When Things Converge

 

     This is a story of how professional art inspires student art, which can inspire amateur art.  But, overall, God's inspired Word inspires all that is lasting, real and true.

     It starts with an environmental artist from New York City.  She also 'lives' it.  (You can research her from the info posted in this article.)  One of her gallery presentations tours various colleges and universities.  The students then contribute their work, based on the artist's project statement.  My daughter's zine class all contributed.  (A zine is a mini magazine, made on one sheet of paper folded a certain way, and reproduced in limited number on copy machines.)

       My daughter's zine reflected on water use and her wardrobe.  She reflected on how much water likely was needed to make all her clothes (and we are not too proud to pick up some clothes from secondhand stores).  She discussed how much water it takes, in this arid environment, to keep her clothes clean.  She discussed how she tries to recycle worn out clothes into rags, but this doesn't work for all of them.  She discussed how the clothes with artificial fibers will take a long time to break down.  When they do break down, the microfibers can end up in our water and in our very bloodstreams.

     She was absolutely thrilled that her father and I could make the gallery presentation.  She was also happy to see how much we seemed to be truly taking in and processing in the display.  She had first thought that she wanted to tour the other galleries in the museum.  But, due to the arduous semester and connections building over art, she said she wanted to go, instead, to a little amateur set up where anyone could make their own 'master' for a zine.  We agreed to go.

     As I sat down to approach this, I knew that it would have to be something related to nature.  It occurred to me that I wanted to honor the Hebrew I've studied, so the cover is the Hebrew word for "life."  Then, of course, I had to include another favorite:  the black-eyed Susan.  [If you see a sunflower, that's okay; that may suggest other things to you, especially in this time in our history.]  But I'm not Jewish; I'm Christian, so a cross had to be there somewhere.  Can you see it?  My very bright daughter picked up the symbolism with no prompts.  (She also knew what type of flower it was supposed to be.)  

      I was happy that, in real life, the tissue paper provided created a center that looked a bit like the velvety soft center of a real black-eyed Susan (which is really brown!).  Later on, I slipped in the Greek and German terms, since I have studied both of these.  I try to keep speaking some German, as it is the language of my ancestors (though there 'may' be a little ethnic Jewishness in me; that is inconclusive).  But what else might it say to you, especially in this setting, to see Hebrew and German so close together?  

     

     You might recognize the reference to Romans 8:19-23 which literally unfolds in this zine. This is not an exact quote.  I know my own reasons for not being exact, but what does it say to you?  

      You may have to zoom in to see the small collage items on your screen. 

     Do you notice black, white and grey here? 

     Throughout the pages, what do you see of both hope and despair?

    

      Do you see any repeating color schemes here? What does that say to you?

     What comes together on this page?  What does it elicit in you?  Anything a little different on this page?

     

              

              Any thoughts, now, seeing front and back cover, side-by-side?  

      This is the inside, full paper fold out.  (This is especially a time you might want to zoom in to catch the smaller items.)

     There are things particular to my interests, but what do they say to you?  The verse from Job is, again, in Hebrew, Greek, German and English.  It is also, in older English, set to music, specifically Handel's Messiah.  (Interestingly, you can sing the German version to this music!)  There are elements from Luther's Small Catechism.  I happen to be Lutheran, but is there more that speaks to you?

     One statement is on the "groaning" side and here, the "eternal bliss" side.  Did you see that?  What does it mean to see it in this place?

*****************************************

     There are things I learned from this process. Some are basic, practical things.  Others are more philosophic.

     Some production issues were "the learner's curve", though this may well be the only zine I ever create.  Overall, I was thinking of my work as a finished creation, rather than a "master" from which to copy things.  I forgot to account for copiers "shifting" things and placed some things too close to edges, folds. or cut lines.  Because the glue sticks didn't keep things stuck down tight, I Mod-Podge'd the final product.  Unfortunately, I used the glossy Mod-Podge we already have.  So I couldn't photograph my original because the sheen was too much. Also, it created streaks that messed up the copying.

     I did discover, on the other hand, the color copier I used created some better detail on the magazine cut-outs.  This is more noticeable on paper copies than the virtual ones here.

     The cheap markers and cheap paper were provided to us amateurs at the museum.  Having started there with family, I did not really wish to start over. The markers bled through, and I had to account for this on laying out the inside.  The Mod-Podge cause the ink to smear even more, so I had to use caution.  

     Some philosophic things came to mind.  It began to occur to me that, though the original artist's statement was about conserving resources, I was using resources to create this.  In this case, not many new resources were used.  The original paper and ink from the markers were new.  The tissue for the black-eye Susan was new.  The Mod-Podge was already purchased. Evaluating the use of this is mixed:  I already had it, and the resources were already used in production. But I could have saved it for a needed project later (like fixing a book rather than throwing it out or using more toxic resources to fix it).  On the other hand, if I don't use it for something, it could dry out and be wasted, anyway.  There was also the use of glue sticks.

     The magazines and catalogs were already produced.  They could have gone to the landfill without being repurposes. The admixture used in glossy productions means they don't recycle well.  The green paper Luther catechism sections were already in our scratch paper bin.  They were part of an erroneous print for confirmation class.  The Job quotes were done on scratch paper; just the ink was a new resource.

     You will notice stickers on this zine.  All of them came from unsolicited mail, some cut off from mailing labels.  (I have more mailing labels than I could use in a long, long time.)  There was a risk that some of these unsolicited items could have ended up in a landfill.  Unlike "regular" paper, they would not recycle well.  Ironically, some of these items came from agencies promoting [secular] environmentalism.

      I included some things cut out from a Valentine I got earlier this year from someone who's been a friend since we were both 5 years old.  I had hung onto it, though it was one of those "kid style" Valentines.  But how long do we hang onto every scrap of things?  That's always a question. This Valentine was one of those "search for details" type and reflected some of my very personal preferences.  It was perfect for this zine, fitting right into the themes.  This has given the Valentine a "new life" for others, also.  Do you think you're able to find the pieces of the Valentine in the zine?  

      I have made a few paper copies.  It does not escape me that this involved more paper and ink use. There was also the slight bit of electricity use to copy.  What you see here eliminates "the paper trail."  However, there is the electricity used in preparing the post. There is the electricity used in you reading it.  (Even if it's on a battery-powered device, there will be the electricity used to recharge the battery.)  I've come to learn that all the data we create and then store is 'held' in virtual warehouses that create big power draws.  Those that are built in hot deserts, like where I currently live, add to our climate problems.

     Beyond this, I've come to learn about environmental issues that arise in traditional art.  As my daughter progresses in oil painting, I see the chemicals and toxicity.

     And, yet, humans need to create and to share their creativity. We lose something of our humanity, something of the gifts God gave us before our world (and we) were damaged by sin. And art is used to communicate environmental messages. So a real quandary can arise.  I have no answers.  This time, what began as a very amateurish endeavor led me down many paths simultaneously.

     I hope it has stimulated some thoughts in you.  In the meantime, we have hope, real hope:  we have God given gifts to help us improve things as we live on this earth.  We have hope for a perfected physical world, populated by perfected humans, in the next.

     As a Lutheran, we have a total 50 days in our Easter season, all the way until Pentecost.  I wish you a blessed Easter season.

  

O God, Our Help in Ages Past*

 

1. O God, our help in ages past,
   Our hope for years to come,
   Our shelter from the stormy blast,
   And our eternal home.
2. Under the shadow of Thy throne
   Thy saints have dwelt secure;
   Sufficient is Thine arm alone,
   And our defense is sure.
3. Before the hills in order stood,
   Or earth received her frame,
   From everlasting Thou art God,
   To endless years the same.
4. Thy Word commands our flesh to dust,
   “Return, ye sons of men”:
   All nations rose from earth at first,
   And turn to earth again.
5. A thousand ages in Thy sight
   Are like an evening gone;
   Short as the watch that ends the night
   Before the rising sun.
6. The busy tribes of flesh and blood,
   With all their lives and cares,
   Are carried downwards by the flood,
   And lost in foll’wing years.
7. Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
   Bears all its sons away;
   They fly, forgotten, as a dream
   Dies at the op’ning day.
8. Like flow’ry fields the nations stand
   Pleased with the morning light;
   The flow’rs beneath the mower’s hand
   Lie with’ring ere ’tis night.
9. O God, our help in ages past,
   Our hope for years to come,
   Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
   And our eternal home.  --Isaac Watts, 1708 (pub. 1719)

*A hymnodic version of Psalm 90.  (This Psalm and hymn are often used in liturgical churches on New Years' Eve, due to the discussion of "time.")

Imagine

 

Imagine...

love that embraces the enemy

grace that preaches repentance

joy that strengthens during depression

peace that accompanies the conflicted

hope that enlivens the dying

Jesus gives this.  --Rev B.T. (c) 2021

Nature is Never Spent (*)

"For all this, nature is never spent."*
As unto urban wastelands sent
Was this poetic English gent
Ourselves are now to parched lands lent,
Absorbing well what Hopkins meant.

I see no British Isles lush~
I look on desert city rush~
Adapting as that orange-breast thrush**
I find my own internal hush.  

"There lives the dearest freshness deep-down things,"*
As I admire our flowerings
And still the robin gamely sings.**

"For all this, nature is never spent."
On earth, this comes as form of rent
Until we dwell in Christ's new tent.***
--C. Marie Byars, 2020 (c) 
[during covid and unrest times, but not in direct response] 

*From Gerard Manley Hopkins', SJ, 1877 poem
God's Grandeur

**A robin is a type of thrush. Its wide range suggests it's adaptable.

***Tent/tabernacle/dwelling.  The Old Testament Tabernacle was a durable, highly ornate tent with a special purpose for worship. There, God's visible presence on earth could be found.  In John 1: 14, "The Word [Christ] became flesh and 'tabernacled' among us."  The Greek word for 'dwelling' means more literally 'tented.'

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower; 
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
--Robert Frost, 1923 (1924 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry winner)

Ferreting out exactly what Robert Frost's religious beliefs were are difficult. Things are compounded by the losses in his life. However, as this poem alludes to the Garden of Eden, the first creation by God, and how it was sunk by the first sin (Genesis 3), it is being incorporated on this Christian site.
Although this poem seems bleak, it does speak of cycles of life that will continue to come about in this imperfect world: there will be new flowers or leaves on the tree next year; there will be a dawn tomorrow; people will die but leave their descendants after them.

More Flowers of the Upper Midwest

Travels (related to the Christian life) took me to Minnesota recently. Though I love the southwest, there are things there I find refreshing:

Johnny Jump-Up; violet strain

" '26So if you cannot do such a small thing,' [said Jesus] 'why do you worry about the rest? 27Consider how the lilies grow: They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory was adorned like one of these. 28If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, how much more will He clothe you, O you of little faith!…' "

Berean Study Bible

November, 1851

[Autumn as death, the death of dreams and doubt]

What dost thou here, O soul,
Beyond thy own control,
Under the strange wild sky?
O stars, reach down your hands,
And clasp me in your silver bands,
I tremble with this mystery!-
Flung hither by a chance
Of restless circumstance,
Thou art but here, and wast not sent;
Yet once more mayest thou draw
By thy own mystic law
To the centre of thy wonderment.

Why wilt thou stop and start?
Draw nearer, oh my heart,
And I will question thee most wistfully;
Gather thy last clear resolution
To look upon thy dissolution.

The great God's life throbs far and free,
And thou art but a spark
Known only in thy dark,
Or a foam-fleck upon the awful ocean,
Thyself thy slender dignity,
Thy own thy vexing mystery,
In the vast change that is not change but motion.

'Tis not so hard as it would seem;
Thy life is but a dream-
And yet thou hast some thoughts about the past;
Let go, let go thy memories,
They are not things but wandering cries-
Wave them each one a long farewell at last:
I hear thee say-'Take them, O tide,
And I will turn aside,
Gazing with heedlessness, nay, even with laughter!
Bind me, ye winds and storms,
Among the things that once had forms,
And carry me clean out of sight thereafter!'

Thou hast lived long enough
To know thy own weak stuff,
Laughing thy fondest joys to utter scorn;
Give up the idle strife-
It is but mockery of life;
The fates had need of thee and thou wast born!
They are, in sooth, but thou shalt die.
O wandering spark! O homeless cry!
O empty will, still lacking self-intent!
Look up among the autumn trees:
The ripened fruits fall through the breeze,
And they will shake thee even like these
Into the lap of an Accomplishment!

Thou hadst a faith, and voices said:-
'Doubt not that truth, but bend thy head
Unto the God who drew thee from the night:'
Thou liftedst up thy eyes-and, lo!
A host of voices answered-'No;
A thousand things as good have seen the light!'
Look how the swarms arise
From every clod before thy eyes!
Are thine the only hopes that fade and fall
When to the centre of its action
One purpose draws each separate fraction,
And nothing but effects are left at all?
Aha, thy faith! what is thy faith?
The sleep that waits on coming death-
A blind delirious swoon that follows pain.
'True to thy nature!'-well! right well!
But what that nature is thou canst not tell-
It has a thousand voices in thy brain.
Danced all the leaflets to and fro?
-Thy feet have trod them long ago!
Sprung the glad music up the blue?
-The hawk hath cut the song in two.
All the mountains crumble,
All the forests fall,
All thy brethren stumble,
And rise no more at all!
In the dim woods there is a sound
When the winds begin to moan;
It is not of joy or yet of mirth,
But the mournful cry of our mother Earth,
As she calleth back her own.
Through the rosy air to-night
The living creatures play
Up and down through the rich faint light-
None so happy as they!
But the blast is here, and noises fall
Like the sound of steps in a ruined hall,
An icy touch is upon them all,
And they sicken and fade away.

The child awoke with an eye of gladness,
With a light on his head and a matchless grace,
And laughed at the passing shades of sadness
That chased the smiles on his mother's face;
And life with its lightsome load of youth
Swam like a boat on a shining lake-
Freighted with hopes enough, in sooth,
But he lived to trample on joy and truth,
And change his crown for a murder-stake!

Oh, a ruddy light went through the room,
Till the dark ran out to his mother Night!
And that little chamber showed through the gloom
Like a Noah's ark with its nest of light!
Right glad was the maiden there, I wis,
With the youth that held her hand in his!
Oh, sweet were the words that went and came
Through the light and shade of the leaping flame
That glowed on the cheerful faces!
So human the speech, so sunny and kind,
That the darkness danced on the wall behind,
And even the wail of the winter wind
Sang sweet through the window-cases!

But a mournful wail crept round and round,
And a voice cried:-'Come!' with a dreary sound,
And the circle wider grew;
The light flame sank, and sorrow fell
On the faces of those that loved so well;
Darker and wilder grew the tone;
Fainter and fainter the faces shone;
The wild night clasped them, and they were gone-
And thou art passing too!

Lo, the morning slowly springs
Like a meek white babe from the womb of night!
One golden planet sits and stings
The shifting gloom with his point of light!
Lo, the sun on its throne of flame!
-Wouldst thou climb and win a crown?*
Oh, many a heart that pants for the same
Falls to the earth ere he goes down!
Thy heart is a flower with an open cup-
Sit and watch, if it pleaseth thee,
Till the melting twilight fill it up
With a crystal of tender sympathy;
So, gently will it tremble
The silent midnight through,
And flocks of stars assemble
By turns in its depths of dew;-
But look! oh, look again!
After the driving wind and rain!
When the day is up and the sun is strong,
And the voices of men are loud and long,
When the flower hath slunk to its rest again,
And love is lost in the strife of men!

Let the morning break with thoughts of love,
And the evening fall with dreams of bliss-
So vainly panteth the prisoned dove
For the depths of her sweet wilderness;
So stoops the eagle in his pride
From his rocky nest ere the bow is bent;
So sleeps the deer on the mountain-side
Ere the howling pack hath caught the scent!

The fire climbs high till its work is done;
The stalk falls down when the flower is gone;
And the stars of heaven when their course is run
Melt silently away!
There was a footfall on the snow,
A line of light on the ocean-flow,
And a billow's dash on the rocks below
That stand by the wintry bay:-
The snow was gone on the coming night;
Another wave arose in his might,
Uplifted his foaming breast of white,
And died like the rest for aye!

Oh, the stars were bright! and thyself in thee
Yearned for an immortality!
And the thoughts that drew from thy busy brain
Clasped the worlds like an endless chain-
When a moon arose, and her moving chime
Smote on thy soul, like a word in time,
Or a breathless wish, or a thought in rime,
And the truth that looked so gloomy and high
Leapt to thy arms with a joyful cry!
But what wert thou when a soulless Cause
Opened the book of its barren laws,
And thy spirit that was so glad and free
Was caught in the gin of necessity,
And a howl arose from the strife of things
Vexing each other with scorpion stings?
What wert thou but an orphan child
Thrust from the door when the night was wild?
Or a sailor on the toiling main
Looking blindly up through the wind and rain
As the hull of the vessel fell in twain!

Seals are on the book of fate,
Hands may not unbind it;
Eyes may search for truth till late,
But will never find it-!
Rising on the brow of night
Like a portent of dismay,
As the worlds in wild affright
Track it on its direful way;
Resting like a rainbow bar
Where the curve and level meet,
As the children chase it far
O'er the sands with blistered feet;
Sadly through the mist of ages
Gazing on this life of fear,
Doubtful shining on its pages,
Only seen to disappear!
Sit thee by the sounding shore
-Winds and waves of human breath!-
Learn a lesson from their roar,
Swelling, bursting evermore:
Live thy life and die thy death!
Die not like the writhing worm,
Rise and win thy highest stake;
Better perish in the storm
Than sit rotting on the lake!
Triumph in thy present youth,
Pulse of fire and heart of glee;
Leap at once into the truth,
If there is a truth for thee.

Shapeless thoughts and dull opinions,
Slow distinctions and degrees,-
Vex not thou thy weary pinions**
With such leaden weights as these-
Through this mystic jurisdiction
Reaching out a hand by chance,
Resting on a dull conviction
Whetted but by ignorance;
Living ever to behold
Mournful eyes that watch and weep;
Spirit suns that flashed in gold
Failing from the vasty deep;
Starry lights that glowed like Truth
Gazing with unnumbered eyes,
Melting from the skies of youth,
Swallowed up of mysteries;
Cords of love that sweetly bound thee;
Faded writing on thy brow;
Presences that came around thee;
Hands of faith that fail thee now!

Groping hands will ever find thee
In the night with loads of chains!
Lift thy fetters and unbind thee,
Cast thee on the midnight plains:
Shapes of vision all-providing-
Famished cheeks and hungry cries!
Sound of crystal waters sliding-
Thirsty lips and bloodshot eyes!
Empty forms that send no gleaming
Through the mystery of this strife!-
Oh, in such a life of seeming,
Death were worth an endless life!

Hark the trumpet of the ocean
Where glad lands were wont to be!
Many voices of commotion
Break in tumult over thee!
Lo, they climb the frowning ages,
Marching o'er their level lands!
Far behind the strife that rages
Silence sits with clasped hands;
Undivided Purpose, freeing
His own steps from hindrances,
Sending out great floods of being,
Bathes thy steps in silentness.
Sit thee down in mirth and laughter-
One there is that waits for thee;
If there is a true hereafter***
He will lend thee eyes to see.

Like a snowflake gently falling
On a quiet fountain,
Or a weary echo calling
From a distant mountain,
Drop thy hands in peace,-
Fail-falter-cease.      

--George MacDonald  


*Christ wins the crown of salvation for us; we don't climb for it
**A type of feather for flight; a bird cannot fly if weighed down
***more doubt about the afterlife than I would entertain

Jesus, Refuge of the Weary

Jesus, Refuge of the weary,
Blest Redeemer Whom we love.
Fountain in life's desert dreary,
Savior from the world above.
Oh, how oft Thine eyes, offended
Gaze upon the sinner's fall;
Yet upon the cross extended,
You have born the pain of all.

Do we pass that cross unheeding,
Breathing no repentant vow,
Though we see Thee wounded, bleeding,
See Thy thorn encircled brow?
Yet Thy sinless death has brought us
Life eternal, peace, and rest;
Only what your grace has taught us
Calms the sinner’s deep distress.

Jesus, may our hearts be burning
With more fervent love for Thee;
May our eyes be ever turning
To Thy cross of agony
Till in glory, parted never
From the blessed Savior’s side,
Carved into our hearts forever,
Dwell the cross, the Crucified.

By Girolamo Savonarola; translated by Lady Jane Wilde, adapted

Girolamo Savonarola was an Italian Dominican friar and preacher.  (In his zeal to reform the Roman Catholic Church, before Luther came along, he unfortunately destroyed some secular art in Italy.) He called for Christian renewal and expressed skepticism towards the culture of his day.