When art redeems age

November 25, 2001|By Nancy Miner. Nancy Miner is a freelance writer who lives in Naperville.

In 1905 the Canadian physician Sir William Osler made the inflammatory suggestion that, owing to their "uselessness," men over 60 should stop work. "Take the sum of human achievement in action, in science, in art, in literature," he said, "subtract the work of men above 40, and while we should miss great treasures . . . we would practically be where we are today. . . . The effective, moving, vitalizing work of the world is done between the ages of 25 and 40."

It's too bad that the renowned medical educator wasn't addressing an Inca audience at the time. The Incas considered anyone past 60 unfit for anything but the lightest labor, such as baby-sitting. And Osler would have had a warm reception from those tribes who weed out their old by asking them to climb a coconut tree and then shaking it violently until the weaker ones fall out and die.

As it was, his remarks irritated a lot of people, who accused him of recommending "chloroform at 60." Today's society, in which more people live longer, may find his views even less acceptable. Artists and writers in particular will resent being placed over the hill at 40, claiming their work to be not the product of youthful vigor but of wisdom, experience and the spirit. How much truth is there in Osler's assumption?

One of the natural advantages of the physician's argument is that many of the essential contributions to civilization were made by artists who died early. "Don Giovanni" and "Ode on a Grecian Urn" are indeed the creations of young men. Fate decided that Mozart and Keats, along with a lamentable number of other artists, would complete their life's work before 40.

Because these artists have left us no late work to judge, however, we cannot know what we would lose by "subtracting" it, as Osler proposes. It is impossible to divine what Raphael might have painted had he lived as long as Titian, or what Schubert, dead at 31, might have composed at 60. There is a long list of artists whose brief lives and enduring works leave us wondering what they might have added to the sum of human achievement later.

Unfortunately, when we do look at artists and writers who enjoyed longer careers, we again find a discouraging amount of evidence on Osler's side.

Thirteen of Shakespeare's major plays were published between 30 and 43, and only four from then until his death at 52. Dickens churned out 14 major novels between 25 and 49, but then he finished only one in his remaining 9 years. Hemingway rallied briefly in his early 50s with "The Old Man and the Sea," but he was clearly pretty burned out by the time he finished "For Whom the Bell Tolls" at about age 40.

This decline shouldn't be so surprising, considering that life, which is stacked against us, only becomes more stacked against us as time goes on.

Hemingway shows that even success can be a pitfall for an artist. Worse, still, is the discouragement of failure. Poor health, depression, marital trouble, money worries, alcoholism, death of a loved one, sheer complacency--the chances that one of these is going to smother a creative spirit compound with the years.

Even those who continue to produce in old age don't necessarily win us over as they once did. Georgia O'Keeffe, whose career is commonly held up as an inspiring example of artistic longevity, is perhaps better known for her long life than for her late paintings, which are not nearly as esteemed as those she completed by age 50.

Glorious final bows

Fortunately, there are many stories with happier endings. Far from sinking into the "uselessness" Osler describes, many artists continue to make consistently fine work in their 60s, 70s and beyond. Their late careers are magnificent twilights: Pierre Bonnard's luminous domestic scenes, Raoul Dufy's fresh and lively flowers, Edward Hopper's interiors, Ingres' nudes, Marc Chagall's stained glass, Louise Nevelson's monumental sculptures. If some of these artists are not exploring new ground, the familiar territory they return to each day still appears fertile. Verdi wrote "Falstaff," his final and perhaps greatest opera, at the end of his life, when he was almost 80.

Even more heartening are those regenerations that occur late in careers, those surprising renewals that lead artists in entirely new directions. Maybe it is against the odds to reinvent yourself, but if we subscribe to Osler's program, we prevent the possibility that miraculous exceptions can happen.

If we subtracted the work of abstract expressionist pioneer Mark Rothko after 45, we wouldn't have the mystical fields of color for which we remember him. Hans Hofmann moved into the vigorous abstract style associated with him when he was in his 60s, and he was still painting masterworks in his 80s.