Going Underground 0 comments

ONE of the greatest strains in the life of any artist or writer is the constant pressure to promote one’s work and to compete in the marketplace. First and foremost there is the stress of economic survival, which for most artists is a lifelong struggle. It is no accident that many creative types dislike the market economy; after all, their “product” is often looked upon as a useless luxury and (in America, at least) there is the not-always-covert feeling that they are little more than freeloaders.

But my guess is that the majority of artists do not resent the market economy so much as the need to advertise themselves and gain public recognition. The private, solitary act of artistic creation is one thing; stepping outside of that inwardness in order to push the “product” is something utterly different. Those who criticize artists as spoiled whiners generally have no conception of this psychic tension.

Artists and writers cope with this tension in a variety of ways. They hire publicists and agents, sign on with galleries, hit the lecture circuit. Often they take matters into their own hands, selling their work out of their studio or hoping to go directly to a sympathetic editor. There are some who seem to thrive on self-promotion. The last two hundred years of Western history have tended to support those artists who happily thrust themselves into the limelight. From the Romantics to the High Modernists and beyond, the tradition of the artist as hero and martyr has led to the glorification of the artist as superstar, media prankster, or political protester. From Gauguin’s image of himself as a Nietzchean force beyond good and evil to the camera-oriented antics of Andy Warhol, Jeff Koons, and Karen Finley is not that great a leap.

Still, for most artists the tension remains. In the case of artists who are religious believers, the tension, though it may not be greater than that of nonbelievers, at least has an added spiritual focus. How can one be humble and meek and yet be adept at selling oneself, particularly in a culture that favors the aggressive, media-savvy personality? How does the artist of faith deal with a hostile cultural establishment and not give in to rage or despair?

For some artists the struggle simply becomes too much; they become drop-outs. In a few cases, the experience of burn-out is accompanied by an intense religious experience. For example, a few years ago I came across the writing of an Anglo-American poet named Dunstan Thompson, who was often mentioned in the same breath as Dylan Thomas as one of the most promising poets of his time. After years of behaving like Dylan Thomas, Thompson converted to Christianity and made almost no efforts to publish again. After his death one of his friends published a remarkable book of Thompson’s poetry, written over the course of decades.

Or take the example of the painter William Congdon, featured in this issue of Image. In the 1950s, Congdon was considered a rising star. He was frequently associated with Jackson Pollock and the Action Painters, and praised by critics like Clement Greenberg and patrons like Peggy Guggenheim. Then, in 1959, after years of inner turmoil and crisis, he was received into the Catholic church and joined a Christian community in Assisi, Italy. Because he stopped promoting his work, for many it seemed that Congdon had just dropped off the face of the earth. But he never stopped painting. Even without the pressure of public attention his work remained at the highest pitch of intensity and brilliance. There is little doubt that Congdon could have been “rediscovered” at any time, but the strength of his religious faith, combined with his seeming betrayal of the mainstream art world, kept most of his former patrons and promoters away.

Though there are some who would call artists like Thompson and Congdon neurotic or anti-social, I cannot see it that way. The decision to take oneself out of the game, it seems to me, can in some instances be an act of courage, rather than of cowardice. Perhaps when these individuals do drop off the face of the earth they go below the surface, into an underground. Not in the sense of Dostoevsky’s alienated “Underground Man,” but in the manner of the catacombs.

Beneath the clamor of a world that is increasingly giving way to triviality and despair, the religious underground artist pursues beauty for its own sake, as an echo of the prodigal creative energy of the Creator. Like Gerard Manley Hopkins struggling with his own demons and pouring out words in sprung rhythm unheard in his own time, the religious underground artist thinks of God as the first member of his audience. To do this takes a particular kind of courage. Even though it is hidden from view, the work is there, below the surface, like buried a gem or an archaeological trove. It is up to us to find it.