St Josephs Academy - La Lumiere Yearbook (Prescott, AZ)

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 The Ethics of Art WILLIAM JOHN TUCKER, Ph.D Professor of English, University of Arizona Written for “The Sentinel” The literary critic of today who maintains that literature has an ethical value is apt to be scoffed at as Mid-Victorian and puritanical. He will probably be told that he is suffering from an “incompleteness of vision and will doubtless be asked to read the preface to Oscar Wilde’s novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, where he will find pronouncements like these: The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written: that is all. All art is quite useless. 'Phis is perhaps the clearest expression of the artistic temperament in our literature—a temperament of which James Huenker has the grace to say that it is often merely an excuse for kicking the decalogue in the mid- riff. Art for Art’s sake is an essentially pagan theory maintaining that literature exists for its own sake, and not to convey ideas about life. Surely a critic ought to he free to make a statement like this without being accused of going about in a challenging attitude with a chastity chi] on his shoulder.” Christianity refined art and gave to it its proper place. The old pagan conception gave way in a large measure to the Christian ideals of art. The pagan was inclined to love art for art's sake: the Christian loves art for humanity's sake, and ultimately, with Ruskin, for God’s sake. Taken literally, this theory of art for art’s sake is really meaningless, for art is a means to an end—the expression of the beautiful; and a means as such cannot be for its own sake. But it may mean that art should sub- serve no extrinsic purpose, professional or utilitarian: that it should be disinterested; that the artist must aim at the conception and expression of the beautiful through a disinterested admiration and enthusiasm for the beautiful. In this sense, of course, the theory expresses a principle wine . is quite true, and which asserts the noble mission of the artist to ’nankin • But, unfortunately, it is also commonly understood to claim the emancipa- tion of the artist from the bonds of morality, and his freedom to con- ceive and express beauty in whatever manner he pleases, regardless of whether he may aid men to virtue or solicit them to vice. This is a serious error. And it may be added that this erroneous view is not only ethically but also artistically unsound. For surely, it goes without saving that art ought to be based on truth; that the artist should understand human na- ture to which his work appeals; that he should not regard as truly beauti- ful a work the contemplation of which will produce an upheaval in the soul, which will solicit the lower faculties to revolt against the higher: and this is precisely what occurs when an artist ignores morality in the pursuit of his art. He fails to see that a wmrk of art must be judged not merely in relation to the total amount of pleasure it may give, but also in relation to the quality of the pleasure. He does not realize that if the total influence of the work is bad the work can neither be good nor beauti- ful. From the very nature of things this is so. Page 2 4

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 -« «MlfaSia3E2K five to thirty-five miles a day over rough and often unknown desert country. When fifty-one years of age, in fifty-three days he rode at least fifteen hundred miles. Two years later, he made a trip into Arizona as far as the Gila river between September 24th and October 29th. On this journey he traveled one thousand miles, covering stages of thirteen, four- teen, fifteen, and sixteen leagues in steady succession, day after day. One of the most remarkable single day rides that he records was made May 3. 1700, when, between sunrise and midnight he traveled more than seventy- five miles. He went in response to a call from a brother priest to save the life of a poor delinquent whom the soldiers had captured and were deter- mined to. beat to death on the morning of May 4. Father Kino had recently received from a distant chief of the Cocomari- copas the gift of “A holy Cross, with a string of twenty blue shells. North, east, and west to the farthest boundaries of Primeria Alta, he sent messengers to invite the chief men of the tribes he had visited to meet him at l ac, that he might inquire with the utmost exactness whether these blue shells could have been brought in any other way than overland from the South Sea. Within a week, the chiefs began to arrive from various direc- tions. They all assured him that the shells must have been brought from lands more distant than they knew. There is a strange and solemn charm in Father Kino’s account of the long night talks there in the remote silence of the starlit Arizona desert with these ruling men of the Fimas gathered from far and wide: for his discourse had quite as much to do with the Heavenly highway as it did with the land route to the Pacific. Also at night we had long talks, in the first place in regard to our holy faith, and in regard to the peace and quietude, and love, and happiness of Christians, and they promised, as we requested of them, to carry this good news and teachings to other rancherias and nations much farther on. I have longed to find some picture or statue of Father Kino, but I have been unable to find trace of any likeness of him. What could be a finer tribute to this great Arizona pioneer than the erection, even at this late day. of an idealized statue of him at San Xavier, which he founded, or in Tucson ? Father Kino was almost seventy years old at the time of his death. His conversation was constantly of the sweet names of Jesus and Mary. In season and out of season he made earnest intercession for the heathen: and he was incessant in watchings and fastings, insomuch that he was cruel to himself, though to all others he was kind and compassionate. Says Father Velarde: After supper, when he saw us already in bed, he would enter the church: and even though I sat up the whole night read- ing, I never heard him come out to get the sleep of which he was very sparing. The discovery of land and the conversion of souls had purified him. He was austere in all his habits: he drank no wine: he used tobacco in no form: he had for a couch only two rough Indian blankets. He wore coarse linen, and at his death possessed almost no wardrobe, for he gave everything he could as alms to needy Indians. “He died as he had lived, with extreme humility and poverty. In token of this, during his last illness he did not undress. His death-bed, as his bed had always been, consisted of two calf-skins as a mattress, two blank- ets such as the Indians used for covers, and a pack saddle for a pillow. Nor did the entreaties of Father Augustine move him to anything else. He died in the house of the Father where he had gone to dedicate a finely made chapel in his pueblo of Santa Magdelena, consecrated to San Fran- cisco Xavier. When he was singing the Mass he felt indisposed, and it seems that the Holy Apostle, to whom he was ever devoted, wass calling him, in order that, being buried in the Chapel, he might accompany him. as we believe, in glory.” Page 2S I

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 It would be unreasonable to maintain that every literary production should have a direct ethical value or that the artist is bound to aim posi- tively at producing a good moral effect through his work. Esthetic pleasure is, no doubt, a matter of indifference. The pursuit of it through the con- ception and expression of the beautiful is the proper end of the fine arts, and is itself legitimate so long as it does not undermine the moral law. But every literary production which has not a direct ethical value should have at least an indirect ethical value, if literature is to serve its highest end for the benefit of humanity. We may read, for instance, a certain poem which serves to give us intellectual pleasure without necessarily conveying any moral whatsoever. Still, inasmuch as the soul of him who reads is refined and elevated for the moment upon reading a given poem, insomuch does the poem possess an indirect moral value that helps the individual towards the realization of the higher life—the result of coming into close contact with lofty emotion and refined thought. In this way, all literature, no matter what its subject-matter, serves its true aim and makes for tbe betterment of him who profits by the influence it exerts. This is the Christian view of the matter, but that it is emphatically not the view of some of our most representative writers of the past century may readily be seen from a perusal of their works. Page 25