Category Archives: hope

“add oil!”

The cries are reverberating out the windows of tall apartment buildings in Wuhan. And video is filtering out worldwide. Their pleadings are meant to be encouragement to fellow Chinese in this quarantined city of 11 million people. “Add more oil!” is a figure of speech, immediately understood in a culture that excels in creative stir-fry. One always adds oil to enhance the dish and to keep the vegetables from burning. “Add oil” is similar to what we would mean when saying in English “hang tough”, or “you can do it”. Can we? Can they? Is a shouted pep talk into the air enough?

What does one do when locked in at home, when supplies including oil and everything else are dwindling, when the hospitals are filled and dangerous? I am not frightened. I am rightly concerned. And I have been thinking for a while now about how to help newbies learn how to pray. For we need to know.

Here’s one true statement: Everyone prays. At least once in each life there is a desperate instinctual cry that goes up into thin air. Don’t tell me it’s not true. You already know it is. And if you don’t know this, you will.

Here’s another true statement: Not every prayer is effectively ‘talking to somebody’. Some cries are hopeless castings to the wind. Would you know the difference?

Still reading? If prayer is what we do, even if last resort, would it not be important to take time now to learn to do it effectively? Are random shouts out a window accomplishing much besides some attempt to hearten other citizens? Is there such a thing as really talking into God’s ear? And if there is, how does one do that even with just a whisper?

There is warning that Jesus told about this very thing. It has to do with adding oil.

After a concerned listing of signs, detailing what the end will be like before His return, Jesus eases the gravity of the situation by switching to a couple stories to emphasize their need to “be alert”. In one he paints with words a familiar Judean scene of maidens awaiting the bridegroom. The time gets long into the dark night of Jesus’ story, and when the groom finally arrives the maidens arise from sleep and trim their lamps. But the critical point of the story gets revealed at this point. Only some of the maidens were prepared with oil. In the immediacy of their need, certain ones cry out to others: “give us some of your oil!” But the prepared maidens give answer: they cannot share; they must not. Instead they instruct the unprepared maidens to go to the source for oil themselves.

In this is the first secret of prayer: Go to the Source for the oil, and start out now.

In both the Hebrew and the Greek Scriptures, oil is a reference for the protecting, softening and sustaining spirit of the living God. He is the oil. He is the source.

The image in my post is of the Ophthalmologist who first warned of the virus which now ravages his city. He has already succumbed, but according to his own testimony, he had oil for his own lamp.

time: a slow mercy

This Fall I got to see Mercury transit across our sun. Through several chubby telescopes, positioned on tripods in a field on campus, a cluster of the curious took turns. The planet was like a speck of pepper on a large egg yoke. Various scopes were set to filter the sun’s light energy so that the color of the gasses around the spherical giant reflected to the eye a different view of it: orange, red, yellow. But the movement of the dark speck did not vary. It moved in one direction. This vacant planet has a set course, slow but sure, creeping silently across the brilliant light behind it.

Mercury is near impossible to see in our skies because of its size and orbit, so this was a rare opportunity, which a knowledgeable friend had alerted me to. And, it struck me as I tried to absorb the significance, that various orbs are moving above us all the time, we just go about our business on earth hardly aware. Like gears in a vast cosmos above us, there is predictable movement. It’s a picture of time. And once we’ve passed through, that time is past, not repeatable.

This comforts me strangely. For time is a slow move. Time is time. Think of that: time means I have time. Its sure ticking gives opportunity to reflect as I breathe here, to consider, as John says in the book of Revelation “the things which you have seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall take place.” We’re living in the already/not yet place of possibilities. But what is set is set. Can you hold that in?

I offer as illustration a small piece I did last year and gave as a Christmas gift. To me these big things are better caught than taught. I wish you relief from what is past and can now be put away. I wish you a growing confidence in what is set above you as we all move now into another decade of change. Happy New Year.

look-out

Often, I am on some kind of necessary lookout, like being a watchman.

When entering any new space, the first thing I need to see is the view through the windows and beyond the confining walls. Since I was young, the wonders in landscape have drawn my eyes outward, peering horizons. In later years, the perplexities in living have moved me to abstracting what I’m seeing and thinking. An artist I’ve encountered named Ali says on his Instagram bio that “as the world becomes more scary, art becomes more abstract”. You can see the same in the trajectory of Art History. What interests me is better expressed in simplified gesture than any ‘perfected’ semblance can communicate. This is true in all my work, no matter the media. Poetry gets closer than prose.

Just yesterday I got notice that a monotype I made in 2006 got accepted into a national juried show in Cincinnati. This museum quality gallery, called Manifest, allows earlier work submissions, saying “we do not believe great art has an expiration date. Furthermore we believe that older work gains new meaning when contextualized in a new space alongside different works by different artists. Why should an exceptional work of art cease being experienced by the public once it is just a few years old? In fact, why should it ever stop being experienced? While most work submitted to our exhibits has been made within the past five years or so, sometimes works are submitted (and accepted) that are older.”

Fortunately for me, this older piece fit their current theme nicely and got selected into a small grouping of 24 pieces out of 421 entries.

My monotype, from 2006, was made with ink and solvent painted on a sheet of Plexiglas. Rice paper was then carefully placed on top of the inked Plexi, blanketed and cranked through the pressure of a flat bed etching press. The result once the paper was peeled off the plate was a reverse image from what I had laid down. It’s a landscape, obviously, but it is also abstracted and constructed with mood even in a single color. The added element of surprise as to what the press would do to the ink, and how the composition would read in reverse was part of the risk. It was a look-out moment. The drama of the result reminded me of a favorite poem by Emily Dickinson:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—

And sore must be the storm—

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chillest land—

And on the strangest Sea—

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb—of Me.

gleaning and referencing

I complimented an artist I know for the excellent job she did designing a fresh logo. She said “well, actually, I borrowed from another logo I saw and…” as if that meant she could take no credit for the unique way she remade from another idea. Her apology made me sad; she didn’t realize what she’d done! There is a huge difference between copying and referencing. The former is plagiarism/thievery/boring — the later is crafting; it’s an entire reworking from ingredients already on the table.

All unique creativity springs from other starts. Nothing we do comes from nothing. In fact it is vain (and impossible) to assume we can do otherwise. Every great artist was influenced by what some others did. You can trace it. Only God needs no reference. Only God creates matter out of nothing before He shapes it. Only God is entirely original=out of origin. I find this simple contrast between His Creating and ours liberating, not demeaning.

We can be like the first humans in the garden, making new things. In fact, we’re commissioned to make new things, from the earth already made. We can be like Ruth, gleaning in the fields. We are all in disparate ways poor, and all in various ways hungry, as she was. The poverty and the hunger can be motivators. And it’s ones, like her, who go out and energetically glean from the leftover bits at the corners of existing fields who have something “new” to share with others. Here is an example from an articulate painter I know.

And here is one example of a reference for me. I found this tree in Mainz just recently. The context when this was captured, was loaded with wonderful conversation, sweet family and a slow walk though a charming town. This is just one of lots of references I recorded from that day. I thought the bark shapes were interesting, and maybe or maybe not will I use them as a start. The palette: this particular set of colors, is the better set of ingredients for me however. I might use them. Aren’t they beautiful! Thanks to the Creator for making such a lovely Sycamore tree, upon which I can possibly glean something new.

Mary Nees, artist and author of Markers; Key Themes for Soul Survival

resistance: a value or a trap

It’s a subtle thing, and lately I’ve been pondering my reasons for resisting as I’ve been examining some motivations. There are days when working or when in difficult relationships where I can feel this drag right under my skin. What is that? Time to take a careful look under my hood. And then time to study the manual. I take some care here, for resistance improperly applied can disassemble; it can destroy gradually like rust. Or, it can save lives like the firm pressing on the brake pedal when required. My difficulty (and yours) this side of Eden is discerning when resistance is good (which leads to Good) and when it is bad, leading to worse. Religions set up codes, or rulebooks to follow so one can “stay on the straight and narrow”. But creative life is much more complex than that. And in fact, in my own life there are times when “no, I wont go there” was very good, and other times when “I must face this head on”. Read Solomon on this, his words are in the middle of the Creator’s manual.

Recently I listened to a podcast by a Harvard trained Psychiatrist who now coaches artists. She does an effective job exposing the false ideas that hinder us such as “I cant” “I shouldn’t” “It’s all good” I’m all bad” (there are thousands more and we all have pet ones to which we we resort). Here’s an example “this hurts, it can’t be good for me” and I noticed I was fighting on the inside something I have no control over. Mine was not an active rebellion, but more a passive sulky resistance. Once I saw the potential in the manual for exactly this difficulty turning into something valuable I had very good reason to stop resisting and cooperate.

In my art practice, there’s often a negative resister: “I don’t have what it takes” but when I activate what I do have, little steps taken against my pet resistance can reveal something new.

Complex situations aren’t only black and white. And I’m a free agent who has the opportunity to negotiate through them: to select and to take into action. Time is one of the things I have, and materials, and a drive on the inside that I believe my Creator placed there. I’ll resist wasting these things.

Here you can see some studio exercises this week as I was thinking on all this. I started with ink. And then overlaid with oils in some more subtle values. Each one of these small maquettes could be translated to more formal work. As I still have time, I will.

“Time is what defines our lives” says Paco Seirulo, Leo Messi’s coach, on how the champion soccer player employs his brain and his legs during split second decisions.

words and specificity

We know of Van Gogh’s particularity, his struggles and his needs through the regular letters he sent to his sympathetic brother Theo. Without that written record from Vincent’s own hand, we might have guessed some by simply looking at his images. Like a blind man feeling the walls of a soul with fingers, we could have surmised from the artist’s visual leavings, but never would’ve been specifically sure of the man.

Vincent’s 2D exuberance is evident: his promiscuity with paint and brushwork, his exaggerated sometimes garish color, his bold and roiling sketches, his animated skies, his grasping cypress trees, his bandaged and somber self portrait all suggest much about this emotional man. He’s left an incredible legacy just from this record. But his letters tell more the whole of him, and our guessing gets grounded. I’ve read through the complete collection of his letters twice and referenced it often. My college copy is marked up with highlights, underlines, exclamation marks and turned down pages. I was stunned then and am still– getting close to his motivation through his own often tortured telling. His words anchor the story.

It’s the effort of articulation with words that anchors anyone’s ideas. This is where guessing has to give way. Poetry might give a fleeting suggestion. Painting or photography might allure with a silent witness. But prose leads with particularity. And it was for that reason that I thought it important to leave a record of words beyond the images I craft from my studio. My book Markers; Key Themes for Soul Survival has been out for two years now. The same motivation that moves me to paint is more specifically laid out with words. And like the paintings, my fingerprints are all over it– but it’s ultimately not about me, more about what it is that’s moving me.

facets

Gem cutters get close. They begin with raw material: rough rock-bits from the earth. They’ve been trained in sensing how to recognize potential, what signs to note from the faintest of glimmers. Not everything picked up holds promise, but in the working of the stuff sometimes there is reward. And then they cut. They don’t leave it alone either. They cut again. For it is in the facets where the value multiplies. The light dances, the shadows bend revealing color, and then someone’s breath gasps for the catching of something…

Have you ever noticed how folks sometimes put their hands to their mouths when being overwhelmed? Is it because we just know our outer expression will be paltry in the face of something much grander, or scarier, or livelier?

But I can’t stop trying. This is one of several sketches I’ve worked out recently in an effort to understand and articulate this grander thing going on. The photo images I took in May were only a beginning. Facing some cut rock I felt as if I was at the edge of a very rich mine.

And reading Jesus, I see he even deliberated out loud before his disciples about “how to picture” something which to us is only mystery. He spoke many parables, “figures of the true” that some would catch and others would completely miss. T.S. Eliot said “human kind cannot bear too much reality”

learning from some elders

I recently finished an autobiography of a little known Canadian artist: Emily Carr, entitled: Growing Pains. Emily was Canada’s equivalent of Mary Cassatt, at least in terms of era, European training and singular focus. But Cassatt never left us with such an articulate journaling of her struggle. I learned of Carr when in the Northwest of Canada last year. I’d already loved the amazing modernist landscapers of the Northern wilds called the Canadian Seven; but Carr’s name, or her work, is not usually included in general groupings amongst them.

To have come from the provincial west of Canada, not far removed from pioneering times — to endure the scoffing of family and the pursuit of suitors for her singular desire to study — then to travel to San Francisco, London and Paris so that she could get art training — and to live through Victorian attitudes, poor housing and bad health while working hard is Emily’s life. She was spirited, rebellious, sensitive and diligent and for a good portion of her mid-life she fell back in discouragement, running a boarding house back in British Columbia. It was later in life when she was recognized and included by Lawren Harris. He was one of the Seven, and insisted on including her in some exhibits back in eastern Canada. More important is the record of his thoughtful mentoring of her progress by mail. Her own articulate words tell this tale.

She says early on, having discovered her love of the woods as important to her voice: “sketching outdoors was a fluid process, half looking, half dreaming…as much longing as labour…these space things asked to be felt not with fingertips but with one’s whole self”. Then later after Harris’ encouragement: “…help was a little notebook I carried in my sketch sack and wrote in while intent on my subject. I tried to word in the little book what I wanted to say…I stopped grieving.” Lawren responded: these “represent vital intentions…unusually individual and (are) soaked with what you are after more than you realize…then we approach the precincts of Great Art—timeless—the Soul throughout eternity in essence.”

So, mentored myself by her words and his, I have started easing back into what I’m after in my own onging sketchbook. Here’s one recent entry.

for thought

It comes down on Monday, but if you are near Kingsport TN this weekend, there is still time to see a very good show at the Renaissance Center. The Appalachian Art Show for 2019 was juried by the Art Department curator at ETSU. She likes my work so I kind of expected to get in. But only one of my entries made it. The show this year is strong with a number of examples of really fine regional work. I was heartened that I got even one piece in once I took in all that did get selected.

What is striking in this year’s collection is the number of pieces that are ponderous and dark, with titles like “Premonition Destruction”, “A Blood Black Nothingness” and “Beauty Sleeps”. One landscape was a deep roiling sea with a lone raven searching for land. The best in show winner is Michelle O’Patrick-Ollis’ “Stage 4-Ressurecting Mama”. Her mother’s face is heavy with wistful thought, almost pressed right at yours on the picture plane. This is both honest and true, expressed with fugitive materials (coffee, conte and pastel) while recording the depth of hope that lives beyond this vanishing threshold.

Not all the work spoke so confidently. In fact, there is despair in the room. I feel it also out on the airwaves, and in hearts that I pray for. No wonder the artists are showing us this. Our days are hard and there is a foreboding sense, like a gray fog, which is moving in. Only the brave speak of it. Artists are brave ones. And sometimes they are like weather vanes, sensing the change happening before others can articulate it. Many artists seem to know “that the world is an uninhabitable place, temporary at best, the delicate balance between eternities…” as poet laureate Dana Gioia writes in The End.

Search his work and others who are not afraid to speak what they are pondering carefully while still offering the viewer some thoughtful hope, showing “what still matters”.

a live one

This man is Syrian. I met him last month in the sheltering nation of Jordan where he now is raising his family. Jabal* is a brother I didn’t know. I gave him my book as an encouragement for pressing on. But he encouraged me far more with his boldness, his integrity, and his active faith. We were on an adventure together and then the bus our small group was riding in almost smashed into a truck making a u-turn right in front of us, in the dark. I jolted up as we skidded and came to a sudden stop just inches from collision on the desert highway! Our shaken bus driver got lots of well-deserved applause. But Jabal went out and checked on the truck driver to try to determine ‘what in the world…!’

That driver was African, confused and now fearful that Jordanian authorities would be called. Being put in custody with no real way to engage consulate help would have been a hard sentence for that man, and Jabal knew it. We had a policeman with us already on the bus so next steps would have been immediate. But Jabal intervened; spoke to the African about Jesus and the sound/serious reason for being able to offer release. Then Jabal authorized dropping any charge. This was surprising to the policeman. This was rescuing for the African. This was ‘a day in the life’ for Jabal. This was one memory etched in my spirit.

It’s not easy a find a fellowship of earnest believers where Jabal lives, and he spoke of this. That’s another reason why I gave him the last book I brought along in my suitcase. And that’s why I still pray for him. There are active soldiers out there, and this gentle man is a real live one.

I haven’t been painting this month, my watercolor brushes stayed wrapped up in my suitcase. These words are just a sketch.

*his name is a pseudonym as there are enough non-gentlemen

synergy

There is so very often in my own practice what feels like a long incubation period before the bursting out into the open. It always takes longer than I expected to see the fruition. And then I hear this in my head “anything worth doing needs time and thought, planning and prep.” We all kind of get that. But here’s my problem: I’m impatient. I have ‘visions of sugar-plums’ or dreams of resolutions planted deeply. I don’t even know how they got there, but they’re there. Actually, I do know how they got there: lots of Bible reading and then lots of active prayer based on the clear promises I see. I get excited when I sense the glimpses. But then comes another corner to go around, another hindrance, and another disappointment. And these are incubators which take time and thought…I think maybe I just summarized my own internal life. You might see this in my work: for both the good and the bad of it all.

I bring this up for two reasons. The painting here happened quickly last month. It was kind of a surprise as I was working up several panels one day. I stood back and thought “hmmm, I may have just seen this pop to a finish. How did that happen?” The long incubators probably had something to do with it.

I was in Israel this month: a surprise trip, which also happened quickly. It was amazing in so many ways: friendships, learning, sensing the blooming going on there, some puzzles I’ve had suddenly clicking together… it was synergistic. I brought my watercolors, paper pads and brushes. They just took up space in my bag as I had not one minute to sit and use them. But oh my cameras were busy. I caught door frames and the wares of spice sellers. I caught the patterns on ancient marbles, and the blooms on a fig tree. My eyes reveled at the mustard yellows on the close hills and the sweet purply dimness on the far mountains –the planted rows of almond trees and date palms, and then had lunch overlooking the very hills where Abraham grazed his flocks. These things are all incubators. The fruition follows.

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape