Tea with Kali

 The Paper People are leaving the gallery today, making way for an invitational group show, BLACK.WHITE.REaD: Journey Through the Maze, guest curated by Cecilia Rossey.  But I couldn’t let all of Rosemary Markowski’s remarkable papier-mâché sculptures get away, so At the Table 2 - Tea with Kali is now installed on top of my filing cabinet, where I can see it out of the corner of my eye as I sit at my desk.

At a mere 12.5h x 12.5w x 5d, the piece occupies a psychic space that is much larger than its objective dimensions. A very proper-looking woman with cropped, brown hair and a sad yet quizzical expression on her face sits on a rickety chair, holding a red tea cup. At the other end of the table sits another woman, this one with blue skin, long unkempt hair, and four arms. Between them, the table, spread with a patterned cloth, holds a teapot, another cup, a plate of cookies, and a somewhat bewildered-looking male head. Kali’s tongue, which sticks out of her mouth nearly to her chin, is the same bright red as the tea cups, her eyes glare fiercely beneath glowering brows, and her necklace of skulls glitters against her bare, blue skin. One of her hands rests lightly on the head, two others brandish a sword, a spear, and the fourth makes a gesture which might be a fist but might also be a sign of blessing.

The fearsome Kali is a Hindu deity that is sometimes referred to as the Dark Mother. As she sits across the table from her bemused companion, she seems to me to be the embodiment of that part of myself that sometimes gets out of control with anger. It is said that Kali was trying to kill the forces of evil, but got so carried away that she almost didn’t notice that she was destroying everything around her. When her consort Shiva threw himself under her feet, she was so astonished that she stuck out her tongue and stopped her rampage.

I don’t really know Rosemary Markowski, having only met her once when she came to the gallery to give and artist’s talk, so I can’t really say if this sculpture is autobiographical. What I can say is that she knows a lot about human nature, and about the need we all have to make peace with the unpredictable wildness that dwells within even the most mild-mannered exterior. As I look at this small sculpture, it reminds me to welcome the passion that fuels my life, even though it sometimes feels dangerous. To have Tea with Kali is to welcome her to my table, to recognize that Kali’s upraised hand is not a threat, but rather a gesture that says, “Do not be afraid.”

Boundaries and Borders

I continue to think about the boundaries between art, ritual, and ordinary life. When does ordinary walking turn into a procession? When does a friendly wave turn into a dance? What is the difference between my solitary breakfast, dinner with friends, and Holy Communion? Can art that seems to mock religion nonetheless be holy?

In the Temple of Confessions, performance artists Guillermo Gómez-Peña and Roberto Sifuentes turned an art gallery into a place where people confessed their darkest fears about race, ethnicity, identity, and gender. Using American flags, images and objects derived from popular culture, and symbols evoking both Catholic worship and shamanistic practice, they created a space that was at once sacred and profane. Within that space, they and their collaborators enacted rituals with over-the-top theatricality, using costumes and props that were meant to disturb and provoke unwary gallery-goers into thinking about such loaded subjects as immigration, bigotry, and exploitation.

In a scenario called “Eating the Last Immigrant,” Gómez-Peña and his collaborators invite gallery-goers to eat a life-sized effigy made of gelatin. In this parody of the communion rite, the effects of political borders on everything from economic prospects to family relationships and personal identity are brought into sharp relief. In the video documenting the event at the Corcoran Gallery, one can see people shaking their heads when offered a small dish of dessert, unsure whether eating the dessert implicates them further as clueless devourers of another culture’s goods, or brings them into communion with Gómez-Peña and his group of holy fools.

Exploring of the edges where art, ritual, and everyday life coincide raises questions for me about how changing our rituals might change our relationship with one another, with the world in which we live, even with God. What if we didn’t keep Communion safely within the boundaries of our churches, but brought it out into the wildness of our everyday lives? What if we began every meal with remembering what Jesus said to his friends as he broke bread and passed a cup of wine from hand to hand? What if every time we ate and drank, we did so in remembrance of the One who calls us to be the living Body of Christ on earth?

Is it Ritual or is it Art?

a makeshift shrine for a ritual of remembering

This morning dawned clear and cool. The sky was the same bright, clear blue that it was on that morning eleven years ago, when we were all shocked out of our morning routines by death and destruction. On that terrible morning, I was unable to think about art. All I could think about was the horror of the moment, as I sat watching the same awful images being played over and over on the television.

Today in chapel, we remembered together. We prayed for those whose lives were forever changed, sang of God’s healing power, and received the bread and cup as tangible tokens of the love of Christ. In the readings from Scripture and in the sermon, we were reminded that death and destruction have always been part of the human story, that God has seen it all before.

Later, in my class on art, ritual, and symbol, we enacted a ritual described by Ronald Grimes in his book, Rite out of Place: Ritual, Media, and the Arts. At first, the students seemed a bit self-conscious, as if we were just play-acting rather than participating in something real. Very quickly, however, they entered into what had become a space made sacred by a lighted candle, a dish of small stones, a vial of clear water, and a single, white rose. One student lifted the rose towards the group as he read the verse,

This is living. . . but not for long
may its short life

and ours

enliven the planet.

As he finished speaking, he pulled off a petal, allowing it to drop gently onto the cloth that defined the make-shift shrine. The unexpected snap as the petal broke off from its stem seemed very loud in the silence, underscoring the fragility of all life.