The Soul of an Artist and the Saving Grace of Art

March 30, 2003

Lone Jensen

What do you think an artist's soul is like? Do you think of the tormented, lonely genius of Van Gogh or the exuberant, glowing hedonism of Gauguin? Or does the determination of Beethoven, composing his magnificent symphonies while going slowly deaf, come to mind? Souls of great artists share an unquenchable fire, an urge to create that could not be denied any more than you could stop a volcano from erupting. Such artists were often scorned for their radically new visions. Van Gogh sold only two paintings in his entire lifetime. Reactions to Edward Munch's soulful painting The Sick Child was anger, disgust and scorn. It was considered to be: the ravings of a mad man.

Few of us would have the courage to stick to our convictions when we were met with such reactions. Fewer still have both such drive and such extraordinary talent. Those who do are a gift to the world, a grace that may well go unrecognized within the artist's lifetime. Most of us lack the drive, the talent or that elusive quality we call genius to be a great artist. But each of us can cultivate our ability to fully see, sense, hear and experience our lives and be open to being transformed by our experiences. If we cultivate an artist’s soul our lives will be enriched, but do we really want to? Like any other thing in life, a receptive soul has a price. If you open your soul to the beauty in this world it also means that you are open to pain. Joy and woe are woven fine, clothing for the soul divine, we sing. For true artists, like Goya, pain can not be denied. He painted war in all its human horror. It was his way of honoring the suffering of the innocents. The price we pay for love is to be open to its loss. Love is the ultimate act of human courage.

To create also takes courage. The blank page can be terrifying. In every beginning drawing class I taught long ago,

students would apologize to me. I can't draw, I have no talent at all. Maybe you too are thinking: I am not creative, I can't draw, sing, act, etc. Do not worry. This is not a service about creating art but about the role art can play in our lives. It is possible to develop an artist's soul no matter how small your personal artistic talents may seem to be.

Art was once believed to make us better people much like religion was supposed to do. Art was there to uplift people, elevate them, and change them for the better. That is not the general view today. Catherine Madsen writes: In the contemporary public hysteria about moral breakdown we hear nothing about aesthetic breakdown. People who agitate for prayer in the schools seem to have no concern for the quality (or beauty) of prayer in the churches, few religious pundits who warn of the temptations of popular culture have any temptation toward high culture; art is not seen as part of the remedy for moral aimlessness, and is more likely to be seen as part of its cause.

You have heard calls for censoring art that corrupt people. It reminds me of a T-shirt with the inscription: Fear no Art! But some do fear art enough to cut funding, burn books, stop performances. Often prejudice and homophobia are held out as virtues. It is sad. And I will admit that some foolish things are done in the name of art but isn't that equally true of politics also? Putting art in cage is not the answer!

Why does art frighten so many people? Is it because the modern artist has this mythical rebel image to live up to? The dogma is to: produce something new, brand new. never seen before. To actually paint something beautiful could be heresy. Yes, there is some foolish and empty art.

And yet without art, without beauty we are hardly human at all. The Prophet Mohammed once said: If I had only two loaves of bread I would barter one for hyacinths to nourish my soul. So would I, to nourish my soul hunger In these cruel days of war my soul longs fiercely for beauty and calm. We need images of harmony when we are bombarded with unrest, with war in real time, on demand, at one easy click of the remote control. But even when we are not at war our society surrounds us with blaring and blazing images, loud music and senseless noises all around. Silence, quiet is a rare commodity. There is plenty of ugliness and cruel realities of poverty and random violence in this world. Not to mention the refuse and garbage created by our own conspicuous consumptions. Our souls can get lost in all of it. We can forget how to listen, how to smell, how to see, how to feel and how to touch. When was the last time you heard the voice of a nightingale? The songs are there somewhere behind the din of traffic. But we have to listen carefully to hear them. A few weeks ago I saw two frogs in a pond at the Botanical Garden. Oblivious to the spectators with cameras they were busy making very noisy love. In Louisiana bull frogs would hold nightly concerts: a deep, guttural, organ bellows chorus rose above all the other noises of the night marsh. Somehow it reminded me of this fairytale.

The Emperor of China had a marvelous palace of many, many rooms, with floors of shiny glass. Silver bells of all sizes hung everywhere and chimed as the courtiers and servants hurried by in their fancy silk gowns. The palace had every imaginable treasure and more were brought to the Emperor daily from all corners of his kingdom. He had so much that he was utterly bored by it all and not at all grateful. One evening a poet told him about a certain Nightingale. The voice of that bird was so sweet and so clear that all those who heard it forgot all their worry and sorrows and were utterly lost in the sound. Bring this bird to me! ordered the emperor. So they searched high and low, silk gowns flying, running up and down the many, many stairs, and slip sliding on the glass floors. But it was a poor kitchen maid dressed in rags who found it. Yes, she said, I often listen at night near the lake, when I go to visit my old mother and bring her some scraps from the emperor's table. It does my heart good. So the bird was brought to the palace, put in golden cage and asked to sing. It was small and gray and altogether disappointing in appearance but once it sang, the Emperor was delighted. He gave the bird a title, servants and a golden cage. The nightingale felt trapped. Whenever it went for a walk twenty nobles followed each holding a thin silk string attached to its legs. One clear morning it saw its chance and flew away. The Emperor ordered a special mechanical bird to be made. This bird could, once you wound the spring, sing over 50 different melodies. Far better than the real thing, everyone agreed. In fact the emperor was so fond of this new bird that he put it right by his bedside.

Now time passed and it so happened that the emperor grew gravely ill, so ill in fact that they thought he was as good as dead. All the servants and nobles left him eager to welcome the new emperor as soon as the old one drew his last breath. The Emperor was all alone in his big canopy bed. As he laid there he remembered. All his deeds, his entire life, came to him once again, the good and kind acts and the cruel and heartless things he had done. They seemed to dance a ghostly procession across the canopy drapes, oh, it was more than he could bear. At the foot of his bed he saw death himself sitting there in a dark cape, deep in thought, waiting patiently. Sing! Cried the emperor to the mechanical bird: Sing so that I may chase these memories away! But no sound came from the bejeweled bird for there was no one there to wind it up. He felt utterly forgotten. And death came ever closer, he could feel its bony cold hand. But just as he was at the depth of his despair, from the window, came the high notes and thrilling sounds of the real nightingale. It had returned and sat there on the windowsill, it's throat feathers shining in the morning sunlight. It sang so sweetly that soon the emperor began to cry. As his tears fell the ghostly images faded and he felt no fear at all, only peace. And the bird continued to sing of green gardens and roses that bloomed there watered by tears. Death became homesick for his own ancient cemeteries and flew away, a dark mist out the window. The servants came in ready to bury their dead emperor. And there he stood: Good morning!

Have you heard the nightingale lately? Have you listened to your soul? Have you allowed yourself to be moved by something, even to tears? That is to me what that story is about. It is about the power of art and beauty to heal us, to bring us joy and solace. Art can do this when it is real enough, when it touches us deeply enough. When it awakens the joy in our souls, it may, like the nightingale banish the fear of death from our bedside and stop us from obsessing over all we have done or not done in our lives. The bird, by the way, is also a very ancient metaphor for the spirit. Art can nourish and deepen the soul. It can transform us.

Worship is also an art form. On a Sunday Morning we can find a glimpse of the sacred or a look into the abyss. Worship can move us, change us and bring us face to face with parts of ourselves we have forgotten. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to help us see the beauty in this world. Bradford Smith wrote this in the final months of his life.

We usually refuse to face death for ourselves until something forces us to. Then strangely, the response is not fear any longer, but acceptance, even contentment. You can relax, take time to drink in all that is beautiful, listen to all the music your soul longs for…read the books you have longed to go back to, let nature sink into every pore, and ease the string to your bow so that living looses its tenseness but not its joy.

Do not wait for your last few months of life before you drink in all that is beautiful. Do it now. Ease the strings on your bow. If you always wanted to do something, do it now. Treasure the moment. Encourage your children to grow this kind of a soul. How many of you once loved to draw or to sing when you were maybe seven or so? Do you still? Think about a young girl of ten intensely drawing a tree, utterly absorbed in the process, at peace. How often do you feel like that? We have learned all too well to distrust our own joy. Why is our imagination so undervalued?

Originally all art was sacred. Mircea Eliade wrote: Every religious expression in art represents an encounter between man and the divine. Such encounters may be, on the one hand, a personal religious experience; or on the other, a religious perception of the world, the discovery that the world is divine work, the creation of the gods. Artist can help us remember that the world is imbued with the sacred, full of beauty. I agree with him. And I wonder: If we believed those words and acted on it what kind of world would we have? Once I saw an exhibit of ancient Egyptian art, a glimpse into the human soul some 5000 years ago. One thing I remember is how they painted the night sky on the ceilings of their tombs. The sky as the great mother Nut, her body composed of night's thick, blue, black darkness. Within her hang innumerable glittering stars, shaped in the image of a man standing with his arms and legs stretched wide as if to embrace the night sky. To think of the eternal night of the soul as a mother's embrace is comforting to me.

What would change for you if you considered your life as your work of art? Norman Ellis writes: (The) Soul continues to develop, secretly adding to its luster like a pearl hidden inside an oyster. Making soul is the process of a lifetime. Mystics call it performing the great work. All our experiences - our sorrows, passions, thoughts, and deeds- develop soul.

When my friend Kerri died I looked at her face thinking she is not there. Yet she lived in the words of the eulogy written by her husband John. She read stories to her children and every night after they were asleep went out in the back yard and knelt under the stars. If we wish to know where soul exists look to where one puts one's energy. Life lived well is a transformative art, and art is what we do for the love of doing it.

Think about his words: Art is what we do for the love of doing it. Those who understand this already have wings. Delight in your senses! Gratefully take the abundance of beauty and grace that this earth has to offer. Take the time to listen to the voice of your soul. Value it, find joy in it. Dance, sing, draw, garden, quilt, listen, laugh, cry, and be fully alive. If war teaches us anything it is how precious life’s moments really are. Our life is a precious gift and it is up to us to receive it with both outstretched arms. Thank you! Thank you!

Sermon sources: Catherine Madsen Liturgy for the Estranged in Cross Currents, The Journal of the Association for Religion and Intellectual Life, Winter, 1996-97: Spiritualities in a Post- Einstein Universe. Parabola, Myth Tradition and the Search for Meaning, Summer 1996: The Soul. Symbolism, the Sacred & the Arts by Mircea Eliade, Crossroads, New York, 1985.