On Excellence in Art & Literature
Despite the view of the young woman who sits next to me in class who recently proclaimed Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness 'the worst book she'd ever read,' I'd like to make a case for its excellence.
To be honest, Heart of Darkness did not capture my warm regard the first time through either. Based on one man's experience of the late nineteenth-century European
invasion into Africa, a particularly atrocious human activity, the book has popularly been interpreted as a treatise on the dark side of human nature. On the surf ace, the book feels, as the title indicates, dark, threatening and even dreadful. My classmate may justifiably have been reacting to this. Deeper in, the basic inhumanity of man is not a theme that is overtly attractive to the late twentieth century mind either, mine included. The setting is ominous, the drama is psychological rather than behavioral, and the storyline is so subtly complex that one can feel overwhelmed in places. Frankly, I was annoyed with the book at first for being so difficult.
And yet something happened when, by compulsion of a grade, I read it through a second time. This time I could see the rhetorical devices the author used to carry his subtle message, and in this I recognized the brilliance of his method. Allow me to elaborate.
The story is such an intricate blending of the literal with the metaphorical that it is possible to interpret this classic work on many different levels and from many different angles. Examining the structure and the subtle way the parts are woven into the whole, I began to see room for another more positive interpretation than that popularly attributed to it. If one looks beyond the writer's words and into what is suggested by the setting and the structure of his narrative, one finds plenty of evidence that the author meant for us to see deeper than this surface appearance, beyond the common opinion that men are fundamentally corrupted and in need of external control lest their appetites go wild, and into the view that it is internal moral control which saves us from the fate of the wicked. Seeing this, the book began to scratch my itch. From this perspective the story implies precisely the opposite of what I'd heard told in lecture. The idea that human's are fundamentally good, even and especially in their primitive state, and that it is their involvement in polluted civilizations and their surrender to false values that has the potential to corrupt their natural character, sometimes turning them savagely against one another, this is a view that leaves us with our optimism -- an itch I think we all share.
The specific rhetorical device used by Comad here gives us this perspective through the point of view of the frame, where the narrator has the broadened view that time and distance provide. Through the memoirs of an old sailor, as recalled to his fellow crewmen in a late life setting of profound tranquility at sea, Conrad tells his tale at these rhythmic intervals in such a way that we are skillfully afforded the deeper moral of the story, if we look for it. His words and actions seem to take on more meaning here as they are those of a man wiser for the experience he is disclosing. Conrad's protagonist, Marlow, knows himself best when his discourse steps back, away from the action and into the context of the frame, where his more abstract philosophizing tells us what it is he has learned from the experience he relates. Through this rhetorical device, Marlow expresses insights which return consistently to themes of inner strength and potential weakness, and the unavoidable knowledge of the true self. In the process of sorting the sense from the nonsense, the irrational from the rational, the real from the artificial, in the savage world in which he finds himself, Marlow comes to terms with the fears, temptations, and contradictions from which many of his day and ours have suffered. Finding the courage to let go of the false assumptions and empty values of his fellow countrymen -- i.e. ivory -- the god to which others from his culture clung for security and power, he comes to discover and ultimately to show the strength to stand morally alone-- in "solitude-- utter solitude without a policeman ... silence - utter silence" where there is "no warning voice of public opinion. These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back on your own innate strength. "(p.122)
Like many classic works, inner strength is a critical theme in Conrad's novel. One comes to understand in the reading that Marlow's restraint is rewarded only with the knowledge of that strength, as Kurtz, his alter-ego, was punished by the lack of this self-knowledge. When one looks into one's heart, the reader realizes, one finds whatever one has put there by restraint or indulgence, which may very well be a savage beast, a heart of darkness ... but it might also be the power of good to resist that beast and the self-respect that follows from it. It is the conscious and choosing individual who decides which will be. Conrad leaves us little doubt that, if one looks deep inside, one finds the truth ... whether one wants to or not.
Another persistent theme in this novel which is common to many great works is the power of words to reveal or to hide the truth. In this story, the relation of words to power is subtly explored, and tightly connected with the theme of inner strength. Conrad implicitly distinguishes power as force from power as influence, and this from power as strength. Another way to say this might be to contrast the physical power it took to invade Africa, with the psychological power of the words that rationalized that invasion in the minds of its undertakers, and this with the internal power of resistance that the natives exhibited, even and especially toward those who would have them starved or enslaved. Marlow tells us much about the power that he and his enemy have in common, the power of words, as he come to see how they can delude one, can hide the truth, and can even make evil seem good. Real power, he concludes at length, is the strength it takes to face the demons of truth and justice that lie deeper than mere words and rationalizations.
For Marlow the test is-- as it has been for philosophers since Socrates gave his life for it's sake-- to prove himself true to his words; to find out by trial if he is real or not; to discover about himself whether his high ideals and his gift of being able to express them represent the "pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness. "(p.l19)
Marlow's quest, and perhaps all similar one's, was about earning his own self-respect through just respect for others. Through a series of revelations about the depth of the natives character, Marlow finds the strength to admit what he, like so many others, had long refused to see, i.e. the humanity of the so-called savages, and the savageness of so-called civilization.
"It would come slowly to one...the thought of their humanity --like yours ...if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you ...a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in (their sounds) which you...could comprehend. Truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder-- the man knows...but he must at be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff -- with his own inborn strength. Principles won't do. I hear; I admit, but I have a voice. too and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced."(p.l06)
The point of using this as an example of great literature has been to illustrate my contention that, however indirectly or subtly, great literature defies injustice in its very substance; it is this which qualifies it as great. It is not the writer so much as the work itself we must focus on in making such determinations. Granted, much literature reinforces the biases of its author and can cater to the narrow interests of the group to which it is aimed. But this, I contend, disqualifies it from the category about which we speak, i.e. that which stands out as excellent. It matters little that Conrad was a white male, and a man's man at that, if the substance of his work aims directly at overcoming the ignorance and injustice of stereotypes and prejudice. Every book is idiosyncratic in content, and yet it is the adherence to these universal themes of freedom, justice, and equality which gives it its beautiful form. And beauty, I think, taken in the full complexity of its meaning, is a reliable standard for truth. I think it's fair to reserve the claim to excellence for those works that which aim directly at this deepest potential in all of us to understand these highest of ideals.
This is one reason why the current debate which challenges the traditional canon is so puzzling to me. For one would not think that the ideals illustrated by such classics as Conrad's book would be at odds with the views of those who challenge the tradition, since it is the right to freedom, justice, and equality in which this challenge is grounded. My point is that it is no more right to condemn a work on the basis of its having been written by a white male than it was ever right to condemn those written by minorities and women.
The solution to the problem which has marginalized and even silenced many voices is not, I think, to tum the tables. Books are not to be judged by virtue of the race, sex, or cuitural background of their author alone, no matter which side you're on. A stereotype is a stereotype, and and unfair to individuals wherever it is misapplied. The moral to Conrad's novel brings this home.
Books are, rather, excellent or poor by virtue of actually being excellent or poor, as judged by any individual reader and his or her reaction to any given writer. This determination of excellence is an interactive process, beginning with the writer, who can only put the quality into the objective meaning and moral content of the book, and following through with the reader, who must use one's own subjective understanding to put it into perspective. Different people itch in different places, and so they will find their understanding from different points of view.
Thus, I would advocate broadening the curriculum without butchering it. A call by postmodem deconstructionists, feminists, relativists, and subjectivists forthe inclusion of works from women and minorities into the curriculum need not necessitate the exclusion of the traditional canon; it is not either/or, but both that students need access to. We needn't discard the baby with the bathwater. Many of us agree that white male authors ought not to dominate our reading lists, but few would insist that they be eliminated from them altogether, or even that they should be cut back. There does not seem to be any reason, in principle or practice, that the entire body of world literature not be made available for the interested student. Interest is hard enough to come by in the student's heart and mind that perhaps we ought not to discourage any at aiL
We can and will continue to argue about any given book, Conrad's included, and the fact that we do so indicates that the book matters and should be included in the curriculum as long as it
has this intrinsic interest. If people never or no longer care about a book, it will disappear as if by an invisible hand from book lists. If the question is what should be published--that is a different one, for everything should be published that has merit, and this is indeed a difficult thing to determine. Certainly no work ought to go unpublished for the gender or race of the author, just the same, a piece should not be published simply because the author is a white male. Sadly, too much work is treated this way, and this is a practice which critics are right to hope to stop. Some voice are regularly and routinely ignored by the publishers who hold the general ear by their decisions of who and who not to publish.
One the other hand, if the question is what should those who design and assign reading lists consider in their decisions, I think the answer is that they should deliberately eliminate no books whatsoever, but should allow full and self-directed exploration of literature seasoned by honest interaction with a teacher who is a guide, not an authority.
It is certainly true that we need to share some common reading experience to have intelligent discussions, but it is not necessarily true that we will not have this if we are not assigned the same books. It seems likely that we would find this common ground by virtue of the common challenges of survival in the same world. It is empirically provable, in fact, that we do indeed lay claim to common favorites. Classic works are deemed classic by virtue of our shared love of them. I propose that we trust this interaction between the intrinsic quality of the books and the intrinsic drive of the students.
Then how should our college reading lists be structured? Would I advocate getting rid of
all guidelines whatsoever? Not at all. This, like the either/or, win/lose mentality with which some approach the debate over the traditional canon, is an unwarranted conclusion. It was, after all, by compulsion of a grade that I even read Heart of Darkness a second time. I mean only that "guide" ought indeed to be our guide word. The choice is not between tight or no guidelines; rather, it is between tight or loose. I would simply recommend stretching the method by which these guidelines are administered away from the strict structures now in place and toward a more individualized, flexible and self-directed program.
All indications are that it has become imperative that we do whatever we can to nourish
student interest, and I think (like Alexander Meiklejohn) that allowing them the direction of their own interest to begin with is the necessary first step. And indeed, as we have seen with such experiments as Summerhill, children, given the freedom of their own self-direction in learning after already having been conditioned into the climate of extrinsic rewards used in the public educational system, sometimes react to their early training by temporarily rebelling against learning altogether; this is, after all, a predictable and understandable response. Any yet, while it sometimes takes some time for children to realize that learning really is for them, and that it is they alone who benefit or suffer for its accomplishment or its lack, this is a lesson seldom learned by extrinsic inducements to read or study only particular assigned works. It is seldom an easy lesson, but it is especially difficult and even impossible when there is little opportunity to exercise one's free choice. When there is a third party involved in the interaction between the student and his knowledge, or in the case of our public system, many parties who all assume the right to direct and judge the student's interest and performance, the deep and real reason for learning often doesn't glean through all the assignments, grades, degrees, and jobs that are used to motivate the student. There is a good argument to be made (beyond the scope of this paper) that this exercise of too much extrinsic direction is a power we badly abuse in our education system, and is itself the cause of our children's reaction of disinterest in school.
I can put it no better than Alexander Mieklejohn himself, who wrote that:
"Each student then presents a different teaching problem. Each must be treated differently. Each must go a different way toward the common goal. Each must start at the task where he is and must work where and how his nature requires. And the teacher must accept these differences and deal with his varying students accordingly. "(p.S7)
We have long assumed the right to make decisions on behalf of those for whom we are responsible, or perhaps 'for whom we take responsibility' better says it, and this is, of course, "for their own good," or so we tell ourselves. It is in the nature of some relationships that this is necessary ...to a point. But Conrad's novel shows us one example of this gone awry. When our young feel so compelled to rebel against our system of education, as many apparently do, we are behooved to examine the reasons why. Caught up in the habits of history which allow us to think we have these rights of control and judgment with regard to others who are dependent on us, we fail to listen to the voice of youth, like other voices we can hear if we truly listen, which are all quite clear and strong on their right to self-direction.
And what do we get for ignoring this voice? A 40% drop-out rate, a college population
90% of whom couldn't care less about the rote exercises they mindlessly perform, and a workforce likewise alienated from its product, so much so that quality itself is lost, hopelessly ravaging the economic system upon which we are all dependent-- a sad and unnecessary affect.
Toward resolution of this debate regarding literature in our schools, I think we can take no better direction than that offered by many of the classic masters themselves and echoed in the voices of the young, women, and minorities who are only now beginning to be heard. Themes of inner resource and deep communication are ubiquitous in great literature. Allow them the dignity of their own intrinsic direction, and our young will find those books which are intrinsic worthy.
Every unique individual must be free to explore all literature just as each must be free to scratch one's own itches.
Likewise in art.
For instance, it would be an understatement to call John DeAndrea's 1984 Nude, Untitled Oil on Bronze, merely superb: it is, I think, nothing less than excellent. Cast from a live model and painted by layered air-brush over purple-red muscles and blue-green veins, she appears real enough that it would not surprise one, upon closer inspection, to find her breathing. Her slightly tanned skin, aged but smooth in texture, is drawn over a delicate, even emaciated, frame. Her hands are as small and her touch is as gentle as a child's, and yet they are overworked into a rugged and chapped state, with nails dirty and worn. Her feet are in similar condition, with callouses and sores, and as with the hands, tbe true-to-life color and detail is positively breathtaking. Her face is delicate and kind, pensive, if not sad, with plum-colored lips that are slightly parted, giving the impression that she is about to speak. She has deep and reflective, if not worried, blue eyes. Though her skin is waxy and hairless, and thus shinier than real skin which absorbs light, tiny wrinkles, blemishes, moles, stretch-marks, and even waistline impressions contribute to the works amazing realism.
The lines of this work are perfectly balanced. She is seated upright, stable, grounded by
hands that touch, but do not apply pressure. She is sitting as if in shallow water, knees together and drawn toward her, balanced slightly on one hip, forming an S-curve from every angle. This depth and dimensionality is, of course, the strength of sculpture, and this piece takes advantage of the fact that a three dimensional object looks different from every point of view. Straight on, for instance, her parted lips give the impression that she may speak, while from front and low, they seem to quiver as if she may cry. From her right, you'd swear she is alone, relaxing tired, content. And yet, from her left, the view gives the sense that she is turning away from something or averting someone's eyes.
Despite this, the overall feeling of the work is one of tranquility; of precious and hard earned solitude. Even in this open museum, she seems perfectly comfortable in the private and undesturbed space around her. She has a fragile balance of beauty and strength --"rising above the ordinary world by force of character"(p.147, Taylor) -- a meaning that most of us who have mothers can well understand. It is the creators meticulous attention to detail in color, texture, line, and proportion which gives it is incredible awe. One can hardly take in the piece without gasping and sighing. It is a work of unbelievably convincing, almost haunting, realism. And whether one is a fan of realism or not, one cannot help but appreciate such a work as this, which simply does not compromise; this artist did say to himself, "Good enough" until it was, indeed, good enough, and even excellent. If one were to proclaim an intention to create something that seems so amazingly alive, enough that one fully expects her to move, smile, or cry, others would say, "Oh, sure." But this artist accomplished just that, without compromise. As Joshua Taylor says, "so it is with all great [artists, artists] who are strong enough to have a point of view and message of their own and resist being blown like feathers in the wind of passing fashion. "(p.140)
A deeper analysis of this aspect of art might help us uncover just what makes art Art. To the artist, in the creative process, there is a very real sense in which tbe integrity of the work is always being challenged, and the extent to which the artist adheres to the ideal during this process, sometimes against great pressure to compromise, is one measure of a works excellence. It is the extent to which he or she holds to the idea of the very best that the piece can be at heart which qualifies art as Art. A work does not qualify, I think, when the artist takes the easy way over the best.
Art does not take shortcuts, but involves a kind of follow through that makes the final product --like DeAndrea's nude-- truly amazing, awe inspiring, beautifully complex and endlessly interesting. Whether it is a painting, or statue, or book, or garden, or computer program, a work is rare because of the unique creative process that went into it, and it is the quality therein which makes a piece precious. It would certainly be a blessing to us all if it were not so rare. Look around any museum and see that even much that is considered great for other reasons still does not qualify as excellent.
To my way of thinking, excellent or authentic art, as opposed to the more artificial form, is thus distinguished by the motivation, that is, the intention of the work that went into it. If it is honest, that is, if it is uncompromised, meaning true to its own highest potential, then it will be recognized as such ... if only because, in the words of Mr. Rogers, the world craves honesty. Whether the product is the dancing of Miekel Baryshnikov, or the architecture of Frank Loyde Wright, or the accents of Meryl Streep, or the harp of Andreas Vollenweider-- such work is art by virtue of being an expression of pure individuality, unique and umepeatable, like snowflakes, in the expression of the artist's own idiosyncratic craft. However influenced by others the artist might be, such work is never a copy, but is always straight from the heart.
Craft means something special to one who begins with such a natural talent as did
Michelangelo, for with the potential comes enormous responsibility to actualize that which is one's ideal.
But this is no less true for each and every one of us. Everyone has just such excellence. When one finds one's best work and does one's best at it, whatever ensues is bound to be excellent, for it is the quality of the work which qualifies it. Our best comes in varying degrees, to be sure, with the force of our respective creative energies somehow equaling just how much we care, how sensitively we give ourselves to it, and how honestly we become it. Everyone appreciates and expresses in their own way, thus there is no meaningful competition between us for first place, that is, to win. Where art is concerned, the object is never to be "better than," but simply to be good. Excellence is absolute, not relative. Turning the potential of a piece into the actual requires sometimes incredible endurance, as we've seen with such masters as Michelangelo. It is this which maintains a works integrity and makes a piece respectable, even awesome.
The difference is thus known first to the artist, who will realize in the doing the authentic from the artificial. As much as we enjoy others creativity, it is our own which is our truest pleasure; wonderful as, say, the Streisand voice is to the listener, one can only begin to imagine what a pleasure it must be for the artist. Michelangelo must have received a great deal of esteem on top of the respect his work earned him, but one would guess that it is not this which made his work so compelling or fulfilling. Look at Van Gogh, who so loved his work ... even when no one else did. Authentic craft is an end in itself, not a means to some other end. It is the actualization of this potential, I think, the aiming at the ideal, which makes anyone's work as excellent by its own standard as Michelangelo's was by his.
I think its also fair to say that when we compromise our talents, we fail ourselves in another way as well, for to appreciate art is, I think, a matter of the sensitivity of our perceptual instrument, which cannot be tuned by inactivity. Only actively using our creative capacities can allow us to fully appreciate the creativity of others. In the words of one eastern artist, "Not everyone can see a unicorn." I think I would say that art is that which makes the eyes, indeed, the heart, dilate-- and thus enhances our vision of the good. "Beautiful and ordered form can thus strengthen man's natural tendenceis toward good and moral conduct. "(p.l46, Taylor)
In every craft there is a means of expressing the deepest of truths; whether one kneads bread, drives nails, writes books, paints pictures, cultivates gardens, or raises children. It matters less what we do, than how we do it. Excellent art never compromises in its pursuit of the ideal. It never rests on "good enough." In the honest exercise of the soul, one does what one has to do, whatever one can do, which is not everything, but merely those things that will not get done if we ourselves do not do them; art is that way. There is for everyone such tasks, usually unbeknownst to us up until the moment that we undertake them. And it might be argued that this is what we all deserve a chance for -- and what education might have at its heart, i.e. for us to find and do our best work, honestly, and without the perversion of extrinsic motivators like grades and economic incentives which seem to give reason for taking short-cuts from excellence to mediocrity.
We do not know what we can do until we try, and failing to even try to do what one might is a terrible waste, even in terms of ones own good. In a world that suffers for so much mediocrity and craves beauty and truth so, to give up before one has even begun is, like it or not, to take responsibility for all those who do not do their share toward the good. It is easy to excuse oneself for wasting one's talents by pointing to how and where the world is not at its best, but then who are we to complain if we do not even do our own part? On the other hand, true art is its own reward, and its easy to enjoy the rewards that come of doing one's best, even in a world where so much is unfulfilled.
I don't mean to be saying that we should all be artists, but that we simply are ... when and if we do our best. Everything we do has its excellence, and is thus artful, by virtue of being done well. A life that involves work for its own sake which is driven from within is a work of art itself. Every activity, from nursing a child to painting a chapel ceiling, has its right and its wrong reason for being performed. Again, true art, I think, is distinguished from inauthentic, not by style or content, but by its purity of intention, that is, the extent to which it is honest to its highest potential, and the extent to which the artist, in working it, was honest to his or her own best self. Of course, our work will have many pragmatic ends, usually motivated by a combination of intrinsic and extrinsic motivations, but we are divided in our purposes, and thus halfhearted in our attempts at best, and hopeless!y fragmented at worst, if our ends amount to appeasing others.
I think it is the wholehearted love of our work for its own sake which brings excellent art into existence. And I do not think that it is too much to ask from our schools that they continue to look for ways to help those individuals in their care to find their own unique best work. There is always some work we might be doing from which we could feel the intrinsic pleasure of the activity-- but we have so much else to do that many of us simply never find it. Whether working for the wrong reasons or simply at the wrong work, we fail our highest potentials if we live life as if it is anything less that a work of art.
Despite the view of the young woman who sits next to me in class who recently proclaimed Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness 'the worst book she'd ever read,' I'd like to make a case for its excellence.
To be honest, Heart of Darkness did not capture my warm regard the first time through either. Based on one man's experience of the late nineteenth-century European
invasion into Africa, a particularly atrocious human activity, the book has popularly been interpreted as a treatise on the dark side of human nature. On the surf ace, the book feels, as the title indicates, dark, threatening and even dreadful. My classmate may justifiably have been reacting to this. Deeper in, the basic inhumanity of man is not a theme that is overtly attractive to the late twentieth century mind either, mine included. The setting is ominous, the drama is psychological rather than behavioral, and the storyline is so subtly complex that one can feel overwhelmed in places. Frankly, I was annoyed with the book at first for being so difficult.
And yet something happened when, by compulsion of a grade, I read it through a second time. This time I could see the rhetorical devices the author used to carry his subtle message, and in this I recognized the brilliance of his method. Allow me to elaborate.
The story is such an intricate blending of the literal with the metaphorical that it is possible to interpret this classic work on many different levels and from many different angles. Examining the structure and the subtle way the parts are woven into the whole, I began to see room for another more positive interpretation than that popularly attributed to it. If one looks beyond the writer's words and into what is suggested by the setting and the structure of his narrative, one finds plenty of evidence that the author meant for us to see deeper than this surface appearance, beyond the common opinion that men are fundamentally corrupted and in need of external control lest their appetites go wild, and into the view that it is internal moral control which saves us from the fate of the wicked. Seeing this, the book began to scratch my itch. From this perspective the story implies precisely the opposite of what I'd heard told in lecture. The idea that human's are fundamentally good, even and especially in their primitive state, and that it is their involvement in polluted civilizations and their surrender to false values that has the potential to corrupt their natural character, sometimes turning them savagely against one another, this is a view that leaves us with our optimism -- an itch I think we all share.
The specific rhetorical device used by Comad here gives us this perspective through the point of view of the frame, where the narrator has the broadened view that time and distance provide. Through the memoirs of an old sailor, as recalled to his fellow crewmen in a late life setting of profound tranquility at sea, Conrad tells his tale at these rhythmic intervals in such a way that we are skillfully afforded the deeper moral of the story, if we look for it. His words and actions seem to take on more meaning here as they are those of a man wiser for the experience he is disclosing. Conrad's protagonist, Marlow, knows himself best when his discourse steps back, away from the action and into the context of the frame, where his more abstract philosophizing tells us what it is he has learned from the experience he relates. Through this rhetorical device, Marlow expresses insights which return consistently to themes of inner strength and potential weakness, and the unavoidable knowledge of the true self. In the process of sorting the sense from the nonsense, the irrational from the rational, the real from the artificial, in the savage world in which he finds himself, Marlow comes to terms with the fears, temptations, and contradictions from which many of his day and ours have suffered. Finding the courage to let go of the false assumptions and empty values of his fellow countrymen -- i.e. ivory -- the god to which others from his culture clung for security and power, he comes to discover and ultimately to show the strength to stand morally alone-- in "solitude-- utter solitude without a policeman ... silence - utter silence" where there is "no warning voice of public opinion. These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back on your own innate strength. "(p.122)
Like many classic works, inner strength is a critical theme in Conrad's novel. One comes to understand in the reading that Marlow's restraint is rewarded only with the knowledge of that strength, as Kurtz, his alter-ego, was punished by the lack of this self-knowledge. When one looks into one's heart, the reader realizes, one finds whatever one has put there by restraint or indulgence, which may very well be a savage beast, a heart of darkness ... but it might also be the power of good to resist that beast and the self-respect that follows from it. It is the conscious and choosing individual who decides which will be. Conrad leaves us little doubt that, if one looks deep inside, one finds the truth ... whether one wants to or not.
Another persistent theme in this novel which is common to many great works is the power of words to reveal or to hide the truth. In this story, the relation of words to power is subtly explored, and tightly connected with the theme of inner strength. Conrad implicitly distinguishes power as force from power as influence, and this from power as strength. Another way to say this might be to contrast the physical power it took to invade Africa, with the psychological power of the words that rationalized that invasion in the minds of its undertakers, and this with the internal power of resistance that the natives exhibited, even and especially toward those who would have them starved or enslaved. Marlow tells us much about the power that he and his enemy have in common, the power of words, as he come to see how they can delude one, can hide the truth, and can even make evil seem good. Real power, he concludes at length, is the strength it takes to face the demons of truth and justice that lie deeper than mere words and rationalizations.
For Marlow the test is-- as it has been for philosophers since Socrates gave his life for it's sake-- to prove himself true to his words; to find out by trial if he is real or not; to discover about himself whether his high ideals and his gift of being able to express them represent the "pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the heart of an impenetrable darkness. "(p.l19)
Marlow's quest, and perhaps all similar one's, was about earning his own self-respect through just respect for others. Through a series of revelations about the depth of the natives character, Marlow finds the strength to admit what he, like so many others, had long refused to see, i.e. the humanity of the so-called savages, and the savageness of so-called civilization.
"It would come slowly to one...the thought of their humanity --like yours ...if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you ...a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in (their sounds) which you...could comprehend. Truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder-- the man knows...but he must at be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff -- with his own inborn strength. Principles won't do. I hear; I admit, but I have a voice. too and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced."(p.l06)
The point of using this as an example of great literature has been to illustrate my contention that, however indirectly or subtly, great literature defies injustice in its very substance; it is this which qualifies it as great. It is not the writer so much as the work itself we must focus on in making such determinations. Granted, much literature reinforces the biases of its author and can cater to the narrow interests of the group to which it is aimed. But this, I contend, disqualifies it from the category about which we speak, i.e. that which stands out as excellent. It matters little that Conrad was a white male, and a man's man at that, if the substance of his work aims directly at overcoming the ignorance and injustice of stereotypes and prejudice. Every book is idiosyncratic in content, and yet it is the adherence to these universal themes of freedom, justice, and equality which gives it its beautiful form. And beauty, I think, taken in the full complexity of its meaning, is a reliable standard for truth. I think it's fair to reserve the claim to excellence for those works that which aim directly at this deepest potential in all of us to understand these highest of ideals.
This is one reason why the current debate which challenges the traditional canon is so puzzling to me. For one would not think that the ideals illustrated by such classics as Conrad's book would be at odds with the views of those who challenge the tradition, since it is the right to freedom, justice, and equality in which this challenge is grounded. My point is that it is no more right to condemn a work on the basis of its having been written by a white male than it was ever right to condemn those written by minorities and women.
The solution to the problem which has marginalized and even silenced many voices is not, I think, to tum the tables. Books are not to be judged by virtue of the race, sex, or cuitural background of their author alone, no matter which side you're on. A stereotype is a stereotype, and and unfair to individuals wherever it is misapplied. The moral to Conrad's novel brings this home.
Books are, rather, excellent or poor by virtue of actually being excellent or poor, as judged by any individual reader and his or her reaction to any given writer. This determination of excellence is an interactive process, beginning with the writer, who can only put the quality into the objective meaning and moral content of the book, and following through with the reader, who must use one's own subjective understanding to put it into perspective. Different people itch in different places, and so they will find their understanding from different points of view.
Thus, I would advocate broadening the curriculum without butchering it. A call by postmodem deconstructionists, feminists, relativists, and subjectivists forthe inclusion of works from women and minorities into the curriculum need not necessitate the exclusion of the traditional canon; it is not either/or, but both that students need access to. We needn't discard the baby with the bathwater. Many of us agree that white male authors ought not to dominate our reading lists, but few would insist that they be eliminated from them altogether, or even that they should be cut back. There does not seem to be any reason, in principle or practice, that the entire body of world literature not be made available for the interested student. Interest is hard enough to come by in the student's heart and mind that perhaps we ought not to discourage any at aiL
We can and will continue to argue about any given book, Conrad's included, and the fact that we do so indicates that the book matters and should be included in the curriculum as long as it
has this intrinsic interest. If people never or no longer care about a book, it will disappear as if by an invisible hand from book lists. If the question is what should be published--that is a different one, for everything should be published that has merit, and this is indeed a difficult thing to determine. Certainly no work ought to go unpublished for the gender or race of the author, just the same, a piece should not be published simply because the author is a white male. Sadly, too much work is treated this way, and this is a practice which critics are right to hope to stop. Some voice are regularly and routinely ignored by the publishers who hold the general ear by their decisions of who and who not to publish.
One the other hand, if the question is what should those who design and assign reading lists consider in their decisions, I think the answer is that they should deliberately eliminate no books whatsoever, but should allow full and self-directed exploration of literature seasoned by honest interaction with a teacher who is a guide, not an authority.
It is certainly true that we need to share some common reading experience to have intelligent discussions, but it is not necessarily true that we will not have this if we are not assigned the same books. It seems likely that we would find this common ground by virtue of the common challenges of survival in the same world. It is empirically provable, in fact, that we do indeed lay claim to common favorites. Classic works are deemed classic by virtue of our shared love of them. I propose that we trust this interaction between the intrinsic quality of the books and the intrinsic drive of the students.
Then how should our college reading lists be structured? Would I advocate getting rid of
all guidelines whatsoever? Not at all. This, like the either/or, win/lose mentality with which some approach the debate over the traditional canon, is an unwarranted conclusion. It was, after all, by compulsion of a grade that I even read Heart of Darkness a second time. I mean only that "guide" ought indeed to be our guide word. The choice is not between tight or no guidelines; rather, it is between tight or loose. I would simply recommend stretching the method by which these guidelines are administered away from the strict structures now in place and toward a more individualized, flexible and self-directed program.
All indications are that it has become imperative that we do whatever we can to nourish
student interest, and I think (like Alexander Meiklejohn) that allowing them the direction of their own interest to begin with is the necessary first step. And indeed, as we have seen with such experiments as Summerhill, children, given the freedom of their own self-direction in learning after already having been conditioned into the climate of extrinsic rewards used in the public educational system, sometimes react to their early training by temporarily rebelling against learning altogether; this is, after all, a predictable and understandable response. Any yet, while it sometimes takes some time for children to realize that learning really is for them, and that it is they alone who benefit or suffer for its accomplishment or its lack, this is a lesson seldom learned by extrinsic inducements to read or study only particular assigned works. It is seldom an easy lesson, but it is especially difficult and even impossible when there is little opportunity to exercise one's free choice. When there is a third party involved in the interaction between the student and his knowledge, or in the case of our public system, many parties who all assume the right to direct and judge the student's interest and performance, the deep and real reason for learning often doesn't glean through all the assignments, grades, degrees, and jobs that are used to motivate the student. There is a good argument to be made (beyond the scope of this paper) that this exercise of too much extrinsic direction is a power we badly abuse in our education system, and is itself the cause of our children's reaction of disinterest in school.
I can put it no better than Alexander Mieklejohn himself, who wrote that:
"Each student then presents a different teaching problem. Each must be treated differently. Each must go a different way toward the common goal. Each must start at the task where he is and must work where and how his nature requires. And the teacher must accept these differences and deal with his varying students accordingly. "(p.S7)
We have long assumed the right to make decisions on behalf of those for whom we are responsible, or perhaps 'for whom we take responsibility' better says it, and this is, of course, "for their own good," or so we tell ourselves. It is in the nature of some relationships that this is necessary ...to a point. But Conrad's novel shows us one example of this gone awry. When our young feel so compelled to rebel against our system of education, as many apparently do, we are behooved to examine the reasons why. Caught up in the habits of history which allow us to think we have these rights of control and judgment with regard to others who are dependent on us, we fail to listen to the voice of youth, like other voices we can hear if we truly listen, which are all quite clear and strong on their right to self-direction.
And what do we get for ignoring this voice? A 40% drop-out rate, a college population
90% of whom couldn't care less about the rote exercises they mindlessly perform, and a workforce likewise alienated from its product, so much so that quality itself is lost, hopelessly ravaging the economic system upon which we are all dependent-- a sad and unnecessary affect.
Toward resolution of this debate regarding literature in our schools, I think we can take no better direction than that offered by many of the classic masters themselves and echoed in the voices of the young, women, and minorities who are only now beginning to be heard. Themes of inner resource and deep communication are ubiquitous in great literature. Allow them the dignity of their own intrinsic direction, and our young will find those books which are intrinsic worthy.
Every unique individual must be free to explore all literature just as each must be free to scratch one's own itches.
Likewise in art.
For instance, it would be an understatement to call John DeAndrea's 1984 Nude, Untitled Oil on Bronze, merely superb: it is, I think, nothing less than excellent. Cast from a live model and painted by layered air-brush over purple-red muscles and blue-green veins, she appears real enough that it would not surprise one, upon closer inspection, to find her breathing. Her slightly tanned skin, aged but smooth in texture, is drawn over a delicate, even emaciated, frame. Her hands are as small and her touch is as gentle as a child's, and yet they are overworked into a rugged and chapped state, with nails dirty and worn. Her feet are in similar condition, with callouses and sores, and as with the hands, tbe true-to-life color and detail is positively breathtaking. Her face is delicate and kind, pensive, if not sad, with plum-colored lips that are slightly parted, giving the impression that she is about to speak. She has deep and reflective, if not worried, blue eyes. Though her skin is waxy and hairless, and thus shinier than real skin which absorbs light, tiny wrinkles, blemishes, moles, stretch-marks, and even waistline impressions contribute to the works amazing realism.
The lines of this work are perfectly balanced. She is seated upright, stable, grounded by
hands that touch, but do not apply pressure. She is sitting as if in shallow water, knees together and drawn toward her, balanced slightly on one hip, forming an S-curve from every angle. This depth and dimensionality is, of course, the strength of sculpture, and this piece takes advantage of the fact that a three dimensional object looks different from every point of view. Straight on, for instance, her parted lips give the impression that she may speak, while from front and low, they seem to quiver as if she may cry. From her right, you'd swear she is alone, relaxing tired, content. And yet, from her left, the view gives the sense that she is turning away from something or averting someone's eyes.
Despite this, the overall feeling of the work is one of tranquility; of precious and hard earned solitude. Even in this open museum, she seems perfectly comfortable in the private and undesturbed space around her. She has a fragile balance of beauty and strength --"rising above the ordinary world by force of character"(p.147, Taylor) -- a meaning that most of us who have mothers can well understand. It is the creators meticulous attention to detail in color, texture, line, and proportion which gives it is incredible awe. One can hardly take in the piece without gasping and sighing. It is a work of unbelievably convincing, almost haunting, realism. And whether one is a fan of realism or not, one cannot help but appreciate such a work as this, which simply does not compromise; this artist did say to himself, "Good enough" until it was, indeed, good enough, and even excellent. If one were to proclaim an intention to create something that seems so amazingly alive, enough that one fully expects her to move, smile, or cry, others would say, "Oh, sure." But this artist accomplished just that, without compromise. As Joshua Taylor says, "so it is with all great [artists, artists] who are strong enough to have a point of view and message of their own and resist being blown like feathers in the wind of passing fashion. "(p.140)
A deeper analysis of this aspect of art might help us uncover just what makes art Art. To the artist, in the creative process, there is a very real sense in which tbe integrity of the work is always being challenged, and the extent to which the artist adheres to the ideal during this process, sometimes against great pressure to compromise, is one measure of a works excellence. It is the extent to which he or she holds to the idea of the very best that the piece can be at heart which qualifies art as Art. A work does not qualify, I think, when the artist takes the easy way over the best.
Art does not take shortcuts, but involves a kind of follow through that makes the final product --like DeAndrea's nude-- truly amazing, awe inspiring, beautifully complex and endlessly interesting. Whether it is a painting, or statue, or book, or garden, or computer program, a work is rare because of the unique creative process that went into it, and it is the quality therein which makes a piece precious. It would certainly be a blessing to us all if it were not so rare. Look around any museum and see that even much that is considered great for other reasons still does not qualify as excellent.
To my way of thinking, excellent or authentic art, as opposed to the more artificial form, is thus distinguished by the motivation, that is, the intention of the work that went into it. If it is honest, that is, if it is uncompromised, meaning true to its own highest potential, then it will be recognized as such ... if only because, in the words of Mr. Rogers, the world craves honesty. Whether the product is the dancing of Miekel Baryshnikov, or the architecture of Frank Loyde Wright, or the accents of Meryl Streep, or the harp of Andreas Vollenweider-- such work is art by virtue of being an expression of pure individuality, unique and umepeatable, like snowflakes, in the expression of the artist's own idiosyncratic craft. However influenced by others the artist might be, such work is never a copy, but is always straight from the heart.
Craft means something special to one who begins with such a natural talent as did
Michelangelo, for with the potential comes enormous responsibility to actualize that which is one's ideal.
But this is no less true for each and every one of us. Everyone has just such excellence. When one finds one's best work and does one's best at it, whatever ensues is bound to be excellent, for it is the quality of the work which qualifies it. Our best comes in varying degrees, to be sure, with the force of our respective creative energies somehow equaling just how much we care, how sensitively we give ourselves to it, and how honestly we become it. Everyone appreciates and expresses in their own way, thus there is no meaningful competition between us for first place, that is, to win. Where art is concerned, the object is never to be "better than," but simply to be good. Excellence is absolute, not relative. Turning the potential of a piece into the actual requires sometimes incredible endurance, as we've seen with such masters as Michelangelo. It is this which maintains a works integrity and makes a piece respectable, even awesome.
The difference is thus known first to the artist, who will realize in the doing the authentic from the artificial. As much as we enjoy others creativity, it is our own which is our truest pleasure; wonderful as, say, the Streisand voice is to the listener, one can only begin to imagine what a pleasure it must be for the artist. Michelangelo must have received a great deal of esteem on top of the respect his work earned him, but one would guess that it is not this which made his work so compelling or fulfilling. Look at Van Gogh, who so loved his work ... even when no one else did. Authentic craft is an end in itself, not a means to some other end. It is the actualization of this potential, I think, the aiming at the ideal, which makes anyone's work as excellent by its own standard as Michelangelo's was by his.
I think its also fair to say that when we compromise our talents, we fail ourselves in another way as well, for to appreciate art is, I think, a matter of the sensitivity of our perceptual instrument, which cannot be tuned by inactivity. Only actively using our creative capacities can allow us to fully appreciate the creativity of others. In the words of one eastern artist, "Not everyone can see a unicorn." I think I would say that art is that which makes the eyes, indeed, the heart, dilate-- and thus enhances our vision of the good. "Beautiful and ordered form can thus strengthen man's natural tendenceis toward good and moral conduct. "(p.l46, Taylor)
In every craft there is a means of expressing the deepest of truths; whether one kneads bread, drives nails, writes books, paints pictures, cultivates gardens, or raises children. It matters less what we do, than how we do it. Excellent art never compromises in its pursuit of the ideal. It never rests on "good enough." In the honest exercise of the soul, one does what one has to do, whatever one can do, which is not everything, but merely those things that will not get done if we ourselves do not do them; art is that way. There is for everyone such tasks, usually unbeknownst to us up until the moment that we undertake them. And it might be argued that this is what we all deserve a chance for -- and what education might have at its heart, i.e. for us to find and do our best work, honestly, and without the perversion of extrinsic motivators like grades and economic incentives which seem to give reason for taking short-cuts from excellence to mediocrity.
We do not know what we can do until we try, and failing to even try to do what one might is a terrible waste, even in terms of ones own good. In a world that suffers for so much mediocrity and craves beauty and truth so, to give up before one has even begun is, like it or not, to take responsibility for all those who do not do their share toward the good. It is easy to excuse oneself for wasting one's talents by pointing to how and where the world is not at its best, but then who are we to complain if we do not even do our own part? On the other hand, true art is its own reward, and its easy to enjoy the rewards that come of doing one's best, even in a world where so much is unfulfilled.
I don't mean to be saying that we should all be artists, but that we simply are ... when and if we do our best. Everything we do has its excellence, and is thus artful, by virtue of being done well. A life that involves work for its own sake which is driven from within is a work of art itself. Every activity, from nursing a child to painting a chapel ceiling, has its right and its wrong reason for being performed. Again, true art, I think, is distinguished from inauthentic, not by style or content, but by its purity of intention, that is, the extent to which it is honest to its highest potential, and the extent to which the artist, in working it, was honest to his or her own best self. Of course, our work will have many pragmatic ends, usually motivated by a combination of intrinsic and extrinsic motivations, but we are divided in our purposes, and thus halfhearted in our attempts at best, and hopeless!y fragmented at worst, if our ends amount to appeasing others.
I think it is the wholehearted love of our work for its own sake which brings excellent art into existence. And I do not think that it is too much to ask from our schools that they continue to look for ways to help those individuals in their care to find their own unique best work. There is always some work we might be doing from which we could feel the intrinsic pleasure of the activity-- but we have so much else to do that many of us simply never find it. Whether working for the wrong reasons or simply at the wrong work, we fail our highest potentials if we live life as if it is anything less that a work of art.