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Chapter Three
The Role of Art
One of the most important ways we humans have tried to understand our world, and the meaning of our lives in it, is through creating and experiencing art. This includes the doing – writing, sculpting, composing, painting, designing, performing, and decorating. And it includes receiving – reading, watching, listening – immersing ourselves in what others have created with all of our senses, as well as our minds and emotions. Almost every culture in human history has made a considerable investment of time, energy, and money in the creation of art in one of its many forms. Consider the resources and effort given through the centuries to commissioning, purchasing, and staging artistic works – ranging from painting, to sculpture, to music, to literature, to opera, to theater, to dance, to object design, to architecture – and on through all the other forms.
Next, think of the investment through the ages in the buildings constructed to house, display, and contain the world’s art (opera houses, symphony halls, museums, libraries, art galleries – and the thousands of castles and great homes built primarily to showcase art commissioned and collected by wealthy families.) Then imagine for a moment the amount of time we humans have spent viewing, reading, listening, watching – giving our time to experience art in all its forms. Considering the investment we have made, and continue to make in art, it becomes exceedingly clear that this is one of the central commitments of the human species. (This is one of the ways we seem to be most distinct from other species.)
However, in most cultures throughout human history, art was not an enterprise separate from the effort to find a right relationship to the “unseen order.” On the contrary, these two areas of human interest have most often been intertwined, have moved hand in hand. In the main, art through the centuries has not been a secular enterprise, but rather has been bound up with the attempt to understand what is important, how we should live, how to have a meaningful life – in short, has been deeply entwined with the mystery of the unseen. In fact, art itself has often been considered sacred, a primary way of connecting with and experiencing something larger than oneself.
As noted earlier, anthropologist Mircea Eliade found that every culture he studied (both ancient and modern) recognized two levels of experience – the sacred and the profane. By “profane” he meant the everyday world of our ordinary lives – making a living, building relationships, taking care of our responsibilities, enjoying ourselves, fulfilling our ambitions. The “sacred” involved our connection to something larger than ourselves, beyond the experience of everyday time and space. And in many cultures, art was the primary link to this sacred dimension – the preferred medium for dealing with the most sacred issues and questions.
Because of this, many great artists were a part of the established religious structures of their time, doing their work for and within those structures. Many others, however, had a very uneasy relationship with their cultures’ religious organizations – even to the point of being declared heretics. But interestingly, in both cases – whether within or outside the religious institutions of their time – most artists thought of their work as coming from and having to do with the sacred, as having to do with something larger than the “small self” of their everyday lives. All attempt to define this “something larger” are difficult, partly because artists themselves defined it in very different ways. But for almost all artists there has been this “something larger” from which their inspirations arose, and about which their art was a glimpse. As we will see, this has been a basic assumption of most artists throughout human history.
As with the unseen order, this commonality of experience does not pin down or define where artists’ inspiration comes from – that will perhaps always remain something of a mystery. But focusing on this recurring theme – that the inspiration for art usually comes from and speaks about Eliade’s sacred time and space – will help us better understand our relationship to this dimension, and even provide some guidance as to how we might live our own lives in relation to it.
Being an Artist Can Be Very Difficult – Why Do People Do It?
To begin exploring the role of art, it is important to realize that being an artist is often a difficult, lonely, unrewarding profession. Think of the countless stories of artists through the ages who sacrificed everything in order to pursue their art – writers and poets and musicians who lived in poverty and squalor in order to follow their dream. Many left their families and friends to pursue their visions, while others infuriated friends and society alike by following their unique visions rather than conforming to the style of the time.
Beyond the stories that we know, there must be innumerable such stories we have never heard – because the artist did not become famous. I have often wondered: For every artist who became well known, how many more made the same sacrifices, gave the same effort, but did not achieve lasting success? For every artist that history records as successful, there must have been a thousand, or perhaps ten thousand, who made the effort – who gave their lives to their art – yet are not recognized or remembered today.
Further, to become an artist, aspirants have to commit to learning the skills and working at their craft for many years before “the world” decides whether or not it will value what they have done. Most who make this commitment do not have much worldly success. Even for those who are eventually recognized, the recognition often comes only toward the end of their lives. There are also many who are considered great artists today that received little or no recognition while they were alive. And yet, aspiring artists keep working, making the effort, making the sacrifice – without knowing whether their work will ever be appreciated. To emphasize again, many artists live in obscurity and poverty and rejection for a very long time before they are proclaimed a success – if they ever are. So the life of an artist is often very hard.
My favorite example of this is Vincent Van Gogh. I recently revisited his museum in Amsterdam, and was reminded of the many years he painted without receiving any recognition. It is now believed by many scholars that he did not sell a single painting in his lifetime – his paintings simply piled up in his brother’s garage, un-displayed, like the work of your “Aunt Sue” or “Cousin Bill” who is trying to be an artist, but who no one seems to appreciate.
It is very hard for me to grasp that Van Gogh’s paintings were stacked in a garage, unseen by anyone (with very little protection from damage or weather), yet today those same paintings are worth more in combined value than the works of any other artist who ever lived. The crucial point is that Van Gogh had to keep turning out those paintings, working away, day after day, year after year – without any recognition or appreciation. And it was definitely not easy. Once he said, "I have a dirty and hard profession – painting – and if it were not what I am, I should not paint . . ."
These facts have often led me to thoughts about Van Gogh and his difficult life, as well as his enormous success after his death. I think of this partly because he is one of my favorite artists, and partly because his life exemplifies something very important in the questions we are exploring. While he lived, his life was very painful – his letters to his brother Theo are a testament to that pain. Because of that pain, he died young by his own hand. Yet today, he is considered one of the greatest artists of all time.
So I have asked myself, if I could have Van Gogh’s life – a life of great pain, but followed by enormous success after death – would I choose it? Would you? For me, the answer has been fairly easy. I would not choose Van Gogh’s life. But there is a much harder question. If Vincent Van Gogh had been my friend, and he had asked for my advice about how he should live, what would I have said? I have wondered most especially what I would have said if I thought he would have been happier if he had “settled down” to a more normal life, becoming a blacksmith or a butcher. Would I have advised him to go the route of his personal happiness, or would I have advised him to continue with his art – even though such a life would be much more difficult?
Of course, one cannot know if Van Gogh’s life would have been better if he had given up his art. But many of us face, at crucial moments in our lives, exactly this kind of question: Do we do what seems practical and conventional and “steady” – following what we hope will be the path to conventional happiness? Or do we take the risk and follow the path that seems to have greater meaning, more passion, more life and vitality in it – even if it seems riskier and more difficult?
So why did Van Gogh make the choices he made? And why do so many people invest so much time and energy in the difficult undertaking of becoming artists? What might account for the power of the creative process to call us to its service? And what does this have to do with the unseen order, and the sacred?
Where Does Artistic Inspiration Come From?
One way to get at these questions is to ask: Where does creative inspiration come from – what is the source of artistic creativity? Not an easy question to answer. But a valuable clue comes from Willis Harmon in his book Higher Creativity, in which he documents a theme that runs through the reports of many, many artists as to the source of their ideas and images. Summing up this thesis, Harmon quotes the poet Shelley, "One after another the greatest writers, poets, and artists confirm the fact that their work comes to them from beyond the threshold of consciousness."
For instance, Mozart said of the origin of one of his works, "Though it be long” (he was speaking of a whole piece of music), “the whole work stands almost complete and finished in my mind . . . Nor do I hear in my imagination the parts successively, but I hear them, as it were, all at once." Incredibly, Mozart is telling us that he did not “think up” this work, but that it somehow “came to him” complete and whole from somewhere beyond his conscious awareness. How can this be? Even if you memorized a long piece of music that already existed, how could you hold all the parts of it in your mind simultaneously? The mind doesn’t work like that. Yet Mozart was able to see “all at once” a whole work that had not yet been created?
Following this thread, the more one investigates, the more one discovers that artists often consider themselves "recipients of a gift." Beethoven insisted that some of his most valued inspirations came to him from beyond what he normally thought of as his individual self. George Sand echoed this sentiment saying, "The Wind plays my old harp as it lists . . . It is the other who sings as he likes through me, well or ill."
Over and over this theme repeats itself in the writings of artists concerning the source of their inspirations. The painter Paul Klee said, “The artist is merely a channel." Wagner said of the overture to Das Rheingold, "It has at last been revealed to me." The poet Keats said that a section of his poem Hyperion “came to him by chance or magic – to be, as it were, something given to me." He also reported that sometimes, after he had written something down, he was struck with “astonishment,” for it seemed "rather the production of another person" than his own. The composer Tchaikovsky said, "Generally speaking, the germ of a future composition comes suddenly and unexpectedly.” [All italics in this paragraph are mine]
Higher Creativity gives many other examples of how “the muse can come, unbidden, and virtually dictate entire lines, passages, or works." For instance, Goethe: "I wrote the book almost unconsciously, like a somnambulist, and was amazed when I realized what I had done." William Blake reports, "I have written this poem from immediate dictation, twelve or sometimes twenty lines at a time, without premeditation, and even against my will." Richard Strauss concurs, "While the ideas were flowing in upon me – the entire musical, measure for measure, it seemed to me that I was dictated to by two wholly different, Omnipotent Entities . . . I was definitely conscious of being aided by more than an earthly Power.” The composer Brahms declares, "Straightaway the ideas flow in upon me, directly from God . . . Measure by measure, the finished product is revealed to me when I am in those rare, inspired moods." And Puccini joins in, "The music of this opera was dictated to me by God; I was merely instrumental in putting it on paper and communicating it to the public."
Rudyard Kipling was a writer who reflected on these issues often, and he concluded that the key to contacting one’s inner inspiration was "not to think consciously” but to “drift." Harmon quotes a wonderful example of this “drifting” from the journals of the great composer Beethoven. The composer reports that one day, while riding in a carriage, he fell asleep and began dreaming of Jerusalem. Within the dream there arose a beautiful piece of music. On waking, however – try as he might – he could not remember any part of that music. But being a man quite aware of the necessity to “drift,” Beethoven arranged the next day to take the same carriage ride, and, though awake, began to consciously and intentionally re-enter the dream of the previous day. And as he reports, “lo and behold!” the same music “flashed across me.” And since he was now awake and prepared, he “held it … fast” and began to write it down.
What is most interesting here is that Beethoven could consciously set out to explore the terrain between sleep and waking – could re-enter the dream world while still awake – and thus bring back the creative inspiration from that world. This is a marvelous example of a creative genius learning to open to the mysterious world of inspiration through a conscious intention, and then bringing its fruits into the creation of his art.
Then there is the story of the poet Coleridge, who went to sleep under the influence of laudanum (a mixture of opium and alcohol) and awoke three hours later with several hundred lines of the poem Xanadu in his mind. Coleridge said that in his dream, "all the images rose up before him as things, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.” And when he awoke, he had a “distinct recollection of the whole,” and then “instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved." So in this case, several hundred lines of a major poem appeared in a dream!
How do we make sense of all these experiences? We could dismiss them if the creations being mentioned were nonsensical, but many of the works referred to are great works of art. And these experiences come from some of the greatest artists the world has ever known. Further, who should best know the source of inspiration that these artists are experiencing? If there were not so many similar reports, from so many great artists, these reports would be easier to discount. But the above are just a few of the many, many examples that could be given. Because of this, there is something here to which we must give heed.
So what is the source of artists’ inspiration? Brahms provides an invaluable clue in saying, "I have to be in a semitrance condition to get such results – a condition when the conscious mind is in temporary abeyance, and the subconscious mind is in control." He goes on, "In this exalted state I see clearly what is obscure in my ordinary moods." For Brahms, and many other artists, the source of inspiration and creativity is not the “ordinary mind,” – it does not come from the artist’s personal ego, from what they normally think of as “me.” It arises from somewhere or something experienced as “greater” or “larger” than the personal sense of self. But this is exactly how people though the ages have spoken about their experience of the unseen order.
So what we can say is that, over and over, many great artists through the ages have pointed to a world beyond the conscious mind as the source of their inspiration. And in the absence of a convincing explanation for this mystery, perhaps we should bow to the poet Shelley, who said that they were the "visitations of the divine in man." They arise from the mysterious “unseen.” This of course does not tell us exactly what this creative source is – but recognizing the parallels leads to a better understanding of both, and helps us see clearly the overlapping nature of these two domains.
Why Drift?
Why is it necessary to “drift?” – why is it necessary to leave ordinary consciousness in order to get in touch with creativity – in art, in the search for meaning, or in almost any other realm of human endeavor, from science to business to psychology. (For it seems that paying attention to the insights gained from “beyond the threshold of consciousness” has been crucial in all areas of human life – which will be discussed in greater depth in subsequent chapters.)
Tackling this question, journalist Christine Cox gives a valuable suggestion: "In the lapsing of thought . . . our awareness of our personal ego also lapses. It is this momentary loss of the noise of the ego that is the true cause of the bliss that accompanies the creative state. And this silencing of the ego allows us to hear not only the symphony of bliss, but also the many-stranded music of reality, and the voice of inspiration arising from within." In other words, in order to get in touch with a deeper inspiration, for art or for life, we must learn to get outside our small ego’s point of view. We must enter Eliade’s “sacred time.” Only this allows connection to a source of wisdom and guidance that is larger than our petty concerns – and only in this place do we get in touch with meaning, with values, with what is really important in life. And if the mystics are to be believed, only here will we find bliss.
And this brings us back to Van Gogh. For years he worked feverishly, sometimes painting 10 to 12 hours a day. And during those years his life was, in many ways, quite painful. Yet he could also write, "at moments, when I am in a good mood, I think that what is alive in art, and eternally alive, is in the first place the painter . . ." So pain was not his only experience. In the same letter he writes, "Since I am a painter, I often work with pleasure . . ." And in another note he poignantly relates how he feels the connection between his pain and his creativity, and says he would not sacrifice the one if it meant the loss of the other. This recalls the words of the poet Rilke, who said, in effect, that he was afraid if he lost his demons, he would lose his angels also.
Thus the key to Van Gogh’s experience might be that only when he was immersed in his painting did he feel that the “real” Van Gogh, the deeper Van Gogh – his essence – was present. When he reached this deeper state of inspiration and creativity, he felt that his true essence, his real self, came alive. And in those exalted moments he felt meaning in his life. The rest of the time he was caught by his neuroses, his psychological problems – and because of this, in his normal life he was mostly suffering. So perhaps the reason Van Gogh remained a painter, and worked such long hours – even though it was difficult – was to experience this state, to "experience the visitation of the divine," to enter “sacred time” as much as he possibly could. Especially since the rest of his life was such a mess.
So if I had been Van Gogh’s friend, would I have suggested he give up painting to have a more “normal” life? My intuitive answer seems to be no. Even though I have concluded that I would not have chosen Van Gogh’s life for myself, the advice I would have given him seems clear. If I had received one of his letters, I think I would have replied: Vincent, only in those bursts of creativity, those moments when you lose yourself in your art, do you seem to find any meaning or joy in your life. Only then do you seem in touch with your higher self, your essence, your deeper spirit. So, yes Vincent, even if it is hard, go for it, continue your work – it seems to be your best path to a deeper meaning, a fuller experience of your life.
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