If a tree falls in the forest...and other art questions

April 9, 2007

My talented friend Judy and I somehow got caught up in a philosophical discussion via long distance and within a matter of a day or two, I sensed that we were falling over an email cliff. It all started innocently enough. She's working on a new sculpture; I found myself wide awake at 3 A.M. and came up with brilliant conclusions about its meaning (Obviously! All 3 A.M. conclusions are brilliant!). I promptly sent my thoughts off to her.

Bad idea. First, I should know better than to analyze any art work after dark without reviewing my conclusions by the light of the sun. And secondly, no artist wants to know too much from an outsider about a work in progress. It's just bad karma.

So Judy wrote "There are three elements at work in every piece: the piece itself, the artist's input and the reaction of the viewer (without which the work simply becomes therapy for its creator).i.e. 'If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?'

That's about the time I dropped the subject but the question arises to tickle my brain tissue. Does art in fact need "feedback" to raise it from self-indulgent therapy?

The whole tree in the forest thing has always seemed to me to be the height of egoism. The suggestion is that nothing really matters if I (you, we) haven't personally been involved somehow in the process. (I'm sure there are scientists out there who will tell me the reasons why sound waves sent out require...blah, blah, blah. Nobody really wants that information this time, so please sit down.) So now, what about those primitive cave paintings? Were they less "art" because they rested undiscovered for generations? What about the ones we have yet to find? Are they less important? (Ooops..."important"...There's a judgement-laden word we need to keep out of the discussion. Now I've tread into the breach of a value system as applied to art. And that is not my intent here.)

I'm currently reading "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" by Annie Dillard and stopped in my tracks at a passage. The book's narrator tells of watching a mocking bird dive bomb off a four story building and at the last minute, before slamming into the ground, spreads it's wings and lands instead gracefully on all two feet. She's stunned at the sight, realizes she's the only observer to this amazing performance and brings up the old "tree falling" business.

Then she thinks "the answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there."