(no subject)
Nov. 2nd, 2008 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tree_and_leafYesterday I was at the Scott-Holland lectures, which this year were given by Neil MacGregor, the director of the British Museum on 'the constraints and opportunities of a visual tradition' - or rather, what the making of images does to Christianity, and what the images we make, inherit and modify say, particularly to people outside the church. The Scott-Holland for whom the lectures was named was Henry Scott-Holland,† sometime Dean of St Paul's, high-churchman and one of the founders of the Christian Socialist Union - he was one of the second wave of churchmen of the Oxford Movement, whose strongly incarnational understanding of God as intimately involved in the world and concerned for the poor led them to the East End, and to a passionate interest in social justice (even to the insistence that it is as important to pay a fair price for goods as it is to pray and receive the sacraments). This, incidentally, is why so many Anglo-Catholic churches are in poor places - or what were poor places at the turn of last century - and also why I get irritated when people assume that all 'Spikes' are only interested in ceremonial and the cricket pages of the Daily Telegraph.
It might sound as if that hasn't got much to do with art, but MacGregor - who is an excellent, if unassuming, speaker, and apparently a very devout, intelligent and unpretentious Christian - brought it all together in a very satisfying and though-provoking way. The justification for Christian representational art in the first place is incarnational - God, as uncreated spirit, cannot be imaged, but you can make pictures of Christ, who is both human and God; furthermore, justifications for devotional art often appeal to the need to reach out to the poor and ignorant. But art is made because rich and powerful pay for it, and that can affect what gets shown and how it's shown, whether it's the polite nativities attended by richly dressed kings, with Mary looking as much a well-dressed aristo as the Magi, or the interesting fact that there are a vanishingly small number of pictures that show the young Christ telling his parents off for not knowing he'd be in 'his Father's house', despite the popularity of images of the wunderkind teaching in the Temple, or of happy nuclear Holy Families, with a gentle Jesus, meek, mild and submissive to authority. It ought to be bourne in mind that Mary is also almost always also a symbol of the church, so that the two pictures MacGregor showed which do show conflict between Christ and Mary can be seen as a rebuke to an institutional church which likes to think that it's infallible, but is actually quite capable of being blind to God's purposes (even when it starts out with the best of intentions, as it generally does). This certainly seems to be what's going on in Simone Martini's Christ Discovered in the Temple, which has the most fantastic body language, with Mary an exasperated mother, Christ standing with folded arms in the immemorial pose of the stroppy pre-teen who doesn't understand why adults are so stupid, and poor Joseph stuck in the middle, apparently saying something along the lines of "now, let's everyone calm down..." (or maybe it's "Don't speak to your mother like that!")
So art is ambivalent - and limited in other ways, as it's quite hard to paint parables - but it can speak to us in quite profound ways, inviting us to stillness and contemplation. It's also one of the places where religious discourse is still evident in a largely secularised world, whether in terms of art galleries and churches. But odd things can happen with churches - whether they're institutionalising powerful images hat were intended to speak directly to everyone, such as the Holman Hunt Light(s) of the World, both of which have ended up in places where you have to pay admission (unless you have a Bod card, for the Keble one) - and embarrassingly, both those places are churches. It was here that we got to the controversial bit, in which MacGregor attacked - politely and with the due humility of someone who knows he gets a government grant that, say, St Paul's and Westminster Abbey don't get - the policy of charging admission to churches. Because St Paul's and the Abbey are the most obvious symbols of Christianity in the capital, and do have things to say to individuals and society - but it costs £10 to visit St Paul's (I think Westminster Abbey is even dearer). And what that says - regardless of the intentions of the Dean and Chapter, which is a pragmatic decision designed to safeguard the building they're responsible enough - is that the church, and by extension God, is available primarily to the rich; those who are too poor to afford to pay the charge don't matter. Which is not something Christianity can teach, even inadvertently, without totally betraying all we know of God and try to live by. MacGregor asked whether, if here really is a choice between cathedrals that charge, and no cathedrals at all, it might not be better to have none.
... and I think he might actually be right, if that is the choice (though it surely can't be). If a church is a church, then it's a house of prayer for all the nations, and it is, frankly, obscene that they should charge enough money to feed a family for access to a building which belongs in one sense to the God who had nowhere to lay his head, and in another to the whole community. It's not a question of whether we can't afford not to charge, it's a question of whether we can afford to - and I think we can't; the price is too high. I can't help feeling that if Jesus should suddenly return and visit St Paul's, there would indeed be barriers pulled down and cash registers turned over. There's a part of me that would like to do so myself, though I won't, because I am a coward. But if the cathedrals really are only sustainable as museums (though Westminster Cathedral (RC) and St Giles Edinburgh (Church of Scotland) both seem to manage as freely-accessible churches), then it would be better if they were museums, instead of pretending to be the house of God.
Ahem. Here endeth the sermon, but I do feel very strongly on the issue.
† He's best known these days for that thing that often gets read at funerals, 'Death is nothing at all', but this would annoy him, as the passage has been violently wrenched out of context; Holland was actually arguing that while we'd like to think of death as 'nothing', it isn't, it's violent and disruptive and hurts like hell for those who are left behind, and Christian faith and hope only mean anything if they can take the suffering seriously. He's much better remembered by that magnificent hymn of Christian challenge to an unjust and sinful world, Judge Eternal, throned in splendor - ignore the awful midi file, the correct tune is Rhuddlan.
In conclusion: I seem to have turned into a Neil MacGregor fangirl (though I get the impression that he wouldn't know what to do with one), and I really wish I had seen the exhibition Seeing Salvation in 2000; I wonder if you can still get the catalogue?
It might sound as if that hasn't got much to do with art, but MacGregor - who is an excellent, if unassuming, speaker, and apparently a very devout, intelligent and unpretentious Christian - brought it all together in a very satisfying and though-provoking way. The justification for Christian representational art in the first place is incarnational - God, as uncreated spirit, cannot be imaged, but you can make pictures of Christ, who is both human and God; furthermore, justifications for devotional art often appeal to the need to reach out to the poor and ignorant. But art is made because rich and powerful pay for it, and that can affect what gets shown and how it's shown, whether it's the polite nativities attended by richly dressed kings, with Mary looking as much a well-dressed aristo as the Magi, or the interesting fact that there are a vanishingly small number of pictures that show the young Christ telling his parents off for not knowing he'd be in 'his Father's house', despite the popularity of images of the wunderkind teaching in the Temple, or of happy nuclear Holy Families, with a gentle Jesus, meek, mild and submissive to authority. It ought to be bourne in mind that Mary is also almost always also a symbol of the church, so that the two pictures MacGregor showed which do show conflict between Christ and Mary can be seen as a rebuke to an institutional church which likes to think that it's infallible, but is actually quite capable of being blind to God's purposes (even when it starts out with the best of intentions, as it generally does). This certainly seems to be what's going on in Simone Martini's Christ Discovered in the Temple, which has the most fantastic body language, with Mary an exasperated mother, Christ standing with folded arms in the immemorial pose of the stroppy pre-teen who doesn't understand why adults are so stupid, and poor Joseph stuck in the middle, apparently saying something along the lines of "now, let's everyone calm down..." (or maybe it's "Don't speak to your mother like that!")
So art is ambivalent - and limited in other ways, as it's quite hard to paint parables - but it can speak to us in quite profound ways, inviting us to stillness and contemplation. It's also one of the places where religious discourse is still evident in a largely secularised world, whether in terms of art galleries and churches. But odd things can happen with churches - whether they're institutionalising powerful images hat were intended to speak directly to everyone, such as the Holman Hunt Light(s) of the World, both of which have ended up in places where you have to pay admission (unless you have a Bod card, for the Keble one) - and embarrassingly, both those places are churches. It was here that we got to the controversial bit, in which MacGregor attacked - politely and with the due humility of someone who knows he gets a government grant that, say, St Paul's and Westminster Abbey don't get - the policy of charging admission to churches. Because St Paul's and the Abbey are the most obvious symbols of Christianity in the capital, and do have things to say to individuals and society - but it costs £10 to visit St Paul's (I think Westminster Abbey is even dearer). And what that says - regardless of the intentions of the Dean and Chapter, which is a pragmatic decision designed to safeguard the building they're responsible enough - is that the church, and by extension God, is available primarily to the rich; those who are too poor to afford to pay the charge don't matter. Which is not something Christianity can teach, even inadvertently, without totally betraying all we know of God and try to live by. MacGregor asked whether, if here really is a choice between cathedrals that charge, and no cathedrals at all, it might not be better to have none.
... and I think he might actually be right, if that is the choice (though it surely can't be). If a church is a church, then it's a house of prayer for all the nations, and it is, frankly, obscene that they should charge enough money to feed a family for access to a building which belongs in one sense to the God who had nowhere to lay his head, and in another to the whole community. It's not a question of whether we can't afford not to charge, it's a question of whether we can afford to - and I think we can't; the price is too high. I can't help feeling that if Jesus should suddenly return and visit St Paul's, there would indeed be barriers pulled down and cash registers turned over. There's a part of me that would like to do so myself, though I won't, because I am a coward. But if the cathedrals really are only sustainable as museums (though Westminster Cathedral (RC) and St Giles Edinburgh (Church of Scotland) both seem to manage as freely-accessible churches), then it would be better if they were museums, instead of pretending to be the house of God.
Ahem. Here endeth the sermon, but I do feel very strongly on the issue.
† He's best known these days for that thing that often gets read at funerals, 'Death is nothing at all', but this would annoy him, as the passage has been violently wrenched out of context; Holland was actually arguing that while we'd like to think of death as 'nothing', it isn't, it's violent and disruptive and hurts like hell for those who are left behind, and Christian faith and hope only mean anything if they can take the suffering seriously. He's much better remembered by that magnificent hymn of Christian challenge to an unjust and sinful world, Judge Eternal, throned in splendor - ignore the awful midi file, the correct tune is Rhuddlan.
In conclusion: I seem to have turned into a Neil MacGregor fangirl (though I get the impression that he wouldn't know what to do with one), and I really wish I had seen the exhibition Seeing Salvation in 2000; I wonder if you can still get the catalogue?
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-04 09:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-04 11:53 am (UTC)For instance: I have had conversations about the Christian concepts of atonement and salvation with a Buddhist friend that arose directly out of her having seen an altarpiece and been puzzled by it. Whether it, or the conversation, brought her closer to Christ is not for me to judge, but I think it does illustrate that you can't cleanly separate out what can be evangelization and what can't.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-04 06:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-04 07:36 pm (UTC)The most visible symbols of Christianity in any community are the local Christians.
True in one sense, but the buildings are there, and visible, and people are going to think of the church when they see churches, and you having a better theological understanding doesn't change how they see it.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-08 09:20 am (UTC)In the days of early Islam, I believe, the iconography (as well as other public displays of faith such as processions, festivals) of the Byzantine church was actually perceived as a threat by caliphs, since as symbols of faith they were so powerful, impressive, and therefore appealing. (Although also as the cross, in particular, symbolized the great power of the Byzantine Empire, which could invoke unfavourable reaction. Being a symbol of 'triumph' can, I suppose, be a double-edged sword.)
When visiting cathedrals as a child, I was always impressed not only by the immediate magnificence of the architecture, but also by contemplating how much faith had gone into the building it - as demonstrated by the money and effort that it must have entailed. Now I have more understanding of the idea of magnificence as power-display as well a simple statement of faith... but I do still get caught up in the wonder of how belief could cause such things to be built and accomplished. And feeling the faith of those others I find to be encouraging, and going beyond the primary functions of the church as somewhere to worship and pray.
On a less extreme track than seeking to convert or destroy another faith, personally, if I enter a mosque as a tourist, I do not seek to 'vandalise' it, or even denigrate it, but recognise it as a holy place where prayers are offered by faithful(ly intentioned) people, even if I disagree with them about the content of that faith. But such holy places should, in my view, still be respected. An increase of such (mutual) respect for others in the world could only be a good thing, in my opinion.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-08 09:28 am (UTC)Pps. Apologies for length of the previous comment, compounded by it's lateness of arrival.