It would be easy to derive a homily about the universality of art from the story of Ora Elish: a work by a Russian composer, inspired by a German writer, unites an Israeli-born anglophone and a group of francophone kids in Montreal via their mutual love of ballet. But calling a work of art “universal” is a rather trite and misleading claim. Does the supposed universality of, say, Shakespeare extend to the Australian outback, the jungles of Brazil, the monasteries of Bhutan—or for that matter, a Canadian classroom where some unfortunate junior high student is developing a lifelong loathing of Romeo and Juliet? It seems unlikely.
All art has its limits. Most art, indeed, is rigidly circumscribed. For every work available in translation, there are thousands that get turned back at the border, deemed unfit for external consumption. It’s something of a miracle that any work escapes the nefarious clutches of market forces and cultural myopia to become an international classic. The Nutcracker is remarkable for its improbability as much as for its ostensible universality.
Such boundary-defying works are to be cherished because they build bridges between two cultures which become feedback loops enriching both of them. Japan’s absorption of Western literature led to Kurosawa retelling Shakespeare for us as a samurai drama; the imperial education imposed by the Raj resulted in Vikram Seth transposing the spirit of Jane Austen to post-Independence India. Today, such feedback loops are everywhere. They may sometimes seem so ubiquitous that we take them for granted – but it’s worth remembering the rarity of each individual work, which must overcome extreme odds to become part of our shared heritage. – DD
