Is Happiness Worth Looking At?

I recently had a fascinating conversation with a friend about our taste in art. It began when we compared our preferences among the photographs posted by Jim Brandenburg on his website. While I can certainly appreciate the objective 'artistic value' of photography, and nature photography, generally, I cannot deny that some of these images are more appealing to me than others. For instance, Day 17 (Heron, Pine, Fog) is one that I would choose, if I wanted to buy photographs to have in my house to look at frequently. Day 25 (Sleeping Giant) even more - that's my top choice among all 93. Part of the appeal is the water, I'll admit. Growing up and spending my teenage years so close to the Mississippi River, I was always pulled toward the river when I felt like my life was in turmoil. Watching the river go by helped me put things in perspective in the same way that some people feel from looking at the stars, I think. I miss the presence of a real body of water in my life. But I also like the contemplative aspect of the pictures. My friend's response was that those are "very cold, lonely" photographs, which is true. He then said something that I copied into my journal so I wouldn't forget it: "Happiness just isn't a very thoughtful emotion, is it?"

At the times of my life when I've been the happiest, I haven't spent any time at all ruminating on why or how I am 'happy'. I haven't written in a journal, for instance, or tried to write poetry. I've mostly just bobbed along without questioning what's happening to me. As a result, those are some of the least memorable times I've had. By contrast, the bad times - the heartbreaks, confusion, crises and sadness - are well-documented and remembered. Am I tormenting myself? Or is it a motivation for self-preservation that leads me to not forget the bad times? Maybe if I can remember this pain, I can keep it from happening again, or at least be ready for it if it does.

There is a limited amount of space for art in any personal space. The art that I choose to live with isn't there because it "looks good" or because someone gave it to me and I feel compelled to hang it. It is there specifically because I want it to be there, so that when I see it, it makes me feel a certain way. In my largest room, there are 3 large, 1 medium and 2 small prints by Mark Rothko. (By "large" I mean around 37" x 30", certainly not actual size.) The large ones are: No. 6 - Violet, Green and Red, Earth and Green 1955, and No. 10, 1950. The medium one is Untitled (green, blue, green on blue) 1968. One of the small ones is cream, pink and blue on rose, and the other is a much more abstract orange with yellow. (I can find a link for neither.)

My point in listing these is that I acquired each of these intentionally with the exception of No. 10 - that was a birthday gift from a friend who knew that I admired Rothko's work. He picked out No. 10 specifically because, he said, "It's happier than your other ones." I hadn't set out intentionally to display "unhappy" art, but he'd picked up on the tone of the work without my having even realized that it was that way. I find it soothing and complex, but others (apparently) see it as at least 'not happy'.

I do appreciate art that could be called "positive". There are photographs all over my house showing people smiling. But my greatest aesthetic pleasure is derived from contemplative, emotional, dark work.

And until my friend and I talked about this, I hadn't thought about it in terms of what I like to read, but it's true there, too. A while ago (20 April) I listed the books that I've rated 10/10. Of the 28 books listed, 7 of the reviews included some reference to being 'sad' or 'melancholy.' The proportion was roughly the same in the list of 9/10s (from 27 April): of the 43, 16 were 'heartbreaking' or something similar.

There's no answer to all this - probably because there's no real question - but my theory is that the lack of some quality is necessary for the appreciation of that quality. In other words, it's necessary to have experienced a lack of happiness to fully appreciate what being happy means. Maybe this is intricately tied into my having fallen in love with philosophy as a freshman in college and to have heard Descartes speaking as if into my own ear and directly to my heart, but I think that to some extent it's true. I didn't appreciate what friendship was until I'd taken it for granted and lost it for the first time. I certainly didn't know the full value of money until I'd done the "write a post-dated check for rent/cash advance on the credit card/deposit the cash advance into the checking account so the check won't bounce" dance in college.

And what about love?
"Why love what you will lose?
There is nothing else to love."
(Louise Glück, in "From the Japanese", in The Triumph of Achilles)