Beauty and Truth in Art

Real beauty is allied with truth and leads us to contemplation. We should not waste time on trash passing itself off as art, but develop our faculty to perceive truth through beauty.

RECENTLY I WROTE ABOUT literature being capable of conveying, and even discovering, truth, which can be called “poetic knowledge.” Both Aristotle and St. Thomas Aquinas upheld a similar view, Aristotle by demonstrating that poetry is “more philosophical” (i.e., more capable of demonstrating truth) than history, and St. Thomas acknowledging poetry as a kind of “science” (scientia) or knowledge, albeit a lower form of knowledge than philosophy because it relies more on imagination than intellect. Today I’d like to consider the value of beauty, an abstract value but one that we often associate with poetry, as well as music and the fine arts.

Beauty Lifts Us Up

My thoughts are prompted by an interesting feature article from the National Catholic Register, “True Beauty Satisfies the Human Heart,” Trent Beattie’s interview of psychologist Margaret Laracy, who identifies beauty as a kind of knowledge. Laracy studies the healing effects of beauty on those suffering from mental illness. Being one of the few scholars to study the effects of beauty, she first had to arrive at a satisfactory definition of “beauty” before she could study it; as a starting point, she turned to St. Thomas Aquinas, the great definer of abstract truths.

Thomas identified three essential qualities of beauty:

  • clarity, the luminosity or illumination communicated by the object being perceived,
  • harmony, the right ordering of the parts of the object, and
  • integrity, the wholeness of the object’s luminosity and harmony which, in synthesis, elicit repose and contemplation.

Through its integrity, beauty calls us to contemplation, and thereby leads us beyond the beautiful object to the greater beauty of which it is but one instance. (This reminds me of something C. S. Lewis said about “good books”—that they enlarge us.) Dr. Laracy does not cite St. Augustine in her discussion of beauty, but she well might; what Augustine said of natural beauty would, I believe, apply equally to manmade beauty, particularly when it imitates nature: namely, that in contemplating the creature (beautiful created thing) one is drawn to the Creator (God). In this way, I suggest, beauty can provide not merely mental but also spiritual healing.

clover leaf with dew drops
The simple beauty of the clover leaf made St. Patrick think of God’s ineffable triune nature, and became a potent symbol of the Holy Trinity.

When Art Violates Beauty

Thinking about Thomas’s three essential marks of beauty, I was reminded of an experience I once had in an art museum. Many years ago, I was in the Fort Worth Museum of Modern Art, probably more out of curiosity than for pleasure. In those days (and still) I found most of what is classified as “modern” art to be incomprehensible and repugnant, sometimes even laughable. On that visit, I found that the “artworks” being exhibited failed on almost every one of St. Thomas’s criteria for beauty.

For instance, a pile of nondescript stones on the floor of the gallery:

  • did not communicate anything in particular;
  • no inherent harmony, as patrons were invited to rearrange them however they liked;
  • the implication was that the “artwork” was always unfinished (although patrons were exhorted not to take any of the stones away), so there certainly was no integrity to the work.
  • The only thing it led me to contemplate was why on Earth the museum would present such dreck as “art.”

A Visceral Reaction

On another occasion at the Modern (or perhaps the very same day), I wandered into an open gallery containing a sculpture that immediately arrested my attention. There were a number of pieces displayed there, but I remember only one. It was fairly large, perhaps about the size of a large man sitting with his knees drawn up, and seemed to chrome-plated. Abstract in form, it was a twisted, highly reflective mass suggesting nothing so much as a tangle of car bumpers after a bad automobile accident. I found it mesmerizing and repellent. I would stare at it for a few moments and then rush out of the room to get away from it, but come back a few minutes later to peer at it in horrid fascination from a different angle. I felt an incoherent but insistent impulse to find a curator and demand that the sculpture be taken away. Eventually, I left the museum feeling inexplicably distressed and nauseated.

I remember asking myself what it was about the sculpture that provoked such a strongly negative response and the best I could do was that, as I looked at the sculpture, I thought, “It’s just wrong! It’s a lie!” Had I been foolhardy enough to say such a thing to a curator, I probably would have been told that there is no “right” or “wrong” about art, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and what I found repellent someone else would find enchanting. If anyone had suggested as much, I would have replied, “Then anyone who likes that thing has something seriously wrong with him.”

Vitality and Exuberance in Battered Marble

I can’t remember any other work of art that elicited such a vivid sense of repulsion as those mangled car bumpers (or whatever the sculpture was called), but I have had at least one other encounter with sculpture that provoked an equally viscerally, but completely opposite, reaction. I was visiting the Louvre Museum in Paris and, after spending two or three hours perusing the paintings on the ground floor, realized that the museum would be closing in less than an hour and I hadn’t yet gone upstairs. I was rushing toward the large double staircase that led to the upper floor when I stopped as suddenly as if I had run into an invisible wall. Dazed, I looked around to see what had arrested me and found myself gazing at a sculpture that I had seen many times in photographs: the famous Nike, Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Winged victory: a lump of cold marble that imparts a vivid impression.

You’re probably familiar with the image: a female torso that seems to be striding forward, wearing those formless drapey garments often found on Greek figures, with large, backswept wings sprouting from the shoulder blades. The statue has been badly battered, and both the arms (probably once outswept like the wings) and the head are completely missing. Nonetheless, it was, quite literally, breathtaking, in a way that no photograph had prepared me for.

As I looked at it, I felt indescribably exhilarated: I could feel the wind rushing against Nike’s glorious form, sweeping back her gown and unfurling her great wings; I even imagined I could see her hair blowing back, her eyes gleaming, her triumphant smile dazzling—although the statue’s head has never been found. I doubt I even noticed that she was standing on the prow of a ship, yet I could feel the rush of air against her body, lifting her wings. She seemed to me to be alive and in vigorous motion, and yet she was only a broken lump of stone carved by some anonymous craftsman two thousand years ago.

Beauty and Truth

These two sculptures—the deliberately twisted, highly polished metal one at the Fort Worth Modern and the badly battered hunk of marble at the Louvre in Paris—both evinced from me strong, visceral reactions that I can’t fully explain. The former, modern work was undoubtedly beautifully crafted according to the sculptor’s intent, but it struck me as horrifically false and wrong, highly-polished but somehow ugly and obscene. If we judge that sculpture according to St Thomas’s “essential” criteria of beauty, it has none:

  • Although it does possess a certain clarity or luminosity (at least, it is very shiny and smooth), yet it is so disharmonious as to suggest a car crash.
  • The deliberate disharmony of the twisted mass so opposes its clarity (if we can call its smooth shininess that) that the work does not seem to possess integrity.
  • Indeed its clarity seems to mask its essential disharmony, making it seem false and wrong, therefore evoking a feeling of dis-ease rather than repose.

What a contrast to the effect of Winged Victory! The mutilated form of the Rhodian sculpture might make its maker weep with frustration if he could see it today, yet it remains incredibly beautiful, radiating life, movement, and exultant emotion in a way that can, quite literally, stop a person in her tracks. Its clarity is such that the sculpture almost seems to be lit from within, not with actual light but with life itself; even though many portions of the sculpture are broken off and lost, what remains is unified by a profound harmony, despite its broken state; the clarity and harmony of the object imbue it with an pervasive integrity that make the viewer feel as if somehow the essence of Life itself has been given exuberant form.

BY ST. THOMAS’S STANDARDS, THEN, the modern metal sculpture lacks any of the essential criteria of beauty, and my negative reaction to it suggests that, for all its careful craftsmanship and smoothly polished surfaces, I was not wrong to find it quite the opposite of beautiful. The Winged Victory of Samothrace, however, seems to possess all the hallmarks of beauty in a high degree, and it certainly left me feeling “enlarged,” enriched for having seen it. (Even today, more than thirty years later, I feel exhilarated as I remember seeing the Winged Victory.) Its beauty did not depend on “integrity” in the most literal sense, since many parts of the original are missing, which just goes to show that integrity itself is something more than material and literal completeness; yet, its beauty does somehow seem to depend on direct experience, as no photograph of it that I have seen before or since was able to do more than hint at the great vitality of the sculpture.

All of this serves to show that, despite what so much modern “culture” insists, there does seem to be a strong identification between beauty and truth. However, it also seems to be true that our faculties for perceiving and recognizing both beauty and truth must be honed, so that we are not led astray by, for example, smooth shiny objects that appeal to our senses without illuminating our souls. And, if we can recognize the identification between beauty and truth, it is not difficult to see (as Dr. Laracy’s study of beauty and mental health suggests) that regular exposure to beauty can also help us to be whole and healthy—perhaps even to be good. This in turn suggests that we should, on principle, avoid spending our time on ugliness, just as we should avoid lies and wickedness.

8 replies on “Beauty and Truth in Art”

"For the rest, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever modest, whatsoever just, whatsoever holy, whatsoever lovely, whatsoever of good fame, if there be any virtue, if any praise of discipline, think on these things."

Philippians 4:8

I think you are exactly right that we must immerse ourselves in beauty as part of the path to goodness. There is so much ugly out there, it is hard to avoid it all. Therefore, we must make an effort to refresh ourselves with beautiful things…..


And it is an effort, for many people, because we are constantly plugged into the media outlets of pop culture, and those outlets are constantly spewing toxic trash. We should all try imitating the person who has decided to adopt a healthier way of eating — such a person has to think about everything she ingests, asking "What is the nutritional value of this? How will I feel after I consume it? What are the possible side effects? What could I have instead that would be healthy and equally satisfying (or even moreso)?" If we did this with our consumption of news, television, music, radio, recreational reading, a lot of people would find that, at best, they are subsisting on the equivalent of baloney sandwiches and Koolaid and, at worst, they are regularly swallowing rat poison.

Like any healthy dieter, we should throw out all the junk food and poison and shop only for what will be good for us. On that note, take a look at this from A Catholic in Brooklyn:

We are a not-for-profit educational organization, founded by Mortimer Adler and we have recently made an exciting discovery–three years after writing the wonderfully expanded third edition of How to Read a Book, Mortimer Adler and Charles Van Doren made a series of thirteen 14-minute videos–lively discussing the art of reading. The videos were produced by Encyclopaedia Britannica. For reasons unknown, sometime after their original publication, these videos were lost.

Three hours with Mortimer Adler and Charles Van Doren, lively discussing the art of reading, on one DVD. A must for libraries and classroom teaching the art of reading.

I cannot exaggerate how instructive these programs are–we are so sure that you will agree, if you are not completely satisfied, we will refund your donation.

Please go here to see a clip and learn more:

ISBN: 978-1-61535-311-8

Thank you,

Max Weismann

And, you know, I've had these discussions with several serious Catholics who still watch shows that make me shake my head. They tell me, "I'm spiritually mature, and these things will not hurt me." Perhaps I become more childlike as I get older, but I know that in my own life those awful shows (lets say, Dexter, for an example – a show with a serial killer as the "hero") make a huge dent in my well-being. Craig and I watched "Criminal Minds" for a long time. It's well done, but there is something about watching a show about the most horrific of crimes that makes me look around nervously in my own back yard! It is NOT well with my soul when I've watched too many of those shows. One of the things that the profilers on "Criminal Minds" have said is, I think, telling: "How many times can you look into the abyss before the abyss looks into you?" Now we're not looking at real crime scenes, which would be far worse. But to think that the casual watching of such shows has absolutely no effect on us I think is naive in the extreme.


When those people say, "I'm spiritually mature, so I can watch it," I would reply, "If you were spiritually mature, you would not want to watch it. You would find it nauseating." I am with you 100% on shows like Dexter — I won't watch shows that glorify criminals or moral deviancy. Why on earth should I? Anyway, why would I be interested in a show whose protagonist is morally repugnant? I also have a similar reaction to Criminal Minds — it's well done, has a great cast, but if I watch it very often I get queasy and have to abandon it for a few months.

Thanks for the heads-up, Max. I am a big fan of Mortimer Adler and "How to Read a Book" — I've used it as a teaching aid in college humanities classes. I'm having trouble with the browser plug-in needed to view the page link, but as soon as I can get that sorted out, I'm eager to have a look.

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