Category Archives: joy

good things in the dark

Last evening we stayed too late: a Barcelona soccer game, a walk in the woods, finished with sautéed lobster tail, a watercress salad, and Chambord! I said out loud to our hosts “how come we’re so lucky?” None of us have any valid answer to that question, for the good things we enjoy are never because we deserve them, somehow earned them. My husband made a toast, remembering the words of the wise man of Ecclesiastes. And then, knowing snow was accumulating we headed home. Within a few minutes we knew we were in trouble, our light truck without chains was sliding on the unplowed roads.

It was only a quick couple inches of snow, but cars were already ditched all along our way. The interstate, a safer way to travel, was still unplowed, 25 mph at best. Stopping would mean stuck so we inched and slid along, figuring that at some point we were going to have to use our phones for help. How quickly ease of enjoyment turns to edge of our seats apprehension. And the interesting thing is that we are surprised at both: unexpected grace and also unexpected trouble. Don’t we live on ground that is constantly changing?

But we had to think forward now. We knew that if we made it to our own street we would never make it up the hill. I coached the man behind the wheel that we best park on the flat spot and walk that last way home. He is a determined man. I have been by his side over 4 decades. So we kept on going and incredibly swerved up the hill getting ready to negotiate the last turn. And there it was ahead, as if she was expecting us. Our neighbor, with the much flatter driveway had her garage door open, space made available for our truck. Her big light was on and she was beckoning us forward. We laughed again, “how come we’re so lucky?” “how come we’re not in a ditch also?” There is no good answer. And so my non-religious neighbor got out an antique hymnbook and the three of us sat at her table and sang. This is unexpected joy.

when the dust gets focused

I noticed something interesting this week when I was in Barnes and Noble. I asked the sales guy and he confirmed that they have recently changed their section heading from “Self Improvement” to “Living Your Best Life”. It seems the dust is getting more focused! This store’s general section title, to me sounds a little more humble, and a lot more realistic about what is even possible to promise now.

I see the same in a small ancient tale called “Jonah”. In this short story, the religious guy, the one who actually “fears God” is the biggest louse. The guys in the troubled ship, flailing around with their self made gods are the ones who actually pray and find their rescue first. And it’s in all the tumbling around, at the strategic initiative of a compassionate Creator, that each one in the story learns the true God’s character. He is the point; the swirling dust just fleshes out this deeper mystery.

I’ve stopped wringing my hands. I am no longer going to get exercised about what’s going down. I want to be like those guys in the boat who were the first to get focused and pray (to a God they hardly yet knew!) This is a huge excitement, because, my friends, He really hears even our feeblest cries to Him.

death dialogue

in partnership with Emily Dickinson, #976, 1864; image: Mary Nees, 2015

Death is a Dialogue between

The Spirit and the Dust.

“Dissolve” says Death — The Spirit “Sir

I have another Trust” —

Death doubts it — Argues from the Ground —

The Spirit turns away

Just laying off for evidence

An Overcoat of Clay.

expect the unexpected

Working with Chinese inks on plastic paper has been bringing some interesting surprises, the most fun when I am just loosely holding an idea while the inks behave as inks do. There are certain boundaries I set, and then there are outer boundaries at work (like gravity, and viscosity). But the fun comes in the unexpected finish. I am working together in a sort of duet with these materials, and I rarely know what is going to happen next.

I do have a plan. I need to get 17 pieces done for a showing in November. I have been studying through Emily Dickinson’s work for a couple years, just finished. And lately I have been tracking through the emotional journey of another poet and prophet: Jeremiah the Hebrew. Just today I gave a lecture to students about how Michelangelo saw himself as Jeremiah—at least he chose that singular brooding figure on which to place his own resemblance in the Sistine chapel program. And there was a lot about that project that was a huge struggle for Michelangelo. He wrote about the days when his neck hurt and the plaster was all over him, and he doubted his ability. Oh, but the results.

Time moves. It is all ground for more work to be done until that set moment when all the work is done. I love the finish. But I am learning to enjoy the stretched out surprises in time too, and part of my reason is because I am not the one in charge.

hours and hours

In early morning dark, I was driving my friend to a hospital in another city. We’d been given some pretty clear directions and told it was simple, so off we went. Toward the end of our journey, our eyes focused for the landmarks (in the disruption, neither of us had our “devices”). Ok, we passed the Walgreens where we turn. Ok, we’re supposed to go over this bridge. Ok. . . so where is the next turn, did we miss it? We both leaned forward in our seats, the car ambling forward into the dim. Another couple blocks and we saw a blue hospital sign, then down a hill, around a corner and it felt like maybe we were approaching the right vicinity. Soon: lights, cameras, action.

On the way out, hours later, we retraced our route to get back to the interstate. This part is why I am telling the story: the time to travel out was eons shorter than that long and ponderous earlier drive! How could this be? It was the same exact path of streets we took coming in. But our experience of time was completely different in the reverse direction. We both were startled by this and it got me thinking.

Time seems to be an elastic thing, even as it ticks with a measurable rhythm. Sometimes as I lie in bed at night, I can feel and hear in my ears the beat of my own heart in a predictable rhythm that is beyond my control: pump. pump. pump. I can manipulate some variance in the count of those beats: get excited and they move faster, focus on relaxing and they settle down, but I cannot stop the beats, nor do I want to. Time moves like this in a set program; I cannot ultimately change it’s progress or it’s pace. As I move through time however some things feel quick and some things feel terribly, terribly slow. Certainly the moments looking for the hospital as we examined every sign and longed for every turn were experienced by us as LONG. But on the way out, hearts lifted, day shining and mission accomplished—the entrance to the interstate was so quick it was entirely startling.

Here’s why this informs me: I am awaiting the arrival of Jesus, as He promised. I am moving along looking for His signs. He said the way was simple and just ahead. But it is dim out there where I am traveling now. I will keep going forward. His way is sure. It’s the time thing that has me at the edge of my seat.

So, is it my experience in time, awaiting His arrival that makes it seem LONG? Is it the heartstopping events that make the pace seem to stagger, and the exciting parts make it seem to speed up? This much is clear: time may be subjectively experienced, yet it remains a measured finite resource that moves in one direction only. This video I shot was on a blustery afternoon, also just recently. The movement here reminds me of a phrase in a poem by Susan Morrison, (age 11) “Hours are leaves of life, and I am their gardener, each hour falls down slow.”

encounter at the gym

Amid the noisy machines, flashing tv screens and the running track, there is a window at my fitness center. It is a glass block section that scatters light into the space where we work. Everyone inside has an individual training plan going on. There’s sweat, determined looks, clocks, and all around the sounds of metal clanking. I was tromping along with my earbuds locked into a current-events podcast when I got stopped by this view. This was greater news.

In the Genesis account of how the world came to be, the calling forth of light was the very first creative act. Everything else followed this. As artists, (creators who move at the initiation of Creator) we know the value of light in any composition. We manage light, move it, mix it, manipulate it, arrange it, mimic it. But we cannot create it out of nothing.
The reflected light dancing on the sill here is so lyrical, cast forward by the waves in the glass, received on another plane and resting there all day for anyone to notice. But the source of this light is what captured me and still continues to quietly move me. The light is not a blinding flood, or an enchanting deception but rather a beckoning presence. And it is highlighted all the more because of the shadows mingling near it. This was a singular moment.

I spent a little time here, turning my phone from talking machine to image recorder. After a bit of sheer enjoyment, I went back to the busy track. The news on the podcast I could not repeat to you now, though it was important. The calories lost and the cardio exercised was necessary. But the experience with this light is sustaining for me, even today. For this was not just about the passing of something pretty. It was an engagement with the maker of pretty.

Imagine if you were walking through a space and came across the illumination in a painting by Carravagio. This might stop you too. But what if Carravagio himself was standing right there, hoping you might notice. What if the artist himself was somehow translated to your time and place so that you could actually talk with him a bit if you wanted to. What would you say to him? “How did you do that?” “Why did you arrange it this way?” or maybe just “. . .thank-you”. I am thinking that Someone greater than Caravaggio is here.

beside the embers

I found her sitting outside alone when I went back out to douse the campfire. Her heart language is Chinese, but here in my back yard she was using her phone to find words in English to capture what she was feeling. She showed me the little screen and a collection of words she thought perfect. Then we both were thrilled. She had just discovered one of my very favorite poems on her own. Here is Yeats’ “When You Are Old”

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur a little sadly how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

Sometimes there is immediate communication, if even just a sweetest glimpse, that touches beyond culture and light years, and languages and time. Even if I had her language ability, I am not sure I would have been able to search out words as meaningful. But we both know the same well spring of deepest meaning. We speak out of completely different cultures, but we both have come to love the One who is “riding atop the mountains.”

what makes good?

This is a thing I am wondering about. How does good happen? What prompted my musing about this was a surprising good which came my way.

I was pulling out of Lowes recently and noticed a torn paper placed under my wiper blade. Irritated, I pulled over hoping whoever placed that there was not leaving me insurance info. due to some mishap. . . yes, assuming the worst was my first response. The handwritten note said “We found an iPhone by your van. Lowes will have it!”
I immediately reached in the pouch where I keep my phone: no phone.

Woah.
I had used my phone on my way to the store, I must’ve forgotten it was on my lap then when I got out of the car. Oblivious. Not the first time. I went into the store’s customer service desk and they had no iPhone, but as I stood there wondering what to do next, a guy I had seen in the garden section walked up and handed another employee the iPhone he had just been given by some shopper. Of course I was grateful, there it was: surely lost and now so quickly found. I asked the guy: what makes someone do this? This was his response.

All the way home I thought on this, for making good is of interest to me, and it is a challenge for me. It seems that good is getting rarer (either that or I am getting more cynical, but I do think it is the former more than the later). Maybe 30 years ago I would not have marveled at someone returning a valuable thing. These days we are all more vulnerable. And vulnerability is why I ponder more, and why I am surprised more when good shows up.

What is this thing we call good?
The other thing I recognized is that for good to happen, there has to be some kind of effort made. Good does not get actualized by just looking, thinking nice thoughts and then moving on. The finder of my iPhone had to notice, then they had to bend over, then they had to decide what to do, then they had to get out notepaper, then. . . Good takes effort and tangible action, it is in fact a creative act.
This is my takeaway so far: vulnerability is the ground for more good coming. Vulnerable reality is the very setting by which good is even apprehended. We’re just going to miss it otherwise.

And, for good to come out it is going to take work. Good has to be made. Maybe this is obvious to you, but it is rather instructive for me. I am working as I wonder about this. Good is an abstract concept. But then it surprises us and shows up! I may not see the result (the finder of my iPhone did not see the result of her work) but because there is such a thing as good, I can expect results too.

Judging–past impressions

Quick decisions are part of every day: yes/no, in/out, right/left, scroll/click. The word “judge” has lost favor in the zeitgeist, yet there tellingly remains a hunger for recognition no matter what age you’re swimming in.

And for artists, after a considerable amount of work has gone into a visual piece, which is often subjective, symbolic or very personal, they risk “putting themselves out there” for any kind of assessment. I was recently asked to jury the student show for Milligan College’s Fine Arts Department. Knowing what it’s like to be “out there,” and also that I would be quickly drawn by my own preferences, I worked up a rubric so that I had a framework for considering all the work as fairly as I could. Soon I was in front of an impressive collection of over 70 submissions: in oils, watercolor, photography, and digital work. I took my time, but soon it was yes/no, right/left, in/out.

The final show was then hung by a student committee who had the fun of seeing the relationships and the interesting contrasts between the winners. They did such an impressive job!

At the opening, I got to meet and speak with several of the artists. One student, who has never shown before, articulated his fear at having his work evaluated and likely misunderstood. It takes a lot once something is birthed to let it go before the critique of others. But good art is not just for the enjoyment of its maker, even while (and maybe especially because?) viewers are going to see things you never intended.
Another student was eager to tell me the story around the serendipitous catching of his self-portrait. His was shot with the timer and a deliberate shallow depth of field. These choices made the piece shine beyond his intention. For the mood of his expression in front of the very vague setting caught me. This hit all my buttons for beauty, meaning, a lingering mystery, and skill of execution. And so he was one of the merit winners. But what was even more fun was his telling the tale of how that day happened. It was not a moody day at all, for what he was really musing over in his self-portrait was whether the timer was working correctly. I laughed at this, even the juror got to participate in the surprise. He caught an amazing photograph in spite of himself and beyond how he walked through his process. Is not so much of what we do just like this? We stumble forward and some things, just come together and speak to others in ways that are much bigger than our best intention.

no image…just a flash on the retina

Today we were with friends on a lake, the Fall colors are near peak, and my eyes kept drifting past faces and drinking in the landscape beyond. It was enchanting, winsome, just deeply beautiful. I kept taking pictures and then looking at the result that had been translated to pixels …which was just plain disappointing. There is nothing like the retinal receiving of the immediate full display: citrons and pale salmons next to dusty tans, lime yellows next to rusts and light cherry reds, sages and spruce, with lavender shadows, oh glory. Next time I just need to have my paints right there on the boat, and freshly mix what my senses are shouting. My retina does not remember well, for it has moved onto the next thing, like the car keys and the night crème, what a sorry shame.

Last week I was in Philadelphia helping my daughter move into their apartment. We made time on the last day to go over to the Philadelphia Art Museum. I had heard about their current show: “Rembrandt and the Face of Jesus.” Rembrandt is an important reference for me, though I am not a figurative painter. His deep psychological investigation into his subjects was groundbreaking; and his illustrations of the Biblical stories showed far more than just a liturgical compliance but rather a deeply personal engagement.

I grew up going to The Art Institute with my Mom. I took our daughters and son often to museums too and it is still something we like to do when we can together; so this was the carrot before our horses. But my daughter, who lives in Philly cautioned as we drove up to park, “you know Mom, this might be expensive…” Ever the can-do kid am I, “let’s just see what they say.” Well, it’s been too long since I was in that Museum! The traveling show tickets were way more than I remember. And so we thought, let’s just go in and at least look in the shop at the catalogue to see what they have gathered and make a decision from there –no way for that either: just getting past the entry desk was a pricey proposition. This was a shock to my system. We fumed, turned instinctively together and walked out, and that too was a sorry shame. In fact it was more than that, it felt like money changers in the temple! “I can’t look at Rembrandt’s effort at capturing the sublime unless I cough up so much cash?”

I know, I know, it costs to gather and ship and hang etc. But c’mon! It seems to me that there is a diminishing return here where they have priced themselves beyond a lot of people who would otherwise not only help them pay for their work at putting on this show, but would also fill the rooms and then take the images home in their spirits and into their own work. I looked later to see what the mission statement of this museum is and no luck, except for a statement about acquisitions. Is this only a money making operation then?

“Are you ok, Mom?” “I’m just sad…I really wanted to see how he tried to capture that face directly, a reproduction on a page is not the same…” and then it occurred to me…one day I will see the real thing on my retina, and I just might be standing near Rembrandt when that happens.

My retina has long since shifted thousands of times since that opportunity so close to the hanging Rembrandts. And I likely would not now be able to remember deeply the visual impression anyway, nor be able to put it to words.

But what I saw today nobody had to hang, or ship from far away places. Those leaves have been waiting there all summer for their glorious changes, gathered into a sublimely random assortment of joy. It was free. It was available for anyone who wanted to look. And it was a flash on my retina from His heart.

heartened by another painting

I didn’t know what I was getting in to. I had never heard of this artist, an American woman, Mary Whyte, showing a large collection of watercolors at the Greenville County Museum in South Carolina. Something kind of pulled me to go and I got the last seat (one that had just opened up for me!) on a Senior Citizen bus making the trip. My, my, my…am I glad I went! Mary was the docent that day which was an extraordinary treat, and she explained the way her project “Working South” got started. So much can be gleaned when a serious artist explains her motivation, and her words confirmed the sense I had been gathering in front of her work, that this is a woman who sees deeply, and then through her formidable skill, loves well.

The very first piece I shot a photo of that day was the one I kept going back to out of the 50 large images in this collection. Her project was to document the people in the South whose livelihoods are disappearing. “The Bee Keeper’s Daughter” was a sermon in paint for me. It left me speechless, and deeply comforted. Beyond the occupation being rendered here were the symbols of her task: silent, and covered, with mystery ascending. The woman has her mouth slightly open as if in a quiet, possibly even joyful conversation. There is a rising of smoke. I guess beekeepers do that; but it too is emblematic to me. And the bee hives make a random-seeming tottering back into deep space, as if pacing toward the horizon. The bees too leave bitter streaks around her, but she is unmoved in her protective garb, her focus is elsewhere. She stands to the side. Most of Mary’s subjects are placed that way, off center. But clearly each subject is the focus of her concern, the reason she documents in color. She looks into souls with her work, and her work (way beyond her ability) looked back into mine. I got a visual that day that is sticking with me. It confirmed what I had already been pondering and then, right there it was. This is art at its best. I was supposed to be there that day. I left strangely warmed. I am one of The Bee Keeper’s Daughters. Thank-you to the Maker of Mary.

(and thank-you Mary Whyte for letting me except this here)

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape