The Thing With Feathers: Emily Dickinson on Hope

When I read Emily Dickinson's poetry I often find myself both surprised and comforted.  With her spare, incisive language, she frequently seems to hit on something that I've felt but not been able to express.  This, I suppose, is one of the things great artists are able to do: take something indistinct and make it palpable with words, or sounds, or colors.  There is a feeling of comfort in knowing that someone else has felt the same thing, and there is feeling of surprise in seeing something which seemed hazy and difficult to define suddenly become so clear.

Dickinson wrote a number of poems about hope, and they have helped me to clarify my own understanding of this feeling.  Here's one of them:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird 
That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea - 
Yet, never, in Extremity.
It asked a crumb - of Me.

Several things struck me about this image of Hope as a bird.  First,  there is "singing the tune without the words", which, to me, implies a certain amount of courage.  To sing without knowing the words is to gleefully try something you don't yet know how to do perfectly.  Second, there is the idea that Hope doesn't ask anything of us.  Hope is as undemanding as the birds who arrive in spring; you can feed them, but they will come whether you do or not.  Finally, Hope is something that just does not stop.  It sings, and sings, and sings, and sings, no matter how harsh the storm.

Here's another poem from Dickinson on the same topic, this one written sixteen years later.

Hope is a strange invention - 
A Patent of the Heart - 
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out -

Of this electric Adjunct 
Not anything is known 
But its unique momentum 
Embellish all we own - 

Once again Hope is unstoppable, with its "unique momentum" and "unremitting action".  It is also an "electric Adjunct", a mysterious current of energy which serves to "Embellish all we own", that is, to make our whole lives beautiful.  

Sometimes the word hope sounds wishy-washy and daydreamy, but if Dickinson is to be believed, it is actually powerful and resilient.  It may be as invisible as electricity or as small-looking as a bird caught in a storm, but that does not diminish its potency.  I am grateful for images like these, because they allow me to visualize the hope that I feel.  They also remind me that my experience is not at all unlike that of others who have also felt that same persistent, mysterious, and beautiful song of hope.

Censored! The Saint with Bare Feet

I just finished reading Andrew Graham-Dixon's Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane.  It's a thick book (442 pages), but it doesn't get dull, because neither did Caravaggio's life.  Without going into a full summary, suffice it to say that while Caravaggio painted many saints, he did not live the life of one.  He was often in trouble, and at one point in his life he had to flee Rome because he had committed murder.

And yet, in spite of his violent tendencies, Caravaggio was nevertheless an insightful artist whose work I admire.  One of my favorite stories about Caravaggio relates to a painting he made of St. Matthew and an angel.  The painting no longer exists because it was destroyed by fire during World War II, but we know what it looked like because we have photographs.  

Michelangelo Caravaggio, Saint Matthew and the Angel, 1602

To me, the painting is a very tender image.  The intimate connection between an ordinary man and a celestial being creates a nice contrast and speaks to what is actually happening here: divinely inspired words forming on a physical page.  In a sense the whole picture is about heavenliness (in the form of an exquisite angel) and earthliness (in the form of an old, rugged-looking man with his blank pages and pen) coming together. 

What I learned as I read, however, is that some of the things I love about the painting were actually very offensive to the people who commissioned it.  The painting was originally intended for the church of San Luigi dei Francesi, but neither the congregation, the priests, nor the wealthy patrons were ready for this image.  They did not want to see a humble saint with his bare feet awkwardly sticking out in the middle of the painting, because bare feet implied poverty.  By painting the saint without shoes, Caravaggio was welcoming the poor into the church and indicating to them that Christ and his followers had been ordinary, hardworking people like them.  But the patrons weren't looking for a saint in plain clothes; they wanted their Saint Matthew to look like a dignified intellectual.  They didn't want to see the angel gently guiding his heavy hand; they wanted him to look wise enough to write on his own.  

The painting was taken down, and Caravaggio made a new painting of the same subject, which was deemed acceptable and still hangs in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi today.  

Michelangelo Caravaggio, The Inspiration of Saint Matthew, 1602

The relationship between angel and saint is totally altered here, and Matthew appears to be merely listening to (but not physically guided by) the angel.  There is no affection whatsoever between the two, and there is a formality to the the composition.  Matthew's feet are still unshod, but they are neatly tucked into the shadows where they can scarcely be seen.  Furthermore, Matthew's posture and facial expression indicate that he is a distinguished figure with great knowledge to share.  The angel is just short of an accessory.

Whenever we censor a piece of art we are also acknowledging its power.  Caravaggio's patrons were doing just that when they insisted that the painting be taken down and replaced.  Bare feet may seem innocuous enough, but when those bare feet make a statement about who is welcome and who doesn't belong, those feet become dangerous.  

Not every painting is provocative, nor does it need to be.  Some artwork serves other equally valuable functions.  When a painting does provoke a strong reaction, however, we are reminded of the degree to which artists wield influence.  Caravaggio may not have been a good man, but he was a great artist, because he had the courage to address uncomfortable truths.  Poverty was a problem in Rome, and he was right to say that the poor should be made to feel welcome.  Even in his second, more palatable painting he still doesn't create a saccharine version of the story.  The saint's feet, though they may be seen in profile and obscured by shadows, are still bare.  He hints, however subtly, that the church is not primarily a place for those with prestige and power.  

Paint Dexter Plein Air Festival

This week I'm participating in the Paint Dexter Plein Air Festival.  Dexter is a cute town near Ann Arbor with lots of parks and farmland surrounding it.  This is the second year they are hosting the festival, and it's a fun, well-organized event.  On Monday morning you get your plain white canvas or paper stamped to indicate that you didn't get an early start on your project, and then you have until Friday morning to complete one or two plein air paintings in the town or the nearby parks.  There is a silent auction on Friday and Saturday, so folks have the opportunity to come by and purchase the work.  

Having only four days to complete the work puts a little pressure on artists.  While I was working this week, I was reminded of the Duke Ellington quote "I don't need time, I need a deadline."  It's common for artists with unlimited time to procrastinate, but in the presence of a sharp deadline, most of us buckle down and get the job done.  Actually, this week was exactly the kind of week when I would have ordinarily stayed inside instead of heading out to paint, since it rained hard both Monday and Tuesday.  Knowing that I only had these four days, however, I headed out anyway.

Paint Dexter Plein Air Festival in the Rain

I worked on a small scale, and I I got very wet, but I did complete a painting of the Huron River in the rain.  

I wasn't able to make it out on Wednesday, but Thursday I went out again and completed a second small painting on a sunny (but unseasonably chilly) day at Half Moon Lake.  Then I popped both pieces into frames so that I could drop them off Friday morning.  

Two Small Paintings for the Paint Dexter Plein Air Festival

So there they are - tiny paintings made in a couple days in an adorable little town.  If I'd had more time or better weather, I'm sure I would have made something bigger or something different, but under the circumstances, I'm happy to have been able to do just this.  

What was perhaps even more valuable than making the little paintings was the atmosphere in the town and opportunity to work with other artists.  I went to the festival with my friend Ave, and we had a lovely time tromping about in the rain and drinking hot herbal tea once we were soaked through.  (I also have to thank Ave for the festive, ruffled, purple umbrella in the photo above.  She lent it to me.)  There's something tremendously valuable about seeing how other artists respond to same set of challenges and then discussing it all afterwards, and festivals like this one are perfect for that. 

A Blue Pigment for Mary

Victoria Finlay's Color: A Natural History of the Palette has been on my nightstand table for the past couple weeks.  The book is a travelogue structured around the colors of the rainbow.  Finlay travels to places where historically significant pigments (such as Carmine Red or Yellow Ochre) were originally used or created and then tells the stories she discovers behind each color.  These stories often include elaborate recipes which artists of the past used to create the colors on their palettes.  

Naturally, since I'm in Italy right now, I'm drawn to the parts of the book where she writes about this country and the artwork here.  In her chapter on the color blue, Finlay writes about Ultramarine pigment and answers the question of why painters often showed the Virgin Mary wearing this radiant shade.  Basically, it comes down to money.  Ultramarine (or Oltramarino, meaning "from beyond the seas") was made from lapis lazuli stones, which are found in only a few parts of the world and are tremendously expensive.  The vast majority of the lapis lazuli in Western art was imported from Afghanistan, so an Italian Renaissance artist who chose to paint Mary's robes with Ultramarine was honoring her with an extravagant and exotic color.  

Pietro Perugino, Madonna and Child, 1500

Of course not every artist or patron could come up with the money to buy lapis lazuli, so there were substitutes.  Even these cheaper colors, however, followed in the tradition of using blue to honor Mary.  For example, some artists used the mineral azurite to make an inferior blue pigment which, unlike Ultramarine made from lapis lazuli, would fade over time.  

It is one thing to read about the significance of blue in Italy and quite another to actually talk about it with the people here.  By chance, I happened to have just such a conversation with Marina Merli and her mother Adria at the Arte Studio Ginestrelle.  The three of us were talking, and Marina mentioned that the color blue symbolizes the Virgin Mary.  When I indicated that I find this very interesting, she showed me the table that her mother ate at when she was a little girl growing up in Umbria.  It's a lovely, if slightly worn, shade of blue. 

Adria Merli's Blue Table at Arte Studio Ginestrelle

As we talked more I discovered that it was common for people in this region to make their own homemade blue paint from local materials.  The blue Pervinca (Periwinkle) flower grows wild in Umbria, and, along with some other wildflowers, it was dried and ground into a power.  This blue powder could be made into a light or dark blue pigment, depending upon how much lime was added to the mixture.  Marina also showed me a small chair, one which had belonged to another family originally, in this darker shade of blue.  

Blue Chair at Arte Studio Ginestrelle

Following in the tradition of the great artists who had painted with expensive lapis lazuli, the families who painted their furniture with this homemade wildflower blue were also honoring the Virgin Mary.  The difference is that their blue is inexpensive and local, not costly and foreign.  While it may not have the permanence or the saturation of its flashier cousin, the simple blue on these tables and chairs is nevertheless a lovely dedication to a holy woman.  

It seemed like a delightful coincidence to me that I would discover this story about a blue pigment from Umbria even as I was reading a book about pigments from foreign places and times past.  I'm not sure if I was more alert to the possibility of there being such stories in these hills because I had just read Finlay's book, or if I would have come across the story anyway.  Regardless of the answer to that question, I'm grateful to the Merli family for sharing with me.