Why Don’t Ants Have Art?

Lady Glamis has a series on her blog on the nature of art.

Questions like this tend to send my mind down different lanes. Look at the beautiful sand castle in the picture. I would call it art if humans had crafted it. In fact, however, it’s a termite fortress, and I wouldn’t call it art. Not because it was created by non-humans, but because it wasn’t created for any of the reasons art is created.

If you are like me (I hope, for your sake, you aren’t), you spend an inordinate amount of your time asking yourself, “How do humans differ from the social insects? And why?”

Our species has, in some ways, much more in common with ants than with other mammals. No other mammals build heated and air conditioned appartment buildings, share nursery duties on a large scale, divide labor into different roles, wage wars. Ants do.

But ants do not paint, sculpt, write or dance. They clearly could, if they were moved to, just as they weave leaves into homes or build bridges across rivers. They just don’t because, after all, what purpose does art serve?

What purpose does art serve? In the essay of Lady Glamis’ friend, it’s suggested art makes us feel; perhaps it also leads us away from wickedness and toward goodness. (This was a matter of contention in the comments section.) Perhaps. Ants, after all, don’t have morality or religion either. Why on earth would we need external, physical objects made by our fellow beings to help us feel? Yes, it’s a form of communication, but of such a subtle and subjective nature it cannot be of any use for the usual purposes communication serves.

From the earlies age, children naturally create art. All human beings, and all human cultures, crerate some art. We can argue about who does it better — perhaps the competition to perform or create superior art is the only explanation for how it evolved? — but that doesn’t explain why we do it at all. Why we need it. Why the thought of a society which suppressed all art is an example of a living hell. Why the struggle to control art is dear the hearts of all who hunger for power over the minds of their fellows.

Suppose you were the last human being left alive on Earth. No agents, no audience. No buyers, no lovers. No reason to create art. Would you?

I don’t know about you, but I probably would. It would, in fact, be only through the creation of art I would endure such a situation at all. And that’s quite strange, isn’t it?

A Wasted Day

There are many days I can’t work because I have other pressing activities. That’s frustrating, but it’s a neccessary evil. Today, however, I had time to work, and wasted it. That’s beyond frustrating. It leaves me deeply depressed.

Of course, I suppose I was depressed to begin with, since instead of working, I stewed the whole day long in stressful thoughts about my inability to face the future with my current resources (mental as well as physical). It was one of those days when my inadequacies pointed and laughed at my aspirations, and even at noon, the sun shone grey. I ate too much, tasted too little.

I scrolled through various Word files on my screen, but typed nothing. I thought about painting, but baskets of laundary were piled between me and my art desk. I thought about doing laundary, but returned to my computer.

Scrolled some more, typed nothing.

Worried some more, solved nothing.

Tommorrow, I am not going to worry, and I’m not going to even try to type one word. I think I’ll read. And try to go outside.