Sanctifying Art. Deborah Sokolove

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СКАЧАТЬ critics, patrons, and art historians who define themselves in relationship to these institutions. In fact, however, there is no longer anything that may be monolithically called “the art world,” in the sense that this was meant in the middle of the twentieth century. In the 1950s and 60s, that world was centered in New York, where contemporary, serious, important art of the Modernist persuasion was defined as what was shown in the Museum of Modern Art, and the art of other times and places was exhibited in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

      Today there are several art worlds, each with its own set of critical principles, standards, sources, and markets. While superficially similar as venues for the display of exemplary artwork, the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, the Museum of Visionary Art in nearby Baltimore, MD, and the American Folk Art Museum in New York City, for example, define art in very different ways. The art world, like so many other fields in this postmodern era, has splintered into many sub-specialties, each claiming the authority to decide what it values and promotes, or even to challenge the very concept of value. To make things more complicated, similar networks and distinctions exist in other artistic fields, such as music, film, and dance.

      Despite this disclaimer, there is a field of human endeavor—however unclear its boundaries—that may be identified as art, and particular people and institutions—however loosely organized—that are principally involved in and concerned with that field. And within that field, those who make, critique, collect, exhibit, teach, and theorize about art as a form of intellectual or academic discourse are what I mean by “the art world.” And, until I found myself working and studying in a theological seminary, it was in that world that I had my primary professional identity.

      Bridging the Gap

      My theological study challenged many of the assumptions that I had taken for granted since art school. For instance, in most art schools, when the standard survey course on the history of Western art gets to the sixteenth century, Michelangelo is a hero who is mistreated by a succession of popes, whose refusal to pay him on time is matched only by their desire to multiply magnificent buildings, sculptures, and paintings throughout the city of Rome. Meanwhile, the leaders of the Reformation are portrayed as uncultured barbarians, who destroyed important artworks out of an overwrought religious sensibility.

      When the same period is covered in a Protestant seminary course on the history of the Western church, the Reformers are the heroes, desiring nothing more than to purge the ecclesiastical hierarchy of its wretched excesses. Chief among these excesses were the Pope’s penchant for luxury and sensuousness, as exemplified by Michelangelo’s magnificent nudes. It is somewhat startling to someone from the art world to discover that the sale of indulgences—a major point in Martin Luther’s critique of Rome—was intended (at least in part) to finance the Pope’s art patronage. In both cases, the Pope is the villain, but it is not clear how to reconcile my admiration for the work of the Reformers with my delight in Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I imagine that when this period is taught in a Roman Catholic seminary, the tensions are described somewhat differently.

      However, the real issue that underlies this story is the question of by what criteria the church is to evaluate art. For the Pope in the story above, Michelangelo’s painting was good, both because it conformed to current Catholic doctrine, and because Michelangelo was celebrated as an artist by other artists and patrons—the art world of his day. For at least some of the Reformers, his painting was bad because it could lead to idolatry, regardless of what the art experts of the time might think. Should the criteria for art that is good for the church be defined by the art establishment? That is, shall the church simply accept as good whatever art is currently being bought by major museums or being hailed by well-known critics? Or, should the church develop its own criteria, such as adhering to certain theological positions or exemplifying certain virtues? This question of what is good art, who decides, on what basis, and in what situations, runs throughout this volume.

      So, too, does the question of the relationship between art, spirit, and matter. About twenty years ago, I was installing a rather complicated piece of art in a small church. There I was, teetering on a ladder, trying to reach a pole across a six-foot gap without dropping the linked pieces of copper that were suspended from it. Suddenly, a member of the congregation walked by, saying, “Oh, I had no idea that art was so physical!” For my part, I had no idea that anyone could have thought otherwise.

      From the prehistoric painters drawing by uncertain firelight deep in the caves at Alta Mira to Michelangelo aiming hammer blows at blocks of marble to force them to release the sculpture held captive within, every printmaker who ends each day with cramping hands and aching back after endless hours of bending over a work table, painstakingly chiseling fine lines into a hardwood block; every potter who stays up all night to tend the kiln, every muralist who scrambles up and down scaffolding to get a better view of the day’s work, every dancer who comes to the final act of a ballet with bleeding toes, and every guitarist who practices for hours despite the blistered fingers and throbbing shoulders, artists have always grappled with the sheer physicality of what they do.

      For the church member who marveled at my balancing act, however, art was not physical, but spiritual. Art, she believed, was something ethereal, mysterious, sacred, a way of apprehending the holy. Art, she seemed to think, was made in an instant, a painting breathed onto the canvas, a sculpture formed by thought alone, with no effort or compromise between the moment of inspiration and its realization as object. Art, for her, was something set apart, an experience outside of normal life, a divine gift unsullied by human labor.

      Although this book is addressed primarily to theologians and pastors, I am writing largely in response to that church member from long ago. In her offhand comment, she embodies the unexamined attitudes and assumptions that the church holds about art and artists. In investigating these attitudes and perceptions, and tying them to concrete situations and examples, I hope to demystify art, to bring art down to earth, where theologians, pastors, and ordinary Christians can wrestle with its meanings, participate in its processes, and understand its uses in a variety of situations.

      In showing the commonalities and distinctions among the various ways that artists themselves approach their work, I hope to change the conversation, to help the church talk about the arts in ways that artists will recognize. The church needs to learn the language of art, so that it can understand the artists in its midst as well as the ideas, processes, and practices that inform their work and, in turn, help them to talk about God in ways that the church can recognize. In this way, I believe, the church will realize that the Word of God is more than words. The arts embody the Word as a living, breathing reality constantly transforming our lives through our senses as well as our minds. Like the Pope who believed that a beautiful church filled with great artworks would bring the people to faith, but didn’t pay the artist who clambered over the scaffolding in order to decorate the church ceiling, the church today often sanctifies art as an idea but ignores the hard realities of actual artworks made by actual artists. As a member of both the church and the art world, I want to bridge the gap between the habits of thought that inform the intellectual discourse of the art world, and those quite different ideas about art that are taken for granted by many Christians.

      When we make clear distinctions between art as spiritual practice and art as scriptural interpretation; between the benefits of art to the artist and its benefits to the audience; and between art for its own sake and art for the worship of God, we will make better decisions about the role of art and artists in our seminaries, our churches, our lives. When art is understood as intellectual, technical and physical as well as ethereal, mysterious and sacred, we will see it as an integral part of our life together in Christ, fully human and fully divine.

1. Plastic, in this context, means malleable, or able to be shaped or formed. Materials as diverse as clay, bronze, or fabric may be described as plastic in this sense.

      2 / The Problem of Art

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