Saturday I went to the Old Masters show at the Pulitzer, intrigued to see those glowing dark oils surrounded by gray concrete, the heavy, ornate European gold frames outweighed by the severity of those thick, uncompromising walls. In such stark relief, I saw, more clearly than ever, the painstaking perspective; the compositions so careful you can trace Leonardo’s Golden Ratio in each canvas … Everything was recognizable and authoritative, based solidly on shared, unquestioned narratives that everyone knew. The paintings were often grim in subject—yet they were hopeful in their certainty.
I wasn’t sure what to feel—wistful yearning or recoil.
On the way back to the car, I ducked into the Contemporary and saw the multimedia urban collage by Lutz Bacher: fragmented narratives we all see but don’t really share, from Deep Space Nine cutouts to shattered electric guitars, plastic trolls and Gap ads. A commonality that is commercial and not religious, assailing us nonstop. Fresh intrigue, but no promise of hope whatsoever.
Finally I walked past the National Memorial Church of God in Christ, first a home for the Swedenborgians, then, after it burned, an intended sculpture garden … until work abruptly halted. The fencing’s still there, protecting a colonnade of narrow gothic arched windows. Through them, I could see the heavy rust beams set at a diagonal, holding up the crumbling limestone walls by sheer insistence. Red Virginia creeper and green vine embroider both the inside and the outside, softening the stone, and—the most hopeful part of all—the church is roofless, sunshine streaming into its (empty) interior.
We just can’t ever seem to balance order and freedom. Civilization and nature. Certainty and chaos.
—Jeannette Cooperman, staff writer
