Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists: Jonathan Kotinek, “Reverse Perspective”

Jonathan’s initial reflections on his subject appeared in a guest post on this blog in September. To read the first post, click here.

As a photographer, painter, and poet who happens to be an Orthodox Christian, I find that my overt attempts at expressing something about my faith tend to be more wooden than if I simply try to let my artwork be a faithful reflection of the beauty I experience in the world. To some extent, I suppose, this is a reflection of my amateur status. I have not yet practiced the technologies of my camera, or brushes, or language well enough for my intent to be expertly woven into my work. It is when I am doing my best to be transparent that I get out of the way enough to let God speak through me.

I have been writing poetry the longest, since I was in middle school. As I have grown older, I am writing less. Not only do I have less time to write, I find that I am not as often inclined to write. I think this might have something to do with having a more-or-less stable and happy life; much of my younger poetry was angst-inspired. I have begun writing again more recently, though it is hard to say if this is because I am feeling more angsty (which might be true) or if I’m finding more depth in feelings as I get older and need an appropriate outlet. I have written a handful of poems since converting to the Orthodox Christian faith eight years ago, but only two of them, Become As A Little Child and Exile, deal at all with issues of faith.

Melinda Johnson, in inviting me to write this post, wondered about Wordsworth’s concept of poetry as “emotion recollected in tranquility,” and whether or not that “tranquility helps or hinders the poet’s…chance at transcendence.” Given my experience of being a more prolific writer during turbulent periods of my life, I have some doubt that tranquility would elicit the same emotion. I concede, however, that the added perspective one might gain by recollecting strong emotion after having achieved some peace might allow the writer to produce a more nuanced and evocative product. And, after all, I’m no Wordsworth.

Much of my photography has been since my conversion. While I do not make particular attempts to photograph Orthodox subjects (except when recording a particular parish event), I do find that the faith-inspired awe I have of nature and the Christian imperative of seeing Christ–and therefore the beauty–in every person permeates my approach to subjects. I am particularly fond of taking portraits and still-life compositions.

My good friend, J. Vincent Scarpace, with whom I was privileged to lead a group of university students in contemplating the idea of transcendence in art, explained to me once why he got started painting fish. He had worked closely with Koi fish and when he went to school was told that he needed to have a subject matter he knew well. I used this insight when I began painting with J. Vincent; though I am not a candle expert, I often find myself staring at the candles lit in prayer during worship.

As I have practiced more painting candles, I try to think about the reasons we Orthodox Christians light candles in prayer and set them in front of icons. I also try to think about what my life looks like, and this swirling darkness, the confusion, disorder and distraction I feel serves as the chaotic background to the candles I paint. My hope is that a person viewing my paintings finds a measure of comfort in the juxtaposition of the candles and the chaos, even if they do not apprehend my particular intent in locating that peace in Christian tradition.

I have had the privilege of sharing my love of art by engaging students in the process of creating art. While J. Vincent did the technical instruction, I took the lead in discussing the idea of art as a means of transcendence with our students. As an Orthodox Christian, transcendence has a very particular meaning for me. I did not foreground my own perspective, but I did get to share a bit about the theology of icons and juxtapose that to other ideas of transcendence. In particular, I was happy that on a field trip to Houston, I got to take my students first to the Houston Byzantine Fresco Chapel and then to the Rothko Chapel. Our conversation about the experience, while somewhat superficial, did suggest that the students came away with an appreciation of the difference between the particular transcendence in the former and the diffuse transcendence of the latter.

I think, finally, that the success of a piece of art, whether poetry, photograph, or painting, depends on an interaction of the art, artist and audience: the rhetorical triangle. The particular genius of Orthodoxy in emphasizing the personal nature of our interaction with God gives a new flavor to art that reveals grace in our experience. Like the reverse perspective in Byzantine iconography, the art is not complete until the audience is participating, until there is someone to receive that grace.

Jonathan Kotinek is a convert to Orthodoxy, father of two, and constantly in awe of his veterinarian wife. An educator, amateur artist, and writer who likes to ponder the intersection of faith, social issues, and education, Jonathan blogs occasionally at http://jkotinek.blogspot.com.

Orthodox Writers and Readers Series: Jonathan Kotinek, “One thing is needful.”

On a recent Saturday morning, I was riding through dusty-brown rural Texas with the priest from a neighboring Orthodox parish; we were on our way to look at a piece of land to see if it might be a good spot for an Orthodox eco-village (it turned out not to be). We shared small bits of news with each other along the way: new members, new catechumens, new visitors. He told me about a young man, an avowed athiest, who had started attending Divine Liturgy intermittently. The reason the young man gave was that he loved the beauty of our prayers.

I was quiet for a moment, captured by the simple and powerful testimony of this man I did not know. I responded, halfway meaning the comment as a prayer, that given our cultural milieu in 21st-century America, perhaps that love of the Liturgy would prove to be somehow salvific. Reflecting on the conversation later, I realized that I was drawing on a few key perspectives to inform my hope:

•  The content of our prayers in the Eastern Orthodox tradition gives direct insight to our theology; we pray what we believe.
•  The certainty expressed by Dostoyevsky in his bold statement, “Beauty will save the world.”
•  St. Seraphim of Sarov’s saying that if we acquire peace, thousands around us will be saved.

I was reminded, too, of a statement given by Met. Kallistos Ware in Sobornost and quoted in Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art: “…an abstract composition by Kandinsky or Van Gogh’s landscape of the cornfield with birds…is a real instance of divine transfiguration, in which we see matter rendered spiritual and entering into the ‘glorious liberty of the children of God.’ This remains true, even when the artist does not personally believe in God. Provided he is an artist of integrity, he is a genuine servant of the glory which he does not recognize, and unknown to himself there is ‘something divine’ about his work. We may rest confident that at the last judgment the angels will produce his works of art as testimony on his behalf.”

A link on Facebook last week led me to read Melinda Johnson’s post “Poets and artists…” at St. Lydia’s Book Club, where I found a similar quote from St. Barsanuphius: “Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace, but do not go into the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”

I wrote to Melinda, thanking her for the post and inviting her to read a blog post I had written recently about my experience working with a group of university students who were exploring the idea of transcendence in art. That interaction led to Melinda’s invitation for this guest blog.

Before anyone else has the opportunity to do so, I should accuse myself of being a dilettante. I have not given enough time or effort to be considered an artist, though I enjoy photography, painting, and singing. Perhaps the athiest asthete mentioned earlier felt a little like I do in engaging these things: that I might apprehend some truth serendipitously by doing what little I can.

As an adult convert to the Eastern Orthodox faith, I’ve discovered that I want a faith perspective that provides a robust and coherent explanatory framework for my subjective experience. The Orthodox emphasis on the coherence of the faith, of engaging all the senses in experiential worship and understanding that theology is something lived, not just contemplated, underscores for me that the feeling of belonging and completeness I feel when moved by a particularly well-written piece of literature or well-composed piece of art may just be part of the Divine plan.

The genius of art, I think, is that it distills a particular person’s perspective and renders it in language accessible to and resonant with others. Following Met. Kallistos and St. Barnasuphius, when this art points toward the source of all beauty it becomes a vector for grace. I think this is true for secular art in the same way (though perhaps not in the same intensity) as it is for icons of Christ and the Saints. These icons which intentionally represent a spiritual and physical reality simultaneously give us some insight to all of our sacraments by demonstrating “matter rendered spiritual.” In this sense, we who have the privilege of worshipping in the Eastern Orthodox tradition are not only surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses when we sing the Divine Liturgy, we are also immersed in a spiritual treasure trove.

I wonder if I don’t sometimes become so habituated to the beauty of Christian worship that I fail to see the treasure in front of me. I read a story recently about the discovery of a $22 billion treasure in a temple vault in India. There are 500 million people living in poverty in India, many of them passing right by this temple, or even adding to the treasure through their offerings. There is some talk of accounting for the treasure, but no apparent plans to use it to alleviate the poverty outside the walls of the temple. Clearly, proximity is not enough for treasure to have an affect. Likewise, the treasure of our faith will not enliven me through osmosis. Every Sunday I have the opportunity (and the obligation) to approach the chalice with fear and trembling, having prepared myself for the most mind-boggling of all transcendent events: the soul-quickening, evil-vanquishing, illuminating, healing, sanctifying entrance of the body and blood of Christ into my person. And I fail, every time.

Christ told Martha, “One thing is needful.” If I took this to heart I would arrange my whole life around this weekly judgment. I would live a coherently Christian faith. I would order my thoughts, my actions, my interactions with others so that I would prepare prayerfully and fully, instead of distractedly and in haste. God, in His grace, grants me to grow a little in this manner every week, every month, every year. The Church is not only a spiritual hospital, it is also a school of repentance. I am learning how to want and need that one thing: communion with God.

I determined last year that I have been working in education too long when I decided I needed learning objectives for parenting my two boys, now aged four and two. I decided that I would feel successful as a parent if they learned to love, to trust, and to wonder. The first, love, seems to me to be the groundwork for all of Christian living: seeing and loving Christ in the face of every person we see. Trust is an exercise of faith: trusting that God will bless that love with a protecting hand. The last, wonder, is an act of living gratitude: as the Psalmist says, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” In this endeavor, I am hoping to establish for my whole family a coherence between the life we live and the faith we profess, despite the daily distractions of television, toys, and video games.

I am an early-adopter of technology and I fear that my boys will have to struggle past their genetics in this respect. I am fond of Arthur C. Clarke’s statement that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” However wonderful technology might be, though, I hope that my children are more often in awe of their direct experience of God’s creation. I hope, too, that they will find ways to share that wonder by developing talents to distill their experience through a lens, or a paintbrush, or a pen and let the love, trust, and wonder they cultivate in church permeate their whole lives.

Jonathan Kotinek is a convert to Orthodoxy, father of two, and constantly in awe of his veterinarian wife. An educator, amateur artist, and writer who likes to ponder the intersection of faith, social issues, and education, Jonathan blogs occasionally at http://jkotinek.blogspot.com.