I live in the town where Rodin settled when he moved out of Paris. Between my place and his, there's a railway track that dates from 1901. In the evenings, it's a beautiful walk along the rail tracks, a walk that gains more beauty as I approach Rodin's garden and see "The Thinker" on his grave, the original of his masterpiece, bathed by the dwindling sunlight. I forget walking; I stop to think.
And this is what Rodin intended "The Thinker" for: he wanted the statue's viewers to think.
What makes me think? The statue's posture: the body's twist, the head's tilt, the hand's curve around the chin. They inspire me by their contagion; I can't help thinking.
What do I think about? Not the statue, not the garden, not the heavenly light. I think of me, of my life; if I like myself the way I am; if I am the way I should be; if I'm connecting with my inner world, with the world of my friends and families, with the larger world and its issues that share my passion.
In short, The Thinker, holds a mirror in front of me: the mirror of my soul. In that mirror, I see how I'm doing, if I can do better, if I should do better. That mirror shows me how I feel about myself. And that is the purpose of art. When we watch a piece of art, we aren't watching that piece; we're watching ourselves through it. And how we rate that piece depends on how it makes us feel about ourselves. In his book, What is Art, Tolstoy has a similar reflection; without this value, a work isn't a piece of art.
Twenty-six years ago, when I returned to France from England, I became steeped into the negative stuff bombarded by the media. I felt hopeless and restless. I started reading certain books that sank me deeper into my despair, but I kept reading them because they resonated with the state of my mind. Then, one day, I had enough. I threw these books into the garbage and pulled out a book I've always treasured, a book that has now fallen out of the French curriculum and been replaced by some genre literature in most French schools, a book published in 1862 that still continues to thrive today outside France: "Les Miserables," by Victor Hugo. A book that has revived my mind's taste buds thickened by the "fast food" literature. A book that would live for several more centuries on the face of Earth.
The publisher who published Hugo's "Notre Dame de Paris" held the first right to publish this book (called "Les Misères" in its first draft); he found this book slow, tiring, boring, sleep-inducing, and violent because it addressed some serious social diseases with brutal honesty. Yet the same publisher wouldn't let this book go lest someone else publish it. The conflict almost led to a duel between Hugo and his publisher. The dual didn't happen because the publisher eventually saw Hugo's human worth and the value of this work. The event held up a mirror before this publisher; he saw his own worth, he was able to put this work above his personal pride, he released his grip on Hugo's manuscript.
Despite its violent scenes, does "Les Miserables" leave me depressed and despaired?
No. When the archbishop pardons Jean Valjean for stealing his silver and chandelier; when Jean Valjean spares his relentless follower Javert in the barricade; when Javert sacrifices his own life, to save Jean Valjean from unfair justice; when Thenardier's evil intention to assassinate Jean Valjean's character before Marius turns, by a twist of the fate, into an act of liberation: all these uplifting, expansive, noble acts leave me with a positive balance, feeling hopeful about our human race.
I ignore the media bombardment. I believe in myself and my people. I believe that, no matter what happens, noble always dominates the evil. The noble may be rare, but it's there. The evil may be plenty, but nobility wins despite its rarity. Someone I care for always says this to me: "The beauty wouldn't be beautiful, if they came in plenty. The compost may be putrid and ugly, but it does serve a purpose: it feeds the flower that grows on it. The flower then charms a wider world with its beauty. If the compost weren't there, there would be no one to nourish the flower; the flower wouldn't exist."
Art holds that dual power: it can make the beauty more beautiful by providing stark contrast.
It can show and shine our inner beauty buried by the outer compost.
That is, of course, if we choose to see this beauty.
Choice needs proactive efforts.
We can make that effort.