Areopagus Volume XC
Seven short lessons every someday.
Welcome one and all to the ninetieth volume of the Areopagus. No wordish prelude this week; let us get on with the show! Another seven short lessons, altogether promptly, begins...
I - Classical Music
Plaisir d'Amour
Jean-Paul-Égide Martini (1784)
Performed by Isabelle Poulenard & Jean-François Lombard; Harp: Sandrien Chatron; Violin: Stéphanie Paulet; Flute: Amélie Michel / The Feast of Love by Jean-Antoine Watteau (1719)
Jean-Paul-Égide Martini (a fabulous Francisation of his original name, Johann Paul Aegidius Martin) is not a composer you will likely recognise; this song, however, is. He was born in Bavaria in 1741 and, having moved to France in his twenties, became a successful composer at the royal court, even directing concerts for Marie Antoinette. But, like so many of his generation, Martini was caught up in the French Revolution and forced to adapt. He found work under the new regime wherein, among other things, he composed music for Napoleon's wedding. Then, after Napoleon's fall, he was installed as Superintendent of the King's Music under Louis XVIII. A fascinating life, then, and one marked by a constant and well-received musical output. But all that is really a footnote to Martini's singular, lasting contribution to the world of classical (and popular) music — this little romantic song, called Plaisir d'Amour, meaning "Pleasures of Love".
If it sounds familiar then that's because it almost certainly is; Martini's melody from Plaisir d'Amour was the basis of Our God Loves Us, a well-known hymn, and — most famously of all — Elvis Presley's Can't Help Falling in Love. It had been popular ever since Martini first published the song, and singers from Paul Robeson to Placido Domingo have had their turn at recording it. I have included two versions here. The first is performed on contemporary instruments, as Martini originally composed it, and the second is an arrangement for orchestra by Jacques Offenbach. Of all Martini's work — including, as stated, operas and royal commissions — this song was surely not the one he could have predicted would grace his name with immortality. Such, however, are the wonderful wiles of art and history.
II - Historical Figure
Sir Philip Sidney
England's Last Knight?
Sir Philip Sidney led a strange, almost paradoxical, and gorgeously fascinating life; unpicking the real man from the myth that has grown up around him may even be a fool's errand. Some have called him England's last real knight, a perfect fusion of the chivalric Medieval quester and scholarly Renaissance gentleman, at once erudite and romantic, noble and artful together. And these are not modern imaginings. He was famed, even during his own lifetime, for precisely these reasons, and soon after his young life was cut short such mythos only increased.
So: Philip Sidney was born in 1554, just before Queen Elizabeth I came to the throne. He was a grandson of the Duke of Northumberland and therefore born to the upper echelons of English society, destined for a decent life come-what-may. His father was also Lord President of Wales and his uncle, Robert Dudley, was as the Earl of Leicester Elizabeth's closest advisor. Philip was educated like all young gentlemen of his background, and at the age of eighteen embarked on a three-year tour of continental Europe. The purpose of this trip was, along with improving his Latin, French, and Italian, to introduce him to the politics of Europe and prepare him for a career as a statesman and soldier. During these travels, at the age of just eighteen, Sidney witnessed the infamous St Bartholomew's Day Massacre in Paris — when thousands of Protestants were slaughtered by a Catholic mob.
Upon returning to England in 1575 Sidney officially joined the court of Elizabeth. One of his more interesting duties in this period was to serve as an ambassador to Germany and investigate the possibility of creating a continental Protestant League. This may have come to nothing, but Sidney continually busied himself with the life of an Elizabethan courtier, ever engaging with foreign statesman, going on diplomatic missions, and even serving as a Member of Parliament on two occasions. His political achievements amounted to little, however, in comparison with his personal reputation; Sidney became renowned far and wide for his horsemanship, manners, and learning. Along with performing gallantly at tournaments, Sidney was a notable patron of the arts. Writers across Europe sought his patronage and at least forty different works, on topics as varied as divinity, poetry, and medicine, were dedicated to him.
But Sidney could never quite settle. The life of adventure he so desired was not to be found, and with his political career progressing slowly, he turned to poetry. He worked with his beloved sister — Mary Sidney, who had married and become the Countess of Pembroke — on a versification of the Psalms. To her he also dedicated his Arcadia, a lengthy and incredibly ambitious prose romance, not wholly unlike a novel. In 1581 het met Penelope Devereux, with whom he fell in love but was never to marry, and for her (or, at least, one theory goes) he wrote a remarkable sequence of sonnets known as Astrophil and Stella. They together tell the story, elusively and delicately, of a man captivated by deep love and struggling against submitting to it. Consider, from Number 41, as the narrator reveals why he performed so well in a tournament:
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
Or, from Number 14, where Sidney touches on the moral quandaries of his love:
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame;
If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed
A loathing of all loose unchastity,
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.
Or Number 90, shortened here, among the most wonderfully moving of the sequence:
Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history;
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame....
Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,
And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
Or, a personal favourite, from Number 99, where Sidney writes of staying awake all the night:
But when birds charm and that sweet air which is
Morn's messenger, with rose-enamel'd skies
Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss,
In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes,
Forc'd by their lord, who is asham'd to find
Such light in sense, with such a darken'd mind.
Astrophil and Stella is one of England's greatest and most influential sonnet sequences. The 16th century had seen a slow but sure development of the English language, and Sidney has rightly taken his place alongside the likes of Edmund Spenser as part of that generation who shaped the foundations of English literature and brought it to maturity, right before William Shakespeare climbed its highest heights.
Sidney also made his own direct contribution in prose to what was a self-conscious and ongoing 16th century debate in Elizabethan England about the nature of poetry. It is called A Defence of Poesy (or sometimes An Apology for Poetry), written in 1581 and perhaps the first serious work of literary criticism in English. It was prompted by the work of a man called Stephen Gosson, whose School of Abuse (mentioned previously in the Areopagus) was an attack on the contemporary stage. Sidney set his stall wider, however, and alongside commentary on the contemporary literary scene also tackled broader and more ancient questions. The essence of his argument is that poetry is our highest form of art, and that the poet is superior to both the philosopher and the historian in their service to humankind:
The philosopher, therefore, and the historian are they which would win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example; but both, not having both, do both halt. For the philosopher, setting down with thorny arguments the bare rule, is so hard of utterance, and so misty to be conceived, that one that hath no other guide but him shall wade in him until he be old, before he shall find sufficient cause to be honest...
On the other side the historian, wanting the precept, is so tied, not to what should be, but to what is; to the particular truth of things, and not to the general reason of things; that his example draweth no necessary consequence, and therefore a less fruitful doctrine.
Now doth the peerless poet perform both; for whatsoever the philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a perfect picture of it, by some one by whom he pre-supposeth it was done, so as he coupleth the general notion with the particular example. A perfect picture, I say; for he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth neither strike, pierce, nor possess the sight of the soul, so much as that other doth.
It is a stirring treatise, both learned and witty, and makes a splendidly convincing case for the right of poetry to be called our highest and noblest endeavour. We need not agree, of course, but such was Sidney's conviction that one is easily swept away. And in all of this we should remember that Sidney never allowed any of his works to be formally printed. They were written, copied, and circulated among his friends, but to have had them printed and thereby commercialised was considered unbecoming of a truly chivalric man. So, ever the gentleman, Sidney's work was not published until after his death and he could no longer prevent it.
In 1583 he was finally knighted, and that same year married Francis Walsingham, daughter of Elizabeth's secretary of state. Two years later, in 1585, the renowned and noble Sir Philip finally received what he had been waiting for — a call to action. He joined an expedition to the Netherlands to assist the Dutch in their revolt against Spain, and duly went to war... sort of. Because there was little fighting to be done, and Sir Philip spent the best part of his year in the Netherlands waiting around. Until, in September of 1586, he joined what was really a minor effort to relieve a beleaguered Dutch town and, during the skirmish, had his thigh shattered by a musket ball. One story, perhaps apocryphal though widely reported, is that the gravely injured Sir Philip gave away his water to a dying soldier who, being carried past on a stretcher, was crying out in thirst. Sir Philip never recovered from his wound and died twenty six days later; he was buried, the following year, in St. Paul's Cathedral.
Thus ended the life of Sir Philip Sidney, one of the Elizabethan Era's greatest poets, despite having never written all that much poetry, and the living ideal of a soldier-statesman, despite having never done all that much statecraft or fighting. No, Sidney's achievements did not match the praise he received nor the scale of his reputation; it is rather for the man himself, for his personal character and what he seemed to embody, that Sir Philip's name has endured. Edmund Spenser wrote a lengthy elegy called Astrophel in his memory and Fulke Greville — a childhood friend and fellow courtier-poet — wrote for him the following epitaph. They are, I think, suitable words with which to end our time with Sir Philip:
England has his body, for she it fed;
Netherlands his blood, in her defence shed;
The Heavens have his soul,
The Arts have his fame,
The soldier his grief,
The world his good name.
III - Painting
Late October
John Atkinson Grimshaw (1882)
Last time we had an autumnal painting by Yokoyama Taikan; this week we have one by the 19th century English artist John Atkinson Grimshaw. Both were working at a similar point in time — on different sides of the globe, though in an increasingly interconnected art world — but used totally different styles. From the highly stylised, supernaturally vivid colours of Taikan's byobu, dreamlike and essentialising, we shift to the scrupulously detailed, almost photoreal luminism of Grimshaw, evocative and picturesque.
This Grimshaw was a self-taught artist who had quit his job working for the local railway company to pursue a career as an artist. It took time but, sure enough and perhaps unsurprisingly, he succeeded. Grimshaw became famous, above all, for his paintings of the night. For if he did love autumn dusk, Grimshaw loved nocturnes even the more. I could show you dozens, and dozens that would delight you, but for the sake of brevity I offer only two, each of a general type Grimshaw was fond of painting. The first is called November and — like Late October — it is one his lonely night-time lanes. What was a thoroughly peaceful scene has turned into something rather more mysterious, even Gothic, what with those large, sombre houses looming behind the bare boughs of the trees.
Next, as an example of Grimshaw's second general type, is Liverpool Quay by Moonlight. Here, perhaps, Grimshaw was at his best — painting the urban rather than the rural night. He was fascinated by gas lamps, which had become widespread in his youth, and of the atmospheric contrast between their orange-gold glow, almost wispy, and the purple-dark of the night, of shadowy rooftops and the slender forms of chimneys or masts looming like ghosts through the smoggy Victorian skies:
It is difficult to categorise Grimshaw stylistically. He was a friend and supporter of James Whistler, that American-in-London both famous and infamous for his wildly experimental, quasi-abstract Nocturnes. Whistler's close attention to the effects of light, subsuming everything to them, shows up in Grimshaw's work; notice, in Late October, how the whole scene is diffused in a carefully crafted golden haze. Another of his major influences was the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a rebellious group of British artists who tried to restore art to its Medieval energy: vivid colours, intense naturalism, and a close attention to the real details of the living world were their hallmarks. Grimshaw's detailing — especially his leaves and branches — are surely a byproduct of the Pre-Raphaelites. But, above all, it seems his heart lay with the Romantics and their love for moonlit moodiness. One small example is the "Rueckenfigur", a common motif of all, but especially Romantic art; it refers to a solitary person with their back turned to the viewer. You will notice this, of course, in Late October.
So these three influences — the delicate light of Whistler, the scrupulous naturalism of the Pre-Raphaelites, the moody atmosphere of the Romantics — are all evident in Grimshaw. But no "movement" could ever paint a picture; only a human being can do that! And so we would be mistaken to reduce Grimshaw's work to a concoction of various other styles and artists. Here was a man who loved very particular things — the moon above a lonely lane; gas lamps on rainsoaked cobbles — and painted them lovingly for us.
IV - Architecture
Borobudur
A Monument Unlike Any Other
This remarkable structure is called Borobudur. It rises from a broad valley in central Java, Indonesia, and has done for well over one thousand years. Each side is over one hundred and twenty metres long and it is nearly forty metres tall. This is, then, quite the monument. It was built at some point in the late 8th and early 9th centuries AD under the relatively mysterious Shailendra Dynasty, who ruled the island of Java at that time. The Shailendras built dozens of Buddhist temples in central Java, Borobudur being their grandest, and it is by these temples that they are chiefly remembered. But by the 11th century they had left Java for Sumatra, and Borobudur seems to have fallen from use, a process accelerated by the arrival of Islam and decline of Buddhism in the centuries that followed. Thereafter it was covered by volcanic ash, consumed by the jungle, and — beyond occasional references to a mysterious temple hidden in the forests of Java — disappeared from history.
That changed in 1814, when it was investigated by order of the British governor of Java, Stamford Raffles, who had been told about it by local people. Over the next century Borobudur was gradually cleared and excavated, though it remained in a ruinous state, until between 1907-1911 a team of Dutch archaeologists restored the monument. Another major restoration, guided by UNESCO, took place from 1973 to 1983. This time Borobudur was essentially dismantled and rebuilt, stone by stone, with added drainage to ensure its survival.
Now, Borobudur is the largest purpose-built Buddhist temple in the world. Purpose-built, I say, because the colossal Angkor Wat in Cambodia was originally built as a Hindu temple. Still, it isn't really Borobudur's size — though that is impressive — so much as its design that makes Borobudur special. It has nine levels — nine being an important number in Buddhism — composed of a base, five square tiers, and three circular tiers. These are all concentric and they are crowned by a huge stupa. The stupa is a type of dome-shaped Buddhist shrine that contains relics associated either with the Buddha or other holy figures.
This plan, seen from above, is based on the mandala, a form of highly symbolic, geometric design sacred in Buddhism and Hinduism. There is no single layout or purpose to the mandala, but in the case of Borobudur it is seemingly based on mandalas that represent Buddhist cosmology. Borobudur also references Mount Meru, the holy mountain at the centre of all universes in Buddhism, Hinduism, and Jainism. Countless temples have similarly, for this reason, been designed to imitate the form of a mountain. But, as stated, the scope of Borobudur is simply immense.
So, in short, Borobudur's design combines a multitude of richly symbolic forms; it is a comprehensive and scrupulously designed religious monument, impressive in both its ambition and execution. It was supposedly created by an architect called Gunadharma, but Borobudur — like the Shailendra Dynasty that built it — remains somewhat shrouded in mystery. And that's not all; the temple's design has even more to it! See, Borobudur is best understood as a network of pathways, each lined by walls and balustrades covered in literally thousands of sculptures. Pilgrims enter at the eastern side and walk a three mile route, gradually ascending clockwise, to the top. The sculptures that line these pathways are extensive, refined, and all have a clear purpose, either relating the Buddha's teachings, stories from his past lives, or Buddhist scripture. All told there are over 2,500 reliefs, along with (originally) over 500 statues of the Buddha.
The sculptures along the base — which are now partly concealed by additional foundations added after the temple was first built — represent "kamadhatu", or the realm of material desires. The sculptures along the next five tiers represent "rupadhatu", or the realm of forms, where material desires have been cast off but attachment to name and form remains. The three circular tiers then represent "arupadhatu", or the realm of formlessness, where there is neither form nor name nor any self at all — enlightenment. These circular tiers are lined by 72 miniature stupas, each of which contains a statue of the Buddha. And, as mentioned, at the heart of all this rises the huge stupa at the centre of Borobudur.
So the journey of a pilgrim — entering Borobudur at its base and rising slowly to its pinnacle — is supposed to be a physical, spiritual, and theological journey all at once, representing the path to enlightenment according to the principles of Mahayana Buddhism. And this is an experience surely enhanced by the remarkable views from the top of Borobudur.
You can see, then, that what makes Borobudur special is its mix of scale and planning; rarely have monuments of such size been so carefully ordered to craft a comprehensive religious experience. It is even believed by some that Borobudur, which is built on a hill, may have been surrounded by a lake that has since disappeared. Though disputed, there is evidence of at least some watercourse — and therefore, like a floating lotus, another layer of symbolism. True or not, it hardly matters, for this colossal monument is already a thing totally unique. And, what's more, centuries after its abandonment and decline Borobudur has now come back to life and been restored to its original purpose as a site of wonder and pilgrimage.
V - Rhetoric
Belly First!
We have mentioned Sir Philip Sidney's Defence of Poesy already — so it makes sense, I think, to look there for today's rhetorical lesson. As part of his argument that the poet is superior to the historian or philosopher, Sidney gives an example from Ancient Roman history. The context is the early days of the Roman Republic, when the plebeians — i.e. the common people — had collectively withdrawn from the city in protest at their treatment by the patricians — i.e. the aristocracy. Bewildered and unable to convince the people to return, the patricians turned to the wisest man in Rome, Menenius Agrippa, who went out to meet them. Sir Philip takes us from there:
Menenius Agrippa, who, when the whole people of Rome had resolutely divided themselves from the senate, with apparent show of utter ruin, though he were, for that time, an excellent orator, came not among them upon trust either of figurative speeches or cunning insinuations, and much less with far-fetched maxims of philosophy, which, especially if they were Platonic, they must have learned geometry before they could well have conceived; but, forsooth, he behaves himself like a homely and familiar poet.
He tells them a tale, that there was a time when all parts of the body made a mutinous conspiracy against the belly, which they thought devoured the fruits of each other’s labor; they concluded they would let so unprofitable a spender starve. In the end, to be short—for the tale is notorious, and as notorious that it was a tale—with punishing the belly they plagued themselves. This, applied by him, wrought such effect in the people, as I never read that ever words brought forth but then so sudden and so good an alteration; for upon reasonable conditions a perfect reconcilement ensued.
Menenius Agrippa knew that "figurative speeches or cunning insinuations" — meaning a lengthy, overwrought, fancy speech — were inappropriate, and that any lofty, complicated philosophical arguments were equally out of place. Instead Agrippa chose to be honest and familiar, to explain with a simple but sound analogy why the actions of the plebeians were really not in their own interests. The meaning of this is twofold. First, that the first and vital task for any speaker is to know their audience and identify the best means of persuading them. Second, Sir Philip uses it to argue that simple and familiar tales, well told, are almost inevitably more convincing than any over-elaborately constructed argument which, as he said, would require the listener to learn geometry before they could understand it. This is really foundational rhetoric; but the foundations are, as their name suggests, really the most important. We would all do well to remember the lesson of Menenius Agrippa more often!
VI - Writing
Make it more... hyponymic
"What makes writing good?" Ah, a foolish question I have called foolish before — and shall so call countless times again. Many things can make writing good, and so often that which makes one writer's writing good would, applied to another, make it bad. A pickle, no doubt, and thus we must be wary of any advice that is too much like a rule. Principles, almost always, are better.
Still, there is something that has been on my mind recently, one thing that does seem to be present in a lot if, if not most, good writing — when it is hyponymic. What does this mean? A hypernym is a generic term, and a hyponym is a term that specifies something within that genre. So "tree" is a hypernym and "oak" is a hyponym. I'll give you some more examples; once grasped, this concept is easily and intuitively understood. Hypernyms are on the left and hyponyms on the right:
Rock → Granite
Cheese → Cheddar
Fabric → Linen
Flower → Tulip
Window → Oriel Window
Of course, a term can be both at once; while "oak" is a hyponym of the hypernym "tree", "tree" is also a hyponym of the hypernym "plant". But this is much the fun of thinking in terms of hypernyms and hyponyms — that they are a sliding scale, that you can always find a more specific way of saying what you want to say. So, for example:
Colour → Red → Scarlet
Building → House → Bungalow
Animal → Mammal → Dog → Alsatian
Plant → Tree → Oak → Chestnut Oak
The value of a hyponym is that it helps us understand and imagine far more clearly what we are reading. As a result the writing will tend to have more texture and weight; that which is less generic always has more presence. It also asks the writer to think more carefully about what they are saying, to figure out if they really understand the thing they are trying to describe — because only when you know something well can you talk about it in more hyponymic terms. And this principle of hypernyms and hyponyms doesn't only apply to literature or poetry or suchlike; much writing, whether of emails or indeed messages to one's friends, surely stands to benefit from a greater precision of vocabulary. So, next time you write, don't forget to ask yourself, "is there a hyponym for this word?"
VII - The Seventh Plinth
Art Fair & Foul
Last time I asked you:
Is there such a thing as bad art?
Such were your answers that they demanded the seventh plinth. Over to you, then, my Dear Readers...
Wendy W
My feeling is that surely there MUST be bad art (I confess that I certainly judge some pieces of art to be bad in the sense of unworthy), as this is a necessary end of a continuum which has great art at the other end.
Linda E
Any piece of supposedly creative work that can illicit no more than a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh of „so what?“ from those it hopes to address qualifies, in my mind, as „bad art“. Or perhaps: „not art“, a kinder term somehow.
Bruce R
Yes, without a doubt and I am a producer. Not a small child who’s art may appear to be nonsense, nor an avant garde whose art I do not understand, both of which may be beautiful, but as a grown, well educated person with reasonable physical control, stick figures, nonexistent perspective, and poor scale equals just plain bad art which would engender concern rather than artistic admiration.
Not to be limiting, the arts of dance, music, singing, acting, photography, etc are also to me unknown and likewise cause more questions than necessary.
Cassie M
A personal response from me. My experience of creating my own art, is that I have recently committed to allowing myself to produce ‘bad art’ as a device for producing congruent art. Congruent to my emotional intent as opposed to what might be ‘impressive’ to the gaze of others. I can sense when I am ‘up to something’ in terms of not coming from my deeply felt sense.
Maybe for me ‘bad art’ is art that somehow feels phoney and created simply to convey the ego needs of the artist rather than celebrate the condition of aliveness with gusto.
NGB
I think so. This is a big question but a thought that may help the larger conversation: medieval theologians viewed goodness as “something doing or being what it was created to do or be.” A good chair comfortably supports one’s body weight; a bad chair does not.
With that in mind, a work of art could be looked at through the lens of whether or not it fulfills its purpose or telos. For example, does an impressionist painting successfully use impressionist theory and technique to deep emotional effect? Or is the theory lacking, the technique crude, and the painting dull?
Similarly, does a mystery crime novel have a compelling, hard to predict, plot? Are the characters gritty and morally conflicted? Is the dialogue terse and sardonic? Or is the plot predictable, the dialogue flat and the characters cartoonish?
With this rubric, one could begin to analyze what makes a work of art good or bad. Of course, artistic taste is partly subjective and good artists are always challenging their audiences to “see” differently. But I think this concept of goodness is a helpful tool.
Leonardo Z
There is no bad art nor good one. Art is or is not in my opinion. Which might raise the question, are there graduations or is it binary? “Natura non facit saltus” so it must be on a continuum from non art to art. But then what is 50% art? This reminds me of a discussion I read about consciousness. Humans are (hopefully most of the time) 100% conscious beings. Primates possibly a bit less. Other animals possibly a bit less and so on, down to unicellular organisms, most likely with (close to) 0% consciousness. I’m thinking while I’m writing. What if art is related to the act of creation in the artist and how deep inside it comes from? Or about how much it has been made to express something? Or how much it has been created for its own sake?
Jane L
It has to be subjective I suppose as it is impossible to agree on the criteria. But I think many of us know it when we see it. Mostly it’s stuff that’s of fairly recent origin because time filters out the rubbish of past centuries and decades, but with so many different isms and movements in the last and present centuries and the startling nature of them when they first hit the eyes, it can be hard to appreciate or differentiate the good from the bad or the ugly. What I do know is there is a great deal of pretentious artspeak - a lot of it by the artists themselves, especially the conceptual ones, and the fact that it’s so easy to parody, without it being obvious, makes me deeply suspicious.
Trying to think of examples is a challenge, but easier if you turn your attention to statues. Consider the awful statue at St Pancras of a couple in a clinch. Or even the Salter statues in Bermondsey who surely deserved better than the stiff and blank group which convey nothing of their lives and work. Certainly the time for ‘realistic’ depictions has long gone but what Maggie Hamblin did to Mary Wolstonecraft really is a disgrace. Yet another clichéd naked woman for the male gaze. What a ‘tribute’ to a great feminist!
Thor
To tackle this, we first need to agree on what art actually is. The definition I work with is that art isn’t just something the artist claims; it’s what others recognize as art.
Who Decides?
The “others” who judge art vary wildly—critics, the general public, fellow artists, or collectors. Each group has different criteria. A piece that critics might slam could still resonate deeply with everyday people. In short, “bad” art? That’s all about perspective. What’s junk to one person could be a treasure to another.As a painter myself, I see art as something that communicates what words can’t capture. That goes for both art and illustration, but true art takes it a step further. What’s that extra something? That’s up to each viewer—and often influenced by context.
Context Matters
When judging art, you can’t ignore the context—historical, cultural, or social. What was seen as bold and ahead of its time in one era might look outdated in another. Take Van Gogh or Monet—neither was fully appreciated in their day. Sometimes, the art we dismiss today becomes tomorrow’s masterpiece.Technique vs. Emotion
Another thing to consider: technical skill vs. emotional impact. A piece can be flawlessly executed but leave you cold, or it might be technically rough but emotionally powerful. Both play a role in determining quality, but emotional resonance often lingers longest.What Was the Artist Thinking?
An artist’s intention is key. What matters is what the artist aimed to express, not whether they think they nailed it. Even if the result isn’t exactly what they had in mind, it can still carry meaning for others. In modern art, concept often trumps execution—it’s the idea behind the work that counts most.Modern Art Loves a Stir
In contemporary art, provocation is practically a genre. Think of Duchamp’s Fountain—a urinal that sparked a whole movement. Some saw it as a joke, others as genius. Again, context and intention outweigh technical prowess.So, Is There Bad Art?
Subjectively, yes. I’ve seen pieces so bad they made me almost physically ill. But that’s ultimately just a mismatch between my own taste and that of whoever considered this piece as art. And what we call “bad” today can be re-evaluated tomorrow. Ultimately, the value of art lies in the viewer’s eye—and the test of time.
Sarit B
I think that, mostly, we can say that there is art you like and feel some emotion when looking at it, and art you don’t like or does not speak to you.
Only once have I encountered art which I disliked so much, I consider it to be very bad indeed.
A while back there was an exhibition in Tate Modern of art by the Chapman Brothers. I felt so distant from it, that when offered a free lithograph of one of their pieces, I refused to take it.
When something which proffers to be art makes you so averse to it, I consider it to be bad art.
Blake H
The obvious answer to me is yes, each person has the right to proclaim anything that they do not find impressive, appealing or interesting as "bad". And while this title may be completely subjective, it does not invalidate it. The first line on Oxford's definition of art is "the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination". Therefore one could say that something that does not take either skill or creativity cannot be considered an example of good art. The first thing that comes to mind is popular music. Most of what you hear on the radio today is manufactured by countless writers, producers, and executives in order to create something that satisfies the basic human feeling of rhythm. This is a broad generalization of course, and does not always make it bad, but can we necessarily consider this art?
James T
Is there such a thing as bad art? The question has been on my mind for days, and I still don't have an answer. There is individual taste that calls something good or bad. There is cultural judgement that fills museums and galleries with a wide range of art. Vermeer's lovely girl with a pearl, or Velazquez portraying a scowling pope are artistic triumphs, but Islam sees blasphemy in copying the creations of Allah, and therefore are bad art? Soviet propaganda posters of the '20's and 30's were colorfully dynamic, but called for Crushing The Kulaks, which resulted in mass starvation, so morally bad art? The Fascists created similar graphically brilliant art that led to very bad ends. It must depend on what the definition of bad is. I was in an antiques store yesterday, and the shop owner was busy bidding on what I would call a hideous painting of a peacock, but he was into it for $150 before folding. He said it fit in with what was in the rest of the shop, which was true because he had a wonderfully executed velvet Michael Jackson painting. How does one define bad art, I can't say.
Jackie F
Aesthetically, there is no such thing as bad art, as it's in the eye of the beholder. A more interesting question is whether art can be morally or ethically bad and I think the answer is a resounding yes. Besides the obvious (Nazi propaganda), even "good" art, such as convincing forgeries, is bad as forgers rob artists of their income even though forgers must be exceptionally talented for their forgeries to have monetary value.
A tougher question is whether AI-created art is good. AI only does what artists have done for thousands of years (copy the greats), but as they can do in milliseconds what it takes a human artists years of work to do, there exists a fundamental question of fairness. In the end, AI art is hopefully just a tool that humans use to create art that moves us -- or that ends up in MOBA.
Michael H
I believe there is 'bad art', surely. Though I cannot criticize the success and effective way some artists create material and benefit handsomely from their work, I cannot agree that vast monetary remuneration is equal to virtue-inspiring art. My feeling is it comes to just that, virtue. What kind of sentiment is said art producing in its audience? What emotion has been captured by an artist, proliferated and amplified in the population? And can we deem that to be beneficial to society?
I make an analogy regarding popular music and candy. Though most popular music has some kind of 'catchy' element to it that may remain in your head for days and days, does that lasting resonance create a more vibrant individual? Showing my age and cultural experience, I can sing every word to a couple Backstreet Boys' songs and will readily admit I have never voluntarily pressed play on any device intentionally asking to hear that song played. Its catchiness is irresistible and that is fact.However, I don't feel particularly inspired when I recite the lines of the song nor do my dreams then proceed to lofty imagination-scapes I had not before thought of conceiving. Candy, right. So I feel that much of present-day popular music is like candy. Everyone loves candy, at least at first taste. Its sugary impact is immediate and stimulating and without proper discipline, one can go overboard and ingest too much, afterwards feeling sick and malnourished in a gluttonous way. I do not think 'candy' is always 'bad' per se, but we can judge the value of a treat based on its overall effect on our constitution. Some desserts and treats are decadent and glorious and with any candy the wise person would only moderately indulge.
If this is the effect of candy or pop music then what can we say about (attempts at) art that leave us feeling worse than that? Bad. That's what we can say about it.
Laurie S
Oh, yes! But perhaps it is not art at all. Perhaps it was simply a mistake to call it art.
To do so requires a definition, and it has taken years of querying students, proposing and testing a solution. ARTT: Awareness of the Relationship of the materials and the ability to Transform and Transcend the original materials.
I propose that there are things that are NOT Art. To be a fully aware person, and to choose to call a mere crayon mark or a swipe of paint “Art”, corrals one in the circle of those who espouse bad taste. They lead others to diminish the gravity of Art and dilute the impact of great Art.
A great work of art can be revisited many times, and can continue to inspire and stimulate one’s thoughts. The work can evolve and take on layers of new meaning in time, rendering it timeless.
Kitty Z
There is. While art depends on taste, we must define it to time and place.
A piece that is unsuitable to the current taste, reads as either gaudy or boring, while a piece that seemingly lacks effort or message, reads as avaricious.
If we pretend that all art is good, then all art becomes mediocre.
Question of the Week
And for this week's question, a broad one that you may take in any direction you like:
What is one thing that everybody should learn in school?
Email me your answers and I'll share them in the next newsletter.
And that's all
At this moment, precisely — one wonders why! — it is the words of Christopher Marlowe that come to mind, like Sir Philip Sidney another member of those two or three wonderful generations of Elizabeth writers. From his Hero and Leander, a poem about two doomed lovers of Greek myth, I offer you these lines:
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is over-rul'd by fate.
When two are stript, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Words that, I think, neither need analysis nor ought to be followed by too much more of my chinwagging. Night falls, and I bid you all a bountiful weekend. Until next time... adieu!
Yours,
The Cultural Tutor