i never actually draw in art class

Siedell, right off the bat in “Altars to the Unknown God,” makes a reckless assertion: “We think we know what art is. And that is the problem.” The word “know” makes me think of the old adage “ignorance is bliss.” I’ve been wrestling with the basic impression of “ignorance is bliss,” which tells me that if I want to be happy, I shouldn’t seek knowledge. This is immediately frustrating given that I am attending a private university for undergraduate-level education: I am paying loads of money to become less content. That doesn’t seem logical; it (the concept of seeking to become sorrowful) doesn’t seem the sort of institution that should have lasted since the foundation of Oxford around 1100 AD, particularly since institutions like this teach what is logical. What am I missing?

A few days ago my mother, in discussing her education, said something along the lines of: “All my Master’s taught me was how much I don’t know.” A friend’s father echoed the same notion, that his “education just made [him] more ignorant.” And it clicked, in my head: more ignorance? So like… more bliss? (you see the gears turning?) But that’s it. All knowledge does is lead to a greater understanding of our ignorance. And ignorance is bliss. So when Dan Siedell says that we have a problem in thinking we know what art is, I understand him to mean that in doing this, we come to view art as the un-bliss. Why is this a problem? Art is meant to be joyful.

Siedell’s first point is that art is a “a dynamic, hypostatic union between form and content.” Thomas Aquinas says that “love is understood as a medium between lover and loved.” I’d like to equate Siedell’s “union” with “medium,” in the sense that both are formed between two things, both bond two separate entities to each other. I particularly like Aquinas’ definition of love for this discussion since “medium” is an art term. If a medium (paint, charcoal, clay) is love, then the artist is lover and the art is loved. If art is loved, then it has reason to be joyful, and it has no reason to be anything but bliss. Siedell is accurate when he pinpoints our problem on thinking that we can size up art with that which we already know, because he knows that art is meant to be joyful, and if we think we know art, then we miss it’s joy.

Siedell next point is a complaint that the popular view of art “assumes that to understand and experience art in its fullness should require no effort.” This parallels “ignorance is bliss”’s original suggestion that learning isn’t worth the time and energy, since we already have access to all the happiness that a thing has to offer without working to really understand or experience. I sympathize with Siedell’s complaint because I share the sentiment that apathy and unconscientiousness will be the downfall of any society. I believe that the hard way is worth it; that James is absolutely accurate in advising that we “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Siedell, in his complaint, voices a desire to maintain the mature and complete and full character of art. He begs the artist and the observer (I believe Siedell would argue that the all of the human race is one or the other) to be also a learner. Why is it important to learn more? Because it is not truly bliss to know less. In parallel, it is not really art if it is not complex and complicated. It’s not really art if it’s not hard.

“At the risk of being considered an elitist,” Siedell continues, “I would argue that such conditions must be understood.” Why is it that societal understanding of erudition that implies snobbery and ignores responsibility? Why does Siedell have to precursor his argument with a buffer against haughtiness? Siedell speaks to a culture that assumes arrogance and does not dig deeper to decide what might be otherwise – this audience does not seem to value that someone highly skilled in capability in understanding might exhibit humility. Instead of simply shunning the learning that “such conditions” involve doing, both artist and observer should inquire: Why should we do this learning if it makes us feel elitist? Why not just go do stuff? These are healthy questions because they are practical – if nothing else, they at least provide the assumer with a decent reason for his or her assumption.

Siedell’s implication is that we must understand the conditions of living, of art, of mission. We must understand what true joy, true happiness, and true bliss really is before we go out and produce it in art and in lives. School is worth my time because it shows me the long-term end of my energies, and not the cheapened, watered-down, overpriced-commercial version of “happy." Siedell’s words on art assure students of academics and those preparing for mission that they aren’t just a dumb donkey chasing after a carrot… but that they’re just a dumb donkey chasing after a really, really, big, orange, juicy carrot. The Form of the carrot. And, Siedell indicates, at some point, they’ll get to it, if they open their eyes to seeing the “big picture” (the painting on the wall; the immense tapestry of life).

In reference to some of the peak performances of academic exertion, Siedell claims “That T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land or James Joyce’s Ulysses require extensive notes to explain references and allusions does nothing to undermine the fact that Eliot and Joyce were working within a living tradition. It just so happens that this living tradition has not been shared by most readers, either in Eliot’s or Joyce’s time or in our own.” Siedell’s awareness of the culture his work and his thinking counter seeks to show his audience that it is man’s fault for failing to uphold a standard of real bliss, of real ignorance, of real knowledge. His allusion to past masters of creation proves that at some previous time and in some previous minds, man did uphold these standards. So the question, then, is: is this possible now? Could the culture that Siedell is addressing reclaim the true significance behind the old axiom “ignorance is bliss”?

Intellectually, Siedell explains how this might be possible. “Art is not only a cultural practice; it is also an institutional practice. Therefore, any discussion of art must take into account its institutional framework.” He urges all involved in the discussion of art – some artist, some observer – to consider their reasoning behind their action. Man should not do things out of culture, but out of institute. What was man instituted as? Man is the creation of God. Man is (or was, before we fell and begun exponentially warping ourselves) art. If, as we said before, art is the loved and the artist is the lover, then man is loved and God is the lover. The art, made with the medium of love, reflects his lover. And so man’s end (the reasoning behind the institution of man) is that he would reflect his lover. Man is loved. Man must be joyful, man must be bliss.

This sounds so nice. Too nice, almost. Siedell admits it: “Artistic practice, then, is utopian. It recognizes that the world is not as it should be.” Art, by virtue of the fact that it is difficult, admits a fallen state – it is evidence of how we might have gotten confused between diluted bliss and true bliss. “Art is a witness,” Siedell affirms, “to both our fallen world and our hope for its redemption.” Art is a witness to our fallen world because of the fact that true joy in it must be worked towards. It is also our hope for the world’s redemption because, as previously discussed, it implies that this true joy is entirely attainable.

If we are art, if we are the art of the creator, if we are his handiwork, then we must be a witness to both the fallen world and our hope for it’s redemption, too. This means that we, too, are to represent both ignorance and knowledge, both struggle and bliss. Especially struggle; especially bliss. And one day, ultimately, we are to represent real bliss, the bliss that it should truly be.