“So soon as we begin to consider a work as anything other than an end in itself,” writes Clive Bell, “we leave the world of art” (Bell 1914, p.102). This is true, as far as it goes. It does not preclude, however, that we must also be attentive to the relations between several works, all of which are original ends in themselves, which together may mean something greater than a single work in isolation; nor should it preclude that the ends of art also constitute significant moments within a life that is, on the whole, directed at a more all-encompassing end. Fra Angelico’s frescoes in the monastery of San Marco may serve to illustrate this; for here is a family of artworks which – and in this they are perfectly symbolic of the monastic situation itself – together constitute a vision of the Christian life which is infinitely richer than the view offered by the piece in any one cell; and which, moreover, are executed for the sake of furnishing the religious life with appropriately inspiring images of appreciation, contemplation, and love. The value of these artworks, of this composite artwork, lies in the ability of the painted images to exemplify and enhance the life lived for God – as well as to glorify God by their forms and their beauty. This is what these frescoes are for, and good for, but this is also, crucially, what these works are ‘in themselves’; there is no way, in a case like this, to separate the aesthetic or artistic values of the works from their Christian value.
Of course, we must always be careful not to speak of works of art solely as
‘means’ to other ends, even if this appears in some respects inescapable. Even Bell seems unable to escape the tension, and the potential contradiction, for he insists upon the artwork’s status as end even as he claims that “all art is moral because […] works of art are immediate means to good” (p.20). Similarly, the Christian work of art must be treated as an end, as an object of loving and imaginative attention, not to be appropriated for other purposes than the appreciation of its integral qualities and the experience it offers; at the same time we must recognise that every such work of art does open beyond itself and does invite the perceiver to look through it as much as at it. If we allow that works of art may grant us uniquely inspiring, ecstatic or reflective experiences, we should be able to grant that they contribute to enhance the Christian life without being characterised as mere ‘means’ to that end.
112 This, then, should allow us to acknowledge as valid the question of what Christian art is good for. Importantly, however, neither the question nor the answer should be taken to imply a functional order of values, but rather to refer to a greater end. It is one thing to suggest that the San Marco frescoes are good for preventing mould and cracks in the stonework – or that The Brothers Karamazov is good for curing insomnia and killing mice – and quite another to claim, as I am doing, that it is good for the cultivation of desire; that is, that the very experience of the artwork may aid the viewer or reader in seeing all things in the light of the love of God.
I am not saying that art is good because it teaches or proclaims Christianity, either through representation, exposition or didactics, but that it is good because of the
experience it offers, as an artistic and aesthetic object, and because the beauty it manifests renders the world more in the likeness of God.
We must amend Bell’s assumption that the highest good is a good state of mind. On Bell’s view, “to seek any other moral justification for art, to seek in art a means to anything less than good states of mind, is an act of wrong-headedness to be committed only by a fool or a man of genius” (Bell 1914, p.114). We may say – as Robert Adams might – that a good state of mind is one which, in some sense, resembles God; or, less, confusingly, that a good state of mind is oriented towards, responsive to and reflective of, the Good of God. We may also say, trivially, that such states of mind are indeed the most desirable and the highest states of mind we may achieve. But this, of course, is already to affirm a good which is both irreducibly other and infinitely greater than the state of mind which, in some manner and some measure, partakes of it. Crucially, this good is not only mental or immaterial, but may indeed be manifested and given us in material form, under the form of paint and wood of Christian works of art, or under the form of bread and wine.
Moreover, in speaking of our orientation towards God, we must take care to speak not simply of states of mind, but of the whole embodied personality; for it is this which is in the image of God. It is this whole person – not the mind alone, but also the senses and the will, our memories and desires, as indeed our bodies – which is engaged in the experience of great and beautiful works of art. Sometimes, even physical exertion is
113 asked of us in the proper engagement with a work of art; often our experience entails patience and perseverance through time, as when listening (and more than listening) to Rachmaninov’s All-Night Vigil, for example, or when climbing the domes and towers of great cathedrals.
I am sympathetic, in general, to Robert Adams’ prioritising ‘excellence’ over ‘well- being’ (or what is good for a person). As I shall show, however, ‘excellence’ on my model is not synonymous with either beauty or goodness, nor is it a criterion of either. A Christian work of art is good by virtue of its beauty; it does not also have to be excellent, but may be flawed or damaged.
By excellence, Adams (1999) means “the type of goodness exemplified by the beauty of a sunset, a painting, or a mathematical proof, or by the greatness of a novel, the nobility of an unselfish deed, or the quality of an athletic or philosophical performance” (p.83). We may speak of this kind of goodness as a goodness of the thing in itself, without reference to external or instrumental values. It is good that a thing is so (noble, great, harmonious); it is good that it is, pure and simple. Crucially, this “is the goodness of that which is worthy of love or admiration, honour or worship” (p.83). Here we seem to enter into a territory or mode of appreciation which emphatically surpasses any appeals to what is merely pleasurable, or good for me, or good for the moment. That is, we seem to come up here against a kind of objective goodness which asks to be recognised as such and duly responded to. This chimes well with our experiences of good works of art; moreover, the suggestion here of a register of response which may include such attitudes as worship and reverence is certainly congenial to the case of Christian art.
The priority of excellence over well-being, however, does not preclude that what is good in itself is also good for something else. What relevantly concerns us here is the possibility that something that is good in itself, such as a work of art, can also be
fruitfully understood as being good for the persons who have a relation to it – both the artist and the viewer – and even for the world which it inhabits.
What follows, I believe, from the prioritisation of excellence, is that any sensible account of what is good for us should be derived from the goodness of the thing in itself;
114 for it is good for us to encounter, to study, to love the beautiful and the excellent.18
Importantly, we must first ask if the artwork is good in itself – that is, if it is a good artwork – before we can ask if it is good for the Christian life in which it is embedded; for any version of the ‘good for’ which fails to first consider the aesthetic and artistic qualities of the work in question threatens to misappropriate that work as a means for purely didactic ends.
In keeping with the general dictum that an artwork should be appreciated and judged for the qualities it possesses ‘intrinsically’, I would affirm that non-Christian art may be good ‘in itself’ without having to acknowledge a greater sphere or end of value, without being good for – indeed, without being for – anything beyond itself and the experience it engenders. Christian art, however, is always committed to a Good beyond itself, and thus to being good for something other than itself.
It may be entirely inappropriate to ask whether a novel – be it a modern bestseller like The Da Vinci Code or a timeless classic like Pride and Prejudice – is good or not for the instilling of principles or the acquisition of virtue; for, arguably, these are not the kinds of ends or values which are relevant to the experience, enjoyment and appreciation of a work of literary fiction. But we are not wrong to ask – indeed, it would be wrong of us not to ask – that the frescos at San Marco should be good, in some sense, for the greater Christian life, for our growth in the love of God. If they are not, it would suggest that they do not manifest the forms and the beauty of God; and this, crucially, would not only be detrimental to the frescos’ ‘good for’ but also their ‘good in itself’ – for without that beauty they are not Christian works of art at all.
To clarify: the ‘good for,’ as I construe it, does not entail a simply extrinsic or instrumental good and relation. The work of Christian art is such that, ‘in itself’, it is
18 Indeed, to love the excellent and the beautiful – which may, vitally, include the poor, the broken, the
dying – is not only good but, I would argue, is in a sense to do good, and to be good; on my thesis, if such things are done in the image of God, for the love of God’s likeness in other things and persons, it may also mean that to do so, to be so, is to be beautiful.
115 good for the greater glory of God; it is part of that greater glory, as it in itself (but of course not of itself, as its beauty is a gift of God) constitutes a manifestation of that glory.
We must remember that the engagement with the work of Christian art entails an encounter with the Beauty of God – an intrinsically valuable, not to say invaluable, experience. It should be entirely unproblematic to say that it is good to experience the Beauty of God, while each Christian artwork, as a unique manifestation of that beauty, is a lovable end in itself.
The critic of art will be concerned first and foremost with the qualities of the work itself. This should also be the focus of attention for the Christian who approaches a Christian work of art; but, being Christian, he will also (he cannot help but) evaluate the work, and the experience it offers, for the contribution it can make to his cultivation of love for the Good and the Beauty of God.
We may say, then, that the work of Christian art could not be good ‘in itself’ without also being ‘good for’. Similarly, we shall see below how the Christian artwork cannot be good as a Christian artwork without also being good in the greater sense of partaking of or manifesting the Good.