Hope: The Last to Die

Sometime last week I received in the mail a complimentary copy of Indie Spiritualist: A No Bullshit Exploration of Spirituality. I've been spending a bit of time every evening watching the Winter Olympics, but I still have to have a book in my hands, and this seemed like a good choice.

The work of Chris Grosso, the book starts like this:

"Hope, it's the last to die," said an elderly man sitting across from me some years ago on a bus in Rome at 2:00 AM. He'd just read the word hope tattooed across my knuckles, and I have to say that, in my own personal life experience, man, was he right. Life is full of terror and beauteous rapture, and I've experienced both on numerous occasions. From a life filled with despair, jail, emergency rooms, detoxes, and rehabs, to one of hope.

C. B. Cote, Beyond (8)

Hope . . . I remember telling a therapist many years ago that I had a lot of hope and a good amount of faith, but I struggled with love. I've always been very hopeful . . . an optimist, a dreamer, focused always on what is possible, fully convinced that good will always overcome evil and light will always pierce the darkness. During the very lowest point of my life, when I found myself gripped by the emotional and physical pain of depression, I still had hope; the darkness was thick and dense, but I could sense a tiny, dim light. Eventually the light grew stronger and I was restored to full life. From my experience, I have to agree—hope is the last to die, perhaps because without hope, we would die.

In this way, hope is like art. Without it, we have nothing. It occurs to me that art may actually be a physical manifestation of hope, and hope, I now realize, is what I manifest every time I work as an artist; hope, I now realize, is what I feel every time I connect with art. Art centers us, holds us in the moment, and in that moment, with everything else have fallen away, we experience hope.  

It Stopped Me in My Tracks

Images are images, and art is art. All visual art is an image, but not all images are art. I love images . . . color, line, shape, texture. But art . . . well . . . art stops me in my tracks. 

Quiet Invitation II. Beth Swanson.

This painting, by Beth Swanson, is part of Still Point Art Gallery's current exhibition: Interiors. I really love this image. I love the folds in the tablecloth, the curves of the backs of the chairs, the clean lines of the windows, the little pots on the sills, and the lovely, curvaceous objects on the table. The composition is perfect. Everything is balanced—one window balances the other, the chairs are positioned to give the image stability and firmness, and the objects are carefully placed to achieve an effect of evenness and equilibrium. The eyes of the viewer are drawn to the corner of the room, off-center, avoiding a feeling of symmetry and creating a bit of tension that is very enjoyable. The curves of the chairs are a perfect counterpoint to the straightness and angularity of the windows. The color—beautiful, soft greens—make the piece feel cool and peaceful. Everything about this piece is perfection. It is art. It stopped me in my tracks. 

Only one problem. It doesn't exist. I've never seen a room like this. I've never seen color and light like this. I've never been in a room as quiet and ethereal as this one seems to be. But, again, this is art. This image came from the depths of Swanson's imagination and heart, and it captivates my own imagination and heart. I could stare at this painting for hours and days. Yet, I don't see this painting as much as I feel this painting. I feel it with all my senses. It is art.