Plato’s Republic: Painting a Picture of Socrates

In his philosophical work the Republic, Plato hypothesizes through the literary portrait of his mentor, Socrates, that art is “an imitation of an illusion” (598b5). The character Socrates argues that art is not only an imitation of the object it portrays, but also an imitation of the mere appearance of that object. He posits in the chapter “Art in Kallipolis” that an “imitation is an inferior thing that consorts with another inferior thing to produce inferior offspring” (603b). Socrates means that a painting is the product of imitating the image of the object that the painting portrays. To illustrate his theory, Socrates places an artist who makes a painting in contrast with a carpenter who builds a couch. He states that unlike an artist, a carpenter is a craftsman whose product is only one place removed from its original, ideal form. In other words, a couch built by a carpenter is an imitation of the original form, while the artist’s painting of a couch is an imitation of an imitation. In the same chapter, Socrates’ fictional companion Glaucon agrees, stating that a painter “is an imitator of what the others are craftsmen of” (597e). Are Socrates and Glaucon correct? Is a painter merely an imitator of other craftsmen? Or does a painter produce an imitation of an entirely unique and original form: a painting?

In the chapter “Art in Kallipolis,” Socrates proposes that the intent of painters and carpenters is the same. He states, “So painter, carpenter, and god—these three oversee three kinds of couches?” (597b10). Socrates suggests that a painter and carpenter each desire to oversee the creation of a type of couch. He says that while we should certainly call a carpenter the maker of a couch, “should we call a painter, too, a craftsman and maker of such a thing?” (597d9-12). Socrates believes that a painter fails to be the creator of a couch. But if I was Socrates’ student, I would ask, can one fail at what he does not attempt? Perhaps a painter who paints a couch does not try to imitate the form of a couch, but instead is seeking to mimic the form of a painting. And maybe in his endeavor to create an imitation of a painting, he does succeed. Therefore, if the artist, who makes a painting of a couch, has an entirely different goal from that of a carpenter, who builds an actual couch, can the carpenter’s work be said to be more valuable than the artist’s?

Plato writes through Socrates’ friend Glaucon that the occupation and product of a painter is of less value than that of a carpenter. Glaucon states that “these things certainly are not equal in honor or benefit” (599b10). Glaucon is implying that the creation of art and the creation of useful objects or ideas are not of the same value. Socrates agrees with Glaucon, saying, “Do you think, then that if someone could make both what is imitated and its image, he would allow himself to take making images seriously, and put it at the forefront of his life as the best ability he had?” (599a6). Socrates believes that no one would be satisfied with making a painting of a couch if he could build an actual couch. He implies further that the only reason for one to paint a couch is because he is incapable of building one. But is it possible that the artist could see more value in his painting of a couch than in a functional couch that he might build? I would ask if the purpose of a couch—to be sat upon—is more valuable than the purpose of a painting of a couch, which is to be admired and to provoke ideas and thoughts? Maybe the two crafts are nonequivalent because of the inherent difference in the intent of their creators. Therefore, a painting of a couch may not be, as Socrates implies, “inferior” to an actual couch if a painting truly has its own, ideal form?

Socrates believes that a painting consists only in imitation, lacking an ideal form of its own. He states firmly in “Art in Kallipolis” that a painting is simply “an imitation of an illusion” (598b5). Socrates argues that painters create nothing on their own and only imitate the crafts that others have created. He further states that “painting—and imitation as a whole—are far from the truth” (603a10). This statement may certainly be true, but is painting mere imitation, or does it have its own form? Plato illustrates many different ways that we can come to the conclusion that a higher being created all the forms that humans can conceive. Glaucon agrees with this belief when he says, “Since it is by nature he [the god] has made it and all others [all other forms]” (597d5). A greater being, or “god,” has preemptively created anything we can possibly imagine. Therefore, the reason that we can build a boat or a plane or a couch is because a higher being first created the forms of these objects. If this belief is true, then I would argue that if humans can conceive of and then create a painting, then it must follow that the “god” who created all forms must have also created first the form of a painting. Therefore, a painting must, as all things do, have its own unique form, or people would not be able to conceive of a painting.

So does Plato’s character Socrates know the true value of art? Socrates asks in the Republic, “At what does painting aim?” (598b). Maybe we can gather from his question that Socrates is not sure what intent a painter has when he puts brush to canvas. Socrates states that the goal of a painter is to deceive others. He says of a painter, “by painting a carpenter and displaying him at a distance, he might deceive children and adults into thinking it truly is a carpenter” (598c5). But when artists paint, do they really intend to deceive others through their art? Artist Jerzy Kosinski said, “The principle of true art is not to portray, but to evoke.” I think most painters create their art not to deceive or to recreate things exactly as they appear in real life, but to express and to communicate their ideas and emotions. Take, for example, the painting entitled The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David. Is David trying to copy exactly what Socrates looked like at the time he was executed, or is David trying to show us an even greater truth: the nobility of Socrates—a man who would give his life for the truth? Perhaps—unlike Plato posits through Socrates in the Republic—the intent of an artist is not comparable to the intent of a carpenter, and an artist’s work is not less valuable than a carpenter’s work. Maybe a painting is not at all an imitation of what it depicts, but is an imitation of its own ideal form. Perhaps Plato’s caricature of Socrates would have viewed the art of painting differently if Plato had ever used the medium of paint to communicate his ideas, rather than the medium of words. Plato’s art was philosophy, and he wrote many profound works, but perhaps a venture into the world of art would led him to even more discoveries.

Clytaemnestra: Heroine or Lunatic?

            In Aeschylus’ trilogy The Oresteia, the character Clytaemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon and mother of Orestes, has been called a strong woman because she controls her emotions, gives commanding orders, and “kicks butt.” However, I would argue, after reading several psychology articles on the subject and reflecting on Scripture, that Clytaemnestra is not a strong woman at all, but is, in fact, a psychopath. We can see certain traits that Clytaemnestra has in common with a psychopath throughout the first two books of Aeschylus’ trilogy, Agamemnon and The Libation Bearers. These traits include the mastery of small talk, the constant manipulation of her fellow human beings, and the lack of many genuine emotions.
            Clytaemnestra demonstrates great skill in making small talk. In the play Agamemnon, she says to a newly arrived captive from Troy, “Won’t you come inside? I mean you, Cassandra. / Zeus in all his mercy wants you to share / some victory libations with the house” (Ag.,1032-1034). Later, in the play The Libation Bearers, Clytaemnestra greets her son, whom she had exiled as a baby, and his friends, saying: “Strangers, please, tell me what you would like and it is yours … We have warm baths and beds to charm away your pains / and the eyes of Justice look on all we do” (Lib., 650-653). This skill earns her the admiration of her people. They praise her, saying, “my lady, loyal, full of self-command” (Ag., 355-336) and “We’ve come, Clytaemnestra. We respect your power” (Ag., 258-259). The leader of the Chorus says about Clytaemnestra, “She speaks well, but it takes no seer to know she only says what’s right” (Ag., 612-613). According to an article published in Psychology Today by Amy Morin, “Psychopaths are almost always well-liked. They come across as delightful people great at making small talk.” As with most psychopaths, Clytaemnestra’s words are not genuine, but tools for manipulation.
            Clytaemnestra repeatedly uses words in attempts to persuade, fool, and manipulate other people in order to achieve her will. “Words, endless words I’ve said to serve the moment” (Ag., 1391). She cajoles the slave, Cassandra, to get off the chariot because she wants to kill her inside the palace. She says, “Down from the chariot, / this is no time for pride” (Ag., 1038-1041). Clytaemnestra attempts to distract the Chorus from her murderous intentions by making a show of love for the husband whom she has been plotting to kill. She states, “I am not ashamed to tell you / how I love the man…when a woman sits at home, and the man is gone, / the loneliness is terrible … the rumors [of Agamemnon’s death] broke like fever… they cut me down” (Ag., 842-864). In an article by Joaquin Hagopian, published by Global Research in 2014, he writes, “Psychopaths see others in terms of how they can be conveniently and cunningly used … They have no trouble putting on the act of emotions when they are determined to manipulate others, most often into feeling guilty or sympathetic toward them.” Clytaemnestra uses displays of emotion to attain her will but does not show any genuine emotion except for anger.            
            Clytaemnestra acts calm and even silly in the face of calamity and only shows anger when circumstances block her desires. When Clytemnestra’s servant rushes up and down the halls of her palace shouting a harrowing message that Clytaemnestra can’t understand, she says, “Ah, a riddle, I do well at riddles” (Lib., 874). When it is revealed that the servant was screaming about the death of Aegisthus, Clytaemnestra’s lover, she merely remarks, “Gone, my violent one—Aegisthus, very dear” (Lib., 880). Even when her own son is threatening to kill her, she handles this, too, with irrational calmness, saying to her son, “Watch out—the hounds of a mother’s curse will hunt you down” (Lib., 911). Her reactions, lacking the normal emotional responses, do not match up with these events. Joaquin Hagopian writes, “[Psychopaths] do not feel fear, sadness, regret or disgust that the rest of us experience.” According to the article, this lack of emotion enables these psychopaths to remain calm under what most would view as extremely stressful situations. However, Clytaemnestra does display genuine anger when she does not get her way. She invites Agamemnon to walk on tapestries to make a big show of his triumph over Troy. Agamemnon disagrees, saying that walking on tapestries is an honor “only the gods deserve” (Ag., 915), and continues to argue with her. Finally, she shouts, “Oh give way! … Surrender / all of your own free will to me!” (Ag., 938-939) According to Hagopian’s article, “the only genuine emotion psychopaths express is anger whenever their manipulations are thwarted or rebuffed.” So while her anger is genuine, it is not a righteous anger.
            Should being an expert at small talk to get people to like you, manipulating people to do your will and becoming angry when people won’t do your will be considered evidence of strength? While some regard Clytemnestra as a role model, a strong woman who makes tough decisions, I argue that she is not. If we look to the one true role model of strength—Jesus—Clytaemnestra is a sham. Jesus in fact behaved in ways that are the opposite of Clytaemnestra’s behavior. Rather than engage in small talk, Jesus emphasized the importance of what he was saying by using phrases like, “Verily I say unto you,” or “Amen, I say to you,” and the words he said were not always pleasing to people. In fact, as Jesus was well aware, this led to many hating Him. Jesus says in John 15:18, “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.” Jesus also never used his words to manipulate anyone into obeying His will. In Revelation 3:20 we read, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come into him and will dine with him, and he with Me.” Jesus only offers his Way to us. Could it be that the world’s conception of strength is askew? Webster’s Dictionary defines strength as the “capacity for exertion or endurance.” Isaiah 40:29 says our strength comes from somewhere else—“He gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless.” The Apostle Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians (12:10) that “when I am weak, then I am strong.” Only when we rely fully on God can we be truly strong. Jesus said, “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5). Perhaps we can find our role model of a strong woman in the person of Jesus’ mother Mary, who showed true strength when she surrendered her life to God, saying in Luke 1:38, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word." What was Mary’s advice on how to be strong? Mary said, “Do whatever He tells you” (John 2:5).

The Aeneid Book Seven: Juno Lets the Cat Out of the Bag

            Allecto, one of the three Furies of Roman mythology, is portrayed by Virgil in his epic poem, The Aeneid, as a monster (I envision her as a large cat with tentacles) who does not seem to have the same amount of free will as the other immortals in Virgil’s story. She is a hideous beast said to have been created by chance, who resides in the Underworld where it is her job to punish sinners for their crimes. She is called by circumstance, duty, and instinct to perform this task and she lacks certain traits common to beings who possess free will. She does not need a personal reason to act, she has no concern for the consequences of her actions, and she is unable to stop acting without external direction. Allecto carries out despicable and destructive acts because it is her nature to do so.  
            Allecto does not need a personal reason to unleash her terror. In Book Seven, Allecto is called out of the Underworld by Juno, the queen of the gods, to start a war. Juno is angry and frustrated because she wants to prevent Aeneas, the hero of the story, from founding the city of Rome and she thinks that a war between Aeneas’ Trojans and the native Latins would be a great idea. Juno, however, does not have the power to start the war herself, and she is unable to enlist the aid of her fellow gods, so in frustration she proclaims, “If I cannot sway the heavens, I’ll wake the powers of hell!” (7.365). So Juno plummets down to the underworld to seek Allecto and enlist her terror. But when she meets Allecto, Juno does not ask or cajole Allecto. Instead, “Juno whips her on with a challenge like a lash: / ‘Do this service for me, virgin daughter of Night, / a labor just for me’" (7.387-389). Allecto does not protest, hesitate or question the idea, but immediately acts, "In the next breath, / bloated with Gorgon venom, Allecto launches out” (7.399-400). Allecto never asks Juno “what’s in it for me?” and Juno does not offer Allecto a reason for starting the war, because she knows that Allecto does not need a reason. Juno tells Allecto “you make brothers / bound by love gear up for mutual slaughter” (7.391-392), and “you have ... / a thousand deadly arts” (7. 396-397).  However, when Juno recruits the help of Aeolus, the Lord of the Winds, Juno approaches him in a different manner, Virgil tells us, “Now Juno made this plea to the Lord of the Winds” (1.77). Juno makes a plea to Aeolus, and promises him a gift if he complies (1.85-87), and then she says, “Such service earns such gifts” (1.88). Similarly, when Venus wants her own son Cupid to perform a task for her, Venus does not command, or demand, but begs it of him, implying that Cupid in contrast to Allecto needs a personal reason to act. Virgil tells us that Venus “...makes an appeal to [Cupid]”(1.791) saying, “You, my son, are my strength ... Help me, I beg you” (1.792-795). Here Venus appeals to her son’s loyalty and love for her, his mother, to perform the task. However, Allecto does not appear to need a personal reason to act. In addition to a lack of personal investment, Allecto also has no concern for the consequences of her actions.
            To do Juno’s bidding, “Allecto launches out” (7.400) without concern for the consequences of her actions. Allecto is tasked to start a war, and she does not care who she hurts to do it. For example, the first thing Allecto does is “[fling] a snake from her black hair at the queen” (7.406). Allecto does not care what flinging the snake will do to the poor woman herself, only that flinging the snake could help start the war, “...the unlucky queen, whipped insane by ghastly horrors, / raves in her frenzy all throughout the city. / Wild as a top, spinning under a twisted whip” (7.440-442). Next, disguised as an old priestess, Allecto urges the king Turnus to start a war against the Trojans. When he doesn’t take her seriously, she hurls him backwards and throws a burning torch at his chest. Later, Allecto causes Ascanius, the son of Aeneas, to kill a pet deer, beloved of the family of Tyrrhus (King Latinus’ herdskeeper): “Iulus himself...aimed a shaft...and Allecto steadied his trembling hand, and the arrow shot / with a whirring rush, pierced through womb and loins” (7.579-582). A small, yet heinous event that first stirs the Latin people to war: ”Silvia, she is the first to call for rescue, / hands beating her arms, summoning hardy rustics” (7.587-588). Silvia, the daughter who raised and loved the deer is heartbroken, but Allecto doesn’t care about the girl’s feelings because the deer’s death was the tool she needed to get the country people angry in order to start the war. 
        And once Allecto starts destroying she cannot stop, because she has no self control: her function is to make war. “Savage Allecto, high on a lookout, spots her chance / to wreak some havoc” (7.595-596). Allecto continues on to stir up anger and hatred, even after Juno’s war is started. She says to Juno  “Now I’ve spattered the Trojans red with Italian blood / I’ll add this too, if I can depend on your good will: / With rumors, I will draw the border towns into war ... I’ll sow their fields with swords!” (7.336-341). So even though Allecto’s task of starting the war is completed, she does not know when to stop. She wants to continue sowing death and destruction. Juno has to tell Allecto to cease, or she will keep going. Juno tells her, “Enough terror, treachery too ... You’re roving far too freely, high on the heaven’s winds” (7.642-647). Allecto is derived from the Greek word "Alektos," which means unceasing. Allecto has no will to restrain herself, and needs Juno’s will to continue, but "quick to Juno's command” (7.650), Allecto flies back to hell, without so much as a word of protest.
         Because Allecto is a being portrayed without a free will, without a personal reason to act, or concern with the consequences of her actions, she is unable to control her actions. Allecto needs an external force of another’s will in order to be controlled. Allecto acts only in accordance with her instinct and makeup. Born ugly, she is tasked to forever torture souls as punishment for their crimes. According to Virgil, she is an entity who acts purely on instinct and her malice is inborn and unavoidable. Allecto can no more change the way she behaves than she can change the color of her eyes. She can disguise herself, or change her form from moment to moment (like she does when she becomes the priestess), but eventually her true nature will reappear. She cannot know mercy, she cannot know empathy, she cannot know love, or even self-love. The Aeneid tells us that “even her father, Pluto, loathes the monster, / even her own infernal sisters loathe her” (7.383-384). We are not told in The Aeneid why she is so awful, there is no reason given beyond that it is her nature. Perhaps Allecto is a victim—condemned to live a life of eternal damnation in Tartarus, tormenting souls, only allowed to come up for fresh air at the behest of a greater being. Perhaps she is not to blame for her hideousness, because it is in her nature. And because she has no free will, Allecto is objectified and used like a barn cat who is kept only to chase, kill, and keep away mice. Perhaps, we are to pity Allecto instead of hate her because she has no will of her own, and cannot be blamed for her crimes—it’s just how she was made.
As Jessica Rabbit says in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?: “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.”

Do you remember?

I used to be terrified of writing.

Until I attended the Great Books Writer's Workshop, and I found out that writing a good essay is just like writing a good song: tell a good story.

I learned many things about what makes a good story during the Great Book Writer's Workshop. For example, I learned that a good story encourages thought. A good story has a point, a main theme; a purpose. A good story has a foundation to stand upon, because without a good foundation, even the most beautiful words will fall apart. But my favorite thing that I learned at the Workshop was that a good story will have a hook, that little bit of interest that captures your readers' attention and makes them want to hear more or read on. I can relate to the idea of the hook, because I love to write songs, and without a "hook" in my lyrics the song will not compel my listeners to hear more.

What makes a hook compelling? I believe it's a combination of information and mystery. Enough information to give you an idea of what to expect and enough mystery to prepare you to be surprised. "I Took a Pill in Ibeza." Okay, but why? What events led you to that decision and what happened after? "Do you remember, the twenty-first night of September?" No, tell me about it! Do these sound like good essay titles? (I apparently thought so. 😳)

A good hook must also make your entire story, song or essay, memorable. A friend once told me that a certain lyrical hook in a song was absolutely appalling, so infantile in its construction, that it made him want to vomit. Of course, he remembered exactly what the hook was and what the song was about. And I don't think he will forget it for a long while (sadly for him). Although it made him sick, he remembered it, and there the hook was effective. I feel that memorability is the most important factor to determine the quality of a hook. If it's not memorable, then there's no point.

So do your readers a favor (I will try my best too!), tell them a good story, and let them know it will be worth the read by starting with a good hook.

Have fun!

AJ

Hello!

         
            Hello!

           My name is Aidan Joseph Connelly, but everyone calls me A.J. - especially my younger siblings who do it constantly - "AJ, AJ, AJ, AJ, AJ..." I'm a fresh man here at Faulkner University, my older sister Nikki is starting here with me, and my even older sister Danni is starting her third year here as well, so it should be fun!
I enjoy singing, playing instruments, recording music, making animations, and entertaining my family and friends with impersonations (my younger siblings' favorite is Elmo.)
I am so happy to be going to Faulkner, everyone has been so friendly and welcoming and I really feel that this is the best place in the world for me. I am especially looking forward to Great Books, singing with the University Chorus and really, just everything this year.
         
           Have fun!
         
           A.J.