Godlessness, Art, and Meaning

In studying the group paintings of seventeenth-century Holland, such as Frans Hals’s A Banquet of the Officers of the St. George Militia Company and Dirck Jacobsz’s Civic Guards, [Alois] Riegl discovered a new psychological aspect of art: namely, that art is incomplete without the perceptual and emotional involvement of the viewer. Not only does the viewer collaborate with the artist in transforming a two-dimensional likeness on a canvas into a three-dimensional depiction of the visual world, the viewer interprets what he or she sees on the canvas in personal terms, thereby adding meaning to the picture. Riegl called this phenomenon the “beholder’s involvement.

The above comes from Eric Kandel’s Nobel Prize-winning The Age of Insight. The discovery Kandel describes here is one concerned with the meaning of art. Riegl finds that a work of art has no inherent meaning, that it does not exist in a vacuum. Since a work of art is only as relevant as its meaning, the viewer is not only important, but essential (unless one argues that art can exist solely for aesthetic pleasure).

When I came across this passage, it immediately struck a chord. In fact, it may be the most powerful- and appropriate- analogy for life itself.

I’m often asked by God-fearing friends and colleagues where I find my meaning. The subject has always been one that’s fascinated me; the argument has a long and rich history. Where a belief in a deity does not exist, it is supposed, there can be no meaning. Is godlessness not a very dire prospect?

The argument was brought to the forefront by the advent of existentialism, usually identified by its adherence to meaninglessness. Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Camus, and the like all battled these demons, and few came up with a sufficient answer. Some would argue that they failed to find meaning (I am not arguing that, mind you). If that were the case, though, it is only because the question they asked is two-fold, and they broached only the first part: is our existence in the universe meaningless? Without a divine text to turn to, the answer must be a resounding ‘yes,’ since the only other credible explanation for the universe is randomness. Here is where most stop: there is no meaning, and that is cause for despair.

Here’s the second part of the question: if the universe does not provide meaning, can there be another source of meaning?

In fact, there is. It is you. You are the source of meaning. As a work of art is incomplete without the viewer, so is life incomplete without you. The Mona Lisa is meaningless until someone rests his gaze upon it, giving the enigmatic smile purpose. The viewer wonders at the smile, perhaps smiles back, and that wonder creates- in fact, is a large portion of the painting’s meaning.

If you live your life on the couch, meaning will be difficult to come by. If you find your passion, are generous with your love and time, and contribute to the world, the search for meaning is no longer an elusive one.

Life needs you and me to complete it. It is, then, not meaningless. It is simply the beginning of a circle: a circle which only you or I can complete, simply by making the decision to do so. Life itself is the Sistine Chapel, and is nothing. Only when we come along to gaze on it does it become Everything.

Death (and a Girl)

I was in my boss’s office. I sat down in the leather chair opposite his desk, looking out over the bay, admiring his view. I tried to think of the people below, but my mind kept coming back to the fact that I was sitting in my boss’s office.

I had no idea why I was there. I had done something wrong, I was sure of that. In an act of sadism, he left me wondering for fifteen minutes. When he entered the room, he smiled at his secretary before closing the door, directing his gaze toward me, and letting a crestfallen look sweep over his face.

He fired me. The rest is a blur, although I vaguely recall wondering what his home life was like, whether he glided through life with the calm assurance that seemed to propel him forward at work.

I was a bit numb as I rode the elevator toward the first floor with a box of my belongings. I wished that I could hide that box. I might as well be wearing a sign saying ‘I was just fired.’

I didn’t go home. There was nothing to go home to. I didn’t want to go anywhere else, either. Everywhere else, there were people, and I didn’t want to see people. When you want the company of others, they’re nowhere to be found. When you want to escape them, they’re everywhere.

I toyed with the idea of suicide, then quickly cast it off. Death wouldn’t be interesting. Liberating, perhaps, but not interesting. I hadn’t yet lived enough to die.

I thought of the bridge on the outskirts of St. Petersburg in Crime and Punishment. In the book, every emotion seemed to converge on that bridge. Fear, ambition, happiness, sadness, indignation, jealousy- all in one place. I decided to find a bridge on which to think. Perhaps they were indeed a gathering place for emotion, and I needed to feel something, to chase the numbness away.

I found respite under a small bridge overlooking an inlet on the northern edge of the Tampa Bay. I listened to the cars pass overhead while watching for signs of life in the water below. The occasional jumping fish caused ripples on the water, and the ripples comforted me. They had a predictable cause and a predictable effect.

I listened to the cars pass over the bridge. I silently cursed each driver as someone blessed with better luck than I, then I cursed myself for cursing them.

I fell asleep. As I dreamed, Death approached me, wearing the traditional garb with one exception: his robe and scepter were entirely white- blindingly so, almost. He sat down beside me with a quiet sigh.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“No. Are you taking me?”

“No. It’s not time, yet.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You’re interesting, and I need a break. I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?”

“Of taking.”

“Taking lives?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you stop?”

“I can’t stop. I’m needed. My service is needed.”

He saw my confusion.

“If there were no death," he said, "there would be no life. Loathed as I am, humanity descends into chaos in my absence. Death is the only thing that propels life. Without death, there is no fear. Without fear, there is nothing. Fear drives every action, every thought, every moment of life.”

“It can’t be behind everything.”

“Yes. Everything. A lawyer’s ambition, a mother’s love, a lover’s embrace. A walk in the park, an evening meal, a friendly conversation- all driven by fear. It’s not the catastrophe that you assume it to be. Fear is the necessary ingredient to life, and rightfully so. It is the most powerful catalyst, and the most misunderstood. Fear is not terrifying; that is only one form it takes. Fear is art. It is sadness, it is compassion, it is loneliness, it is love. All striving is a movement towards fear. All suffering is movement away from it.”

I woke up. Above me was a girl, and as I shook off my sleep, I noticed that she was smiling.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Who are you?”

“It’s not important. Did you have a nice nap?”

“I’m not sure.”

Still fighting off the remnants of grogginess, she took off her clothes, laid them neatly on a large rock, and walked to the water. She was small, with delicate features and a wave of auburn hair that curled in on itself just above her shoulders. She didn’t look back at me as she walked. Slowly, she submerged herself in the water. I expected her to ask me to join her, but she didn’t. She just floated in the water, not quite swimming, but not quite being still. I watched in amazement, and then I became amazed at the fact that I was amazed. Surely a woman soaking in a body of water is not uncommon. Why should it be amazing, or significant even?

I soon joined her, unprompted. I felt compelled to tell her.

“I just lost my job.”

“Oh.” There was neither sympathy nor judgment in her voice.

“I wasn’t good at it. I pretended to be, but I wasn’t. I suppose they finally found me out.”

“Why did you work there?”

I tried to think. “I’m not sure. It just sort of happened that way.”

“What did you love about it?”

“Well.... nothing, really.”

“Then why are you mourning the loss of it?”

On Criticism

One of the great flaws of man is the inability to turn inward. When Socrates famously said that 'the unexamined life is not worth living,' few paid attention. Even today, most ignore this advice, and fewer still heed its wisdom.

We've developed such a profound aversion to criticism, and the effects of that aversion come at a huge expense. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby - the same one we all read in high school- is a stroke of literary genius. Masterfully crafted, it stands as the pinnacle of the art of literature for its structure, its form, its prose. Its very sentences seem to be an ode to sentence-writing. In fact, the sentences within are so beautiful at times that one feels like a voyeur, watching the author toy with and make love to the words he so adores.

Here's the thing about Gatsby, though: it was fiercely edited. In a 2002 essay, Susan Bell offers some insight into the editing process. Fitzgerald's editor, Max Perkins, had this to say in response to having read the first revision: 

Among a set of characters marvelously palpable and vital- I would know Tom Buchanan if I met him on the street and would avoid him- Gatsby is somewhat vague. The reader's eyes can never quite focus on him, his outlines are dim. Now everything about Gatsby is more or less a mystery i.e. more or less vague, and this may be somewhat of an artistic intention, but I think it is mistaken .

This, of course, was a significant problem. A story has a major flaw in its execution if the title character lacks... well, anything, let alone the precision that connects the character to the reader.

How did Fitzgerald respond? He fixed it, ultimately confessing that the vagueness stemmed from his not understanding Gatsby well enough himself. He then spent a lot of time getting to know his character, doing more research, until he found that he knew Gatsby 'better than I know my own child.' 

In another example, Bell cites a second major flaw that Perkins pointed out: that of _clumping_ . The author had 'clumped' together massive bits of biographical information, resulting in a sorely out-of-place jumble of words amidst the elegant backdrop of prose that permeated the story. On Perkins' suggestion, Fitzgerald began to take the clumps and disperse them sparingly throughout the story, rewriting until the biographical information matched the tone and concision of the rest of the book. 

These were but two of the problems with the original manuscript that eventually became the masterpiece we know today- there were many more. It was only through fantastically hard work- and rework - that the true Gatsby emerged. 

We often think that the work we do, the person we are is impeccable. When we are asked, or when we simply think of ourselves, of course, we know that we are deeply flawed. In theory, then, we recognize the need to revise our work, our selves. In practice, we often take umbrage at the suggestion that we could be doing something better, that we could be a better writer, parent, designer, cook, or friend, which only impedes our ability to reach our true potential. 

How did Fitzgerald react to the suggestions of his editor? By standing his ground, insisting that his work was as grand as his concept? In a letter to Perkins, Fitzgerald said: 

Max, it amuses me when praise comes in on the 'structure' of the book- because it was you who fixed up the structure, not me. And don't think I'm not grateful for all that sane and helpful advice about it.

Without Perkins, it's anyone's guess as to what Gatsby would have become. Fortunately, we don't have to imagine that scenario, simply because he recognized criticism for what it was: not a personal attack, but rather a gesture of love and respect from someone whom he greatly admired. 

Perhaps we all have a Gatsby inside of us. Being human, we have the luxury of defining our own definition of success. As a parent, for example, I want my daughter to exhibit, above all else, compassion and curiosity. When I see those traits emerge in her, I consider myself a success. Whatever your parameters, bringing to fruition the masterpiece of living is our most ambitious- and, ironically, our most attainable- goal. To realize that masterpiece, we must be willing to edit. To revise, to rework, to consider carefully the criticisms of those we admire, and to incorporate those truths creates a limitless well of potential. Don't just accept criticism. Embrace it. Use it. In the end, you will be a better you.

Every creator painfully experiences the chasm between his inner vision and its ultimate expression. The chasm is never completely bridged. We all have the conviction, perhaps illusory, that we have much more to say than appears on the paper.

Isaac Bashevis Singer (via taylorbooks)

What is it that is never changed even though everything is changed? It is love.

Søren Kierkegaard, Upbuilding Discourses, trans. Howard V. Hong (via proustitute)

Minimalism is not subtraction for the sake of subtraction.

Minimalism is subtraction for the sake of focus.

If it doesn’t help you focus, or make you more productive, or do more of what you want to do, then it is failed subtraction. It is not minimalism, because at the core of minimalism is the idea that you want to get to somewhere better than you are now.

Me, two years ago. (via aberminimal)

ageofreason:

People do not deserve good writing, they are so pleased with bad

Ralph Waldo Emerson (via taylorbooks)

The Beast, the Fear

If you regularly read my essays, you know that not long ago, I decided to ditch a sales career to become a creator, both of words and of pixels. The transition is in progress. I assumed that, during this process, I would essentially be the same person that I was upon arriving at the decision. I’m now discovering that that’s not true.

Every book I read, every film I watch is now a chance to analyze: the plot, the characters, the evolution of the story. Every gorgeous website is a chance to go beneath, to the source. I no longer have the ability to simply admire a great story, to become absorbed to the point of losing myself. The creator in me- that beast inside that I’ve recently acknowledged- not only recognizes a beautiful creation, but wants to know the reason for its beauty.

Part of me wants to go back to the way it was: get lost in an absorbing book, or admire a compelling film without the analysis. Blissful ignorance. It’s this same part of me that tells me that I could never replicate that level of beauty (the definition of which is truth).

My weakness as a writer is developing plot mechanisms. I’ve many ideas, but turning an idea into an outline with specific, engaging plot twists is another thing entirely. To conceive of a story, one that will reveal to the author and the reader some morsel of truth about our reality, and accurately reflect its symbolism, its poignancies, its truths in story form is a very difficult task.

It would be easy for me, then, to listen to the voice that tells me that, if I turn around and go back down the road from whence I came, life will be easier. I can enjoy the stories told to me once again, without the constant nagging of a need to understand the story’s structure. Stop analyzing. Start enjoying.

I will not listen to that voice. He wants a mediocre existence. He wants to stifle the other voice gasping for air: the creator inside of me that wants so desperately to see the light of day. That voice, that beast, knows precisely my weakness. It is because of my deficiencies in developing plot that he forces me to stare at an unfolding story with wide eyes. It is why he will not let me rest until I understand the thing which draws me to a particular narrative.

He knows my needs, he knows my desires. There is nothing more terrifying than having your own naked needs and desires revealed to you in undisguised form. How easy it would be to smother him, to let a mundane existence envelop me. But my eyes have been opened to what I may become, and I will settle for nothing less than seeing the world through the eyes of a writer.