Creating Beauty in a Time of Chaos

In times of uncertainty and social upheaval, when the world feels fragmented and hope seems fragile, the act of creating beauty becomes not just an artistic pursuit but a defiant statement of resilience. Beauty—whether found in music, art, storytelling, or simple acts of kindness—has the power to counteract despair, connect hearts, and remind us of our shared humanity.

The Power of Beauty in Darkness

Throughout history, artists, musicians, and writers have risen to the challenge of tumultuous times, offering the world something beyond survival: meaning. From the haunting melodies composed in war-torn cities to the breathtaking murals painted on crumbling walls, beauty has always been a response to destruction. It does not erase suffering, but it transforms it.

In a world filled with division, beauty reminds us of harmony. In an age of uncertainty, it offers moments of clarity. When words fail, a painting, a melody, or a dance can communicate emotions that transcend language. To create beauty in the midst of chaos is not an escape from reality but a refusal to let darkness have the final word.

Art as a Form of Resistance

Creating beauty is an act of rebellion against cynicism. When despair tells us that nothing matters, beauty insists that everything does. It is an assertion that even in brokenness, something meaningful can emerge.

Consider the great works that arose from hardship:

• The poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, written during a time of personal and national turmoil.

• The music of Shostakovich, composed under the shadow of oppression.

• The paintings of Van Gogh, created in the depths of personal suffering.

These artists did not wait for peace to create beauty; they created beauty despite the storm. Their work continues to touch lives long after their time because beauty does not belong to any single moment in history—it endures.

Small Acts of Beauty

You do not have to be a world-renowned artist to contribute beauty to the world. Every person has the power to create something that inspires, uplifts, or consoles.

• A simple song played on an old piano.

• A kind word spoken to a stranger.

• A meal cooked with love and shared with others.

• A story written, even if only for yourself.

These small acts of creation, of care, push back against the darkness. They remind us that, no matter how chaotic the world becomes, we still have the ability to bring light into it.

The Artist’s Responsibility

If you are a creator—whether through music, painting, writing, film, or any other medium—you have a responsibility. Not to ignore the world’s suffering, but to transform it. Not to turn away from pain, but to bear witness and offer something in response.

Creating beauty is not about naivety; it is about courage. It is about refusing to succumb to despair and choosing, again and again, to bring something meaningful into existence.

A Final Thought

When faced with darkness, ask yourself: What can I create?

Not as a way to escape, but as a way to heal. Not as a distraction, but as an act of defiance. Because beauty is not just decoration; it is sustenance for the soul. It reminds us that even in chaos, something true, something good, something worth living for still exists.

And sometimes, that is enough to keep us going.

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Author Susan Cain, in her extraordinary book “Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole” tells the story of the Violinist of Sarajevo. If you haven’t read this book, I cannot recommend it enough:

“It’s May 28, 1992, and Sarajevo is under siege. For centuries, Bosniaks, Croats, and Serbs have lived together in this city of streetcars and pastry shops, gliding swans in parkland ponds, Ottoman mosques and Eastern Orthodox cathedrals. A city of three religions, three peoples, yet until recently no one paid too much attention to who was who. They knew but they didn’t know; they preferred to see one another as neighbors who met for coffee or kebabs, took classes at the same university, sometimes got married, had children. But now, civil war, and an ethnic cleansing of Bosnia’s Muslims. Men on the hills flanking the city have cut the electricity and water supply. The 1984 Olympic stadium has burned down, its playing fields turned into makeshift graveyards. The apartment buildings are pockmarked from mortar assaults, the traffic lights are broken, the streets are quiet. The only sound is the crackling of gunfire. Until this moment, when the strains of Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor[*] fill the pedestrian street outside a bombed-out bakery. Do you know this music? If not, maybe you should pause and listen to it right now: https://youtube.com/ watch? v = kn1gcjuhlhg.

It’s haunting, it’s exquisite, it’s infinitely sad. Vedran Smailović, lead cellist of the Sarajevo opera orchestra, is playing it in honor of twenty-two people killed yesterday by a mortar shell as they lined up for bread. Smailović was nearby when the shell exploded; he helped take care of the wounded. Now he’s returned to the scene of the carnage, dressed as if for a night at the opera house, in a formal white shirt and black tails. He sits amidst the rubble, on a white plastic chair, his cello propped between his legs. The yearning notes of the adagio float up to the sky. All around him, the rifles fire, the shelling booms, the machine guns crackle. Smailović keeps on playing. He’ll do this for twenty-two days, one day for each person killed at the bakery. Somehow, the bullets will never touch him. This is a city built in a valley, ringed by mountains from which snipers aim at starving citizens in search of bread. Some people wait for hours to cross the street, then dart across like hunted deer. But here’s a man sitting still in an open square, dressed in concert finery, as if he has all the time in the world. You ask me am I crazy for playing the cello in a war zone, he says. Why don’t you ask THEM if they’re crazy for shelling Sarajevo? His gesture reverberates throughout the city, over the airwaves. Soon, it’ll find expression in a novel, a film. But before that, during the darkest days of the siege, Smailović will inspire other musicians to take to the streets with their own instruments. They don’t play martial music, to rouse the troops against the snipers, or pop tunes, to lift the people’s spirits. They play the Albinoni. The destroyers attack with guns and bombs, and the musicians respond with the most bittersweet music they know. We’re not combatants, call the violinists; we’re not victims, either, add the violas. We’re just humans, sing the cellos, just humans: flawed and beautiful and aching for love.”

— Bittersweet (Oprah's Book Club): How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole by Susan Cain