Ash Wednesday letter
"Christ receives his crown of thorns"
Ash Wednesday 2005
Dear St Andrews
Javier and I have just got back from probably what is the first Ash Wednesday service we've attended since we were children. A combined Catholic/Anglican service suiting both our leanings, it was a time for me to reflect on this project that I started late last year. So far I've got 10 paintings underway for the project at St Andrews. I'm worried that I won?t get to 14 and will probably have to stop at 12 because of time. Speaking of time, I haven't necessarily painted them in order as I could have done, thinking in the progression of ideas alongside the progression of the Stations. With shall I say, mystical navigation, I began at the beginning and then went straight to the end and have been filling in the gaps in between. I've contemplated faces and postures pondering what they're telling me. I've found myself staring at the woman at the supermarket check out studying shadows and features. I've encountered problems with colours communicating cold in the living and warmth in the dead when I've wanted the reverse. I've desired to avoid the sentimental, but not create a tone too cold. I've dived into other worlds and had days where I've finished painting feeling emotionally drained and above all, I know I will complete this project arriving at the beginning again and wanting to tackle it from a completely different angle. This is the journey that keeps me painting.
The Stations of the Cross or The Way of the Cross, as it is also known, is a meditation that dates back a millennium. It's a pilgrimage of the mind and soul, in place of a physical journey to Jerusalem to walk the Via Dolorosa, The Way of Sorrows. This street was reputed to be the last walk that Christ made with his cross through the Streets of Jerusalem, brought to the screen in 2004 in Gibson's film ?The Passion of the Christ?. Christians can go there today, but in the bloody years of the Crusades and the struggle for control in the Near East, Jerusalem was off limits for Christian pilgrims and so the Stations were developed as an act of devotion that could take place at home. Images were used often to help the predominantly illiterate population walk alongside Christ in those last hours. The Stations traditionally finish at his death, with his resurrection left for Easter itself.
The politics of the three faiths in what is known as Israel/Palestine today has caused great heartache and loss of life. Also among Christian denominations, the politics have not been avoided. In 1937, in Robert Byron's book "Road to Oxiana", his experience of the holy Christian places of Jerusalem is dryly described with a keen sense for the absurd in a lot of human activity:
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre
"Stepping through the Franciscans as though they were nettles, Gabriel dived into a hole three feet high, from which came a bright light. I followed. The inner chamber was about seven feet square. At a low slab of stone knelt a French woman in ecstasy. By her side stood another Greek monk.
'This gentleman has been to Mount Athos,' announced Gabriel to his crony, who shook hands with me across the body of the Frenchwoman. 'It was six years ago, he remembers Synesios's cat. This is the tomb' - pointing to the slab of stone - 'I shall be here all day tomorrow. You must come and see me. There?s not much room is there? Let's go out. Now I'll show you the other places. This red stone is where they washed the body. Four of the lamps are Greek, the others Catholic and Armenian. Calvary's upstairs - This is the Greek part, that the Catholic. But these are Catholics at the Greek alter, because Calvary was there. Look at the inscription over the cross, it's in real diamonds and was given by the Tsar. And look at this image. Catholics come and give these things to her.'
'My friend is Catholic,' I informed Gabriel maliciously.
'Oh is he? And what are you? Protestant? Or nothing at all?'
'I think I shall be Orthodox while I'm here.'
'I shall tell God that. You see these two holes? They put Christ in them,
one in each.'
'Is that in the Bible?'
'Of course it?s in the Bible. This cave is the place of the Skull. That's where the earthquake split the rock - That there is Nicodemus's tomb, and that the tomb of Joseph of Arimathaea.'
'I thought Joseph of Arimathaea was buried in England.'
Gabriel smiled, as though to say, 'Tell that to the marines.'
'Here,' he continued, 'is a picture of Alexander the Great visiting Jerusalem, and being received by one of the prophets - I can't remember which.'
'But did Alexander ever visit Jerusalem?'
'Certainly, I only tell you the truth.'
'I'm sorry. I thought it might be a legend.'
We emerged at last into the daylight.
- Road To Oxiana, by Robert Byron, published 1937
In recent years, perhaps in reaction to a sense of loss of ritual in everyday life, the Stations of the Cross have been making a come back and interestingly, having a new presence in some non-Catholic denominations. Creative interpretations by contemporary artists and church groups, including multi media, performance, installation and interactive works have been a vehicle for contemplating the Passion of Christ in contemporary life around the world and here in New Zealand.
The works I have created are perhaps more classical in technique when compared to some of the deeply conceptual and modern interpretations that have been done recently. I wanted to convey ideas that could work as a starting point for people's own contemplation. Historic accuracy has not been my aim, nor to contemplate too much on what Christ looked like. Instead I've chosen a man with a close hair-cut and no beard, who could have come from anywhere, a world face. The images are moments, gestures and instinctual reactions which are accessible in their dreamlike realism, but cryptic because they are the result of an artist's personal journey and dialogue with her own faith; God, Christ, Judas, Simon of Cyrene, Mary, and the women of Jerusalem.
The women of Jerusalem were perhaps for me the hardest, and the result is the most obscure to the viewer. Often with images of women, we are distracted by prettiness or ugliness and age or sentimentality. I didn't want any of these things and so I found myself instinctively obscuring her face. This is not intended to be a comment on veils, or head coverings. In my own reflection, I thought of what I do when I am distressed, unwell, shocked, or full of grief. My instinctive reflexes cause me to put a hand over my mouth, I want to cover my face, wrap myself up in a blanket, cower and lock out the world. In that way, I can deal with the things inside, cut off from the outer.
In Spain during Holy Week, which starts on Palm Sunday, the penitents in the processions wear hoods and robes. While they appear sinister to the viewer, the pilgrimage for them starts with the change in attitude the minute the hood comes down over their face. In many cases, they don't speak, as they turn inward to explore their own faith, locked away from the world. The anonymity of the hooded face also refers to the desire to reflect on their faith in private, without an appearance of public piety. And so the woman is wrapped up away from the gaze of the viewer, left to watch a loved one's horrific death and to contemplate the words he said. I can't imagine how confusing and wrenching that day must have been for her, I can only join her in sharing aspects of her grief and pain.
I feel in all honesty that I've lost the faith of my childhood. Today, we receive and process more information in a day than our forefathers processed in a lifetime. Scientific and psychological explanations cause me to question what information I receive, ask how I are being manipulated, and what opiate have I been administered (to draw on that famous quote). I'm just old enough to start realising how things don't ever change and what I was complaining about ten years ago is already forgotten and a new generation think they are the first to see it. Three cheers for The Philosopher! There really is nothing new under the sun. And so, I wondered when I started this project whether the process of making the work would help me come to some realisation or renewal as spoken about on Ash Wednesday. It would be poetic to think so. However, I look at the images I've painted and see a darkness that is still where I find myself struggling.
What do I feel of this wilful act of Christ? He chose to be captured, punished and humiliated, finally taking up the cross when he could have slipped out of that garden so quickly. What of Mary who spent 32 odd years raising her child who she knew she would lose. She was never far from him, but never interfering in his choices, waiting for the prophecy about him to come to pass. What of the faithful women of Jerusalem, fearlessly present at the crucifixion. They, who saw such honour in being the mother of the Messiah, watched a seemingly meaningless death. To be told by Christ himself to mourn their own loss not his, that a time would come when they would lament the ability to have children. I can't imagine what it is like to have a child of yours literally ripped from you. These women became the first bearers of the news of Christ's resurrection.
These acts of faith I can draw hope from and that is key. While the issues are complex, our interpretations (including artistic) are human and therefore fraught, this life of Christ, culminating in these last few hours and the events that followed his death, have been followed by millions of people in many cultures for two thousand years. That in all this confusion and meaningless, all this darkness and despair, and in the shadows of our own lives there is perhaps a final hope to cling to.
Emma P