The Western Art of Tom Gilleon

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With the Western art of Tom Gilleon, we find another example of a skilled painter trained in the practice of traditional representational painting, whose work has morphed over the years to incorporate some features of Modern Art that are commonly associated with post-World War II American painting and printmaking. Viewers familiar with Gilleon’s paintings will notice his repetitive motif of portraying tipis on the prairie, rendered in multiple ways with varying color combinations. Yet, and in a way reminiscent of Andy Warhol’s numerous print series, the compositional elements of many of Gilleon’s paintings are often the same.

One potential criticism of so-called Modern Art, heard less frequently now, is that many viewers find examples of the genre to be simplistic, perhaps lacking in creativity, and potentially the product of less talented artists. I have addressed that observation before, especially with reference to the work of Jackson Pollock as well as James M. Whistler. In my view, elements of image composition, color choice, and the placement of the colors selected within a given work of art, as well as how color is applied, represent choices made by painters the sophistication of which is easy to overlook. In the case of Tom Gilleon, the artist’s bone fides as a skilled painter can easily be established. Note the following examples of his more traditional representational work.

The image shown immediately above, based on the mesa visible from Gilleon’s studio, provides a reference point for observing the range of his interests as a painter. The same view, featuring much less detail, can be seen in his image below.

While fully capable of portraying a Native American tipi encampment with sensitivity to its geographical and historical contexts, Gilleon over time has come to focus his work less strictly on the representation of scenes he has observed, and has moved toward an exploration of particular elements within those scenes. This has allowed him to focus more directly upon picture composition and the exploration of color. This broadening of his work as an artist can be seen in a number of images shown below. First, we observe two images that are more clearly dependent on physical observation of – or extrapolation from – specific contexts on particular occasions.

In the above two paintings, we can appreciate the artist’s skillful attention to such details as the nature of the weather, varying daylight conditions and the way they are reflected on the surface of water, and how he portrays features of the physical terrain such as a mountainside in evening light, or a mountain range obscured by a rain shower. But then, we can go on to enjoy the artist’s greater attention to the tipis themselves, and to how a common compositional element that is repeated with little variation over the course of a number of images, can give rise to a marvelous series of explorations of differing light conditions. These explorations include renderings of the effects of light both within and around the tipis that he portrays, as well as its effect upon the surfaces of those structures and the terrain in which they sit.

The latter image, so much like the ones shown above it with regard to image composition, as well as attention to color and light, is of interest because of the very subtle shift evident in the directional location of the tipi’s entrance, and the lone bare pole in the far righthand side of the painting. In this same image, the artist has felt free to move away from reproducing a historically accurate representation of various ways that particular Native American communities would apply decoration to the tipi’s surface, so as to be in a better position to attend to the abstract components of color and light in themselves.

At the outset, I alluded to Gilleon’s incorporation of aspects of painting commonly associated with the work of Abstract Expressionists as well as those whose work became associated with the label, Pop Art. The following images provide good examples of Gilleon’s willingness and ability to work beyond the parameters of more traditional landscape and portrait painting.

The artist (below) in his studio, with his view of the flat-topped mesa in the distance

The artist’s studio on his Montana ranch, with a tipi in the foreground

J Louis and the Fusion of Genres in Painting

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J Louis, “Vision in Pinks”

 

On a recent visit to Charleston, S.C., while walking to the Gibbes Art Museum to attend a family wedding celebration, I stopped in at the neighboring Principle Gallery. There, I discovered the remarkably skillful paintings of J Louis, who is only 32. He is a highly gifted painter and draftsman (i.e., he can draw really well), who was trained at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. The Principle Gallery is featuring his work this month following the opening of his show on November 1.

J Louis clearly has a fascination with women and the many forms of a woman’s beauty. Yet, unlike the work of various other artists who share his interest in the female form, nudes seem to be rare among Louis’ works. He has the eye of a fashion photographer, though one with a paradoxically greater interest in the faces and hands of his models than he does in their clothing.

Indeed, the vesture worn by his various models is usually rendered in flat swathes of paint, sometimes muted and sometimes vibrant with color. Louis’ way of portraying that clothing tends to diminish its representational significance, so that it functions somewhat like the background of his paintings. By taking this approach, the artist has the opportunity to further explore and express his regard for other visual aspects of the women who have posed for him.

J Louis at work on a commissioned painting

All of the paintings in the current show feature his characteristic images of elegantly beautiful women, with some of the paintings playful, others mysterious, and many alluring in their sensual presentation of eyes, faces, and hands. As a result, he portrays these women as being more than attractive models, and as people who in some way he has come to know as real persons who have distinct personalities. His depiction of his models therefore includes, but also transcends, careful attention to their appearance, with his skill in displaying an apparent sensitivity to and respect for these women’s character and temperament.

I was struck right away by two aspects of many of Louis’ paintings: his gift for capturing facial expression and the wonder of human eyes, along with his ability to render the power of a gaze; and his adeptness in producing abstract color fields of great beauty. These are two features not generally found together, in my experience. Several of Louis’ paintings bring to mind an unexpected fusion, such as we might find between – for example – Gerhard Richter’s early photo-realist images, and Richter’s more recent abstract paintings. For these reasons, the following image by Louis, titled “Flag,” stood out to me in particular.

More specifically, a number of Louis’ paintings appear to be the result of a merging between two highly differing approaches to painting, on one hand an abstract expressionist’s use of the process of squeegee spreading and melding paint colors, and on the other, the highly refined representative work of a painter whose images rival those produced by an art-oriented photographer.

This juxtaposition of differing approaches to visual compostion, figurative representation, as well as color field and pattern exploration, reminds me of some of the paintings of Gustav Klimt, as if he had been painting in the 1950’s. Several of the various qualities that I have highlighted here, and found in Louis’ paintings, may be discerned in the images of Louis’ paintings shown below.

Sensitive depiction of the human face, dramatic pictorial composition, an eye for vibrant color, and a pattern of setting in tension images of three dimensional figures side by side with visually flat fields of contrasting paint, distinguish J Louis’s large and, in my view, highly successful paintings.

The artist in his New York studio (below)

Jason Sparks’ Artistic Adaptation of Tenkara Flies

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I discovered the handiwork of Jason Sparks through the writing of Jason Klass, a Colorado fisherman who has come to fish exclusively using the Japanese approach to fly fishing called Tenkara. Tenkara fishing has at least two distinguishing features, the first having to do with a difference from typical American fly fishing rods. Compared to familiar Western examples, Tenkara rods are very long poles, historically made of bamboo, along with a fixed-length line of roughly the length of the pole, and no fishing reel for the line. The flies used in Tenkara fishing are the second distinguishing feature. Tenkara flies, as in Jason Sparks’ beautiful example (above), generally feature hackle feathers (rooster and or hen) tied to the hook in a way that projects the feather’s barbs forward, toward the eye of the hook. This creates a pulsing motion when the fly is pulled against the current in a stream.

The anatomy of a fish hook. (Sparks prefers barbless hooks to facilitate ‘catch and release’ fishing)

The artistic design work of Jason Sparks, and his adaptation of traditional Tenkara flies, stress an intentional use of natural materials. In order to appreciate the originality of his flies, it’s worth considering examples of traditional Tenkara flies.

A traditional Tenkara fly tied by Dr. Hisao Ishigaki, a recognized authority on Tenkara fishing and fly tying

Traditional Tenkara flies are composed of three basic materials, a hook, thread, and part of a feather. The thread is wrapped around the neck of the hook, creating a base; thread-wraps then secure part of a feather to the hook; the feather is then spun around the shaft of the hook while perpendicular to it, thereby spreading the feather’s barbs. More thread is then wrapped around the shank of the hook, and tied off with a knot.

Almost all fly tyers make use of a vice, as depicted in the photo above, which holds the hook in place while the fly is created. One Japanese authority, Katsutoshi Amano, is famous for tying Tenkara flies without a vice:

Observing these aspects of traditional Tenkara fly design helps us appreciate Jason Sparks’ creativity and aesthetic sensibility, as he creates works of art that actually catch fish. His willingness to work beyond the usual parameters of Tenkara flies can be seen in his choice of hooks. Those employed by the two Japanese masters in the photos above feature straight shanks in the upper part of the hook.

Sparks frequently uses what are commonly called scud or nymph hooks, which have a long and curving shank, where the eye of the hook tilts slightly downward. A similar tilt can be seen in another type of hook he often uses, which has a traditional straight shaft of moderate length, but which also has a wide gap above the hook’s point and a somewhat squared bend between it and the shank. These various features can be seen in photos of Sparks’ flies included below.

In both the photo directly above, as well as the one at the top, we see Sparks’ use of a scud hook, yet with minimal added material on the hook’s shank. While many tyers match fly body materials with the size of the hook, Sparks finds that a hook’s size matters less than the presentation of the material attached to it. Further, by locating that material closer to the middle of the shank, it is easier to attach or replace the fly line (and leader) to the hook’s eye.

With his preference for using natural materials, Sparks likes to tie with silk thread, and he prefers naturally dyed woolen yarn from the Shetland Islands, given its variations of color and textured finish. With a yarn ‘body,’ and the spiky feather barbs wrapped around the hook, Sparks achieves very ‘buggy-looking’ flies:

Two points are worth noting about Jason Sparks’ flies. Though the examples here look large, they are actually not very big, being photographed closely to help us appreciate their detail and composition. His typical hook sizes range from an 8  to a 12 or 14 (in most cases less than an inch, and many considerably smaller). And, second, Sparks often directs the feather barbs both forward and rearward, in contrast to the usual forward tilt of many traditional Tenkara flies. These features can also be seen in the following examples:

Sparks also ties flies that are commonly called nymphs, suggesting the appearance of bugs in their larva stage of development. With these flies, we notice the absence of feathers, and a spare use of other materials such as Sparks’ preferred Scottish yarn:

Despite how much of the hook is exposed in these examples, Sparks contends that they are effective for fishing.

Jason Sparks is obviously a gifted fly tier and has made a significant artistic contribution to this avocation, which for some is also a form of employment. In contrast to the neatness and precision of his finished flies, Sparks’ fly tying desk resembles the workspace of many others who tie flies:

 

Readers interested in fly tying may wish to look at my prior post, The Beauty of Fly Tying, which may be accessed by clicking here.

The Elusive Biblical Idea of Ransom

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In late 1987, two American college students were exploring the jungles of Columbia. After obtaining a canoe, they embarked upon the Putumayo River and strayed into territory held by a Marxist rebel army. Formally known as FARC, these guerrilla soldiers abducted the students and held them captive for ten months in various jungle camps.

At first, the FARC guerrillas thought the two men were CIA agents, though the students corrected this. But then their captors came to see them as hostages having economic value. Soon, their parents hired an American explorer, who found the hostages and their captors. After four months of negotiations, conducted by a Roman Catholic Bishop, the students were released and taken to the American Embassy in Bogata.

Release for the young explorers surely came about through the payment of money, probably a lot of it. Ransom is a way to describe this kind of payment, where something valuable is exchanged for the freedom of captives. John Everett Millais’ painting (above), The Ransom, depicts a father handing over of fistful of jewelry and a bag of coins to some men who have taken his daughters hostage. Revolutionaries, terrorists, and criminals have long used ransom as an efficient means of fund-raising, especially when their captives come from wealthy families or are politically well-connected.

Clearly, when payments are made to captors, the purpose is not to honor or reward the hostage-takers. Instead, these payments reflect an abiding concern for those who are held-captive, awaiting redemption.

This concept of ransom is deeply rooted in our Judeo-Christian tradition, and it shapes how we understand redemption. Think of the beloved Advent hymn, which begins this way: “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel…” In the Old Testament, in many passages like Psalm 49; Isaiah 35, 43, and 51; Jeremiah 31; and Hosea 13, we hear about how God’s promises inspire hope for the possibility of ransom from the power of death.

These insights help us understand Jesus’ words about ransom in Mark’s Gospel (in 10:45; parallel in Mt. 20:28). After predicting his suffering and death three times, Jesus tells the oblivious disciples that “the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

Yet, instead of a ransom-based understanding of Jesus’ sacrifice and death, many Christians think of Jesus’ saving work in a largely legal or juridical way. In this view, our sin involves a degree of corruption and guilt so bad that it’s beyond what we can make right. And so, human captivity to sin means that ‘a penalty must be paid, and punishment meted out.’ By this reckoning, only a ‘sinless one’ could pay the uncountable price, and bear the penalty for all. Therefore, Christ as a substitute for us, paid the price and endured the punishment so that we, ourselves, don’t have to, even though we are the ones who deserve it. Yet, according to this very common theory, the ‘price’ was paid to God, to satisfy God’s justice!

This legal or ‘punishment-substitution’ understanding of Jesus’ death did not become widespread for at least a thousand years after his crucifixion. Instead, during the first millennium, a different concept of Jesus’ mission was preeminent. It springs from the ransom words in Mark, as well as from 1st Timothy 2:5, where Paul writes, “…there is … one mediator between God and human kind, Christ Jesus… who gave himself [as] a ransom for all.”

According to this ransom view, ever since Creation, we have placed ourselves in the hands of Satan, by refusing to ‘delight in God’s will or walk in God’s ways.’ In effect, we have strayed into ‘the jungles of sin,’ and have allowed ourselves to be taken hostage by the Devil. We are held captive by our sin, and by our inclination to follow our own will. Like the two student hostages, we might have ‘paid’ our way to freedom ~ if we and they had had the means to do so. But we did not.

And so, showing his great love for us, Jesus offered himself to the Devil, as a ransom for our freedom. Jesus allowed the Devil to take him, as someone of even greater value than all of us. For Satan received as a ransom the sinless One, God’s own son. C.S. Lewis employs a similar ransom metaphor in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. In this biblically-derived approach, the ‘price to be paid’ was a concession to the power of an enemy, and compensation for a loss, rather than (as in the later and more prevalent legal view) a payment to satisfy God’s sense of justice.

An image of Aslan’s self-sacrifice, from a film version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

 

This post is adapted from some material previously published in this space, with some additional imagery. It is based on my homily for Sunday, Oct. 20, 2024, which may be accessed by clicking here.

Japanese Thatched Roof Farm and Country Houses

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Those who watched the Winter Olympics broadcast from Nagano, Japan, may have gained some familiarity with a region sometimes referred to as the Japanese Alps. While living in Japan, my parents developed a deep interest in Japanese folk art (Mingei). Through this, they became acquainted with Sanshiro Ikeda, a recognized authority on Mingei, who built craft furniture. Through our trips to Nagano-ken (or prefecture), we visited Ikeda’s small furniture factory and the country farm house he had restored, and in which he lived. Through these visits, we became familiar with Matsumoto, its beautiful many hundred year old castle, and the surrounding Nagano countryside. My strongest memory, though, is of Ikeda’s restored traditional farmhouse, and those like it in the area.

The choice of Nagano prefecture as a location for the Winter Olympics was based on the fact that that region regularly receives a good deal of snow. As a consequence, the historic pattern for the design of farm and country houses involves very steep roofs which are quite often thatched. The combination of these two characteristics in the resulting roofs renders them amenable to heavy snow loads, which also help provide additional insulation against the seasonal cold weather.

These farm and country houses are typically built from wooden posts and beams, with plaster or stucco walls, and wooden plank floors if not otherwise covered with tatami mats made of straw and rice husks. The equivalent of what we refer to as rafters, and the lath cross pieces or straps supporting the thatched roof material, are typically beams made from tree branches or thick and thin pieces of bamboo, lashed together with rope, something that surely would not pass building codes for contemporary construction.

Traditional house with beams lashed together (above) and stucco walls above sliding shoji (lattice door and window panels), seen in the lower photo.

Instead of any form of central heating, generally unknown in Japan until modern times, many of the rooms on the ground floor would have a footwell in the floor, at the base of which traditionally there would have been a small charcoal brazier (charcoal kotatsu). Those in the room sitting on the floor, with their legs dangling in the footwell, managed to stay warm with the benefit of a small table over their thighs and knees, above the footwell, along with a lap blanket suspended from the low table.

A kotatsu blanket (with table top removed)

Kotatsu design (traditional charcoal and contemporary electronic patterns)

A similar but very shallow well-like indentation in the floor provided a place for cooking at the floor level.

Quite often these houses would feature one or two successively smaller floors above the ground floor in a way that will recall Western A-frame ski lodge houses. Typically, the sleeping areas would be on the upper floors with futon beds laid out on the tatami mats, thick quilts provided, and pillows stuffed with uncooked rice grains.

Interior of a traditional farmhouse showing a futon (or Japanese mattress), and a quilt covering, set above tatami mats.

Below, I am including a selection of photos of various examples of traditional Japanese country houses and related buildings, which demonstrate the consistency with which this approach to domestic architecture was adopted and practiced through the centuries. The first three photos show what appear to be contemporary structures built in the historic farmhouse style (followed by photos of historic structures).

The following photos feature historic structures.

The same village area (as in the photo above it) on a winter’s evening

The well-preserved historic examples of Japanese farm and country houses in the photos above, as well as the contemporary reproductions employing this historically-informed approach to domestic architecture, attest to the heightened appreciation that Japanese people have for their ancient culture. It may be that, as in some other parts of the world, the highly advanced technological developments characterizing the urban areas where most of their people now live, has nurtured a deep and latent regard for aspects of their nation’s social, artistic, and spiritual heritage.

 

Appreciating Chrysanthemums in Japan

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Ichimonji Kiku variety chrysanthemum – the basis for the Japanese Imperial Crest

The chrysanthemum-based Japanese Imperial Crest, Yasukini Shrine, Tokyo, and on Japanese passports

 

Every year, in November, the residents of Tokyo are treated to the Kiku MatSuri flower show, the annual chrysanthemum exhibition featuring a most stunning display of flowering plants propagated by some of Japan’s most skilled gardeners and horticulturalists. Kiku is the Japanese common name for chrysanthemum (originally native to China), and matsuri is the Japanese word for festival. Geographically about 30 degrees north of the equator, Japan’s climate has some affinity with that of Louisiana, with hot humid summers, and occasional frosts and even a rare snow shower in Tokyo. Chrysanthemums appear to grow well in both regions.

A photo of the 1914 Kiku Matsuri (note how the gentleman wears a western hat with Japanese clothing and wooden sandals {geta})

In our country at this relatively same time of the year, we are used to seeing large containers of chrysanthemums, covered with abundant blossoms, offered for sale in displays outside large box stores and nurseries. Yet, they tend to be small blossomed plants, differing from one another usually only in terms of color. At the Kiku Matsuri festivals, many varieties of mums, some of them exotic-looking, are beautifully arranged for viewing in a very formal and traditional setting. Yushima Shrine in Tokyo often serves as a location for these displays.

Kiku Matsuri displays of mums outside Yushima Shrine, Tokyo (above and below)

I have strong and clear memories of walking around these remarkable chrysanthemum arrangements with my parents and brothers, and being astonished at the multi-blossomed plants with a wide spread of blooms, extending upwards from a single or a few stems.  One version of this practice is known as Sanbon-Jitate, which features three large blossoms grown from a single stem. Each of the blossoms is symbolic, and represent the heavens, the earth, and humankind (as in the image below). Yet, clearly, all of the chrysanthemums on display at these annual festivals are in one way or another carefully and labor-intensively grown.

Atsumoto Kiku variety of mums (above), grown and featured in Sanbon-Jitate arrangements

The above bonsai, featuring miniature blossoms, provides another example of labor-intensively grown chrysanthemums

The Atsumoto Kiku variety of chrysanthemum (featured further above, and in the photos below) is a classic Japanese form of the plant, with its dense and thick blooms. This variety is propagated in many colors, among which the most beautiful may be the two colored Tomoenishiki variety.

Other examples of the Astumoto Kiku variety are shown below.

Another very attractive variety of Japanese kiku (or mums) is the Kudamono Kiku, known in English by the common name, spider mum, shown in the images seen below.

The propagation and cultivation of chrysanthemums in Japan by skilled gardeners reflects the highly refined aesthetic vision possessed and valued by many of the nations artisans, and by the wider society in which they live and practice their craft. The delicacy and exquisite beauty of many of these flowers, and yet the transitory nature of their flowering, speak to a cultural appreciation for what can be apprehended and enjoyed in the present moment, much like the way in which Japanese people (and foreign visitors) will in great numbers visit shrines, temples, and castle parks in the springtime to view the cherry blossoms.

Seeing these photos reminds me of the diligent care with which many Japanese gardeners, artists, and craftsmen engage in a lifelong pursuit of aesthetic perfection in a single area of practice, whether it is in propagating new forms and elaborate displays of chrysanthemums, throwing clay pots, writing in caligraphy, or seeking to make the most beautiful and durable sword. Though in each case individuals pursue the practice, it always seems to be in the context of a guild or society of fellow practitioners, and always with a significant degree of community awareness of the importance of this or that art for the wider society in which the practice of it is engaged.

Small and edible chrysanthemum blossoms added as a garnish to sashimi (traditional Japanese raw fish)

 

 

From Dream to Reality: Michael Pollan and His Writing House

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In an updated preface to his book, A Place of My Own: the Architecture of Daydreams, Michael Pollan laments how some readers approach his book expecting something like a “how to” guide to building their own writer’s hut or shack. Though he does provide a wealth of detail concerning the construction methods he used, the book’s richness lies in its thoughtful engagement with the idea of human shelter and its function in architecture. Of particular note is the attention he gives to the French writer, Gaston Bachelard, whose book, The Poetics of Space, prompts a good deal of reflection by Pollan. The author quotes Bachelard with words that obviously inspired the subtitle of A Place of My Own: “I should say: the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”

Michael Pollan dreams of building and inhabiting what we might call his own writer’s studio in the woods behind his Connecticut home. As he muses about its possibilities, he considers potential designs in dialogue with his chosen site for the small building. From a book by the English geographer, Jay Appleton, he gleans the insight that ideal human shelters provide two dialectically interconnected values, ‘prospect’ and ‘refuge.’ A shelter conducive for human flourishing provides both the opportunity to view and appreciate one’s surroundings while at the same time providing a secure resting place. Achieving these twin goals becomes one of Pollan’s priorities for his little writing hut.

At the same time, while embarking upon this project to build his place for writing, he acknowledges that the endeavor also provides the occasion for him to examine the idea of architecture, and its contemporary role in Western society. He discovers – through a gift subscription to Progressive Architecture magazine – that the field has increasingly become focused on the exploration and expression of ideas, leaving behind a principal focus upon providing beautiful yet practically useful spaces and structures for human habitation and work.

The interior of Michael Pollan’s writing house (note the daybed in the foreground)

Pollan realizes that what he wants to build is not something that points to something else, or to a set of ideas and concepts (as is the case with some contemporary practitioners in the field of design). Instead, he wants a structure that he can use for everyday work, for reading, and as a place where occasionally he can have a nap. With his aversion to the little building becoming an artistic statement rather than something truly useful, Pollan’s book reminds me of a principal theme in Tom Wolfe’s splendid little book, From Bauhaus to Our House.

Especially in the first two chapters, Michael Pollan offers a set of thought provoking and historically informed reflections on the nature and purpose of architecture, which are shaped in a writerly way. As much as I was drawn to the concrete aspects of his project – as in his account of his search for the ideal design of the window through which he would look while writing – I found his engagement with the theoretical aspects of the project to be very compelling. A good example of the latter is his reflection on our conscious experience of form and pattern in buildings, and our unconscious experience of the spaces we encounter and through which we move. Other examples include the role of feng shui in his selection of a site for his project, as well his explanation of the function of the Golden Section (or Divine Proportion, 1/1.618) in deciding the parameters of the rectangle for his floor plan.

Most of all, I appreciate Pollan’s delineation of the difference between the 20th century modernist or International Style approach to architecture, which abstractly stressed universality of form and consistent design elements regardless of a building’s context, with the architecture of someone like Frank Lloyd Wright, who focused on the connection between his buildings and their location within their chosen sites and his intentional employment of local materials. Pollan offers an insightful two-columned table to illustrate the difference between the two, with the first (stressing universality) labeled, “There,” and the second (stressing locality) labeled, “Here.”

All in all, he has given us a finely written book.

 

David Macaulay and Mosque Architecture

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Recently I became reacquainted with a book I discovered some years ago, by an author whose work I greatly admire – David Macaulay. It is his book on Islamic mosque architecture, based on a historically informed but fictional mosque erected in Istanbul in the 16th century. Macaulay’s great skill lies in his ability to provide the reader with insights gained from his use of drawing with pen and ink, frequently with color overlaid, in such a way as to unfold the often complex inner structure of the buildings he wishes to explore and explain. For a primer on traditional mosque design and construction, complete with a glossary of terms, the book is invaluable.

The project featured in this book is a mosque commissioned by Suha Mehmet Pasa, a fictitious high official in the early Ottoman period who engages in a charitable act inspired by his Islamic faith and the five pillars of Islam (faith, prayer, charity, fasting, and pilgrimage). He funds the design and construction of a complex of buildings that includes both a grand mosque and its accompanying courtyard and related structures, as well as a mausoleum for himself upon his death. The influence of the historical architect, Mirmar Sinan, as well as Sinan’s breathtaking Süleymaniye Mosque in Istanbul (depicted below), are plainly evident in Macaulay’s composition of the book.

Because of my own fascination with domes incorporated within mosque architecture, I will focus here on that aspect of Macaulay’s book, though he provides a comprehensive account of the construction of almost every feature of a traditional mosque from the early Ottoman period. I find most helpful the following diagrammatic illustration of the basic building components which together support the dome on such a mosque as the Süleymaniye Mosque, featured in a prior post.

The above illustration corresponds to the following floor plan for the same hypothetical structure.

Now, how did that imaginary 16th century architect, his masons and carpenters, manage to build the magnificent dome featured in this project, and as we find in the actual Süleymaniye Mosque? Macaulay unfolds the mystery with a series of instructive drawings that give us insight into the process. Once the proper height of the walls and support piers was attained, a semi-circular structure of wood was constructed to provide the proper curvature of the intended dome (as seen below).

This structure was then lifted up and placed upon a kind of spindle, so that it could revolve horizontally around the perimeter of what would become the brick structure of the dome.

With the rotation of this semi-circular wooden form, the builders could stack up the bricks according to the intended proper curvature of the inside of the dome, while allowing the exterior of the dome to be wider at its base, for greater strength and stability.

A final step in the construction of the main and other domes was the preparation of sheets of lead, cut in precise patterns so that they would sheath the dome with a series of overlapping panels, to avoid water intrusion:

The smaller domes covering areas of the courtyard and entrance portico were constructed in a similar fashion, but on a smaller scale, as seen in the following illustrations. A simple swinging pendulum-like wooden arm was employed rather than the more elaborate semi-circular structure used for the large main dome.

Completion of the construction of the main dome was followed by the finishing of the interior surfaces with plaster, and then with elaborate paint work, which of course involved the need for scaffolding and platforms.

Macaulay then provides two evocative interior views of the finished interior of the mosque, and from two unique perspectives.

These drawings and my primary focus upon the dome aspect of this hypothetical mosque project provide just a hint of the richness to be found in this evocative book. Though it may appear to be a ‘picture book’ intended for middle school students, it is actually a rich source of information for adults who wish to become familiar with the basic elements of historical mosque architecture, and the construction methods used to produce such buildings in the early Ottoman period. In addition to the highly instructive drawings, the glossary at the back of the book is also of significant value.

As readers might guess, I highly commend this book.

 

Jesus and The Beauty of Emotional Intelligence

 

As a hurricane is bearing down upon us, potentially upending some patio furniture, I think back to some words I first published in 2018. The Gospel reading this past Sunday at church reminded me of what first prompted these thoughts. Here is part of that reading:

Jesus set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

In this part of Mark’s Gospel, we hear a story about Jesus’ encounter with a Canaanite woman. It is easy to overlook a critical aspect of this story ~ the fact that Jesus chooses to travel to an area populated by Gentiles. There, he is confronted by a woman who for two reasons is ‘an outsider’: she is not an Israelite, and her daughter has a demon.

By overlooking Jesus’ choice to travel to Gentile territory, it then becomes easy to mishear a vital aspect of this Gospel reading. It’s Jesus’ willingness to be playful —even dangerously playful — as he enlarges our concept of God’s Kingdom. Some contemporary commentators don’t recognize this about Jesus’ journey into the region of Tyre. For they view it as a story about how a Gentile woman enlarges Jesus’ concept of the Kingdom. This follows from the way modern theologians stress the humanity of Jesus over his divinity. In other words, ‘how he was like us’ comes to overshadow ‘how he was different from us.’

This is especially true with our understanding of intellect. We associate ‘intelligence’ with skills like computing numbers and remembering information. Yet, the key to this Gospel story may lie in something different, in what is called “emotional intelligence.” Emotional intelligence is relational, and involves feelings, character, and temperament. It depends on maturity, and relies on insight about what enhances or hinders well-functioning community. When we overlook these fuller dimensions of ourselves, we limit our concept of what it means to be human.

Think, for example, about humor. We assume humor depends on being witty, and making fun of people and situations. We forget that we also deal with serious things through humor. Humor approaches life indirectly, from the side, instead of straight-on. In medieval times, Christians actually debated whether Jesus ever laughed! We know he wept, but Scripture never records Jesus as laughing. Surely, we can see beyond this narrow assumption that Jesus never laughed or spoke with irony and humor.

Appreciating how Jesus uses playful humor helps us understand his interaction with the Canaanite woman, and how he is compassionate rather than rude in speaking with her. The story displays the beauty of his emotional intelligence instead of a limitation in his perception of his vocation.

 

This post is based on a homily I offered on Sunday, September 9, 2018. The Egyptian Arabic manuscript illustration above is credited to Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rabib (1684).

St John the Divine – A Building and a Gospel

 

 

In the summer of 1974, I left my Massachusetts prep school as one of the few graduates not intending to go on to college. I moved to Manhattan in a youthfully naive venture to try and replicate an aspect of the life of my hero, Frank Lloyd Wright. I wanted to follow his career path of eventually obtaining architectural licensing through practicing in the field, something that was and may still be possible.

Unfortunately, as a career move this was at an improvident time, largely due to what was then called “the oil crisis,” and its effect upon the economy. No architectural office was hiring beginning draftsmen, and some were taking on licensed architects to do the kind of basic drafting work for which I wanted to be hired. The former Frank Lloyd Wright associate, Edgar Tafel, was most gracious in allowing me to come to his New York City office for an interview and then by how he tolerantly responded to my youthful exuberance and evident lack of preparedness for the work. Philip Johnson was less patient with me. When I managed somehow to reach him by phone, he said, “Look – I don’t do the hiring around here. Talk to my associate!”

I had found a room a block and a half from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, which was a prominent local landmark and soon became a welcome place to visit. Only years later did I discover that the house in which I had been able to rent my room, the former Alpha Delta Phi fraternity house, on 114th St, opposite the Columbia University Library, was where Thomas Merton had lived when he was a student there.

I would walk over to St. John’s, an alluring place to stop and rest. Now, at this point in my life, I would say it was ‘to pray.’ But I would not have said that then. Yet, as one beautiful phrase in The Book of Common Prayer Catechism puts it, “Prayer is responding to God.” Those are profound words. If taken seriously, we can recognize how many, many people in this world ‘respond to God,’ quite spontaneously and quite naturally – and aside from doctrine or ritual.

The magnificent space and architectural achievement of the unfinished cathedral of St. John the Divine was a profoundly converting space for me, in ways I did not realize then, and in ways that would not really make sense to me until much later.

Drawn to this place, absorbed with my intuitions about its architecture, and visiting frequently with inquiries, I volunteered to become a docent, a kind of tour guide for visitors before places like this cathedral became commercially oriented, leading to the charging of fees and the like. In the process of my time as a guide, I learned many arcane and obscure things, among them the size and height of the granite columns surrounding the main altar (54’ tall, 6’ in diameter); the number and architecturally significant variations among the chapels adjacent to the ambulatory surrounding the apse that encloses the high altar; as well as significant features of other side chapels in addition to the crypt.

If you had asked me then about the nature of my interest in that building, I would have said it was purely of architectural significance. Ask me now and I will tell you that I was seeking a closer experience of what St John the Divine shares with us in his Gospel. I was – as we say in a paradoxical way – unconsciously looking for God. But what I was really looking for, as we all do, is the experience of being found… and of feeling found, by God.

I think it is also providential that my year in New York, and the brief time I served as an occasional volunteer guide at the Cathedral, was when Canon Edward West was Sub-Dean, and Madeleine L’Engle was officially the cathedral librarian. I may have had only passing contact with either of them, but both were exemplars of how the arts may draw people into a more direct experience of what our Christian faith is all about. The Cathedral of St. John the Divine has represented this vision and value for decades.

Where St. John the Divine as a building nurtured my nascent spiritual awareness, the Gospel given to us through St. John the Divine, and the hymn-poems in his Revelation, have been for me a key, a doorway, and a beckoning gateway into a greater fullness of life.