When I reach through the hole at my center the gift eludes me. Whatever it may be I can possess it only as that mystery which beckons from the greatest distance and draws my heart deeper into the quest.
—Meinrad Craighead (1986, 55)
There is a great awakening going on that is coming forth in chaos. It is a time of great danger and great opportunity. Old orders are collapsing all over the world. Civil wars of externalized internal conflict rage in countries around the globe. Our country casts the conflict as American “good” against terrorist “evil.” Spiritual traditions are being shaken to their foundations. Underlying weaknesses or fault lines are being exposed, such as sex scandals within the Catholic Church. Entrenched systems like apartheid in South Africa and communism in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union have fallen.
In this time of ever-profilerating numbers of paths to which we can commit our attention and effort, our imagination is both our greatest resource and our most formidable adversary (Allen 1995). Many people have turned to fundamentalist religion to seek clarity by creating or returning to rigid structures that define right and wrong according to stringent guidelines. Others distract themselves from their existential anxiety by clinging to the empty promises of consumer goods and celebrity culture. Spiritual traditions, and more recently the humanist and transpersonal psychology movements, offer a different answer: to create union and peace within the individual heart, which then will naturally manifest in the world.
The world is in the midst of great pangs of rebirth. But the path of renewal also beckons, inviting us to dive deeply into what has been and to find the sparks of rebirth hidden in what has become dry and remote. The path of renewal is the realm of the creative imagination. Artmaking is a practice that urges renewal, exercises the creative imagination, and allows for new images to emerge through the efforts of ordinary people. Artmaking allows us to choose from among the infinite possibilities in each moment to be peace, to be truth, and to be love.
Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of Aikido, says: “The Art of Peace functions everywhere on earth, in realms ranging from the vastness of space to the tiniest plants and animals. The life force is all-pervasive and its strength is boundless. The Art of Peace allows us to perceive and tap into that tremendous reserve of universal energy” (Ueshiba 2002, 47). While there are many ways to tap into the universal energy, making art is one that is available to anyone and that helps us relearn how to say “Yes!” to life, even during dark times, through its deep and abiding pleasures of making and doing.
Part two, the “teachings” section of this book, presents the emergence of renewing images that speak eloquently to those who listen. Chapter 4 shares an extended witness to one group session in the studio, giving a flavor of the communal aspect of the studio process. Later chapters relate stories of the teachings received by other artists and myself as we worked in the studio. The Web site www.patballen.com hosts a virtual studio where readers can participate by responding to images and witness writings posted there.
Guiding images are waiting for us if we choose to receive them. They are not asking us to found new religions in their image according to the old ways of hierarchy. Rather, they appear to us clothed in whatever shape will help us understand our dilemmas. These images may at first feel unfamiliar and startle us. In fact, they come to restore balance. God has been conceived of as Father, Savior, and Warrior for so long, it is no wonder She now manifests as Mother, Nurturer, and Peacemaker in the art of so many women. When the voices and images of part of the world’s people are suppressed, that balance disintegrates. Our task is to learn to dance with, to flow with, these images. No image should be clung to as being more true than another; no image gives a final and definitive picture of reality. What comes to me helps to balance me; what comes to you helps to balance you; and, taken together, all our pieces help to balance a larger whole. The images all arise from the place of infinite possibility, and that place is the core and basic home of every person.
My primary image teacher has appeared as the feminine face and body of God. In Judaism she is the Sabbath Bride and Shekhinah. She has come to me as Kali, the Hindu Goddess who cuts through illusion with her flashing sword, and as Kwan Yin, Buddhist Goddess of Compassion with her silver vase of cool water. For my friend Annette, She is the Dark Mother, the African Goddess, She of All Faces. To balance all these powerful feminine images, I have also been graced with male teaching images like the Emperor and his counterparts, the Fool and Death (see figure 26). Many artists in the studio receive images from nature—the sun and moon, trees and animals. Images of children, babies, old crones sitting naked on a crescent moon all speak to the willing eye and ear. The image as teacher takes the form that will intrigue, instruct, inform, and delight us. The image is an angel, says Shaun McNiff (1995). He refers to the original conception of angels as being messengers. Like Abraham in the Bible, we must invite angels into our tent as honored guests and serve them refreshment if we are to hear their messages and receive their direction.
The imaginal realm waits within us; we rend the veil between worlds with our paintbrush, chalk, and crayon. This section will share teachings, stories, and images from studio artists, including myself. When working with others in the studio and hearing their witnesses, we find that others’ images become as alive for us as our own. In this way, we learn tolerance for and appreciation of difference; we release fear by viewing and living with images other than our own. The images become our familiars, our guides, as they teach us to travel back and forth between our accustomed lives in the world and the realm of all possibility, the infinite beyond our finitude. The imagination is a net. As we sweep through a day, certain images stick in our minds then begin to take root and grow there. When we tend our creative life like a garden—cultivating it with attention—wisdom grows in the form of our own personal teachings. I have the greatest respect for the teachings of all the great spiritual traditions. In this age of instant access to information via the Internet, we have access to Buddhist sutras, the Torah, the Koran, countless contemporary thinkers, and the growing body of popular wisdom brought together by Oprah and her colleagues. As we seek to understand life, we no longer find ourselves limited to the tradition into which we were born. With so many choices, we must be careful not to flit among traditions, alighting on each only long enough for a superficial engagement. We must cultivate a deep intuition regarding what is true for ourselves and what is not. For many of us, the voices we long for are those that haven’t yet been recorded—those of women, children, adolescents, water, rocks, earth, and trees. Many of us have had the experience of finding just the right book at a moment of crisis. The studio provides a place to find just the words and images we need to guide us; for their teachings lie within us, and art can grant us access.
Books and writing disguise the process of how we come to understand. Having one’s words and thoughts recorded in clear lines of black type on white pages, bound and covered on a library shelf, is a form of privilege. It makes it seem as if my words have more authority, more importance, than someone else’s. Lately, as some famous authors have been accused of copying the words of others or claiming ideas that are not their own, I have had to laugh. Maybe the whole question of who is or isn’t an expert is beginning to wobble and collapse. The studio plays a part in the subversive process of learning to trust our inner authority and to question all received ideas. The priestess, rabbi, sage, and iman all live in that space of infinite possibility. We travel there via the image created with intention. The witness notebook records our history with our images. The stories they tell us are often personal but just as often contain cosmic truth. The images do not grow old or stale. I recently witnessed an image from over twenty years ago, and it was happy to speak. The images remind us that there is a timeless realm, the place of all possibility, and they will take us there any time we ask.
The process of intention and witness developed in a communal setting. It became a method that supports groups of people making art together and sharing their truth in a safe way that doesn’t overwhelm others who participate side by side. A dedicated studio space is a wonderful environment, but it is not necessary to have a special space to engage in the process. Certainly, artists enjoy working in a studio when possible, just as practitioners of meditation find it inspiring to practice in a temple or retreat setting. But, once established, the disciplines of intention and witness are very portable.
Dedicated studios provide a sanctuary as well as a public home-space (Timm-Bottos, personal communication, 2004). For me an ideal world would have several studios in every community. Schools, too, would have a space where students could experience a supported time-out to reconnect with their higher self via freely created artwork. I have a secret fantasy that churches and synagogues will eventually hire artists-in-residence to hold studio space for their congregations. It would be a kind of chapel for art as prayer, a place for the social justice committee to practice discernment before taking action, a place for congregants to renew their connection to sacred symbols through hand and heart. But really all that is needed is a studio as mishkan, or portable sanctuary. This can be as simple as a shoebox with a few supplies and a corner of the kitchen table after the kids are in bed. The intention to commune with the Creative Source is powerful and will provide a means to expression.