Sam Haile's "African Musicians"

Sam Haile's African Musicians (1939)

(A reproduction of African Musicians is available to view on the BBC website: http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/artists/samuel-haile)

What is most striking about African Musicians (1939) is how unlike his other paintings it is – how its bright colours contrast with the dark, sombre tones found in works such as Dry Bones and Non Payment of Taxes, Congo, Christian Era (both painted in 1937). Perhaps even more significant is the difference in subject matter. Haile frequently painted as a means to articulate his political views, including in the latter two paintings I mentioned, in which he expresses outrage and devastation towards the Spanish Civil War, and the Belgian exploitation and colonization of the Congo, respectively, and contain horrific, even violent imagery.

African Musicians, however, is apparently free of this devastation and violence more typical to Haile's paintings, representing musical performance and projecting a positive aura. One reason for this shift in style and subject matter is certainly that this is the only painting of Haile's that was a commission. It was to be part of a mural decorating the walls of a New York jazz club. In this context, African Musicians becomes extremely interesting.

Up until and during the 1930s, Americans commonly thought of jazz as “dance music” rather than as a serious art form. However, it was beginning to be taken more seriously and 1938 saw a swing jazz band perform in the Carnegie Hall (one of America's most prestigious concert halls) in New York, for the first time. Backstage, before performing, the band's trumpeter, Harry James, amusingly remarked that he felt like “a whore in a church”, a statement that reflected his understandable discomfort and the massive significance of the coming performance. However, despite any apprehensions Harry James and the rest of the band may have had, the performance was well-received, as shown in a 1950s recording of the concert and the Carnegie Hall continued its role as host to a number of jazz musicians in the coming years. A number of bars and nightclubs endorsing the jazz scene were also opening around this time, including Café Society in 1938, where Billie Holiday first performed the now-familiar “Strange Fruit”, and Lenox Lounge in 1939, which also served as a venue for popular jazz musicians, including Miles Davis and, again, Billie Holiday.

The attitude towards jazz as mere “dance music” can be seen in the 1922 book cover illustration for Fitzgerald's “Tales of the Jazz Age”, featuring a number of lively dancing couples as well as two musicians, both of whom are white males, in contrast to Haile's musicians who are given an African identity, evident in the title of the piece, although not so much so in the painting itself. Although there are features which could be identified as African, such as the drums and the wavy hair of the figure to the left, I could not pick out any features that were exclusively African. For instance, the skin colour of each musician is different and the facial features are identical to those found in Haile's Ancient Greek-influenced painted pottery.

Again, we can compare African Musicians to Non Payment of Taxes, Congo, Christian Era in which the main figure's race can be more easily determined which, to me, suggests that Haile deliberately chose to portray the musicians' race as ambiguous in the painting, despite assigning them an African identity in the painting's title, though the artist's reasons for this can only be guessed at. As I briefly touched upon before, in discussing Non Payment of Taxes, Congo, Christian Era, Haile was in opposition to colonialism and in particular to its exploitative nature. Although very little is known about the nature of the commission for African Musicians, I thought perhaps he was chosen for his progressive political views, as well as for his skills as an artist. With this in mind, one interpretation could be that Haile was wanting to depict a scene in which various races of people could be united by music, another that he wanted to produce a painting which people of all races could easily relate to, and there are likely many, many more.

The thing I found most puzzling about African Musicians was the artist's inclusion of “Pan”, Greek god of rustic music – why should he be inserted into a scene depicting African musicians? Why was he included, rather than Apollo, the Greek god of music (as opposed to specifically rustic music)? A significant amount of Haile's pottery was also inspired by mythology, indicating that this was a personal interest of his. But while the references in his pottery are often obscure, the inclusion of the word PAN in African Musicians tells us that he wanted viewers to identify the ascending figure in the upper left as Pan. Once the idea is put into our heads we may be able to see the goat's legs take form, but without the inclusion of the text this would be an unlikely step to take. The fact that Pan, rather than Apollo, is depicted here may be assigning a particular status to jazz music, which fits with the “earthly” qualities that Haile admired in the music and that he expresses in the scene's plant life, some of which seems to meld into one of the instruments.

Another interpretation, which may or may not have been intended by the artist, is that of a relation to Pan-Africanism – a double meaning, if you like. Very briefly, Pan-Africanism is, in the words of Minkah Makalani, “a belief that African peoples, both on the African continent and in the Diaspora, share not merely a common history, but a common destiny.” Emphasis is placed on the solidarity and unity of those of African descent all over the world. It was in 1937 (two years prior to African Musicians' completion) that the Council on African Affairs was formed in New York – an organization promoting Pan-Africanism and anti-colonialism. Given Haile's anti-colonialist views, it's possible that he sympathised with such views and that this meaning was intended, but by no means definite.

While we cannot be sure of Haile's intentions regarding this piece it is clear that his hatred for colonialism, although expressed differently in African Musicians from other works, has been a major influence in his portrayal of the musicians. Instead of depicting the reality and horrors of colonial exploitation, he has presented us with an image of what could be – an image in which people are unified and not categorised so easily by labels such as “black” or “white”.

References

“African Musicians by Sam Haile” (1939), York Art Gallery

(Art and Music exhibition: 23 June - 31 December, 2012)

“Council on African Affairs”: http://africanactivist.msu.edu/organization.php?name=Council+on+African+Affairs (accessed 06/01/2013)

Makalani, Minkah, “Pan-Africanism”: http://exhibitions.nypl.org/africanaage/essay-pan-africanism.html (accessed 06/01/2013)

“Sam Haile - Dry Bones (1937)”, Leicester Galleries Online Archive and Image Library: http://www.leicestergalleries.com/19th-20th-century-paintings/d/dry-bones/10644

(accessed 06/01/2013)

“Sam Haile - Non Payment of Taxes, Congo, Christian Era (1937)”, Leicester Galleries Online Archive and Image Library: http://www.leicestergalleries.com/19th-20th-century-paintings/d/sam-haile/10645 (accessed 06/01/2013)

“R. J. Washington”: http://www.rjwashington.co.uk/biography.htm (accessed 06/01/2013)

Tales of the Jazz Age by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1922): http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6a/JohnHeld_Tales_of_the_Jazz_Age_1922.jpg

(accessed 06/01/2013)

Teachout, Terry, “Jazz,” The Wilson Quarterly, Vol.12, No. 3 (1988)

Woman/Image/Text: Readings in Pre-Raphaelite Art and Literature by Lynne Pearce (book review)

Woman/Image/Text: Readings in Pre-Raphaelite Art and Literature by Lynne Pearce (book review)

In her inter-disciplinary study of Pre-Raphaelite art and literature Pearce explores the representations of eight female characters, including Tennyson's Lady of Shalott and Dante's Beatrice and attempts not merely to expose the sexism and misogyny of the artists/authors, but to see if we might interpret them in ways more agreeable to the late 20^th Century feminist. That is, she aims to provide us, via the process of reading against the grain, with feminist readings rather than simply feminist critiques of the texts. With this emphasis on the modern feminist and her consumption of texts, she hopes that she has produced an “additional, yet complementary, perspective” to the work of feminist art historians such as Deborah Cherry, Griselda Pollock and Jan Marsh. Her focus on what the 20^th Century feminist ought to do with these Pre-Raphaelite texts (produced by men, for a primarily male audience) was a unique project at the time of publication, building on the strong foundations provided by the aforementioned feminist art historians during the 1980s.

Pearce's introduction, which describes various reading strategies as well as her aims in the coming chapters, is the longest section of the book. Her emphasis on reading against the grain is crucial, as it allows the reader to encounter ways in to a text. The practise depends on the belief that artists and authors did not “control the ideological content of their work from some transcendent, omniscient, authorial position, not that they 'reflected' the ideologies of their historical epoch in some naïve way.” In other words, there are ways to interpret the texts that were not intended by their creators (either on a conscious level or at all) and are not restricted to the dominant ideologies of the period in which they were created.

Although she provides an interesting explanation of the ways in which we can interpret images there are parts of this introductory chapter that seem unnecessary, in that they are not particularly relevant to the following chapters or simply do not require such extensive explanation. One such example is her lengthy discussion regarding the methodology of Louis Althusser and Pierre Macherey, which Mancoff notes in her review of the book. On the other hand, the reading strategies she endorses do provide us with access to multiple ways of understanding the texts rather than restricting us to only one understanding, which seems to me to be advantageous in shaping our interpretations. However, there are certain other ideas or arguments that Pearce dismisses or does not consider, which render some of her interpretations somewhat superficial, which I aim to demonstrate in the following discussion of some of her painting-poem combinations.

To begin with, I would like to very briefly explain the problem with Pearce's chapter on Guenevere – it is a case of mistaken identity. The woman in the painting she discusses is not Queen Guenevere, but La Belle Iseult. She is not the only scholar to have made this quite understandable mistake (the painting has in fact been exhibited as Queen Guinevere after Morris' death) but, as Marsh points out, the little dog sleeping on the bed is Iseult's emblem. This fault leads to the poem-painting pairing being mismatched and as a result of her mistake, much of Pearce's interpretation of the painting is dependent on the identification of the woman as Guenevere.

The first of the female characters studied by Pearce in this work is the Virgin Mary. In this chapter, Pearce examines The Girlhood of Mary Virgin (1848-49) and, to a lesser extent, Ecce Ancilla Domine (1849-50) – both paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti – and the double sonnet inscribed on the frame of the former, as well as in the exhibition catalogue. (Pearce, 1991, pp.31-43) I certainly agree with Pearce's decision to pair this poem with The Girlhood of Mary Virgin, as the two texts have the same author and are presented together as a whole. Therefore, it makes sense for us to assume a relationship between them. In Ways of Seeing, Berger demonstrates the way in which the inclusion of text with an image will influence our interpretation of an image by presenting us with a reproduction of Van Gogh's Wheatfield with Crows, followed with a reproduction of this same painting on the following page, but with the inclusion of the caption: “This is the last picture that Van Gogh painted before he killed himself.” Our way of seeing the image has changed as “the image now illustrates the sentence”.

Pearce also endorses this view in her reading of this painting-poem pairing, claiming that the presence of the sonnet influences or perhaps even dictates our interpretation of the painting and in particular the figure of Mary. She also notes that there are, of course, elements present in the painting itself that influence our interpretation, such as the halos. The presence of the halos, when the audience is familiar with the religious symbolism, indicates that the characters in the painting cannot be simply “any” ordinary men or women. Victorian audiences would be familiar with golden plates representing halos but, as Pearce explains, some of the other symbolism (associated with High Church/Catholicism) in the painting was not so widely understood, hence Rossetti's inclusion of the second of the two sonnets, which provides the viewer with a description of this less familiar symbolism and how it should be interpreted.

The first sonnet, on the other hand, relates specifically to the figure of Mary herself and explain to us her various virtues: simpleness of intellect, supreme patience, sense of duty, wisdom in charity, respectfulness towards her family and so on. Upon reading this sonnet, according to Pearce, we are inclined to view Mary as a “woman representing specific qualities that we (if we are women) should aspire to, or (if we are men) we should require in female dependents.” The fact that Rossetti described the Virgin as “a symbol of female excellence...[to be taken] as its highest type” supports this notion that we are ought to see his painted Mary in these terms and the presence of the sonnet alongside the painting coerces us into doing so. Obviously, if Pearce's argument is correct then the viewer is restricted in how (s)he interprets the painting.

In her collaborative work with Cherry, published in her own book, Pollock's assertion that “written text functions as a frame, positioning the drawings within an authoritative reading of their meanings” reflects this same notion, extending to the memoirs of W. M. Rossetti, and later the literature on the Pre-Raphaelites by prominent and respected art historians, such as Timothy Hilton.

Pearce herself seems to be influenced by this idea of written text as a (metaphorical) frame in the case of the other painting-poem combinations she explores and frequently treats paintings as illustrations of the poems. Of course, to some extent the paintings often are illustrating characters and events from particular poems. However, the mistaken identity of Morris' La Belle Iseult as Queen Guinevere highlights a problem with such an approach. In Pearce's reading of the painting, its contents merely become illustrative of the character of Guenevere from Morris' and, to a lesser extent, Tennyson's poems. For instance, from the presence of the little dog curled up on the bed she infers that it is still warm, having only recently been occupied by this woman and her lover - “and we may presume that it was Launcelot.” However, as mentioned in my earlier discussion of this chapter, the little dog is actually Iseult's emblem – a gift to her from her lover. Relying so heavily on other texts in our interpretation of artworks is actually extremely restrictive, as Pollock implies in her questioning of the authority of such sources, and this is one of Pearce's main weaknesses throughout this work.

Returning to her discussion of the Virgin, I would like to draw attention to the her dismissal of the fact that Christina Rossetti sat for Mary as insignificant, stating that the woman in the painting is Mary “and therefore decidedly not Christina Rossetti,” whereas Marsh suggests that the painting had a personal meaning for Rossetti, “in reference to the devout upbringing provided by the artist's mother, Frances Rossetti, who sat for the figure of St. Anne.” The education that the young Mary is receiving from St. Anne mirrors the real life experiences of Frances and Christina as tutor and pupil. According to Kelvin, Dante and Christina were close as brother and sister from a closely knit family and that even into adulthood “their affection for each other and their loyalty remained constant.” With this in mind, it does not seem to be merely a coincidence that Rossetti chose his sister, someone he respected and cared about, as his model for Mary. Hence, we might say that the woman in the painting can be thought of as Mary or as Christina. This duality of meaning provides us with the potential to read the painting in other ways, not considered by Pearce.

Similarly, in a later chapter, she pays little attention to Beata Beatrix as a portrait of Elizabeth Siddall and signigicantly more attention to it as a portrait of Beatrice, the beloved of Dante. The fact that he chose to paint a posthumous portrait of his wife when it would, no doubt, have been easier to hire a model is in itself telling, as is the presence of the poppy in the lower right of the painting – Siddall's cause of death was an overdose of laudanum. There are problems associated with reading this painting as a portrait of Rossetti's deceased wife, which have been demonstrated in cases where the identities of the historical figures Rossetti and Siddall and the fictional Dante and Beatrice become intertwined and confused, as noted by Pollock.

In the same work, Pollock alludes to the danger of being seduced by the the construction of “Lizzie Siddal” as “fatally ill, consumptive, as an enigma and yet with a specifiable melancholy personality, as a beautiful model, and as the beloved of Rossetti.” “Lizzie Siddal” in this context does not refer to the individual known as Elizabeth Siddall, but rather, in Marsh's words, to a “Pre-Raphaelite mascot.” While these are certainly ways to interpret “Lizzie Siddal” they are not, as Marsh shows, the only ways. Since her death in 1862, the persona of “Lizzie Siddal” has been redefined and reconstructed in a number of diverse roles – as a hysterical young woman, an artist and even an emergent feminist. Reading Beata Beatrix with this in mind, we are able to interpret the text in numerous exciting ways, which sadly are not explored in Pearce's work.

Larsen and Mancoff's reviews of Woman/Image/Text are generally very favourable, praising the inclusion of “stunning readings and a comprehensive theoretical approach” and showing us that we can “take possession of these works in a way that counters, transcends, and explodes” the misogyny exposed by scholars such as Cherry and Pollock. However, it is worth noting that neither Mancoff nor Larsen realise the mistaken identity of La Belle Iseult as Queen Guinevere, with Mancoff referring to the Guenevere “in the painting” and Larsen barely commenting on the chapter in question.

In their defence, the painting the painting was in fact in the Tate Gallery under the name Queen Guinevere in 1986, which accounts for the subsequent confusion in the early 1990s, during which Pearce's work and subsequent reviews of her work were published. However, as Marsh points out, as well as the presence of the little dog on the bed, there is documentary evidence in favour of the woman's identity as Iseult. This exposes Pearce's research as insufficient, and particularly as she makes several references to Marsh's work throughout her book, it seems odd that she would choose to identify the woman in the painting as Guenevere over Iseult. For Mancoff, particularly as a Professor of Art History, the failure to notice this mistake is also unjustified.

I agree with Mancoff's claim that Pearce offers “an intriguing and potentially productive and affirming direction in the feminist critique of Pre-Raphaelite art” but unfortunately I cannot conclude that her own attempt at reading the texts was successful in this instance. Pearce's ideas regarding the importance of the modern feminist's consumption of the texts and how far she ought to go with attempts to appropriate them are, indeed, fascinating. The problem is simply that there are so many ways to interpret the texts that she does not consider, which undermines her aims of showing the possibilities and limitations of reading against the grain. Of course, it would be very difficult (if not impossible) to explore all possibilities with regards to how we may interpret a particular text, but it is safe to say that a more thorough exploration than Pearce provides is needed.

Larsen suggests, towards the end of her review, that one “wonders what Pearce might make of Siddal's paintings,” and indeed, a comparison between her drawing of the Lady of Shalott and Holman Hunt's painting would have been an interesting addition to Pearce's chapter on this character. In Barringer's summary of Cherry's work with Pollock, for example, it is noted that “while Hunt's image pathologises the lady's act of rebellion, a drawing of the same scene by Elizabeth Siddall celebrates her moment of power.” A discussion of the comparison of representations of women by women with representations of women by men would have been a welcome addition to Pearce's work, as by investigating the differences or similarities between them would surely aid us in deciphering the intended and possible meanings of the men's works, as well as how modern feminists ought to interpret them.

To briefly summarise, I believe that Pearce's initial premise presents us with an exciting and original development in the discourse of feminist art history but that she fails to provide an adequate illustration of her ideas, with her main weaknesses being the limitations of her reliance on written texts when interpreting the paintings she discusses. However, with comparatively little research on this area since the 1980s, I feel that this book provides art historians with an excellent topic for further research.

References

Barringer, Tim, “The Lady of Shalott c.1888-1905” in Barringer, Rosenfield & Smith, Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Avant-Garde (Tate Publishing, 2012)

Berger, John, Ways of Seeing, (1972; Penguin, 2008)

Kelvin, Norman, “Dante Gabriel and Christina Rossetti: A Pairing of Identities,” Victorian Literature and Culture, Vol. 32, No. 1 (2004)

Larsen, Elizabeth, “Woman/Image/Text: Readings in Pre-Raphaelite Art and Literature by Lynne Pearce,” College Literature, Vol. 20, No. 3 (1993)

Mancoff, Debra, “Woman/Image/Text: Readings in Pre-Raphaelite Art and Literature by Lynne Pearce,” Woman's Art Journal, Vol. 15, No. 1 (1994)

Marsh, Jan, Pre-Raphaelite Women (Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1987)

Marsh, Jan, The Legend of Elizabeth Siddal, 2^nd ed. (1989; Quartet Books, 2010)

Marsh, Jan, “William Morris's Painting and Drawing,” The Burlington Magazine, Vol. 128, No. 1001 (1986)

Pearce, Lynne, Woman/Image/Text: Readings in Pre-Raphaelite Art and Literature (University of Toronto Press, 1991)

Pollock, Griselda, “Woman as Sign in Pre-Raphaelite Literature: The representation of Elizabeth Siddall” in Vision and Difference: Feminism, femininity and the histoies of art, Routledge Classics Edition (1988; Routledge, 2003)

Nietzsche on Guilt and Bad Conscience

In this essay I will begin by discussing what Nietzsche means by bad conscience and guilt, and then describe the development of the moralized guilt that we are familiar with today. I will consider the question of whether the creation of the Christian God is necessary in that development and argue that while the notion of guilt thrives under Christian (and post-Christian) mentality, it was not necessary in order for humans to begin experiencing guilt. Rather, it was the setting of high standards of our behaviour that was crucial in the development of guilt.

In order to make sense of what bad conscience and guilt really are and why we experience them, it is crucial that we understand their origins. On Nietzsche's view the reason for experiencing guilt is rooted in our instinctual desire to cause suffering, in order to express power or dominance over others. (GM II. 6) However, once we become cultured and integrated into society we are prevented from such behaviour, but our instinct for cruelty remains intact, meaning that we must find another way to express our power. It is for this reason that bad conscience arises. Instead of inflicting cruelty or expressing dominance over others, we do so upon ourselves. Nietzsche calls this process “internalization”. (GM II. 16) Although it might initially sound strange to say that we take pleasure in causing ourselves to suffer, it need not mean that we have to commit to the belief that we must enjoy the experience of suffering itself.

At this point, it is worth noting the difference between bad conscience and guilt in the sense we are familiar with. For instance, I could feel bad about doing something that had not resulted in the consequences I had hoped for, without thinking that I ought to have behaved differently or that my behaviour was wrong. If I borrowed money from a friend and was later unable to pay him back, it would be perfectly plausible to say that I could feel badly about the situation because the consequences were inconvenient for me (my friend may be less inclined to lend me money in future, for instance) without believing that my failure to pay him back makes me a worse person. Bad conscience could be characterised as a feeling of responsibility for my actions, and feeling badly about them, but not including the belief that my performing them was inherently wrong.

According to Nietzsche, the feeling of guilt is characterised by holding oneself “responsible not only for one's acquired obligations, but also for the flawed nature of one's very being.” (Conway, 2008, p.13) We are only able to feel guilty if we believe both that we are responsible for our actions (or inactions) and for our own character, which leads us to be more inclined towards certain courses of action. So, when I borrowed money from my friend and did not pay him back, I might feel guilty that I had failed to do so because I had a responsibility to and because I believe that I ought to be the type of person who would be reliable in paying someone back.

Nietzsche appeals to this notion of indebtedness in his explanation of the development of guilt, by referring to the perceived indebtedness towards ancestors and gods. This began when tribes believed that their very existence had been dependent on the sacrifices and achievements of previous generations, arising feelings of indebtedness towards those ancestors. Reparations could take the form of sacrifices (such as animals, for food) and achievements (in war with other tribes, for example) in order to reflect this. As the societies became greater Nietzsche noted that the feelings of indebtedness rose and ancestors were increasingly being seen as godly. This led to more significant sacrifices, such as virgins or first-born sons in order to repay this ever-growing debt. (GM II. 19) This relationship between guilt and debt is often manifested in the language we use – for example, if I am unable to pay someone back and feel guilty about it, I might say that I “owe” it to them to apologise or to make it up to them in some other way.

However, it was through the emergence of Christianity and its God that human beings were able to come to imagine themselves “guilty and reprehensible to the point that it cannot be atoned for”. (GM II. 22) When we subscribe to a Christian morality, each of us will believe that we ought to be better people, but maintain the knowledge that we are unable to suppress our inherent nature at every opportunity. This is a problem because Christianity presents our nature and instincts as flaws and the actions they result in as things to be avoided. This makes it “impossible to discharge one's obligations or make adequate reparation.” (Janaway, 2007, p.138) In other words, we will be forever in God's debt because we lack the ability to consistently behave as ideal Christians. This inability is something we hold ourselves to be responsible for, which along with our perceived indebtedness, leads to feelings of guilt.

I would now like to consider the question of whether moralized guilt appeared with the rise of Christianity, or whether it existed independently of it. Certainly, Nietzsche remarks that modern atheists are susceptible to guilt, but this is due to the Christian values that they cling on to. What we are interested in is whether or not people experienced feelings of guilt prior to the birth of Christianity.

According to Risse, it is the entanglement of the earlier form of bad conscience with Christianity that results in guilt. (Risse, 2001) What is meant by the earlier form of bad conscience here is the internalization of cruelty and when it is combined with a Christian mentality it results in guilt. This view placed Christianity in a crucial role with regards to the development of guilt, as without its rise we would have been left merely with the earlier form of bad conscience. Initially, this view seems plausible, in the sense that Christianity imposes feelings of indebtedness and responsibility for that indebtedness, along with responsibility for the human nature that leads us towards that indebtedness.

Unfortunately, tying Christianity and guilt together in this way leaves us with some problems. If the notion of the Christian God is so crucial to feelings of guilt, then it would surely follow that with the “death of God” there would be a cease in guilt. But clearly atheists do have the capacity to feel guilt, as do people who subscribe to religions or practices other than Christianity, such as Buddhism. One way to retreat from this difficulty might be to weaken the position Risse puts forward and to suggest that Christianity is not the only condition under which guilt can arise, but it happened to be the first major catalyst in the development of guilt. In other words, it was not a necessary condition for the creation of guilt, but a contingent one. If this was the case, it may explain why atheists or people of other religions also have the capacity to feel guilt. It could be suggested that what is required for the development of guilt is a shared morality, rather than Christianity specifically.

However, I believe that this position is still flawed. Christian (or indeed any religious or shared) mentality does not seem necessary in order for us to perceive responsibilities and duties towards one another, which go beyond feeling badly about our actions merely because the consequences were inconvenient for us. I can see no reason why it would not be possible for guilt to have developed without the aid of religion, since there is no reason to believe that we would not have been able to consider our responsibility for the actions we perform and for the type of person that we choose to be prior to Christianity. It seems possible for human beings to set standards for themselves and judge themselves and their actions according to those. There is no need to imagine a supreme being as their judge or to rely on shared morality in order to do this. Something that may support this position is the fact that different individuals do not have identical value judgements and so may experience guilt for different reasons to one another.

It may help to consider a distinction between two different types of guilt, as given by Risse in his paper “On God and Guilt”. The first type, he describes as an “experience of reprehensible failure in response to specific actions.” (Risse, 2005) An instance of this type of guilt would be the feeling I may endure if I promised and subsequently failed to turn up to my cousin's performance with no good reason. Risse calls this locally-reactive guilt. The other type of guilt he talks about is referred to as existential guilt, which is characterised by a “persistent feeling of imperfection” and one of the instances in which it can occur is when one is subjected to a morality in which it is incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to live up to its standards. (Risse, 2005) Christianity is one example of such a morality.

On this account, Nietzsche is concerned with existential guilt as opposed to locally-reactive guilt. This seems to be a more promising position to take, as it allows for the existence of guilt prior to the rise of Christianity, in the form of locally-reactive guilt at least. But I am still reluctant to accept that something resembling existential guilt could not emerge outside of Christianity or other types of shared morality. If we do accept that we can feel locally-reactive guilt – that is, feeling a sense of responsibility for our behaviour and the type of people we are – then it seems odd to say that we could not experience what Risse refers to as a “persistent feeling of imperfection” as a result of this. Humans are, after all, capable of reflection and of setting high standards for themselves without imagining a supreme being as their judge.

When running a marathon, one athlete might be disappointed with themselves for not winning, while another may be pleased at completing the marathon. It makes sense to say that certain types of people might feel guilt towards themselves for not winning and feel as though they let themselves down. Perhaps they believe they could have trained harder, and that is why they blame themselves for not winning. So far, this is an instance of locally-reactive guilt. But this mindset could easily lead someone to think of themselves as being, for instance, lazy, weak-willed and unable to change.

The reaction is no longer only related to the outcome of the marathon, but to their future. The notion of God need not be present here, as the athlete is her own judge. The reason she believes being weak-willed and lazy is bad is that it could prevent her from achieving the things she wants to achieve, rather than because she thinks that these qualities make her a morally worse person. If this is true, the only necessary condition for existential guilt to arise is the capacity to experience locally-reactive guilt. The rigid and demanding morality present in Christianity causes this sort of guilt to flourish but it is the high standard of behaviour expected, rather than the fact that the morality is shared, that brings this about. This means that organised religions or practices are not the only means by which this guilt can arise, though they may appear be one of the most effective.

Bibliography

Conway, Daniel, Nietzsche's “On the Genealogy of Morals, (Continuum, 2008)

Janaway, Christopher, Beyond Selfishness (Oxford University Press, 2007)

Nietzsche, Friedrich, On the Genealogy of Morals, (Oxford University Press, 2008)

Risse, Mathias, The Second Treatise in in the Genealogy of Morality: Nietzsche on the Origin of the Bad Conscience, European Journal of Philosophy 9(1) (2001)

Risse, Mathias, On God and Guilt: A Reply to Aaron Ridley, The Journal of Nietzsche Studies 29 (2005)

Could envy be an artistic virtue?

In this essay I am going to examine the claim that envy, traditionally seen as a negative character trait, could be considered as an artistically creative virtue. First of all, I will clarify what I mean by virtue and vice, and give a definition of what envy is, making the distinction between benign envy and malicious envy, and discuss whether either of these types of envy could constitute a creative virtue. I will argue that benign envy could be seen as a creative virtue, whereas malicious envy cannot, before assessing the claim that benign envy is not really envy and put forward an alternative definition of envy, which allows for this.

There are many definitions of virtue and vice, but in this essay when I refer to something being a virtue, I am saying that it is an excellence of character and when I talk about vices I am referring to things that are a viciousness of weakness of character. When discussing character with regards to virtue and vice, there are a number of things I could mean. I could be talking about moral character, intellectual character, creative character and so on.¹ A creative virtue then, is an excellence of the creative character and a moral vice is a trait that is a viciousness or weakness of the moral character. So it would not be inconsistent for me to consider that envy could be a moral vice, but also a creative virtue.

Now, let us consider what it is to be envious. It seems that to envy someone is to desire something they have, in a particular way. It is not the same as admiring someone (or their possessions) or simply wishing that you had what they have. Envy is characterised by a desire to level the difference with the other person.² The reason we might think that this could be a creative virtue is that we might think that wanting to level the difference would inspire us to act towards bettering our own skills. However, it seems that some envious people are not motivated in such a way. Rather than attempting to improve themselves, they merely have feelings of resentment towards the rival (which in some cases may spur them to behave unpleasantly towards them, though this is not necessary).

This leads me to the distinction between two types of envy: “benign” envy and “malicious” envy. These two types of envy involve different ideas about how to level the difference with another. Benign envy is an expression of the desire to level the difference with a rival by bringing one's self up to their level. For instance, I might see an amazing painting and be envious of that painter's skills. If I was experiencing benign envy, then my reaction would be that I wanted to improve my own painting skills. Malicious envy, on the other hand, expresses a desire to bring a rival down to one's own level. So in the case of the painter I envied, if I was experiencing malicious envy, I might have the desire to somehow sabotage her career.³ It seems as though we are more likely to feel one or the other type of envy, depending on whether or not we perceive the rival as deserving what they have. If, for instance, I believed that my rival was naturally talented but had also worked very hard on her painting I would be more likely to experience benign envy due to having the belief that she was indeed deserving. On the other hand, if I thought she was not very talented and didn't put much effort into her work and that she produced good artwork merely as a fluke, I may tend towards malicious envy, believing that she was not deserving.

When thinking about creative virtues and vices, distinguishing between benign envy and malicious envy is particularly important, because the desire to bring ourselves to the level of our rivals and the desire to bring our rivals down to our level are two distinct goals. If one person is aiming towards one particular goal and another person towards a different goal, it is plausible to suggest that the ways in which they go about achieving their goals may be very different. Suppose once more that I envy a particular painter, and that in this case I am experiencing malicious envy. I might be motivated to cause her to have an accident in which she breaks her fingers, which would mean that she was unable to paint. These kinds of unsavoury thoughts or behaviour make it seem as though malicious envy could not be a creative virtue, as this would do nothing to improve my creativity.

However, imagine that I am envious of that same painter, but I am experiencing benign envy. This may motivate me to improve my own artwork by studying various painting techniques and practising whenever I have free time. It seems plausible to say that benign envy could constitute a creative virtue as it does have the potential to encourage creativity. So, it is tempting to say that while malicious envy does not appear to be, benign envy may well be a creative virtue.

Some people might want to argue that although benign envy may lead us to feel motivated, it would be more virtuous to feel admiration, and that this could have the same effects. I don't think that this seems quite right, as it is perfectly possible to feel admiration for someone's skills or qualities without wanting to improve yourself, whereas one of the characteristics of benign envy is the desire to improve yourself, bringing yourself up to the level of your rival.

Certain psychological studies seem to support this thesis. One such study was recently published in the Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin. The aim was to test the hypothesis that people experiencing benign envy, rather than malicious envy or admiration, were most motivated to improve themselves. The outcome was that, firstly, the participants experiencing benign envy were motivated to study more and work harder than those who were either in a neutral condition or experiencing admiration or malicious envy. Secondly, the experience of benign envy was tied to actual performance on tests related to intellectual and creative abilities, with the participants experiencing benign envy outperforming those who were experiencing admiration, malicious envy or who were in a neutral condition. The study also seemed to show that circumstances that breed feelings of benign envy typically involve the subject having the belief that self-improvement is within the realms of possibility. Those who believed that self-improvement was extremely difficult were more likely to experience either admiration or malicious envy.⁴

This last point may lead us to question whether motivation may in fact be related to self-esteem, rather than benign envy. It sounds plausible that people who believe in themselves may be more likely to succeed at their goals. They would probably be more motivated and less likely to give up, should they run into difficulties, whereas those with lower self-esteem may convince themselves that they are unable to succeed. However, in light of the aforementioned study, I do not think it would be correct to say that self-belief alone is what motivates us. It would be perfectly possible for someone to have healthy self-esteem but be experiencing malicious envy – perhaps they are under the impression that their rival is undeserving. If this was the case, they may be motivated in more destructive ways, such as unpleasant behaviour towards the rival rather than directing their energy into their own projects. Since self-belief and benign envy can be separated from one another, it seems that we must maintain the view that benign envy appears to be a creative virtue in itself, rather than just something that often accompanies healthy self-esteem.

However, there is a more serious claim to be made in opposition to the notion of envy as a creative virtue. It can be said that benign envy is not really envy at all. Looking back to the definition of envy that I explained earlier – a desire to level the difference between yourself and a rival – this would not be true. But if this definition of envy is incorrect or incomplete, then it is possible that what we call benign envy is not really envy. I think it sounds reasonable to say that if I were experiencing admiration towards a rival, I could still be inspired by them and motivated to work hard on my own projects. How this differs from benign envy, if indeed it does, is unclear. Motivation for self-improvement is not a necessary condition for admiration, but it is plausible to say that it could occur in some cases of admiration and not others. Perhaps, for instance, when admiration is coupled with high self-esteem, an individual is more likely to be motivated.

Silver and Sabini give an account of envy that seems consistent with this. On their account, an individual is experiencing envy if their emotional reaction towards another's success is in some way inappropriate or unjustified.⁵ Imagine that my friend and I enter a poetry contest. We both work very hard on our poems, but in the end it is my friend who wins the contest. He behaves very modestly about this, yet I still have ill feelings towards him. This is an example of envy, because my ill feelings towards my friend are unjustified and not appropriate to the situation. However, if he had come up to me after winning the contest boasting of him talent and belittling my attempts at writing, I would be quite justified in being angry with him. So in this case, even though I could still wish that I'd won the contest, what I felt would not constitute envy.

In this paper, there is also an example that seems to fall under the category of what was referred to (by Van de Ven et al) as benign envy. Silver and Sabini mention a sports team who have lost a game, and are now motivated to do better. They clearly desire to win (and therefore level the difference between themselves and the rival team). Here though, the authors do not consider this to be an instance of envy, because there is no unjustified or inappropriate response towards the other team.⁶

I think that this definition of envy is perhaps more consistent than those centring around the distinction between benign and malicious envy. On this account, what is important when we try to recognise envy is the way an individual feels towards their rival, rather than the way in which they desire to level the difference. This makes it possible for us to say that those who are motivated to level the difference between themselves and a friendly rival, but have no inappropriate or unjustified ill feelings towards them, are likely motivated by admiration. Of course, it does not seem ridiculous to suggest that someone could have unjustified ill feelings towards a rival and still be motivated to better themselves, rather than undermine the other person.

If this is the case, then we can potentially classify envy as a artistically creative virtue. However, it would be fair to say that when combined with certain other traits (such as low-self esteem, pessimism or vindictiveness) it may not motivate individuals to better themselves and instead lead to behaviour which is of little or no value as far as creativity is concerned. Rather than focussing on individual traits, it makes more sense to focus on the relationships between different traits. For instance, envy could be a good trait to have for an individual who is also hard working and optimistic, as it may help to push them towards achieving their goals. But perhaps it would be less so for an individual who is lazy and pessimistic, as they would be more likely to give up, if they even began working towards their goals. In conclusion, what we need to do is look at the creative character as a whole if we wish to truly understand what character traits, or rather combinations of character traits, make a person artistically creative.

References:

1Kieran, Matthew, “Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art” Lecture 6: Admiration and Envy

2Kieran, Matthew, “Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art” Lecture 6: Admiration and Envy

3D'Arms, Justin, "Envy",The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

4 Van de Ven, Niels, Marcel Zeelenberg & Rik Pieters, “Why Envy Outperforms Admiration”, Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 37 (6): pp.784-95

5Silver, Maury & Sabini, John, “The Perception of Envy”, Social Pyschology 41 (2) pp. 105-108

6Silver, Maury & Sabini, John, “The Perception of Envy”, Social Pyschology 41 (2) p. 108