First, an admission. When I set out to write you this open letter, I was apprehensive and excited. Apprehensive because even though I am nearing the half-century mark, I have yet to develop a taste for art; excited by the hope that writing the letter might help me understand this shortcoming, and perhaps even to remedy it. And so, with a borrowed copy of Gene Veith’s book State of the Arts in hand, I set out to survey the territory within whose borders the contemporary Christian artist must make his living.
The territory turns out to be a wasteland, one of the church’s own making. Veith writes:
“The indifference of the contemporary church to the arts has traumatized many of its Christian artists. Boldly defying the dictates of the non-Christian ‘art world,’ which, however, determines an artist’s professional success, these artists look to fellow Christians for support. Often, they do not find it, encountering rejection from both the art establishment and the church. Christians have become content with institutional ugliness—bland, mass-produced decorations, prefabricated church buildings, tacky knickknacks, artifacts of the dominant mass culture—rather than patronizing the significant creative efforts of their fellow Christians.”
Content with institutional ugliness? Strong words—but in the end they accurately describe my indifference to art, an indifference that has provided much comfort and aid to these enemies of genuine beauty. It is not unfair to call my indifference a contentment with the status quo, in that I’ve done nothing to change it. If the state of the arts for a Christian artist is dismal in the extreme—and it is—then I exemplify the attitude that has made it so.
My ignorance of art is deliberate, and primarily a result of laziness. In many other areas—theology, philosophy, history, cultural analysis, even computer geekery—I’ve long known that understanding and appreciation are the fruit of humble and diligent study. But in aesthetic matters I’ve been content with whatever pleasure I could find in an immediate and uninformed response. And so my taste in art has run to that which evokes exactly such a response; I never required or even expected that it have depth, richness, or any other quality that might make a demand on me.
Worse, I’ve maintained an ignorance of art because I am suspicious of anything that can so easily bypass my rational defenses, reaching in and touching me in unfamiliar places. I’m comfortable with knowledge that comes in a neat, tidy, easily shelved package. But when I encounter a great work of art, I am in the helplessly overwhelmed position of the sailors who listen to Marlow spin his yarns on the deck of the Nellie, in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness:
“The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.”
This paragraph has haunted me for the ten years since I read it; it points to the ability of art to illuminate and thereby make visible aspects of God’s creation that will be forever beyond the reach of rational analysis. You might think that the possibility of experiencing more of God’s glory would have given me a gnawing hunger, would have driven me to wrestle that mystery to the ground, to teach myself how to feed at the aesthetic banqueting table which you and your fellow artists yearn to set for your brothers. Instead I set that mystery aside and contented myself with what nourishment came as I applied my reason to cracking doctrinal nuts. And so I joined the rest of the modern church in denying you an audience, thereby adding to your already intolerable burden.
An apology is in order, and so I ask for your forgiveness. You’ve come to me bearing gifts which until now I’ve refused, unwilling to assume the responsibility of learning to appreciate and enjoy them. But no more. From now on you’ll find me a willing audience—a naïve and ignorant one in the beginning, but one determined to develop the sophistication and knowledge needed to accept your gifts and use them as a path to a broader and deeper understanding of God’s creation, and of God himself.
I expect this to be a rocky and uncertain journey; the terrain you inhabit is now bleak and sparsely populated. Still, there are oases. I’ve already met a few of you in the pages of Veith’s book, and I’ve encountered beauty that mesmerizes even through poor black and white reproductions. There is Edward Knippers’ grotesque and haunting painting The Sacrifice of Isaac; the disconcerting combination of realism and abstraction in Theodore Prescott’s sculpture The Annunciation; and the delightfully weird portrayal by Cliff McReynolds of how The New Earth will look. Best of all was being introduced to Georges Roualt; his paintings fascinate on many levels, and one has the coolest title I’ve ever heard—The Just Man, Like Sandalwood, Perfumes the Blade that Cuts Him Down.
Not long ago I would have passed by all these with no more than a glance, but Veith’s patient explanations of how to approach them has taught me to stop and look, and ponder. I’ll admit that much of it is still beyond me—but I’m now committed to whatever study I’ll need to gain understanding. I know that in my studies I’ll meet many more of you, and I plan to present each with the one gift I can give in return—appreciative attention.