And the whole world for fifty years has been repeating:‘Sublime! Grand! Napoleon le Grand! [...]’ And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one’s own nothingness and immeasurable meanness. For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent.
This striking insight by Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, taken from War and Peace, is a sharp and universal critique that exposes the illusion of uncritical admiration for figures of power and conquest, those exalted as ‘great’ despite lacking any moral foundation. Is not this very acceptance a kind of self-confession, a surrender to our own ethical inertia and immeasurable smallness before empty greatness? According to the Russian author, true greatness lies in simplicity, in goodness, and in truth—principles that go beyond the brutality of material power.
Our present mirrors this bitter reality. Too many conflicts tear the world apart. Too many nations are caught in tensions that seem to deliberately ignore any ‘standard of good and evil.’ From the ruins of Ukraine to the dramatic events in the Middle East, from the forgotten crises in Africa to every corner of the globe, humanity is plagued by wars that do not distinguish between innocent and guilty—trampling dignity, destroying cities, peoples, and innocents. The rhetoric of national ‘greatness’ or the charismatic leader, when detached from a deep ethical core, quickly devolves into little more than a justification for blind violence and domination. In an age where dehumanization of the ‘enemy’ has become routine, Tolstoy’s reflection challenges us with renewed urgency: are we truly willing to celebrate a kind of ‘greatness’ that is not rooted in respect for life and the pursuit of truth? Is this the standard we want to give to our humanity?
It is in this landscape of ongoing questioning that art offers us its answers.
These works resound with a startling, almost prophetic power in our own time. They remind us that peace is not an abstract notion or an unattainable utopia, but a tangible condition.
Luca Giordano’s Allegory of Peace and War (1680) plunges us into the beating heart of a dynamic Baroque full of pathos. The painting emerges as a visceral confrontation, almost a cry. On one side, War—possibly embodied by a fierce Mars—bursts forth in destructive fury, surrounded by demonic figures or allegories of vice that amplify its chaos. On the other side, Peace—serene and reassuring—appears bearing symbols of abundance and harmony: overflowing cornucopias, olive branches, as if to suggest the very possibility of renewal. Giordano’s vigorous brushwork, his intense color palette, and masterful play of light and shadow capture not only the drama of conflict but also, with subtle yet firm determination, the hope that calm may eventually triumph over violence—restoring order and prosperity to a chaotic world. It is within this tension, not in the glorification of the victor, that the true ‘standard’ is revealed.
Peter Paul Rubens, the undisputed master of Flemish Baroque, gives us one of his most celebrated and intricate allegories with Minerva Protects Pax from Mars (Peace and War) (1630). At the heart of the beautiful composition, Peace is portrayed as a nurturing, maternal figure, nursing a child—the emblem of prosperity and future generations—surrounded by joyful cherubs weaving garlands and carrying fruit, unmistakable symbols of abundance and harmony. Protecting her, majestic and imposing, stands Minerva, the goddess of wisdom and the arts. Clad in armor and bearing a shield, she places herself between Peace and the threatening Mars, god of war, depicted in his most ferocious aspect and flanked by allegorical figures of rage and discord. Rubens’ lavish use of color, the sculptural modeling of bodies, and the dynamic rendering of the scene create a jarring contrast between the destabilizing horror of war and the harmonious, fertile beauty of peace.
With his powerful visual rhetoric, Rubens conveys a timeless message: peace is not a passive gift but a precious good that must be actively defended against the forces of destruction. In this defense, wisdom, culture, and ethical discernment play a vital and irreplaceable role.
An Allegory of Peace and the Arts (1635–1638), attributed to Orazio and Artemisia Gentileschi, offers a deep interpretation of the indissoluble bond between peace and cultural flourishing. Here, Peace is not simply the absence of war—a fleeting calm—but an active, generative force that nourishes, protects, and uplifts the Arts. Musical instruments, palettes, compasses, books, and sculptures are scattered around it, eloquent symbols of the creative rebirth that only an era of stability and harmony can foster.
The potential collaboration between father and daughter Gentileschi, both masters of Caravaggism, adds a further layer of meaning to the work, suggesting a transmission of knowledge and a cultural legacy that can only thrive in a climate of concord and cooperation, not conflict. This allegory reveals the true condition of peace—not merely as a precondition for survival, but as the foundation for civilization itself, for beauty, and for human understanding. These are the real pillars of a greatness that knows neither ‘nothingness’ nor ‘meanness.’
These works resound with a startling, almost prophetic power in our own time. They remind us that peace is not an abstract notion or an unattainable utopia, but a tangible condition—an ethical choice that enables life, culture, and prosperity to flourish. Today, in the face of conflicts that bring unspeakable suffering, destroy cultural heritage, and sow hatred, the message of these artists takes on a renewed and urgent relevance. To recognize true greatness not in those who sow discord and destruction, but in those who promote peace, understanding, and cooperation, is a vital and inescapable step toward a future that is more just, more humane, and ultimately more worthy of our own humanity.
(Take on me)
Peace comes from communication.
Ezra Pound
Opening image: Peter Paul Rubens, Minerva Protecting Peace from Mars (Peace and War), 1629–1630, National Gallery, London, United Kingdom. Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.