Justluckie

The Wonder of Lists

I am confessing to a rather blokeish interest today - lists! Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am not referring to the practical sort of list that makes sure you get things done. I am not an organised person in any straightforward sense of that word. No, the kind of list I am referring to is the list that speaks of exuberance, abundance, the infinity of things, the dizzying variety of life. Some lists are about categorisation and some are about less obvious shared properties. Some tell of ancestral lines and some of far-off places. Some lists are complete - every book ever written by Thomas Merton - and some are incomplete, open-ended - every book written about Thomas Merton... Lists can speak of excess and voracious acquisitiveness but can also speak of discovery, wonder and the fertility of the imagination (just think of Borges' fabulous bestiary).

Lists are the stuff of museums, which stand both for voracious collecting and for obsessive categorisation. Some go for showing lots of examples of the same thing in one place, others go for more perplexing juxtapositions, like the intriguing 'windows on the world' in the National Museum in Edinburgh (things made of metal, whether Buddhas or giant wrenches; things made of wood - masks, chairs, agricultural tools).

Religions like lists too. Think of litanies of saints, lists of sins and virtues, genealogies and canons of scripture. Buddhists are particularly fond of lists: four noble truths, the noble eightfold path, three jewels, five aggregates, twleve links of dependent origination and the canons of scripture make the Christian bible look exceedingly thin.

One of the Western world's most appealing polymaths, Umberto Eco, has written a book, 'The Infinity of Lists' which is lavishly illustrated, full of lengthy quotations and extraordinary in its scope. Among other things, he shows how lists, including paintings populated by seemingly innumerable characters, can serve to indicate realities that are beyond our ability to control or fully comprehend. They are a kind of shorthand for infinity but they do more than simply refer to this infinity - they lead us into it with a vertiginous accumulation of items. A chanted litany is an expression of this phenomenon in time. It is not the individual items that matter, but their cumulative effect, drawing us into a cloud of witnesses. Here is an example of one of the many paintings from Eco's book. It's a depiction of Paradise by the Dutch Golden Age artist, Roelant Savery. It's a wondrous image with something new to be seen every time you look at it. It offers a child-like delight in the sheer quantity of created things, their oddity, their variety and their beauty. It would seem that our fascination with lists is somewhat primordial.

 

So Long, Ivy Wu Gallery

I made a brief visit to the National Museum of Scotland yesterday to do a little research for an article for our Cathedral magazine and was saddened to see the closure of my favourite space in that gallery - the 'Looking East' gallery, formerly known as the Lady Ivy Wu Gallery. This is to make way for a new configuration of gallery spaces and I hope the treasures from that former space all find their ways to good homes in the new layout. It will be sad, however, not to see them all together with their lovely presentation of East Asian history, religion and culture. If the museum is looking for a home for its Japanese tea house, I'll happily find space for it!

The reason I was looking there was to track down as many representations of the Buddha as I could find in the gallery. The one I was most interested in is a sitting figure of the Buddha Amida which lives in the main hall of the gallery on the ground floor. It is Japanese and dates from the 18th century.

On the top floor, there is another representation of the same Buddha, also Japanese and of similar age, in a slightly simpler form and with a halo.

 

There are also many representations of the Buddha Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha, including a magnificent stone carving from 4th century CE India which shows striking similarities to European classical sculpture.

The Buddha Amida, or Amitabha, is particularly venerated in the Pure Land school of Buddhism and especially in Japan. He is known for his compassion and his vow to save all mortals, irrespective of their status, allowing their rebirth in the pure and happy land. He is characteristically shown in this meditation posture with the accompanying meditation mudra (hand gesture). There is a deep stillness about this image and it represents the intimate connection between stillness, meditation and compassion. The one who is truly recollected in meditation has an open heart towards others. This practice is not at all a matter of introspection, but of love.

For the Christian viewing these images, it is very tempting to make comparisons with the iconography of the saints. Images of saints can serve both as a focus for prayer and a depiction of virtue and many images from the Christian tradition possess a similar stillness to the Buddha Amida, and this is perhaps seen most clearly in Orthodox iconography. The drama of the baroque in the West stands as an interesting contrast.

And an encounter with images like these invites us to consider other differences. I wonder how possible it is for a Western Christian to appreciate the full depth of spirituality present in such a statue. Even if we have an acquaintance with the subtleties of iconography and a knowledge of Buddhist doctrine, can we ever truly have the same spiritual engagement with an image that is not part of our own tradition? I imagine that its very difficult to know whether or not we are having the same experience as a Japanese Buddhist when we stand before the Buddha Amida and I am sure that to do so in a museum is a very different matter from doing so in a temple.

Nonetheless, I do find myself moved by this image. Even before I had any background knowledge of its origins, I found something of stillness, something of compassion there.

The Cross - A Void That Fills All Things

I've been trying to think of an image that speaks to me of the radical and ultimate self-emptying of Jesus that sits at the heart of this week's spiritual focus. It is too easy for us to slide into 'interesting' narrative, 'logical' atonement theories or simple sentimentality when we are faced with the enormity of the events of Holy Week. The challenge is to enter into the awful silence of it all, the complete self-giving and utter poverty of Jesus without dressing it up.

Most traditional paintings or images of the events of Holy Week fall into one of the traps I've suggested. And even if there are very compelling examples of depictions of the extremity of Jesus' suffering, like Grunewald's Isenheim altarpiece, they still don't quite enter into the void. It may not be possible for art to do that very successfully since it relies precisely on the presentation of form, not nothingness, but I think there are some ways to get closer to that inexpressible emptying. One way is to go in the opposite direction from the intensity of Grunewald and look to an image that is more stylised. The very well-known San Damiano crucifix, before which St Francis heard his call, is a good example of earlier iconography that emphasises still simplicity over intense agony:

Other examples of this more stylised image might come from Easter iconography or from modern art. I am always particularly moved by the many depictions of the crucifixion by Craigie Aitchison. Here are a couple of examples.

It is the sense of emptiness and space in these paintings that comes closest to hinting at the kind of void I was looking for and the image of Jesus is shown with little overt emotion and little narrative context. In truth, of course, we probably need as many kinds of depiction of this indescribable moment as possible so that we can see just how partial every view is, and I would never want to lose the density of a painting like van der Weyden's deposition which places the crucified Jesus right at the heart of suffering humanity. But what Craigie Aitchison offers us is a hint at that loving Void that fills all things, that complete self-offering and radical nothingness that stands not exactly as judgement, not as assumed punishment, not as 'statement' but as simple, naked love; a space so generous that we find ourselves lost in it, that we see clearly for the first time, that our wounds are healed in the peace and stillness that transcend all attempts to eradicate them.

There are no words to describe this wonder. There are no images. But we must use all the words we can and all the images we can until they run out. And then...

Art as a Summons to Awareness

I've been leading a Lent course over the last few weeks using paintings to stimulate reflection. I chose images from the 15th, 17th and 19th centuries (I don't like even numbers, it would seem) and deliberately chose some that would not be immediately 'comprehensible' in a straightforwardly representational or narrative way. I was keen each time for people to notice their immediate reactions and to see how they related to more sustained reflection after getting a bit of background, context and comparison. At the end of the series, there were reflections from the group on how it had been for them and one woman said (I paraphrase) that the benefit for her in the sessions was simple - I put up a picture on the screen and that makes them look at it.

I didn't want to let people stay at the level of 'liking' or 'not liking' a particular painting and that didn't take too much persuasion. Most members of the group were well able to set aside personal aesthetic presence. It didn't matter whether or not they wanted some strange piece of Flemish religious art on their wall at home; what mattered was to look.

The comment from the woman in the group delighted me because she captured so directly what I wanted to achieve. The point was not so much 'understanding' as 'awareness'. We are so used to short-circuiting our looking because we are surrounded by such a familiar range of images all the time. We do not see what is there because we are bludgeoned by the advertisers' images into our default mode of consumption. I look only to 'inform my choice' as a consumer. What kind of choice is that? What kind of freedom?

Thomas Merton made a series of simple 'calligraphies' partly based on his understanding of Japanese calligraphy. He used brush and black ink to make simple, abstract marks which he described as 'summonses to awareness'. These marks were not there to be interpreted but to be seen. He used photography in much the same way.

And I think the same principle can be extended to many forms of art - poetry, jazz, dance. The point is simply to learn how to see, to be awakened, to hear as if for the first time, to learn the simple but demanding art of freedom, to cease our unending inward chatter, our proclivity to comment on everything, to set aside our filters, expectations and prejudices. Art is a school for mindful living.

Why Do We Need To Make Stuff Up?

Caspar Henderson's delightful 'modern bestiary', The Book of Barely Imagined Beings, is a different sort of book from the one he modelled it on, Borges' Book of Imaginary Beings. Both delight with their sumptuous descriptions and dizzying taxonomies, but Henderson's sets out to establish his conviction that we have no need of imaginary beings when the natural world provides us with such extraordinary beasts. These include jumping spiders, whose hunting methods become the source of a reflection on the nature of the human mind, with its tendency to see more than is there in front of our eyes. Henderson sees an almost moral dimension to his task. He hints that there is almost something dishonest, or at least impoverished, about our fascination with unreal things when we should be concerning ourselves with reality.

One one level, I see what he is getting at, and I think his book is a very persuasive example of how a careful examination of what can be observed sensibly (ie with the use of our senses) can lead to a more profound consideration of our human nature and human responsibilities. Henderson is a wise and widely read commentator and his range of allusion is stunning. However, I also want to put up a bit of a defence for Borges and his imaginary beings. I don't see why both approaches cannot exist side by side and there is surely a good reason why human creativity looks to the realm of the imagination as well as to the realm of the sensible.

So why is it that we seem to long to talk of things we have not seen? I wonder if it is not that, when faced with the enormity of the mysteries of life and death, we need something more than what we can observe to express that enormity. There are things we can know and observe, and yet they remain too much for us to take in, so we find ways of expressing that 'infinity' of possibilities by categorising, listing, collecting, arranging, in way that indicates that hugeness without suggesting that the elements on this impossibly long list are beyond our reach. And then there are realities which we do not feel able to control in this way, emotional and existential realities that need symbols rather than lists to indicate their nature. Imaginary beings have this symbolic role, standing for our partial apprehensions of such things as love, fear, despair, hope, absurdity, extinction, existence itself. Of course, real creatures can function in this way to some extent as well, and Henderson gets close to this at times in his book. But there may be limits to the extent to which the natural world can surprise, appal and transform us sufficiently to approach life's greatest mysteries. That is where the creativity of artists and writers can help out, populating our imaginations with unknown worlds that have enough familiarity to prompt recognition and enough oddity to engage our sense that life has more to say than can be expressed in sensible terms.

Every Picture Tells a Story (or two)

We know that art is not created ex nihilo and that a painting's style, composition and subject matter is always reflective of its context, and that includes Outsider or Naive art. It is also true that a painting's journey from one owner to another tells a story of its context and this is especially true of works that were created before wealthy middle class buyers could access art on an open market. When I was reading Jerry Brotton's compelling book, The Sale of the Late King's Goods, which tells the story of Charles I's art collection, I was intrigued to see this picture:

It's Veronese's Mars, Venus and Cupid, and has been in Scottish public ownership since 1859, and in the National Gallery's collection since 1867. It's history before this date is fascinating. Charles acquired it on his diplomatically diastrous trip to Spain in 1623 along with some Titians and other works to add to his growing art collection, a collection that received much bigger boosts when he acquired whole collections from Mantua and Venice after he become king. Apparently, he wasn't a huge Veronese fan, but obviously thought a decent collection ought to have his work in it - any Venetian from Titian's time was worth a look. How it got to Spain is another question, but art of this quality at this time followed the shifting centres of power.

The painting remained in Charles's collection until after his execution when the Commonwealth government sold it off, along with some 1300 of his other paintings, as a way of meeting his debts and funding the navy. At that point, it was bought back by the Spanish court and remained there beyond the reach of Charles II, who took to opportunity to repossess most of his father's collection using any means possible on the restoration of the monarchy. Charles II saw the value of a decent art collection as a way of displaying his power and cultured nature, but did not share his father's passion for art. He was happy to let a couple of new works from an emerging power slip into his collection when his agents bought him some modern works by Gerrit Dou and Pieter Saenredam. Interestingly, when the Archduke Leopold-Wilhelm was getting hold of as much as he could of Charles I's collection, it was another Netherlandish artist, David Teniers, who brokered the deals. Among Teniers' own work are a few paintings showing his employer's new acquisitions:

In general, I think that art is at its most pure and is most powerful when it is free from the dealings of the wealthy, but these intriguing stories of the early history of some of Western art's most significant works are an excellent way of understanding the political and economic contexts in which all art is located. I find that I am more likely to remember an event from European history if I have a painting to associate with it, so poor Veronese will now forever be linked for me with the bloody and seismic events of Charles I's reign. All the same, I can still enjoy that impudent spaniel and the astonished Cupid on their own terms!

Brian Whelan - The Joy of Religious Art

At St Mary's Cathedral, we have just said farewell to a superb exhibition of work by an artist who is at once original and traditional. Brian Whelan paints religious subjects using much traditional iconography but with a playfulness and vibrancy which introduces a sense of joy and humour to serious things. His subjects range from biblical scences, such as Jesus walking on the water, Noah's ark, the Ascension or Balaam's ass to mediaeval symbolism of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He also repeatedly paints images of the Holy City, a vision of the possibility of a harmonious, thriving, creative city which is a place of secure dwelling or of pilgrimage.

Brian's art shows that religious faith is, above all, a matter of life. He is not offering a picture of abstracted holiness, but of life that is complex, joyful, tricky, rich and capable of transfiguration. His transfiguration is one of colour and shimmering surfaces, of a brightness that speaks more of playful joy than solemn piety and yet is no less profound. His use of narrative invites the viewer to participate in his paintings, whatever their level of familiarity with the subjects or symbolism. His approach to creating his art is highly interactive - he works enthusiastically with others and is generous in his sharing of ideas and in his development of themes that have been opened up through exploration with others.

You can see many examples of Brian's work on his own website, and also on that of Brentwood Cathedral, where he has recently completed a commission. Fr Martin Boland provides a stimulating commentary to that work and to the central place of beauty in Christian faith. It is rare to find a contemporary artist so confident in his portrayal of traditional religous themes and I will continue to follow his work with interest. We will miss the colour and liveliness of his work in the Cathedral!

Outsider Art and Wellbeing

A few years ago, I was introduced to the bold colours, suprising forms and vivid imaginings of 'Outsider Art' in a wonderful gallery in Heidelberg, the Haus Cajeth Museum.

I was reminded of this unexpected discovery when I watched Alan Yentob's excellent BBC Imagine episode about Outsider Art. It was a good introduction to this hard-to-define phenomenon and is still available on the iplayer for a few more days yet. Briefly, this is art that has been created by people who are not working from within the traditions and training of conventional art, 'in conversation with the history of art'. Some of these artists have found themselves at the margins of society through circumstance, disability or mental ill health or, indeed, what might be best described as 'eccentricity'. Some of the art Yentob considered was created by artists with laerning disabilities working in communities or organisations set up for this purpose. Examples of these are the pioneering community of artists at Gugging in Austria and a Californian project called Creative Growth. At a project in Japan, Yentob met a young woman with learning disabilities who had very limited verbal skills but created beautiful paintings with flowing lines and extraordinary precision. Her interest was principally in the act of creation rather than in the finished product, though these sell rather well. In that respect, her art is more like the performance of a piece of music.

Yentob was not naive about some of the problems created by this categorisation of art. As soon as the art establishment gets hold of these works, is there not a risk that the art ceases to be 'outisder'? But is it not also right that these artists be recognised and rewarded for their creativity? Is there a risk of exploitation when some of the artists concerned are vulnerable? On the whole, it seemed to me that the communities and projects involved in giving 'outisder' artists a voice were alert to these tensions and committed to the very positive aspects of art that can give voice to those who might otherwise have no voice in society. For some people, words are not capable of giving expression to their thoughts, feelings and identities and art is the more powerful and most appropriate medium.

I would, perhaps, quibble with the notion that Outisder Art or Art Brut is somehow created in complete separation from the culturally conditioned forms of traditional art. I think it is likely that our imaginations are all formed in dialogue with the cultural forms we have inherited and see around us but I do accept that there is something liberating about art that is a more immediate expression of imagination. Karl Jung recognised the deep human roots of the archetypes that populate our art and give expression to our imagination and was, himself, something of an outsider artist.

Art has the power to tranform both the creator and the one who engages with it. Our wellbeing is strongly dependent on our sense that we have been heard and recognised, that we have a means of expressing our connectedness to humanity, that we have access to what is our truest, deepest identity and not simply the constructions imposed by others. Art has the capacity to do this for us and I give thanks for the imaginative opportunities that exist for this to happen for those whom society might consider to be 'outsiders'.

 

War and God - Martial Images in Churches

In some churches, I  have found myself uncomfortably surrounded by images of warfare. These have included military banners, icons or statutes of soldier-saints and obtrusive memorials to military leaders. Their presence in churches disturbs me because they seem so much at odds with the message of the one who did not retaliate and commanded his followers to behave likewise. The presence of these images speaks of a church that has, at times in its history, been allied with secular power and secular power often exerts its influence militarily. As one example, large stone memorials on the walls of some 'civic' Anglican churches give honour to military leaders who executed Britain's colonial ambitions, with varying degrees of success, against subject peoples across a vast empire. That these same churches are often at the more iconophobic end of the ecclesiastical spectrum is a particular irony.

The truth is that churches have endorsed and even promoted the violent ambitions of the powerful at some points of their history. So is it more honest to allow these images to remain and use them as an opportunity to confess a bloody past or to remove them as having no place in a church that works for peace?

I have heard it argued that churches ought to be able to take the whole of human life into their worship and this includes the cruel realities of war. I agree with this principle, but I do not think that permanent memorials to military elites are the way to do this, whatever the ethical record of the individuals commemorated. I would rather see Picasso's Guernica in church as an icon of the cruelty of war than a plaque praising the perpetrator of such violence.

There is, of course, the further question of what one does with existing memorials. Should they be retained as a way of telling our history, however unpalatable? I can see the strength of this argument, but the iconographic arrangements of a church should be directed towards the worship of the God of peace, not the provision of didactic tools.

Churches should, of course, commemorate all the faithful departed, including all those caught up in violent conflict. But I think I would rather not see any martial images in church. I am strongly drawn to the simplicity of Cistercian architecture, which is sparing in its use of any imagery. Among the few images that should, in my view, adorn our churches, is, indeed, one of brutal violence. But it is the brutal violence of the apparatus of state shown for all its evil in the execution of an itinerant preacher who subverted that same violence by refusing to participate in its cycle of revenge, even to the point of refusing self-defence. God is caught up in violence. He is the victim of the powerful, not their ally. He is every bereaved mother, every expendable foot soldier, every piece of collateral damage, and every brave soul who silently resists violence by confronting it with forgiving love.

 

 

Salvator Rosa and his Hermits

The National Gallery of Scotland has recently acquired a couple of paintings by the 17th century Italian painter, Salvator Rosa. One is a wild landscape with St Anthony and a Hermit. It would be tempting to see the figures as little more than incidental decoration in a landscape, perhaps giving a sense of scale. But I think there's more to it...

'A word for me, father?'

Perched before a fissure in the earth's solidity,

they penetrate the deepest darkness with a word.

This gash-tomb is home for one who seeks only light.

'How can I give you a word when all I know is the weight of silence?

Should I have you live as I do?

Is there anything I can say that would lead you to believe that

in this hard place

one may find in the soul

a receptive softness

like earth?

And yet I will give you a word: "attend"!'

And so he went on

to find his own rocky place,

his own rupture in the unmoving hardness,

a place, indeed, to see how one measures up against the massiveness of it all,

a place to attend

to watch

to wait

to meet.