Art, even representational art, is not a reproduction of reality; it is a transformation of reality. How, specifically, is reality transformed in being represented in art? There is probably no general satisfactory answer to this question. Each art, each style of art, and each work of art transforms reality in its own way—the 19th-century French painters Paul Cézanne in one way, Pierre-Auguste Renoir in another; the 19th-century English writers Mary Shelley in one way, Emily Brontë in another. No set of rules can lead to predictions as to what transformation of reality will be conceived in the mind of the next creative artist. Reality is the common base, but each artist deals with it in a unique way. Subject matter
Do all works of art have a subject matter? The answer to this depends on what is meant by the term subject matter, which signifies basically what the work is about. There are several senses of being “about” that may be referred to:
1. “What is the subject matter of the Odyssey by the ancient Greek poet Homer?” The most natural answer would be: “The wanderings of Odysseus.” This is the “representational content” of the work. A person who read it simply for the story could easily give this answer. There is contained in the work itself an account of the wanderings of a character named Odysseus, who has no counterpart in the outside world (that is, he is a fictional character) but who does resemble people in the outside world in that he is a human being, he is away from home, he is beset by many vicissitudes, and so on. If the subject matter were stated in greater detail, the result would be an account of the plot.
Does painting have subject matter in this sense? If “subject matter” is taken to mean representational content, the answer is often yes; representations of people and trees and the like are easily identifiable in the painting. Sometimes the subject could not be ascertained except for the title, which is not strictly a part of the painting (the title is not a piece of visual art, consisting as it does of words). But quite clearly it cannot be said that the subject matter of the painting is whatever the title says it is: if the title says Clouds and the painting is obviously a still life with pears and grapes, it can hardly be said that the painting has clouds as its subject matter simply because the title says so. It was long said that the painting called Sacred and Profane Love by the 16th-century Italian artist Titian had sacred and profane love as its subject matter, but Titian himself gave it no such title—the title was added more than a century later by someone else. It cannot be said that the subject matter is what whatever title it came to be given says it is (it could be given numerous incompatible titles); the subject matter, in this sense, must be evident from—or at least not incompatible with—what is seen in the painting itself. The same remarks apply to music: music cannot be “about” anything that the composer happens to seize on as a title. If it were, and the composer changed the title without changing a note of the music, would the subject matter of the music have changed? Strong reasons already have been given to doubt that music can have a subject matter at all.
2. In addition to a subject matter in the sense of representational content, a work of art may have subject matter in the sense of theme, or underlying idea. The subject matter in the sense of representational content of Jude the Obscure, by the English novelist and poet Thomas Hardy, is the intellectual ambitions of the main character, Jude, and the vicissitudes befalling him along the way, but the subject matter in the sense of theme or underlying idea is the individual struggle to realize one’s ambitions, and the thesis (implicit message) of the novel is (or may be) that the individual’s highest ambitions are doomed to frustration. Not all novels and dramas and poems have a theme or thesis; they may simply tell a story and nothing more. Works of literature do sometimes operate in both dimensions: a story and a theme or thesis underlying the story. Works of representational visual art may also do so: one might allege that the theme of Guernica, by the 20th-century Spanish artist Pablo Picasso, is the horror of war. Again, it is doubtful whether works of music can be said to have a theme at all (indeed, the term theme applied to music has a very different meaning: it refers to a set of tones around which variations or developments are composed). If someone were to say that the theme of a work of music was the human condition or the human fear of death, how would such a view be supported? Since music is not representational, what musical passages would be presented as evidence for the theory, and why? A composer might indeed title a work The Human Condition, but this would no more show that the music was about the human condition (had the human condition as its subject matter) than giving the programmatic title Clouds to a musical composition shows that the composition actually is about clouds.
Picasso, Pablo: GuernicaGuernica, oil on canvas by Pablo Picasso, 1937; in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía (Queen Sofía Museum), Madrid. 3.49 × 7.77 m.© Fine Art Images/age fotostock
Symbols in art
Works of art may not only have subject matter, they may also contain symbols. Certain elements in a work of art may represent, say, a whale, but the whale thus represented may be (as it is in Moby Dick by the 19th-century American writer Herman Melville) a symbol of evil. In Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina is represented a gallery of characters dominated by Anna herself, and a tremendous number of actions in which these characters engage, but there is a constantly recurring item in the representational content—namely, the train. Time and again the train causes or accompanies frustration, disaster, betrayal, and other evils—so much so that before the novel is ended it becomes apparent that the train here is a symbol of the iron forces of material progress toward which Tolstoy had such great antipathy.
What is it that makes an item in a work of art a symbol? It is something represented in the work of art—an object, an action, or a pattern of objects and actions, or even (less frequently) simply a nonrepresentational item such as a colour or a line—that does the symbolizing; what is symbolized is a characteristic, such as evil or progress or courage. But by virtue of what does the first (A) become a symbol of the second (B)?
The answer is not the same for all symbols, since some are conventional and some are natural. The cross is a symbol of Christianity, and it is a conventional symbol of suffering; in order for it to become a symbol, people had to adopt or accept the cross as standing for suffering. Other symbols are natural—the Sun as the symbol of life and strength, a river as the symbol of eternal change and flowing, and so forth; in these cases there was no agreement (convention) as to what would stand for what, for the relation is too obvious—the symbolism is much the same in the tradition of all nations and civilizations.
Various symbols have, to varying degrees, elements of both the conventional and the naturaclass="underline" the eagle on the standard of the United States of America symbolizes strength—this is natural, because the eagle is strong, and conventional, because the eagle was officially adopted as the symbol of the United States. In the case of many symbols, the natural relation between symbol and thing symbolized is not strong enough by itself to achieve the symbolism, and the conventional relation was entered into in order to effect a symbolism that already had a certain natural basis. When A is a symbol of B, there must be some relation, either natural or conventional, between the symbol and what is symbolized. When the natural relation is strong, the conventional is minimal or nonexistent, and vice versa.