From 1883 to 1898, the Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy distilled nearly half a century of creative practice and thought into his famous aesthetic treatise, What Is Art? Written over fifteen years, this work underwent multiple drafts and complete rewrites, reflecting the tremendous care Tolstoy poured into it. The finished book encapsulates the great writer’s entire understanding of aesthetics and art, making it a cornerstone of nineteenth-century Russian aesthetic theory and an indispensable reference for anyone studying Tolstoy’s works and artistic philosophy.

In What Is Art?, Tolstoy seeks to dismantle the prevailing notion of “modern art” and propose his definition. He begins by recounting his experience watching a rehearsal of Anton Rubinstein’s opera Feramors. Observing the “suffering” performers, Tolstoy wrestles with a question: If modern art requires such massive labor, sacrifices so many lives, and even destroys human love, then what exactly is this art — claimed to be both proper and beneficial — for which we make such sacrifices?

Tolstoy first asserts that art is a medium for sharing and communicating feelings. He refutes various popular definitions of art that revolve around physical or psychological pleasure, arguing that such views fail to address humanity’s deeper concerns. He then illustrates his point by describing how art originates from the urge to transmit one’s emotions to others — like a child who, after encountering a wolf, vividly recounts the story, causing listeners to feel the same fear he did. Meanwhile, Tolstoy criticizes the upper-class fixation on sensual or decadent themes, citing French painters and certain French “New Literature” authors who obsess over-sexualized imagery. He suggests that the aristocracy’s lack of genuine faith impoverishes art’s emotional depth, reducing it to superficial ornamentation rather than the profound spiritual expression it should be.

Consequently, Tolstoy insists that true art must be accessible to ordinary people. If it is not, it is pseudo-art — harmful and devoid of worth. He offers “contagion” as the sole criterion for distinguishing genuine art, meaning the conveyed emotion must be unique, clear, and sincere enough to unite people in shared empathy. By contrast, to satisfy elite tastes, certain creators devise formulas or shortcuts that only simulate the appearance of art. Tolstoy cites the works of French poets Charles Baudelaire and Paul Verlaine as examples that elicit confusion or unpleasant emotions and likewise examines contemporary drama, music, and painting to illustrate the elitist bias in modern art. In contrast, everyday stories from the Bible, parables from the Gospels, and folk tales or ballads, which appeal to simple, upright, and resilient working people, stand for a more noble and authentic art.

For Tolstoy, the highest art expresses the spiritual consciousness, or “religious consciousness,” of its time:

“In each historical period, or within each human society, there is a higher vision of life that guides the pursuit of happiness — something its people aspire to but often cannot fully attain.”^[Tolstoy, Tolstoy on Art, p.170]

Art should reflect and assess emotions through this spiritual lens. Tolstoy explains how Greek and Hebrew cultures championed different art forms, each shaped by their respective relationships to human nature. An artist’s true duty, then, is to convey this religious consciousness to society. This conviction aligns with Tolstoy’s broader rejection of violent revolution and his belief in Christian love and moral self-improvement to resolve social conflicts. In his view, modern religious consciousness demands a communal life founded on love, supporting both physical and spiritual happiness. He also maintains that the domain of art is infinitely broad: from children’s games to spiritual pursuits, everything is an expression of artistry — today’s definition of “art” encompasses only a minuscule fraction of it.

Ultimately, Tolstoy does not deny art; rather, he denounces only the modern, aristocratic, and purely entertaining “art” he deems harmful. His fervent critique throughout What Is Art? reflects both frustration and hope, championing a vision of art’s authentic form and purpose.

Surprisingly, What Is Art? never enjoyed a reverential reception in China’s literary circles. On the contrary, critical voices often overshadowed any admiration. For instance, in Famous Western Literary Theory Texts, edited by Hu Jingzhi (Peking University Press), there’s a passage describing What Is Art? as “extremely sprawling,” “reflecting contradictions in Tolstoy’s worldview,” and as possessing “a naive, agrarian perspective alongside biting ridicule of aristocratic and bourgeois art,” ultimately calling its arguments “laughable” and even “absurd.”^[Yang Min, The Fate of Tolstoy’s Artistic Theory in China, p.3]

Written in 1980, Li Shoufu’s assessment seems somewhat harsh. In China, we have long been more familiar with the literary theories of Belinsky and Chernyshevsky, often viewing Tolstoy merely as a novelist — a status reinforced by the widespread popularity of War and Peace, Anna Karenina, and Resurrection, which overshadowed his contributions as a literary theorist. As a result, What Is Art? has had a scant influence on modern Chinese literary theory and remains largely absent from textbooks on aesthetics and literary theory.

However, the literary world’s reaction does not necessarily reflect the sentiments of general readers or art enthusiasts. Tolstoy’s call for “people’s art” and his praise for labor and daily life would have resonated among many in the New China era and still hold relevance in contemporary Chinese society. How to democratize art and foster aesthetic education — while energizing folk and rural arts — remains an urgent question. Thus, simple praise or condemnation of Tolstoy’s ideas falls short; a deeper re-reading of What Is Art? is still valuable today.

Professor Chen Jiaying, Peking University

In 1996, Professor Chen Jiaying from Peking University published the essay Moving, Caring, and Art, which digs into Tolstoy’s definition of art as something that “moves” people. He argues that moving an audience is possible only through shared concerns, which grow and deepen in that act of emotional resonance. Such an experience must arise “naturally.” An artist cannot simply “aim” to move others if the sole purpose is to be moving, nor can we chase after emotional effects like we chase physical thrills.

“Art starts with the ordinary, and if something moves us, it does so unexpectedly. It is when we are moved that we enter feelings once unfamiliar to us.”^[Chen Jiaying. “Moving, Caring, and Art.” Tianya, 1996, no.6, p.8]

In other words, while we can set goals, we cannot set “concern” itself as a goal. This does not mean concern is blind, but rather that we should not define it purely in terms of ends. Genuine concern lies deep within us, and only through being moved can it shift or evolve into new forms of caring.

Tolstoy asserts that science aims for the unity of knowledge, while art aims for the unity of feeling. Yet Chen cautions that merging emotions with shared concerns has become increasingly complicated and that we desperately need a “logic of the heart.” Tolstoy’s three criteria for art — uniqueness, clarity, and sincerity — are, in Chen’s view, primarily formal. These qualities have meaning only when the content is something that can prompt collective care. Uniqueness matters because it involves a concern that emerges from existing concerns but has not yet been universally shared. Chen also revisits the idea of “natural expression” and “real feelings,” observing that “in an age of limited comprehension, some people interpret ‘natural’ as simply ‘unrestrained’ or ‘raw,’ and take anything personal to be authentic.”^[Chen, “Moving, Caring, and Art,” p.9]

Overall, Chen aligns with Tolstoy’s perspective on art. As he writes:

“Great Tolstoy, if in certain details I differ from you, if I do not follow directly in your footprints, I know you will not condemn me, for I hold you in deep reverence and follow your spirit as a whole.”^[Chen, “Moving, Caring, and Art,” p.11]

He regards art as a form of life — an organic way of living. Only genuine, natural caring can move us, and art must blend seamlessly into that natural order. Moving, Caring, and Art resonates with me because it brings out the complexity and deeper meaning behind Tolstoy’s bold statements, using keen and sensitive language to probe realities too often dismissed or criticized superficially. Even though Chen’s article focuses only on Tolstoy’s notion of “moving,” it provokes more than enough thought to make one revisit Tolstoy’s entire argument.

Finally, I want to briefly share my perspective on art, using a film as an example, in light of both Tolstoy’s and Chen Jiaying’s insights. Before studying art history at university, cinema was the art form I encountered most. Many older films are simple in technique yet far from crude — directors poured their ingenuity into evoking real empathy. Back then, I could not articulate why I liked these films, only that they seemed “good art” that expanded my emotional horizons beyond my sheltered existence. Rereading What Is Art? and Moving, Caring, and Art has led me to revisit those moments when art truly moved me.

Director Chloé Zhao and Lead Role Frances McDormand

One recent favorite is Chloé Zhao’s Nomadland, adapted from Jessica Bruder’s nonfiction book of the same name. Bruder spent three or four years investigating a group of older Americans forced to live in vans to minimize costs in the wake of various societal crises. Immersing herself in their community, she discovered genuine friendships and raw human stories. The film retains much of the documentary style, featuring real-life individuals — except for the lead, Fern, played by Frances McDormand.

Beyond its well-known highlights, what strikes me most is the film’s compassionate, level gaze. Stories about marginalized communities often adopt one of two tones: a scathing, sympathetic critique that pulls back the curtain on harsh realities, or a romanticized portrayal that turns poverty into a lyrical journey. Zhao avoids both. She recognizes that “condescending pity” remains a distant gaze from above, while “idealized reverence” can be an uncritical gaze from below. Instead, she takes a gentle, parallel perspective — because, at times, a calm, unvarnished depiction is the hardest of all to achieve.

Chinese writer Shen Congwen once said, “With undivided attention and wholehearted dedication.” True artists must immerse themselves in the life they depict, living and breathing alongside their subjects. Director Hou Hsiao-Hsien and screenwriter Chu T’ien-wen share a similar view, urging writers to “merge with the character’s emotions,” or to borrow Chen Jiaying’s words, fuse fully with the concern you wish to convey, so the audience can be moved without warning.

Many viewers describe Nomadland as depressing or tragic. Yet I also find it full of simplicity, tenderness, and a quiet romanticism. It shows the hardships that inevitably exist in life, as well as the basic warmth we hold for one another. One line in Bruder’s book reads: “It matters how we choose to see our own lives.” The lead character, Fern, insists, “I’m not homeless, I’m just house-less,” reflecting the dignity shared by many in that community. They reject the label “homeless” and strive for self-affirmation and spiritual sustenance. But how are we to interpret their journey? As a free-spirited lifestyle? A celebration of companionship in adversity? Or a stark strategy for survival on minimal resources? The more one gets to know them, the clearer it becomes that their reality is neither mere inspiration nor mere misery. Humans can endure astonishing hardship and still find happiness. We carry both freedom and burdens like a gust of wind that rises and falls. We can be both optimistic and struggling. We are neither powerless victims nor carefree adventurers. The truth is subtler and more intricate. Nomadland captures that subtlety. They do not need our pity or admiration; they live by an unforced survival instinct.

To me, that is the mark of a genuinely moving film — one that sparks a renewed and deeper sense of caring. I may never formulate a comprehensive artistic philosophy like Tolstoy’s, nor match Chen Jiaying’s philosophical depth. Yet I do believe the debate over what constitutes art and what makes art “good” will persist, while truly great works await discovery and recognition.

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