Topiary (the Beautiful) and the Sublime

THE SUBLIME AND THE BEAUTIFUL

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ATTACHED ARE TWO examples of the beautiful and the sublime. The topiary (pruned trees) are examples of the beautiful because they appeal to human scale and measure; they seem designed for appreciation within a scale of human or social values. All kinds of decorations are beautiful for this reason; as are household pets; piano waltzes, minuets. serenades, etc. Mozart's serenades (for example, the famous Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, or A Little Night Music) are examples of the beautiful, as are Japanese Zen gardens, potted flowers, blue skies, beaches, a well-furnished apartment, etc.
    Compared to this is the sublime, which dwarfs human scale and seems beyond human calculation. The two paintings included here are examples of the sublime: man seems overwhelmed by Nature. (Compare the beautiful portrait of Da  Vinci's Mona Lisa, where the mountains in the back, instead of dwarfing Lisa, seem to be dwarfed by her. So that painting falls within the category of the Beautiful. The mountains are there only to flatter Lisa, not to dwarf, or even crush, her, as in the sublime.)
    Shakespeare's great tragedies reach for the sublime. Certainly King Lear falls within the category of the sublime, as do all the Greek tragedies (Oedipus Rex, Antigone, etc.) that have come down to us.
    There is nothing more sublime in English-language literature than the Third Act scene of the old and scorned King Lear, naked on the heath, bellowing curses at his ungrateful daughters in a violent storm. That is (to use Shakespeare's own words) "unaccomodated man": man alone and stripped naked, victim of powers far stronger than he.
    The first movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is also an example of the sublime, while the 4th (last movement), the famous Ode to Joy, is beautiful.
    The pleasure in the Beautiful is to make us feel at home, as if in a place where we belong, feeling comfortable with our surroundings or with shared emotions (parks, gardens, backyards, etc.). But the Sublime makes us feel displaced in a world that doesn't seem to "accomodate" us, and in a scale much larger than ourselves or even much larger than we can calculate: the Pacific Ocean (or any ocean), mountain crags and peaks, or the deaths of many people in a sudden catastrophic earthquake or flood; or otherwise (as in Job and Greek tragedy) the death or misery of a perfectly good person.
    In some way, however, the Sublime purges man of his fears: facing his littleness and brittleness before powers higher than himself (whether Nature--as in a powerful storm at sea--or God) and unable even to explain those powers to himself, because it is beyond human reckoning, understanding, or measurement, the human finds deep peace instead of a superficial pleasure.
    In psychological terms, one can say that the Sublime forces man to renounce his Ego, his social I, which causes so much misery (vanity, envy, etc.). The Greek philosopher, Aristotle asked why we should feel better after watching a tragedy; his answer was that our fears are purged (catharsis) in our empathy for the doomed tragic hero. Facing our helplessness before forces stronger than ourselves and not capable of being explained by human reason (or reasons), we submit peacefully to those forces and find a paradoxical peace that way. Facing the worst, the world (and the mundane troubles of the world: success, envy, competition, etc.) disappear or appear trivial in comparison, and in this way we find at least a temporary peace.
    In sum, the beautiful is scaled to human measure and pleasure; the sublime is indifferent to human scale. To quote King Lear again: "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport." Note: their sport, not ours.
    But the beautiful is measured to our senses: sight, hearing, taste: "What a charming waltz!" "So wonderful to dance to!" "What a perfect blend of coffee beans!" "How sweet that tune is!"