Smiling at Mona

On the bulletin board over my desk, I have twelve reproductions of the Mona Lisa. They are pins, fastened four across by three down, to a rectangular piece of card stock that has been perforated so that it can separate easily, allowing them to be sold or given away one by one. Above each pin is the legend, "Fashion", and below lettering informs me that it is "imitation jewelry" -- in case I was in any doubt of their intrinsic value.

twelve Mona Lisa pins

These twelve smiling faces have been in front of me so long that I barely even notice them. Today, as I look at Mona, I see that the plastic in which the cheap, color prints are embedded is scratched. Some of the medallions are askew in their soft, metal backings. A few of the harmless, pointy prongs have bent backwards, giving them a slightly dangerous air.

These pins don't even show the whole painting, just a close-up of the woman's head and chest. The colors aren't quite right, either -- the greens of the landscape behind her are too green, the red of her bodice and lips too red. In fact, it's hard to know how many generations this image is removed from Leonardo's famous painting. Someone must have photographed the original at some point, but how many copies of copies were made before this garish imitation found its way to a factory in Hong Kong?

paintings, prints, and photographs in my office

Aside from the twelve identical Monas and some equally odd reproductions of Leonardo's equally famous Last Supper, my office walls are filled with a mixture of original prints and paintings, snapshots of my family, and postcards announcing exhibitions. These works feed my spirit, connect me with people I love, and help me to remember why art matters. In the midst of such richness, I ask myself why I keep these talismans of a painting that I don't even like all that much.

I did see the real thing, once. It was protected by bulletproof glass and velvet ropes that cordoned off the crowd of people pressing as close to it as they could. The crowd was oblivious to the other not-as-famous paintings in that large room at the Louvre. Meanwhile, I gaped in astonishment at familiar sights from my art-school days, now vividly real on the walls around me.

What I learned that day, or maybe re-learned, was that looking at a reproduction is no substitute for seeing the real thing. Paintings that I never before had understood or cared about when seen as slides or photographs in books suddenly came to life. In one painting after another, I saw the painter's hand, the sheer size of the canvas implying the physical movement of the artist. I saw how changes in thickness of paint, or changes in the angle of vision, changed how the image appeared. I saw details that had always escaped me as my eyes slid over the homogenized surfaces of prints and posters. In that company, the relatively small, over-publicized, much-admired Mona Lisa couldn't really command my attention.

The twelve, small reproductions on my bulletin board, however, manage to do just that. As the imitation jewelry twists and turns on its flimsy, cardboard support, the cheap, cheesy copies ask me to think about the value of art, the value of history, the value of fame. It often seems that Mona is smiling at me at as I work, sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with compassion, and at other times with simple amusement. I look up from the words shimmering on my computer screen, stretch my back and rub my eyes, and just smile back.

Art as Gift

I find myself bemused by people who want to assert that art is a gift, rather than an achievement. Often, these are the same people who work hard at their chosen profession, keeping up on the latest developments, honing their skills, looking for ways to be more efficient, productive, and successful. Or, if they play a sport, they know that regular practice will allow them to run faster, hit the ball with more accuracy, or stay in the game longer, no matter how much natural talent they may have been blessed with.

Somehow, though, when it comes to art, the benefits of education and practice are often unappreciated. We say that a person is gifted, talented, a genius. To paint a picture, to compose a tune, to choreograph a dance—these things seem marvelous, magical, the result not of work as it ordinarily understood but rather the product of a divine gift.

I do not, of course, deny that some people do seem to have more innate talent than others. However, it is important to recall that even those who are more gifted than most still must work hard to develop that raw talent into something that others will recognize as great. I am indebted to my friend, John Morris, for pointing me to the following story by Alan Jay Lerner, in his memoir, The Street Where I Live. Noting that every great star he had ever worked with never rested on talent alone, but worked harder, cared more, and had a greater sense of perfection than anyone else, he wrote,

I remember when I was doing a film with Fred Astaire, it was nothing for him to work three or four days on two bars of music. One evening in the dark grey hours of dusk, I was walking across the deserted MGM lot when a small, weary figure with a towel around his neck suddenly appeared out of one of the giant cube sound stages. It was Fred. He came over to me, threw a heavy arm around my shoulder and said, “Oh Alan, why doesn’t someone tell me I cannot dance?” The tormented illogic of this question made any answer sound insipid, and all I could do was walk with him in silence. Why doesn’t someone tell Fred Astaire he cannot dance? Because no one would ever ask that question but Fred Astaire. Which is why he is Fred Astaire.

Such a story might be told of any talented, disciplined artist who strives continually to move towards a vision of perfection.  The gift of talent is only a beginning, perhaps a necessary—but never a sufficient—condition of artistic achievement.

Love and Art

In The Transfiguration of the Commonplace, Arthur Danto writes about Rembrandt's painting of his mistress, Hendrijke, as Bathsheba at her bath (http://tinyurl.com/hendrijkebathsheba).  The woman so convincingly portrayed is not an idealized image of feminine perfection, but rather appears to be drawn from life, complete with sagging folds of skin and irregular features. And yet, Danto points out, Rembrandt has given us an image in which a rather ordinary woman "with just those marks of life upon her, is Bathsheba, a woman of beauty enough to tempt a king to murder for the possession of her." And, he goes on to say, to paint a "plain, dumpy Amsterdam woman as the apple of a king's eye has to be an expression of love."

It seems to me that Danto is onto something important here, something too easily missed in most discussions about the nature of beauty. That Rembrandt could see the woman that he loved as beautiful is not remarkable. Indeed, this is an experience that is common to anyone who has ever fallen in love. When we are in love, we delight in the way a tendril of hair curves over a cheekbone, the particular way the skin around the eyes crinkles when the beloved laughs, the incomparable melody of our loved one's sighs. New parents, too, are can stare by the hour at the delicacy of their child's fingernails, their hearts melting at the smell of newly-washed skin or the soft resistance of a pudgy thigh.

Artists often see this way. It is a commonplace of life drawing class that the favorite model is not the one who is lean and athletic, but rather the one who has interesting folds and contours to explore with pen or brush. In the process of attempting to follow the curve of a fleshy hip, the sinews of an aging hand, the wrinkles that define a sagging breast, the artist comes to see the model with the eyes of love.

What is remarkable in Rembrandt's painting, then, is not that he saw Hendrijke as beautiful, but that he invites us to see her as beautiful, too. When I look at his painting of Bathsheba at her bath, I do not see a plain, dumpy Amsterdam woman. I see a woman who already is a queen, thoughtful, composed, and fully herself. And she is beautiful, seen as Rembrandt saw her, with loving attention to every inch of both her inward and outward self.

about language . . . poetic and sacred.

One of the pleasures of my life recently is a class that I am taking on poetry. The format is simple: each week, we gather to share poems that we like or that have particular meaning to one of us, reading them aloud and then talking about what makes them "work." This week, we were asked to reflect on the connections between poetic and sacred language.

This is something that I think about quite a bit, as I also participate in a group that meets weekly to write liturgical texts collaboratively. As we wrestle with which word or phrase best expresses a particular image, or where to break a line so that the congregation can read it easily in unison, many of our decisions are based on poetic considerations. What makes the language both poetic and sacred is the attention to detail, both in the Does the rhythm scan easily, or does it clunk? Is there too much or too little alliteration, repetition, or internal rhyme? Do the sounds of the words flow easily from one to the next, or will people stumble over awkward combinations?

In a recent post, Kathy Staudt spoke of Mary Oliver’s advice to “Just//pay attention”. That quality of careful attention, both in the writing and in the reading, is what evokes the sense of the sacred, whether or not a poem is explicitly about matters of faith.  What makes something poetic rather than prosaic is the poet’s attention to such matters as how the words sound, both singly and in relation to one another; the metaphoric quality of specific, concrete images; and a kind of inner logic holding together images and ideas that don’t logically seem to go together at all.

To speak particularly unpoetically, I might say that sacred language is a particular use, or subset, of poetic language. The difference between sacred language and poetry is that, while poetry may have virtually any subject matter, and may take virtually any stance towards it, sacred language is intended to speak of or to God, to engage specifically religious ideas, or to evoke certain spiritual states. Some poetry does this, of course, but poetry has many other modes and intentions, as well. Nevertheless, when we really pay attention to the particular moment of the poem, we may be transported into the realm of the sacred, no matter what the poem seems to be about.

More Visions of Church

A few weeks ago, I wrote about an "instant art" project that my colleagues and I did at our faculty retreat. Today, I would like to reflect on a somewhat more deliberate art project that, like the construction paper visions of church, will never be reviewed in one of the glossy art magazines but, nonetheless, carries deep meaning for the person who made it and the community in which she works.

burlap backing with a few hands glued on

The work in question is a 4' x 6' burlap banner, made by one of of my Doctor of Ministry students for an event at the school where she works. At a faculty/staff retreat a few days earlier, the student had asked those present to trace their hands on colorful pieces of felt, writing a word inside the hand evoking something of their sense of the retreat. Back at home, the student cut out the 147 hand shapes, praying for each person as she did so. She notes that this was a long process but very peaceful, making her feel close to each one of the participants.

Once all the hands were cut out, she glued the them onto the burlap, leaving the fingers loose and overlapping them to fill in the shape of a cross. Finally, she wrote the words "Christ has no hands....on earth....now....but ours" on smaller pieces of burlap that she also glued to the main banner.

The student writes,

the finished banner in the chapel

Yesterday I used the banner in the Freshmen Parent mass.  I told the 400  parents present about the banner and that we, as a community, offered our hands to love and guide, to teach and inspire their daughters.  The banner is the symbol of this welcoming, accepting, attitude, grounded in God and in Mercy.

This morning I hung the banner in our chapel.  It will be a daily reminder as students, faculty and staff, parents gather for smaller prayer services in that space.

The colors are vibrant depicting the life in our community, the burlap is rough depicting the dark times that will come, the cross holds us all together as our faith does.

When I look at this banner, the fluttery fingers seem to be the feathers of angels' wings, lifting the prayers of my student and her community into a place that is far beyond the humble materials of burlap and felt. The words reminding us that we are the hands of God on earth are present, but serve only to anchor the busy energy of the hands that reach out in all directions. This visual analog to Paul's image of the community as the living Body of Christ is, in a very real sense, the work of the people, a liturgical moment transfigured into art. That this is not great art is not the point. What matters to those who will encounter it every day is the story of its making, and the meaning that it has for those who know that story.

"Just Pay Attention": The Practice of Writing in Place

by Kathleen Staudt (Kathy), Adjunct in Religion and Literature -- more on this on her blog at poetproph


A kind of “core text” for my teaching about poetry and spirituality has become Mary Oliver’s poem “Praying,” included in her 2006 volume Thirst and now used widely, I've noticed, in workshops and classes where people are exploring what it means to pray, and how poetry might help with this. It’s a good place to start as I reflect on the role of poetry and contemplative in my own spiritual practice, both as a poet and as a spiritual guide and companion. Oliver’s poem begins

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together, , , , , ,

Here are two things that are important both in the life of prayer and in the writing life. It doesn't matter so much what we choose to write or pray about: often it's a matter of letting the world give itself to us: “Just//pay attention”: that’s the hardest part. To slow down long enough to let what is happening around us claim and deepen our attention. To “wake up” to life, as the Sufi poets invite us to do. And then to “patch/ a few words together,” not for self-promotion, but as a prayerful response to what we are noticing.
This can happen in a contemplative journal entry, or sometimes in a poem, where the white spaces on the page, and the shimmering of the words tell me something more about what I am seeing and experiencing. This kind of writing becomes for me a way of entering into dialogue with the place I am in.

Paying attention and patching words together. This can indeed become a spiritual practice, opening, as Oliver says later in her poem, “a doorway into thanks."

The Matter at Hand

"The Dust Cries Out" (detail)

This afternoon, former Artist-in-Residence Karen Swenholt spoke at a Dean's Forum on her piece, "The Dust Cries Out: Twin Tower Memorial." This monumental work has been in our Refectory for the past several weeks, a silent witness to the terror that gripped our nation ten years ago and to the hope inherent in this artist's Christian faith. With hands outstretched, the two figures reach towards an unknown future, even as their downcast eyes and open mouths suggest the agony of the present moment.


Karen spoke passionately of her radical freedom in Christ to participate in God's ongoing creative action, translating eternal truths into a contemporary visual language. Her playful description of God adding stripes to the basic horse-shape to make a zebra, or elongating the neck to turn it into a giraffe, reminded me forcefully of the power of concrete examples and images. It is one thing to speak discursively, to say that to be made in the image of God refers to God's creativity rather than to any physical characteristics of either God or humanity. It is another to use an experience that is an everyday part of studio practice -- what if I made this yellow? what if I made this part louder? what if I added stripes? what if this passage were a bit quieter? -- to illuminate how God might interact with the infinite possibilities of matter and energy.

As Karen spoke, I was moved by her description of her own experiences as an artist, learning not only to see but to translate that vision into evocative works of art that tell the truth of human experience and our need for God's redemptive power. Now, I find myself reflecting on what I, too, have learned from a lifetime of engagement as an artist. How can the practices and disciplines that have opened my eyes and my heart be translated from the studio into the seminary classroom? How can help my students to open their imaginations as they try to shape something new from the matter at hand?