Our world is a place of suffering, pain, and despair. Oftentimes, feeling as though we cannot escape this cursed existence, we turn our faces towards the good that exists in order to spare our hearts more pain. Like the children of World War I who swing-danced throughout the 1920s, our generation survives on distraction and escapism. This overindulgence in media is not to be blamed; rather, it is almost to be expected considering the depths of horrors we face and the stores of entertainment that we have created to keep ourselves sane. The deluge of information detailing our corrupted world pervades our reality on a daily basis, pushing us towards means of disassociation. While this reality seems only to allow two states of being in our culture—saturated in pain or floating on clouds of blissful ignorance—balancing the two leads to the act of creation which makes us unmistakably human: art.
The moment that we believe art is solely entertainment—which in this context I will use as synonymous to escapism—we reveal our confusion with the reality of art. Any song, painting, poem, sculpture, sketch, story, or dance bears the marks of its creator—art is tainted by blood. To appreciate the importance of art, we must see that artists, and the realities they depict, are indicative of the state of greater humanity. Try as it might to present an escape from our reality, art is a product of the world we live in and as such is at some level bound to reflect it.
Why then, facing the cruel realities of death, war, injustice, and sickness, do artists dramatize such a terrible existence and further dwell on the horrors we long to escape? In such a terrible world, art seeks to bring light to the horrors we turn away from and shine a light on the cause of our desperate search for an escape. Unlike the deluge of headlines that we are swamped with, a single piece of art—beautiful or not—can leave a striking impression and lasting effect on our hearts and minds.
“The photograph is not my problem,” street photographer Garry Winogrand would answer when asked about the meaning of his often jarring photos, “it’s yours”. [1] Winogrand addresses what sticks with us about disturbing art: it addresses us. Like the distraught expression of a passerby, no matter how quickly you turn your face to the side their image stays with you. Scholars have coined the term ‘the face’ to describe the lasting impression that a work can have on an observer. [2] Art has the power to force recognition of horror. Billie Holiday’s recording of Strange Fruit, while indisputably a masterpiece, defies the conventional standard of beauty. Stunning and talented as her voice may be, her cold and resolute voice etches out a testimony: “Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze // Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.”[3] It is physically sickening. In the way that Winogrand’s photography leaves a disturbing image burned into a viewer’s retinas, the cruelty captured in Holiday’s delivery alerts the listener to the ugly reality around them. This embodies the mission of all humanity: we are to create goodness in a world of bad, to sing through the pain and suffering in order to fight for awareness and justice for a better future.
Though the ugly realities of life can be reclaimed for ugly creation, beautiful art created in response to ugly events can prove just as, if not more, thought provoking. Paradoxically, these pieces reveal the narrative of suffering as much as the pain-stricken face of a portrait or the gruesome gore of a war painting. Though the pain might not be explicit, it is certainly integral to the composition. Consider this apocryphal example: as you see an old man painting a portrait of his wife, you compliment his artistry and admire the woman you see through his depiction. Smiling softly, he confides in you that his wife passed away and he paints to remember her. Looking back at the portrait, its beauty has been entirely affected by this context of his loss, though the pigment has not changed. In such a setting, art can achieve profound meaning by communicating pain through cultural aesthetics of beauty.
Olivier Messiaen, a French composer and musician, was drafted as a hospital nurse in World War II. Captured by Germans in 1940 and taken as a prisoner of war, Messiaen continued composing and created one of his most famous works: Quatuor pour la fin du Temps [Quartet for the End of Time]. Amidst such devastating conditions and inhumane treatment, Olivier treated his captivated audience to a piece of beauty. “Louange à l’éternité de Jésus,” the fifth movement of the quartet, portrays a particularly breathtaking beauty that cannot be fully appreciated without knowing the depths of suffering it was born into. Like the portrait of a passed loved one or the soundtrack to genocide, our incredible minds are able to see beauty all the more as it is situated in despair and loss.
Like the portrait of a passed loved one or the soundtrack to genocide, our incredible minds are able to see beauty all the more as it is situated in despair and loss.
If horrible art is made more beautiful by its placement in its awful context, one must ask what differences exist between glorifying depictions of ugliness and and the insensitive glorification of death and destruction. Gerhard Richter’s portraits of the 1977 suicides of German terrorists provide an interesting example of this careful distinction, in some eyes glorifying rebellion and in others portraying tragedy in death. For much of his German audience, painting Virtuoso Oil Paintings on the Subject of Stammheim was an “an immoral act.” [4] The subjects in question, though victims of suicide and prisoners in the Stammheim prison, committed bombings and murders—a complicated legacy that invited criticism of Richter’s conception of dignity within the piece.
Complex as this issue is, Richter has a base for depicting these prisoners as victims, on the premise that they are victims. Richter’s paintings do not glorify the bombings the Baader-Meinhoff group carried out or any malicious intent their suicides might have held. Rather, the grey wash of a desperate death emphasizes their very human experience of suffering. To deny criminals artistic depiction opens up an unanswerable debate of morality: Are criminals somehow inferior to those of us who have never been incarcerated? Are all crimes equally bad? Does the moral line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ people depend on the judicial system of the country they reside in? Are we to believe that everyone who has been convicted of a crime is fundamentally different from those who have not, who are as such deserving of humanity? From the Christian perspective, attempting to draw this line in the sand is futile. Ironically, a Christian’s belief that every person is guilty and fundamentally in desperate need of redemption allows a great freedom to give grace and forgiveness indiscriminately. Knowing that humans are not capable of justly judging each other’s hearts, Christians should exemplify this grace, loving guilty sinners without praising their horrible acts.
While this addresses whether art dignifies the unbearable, the question of glorifying violence remains. Francisco Goya’s painting titled The Third of May 1808 illustrates this delicate line of morality particularly well. Certainly, Goya captures violence and brutality in full form. However, it is essential to note that the light of the image draws the eye to the terror-stricken Spanish victim, standing in the unmistakable posture of an innocent crucifixion. Despite bloodied bodies heaped on the ground, a firing squad bearing down on wide-eyed civilians, and the covered faces of men who know the brutal fate which awaits them, Goya spotlights the helpless Spaniard. Art that presents violence in an honorific manner does not center on the victimization of the subject. Interpretive as art is, it would be impossible to accurately and universally categorize art as glorifying violence or not, because while the center of the painting is the Spaniard to one person it may be the hay bale to another. Regardless, if we are to reasonably evaluate the morality of art, discerning the line between violence’s glorification and condemnation begins with the treatment of the subject.
Art can capture the ordinary beauty that exists in a world of ugliness: the wildflowers that grow out of the blood-seeped battlefield, the poetry in a final goodbye, the golden radiance of a forest-fire sunset, the soft strength in a voice singing lowly over the deceased. Even outside of the drastic setting of war, beauty can arise from tragedy. Scrumptious meals are carved out of the corpses of slaughtered animals, stunning buildings are constructed on the foundations of decimated natural landscapes, and beloved children are born out of months of pain and labor. Paradoxically, within the vehicles of horror lie the vassals of beauty. If our planet excels at one thing, it is nurturing life through conditions of despair.
Scrumptious meals are carved out of the corpses of slaughtered animals, stunning buildings are constructed on the foundations of decimated natural landscapes, and beloved children are born out of months of pain and labor.
Certainly, this argument is not a call for violence and corruption in the name of inspiring art—there is enough ugliness in the world as it is. Ugliness is not a necessary requisite of beauty, neither should it be romanticized in light of any beauty it may uncover. The Christian story of redemption captures this: to admire the art is not to praise the conditions it was made under. Christians believe that the world has become deeply broken and full of pain, death, and suffering. However, through this saga of death, God sent the most beautiful thing: His son, Jesus. Messiaen’s music and Goya’s paintings are mere representations of the greatest story of our world; how the most good and perfect savior Jesus came to save his people by living, dying, and rising again in the most horrific world.
In light of such a remarkable narrative, it is only natural that people create such incredible masterpieces through harrowing conditions. Art created to reflect our ugly reality demands that we recognize the horrors that we so often seek to ignore. Rather than belittle the real experience of pain and suffering, visual and auditory representations of our world remind us of the incredible strength that humans possess in the power to create good out of such overwhelming evil.
By Libby Meade, Contributor
Libby Meade is a sophomore from Omaha, Nebraska, studying viola performance and political science. Consequently, she finds particular interest writing about art and international affairs. Libby loves tulips and green tea.
References
- Alex Danchev, On Art and War and Terror (Edinburgh University Press, 2009).
- Alex Danchev, “The Face, or, Senseless Kindness: War Photography and the Ethics of Responsibility,” in On Art and War and Terror (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009)
- Billie Holiday – Strange Fruit
- Danchev, On Art and War and Terror.