Between Being and Ending: The Existential Significance of Art in a Finite Life

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what I'm taking on with the PhD work I'll soon be embarking on. I've been trying to build ideas around what I'm preoccupied with and the best ways to articulate it. Titles and the ideas that come from them seem to help me a lot. Here's a short one I just completed.

This title really captures something essential about my inquiry. What does it mean to create while knowing we will die? Why do I pick up a brush, knowing both I and the painting will eventually disappear?

The phrase "Between Being and Ending" places my artistic practice in that strange, tense space between existence and nonexistence. As an artist, I live in this in-between consciously—I'm painfully aware of my temporary nature while simultaneously working against it. This "betweenness" isn't just some abstract concept but something I feel physically in my studio, in my body, in those moments when creation happens. I want my research to dig into this lived experience of making art while death-aware.

I'm drawn to existentialism because thinkers like Heidegger talked about "being-toward-death" as the most authentic way to exist, and Camus somehow found meaning despite the absurdity of it all. I think art-making isn't just a psychological defense against death anxiety (though Ernest Becker would say it is) but a fundamental way of building meaning in an existence that doesn't come with meaning built-in.

What fascinates me is whether we artists face mortality differently. Does the act of creation offer us a particular kind of existential authenticity that might not be as available to non-artists? Looking at how artists throughout history have positioned themselves in this tension between being and ending—from memento mori paintings to Rothko's void-like color fields—there seems to be something unique happening.

“My purpose is to use art as a mirror—confronting mortality, memory, and denial—to reveal what we’d rather not see and to ask what we might create from that truth.

I see my calling as this: to bring death back into the room—not for shock, but for clarity. Through art, writing, and dialogue, I work to transform death anxiety into something conscious, creative, and potentially redemptive.”

— Quinn Jacobson

Of course, my own artistic practice becomes a case study in all this. How does my awareness that I'll die shape what and how I create? How does my art simultaneously confront and transcend my mortality? The personal and the philosophical are completely intertwined here.

Beyond just me and my studio, I'm curious about how art functions culturally as a response to mortality. Through Becker's lens, art becomes a significant "immortality project"—a culturally validated way of symbolically extending beyond our biological limits. Art isn't just personal expression but a culturally embedded practice with existential significance.

This framework feels right for combining phenomenological investigation (the lived experience of creating under mortality's shadow), cultural analysis (how art functions as immortality project), and autobiographical reflection (my own artistic practice as case study).

I think this title captures the philosophical depth I'm seeking while remaining accessible and evocative. It acknowledges both the universal human condition of mortality and the particular way artists engage with this condition through their work. It positions my research at the intersection of existential philosophy, terror management theory, and artistic practice—precisely where I believe the most interesting insights will emerge.

Now to begin the actual work of existing between being and ending...

Half Animal and Half Symbolic

Based on Becker's theories, I'm excited to share my latest artwork, "Half Animal and Half Symbolic." This is a unique blend of direct positive color photography and acrylic painting. Measuring 24" x 9". The image takes you on a visual journey through the contrast and harmony between representational and non-representational art—or biological and symbolic.

The left side features a photograph of a tattooed arm holding golden-yellow dead grass, highlighting intricate tattoos (look close) against a dark background. The right side is an abstract painting with dynamic textures and warm, vibrant tones that evoke movement and intensity. Inspired by themes of existential struggles (death anxiety and terror management theory) via Ernest Becker.

The photograph is a RA-4 Color Reversal Direct Positive print. The abstract painting is acrylic on paper. It's abstractly mimicking the tattoos in the painting. It's a bit of cubism and color theory mixed up in mortality.

“The essence of man is really his paradoxical nature, the fact that he is half animal and half symbolic.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Existential Distress No. 1 and No. 2

“The neurotic opts out of life because he is having trouble maintaining his illusions about it, which proves nothing less than that life is possible only with illusions.”

― Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Existential Distress No. 2," 5" x 3.75" acrylic, charcoal, and oil (mixed media) on paper.

Addressing Existential Terror Through Art

“Fiery Lake and Stones,” 3.75” x 5” acrylic on paper.

I’ve written a lot about existential terror. I often forget that there are a lot of people who don’t know what that means. I want to reiterate what this is and why it matters, specifically as it relates to making art.

Another way to express this idea is through terror management theory (TMT). TMT deals with how humans cope with the awareness of their own deaths. That is the crux of the question. How do you cope with the reality of your impending death? If you answered, “I don’t think about it,” you would be in the majority of the population. This is the common answer or response.

“On what level of illusion does one live? This question poses an absolutely new question for the science of mental health, namely: What is the ‘‘best” illusion under which to live? Or, what is the most legitimate foolishness?”

— Ernest Becker, Denial of Death

Here’s why: We (humans) rely on cultural constructs to buffer our fear of death, which we all know is coming, and we never know when or how it will happen. These cultural constructs are as simple as having a spouse (significant other) or children, belonging to a religion or political group, making money, writing books, or even making art. These groups and activities give us a shield, a distraction, or, as Becker calls it, an illusion that allows us to bury (psychologically speaking) the terror of existing and knowing we are going to die. Remember, the fear of death isn’t a concern about the actual dying part; it’s central concern is being forgotten and regretting not living a meaningful life—impermanence and insignificance—that’s the dread or fear we feel.

“Without poets, without artists... everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.”

— Guillaume Apollinaire

Thanatophobia is related to death anxiety but reflects this fear in a different way. Thanatophobia is an intense fear of death or the dying process. For some people, death anxiety disrupts life in a very serious way. It can manifest as depression, anxiety, harmful behavior, etc.

What role does art play? For me, it’s significant in two ways. The first is that it provides meaning in my life. I feel that I have purpose when making art. I’m addressing issues that bother me (death anxiety, injustice, etc.) or interest me, and it provides significance for me. The second is that I know psychologically that my work will live on beyond my physical death. That is a form of symbolic immortality, and it plays a significant role, psychologically speaking, in enduring and buffering the knowledge of my mortality. Every human being needs to have meaning and significance in their life. They are powerful death anxiety buffers.

When you make art, you're buffering your death anxiety, whether you know it or not. And most don’t know it. We’ve evolved to disguise these activities so they seem meaningful, and we never recognize their real psychological purpose. This absolutely fascinates me and is the core of the work I’m doing.

“Existential Terror No. 10,” 3.75” x 5” acrylic on paper.

Book Banning (Moral Panic) and Death Anxiety

I’ve been thinking about book banning as it relates to death anxiety and terror management theory. It’s such a perfect example of how our fear of death drives these ideas. I found an interesting article published by psychiatrictimes.com. Here’s the gist of the article.

Human history is replete with instances of book banning and burning. A few examples:

• In 1242, King Louis IX of France (“Saint Louis”) ordered the burning of 24 cartloads of priceless Hebrew manuscripts, including the Talmud, which he regarded as an insult to Christianity.

• In 1497–1498, the Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola (1452-1498) instigated the infamous “bonfires of the vanities,” which destroyed books and paintings by some of Florence’s greatest artists. Ironically, Savonarola himself, along with all his writings, was burned on the cross in 1498.

• In 1933, a series of massive bonfires in Nazi Germany burned thousands of books written by Jews, communists, and such luminaries as Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas Mann.

It appears that the most frequently challenged books tend to have the following themes:

• LGBTQ topics or characters.

• Sex, abortion, teen pregnancy, or puberty.

• Race and racism, or protagonists of color.

• The history of black people.

In their 1994 book, “Moral Panics: The Social Construction of Deviance,” Erich Goode and Nachman Ben-Yehuda identified five defining elements of “moral panic”:

• A heightened level of concern over the behavior of a so-called “deviant” group and its potential for negative effects on society.

• An increased level of hostility toward the identified “deviants,” who are then designated “the enemy” of respectable society. This leads to the creation of “folk devils.”

• There is a substantial consensus among the accusing segments of society that the “folk devils” represent a real and serious threat to society.

• The perceived harm of the “deviant” group is out of proportion to the objective data, leading to disproportionate reactions by the accusing groups.

• Moral panics are highly volatile and usually tend to disappear quickly as public interest wanes and the media shift to some other narrative.

In short, as Kane and Huang put it: “…moral panic draws up a line between upstanding citizens defending the social order, and the nebulous folk devils who threaten it. The folk devil is exaggerated into an existential threat that, left unchecked, will raze society and completely reshape it in a dystopian mold.”

Sheldon Solomon et al. point out that this kind of panic is directly related to our mortality. It’s a classic case of “in-group” and "out-group"—making the argument for absolute truth for one side. “My worldview” sees the truth clearly, and “yours” doesn’t. This leads to hatred, “othering,” isolation, and even harm or death.

Book banning and many other forms of “you are offending my worldview” are on the rise. We lean so heavily on cultural constructs (in this case, mostly religious beliefs) that these books are “sinful” or wrong and need to be destroyed. These worldviews allow us to buffer our death anxiety. They give us purpose and meaning (even misguided meaning). There is no way to reason with this; the psychology is so strong that we simply have to recognize it and try to help people understand why it’s happening. This is terror management theory, death anxiety, and the denial of death in a nutshell.

“Book Banning Dredges Up Memories of World War II,” 3.75” x 5” acrylic, charcoal, newsprint (mixed media) on paper.

Simulacra

Simulacra are copies of things that either don't have an original or no longer have one. The word simulacrum comes from the Latin word simulacrum, which means "likeness, semblance."

Definition: Simulacrum. SIMULACRUM (simulacra): Something that replaces reality with its representation. Jean Baudrillard in "The Precession of Simulacra" defines this term as follows: "Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance.

Why Abstract Work?

“Abstraction allows man to see with his mind what he cannot physically see with his eyes...Abstract art enables the artist to perceive beyond the tangible, to extract the infinite out of the finite. It is emancipation of the mind. It is an explosion into unknown areas.”

— Arshile Gorky

It’s a good question. I’ve thought about it a lot. Let me try to answer this with some basic reasons; there are more, deeper reasons than these, but this is the superficial answer to the question “why abstracts.'“

WHERE MY INTERESTS ARE (CURRENTLY)
I’m most interested in abstract work, or specifically abstract impressionism (and expressionism), for several reasons. I’ll try to articulate the main reasons why I’ve chosen this style. I don’t have any interest in realism or straight representational work. This is what most people think about when they think about painting. I like a lot of it, but I’m not interested in painting in those styles. I’m sure a large part of it is because of my years in photography. I want to explore the polar opposite of what photography does. I find myself kind of bored (visually) with photography these days. It doesn’t feel emotional enough or connected with expression—maybe a bit mechanical to me. It lacks a lot for me visually. On top of all of that, everyone does it, which is not necessarily a bad thing. However, not everyone can make expressive, interesting paintings. That’s what I’m working toward.

“In our culture anyway, especially in modern times, the heroic seems too big for us, or we too small for it. Tell a young man that he is entitled to be a hero and he will blush. We disguise our struggle by piling up figures in a bank book to reflect privately our sense of heroic worth. Or by having only a little better home in the neighborhood, a bigger car, brighter children. But underneath throbs the ache of cosmic specialness, no matter how we mask it in concerns of smaller scope.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Making abstract paintings gives me a lot of freedom. I work from intuition (mostly), and it allows me to connect to something beyond the physical. When I paint, I recognize the psychology behind it all as well. The lack of representation is refreshing (at least representation in the photo-realistic sense). I absolutely love it. It brings me joy. It gives me meaning, and it feels significant to me. I can’t express this enough. I’m not painting to earn money, win awards, or even garner the viewers approval. I think it’s great if the viewer finds my paintings interesting, but that’s not my goal. I want to express ideas that I can’t express in other ways. Ideas about the human condition go beyond words or photographs. That’s a tall order, for sure, but I want to take that challenge on.

The texture of the paint, the vibrant color, and just the feeling of the work excites me. The paintings are rich and tactile. That’s intriguing to me. They are “aiive” in ways other mediums can’t produce—maybe sculptures, but nothing else for me. I find myself craving to paint every day. I want to get in there and throw paint and media down on a piece of paper, make marks, scratch, and intuitively feel my way through each piece. Just writing about it makes me want to go do it right now. It’s like when someone’s talking about food, it can make you hungry. Thinking about painting makes me want to paint.

“The hope and belief is that the things that man creates in society are of lasting worth and meaning, that they outlive or outshine death and decay, that man and his products count.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Abstract paintings are (mostly) non-representational and use shapes, colors, and forms to allow viewers to interpret and connect with the artwork in a personal and subjective way. Abstract art allows artists to communicate emotions, ideas, and experiences. Abstract art's purpose is to encourage involvement and imagination, not to tell a story—at least not directly. I like to imply ideas with the paintings. Others say that abstract art is "art for art's sake" and creates an object that stands on its own. That’s a valid argument in my mind as well.

Abstract art has existed since the Tang dynasty (618–907). The rise of abstract art movements came in the late 19th century, when artists began to deviate from classical and traditional modes of painting.

This style of work gives you the freedom to explore the artwork and assign your own meaning to the piece. In my opinion, this intensely personal process enriches a viewer's experience of an artwork.

All of these ideas and comments are some of the reasons I’m pursuing making abstract paintings for my project.

“Red Feather and Blocks,” 5” x 3.75” acrylic, charcoal, cardboard (mixed media).

Thirty Paintings a Month

I paint every day. Sometimes, I’m able to make two or even three paintings a day. Mostly, I do “warm up” paintings: ideas for possibly larger pieces in the future. These “paint sketches” are really important for me. They do two things: first, they allow me to apply paint, make marks, and give me ideas for larger pieces (as I said). Secondly, I get better with each painting. With every painting I make, I learn something. One thing I’ve realized (probably from making photographs for years) is that I’m too “uptight” and too rigid. I’m slowly learning to reverse this; it’s difficult. In a lot of ways, I’m trying to unlearn what I did in photography. Yes, there are a lot of things that help me because of my knowledge of photography, light, composition, and even color theory. But there are a few things that make painting difficult; one of them is rigidity. I’m learning to loosen up and allow spontaneous and free-flowing movements and experiments to happen. It’s a great feeling.

I turn 60 years old this month. I was thinking about this the other day. It’s a strange feeling in some ways. It seems for the last decade I’ve been revisiting events of my youth, or at least exploring my interests as a younger adult. After my military service, I started a business making free-standing wood-burning stoves and fireplace inserts. I oversaw a shop of four welders and two finish line people. I made good money and enjoyed the work. I built hundreds of stoves myself and was efficient and skilled in metal fabrication. I was also proficient in all kinds of welding, including MIG, TIG, and stick welding, as well as brazing and other minor metal fabrication skills. This came to an end because of environmental issues concerning emissions and laws passed that prevented the sale of the stoves (the late 1980s). I ended up at the university, which, in the end, was a good thing.

A few years ago, I started metal fabrication again. I was doing blacksmithing and bladesmithing work. People asked, “Where did you learn to do this kind of thing?” They seemed to be a bit shocked and puzzled. It wasn’t either for me; it was taking a step back to my younger years and revisiting the skills and knowledge that I spent so much time doing. I’m not sure why I did it—maybe to clear my head and create in a different way. It just felt right and comfortable. I really enjoyed the nostalgia and feelings of shaping steel and working around a hot forge and welder again. It wasn’t foreign or weird to me at all.

That brings me to painting. Again, some people are wondering, "What is this all about?” Well, remember, I did four years at undergraduate school, and I majored in photography, visual art, and communication (with a minor in Spanish). In that emphasis of visual art, I did the introductions to painting, drawing, color theory, art history, etc. I also completed 8 credit hours of “studio art.” I did painting and mixed media, with a lot of photography involved. Along with those courses, I completed two courses in “painting on photographs,” a beginning course and an advanced course. And I also have a graduate degree, an M.F.A.I.A. That’s a master of fine arts in interdisciplinary art. That is self-explanatory, I think. My point is that I have a history of what I’m doing and have been doing. I’m simply revisiting my past and using it to flesh out my new work and project. And I love it. If I take up surfing or paragliding, you’ll know I’m in unfamiliar waters (no pun).

I find it interesting that people tend to want you to stay in the lane they “know you for,” and when you veer from that, it seems a bit apostate to them—some even seem disappointed. If they understood your background and life experiences, they might think differently. In the end, it doesn’t matter. I just thought I would share what I’d been thinking about entering my sixth decade on this pale blue dot. It’s not surprising that I find myself painting or making knives; at least to me, it seems like a kind of natural course of self-exploration. It’s paid off for me both mentally and conceptually. It’s given me more to work with on this project.

Thirty paintings a month. It’s not about the number; it’s not even relevant, really. It’s about commitment, learning, and growing. As I said earlier, I gain so much from each painting I do. I’m trying to be present for the journey. To really be grateful and appreciate each day and each piece of work I make. Ultimately, that’s what’s important to me. Painting, like photography, is something you have to practice to become efficient enough to accomplish what you want to accomplish. In the end, I hope to publish several of my paintings, along with my photographs, in my book to make a complete, cohesive, interdisciplinary work about human behavior and existential terror. That’s my goal.

One more thing. I’ve posted a few times about how beneficial our walks are to me creatively. You might find this article interesting if you subscribe to this theory about walking and creativity. Check it out:
How Walking Fosters Creativity