Somehow, life here appears too still. She is sitting in the colorless silver-gold sunlight of mid-afternoon, stretched out on the window-seat, lost in a book. You might still call her a girl—maybe she is eighteen, maybe less, maybe more, but her quiet, matter-of-fact absorption is almost childlike. Her poise is primly deliberate, and yet she is unconscious of our presence, her eyes so deeply downcast as to appear closed. Beyond, the window opens into the outside world. A small patch of sunlight glints in the dark shadow beneath the underside of her outstretched calves. [Read more…]
It’s late in the afternoon, and it’s summer. I’m sitting in a quiet corner of my apartment, by a window looking out onto the rough gray plaster of a light well that’s so narrow I could reach out and touch the other wall if I tried. It’s not the best view my little home affords—the front looks out onto the treetops of the street below—but it’s quiet, secret, statically placid. You look down, and you can’t see the bottom, just the reflected, curtained glow of the apartment across the way. At night, the windows glow like paper lanterns. [Read more…]
I began St. Hope of Rome, Virgin and Martyr as a belated birthday present to a college friend who was part of the generation left behind at Notre Dame when I graduated. Doing art as a gift is always a pleasure, as it forces me not only to finish my work, but also to share myself, and to create a work that taps into the general patrimony of mankind, something set apart from me and capable of being shared with others. The gift becomes common ground: It takes me out of myself to a small degree, which is intensely important for a Christian artist. My best works are often gifts for friends and family. [Read more…]
A picture is worth a thousand words.
“There are two ways of expressing things; one is to show them crudely, the other is to evoke them with art.”
Every mark is a kind of word—-a communicative record or sign of one’s presence or of an event. Whether footprint or fingerprint, scratch or signature, the identity of the originator is embedded in the mark, becoming an individual’s “I am” left behind for others to see. Humanity’s first marks developed into pictures that conveyed ideas or concepts that represented real things. Thus the visual, the conceptual, and the real were closely connected. Writing developed from these images and so the origins of written language are in art. A work of art, like a written word, remains a mark of the originator’s identity. These early marks, both word and art, were both sign and symbol, conveying ideas as well as evidence of life and existence. These were man’s first attempt at immortality: words that outlive their originator. [Read more…]
As with many of my works in ink, this project was in part inspired by the woodcuts of the fifteenth-century master Albrecht Dürer. However, I departed from my usual models in my depiction of St. Gregory, who is shown here not as a medieval bishop or a baroque pontiff, but in an atmosphere redolent of the austere grandeur of that nebulous, uncertain time between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. This is not to say there is not some measure of deliberate anachronism here as well that links the image back to Rome’s ancient past and forward to the present day.
I set about to depict St. Gregory the Great in a manner that alludes to Benedict XVI’s search for unity with the Eastern Orthodox churches through references to our shared heritage, and to the role that the papacy has played in guarding those inherited truths. Gregory’s vesture is that of a bishop of his day, with the distinctive pallium formerly restricted to the pope depicted in the form most commonly associated with Benedict’s pontificate. However, the figure of the acolyte bearing the pope’s mitre is a deliberate anachronism. Mitres are known to have been worn as early as about a hundred years after Gregory’s time, and originated as a distinctive non-liturgical piece of papal regalia known as the camelaucum. Its appearance here makes reference both to Gregory’s authority as Bishop of Rome, and also, due to its distinctive Western shape, to his authority as Patriarch of the Latin Rite. The simple band around its base is a subtle reference to the coronet worn at the base of the camelaucum, which in time grew into the magisterial beauty of the tiara. Rather than supplanting or replacing the tiara, this is its magnificence in seed form. It also recalls, in conjunction with the pallium, Benedict’s own favored form of vesture.
The triple-barred cross is at once a reference to the traditions of the High Middle Ages that depicted canonized pontiffs with such an insignia and to the pastoral staff adopted by John Paul II and Benedict XVI. While the triple-barred cross is predominantly an invention of the world of art rather than serving as an accurate representation of liturgical praxis, here it serves subtly to link past, present and future.
Gregory’s posture is a fairly literal quotation of Ingres’s 1806 “Portrait of Napoleon on the Imperial Throne.” There is some deliberate and triumphal irony here, considering that the Church has outlasted Napoleonic glory. It is also intended to return the pseudo-theological airs of Ingres’s work to their proper domain, considering how strongly Napoleon apes both the poses of a Byzantine Christ in majesty and a pagan Jupiter in Ingres’s depiction. Christ’s pose on the metalwork cover of the gospel book Gregory holds in his right hand further compounds the quotation.
This, in turn, introduces another antique reference into the work, hinting at the ancient city and already venerable institution that Gregory occupied. His face suggests the survival of strength and virility in the face of age. It is inspired by the Dürer depiction of the Old Testament strongman Sampson, and also by those same images of Jove that Ingres would have known from casts and engravings, and which might have peeped out of mud and moss in the days of St. Gregory and of his father, the Roman senator St. Gordian. This, in turn, suggests the amazing antiquity of the papacy, its apostolic origin, and the pre-Christian roots of the title Pontifex Maximus, showing that in Christ all things can be made new, baptized and turned to the good of the faith. We see here a true Pontifex—- bridge-builder—- uniting East and West, old and new, antique and modern, a mirror of prudence and justice for our age and all ages to come.