“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Not that long ago, driving in the predawn hours somewhere south and east of Myrtle Point, Oregon, my brother-in-law brought up a news story about an art theft and its outcome. He was not so much concerned with the art itself, or the theft, as he was with what he believed the outrageous value placed on the piece. How, he asked, could a painting ever be worth millions of dollars? Surely, he proclaimed, that money could well be spent elsewhere, say, on those in need? Never, he argued, could such a price be justified. His are important challenges, but not for reasons he might accept. Fundamentally, the question is not how much, but why at all, we ascribe value to the artifacts of human expression, and why we so deeply value certain examples above all others?
The parietal art of our ancestors, cave paintings dating back tens of thousands of years, those found at Maros, Chauvet, Coliboaia, and El Castillo, define our species as much as do language and memory. While we can only guess as to their meaning for peoples long past, that they had meaning, hidden in protected if not sacred spaces, makes them and us unique among the creatures of the earth. Within our minds are worlds distinct and boundless. It is from that vantage that our creativity and genius emerge. Art is an expression of these, of our most human, most fragile, most uplifting, most destructive capacities. Art is what we could be, and what we have been.
Most people never really experience the arts. Educations are now likely void of the arts and arts instruction. School arts programs are gutted to make financial way for so-called pragmatic disciplines, even though the research is conclusive--students exposed to the arts perform better overall. Most of us spend little time with paint and paper, with clay. Few of us ever pick up an instrument; we never get the chance. Our majority will never listen to a symphony performed live, never see a play in person. They will never feel their hearts lift, never be made truly breathless by proximity to perfection. The masterworks are relegated to weathered pages, footnotes in an otherwise bland accounting. Even if, as Aristotle claims, "The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance", or as Picasso contends, that its purpose, "...is washing the dust of daily life off our souls", our choices cry disinterest, for significance and soul.
Outside our great cities, art is an afterthought. The enormity and sensibilities of the United States, for example, make it near impossible to experience many arts with any regularity. Much of the art of native peoples, there and here, is lost to history, casualty to horrific choices and unmitigated expansion. Puerto Rico, like the United States, is relatively young, our energies set to building, defending, living. We produce beautiful arts, but most among us will never enjoy the genius of Campeche, Oller y Cestero, Fradé, or Pou.
Michelangelo believed that the, "...true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection". I never fully understood this until I stood before David in the Galleria dell’Accademia, mesmerized by scale and the humanity of sculpted hands. I felt the same in the Sistine Chapel, overwhelmed by detail and color. It resonated in my totality while listening to Vivaldi's Concerto No. 1 in E major, Op. 8, RV 269, "La primavera", played live in Santa Maria della Pietà. These experiences bring a thousand dim images to life. They connect us to our cultural marrow. They remind us that many of the masterworks of civilization were produced in humanity's darkest times, in spite of the ugly and the small. Any journey that arrives at art is a journey worth taking.
Art however, doesn't have to be lofty or ancient. I was reminded of this by the street art of East London; by the improvisation of Buddy Guy in a run down theater north of Philadelphia. Art is, like beauty, truly in the eye, or ear as it were, of the beholder. Art, song, poetry, captures our truest selves, our vulnerabilities, our sensibilities, our passions. Seminal author Kurt Vonnegut challenges us to, "Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow."
I challenge you to write a poem, sing a song, or play an instrument today. Write down your secret thoughts and stories, grammar and grammarians be damned! Have your children do the same. More so, I challenge you to spend time in a museum or conservatory very soon, often, with your children. Revel in the experience. I challenge you to build an original score in our music park adjacent to the playground, just you and your little ones, wherever your hearts take you. Art matters, really matters, and no education of any substance fails to recognize that art conquers all. It's why the arts will always hold a prominent place at Baldwin.
See you around campus.