Category Archives: my own work

The Pattern and the Pivot

In this series of 15 songs, called the “Psalms of Ascent” or the “Songs of Degrees” there is an evident pattern. Each set of three in the whole progression of 15 repeats a simple tempo, like three beats to a measure in a walking rhythm. And this, even as the circumstances described get increasingly more complex with each developing set of threes. It is in this rhythm, repeated 5x that the way is hinted for making it through the journey.

Here is that rhythm: The first in each triad is a cry of distress. The 2^nd is what I have named a pivot. It’s a hinge, or a turning point evidenced from the difficulty just referenced which then pivots to a decided reliance on God. Then the 3^rd in each set is an experience of resolution voiced by the traveler.

Simply put: 1. Distress 2. Reliance 3. Resolution.

As we move through all 5 sets you will see this repeated. And just so it is not missed, note the first verse of the first Psalm in this whole series: 120:1 starts out with the summary this way:

“In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and he heard me.” (emphasis added) Distress, Reliance, Resolution.

This is not a formula, nor a religious mantra. (How easily we either cheapen or conversely complicate important things!) This is just the simple way through. It is not an empty promise, but owning this is not easy, nor is it automatic; for a heartfelt connection is required in the hinge Psalm. This pivot takes some humility. The progression typified in each triad is the personal experience of any authentic God-follower, over and over again. No matter the time period, the culture or the distressing particulars. The pattern has to be walked through. This is, in fact, how anyone gets real with God.

Notice how this pivot is displayed in the example given us from Psalm 120 to Psalm 121. In the first articulation of distress, God is mentioned but the focus is on the problem. This is typical for each of us in distress. But at the pivot is where the spiritual engagement happens. Without this turning, things stay the same, or worse. However, with a legitimate connection to Creator, “the LORD” is named here, “Who made heaven and earth”, there is dynamic change.

Notice the words that follow for the one who is expressing this. The focus has shifted beyond the distress, even above all the religious distractions. (“the hills”, in the history of ancient Israel, were the places where all kinds of aberrant rites and idolatry were practiced)

The Psalmist here is making it clear where his confidence is being placed by pivoting. He’s making that contrast, and he’s voicing where he will look instead of whatever else is around him. His hope is now in Another, the One Other. And, he even exults in expectation of longevity. This is the first pivot.

A song of ascents.

121 I look up toward the hills.
From where does my help come?
²My help comes from the Lord,
the Creator of heaven and earth.
³May he not allow your foot to slip.
May your Protector not sleep.
⁴Look! Israel’s Protector
does not sleep or slumber.
⁵The Lord is your protector;
the Lord is the shade at your right hand.
⁶The sun will not harm you by day,
or the moon by night.
⁷The Lord will protect you from all harm;
he will protect your life.
⁸The Lord will protect you in all you do,
now and forevermore.

traveling songs

I have just finished a long envisioned series of 15 traveling songs illustrated on square 14’ cradled panels with oil paint. I am celebrating today with this post, and will continue in the next 14 postings after this to show you the results.

Purposeful progressions, particularly those given to God-followers captivate me. Jacob had a dream of a ladder, and that vision kept him going even when he was heading away from home. The patterns in nature, like the enlarging chambers of a conch shell reveal a mysterious developing plan at work, enhanced by the mathematical symbolism inherent in the fractals. Oh, I could go on and on!

But instead, I’ll add my own historical reason. When I was a young canoe trip leader in the wilderness of Canada, we always made up songs to sweeten the tedious rhythm in the long hauls. Our songs made the journey swift, informed with memory, dreams, laughter and community. And so, when I learned some years ago that there is a progression of songs in the Psalms for travelers, I was interested. These walking songs were originally for pilgrims heading up the dusty climbs to Jerusalem for their yearly feasts. The trek might take days, and so the songs were likely memorized as they were stepped out. And what is fascinating is that there is a rhythm, a pattern in each triplet that gets more developed as the 15 (5 sets of 3) come to a grand conclusion.

I’ve been thinking about these 15 songs for years, and what they could mean for us. You may recognize phrases from a few of them. I’ve studied them, looked up original wording, charted the whole, sketched ideas, read commentaries, and envisioned doing the entire set made large (in my dreams) about 25 years ago! I did a smaller gestural set on paper of the 15 songs about 3 years ago and then started into oil panels until I got intimidated and quit.

But now I’ve accomplished all 15 in a way that satisfies both the whole concept and the individual parts.

Here is Psalm 120. Translated from its original Hebrew into simple English so you can consider it for yourself. This woeful complaint begins the journey.

In my distress I cried out to the Lord and he answered me.
I said, “O Lord, rescue me from those who lie with their lips
and those who deceive with their tongues.”

How will he severely punish you, you deceptive talker?
Here’s how! With the sharp arrows of warriors,
with arrowheads forged over the hot coals.
How miserable I am.
For I have lived temporarily in Meshech;
I have resided among the tents of Kedar.
For too long I have had to reside with those who hate peace.
I am committed to peace, but when I speak, they want to make war.

And as is typical of any hard slog, that first step, even as half focused as it may be, is critically decisive. A Chinese poet said something similar: “a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step”.

The image here is my finished visualization of #120, oil and encaustic with embedded text, enhanced with flame.

repulsion

I “came to Jesus” because I was repulsed by religion.

I saw “revival” signs outside churches as a youngster and pondered: “ if they have truth why do they need reviving?” As a teen I saw a man talking about “being saved” but his manner was harsh. As a young college student, our team bus passed a sign on a hill saying “Jesus is the answer”. One of my friends said: “if Jesus is the answer, somebody please tell me, what is the question?” We all laughed. I was happy on my own and had no questions, thank-you very much.

Later that frosh year militant students stormed our campus student union…with machine guns. I joined a committee to better understand the disruption since the Newsweek Magazine reporter obviously didn’t. We were true eyewitnesses. We cared about the student’s grievances. We pooled our heads and hearts to better explain what had happened so the whole wide world would understand. We were going to “restructure the University”. Seriously.

There was one big problem: we couldn’t agree. Ten or so of us spent hours debating. We were a select group, and we were motivated. But it soon became clear that each persuasion to “tell the story correctly” had certain bias, even if slight. And like a one-degree difference on a line to the target it impacted the result. It dawned on me that it must be a truth that every journalist aiming to tell any story has bias. The confusion amongst my cohort was eye opening, disappointing; it sunk in deeply. And that lesson was worth the price of my entire undergraduate education. At the same time, it did not escape my notice that the presumptions of the student activists were starting to smell like religion of a different sort: certain behavior was expected, certain ways to think were required. I stepped out.

Just a couple months after that, a friend of mine was killed in a tragic accident. That was when my easy idealism completely halted and real questions deepened. The subsequent sorting out of what mattered and what was ultimately reliable was the pivot point of my entire life. I can sense so clearly that we in America are in a similar consequential time now. For this reason, even midst the confusion and the smoke, the uncertainty and the biases — that bigger more important questions are forming and being quietly decided. If every action has an equal and opposite reaction, then repulsion can be an important awakening.

I post today a detail of a painting I am delivering to a Gallery this week. The larger piece this is excerpted from is titled “Marking Magma”. The fire born volcanic rocks that inspired some recent work is, in this painting, all marked up on its surface with graphite. The markings are like historical notations on something birthed eons earlier by a great disruption. There’s contrast and random angles visible today, there’s beauty midst fear. There’s light and dark together. My bias is obvious. My fingerprints are all over this. But my hope has been forged by things long ago and things current. All that is visible here.

a poem for our time

Not every woman is believed,

Not every man’s a lout.

But bend the narrative and lie

And then you’ll have some clout.

Science is not prophecy

Wisdom’s not for sale,

And you can smell the bias

In every journo’s tale.

A watershed has happened

A seismic shift’s at hand.

Wake up and pray the coffee

Or weep throughout the land.

Groupthink’s not forgiveness

Only God gives right.

So while you breathe you’d best wise up

And come into His light, for:

The Spirit and the Bride say come.

“while the earth remains…”

It was not the first promise, but it was another significant one from the mouth of Creator, which orients my heart regularly. Early on in the Hebrew text, and in another time of (much worse) global trauma there was this assurance given that never again would the ground be cursed for the escalated evils of men. Seedtime and harvest would continue as a sign of this hope, and attenders can have it on God’s good guarantee that this blooming will not cease as long as the planet exists.

In the meantime, we’re all waiting, watching. It’s a time of sure dismemberment, held away from those we love except by zoom or text. Yesterday, looking for the link in a pile of emails for an upcoming digital meeting I thought to myself “is this death by zoom?”…”ok, here it is, found it.” It turned out to be a helpful meeting, was glad for it, learned something; but truth be told, it was as unsatisfying as something boxed in my pantry compares to one of my daughter’s lovingly prepared meals.

I prefer the real meal. Here is a sign of such yearning just finished inside my studio. There’s fog here over hints of color peeking. And there is hard ground, which seems unforgiving. But there are things popping out all around me too, out my windows, on my walks, in my seedbeds. I’m on the lookout and sometimes things show up.

The promise was put forth in poetic form in the original transcribing:

“While the earth remains,

Seedtime and harvest,

And cold and heat,

And summer and winter,

And day and night

Shall not cease.”

(God, and part of His public domain)

the sign and the Substance

In a New York magazine I recently read this statement: “We remain human beings… and we orient ourselves in time, looking forward to the future. When that future has been suspended, humans come undone.”

And this report is even sadder.

I will say here what the writer of the first article said, and what the Doctor in the 2^nd article surely felt: “I began to loose it this week”. I echo his words; my heart grieves. The time is getting long and longer. You know it also; it weighs on all our hearts.

Several years ago, August 2011 to be exact, I was sitting in this very same house when a rolling quake went up the entire Appalachian chain. And, with incredibly no loss of life, it yet put a visible crack into the pinnacle of the Washington monument, 400 miles away. A few weeks later after that quake, in a remarkable set of unplanned circumstances, I was to stand in front of that monument, observing with my own two eyes the crack on its top. For me: the quake experience and that subsequent sight was a serious sign. When my house jolted, when my ceiling fan started to wildly wobble, these words of Jesus came fast into my head: “But all these things are merely the beginning of birth pangs”

Birth pangs. I remember when I was in my own first labor, when a nurse on the next shift came in and pronounced something about her expectation as to the length of my transition. My body hadn’t done this before; we did not know. But this nurse’s glib assumption, turned out to be incorrect. The signs were obvious, but the timing was not. And here’s the substance: the birth did happen; and in the end, that was what mattered. A couple years later, when labor commenced with our second child, the early signs were now familiar. Previous experience had prepared me, but it was no less ominous — for once that progression started, I knew I would not be able to stop it, no matter how long it took. That recognition was the worst part of the entire birthing — more than the physical pain, was that sense of control loss. The process was hard; the result was sure. We’re in a time like that now and I recognize it.

Labor is a sign, and signs are only that: they point to something else, which is much more substantive. Signs signify, but they are not the true event: only the preparation for it. A red hexagonal metal stand with the letters STOP is not the intersection but rather the warning before that place. Small earthquakes are not “the big one” but rather an indicator of others coming. Labor pains are not the birth, but the necessary movement toward that event. Are my eyes on the prize or on the pain toward getting there?

We’re all in a certain labor, and many feel it worse than I do. But I had a sense of the weight of it this week; it put me under for some hours. It reminded me of the glib words of the nurse who did not know my time and made a false prediction. When it comes to whatever is ahead, best be sure, and that’s why Jesus’ words catch my attention. I feel we’re on a moving train, like a progressing labor, and we simply can’t get off. Something is coming ahead, and being prepared is only wise.

JRR Tolkein said “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near one.” But hold this in your heart: the dragon is not the Signifier. That Signifier we await has authority over the dragon, over any virus, over my sinking heart.

What is settling out as newly evident to you as you hold this tension, as lesser things hold less value? What is it you are trusting?

For me, it does not end here. My future may be somewhat certainly suspended, but temporal expectations are not my end; I am loathe to make something tangible here my end. I am going to hang on until the promised birth, if God gives me the grace to do so.

I image an older piece here entitled “The Valley of Achor” taken from Hosea’s words for holding on and for looking ahead. The prophets all spoke of the Signifier.

the gathering above

“The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding; and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly, as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky.”

Quoted here is a section from Flannery O’Connor’s 1^st novel “Wise Blood”, in which the writer uses her weird characters as darkish foils to prod the reader into considering timeless things. O’Connor was a brilliant and lonely critic of secularism’s vacuity; she considered modernism naïve. And like Jesus, her harshest stories called out religious emptiness. How would she be illustrating the bigger story for us now? O’Connor would be a good one to read if fiction is a way into your heart, for our world is changing and we need to get a grip on what it is that is truly mooring us.

You wont find what anchor’s your soul in the material world. How can I make such an assertion? I’ve lived enough life; I’ve read the best “good book”; and I know how it ends. If non-fiction is a better way in for you, this is time tested. Meanwhile the National Geographic arrived this week. It is expensively produced, in a ying/yang edition titled “How We Saved the World”, or from back to front “How We Lost the Planet”. Take your pick; they’re giving us only two options. One would think such an organization committed to the earth would offer a few words of acknowledgement to earth’s Maker. But no. And, they admit: they don’t know the future. Only the One who hears prayer does.

The image I post today fits right along with O’Connor’s description, as she teases the imagination higher. Here’s another look-up for you. I’ve had the texture and the hues on this oil panel for some months, but I could not resolve the whole satisfactorily. Then suddenly I realized I needed to give it a window beyond the morass of the now. Voila!

living through interesting times

“May you live in interesting times” Are we there yet? What is ironic is that the assumed source of this quoted adage is said to be an ancient Chinese casting, clothed in kindness, while actually a curse. But checking it out, there’s less evidence about the true origin of this statement than there is about the origin of the coronavirus. Nonetheless, I’ll use it as a prompt. In fact, I’m changing that curse from living in to living through.

To start with, there is a huge difference between interesting and frightening. We’re each living on the edge of that difference; and sorting it out in the disruptions. Much more, living through interesting times is one thing, understanding them another and lies abound all around the globe. Check out your sources. Be sure of what it is you are trusting. Just two days ago I shared something I thought reliable on facebook only to have it exposed as an internet meme. I left it up as an object lesson for myself and for friends. For a better historical example I think of the sons of Issachar, and the Persian King in the time of Esther. We have some wiser ones around us now. Pay attention to those who demonstrate trustworthiness; the evidence of their track record is entirely informative. In Moses’ Israel, anyone who claimed to be a “prophet” needed to prove 100% accuracy. That would rule out a huge percentage of our talking heads. Not one of them knows the future. Not one who is mortal.

People who know me say I have a calm spirit! That’s been said several times and it always surprises me, for I know all the rumblings going on inside. Gratified by their perceptions, I say I have an informed spirit, layered by years of looking into things that are surer than fear. Do I fear? As sure as I’m born, and still breathing here; I do. But, I don’t like stuck-ness. I don’t like being paralyzed and that’s all that unhealthy fear does. So, understand that fear is necessary, but it can quickly become a paralyzer. Fear is simply an internal reaction to fear-full type things. It’s natural, and it needs respect and investigation. We stop and consider when alerted by fear, which is a great protection. But when we stay in any position of fear-full retreat we become dumb like turtles. And the internal rumblings multiply exponentially inside us more than the number of virus cases outside.

We’re in a season now, a revealing one for those paying attention, where people who are trustworthy have something that others see they want. The cream rises to the top. If you’re alert, you’re already seeing it where you live. For people like me have found an inexhaustible resource in the One who gives many reasons why “fear not” is even a possibility. There is someone better to fear and to respect. I direct my thoughts to Him in true gratitude. Curious? Do a google search for every time those words “fear not” are said in the Bible and observe, like your life depended on it, for the reasons given why. Or just read this Psalm portion with mindfulness.

So, I am working. And what is coming off my hands is informed by what I’m focusing on. Bayles and Orland, in their helpful handbook Art and Fear say “Basically those who continue to make art are those who have learned how to continue—or more precisely, have learned not to quit.” I have some good reasons to keep on alertly. And, some increasingly good results. This is titled “Laodicea and the Dragnet”.

sevens

Here’s an interesting thing, I did not plan this. Two weeks ago in studio, I prepped some square panels I had stacked; and since I had some gesso left in the cup, the brush still wet, I grabbed a couple more panels and coated them also with this base coat. Did I have a plan? All I remember was that I was going to make some starter marks on a couple of the panels once the gesso dried.

I then set out a simple color palette, and started in, working intuitively. If I got one solid piece out of the workday, I would have been satisfied. Some days just getting in the studio and working is victory enough. I am deliberately taking the pressure off. The effort is all practice. And the freeing thing is, if the result is poor, it’s just some history I can work on top of next time. Is it true that “the mouth speaks out of that which fills the heart”? In my case, the arm was moving out of that which was in my mind and probably my heart, for I have been studying biblical prophecy.

Now, I was not planning on illustrating what I was learning, that usually does not work well for me (it gets wooden that way, or even didactic). And I did not purposely select seven panels, I was being solely utilitarian with the materials I had, and the space on my worktable. My aim was to just get the materials moving. I started working on several of these prepped pieces at once with darks on white value studies and then worked in hues. If it had occurred to me at any point that I was illustrating something specific, I would have tightened up. But surely the data in my head was being drawn upon as I just played. My expectations were free.

It was only after several hours of back and forth with the materials, rotations with the panels, that I realized I had near completed seven pieces. And then my head kind of exploded with the realization that these panels were a group of seven. I counted them: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, yes it’s actually seven I’d been playing around with. Well, that was interesting, I thought to myself; I could reference the seven churches described in the beginning of Revelation with these, and maybe also incorporate the recently realized correspondence with the seven “mystery parables” that Jesus outlines in Matthew 13. The convergence between those two groups of seven is really fascinating. And here I had seven compositions of my own hand, which obliquely fit the main ideas in each of the two literary groupings. This, on panel, is my own surprising revelation. Showcased here is the 2^nd of that series: “Smyrna and the Tares”. I haven’t yet titled the series.

advent

Can you gather in the wonder–

Though all around distracted. Mad.

Could it be that God would enter

Undetected, gently clad?

Would any king in human ranking

Be so willing, so dismissed.

But come to conquer our heart-blindness

And through time to still persist?

So silently the rays of wonder

Seep beneath and all above.

Deception’s stronghold all asunder

When one admits the prince of love.

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.

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape