There is more. The myths associated with Dionysus share many other similarities with Christianity. Dionysus is the only born-again god. The “Twice-Born,” one of his many appellations, led a scruffy group of followers that sophisticated people regarded as riffraff. Jesus and his early followers were similarly characterized by the intelligentsia of their age.
Around 1480, Leonardo had completed an earlier version of St. John the Baptist, which was eventually altered. It was an enigmatic painting of a relaxed, androgynous figure sitting under the ample shade of a bulbous tree, reaching more into terra than into heaven. The muscular, effeminate male in the painting was considerably younger than the usually gaunt ascetic who announced the coming of Christ. Cassiano dal Pozzo, who saw the painting at Fontainebleau in 1625, remarked, “It is a most delicate work but does not please because it does not arouse feelings of devotion.”
Since the poet Petrarch in the fourteenth century unearthed the lost legacy of the Classical world, many works of Greek playwrights, including Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus, became available to a public eager to rediscover these treasures. One play in particular was the compelling story of King Pentheus’s encounter with the god Dionysus. It’s important to remember that Leonardo completed his painting shortly after he was arrested, arraigned, and imprisoned while awaiting trial for the charges of sodomy.
Nowhere in his long career does Leonardo seem to have had a truly supportive or appreciative major ecclesiastical figure. In the first edition of The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, Vasari wrote, “Leonardo had a very heretical state of mind. He could not be content with any kind of religion at all, considering himself in all things much more a philosopher than a Christian.”
When the second edition was released, Vasari amended his characterization of Leonardo, making him a pious Christian. It is unlikely that Leonardo had any regard for the Church. In one of many riddles targeting the Church, he wrote, “I see Christ once more being sold and crucified and his saints martyred.” He protested the sale of indulgences and criticized the exaggerated pomp of churches, obligatory confession, and the cult of the saints. He mocked those redundant prelates who claimed to be “pleasing God” by lounging year-round in sumptuous residences. From all that we know of Leonardo’s character, the first edition’s version would most likely be the more accurate one. In many of his notes, Leonardo displayed a cynical, skeptical attitude toward the Church’s teachings.
I am aware that my interpretations of the four Leonardo religious paintings I have discussed are extreme and provocative. Many readers will take issue with me on any one of them. But if one stands back and examines Leonardo’s irreverence in all of them combined, a distinct pattern emerges. He painted haloless holy figures, sexually ambiguous angels calling attention to the wrong boy, smiling Madonnas, the infant Jesus swaddled in baby fat, and a clearly feminine figure sitting next to Jesus at the Passover dinner. Most provocatively, he created a St. John the Baptist who wears an animal skin associated with Dionysus, appears too well fed to be an anchorite, and is portrayed in the same posture as one of Leonardo’s pornographic drawings, making an enigmatic gesture. Taken together, these appear to be too significant to be mere coincidences.
Throw into this brew the fact that Leonardo loved playing practical jokes, creating illusions, and fooling people. Once, he invited a group of people into a room in which he had hidden in the corner a carefully cleaned mass of deflated sheep intestines. To the group’s curiosity, then discomfort, and finally horror, Leonardo arranged to have a bellows inflate the guts, which then began to balloon out into the room. As the space diminished, the guests were forced to crowd into the corner.
Even at a low point during his failed time in Rome, Leonardo managed to play a practical joke by fashioning a mythical beast. He dipped scales in quicksilver and pasted them onto a live reptile, which he had also augmented with large, exaggerated eyes. When he opened the box in which he kept the reptile, anyone coming in contact with the “monster” would justly recoil in terror, generating laughter from Leonardo.
For someone who reveled in being a trickster and posing riddles, what better way to get even with an institution that had repeatedly misunderstood and dismissed his genius than to hide in his paintings alternative interpretations that would have to wait for centuries until they could be read by a more secular society.
When the formidable pianist and composer Muzio Clementi first studied Beethoven’s quirky late string quartets, he was taken aback by how far Beethoven had pushed the boundaries of what was considered music in the early nineteenth century. Troubled by their complexity, he expressed his concern that audiences would find them so strange and unfamiliar to their ears that they would reject them. Clementi even went so far as to impertinently ask Beethoven if he even really considered them to be music. “Oh,” replied Beethoven casually, “they are not for you, but for a later age.”
Leonardo not only represented a shooting star in his own age, but he also presaged the pyrotechnics that would ensue far into the future. Like Beethoven, he not only created spectacular art for his own time, but also for viewers who would not be born for another five centuries, and who would have new sensibilities not present in Leonardo’s age.
Duchamp in the twentieth century channeled the rebellious licentiousness of a master who lived five hundred years earlier. Leonardo’s St. John the Baptist on one end and Duchamp’s L.H.O.O.Q. on the other form another set of bookends. Each contained a shocking poke at authorities in a paradoxically hidden (and not so hidden!) way; both challenged tradition in unconventional ways, declaring that the artist must do more than just realistically re-create surface details. They were kindred spirits, working centuries apart.
Chapter 9
Creativity
There is a paucity of interhemispheric communication during the first phase of the creative process. This provides an opportunity for the right hemisphere to explore its own territory of excellence with a minimum of interference from the left.
—Bogen and Bogen
Often we have to get away from speech in order to think clearly.
—Robert Shaver Woodworth
Leonardo was arguably history’s most creative individual. But what does it mean to be “creative”? Where does it originate? How does it manifest? In Greek mythology, Apollo was the sun god, the shining representative of light, reason, and logic. He epitomized the god of intellectual pursuits. His shrines had pithy proverbs over their entrances, like “Know thyself” and “Nothing in excess.” But, he was also humorless and imperious. His exploits with the fairer sex were generally a failure. The nymph Daphne was so repulsed by his pursuit of her that she turned herself into a laurel tree rather than fall to Apollo. He had homosexual relations with a young boy, Hyacinth. Among his exalted positions, he was the patron god of the famed Oracle of Delphi. But he only served in this function for nine months, and then left to live among the Hyperboreans in the extreme north.
Replacing him for the final three months of the year was his brother, Dionysus, god of the moon, night, ecstasy, intoxicated states, sensuality, fertility, and altered states of consciousness. He was the god of the lucky hunch, the divine epiphany, and intuitive knowledge. His retinue consisted of a riotous bunch of satyrs and nymphs and other symbols of fertility. He was a cannibal god much to be feared, and he was the god of creativity. The flash of insight was his domain, but it bordered narrowly on the verge of madness.
Whereas Apollo presided over courage and incisive cold logic, Dionysus held sway over fear and lust. As Friedrich Nietzsche brilliantly argued in his Birth of Tragedy, these two opposing principles formed the basis of Greek culture. This dichotomy between the spirits of Apollo and Dionysus suggests that the Greeks allegorically understood the different functions between the right and left brain.
The neurologist Charles Sherrington, using a marvelous metaphor, referred to the brain as an “enchanted loom.” We spin our dreams, thoughts, concerns, a
nd hopes on it. Of all the weavers in all the annals of history, none has produced a more complex tapestry for the rest of us to appreciate than Leonardo. This leads to the question: Was Leonardo’s extraordinary level of creativity merely a matter of degree, or was there something else involved?
All vertebrates have brains, yet in only this one species has creativity reached a level vastly different from all other vertebrates. The splitting of the human brain into two functionally different hemispheres was the critical adaptation that ensured humans would propel themselves away from all other creatures in nature. Émile Durkheim, one of the founders of twentieth-century sociology, referred to man as Homo duplex in recognition of the two natures arising from the two different sides of the cranium.
What part of the brain generates creativity? The capacity of Homo sapiens to solve problems in an innovative way requires two hemispheres working in concert. But a considerable body of research exists suggesting that of the two, the minor one—the right brain—is more critical for true creativity. This should come as no surprise, because the left hemisphere, intricately wired to interpret and generate language, depends heavily on obeying the rules of speech.
Speech requires properly arranging the linear sequence of syllables to form words, and grammar demands adherence to a set of rules children learn before they even know what a rule is. To add to the complexity, every language has many grammatical idiosyncrasies that follow no logical pattern. Also, in a child’s acquisition of numeracy skills, he or she learns that this essential knowledge requires that its laws be obeyed. Numbers proceed in a crisp linear fashion in a proscribed order. There can be no rearranging.
The most sublime function of the left hemisphere—critical thinking—has at its core a set of syllogistic formulations that undergird logic. In order to reach the correct answer, the rules must be followed without deviation. So dependent is the left brain on rules that Joseph Bogen, the neurosurgeon who operated on many of the first split-brain patients, called it the propositional brain: It processes information according to an underlying set of propositions. In contrast, he called the right hemisphere the appositional brain, because it does just the opposite: It processes information through nonlinear, non-rule-based means, incorporating differing converging determinants into a coherent thought. Bogen’s classification of the brain into two different types, proposition versus apposition, has been generally accepted by neuroscientists, and it appears often in neurocognitive literature.
The right brain’s contribution to creativity, however, is not absolute, because the left brain is constantly seeking explanations for inexplicable events. Unfortunately, although many are extremely creative, without the input of the right hemisphere, they are almost universally wrong. It seems that there is no phenomenon for which the left brain has not confabulated an explanation. This attribute seems specific for the left language lobe.
One does not need to examine many more examples from split-brain research to accept the idea that the left brain “makes stuff up.” The incredibly fanciful mythology that humans from divergent cultures have invented to explain natural phenomena bespeaks the creative ability of the left hemisphere to invent a story about why things happen. Confabulation, unfortunately, is not the kind of creativity that moves cultures forward.
The first step in the creative process is for an event, an unidentified object, an unusual pattern, or a strange juxtaposition to alert the right brain. In a mysterious process not well understood, it prods the left brain to pose a question. Asking the right question goes to the heart of creativity. Questions are a Homo sapiens forte. Despite the amazing variation in animal communication, there is only one species that can ask a question and—most impressively—dispute the answer. But Mother Nature would not have provided us with language simply to ask a question. She had to equip us with a critical appendage that could investigate those questions. That appendage was the opposable thumb. Thumbs have a lot to do with curiosity, which in turn leads to creativity.
Judging from the observable behavior of other animals, there are only a few that can be said to be truly curious. The primary reason for most animals’ lack of curiosity has to do with their inability to do anything about a question they were intelligent enough to formulate in the first place. For example, dolphins are very intelligent animals. Pound for pound, their brains are much larger than ours, and they exhibit behavior that is quite compatible with curiosity.
But there is a major difference.
Let us imagine that we are swimming with a school of dolphins in the open ocean. A fishing tackle box falls off the transom of a boat above them and begins its descent to the bottom. As it falls the dolphins circle it, curious about the nature of this most unusual item in their midst. In sophisticated dolphinese they whistle and click speculations to each other on the contents in the box. When the box finally settles on the bottom, they circle it and gently probe it with their bottle-nosed snouts. Alas, they will never be able to answer their original question concerning what is in the box, because they lack the means to open the box. Their flippers do not have the dexterity to accomplish the task. Neither do paws, claws, or talons. Natural selection tends to be economical. It does not burden a creature with instincts and abilities that exceed the limits of its normal operating system. Bestowing language on a creature that does not possess the means to answer the questions it has posed would be uneconomical. The opposable thumb provides Homo sapiens with the critical appendage.
To begin the search for where in the brain creativity arises, it would be beneficial to examine the pathological condition of alexithymia. The term literally means the absence of emotional words, but it is also accompanied by the absence of creativity. Patients suffering from alexithymia have dull dreams and speak in a flat monotone, without affective adjectives or adverbs that refer to emotions. They rarely use metaphors or resort to proverbs, and nary a sarcastic phrase passes their lips. They do not hum when they are doing something pleasurable, they rarely daydream, and they do not exhibit playfulness. In a group setting, after someone has told a joke, the alexithymic will likely frown and say, “I don’t get it.”
Joseph Bogen, the neurosurgeon, first called attention to the distinct syndrome when he observed that many of the epileptic patients on whom he had performed a commissurotomy manifested the syndrome of noncreativity. Somehow, disconnecting the two hemispheres deprived the left speech hemisphere of the input of the emotional right brain’s speech patterns, content, and inflection. The left brain of Bogen’s split-brain patients could not access the emotional tenor of the right brain, so they spoke in a flat manner and rarely used emotionally charged words to enliven their speech. The left brain lost access to what the right brain generates, which is essentially the source of creativity.
Examination of the brains of other alexithymic patients using CT scans and MRIs revealed that they had suffered a stroke or developed a tumor in their right brain. The evidence accumulated from studying alexithymic patients points convincingly to the right hemisphere as the locus for creativity.
In his comprehensive book, The Act of Creation, author Arthur Koestler poses the paradox of the holon. A holon exists as a self-contained entity, yet simultaneously it is a component of something else that makes up a greater whole. Cell mitochondria are organelles that are complete in themselves, yet they are also components of the larger cell. Our solar system is an entity that can be contemplated in isolation. Yet at the same time we know that it is but a component of our much larger Milky Way galaxy, which itself is but one tiny galaxy among an uncountable array of galaxies in the universe. In considering any aspect of reality, we shift our focus back and forth between the individual component and the greater gestalt. It is the figure/ground distinction every artist confronts. Koestler’s concept of the holon provides a useful template that can be superimposed on the two halves of the human brain to better describe their differing functions.
The left brain, the seat of the ego and superego, defines itself as separate f
rom the world. When it speaks, it uses the pronoun “I.” It contemplates the world from its comfortable executive function chair perched within the brain’s left frontal lobe, just behind the forehead. “I” sees itself and everything inside the encasement of the body’s skin as isolated from everything outside, which it classifies as “Not-I.” It focuses on the particular and is represented in the figure/ground in art. It sees itself as separate.
The right brain, in contrast, engages in holistic thinking, aware of its web of connections to everything else. The right brain’s mental states do not occur in single file as they do in the left brain, but rather the minor lobe merges a complex web of spirituality, intuitions, mysticism, and pattern recognition to generate complex feelings. From out of this soup emanates the first wisps of creativity.
Koestler personified his concept of the holon by using an example from mythology. Janus was the Roman god of the threshold. He was portrayed as having two identical faces, each one facing in opposite directions. When the two sides of the brain are truly integrated, Janusian thinking occurs. It is of a kind whereby a person will examine two opposing viewpoints or observe something from two entirely different directions. F. Scott Fitzgerald encapsulated Janusian thinking when he opined, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”
Creativity proceeds in four stages: perspiration, incubation, inspiration, and verification. The first stage requires that an individual master a particular domain of knowledge. Whether in the laboratory, before an easel, or simply at one’s desk, the problem has been examined thoroughly. Creative flashes come to those who have contemplated the problem for a long time. Everyone is familiar with this first phase, the one that demands the most perspiration. The frequently quoted maxim of Louis Pasteur referring to the process of scientific investigation was “In the fields of observation, chance favors the prepared mind.” During the long period of preparation leading up to a creative insight, the left brain is busy codifying and classifying the ins and outs of a particular field. On rare occasions, creativity can seem effortless. Mozart claimed that he often envisioned the entire score of a composition all at once, within his mind, and all that he had to do was to translate the score’s notes one at a time on paper. For the majority of people, a creative insight comes only after much noodling of the problem, looking at it from many different angles, seeking a solution.
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