Alison Saar: Still at the David C. Driskell Center

Alison Saar, Hankerin' Heart

Last Thursday, I drove across town in rush hour traffic as a spectacular downpour sent huge streaks of lightening flashing across the sky. I was trying to get from my office to the David C. Driskell Center for the Study of the Visual Arts of African Americans and the African Diaspora in time to hear Alison Saar talk about the extraordinary, enigmatic, moving, works in her exhibition, Still. Rushing up the back stairs nearly an hour after the reception was scheduled to start, I was sure that I was too late. So I was delighted to her her amplified voice as I walked into the spacious gallery, which was filled with so many visitors that it was hard to see either the artist or the art.

Alison Saar, Black Lightening

As I was to soon discover, Saar had just begun to talk about the eleven sculptures that were scattered around the room, filling it with their energetic presence. The first, near the entrance, was a strange-looking contraption consisting of a mop; a low stool; a bucket, two boxing gloves made out of glass; and an assortment of wires, pipes, and machinery, including a hand-operated pump. The boxing gloves were filled with water that had been dyed red, to resemble blood. As the artist demonstrated, working the pump causes some of the red fluid that is in the bucket to move up through the pipes into the boxing gloves, so that it spills out over the wrists and falls back into the bucket. As Saar pointed out, Black Lightening uses the images of boxing gloves and blood to evoke the violence of many professional sports; while the closed circuit of red fluid suggests the limited and limiting choices between entertainer and janitor that society offers to the young, Black men who are given little education and less hope. This does not, of course, exhaust all the possible interpretations of this piece -- the artist's thoughts are only the beginning of the conversation.

Alison Saar, Weight

Young, Black women are often similarly limited in their life choices. In Weight, Saar balances the sculpted figure of a young, nude, Black woman sitting on a swing against shackles, boxing gloves, pots and pans, a scythe, and other objects suggesting domestic labor or work in the fields. In describing her process of working on this piece, Saar mentioned that she has been criticized for insisting on making images about the injustices suffered by African-Americans, since she looks as though she is a White woman of privilege. What these critics seem to ignore is that Saar, herself, is a person of mixed race. And even if she were not herself of African heritage, Saar feels keenly that injustice to one is injustice to all.

Alison Saar, Hankerin' Heart (detail)

Justice, however, is not Saar’s only issue. The awkward, leggy cast bronze sculptures called, collectively, Hankerin’ Heart are three meditations on the universal desire to feel loved.  Mosey, Hincty, and Gimpty (I never quite figured out which is which) are variations on the theme of having one’s heart exposed, naked, vulnerable. Each one is about the size of a human being, if that human being were reduced to nothing but nerves, blood vessels, and longing. At certain angles, the torn, scarred, sewn-together hearts resemble faces, scrunched down between hunched shoulders, yet peering out hopefully. Haven’t we all felt like that sometimes?

Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion, part 2

Cynthia Angeles, "Grief", oil on linen, 31" x 25"

A few days ago, I attended the opening reception for the Watergate Gallery portion of Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion. Owner and Curator Dale Johnson showed the work of 33 artists. Of course, Cynthia Farrell Johnson and Helen Zughaib, as the instigating spirits of the show, were represented, but since their work is so familiar to me, I spent most of my time looking at works by artists who are new to me.

Nancy Frankel, "Lemmings", paint and toy cars, 54" x 60"

As is true at the Dadian Gallery, a group show like this one shows many different, idiosyncratic interpretations of the theme. Some works, like Nancy Frankel's whimsical, yet insightful, "Lemmings", reflect stressful situations or the multiple demands of everyday life. Others, like Cynthia Angeles's balanced, harmonious, luminous, yet somber "Grief,"respond to the image of "Our Lady" with images of women weighed down by burdens named and un-named. Still others, like Alfredo Ratinoff's "42 Icons for the Relief of Exhaustion," offer respite in references to the past, suggesting that it is not only modern life that drives us to the brink of giving up. As Ratinoff writes,

Alfredo Ratinoff, "42 Icons for the Relief of Exhaustion",
glass and litho transfer

The idea of the 42 icons for exhaustion relief was conceived with many of the stories that I have used all my years as an artist: Romeo and Juliet, Helen of Troy, Adam and Eve, Aphrodite, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Turandot, Tristan and Isolde, Aida, and others. These are not icons in the traditional religious sense, but are icons in their own right in that they represent various literary, epic, and historical themes that over the course of human history have brought us respite when we have felt exhausted or were on the verge of giving up. They remind us of the best in ourselves. I believe that icons have a very strong spiritual power that can help to bring us back to ourselves. However, even icons need inspiration and often were spurred on through the influence of a muse. Interspersed in this collection are a series of muses, exemplifying their positive relationships with these icons. In the midst of all of these characters and stories lies Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion, her life a thread that has run through the course of each of these tales and in the story of each of our lives.

Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion is one exhibition in two venues. With nearly sixty works by almost as many artists, this collaborative effort probably increased the fatigue level of its curators by a considerable amount. By inviting so many artists and audience members to think about the same subject, it also increased the sense of community and mutual support, reminding us all that, no matter how exhausted we may be, we are all in this strange and wonderful world together.

Towards Ontario

Jeffrey Lewis, Towards Ontario/mirus caelum I,
encaustic on linen, 1998

Christ Pantocrater
encaustic, 6th century. Sinai

In 2004, Jeffrey Lewis spent a few months in the Center for the Arts and Religion studio, patiently laying tiny dabs of hot, colored wax onto a stretched, linen canvas. In his quiet, patient presence, time seemed to stretch into eternity. Even when I stood watching for what seemed like a very long time, nothing much seemed to change on the canvas. Yet, when I came back the next day, or after a weekend away, the image would be transformed.

Mummy portrait of a young woman,
encaustic, 3rd century, Louvre

The technical name of Lewis’s favored medium is “encaustic.” This slow, demanding way of working has its origins deep in the past. Some of the earliest icons that have been preserved at St. Catherine’s Monastery on Mt. Sinai, like the much-reproduced icon of Christ Pantocrater, were made in this way. Art historians link such images to the even earlier portraits made in Egypt from the first century BCE through the third century CE. Often called Fayum mummy portraits, they were painted on boards that were attached to the linen wrappings covering the faces of the deceased.

The works that Lewis made in our studio are not portraits, however, but skyscapes. An earlier piece, titled Towards Ontario/mirus caelum I, hangs just outside my office, where I see it every time I come in or go out.

Jeffrey Lewis, Towards Ontario/Matins, encaustic, 1998

Although Lewis used photographs as reference materials, these paintings are not copies of any particular photograph, nor records of any particular moment in time. Rather, they are built up from memory and imagination. These delicate evocations of sky and land glow with an inner light. Their deeply textured surfaces reveal meticulous observation coupled with a keen sense of abstract relationships, creating a sense of mystery and of deep familiarity. In looking northwards, towards Ontario, Lewis invites us into a meditation on color and form, and to join him in wonder as he contemplates the vastness of God’s creation.

Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion

Cynthia Farrel Johnson,
Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion, mixed media 2012

When Cynthia Farrell Johnson gave us her mixed-media piece, Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion, at the end of her year as Artist-in-Residence, all I could do was laugh. Here was a woman with downcast eyes, a serene expression, and her hands in a position of prayer, but her hair was standing on end while all around her little girls played and cried, pages ran out of the copier uncontrollably, and one man stood expectantly behind her with a wry, amused smile while another proffered flowers with worried, apologetic eyes. Meanwhile, offerings of canned goods and fresh fruit piled up on the table in front of her, along with boxes that might contain cake or chocolate or some other sweet surprise. Who in our busy, multi-faceted, multi-tasking society hasn’t worshipped at the shrine of Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion?

For Cynthia, just one artwork wasn’t enough, however. Along with her friend, Helen Zughaib, she proposed a collaborative effort with the Watergate Gallery, a commercial gallery and frame shop in the notorious Watergate complex on the banks of the Potomac River. For the next few weeks, through early October, artists’ interpretations of the patron of all who work too hard and rest too little will be on display in the Dadian Gallery and at the Watergate. Since the Watergate part of the show doesn’t open until September 7, I will have to wait to see it before I can say anything about what  gallery owner Dale Johnson has put together. Today, I will just say “congratulations” to Dadian Gallery curator Trudi Ludwig Johnson (I don’t think Trudi and Dale are related!) for this group of strange and wonderful embodiments of our collective fatigue.

As much as I would like to write about every single piece in the show, I will show you only one more piece, since I hope to entice you to come and see the rest for yourself. Perhaps the loveliest, and certainly the most enigmatic, is Helen Zughaib’s Veil of Dreams. In 2005, the Dadian Gallery exhibited Helen’s poignant, precise, and vibrant paintings exploring her father’s stories. As the curator of that show, I wrote

Helen Zughaib’s complex, jewel-like, gouache-on-board paintings, selected from her series, Stories My Father Told Me, reveal a world of memories and dreams in which horses and cattle graze near old men telling stories, maidens bear water jugs on their heads, and children carry candles as tall as they are in the Palm Sunday procession. The traditions and customs of this world, that of Orthodox Christian Arabs, are unfamiliar to most Americans, but are the stuff of Zughaib’s own childhood memories as well as her father’s tales. The flattened perspective and dense patterning of these narrative images remind the viewer of Persian miniatures or magic carpets, evoking a sense of loss that colors the bright, joyful sweetness with sorrow. [http://www.luceartsandreligion.org/gallery/2004-2005/memoryandstory.htm]

Helen Zughaib,
Veil of Dreams, gouache on board, 2013

Veil of Dreams, like these earlier works, is painted in gouache on board, but is much more restrained. Here, the bright eyes and forehead of woman peek out through a thin scrim, the rest of her body entirely hidden beneath a veil of pink, white, and purple dots. On closer inspection, the veil reveals itself as the flowering branches of a single tree which glows against the flat, black background, and the woman recedes like a mirage or a dream. When I look at it, I think of the phrase “Arab Spring” and all the hopes that sprang up as people all over the Middle East began to protest against tyrants and oppressors, and how many of their dreams have now turned into nightmares. I think also about women who write of feeling empowered rather than oppressed when they wear the veil. One of them is Umema Aimen, who wrote this for the Washington Post blog, She the People:

Hijab, for me, is a way of rejecting the culture that wants to characterize me by the angles and curves of my body…. You see, the whole point of a burqa is to de-sexualize the way people think of me. I do it to defy the male gaze and force people to see me for my intellect and my abilities…. My hijab never stopped me from traveling across the world, or participating in long hiking trips or being a professional at work. My mother covers her entire body, except her hands and feet, but that did not hinder her from becoming a philanthropist and a shrewd businesswoman.["Dear Lady Gaga, 'Burqa" sends the wrong message," Washington Post, August 19, 2013]

For Aimen, the burqa seems to function for Muslim women in the same way a suit does for men. It acts like a neutral uniform, freeing the wearer to think and act without reference to what her body is doing. Of course, not everyone agrees with Aimen, which is part of the power of Veil of Dreams. Who is dreaming here, the woman or those who project their ideas and desires upon her image?  Is she bound by the veil, or does it free her to dream? 

Our Lady of Perpetual Exhaustion has evoked many other powerful, enigmatic images that raise equally perplexing questions about women’s roles and activities, and about how all of us, men and women alike, worship at her shrine. If you cannot get here to see the show, read about it on our web page and we’ll post some photos in our Flickr gallery soon. 

Saving the World

"I Love Typography" by Zachary
courtesy of http://ilovetypography.com/love/

Every month, I receive an email that asks nothing of me but rather brings me a very quiet, intellectual kind of joy. As those who know me well can attest, I love words and all the things that make them sing – not just poetry and elegant prose, but also punctuation, grammar, spelling, and that most subtle yet necessary of arts, typography. So when I receive my monthly reminder to visit the Chicago Manual of Style’s Q&A page, I eagerly anticipate a pleasant quarter hour reading the pithy, witty, informative replies to questions addressed to the manuscript editing department at the University of Chicago Press.

About a year ago, CMOS Online added a new feature called Shop Talk, which features interviews with copy editors, translators, indexers, and other people whose love of language helps the rest of us learn to be better writers. Yesterday, Shop Talk introduced Sara Bader, whose website Quotenik not only provides memorable quotations on a variety of subjects, but verifies their provenance. I wish I had known about Quotenik when I was writing my book. It would have saved me hours of sleuthing!

Today, however, Quotenik gave me something even more precious than accurate attributions. It gave me a poem that I can hug to my heart whenever I doubt that art is a worthy calling. Many artists, myself included, secretly fear that the hours we spend in the studio, rehearsal hall, or writing desk are a selfish indulgence, that the time we spend honing our craft and exploring our visions should instead be given to volunteering at a shelter for homeless people or marching in rallies for or against some political cause. In addition to worrying whether whatever we are making is any good, we often are beset with the fear that we are wasting time and resources that would be better spent doing something more obviously useful.


So it was with relief that I read Steven Heighton’s poem, “Some Other Just Ones”, subtitled “a footnote to Borges” as the March 23 entry on the Quotenik blog. I want to respect the author’s copyright, so I will not repost the entire poem. Instead, I will simply thank him, as well as Sara Bader, for this reminder of the delight that rises in my body like hope whenever I, like the poet, see “precious obscurios—pomegranate spoons, conductors batons, harpsichord tuning hammers, War of 1812 re-enactors’ ramrods, hand-cranks for hurdy-gurdies” or hear someone play the banjo with skill and heart. In Heighton’s evocative listing of the small moments that make life worth living, each carefully-chosen word sings the praises of those whose willingness to give themselves fully to the task at hand are, without knowing it, saving the world.

Peace and Goodness at the Portiuncula Guild

Last week, printmaker Peggy Parker and I attended the opening reception for the Portiuncula Guild. Located in the small town of Bedford, Virginia, the Guild is a community gallery and a meeting place for artists who are working at the intersection of faith, spirituality, and creative expression. It is also the site of production studios for Mitchell Bond’s fused glass and Patrick Ellis’ liturgical and devotional art. As the guild website says,

The word portiuncula (Latin for little portion and pronounced port-see-UNcle-uh) comes from a nickname of a simple church that St. Francis rebuilt with his early followers. St. Francis loved and cherished this little church because it symbolized both the simplicity of lifestyle he wanted to model for his followers, as well as the healing power of shared work and community. This little church became the birthplace of the Franciscan movement. (http://portiunculaguild.com/1/category/all/1.html)

Presence, 2013, acrylic and copper on panel.

At this first exhibition, entitled Pax et Bonum (Peace and Goodness), most of the works were by local artists (including Patrick and Mitchell, of course), with a smattering of pieces by their friends from other places. It was fun to catch up with textile artist Celeste Lauritsen and her woodworker husband Jim, whose Tree of Life Studios are located in Gettysburg;  and to see the delightful work of Mickey McGrath, even though he couldn't be there himself. In addition to Peggy's visual meditation on the Canticle of Saint Francis, and my own painting juxtaposing the wounded hand of Christ with the hand of the saint bearing a similar mark, there were many images of Saint Francis himself, others of Brother Sun and Sister Moon, and still others that were less specific but nonetheless evocative of the saint’s love of God and of God’s good creation. I wish that I had thought to take some photos, or to write down a list of the artists, but I was having too good a time taking it all in – looking at the art, connecting with old friends, and trying to remember which person had made which painting or drawing or sculpture.

Surrounded with images watered by the deep springs of a common story, and by people laughing and talking and enjoying whatever was offered, the gathering was what the church is meant to be – a foretaste of heaven. From time to time, I was tempted to put on my art-professional hat and critique the works according to the standards of the international art world, but, I am glad to report, I resisted that temptation. Instead, I reveled in the fact that so many people were gathered to celebrate and support one another in their quest to be faithful to their calling as artists and as persons of faith. With a place to gather and to share what we make, we learn from one another, honing our craft and our vision not in the spirit of competition, but rather in the midst of caring community. I like to think that Saint Francis would have been proud.

Life Stories

preparation for "My Soul Look Back and Wonder"
(photo courtesy The Theatre Lab)

Although it seems like a lifetime away, just three short weeks ago I was at a reception in Antigua, Guatemala, where one of my fellow pilgrims mentioned her connection to the Theater Lab, an important school for actors here in Washington, DC. As she began describing an event called "My Soul Look Back and Wonder" at the Kennedy Center last year, in which women from the N Street Village shelter presented monologues drawn from their own struggles with homelessness, addiction, and other issues, I said, “I wrote about that in my book, Sanctifying Art!” It was just a short reference, one of many ways I described in the chapter called “Art and the Need of the World” in which the arts help people who feel hopeless and helpless find their way towards dignity and hope.

Last night, I was privileged to join my friend and a whole lot of other people at a screening of clips documenting The Theatre Lab’s work with at-risk and incarcerated young people, senior citizens, children with physical and developmental challenges, and homeless women in recovery. With tears in my eyes, I wholeheartedly joined the overwhelming applause at the end of each segment, awed by the courage, strength, and discipline of the artists who facilitate the Life Stories workshops and of the participants who share their stories and learn how to turn them into art.

a moment from "My Soul Look Back and Wonder"
(photo courtesy The Theatre Lab)

In introducing the video clips, The Theatre Lab founders Deb Gottesman and Buzz Mauro explained that each workshop meets weekly over the course of fourteen weeks. During that time, participants learn to turn the unformed stories of their lives into scripts, and gain the acting skills to turn those scripts into moving, accomplished monologues which they perform not only for one another but for appreciative audiences of family, friends, and sometimes strangers. And because live performance – as wonderful as it is – is an ephemeral art, the entire process is documented on video, so that participants can have something tangible to take away with them, to show other people what they accomplished.

In the panel discussion that followed the screenings, Thomas Workman, an actor, drama teacher, and director who has been working with The Theatre Lab for the past five years, observed that the goal is not theater, but getting to the important stories. Nonetheless, it is the process, the learning, the disciplined engagement over time that changes lives. As incarcerated young men find their voices in drumming, dancing, and telling their stories poetically, they begin to imagine themselves into a future in which violence, drugs, and crime are less interesting than making music with others and helping to create caring, supportive communities in which others like themselves can thrive. As middle-school children act out the stories of teen-aged angst told by people 60 or 70 years their senior, both the young people and the elders find out that they are not so different after all. As women who have lost homes, families, and self-respect to the ravages of addiction learn the difference between raw emotion and carefully crafted performance, patiently try out different approaches to their material, and keep starting over when they forget their lines, they gain the confidence to continue their education, embark on careers they had never before had been able to pursue, to recover dreams that they had forgotten they had.

Life Stories Intergenerational Program
(photo courtesy The Theatre Lab)

As inspired as I was by every performance I saw, every story I heard, I was even more heartened when Buzz Mauro said, “You cannot learn this overnight.” Too often, the arts are overlooked as serious instruments of social change as well as vehicles of personal redemption. Instead of receiving the recognition that persistent, disciplined engagement over time is the only way to accomplish anything, the arts are too often relegated to some small corner of time, either treated as mere entertainment or expected to perform miracles with no funding and no long-term commitment. As the Life Stories workshops show, inviting ordinary people to develop their latent talent into genuine skills can open hearts and change lives. That’s what we try to do here at the Center for the Arts and Religion. That’s what I hope my students will take away from their courses in the arts at Wesley Theological Seminary. I feel as though I have found kindred spirits at The Theatre Lab, thanks to my friend and a chance conversation in an unexpected place.