The window seduced me in that place, and I was powerless.
Outside, things moved: the flag curved in slo-mo,
The Cottonwood sloughed its wisps sideways
Newly clothed branches waved gently,
Mockingly? No, it’s just what branches do when nudged;
Unlike that place,
Beyond the glass,
Air motivated, pushed, stirred.
Things should move.
My 12 year old mind did, faster than the pace of the one talking
In that place,
Already moved ahead, beyond,
Answer anticipated,
All rabbit trails entertained at the least provocation, it ran
And ran, and ran.
Things should move. My knee did, constantly running in place,
In that place,
Like Wiley Coyote in the air over a cavern,
Bounced with an tornado of energy, sprung up and down with
A message that legs are for locomotion,
Jiggled a protest that mine did not fit
Under the desk anyway;
Instead I straddled it,
Like a too-old child on a plastic pony who realizes this
Should be the last time around forever.
My hands moved too, drumming what I imagined was an exotic beat
Which I knew everyone would appreciate, an incessant thumping with my special, thumb - middle finger combo that drove
Everyone to wish me gone from that place,
Gone through the window.
And that’s where I have been,
Through the window now for some time, running;
For years I have felt on my face what moves the branches, have run till my legs
Are bounceless. I have clambered over walls
Up ladders, through contests, have waded in the morass of
Daily mud.
I have moved, because that is what I do,
Who I am
In my own place.
How very strange that now in my middle days
The manic metronome is quieted. I gaze up at the window from
Below, see the yellow lights, the stately books resting in rows and feel moved
To climb back in,
Feel sure that I see movement
Yes, ideas waving gently,
In that place,
Mockingly? No, perhaps I didn’t know,
It is what ideas do.
You have given me restlessness, Still One,
My whole life through.
It has kept me from dissolving in place. It has beckoned through windows,
Called me to discomfort, and called me to quiet.
Here in the middle,
With legs that have found they fit under new desks,
Still I admit,
I see a pond at peace out the window, and my heart
Still hopes for a ripple.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
The Relentless Cult of Novelty
Former Soviet dissident Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, in describing the emptiness of art education in the academy, addresses the foundation of higher education's rejection of traditional subject matter in favor of nihilistic, avant-garde approaches that are focused solely on technique. He calls it the "relentless cult of novelty," whose underlying quality is a "deep-seated hostility toward any spirituality" and enslavement to anything "new."
"This relentless cult of novelty, with its assertion that art need not be good or pure, just a long as it is new, newer, and newer still, conceals an unyielding and long sustained attempt to undermine, ridicule and uproot all moral precepts. There is no God, there is no truth, the universe is chaotic, all is relative, 'the world as text,' a text any postmodernist is willing to compose. How clamorous it all is, but also -- how helpless." (quoted in The Fabric of Faithfulness: Weaving Together Belief and Behavior, by Stephen Garber, IVP 1996)
Even as an art lover who has appreciated many forms of abstract art, I have stood in front of certain modern art exhibits (I won't say all, and I am not generally indicting moderns art) and have struggled with the clamor of which he speaks -- the noise of clashing techniques for the sake of technique, the dominance of irony, and expression not rooted in any belief system, floating without connection to anything substantive or capable of making a positive contribution. They are indeed helpless to contribute anything. The one, overarching value of "new, newer, and newer still" is actually a form of enslavement -- and here is an irony for you since irony is so highly valued -- since the academy has rejected tradition, so much of art is cut off from memory, leaving new artists to themselves to explore age-old issues (Solomon was right - there really is nothing new under the sun) all the while thinking they're being new or novel.
No, I'm not thinking of doing a degree in art education. I am just noticing how dependent great art is on story. The grand story. Without that, all we are left with is expression. This is true not only of pictorial art but of literature as well. The great English mystery writer and theologian Dorothy Sayers favored the poetry of statement over the poetry of search. Search is so often a black hole of longing and yearning, sucking everything into it, while statement is, by definition, a deep well which is rooted somewhere, which has a point of view -- as Bakke says, a view from a point -- and which seeks to give something.
There's a homeless man sitting in the shade of a tree across the street from my living room. He's drunk, taking drags on his rolled cigarette and shouting occasionally something about Buddha. If I were to paint him in the style of one of the modern artists in a gallery I visited last week in Cambria, I would focus more on the application of paint than on the subject. I would paint him in isolation divorced from his context, or I would invent one, placing him intentionally next to Christians emerging from Sunday school. But if I painted him in the style of Van Gogh, or sculpted him in the style of Rodin, I would hope to learn his story, focus on his inherent dignity, and explore how it connects with the larger story of creation, fall and redemption. Perhaps I would attempt to depict how God's image was imprinted on the man. The lie is that there is intrinsic value in the novel, the new, the newer still. The truth is the value comes from how what we create connects to the story of God; that connection forms the foundation for making a positive contribution.
Turns out, this is true not only for art but also for everything else we would attempt to make: a household, a ministry, a relationship, a family, an impact on our city. Each of these things draw their value from the way they relate to the story of God. It's our job to make the connection, rather than chasing after the elusive god of novelty -- whether its a "new" ministry model, the "latest" home design, the "newest" fashion, an "updated" love life, or the hot-off-the-press- must-have theology.
"This relentless cult of novelty, with its assertion that art need not be good or pure, just a long as it is new, newer, and newer still, conceals an unyielding and long sustained attempt to undermine, ridicule and uproot all moral precepts. There is no God, there is no truth, the universe is chaotic, all is relative, 'the world as text,' a text any postmodernist is willing to compose. How clamorous it all is, but also -- how helpless." (quoted in The Fabric of Faithfulness: Weaving Together Belief and Behavior, by Stephen Garber, IVP 1996)
Even as an art lover who has appreciated many forms of abstract art, I have stood in front of certain modern art exhibits (I won't say all, and I am not generally indicting moderns art) and have struggled with the clamor of which he speaks -- the noise of clashing techniques for the sake of technique, the dominance of irony, and expression not rooted in any belief system, floating without connection to anything substantive or capable of making a positive contribution. They are indeed helpless to contribute anything. The one, overarching value of "new, newer, and newer still" is actually a form of enslavement -- and here is an irony for you since irony is so highly valued -- since the academy has rejected tradition, so much of art is cut off from memory, leaving new artists to themselves to explore age-old issues (Solomon was right - there really is nothing new under the sun) all the while thinking they're being new or novel.
No, I'm not thinking of doing a degree in art education. I am just noticing how dependent great art is on story. The grand story. Without that, all we are left with is expression. This is true not only of pictorial art but of literature as well. The great English mystery writer and theologian Dorothy Sayers favored the poetry of statement over the poetry of search. Search is so often a black hole of longing and yearning, sucking everything into it, while statement is, by definition, a deep well which is rooted somewhere, which has a point of view -- as Bakke says, a view from a point -- and which seeks to give something.
There's a homeless man sitting in the shade of a tree across the street from my living room. He's drunk, taking drags on his rolled cigarette and shouting occasionally something about Buddha. If I were to paint him in the style of one of the modern artists in a gallery I visited last week in Cambria, I would focus more on the application of paint than on the subject. I would paint him in isolation divorced from his context, or I would invent one, placing him intentionally next to Christians emerging from Sunday school. But if I painted him in the style of Van Gogh, or sculpted him in the style of Rodin, I would hope to learn his story, focus on his inherent dignity, and explore how it connects with the larger story of creation, fall and redemption. Perhaps I would attempt to depict how God's image was imprinted on the man. The lie is that there is intrinsic value in the novel, the new, the newer still. The truth is the value comes from how what we create connects to the story of God; that connection forms the foundation for making a positive contribution.
Turns out, this is true not only for art but also for everything else we would attempt to make: a household, a ministry, a relationship, a family, an impact on our city. Each of these things draw their value from the way they relate to the story of God. It's our job to make the connection, rather than chasing after the elusive god of novelty -- whether its a "new" ministry model, the "latest" home design, the "newest" fashion, an "updated" love life, or the hot-off-the-press- must-have theology.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Worn smooth by salt and sand
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.
And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.
And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Something More One Day
A friend gave us a slab of green marble a decade ago. It's been sitting behind a shelf in my spidery carraige house collecting dust. You don't throw away marble. I knew it would become something more one day, even if for the time being it was a haven for black widows.
Then Jameson mentioned that he needed a writing desk to work on. After dragging ourselves without luck to half a dozen furniture stores and even a trip to IKEA in Sacramento, it dawned on me that we could use the marble and build something ourselves. We found some beautiful cherry to surround the marble. With a clear finish on it (no stain), the amber swirls really look beautiful next to the marble. Jameson and I had never built a piece of fine furniture before. We designed it together, measured together, cut the pieces together, re-cut the pieces together, corrected our mistakes together, and sweated together in the workshop. When it was finished we shook our heads and marveled at the outcome. It was the "something more" that was meant to be. What a great project this was for us!
It's true of me too. I am raw material -- albeit more like sandstone than marble. Parts of my life are standing alone in a forgotten corner, gathering dust and who knows what else. But God knows my potential, perhaps even has some other costly material to surround me with. And someday, someone will stand over me too, smiling with pride.
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