Good and Evil in the Arts -- the Harmony in the Shades of Gray

 

I am always delighted to get thoughtful comments from readers; especially following posts that are more than a decade old. Their comments not only take me to reading what I had written (and often forgotten) but help me realise if and how my life experiences, hence thoughts, have changed over time.

So, my readers often provide the opportunity of introspection and discovery.

Last week I got an email from a reader in Asia about an essay I had written in 2016 about beauty in the arts focusing on symmetry and harmony ^(1).  It is still a popular read perhaps because beauty transcends cultures and geography. This time though, there was a challenging line in that email that read:

“Is ugly the counter-thesis of beautiful? Is evil necessary to the definition of good? You did not address how those themes have and continue to make artistic expressions universal.”

Hmm. I re-read what I had written and, yes, perhaps I was more optimistic, or wishful, a decade ago. So, today I will scratch the surface of not only how beauty and harmony co-exist in the arts, but also how good, evil and chaos are inextricable from the pursuit of beauty in all forms of artistic expression.

The Taijitu

Among the most parsimoniously abundant symbols of art, philosophy and medicine is the Taijitu, commonly known as the Ying and Yang. In one circle, the fluidity of being inseparable, unavoidable, contradictory and complementary is encapsulated.  The dark and the bright move together in harmony and an imbalance between their co-existence are not only a philosophical statement, but are the basis of Chinese traditional Chinese medicine, as it was thousands of years ago. The flux between the dark and the bright is also their reflux; the lack of energy in the harmony between the forces moving and pushing each other, results in excess energy in one of the forces and alters the well-being of a person, of cultures and of civilizations.

 

As a health care professional I, worked in Asia for more than a decade and often heard colleagues use the Taijitu to guide their thinking, and hope that it guide mine too. I asked questions, but their answers were never about “good” or “evil, “beautiful” or “ugly”, nor “powerful” or “weak”. Rather, all explanations were to be found in restoring the dynamic equilibrium of the body, provide meaning to a person’s search for harmony within himself, with others and, the acceptance that both the Yin and the Yang contain the seeds of the opposite (these are the small dots in the swirls- a black dot in the bright swirl; a white dot in the dark swirl).

As such, the Taijitu maps the context and content of harmony, symmetry and co-existence. It is a philosophy of how to live, create in a universe where there are no absolutes. But in the flux and reflux of the Yin and the Yang, there is hope for well being.

(I have explored the paradigm of absolutes in relationship to the concept of time as defined by St. Augustine here⁽²⁾.)

 

Dante’s Inferno

In contrast to the Taijitu, Dante proposes that the gate of Hell has this written above it:

                                    “Abandon every hope, you who enter”

Hell is punishment, Hell is without hope. Hell offers no redemption. Hell offers no future because of your past acts and imbalances.

 

 

Demons and Angels through poetry

I chose a few lines from the Spanish poet Antonio Machado “Y era el demonio de mi sueño, el ángel”  (And it was the demon of my dream, and the angel) as the question of good and evil is directly addressed.

The poem is among my favorites by Machado because, like the Ying and Yang, it addresses the dark and bright side of our existence but this time as evil and good. Indeed the demon is also an angel, and the duality is beautiful to the poet. It is a contradiction that does not address wellbeing or harmony, instead it the duality he saw in his dream invite Machado to an introspection journey to “the crypt of the soul”,  showing that good and evil lead to temptation even when we do not want to be tempted. That hidden urge to both accept and avoid temptation leads to pain, suffering (the caged beasts) and eventually submission.  

Here is a segment of the original version in Spanish, followed by the translation:

Y era el demonio de mi sueño, el ángel
más hermoso. Brillaban
como aceros los ojos victoriosos,
y las sangrientas llamas
de su antorcha alumbraron
la honda cripta del alma.
—¿Vendrás conmigo?
—No, jamás; las tumbas
y los muertos me espantan.
Pero la férrea mano
mi diestra atenazaba.
—Vendrás conmigo...
Y avancé en mi sueño,

 

And was the demon of my dream, the angel
most beautiful. Their victorious eyes
shone like steel,
and the bloody flames
of their torch lit up
the deep crypt of the soul.
—Will you come with me?
—No, never; the tombs
and the dead frighten me.
But the iron hand
clenched my right hand.
—You will come with me...
And I moved forward in my dream,

 

The Greek Concept of Kalokagathia

Talking about inseparable duality, ancient Greeks proposed and adopted a view about beauty in a more virtuous context. It is known as Kalokagathia where beauty (kalos) and moral goodness (agathos) co-exist, or should co-exist if art pursued harmony and symmetry. And those attributes were believed to transcend earthly values and reflect cosmic truths. Chaos does not keep the universe in peace; hence the arts should promote harmonia in the various modes of human artistic expressions.

 

 

Khalil Gibran’s view of Good and Evil

Perhaps the above discussion can best find its boundaries in a passage from Gibran’s “The Prophet”.

And one of the elders of the city said, Speak to us of Good and Evil.

…

You are good when you are one with your-self.

Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil.

For a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house.

And a ship without rudder may wander aimlessly among perilous isles yet sink not to the bottom.

You are good when you strive to give of your-self.

Yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.

For when you strive for gain you are but a root that clings to the earth and sucks at her breast.

Surely the fruit cannot say to the root, “Be like me, ripe and ever giving of your abundance.”

For to the fruit giving is a need, as receiving is a need to the root.

…

 

So, how to we approach good and evil in the arts?

Inherently, the morality question has to be addressed – it can take central stage or a secondary role.  The artistic expression can be appreciated without knowing if the artist was a “fruit” or a “root” but by keeping in mind that fruits do not exist without relying on the roots. Any opposition in the life or character of the artist can take that secondary role when we are appreciating her/his artistic expression.

Like an archaeologist who unearths a thousand year old statue, it is the beauty of that statue that we celebrate often without knowing who the artist was.

And coming back to my reader’s quest “is evil necessary to the definition of good?” we each have to decide if evil is what we may call a misguided good. And then we proceed based on the answer we find comfort in.

After all, Black & White photography is just the harmony of the shades of gray. And so are Gibran's world famous charcoal drawings.

July 27, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

 

(1)   https://liveingray.blogspot.com/2016/09/beauty-in-arts-symmetry-harmony-and.html

(2)   https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2015/06/yin-yang-and-st-augustine.html

Last Dance at the “Last Chance Saloon”

 

“The memory of a long forgotten dance should still scuff your boots” a friend told me in Arizona.

… After 13 years in Arizona, I appreciated the cultural meaning of cowboy/cowgirl hats and boots. Walking in those boots undoubtedly signals autonomy. Leather becomes identity, self-reliance and comfort in who you are. The stacked heels affect your stride and gait, and make you taller. And the bow in your back feels smoother.

The once utilitarian heavy leather boots still protect from rattlesnakes and desert brush, but the dress boots point their toes with pride on the dance floor, or under the restaurant table.

Desert mesquite thorns tore through and the high noon sun dried the leather like an old saddle now shaped like your ride. But your ride through life got more meaning. Found identity. And you felt good.

Dress boots sound like the August wind through Juniper trees when you slide on the pine floor. They are worn, broken in but you are never broken. They have stayed from the sand, the hiding snakes, and the stubborn rocks. They are black, red, or saddle cream. And you feel good.

But there is always a last dance in the Last Chance Saloon. You are still self-reliant but the bow in your back has arched your stand and makes you look inside yourself. Your swagger tells you have carried your years by putting the weight of the passage on the heels of your boots. You still enjoy smoky saloons but somehow the old stories you hear do not make you laugh.

Yet, you still want to dance, the last dance you kept for yourself.

In private.

 

 

Photos and thoughts

 

The cowboy boots of a departed Sheriff are immortalised in a sculpture in front of the Court House in Prescott, Arizona. It was not his statue that was sculpted, but his boots only. Worn, high shafts wrinkled, and the Sheriff’s posture apparent.

My cowboy boots – the pair on the left is heavy leathered and ready for the high desert or ranch work. While I walked thousands of miles in the desert over a decade, I resisted the temptation of scuffing these boots. Perhaps I kept them for my last dance in the desert.

The black boots, on the right, are urban and stylish. I have used them extensively as my favorite “cultural” attire in Arizona. Maybe I will polish them again when the “Last Chance Saloon” opens up again, so we can laugh once more at old stories.

  

Cowboy boots, walking sneakers and summer high-heel shoes at a street market in Denver, Colorado.

Shoe identity that came together for a split second when I was walking the streets.

 

July 8, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

Cicatrici Nascoste : the Scars We Hide Under the Many Layers of Who We Are

 

This morning, with the Colorado Rocky Mountains still keeping their caps warm under snow, I searched for contemporary Italian poets.

My discovery was works by Elisa Biagini, a poet from Florence, who writes about invisible wounds and their relationship with existing identity or how we modify them.

One poem, called L’ospite (The Guest) has imagery that I had not encountered before. And in one sentence Biagini touches upon so many aspects of being wounded, hiding your wounds, consequently projecting different identities (“you’s”.)

Those lines are:

"Quante tu sono in te, come chiodi sotto strati di colore, cicatrici notate solo al tatto, chiavi rimaste in fondo ad un cassetto?"

("How many you’s are in you, like nails under layers of paint, scars evident only to the touch, keys left at the bottom of a drawer?")

Beautiful!

 

… And I recalled my embryology teacher from 45 years ago. He was an eccentric who always managed to associate science with literature and philosophy. His style helped some of us to not only understand science but remember that knowledge when navigating through the arts in search of meaning and paths of communication.

The line from Biagini brought back the memory of one embryology class when we were learning about how facial features were being formed around the 8^th week of pregnancy.

“Today we will talk of migration” the professor started.

 

“Migration is not only for animals and humans – cell populations also migrate during embryonic development and come together, meet and fuse creatively.”

“Who knows how the Philtrum is created?”

Most of us did not know what a Philtrum was.

“It is the groove between your nose and upper lip. It is what makes a woman express things without words, and a man struggle every morning to shave clean under the nose.”

“A Philtrum is created by the migration and fusion of cells from three prominences: from the frontonasal and two paired maxillaries. That north-south and east-west migration of cells fuse and the Philtrum is formed.

Sometimes the fusion is imperfect and you get facial deformities. It is like a wound that heals. Maybe like a scar.”

It was the word cicatrici (scars) in Biagini’s poem that somehow found this almost half-century memory stored in a corner of my brain.

“Like nails under layers of paint”…

She did not write “layer”. She knew that our scars are hidden by experience, time, and mostly by ourselves under many layers of protection.

Many layers of self-protection. Of identity.

 

June 28, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

The Nest Under our Porch; Robert Frost’s Poem, and Nature’s Resilience to Human Compassion

 

This is my first posting from Colorado.  Leaving the desert of Arizona for the Rocky Mountains and green spaces provides a new perspective, and hopefully new musing and photography opportunities.

But the initial experience was with a mama robin bird. During my first morning coffee on the covered porch of the new house, a robin flew away from under the ceiling, just before sunrise. I looked up and saw a large nest in the corner, well protected from the high winds and predators.

So, we were expecting the eggs to hatch.

After a week of tireless trips to the nest and gauging if we were a threat to her eggs, mama bird decided that even my large Akita would be unable to reach the eggs she was keeping warm. And the week after that she started coming back with worms in her mouth to the faint chirping sounds in her nest.

The eggs had hatched.

Two days ago the first chick took its first leap out, onto the porch railing. Soon after two others joined and gave us the delightful experience of seeing how healthy, fluffy and unafraid of humans they were. So, we minimized our stays on the porch and let them discover life at their own pace.

This morning all three of them took their first flight to the tree 5 meters away from the porch. They stayed together on the same branch while mama kept bringing worms to them.

In a day or two, they will fly away, and mama will finally take a rest, perhaps perch behind me to snack on worms, have a cold drink, and watch the Football World Cup games with me!

 

… And I thought about Robert Frost’s poem “The Exposed Nest” (circa 1916). Frost recounts his stumbling upon a bird’s nest that had fallen to the ground filled with vulnerable fledglings in it. He and a young boy build a cover to protect the young chicks, but he wondered if mama bird would abandon the nest because of their interference.

About the harm their empathy could provoke he wrote:

“Dared not spare to do the best we could

Though harm could come from it”

 

… The moral dilemma was not as pronounced for us regarding the robin nest under our porch cover. Mama and the fledglings were never in danger, yet we decided to protect them from our own interference into their routine and space. And, seeing the young birds take their first leap, feel comfortable with us (and the dog) made us feel part of nature’s flexibility. Its acceptance of compassion, even when it was a gamble.

In a couple of days the fluffy feathers will get more rigid, the wings will trust stronger muscles, and the young birds will hunt for their own worms.

Mama robin will recall her now empty nest once filled with the welcoming chirps of hungry chicks. And she will be proud of having done what any single mother hopes to do: be there around the clock, forget all the pain of sunrise to sunset back-and-forths to protect and feed her chicks, and the celebration of three healthy chicks who took their first leap to our porch railing, then their first flight to the tree nearby.

Robert Frost ends his poem reflecting on survival. He realises that human empathy cannot always change the natural order of things. That their makeshift cover for the nest may not have provided support for the survival of the chicks, but perhaps had left them alone in the field. And he does not want to witness the result. He writes:

“We changed the place from bad to worse

Or maybe better-a wish-it-were-better”

 

So, he and the boy leave hoping, but uncertain, that they did the right thing:

“We left the place without a look behind”

PS/ I took a photo of the nest when mama was away. And two weeks later photos of the chicks on the tree branch. This capture shows how they still stay way as they were in the nest. But each chick seems to have its own identity – one of them keeps flying around and sitting on the other two. Is he/she the dominant, future alpha robin?

June 25, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

PS/ I have written about robin nests and how they have shown parallels with human experiences. Here is one from 2013 that adds a personal touch from my own life:

https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2013/06/robin-of-urban-woods.html

 

The Earth Laughs in Flowers (Hamatreya by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1846)

 

 

"The desire for ownership of what will eventually own you, is a basic human attribute." He told me the first time we fished next to each other on the same pier.

 

I met him in Baltimore two decades ago, on a fishing pier. A man in his 60s who held an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth while patiently waiting for fish to take the frozen shrimp he had

offered to striped bass.

 

"They like moving action to strike, and rarely take the shrimp.  But it is most challenging to catch the ones who do not behave like members of their school. "

 

And I fished next to him a few times, as he always sat at the same pillar; used frozen shrimp for bait; and never lit his cigar.

 

I saw him catch striped bass once. He said a few words to the fish I could not hear, and to my surprise, released it to the waters.

 

"That is where it belongs" he shouted to me. "She smiled at me before going back."

 

... I read pages from Waldo Emerson this weekend. As I re-read Hamatreya, the line

 

“Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys/ Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs”

 

made me remember the man on the pier, in Baltimore. He was not boastful. And he taught me that no one owns the ocean.

 

The flowers are the Earth's laughter, according to Emerson. They laugh at us humans when we believe and claim ownership of the earth, of nature, and all surroundings through which we live our ephemeral life, and return to the land and sea we thought we owned.

 

And the man on the pier, whose name I have long forgotten, thought that the smile of a fish, freed of the hook in its lip, is the gratitude of the ocean. 

 

He admitted and celebrated that we are transient. And that nature - rock, dirt or water, will never be owned by humans.

 

... Maybe one day, secretively, he will light his cigar before his passage is being owned by the ocean, next to a pier, in Baltimore. He will be the human from whose lips  the hook of life had been taken off.

And he will be smiling and grateful.

 

PS/ I wrote these lines while in the waiting room to meet my new Primary Care physician, in Colorado.

 

June 17, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian 2026

 

 

The Gravel Trail

 

 

On a trail

Early in the morning

I kept my pace steady

To hear

The gravel slide

Under

Each shuffle

 

A prairie dog

Came out of a hole

Whined and hissed

And that

Sounded

Like a name

I once knew

 

I kept my pace

To rhyme with

The moment

All gravel

And

Dust

 

Then I thought of

A poem

I would scribble

About

That name

When prairie dog’s chirps

And squeaks

Get lost

In the morning 

Dew

 

… When I wrote

The name

I once knew

I put my pencil

Back in my bag

 

For it that name alone

Was the poem

Untitled

Yet visiting

From times

When the paths I walked

Were of concrete

No gravel

No promises

And no 

Pledges

 

I recited

That name

Again

 

And my walk changed

Into a secret

Dance

 

June 14, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

The Two Words

 

 

And there are no rules

Just the whisper in a misty night

That stays with you

Through

Sunshine

 

Old houses

Put on time’s maquillage

Like a Gaudi touch

To sparkle

With the moon

And bathe

In the dark

 

Old faces

Have no rules left

No maquillage to hide

The scars that forget their own wounds

Never too deep

Rarely too dry

Once closed

And open again

 

But old houses

And old faces still whisper

The old two words

On misty nights

As slowly

As before

 

June 7, 2026

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026