On “Artistic Temperament” & Other Paradoxes 0 comments

By Michael Capps

One of the benefits of having some really smart friends is that their observations often mingle together in my inbox.

An email came a few days ago pointing me to the announcement that the Dallas Opera was hosting a series of dialogues around their upcoming opera season. We were both attracted by the proposed title for the dialogue surrounding their production of Puccini’s La Bohème: “Marginalized: Why Art and Literature Thrive on the Outskirts.” Among the prompts included with this topic were: Why is the artist so frequently a social outcast or outsider? What is his or her value, as such? Does great art require a certain level of discomfort? Is the so-called “artistic temperament” really just a romantic term for the socially impaired?

These questions are a lot of fun. There are, after all, artists seem to revel in their special privilege of outsider status—of being the provocateur. They are fun to talk about, but sometimes their exploits feed our own artistic insecurities. We ask ourselves, “Is my art edgy enough? Is it too provocative to be effective? Am I merely pandering to popular tastes?”

We are concerned about ending up like Franz Liszt...best known for his worst stuff. So we worry when the audience doesn’t like it, and we worry when they do like it. This reminds me of a story about the composer Alban Berg. While performing his military service during the First World War, he began work on his opera Wozzeck. This expressionist masterpiece took as its subject Georg Buchner’s unfinished play about the brutal and harsh treatment of the poor, and it was beautifully set by Berg in a jarring and unflinching style—perfectly framing the story’s descent into a jungle of cruelty and madness.

The work’s premiere in 1925 was a brilliant success, against many expectations to the contrary. Berg’s response? It is said that he was distraught and almost inconsolable. What he had expected might be something of a provocation turned out to be alarmingly close to popular taste.

On the other hand, I have in my inbox another similar email thread discussing the romantic notion of the artist as a “spiritual wizard who spins trash into metaphysical gold.” In my friend’s note was the question: “When will we finally get bored with pretending that artists are so magically precious? Isn't it obvious that there's joy in being ordinary—in applying our creative capacity attentively, with discipline?” In opposition to the examples of artists who revel in their outsider role, she notes that there are some “who never seem to wonder how their art fits in the world, but are widely received anyway.” She observes that some artists seem driven to suit their own tastes regardless, not even bothering to seek an audience—a situation akin to monastic labor.

A parallel can be drawn here. The church has at times takes a stance as the outsider. We take a certain—pride, shall we say?—in our sometimes provocative and scandalous claims, as well as our apparent instructions to remain somewhat aloof from the world and its charms. Religion can also, if it does what it’s supposed to do, generate a certain level of discomfort. It can be provocative. And it can certainly put one on the outskirts in certain circles. It also has more than its share of monastic laborers, who settle in to their work with the simple satisfactions of a farmer. I think it may be one of the reasons that art and faith have traveled so well together.

So wouldn’t it be fun to change the title of the dialogue referenced above? Now we would have: “Marginalized: Why Faith Thrives on the Outskirts.” We would rephrase some of the questions. Why are the faithful so frequently social outcasts or outsiders? What is his or her value, as such? Does true faith require a certain level of discomfort? Is the so-called “religious temperament” a romantic term for the socially impaired?

I’d like to hear that discussion as well.