Gary Shteyman, Period 8, 3/23/22

 The past several years have been fraught with thoughts of existentialism and nihilism for me. I have always tried to disregard these thoughts, justifying my neglect with the idea that I’m too young to be questioning the universe. Recently, however, I’ve grown more and more tired of running away from these potentially mortifying thoughts. COVID-19 ripping through the world, and the incessant fear and panic it has caused. A recent war in the birthplace of my mother, for seemingly no reason. The thoughts of going to college and making new relationships, with a lack of explainable end-goal. All of these events culminated, at least in my head, into an immense symphony of pointlessness. I struggled, and still struggle, to find meaning in anything I do. Writing that last sentence terrifies me fundamentally, but it is something I can no longer ignore. In John Gardner’s Grendel, our titular protagonist seems to be going through the same thing I am. Grendel struggles with nihilism throughout the entire book, with the whole concept physically manifesting itself in the form of a dragon. Our conversations in class opened me up to this idea, that it’s very well possible that nothing matters in our world. I needed something to cope with the thought, I needed something to help me accept this reality, and recently, I found solace in another passion of mine: art history.

   I was never an art person growing up. From kindergarten to 8th grade, I was required by my schools to take art classes. While the kids sitting next to me were sitting with perfect self-portraits, or drawing the vase in front of us with such accuracy that it looked like a photograph, I was struggling to draw stick figures. I’ve never cried more over school than when I was inside art, staring at some of the lowest grades I had ever gotten. It put me off the entire concept of art. Sure, the Mona Lisa was pretty, and sure, I knew the names of all the old Italian men of the Renaissance, but I was never interested in learning about something I was never going to be able to do. Fast forward to the tail-end of my high school career. Through the new friends I have made, I have met some truly spectacular artists. I’ve watched as my closest friends struggled with applications to the premier art schools in America. I’ve watched my friends. who started high school wanting to go into STEM, realize their passion for art, and through sheer dedication to the craft, become some of the most talented people I will ever know. I’ve watched as every person I was talking to tried their hand at art during quarantine, to the point where even I was making my own doodles in the margins of my notebooks during Zoom classes. For me, though, there was still that disconnect, that feeling that I am not capable of being an artist. To be frank, I still feel this way; the years of low grades and institutionalizing the process of art sapped any joy from me. I still really wanted to engage with my friends and the medium of art in general, however. That’s when I decided to look more into art history.

Playlists on Youtube. Spotify podcasts. Scrolling through the Met and MoMA websites. I had a voracious appetite for art history. From the classical Renaissance masters, to Baroque and Impressionist works, to Expressionism and the rapid art movements of the 20th century, I was obsessed. There’s one art movement, however, that I have been thinking about a lot lately: Dadaism. Supposedly started in a small Swiss nightclub, Dadaism is an art movement that sprung up at the end of World War 1, and was a direct response to all the horrors of recent world events. (Trachtman). The first Dadaists saw all the violence in the world, all the war and political unrest, and said to hell with it all! Dadaism is famous for its absurdity. Everything about the movement is meant to be nonsensical, to the point where even the name makes no sense. Dada is a French term for a wooden horse, and Romanian for “yes, yes”. To this day, art historians are not sure as to what meaning the first Dadaists intended with this name. This movement was the inspiration for the general Surrealist movement of the 20th century, which is home to some of the most recognizable artists of the modern day. Pablo Picasso, Frida Kahlo, Max Ernst, Salvador Dali- all of these artists had the same thoughts and feelings that I do today. Picasso saw his home ravaged by World War 2, and responded with the blocks and random shapes of Guernica, one of the most striking anti-war pieces of modern history. Frida Kahlo dealt with extensive marital problems and excruciating medical issues, and responded with some of the most pointed commentaries of Mexican patriotism and feminism of the early 20th century. All of these artists, the Dadaists and the surrealists, faced Grendel’s dragon. They all thought, what’s the point? And they all responded with art. 

I’m not saying I’m going to become an artist. As much as I appreciate these people, I lack their motivation to create. However, learning about the stories and intricacies behind this style of art has helped me quote with the absurdities of life. In a world that can leave me confused and cripplingly alone, I only need to look at The Two Fridas, and be reminded that I’m not alone. Sure, the world might not have any meaning, there might not be any inherent worth to life, but it is that absurdity, the sheer enjoyment of looking at art or looking on as my friends and loved ones create masterpieces, that makes life worth living. 

Work Cited:

Trachtman, Paul. “A Brief History of Dada.” Smithsonian.com, Smithsonian Institution, 1 May 2006, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/dada-115169154/.