My favorite piece of modernist art is “The Scream” by Edvard Munch. To connoisseurs, my choice might seem like low-hanging fruit. I mean, you know a piece of art is mainstream (a word often uttered in comical disgust by those aforementioned experts) when there are versions of it featuring Donald Trump, Spongebob, and the kid from Home Alone. However, that’s exactly what I love about it. You could debate in endless circles whether the Mona Lisa, for instance, is Da Vinci’s most well-known work because of chance or because it is, in fact, his “best” work. Although, as any student of the humanities — or really, of life — knows, the real answer is usually frustratingly nuanced. “The Scream” may have become popular by chance, but that does not diminish its genius. If anything, its prevalence enhances its meaning. What about the painting resonated so much with the general public that it soared to such memeable heights? Once again, it would be impossible to find one single answer to a question that is ultimately about one’s own interpretation.
Personally, I see myself in Edvard Munch’s screaming subject. For one, I’ve somehow managed to already stress myself out in the third week of my first year at college. There are certainly times where I would like to scream my heart away on a bridge as people pass by me, indifferent. On a deeper, more serious note, though, I recently deleted the last social media app on my phone, Instagram, which means I’ve been paying a lot more attention to the world around me instead of the tiny, fragmented one in my devices. My main takeaway is that life seems increasingly absurd with each passing day. I paused while writing this response to gaze once more at the painting, and as I looked at it more intensely, I saw all my anxieties about the present era personified. I doubt I am alone in this. At least, I hope I am not. Let me list the whole roster and get it out of my system — climate change, pedophiles, assault, capitalism, over-consumerism, child influencers, book bans, civil wars, religious conflict, the writers’ strike, censorship, a mental health crisis, healthcare, taxes, job placement, car-dependency… After a certain point, it is draining to go on. What a genuine miracle that those of us who have access to these headlines on a frequent basis continue to choose life, to the point that it is ridiculously impressive and frankly inspiring.
Edvard Munch acknowledges all this surreal absurdity and more in a primordial, cathartically simple form of human expression — a scream. Not a long-winded essay, nor a short-lived speech; even the painting itself is not particularly sophisticated relative to its peers. For those of us who want to scream but are bound by social convention (a curiously farcical yet palpable set of rules), looking at “The Scream” is essentially therapeutic. The otherwise judgemental strangers in the background are barely perceivable as such, and the screaming person is just the right amount of horrified at themself, their surroundings, or both. The ghoulish face and the windy torso intensify the scene and make it clear that this is a transformational state.
Still, for the sake of my own sanity, I am always tempted to believe that my ability to sit down and dedicate my time to this assignment make my worries of the first-world problem category. That is, perhaps I am simply an overthinker, and I will feel differently tomorrow or a few years from now because I can afford to. Maybe the painting is, to borrow from Joseph Conrad, a “flicker,” and the screaming ghoul returns to its civil, human form in a scene that was never painted. I do not know, and I probably never will — whether I interpret that fact as a source of fear or opportunity is a mystery to me for now.
