Imagining Revelation

I’ve been thinking again about that passage in Revelation 22 that describes a river flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb in the New Jerusalem. The second verse continues, “On either side of the river was the tree of life, bearing twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” This is my favorite verse in all of scripture, because it evokes both the mysterious impossibility of a single tree that somehow is growing on both sides of a river, and also the eternal promise of nourishment and healing for all.

This image has been appearing in my art for many years, often as a tree (or half of one) hugging both the right and left edges of each panel as a kind of frame for whatever else I was painting. Sometimes, these trees look like some kind of evergreen or pine, the needles appearing as flickering shadows and glinting highlights. Other times, the leaves are fleshy, each one individually shaped and modeled, with twelve round, ripe, red pieces of fruit hidden among them. In either case, the leaves and branches stretch across the entire visual field, partially obscuring the complex, icon-like images beneath.

 

This week, I started working in a new way. After a two-year break from the studio, in which all of my creative energy went into writing, my vision has changed. Now, instead of approaching the image like an iconographer, setting creatures and symbols in a timeless, featureless heaven, I want to bring heaven down to earth, like the New Jerusalem descending to be God’s dwelling place among the people. This new idea suggests a more photographic style, in which the mystical creatures that have inhabited my work will peek out from behind trees, leap out of lakes and streams, and flicker at the edge of vision.

As one of my first, tentative steps on this journey of discovery, I have been making some digital sketches. Combining photographs that I took while on silent retreat at Dayspring last year with images copied from some of my earlier paintings, I wanted to see if what I had in mind had any merit before I committed myself to the long and often tedious process of putting paint on panels. Part of me wishes that I could simply be content with these digital explorations, which are fun and easy.  

But “fun and easy” is not how I approach making art. Instead, I feel compelled to do this the hard way, carefully copying what I see in the photograph onto a wooden panel, following the contours of each shape and matching each area of local color to the best of my ability. Needless to say, I am somewhat terrified. In all my years as an artist, I have only done one photo-realist work. A large study of the engine of an antique car, it hangs in my basement as a reminder that I actually can do it. But I am woefully out of practice, and the prospect of failure feels very real. I can imagine revelation, but – as I am fond of telling my students – every artwork is a compromise between the golden, shining vision; the possibilities and limitations of my materials and tools; and the skill of my hand and eye. As the Tree of Life takes shape in my studio this time, I expect it to look very different than it has before.

In the Jordan

Thomas Xenakis, In the Jordan, 1997,
egg tempera and mixed media on panel, 27" x 21"

In 1996, iconographer Thomas Xenakis came to the LCAR studio as an Artist-in-Residence. Working patiently in the traditional egg tempera techniques, he made images of Jesus and the saints according to the time-honored canons of the Greek Orthodox Church in which he was (and remains) a faithful member.

Before Xenakis was an iconographer, however, he studied both biology and art at Brooklyn College, City University of New York. After obtaining a Master’s degree from the Department of Art as Applied to Medicine at John’s Hopkins University School of Medicine, he worked as a medical illustrator. 

He began to study iconography in 1987, eventually travelling to Greece, where he trained under master iconographers. In “The Task of Writing the Platytera” on his website at http://www.xenakisiconarts.com/statement.cfm,  Xenakis writes

I have been blessed to write about 150 icons. As an Orthodox Christian the process to combine the "theology of art" and the "art of theology" is inherent in our faith. Our religious and spiritual heritage makes this an integral part of our being if we are to worship God and venerate God's creation. The use of our human creativity is serious and committed in visually honoring our Spiritual traditions. This is part of what I exist for.

While in residence at WTS, Tom began to explore the connections between iconography and contemporary art. Upon completing his residency with us, he went to the Maryland Institute College of Art Hoffberger School of Painting in Baltimore, Maryland, where he received a Master of Fine Arts degree under the guidance of noted abstract expressionist Grace Hartigan.

Before he went to MICA, Tom left a painting that he called “In the Jordan” as a parting gift. “In the Jordan” is a very strange work. It began like any traditional icon of the Baptism of Jesus, with a wooden board carefully prepared with linen and multiple layers of gesso. The colors were laid in with patient strokes of mineral pigments hand ground into egg yolks tempered with vinegar and water, the figures glowing against a gold-leaf heaven. As in many traditional icons of this subject, Jesus stands in the water between steep river banks. Saint John the Forerunner pours water over him from one side, and ministering angels lean towards him on the other.

"In the Jordan" detail showing Holy Spirit

But here the resemblance to a traditional icon ends. A closer look reveals that the surface is not flat. Rather, it is rough, uneven, built up under some of the rocks on which John and the angels stand, as if trying to burst out of the picture plane. Behind John there is an unpainted area that reveals a map of the Middle East; similarly, the towel helpfully proffered by the red-robed angel in front turns out to be a page from a Bible or hymnal. Above them all, the heavenly gold is ripped open in several places, revealing the Holy Spirit not as a dove, but as a shimmering, jeweled, feathery presence that appears to have arrived from some other reality. 

"In the Jordan" detail showing water

Similarly, beneath the crossed doors of hell on which Jesus stands as if in an icon of the Resurrection, the wood beneath the painted river has been hacked away, replaced by a churning, unruly mass of copper wire, nails, and blue canvas that spills out of the lower frame as if to engulf the viewer. No longer are we in looking through a window into eternity. Rather, we are in the real, 3-dimensional presence of Christ, eternally being baptized, as well as dying, and rising all at once.

Thomas Xenakis, XPYSO #22, 2004,
mixed media on panel, 30" x 23.5"

In 2005, Tom Xenakis returned to LCAR with a one-person exhibition. In my introduction to that show, I wrote

The works in the present show, XPYSO (which means “gold” in Greek), bring together in a new way the technical skill of the iconographer, the meticulous observation of the medical illustrator, and the personal vision of the modernist painter. These works begin like a traditional icon, with a gessoed panel surface, covered with gold leaf. In works with titles like “Emai (I Am),” “Theosis (Unification),” and “Zoe (Life),” the gold shines through the bright, swirling paint like a declaration of God’s glory, which is sometimes hidden from view but always present. Biomorphic shapes suggest the abundant, teeming of life in a puddle or a Petri dish, or the interior cells of some mysterious being. In some places, the edges of the gold leaf lift away from the surface, fluttering in any passing wind like a reminder of the Holy Spirit. In others, Xenakis gouges grooves and scratches down through the layers of paint, gold, and gesso, revealing the heart of the wood that supports the painting with delicate traceries that resemble footprints or the trail of a falling ember. This wounding of the surface adds to its interest and beauty, suggesting a parallel with the eternally wounded, eternally risen Body of Christ, broken for the healing of the nations, and eternally robed in glory.

Thomas Xenakis, XPYSO #23, 2004,
mixed media on panel, 30" x 23.5"

Every day as I walk into work, I pass two of these astonishing paintings, which Tom left with us when the exhibition closed. And every day, I am filled with gratitude for these reminders of presence and grace.

Heart the Arts

Last night was the second Heart the Arts performing arts festival at Wesley Theological Seminary. Twenty-three individuals and groups sang, danced, read poetry, played instruments, and told stories from the Bible and elsewhere. This was no mere “talent show.” This was an evening of professional-level performances by students, faculty, and staff members whose devotion to craft, to practice, to bringing their best to what they present was evident every moment.

I wish that I could describe every one of those moments, but the nature of any kind of art is that it is impossible to describe. After all, if the artists could say it in words, they would not have to dance or sing or play the flute or write a poem. Even when the text is the familiar words of scripture, hearing the story as if it the teller just got back from witnessing it makes the audience experience it as if for the first time. Telling the story with breathless pauses, looks of astonishment, and gestures that show what words cannot, bring scripture to life. As emcee Drew Colby said more than once, why would anyone just read scripture?

With live performance, even pictures are just a pale reflection, a mere reminder of the excitement of being together, of feeling the room vibrate with the low tones of the organ, of hearing the deep breathing and slapping feet of the dancer, of not knowing what will happen next. I wish that we had had the forethought to videotape the evening, so that those of you who couldn’t be there could experience at least some of that. But all I can offer are a few photographs, another kind of art, thanks to our LCAR student assistant Juyeon Jeon, who sent them to me this afternoon. Thanks to all the performers—too many to name here—without whom Heart the Arts could not exist. And many, many thanks to Amy Gray, our Program Administrator, who prodded and cajoled and pleaded for names and titles and times, and put together a program that took my breath away.

Intimations of Resurrection

Hija Yu, Resurrection, 1996

This week, the faculty has been interviewing candidates for Dean of the Seminary. The interviews are held in the Board Room, which is a gracious, light-filled space with comfortable chairs and tables of dark, polished, wood. Many years ago, the room was also fitted out with rails to make it easy to hang artworks without damaging the walls, and a few years later track lights were installed to make the art glow.

This morning, as I sat among my faculty colleagues facing the candidate on the other side of the room, my attention was frequently drawn to the large painting behind him. The painting is called Resurrection. It consists of 7 panels, each of them 96” high by 15” wide. It is very abstract, consisting of mainly blues and whites, and suggests a larger-than-life-sized human figure, seen as if from a very high vantage point. The head seems to be bowed, and the arms stretch out beyond the edges of the last panels on the left and the right. The dark blue, nearly black areas in the lower corners stand in extreme contrast with the brilliant, nearly glowing white bands further up that seem to lift the arms through the sheer power of light. Above the figure, cloudy areas of a greener blue shift and intermingle with the more purple blue of the figure and the areas below it, creating a sense of limitless space.

There is no indication anywhere in the painting of geographic location, facial features, clothing, or anything else that might indicate gender, ethnicity, or any other mark of individuality. Even so, the gesture of a body suspended between outstretched arms almost automatically suggests crucifixion. This, however, is no lifeless Jesus, hanging on the cross in agony. Rather, we are given a vision of Christ rising amid powerful waves of energy, unbound by any earthly constraint.

The painting was made in 1996 by one of our Artists-in-Residence, Hija Yu. Hija is a slight, Korean-American woman, which might come as a surprise to someone who encounters this massive, heroic painting for the first time. I remember her working in the studio with such intense concentration that she would be unable to speak if someone addressed her. She did not paint with brushes at an easel, but rather laid each large canvas out on the floor and poured pigment directly onto it, thinning the paint with copious amounts of turpentine. Then, kneeling, she would lift the canvas up a few inches, tilting it this way and that coaxing the thin layer of pigment into just the right place. Once the paint was dry, she would do it again, building up the colors little by little until they became so rich and deep that one could lose oneself in them. It has always been amazing to me that Hija was able to achieve such control, not just on a single, large, canvas, but across a seven panels that must be joined together for the image to be perceived.

The conversation this morning kept circling around questions of hearing diverse voices, both within and outside the seminary. Who has the right to speak in the seminary community? How do we hear one another? How do we listen for the voices that are not at the table? It seems to me that one answer was hanging on the wall behind the candidate, silently waiting to be recognized. This image of the Risen Christ emerged from the artist’s willingness to surrender to the physical properties of flowing liquid, gravity, and time. It is an object lesson in the way that an artist’s practice of patience and process can speak with a resounding silence. I hope that the new Dean, whoever that may be, will remember that the Word of God is more than words.