“Art has always been employed by the different social classes who hold the balance of power as one instrument of domination — hence, as a political Instrument. One can analyze epoch after epoch–from the stone age to our own day–and see that there is no form of art which does not also play an essential political role . . . What is it then that we really need?… An art with revolution as its subject: because the principal interest in the worker’s life has to be touched first.”
–Diego Rivera, 1929
Caravaggio
‘Artist suffer to produce art’ was the opening premise of my post yesterday. Somehow the creative process is one of “cracking your skull open” or “putting your sweat and blood into it.” “Tortured artist” even gets a page on Wikipedia, and is linked to the similar ‘poète maudit,’ the bad-boy artist who is against the establishment. In a way, societies finds tortured artistic personalities moving in the most Romantic way, because they feel a deep connection to this other person.
Vincent VanGogh
This all may be true to an extant, but I’m a little skeptic. Both the Romantic I of lyric poetry and the Romantic artist struggling to produce art are flawed characterizations. This emotional ethos en-nobilizes the making of art from a craft to fine art, with the by-product of considering the piece of work to reflect the soul of its creator. I think you’re as likely to see a reflection of your own soul as you are that of the artist.
Making art is suffering as much as making anything else is. It could take the same amount of work, in terms of energy expelled and time, to make a table as a painting. Going to work is often not fun, but do I really get to claim that I suffer as I email and answer the phone? Running on a treadmill might be considered suffering, but nobody will idolize your soul over it.
Robert Mapplethorpe
Also, don’t happy people create, and why shouldn’t they create good art? Leonardo is generally upheld as a great artist. He is also widely considered a brilliant thinker–yet he didn’t brood over his canvases. Hell, he could hardly be coerced to finish them once he had sketched them out, much less pour a troubled soul into them.
I have a gripe against Darwinism. Why did my species evolve to create buildings on cold, snowy islands like Manhattan without developing super thick skin? Or better yet, why does my species not live only on tropical islands? Yet another snow storm in progress here at Art Ravel’s shivering office. (It’s so cold the office itself is shivering.)
Darwin is everywhere. More and more books keep coming up on him. My ears now prick up at the name, since I attended a book tour lecture that links current aesthetics with our evolutionary past. (That book, too, got a mention in the New York Times.) Yet Darwinism and evolution isn’t the prickly subject it once was. Why the spout of interest?
Perhaps it’s because his 200th birthday is coming up. It may be that radical thinker Charles Darwin himself was a fascinating man, no doubt party true. However, it is also the case that biographers feel that they need to argue either that racism is inherent to Darwin’s theories or, on the contrary, that he was an abolitionist and his theories show a common origin for all mankind.
If people are still arguing about him and theories are still sprouting from his ideas, perhaps Darwin’s worth the glut of pages. I have it on good authority that The Origin of the Species is fascinating reading. Im not actually going to read it, but I thought I might put up some lovely gorilla art in Darwin’s honor. Unfortunately, there is no lovely gorilla art. (See above.)