that the whitest patch in a picture attracts the eye, that an irregular shape, such as the marking of a Holstein cow, attracts more attention than the familiar patterning of walls, windows, tree trunks, etc., that a moving object in a scene where everything else is still attracts and holds attention, and that a humble cow emphasized by all these cinematographic means makes more of a hit than the most highly paid actor dozing in the shade.
But the strangeness or novelty of a motion may emphasize it, even though other motions going on at the same time are larger and stronger. In support of this statement the author offers a personal experience which came in the nature of a surprise when first seeing Niagara Falls. One would think that if a person who had never seen this sight were placed suddenly before it, he would gaze spellbound at the awful rush of water, and that no other motion could possibly distract him. But the author's attention was first attracted to something else which impressed him more deeply, something which moved silently, very slowly and very delicately. That strangely attractive thing was the cloud of spray that rose steadily from the bottom of the fall, floating gently upward past the brink and vanishing continually in the sky. Its peculiar appeal lay in its strangeness, not in its strength.
The reader can doubtless recall similar cases where strangeness exerted an overpowering appeal. At best that strangeness is much more than the satisfaction of curiosity. It is a type of beauty which comes as a relief from the common, familiar facts of every-day life. The combination of strangeness and beauty has
