Who decides what art means Hayley Levitt
Imagine you and a friend are
strolling through an art exhibit
and a striking painting catches your eye.
The vibrant red appears to you
as a symbol of love,
but your friend is convinced
it’s a symbol of war.
And where you see stars in a romantic sky,
your friend interprets global
warming-inducing pollutants.
To settle the debate, you turn to the
internet, where you read
that the painting is a replica of
the artist’s first-grade art project:
Red was her favorite color
and the silver dots are fairies.
You now know the exact intentions
that led to the creation of this work.
Are you wrong to have enjoyed it
as something the artist didn’t intend?
Do you enjoy it less now
that you know the truth?
Just how much should
the artist’s intention
affect your interpretation
of the painting?
It’s a question that’s been tossed around
by philosophers and art critics for
decades, with no consensus in sight.
In the mid-20th century,
literary critic W.K. Wimsatt and
philosopher Monroe Beardsley
argued that artistic
intention was irrelevant.
They called this the Intentional Fallacy:
the belief that valuing an artist’s
intentions was misguided.
Their argument was twofold:
First, the artists we study are
no longer living,
never recorded their intentions,
or are simply unavailable to answer
questions about their work.
Second, even if there were a bounty
of relevant information,
Wimsatt and Beardsley believed
it would distract us from the
qualities of the work itself.
They compared art to a dessert:
When you taste a pudding,
the chef’s intentions don’t affect whether
you enjoy its flavor or texture.
All that matters, they said,
is that the pudding “works.”
Of course, what “works” for one person
might not “work” for another.
And since different interpretations
appeal to different people,
the silver dots in our painting could be
reasonably interpreted as fairies,
stars, or pollutants.
By Wimsatt and Beardsley’s logic, the
artist’s interpretation of her own work
would just be one among many equally
acceptable possibilities.
If you find this problematic,
you might be more in line with Steven
Knapp and Walter Benn Michaels,
two literary theorists who rejected the
Intentional Fallacy.
They argued that an artist’s
intended meaning
was not just one possible interpretation,
but the only possible interpretation.
For example, suppose you’re
walking along a beach
and come across a series of marks in the
sand that spell out a verse of poetry.
Knapp and Michaels believed the
poem would lose all meaning
if you discovered these marks were not
the work of a human being,
but an odd coincidence
produced by the waves.
They believed an intentional creator
is what makes the poem subject to
understanding at all.
Other thinkers advocate for
a middle ground,
suggesting that intention is just one
piece in a larger puzzle.
Contemporary philosopher Noel Carroll
took this stance,
arguing that an artist’s intentions are
relevant to their audience
the same way a speaker’s intentions
are relevant to the person they’re
engaging in conversation.
To understand how intentions function
in conversation,
Carroll said to imagine someone holding
a cigarette and asking for a match.
You respond by handing them a lighter,
gathering that their motivation is to
light their cigarette.
The words they used to ask the question
are important,
but the intentions behind the question
dictate your understanding and ultimately,
your response.
So which end of this spectrum
do you lean towards?
Do you, like Wimsatt and Beardsley,
believe that when it comes to art,
the proof should be in the pudding?
Or do you think that an artist’s plans
and motivations for their work
affect its meaning?
Artistic interpretation is a complex web
that will probably never offer
a definitive answer.