Art as Prophecy

 "Words strain,

Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,

Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,

Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,

Will not stay still..."

T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton."

 If art is communication of vision, then true art is prophesy. Each human person sees, or at least is called to see, some aspect of God that no other creature in existence can ever see. I believe that this is the true basis for that mysterious quality which we call individuality, but that requires a good deal more thought. What I am certain of is that God communicates a part of Himself to us that He communicates to no other person. Or to put it differently, He communicates His whole being to us in a way that He does for no other person. Whenever a human being sees a glimpse of that communication and tries to share it with another human being, art is born. This transcends the formal arts, music, writing, painting, sculpture, acting and so forth. This permeates all truly human activities down to the most mundane. Thus we can speak of an "art" to good conversation; an "art" of letter writing; an "art" to hospitality; an "art" to flipping burgers. When we say that someone does some mundane task artfully, we meant that he or she is doing it purposefully, meaningfully, in the best manner possible and this raises their activities to the level of art. 

humanly.They are not simply tying a shoe, they are tying it well, with attention to the shape of the knot, the length and balance of the loops and tails. They are seeking to do what must be done

Art is prophecy, in this sense, because the beauty that one person sees in the restrained elegance of the Japanese tea ceremony is a reflection of God. The beauty that another seas in the barely controlled chaos of the mudroom when the kids come in from a ramble through the woods in mid-March is also a reflection of God. To share either beauty with the other, to translate it so that they can see and appreciate it, is to broaden their appetite for beauty, to show them a truth they were not aware of, or had forgotten, or simply had never exercised. It shares a part of God with them that otherwise they would not have seen.

It is this that I mean when I say that art is prophecy. It is usually unconscious, I suppose, a reaching after "we know not what." That is what makes art universal when it is at its best. It is an expression of longings that remain inarticulate. The methods of art can be used as a distraction from those longings, which I would classify as entertainment rather than art. This too has its place as a rest, to help us refit until we are strong and ready to begin the pursuit once more. Art, however, should not distract from the longing, the not-enough-ness. It should point it out, set a finger on it and say, "I try to capture the 'more' but it will not be captured."

It need not be unconscious, though.

"The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,

The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning

Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply

That it is not heard at all, but you are the music

While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,

Hints followed by guesses; and the rest

Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action."

  T. S. Eliot, "The Dry Salvages."

An artist may know what he is truly striving after, put a name to Him, and by discipline, prayer and observance, the "lifetime's death in love/ ardour and selflessness and self-surrender," bring himself more and more to mirror that light, to enter into that relationship, and to gaze upon the beauty he seeks to communicate. It is necessary, in the end, or else he runs the risk of being more in love with his communication of the beauty than with Beauty Himself. In the end I suppose he will come with Thomas Aquinas to know that everything he has ever created has been only straw, valuable to God only because God loves Him. In the end, the reader, the viewer, the sharer of the art will also be drawn beyond the art. They will leave behind our best works like forgotten toys, and that which once inspired us will be no longer relevant, loved for old time's sake, as a grown up may keep a teddy bear in the box in his closet.

This is to be expected, even to be hoped for. Our glimpses are partial, shadowy, incomplete. They were never meant to satisfy. They were meant to introduce, to excite, to tease and urge onward. The reality is "further up and further in."

If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing;
if tongues, they will cease;
if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.
For we know partially and we prophesy partially,
but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.
When I was a child, I used to talk as a child,
think as a child, reason as a child;
when I became a man, I put aside childish things.
At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror,
but then face to face.

Prophecy: Your Own Kind of Crazy

A Leader

is a fellow

who refuses to be crazy

the way everybody else is crazy

and tries to be crazy

in his own crazy way.

                                Peter Maurin, "Easy Essays."

The idea of prophecy has been rolling around in my head for a while now. I am not sure why. I remember in my early days of blogging, coming across Christian bloggers who would write about "prophetic words" that they had been given, or which their pastor had uttered, or some writer had shared. Some were concerned with the end times. I passed over them. Jesus seemed pretty adamant that worrying about the end of the world was not our business, and was rather a distraction than anything else (Matthew 24:36, Mark 13:32). 

Perhaps the issue was that I, and all of these bloggers, seemed to interpret prophecy as a prediction for the future. I have very little to say about that. I acknowledge that such things are possible, by God's grace, but am not much interested in it. I know that the future is in God's hands. My task is to live it with Him as it happens. The same goes for the end of the world. In all likelihood, whether the world ends any time soon or not, I will die sometime in the next 70 years or so. My task is to die a little bit every day in order to live more fully the Divine life. The world ending or continuing is largely irrelevant to that task.

However, recently I have been drawn to considering prophecy outside of the strict theological sense of a prediction of future events, or revelation of unknown events, and drawing a broader meaning. For instance, very little of the work of prophets in the Bible relates to predicting the future. Predictions occur, but they seem to be a highlight of the job, rather than part of the day to day grind. Instead, the much of the times the prophets of the Old Testament seem to be more concerned with reminding, correcting, exhorting, warning and admonishing. They give concrete instructions, and they bring the law back to mind. 

In a sense, they communicate the idea of a living relationship with God, based on dialogue, rather than simply a set of rules that no one remembers anyway. I am most struck by the fact that being a prophet in the Old Testament is an uncomfortable proposition. People don't like being told they are not just wrong, but dead wrong, and they are going to pay the price if they don't shape up. "They say to the seers, 'See no more visions!' and to the prophets, 'Give us no more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things, prophesy illusions.'" Isaiah 30:10. 

This admonishing of sinners can be thought of as a reminder, call back to their true desires. Of course, in strict mystical theology, a prophecy is a direct revelation from God, in this broader sense it is the birthright, and indeed the calling, of all Christians. In my last blog I spoke of the central aloneness of each human being, created as we are in calling to a "unique, exclusive, and unrepeatable relationship with God Himself." In the blog before that I spoke of art as a sort of prophesy. Both of those posts anticipated this one. 

In the poem I posted on August 10th I dimly saw the necessity of prophecy as a reminder. The question, "Are you happy?" is a prophetic question, because the answer for any thoughtful, honest person can never be an unqualified, "yes." There is always some dissatisfaction, some incompleteness. We do not live as fully as we might live. We do not give as fearlessly as we might. To be reminded of that is uncomfortable. It makes me squirm. To be shown the gifts that currently sit stagnating in the abandoned warehouses of my life is to be reminded that I have never done enough. I fall short of total gift. The thought makes me squirm and I turn on the x-box and play Nazi zombies to distract myself. I putz about on youtube, clicking from one epic rap battle to the next, as all the while precious moments slip by, moments in which I am not praising God or serving my fellow man. I am not creating art, or absorbing beauty. I am being entertained. I do not want to be reminded. I want to be "distracted from distraction by distraction."

But this reminder is a spiritual work of mercy. If I cannot be holy yet, I should at least be uncomfortable. I should not be content with mediocrity. "Let a righteous man strike me—it is a kindness; let him rebuke me—it is oil for my head; let my head not refuse it. Yet my prayer is continually against their evil deeds." Psalm 141:5.

I think this is why I talked the day before yesterday about the necessity of doing something radical. I remember saying once, at a party of all places, when the conversation had turned to tricks and gimmicks that people resort to in order to seem mysterious, that a human being should not need to try to be mysterious. Each human person is a mystery. If you live as you were meant to live, true to the face of God that you alone and no one else can see, then you will be mysterious. People will not get you. You will be asked to explain yourself. 

In fact, if you have never done something that seemed absolutely crazy to everyone else, but which you knew you had to do, it is probably a good indication that you have never lived.

Set Apart Humanity

 I have watched a number of movies lately that seemed to have a theme in common. The two that come to mind had a definite "teen sci-fi" flare to them: "Divergent," and "The Giver." While I hesitate to lump the two into the same category (and will no doubt be mentally excoriated for doing so by any who have seen both) they have a lot of similarities. Both are based on novels marketed primarily for teens, both involve dystopian futures in which an apparently benevolent government or cultural schema controls all aspects of life. However, this controlling, impersonal authority (personalized in the character of an older, neatly dressed woman in both cases) is revealed to have sinister designs, and the cultural schema is shown to have dark secrets. It must be resisted by the protagonist who is singled out in a coming of age ceremony. The protagonist has talents and abilities which set him or her apart from everyone else, and he or she must make the choice whether to use those talents to serve the power or to challenge it for the sake of true freedom. The choice to pursue freedom for themselves leads to the choice to sacrifice in order to provide freedom for everyone else in their society as well.

In fact, the main difference is the writing and the depth of the themes explored by the nature of the differences. These differences are significant; I would not consider "Divergent" worth a second watch, although I plan on reading the book. "The Giver" I would watch again, and I plan on re-reading the book several times, probably out loud to my children when they are old enough.

But the theme they held in common is what you might call the "set apart" theme. It is different from the lone hero theme, which is common to much great literature. For instance, Frodo Baggins is a consummate lone hero, but he is not a "set apart" hero. He becomes a lone hero by the end of the trilogy, but he does not start out that way. He starts out as a perfectly normal hobbit, just like every other hobbit. He is thrust into abnormal circumstances by external factors, and the experience of carrying the One Ring to Mordor sets him apart. When he departs from the Grey Havens, alone, he does so because he has sacrificed his ordinariness so that others might keep it.

The "set apart" hero is a little different. The set apart hero begins the story different from everyone else. Either he is born that way, or something (e.g. a mutated spider bite) makes him that way. The story is about him exploring that difference, coming to terms with it, and deciding what to do with it. 

In "The Giver," Jonas is different because he can see and feel things that everyone else has forgotten how to see and feel. He sees color, feels emotion, and looks beyond the surface of things. In "Divergent," Tris is different because she has the ability to embrace the traits of more than one of the dominant social classes. They are born with these traits without knowing that they have them, but in the coming of age ceremony they discover them, and it is this discovery which prompts the growth arc.

What struck me about the "set apart" theme was how deeply it seems to resonate with people. I know one man (in his mid-thirties) who insists that "Divergent" could have been written about him. He doesn't fit into everyone else' categories, his brain works differently, he sees possibilities that no one else sees, etc. The "set apart" hero taps into a very powerful longing that everyone has to be different, to be unique, special, mysterious.

Perhaps this is why the ordinary hero tends to be better literature, in my opinion. It is more realistic. Ordinary people without special powers or special talents how have to rise to extraordinary challenges make better stories. We want to root for them, the people who have to struggle, fight for it, earn their specialness. We root even more for those who have no choice but to fight for what they love, and so specialness is thrust upon them when they would like nothing more than to remain ordinary.

But the "set apart" hero has a place too. It calls to the place in us that wants to be different, unique, special, because we are different, unique, special. At the very center of every human being there is an intransigence, something that is utterly incommunicable. The reason that these stories resonate so deeply, especially among the nerds, weirdos and outcasts, is that they are most used to not being understood. Everyone, however, knows what it is like to be misunderstood. Everyone goes through times when they feel that no one "gets" them. Everyone feels, occasionally, an uncrossable gulf yawning between them and even their closest friends.

There is a reason for this. It is important. It means something. In truth, each human being is unique because each human being: "is 'alone': this is to say that through his own humanity, through what he is, he is at the same time set into a unique, exclusive, and unrepeatable relationship with God himself" (John Paul II, Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body. 6:2). Each human person is, at his very core, utterly and irrevocably alone. That is why it is natural for everyone to feel at times like no one understands. No one gets you. Of course not. Only God can get you, because there is an aspect or facet of God that you, and you alone in all of time and space, were created to see and know and love. 

Gaze on that face of God, allow it to suffuse your being. Then share that being with the world, and you will find that you are unique and original, without having to look at yourself at all.

Masterpieces Upon this Transient Earth

Sometimes things that I see or read just speak to me. I cannot say why at the moment. As my cousin, a photographer and independent filmmaker, would say, they come together “behind my head.” Without fully understanding it on a logical level, somehow something in my heart seizes upon it and says, “This is important. This is good.” I usually ask why, but the part of my mind that recognizes has little interest in explaining. It knows that this is important, or beautiful, or good, and that is that

This blog post about an artist who makes beautiful designs by walking back and forth for hours on freshly fallen snow was one such focal point. When I read the story, and

saw the pictures, all I could think was, “This is a work of love.”

I did not know why I thought that. I could not have explained it, but somehow it only makes sense in my mind to do something like that for love. The man spends hours trudging back and forth, and back and forth to create something that will be gone with the first new snow, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been. The only trace will be in the minds and hearts of those who have seen it. Without my thinking it through, this intuitively seemed to me to exemplify the purest form of art, to create something of beauty and rigor and rightness, and then to let it go so completely that, not only do you not care if it gets destroyed, you have designed it specifically to be wiped out. Perhaps, in a way, these snow designs are like the sand mandala’s of the Dalai Lama. 

One of the books I am currently reading is “The Story of a Soul,” The Autobiography of Saint Therese of Lisieux. A day or two ago I was reading Chapter 6 where she describes the pilgrimage she made to Rome with her father and sister. She speaks wonderingly about the beauty of Switzerland, “With its high mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing torrents, and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple heather. Great good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of nature so abundantly scattered abroad. They lifted it to Him Who had been pleased to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient earth.”

It was the last half a sentence that caught my ear, “to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient earth.

One of the most ancient, most noble and most controversial of human undertakings has been the production of art. The question of what truly is and what is not art takes up a good deal of space in the writings of philosophers, along with subordinate questions such as its purpose, its use, its value to society, how or if it should be regulated or controlled, etc. (Another of my current reads is Plato’s “Republic” which is greatly concerned with such questions.) But it seemed to me, with a sudden clarity, and indeed a certainty, that both Simon Beck and the Dalai Lama had, perhaps intuitively or perhaps more cognitively, grasped the real purpose of art; that is, to imitate God in “lavishing masterpieces upon this transient earth.” Precisely by focusing their creativity into mediums of extreme impermanence, they see and escape one of the most dangerous snares of art, which is the illusion of permanence.

Every aspiring artist nobly and rightly wishes to create art that will outlast him. He or she looks to the immortality of Shakespeare, Dante, Michelangelo, Boticelli, and others whose creations of goodness, truth and beauty have kept their names alive long after their bones are dust. Even the painter of the cave paintings in Cro Magnon, France, though his name is lost, his paintings live on. We all aspire to that.

However, in the immortal words of Admiral Akbar, “It’s a trap.” The permanence of Shakespeare and Dante are illusions. The marbles of Michelangelo will crumble to dust. Even the prehistoric caves will one day be a charred lump, along with the rest of this planet, in the cosmic sink that used to be our sun. When that happens, however, the soul of the human who created it will still exist. Perhaps this was why Therese of Lisieux was able to explain the precise place of art in such a brief sentence, in the middle of a book that meditates pretty exclusively upon the impermanence of all created things. She saw that only God is eternal, and she loved Him, and desired Him before all else, and so everything else fell into place, including created beauty. God does lavish masterpieces upon this transient earth, and calls us to do the same. We are called to pour out our attention, our effort, our blood and sweat and tears in imitation of Him, creating beautiful things with full knowledge that they are destined for oblivion.

This idea is especially relevant to the internet generation. On the internet you have millions of people, all trying to create something. Some are trying to create art, some are trying to create noise. Some still believe and are trying to create something meaningful, others have given up and are just hoping for five minutes of fame and a few thousand hits, by any means necessary. Some try to create beauty and meaning, others are content to expose themselves in any tomfoolery imaginable, if it gets them a little attention. My blogging is the same way. Each blog post lives for a few days at most, and even that is only if it is unusually popular, and then it disappears, snowed under the constantly shifting heap of relevance that is the Internet. It reaches a few people, maybe a dozen, and at best one or two will read the whole thing. The rest scan the first sentence of each paragraph, agree or disagree, and then move on to the next link.

In cosmic terms, i.e. in terms of eternity, the complete works of Shakespeare will fair no better, which is not to put myself even remotely in the same class as Shakespeare. It is only to point out that all things pass away, except God.

Once, in a discussion about art with my cousin (the same cousin mentioned above) I tried to describe art as “drawing my best picture with crayons and hoping God will hang it on His refrigerator.” Only in God’s eyes is the art that I create eternal. That is an amazing thing, if you think about it. God and I together create "memories" that exist in God's eyes for all eternity?
Whoah! Mind Blown!

I imitate God for the same reason that a two year old walks around with a plastic hammer hitting the furniture all day. That is what he sees Daddy doing. When I create a work of art, God sees it, He sees me creating it, He loves me. I give that work of art to Him with the same delight and trust with which a three year old gives his scribbles to his Mommy. Then I go on to the next one. The greatest masterpiece I will ever create is nothing more than another memory of my childhood for God to hang on His refrigerator. When I am fully grown, I will look back upon my worldly Magnum Opus and laugh at the squiggly lines and juice stains and dirty fingerprints. Only love makes anything permanent, because only love is of God. 

That is the only worthwhile reason to create art, as a work of love, knowing that while the work may pass away, the love will outlast the universe. 

The Thangka School

In lieu of writing something new (Internet is intermittent around here) I am borrowing something I wrote in an email to my Uncle. Since it seemed like a good story I thought I would share it on the blog as well.

Uncle Chris,

I was visiting an ancient Hindu temple complex in Bhaktapur last week and let me tell you, it was well worth seeing. One of the temples was the temple of Shiva dedicated to the Kama Sutra, complete with xxx rated sculptures in bas-relief all over it. Unbelievably ugly and comically awkward at the same time.

Of much more interest, there is a school there where they teach Thangka painting, which is an ancient Buddhist method of instruction and worship, originating in monastaries in Tibet. I did not see any of the students painting because it was a holy day (saturday is the Hindu holy day) and also Buddhas birthday.

Why would a school of Buddhist art be housed in Hindu temple you ask? Well, from what I have seen in my travels and in reading, comparing the pure Buddhism of, say the Dalai Lama or other high level writers, to the popular Buddhism of Tibet, Nepal, India etc. I would have to say that pure Buddhism is extremely rare. One of the proprieters of the school was there explaining the history of Thangka painting and the meanings of it and we had quite a long talk about Buddhism and Hinduism. He was a little irate about it. He quite emphatically insisted that the Buddha never spoke about god or gods or any other independently existing spiritual entity. However, the vast majority of people cannot seem to handle a religion without gods, so wherever Buddhism went people simply grafted in the gods that they had always worshipped. So all the literally thousands of Hindu gods are no subjects of Buddhist philosophies and Buddha is one more god.

You wonder why the Catholic missionaries often freaked out about that sort of thing. "Oh, so you're bringing in another god? Whats his name? Jesus? Sure, bring him on! The more the merrier. He'll be in good company. So what is he the god of again?" I can see how that might be a bit disconcerting to someone who set out to convert the benighted pagans.

The painting, however, was amazing. Highly ornate, very stylized, and incredibly detailed. The proprieter explained that some of the paintings were for philosophical education, some were to tell stories, such as the life of the Buddha, some were mandalas, symbolic representations of temples with complex interpretations, and some were for medical purposes. It was a fascinating lecture. At the end of it he made sure to let us know that the paintings were for sale. There was a very large one, about 3' × 4', painted by one of the masters of the school, one of the lamas. It was unbelievable. The sheer detail was incredible. Some of the details had been painted in using a brush with only one hair, they were so tiny, and some of the paint was made with real gold. It took the lama four months to paint it. The price? 80,000 rupees.

That's about $940.00 U.S.

One of the guys was there with me and he said I should haggle about it if I was going to buy it. In all the markets in Thamel (the touristy strip in Kathmandu) haggling is the name of the game. I am terrible at it, by the way, and always end up paying twice or three times as much as the next guy. He thought 900 bucks for a painting was a ripoff, especially since he could go to Thamel and buy a copy of that exact paint for maybe 5,000 rupees.

I more or less ignored him and continued talking with the proprieter. He explained that this school was struggling to keep the heritage of painting alive and that the proceeds from the sales went to buy paints and pay for room and board for the students during their 10 year (!!!!!) stay at the school. He explained that selling the paintings was done in a co-op like that because most people, after spending every waking moment for four months working on that painting are going to have trouble parting with it or setting a reasonable price. I agreed.

I am beginning to realize that the habit of courtesy that my parents inculcated into me from an early age is far more than simply a grasp of a particular culture's ettiquette. In fact, that courtesy has stood me in good stead in every country I have visited to the extent that I often find myself getting along better with the natives than I do with the Americans. It is, primarily, a concern for the other person's comfort and sensibilities, and as such manifests itself in a willingness to listen to the other person. If you practice listening long enough you get used to it, and you develop the ability to see things from the other persons perspective, which in turn makes them more willing to try to see things from your perspective. There was a good deal of respect between that little proprieter and myself. I listened and I understood where he was coming from. I explained that I agreed that it was a fair price, but that I had a responsibility to use my money for other things. He offered to call the artist and see if he would lower the price, but I said no, I did not want him to. That price was more than fair and I did not want him to sell it short. I left a donation in the box, we bowed and shook hands and parted with, I think, a great deal of mutual respect.

Once outside I somewhat took my buddy to task over the whole thing. I recognize a true believer when I see one, and I respect that. The lama who painted that thangka and the man who was explaining and selling them had both dedicated their lives to that art. That painting had taken four months of a man's life to create, and more than that, was the product of an entire lifetime of study, practice and sacrifice to deepen and perfect his art. Whether or not I completely agree with the faith that inspired that art, I cannot help but respect the good that that faith does in the lives of its practitioners, and certainly I have to respect the sacrifice of an entire life to the pursuit of that faith and its art.

There is a story told of Picasso, to the effect that one day as he was walking down the street, an art aficionado came up to him and asked if he would sketch his portrait. Picasso obliged and in about thirty seconds sketched up an amazing likeness on a sheet of notebook paper. He offered it back to the man saying, "That will be $5,000 dollars."

The man was flabbergasted and said, "But it took you less than a minute to draw that. Surely your time is not that valuable."

The artist replied, "Sir, you are wrong. It has taken me my entire life to draw that."

While there is an element of arrogance to that, there is also an element of truth, in that the work of a human life is quite literally priceless. Where Picasso went wrong was in assuming that his life's work was any more valuable than, say, a ditch digger's life's work, done with the same level of dedication.

Whether my buddy was impressed with this argument or not I cannot say, but I followed it up by breaking down "four months" into familiar terms. Say our artist monk worked from 9-5 every day. That is an eight hour day, times the typical Nepali 6-day work week, times 16 weeks, for a grand total of approximately 768 man hours. When you factor in the price of materials and a commission for the seller (who, small as he is, also needs to eat), that monk is not even making a dollar an hour. No worker in America, not even a burger flipper at McDonalds, puts in 768 man hours and only makes $940. You yourself would certainly not paint a portrait for four months straight and sell it for less than $1000.

(My uncle is a professional artist and graphic designer. I remember him saying once, "Customers always want fast, cheap, and good quality. I tell them pick two. You can't have all three.)

That argument impressed my buddy enough that he acknowledged that it "definitely was not a racket."

I meant also to cover some thoughts in this email about that evangelization of manhood idea, as I have had some new thoughts (bringing in Brad Miner's Compleat Gentleman) but this email has become much longer than I thought it would so that will have to wait. As a matter of fact, I might recycle this email as a blogpost, if you do not mind. It would save me some time.

Hope you are well.
Ryan