art — Clayfire Curator

Epiphanipulation

by Eric Herron | December 27, 2011

We all want to see people ‘get it.’ As creators, we long for our art to be understood—especially with little or no extra explanation. As curators, we struggle to gather disparate elements and create new meaning with the express desire that the meaning we portray is not lost on those who come. We not only want worshipers to rudimentarily grasp our meaning, but to deeply internalize it. It is a pleasing bonus if the worshiper is surprised, maybe even startled with epiphanic understanding.

These desires are so strong for worship creatives that we will often go to great lengths to ensure an emotional impact is felt, an elusive intellectual concept is comprehended. We long for hundreds of little invisible light-bulbs, hovering over each and every gathered one’s head.

In this longing, we can cross over from simply creating powerful messages to crafting seductive manipulation. Where is the line? If we hope to instigate ‘epiphanies,’ what is appropriate and what is going too far?

Art that ‘goes too far’ might resemble image exploitation, using pictures that are mostly composed for ‘shock value.’ It might also involve unbalanced emotions—excess sadness or joy, extreme violence (as in The Passion of the Christ), exceptional stories with melodramatic details.

Worship events that ‘go too far,’ might involve spiritual manipulation in the form of misused scriptures—theologically squeezed for preferred interpretations. Manipulation in worship also takes the form of activities that allow for only one kind of participation, with the illusion of options. For instance, imagine a time of public confession in which people are invited to share at will, but are forced to sit in extended, uncomfortable silence while no one chooses to stand up and share. In this example, we are not attempting to manipulate individual emotional responses—as with manipulative art—but instead to humanly create a ‘spiritual environment’ that may not be what the Holy Spirit has in mind for the moment.

In all of these cases, we are hoping, striving for epiphany. Epiphany at any cost.

I don’t make it a habit of manipulating epiphany in worship, but I do recall one event in particular that perhaps may have crossed some lines. One of the first times I led a team in creating a large-scale Stations of the Cross event, we saw some very strong emotional responses by the worshipers who came. If one were to have stood at the exit—where the last chronological station was positioned—one would have witnessed a high percentage of people exiting with visible tears. I happened to speak to one woman as she was leaving. She said that when she first arrived to attend the event, she became angry.

Our team hadn’t foreseen such a large number of people showing up for this open house-style worship event. Because we were only allowing a few people in at a time to control the pace, nearly everyone who gathered was forced to wait outside in the frigid air for 20 min or longer before actually being allowed to enter the building and walk with Jesus to the cross and tomb. This woman said the cold waiting had brought up all kinds of anger in her. “How dare they make me wait to worship!” “Why didn’t they plan this better?!” she thought. By the time she had made it through the stations and been very graphically reminded of Jesus’ suffering via video, drama, images, recorded storytelling, and interactive art, she had realized her anger and felt “guilty” for the way she acted before.

I remember being quite satisfied (not in front of her) that our curation had caused such an epiphany in her heart and mind. However, upon further reflection, I’m wondering how much we—intentionally or not—manipulated her through our set up and the content of this event.

What do you think? Did my team manipulate emotions by making people wait in the cold before being reminded of the “real” suffering of Jesus? Or, was this physical experience of waiting an appropriate way to engage the whole person, beyond simply the intellect?

How much, as worship curators, are we allowed to ‘press the buttons’ of worshipers toward their own spiritual enlightenment? Or, is this too much like playing Holy Spirit?

Can you share with us a worship event or singular moment in which you may (or may not) have crossed the line between appropriately using art and manipulating worship?

Image © iStockphoto

Categories: Leadership

Art as Incarnation

by Eric Herron | December 13, 2011

Beauty that exists in the mind is hidden. The inkling of a picture. The faint murmur of a melody. That beautiful word that wants to become a poem. At these stage of existence, these are only spiritual things. They are invisible, silent, unspoken—except to the artist.

But, once the brush is put to the canvas, or the fingers walk the piano keys. When the silent word grows into a phrase and then into a run-on sentence, and then into a rhyming couplet or two or three that is spelled out on a page or spilled out of the mouth—then, the spiritual becomes material. It is no longer hidden. The beauty once unknown to all but one, becomes known and knowable to all.

Art is incarnation.

Incredibly, the relationship between the artist and her work also enables a new relational possibility: Intimacy between the artist and the one who confronts the art. This relationship—between artists and beholder—once did not exist. But, after the art is made, it becomes a translator. It becomes a vehicle for the spiritual, a medium for interaction and communication.

Art is spiritual ideas birthed into the material world. Art is incarnation.

Watch this video.

This man’s art is a good illustration of incarnation. That which was once inside him—the soulful part—he drags out, as a rake drags across a billion tiny grains. Now, here is the irony: Art starts in the spiritual realm and becomes material, so that material eyes can behold it. But this materialized art is not consumed—at least not in any kind of material way. The spiritual become material is de-materialized once again as it is consumed by fleshy eye-sockets and mushy brains and absorbed again into invisibility, this time into another’s spirit.

This man’s art is temporary. It is fragile and he knows it. The artist intends to materialize his vision, knowing full-well that it will not last beyond suppertime. It will disappear, and on schedule. One might say that this art has been created to be destroyed. And, a good deal of the beauty beheld by the onlookers of the pier and beachfront, is experienced and magnified by this very fact. The art is good and beautiful precisely because it is fragile and impermanent.

Certainly, there are other aesthetic qualities that make it attractive—the curvature of the long lines, the accurate perspective on a large-scale, the alternating shades of light and dark—but this beauty would be diminished if it were not for the ticking clock and creeping tide.

Of another incarnation, St. Athanasius speaks:

[T]he incorporeal and incorruptible and immaterial Word of God entered our world… He took to himself a body, a human body even as our own… Thus, taking a body like our own, because all our bodies were liable to the corruption of death, He surrendered His body to death in place of all, and offered it to the Father. This He did out of sheer love for us, so that in His death all might die, and the law of death thereby be abolished because when He had fulfilled in His body that for which it was appointed, it [death] was thereafter voided of its power for men.

On the Incarnation, St. Valdimir’s Seminary Press (1993), 33-34.

How do your “incarnations” conquer death and revive those who are exposed to them? How does the impermanence of your art contribute to its potency? What aspects of your art are relational? How are people drawn together through the works you create?

Categories: Curation

A Dramatic Art in Disguise

by Jodi-Renee Adams | September 29, 2011

When the time came to piece together Ecclesia’s last jazz liturgy, most of the players in that expression were obvious: we needed some fluent musicians, fabulously vibrant visual artists, productive get ‘er done types, and a merciful communion team. That made sense. But a few eyebrows were raised in my quasi-liturgical community when I said that I was bringing in some actors to preside over the liturgy, especially since I’ve always been pretty suspicious of “drama ministries” and the like.

So here’s where I have to jump in and say that I’ve always cringed a little over the way “liturgy” is often presided. Whether it’s the breathlessly endless “And Lord, we just…” of my more evangelically enculturated brothers and sisters or the practiced and unnatural bellow of my liturgical family, it’s always struck me as a little… well, lifeless.

Give me a chance to explain before you click that mouse button. I love the liturgy of all the traditions. How can I not? I believe – in a tangible way – that those are mystical words creating a physical space, a temple. The leading force behind my love and, in fact, need for the liturgy? Liturgy is Story. It’s a play in four movements. It’s the compelling response to our deeply seated need to hear the narrative re-told – and retold creatively, conceptually, and magically. It’s doctrine, prayer, and presence disguised as poetry and prose. And who better to read poetry-prayer-as-Story than…

An actor approaches the liturgy without the over-familiarity of context that so many of us have developed to the written or spoken word in worship. They come to the words and concepts ready to serve them, to reveal the deep layers. They come to it as dramatic artists. In his article “Theatre and the Church,” M. James Young says that

Art… does not teach, it reveals… is not about entertainment, but pleasure… not about lessons, but illumination… not about persuasion or propaganda but epiphanies… not about decision but self-discovery.

Let’s be honest – does it get any more dramatic than the retelling of the Gospel as interactive narrative?

The written word – whether it’s poetry, prose, liturgy, Scripture reading – has been a beautiful threshold for the dramatic arts in the Church… even for those of us who are suspicious and fearful of awkward plays, first person re-tellings of Bible stories, and interpretive – anything. The first place to start is to reframe the idea of dramatic and artistic interactions with the written and spoken word.

Let’s start here: dramatics is not pretending or playing at theatre; it’s an art form and a discipline. Bad drama expression is… well, it’s really bad. And badly performed dramatics can be a huge obstacle in the worship gathering. Just like “bad” reading. Or preaching.

Really beautiful reading is a form of dramatic art, albeit one in disguise. It lends itself poignantly to our worship gathering where we hope the hearing of the good news will enlighten and inspire us, shower our dry and cracked places with the waters of grace, and give us words when our own seem to fail us so miserably. Sounds rather dramatic, don’t you think?

Image © iStockphoto

Categories: Curation

What the Spirit Sees

by Mandy Smith | August 10, 2011

Visio Divina is based on the principle that art can transport – both the artist and the viewer.

When a pleasant afternoon among the pretty pictures turned frightening, I began to value the (sometimes unsettling) power of art. Wandering among strange, brown sacks suspended from the ceiling in a modern art museum, I pondered, “Is it a collection of punching bags?” Suddenly, I came to the realization that I was caught in something depicting a forest of hanging, human corpses, and, with heart pumping, I quickly discovered how hard it is to move with the sophisticated dignity of a museum-goer when filled with a desire to run for your life. Engaging with the art of others can be a powerful experience.

Of course, if you’re brave, you can go to a nearby gallery but here are some other ways to reflect on the art of others:

The Google art project invites you to choose an international museum and go for a virtual tour. From the comfort of your own home, you can zoom in close enough to see brush strokes on your favorite works from all over the world.

Through his video diary and close-ups of the finished work, explore how icon artist, Jim Janknegt brought to life the Rich Fool Parable.

Read the Through Artists’ Eyes books which explore bible-inspired painting, sculpture and stained glass.

On the other hand, I’ve also been caught off guard in my own (albeit humble) creative process. Despite the fact that I was the one who instigated this second instance of “a pleasant afternoon” in the presence of art, yet again, the art ended up calling the shots. This time it was more surprising because I was the one holding the brush. I had been commissioned to create a work for a friend’s Easter services and wanted to express the loneliness of Christ on the cross. With fat swipes of greenish-gray across his cheekbone, I tried to express Jesus’ nausea and loneliness, stranded between heaven and earth. And in the midst of all the layers of paint, I found a fine, fair hair had made its way from my own head. My first instinct was to pluck it out but it seemed more fitting to leave it, as a testimony to my own part in His loneliness. And, in acknowledgement of that truth, my tears mingled in the paint and remain dried into that image to this day.

Taking part in your own expression of art can also be transforming.

Here are ways to encounter truth through your own creative endeavors:

Try this simple, collage journaling exercise:
If you can avoid getting drawn into the advertisements, flipping through magazines or old books can be quite a contemplative experience. Begin with a general sense of something you’d like to process or express and tear out words or images which your eye is drawn to. It’s a kind of Rorschach test without the inkblots as you discover that certain themes emerge in your collection–maybe you’re feeling free so you clip images of butterflies or you’re trying to make a big decision so you clip question marks and words like “Direction.” Flip through the scraps you’ve chosen and think about how to bring them together into a story or image.

I created this collage as a kind of art therapy to process a trip to the bed-side of a dying family member which also involved non-stop rain and floods and raised the question, “Where is home?”

Artist, C. Pic Michel, has created a similar exercise for groups.

Flip through this online gallery of Christian artist’s self-portraits to see what their work means to them.

If you feel a little insecure about your artistic abilities, try the scribbler site (or app) and watch what one scribble can become.

Watch this inspiring video about the tradition of contemplative sand drawing from the Pacific Islands of Vanuatu. Hear how, in their culture, drawing allows one to enter Paradise.

Look into Sybil MacBeth’s Praying in Color book and website.

What has your spirit seen?

Categories: Curation

How To Kill An Artist

by Jodi-Renee Adams | July 12, 2011

So I have to start this with a disclaimer: I absolutely believe that we are all creative, that we are all designed to be artists, artistic, incarnational. We get this cognitively at least, but often wonder why we aren’t artists, right? I hear you. I have that feeling/thought/Inner Critic very, very often. It seems to me that our two greatest obstacles to finding our way into our artistic self are 1) not trusting that our expression is valid. For that, thank goodness, we have therapy and 2) being more in love with the idea of being an artist than actually being one. No doubt, we all know somebody like that. As George Bernard Shaw said, “Hell is full of amateur musicians.” My take on that – hell is full of people more down with others perceiving them as artists (it’s all about them) than actually being disciplined enough to work on music (it’s about the art). And, um, that’s just a joke, by the way.

All that being said, I also believe that some people come onto this earth with a certain insight, a unique intuition, a vision. And they see with such great breadth and depth into the tension of light and dark, redemption and decay that they can only speak of it through story, image, sculpture, theatre, dance, poetry, song. These people are Artists.

We look for light, but all is darkness;
for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows.
Like the blind we grope along the wall,
feeling our way like people without eyes
At midday we stumble as if it were twilight;
among the strong, we are like the dead.
We all growl like bears;
we moan mournfully like doves.
We look for justice, but find none;
for deliverance, but it is far away.

This poetry spills out over us. We know what this means, how this looks and feels. This was written by a poet who stood in the gap between the light and the dark, between all that is broken and all that is restored. He wrote books of poetry that gave voice to the human condition, to our search for what is True and beautiful, for the upside-downness of incarnation. And then, allegedly, he was sawn in half.

This poet was Isaiah, the prophet whose writing takes up that big chunk about two-thirds of the way into your Bible. Isaiah. Artist. Poet. Prophet.

Here’s the thing: I think the Artists, all of them regardless of their stated spiritual persuasion, are prophets and priests. This isn’t just my random speculation. If you have the patience and wherewithal to plow through the books that make up the Old Testament, you’ll see story after story about the Priests – the tribes set aside for pastoral acts – carrying out the role of artists, tradition preservers, craftsman. And you’ll read story after story about more powerful people moving in and wiping out the Israelites… except for the Artists who were carted away with the “goods” of the land. They were one of the precious commodities of the people.

The world has a love-hate relationship with the Artist, the Church even more so. On one hand, we want them to illuminate our own understanding. We love it when they put poetic words to our experience and immortalize it for us. We crave the thrill of story, the epiphany of an image, the sensuality of a truly remarkable artistic encounter. We applaud those creative endeavors that tell our story and remind us of our power or our redemption. But then the Artist must also tell the Truth. And that makes us uncomfortable. It makes us squirm. It makes us look away. We label it: indecent, confusing, dark, sacrilegious.

So you want to kill the Artists? Here’s how to do it: Tell them to make people happy. Tell them who GOD is and what “he” looks like, sounds like, feels like and tell them to recreate it for the rest of us. Tell them what it has to mean. Tell them it has to be “beautiful.” Tell them the point has to be clear. Tell them it has to be “accessible.” Or “relevant.” Or more like U2. Tell them that they are too avant-garde, or better yet, elitist. Use them to create sanitized, spiritual propaganda. Re-use their work in a way that promotes sentimentality or emotional dishonesty. Dismiss them because they don’t see it the way the masses see it. Divide their soul into the categories of sacred and secular.

Kill them off. They don’t play well with others, or appreciate the sanctity of sanitized faith, or respect our boundaries, or keep their opinions to themselves. Kill them all. That’s usually how it works. Of course, then another just rolls around. Sometimes we get excited because they’re cool like Bono and we dislocate our shoulders patting ourselves on the back that we’re embracing art. (At the risk of getting myself killed, I must say that Bono is much more Prophet than he is Artist. And I love him for that.) But the real Artists, the voices that sing silently from the unpopulated corners about where we’ve come from and where we’re going… well, they’re just too… everything.

Yet what do we do with this? The Artists. They overturn. Heal. Disturb. Comfort. Give words to our groaning. Challenge. Proclaim. Make peace. Restore. Illuminate.

That reminds me of something… oh yeah, The Holy Spirit.

Categories: Formation