The grand narrative of the present moment, as it finds expression in globalisation in the apparent primacy, even supremacy, of economic determinism, has had a shattering effect on mutual trust: all social activity, now redefined as economic activity, is predicated on a profound and distorted ambition of individual gain whose dark twin is the fear of others.
The present historic moment does not encourage us to trust ourselves, others, the work we do ourselves, nor the work of other hands – how or why should we trust work when its only declared value is its monetary value?
We live in a world where corrosive doubt makes it difficult to trust in the generosity of art, in visions of a fuller humanity.
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The English philosopher Thomas Hobbes spoke of a world where social life is "a ceaseless war of each against each", a dystopian vision that underlies those infamous words of Margaret Thatcher: "There is no such thing as society".
If we yield ourselves to this grand narrative, this complex and powerful construct, the consequences are not just social, since it is impossible for me to mistrust or doubt others and retain trust in myself. Doubt becomes the foundation of my life and thought – I am no longer at home in myself and in the world.
Radical disempowerment
This is a radical disempowerment, not just because it negates the social contract, even the possibility of a social contract, but, paradoxically, because it strikes at the root of my sense of personal autonomy.
Take away my autonomy and you absolve me of all moral responsibility for how I conduct myself, how I orient myself towards self and others, how I understand myself as one among others. In this absolute devaluation, the social, moral and cultural realms are evacuated of meaning and value – the only question I have to answer is: what do I want for myself and how do I get it?
Whatever our immediate motives and concerns, artists believe in the importance of art. Art does not of itself confer virtue on its practitioners, nor does it have some talismanic value that rubs off on audiences, managers, funders or promoters, so that those of us who work in these areas are somehow made better people because the work we do means we participate in what is called the arts.
There is nothing essential in art that automatically makes a person good. Some great artists have been monsters, a certain number have been, in the lovely vernacular of Dublin, maggots.
To be an artist does not make one a good man or woman, not necessarily, and to be an artist is not in any meaningful way better or more important than being a nurse, a mother or father, a builder or sailor, a baker, a policewoman or a legislator.
The media cult of the artist – which includes the elevation of the artist in a post-religious society to the position formerly occupied by the priesthood – is not a recognition of some inherent higher value in either the person or her profession. It reflects, in fact, the monetary and social status conferred on the work of art as a result of its capture by what Walter Benjamin called commodification – and hence the reverence afforded to artists is commonly no more than the ersatz reverence afforded to all wealth creators in this period of late capitalism.
So, if we are disposed to resist being captured, if we are disposed to resist having an artificial status afforded to art and artists, and if our resistance includes our denying that art possesses some special quality that makes us good, perhaps we might ask a more modest question: is what artists do a good thing?
The answer, of course, is yes – always provided we can trust the integrity of the artist as artist, the integrity of what she or he has made.
Once, down in in the Southern Ocean, storm-tossed and battered, with waves reaching 12 metres and the wind gusting at 80 knots, I lay down to sleep in a pure act of trust. I put my trust in the integrity of the boat and its builders, in the accuracy of the instruments, the strength of the sails and rigging; I put my trust in my fellow crew, and above all in the skipper.
All this I can explain: I had been sailing with these people for nearly two weeks by then. I had a pretty good idea of their characters; I had a pretty good idea of how strong the boat was, how well fitted and suited she was for these dangerous waters; and I knew that we had a supremely capable, even gifted skipper. My trust in myself as one among others was rational and demonstrably well-founded.
I could have made an equal case, of course, for not trusting myself, anything or anyone in those circumstances.
An act of trust
The fact is, I chose to make an act of trust, and what tipped the balance, from doubt or mistrust to trust, was the vivid conviction that trust was the better option if I wanted to stay alive. More prosaically, trust was the better option if I wanted to sleep, which meant I would be better fitted to sail the boat four hours later, which in turn meant all our chances of coming through the storm were enhanced and improved.
In the face of doubt, cynicism, despair or terror, when the options are balanced, trust is not only a choice; it is always, no matter the circumstances, the better option.
In the face of darkness we place our trust in the men and women who by their work and fellowship hold out a different vision – the good mothers and fathers, bakers and bus drivers, farmers and authors and factory workers, tenders of vineyards, accountants, teachers, actors, neighbours, managers, sisters, musicians, cooks and journalists, judges and brothers and union officials and poets – all those who in themselves and acting together build and sustain the great architecture of human vision and solidarity.
The great compact built on trust.
This is an edited version of Theo Dorgan’s keynote speech to the meeting of the IETM International Network for Contemporary Performing Arts , which is now taking place at the Project Arts Centre, Dublin
