It is hard to think of any work of art of which one can say 'this saved the life of one Jew, one Vietnamese, one Cambodian'. Specific books, perhaps; but as far as one can tell, no paintings or sculptures. The difference between us and the artists of the 1920's is that they they thought such a work of art could be made. Perhaps it was a certain naivete that made them think so. But it is certainly our loss that we cannot.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the impact of art, suggesting that contemporary works may lack the perceived ability to save lives or inspire profound change.
Robert Hughes emphasizes a perceived decline in the transformative power of art from the past to the present. He notes that artists from the 1920s believed their work could significantly change lives, and while specific books may have influenced individuals, he argues that no visual art, such as painting or sculpture, has achieved that same level of impact in modern times. The loss he mentions is a commentary on a contemporary cynicism or realism that contrasts with the idealism of earlier artists who believed in the ability of art to invoke real change and save lives.
In practice
In a discussion about the role of art in activism, one might quote this to illustrate how art has changed in its perceived impact.
Essentially, perspective is a form of abstraction. It simplifies the relationship between eye, brain and object. It is an ideal view, imagined as being seen by a one-eyed, motionless person who is clearly detached from what he sees. It makes a God of the spectator, who becomes the person on whom the whole world converges, the Unmoved Onlooker.
Landscape is to American painting what sex and psychoanalysis are to the American novel.
Popular in our time, unpopular in his. So runs the stereotype of rejected genius.
What does one prefer? An art that struggles to change the social contract, but fails? Or one that seeks to please and amuse, and succeeds?
What has our culture lost in 1980 that the avant-garde had in 1890? Ebullience, idealism, confidence, the belief that there was plenty of territory to explore, and above all the sense that art, in the most disinterested and noble way, could find the necessary metaphors by which a radically changing culture could be explained to its inhabitants.
The greater the artist, the greater the doubt; perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.
There is a communication of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk. And that is my answer when people ask me: Why do you write about hunger, and not wars or love.
Surely it is a magical thing for a handful of words, artfully arranged, to stop time. To conjure a place, a person, a situation, in all its specificity and dimensions. To affect us and alter us, as profoundly as real people and things do.
Time gives growth, it gives continuity and it gives change. And in the case of some sculptures, time gives a patina to them.
The hungry and the haunted explode in a rock'n'roll band.
'Write' is almost the wrong verb for what I do. I think 'compose' is more accurate because you're trying to make the sounds in your mind and in your voice. So I compose while I'm driving or in the shower.
One does not read a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks with hopes that it will grant him a career in engineering; he does so because poetry helps him see something in the world that he might not have seen before.
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