Is it Time to Stop Wearing Our Art on Our Sleeves?

Imagine if before the performance of a play, the director stepped on stage and told the audience what it was supposed to think about it. Viewers would be insulted. Or perhaps laugh. Some might even walk out. Yet this kind of didactic inculcation is quite normal in museums today. In fact, because the exhibitive experience is so unilateral and usually homiletic — what we see written on the walls next to the art is often a kind of frozen manifesto, forcing us to endure whatever the artist, or curator, has posted to influence our perception. These are usually contained in what are called “didactics” — large plaques full of text mounted as you enter a room, and often, in addition, smaller labels placed beside each work. The simplest, and least insulting, are the informational declarations of the artist’s name, year of the work, and medium of materials used in composition. But they’ve blossomed into self-indulgent proclamations, taking away any interpretative work on the part of the viewer. As the philosopher Walter Benjamin put it, “It is half the art of storytelling to keep a story free from explanation as one reproduces it.” If we don’t tolerate this kind of intrusiveness in our own lives — in a democracy, we honor independence of thought above all else — why should we accept it as standard practice in art?

This question came to mind upon visiting the recent “Kara Walker: Harper’s Pictorial History of the Civil War” show at the Frick Museum, where viewers were presented with wall labels that not only “explained” each work of art, but the curators also posted a second such label in which another artist expounded on the meaning of each piece. Holy double didactics, Batman! Certainly, one could walk through the exhibition and try to ignore the smothering presence of such texts, but the presumption was clear: We don’t just want you to see the art; we want to tell you what to think about it. And furthermore, these wall texts emphasized the moral elements of the works, rather than their aesthetic attributes. It’s gotten to the point where almost any cultural presentation today — whether theatrical, artistic, or literary — has to make the Solomonic decision about which side of this divide it wants to be on: the moral or the aesthetic.

In the first half of the 20th century, after the theories of Freud became ubiquitous, the prevailing aesthetic ethos held that art had a psychological, that is, subconscious, motivation. Now, 100 years later, positing an ineffable, mysterious, or even transcendent rationale for a creative work seems socially unacceptable, and even unhip. It’s as if we’re back in ancient Athens, looking at art dogmatically, and judging it based on its inherent “goodness,” a standard that prevailed until the Enlightenment tried to reject it.

But this criterion never really went away. Even during the late 19th century, Nietzsche wrote about the “cult of tendentiousness” still infecting the arts, whereby “artists counted on stirring moral and religious sentiments.”

Now, like an addiction so deep in our collective psyche that we can’t help succumbing to its pull, art is often used as a platform for a kind of unchallengeable didactic lesson, and a public display of virtue, as we often hear the phrase, “As an artist, I’m going to take a stand on…” and fill in the moral (or political) issue du jour. These artists love to wear their hearts on their sleeves, but what we rarely hear is, “Judge me on my talent. I’m creating something utterly new and sublime.”

The moral artist is like the controlling film director who constantly tells the audience where to look by focusing the camera on what he or she wants us to see, instead of letting us observe for ourselves. (Unfortunately, in the Kara Walker show, the artist employed this type of sclerotic framing in several of her works.) Not trusting your audience to form its own opinion is perhaps the greatest insult you can manifest in any creative act.

But does the viewer, the “consumer” of art, bear any responsibility for his or her lack of freedom in the reciprocity of the artistic experience? I would argue yes, in that artists need to survive commercially, and the best way to do this, many feel, is to create works they believe the public wants, rather than challenge audiences through risk, originality, and strength of expression. So, if we are acquiescent in this, we will get the art we deserve. But where is the dignity in producing a work that risks nothing, and offends no current sensibility, because it seeks the widest approbation?

It was brave for Picasso to paint “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon” in 1907, which defied all convention, had no commercial appeal, and no one, not even a visionary artist such as Matisse, understood its power. Ironically, this spurned work changed the course — and consciousness — of art history.

This is not to say, however, that an artist can’t be polemical. Strong art is, essentially, a polemic against the present, the routine, and the popular. So, in a sense, justifying art morally is simply a tautology. And to be brutally honest, such justifications are almost always a red flag signaling art that is too weak to stand on its own. Do we really need a prescriptive morality to appreciate the accomplishments of post-Renaissance painter El Greco, or contemporary Pittsburgh sculptor Thaddeus Mosley?

It’s telling that one never hears of a moral justification of Shakespeare, but frequently we hear the moral justifications to contort him into some tendentious ideology he never intended. For example, a few years ago, Pittsburgh Public Theater set a production of “The Tempest” in a women’s oncology ward. Although it certainly was a unique interpretation, its main effect was to diminish the impact of the drama, taking it from the sublime to the allegorical. Did it sell more tickets? Probably. Did it improve on the original, or bring us to a deeper understanding of this play? Unfortunately, no.

This brings us to an existential issue raised earlier: Does it make sense to “take a moral stand as an artist”? First, we must ask, who are you trying to persuade with your stand? If, for example, you’re trying to promote a specific political (i.e., ethical) viewpoint, do you really think the opposing side is going to be swayed by a mere painting or poem?

Second, and I would argue that this is the true motivation, if you base your art on a moral rather than an aesthetic foundation, you’re ostensibly fiating a critically unimpeachable position, because who can side with the amoral vs. the moral? It becomes a rigged game, sheltering the artist from any standards of aesthetic strength or judgment.

But finally, and most importantly, is the issue of displacement. Works of art must compete to exist, and if this agon is defined by morality, not aesthetics, there will not be any more Shakespeares, Beethovens, or Michaelangelos. We will live in a boring world of riskless and feckless culture, of art and literature that never offends, and never needs to be strong to survive. We’ve tried this through the ages (e.g., medieval Europe, the Soviet Union), and it has never worked out well. As the poet Max Jacob stated, “An artist discovers his genius the day he dares not to please.”

So, here’s my advice to all who truly love art: The next time you encounter the work of an artist in any genre who doesn’t rely on didactic or sanctimonious justification, patronize them. Buy their paintings, books, or whatever they create. You’ll be supporting not just them, but all such artists, writers, and creators in the eternal battle of strong vs. weak art. And this isn’t just a suggestion. For the future of culture, it’s a moral imperative.