You pass from court to edifice and from edifice to court, marveling at the symmetry of plan and structure.  Unity, balance, and harmony become manifest as spatial properties — you had been taught to regard them as principles of art.  You wonder if art itself may not be merely a matter of right placing — the adjustment of a thing to its environment.  You are certain that this is so as each coign and niche offers you its particular insight.  Strange vagaries float through your mind — one’s duty to the inanimate things of one’s possession; the house too large for the personality of the owner; the right setting for certain idiosyncrasies; character building as a constructive process; the ideal as the limit of an infinite series — each pointing the way, as you think, to a different vista of human outlook.  What then your glad surprise to find these converging toward one ideal synthesis.  In anticipation of the splendor you hasten on till earth shall have attained to heaven.  There it stands — ‘a structure brave,’ the Palace of Art, the Temple of the Soul — and you know you were made to be perfect too.

Now that you apprehend the plan of the whole, symmetry takes on a vital significance for your thought.  You try to recall what you learned of it in geometry.  There was a folding over, you remember, and a fitting together ‘congruence’ you believe it was called.  But that could have no meaning for solids.  Stop! a folding over?  Why, that implies another dimension!  The two halves of a leaf can be brought together only as one or the other is lifted out of the plane of the leaf into a third dimension.  So to bring two buildings into superposition when they are alike except for a reverse order of parts, would necessitate a fourth dimension and a turning inside out.  Quick as the thought, the court you are in is that — a building inside out!

Ah! you know now wherefor that wonderful uplifting sensation that comes whenever you enter one of these beautiful inclosures.  You have passed into the fourth dimension of spatial realization.  ‘Time is past,’ you shout aloud, and laugh to find yourself on the inside of externality.  Cubism in architecture!  Futurism, in very truth!

You visit again the galleries of the New Art, not to scoff, but in earnest desire for enlightenment as to this thing which is so near to consciousness and yet so far.  You find yourself exclaiming: 

’Ah, there is something here
Unfathomed by the cynic’s sneer!’

As you gaze at the portrayal so strangely weird in form and color you ask yourself where have I felt that, seen this, before?  Immediately you are transported in memory to the midst of a crowded street.  In the mad bustle and noise you are conscious only of mechanical power; of speed — always of speed.  Your voice far away — ‘The child, oh, the child!’ A swooning sensation.  Men’s faces as triangles and horses with countless legs.  The chaos of primal forces about youthen darkness.