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.

Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos

It’s already old news that the world did not end in December. Since last I wrote, we celebrated the birth of Jesus, and the visit of the Magi, and the Baptism of Christ. Now, we are in Ordinary Time for a very few, short weeks, the semester has started, and I’m getting back into the regular rhythms of seminary life. My favorite souvenir from my time away is a small painting of Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos, which I brought back with me from the annual conference of the North American Academy of Liturgy, held this year in Albuquerque.

This picture is not, strictly speaking, an icon, but rather an image made in the santos tradition of the American Southwest. The santero, Charles M. Carrillo, also holds a doctorate in archeology and anthropology and teaches in the religious studies program at the University of New Mexico. Invited to give a plenary address at the conference, he told stories about the relationship that his relatives and other people in his community have with the pictures and statues of saints that they treat like regular members of the family. His deep, funny, faith-filled tales raised questions and a few eyebrows among academy members more comfortable with intellectual explanation and high liturgical practice than with folk customs and private devotions.

For me, Carrillo’s paintings of Santa Cecilia – patroness of musicians – tooling down the road in her classic car with her guitar hung over the radiator cap, or of Saint Isidro – patron saint of farmers, real estate agents, and gardeners – kneeling in a newly-planted field carved out of the Southwest desert, felt like home. The clear colors and flat, simplified, decorative forms felt as familiar as those the parts of the Los Angeles where the Virgin of Guadalupe smiles from car dashboards, the sides of buildings, and urban gardens.

But I had never met Our Lady of San Juan de Lagos until that day at the conference when Charlie Carrillo and his wife were setting out the santos among the scholarly books, liturgical vessels, and ornate vestments that are the usual offerings outside our meeting rooms. As I hurried by from one session to another, I was stopped in my tracks, wondering if perhaps I had somehow missed them the day before. Transfixed by the evocative power of these simple retablos, it was not a question of whether one would go home with me, but which one. As my eyes and hands kept reaching out to this nearly doll-like figure, framed by drawn-back curtains and flanked by two candles, it became clear that she was the one.

Dr. Carrillo says on his website that the work of the santero “is one of those art forms you cannot separate from the people. We write our own history by what we say and the art we do.“ I am not a member of the community to which the santos are native, but they speak to me about the divine in ways that full of meaning that I am unable to articulate. I simply stop and look, and know that I am in the presence of God.

Not the End of the World

Yesterday was 12/12/12, but it was not the end of the world. It is, however, the end of the semester, and time to take a break. By the time I return, the twelve days of Christmas will have run their course, and we shall see new things in the light of Epiphany.

 Before I go, however, I’d like to share one more artwork that I saw in Chicago last month. Our hotel was just opposite Grant Park, and every time the shuttle bus brought us back from McCormick Place, I would notice a group of tall, headless figures walking around in the grass. They looked familiar, like an acquaintance from some other part of my life that I couldn’t quite place. Finally, I decided to go find out who they were and what they were doing there.

 

From a distance, the figures seemed to be identical to one another, a literally faceless mass of near-humanity. As I approached, I began to realize that each one was a little different from the others—some taller, some shorter; some in groups and some alone; each facing in a different direction, aimlessly or intentionally following some secret intention. Missing both heads and hands, the eerie giants were stopped in mid-stride, as if held in an unseen force field. All were hollow when seen from the back, mere false fronts rather than solidly planted.

By the time I was among them, I was pretty sure that I knew who had made them. A glance at the plaque on a nearby stone confirmed my guess that it was Magdalena Abakanowicz, and told me that the name of the group of 106 rusty, iron folk was Agora, the word for gathering place or town square in ancient Greece. Although I had never even seen a photograph of this installation, it seemed familiar because I have been aware of Abakanowicz for many years. She began her career as a textile artist who was well known when I was a weaver in the 1970s. In those days, I admired her courage to break free from the technique-driven constraints of craft, instead  making the ugly, ungainly, yet oddly affecting installations of burlap and sisal that she called Abakans.

The walking simulacra populating the Agora seemed familiar because they were! No longer soft and unstable, relying on suspension lines hanging from the ceiling to remain upright, these hard, durable figures stand on their own two feet. However, like their ancestors the Abakans, they loom over their puny visitors, ignoring the intrusion into a realm that is at once mystical and menacing. And, like the Abakans, the inhabitants of Agora will also decay, albeit more slowly. Already covered in rust, one day they, like their textile forebears, will fall to the earth, unable to stand up to the ravages of time. For them, it will be the end of the world.