The Purpose of Art
Art is useless because its aim is simply to create a mood. It is not meant to instruct, or to influence action in any way. It is superbly sterile, and the note of its pleasure is sterility. If the contemplation of a work of art is followed by activity of any kind, the work is either of a very second-rate order, or the spectator has failed to realise the complete artistic impression.
A work of art is useless as a flower is useless. A flower blossoms for its own joy. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. That is all that is to be said about our relations to flowers. Of course man may sell the flower, and so make it useful to him, but this has nothing to do with the flower. It is not part of its essence. It is accidental. It is a misuse. All this is I fear very obscure. But the subject is a long one.
— Oscar Wilde
The Nightingale is an artist. Her life purpose is to create, to realise an ideal — a form—of a “true lover”. She does so through the art of singing:
“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not; night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him.
The artist is struck by the gap between the form and its shadow:
“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing.
Not only does the artist see the imperfection of reality, she also becomes aware that what she sees — her vision — is not shared by the average man:
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose!” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
And this is the turning point in the artist’s life. The artist understands that with vision comes also responsibility.
In the past, the Nightingale tried to realise the form of a “true lover” through singing. But the Student is buried in his utilitarian fantasy:
… If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
Likewise, if the Nightingale were to attempt to use singing as merely a means to instruct in a utilitarian way, she would be in vain, as the average man does not understand the artist’s message:
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
…
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove, “that cannot be denied her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
Instead, the Nightingale decides to realise the ideal form from within the flawed reality. She is determined to fix the sorrow in love, and make it the “wonderful thing” that it should be, to enable the Student to become a “true lover”, as she later says:
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood.
All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty.
The Artist’s Journey to Perfection
In the knowable realm, the form of the good is the last thing to be seen, and it is reached only with difficulty.
—Plato, “The Republic”
It is true that when the Nightingale first made the decision to take on the responsibility as an artist (by obtaining a red rose for the Student), she underestimated the cost:
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.” But the Tree shook its head.
But eventually her search leads her to see the dear cost of a “true lover”:
“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”
The Nightingale decides the ideal is worth her sacrifice. But little does she know, her sacrifice will not make the Student a “true lover” as she originally intended.
Instead, as it is foreshadowed when she begins her quest, “She passed through the grove like a shadow” — as she presses her heart to the thorn, that is the point when she finally realises the form of “true lover” she sang of:
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
…
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
…
Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
The perfect realisation of the artist’s ideal is not within the flawed reality, but within herself. What started as sympathy to the Student, turns into an act of love, and the Nightingale herself a shadow that most closely reflects her very ideal of the “true lover”.
The artist is no longer making art. The artist becomes art.
The Intrinsic Value of Art
Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.
—the Student in “The Nightingale and the Rose”
The average man debates the value of the art in terms of aesthetics and practicality:
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world.
…
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
This is in stark contrast to the artist, who values the aesthetic ideal:
Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.”
Does the meaning of the art have to be received in order for it to be deemed meaningful? If the artist appears to be the only one who understands it, is the art merely self-serving? The Nightingale’s last song answers with a resounding “no”:
Then she gave one last burst of music. The White Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened it petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
The Nightingale failed to remove sorrow from the Student’s love life, the rose the cost her life was trampled. But with her own blood, she painted the most beautiful picture of the perfect form of “true love” that the world has seen.
