Writing and Art

Many years ago, when I taught in an art department in a state university, one of the catch-phrases was “writing across the curriculum.” The academic community had collectively realized that incoming students had done so little writing in high school that a single, freshman course in English composition did not give them enough practice in writing thoughtfully and coherently.

While professors continued in general to follow the pedagogical practices proper to their disciplines, we were expected to assign at least one research paper, critical essay, or other serious writing project in every class, regardless of whether the subject matter were art, science, mathematics, or anything else. Thus, students in my studio fundamentals course found themselves required not only to develop the manual skills involved in mixing and applying paint, drawing with a wide variety of pens and pencils, cutting mats, and building models out of foam-core; the visual acuity to distinguish subtle difference in color and form; and the aesthetic ability to manipulate the elements and principles of design to evoke meaning and emotion; but also to engage the artworks of others in writing, uncovering significance through careful description of the work in itself and in awareness of the artist’s historical context.

For most of my art students, the discipline of writing was as unfamiliar and as difficult as making an artwork is to most students in theological seminaries.  Accustomed to thinking in images and forms, they struggled with the requirement to put their thoughts into words. This struggle was often rewarded with new insights and understandings. Forced to use the discursive, linear, logical portions of their brains to describe what was intrinsically imaginative, experiential, and expressive, they discovered a unexpected source of creativity in the interplay between the two.

It seems to me that a similar process happens when students in more discursive disciplines are asked to think imaginatively, expressively, and aesthetically about what is typically presented to them in propositional form. By experiencing artworks made by others, they learn about other places, other times, other ways of thinking, experientially, through the evidence of their senses. By immersing themselves in the uncompromising demands and opportunities that working with physical matter requires, they discover that the metaphors they find in scripture or theological writings acquire a deeper resonance, a fuller reality, than when they are encountered simply in words. By trying to embody their intellectual ideas about God, the created universe, or themselves, in poems or paintings or movement they learn certain truths at a level that cannot be approached through propositional statements about things like incarnation, suffering, or joy.

More than Words

On Tuesday, Valentine’s Day, our students, faculty, and staff came together to celebrate the arts with dance, music, poetry, drama, biblical storytelling, and cookies and hot chocolate. For the first hour, people stood in the foyer outside the gallery, in rapt attention as Kathryn Sparks danced the 150^th Psalm; Dana Olson told the story of Hagar and Ishmael; a group from the drama class took on the personas of women that Jesus met; 

Kathryn Sparks, Psalm 100

Ruth Kent danced to “Oh Freedom”; Lauren Blitz recited her original poem, “Communion’s Choir”; Eleanor Colvin offered her monologue, “On My Knees”; a wind ensemble played Alexandra Crabtree’s arrangement of “All Creatures of our God and King; Jeannie Murray danced “Finding Your Voice”; and Tracy Radosevic told how the Aramaen attack was thwarted from the Second Book of Kings.

Eleanor Colvin, Michele Walton,
Annette Morgan, and Mary Bates-Washington,
"Among the Women Jesus Met"

Kyle Durbin and Tim Gouchenour,
"Wittenberg"

Then, everyone moved into Elderdice, where we watched Michele Walton and Vanya Mullinax do a short scene from Michel’s drama, “Jane”; Jesse Holt Jr. sang Donizetti’s “Una Furtiva Lagrima”; Sherri Ellerbe recited her original poem, “A Parable of Creation”; Drew VanDyke Colby performed his original “Ballad of the Gerasene Demoniac”; Dave Stewart recited two of his original poems; Kyle Durbin and Tim Gouchenour reprised a scene from last year’s performance of “Wittenberg”; Kathleen Henderson Staudt read her poem, “Holy Spirit”; Madelyn Campbell told Luke’s story of the birth of Jesus; and Kathryn Sparks returned to dance the 100^th Psalm.

Drew VanDyke Colby,
"Ballad of the Gerasene Demoniac"

Dana Olson, "Hagar and Ishmael"

If it all sounds exhausting, it was. It was also exhilarating, funny, inspiring, touching, irreverent, tender, and moving beyond words to see so many people together, sharing their gifts and receiving one another’s offerings in a spirit of joy. There were both tears and raucous laughter,  as well as jaw-dropping astonishment at the skill and dedication the performers brought to each 3- to 5-minute piece. Like the visual art in the gallery and on the walls of Elderdice that formed a backdrop to the event, this festival of performing arts was a testament to the importance that the arts have in the life of Wesley Theological Seminary, and, ultimately, in the life of the church outside our walls.

Jeannie Murray-Kostryukov,
"Finding Your Voice"

Alexandra Crabtree, Rebecca Torres,
Kay Rodgers, Sean Smith, Paige Wheeler,
"All Creatures of Our God and King"

 

 

 

What people experienced in the Heart the Arts Festival was not sentimental, false, propagandistic “church art.” It was not a talent show. This was the real thing – art that made us think, opened our hearts, and brought us to our feet applauding, grateful for the gifts and talents that God has bestowed on members of our community, and for the hard work and energy that bring those gifts and talents into our midst.

So I want to thank everyone who read or danced or sang or played an instrument or acted a scene; and for everyone who worked behind the scenes to make it all possible. I especially want to thank Alexandra Sherman and Amy Gray, without whose tireless efforts neither the show in the gallery nor the festival would have happened. And I am grateful to everyone whose foresight and support have made Wesley a welcoming place for the arts, a place where everyone knows that the Word of God is more than words.

Heart the Arts

Megan Burd-Harris, 3-in-1 God, wire

Towards the end of 2011, the Luce Center for the Arts and Religion began to dream of Heart the Arts, a festival of the arts encompassing dance, drama, poetry, music, and biblical storytelling as well as highlighting the current show in the gallery, The Seminary Celebrates. On Saint Valentine’s Day, just a few days from now, that dream will be a reality. Not only will the Dadian Gallery foyer and Elderdice Hall be filled with the sounds and sights of performing artists in the late afternoon, but chapel that morning will include many of the same elements.

Why do we do this? Why should a theological seminary care so much about the arts?

I believe the answer is that the arts are an important part of theological education because the Word of God is more than words.

Paula Nesbitt, The Women with the Issue of Blood, mixed media

This is easy to forget, especially in a place that specializes in discursive words about God. Our students – and our faculty – read books, write papers, and give sermons, trying to clarify what we believe about God, ourselves, and the world around us. But it is easy to get so lost in the words that we forget that it is not the words of scripture, but the One is revealed to us in those words who is the true Word, the One who is not mere words, but Jesus, the Christ, the Word who existed even before creation. As those familiar verses from the opening of the Gospel according to John tell us,

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being….And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory… (John 1:1-3, 14, NRSV)

So when we say, “the Word of God” we already mean something more than just the actual words on the pages of the Bible, something more than the ordinary, literal meaning of the term, “word.” The Word of God is more than the words on the pages, more than the words we read aloud.

The arts help us remember that. The arts help us experience the presence of God in our bodies, in our emotions, in our hearts, in ways that books and scholarly papers cannot. When we feel the rhythm of the song, our hearts begin to beat as one; when the truth of story is embodied in the  actors before us, our eyes overflow with tears; when we feel the pulse of life in the poet’s verse, we know that God is present with us. It is then that we know for sure that the Word of God is more than words, and lives among us and around us and through us.

Preaching, the Lectionary, and Art

I’ve been asked to preach three sermons about art and theology at a local church, and I’m finding that as the date of the first one approaches, the task is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be when I agreed to do it. Of course, I talk about art and faith in my classes, and when I’m asked to give a talk at the Adult Education hour at a church. And I’m always happy to talk about the role of faith in my own work as an artist.

But preaching is a different kind of task. The primary purpose of a sermon is not to teach some particular subject matter. Nor is it to be a platform to talk about my own approach to art. Rather, it is to help open the Word of God to the congregation.

I do preach from time to time in my own congregation, so standing in the pulpit is not  completely unfamiliar. However, in that setting, I rarely say anything about art. Rather, I simply allow the appointed lectionary readings to speak to me, and try my best to bring what I have heard into the midst of the assembly. Since I know pretty much everyone who is there, and we are all already engaged with one another and with God in an ongoing conversation, it is simply my turn to bring the Word as I have received it.

So the question is, how do I bring my art-self and my preaching-the-lectionary-self together in one (or three) sermons? I always tell my students that, if they want to use art in a sermon, they should not simply grab any old artwork that fits the text and use it as an illustration. Instead, they should take the time to read the painting in the same way that they would read any written commentary on the text, and decide if the artwork supports or undermines their own understanding.

Now, it’s time to follow my own advice.

Artists and Liturgy

One of the books that I go to again and again for inspiration is a simple, dark gray, wirebound volume with the simple word, liturgy, running down the right-hand side of the cover in all caps. As an object, it is modest, unassuming, yet dignified. Like all good books, like all art, and like the liturgy, itself, its true glory is only revealed through repeated experience of its content.

The proper title of this work is A Sourcebook about Liturgy. Edited by Gabe Huck and published in 1995 by Liturgy Training Publications, it is a compendium of quotations about worship, art, theology, and life. Every time I open it, I find a new treasure that I had never noticed, or am reminded of one that I had once loved yet had forgotten. Here one such piece, found on page 52, in a section called “The Love of Matter.” Rembert C. Weakland, writes,

The artist has to be a bridge builder between the contemporary art world that surrounds us and our own worshipping needs. The artist has to be a bridge builder between the liturgical expressions of the past that form the very best of tradition and the prayer needs of the present. The artist also has to be a bridge builder between the realities of our secular society and the sacredness of our worship. It would seem impossible to me for anyone to fulfill that role without being a person of deep prayer and faith.

I don’t know anything about the author except that he, himself, must be a person of the kind of deep prayer and faith that he upholds as necessary to the artist who would create art for worship. When I read his words, I feel a thrill of recognition, of agreement, of delight that someone has written down what I, also, believe. In many traditions, those who make the ritual objects for the community are valued more for the depth of their faith than for their artistic excellence.

And yet, there is a counter-argument. In the last 500 years of our Western tradition, at least, artistic excellence has been considered much more important than the piety of the artist in commissioning works for the church. Consider, for instance, the infamous story of Veronese’s Feast in the House of Levi. Veronese was notorious for his licentious living, yet was considered such a good artist that he was commissioned to paint a Last Supper to replace one by Titian that had been burned in a fire. Veronese filled his huge canvas with jugglers, dwarfs, German mercenaries, and other supernumeraries. This drew the wrath of the Inquisition, who were incensed at the idea that such impious figures might have been present at the last meal that Jesus had with his disciples. Since they might have been present in the house of a tax collector, however, simply giving the painting a new title saved Veronese from punishment and the work was accepted by the friars who commissioned it.

 More recently, in the middle of the 20^th century, Father Marie-Alain Couturier invited the most renowned artists of his time to create works of art and even design entire churches even though most of them professed no faith at all and some were actively anti-religious. Although he did hope that some, at least, might be converted, his true project was to restore great art to a central role in the church. He believed that all true art – by which he meant art made by the best artists – could reveal God to the faithful. Thus, through Couturier’s influence, Le Corbusier designed the chapel of Notre Dame du Haut at Ronchamp; Henri Matisse created the Chapel of the Rosary at Vence; and Marc Chagall, Pierre Bonnard, Germaine Richter, Georges Rouault, Matisse and others contributed works to the church Notre Dame de Tout Grace at Assy.

As an artist, I was taught to revere all of these works as monuments in the Modernist tradition while looking askance at works made from a stance of faith. As a liturgical scholar, I was taught that the purpose of art in a worship space is to serve, rather than to compete with, the liturgy. Today, standing with one foot in each of those worlds, I look with double vision at any artworks I encounter in a place of worship. I ask, Is it good art? Is it good theology? Does it serve the liturgy? I rarely ask about the faith of the person who made it. Maybe I should.

Surprises Ancient and Modern

Sant' Apollinare in Classe

It’s a new year, and I have returned from my travels with my heart and eyes filled with wonders. Just before Christmas, I was in Ravenna, finally seeing with my own eyes the astonishing 6^th century mosaics that I first learned about in art school, more than 30 years ago. Although I often tell my students that seeing an artwork in person is different from any photograph or digital representation, I was still unprepared for the overwhelming experience of standing in the nave at Sant’Apollinare in Classe and looking up at Jesus as the Good Shepherd, surrounded by all those strange-looking sheep. The green of the grass shading into the gold of heaven is more brilliant than I ever imagined, and I was completely unprepared for the enormous size of the nave, which was built to accommodate the entire population of Classe in 549, when it was built.

Galla Placidia

I also did not anticipate the golden stars and deep, blue lapis sky shining out of the relative darkness of the tiny Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. Of course, I had seen photos of the Good Shepherd mosaic, and the one that is identified as Saint Lawrence, but those photos never give a sense of how small the room is, or where they are in respect to one another.

San Vitale, just a few steps across the lawn from Galla Placidia, held a different kind of surprise: while the mosaics on the apse walls and ceiling look as fresh as they did the day the stones and glass were placed, the vault over the nave is painted with baroque swags indicating that the building was in use as an active church for at least a thousand years. That’s not something they taught me in art school!

Sant'Apollinare Nuovo

Of course, no trip to Ravenna is complete without visits to the Arian and Orthodox baptisteries and to Sant’Apollinare Nuovo, but I’ll write about them another time. Today, I want to end with the most surprising thing that I saw in that ancient and modern town. There is one site that is not mentioned in the standard art history books. It is in the little church of San Francesco, which still seems to have an active congregation. Mostly, the church is quite plain. 

The Holy Family under the chancel at the Basilica of San Francesco in Ravenna

But the guidebooks mention a 6^th century mosaic pavement, now sunken beneath the water table, but still visible through a window under the chancel. The pavement is not as spectacular as the famous walls and ceilings in other buildings, because it was meant to be walked upon, but it is worth visiting. At all times of the year, apparently, goldfish swim happily in the water above the ancient floor. At Advent and Christmas, however, there is another wonder. Someone has placed a rowboat between the columns, and there, in the rowboat, are Joseph and Mary, inviting us to share their wonder at the Christ Child, nestled in a basket of hay at their feet.

Advent Blessings

The other day, I picked up a print at the Washington Printmaker's Gallery, upstairs from Pyramid Atlantic in Silver Spring. I bought it several weeks ago, when I was taking those printing classes I mentioned in an earlier post, but I had to wait for the show to be over before I could take it away.

The print is by Pauline Jakobsberg, whose work I have been following for a number of years, ever since she had a show, A Story to be Told, here in our own Dadian Gallery.  The piece is called "Life in the Mountains", and refers to her late husband's time in the Altiplano many years ago. A small, golden-toned square floats against a mottled, gray field, separated from it by a narrow black band. Within the square, a few broken lines suggest a man wearing a tall hat, but it's hard to make out what is happening.The wind blows the snow in every direction, and I think I can make out a hand or a foot, but then I think that I must be mistaken. Maybe it's only a rock or a distant peak. It's all like a dream, or a memory that I can't quite catch hold of.

The year that is coming to an end right now feels a bit like that, too. I can't quite make out the shape of those moments that loomed so large last summer, or remember if I actually kept the resolutions that I made so confidently at the turn of the year. In the rush to finish everything at the end of the semester, I lose track of time, of what I was going to do next, of what I was thinking about just a moment ago.

That's about right for Advent, I think. Advent is a time to prepare for what is coming, not for looking backward. While I grade end-of-term projects and tie up all the loose ends of the semester, I wait for Christ to emerge from the maelstrom and guide me on the paths of peace.