When Beauty Gets Silenced

Art as a Voice

The recent downturns in the economy have fostered a mind numbing litany of accusations, pontifications and shear wonderment. The airwaves are filled with the rattle & hum of fear as the American and now global dream of the future takes daily hits. So much at stake and so little reliable declarations made at a time when everyone is waiting for prophecy. Someone please tell us how to get out of this mess, through this calamity with some semblance of life as we thought we knew it. Spoken, written or sung, painted with the tongue or brush, someone please step forward and tell us who we are.

Barak Obama enters the national and international scene during a period unprecedented in my life time. Even his detractors are secretly hoping he knows how to turn this titanic around or at least plug the hole in the ship and allow us to limp into port. It is evident that the man has significant gifts and he very well may prove to be one of the better leaders our nation has ever known. However, in the meantime, the story of life will not be silenced and epic tales are awaiting the poets pondering.

As the nation broods over the next step regarding the economy, harsh sacrificial measures are being offered as the only way forward. We are an age who has emptied our coffers just before a drought. We have leveraged the seed intended for next year’s crop and are now looking for someone or something to sacrifice at the altar of our presumption. Yearend bonuses and record breaking profits of companies like Exxon remind us that in the midst of all the downward spiral something unjust and unsettling remains. More than ever, we long for the resolve of a more powerful explanation. All the cacophony can unfortunately make life seem as if it is about nothing. Just a series of unrelated, unconnected voices all calling out for a hearing but at the moment sounding like noise. Who helps draw these desperate sounds, symbols and images together? Who brings nobility to the suffering, justice to the pitiable, healing to the ailing, and a home to the vagabond? Are there parts of the human condition that can only be awakened through the balm of creatives willing to listen?


In many ways there is a violent struggle right now for power over the who gets to form the story. From the partisan battles of Republicans and Democrats to the terrorist and peace niks, many contingencies are lining up at the soap box that is the media and offering up their reflection on this screen play in the making. Oddly enough, at a time when all are experiencing such great loss, more than ever we need those committed to listening to and for the healing & hopeful stories needed for the naming.

“The future may depend on our remembering that everything has in it a dream of itself,” Rachel Naomi Remen once said. Could this be the genius of creativity and the imagination? Out of these dark spaces and places, could a more hopeful mythos emerge? Ironically, it appears the arts have once again been marginalized and silenced.

As the bailout turned into TARP and TARP into Obama’s new plan, special interests once again lined up at the governmental troughs not convinced this was really a crisis. Lobbyists came out of the closet and knew from past experiences that something this large would certainly allow for millions of dollars to be designated for their causes and interests. Even as we speak, it is clear that a crisis of this magnitude cannot cure the illness of special interests. If we get ours, that is enough.

In so many of the discussion by politicians and media pundits, it appeared that one group or endowment was certainly unworthy of any assistance. After all, we are in times where people need jobs, companies need capital, and the consumer needs confidence. It was odd as time after time the Endowment of the Arts would be first or second line item to cut on the list of groups that certainly did not need any funding or help during this kind of crisis. From pro-lifers upset at family planning clinics birth control perks to parks and wildlife groups who stand to lose their assistance, everyone seemed to dismiss the arts as a coterie worth mentioning. Why? Because the art community is an easy weak victim. They have little collective voice in the circus that is politics and media.

History has told us over and over again what happens when the arts are silenced. In the twentieth century, writers like Alexander Solzhenitsyn cried out from the Gulags warning us of a world of the horror taking place in the Soviet Republic. Even African American artists in the 50’s & 60’s like Miles David revealed the darkened heart of a nation caught up in racism. When will we learn that the voice of the artist gives pathos to the sorrow? When will we learn that creativity is often unleashed most powerfully during times when the human soul seems defeated and nearly destroyed?

There is a voice that is the arts. From the dance of Twila Tharp to the comedic social commentary of Lennie Bruce to the ecstatic offerings of Paul Klee, we are enriched by the extravagance of beauty in the midst of loss and exile. More than ever, the arts need to be supported and sustained even sacrificially. Whose voice will frame this current age? Will it be the Wall Street tycoon full of himself and his leveraged world? Will it be the politician convinced his occasional nod to the common man makes him a man of the people? Will it be the angry religious zealots from numerous religions hoping this is the apocalypse so there end times story trumps the world?

Who will offer up a gentler naming? Who will supply us with laughter when our tears have been emptied in full? Who will draw us towards the dance floor for one more round of twirls and spins that can only feed our childlike hearts? The artist will. So I am writing letters. I am sounding off. I am angry at the seeming dismissal of the arts as not only expendable but not even worthy of a discussion. Sing out in protest. Dance a silly dance when everyone is telling you to get serious. Paint your face, hum aloud in a library, and finally lay for an hour gazing at nothing but the canopy of splendor that is our sky. It is our sky. Before it gets sold at auction, let’s enjoy the everlasting. This story is not over. Thank you Jesus.