A borderstalker's confession

The Christian poptimist, part 1

Poptimism! The term was first used around the turn of the millennium to describe a certain kind of attitude among critics of rock music. It has a broader application as a way of thinking about all kinds of art as opposed to the often-encountered “elitism.”

This is the first in a three-part series exploring how poptimism can fit within an explicitly Christian aesthetic / critical philosophy. Next week’s essay will tackle the age-old question of whether an objective standard of beauty exists; it will be formally audacious. The third and final essay will contain an extended application of the principles discussed in the first two as well as a statement of my own critical motivation.

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Makato Fujimura, in his book Culture Care, elaborates on the concept of a borderstalker: an individual who exists at the margins of a group, traveling across societal distinctions and forging connections between groups. A good example of such a borderstalker would be Tolkien’s Aragorn—at the beginning of The Lord of The Rings he is introduced as a shadowy, not-quite-trusted figure who flits in and out of the narrative, disappearing for long periods of time, but who is eventually revealed to be working for the good of several different societies by strengthening ties between them and protecting them from danger. Although he is revealed to be of vital importance as the book progresses, the price he pays for stalking the borders is one of solitude; he is not readily accepted into the society of the people from Bree and The Shire and spends much of his time alone in the wildlands on arduous missions which are rarely appreciated for their true importance.

Fujimura applies the borderstalker idea to the role of artists. “Artists,” he writes, “are branded as difficult people in society, hard to pin down and notorious for being independent.” Despite this distrust, artist-borderstalkers have an important part to play in culture: “In borderstalking we have a role that both addresses the reality of fragmentation and offers a fitting means to help people from all our many and divided cultural tribes learn to appreciate the margins, lower barriers to understanding and communication, and start to defuse the culture wars.” Fujimura’s book is an excellent primer on how artists can act in service to their culture by blessing and cultivating instead of tearing down and breaking apart; of course, his ideas have a much broader application than to artists alone, but for our purposes we will stick to discussion of what an artist-borderstalker’s mission in life might be—and some of the perils encountered in that life.

Where I am right now, in my chosen discipline of art critic, feels like the role of a borderstalker. As I try to engage with the arts from a Christian perspective I’m traveling across the border between two cultural groups whose members often seem to be in opposition to each other. Anyone who has spent time among both the secular art world and Christians knows the deep suspicion these two groups can have for each other; and anyone who is both a Christian and an artist knows how difficult it can be to live in both worlds. Accounts abound of the kinds of conflict present in this tricky cultural space.

My preferred metaphor for the boundary between Christianity and the art world is that of a highway cloverleaf interchange. One highway represents Christianity and one represents the art world; the roads intersect and interact in an array of complicated ways, and it can be challenging to safely get from one road to the other. How to think about the arts from a Christian perspective? How to think about Christianity from the perspective of the art world? How to move between the two worlds? Can there ever be any true accord between them? These are tough questions!

An art critic who is self-consciously acting as a borderstalker could be the needed guide. One of my goals for the writing here on RUINS is to explain and interpret the doings of artists for Christians. This doesn’t always mean that I will engage with “Christian” art (whatever that term may mean)—I talk about art from the secular world quite often. I think it is very important for Christians, and especially Christian artists, to engage with the art of the secular world; we are, after all, told in scripture to “be in the world but not of it.” Helping Christians navigate the art world’s ways will remain a key part of my writing here; but my most important goal will always be to help Christian artists practice their craft with greater skill and understanding.

These two goals sometimes seem to be in contradiction. On one hand, I want to say to Christian artists: “you can do better at your chosen artistic discipline; don’t settle for mediocrity—learn from the great art of the past (secular and sacred) and become better at what you do.” But to the average Christian art lover—and especially the Christian art-curious, who might not know anything about what they are looking at—I want to say: “The art world can be confusing but don’t worry; if you find something you like, that’s good enough; it’s okay if it’s not High Art, part of The Great Tradition, or anything like that.”

How to reconcile these two views? I don’t want to be accused of elitism, but I also don’t fully embrace the sayings of the poptimists; I’m opposed to elitism on religious grounds which I would be happy to discuss further—but I’m opposed to a rampant poptimism that treats every work of art as equally valuable and of identical merit.

I see calls from Christians all the time in the vein of “We need to respect and revere the works of the Great Tradition”; I’ve also seen many Christians proclaim that the works of a secular culture are beneath our notice, and Christians should only engage with “Christian art” (again, I have no idea how to define what Christian art might be).

It often feels as if the Christian camp is like two kids fighting. My own kids sometimes make silly fights with each other, and when I try to defuse the situation I have to point out that both of the parties involved are doing the wrong thing; no one has the moral high ground here.

Similarly when some Christians say that there needs to be a reverence for the cultural and artistic works of the past—for the Great Books, the Western Canon, or whatever you want to call it—my belief is they are just as right, and just as much in error, as the people who don’t care about tradition at all and who demand the critics “just let people enjoy things.” As a Christian, I refuse to believe that any human art has intrinsic value; but at the same time, as a Christian I refuse to believe that we shouldn’t try to do the best we can with our choices.

I frequently encounter Christians who are curious about art but who don’t know the array of choices available to them—how ought I to dialogue with them? Suppose a person has grown up in a religious environment which scorns the doings of the secular avant-garde and even, more broadly, the entirety of modern secular culture. This kind of religious environment was very characteristic of much twentieth-century evangelicalism and its aftereffects are still being felt. Suppose this person is just beginning to be interested in the expressive power of paintings, their ability to convey a feeling or a mood . . . but the paintings they know the most about are those by Thomas Kinkade. “It’s so amazing how Kinkade’s paintings can evoke feelings of calm, serenity, and a vision of how the world ought to be!” they tell me; it would surely be wrong of me to say “ach, Kinkade . . . here, get rid of all those Kinkade prints, you really ought to be looking at Edward Hopper or Andrew Wyeth instead; they’re much more interesting than your Kinkade” . . . This would obviously be the wrong tactic!

Allow me to end with a parable. My wife and I went out for our anniversary one time and I ordered a Steak Diane. A great deal of artistry and craft goes into a meal like that: Think of the expertly-prepared steak—itself a product of the cattle-breeder’s and butcher’s arts—and the sauce it was cooked in, with its history of being refined and perfected over time. Of course there was wine at the table; another long and ancient tradition, much, much older than Steak Diane, culminated in my glass. The meal was expressive of a highly developed artistic discipline; it was rich with significance, meaning, and allusion to the history of its own tradition.

Now imagine an apple. Just a single apple. Imagine you are going on a walk, and you are wanting to bring something to munch on. An apple will be perfect. It’s just the right size; it fits in your hand, unlike a muskmelon. It doesn’t have any detritus such as a wrapper (like a banana) or branchy storage apparatus (like a cluster of grapes); you won’t have to leave any littler anywhere if you eat this apple. It’s tart, but not too sour—that would make it better for pies than for eating out of hand. It’s juicy, so you will stay hydrated on your walk. After you are done with it you have only two leftover items: a few seeds, which you can plant somewhere and thus bless the future with more apples, and the stem, which will serve you well as a toothpick. This apple is perfect! It’s eminently suited for your walk in a way that the Steak Diane is not. Imagine walking with a plate of steak, a knife and fork, a napkin, and a bottle of wine! Ludicrous!

Now—which is better: the steak, or the apple?

I will admit the steak has more art in it than the apple; but I won’t admit that it is better. Similarly, I will admit that something like Dante’s Divine Comedy has more art in it than, say, a Sherlock Holmes mystery; but when it’s been a long day and I just want something to read while falling asleep—I’ll reach for the Sherlock Holmes and not the Dante. Each has its own place; neither one is objectively, intrinsically, better than the other.

This is the borderstalker’s dilemma: I can’t wholeheartedly embrace the Christian movement to return to more traditional forms of art-making—there’s just too much avant-garde art from the twentieth century that I’ve fallen in love with. But I can’t embrace either the art world’s stated rejection of tradition and beauty, or the “let-people-enjoy-things” metastasized poptimism which prevails on the internet: there’s too much good in the old ways to justify their rejection. Dwelling on the border between the two worlds of Christianity and the arts, the best I can hope for is mutual understanding from both tribes born from a spirit of humble listening. I’ll keep writing and thinking about these things, though.

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