The words in an ancient text are churning in my mind. In that text, poets were banned from the ideal city-state because they were deemed to be a bad influence on the cultivation of the ideal citizen. How so? Firstly, poets were deemed incapable of offering knowledge. It was felt that their poetry, while well-crafted and convincing in their selection of words paired with poetic convention, offered no knowledge but illusions of reality. Secondly, in offering no knowledge, poetry offered no truth. And thirdly, in offering no truth, the poet perverted the soul of the individual. Truth and the soul! Therefore, so detrimental was the poet’s perversion that not only did his work endanger the life of the individual in the here and now but also in the life to come. More precisely, the soul in the period of transition would not be knowledgeable enough to make the right choices and ultimately choose a good life for the reincarnation. Perhaps, surprisingly the text I refer to is Plato’s Book X of The Republic.
In this ancient text, a similar mistrust was shared about visual art. What truth could be found in an image of a bed? An image of a bed is simply that – an image of the object from a particular vantage point, offering the illusion of that vantage point but no truth. Indeed, the writer of the ancient text argued that the painter had no knowledge of how the bed was made because he did not make it and could only offer an illusion of a fragment of it from a specific vantage point to the exclusion of all other positions of seeing. Indeed, what does the painter know of the things he or she paints? What does the sculptor know of the things he or she carves or models? Both the painter and the sculptor practice making illusions with varied media and techniques.
But banning all arts was not the intention of the writer of the ancient text – just most. Instead, censoring is really what was advocated. Hymns to the gods and eulogies about civic virtue were deemed valuable and instructive in helping to develop rational, emotionally controlled, civic-minded citizens. They would be allowed because appropriate exposure could prepare the individual not only for this life but also for the realm after.
As I ponder this ancient text, my thoughts ramble along to another less ancient man whose value for art is its ability to bring audiences of the past into union with audiences of the present and to unify people across social class and other constructs of social separation. But I question the art when despite feeling in union with others, it is on the basis of pain brought on by violence in word, action, and psychological bombardment. Shouldn’t art help us transcend the ugliness of our everyday realities? Can art speak to the horrors of our national realities without inflicting additional pain and suffering? Must the violence which contributes to our accolades of shame be repeatedly reenacted without redemption? Sometimes, I think the writer of the ancient text was right to ban all creative endeavours but hymns and eulogies to foster civic or religious virtue. But civic and religious art cannot alone feed the soul. Or can they?
What responsibilities do artists and artistes have?
“It is sad that reality slaps us so much in the face at a place where we should get some escape from violence.” My heart ached. My head hurt. I harboured regret. Without sounding like a social service long-format advertisement, could we model on the stage effective conversation rather than shouts and shoves, name-calling, cursing, and physical assaults? I think of the ancient writer and his times and the regularity of plays to amuse the populace, to keep them content. I think of the bread and circus; the grand coliseum. I think of our contemporary Guyana with blackouts day in and day out for hours on end but no (or infrequent) outages on Friday and Saturday nights when the parties that waft on the air into the wee hours of the morning must go on. I think of a pot-holed highway leading to collapsing streets and bridges in villages bought with coins saved through hard work and industry generations ago. I am not sure what art or the arts can do in this place called Guyana. There is enough sloganeering to bring the white bread to the table, but no seven-grain or organic twenty-one whole grain and seeds bread. Therefore, the risk to the white bread is not to be attempted.
Guyanese guitarist extraordinaire Herbie Marshall recently said to me, “The only time money comes before work is in the dictionary.” We both stood on the sidelines of the dark but moonlit night. M before W in the dictionary. W before M in real life. Work is not getting the words down on paper or the image onto the canvas alone. It is the time spent considering one’s craft and the purpose behind it, reading, discussing, disagreeing, and having a shift or a solidifying of one’s position. Work may mean putting aside the brilliant creation for a time to return later and realise it was only approaching brilliance but had not yet achieved its full luminosity. W before M in real life is also about being careful about the energy one’s creative endeavour puts out into the world. More pain. Pain without hope. Pain with hope. No pain. Inspiration. W before M in real life also means knowing when less is more and when more really is necessary. Work before money is necessary because one’s creative endeavour has the power to affect and infect. Use your power wisely.
Akima McPherson is a multimedia artist, art historian, and educator
