The Sublime & The Hound of The Baskervilles

I. M. Notsherlock
Amateur Detective

Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is a literary classic. Featured within its pages is a timeless mystery that showcases the return of Doyle's infamous detective Sherlock Holmes and his trusty sidekick Dr. Watson. In this adventure, they travel to the spooky Grimpen Mire in Dartmoor to attend to the case of the Hound from Hell haunting Sir Henry Baskerville. One notable theme present throughout "Hound" is Doyle's masterful use of descriptives to craft a perfect horror-movie setting for his characters to get lost in and his villains to hide in.

The integral scene to understanding "the sublime" in relation to "Hound" comes when Sherlock, Watson, and Baskerville are riding in the horse-drawn carriage to Baskerville Manor. As the sun sets and the fog begins to settle in across the moors, Watson comes to a greater understanding of what exactly makes the moors so scary:

"Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole race which as cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky... We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us."

This passage touches on some key aspects of "the sublime", namely terror and the "un-knowable". As Watson and crew descend upon the moors, the readers can almost feel the chill in the air through Doyle's description: surely if I ever found myself heading into a "barren" or "chilling" wasteland in the dark of night, I would be anything but emotionless. As cliché a concept as it is, Doyle transforms the moors into a character of their own, equally as haunting and dangerous as the devilish hound and the escaped convict that hide within the stone huts and foggy cliffs. When Watson relays to the reader that the moors have a habit of "swallowing" people and causing them to disappear without a trace, it calls to mind a monster that is in desperate need for a meal - and as you walk along the wet and muddy grounds of Dartmoor, it isn't hard to imagine that very thing happening to you.

By employing the use of "the sublime" in his description of the dark and foggy moors that surround Baskerville Hall, Arthur Conan Doyle engages the reader in a way that allows them to imagine themselves in place of Watson, a feat that every fiction writer craves. I, for one, am glad that Doyle decided to continue the legacy of Sherlock on instead of killing him off for good - his many adventures have delighted fans ever since their publication! And I do say that fellow is quite dashing - or so I've heard.

Courteously yours,
I.M. Notsherlock

Are We Sublime-Proof?

"There have been two prominent understandings of 'the sublime' in Western aesthetic theory, classical and late neoclassical, namely the rhetorical sublime of Longinus and the natural sublime of the eighteenth-century poets and landscape painters...the awe once associated specifically with primary religious encounters."

 -from "Sacred Proposals and the Spiritual Sublime" by David Lyle Jeffrey

found in "Through A Glass Darkly" by Holly Faith Nelson, Lynn R. Szabo 

and Jens Zimmermann

To discuss "the sublime" in a modern context, readers must look to the past for clues on how it was experienced. As Jeffrey notes, two understandings existed, one that was rhetorical and philosophical, and one that was more founded in arts and literature. In either instance, "the sublime" was defined as something provoking emotion beyond the normal bounds of experience. In Edward Burke's revolutionary text on "the sublime", entitled "A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful", the chapters are categorized based on different emotions associated with "the sublime": terror, obscurity, power, infinity, vastness and magnificence to name a few. This categorization gives us a good idea on how we should define sublime at its most basic level - something that is infinitely magnificent and strikes fear into our hearts.

Every day, reports, articles, and books are being written that state that we as a culture have become desensitized to violence due to media, video games, and a general passiveness inherent in our culture's value system. When was the last time you saw a picture or read a book that really left you in a state of awe or wonder, something that was so magnificent it scared you? It is evident that because of said proliferation of violent images and over-saturation in both television and film, we have become desensitized to the beauty of the world around us. This makes it difficult for us to experience the same "sublime" as Burke and associates have described it. In a sense, we are "sublime-proof"; we cannot access the same natural amalgam of atmospheric sensitivity as those in the 17th/18th-centuries did because our eyes simply do not see that same things. This "sublime-proofing" is a consequence of our culturally biased viewpoints.

How we fix this issue is as of yet unknown - while technology prevents us from experiencing "the sublime", it also opens up an entirely new realm of experiences and opportunities. I think it is important to remember, however, that nothing can compete with the raw reality of nature that lies beyond our brightly lit screens.

Observe with your own eyes the natural world, and allow yourself to get swept up in what lies before you.

References:

• Szabo, Lynn, Jens Zimmermann, and Holly Faith Nelson. Through a Glass Darkly: Suffering, the Sacred, and the Sublime in Literature and Theory. Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier UP, 2010. Print.
• Burke, Edmund, and Adam Phillips. A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.

We've Come A Long Way, Baby

JPR

Film Editor

We've come a long way from the days of painters like JMW Turner crafting landscapes of hurricanes and rainstorms from oil watercolors. As technology has evolved, so too has its connection and relation to art and nature. Nowadays, not only can we see art, we can feel, hear, and even smell it around us. The line we draw between nature and technology is getting increasingly thin, and I, for one, am in full approval. Want to see the sun-tinted waves of the open sea? Easy - just walk to the Debenham's storefront in London at night and experience them for yourselves!  

The beautiful simplicity of this installation caught me off guard as I wandered through the busy London streets, and made me think about other ways that art has tried to imitate nature through the use of technology. All three of these connect in the most beautiful and accessible way. I'm reminded of something I saw in a shopping mall not too long ago: they had a projector hanging from a ceiling, with a moving image of a sea cast upon the floor where customers walked. While this itself is interesting, what happens when you step on the scene is even more appreciable - the fish and water in the image interacted with the people that were walking above them. If someone stepped their foot on a specific point on the map, a fish would swim closer or the waves would ripple as if we really were in the ocean! Although I understand this sort of thing is supposed to appeal to young children, I couldn't help but smile as a fish swam along side me as I walked across the marble floor.

The emotions that JMW Turner's audience might experience when exposed to something like this - I would love to see! Technology's ability to manipulate how we perceive nature is truly the stuff of sci-fi novels transported to us before our very eyes. I can't wait to see what scientists invent for us next!

From the Journal of John Doe

January 22, 2014

When it comes to art, nature, and beauty in the 21st century, it is hard to have a conversation without encountering the concept of the "sublime" - an overwhelming sense of emotion that can be instilled upon the observation of nature in its most primal form. Artists have been trying to capture this sentiment for centuries, and curators have been attempting to sell the idea of this form of emotional greatness to museum patrons for just as long. But what can be said for today's art viewer? To investigate whether the sublime is truly present in the state of art, I recently visited a few museums in central London, notably the Tate Modern and Tate Britain, to attempt to glean some sort of answer to this question.

Luckily for me, one of the first collections I happened across at the Tate Modern was dedicated to Abstraction and the Sublime. The information board for this collection made note that many artists of the Abstract Expressionist movement developed in the 1940's, and managed to merge an 18th century concept into very modern formats of art. "Intense experience emerged in enriched colour." Needless to say, I was fascinated, and forged onwards.

Many of the artworks before me were formless in shape, such that if one were to ask me what I was looking at, one would receive a different answer each time. This is the peculiar thing about art - it is entirely individual in gains. You get from art what you put into it. Emotion is the same way - formless, unbodied, emotion is an entirely innate experience, something which nobody else is as expertly informed as yourself. Nobody can tell you how you feel about any particular piece of art - one person can definitively say they have no interest in the artwork of Monet, and another can be a huge fan and collector. Herein lies the crux of the sublime as an abstraction - we can't definitively say whether the "sublime" exists or not because it is an innate feeling. Unless we are willing to prescribe an overarching generalization to the entire human population, (I, for one, am not comfortable with such an idea) a discussion of whether or not the sublime exists in modern or past contexts is inherently fruitless.

So where does that leave us? If we can't discuss it, what can we do with "the sublime"? I think for one, we can appreciate its historical complexities and allow it to influence how art affects us in the modern age. Art can be all-consuming if we allow it, but it can also be destructive or simply nothing at all.

Just like the art I viewed, this conversation is getting very abstract, so I'll bring it back down to Earth. "The Sublime" as a concept represents 18th-century values in a modern light. When we view art nowadays, our views are affected by media (both social and informative), violence, technology, and quick and easy access to looking at any landscape we want. Inventions such as Google Earth and the like have made it possible to be transported to the Great Wall of China or the Pacific Ocean with the click of a button, and easily accessible modes of transportation have made it much easier to travel the world and see such places. What predominantly affected the viewpoints of those who popularized "the sublime" in the 17-1800's was a lack of such accessories. Paintings such as those created by J.M.W. Turner and poems and writings such as that of William Wordsworth or William Cowper were transporting - they took the consumer to a place they could never imagine to go. Comparing "the sublime" of the 18th century to "the sublime" of today would be to no avail.

Times have changed, and as such, our interpretations of emotion and feeling have as well.

The Daily Review: Arts Section

Keith Q. Lawrence
(Jan 21, 1971) 

The subject of today's art critique is none other than the abstract expressionist movement, encapsulated in recent years by artists such as Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning and the ever-resistant Mark Rothko. As I paced the stark white halls of the Tate Modern yesterday, I was struck specifically by a piece of art by Jackson Pollock entitled "Summertime: Number 9A" (1948).

What astonished me most upon viewing this artwork was the almost "readable" emotion behind the various paint strokes and colors. Its no wonder that artists like Pollock have been described by critcs such as Irving Sandler as revolutionary. Sandler notes that this may be due to the ambiguity of his work - "One cannot determine the degree of spontaneity as against the degree of deliberate control. Nor can one draw the fine line, if in fact such a line exists, that separates psychic urgencies from conscious artistry" (271).

Another painter, Manny Farber, had this to say about Pollock's work: "violent in its expression, endlessly fascinating in detail, without superficiality... Pollock's aim in painting seems to be to express feeling that ranges from pleasant enthusiasm through wildness to explosiveness, as purely and as well as possible" (O'Connor 37).

It is evident from these critiques that Pollock's approach to art not only has an audience, but has one that is generally in praise of his style. Abstract expressionism relies on these sort of expressed feelings Farber touches on - the extremely chaotic and the extremely orderly, combined into one to invoke emotion, reaction, an overwhelming feeling that is positively indescribable. 

Pollock is not the only artist from this style that has touched on an indescribable emotional connection with art. The infamous Salvador Dali painted a piece called "The Sublime Moment" in 1938 that contains a plethora of hallucinatory imagery and starkly contrasts the realism of the landscape, mountains and trees with bizarre representations of snails and fried eggs cooking upon odd minimalistic architecture. The themes addressed in this painting are old hat to the art world, though: since the 17th century, artists have been creating odd dichotomies between the real and the fictional to keep their viewers guessing on what they believe to be the power behind vision, emotion, and reality. 

What could this movement mean for the art of tomorrow? Is this the "new age" of art? What does the future hold for "classical" artists in comparison? For those answers, we must wait with bated breath and whispering humbleness.

References:

• Irving Sandler, "The Triumph of American Painting - A History of Abstract Expressionism". 1970. Harper & Row Publishers. New York NY. Print
• Francis V. O'Connor. "Jackson Pollock". 1967. The Museum of Modern Art. New York, NY. Print.

Courtesy of Edward James Billings to Ms. Oldschool

The Travellers Club
106 Pall Mall 

Dear Miss Oldschool, I am writing in response to your recent review of Prince Albert's Great Exhibition and your reaction to such a piece. While I as well can respect the preparation and refined nature of such an event, I believe that this is only a taste of what the world has to offer you. As a member of the esteemed Travellers Club, I have traveled the world over and have visited over 20 countries beyond the scope of England's grasp. If you have found, as written, such ecstasy in the form of artwork originating from only London, I urge you to seek opportunity of travel. In travel I have discovered ancient ruins of civilizations gone past and innovative art and literature in a wide variety of languages. To a person like yourself with such an appreciation for the aesthetic offerings of others, I implore you to break free from the tethers that tie you to the English ground and head in every direction possible.

Best regards,
EJB

From the Desk of Elizabeth Jane Oldschool

Good day and God Bless. My name is Elizabeth Jane Oldschool, and I hail from the bustling streets of Victorian London. My father is George Frederic Oldschool, the great Earl of Gloucestershire. I am writing these words with the utmost of excitement, as the year is eighteen hundred and fifty two, and we have just begun the new year. My excitement stems from the prospects and innovations that this year has in store for us! As evidenced by the success of last year's Great Exhibition, put on by the most honorable Prince Albert, our country, known across the land as the Greatest Country on God's Earth, has been placed in direct eyesight of all who crave culture, art, and literature.

I remember clearly that as I paced through Prince Albert's Great Exhibition, I could not contain my joy and wonder at what my eyes were viewing before them. As soon as the thoughts began to flood me, I insisted on public explanation, regardless of insufficient warning. "Oh Happy Day," I exclaimed, "this exhibit has truly captured my attention and has certainly exceeded my wildest expectations! Alas, our beloved Prince Albert has again shone his light upon his people in a most fascinating way! How humble must we be in the presence of such refinement!" My company generously agreed - this exhibition could but not for the grace of God be any more perfect. As I describe these feelings to you, I am reminded of the writings of the profound poet William Wordsworth, in his poem on the wonders of that great Tintern Abbey:

"Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery

In which the heavy and weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world

Is lighten'd: - that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul..."

(38-47, "Lines Written A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey")

In these words I find relation in both body and soul. The vastness of expertise and beauty at this Exhibition caused a chasm in the very soul of me, a shift in the mind's discretion and breadth of understanding. This sublime mood Wordsworth writes of was so positively instilled in me upon my entire entry to this exhibit that I cannot bear to repeat the experience in fear that I shall be too spoiled by God and his gifts. Attached below I have provided a visual illustration of the interior of the Crystal Palace in which this Exhibition was held - while a secondhand drawing may not instill upon my reader the same feelings I experienced, this example will, I hope, inspire some sort of artistic awakening, and will plead upon you to at once emerge yourself in the grand world of English art and culture.

For now, I bid my reader adieu. 
Elizabeth Jane Oldschool
19th of January, 1852