If thought word and deed were all to form a spiral, vortex of the spiral lies in art. As I start writing this piece, one thought strikes me at the back of my mind- “How does one begin writing about the essence of art?” It isnt a philosophical question but is rather one of aesthetic value. Timeless and persevering.
Perhaps Lenin sums it up beautifully,
Ничего не знаю лучше «Apassionata», готов слушать ее каждый день. Изумительная, нечеловеческая музыка. Я всегда с гордостью, может быть, наивной, детской, думаю: вот какие чудеса могут делать люди … Но часто слушать музыку не могу, действует на нервы, хочется милые глупости говорить и гладить по головкам людей, которые, живя в грязном аду, могут создавать такую красоту. А сегодня гладить по головке никого нельзя — руку откусят, и надобно бить по головкам, бить безжалостно, хотя мы, в идеале, против всякого насилия над людьми.
Translation: I know of nothing better than the Appassionata and could listen to it every day. What astonishing, superhuman music! It always makes me proud, perhaps with a childish naiveté, to think that people can work such miracles! … But I can’t listen to music very often, it affects my nerves. I want to say sweet, silly things, and pat the little heads of people who, living in a filthy hell, can create such beauty. These days, one can’t pat anyone on the head nowadays, they might bite your hand off. Hence, those little heads must be beaten, beaten mercilessly, although ideally we are against doing any violence to people.
The human race has varied interpretations of art. From imitating life to being a balm for the human spirit, an exemplary example of human thought, a representation of the evolution of time, social structure, culture and ‘just being’ I guess it’s hard to say what art really is.
I remember reading one of John Keat’s greatest works- Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Fair youth, beneath the trees,
thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
A concise summary of the unchanging nature of art.
It is hard to imagine human existence in the current context without art. Art is a symbol of our times. The perspective that art provides is not one that is beyond reality but merely a reference to other dimensions of reality that we normally fail to percieve. The eye of the artist is one that looks beyond the horizon, past the sunset.
Perhaps I would do justice to this writing if I were to quote Shelly when he ends Ozymandias-
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
