History has shown that art can be the bearer of soaring spiritual truth and profound revelation, but at least within my own Christian tradition, much of what passes for “spiritual art” these days is really neither art nor spiritual. The painting, the music, the poetry, the dance — both artworks and their creators have been shackled by rigid demands to be bland and inoffensive. There is no risk, no spark, no tooth, just a steady plodding repetition of what we already know and believe. If all we want is a comforting reminder, then perhaps we can be satisfied with the mind- and soul- numbing insipidity of such “spiritual art.” Perhaps if we grow exhausted and defeated enough, we will not even mind that our deepest fears are met with saccharine platitudes, and our soul-searing questions with worn-out dogma.

Perhaps.

We do get beat up sometimes, but the human spirit is fierce and hungry and curious, and I think in the end many of us are deeply unsatisfied with such toothless songs and stories and images. If we come to a place where we really want art to be a source of profound revelation and a sacred pathway to the Divine, then we must allow it to be gritty and toothy and unpredictable. In other words, we must allow it to be genuine art — and genuinely spiritual.

The process begins by offering our artists genuine freedom to seek, explore, and experiment in their work. The process of creating good work, whether sculpture or poetry or drama, necessarily involves taking artistic risks and pushing social boundaries — and young or timid artists in particular may need to be challenged to stretch beyond what feels easy or comfortable. Although not every piece will be suited for exhibit or performance in every venue, it is important to protect the process of creation so that the work has space to grow and develop according to the artist’s vision. We must embrace and encourage such artistic freedom, and trust individuals to set their own moral and ethical limits as they go about discovering the work they are called to create.

Equally necessary is the establishment of both excellent form and honest content as the standards by which we evaluate a work of art. Every aspect of an artwork communicates something to its audience; this is why song lyrics come to mean something slightly (or significantly) different when the melody is changed. A work of art will not become a source of genuine Divine revelation if its primary message is that it feels good to look at pictures of charming English cottages surrounded by gardens in full bloom. It really isn’t possible for a painting to address one’s deepest inner hunger and perfectly match the couch, for the simple reason that human beings are significantly more complex than upholstery patterns. As long as we’re looking for things that feel good and look pretty, that’s exactly what we will get.

Finally, we as listeners and viewers and readers and audience members must remember that art will not always provide passive entertainment; often we must put forth some effort to engage with it. That may include laying aside our existing prejudices against a particularly toothy art form, such as abstract painting or heavy metal music; or it may involve a willingness to engage with uncomfortable or challenging content. Sometimes we will need to educate ourselves ahead of time, or take the time to read a written artist statement. Our investment won’t always end when we leave the gallery or concert hall, either. In the days and weeks afterward, it may be necessary to spend some time in earnest contemplation, as we wrestle with our own doubts or questions that were raised by the artwork.

In the end, that’s the only way that art can serve as a catalyst for genuine revelation and a doorway to the Divine. It may be a stretch for us — as artists, as audience, as people of faith — but nothing short of it will satisfy our hunger, or stretch our vision beyond the tiny scope of what we have already seen.

The Guild is a solid, tangible, physical place; and the Guild is also a fluid community with highly permeable boundaries. One of the things that unifies these two disparate realities is the many-layered conversation that takes place at the Guild — both within the space of these walls and within the relationships of this community. It’s an ongoing conversation at the intersection of spirituality and art, and the way we go about practicing both — a steady search for common ground among the many diverse perspectives, values, and experiences that are a part of the Guild.

Like most things in a community, it’s a conversation that doesn’t belong to any one person. It existed long before most of us heard of the Guild, and it will continue just fine without us once we are gone. But in this present moment, we are a part of this community and this conversation, and we share the opportunity (and the responsibility) to add to it and take from it as we are able. Participating in this conversation has given me reason to think a lot over the past few days about the intense discipline and desire necessary to an artist.

In my teaching, I have mostly focused on the discipline that my students will need if they are to become accomplished artists. I know that their visions will not become reality by accident, but will require many hard hours in the studio — the long period of gestation during which a young artist’s technical skills and creative vision develop their mature power. It is a time marked by the making of mistakes, and also by the finding and fixing of mistakes. It is a time marked by high hopes, and by projects that fall short of those hopes. It is a time marked, for many of us, by intense frustration.

I believe it’s that frustration that most often foils would-be artists. The technical skills take time do develop, but they can be learned through steady work. What cannot be learned is the intense, stubborn desire necessary to keep on picking up the chisel or camera or paintbrush, and to keep on working even in the face of frustration and failure. It’s a hunger that must be fierce enough and focused enough to overcome the fear of risk or failure. As a teacher, I can model that in my own life and work, but the desire itself must be their own. Only they can seek out and discover the gnawing hunger in their own tight bellies — the hunger that will not be satisfied until the fleeting vision has been given solid flesh.

In the end, that is what it means to be an artist — to live and work in the tension of focused discipline and fiery desire. It’s what I try to foster in my own studio practice, and what I hope my students will be able to discover for themselves.

I’ve written before on this blog about artistic turn-ons — the concepts and visual elements where one finds inspiration for fresh artistic growth. I believe that inspiration is present and vibrant in every situation & every place, waiting to reveal itself to those who will meet it with curiosity, reverence, and attentiveness.

One of my favorite places to go looking for inspiration is in the natural world. Nature is an excellent place to discover incidental and serendipitous “art” — spontaneous organic compositions of infinite variety, beauty, and suggestiveness. Some images are as transient and fleeting as sunlight on water or the pattern of frost on a window-pane. Other forms are ancient and primal, thrust forth by the shifting of tectonic plates or carved out by the movement of glaciers. Some are as dramatic and arresting as a lightning strike, while others are as subtle and unassuming as a misty evening rain.

If the camera is handy, I like to take a photo of the incidental “artworks” that I find. Here are some favorites:

How & where do you go looking for creative inspiration? Do you have a particular process for recording or remembering what you find?

I woke this morning to the muffled silence of falling snow, and decided to take my camera for an early-morning walk. I love the way snowfall transforms the landscape overnight — changing not only the appearance of a place, but its smells and sounds as well.