The single question I was asked the most, by my dear drama professor, by the President of the College, and even more by complete strangers was: "What was I going to do after school?"
I always admitted that I had no idea. I'd find out. (1)
Consequently, I was in no mood when a older woman whom I'd never met turned to me after the concert and, finding I was about to graduate, asked the dreaded question. Groaning inwardly, I smiled and said that I was going to become an author.
"Oh!" said she. "A Catholic author?"
"No," I said, my perturbation beginning to show through, "an author. Mostly fantasy novels, I should think."
She furrowed her well-meaning brow as though I had responded in Swahili.
"Ye-e-es," she said, "but a Catholic fantasy author, right? I mean, you all go to Franciscan University, don't you? So, you're going to write Catholic novels, right?"
"No," I said with, I'm afraid, very little restraint. "I have absolutely no intention of writing 'Catholic novels,' whatever those are. I am a Catholic, yes, and I will write novels. But they will be fantasy novels, not Catholic novels. I would hate to write a Catholic novel!"
At that point, thank God, someone rescued us and said that the car had arrived.
However, as rude as I became (and I apologize after the event for my 20-year-old fanaticism), that well-meaning woman's words have remained with me and nettled me ever since.
Several years later, while promoting my (admittedly) Catholic fantasy novel, Niamh and the Hermit - brought to you by God: Making His Followers Eat Their Words Since Time Immemorial - I attended a Catholic author's panel at Boskone. There, one of the panelists was a priest and scientist at the Vatican Observatory. In the midst of much opening tom foolery among the panelists and general bonhomie from the conventioners who had all come to the panel directly after Mass, the rather obvious question was put forward:
What makes a Catholic author a Catholic author?
The question was bounced around among the panelists, all of whom quickly agreed to that good priest's assessment:
"Basically, I think," said he - leaning forward into the microphone, with something of a glint of mischief and smugness and wisdom that put one in mind of Gandalf - "the difference between the Catholic novelist and any other novelist is that we all believe that each of our souls is, at every moment, on the edge. Hence, the hero is always in danger of damnation...and the villain always in danger of salvation. And isn't that the very essence of drama?"
His assessment (in which he is not alone) struck a chord in me. As an author, I have found it to be true; as a director, particularly of the great Shakespeare's works, I find it doubly true. As someone who once was that pretentious 20 year old graduate, I wish I had known those words then so that I could answer that woman, "Yes, of course! I'm a Catholic artist!" As someone who's also read far too many bad "Christian/Catholic novels" (since I once ran the now-static Christian Guide to Fantasy), I wish more Catholic authors knew this.
Because what I was reacting to - and what many of my fellow Catholic artists have justly criticized is the idea that "Catholic art" is overtly Catholic. It's the old friction between Lewis' Narnian allegories and Tolkein's Middle Earth. Only, Lewis' allegory is elegant, like Piers Ploughman. Too many modern "Catholic/Christian" artists' work is simply unwatchable/unreadable. It feels like fervent folks writing large with chalk and fortune-cookie Bible quotes. However, truly Catholic work is poetic, is sublime, is written in blood and clouds and mud and dust and the grace of every fallen sparrow. Take a look at Dostoyevsky again, my friends!
It's the reason why, if ever I got to meet that lovely, well-meaning woman again, I should say to her that all my novels and plays have been Catholic, and that I am a Catholic artist who sometimes writes fantasy and sometimes writes in iambic pentameter.
But what I'd clarify is that while, for example, Niamh is an overtly Catholic novel (in that the citizens of that world are simply Catholic, rather like Romeo and Juliet), my Letters of Love & Deception, is more covertly Catholic - since it's Regency a la Jane Austen, and therefore an Anglican world. Yet marriage is defended in it; something that Catholics and Anglicans and just plain folk could use a dose of.
Similarly, although with the exception of my current play-in-progress, Becket (2), (OK, and obviously The Passion Play and probably Bearskin) I'd say that all my plays are more covertly Catholic. They all affirm marriage, and the right relation of men to women; they all promote responsibility as the happiest and most satisfying of endings; they all point out the goodness of children; and they all have heroes in danger of damnation and villains in danger of salvation.
So there's one way authors (and playwrights and screenwriters and every sort of story tellers) might classify what they mean by being a Catholic artist. But the question remains...what about fine artists? What about musicians? What about actors? Game designers? Architects?
What is the particularly Catholic charism that infuses our arts?
Sound off in the comments below - and please feel free to leave links to your works and blogs so that we can know about the exciting work you're doing! Also, don't forget to like us on Facebook and join in the conversation there!
(1) For the record, I have an answer now.
(2) Here's an excerpt from the very in-progress Becket!
(The HERALD reenters, breathless.)
HERALD. Your Grace! Your Grace!
THOMAS. I hear thee. Speak.
HERALD. My lord,
The King is come! He was halfway here,
And grumbled when he saw me, saying:
“When will Thomas learn that virtue, patience?”
I wanted to fight him—but then I thought
That he was once a friend of yours, and you
Might take offense if I killed our king.
THOMAS. You would do well to consider that your king
Might take offense as well.
HERALD. I care not for him.
THOMAS. You would, were you in his jail.
HERALD. I’m in his jail,
My lord, for I live beneath his law.
THOMAS. Be quiet, boy! We are not here alone.
HERALD. I do not care who hears me! The time for silence
Passed long ago.
THOMAS. Take care—
HERALD. I’ll speak my mind.
Heed me, your Grace. For we have bourne grave ills,
Your Grace. We have suffered grief in silence.
We've been called monsters—and worse than monsters:
Fools.
We have been mocked; and we have mocked ourselves.
We’ve torn ourselves apart, scraped our skulls,
Ripped the flesh, emptied out the vein.
No one held the knife but we alone.
Our fellow in the pew we’ve massacred—
Like man gone mad, who does not know himself,
And seeing his reflection, attacks it.
Is it any wonder, then, that Mother Church
Is hemmoraging? Who would not flee a fight?
Who would stay at home when home is burning?
“Water!” We have cried. “Water! Holy water!”
While Rome falls down in ashes. “One drop of water!”
We open wide our mouths, and are filled with fire.
While you, our bishop, have been overseas—
Over the blessed, distant seas. So we,
In desperation, have spit upon our Church
To stop our Church from burning. We spit,
And they spit, too. But I am born of fire, lord.
Within the flames my fathers set, I soar.
Upon the hot breath from their screaming mouths
I fly. I have lived in Hell, my lord,
But I fly Heavenward, with flaming winds,
And scream defiance to the sky, begging God
For water. For His Blood, and for His water.
You know, it seems to me that St. Francis' injunction ("Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.") is especially applicable to us artists. Our Faith really needs to penetrate deep into every aspect of us. Every word, every note, every brush stroke, every design, every facet of our craft should be permeated with the richness of our Faith. We need to fill ourselves with God so much that He spills out from us into our work and our projects and shows Himself in the beauty and talent and performance and display for others to see, recognize, and seek out themselves.
ReplyDeleteWhich is nothing you haven't said before, Em.