Miscellany #7: Fall '24
1.
Hannah Rose Thomas, C. M. Howell, and Malcolm Guite write, in Plough, about how the limits of their particular art forms (Thomas is a painter, Howell is an architect, and Guite is a poet) serve to guide and enrich their artistic practices; paradoxically, they all find that when they submit to the limits and embrace them for what they are, their art is given the ability to truly develop its expressive power. I’m reminded of this quote by Salvador Dalí:
As a small child, I learned a painting rule which I shall never forget. It was in the painting class of the French Brothers. We painted aquarelles made of simple geometric elements first traced with a ruling pen. Our teacher told us: painting this well, and, in general, painting well, consists of not going beyond the line. Not going beyond the line! Here you have a conduct rule that may lead to a whole integrity and a whole ethic of painting. There always existed two kinds of painters: those who went beyond the line, and those who, patiently, and with respectfulness, knew how to just reach their limit. The first, because of their impatience, were qualified as being impassioned and inspired. The second, because of their humble patience, were qualified and being cold and solely good craftsmen. If it is true, nevertheless, that going beyond the line is a form of impetuosity signifying always the beginning of intoxication, confusion, and weakness, it is true as well that there exists a type of passion which consists precisely of the patience of not going beyond the line; and that this passion for balance is a strong passion and an enemy of all intoxication.1
I greatly appreciate Howell’s comments on the history of architecture since the invention of structural steel. Sadly, it seems that many of the most vocal architecture critics (on social media, at least) are the kind who resolutely insist that steel-structured, glass-curtain-wall buildings can never possibly be anything but ugly. But if these kinds of buildings represent the freedom-within-limits of our new technics (a point Lewis Mumford makes in his magisterial book Technics and Civilization), then how are they any different from the carved stone and stained glass buildings which the proponents of traditional architecture applaud? Aren’t they just two different kinds of skill, and therefore two different kinds of beauty?
2.
Karen Swallow Prior discusses George Herbert’s poem “The Altar”—an example of a shape poem. I’ve seen a good many shape poems in my time but I’ve never seen one like this, where the lines reinforce the purpose of the shape and give the poem additional meaning. As Prior observes,
The skill required to make a shape poem includes the ability to make the length of the lines maintain the rhythm and rhyme of the entire poem and correspond to the shape. If a poet does this well, then the shape of the poem will be heard by the ear when reading it, not merely seen on the page.
In this instance the poem’s shape becomes an integral part of it, not some artificially imposed addition from outside. And Prior’s analysis of the poem highlights many more structural features which serve to strengthen Herbert’s meaning.
Coincidentally, Sally Thomas discussed the same poem, focusing on its theological dimensions as reinforced by its form. Both of these essays together are excellent examples of how poetic criticism ought to be undertaken: Prior and Thomas are both close, sympathetic readers, and such readers can find much of value in a work—such as Herbert’s poem—which has a great deal of art in it.
3.
Among Christian fantasy writers, the influence of the thought and work of J. R. R. Tolkien is hard to overstate. Clifford Stumme and Eric Falden have undertaken a deep, multi-part analysis of Tolkien’s influential essay “On Fairy-Stories” which has, so far, been particularly enlightening for those, like me, who are not familiar with Tolkien’s theoretical perspective. Here is a link to the first part of the essay series.
In his essay, Tolkien claims that true fantasy can really only occur in the imagination, which is why, according to Falden, Tolkien would probably not approve of the cinematic treatments of his famous novels. This idea seems to echo what Tom Wolfe said, in Hooking Up, about how the novel as an art form transcends limits which are inherent to films: by robbing the viewer of the ability to imagine—to make mental pictures of—what is happening, film becomes necessarily restrictive, preventing the viewer from participating in the story as a reader would be able to do. But was Tolkien right? It would seem that the great prevalence of fantasy imagery online and the popularity of fantasy films would indicate that the limitation which Tolkien identifies is not considered a limitation by the majority of people.
I’ve never been a great fan of the fantasy genre, despite enjoying The Lord of the Rings immensely. This is probably why I object to Falden’s comment, toward the end of the essay, that “the triumph of Tolkien’s fiction is not due to Middle-Earth being over-stuffed with constructed languages and hand-drawn maps (mere worldbuilding); it is instead that it can, somehow, in some intangible way, feel more real than our own world and make us truly present there, through Fantasy.” This seems to imply that this more-real-ness is something inherent and even exclusive to the fantasy genre; but I must declare that, to me, books such as Middlemarch or The Great Gatsby or The Brothers Karamazov or Tono-Bungay seem “more real than reality” in the same sense that Falden attributes to Tolkien’s fantasy.
4.
I highly recommend The Visual Commentary on Scripture for refreshingly eclectic thoughts on a diverse array of visual art, tying the art to specific scriptural passages in unconventional and surprising ways. As an example, consider how Jonathan Parker discusses a complex photograph by Ferdinando Scianna (shown below) in light of Numbers chapter 11 and its story of how the children of Israel demanded that Moses give meat to them. He asks: “What is our attention drawn to here, and why? Are we drawn to the youth and beauty and clothing of the model or are we drawn to the meat? Are we provoked by envy or sexual desire or driven by hunger? What does the difficulty in untangling these possible responses tell us about the tangle of desires inside us?”
5.
In a very perceptive essay, Carolyn Etzel Branch expresses her thoughts on a thorny question which has continually soured the relationship between Christianity and the theater: what to do about the portrayal of evil? She offers a useful two-question rubric for determining one’s own ability to engage with the evil deeds acted out on stage, whether as a performer or an audience member (I’ll let you read the essay to find out for yourself what her questions are). Although her discussion centers around the stage her principles are readily applied to film as well—and, I suppose, to the rest of the arts in general.
Her stance toward the dramatic arts is a humble one—aware of the ability that dramatic productions can have to alter our beliefs and patterns of thinking—while also cognizant of the theater’s proper place for Christians. An undercurrent of her essay is that it is perfectly okay for a person to say “no”—to decide not to engage with a certain play or film. This is something I’ve struggled with many times in the past: the desire to watch “the movie that everyone is talking about” is always, in my mind, contrasted with the desire to not watch things that might dwell in me a little longer than they ought.
6.
Amelia Sims McKee discusses the three paintings by Caravaggio which hang on the walls of the Contarelli Chapel in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome. I particularly appreciated her mention of how the paintings, taken together, act as a reminder of the cost of conversion: Matthew’s calling is shown at the same time as his martyrdom. Regarding The Calling of St. Matthew (of the three paintings the one most people will be likely to recognize), she notes that Jesus’ hand gesture is the exact same gesture made by Adam in Michelangelo’s famous Sistine Ceiling. This painting is a fine example of how a work of visual art can communicate ideas and philosophies. Protestants: what do you think of how Caravaggio painted the Apostle Peter also making that same gesture?
7.
Katherine Dee writes, in Wisdom of Crowds, about the falsity of the “Stuck Culture” trope. She discussed internet content creators at length, comparing them to vaudeville performers of the early twentieth century. Her essay reinforces the point I was trying to make, last month, in my series of “Christian Poptimist” essays2—that there are no “correct” forms or canons of culture; people create whatever cultural artifacts they find important or meaningful at whatever time they find themselves in, and it should not throw us into consternation that culture is changing from on form to another.
Does this matter, though? Can’t we just forget the doings of contemporary culture and focus on the great works of the past? No, argues Austin Gravley; he writes persuasively (In Endeavor, here, and in this companion piece on his own blog) that Christians should not ignore the cultural ways and artifacts of the internet; in fact, he declares that, if Christians don’t engage with online culture, we will not be fully living out our responsibilities as emissaries of Christ to the rest of the world.
I’ve been puzzling over this idea for a number of years. I fully agree with Austin’s claim that Christians should not abandon internet culture. But there is quite a lot of that culture that I find off-putting, disgusting, or just plain obnoxious. Yet there is also much (like music, for instance) that is beautiful, joyous, and good. How to strike the balance?
8.
Writing in Radix magazine, Ben Egerton analyzes the theme of embodiment as worked out in sculpture. He mentions the work of Antony Gormley and several other sculptors and shares his thoughts on how their works comment on our own human embodiedness. For example:
[These sculptures] have mass. Have weight and presence far greater than that of a human body (even if a human body were the size of their sculptures). The body’s presence is thus emphasized. In turn, by virtue of their unique locations and presence, these public “bodies” invite us to ask public questions of how the body operates—and, by extension, personal ones too, of our bodies, ourselves—in relation to its surroundings. How does a body relate to the world, to the built environment, to water, to gardens; how do we—as bodies—relate to and operate in the created world; and, in Mackesy’s and Hepworth’s cases, to another body, to each other?
Egerton also talks about the complex back-and-forth between any given sculpture and its specific situation, using a metaphor of “feeding.” A sculpture “feeds” and is “fed by” its surroundings, changing them and being changed by them in particular and sometimes unexpected ways. Sculpture, therefore, in Egerton’s view, echoes Jesus’ many acts of feeding in the Gospels. The fact of existing in a body is one which has been a recurring theme in Christian theology from its very beginnings; Egerton’s thoughts on how this theme is worked out through the discipline of sculpture are a welcome addition to that conversation.
9.
A good ekphrastic poem: “Whistlejacket” by Paisley Rekdal.
10.
On his blog The Pony Express, Samuel Schaefer recently featured some splendid photographs, by Stratos Kalafatis, of the monastic community at Mount Athos. These images are meant to highlight the aspect of “strangeness” which prevails on the island of Athos; I’m drawn to them by their formalist characteristics, their sense of rhythm and their surprising juxtapositions. The fan favorite seems to be the one with the turkey but I particularly enjoy the one of the monk holding a bouquet of flowers while standing in front of a red wall—the simplicity of the forms, the rectilinearity which has room for some strong diagonals, are quite a treat. These pictures remind me of the ones by Timothy Henze which I discussed earlier this year, but with people added.
11.
A good painting: William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Temptation. 1880.
Quoted in Tiny Surrealism by Roger Rothman (italics in the original).
Thanks for the shoutout for Eric Falden and I.
Enjoyed Carolyn Branch's article on staging evil.
Thanks for sharing!