#Edda Livingston

[pathofregeneration]

Portal of the Virgin, Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral — Paris, France

* * *

Letter to a Modern Artist, part I

“I have been meaning to write: I have circled the writing pad as the swans circled Delos; I have hovered above the white paper as the Eagles hover above the compound in the Philosophic Egg, hoping for a birth of the spirit that drives one to get things done. The trouble with me is I have always got my nose buried in heart and mind consuming stuff, and when I finallly look up whoa! It's already spring. And here's me thinking it's only 3 a.m. I have obviously lost the ability to tell late from early. Do you know where early ends and late starts?

I am aware that you consider me particularly ignorant on the subject of Art, and I really do not take offense at such an evaluation, as it is probably more right than wrong. But the works of Art I like are not ignorant and the beauty of them are not in the least affected by my ignorance, but, as I look upon them, find myself washed clean of the leprosy of false art, with which the world is filled to brimming. Perhaps it would be useful at this point to give you a list of small selection of the works I value, because, God forbid, it might be Andy Warhole for all you know, and unless you know what I value, you cannot know where my heart is. If Earth was heaven, I should live in a Gothic Cathedral with great rose windows and make a portal just like the Virgin portal at Notre-Dame. The doors would be Ghiberti's and the ceilings Michelangelo's. On the walls I'd hang Leonardo's St. John and the Annunciation, Poussin's Et in Arcadia Ego (Les Bergers d'Arcadie. Later version of the Louvre), also Poussin's Orpheus and Eurydice. Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne, and The Entombment I'd fetch from the Louvre. The same gallery would also suffer the loss of the Silver Statue of the Virgin and Child and Amiens Cathedral would be minus their Madonna. Bernini and Michelangelo would supply the centerpieces and Cellini the golden nic-nacs. The Greeks would be useful as tile layers, but hey, who would object to a few Romans lending a helping hand? I should ask God to plant me a garden but this time without Adam and Eve, those greedy fruit eaters.

All these great works are full of symbolism for those who care to read them. They are hieroglyphs from God, created in stone or on canvas by the Servants of the Lords of Light. And I truly believe that to be a true Artist is to be a Servant of the Higher Powers and of Truth; for to be otherwise is to be a creator of wallpaper—or of shelf-fillers—or of infernal cacophony.

But the pure Beauty of Great Art lifts the thoughts away from earthly cares and woes, and brings Grace to the inner minds of those who look upon them with eyes that see; clarifying the sight until there are no more boundaries and no distance. I see these Works as the materialized 'shadows' of Holy Inspiration, earthly representatives of what the great Artist sees in his enlightened Vision, and which he can only reproduce as best he can with whatever talent and sweat is his. (I can only imagine that the true Artist will never be satisfied with the reproduction of his vision, for no work of Art can ever tell us exactly what those who wrote or painted saw or heard or felt in their visions. And I speak here only of great works, not of the twaddle poured out by would-be artists.)”

— Edda Livingston

[pathofregeneration]

Nicolas Poussin, Et In Arcadia Ego (1637-38)

* * *

Letter to a Modern Artist, part II

“If Holy Vision and Inspiration is missing and if works of art does not allow us any discovery capable of elevating and instructing us, of bringing us nearer to our Creator, then art becomes useless. Art, which gives man his indisputable superiority, loses it nobility, its greatness, its beauty when devoid of revelation, and becomes no more than a distressing vanity.

Though the Symbolism employed by the Great Artist we can get close to Spiritual Wisdom here in the darkness of this ignorant and ghost-ridden realm men know as 'The Earth'. It becomes a foretaste of that immortality and joyful, bright existence, brought to birth within the Self. But, sadly, men no longer have a feeling for the divine, and the ungodly masses are no longer interested in the ideal of the Superior Powers. Being entirely 'in the dark' about symbolism, they apply themselves to the creation of works without taste, without character and without esoteric thought.

In these lower orders of art, the artists tell us that they paint, write or sculpt as they see or hear it. These include the ridiculous individuals who throw together 'masterworks' out of bits of string, old tires, sacks of cement and scrap iron. How dismal it must be for those pitiful souls to hear and see such dreadful distortions of art, and in what chaotic state their minds must be! And those who like to see and hear these abominations must be in an equally low state of mind.

But should anyone dare to criticize these artists, then the hordes of absurd and miserable 'admirers' fall upon one and pour out their wrath, they, not being happy, until they have imprisoned every free mind and have dragged it down to their level. Once we are all crushed into the dunghill, there is much happiness and back-slapping among the in-elect.

He bared his arms and kissed the purple swollen flesh and prayed that it might ever be so, that in body and mind and spirit he might ever be beaten and reviled and made ridiculous for the sacred things, that he might ever be on the side of the despised and the unsuccessful, that his life might ever be in the shadow—in the shadow of the Mysteries." (Arthur Machen)

So much of today's commercial art is reminiscent of hopes which never bore ripe fruit—like vain ideals of witless wills. Bone-clanking like a skeleton strung upon the bough of some dreary tree of ill-fate; fleshless, bloodless and with stringy sinew clinging to its sapless frame, unwatered by the dew of inspiration but nourished by its low roots. Its creators ensnared by the illusion that they themselves are the source of inspiration and wisdom.”

— Edda Livingston