Human Nature Remains the Same, Regardless of the Era
Juan Carlos Hernández - We interviewed Rubio Plo about his latest book, Return to Beauty: Great Moments in Art, Music, and Literature (PPC). As David Cerdá notes in the prologue, the work is filled with biographies that champion the kind of beauty springing from unique consciousnesses.
How did the idea of writing such a book come about? How did you discover this sensitivity to beauty? In my previous book, The Adventures of Intelligence (Las aventuras de la inteligencia), I wove together moments from writers' biographies, references to their works, and my own personal experiences. In Return to Beauty (Retorno a la belleza), I apply this same dynamic to the works of writers, painters, sculptors, musicians, and filmmakers. The selection of pieces could have been very different because, in my opinion, what truly matters are the moments and circumstances in which these works were created. They are all inextricably linked to the lives of their authors. Moreover, the book features my personal encounter with these works.
We need others to introduce us to beauty. You mention a bookstore in Zaragoza... It was a revelation! The seed of inspiration was planted by a memory from my adolescence: finding a single-volume encyclopedia dedicated to art, music, and literature in a small bookstore in Zaragoza. The illustrations were striking, especially those recreating the lives of the authors or scenes from their works. At the time, I hardly knew who Shakespeare, Molière, Mozart, Beethoven, Balzac, Van Gogh, Tchaikovsky, or Pirandello were; I don’t recall being taught about them in school. That encyclopedia was an invitation to investigate and delve deeper. Where? In other books or through Radio Clásica broadcasts.
What makes certain works stand the test of time? The fact that they are deeply human stories, for human nature remains the same regardless of the era in which we live. This conviction clashes with the myth of the “new man,” a concept that has heavily influenced philosophy, history, and, unfortunately, politics. Human character and passions transcend time. The figures in Greek tragedies or Shakespeare’s plays continue to challenge us today. But the same is true of a Beethoven symphony, the literary universe of Proust, or the play of light and shadow in Impressionist painting.
If we look at the great classics, their characters represent a definitive personality type. When a modern adaptation brings a Shakespeare play or a Greek tragedy into the present day, the plot—riddled with envy, jealousy, or pride—remains relevant. The emotional landscape is constant; there is truly nothing new under the sun.
At the book presentation, one of the guests, Almudena Alegre Díez, a historical heritage curator, stated that modern art is made to be ephemeral—even in its materials. She suggested this is symptomatic of modern man’s perception of his own fragility. Do you agree with this diagnosis? The fact that material works of art—architecture, painting, and so on—are destined to disappear by the will of their own creators is unprecedented. This ephemeral nature relates to the “liquid society,” to use Zygmunt Bauman’s well-known expression, where everything flows and nothing lasts. This is likely because the only goal is satisfying the immediate desires of the individual. It is the triumph of relativism through the exaltation of an eternal present. Everything has an expiration date. It responds to a consumerist, “throwaway” mentality. The compulsive individual is extremely fragile, easily frustrated when their desires are unmet. Furthermore, it is worth noting that many manifestations of art, music, cinema, and literature have “aged poorly.” They claimed to be innovative and radically groundbreaking, yet they failed to realize they were statues with feet of clay—to use the biblical phrase—even if the rest of the sculpture was cast in resistant metal.
The book presentation highlighted that art has historically been a vehicle for teaching and instructing in the faith. Have we underestimated this potential in recent years? It has been underestimated to the extent that many people no longer know what great religious artworks represent. In an exhibition, they might read a title that feels like it is written in a foreign language. This ignorance, however, does not only affect religion. Even the information provided by digital screens is insufficient—information is not the same as knowledge. On the other hand, the Christian faith has always been nourished by imagery in both the Old and New Testaments. It is no coincidence that if these images are eclipsed, faith risks being reduced to a dry formulation of dogmas and principles one adheres to merely to be considered a believer. This explains why a conception of Christianity that borders on sterile fideism can spread.
How can we cultivate a sensitivity to art? We must seek a fruitful relationship with reality, as the philosopher David Cerdá asserts in the book's prologue. To do this, we must be attentive to details, particularly those of everyday life. We need teachers who awaken our sensitivity. Artists, musicians, and writers can fill this role. But “art for art’s sake” is not enough; it is a dead end. We must also possess a merciful gaze. In this quest for understanding, sooner or later, we will encounter a beauty that is, above all, deeply human.
I would like to comment on several works you mention in your book. You say that Jane Austen’s work is not just literature for women. It certainly isn't, because she is a brilliant writer who drew upon the sources of great English literature, such as Shakespeare, whom she admired. Her novel Persuasion, which I chose for my book, demonstrates that she is also a keen observer of male psychology, especially in its noblest aspects.
Rachmaninoff surprises you with the melancholy and nostalgia expressed in his Piano Concerto No. 2.Rachmaninoff felt like a failure in composition and in his search for human love, compounded by the trauma of coming from a broken home. His love of music and his desire to escape a deep depression—mitigated by his work—led him to compose his romantic Piano Concerto No. 2. However, the composer was unable to abandon the melancholy that accompanied him in this work; in fact, he seemed to feel quite at home in it.
In To Kill a Mockingbird, the character Atticus Finch is clear that one must not dehumanize one’s adversary. This lawyer, forever associated with Gregory Peck’s magnificent film performance, offers this advice through his creator, Harper Lee: “We’re not fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our friends. But keep in mind, no matter how bad things get, they’re still our friends, and this is our home.” To Kill a Mockingbird expresses the desire to live in peace with those who are different from us.
There are many more works, but let the reader discover them for themselves. Is there one, however, that particularly caught your attention? The series of canvases that Claude Monet dedicated to water lilies. It is not just a matter of combinations of light and color at different times of the day.
These works would probably not have had the same impact if it weren't for the friendship between the painter and the French politician Georges Clemenceau. The latter had a well-established reputation as a hardliner, but his friendship with Monet served to make works of extraordinary beauty available to everyone.
In Cinema Paradiso, you draw the lesson that “happiness is not built on personal triumphs, but on generous love.” I thought it was a great ending. Melancholy triumphs in this film, accompanied by the wonderful music of Ennio Morricone. The protagonist, Salvatore, sacrificed his love for Elena—a love deemed almost impossible due to class differences—and instead became a great film director, whose films Elena herself praises. But the result is a lonely, dissatisfied, and melancholic Salvatore. The director’s final cut attempts to partially remedy the situation. In my opinion, it does not succeed, as Salvatore made a radical choice between life and cinema. In the end, the dream factory won. But dreams remain just dreams.
You describe Michelangelo’s Pietà, which appears on the cover of the book, as “not just any beauty, but a deeply human one.” Why? Because true beauty does not disappear with human pain or suffering. These can be transformed through compassion and mercy. What is striking about this sculpture is the detail that has caught the attention of so many: the Virgin looks younger than her Son.
She is the “daughter of her Son,” as Dante points out in The Divine Comedy.
Notes unrevised by the author.
