Plato, Tolstoy, and Art

The way Plato viewed art was very bland and one-dimensional, only because the Greeks "art" was comprised of copying life to the most precise degree. He thought it useless and frivolous, completely necessary even! But we know this isn't true, it illicits such compelling emotions within us that it cannot be called useless.

So what view should we hold to? To my knowledge and in my opinion, Tolstoy's view is much closer to the truth. He says that art is a way to unify the souls of men. To bring them into one way of thinking, to feel together in empathy and caring.

Tolstoy would have us picture a river, this river of religious perception. It is flowing just out of reach, but through emotion and art we can tap into it and pull up a draught or two.



I picture it as having an prism in the center of your being, and every time you experience art it's like a beam of light hitting that prism. Your soul is suddenly connected to another person by that tether, and as you connect to more people it becomes a web of emotional collusion bringing all of humanity together.

Art is the focal point of our existence. The expression and combination of feeling that allow us to interact beyond the barriers that separate us into individuals. We can use art as an access, a portal into the mind and hearts of other beings. Our souls become as one, our purposes become as one, and our divine purposes become more clear.

The Wall of Strength

Slowly, methodically, a man slaps mortar on a brick, and places it on a short wall. Rows of them lined upon each other, drying in the sun. A fierce wind picks up from nowhere, and blows down part of his wall. Patiently, the man rebuilds the section; painstakingly placing each brick by hand. What is the man protecting? A small tree grows within the walled area, its branches reaching toward the sun, but its trunk not yet strong enough to survive. The man wishes to protect this tree, but things keep interfering. First the wind, now a stray cow knocks down another part of the wall.

Starting to despair a little, the man resignedly repairs that section as well, feeling as though his work is never done. Shortly thereafter, it begins to rain, and the man packs up and heads home. The next morning he returns to find his wall has dissolved into a mass of brick and muck, laying in a vague circle around the pathetic little tree.

Most of the morning is spent removing the wasted materials, and the man sits down for lunch, pondering his problem. Each time he repairs the wall, it gets broken again, and the rain tore it down entirely. What was he to do?  Staring at the tree, pondering in his mind and in his heart, a plan began to form.

That afternoon, instead of working on the wall, the man dug around the tree, and fertilized it. He then went home. In the morning, the tree looked no different. He began to build the wall again. During lunch he had the same nagging idea, and he spent the afternoon pruning and caring for the tree itself. The man found that by building only in the morning, the wall was mostly dry by night, and completely dry by the next morning. The weight no longer made the wall weak. Days progressed into weeks, and eventually the wall was finished. Stepping back and gazing upon his masterpiece, the man was astounded to find that the tree was still taller than the wall. It had long leafy branches, and lovely buds were forming into little white blossoms.

He had been so preoccupied with the wall, and caring for the tree, that he hadn't noticed its growth.
And so it is with our faith in God. If we spend all of our time protecting our beliefs from others, our faith languishes without nourishment. But if we spend equal time between strengthening our will, and growing our faith, then our faith will be able to withstand: the winds of change, the sudden buffets of attack, and the slow painful erosion of doubt.

Justice and Mercy

When I was 16, I saw this artistic depiction of Justice and Mercy. It touched my soul in a way I couldn't explain at the time, but now I wish to attempt it. So with patience, open your mind, and try to follow my words as they flow into this scene.

A man; injured and despairing. His body broken, his mind weak, and his spirit flagging. He stumbles along, eyes on his feet. Outside of his vision, a sound is produced. It startles him into raising his head a few inches, just as his foot meets a rock, and down he goes. Now flat on his face, he whimpers. Pain shoots through his body and he gives up all hope. There is no way he can rise again, his strength is gone.

Above him, a voice of thunder rolls. "Why do you lay there? Rise and face me."

Gathering the last of his energy, the man raises his head just a little bit. Hovering over him is a mountain of a man carrying a large sword. This swordsman is clothed in garments of deepest blood red, dark hair shorn short against his scalp. The sword is grasped in callused hands, and leveled at the fallen man's throat; he swallows convulsively at the sight of it. "Rise, fallen one."

The man looks at his tattered clothing, his muddy hands; then back to the hovering figure. "I have not the strength to rise. Do with me what you will."

Shining steel leaves his line of sight and there is a shuffling of feet. "Your humility becomes you, wanderer." The woman's voice is soft and warm, almost comforting. The man's head snaps up in shock. Crouched beside him is a woman of delicate beauty. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose braid, her clothing purest white and richest blue silk. Her kind eyes a sharp contrast to the man still hovering over them. "Take my hand and be strengthened, or accept the sword and be free of pain. What will you choose?" Her voice rings through his head, pounding in his temples.

A choice. His choice. To take her hand, live, but feel pain and fear and sadness. Or to accept the sword and give in to the painlessness of death. The hand of mercy or the sword of justice? Which would he choose after all? Reaching out with his gnarled hands, the man brushes his fingers over the steel blade, curious. But understanding pierces him, and he realizes that it would be too easy. That the path before him must be difficult if he wants to become strong again, if he can rely on his own strength.

Grasping the woman's hand, he pulls himself to his feet. He sways, and almost falls, but she supports him as he takes an agonizing step along her path. Then another. The weight of fatigue lifts from his shoulders, and with each step he walks taller. Finally he walks by her side, calmly moving forward, navigating the rocks and ruts along the path with a sure stride. He has made the right decision after all. Mercy has saved him.