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272 pages, ebook
First published August 28, 2015
As my friend withdrew to say a rosary, I had some time with the Virgin. But why do I call her Virgin if I don't believe in her as the Mother of God? One word: touched. God has touched her. That is both grace and torment; it raises up and strikes down; it is both a caress and the blow of a hammer. All is lost and God suffices.The book began, Kermani says, as a series of articles for a Swiss newpaper about specific art works. That explains both the short length (around four pages) of most of the chapters and the seemingly random selection of examples. But there is nothing random in the author's consistent honesty of approach, that might even seem sacriligeous to some, simply recording what he sees in the figures as human beings, rather than as icons cloaked in the incense of sancity. Perhaps that is why the painter he most often comes back to (8 out of around 40 artworks) is Caravaggio (1571–1610), who, as he says…
…is interested only in people. Of all painters, he has the keenest eye for what the appearance of the Celestial means to terrestrials: it blows them apart. Caravaggio's pictures show, not revelation, but many variations on the torment of those to whom it is revealed.
If there is one thing I admire about Christianity—or perhaps I should say about those Christians whose faith not only convinced but conquered me, robbed me of all my reservations—if I were to take just one aspect, one attribute as an example, a guideline for myself, it would not be the beloved art, or the whole civilization, music and architecture included, or this or that rite, rich though they may be. It is the specifically Christian love, which is love not just for one's neighbour. Other religions are loving too, exhorting the faithful to compassion, indulgence, charity. But the love that I perceive in many Christians, and most often in those who have dedicated their lives to Jesus, the monks and nuns, exceeds what a person could achieve without God: their love makes no distinctions.There is much, much more that I could add. Kermani's constant presence as a father, a husband, a human being. His embrace of the erotic, even in a religious painting. His observation of the frequent feminization of Jesus in Christian art, and how that rings a chord with Sufi beliefs in Islam. His sense of terror in the miraculous. His openness about aspects of Christianity that he personally finds distasteful, and yet the respect he feels for people that can embrace this "Wonder Beyond Belief":
I really don't believe in the Eucharist. If there is anything about it I would express without sounding disrespectful, it is awe and, intuitively, approval, affirmation at least, that other people actually see the body of Christ in a disc of bread and taste, bite, swallow, digest and excrete it, and not just symbolically.Or this, on the prime Christian symbol, the Cross:
It is because of what it represents seriously that I reject the cross outright. Incidentally, I find the hypostasis of pain barbaric, somatophobic, ungrateful towards the Creation in which we rejoice.And this reminds me to mention my great admiration for the the translator, Tony Crawford, who is not afraid to present the author's often startling comments, abstract ideas, and precise but occasionally difficult words, as though they were the most normal thing the man could utter in everyday conversation. Through him, Kermani simply talks. I can do no better than to end with a small gallery of artworks mentioned in the book—most of them beautifully illustrated (though in ink which unfortunately feels gritty under the fingers, the volume's only flaw)—and let Navid Kermani speak for himself, whether inspired or down-to-earth, worshipful or downright shocking.
There's no knowing whether Jesus' eyes and mouth are opened wide in dismay or in suspense, whether his hand is upraised in defence or in command. There's no knowing whether Mary's amazement is ecstatic or in panic, whether her hand is reaching towards the open tomb or repulsing her brother. There's no knowing whether Martha is really recoiling, silhouetted as she is in the lower left corner. There's no knowing what is going through the minds of the three men, at the back perhaps the Apostle Peter, as they stare at the reawakened Lazarus. There's no knowing whether Lazarus is laughing, however tiredly, or whether he is shouting, "No! I don't want to!'
Still more insolent is Judith herself, though, her eyes, the taunting, just slightly disgusted look of sarcastic sympathy, with the wrinkled upper lip, as if she was as malicious as the lovers in Persian literature imagine their beloved to be, and the Sufis’ God: ‘He torments them with destruction after having created them’ […] such a rescuer as no nation would find fitting, least of all a people of God.
Botticelli's Annunciation, for example, in which Gabriel comes creeping up like a lecher, whereupon the lily-white Mother of God turns her hips away in such a coy contrapposto as if she were posing for a lad mag.
In the most magnificent picture ever painted in Cologne, she reaches with her right hand for her son's wrist. Under the magnifying glass, you can see the gesture repeated in Mary's brooch: her right hand is on the raised right foreleg of the unicorn, which is equated with Christ. That, I read, was the official gesture of marriage and represented the Son and Mother as the Bride and Bridegroom of the Song of Solomon. To us, too, she is supposed to be our sister and friend and to a small degree our lover. The Father only later came near and spoke comfortingly to me.
Of course there is the Ecstasy of St Teresa, which is sexually more explicit, not only because Gian Lorenzo Bernini's representation of it is more explicitly sexual. […] How often I stood, during my Roman year, in front of the life-sized sculpture in Santa Maria della Vittoria, and each time I wanted to incorporate Bernini's ecstatic Teresa, moaning with lust, if not crying out loud, in my personal Christianity. It was an obvious inclusion, since I have been thinking for so long now about the beatitude, and searching for it myself I admit, in which pleasure and prayer, sex and God feel like one, and for the Islamic mystics indeed are one. It was probably that obviousness that deterred me every time.
He would have done it. For a long time I located what was monstrous, abhorrent, menacing about faith—about the faith in just one God—in the twenty-second chapter of Genesis, between the second and third verse. That's right: not in the second verse [God's command to Abraham], not in the third [Abraham's instant obedience], but in the abyss of heartlessness that gapes between the two. […] Between them: nothing. No hesitation, no question, no sorrow for the son, no pity for his wife, no regard at all for any earthly judgement. He would have done it without batting an eyelid.