The Purpose of Art?
Art functions within
human experience in many ways: to express the imagination (Shelley); to purge
the emotions through pity and terror (Aristotle) ; to promote the class
struggle (Marx); to advance universal brotherhood (Tolstoy); to enhance
morality (“the essential function of art is moral,” bluntly says D. H.
Lawrence); to criticize life (Matthew Arnold); to help live the good life
(Pater, Dewey); to contemplate (Schopenhauer); to bring you “face-to-face with
reality” (Bergson); to help you relax (Matisse); and, of course, to serve no
function at all, but simply to exist for its own sake. Here two are examined in
detail:
Art as an Imitation of
Nature
The most ancient and
honorable function of art is the “imitation of nature.” Nowadays the term
“imitation” is pejorative; the “mere imitator” is scorned. However, the thesis
here means that it is the world outside of the artist which is the source of
his inspiration, or the reservoir for his ideas. Hamlet urges, hold the mirror
up to nature! Monet describes a painting as “une fene’tre ouverte sur la Nature.” Leonardo da
Vinci advises the painter to look at women’s faces by twilight, when their
secrets can best be perceived. Successive revolutions in the history of
painting have all proclaimed themselves “truer to nature;” in their turn,
impressionism, pointillism, cubism, futurism, and so on claimed to capture
“what we really see.” In the fourteenth century, however, Boccaccio wrote,
“There is nothing which Giotto could not have portrayed in such a manner as to
deceive the sense of sight.”
Nature is the source of
inspiration even for artists who deliberately distort what they think is “out
there”: consider the mannerism of El Greco, the fantastic art of Bosch, and the
surrealism of Magritte and Dali. The same contention applies to literature:
Kafka and Joyce are no less indebted to the world about them than Balzac and
Zola. Nature is an aesthetic norm for the artist even when he disagrees with
Matthew Arnold that he should “see the object in itself as it really is.”
However, this position
has it’s critics and has been ridiculed by Virginia
Woolf: “Art is not a copy of the real world; one of the damn things is enough.”
And by Picasso, who, when he was told that his portrait of Gertrude Stein
didn’t look like her, said, “Never mind, it will.” And by Matisse, who, when a
visitor to his studio suggested, “Surely the arm of that woman is too long?”
replied, “Madame, you are mistaken. That is not a woman; that is a picture.”
Plato regards art as inferior to nature, since the particular apple which the
artist copies is itself only a copy of the universal Apple, which is truly
real, so art is for Plato thus twice removed from reality; partly for this
reason he eliminated art from his perfect state.
Art as a Language
We often ask about a work
of art (but never about a flower), what does it mean? We expect it to
communicate something to us: but exactly how? If art is to be considered a
language, it is so only loosely and metaphorically. Lusty, rowdy gaiety is
clearly suggested to us by Bosch’s rural scenes and the evils of fascism by
Picasso’s
If we are to think of the
literary arts as a language, then we must regard the words as functioning both
cognitively and expressively. But what information is being communicated by Shelley’s:
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity
or by the delightful imagery
of Stephen Spender’s
Eye, gazelle, delicate wanderer,
Drinker of horizon’s fluid line.
Can we be reasonably sure
of what Hamlet tells us? or Moby Dick? or The
William Empson cites the Chinese poem: ‘Swiftly
the years, beyond recall. Solemn the stillness of this spring
morning.’ What makes these phrases a poem? The sentiment is elevated,
and the lines are terse, spare, compact, and closely connected; but why are
“the years” and “this morning” juxtaposed? Why are the years “swift” and the
morning “solemn” and “still”? It is this provoking ambiguity which permits and
requires the reader to supply his own answers; and the greater the latitude
left the reader, often the richer the poem. We must perforce choose between two
inconsistent statements in science or in philosophy, but never between two
poems. “Critics quarrel with other critics,” says Santayana, but “with an
artist no sane man quarrels.” That is also why poetry is so difficult to
translate - often the “creative misunderstanding” (Valery) is lost. You cannot
replace the rain in Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms by any other symbol;
nor can you substitute anything for the falling camellia blossoms in Japanese
drama (which suggest that a beheading is to come)
However, if Art is used
to communicate then this raises the question of what is communicated and
whether what the audience receives has to match up with what the artist
intended but intention is a tricky concept, how do you determine it? Do you ask
the artist? Do you read his letters, notes, or autobiography? Do you look at
the title of the work? or at the epigraph? Do
you consult the artist’s psychoanalyst? What about the intention of insane
poets such as Christopher Smart? What of unconscious intentions? An old
anecdote is worth telling. Robert Browning was once asked what he had meant by
a poem he wrote many years before. When I wrote that poem, he is supposed to
have replied, God and Robert Browning knew what I meant. Now only God knows.
Uncertainties about the
intention of the artist prompted a movement called the “New Criticism”.’ Its
advocates maintain that the work of art is public and self-sufficient; it is
“detached from the author at birth.” To evaluate a poem or a painting on the
basis of what its creator may have intended is to appraise a phantom - the work
of art as it might have been or should have been: we must consider it only as
it actually is, What the artist may have “had in mind” is not part of the
perceived work; to refer to it is the intentional fallacy: for example,
in interpreting Dylan Thomas’ line:
And from the windy West came two-gunned Gabriel
the critic Elder Olsen
explains that the poet had in mind the constellation Perseus,
for the man Perseus (who decapitated Medusa) had two
weapons (his sword and Medusa’s head); the two guns recall the Wild West, and therefore
the game of poker, and therefore other card games, and therefore trumps, and
therefore the last trump, and therefore Gabriel. If this explanation helps us
better to enjoy that line, fine! But all we ever have is the line, and not the
professed contents of Dylan Thomas’ brain. Joseph Conrad’s short story “The
Secret Sharer” is about a young sea captain on his first voyage in command. The
captain protects a stowaway who is a murderer and a fugitive. The simple
adventure has profound and ambiguous overtones—of delusion, homosexuality, the
force of authority, the conflict between morality and justice, the story of
Cain and Abel, the doppelgdnger, Conrad’s
own life. There is little point in inquiring what the author’s “real” intention
was, or what the “true” interpretation is: any hypothesis which can be
supported by evidence in the text ought to be thoughtfully examined and
joyfully experienced. To insist on the “real meaning” is to mistake
literature and art for idealized science. A work of art is not a sense datum;
it is not merely something perceived, but rather something interpreted. And in
the richness, multiplicity, and range of its legitimate interpretations lie its fertility and vigor as a work of art.
Thus it seems that there
are reasons to think that Art is both an imitation of nature and language used
for communication, perhaps the very thing that makes something art is our
inability to assign it a specific function or role: perhaps art is the
refutation of the practical.
Adapted from Reuben Abel’s ‘Man is the Measure’ (Chapter 21)