Art and Authenticity, An Interlude

In all things there must be a reckoning.

Well, this is not actually true.  I believe that in a properly just world there would be a reckoning, however.  I feel fortunate, then, to not live in a properly just world.  For while it is so easy for me to look at someone else’s mistakes and faults and screwups and say, “There should be a reckoning for that,” it is not so easy for me to look at my own mistakes and faults and screwups and say the same thing.

This is the biggest problem with the world, really.  I would much rather be given credit for my successes and a pass for my sins than the other way around.  I make that happen by focusing as much as possible on that which I have gotten right and avoiding allowing too much light to shine on that which I got wrong.  I prefer to think the same way of my friends and the opposite of my enemies.[1]

Still, I think that it is important to ask the question, “Why did you do that?” from time to time.  Especially when I find myself in the throes of a multi-part entry on art created by a specific person in a specific church I have not attended and probably won’t attend any time soon.  I must ask myself one all-important question: “Why do I care?”

That…well…that is a rabbit trail if I’ve ever seen one.

I read Yann Martel’s Beatrice and Virgil today.  Quite literally.  It’s a small, breezy book, the sort of book that would be considered light fiction were it not for the fact that the subject at hand is so heavy and the tears in my eyes at the end were so very real.

I hesitate to explain the book.  I fear it is just one of those works of art that must be approached with innocence to be properly understood and appreciated.  It must confuse and bewilder that it may take you by surprise and destroy that innocence.[2]  So I will say this: I have been reminded yet again that art is the only weapon we have in the fight against cruelty.

Art is the leaky vessel in to which we pour empathy.  This is why the first step to destroying people is, of necessity, the destruction of art.  This is why any time art is replaced by propaganda we must set ourselves on guard against violence and hate and death.  No one can call for help whose voice has been silenced.

The price of freedom, Jefferson said, is eternal vigilance.  In our limited sense of how the world works we mostly visualize that through the prism of armed guards and stout walls.  But freedom isn’t always taken by external enemies bearing guns.  It can just as easily taken from within, as the 20th Century taught us time and again.

Creating art and experiencing the art of others is, in a very real way, an act of vigilance.  It is a reminder that while I am aware of my humanity and my desires, another may not be.  It is a reminder to me that someone I wish to call my enemy is a person just like me, too.  Art is a common language, a common currency through which people who see the world in different ways can interact and coexist.

So when I see art emerge from a place that has been primarily interested in propaganda I consider it to be a Good Thing.  That doesn’t mean I don’t have reservations, but that is not a discussion for this interlude.  For now let us just rest here.

Better yet, let’s not let it rest at all.

To love art is to love humanity.
To love humanity is to love art.

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[1]Well, to the best of my knowledge I don’t really have enemies.  But I am certainly aware of people in this world who I think should be forced to admit to their terrible deeds and be publicly flogged.

[2]I really wish I’d finished my On Writing series by now.  Part three is about this very idea and it would be helpful to reference it.