Prolegomena: One

Before I begin producing typical content, I think it is worthwhile to present a clearer picture of the philosophy of this project. What follows, in two or three parts, is an adapted form of an essay I have written on the concept of "Protestant art," a concept at the core of this site's mission. For information on the overarching philosophy, research at the Reformational Publishing Project, the site for the Canadian think-tank Cardus, and simple reading of, in particular, Abraham Kuyper and Herman Dooyeweerd are suggested. A great deal of criticism has been leveled at this philosophy (which is generally called either Neocalvinism or Reformational philosophy) from many different quarters, but it bears mentioning the following:
a.) Neocalvinism is fully compatible with "classic" Calvinism. I myself am a classic Calvinist. The ideas are quite interrelated- Neocalvinism owes much of its impetus to classic Calvinism- but are ultimately operative in slightly different spheres. Neocalvinism is fundamentally a philosophy, Calvinism, a theology.
b.) While, it is true, there exists in Neocalvinism the potential for the softening of specific Christian salvific doctrines, it is not a necessary consequence. Indeed, if push comes to shove, I am far more willing to surrender my philosophical stance than my doctrinal. At its best, Neocalvinism represents a broader, richer application of the theme of salvation rather than a confusion of it.
c.) Neocalvinism is not necessarily restricted to Calvinists at all. There are Kuyperian Catholics, Anglicans, Lutherans, and so forth. While I believe it is most germane to a Calvinist milieu, the idea is compatible with any understanding of God as creator and redeemer of the world.

So, without further ado, the first section of the essay. Its title is "God's Open Spaces."




“Into God’s wide open spaces, hurrah!”—Thomas Mann, “The Road to the Churchyard”

I sit and write in Salzburg, Austria, which is sometimes called “The Baroque City.” It well deserves the name: the small medieval section of the city contains a number of highly ornate, heavily gilt churches which house a vast collection of frescoes, sculptures, and paintings from the Baroque era. Many of these pieces—and nearly all of the architecture—are of magnificent technical quality and imaginative skill, but almost none of them (excepting the architecture, which is astounding) give me any pleasure to look at. Baroque, and the closely related Rococo, represents an artistic sensibility that I neither enjoy nor value for its ideological standpoint (i.e., I find it neither pleasurable nor edifying). In fact, I find Baroque, with its hyperactive, crowded visual style and its infatuation with gold (and gilding), to be oppressive and almost claustrophobic.

I am here to take classes, one of which is a sort of interdisciplinary study of German culture (and Salzburger history). Naturally enough, part of the conversation is about the interplay between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism in the German Sprachraum, and much emphasis has been given to the iconoclastic controversy—again, natural enough given that we have with us professors of music and art history—and it has been almost tacitly assumed that the Reformed position on iconography is, if not wrong outright, at least a possible deterrent to those who would have to choose between the churches. Baroque art is assumed to be an advantage for the Roman Church, a sort of built-in sales pitch. But my personal experience—even if it is not indicative of widespread feeling—is at least evidence that not every person would find such a lavish and overwhelming mode of expression a positive. And that is, in fact, what I wish to argue. I have two essential concerns: first, to demonstrate that the characteristically Roman Catholic artistic form (which extends, both forward and back in time, from the Renaissance and Baroque period) is not, by its nature, the supreme form; and second, to defend the Protestant (and Reformed) position on the arts, which is rarely understood correctly, and offer a small glimpse at the potentialities of such a Protestant ethic of art, which I believe are vast and yet largely untapped.

I want to preface my statements on Roman Catholic art with a different statement: I believe that there has been a great deal of good art in the Roman tradition. Dante’s oeuvre is one of the world’s great literary treasures, Michelangelo and Bosch and a host of others made invaluable contributions to the visual arts, the influence of Catholic composers (particularly Italians) has been similarly indispensible in the development of music. These things are all true, but they are not the extent of the truth.

I also want to take a moment to clarify what I mean by “Roman Catholic art”: I do not mean art that is (necessarily) made by a devout Catholic (or Catholics). I mean that art which develops under the guiding power of Roman Catholic culture(s) and exhibits the marks of Catholic thought and practice. Hence, European art from the middle ages onward, especially in Italy, France, and Spain fits the criteria in a way that art from a modern American Catholic might not. Over against this stream of artistic expression, I mean to set what I will call “Protestant art”—this means, chiefly, artistic expression from the age of the Reformation onward, in the north and west of Europe, as well as (to some extent) in America.

If there is a characteristic fault of Roman Catholic art—and here I am thinking especially of the visual arts, though of opera as well, and to some extent of poetry—it is that it is excessive. I mean this as bluntly and simply as it may be construed. The Roman tradition of the visual arts—especially the Renaissance and Baroque period—is noticeably (too) large, (over)full, and (hyper)active (please do me the courtesy of remembering that what I say is always accompanied by an unspoken, “In my opinion”). The installations in the Salzburg Baroque churches are massive—both large and heavy in appearance—overflowing with cherubs, saints, martyrs. They are dizzying—vertiginous. They seem discontent with all that is not gilt and awful (in the old sense). I find this especially disappointing in light of the fact that the geographical region—the Austrian Alps and, particularly, the lakes region of the Salzkammergut—is one of the most beautiful in the world, or at least one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. The physical surroundings are austerely, starkly beautiful, with an undertone of softness and sensuality. The art is (as I see it) blusteringly sensual with an undertone of flat sterility.

Catholic art is, of course, bound up with the Roman-classical tradition. The classical ideal of form, therefore, is the defining aesthetic of Roman Catholic art, and it develops into a particular sort of extravagance in composition and intensity in coloration. In more conceptual terms, it represents an attempt to render otherworldly glory through earthly media. This is particularly the idea behind iconography and church art in the specific sense of art in churches (generally frescoes, but installations and canvass paintings as well): the appearance of the church interior is meant to give the parishioner a sense of heavenly splendor as well as underscore the idea of Mother Church as the storehouse of grace and God-given treasures. As such, it typically combines a fine and minute sense of detail (the better to express formal beauty) with fantastic imagery and design (to offer a sense of the unworldly). It overawes—perhaps even browbeats—the viewer. Its ambition, at least, is to strike him dumb. When and where this goes awry, it goes awry in floridness, in excess and undisciplined indulgence (as I have said, its characteristic flaw is excess, the proposed austerity of the Counter-Reformation notwithstanding). Even where its artists are highly talented and highly trained, then, the Roman tradition is vulnerable to flaw and failure (as, of course, is always true). Technical precision (which is a great gift of the Roman tradition) can only do so much—style carries much weight; good content covers over a host of sins.