Just Splatters on the Wall

What is art?  Websters defines art as follows:

art (art) n. 1. a. The activity of using imagination and skill to create beautiful things.  b. Works, as paintings, that result from this creativity.  2. A field or category of artistic activity, as literature, music, or ballet.  ...  4. A trade or craft and the methods employed in it.  5. A practical skill: knack.   6. The quality of being cunning: artfulness.

So, basically, art is imagination, skill, beauty, creativity, multimedia, a craft/trade, a skill and cunning.  It is my opinion that these words describe very few works that are passed off as modern "art."  Perhaps this seems harsh.  But why should it seem harsh?  Consider a singer who wrote songs filled with words strung together without reason or meaning, yet because they were sung they could be called songs.  Imagine a poet who wrote a poem with words chosen at random that had no rhyme or reason, but because he had written it he could call it poetry.  If you can imagine these two situations then you will have idea of something resembling what a good majority of the pieces of modern art represent.  I have called them "pieces" because that is what they are: fragments, bearing little or no purpose or unity within themselves.

To illustrate, imagine any "work" of modern art.  Now, in your mind, cut that particular work in half in some semi-symmetrical fashion.  Do you not now have two pieces of art with as much meaning and wholeness as the first?  Only art that possesses some form of unity can pass this bisection test.  Unity comes in two forms: functional and relational.

Functional unity refers to the self-contained unity of some forms of art that prevent them from being bisected.  A chair, if bisected would cease to be a chair.  I would no longer be able to function as a chair because a chair requires all of its parts.  Relational unity refers to the unity that art derives from its relation to the viewer's conscious experience.  A sculpture of a female figure represents an object that we can relate to.  Because of this it can evoke certain emotions from a viewer and if part of the figure were missing it would demand attention because we know what a woman should look like.

Perhaps the inanity of modern art is best illustrated by a quote from a juror of an art show I attended in college.  In selecting the best work in the show, the juror remarked, "I responded to the sense of chaos restrained by geometry."  This was the revelation of a Master of Arts.  The silliness of this remark is revealed by relating it to another artistic field: music.  Could we not create a musical work consisting of a orchestra tuning up before a show and reflect, "I was struck by the chaos of the noise that was restrained by sound."  This is in essence what the art show juror had declared.  Every piece in the show was, by definition "restrained by geometry" just as every piece of music is restrained by sound.

It constantly amazes me how some areas of the visual arts are abused by society.  If a person were to flail around on a hardwood floor for twenty minutes would we be willing to call it a dance (perhaps, "Seizure")?  Yet in painting and sculpture the equivalent takes place and it is hailed as art.  No longer does art require skill or cunning.  We have lowered art to the level of a child's finger painting -- random splatters on the wall -- lacking unity or meaning.  Is it no wonder that so many pieces of modern art are "Untitled?"  There is no purpose to this "art" -- no function even within itself.  It exists purely for its own sake.  This is not surprising in a world filled with people existing for there own individual sakes.  It is also easy to see why people now accept "art" that is meaningless.  A world sprung from chance and evolution has no meaning.  Since we see our world as meaningless we are willing to accept our art as meaningless.  Selfish people in a meaningless world will produce selfish "pieces" of meaningless art.

By definition, art is supposed to be beautiful.  The beauty of it does not have to be an objective beauty such as colors that are in harmony.  It can also be a subjective beauty resting in the synthesis of shapes and images to communicate an idea, a thought or an emotion.  It takes no special skill or cunning to create chaos and hang it on a wall.  The "art" of a thing lies in its ability to communicate with humanity and the skill and cunning used by the artist in endowing his creation with this ability.  To communicate art must have relational and functional unity.  Our emotions can be activated by images that we can relate to.  Images that have meaning and that function together like the words of a song, the lines of a poem or the movements of a dance.

Perhaps my objections to modern art stem from the fact that I am aware of the original Artist.  If you have ever stood on a mountainside and wondered at the soft hues of a day turning into night or stopped to stare a the infinite beauty of a brightly colored flower, then you have seen his work.  His work never was and is not now meaningless.  Neither does it exist for its own sake.  It whispers.  It cries.  It tries desperately to communicate to humanity that the Artist loves us.  This is what the original artist intended in his creation.  If this is not the case then there is no beauty, no art, in the universe, just splatters on the wall.

The heavens declare the glory of God;the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge.
There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard.
 Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world. 
-- Psalm 19:1-4 (NIV)

Whatzit?

My last post got me reminiscing and so I dug up this essay I wrote as a college freshman.  I wrote this shortly after I started a six month regimen of Acutane (a severe prescription acne medication) for cystic acne.

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Of my younger days -- if a man of eighteen can have "younger" days -- I recall a specific incident while working as a box-boy at a busy little small-town grocery store.  It wasn't a particularly bad day as I remember.  At least not until the dark spectre of childish ignorance cast its gloomy shadow upon me.  It was in the voice of a curious youngster.  "Hey, Mister, what's all them red spots all over yer' face?"  It seems that it is this one realization that has brought so much social despair to my young life: the realization that I have zits.

Zits.  Zits is a curious word; a slang substitute for that sick sounding term "pimple."  Personally, I'd much rather have a "zit" than a "pimple."  "Zit" just sounds more like what it stands for, whereas "pimple" brings to mind images of a midget who manages call girls.

Zits come in all shapes and sizes and even numbers.  Some people are fortunate enough to experience the glorious singular zit, while others, like myself, must be content to watch large herds of zits wander across their faces like homeless nomadic tribesman (white turbans included).  Sizes of zits range from the inconspicuous blackhead to that dreaded enemy of cosmetic perfection: the pustule.

Indeed I realize, and it has been rumored, that a few people out there have never had a zit in their life.  For those three people I would like to say that it is not a pleasant experience.  The fact is that getting rid of these colorful little monsters is an endeavor that consumes a good portion of adolescent lives and adult moneys.  It is estimated that to raise a child to the age of eighteen costs a mere $170,000; for those three zitless wonders mentioned above, probably only half that.  Get the picture?  Zits are good for the economy.

Definitely, this seems to be a very good way to explore the definition of "zit": What is a zit good for? For the average pubescent citizen the answer is usually a resounding, "NOTHING!"  I, on the other hand, like to think of myself as an optimistic functionalist.  If God permitted zits, they must serve some purpose besides diversifying the medical profession.

When I look in the mirror the thought that comes to mind is, "Gads, look at all those zits!"  Thoughts of my visible imperfection come to mind, and  I wonder how I will ever face my peers with any hope of love and acceptance.  I must realize, however, that everyone else (except those three people somewhere out there) has had zits and experienced these same insecurities.  It is as if God is saying, "Look in the mirror.  You're not perfect; neigher is Joe; neither is Mary.  No one is perfect!"

The truth of this realization is evident.  No one is perfect.  But this realization is not just of the human exterior, for inside we all have zits too: greed, envy, selfishness, etc.  Those elements of our personality that detract from our inner beauty to others, much like zits detract from our outer beauty.

The question comes to mind, if we are flawed on the inside, or in our souls, is there then a "mirror" to see these blemishes?  Perhaps, as some writers have suggested, writing is that mirror.  Putting yourself on paper could allow you to step back and look at yourself.  Writing, though, is more like a painting, a self-portrait if you will, than a true reflection, and most of us are terrible artists with biased perspectives.

Well then, perhaps meditation is the true mirror.  Meditation, however, can only allow us to reflect on those reactions and attitudes toward our own inner complexions.  The famous sociologist, George Herbert Mead, called this the "looking glass self" --see ourselves as others see us.  If meditation is the mirror then we must trust another's eyesight for their description of our inner-face.  Is there, then, any true mirror to reflect what is inside every man?  How do we see our spiritual ites without some sort of mirror?

It would seem that the answer would lie outside of our souls themselves, an objective surface which will reflect our subjective self.  I have found such a surface in the Bible.  "Wait!" you say, "That mirror's cracked and clouded at best.  You'll never get a good reflection from that!"  I say that your really haven't ever seen the mirror.  It is not cracked or clouded, but full of truth and clarity concerning the human condition: our condition.

For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror; for once he has looked at himself and gone away, he has immediately forgotten what kind of person he was. -- James 1:23, 24 (NASB)

  The Bible is a mirror for our souls.  It exposes the zits of our inner-face.  Without it we may feel our zits and even the pain they bring, but we cannot see the ugliness of our spirits.  Without seeing ourselves as we really are we will not seek help for our zit-ridden condition.  It was not the careless comment of an ingnorant child that caused me to seek a doctor for my zits, it was looking in a mirror day after day and seeing my acne in painful detail.  The best thing about the spiritual mirror, though, is not the clarity of its reflection but the fact that it is engraved with the name of the only dermatologist in town.

Missing the Point

I suppose that it is high time that I recorded for posterity how I wound up here, at this point.  I'm not talking geography, I'm talking spirituality.  For me, it really started in a tiny little Conservative Baptist Church in Eastern Oregon.  Not a particularly exciting place, as I remember it, and certainly not a church experience that I would wish on anyone except the narcoleptic.  Still the Bible was taught and the pastor and parishioners did their best.  Despite the hard wooden pews and the equally unrelentingly boring and stiff messages, God used it to call a little boy of around age 6.

I remember few things from my early childhood, but I do remember the how I felt that one Sunday morning as the pastor issued his usual alter-call.  I was a shy kid and not one to seek attention, so I was amazed as I found myself asking permission from my mom, side-stepping out of the pew, turning down the center aisle and marching down to the front of the Church.  Somehow I had suddenly needed to be baptized.  My parents had not pushed me.  My friends and siblings did not bring any pressure to bare.  In fact, my older brother decided to get baptized out of sheer jealousy of me.  I didn't even fully understand what I was doing, all I knew is that I needed to do it.  As I look back on it, I can only explain it like this:  God had called to me.

This was not some bright light experience.  No angels sang, and I didn't set out for the remotest parts of the earth to convert the heathens.  I was six years old.  God knew that, and for the next seven years he just let me be a kid.  A kid that began to love knowledge and the pride of knowing things other people didn't.  Starting in fifth grade, I began bringing home straight A's.  When a teacher would ask a question my hand was usually the first to shoot up.  Shy as I was, I loved having the right answer.

It wasn't until I turned 13 that I really started to care about spiritual things.  I began examining my life and the things I was doing and thinking.  It was at this time that I became convicted about the amount of time and money that I was spending on Dungeons & Dragons (let alone the subject matter it represented).  Much to my brother's dismay, I tossed into the trash over $100 worth of D&D books and manuals.  That summer, before my freshman year of high school, a friend from church gave me some cassette tapes of a man named Josh McDowell.  For the first time I heard someone talking about the reasons for faith in the God of the Bible.  Real reasons.  Solid logic.  Rational answers.  I had found the truth, and I was hooked. 

I bought Josh McDowell's book, Evidence That Demands a Verdict.  I not only read it, I wrote a book report on it for English class.  When asked by my atheist teacher to choose a fiction book for my next report, I chose John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress.  I read Josh's follow-up book, More Evidence That Demands a Verdict.  I picked up books describing the errors of various cults like Jehovah's Witnesses or The Mormons.  I never passed up a chance to bring my findings to the attention a classmate whose families belonged to these groups.  I delivered apologetic speeches in Speech & Debate class.  For the most part, my attempts to educate my teachers and peers fell on deaf (and highly annoyed) ears.  But while I wanted to be loved and accepted by my peers, I wanted to be right even more.

Many years later I look back and think about how wrong I actually was.  Not my doctrine, but my attitudes.  You see, I didn't love my classmates or teachers.  I loved being right.  Maybe, if I had spent less time reading apologetics and more time reading my Bible, I would have come across these verses:

If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.  If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.  And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing.  -- 1 Corinthians 13:1-3 (NASB)

My classmates were longing to be loved, and to them I was just a harsh noise.  My message was certainly worthwhile, but my delivery was devoid of love.  Not just my own love, but God's.  I was testifying to the validity of the resurrection, the veracity of the scriptures and the weight of fulfilled prophecy. Big deal! God's love is the focus of the Gospel.  Like someone standing in the way while extolling the exquisite frame surrounding a Rembrandt, I had missed the point.

...we know that we all have knowledge.  Knowledge makes arrogant, but love edifies. If anyone supposes that he knows anything, he has not yet known as he ought to know; but if anyone loves God, he is known by Him.  -- 1 Corinthians 8:1-3 (NASB)

Do this day, I have never argued anyone into the Kingdom of God, nor argued anyone out of Mormonism or any other cult.  I sometimes cringe when I think about my high school years and how badly I went about it.  I still love apologetics and while it does result in a few people finding the Lord (Josh McDowell for one!),  the vast majority of people will not be impressed by long lists of reasons for believing.  There is a reason that they call it "defending the faith."  It was never meant to be an attack strategy, and when we try to use it as such it really does become offensive.  


I still like being right (and who doesn't?), but now I like being loved even better.  Not by those people who through ignorance consider my beliefs to be stupid, but loved by God Almighty who, in turn, loves these scoffers.  Although evidence and historical fact played a large part in my early spiritual life, it was clearly not the reason that I first came to God.  God chose me and called me to himself.  I came to him in ignorance as a little child.  I thank God that He did not call me to a brainless or blind faith.  But more than that, I thank Him that He called me in the first place.

No one can come to Me unless the Father who sent Me draws him; and I will raise him up on the last day. -- John 6:44 (NASB)

Clinging to Salvation

In Philip Yancey's book, What's So Amazing About Grace, he relates a story about a friend that decided to test the limits of God's forgiveness (pages 179-180).

The potential for "grace abuse" was brought home to me forcefully in a conversation with a friend I'll call Daniel.  Late one night I sat in a restaurant and listened as Daniel confided to me that he had decided to leave his wife after fifteen years of marriage. He had found someone younger and prettier, someone who "makes me feel alive, like I haven't felt in years."  He and his wife had no strong incompatibilities.  He simply wanted a change, like a man who gets an itch for a newer model car.

A  Christian, Daniel knew knew well the personal and moral consequences of what he was about to do.  His decision to leave would inflict permanent damage on his wife and three children.  Even so, he said, the force pulling him toward the younger woman, like a powerful magnet, was too strong to resist.

I listened to Daniel's story with sadness and grief, saying little as I tried to absorb the news.  Then, during the dessert course, he dropped the bombshell: "Actually, Philip, I have an agenda.  The reason I wanted to see you tonight was to ask you a question that's been bothering me.  You study the Bible. Do you think God can forgive something as awful as I am about to do?"

...

Here is what I told my friend Daniel, in a nutshell. "Can God forgive you?  Of course.  You know the Bible.  God uses murderers and adulterers.  For goodness' sake, a couple of scoundrels named Peter and Paul led the New Testament church.  Forgiveness is our problem, not God's.  What we have to go through to commit sin distances us from God--and there is no guarantee we will ever come back.  You ask me about forgiveness now, but will you even want it later, especially if it involves repentance?"

Yancey's explanation of our tenuous relationship to God's gift of grace was vividly illustrated for me as I watched the movie Cast Away with Tom Hanks.  In the movie, Hank's character,  Chuck Nolan, becomes marooned on a deserted island when the FedEx plane he is on crashes in the South Pacific.  Chuck survives alone on the island for four years.  As a result of his complete isolation, Chuck constructs an imaginary friend, that he names Wilson, from a volleyball that washes up from the plane's cargo.  Near the end of the movie, Chuck manages to build a raft and leave the island taking his only companion, Wilson, with him.

For days he floats on the vast ocean, waiting and hoping to cross paths with a ship and be saved.  One day, while Chuck sleeps exhausted from storms, exposure and hunger, Wilson quietly falls into the water and begins to slowly float away. By the time Chuck realizes what has happened, Wilson is already 20 yards away.  Grabbing a homemade rope tethered to the raft, Chuck leaps into the water and tries to swim to Wilson, all the while yelling desperately, "Wilson! come back! Wilson!"  As Chuck comes to the end of the rope he glances back to the raft and then to Wilson, both are about 30 yards away.  As he continues to cry out to Wilson, you see that he is wrestling with a gut-wrenching decision: let go of the rope and risk losing the raft, or return to the raft and lose Wilson.  In agony, Chuck makes his choice and returns to the raft, all the while crying Wilson's name.

As you watch Chuck, you can't help being affected by his agony and sense of loss.  And yet, the insanity of his predicament is also inescapable.  The line between real and imaginary blurred so much for Chuck that he considered risking his life to save Wilson, a construct of his own imagination.  As I thought about this touching scene, I realized how similar it was to Yancey's friend, Daniel.

Like Chuck, we ofter attach tremendous importance to an earthly relationship or thing that will, in the light of eternity, prove ultimately worthless.  We conjure our own Wilson's, things that we squander our time and affections on.  It doesn't matter to us if our Wilson is incapable of reciprocating our affections because Wilson is all about how Wilson makes us feel.  We face a dilemma: will we abandon salvation to chase our Wilson, or will we abandon Wilson and hold fast to our salvation?  These situations are often heart-wrenching because even though Wilson is imaginary, our affections are very real.  How much more heart-wrenching when we realize that we have chosen something worthless and imaginary over the priceless and eternal.

"Those who cling to worthless idols forfeit the grace that could be theirs."
- Jonah 2:8 (NIV)