Love and Grace in a Time of Madness

We do not, now, regard politics as an art, for the same reasons we do not consider prostitution or burglary an art. Far, far too many laments for the once respected role of statesman have been written, so I say only this: what they have done we have allowed them to do. As we have expected less of ourselves as citizens, we have expected less of our leaders, and they have certainly sunk to the level of our expectations.

Reading three critical theorists of modernity, I see that all three turn toward the aesthetic and the beautiful as liberatory forces, and it would be a radical revisioning of politics to think of it as an art, a composition. The proof of the wisdom of a current action would be its beauty, and its beauty would be proof of its authenticity.

Needless to say, I’m not about to walk into the DLC offices and suggest we consider a “politics of the beautiful.” (Though God knows they need a politics of something: Joe Lieberman is the antithesis of the politics of the beautiful. “I’ve got Joe-mentum” would not be considered an authentic statement under this rubric.)

A politics rooted in the world would be anchored by the beauty of the world, its loveliness, inherent fragility, and constant change. The fact that all things pass away would be cause for consideration but not despair. The world exists in flux. Until we undertand that the only way to end change is to end life—and that is exactly what evangelical Xtians are hoping for in their fevered apocalyptic imaginings (never trust people whose fantasy life, rather than centering on George Clooney, centers on the melting flesh of the ungodly)—our politics will tend toward, and ultimately end with, totalitarianism.

Simone Weil writes, “Politics have a very close affinity to art—to arts such as poetry, music and architecture” (206). Weil sees politics as composition based on inspiration. Inspiration allows “the indispensable degree of concentration required for composition on a multiple plane” (207) and politics, rightly understood, is such a space of multiplicity, of harmonizing.

The totalitarian leader is such a compelling figure because he represents a harmonic personality, one in whom all doubts are resolved and all tension and ambiguity vanquished. It is because we see so few people who have acomplished this that our eyes are drawn to this negative, dark version of wholeness. The Buddha achieved a similar harmony, but it is noteworthy that he did not then attempt to run for office. A harmonious life requires either denial or acceptance, and totalitarian harmony begins and ends with denial and in denial.

We do not see politics as an art because we se it mainly as a way to acquire and keep power. For Weil, this is a fundamental misunderstanding. “Power is not an end. By nature, in essence and by definition, it constitutes exclusively a means. It is to politics what a piano is to musical composition” (209).

Politics rightly understood would not be premised on a conception of human, and therefore societal, perfectability. The idea that humans can be made perfect and that only their continued and continual denial of self constitutes virtue is an oppressive idea.