Art as Evidence

 Scenes from  Dad's photo box

Scenes from Dad's photo box

Sunday night. Sleep beckons and yet in the dark... a call to the page one last time. A final dump before the sleepy hormones agree to be released. So. What do you have to say for yourself, thoughts?

 

"I love being alive. The art is the evidence of that."

 

This is the quote percolating in the dark, said by Jim Carrey in the six-minute documentary I Needed Color. Tapping my shoulder like a tiny toddler hand at the side of my bed. My working definition of the artist's ambition over the years has been from Chaim Potok's novel and play My Name is Asher Lev: “Millions of people can draw. Art is whether there is a scream in you wanting to get out in a special way.”

A special scream. Lovely ain't it? But I have experienced a change since becoming a mother. Carrying and birthing two live, infinite souls. Since fighting for my marriage and losing my house and standing in front of the closed door of a relationship that will never open again. And banging on that door with the force of hell. Growing with a God who is both clearer and more obscure than when we met 10 years ago.

Art as evidence.

I am reminded of Psalm 19:

The heavens declare the glory of God,
and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours out speech,
and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words,
whose voice is not heard.
Their voice goes out through all the earth,
and their words to the end of the world.

Evidence. Indications. Words inscribed on every raindrop. Speaking, speaking, making God known. And us down here, Jim Carrey with a paint brush and canvas also taking mind to form - his voice going out. Showing forth the evidence. Opening his hands and giving what he has.

Matt has been singing Little Drummer Boy with Vivian every night, and because we are broken, failures of a man and wife with little to give we tear up every single time. 

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum, 
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, 
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum, 
On my drum? 

No gift to bring, so he brings his art, his word, his song. The thing that flows from his being. Should I tell you how hard I am crying as I write these words? I guess this is the thought that wanted to get out before going to bed (and I have to borrow from Rumi to even get it out):

God is working everywhere his massive resurrection, and the art is the evidence of that.

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God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection:

How can we pretend to act on our own?

In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;

Sometimes love hoists me into the air,

Sometimes Love flings me to the ground.

Love swings me round and round his head;

I have no peace in this world or any other.

The Lovers of God have failed in a furious river;

They have surrendered themselves to Love’s commands.

Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,

Constantly turning and turning, and crying out. 

— Rumi