harmony may arouse our feelings without unduly straining our attention.
A splendid example of secondary motion may be seen in the light draperies of a dancer. Even in the elementary movement of a few leaps across the stage we see the delicate rhythm of a scarf which is at first retarded by the air, then follows the dancer gracefully, and at last gently overtakes her.
Between the movements of body and scarf there is a charming play. They are pleasantly similar, yet they are pleasantly different. And there is a distinct feeling of progression in the various phases of this similarity and this difference. As spectators we catch this progression without any effort of the intellect and are instantly swept into its rhythm.
It would be easy for the director, of course, if the story which he is about to film always called for action as graceful as that of a dance. But unfortunately his scenario often demands the connecting of actions which, pictorially considered, are totally unrelated to each other. Yet if the director cares to seek the principles of beauty he will find many ways of harmonizing elements that are seemingly in conflict.
One way is simply to impose on each of the discordant elements a new value which they may assume in common without losing their own distinctive characters. Suppose, for instance, that we must show a society lady, with all her soft refinement, on a visit to a foundry, with all its sweating roughness. One may fear that there must be something repellent between her stately gentility and the bending backs of workmen; between her kid-gloved gestures and the flow of molten metal. Yet we can blend the whole
