Maureen Mullarkey is a painter who writes on art and culture. Her essays have appeared in various publications, among them: The Nation, Crisis, Commonweal, Hudson Review, Arts, The New Criterion, First Things, The Weekly Standard, and The Magazine Antiques. She was a columnist for The New York Sun.
Glancing quickly, I misinterpreted the opening lines of a recent bulletin from Sandro Magister’s Chiesa . My eye fell on a reference to the Venice Biennale and, at the same time, on a thumbnail image of a contemporary chapel. At once devotional and festive, it looked to be a lovely ensemble. My immediate impression was that the Vatican pavilion would contain a model chapel, a beautifully designed invitation to prayera challengeaddressed to the international art crowd.
I was ready to recant all my misgivings about Cardinal Ravasi’s foray into the belly of the casino: I take it all back! Ravasi pulled it off! He is reminding high-flyers that the Christian West still holds. Hats off, Your Eminence!
Then I read more carefully.
What I was looking at had nothing to do with the Biennale. It illustrated a liturgical model already in use by the Neocatechumenal Way, designed by its founder Kiko Argüello. Some Catholics dismiss these images as pseudo-Byzantinea charge made, I suspect, out of disfavor with the liturgical practices of the Way. (No such dismissal is aimed at Ken Jan Woo’s icons of modern saints, commissioned by Fr. George Rutler, that surround the sanctuary at Our Savior’s Church in Manhattan.)
Yet there is nothing counterfeit about Argüello’s paintings. They do not pretend to be anything but modern. No antiquing glazes mellow surfaces with a patina of age; nothing softens the modernity of hard-edged forms. Unmistakably contemporary in execution, his work simply follows the pattern of ancient iconographic guides. Doing so, it witnesses to the enduring power of the icon tradition, one worthy of restoration.
But the Pontifical Council for Culture has its eye on decorations for the Church of What’s Happening Right Now. That is where pseudo comes in.
Chiesa ‘s broadcast included a link to Magister’s blog in L’Espresso . His May 17th entry offered a tiny photo of the cardinal posing in front of one of his selections with the artist, Lawrence Carroll. Born in Australia in 1954, Carroll is an American painter who lives and works in New York and LA (also Malibu and Venice, depending on which bio you read). His exhibition history is impressive. It includes prestigious venues from New York and Beverly Hills to Rome, Barcelona, Bergamo, Munich, Helsinki and points in-between.
Cardinal Ravasi has been carefully advised. Judging from this first peek into his choices for the Biennale, the Vatican pavilion will be obedient to that amalgam of interests held by dealers, collectors, museum directors and trustees (collectors themselves), and curators that comprise the speculative contemporary art market.
It may yet happen that the Vatican pavilion will knock the ball out of the park. But Cardinal Ravasi’s opening move does not suggest a man of distinguished taste or independent judgment. On the contrary, it declares him one of those many aspirants to connoisseur status who have little sensitivity to what is front of their eyes. Dependent on consultants, they respond to market value, fashion, and fetishizing rhetoric. Behind the high sounding references to “dialogue between art and faith” lurkson the face of ita profane drive to become a celebrity player on the international scene.
Start with Carroll’s submission. What photographs as a delicate tracery of drawn lines is really a nest of electrical cords from a hardware store, plus a few light bulbs, draped against sackcloth-covered canvas. (I trust the surface is sack clothor a mix of sackcloth and pigmentbecause Magister calls it that. Also, sackcloth is in sync with the artist’s taste for debris, the stock materials of Arte Povera.)
The light bulbs are a prosaic hand-me-down from the 1960s. The exquisitely complex constructivist-inspired forms of Lásló Moholy-Nagy (d.1946) were the first to marry light to art works. All modern Light Art owes its beginnings to Moholy-Nagy. Dan Flavin and James Turrell are among the best known contemporary names, but a host of others have followed Moholy-Nagy’s seventy year lead. Many have created stunning works, such as the one below by the Danish artist Olafur Eliasson. Carroll’s styleless bulb caper is a bewilderment by comparison.
Incandescent light bulbs hanging from wires? No one with a modicum of memory can look at Carroll’s offhand improvisation without immediately thinking of Larry Rivers’ notorious electrified assemblage Lampman Loves It (1966). A monumental standing male figure penetrates another from behind. Rivers’ bulbs were strategically hung; Carroll’s are inconsequential.
Has the Vatican’s Grand Acquisitor been had?
All contemporary work arrives with an accompanying users’ guide. Vatican copy writers produced this for Carroll:
The hope inherent in the Re-Creation [the third segment of the pavilion] is reflected in the specificity of the art of Lawrence Carroll. Its ability to restore life to recycled materials, transforming them through processes of reflection and regeneration, against all odds opens new possibilities for coexistence of seemingly unrelated dimensions as monumentality and fragility
Artspeak is artspeak, whether it comes from a secular flack or one in red piping. Call it museum theology. Either way, its hallmark property is horseradish.
Seemingly unrelated dimensions? The Pontifical Council for Culture has forgotten Ozymandias. Every school kid in the Western world learns Shelley’s testament to the fateful intimacy between these two dimensions. The fragility of man’s monumentalizing impulse has had an iconic, quotable prophet since 1818. Carroll’s multi-media constructions hover willy-nilly where Ozymandias’ cenotaph ends. Nothing beside remains; boundless and bare. Specificity is precisely what Carroll studiously avoids, together with any suggestion of life.
To be honest, it is just that aspect of his recent work that appeals to me. At their best, Carroll’s pieces can generate a certain melancholy. These are mood pieces, bleak and disconsolate. Redolent of decay, they augur the cessation of life, not its restoration. Colossal wrecks.
Carroll’s work is that kind of minimal abstraction that photographs to good effect. A professional photo minimizes crudities of construction and blends disparate materials into a congenial whole. If you tour photo essays of his work, you will find pieces readily adaptable to architectural spacesbut corporate spaces, not sacred ones. Each piece is a conceptual blank onto which any meaning whatever can be projected. The same work would suit equally the headquarters of Absolut Vodka, Bank of China, or Greenpeace. Its inherent neutrality accommodates any sponsor from Mercedes-Benz to Catholic Charities.
And that is not a strike against the works themselves. It is just that corporate culture and sacrality are not compatible. The cardinal’s choice corporatizes Christian visual culture while it grants benefit of clergy to corporate culture. This is no small matter, given the symbiosis between corporate cultural politics and the arts.
If the light bulbs recall the 1960s, so does Carroll’s entire repertory of materials. It was 1967 when Italian painter Michelangelo Pistoletto piled up his used studio rags around a plaster statue of Venus. Arte Povera was born. Pistoletto’s disgruntled stunt was inflated into a manifesto against high art and parlayed into a guerrilla movement by theorist Germano Celant. Venus of the Rags was lionized as a finger in the eye of privileged consumers of beautiful objects. Here, at last, was art made from “authentic” material more accessible to ordinary folk.
Fashion loves a movement. By the mid-seventies, the guerrillas had been invited in from the cold. Arte Povera has been sitting at high table since. Carroll’s calculated aura of dissolution is the common property of Arte Povera gone upscalepolished, pretentious, and pricey.
Déjà vu keeps coming. It was also in the 1960s that Henry Geldzahler was installed as the first curator of contemporary art at the Metropolitan Museum. An ambitious careerist, he introduced Pop Art and its progeny into the sanctum of the Met. Andy Warhol arrived at the museum’s party for Geldzahler’s celebrated 1969 exhibition New York Paintings and Sculpture 1940-1970 (known around as “Henry’s show”) and introduced himself as “the first Mrs. Geldzahler.”
With Cardinal Ravasi now channeling Geldzahler for the Vatican, maybe we can call Lawrence Carroll the first Mrs. Ravasi.
Among liturgically concerned responses to the previous post, one of them gave me a start:
On Corpus Christi, at a Manhattan parish, we had to sing an entrance song which begins, “We are here to tell our story, We are here to break the bread, we are here to know our rising from the dead . . . ”
Here to tell our story . The Gospel of Me. The all-encompassing Cosmic Me. The lyrics lend new meaning to the adjective catholic , do they not? The respondent rightly makes fun of it: “It was like the B-side of a Debby Boone album, except Debby Boone’s lyrics are more coherent.” Yet the lyrics are more ominous than that. Any global extension of the self into the very object of liturgical devotion is deadly. Ovid knew just how lethal self-worship was: Narcissus wasted unto death mooning over his own reflection.
No one needs to have read Keith Campbell and Jean Twenge’s psychological study The Narcissism Epidemic (1999) to know that narcissism spreads like fungus. It advances through the social order, blighting the wits not only of individuals but of populations. Even liturgical culture decomposes under its assault. External realities disintegrate in the drive to construct and celebrate a winsome, elevated self-image.
This occurs to me every time I walk past the lawn of the local Episcopal church. Staked in the ground close to the sidewalk is an eight foot banner erected in the wake of the Newtown school shooting. Great block letters trumpet: THEY ARE ALL OUR CHILDREN. Beneath the slogan is a list of endorsing religious groups: the town’s four Christian denominations, the local temple, the Quakers, regional Baháis, and the county Muslim association.
My gorge rises at the sight of it. This is grandstanding clothed as compassion. Counterfeit condolence, the banner comforts no one. Words are not directed to the suffering parents of those murdered school children. They are addressed to our town, not Newtown. An outsized bumper sticker, the banner advertises its own self-admiring stance. That it is still on show six months after the shootings insinuates a political agenda—gun control—for which the deaths of children were expedient. The disguise of fellow-feeling gets thinner each day that the banner stands.
You have to have a taste for tartuffery to greet this display of higher sanctimony as anything but cant. The falsity of it is plain: The children of Sandy Hook Elementary School are not our children. Their deaths have not withered our hopes, crushed our spirits, caused us unimaginable agony. That pain belongs exclusively to the parents who gave those little ones life and love. The solemnity of parental grief is mocked by unctuous affectation in service to an unspoken platform that circumvents informed, serious discussion.
To broadcast one’s own empathy—made without risk or cost—is pharisaical vanity. Signatories to this vulgar pennon offer nothing but cheap grace, bestowed on themselves. My town’s children remain snug in their beds, ATM cards under their pillows. Ivy League visions still dance in their heads. Their birthdays continue.
The more language is used to work against intellect, the more vulnerable we are to the consoling purr of jargon. Salesmanship. Devoted to soothing indirections—so valuable in preserving self-image—we become febrile in the face of hard questions that require asking.
While our street-side banner affirms the fine intentions of all signatories, plans are moving speedily along for the building of the hamlet’s first mosque and cultural center. Town meetings on the matter, now in the final pre-construction stage, have been a comedy of evasion. Residents are too exquisitely adverse to raising any issue that might cast an impolitic shadow on their vaunted good will. Instead, anxiety is strenuously deflected onto clamor over the center’s impact on local traffic, the possibility of septic failure, dark hints of potential environmental damage, the dangers of habitat destruction. Truly, it is our heart’s desire that young Aamil and Aaleyah have a nearby Muslim summer camp. But we do have wetlands to protect also. And what about the deer?
Local clerics, Christian and Jewish, persevere in whipping up support among the godly for the eight-acre complex: We have broken bread together, worked hard for interfaith relations, studied each others’ (carefully selected) sacred texts, celebrated Thanksgiving together. Memorial Day, too. Inclusiveness , minus attention to precisely what is being included. Outreach , but no cautious eye on what the outstretched hand might touch. Bromides run like gravy down the chin.
No one—not the public, clergy or press—has asked if the acreage being developed was sold according to Islamic law. Is there any safeguard against a Muslim understanding that the property belongs to the ummah in perpetuity? In the future, can it be resold to any bidder in the manner of churches and synagogues? Such questions would appear uncivil; and ours is very civil town. Its self-regarding courtesy precedes it to the negotiating table, a point not lost on area Muslims. Already they are seeking substantial reductions in those fees required by law to be paid to the town by any developer. Let the dhimmi pay?
That takes me back where I began: remembering that Narcissus died. He could not survive on his lovely reflection. Neither can we.
Today we hear conga drums, trap sets, bongos, and other drums played not in the style of Monteverdi processions, or Masses by Haydn or Mozart. Instead we hear them just as we would hear them in a bar or dance hall.
They are used just as they are in the secular world: to keep a beat, to make the music groovy, to inspire us to kind of do a bit of a dance. That’s the association of percussion we have in our culture. It is not a sacred association. The association is entirely profane. There’s a role for that. But Church is not the place and Mass is not the time.
Jeffrey Tucker, “Five Ways to Ruin the Mass,” Crisis Magazine
Tucker’s reminder that a piano is a percussion instrument strikes home. I have to steel myself for the Sunday morning lounge act that poses as sacred music in a local parish. The devil, of course, is not in the instrument but in the tunes tinkled on it. The piano is blameless; the music director is not. If Glenn Gould were at the keyboard, maybe I could surrender my fantasies of pouring wet cement on the hammers.
There exists no lovelier, more compelling witness to the innocence of percussion than the Missa Luba. First sung by a choir formed by a Belgian Franciscan priest in 1958 in what was then the Belgian Congo, the Missa Luba is pure Congolese. All words are Latin but no Western instrumentation or arrangement intrudes on the music. Even now, after years of familiarity, I tremble at the Sanctus . Based on a traditional Bantu farewell song, it reaches a height of exultation all the more piercing for its brevity. It carries hearers to the limits of what can be expressed in sound. Hosanna in excelsis . Then the shock of silence.
Every instrument has had its struggle with religious sensibilities. What Tucker calls “sacred associations” are subject to revision. In antiquity, the flute player performed a sacred function. His playing supported the invocation that accompanied sacrifice to the gods. While the ancients summoned the gods with a flute, Christians took an opposing view. John Chrysostom declared: “Where flute players are, there Christ can never be.” Because instrumental music resided in the cults of ancient pagan culture, music was once forbidden to Christians.
Gerardus van der Leeuw, Dutch philosopher of religion and liturgist, tracks the discord between music and religion:
Whoever plays the kithara or a wind instrument must give it up, says the nomocanon of Michael of Damiate, and in the Canons of Hippolytus [an early third century manuscript] it says: “Whoever performs in the theater, or is . . . a music teacher . . . or a priest of idols, none of these may be granted entrance to a holy address until they have been purified of these unclean works. After forty days they may hear the sermon. If they prove themselves worthy, then they are baptized.”
This explains why instruments were scorned even when music blossomed in the young Christian Church: the Church accepted the heritage of the synagogue, but not of the temple. “In place of the playing of tampani, let the singing of hymns resound,” says Gregory of Nazianzus.
. . . Thus instruments were excluded from worship for centuries, and even today they are really a foreign element. Both the Gregorian and the Reformed hymns are meant to be sung without any accompaniment.
Two things suggest themselves to Van der Leeuw. First, that the centuries of cultural discord on the matter follow a pagan argument: Plato found pure instrumental music opposed to the inner worship of God. Second, where every human expression of the divine is insufficient, music can never find the just the right note to sound the holy. At its depths, religion can demand silence just as music demands rest. “When the holy girds itself to put beautiful sound to silence, it can be that the latter has already fallen dumb.”
Belief in the congruity of aesthetics and morality is widely shared. The conviction presupposes that a developed aesthetic sense points, by some means, to the Good. Or, at least, to an expansive analogy to it. But on the ground, aesthetic impulses exist independently of goodness—which is as close as quotidian reality gets to the Good. They know nothing of simple kindness or decency. That was the implicit reason for my earlier post on Hilter’s aestheticism.
Elizabeth Powers, a Goethe scholar and previous contributor to FT , wrote to remind me that Nazi ideologue Alfred Rosenberg had written a ground-breaking text on the history of the sublime in England. Published before 1917, Longinus in England: Bis Zum Ende Des 18. Jahrhunderts remains a seminal work in scholarly bibliographies of the subject. Her final comment: “Some have seen the Holocaust as ‘aesthetic totalization.’”
Could Keats have gotten it wrong? Or perhaps overstated the case? Is it really so that truth is beauty and beauty truth? Vernacular culture has taken Keats’ ode to that well-wrought urn as gospel. Literary studies, however, have long bubbled and churned over whether the poet himself intended the line “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” to be taken literally as the capstone of wisdom. Might there have been some irony up his sleeve in linking the two? Beauty, after all, is transient and, as Shakespeare’s sonnet 70 reminds, suspect. Beauty can lie, and often does.
Specifics of the controversy over the ambiguities of Keats’ final iconic stanza are not germane here. What matters is the red flag at the heart of the argument. Platonic ideas of transcendent perfection against which all art must be judged are poor help to those who take art seriously, still less to artists themselves. The artist’s bailiwick is forever in exile from any immutable world of absolutes.
We reject as fallacy any notion that the distinctions on which moral judgments are made can be merely subjective. Trusting in the existence of a natural law, we expect aesthetics to share a corresponding base with ethics. And that is where our troubles start. Ideals of beauty, in all its variegated forms, are inextricable from history and culture, bound to place and time. The temptation for artists—particularly contemporary Christian ones—is to conjure up a Platonized mysticism as justification for their work. Metaphysical props can too easily stand bail for the perfection of one’s craft.
// Vincent Turner, S.J. discharged a well-known deflation of idealist aesthetics. His 1958 salvo “The Desolation of Aesthetics” argues that idealism itself was “about as false a philosophy as even a philosopher could devise.” E.H. Gombrich opens “Art and Self-Transcendence” with a statement of explicit sympathy for Father Turner’s skepticism toward the ambitions of aesthetics: to systematize, tidy up, and simultaneously mystify what might better have been left in the realm of discriminating conversation. Left on the table with pamplemousse and a baguette for the Goncourt brothers.
Socrates, in the Republic , distinguishes between “the lovers of sights and sounds” and “true philosophers.” Only the latter are capable of seeing true beauty. Where does that leave you and me? John Passmore, rambunctious philosopher and historian of ideas, was blunt: We all fall into the former, incapable class as far as our tastes are concerned. The aesthetic preferences of philosophers are no more reliable than anyone else’s.
Passmore, never one to shrink from battle, declares, “Aesthetics itself is irretrievably dreary.” It is dull because it fails to reveal with any clarity the necessary characteristics of its subject matter:
Aesthetics fails to illuminate, often enough, because the aesthetician wants to retain “mystery” rather than to dispel it, to conceal his subject rather than to reveal it. He wants to treat art instrumentally, as a “clue to reality “; his aesthetics is a spring-board to transcendental metaphysics.
Admitting the possibility of a bad translation from the French, he offers as illustration this wooly passage from Jacques Maritain’s Art and Poetry :
The music of Lourie is an ontological music; in the Kierkegaardian style, one would also say ‘existential’. It is born in the singular roots of being, the nearest possible juncture of the soul and the spirit, spoken of by St. Paul ” or again, ” Why should a musical work ever finish ? . . . Let us say that as the time of the world shall one day emerge into an instant of eternity, so music should cease only by emerging into a silence of another order, filled with a substantial voice, where the soul for a moment tastes that time no longer is .
Passmore follows up by noting that, too often, aesthetics “consists in saying nothing at all in the most pretentious possible way.” Or, as Pope put it: “In clouded majesty here Dullness shone.” Even the best of minds can slip into nonsense when talking about art.
“ Science is what we understand well enough to explain to a computer; art is everything else. ” — Donald Knuth , Things a Computer Scientist Rarely Talks About
I promised to get back on the subject of beauty. And I will keep the promise, but not today. This is just a demi-post to get us through the weekend. Herewith, a contrarian thought to consider from France’s wildly popular pop singer Serge Gainsbourg: “Ugliness is superior to beauty because it last longer.”
We cannot talk about beauty unless we have an appreciation—if that is the word—for ugliness. And what, precisely, is it? Is the ugly no more than an absence of beauty? Or is it substantive and dynamic in its own right? If you know, please tell me. I have not yet read Stephen Bayley’s Ugly: The Aesthetics of Everything but am looking forward to a good romp through neglected territory.
I am neither a theologian nor a philosopher. I am simply a painter whose faith takes color, tone, and bearing from the Catholicism into which I was born.
But even a cat can look at a king. From my placewell beneath the box seats of beauty-minded theologians and theological esthetesI wonder if Hans Urs von Balthasar’s legacy is as wholly salutary as it has become fashionable to believe. This is a risky confession, my brothers and my sisters. I know that. Still, it would be cowardly not to admit inkings that there might be a fly in the liniment. A lovely iridescent rainbow of a thing, but a fly nonetheless.
We thrill to Augustine’s luminous words: “Late have I loved thee, O Beauty, ever ancient, ever new.” But the Beauty addressed in the Confessions is met only in prayer. All else is sensible beauty, material gifts to the eye, the ear, the touch. Whether sensible beauty is revelatory, leading necessarily to God, is the cornerstone question buttressing contemporary romance with theological aesthetics. Acolytes of Hans Urs von Balthasar answer confidently in the affirmative.
My own lack of any requisite presumption of finality in the matter keeps me off the train. I can always catch it later at another station. But for now, my ticket stays in my pocket. Let me work around, perhaps obliquely, to some reasons as we go.
“What will I do, O my love, if I cannot praise thee?” Augustine’s cry of the heart is profoundly personal, an enduring proclamation of the soul’s ache to adore. There is nothing here of the modern theologian who is, in the endas Jean LecLercq, O.S.B. reminded in The Love of Learning and the Desire for God “nothing more than a professor.”
Dom LecLercq reminds that, according to tradition until Abelard’s time, “theology is praise of God, and the theologian is one who speaks to God.” He quote Evagrius Ponticus, a fourth century monk: “If you are a theologian you will pray in truth, and if you pray in truth, you are a theologian.”
Balthasar was much influenced by Henri de Lubac, one of the most compelling theologians of his generation. Of any generation. The cardinal complimented his disciple in the guild by saying Balthasar had “restored beauty to its position as a transcendental.”
In mathematical circles, the number pi is also considered a transcendental. But few of us can speak the language of mathematics. The mysterious ebb and flow of the primes, like the behavior of imaginary numbers or the power of the Riemann zeta function, escapes not only our notice but our comprehension. Beautyinvariably conceived in terms of the artsis our default category precisely because it is the easiest to grasp, speaking as it does to bodily sense perception. It has served in this insufficient capacity with increasing assurance since aesthetics hardened into a discipline under eighteenth century Prussian rigor. It was then that sensibility rose on hind legs to mimic sanctity and displace it as a cultural ambition.
That shopworn word creativity sheds meaning whenever it is appliedmisappliedexclusively to the fine arts. Creative intuition informs every facet of human endeavor. It has done, since the discovery of fire. When can we stop talking about it?
“An equation means nothing to me unless it expresses a thought of God.”
Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920)
Ramanujan was a young, unschooled Indian clerk in the Madras Port Authority and a devout Hindu. Isolated from any mathematical tradition but possessed of a stunning aptitude for mathematics, he threw himself, unaided, into prime numbers. His genius cleared pathways through mathematical mazes in eventual, fruitful partnership with the great G.H. Hardy who brought Ramanujan to Cambridge.
Marcus du Sautoy’s comments on Ramanujan, “the mathematical mystic,” in The Music of the Primes are a useful corrective to aesthetic parochialism:
Mathematical creativity is difficult to understand at the best of times, but the way Ramanujan worked was always something of a mystery. He used to claim that his ideas were given him in his dreams by the goddess Namagiri . . . the Ramanujan’s family goddess . . . . For Ramanujan himself, she was the explanation for the flashes of insight that sparked his continuous stream of mathematical discoveries.
Before we can talk about beauty in any substantive way, we have to relinquish the fetish we have made of fine art. One fine starting place is Robert Kanigel’s 1991 biography of Ramanujan, The Man Who Knew Infinity .
Theoretical physicist Paul Dirac (d. 1984) famously gauged the validity of equations that were submitted to him by their “elegance.”
Sometime in the 1990s, an epidemiologist writing in one of the science journals ( Nature ? Scientific American ? I was not taking notes.) called the AIDS virus an “exquisite” particle. That description lodged in memory precisely because,viewed as a morsel of creation, it was beautiful. Its beauty lay in the perfection of its design. It was consummately crafted to accomplish its goal: to kill.
That has stayed with me as a nagging reminder that terror, too, is revelatory. The conflation of theological necessity with beauty untempered, and unchastened, by fear strikes me as a subtle variant of aestheticism radiated by Christological language.
Art is the clearest and most immediate reflection of the spiritual life of a people. It exercises the greatest conscious and unconscious influence on the masses of the people . . . . In its thousandfold manifestations and influences it benefits the nation as whole.
Hitler was an aesthete. He would have found much to approve in papal encomia to artists as “custodians of beauty” (Benedict) or “ingenious creators of beauty” (John Paul II).
An ardent patron of the arts, Hitler drew around him men with an aesthetic bent. (Speer was an architect; Goering, an art collector. Alfred Rosenberg had studied architecture; Goebbels had written plays and a novel.) He insisted that artists were as crucial to society as mathematicians and men of science. He kept Germany’s museums, orchestras, theaters and opera companies going until the collapse of the Reich. His generosity to the arts funded music festivals, traveling art exhibitions, grants, tax reductions for artists, even housing and studio space. Drawn to opera as much as to classical Greek art, Hitler considered it a goal of the state to make opera available to every citizen without regard to income. His annual pilgrimage to the Bayreuth Festival is legendary.
Hitler’s personal conversation turned frequently to cultural matters; he was fond of declaring an impulse to paint scenic views as he came upon them. Eminent historian of Roman antiquities, Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli (d.1975) served as a tour guide to both Hitler and Mussolini in 1938. He recorded Hitler’s expressed desire to rent a villa outside Rome and devote himself to visiting museums anonymously, unrecognized by anyone. Bandelli wrote:
When he spoke this way he left the impression that he might get up one morning and say,”Enough! I have been fooling myself; I am no longer the Führer.” In the case of Mussolini such a thought was inconceivable . . . . But when Hitler spoke this way, he left the impression of being sincere.
Frederic Spotts’ Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics supports Bandelli’s impression:
Over the years Hitler had the same effect on others, who heard him insist again and again that it would be the happiest day of his life when he could take off his military uniform and devote himself solely to the the arts.
The Führer’s distaste for modernist art was widely shared by the bulk of critics of his day no less than the majority of the public. At the outset, modernist art was universally despised by audiences from St. Petersburg to London and New York. Hitler’s aesthetic tastes were hardly unusual. His genius lay in embracing current concepts that linked biological debasement to cultural decline: Degenerate art was the product of genetically unhealthy artists who should be considered social enemies to be crushed. Hitler viewed modernist artists as “criminals of world culture,” “destroyers of our art.” Their works were crimes, creations of diseased imaginations. Modernist culture was a perverse distortion of nature and truth.
The full breadth and specificity of Hilter’s grasp of architecture is stunning. Spotts is especially valuable in revealing the breathtaking extent of Hitler’s architectural ambition, having plannedtogether with Albert Speerthe rebuilding of every major German city. His love of architecture affected even military strategy. The beauty of Italian cities and art was granted a factor in military plans; concern for damage was paramount: “Each palazzo in Florence or Rome is worth more than all of Windsor Castle. It would be a crime if the British destroy anything in Florence or Rome. It would not be a shame . . . in the case of Berlin.”
In 1943, he reversed standing strategy by giving orders that Florence should not be defended against the Allied advance. It was “too beautiful” to destroy. Paris, too, warranted protection: “To save the old city of culture, we limited our air attacks to the airfields on the periphery.” Spotts quotes this reflection, recorded in December 1941:
Mankind has a natural drive to discover beauty. How rich the world will be for him who uses his senses. Furthermore, nature has instilled in everyone the desire to share with others everything beautiful that one encounters. The beautiful should reign over humans; the beautiful itself wants to retain its power.
In Spott’s exhaustive scrutiny of Hitler’s aestheticism lies a whispered caution against the exaltation of that elusive phenomenon called beauty gaining ever more currency among contemporary theologians and self-consciously Catholic artists. Aesthetic drive and aesthetic achievement are not the same. And the drive can be put to any human purpose whatever.
“Woe to me if I do not evangelize”
1 Cor 9:16
You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em
Know when to fold ‘em
Know when to walk away
know when to run
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
There’ll be time enough for countin’
When the dealin’s done.
Kenny Rogers, “The Gambler “(1978)
Two thousand years apart, the verses complement each other. St.Paul was a canny evangelist. He knew when to fold (on circumcision and table laws) and when to hold his ground. He staked his mission and his life on the distinction.
What calls this to mind is a reader’s response to the previous post:
Just goes to show you can make up any sort of explanation to justify anything as art. Of course, by Mullarkey’s logic, pro-life Catholics should stop demonstrating in front of abortion clinics.
The respondent’s first sentence is quite right: Language can be tilted and stretched to vindicate any art work whatever. That is why there are press releases. My post, however, did not justify Piss Christ. Rather , it proposed that Christians venture to blunt—declaw, render impotent—offensive provocations. That is not duck soup. It requires a honed talent, however grudgingly achieved, for gamesmanship. (I can hear the groans already: “Casuistry!” “Sophistry 101!”) It is a combat sport worth playing for the opportunities it offers to teach, correct, even—if we get good at it—endear.
Abortion is of an entirely different order. It is not a provocation, not something of which we simply disapprove. Abortion on demand, partial-birth abortion, abortion as last-ditch contraception—these are patent evils to be exposed for what they are. For that very reason, it is wise to keep the powder dry until needed against behaviors and beliefs that are inherently, unambiguously inhumane. Things that merely offend, having been crafted to rile, are nonessential. Not worth the shot. We stymie our own objectives by squandering our voice—and, with it, our credibility—by shaking a finger at art because it gets under the skin. Ask Aesop what happens if you cry “Wolf!” too often.
It feels good, being on the qui vive to catch the art world sticking its tongue out. It is much harder to resist the bait, to hang fire and concentrate on truly demonic adversaries—chief among them, the advancing concept of life-unworthy-of-life. Evangelization is not a matter of pelting anathemas at every affront. It requires, among other substantive things, some humor. And an ear for tone.
Not everyone scrolls through comment sections. So let me repeat here part of another respondent’s observation:
The response of some conservative Catholics is to scold—as if the offender is someone who knows better, who’s been well-catechized and has grown up in a Christian culture.
Nope. We are all missionaries now. Many, possibly a majority of our “Christian nation,” have no more than a passing acquaintance with Christianity and many more no real catechesis—their catechesis has been at the hands of the world . . . .
There are definitely times to speak and affirm what we know to be the truth, but perhaps with less emphasis on aggrieved feelings and with more recognition that the people trying to offend probably know next to nothing about God. Their intent may not be, in the end, really profane. Many of this crowd seem to be aiming at Christ’s followers, not Him, about Whom, unfortunately, they’re not even that curious.
There is realism and kindliness here, and more than a little poignance. To see how her words apply, skip over to Serrano’s statement published in The Guardian , September 28, 2012:
At the time I made Piss Christ , I wasn’t trying to get anything across. In hindsight, I’d say Piss Christ is a reflection of my work, not only as an artist, but as a Christian . . . .
The thing about the crucifix itself is that we treat it almost like a fashion accessory. When you see it, you’re not horrified by it at all, but what it represents is the crucifixion of a man. And for Christ to have been crucified and laid on the cross for three days where he not only bled to death, he shat himself and he peed himself to death.
So if Piss Christ upsets you, maybe it’s a good thing to think about what happened on the cross.
There is no guessing whether hindsight, expedience or age prompted the sixty-three year old Serrano to reach for the high road, inelegance aside. But three days on the cross? No, Andres, three hours . This reveals one reason why some astute priest should have been game enough to ask you in for coffee or cognac back when it mattered.
No matter how galling certain art works, there is an urgent reason for not calling in the sensitivity cops: Claims of shock and grievance are a smoke screen for the ambitions of left-liberal activists and Islamic aggressors. We collude in muzzling ourselves by granting credence to the insidious notion that there exists such a thing as a right not to be offended. If ever an assumption were designed to smother truth-telling in the cradle, it is this one. It is simply not possible to speak candidly—about Islamic violence, gay marriage, abortion, or a host of other issues—without antagonizing one militant advocacy group or another.
When wounded feelings—including our own—are summoned to silence others, the gag pulls a little tighter.
If we believe that the arts are mission territory—and they are—they have to be approached with as much charity and cunning as the dugout of aboriginal tribesmen. There is little to be gained by viewing contemporary art as evidence of the depravity of man. It is bad missionary procedure to openly despise the culture we would transform. Granted, there is much to dismay, much to admonish. But the Church will not evangelize a slipping West while we cultivate our moral vanity by making an idol—or an ideology—of our own disapprovals.
What brings this up? Simple: Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ (1987) still draws fire nearly thirty years after its debut. As recently as last September, a group of Catholics demonstrated against it outside the Edward Tyler Nahem Gallery in Manhattan’s high rent district. We can count on more panty raids, more brinksmanship. Serrano’s public relations success has spawned a small industry of similar assaults. The perpetual resurrection of Piss Christ has become a game for masochists: Catholics keep presenting themselves to be whipped by dominant free-speechers .
Borrowed from the Left’s own sensitivity squads, aggressive tactics—like those of the Catholic League—misfire in the act of obtaining their objectives. Taking offense is the anticipated and desired response to transgressive art. It bolsters the significance of the offending work and, with it, its retail value. Nothing serves auction prices better than publicity from public outrage. It is a godsend to collectors, gallerists, and artists. Worse, howls of injury ratify popular images of the Church as captious, accusatory and censorious. In the end, bellicose responses feed the anti-Catholicism they are meant to combat.
Three decades are enough for us to realize that a culture war is not a street fight. The difference is pivotal if Catholics are serious about having a humane effect—something more significant than scoring apologies or closing events. The arts, too, wait to be redeemed.
Viewed strictly as an image, without regard to its provocative title, Serrano’s infamous photo is actually pretty. The crucifix floats in a pale golden, effervescent haze. Ginger ale? Champagne? It could easily read as a celebration of the means of redemption. Only the title tells us otherwise.
Imagine the confusion among our culturati if the League had thrown a curve and welcomed Piss Christ as a true picture—certainly not to its taste, but nonetheless valid—of the way the world treats its Saviour. In truth, the world pisses on the Cross every day. Catholics, sinners all, are not exempt.
Imagine a press release along these lines:
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
We, members of the Catholic League, acknowledge the power of vulgarity in exposing the raw indecency of sin. While some might have reservations about the prudence of Mr. Serrano’s composition, we unite in applauding the sound theology behind it.
The Spirit works in mysterious ways, even to transforming the questionable taste and bad manners of artists. Not every artist is gifted with powers of exalted expression. But even lesser gifts bear witness to the effects of original sin. They too serve who only stand and stun. Mr. Serrano has given us a graphic image of a point made daily, if less colorfully, in pulpits from Seattle to Amsterdam. Especially Amsterdam.
The League remembers that the Church has its own iconographic tradition that many find unseemly or shocking. We think of statues of St. Agatha carrying her breasts on a plate, like cherry-topped meringues. Then there’s St. Lucy, her eyes served up as canapés. Picture St. Roc, lifting his skirt like a chorus girl to point coyly at horrid sores on his inner thighs. Saint Lawrence is turned on the grill like a pork chop. The crucifix itself is startling, an image of violent cruelty.
Andres Serrano has brought up to date an ancient pictorial pairing of the sacred and the grotesque. He has helped us see the crucifix with fresh eyes. Bravo!
Pssst, Andres! You’re a Catholic, right? Here, take the Mass schedule at St. Agnes. If ever you feel like praying with us—or for us—please come by. Don’t be shy about stopping at the rectory for coffee and crullers after Mass. We’d love to talk about your new work. God bless. See ya.
Blood is either absent or decorously minimized in those images of Jesus’ Passion with which we are best familiar. The death of Jesus is only part of the Christ story; the momentous, history-shattering disclosure comes later. Accordingly, traditional Passion imagery inclines toward a reflective distance from the physical realities of a Roman scourging and crucifixion.
In the earliest crucifixes, the corpus is dressed in an ecclesiastical tunic and its outstretched arms do not bend with the weight of the body. Straight and firm as they are, the outstretched arms suggests either a welcoming embrace or triumphal acclaim—the exuberant gesture of a victory lap. The fresco below is an eighth century addition to the walls S. Maria Antiqua, built in the fifth century and the oldest church within the Roman Forum:
The legacy of Western art is reticent about the actual deed of nailing Jesus to the cross. Few such scenes exist in fresco, on panel, or on canvas. They tend to appear almost exclusively on the conventional pilgrimage series we know today as the Stations of the Cross. These were introducd and popularized—as sculpture—closer to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. This fourteenth century panel from Meister Bertram’s Passion altarpiece for the Church of St. John, Hamburg, is one of the few exceptions. Again, there is little blood despite the violent brutality of the tableau. A calculated reserve dictates the scene.
Our customary crucifix presents itself to us as more an emblem of redemption—sign and symbol of our ransom—than an instrument of torture. Bowing to prototypes from medieval and Renaissance painting, it presents a mental image that permits us to look upon the corpus without cringing. Art’s role extends beyond narrative. It exists to penetrate the challenge to contemplation encountered in witnessing a grisly event.
Rubens’ famous crucifixion—to take a single example—presents a muscular Jesus unmarked by the disfiguring whip that left prisoners in a state of half death. Blood runs discreetly from wounds fastidiously marked but deemphasized. Neither in his crucifixion motif nor his deposition does Rubens display the corpus in terms appropriate for a man dehydrated, enfeebled, torn and blood-soaked from the cruelty of the previous day. It is, instead, the figure of an athlete in his prime displaced from a classical gymnasium.
Fra Angelico’s version, universally loved, aestheticizes the flogging with an ethereal symmetry. A transcendent calm infuses the scene. Jesus maintains a graceful contraposto , more like a dancer than a man whose execution is beginning.
It would be a great pleasure to feed representative images onto this post for another ten yards or so. That is my favorite thing to do. Prose is a mere handmaiden to paintings. For me. But perhaps not for you. So let me cut to the chase and admit that all of this has been meant as a segue to Franz Heinrich Louis Corinth (1858-1925), known in art history texts as Lovis Corinth. Student of Bouguereau at the Academie Julian in Paris and, later, director of Berlin’s Sezession , Corinth was the archetypical German Expressionist. In short, a modernist.
He was also a painter compelled by the Passion as a creative motif. Crucifixion scenes occupied his imagination over several years. In 1910, he donated Golgotha for the altar of his hometown church in Tapiau, East Prussia. All that we have is the record of the donation. The painting itself disappeared after the Second World War. Tapiau was left intact, unviolated, during the Second World War. Consequently, it is believed that the painting was looted by the Red Army when it invaded East Prussia at the end of the war. No one quite knows.
I would love to see this vanished work. What is left to us is moving enough: Red Christ painted in 1922, just three years before Corinth died. It is not an easy work to look at. Most people see only the subject of a painting, not the paint or the handling—the art—itself. Red Christ is a beautiful painting of a horrendous subject: the depiction of Jesus pierced by Longinus and encrimsoned with the blood of his ordeal.
The painting is a howl of anguish, perhaps the most gruesome of any Western image of the motif. It is a darker and more agonized evocation of what the Son of Man suffered, for your sake and mine, than anything else in the longue durée of sacred Christian art. It surpasses even Beckmann—and Nolde—who had turned previously to Christ’s Passion to find a paradigm for human suffering. The only valid comparison, historically, is with Matthias Grünewald who drew close to the substance of raw agony.
We are unaccustomed to treatments of the Passion which extend beyond the compositional familiarity of what we revere as the Church’s high patrimony. Our nerves have slackened, gone drowsy, from seeing the Passion through the lens of art tamed by centuries. And by an increasingly self-conscious fondness for what is fast becoming a reigning catchword: beauty.
Note : A careful reader wrote to correct my spelling of Corinth’s birthplace: Tapiau. All fixed above. (It is now Gvardeysk, Russian Federation.)