Dr Zhivago's Art Takes Us to His Russia

"Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it."
                                                                                                                                 -- Flannery O'Connor

What is an artist? What is art? How are they different from a reporter or from journalism which relays facts, circumstances and events attached to a framework that makes sense of them for the viewer, reader or listener?

Art is everything that is left out of these reports. It is what the reporter, if he is an honest and professional one, refuses to insert, as he knows it to come solely from himself. Art does not communicate the sort of journalistic impressions that are universal. It is not a sensory moment that would affect everyone the same way such as an explosion that knocks everyone flat. Art is almost perversely personal and unique, and that is precisely why it can be unsettling for both the one experiencing it and for those to whom the art is communicated. 

Art and love for art is found in the shape and feel of each fragment of shrapnel from the explosion. A prescribed or specified form of each fragment is unnecessary. They are simply but forcefully thrown into a new space in the world as they are, without justification. These varied experiences hold no inherent meaning that can be easily acted upon. There are no formulas in art of "I saw this, which surely means this, so we should therefore do that." 

What is required of the artist, or the lover of art, is only the desire to examine and value the many forms shattered and created from the explosion. A big bang leads to forms that are able to encounter other forms and then re-form the encounter through loving detail.

Art is not something a crowd would rally around upon seeing it. While a crowd can indeed gather around it physically, the art of the piece is something that invites not a group as a whole, but rather invites each individual in the crowd. The invitation is to approach it and shed preconceptions of self, the other, and the universe, as we might inexplicably shed clothing onto the floor as we approach a closet door. The space created by the art is not one that allows us to fill it and make order of our own clothing, our own dressing, and shut the door. Instead, its contents spill onto us and we are newly clothed. A news report-- however dressed up in metaphor or cleverness-- is shrugged off by the end of the week. The event may be remembered indefinitely, but the words of the report soon yellow and fade.

Many avoid art because of this staying power. Although the reality of a matter may find a place that has been resting inside us, waiting for its inevitability, there isn't always a place inside us for the art of a matter to rest. Without our willing participation, art will bounce off but then come back again and can feel annoying or even threatening, like a besotted bird that is determined to enter a closed window and may even break its own neck in the attempt. 

Artists are often depicted as being this crazy. Who in their right mind would throw themselves at the world, in spite of being so often rebuffed? The artist does because he is compelled from within, from without, from all sides until not to do so becomes the insanity. And yet, the artist that has found his own unique person reflected back to him in the world, in nature, in someone else; finds a liberation from this insanity in the expression of it, and is more sane and more preserved from irrationality than at any other time. Actions and activities that do not spring from joy, from love, from desire, from grief, from self-forgetfulness, become vividly insane and contagious with their monotony and despair, and are reported to us from all parts of the world around the clock.

The need to share another artist's expression with others can also be an exaltation of the trapped and lonely state of body or mind that is waiting for a promised train late in arriving. This need is a labor of love in search of a beloved. The gift is given with no thought of reciprocation or even full comprehension. What is offered is a shared glimpse of the art that enters into each person, in mutual adoration, in spite of its aspects that might be peculiar, puzzling, or even repulsive. The sublime moment is poured out and offers a profound, even drunken satiety that defies reason or temperance. We are flooded with the artist's experience, and an attitude of moderation on our part appears as a depravity of mean smallness. Yet, over time, the foolishness of the lover and his art is held up with dignity, illuminated and celebrated.

Here is Yuri, the lover-artist, on one of the many trains he takes throughout his life. This time he is alone, after being released from his first army duty, and is trying to go home. There are hundreds of people camping and living on the platforms, waiting for trains that never come. Yet, Yuri has been assured of a place on a train that will appear without announcement. Art that we are seeking often appears without announcement as well. We can't know ahead of time what will lift us. Yuri is successful in boarding the "secret train", in spite of the masses who are roused to rush at it. No matter how many others are surrounding us or competing with us for a physical place in the world, art assures us that our spirit always has one.

Illustration by GW Peters, 1903

In this scene of tumult and horror, a hypothetical reporter would be restricted to a description of what happens to the mass. He cannot add in what stays with us: Yuri's suitcase, the shadows, or the fragrance of the linden trees. As a strict report, everything that happens in the scene pushes us away from it, because it did not happen to us. There is a dividing line, or a closed door on the experience, alienating those on each side. It is as if we are one of the gypsies that did not make it onto the train. But if Yuri were to call out to us on the platform about what is happening in his heart, then he has created a space out of nothingness or too-muchness where we can join him, and ride with him. We still stand on the platform with our bundles strapped to us, clinging onto our children's hands, but part of us has been released and is traveling at top speed onward. The fact of the departing train has left us rooted to the spot; the art of the liberating train transports us anywhere. Our burdens remain just as heavy and needful, but they are no longer defining our place in the world.