Mass Migration Destroys The West Like Crowd Controls Destroy The Mona Lisa
The goal of allowing ever more people in, while egalitarian, actually diminishes the experience for everyone.The goal of allowing ever more people in, while egalitarian, actually diminishes the experience for everyone.Marble courage vs. bronze tokenism: A tale of two statues
I was skimming through Substack the other day looking for something of interest to read when I came across an article titled “Where Is Today’s Michelangelo?”
It was a thought-provoking piece about the depleted state of modern society’s artistic soil thanks to the eradication of ideals and objective truth, the rise of mass consumerism, and the decline of humanism.
David’s story is one worthy of the blessed hands of Michelangelo, a story worthy of a legacy that lasts all of human history.
The author argued that we’ve yet to see Michelangelo’s equivalent not because he or she doesn’t exist, but rather because our culture no longer knows how to nurture artists capable of reaching such heights.
To give an analogy, the world’s fastest man might be hiding in a village right now, but if that village is plagued with famine and he cannot eat properly, his muscles will not thicken, his bones will not harden, and his potential will die entirely untapped.
The same principle applies to the Michelangelo-level artist, who requires certain specific nourishment to develop his talent fully.
Contrapposto counterfeit
The article got me thinking about a work of art recently unveiled smack in the middle of Times Square to great acclaim — at least from some circles. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
Titled “Grounded in the Stars,” this 12-foot bronze sculpture portrays an overweight, average-looking black woman in casual clothing, standing with hands on hips. The artist, Thomas J. Price, sculpted her in contrapposto as a nod to the Renaissance king’s “David” — arguably the most beloved sculpture to ever exist.
A glance at the two works side by side, and it’s easy to see that “Grounded in the Stars” is indeed inspired by “David” — the poses, the intense visages, the prowess both aim to convey.
Yet “Grounded in the Stars” will never — could never — dwell in the same divine orbit as “David.” And nobody with an inkling of sense would ever claim otherwise.
My question, and I think it’s an important one, is why? Why would nobody dare argue that Price’s bronze woman could ever ascend the same Olympian heights as Michelangelo’s “David”?
Sculpture on easy mode
Is the answer purely technical?
It's true that "David” is more anatomically detailed, with his veined hands and subtly tensed muscles, than “Grounded in the Stars,” which employs a smoother, more stylized surface.
And the technical mastery displayed by “David” is all the more impressive considering the rudimentary tools Michelangelo had at his disposal. He painstakingly hewed his statue by hand from a single block of marble (and a flawed one at that).
Michelangelo had zero room for error. Price, by contrast, may have relied on digital modeling and other modern tools that allowed him to fix mistakes and refine details before casting.
Are these disparities in craftsmanship what creates the gap between these two works?
It doesn’t take an artist or an art critic to know that’s only a fraction of the answer. “David” is hallowed — immortalized in the artistic canon — for reasons that go beyond its objective beauty and precise craftsmanship.
But while the vast majority of people instinctively know "David" is the superior of the two sculptures, I think many, if asked, would struggle to articulate what precisely makes it so. They would likely stutter through generalities — he’s an important part of biblical history; he was created by the great Michelangelo; he’s seen millions of visitors for hundreds of years.
All true, yet shallow and incomplete.
I think as a society we’ve forgotten the elements of greatness. We recognize objectively great art when we see it, but our understanding hardly reaches beyond physical sight. It’s like looking at water but not knowing that hydrogen and oxygen are what make it up.
We know “David” is an emblem of artistic excellence to the highest degree and that “Grounded in the Stars” is not, but do we know the deepest reasons this is true?
If we did, perhaps then we’d be erecting something far better in Times Square today. For that to be a possibility, though, modern culture has to relearn the chemical makeup of greatness.
Comparing these two statues is as good a place as any to start.
Virtue in stone
The Renaissance, the period in which Michelangelo sculpted “David,” was a revival of classical antiquity — specifically the art, literature, philosophy, and culture of ancient Greece and Rome.
This culture came with certain ideas about artistic legacy and permanence, ideas that drove Greece’s Parthenon sculptors as much as the artists of Augustus’ Rome.
Just as you and I tend to measure the impact of digital content by its virality (how widely it spreads), Renaissance artists understood that their works, if they achieved excellence, would endure in human history. Generations of people would come and go, ages would wax and wane, empires would rise and fall, and yet their art would survive it all — save natural disasters and angry mobs.
And so when Michelangelo took on the herculean task of “liberating” David from the 18-foot block of Carrara marble that had already been deemed unworkable by two other sculptors, he knew the weight of his task.
He wasn’t just creating a stone replica of a historical figure. He was making history himself. He understood that “David” would transcend the moment of his creation; like all great religious art of the Renaissance, "David" was intended to guide the consciousnesses of spectators for centuries to come.
And the sculpture has done exactly that. It’s been 521 years since the completion of "David," and the figure still receives several thousand visitors per day. But why? What is it that makes it worthy of such a legacy? "David" is inarguably beautiful; in fact, Michelangelo carved him to represent the ideal male form — a concept rooted in Renaissance humanism.
But this is not solely what gives “David” his longevity.
There’s a reason beauty and truth always seem to go hand in hand. It is, of course, the virtues “David” represents that immortalize him. "David" is marble courage, heroism, and moral resolve. His narrative is one of civic virtue, triumph over tyranny, and unwavering faith in God.
He originates and exemplifies the victorious underdog — a concept we are still cheering millennia later. We do this because we are all underdogs in some capacity. Goliath looms in our homes, our workplaces, even our own hearts; Philistine armies are always rising up and casting shadows. Each of us has been a shepherd caught up in a war we didn’t ask for.
David’s courage to say I will go imbues us (even those of us who reject the God from whom David’s courage came) with fortitude to face our own giants.
In this way, David’s story is all of our stories. And as long as there are giants and people with the will to challenge them, it will live on.
Tokenism in bronze
Whose story does “Grounded in the Stars” tell? The title certainly connotes beauty, strength, and legacy.
But no — this is no one’s story. The artist has told us so himself.
“The work is a composite fictional character, unfixed and boundless, allowing us to imagine what it would be like to inhabit space neutrally without preconceived ideas and misrepresentation,” Price said of his sculpture.
So not only is this a statue of nobody with no story to tell, that is precisely the point. Price urges us to reject excellence and instead celebrate mediocrity — to cheer not because someone is virtuous, heroic, saintly, or accomplished, but because she is supposedly marginalized.
What a hopeless message.
The art of victimhood
For the truly marginalized, the statue doesn’t speak to their sense of strength or resilience; it doesn’t encourage them to rise above circumstance, carry their burdens with courage, or to even hope for better days.
It says the opposite — sit in your victimhood; let it crystalize into bitterness. Wear it like a badge of honor; wield it as a weapon.
Such a message robs marginalized people of the very tools needed to emerge from the station they want to escape. It’s tokenism packaged as empowerment, keeping them down but convincing them they’ve risen.
And to those who would be considered privileged, the statue is a condemning lecture — a “shame on you,” finger-wagging political rant in the form of a looming bronze woman that looks and feels like a modernized idol from ancient days.
If the goal is to help the fortunate see the plight of the downtrodden, this does the opposite, sowing more divisiveness and resentment. No one ever comes to see the light through shame.
An example for the ages
And here’s my biggest question: Which statue better honors the marginalized? Before he was king, David was a shepherd — one of the lowliest groups in biblical history, barely above beggars and outcasts. Remote field work kept shepherds on the literal fringes of society, far removed from urban centers. Their status as humble laborers ensured that they lacked power and influence. They were poor, uneducated, and dirty from working with animals.
On top of that, David was young at a time when a man’s age was indicative of his worth, especially as a warrior. From every angle, he was unfit to face Goliath.
But no matter. Faith and courage rooted in God would be his wings.
And they were, from the moment he slung the fatal stone to the moment of his crowning as the king of Israel.
There is no better story of a marginalized person rising to greatness than David’s. It’s a story worthy of the blessed hands of Michelangelo, a story worthy of a legacy that lasts all of human history.
Price’s nameless bronze woman, by contrast, is rooted in the fleeting values of modern DEI and identity politics, unlikely to outlast her creator.
Planned obsolescence
Come June, the statue will be removed from its temporary post in Times Square and whisked away to some private gallery or worse — to storage. There, it will meet the same sad fate as the majority of contemporary art. Its impact will be but a ripple in a pond that quickly fades and is forgotten.
But I don’t necessarily place the blame on Price. To quote the article I mentioned above, “a culture starved of deep convictions is shallow soil, unconducive to the growth of great artists.”
If we want to produce great art again, we have to cultivate values that strengthen the human spirit, calling us out of darkness and into light — whether we are marginalized or privileged.
Only then will we create art that is truly grounded in the stars.
NYC unveils hideous bronze statue in Times Square – ‘It’s there to condemn you’
On April 29, a 12-foot bronze statue of a plus-size woman named "Grounded in the Stars" was unveiled in Times Square, New York City. The artist, Thomas J. Price, said it was meant to “confront preconceived notions of identity and representation” and “encourage empathy.”
Jill Savage of “Blaze News | The Mandate” isn’t buying it. “It’s so beautiful,” she says sarcastically.
But Jill knows she’s not the only one cringing at this woke gesture. To get the pulse of the Blaze audience, she took to X and posted:
— (@)
On this episode of “Blaze News | The Mandate,” Jill shares the best responses.
Blaze Media’s very own Steve Baker responded with:
KyleH replied with this hilarious comment:
And finally, G’s response:
“It seems like a more fitting statue in a way than the one in the movie,” laughs Blaze News editor in chief Matthew Peterson.
In all seriousness, though, historically, monuments have commemorated achievement. Peterson points to the Theodore Roosevelt equestrian statue from outside the American Museum of Natural History that New York City removed in 2020, claiming it symbolized colonialism and racism. Never mind Roosevelt’s contributions to conservation, global explorations, and leadership.
Compare that to Price’s statue.
“Why is that statue there? It's there to condemn you. It's the opposite of ennobling,” says Peterson.
“It's a really dangerous thing when you start to not only pull down the good statues but put up things that are ugly and that are making you condemn yourself. It's a very evil, wicked thing they're doing,” he adds.
To hear his solution to restoring beautiful art in our country, watch the episode above.
Want more from 'Blaze News Tonight'?
To enjoy more provocative opinions, expert analysis, and breaking stories you won’t see anywhere else, subscribe to BlazeTV — the largest multi-platform network of voices who love America, defend the Constitution, and live the American dream.
The shift in art history that helped shape our narcissistic society
“Narcissism” is a word that gets thrown around a lot. Usually by leftists trying to be morally righteous. “Did you hear about Elon Musk? He's such a narcissist,” said the narcissist.
We should the consider the possibility that we rejected this harshly utilitarian view of children for another extreme.
But if we're actually being serious about the clinical term known as “narcissism,” then the obvious answer is that we're all narcissists. Narcissism is something every human being is born with. In biblical terms, it's simply our natural fallen state.
If you can't admit to yourself that you're a narcissist, then you're just in denial. It's natural for us to be self-absorbed and even inconsiderate of others. We're born sinners. To admit it truly is the first step to overcoming it.
Mini adults
A bigger problem is that narcissism has become the foundation of our culture. Why is that? In college I took a class called "Media and Children," which explored how art has shaped and developed humanity's perception of itself and how that perception gets redirected back in the way society operates.
A large part of the class dealt with the rise of Madonna and Child imagery in medieval and early Renaissance times. Prior to this, representations of children occurred mainly in paintings depicting peasants toiling in the fields. These images offer little differentiation between adults and children; the latter are simply smaller versions of the other workers.
This wasn’t just an artistic decision. It reflected how children were perceived in society: as laborers in training, future functionaries, or simply smaller humans not yet fully formed. There was no concept of "childhood" as a sacred, protected phase.
Divine reverence
The Madonna and Child changed this. The image of Mary and Jesus created a deeply emotional, almost divine reverence for both motherhood and childhood. Over time, this helped usher in a more sentimental, inward-facing culture: less about community utility and more about the sanctity of the individual.
The Madonna and Child shifted society's focus from selfless and communal rural organization to an inward focus on individualism. The mother and child dyad began to be seen as a separate, almost holy entity, one that had to be protected, cherished, and nurtured.
We built entire systems around this idea. The standardized graded schooling system actually sprang out of this mode of thinking, as children were seen as too innocent to be given "forbidden" adult knowledge all at once, so it needed to be spoon-fed in gradual waves, lest the child be corrupted. No longer an apprentice or a tool in the economic machinery, the child needed to be eased into reality, slowly and carefully.
Born narcissists
This isn’t to say the earlier model of tossing kids into the fields at age five was ideal. But we should the consider the possibility that we rejected this harshly utilitarian view of children for another extreme: the child as a morally pure, emotionally fragile being whose wants and needs should take precedence at all times.
This, I think, is where narcissism crept in. As I said before, all humans are born narcissists. Just look at any baby or toddler. They act on base instinct. They cry when they’re uncomfortable, reach for whatever satisfies them, and have no concept of the needs or feelings of others. It's not until a parent is there to correct their behavior and teach them the concepts of altruism and the consideration of others that the child learns to be less selfish.
But what happens when a culture turns that natural narcissism into a virtue? When mothers are encouraged to reinforce it instead of correct it? When children grow up being told they are special, sacred, and central to everything? You get a society that caters to emotion before reason. A culture where the self is the most important thing, where discomfort is oppression and challenge is violence.
Out of the picture
Liberalism, in this light, isn’t just a political theory. It’s an emotional framework built around the sacredness of the individual. And that framework, I would argue, finds its roots in the religious and cultural iconography of the Madonna and Child.
Notice who is missing from these "family pictures": the father. In the archetypal Madonna and Child image, Joseph, if present at all, remains in the background. He’s often off to the side, passive, irrelevant. He’s eternally stuck in the old world, still out in the fields, still laboring, still part of that feudal model that we’ve supposedly “evolved” beyond.
The image of the father gets erased from the central narrative, and that erasure eventually spills out into real life. The father becomes secondary. The mother becomes the entire emotional and moral universe of the child. And from there, society slowly restructures itself around this new holy dyad: mother and child at the center, everything else in orbit.
Liberal democracy didn't just evolve from Enlightenment rationalism and the French Revolution. It was primed much earlier by this cultural shift toward the sacralization of the individual mother and child.
And it’s not that we went from bad to good, or good to bad. We simply shifted. From a collectivist, utilitarian (and dare I say, monarchical) model to one that centers emotional connection and personal uniqueness. The problem is that when you start to worship the individual (especially the unformed, undisciplined, and coddled individual), you risk institutionalizing narcissism. And now we’re living with the consequences.
Art Shouldn’t Get A Free Nudity Pass Just Because It’s Art
The fact that celebrated works from the past contain nudity doesn’t justify us including it in our films, literature, and other mediums.Sabo's story: Guerrilla street artist opens up in career-spanning 'Unsavory Agents'
Michelle Obama as a Manson girl. Celeb pro-choicer Miley Cyrus eating a fetus. Joe Biden suiting up as "The Diddler."
If you've followed Sabo's work over the last decade, you know he pulls no punches when it comes to lampooning the darlings of the liberal elite.
'Unsavory Agents' is the rare coffee table book that visitors to your home might actually open — and possibly toss across the room in disgust.
What you might not know is that he applies that same merciless gaze to himself.
Lost on La Brea
In "Unsavory Agents," a handsomely produced, 300-page retrospective of his work, America's fastest-censored street artist shares a dark night of the soul from early in his career.
It's 3 a.m. on La Brea Boulevard in Los Angeles, and our hero has been altering posters for the upcoming "Smurf" movie. Exhausted and covered in paint and glue, he sits on a curb and reflects on how a grown man, a Marine Corps veteran and professionally trained artist, came to be here, risking arrest to paint a hijab on Smurfette.
There really is no good way to say it and I simply couldn't escape the thought: I had to be a complete loser to do what I was doing ...
By now all the friends I'd grown up with were all living responsible lives with respectable careers, wives, mortgages, reliable vehicles. ... Hell — some of them even had children on their way to high school. I could barely afford to support myself, much less a child or even a dog for that matter. And here I was in my mid-30s riding a bicycle with a backpack full of paint trying to make a point ... but was anyone even listening?
The moment of doubt passes, as Sabo reminds himself there are worse fates than obscurity: squandering his talent in yet another soulless startup gig.
"I decided I'd rather be broke, hungry, and alone than living that life for one more day. ... Congratulations, I got what I wanted. Having nothing to lose meant I could find the nerve to become the impossible: an artist."
Taking it to the streets
A decade and a half later, it's looking like he pulled it off. His provocative protest pieces regularly make the news, no matter how quickly the powers that be tear them down. He's more or less single-handedly brought punk's take-no-prisoners anger and crass, in-your-face humor to the right.
Along with the success, Sabo has had plenty of struggle. PayPal deplatformed him (leaving some $20,000 of his money in limbo), and Facebook gave him the boot.
He's been cited and fined by Denver police and questioned by the Secret Service. He's been jerked around by corporate collaborators and harassed by screwdriver-wielding libs. He's made himself unemployable by "respectable" agencies while weathering the deaths of his mother, father, and stepfather.
And at 57, he's had to face the same harsh truth Danny Glover does in "Lethal Weapon": He's getting too old for this s**t.
"The last few creative hits that took me from home were so incredibly stressful that I wasn't sure if I was going to die of a heart attack or an aneurysm," he writes.
Cracks in the pavement
Sabo's lavishly produced, self-published labor of love is meant to encourage the next generation of artists to follow in his footsteps "I hope this book lays a few seeds, sprouts a few ideas that break through the mental pavement that has stagnated art."
The beautiful reproductions of the work itself — from the image of Ted Cruz as tattooed "gangsta" that first broke him nationally to his surgical strikes at "Pedowood" and Gavin Newsom's COVID hypocrisy — provide plenty of inspiration.
And would-be successors would certainly benefit from this glimpse into Sabo's methodology:
The best samurai didn't just cut you down; they would master the art of ending the fight with as few swings of their sword as possible. I try to follow the same principle when taking over a billboard or creating a poster. Be clear and concise, don't write a book, use as few elements as possible.
A wild ride
Sabo's writing proves to be as bracingly unpretentious and effective as his artwork. In a series of entertaining anecdotes, he offers tips on how to monetize visits from the feds and hang art high enough that it takes some effort to remove.
He also presents vivid accounts of finally meeting his old absentee Los Angeles landlord Valdas ("imagine if Sigmund Freud and Charles Bukowski ... had a baby together") and of "graduating" himself from the prestigious Art Center College of Design.
"Unsavory Agents" is the rare coffee table book that visitors to your home might actually open — and possibly toss across the room in disgust. At the very least, it may prompt some honest conversation. And honest conversation is in short supply these days.
It's also a fascinating record of the last topsy-turvy decade, proof that all of the craziness actually happened. Your great-grandkids might think you're making it all up.
Finally, it's a great way to support a true dissident artist, a man humbly employing his God-given talents to afflict the powerful and inspire the underdog. As Sabo himself says in closing: "Be yourself, give them hell, and FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!"
"Unsavory Agents" is available for purchase here.
Why Transhumanists Like Elon Musk Can Never Be Conservative
Humanity is so much more than a 'biological bootloader.'How modern art became a freak show — and why only God can fix it
I was in college when I was first introduced to modern art. I don’t remember which museum I was visiting, but I keenly recall one painting that a group of hip-looking art students was clustered around while muttering nonsensical jargon.
Once I nudged my way around the observers, I saw what all the fuss was about. Well, I saw it, as in I looked at it, but I didn’t understand it. It’s been a decade, and I still don’t understand it. The “painting” they were captivated by featured a horizontal purple line bisecting an otherwise blank canvas. That’s it — just a straight purple line.
Once upon a time, art actually had to be good to be considered art.
According to the plaque next to the “artwork,” the artist wanted to capture infinity.
I love the concept of infinity. It speaks of galaxies bursting in starlight, oceans that plunge to unfathomable depths, or perhaps sunbeams fracturing storm clouds with golden radiance.
But a purple line? Is it a stretch to say Buzz Lightyear had a better grip on infinity than this artist?
My mom, who is an excellent oil painter, has an even better story about the modern art world. A few years ago, she decided to go back to school and get her art degree. She lives just a short drive from one of the most prestigious art schools in the state, so her path seemed set. But one semester is all it took for her to drop out of the program.
The most celebrated art at the school, she told me, wasn’t just talentless — it was downright disturbing. One installation that was so prized by the professors that it was put on display showcased a red-spattered pedestal sink filled with faux human teeth and a pair of pliers. A mirror with the word “smile” written in (she hopes) red paint hung above.
The school, by the way, had no shortage of extraordinarily talented young artists. They just weren’t lauded like the ones who specialized in the strange and grotesque.
You know, once upon a time, art actually had to be good to be considered art. And before that, it had to point to something greater than ourselves.
What spurred this seismic shift where suddenly absurd simplicity and morbid depictions of self-torture are not only considered art but are celebrated as tours de force?
I ventured off into the ether seeking answers.
But first ...
I’ve anticipated the question I know many of you are asking: Well hold on, isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?
I used to think so because that’s what the aesthetic experts say, the modern ones, anyway. But who’s trusting “experts” these days? Now, I put more stock in my gut. And my gut tells me that it’s man’s hubris that tells him he’s the arbiter of beauty and that what we call "aesthetics" is far more objective than we’ve been told.
After all, aesthetics, at their core, are divine in origin. God, beauty’s source and essence, set the standard long before He created man and gave him, as an imager, an inferior ability to create. Scriptural accounts of the heavenly realm paint mesmerizing illustrations of celestial splendor beyond imagination.
The heavens open before Ezekiel, and he sees God’s sapphire throne radiating rainbows (Ezekiel 1:26-27). John has a vision of God glittering like a gemstone on His throne that emits an emerald halo of light (Revelation 4:2-3).
And then, of course, in Genesis 1, God creates the natural world, which despite millennia of human meddling, is still visually stunning — at least the parts we haven’t destroyed yet.
But even after He was finished creating the spiritual realm, the Earth, and man — the crowning jewel of physical creation — God still had more to say about beauty. There are numerous examples I could cite that capture His clear aesthetic preferences, but none, I think, so persuasive as the instructions He gives David for His temple, which Solomon built.
In accordance with God’s commands, “[Solomon] overlaid the inside with pure gold. He paneled the main hall with juniper and covered it with fine gold and decorated it with palm tree and chain designs. He adorned the temple with precious stones. And the gold he used was gold of Parvaim. He overlaid the ceiling beams, doorframes, walls, and doors of the temple with gold, and he carved cherubim on the walls” (2 Chronicles 3:4-7).
There was “no pragmatic reason” or “utilitarian purpose” for all this ornamentation, wrote American theologian and philosopher Francis Schaeffer in “Art and the Bible.”
“God simply wanted beauty in the temple” because “God is interested in beauty.”
These are some of the ways God set an aesthetic standard for humans to emulate.
What’s interesting is that we actually tend to agree that this standard is a good one. The most obvious example is nature. I dare you to find someone who doesn’t marvel at mountains, starry skies, and melting sunsets. Extensive research in evolutionary psychology has also found that symmetrical faces with balanced proportions are universally considered more appealing. The same can be said for certain musical notes and colors.
The best case for the objectivity of beauty, however, was made by architect and design theorist Christopher Alexander. In “The Nature of Order,” he outlined a simple but powerful experiment: He showed participants two contrasting images (e.g., a colorful slum vs. a stark modern home, a Persian rug vs. a plain rug, a Gothic window vs. a modern square one) and asked them to choose which image had “more life” in it and made them feel “more whole.”
Overwhelmingly, the participants — regardless of age, culture, and background — agreed on which image it was. (P.S. It wasn’t the designer house, the plain rug, or the modern window).
My friend Ren Miller, who’s studied and written about Alexander’s work, summarizes it like this: “There is more agreement on what beauty is when people see it rather than intellectualize about it. ... An agreed-upon hierarchy of beauty exists.”
As it turns out, mankind can’t help but prefer vivacity over sterility, harmony over dissonance, life over death. It's almost as if he were created to be drawn to things that are good — “good” as in they are an outflow of the only One who is good. Funny how that works.
That’s not to say we all want to feature the same kind of artwork in our homes, though. Certainly, there is great variance in what humans find beautiful, but that diversity still exists within the scope of what God has already created and called good. Our personal preferences are not a negation of these foundational aesthetic principles.
Why hideous modern art then?
So if beauty is fairly objective, how, then, does that square with society’s celebration of modern art, which is often characterized by morbidity, nihilism, irreverence, and fragmentation — the very things humans have an innate aversion to?
In my last article, I pondered the potential advantages of welcoming aesthetics back into the low Protestant church, where they’ve been outright forbidden or strictly limited for the past 500 years as a result of the Reformation, which, for all its profound contributions in regard to democratizing scripture and exposing corruption in the Roman Catholic Church, overcorrected in its position on art — especially as it relates to the movement’s iconoclasm.
Scottish historian Peter Marshall called the Reformation an “artistic holocaust."
“Wherever the Reformation triumphed, it ruthlessly destroyed a priceless artistic and cultural inheritance,” he wrote.
But it did something else, too. It forced the church to release the reins on art. And over time, secular society picked them up. Of course it did. Whenever the church goes silent on any matter, certainly other voices will rise to take its place.
This is what they said in chronological order:
The Scientific Revolution (16th-17th centuries):
Reason trumps reverence; science beats spirituality. Beauty is no longer an act of worship but an act of empirical study. Art shall mirror physical reality, not invisible spirits, celestial throne rooms, and chimerical prophesies. What we can see and touch — that is what matters. Sever art’s divine moorings; anchor it to something we can measure.
The Enlightenment (late 17th to 18th centuries):
There is no divine mandate. Rationality, reason, and morals are the virtues of man; he holds the universe on his shoulders, not some obscure deity in the clouds. Forge ahead with intellect, burying superstition and religious tradition as the relics they are. Let art return to classical antiquity when rationality, balance, and order prevailed. Let it tell the story of enlightened man and his vast wisdom through marble heroes, portraits of society’s elite, and manicured landscapes. Embrace the secular, abandon the sacred.
The Industrial Revolution (late 18th to mid-19th centuries):
You see! — Man is supreme. Look at what he’s built: the steam engine, the telegraph, mechanized production — all products of his genius! Let art reflect industry’s gritty might and titan strength. And make it a commodity for the masses. Who needs potters when factories grind, carpenters when assembly lines crank, spinners and weavers when steam-powered mills roar? Churn it out. Let the people gorge.
Modernism (late 19th to mid-20th century):
Now, see, these wars — the death, the brutality, the uncertainty. Who escapes? Better to embrace. There’s no one coming to save us. Create as all goes dark. Let the canvas be a vehicle for the darkness in and around you. Scream. Mock. Rebel. Intuition, emotion, and thought alone guides the artist’s hand.
Postmodernism (mid-20th century to current day):
Everything’s a joke now. We’re all just cogs in a machine grinding ourselves to dust in this meaningless void. Have a little fun before it’s over. Tell your truth. Anything goes. No, really — anything. Art is whatever you want it to be. Gruesome? Sure. Cynical? Absolutely. Silly? Why not? Sanctity, tradition, and objectivity are long dead. We’re in the wasteland now.
Out of the wasteland
It is in this artistic wasteland we find ourselves now — celebrating purple lines and bloody teeth in a sink. But when you look at the aesthetic zeitgeist of each cultural wave following the Reformation, are you surprised? I’m not.
It’s almost mathematical: God’s vision of beauty – the church’s voice + the world’s ever-increasing darkness = total artistic debasement and collapse.
Art is crucial in God’s cosmic story.
I don’t mean to suggest that every one of these secular currents was all bad. Undoubtedly, each era had its bright moments and brilliant minds. I don’t mean to suggest that all post-Reformation art has been worthless, either. That would be absurd. Beautiful works (not all religious) have emerged from every age — even Modernism and Postmodernism — the periods that birthed these strange, warped creations I’ve been condemning.
Yet, none of this changes the truth that art’s sacred anchor is gone — 500 years gone. Are we better for it?
You know my answer.
But can beauty actually become an ideal again?
I hope so. This cold machine-world we live in desperately needs the softness and warmth beautiful art offers. Unwinding half a millennium of aesthetic secularism is no small endeavor, though. But if I had to suggest a starting point, I would say that we ought to fix what broke in the first place: the church’s voice.
Her silence needs to end. She can speak up by reclaiming art as part of God’s plan — and as part of the church.
Art is crucial in God’s cosmic story. Anyone who protests that would do well to remember that the Bible begins with an act of creation. Not only were humans part of that design, but they were also imbued with God’s ability and hunger to make things, meaning the act of creating was meant to continue.
Sadly over time, sin and darkness mutated humanity’s creative bend. You saw the drift. The more the West distanced itself from God and truth, the more twisted and alien the works of our hands became. And all this while, the Protestant church, especially her “low” branches, was quiet.
What would happen if she weren't quiet anymore? What if artistic tradition was revived within her walls so that a world starving for depth and meaning might behold genuine beauty and wonder what other soul-nourishment lies there?
Romantic composer Gustav Mahler said, “Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”
I think that’s often true. Rekindling the sacred art of old isn’t about nostalgia or even reverence. It’s about preserving the spirit and energy of an age that was keenly aware of art’s divine origins and the role it plays in God’s kingdom.
Five centuries of silence left us with blank canvases and bloody sinks. Either the church speaks or the wasteland claims us still.
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