Why I’m Not Supporting Divest RISD: the politics of resistance

Kids out on the front lawn of RISD (known as “the beach”) as part of the questionable Divest RISD program (April 2013; photo taken from Divest RISD facebook page)

 

Note:  Since publishing this post last night, I have received no less than three very gracious emails from members of Divest RISD; they were all very polite and articulate about their motivation.  One email was from the petitioner mentioned near the end, who apologized for an unfortunate word choice and made it clear that the word “warpaint” was not part of the general discursive language.  I’m impressed by how well the people who contacted me reacted to this criticism.

My college, the Rhode Island School of Design, recently made headlines with its joining of the fossil fuel divestment movement.  A student group here is trying to get the administration to shed the school’s investments in the fossil fuel industry, in hopes that if many schools and businesses jump on the bandwagon, it will be a blow to the fuel industry and lead to a decrease in environmental crisis- most specifically, disastrous climate change.

I’m far from convinced that this is worthwhile.  I am NOT any kind of expert in economics or environmental science, but it seems to me that picking off the fossil fuel industry’s stockholders won’t do a thing to lessen public demand for gasoline, etc.  Instead, without as many investments, prices will go up- not just on fuel itself, but on everything connected with transportation, including and especially food.  Small business owners that rely on gasoline- like farmers, for their equipment- will have to cut their budgets while they’re already struggling.  Many Americans can’t afford even a slight increase in food prices.  The fires will keep on burning and the icecaps will keep on melting.

I want to make it clear that I do see the vital importance of environmentalism, and I do understand the need for universal support.  It’s industrial nations, and so-called “first world” consumers, that really need to get on board- most people on the globe have a pretty low carbon footprint and are paying the price for the excess of the remainder (i.e. the poor/working class, and people of color, are more likely to suffer the health and quality of life disasters that stem from pollution).  Environmentalist objectives that I heartily support include government initiatives to help farmers “green” their technology at no cost to the farmers, and the “slow” or local food movement, which encourages people to buy local, in-season food to reduce the tonnage of fuel emissions produced daily as food is trucked all over the country and the world.  But advocating for such initiatives is a lot harder than demanding something from an institution which is basically one’s employee (since the students pay tuition).  This brings me to concerns regarding the way I see the Divest RISD movement acted out on campus.

Interestingly, I find that the majority of my fellow students here- artists all- are fairly apolitical.  Most of them are white, and most of them come from upper-middle-class or wealthy backgrounds, as it’s an infamously expensive school.  This leads to an ignorance of class and race issues, which manifests in bullshit like the disrespect many students show the maintenance staff (for starters).  So when they’re rallied around a cause like Divest RISD (an easy cause that can be termed lazy activism), they forget the absolutely intrinsic and necessary intersection of environmentalism and class- and within class, that of race, gender, globalism, etc.

The politics of resistance itself absolutely must be taken into the hearts of anyone who considers themselves an activist, especially if you have institutionally privileged aspects of your life.  For example, I’m white, so I need to really focus on being a good ally to people of color.  I have a responsibility to educate myself on issues of race and to listen, and to draw connections.  Likewise, the economically privileged among environmentalists have an obligation to the poor/working class.  It probably doesn’t occur to most of the Divest RISD kids that their actions may result in produce becoming a little more expensive, because it won’t make any difference in their lives.  But they have to get a consciousness there.

In the Divest RISD movement, I see a heavy sense of nostalgia for the heyday of student protests; student involvement in the divestment of American interests from South African-apartheid-supporting industry comes up quite a lot.  They had a sit-in in the President’s (climate controlled) office; they even painted their faces with slogans (and called it “warpaint,” which is racist).  They keep throwing around the ideology of nonviolent protest, which aside from being a very privileged attitude, is frankly insulting to the people who’ve lost their lives participating in nonviolent protest.  Nobody is trying to hurt these kids- they don’t get a cookie for not being violent when there’s no violent threat.

I don’t know if this represents an urge toward activism or a desire for rebelliousness- I fervently hope the former, and I hope that RISD students can take the kind of energy they muster for this and direct it toward more holistic causes.  Also that they brush up on their technique: a guy wanting us to sign a petition called my friend and me “abrasive” when we asked him questions about it (which he couldn’t properly answer).  Our planet needs an intervention, our people need critical healing measures- and artists are a vital part of that.  I hope that my fellow students and I can pull ourselves together and unite in a more mindful approach to activism.

p.s. Happy belated International Labourer’s Day (May 1)!

Even Heroes Need Critique: some thoughts on the philosophy of Project Unbreakable

The header of Project Unbreakable’s website

Back in October, I noticed posters around my school’s campus announcing that Grace Brown, 20-year-old founder of Project Unbreakable (http://projectunbreakable.tumblr.com/) was coming to lecture. I was really excited because I’d seen her work before and had been quite impressed. What Ms. Brown does is invite survivors of sexual assault to be photographed holding a sign with a quote from their attacker (or from victim blaming family, or law enforcement, or even sometimes their own words) in order to take charge of that trauma. Here’s a recent example:

Photograph by Grace Brown

The project has been hailed by Time Magazine and by the Joyful Heart foundation, and by many participating survivors for whom being photographed was a healing experience.

I still love the project for the good it’s done. But I was sorely disappointed by Brown’s speech, and sent her the following email:

Dear Ms. Brown,

As a RISD student, I had the privilege of attending your talk on our campus two days ago (I was the girl who asked three questions). While I deeply admire your project, and it’s abundantly clear to me that you have a good heart and the best intentions, I’d like to bring up some aspects of your talk that I, and my roommate who saw your talk with me, thought were less strong or possibly alienating to survivors of sexual assault. So you know who’s talking and why I think I’m qualified to give this advice, I’m nearly your age (19), a painting major who sometimes addresses sexual violence in her work, and a trained hotline advocate at a center for victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. I think you have a wonderful platform, and I’m writing because I want to aid in that platform being the best it can be; as a fellow artist and activist, I assume you welcome constructive criticism.

1) Representation of the survivor character: In your talk, you made several points exhorting survivors to not feel “dirty” or “broken.” While obviously it’s everyone’s wish that a survivor not have self-loathing feelings after their assault, the fact is that often they do, and it’s vital that a survivor’s feelings be validated. This may seem counterintuitive, but it can come off as telling survivors how to feel. Example: a friend of mine, who has survived rape, says she’s sick of people telling her how “strong” she is. Survivors do not have a responsibility to be “strong” or “inspirational,” though they might well be. It’s easy for someone who’s never been assaulted to talk about growth from that kind of pain; however, if that’s what you want to talk about, you need to find a way to do so that does not demand a certain “acceptable” path for survivors. I’m advocating not cynicism, but realism.

2) Self-Congratulation: You came off as a bit self-congratulatory in the speech; talking about how “grateful” your subjects are makes it look like you’re patting yourself on the back. Don’t get me wrong: you’ve done a great thing, and no doubt participating survivors are grateful to have this kind of chance to tell their stories. But that shouldn’t have any kind of focus. If anything, you should stress your gratitude to them- you’re certainly not being exploitative, but you are benefiting personally from their willingness to participate.

3) Condescension: I would get rid of the you-can-change-the-world-too-I-promise speech, if I were you. It’s the kind of thing you tell fourth graders, not a room of activist peers just as well-read and politically/socially informed as you. Yes, what you’re doing is inspiring, but you don’t need to so obviously point that out.

4) Appropriation: This is the most important thing- near the beginning of your talk, you said that the stories of sexual assault told to you by friends and acquaintances “felt like my stories.” These are not your stories; this should not be about you. This makes the project appear to be more about easing your own guilt at escaping assualt and less about actually helping victims of assault. My roommate, a survivor of sexual assault, actually said that she stopped listening at this point, because, as a survivor, she felt alienated and exploited. Please consider changing the way you identify with these stories as a non-survivor.

Basically, cultivate a better understanding of the nuances of your subject matter. Project Unbreakable seems based on a very good gut instinct, and running with that is wonderful, but you need to educate yourself on the outcomes. I notice on the project website that you have a “we are not qualified to give trained support” disclaimer- I suggest that as long as you’re traveling from college to college giving talks on sexual assault, you seek out qualified training of some kind.

Thanks for reading this- I wish you best of all possible luck.

Sincerely,
Katherine C.

I promptly received the following response:

Hi Katherine,

Thanks so much for taking the time to send this. We all grow from all types of feedback – both positive and negative – and it’s important to hear it and learn from it. I appreciate your voice and passion for the subject.

In gratitude,
Grace

I haven’t seen anything about Brown’s public speaking since our exchange, so I don’t know if she’s made any changes, but I *do* think that this is exactly the kind of constructive discourse that needs to happen between political artist-activists. I was impressed by Brown’s response, which was very gracious; I still think that the project itself is a wonderful idea. Since this whole post has been critical, I also want to point out what I think are the great things about the project:

-it showcases bravery and empowers survivors.

-it focuses on elements of visual art to deliver the message

-it’s collaboratory and voluntary; all participants give full consent, which is empowering to someone who has had consent taken away

-its puts faces to what may be for the ignorant an abstract issue

I’m afraid that my email may have been condescending in parts, which is exactly what I warned her against, in part. But I feel even more strongly that I needed to say it. Even heroes need critique.

Whoa all the religion….

Ummmmm….. soooo, I just realized that the last four posts on this blog have all had religious content, and three of those have pertained to Marian philosophy. I swear that’s not all I think/write about! Content coming soon will be other subject matter, I promise

More on a Madonna of Choice

I’ve been thinking more and more this semester about the connection between pro-choice activism and christian faith.  Obviously, some of the most vocal opponents of reproductive choice are christians, and therefore, many people assume that all christians are anti-choice.

I’m a devout christian and a fervent pro-choice advocate.  I believe that these ideas complement each other- it’s not that I’m “christian but pro-choice,” it’s that I’m “christian and pro-choice.”  I know many people- mostly other women- who follow a similar line.

My choice of religion is supported by stories and my own imagination, and one of my favorite stories is that of the Annunciation- when an angel appeared to the Madonna and told her that she’d be the mother of Christ.  Institutions like the Roman Catholic Church, as well as many Protestant denominations, have perpetrated and image of a virginal*, docile, obedient Mary, who accepted the angel’s words meekly.  Her own words, as the story goes, were, “Let it be as you have said.”  But what human teenager, upon hearing that they would bear a child who would grow up to be brutally murdered as a symbol of his love for humankind, would accept that as a blessing?  I reject the idea of a docile Madonna.  This stuff is not easy for anyone, not now and not a couple thousand years ago.  Last year, I was asked to make some drawings for a nativity pageant at my home church, and among them was the below sketch of a panicked girl struggling with an unthinkable decision.  This year, I reinvented the sketch as a painting- as an alternative icon.

“Ave Maria Sketch,” ink pen on paper, December 2011

If “Let it be as you have said” were the Madonna’s words to the angel, they were the words of choice.  She don’t say “If you say so,” she didn’t say, “I guess I have no other choice-” those were words of affirmation.  About thirty-three years later, her baby was crucified.  As someone who had learned the scriptures, she knew when she made the choice to be his mother that this would happen, and in that moment she sacrificed him for the good of the world. Women who chose abortion likewise make a sacrifice for the good of the world- for the good of their child, for the good of their family, for the good of themselves, as children of God, children of love, in their own right.  I believe that I’ve previously on this blog quoted the words of Alice Walker: “Abortion, for many women, is more than an experience of suffering beyond anything most men will ever know; it is an act of mercy, and an act of self-defense.”

I believe that the Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, loves reproductive justice because She knows the true complexity of maternal choice.  I’ve never had an abortion, so I know I can’t fully understand it.  But I trust women who have made that choice, and I trust the Madonna.  I worship a God who loves free will; I pray to a Madonna of choice.

“Benedicta tu in Mulieribus,” oil on canvas, December 2012

*note: I believe that the concept of the Madonna as a virgin is farcical absolutely irrelevant.

Intersection: Guns, Religion, and Reproductive Choice *triggers*

“Madonna of Choice,” oil on cardboard, October 21 2012

 

NOTE: Images below may trigger survivors of sexual assault.

When the patriarchal conservative movement of the United States attempts, as it regularly does, to deprive women of reproductive choice, I feel like I did when my next-door neighbor in Ohio cornered my family and his wife in our basement with his gun. He was arrested then, but today he still owns, because he is legally permitted to do so (as an older, white, conservative man, by a society that privileges him), an arsenal of hunting, assault, and semi- to fully- automatic rifles, handguns, and snipers.

During the latest presidential debate, Mitt Romney said he thinks the explosive rates of gun violence in this country are linked back to single parenting (i.e. single mothering). And I started thinking about how hypocritical that is, after all this conservative posturing regarding women’s reproductive health- American women have seen the “pro-life” movement turn religion against them and abandon the children it ostensibly wants “single mothers” to bear.  The painting above explores the attack on American women’s freedom of choice in a religious context; it uses iconographic tropes for the Virgin Mary, showing a contemporary version of Mary holding out an umbilical cord that comes out from under her skirt but returns to her own navel, so that she symbolically chooses to nourish herself rather than a fetus.  Quite apart from simply adding a religious context, I’ve always thought that the Madonna would support, more than anyone, the right of women to give birth or not.  She herself knew the impact of making the choice to give birth; she would have compassion for women who made a different choice.  Assault rifles and handguns radiate from Mary’s halo as rays of light would in a religious painting, but they are all threatening her.

“She Cannot Speak,” mixed media (plastic, cheesecloth, glue, foam clay, acrylic paint), October 23, 2012 (same piece from different angles)

This smaller, mixed-media painting shows a female face blinded by a translucent veil, and gagged by a handgun.  The image has echoes of sexual violence as well as gun violence, and heightens the comparison and contrast of gun control vs. an attack on sexual health and reproductive choice.

One of the most wonderful things about visual art is that it gives the artist a chance to express things they cannot express in words.  I had to pin everything down in order to write an artist’s statement for the class and also for this blog, but what first attracted me to this topic was the fact that I could discuss intersectionality between issues I feel are intrinsically related without having to spell it all out- I could paint emotion, I could subvert symbols and iconography to make my point.  That’s what political art comes down to: activists need to know the facts and figures, need to be able to express themselves verbally, but a visual can raise questions and express emotions in a much more quickly accessible (and arguably more appealing) format than an essay or a speech.  In the tangle of analytical questions and logical arguments that surround sociopolitical debate, find the place in your heart that cares about it and isolate that; you will have found the essential bones of the issue.  Just make sure that your heart is informed by truth.

Personally, I’m convinced that gun control, religion, and reproductive rights are inseparably woven; not everyone would agree.  But really, all these “issues” are a network of problems and ideas:  the clean-energy activists go hand-in-hand with the unions, the unions with feminism, feminism with children’s rights, feminism with clean energy, clean energy with children’s rights…. I could go on forever, because all these “issues” of the world are layered upon each other.  The world of social activism is cannot be a series of islands.

Some Thoughts About My Church

A sketch drawn sitting in church; “pan view” of my fellow congregants

Last sunday, I was a bit late to church, and when I arrived, the first hymn had already started.  So I walked in to this big, cool, clear space filled with singing people, just ringing with sound, and about five of them heard me come in and turned around, and smiled huge smiles at me, and I was reminded of just how much I love coming to church.

My family and I have attended the same church for about eleven years.  It’s a United Church of Christ church (different from the church of christ), which means that it’s much more socially relaxed than many American churches.  Our mission statement is “No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, you’re welcome here.”  That means that no matter one’s age, race, income, sexual orientations, gender identity, or spiritual beliefs, everyone is welcome.  That’s the most important thing, to me, about my church.

The second most important thing is my church’s commitment to social justice.  We fight for causes like environmentalism, civil rights, peace, women’s and LGTB rights, and interfaith communication/acceptance.  I learned so much about the world of activism from my church, which is probably clear from this blog.

There are weird interpersonal politics within our church, like in any church.  But they don’t take over the life of the congregation; it’s overarchingly a welcoming, spiritually fulfilling space.

It’s very important for me to have a spiritual community; I count people of a wide variety of spiritualities, and lack thereof, among my loved ones, but I need a place where I know we’re all trying to figure it out together, toward roughly the same goal.  One thing that’s been powerfully drilled into my consciousness through years of living in a small town with dozens of churches is the depth of the importance of church communities in the community at large- people organize around their places of worship, because they automatically group things of vital importance into the same space. These are the spaces for things we believe in.

It’s a crime that a place of worship can be a place of ostracization, but that’s often what happens.  A lot of people remember being taken to church in the same breath as they remember shame, cruelty, even violence.  And that will turn anybody off the idea of a healthy spiritual community.  But it’s so important to remember that, along the ugly stew of self-doubt and hatred many have come to identify with american christianity, there are also pockets of hope, imperfect but beautiful places where people are just trying to figure things out together.

 

Stories Washed Ashore: Magdalene and Madonna

“Washed Ashore” series; charcoal on paper, May 2012

 

Stories speak for themselves.  I always hated that printers of Aesop’s fables insist on writing the “moral” at the end of the story- the whole point is that the reader, or listener, decide for themselves what the story is for them.  The same is true of visual artwork.  It’s wonderful to discuss stories and art- after all, that’s what this blog does- and the most important thing is that the reader, listener, or viewer “take all these things and treasure them in her heart” (the Gospel according to Luke).

study for “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, 18″x24″, May 2012

 

study for “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, 18″x24″, May 2012

 

My final for my spring Drawing class this year was based on the study of a certain set of stories.  Anyone who has read Sue Monk Kidd’s novel “The Secret Life of Bees” is familiar with the story of the Boatwright sisters’ wooden Black Madonna, passed down through the generations, and originally found washed ashore  by Carolinian slaves, who recognized the anonymous statue as a symbol of power, hope, and love, and who made it the focal point of their worship.  Most importantly, they took aspects of the Christianity they had been taught and those of the “pagan” traditions they had brought from their native land, and created a religion woven of both, to tell the truths of their community.

from “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, 30″x50″, May 2012

This fascinated me, so I dug a bit deeper into the history behind Kidd’s storytelling.  It turns out that she drew from stories all over the world of local people who, in separate times and places, found female figures washed up on the shore, recognized them as holy, and consecrated them as representations of the Madonna.

From past research, I knew that during the formative years of Christianity, non-christians being evangelized connected more with Mary Magdalene than with the Virgin (who, for the record, I prefer to call the Madonna since I believe her virginity or lack thereof is irrelevant), seeing the Magdalene as a continuation of the sort of powerful female goddess-figure they knew.  So the patriarchal Church pushed the Madonna as a model of female subservience.  It worked up to a point- new christians accepted the Madonna over the Magdalene, but insisted on infusing the Madonna with her own unique and powerful stamina.

So, on a hunch, I searched for a story of a washed-ashore statue consecrated as the Magdalene, and found one.  This is a powerful example of a people reaching through layers and layers of stories to find the instinctual knowledge of a collective memory.

focal drawing for “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, 50″x60″, May 2012

 

Detail of focal drawing for “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, May 2012

 

Hence, my drawings.  The egg comes from one of my favorite Magdalene stories, from Eastern Orthodox tradition: after Jesus’ ascension, Mary Magdalene snuck into a banquet given by a Roman official.  In the middle of the meal, she stood up on the table, held up an egg (to represent rebirth), and announced, “Christ has risen!”  The official laughed and said that this was as likely as the egg turning red- which it immediately did.

from “Washed Ashore” series, charcoal on paper, 30″x50″, May 2012

I made these drawings- some of which are quite large- as a way to involve myself in this particular story, to tap into the power and love of these legends.  And I think that’s one of the most important things about any art form: to use art to bind oneself and one’s audience to these things that constitute humanity.

You’re a person, I’m a person: Panhandlers

Detail of “Walk On By,” ceramic clay/mixed media installation, May 2012

On a routine walk through downtown Providence, I, like any city dweller, encounter several people who ask me for money, either directly or by way of signage.  Many are in the same place at the same time on a regular basis, and I’ve come to recognize some by name.  When I can, I give a dollar or some spare change and they tell me, “God bless you.”  It’s a simple and quick transaction, but it’s so fraught with sociopolitical implication that each time I give to a panhandler, they’re on my mind for the rest of the day,

I’ve been told that it’s not ethical or responsible to give random handouts.  The arguments go something like this:  you can’t give to everybody, you don’t know if she really does need the money, what if he just spends it on drugs or booze or cigarettes, charities and nonprofits would use your money more efficiently, ze needs help beyond what you can give hir.  Certainly, giving the occasional buck to a panhandler does nothing to help solve poverty or homelessness.  And 75 cents isn’t going to be of any real help, by itself, to someone desperate enough to ask in the first place.  However, to me, it’s not about that.  It’s about one person asking another to help them out a bit.

“Walk On By,” ceramic, acetate, mixed media installation, May 2012.

It’s not my job to make any assumptions at all about some asking me for money.  It’s not my job to decide if they “really need it,” and it’s not my business what they spend it on.  They asked, and I was able to make the decision as to whether or not I wanted, or could afford, to answer the request of another human.  It’s all about respect- respect for the individual, respect for their (unknown to me) story, respect for their autonomy and adulthood and their right to make choices for themselves without judgement from a stranger.  I am no benevolent strewer of largess, no savior.  People should just be able to ask one another for help without shame- and the fact that so often we can’t wounds us every day.

Perhaps most importantly, it could easily be me on the pavement.  The world is not so divided into the Luckys and the Unluckys as the Luckys would like to believe- anyone can find themselves sliding into the margins.  Maybe I’ll be holding out a cup for spare change someday.

“Walk On By,” ceramic, acetate, mixed media installation, May 2012

The installation sculpture was based (very) loosely on a panhandler I see often, who lost both legs to the Vietnam War.  It angers me that so many passerby absolutely ignore him, even when he calls out a greeting- their eyes become locked ahead, their heads go down, and their hands clutch their purses or briefcases.  But here, he is the vibrant one, while everyone walking by is an acetate ghost in the rain.  By cultivating coldness, by refusing connection, by denying that their lives are in any way linked to his, or indeed that he is a member of the same human family, the cutouts make themselves insubstantial.  By making himself so vulnerable, the veteran, with his stringy hair and mottled stumps and rotting teeth, just gains integrity.  He is honest enough to admit that he needs help, and for once, I wanted that to have the spotlight.

Detail of “Walk On By,” ceramic, acetate, mixed media installation, May 2012

Abortion: An Act of Bravery and of Beauty

The Circle Returns, February 2012

 

In Jennifer Baumgardener’s book of interviews and photographs “Abortion & Life,”  Gloria Steinem (groundbreaking feminist icon of the Second Wave) finishes off the tale of her abortion with these words:

“Far from feeling guilty, it was the first time I had taken responsibility for my own life.  It was the first time I hadn’t been passive.  That I had said, No, I’ll take responsibility for my own life, I am going to make a decision.  And you know, to this day, I would raise flags on all public buildings to celebrate the chance I had to make that decision.”

There’s a lot of mythology surrounding how women who have abortions feel after the fact.  Most anti-abortion activists are quick to say that all women are depressed and guilty after their abortion, but the truth is that there’s a greater risk of depression after giving birth- the most common and pervasive emotion after abortion is actually relief.  (http://www.guttmacher.org/pubs/gpr/09/3/gpr090308.html)

Obviously some women do experience depression, guilt, etc. after abortion (especially in cases where it was a wanted pregnancy that had to be terminated for other reasons), but I’d think that this is largely due to the social stigma surrounding abortion.  And for so many women, like Gloria Steinem, or many women writing to this blog (http://plannedparenthoodsavedme.tumblr.com/ ), abortion literally saves lives, in that it enables women, mostly young women, to choose the lives they couldn’t have had with a full-term pregnancy and/or child to raise.  Abortion can be an opportunity for the patient to realize their bodily autonomy, and accordingly take renewed control over their life.

The painting above was created last week in response to an assignment issued by my “Political Painting” teacher, who told us to “create a painting that utilizes the concept of beauty.”  In the wake of 2011, otherwise known as “the war on women,” and in the midst of Susan G. Komen’s defunding of Planned Parenthood (though they’ve since retracted that decision), some pro-choice art seemed appropriate.  So I wanted to create a scene in which abortion can be seen as a beautiful thing.  An umbilical cord nourishes a fetus during pregnancy- but when a woman chooses abortion, she can choose to nourish herself.  I wanted to show abortion as an act of bravery- or, in the words of Alice Walker, “Abortion, for many women, is more than an experience of suffering beyond anything most men will ever know, it is an act of mercy, and an act of self-defense .”

 

But we should not have to suffer.  We should be able to take control of our own bodies with agency and with joy.

 

 

 

*note: check out the blog “The Abortioneers,” as well as “Exhale” and the like, for authentic abortion stories.  If we tell our stories, we will be that much less alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Skeletons: thoughts on mortal love

"Bonds of Love," oil on canvas, September 2008

 

Skeletons intrigue and/or frighten most human beings I’ve met.  When I painted the above image at the age of 15, the most common feedback from my peers was, “creepy!”  But people are drawn to bones nevertheless.  They remind us of who we really are, stripped to our essentials, bare of all fleshly guise.  In Barbara Kingsolver’s novel “Animal Dreams,” the narrator speaks of her heightened awareness of her skeleton:

“While I brushed my teeth I watched the mirror closely and became aware of my skull: of the fact that my teeth were rooted in bone, and that my jawbones and all the other bones lay just under the surface of what I could see.  I wondered how I could have missed noticing, before, all those bones.  I was a skeleton with flesh and clothes and thought.  We believe there is such a safe distance between the living and the dead.”

I’ve always been fascinated by images of the Mexican holiday Los Dias de los Muertos, during which families decorate the graves of the dead people they love, and generally celebrate death as a part of life.  Octavio Paz, a Mexican writer, famously said, “The Mexican… is familiar with death.  He jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it.  It is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love.”  Dias de los Muertos paraphernalia may include skull-shaped candies, skull lanterns, skeleton costumes, and all manner of skeleton jokes.  Bones are used to symbolize a warm relationship with mortality, an acceptance of one’s own essential, bodily self.

a Dias de los Muertos performer models her costume (photographer unknown)

I love the way the holiday tends to merge the aspects of the fleshly living and the stark boniness of the dead.

A researching sketchbook page of LDdlM artwork

The Kutna Hora ossuary-church in Prague is a tremendous example of the artistry of the livings’ relationship to human bone.  I’m told that the church’s elaborate decor was created by a lone and very imaginative monk, from the remains of over seven thousand victims of the Black Plague.

Notice the chandelier. (photographer unknown)

 

My school’s “nature lab” has an entire room filled with human skeletons; for me, entering that place is like being surrounded by knowledgable ghosts.    I have never been scared of the dead, and the stark beauty of the bare human skeleton is, for me, comforting: the whole human family looks something like this, in the end.

Charles LeDray has made a name for himself through his creation of miniature worlds; some of his creations are tiny, translucent sculptures of carved human bone.  I’ve had the exquisite privilege of seeing many of them in person; when observed with the natural eye, they seem to have their own strange light of infinitely delicate strength.

"Orrery," carved human bone, by Charles LeDray.

The painting at the top of this post was originally inspired by the prompt, “Depict the bonds of love.”  I have no children, but the bond between most parents and their children struck me as the most enduring bond of love I’ve observed (and, come to think of it, taken part in, as the child).  I made some preliminary sketches of a sort of skeletal Pieta, then showed them to my mother.  Here’s what I said to her, as best as I can recall:

“Mama,” I said, “I want to make a painting like this, of an adult skeleton cradling a baby skeleton.  I’m thinking that the love between parents and children is one that goes beyond death; also, that it’s the most essential, necessary kind of human love, just like bones are the most essential structure of the body.  And- this is the part I wanted to know your opinion on- parents must love their children even more when they consider that, by passing life on to their children, they’ve finished a step on their own life cycle, and so are especially aware of their own mortality.  Is that about right?”

My mom looked down at my sketches and remarked, “It’s not important that they’re skeletons.  Their love is the most important thing.” She stood looking for a few silent minutes, then said, very simply and softly, “Yes.  That’s about right.”

I started my painting in a rather subdued frame of mind.

Two weeks ago, I attended the memorial service of a high school friend of mine, named Emma, who died unexpectedly, over Thanksgiving, at the age of 19.  Everyone who knew her is still in shock over her death, I think.  There’s really no way to comfort each other when this happens.  Emma’s mother gave the opening eulogy, finishing with a prayer to her daughter, telling Emma to wait, because she, Emma’s mother, still had work to do here, but that she would come to her someday.

We are such beautiful organisms, and we have such breathtaking structures. Our skeletons tie us together in our common mortality, and in the love that reaches over time and dimension and across the threshhold between life and death.

ink on paper, December 2010

 

In memory of Emma Rose Coleman, and in honor of the love between Emma and her mother, Rebecca Cross.