Art has often been and continues to be considered transcendent. I

Hear, O child of vision, the bold words of Aman Mojadidi: “Art has often been and continues to be considered transcendent. I see this as misguided and, in fact, a way of subverting the powerful voice art can be in global discussions about politics, economics, society, culture, religion and international relations.” These words challenge an old illusion, that art belongs only to the heavens, untouchable by the grit of human life. Mojadidi calls us to remember that art is not only beauty, but power, not only escape, but engagement.

For long have men spoken of art as transcendent, a window to the eternal, a sanctuary apart from worldly struggle. And indeed, there is truth in this, for art lifts the heart and shows us glimpses of what lies beyond our reach. Yet when art is confined only to transcendence, it is tamed, stripped of its strength to confront injustice, to expose corruption, to speak where silence has been enforced. Mojadidi unmasks this error: to treat art only as transcendent is to silence its prophetic voice.

Consider history’s witness. In the days of Francisco Goya, Spain groaned under war and tyranny. He might have painted only idyllic scenes of angels and pastoral life, but instead he created The Disasters of War, etchings so raw and brutal that they revealed the agony of his people to the world. His art was not transcendence alone; it was confrontation, testimony, a cry that pierced politics and power. Here is the kind of powerful voice Mojadidi defends.

Or recall Pablo Picasso, who painted Guernica in response to the bombing of civilians during the Spanish Civil War. It was not a serene escape into the eternal, but a scream painted in form and shadow, a canvas that condemned brutality before the eyes of nations. Had Picasso chosen only transcendence, the world would have lost one of its greatest indictments against violence. Thus art, when chained to “pure” beauty, is diminished; but when freed to speak of politics, society, culture, and religion, it becomes a force to shake empires.

This is Mojadidi’s meaning: art must not be subverted into harmless transcendence, admired in galleries but absent from the struggles of the people. Instead, art must walk among us, in the streets, in the protests, in the debates of nations. For it can reveal what words alone cannot. A song can ignite revolution, a mural can stir a people’s pride, a play can unveil the hypocrisy of leaders. Art, rooted in the world, can move hearts to action.

The lesson is clear: do not see art only as a temple apart, but as a weapon of truth and a lamp of justice. Honor its beauty, but also honor its voice. When you look upon art, ask not only, “What transcendent mystery does this reveal?” but also, “What injustice does this expose? What truth does this demand I see?” To revere art is not enough—you must allow it to transform your vision of the world.

Practical counsel follows. Support artists who dare to speak boldly. Do not look away when their work unsettles you, for that is its purpose. Create art yourself, not only for beauty but for meaning—for the poor, for the silenced, for those crushed by war or injustice. Let your songs, your words, your images, carry the voice of truth into the world’s great conversations. For art that dares to speak becomes not an escape from life, but a force to shape life itself.

Therefore, O traveler of the ages, remember Mojadidi’s wisdom: art is not only transcendent, but immanent, rooted in the struggles of humanity, speaking with power to politics, economics, culture, and faith. Do not subvert it into silence. Let art live, let art speak, let art challenge. For in its voice lies the power to awaken the sleeping, to stir the oppressed, and to remind rulers that their deeds are never hidden from the eyes of truth.