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Beauty is not limited to the arts (indeed, art is not always beautiful, but that's another topic). This set me to thinking about the many sorts of things that we humans can call beautiful:
And these are still quite general: it's not all of mathematics that we consider beautiful, but certain equations (e.g., Euler's equation and Maxwell's equations); in baseball, a well-turned double play can be a thing of beauty, but a routine fly ball not so much; and so on.
Furthermore, these beautiful things exhibit a wide range of attractive qualities, such as: fluidity, simplicity, intricacy, purity, polish, smoothness, sleekness, elegance, proportion, symmetry, asymmetry, line, composition, arrangement, form, structure, solidity, color, tone, rhythm, harmony, aliveness, permanence, evanescence, transcendence, earthiness, spontaneity, precision, virtuosity, imagination. It's not a mistake that some of these qualities are - or at least seem to be - at odds with each other. For instance, we might value precision and virtuosity in a musical performance, but if it's too precise it might start to feel robotic. Similarly, criteria of beauty can vary across times and cultures; as one example, in some East Asian cultures people rate symmetry less highly than people did in classical Greece.
The endless variety and particularity of beautiful things might make theoretical speculation more difficult, but they also give us so much celebrate and explore in the natural and human worlds.
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
Once more unto the breach with Santayana! (Three posts in a day on this topic were not what I expected.) Before saying goodbye to him, at least for now, I thought it would be fun to look at his use - or abuse - of Shakespeare at a crucial point in The Sense of Beauty. As Santayana leads up to this definition of beauty, he quotes Sonnet 54, which runs as follows:
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses;
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, by verse distills your truth.
As always with Shakespeare, there is so much we could say about a mere fourteen lines! But first, let's see how Santayana makes use of this poem:
The passage from sensation to perception is gradual, and the path may be sometimes retraced: so it is with beauty and the pleasures of sensation. There is no sharp line between them, but it depends upon the degree of objectivity my feeling has attained at the moment whether I say "It pleases me," or "It is beautiful." If I am self-conscious and critical, I shall probably use, one phrase; if I am impulsive and susceptible, the other. The more remote, interwoven, and inextricable the pleasure is, the more objective it will appear; and the union of two pleasures often makes one beauty. [Here Santayana quotes all but the last two lines of Sonnet 54.] One added ornament, we see, turns the deep dye, which was but show and mere sensation before, into an element of beauty and reality, and as truth is here the co-operation of perceptions, so beauty is the co-operation of pleasures. If colour, form, and motion are hardly beautiful without the sweetness of the odour, how much more necessary would they be for the sweetness itself to become a beauty! If we had the perfume in a flask, no one would think of calling it beautiful: it would give us too detached and controllable a sensation. There would be no object in which it could be easily incorporated. But let it float from the garden, and it will add another sensuous charm to objects simultaneously recognized, and help to make them beautiful. Thus beauty is constituted by the objectification of pleasure. It is pleasure objectified. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §11
Here Shakespeare, as is his wont, seems to draw a contrast between appearance and reality. The canker (a.k.a. dog-rose) puts on a beautiful show but lacks the sweet odour that lives in and defines the true rose; similarly, the fresh loveliness of the Fair Youth will eventually fade away, whereas the truth of his many virtues will live on in Shakespeare's artfully beautiful verses.
Yet Santayana sees things differently. For him, the truth about the rose (its sweet odour, which distinguishes it from the dog-rose) is merely yet another ornament which, when added to the rose's visual appearance, doubles the pleasure and therefore makes us exclaim (if we are in an extravagant mood) that the rose is beautiful. Without the corroboration of scent, we think the dog-rose is rather plain, despite its deep-dyed color, its shapely form, and its pleasing motion in the summer breezes. There is no truth to claims of beauty - it's all subjective.
To my mind, Santayana has twisted Shakespeare's meaning to suit the purposes of his argument. Few indeed are the beautiful things that benefit from "the cooperation of pleasures" - Beethoven's Ninth Symphony has no color, Shakespeare's sonnets don't taste delicious, and the Mona Lisa isn't wearing an expensive perfume! Although classical Greek sculptures originally possessed the added charm of paint, it's not as if the ancients could call them beautiful whereas we, missing out on their vivid colors, therefore can call them, say, mildly pleasing or merely showy. Yet that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, would it not?
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
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Continuing my reflections on Santayana's aesthetics, I've been thinking about the contemplative significance of the arts. It's no surprise that this connection would stand out for me, given the contemplative turn I have been exploring over the last few years. I would never claim that art serves only a contemplative function, for as I mentioned in a paper I wrote twenty years ago art can do many things. Yet I think Santayana identifies something important when he observes that aesthetic experience can settle the soul, enable us to stand outside the confusions of our ephemeral existence, and bring us inner peace.
In addition to passages previously mentioned, I find Santayana's contrast between the beautiful and the sublime to be apropos:
[T]he sublime is not the ugly, as some descriptions of it might lead us to suppose; it is the supremely, the intoxicatingly beautiful. It is the pleasure of contemplation reaching such an intensity that it begins to lose its objectivity, and to declare itself, what it always fundamentally was, an inward passion of the soul. For while in the beautiful we find the perfection of life by sinking into the object, in the sublime we find a purer and more inalienable perfection by defying the object altogether. The surprised enlargement of vision, the sudden escape from our ordinary interests and the identification of ourselves with something permanent and superhuman, something much more abstract and inalienable than our changing personality, all this carries us away from the blurred objects before us, and raises us into a sort of ecstasy.... The object is sublime when we forget our danger, when we escape from ourselves altogether, and live as it were in the object itself, energizing in imitation of its movement, and saying, "Be thou me, impetuous one!" This passage into the object, to live its life, is indeed a characteristic of all perfect contemplation. But when in thus translating ourselves we rise and play a higher personage, feeling the exhilaration of a life freer and wilder than our own, then the experience is one of sublimity. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §60
Earlier in the same section, Santayana wrote as follows:
This is the attitude of all minds to which breadth of interest or length of years has brought balance and dignity. The sacerdotal quality of old age comes from this same sympathy in disinterestedness. Old men full of hurry and passion appear as fools, because we understand that their experience has not left enough mark upon their brain to qualify with the memory of other goods any object that may be now presented. We cannot venerate any one in whom appreciation is not divorced from desire. And this elevation and detachment of the heart need not follow upon any great disappointment; it is finest and sweetest where it is the gradual fruit of many affections now merged and mellowed into a natural piety. Indeed, we are able to frame our idea of the Deity on no other model. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §60
As I explored in an essay I wrote years ago, the great pianist Glenn Gould made some comparable claims when he argued in favor of "ecstasy as the only proper quest for the artist", a notion which he explained this way:
I believe that the justification of art is the internal combustion it ignites in the hearts of men and not its shallow, externalized, public manifestations. The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline but is, rather, the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity. Through the ministrations of radio and the phonograph, we are rapidly and quite properly learning to appreciate the elements of aesthetic narcissism - and I use that word in its best sense - and are awakening to the challenge that each man contemplatively create his own divinity. ~ The Glenn Gould Reader, p. 246
Is it only the more quiet, meditative works of art that induce this "state of wonder and serenity"? My own experience leads me to think that's not necessarily the case. It's true that, because I am a contemplative sort of person, I happen to be partial to such works (musical examples include Bach's Cello Suites, Erik Satie's Gymnopedies, Billy Strayhorn's Lotus Blossom, and Joni Mitchell's Blue album); however, I experience just as much wonder, albeit of a different sort, in listening to rousing, energetic pieces of music such as Antonin Dvořak's New World Symphony, Duke Ellington's Diminuendo in Blue and Crescendo in Blue, Yes's Close to the Edge, and the upbeat songs of Aretha Franklin. Similar considerations apply to novels, poems, paintings, and other art forms.
Riffing on Gould, we might say the key is not whether a work of art produces a dramatic explosion or a slow burn, but whether it sparks a fire in the first place; and that depends on the intensity with which it concentrates the light of truth so as to generate a memorably vivid image of the ideal.
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
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Despite my harsh words the other day about the foundations of Santayana's aesthetics, even partway into The Sense of Beauty I could tell that some of his more particular insights would be worthy of serious consideration. That indeed has proved to be the case, specifically in the form of his summations late in the book regarding the role of art in human life.
Santayana's argument seems to consist of four steps. First, that usually the human soul is a confused jumble of impulses without any organizing ideal. Second, that self-knowledge procures the kind of psychological integration which makes it possible to live a fully human life. Third, that we need an understanding of the ideal to attain complete self-knowledge. Fourth, that it is art which brings these ideal glimpses of perfection before the mind's eye.
Here are the most relevant passages...
Among the ideas with which every object has relation there is one vaguest, most comprehensive, and most powerful one, namely, the idea of self. The impulses, memories, principles, and energies which we designate by that word baffle enumeration; indeed, they constantly fade and change into one another; and whether the self is anything, everything, or nothing depends on the aspect of it which we momentarily fix, and especially on the definite object with which we contrast it. Now, it is the essential privilege of beauty to so synthesize and bring to a focus the various impulses of the self, so to suspend them to a single image, that a great peace falls upon that perturbed kingdom. In the experience of these momentary harmonies we have the basis of the enjoyment of beauty, and of all its mystical meanings. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §59
Knowledge, affection, religion, and beauty are not less constant influences in a man's life because his consciousness of them is intermittent. Even when absent, they fill the chambers of the mind with a kind of fragrance. They have a continual efficacy, as well as a perennial worth. There are, indeed, other objects of desire that if attained leave nothing but restlessness and dissatisfaction behind them. These are the objects pursued by fools. That such objects ever attract us is a proof of the disorganization of our nature, which drives us in contrary directions and is at war with itself. If we had attained anything like steadiness of thought or fixity of character, if we knew ourselves, we should know also our inalienable satisfactions. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §66
This incapacity of the imagination to reconstruct the conditions of life and build the frame of things nearer to the heart's desire is dangerous to a steady loyalty to what is noble and fine. We surrender ourselves to a kind of miscellaneous appreciation, without standard or goal; and calling every vexatious apparition by the name of beauty, we become incapable of discriminating its excellence or feeling its value. We need to clarify our ideals, and enliven our vision of perfection. No atheism is so terrible as the absence of an ultimate ideal, nor could any failure of power be more contrary to human nature than the failure of moral imagination, or more incompatible with healthy life. For we have faculties, and habits, and impulses. These are the basis of our demands. And these demands, although variable, constitute an ever-present intrinsic standard of value by which we feel and judge. The ideal is immanent in them; for the ideal means that environment in which our faculties would find their freest employment, and their most congenial world. Perfection would be nothing but life under those conditions. Accordingly our consciousness of the ideal becomes distinct in proportion as we advance in virtue and in proportion to the vigour and definiteness with which our faculties work. When the vital harmony is complete, when the act is pure, faith in perfection passes into vision. That man is unhappy indeed, who in all his life has had no glimpse of perfection, who in the ecstasy of love, or in the delight of contemplation, has never been able to say: It is attained. Such moments of inspiration are the source of the arts, which have no higher function than to renew them. A work of art is indeed a monument to such a moment, the memorial to such a vision; and its charm varies with its power of recalling us from the distractions of common life to the joy of a more natural and perfect activity. ~ The Sense of Beauty, §65
There is much to ponder and unpack in these passages, but I'll leave that for another day.
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
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Apparently Substack has something called the Sunshine Blogger Awards, wherein writers are tagged to answer eleven questions of the tagger's choosing. Although I haven't been tagged, reading a few such posts set me to thinking, so here are eleven questions to ponder, along with my own answers.
Q: If could live for a few hundred years, what other culture or cultures would you immerse yourself in, and why?
A: I'd be curious to to learn Japanese, read and write haiku in their language of origin, study Japanese calligraphy, master the biwa or the koto, become a Zen monk for a while, wander the Japanese islands, and immerse myself in Japanese society. It's a truism that Japanese culture is very different from other world cultures, and I would try to understand why from as close to the inside as I could get.
Q: If you could travel back in time to solve a certain historical mystery or prevent a certain historical event, which would it be, and why?
A: I'd travel to Elizabethan England and sleuth around to determine if someone other than William Shaksper of Stratford-upon-Avon wrote the works of William Shake-speare. Francis Bacon? Edward de Vere? Whodunit?? This topic intrigues me because knowing more about the author would help us better understand the amazing plays and poems published under his name. Whether it was the man from Stratford or someone else, I'd want to get to know him (or her??).
Q: If you could bring a past thinker, writer, scientist, or artist into the present to study with, who would it be, and why?
A: That'd have to be Aristotle. Not only do I have lots of questions for him about soulcraft and philosophy, but I'd love to see how he would adjust his theories to address the evidence of modern science and society. So many people say that Aristotle singlehandedly held back the progress of science for 1500 years, but I believe that the person who founded the sciences of logic and biology would be more open-minded and excited to learn about the modern world. Perhaps I could even smuggle back a lost treatise or two...
Q: What sacred or special place could inspire you to complete an old-fashioned pilgrimage, and why?
A: Athens, the center of ancient Greek literature, culture, and philosophy. Even granted that it has changed tremendously over the last 2500 years, it would still be worth a walk of a few hundred miles.
Q: What long journey (by car, train, foot, boat, etc.) most intrigues you, and why?
A: Hiking the Appalachian Trail. It's true that I'm not tremendously fond of camping, but I could get over that in order to experience the magic of the long walk from Georgia to my home state of Maine (or should I take the SOBO route from Maine to Georgia??).
Q: What art form (music, painting, poetry, etc.) do you find most personally meaningful, and why?
A: Music. It's not easy to explain why one is attracted to particular art-forms, but music has always given me solace and inspiration, both as a listener and as a player. There is something simultaneously visceral and ethereal about music: it goes straight to the heart and nourishes the soul. As Nietzsche once said, "Without music, life would be a mistake."
Q: What single work of art is most personally meaningful to you, and why?
A: Bach's Cello Suites. These suites take the listener on an incredible journey and express a fathomless range of human emotions with just the single voice of the most beautiful instrument known to man. I never tire of listening to the Cello Suites, and as a musician I would find them worthy of endless study and contemplation.
Q: Which book or books do you find so fascinating that you could re-read them once a year, and why?
A: My four nominees are the Essays of Michel Montaigne, the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Thoreau's Walden, and the Tao Te Ching. These are all intellectually stimulating and beautifully, even poetically, written, containing worlds within worlds.
Q: If you could change one thing about human nature or society, what would it be, and why?
A: The human propensity to violence. In one sense I suppose that humans wouldn't have made it to the top of the evolutionary heap without some violent tendencies, but I wish we could tone it down without losing our competitive edge. So much misery results from man's inhumanity to man.
Q: If you had to adopt a religion or worldview other than your own, which would it be, and why?
A: I'd probably give several a try (Judaism, Gnosticism, Taoism, etc.) but settle on a kind of non-doctrinaire Buddhism because of its appreciation for the ambiguities and evanescent beauties of life.
Q: What does your ideal day look and feel like?
A: A long walk in the morning; a few hours for playing guitar and composing; cooking up some homemade food; stimulating conversation with my sweetie or a dear friend; listening to good music; sitting by a warm fire; reading deeply from a few great books; that sort of thing. In sum, the kind of day that my Dutch ancestors would call gezellig.
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
Since choosing the name Beautiful Wisdom for my Substack earlier this year, I have focused more on wisdom and less on beauty. That might be changing, for several reasons: I've been getting deeper into musical composition, theory, and performance; I've been souring on speculative logorrhea; and in some of my recent readings on aesthetics I've been disappointed with philosophical accounts of beauty.
A case in point regarding the latter is George Santayana's 1896 classic The Sense of Beauty. I hasten to mention that I am just getting started with Santayana's vast oeuvre, so I might be misreading him. Unfortunately, right now I find his underlying account of beauty and the arts to be implausible. To wit, Santayana claims that beauty is (aesthetic) pleasure regarded as the quality of a thing: when a person says that an object or experience is beautiful, all they really mean is that it gives them a purely subjective pleasure - which they then shift, with absolutely no justification, onto the object itself and its perceptually salient features (such as color, symmetry, and form). It's almost a kind of aesthetic emotivism; if I say that Michelangelo's David is beautiful, all I really mean is "David Yum!"
If Santayana's account were true, then I could not call something beautiful if I didn't enjoy it, and I could not enjoy something if it weren't beautiful. However, in my experience both of these paradoxical phenomena are not only possible but quite common.
As an example of the first paradox, I recognize that objectively speaking the music of Mozart is quite beautiful: classically balanced, highly melodic, endlessly inventive, and so on. Yet subjectively speaking I concur with Glenn Gould's assessment that most of Mozart's music is so much musical prattle. You might counter that evidently I must be a musical boor: even though I could converse for hours about the wonders of, say, Bach's Cello Suites or Fauré's Nocturnes, I simply should enjoy Mozart. But this aesthetic imperative is even less legitimate than the moral imperatives of Kant or the Stoics.
As an example of the second paradox, I adore the music and, yes, even the singing of Bob Dylan. More evidence of my boorishness! Objectively speaking Dylan's vocal stylings are, at best, an acquired taste; at worst, they are downright grating. Here again you might assert that I simply shouldn't enjoy Dylan's music because it's not beautiful, whereas I again would simply ignore your aesthetic imperatives.
In line with my thoroughgoing particularism, my aesthetic experience is dependent on the individual work at hand, not some hard-and-fast policy that overrides the evidence of my ears and heart. For instance, I'd rather hear Mozart's horn concertos than Dylan's "Idiot Wind" (which to my ear is a decidedly ugly rant set to music).
Where does this leave Santayana? Even though I am not convinced by the foundations of his aesthetic theory, The Sense of Beauty contains numerous insights into aesthetic experience, which I am eagerly absorbing as I seek to form my own account of what I'm calling philokalia or the love and practice of beauty.
(Cross-posted at Beautiful Wisdom.)
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