Tag: our sunday visitor

Finding the sweet spot: Courtney Eschbach-Wells on singing at Mass

Courtney Eschbach-Wells has a “do not play” list for her funeral. Eschbach-Wells, 44, is not facing the grim reaper just yet, but as a lawyer, she likes to have her affairs in order. She’s also of Slavic descent, so she’s “morbid by nature,” she said.

Most importantly, she is a Catholic cantor, and over the last 20 years singing at St. Joseph’s Cathedral in the Diocese of Manchester, New Hampshire, she’s had abundant time to form strong opinions about hymns.

Eschbach-Wells, who has a clear, bright soprano voice, can’t remember a time when she didn’t sing.

“It’s as natural as breathing for me,” she said.

She sings in her garden, she sings to her chickens and her bees, she sang to her baby (now 14), she sings while commuting to work as a bill drafter for the New Hampshire General Court, and she tries not to distract her co-workers at the State House by singing at her desk.

She also has some strong opinions about that age-old question: why (other) Catholics don’t sing.

“We’re not a singing culture,” she said. “We don’t have a sporting culture where we sing; we don’t have a going-out culture where we sing.”

The one exception is karaoke, but that’s mainly something to do with a group of friends who have had too much to drink. Americans simply don’t readily sing in groups with people they don’t know, and that includes at Mass.

The popular recorded music people hear every day is so highly produced, it’s intimidating, Eschbach-Wells said, and makes them think they can’t sing unless they sound like that.

“But a good choir does not need a ton of Taylor Swifts. It just needs people who can try, and who can try to learn.”

That doesn’t mean any liturgical music will do.

“You’re trying to find that sweet spot where the choir serves two functions: song leadership, singing the hymn so you have voices to follow; and also providing something where, at certain points in the Mass, your active participation can be just listening. So the music works two ways,” she said.

And music does work, in a way that nothing else can.

“Music takes you out of yourself. It reaches a different part of your brain,” Eschbach-Wells said. For her, it’s old English hymns that hit the mark.

“There’s something about it that always plucks that perfect chord in my heart, like when you hit a tennis ball with a racket in just the right spot: ‘Ahhh, yeah, that’s it,” she said.

But the words of the hymn are important, too. Hymns are a wonderful way to learn Scripture; and sometimes they can hit an unsuspecting ear with surprising sharpness…. Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

This profile first appeared in OSV Magazine. Photos by Michael Richards.

Beauty in every body: The portraits of Igor Babailov

To paint a portrait, you first have to fall in love. This is what Igor Babailov believes, and he should know. The Russian-born artist, who’s made his home in the United States for 35 years, has painted hundreds of portraits, from George W. Bush to Nelson Mandela, from Patriarch Kirill of Russia to Akira Kurosawa to Hillary Clinton, and not one but three popes — John Paul II, Benedict XVI and Francis.

“I have to fall in love with the person I paint, otherwise it will never happen. It has to come from my heart,” Babailov said.

The artist, who is also a teacher and speaker, remembers unveiling Francis’ portrait to the pope, who listened attentively as he explained, through an interpreter, the composition of the work and all the details he had included.

“His eyes lit up when I pointed at the children,” Babailov said. “He loved children.” Francis pointed toward his own heart and murmured that he was touched.

The portrait is titled “The Holy Cross” and shows Francis standing under the Holy Family. Behind him, a faint rainbow traces a bridge between Hagia Sophia and the dome of St. Peter’s, which is lit from inside, with a line of pilgrims making their way toward the door. The composition of the entire piece is essentially cross-shaped, with Pope Francis at the center, covering his silver pectoral cross with his hands in a gentle, protective gesture, and looking heavenward with his characteristic placid smile.

Below him we see Francis in two vignettes emblematic of his papacy: in one, sheltering and embracing poor children, and in the other, about to press his lips to the newly washed foot of a dark-skinned person in a wheelchair.

“A portrait is not just a visual likeness; it’s the story of who the person is. That’s why I incorporated him washing feet. That was him in his heart. That was his nature,” Babailov said.

In fact, visiting prisoners — although he was too ill to wash feet, as in former years — was one of the last things Francis did. On Holy Thursday, he visited inmates at Regina Coeli prison in Rome; on Easter Monday, he died.

Photography vs. portraiture

It’s a tricky business, faithfully portraying a real human being with a complex life and legacy. But Babailov insists that a thoughtful painting is better than a photograph for preserving someone’s likeness for future generations.

“For some reason, we trust the camera. But a camera is a cold-blooded machine,” he said. It flattens everything, and it can’t make any decisions about what is and is not important in an image. An artist can make these distinctions and can organize a work to draw the eye first to what is most meaningful.

“Everything is important to a camera,” Babailov said. “But an artist can select.”

Babailov said that, although the three popes whose portraits he painted were very different, they all had in common a palpable sense of holiness. Not so with everyone who sits for one of his portraits! Babailov has accepted commissions for all sorts of people.

Although he spends hours gazing into the face of his subject — trying, in a sense, to read their souls — he never feels the need to edit out anything he sees or to flatter his subject.

“That never, ever, ever comes to my mind. Just the opposite: I see beauty in everyone,” he said. “That may sound strange. People have contradictions. But as a portrait painter, I have to fall in love with the person I paint.”

Trained to observe the human form

He is in love, in fact, with the human body itself, from the inside out. Babailov, whose father was a painter and whose mother was a teacher, painted his first portrait at the age of 4….Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Why a cross?

Periodically, some wise guy will say, “Oh, and if Jesus had been shot by a firing squad, would you Christians wear a little golden gun around your neck? If he had been electrocuted, would you hang a decorative electric chair on the wall of your church?”

Maybe we would. What-ifs are not the same as theology, so I don’t know how it would have played out. All I know is how it did play out. It was a cross that Jesus died on. And that was not just an accident of history. 

Look at the shape of the cross: It extends up, down, left, and right, and approximately in the center, at the intersection of it all, is the heart of the dying man.

What is down? The soldiers, the rabble, the clergy, the grieving women, the few disciples who didn’t run away. The stony ground, blood-soaked soil and the whole heavy earth, burdened with its load of the living and the dead. 

What is up? The heavens, the Father who said not long before that he is well pleased with his Son. Up is where Jesus cast his eyes to ask the Father why he had abandoned him, and up is where he commended his spirit just before he died. 

What is left? The criminal who looks at Jesus and says, “Aren’t you supposed to be God? Then go ahead and get us out of this mess!” Essentially: You come here and do what I want, and do it right now (Lk 23:39).

What is right? The criminal who knows who he is and why he is where he is, but also knows who Jesus is, and how wrong it is that they are on the same level. He doesn’t ask or tell Jesus to go anywhere, and he doesn’t assume Jesus should do anything. He knows, though, where Jesus will go, and he asks to be remembered when he gets there (Lk 23:40-43).

On Palm Sunday, different people read the various speaking parts of the Passion; but really, everyone who is alive today is either the good thief or the bad thief. Suffering isn’t something we may or may not have to deal with; it’s inevitable. Sooner or later, we will find ourselves immobilized on one kind of cross or another, punished and rejected by someone or something in the world. Maybe we’ll suffer at the hands of an enemy, maybe at the hands of someone we love. Maybe we’re in pain because of our own bodies, or maybe because of our own decisions. But we will all find ourselves there: on the cross, suffering, helpless and looking at Jesus. 

Then we will have the choice. We can look at Jesus and tell him where to go and what to do, how to be God.

Or we can look at him and say, “I know who you are, and I know where you are going. Don’t forget me.” 

It’s not wrong to ask for things. It’s not wrong to tell God specifically what we want to happen, or to ask him to relieve our sufferings, whether we deserve them or not. But it is futile to tell him what he must do for us. How insane does the bad thief look, stuck like a bug to a wooden cross and still somehow thinking he has some kind of power?

The other thief was just as immobilized, just as doomed, just as powerless, but from that spot, what he chose to say to God was: “I know who you are. Remember me.” He trusted that God would rescue him — in the way that God thought best, in the time that God knew was right.

That sounds so glib. If you are reading this in the midst of some horrible, painful trial, and you read the words, “trust in the Lord” or, “God’s timing is perfect,” I wouldn’t blame you for getting mad…. Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Image: The Crucifixion by Andrea Mantegna (1459) (Public Domain) 

Everyone gets an inheritance; everyone gets a choice

What was the prodigal son’s actual sin?

That question popped into my head as I heard the Gospel reading that I’ve heard countless times. The obvious answers — essentially, sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll — seemed unpersuasive this time. Is this really just a story saying that if you go and do the really common bad things that people tend to do, then God will still forgive you?

Well, yes! It’s definitely that. Jesus, in telling this parable, was showing the Pharisees and scribes that he hung around with sinners because he wants to forgive them and be reconciled with them.

But here’s something odd: The prodigal son says that he has sinned against God and against his father. Obviously, fornicating and getting drunk are sins against the Ten Commandments, and thus sins against God. But what sin has he committed against his father?

The sin of squandering. What an evocative word. His father had something good, and he gave it to his son as a gift so he could use it for some particular purpose. But, instead, he squandered it. That’s worth looking at because it also sheds light on the part of the story that troubles many people: the father’s attitude toward his other, obedient son.

So what’s so terrible about squandering an inheritance?

First, it’s clearly terrible for the son himself. He burns through his money and ends up humiliated and starving. It was a bad plan, and it bit him in the butt.

It was also bad for the father. He very likely wanted to help set his son up with a homestead of his own so his wealth would flourish and grow. A young man with a sizable inheritance could easily marry, likely have children of his own, and bring joy and delight to his father.

His sin was also bad for the community. By squandering his inheritance, he refused to enrich the land or make jobs for the next generation. I know how tediously modern that sounds — “His great sin was that he failed to engage in community development!” — but it’s true! Things haven’t changed that much. When you get something good, you’re not supposed to waste it. You’re supposed to use it to help yourself, show respect to the person who gave it to you, and help other people. That’s what good things are FOR.

But on every count, the prodigal son did the opposite. 

When we are assessing our lives (a very good practice during Lent!), it may or may not be helpful to ask ourselves, “Am I sinning?” It will probably be fruitful, though, to look at what good things God has given us, and to ask ourselves what we are doing with it. Are we using that inheritance well? Or are we squandering it?

An obvious example of an inheritance is money. If we have it, are we spending it on dumb or bad stuff that hurts ourselves and other people? That’s squandering. But using it to help other people would be using it for its intended purpose.

There are less obvious examples. Gifts of time, energy and health are all things we can either squander or use well. Even our personalities can be an inheritance. If we have been given the gift of a quick wit and sharp sense of humor, what do we use that for? For being nasty to other people and humiliating them? That’s squandering it. For making people laugh and helping them take life lightly? That’s putting it to good use.

Or maybe we’re naturally confident and charming, and we find it easy to persuade and influence others. Some people use this gift to get their way, and finagle themselves into situations they haven’t really earned and can’t really manage. That’s squandering. But some people use the gift of charisma well, buoying up everyone around them, bringing out their best and leading them down good paths.

You get the idea. Whatever it is you have in life, whatever strengths you possess, whatever talents you can claim, whatever skills and abilities you have, these are your inheritance. You can accept God’s help to get yourself set up in a thriving life that makes him proud and benefits everyone. Or you can stuff whatever gifts you have in your pocket, run far away from your father’s land and squander it all. And you see where that second choice lands you. Sooner or later, you’ll be wishing you had it as good as a pig.

So what about the elder son? In the story, he didn’t run through his inheritance. He obeyed his father and did his work, and when his loser brother comes crawling back, he’s indignant at how thrilled their father is. The elder son comes across, at first, as innocent and justified.

But listen to how Jesus tells it…. Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Image: The Return of the Prodigal Son by Maestro dell’Annuncio ai Pastori, National Museum of Capodimonte (Naples) via Wikimedia (Creative Commons) 

Missionaries for Music: Ashuelot Concerts brings global talent to rural New England

Louisa Stonehill faced a row of kindergarteners. Their eyes were closed, their necks craned forward, and each one was doing his best to feel the music she played on her violin — with their ears, and also with their faces, their jaws, their chests.

“I can feel it,” one girl said, her eyes still closed.

That is what Louisa and her pianist husband Nicholas Burns came for. They are a kind of missionary, evangelists for music, answering a call.

The couple, founders of Ashuelt Concerts, moved to New Hampshire from Greenwich, London, in 2016, with two suitcases, a 2-year-old and no real plan.

Nine years later, they’ve built a thriving international chamber music concert series, playing 18 concerts a year, bringing world-class performers to tiny New England stages — and, even more remarkably, to area schools. The couple, along with a revolving roster of musicians, will travel to any school within 45 minutes of their base in Keene, New Hampshire, to introduce kids to classical music.

Nick and Louisa, the parents of two boys, ages 7 and 10, reach something like 5,000 children a year, many of whom might never otherwise encounter classical music, much less in a concert played live and up close just for them.

“We literally put a 5-year-old from a rural area a few feet away from one of the best musicians in the world, playing one of most valuable, famous instruments in the world,” Nick said.

A visceral response

Nick and Louisa make a point of not condescending to kids. They play movements from larger pieces, from seven to ten minutes each. It’s a big ask for little kids, but they help the children understand what they are hearing.

Sometimes they wonder if they’re expecting too much. Louisa recalls a “horrendous” musical passage by Shostakovich that evokes prisoners forced to dance before their own graves. They didn’t share that detail with the kids, but the music made its point. How did it land?

“They went absolutely bananas,” Nick said. They said it was like a horror movie, and they loved it. 

He added, “We’ve been shocked to our core –“

“– at how viscerally the children respond,” Louisa finished. “We don’t dumb it down. We give it to them real.” 

Real, live music brings out an emotional, vibrational delight like nothing else.

Along with the music, the couple delivers lessons kids will need to know no matter where life takes them. 

Lessons, for instance, about talent. While some people take to instruments more readily than others, talent alone is not sufficient.

“Talent is the product of learning, practice and discipline, and the act of humility and the act of being honest,” Nick said. 

The kids are skeptical, but Nick and Louisa insist: Three weeks before the concert, they couldn’t play the piece. They practiced, they slowed themselves down and they had faith they would prevail. And once you have put in the work to learn something, it’s inside you for good, Louisa said.

“It’s really freaky. You can literally not have played a piece for a year or two, and when you open it up again, it will just take you a second to find that pathway in your brain.”

In faith as in music

Here is where the couple’s Catholic faith asserts itself, even though they do not speak overtly about religion.

“Everything we talk about has parallels with the faith. It’s a living embodiment of our faith,” Nick said.

They both emphasized how vital it is, in faith as in performance, to begin with humility, to accept how little you know and not to get ahead of yourself.

Another parallel: It’s normal to go through a stage of questioning, of rebelling against rules that seem senseless and discipline that feels tiresome. But this stage is worth conquering, because through the discipline of practice, something amazing comes about. You learn to become a vessel for something greater than yourself.

“When you stand up on stage and you’ve got a big audience and they’re all staring at you in expectation, you have to put yourself to one side. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about communicating this great piece of art,” Nick said.

Louisa, an adult convert, describes the almost mystical experience of sharing with kindergarteners the voices of long-dead musicians.

“You’re connecting these two souls in such a unique and special way. You’re bringing these composers down from the heavens, almost, into their arms,” she said.

Great musicians and Catholics share a sense of humility, self-awareness and a generosity of spirit, Nick said. And both groups recognize the flash of genius as a gift, something they’ve been blessed with from outside oneself.

Called to a new community

But even with these overlaps, the “aggressive secularity” of London’s chamber music scene was one of the things that drove the couple away. How did they land in New Hampshire?

Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Photo courtesy Ashuelot Concerts

All seasons have their purpose: The eremetic art of Margaret Rose Realy

Margaret Rose Realy isn’t really an artist, she insists, even though her paintings of flowers, clouds and the Sacred Heart hang in houses all over the world. She isn’t a natural author, either, even though she’s written four books: “A Garden of Visible Prayer,” “A Catholic Gardener’s Spiritual Almanac,” “A Garden Catechism,” and “Planting with Prayer.” 

“The only reason I did it is because God asked me to,” she said. 

Listening to God is one of the few things Realy, 70, will admit to being skilled at. She is, in some ways, a professional: She’s a Benedictine oblate, associated with a local monastery in Michigan, who has lived an eremitic life marked by silence, solitude and prayer for many years. Realy follows the rule of St. Benedict, which she calls “a gentle rule.” 

The silver-haired, soft-spoken woman whose chronic health struggles have made it harder and harder for her to move seems like mildness personified. She is a master gardener and says that working among flowers has brought her closer to God. Her gardens are a form of “gentle evangelization.”

But do not mistake Realy for a sentimentalist. Her docile manner veils a soul on fire with passion, courage and fierce trust.

Realy speaks quietly of her physical pain, and just as quietly of her harrowing personal history of abuse and neglect; and she speaks of her desire to see her abusers again in heaven. 

“I can’t wait to know who God really meant them to be, who they were supposed to be,” she said. “I still want to love them, and I still want to know that love, and give it.”

 

Beauty and grace are like seeds that God has planted in even the darkest and most tormented souls, she said. It takes a terribly strong conviction to refuse forgiveness from God.

“I don’t think hell is as full as we might like to think it is.”

Again, do not mistake Realy for a pushover. Many of her paintings are sweet and simple depictions of the beauty of nature. But some, like her Sacred Heart series, are a disciplined exploration of something she didn’t understand and didn’t want to face. 

“I was highly repulsed by some of the older Sacred Heart images, this graphic, gory mass. It was beyond my ability to connect to it,” she said.

The images were so gruesome, they pushed her away from Jesus. So she pushed back. She prayed, pressing the Lord for an explanation of this distressing devotional. He told her to paint. 

She obediently began to depict the Sacred Heart, but “bound up in nature,” intertwined not only with thorns but with vines and buds. 

“I was drawing the Sacred Heart in a way that wasn’t frightening. Drawing closer to what it means to have a heart so sacred (that) our Lord was willing to let it stop beating,” she said. “It was drawing closer to the heart of Jesus for me, who has experienced much violence in my life.”

Realy’s post-traumatic stress disorder used to make the sight of a crucifix intolerable. Now she embraces it. That turn marks the time when she began to converse with the Lord “casually, personally.” 

She does say the Rosary and other formal prayers. But she also simply speaks God. 

“And I listen, of course,” she said. Using something like the Gestalt “empty chair” technique, she is ready to hear answers that aren’t verbal. 

‘What am I supposed to do now?’

Her faith began to grow many years before she took up a paintbrush, in a physically active season of her life, full of backpacking and canoeing. The beauty of the natural world drew her to the Lord, and she returned the favor by throwing herself wholeheartedly into gardening and teaching others how to do it. 

But her physical challenges began to mount, until a debilitating bout of pain and inflammation landed her in bed for five days. When she got back on her feet, she headed to adoration to hash things out with God. 

“I sat down in a pew, and said, ‘Lord, you made me a gardener.’ I was crying, ‘I can’t do this anymore. You know I can’t do this. What am I supposed to do now?’… Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor.

Transmitting light: Stained glass and painting by Patrice Schelkun

The thing about stained glass is that the artist doesn’t know how it will look until it’s installed.

“There’s an element of surprise along the whole process,” said Patrice Schelkun, who works in glass and also in paint.

When Schelkun works on stained glass, she pieces her windows together on a huge table and solders it tight, planning out every element, every color, every piece of glass. She must choose between clear or opalescent glass, and sometimes she adds more than one layer to create a sense of depth.

But it’s not until it’s completely done and held up to the light for the first time that she really knows how it came out.

Schelkun likes to add texture and detail to her glass pieces with paint, and this, too, yields unpredictable results. The paint, which is made of pigment mixed with finely ground glass, is applied with oil or water and fused to the glass surface in a kiln, eight hours at a time. Sometimes five or more layers of paint are applied, and fired in between each application. Sometimes the paint changes, and sometimes the color of the glass shifts in the kiln.

Or sometimes a piece turns out as designed, but then it’s not displayed for greatest effect. This was the case with “Adorned,” a panel with a sun-dappled face peering out from a crush of jewel-toned chrysanthemums. The piece was designed to be hung in direct light, but it was displayed too high up in an exhibit in Chicago, and the light didn’t shine through as Schelkun intended. When she retrieved that piece, she opted to install it on a light box, to display it at its best.

But sometimes this variability inherent in glasswork is an asset. Natural light, in particular, brings out the potential of glass to shift in appearance.

“It’s almost like the window is alive,” Schelkun said. “It’s the same thing if you’re walking by a window. It changes as you walk past it. It projects colors onto the floor. It’s kind of a living thing.”

Schelkun, 65, now concentrates more on oil painting and portraiture than she does on glass, but she wasn’t always an artist of any kind. She studied science but soon put that aside to raise her children. The family bought a house in Pennsylvania in the ’90s, and Schelkun got to work decorating it. She began in her oldest daughter’s room, which she festooned with a mural of flowers and bunnies, turning it into a little secret garden.

Friends who saw her work said she was good, good enough to start a business. She began decorating homes, and then businesses, and then a church.

A church bathroom, that is. The pastor gave her free rein to redo the ugly little room in the vestibule.

“I did a stone wall and a little niche, and he was like, ‘Whoa,’” Schelkun said. She was welcomed onto the committee for the parish’s building project and worked on choosing colors and furnishings.

At the same time, she started to study drawing and painting in earnest, taking private classes with artists when she could spare the time. She also took a class on stained glass at a local community college.

“I knew nothing about stained glass. Basically [the class] was teaching you how to cut glass and piece it together, and I said, ‘No, I want to paint on glass,’” she said. “My first love was painting.”

But there is something about glass, and its potential to capture, transmit and refract light in different ways. Her studio, Immanence Fine Art, shows works in both paint and stained glass. What they all have in common is an emphasis on light.

“Immanence is evidence of the divine throughout the material world. We can interact with God’s presence through the beautiful things we see in nature, and the way light strikes things. That’s evidence of God, to me,” Schelkun said.

When she paints portraits, she often composes them with strong lighting from one side, but even more often with “rim light,” light that bleeds out from behind the subject.

“If someone is standing in front of a sunset, the light halos around their head,” she said. “It’s the light I’m attracted to.”

She has seen firsthand how the light can attract other people, too….Read the rest of my latest artist profile in Our Sunday Visitor.

Creative destruction, violent creation: The art of blacksmith Evan Wilson

“I hit, beat, torture, manipulate, crush, squeeze, twist, punch holes in and hammer all those pieces of metal into shape,” said Evan Wilson, artist and blacksmith.

This is how he turns copper, bronze, iron and steel into furniture and firepits, leaves, berries, wings and hands, and, sometimes, the body of Jesus.

“It’s a mixture of brute force and finesse,” he said.

Wilson, 37, said his work is an emotional experience, and sometimes a spiritual revelation.

“For me, it’s become a way of understanding my own, and our universal, coming back to God. Of relating to the God who calls us to suffer and to grow,” he said.

At times he’s focused on being the smith who shapes the metal, but other times he feels more like the thing being shaped.

“I hit this material like I mean it. I really clobber it. But every hammer blow is at just the right angle, just the right amount, the right temperature, the right location,” he said.

What he’s doing is bringing about a “loving transformation.”

“But from the perspective of the metal, it’s like ‘Oh my God, stop beating me!’” he said.

Wilson isn’t just using his artistic imagination; he has lived it.

Wilson was received into the Eastern Orthodox church in 2023, but was raised evangelical Protestant. Wilson was all of 7 years old when he began to note the logical inconsistencies of a “sola scriptura” approach to doctrine. As he grew, he kept finding more questions than anyone in his community could answer, and the faith of his childhood had less and less of a grip on him.

“It left me with a lot of angst,” he said. “I never threw away Christ, but I always wanted to figure out what the deeper value of this story was.”

As an adult, seeking a life of meaning, he spent time in Afghanistan working for a nonprofit that taught literacy and offered pregnancy care.

“I lived in a mud hut with an ex-Taliban member, had a dog, rode my bike to work. It was an awesome time, but very difficult to reconcile the God I was told about as a child with what was occurring there,” he said.

He saw so many people, especially women and children, who seemed trapped and forgotten.

When Wilson returned to the United States, he took up with Mobile Loaves and Fishes, a nonprofit that serves the homeless in Austin, Texas.

“I could tell there was something embodied or incarnate in the faith that was in action there,” he said.

That something wasn’t picturesque. He recalls working surrounded with what founder Alan Graham called “the bouquet of Christ,” the aroma of incontinent and unbathed bodies, and crack smoke.

“We served them as we serve Christ,” he said.

Wilson still struggled with his faith, but Loaves and Fishes is where he began to use his hands. He ran a workshop teaching the homeless to build wooden bird houses and tree swings, so they could have some shot at supporting themselves. His program invited journeymen to come and host workshops, and this included a dozen master blacksmiths from around the world.

“They were super generous, and I learned a ton,” he said.

That is when blacksmithing began to compel him, and it eventually became his main focus. It was not a smooth or graceful transition.

“My wife and I had our first son in 2020, I lost my job, and I got my first commission all in the same year,” he said.

That first commission was a Stations of the Cross. He calls it the beginning of his salvation, as he carefully crafted the tiny bodies acting out the suffering and death of Christ.

He first made the figures out of plasticine clay and shaped them with wooden replicas of his smith tools, to make sure he’d be able to form them from metal without using his hands. He literally wrestled with the little bodies as he worked.

“Pushing Christ’s arm just so, not thinking but feeling that; the tilt of the head here, the Roman soldier hammering the nails in. That’s how I was converted,” he said…. Read the rest of my latest artist profile for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Image: Evan Wilson in his studio with the Face of Christ (Mandylion) in chased bronze

Note: I’m expanding the scope of this monthly artist feature! If you know of a Catholic musician, composer, dancer, or other contributor to the arts who has an interesting story to tell, let me know. Shoot an email to simchafisher at gmail dot com. Thanks!

 

 

Look up!

One day, I was pushing my then-toddler on a swing while we waited for her big sister to get out of school. One of the dads was doing the same thing, idly pushing a swing and waiting for the bell to ring. As he pushed, he looked up at the sky.

“Look at the clouds,” he said. “They’re so cool! I never really looked at clouds before.”

I didn’t know such a thing was possible, to never look at clouds.

Clouds are some of my favorite things in the whole world to look at and think about. I sometimes tell my kids that God could have come up with so many ways of making the world function, but he seems to have chosen the beautiful and interesting and dramatic way, over and over and over again. He could have designed some other mechanism to move water up and down and around the water cycle — something dull or unchanging or even invisible — but he chose to design this system that’s so elegant, beguiling, ever-changing and recklessly beautiful. Clouds! And all we have to do is look up.

The same is true for so much of the natural world: the way seeds turn from tightly closed secret chambers into brave, tender little beings standing on their own; the way rocks and soil are ceaselessly churned up through the relentless jaws of continental plates. Heck, God could have made the world colorless. Soundless. Scentless. He could have organized the food chain so that birds are not necessary, but he chose to fill the world with strange, beautiful, sometimes nutty and hilarious creatures who not only hop and fly and swoop around, they make music as they go. Are you kidding me? And all we have to do is look up!

And that’s just the stuff we know about! That’s just the stuff we can see with a quick glance around us as we hustle from the car to wherever our next appointment is. There is also an immense natural world that is hidden from us, unfathomably busy with its own designs, that we don’t even know about: things working under the surface of the ground, things too small for us to see, things hidden within our own cells; secret signals between trees, arcane signs passed from species to species and generation to generation. Fungal kingdoms, pheromones, neural memories. Things under the sea; things under the ice; things beyond our atmosphere. The sheer liveliness of the world is too much to comprehend.

I’m lucky that both my parents taught me it was normal and rational to look at the natural world with fascination and delight, because it is fascinating and delightful. To have been raised this way is a gift, and for a moment, on the playground that day, I was crushed by the thought this man had been denied that gift for decades. In maybe 40 years, no one had taught him to look up.

But then I thought: How wonderful that it’s not too late. …Read the rest of my latest for Our Sunday Visitor. 

Artist and teacher Monica Dix walks the walk.

Monica Dix believes that if you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.

That’s why the 53-year-old artist and teacher will sometimes tack up one of her in-progress drawings where her room full of eighth-graders can see it, saying, “Okay, five things. Critique my work.”

At first, they praise her art, and tell her she’s the best artist ever.

“Then they dig in,” she said.

They always find mistakes she didn’t see, and they’re not shy about letting her know she didn’t properly measure the space between the nose and the upper lip, or that something was off about the eyes.

“It’s great for my pride,” she said.

It’s also great for her students, because it shows them not only how to look critically at the objective elements that make or break a piece of art, but it shows them what it’s like to be an artist. Sometimes you can fix a mistake, but sometimes you have to start over.

“It’s that whole ‘walk the walk.’ I let them see that,” she said.

Sometimes, a kid will point out an error she’s made, and she realizes she’s not only executed something wrong, she’s been teaching it wrong. It’s like when one person raises his hand and asks a question, and it turns out there are ten people who also had that question, but were too self-conscious to ask.

“It helps everybody,” she said.

Dix has been teaching art to teenagers at Naples Classical Academy, a charter school in Naples, Florida, since 2021. In many ways, it’s an extraordinary school, where kids leave their cell phones behind and nobody aspires to be a TikTok star. The classical curriculum, provided by Hillsdale College, tends to attract families with a certain mindset, she said.

But in other ways, they bring the same attitudes and assumptions to her class that many Americans bring to art in general. Part of the curriculum includes modern art, and every year when she introduces abstract expressionism, someone will say, “I could do that!” or “A kindergartener could do that!”

She responds, “Then why didn’t they?”

She asks her students to learn what was going on in the artist’s life and what was going on in the world. They study art on the same timeline as they study history, so they begin to make connections and understand why some artists chose to break with tradition, and why we still remember their work today.

“I come at it from a historical standpoint, from a cultural history standpoint. (These things are) worth looking at,” she said.

She also gets her students to do more than just look. If they have time, she invites them to re-create art that baffles them — for instance, the intricate, dynamic layers of drips and splashes in a Jackson Pollock action painting.

It’s harder than it looks. Her students are allowed to say whether they like or dislike a piece of art, but first they should know what they’re talking about.

Dix makes herself walk the walk, too. …

Read the rest of my latest artist profile for Our Sunday Visitor.

Image: Sunday Afternoon At the Porch House Pub by Monica Dix (image courtesy of the artist) 

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Also, a note: I’m expanding the scope of this monthly artist feature! If you know of a Catholic musician, composer, dancer, or other contributor to the arts who has an interesting story to tell, let me know! Shoot an email to simchafisher at gmail dot com. Thanks!