Conversation was the thing I valued most about showing on James North, as well as at the McMaster Museum of Art. The images have created in these spaces a unique opportunity for me to connect with people in a particular kind of dialogue. Aesthetics and process were always a part of these moments of mutual understanding, but an engagement with the abstract, and a searching for memory, spirit, and God have always been present too. It is my hope that in continuing to show in a shared space – with others also on the wall – that the vibrancy might continue. The exhibition here advertised is part of "The Self Proclaimed Artist Show", a group exhibition, opening on Saturday May 9th, at Sealed Art on 89 Gage Avenue South, in Hamilton. I’m not sure if I actually want to "proclaim" anything. But I hope you will proclaim your presence.
H

The miracle of resurrection is (on a microscopic level) the re-arranging of particles, animated along a form that reflects the glory of the Force that moves them into position. At Easter, Jesus’ grave cloths, folded neatly in a pile (off to one side) communicate an orderly intentionality about the whole resurrection event that says: I have risen: and the rest of the world, in the wake of this moment, also begins to re-organize, after the Will of the Animator. The Animator has re-animated.

My own re-animations are cheap imitations: the work of a mere creature. But even of such lowly worms as you and I, God moulds his purpose. He reclaims our weaknesses for His glory. The detritus of these spent art materials, then, can also be reclaimed, reorganized, and revitalized, so that they once again become useful: elements in a story, parts of some bigger galaxy. And so my use of weak vessels in my art, my working to redeem their qualities, and re-direct their purposes, points to and mirrors the way in which God uses us. Atheist philosopher Bertrand Russell claims that "unless you assume a God,the question of life’s purpose is meaningless." On the flip side – though Lyotard may be incredulous – once assume a God, you’ll also be empowered to assume your place in his meta-narrative.

Creature One greets you with a wistful smile… a glance of simultaneous apathy and hope. Distant cousin of space robot 5, he gathers together his rusted, weary bones, and trudges on, staring out at what might be another battle (or perhaps just a sunrise); it will take resolve either way to follow through with this nearly human endeavour.

I resolve.

There is a sense in which my current theme, visual theology tires me out. There are times when it feels a bit forced, when I honestly can’t be bothered to make all the connections and to piece together a coherent worldview, a global story, from a set of mundane details. And so the meditative calm is what I crave: the place where God is found in the whisper. The tension in my work between sensory overload and zen continues.

To be honest, I feel less honest than usual with this piece. I am less invested in it than in some of my other work, because it took only 6 hours instead of 30. In reflecting on the result, that has begun to change, and I’m beginning to see where it’s headed. I think it’s a painting that I’ll work back into with some really dense physical media (charcoal and chalk, perhaps). It’s not going to finish up as a mere formal study on texture vs. emptiness.

Elijah (the Jewish prophet who lived a long time ago) was a pretty intense character: A-type personality. He took it personally when his words fell on deaf ears, and ended up being rather apathetic. So he goes out into the desert to sulk. I suppose that dry, weary places seem to facilitate pondering through deep issues. Anyway, he’s there and he sees all this intensity, but God doesn’t exist in those things. It’s in the negative space and the silence that God reveals himself.

As a Christian this has everything to do with Sunday. Thank God for Sunday in my tradition, because we all need negative space in our lives. I need to take time to hear the whisper.

It also connects to the veil image that I’ve used more than once. There is a sense in which a whisper conceals something latent, something bigger than the entire noise of the wind, the earthquake and the fire. It’s the awesomeness that exists beyond the veil that is so grand, that it’s impossible to grasp, but that humbles me to remain a mere creature.

Full Size

Harm not done
is quite another thing
from love lavished.

"Do not harm your neighbour
as you do not harm yourself?"

But Paul’s love definition, too
has a negative side:
It keeps no record of wrongs.

It’s balanced,
in that it always protects, perseveres, trusts,
etc.

Wherever you go,
there you are.

Miss statue
waving her metal flame
doggedly this first of March
(whose weather Februarian remains)
scorns this rusted, worn, graffiti-bearing bridge,
sealed from its monstrosity by mist
in simultaneous terms of physics; spirit; history.
It is the same
on either side of foggy separation
this brand of liberty, which candidly
facilitates both polished empire and slum:
spray-can empire,
and the slum that is the filth
within the hearts of you and me.
(to be redeemed…)

I create spiritually-themed images that fuse the qualities of traditional art with the freedom of digital media. My work addresses themes of language, time, seasonal change, cycles, and growth, as well as resurrection and redemption. Drawing from a Reformed theological understanding, I explore the connections between art and Christian faith. My focus is to express the interconnectedness of everyday detail with and within a broader story, through a mapping of textural similarities onto one another. By blending traditional artforms (painting and drawing) with photography and sculptural elements, my prints are invested with a saturated, layered vitality.

Visual theology is a two-day event, opening on Friday, February 20th from 7pm to 10pm, and continuing on Saturday February 21st from 9am – 10pm. The venue is James North Studio, at 328 James Street North, in Hamilton Ontario.

Please stop by to enjoy, engage, and discuss. I’d love to see you there!

H.

It’s wonderful to reminisce over an old painting, and to look at it with fresh perception. I see this violent, searching, brooding, stubbornly-hopeful tree as a chapter in my own history where I learned much. The deep lessons of darker paintings and brokenness manifest themselves later in the nuanced ways in which further visual exploration (and living itself) thrives. The simple curved horizon, and flat barrier between soil and subsoil are a compositional structure that has remained appealing to me. They are simple, and facilitate the enclosure of more detailed organic forms. I’m doing this digitally now, with There is a River and Fall; Rise in more patterned and intricate ways… but this tentacled beast may well have been the starting point. I don’t project onto it the same (angry) emotion that I did three years ago. Today, a set of hooks draped over the edge, it serves as a gracious backdrop for my coat-rack. Peace.
Tree – Large Size

With a temperature in Ontario hovering around 20 degrees C below zero, there isn’t much of anything flowing around here, unless it’s natural gas towards the furnace. Flowing, however, happens abundantly, joyfully, in the pages of the Scriptures. Psalm 46: "There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God". We might also reflect with the author of the first Psalm in His description of the Blessed, "like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season". Ezekiel, too, encounters a river, in his vision of the third temple. Not unlike the gushing forth coerced by Moses out of a rock in the desert, this stream also originates at a solid place: the threshold of God’s house. And this river, too, is prompted by a strike: that of God’s glory, returning forcefully to the temple from the east, with a mighty sound, and with bright shining. Isaiah’s words describe what happens to the landscape when God blesses it: "the wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing." Eschatology has it’s own river too, as written about in Revelation 22:"Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations." In 2008, Jon Foreman, (referencing the river we metaphorically cross at death), sang this lyric: "Over the river, I’ll find my hope, in you." And in 2009, I see a visual connection between the river and the way the Holy Spirit works: carving out channels of life into us, weak vessels of God’s grace and glory. May His grace be with you, and fill your heart with joy. Praise!

These holiday weeks have been a wonderful time of reflection. And now I have come across a beautiful way to represent that calm. The green tea leaves were a Christmas gift, from my Chinese friend whose knowledge of medicines and papermaking astounds me. The tea leaves form the caring texture beneath my mirrored forehead skin; and thus I ruminate in these days of stillness. Praise God for blessings: for Jocelyn, for tea, and for filtered sunlight traversing coated optics.