I'm thinking on this day before Christmas about Giotto's depiction of the reunion of Joachim and Anne, Mary's parents, at the Golden Gate outside Jerusalem. One of the sublime panels of the Arena (aka Scrovegni) Chapel in Padua, it marks the moment of Mary's Immaculate Conception, and by extension the origin of Christ's Incarnation. The scene includes a group of brightly dressed women who gaze happily on the moment, and a single black-clad female figure who looks away. Who is she? Perhaps an effigy of the Virgin herself, in knowledge of the fate that awaits her son Yeshua, or a harbinger figure fulfilling the same role, connecting the dots from this loving scene to the story's inevitable conclusion? I encountered this same foreshadowing technique today while listening to an old recording of the carol "What Child is This?" that included a lyric not infrequently erased from modern renditions. The song depicts the scene inside the stable, where the newborn baby sleeps in his mother's lap while shepherds look on and angels sing anthems for the redemption of the world. Amid this hymn of celebration, as written by William Chatterton Dix, the second part of the middle verse inserts a stark reminder: Nails, spear shall pierce Him through / The cross be borne for me, for you. / Hail, hail the Word made flesh, / The Babe, the Son of Mary. This is one of the profound wonders of the Christian story, the way the joy of Christmas portends the Cross, while in that suffering lies the promise of everlasting light. Such is the essence of love, and the tension at the heart of Giotto's kiss.
Art & Document
From 2008 to 2013, Art & Document was the voice of the Center for Documentary Arts, a nonprofit project founded by Timothy Cahill at the Sage Colleges of upstate New York. Situated at the crossroads of art, ethics, faith, and conscience, the blog continues the Center's mission to present artists, writers, and thinkers who, in their lives and works, partake of the sacred, bear witness to suffering, and manifest beauty, dignity, and charity.
24 December 2023
Giotto's Kiss
I'm thinking on this day before Christmas about Giotto's depiction of the reunion of Joachim and Anne, Mary's parents, at the Golden Gate outside Jerusalem. One of the sublime panels of the Arena (aka Scrovegni) Chapel in Padua, it marks the moment of Mary's Immaculate Conception, and by extension the origin of Christ's Incarnation. The scene includes a group of brightly dressed women who gaze happily on the moment, and a single black-clad female figure who looks away. Who is she? Perhaps an effigy of the Virgin herself, in knowledge of the fate that awaits her son Yeshua, or a harbinger figure fulfilling the same role, connecting the dots from this loving scene to the story's inevitable conclusion? I encountered this same foreshadowing technique today while listening to an old recording of the carol "What Child is This?" that included a lyric not infrequently erased from modern renditions. The song depicts the scene inside the stable, where the newborn baby sleeps in his mother's lap while shepherds look on and angels sing anthems for the redemption of the world. Amid this hymn of celebration, as written by William Chatterton Dix, the second part of the middle verse inserts a stark reminder: Nails, spear shall pierce Him through / The cross be borne for me, for you. / Hail, hail the Word made flesh, / The Babe, the Son of Mary. This is one of the profound wonders of the Christian story, the way the joy of Christmas portends the Cross, while in that suffering lies the promise of everlasting light. Such is the essence of love, and the tension at the heart of Giotto's kiss.
28 August 2023
Barry Lopez: The response to tyranny
—Barry Lopez
13 July 2022
"Remember that fear devours the soul"
‘‘I won’t talk about the case, the searches, the interrogations, the tomes, the trials. It’s boring and pointless. Recently I’ve joined the school of tiredness and frustration. But even before the arrest, I managed to join the school of being able to talk about truly important things.
I would like to talk about philosophy and literature. About Benjamin, Derrida, Kafka, Arendt, Sontag, Barthes, Foucault, Agamben, about Audre Lorde and bell hooks. About Timofeeva, Tlostanova and Rakhmaninova.
I would like to speak about poetry. About how to read contemporary poetry. About Gronas, Dashevsky and Borodin.
But now is not the time or place. I will hide my little tender words on the tip of my tongue, at the bottom of my larynx, between my stomach and heart. And I’ll just say a little.
I often feel like a little fish, a little bird, a schoolboy, a baby girl. But recently I found out with amazement, that Brodsky was also put on trial at 23. And in that I am also part of the human race, I will say the following:
In the Kabbalah there is the concept of Tikkun Olam—the repairing of the world. I see that the world is not perfect. I believe that, as Yehuda Amichai wrote, the world was created beautiful, for the good and for peace, like a bench in a garden (in a garden, not in a courtroom!) I believe that the world was created for tenderness, hope, love, solidarity, passion, joy.
But in the world there is a terrible, unbearable amount of violence. And I don’t want violence. Not in any form. Not teacher’s hands in schoolgirls’ knickers, not the fists of a drunken father on the bodies of his wife and children. If I decided to list all the violence around, not a day, not a week, not a year would be enough time. In order to see the violence around, you just need to open your eyes. My eyes are open. I see violence and I don’t want violence. The more violence there is, the more I don’t want it. And the greatest and most terrible violence is the one I don’t want most of all.
I love to study. And so now I will speak with the voices of others.
At school, in history lessons, I learned the phrases: ‘You may crucify freedom, but the human soul knows no chains’ and ‘For freedom, yours and ours.’
In secondary school, I read ‘Requiem’ by Anna Andreyevna Akhmatova, ‘Journey into the Whirlwind’ by Yevgenia Solomonovna Ginzburg, ‘The Vacated Theater’ by Bulat Shalvovich Okudzhava, ‘Children of the Arbat’ by Anatoly Naumovich Rybakov. From Okudzhava, most of all I loved the poem:
Conscience, nobility and dignity
Here it is, our sacred army.
Hold out your palm to it.
No fear for him, even in the fire.
His countenance is imposing and wondrous.
Dedicate to him your humble age:
Maybe you won’t become a victor,
But you will die like a man! [from Sacred Army – Святое воинство]
I studied French at MGIMO and learned a line from Edith Piaf: ‘Ça ne pouvait pas durer toujours’ (‘It couldn’t last forever’). And from Marc Robin: ‘Ça ne peut pas durer comme ça’ (‘It can’t go on like this’).
At nineteen, I went to Majdanek and Treblinka and learned how to say ‘never again’ in seven languages: never again, jamais plus, nie wieder, קיינמאל מער, nigdy więcej, לא עוד.
I studied the Jewish wise men and most of all fell in love with two bits of wisdom. Rabbi Hillel said: ‘If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?’ And Rabbi Nachman said: ‘The whole world is a narrow bridge, and the main thing is not to be afraid at all.’
Then I entered the School of Cultural Studies and learned a few more important lessons. Firstly, words have meaning. Secondly, you need to call a spade a spade. And finally: sapere aude, that is, have the courage to use your own mind.
It is ridiculous and absurd that our case has been associated with schoolchildren. I taught children the humanities in English, worked as a nanny, dreamed of being a part of the ‘Teacher for Russia’ programme and going to a small town for two years to sow seeds of reason, kindness, and the eternal. But Russia – through the mouth of state public prosecutor Tryakin – considers that I involved minors in life-threatening acts. If I ever have children (and I will, because I remember the central commandment), I will hang a portrait of the procurator of Judea, Pontius Pilate, on their wall so that the children grow up to be decent people. The Procurator Pontius Pilate standing up and washing his hands – that’s the kind of portrait it will be. Yes, it is now life-threatening to not be indifferent in one’s thoughts and way of life. I don’t know what to say about the essence of the charge. I am washing my hands.
But now it is the moment of truth. The time when the books are interpreted. Neither I nor my male and female friends can find a place that is away from horror and pain, but when I go down into the metro, I do not see tear-stained faces. I do not see tear-stained faces.
None of my favourite books – neither children’s book nor books for adults – taught indifference, disinterest, or cowardice. Nowhere have I been taught these phrases:
We are insignificant
I’m a simple person, everything is not so clear, no one can be trusted, I’m not really interested in all this
I’m not into politics, this does not concern me, nothing depends on me, competent authorities will sort it out what could I do on my own
On the contrary, I know and love completely different words.
John Donne, via Hemingway, says:
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Mahmoud Darwish says:
As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you wage your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you express yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: If only I were a candle in the dark).
Gennadii Golovaty says:
The blind cannot stare in anger, the dumb cannot cry out furiously. Those without arms cannot hold weapons, those without legs cannot take a step forward. But—the dumb can stare in anger, But—the blind can cry out furiously. But—those without legs can carry weapons. But—those without arms can take a step forward.
Some people, I know, are scared. They choose silence.
But Audre Lorde says:
Your silence will not protect you.
In the Moscow metro they say: Passengers are forbidden to travel on trains going to dead ends. And St. Petersburg’s ‘Aquarium’ add: this train is on fire. Lao Tzu says via Tarkovsky: the main thing is that they believe in themselves and become helpless, like children. Because weakness is great, and strength is nothing. When a person is born, he is weak and flexible, and when he dies, he is strong and hard. When a tree grows, it is tender and elastic, and when it is dry and hard, it dies. Brittleness and strength are the companions of death. Weakness and flexibility express the freshness of existence. Therefore, what has become hard will not be victorious.
Remember that fear devours the soul. Remember the character in Kafka, who saw ‘how they set up a gallows in the prison yard, mistakenly thought it was for him, escaped from his cell in the night and hanged himself.’
Be like children. Don’t be afraid to ask (yourself and others) what is good and what is bad. Don’t be afraid to say that the emperor has no clothes. Do not be afraid to scream, to burst into tears.
Repeat (to yourself and others): 2+2=4. Black is black. White is white. I am a man, I am strong and brave. I am a strong and brave woman. We are strong and brave people.
Freedom is a process, in the course of which you develop the habit of being insusceptible to enslavement.’’
Photography by Yevgeny Feldman for Meduza.
15 July 2021
Iris Murdoch, on her birthday
via https://www.flowmagazine.com/flow-magazine/as-seen-in-flow/the-philosopher-iris-murdoch.html “We are anxiety-ridden animals. Our minds are continually active, fabricating an anxious, usually self-preoccupied, often falsifying veil which partially conceals the world. Our states of consciousness differ in quality, our fantasies and reveries are not trivial or unimportant, they are profoundly connected with our energies and our abilities to choose and act. And if quality of consciousness matters, then anything that alters consciousness in the direction of unselfishness, objectivity, and realism is to be connected to virtue.” |
29 November 2020
The brimming cup
The great strewn beach of today is social media, bringer of dross and detritus, fake quotes and fake news, political extremism and animal videos. Occasionally, scrolling through the milling crowd of friends and "friends," advertisements and trolls, something unexpected pops up and stops you in your tracks.
This is what happened with the photograph above. It rolled into view on Facebook late on Thanksgiving evening, posted by one a circle of local friends that grows more diffuse by the year. It appeared with this message, in its entirety: "At the National Portrait Gallery." Having been offered, apparently, apropos of nothing, the photo attracted only one comment, asking if it was by the distinguished African-American photographer Gordon Parks. Came the reply, "No idea. No information."
This arbitrariness, this haphazard disengagement from how things fit into the great mosaic we think of as reality, is the essence of Facebook and digital technology generally. It may be the biggest shift in communications practice on my lifetime, one that raises lots of philosophical and cultural questions, some more interesting than others. When I started as a reporter in the 1970s, everything that ended up in the newspaper had first to pass through a door marked Of Use. To be sure, there were many variables that made information "fit to print," as many as there were constituencies with skin in the game. In the halls of the old school, however, these variables all moved in the same general direction, toward one common public discourse. It was a discourse heavily mediated by the princes of power and money, which is always true, but the newspaper bundles also landed on the sidewalk where we, the masses in our roles as consumers and citizens, went about our daily lives.
In such a world, things exist in a state of perpetual randomness, no more fit to the common purpose than honesty is to Donald Trump. Social media is the perfect manifestation of Camus' existential absurdity, a world with no inherent value or purpose from which the individual can make meaning, and where the suicide he wrote of as our sole philosophical problem becomes a question of canceling one's account.
Which brings me back to the photograph. To post, as my FB friend did, an image with neither context nor explanation is to feast at a table of wholly private significance. Such a meal feels no need to be understood, or even to understand itself. It takes its enthusiasms for granted and offers them as gifts to the world. Such offerings have a splendor as boundless as the sky. I knew a woman who lived by the code that "the sky is always beautiful." The question depended entirely on what you brought to your perception. How many times can a man look up before he sees?
This was the ideal image to cap a day devoted to the good work of giving thanks. Plucked from its own history, the photograph cannot tell us anything about the occasion it records. Neither its form or content offers any chronicle, narrative, or tale beyond itself. It wants only to hold our attention with its presence long enough to commend the defiance and dignity it portrays. It draws from a bottomless well of being and offers up a brimming cup.
12 November 2019
Testimony
A ruler who oppresses the poor
is a beating rain that leaves no food.
Those who forsake the law praise the wicked,
but those who keep the law struggle against them.
The evil do not understand justice,
but those who seek the Good understand it completely.
—Proverbs 28
And it will be true.
Cultivate virtue in the family,
And it will be overflowing.
Cultivate virtue in the town,
And it will be lasting.
Cultivate virtue in the country,
And it will be abundant.
Cultivate virtue in the world,
And it will be universal.
—Tao Te Ching 54
Posted as public hearings on impeachment begin in the House of Representatives.
Sudden Shower over Shin-Ōhashi Bridge and Atake (大はしあたけの夕立 Ōhashi atake no yūdachi) is a woodblock print in the ukiyo-e genre by the Japanese artist Hiroshige. It was published in 1857 as part of the series One Hundred Famous Views of Edo and is one of the best known of Hiroshige's prints. (Wikipedia)
04 November 2019
Ethics, Gratitude, Relationship: An Interview with Mona Siddiqui
Throughout her career, scholar Mona Siddiqui has studied how cultural relationships shape our public discourse, particularly on issues of religion and ethics.
Siddiqui’s work has long concentrated on Islamic jurisprudence and Sharia law. She has also written on religious concepts of hospitality and delivered a series of Gifford Lectures on suffering and struggle.
A recurring theme is the intersection of Islam and Christianity, which is the topic of her four-volume collected work, “Muslim-Christian Encounters,” and a frequent subject of her commentaries on BBC Radio 4’s “Thought for the Day.”
Most recently, she has turned her attention to how religious traditions interpret practices of gratitude and thanksgiving.
Siddiqui is assistant principal for religion and society at the University of Edinburgh, where she also holds the post of dean international for the Middle East. She joined the faculty of Edinburgh’s Divinity School in 2011 as the first Muslim to hold a chair in Islamic and interreligious studies.
. . .
At the core of Siddiqui’s work stand questions of ethics and moral choices — fundamentally, the study of our relationships with individuals, groups and God.
“When someone stands in front of me, how I decide to be with that person is a moral decision,” Siddiqui said. Most matters of conduct, whether laws, commandments, doctrines or codes, have roots in ethical practice.
While at Yale [Divinity School, where she was heading a conference on gratitude], Siddiqui spoke with Faith & Leadership contributor Timothy Cahill about gratitude, ethics and the importance of relationship.
continue reading . . .
Photo: Faith & Leadership, courtesy Mona Siddiqui.
11 June 2019
Coming full circle
30 April 2013
Something beyond the void
In his book Pictures and Tears, James Elkins describes the charged silence that fills the Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas. The space holds fourteen "black" paintings created for the chapel by the artist that feel by turns funereal, reverent, mystical. "People have always cried at [Rothko's] paintings," Elkins reports, a phenomenon the artist regarded as quite reasonable. "The people who weep before my pictures," Rothko said, "are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them." There was a spiritual element to much of modernist abstraction, a sacredness that chafed constantly against the movement's existential doubt and postwar formalism. Most of the juicy metaphysical tension was drained out of modern painting by the Sixties, though there remains activity among artists from Eastern Europe, Latin America, and the Pacific to revive it—even some in this country, on the fringes. The essay appeared in the Playbill for the production of Red, the John Logan play about Mark Rothko, at Capital Repertory Theatre in Albany, New York, 19 April to 19 May, 2013.
Romano Cagnoni, Rothko Chapel, Houston, 1967
Henry Elkan, Mark Rothko in his 53rd Street studio, c 1953
15 February 2013
Everywhere, a mood of change
In 1997, as staff art critic for an upstate New York newspaper, I went to a museum exhibition of works from the 1970s through the 1990s called "Is It Art?"—a coyly provocative question with the clear answer, "Yes, whether you like it or not." The exhibit was an adjunct to a book (not the other way around) titled Art on the Edge and Over: Searching for Art's Meaning in Contemporary Society, that sought to explain and endorse the work of thirty-seven of our age's most highly regarded artists, including Joseph Beuys, Sophie Calle, Gilbert and George, Jeff Koons, Barbara Kruger, and Gerhard Richter. In the book, each artist was chosen for his or her explorations of a culturally relevant concept or theme; hence, the idea of "Data Collecting" was illustrated by the pixelated pointillism of painter Chuck Close; of "A Chicano Woman" with the icon-crowded installations of Amalia Mesa-Bains; of "Self-Sanctification" by the multiple videotaped plastic surgeries and phials of fat tissue of French artist Orlan; and so on in this manner. The subject "Urine" was personified by Andres Serrano, who in the early 1990s became a lightning rod of the "culture wars" for his photograph Piss Christ, which, with the work of other politically, sexually, and religiously controversial artists, had been assailed by right-wing politicians in a scorched-earth campaign against contemporary art and government funding. For much of the '90s, detractors from Sen. Jesse Helms to the television journalist Morley Safer prosecuted a case against the very same aesthetic that "Is It Art?" was mounted to defend.
Although my job at the paper was to act somewhat as an expert, I was at the time largely self-taught, with limited exposure to the postmodern avant-garde or its controlling philosophy, expressed by Linda Weintraub, author-curator of the book-exhibit, as "deviation." Today, a decade and a half later, the fashionable word is "transgression," but the project is the same: to challenge cultural norms and dispute accepted ideas of order. I was stymied and shaken by the exhibit's mood of perpetual indignation, belligerent irony, and zealous embrace of chaos. Its implications bewildered me, to say nothing of my own half-recognized responses. Despite my confusion, the exhibit had its intended effect, setting in motion an engagement with contemporary art that continues to this day, though one, I allow, generally closer to an interrogation than a love-in. Indeed, the show was a turning point of my thought-process and my career. But that's another story.
I recalled all this while listening to Edi Rama speak about the ways beauty improved the civic life of Tirana, Albania, where he was mayor from 2000 to 2011. I should put the term in the uppercase—Beauty—for as Mr. Rama's TED talk reveals, it was not simply the presence of pleasing color that enhanced his city, but the ideal of order and integrity that beauty represented. Beauty was conspicuous in its absence in Ms. Weintraub's book and exhibit (in truth, in the book it was not at all absent, but explicitly nullified in an afterword by postmodern apologist Thomas McEvilley)—one could not help but observe that the art on display was starkly un-beautiful, as each artist adopted a stance, from banality to shock to sheer ugliness, to undermine all hope of visual pleasure. The effect was quite obviously purposeful, like there was a movement afoot. How long had this been going on? In fact, since the 1960s an anti-aesthetic ideology had grown up in artist studios and art departments that rejected beauty as a humanist virtue and considered it, far from Keatsean truth, an insidious lie. Toiling far from urban galleries and academia, I had not connected the dots on the new paradigm. Till then, I had regarded beauty more or less like oxygen, something we could all agree on. The fact that certain works were not beautiful had never struck me as an assault on the idea of beauty, any more than a rhombus negates a sphere. In the exhibit in question, though, the lack of all elegance, grace, proportion, balance, fineness, or any other quality appealing to the senses, was plainly a call to arms.
This call brought me face to face with my own unexamined assumptions about beauty. I've never been a push-over on the subject. I don't swoon in front of every Impressionist painting on the wall. But I knew that the aesthetic intention of "Is It Art?" was to make me feel shitty, and I was not so suspicious of my instincts as to welcome its hermeneutical defoliation. What self-respecting person suffers a churl, or worse, a roomful of them? Weighing the question of aesthetics, immediately, almost instinctively, it was clear to me that as an ideal Beauty is not simply a matter of pleasure, delight, awe—it has a moral component as well. I could not at the time have defended this impulse, but it was and remains self-evident to me that to live in contact with beauty is immeasurably healthier to the spirit than living amidst ugliness, whether that ugliness be the blight of an urban slum, the brutal classlessness of a communist tract, or the drab uniformity of a suburban subdivision. Those forces that deny great swaths of the population access to the sensual and spiritual influence of beauty—whether out of indifference, bigotry, ideology, or greed—commit a kind of mass soul murder. When artists, our chief orators of beauty, deny its importance as well, they make themselves complicit in the violence.
That change, Rama asserts in his talk, manifested itself in increased civic pride and social cohesion, and in a reduction of crime. "Beauty was acting as a guardsman," Rama told his TED audience in Thessaloniki, Greece. "Beauty was giving people a feeling of being protected." He tells the story of a shopkeeper he met in the act of replacing the metal grate on her storefront with a large display window. "How is it—?" he asked. Look around, the merchant returned; since the neighborhood was painted there have been fewer thefts, fewer crimes, the people feel more secure. "It's beautiful. It's safe."
This is slight anecdotal evidence, but it points the way. Cosmetic upgrades obviously could not solve all of Tirana's ills (they had no effect on the city's decrepit water and sewage system, for instance). Beauty cannot redeem the world on its own . But we are wired to adapt to our surroundings and take our cues from the unspoken values the environment imposes and fosters. A view that supports beauty's emotional and ethical necessity can conceive of humane solutions to a myriad of challenges. Dickens' entreaties for the aesthetic needs of the poor applies to us all. As a value, Beauty has been freighted with numerous and not entirely unreasonable doubts for so long it will not be restored to some former, unambiguous glory. And yet, without it we are lost. This era we are in, this time of post-postmodernism, metamodernism, neoclassical romantic baroque modernism, call it what you will, urges us to seek latent energies in the old virtues, to go back and look again for overlooked possibilities. Is it beyond reason to expect artists, as a kind of minimal job description, to grasp these imperatives? Before becoming a politician, Edi Rama was a painter.
Giotto's Kiss
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