A Lesson in Point-of-View

Once in a while, I'll try to take on some art topics that are more related to the mechanics and principles of design than the theology of art. (Although today, I'll get a wee bit of both in.) Today's topic is point-of-view: where is the viewer in relation to the subject? Why is it even important?

Detail from The Maestà, Duccio, 1311

We don't often think about point-of-view, unless the artist forces us to. We must first realize that point-of-view is something that has changed over the history of art. It didn't even become a topic that could be discussed concretely until the Renaissance, when perspective was formulated (or reformulated if you prefer, since the Greeks discovered it first, then we forgot about it). For instance, the viewpoint in Medieval art was limited to only a few options: the viewer was either watching events unfold on a flat stage, or perhaps floating above a scene as a disembodied spectator. Duccio di Buoninsegna's Entry into Jerusalem (left) from The Maestà altarpiece is a good example of the latter. Duccio was anticipating the advances of Italian artists who followed closely after him in that he was beginning to think of objects in three-dimensional space, instead of like stacked playing cards. But since there is no horizon line and no consistent vanishing points, it's difficult to tell exactly where the viewer would be standing in relation to the subject.

Detail from Holy Trinity, Masaccio, 1427

What Renaissance artists like Brunelleschi and Masaccio finally realized is that in real space, parallel lines appear to recede to a single point on the horizon, called a vanishing point. When the artist placed the subject in believable space, it suddenly gave the viewer a "way into" the work—he could determine his own relationship in space to the subject. For instance, in Massacio's famous Holy Trinity fresco (left), the lines of the barrel vault above the Holy Trinity recede downward to a single point near the viewer's eye level, thus creating the illusion that the viewer is looking up at the Godhead.

Why should you care? Because since the advent of perspective, point-of-view is no longer arbitrary; it can carry meaning. Does the artist make you hover above the scene as a detached observer, or does he place you into the scene? If he places you into it, does your position in relation to the subject have significance? Are you gazing up at the subject, level with it, or looking down at it? All of these questions were immediately explored to their fullest. Frescos on church domes depicted saints and angels as seen from below.  Instead of seeing holy martyrs stacked like sardines at eye-level, the viewers could crane their necks and gaze up at their blessed posteriors as they were carried to heaven by angelic children.

Scapegoat Studio, 2010

The invention of the camera forced us again to reconsider point-of-view. You can put a camera anywhere—on an airplane, on a tripod, on the ground. The placement of the camera has an impact on our interpretation of the work. Had it not been for the influence of modern cinema, I probably would have never considered putting the viewer belly-down in the dirt next to the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11, right). It's unorthodox to be sure, and you probably won't find an illustration like this in any Sunday school materials. We'd much rather see Jesus' face. In fact, we'd rather be standing next to him, looking with pity down on that "sinner." Maybe we think to ourselves, I would have shown her mercy! But what does the point-of-view here say about our relationship with Jesus? Because of our sins, we belong in the dirt with the adulterous woman, clinging to the hem of Jesus' robe. We dare not even lift our eyes to his. And yet, his loving hand reaches down to touch us, to forgive our sins, and to lift us up out of the dust.

So the next time you look at a painting, a photograph, or illustration, give at least a few seconds' thought to your point-of-view. You might see something the artist is wanting you to see.

Nativity Stained Glass

This month has been far busier than usual. Of course there's the usual busyness of the season: family gatherings, travel, shopping for gifts, and still trying to earn a living.

As part of a bid for a new employment opportunity, this month I also took the time to design a stained glass window. I spent 24 hours over the course of 2 days to design it. So it's a bit of a rush job, but they were wanting to see how much could be done and in what amount of time. The nativity was the only prompt as far as subject matter, so I wanted to do something that was colorful, exemplified good design, employed a traditional treatment of figures, and yet was completely original (as opposed to lifting figures out of old masters' paintings). I also wanted to lend some meaty Christian symbolism to a scene that tends toward sentimentality and quaintness.

Symbolism

The Latin text of the angel's banner should be familiar to most: "Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus" translates as "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men." The peace is represented by a dove, which perches in the rafters of the stable. The dove calls to mind the cessation of God's judgment, as it did when the floodwaters receded in the time of Noah.

The cross motif is found three times in the scene: first, in the nimbus of the Christ-child, which symbolizes his divine nature (Philippians 2:5-7); second, in the lantern, which represents Christ as the light of the world (John 8:12); and third, in the rough, wooden beams of the stable, which descend directly to Jesus, foreshadowing his death.

Some have asked why a Lutheran would also place halos around Joseph and Mary's heads. Lutherans, after all, do not hold to the same view as Roman Catholics concerning sainthood. Joseph and Mary were sinful descendants of Adam and Eve, the same as you and me. Yet, Lutherans also hold to the biblical truth that all believers in Christ are simul iustus et peccator—at the same time saint and sinner. Without exception, human beings are sinful, but are made righteous through faith in Jesus Christ (Romans 3:21-26). On that basis alone, I feel perfectly comfortable signifying the sainthood of any deceased believer with a halo. Add to it the fact that Joseph and Mary are described as "a just man" and "highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!" So in this design, the halos reflect not only a long Christian tradition, but also the righteousness imparted to them by faith in the Son of God.

Typically the manger scene is depicted cluttered with animals, especially in popular culture. I opted to include only a lamb. The singular lamb foreshadows Christ's role as the sacrificial Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29).

At the foot of the manger is the fruit by which the devil first tempted Adam and Eve to sin. It is the piece of the story that necessitated Christ's incarnation, his death on the cross, and his resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:21-22). Immediately next to the fruit is the serpent, its head crushed by the sign of Christ's complete humility. Thus the beginning of the story of salvation is placed in context with its conclusion.

What if I'm Not Good at Art?

As an art educator, I've often heard the question asked, "Why should I take an art class if I'm not good at art?" The question is raised in at least two different contexts. The first context is when students who are being required to take a gen-ed art class make it known that they'd really rather stick a fork in their eye. The second context is from people of any age who are interested in art, but feel that a lack of talent would prohibit them from learning anything.

To answer the question with a blanket "yes" would be to oversimplify. So just to be thorough, we need to first address each context in which the question might be asked. To the reluctant students in the gen-ed art class, it needs to be made apparent that artistry is, in one respect, a life skill. Whether or not a student is good at math has no bearing whatsoever on whether or not he has to take Algebra. I realize there isn't exactly a 1:1 comparison between Algebra and Drawing, but in what other discipline is a lack of skill a legitimate excuse not to take a class? If that logic were applied to all of life consistently, we'd move through adulthood in an infantile mental state, refusing to learn anything we don't already like. (I'll refrain from commenting as to how accurately this describes the human race in general...)

To those who want to learn art, but don't feel qualified, there's no entrance exam. I've had students of all skill levels, and rest assured I'd rather have a student with little talent who wants to learn than a student with ability who refuses to learn. Students very often surprise themselves (and their instructors!). Especially in the last century, the artistic "elite" have cultivated the myth that artistic and creative skill is in-born, and that an education can do little else but squash our creativity. To put it bluntly, this is a lie. (Talent may be in-born, but skills are learned through instruction, experimentation, and repeated practice.) We all have to start somewhere, and as much as I'd like you to think that I was born with a brush in my hand, the truth is that I've come a very long way since drawing potato-head people with crayons. And most of that distance I did not cover on my own.

I'm not saying that anyone can paint like Rembrandt. But I am saying that anyone can learn, and anyone can improve as long as he is willing.

So to answer the question as honestly as possible, I would say that in most circumstances, taking an art class or two would be beneficial both to the individual and to society as a whole. For anyone who can maintain an open mind and has even the slightest interest in the arts, I believe it is prudent to invest in some basic, foundational art classes.

Now, pragmatic people in either context still want to know what utility there is in studying art. I remember those futile words escaping my lips more than once—"Why do we have to learn this, anyway? It's not like we're ever going to use Calculus." The truth is, beauty can be an end unto itself, so sometimes art defies utility (e.g., the Grand Canyon is beautiful, but it doesn't fulfill a function other than to glorify the Creator). But other kinds of art are functional. They communicate information, evoke emotions, and inspire devotion. A positive side effect of learning more about art is that you'll become more fluent in the visual language that is being employed all around us. We're visual creatures. We aren't all expected to be poets, but we're all expected to read. Communication is built into our humanity that way. I think a little artistic literacy would go a long way toward making the world a more beautiful and meaningful place to live.

Sacred* Art by Atheists

Today's question is: can a non-Christian make meaningful Christian art?

David Mach: Crucifixion, Edinburgh, 2011

David Mach, a nonbeliever, was commissioned to recreate biblical scenes out of coat hangers to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible. Despite the acclaim of art critics, us ordinary folk have trouble shaking images of "Hellraiser." It makes you wonder exactly what Mach is trying to communicate, aside from pain. Anger? Hatred? Torture? Industry?

In an interview with the Telegraph, Mach admitted to being "irreligious," and said, "I’m sure I’m going to get accused of hijacking something that I don’t really have massive feelings about. It’s not about me. It’s about what I’m making. If I’m asked for opinions I’ll give them, but look at the work and see if you can get something from there."

Then there's atheist Gerhard Richter's design* for the transept window in the Cologne cathedral, Germany. The original window was damaged by air raids in World War II. The design* was created randomly with a computer, and mimics a digital "pixel" pattern. I would describe this as iconoclastic, but throngs of critics—and even parishioners—have described it as "spiritual," "contemplative," even "divine."

*Design implies intention. Something that is random cannot, by definition, be designed.

Gerhard Richter: South transept window, Cologne, 2007

Massimiliano Fuksas takes the cake with his design for a church in Foligno, Italy. Art critics use words like "modest" and "inspiring" to describe this massive concrete cube. These critics are apparently used to building with alphabet blocks, so that is to be expected. Photos of the oddly claustrophobic interior can be found here.

Massimiliano Fuksas: Paolo Church, Foligno, 2009. Photo credit: ARQA.com

Germaine Richier: Crucifix, 1950

Not to be outdone by her male counterparts, Germaine Richier caused a stir in the 1950s when she created this crucifix for the church of Notre-Dame de Toute in Assy, France. She explained its ugliness as depicting the suffering of Christ. She also explained that the figure has no face because God is spirit and therefore has none. This illustrates why we don't ask atheists to make theological statements for us. After complaints from horrified parishioners, the cross was removed from the church, and immediately became the center of much early controversy as to the role of artists (and their faith—or lack thereof) in the church.

Igor Mitoraj: Christ Resurrection, Rome, 2006

The last artist whose work I'm going to show is the odd one of the bunch. Igor Mitoraj produced several huge bronze doors and many other large-scale figurative sculptures in the Renaissance tradition. I've scoured the web for any mention of his faith and came up dry—even his obituary from late last year suggested nothing. But his bronze doors from Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome struck me with their classicism. And while employed with a kind of surrealist, postmodern flair, the Christian symbolism also struck me so much that I cited this door in my thesis. Here is a resurrected Christ figure, reminiscent of Greek gods (and early Christian depictions), but bearing the empty shape of the cross in his body.

There are countless examples that I either am unaware of or have passed over—especially in the architectural realm. The point I'm trying to make is that nonbelievers have made it apparent to believers that their grasp of Christianity is extremely shallow. Even if we didn't have the evidence before our eyes, we know that these truths are only made known by the Spirit, through faith.

This isn't to say that every construction worker who drives a nail into your church must be a believer. But when it comes to designing a church, or producing artwork for that community of faith, it should go without saying that it requires an intimate knowledge of what those people believe and practice and confess. Furthermore, it requires a knowledge of what has come before, and a sincere desire to chart an artistic path into the future that recognizes the eternal and transcendent nature of the Church. What sets Mitoraj's bronze doors apart from the above works is a familiarity with and respect for the pages of art history, many of which were written by artists of faith. Still, even if a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut, I don't think we should encourage the practice of hiring blind squirrels when we have so many sighted ones...

Learning to Yearn for Heaven

Last week I was putting my children to bed (which I sometimes do when my wife needs a break). Bedtime seems to be the time when my three-year-old has his most "theologically aware" moments. I think it must have been the last lines of our bedtime prayer, "If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. And this I ask for Jesus' sake, Amen," that caused him to start sobbing.

"What's the matter, Gabriel?" I asked.

"I just don't want to die."

"Oh, you don't have to be afraid of dying. Remember what will happen when we die?"

"We'll go to heaven?"

"Yes. We'll be in heaven with Jesus forever and ever."

"But I just don't want to go to heaven, I want to stay here," he mumbled. "There won't be any food in heaven."

For the life of me, I don't know what gave him that idea, or why it would even occur to a three-year-old to think about his physical provisions in heaven. But I did my best to assure him that Jesus said heaven would be like a wedding feast (something he has certainly had experience with), and so I think there will of course be food. Besides, I continued, the Bible talks about the Tree of Life bearing twelve kinds of fruit.

"Will there be beds?" he asked.

"I don't know, but I suppose there might be," I offered. "Jesus said he was going into heaven to prepare a home for us. And he said there would be many mansions with many rooms."

That seemed to put him more at ease. We talked about streets of gold and the River of Life, and every heavenly picture I could think of. He asked if there would be cars, and whether or not people could fly. (I said that I didn't know about the flying, but allowed for the possibility. What do I know?) But I eventually brought him back to the most important part of heaven—living in the presence of Jesus for eternity. "When you get there, Jesus will wrap you in his arms and say, 'Welcome home, Gabriel. I've been waiting for you since before the world began.'"

He tends to get giddy at that part. I usually have to blink back a tear or two as the thought of that long-awaited moment washes over me.

But I'm always conflicted about these conversations. Because I know that Jesus gave us these wonderful pictures in scripture—not because they accurately describe heaven, but because the reality of heaven is so far beyond our experience—even our wildest imagination—that we could never grasp it if he told us. If we saw it, our language would have no way to express it. St. John seems to struggle when he describes twelve gates, each made of one giant pearl, and streets that are both golden and transparent, like glass (Rev. 21:21). Jesus gives us just enough to keep us hopeful, to make us yearn for a place where no tears are shed, where there is no nighttime or death or sickness or hunger. "Your sun shall no longer go down, Nor shall your moon withdraw itself; For the Lord will be your everlasting light, And the days of your mourning shall be ended" (Is. 60:20).

So I pass these on to my children. Because even if they aren't true in a literal sense, we have to learn to yearn for heaven. I remember a time in my youth when I didn't want to go to heaven. I thought it would be eternally boring: harps and clouds and people walking around in white robes. Who would want that? But I expect that the older I get, the less I will rely on those short glimpses or pictures, and the more I will come to understand that heaven is so far beyond the limits of my imagination that I couldn't possibly be disappointed. Most of all, I hope that I won't care at all what heaven is like—as long as I get to meet the Crucified One. Oh, how I long for that day!

"And after my skin is destroyed, this I know, That in my flesh I shall see God, Whom I shall see for myself, And my eyes shall behold, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!" (Job 19:26-27).

Alphabet Soup: WELS-LCMS Relations

An acquaintance of mine recently described me as the most pro-Missouri-Synod WELS person he knows. He meant it as a compliment, and I took it as one. I have deep family ties to the LCMS. There's been a Lutheran pastor in every generation of my family since before C.F.W. Walther. Ernst Brauer, the twin of a maternal great-great-grandfather, taught at St. Louis seminary with Walther, and helped to found the synod. My great-grandfather, Emmanuel Mayer, was president of the LCMS Michigan district. My grandfather, Herman Mayer, who was very dear to me, and my dad's brother Richard, were both LCMS pastors. My younger brother went to the ELS seminary just to break with tradition. (Just kidding. He has many and good reasons.)

My point is not to brag about family history. I didn't know most of this stuff until very recently. And I don't regret that my parents left the Missouri Synod when I was barely old enough to remember. They left for good reasons, and I've chosen to stay in the WELS for good reasons. But I've known enough good Missouri Synod Lutherans to know that the bad things that were said about the Missouri Synod when I was growing up in WELS Lutheran schools are not all true. (Diagram that sentence!)

Disputatious Theologians, by Albert Bothe. Courtesy GHDI

We were told things like, "A lot of Missouri Synod Lutherans are going to hell," and "Even the conservatives tolerate false doctrine—otherwise they would leave," and my personal favorite, "If you say a meal prayer with Missouri Synod Lutherans, you are yoking yourself to unbelievers." WELS pastors and teachers like to give the impression that the LCMS is just ELCA without the LGBT sympathies. In other words, many of our pastors and teachers make generalizations, but seem to have no real contact with the Missouri Synod to either inform or discredit these opinions. There is no excuse for a blanket dismissal of our brothers in the LCMS as "false teachers." We should know that the devil is hard at work wherever the gospel is preached. That's as true in the Missouri Synod as it is in Wisconsin.

When a WELS family approaches a Confessional, Christ-professing, Book-of-Concord-wielding, Catechism-touting LCMS school and expresses reservations about the false doctrine their children are inevitably going to be taught (true story), they reveal their ignorance about the differences between our synods. The WELS does a good job of promoting a unified image (thank you, WELS Connection!), but fortunately, is not synonymous with the Invisible Church. The "they think they're the only ones in heaven" joke is probably told in every denomination, but I suspect it must have been written originally of the WELS. Because the thing about Missouri Synod Lutherans is that they seem to possess an acute awareness of the divisions within their synod. No one thinks that you can go to any LCMS church and find orthodox doctrine being preached from the pulpit, as seems to be the case for many in the WELS.

I don't want to sound like I'm promoting unionism here, but IMHO, part of the solution is that we have to get together more often. Although ELS, WELS, and LCMS theologians have been having informal discussions at the Emmaus Conferences, I wonder what other opportunities exist for laymen to have similar discussions and, dare I say, "fellowship" opportunities? How about Higher Things? CCLE? Our synodical worship conferences? Or at the very least, listen to Issues, Etc., and join some Confessional Lutheran Facebook groups. Listen to and read the issues that come up, and see how they are dealt with by Lutherans from all three synods. Follow Matt Harrison and the WMLT (Witness, Mercy, Life Together) blog. In short, inform yourself! If doctrinal matters separate two church bodies, so be it. I'm the last person who would suggest that we set doctrinal differences aside, join hands, and sing Kumbaya. But don't let ignorance add to the barrier between Wisconsin and Missouri.

Pr. Hans Fiene (of Lutheran Satire fame) remarked on Facebook that interracial marriage might be part of the solution to race relations in America. Might I suggest inter-synodical marriage could play a part in restoring synod relations? (I only say this in passing, but word has it there's a bevy of beautiful, unattached LCMS women attending Bethany Lutheran College [ELS]. *wink*) No bias on my part, there.

That is all. TTYL.