Category Archives: looking at art

abstraction–like a poem

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—

Emily Dickinson penned these words in 1868. I believe she was grappling with how to bring important things forward into human awareness. She used what she saw in nature as sign posts for bigger ideas. She was therefore an abstractionist, looking for simple indicators that could tease the way forward for blind men. Reading through her poems I catch her spirit though we live in such different times. She was not didactic, but she was determined.

Yesterday, as I was lying on an exam bed, the scanner moving back and forth above me, my eyes looked to the wall at an image similar to this. Here, like with Emily’s words, is a suggestion that dazzles gradually. Images are “quick talk” without words, and language (we are given to expect, or we are deaf as well) holds meaning.

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

what moves

I showed and offered for sale some small pieces along with a group of other fine art and craft workers. Last year this venue was not good to any of us and we guessed the government shut down had something to do with people holding onto their own funds. That was only a guess and since it was my first attempt at trying to sell this way, I decided to give it one more try. This year was also a little slow according to longer timers, but I did well enough to justify the time spent. We each stayed at the booths some of the time to facilitate sales and questions. I loved watching people look long at my pieces. I make work not for the money, not to be known, but to speak large and long in ways I expect to never really see here. This one piece I am inserting in this post I had not even yet taken a good photograph of before it got snagged. I marked a sale tag on it, and could have sold it 2 more times before the buyer came to take it home.

It strikes me that abstract work remains mysterious to most, though it has always been a language to me. In some of my pieces I included verse as an attempt to bridge that language. In fact the year long reading I have been doing though Emily Dickinson’s poems has given me lots to work up into imagery. This image alone likely would not have garnered so much attention, but with Emily’s thoughts below, we have a rich duet going on that is catching people right where they are. Here are her words:

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.

# 976, Johnson’s chronology, written 1864, artwork 2014

Incarnation

In Philadelphia’s Museum of Art there hangs one of my favorites. Henry Osawa Tanner painted this image of the surprising encounter Mary had with the angel Gabriel. This visitor to her chamber, rendered as ineffable light, is speaking. He is announcing the Messiah’s entrance into matter. Of all the attempts to visualize this wonder, this to me is the best. Mary looks as she certainly was: frightened, young, simple and Semitic. She was no blond Italian (in Renaissance finery) blandly receiving such news. Such news. People still think it impossible. Tanner did not.

My Incarnation is the third in a present series (shown until September ’14 at the Reece Museum, ETSU). My rendering is meant to look as moonlight over part of the circumference. The hues are not dramatic, and not surreal. Light is reflecting quietly over matter, like a very purposed hovering over chaos.

But look more closely. A detail of the moon face shows the entrance of life in seed form. Soon a crowd of angels would break their silence when this baby would arrive full term. But even that arrival was surprising, only a few even “got it.” His own Mother, who witnessed it all would treasure up all these things, pondering them in her heart.

It all began here, tangibly speaking that is. In time, in a certain fragile space, the One who “is before all things, and in whom all things hold together” reduced Himself to the same dust we are made of so that He could justly win for us the only way out of this ground of dust. He came “all in” to both life and death as we experience it. And He purchased the way into the Life our hearts somehow know to yearn for. We are more than dust, because He became dust for us.

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.

spending time

Enid Williams juried the Appalachian Art Show this year. Her statement about her own work is interesting: “I rely on a complex ordering of form and color to create elaborate visual scenarios that appear to be in continual flux. There is little evidence of pictorial hierarchy, instead the optical effects create an ambiguous space, both undermining and heightening our desire for logic and order. Although historical and cultural influences inform my work, charts that test for colorblindness served as my initial inspiration. I find a certain irony in this source, as the charts are quite beautiful in their own right, and the viewer is persuaded into a longer examination in order to”read” their content.

Fortunately for me, Enid spent time with one of my entries in this year’s regional show, and gave me an award. She had this to say at the end of her juror’s statement:
“Finally, Mary Nees’ ‘Achor,’ creates intrigue and mystery through a complex networking of marks and densely layered inner structures. There is something very satisfying in works that are carefully titled, (and) can be interpreted in more than one way. Place is no longer literal in Nees’ modestly scaled panel, and this is part of it’s strength.”

Here, both my entires are being viewed by another artist friend, doing what he does well: spending good time.

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

Day of Fire

John Valadez is new to me. His concerns are the dissipation and the distractions of contemporary (Southern CA) culture. His skill is brilliant. This piece, entitled “Pool Party,” was one of his strongest for what I read as a sober warning. The piece is arresting, or it should be I would think, if you still allow yourself compassion and an honest alertness for the dangers (metaphorical and real) we live in, for the people caught clueless when hell breaks loose. Look at these young girls, enjoying their candy colored lives, oblivious to the inferno about to overrun them. A writer I came across recently said that the time we are in now is like being sheltered in a basement during a tornado, where we are all screaming but the noise outside is so loud that no one hears even his own wide open scream. Valadez takes a calmer view. He has his characters playing through shallowness, while he clues the viewer that there is much more going on. This is maybe the California version of Munch’s “The Scream,” that ensign from another anxious era.

The local University art department where I live is sponsoring an exhibit this month called “The Day on Fire.” I guess they want to join the fun with all the 2012 apocalyptic talk going on. In fact, interest in the foreboding is happening everywhere. Prominent Galleries in NYC and London have had shows recently titled “Abstraction of Destruction,” and “Those Who Remain.” The jurors for our local fire show were shocked at how many entries they got from artists all over the nation wanting in on this subject. My entry, “Appointed” did not get into the final show. So goes it. I wonder if John Valadez’s piece would have made it in. My guess is no. He too takes this subject too seriously.

Emily Dickinson is another who took such things seriously. Here she is in her poem simply numbered #530:

You cannot put a Fire out —

A Thing that can ignite

Can go itself, without a Fan —

Upon the slowest Night –

You cannot fold a Flood –

And put it in a Drawer –

Because the Winds would find it out –

And tell your Cedar Floor –

Cairns and wonderwork

Here’s my near 96 year old Mom sizing up an Andy Goldsworthy sculptural Cairn at the Museum of Contemporary Art in LaJolla, CA. Cairns are markers, to show presence and history. Which do you think is the true Cairn? My Mom or Goldsworthy’s Iowa limestone construction? I love Goldsworthy’s work, I love my Mom more. She is the one who introduced me to the wonders in museums. She is fading now, though Goldsworthy’s stuff will likely remain for a longer time, it too will not last forever.

Mom and I went into the museum and her most alert moment was comparing her walking cane with one of the guard’s. That was sweet. Two broken pilgrims comparing their supports. Then she was happy to sit on a bench overlooking the Pacific (always loved a good view, always had an eye for the best art in the place). The show on the walls was interesting, but she chose the best view, and then preferred the reproductions on the paper pages of the museum catalogue, tho the real pieces were steps away on the walls. It’s a wonder I can even take her into museums still, that she wants to even go. I mused on the meaning of art as she looked at the Pacific and I looked quickly at the pieces on the walls.

Vincent Van Gogh once said to his brother Theo that the greatest artist (in the whole place) is the One who can work in human flesh. I read that statement while in college and it shaped my future, directing a lot of choices I have made since then. My Mom is one of His canvasses. And He is not done yet.

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.

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