The universe is divided horizontally into three large areas: the Underworld (Chicnauhmictlan), the Earth (Tlaltícpac), and the realm of the heavens (Chicnauhtopan). The upper heavens are the abodes of the gods, and the lower heavens contain the stars. The earth was imagined as a large disc.

– surrounded by water – at the center of the universe.

According to another version, the earth was the back of an alligator swimming in the water. The Earth was considered the center of the cosmos. Above the earth, there were thirteen layers of the sky; below it were nine layers of the underworld. According to the Codex Rios the moon and clouds are in the first heaven, the stars in the second, the sun in the third, in the fourth the morning and evening stars, in the fifth the comets, in the sixth and seventh colors and in the eighth the storms. The gods are present in the ninth to eleventh heavens, and the twelfth and three-tenth heavens are the place of duality, the Omeyocan.

Everything that exists consists “of a balanced opposition of two substances (…), which in turn themselves in many different binary opposites. On the one hand were life, heat, light, dryness, height, masculinity, strength, time of day, on the other death, cold, darkness, dampness, smallness, femininity, weakness, night time among other equivalents.¹” This is also reflected in the often dualistic or at least ambivalent aspects that characterize one and the same deity. A characteristic of the cosmic worldview is the division of the universe into four directions, each of which is assigned a deity, a color, and a symbol. The idea of battle as a model of cosmic events is also formative.

This dualistic principle determines the numerous works of Frida Kahlo and provided the inspiration for her art. For her, it became the expression of her philosophy of nature and philosophy of life, her view of the world.

Dualism is based on the Aztec concept of the permanent war between the white god Hutzilopochti – the sun god, the embodiment of day, summer, south and fire south, of fire – and his adversary Tezcatlipoca – the black god, the god of the setting sun, the sunset, the embodiment of night and the starry sky night, the wind, the north, the water.

This battle guarantees the balance of the world. The principle of duality in unity is particularly present in her self-portraits, where she divides the picture ground into a light and a dark, a day and a night half. At the same time, the sun and moon, the masculine and feminine principles, are present. This division of the universe continues into her own person when she presents herself as a split personality.

The idea of mutually dependent life and death is also contained in this philosophy of balance taken from Indian mythology. In numerous works, life is symbolized as the eternal cycle of nature through plants. Part of this cycle, this cycle of life, which in Aztec mythology is represented by the goddess Coatlicue, is death. Coatlicue stands for the beginning and end of all things, contains life and death, and gives and takes at the same time.

Therefore, in the Mexican sense, death always means both rebirth and life. Thus, death in the self-portrait Thoughts of Death against a background with thorny branches. With this symbol of pre-Hispanic mythology, the painter interprets the rebirth following death.

To emphasize the prevailing attitude toward death in Mexico, one must familiarize oneself with the pre-Columbian philosophy of life. This attitude toward death is expressed above all in customs and popular beliefs on November 2, the Day of the Dead. At the same time, it is an expression of gratitude for life and recognition of the life cycle because death is understood more as a process, a path, or a transition to a different kind of life.

One of Frida Kahlo’s paintings in which ancient Mexican mythology is particularly prominent is The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), I, Diego and Senor Xolotl as in the dualistic principle that finds its parallel in the yin and yang of Chinese philosophy. Day and night penetrate each other. Light-filled spirituality and lightless matter, sun, and mons form the nuclei of the universe, which embraces the dark earth. The earth goddess Cihuacoatl, the life-giving mother from whose womb all plants sprout according to mythology, holds similar to the Indian wet nurse in “My Nurse and I”, holds the artist in her fertile womb.

The wet nurse is the smaller image of the earth mother, but where the life-giving drop of milk emerges from the breast, a fountain of blood springs from her. The thus so painfully felt inability to bear a child allows her to assume the role of mother to Diego Rivera. Like a Madonna, she holds him, whose figure is reminiscent of that of a Buddha, in her arms. As in the self-portrait

“Diego and I”, he has the third eye, the eye of wisdom, and is also holding the purifying bundle of flames, which stands for renewal and rebirth.

In an essay written by the artist on the occasion of an exhibition of her husband’s work in 1949, she described him according to the portrait painted here: “With his head of Asian type, on which the dark hair grows so thin and fine that it seems to float in the air, Diego is a huge child, with a friendly face and a slightly sad look. (…) Between these eyes, one so far removed from the other one is so distant from the other, one can guess the invisible of oriental wisdom, and only very rarely disappears from his Buddha-like mouth with its fleshy lips an ironic and tender smile, the flower of his image. If you see him naked, you immediately think of a frog boy standing on his hind legs. His skin is thoroughly white, like that of an aquatic animal. Only his hands and face are dark, as the sun has tanned them. His childlike, narrow and round shoulders merge without a heel into feminine arms and end in wonderful, small and finely drawn hands that, sensitive and delicate and sensitive, communicate like guides with the entire universe.²”

She emphasized that women in general and “among them all – ME – always want to hold him like a newborn child”. Rivera also depicted this mother-child relationship in his mural Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park. Frida Kahlo stands with the yin-yang symbol in her left hand behind the boy Diego. Diego, her hand placed protectively on his shoulder.

For the artist, however, her husband was not just her unborn child – he meant much more to her. For more:

“Diego. Beginning Diversity and Unity Diego. Builder Diego. My child Diego. My groom Diego. Painter Diego. my lover

Diego. “my husband,” Diego. my friend

Diego. My father, Diego. My mother, Diego. My son Diego. me

Diego. Universe

Why do I call him my Diego? He was never mine, nor will he ever be. He only belongs to himself,” she wrote in her diary.

The fact that her companion not only determined her thoughts, as she depicted in the self- portrait “Diego in my thoughts”, but almost merged with the artist, she also expressed this in the double portrait of “Diego and Frida”, created a year later. Expressed. She painted it for Revera’s 58th birthday. The dualistic relationship between man and woman, which finds its counterpart in the sun and moon, shows the togetherness of the Kahlo-Rivera couple, whereby the shell and snail symbolize their Love and amalgamation.

This love affair is guarded in the loving embrace of the universe by the Itzcuintli dog Senor Xolotl, who crouches at the couple’s feet. He is not just any pet of the painter who bore this name. He also represents the dog-like creature Xolotl from ancient Mexican mythology, which guards the realm of the dead.

He rounds off the dualistic principle of pre-Hispanic mythology – life and death are equally integrated into the artist’s harmonious worldview.

References

The post Frida Kahlo I: love embrace of the universe appeared first on The Miskatonian.

This instantly brought to mind two things: a tasteless – crude “poem” that caused an uproar among many local readers and an article by a critic who, if I remember correctly, defended the poem by asserting that “art is not immoral because morality is nonexistent,” as morality “is simply a norm that evolves, with its purpose being emancipation”.

At first sight, one could argue that such a viewpoint might not appear that problematic nor harmful since it’s just individual taste in literature. After all, we shall let people enjoy even tasteless [pseudo]art as long as it doesn’t occupy the place of real art. But that’s not the case since the aforementioned point of view is actually rooted in a dangerous ideology with totalitarian tendencies: the postmodern understanding of art and not only, which marks the beginning of the problem.

Aesthetic relativism, as a concept, did not simply emerge out of nowhere in our lifetime. Its roots can be traced back to the existentialist and structuralist movements of the 20th century, which not only questioned the objective nature of beauty, but rejected it alongside truth and morality, as well. These movements paved the way for postmodernism, which took these ideas further, challenging the very foundations of Western civilization.

Therefore, if we accept the postmodern premise that morality is non-existent and merely a construct for the sake of emancipation, then it logically follows that without morality, there can be no emancipation. Moreover, without morality, there are no norms, no truth, no art, and certainly no beauty.

Immanuel Kant, one of the iconic philosophers of the modern era, wrote that “Beauty is the form of purposiveness in an object, insofar as it is perceived in the object without the representation of a purpose.” (Kant, 1987) Thus, from Kant’s perspective, which upholds the Western tradition of aesthetics, we can assert that the primary essence of art is beauty—an idea that resonates with the views of another distinguished contemporary philosopher of aesthetics and leading critic of modern art, Sir Roger Scruton. This notion particularly calls to mind his celebrated book Beauty: A Very Short Introduction, in which he wrote: “Beauty is an ultimate value—something that we pursue for its own sake, and for the pursuit of which no further reason need be given. Beauty should, therefore, be compared to truth and goodness, one member of a trio of ultimate values which justify our rational inclinations.”

Both of these views stand in stark contrast to the postmodern idea that views the essence of art as primarily subjective—a tool for ideology, a means of subversive propaganda which nowadays is often followed by the catchphrase “Art is not about aesthetics,” “art is meant to disturb,” “art is meant to shock!” This perspective, which Scruton aptly termed “the cult of ugliness,” is not only fundamentally at odds with the traditional understanding of art but life itself. (Scruton, 2009)

The absurdity of postmodernism’s core philosophy lies in its grand narrative of denying grand narratives: it claims that the only truth is that there is no truth. It’s no surprise that this perspective naturally gravitates toward irrational sentimentalism. This contemporary yet trending ideology suggests that art and morality are merely matters of fashion, fleeting trends with no real substance, rendered almost meaningless by their lack of grounding in truth. Such a view is deeply nihilistic, confused, and, most importantly, dangerously false. Contrary to popular belief, art is not merely a harmless matter of personal aesthetic preference; it is, in fact, a profound philosophical approach to life itself. While often dismissed as “old-fashioned” or “right-wing,” this ancient truth is recognized even by prominent Marxist thinkers, such as the French philosopher Alain Badiou, who goes so far as to suggest that “art is the purest manifestation of the idea, incarnating itself in the realm of the sensible”. In this context, Scruton’s words demand our attention. He warned that beauty is vanishing from our world because it is being dismissed as trivial. This, he argued, is a grave matter, for the disappearance of beauty from our culture signifies a rejection of the sacred in our life, a denial of the transcendental, and, ultimately, the loss of meaning in our world.

To the contemporary individual, particularly the contemporary artist, Scruton’s observation may seem harsh, disdainful, pompous, and elitist, but it requires little effort to substantiate. One need only examine postmodern views on art or observe so-called “conceptual art masterpieces” such as Marcel Duchamp’s “Urinal” or the bizarre performances of Marina Abramović, who aims to crush taboos. Thus, one must take their message seriously, as T. S. Eliot would say, “The greatest proof of a man’s religion is the sanctity of his art” (Eliot, 2022). Therefore, Scruton is right in asserting that art is profoundly religious, even if it might not seem so; it would be fair to consider postmodern art as a kind of sect devoted to disorder, with profanity as its rite and, above all, ugliness as its main sacrament.

This is why G. K. Chesterton used to say art, like morality, has its defined boundaries. There can be art that reflects immoral motives or the opposite, but it is erroneous to claim that morality does not exist. Alternatively, there can simply be art and kitsch—the latter of which Scruton referred to as “fake art, expressing fake emotions, whose purpose is to deceive the consumer into thinking he feels something deep and serious.” (Scruton, 2016)

Such tendencies, which are far from new, have nearly transformed the so-called contemporary art into a meaningless veneration of ugliness, where mediocrity reigns supreme due to aesthetic relativism and the rejection of distinctions between beauty and ugliness, meaning and madness. Consequently, everything is declared art! But if everything is art, does it not follow that nothing is art?

Common sense struggles to equate classical or Renaissance paintings with “conceptual works” that often resemble the scribbles of a three-year-old. Yet relativism, like the other totalitarian ideologies, disregards reason and common sense. Dare to criticize it, and you’ll be branded with all sorts of labels, including “fascist”, “ignorant” or, a bit more charitably, “You don’t understand art!”

The truth, however, is that in postmodern art and philosophy, everything is relativized and equalized. Beauty, truth, and morality become matters of taste, while ugliness and kitsch become fashionable. Therefore, it is no surprise that this approach finds so many adherents nowadays, for it appeals to those who lack genuine talent. Nonetheless, I’m convinced that the days of this ideology are numbered because beauty is an intrinsic value that cannot be destroyed, for it lies in the depths of human hearts.

Bibliography:

—Eliot, T. S. (2022). Thoughts after Lambeth.  Wildside Press LLC. (Original work published 1932)

— Kant, I. (1987). Critique of judgment (W. S. Pluhar, Trans.). Hackett Publishing Company. (Original work published 1790)

— Scruton, R. (2009). Beauty: A very short introduction. Oxford University Press.

— Scruton, R. (2016). Confessions of a heretic: Revised edition. Notting Hill Editions.

The post Art and Morality: A Brief Analysis of Aesthetic Relativism appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Art has long served as a medium to explore and express the divine, capturing moments of profound spiritual revelation. Two significant paintings of Rembrandt, depicting the Supper at Emmaus, serve as compelling studies in the portrayal of Christ’s recognition by his disciples. Through an analysis of these works, we can delve into the subtle interplay of light, composition, and character to uncover deeper philosophical and theological insights.

Biblical Verses

30 And it happened that as he sat at the table with them, he took the bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to them. 

31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight. 

32 They said to each other, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”

1. Analysis of the 1629 Depiction

The first painting, set in a rustic inn, employs chiaroscuro to dramatic effect. The scene is dark, lit by two sources—likely candles or oil lamps—highlighting three men around a table. The use of light and shadow not only creates a somber, introspective atmosphere but also serves to direct the viewer’s attention to key elements.

On the right, a man with long hair and a beard holds a piece of bread, his silhouette outlined by the backlighting, which grants him an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. This figure is undoubtedly Christ, revealed to his disciples in the act of breaking bread.

Before him, a man kneels in devotion, nearly lost in the darkness, his previous seat overturned beside him. This posture of humility and sudden recognition contrasts with another man at the table whose face is well-lit, reflecting shock and awe.

The composition directs attention to two focal points: the divine act of breaking bread and the startled disciple. The surrounding high ceiling and rural inn setting emphasize the transient nature of the divine presence, poised on the brink of vanishing into the mundane world.

This scene recalls Hendrik Goudt’s “Jupiter and Mercury visiting Philemon and Baucis” (1612), where divine beings are not initially recognized, adding a layer of surprise and revelation.

Personal Impressions

The attention given to the background figure suggests a deliberate thematic choice. The person in the background, perhaps an innkeeper or observer, does not acknowledge Christ’s presence. This could symbolize the earthly distractions that prevent recognition of the divine. Alternatively, this figure might represent the chronicler of the event, hinting at the idea of witnessing and recording transcendent moments.

At the heart of the painting is the startled disciple, encapsulating the essence of divine encounter—surprise, fear, reverence, and a profound inner awakening. This reaction invites the viewer to contemplate the emotional and spiritual impact of encountering the divine.

Rembrandt appears to deliberately center his work around three elements: Awakening, Spirit, and Blindness. This triadic focus perhaps alludes to the Holy Trinity—the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—or it might symbolize the Mind, Body, and Spirit. Observing his painting, one is struck by the vast, encompassing darkness that stirs the imagination, suggesting the unseen dimensions of the room. This darkness invites an inward silence, drawing attention to the light-dark figure whose silhouette is defined by light. Concurrently, my curiosity is drawn to the background figure, oscillating between notions of spirit and distraction. The painting provokes contemplation: does it depict Christ, or does it compel me to experience the narrative anew?

Mythological Parallel

Ovid’s account of Philemon and Baucis in the “Metamorphoses” and Rembrandt’s 1629 painting of Christ at Emmaus both explore themes of recognition, hospitality, and divine reward, each narrative resonating through distinct yet interwoven elements.

In Ovid’s myth, the gods Zeus and Hermes, disguised as mortals, are recognized only by Philemon and Baucis, an elderly couple whose humble generosity leads to their divine reward and transformation. Their home is turned into a temple, and they are metamorphosed into intertwined trees, symbolizing their unity and piety. This narrative emphasizes the virtue of recognizing and honoring the divine presence in the most modest circumstances.

Rembrandt’s painting captures a similar moment of divine revelation. The Emmaus scene depicts the disciples, initially oblivious to Christ’s identity, finally recognizing Him during the breaking of bread.

The background figure in Rembrandt’s painting, suspended between spirit and distraction, parallels the divine presence among mortals in Ovid’s tale. Both works underscore that true recognition and reward stem from sincere hospitality and the ability to perceive the divine in ordinary life. Rembrandt’s dramatic lighting and focus on the central figure of Christ echo the transformation experienced by Philemon and Baucis, where light and shadow symbolize the journey from ignorance to enlightenment.

Both narratives emphasize that the sacred can manifest in the humblest settings, reinforcing the timeless message of recognition and reward for genuine faith and hospitality. Through these artistic and literary parallels, Rembrandt and Ovid convey a profound philosophical reflection on the intersection of the divine and the mundane, illustrating how the extraordinary often resides within the ordinary.

2. Analysis of the 1648 Depiction

In contrast, the 1648 painting presents a more structured, almost ecclesiastical setting. Four figures are arranged around a table in a high room, with light streaming from a high window on the left. The central figure, Christ, sits calmly, breaking bread with a halo of light around his head, looking upwards into an unseen realm.

The disciples, depicted with varied expressions of surprise and contemplation, form a closed circle with their gazes. To the right stands a server, perhaps unaware of the divine presence, focusing instead on his earthly task. To the left of Christ, a figure is depicted with his hand thoughtfully placed at his mouth, his back turned towards the viewer. The entire scene exudes a sense of calm and introspection, rather than tension. This tranquility is further emphasized by the detailed depiction of the surrounding space, inviting the viewer to explore the subtleties of the setting.

The use of sunlight, rather than candlelight, imbues the scene with a sense of divine illumination. The niche and table evoke an altar, positioning Christ as both a divine figure and an integral part of the earthly gathering. The hierarchical arrangement of the heads, with the innkeeper at the highest point, subtly reinforces this duality.

Personal Impressions

This painting, less dramatic but equally profound, suggests a different aspect of divine encounter. The disciples appear more aware of Christ’s identity, reflecting a quieter, more introspective realization. The innkeeper, seemingly oblivious to the divine light, represents in both works the earthly blindness to spiritual truths that now stands in front of him.

Rembrandt’s meticulous portrayal of Christ as a Jewish figure, with characteristic features and suffering etched into his face, emphasizes the humanity of the divine. This portrayal aligns with his broader efforts to depict Jesus authentically, possibly using a Sephardic Jewish model from his community.

It is intriguing to observe the skeptic added as an additional character to the scene. This inclusion suggests an acknowledgment of the thinking mind alongside the holy trinity of mind, body, and spirit. It highlights Rembrandt’s recognition of analytical and rational thought, a theme he often prioritized in his exploration of biblical narratives. This thoughtful incorporation underscores the depth of Rembrandt’s engagement with the interplay between faith and reason, as well as his nuanced understanding of human cognition within spiritual contexts.

Christ’s gaze, though detached from earthly suffering, conveys a meditative serenity, contrasting sharply with the innkeeper’s material focus. This juxtaposition highlights the transcendence of the divine amidst the mundane. His gaze in the painting appears almost childish, immature, and detached, imbuing it with a transcendental quality. This portrayal renders Christ enigmatic and elusive to the skeptic, who is unable to comprehend Him due to a flawed perspective. Rembrandt’s depiction underscores a fundamental disjunction between the divine and the rational mind, emphasizing how the skeptic’s erroneous approach hinders true understanding.

Conclusion

Both paintings, through their distinct approaches, invite contemplation on the nature of divine recognition. The 1629 depiction emphasizes the sudden, dramatic revelation, while the 1648 painting presents a quieter, more contemplative encounter. Together, they offer a rich tapestry of spiritual insight, blending light, composition, and character to explore the profound impact of divine presence.

These works not only reflect the theological and philosophical underpinnings of their time but also resonate with timeless themes of recognition, humility, and the interplay between the divine and the earthly. Through the lens of art, we glimpse the burning hearts of the disciples, awakening to the presence of Christ, and are reminded of the ever-present possibility of encountering the divine in our own lives.

Bibliography

– The Supper at Emmaus. (n.d.). Retrieved from [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Supper_at_Emmaus).

– MacGregor, N. (2000). *Seeing Salvation: Images of Christ in Art*. London: BBC Books.

– Murray, P., & Murray, L. (1997). *The Oxford Companion to Christian Art and Architecture*. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Ovid. (2004). *Metamorphoses* (A. D. Melville, Trans.). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

The post The Presence and Recognition of Divinity in Art: An Analysis of Two Depictions of the Supper at Emmaus appeared first on The Miskatonian.

In the mystical confluence where art meets the ineffable, this exploration delves into the nuanced distinctions between controlled fantasy and unbidden visions within the realm of artistic creation. Fantasy is seen as a conscious, deliberate manipulation of thought, akin to a sculptor methodically shaping marble, while vision emerges suddenly, a gift from the subconscious mind that defies conscious explanation. We also consider the role of coincidence, an often overlooked muse whose spontaneous contributions challenge the boundaries of intention and surrender. I will structure arguments and supporting evidence for each key topic—fantasy, vision, coincidence, and the balance between them in artistic creation. This work is based on my own conclusions and experience as a contemporary artist and as an academy graduate of the Fine Arts Academy in Essen, Germany. This journey seeks to unravel how artists navigate this intricate dance, revealing the profound impact of both control and spontaneity on their creative expression.

Argument: Active imagination and spontaneous visions are distinct phenomena, yet they are often mistakenly conflated as products of one’s own imagination or fantasy. Coincidence serves as a compelling testament to this assertion, although controlled imagination and uncontrolled vision are intricately intertwined and never entirely distinct. The interplay between chance and deliberate planning is crucial in the creative process of artists. This interplay challenges the notion of ownership in art and prompts us to reconsider the objectives of the contemporary art world. C. G. Jung’s Perspective on Planning and Constructing in the Mind Jung believed that the conscious mind handles deliberate, rational planning and constructing, which is essential for navigating daily life and achieving goals. This mental activity is rooted in the ego, the center of consciousness that organizes our thoughts, perceptions, and actions. However, Jung also emphasized the profound influence of the unconscious on our conscious planning and constructing. He argued that the unconscious mind offers a rich reservoir of ideas, images, and symbols that inspire and shape our conscious thought processes. This interplay is evident in his concept of active imagination, where engaging with unconscious material can lead to new insights and creative solutions.

In several of his works, Jung discussed the relationship between conscious and unconscious processes: “The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves.” Jung reveals that creativity and planning often originate from a deeper, unconscious source, merged with conscious intellect and intention. This perspective suggests that while the ego rationally plans and constructs, it draws inspiration and raw material from the unconscious. For Jung, the conscious acts of planning and constructing are deeply influenced by the unconscious. The ego organizes and directs these processes, but the content and creativity often emerge from the psyche’s deeper layers. This interplay between conscious and unconscious elements enriches the planning process, making it both rational and profoundly creative. The distinction between the ego’s deliberate actions and the subconscious imaginative elements allows for a more nuanced analysis of their roles.

1. Fantasy as controlled creation through the thought act: rational left hemisphere: Fantasy as controlled creation starts with deliberate thought, involving conceptualization, sketching, and meticulous planning. Greek marble sculptures exemplify this, showcasing technical perfection but often lacking the artist’s personal touch. The essence of fantasy lies in the inner world where ideas originate. This visualization is a thought process rooted in fantasy, brought to life through controlled, deliberate creation.

1.1 Psychoanalysis and Thought Processes in Conceptualizing Artistic Ideas: Psychoanalysis provides a window into the cognitive processes that shape artistic creation. The conscious ego plays a pivotal role in this process, engaging actively with the imagination to bring forth and refine artistic ideas. This involves a deliberate and thoughtful engagement, where artists consciously select and manipulate symbols and themes, transforming them into their final artistic expressions. By harnessing these conscious cognitive faculties, artists navigate the complex interplay between internal vision and external representation.

1.2 Active Sketching and Experimentation with Materials and Techniques: The transition from concept to creation involves active sketching and experimentation. Artists like Leonardo da Vinci meticulously planned their compositions through extensive sketches and studies, demonstrating significant control and intention. This phase also requires systematic exploration and documentation of techniques and materials.

1.3 Historical Example-Greek Marble Sculptures: Greek marble sculptures epitomize controlled creation through thought acts. These works are not only technical marvels but also
products of meticulous planning and idealization. Sculptors aimed to create forms that surpassed natural human proportions, embodying an idealized vision of beauty and perfection. However, while these sculptures achieved technical excellence, they often lacked the distinct personal touch of the artist’s individual style. This highlights the dominance of controlled, intellectual creation over spontaneous, expressive artistry.

1.4 Inner Fantasy World as the Root of Ideas: Using the concept of active imagination, artists can visualize objects with remarkable detail and clarity. For instance, imagining a lemon allows one to see its texture, color, shadows, and form in the mind’s eye. This mental exercise is rooted in the ego, where ideas take constructed shape before they are translated into physical form. Despite being an imagined construct, this envisioned lemon is a product of active thought, demonstrating how controlled fantasy guides the creative process and justifies artistic activity.

1.5 The Real vs. Thought Lemon: The imagined lemon, though rooted in the mind, acts as a prototype for the real object. While the actual lemon may differ from its mental image, the key is that the imagined version effectively functions within the creative process. This demonstrates how controlled fantasy, born from thought, can guide the creation of tangible art. By examining these examples, we can understand how fantasy as a controlled creation through thought involves a blend of psychoanalytic theory, meticulous planning, historical examples, and the inner fantasy world that forms the foundation of artistic ideas.

2. Vision as Spontaneous Insight: irrational right hemisphere: Spontaneous vision arises as an idea, a subconscious shock that conjures an image or thought unattainable through active engagement. This phenomenon can occur during the process of painting or even while performing simple chores. Meditation exemplifies this, where the practice of not doing and silencing the inner dialogue allows for vivid visions and insights. Some artists harness this tool of not-doing in their creations, letting spontaneous visions guide their artistic expression. Intuition is the foundation of spontaneous visions. Henri Bergson, a French philosopher, challenged the dominant scientific and rationalist approaches to understanding reality. He argued that intuition, rather than rational analysis, provides a more profound and immediate way of comprehending life and consciousness. Bergson believed that rational analysis breaks reality down into static, discrete parts, leading to a fragmented and superficial understanding. In contrast, intuition allows us to grasp reality as a continuous, flowing process, capturing the essence of life in its entirety. For Bergson, intuition is essential for genuine creativity. While rational analysis can only recombine existing elements in new ways, intuition taps into the deeper, creative force of life itself, allowing for the emergence of truly novel ideas and forms.

2.1 Psychological Perspective: Research in psychology, such as studies on the Default Mode Network (DMN) of the brain, reveals that periods of rest or low-focus activities can lead to spontaneous thoughts and insights. This suggests that disengaging from active thought processes allows novel ideas and visions to emerge.

2.2 Artistic Examples: Many artists have experienced moments of spontaneous inspiration. Salvador Dalí, for instance, used the “slumber with a key” method, napping with a heavy key in his hand. As he fell asleep and dropped the key, he would wake up and immediately capture the images that flashed in his mind, thus accessing spontaneous visions from his subconscious.

2.3 Meditative Practices: Techniques like mindfulness or transcendental meditation foster a state of not-doing, leading to vivid mental imagery and insights. Artists such as Agnes Martin have used meditation to tap into spontaneous visions, finding inspiration in the clarity and stillness it provides.

3. The role of coincidence in artistic creation: In my artistic creation, the best ideas often come from spontaneous insights or even dreams. I acknowledge the influence of my surroundings, subconscious programming, and the historicity of my being, which can shape a single vision or create vast inner universes. The distinction between active imagination and visions is never complete and always complements each other. However, I cannot accept the vivid inner world as something we can truly own. The human body and brain are channels and instruments of lived realities, whether controlled or uncontrolled. Finding concrete support for this statement is challenging, but we can observe it in the simple painting process. No matter how much we conceptualize, sketch, and plan a painting, the creation process always involves mistakes. These mistakes often become profound gateways to unexpected novelties and inventions, precisely because they were “unthought”. Here, we observe how an unplanned brushstroke can open up new possibilities. Vision functions like this sudden intuitive play, serving as an additional tool that can be embraced at will and intention.

Many artists have spoken about the significance of mistakes and unplanned events in their work. Pablo Picasso famously said, “I don’t seek, I find,” highlighting how serendipity and unplanned moments can lead to creative discoveries. Jackson Pollock’s work exemplifies the role of spontaneity in art. His drip painting technique embraced the unpredictable flow of paint, transforming what might have been seen as mistakes into essential components of his innovative style. Contemporary artists like Gerhard Richter also use controlled chance in their work. Richter’s “squeegee” paintings involve applying and then partially removing layers of paint, creating unexpected patterns and textures that become integral to the final piece. These examples illustrate how the interplay between intention and accident can lead to profound and innovative artistic expressions.

4. Balancing Control and Spontaneity: Opposing the approaches of Pollock and Kandinsky, we see how differently controlled and uncontrolled actions are used in the creation process. These complementary parts of imagination are interwoven, creating an intricate game of balancing thought and intuitive action. While balancing control and spontaneity offers a valuable approach to artistic creation, it can be challenging to push beyond the boundaries of control and allow the process to venture into an uncontrolled, innovative realm. C. G. Jungˋs perspective at this point would be: “The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable. The creative activity of the imagination frees man from his bondage to the ‘nothing but’ and raises him to a heightened reality, where the interplay of conscious and unconscious elements is revealed in its totality.”

Joan Miróˋs work often began with controlled sketches and plans but incorporated spontaneous, unconscious elements as he developed his paintings. Miró aimed to free his work from rational thought, allowing subconscious imagery to emerge. “The Farm” is a detailed, controlled depiction of his family’s farm in Catalonia, yet it incorporates surreal, spontaneous elements that add a dreamlike quality. Similarly, Cy Twombly embodies this interplay. His art combines deliberate marks and chaotic, seemingly random scribbles, reflecting a balance between control and abandon. Twombly’s work often explores the tension between order and disorder. In “Leda and the Swan,” he juxtaposes carefully planned gestures with spontaneous, energetic scribbles, creating a dynamic interplay between the controlled and uncontrolled. David Hockney also exemplifies a blend of detailed planning and spontaneous inspiration. His work often involves meticulous composition, yet he remains open to changes during the creative process. Hockney’s embrace of technology, such as using iPads for painting, reflects this balance. “The Arrival of Spring in Woldgate, East Yorkshire in 2011” combines digital precision with the free, spontaneous expression of nature’s forms and colors. These artists demonstrate how the interplay of controlled and uncontrolled elements can lead to innovative and dynamic artworks, blending intention with the unpredictable to enrich their creative expressions.

Counterpoints

The notion of spontaneous vision as a pure, unmediated insight is often romanticized, creating a myth around the artistic process. In reality, these sudden bursts of inspiration are deeply rooted in an artist’s prior experiences, cultural contexts, and subconscious thoughts. Cognitive scientist Margaret Boden suggests that creativity, including spontaneous insights, is always grounded in the artist’s existing knowledge and experience. This perspective challenges the idea of vision as entirely unplanned, revealing that even our most seemingly spontaneous creations are intertwined with the threads of our past. To move beyond romanticization, we must analyze this phenomenon within a cognitive framework, seeking an analytical basis that considers how memory, perception, and cultural conditioning contribute to what we perceive as spontaneous vision. By doing so, we can ground the concept of inspiration in a more realistic and scientifically informed understanding, appreciating the artist not as a passive vessel of divine inspiration but as an active participant in a complex interplay of internal and external influences. The question is not whether we are influenced but how actively we participate in these influences. The idea that artists cannot truly “own” their creations due to the influence of coincidence and the subconscious challenges traditional views of intellectual property and artistic authorship.
This perspective invites us to question the notion of absolute ownership in art, recognizing that creations are often the product of both deliberate intent and unforeseen inspiration.

Legal scholar Lawrence Lessig advocates for the recognition of creative commons and shared cultural heritage, suggesting that the ownership of art should reflect both individual
contributions and the collective cultural milieu. By embracing this view, we acknowledge that art is not created in isolation but is a dialogue between the artist and a larger historical and cultural context. Thus, the artist becomes not just a solitary genius but a conduit for broader communal expressions, redefining ownership in a way that honors the interconnected nature of creativity.

Conclusion

In exploring the intricate dance between controlled fantasy and spontaneous vision, we uncover the profound interplay of control, spontaneity, and coincidence in the artistic process. These elements challenge the traditional boundaries of artistic ownership, suggesting that artists are not mere creators but channels through which art flows. Active imagination, grounded in deliberate thought and meticulous planning, brings to life the inner fantasy world. Meanwhile, spontaneous vision, born from the depths of the subconscious, introduces an unpredictable, innovative element that transcends rational control. This delicate balance is evident in the practices of artists like Joan Miró, Cy Twombly, and David Hockney, who blend meticulous planning with spontaneous inspiration, allowing for dynamic and transformative artistic expressions. The myth of pure inspiration is deconstructed, revealing that even our most seemingly spontaneous creations are deeply rooted in prior experiences and cultural contexts. By analyzing this phenomenon within a cognitive framework, we appreciate the artist as an active participant in a complex interplay of internal and external influences. As I look ahead to my dissertation, I plan to delve deeper into the rational and irrational sides of comprehending reality itself. By bringing together the rational processes of the left hemisphere and the intuitive insights of the right hemisphere, I aim to offer a more holistic understanding of the creative process. This journey will not only further unravel the nuances of artistic creation but also challenge and redefine our notions of ownership and originality in art. Through this lens, we can embrace the interconnected nature of creativity, recognizing that art, like life, is a continuous, evolving dialogue between the known and the unknown, the controlled and the spontaneous in their paradoxicality.

Bibliography

Drobot, Ana. “Psychoanalysis and Creativity.” Freudfile. Accessed May 17, 2024. http://freudfile.org/psychoanalysis/papers_9.html.
Delgado, Luís Manuel Romano. Psychoanalysis and the Act of Artistic Creation: A Look at the Unconscious Dynamics of Creativity. (Delgado, 2023).
Boardman, John. Greek Sculpture: The Classical Period. Thames & Hudson, 1985.
C.G. Jung, The Structure of the Psyche, Collected Works, Vol. 8, para. 371
C. G. Jung, The Archetypes and The Collective Unconscious. Princeton University Press, 1980. Raichle, M. E. et al. “A default mode of brain function.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 98.2 (2001).
Naifeh, Steven, and Gregory White Smith. Jackson Pollock: An American Saga. Clarkson Potter, 1990.
Elger, Dietmar. Gerhard Richter: A Life in Painting. University of Chicago Press, 2009. Royal Academy of Arts. “David Hockney RA: A Bigger Picture.”
https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibition/david-hockney-a-bigger-picture The Art Story. “Cy Twombly Artist Overview and Analysis.”
https://www.theartstory.org/artist/twombly-cy
Totally History. “The Farm by Joan Miró – Facts & History of the Painting.” https://totallyhistory.com/the-farm/
Boden, M. A. (2004). The Creative Mind: Myths and Mechanisms. Routledge.
Lessig, L. (2004). Free Culture: How Big Media Uses Technology and the Law to Lock Down Culture and Control Creativity. Penguin Press.
Bergson, H. (1911). Creative Evolution. Henry Holt and Company.

The post Fantasy and Vision in Art: The Dynamics of Control, Coincidence, and the Subconscious appeared first on The Miskatonian.

I know. It’s crazy to apply this binary divide and assume technology is the encompassing power that has over our lives. …But that’s the truth. Without the internet, the current world governments will fall apart.

The only world that matters is the net world; its dependence is an inferior “meat” reality. This, though, is radical on its own because it denies humanity as nothing more than a phase called the “Anthropocene.” It assumes human domination and influence are a fad and that we as humans must get ready for a post-Anthropocene future where we will be replaced by robots or non-human (possibly extraterrestrial) life. This talk is popular among transhumanist and nihilist talking heads like Kohei Saito, Timothy Morton, and Eugene Thacker.

If we have to embrace this human annihilation, we have to accept that the internet is the only tool for our success as human creatives. Artificial Intelligence also challenges how we make “art” and what is ultimately considered “art” in the two worlds. We need AI because it will accomplish the minor tasks that we need to move on to the bigger and more sophisticated ones. This also means that we shouldn’t be putting huge effort into the little things that AI can already do in a minute. However, we should also have the mandatory skill sets and practical knowledge of application in case AI breaks down (and it will). We have to understand what exactly digital art is and what place it is in the world of the internet.

Art in the meat world is defined by the five senses; sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch. An artistic discipline is created around one of these senses. The meaning of art is to be expressive in its selected medium. In the net world, being expressive is quite difficult. People can’t “touch,” “taste.” or “smell” something on the internet (not yet, anyway). We can, however, “see” and “hear” art and music on the internet! The internet is like a virtual reality video game that we get lost in, so we may have a fake simulation of those five senses.

John Berger pointed out in his 1972 documentary Ways of Seeing that art is becoming replicated and cloned, and no original “experience” can be enjoyed. Berger only recited Walter Benjamin’s 1935 commentary, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” giving it a twist for the Boomer generation. Benjamin’s “aestheticization of politics” was a focus found within his interest of Trotskyism and (possibly) Gramscism. The idea of a “culture war” was a new concept in the 1930s, and the focus that “the medium is the message” became a long-running fad up until the 1990s. Today, the global governments use the tool of mass media so they can “manufacture consent” to push political agendas, as noted by Noam Chomsky and Edward S. Herman to further debunk any egalitarian notion of the happy “global village” that Marshall McLuhan parades about. It is a useless pursuit to uphold a “permanent revolution” in the 21st century.

We are coming to a conclusion about the political left and right divide and realize that we have entered a new stage of disinformation, where only individuals can “consent” to their influences and actions through their own curated and fringe media outlets. These outlets, however, all relate to the same message of the net world, in that liberal posting and sharing is the only thing that matters. Norberto Bobbio was right to assume the rise of consensual identity politics around the terms of left or right as a subculture, where one can say “I am left-wing” just like the other can say “I am right-wing.” However, this also concludes the divide, where both umbrella categories are becoming one subcultural consumer class.

Art cannot have an ideological basis. Expression, beauty, and logic lack the political. Ethics and narratives are one thing, but the aestheticization of these concepts is another. Religion and ideology provide a purpose to produce and a goal to achieve. Devaluing expression, beauty, and logic implies that art is not real. In the net world, we can protect these three concepts by understanding what it means to “post.”

In the early 2000s, YTMND allowed users to post a “YTMND,” or microsite, that included images, sound, and text. We can see, hear, and read a YTMND. Popular trends in the YTMND community are called “fads,” which would later become “memes” in the net world. The eventual creation of YouTube meant that users could upload entire videos and that YTMND became an obsolete medium. “Posting” ranges from whatever is uploaded on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter (now “X”), Instagram, Discord, Telegram, 4chan, or any obscure web forum or chat. Our options are no longer diverse, and all posting platforms have been compromised.

What we post is what matters. It could be a picture, a video, a comment, a cartoon, a radio show, a game, music, or anything that gets stored in the Internet Archive. The inflation setting that every possible human being on the internet implies that certain art is no long longer of value because there are too many channels of “content” creation and/or neglected spaces and channels of posting that people are unaware of. Imagine a Facebook user of 900 “friends” who posts his original memes made in Pixlr, and yet nobody “likes” his daily uploads. This is because everyone left Facebook for another platform (like Instagram being more picture-friendly), and there are too many users doing the same thing on the platform. Or it’s that this user is trapped in an echo chamber but producing for his therapeutic gratification. We have entered a new stage of producing without an audience, in that the posting that is of real value or is good art is being neglected because we are unaware of these private (yet public) isolated posters. I call this phenomenon “dark data” and explain it as “the urge to produce without meaning.”

On the internet, artistic intent is judged solely by the post. What is posted matters. This post may gain likes, “retweets,” and publicity from mainstream outlets. The algorithms lift up the dopamine hits that keep people addicted to the net world. Posting is judged on this hypothetical numbers game and mass “fake by democracy” consensus.

With that being said, digital art can only be conceived through a post. Digital art is judged on the basis if it’s a “shitpost” or not. Or, the user is going through a series of “Y-posting,” where “Y” represents any subject, slang, or activity. One could be “Jucheposting,” “Goonposting,” “Fedposting,” and so on. What exactly is posted is judged on this fleeting merit. If digital art is understood by what is posted, we start to question the entire ideology of the internet. Everyone has equal access and power to post anything they want and shall be judged on what is uploaded to the server.

Posting implies that the art is finished before it can exist. Digital art is not done in a live setting (as we can’t rely on live streams for everything). Art has to be made and finally digitized for the internet. And what can be art is another thing. Everything is up for grabs on the internet, even if it’s not intended as art. Collage is the constant medium of choice, and what samples and video clips we take is now ours to create original art from. As said once by Pablo Picasso, “Bad artists copy. Good artists steal!”

We are reminded what Paul Schuette wrote in his quick instruction manual, Demystifying Max/MSP. To Schuette,

“The larger issue here is that outright stealing is an accepted part of programming culture. Pieces of code are borrowed, share and ripped from other people, and this is what you are expected to do. The best programmers working right now never start with an entirely blank screen. The problem is that people who are new to writing computer code sometimes feel a tinge of morality running up their spine when they ‘borrow’ a piece of code for the first time.”

The realm of digital art is a cycle of inspiration, influence, and mimicry. What we see is up for grabs. What we take is now ours. And what we post from it is how we conceive new digital art. We could be under a parasocial “relationship,” a reality of solipsism, that what we scroll through on “social” platforms influences us directly as artists and intellects. It’s world without Chicago-style citation!

To find the origin of our favorite digital art, we follow the breadcrumb trail home and realize that, like the Big Bang, a random post conceived a new world. The origin of digital art came from posting, and to neglect that reality means we neglect the net world itself.

It’s not that we should think in terms of being in the Anthropocene or embrace a post-anthropocene future. We realize that we a knee deep into techno-singularity. And how we can understand our current reality is rather a reflection of the delusions of undeveloped transhumanism and the cartoon prisons we irrationally embrace.

We cannot discuss digital art unless we talk about the action of posting and how it influences art back into the meat world. Posting is what makes us valued in the art industry. The truth is that we can’t exist as artists without a net world, no matter how much we try to negate it.

The solution means posting without an audience. We don’t need isolated likes and algorithm boosting to be valued. Because there is no value within art, and to exist without purpose means we are truly free. To produce for the sake of it means we are no longer bound to the limits of what we have to produce for “society” and for profit. Artists are a type of malware that works against what the machine intended. No is a “failed artist,” as they love to assume one can either “win” or “lose” in a market of flashy TikTok pornography.

Every time we post, we take up space on the internet. And if we take up enough space, we own it. It’s not done by “culture war” or any persuasion of political powers. All we have to do is post for the sake of it, even if the post is shit.

That’s what it means to be a digital artist.

The post “Posting” and The Meaning Behind Digital Art appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Perhaps constant accessibility to things makes them less deep and less impactful, but an artist´s eye cannot be so easily accessed, given, of course, that he is honest about his work. But what does artistic honesty mean? It could simply mean taking the time to express something from within, making the process private and non-dependant on the clichés of the time.

Beauty, therefore, can only be expressed from the depths of one´s internal workshop. In contrast, external mundane reality simply expresses a certain aesthetic form susceptible to change according to different cultural transformations. Without the inspired words of a poet, a flower remains a piece of botanical study, which may appear pretty to the commoner´s eye but is unable to hold transcendence beyond its very existence. A poet shall look within himself to convey the words necessary to exalt a particular aspect of his reality. This process is in itself private and therefore self-affirming.  A form of I am that which I am that soothes the artist from the alienations of mundane life, at least for a short while.

Beauty is developed through an internal workshop that may be influenced by the mundane, but that chooses to transform the mundane and shape it by its own divine right. Artistic beauty is, therefore, born from the privacy of the subject´s mind, something stemming from existential loneliness and quietude. Even if it’s a scenic performance, such a performance which may appear noisy and outwardly in nature, such as a rock concert, for instance, was initially thought of as brewed within the depths of a musician´s creativity, from the songwriting of a lyricist, and in some more sophisticated cases, from the scenic direction of a choreographer.

Just like the photographer had to deliberately focus his attention on a certain image and later on edit it, crop it, and shape it according to his sensitivity, so does the scenic artist need to develop a personal, intimate relationship with sound, script, music, and space itself. It is, above all, an internal action which later on exteriorizes itself. The process of exteriorization of the private sphere can very well corrupt the initial internal image, which is probably one of the artist’s biggest fears, hence leading to the so typical artistic neurosis.

However, the quality of the final delivery has more to do with craftmanship in each discipline, and that is a whole different subject. Much has been written and commented on about the quality and influence of each artistic discipline, but not that much about the spiritual and psychological processes the individual must undergo in order to deliver. As mentioned before, loneliness and isolation are necessary for beauty to be internalized within the artist´s soul. This explains the typical tortured souls found in the art world.

The essence of beauty is the notion that what is typically found is not enough; homogeneity needs to be broken; even if the center of attention is something about mundane life, the interiorization of such stimulus must be done in a fashion similar to a prolonged trance that allows the subject to dwell deep into the many possible variables. If creation ex nihilo, this is, the notion of creating out of nowhere is possible; that is a question for another debate.

But what seems certain is that the exploration that leads to the expression of beauty happens in uncharted, unknown, and intimate dimensions. With the prevalence of social media, the focus has been placed much more heavily on the final, ready-for-delivery product than on the importance of the process itself. The need to keep up with the insatiable demands of digital marketing transforms the artistic endeavor into a sweatshop type of work rather than an actual exploration of the unknown.

It is, however, still possible for contemporary artists to harness the speed of the world wide web and use it as a channelling tool to make the beauty exteriorization process smoother. But in order to attain this the focus must be placed upon the process above all: privacy must be held holy so beauty shall reign supreme.

The post Why Privacy Needs to be Held Holy so Beauty can Reign Supreme appeared first on The Miskatonian.

I remember that some time ago, a friend had given me boxes with original Mario Bros. and Donkey Kong games for SNES, and I thought of asking the owner how much he would give me for them, you know, like a joke. Anyway, the price offered wasn’t as optimistic as I had initially thought, so I said goodbye politely, but not before looking at every detail of the place.

Something caught my attention; I don’t know if it was partly because of the nostalgia of my first consoles or the fact of being able to find the same Saint Seya figures I had as a kid; the point is that everything seemed to enhance the cheerful melancholic energy of the place.  A question arises here: Why are some of us fascinated by certain collectibles and can pay ridiculous prices to acquire them even if they are totally outdated for today’s age? Why spend on a first-generation Nintendo instead of a PS5?

The answer, in my opinion, would be that it is a resuscitation of sacred fetishism; since everything in this world, regardless of its category, has an attention stream, fetishism is no exception. Sacred fetishism, in this case, would come to be focused on objects, that is, to give them an added value beyond the object itself but, in addition to that, to take this action (which we all perform at some point) to a level of sacredness. What is the difference between going crazy over an Atari console that has never come out of the box or wanting to buy the latest Ralph Lauren perfume? The difference would be in what each one represents, i.e., the background to each object of desire.

In the case of Ralph Lauren, we are talking about a reasonably modern industry based basically on the odoriferous aesthetics and the image that an individual wants to project to his social environment (in this case, that of someone capable of spending a reasonable sum of money to smell well).  However, it would be rare decades from now to find a shop selling this as a collector’s item, i.e., it’s not impossible, but it’s not something you’ll find so easily.

On the other hand, why would you want to buy an Atari? From a pragmatic point of view, it’s got fairly simple games that are quite outdated beyond belief in almost every sense of the word. I say almost because back then, those games were produced with two ingredients that seem extinct today: imagination and affection.

I think the best graphics card is creativity, and the best gameplay is inversion into a good story. When the entertainment industry stops having that paradigm and starts releasing formulaic products, we get the subjugation of substances by form. It is the precise moment when any art form begins to lose its soul.

A large part of the reason why it is becoming more and more feasible to hold festivals of retro video games, series, and toys is because of the call of the desperation of those accustomed to the pursuit of entertainment in sublime, innocent, and sincere. Still, most importantly, it is honest and faithful to the fundamental epicenter, which is the creator’s soul, that is, to be sure that what you are enjoying came straight from the developer´s guts.

The malice in the handling of these kinds of products nowadays, the will to industrialize, corrupt, and distort creative talent, is directly subsidized by the impulse of usury, which has infected our civilization to the core. That is why I believe that sacred fetishism of the object as an act of protest against the usurpation of the purity of the creative act, sacred fetishism would come to represent one of the pillars of the instinct of preservation of the lost ideal, rescuing small pieces of light lost in the darkness (which in a way would also be more or less the aim of this project).

Having reached this conclusion, I invite you to comment: What object of this kind has made you nostalgic? Transport yourself to that place and time and think: What did you find back then that you no longer find now, and that has, as a consequence, triggered your search for the real thing?

The post Collectors’ Items and Sacred Fetishism appeared first on The Miskatonian.

I don’t want to embarrass anyone, but this has been most evident to me in many online posts by new reactionaries about aesthetics, about art and architecture especially. You’ll find one person boasting about his newly discovered appreciation for old things by dissing all things modern. Then you’ll find someone else declaring that beauty is objective while casting before your eyes some obviously hideous modern artwork to drive the point home. The contest is easily won when you’re working from an unexamined intuition. These are the days of dead arguments, statements propounded and repeated ad nauseam as substitutes for arguments. And yet I wonder how anyone can honestly, so unselfconsciously and unironically, affirm tradition against all things modern, even while they post their thoughts on such a blatantly non-traditional thing as social media. In this age of ironies, the performative contradiction doesn’t bother them. Perhaps this is because it has not occurred to them that it is really a performative contradiction.

Not so long ago, a post went viral in which a certain well-read and usually thoughtful individual offered his followers a kind of cheat sheet, a spreadsheet of sorts, to help them discern between good and bad art. The result was particularly cringeworthy as he reduced the so-called objectivity of aesthetic beauty to entirely subjective feelings. If you feel weird, sapped of your energy, and confused, as opposed to uplifted, energized, and clear-headed—this is what he proposed on his spreadsheet—then, apparently, you’re dealing with bad art. And yet the author of the cringe-post in question insisted that the measure is entirely subjective. With one simple application of a category error, he confused mere sentimentality about art with the power of beauty to make us think less about ourselves.

Perhaps no example of supposedly “bad art” is more egregious in the eyes of naive traditionalists than Duchamp’s famous 1917 work, Fountain, a urinal purchased at a plumbing outlet and signed with the pseudonym R. Mutt. One online comment I read recently said: “This is the worst piece of ‘art’ in human existence, and it’s unironically evil.” Another said, “Modern art destroys classical ideas of beauty because it CANNOT compete with them.”

Every now and then, someone will pipe up, in a similar manner, yelling into the digital void about the terrible blight on art that is Duchamp’s Fountain. Perhaps rightly, they identify it as the source of so many subsequent artistic catastrophes. And, to be very honest, often, especially when certain newer human creations are juxtaposed against older human creations, I feel intuitively compelled to agree by screaming my agreement like some demon-possessed sports fan at that app on my cell phone. But the more thoughtful part of myself, which tends to win out more often as I get older, knows that these credulous art critics are wrong. I’m on their side, in a way, but I don’t agree with them, at least not in the way you’d perhaps expect.

To be clear, Duchamp’s Fountain is not my favorite piece of art; not even close. I would much rather spend time contemplating Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son, as Henri Nouwen does in his book of the same title, or sitting for an hour or two, as I have been lucky to do, in front of John Constable’s beautiful Haywain. The last time I was in the Tate Modern in 2019, looking at a 1964 copy of Duchamp’s Fountain by Duchamp himself, I was more than aware of just how dull and uninspiring it was, standing on the side of one room on a white pedestal looking an awful lot like a display at a plumbing supplies store. And yet, even with this in mind, I still have a problem with the spreadsheet aesthete who thinks it’s possible to divide art into columns with neat categories of what’s great and what’s rubbish. Such spreadsheetism simplistically equates what’s old with what’s good and what’s new with what’s bad.

In opposition to this, I have in mind the Scrutonian idea that to be properly traditional—to be faithful, that is, to the many good things we have inherited from a bygone age—one has to be modern. We can interpret this idea in a number of ways, but one of them is this: to be properly appreciative, in theory, and in practice, of what is traditional, we have to have some clarity on our present place and condition and of the fact that we are looking at the past from this very place and our of a heavily conditioned consciousness. We’re not living in the past but in the present, in the so-called metamodern world with its largely nihilistic sensibilities. This means our view of what happened long ago is filtered through our enwired and enworlded existence. To be properly traditional, I would say, requires seeing tradition less as something that happened, evident by some process of efficient causality in the present, than as a telos. Tradition goes ahead of us and draws us into its world vision if we’re open to it, that is.

I will spare you complex arguments about aesthetics, but I nevertheless want to present something of a defense of Duchamp’s little artistic monstrosity. I am defending it even though it’s a bit stupid. I’m defending it because I’m glad it happened. I can appreciate it, in a way, even if I am not a fan.

We know that in 1917, that infamous artist put a urinal into an art exhibition, signed it with a name that didn’t belong to him, and gave it a poetic rather than a literal name. He didn’t call it Urinal but Fountain. The crudity of the work was not erased by this nominalist addition, but that doesn’t seem to have been Duchamp’s aim anyway. The artwork is a readymade, which means Duchamp didn’t even sculpt it. Duchamp then submitted that readymade for an exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists, to which he belonged, for the first annual exhibition by the Society, which was staged at The Grand Central Palace in New York. He did this anonymously since he was a member of the board.

Initially, the Society of Independent Artists met the work with disdain. They didn’t think it was worthy of being thought of as art either. But their rules dictated that anyone who submitted a piece for their exhibition and paid the entry fee could exhibit their work. A major component of their philosophy, which Duchamp wanted to openly mock, was their claim that America was at the forefront of artistic innovation. The rest, as they say, is history.

I have listened to art historians discuss Duchamp’s Fountain in terms of its sculptural qualities, in terms of the fact that he was taking something ordinary and viewing it as if it was art, in terms of the way he took artistic conventions and inverted them, in terms of its supposed revaluation of values, and so on. The typical suggestion even by certain art historians and art fundis, is that it is such art-like features in the object itself that make it art. There may be some value to such perspectives, but I want to focus on something else.

Do they not see that Duchamp was joking? Imagine the scene. You’re at an art exhibition, and right there, displayed as if it is a sculpture (when it clearly isn’t), is the very same object you, if you’re a guy that is, will urinate into later when you’ve had too many glasses of exhibition wine. Duchamp is taking the piss. His fake, crude artwork has been signed instead of urinated into as a way to mark territory (although anonymously, which deconstructs this very idea), and it’s displayed differently from how it is set up in a bathroom. But that’s all part of the quirk of the object. The right response is to laugh, although I don’t expect you to since I’ve now done the worst thing possible; I’ve explained the joke. Still, it’s funny that some cheeky little chess-loving Frenchman managed to get this nonsensical little so-called artwork displayed at an exhibition precisely because he played by the rules. He played by the rules to break the rules. Well done, Marcel! And, as I said, he was mocking the Americans who thought themselves to be artistically progressive when they were, at least in Duchamp’s mind, pretty stuck in their ways. 

It’s funnier still that instead of being a little temporal blip on the artistic radar, the joke stuck. Granted, it took a while for this to happen. At first, the critics regarded the urinal with as much respect as the naïve reactionary. It was thrown away. But Duchamp got people to talk about it. With the help of Alfred Stieglitz’s photograph of that vulgar readymade and some assistance from a Dada publication or two, the fame of Fountain grew. It was only in the 1960s that Duchamp was commissioned to make 17 replicas of the original artwork, and it was one of these I saw in the Tate Modern. The fame of his original had caught on, and it had to be objectified because that’s something that tends to need to happen with artwork. It was marketing ingenuity that made all the difference.

Jump ahead a few decades, almost a century after the Fountain was first displayed, and you find, in 2004, that a poll involving 500 art experts voted Duchamp’s Fountain the most influential modern artwork of the 20th century. That’s quite a promotion for a urinal! This has been taken too seriously by the art establishment, but it’s just Duchamp’s joke being retold in a different register and with a different accent, all while people fail to see it as a joke. The supposedly smart art critics have elevated something made by a plumbing supplies factory over every other artwork created by every talented artist of the 20th century.

It is here that we might learn to appreciate the brilliance of Duchamp’s little piece of toilet humor. By submitting the artistic equivalent of garbage to that exhibition and then later capitalizing on some marketing acumen, Duchamp alerted everyone to the fact that what gave any artwork legitimacy was not so much the object as the context. Put differently, what matters is not so much the picture as the frame. What gave the artwork its power was the framing provided by the art gallery, the art world, and the entire history of art. In his The Fragile Absolute, Slavoj Žižek puts it this way: “Perhaps the most succinct definition of the modernist break in art is thus that, through it, the tension between the (art) Object  and the Place it occupies is reflectively taken into account: what makes an object a work of art is not simply its direct material properties, but the place it occupies.” Žižek suggests that when the Place is hallowed and rendered sacred, the Object gains a special importance. 

Duchamp’s artwork functions less as a simple extension of the usual expectations than as an event. It challenged the frame and therefore (at least potentially) made people aware of it but also, by existing in reference to that frame, affirmed its own place within it. It was a joke but with a serious point. The point was taken particularly seriously by the Canadian media guru Marshall McLuhan who came to see more clearly than many around him, and many around us still today, that the content of a medium is always less significant than its form when it comes to thinking about the effects of media. To use an analogy, it is the fact of reading itself that shapes consciousness more than the content of the things we are reading. And when a new medium arrives on the scene, it transforms the ground; it creates an entirely new environment. Add a new invention, and you don’t just get a new invention; you get a new world. Well, that is precisely what Duchamp did. He changed the entire art scene by installing something he didn’t make, signed with a name that wasn’t his, and which, by any standard logic, really should not have been considered art.

The thing is, though, that the basic Duchampian logic is evident everywhere. Things and people acquire an aura often because of the way they are framed. A normal human being is framed by the cinema or the media, and so becomes a celebrity or star. As Apple, in particular, has taught us, you can frame a smartphone in a particular way, through various kinds of advertising, to render it somehow more than just a smartphone. It can become an object of envy and desire. Somehow, even the most banal new feature can seem like a life-altering event. Wow, a rose gold phone! Woah, a pressure-sensitive screen! None of this novelty is inherently amazing. Framing is a powerful thing.

A band is framed by a stage, and “VIP” passes and so achieves a kind of aura of sacredness. The crown jewels, a bunch of rocks put together nicely but still a bunch of rocks, are framed by all the pomp and ceremony and royalty and, yes, the Tower of London itself and its security,  and so it becomes something tourists will queue for hours to see. A sports event is framed by the stadium and the expense of the ticket and so becomes all the more “special”. It’s even possible to create an aura around a CEO or boss of the company when he or she is “framed” by the secretary that you have to call to make an appointment. Arguably, even the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil would have seemed more special to Eve and Adam in the Genesis story because it was framed by the serpent as such.

I could go on, but instead, I want to go backward. Duchamp’s Fountain is significant, at least partly, because it has a demythologizing function. It takes the invisible mythical structure of the art world and exposes it. In a way, what I’m doing here is similar to what Duchamp did, only I’m demythologizing Duchamp’s demythologizing. What happened in and beyond Duchamp was something similar, given that the art world started to follow his lead. However, it did so by latching on, I would say mistakenly, to the sheer novelty of the event. They mistook the joke for a paradigm. What was great about Duchamp’s work, many subsequent artists thought, was not so much the way it called attention to the frame as its newness. Modernity has always had a novelty fixation, and this was the epitome of that.

But to my mind, fixating on the novelty at the expense of the evental character of Duchamp’s exposure of the picture-frame relation, or the medium-message relation (to think in a McLuhanite manner), is a mistake. Is there no way to adopt Duchamp’s Fountain less as a model of subversion and demythologization than as a reminder of our need to appreciate things? Is there not a way, I mean, to think of it as a lens through which we can better appreciate what art has been and can be? This is what a modern traditionalist might do to avoid the naivety often confused with traditionalism. One way to do this is to adopt the work less as a deconstruction of tradition than as evidence of a deep appreciation of tradition.

Without tradition, after all, Duchamp is nothing. You cannot see Duchamp’s work clearly without having a sense of the history of art. Its humorousness—I almost said humorosity, and perhaps I should have—is invisible without its being in tension with the tradition. This is precisely what struck me, in fact, when I saw Duchamp’s Fountain in the Tate Modern when I visited it in London back in 2019. There is no tension and no contrast there. The urinal is on display, quite separate from other artworks. It looks uninspired. But why? Well, because there it is juxtaposed with so many things that have simply followed its lead. It is juxtaposed with everything that is just more of the same.

Instead of recognizing the hermeneutical brilliance of throwing context into sharp relief, many artists have taken Duchamp’s work in the shallowest possible way. They have rendered it a formula: find something standard and subvert it, and there, where standardization is subverted, your artwork will be! Novelty-obsessed progressives are, in this, an echo of naïve reactionaries. They fail to notice that the only way to move properly forward is to know what you’re leaving behind. It’s to know that you can never really leave the tradition. You are bound to it, just as you are bound to the contingencies of your own time. Duchamp’s work was created as art precisely because it was tied to tradition, precisely because of how aware Duchamp was of the entire context within which all meaning is encountered. 

Yes, it looks pathetic where it is now, and by now, it should be clear that I am in no way defending how so many modern artists used this work as a technique and formula to live by. But even the sad look of that Fountain now is only evident because we have taken it out of its historical frame. The honest traditionalist, who is by no means not modern and who is by all means desirous of interpretive subtlety, is the person who will put it back where it belongs and accord it a sense of proportion that isn’t overly overblown. The mature traditionalist will not ask stupid questions about whether it is art or evil or not, but will ask, in hermeneutical fashion: What does it mean that Duchamp did what he did, and what could it mean for us now?

The post In defense of Duchamp’s stupid plumbing display appeared first on The Miskatonian.