As a shared expression of individuality within a collective body, art has always carried the capacity to reflect on society and its political developments. Every work of art reflects the environment in which it was created and the creator’s appreciation of that environment. Sometimes this environment shuns the political, as in the period of exhaustion following the Napoleonic wars. One need only peruse works from the Biedermeier period to recognize art that vies to be non-political. But under the assumption that ‘the personal is political,’ even the decision to paint a flowery still-life becomes a statement of contentedness, albeit inconspicuous. Indeed, political commentary forms a standard by which one can appreciate art, alongside other standards such as beauty and interconnectedness. But political commentary need not be the centre of the piece to become impactful. Thus, Vermeer managed to silently endorse Dutch domestic ideals of frugality through The Milkmaid and Caravaggio gently hinted at the place of the poor in society by painting dirt on their feet.
But even in these two subtle examples we see the two main types of political commentary: ratification and condemnation. These two types of commentary can coincide in one work, but since the French Revolution and the birth of the simplistic political dichotomy of left and right artists have become obsessed with separating them and drifting away from one another in staunch opposition. While Caravaggio managed to portray elevation while acknowledging the poor, post-revolution artists have become more concerned with choosing sides. This polarization can be found not only in the works of art themselves, which rarely risk conveying a mixed message of approval and disapproval, but also in entire artistic movements.
Before the advent of Impressionism, art was conservative in the full sense of the word: it sought to conserve social values and hierarchical structures by adorning them with reverence, beauty, and thematic repetition; it asserted: ‘these values are good’ and demanded compliance. Such assertions of positivity have long disappeared from the artistic scene. Instead, the inverse assertion has taken root and completely supplanted its predecessor. The Romantics were the last to maintain conservative dominance in art, and perhaps even they could sense the advance of a new order; their amplified adoration might have stemmed from insecurity rather than confidence and was – above all – a form of compensation.
When viewed through such lenses, conservative art seems almost pathetic; its grovelling devotion, admiration of gold, and endless train of Madonnas seem laughable and kitsch whilst one considers them from afar. One might rightfully wonder: what is this platitudinous and embarrassing ecstasy, this lack of composure, this wilful delusion that asks us to remind ourselves of our beliefs in periodic congregations?
And here we see the shift from reverence to irreverence. At first, this change took the form of cultivated distaste and original experimentation; the irreverence of the Impressionists was subtle, beautiful, and almost dandy. At the very least, impressionistic artists did not shy away from expressing content; while they viewed the standardization of art and form as artistic tyranny, as ‘concentration camps of the mind’ that demanded subjugation, they did not break from those standards to gratify their discontent but to explore alternative forms of celebratory elevation. This course reveals the true nobility of impressionists: they did not hesitate to act egregiously, in the etymological sense of acting against the herd, but they retained their confidence and sense of artistic taste.
But subsequent movements were less confident in two regards: personal and social. In the personal sense, the artists themselves were no longer moneyed protégés who enjoyed prestige within the halls of dukes and kings; instead, they frequented the squalid streets of miasmatic urban centres and became attenuated by the psychological hardships of modernity. This change of circumstance bred a difference of personality and subject matter. The difference between the works of Rafael and Schiele is therefore unsurprising, as the former would not have felt the angst and frustrations of the latter.
In the social (or political) sense, reverent art became a subject of mockery. Indeed, standing for something is more difficult – and therefore requires more confidence – than denouncing it. Thus, while impressionists (and the members of some other art movements, such as Art Nouveau) maintained a sense of contentedness as they provided their commentary, their successors found solace in the somewhat cheap augmentation of distaste. Beauty and contentedness are not as potent as ugliness and anger, and one can always claim to be even more cultivated than one’s predecessors by finding fault. Should one attempt to defend a certain piece of ground, one’s rival would ridicule that position and attack it with even more excessive irreverence. Thus began the race to the bottom and degeneration was born.
An explanation of the word ‘degeneration’ is due, as the term should not be used frivolously. Etymologically, the word means a negative change that signifies a fall from the supposed greatness of ancestors, of previous ‘generations.’ From a conservative perspective, anything that goes against the grain of traditional values – that seeks to change rather than conserve – can be branded as degenerate. In modern times, the word ‘degenerate’ has become no more than a slur to be used against something of which one does not approve. But perhaps another meaning can be gleaned from within the letters. The word carries too much negative connotation and bias to be used indiscreetly or according to its original meaning, but I have already argued that emotionally clinging to tradition for its own sake, while adamantly resisting even the slightest of changes, reveals more insecurity than confidence.
If we avoid evoking this paranoiac connotation, we can attribute another meaning to the word from the same etymological origin. To create art is to generate it, to beget something new by giving birth to it. In this regard, degeneration is simply the opposite of creative generation. Rather than generating art that reimburses social structures or finds cause for celebration, degenerate art employs the forces of elimination and acts against creative generation; its main purpose is destruction. Dear reader, do not accuse me of ‘Lucus a non lucendo!’
Herein lies the great paradox of modern art: in its quest for destruction it must first create something. This concession is almost too much to bear for the modern artist. To create? But doing so would mean to take a position, to unironically lend support to an idea or form. The resulting reasoning is clear: nothing is worth defending but destruction itself. Art thereby becomes nothing but a political means, a means rather than an end. Degenerate artists find no value in art itself – art for art’s sake is antithetical to their ideas – but rather focus on the usefulness of art as a political engine. To claim that modern art is less valuable than earlier art is therefore not an expression of bias or exaggeration, for modern art sacrifices value for usefulness by choice. Vive L’art Degenere.
By yoking art to a destructive political cause and taking offence in celebration, modern artists have relinquished all artistic standards. Modern art cannot afford to revel in artistic expression or surrender a hint of contentedness; it has no alternative but to judge itself by its capacity to shock and move to political action. Indeed, under this philosophy no ugliness becomes too blatant, no scribble too childish, no paucity too revealing as long as it brandishes bitter contemptuousness.
Let us observe the champions of this inartistic mindset in search of the justifications they provide for their conduct. Could the likes of André Breton, Bertolt Brecht, and John Galsworthy, all of whom shared this ideological insistence on discontent, admit that their art was a means rather than an end? In these leading figures we can find the main ways destroyers have dealt with our form of criticism since the advent of irreverent art.
Breton was perhaps the most disingenuous of the three, the most captivated by his own narrative. The unequivocal leader of the Surrealist movement, whose alacrity in purchasing ugly works of art was second to none, frequently made use of an impenetrable but glib argument to provide a bedrock for his theories: the transcendence of the occult. While integrity demands an admission of a purely political motive, the occult enables the politically motivated critic to gush over a crude work in an appeal to spirituality and metaphysical symbology.
Breton borrowed this tactic from conservative art, which often dealt with religious subject matters. But conservative art portrays a subject for adoration and reverence, and so Breton had to revert to ambiguity lest he be accused of cherishing something but the sense of mysticism itself. The idea of automatism – the creation of art through subconscious guidance – lent itself well to his objectives; its anaesthetic results could not have pleased Breton more. For this reason, Surrealists have often utilised Freud’s notions of the subconscious. The subconscious is supposedly closer to the spirit, more meaningful in a mystical way, less precise and demanding, and more capable of dismantling norms and promoting anti-art by the very fact of its irrationality. Indeed, subconsciousness is the last refuge of the boor.
Of our three antagonists (one can find no better label for the forces of destruction), Brecht was undoubtedly the most aware of his political ambitions. If Breton was Richard Lionheart, emptying his coffers for a crusade to justify his beliefs and sense of purpose without being cognizant of this drive, Brecht was Napoleon, for he was more aware of his desires and more calculating in his selfish selflessness. While claiming that he did not seek to destroy art but change it, Brecht nevertheless admitted that he sought to equip art with a political function; to him it was a change rather than a ruination. But this euphemism falls short of hiding the true destructive aspiration behind irreverent art: the destruction of value for the sake of usefulness.
What tactic did Brecht employ to defend against potential criticism? The answer can be found in the key tenet of Epic Theatre: the provocation of introspection. By drawing attention to the audience rather than the subject, modern art transfers the onus of artistic expression to the spectator. Many other modern artists engage in similar forms of ‘burden tennis’ while maintaining the prerogative to accuse the audience of simplicity should its members fail to comprehend their meaning. While ‘the observer as a canvas’ is an interesting concept, which has even produced aesthetically pleasing works (as in the case of Jackson Pollock), one must remain vigilant whenever emperors acquire new garments.
Finally, we must turn our attention to Galsworthy, who was neither inartistic nor disingenuous; the worst one can say about him is that he lacked foresight, a dearth that is easily forgiven. Nevertheless, Galsworthy was one of the pioneers of the third main way in which destroyers support their political motivation: accusation. In The Forsyte Saga, Soame is portrayed as a person who takes pride in shunning artistic creation; “Art for art’s sake and all that, of course, was cant” he thinks. Soame’s art collection is nothing but a means to an economic end. Thus, Galsworthy imagines, art will perish through commoditization by the hands of the conservative and rapacious men of property, rather than by the hands of idealistic politicization.
Accusation is an effective tactic to draw attention away from one’s own shortcomings. Once ideology plants its antagonizing seed, its carriers can convince themselves that every fault is justified as long as it is employed against their political opponents, who are, naturally, much worse. This form of belligerent accusation, which finds opponents at every turn, seeks to disguise itself as a form of benevolent idealism. In the words of the eternal Bertrand Russel: “Much that passes as idealism is disguised hatred or disguised love of power. When you see large masses of men swayed by what appear to be noble motives, it is as well to look below the surface and ask yourself what it is that makes these motives effective. It is partly because it is so easy to be taken in by a facade of nobility that a psychological inquiry… is worth making.” Let us maintain our artistic standards and concede our failure to adhere to them before we point the finger. Let us bind ourselves to the nearest pillar lest we cede to the will of the Tarantula.
With the tireless forces of discontent and the aid of these three tactics, irreverent art has run its course to the only logical end: irrelevance. After Postmodernism, the art-world has exhausted its capacity to outdo itself in ugliness and discontent; it has condemned itself to a different form of repetition. Modern art has thereby lost its position within society; the names of visual artists remain completely unknown outside esoteric circles, while those on whom Vasari wrote have retained their fame. Even the most potent of modern artworks sustains no more than fleeting attention until its political subject loses its relevance. Political art is therefore doomed to become more desperate for attention and subject-matter as life on earth improves, for what will remain to decry but petty concerns? Ironically, political artists cannot truly wish for amelioration.
Are modern artists therefore caught between Scylla and Charybdis? Can they not take a course that will lead to neither repetitive adoration, similar to that of the four and twenty elders, nor repetitive irreverence, which ceaselessly parades its ugliness? The answer, as in many cases, can be found in music.
Irreverence has tried its hand in music and suffered bitter defeat. Musical experiments such as Atonality and Expressionism have garnered some temporary interest out of curiosity and an appetite for novelty, but they have always failed to inspire admiration or cause people to play them for enjoyment. Walter Pater once argued, albeit somewhat erroneously, that all art strives to become musical and that the purpose of art is to delight the senses. Indeed, the most indignant and conceited supporter of modern art might tolerate ugliness in visual art out of a sense of tasteless gratuity, but let them try to deny their preference to Vivaldi and his ecstatic La Stravaganza over Schoenberg.
As the English sought the Stuart restoration, which they embraced as a release from puritan rule in their yearning for the return of Christmas, music soon became fed up with discordance and radical experimentality. What music required above all was celebration, and its beautiful wordlessness and ability to evoke feelings enabled it to revive that celebration while escaping the acrimonious criticism of those who had not yet surfeited their discontent. And yet, musicians have not neglected to incorporate political commentary or experimentation in their works.
Music, like Virgil, can guide visual art away from its acidic whirlpool of discontent and return it to its rightful place in society; to Hyperion from a satyr. Music has paved the way towards art that is both celebratory and conscious, both grounded and experimental, and both elevating and critical. Visual art can follow suit by dethroning its political despot and recognizing it as a usurper, who was once yet another member of its retinue. The subjugation of the artistic to the political has long been a grotesque inversion. To reconquer our attention and regain our appreciation, modern art requires to walk the tightrope of critical elevation.
But what modern subjects are worthy of celebration? What can visual art elevate, and how? Pure social commentary has proven its worth, and he cacophonous voices of modern political phenomena don’t inspire much cause for celebration. One might turn to the advances of science, but secular discovery and thought have never succeeded in inspiring the same excitement that religiosity still enjoys. As a final blow, the modern artistic scene does not seem to invite the right type of character. The modern self-reflective person is still closer in spirit to the debilitated Munch and the lonely Hopper than to the arrogant Turner or visionary Moreau.
One might turn one’s hope to biophilia, which has never ceased to engross mankind and inspire appreciation towards nature. Ongoing space expeditions might also provide us with subject matter worthy of secular artistic enquiry. But biophilic exploration is dominated by photography and travel, and the concepts of space are dominated by cosmic fantasy.
Perhaps the revival of visual art will happen concomitantly with the messianic advent of the Ubermensch. This transcendent being will be characterised by the ability to create art that revels in the self and in joyous existence, if it will require art at all, and overcome the forces that upset the likes of Rothko. Perhaps the first artist to attempt the ascent from the mire of political art to the celebration of existential confidence and the choice to live will act as a champion of a new movement. But a single individualistic feat will not suffice to draw us from the zeitgeist of discontent. No, the restoration of art will require a deeper change in global society, a change that will either cause us to revert to grovelling adoration or to elevate ourselves to an existential society. Let us hope that that change will prove desirable.