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On becoming an “artist,” pied beauty and art in community

by Neil E. Das

Just last week I had the strange experience of seeing my name connected to the word “artist” for the first time in print, in my church’s bulletin. “New City artist, Neil Das, opens a photography exhibit…” it read. It has only been in the last year that I have become comfortable answering the question “Are you a photographer?” with a simple “Yes,” though I usually go on to quickly qualify by adding, “Not a professional one, though. It is really more of a hobby.” And receiving the moniker “artist,” now, only adds to that ambivalence and unease. I think this is partially so because this appellation seems not to have been as hard won as I think it should have been. I have had little training, and I have a relatively simple artistic process. And in this increasingly digital world we live in, there is not even the need to inhabit the darkroom any more, to participate in the metallurgy of using silver halide to create silver skies or to wear the stink of the chemicals of the color process.

I do not shy away from the label “artist” only because of the relative ease of the creation of my pictures, though. While I deeply admire the skill it takes to create photos and other art in analog media, the the-empty-the-stop-bath-and-clean-the-paintbrushes-world, I am thankful for many aspects of digital processes, which allow, for better and for worse, for a great democratizing of art. Amazingly, in our day, with little investment and physical exertion, one can create images of great beauty and complexity. And this ease can create entry points to art which people can then follow to whatever level their inclinations and talents may take them. However, another reason the term “artist” sits funny within in my mind when applied to me is because of my enrollment in the institution I am in, Covenant Theological Seminary, in the program I am in, the Master’s of Divinity program.

Now I am not saying that one cannot be theologically minded and a good artist or artistically skilled and a good theologian, and, yet, I wonder whether one can truly excel in both spheres at the same time. Can someone be a really good systematic theologian, and then in the next moment rewire her mind to be a really good artist? Can a really good artist, conform his mind to the strictures of systematics? Now, I realize as I ask these questions that a host of does-he-really-know-what-he’s-talking-about meters have likely flipped their needles all the way to no-I-really-don’t-really-think-so, and perhaps they are accurate. Nested in my statement are a host of assumptions of what it means to be an artist and what it means to be a theologian, which are very likely not shared by everyone, and admittedly there are a host of different types of both theologians and artists.

However, though the best theologians understand that knowing God is knowing a person, whose depths cannot be plumbed and who is very likely displeased with being stereotyped, even if it is with a capital “S,” still, Christian theologians, of whatever stripe, do necessarily tend to take the data of the Bible and the world and categorize and organize, generally for the very worthy goal of heightening understanding. Yet, one of the goals of art, it seems to me, is the opposite of the theological process. It is to create connections between categories, by either punching through walls of adjoining categories or even by creating worm holes between widely separated lines of thought, to allegorize in ways that try to apprehend truth in a different modality. Artists see connections that others do not, or perhaps a better way to say it is they are bold enough to experiment, to attempt to fit things together that seem to have no connection. And in as much as I believe in truth, with a capital “T,” I think that these attempts can be successes and failures in telling the truth, though the wonderful thing with art is that even failures in truth telling can be spectacularly creative and even “good” in a sense.

I do not think that theology and art need be at cross-purposes. Indeed, I think that they can and should together serve the purposes of displaying beauty and truth and glorifying God. Still, it has been my experience that the pursuits of these two endeavors do not fully coexist in the same individual. Some of my friends who are Christians, who are really great artists, are thoughtful in modes that seem to be very different from those of my friends who are Christians, who are really great theologians. For example, with my favorite author, C. S. Lewis, it is his least didactic work, Till We Have Faces, that is seen by many to be his greatest artistic achievement, though it is entirely possible that that book is theological and didactic on levels deeper than I have accessed. Regardless of whether my thesis will bear scrutiny and weight, however, this is at least how I conceive the fault line I find running through myself, as I continue on the course of being both an artist and a theologian and look to see what sort of level each endeavor will find within me in the future. Well, I have spent much too much time rambling on in an area in which I have little expertise, and yet I think these questions are interesting ones to reflect upon.

I have long been interested in the poem that is the title of this exhibit, “Pied Beauty,” by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

GLORY be to God for dappled things—  
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;  
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;  
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;  
  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;  
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)  
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;  
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                  Praise him.

The poem is sonnet-like in structure and Psalm-like in theme. It catalogs the glories of creation and both begins and ends with an injunction to praise God who has created all things. Though it is Psalm-like, however, it is incredibly contemporary in many ways. In fact, even though Hopkins wrote at the end of the Victorian era, he is considered by many to be the first of the Modernist poets in English, because of his innovative creation of sprung rhythm and his piling up of vivid images one on top of the other, as the Imagists would do after him. It is the images themselves, however, that are especially interesting and appealing, I think particularly so to our own time, in that they are images of diversity and variegation, of simple things which display the glory of their creator. Moreover, I believe the images reinforce another theme that is woven throughout Scripture, that God is interested in the weak and the lowly things of this world, the small things. His eye is on the sparrow. He will not crush a bruised reed. He will not snuff out a smoldering wick. Now, even as I say these things, my theological side wonders whether I have warrant to say them from the context of the passages, to apply them as I do, and yet I think the broad contours of the proposition will stand.

Regardless, I named this exhibit “Pied Beauty” because it seems that much of my photography reflects Hopkins’s aesthetic in this poem. I hope you find that the images in the exhibit capture some of the sense of the poem’s cataloguing of beauty and complexity found in strange and lowly places, of beauty even amidst ugliness and pain, which glorifies God. If even a little of that sense is captured, then I will be a happy man, and feel I am a successful artist in this endeavor.

Upon reflection, I think I have long possessed traces of this aesthetic and desire to display the beauty of the ordinary and odd, but there have been times in my life when I have not let it flourish as I do now, indeed when I have actively suppressed it. These times were characterized not by retreats into theologizing, as you might suspect, but were tinged by bad theologizing. There was a time when I used Philippians 4:8, “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things,” as a sort of an iron mask through which to view the world. It is not that I do not believe this verse now. I strongly believe that our thought lives will affect our practices, and vice versa. But I was using it simplistically as a lens through which to view entertainment and art. Now, there may be some merit in this, but not in the way in which I was doing it, which was basically excluding anything from my view that was rather complex, to exclude any piece of art which asked me to dwell on things not so noble and praiseworthy, even if they were saying something true about the world.

My relationship with my friend, Julie, was one of the things that helped provide a corrective to this restrictive way of thinking. Among a catalog of interests in things unconventional, she had a quirky interest in aspects of nature, which, frankly, at first I found rather bizarre. One summer she brought a dead sea gull carcass home from InterVaristy camp, all the way from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to Southern Illinois, in a Ziploc bag. On another occasion she gave me the box that is pictured here with its fascinating contents.

Now, I did not think contents were fascinating at the time I received the gift, mind you. Instead, I was absorbed with wondering why someone would give me a beautiful box with the shells of cicadas in it. It was jarring and seemed a little bit subversive.

Perhaps it was bit subversive, but, I now believe, in a good sort of way. Upon closer examination over the years, and as those years changed the contour of our friendship, at some point, I saw the beauty in the shells, in the intricate details molded into the chitin which still endures after many years. I noticed the way in which the warm amber of the shells worked with the rich red of the box. I noticed the contrast between the curves of the shells and geometry of the box. Now, much of the description of the effects this box mediated upon me, I am sure, is retrospectively augmented. And the box is surely not the only thing that lead to the reawakening of this aesthetic in me. And, yet, it works as a symbol for me of that reawakening. It is also a symbol of the importance of relationships and community in the creation of art, to which I turn to next.

Art, like everything else, is never done in a vacuum, even if one of the images of the artist in our day is of the quirky, iconoclastic individual, alone against the world. Even such an artist, though, has to deal with the world, if only in order to be alone against it. No, happily, I think we are recapturing the benefits of community in a host of spheres of endeavor and living. Instead of trying to jump to generalizing principles, however, let me simply end by telling you the extent to which community and context play a role in the art that I create.

First there is the nature of my nature, or whatever it is that gets uncoiled from the DNA our parents pass along to us, which gets either nurtured or squashed in the environments in which we grow up. My father is a photographer, and his award-winning photographs which graced our house, and his grace to let his children use some pretty expensive photo equipment, even after my brother Virgil sank a camera in a irrigation tank in our back yard, I am sure contributed to my desire and ability to use a camera today. In high school, Mr. Murray’s efforts to give a little missionary school in the mountains of Pakistan a very decent darkroom and to run a photo club were also encouraging.

More recently, though, in a great rush of activity, as if the shutter is trying to make up for lost time, I have been even more greatly encouraged by community. And here, again, our digital advances have been a blessing. My willingness to put my work on a blog and my friends’ interest and praise and even constructive criticism in their comments all fed my desire to do it more, to do it better. Not only has my blog been a conduit for sharing photos, but also writing, amateur cultural criticism, and, in one instance, a community haiku contest. And, most specifically with regards to the benefits of community, this show would not be in the form it is today if not for the good eyes and encouraging hearts of two friends named Heidi, who met with me and made thoughtful recommendations. I would not have been able to gather all the frames if not for the help of friends, Heidi and Tanya, as they drove me to thrift stores when I was car-less. And then, getting it all up on the walls in a tasteful effective sort of way and publicizing the whole endeavor, does not happen without the work of curators like Mike Ramsey. And, finally, in speaking about my recent artistic output as a whole, I would be very remiss to fail to mention that in the literary, poetic and photographic spheres, my connection with catapult magazine and my interactions with its thoughtful editor, Kirstin Vander Giessen-Reitsma, have allowed me to become a contributing member of a community the size of which I could not have imagined two short years ago.

Community is a bit of a buzzword just now, and perhaps we might be in danger of developing a bit of “community fatigue,” at least in talking about it. And, yet, it is something we need to continue to talk about to counteract our culture’s deeply ingrained individualistic bent.  Also, it is vital to foster the arts in community with one another. I would not have not attempted half of the things I have in the artistic and literary realm if not for the encouragement of teachers and friends. I think this makes it incumbent upon us to share our gifts with one another, gifts of the art itself, yes, but also the gift of encouraging someone else in fledgling attempts, a youngster in particular, gifts of sharing equipment and resources and time, and finally the gift of words, of constructive criticism and true praise. 

I feel almost compelled to not finish without leaving you with some bon mots on how to go about taking pictures, but I know on this score that there are certainly more competent sources with which to consult. Let me simply boil it down to this: first, open your eyes and see; second, see what you like and think about why you like it; third, stop and take the shot whenever humanly possible; and, finally, take your camera with you, take your camera with you, take your camera with you. Whenever, you can, that is, when it is not on loan enriching someone else in your community. And speaking of enriching your community, share your gift. Playing off of the metaphor of being a member of Christ’s body, as a photographer, one is functioning to some extent as an eye for that body. Whatever your gift and role is, though, be thankful for it and humbly use it for the good of others in the body. If you are a photographer, take people’s pictures and e-mail the images to them. Volunteer your time to take pictures for events. Join up in groups to talk about art.

Finally, I hope that sometime in the future, if this show runs its course well, that I might have the opportunity to do another one day. And though it is hard to see which roads one might take artistically, I think I may well stick with Hopkins. In another poem that is a true sonnet, Hopkins turns to consider the mark humanity has made upon the world, and, in ways with which we can certainly resonate today, the picture is not encouraging; humanity‘s mark is a stain. And, still, for all the depth of that stain, Hopkins has faith that nature, and more importantly, nature’s God, is not spent, but ensconces it all in His glorious wings:

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.  
  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;  
  It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil  
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?  
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;  
  And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil  
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. 

And for all this, nature is never spent;  
  There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went  
  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—  
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent  
  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.