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A Masterpiece

In Creative Living, Life in Society on January 30, 2013 at 4:28 pm

By Jane Carter

Eph. 2:10 – “For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so that we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”

While reading Ephesians 2:10, I was struck by the Bible’s description of us as “masterpieces of God.” Merriam-Webster defines a Masterpiece as a work done with extraordinary skill, especially a work of intellectual or artistic achievement. That feels to me like a potentially liberating statement, because it means that in those inevitable moments when I feel invalid (in whatever capacity), I can reflect that I am not a mistake, I am a work done with extraordinary skill. Hence, if I feel as though I don’t have that much relevance, that I’m invalid in the environment I find myself in, I can remind myself that there is more to be seen than I do in that moment.

Even if you believe you are a fine specimen of everything you’re supposed to be, that doesn’t mean you have everything figured out. Actually it does mean that you are precious, and need to be protected and kept in your optimum condition. If you are a masterpiece, it means that you should take care of your surfaces. Exposure to extreme temperatures may dull your beauty and you may need to be touched up, or restored. The challenge for you and I, masterpieces that we are, is to make sure that the conditions in which we are kept and the means by which we are restored do not compromise the original work of art.

The above is a Spanish painting (Ecce Homo, or Behold the Man) originally completed by artist Elias Garcia Martinez in the 1800s. An endeavour commissioned by the church that it has been in for more than 100 years. Recently in August, 2012, a woman took it upon herself to restore the painting (picture on the right). Apparently, critics have taken to calling the painting “Ecce Mono” or, Behold the Monkey, because of the extent to which the church patron altered the work.

To go back to our ideas about masterpieces, some amount of supervision is necessary when you think about restoring yourself to your original glory. If light and moisture (read: the stresses of life) make your colours less brilliant, or etch holes in your canvas, you must be restored. In doing so though, you have to protect the integrity of your original work. To use an argument of adaptive human behaviour, if you find your old methods of behaviour no longer sustainable, as in your actions in relationships are getting you into trouble (read: dulling your masterpiece), then you have to make a change. In this event you must follow a trusted path to restoration, lest you transform or evolve into something altogether separate from your original self.

My position is that you have good inside of you; that the deep seated person that only you can unveil is who needs to come out. Imagine the aesthetic difference between the freshly painted Ecce Homo and the unauthorised restoration of it in 2012. What a tragedy! Now, think of yourself: people walk by, they add a brush stroke here or a hostile environment there, and these things show up on you. Your colours start becoming dull, or you begin to forget who you are, and what you’re worth. When people can’t really describe you when asked, or when they describe you, and you don’t recognise the person that they’ve illustrated, then you know you’re starting to fade. It’s time to be restored.

Do you know where your good restoration is? The kind that will take you back to your original glory? For me, I have several sources of restoration. My biggest source of restoration is to go back to the Artist: Almighty God, my Creator. Notice I didn’t say the church, or religion? No, my source of restoration is firstly from God, and the relationship I have with Him. I often talk to people who have no belief in or understanding of God, and I always say the same thing: ask God who He is. People get very caught up with religion and denomination and I’ve seen far too many people lose their faith because of the religious people around them. God is not a church, I don’t think. God is the Source of strength, the Comforter, the Guide, the Forever Friend. He inspires people to want to come together and I am restored by that. I also think that without a true relationship with God, following the church or even the Bible can become something other than restorative.


Photo by Roger Brown
Alpine Flowers

I am also restored by the word of God. The Bible has so many different kinds of guides, from ways to draw closer to God (James 4:8 Draw near to God and He will draw near to you) to normalising (and speaking to) my anxieties (Ecclesiastes 3:10  I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart, yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end). I take much strength from the fact that there is an ancient book that still holds relevance to my everyday struggles. Another way that I am restored is through my relationships with loving people. Nothing helps you to grow more than relationships, and a good relationship will restore you because it doesn’t simply highlight the area where you could stand to grow, but it also balms the wounds you’ve already encountered by speaking love and life into you, in a way that is sometimes more convincing than your own voice. Good relationships, from the bona fide relationship you have with God, to the honest relationships you have with your spouse/friends/parents/children will restore you. A good relationship will always bring you closer to owning three very important self statements: I am enough, I have enough and who I am originally is beautiful.

So, how are you restoring your masterpiece?



In Art on January 30, 2013 at 4:27 pm

By Bekah McNeel

The question has been posed: is the act of creating inherently selfless? I don’t know the answer, so there is no cohesive argument here presented. But, here are the thoughts that led me toward no conclusion…

In 2006 I saw Kevin Spacey perform in Eugene O’Neill’s Moon for the Misbegotten at the Old Vic in London. All of the actors were wonderful. They were clearly well-trained, believable, evocative, and committed. But then Spacey came on stage. Or rather it was as though he grew out of the stage. Like some sort of fleshly vine winding around the dialogue and blocking. The cast was full of exquisite actors…but he was James Tyrone, Jr.

Afterward, like good American celeb fanatics, my girlfriends and I headed to the rear stage door (a cheery split door in an atmospherically dodgy alley) and met the estimable actor when he popped his head out like the doorman of Oz to sign autographs.

Kevin Spacey, or the specter thereof, looked haggard. He was clearly utterly spent by the wrought performance. Or perhaps from years of such performances. We stood and chatted with/at him, got our photos and left.

It’s common to hear creative people say that they are doing the thing that they can’t not do. In other words, they must do. I must write. My husband must design. It’s our gravitational pull and to deny it would be misery. So in some ways it might look selfish, like we’re just doing the thing we like to do, regardless of the fact that we’ll never be “finished.” Like the only reason we create is to throw pennies into the void.

glass sculpture sky

Photo by Roger Brown
Glass Sculpture

But what separates this telos, this mysterious gravity, from selfishness is that its pull on me has absolutely nothing to do with how much I like doing it or hope to benefit from it. Some days it is all out war. Some days I avoid it. Some days I feel sort of “eh,” about it. I have no idea if it will render me rich, famous, and happy; or if this passion will slowly eat away my soul and leave me mumbling about the greatness that just slipped my grasp.

Whatever it was made Kevin Spacey look like he’d been run over by a truck.

Two years later, I witnessed this drained, vacant face again, this time on a much younger man. A friend of mine was playing in his final recital for his doctoral degree in piano performance. While he was on stage, the energy was incredibly similar to the organic fusion of performer and medium that I had witnessed between Spacey and the stage. Afterward, we all filed backstage to congratulate and gush over the 27-year-old pianist. Rather than the jaunty buzz of a performer enjoying applause and accolades, he was propped against a wall, barely upright, and rather pale. His gracious wife ushered us all through, helped him give polite words of thanks, and then escorted him home.

Creativity at its best, is painfully exhausting. It’s the sort of thing that leaves one staring into the void, emotionally wrung and utterly satisfied.

resurrection bay

Photo by Roger Brown
Resurrection Bay

The painter Jacinto Guevara told me that he has to get his ego entirely out of the way in order to paint anything worthwhile. When he’s trying to impress people he can see it in his work, compromising the subject.

It’s not thankless work, though. Looking at something you’ve created is incredibly gratifying. Knowing that something exists that did not exist before is a really awe-inspiring thing. If this sounds a lot like how parents view their kids sometimes, that’s not surprising. Often generativity is treated as a creative act, hence the term procreation.  And certainly there is an amount of selflessness involved in parenting.

In the end though, parenting is different in that if it is done well, it is eventually unnecessary. A painter cannot paint so well that one day she comes to her studio to find colors appearing on canvas without her consent or design. Yes, some artists, especially actors and writers, talk about the work taking over, about the characters doing things that surprise them. But in a physiological sense, the hand of the artist cannot leave the brush if they want the paint to be on the canvas, while a parent’s hand must leave the child’s shoulder if he is to properly grow. Paintings can take on “life” but not volition.

So in some ways, creativity is like having a constant infant in a constant state of need, and while it gives great joy it also uses every bit of energy.

Point Lobos

Photo by Roger Brown
Point Lobos

How do we reconcile this with the popular image of the self-absorbed artist dressed in black, brooding on about the hollowness of society? Or the drug-addled starlet talking about her “process?” Or the basic hedonism we expect to see from the artistic community?

Well here are some theories on how the arts got a reputation for selfishness:

1)     Celebrity often makes people behave badly, whether they are artists or not. The only reason we are hearing about the great icons of art behaving badly is because they are icons. They are famous. It’s not painting or singing or acting that makes them act badly, it’s the fawning.

2)     Artistic temperaments are prone to introversion and/or iconoclasm, which renders them largely misunderstood. The assumption is that they are saying, “Screw you, I do what I want.” Some are, but they are more politicians than artists. Artists, if and when they are off-putting, are probably just saying, “I’m not sure I get you, and you sort of scare me. Please go away.”

3)     Artists can be a bit needy. But then again, when your life work is judged only by critics, ticket sales, and public opinion, the need for affirmation is probably stronger than, say, a job where doing well means taking home a fat bonus check.

4)     A lot of people like the image of the arts more than the arts themselves. They were once called imposters, in a more romantic era. Later the vogue term became frauds, phonies, fakes, jerks, posers, and tools. By any name, they are the unfortunate trolls under the front porch of the arts community, waiting to greet visitors and tell them all about their “craft.” The magic word to make them go away: “so show me what you’ve been working on.”

5)     Some artists are selfish.

Theory number five highlights an important truth. An artist is not his work. An artist is a person, and most people struggle with selfishness to a degree. However, the process of creating doesn’t demand that a person be a creator all the time. Only in the moment of pen going to page, voice going to ear, and chisel going to stone does the artist need to be free of ambition outside of one singular goal: this piece, this song, this scene. Unless you are wholly devoted to it, then something else crams itself onto the canvas and muddles the picture.

Art is not about altruism, wanting to give something to the universe. That would be far too high a demand. If universal goodwill were required in order for anything to be created, then the body of worthwhile work would consist of a cross and a crown of thorns, because that’s pretty much the only act I know of wherein the agent correctly assessed his power and desire to save the world. If artists thought that they could “give something to the world” the hubris would do as much damage as any amount of selfishness. Ego by another name. It’s how we get preachy art.

Inherently, an artist must believe that what they are doing is noble enough. If their goal is to create something good, true, and beautiful, then that is, in my opinion, enough. Let them use the rest of their life serving self or others. But the surest way to create a load of crap is to create something that aspires to be more or less than the best book ever written, best painting ever painted, or best song ever sung. (It is also my opinion that when done in the knowledge of God’s presence that this is worshipful.) The art will demand all. Make no mistake, the rest of the world will benefit as it sees fit.

All this being said, I have to acknowledge that there are people so skillful, so talented, so at the top of their game that they can create really great stuff with their ego and world-saving ambitions all crammed into the frame. There are some people who make pretentious art, and it’s good. Some didactic movies that are fun to watch.

At the end of the day, creativity is not a magic virtue that belongs to a special class of humans. It’s a basic trait, endowed in varying degrees to flawed creatures. And while talent, vision and inspiration are rare, the ability to create something is common. All humans have it.

In The War of Art, Pressfield describes a creative process that is more akin to chaining oneself to a desk than sitting by a bubbling brook and waiting for inspiration to strike. It’s certainly this way for me. It takes two hours of writing total garbage to crank out a sentence or two of my best work. Hard work is the courtship of the muses.

As much as I want to believe that some art is special, that there’s a raw, real, gut-wrenching purity to the best art, I don’t know. I love the Rolling Stones. I think they’ve got soul, and energy and all the good stuff. But they’ve been performing for 50 years. Surely not every one of those nights was magic. Piet Mondrian painted squares and lines. They are brilliant. They are provocative. They are visionary. But I could not point to Composition No. III Blanc-Jaune and say, “this has the spark” and to Composition No. 10 and say, “this one was done with selfish motives.” Who could?

Somewhere within the complex mixture of practice, talent, inspiration, skill, and desire, there’s bound to be fits of selfishness. However, there is a great deal of potential for generosity, sacrifice, and devotion as well. Without those latter things we would have art, but what good would it do us?

dew drop

Photo by Roger Brown
Dew Drop


In Art on January 30, 2013 at 4:26 pm

There’s something very compelling about sculpture that says come inside and be part of this—engage at some physical level. Art is good at intimacy.”      — Anish Kapoor

By Heila Rogers

People create art for different reasons. To work through feelings, to communicate strong beliefs, to document beauty, or because they feel compelled.

We’re motivated to leave our mark, or to get attention.

Thinking about all of this, I found it fascinating to encounter works by Anish Kapoor.

I was captivated in Chicago, by his sculpture “Cloud Gate.”

It’s his most well-known work, unofficially called “The Bean,” and looks like a completely reflective, one-story drop of mercury. It’s enthralling.

Watch the video below of someone as he approaches the sculpture.

In a large park setting in the middle of downtown Chicago, people walk up to it, touch it, and photograph themselves and their infinite reflections. It’s irresistible. People of all ages forget they’re not alone, gaze into its surface and slowly spin in a circle. It being in public is part of its appeal.

Watch the un-selfconscious interactions in this video:

People approach it wondering, camera’s at the ready. They reach out and touch the smooth, cold surface causing their reflections to appear to reach out and touch back.

Viewers walk underneath, look up and see millions of “themselves” reflected in the curved, shining surface.


Photo by Heila Rogers
Underneath “The Bean”
Chicago, Illinois

One interacts with all art in some way.

Gazing at a painting can stir thoughts and emotions, or simply cause appreciation of technique. Certain music can bring tears or stir memories.

Kapoor’s sculptures got me thinking though. Is it a different kind of interaction, when Kapoor creates a sculpture that intentionally, physically draws in a viewer? A unique kind of sculpture that’s not just permissible to touch, but one where touching it is an integral “part” of it.

Could the meeting, interacting and blending mean that the people then by definition, are a part of the art?

In Atlanta’s High Art museum, Kapoor’s “Light Scoops” are installed into the ceiling of an exhibit room. Natural light from the sky outside flows through round openings shaped like ice cream scoops with their bottoms sliced off. Fuzzy shadows outline each opening.


Photo by Heila Rogers
Light Scoops / Anish Kapoor
High Museum of Art, Atlanta

Another of his works, this one at floor level, is a person-sized, purplish gray bulge. As if a giant punched a wall of slime and it hardened.

Photo by Heila Rogers/High Museum of Art, Atlanta

Photo by Heila Rogers/High Museum of Art, Atlanta

Photo by Heila Rogers/High Museum of Art, Atlanta

Photo by Heila Rogers/High Museum of Art, Atlanta

The cavity beckons. We know it’s just a void but there’s a pull to look inside. I was compelled to walk around and also check out the back. It almost feels alive. Yet it’s certainly not. Something about the shape and the size, and how it’s made seems to speak.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, [Kapoor] was acclaimed for his explorations of matter and non-matter, specifically evoking the void in both freestanding sculptural works and ambitious installations. Many of his sculptures seem to recede into the distance, disappear into the ground or distort the space around them … many … have carved apertures and cavities, often alluding to, and playing with dualities (earth-sky, matter-spirit, lightness-darkness, visible-invisible, conscious-unconscious, male-female and body-mind).”

Another sculpture – an upright, mirrored dish, taller than a person, and made of many small, mirrored triangles, has a mesmerizing audio element. If you stand in front of it and speak softly into the center, your voice is magnified and vibrates across the room. Meanwhile, it splits your image into many shattered, unrecognizable pieces.


Photo by Heila Rogers
“Untitled” by Anish Kapoor
Atlanta – High Museum of Art

William Furlong said about one of his works:

… drawn into it, somehow one is drawn into oneself … because of this endless blackness that one is facing.”

This kind of interaction is unique, and I admire the way it engages.

In the end, I’m talking about myself. And thinking about making nothing, which I see as a void. But then that’s something, even though it really is nothing.”      — Anish Kapoor

Sources: Modern Painters, Nov. 2008, Sarah Kent, Mr. Big Stuff/BOMB Magazine, Spring 1990, Anish Kapoor/