In Beauty, Solace

De profundis: art, grief, and consolation

Unrequited love here soothed by music. Lisa was a character in Boccaccio's “Decameron,” who saw King Pietro of Aragon from a distance, fell in love with him, and became deathly ill. “How Liza Loved the King,” circa 1890, by Edmund Leighton. Oil on canvas; 39 inches by 64.1 inches. Purchased by Burnley Corporation with the assistance of funds from the Edward Stocks Massey Bequest, Towneley Park, in Lancashire. PD-US

“De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine” opens Psalm 130 (Psalm 129 in the older numbering system): “Out of the depths I have cried to you, O Lord.” Whether or not we embrace a religious faith is immaterial in our comprehension of these words. People of all ages, races, and faiths have found themselves dragged into terrible depths by some personal catastrophe, often involving the death of a loved one.

In their grief, some of the afflicted do indeed seek solace in God. Other distressed souls search for comfort in their friends and family. Some go to counselors or join grief support groups. The lonely and the desperate may turn for their relief to alcohol or drugs. One Roman politician and writer, Boethius (circa 477–524), who was imprisoned and later executed, engaged in an examination of Hellenistic thought to ease his mind and explain to himself his dire circumstances, and so left the world his masterpiece, “The Consolation of Philosophy.”

And some of these walking wounded find solace and hope in the arts.

Salvation and Beauty

When we suffer loss, the beauty of art may console us. “Mrs. James Guthrie,” circa 1864 to 1865, by Sir Frederic Leighton. Oil on canvas; 83 inches by 54.5 inches. Yale Center for British Art, in New Haven, Connecticut. PD-US

A number of musicians—Bach, Handel, Mozart, Leonard Bernstein, and others—have set Psalm 130 to music, but their compositions only scratch the surface of the art that can provide consolation to human beings in agony. Writers, painters, sculptors, and musicians have given the world numerous works about death and loss that have brought a respite from sorrow to countless numbers of people over the last three millennia.

In the preface to his book “On Consolation: Finding Solace in Dark Times,” Michael Ignatieff gives readers a vivid reminder of the comforting power of art when he recounts events from the lockdowns that began in March 2020. In those months of fear, isolation, and loneliness, with a rising death toll from COVID, all manner of artists stepped forward to offer the rest of us encouragement and hope. The Rotterdam orchestra, for example, presented Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” on Zoom, a Berlin pianist nightly performed sonatas via the internet, and poets and writers from several countries shared their work from their kitchens and living rooms.

These gestures of charity undergird this observation from philosopher Roger Scruton: “Art and music shine a light of meaning on ordinary life, and through them we are able to confront the things that trouble us and to find consolation and peace in their presence.”

Similarly, in Mark Helprin’s novel “A Soldier of the Great War,” an elderly professor of art and aesthetics, Alessandro Giuliani, makes this connection: “To see the beauty of the world is to put your hands on the lines that run uninterrupted through life and through death. Touching them is an act of hope, for perhaps someone on the other side, if there is another side, is touching them, too.”

Taken by Surprise

“Pietà,” circa 1876, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. Oil on canvas; 87.7 inches by 58.7 inches. Private Collection. Public Domain

Often, an unexpected encounter with a work of art can release an emotional response that may startle those who witness it, but which acts as a catharsis for the person so moved. Imagine, for example, a young mother who has lost a child. Months later, she is sitting at a table in the public library looking through The Epoch Times when she turns to the Arts & Culture section, and finds herself staring at a large photograph of Michelangelo’s “Pietà.” There sits Mary on the Rock of Golgotha, holding the body of her crucified son in her lap. Her downcast eyes and the sorrowful solemnity of her face so touches that woman in the library that she begins weeping. The stone that had become her heart during these long, dark days is dissolved by her tears.

Those tears would likely baffle other library patrons, but for that woman they not only express her pain but also provide an escape from her long confinement in the prison of grief.

Her reaction is not unfamiliar to me. In my teaching days, I frequently read aloud poems and literary passages to the students. After the death of my wife in 2004, I found that I could no longer get through certain pieces without choking up and so would assign a student to do the reading. Reading aloud the passage from “The Velveteen Rabbit,” for example, in which the Skin Horse explains love and what it means to be real, and which I was using as a writing prompt for my seventh graders, left me watery-eyed in front of the class.

In the afterword to my copy of Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town,” which ends with the death of a young wife, the playwright’s nephew and literary executor tells us that this drama moved audiences to tears, even a man like Hollywood mogul Samuel Goldwyn. The reason? Because Wilder had brought to life “the lines that run uninterrupted through life and through death.”

Elegy

Some take consolation in faith. “The Wish,” 1867, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. Oil on canvas; 22.7 inches by 16.4 inches. Philadelphia Museum of Art. Public Domain

Many writers have composed elegies—poems or prose pieces of reflection, typically mourning the dead—as a means of dealing with their own loss and grief or as a vehicle for comforting those around them.

In “On My First Son,” Ben Jonson laments the death of his 7-year-old:

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy. Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon scap'd world’s and flesh’s rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, “Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.” For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

Numerous poets also remind the bereaved to seek out and take solace in the joy in life. Inspired by a young Jewish woman who had escaped Nazi Germany but whose mother died during the Holocaust, Mary Elizabeth Frye’s “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” urges the living to remember that the dead remain present in a thousand ways:

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft star-shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

Other works—C.S. Lewis’s “A Grief Observed,” which is a memoir about his wife’s death, the American folk song “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” as well as the thousands of requiem Masses and elegies set to music by classical composers, and so many more creations—also stand as companions beside those literally walking through the valley of death.

Healing

The loss of love, as in the myth of Clytie, can also lead to despair. “Clytie,”circa 1895–1896, by Sir Frederic Leighton. 61.4 inches by 53.9 inches. Leighton House Museum, London. Public Domain

Of course, the best medicine for grief is time. Over weeks, months, and even years, the awful burden of our sadness lightens and becomes more bearable. The passage of time takes the raw wounds that once left us gutted and grieving, and transforms them into scars. Music, literature, paintings, and sculptures can aid in this transformation. They are crutches, if you will, that keep us on our feet and give us the strength to keep moving forward.

“Beauty will save the world,” Dostoevsky famously wrote. The beauty we find in the arts can help save the rest of us when our hearts are broken by loss.