Art and Fear

by Aaron Freeman

I once walked in the mountains of Peru with a Qetchua Indian named Narciso. The moonless night was blacker than any I’d ever seen. I was a stranger in a strange land at the mercy an unknown guide. Fear poked from the dark. Then Narciso played the flute. I didn’t know the tune. It didn’t have a beat; I could not dance to it. But hearing the song, I was less afraid. “We Qetchua always take music with us into the dark.” Said Narciso, “It makes us brave.”

The Qetchua know it too. Art is the antidote to fear.

These days we swim in angst. If we love freedom we must fear the beards. If we love justice we dread the suits. If others do not fear the things we fear, then we must be afraid of them. We are told that dangers abound thus we obey those who cry “wolf.”

But art and its creation; the celebration of that which gives keen pleasure, is the fascist’s nightmare. We cannot be controlled who dance in joy. Jokes on the gallows; chamber music as the titanic sinks; crucifixes at the deathbed remind us of art’s power to encourage.

Art is fear’s antidote because art is made from fear, like a vaccine. Artists, good ones at least, embrace their fear. But for his demons, Steven King would be just another skinny white boy. Children of the Senoi people of the South Pacific are taught to chase the monsters that haunt their dreams and force the demons to give them a gift. Upon waking the child must make of clay or straw or pigment the thing the monster gave. The objects of Senoi culture are the gifts of their fear.

Creation of art is a denial of the need to be afraid. Not all the 911’s in the world can lessen the allure of Mona Lisa’s smile or Miles Davis’ trumpet.

Art makes us feel comfortable and safe. Forget the department of Homeland security. How about a Department of Home landscapes? Get the pentagon to order a Bradley A1 fighting piano. Put Rumsfeld to work on a strategic sculpture initiative.

Then watch our terror recede. Dangers will remain but as artist we will transform them into works of beauty, into monuments to hope As we sing the songs of our souls, and print the lithographs of our lives. wails of fear mongers will seem but a distant cry.

There is an old Chinese story about a painter and his assistant who worked for a cruel emperor. One day, after a particularly brutal beating, the painter could bear no more. He poured his whole heart onto his canvas and painted the most magnificent seascape of his life. Upon the sea he painted a beautiful sailboat. As he painted, his little studio filled up with water. The picture was so lush and boat so strong that soon the painter and his loyal assistant climbed into it and sailed beyond the horizon, far, far away. I’ll bet they too had a flute.

© 2003 Aaron Freeman