I don't know if Vibert was a balanced respected social critic. Probably not. Artists should stick to the visual and maintain their imbalance of right-brainedness. But I understand that he served up plenty of back talk on social and religious themes in the France of his day. When I think of putting the words "France" and "social critic" together, I imagine a target whose bull's eye is power--the abuse of it or the apathy of those who have it to use it for good. Back to Vibert.
I'm speaking about French painter, wit (...I think so...) and social critic Jean-Georges Vibert (1840–1902) and his painting below, titled, “The Missionary’s Adventures.” Inserted into the body of his own interpretation is a copy of the painting. Let your eyes dart back and forth from language to light. See if you share the painter's same disappointment.
"Missionary's Adventures" is like a visual parable to me. It "speaks" to me at many levels; I find myself in the painting (that's what a parable is supposed to do). So, a copy sits on my study desk together with other objects of reflection (a compass, two crosses, three nails, and a family portrait) as signal reminders of my call, who I am, what I want to be, and what can endanger all three: identity, vocation, and aspiration. In a series of entries to follow I would like to unpack some reflections on the painting. Because over the last several years I've been on an adventure of my own. Check back if you want. I'm calling it... the "Adventures" series.
For now, pay attention to Vibert's own interpretation of Vibert (imagine Picasso putting into words what he had put together on the canvas). Because some of his paintings tell a bit of a story; they are micro-narratives. A story is captured with detail and light in a paused moment of breathless time (the way digital cinematography holds a scene of a motion picture in mid-air). His own words illuminate this work of oil on wood. Look at what he says:
The scene is a great salon, sumptuously furnished, but severe in appearance. It is lighted from above with diffused daylight, subdued, like that of a chapel. One brighter ray, coming from without, pierces the curtains of the only window, and by contrast renders the room still more mysterious. At the end, on the great marble mantelpiece, is a portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, like a bloody specter appearing in the shade, old, broken, and pallid, but the more terrible for being near death. On another panel you see the tragic picture of the martyrdom of St. Bartholomew.
Is anything very dreadful about to take place in this apartment? On the contrary, something rather pleasant, as we shall presently see.
Several prelates, who have left the table, come into the salon to take coffee, and take possession of the sofas and arm-chairs, ranged in a semicircle. In the midst of them, on a stool, is seated a priest dressed entirely in black. His somber figure stands out clearly from this brilliant group of white, violet, purple, and scarlet. His soldierly head, which breathes courage, bears on the forehead a deep and recent scar.
He is a missionary. He recounts his adventures, and shows upon his wrists the still gaping incisions of his crucifixion; for he has been crucified, like St. Bartholomew, like Christ. In his agony he has made to God the supreme vow that, if he is delivered, he will return to his executioners, to bring them again the divine Word; then (as it seems) he dies, praying for his torturers. An armed force, which comes too late, takes down his lifeless body, thinking they have to carry back a corpse; but by a miracle he returns to life. Today, faithful to his vow, although scarcely convalescent, he is about to return. He asks to return.
As the holy man speaks, his inspired head becomes more and more beautiful among those faces that express only egotism and indifference. The first personage, seated on the divan, who holds his cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, a younger son of a noble Roman family, and a cardinal by right of birth without, however, doing anything to merit that honor, approves in his heart the poor priest’s resolution. He finds it, indeed, needful to send him back to his sufferings. Religion must have martyrs, and the best are still those who fulfill the office with hearty good will.
The second cardinal, in rose silk, who leans back on the cushions in the attitude of a Caesar, is also thinking that such a man should go back. He is too extravagant and spiritual a person to be left in Rome. With his eloquence and his words he could move the world, and popes have been made of lesser men than that missionary.
The third, who seems to take more interest in the recital than the others, is perfectly deaf.
The fourth talks in a low voice with a young neophyte, and we may be sure that he is not advising him to emulate the missionary.
As for the fifth, leaning back nonchalantly in his arm-chair, he is interested only in the antics of a small yellow dog with large ears who is sitting up gravely on his curly tail.
Since every dog may look at a bishop, there is nothing to prevent these two from conversing with their eyes; and in that case they would no doubt be saying. “How tiresome he is, that missionary, who will not let little dogs show off their accomplishments so as to get some sugar!”
If, however, at the story of the martyr’s sufferings any pity might be awakened in the hearts of these prelates, the soul of Richelieu, who is always near to the minds of churchmen, haunting them, would say, “No one is a ruler of men who does not know as well how to sacrifice the innocent as to punish the guilty; and whether you sacrifice or punish, you must shed blood.”
That seems, and no doubt is, a horrible doctrine. Yet every one of us, without the least remorse, sacrifices to his necessities, to his pleasures, even, some poor living beings. It is true we have the excuse of believing these to be our inferiors, but the same feeling no doubt exists toward an equal. It is enough to have the consciousness of being his superior to make it seem quite natural to send him to his death. Besides, here below, all depends on the point of view one takes, and everything on earth may move you either to laughter or tears. –J.G. Vibert
Wow! Like the painting, the last paragraph takes my breath away. How does that shift from servanthood to rulership, missionary to ruler occur in the "hearts...of churchmen?" How does the twist happen, that the "soul of Richelieu" haunts churchmen to sacrifice others instead of themselves? Cynicism aside, many of us have had our disappointments with church and Christendom-style Christianity too, haven't we? But what puts it into the heart of "the missionary" to go back with goodnews to the very people who harmed him? What vision keeps his passion alive? If you want, check back.
Comments