Art needs no apology (so I'm told)...

Today's weather permitted us our weekly death march. As promised, I paused long enough to take a picture in front of the objet object (as in "I object") d'art that waits for me every Saturday morning as I make my way along the otherwise serene path through the IPFW campus (Go Dons!), the sleepy St. Joe whispering in my ear. It's a lot more otherworldly in real life.

There was no name or plaque on the base of this piece, sentineled near a large tree under which is a plaque commemorating the "Quiet Place" of a now deceased professor (visible on the ground in the dirt to the left). So I did some digging when we got home. This object is called “Birds in the Billows” and is an abstract metal sculpture made in 2012 from items pulled out from the Maumee River (one of the three rivers that converge on Ft. Wayne). It's green art from a green artist, an art instructor who produces such "reclaimed creations" from refuse. The one I see every Saturday must be a scaled-down reproduction of the original, pictured with the sculptor (near the pedestrian bridge over the St. Joseph; it's not there now) in the inset.

So now I feel guilty for letting it intimidate me; it's abstract art! (Well, I think it's abstract art-- the name is abstract, too...what, exactly, are "billows"?...like smoke?) I've decided to try and have an open mind and accept this sculpture, even though I don't understand it (or its name), stopping short of admitting that I could, someday maybe, possibly learn to appreciate-- and even like?-- it.

If you happen to be the artist looking in on this, my amateur and wholly subjective critique of your work that I pass every Saturday morning, please don't be offended! In fact, you ought to be flattered, as this object and its creator has made an indelible impression upon me...

(Honestly, I have been moved by art-- I'm not totally without sensibility. In 2004, I turned a corner and encountered a visibly tormented Jesus sitting by himself in Ivan Kromskoy's 6' x 7' "Christ in the Desert" hanging in Moscow's Tretyakov Gallery. I was so touched by the artist's expression of the anguish in Christ's face and posture that I very nearly started to cry.)

Who knows? Perhaps the closet poet, bar stool philosophizer, or theolog in me can give this piece another chance next week...

No promises.

So until next time,

С Богом!