The Double Circuit of Knowledge
In order to arrive at a better definition of the part played by art and the place it occupies between science and religion, we shall make use of the diagram at Fig. 3.
As we have already seen in chapter 3, man is united to the world around him by a double circuit of knowledge the knowledge of the senses and intuitive knowledge. We will not revert to this problem more than to recall that we were led by this distinction to divide the human personal self into two parts the conscious self and the unconscious. One could equally well classify the kinds of human knowledge, not according to the circuits between man and his external world, but according to those used by the information within man himself; that is, to put it more explicitly, the relationships between this information and the human conscious and unconscious. Use of this kind of classification reveals three broad levels of human knowledge science, art, and religion. We shall return in greater detail to each of these aspects of knowledge.
Of course, these postulates of scientific language are not chosen at random: in fact, one of the essential goals of science is to discover them. These postulates are always suggested by observation of Nature and constitute in a general way what are called the laws of Nature.
By an extension of this method of evolving a language, man can likewise choose 'ideal' postulates which are not necessarily based upon observation. This is done in the language of mathematics. Euclidean geometry, for example, is an ideal language that does not correspond to natural geometry, which General Relativity shows to be Riemannian, and not Euclidean.
The language of science can be considered as having reached a higher degree of perfection in so far as a smaller number of postulates suffice to build up a logical language covering more observed facts.
Judged by this standard, the language of physics is relatively perfect. Biology, on the other hand, is still often groping for its proper language, that is, its postulates.
The characteristic feature of science, however, is that the postulates of its language are always perfectly explicit. Even if the language is confined to a simple enumeration of observations without as yet reaching the stage of linking these observations together by logical connections (which is often the case in, e.g., biology), the postulates are always there, and they consist in this case of each of the enumerated observations.
Why is it so important that these postulates should be absolutely clear? Because it is thanks to this that the language is interpersonal, that is to say, everyone can give it the same meaning. This is the value of scientific language: it is universal.
To attain this result, science chooses its postulates in such a way as to make them as independent as possible of the purely sensory human data which are essentially subjective: they may be found not to correspond to the same sensations in two different people. Thus to call a phenomenon 'red' is not scientific language, for the notion of 'red' is very closely bound up with the human senses, and a Daltonian [John Dalton, 1766-1844, English chemist and natural philosopher, was colour-blind. Ed] would have to give this word a totally different meaning from that of a normal observer. The word 'red' is not interpersonal. If, on the other hand, the word 'red' is replaced by one of the wavelengths of the light that corresponds to this colour, we arrive at an interpersonal and therefore scientific language.
General Relativity [see chapter 2 Ed.] constituted a great advance in physics just because it was a valid language whatever the motion of the observer might be. A Unitary Theory looks like an extension of General Relativity an extension that not only makes the language of movement, but even of the limitations of the acuteness of the human senses.
But science has to pay for this capacity to produce a universal language by remaining forever on a superficial level in its description of natural phenomena. It is limited to the expression of relationships, valid for all men, between man's conscious data. Now these conscious data are ultimately nothing but impulses sent to our cortex by the nervous system; they 'are', therefore, not Nature herself, but simply elements from a map of Nature. Even if General Relativity, or a Unitary Theory, should be successful in describing the Real, that is, the reality that underlies our sensory data, this would still be only a map. The Universe is not 'geometrical' simply because a Unitary Theory succeeds in describing the Real by means of geometry; this description also is only a map, and there is nothing to prove that in course of time scientists may not prefer another and non-geometrical map for describing the real world.
Man is, however, also in touch with the Universe through his unconscious self; and this most important relationship of the human unconscious to the Universe cannot be described by science. Why not? Because the unconscious data are of the nature of archetypes; that is to say, they are not directly expressible in any language. Science can no doubt concern itself with the human unconscious as does, foe example, psychoanalysis; yet psychoanalytical language is built up not on the archetypes themselves, but on the symbols which are a translation of the archetypes in terms of consciousness. As soon as psychoanalysis puts forward a claim to be a science, that is, to possess a universal logical language, it places itself decisively on the conscious level even when studying the unconscious. By virtue of its claim to be a universal language, science cannot step down from the purely conscious human level.
Far from looking for a language that shall be independent of the human senses, the artist is on the contrary concerned to use these senses to the maximum, for it is by this means that art can communicate with others.
Like the scientist, the artist generally seeks his first inspiration in the Known, that is, in the sensations provided by his contact with Nature. But in contradistinction to the scientist, who seeks in these sensations what is common to all men (this common element being on the conscious level) the artist allows these sensations to be steeped in his own unconscious, that is to say, in the most personal part of him; and he then goes on to give back to the external world a picture of the Known by means of a new creation which we call a work of art.
This work of art is then not so much a reflection of Nature (as a photograph would be), but rather a reflection of man. The work bears the artist's impress, and it is this that gives the work its weight. Nature is in fact only a pretext or support for the unconscious information, rather as an electromagnetic wave can be the carrier of a melody.
How is it that this work of art, bearing the mark of the artist's deep unconscious resources, can act on other people, on someone other than the artist himself? It is because the archetypes which flood the unconscious in all of us are part of a much larger collective unconscious. The work of art, being thus charged with the unconscious material we share with the artist, is able to arouse resonances in us; and these links between the conscious and the unconscious, established by the artist in himself by bathing his creations in the material of the unconscious, will in their turn be able to find an echo in the person who looks at (or hears) the work of art.
In other words, art is another language, but a language which awakens unconscious resonances in each of us. It is thus a dialogue between the artist and his fellow men, a dialogue which makes it notably easier for unconscious archetypes to be transformed into conscious feeling.
But what the artist's language gains in depth as compared with scientific language, it loses in universality. The postulates of artistic language are symbols that translate his unconscious archetypes as far as the artist is concerned. But these symbols have nothing universal about them: we have seen that they depend on the whole conscious structure of each individual. The personal part of his work communicated by the artist to others is, in the ultimate analysis, composed of symbols which cannot claim to awaken the same echo in all men. For this universal resonance to be forthcoming, these symbols would have to be at home in the normal conscious make-up of the man who looks at the work of art. Failing this, the work will be unable to arouse these connections between the conscious and the unconscious which produce artistic feeling, and there will be the same kind of blockage we noticed in psychoanalysis.
In short, the capacity for appreciating a work of art, and so 'using' it to create in ourselves these connections between the conscious and the unconscious, often calls for a studied preparation of our conscious structure, so that the artistic symbols concerned may be able to fit harmoniously into it. This conscious structure, of which we shall have more to say in the next chapter, is largely the work of society and, in particular, of the education a person has received. A particular work of art often has to wait for society to be ripe to receive it and so able to prepare individuals to accept it before it can arouse artistic feelings in those who study it.
In this case, man is no longer seeking his inspiration in the Known, but directly in the Real. He tries to let the symbols representing the archetypes in his unconscious rise up spontaneously into his conscious self. The level of knowledge occupied by religion is therefore still deeper than in art. Religious language, like the language of art, is symbolic but, as we have emphasised in chapter 6, its symbolism will often be untranslatable in terms of the Known. The symbols for God, or for survival beyond death, are pure symbols, and cannot possibly be translated.
Art, too, sometimes remains untranslatable into pictorial forms or known situations. Music, for example, or abstract painting in its most pronounced forms, often do not allow of this kind of translation; but there is always the possibility of sensory translation, for art always has the data of the senses as a vehicle for its expression, and they can be interpreted immediately in terms of consciousness.
The language of religion, on the other hand, is in no way addressed to the senses, but remains on a deeper level of knowledge. As such it often emerges into consciousness as pure symbol, not corresponding directly to any human situations in our external world, or even to our sensations.
Whilst art is essentially exteriorisation by creation, religion is a means of interiorisation. Whilst science is the communication of man with his external world, and art his communication with other people, religion is man's communion with his inner world, with that part of him which is his communion with the whole cosmos. Religion is the way of knowledge most fitted for associating man with the Real, whilst science links him with the Known; and art occupies an intermediate position between these two kinds of link between the One and the All.
All religious dogma, tradition, rites, and ceremonies constitute a language forged by men to make this interiorisation easier for each of us. This is a process essentially corresponding to 'giving birth' to the great universal archetypes which reign over the whole of evolution by bringing them into consciousness in the form of symbols. These are the symbols which represent the final conscious expression of the sum-total of Being underlying what we are capable of apprehending about the Universe.
Anyone coming close to the great problems of science can soon see that it is not as separate as might superficially be thought from art, or even from religion. For science, just like art, is in the first place a process of creation by man. The kind of intuition which often preceded great scientific discoveries is not so very different from the artist's intuitive feeling, which tries to express the aspect of things that does not immediately strike the eye. Moreover, there is no doubt a certain beauty about the laws expressed by science; thus one can often feel more or less dimly that the form of a particular law is only provisional because it is not 'beautiful'. People are often unaware of how much poetry there is at the heart of the scientist's calling.
It is, moreover, very true that as soon as science advances into the centre of the fundamental problems of our Universe, it comes face to face with the domain of metaphysics and, in the end, with religion. What is matter? Is the Universe finite or infinite? What are the mechanisms of life? How can the expert, as he examines these essential questions, dissociate himself completely at least at the deepest levels of his personality from the religious aspect with which they are inevitably tinged? A Unitary Theory of the Universe, by expressing itself in equations, throws light on the continuous Real which underlies our discontinuous Known; and this is a result whose importance is not restricted to physics. The existence of the Real, that is to say, of a link between man and the Universe other than what he perceives simply through the fragmentary data of his senses, has thus been in some sort proved; and it is not hard to see the possible repercussions of such a proof on the very concept of religion.
In the same way, as the whole history of art demonstrates, the artist is deeply bound up with scientific and religious knowledge. Art often takes on a functional aspect, part of its themes being inspired by the science of the day; and it would be wrong to think that art, for its part, does not exercise an equal effect on science. Science has often evolved by producing a harmony between what is known to be true and what is felt to be true; and it is art that has usually provided the clearest testimony to the latter. For instance, the abstract tendency in art came before the discovery by physics of a reality underlying our senses which can be described only in terms of abstract configurations (consisting of forms and directions, with no relation in aspect to the Known). In a different way, a work of art has often likewise been charged with a magic potency, that is to say, there has been something religious about it; and this tendency, which was very strong among primitive peoples, has by no means completely disappeared today.
As far as religion is concerned, it is clear that it has usually turned to art for building up the symbols that help interiorisation: temples, cathedrals, stained glass windows, statues, music, sacred hymns and dances, are all aspects of religion indissolubly linked with art. On the other hand, religion has perhaps been slow to come to terms with science, for obvious reasons which we have already examined; for religion is a language dealing with the Real, often untranslatable into terms of the Known. It is a symbolic language which can therefore allow itself to be completely dissociated from our scientific knowledge (organised in the language of the Known). That is partly true; but it forgets that for each of us, religious symbols need to fit into a conscious structure which is strongly marked by the science of the present age. In order that religion shall play the important part it ought to play in human affairs, it is indispensable that its language should take into account the state of our scientific knowledge. To ignore this essential point might lead to a lessening of religious feeling among men through lack of a symbolism in religious language that would be assimilable by the conscious structure (resulting in an archetypal blockage).
In previous chapters, we have examined the importance of science and religion for mankind. Can we now put the same questions with regard to art, and see what may be its importance with regard to life?
Once again, let us attempt an answer by placing art in its true situation, between science and religion.
Science allows man to act upon his external environment. To be sure, science does more than this; for it is, as has often been remarked, a dispassionate discipline; it is a pure knowledge of Nature, and does not exist simply to satisfy human curiosity but to unite man to the Universe which is the purpose of all types of knowledge. However, science is never totally separable from its applications, that is to say, from technology.
One of man's most spontaneous reactions is the thirst for knowledge as a means of gaining better control over his environment, especially in defending himself against it and adapting himself to it; it is, in fact, an extension of his instinct for self-preservation.
The additional psychic capacities granted to man as compared with the animals lead him before long to ask himself other questions: Where is he? What is the nature of this vast dwelling-place into which he has been cast by life? What will happen to him after death? Man usually turns to religion for an answer to these are problems, but this must not be taken too generally. Man also turns to science for an answer to his metaphysical problems; but only religion represents a kind of knowledge deep enough to satisfy (at least in part) the curiosity and the agony of man.
Nature has allowed man to unite himself with his external world through science and with his interior world through religion. But this same science has assigned to man another unitive rτle, that of binding man and other thinking creatures together among themselves; and he is meant to fulfil this not only by organising their action on the external environment so as to give each other mutual help and complete each other (which is one of the goals of the instinct for self-preservation), but also through a direct union on the deepest human level, the plane of the unconscious. It falls to the lot of art to play the primordial rτle of bringing union among men themselves.
Without anthropocentrism, it seems that one may affirm that man is destined by Nature to occupy an important position in evolution as a whole. We shall see more fully in a subsequent chapter how this evolution is continually tending to produce an intensification in the links that exist in space and time. Man is not made simply to live in herds like the animals, each herd containing a limited number of individuals. Man is intended to constitute, on the scale of our planet, a new complex structure which we call humanity, to be endowed with its own peculiar properties which will be different from, and sometimes even incommensurable with, the properties of a single man. Man is likewise intended to be linked up through time (and not only through space) with preceding generations, as well as with those who are still to come, and to prepare the way for them. Finally man (and with him humanity on Earth) is meant to extend his thought over the whole Universe by establishing both material and psychic links with the other thinking creatures who it can no longer be doubted inhabit the whole extent of the cosmos.
In order to facilitate all those unions on a sufficiently deep level, man seems to have been endowed with artistic feelings.
It is an impressive fact that there is nowhere men can feel more at one, or on a deeper level, than in a concert hall listening to a great musical work. Is there any better means of communication on the spiritual plane with the most primitive peoples than through their works of art? Do we not feel very close to and very much at one with past generations, at the deepest levels of our inmost being, thanks to the marvellous works of art which have survived and been handed down to us from bygone ages? And if there were a practical possibility tomorrow of entering into wireless communication with dwellers upon another planet, would not our first thought be to let them hear a symphony by one of our great musicians? It has often been said that art knows no national boundaries, and this is very true. Not only has art no spatial limitations, but neither is it limited in time; and it will no doubt continue to be the best guarantee and vehicle of communication between the men of all periods and all places.
No one can fail to see the importance for man of the rτle played by art, and it seems a great pity that more importance is not attached in education to the development of the artistic sense. To appreciate a work of art requires a certain preparation: the artistic symbolism can penetrate the conscious structure only if it has been well prepared for its reception. It is no doubt important to allow the child, more particularly through scientific knowledge, to play an effective part in the common efforts of mankind to adapt themselves better to their external environment. But is it not also important to provide this child with a certain additional taste for life by showing him, through his sensitivity to art, that he is not simply one cog in a group of human beings, hoping to survive as best he can, but also a connecting-link with all the others in a humanity that is searching for unity? Surely it is desirable to convince him that he shares with all his brother-men a deep fund of feeling enabling him to realise that the partitions men erect amongst themselves can be broken down wherever there is goodwill.
It is probable that artistic knowledge will, like science and religion, evolve in the course of time and will grow continually deeper.
Science, which was at first exclusively occupied with the external world, is now coming closer to man's interior world. It has, for example, provided equations for the Real in a Unitary Theory, or in the psychoanalytical study of the personal unconscious self. This tendency on the part of science to bring man as a psychic being more and more within the framework of its investigations will certainly go on growing.
In this present age, art is increasingly tinged with the artist's personal unconscious. As it gains in depth it will turn towards works expressing not so much the artist's personal unconscious, but probably more the collective unconscious of mankind.
It was in fact round the deep roots of this collective unconscious roots which wind through time and space that religion first sought the language to express its themes. As it grows in depth, the religious sentiment will aim more and more at establishing a communion between man and the totality of Being.
The language of art, then, leads us to hope for an eventual union or at least a dialogue between all men. But at the present moment and with an eye to the future, what are the relationships between man as an individual and society in general? Do they hold out any prospect of a humanity harmoniously united and acting together in the near future?
This is the difficult problem for which we must now try to find an answer.
Science
Our senses bring to our conscious selves information coming directly from the exterior world. The conscious self then tries to classify this information and bring it together in one or more languages. To this end, a certain number of postulates are chosen so that, starting from these postulates, all the information may be grouped together in one or more logical structures. This leads to the birth of what we call science.
Art
For greater depth, we must turn to art; and we shall now see how this means of knowledge goes to work in order to produce this result.
Religion
There remains the language of religion which, together with science, provides a framework for knowledge as perceived by art.
Continuity of Knowledge
It is clear that this classification of human knowledge into science, art, and religion, which has been summarily set out in its broad features and in diagrammatic form in Fig. 3, is only a very rough dissection of knowledge. Human knowledge is one and continuous, like all the rest of the Universe; no one can presume to dissect it without profoundly changing its nature.
Art and Evolution
Thus, although science, art and religion are harmoniously blended in the total body of human knowledge, they follow three parallel but distinctive lines. These three kinds of knowledge correspond to three levels situated at different depths between the outer and the inner worlds of man.