Suetonius writes of earthquakes, plagues, wars, riots, rebellions, conspiracies, betrayals, coups, terrorism and mass slaughter. Considered on its own it might seem to be the record of a society whose collapse must surely be imminent. But, in fact, Suetonius was writing before – and not after – one of the most impressive periods of Roman achievement, which would come fifty years later under the rule of the stoic philosopher and emperor Marcus Aurelius.
The disasters that Suetonius catalogues were compatible with a society heading overall towards peace and prosperity. Reading Suetonius suggests that it is not fatal for societies to be in trouble; it is, in fact, usual for things to go rather badly. In this respect, reading ancient history generates the opposite emotions to scanning today’s news. Events have been much worse before and things were, in the end, OK. People behaving very badly is a normal state of affairs, and there have always been existential threats to the human race and civilisation. It makes no sense, and is a form of twisted narcissism, to imagine that our era has any kind of monopoly on idiocy and disaster. By reading Suetonius we enter unconsciously into his less agitated and more stoic reactions. He, and history more generally, encourage connection to what we need now more than ever: the less panicky, more resilient side of ourselves.
Hiroshi Sugimoto,
Atlantic Ocean, Martha’s Vineyard,
1986
In a very different medium, a similar move is being made by the Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto through his gigantic empty photographs of seas and oceans in a variety of moods. What is most notable in these sublime scenes is that humanity is nowhere in the frame. We are afforded a glimpse of what the planet looked like before the first creatures emerged from the seas. Viewed against such an immemorial backdrop, the precise discontents in our relationship, the frustrations in our work, and the machinations of our enemies matter ever so slightly less. We regain composure not by being made to feel more important, but by being reminded of the minuscule and momentary nature of everyone and everything.
As our eyes wander over the vast grey swell of the sea, we are immersed an attitude of gratifying indifference to ourselves and to everything about our laughably insignificant fate. The waters of time will close over us, and it will – thankfully – be as if we had never lived.
Conclusion
Works of culture can redeem us in a variety of ways, but we should never overlook the fact that they can do so only on one condition: that they are successful as works of art. It isn’t enough that they should badly want to help us, that they should have powerful intentions to be companionable, serene or inspiring. They must also be these things in and of themselves. In other words, they cannot be mere manifestoes or declarations; they must, in addition, be good art.
That we need good art in the first place has to do with one of the deepest troubles of the human condition: we are generally committed to rejecting or ignoring all good advice unless we have first been extremely skilfully charmed or seduced into accepting it. The point was memorably elaborated on in the early nineteenth century by the German philosopher Hegel, who was deeply struck by the way in which good advice usually doesn’t cut through into our lives. Extremely wise ideas have, since the beginning of time, been offered to humanity. The argument for kindness rather than cruelty or the long-term over the short-term have been won long ago in the pages of serious philosophical texts. But, as Hegel was painfully conscious, this has never in itself had much impact on how we actually behave. What counts, he realised, isn’t simply the message, but also the medium.
And, he concluded, the very best medium for imparting ideas is good art. In his Lectures on Aesthetics (1835), Hegel suggested that the best art has the capacity to present important ideas in a seductive, captivating form. As he formulated it, art is the sensuous presentation of ideas. Sensuousness – beauty, lustre, charm, playfulness, wit – is no mere incidental add-on, it is what makes the difference between a message lodging in our minds and flitting straight in and out again.
Hegel had particular admiration for how the ancient Greeks hadn’t restricted themselves to presenting their ideas as philosophy. They had managed to give them a more compelling form, as theatre, set to music, or sculpted out of stone. So for example, Apollo may have been the god of wisdom, but in order that his wisdom be remembered and adhered to, the Greeks had grasped that he needed a pleasing, and even at points physically enticing, outward form; that his hair had to be thick, his muscles akin to those of a great wrestler and his cloak teasingly drawn back (overleaf). Only then would his wisdom emerge as properly believable.
Wisdom embodied in a sensuous form
After Leochares,
Apollo Belvedere,
c. 120–40 AD
A great artist isn’t, therefore, just someone who sets out to help us live and die well. It is someone who knows how to seduce us into wisdom, so that we are at once instructed, entertained, charmed and gripped.
We need culture around us because we are so poor at retaining our equilibrium and maturity. The best lessons are constantly draining from us. We must have the right songs, films, history books, plays and images to hand to keep us from succumbing to rage and error. Culture is our emotional apothecary, a storehouse of humanity’s finest bottled wisdom and compassion, with whose help we have the best chance of riding out our many inevitable moments of fragility and folly.
Credits
Introduction
p.9 Rogier van der Weyden, The Descent from the Cross, before 1443. Oil on panel, 204.5 x 261.5 cm. Museo del Prado, Madrid.
Companionship
p.19 Anselm Kiefer, Alkahest, 2011. Oil, emulsion, acrylic, shellac, chalk, lead and glass on canvas 280 x 380 x 19 cm. Courtesy Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, London • Paris • Salzburg © Anselm Kiefer. Photo: Ulrich Ghezzi. p.21 Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, The Leaning Tree Trunk, c. 1860-65. Oil on canvas, lined, 49.7 x 60.7 cm © The National Gallery, London. Salting Bequest, 1910. p.27 Henri Matisse, Woman Reading at a Small Table, c. 1923. Photo: Archives H. Matisse, all rights reserved. Artwork: © Succession H. Matisse/ DACS 2018. p.29 Christen Købke, A View of Østerbro from Dosseringen, 1838. Oil on canvas, 39.5 × 50.5 cm. Museum Oskar Reinhart. National Gallery of Denmark. p.32 Andrea del Verrocchio, Tobias and the Angel, c. 1470–5. Tempera on poplar wood, 83.6 x 66 cm, The National Gallery, London.
Hope
p.37 Claude Monet, Poppies, 1873. Oil on canvas, H.50 x W.65 cm. Granger Historical Picture Archive / Alamy Stock Photo. p.38 Pierre-Auguste Renoir Picnic (Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe), c. 1893. Oil on canvas, overall: 21 1/4 x 25 11/16 in. (54 x 65.3 cm). BF567. Barnes Foundation. p.41 Bernard van Orley (workshop of), Virgin and Child, 1640–99. Oil on canvas, H. 73.3 cm × W. 62 cm × T. 3.2 cm × D. 9 cm, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam. p.44 (top) Vincent van Gogh, Still Life: Vase with Pink Roses, 1890. Oil on canvas, 71 × 90 cm. (bottom) Vincent van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889. Oil on canvas, 60 cm × 49 cm. Archivart / Alamy Stock Photo.
Balance
p.52 Mel Gibson, Braveheart (1995). Moviestore collection Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo. p.55 (top) John Pawson: The Life House, Wales, 2011–16. John Pawson. (bottom) Borromini: San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome, 1638–41. Vladimir Khirman / Alamy Stock Photo. p.56 (top) Jacques-Louis David, The Oath of the Horatii, 1784. Oil on canvas. 329.8 cm × 424.8 cm. (bottom) Edmund Leighton, The End of The Song, 1902. Oil on canvas, 128.52 × 147.32 cm.
Encouragement
p.83 George Du Maurier, ‘The Six-Mark Tea-pot’, Punch (1880). © Heidelberg University Library. p.85 Traditional ceramic tea bowl. Sino Images/Getty Images. p.86 Louis Kahn, National Assembly Building, Dhaka, 1970. Muhammad Mostafigur Rahman / Alamy Stock Photo.
Appreciation
p.91 David Hockney, Three Trees near Thixendale, Summer, 2007 Oil on 8 canvases (36 x 48 in. each) 72 1/4 x 192 3/4 in. overall © David Hockney. Photo Credit: Richard Schmidt. p.92 (top left) Albrecht Dürer, Great Piece of Turf, 1503. Watercolour, pen and ink. 40.3 cm × 31.1 cm. (top right) Pierre Bonnard,
Woman with Dog, 1922. Oil on canvas, 69 x 39 cm. Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA / Bridgeman Images. (bottom) Mary Cassatt, Mother Playing with her Child, 1899. Pastel on wove paper, mounted on cardboard, 64.8 x 80 cm © 2000–17 The Metropolitan Museum of Art. All rights reserved. p.94 Vanessa Bell, Interior with the Artist's Daughter, c. 1935–36. From the collection of the Charleston Trust. Copyright the Estate of Vanessa Bell, courtesy of Henrietta Garnett.
Perspective
p.102 Hiroshi Sugimoto, Atlantic Ocean, Martha’s Vineyard, 1986. Gelatin silver print, 50.8 x 61 cm. Courtesy of artist / Fraenkel Gallery.
Conclusion
p.108 after Leochares, Apollo Belvedere, c. 120–40 AD. Copy of bronze original of ca. 350–25 BC. White marble. Vatican Museums, Musei Vaticani, Vatican City.
The School of Life is dedicated to developing emotional intelligence – believing that a range of our most persistent problems are created by a lack of self-understanding, compassion and communication. We operate from ten physical campuses around the world, including London, Amsterdam, Seoul and Melbourne. We produce films, run classes, offer therapy and make a range of psychological products. The School of Life Press publishes books on the most important issues of emotional life. Our titles are designed to entertain, educate, console and transform.
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What is Culture For? Page 5
