Frozen Beauty

Shared from Bored Panda

Frozen Beauty: I Immortalized Flowers In Ice

What do you think happened with flowers from my last Mother’s Day? RIGHT! They went to the freezer!

And after lying there for 2 months in waiting of the right moment and my inspiration, finally their turn came!

This idea came to my head a few months ago! I peeked her in, the project FRESH KILLS, which was done by the photographer Kate Mathis.

What an extraordinary beauty and new life there is in these dead frozen flowers.

More info:

Close up of the picture below

Nice frozen roses heads in the glass bowl

Side view! So dramatic photo.

Another angle of the close up.

I did it on two glass pans, this is the second one.

Another side

Close up on the previews picture

Love this frozen flowers!

Another angle

The Thing With Feathers





“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
~Emily Dickinson



Our local fair feels much like I remember when I was a child in the 60’s, accompanying my father to the Lynden fairgrounds during those summers of political and social turmoil.  His job was to supervise the teachers of FFA kids (Future Farmers of America) so he did the rounds of the regional and county fairs and my brother and I tagged along to…

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Salvation anxiety

reposted from Fathom

Theology through the Arts
Using art to express the divine

Halfway through pursuing a master’s in theology and the arts, I saw a production of W;t—a play about a John Donne scholar whose terminal cancer forces her to reevaluate her rational approach to life. As the story progresses, Vivian’s fierce intelligence breaks down, incapable of addressing the emotional and psychological needs her suffering had revealed to her. When she’s lying comatose on an operating table near the end, two medical students reflect on her harsh intellect and give her a new diagnosis: “salvation anxiety,” the mind-driven pursuit of theological knowledge at the expense of life itself. “The puzzle takes over,” one student says to another. “You’re not even trying to solve it anymore. Fascinating, really . . . Looking at things in increasing levels of complexity.”

Watching Vivian, I saw myself. At the time, I was leading a student arts group, producing a monthly arts showcase, and planning a week-long arts festival. I was reading all the books I could find on the overlap between theology and art, and I was severely depressed. Like Vivian, the life of the mind had become a way to cope; the more I studied, the more I drifted away from the relationships and the emotional vitality that gave meaning to both. Like Rilke, stunned at a timeless sculpture, I sat in that Hollywood black box theater crying: “. . . all the borders of itself, / burst like a star: for here there is no place / that does not see you. You must change your life.”

The gift of W;t was that I could learn the lessons of her suffering now, even as I wrote a final paper on the play itself. I decided to balance my research with relationship: conversations with the artists themselves about their own insights from producing the play. I talked to two actors and the playwright, and we talked about everything from what it felt like to peel back the layers of a line until you can act it with integrity, the importance of forgiveness, how the play’s structure matches a sonnet by John Donne, and more. And we weren’t just talking about ideas—we shared where the art had found its way into our own lives. Theology and art was no longer a puzzle to put together; we were exploring theology through the arts, listening for meaning within the play and within our conversations. As the Sufi poet Rumi said,

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.

The lines are not suggesting that the mind doesn’t matter but that they find their proper place in a more embodied way of living in the world. This is the lesson Vivian finally learns and shares with the audience when she leans on an IV stand and says,

Now is not the time for verbal swordplay, for unlikely flights of imagination and wildly shifting perspectives, for metaphysical conceit, for wit . . . Now is a time for simplicity. Now is a time for, dare I say it, kindness.

Too often it seems we go in the opposite direction. “The Word became flesh,” and we keep trying to abstract our flesh back into words. When we engage the arts only at the level of the mind, we risk perpetuating a variety of mistakes:

Confusing content and form. A common Christian approach to the arts uses forms in service of religious content, like letters in the mail. The envelope is the aesthetic carrier (the form of painting, sculpture, music), and it’s discarded once the message is received (the content of theology, doctrine, biblical scenes). This approach turns form and content into a false dichotomy and favors one at the expense of the other.

Prioritizing written content. It’s easy to think that art only matters when I can extract something out of it and translate it into text. In other words, the “meaning” of the art is only in the explanation of its content—the museum plaque or the textbook chapter. But in the case of W;t, the fullest meaning of the play is within the play itself, not the words I use to evaluate it—and looking for the fullness of meaning in art takes time.

Assuming knowledge. If I approach art believing I have all the right answers about the world (theological or otherwise), I will be closed off from risk and the possibility of revelation. To paraphrase the poet Pádraig Ó Tuama, we must regularly go to the edges of ourselves and allow others to “populate that edge with information and insight.” That requires an active choice to stay open to new ideas.

Reacting in ignorance. If we don’t understand art, if we don’t allow ourselves to set aside our preconceived theological ideas, then we haven’t risked anything. This is why St. Benedict writes in his monastic rule, “let all guests who arrive be received as Christ, because He will say: ‘I was a stranger and you took Me in’ (Matthew 25:35).” When we engage art, we are engaging the work of artists made in the image of God—and hospitality should be extended to both.

These mistakes are another form of “salvation anxiety”—the wrong pursuit of a good thing that separates us from the thing we desire most. The real irony in all of this is that there are real spiritual longings in art today that many writers and critics don’t seem to have the language or confidence to address. Did you know shamanism is making a comeback? That there’s a new chapel that combines art with religious forms? That this year’s Met Gala theme combined high fashion with liturgical vestments? Theology through the arts is happening with or without our friendship and the rich theological and spiritual resources we could bring.

In W;t, Vivian’s love of John Donne’s poetry blinds her to the relationships where the meaning of those poems could be worked out—is it possible that our own theologies have done the same? That the Spirit is moving right under our noses and through the arts? My friend Maria Fee said, “art helps us participate in its own life, we’re swallowed up into it.” This is theology through the arts, not an anxious appraisal of it, and if we start there, in simplicity and kindness, we might find ourselves beyond our abstract ideas and walking into the fullness of the world.

Michael Wright
Michael Wright is a Nashville native living in Los Angeles where he works as an editor for FULLER studio. He writes regularly on spirituality, poetry, and art in his weekly newsletter Still Life, and you can find him on Twitter @mjeffreywright.

Stop and Do Nothing For A While

The importance of taking time to do nothing . . .











You see them on porches and on lawns
down by the lakeside,
usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out
at the water or the big shade trees.
The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs
though at one time it must have seemed
a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table
between the chairs where no one
is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It may not be any of my business,
but let us suppose one day
that everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock sat down in them
if only for the sake of remembering
what it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs,
side by side with a table in between.
The clouds…

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