Why Art? - A Laconic Reflection

A true artist should put a generous deceit on the spectators.

Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry

To define is to limit, yet definitions are indispensable at times (the way the verbalisation of ‘Love’ is), provided they are unilateral; for when everybody defines alike, actually nobody utters anything new. And the method of defining a delicate subject like ‘art’ turns out to be pretty mechanical unless it is euphemistically dealt with. Therefore, instead of going for a definition, our ‘reflection’ on art lands us on a safer ground. This write-up tries to explore the value of art vis-à-vis life rather laconically.

Famous novelist D.H.Lawrence in his novel Women in Love writes, “It is better to die than to live a life which is only a repetition of repetitions”. There are moments when life seems pretty monotonous. The very presence of present becomes extremely suffocating.

Time does not pass on in a trice, much like a dream. We get used to the usual days and nights, sunrises and sunsets resulting in dullness. We become nostalgic and try to release the moments of happiness from the embrace of memory, for happiness is either a memory or a desire-not a present fact. In remembering something one remembers oneself. Memory is fundamentally subjective. The memories of one person cannot be transferred into the memory of another. In this sense, memory is a private possession. Moreover, it is in memory that the original tie of consciousness to the past appears to reside. Thus memory assures the temporal continuity of the self. Even the remembrance of an old pain and suffering gives pleasure. And we start our odyssey in search of time lost and our entire life becomes a remembrance of things past. But like countless other objects and beings, some memories and events too are ephemeral. But we want their perennial presence or permanence. Art as a medium of expression provides this permanence. It gives us a novelty of vision which renders the most boring, uninteresting and tedious things interesting, attractive and exciting. It puts enamel like film or blinker of beauty on the ugliest and dullest things and objects. Like an intoxicant, it gives, if not happiness, yet the illusion of happiness which sustains us and strengthens us to face the challenges of life with equanimity. An invisible bridge and a defence mechanism, art gives us the promise of transportation to a dream-land, free from the corrosive power of time, where the usual dawns exhale a fresh air and wear a new look, the trees and mountain tops silhouetted against the dim-orange twilight sky look divine and the line that separates life from the eternal oblivion gets blurred, after all life is death unmasked. And the heart quivers with an unknown symphony and mind grows magic wings (like Pegasus) and gets charged with the breath of a new spirit and sings:

Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of poesy...