One of the millions of memes making the rounds since the whole word went on lockdown goes like this: “If you think artists are useless try to spend your quarantine without music, books, poems, movies, paintings and games.”
This sentence may have become an internet truism—one of those easily shared ‘enlightened’ statements that are social media’s specialty—but it makes the case for one kind of argument in defense of the arts during a crisis.
I say one kind of argument because the arts, and the creative professions in general, are not just entertainment. They shouldn’t be measured exclusively on the scale of ‘utilitarianism’, ‘functionality’, or ‘usefulness’. Art is not just something you pass the time with, something that mindlessly fills the hours; what Greek speakers (after the Italians) call πασατέμπο (passatempo).
In that sense, then, the meme doesn’t really do the arts justice. It does offer, however, a basic, and incontestable, segue into art appreciation that we can all agree on. Where we go from there is anyone’s choice. For now, I’ll focus on this: The value of the arts is not reflected in the price tag attached to each artistic or creative ‘product’ out there.
Take this example: Some of the most well-known, and classic, works of film have not made any money. Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon made less than $100,000. Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers made $56,000. Jean-Luc Godard’s À Bout de Souffle made $457,000. Even Orson Welles’ Hollywood classic Citizen Kane fell short of expectations at the time of its release, making a flimsy $1.5 million (it cost $850,000) at the box office. In an exclusively capitalist mindset, these films would count as ‘failures’.
On the flip side, many of the highest-grossing movies today are those less likely to be described as ‘art’. American film director Martin Scorsese made a similar claim a few months back, when he took a lot of heat for sparring with film studio giants about their comic-book superhero franchises. Scorsese said Marvel and DC movies were not cinema. A summary of his argument: “These movies do not take risks; they do not surprise.”
Risk-taking is a superb definition of art. It may also be the reason why it is often mixed up with precariousness, and precarity.
We are groomed to become money-makers, social climbers, thing-possessors. A career choice in the arts is treated as a death sentence. You see it in the eyes of your parents’ friends when you tell them you are going to study literature; theater; filmmaking; music.
‘But you are so smart!’ (meaning: ‘What a waste!’)
The market economics that define our world do not favor the everyday workers of the arts and culture sectors, even though they are infatuated with their icons: the celebrity actors, musicians, and visual artists that become global household names. This places an undue burden on 99.9% of people in creative practices who are successful professionals in their own right, despite not being Hollywood superstars or Grammy-award-winning VIPs.
What other frameworks exist then, through which we can assess the value of artistic practice? My personal measuring tools consist of the following questions:
Does it surprise me? Does it tell a story? Does it enlighten me? Does it help me see life through a perspective I hadn’t even realized existed? Does it raise a question I hadn’t thought of before? Does it infuriate me? Does it keep me up at night? Does it haunt my dreams? Do I see myself in it? Does it give substance to my biggest fears? Has it defined me? Does it rouse me to action or knowledge? And most importantly: Does it move me?
Without these questions, I would be hard pressed to understand life. It’s not just about making life more interesting, or making life less bland. The arts are not spices. They are the main ingredients. I, for example, would not be able to process my condition as a woman, as a daughter, as a life-partner, as an immigrant, with adequate precision had it not been for the books I’ve read, the films I’ve watched, the music I’ve discovered, and the poetry that makes me cry.
Without art, I would not be able to recognize myself as a mortal being. Reckoning with mortality on an almost daily basis has been a fundamental part of my self-education as a moral being. Philosopher Simon Critchley explains the reason for this much better than I ever could in this recently published opinion piece.
Does this mean that the life of the artist should be synonymous with financial doom? That creative professionals should be content with the hyper-romanticized vision of the starving artist? Hell no. This is not a zero-sum game.
Contrary to popular opinion, creatives do not want to be poor. Nor do they benefit from poverty in terms of inspiration. In fact, my experience tells me that there’s no dearth of fed-up artists fantasizing about entering more lucrative labor markets. These fantasies, however, do not prove naysayers’ arguments about the uselessness of the arts. What they do show is that artistic ‘productivity’, ‘impact’, and ‘effectiveness’ are not defined in the same way as assembly line gains or stock market derivatives.
Unfortunately, the system currently in place in many countries is failing a big chunk of its labor force by not recognizing the unique framework in which art operates. This failure is reflected in the inadequate support that some governments have offered arts and culture professionals during the pandemic. But precisely because art operates on these very different terms—which is what enables it to offer us a heightened perception of life, a maximized sensory and cerebral experience—artists and other creatives should be especially supported in times of crisis. For this, private investments will not cut it. Comprehensive support for the arts can only come from visionary, accountable government policies that recognize value outside of profit.
To speak in industrial terms: the arts are the engine of our individual and collective imaginations. Any vision we have for the future depends on the arts to give it shape and form.