Pragmatic theories of art

Hedonistic theories of art

According to one kind of theory, the function of art is to produce just one kind of effect upon its audience: pleasure. It may also inform or instruct, represent or express, but first and foremost it must please. The more pleasure it gives, the better the art.

If the theory is left in this simple form, it yields the result that glossy and superficial works and those containing nothing difficult or obscure are the best works of art. Thus, on the hedonistic account, King Lear might come out far behind Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha, or Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees,” in view of the difficulty of comprehending Shakespeare by many people and the pleasant, easy lilting quality of Longfellow’s poem; similarly, a simple ditty might come out ahead of Bach’s Mass in B Minor. True, Shakespeare and Bach might produce more pleasure in the long run since their works have endured through more centuries, but, on the other hand, the simple works can be apprehended and enjoyed by vastly more people.

In any case, the theory has often been amended to read “aesthetic pleasure” rather than simply “pleasure”—thus placing great importance on exactly how the term “aesthetic” is to be defined. The definition of this troublesome term is beyond the scope of this article (see aesthetics); it will simply be said here that no quick and easy way of distinguishing aesthetic pleasures from other pleasures will suffice for the task at hand. If it is said, for example, that aesthetic pleasure consists in satisfaction taken in the contemplation of sensuous particulars (tones, colours, shapes, smells, tastes) for their own sake—that is, for no further end and without ulterior motive—then one confronts the fact that as much pleasure may be taken in single smells and tastes for their own sakes, without any reference beyond them, as may be taken in the most complex works of art. For that matter, pleasure in playing a game (one not played for money) is pleasure in doing something for its own sake, as is the pleasure of robbing a house if it is done not for money but for “kicks.” If something is found pleasurable, ordinarily the pleasure is what one wants from it, not something else beyond it.

Moreover, if it is said that a work of art should be a means toward pleasure, that is treading suspiciously near to the opposed view that art should not be a means to an end but an end in itself. If someone says, “Why do you go jogging every morning for three miles? Because you feel the exercise is good for you?” and another person answers, “No, not that at all, I just enjoy doing it,” this would ordinarily and quite sensibly be taken as saying that the person did not do exercise as a means toward an end but as an end in itself. If something is done just because it is enjoyed, in common parlance this would be taken to be “doing it as an end in itself”; if one objected, “No, I’m not doing it as an end in itself, I’m doing it as a means toward the enjoyment I’ll get out of it,” the reply would be considered sophistical, for doing it for enjoyment’s sake is precisely what is ordinarily meant (or one thing that is ordinarily meant) by the statement that a thing is being done for its own sake.

In any case, the effect of great works of art upon a reader or viewer or listener can hardly be described as merely hedonistic. No one would presumably wish to deny that art can and should give us pleasure, but few would wish to assert that pleasure is all that it should give us. If one were to ask, “How did viewing Picasso’s Guernica affect you?” and the reply was, “I found it pleasant,” we would conclude that the reaction to the painting was, to say the least, inadequate. Great art may please; it may also move, shock, challenge, or change the lives of those who experience it deeply. Pleasure is only one of many kinds of effects it produces.