Ron Padgett’s "Animals and Art" is a meandering, deceptively casual reflection on human consciousness, culture, and the peculiar ways we relate—or fail to relate—to the natural world. The poem is structured as an internal monologue spoken aloud, turning an idle observation into a meditation on memory, mortality, and the strange privilege of living a life that is not solely driven by survival. Padgett’s signature humor and understated melancholy blend seamlessly, creating a poem that is both deeply personal and broadly philosophical. The poem opens with a simple, sympathetic thought:
"I was saying that sometimes I feel sorry for wild animals, out there in the dark, looking for something to eat while in fear of being eaten."
This is a classic expression of human projection—an awareness of struggle placed onto animals that may not, in fact, experience it in the way we imagine. The juxtaposition of "looking for something to eat" and "in fear of being eaten" distills the essence of animal existence into a harsh binary: hunter or prey, hunger or terror. The phrase "out there in the dark" reinforces the idea that this existence is unknowable to humans, something we observe from a distance but can never fully inhabit. The next line introduces the poem’s central contrast:
"And they have no ballet companies or art museums."
This absurd observation abruptly shifts the focus from survival to culture, creating a comic dissonance. The very idea of animals lacking ballet or museums suggests an arbitrary measure of significance—why should these things be essential to life? Yet, this line also signals the poet’s deeper inquiry: what makes human existence different, and why do we find meaning in things beyond survival? Padgett acknowledges the limitations of his comparison:
"Animals of course are not aware of their lack of cultural activities, and therefore do not regret their absence."
This statement, while obvious, reveals something crucial—animals do not miss what they never had. This touches on the human tendency to define happiness and fulfillment through external markers, while creatures that exist purely in the moment may experience life without such conceptual burdens. The poem then shifts to a domestic scene:
"I was saying this to my wife as we walked along a path in the woods. Every once in a while she would go Unh-huh or Hmmm, but I suspected that she was wondering why I was saying such things."
This interaction is both humorous and revealing. The speaker’s wife responds politely but unenthusiastically, likely unconvinced that the topic deserves extended contemplation. Her minimal responses contrast with the speaker’s spiraling thoughts, reinforcing the sense that the poet is trapped inside his own head, analyzing something that may not need analyzing. The wife’s silent skepticism serves as a grounding force, subtly suggesting that, like animals, she may be more present in the immediate experience of the walk rather than abstract philosophical musings. Padgett then breaks the fourth wall of his own thought process:
"I was saying them in order to see how they would feel when spoken without any hint of irony."
This admission exposes the poet’s experiment—not just thinking about the idea, but testing it in speech, stripping it of irony to gauge its sincerity. It suggests a curiosity about the nature of language itself—how does an idea change when spoken aloud? How do words affect meaning and reception? The poem then detours into a well-known philosophical statement:
"Then I quoted the remark about human life as nasty, brutish, and short, but neither she nor I could recall who had said that, though I offered a guess (Carlyle)."
The correct attribution is to Thomas Hobbes, not Thomas Carlyle, but the mix-up is less important than what it represents—the fallibility of memory, the human mind’s tendency to store impressions rather than precise facts. The speaker’s hesitation to admit that he recently saw the correct attribution—"for fear of appearing senile"—adds another layer of self-awareness. The fear of aging, of losing cognitive sharpness, lurks beneath this seemingly casual exchange. The next lines move into a deeper reflection on memory and information:
"But the truth is that I do not bother to try to remember information that I can look up in a reference book, thinking, I suppose, that I would prefer to fill my mind with the impressions and sensations and spontaneous ideas and mental images that fly past so quickly."
This distinction—between knowledge that can be looked up and knowledge that must be felt—is at the heart of the poem. The speaker prioritizes the fleeting, sensory experience over hard facts, preferring to let the moment unfold rather than hoard data. This is a poet’s sensibility: valuing perception over precision, intuition over exact recall. Then comes another shift, this time toward the intersection of science and identity:
"Would such a person as I make a good animal?"
This rhetorical question, posed after the discussion of fleeting thoughts and forgetfulness, is both humorous and existential. The speaker is not just pondering his relationship to animals—he is questioning whether he could function as one. This leads to the scientific revelation:
"The news today is that scientists have finished the genetic mapping of the human being, and it turns out that we are 99 per cent chimpanzee."
This fact, commonly cited in discussions of human evolution, is met with skepticism:
"I don't feel 99 per cent chimpanzee."
This wry response underscores the chasm between biological truth and lived experience. If we are so closely related to animals, why do we feel so distinct? Why do we have art, museums, and ballet, while they have only the raw necessities of life? The poem’s conclusion brings everything full circle:
"It makes me wonder about the enormity of the remaining one per cent, the sliver that causes me to take the subway up to the Met and look at pictures and sculptures and other beautiful and interesting objects, then go to the museum cafeteria and have a cup of tea and a bun, all without the fear that some creature is going to eat me."
That one percent—the fraction of difference between human and animal—is responsible for the entire realm of human culture and curiosity. The speaker marvels at this fact, recognizing that art, leisure, and contemplation exist because we do not live in a constant state of fight-or-flight. Yet the final line returns to the underlying sorrow:
"But back of all of it is a spreading sorrow for those that hide and tremble in the dark."
Despite the detours into humor, memory, and genetic mapping, the speaker ultimately returns to his original feeling of sympathy for animals. Their existence—lacking ballet, yes, but also lacking security—remains precarious. Unlike humans, they cannot take the subway to the Met, sip tea, and admire beauty without the looming threat of survival pressing in. The poet, for all his questioning, recognizes the privilege of contemplation itself. Padgett’s "Animals and Art" is a meditation on the small but crucial differences between human and animal existence. It blends curiosity, humor, and existential reflection, all while maintaining a casual, almost absentminded tone that makes its final realization all the more poignant. In the end, the poem does not seek to resolve the tension between instinct and culture, survival and art—it merely acknowledges that, behind all our sophistication, something primitive still lingers, just outside the glow of the museum lights.
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