Art Begotten, Not Made

     Peter J. Schlumbohm was a German chemist who invented the Chemex brewglass, which in addition to brewing a deliciously aromatic cup of coffee, is also in the Museum of Modern Art by virtue of its captivating and yet simple aesthetic.  This picture of Schlumbohm contemplating his creation captures the most beautiful moment in the creative life and it invites us to ask how other artists reflect on the birth of their artwork.

How did Eliot feel when the hands that wrote The Four Quartets felt them bound for the first time?
How did Mozart feel when Don Giovanni's notes rang not only in his mind but in the air?
How did van Gogh feel when his vivid sunflowers stared back at him from amidst their strokes?
How did the writers and printers of the King James Version of the Bible feel when every word was translated, every page was cut and every letter stamp was assembled and united in one leather bound song.

      I imagine that moment, when the art looks back at the artist, is a little like when "the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul" (Gen 2:7).  It is an eerie moment when your art looks back at you; bearing something of your image and likeness (Gen 1:26-7).  It seems fitting that Alyosha, Ivan and Dmitri Karamazov in The Brothers Karamazov bear the middle name "Fyodorovich," for the father in their narrative is Fyodor Karamazov but the father of their narrative is Fyodor Dostoevsky.  Imagine the massive genealogies Dostoevsky fathered through his novels.

      Art is not just creating but begetting and the pieces are children born of our experience and creativity. Just as the Schlumbohm remembers the thought and love he has poured into this coffee glass, I know that God looks upon us thoughtfully and lovingly pouring more of Himself into us, because like most perfectionists, he's not done with us.  The Divine Artist desires His image and likeness to be fully manifest in his children.  St. Paul tells us that we see in a "mirror" dimly: meaning that the artwork and the Artist are in the end meant to see themselves in each other, for as St. John writes:

"Beloved, now we are the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he shall appear, we shall be like him: for we shall see him as he is" (1 John 3:2).

Until then, you and I are a piece of work.

The Epistle to the Caffeinians

To My Brothers and Sisters in Grad School, 


Our struggle is not only against flesh and blood, but against professors, against papers, against deadlines, against the darkness of fatigue and yet, if Coffee is for us, who is against us?  


No margin width, nor page length, nor any word count shall be able to separate us from the Love of Coffee.  The lips of our mugs and mouths should greet each other with a holy kiss, for the Love of Coffee is in both of them.  


Remember brothers and sisters that this Hell Week is but a light affliction, all our rubbing, focusing and blinking of eyes are working towards our professors' ever-exceeding and eternal work of grading.  


Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all stay asleep, but we will all be changed: through the course of a mug our eyes will twinkle, as the beans are ground and the pot is brewed, the aromas will waft unbelievably, and we will be changed.


Truly brothers and sisters, 

    I can do all things through Coffee 
which strengthens me 
   and (at least this week) 
It is not I who live, 
    but Coffee, who lives in me.  


Amen

Aquinas' Prayer Before Study Is Always Good

Aquinas' Summa Theologica (Picture not mine, but similar style)

O INEFFABLE Creator, 

Who, from the treasures of Thy Wisdom,
didst establish three hierarchies of angels,
and didst array them in marvelous order
above the fiery heavens,
and marshalst the regions
of the universe with such artful skill,

Thou, Who art proclaimed
the True Font of Light and Wisdom,
and the Primal Origin
raised high beyond all things.

Pour forth a ray of Thy brightness
into the darkened places of my mind;
disperse from my soul
the twofold darkness
into which I was born:
sin and ignorance.

Thou givest speech
to the tongues of infants,
refine my speech
and pour forth upon my lips
the goodness of Thy blessing.

Grant to me
keenness of mind,
capacity to remember,
skill in learning,
subtlety to interpret,
and eloquence in speech.

Guide the beginning of my work,
direct its progress,
and bring it to completion.

Thou, Who art true God and true Man,
Who livest and reignest, world without end.

Amen

Sunday Afternoon

Leaves in simple winds.

A lovingly warm teapot.

We all hum along.

I Ran, so It Rained (Part II)

Waves rushed at me ominously as the 

gray sky was deepened in their darker depths.

Their advances were thwarted by the shore,

but their prophesy was clearly echoed in

the thick mist, who blurred the line between

my sweat's ending and the rain's beginning.

The drops dappled my eyes and between them

the last sight I saw was the Reservoir's trail 

turning from dust to mud and puddles as
the cares and ink of scribbled to-do notes
runs thoughtlessly off the back of my hand.

Sheets of rain and the haze hovering upon impact

were all a visual cacophony and so I turned within,

where all was simply running, and like my lungs,

my shirt, shorts and socks held me close

as they tried to cling to my inmost being.

Even my skin becomes wet drapery clinging

as my simple self gets a new garment in this baptism.

Now I see, all that was outside of this Image within, 

was dried out and brittle and with this wetness

the clay of my life becomes moldable again.

As my feet cast splashes in the streets,

I can stand at the edge of the sidewalk as cars pass

and welcome the wakes of their wheel wells

as my brothers and we can rush on,

all together in this one Flood.

It Rained, so I Wrote (Part I)

My bike leaned against the dripping trellis
and while I was gone, the concord vine grew
around my brakeline as though telling me
that maybe I should slow down . . .

So I walked down the wet road
and the sky obscured the lofty
tops of apartments along my way.
The fog covers these façades
and the mist keeps them mysteries.

Looking up I saw the
trembling glass beads of melodies
strung across these bars of branches
and as I read the rain's notation,
on leaves, buds and twigs,
a bird alighted
and in an act of composition,
the notes fell,
and the scored called
for a few more measures of rest.

But the heavens are still heavy
and I feel drips dropping
staccato on my face as the
rain writes, once again.