The Delight of Discovery
Approaching Art as “The Few” versus “The Many”
By Joel Klepac
Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son, Oil on canvas 262×205 cm, 1669
Tom, an art professor at the Rhode Island School of Art and Design, went early one morning to the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg to see The Return of the Prodigal Son by Rembrandt. He brought with him a drawing board and paper nearly the same size as the painting, and over the course of the day he drew a reproduction of the painting. Through this effort he felt he could really see the Rembrandt, and he exemplified for us how “the Few” engage in art.
Two Ways to Approach Art
C.S. Lewis is commonly known for his Narnia series, but it was a chapter in An Experiment in Criticism I read while studying painting in college that has haunted me more than the White Witch. In chapter three, Lewis draws a compelling distinction between two basic ways one might approach a piece of art or music: the way of “the Many” and the way of “the Few.” In short, the Many use and impose their projections onto the artwork whereas the Few really try to see it for what it is saying on its own terms.
On social media I find great enthusiasm for the arts and I confess I have heartily “liked” a great many pieces of visual art after glancing at them for at least 1.3 seconds. On the one hand, this is the state of things, and some acceptance probably is in order; however, it is a perfect demonstration of Lewis’ main point. To quickly thumbs up or thumbs down a work of art is only possible in the way of the Many. Again, in this respect I cannot judge, for I also find myself under the spell of the scrolling curse, probably attributable to the White Witch.
According to Lewis, the way of the Many tends to be our default approach to art, which is to use art. This is to look at a piece in order to find things I like—flowers, for example, or trees, clowns, scumbled abstract surfaces, royal family, dogs, cats, lizards, pandas, beach scenes, wooded scenes, cabins in wooded scenes, cabins in wooded scenes with cotton candy light, what have you. Lewis humbly declares that there may be nothing inherently wrong in this, but projecting our imagination onto an object is how we treat toys or Eastern Orthodox icons, and rightly so, as we are using these objects as jumping off points for our imagination or devotion. The buttons on the sock puppet allow us to imagine a prince or a rabbit; the beach scene lets me remember my summer vacation on Annamaria Island. While in most cases this is harmless, we are left untouched by the exchange. We merely use the object of art to project onto it the idea of our favorite things. In this case, bad art serves just as well as good art, and really we may not know the difference. This is a particular vulnerability for Christians and Marxists alike, and Christian Marxists.
Photo provided by Joel Klepac
Looking Deeply at Art
Traveling in Bolivia I saw a lovely painting of a little girl with a pin of Che Guevara and one of Minnie Mouse. Curiously enough, before digging up the image, I remembered it as a picture of Che with a Mickey Mouse button. It turns out my memory deleted the girl. Here the portrait enthusiasts, Marxists, beret lovers, and Disney lovers can all share in giving the thumbs up to the painting. I happened to like the irony of Che with a Disney character and so completely missed the human in the picture. The criteria of the Many to like or dislike this painting has nothing to do with the painting itself, leaving them spiritually untouched by what the painting might actually mean. The primary problem of the approach of the Many is that usually there isn’t really an understanding of what we are rejecting or accepting because there is no true engagement with the work of art. In a real sense we are blinded by our projections. If we like what it triggers in our own imagination we like it, but in fact, as Lewis points out, we actually have not truly seen it.
The Few, in contrast, start with a suspension of judgment, look, wait, and attend to what is actually there: the colors, shapes, forms, repetitions. By the way, this careful attention to what is there in the artwork is the same process as inductive Bible study or literary criticism, and in some sense, this is the same treatment we long for from other humans in relationships. We secretly say to ourselves, Please don’t only see my Disney logo or Che Guevara button. Suspend your judgments and see me, get to know me, listen, wait, and try to hear my heart and what I am really about.
The Few are changed by art. Because they surrender, wait, and listen, they are open to a real meeting with another consciousness mediated through art. If this reminds you of spirituality, that is no accident. Any deep apprehension of the world involves a surrender, as Lewis says. Kenosis, or self-emptying, is the heart of Christian contemplation. This practice of surrendering, waiting, and attending to what is really there versus what I think is there, or what I think should be there, is also the starting place of producing and appreciating great art. We make art and only really engage with it from a place of openness, surrender, and deep listening to our experience in the world—kenotic presence. No great art is quick, and there is no great art appreciation that is quick. In fact, it is like any other relationship that starts with the belief the other has something to say, with listening and waiting. This attentiveness makes possible a type of communion across centuries with distant fellow humans.
Looking Deeply at the World
In the end of this process of surrender, waiting, listening, and attending is the delight of discovery—to find oneself changed, transformed even. It can feel a little like falling in love. If we approach the work of art as arbiter and judge we leave empty and unchanged, or to use another word, unrepentant. If we enter humbly, seeing ourselves as “the greatest sinner” as many saints declared, we have the chance of a real encounter, with a vision of the divine that may undo, surprise, amuse, or disgust us with a different but truer image of ourselves and the world. Maybe instead of reacting to the Che Guevara or Minnie Mouse button, we encounter this Bolivian girl standing in her dignity, in the innocence of childhood, made in the image of God, defying all of our neat categories of good and bad, hero or villain.
Lewis is still reminding us that as much as we give in to the scrolling spell punctuated with likes, we likely remain unchanged by real encounters. We can choose, however, the asceticism of kenosis—surrender, listening (preferably in silence), humility, and longsuffering—to look deeply at the world as we make art, at the long labors of others. It is here we are the malleable clay being sculpted into what we were meant to become.
Now, back to Tom—the art professor I mentioned in the beginning. A museum guard watched him throughout the day and expressed interest and awe at the drawing. When Tom finished, near closing time, he rolled up the drawing and handed it to the guard. The guard gave him a confused look and Tom said, “It’s ok, you can have it, I have seen it now.”
Joel Klepac studied fine art painting at Asbury University where he was first inspired by the work of Georges Rouault. Later he worked with children at risk in Romania for 9 years before completing a Master of Arts in Marriage and Family Counseling at Asbury Theological Seminary. Currently he works in a college mental health center and teaches adjunct in the School of Counseling at Asbury Seminary. In addition, he continues to paint and write. His first book is entitled Miserere Mei: A Journey of Self-Discovery through the Art of Georges Rouault.
Painting courtesy of Wikiart.