The Artist Unaccountable

For the Sake of Others War and Peace

 

When a doctor attends to the sick, she is dutifully fulfilling a role. After, she would expect for her effort to be acknowledged, assessed, and compensated. This is not the case when a poet pulls out a piece of paper and spends hours on end putting words together and pulling them apart. Seldom is the case that somebody else is waiting to be affected by that specific poem. However, this seemingly detached endeavor—art—has potentially tremendous impact and importance in zones of conflict and elsewhere. Art exists wherever humans existed. Still, it is hard to define a role for art and artists, since both the coming to the world of a piece of art and the reactions to it are unpredictable.

 

In a world where we are pressed to provide efficiency reports on all efforts, it might be unthinkable to claim that there could be nothing to show for the artist’s efforts. Many do succumb to this temptation to provide justification for that effort.  Doing so strays from art’s way of comprehending the world, as it compromises with what oppresses us. Art, as I understand it, is a free, insubordinate and often-playful activity that seeks a truth of one sort or other. Such a quest cannot, nor should it, be bound by rationality. Art could be like sitting around and digging a whole with stick; it has neither rhyme nor reason, other than the following a pressing urge to do so. The inner necessity, as Rilke calls it. “A Demon whom one can neither resist nor understand,” said Orwell.1

 

In a conflict zone, the expectation to justify this endeavor—art making—becomes a moral one. The individual playing with a stick is now cornered; there is an urgency to be useful in a life-and-death situation. Yet artists, like other people, have taken the morally wrong side of events and are not taken to be lesser artists. Wagner comes to mind. Rimbaud was an arms dealer. And Adonis’ position on the Syrian revolution was less-than-glorious. The measure of art itself is neither moral nor rational.

 

I do acknowledge that there is something seductive and comforting about an artist putting her skill to use for a righteous struggle. That comfort speaks to the fear of artists and society: this endeavor might be altogether irrelevant. Faced with the moral “must” like the oppressive “must,” Milosz describes in The Captive Mind: “The writer does not surrender to this ’must’ merely because he fears for his own skin. He fears for something much more precious —the significance of his work.”2

 

That fear—acknowledged or not—is the condition all artists live under, be they under oppressive or democratic regimes.  It is certainly true of visual arts produced in the United States now. Nearly all the language of museum catalogues is couched in this assertion or desire of importance and significance. Often we are led to believe that such significance is of a political and historical order. It is important to note that such significance cannot be predicted with infallibility. While writing one of the greatest political novels, Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell confessed: “It is bound to be a failure, every book is a failure, but I know with some clarity what kind of book I want to write.”3

 

I was asked this question, what role for the artist in a conflict zone, as I was translating the poem “The Artist’s Idea” by Aboul Kacem Echabbi.4 It opens with this:

 

Live with feelings and for feelings ‘cause

 

your world is a universe of sentiments and feelings.

 

It was built upon deep affection, and it would

 

wither if it were built upon thought.5

 

My interest in Echabbi was rekindled as one of his verses morphed into the main slogan of the Arab Spring: “The people want to bring down the regime.”According to the testimony of an activist from Kassrine, it started in Tunisia around January 8, 2010, and became a resounding rallying cry in Egypt’s Tahrir Square. In Yemen, the slogan was converted into rhythmic call and answer protest song. In Syria, a group of youths under the age of 15 were arrested in the city of Dera'a after having sprayed ash-shab yurid isqat an-nizam graffiti. The Wall Street Occupiers chanted it, in Arabic, making their own version: “The people want to bring down Wall Street.” The inspirational original 1933 verses of Echabbi are:

 

               If the people one day wanted to live,

          

      then surely fate must submit.

       

         The night too shall end and,

   

             the chains shall break.6

 

It is fascinating and awesome for a line of poetry to have such resonance across many lands and times. Such power is a vindication of art. In a way, all artists strive for such an impact, but this desire hardly constitutes a role to be filled. Echabbi was anything but a political leader or activist. He was a romantic poet who lived with feelings and for feelings as he professed. This poet who sensed what his people are and could become. Seventy-three years later his conditional sentence—If the people one day wanted to live—became an affirmative one: The people want to...

 

There lies the importance of this effort—art. James Baldwin contends that:

 

The Poets (by which I mean all artists) are finally the only people who know the truth about us. Soldiers don’t, Statesmen don’t. Priests don’t. Union Leaders don’t. Only poets. (…) We know about the Oedipus complex not because of Freud but because of poet who lived in Greece thousands of years ago. And what he said then about what it was like to be alive is still true.7

 

The other point Baldwin makes in the same lecture is: “Art is here to bear, the fact that all safety is an illusion. In this sense, all artists are divorced from and even necessarily opposed to any system whatever.”8

 

The juxtaposition of “role” and “artist” implies that there is a neat world out there—a safe world—where each is assigned a role. Even that odd creature playing with stick is given a function. Why? Is it so threatening that such person has no role? The truth is that many of us, artists, die without having had the impact that Echabbi or Rilke achieved. Yet we do exist and go about life like artists. “Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come.”9

 

With regards to storms of spring and zones of conflict, the artist is not immune to them, no more than other people. Adonis said in an interview that a poet is moved with equal intensity by the drop of dew on the rose and by major disasters like wars. Orwell says that what makes him write is a sense of injustice. That alone does not make him an artist. About Homage to Catalonia (1938), he wrote: “I did try very hard in it to tell the truth without violating my literary instincts.”10

 

Zones of conflict are places with tremendous intensity, grief, and horror, where human beings are tested in their most basic instincts: the desire to survive and win. Such an experience could genuinely inspire works or art, or not. Matisse painted flowers during World War II while helping his daughter and wife in underground resistance efforts. There is no must in art. “A poet is never just a woman or a man. Every poet is salted with fire.”11 If indeed the artist has a role, she is held unaccountable for the position.

 

Green Tiles II (2011), silkscreen and watercolor, 18” X 24”

 

1. George Orwell. Why I Write (New York: Penguin Books, 2005): 10.

 

 

2. Czeslaw Miłosz. The Captive Mind (New York: Vintage International, 1990): 12.

 

 

3. Orwell, 2005: 10.

 

 

4. Also spelled: Aboul-Qacem Echebbi and Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi

 

 

5. My translation, from the original Arabic.

 

 

6. Ibid.

 

 

7. James Baldwin. “The Artist's Struggle for Integrity,” in Randall Kenan, ed. The Cross of Redemption, Uncollected Writings (New York: Vintage International, 2011): 51.

 

 

8. Ibid.

 

 

9. R. M. Rilke, F. X. Kappus, and S. Mithchell. (Letters to a Young Poet (New York: Vintage, 1986): 24.

 

 

10. Orwell, 2005: 9.

 

 

11. Susan Howe and Emily Dickinson. My Emily Dickinson (New York: New Directions, 2007).