Where is the Horse and the Rider

or 'Why you see few art-related posts on my page'

"Where is the horse and the rider?

Where is the horn that was blowing?

They have passed like rain on the mountains,

Like wind in the meadow

The days have come down in the West

Behind the hills into shadow..."

Where is the love of beauty? Where is breathtaking art and poignant song, and where are those who will seek them, praise them, cherish them, and show us how to see?

Like the brief, ephemeral art of our generation, they have been abruptly hidden from sight. Rinsed as from the slate -- no tablet of wax bearing the imprint of centuries' wisdom. Rather, the clean slate of a frontier school that started clean one day and started clean again the next.

Just as we are minimalists in ownership, we are minimalists in understanding or in seeking, in knowing and in wishing to know. And so we receive what we desire, we reap what we sow, which is so close now to nothingness. Where is the love of beauty, the devout appraisal of art? It is as it is in our hearts. Do we expect the tiny race of the people of culture to shower us with the Gospel while we wonder whether we are Princess Belle in her green dress or blue, or which Buzzfeed quiz will show us our best virtues?

Can you hear the overwhelming silence of the artists? I can hear the sea ceasing to sing, ceasing to whelm us over with the peace that she has given the imagination and the further peace that the imagination has given her. Did we think the artists would not starve? But they have all starved -- starved from a destruction of beauty in the world, a destruction of real living, of the seemingly invincible subject. The world has died, and art imitates life as life imitates art. Have you seen the imitation of death? I know that I have.

"The everlasting violence of that double passion with which God hates and loves the world" has come upon the artists in their silence. And as much as they have loved her, adorned and graced her with their innumerable lavishments, they wish nothing now but for her destruction, her punishment, her fall from pride into desolation and suffering and noisome darkness and fear. Repentance.

The fuel of the artist is life -- life that breeds more life -- life teeming and bursting at the seams -- life burgeoning unstoppably and never ceasing to unfold into new and eternal glories. Is it any wonder that the artists are silent, or that the lesser imitate death until it takes them.

Here is the demand of beauty: life. What prodigies have we killed, or allowed to die? No more.

The death of society is at hand. Were we more bitter towards the slaughter of our friends, we would have burned the fortresses of darkness and salted the earth, leaving the festering fields of evil forever barren.

We wish to intervene against the Islamic State in the Middle East. This is a just impulse. But, in our haste to tender retribution, do we forget the thousands slaughtered daily at home. Are the lives of countless children less worthy than the preservation of political potency in names: in "Yezidi", in "Christian", in "Shi'ite". Do we wish to save lives? Is that our intent? Or do we wish to save particular lives for particular reasons? Are the unborn not our brothers and sisters, and do they not live next door. Do they not die next door.

Can you justify your willingness to stop the IS against your unwillingness to stop the Abortionist State? Is it easier to fight a tyrant thousands of miles away?

The lauds of the poet fall silent. The artist in anger and desperation hurls his brush. Is there beauty in the world.

Can you justify not -- at the very least -- standing in prayer before the clinic, adjuring those who would be murderers to abandon their course? Rationalize, I beg you. Rationalize. Rationalize a way to avoid preventing murder when power is in your hands. I have dispensed with the arguments. I have had them all. I have heard them all. There is not one left with integrity. The truth cries out like a stone. It will not move.

The poet falls silent. The artist's heart roils and burns, and a black anger rises.

If you would have the soldiers stopped who terrorize in the name of Islam, but you will not place yourself in danger for your brother who perishes at the hands of the mercenary next door, the only judgement left to you is that of coward and liar.

Go out into the world. Go out. You have been sent out to bring the good news. The good news begins with the gospel of life. You must protect life, from conception to natural death. If you have not done this basic duty, this basic act for the ongoing creation of society, if you watch society crumble -- you too will fall with it.

Go out into the streets and pray, and beg God for mercy. I too will go with you. Come alive, and reject the systematic destruction of the human person. Overthrow the deathly edifice. This is our duty. It is undeniable. It is irrefutable. It is the supreme test of faith in our time -- the supreme evil, that which requires the most devout action in opposition.

If you wish to have good things, you must give, and you must first give life.

Where is the horse and the rider?

The beauty of the warrior lies in that which he defends.

Over the Rainbow

Rainbows are gatherings often held in areas remote from the general hubbub, tucked away in the woods and fields where nature still enjoys its proper place upon the earth. People hike for miles to find the Rainbow settlement -- a city of tents. These voluntary gatherings may remain in a single place for many months.

One website, www.welcomehome.org, describes the "Rainbow Family" as follows:

• Some say we're the largest non-organization of non-members in the world. We have no leaders, and no organization. To be honest, the Rainbow Family means different things to different people. I think it's safe to say we're into intentional community building, non-violence, and alternative lifestyles. We also believe that Peace and Love are a great thing, and there isn't enough of that in this world. Many of our traditions are based on Native American traditions, and we have a strong orientation to take care of the the Earth. We gather in the National Forests yearly to pray for peace on this planet.

Rainbows are indeed nebulous. There are no formal laws, but the community often organizes itself according to unwritten values of "love, peace, non-violence, environmentalism, non-consumerism and non-commercialism, volunteerism, respect for others, consensus process, and Diversity" (http://www.rainbowtribe.net/).

The images you see above were taken from photographer Benoit Paille's Behance profile (https://www.behance.net/gallery/Rainbow-Gathering-%282010-2011%29/1193675). Observing the physical constitution, the open posture, the clear and healthy eyes, the soft light of these figures who stand at home amidst the wild calls to mind another race. A race foreign to us.

If you recall, in Aronofsky's Noah, how the simple life, the stewardship of the land above all else preoccupies the line of Seth -- then you cannot help notice the similarity here, even that of dress. Note the earthen tones, the grainy texture and spartan design. The pouches at the belt.

 

There is something impure in the Rainbow gatherings: look at the drug use, the pagan practices, the rejection altogether of beneficial technologies, etc. Yes. We say this. In our conservative towers we point over the heads of the lowly. And our towers crumble.

Is such a lifestyle not preferable in every way to the indescribable indignities of capitalism? Infused with the heights of the Western spirit, could we not become the ordo contemplativus of St. Bonaventure?

Such a radical return to the first and proper vocation of man may be required, and certainly even now is intensely needed amidst wholesale cultural degradation of the meaning and dignity of the human person. If, at the Rainbow gatherings, "we often say 'We are one.'", then perhaps this is a place we all should be (Paille).

Why do we have the desires we do? Why is it necessary to sacrifice the person for his betterment? Why suffer the deadening effects of the corporate desk job for health insurance, for a nice car? We are slaves to a system we ourselves have created, a system that literally values material gain over the fulfillment of truly human needs, truly human desires. We lay ourselves down as fertilizer for a machine, and when we are gone -- dead from laboring in its service -- it too will die. We have created a new meaning of ephemerality.

But rainbows will endure. And in these communities that bear their name, human beings come together in harmony, attempt to see each other, to see the person in each other: "We experience all these differences and confrontations, and experiment in matters of conflict management. We learn to talk, look, understand, to become more tolerant." (Paille).

Paille says that "All ideologies and beliefs coexist in harmony." and yet "decisions are not made through a majority vote, but truly through a common consensus. It can take days." What seems to be some sick offshoot of liberalism is rather a reconciliation of all beliefs into the most universal -- and this is seen as so important that "It can take days." The entire human family, from every conviction, is welcome. And every conviction may have its say until only one is agreed upon. Why do Church councils take so long?

We see in Rainbow gatherings a practical model for human life that seeks post-lapsarian remediation, that values the posture of the human community in reference to the spiritual world above all else, and that does not stoop to violence even in preventing it: "If someone becomes dangerous, violent, it can happen, people will make a sina shanti (a peace circle), where men will peacefully surround the individual by holding hands." (Paille).

I may yet see a Rainbow.

All photographic images are the property of Benoit Paille. Please check out his beautiful work:

http://benoitp.prosite.com/

https://www.behance.net/Benoitp

I Am Suspect

For all who decry the modern state.

We sell ourselves as subversive, incisive, even revolutionary, the new intelligentsia. And there is yet a grain of truth.

When we take to the blog interface, we know we have something to argue, something to condemn, some flag to hoist in triumph. We pound and eviscerate the dreadful, outrageous falsehoods of contemporary culture, raging to get to a point. We clash and bang and make a scene. But what is left after all of our brilliant syllogisms have been arrayed upon the Thyestean table for us and our friends to feast upon.

We are more of the judge and less of the critic, more of the hangman than the priest.

We all agree it is easier to find a problem than to solve it. We even agree to solving it. We come to council, say "Aye, this can't go on", and go our ways to fill the world with justice. But sensationalism and vituperation usually take its place.

Marc Barnes writes of an ubiquitous internet humor that compromises the agency of our statements: "The Internet-writer gathers page-views by writing in the ironic, depersonalized spirit of anonymity that characterizes the online aesthetic, as if his work was simply burped up from the bowels of the Internet itself, bearing no relation to a subjective personality." This humor is harmful in many ways, one being that, while the outside truth or "fact" to which we refer may be valid, its manner of presentation is usually flippant, caustic, provocative, rude -- funny only to those who agree with us. We say, "Oh my gosh, look how stupid this is", and go about our day as if everyone has now reached a consensus from our ability to strip someone naked and leave them there in shame. Moreover, we assume that we offer up an absolute, that for a challenge to arise would be ignorant and insulting -- "What do you MEAN you don't agree? Are you stupid?"

While such antics may be cloaked in the trappings of the most witty and popular social commentary, and while the presentation may involve excellent turns of phrase, incomparably precise diction, infallible logic, the result remains the same: a great and terrible fallacy has only been disproved (occasionally, one adds a final line to the effect of "don't be like this").

But what are these social ills? What is the object of our fast-flying fingers over cacophonous plastic keys a million miles away from the source of our righteous glee? Do we lurch in our seats, sighing, wishing we could be present to make an end of such evil, to see it resolved? Is it not caused by humanity? Are we not responsible?

Are we gods that walk with heedless adamant heels through the stinking crowds of sniveling mortals? We are as bad as that, and not so smart and edgy as we believe. Intelligence lies in winning the opponent to love and truth. The purpose of argument is its opposite.

But the parts we often play fall short of beneficent:

• Toward our opponents -- the surgeon who removes a leg to cure an abscess. 
• Toward our friends -- the parent who so desperately desires the love of her child that she gives him cake when he requires meat.

Our unfortunate instinct drives us to crave shock and awe for savoring, horror for indulgence, absurdity for mocking, and indignation for pleasure in pride. As the mitigators of instinct, it is nothing short of shameful for us to inspire these feelings in our readers for the sake of a few more page-views. This is a sort of prostitution, where we forsake the dignity of our subjects for fickle fame or an extra buck. God knows the various exigencies that may drive one into desperation, but if we are to be genuine lovers of mankind, our word must mirror reality. And reality is not so near as we pointedly surmise in verbose denigrations of our opposition.

The reality of love is a far more difficult endeavor and a far deeper intellectual matter. To leave the flock for the lost one is to place oneself open to attack, critique by one's friends, humiliation and floundering, shame, depression, and the low esteem of all. You may find that you are wrong.

But the jewel of it is a heart won by trial -- and not "won" to our cause, but to a greater.

When we are challenged aggressively with stimulating fervor from another social force, do we not wish to respond in kind, to challenge in return with hard and fast impenetrable rebuttal? And what is gained? One may exercise and solidify his own suppositions, but have either traded any wisdom. Do we not dash ourselves to pieces against a wall?

Moreover, when we do engage debate on Facebook or in infamous comment sections, we often retreat to the blogosphere to save our pride. We present the refined oration to our friends for their praise. In doing so, we discriminate. We say that "only your opinion, your esteem is valuable to me, but as for you others, go back to the shadow". We, cowards, enhance our reputation in the dusty archives of presupposed assent, and Truth gets bored with us, until it decides to leave our intolerable company.

Subtlety, then, and not a subtlety of cleverness, an underhandedness, but a subtlety in truth that becomes an ancillary virtue to love of one's enemies -- this is to be sought. I think of no better names than Mother Theresa (who would deny her?), Ghandi even -- success lies in truth, but truth is integral to the approach, not distinct from it. Words that attempt to express some eternal verity in incendiary or even mildly hurtful language can not.

The truth is absent from self-righteous declamation, from rabble-rousing, from flag-waving. And it is not the reserved quest of poetry to seek beauty. Beauty is for the world. If what we say is beautiful, and how we say it, then who can forget us? Against true beauty there is no defense, for it, too, is love.

Therefore let us speak as we believe. Enemies are friends, and if they are not, then we are the enemy. Let friends be enemies if they choose: let them make up their minds for themselves without the distraction of glitz and furor.

Let us go about our vocation as determined as the hermit, as fastidious as the theologian, as just as the critic -- let us make his reputation so.

Love in the Cold

"Many false prophets will arise, and many will be deceived by them; and the charity of most men will grow cold, as they see wickedness abound everywhere ..." (Mt. 24.11-12)

Having visited all who will with plenty of time to spend, Love turns her face to the lilies, for at least they will never turn their bright joyful heads away from her.

The cold doors of stone towers are invisible to her, their secrets forgotten. The walls of cities do not discriminate, and Love is lost in the tumult of passions good and ill.

So frequently do we strive for honor in the great effort of ecstasy, pushing outward against the senses that at once bind and make us onto more liberal frontiers -- seeking Truth, Goodness, Beauty. But what marble pillars. What frigid stones, though mountains, of thought.

Truth, Goodness, Beauty -- noble ideas to be pursued. But constantly we forget the force that drives us toward them. Too often we forget the cabman, the selfless rickshaw runner who silently bears us to and fro.

Goodness: why certainly it contains Love. But why "Goodness" and not Love? Does not Love contain Goodness? Justice, the favorite of Aristotle -- does not Love fulfill it, complete it, make it bear fruit?

And Love abounds more than these. It is Love in the artist that makes him sing bright colors onto barren sheets of white. Love culls melody from fiddle and flute. Love tears forth the tears of Whitacre's David: "Oh, Absalom!"

And Love quiets with a mothers soft forgiving arms the first sorrow of newfound sin.

At the end of Trois Couleurs: Bleu, Krzysztof Kieślowski depicts the lovemaking of the wayward, mournful beloved and he who loved and pursued her throughout her pain. Preisner's soundscore comes soaring through the scene with lyrics from 1 Corinthians 13.1: "I may speak with every tongue that men and angels use; yet, if I lack charity, I am no better than echoing bronze, or the clash of cymbals."

With the deadly egotism of savored sorrow, she had used him in her need. She had fled his warmth and honest generosity of soul for the tower of the dead. Felix culpa. In the coldness she found Love.

What simplicity.

How easy to let the power of the sea strip away the last timbers of our sorry rafts; how comforting to relax our grip.

How true and good to die.

How beautiful is art that crucifies its maker. The testament of his great love -- blindness for Monet, for Raphael. An early death for Rilke, Keats.

A desert for Teresa of Calcutta.

How many names would be added to the history books if we forsook the scales that make the dirt look like the sky, make our soiled feathers seem to fly with wings of bonded wax.

The mother stands there with a washcloth waiting and soft forgiving arms.

Goodness waits on Love.

Fiction: "Strannik: A Vision"

Herbert James Draper, "The Lament for Icarus"

Written by Jonathan Torres
Edited by Ross J. McKnight



Mother.

You were the first to point me towards the desert star. I looked up and never turned my face away. To have, to hold, to consume - this is all I ever wanted. In searching I have found who I am. I am your son. As I wander, I hear you calling my name. Strannik. I wander. I hear your call. I will never turn away.

Your love is my staff. I do not wander alone. The further I walk, the further I stumble, the further I crawl, the sand cuts harder, the winds flow faster, but the star burns ever brighter. I do not wander alone.

In my first three years of traveling I have met my brothers and sisters, yet have met none like me. I mentioned the star on the horizon and they smiled. Yes, they saw it, but they did not want it. They did not love it. They claimed the sands were too rough, the winds too wild, and so they turned away just as the star burned brighter. I will never turn away.

My brothers and sisters traveled with me for a short time, pretending to want it, pretending to love it. One by one they fell. One by one they came to me and wept. They told me they were sorry. I forgave them, and let them return to their homes. All of them, they turned away.

The last to turn was my first brother. As we crested the high dune in the West he collapsed. Grabbing sand sweat and blood I pulled him to his feet. He grasped my shoulder and looked at me. Our eyes met and I understood. He whispered my name. Strannik. I wander, and I hear you calling. He was so close, so close, mother. So close. He spoke to me one last time. I did not understand his words.

I let him go. I never looked back. The journey is almost complete.

I use all of my strength to place one foot ahead of the other. The winds scream against you, mother. I curse them, damn them to Hell. The star wages war against me, and I weep. The violent sands begin to stir. One foot ahead of the other. Mother, stay with me! Alone, I drop my staff and continue without it. The sand-star bursts out in rage. My veins are full of fire. I turn my face to the ground, looking at my feet full of blood. One more step and I will touch the star. Mother, stay with me! One movement from my body. I lean forward, I look up. My face burns red. My voice disintegrates. The sand turns to glass. The ground shatters and my body is dismembered. My soul flies to the star, and the star catches what was always its son.

The nova of my life twinkled in the midnight sky. My brothers and sisters looked up and smiled, and they turned away.

I never turned away. I never turned away.

Fiction: "Cry to the World"

Jean Paul Lemieux, "Young Man"

I have a found a new pleasure of walking out of doors onto a balcony and peering into the treeline and the skies. 

There's a taste for it, to be sure – standing alone, leaning on a 2x4 rail painted white, identical to those above, right, below, left. But what I see is the world preparing just outside a wall, and in secret and by degrees it seethes in past all boundaries, nearly benign, but really with the sad love of inevitability.

Once I came out upon such a balcony in such a mood and leaned over the rail – my ribcage hooked over uncomfortably, my arms folded – and it happened that I heard the sound – at such an hour on a Saturday – of a door calmly opened and closed, the cheap blinds clacking upon the glass below.

A young man not a year older or younger did as I do, and, unnaturally as I, lit a cigarette held in fingers poised as he might imagine one well-practiced in the art might do. But I knew he was sincere. I know he was sincere at least in trying. He carried on the act in company with himself and at last sat down and sighed.

I thought at once we should sit inside by a lamp burning all night long and talk of things only we should talk of, a special blessing of particularity shared between us. He must have heard me shuffling because he was at his rail again, staring unforgivingly upward. And our eyes met, and because they fixed upon the real and demanding continuity between us, I saw in those eyes vitriol, and I knew he would never pardon me for breaking into a world I thought my own.

I have since awakened from that dream and hope no more for a friend.



Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Christopher Hamilton

Pebble Stars: A Meditation

A Tribute to the Japanese Poet Matsuo Bashō

"Nothing one sees is not a flower, nothing one imagines is not the moon. If what is seen is not a flower, one is like a barbarian; if what is imagined is not a flower, one is like a beast. Depart from the barbarian, break away from the beast, follow the Creative, return to the Creative."
~Knapsack Notebook


Bashō, wanderer, lover of beauty, home everywhere and nowhere, so close and so far, from across civilizations and ages I salute your inscrutable Eastern mind! 

I too have journeyed. By foot, by car, by plane, by boat, by train have I roved the world. But alas, I did not find such satisfaction in my travels as you did! Perhaps I, who often forgets the beginning and is forever looking to the end, could not find happiness in the middle. Perhaps I was dissatisfied because I thought of my odysseys as merely the way to the end. For you, it seems, they were end and beginning together. 

Lamentable is the distance between your thoughts and mine. As far almost as the East is from the West! I struggle to focus on impermanence as you did, and my focus is as impermanent as its object. In addressing you now, I defy impermanence like a stubborn child. Would you reel against the seeming timelessness of your own words? 

But how to comprehend this the primary object of your contemplation? Maybe it is as simple as watching the leaves fall from the trees, or the farmhouses and skyscrapers flash past the train window? Perhaps the clouds racing across the face of a waning moon? The pond frozen in winter? Have I grasped impermanence when I open my eyes after a night’s sleep to find a new day, the old gone forever? Can anything be impermanent? Yes, things change, but once in time are they not forever in time?

Why did I travel? To see places unforgotten as you did. But the things I saw were always more beautiful in the land of my mind, and I left disappointed. Cruel imagination! 

The lands, the buildings, the people, everything I have seen, all dying, all crumbling into dust! Impermanence. Eternal change. Do I contradict myself? Were you and your fathers right?

But I have been unfair. I have seen many beautiful things. And many beautiful things have I not seen. Forever they live. While all things turn to ash, they live forever in my mind. And if not my mind, in the mind of someone. Permanence.

You, Bashō, in the boundless simplicity and ambiguity of your words, have led me into a world of whirling possibility. One thing changes into another, lost then found, alive then dead, then alive. A cascade of images tumbles down, and then rises up, revolving, reckless, and ever-changing. 

Is there a beginning to the spinning cataract? Is there an end? Yes, you seem to say. All is beginning, all is end. And you lived as you wrote. 

Do I comprehend your vision? Can I, a child of the West, pierce the Eastern veil with my gaze? From birth, I have been molded as clay by a potter. And into this earthen vessel has been etched the straight line of life. How can I grasp the circle?

One thing do I uncontestedly share with you. We both are lovers of beauty. From pear blossoms to mountain ranges to slight human gestures, the aesthetic world calls to my heart as it does to yours. 

I walk down to a trickling stream. In the water the golden leaves float, carried to an unknown place. The sunlight reflects itself in white swords and sparkling orbs. I bend down to see a little ant, moving slowly in a circle, round and round. I wonder how long it has been here, I wonder where it came from. Tomorrow maybe, it will be dead. But today it is alive, and it is beautiful. 

At first light, I look to the fields covered with morning mist. In the eye of my mind, the mist forms the shapes of a thousand horses. White horses, like ghosts they move into the West, chased by the sun. In a few minutes, the sun will take them and make them clouds. Tomorrow maybe, they will be back to gallop across the fields again in ethereal beauty.

The notes of the music I hear rise and fall in perfect harmony. With them my thoughts and feelings are carried to places of melancholy and happiness. In their loveliness I dream of worlds enchanting and mysterious. In their beauty my mind rests.

What power within such things moves me? Is it the same power that moves you? 

I wonder where your mind wanders when you daydream. Do you marvel over beauty grand and magnificent or small and unassuming? Perhaps here is again shown that meddlesome division of hemispheres and molded clay. For I cannot imagine that you always dream of the mountaintops and the celestial heights as I do. 


Oh, glorious splendor! I look to the stars and the haloed moon, and I travel to the edges of infinity to gaze at the source of light! From there I turn my eyes to the earth and see you with a pebble in your hand. You hold it up to the brightest star, and smile. 

The "Sea Peoples": American Philistinism

Edgar Degas, "David and Goliath"

"Philistine" is a lovely pejorative that has unfortunately gone out of fashion -- or at least out of the common ken.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a "philistine" is "3. ... An uneducated or unenlightened person; one perceived to be indifferent or hostile to art or culture, or whose interests and tastes are commonplace or material; a person who is not a connoisseur."

Perhaps the very reason for the mysterious disappearance of such a germane descriptor is that we are so inundated with Philistia that we cannot see it, like a fish in the sea. Only a Noah will float.

One has only to review the "reviews" of Terrence Malick's To the Wonder to discover the inane blatherings of our very own American philistian moviegoers, who apparently equivocate between animal stimulus and good art. Take, for instance, this particular jewel presented graciously to the Amazon passer-by's innocent perusal. Please try to read this comment in its entirety, considering it a spiritual exercise in order to "know thy enemy":

"I'm educated, I went to college. I can appreciate works of 'art' and I have done. However, to watch this movie is to waste time and money on a kaleidoscope of someone else's brain vomit. If I hadn't read the synopsis, I very seriously doubt I would have had a clue what this movie was about. Scattered images and very little dialogue thrown together in a pathetic attempt to seem 'arty' [sic] when, in fact, it comes off as very contrived and forced. When filmmakers come up with this tripe, I can only imagine that they have simply forgotten the 'point' which is to entertain the viewer. I was not entertained. Only shallow people attempting to exhibit nonexistent depth are even going to pretend they enjoyed this viewing experience. However, if you marvel at seeing wonderful actors spin around in the sun and actually NOT act (or even speak audibly); if you enjoy watching a movie presented very similarly to a dream I had last night; or, if you are out to impress that cute blond in your liberal arts classes by feigning intellectualism -- then by all means, go for it."

Thank you, Kellie from Miami. You were very entertaining. I feel less shallow now. "Are you not entertained?," says Maximus. I was entertained. Are you entertained?

That the idea of the beautiful in a piece of artwork and the idea of entertainment held by many Americans are not synonymous, I think you will agree, but in the interest of culture I will provide some delineations. In doing so, I accept the risk of appearing to be one of those "shallow people attempting to exhibit nonexistent depth." ;)

Entertainment. When we seek entertainment, we are usually relying upon someone else's effort to make us laugh, smile, gaze in wonderment, recoil in mock horror. In so doing, we are asking that person or other entity to satisfy our expectations, to fulfill our pre-conceived notions of what will make us happy or afford us some distraction from the weariness of life. Entertainment never transcends the sphere of the immanent.

Ms. Kellie from Miami seeks the same. She would very much like to have all of her instinctual desires recognized and catered to by the filmmaker. She refuses to be brought out of herself in order to encounter a mode of experience that is superior to her own. No. That would make her uncomfortable, and we cannot have "educated" people being made to feel uncomfortable, especially if they have attended "college" and thus understand how to appreciate "'arty'" things.

Sorry, Kellie. Art is ecstasy.

Culture. When we seek culture (and I am referring to the Arnoldian scheme when I say "culture" -- see the final paragraph of "Violence and Cinema"), we are seeking something beyond ourselves. We are seeking something we have not attained, and in this seeking we accept that we must toil with difficult ideas, with difficult perspectives that will at first confuse us when they seek to liberate us from the animal and the mundane.

To take up the banner of Culture is similar to the Christian ideal of taking up the cross. It is a way of intellectual perfection that always looks for the more potently significant in life, even at the expense of the comfort and pleasure of an easy romance or a gratuitous battle sequence. In truth, the way of Culture is the way of the spiritual, of understanding the world and oneself as realities infused with spiritual magnitude, and of seeking to understand the meaning of that magnitude. The way of Culture, of perfection, is infinite, as humankind is infinite.

Thus, to the "'point.'" To be a philistine is to pin down, to ground, to crush things into a swallowable morsel for one's disposal. Yes, to be a philistine is to be a consumer both of products and of ideas -- to dispense with them, to put them in their place so that whatever small-minded existence one possesses may continue without disturbance.

(The idea of philistinism is thus easily pinned down -- it hardly wriggles -- while the ideas expressed variously in such a film as To the Wonder are not so easily placed, nor should they be.)

I dare say Ms. Kellie from Miami has put Malick in his place. For her, the eminent filmmaker with a long and fascinating career as an artist offers the world nothing but "brain vomit."

The person of Culture disagrees.

He can see for her the waves of the Florida sound begin to rise in tumultuous clamor, washing further and further their dross upon the shore. They will take her up with the zombies that dash toward the sealed ark, and she will float for awhile in a hell of thrashing bodies and silted water until she sinks, unaware like a fish in its sea.

But then again, she is a person ... with the sort of infinite potential displayed by Malick in his exploration of human capacities. She can change, though she be Delilah of the Sea Peoples.

Dark Quiltwork

Mercedes Benz G-class

          I recently had the terrible misfortune of seeing the above vehicle up close and in person. You, too, may be surprised that Mercedes Benz produces such an eyesore. What is worse, aesthetically challenged individuals are buying and driving the thing, affronting the senses of their fellow men wherever they go. Maybe you want to say, “Craig, it’s a matter of personal preference – some people might think the Mercedes G-class is a beautiful vehicle.” To which I might answer something like, “No, your favorite ice cream flavor is a matter of personal preference.” Similar to the architect, the car designer has the opportunity to design something orderly and pleasing to the senses. As exhibited, some fail.

Beyond offending others, what utility does the G-class have? It may serve the purpose that every other vehicle serves – getting one from A to B – but if that is all, why make it the way it is? After all, modern society generally gives up on beauty in hope of utility. Now, it seems, there are monstrosities about that are neither beautiful nor practical. Take, for example, the EMP Museum in Seattle, WA: surely, such a contortion does not provide practical space. 

One gets the sense from examples like the G-class or the EMP Museum that there is no real purpose to their design. The Mercedes’ engineer designed the vehicle because he could. Frank Gehry designed the EMP Museum the way he did because he could. The museum claims to be "dedicated to the ideas and risk-taking that fuel contemporary popular culture"; I'm sure if you asked, Mr. Gehry would say that his design is supposed to embody those ideas and risk-taking. What ideas are those, what risk is he really taking?  

The building does not offer an opportunity for contemplation but for confusion. If one looks long enough, one might see three mangled hearts with aorta, atrium, and artery amiss, as if snipped and blowing in the wind. What one does not see, no matter how long and hard one looks, is the real in light of an ideal. There is no revelation, no unfolding, no invitation to a sacred space. Ross wrote a short piece, not long ago, where he described “a great “veil,” if not a black curtain” that Marcel Duchamp has helped bring “over reality: the anti-avante-garde in art.” The museum design is not a vanguard, not a forerunner; it does not lead the way to something beyond the chaos of our world. It is one of the many quilting squares that make up the dark curtain that hangs over reality today.  

Relativism: The Scourge of the West

Relativism is, surely, a loaded term in the West today. Generally, when spoken, the word carries a negative connotation; even those who believe in some strain of relativism do not like the label. I find this topic interesting largely because of the way the phenomenon of relativism has seized western culture, while relativism as a philosophy has experienced a less than robust life. Up until the last couple of centuries, serious minded thinkers viewed relativistic thought as a nonviable way to understand and describe reality. With modern science and the spreading compartmentalization of knowledge, and modern philosophy and its replacing of God with the self, relativism began its forceful and flattening march on western culture.

One might look around now and easily find at least a couple manifestations of relativism – the one, paralyzing, the other, emboldening. Before continuing, let us have a general definition of relativism from which to build our discussion: the idea that any truth or knowledge is relative to a specified framework (i.e. culture, history, society). Of the two manifestations, the former follows very closely the definition above. The relativist of this manner may be a somewhat thoughtful person. Seeing the irrefutable fact that different peoples in different times and places have formed varying beliefs and behaviors, the relativist concludes that his judgments about other cultures or societies or the good or ill therein are nullified by the fact that all he believes is relative to his own time and place. There may be knowable truths, and judgments that follow, within his specific framework, but he does not believe that “his truth” applies to those outside his framework, thus he is paralyzed and unable to act. As one narrows the appropriate realm of human reason, one widens the chasm between himself and truth.

The second manifestation of relativism magnifies the narrowing effect seen above, for the framework in which one is locked is no longer one’s culture, society, or position in history but one’s self. The threat of this relativism is far more than the frustrating experiences of hearing someone say, “Well, that’s just your opinion.” If we take the proportionality statement above, this second kind of relativism creates even more separation from the truth, and therefore, is more dangerous than the first. With all things relative to the self, the self becomes radically independent, disconnected from others and society.

It should be clear why this phenomenon of relativism continues to spread and take hold: it is easy, convenient, requiring only a weak mind, and a weaker will. This kind of relativism is what Joseph Ratzinger once called “a dictatorship of relativism.”¹ With nothing definite, there is nothing demanded, and so this relativism brings forth an illusion of freedom while in reality, the independent and distorted self turns inward and becomes enslaved to its own desires.

We find ourselves under this “dictatorship of relativism” today – the battle for men’s souls rages. As man narrows his horizon and moves further from the truth, the question of what is to be done becomes more difficult still. One answer, one hope, is beauty. Somehow, the relativist must experience ecstasy, must come out of himself. The artist, then, is charged with the highest of tasks: making men free. Beauty has the power to awaken in man new desires, to turn his gaze upward towards heavenly things, to crack his hardened heart so that the light of truth might begin to shine through. In his unique relationship to the Beautiful, the artist plays a central role in broadening the narrow vision of the relativist. The relativists are correct that we all live, think, and interact within a specified framework – how small have you made yours?

Concerning Music

Part III: Voices of Heaven

The human voice, almost unlimited in its range of application and its potential for communication, is truly a wonderful gift. In its very nature as intrinsic to humanity lies its unique quality of being the only musical instrument created directly by God Himself. In the Incarnation, God became man and took on a human body. Because of this act, there is something of the divine nature in the human voice. In this divine quality rests the capacity to be raised to the level of the sublime, and also lowered to that of the profane.

In song, the words commonly used for communication are given a quality which rises above spoken words. A person must pour all of his musical skill into the words in order to make them resound with the beauty of musical art. Simply put, the singer endows his words with all the beauty he can give them. Because of the spiritual quality of the human voice, the words he chooses to hallow by making them into song become very important. Transform sacred words into song, and they become divine. Adapt depraved and vulgar words or stories into song, and they become a mockery, and in this mockery the singer commits blasphemy against the divine nature of the instrument, against the Giver and Bearer of this instrument Himself.

It is in this mockery that we find hidden and subversive elements of Satan's influence. After all, what can Satan do apart from make a mockery of what is good? It is in the demonic hallowing of depravity under the disguise of music that the fallen angel of light dupes us into overlooking one of his greatest deceptions. We see the evidence of this lie everywhere. Songs whose words celebrate every form of human concupiscence have subtly made their way into the enjoyment of those in even the most pious of social circles. These songs have gained acceptance because they bear the disguise of music, which may be appealing by itself. But in truth, what greater mockery is there than to make a divine instrument sing the praises of sin itself? The hideousness of this great perversion is as frightening in its reality as it is powerful in its infernal practice.

Now a word on the unfortunate phenomenon spearheaded by the growth of mediocrity in music. In the popular music industry, there is a severe lack of appreciation for true vocal talent. The predominant idea, cemented in our minds by such exhibitions as "American Idol", is that that anyone with a flair for performance and who can prolong words into a semi-rhythmic or melodic pattern can make good music. The aid of technology has been a great boon to this mediocre industry. This cheapening and commercialization of music, in particular the human voice, has led to a society with wide-ranging ignorance of the existence of true beauty in vocal music.

In the classical tradition we see a vast deposit of beautiful vocal compositions. Yet the classically trained singer is perhaps one of the most under-appreciated of musical artists. Their talents can be seen most prominently in the great classical operas. In modern times they have become more diversified in their range of musical selections, yet the beauty and purity of the trained human voice remains. But it is in the choral tradition that the human voice achieves its highest musical function. There is little in our world that can contend with the awe-inspiring beauty of many human voices raised in harmonic unison. In secular music it achieves an unparalleled level of beauty. In sacred music it rises to entirely new level. From the majestic and powerful polyphony of the Byzantine tradition to the haunting and ethereal chant of the Gregorian tradition, we see the true perfection of the human voice, of the art of music, and of communal worship. The works of Bach, Handel, Allegri, Palestrina, Vaughan-Williams, Rachmaninov, Tavener, and many others will forever be paradigmatic of this wonderful tradition of choral music.

I hope it is now easy to understand how the human voice in musical art can not only make the art as perfect as humanly possible, but in its sacred capacity, as in worship, it becomes the epitome of artistic beauty while transcending art itself. It is in the great choral compositions, where the words of worship have been transformed into the beauty of music, that we find ourselves wondering if the angelic choirs would sound much different if given human voices. There is such a pure and ethereal quality about such music, that it often seems out of place in our fallen world, and indeed it might be. It has been said that the language of heaven is music. I am convinced that our voices, raised in worship and endowed with all the beauty of music, are but a small taste and foreshadowing of Paradise.

Poetry: "All Souls' Day, A.D. 2013"

The trees shed from lissom limbs
the fruiting season's bloody glory.
Burgeoning berries perk, plump and fall --
a short journey from seed to oblivion.
These on the ground no hand will grace with lips
or fanciful loving the veins of death
unique, unrepeatable.

Oh! beloved by God.

The Pilgrim and His Guide

We are displaced people, always looking for a home yet never quite finding one.  Oh we may very much feel at home when we step into our leather-trimmed cars and are wafted away to our warm brick houses in the middle of autumn, or when we sip pumpkin-flavored-something in front of a crackling fire in the company of those we love.  Yes - it is easy to feel at home.  

Yet how quickly is man reminded of his place in the universe when he gazes upon the sun falling into the sea against a golden sky, or when he hears the serenade of a violin over a solemn piece played on a piano, or of course, when the eyes of the beloved meet his for a split moment in time.  The comforts of the world begin to fade as his focus is moved upward, higher, above and beyond his very self, so that he wants to escape the material fetters that bind him and soar to the caller, to unite himself with the falling sun, the saddened song, and the very body and soul of the beloved.  

In all of this, there exists a painful truth: as long as man is living within his mortal coil, he cannot fully unite himself to the Beautiful.  This is why we are pilgrims.  This is why we cannot call planet Earth as we know it our home.

Do not misunderstand me - there is much delight to be had in the journey, and it is very good indeed to live in the present and enjoy the company of loved ones while sipping pumpkin-flavored-whatever in front of a crackling fire.  The people we love are not a means to an end, nor is food and drink merely sustenance for our journey.  Such a view is utilitarian and saps the joy out of living.  Nevertheless, man exists as homo viator, a pilgrim man, and will always live in angst until he reaches the very heart of Heaven itself.  In fact, unless we realize that we are sojourners, we can never truly live peacefully and joyfully in the present, for the man that denies that he is made for another home painfully grasps at material goods to no avail.  It is only the homo viator that can truly love the created world.

And thus we are on the move.  Yet we move only because we have been disturbed by Beauty.  And as we follow the path that Beauty guides us along, we notice that she serves a threefold purpose: she is the pointer, she is the sustainer, and she is the goal.

As the pointer Beauty makes us aware of our displacement in the world, and thus begins our journey.  As the sustainer she lets us rest in her bosom, giving us motivation upon motivation, manifesting herself among and within the universe (the sunset, the song and the beloved point us beyond themselves, yet are also beautiful in their own right, and can therefore be loved on their own accord).  And lastly, as the goal, we consume Beauty entirely as it consumes us.

Once contained and containing, we will dance with the Beautiful and her two sisters, the Good and the True.  The three who cannot be trichotimized, the three who cannot be described as a single element, are the final resting place for the tired pilgrim.

Good reader, you have seen her, you have heard her song.  Now let Beauty be your guide.

Concerning Music

Part II: Worlds of Music

There exists a wide disparity within musical genres and styles. Many of these differences are centered solely around different cultures, but even within the same culture there are major dissimilarities. I think it can be deduced from this fact that people listen to and enjoy music for a variety of different reasons. While the decision to listen to a certain genre of music is in part determined by the individual's familiarity with it (nostalgic attachment), one also listens to a particular genre for the sake of the feelings and thoughts that it inspires. It is important to observe that these two reasons are very much related.

I will begin by describing two musical styles or genres that appear exceedingly different and nearly present a kind of musical dichotomy. Because of the many sub-genres and various categorizations related to each of them, I will, for the sake of simplicity, refer to them as they are commonly categorized: art music and popular music. There is a third category, folk music, which, also for simplicity, I will group with popular music. Although my definitions of these categories are loosely applied and may be too rudimentary, they will serve well the intent of this essay. Once again, I will analyze music independent of all human vocals, which will be discussed in detail in part three.

Popular music is characterized, among other things, by an easily discernible and often dominant rhythm or beat. This rhythm is usually marked by percussive instruments. One may find it easy to imagine our primeval ancestors discovering that beating on various instruments to accompany dance or song was very satisfying. This rhythmic and percussive music appeals to our very nature as physical beings. The beat of our hearts, the circulation of our blood, our breathing; these natural and physical markers of life are represented in rhythmic music at a fundamental level. This is possibly the most basic explanation as to why human beings are innately attracted to popular music. Observe the response that most people have to a popular song; their body almost naturally begins to move in time with the beat, often culminating in some kind of dance or similar carefree activity. The happiness that can be gained through the enjoyment of popular music is real, but because it is normally just a physical emotion, it is fleeting. This explains why the popular music genre is growing so rapidly; why there is a constant demand for new music, and why there are very few popular songs that are "timeless."

Art music is commonly referred to as classical music, although art music encompasses a much broader spectrum of music than classical, which is actually a sub-genre. It can be very loosely characterized by the absence of a dominant rhythm and by its skill-based artistic origin. Many art music pieces are written to showcase the skill of a particular musician or composer. There is something about the absence of a dominant beat that requires the listener to transcend physical human instincts. The appreciation for art music becomes much more intellectual; we can often find our minds hard at work to match the music with something that is familiar to us. This makes sense when one considers that this kind of music is often associated with intellectuals. Observe someone listening to a piece of beautiful art music; the eyes are closed and a slight smile will sometimes appear. There is a kind of peace and tranquility about raising the mind above visible realities. Although we may not be able to relate physically to what we hear, we somehow know that there is great beauty in it; that it hearkens to something beyond the human condition. Many composers of classical music understand this and they often attribute or dedicate their music to some kind of spiritual reality.

When God created our universe he created order out of chaos. He designed human beings to desire order and beauty. There is something within an ordered rhythm that appeals to our nature as God created it. Music that represents the order within creation is truly beautiful. Keeping this in mind, a perversion of popular music arises in a disordered and chaotic rhythm, as is perhaps exemplified by the dubstep genre, as well as other rising genres. Sounds and tone patterns that would, taken by themselves, be naturally displeasing to the human ear, as in the heavy metal genre, are another example of disorder in music. Art music too is subject to this corruption of rhythm and melody. Experimental and cacophonous melodies or sounds have become more prevalent within the art music world and show a frightful disregard for order and natural beauty. This represents the very "modern" idea that ugliness and disorder can be made into art, and it exemplifies a perversion of the nature of art and beauty itself. It is the "enjoyment" of disordered music that leads to negative thoughts and emotions; indeed, some music is actually formulated for this very purpose, and it is only out of great ignorance or a desire to satisfy human concupiscence that these disordered musical styles can be enjoyed.

An important phenomenon to consider is that people develop nostalgic attachments to certain types of music. These attachments are, to a certain extent, independent from the objective nature of the music. Memories associated with a certain musical piece can, for the individual, completely change the effect that may be commonly perceived or that the artist or composer had originally intended. Children who grow up with certain musical genres have a greater appreciation for them as adults. It is this learned bias towards music that could explain why a person who loves beauty and order can enjoy what may be categorized as disordered music. One must always remember that attachments and biases often cloud clear thinking, and that we must learn to judge art objectively as well as subjectively.

Because of technological advancements, the skill required to produce music has been greatly minimized. This accounts for a sharp increase in mediocrity, especially in popular music, although art music is by no means exempted. The very real fact that almost anyone can compose music which will appeal to many, regardless of skill, and the fact that a general appreciation for genuine quality and skill has all but disappeared, has given rise to the music industry. It is an industry which churns out mediocre art for profit, and one which many sadly uneducated people have been drawn into. This point brings us back to the first part of this essay concerning music as art. Mediocre "art" created simply to make money is not art.

A final note concerning the appeal of art music. I am speaking primarily about most orchestral, film, and incidental compositions. I mentioned that our minds naturally seek to match what we hear to something which is familiar to us. The difficulty with the music I have just mentioned is that they do not easily coincide with life as we normally see it. This is one of the reasons it is often used to accompany a story, a story which may often be so fantastic that, if experienced in our everyday life, would be called miraculous. When I listen to beautiful orchestral music, my mind is drawn into the worlds of Narnia, Middle Earth, or Perelandra, the worlds of mythology and fantasy, worlds that are, in a sense, more real than ours, as G.K. Chesterton has observed. The contemplation of worlds where beauty does not wear a mask, where truth is not locked in churches and where goodness is not a mental construct is where the listener often finds peace. Of course, these worlds would be incomplete and even meaningless without the absolutely true, constant, immediate, and dare I say, fantastic reality of the story of our salvation. No story is more true and real than the story that is true and real for all the universe, unbound by culture or by history, free from the limits of time and space. For me, music has always been there to point the way to this world. To those heights we must all go, and we should not dismiss the guiding power of music.

Concerning Music

Part I: Musical Transcendence

 

I have always had an immense love and respect for music. Its capacity for celestial beauty and ability to inspire has affected billions of people, yet its power is often underestimated. In this series of articles, I will describe a fundamental and basic understanding of the nature (and effects) of music, in the hope that my thoughts are as close to the truth as possible.

While I have had some training in music, I have very little education in regards to music theory and the psychology and philosophy that informs it and flows from it, so I hope the reader will forgive me for any errors arising from my ignorance. Everything I know concerning this subject is rooted in my own observations and my basic psychological and philosophical knowledge (a knowledge founded in simple and universal metaphysical principles).

Let me first vehemently establish that there is an objective good in music. The common perception that good in music is subjective or relative is a fallacy. Music, first and foremost, is art. The final end and purpose of art is to portray truth (which, in this article, is synonymous with reality) and beauty in creation, to portray what is truly real, and its ultimate effect will necessarily be the raising of the mind to the Creator and the First Artist. It is a simple fact of human experience that some art fulfills this task better than others.

All art is subject to an objective judgement in the sense that it is either good art or bad art. This judgment is determined by both an objective and a subjective element. The subject matter of the art itself can be judged objectively according to its beautiful portrayal of what is true or real, and subjectively dependent on the skill of the artist and his ability to model his art after beauty and truth. In short, the objective good of the artifact is directly related to the objective good of its model, and the subjective good is directly related to the likeness between artifact and the model, which is dependent on the skill of the artist.

(A note on my use of the terms "truth" and "reality":  sin in itself is a lie, a turning away from all that is true, from God Himself. God, as Being Itself, contains within himself all that is, therefore all that is real is in God. Thus, in this metaphysical sense, sin, by itself and for itself, is not real and cannot be the subject of art. However, the effects of sin such as mercy, suffering and death, justice, damnation and forgiveness are valid, and indeed highly appropriate subjects for art as they are ultimately about our relationship with God. Furthermore, as the transcendentals {truth, beauty and goodness} all reside in God it follows that these "effects of sin" are objective goods.)

Music as art has the unique capacity to be modeled after a diverse and often exceedingly profound array of subjects. To clarify, I am speaking primarily of music separate from human vocals. The presence of vocals in music adds an entirely new element which I will describe in the final portion of this essay.

At its most basic level, music is written to tell a story, and the artist struggles to illustrate this story with the often ambiguous sounds of musical instruments, knowing that the quality of his art will be judged by how well it tells the story. Observe that such music can illustrate an objectively good story, as well as a story lacking in goodness.

Another model for musical composition is human emotion itself. It is in this arena that music has its real power, for it can represent and inspire nearly every emotion, both good and evil. How often have our moods been quickly changed by an arrangement of musical notes? This power has often been used to influence people for good as well as for evil. Ultimately it is by the emotive power of music that our thoughts and feelings are raised to the divine or lowered to the profane.

One may argue that this is a utilitarian understanding of music; that it should stand on its own apart from human influence and desire. In reply I would ask: in what realm, in what manner, and to what end can any art form be separated from the mind who gives it form and from the souls who will experience it? There will always be a part of us in that which we create.

In summary, music in its most perfect form and separate from vocal elements will represent the good (in light of the use of a transcendental here, one may even substitute the word "transcendent") in humanity and nature. Follow music to the heights (or depths) from which it flows and to which it leads, and it will ultimately inspire the contemplation of the beauty that is in all of creation, thus aiding in the ascent of the mind to the Creator Himself.

I have established the purpose of music as an art form; now one may readily ask how this is applicable to the vast array of musical styles and genres. Are there musical styles that represent beauty and truth more perfectly than others? Do certain genres inspire positive emotion while other genres inspire negative emotions? The answer to both these questions is yes, and I will explain how and why in part two of this article.

Violence and Cinema

Part I: The Death of Boromir

It is an obvious enough cultural fact in America that movies often gain attention for their thrilling action sequences, displays of prowess in war, and, of course, for the streams of blood extracted from a stylized severance of human limbs – Cf. “300.”

Short of displacing all violence from some puritanical desire to save the virgin eyes of children – short of creating the idea of some farcical utopia in which there is no suffering – it is beneficial to discuss the proper place of violence in art. In this post, we will focus specifically on the motion picture.

However, ancillary to this discussion is a clarification that still remains unclear. Many aesthetically educated folks – and here I include myself, if only as an acolyte – detest utterly the idea of an association of art with morality. In the case mentioned above, concerning an irrational fear of violence for the sake of preserving an unreal innocence, we might refer to the early days of the Focus on the Family reviews of newly released films. In these reviews, the question was whether or not the story had a good “moral” at the end or whether it had too much “sex” or “violence,” not whether or not the film was “beautiful.”

Apparently, there is a social separation between “morality” and “beauty.” The separation arises from bad “Christian” – scare quotes – films like “Fireproof.” “Fireproof” is supposed to be a morality tale about a married man addicted to pornography who has a “come to Jesus” moment. But I think it is immoral – both because it lacks beauty and imagination and because it has a design upon the viewer that has little to do with love. The filmmaker seems to have been more concerned with telling everyone that “pornography is bad” whilst wagging his pulpit finger at a bored and tired audience than with producing a beautiful work of art in the Western tradition. Obviously.

It is this understanding of morality that gives pause to the aesthete as he attempts to reconcile the two. But when he realizes that morality is something far other than moralizing, that virtue defies his attempts to contain it, he has no problem with admitting a trinity: goodness, truth, beauty.

And so to violence.

In order not to reduce violence – oh and the excitement! – to mere hacking and thrashing, I would like to proffer an example from Terrence Malick's “To the Wonder.” This latest of the Texas filmmaker's accomplishments portrays the relationship of two lovers, one a young Parisian mother, the other a Kansas environmental analyst. They meet in France, go to Mont Ste.-Michelle, fall in love. She follows him to America. They live in a builder home in the grassy fields under a Kansas sky. The relationship is fraught with cultural tensions, doubtful romance, the utter brokenness of these individuals as they strive for fulfillment and meaning, attempt to find it in each other.

At one point, the woman encounters another American man to whom she is drawn – a tradesman type, a rough. She sleeps with him in a seedy motel. She never smiles. It seems almost a moral experiment.

As an invested viewer, I watched this sequence in a fit of soulful agony. I could not bear the pain of the moment, but my eyes remained open. My heart clung to the asphyxiating beauty of the woman, of that beauty that seemed consummate in the love of the first man, and which was utilized like a well-greased tool by the second.

After the fact, she does not know what to do. She begins to walk confusedly on the side of the highway. The Kansas man finds her, finds out. In Malick's lack of verbal exchange, focus on physical expression, fragmented, frantic cinematography, the psychological struggle is an exquisite strain, as if someone had a grip on your veins.

But in all of this what is expressed? A beauty of wrecked potentiality. A beauty that must be sought and yet which is accessible if one will only choose to see. A beauty that cannot otherwise be portrayed to any believable extent.

We do not know perfection, and thus perfection must be shown by degradation, destruction, desolation. By opposites. Malick implies the possible anthesis. At the end of the movie, though a sort of reconciliation is achieved, the lovers part. We are forced to think of the alternate, but in homage to Malick, I will not state it here. It is the unspeakable, incomprehensible reality whereof this present life is but a shadow and a lie. If there is a lie, there is truth.

So what of violence in cinema? This too:

Boromir's brave breast went forth to meet the serrated point of the Uruk's shaft. Valor can have no expression without violence. And valor is beautiful. Violence is a foil to beauty, and like a foil it falls aside to reveal purpose behind it's veil.

But what if it cannot do this?

Part II: The Death of the Zombie

Violence without meaning, such as in the zombie thriller or the horror film – where guts and limbs and heads are split and crushed and splattered – lacks all imagination whatsoever.

What portends that visceral pleasure we experience when a gaping humanoid drags its festering top half across a field in pursuit of the not-yet-zombified protagonist? What is the significance of our cultural taste for violence of all sorts, especially mutilation of the human form?

→ The idea that all can – and so must – be subjected to our perusal for the selection of what brings most pleasure, excitement, artificial stimulation of the ego. Like masturbation. Violence in every instance is a display of misused power.

When Rick's group in “The Walking Dead” attempts to extract a bloated “swimmer” from a water well, the creature's body simply disintegrates and it's entrails fall one by one and plop into the water. The scene has no overarching significance. The group simply finds another water source. Thus, we must imagine that the design of the director was to draw upon some capacity for sadistic pleasure in his audience. Sadism by its very definition is an expression of a darker form of lust: the desire to have both the physical gratification available from sexual excitement and complete and utter power over the object of that excitement – in this case, a mutilated human form.

And so when scenes of violence – e.g. battle sequences – are placed before our eyes, such as those in Braveheart, where bodies are gratuitously mutilated for the visual feasting of the spectator, we are led to question the effectiveness of that human creation in reaching a manifestation of the beautiful or the sublime.

Sublimity through violence is a sort of intellectual damnation. When we are brought to such a state where our endorphins rush in a whirlwind of ecstasy at the sight of ruptured corpses – especially if we can figure ourselves in the place of the protagonist who ruptures them – then we blunt our ability to experience beauty, to experience the ultimate contrary of violence, which is the dizzying complex of the human person in all of his or her yearnings.

Meaningless violence, then, is ultimately an expression of self-loathing.

Therefore, the filmmaker who employs violence without implying its counterpoint is an enemy to culture, which is, after all, a human enterprise, the pursuit of the best that has been thought and said. In the representation of a violent annihilation of the human or the humanoid, the project of culture is annihilated. Self-loathing takes its place, a mis-anthropology that encourages the collapse of society, and all art with it.