beginning with art

      “People holding this view of art, contrary to the modern view which considers all art good as long as it affords pleasure, thought and think that art, unlike the word, to which people need not listen, is so highly dangerous in its capacity for infecting people against their will, that mankind would lose far less if all art were banished than if every kind of art were tolerated.
       “Those people who rejected all art were obviously wrong, because they rejected what cannot be rejected – one of the most necessary means of communication, without which mankind cannot live.  But no less wrong are the people of our civilized . . . society, circle, and time, in tolerating all art as long as it serves beauty – that is, gives people pleasure.
      “Formerly, there was fear that among objects of art some corrupting objects might be found, and so all art was forbidden.  Now, there is only fear lest they be deprived of some pleasure afforded by art, and so all art is patronized.  And I think that the second error is much greater than the first and that its consequences are much more harmful.”    ~Leo Tolstoy, What Is Art?

I love it when brilliant people crystallize things towards which I have thought but not found expression.  I love truth.  Ah, yes, this is the thing toward which all of my busyness is working.  This is the reason I pursue difficult theorems through tangled texts, keep late hours, and am so very happy after Aesthetics class . . . green pastures, quiet waters, truth. 

Tolstoy describes art as a vital means of communion among people.  In other words, art is a way of unifying.  Unity.  The idea that something is needed to bring unity presupposes that things are not unified.  That there are broken things that need to be made whole.  To be restored.  He restores my soul.

Last week, I read selections from Nietzsche.  The editor entitled the selection “Art as Redemption.”  There it is again: redemption.  Restoration.  According to Nietzsche, there are two varieties of art, but the one that came closest to representing reality was the one which broke down barriers between people and brought unity.  Nietzsche was pretty far off the mark in most things, but he echoes a fundamental human longing.  The problem is, while art brings some superficial restoration of broken relation, art cannot bring complete unity.  It cannot utterly redeem. 

“For He Himself is our peace, who has made both of us into one has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility . . .” 

Unity.  Restoration.  He is the Truth.

beulah

I will rejoice greatly in the LORD,
My soul will exult in my God;
For He has clothed me with garments of salvation,
He has wrapped me with a robe of righteousness,
As a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,
And as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
~Isaiah 61:10, NASB

In Surprised by Joy  C. S. Lewis shares this thought: “It is more important that heaven should exist than that any of us should reach it.”  I think I agree with him.  It is vital to know that the thing for which we long is real, even if it is never within our grasp.  At times, that knowledge nearly satisfies the longing.  It is a vindication, a justification, of the fact that we long.  No, we are not crazily longing for what does not exist, the reality is out there, though we may never touch it. 

And so, four days ago, I attended a satisfying wedding.  To say it was beautiful is to conjure up images out of bridal magazines, and, while it was lovely, set amid the splendor of a mountain in autumn, that is not what I mean at all.  No, I mean something more.  It was so infinitely right.   An entirely voluntary agreement on both sides, yet there was a sense in which both bride and groom had been marked for this and nothing else.  As though it could not possibly have been any other way.  I’ve heard marriage held up as a picture of our relationship to God all my life, but I’d never seen a wedding which so tangibly illustrated it: the joy, the belonging.  It made me glad.  Satisfied me.

The thing for which I long is real.  Heaven exists.  I am going there. 

It will no longer be said to you, “Forsaken,”
Nor to your land will it any longer be said, “Desolate”;
But you will be called, “My delight is in her,”
And your land, “Married”;
For the LORD delights in you,
And to Him your land will be married.
~Isaiah 62:4

i am tired

Writing satisfies.  I write “I am tired,” and suddenly it means more than simply a physical and mental fact.  It has possibilities.  Questions.  It also has finality.  Tiredness may leave, but the written statement remains.  Thus, to write the words is different than to speak them. 

Writing legitimizes thoughts that would sound silly in speech.  In writing, I am able to say seamlessly what would come out so haltingly in speech.  You cannot read my pauses as I weigh which word will work.  If it takes an hour to write one sentence, I am the only one who need be concerned about it.  As it happens, none of these sentences represent anything near an hour. 

The moon tonight was a sliver, suspended in the tree branches as sliver moons often are in the illustrations for nursery rhyme books.  And so I sat on cement steps under the sliver of moon and cradled a guitar.  Which sounds romantic, magical, inspiring.  My feet fell asleep as often happens when I sit cross-legged, and mosquitos came eagerly to sample the evening’s entertainment.  Which sounds prosaic, mundane, humorous.

The two in conjunction with one another – the magic and the mundanity – this is life.  Cockroaches crawl across moonlit paths; butterflies light upon landfills; formal attire is usually uncomfortable.  And the Muse strikes when I am sleepy, to slow my bedward progress.

The inspired writer likes to be imagined as paintings might portray her: at ease in a white gown and a rapt countenance.  And yet she sees herself, fuzzy-haired, bleary-eyed, and in a fraying hoodie.  Which is as it ought to be, somehow.  Besides, it isn’t inspiration.  It is just writing.  Which satisfies.