"I made a new religion of poetic tradition...of personages, and of emotions, inseparable from their first expression, passed on from generation to generation by poets and painters. I wished for a world where I could discover this tradition perpetually, and not in pictures and poems only, but in tiles round the chimney piece and in the hangings that kept out the draft."
Thus wrote the Pre-Raphaelite artist, William Butler Yeats. Yeats, along with several others of his time, was perceptive (and responsive) to the encroaching change in English art and criticism. It was becoming ever more clear that the arts were to be relegated to the characterization of beauty. An increasingly secular civil atmosphere coupled with the stringent pomp of the elite would bear upon hardened shoulders the great scythe of Thanatos, swift to strike and loathe to miss.
Yet, upon the footsteps of the Romantics, there birthed a small group of men who wished to perceive art in a different spectrum. As a light fractured into airborne jewels by the shattering of stained glass these few glimpsed the intricate nature of art. That is to say poetry, painting, craftsmanship, faith, and myth ought all be combined to form a mosaic which spoke of truth. These artists called themselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood; they would be a guild that sought to work in a style that reflected the nature of artists before Raphael.
The "PRB" was despised by the establishment. Charles Dickens famously deemed John Everett Millais' Christ in the House of His Parents to be trash. It is no wonder that this was so as the Brotherhood stood firm against the rushing tide of heavy brush strokes and bourgeoisie nature of the 19th century artist. They wished to harken back to a Christian way of life, heaped in mystery and love; they were enraptured by the spiritual nature of myth and magic; they saw art as being true unto truth.
The Pre-Raphaelites were not only reformed painters, but one in particular was another sort of artist altogether. William Morris was one of the last renaissance men (surpassed only by one other man in his day: Lord Dunsany). He was also the the father of the English Arts and Crafts Movement. Morris was an author, tapestry weaver, and crafter; his love was to see the medieval methods of art reborn in the home.
Morris, the great craftsman, wished for art to be lived. To him a man's house was to be a center for all activity in the family and ought, therefore, to be of purely artistic endeavor itself. By way of this belief, Morris rejected the mass appeal of the assembly line in favor of household objects made by one's own hand.
This philosophy is of wondrous appeal to myself as I believe it brings a person to one of the most spiritual of all places: creation. For a man to conjecture something with his mind and then put it into place with his hands is for him to learn self-discipline, independence, care, and even contentment. To be able to step back, and like The Father say, "it is good", is a moment to forever relish.
To further this argument I will ask how the reader felt the first time he cooked a meal. Surely it was not the most delicate of sups, but it must have been an accomplishment nonetheless. And, when he came to cook such food again, it must have been better than before. Here was something that could be shared, enjoyed, and told stories about. Now, imagine that last expensive dinner one took. It may have been enjoyable, but only once did it happen, and, the knowledge of it is only owned for a day or two. It is the same with crafting, only a work of one person's labors is an object which holds the honor of sitting proudly for all to see amidst the threshold of the home.
It is my opinion that Morris would have spit at the doorsteps of the houses of today. These mockeries of creativity go against all that was once presumed good about a household. Homes in our increasingly consumerist and "efficient" culture have become little more than carbon-copies of one another built en masse with cheap products and cheap labor. Indeed, they go against the very idea of a home. For it is a home that becomes an extension of a person; it is his dream in reality. This place becomes a haven for ideals, beauty, and family. What a home is not has become the norm however, and that is a byway on a busy road. People spend few hours in their home. The time they do spend is curtailed by mindless television and sleep.
But I fall off track. William Morris saw the soul of a man birthed in his ability to create something. Others of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood wished to revert to a truthful, Christian lore in their art. Unfortunately, many have said that these men failed as the avante-garde movements of the 19th and 20th centuries were littered with completely emotive "art" that in no way brought man closer to the ideal of Christianity. I would argue, however, that this is untrue.
There have been a few who carried on in the traditions of those mentioned. One in particular has been J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien was inspired visually by the works of Waterhouse and other PRB members. He also owed much of his fantastical stories of Middle-Earth to the writing of William Morris. Morris, wonderful craftsman that he was, helped to begin the modern "fantasy" (along with Lord Dunsany)which continues to inspire many to see beauty in the earth, mythology, and good deeds.
In the end, the wonder of a beautiful world that is dazzling to the eye yet lost to death ought to continue to capture our attention. Artists must move back to a love for morality, mythology, and charity in order to renew the wondrous world of art to a land that is completely estranged from it. That is my hope, and I shall do my best to continue on in the legacy of such great men, small a stone as I am.
Blossoming the rose,
her sheer petals,
they rise and enshrine
that inner sanctum.
Its folds, they are red scarlet,
in layer over intense layer,
a blanket of sweet succor,
it has come to my lips.
Drink do I,
from this cup.
A delicate petal,
soft as spun silk
rises upon the golden elixir,
lies as a bleeding heart,
upon the frozen surface
of this conjured love.
Briton, dear Briton; oh, where didst thou go?
Thy glory has gone in fields of wet snow.
No more do the larks sing in high trees;
lost is cool air in a moor swept breeze.
Briton, dear Briton; thou was robbed of sweet life;
as cold metals did pierce thy heart like a knife.
Thou slavest to know goodness, free will, and cheer,
but no longer the old ways dost thou choose to hold dear.
Briton, dear Briton; come back to my stead,
and let sweet remembrance come unto thy head.
When Arthur and Robyn and good Christian love
made lofty thy presence, below stars high above.
Briton, dear Briton; thou shalt never return,
for the world is at odds with tradition well worn;
but fear not for thy spirit shall stir in other men's hands,
and commune a while longer in faraway lands.
His palms lie cracked and open,
stretching wide into pillars broken;
a body he possesses in sorrow,
and pass it shall afore the morrow;
"Goodnight, sweet earth...", he sings.
Behind him there is a path;
crumbling it lies, the aftermath
of toiling brown earth, tilling gray fields,
and losing faith in all that he feels;
"I turned from you...", he sings.
The world was younger in that day,
and all good things were built to stay;
that is, until he trod down to
the road that belonged to him, he knew;
"In you, I sought my worth...", he sings.
All ways are wearily made,
when only shadows cast their aid;
appreciation is a long lost lullaby,
that none can see against the darkened sky;
"you turned from me...", he sings.
He stumbled then, with fragile heart,
as he turned in vain to tear apart
from the lonely road he'd tarried down,
and saw now weeds upon the ground;
"Prideful, I beget a withered tree...", he sings.
As he sinks into endless dream,
in final thoughts his aged opals gleam;
for at the peak of all distress,
a holy hand pulled him from duress;
"I rose in birth...", he sings.
Time, he is ne'er a friend to those who find,
that what one seeks is not behind;
for knowing came at break of death,
to him who had no mornings left;
"...and found lofty sleep...", he sings.
Gray stalks of lash fall like high cascade,
and paling lips, they split and quake;
he reaches up, the weary man,
and once again lets down his hand;
"here they come to lay me deep...", he sings.
The road is long, and always bends,
until it clashes with the end;
and the man's last breath in quiet calm,
lets go all that which broke his palm.
"...goodnight...", he sings.
To create; this is the great cause of the author. His is the vision of a world unseen, and, in that vein, there lies a fervent desire to bring about life. More-so than that even, the author's will is poured into the reason for his creation's existence. He understands a concept that philosophers have for all time pondered. Perhaps he cannot put this notion into words, but it lies as a foundation in directing all of his work.
Dignity, honor, truth, justice; all of these virtues are envisioned in noble writing. They are not the representation of a character's will, but the forces which define a hero. They are the absence of normative actions in the face of danger and temptation. Through these a character finds essence; existence becomes the pursuit of living in retaliation to evil. The wholesome author realizes this and seeks to define the history of his world in relation to the the few who embodied these ideals. He understands that evil will cause the past to recur, and so cause hope to fail. But, as long as hope remains, even as a flickering light, a hero will rise.
It is in this that the author realizes his dream. To keep alive the hope of the real world. He ennobles the hearts of otherwise normal people by building in them a desire to see good reign victorious. They come to find that though they may live in a withering land, these few can prosper by keeping virtue alive. The man lost at sea does not does not lose faith when he sees the stars at night. For in their patterns, he can find direction. It is the same with the modern man. He may be floundering amidst the waves of a dying world, but when he sees virtue, he finds existence. It is here that direction is reborn, the sails are put to mast, and land appears on the horizon.
The wholesome author, in pursuit of penning a world on paper, also seeks two other ends. The first is the ultimate fruit of love: sacrifice. To give one's very being speaks the tongue of all the languages throughout time. The author understands that in order for a character to give that irrevocable gift, there must be certain defining motives. One, the hero must have hope that his death will change the situation of those he loves. And two, it must be made not through force, but by choice. Why does the sacrificial act resonate so deeply with the reader? I will contend that it is a remembrance of the true sacrifice made by the Christ, Jesus. All have a general wish for a savior, and perceiving one even in literature shakes the roots of the heart.
The second end which must be mentioned is the true end; that is the finish. A reader begins a novel with the intention that what was begun will conclude. The writer also understands that his world is finite. Also, in relation to the great story of Christianity, the penman realizes the vision he has realized began in glory and fell in the mires of evil. Virtuous men fought, sometimes apparently in vain, against this blackness. They set in all good hearts a hope that the earth would once again be bathed in light. Finally, when dark will seemed on the verge of victory, a savior came and set in place an opportunity for all things to be made right. Now, at the final heartbeat of the land, good rises like the sun and overcomes the night. In short, it is the heralding of a happy ending.
The happy ending is the last recognition that once again all will be renewed in reality. It is the "evangelium" spoken of by J.R.R. Tolkien. We all wish for the "fairy tale ending", and the wholesome author's final ideal is to express that this is the great portent of his writing that is not fantasy.
Not much time to type today. I've been breaking my back attempting to finish a "pseudo-thesis" in order to graduate. Its a dainty little 20+ page paper that all students of the religious studies department must complete, and, doubtless mine is the most exciting topic a 22-year-old senior could lay his mind upon: the collusion of Christian ideals with Kierkegaardian (made that word up) concepts in the hope of forming a therapeutic process of counseling which deals with an existential means of becoming healthy-whew-that is a mouthful.
Now, I am sure you are wondering, "why the need for that fancy word? Why not just merge Christian counseling with existential psychotherapies?"
That is what you were asking, right! If it is, you are in luck! Or, more precisely, you will be in luck. Mostly because I'm not talking about it until I completely finish my paper (then, much to your benefit-insert appreciative nod-I will not only give you that answer, but 20+ pages of them!
Enough rambling; what I wish to talk about today is what I've found in writing this paper. Firstly, I love to write, and I consider it a wondrous art and a privilege to have the ability to do so. It is too bad that when I have a deadline in writing a paper with all the cheer and excitement of this current one, I will mark the days until there are none left. In essence, its on par with walking blindfold towards a cliff with both hands tied behind your back and a stone tied around your waist. Okay, perhaps its not as torturous as that, but when you do (and I am sure you will) find yourself in that predicament I recommend attempting to remove the blindfold, cuffs, and stone before you get to the edge. It is the same with a paper. If one decides (and I mean pushes oneself) to write said essay in a leisurely fashion allowing time to flow evenly (because, like it or not, time will not stop for you the eve before the due date), then it becomes an enjoyable activity. If not...just jump off the cliff when you get to it (things will be a lot less bothersome).
It is in leisure that writing (for me) finds its highest potential. For the past several years I have been compiling notes and ideas in order to pen a novel. It is only recently, after much deliberation and soul-searching, that I have decided I finally have the skeletal structure needed to begin such a monumental feat. I must remember, however, that my goal in compiling a book is not only to finish it (before man flies to Mars, I should hope), but also to enjoy writing it. This is why I have decided that whether it is one word, one hundred words, or one thousand words I shall write a small bit of it everyday beginning my first day after graduation! Wish me luck, and remember, when that hideous notion of a research paper comes up, don't hold it off, but welcome it and handle it proudly for the short time you work on it (I should pray that after reading all of this, that will be sooner than the day after the professor requests it).
One day I stood upon a hill. Its red earth was dotted with green tufts of grass and adorned with gray, rounded stones. The side I climbed up sloped towards the south and to things forgotten. West of the hill the sun swung itself loose from the world's end and cut an arch through a velvet sky. In the East, the land was draped in black. At the top, where I stood, was one solemn tree.
Its roots, long and thick, sunk deep into the recesses of the hill. Those twisted tendrils knotted and melded until they met in the form of a wide trunk. This rotting base was cracked with age and one might wonder how much longer the weighty top could rest upon such decrepit shoulders. The upper portion of the tree was built in stark contrast to its ugly, lower region. Enormous branches, white as midday clouds and smoother than sculpted ice, soared out at every angle. Delicate leaves swathed in fiery orange danced upon them and at the tips blossomed blood red flowers made up of thin, pointy petals. From the large and heavy branches sprang ever smaller twigs (which in turn sprouted into new twigs) that twisted around each other forming white-gilded knots that shone like ebony.
My eyes, enraptured by the spiraling chaos of the branches, leaves, and flowers, were led (almost against their will) to a point above the tree's top. In the sky there was a yellow glow that pulsed out from a winged creature. It floated there in space, not much larger than a human baby, and looked not into my eyes, but at my chest as if it sought to see the depths of my heart. Two wings the color of amber sprouted from its back and two more were covering its feet. Another set of wings sprang from its ears and covered the entire front of the being's heavenly body. The effect was like looking at a head that peered out of a golden, feather covered egg. It appeared to be bald, but I can never know for certain because a purple cap sat flat upon the entire forehead.
As I stared at the angel (for this word is the only one I know which can adequately describe the being) its mouth opened and it began to sing. Music resonated across the mound. It brought to my mind the melancholy of a midwinter snow; I was overcome with the steady peace given by a morning shower; even the joviality rendered by a summer sunset pierced my soul. There were no words (in fact, there may have been no noise at all). Instead, the song and voice were inside me. I was filled to overflowing by their beauty, and from my pores a mist the color of Spring flowed.
Then, I opened my mouth so as to sing this song for the world to hear. It was by no action of my own that I did this, but I was being guided by law. From inside a note was beckoned and just as it was called to my lips...it died.
The angel spread its wings (they measured at least thrice its body's size), and, never taking its gaze off me, flew away from the hill and into the darkened east. My heart grew faint, and my body grew dim. The mist died away and inside I was an empty water flask; built for a purpose and unable to fulfill it. The hope that had been so real only moments earlier was erased, and all I was left with was hands groping in thin air.
Then I saw the tree.
Its dead trunk was no longer only brown, but black as coal. Not only that, but its sick look was no longer relegated to the tree's bottom. It was traveling like a disease, upwards into the heart of the tree. White polished bark began to peel and die, curling into thick rotted strips. Branches, that had moments ago seemed so majestic and eternal, were cracking under their own weight and fell to ground shattering upon impact. The golden leaves and crimson flowers twisted and stretched until they too were destroyed. At one single moment, they all caught fire and burst into gray ash.
My heart collapsed as I saw this wondrous creature die. Its perishing was instantaneous, but it was long enough to deserve a history all its own. I looked down upon the smoking rubble, and my heart yearned to see it renewed. In me burnt a new fire; it was not the same which destroyed the innocent tree and the timeless song of the angel. Instead, it was a cleansing fire. Hot and white with a purpose that rivaled that of the sun. I looked westward and perceived that great dweller of the dawn only to see that its course had shifted. Instead of traveling up, the great fiery ball was sinking back into the cold earth.
After all I'd lost, I should have wailed in pain at such a sight. The last light of the world was drawing back into itself. I would be left alone on the cliff, shivering in the cold night. Somehow, I did not give in to this thought. There was another light; the one that grew inside of me. It would never leave me wanting.
At that moment, the sun was only a thin strip on the Western horizon. A second later, and it was gone. All was silent. The hill had been wrapped in a blanket the color of black slate. I looked in all directions at the eternal figure of night. It did not stop, but chose to go on into forever. But, I remembered that night is only dark because there is no light. I was not afraid.
I looked down to where I imagined the tree had been and was perplexed to see a faint, glimmering object. It shimmered with a nature that was not unlike a small sun. I reached down and easily scooped the light into the palm of my hand. It was soft and round. I saw that it was shaped like a globe and from its recesses the light shone. The emanation was small, but it drove away all doubts and fears. Courage and renewed hope shot through my veins. I laughed. The ball was a seed.