Tag: philosophy

Exploring Art and Existence: A Dialogue between Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett

Untitled (oil on canvas, c. 1916) by Kazimir Malevich ( 1878-1935).  Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice.

Introduction

The dialogue below brings together two iconic figures from different eras—Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) and Samuel Beckett (1906–1989)—to explore contrasting views on art, existence, and the search for meaning. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, was a polymath whose works spanned art, science, and engineering. He is best known for masterpieces like The Last Supper and Mona Lisa, and his relentless pursuit of knowledge and understanding of the natural world. Leonardo’s philosophy is deeply rooted in the belief that art can reveal the underlying harmony and divine order of the universe, offering humanity a glimpse into deeper truths that transcend the fleeting nature of life.

In stark contrast, Samuel Beckett, an influential 20th-century playwright, novelist, and poet, is most famous for his existentialist works, including the groundbreaking play Waiting for Godot, which puzzled me to no end when I first encountered it in college. Beckett’s worldview, shaped by the absurdity of the human condition, strips away illusions to reveal a world devoid of inherent meaning, where the act of waiting and enduring becomes central to existence. His minimalist approach challenges traditional notions of purpose and order, suggesting that meaning, if it exists at all, is found not in grand designs but in the persistence of the human spirit amidst an indifferent universe.

In this imagined dialogue, Leonardo and Beckett engage in a thought-provoking conversation that delves into the purpose of art, the nature of existence, and the ways in which different philosophical perspectives can both clash and complement one another. The exchange invites readers to reflect on the role of art and creation in human life—whether it serves to elevate, to challenge, or merely to mirror the complexities and absurdities of our existence. Through their contrasting views, the dialogue underscores the universal human experience of seeking understanding, whether through the lens of hope or despair, harmony or chaos.

This dialogue continues my summer writing exercises, which have spanned academic writing, prose, poetry, fables, musical lyrics, and more. If I am not mistaken, this is my first attempt at constructing dialogue, making it a new and challenging endeavor for me. As such, the exchange between the characters may be more superficial than one might ideally hope. I ask for your understanding as I continue to explore and refine my craft, and I apologize for any shortcomings in this or my other recent efforts.

Setting:

A large, solitary tree stands in an otherwise barren landscape. The tree is full of leaves, their colors shifting subtly with the light. The leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a tranquil, yet slightly eerie atmosphere. Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett are gathered beneath the tree, engaged in a deep, reflective conversation.

Dialogue:

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo sits beneath the tree, sketching quietly, absorbed in the play of light and shadow on the leaves. He looks up as Samuel Beckett approaches, his tone one of curious observation.

“This tree—its form, its structure, the way the light filters through its leaves—there is something here that speaks of life’s continuity, of the patterns that repeat in nature. I find myself drawn to capture it, to understand its place in the world. And you, Samuel? What brings you to this solitary tree?”

Samuel Beckett: He stops a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the tree, his voice flat, resigned.

“I am here because it stands alone, like the tree in Waiting for Godot. There is something in its isolation that mirrors the emptiness of waiting, of existence itself. It’s just a tree—there’s nothing more to it. And perhaps, like my characters, I wait without knowing why, without expecting anything to come.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods slowly, considering Beckett’s words, his tone contemplative.

“Waiting… It is a concept I have pondered often, though in a different sense. I wait for the right light, for the moment when nature reveals its hidden order. But you speak of waiting as if it is an end in itself, a state of being rather than a passage to something more. Is there not, even in this waiting, some expectation, some hope?”

Samuel Beckett: His voice remains steady, almost emotionless, with a trace of irony.

“Hope? A word, nothing more. My characters wait, because waiting is what they do, what we all do. There’s no expectation, no miracle—just the passage of time, the empty habit of existence. The tree stands here, indifferent, like the world. Whether we wait or move on, it’s all the same. And yet, we wait. Because what else is there?”

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo pauses, considering Beckett’s words with deep reflection. His tone is gentle, yet firm.

“Perhaps you’re right, Samuel. Perhaps, when we strip away everything, we are left with nothing but the bare truth, as stark as it may be. But I have always believed that even in that starkness, there is something worth reaching for—a light, however faint, that guides us. Art, in my view, is not merely about reflecting what is, but about aspiring toward what could be. It’s about finding order in chaos, meaning in the void. Take, for example, my Adoration of the Magi. I used light and shadow not just to define forms, but to reveal the deeper truths within the scene—the struggle between the sacred and the profane, the divine revelation amidst human confusion. Even if that meaning is fleeting, even if it is, as you say, just another illusion—it is one that gives us reason to continue, to create.”

Samuel Beckett: Beckett listens, his expression calm but with a glint of irony in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but carries a sharpness, a dry humor beneath the surface.

“Illusions are the finest of comforts, Leonardo. They keep us warm at night, keep us from staring too long into the abyss. My characters, Estragon and Vladimir, wait for Godot because they think it might give them purpose. But in the meantime, they do everything but find meaning—they argue, they contemplate hanging themselves, they try on each other’s hats. It’s all distraction, all misadventure, because they know deep down that Godot won’t come. But they wait, because that’s all there is to do. And if there’s a glimmer of beauty in that, it’s in the sheer absurdity of it all. Not the light, not the shadow—just the fact that we’re still here, passing the time, playing out the farce.”

Leonardo da Vinci: His gaze shifts from the tree to Beckett, a deep respect evident in his tone.

“Then perhaps we wait together, under this tree, each seeking our own understanding. Whether it is the light I seek or the void you confront, we are united in the act of waiting, in the search for something beyond ourselves. And in that search, there is meaning, even if we cannot fully grasp it.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo’s eyes wander back to stare intently at his sketch book for a moment, then, looking back up from his sketch book to Beckett, his voice thoughtful, he weaves in his understanding of the natural world.

“My work in The Last Supper was driven by a desire to capture a moment of profound significance—a moment suspended between betrayal and redemption, where the divine intersects with the human. I sought to convey the tension, the movement, the interplay of light and shadow that defines the scene. The way light falls on Christ’s face, the way shadows creep toward Judas—it’s all part of a larger harmony. Yet, Samuel, in your Waiting for Godot, I find a world that seems to reject the very principles that guided my hand. Your characters wait in vain, trapped in a cycle of despair. How do you find purpose in such a depiction?”

Samuel Beckett: He replies with characteristic brevity, his voice carrying the weight of existential reflection.

“Purpose? There is none. In Godot, there’s no divine order, no grand design. The characters wait, because that’s all they know—an endless habit, a ritual without meaning. They’re stuck, like the rest of us, waiting for something that never comes. The tree in my play—it’s initially bare, lifeless, a symbol of the void that lies beneath our expectations. And yet, it sprouts a few leaves, as if to mock the very idea of hope—offering just enough to keep us waiting, but never enough to change anything. No light, no shadow—just emptiness.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods slowly, his tone contemplative, struggling to reconcile this with his own beliefs.

“I understand your perspective, though it is far from my own. To embrace the void, to depict a world where order and meaning are absent—it is a stark contrast to my belief that art can illuminate the divine symmetry in all things. Your play challenges the very foundation of what I sought to express in my works. And yet, I cannot help but admire the honesty in your approach. You confront the darkness, the uncertainty, without flinching. But does this not lead to despair?”

Samuel Beckett: His voice remains minimalist, laced with irony.

“Despair? It’s just another word, another illusion. My characters don’t despair—they endure. Godot strips away the comforting lies we tell ourselves, leaving only the bare bones of existence. No despair, no hope—just being. Your work seeks to elevate, to find harmony. Mine strips away the illusion, shows what’s left when there’s nothing left to believe in.”

Leonardo da Vinci: He considers this, his voice filled with quiet resolve.

“Perhaps that is the essence of our craft—to persist, to create, in search of the harmony that underlies all things. Whether we work with light or shadow, we strive to uncover the deeper truths of the world. The act of creation itself connects us to the divine order, revealing a meaning that transcends the fleeting and the transient.”

Samuel Beckett: A faint smile touches his lips, his tone tinged with irony.

“Harmony, divine order… It’s a beautiful thought, Leonardo, truly. But when all is said and done, what endures? Maybe the search itself, or the act of creation as you say. But what’s left after the thoughts are provoked, after the truths are revealed? We’re still here, Leonardo, still waiting, still searching for meaning where there may be none. Maybe the real trick is to keep going, to keep creating, even when we know the search might be futile.”

Leonardo da Vinci: He gazes at the tree, then at Beckett, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Perhaps, Samuel, we will never fully agree on what lies at the heart of our existence—whether it is light, shadow, or simply the void. But in our own ways, we both seek to understand, to express the human condition. Maybe that is the true essence of our craft.”

Samuel Beckett: He offers a faint, sardonic smile.

“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just two men, passing the time under a tree, waiting for something that may never come. Either way, we keep going, because what else is there?”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods, a quiet respect in his voice, yet firm in his belief.

“Yes, we keep going. For in that persistence, we find not just the passing of time, but the opportunity to discover, to create, and perhaps to glimpse a truth greater than ourselves.”

The two men sit in silence for a moment, the leaves rustling softly above them, as the conversation fades into the stillness of the landscape.

Echoes of Self: Confronting Hyper-Individualism and Materialism in America

A video featuring contemporary lyrics written consistent with the theme of this post set to EDM style music created by Udio.com – a very different sort of exercise for me. I am especially pleased with the artwork selected to illustrate the video, “Collapse,” by Gao Xingjian (b. 1940).

Introduction

The erosion of civility and community values that once formed the bedrock of American society has been mirrored by the rise of politicians, judges, and business leaders who champion hyper-individualism, greed, and materialism under the guise of pseudo-American values. These values, far from being genuinely American, are more akin to the adolescent, poorly thought-out, morally bankrupt principles espoused by Ayn Rand. After witnessing several recent judicial decisions by unprincipled U.S. Supreme Court Justices, state court justices, and local judges, as well as unhinged remarks and rants by national, state, and local politicians and candidates, I was inspired to write the lyrics to “Echoes of Self” to critique these troubling trends and the philosophies that are leading us astray.

The Loss of Civility and Community

Historically, American values have been rooted in a sense of community, mutual respect, and collective responsibility. The concept of “we the people” signifies a collective identity and shared purpose. Granted, we as a nation started out poorly by excluding many people from our great promise based on color and sex, and have periodically excluded others based on national origin. But we have made great efforts to overcome these national deficiencies and to meet the American promise for all Americans.

However, in recent decades, and most especially in recent years, there has been a noticeable shift towards celebrating hyper-individualism and personal gain at the expense of community and civility. This shift is evident in the rhetoric of certain politicians and business leaders who glorify self-interest and material success while disregarding the broader societal impacts of their actions.

The Rise of Hyper-Individualism and Materialism

The ascension of figures like Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and Peter Thiel epitomizes this new wave of hyper-individualism. These individuals, along with their enabling politicians, promote a worldview that prioritizes personal success and wealth accumulation over community welfare and ethical and moral considerations. This mindset is often cloaked in pseudo-American values, presenting themselves as champions of freedom and opportunity. In reality, these values are foreign to the traditional American ethos of shared responsibility and social cohesion. Feigned outrage over manufactured crises and boogeymen distracts from issues both real and critical to the health of the commonweal.

“Narcissistic, hear the screams”

The Influence of Ayn Rand’s Philosophy

The philosophy of Ayn Rand, particularly her emphasis on “rational self-interest” (the greed is good society) and minimal government, has played a significant role in shaping this new value system. Rand’s ideas, which celebrate the individual’s pursuit of their own happiness above all else, have found a resurgence among the billionaire class and their supporters. However, these ideas are fundamentally flawed and contrary to both traditional American values as well as Catholic social doctrine (which I mention as having been raised Catholic but find so many “conservative” American Catholic bishops and “believers” abandoning in the MAGA era). It has saddened me that even some Catholic friends have embraced Ms Rand’s adolescent, mis-guided philosophy of greed and self-interest.

Critique of Ayn Rand’s Philosophy

Ayn Rand’s Objectivism prioritizes individual achievement and self-interest, often at the expense of empathy and community. Here are key points of critique:

  1. Lack of Empathy and Social Responsibility: Rand’s philosophy dismisses the importance of empathy and altruism, viewing them as weaknesses. In contrast, traditional American values and Catholic social doctrine emphasize the importance of caring for the less fortunate and fostering a sense of community.
  2. Hyper-Individualism: Rand’s extreme individualism undermines the social fabric by promoting a “survival of the fittest” mentality. This is antithetical to the principles of solidarity and the common good that are central to Catholic teaching and the American democratic tradition.
  3. Minimal Government: Rand’s advocacy for minimal government intervention fails to address systemic inequalities and the need for collective action to support the vulnerable. In contrast, both American civic values and Catholic social teaching recognize the role of government in promoting justice and protecting the rights of all citizens.
  4. Economic Inequality: Rand’s acceptance of economic inequality as a natural outcome of individual differences ignores the structural barriers that prevent equal opportunity. Addressing these barriers through governmental policies is essential for a just society. It is clear from various economic analyses that income and wealth have become unconscionably concentrated in the hands of very few individuals. This cannot be explained by merit alone; the system has been rigged with billionaires essentially buying politicians who write laws that favor the extremely wealthy, allowing them to avoid taxes that others cannot.

Inspiration for “Echoes of the Self”

“Echoes of the Self” is a reflection of my deep concerns about American civil society. It was directly inspired by watching recent speeches of Mr. Trump and Mr. Vance, reading the words of Mr. Musk, reading about how Mr. Thiel financed the election of a U.S. senator from Ohio, and reading multiple recent judicial decisions where the words in statutes or constitutions were disregarded when judges had an ideological agenda to fulfill.

“I am the Chosen One!” – Donald J. Trump
(Statement to the press on August 21, 2019)

Conclusion

Through “Echoes of Self,” I aim to highlight the dangers of adopting Ayn Rand’s philosophy as a guiding principle for our society. Perhaps as a society, we will find our way back to the values of civility, community, and shared responsibility, fostering a more compassionate and just society. And, perhaps, I will have time to produce a more interesting video to accompany this song, but for now, this will have to suffice.

Nietzsche, Proust, and My Antiquarian Self

Recently, I mentioned that I had read Friedrich Nietzsche’s “On the Use and Abuse of History.” My rough and tumble summary is as follows:

In “On the Uses and Abuses of History,” Nietzsche delineates three principal approaches to history: monumental, antiquarian, and critical. He argues that each methodology serves distinct purposes and carries unique implications for the perception and utilization of historical knowledge.

Monumental History: This approach venerates history as a continuum of extraordinary deeds and eminent individuals, offering inspiration for present and future endeavors. It emphasizes the perpetuity of greatness, encouraging individuals to aspire to the achievements of historical giants. Nietzsche asserts that by demonstrating what was once attainable remains within the realm of possibility that monumental history acts as a powerful motivational force.

Antiquarian History: Antiquarian history esteems the past for its own intrinsic value, driven by reverence and loyalty. It concentrates on the preservation of customs, traditions, and artifacts, fostering a sense of continuity and belonging. Nietzsche argues that this approach is indispensable for cultivating a collective memory and identity and providing comfort and a sense of rootedness within a historical continuum.

Critical History: Critical history is characterized by its evaluative and interrogative stance towards the past. It enables individuals and societies to extricate themselves from outdated or oppressive traditions, serving as a liberating force that facilitates progress. Nietzsche states that by challenging and reassessing historical narratives, critical history promotes a dynamic and progressive engagement with the past.

Balancing These Approaches: Nietzsche stresses that equilibrium among these historical approaches is essential for an appropriate engagement with history. An overemphasis on monumental history may lead to the undue glorification of the past, which stifles innovation. Conversely, an excessive focus on antiquarian history risks engendering a stagnant conservatism resistant to necessary change and progress. Additionally, overreliance on critical history can result in destructive cynicism and a disconnection from one’s heritage. A balanced historical perspective integrates the aspirational qualities of monumental history, the conserving virtues of antiquarian history, and the emancipatory critique of critical history. This synthesis fosters a society that respects its past, cherishes its heritage, and remains receptive to change and improvement.

My introduction to Nietzsche’s characterizations of historical approaches was revelatory, as it revealed much about my own approaches and reactions to history and historical objects. It also clarified the occasional disconnect I experience when engaging with contemporary historical studies, methodologies, and historians. In brief, I perceive that the current academic climate exhibits a pronounced imbalance, favoring critical history.[1] This predominance serves the interests of individual academicians and ideologues, rather than the broader objectives of history or society. Conversely, within the realm of political society, there is a noticeable tilt towards monumental history, almost entirely neglecting antiquarian and critical perspectives, which poses significant risks. Interestingly, I find myself slightly imbalanced in the Nietzschean sense, perhaps excessively favoring antiquarian history, thereby rendering myself somewhat out of step with both the Academy and political society. The quest for balance is imperative.

However, the aforementioned observations merely serve as a prelude to the more profound enlightenment I experienced while delving into Nietzsche’s concept of antiquarian history. In a particularly insightful article by Stephen Bann, entitled “Clio in Part: On Antiquarianism and the Historical Fragment,” published in 1987, I encountered a truly remarkable quote from Marcel Proust. This quotation elucidated, with striking clarity, my perspectives on literature, history, historical artifacts (including coins), and my self-identification as an antiquarian. It profoundly articulated the essence of what this self-identification entails and reinforced my understanding of my approach to these fields.

To provide a fitting introduction for individuals unfamiliar with the work from which I take Proust’s quote, which is to follow, it is essential to contextualize Proust’s reflections on the imaginative power of antiquities. In “Contre Sainte-Beuve,” a collection of essays in which Marcel Proust critiques the method of literary criticism employed by Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve, he vividly describes how historical imagination can transform our perception of ancient sites, such as the fictional estate of Guermantes. Guermantes, a recurring symbol in Proust’s magnum opus “In Search of Lost Time,” represents an idealized vision of the past, embodying the timelessness and continuity of history. The following excerpt from “Contre Sainte-Beuve” beautifully captures the essence of this transformation, illustrating how the past and present converge through the lens of imagination:

“And if Guermantes does not disappoint one as all imagined things do when reduced to reality; this is undoubtedly because at no time is it a real place, because even when one is walking about in it, one feels that the things one sees there are merely the wrappings of other things, that reality lies, not in this present but far elsewhere, that the stone under one’s hand is no more than a metaphor of Time; and the imagination feeds on Guermantes visited as it fed on Guermantes described because all these things are still only words, everything is a splendid figure of speech that means something else…. As for the castle towers, I tell you they are not only of that date, they are still in it. This is what stirs one’s heart when one looks at them. People always account for the emotional quality of old buildings by saying how much they must have seen in their time. Nothing could be more untrue. Look at the towers of Guermantes; they still look down on Queen Matilda’s cavalcade, on their dedication by Charles the Bad. They have seen nothing since. The moment when things exist is determined by the consciousness that reflects them; at that moment, they become ideas and are given their form; and their form, in its perpetuity, prolongs one century through the midst of others.”[2]

That final sentence resonates with me profoundly, both emotionally and instinctively. It elucidates why I have often conveyed to friends and family that, despite not having physically traversed great distances in my lifetime, I have, in truth, journeyed to more places and temporalities than almost anyone I know. This has been achieved through my extensive readings and the curation of my collections.

It also illuminates why, nearly twenty-five years ago, when a beloved friend and colleague faced a life-threatening health condition, I found it fitting to send her an antique silver Ethiopian Coptic Cross from my collection. This cross, approximately a century old, was likely crafted from silver originating from a Maria Theresa Trade Thaler. Accompanying the cross was a note explaining that, although it resided in my collection as an antiquarian item, it was made by the Faithful, for the Faithful, to aid the Faithful in prayer. Thus, the aura of its origin and use still imbued it with a sacred presence, which she, as one of the Faithful seeking prayer, would find comforting during that critical time. The words of Proust, I believe, provide a more cogent explanation of what I, ever the antiquarian, attempted to convey in my letter.

[1] A powerful discussion of the current imbalance in the Academy, with its excessive favoring of critical history and the attendant detrimental societal affects, is found in an essay by Julian Young. Unfortunately, the essay, which has a convincing introduction and general analysis of the situation, suffers horribly from poor analysis in the section entitled The Anxieties of Youth and fails absolutely in the particulars of its conclusion, which approaches an ideological agenda despite its disclaimers. The essay is still recommended for it strong beginnings as it only goes off the rails towards the very end. Young, J. (2023). The Uses and Misuses of History: Reflections on Nietzsche’s Second Untimely Meditation. Society, 60(670-683). https://doi.org/10.1007/s12115-023-00879-0

[2] Bann, S. (1987). Clio in Part: On Antiquarianism and the Historical Fragment. Perspecta, 23, 37, quote is cited in fn25 to Proust, M. (1984). By way of Sainte-Beuve (S. Townsend Warner, Trans.). London: Hogarth. 182-183.

The Joy of Wonder

A Wondrous Cleveland Sunrise by Matt Sexton (Follow him on Twitter @thatsexton)

There is much I do not understand. And the little I do understand is inconsequential. So, I accept the joy of wonder … wondering what it is all about and knowing that I will never know.

From My Facebook Post on August 18, 2011