John Bartunek - Spiritual but Not Religious: The Search for Meaning in a Material World

T he word museum comes from a Greek term meaning seat (or place) of the Muses. In ancient Greece, the Muses were nine goddesses, daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (goddess of memory). These Muses were the divine sources of inspiration for great artists. Using the word museum to refer to a place where we can study and contemplate great works of art illustrates the implicit connection between spirituality (inspiration) and religion (divine source of inspiration).

In fact, many of the greatest works in the worlds best-known museums are explicitly religious in their subject matter and their origin, from Egyptian tomb decorations to baroque crucifixion scenes. Yet no one would claim that museum visitors must be religious in order to appreciate these great works of art. Somehow, their aesthetic eloquence is sufficient unto itself. The gallery of the Muses, then, is a safe place to explore the mysterious connections and distinctions between what is religious and what is spiritual.

Impractical Value

A museum also happens to be a quintessentially human thing. Unlike a burger joint, it has no obvious practical purpose. In a burger joint, we can get food. We need food to stay healthy and alive. The practical purpose of a burger joint is undeniable. But what about a museum? The practical advantage gleaned from gazing at and thinking about a painting or a sculpture is less tangible. Some might even say there is no advantage. And yet, for more than a few centuries now, human beings have continued to pour immense amounts of time and money into the production, collection, and display of works of art.

The Detroit Institute of Arts, for example (I will be referring to many works in the DIA throughout these pages; I live nearby), ranks among the top six art museums in the United States. Its more than a hundred galleries host a collection whose net assets exceed $300 million. Its annual revenue in 2017 exceeded $55 million and covered its $40 million functional expenses.

Yet no one eats its paintings. No one drinks its sculptures. No one lives under its roof, and no one weaves clothing out of the documents in its art reference library. What is so valuable about something so impractical?

In 2017, a recently rediscovered painting (just one painting) by Leonardo da Vinci sold at an auction for over $450 million, more than the entire asset value of the Detroit Institute of Arts. That broke the previous record held by an abstract landscape painting from William de Kooning called Interchange, which had sold for $300 million. One single painting, bought for as much as a record-setting Powerball jackpot. Why?

A Matter of Fact

A great work of art is worth more than the material used to make it because it captures and communicatesand sometimes symbolizessomething more than mere matter. A great work of art is like a sacrament: it mysteriously makes present through its physicality something that transcends mere physics. This is why human beings make art; this is why humans delight in beauty; this is why humans laugh at stand-up comedy routines and cry at sad movies; we, too, are more than mere matter.

I have never seen a squirrel contemplating a Rembrandt. I have never seen a dolphin attempt to capture a seascape in oils or watercolors. The artsthe creation of things like paintings, sculptures, and even filmsis something uniquely human. Having food, clothing, and shelter is somehow not enough for us. Once we have supplied for our basic biological needs, we are still restless. This restlessness, this yearning for something beyond what is merely material, is the spark of spirituality. Every work of art is an expression both of the restlessness and of an insight or experience in which that restlessness was somehow recognized and relieved, even if only partially or temporarily. When we truly connect with a work of art, then, we are enriched by it in immaterial terms.

Surprised by Saint George

Have you ever been surprised in a museum? I have. In fact, the trajectory of my life was altered by a surprise encounter I had with a marble sculpture.

It was my junior year of college, and I was in adventure mode. I was in love with learning, with exploring and discovering. My history major and my universitys myriad overseas campuses pointed me toward a year of study abroad. I started out in Florence, Italy, the birthplace of the Renaissance. My art history class was touring the Bargello National Museum, the medieval city hall turned priceless sculpture haven. Our guide led us into the Donatello room, and as the rest of my classmates followed the professor, my eye caught a marble figure in the corner that completely arrested my attention and irresistibly drew me toward it.