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Okay, got some bits from my reading... Starting with the smallest quote (and considering getting a little more caffiene, since I'm getting a bit sleepy...)
"Artists live a spirituality of epiphanies. We are called to see and be seen, and the veil between the two is often thin. Living at the line between the visible and the invisible, we make our images of the Divine (however we define this) and have ever done so.
Repeatedly I know the times (the life times) when I go to ground. Let me alone, I say. I need to rot and rise up and say, "Look, I have fashioned something which has never existed before." In a sustained, rhythmic, creative life, the essential urge for solitude and the fall into our prima materia is utterly trustworthy, despite fear of failure, of chaos. Artists thrive in the deepest layer of mulch; we seed those pockets where the search has reached deepest, places where the hunt consumes the very ground that hosts it. We sit down deeply into the compost from which all imagery rises. We sit down into that darkness, that somber place, uncertain whether any image will rise from those containers in our soul that never dry out, where deep memories spill forth even denser memories until we marvel at the wellspring and the obesiance to the source, Her dark matrix.
In museums, in those houses of the muses, I often want to kiss paintings and run my hands over sculpture. In Rome I once found smooth marble hounds at the feet of divine Artemis. They still break my heart, as does Bacon's dog at the Tate and Matisse's Dance, as do the hands of Piero's Madonna della Misericordia and Dosso Dossi's butterflies--an endless litany. Everywhere there are sacred images to approach, each a sacramental sign, a source of grace. As I might enter a church, I enter a museum to pray to beauty. I listen to what Antre Malraux called "the voices of silence." Silent images stand time still. They are now and always present, ever playing round the edge of memory..."
--Meinrad Craighead, Lodestone
"Artists live a spirituality of epiphanies. We are called to see and be seen, and the veil between the two is often thin. Living at the line between the visible and the invisible, we make our images of the Divine (however we define this) and have ever done so.
Repeatedly I know the times (the life times) when I go to ground. Let me alone, I say. I need to rot and rise up and say, "Look, I have fashioned something which has never existed before." In a sustained, rhythmic, creative life, the essential urge for solitude and the fall into our prima materia is utterly trustworthy, despite fear of failure, of chaos. Artists thrive in the deepest layer of mulch; we seed those pockets where the search has reached deepest, places where the hunt consumes the very ground that hosts it. We sit down deeply into the compost from which all imagery rises. We sit down into that darkness, that somber place, uncertain whether any image will rise from those containers in our soul that never dry out, where deep memories spill forth even denser memories until we marvel at the wellspring and the obesiance to the source, Her dark matrix.
In museums, in those houses of the muses, I often want to kiss paintings and run my hands over sculpture. In Rome I once found smooth marble hounds at the feet of divine Artemis. They still break my heart, as does Bacon's dog at the Tate and Matisse's Dance, as do the hands of Piero's Madonna della Misericordia and Dosso Dossi's butterflies--an endless litany. Everywhere there are sacred images to approach, each a sacramental sign, a source of grace. As I might enter a church, I enter a museum to pray to beauty. I listen to what Antre Malraux called "the voices of silence." Silent images stand time still. They are now and always present, ever playing round the edge of memory..."
--Meinrad Craighead, Lodestone
