Art

Finding Beauty in the Most Unexpected Places

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Actor Koji Yakusho portraying Hirayama looking upwards, in the film Perfect Days

 

An improbable premise underlies the remarkable film, Perfect Days, and it is displayed in two principal ways. A Tokyo public toilet cleaner has a positive attitude, even a cheerful spirit, as he approaches his daily routine of attending to places where other people leave their waste. And yet, the primary places where this man is lucky to work are the architecturally significant public toilets commissioned and built for the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. The film portrays these places well. Some have suggested that the architectural features of these structures may have inspired the movie’s production. Nevertheless, the film is centered upon one man’s approach to how he lives every day.

He is a man about whom we know only his surname, and we learn more about his daily routine than we do about his inner life. The latter, his interests and perhaps aspirations, are suggested by the books he reads and the music to which he listens while driving. Many scenes depict him at his work. But the film does this in ways that do not romanticize his occupation, while he is shown cleaning and polishing toilet bowls and seats, as well as sinks and other aspects of plumbing. The film skillfully negotiates the ambiguous terrain lying between a heroic portrayal of an apparently righteous man, and a sentimental celebration of an unreal figure.

A montage of some of the public toilets featured in Perfect Days

The approach to life epitomized by Hirayama in the film is one of contentment. He models someone who accepts the limitations presented by the contexts in which many of us live, and he displays an openness to unexpected moments of discovered and quiet beauty. The film is not overtly spiritual. Yet, these qualities may represent – to some Western viewers like me – compelling reflections of Japanese culture as it has been shaped by Buddhism.

Hirayama at work on a hobby, Bonsai

In addition to the overt paradoxes at the heart of the film – a happy toilet cleaner and beautiful public toilets – the film subtly presents other aspects of Japanese society that Western visitors might notice. In what may surprise many who are not of Japanese heritage, regarding a very private culture where people typically meet one another in commercial establishments rather than in personal dwelling places, public baths with full nudity are common. I experienced occasional visits to public baths in my youth, growing up in Japan.

Hirayama in the neighborhood bath house

And within the context of this very private culture, some Tokyo public restrooms were created with transparent glass walls, appearing to risk users to full disclosure (the glass walls magically become opaque when the doors are locked).

Three motifs or tropes in the film are memorable. Hirayama is portrayed as always looking up to the sky when emerging from his home in the morning on his way to work, and is also seen gazing upwards (as in the photo at the top of this post). This suggests that he unconsciously senses a connection with something bigger than himself, and this may be the source of his frequently displayed habit of smiling at others.

Another motif, surely related to the first, is the employment of black and white sequences that portray flickering images, usually of dappled sunlight glimpsed through tree limbs, which Hirayama captures with his old-fashioned film camera. Most often, he seems to take these photos during his lunch breaks in a local park. In relation to these images, the movie highlights the Japanese word, and concept, of komorebi, which in a single word expresses the idea of sunshine filtering through the leaves of trees overhead.

The third is the employment by the movie makers of the Sumida River in Tokyo, long celebrated in Japanese art, over which we see Hirayama cross while walking, driving, or biking. The river appears to symbolize a form of divide between the part of the city where his small apartment is located, and the more elegant commercial district where he usually works.

My favorite image of Tokyo’s Sumida River in art, a woodblock print by Kobayashi, Kiyochika ({1847-1915} name in traditional Japanese order)

These juxtapositions in Perfect Days of contrasting details, color versus black and white, and interior privacy and public life, along with the harmony in which they are presented, distinguish this film. To me, it is remarkable that this movie was made by a Western filmmaker, regardless of the assistance provided by Japanese colleagues. A studied sensitivity to what I know about Japanese culture is evident in the film’s portrayal of this fictional character in improbable circumstances, as it invites us to discover – along with Hirayama – beauty in the most unexpected places.

Hirayama, gazing upwards, holding his old-fashioned film camera

 

Chora Church: A Byzantine Treasure

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Dome over the Side Church (or parecclesion), Chora Church

 

We missed being able to visit this remarkable place by a day! Sadly, after staying in Istanbul for four nights, the historic Chora Church that had undergone four years of renovation would not reopen until the day after our departure.

Dating back to the time of Constantine in the early fourth-century, the Chora Church was built as part of a monastary outside the walls that were constructed when Constantinople became the new capitol of the Roman Empire in 330 A.D. Its rural location led to its formal title, Church of the Holy Savior in the Country (or Chorai, in Greek).

Interior of the original central nave (naos) in use as a mosque, with Christian mosaics and frescoes covered over

Chora, like the later Hagia Sophia, has over its history served as a church, a mosque, a museum, and now once again as a mosque. As I have noted in prior posts, the fact that buildings like Hagia Sophia and Chora have been able to transition from church to mosque without significant structural change helps us perceive how what became normative in mosque architecture had its origins in churches from the early Christian, pre-Islamic era. As a precursor to Hagia Sophia, the original walls of Chora may provide one of the earliest examples of what would develop into the cruciform plan for churches, a design pattern that became predominant in the Christian East. This approach to design for worship spaces is centered on a square, covered by a dome, a departure from the early rectangular basilica plan favored in the western Roman region.

Floor plan of the Chora Church

In the floor plan above, note the subtle Greek Cross pattern of the central nave (or naos) below the large dome. As this plan indicates, the original, late Classical period Chora was significantly expanded during the Byzantine period, between the 11th century and the 14th century.

Section drawings of Chora Church showing the location of some murals and frescoes

In addition to its cruciform plan, and the church’s great antiquity, another feature that distinguishes Chora is its impressive collection of well-preserved Byzantine mosaics and frescoes, largely from the early fourteenth-century.

Visitors to Chora admiring the murals in the Byzantine-added “side church”

The bulk of the surviving mosaics and frescoes are located primarily in the side church (or parecclesion). This may be due to the central nave or naos having been used for Islamic worship during a significant portion of the building’s history. One of the many beautiful frescoes depicts a common theme found in works of art from the Christian East, that of the Harrowing of Hell. Images based on this theme depict the Christian belief concerning the first saving actions of the Risen Christ: pulling Adam and Eve out of their tombs and the clutches of the underworld (image below).

A fresco in the Side Church – Anastasis (or Resurrection): The Harrowing of Hell

A beautiful example of the Chora mosaics depicting Joseph and Mary’s enrollment for taxation in Bethlehem

Interior view of the side church

Like the later Hagia Sophia, Chora Church – for a time as a museum and now a mosque – still serves as an edifying spiritual place for Christians and people of other faiths to visit. For Orthodox Christians in the East, Chora’s numerous mosaics and frescoes provide multiple opportunities to (re)engage with biblical stories and with articles of faith in a way that the contemporaneous art in the much larger Arena (or Scrovegni) Chapel in Padua, Italy, provides enrichment for Western, Latin, Christians.

Exterior view of the southeast corner of Chora Church (note the later addition of a ‘flying buttress’)

A 1903 photograph of the west entrance to Chora in the late Ottoman period

 

The Mystic Rumi’s Burial Place
The burial place of the mystical Sufi poet, Rumi, in Konya, Turkey

Here are some photos from a recent visit to the mausoleum of the mystic Sufi poet, known in the West as Rumi. It is a very holy place for many who visit there.

The honorary coffin cover, sitting far above the entombed remains of the mystic Rumi
A Persian style multi-faceted dome in the same building
An interior view showing some of the remarkable calligraphy on the wall surfaces
A broader interior view
An original 13th century silver door
A replica small space in the courtyard adjacent to the mausoleum

Pointing Toward Perception

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We live in a world filled with “data.” Disconnected bits of information, especially in great quantity, overwhelm our ability to see and to think. Accumulating additional data or more information does not produce knowledge. Knowledge has to do with seeing the connections between bits of information. When we see the connections, we begin to see a picture, we begin to hear a story, and we gain understanding as well as wisdom.

The unrecognized fellow traveler on the road to Emmaus asks the two disciples, ‘what are all these things you are talking about?’ The answer he receives from them amounts to information. But his question is pointed toward understanding, especially in relation to ‘the big picture. He is challenging them to discover something bigger. He is really asking something like this: ‘All these things’ that have happened… What do they have to do with what God has been up to, all along?”

Here is a basic Christian truth that we find in the Emmaus Road story: Things take on meaning in relation to the risen Jesus. It happens when we see events in our lives in relation to him. It happens also with things like bread and wine as we gather at table. And it happens with people like you and me as we gather in community.

Jesus helps our perception on the road to Emmaus, and reveals something even more profound at the inn. This ‘inn,’ unlike the one where he was born, has many rooms, many mansions. When we see things like past events and the bread in relation to him, we discern more about what they were or are, and what they yet can become. When we see ourselves in relation to him, we better discern who we really are, and who we are called to be.

Prayerfully, we can look around, between things, and within. We can look for the connections. When we do, we see and discern. We see more because we see more wholly. Then we see the holy.

 

The above painting, Supper at Emmaus (1958), is by Ceri Richards, and is used by permission from the Trustees of the Methodist Modern Art Collection (UK). The penciled notation at the base of this guache painting on paper suggests that it was intended as a study for an altarpiece painting for the chapel of St. Edmund Hall (or College), at Oxford, England. The Emmaus story can be found in Luke 24:13-35, and it is a traditional Eastertide Gospel reading.

This post is adapted from one first published in 2014.

The Believing Eleven

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Peter Paul Rubens, The Rockox Altarpiece, 1613-1615 (center panel)

 

It is evening on the day of Resurrection-discovery. John tells us that ten of the disciples are hiding behind a secured door out of fear. Judas is deceased, and Thomas is away.

Jesus suddenly appears to the unprepared disciples, and shares with them his peace. He shows them his hands and his side, and then – as a direct consequence of seeing the places on his body associated with his death – the ten disciples rejoice when they see their Lord. In other words, their recognition of him, and that he was somehow alive again, brings them joy by restoring their belief in him.

When hearing this story from John’s Gospel on the second Sunday of Easter, we may be prone to considering it apart from what happens just before it. The disciples, who are hiding out of fear, have already received an eye-witness to the resurrection of Jesus. Mary Magdalene, to whom Jesus revealed himself at the tomb that morning, had come and told the ten the Lord was alive, and that he had appeared to her. Clearly, and prior to Jesus’ unexpected appearance, the ten disciples are still doubting her personal witness. Even after receiving what should have been trusted testimony from Mary Magdalene, a fellow follower of Jesus.

So why – in popular imagination – isn’t this well-known Gospel reading from John 20 commonly referred to as the “doubting disciples” reading? Why should Thomas be singled out, when his joyful recognition of the risen Jesus depended on nothing more or less than what the 10 had needed, and received, before him?

And why have so many painters in the Western tradition privileged Thomas’ purported unbelief in the Risen Lord, rather than depict the earlier reluctance of the ten others to arrive at joyful confidence about the Lord’s astonishing return? Apparently, in many painters’ eyes (especially Caravaggio), more visual drama was to be found in images of a doubter’s hand placed within an open wound.

Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, 1601 (a famous traditional presentation of the event in John 20)

A further detail to notice, which our familiarity with so many paintings helps to obscure, has to do with how Thomas responds to Jesus. According to John, Jesus appears to the not-yet-believing ten, and – unbidden – shows them his hands and his side. Seeing the traces of his wounds on his risen body brings them joy. Jesus then appears unexpectedly a week later, this time showing himself to the one not present on the prior occasion. And just as he had done previously, Jesus offers Thomas the same opportunity he had provided to the others.

We should therefore not be misled by Thomas’ oft-quoted comment to the other disciples, prior to his own epiphany, about what he needed in order to believe. According to the text, Jesus – upon appearing in the same house a second time – bids Thomas to touch him. Yet, Thomas immediately responds to Jesus’ words without any mention in the Gospel of him having physical contact with the risen Lord’s wounds. Jesus then asks Thomas a rhetorical question, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” Naturally, Thomas’ implied answer is ‘yes.’

For all these reasons, we will do better to find a different and more positive descriptive phrase by which to refer to this well-known passage from John 20. “Jesus meets the disciples according to their needs,” though wordy, would do better.

P. Steffensen’s altarpiece painting behind the altar of Zion Lutheran Church, Copenhagen

 

This post is based on the traditional Gospel reading for the second Sunday of Easter (April 7 in 2024), John 20:19-31. The story within it concludes with these words: “Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed’.”

Note: The altarpiece paintings by P. Steffensen and Rubens provide an interesting counterpoint to the prevailing tendency of painters to focus on Thomas placing his hand in the side of the Risen Jesus.

 

I Will Take You To Myself

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Fra Angelico, Noli me tangere

 

In the intimacy of his physical embodiment, the disciples and the holy women want to hold on to Jesus. It is the only way they have known him.

Mary is then found by the One she is looking for, in the garden by the tomb, on what becomes the Resurrection-discovery morning.

”Don’t try to cling to me,” he tells her, for he has not yet ascended to where he promises to take us.

We want to hang onto to how we have best known him. He promises to hold us to himself in what will be an even greater intimacy.

It is just beginning. Alleluia!

 

Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” (John 20:17)

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:3)

Once and For All

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Salvador Dali, The Sacrament of the Last Supper (detail)

 

With his life, and in his death, Jesus offered himself. In accepting crucifixion, he offered himself and the whole Creation to the Father, in the Holy Spirit. He did this once and for all. Yet, in every Eucharist, and for all who remember him on any day, he continues to make present and real in our experience what he did, once and for all.

He acted, once and for all. Yet – and this is the paradox – he still acts for all… for all time, for all places and things, and for all people. What he is still doing now does not in any way signal an incompleteness to what he did then. For he continues to offer the gift of including us in what he did then, when he did what he did, once and for all.

So what does it mean for him to include us now, in what he did then? That is the question for the holy three days of our Paschal Triduum, which begins on Maundy Thursday evening.

One way into the many answers to our question can be found in Salvador Dali’s painting, The Sacrament of the Last Supper. It is not a painting of, or about, the Last Supper. Instead, this is a painting inspired by the Last Supper, and by what it came to mean in the broader context of all that happened during those three days. For the painting is about the sacrament in which the Risen One now makes present the result of what happened on the Cross, in the Resurrection, and with the descent of the Holy Spirit.

The Book of Common Prayer service for Good Friday is in fact not a Eucharist, just as the Last Supper in that Upper Room was not a Eucharist. The Last Supper prefigured the Eucharist, but could not have been one. For Jesus had not yet died, nor yet Risen from the Tomb, and the Spirit had not yet descended at Pentecost. And neither are the sacramental services on Good Friday intended to be Eucharistic celebrations. For in the wisdom and tradition of the Church we do not celebrate the Eucharist on this most holy day, though we may receive the fruit of it, and all its benefits, when Communion is offered to us.

Instead, all our focus is upon Him, who died and rose again for us, once and for all.

These are some of the reasons why Dali paints the disciples as recognizable, physical, and historically-anchored, people. And why he yet paints our Lord as present in his mystical risen glory.

We gather in his name and in his presence on particular occasions, in particular places, at particular times. Yet he is now present at and on all occasions, in all places, and at all times. We – who are rooted in time and place – receive him who transcends and yet is present within all times and places. Grace infuses nature. The timeless One imbues time with glory.

The Sacrament of the Last Supper (full image)

On the cross, Jesus lifted up the whole Creation to his – and now our – Father, once and for all. Just as he lifted up our human nature in his Ascension, which in a sense then became our Ascension. And yet, he continues to lift up the whole Creation – including us, and including all the uncertain and unfinished aspects of our lives. So, the One who is the source of all purpose and meaning continues to bring meaning and purpose to us, and to all that we lay before him, here and now. Time and again, he brings completeness and wholeness to all that is lacking, so that we might live more fully in his glorious fulfillment of what it means to be human. For all this, we offer our deepest thanks and praise.

May these ‘holy three days’ (Maundy Thursday evening — Easter Eve) in the Church’s Christian observance of Passover be a time of blessing for us and our loved ones.

 

This post is adapted from my (2024) homily for Good Friday, which may be accessed by clicking here.

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The Beauty of Sister Wendy

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Paul left us with some of the most remarkable words in the New Testament: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” And so, we ‘behold the beauty of the Lord’ in each other. Especially If we have died with Christ in Baptism, and risen with him in his Resurrection. For we now live in him, and he in us. I am reminded of these truths when I see images of Sister Wendy Beckett’s face.

Readers familiar with this blog website will have guessed at the sense of affinity I feel when I see Sister Wendy’s videos, or read her books. Discovering her work, and gaining a sense about her perception of her vocation, have been a source of encouragement for me. She has glorified God by helping me to perceive and give thanks for beauty. And not just in art, but in faith and life, and in all the world.

We are often blessed with companions as we journey through our lives in this world, some familial and or some spiritual, some more proximate to us and others further away. When asked about these people, we are likely to offer praise for what they mean to us and for what we have received from them. Sister Wendy has been a companion for me because of what she represents: a life well-lived, one attentive to what is most important, while less distracted by that which is ephemeral.

I like a biblical metaphor with which to think about how things will be when we – as people like to say – ‘pass through the veil,’ ‘get to the other side,’ and experience being ‘in the nearer presence of our Lord.’ It is to consider with whom I might want to sit at table in the kingdom of heaven, along with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, with whom Jesus promised many would come to be present (Mt. 8:11). And at table with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, with whom Jesus dined at an occasion commemorated on Monday in our Holy Week lectionary. Of those not personally known to me in this life, Sister Wendy is one near to whom I want to sit.

Here is a proverb I like to quote, which applies to much of life: we move toward what we are looking at. In addition to the weekly texts from the lectionary and their related readings, I spend a lot of time looking at images of beauty, in its many forms. Having started my adult life as one aspiring to work in art and architecture, and then largely setting those things aside when pursuing ordination and theological work, I now find myself returning to my starting point. But with new eyes, and a wider horizon.

Sister Wendy, and the example she represents for me, have played a quiet but very important role in my growth and aspiration toward greater wholeness.

Thank you, Sister Wendy, for helping me and us see beauty, and by this to know God’s love in a fuller way.

 

During these forty days of our preparation for the Paschal feast, I have been finding quiet joy and peace in Sister Wendy Beckett’s, The Art of Lent: A Painting a Day from Ash Wednesday to Easter. The quote at the outset from Paul can be found in 2 Cor. 4:6.

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Yo-Yo Ma and The Performance of Art

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Recently, I had the opportunity to see and hear Yo-Yo Ma perform Dvorak’s Cello Concerto. Ma’s presentation of the music was stirring and evocative. Reflecting on the effect of that concert, I want to describe the experience of beauty we find in the human presentation of particular arts. The idea of performance keeps that evening in my thoughts, as well as how presentation by performers plays a significant role in certain art-forms.

When works of art are appreciated, their beauty begins to have an existence within those who encounter and engage it. This continues as we entertain those works within our imaginative and reflective consciousness. In this sense, these works of art may be said to inhabit us, having ‘taken up residence’ within our awareness, and sometimes in our dreams.

Artists convey something of the humanity we all share. They make available perceptions and insights personally important to them but which also become important to us. Artists do this by imparting aspects of their apprehension of what is beautiful, good, and or true. Appreciating their art, our perception is then made finer as we attend to their work, and as that work becomes part of us.

The creation of visual art objects such as paintings and sculptures generally occurs over a period of time, and usually happens in a private setting. Musical composition and playwriting have an affinity with the work of painters and sculptors. For writing music and plays also usually takes time and often occurs in a studio setting or personal study room. Upon completion of these works, whether paintings, sonatas, sculptures, or plays, the results may be offered to viewers and or readers. Parallel to how people often see the work of painters and sculptors, a musical composition can simply be read as a score, just as the text of a play may be read in silence by someone in a library.

In a sense, paintings are simply there. Paintings ‘speak’ in a limited way; they communicate something of an artist’s vision and experience; and, they are available for engagement by viewers who happen to, or choose to, interact with them. Yet, with works for the theater or the concert hall, something further and significantly different happens when a concerto or a play is ‘performed.’ With performances, features of the personality of the composer or writer – as well as those of the performers – are in a position to be displayed and conveyed.

Clearly, we recognize that what is shared in works of art is important to us. How musical or theatrical works of art are then presented can be just as important, especially as they are performed.

Within the visual arts, an artwork comes to inhabit the viewers who engage it. With arts that are performed, performers also inhabit the works they present. This has a significant effect upon our shared engagement with concerts and plays. And Yo-Yo Ma, as a highly skilled performer, provides a compelling example of what it means effectively to communicate a composer’s imaginative vision and passion to a receptive audience.

 

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The Beauty of Asking “Why?”

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Back cover photo from Natural Sustenance: Selected Poems, by Nick Fleck

 

“Why?” It all started in a seemingly innocuous way. “What do you want from this course,” he asked. A brave one among us ventured the answer that some of us were thinking, but were not honest enough to say: “an ‘A’.” Our English teacher, Nick Fleck, responded to my classmate in a neutral way, with a further question, “Why?” Our fellow aspirant to higher grades began to offer pretty typical answers, unoriginal and unsurprising. “I want a high GPA. (Why?)… I want to get into a good college. (Why?)… I want to get into a ranked law school. (Why?)… I want a good job at a high powered law firm. (Why?)…”

Gradually the pauses before our classmate’s answers became longer. And while his responses still sounded plausible, they seemed less and less assured. That first class session set the tone for the rest of term, as over time Nick prodded all of us to articulate answers to questions like these. And nudged us toward answers that were more and more our own, and less dependent on our peers, our parents’ expectations, and our perceptions of the uncertain world outside our rural New England prep school.

Why? The question at first provides an invitation to share acquired knowledge, display settled opinions, and voice aspirations. But the question can also be unsettling, especially when we begin to run out of platitudes and ‘safe’ answers that don’t require self examination or being open to adopt a different perspective.

I can’t fully explain why, out of a class of some 350 or so fellow graduates, I was one of only 3 or 4 who did not go directly on to college. But Nick Fleck’s persistence in challenging us to think for ourselves played a big part in it. Temperamentally, I was and am a self-learner, which disposed me toward pursuing that risky path (“…in a blind career…,” as in a line from a poem Nick had us read). Naive self-confidence also bolstered my willingness to undertake a journey on what appeared to be a largely untested road. I wanted to be an architect and to make art, and those whom I most admired had embarked upon their careers in earlier times by this same route through apprenticeship and self-study.

Having been so consistently asked why, I made the question my own and began asking it in a self-referential way. Why did I want so strongly to embrace and try to create what was beautiful? Why was this important to me… and to others apparently walking the same path? Why was I then beginning to wonder whether this was good and, if so, to what end? And why then was I going on to ponder what was good for its own sake as compared to things of passing significance?

Within a year, after living in New York City seeking non-existent apprentice drafting positions during the ‘oil crisis,’ I returned hesitantly to formal schooling. My college art studies were interrupted by another sideline, driving a forklift in a warehouse freezer for six months as a Teamster. Then, surely to my parents’ relief, asking why led me on a more traditional path, from art history to classics and medieval studies, during which I experienced an unanticipated spiritual conversion. All the while I was living with the same question: why?

Nick Fleck was not a religious man in any sense that I could discern, though he was clearly attuned to the ethical principles exemplified in Thoreau’s writing, and latent in poems he would have us read. I think it greatly surprised him when, returning for our 25th reunion, I gave him credit for setting me on the path that led to my conversion, ordination, theological studies, seminary teaching, and parochial work – experiences not readily familiar to him. But he was the one who persistently asked why, and who invited us to own the question for ourselves.

This week I realize that Nick’s great question was at the heart of the Disciples’ questions when Jesus predicted his forthcoming suffering and death. Nick’s question is simple, and perfect for Lenten reflection.

 

I was happy to see an article in the Greenfield Recorder noting how Nick Fleck had founded the Northfield (Mass.) Bird Club and was still active in leading bird walks. I trust that he continues to write and share his poetry, and help open new worlds to young persons. He helped us to discover the power latent in the word, “why,” especially when posed as a question.

The recent movie, The Holdovers, was partly filmed at my school, Northfield Mt. Hermon, and is set in exactly the time period I was there. During those years, I was in the chapel depicted within the movie a couple of times each week for required assembly gatherings. Seeing my school again during my 50th graduation anniversary year has obviously brought back memories.

A recent gathering in Northfield Mt. Hermon’s Memorial Chapel.

 

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