Death in the gallery

Georges Rouault's No. 3: toujours flagelle...(forever scourged)

This past weekend, my husband and I treated ourselves (actually, admission was free) to  SLU’s Museum of Contemporary Religious Art’s (MOCRA) “Good Friday” exhibit.  The exhibit closed Sunday, May 17.

I am a great art admirer.  I say “admirer,” not “lover,” because the latter implies knowledge, and I cannot lay claim to much knowledge of art.  I am, as Tolkien said of his own relationship to the land of Faerie, “a wandering explorer (or trespasser) in the land, full of wonder but not of information.” [J.R.R. Tolkien, "On Fairy Stories"]

Especially I am attracted to the religious art.  This is undoubtedly partly because of my Reformed Christian associations.  Being heir to a stridently iconoclastic Presbyterian tradition, I’m afraid I’ve been severely underexposed to religious works of art.  Less exposed than an average Roman Catholic or Orthodox believer, certainly.  Those in my stripe of Christianity are often strongly opposed to any hint of images in relation to worship (an impulse that I find bewildering.  As if the events that passed in Palestine 2,000 years ago merely took place between the ears and behind the eyes!  John said those were events “we have seen with our eyes and touched with our hands.” [1 John 1:1]), and this has naturally excluded many otherwise opportune moments for reflection on religious works of art. Sometimes this impulse within Reformed Christianity has spilled over into a suspicion of all religious image-making, regardless of its intended use, leaving a general dearth of religious art-making among us.

And so lately I’ve endeavored to fill in that deficit. Whatever Reformed tradition may say, I’m inclined to agree with the introductory remarks to MOCRA’s “Good Friday” brochure:  “These images play a role in worship, education and formation, and devotion.”  That role can be a moving and spiritually beneficial one.

Although “Good Friday” ended its run on Sunday, allow me to share some highlights:

The first work we encountered as we entered the exhibit was Adrian Kellard’s “Prayer of the Faithful in Ordinary Time” (1988), a rendering of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, the first event of Good Friday (occurring in the wee hours of the morning).  Kellard took as his model the familiar painting by German artist Heinrich Hoffman, a painting many Christians have seen hanging on chapel walls or printed on devotional literature.  Kellard’s piece is bright with color, versus the subdued tones of Hoffman’s original.  But arresting the viewer’s attention is the ticking clock that hangs where the moon might have been. Jesus is looking intently at it as He prays, watching the last hours of His life tick away.  The viewer inevitably is moved to ponder the fact that a similar countdown to the viewer’s own death is taking place, though unnoticed, every moment of his or her own day.  Mortality looms large.  What will the viewer do with this knowledge?

Down the row a pace was Craig Antrim’s “Icon Wall.”  Colorful and inviting, this work consists of three walls covered with dozens of icons of the cross, in every shape, size, and color.  The viewer is drawn to ponder the significance of the supreme Christian symbol, that powerful, simple sign of death by execution, that has nevertheless been transformed into the great sign of life for the world.

Antrim’s icons are prodigious.  The sheer repetition of the symbol demands that we listen to its meaning. The cross will not be ignored or dismissed; even for those who accept it, it will not be passed by easily; it demands to be heard, it claims the central place in life, and leaves its indelible imprint upon the observer.  Christ has died.

Toward the end of the exhibit walk was St. Louis’ own Bill Christman’s work, “The Fourteenth Station of the Cross: Jesus Laid in the Tomb.”  This iron-like box chained and riveted securely shut forcefully declares the finality of death and of the tomb.  Yet a window allows the viewer to peek inside the blackness of the grave.  There the viewer beholds a tiny cross glowing an eerie red.  The effect is unnerving: I found the small red glowing object suggestive of a still-beating heart inside a dark tomb, more suggestive of the horror of the undead than of the promise of Jesus’ bodily resurrection and return to light and life.

My favorite works were Nick Boskovich’s two photo-realistic paintings, “Emmaus: Rose of the Passion (Requiem for Caravaggio),” and “Good Friday.”  These elegant scenes are alive with richness, symbolism, and a morning light.  “Good Friday” displays relics of the crucifixion, including the head portion of the Shroud of Turin, set out in a simple table scene.  The “Emmaus” painting is a fitting and hope-giving finish to the parade of death-scenes and agony that comprised the “Good Friday” exhibit: it consists of a white rose, a loaf of bread, and a glass of wine.  Life-signs.  Against all hope, Jesus has been here: He has eaten and drunk; He is alive forevermore, and so shall we be, if we consent to be fed by Him.  Christ is risen; Christ will come again.