Can animals make art?

In the forests of eastern Australia, satin bowerbirds create structures known as “bowers.”

The males gather twigs and place them upright, in two bundles, with a gap in the middle, resulting in what looks like a miniature archway. All around the bower the bird scatters small objects – shells, pieces of plastic, flower petals – which all possess the same property: the color blue.

Studies suggest that the purpose of the bowers is to impress and attract females. But their beauty and intricacy has left some researchers wondering whether they shouldn’t be considered art.

Of course, figuring out whether something is a work of art requires answering some tricky philosophical questions. Are animals even capable of creating art? And how can we tell whether something is a work of art rather than just a coincidentally beautiful object? As a philosopher and artist who’s interested in aesthetics and biology, I recently wrote about the evolution of behaviors in animals that could be seen as art.

A contested concept

First, it’s important to outline various theories of what makes something a work of art.

There’s a general agreement that art must have some sort of producer and some possible or intended audience. In this way, it’s similar to other forms of communication.

But the rest of the picture is unclear, and there’s no universally agreed-upon definition of art. In fact, art has proven so difficult to define that Scottish philosopher W.B. Gallie once suggested it might be an “essentially contested concept” – an idea for which there is no correct definition.

That being said, some popular views have emerged.

Leo Tolstoy famously suggested art is a conduit for emotion, writing in 1897 that “one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.”

Plato and Aristotle emphasized the representational role of art: the idea that a work of art must in some way mimic, depict or “stand in” as a sort of sign for something else.

Some philosophers believe that creating art requires intention – for example, a sculptor will mold clay with the intention of having it look like Abraham Lincoln. And nonhuman animals, they’ll argue, simply don’t have the right kind of intentions for art-making.

Art, beauty and sex

And yet, it’s not clear how much intention really does matter for art.

Philosopher Brian Skyrms has pointed out that communication arises even in animals that plausibly do not have sophisticated intentions like our own. For example, fireflies signal to mates with flashes, and this seems to be largely an evolved behavior. Communication can even emerge via simple reinforcement learning, as when a dog learns to associate a certain call with dinner.

These aren’t instances of art. But they reveal how meaningful signs or representations can operate without the need for complex intentions. Given that much art also serves a communicative role, I argue that there’s reason to think that art might be able to come about in less intention-demanding ways too.

Ornithologist Richard Prum also takes a communicative view of art, but one where art is meant to be evaluated for its beauty. The beauty of a work functions as an indicator of the artist’s reproductive fitness, or their having “good genes” – and this can apply to both humans and animals.

Charles Darwin, musing about birds in “The Descent of Man,” also thought at least some animals appreciate beauty:

“When we behold a male bird elaborately displaying his graceful plumes or splendid colours before the female, whilst other birds, not thus decorated, make no such display, it is impossible to doubt that she admires the beauty of her male partner.”

Some might not like an account like Prum’s, since it seems to allow creations like bowers to count as art. And yet, as philosopher Denis Dutton points out in his 2009 book “The Art Instinct,” mate attraction and fitness broadcasting can be the primary motivation behind many human works of art too: just consider the stereotype of the sex-hungry rock musician.

Whale ballads and pig paintings

I think it’s safe to say some animal creations don’t count as art. The webs of most spiders, though intricate and carefully designed, appear to exist for utilitarian purposes and serve no evaluative or communicative function. The same goes for most anthills.

But what about animal songs?

The structures of the songs of humpback whales are complex, featuring parts and repeated patterns that researchers often describe as “themes” and “verses.” The songs are long – sometimes up to 30 minutes. Because males perform these songs primarily during mating season, it’s plausible that female whales assess them for their beauty, which serves as a way to gauge the singer’s genetic fitness. Details of songs even vary from whale population to population, often changing over the course of a mating season.

Then there are animals that have been trained to make art. Pigcasso was a pig in South Africa whose trainer taught her to paint on canvas via reinforcement learning. The trainer would pick out the colors for Pigcasso, and Pigcasso would do the brushing. Was Pigcasso really an artist? Were her paintings works of art?

Pigcasso was plausibly making these paintings for reasons other than her own desire to communicate or make something beautiful; she was motivated, at least in part, by “piggy treats.” The trainer chose the colors. But Pigcasso did, in the end, have some aesthetic freedom: She had control over her brushstrokes.

Off the coasts of Japan, male white-spotted puffer fish create impressive nests to attract females. The male puffer fish uses his mouth to remove rocks from the sand and his body to wiggle out long, strategically placed grooves. The finished product is a multi-ringed sand mandala about 6 feet in diameter.

Like the bowers, the nests of the puffer fish are beautiful and involve mate attraction. Yet some researchers argue that since these sorts of works all look roughly the same – have the same shape, use the same materials and so on – they’re more likely the result of evolved, inflexible dispositions than more creative processes.

But it’s worth noting that many human works of art bear core similarities as well. Many paintings use flat surfaces, oils or acrylics. Many songs follow the same chord patterns. And would we still consider human sculptures art if we discovered much about the motivation to build them could be explained by evolution? I wager we would.

Birds bust a move

Many human cases of art involve more than one person, sometimes even a large group. Think of all the people it takes to make a modern film. Does anything like that happen in animals?

Consider the blue manakin bird of South America. Male blues will form groups, often of three or more, which then practice an elaborate song-and-dance routine to later perform in front of females. The practice is detailed and dutiful. The groups hone their moves. This involves learning and memorization, not just genetics. Flaws in the performance are challenged and corrected. Sometimes during practices, a juvenile male will even fill in as a mock female.

It’s not The Beatles. But the similarity to music groups seem hard to deny.

At the same time, it’s worth wondering whether, beyond conveying their eagerness to mate, the birds are trying to “say” or “express” anything more with their performance. And do they know it’s beautiful?

All this leaves room for doubt about whether animals really make art.

To me, a key question is whether there’s any animal art that doesn’t have to do with mating, and instead expresses something more complex or sentimental. Without being able to get into the heads of animals, it’s hard to say. But it’s plausible that humans aren’t alone in their artistic pursuits.