The Legacy of Bosworth

On this date in 1485 was fought the Battle of Bosworth Field, in which Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond (subsequently King Henry VII), heir of the Lancastrian line, defeated the Yorkist usurper of the throne, King Richard III (portrait at left). It would prove to be a watershed event in English history; many, in fact, point to it as the line of demarcation between medieval and modern England. Richard, who was slain in the melee, holds the distinction of being the last English king to die upon the battlefield. Richard is also regarded as the last of the Plantagenet line, whose dynastic rule had extended through thirteen monarchs and endured for more than three centuries.

For Henry’s part, his claim to the throne, though legitimate, was somewhat tenuous: on his father’s side, he was descended from Henry V’s widowed Queen, Catherine of France, but this connection served merely to buttress the real claim, which came via his mother’s heritage as the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, noted son of King Edward III. This link was solidified beyond all doubting (if not quite all disputing) when Henry married Princess Elizabeth, the only surviving child of Edward IV and heiress of the rival House of York. The battle, the marriage, and a few subsequent skirmishes brought an end to the Wars of the Roses, which had torn England apart for three decades. Despite changes in houses or family names, the heirs of Henry Tudor retain the crown of England to this day, as evidenced in the current Royal Arms by the inclusion (at the lower portion) of the red and white Tudor Rose.

It is impossible even to imagine how English and world history might have been altered by a different outcome at Bosworth Field. Without Henry VII, there could have been (most notably) no Henry VIII, and no Elizabeth I. There would have been no English Reformation, or at any rate, there would surely have been a decidedly different one, for better or for worse. And not to be forgotten is the extent to which the arts flourished under the Tudors. The Renaissance was first introduced into England during the reign of Henry VII. Both the strikingly vivid bust of Henry and the paired funeral effigies of Henry and his wife, Elizabeth, shown below, are the work of Italian sculptor Pietro Torrigiano.

Architectural innovation flourished under both Henry VII and VIII—indeed the royal house of Tudor lent its name to an enduring architectural style. Henry VIII is remembered for his patronage of the great portrait artist Hans Holbein, and the Tudor-dominated sixteenth century gave rise to incomparable luminaries in both music (e.g. Thomas Tallis, William Byrd) and literature (e.g. Edmund Spenser, William Shakespeare), thus enriching by incalculable degrees the cultural heritage of England, the West, and, indeed, the World.

All this divided York and Lancaster,
Divided in their dire divisions,
O, now let Richmond [i.e. Henry] and Elizabeth,
The true succeeders of each royal house,
By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together!
And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so,
Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d peace,
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!

—William Shakespeare, from King Richard the Third

Fire and Water, Nature and Grace

I just saw Terence Melick’s much-talked-about film The Tree of Life this past week. More like cinematic poetry or an art house film than a typical mainstream movie, it is both euphorically beautiful and intensely thought provoking. Above all, it portrays a creation that is super-charged with wonder, and spends much of its two-and-a-half hour length inviting us simply to bask in that wonder in true Chestertonian spirit.

There are so many avenues worth exploring and commenting on. (My friend Brian McLain has some keen insights, especially regarding the film’s reliance upon the viewer’s own participation via his or her own subjective experiences, relationships, and memories, which I commend to you.) Perhaps I will get around to surveying some of those other perspectives as well, but for now I want to start at the shallow end and speak to those aspects that I feel most qualified to deal with, which have to do with the nature of some of the visual symbolism engaged in the film.

First of all, with the noted exception of the evolutionary framework employed (though even that is intriguingly toyed with, raising some issues that I will shelve for later discussion, perhaps) the symbolism that Melick employs is pervasively and explicitly Christian and scriptural. The film opens with a quotation from the Book of Job, Chapter 38:

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation...while the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

The themes of Job resurface again and again as the narrative unfolds, and there is also a very early and explicit reference to the tension between “Nature” and “Grace”. Taken simply at face value, this is obvious and potent enough. However, I think it also helps to reflect that within the Christian tradition, this fundamental dichotomy (at times pushed to dualistic extremes) has gone by a number of other names, at least some of which I think there is good reason to believe that Melick is also intending to conjure up at various points. These would include, but are by no means limited to: Law vs. Grace, Justice vs. Mercy, Righteousness vs. Sinfulness, Love vs. Judgement, Forgiveness vs. Discipline and/or Punishment, Free Will vs. Predestination, Salvation vs. Damnation, Flesh vs. Spirit.

Visually speaking, two of the most recurring images employed in The Tree of Life are fire and water. It’s really essential to have a self-conscious grasp of the biblical associations of these two metaphors in order to adequately appreciate how Melick employs them throughout his own work here. To give a brief biblical catalog: Water is primordial (Genesis 1:2). It is mysterious (due, at least in part, to its hidden depths and to its elusive, undulating motions). Water is most often associated with its life-granting and regenerative qualities—with birth and with re-birth, but it also has to be remembered that it can easily be turned into a threatening instrument of judgement and destruction. When contrasted with dry land, for instance, it often represents the forces of wickedness threatening to submerge and wipe out the people of God (Isaiah 8:7-8). Fire likewise is thought of first and foremost as an element of judgement, condemnation, and ruination, which it certainly is. But fire is also associated with holiness, and with testing and purification (Exodus 3:1-6, Isaiah 6:1-7, Psalm 12:6). Following this line, its implementation is often towards radically transformational as opposed to purely destructive ends (II Kings 2:11, Malachi 3:1-4, II Peter 3:5-13). Significantly, both water and fire are associated with the Holy Spirit. (Bird images are as well, which is also worth noting with respect to Melick’s film.)

As should already be apparent by this point, it is essential to consider that the relationship between these two “elements” and their various associations is not one of pure or simple antithesis, but rather, the antithesis is dynamic and complicated—wondrously so. To illustrate this point, let me turn to the work of another visual artist who explored these same themes to great effect in his own work: the nineteenth century landscape painter Frederic Edwin Church. (Gene Edward Veith offers an excellent critique of Church and the other prominent painters of the Hudson River School in his book Painters of Faith, and I owe the following observations to him.) I was reminded a number of times during The Tree of Life of Church’s painting Cotopaxi.

Here we have fire: the volcano, the smoky ash cloud, the sunset, and the eerily glowing foothills. We also have water: the waterfall, obviously, but also (possibly) the cool tones of the sky (the waters above the firmament) in the extreme background. Interestingly, the two elements intermingle in the mid-ground, as the fiery sun is reflected in the lake behind the falls. The question to be posed is this: when it comes to “fire” and “water” which of these forces is destructive and which is regenerative? Meditate on this painting, and think about it some more. Are you sure? Is the question, and its answer, a simple one after all?

Yosemite Valley, Tunnel View

A year ago this month I got to fulfill a long-time dream: my brother Jared and I spent three days and two nights backpacking in Yosemite National Park, culminating in a climb to the top of famed Half Dome. I’ve intended ever since to celebrate the occasion with some artwork but, the tyranny of the urgent being such as it is, only within the last few days have I been able (prompted both by the anniversary and a bit of a lull in paying work) to produce the first of what I hope will eventually be several pieces on the subject.

This illustration was executed on scratchboard with watercolor. The view is toward the west-facing mouth of the valley as seen from the lower end of the Wawona Tunnel. There are three different roads that lead into the valley, but this one, which connects to Hwy. 41 towards Oakhurst and Fresno, provides the most spectacular and dramatic view all the way up the length of the valley. Take this route into the park, and you’re just driving along through wooded hillsides and then, all of a sudden you turn a corner, there’s a break in the trees, and there it is—and you realize that all the paintings and photographs you’ve ever seen of it haven’t even come within fifty miles of preparing you for the arresting beauty and overpowering immensity of what is presented to you at that moment. El Capitan thrusts its enormous bulk straight up into the sky, Bridalveil Fall thunders, and Half Dome, that most peculiarly-shaped mountain, transfixes your gaze, beckons, and looms large, even from a distance of seven miles.

Logo Design: Parish Presbyterian Church

Another new logo design, this one for Parish Presbyterian Church in Franklin, TN. Working at the moment on some printed material that looks like it has the potential to carry this design forward into some pretty cool directions, so hopefully stay tuned for more on that before too long.

Gillian Welch: The Harrow & the Harvest

After a wait of eight long years we at last have an album of new material from alternative country queen Gillian Welch. I ordered my copy last night. (Had to have the CD, of course.) In fact, it’s hard to say which I’m more excited about: listening to the music for the first time, or getting to hold the one-of-a-kind, letterpressed, hand-stained-with-coffee cover art (printed on, or rather into, extra-thick, 100% cotton paper). Check out this nifty video chronicling the production process.

GW and partner Dave Rawlings (one of the most underrated guitarists around, in my opinion) put on an unforgettable show for my brother, myself, and approximately 200 other patrons who managed to cram into the legendary Station Inn on St. Patrick's Day several years ago. (That place isn’t much bigger than my basement, which is a plus, in my opinion. I’m glad I got to catch them early enough in their career when they could still play little joints like that.) I don’t make it out to many shows any more these days, but I might have to spring to see them again when they take the stage at the (also-legendary) Ryman Auditorium in December.

Brochure: Franklin Classical School

Here’s a very recently-designed 4-panel brochure for the fine scholars at Franklin Classical School.

The Lark Ascending

Ninety years ago today saw the premiere of this stunningly beautiful work for orchestra and solo violin by perhaps the twentieth century’s greatest composer. Ralph Vaughan Williams was inspired to compose The Lark Ascending by George Meredith's 122-line poem of the same title. Vaughan Williams first wrote the piece for violin and piano in 1914, but work on the second and more familiar orchestral version was interrupted by World War I. In fact, in a somewhat humorous episode, the composer was actually arrested on suspicion of espionage after he had been seen jotting down what someone took to be a secret code (actually musical notations for the work here considered) while observing a large troop embarkation across the English Channel at the war’s outbreak. (My own artistic endeavors have caused similar run-ins with the authorities on at least one occasion, so I can relate, though that's another story for another time.)

The dream-like beauty of the music really speaks for itself, and its accessibility makes it one of the most popular pieces of classical music around (especially in England, not surprisingly). For my part, I’m intrigued by the way it somewhat paradoxically evokes both Olde England and (by prominent use of the pentatonic scale) the Orient.

Steal Like and Artist, and Other Sound Advice

Dang, the last several weeks have just been crazy. Seeing that life, for the time being, continues to prevent me from posting much of anything of my own devising, I’ll redouble my efforts to at least, with some regularity, point out the notable contributions of others.

Blogger Austin Kleon has some really valuable insights to share in his recent post HOW TO STEAL LIKE AN ARTIST (AND 9 OTHER THINGS NOBODY TOLD ME). In the course of this thoughtful treatise he challenges a number of myths that I also have taken aim at (or at least intend to take aim at, when I find time and opportunity for a clear shot). These would especially include what I like to lampoon as The Cult of the Artiste, referring to the modern image of the artist as a radical, bohemian purveyor of strident originality, inherently superior to the rest of us mere mortals.

Jonathan Rogers: Concerning Beauty

My friend Jonathan Rogers just posted a brief but wonderfully articulated reflection on the indispensable role of beauty. Man, do I need to be reminded of this more often—like, several times a day!

Barry Moser and The Pennyroyal Caxton Bible

At some point during my work on the HCSB Study Bible I became aware of this awe-inspiring project by master illustrator Barry Moser (with some help from other luminaries, such as renowned typographer Matthew Carter). As the prospectus claims, The Pennyroyal Caxton Bible is probably the most significant edition of a fully-illustrated Bible since that of Gustave Doré, in the mid-nineteenth century.

Working in a medium called Resingrave, Moser produced a vast series of black and white images to accompany the biblical text that are arresting in their graphic intensity. Considered on the whole, their undeniable beauty is offset by a jarring—sometimes even disturbing—coarseness and realism. The images range from the nearly abstract, to the poetically symbolic, to the indelibly human, and the work manages to exude, at the same time, a sort of timeless grandeur and an immediacy that is strikingly contemporary.

Another thing to appreciate is that, despite its lofty aspirations, this really is an edition of the Bible designed with reading in mind. The text of the Authorized/KJV translation is set in double columns with subheads to mark each chapter, but without verse notations, paragraph breaks or indents (pilcrows are employed instead) and italic type (used in most AV editions to denote words not present in the original text) to impede smooth and fluid reading.

I wish that I could convince someone, among the very few individuals I know who might actually possess the means coupled with the inclination, to invest in a Primary or Deluxe edition, so that I might have the borrowed privilege of perusing such an exquisite masterpiece of printing and binding. For those of us who don't have ten (for the Primary) or thirty grand (for the Deluxe) to spare, there is a reasonably priced, single-volume facsimile edition available in both hardcover and perfect-bound paperback. I ordered the latter a few weeks ago and was delighted to discover that the large format (8.25" x 11.812") faithfully replicates the text and illustrations at their original size. Only slightly disappointing is the fact that the margins are trimmed in a bit, so you don't quite get the benefit of the generous white space and luxurious page proportions of the original, which are a historical feature of Bibles and other “showcase” bound texts ever since the age of illuminated manuscripts, but given the need to economize that’s understandable, I suppose.

One slight word of caution to those who might consider a purchase: as alluded to above, several of the images are at least a bit disturbing and some might be said to push the boundaries of propriety. (One image depicts a woman kissing the feet of the crucified Christ, and possibly gulping blood flowing off of his toes.) There is a good deal of nudity depicted as well, though I would’t characterize any of it as gratuitous. Just take that into consideration—at any rate, it’s still a worhwhile addition to your library, in my opinion, and a very notable artistic endeavor.

Logo Design: Cornerstone Presbyterian Church

Here’s a “hot off the griddle” logo design for the saints at the newly organized Cornerstone Presbyterian Church in Franklin, TN.

Chestertonian Musings, Part One

Recently, I actually got around to reading G. K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy, which has been on my “to read” list since time out of mind. As I suspected, I found that I’ve had considerable exposure already to direct quotations of various passages (particularly Chapter Four: The Ethics of Elfland) or have absorbed many of his ideas by osmosis, via my reading of others who were thinking his thoughts after him. At any rate, it was very enjoyable and refreshing to get to absorb these notions in their original context of Chesterton’s masterful and brilliant prose.

There were strains of Chesterton’s thought, however, that I, with a mixture of delight and dismay, discovered that I was encountering for the very first time. Most memorably, in Chapter Six: The Paradoxes of Christianity, I was enthralled to find a brilliant articulation of a notion that has crept in upon my own consciousness over the last several years, but which I have never really attempted to explain or put into words. In that chapter’s introductory paragraph, Chesterton writes:

The real trouble with this world of ours is not that it is an unreasonable world, nor even that it is a reasonable one. The commonest kind of trouble is that it is nearly reasonable, but not quite. Life is not an illogicality; yet it is a trap for logicians. It looks just a little more mathematical and regular than it is; its exactitude is obvious, but its inexactitude is hidden; its wildness lies in wait.

As a visual artists who dabbles in other disciplines, this whole idea resonates with me very deeply. Indulge me here in a brief and somewhat random excursus:

Is it not very odd, for instance, that shapes so fundamental as the square and the circle, which can be drawn with exactitude using a ruler and/or compass, defy precise mathematical definition and analysis (at least when one takes the very first steps in trying to peel them apart)? I’m referring to the fact that &pi (3.142…), the ratio of a circle’s diameter to its circumference, is an irrational number, one that cannot be expressed as a ratio of two whole numbers, no matter how large. The same goes for √2 (1.414…), which is the ratio between one of a square’s sides and a diagonal drawn between opposing corners. Other very important—and naturally prevalent—numbers have the same slippery characteristics: &phi (the “golden section”, or .618…), and √5 (2.236…), to cite two additional examples. The point is this: I encounter and use things like circles and squares all the time. How can something so basic, simple and ubiquitous be, at the same time, so downright elusive and mystifying—so irrational?

This stubborn refusal of the natural order to be brought into perfect conformity with nice and tidy logical definitions drove some of the ancient Greeks to the point of maddened distraction (the Pythagoreans). But the eventual acquiescence on the part of some to this paradox yielded some real aesthetic triumphs, such as the Parthenon, whose subtle and deceptive entasis and unevenly spaced columns testify to the awareness that a bit of carefully employed non-conformity here and there proves more satisfying than strict adherence to mathematical and logical notions of orderliness and “perfection”.

I think I will have to further explore some of the rambling rabbit trails this topic tends to generate in some additional posts, hence the “Part One” label above. Let me just wrap this one up by expressing my delight in discovering that Chesterton, who possessed a mind and a soul (to say nothing of a body!) far broader and deeper than my own, also acknowledged, exulted in, and reveled in this same phenomenon—and also felt within it the same spur towards faith that I feel. While this hardly constitutes some objective proof of the existence of God, I, like Chesterton, detect an audible echo of the Divine in these things—and a decidedly Trinitarian echo, at that.