Early in this century, I was told, the United Kingdom compiled a list of the 10 most important actions to take in the event of an emergency. One was to save the renowned Titian paintings housed at the National Gallery. Just imagine if masterpieces like "Noli me tangere" (1514) and "An Allegory of Prudence" (c.1550-65) were to suffer the same fate (looting by thieves) as the treasures of the Iraq National Museum in Baghdad after the U.S. invasion in 2003.
The U.K. government’s concern for the safety of Titian’s paintings refutes the claim that high art is dead. Classic paintings might seem meaningless in a world that is drowning in triviality and “content,” because in peacetime, we can afford to be distracted. But war changes the equation. When a country or nation cherishes its cultural individuality as much as its territory, natural resources or financial institutions, art can become a battleground.
Consider Ukraine’s “anti-Pushkin law,” named after the 19th-century Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. Adopted last year, it allows for the removal or destruction of cultural monuments related to Russian and Soviet history. Numerous works of art — including paintings, sculptures and books by Russian artists — have been banned or destroyed as symbols of an imperial, totalitarian ideology. But, to borrow Talleyrand’s quip about Napoleon executing the Duc d’Enghien, summarily “canceling” another nation or ethnic group’s cultural artifacts is worse than a crime; it is a mistake.
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