Category Archives: brokeness

sparks rising, then what remains

An ancient philosopher once stated that “man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.” His was an observation based on hard won experience, evaluated carefully, critically. We’re told that ancients were ignorant and primitive, that our evaluations now are much more advanced and sophisticated. Moderns consider such a statement about man’s bent toward trouble as nonsense, for we are making utopia (don’t you know) we can do it, yes we can. Yet such projections are faith statements that have no reliability. To project that our efforts will build what human history has yet to see is an exercise in folly at the very least.

I see sparks. They are brilliant and captivating for a moment, then they are gone.
And (if this brooding thought goes beyond my own campfire) what will then remain?

In the 8th century BCE, a well regarded Hebrew prophet recorded a 66 chapter oracle that covers the globe, detailing events centuries ahead of him that he could not have known. For believers this is not difficult. God spoke through this man. Here is just one fragment: “For the mountains may be removed and the hills may shake, but My lovingkindness will not be removed from you, and My covenant of peace will not be shaken, says the Lord who has compassion on you.” The Psalmist echoes this word. “Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change and the mountains slip into the heart of the sea.”

True faith is not mindless religious duty, but rather a response of trust in something reliable.

God has made many promises. He alone is ultimate reliability. What remains then is Him: His character, His covenant agreement of peace (now in the heart, later, on the ground), and His compassion on me. If these are words only to you, I invite you to explore His reliability.

My watercolor piece above is a response to His breaking promise in Isaiah 54:10.
The British thinker Malcolm Muggeridge added this:
“As Christians we know that here we have no continuing city, that crowns roll in the dust and every earthly kingdom must sometime flounder, whereas we acknowledge a king men did not crown and cannot dethrone, as we are citizens of a city of God they did not build and cannot destroy… precisely when every earthly hope has been explored and found wanting, when every possibility of help from earthly sources has been sought and is not forthcoming, when every recourse this world offers, moral as well as material, has been explored to no effect, when in the shivering cold the last faggot has been thrown on the fire and in the gathering darkness every glimmer of light has finally flickered out, it’s then that Christ’s hand reaches out sure and firm. Then Christ’s words bring their inexpressible comfort, then his light shines brightest, abolishing the darkness forever.”

Blinded by the limits of sight

An artist, explaining her work at an opening, spoke of a biologist whose important research informs her imagery. I was moved by how she described her loss when her scientist friend died; she paused and simply said “. . . so much knowledge. . .gone”. Her sadness wafted into the room, while her work hung behind her carrying the synopsis.
For me, this was a moment of seeing.

This week we learned that another man, with a trove of skill in his head is now also gone. The loss is incalculable. Our friend had unusual gifts in ancient languages and was investing his passion training others in Asia. A motorcycle accident, seeming so random, snuffed out his life. “so much knowledge, so much to give . . .gone.” No one can repeat what this man did. His students will take up what little they caught and try. A few may carry the synopsis.
For me, this is a moment where I am blind again.

How does one measure a life, any life?
This depth of value is so much more than simple breath, or years lived. I remember when I held the lifeless body of an hours-old child. We were pierced through with grief. This little girl had no time to realize embedded skills and passion. We were robbed of her, the whole world was robbed of her, before she could even try.
Death is a cruel thief, snatching intrinsic value we hardly can speak of. This is why tears come. We cannot hold it in, something leaks out, this is too much for us. This pause at grief is where what is seen blinds us to anything beyond. We cannot settle well with what is unseen.

The Psalmist, carrying the same question, blurts several times, “What is man, that you (God) are mindful of him?” (Psalm 8) The writer is wrestling with wonder, at unseen value. “. . .that Thou dost take knowledge of him. . .that Thou dost care for him?” Important men, and unknown men have this value, tiny baby girls hold within them this inestimable value, even though each “is like a mere breath, his days like a passing shadow.” (Psalm 144).

image above: “Notes from the Miocene (turtle)” by Suzanne Stryk, 11″ x 8″, 2007. Used by permission of the artist. See more of her work here>http://www.suzannestryk.com

ascent attempt

The Psalms of Ascent are a particular progression found in Psalm 120-134. Sometimes called the Psalms of Degrees, these 15 declarations were memorized and sung as pilgrims stepped their way up to Jerusalem for the festivals appointed earlier by Moses. I am not Jewish. But I have long been interested in these songs and what they reveal to any God-seeker about significant forward movement in any true spiritual journey.

There are patterns here that are fascinating. The 15 have several groupings in a sure progression. There is a rhythm that continues unabated even through the seeming randomness, and in some cases desperateness of human trial that is spoken of in the Psalmist’s language. The imagery is a rich and meaningful minefield. The collection repeatedly speaks to the past, the present and the future. It is actually a recipe for hope, and a picture of the concerns of an enlarging heart.

Ascent Attempt What I am posting today image-wise is a little embarrassing. I did this in 2002. It is a rather large piece: 3’x2′, laid down originally with acrylic. I was ambitiously hoping to put into imagery what I see happening in this collection of Psalms, but critiquing my own attempt, this is brash looking, really uninteresting visually, too direct. For these reasons and others this piece sat hidden behind much else for the last 13 years.

Thinking about this progression of ascent again however, and studying the Psalms further, I decided I had to rework this attempt–to go right on top of it. Already the piece here viewed is much different (thank goodness–necessity becomes the mother. . .).

I worked on it all day yesterday and I have much more to do before I will show the finish. It is turning into a subtle landscape. I hope to veil the progression, while also making it more vital, hoping to articulate the wonder in these steps of inner and outer ascending. I am committed to it now.

Grace Moving

Yesterday as I was driving, the BBC was on my radio with more details about the despair of nations. I have not watched the video of a man’s beheading, and I will not. But I have seen enough still shots. And I was hearing on the radio the voice of a mother pleading for another son who is being held captive. These killers have power for a time. What interests me is that they are keeping their heads covered. If they truly believe that what they are doing is right. . . then why are they hiding behind face masks? It would be good to think about that.

This is what I know. God (if He is true, by definition, to His name) is not absent. He is aware and He is moving. The same Master Creator who hovered over chaos many times before and from the beginning, is at work still. I am hearing those stories too, but they don’t make the main press outlets. They will not.

This image, which is the last in a 4 part series (still hanging at the Reece Museum on ETSU’s campus) is a visual glimpse. There are two parts to it’s form: a wispy cloud-like from in the upper horizon, and a more grounded darker mass. Both these forms show movement in one direction, and they are moving together that way. The bottom form is enclosed, and seems to be a holding place that is dynamic and not completely shut. This is a picture of fearful grace. Fear must come first for grace to even be a topic of concern. Both these ideas are glimpsed here. I could say more. I would be interested in how this image affects viewers who may well see more, or who may see what I did not intend as this gets viewed and judged and passed over as part of the public record. For me, as I made this, and as I still muse on what dried in front of me with the inks settling: this is a glimpse of hope that still hangs in time.

As the BBC carried on, I looked up and noticed the cloud forms far above the highway. Wispy and delicate they were, so beautiful, so available for any to enjoy with just a glance in their direction. The view settled my heart, and aided my prayers so that I could keep on moving.

Character of Good vs. Evil

To have a sense of character, one has to spend some time observing and experiencing. We make decisions on character based on what we see, sometimes quickly, sometimes considerably. When someone then does something “out of character,” we state our surprise according to a prior set of expectations, coming out of some kind of history. Shift to the realm of ideas. When it comes to knowing or recognizing what is good and what is truly evil, it seems to me that we have lost our way. We have given up caring to know. Discernment is hard to find in a culture which denigrates any reflective judgement.

I decided to name these two pieces (last post and this image). “The Nature of Evil” and “The Nature of Good” because of their complete contrast in visual character. These two serve as a primer, using symbolic imagery to introduce the notion that there are two material poles: one is good, the other is fearfully evil. And if this reality is even remotely true, being alert to the character of these poles would be a significant pursuit.

The first image, that of evil, called Abaddon, is dominant and encroaching, seemingly boundless and fearful. The second image is much quieter, gentle but life-giving, boundaried but free. It penetrates the ground rather than taking it over. And it is rimmed by this mysteriously fragile red enclosure. When I made this second image it was after studying some illuminated manuscripts from a book a friend had given me. The first image, as I wrote earlier, took over when I made it, surprised me, troubled me. But it seemed necessary to consider. This second image was planned more carefully, but its making also involved some serendipity. I used a brayer to lay down the veils of blue watercolor, loving the delicate surprise in the markings that resulted, and that were still “in character” with the quiet beauty of good.

This from Art & Fear, p.103 “What Science bears witness to experimentally, art has always known intuitively–that there is an innate rightness to the recurring forms of nature.” If you are able, please come see these pieces along with work from several other fine artisans at the Reece Museum on campus of East TN State, until September 12th, 2014.

Achor

Achor, a Hebrew place name, literally means “disturbance”, or “trouble” for the town named with this word was in a border valley toward the wilderness that was often vulnerable. There was a reason in Israel’s past why the town was originally named “trouble”, and there is reason given by the prophet Isaiah for the future when the town will no longer be a place of trouble. But between that past and our future there is the plodding forward in our own valleys of trouble. We seem to have many of these valleys, and they seem to be claiming more of the landscape of our souls. Do you sense the growing dis-ease? Many I know are forcing smiles while privately worrying. The times we are in are remarkable. A plane goes missing in Malaysia and is immediately assumed the casue when a building explodes in New York. People are on their edges.

Hosea, another Hebrew prophet spoke of Achor too. He proclaimed that God was saying that for those whom He/God would draw out into Achor, that the place of trouble would become “a door of hope” (Hosea 2:15). What is happening on the ground, that you see and you feel is not the only reality working. In fact there is a super reality working even as I type. And it was working as I painted this piece. I started this panel in 2012, and it sat as an idea but an unresolved composition. I had to sit with it, not despise it, consider it and wait. Then this Fall, after seeing another visual prompt that moved me, in a burst of action my own work came to completion. I knew immediately when it was done.

plotting next steps

Unusually tired today, but thinking ahead. I was exhorted this summer about the need to draw every day and I am aiming to. I have minimized drawing as facile, but am reconsidering that dismissive attitude. Drawing is an easy entry, but important exploring that sets the stage for way more considered painting. I whipped out several large monotypes earlier this month and I think the drawing may have set the better stage for that. More to come.

Embodied wonder

A friend of mine took a shot of a sculpture while in Lisbon, a bleeding Christ. The image has had me thinking.

Like the transmission of real physical color to pixels (last post) we have difficulty grasping the deep significance of that which this wooden image represents. As a young adult, this event: Jesus being hung up to die was sorry failure. At best, Jesus to me was a good man taken down.

What I missed was that he had laid himself down, that this excruciating choice was seminal to his whole long prefigured rescue plan. Something significant gets lost in translation. We see politely, but are blind. In fact, agnostic presuppositions, or even religious inoculations often prevent us from appreciating this single greatest act of love ever accomplished. Think of it: the Creator submitting to the scourging and the bindings of mortals. Can you name for me any other god who gave up his life, in ransom for his subjects? You simply cannot, for there is no other, and we would never have dreamed up such a preposterous idea. ‘God would never do that’, we say confidently (as if we know what God will and will not do). Maybe like me your first instinct is rejection at such condescension. Yes. We would not do that.

The attempt above his head, in this sculpture, to represent his deity is lame to me. It is to my eyes a pastiche, like some misplaced party decoration. But I wonder, how would one show such a holy free-fall from deity into dust? The blood that one dark day was very real however, it was not a dramatic effect. It was bright and pulsating with the perfect purity of God Himself. Maybe this is what moves me most in this piece. The blood was red and sticky, messy as it was mixed with DNA that tied back to Abraham, back to Adam. . .and even also back to God. The blood did not rise in some holy cloud of exemption; it was subject to gravity and fell, like we all do, to earth. His flesh was warm like ours is, until He gave up his last breath. His character was on display all the way through. Only a few had the courage to open their eyes to the desperate wonder, and even they were not “getting” what was happening before them. Only a few still care to consider now. We whizz by, not noticing the emergence of deep hope here.

If God really did this, in a physical body, what does this say to me, in my body, which is vulnerable, graying and frail?

If God loved this perfectly, this selflessly, can I ignore this in my own attempts to make life work?

If God could do this in hope toward the coming resolution of all things (true justice coming), then what on earth or in heaven am I afraid of?

“God made Jesus who knew no sin to become sin on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” 2 Corinthians 5:21

Selah

A good portion of my work is an intuitive response, rapidly laid down. This does not mean that the result seen on paper was altogether quick, though if you had watched this piece and others being birthed out of the press you might think so. What is visible is an end product of a long term simmering from my mind and spirit and body. The thoughts that collide toward and then into a particular working day, the prayers that have been raised and linger as I work, and the arms and legs that labor this forward are mine. But I live influenced and challenged in time by much around me; and that can be seen here too. Of particular note is an apprehension regarding the mystery of beauty. Add to this: mourning over so much that is broken. And finally, every piece I craft comes out from a long term feeding in the words of Scripture that continually ground and then lift me.

The word “Selah” for example is used often in the emotive expressions found in the book of the Hebrew Psalms. The word seems by its usage to be a deliberate pause for pondering. “Pause and think of that!” is how the Amplified version translates “Selah.” It is a call therefore from the penitent to other listeners. We stand together on ground that is broken, but some of us are looking up and leaning forward, yearning for His appearing.

This piece is presently hanging at the Barrington Center for the Arts at Gordon College in Wenham, MA. “Selah” was juried into a show for the monotype guild of New England’s 3rd National Exhibition. It will be up from February 23rd to April 6th.

mercy’s purpose

It came off the page this morning: “I have kept silent for a long time, I have kept still and restrained Myself, (this is God speaking, timeless in time) Now like a woman in labor I will groan, I will both gasp and pant. . .” (Isaiah 42:14).
Long have I been fascinated with this prophet Isaiah who allowed himself to be an authentic mouthpiece for God’s intentions. I first heard of Isaiah from a lecture in college. This ancient Jew was unique in his multifaceted and very far-reaching vision through time. Isaiah was like an artist, one who saw the peaked mountaintops in a landscape, squished from God-dimensionality into a 2D representation. One can’t make this stuff up, it is too big, too beyond human ability. I tried to study Isaiah when a new Christian, but he was too dense. . . I keep going back to him for more understanding. Christ quoted from Isaiah more than from any of the other prophets, and He knew them all well. The words of the prophets are like echoes that keep resounding in the caves we are living in here. We do well to pay attention.

Yesterday, I worked on a piece, trying to finish it (and be done with it, frankly). It was unresolved, hanging there troubling me for its ugliness. I think I am done with it now; at least it is resolved compositionally. I still pretty much hate it for it is so dark, but I felt I had to complete it somehow. Then my husband came home and told me the news he had heard on his truck radio. My hand went to my mouth, as he choked back emotion and we both staggered to take it in. I cannot take this in: another slaughter of innocents. Child bodies, and blood, and horror. There are people now grasping for political solutions. Isaiah did not begin to see well until political solutions were exposed as dead, and then he finally would see God. You can read about that in his 6th chapter.

This piece is called “Mercy’s Purpose.” I feel I am to put it out there. This is not a display of ability as much as it is the cry from my own heart. I am as much a mess as the jerk in the mid-ground who is railing at/reaching toward God. But God is merciful. (A lot of religious people mouth that God is merciful, hoping that if they say it enough times, maybe it will be true.) You only know that God is truly merciful when you will risk getting to know Him. I do not know how much more time we will have to dally around in our caves. Open the Book and read. Jesus repeated Isaiah’s warnings, saying that labor pains would come. He also said He (Jesus and no other) would be coming back. The key is not the mess we are, or the mess we are in; the key is that He is the key. Ask Him to help you. Isaiah too cried out and learned: He is Merciful, but He is getting ready to move out.

hope seen

Recently we returned from a once-in-a-lifetime celebration (40 years married!) in London and the British countryside. There was so much to see, enjoy and think about that I found myself writing 13 poems on the flight home, next to my sleeping husband. The low point of the things discovered was at the celebrated Tate Modern, what a sorry disappointment! They did not have displayed what I had hoped to see there, and instead had a shambles of selections in a warehouse kind of a space. It was as if the emperor had been discovered naked and malnourished.

This timeline, which stretched way farther, illustrates the fragmentation of hope and ideas, like shrapnel, that have occurred since WW2. Surely both wars in the 20^th century set the ground for much despair in worldview. And the art, especially in Europe that came after, illustrates that. The only interesting work was where a few, like Joseph Beuys faced despair, and articulated it with intelligent concern. Despair alone multiplies despair however, and even more fragmentation. We could not wait to get out of there, actually.

This set us up however to go back over to Trafalgar square, where we had learned earlier there was a concert at St. Martin in the Fields. Oh, what a respite that was! This church has a vibrant understanding of its mission in that city. The concert, mostly Handel, was superb. The sanctuary is where Handel played his first recital in 1726! The crypt below was well arranged for feeding the crowds who come to this place. And they had several art shows going on down there and above that were astoundingly interesting. One grouping, “Odyssey,” was a series of wooden figures done by a Brit of Polish ancestry who, in his search for spiritual roots went back to the land and the trees among which his mother walked as she migrated through the horror of the war. The figures stand as sentries overlooking the diverse crowds in the square beyond the church. They are a silent warning. The other show we loved was “110Faces,” which was a collection of photo portraits of common and not so common Londoners. It was a celebration of the uniqueness, and the amazing victory of diversity in the human image of God that we all are.

And on the portico was a sculpture that was compellingly moving, illustrating John’s gospel chapter 1:1 and verse 14: “and the word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory. . . ” This tied it all together. Though the despair is ever present and remains, His indwelling is the reason there is hope of any substance, and ideas that are worth illustrating.

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape