Lacrimosa III: We mourn in lonely exile here

For the week running up to Christmas at 35 Chapel Walk we are holding an exhibition which focuses on the stories we hear about Bethlehem, 2000 years ago and in 2014. For most of us the events of Jesus’ birth and the current situation in the city are distant in time and space. All we have are the stories we hear; some are hopeful and some are heart-breaking.

The pieces I have made for the show are based on an icon of Mary and Jesus from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Painting over this foundational image I have begun to dig deeper into how the stories I hear from Bethlehem impact my soul.

Here is the third painting:

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Lacrimosa III: We mourn in lonely exile here

Oil, spray paint, gold leaf and candles on found board.

80cmx60cm

Candles drip and hang like stalactites, upside down and as disconcerting as grief. I had to extinguish them quickly when I began to smell the paint burning and I was worried that the whole thing would go up in smoke and now a dark, charred shadow remains where the flame once burned.

So many candles burned in memory of those we have lost in Bethlehem, Peshawar, Syria, Ferguson, Didsbury and on and on.

The paint as blue as a nativity play Mary: Ultramarine, Phthalo and Cobalt, runs over the surface of the icon. Rivers of colour form islands of granulated pigment as the paint flows out of my control until it forms a curtain of tears.

In this final image mother and child are obscured and seen through a veil, but they are united, no wall separates them and no blood red obliterates the child.

O come, O come Emmanuel…

Lacrimosa II: Lift your hands up to heaven, build a wall, and shield your eyes from the Bright Sun

For the week running up to Christmas at 35 Chapel Walk we are holding an exhibition which focuses on the stories we hear about Bethlehem, 2000 years ago and in 2014. For most of us the events of Jesus’ birth and the current situation in the city are distant in time and space. All we have are the stories we hear; some are hopeful and some are heart-breaking.

The pieces I have made for the show are based on an icon of Mary and Jesus from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Painting over this foundational image I have begun to dig deeper into how the stories I hear from Bethlehem impact my soul.

Here is the second painting in the series:

DSCF3575 DSCF3580 DSCF3581Lacrimosa II: Lift your hands up to heaven, build a wall, and shield your eyes from the Bright Sun

Oil, spray paint, gold leaf, plastic bricks on found board

80cmx60cm

In this piece of work toy bricks draw the line separating mother and son. It is one of the first things that a child instinctively learns – to claim ownership and declare things as “mine”. And so we go on, drawing lines on maps, building walls to separate what is mine from yours. And sometimes, when the line is drawn then brutality ensues: as border controls are tightened due to the scapegoating of immigrants by press and politicians or concrete walls divide ancient lands.

And yet, the Bright Sun still shines, the child’s hand reaches through the wall and the mother’s tears breach it.

 

Lacrimosa I: “…and a sword will pierce your own soul too”

For the week running up to Christmas at 35 Chapel Walk we are holding an exhibition which focuses on the stories we hear about Bethlehem, 2000 years ago and in 2014. For most of us the events of Jesus’ birth and the current situation in the city are distant in time and space. All we have are the stories we hear; some are hopeful and some are heart-breaking.

The three pieces I have made for the show are based on an icon of Mary and Jesus from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Painting over this foundational image I have begun to dig deeper into how the stories I hear from Bethlehem impact my soul.

Here is the first painting:

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Lacrimosa I: “…and a sword will pierce your own soul too”

Oil, spray paint, gold leaf, nails on found board 80cmx60cm

 

The universe has few more violent acts to inflict on us than the separation of a mother from her child; be it through family circumstance, miscarriage or rocket shells fired onto a beach where boys play football. “A sword will pierce your own soul too” is what the prophet Simeon says to Mary when she takes her child to the temple (Luke2:35). So soon after Jesus’ birth the shadow of what is to come 33years later is already evident.

In this image red gloss paint explodes, vibrant as a firework with joyful loops of colour reminding me of a TV serial killer crime scene. It obscures the child and clods of paint hang on three hundred nails like blood clots.

And yet Mother Mary’s smile is serene and her gaze is calm. Perhaps she has found a deeper source of peace or maybe is in denial, misunderstanding the seriousness of the situation. Or could she be one more of the strong women putting on a brave face even though she knows that some wounds are too deep to be soothed with a simple “Let it be”.

 

These paintings will be on display at 35 Chapel Walk Gallery, Sheffield, S1 2PDfrom Tues 16th December – Christmas Eve

Some things I can only know when I paint

There are different ways of knowing and all have their place. I want my neurosurgeon, my aircraft designer and whoever it is that makes the internet work to be pretty good at the hard rationality of head knowledge. But we know with more than our intellect. Knowing, remembering even thinking are much more than cerebral activities. The language we use betrays this as we locate the experience of knowing in other parts if our body. So we have a gut instinct, I can wholeheartedly agree with something and sometimes I get cold feet.

Our whole bodies hold joy, sorrow, painful memories and amazing experiences whilst words privilege the rational knowing in our heads. Although, if used subtlety and skilfully by the poet or storyteller they can evoke deeper, more thoroughly embodied ways of being and thinking.

The mystics teach us this. They lead us to ways of knowing and experiencing that go deeper than words can reach. Even using the idea of unknowing, or the via negativa that help us to understand that all our words and concepts about God fall far far short of the deep reality of G-d.

For me painting is a way to explore this deeper, more embodied way of knowing. It is about colour, texture, the movement of my body, the way my eyes see, or perhaps more: an attempt to transcend the limitations of what my eyes see. Recently I have felt those deeper ways of knowing more and more as I make art. Rather than starting with words that frame some clever concept that I try to translate into paint I am trying to think with the paint itself. Smearing the colours across a surface becomes a way of exploring a deeper reality. Working alongside other artists helps me with this as they challenge me to push things further and not settle on the easy answers.

The images that are emerging surprise and disturb me and they are not easy to talk about. Not because it’s too painful to do so, although at times that is true, but because distilling a meaning down into words does violence to the thing itself. All I can talk about is the process that these images embody and then invite the viewer to take the journey for themselves, to bring their own experiences, desires and ways of being alongside the image to seek out potential meanings.

Here are 3 of my most recent paintings. I’m not sure whether I love them or hate them, I’m not sure whether they are better or worse than my previous work (whatever those value judgements might mean). But I do know that I have tried to be honest and so I will hang them on the wall of a gallery and stand by them because what does it mean to be an artist if not scraping away the layers of bullshit that cover us in an attempt to expose the raw meat below, real and alive?

In two images of the paintings I used photographs from my childhood but they are changed by the distance of time and the distortions of memory, the other includes my own son’s toy laser gun in the hands of a man blindfolded in the back of a meat delivery truck:

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Misremembered: The boy smiles in an orange Ford Cortina circa 1979

 Oil on canvas 1.5mx1.0m

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Lamentations I: Later days

oil on canvas 1.0mx1.5m

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Lamentations II: The boy laughs as he shoots an arrow circa 1980 or 2014

He drew his bow
    and made me the target for his arrows.

 He pierced my heart
    with arrows from his quiver

                                   Lamentations 3:12-13

The Wisdom of Landscapes

For those who are able to take the time and to find the stillness of spirit needed to allow it to happen certain sacred landscapes can imprint themselves on our souls. I’ve visited many amazing and beautiful places but only three have sunk deep into my being in this way. The Camino to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, the island of Iona and now Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains, Ireland.

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What these landscapes have in common is the centuries of prayer from pilgrims walking the way or monastic communities with their liturgical rhythms. Just as the footsteps of thousands, millions of pilgrims wear a groove in solid rock so the centuries of devotion dig a deep well until the landscape itself becomes a prayer that holds a gift for us if we are able to receive it. This means more than simply ticking the place off on a list of places to see before you die. The tourist consumes a landscape or a history and then moves onto the next place (not that there’s anything wrong with that per se, I’ve done plenty of consuming in my life, but there are better reasons to climb a mountain than just to get a selfie at the summit to post on Facebook).

If we take time, to stay, to wander and to wonder and to push through the undergrowth away from the manicured tourist trail then slowly and gently the gift of place will open up to us.
Robert MacFarlane in his book “The Old Ways” says:

“There are two questions to ask of any strong landscape. Firstly, what do I know when I am in this place that I can know nowhere else? And then, vainly, what does this place know of me that I cannot know of myself?”

The only way to ask this question of a place is to deeply engage with it, smell it, feel the soft earth, swim in cold dark water, sit on hard rock or experience the pain in your legs as you climb to the precipitous waterfall.

So I’ve had a few days to wander and to wait at Glendalough which translates as “valley of the two lakes”. It is an ancient site of Celtic Christianity and was probably a sacred pagan site before that; a place where the urge for men and women to push deep into the world has been going on since before the birth of Christ. There is a sacred well not far from the Monastic City who’s opening looks like the entrance to the womb of the earth and there is a sense of life flowing into the world throughout the valley.

I was drawn there because in the 6th century it was home to one of my heroes St Kevin who I have written about before. I stayed alone in a hermitage further down the valley from the lakes (A place I’d highly recommend for anyone wanting to take some time out to reflect on life: www.glendaloughhermitage.ie/)

I learnt so much whilst I was there that can’t be put into words because the place has shaped the deeper parts of my being, and such stories can’t survive being brought to the surface, like weird deep sea fish that dwell in darkness beneath miles of ocean. But amongst all of that there is something in the story of the landscape itself that I know will shape my life and ministry.

The two lakes in the valley have very different characters. The lower lake is smaller with reed beds and a gently sloping bed so soft with the fallen leaves of ages that when I waded in to swim I sunk to my knee in the soft mulch. It’s near the lower Lake that St Kevin established what became a “Monastic City”: intentionally modelled on the experience of the desert fathers and mothers from a far off land and very different clime. The city was a community of sanctuary, abuzz with creativity, industry and a hospitable welcome for travellers.

The upper lake is larger and darker; its rocky bed quickly plunges to depths, cliffs tower on the south shore where Kevin would often retreat to his cell high in the forest or to “Kevin’s Bed”, a cave all but inaccessible without a treacherous climb. Wild waterfalls, glorious and dangerous swirl down the mountainside. This place is known as St Kevin’s Desert, the place he often retreated to for solitude, prayer and ascetic practices including standing in the cold water to pray whilst a monster wrapped itself around him, stinging him or praying in his cell with arms outstretched for days.

There is much to learn from these two lakes, connected by a twisting river. The oscillation between solitude and community is written in the landscape. I get the impression that Kevin preferred the former but his experience of Christ as he prayed alone in the forest compelled him to engage with others. I’m with Kevin on that one (although I’ll give his extreme asceticism a miss if that’s alright Kev). Sitting now in a cafe at Dublin airport after a few days of near solitude is almost overwhelming. Artificial colours brash and harsh shout much louder than the earth tones and greens of the valley. But in the stillness and sitting on the solid rock where Kevin’s cell used to stand I found a deeper place to rest and, like the waters flowing from the womb of the earth I know that even in the midst of the city it’s from that place that life will flow.

st kevins
Apart from walking and sitting in solitude another way to engage with a landscape is to paint it. I spent a day painting the seven churches in the valley. I rarely paint landscapes, and rarely use watercolour so the results are a bit rough and ready – not least because I only had a few minutes to paint each church. But this is my version of St Kevin’s Church.

Sacred Stories of the Body

A couple of weeks ago at 35 Chapel Walk artspace I curated an exhibition entitled “Sacred Stories of the Body: Gender, Sexuality & Spirituality”.

Drawing together 5 artists with varied backgrounds we wanted a show that celebrated humanities’ rich diversity of sexual and gender identities. Often the church operates with restrictive categories of male and female as well as being stuck in anaemic arguments about human sexuality so we sought to create a space that reflected the vibrancy of human experience as gendered, sexual and spiritual beings. My friend Sally commented on the show:

“Thank you for your theology of embodiment and art that is scraping off the shadows of grey after 2000 years of denial, that our very bodies are good and created in the image of God”

Whilst I wouldn’t make quite so grand claims I was delighted with the outcome and many visitors to the show were moved and challenged by the fleshy and sensuous celebration of body and spirit.

Here is a photo of me with the amazing artists who contributed:

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From left to right: Jay Gadhia, Amberlea McNaught, Ric Stott, Jade Morris, Jade Pollard-Crowe (Photo Jeremy Godwin)

 

This show was the culmination of 3 years of work in my studio, and I exhibited a number of paintings that I have published on this blog including intimacy with Christ, This is my body, and Gabriel.

I also showed some new work:

Image How I learn to pray (Photo Rebecca Litchfield)

 

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One day you will disappear completely (Photo Rebecca Litchfield)

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Solidarity (Photo Rebecca Litchfield)

 

It was a privilege to show this work alongside those of the other artists.

Jade Pollard-Crowe’s video piece ‘window licker’ which saw her dancing and moving between masculine and feminine energies was a beautiful exploration of non-binary gender. It was fascinating to listen to visitors discussing the piece and arguing over whether the person in the video was a man or a woman as if to understand it they needed to force the dancer into a clearly defined category. Listening to the voices and experiences of those who don’t fit so neatly into the duality of male and female is an urgent task for our time primarily because the liberation transgendered people is as important as (and often falls behind) that of cisgendered LGB people but also because in hearing of the rich variety of human experience our own humanity and sense of self is enriched.

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(photos Jeremy Godwin)

Jay Gadhia offered a startling compilation of images entitled “#whatmakesaman” in which he had invited men, via twitter, to send him an image from their phones that answered that question: “what makes a man?”. The images ranged from football and sporting identities, tender pictures of fatherhood, as well as cocks, breasts and drug taking. Standing to watch the 140 or so photographs through is like being immersed in the collective consciousness’ concept of masculinity.

His second piece “Shiva / Shakti” explored the divine union of masculine and feminine:

Image(photo Jeremy Godwin)

 

Amberlea McNaught tapped into the primal energies of creation with her terracotta and gold sculptures. Evoking ancient relics from forgotten tombs phallic shapes festooned with glittering sperm, masculine and feminine shapes work together: an expression of an archetypal creation myth deep within each of us.

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(photos Jeremy Godwin)

 

Jade Morris’ photographs and photo collage “Maga, Maiden, Crone.” seem part of a pagan dance and are beautiful Images of her body that are bold and confident in their sensuality. Her raw femininity connects her to Mother Earth in both rural and urban landscapes.

ImageImage(Photos Jeremy Godwin)

 

A selection of this body of work is available to show elsewhere so if you are aware of a venue that may be interested in exhibiting this show then please get in touch. Prints of some of this work will also be available soon to raise funds for the arts & spirituality space at 35 Chapel Walk, more details will be posted soon.

 

 

 

A Dirty/Holy Week

 

Communities are messy. As soon as we begin to engage with other people on anything other than a surface level we open ourselves up to getting hurt as well as opening up the possibility of hurting others through our own words, actions and ignorance of the consequences of our actions. I don’t want to hurt other people, much less do I want to be hurt myself; such is the risk of engaging with others.

This piece I made recently begins to capture the dirty ambiguity of being in community. I found the wood by the side of the road on my way into Sheffield. It was heavy and sodden in the rain, encrusted with mud, dead leaves and the grime of the city. Hauling it into my car I couldn’t help but get filthy.

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The image is based upon Rublev’s icon of the Trinity which was originally made in Russia in the 15th century. So much has been written about this famous icon and for many it is a symbol of community at the heart of who God is. The open space at the table that faces us is there for us to join in if we so desire, there is no compulsion, simply invitation.

The cup and the invitation resonate with sacred stories this Holy Week. Jesus shares a final meal with his friends, pouring wine to share with them, knowing that in a few hours one of them will betray him, one will deny he knows anything about him and most of the others will scatter in fear: A dirty and complex moment. Later Jesus kneels alone in a garden and prays fearful and alone that God would take away the cup of suffering that he was about to drink: dirty, on his hands and knees in the grime with beads of sweat like blood on his forehead.

The invitation in this image is to become intimately involved in the blood and guts of life in all its pain, joy, complexity and moral ambiguity. If you touch this piece your hands will get dirty, the grimy wood crumbles and frays around the edges. Just as the sacred stories of Jesus refuse to be cleaned up in order to be made safe and acceptable for respectable people (although the Church has often tried to do this by reducing them to doctrines and clever theological formulae). The stories have dirty and frayed edges.

That’s at the heart of the story of Holy Week. ‘Holy’ is often seen as a word that has connotations of purity, of being pristine and clean. That kind of ‘holy’ is separate and hermetically sealed off from anything that can contaminate it but this is the opposite of the holiness  in the Jesus story: with Jesus ‘holy’ means being down in the dirt. He invites us to follow him there and give our whole selves, to tear open our hearts and engage deeply with the messy, morally ambiguous, fucked up world we live in.