The Importance of Limitations

There is a certain type of empirical judgment [concerning art], which has spread due to the influence of English and French travelers. One expresses one’s spontaneous, unprepared opinion without giving any thought at all to the fact that every artist is subject to many conditions, such as his own special talent, his predecessors and teachers, his time and place, his patrons and customers. None of this—which would of course be required for a pure appreciation—comes into consideration, and so there develops a dreadful mixture of praise and censure, of affirmation and rejection; as a result, every value proper to the works in question is annulled.
—Goethe, Italian Journey, Report for December 1787

Many people, I would venture to guess, unconsciously think like Platonists, at least when it comes to art. They’ve learned from a certain caricature of art critics to talk about art using only abstract nouns starting with capital letters. They speak in grandiose terms about Beauty, as if beauty existed apart from works of art. When they do this, they think they are preserving beauty, and art for art’s sake—but they really don't know much about beauty. (This, of course, excludes the not inconsiderable group of people who think art should be about whatever they feel like, not necessarily about beauty. I won't even bother with them.)

But, as Goethe points out, these amateur art critics do not know much about the individual artist or work of art in question. They have no idea who the artist's teachers were, what his patron demanded of him, or what techniques and materials were available at the time.

This ignorance of history, according to Goethe, is so distressing because it prevents critics from coming to a “pure appreciation.” This is a striking phrase, especially in combination with his initial rejection of a certain type of empiricism. How can Goethe call for more history and reject empiricism? First of all, what he means by empiricism is not an emphasis on concrete, verifiable facts; what he means, rather, is the theory that the human mind is a tabula rasa that can judge correctly about any sense impression it receives, without anything further work required. In other words, Goethe is saying that learning to appreciate art is hard work, and part of that hard work involves learning the historical background about the art we are trying to appreciate.

Second, many people—those everyday Platonists—would argue that what leads us to a “pure appreciation” of art is abstraction from history. The work of art has a value which is independent of the “dirty” complications of history. What does it matter, they argue, what the limitations on an artist were? His work is immortal!

But, in fact, what makes that work of art immortal are the limitations on the artist. Every time an artist chooses to include one type of excellence in his work, he must exclude another type of excellence. For instance, an architect cannot choose both a pointed Gothic arch and a round Baroque arch for the same part of his building. A sculptor must decide whether he wants to use wood, marble, or some other medium for his statue. A painter must decide whether to use oil or water colors. In the end, though, what is really important is how the artist works within these limitations but transcends them. Our limitations are what make perfection possible for us. And--Goethe's point again--only a detailed knowledge and analysis of the artist's limitations will help us come to a "pure appreciation" of the artist's transcendence of his limitations.

Vonnegut's Reality vs. God's Presence

I recently managed to recover some damaged files off of my pen drive and thought I would share a short essay I wrote on Vonnegut...


As we rounded the corner we saw the group we were looking for. On the steps of the convent chapel stood clusters of old Italian women holding small red candles and baskets of flower petals. Young girls looked around curiously arrayed in their long white dresses from First Communion. Scouts, wearing their knee high socks and khacki shorts, struggled with megaphones which would inevitably broadcast the voice of an off-tune cantor. We followed the crowd into the chapel and with incense and the attendance of altar singers and loud Italian voices, the priest began the Corpus Christi procession.

I had surprised myself by deciding to venture downtown for the local Eucharist festival. A year ago I would have been the first to go, but things were different this year. In my head, I’ve never lost my faith- but the emotional certainty drifted through me as a passing wind.
I look around me, the crowd around me is more diverse than I would have first thought. Italians are traditional and, as one young Italian told me, being Catholic is simply part of your culture. One attends Eucharistic processions just as one grumbles about politics, buys groceries at the market, and cooks large meals. Some here have always accepted their religion, never questioning. They reverently kneel as the Benediction takes place, they know the Church hymns by heart, their son is the altar server.

In this last year I identify more with the people who did not come to the Eucharistic procession. Whether out of laziness or skepticism, they decided not to attend the traditional ritual. For them, this is pageantry. Can we prove that there is meaning behind these prayers, that a God really hears us? This disillusionment has been characteristic of the last century, where suffering has been transformed into skepticism.

I am in the middle of reading Vonnegut’s SlaughterHouse Five. A talented writer, his images are vivid and recognizable to his reader. He portrays the mundaneness of life, the suffering and what he sees as the pointlessness of it all. For him, life has no climax, no depth. His book lacks a timeline, it jumps from one era to another. There is no suspense, we are told the fate of his characters as soon as they are introduced. He draws us into this listlessness he obviously feels about human existence.

Surprisingly, there is something strangely attractive about this sort of listlessness. The feeling that one can truly delve into the details of life, the suffering, because there is nothing beyond it. While there may be despair at the foundations, man is able to live a skeptical life. It becomes easy to be honest about the bad things in life while never finding true joy. The megaphone sounded in my ears throughout the procession, echoing the earnest yet off-key singer. It is easy to criticize this procession: the hypocrisy of some there, the lack of respect of others, the constant chattering. In fact, it is not only easy, it produces a dull sort of pleasure.

Yet, as I stared at the Host held high in the tabernacle, I realized once again that Truth is the only thing that matters. It is a life unlived to live in human failings without looking up to the heights. If the Lord Jesus is truly present in the Blessed Sacrament, present for me to adore Him, then every suffering becomes a light burden. It is through worshipping Him that one is able to find joy. Yes, the situation that Vonegut depicts is poignant and realistic, but there is something more. Finding faith is a strange process. Even stranger is falling in love with God all over again. If the world that SlaughterHouse Five depicts is all there is, I want no part of it. In fact, I agree with him that there is no sense. Suddenly, I understand why people commit suicide, why so many people are depressed, why people have no hope. God is the only Hope. If He does not exist, then we are lost. I am lost.