Recently in Art & Literature Category

By Matthew Anderson

I have always thought that every academic--or wannabe, such as myself--ought have one or two hypotheses that are held very loosely, are somewhat defensible but impossible to prove, and just fringe enough to make academic parties mildly interesting.

One such hypothesis that I have occasionally advanced is that G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy is the most important work of the 21st century, even though it was written in the 20th.
Though Chesterton attained more fame during his than C.S. Lewis--he was greeted by massive crowds on his trips around the world-- by the beginning of World War Two his position as chief apologist and defender of the faith had been taken over by Lewis. In particular, Chesterton's influence on American evangelicalism has been relatively non-existent compared to Lewis's.

And no wonder: Lewis' Mere Christianity, which has influenced numerous evangelical leaders over the past few decades, is a masterfully written apologetic for the truth of Christianity. The discovery of Lewis helped many evangelicals in the 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s realize the importance of having a faith that was as intellectual as it was spiritual.

Yet the situation within evangelicalism--and without--has now changed, and Mere Christianity is an apologetic suited to its time. While evangelicals have made significant strides in recovering the life of the mind, it is now en vogue to criticize evangelical Christianity as too propositional. The new generation of post-modern evangelicals is moved more by the story of Christianity than its ideas, and more prone to appeal to the imagination than the intellect.

Such critics would do well to consider Orthodoxy.

Is Harry Potter a literary Christ figure, or the newest plot to turn you and your children into satanic evildoers?

When the Harry Potter books were new, many Christians refused to sell or even read them because of the elements of witchcraft found in the plot. It became fashionable in some Christian circles to swap Harry Potter horror stories and read books on why the fictional teenage boy was the next worst thing to happen to Christendom. Hating Harry became a popular pastime. It still is, though some of the energy of the anti-Harry Potter movement seems to have worn away as the books have aged and become less of a novelty.

Was this outcry deserved? Have hordes of schoolchildren really embraced witchcraft at the bidding of the green eyed wizard boy? Have we all been taken in by the golden griffin?

Snopes and truthorfiction.com agree that the internet rumors you've probably all heard about the scores of young people eagerly embracing Satanism have no basis in fact. Have individual readers turned from the straight and narrow after entering Harry's world? Perhaps, but that's not Harry's fault. If John Granger is right, it's not even Potter author J.K. Rowling's fault.

By Ken Myers

Lately, a lot of what I'm reading has been concerned with how I'm reading, with whether other people are reading, and with how reading influences our inner lives, both our brains and our souls. Nicholas Carr's Atlantic essay, "Is Google Making Us Stupid?" (July/August 2008) is an elegant exploration of some of the themes explored by media ecologists. Carr has the feeling, he confesses, that the way he thinks has been changing. It's increasingly hard for him to concentrate on extended arguments presented in books for any sustained period. "I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I'm always dragging my wayward brain back to the text." He reports that many friends and colleagues report the same sensation, and he's convinced that the cause behind this effect is all the time he spends online.

As Carr describes it, the way knowledge is organized and acquired online encourages certain mental habits while discouraging others. And it reinforces a specific model of human knowing, "a belief that intelligence is the output of a mechanical process, a series of discrete steps that can be isolated, measured, and optimized. In Google's world, the world we enter when we go online, there's little place for the fuzziness of contemplation. Ambiguity is not an opening for insight but a bug to be fixed."

"How did we go from Rembrandt to Kinkade?" I asked, in a post marking the reopening of my weekend feature, The Gallery. I knew that even a mildly critical mention of Thomas Kinkade, the Painter of Light, would spark controversy and it didn't take long before admirers of his work came to his defense. In the second comment, Bevets added an interesting perspective:

Shortly after the end of World War II, novelist Ernest Hemingway was traveling thru Paris and attempted to visit his old acquaintance, Pablo Picasso. On learning that Picasso was out, Hemingway decided to leave the artist a present. He went to his car and returned with a case of grenades on which he wrote, “To Picasso from Hemingway.”

While an appropriately symbolic gift, Picasso didn’t need the armaments: he had already been lobbing grenades for nearly half a century. His explosive entry into the Cubist movement marked him as one of the most important figures in Western art. The detonations rang so loudly that during the pinnacle of his career he was compared to artists such as Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. The shockwaves have even carried over into this new century. In Paris, 79-year-old Genevieve Laporte, one of Picasso’s former lovers, recently sold a collection of twenty sketches worth an estimated $1.8 million to $2.4 million.

The grenades he tossed left more than a few wounded women. Many of Picasso’s wives and mistresses led tormented existences that ended tragically: Marie-Therese Walter hanged herself; Jacqueline Roque shot herself; Dora Maar had a nervous breakdown, underwent shock therapy, and eventually became a recluse, dying poor and alone. The women, however, were not merely the collateral damage of Picasso’s temperamental genius; they were the catalyst of his art. “Violation of the visible world,” says critic E. Michael Jones, “was tied to violation of a particular woman.”

What begins in the glow of realist love (or at the very least infatuation) ends in the violent disgust of Cubist distortion. Picasso’s love/hate relationship with the visible world was a visual expression of his love/hate relationship with the particular woman in his life at the time. Cubism, according to the evidence in Picasso’s paintings, is less the abstract juggling of shapes and colors than an index of sexual disgust.

Examining the works of Picasso alongside a chronology of his relationships does reveal a striking pattern. Consider this brief, but representative example:

[Note: This is post #1 in the Blogiversary II series.]

“How did we go from Rembrandt to Kinkade?” I asked, in a post marking the reopening of my weekend feature, The Gallery. I knew that even a mildly critical mention of Thomas Kinkade, the Painter of Light, would spark controversy and it didn’t take long before admirers of his work came to his defense. In the second comment, Bevets added an interesting perspective:

Suppose you had never heard of Kincaid and you saw one of his paintings in a respectable art gallery. Suppose you found out that Kincaid cut off his ear and died a long time ago without any money. Can you say with certainty that your opinion of his aesthetics would be the same?

That’s an excellent question. Can I be certain that my opinion of his aesthetics would be the same?

Absolutely.

To show why I am confident in my opinion, let’s examine two works of art on similar themes. Both are images of the Water Tower in Chicago. Both have a carriage, trees, and people with umbrellas. In fact, the paintings are almost identical in theme and content.

And yet the first is unquestionably technically superior. The use of texture and shadow puts the viewer within the picture. You can almost feel the cold Chicago air and hear the sounds of the serene yet bustling city. The second painting, however, distances the viewer from the scene. Light is overused (notice the light coming from every window and the background lights that resemble a brushfire), presenting a faux golden glow that is unrealistic and dull. And the carriage, though more sharply drawn than in the other painting, is two-dimensional and distracting. While the first work is worthy of gracing a museum wall, the second is only worthy of garnishing a cheap greeting card.

As you could probably guess, the second painting is by Thomas Kinkade, circa 2004.

But what about the first painting, the more aesthetically superior rendition of the Water Tower? It too is by Thomas Kinkade. He painted it in 1998.

Shortly after the end of World War II, novelist Ernest Hemingway was traveling thru Paris and attempted to visit his old acquaintance, Pablo Picasso. On learning that Picasso was out, Hemingway decided to leave the artist a present. He went to his car and returned with a case of grenades on which he wrote, “To Picasso from Hemingway.”

While an appropriately symbolic gift, Picasso didn’t need the armaments: he had already been lobbying grenades for nearly half a century. His explosive entry into the Cubist movement marked him as one of the most important figures in Western art. The detonations rang so loudly that during the pinnacle of his career he was compared to artists such as Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. The shockwaves have even carried over into this new century. Today in Paris, 79-year-old Genevieve Laporte, one of Picasso’s former lovers, will be selling a collection of twenty sketches worth an estimated $1.8 million to $2.4 million.

The grenades he tossed left more than a few wounded women. Many of Picasso’s wives and mistresses led tormented existences that ended tragically: Marie-Therese Walter hanged herself; Jacqueline Roque shot herself; Dora Maar had a nervous breakdown, underwent shock therapy, and eventually became a recluse, dying poor and alone. The women, however, were not merely the collateral damage of Picasso’s temperamental genius; they were the catalyst of his art. “Violation of the visible world,” says critic E. Michael Jones, “was tied to violation of a particular woman.”

What begins in the glow of realist love (or at the very least infatuation) ends in the violent disgust of Cubist distortion. Picasso’s love/hate relationship with the visible world was a visual expression of his love/hate relationship with the particular woman in his life at the time. Cubism, according to the evidence in Picasso’s paintings, is less the abstract juggling of shapes and colors than an index of sexual disgust.

Examining the works of Picasso alongside a chronology of his relationships does reveal a striking pattern. Consider this brief, but representative example:

Behind the pulpit, next to the large wooden cross, leaned a large piece of canvass covered plywood, plastered with the artwork of children. The canvass stood nearly ten feet tall and spread six foot across with crayon masterpieces. Burnt Sienna stick families with Carnation Pink smiles stretched across landscapes of Asparagus colored grass and beneath absurdly large Laser Lemon suns. Beside each work hung a photograph of the proud artist. The kids in our church had drawn the pictures during Sunday School and given them to their heavenly Father. “Every proud parent hangs their children’s artwork on the refrigerator door,” said the pastor, “This is God’s refrigerator.”

In discussions about art and Christianity the question invariably arises: “What makes an artwork ‘Christian’?” I believe the children of my church have stumbled upon the answer. Whatever else we might say in response, I believe that “Christian art” is simply the art that is created for the glory of our Creator, the works that God would hang on his refrigerator door.

If asked, most evangelicals would say that the creation of art, like other worthy labors, is valuable because of who we serve. Yet we Christians often fail to appreciate the intrinsic value of art. We prefer that it convey a worldview, serve as a redemptive metaphor, or be useful as a tool for evangelism. Art may, of course, be legitimately used in all these ways. In fact, our age is in desperate need of profound and inspiring works of sacred art. But the worth should be in the work itself, not in how it can be used. The first and most important principle in a theory of art, said Francis Schaeffer, is that “a work of art has a value in itself.”

For Christians to be able to save the visual arts we must first stop treating “Christian art” as a distinctive genre, as if the value of an artwork depended on whether it fell on the “correct” side of the sacred/secular divide. Art must have an intrinsic dignity as a work of art. What makes it worthy of the modifier “Christian” is not a matter of theme or content but that it is produced for the pleasure of our Lord. We create because we are made in the image of our Father and, like our own children, we should honor him with the gifts of our creativity. All Christians, therefore, have a duty to restore art to its proper place in creation – out of the toilet and back onto God’s refrigerator.

Next: How should art be judged?

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
  Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
  I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,
  Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
  It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to
  My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
  The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow

E. Pauline Johnson (1861-1913)

Modern art is in the toilet.

Literally.

Last December, 500 arts specialists in Britain agreed that the single most important work of art in the 20th century was Marcel Duchamp’s “Fountain.”

For most people, the selection of a urinal over the works of such artists as Picasso or Matisse might have come as a bit of a shock. But according to art expert Simon Wilson, “…it reflects the dynamic nature of art today and the idea that the creative process that goes into a work of art is the most important thing - the work itself can be made of anything and can take any form." [emphasis added]

Wilson’s comment echoes a 1974 remark by New York Times art critic Hilton Kramer:

“Realism does not lack its partisans, but it does rather conspicuously lack a persuasive theory. And given the nature of our intellectual commerce with works of art, to lack a persuasive theory is to lack something crucial—the means by which our experience of individual works is joined to our understanding of the values they signify.”

In The Painted Word, Tom Wolfe writes that after reading Kramer’s innocuous comment he “experienced a flash known as the Aha! phenomenon, and the buried life of contemporary art was revealed to me for the first time.”

“How did we go from Rembrandt to Kinkade?” I asked, in a post marking the reopening of my weekend feature, The Gallery. I knew that even a mildly critical mention of Thomas Kinkade, the Painter of Light, would spark controversy and it didn’t take long before admirers of his work came to his defense. In the second comment, Bevets added an interesting perspective:

Suppose you had never heard of Kincaid and you saw one of his paintings in a respectable art gallery. Suppose you found out that Kincaid cut off his ear and died a long time ago without any money. Can you say with certainty that your opinion of his aesthetics would be the same?

That’s an excellent question. Can I be certain that my opinion of his aesthetics would be the same?

Absolutely.

To show why I am confident in my opinion, let’s examine two works of art on similar themes. Both are images of the Water Tower in Chicago. Both have a carriage, trees, and people with umbrellas. In fact, the paintings are almost identical in theme and content.

And yet the first is unquestionably technically superior. The use of texture and shadow puts the viewer within the picture. You can almost feel the cold Chicago air and hear the sounds of the serene yet bustling city. The second painting, however, distances the viewer from the scene. Light is overused (notice the light coming from every window and the background lights that resemble a brushfire), presenting a faux golden glow that is unrealistic and dull. And the carriage, though more sharply drawn than in the other painting, is two-dimensional and distracting. While the first work is worthy of gracing a museum wall, the second is only worthy of garnishing a cheap greeting card.

As you could probably guess, the second painting is by Thomas Kinkade, circa 2004.

But what about the first painting, the more aesthetically superior rendition of the Water Tower? It too is by Thomas Kinkade. He painted it in 1998.

What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish. -W. H. Auden, The Dyer's Hand

Fifteen novels. Forty kids books. Eleven comic books. A movie. A board game. Audiobooks. Screen savers. Tim Lahaye and Jerry Jenkins haven’t just produced a series of books with their Left Behind novels. They’ve created a media empire.

But what do the millions of books and products represent? Does it reveal an interest in eschatology among non-believers or just a hunger for Tom Clancy-style thrillers with churchgoers? Is the dispensational theology inherent in the novels representative of evangelicalism or does it lead to misperceptions about our beliefs? Are the novels great popular art, good entertainment, or shoddy pulp being pawned off on a gullible public?

Whether you’ve read every novel or never glanced at a single page, you’ve probably formed an opinion on the Left Behind phenomenon. Let me know what you think in this open thread or post a link on your blog and I’ll add it to the collection of links on the topic.

Related articles:

In his latest symposium, Hugh Hewitt asks what modern novels are worth reading a second time. My initial reaction was to reply "none" since, with rare expection (i.e., Don Quixote), novels do not tend to hold up well under repeated readings. As Mortimer Adler claimed, “Imaginative literature influences our imagination by trying to convey experience, while expository work calls for our intelligence trying to convey knowledge.”

Since most works of fiction can fulfill their duty on the first reading there is generally no reason to return for a second serving, especially for a painfully slow reader like me. Rereading a modern novel is a decadent luxury when the time could be spent on a work of non-fiction.

Still, there are a handful of works that I would recommend returning to a second time (or first if you’ve missed them) because they convey both experience and knowledge:

In Jasper Fforde's charming alternate history "The Eyre Affair" , England in the 1980's is a place where hardcore literature fans change their name to John Milton, roving gangs of surrealists rumble with French impressionists, and "Baconians" go door-to-door like Jehovah Witnesses' to convince people that Francis Bacon was the true author of Shakespeare's plays. For the English in Fforde's world, art and literature attain the type of popularity comparable to American's fascination with sports and celebrity.

After finishing the book I wondered why our world couldn't be more like that. I wondered, "Wouldn't we be better off if we took literature that seriously?" Then comes "Bloomsday" to confirm that the answer to my question is a resounding, "No."

June 16th marks the 100th anniversary of "Bloomsday", a commemoration of a day in the life of Leopold Bloom, the hero of James Joyce's Ulysses. For at least the past 50 years, fans of the notoriously difficult novel have gathered around the world in order to drink, dress up and celebrate their status as the literary equivalent of Trekkies.

"The Irish," says The Weekly Standard contributor Stephen Schwartz, "are inordinately fond of jokes and puns, especially if they are esoteric and thus known only to a few." By this standard, Joyce's book, which contains more obscure references than Dennis Miller's cranium, can be classified as the greatest joke every played on English literature. "The paradox is that the book is a giant fart joke," says Diana Wynne, producer of the documentary Joyce to the World. "There's this huge vocabulary and complex technique, references to English literature and all kinds of obscure learning. But at the story level there's a lot of low humor, base jokes, and a celebration of ordinary people." Ulysses, it seems, is the highbrow literary equivalent of an Adam Sandler movie.

Reading lists haunt me. For the past fifteen years I’ve slogged through the “canon" of Western Civilization (based on the reading list of St. John’s College) yet have made depressingly little progress. (Just thinking about War and Peace and Das Kapital makes me break out into a cold sweat.)

That list alone should be enough. But in between I’ve tried to squeeze in the 101 titles on the College Board’s Great Book list and the Modern Library’s 100 Best Nonfiction. Needless to say, I’ve barely scratched the surface.

I tell myself not to get discouraged; that I have plenty of time to finish. Education is, after all, a lifelong process and, with any luck, I should be around for years to come. But I'm starting to lose focus. I need to regroup and regain a sense of literary accomplishment. I need to feel like I am making some kind of headway.

So I’ve devised an interim plan. For the rest of the summer I’ve decided to set aside my marathon pace and work on some sprints. With roughly 100 days until I ship off to Iraq, I believe I can finish reading the 100 Most Essential Short Stories in English literature.

Estimating that I will have read a least a dozen of the stories on the Platonic list, a short story a day is definitely a feasible goal. The only problem, of course, is that I have no idea which stories should be included. I can think of a few, though no more than a handful; certainly nowhere near a hundred.

Which is why I need your help. What are the best short stories that have ever been written? What are the stories that would be required in order to become “well-read"? What are the 100 most essential short stories?

Leave your suggestions in the comments or send them by email. If at all possible, please include your recommendation in the form of last name and title. I will attempt to put them in alphabetical order to prevent posting redundant suggestions.

The 100 most essential short stories in English literature are:

'Imagination," said the French critic Jules de Gaultier, 'is the one weapon in the war against reality." But what about when was is your reality? Then, I believe, imaginative literature becomes the one best weapon. That is why I’ve decided to compile a reading list of books to take as I equip to go to Iraq.

My greatest fear as I prepare to deploy is not the rocket attacks or convoy ambushes. Whether due to trust in divine providence or, more likely, a Panglossian naiveté, my biggest worry is simply that I'll be incessantly bored. That may change, of course, when my newbie enthusiasm is doused by the cold waters of experience. Whatever the circumstances, boredom will no doubt be a problem, so I plan to prepare the best I can.

I’ve decided to catch up on my reading of the 'classics', particularly works of imaginative literature. Like Robert Tagorda, I tend to be drawn toward nonfiction, especially works of philosophy. Such tomes, however, are often as dry and dusty as the Iraqi desert. Under the circumstances, philosophy is not the most ideal choice. Besides, there’s something slightly romantic, slightly Kiplingesque about reading great works of fiction while just a stone’s throw (or at least an artillery strike) from the Euphrates river. It also doesn’t hurt that the books are often cheap, easy to find, and can fit easily into my seabag.

The only problem is deciding which to choose from. While there are numerous lists and canons, I thought a good starting point would be this meme that has been floating around the blogosphere of a 101 literary classics [the books that I‘ve read are in bold]:

What would you say if I told you a white supremacist writer has self-published a book depicting "ghetto life" with almost every character trafficking in drugs, prostitution, and murder. The female characters are luridly described as, "a large woman, her legs were as thick as tree trunks. . . . She had a small waist and large booty which switched from side to side with each step she took." Every other chapter includes details about murder or illicit sex and portrays black people as oversexed, drug-dealing, hyper-violent, and psychopathic.

Would it bother you to know book stores carry such pornographic and racist literature? What about high school libraries?

That was quick. A U.S. toy maker has already produced a "Captured Saddam" action figure.

When the National Book Foundation's Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters goes to the man who wrote Cujo you know it’s been a strange year for literature.

Still, if you’re like me, you can’t wait to see what the critic’s will choose for their end of year “Best of” list. Such lists are invaluable. They provide me a way to gauge what I should be reading (but won’t get around to) in 2004.

Here is a collection of the critic's list. As more come out I'll add them to the roll:

Personally, I don’t think so. Even if most of what is currently produced is worthless kitsch.

The discoshaman has seven suggestions for how we can get things back on track. My favorite is #2:

Take Thomas Kinkade to the outskirts of Monterey and stone him.

Amen, brother.

(Hat tip: Tim Berglund)

So have you bought the book yet? What are you waiting for? You only have 20 more shopping days until Christmas!

Oh well, you're procrastination may have paid off after all. I've found that you can get a signed copy of the book by California's Official Sommelier.

(By the way, Mr. Hewitt also has some other great recommendations for the book lovers on your Christmas list.)

In 1919, British economist John Maynard Keynes wrote a little book entitled,
“The Economic Consequences of the Peace.” While his public motive was to warn of the effects the imposed peace was having on post WWI Germany, it ended up having very unintended consequences.

“It proved to be one of the most destructive books of the century,” says historian Paul Johnson, “which contributed directly and in several ways to the future war Keynes was so anxious to avert.” (Modern Times, pg. 30)

Kenneth Pollack, on the other hand, was most definitely trying to start a war when he published “The Threatening Storm: The Case for Invading Iraq.” Although, he might have tried to backpedal a bit once the invasion began, he was influential enough to convince many others that an invasion was necessary.

Which brings up the question…where is Pollack now? With the media constantly asking about WMDs it seems particularly odd that the scholar who wrote, “There is little doubt that the Iraqis are continuing to develop chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons…” would suddenly bow out of the conversation.

Keynes stuck around long after the war. Will Pollack do the same? If fact, does anyone know what happened to him?