Wolf, we see the glory of the open sea.” We “look up at Olson, swaying gigantic on the deck above us, as we bump the side in our little boat” and we go down into the warm cabin full of the fumes of cooking and good-fellowship, and drink with the old skipper and the old Swede till we too see deep “under the white hard surface of where life is hidden.”

All this firm earth gives authority and penetration to the shining beauty which pervades the book and the drawings, carries us along to share it, not merely to look at it; to feel it, not merely to admire it.

The notes here published were written, I believe, day by day for the author’s wife and children, and are here published almost as they were set down, as commentary to the drawings. Well, let us be thankful that we were let into the family circle and along with them can spend six months in the midst of strength and beauty and tenderness and fun and majesty, close to simple things, great because they are real. The author may be sure that we leave them with the same backward-looking wistfulness he feels, and with the same gratitude for having known them.

Dorothy Canfield.