Is All Art Really Quite Useless?

In the foreword to his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, Irish literary baller Oscar Wilde famously wrote, “All art is quite useless.” No question mark at the end.

This statement puzzles me. Why would an artist call art useless? Did he really believe that? You could interpret these words as an introduction to the themes later explored in the novel, but I’m not so sure I do.

Because when asked by a reader to clarify this famous line, Wilde responded with a handwritten letter. In this letter, he posited that art does not and should not inspire action in anyone. If it does, it ceases to be art and instead becomes didacticism. Therefore, if art cannot by its very nature inspire action, it has no applicable use. After receiving this letter, I’m guessing the fan went on Reddit to shit-talk Oscar.

Now Wilde was a brilliant guy. I don’t claim to be smarter than him, or a better writer. I’m certainly not a better dresser. But I’ll say this: I believe art is quite useful.

Art is useful in how it moves us. If a work of art can stir emotion, whether it’s delight, desire, or even despair, I’d say it’s done something significant. After all, if you cried during the first five minutes of Up (it’s okay, we all did), you wept for cartoon people who only ever existed as a series of images shown in rapid succession. What else but art has the power to make us feel for that which doesn’t exist?

A brief aside: I’ve read every installment of Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy since the series launched. The 2016 edition contains a story called “The Great Silence” by Ted Chiang. (For those unfamiliar, Chiang is the guy who wrote the story on which the Oscar-nominated film Arrival is based.)

During a drive to Syracuse to visit my parents-in-law, I summarized this story to Sara. She drove, and I rode in the passenger seat.

“It’s about how all the parrots are dying,” I explained, “and how it’s sad that we search so hard for intelligent life on other planets, while intelligent life right here—the parrots—gets ignored. I’ll be honest, it made me cry.”

Sara is a goal-oriented person. She writes her tasks on sticky notes scattered throughout our house, crossing them off as she accomplishes them. While I have a tendency to procrastinate, Sara never does. Once she has an objective, she works until it’s complete, no matter the time of day or night. Usually night.

I mention this because I think it explains her reaction.

“Yeah, but what are you doing for the parrots?” Sara demanded. “Do you donate to them? Do you advocate for them? Huh? Huh?”

I confessed I didn’t. “I just thought it was a moving story,” I whined, sounding limp and ineffectual, even to myself.

The upshot of it all was that Sara got so annoyed at my inaction that she pushed our Honda Element up to about 90mph. Somewhere near Utica, she was pulled over and given a ticket. To this day, she still blames the fine on me and my “stupid parrot story.”

Now that’s the power of art. Ted Chiang’s “The Great Silence” makes me emotional every time I think about it. And every time Sara thinks about it, I suspect it enrages her all over again.

But even art without such a strong purpose, what Wilde calls “sterile” art, has worth. Because sometimes we need distractions from reality. When times are tough, it’s cathartic to watch a TV show or read a book, to take a break from everything going on around us. Art won’t always provide solutions, but that’s alright. Oftentimes, a brief respite gives us strength to face tomorrow’s challenges.

For instance, during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, prior to the vaccines, real life was overwhelming. I’d never heard the term “furlough” until April 2020, when it happened to many of my co-workers (including Sara, since we work together). Finances were uncertain, and even leaving the house seemed a dangerous proposition. There were no pro sports to follow, no movie theaters open for escapism. There was just solitude, and the internet, and article after article about the virus’s increasingly harsh toll on society.

I was lucky to have Sara during this time, and our cats. We also adopted our dog Osi around then, though I subsequently renamed her “Psychopup.” We had Zoom to see family (with only a couple of Zoom bombings). Aside from all that, nothing carried me through quarantine more than art.

Specifically, I re-listened to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire on audiobook. I’ve never read a more immersive series. (Fact: It’s better than the show.) Martin’s vivid characters, expansive settings, and endless intrigues offered the perfect contrast to the dull repetition of everyday life. I listened to this story while I did the dishes, while I walked Psychopup, even while I worked. To me, that art at that time wasn’t just useful—it was essential.

And did I enjoy the unintentional comedy of narrator Roy Dotrice mimicking war horns and orgasms? Yes. Yes I did.

Furthermore, art helps us better understand each other. This is perhaps one of its greatest uses, and it’s most apparent in written storytelling. In the words of a 2013 study from P. Matthijs Bal and Martijn Veltkamp, “it is not the activity of reading itself that transforms the self, but the emotional involvement in a narrative.” Or, as author Ian McEwan writes, “story [is] a form of telepathy.” When characters describe their fears and dreams, we empathize with them, thereby building our ability to empathize with others.

I’m experiencing this with Sasha right now. She’s 16 months old as I write these words (when do you stop counting age by months?), and she reads more than I do: 15 books a day, I’d estimate. Granted, she’s reading the same five books three times apiece—but that’s still a lot of reading.

One of Sasha’s favorites is an old Barney book called Barney and Baby Bop Go To School. It holds a 3.78 average rating on Goodreads, in case you were curious, with the top commenter criticizing its “simplistic captions.”

If Sasha could type, she’d reply with something to the effect of, “How dare you, sir?” She opens this book at least once a day, sometimes more, marveling at the photos of Baby Bop learning alongside kids wearing garish 90s attire.

She doesn’t read words yet, but there’s an important lesson in the pictures alone. Sasha’s learning that school is a place where kids smile, laugh, and learn. For someone like me, her dad, who never enjoyed school until college, I think that’s wonderful. I’ll have to explain why none of her classmates are talking dinosaurs, but so be it.

So is all art really quite useless? Well, maybe some of it. (The Transformers series comes to mind.) But certainly not all of it. If art moves you, or helps you endure a difficult time, or shows you the world from a different perspective, I’d say that piece of art is useful. Quite useful.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

This is an excerpt from my essay collection, Mild Buffoonery. Click that link to read more.

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