Postmodern Hymn: No Line on the Horizon

Benten, by Warwick Goble

I could make a whole hymnal out of U2 songs, and I know they would be totally happy with that. It's common knowledge that they make use of Christian imagery in their lyrics and promote what they would say are Christian values, although their brand of Christianity is definitely not mainstream.

But before we get too concerned with labeling anyone "Christian" or "not-Christian" though, I'd like to look at one powerful image that continually resurfaces in their songs: the divine feminine. It's an image that blurs the line between Christianity and non-Christianity. Listen to songs such as "No Line on the Horizon," "She Moves in Mysterious Ways," "Grace," "Lemon," "Gloria," and you'll hear a collection of recurring motifs: the mysterious female, grace, ocean, moon.

What do these motifs have in common? For one thing, the lyrics point to a lack of control, either in the creative process or in the search for absolution. Creativity and grace come unexpectedly, as Bono says in an interview with Rolling Stone: "This kind of spirit blows through every now and then. It’s a very strange feeling. We’re waiting for God to walk into the room – and God, it turns out, is very unreliable."

If you're interested in this topic, here are some fun reads on the interwebs:

• "U2: The Stadium Psalmists and Prophets," by Mark Meynell
• U2 posts on Rock and Theology
• "Yeats, U2, and Poetic Imagination," by Joe Bisz 
• "Mysterious Ways: The Kabbalah of U2," by Geofrey Dennis

Nature's Course

Daphne mezereum with butterfly, by Georg Dionysus Ehret
via Victoria and Albert Museum

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;
The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.
The flower opens, the butterfly comes;
The butterfly comes, the flower opens.
I don't know others,
Others don't know me.
By not-knowing we follow nature's course.
    —from Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf, by Ryokan, translated by John Stevens, via gardendigest

This Zen poem has come up in several contexts lately, and along with a conversation on Derrida and his concept of waiting for the revelatory presence of the Other, it has me thinking some about the mysterious, unfathomable depth of things.

It's a favorite topic of mine; I seem to find the theme in a variety of places—Italo Calvino's writings, for example. The mysterious Other has such potential for ethics and art. Accepting the Other as mysterious leaves space for authentic encounters to occur. And, when the concept is combined either with a scientific or Taoist/holistic perspective, the face of the Other shifts. That mysterious Other that seems to completely separate from me becomes a part of me. 

7: Our Ending

Seven-pointed star from Wall Drawing #808, by Sol LeWitt

Let's continue with our number series based on The Beginner's Guide to Constructing the Universe by Michael Schneider. 


I think I may end this little series here . . . Seven is often a symbol of completion, so it's been said, so at least this is a good place to end. I've found that as time goes on, I'm less sure about what can be truly said about a particular number as a symbol, and I'd rather not go on half-heartedly about things I don't believe in. Nevertheless, there are fascinating connections that we "moderns" miss between pattern, science, and religion, and I hope the series has provoked some interest in seeing those connections. Maybe the healing, geometric designs of Emma Kunz tap into those connections, but I don't really know what to say about this sort of thing right now. Maybe I'll have a dream someday that will help me understand.


Thank you for taking a somewhat random journey through numbers 1 through 7 with me. 


*******


Just for fun: here's a lengthy post on how to draw a heptagon, in case you have a compass, a straightedge, and some extra time on your hands.

Drawing a seven-pointed star using a compass and straightedge is a great exercise in understanding the number seven: unlike other polygons, the heptagon is created outside of the vesca piscis—in this sense, it is "unborn." To create it, you have to draw two circles whose circumferences share each others' centers. Then draw a square in the upper portion of the visca piscis, using the two circles' radius as its bottom edge. Next, draw a circle whose diameter is equal to the square's sides. Find the first side of the heptagon by connecting the two points of the circle's circumference that intersect the tops of the two larger circles.

As Schneider notes, the heptagon is the only shape that originates outside of the vesca piscis: it emerges from the "crown" of the original circles, just as Athena emerged from Zeus's forehead.

Once you have the first side of heptagon, you walk the compass around the circle's perimeter, but this measurement is only an approximation. You'll have the walk the compass in the opposite direction and split the difference between the two points.  

From the heptagon, you'll get two stars (one connects every third point and one connects every other point), and when these stars are combined inside the heptagon, you'll get the "web of Athena."

You can also go here to watch a video for another way of drawing a heptagon and its stars.

Postmodern Hymn: Bowl of Oranges

Today's hymn comes from Bright Eyes, an indie group headed by Conner Oberst. I love Bright Eyes for the bravely earnest lyrics and for the creative melodies. "Bowl of Oranges" is one of their more uplifting songs: 

"And we'll keep working on a problem we know we'll never solve 

Of Love's uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole. 

But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall. 

Then I think we would see the beauty. Then we would stand staring in awe 

At our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges, 

Like a story told by the fault lines and the soil."

Art, Poetry, Dream

I love the magic in Irene Belknap's art. The way her figures seem to measure the earth with their long triangular steps. The way fruit and wheels serve as reminders of time and no-time. The way her figure's dresses are often adorned with the poetry of David Whyte. What does it all mean?

Fall Back, by Irene Belknap

To the Feast, by Irene Belknap
via Chico Paper Company

Personal Myth: Creation

As you may have noticed, I'm working on a personal myth project. The idea is to write and draw a sort of true-fiction that reflects how I engage with the world. This may sound super new-agey, but consider a great book like Cosmicomics by Italo Calvino or even the great Star Wars. I really respect artists who take universal questions and engage with them in their own way.

Anyway, my project started with a series of four mandala-style drawings and an illuminated text to go with each. I've been calling the four themes "creation," "animals," "humans," and "heart." 

In "creation," I try to think about what the creation of the world means to me. I was inspired a bit by the philosophy of Gilles Deleuze and my husband's explanation of scientific theories. 

Creation, by the Dancing Alchemist

Creation, by the Dancing Alchemist

If you had to re-tell the story of creation, how would you tell it? 

Stone vs. Tree

Yellow Birch, Adirondacks, by Michael Melford for National Geographic

The giant pine tree
grows from a tiny sprout.
The journey of a thousand miles
starts from beneath your feet.
    —Tao Te Ching, 64


On reading the passage above, this Westerner immediately thought "Oh, this means I should set a goal and work towards it little by little." But I don't think Taoists sages were very goal-oriented! (I think their disposition had something to do with desiring to have no desire . . . ) The goals of Taoism seems much less will-driven.

So what's the moral of the story? Patiently cultivate your life, appreciate the miracles that can come in the tiniest packages, and welcome the surprising twists that come along the journey.

Here's the full text:

What is rooted is easy to nourish.
What is recent is easy to correct.
What is brittle is easy to break.
What is small is easy to scatter.

Prevent trouble before it arises.
Put things in order before they exist.
The giant pine tree
grows from a tiny sprout.
The journey of a thousand miles
starts from beneath your feet.

Rushing into action, you fail.
Trying to grasp things, you lose them.
Forcing a project to completion,
you ruin what was almost ripe.

Therefore the Master takes action
by letting things take their course.
He remains as calm
at the end as at the beginning.
He has nothing,
thus has nothing to lose.
What he desires is non-desire;
what he learns is to unlearn.
He simply reminds people
of who they have always been.
He cares about nothing but the Tao.
Thus he can care for all things.
    —Tao Te Ching, 64, translated by Stephen Mitchella

For more "tree takeovers" see this flickr gallery.

Magritte, and Song of the Day: Philosophia

I discovered "Philosophia," by the Guggenheim Grotto, from the free iTunes download feature, and it's been a favorite ever since.

I like the music video, too, for its references to Magritte. I went to the Magritte Museum in Brussels this past summer, and I learned so much about his philosophy, thanks to a little booklet of his own explanations that was supplied by the museum. Here are some favorites:

"All of my work results from a a feeling of certainty that we do indeed belong to an enigmatic universe."

[Tout dans mes œuvres est issue du sentiment de certitude que nous appartenons, en fait, à un universe énigmatique.]

La Bataille de l'Argonne, by René Magritte

"The real value of art is measured by its capacity for liberating revelation."
[La valeur réelle de l'art est en fonction de son pouvoir de révélation libératrice.]

Le Chef-d'Oeuvre ou les Mysteres, by René Magritte