Painting

Comfort Ye My People

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Marc Chagall, Memorial Window, All Saints Church, Tudeley, Tonbridge, UK

 

As a priest and from recent personal experience, I know how these weeks are a tender time for many of us. Especially for those who have lost loved ones at this time of year. Finding consolation and hope after losing the tangible nearness of a beloved family member or friend is hard at any time. Faced with such a loss or its memory around Christmas, how do we find comfort and reassurance in this season? Are “the hopes and fears of all the years” really met in Him, even now?

I find help with questions like these in what may seem an unlikely place: a beautiful window by an artist whose upbringing was shaped by Hasidic Judaism, placed over the altar of an Anglican church (shown above). It was designed by Marc Chagall for All Saints Church, Tudeley, in England.

Chagall was commissioned by a grieving couple to design this window as a memorial for their adult daughter who drowned in the sea. She is portrayed below the waves in the lower portion of the window, with what appears to be her grieving mother near her feet. We find here an unexpected coupling of images that frequently appear in Chagall’s work. Seeing his depiction of a crucified man juxtaposed with that of a mother and child surprises many Christians when they learn of Chagall’s Judaism.

The imagery in Chagall’s window may seem like an unusual choice for this holiday time. Yet, it fits. Though he often painted crucifixion images in his work, the artist had in mind the suffering of Jews through the centuries, and especially in his own time. In a similar way, he thought the portrayal of a mother and child, so familiar in Christian iconography, was a universal image within human experience. Chagall believed that the Christian conscience could be touched by familiar images from the Gospels, but which were also deeply resonant for Jews based on Hebrew Bible antecedents.

This is why I think that Chagall’s art might speak to us in this season. After all, the one whose birth we celebrate at this troubled time in the world awakens hope in us, hope for new life through the renewal of our shared humanity. Our Christmas hymns touch upon this theme. And, of course, the child born to Mary and Joseph was destined – as was prophesied – for the fall and rise of many (Luke 2:33-35).

Christian artists through the centuries have been captivated by many aspects of our Lord’s Nativity. Countless examples of their work have sought to express our impression of the circumstances of Jesus’ birth, and its significance for the world, not just for his immediate family. It is noteworthy how often depictions of the Annunciation, and of the Nativity contain noticeable hints of his later saving death, and resurrection. The inclusion of discernible palm fronds, passion flowers and of lilies in these works provide common examples of these visual hints of a veiled significance yet to be revealed.

Sadao Watanabe, Nativity Christmas card, with palms, lilies, and passion flowers

Both literally and conceptually, what we celebrate at Christmas is easier to ‘grasp’ than what we celebrate at Easter. We are more prepared for the presence of the Word made flesh in a manger than we are for the absence of the Word, said to be risen and ascended from an empty tomb. The comforting appeal of the Virgin Mary holding her newborn son in a stable contrasts with the mystery of another Mary later reaching out to try and hold the risen Jesus in a garden.

This Holy Child brought us the possibility of new life by overcoming the power of death. We celebrate his birth precisely because his death and resurrection provide the pathway to our own new birth. He was born and died as one of us. And so, in him, we die and rise again to the new life he shares with the world.

Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.
Risen with healing in his wings,
Light and life to all he brings,
hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace!

Hark! the herald angels sing,
glory to the newborn King!

 

The hymn text is by Charles Wesley (Hark! the herald angels sing, verse 3).

Advent Annunciations: Elijah

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Marc Chagall, Elijah Touched by an Angel

 

Surely God’s annunciation to Elijah would have come early in his ministry, or before he embarked upon his calling. To our surprise, God’s personal self-revealing to Elijah happens after – rather than before – a series of dramatic events at which Elijah acted powerfully in the Lord’s name.

The presence of the Lord within the prophet’s words and action had already made a powerful impression upon others. After meeting a personal representative sent out by the wicked Ahab to find him, Elijah confronted the king himself. Then followed Elijah’s contest with the prophets of Baal on Mt Carmel, when God mightily came down in fire upon the sacrifice Elijah had prepared.

Marc Chagall, Elijah on Mt. Carmel

It is only after these things, and after Ahab’s wife, Jezebel, threatened to kill Elijah within 24 hours, that he reacts with notable fear and doubt! He flees into the wilderness where he asks the Lord that he might die. Elijah is twice visited by an angel, who bids him to eat and drink what has been provided. Strengthened, Elijah proceeds – apparently on his own initiative – to “Horeb, the mount of God” (called Sinai in Exodus). He travels 40 days and nights to encounter God personally.

Retreating to the safety of a cave, Elijah is confronted by God in a way that prompts him to face his own fears. God says to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” The question contains an ambiguity regarding the words doing and here. For why is Elijah not doing what God has already commissioned him to do, which is prophetically to tell the truth in God’s name? And why is Elijah here, in this remote place after a flight of forty days?

James Tissot, Elijah in the Wilderness at Mt Horeb

Elijah answers God, saying, “I have been very jealous for the Lord… For the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword, and I, even I only, am left, and they seek my life…” All to which he has devoted himself, all for which he had worked, appears to have been for nought. What would be the point of going any further on his vocational path, or of continuing to live?

God answers his forlorn prophet in a remarkable way. God says to him ,“Go out and stand on the mount before the Lord.”

And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper. And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.

Marc Chagall, Elijah’s Vision

God has spoken in a low whisper. Not in the hurricane with which God has just terrified the prophet. Nor in the calamity of a seismic disturbance. And not in a raging wildfire. God has revealed himself to Elijah in stillness and silence. Only then does God send him on to his mission.

To a people whose lives are troubled by extraordinary events and personal crises – us – God often chooses to reveal self in a similar fashion. Unlike Elijah, we have been given assurance that God is not only abidingly with us. As baptized people, God is in us, always. With so much drama around us, why should we expect God to reveal self, and God’s hopes for us, in some dramatic way? But to hear God as God often prefers to speak to us, we may need to find moments and places of quiet amidst all the noise in our lives. Advent helps us prepare to hear the gentle and quiet whisper of God’s voice.

How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of His heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming,
but in this world of sin,
where meek souls will receive Him still,
the dear Christ enters in.

 

Elijah (later seen as forerunner of the Messiah) and his cycle of stories can be found in 1 Kings 17:1 — 2 Kings 2:12. The episode on Mt. Horeb is found in 1 Kings 19. The hymn, O little town of Bethlehem (verse 3), is by Phillips Brooks.

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Advent Annunciations: Anne, Mother of Mary

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Giotto, The Annunciation to St. Anne, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

 

Without seeing the title of this fresco at the stunningly beautiful Scrovegni Chapel, in Padua, Italy, we might assume that it portrays the angel’s annunciation to the Virgin Mary. The parallels with traditional Annunciation iconography are readily evident. Yet Giotto also executed a series of panels there devoted to the life of St. Anne, Mary’s mother, who is shown in the fresco, above.

As with so many Marian annunciations, the scene is domestic, with Anne here suggested as having been occupied at home with her maid, preparing thread for stitching. Just as familiar paintings of Mary often show her at prayer, Giotto portrays Anne upon her knees with her hands clasped. But unlike familiar Marian parallels we do not see a devotional book open next to Anne. Just as later happens to her daughter, we see this grandmother-to-be of Jesus met by an angelic visitor who discloses an unexpected new role for her. Unlike her daughter Mary’s experience, Anne’s encounter with God’s Word to her is not recorded in canonical Scripture.

Interior of the Scrovegni Chapel

The frescos in the Scrovegni Chapel contain an interesting mix of images, with some portraying events in their presumed original historical context (such as the Nativity scenes), and others (like the annunciation to Anne) in buildings and settings more characteristic of Giotto’s own time and place, including the architecture of the chapel housing them. While he paints them this way, Giotto’s choices regarding imagery suggest that he seeks to be faithful to the supposition that Mary’s family came from an ordinary background. After all, Mary’s parents, named Anne and Joachim according to tradition, later allowed her to marry Joseph, a local builder; she was not betrothed to nobility. The painter, therefore, shows some restraint in his rendering of the context of Anne’s visitation. This simplicity in approach may also be due as much to Giotto’s early place in the historical development of European painting as it does his personal temperament.

In this remarkably large series of Scrovegni frescos, we can see that Giotto has discovered and effectively employs the technical skill of linear perspective. With some care, he depicts the stonework of Anne’s home and that of many other buildings as sculpturally ornamented. But rather than display undue deference to the known wealth and social position of his patron, he allows the particularity of the angel’s visitation to be what sets Anne apart from her contemporaries rather than the finery of her home’s appointments. An emerging humanism in painting is evident in Giotto’s artistic style, and he presents Anne as a distinctly recognizable person rather than as a merely symbolic religious figure. Though she appears to be a woman of some means, she is depicted as someone who could have been the neighbor or relative of many people of his community.

Here is one theme we find in Giotto’s fresco of Anne’s annunciation. All it takes to play a part in God’s unfolding plan of redemption for the world is an open heart and a spirit of willingness to say yes. What part we are to play, and its significance to and for others is, in the end, up to God – and probably not something to which we should give much thought. At least not in the way that we hope or imagine our personal skills and accomplishments might be thought of by others. Saving the whole world, even small parts of it, is God’s work and not our own.

And so, the key is what God might decide to do in and through us (while inviting our help), rather than what we might decide to do for God (while perhaps asking for divine help).

The mystery of this season of Advent centers upon how we are drawn into what God ‘has been up to’ for a very long time. In a season of growing astronomical darkness we are invited to seek the most significant source of light, the light of Christ. And at a time when the world around us seems more colored by signs of decay and dissolution, He in whom all things hold together comes anew to embrace us, and ever hold us fast. It may not be through an angel, but surely the One born among us calls all of us to share His love for the world.

 

Advent Annunciations: Joseph

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James Tissot, The Anxiety of Saint Joseph

 

I often turn to Annunciation scenes during Advent. This may seem curious since we celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation on March 25, nine months before Christmas Day. Yet, the season of Advent marks the beginning of a new church year, which may signal a time for other new beginnings.

The Annunciation to Mary was of course unique. Yet, it is also symbolic of God’s self-disclosure and God’s loving communication of hopes and wishes to every one of us. God becomes present to us, and in us, so that we might begin a new life, and begin it again. “Always, we begin again” is a saying oft-attributed to St. Benedict. It can become true for every mindful believer.

For obvious reasons, the Annunciation to Mary has received an overwhelming amount of attention in the history of art. Less frequently explored for its artistic potential is God’s self-disclosure through an Angel to Joseph, in a dream, even though it is with this Joseph story that Matthew launches his extended narrative. Mary gave birth to Jesus, whereas Joseph is remembered for having had a less prominent role in the circumstances of our Lord’s arrival. Joseph then largely disappears from the Gospel narrative. Perhaps because God’s revelation came to him in a dream while asleep as compared with Mary’s conscious, apparently daytime reception of the angelic visitation, Joseph’s receipt of an annunciation has been easier to overlook.

Yet, Joseph must have played a more-than-passing role in the coming of the Messiah. He did this by his willing marriage to Mary, and by initially providing a safe deliverance for his family from the wicked Herod, to and from Egypt. Undoubtedly, he gave Jesus significant mentoring, though Scripture leaves any details about that for us to imagine. Communities certainly have a part in the formation and education of children and youth, often in unrecognized and unrewarded ways. But why do we so easily overlook what was surely Joseph’s pivotal role in helping the young Jesus learn so much about Scripture, and in acquainting the youth with the material for so many of his later parables?

If these things may be inferred from the Gospels regarding Joseph’s significant role in the circumstances of the birth and early life of Jesus, we should reflect on what may have accompanied Joseph’s readiness to act upon the angel’s annunciation to him. As he positively responded to the angel’s words, he is likely to have considered what heeding those words might entail.

James Tissot’s painting, titled The Anxiety of Joseph, suggests that Joseph’s acceptance of his calling may have involved thoughtful deliberation. Indeed, Joseph may have sincerely weighed in his mind the degree of hazard that might arise from acting in accord with God’s revealed will, especially when such action might defy religious and social convention. That he, like Mary, in effect said yes to his angelic instructions, and followed through affirmatively, does not necessarily mean he did so without hesitation.

Most of us are called by God to accept unheralded and easy-to-overlook roles in God’s still unfolding plan of redemption for the world. Inspiration regarding our calling might even come to us in a dream, making us more prone to discount its potential significance, or too quickly assess its likely merit and value in a misguided and worldly way. After all, who are we to think that we could have an impact upon the world in relation to God’s sovereign purposes?

It is often said that Mary is the ‘mother’ of the Church. Perhaps Joseph, in a similar way, can be said to be the ‘father’ of all believers, especially those like you and me.

 

Do We Give Thanks In Darkness?

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Rembrandt, Paul in Prison (1627)

The troubling darkness of October 7 lingers. The following is my recent homily, offering reflection on how we can respond to a time like this.

 

We are always prone to being unsettled or troubled by unexpected challenges, whether nearby or far away. Since we believe in an almighty and loving God, unanticipated darkness, sorrow, and anger can confuse and upset us. For the people of Israel and Gaza, and those who care for them, October 7 and the days since have been filled with the news of much evil and much suffering. But, if ‘God is love,’ and the giver of all good gifts, as Christians believe, two questions we cannot easily answer will bother us: How can God allow natural and moral evil to happen? And why does God tolerate the suffering of his creatures, and especially of people made in his image?

When facing questions like these, I like to turn to some of Paul’s words in Philippians that we have heard in our recent Sunday lectionary readings: “God… is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (2:13). These words may be hard to accept — and hard to live by — especially if we are discouraged or fearful about what is happening around us. Yes, we hear Paul in Scripture say that God is at work in us. But we may not feel like it’s actually true. Indeed, we may find it hard to believe that it could be true. Yet, Paul wrote these words while he was in prison.

This is what we need to remember: Our feelings are fickle! Our moods and general equilibrium are subject to the ups and downs of our circumstances. Things happen to us, which are not of our own choosing. Feelings are the same way. They also ‘happen to us.’ The difference between what happens to me, and what I choose for myself, is very significant. I can’t do much to change events in the world. And I have difficulty keeping the emotions stirred by them from affecting me. But I can reflect on how I respond to them, in terms of what I decide, and what I choose for myself.

So, instead of dwelling on feelings of discouragement, inadequacy and aloneness, I have another choice. I can choose to remember Paul’s words, and repeat them to myself: ‘God is at work within me. God is at work within me. God is at work within me, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.’

This insight helps us hear, consider, and then perhaps accept, Paul’s challenging words to us. He is saying something much more profound than “be happy,” or “be cheerful!” Instead, Paul is urging us to make a choice, a decision to rejoice and give thanks, even if we may not feel like it. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he says (4:4), which is different from saying, “always be happy about the world.” It often seems impossible to be thankful for or about the condition of the world. But, we can still be thankful for the Lord who overcomes disorder, and who in the end makes things right. Paul says that the Lord is near, and so we should not worry about anything. Believing that the Lord is near takes precedence over anxiety and concern about what is amiss. Believing that the Lord is near is a choice we make, and not a feeling we wait for.

The imprisoned Paul teaches us how another willed-decision accompanies relying on the Lord’s nearness. In all circumstances, we can — by prayer — let our requests be made known to God with thanksgiving (4:6). This is equally a result of choice, rather than depending on how we feel. When we make this conscious choice to give thanks in all circumstances (rather than for them), Paul tells us that the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus (4:7).

Therefore, confidence, reassurance and peace are not simply feelings that may or may not happen to us. They are, instead, the result of willed-decision-making. So, Paul asks us to keep on doing these things, and that as we do them, the peace of God will be with us.

When I dwell upon what I fear, on what makes me angry or depressed, I give in to feelings that happen to me, especially in relation to circumstances I cannot change. But Paul asks us to do the opposite. Instead of dwelling on the negative, he urges us to reflect on what is positive. Think instead, Paul says, about whatever is true, honorable and just: about whatever is pure, commendable and worthy of praise (4:8). And he urges this based on choices we can make.

Notice what Paul is not saying as he urges us onward. He is not saying, ‘hope for’ good things, which might happen someday. He is saying think about the good that is already true, and happening right now.

In an accompanying lectionary Gospel reading, Jesus says that God’s kingdom ‘is like a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son.’ We have all been invited to this wedding banquet, and we are participating in it in our lives today. Again and again, the servants of the king go out and call people to respond to the king’s invitation. But like so many of those in Jesus’ story, we let other things get in the way.

Among what gets in the way are things we worry about, or we feel pressure to get done. Our attention shifts from the wedding invitation, and gets centered on our calendar, and on our ‘to do’ list. Then we get distracted by our anxiety.

Again and again God’s invitation arrives, through the King’s written Word, and through the voices of the King’s servants who call us. But other things press against and bend our priorities, and these other things shape our lives… even though we have been invited to a wedding! We are invited to a celebration and a feast! Joy is written into the invitation. But rather than let God’s joy touch our hearts, strangely, we let lesser things inhabit our imaginations. Many gifts and wedding favors are given to those who come to this wedding supper. Yet, in time, the wedding begins to feel like a ‘work-day,’ when so much seems to be asked of us. We then shrug off the invitation-bearers, as if they are a nuisance, rather than bearers of a joyful message.

So, we should remind ourselves of Paul’s words. For he says,”Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I say Rejoice… The Lord is near.” As Eugene Peterson translates the words that follow, Paul also says this: “Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns.”

Worries can be fashioned into prayers, and concerns can be shaped into praises. We can voice our concerns to the Beloved. It’s a choice! But our natural inclination lets worries and concerns drift into complaints and laments. Yet, we can choose! We can choose to rejoice, and to pray, and to praise. Of course, it may seem perverse to try and give thanks for the things that cause us worry and concern. But that is not what Paul is encouraging us to do. We can still give thanks in the midst of those things. We can give thanks that, despite troubles, we have been included in the wedding supper of the Lamb. We give thanks that we have become members of the Bride of Christ. We have been joined to the Beloved, whose wedding banquet we are part of today. Thanks be to God!

Transfigured By Beauty

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James Tissot, Jesus Goes Up Alone Onto A Mountain To Pray

 

In a painting whose title refers to one of Jesus’ common practices, James Tissot portrays him as caught up in prayer, an involvement he widely encouraged his followers to pursue. Regarding prayer, the Catechism in The Book of Common Prayer may surprise us. To the question, what is prayer, we find an answer which begins with these words: “Prayer is responding to God…” Jesus modeled a life wholly centered on responding to God, in heart and mind, in soul and body. On one occasion, he appeared transformed while at prayer. Over time, his followers discerned how God was fully present within him.

The story of his Transfiguration on a high mountain, reported in the first three Gospels and commemorated this past Sunday, provides a narrative demonstration of this truth. What Tissot depicts regarding Jesus when alone at prayer was later revealed semi-publicly on that mountain in the company of Peter, James, and John, as well as with the heavenly apparitions of Moses and Elijah. It was then fully revealed in Jesus’ Resurrection appearances.

Exodus 24 provides the background for this, and tells us something astonishing: “Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel went up {Mt. Sinai}, and they saw the God of Israel.” In Exodus 34, we learn that when Moses came down from the summit, “the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God. When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses… they were afraid to come near him.” The text suggests that Moses then started putting a veil over his face for the sake of those who were unused to, or unprepared for, the glory and power of God’s immediate presence.

Paul, in 2 Corinthians, extends and also alters this idea of the veil. Instead of it being a means to protect people from a direct encounter with divine glory, the veil has become in Paul’s letter a kind of impediment. When our hearts and minds are not open to God, nor sensitive to God’s power, we become hardened. We become hardened in such a way that our hearts and minds are veiled, preventing us from perceiving God’s glory.

But Christ has set aside this veil. As a result, “all of us, with unveiled faces, {see} the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror (2 Cor. 3:18).” And we “are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another, for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.” Through prayer, we also are transformed.

Fra Angelico, The Transfiguration (San Marco, Florence)

The Transfiguration of Jesus is all about the unveiling of God’s glory. Jesus takes Peter, John and James up with him on a mountain to pray. While he is praying, the appearance of his face changes, as does his clothing. In contrast with the Exodus and Pauline images of light shining on a surface, Luke presents God’s glory as coming from within Jesus. In other words, he radiates God’s glory rather than reflecting it. Luke tells us that Moses and Elijah, who appear with him, appear in his glory. This may mean that Jesus has shared his glory with them in a way that prefigures what he will share with all of his followers after his Resurrection.

This should lead us to ask a good question: If we feel like there is a veil between us and the divine presence, where does this veil lie? Does God ‘hide’ behind a veil, either to protect us, or challenge us? Or is the veil within ourselves, formed by our spiritual blindness and our lack of openness to how the Holy Spirit imparts glory? Paul suggests that our experience may be like that of the earlier Israelites, for whom hard-heartedness caused them to be blind to the bright light of God’s glorious presence, whether in Moses’ face or when reading and hearing the Law. Hard-heartedness can be equally blinding for us, veiling the glory that is all around us.

And where, according to Paul, do we find this glory? We find it in the faces of everyone who has been open to God’s transforming Spirit. In other words, we can find it in each other, as well as in ourselves. For this reason it can be like looking into a mirror, as the glory that we will perceive in others is the same glory that they can perceive within us.

‘Beauty’ and Jackson Pollock

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The Fury, 1943

 

The name “Jackson Pollock” and the word “beauty” may seem to make for an unlikely pairing. For some, Pollock’s famous ‘drip’ paintings are not only an acquired taste but continue to be the butt of bad jokes about what happens when you give a chimp a pot of paint.

These observations may bring to mind the story about when the art critic, John Ruskin, accused the artist, James M. Whistler, of “flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face,” and the nerve of asking two hundred guineas for the result. Whistler – painting in ways ahead of his time – wanted viewers of the work in question not to consider it as a traditional representational painting but rather as an ‘artistic arrangement.’ When asked how long it had taken him to paint the canvas, Whistler frankly admitted that it was just a few hours. But then, he added, it had taken a lifetime of learning to create the work. Jackson Pollock likely felt the same about his drip paintings, which made him famous.

Some viewers of “modern art,” particularly the genre of art commonly labeled as abstract expressionism, may wonder if the abandonment of representation in painting (and in other art forms) simply provided license for less than skilled artists to create and financially benefit from work that ‘broke all the rules.’ Yet, and paradoxically, many of those whose work we associate with this kind of art received rigorous training in traditional methods of drawing and painting at the Art Students League in New York. In effect, they had learned the rules so that they could break them with integrity. Pollock was among those learners, when he had studied under the tutelage of Thomas Hart Benton. Pollock’s earliest remunerated work was in the form of murals featuring traditional imagery, commissioned by the Depression era WPA (the Works Progress Administration) for public buildings such as libraries and post offices.

I am comfortable employing the word beauty with which to characterize and describe some of Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings. Unlike the proverbial results of turning monkeys loose with pots of paint, or giving kindergarteners free rein with the same, Pollock’s mature work evidences an aesthetic intuition formed over years of persistent engagement with paint on flat surfaces.  Over time it yielded striking results. I find many of these paintings both intellectually stimulating and emotionally stirring.

What I am calling a formed intuition within the artist’s temperament bore fruit in the form of several perceivable variables among his drip paintings. First, we can appreciate the sophistication of his color choices. Despite an initial sense that these paintings contain a cacophony of clashing streaks of full spectrum color, closer inspection reveals that Pollock often employed a limited color palette in these works, sometimes with an almost Zen-like restraint. Second, he had an undeniable eye for composition. This is discernible within the apparent chaos on the surface of his drip paintings where pattern, unexpected order, and rhythm, can convey a sense of balance. Third, the well-documented energy the artist applied to the creation of these canvases is effectively communicated by the visual results he attained, which in my experience draw the viewer in to a deepened engagement with his vision.

Pollock at work.

Drip Painting (title?), 1951

Autumn Rhythm (Number 30), 1950. This composition, despite its energetic patterning, has a subtle tone due to the very limited and neutral color palette.

Number One, 1950 (Lavender Mist). Another subtle composition, in marked contrast to The Fury, depicted above. Viewers appreciating Lavender Mist, in a photo (below) showing the scale of many of Pollock’s drip paintings.

Number 14 (Gray), 1948. Paradoxically both lyrical and restrained, where movement displaces a perceived need for the addition of color.

This one (title and date uncertain) is also lyrically full of joyous movement but with color.

 

Pollock’s famous Number 11, (TheBlue Poles, 1952) on display.

Pollock in motion, creating an indelible image of vitality that continues to speak to and move people today.

The Beauty of Alex Katz’s Realism

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Alex Katz and his portraits of Ada, January 3, above, and of Vivien, in Black Hat, below.

 

At the age of 95, Alex Katz is still painting! Having created a huge portfolio over decades of work he continues to explore the visual possibilities inherent in capturing a three dimensional world in the two dimensions on large surfaces. He has consistently demonstrated his gifts as a painter by his focus on representational art, and succeeded at this when many of his contemporaries succumbed to the widespread public appeal of abstract art, while others then began to mimic public and commercial print media in what we now commonly refer to as ‘Pop Art.’

Underlying the power of much of Katz’s work is his undeniable ability as a draftsman, the technical term for one who can draw and, in his case, draw well. Yet Katz has said that drawing is not a natural gift, but that it is a skill acquired through practice. “You learn how to draw, you are not born with it, the techniques you have to learn. So it’s a repetitive thing to keep doing it but you finally get good at it, and better.”

These observations are worth bearing in mind when Katz’ work is considered alongside that of his contemporaries, some of whom employed photography and graphic printing techniques with which to reproduce images that may remind viewers of commercial art such as we find in glossy magazines. Katz’ attainment of proficiency in drawing is demonstrated in his many portraits, not only of his wife, Ada, but also of his relatives and friends.

Blue Umbrella 2, with another portrait of Ada

  

Alex Katz, Portraits of the artist Philip Pearlstein (above), and the poet, Ted Berrigan

The visual composition of his paintings and prints, as well as the compelling quality of his representation of people and places within them, is evident. Critics commend Katz’ work for his use of color and the relatively ‘flat’ appearance of the way he tends to depict his subject matter. This may account for the apparent affinity between this artist’s paintings and his work as a print maker.

Yet, Katz’ attention to the play of light and shadow upon what he chooses to represent adds a surprising element of three dimensionality to his images. Further, though at a distance many of his paintings seem to employ strong linear demarkation to define the edges between fields of color, the artist is also adept at suggesting texture and depth in a painterly way by using subtle brush strokes that have a shading effect. The following two images help illustrate these points.

Good Afternoon, depicting a favorite summer place to visit

Blue Umbrella 2, detail

In addition to the many solo portraits of Ada and others, Katz enjoyed portraying groups of others in various situations.

Thursday Night 2

Summer Triptych

Alex Katz’s many works of art, and particularly his paintings, have grown on me. At first I tended to undervalue his representational approach to portraying people and places, not taking sufficient account of his attained gifts for drawing in his compositions as well as his sometimes arresting attention to contrasts between light and dark areas. His astonishing longevity coupled with his abiding creativity lead me to return to his work with growing appreciation. His book, Looking at Art with Alex Katz, featuring reflections on many of his favorite artists, poets and architects, reflects the wide range of his artistic awareness and sensitivity. Yet, I also admire his almost single-minded willingness to pursue his own vision for his art despite the challenging influence and popularity of many of his contemporaries’ artwork, which often headed in very different directions.

Alex Katz at work on what may be another portrait of Ada

And He Sent Out the Twelve

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James Tissot, The Ordaining of the Twelve Disciples

 

As Matthew tells the story, those who are called to follow Jesus are then sent out. Before they go, they are not only commissioned to represent him and his message; he shares with them portion of his remarkable power. According to Matthew, “… Jesus summoned his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to cure every disease and every sickness.” They have witnessed his teaching in what we know of as the Sermon on the Mount, which in the first Gospel runs over several chapters. Yet this moment is relatively early in the Gospel narrative, and it should surprise us that Jesus is so willing to let them go out on his behalf, and apart from him.

It is sometimes observed that with certain vocations one never really ‘retires” even if one ceases to be engaged in remunerated employment. This bears witness to the fact that through the calling that underlies all other callings, our baptismal vocation never has a terminus though it may come to greater fulfillment in life. Yet as we go through successive stages in our lives, we may be more open to being ‘sent out’ when we are younger even if we continue to be open to being ‘called’ – and, indeed, called anew – through our later years. My parents were relatively young when they were sent out as missionaries to Japan, living into a pattern that we can recognize in many spheres of our human communities such as in the Peace Corps and in Teach for America. Having myself been more recently retired, I find that I am now less inclined toward the opportunity of being sent out in and for the mission of the Kingdom though I still experience being called.

For reasons like these I tend to think that the twelve whom Jesus first called to be his disciples were  more likely to have been young rather than middle-aged. In that they may have had a greater openness to discipleship formation; they may have had a greater degree of idealism and more energy for a new kind of work; and they may simply have had the prospect of more years ahead with which to share with others what they would perceive and learn about God’s mission in and to his Creation.

It is a subtle point, but this may be why Tissot – following Matthew – portrays what is titled The Ordaining of the Twelve Disciples separately from a depiction of their initial experiences of being called. For this moment in their lives and in their time with him became the occasion of their formal participation in Jesus’ mission, even when they were not in proximity to him and his work. Jesus, as Matthew tells us,  had already gone “about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.” And having commissioned the twelve, and given them his own authority, Jesus sent them “out with the following instructions: ‘… go to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, proclaim the good news, The Kingdom of heaven has come near. Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons’.”

When doing this, Jesus not only equips them for the mission upon which they are sent. He also forewarns them of the adversity they are likely to face, adversity which might involve betrayal, trials and flogging, being hated, and even being put to death. This is yet another reason why I tend to think of the disciples, at this point in their lives, as generally younger than older, just as we saw with Caravaggio’s likely portray of Matthew’s calling, last week.

As we get older, some but not all of us may be less open to being sent out, and less inclined to seek such an opportunity. But we should never cease to be open to ‘the call,’ and the varying ways it may be ever-renewed in our lives.

 

This posting is offered in relation to the readings appointed for Proper 6, Year A, in the Revised Common Lectionary for Sunday, June 18, 2023.

The Call of Matthew

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Caravaggio, The Call of St. Matthew (1619-1620)

 

Artists who portray biblical figures and events – particularly those who approach their work in a self-consciously Christian way – often feel free to explore the dynamics of Gospel scenes in a personal and imaginative manner. Some Gospel stories lend themselves to such an explorative approach. Other stories seem to prompt a portrayal of biblical persons and their circumstances in a more literal, text-dependent way.

The call of the tax collector in Matthew 9 provides a good basis for both, especially at the hands of the great early 17th century Italian painter, Caravaggio. Above, we see his painting of The Call of St Matthew, based on what may be a brief narrative self-portrait provided by the Gospel writer about his decision to respond to Jesus’ summons to follow him. Here, Caravaggio displays a fidelity to the biblical story even though the artist depicts the event with figures clothed in garments characteristic of his own time and place.

Several aspects of the painting should attract our attention. For they have the power to draw us into the scene and its place in the broader sweep of what some have called ‘the great story.’ The figure on the right side of the picture is obviously that of Jesus, who with bare feet has entered the place where the tax collector Matthew may be both entertaining himself as well as conducting his business. The room where the group of men are sitting is darkened, a detail that is surely symbolic given how light enters the room from the direction of Christ’s arrival. As Matthew’s Gospel quotes Isaiah (in chapter 5), “the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadows of death light has dawned.”

Notice also Caravaggio’s sensitive rendering of Jesus’ outstretched hand. It is highly reminiscent of Michelangelo’s nearby Sistine Chapel ceiling panel depicting God’s act of creation and gift of life to Adam through a similarly depicted outstretched arm.

But which of the sitting men portrays Matthew? The answer is by no means obvious, and may be intentionally ambiguous. A ready candidate is the gentleman facing us, seated in the middle of the group, who appears to point to himself. By his gesture, he seems to ask in response to Christ’s summons, “Do you mean me?” His pointing hand, a visual echo of the pointing hand of Jesus, and the look on his face call attention to himself. Further, this bearded man bears a resemblance to the older-looking Matthew depicted in Caravaggio’s, The Inspiration of St Matthew (shown below).

Yet, another possible candidate for an identification with Matthew in this picture is the young man portrayed on the left side of the painting, whose head is bowed over and who is focused on some coins before him. In support of this identification is the presence of two other young men sitting at the opposite end of the table, whose gaze is fixed upon the unexpected visitor. By contrast with all three, Caravaggio may instead have intended to portray the mature Matthew in his accompanying The Inspiration of St Matthew painting, as well as in his The Martyrdom of St Matthew, both of which are located in the same church in Rome as The Call painting. For in the ‘call’ image, a young man is invited to leave his dubious present occupation and circumstances in order to follow Jesus, which seems most fitting. This invitation leads to a subsequent application of the maturing man’s talents in support of God’s mission, centered on the One whom he would come to recognize as the Messiah. As Caravaggio may have depicted in this scene, the potential consequences of accepting Jesus’ summons may just be dawning upon the young man.

Caravaggio’s paintings display a remarkable skill in rendering people and places in a most realistic way. His paintings are also highly regarded in recognition of his flair for dramatic pictorial compositions that feature a strong contrast between light and dark. He might have applied these skills primarily in the pursuit of fame and material wealth. Such intentions are likely to have numbered among his goals. Yet, Caravaggio’s work exhibits an undeniable spiritual sensitivity. This makes it most appropriate that we can view and appreciate his three St Matthew paintings together in a church in Rome rather than in a museum.