Art and aesthetics have been a passion of mine for some time. I’m always fascinated with the way in which certain authors seem to understand and have the impeccable ability to put into words the abstract ways in which certain people interact with art, whether its the craftsmanship of creation or the possession a work may have over one, tapping into “the sublime”.
Thomas Mann for me is an author who seems to have this down to a T. I’ve been reading a collection of his short stories and he’s essentially putting Schopenhauer’s notions of aesthetics to prose, whether its art as a means of solace or making sense of our own existence. He tackles this in numerous directions too. In his short story “Harsh Hour”, he shows an acclaimed author wrestling with writer’s block, a sensation that seems to make all of his own prior accomplishments null and void, all while evoking Nietzsche and Schopenhauer…
*From the first rhythmic urge of artistry for motif, material, possibility of effusion…to thought, to image, to words, to lines. What a struggle! What a cavalry! His works were wonders of yearning, the yearning for shape, form, boundary, physicality, the yearning for the clear world of the other man, who, with his godly lips, immediately called the sunlit things by name.*
And…
*Was a poem not born in his soul as music, as a pure primal image of Being, long before borrowing metaphor and apparel from the world of appearances? History, philosophy, passion: means and pretexts nothing more, for something that had little to do with them, that had its home in Orphic depths. Words, concepts: merely keys that his artistry struck in order to make hidden strings resound.*
Before finally making sense of it all…
*And complete it he did, the work of his suffering. It may not have been good, but complete it he did. And when it was completed, lo and behold, it was good. And from his soul, from shimmering creations, which, in sacred form, wondrously hinted at their infinite homeland, just as as the ocean, from which it is fished, roars in the seashell.*
In another short story, “The Blood of the Walsungs”, it provides a unique perspective amongst his bibliography, an onlooker witnessing the artistic process aloofly with no connection to the ebb and flow of creation and intermingling with the sublime…
*Siegmund peered at the musicians. The deep pit was bright in the listening house and filled with labor – with fingering hands, fiddling arms, bloated blowing cheeks; simple and zealous people, serving the Work of a great and suffering force – this Work that appeared up there in childishly loft visions…A Work! How did one do a Work? A pain was in Siegmund’s breast, a burning or rending, something like a sweet distress – for what purpose, what end?*
His portrayal of the artist an an individual, driven by an almost metaphysical desire to create, and the tension between pursuing aesthetics and giving into “will” are all hallmarks of his writing. I was surprised by his ability to put to words a lot of the experiences I myself have gone through, almost like a “Hey, he gets it!” kind of thing.
A user on r/truelit also recommended Balzac’s The Unknown Masterpiece which I ended up loving as well…
*The young man felt deeply stirred by an emotion that must thrill the hearts of all great artists when, in the pride of their youth and their first love of art, they come into the presence of a master or stand before a masterpiece. For all human sentiments there is a time of early blossoming, a day of generous enthusiasm that gradually fades until nothing is left of happiness but a memory, and glory is known for a delusion. Of all these delicate and short-lived emotions, none so resemble love as the passion of a young artist for his art, as he is about to enter on the blissful martyrdom of his career of glory and disaster, of vague expectations and real disappointments. Those who have missed this experience in the early days of light purses; who have not, in the dawn of their genius, stood in the presence of a master and felt the throbbing of their hearts, will always carry in their inmost souls a chord that has never been touched, and in their work an indefinable quality will be lacking, a something in the stroke of the brush, a mysterious element that we call poetry. The swaggerers, so puffed up by self-conceit that they are confident over-soon of their success, can never be taken for men of talent save by fools. From this point of view, if youthful modesty is the measure of youthful genius, the stranger on the staircase might be allowed to have something in him; for he seemed to possess the indescribable diffidence, the early timidity that artists are bound to lose in the course of a great career, even as pretty women lose it as they make progress in the arts of coquetry. Self-distrust vanishes as triumph succeeds to triumph, and modesty is, perhaps, distrust of itself.*
If Balzac has any other books in this vain, I’d certainly love to read them. I think it’s no surprise that various artists such as Picasso found inspiration within the story.
Now I’m currently reading The Masterpiece by Émile Zola and he’s just as invigorating, particularly the joie de vivre aspect of it. I’m sure its largely because of his real life friendship with painter Paul Cézanne. There’s a bit earlier on describing the childhood of the main character (a painter) and his best friend (a writer), clear write-ins for the author and Cézanne. It’s similar to Balzac’s excerpt about getting inspired by the artistic bug…
*Even in those days, Claude used to carry about with him, besides his pellets and his powder flask, an album in which he would sketch bits of scenery, while Sandoz, too, always had a book of poetry in his pocket. They lived in a kind of fine, romantic frenzy of high-flown verses, barack-room ribaldry, and odes poured out int the shimmering heat of the summer air. And when they found a brook and half a dozen willows to cast a patch of grey on the blinding earth, they would lose all sense of time, staying there till the stars were out, acting the plays they knew by heart, booming the heroes’ parts, piping the parts of the queens and the ingénues. Those were the days when they left the sparrows in peace. That was how they had lived from the time they were fourteen, burning with enthusiasm for art and literature, isolated in their remote province amid the dreary philistinism of a small town.*
Balzac also shows the strife that comes with creation, from the frustrations of trying to pursue a vision one holds in their mind’s eye and periods of writer’s block to tackling criticisms from the public…
*Then suddenly he collapsed in front of her, with his head on her knees, and burst into tears. All the excitement of the afternoon, his dauntless courage before the hisses of the crowd , his gaiety, all his violence broke down in a burst of choking sobs. From the moment when the laughter of the crowd had struck him, like a slap in the face, he had felt it pursuing him like a pack of hounds in full cry, down the Champs-Élysées, all along the embarkment, and still now, at his heels, in his own studio. His strength gave way in the end, leaving him helpless as a child..*
The book has been delightful and I plan on reading more Zola in the future. TL; DR – **Are there any other authors who do a good job providing a perspective into the minds of artists?** It’s a “genre” I’m quite intrigued by and am curious to see if anyone had any other authors or books that moved them in a similar kind of way.
by thewickerstan