An artist’s style must be so enmeshed in the medium with which they work that it cannot be isolated and pointed out, though certainly it can be described. I mention this now, in relation to the previous entry, because the style that belongs to a serious artist is an expression of such naturalness and power that it would seem to infuse the truth that it is attempting to communicate with a vibrancy that this truth, on its own, might not otherwise appear to have.
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But it is to say that if truth, for an artist, exists merely to be stylized, rather than as a thing to employ one’s style in service of, it will most certainly be altered, and lose its value.
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Which isn’t to say that art does not require shape, or form, in order that its truth be revealed, for that is precisely what it requires, as art’s relationship to truth is not as forthright as, say, that of nature’s, which is more like an equivalency. By which I mean that nature almost is truth, insofar as nothing in nature is a metaphor (at least not primarily) but is exactly and only that which its parameters indicate it to be; so that as soon as a natural object is apprehended by the senses, it can be grasped by the mind. Whereas art, while belonging materially to nature, is possessed of an intention that transcends the materials of which it is composed. So that while one might say that a novel is made of paper and ink and glue, and be correct according to a natural definition, one would need to say something more in order to express its definition as a work of art.
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And, anyway, that ruthlessness that I spoke of must be directed at the self as much as at anyone or anything else. For what it means to be ruthless, in the context of the arts, is to have enough regard for truth that one will not do it the disservice of avoiding it, or hiding it behind modes of performance or description that, unless deployed as a means of kindness, discretion, or technique, will only disempower it.
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For it is true, I think, that there is a correlation between what might be described as the depth of an artist’s morality and the depth at which that person can function artistically. Which isn’t to make a claim about what that morality will produce in the outward conduct or personal life of any particular artist, but only to say that, in the arena where an artist practices or works, an expanded sense of the moral substance of reality can only be advantageous to them.
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And yet an artist whose ruthlessness is unrestrained, or admits no possibility of a mitigating factor (the way Julie, in Blue, is willing to do), is no better than a despot, and is likely not even a very good artist, for such a disposition would reflect a lack of the complexity and moral ideation that contribute, in all interesting works, the sort of organizing energy that reveals the valuing of one thing in relation to another.
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It might even be said that an artist needs to possess not only the capacity for ruthlessness, for maybe every human has that, but also the willingness to act on that capacity when, in the absence of a circumstance that might appeal to a higher part of their conscience, to not do so would obstruct, disarm, or otherwise nullify, the avenues by which their art will find its most authentic expression.
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In other words, she is comprised of equal capacities for compassion and ruthlessness. The latter of which, in the person of an artist, is just as important as the former.
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All of which is to say that her nature does not lend itself to the type of decision she is being asked to make. For while she is possessed of a sympathy that would prevent her from tarnishing the reputation of her husband, by completing this final work, and bringing it to the public as her own, she also has the temperament of the greatest kind of artist — proud, persistent, demanding, and uncompromising.
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And when she discovers, in the apartment into which she’d moved so as to extinguish the memory of her earlier life, a rat with its litter of offspring, she tries to locate another apartment, but, failing that, borrows a neighbor’s cat, and shuts it in the closet where the nest is, and lets it do what is natural, for while she cannot bring herself to kill the rodents directly, and is remorseful for what she has done (even referring to the litter as “babies”), she doesn’t want them to be near her, where she lives.
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Which isn’t to say that she is a caricature of a woman, for it is she herself who says to Olivier, when she begins to sense the ardency of his love, and to know that it will disrupt her isolation, “I’m a woman like others. I sweat, I cough, I have cavities. You won’t miss me.”
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Moreover, there is, in the person of Julie, at least as evidenced by what the audience sees of her, not only in her encounters with other people (both acquaintances and strangers), but also in the music that seems to haunt her, or arrive to her unbidden, so that her method of composing would seem less like writing than an act of sublime transcription, a goodness or a decency that would preclude her from any deed, or course of action, that would bring harm or disrepute upon an individual, regardless of whether it might be justified.
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What complicates this tension is the fact that the car accident that killed Julie’s husband, and that she herself survived, also killed their little daughter, so that the grief she is experiencing, during the time with which the movie is concerned, is so immense that, her own demise notwithstanding, she would like nothing more than to exile herself from anything to do with her former life, and to disappear into a realm of non-identity.
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This difference forms part of the tension of the movie Blue, by Krzysztof Kieślowski, whose protagonist, Julie, who is rumored to have written much of the music for which her deceased husband, Patrice, an acclaimed composer, is known, must decide whether to complete his final score, and thus substantiate the rumors, and perhaps even address them publicly, or allow it to be finished by his friend and collaborator, Olivier, who is in love with Julie, and who would like for her to finish it (for he intuits that the work is hers, and that she is the vital talent) but only if she will come out of her grief and isolation, and take credit for it, rather than force him, by way of her uninvolvement, to conclude it himself, so that it might be “heavy and awkward,” but nonetheless his.
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Which speaks, I think, to the difference between a life that would shrink from attention or controversy, and one that, while not seeking it for its own sake, would not shrink from it if it appeared as a consequence of choices made and enacted.
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For the integrity of an intention is measured not by its visibility, though it may in fact happen to be visible, but by the fullness with which it is cherished and is acted upon.
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Which isn’t to say that Gatsby wanted to be mysterious, for the sake of appearing that way, but that the singularity of his passion, and of his desire to bring it to fruition, brought forth in his person, and in his life, the very conditions of mystery.
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And yet there is something about this hiddenness that contributes to his greatness, as if the impetus for the narrative would not have existed, at least not for the narrator (Nick), had Gatsby been more public, and not so shrouded in mystery.
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Though I suppose one could say that there is irony even in that, insofar as nobody but the reader and the narrator, and perhaps a few other characters, have a clue as to Gatsby’s greatness, for most of the persons inside the narrative are not privy to its scope or to its nature.
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Which is why the ‘greatness’ that his author ascribes to him, in that book’s title, is not meant ironically, but sincerely.