Such spots in this hidden locale include catering storage, electrical substations, and the bottom of the elevator shaft. Best visited whilst listening to creepy spy music on one's iPod.
Such spots in this hidden locale include catering storage, electrical substations, and the bottom of the elevator shaft. Best visited whilst listening to creepy spy music on one's iPod.
a wonderful sight to see.
turns out I will not be able to move off-campus as I had originally written about in past entries, unless I want to back out of residency payments for the rest of the year. I will have to satisfy myself with my current living and working conditions to save money, but in the end, I don't mind. the plan for the coming year is steadily taking shape, between residency issues, life goals, and future class schedules.
it's a time to change. it's a stressful time. finals have most of the MICA campus wild-eyed and working prodigiously, sometimes eschewing the normal daily patterns of sleep and eating. I'm no exception. but i often think it's more of our fault and an issue of time management rather than a true overload of work.
a time of change. the patterns shift, but we learn to shift with them. St. Augustine:
"In all our actions and movements, in every activity of the creatures, I find two times, the past and the future. I seek the present, nothing stands still: what I have said is no longer present; what I am going to say is not yet come; what I have done is no longer present; what I am going to do is not yet come; the life I have lived is no longer present; the life I have yet to live is not yet come. Past and future I find in every creature-movement: in truth, which is abiding, past and future I find not, but the present alone, and that unchangeably, which has no place in the creature. Sift the mutations of things, you will find was and will be; think of God, you find the is, where was and will be cannot exist."
]]>in the studio:
detail:
Wonderful, moving, and inspiring article. i'm interested in these sorts of things chiefly because, for a good five or six years now, i've dreamed of creating an alternative community based around the spirituality of jesus. it's changed in its permutations as i've changed—at first being a media-hyped, concert venue-meets-live-in-coffeeshop, with interactive sermons to boot, to a more monastic like presence that parallels spiritual, communal growth with the growth of a communal artist setting.
of course, each permutation of my little "artist monastery" idea has changed with me as my beliefs, influences, and settings have changed. when i was in the big evangelical church, doing what insiders would call "the willow thing" (programmatic services, media-driven message, high scale and big budget), i imagined my dream monastic community as a "willow" monastery—programmatic, media driven, in tune with pop culture, etc. it was just that the people there, at least some of them, lived there and that fostered a deeper community than the one-out-of-seven-days model of church. i was in eighth grade at the time. it was a start.
since those days, my idea of a spiritual community has increasingly changed, gradually coming to encompass more and more of what i learned about my faith, and how that faith gradually changed (today i'm not even sure what i'd say i have faith in, and yet in the same breath my soul would be answering that statement with a silent question). articles like these, however, inspire me to think. they also make me afraid.
they make me afraid chiefly because i feel incredibly inadequate to this sort of calling. have i lost my faith? i don't know. i don't think so—i've just lost the vision. after years of being in the church, then a few more years of wondering what could be church if that isn't, and trying various experiments in what "could be" church, i've lost all sense of what the church is. except in these small little examples.
in truth, i try to do my part. i often find myself in deep conversations with friends—able to communicate about issues and problems that, at least i would like to think, few other people can. that and the more menial things, from simply being there for another person on moving in day and being cheerful and helpful to always holding doors to people.
at the same time, though, there is so much to do. and often times i have enough problems just taking care of myself and try to put the pieces of my own self together, there's hardly any time for other things. so when i hear about these non-hostile takeovers of groups of people my age or just a little older taking over abandoned buildings, turning them into houses of community, and reaching out to the other, i get excited. yet i also feel inadequate.
i feel inadequate because of how, in the shadow of broken, shattered, mega-church culture, i have rarely seen anything better come to take its place. neither in the church, but also in me. who am i, after all—i grew up in the suburbs all my life, i'm not familiar with the virtues of service. i'm familiar with philosophy, art, and theology. these are all high-brow things, and that's well and good, but if i had to go into a warehouse covered in trash and drug paraphenalia and turn it into a new center of love and learning for the sake of the community and the world at large, would i actually do it? or would i stay at home and read (or write) a book instead?
a part of me says i'd actually do it. but i think the inadequacy stems from a lack of experience, and actually an anxiety, about how to do it. how does one totally transform their life to be an agent of effective change? how does decide to live by a totally communal purse to erase the trace lines of poverty in a living community? how does one come to the place where they can leave all that they know, all that they have, and all that they've been, behind and enter into a new world that is vibrant, passionate, and full of change?
truly, that is what i want. but i think i still carry the weight, the vestiges of this old religion of the megachurch—a religion that's almost existential in its makeup, and has little to do with the world other than its metaphysical aspects. i'm also the kind of person who's so sensitive to environment and place. this is one of my great strengths as an artist. could it also be a great strength to me as a christian?
i hope so. i believe it can be so. it's just that the journey towards that place is one utterly fraught in unknowing, clouded situations, and far too many possibilities for something to go wrong for it to even be variably smart to go through with it. yet we go through with it anyway. and maybe, just maybe, something guides our steps along the way.
i don't know. i truly do hope so. it's the sort of thing where you have to take a leap—a great nosedive into the unknown. yet i've seen people who have done it, and i've seen other people who have less than what i have living happy, content lives, with much more power to change that one might first believe. but you have to believe. and even if you are willing, just slightly willing, and even if your hand quivers in the reaching forward—that will be enough.
]]>having been away from "home" for at least a good month now has had an interesting effect on my nerves. i've become gradually convinced that i need to move into off-campus housing, probably for the rest of my time at MICA. ironically, this was apparently the same time in my mother life that she decided to get her own place as well. for me though, the decision has come from a number of factors:
firstly, a sense of place. more specifically, home. it struck me that my accommodations in MICA's residence hall is nothing too (necessarily) different than the accommodations you'd get at "home"—bed, fridge, desk, bathroom, microwave, even a friend or two you're comfortable (hopefully) living with. and yet my quaint little on-campus apartment room feels more like a place between work modes, rather than an actual resting place you come to after working. i think this steadily began to wear on my nerves, me unknowing, until i began to consider the off-campus possibility.
in fact, living in baltimore, even in the bolton hill neighborhood where MICA is planted, which is a historic neighborhood full of old brownstones and towering, beautiful wood doors, is not much more expensive than living in MICA's own brush-polished residence complexes. craigslist revealed a slew of suitable apartments, ranging from $600 to $900 a month, that could easily satisfy a working art student like me. and most of those are 1-bedroom places as well—if you have a roommate or two, you can divide the slightly higher rent by fractions.
i think the individual perks of the places themselves are interesting too. such-and-such, in a building filled with professional, working artists. such-and-such, with a balcony view. bolton hill is an old enough part of the city that none of the brownstones can be torn down for historic reasons and replaced with uniform developments, but baltimore doesn't have the extreme housing rates that a place like new york city would have. and suburban tenants might be concerned about the safety of certain neighborhoods, but wise city-dwellers know how to stay safe—and that much of the fear itself is fear of the unknown, which albeit ghost-inspired, has the power to drive prices down.
so i've been measuring walking distances from various apartments to the MICA campus via Google Earth. and also measuring what sort of work I'd have to do over the summer in order to keep a place, stay afloat, etc. it would probably mean staying in Baltimore during the summers. but on that point, i'm not dissuaded at all. if baltimore is going to be my home for the next few years (however many of them there are), better i plant myself firmly than shipping back between silver spring and the big city. baltimore too is a quirky town, which has enough empty space and lack of reputation to produce a great grassroots possibility. i run into unusual, alternative little cafes and bookstores all the time—or more major and dicey operations, such as the Copycat building (an old, abandoned warehouse/factory building this is home to to everyone from poor squatters to professional artists, and is a constant venue for underground shows). but most of these things could never come to light in a city more conscious of the spotlight. things get tighter, more political. baltimore has enough problems of its own, but it seems like after losing its centrality as a place of port and industry, people in the city and the city itself is just about willing to try anything and everything to make something new and fresh happen. simply put: if you get together with a group of like-minded people and have the know-how to get a good idea off the ground, you can probably make it work.
i find this exciting. perhaps this isn't different in any other place, but i feel like baltimore may be a place of opportunity—but not typical opportunity. it's more like a place of potentials and possibilities rather than demarcated paths to success. but for me (no surprise here), this is much more exciting.
the off-campus situation, aside from allowing me an actual sense of home and rooting, will also provide me a much better place to work. i've recently come under health and safety regulation fire from MICA policy enforcers about my work in the public studios, given that i've been using materials with toxic fumes in my work. their concern ultimately has to be with the other students, since i always protect myself with a respirator, but i find it odd that MICA chooses to restrict the materials of art making due to health and safety issues when the said public studios don't even provide a proper ventilation system for the students that work there. they're in the basement, so they don't even have windows. this, i think, is just silly. even as a senior, unless i got special studio space on campus, i'm not allowed to work with open flames, which cuts out most opportunities to use encaustic mediums. i find it ironic that MICA wants to encourage artistic growth, but is disabled by lawsuit culture from giving its students the proper chance to work with alternative and slightly more dangerous materials. i wonder what the world would by like without lawsuits of any kind.
but all the same, and whether my tirade here is justified or not, the off-campus housing situation may, may give me a chance to work without these sorts of concerns, well-intentioned though they are, and expand into new worlds of art making possibility.
plus, of course, the simple idea of having my own place, set apart from the world, is one that i think may be very necessary now. we'll have to wait and see.
no pictures of this little works yet, but when i say little, they are indeed little. some are eight by eight inches, and others even slightly smaller. they've been the closest thing i've ever done to actual studies—my new mixtures of mediums has pushed me to create a new way of painting, and to become familiar with this vocabulary i've wanted to push the boundaries of my ingredients. results have been very interesting, despite the fact that health and safety issues have forced me to stop using certain chemicals in the public studios here at MICA. this is one reason why i'm considering living off-campus next year, or maybe somehow finding a space next semester.
all will be revealed soon when the parental units get back from their 10-day cruise in Mexico and we regroup for thanksgiving. i could really do a break right now. sophomore year at MICA has chiefly consisted of doing all the classes the institution considers necessary before getting to what one's really interested in. yes and no. i'm glad in some ways they do this, but my overall sense of the semester so far, in terms of studio work, has been very dissatisfying, even disheartening. many other sophomores have felt similarly. i suppose this part of my time here at MICA could be called "the bottleneck."
all that being, however, i've still been prodigiously working, and a lot of the breakthroughs that have happened with my work have been inspired by teacher comments and critiques. maybe my interpretations of their critiques was different than what they may have intended, but they seem to be pleased, and for the moment, i'm content with that.
how strange it is to be in this place between homes! i've gotten something of a wanderlust lately—a little bit of a desire to go across the pond. Ireland, for whatever reason, has been floating around in my mind—or maybe the desire to go out west. but with my parents enjoying their lives as empty nesters (i don't hold it against them), and living in what is something past dorms reaching towards apartments at art school, i feel somewhat rootless. if home is where the heart is, i think i need to find my heart first, because it's gone out and is wandering in strange, mystical lands.
needless to say, even in my ill state, i was writing on a story at four o' clock in the morning. the story, called Journeyman is an old idea of mine whose original drafts have since been lost, but usually when i get a strong idea for a novel, strong enough to write a first couple of pages about, i'll usually keep it with me. and every now an then, with some timely inspiration, an old idea will revive. justly enough too, since the story begins in an airport at twilight with a young man who wants to leave behind everything in America and see the world. unbeknownst to him, however, the plane is doomed to crash into the sea. but before it hits the water, or perhaps during, he is transported into a fantastic world filled with strange, surreal environments and otherworldly characters. he has to journey through this dreamlike world before truly finding his home, and it becomes something of a spiritual narrative that parallels the physical one at which the opening only hints at.
i like the idea, chiefly because i feel it gives me the opportunity to invent whatever i want. the world can be mystical and ethereal, horrific and terrifying. but it is just idea, and right now i only have a few pages. strange enough, however, that after writing those few pages, i didn't feel as homesick.
happy thanksgiving,
as the trees turn purple
and my heart turns blue;
the sky is gray,
but our souls are new.
change, change this season,
bare your life, you spindly branches,
shake off your fire, and we'll make
this day, this season, into
the moon's dreamtime sleep.
come with me, listen,
and i'll show you
worlds you've never yet seen
and never yet knew.
Khora #2 (Pink, White, Green, Black)
so these are the new pieces i've been talking so much about. they're both five feet by five feet and are highly textured. both of them either directly or indirectly have something to do with the philosophical Khora, first mentioned in Plato's dialogues and later used by such philosophers as Heidegger and, in particular, Jacques Derrida and Jack (John) Caputo.
Overview of what khora is (provided by Wikipedia):
In Timaeus Plato describes khôra as a receptacle, a space, or an interval. It is neither being nor nonbeing but an interval between in which the “forms” were originally held. Khôra "gives space" and has maternal overtones (a womb, matrix).
Key authors addressing "khôra" include Heidegger who refers to a "clearing" in which being happens or takes place. More recently, Derrida uses "khôra" to name a radical otherness that "gives place" for being. For Derrida, "khôra" defies attempts at naming or either/or logic which he attempts to "deconstruct" (see deconstruction).
Following Derrida, John Caputo describes khôra as:
"neither present nor absent, active or passive, the good nor evil, living nor nonliving - but rather atheological and nonhuman - khôra is not even a receptacle. Khôra has no meaning or essence, no identity to fall back upon. She/it receives all without becoming anything, which is why she/it can become the subject of neither a philosopheme nor mytheme. In short, the khôra is tout autre [fully other].”
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The way I usually describe it when talking about these pieces (from my limited philosophical knowledge) is that it is an elemental or metaphysical "stuff" which is the constant force that seeks to take Being or the Ego and pull it back into non-being. Khora, in John Caputo's work, is almost synonymous with the Hebrew Tehom, meaning "the deep", out of which Elohim shapes the universe. If God is a potter, Khora is the clay—it's at once a-theological, but has the potential for infinite creativity.
Interestingly enough, my roommate and I have been recently discussing the Tao te Ching (the founding text of Daoism), which he is very familiar with and which I am just beginning to wade into. I think it's a very important work, and has something to say about these new pieces I'm working on. In our discussions we've paralleled the Tao and Khora, but I think they're ultimately different things. I think somehow the Toa is already eschatological, but the language with which the Tao te Ching describes it is very Khora-like ("Tao called Tao is not Tao," Tao is emptiness, the loss of the self, nothingness and the force from which everything springs, etc.).
I think that the failure of metaphysics has to do with how these are all ultimately just words, and that there really isn't such a thing as "khora." That was just a word some people made up, and then other people commented on it. But at the same time, there's a reason why we're using the word, and the reason is because it correlates with something lurking in reality. This is why I think all philosophy is ultimately metaphorical—it realizes its place as a discussion and interpretation of life, not the science of life itself.
But I'm very excited about these new paintings. They are almost entirely made of industrial materials:
Tile grout, tar (roof cement), shellac, graphite powder, latex house paint.
]]>during the hours
of dusk and dawn
there is a time,
a making
a prayer said
and a journey begun—
the way is harsh
the path unknown
my verse is unsung,
my message,
wrapped in a seal
unfurl these grasses in the wind
as they turn orange
by a flaming sunlight.
remember your place in this world,
little one
for i am mine
and you are yours.
together we are one
for in stride, we step
and like mirrors
carry the same reflection.
This is my newest painting. i'm very pleased with how it turned out. these new works on paper are becoming interesting in their development—i've heard that the use of shellac on un-gessoed paper can cause problems for the paper in archival situations (I thought it might actually act as a sealant—some of these things are simple things that I'm not yet aware of).
that said, this piece was a lot of fun to do and has a very interesting background. it mirrors very closely Tensions and Transcendants, a work on canvas of mine that was just sold actually—more on that in a later entry. i'm beginning to realize the importance of understanding one's own self in executing their art. in fact, the verb (not noun) "honesty" is not just a virtue for an artist in doing their work, but it is a practical necessity. this often means the work can be quite raw and potent, but i believe this is the goal after which art should strive after.
my show at american university was just this past friday, and it was such a wonderful time. my thanks goes to all the people who stopped by, asked questions about the three pieces i had up (Tensions and Transcendants, Red Flames and Sky, and Untitled), and a special thanks to Susan Carey and Julie Bell for purchasing T&T and Untitled, respectively. I was honored that my work could touch other people and provide an emotional impact. I'm quite confident the works will be in the hands of people who care about the messages hidden and lurking in the layers of paint. also some very big thank you's to Giacommo, Antoinne, and Luis Scotti, who made the whole event work. I'm of course indebted to Luis for his invitation to the show, and I treasure his friendship.
on other matters though, and in relation to the new piece (I think I'm titling it "Regarding the Tensions of a Susceptible Situation"—for some reason I'm on a streak of titles that are long and are always regarding something), having to explain my work, process, etc. at the show was quite an exercise. i was nervous, which is rare for me, but i always try to be very approachable and inviting about these sorts of things, and i enjoy answering questions and getting into deep philosophical conversations. so once i got in the groove, things went smoothly. i met a lot of good people and having to explain my sometimes lofty ideas in a practical way is a humbling and inspiring adventure.
one thing that i kept coming back to was the idea of painting being a visual (or aesthetic, philosophically speaking) exegesis of an event. that event could be a situation, a feeling, or a moment of tensions (or transcendence), but in watching my latest piece as i finished it, i realized that these paintings are signifiers. similarly in the show, i described my process similar to the way one would write a journal entry, but the literal penstrokes have evolved to become the sweeping lines on a canvas. but paintings, in their essence, are symbols, or signs. interestingly enough for abstract art, the signifier part of the sign (in semiotics, signifer+signified="sign") isn't a literal signifier—like a picture of a teapot, which signifies a teapot. with my paintings, and any work that is abstract (and perhaps even any painting at all, which is an argument i sometimes make), the signifier has no direct connection with the signified other than what we interpret it to be—convention. this is your run-of-the-mill semiotics, but deconstruction deeply influences my work. the signifier that is my painting, and even the signifiers inside it, are de- and re-constructed visual aesthetics (they are not shapes, symbols, or anything else—they are nothing in and of themselves, they are just opportunities and catalysts for aesthetics—which is why looking at an abstract work is sometimes like cloudwatching—saying this is a "triangle" or "line" or even "shape" defeats the point).
the true art in the abstract painting, however, is not the artist as the interpreter of an event. they are an interpreter, yes (i. e. they have an inspiration, and that inspiration springs from an event), but in a painting, they do not provide an interpretation. they provide another event. this is where endless interpretation (hermeneutics, or as i call it sometimes, poetry) comes into play. many people at the show said they saw different things in my paintings, and i too see my own versions. but these are all just readings, and not a single interpretation rules—not even the artist's. and i say that because, if i ruled over other interpretations, i would be destroying the true power of my work. despite that there are many hermeneutics, i do believe that the readings have a connection to the original event (through aesthetics and aesthetic memory). but this connection is one that is constantly in turmoil, constantly being reconstructed as the context of the event—the painting—changes. and this is why cloudwatching is not just fun in abstract art, but is absolutely necessary. what is the "signified" in an abstract painting? I do not believe it is the painting itself—that is far too simple, and is a philosophical cop-out. we have to deal with the issue of memory, psyche, and the relationship of the human to (what i call) aesthetics. in the bare bones stuff, we get into psychology, color response theory, and other things that i'm not enough of a scientist to know about. but i do know that "shapes" or "geometry" has an effect on people, and this affective quality is the driving core of why abstract art makes any sense of all. Mondrian and Rothko both used it to achieve their goals, calling it "plasticity," though the little bit i've read of their theories is that it's more color theory than also shape recognition, weight distribution, gravity (something I picked up from aikido), and all the more complex aesthetics (dreamworlds and so on) that springboard. maybe these things were implicit in their writing—it certainly was present in their work. but for me, "plasticity" is only one piece of the puzzle. there's also the psychological component, though i tend to interpret that as the spiritual. Psychology, especially Freudian, often seems to me like having notions of spirituality, but uses it while only considering head and forgets the heart, leaving the psyche begging for respite from the terror of repression—respite that comes in the form of deep and meta-physical relationships beginning with hope and faith.
all this for the work of painting. but it is a good work, and i enjoy it. some kinds of work i find very hard to do—even some kinds of painting. but this sort of work (and painting) i could do all day and never tire of it. so i'm thankful for this ability. all this philosophy is a good backdrop and buttress for theorizing about art (and, for my sake, my own work), but i truly think that art is a form of therapy for the honest painter. i am an expressionist not because i belong to a certain school (i. e. "Expressionism") but because i express in all my forms, and must express, otherwise my work loses its heart and soul. i put a lot of thought into my work so that people understand that i'm not just making marks on the canvas—and sometimes it's for my own understanding, because the muse leaps ahead of me before i'm aware of it. but there is a reason for the rhyme, and beyond even the old adage "art for art's sake." i do art not for art's sake, but for my sake—and for the sake of the other, both other (physical) and Other (meta-physical). art is grounded in aesthetic memory, and aesthetic memory is grounded in relationships—and finally, relationships are grounded in love—they must be so, because if they are not, everything contained in those relationships will fall.
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When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
how great it is to contemplate the worth of friendship?
A poor but sufficient shot of one of my latest works… "Regarding the Prayers of Mothers for Newborn Children" acrylic, shellac, and latex on paper
when I was young, before even the days that i began speak (which were fairly late in my childhood), my mother would communicate to me by putting her mouth very close to my ear and saying my name softly. there is a black and white picture of my mother doing this, even, when i am about three years old, looking off into space beyond—but, as all the relatives would soon learn, still paying attention quite acutely (they say that when I started speaking at three years old, i was speaking in sentences).
i still remember this. i was reminded of it during a more contemporary encounter and she did the same thing—maybe for memory's sake—but how quickly did my childhood memory surface! i think there truly is something about us as children that ingrains itself as experience—experience of our parents' presence—very early on in our lives, and it continues to define us even into old age.
the presence of my mother, however, is something that i think i will continue to treasure, and it especially dearly. both my parents are very important to me, and i'll remember each in a way that i think they would be proud to be remembered as—but when it comes to spirituality, i find it strange that we often refer to "father" god.
perhaps this is one aspect of patriarchy that should be rooted out. in truth, even by some simple common sense, god has no gender, but is beyond and contains all possibility of gender. this is because god is infinite in presence, and is continually growing in life and in human flesh in anticipation of the eschaton. but the image of father god becomes an image that may only be comforting on certain levels and not others. father is often the maker of discipline, the imparter of advice, so on—and this is good, and may lead to a very close relationship.
but from the male perspective, there is something unique about the son and mother relationship. it is by the mother, and my memories of my mother, that i will later judge all women that i find. it is by a mother's presence that a man looks for his lover, for he seeks after the same love that first loved him.
so as "father god" is a discipliner and imparter of advice, he can also be detached—i. e. has to go to work, so on. the relationship between a man and his father is at once close and personal, yet also tumultuous—and maybe for both sides. i have no doubt that our image of "father god" causes us to look on god with a particularly gendered stereotype. god can certainly fulfill it, but i wonder—what opportunity for hermeneutics could there be in an alternate gender—in "Mother god", the god who is love and is the definition of love, for the male—because it was from her being that he first precipitated, and all the nutrients that was first Hers now belongs to him.
i should say that the last few weeks have been extremely difficult for me. if it were not for the support of close friends and family (immediate or extended), i'm not sure how i would have fared, or even if i could have fared at all, during this past month. many of the issues have to deal with the search for a romantic relationship, but there are also many spiritual complications that i feel are part of the journey of contemplation. sometimes the things that we desire, no matter how greatly we desire them, were not meant for us. i found that, perhaps, some of the greatest pent-up obsessions and longings may have been part of my own creation, or at the very least were (or became) a vessel from which a greater, larger message began unfolding. that message is still unfolding, but in realizing that there were some things i should probably let go of, a great peace—if only a temporary one—settled.
the prophet elijah supposedly heard the voice of god in two ways. the first was a great, rushing wind, during the height of the prophet's victory. the next, however, was when he was exiled in a cave, and it was the subtlest of all sounds—nearly imperceptible. there's a great opportunity for gender hermeneutics if i ever saw it! one is large and masculine, roaring and present. the other is quiet and feminine—powerful still and wondrous, but carrying with it a softness that reminds one of not just who god is, but who also they are.
in coming to realize these new messages for me in the past weeks i had to listen very carefully. and indeed i was—but i was listening for the wrong kind of voice. i was expecting a loud, rushing voice—declaring something in the hear and now clearly and abruptly. but i had not been listening for the other kind of voice.
while i had been viewing and expecting god to act in a very masculine sort of way, i instead found a god that talked to me, or was trying to talk, in a way much more similar to the way my mother first spoke to me when i was young—quiet whispers, close by and into the ear. i, like then, am staring off into space. but perhaps i'm beginning to pay attention.
and as such, this Mother-god who first imparted to me love (as well as my name, and repeated it many times so i would know it), thereby defined love, and set me on the journey towards love. yet love has an end in relationships, and ultimately a completion in not just human flesh, but divine creation. if we are agents of spirit, then there is work about and present in our day to day lives that is at once beyond our control, yet also dependent. like a child to his mother, we may choose to listen closely to this spirit, bringing about good things in relationships and the earth itself. but if we do not listen, we may not just forget these things—we may also forget who we are, for it was our name that was first called into being, into existence, and that with a mission—a mission implied in love—for us to complete.
(my apologies for any typos in this post: this one is a late, late entry)
]]>i was encouraged this week by a wonderful artist, pilar jimenez who I am showing with (among many other wonderful artists), next weekend at American University. Last tuesday a pre-gala reception was held for the artists to meet each other and get networked at the wine and food restauraunt, Adega in Silver Spring—which is also the place that I first met Luis Scotti. But Pilar and I really hit it off well—we're both abstract painters, so we had a lot to talk about.
one of the things pilar emphasized to me was honesty. if nothing else, abstract painting is about the honesty of emotion. if you are not honest with yourself—which also requires humility—then you're doomed to create kitsche and cheesy art.
i suppose it was more the presence of a fellow artist—and one who is elder and much more experienced—that became something of a close kinship very quickly that i'll treasure most, even more than any advice or opportunities i may get through a networked connection. for me, friendship is pinnacle—and i think that is the case because it attends to the human heart, just like painting. but where painting is an outgrowth of expression, friendship is the genesis of it—and, to at least an extent all of life. where would we be without relationships? these relationships conceived of and maintained in love are the ones that harbor emanating spirit—an aesthetic memory, so to speak, of beauty—but an open ended beauty; a beauty that is growing, moving, and yet undetermined. this is why i call these things eschatological. they never fully reveal their total being, their total essence, until a moment that i think is constantly deferred, yet prophesied and coming (the messianic age).
i'm not much for theosophy. but i am for theology—and i am also for life. i have to remember that life is always the first event—the first cause, so to speak, and the cause to which all other causes must buttress. even in terms of christianity, perhaps it is our duty as followers of the nazarene to provoke life where there is death? to plant seeds of friendship—of philos, but wrapped up in the infinite love of agape. we can not do this by any theology, theosophy, or philosophy. we only do it, and can do it, because we were first loved.
so if painting is to be an outgrowth of me, and a constructive activity (yet deconstructive, constantly renewing and rejuvenating itself by refusing its own narcissistic image), then it is one that is built of honest. if Christ is right, and I have yet remained in him, there is a shard of his first love that loved, that dying love and impossible possibility, that inspires me to paint. it is love, not concept, that moves the hand to stroke. it is life, not mind, that creates more life, and also re-life-ifies it, pouring water over old wounds and letting scar tissue become the fertile dirt of new realities.
honesty. love, honesty, and humility.
things to meditate on.
the things that cause
the heart to break
are the notions
of pain
we harbor for the sake
of our selfish selves
i have a path to make
i have a bond to break
what is red is blood,
but what is blood is passion
this step
that i seek
a bluish and yellow
streak
is a way into the heart
of another
that still
i have yet
to meet.
the ship
that brought my fathers here
this is the ship
that is leaving
and i watch it
by the rocky shore
as the morning waves
come in
and
roll out.
this morning, i sat here
two years ago
knowing my history;
my path, my way
the way that was first
made by a One—
a one that i did not know,
could not comprehend;
the mystery of the thing
that goes beyond us
is the lack of presence, yet
the knowledge
of what
was
this here, i see it
stretching in front—
the white froth
and bluish deep
this world
that i am called
to
is a higher existence—
an existence i’ve yet
to live
and live presently
all the same
i am afraid
i am afraid of the wake
and the path
i travel
yet i know
that what was once made
can be reborn
what was once broken
can be mended
the hearts of men
are easily shattered
by
the winds
of time
and earth,
but this path, this heart
that beats
still
is the way
the wake
where my an-
cestors went;
my fathers so-
ught,
and all who walk
i know,
will find
still, with me constantly being in the spiritual pattern of processing thoughts, ideas, and the "voice of god/jesus" (or maybe its just me, you know, I don't want to be like Joan of Arc or anything) continually reminding me what I should or shouldn't be doing—typically just for my own benefit, and then I suppose it's just a simple voice of conscience—with all this going on, I usually can't interpret any event without it having some sort of spiritual significance.
yoga is no exception—and in fact it's even more spiritually energized since, after all, yoga is not just a physical activity, but also a spiritual one.
being a follower of jesus, I've often been reminded how the religion that coalesced in the wake of his presence has no physical dynamic to its intense spiritual truth. One occasion I was specifically reminded of this when, hanging out with my friend Tim Hartman, I saw on his kitchen counter a book: "The Posture of Prayer" I think it was called—one of the two authors was Doug Pagitt.
Aside from being unsurprised that Pagitt on the front cover, I also thought, "how appropriate"… how appropriate that our dynamic spiritual truth should somehow be reflected in the nature and motion of our bodies? I didn't read the book, yet some how it was very appropriate. traditionally, I suppose the only "Christian" posture could be the posture of prayer and kneeling, but this is such a small vocabulary of physical language compare to many other faiths. Islam, for example, has the prayer and kneeling in unison, and in the pilgramage to Mecca, muslims will circle around the Kabbah. If you haven't seen images of this grand event, google it and take a look—soak in the grandness of this communal spiritual event, and how a devotee of that religion must feel in the center of that holy site. Similarly, buddhists have a good and rich tradition of physical posturing, chiefly because of their meditative practices. For the Christian, side, however, I wonder: what rich, varied vocabulary to we have to grow and express our faith with in terms of our bodies?
The answer, unfortunately, at least as far as I know, is a wanting silence.
I suppose most western Christians would be uncomfortable with the idea of taking the traditions of physical expression from other religions and applying it to their own, even if it was strictly with the intent of studying it from a Christian perspective. Of course this is a generalization, but I am counting from my long experience of being in the church—and then looking from outside the church in. What is this fear of other religions, and the richness of other cultures that we might be able to learn from? I often wonder if most Christians aren't actually looking for the Christ-like in the world, and then also seeking to grow what is Christ-like and plant seeds of the Christ-like when there is not any to be found—rather, we look for the nominally Christian, not the spiritually Christian. "Is it safe?" as opposed to "Is it secular?" is the question that comes up in the minds of us who are steeped in the Christian subculture. And I say that because that is what it truly is—a subculture. Perhaps the aftereffects of the 20th century's evangelical movement has been that a whole sub-group of "born agains" have fostered the idea of a "safe" Christian culture—a City on a Hill, so to speak. The only problem is that you have to be a card carrying member to get in.
That problem, it should be noted, is double sided—some card-carrying members indeed are the salt of the earth, but being the salt of the earth is not the requirement. It's the card that's the requirement. Not only can some people get in, others can't get out, and some who are in aren't truly in, and some who out might actually be in. Parallels to the "first shall be last and the last shall be first" and "you say Lord, Lord, but you do not know me," anyone?
This is all to say, really, that I think Christianity is not a cut and dry spirituality. The religion, of course, is, but the spirituality is not. Yoga is a good example. Today, my instructor decided to do a reading—and despite that it was a little Chopra-esque, it did have deep spiritual implications that rang a few bells in my head. "There is power in powerlessness," and "we are so determined to be self-empowered, but sometimes we realize we just cannot help ourselves" should not be unfamiliar ideals to common Christians or Christian theologians, despite that I heard them in a "secular" yoga class.
To make a long thought short, I often see my spirituality as an event that occurs when I least expect it. My job, as a disciple of the long-gone Nazarene, is not to follow the sheep—it is to follow the Shepherd. The shepherd goes to places the sheep may not like or want to go, but the shepherd knows better. This, dare I say, is one of the reasons Jesus used this metaphor. Things are not cut and dry—the god I worship is a god that I have to look for. An idol sits on your shelf and stares at you, but I do not have a thing made of stone or wood. No shrines, no sacred places for me. Only sacred events, occurring when and where I least expect them, and wondering—will the call be affirmed? Will the name of god be attended to when its possibility occurs? Will I see the least of these and recognize—yes, you are my god?
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