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

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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

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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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 - G . WG 6YC gVy o-, The Desert, Its Fascination and Wonders To the uninitiated, the word “desert’’ gives a feeling of bareness, aban- donment and fear of the unknown. To those, however, who know it best, it has a fascination; is a never-ending source of wonder, and lias that call, the unnameable thing that grips the very soul that brings him again and again to reflect deeply on the power of his Creator and the artistry of the hand of God. Arizona is a land of constant contradictions. Its magnificent heights, sweeping upward to the very heavens. Its low and fertile valleys, stretch- ing far beyond sight, to the ends of the earth, and its broad mesas, with their deceptive velvet-like appearance, give to the eve of the veriest skeptic a feeling of amazement. The desert is, in spite of its abandoned appearance, teeming with life, both arboreal, and corporeal. Each lofty range of mountains hides the vastness of a broad valley or plateau just beyond. Every mesa holds something impressive, concrete, that can cause one to spend hours, ves, days, wondering; what it is of the desert that so grips one's soul. Artists stand speechless at the glory of a desert sunset. Vet not one has been able to catch with his brush the wondrous colors of the painting of the Almighty. Over the wastes of the desert, in mirage and mere im- agination are visions that the poet and novelist have endeavored to put into words, but have failed to do so. Storms sweep over the grey pall of the desert, bringing chaos and ruin to its death-taking wonder—and pass, leaving in its place the soft velvet glow of the cactus, grease-wood and mesquite. What is the desert? Words cannot suffice. The soul of the spectator alone can tell. Explain the beauty of Music, the thrill of Love, the secret of the Sphinx. To those to whom its beauties have become revealed it is an open boon. To the rest it remains a secret, inscrutable and forbidding. Impressive from every standpoint, the weird beauty of the desert pos- sesses a fascination not easily thrust aside. It is not, strictly speaking, an acquired taste. You like it—or you don’t. There is no middle ground. You see it as a thing of beauty, mysterious, compelling, satisfying—or as a vast waste, bristling with death: a force that lurks forever at your gate, waiting for some unguarded moment when it may creep in and spread devastation in its path.” “To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild nd heading sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware . . Page 26 GVCAeVOitoiG .GXO