Art, Philosophy, and Francis Schaeffer on a Sunday Morning

I woke up this morning with Jackson Pollock on the brain. Granted, this is not normal--I'm awake WAY earlier than I need to be, and it's not typical for me to wake up with art on my mind. Given recent craziness and circumstances, I can see where this is going. According to Francis Schaeffer, Pollock's paintings were a deliberate statement that "all is chance. He placed canvases horizontally on the floor and dripped paint on them from suspended cans swinging over them. Thus, his paintings were a product of chance."
Francis Schaeffer was one of my first introductions into the world of art and philosophy. I'd never really thought about how art; to me, at that point in my life, art was simply someone's coloring book. You'd see a pretty picture, you'd paint a pretty picture, and voila! Art! Through Schaeffer, I began to understand that every single piece of art is a portrayal of a personal and cultural philosophy. I've never been bored at an art museum since, and it's the artists like Pollock that are my favorite.
By studying art, we gain a very clear perspective on the timeline of philosophy in society. When you look at art, you see when God began to be replaced by humanism, materialism, capitalism, and so much more. I remember going to the Louvre when I was 15. I was at a point in my life where I hadn't learned anything about art, and sadly, it was almost a wasted experience. I spent more time freaking out that the Mona Lisa was the size of a piece of paper, than I did admiring the phenomenal pieces that I was surrounded by.
One particular painting sticks in my memory. I have no idea what the description of this painting says. I've always thought it was the most amazing painting, and it's not even in a style that I like.


It seems to me, to be totally Christ-focused, and even as a teenager, I found a lot of joy in seeing that on the museum walls.
It's always struck me as interesting how a museum hosts such a wide variety of philosophies under one roof...from Pollock's beliefs that we're all based in cosmic chance, to Restout's desire to celebrate the day of Pentecost. What's interesting to me, is that Restout's painting was in 1732. Pollock lived from 1912-1956, so you can see how 200 years later, there's been a massive change in the dynamic. In the 1730's, the first Great Awakening took place in Britain and North America, so there was a huge return to spirituality as Restout made his mark; Pollock was painting his major works in the wake of the Great Depression, so there was a huge dark cloud over the nation.
Schaeffer puts it this way: "The historical flow is like this: The philosophers from Rousseau, Kant, Hegel and Kierkegaard onward, having lost their hope of a unity of knowledge and a unity of life, presented a fragmented concept of reality; then the artists painted it that way. it was the artists, however, who first understood that the end of this view was the absurdity of all things." The philosopher said it first...the artists painted it...the artists were the only ones who understood that humanism ultimately leads to chaos and heartbreak. Schaeffer discusses fragmentation (Picasso is a great example, especially when you realize that though Picasso's the most famous for his fragmented style, when he was painting pictures of the people he really loved, he painted them fully and in clear interpretation) and "absurdity" in art, and how it projects the continued fractured belief systems in the world.
When you look at these paintings and sculptures, suddenly the ridiculous becomes heartbreaking...
Ever wonder why in the world a bicycle tire welded to a bench is considered "art?" Or, how about this:


Artists always seem to be on another level, and many of them will say, "what do YOU see when you look at my art?" The belief is that they create, and we interpret, and that's the beauty. I believe their intentions are very, very clear. I think a lot of modern art comes from a very sad place, and most of it doesn't make me feel very joyful. There's a lot of shock value, and very little substance.
When art focused on the spiritual...when it reflected a more Christ-centered and broadly accepted philosophy...it seemed, well, happier. I think that art is an excellent barometer to the beliefs of the day...
Granted, Dan Brown would probably read a blog like this and eviscerate me with his interpretations of the feminine mystique and oppression of the Church in earlier paintings, and with regards to certain artists, he has a valid point, however, there is no question in my mind that art today tells the tale of a society in peril.
Over the weekend, I have seen videos of both a 16 year-old, and a group of 8 year-olds wearing next to nothing and gyrating on a dance floor. The news is full of stories of sexual perversion, child abuse, and a blatant disregard for the quality and meaning of life. And, if you're Jackson Pollock, you are completely unaffected by these stories.
If you're Jackson Pollock, and "all is chance," then why does it matter? We are simply the cosmic collision of a few molecules that exploded and happened to produce life. We are an accident.
And accidents do not have value.
Accidents are not worth protecting.
Accidents are not worth saving.
"All is chance" sounds an awful lot like a philosophy that has taken over our schools and destroyed the sense of self-worth that children used to be taught...
I was raised to believe that I was created by a God Who loves me.
I was also raised to believe that God most certainly "meddles in the affairs of men," and I honestly don't believe anything is ever "chance" or coincidence. He has a plan...
Schaeffer sums it up beautifully, regarding Pollock and his swinging paint cans/philosophy of chance: "Wait a minute! Is there not an order in the lines of paint on his canvases? Yes, because it was not really 'chance' shaping his canvases! The universe is not a random universe; it has order. Therefore, as the dripping paint from the swinging cans moved over the canvases, the lines of paint were following the order of the universe itself. The universe is not what these painters said it is."
We may try to say God doesn't exist...we may try to say that moral issues really don't matter, and it's all just a cosmic accident. We still have hearts, and we still have an inner moral compass, and there is no "accidental" explanation for that. Much of the world has bought the lie, and is in the slow process of stifling their inner convictions...
Chaos and heartbreak...
When we understand that we have a Savior Who loves us...when we understand even a tiny bit of Who God is, and what He can do in our hearts...it is a light that explodes through the smog and confusion of "chance."

In Praise of Husbands...

My hair is a mess...
I slept in my makeup
And these pajamas
Have seen better days...
Yet
He
Still
Holds me close
And whispers
"I love you"
Before he leaves
For work
In the morning...
This is the love that I longed for.
This is the love
That I wrote about,
Dreamed about,
Prayed about,
And this is the love
God has blessed me with.
He may never know
How much it means,
That he holds my hand
When we cross the street,
But I do...
He may never know
How much it means,
When he smiles at me...
When his eyes crinkle,
Sparkle,
At me
When we laugh,
But I do...
He holds me when I cry;
He joins me when I laugh;
He calms the drama
When I've gone overboard,
And he throws me a
Lifeline
Back to
Sanity.
He points me toward
The love of the
Father
And teaches me
Lessons I could have never learned
In school...
Through storms and calm...
Through sickness, and in health...
Through life and through death...
Through richer and poorer...
And through everything
In between,
We have seen so much,
Yet he has never
Wavered...
His hand has held mine
Through it all...
My husband is a
Blessing
To me...

Mother's Day...

I haven't blogged about anything pertaining to Hannah in a while. Believe me, it's not because I don't think of her every day; it's that when I do think of her, most of the time I'm thinking thoughts of how she's with her Heavenly Father. There's a great peace in knowing that my daughter is in Heaven. It's much more than some fairytale to me--the reality of Heaven, of the grace of God and the blood of Jesus that guarantees our eternity there, and the truth of knowing that His Word is true, is a JOY. I value my faith, and I credit the grace of God for keeping me sane through the most difficult times in my life. I believe in Heaven, and I know it's there.

I'm still human, though...and as hard as I try to keep a positive perspective on life and loss, sometimes life just hurts. This is one of those times.

I see people celebrate Mother's Day...and since I have a mother that I love, I should celebrate her as well, right? And I do, even in the midst of family turmoil (which hasn't made the approaching weekend any easier). In fact, with as difficult as Mother's Day has been for me in the past, I've felt badly about not celebrating my mother more than I do. It's selfish, but this time of the year serves as a reminder of what I'm not, more than of who I have.

Today is a difficult day. Today I can't look at the pictures...today I can't seem to pull it together and focus or pray...today seems like the waves are winning, and I can't stay afloat. These days are few and far between...It hasn't been like this in a long time. Today, I feel completely alone in this ocean, and I find myself wondering if a good, long cry will be enough to bring me back up to the surface for air...

For every happy memory of Hannah that I have, I have an equally sad one, it seems...The joy of giving birth is eclipsed by the pain of having to bury my child. Memories of the NICU, of celebrating her leaps and strides, of putting her in her first outfit or of changing that first diaper...memories of how she smelled, or of the little noises she would make, or of how soft her hair was...These memories do not stand alone, as they are tainted by those last 5 days of heat lamps, oxygen machines...of beeps and whistles, of pick lines and blood transfusions...of brain swelling and spinal taps...2 weeks in the hospital, at the beginning; 10 days at home; 5 days in the PICU at the end, and it was over...29 days have changed my life.

I have a memory that plagues me. On nights when I can't sleep, it replays in my head, even almost 4 years later. I don't think I've ever talked about it to anyone, or even blogged about it, so maybe bringing it up will help me lay it down: On Hannah's last day, we prayed for a miracle that simply did not happen. I'm not angry; it's just the truth of it. God decided to bring Hannah home. We prayed for God's will, and it didn't carry out the way we thought it would...it carried out the way He planned, and that is the reality we live with. God's will doesn't always make us happy. But on that day, on her last day, she lay in the PICU of Cardinal Glennon surrounded by tubes and ports, machines, and a flurry of doctors, neurologists, and nurses. I didn't leave her side, until the neurologists made me; as soon as they gave the clearance, I was back in there to hold my little girl.

The meningitis caused her brain and her head to swell; my 6-pound daughter was probably double that size from fluid retention, and her skin was delicate from the stretching. She had spinal and brain fluid leaking through her skin, and to anyone else, she was not a pretty baby. To me, she was beautiful. Heat lamps made her smell different; not like her usual "Cheerios" smell (David and I decided when Hannah was born, that she smelled like Cheerios. To this day, I won't touch them). After the neurologists completed their second brain scan, they determined that for the past 48 hours, my daughter was brain dead, and there would be no coming back from it. Although Hannah was still hooked up to machines that were keeping her clinically alive, she had already passed away. Doctors were asking if we wanted to be organ donors; the chaplain was asking us about infant baptism; all I wanted was for the world to stop, for the clocks to stop, and to hold my baby for as long as I possibly could...

It's amazing, how crystal-clear these memories are. I can still see faces, hear the conversations, hear the machines making their noises...

They told me it was time to say goodbye, and I knew that it was. No one would pull the plug until we said we were ready, so for a while, we simply sat there. I had the nurses turn the volume off on the machine, in case she coded; I couldn't stand to hear the flat-line tone of the Code Blue. My mother, father, father-in-law, and sister were all in the room with David and I...

I have no idea how long we sat there, Hannah in my arms, trying to muster up whatever grace it took to tell the nurse to turn the machines off...but we finally did...

After a while (One hour? Two?), we let the nurse know we were "ready." Is anyone ever ready for that? With the machine turned off, I periodically glanced at the light on top of the machine, knowing it would eventually turn blue, but hoping against hope that God would do a last-minute intervention...I tried to sing to my beautiful girl, so that if she could still hear, the last thing she would hear would be her mother's voice..."Baby mine, don't you cry; baby mine, dry your eyes...." I don't think I even got the next line out, and to this day, will not listen to that song...I tried over and over to sing to her, but just couldn't choke the words out...The light on the machine turned blue, and it was finished...

There were no last-minute miracles, no "Hallelujah" moments...there was deafening silence in Heaven and on earth, and my child was dead.

I have no idea how much longer we sat there. This is the part that breaks me in half, even to this day: Two wonderful nurses came in, to take Hannah's body. I had to lay my daughter down, entrust her to strangers, and leave that room without her.

I did not go quietly.

It took the entire group of 5 family members to peel me out of that room, to carry me down that hallway, and take me into the grievance room. 5 people.

I had to leave my child.

My child was gone.

That, more than anything, is the memory that attacks me when I'm at a weak point (like today). It's what gets me when I can't sleep at night...I still remember the sound, that alien sound, that came out of my mouth when they carried me down that hallway--it was the cry of a childless mother, and those of us who have made that sound know exactly what I'm talking about. There's nothing in this world that sounds like that. That sound tore through my head every day for a year...then every other day...then every other week...and now, just a few times a year. This is one of those times.

Everyone else is celebrating the beauty of motherhood. This is not my pity party, don't get me wrong. This is not a self-indulgent trip to make someone feel sorry for me, so don't take this blog that way. This is simply the kind of thing that I, and any other mother who has lost a child, has to deal with, especially this time of the year. You replay every detail, wonder what you could have done differently, wonder if you did anything wrong...you wonder what life would be like (I'd have a 3 1/2 year old running around), and in my case, you wonder if you'll ever have that chance again. There is a beauty in motherhood, and it should be celebrated...For me, there is confusion. Am I a mother? Yes...and no. I have no children here on this earth, but who wants to explain all of that to a stranger? It's Mother's Day, and I am in a new church, surrounded by a few friends, some acquaintances, and strangers...do I stand up, when they recognize mothers, and ignore the questioning glances? Do I sit down, and hear my heart break because I know what's true? Or, do I do what I usually do, and skip church altogether?

I have no idea.

These things I've written, these are my private thoughts...these are the things I have pondered in my heart, and now that I'm at a point where they've begun to attack me, I am bringing them to light with the hopes that now that they're out here for the world to see, I will sleep more peacefully at night. It's taken me almost 4 years to be able to put into writing how Hannah's last day went, and maybe this is a sign of further healing. These days are, again, few and far between. Most of the time, when I think of Hannah, I think of the happy times, and of what a funny baby she was. Mother's Day is difficult for me, and I know I am not the only one. I may be one of the few who will open up my big mouth (or big keyboard) and say something about it, but I KNOW I'm not alone in this.

This Mother's Day is better than last year's...which was far better than the year before that, and so forth. Every year gets better...It's not that it gets easier; I think it's just that as I get older, I learn to lean more on the grace of God. I learn to suck up my pride and reach out to someone to say "Hey, I'm having a hard time here--could you pray for me?" Every year, it gets easier to acknowledge my own inadequacies, in trying to do things on my own.

I celebrate my chance at motherhood. I look around my church, and I am surrounded by awesome mothers who encourage me that should my time come again, I have unlimited resources in parenting and in education. My little family of 3 (David, Holly, and I) are continually blessed by watching the families in our church. Mothers deserve to be celebrated...

...And maybe I do, too.