"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way", said Tolstoy, and proceeded to write about a family he, being an artist, was wont to be interested in. The tragic fate of Anna Karenina not merely touched his sensitivity but it practically possessed him, consuming him over countless sleepless nights. Witnessing her travails would have been a cathartic experience for him, sometimes even amusing, but certainly not boring. That's how it is. Artists would rather brood over a dramatic failure - the orphan, the bastard - than toast a methodical success. Artists fail to appreciate anything poetic, or inspiring, in monotony of a happy family, which - as Tolstoy points out - are "all alike".
On the other extreme end, however, broken or complicated relationships arouse feelings more visceral than usual coffee-table stuff; and tales of impossible romance are immortal classics. Moreover, extraordinary situations foster extraordinary men (and women) - of compelling personalities - who, by sheer power of their character, rouse us and drag us out of our blankets. They challenge our understanding of the world we live in, and of the words we thoughtlessly speak. They expose us to ourselves, and liberate us from the platitudes of nine-to-five banalities, at least for a few awakened moments. These moments are poetic moments, and these men are the heroes worshiped by poets.
In every unhappy context, happiness is tortured in a different way, and it needs a elaborate supply of resources to look into the details. It's hard because the questions asked are typically confusing, and answers are never offered ready-made. It's like doing the sum without ever having a look at the examples. Worse, unlike in Math, reason doesn't help much in life. As every sensible man realizes sooner or later, rationality is but a state of mind - a mood - which is neither immutable nor unconditional. Reason, the keeper of laws and orders, works reasonably well within the band of "normal" situations - atmospheric pressure, room temperature etc. In other situations, however, the my-maximum-gain attitude can be transformed into his-maximum-loss attitude, with surprising ease. Madness is contagious, and often spreads like wildfire. In the heat of delirium, modern innovations - like reason - are charred to cinders, and collapse in the debris of their own remains.
As V rightly said in "V for Vendetta", the politicians lie to hide the truth, the artists tell lies to reveal it. So, a work of art is a lie told to reveal a truth. That truth is a greater truth, which involves pluralities of perspectives, and ironies of co-existing contrasts, realizing which demands more maturity than logic affords in isolation.
An artist explores the human nature by putting his characters to an abnormal situation - catch 22 or dilemma - where choices are not easy, yet they are to be made. He teases his characters, tempts them, tests them, and traps them in morally ambiguous situations. He situates them in the unhappy stories where emotions are denied, deprived, or worst of all - pit against each other, therefore burning with greater intensities. He digs into this debris to pick the parts that survive the fire, to find order in chaos, without trivializing any of these. He helps us realize that meaning can precede the word and word can transcend the scope of meaning. In his works, without trivializing relationships, he makes us see that feelings do exist external to relationships, but not always. Art subverts generalities, without intending to offer any of its own.
Does art holds mirror to reality? I don't think it does. And if it does, it shouldn't hold a plain mirror for sure, since a plain mirror can't correct the distortions inherent in reality. Art is not a superficial truth but an artful lie which helps us see the hidden truth. Art can't intend to be a mere mirror image of reality; it's a meta reality. Realism, the rather evolved but not necessarily better form of art, resembles life more but it depends on art rather than life itself. Ironically, a realist is farther from life than an artist, who seeks inspiration not from art, but from life itself.
And happy families hardly inspire any. That's a perversion artists live with.
