This weekend, I was in Detroit for the half marathon, and I spent a few hours at the Detroit Institute of Arts, which was really great. [I would recommend the whole city, actually; the Riverwalk is really beautiful, and the downtown is interesting and vibrant]. Anyway, while I was at the art museum, I ran across a piece of art that caught my eye; well, said more accurately, what caught my eye was the explanation.
The piece is the bronze sculpture pictured above, titled “The Avenger.” It was modeled in 1914, but not cast until 1930. The artist is German, and his name is Ernst Barlach. This is the description of the piece:
The meaning of a work of art is not always fixed, even for its creator.
Initially, this work was an expression of Ernst Barlach’s enthusiasm for World War I. The appalling carnage of trench warfare, however, changed his mind. When the sculpture was cast in 1930, Barlach characterized the aggressive pose of the figure as a force for peace.
What struck me was how the artist had changed his mind, and how he was unafraid to admit that, and unafraid to adjust his work of art accordingly.
I was thinking that it couldn’t have been easy for him to admit that he was wrong: wrong about something that was so significant; wrong about something that he must have believed held so much promise for his country; wrong about something with such significant moral consequences. Yet, in the face of what he saw during the war, specifically the suffering and death, he came to realize that what he thought was going to be a good thing actually wasn’t–and he made that change of belief public through this work of art.
It made me wonder how many of us can admit when we are wrong, especially when it comes to something like political positions/actions, government policies, or national ideals. Our views on these things often come from deeply held commitments, ones that we are often quite passionate about, and believe in very strongly.
So, I think it often feels like a failure to admit that something we initially believed in doesn’t have the promise we thought it did; or even worse, that something we believed would be life-giving turns out to be death-dealing. Admitting that we were wrong in these situations can feel like a crushing blow, not only to our ego, but to our whole way of viewing the world. I wonder if that is why instead of questioning ourselves in light of new evidence, we double-down, and keep insisting on our first interpretation, in spite of all appearances to the contrary. Simply being consistent sometimes feels like its own kind of being right–even though “consistent” and “right” are not the same.
I wonder–maybe artists are more open to change than other people because they view the world with more creative, artistic sensibilities: does this make them more fluid and aware of possibilities? Are they more open to change and re-interpretation? I don’t know, but in any case, it is an example we can learn from.
Even a century later, this piece of art stands as a testament to the power of changing one’s mind and being willing to see things differently in light of new events and new perspectives.
As I said, it is an example we can learn from.
Happy Lutheran 