Freedom, Absurdity, and the Meaning of Existence

Gilbert Garcin, Regard Sur la Peinture Contemporaine (Looking at Contemporary Painting 2005, Silver gelatin photograph, Edition of 12

Freedom, Absurdity and the Meaning of Existence

We All Want Freedom—But Are We Truly Free?
     Everyone longs to be free—free from judgment, from the weight of past memories, from the constraints of social expectations. We imagine a life where we can choose any path and become whatever we want, with no strings attached.

     But where does such freedom come from? Is it something granted by society? Or does it start from within us? In my view, true freedom doesn’t simply appear because society allows it. Often, the harder we chase it, the more confined we feel by social structures. So, where can we actually find freedom? Do we need to abandon everything to be free, or can we still carve out our own path within the system?

Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger offers a powerful look into Absurdism.

Living in an Absurd World—Absurdism vs. Nihilism

• Nihilism says: “Everything is meaningless; human existence has no inherent value.”
• Absurdism suggests: “Yes, life is inherently meaningless, but that doesn’t mean we must create or force meaning either. Instead, we accept the absurdity and continue to live.”

     Meursault, the protagonist, isn’t a nihilist. He sees the world as meaningless, yet he doesn’t simply give up on life. He just goes on living, indifferent to society’s moral judgments.

     Does that make him entirely free—above it all? Or, even as he accepts life’s meaninglessness, is he doomed to clash with a world that won’t tolerate his indifference?

Can We Really Be Free Within Social Expectations?

I’ve often wrestled with the tension between “what I believe is right” and “what society demands.” From choosing a career to picking out a home—or even deciding what clothes to wear—social norms constantly influence us. Society isn’t just laws; it’s an intricate web of relationships, from family to entire communities. We’re forever bombarded by cues on “how we should live.”

In this environment, are we truly making our own choices? Or are we simply following a deeper, more subtle script? In The Stranger, Meursault defies social expectations by not showing emotion at his mother’s funeral, by refusing to express regret, by not declaring love where it’s expected. And society condemns him as cold and callous. His refusal to exhibit certain emotions—whether from apathy or personal conviction—ultimately costs him his freedom in the courtroom.

Every Choice Meursault Made Was His Own, and He Accepted the Outcome

Reading The Stranger, I realized one thing with certainty:

every action Meursault took was a result of his own decisions.

• He treated marriage casually.
• He chose to help his pal Raymond.
• And at a pivotal moment, he pulled the trigger.

     Though the trial might have been unfair, his path was laid by his own choices. Society, for all its flaws, is built for the living—those who see reason to go on, who value meaning enough to participate in it. For someone like Meursault, who deems it all meaningless, the social fabric offers little mercy.

If We Only Recognize Freedom at the End, Is It Really Freedom?

     In his final hours, Meursault suddenly feels more liberated than ever. He’s spent most of his life indifferent, but at the brink of losing everything, he finally senses a profound freedom. We often fail to cherish what we have until it’s gone. Does that mean the freedom he felt at the very end was what he genuinely wanted? Or was it only then that he finally acknowledged his own existence?

Does Freedom Come From Controlling Everything, or From Accepting Fate?

(R) Jan Van Kessel the Elder, Vanitas Still Life c.1665/1670, Oil on copper (L) Walking Man I, 1960. Alberto Giacometti (Swiss, 1901–1966). Fondation Giacometti

     Vanitas still-life paintings remind us of life’s fleeting nature—we all die eventually, and everything we obsess over (social validation, emotions, ambitions) will fade. So, where should we seek freedom? In rejecting society’s standards altogether, or in holding onto our sense of self within it?

     Consider Alberto Giacometti’s sculptures. They depict thin, almost ghostly human figures that seem devoid of emotion. Yet those figures are in motion. Their legs are full of energy, as if they’re destined to move forward, no matter what. In their very stance, they exude a message of tenacity and existence.

     That’s what we do as well. Even when we’re unsure of our destination, life marches on. Whether we think life is meaningful or not, our choices shape our path. In Giacometti’s work, there’s power in the very act of “continuing to live,” while in Meursault’s world, his attitude seals his fate.

     Perhaps freedom isn’t some predetermined destiny, but rather the act of choosing, even when life feels meaningless.

Walking Man I, 1960. Alberto Giacometti (Swiss, 1901–1966). Bronze; 180.5 x 27 x 97 cm. 

Fondation Giacometti. © Succession Alberto Giacometti / ADAGP, Paris, 2022

More about Giacometti

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     Though life can feel absurd and meaningless at times, we still have the power to choose how we respond. We can decide which direction to take, how we want to live, and what matters to us—even if everything else seems pointless.

     Rather than merely ending on a positive note, I hope this piece sparks deeper questions for you:  “In this moment, what kind of freedom am I choosing?”

     Because maybe that’s all there is—asking ourselves, over and over again, which choices lead us closer to the life we want, no matter how absurd the world seems.

Alberto Giacometti, Swiss (worked in France),
1901-1966, Annette, 1953, Bronze

Annette Arm (1923-1993) met Giacometti in Switzerland during World War II. She returned to Paris with him in 1946, and the couple married in 1949. She modeled clothed and nude, for portraits and as the basis for more generalized figural works in drawing, painting, and sculpture.
The frontal symmetrical pose and outsized hands draw attention to the hips, recalling ancient votive sculptures; the wavy, parted hair and facial features (albeit miniaturized) give the figure a distinctive, modern presence. Giacometti first modeled the sculpture in clay; the artist's touches are still visible in the cast bronze.

Photo taken @Montral Museum of Fine Arts