The following article examines the process of commissioning and creating visual art for worship from the point of view of an artist, exploring, in particular, the unique concerns of the liturgical artist.
After fourteen years as a professional craftsperson, working in pottery and fiber, I have become increasingly interested in making things for use in worship. The occupation of “dressing the church” uses many of my past experiences and skills, but it brings with it a new set of problems—personal and professional. The following reflections developed as I wove vestments, hangings, and altar cloths. I hope they will strike a chord with others who can develop them more fully and more deeply.
A Question of Design
As I do liturgical design work, one question repeatedly comes to mind: What is the difference between designs for the liturgy and other designs? I don’t feel any different doing liturgical work, and there is no apparent difference in the design processes. I gather information from a client and find out as much as possible about the space in which the object will be used. I show samples, swatches, and sketches to elicit responses; then within the limits of available materials and technical skills, I produce the best design possible. That’s pretty straightforward, though not easy. Any artisan who does commission work or custom orders has a healthy respect for the difficulties involved in communicating with clients and in satisfying them with the resulting product.
Many conflicts and tensions are built into the design process, and picking one’s way through them is a balancing act. The artisan has to balance conflicting responsibilities. Details of planning or producing, for instance, require constant attention, while one’s vision or image of a beautiful creation shimmers in the future. Such a “stereoscopic vision” must be held in focus for the goal to be attained with any success, or the result will lack clarity.
Another conflict or tension exists between the desire to spare no expense to produce the most beautiful object possible and the real limitations placed on the artisan’s time and the client’s pocketbook. Sometimes the design process is unexpectedly prolonged by something as simple as the unavailability of required material. But such stumbling blocks, conflicts, and tensions can become the steppingstones to where one wants to go. This is a matter of making good use of the time at hand to think about and experiment with design possibilities.
The process is almost the same whether the commission is for an altar cloth or a bed quilt, but the completed works will be used in distinctly different ways. Liturgical design work is done for a community rather than an individual, and that community uses the work for a sacred purpose: to enhance worship.
Designing for a Community
Even though the artisan may deal with one individual who represents the worshiping community, that person must convey the needs and desires of the whole group. The artisan needs to ask the right questions and gather as much information as possible before proceeding, but the design is not produced by committee; it is the responsibility of the artisan alone. If the proposed design is not acceptable, it may be modified; another design can be worked out or another artisan hired.
The resulting design should express or reflect the nature of the particular community, but it should also point that community to what it might become. This prophetic quality, or prescience, is an elusive but important element of art that challenges the body of worshipers, encouraging response and growth. If “we become what we behold,” as Psalm 34 suggests, then all the visual elements in a church are vitally important. The community’s response to the completed work can be a powerful dynamic when it gathers to worship and when it goes forth into the larger community.
In addition to considering the community for which work is executed, one must also carefully consider the sacred purpose of the completed work. This purpose is realized when the object is taken out of the artisan’s control and put to use. At that moment this “work of human hands” is made holy. If the artisan is in the congregation, it is a humbling and poignant experience to see the vestment of chalice or altar cloth used in the context of worship.
A designer must understand that the object is made holy, not by human efforts alone, but by being offered and used for a sacred purpose. This fact frees the designer from the worrisome feeling that only saintly or religious people can make sacred objects. No human being is adequate to this task, and if this fact is not fully accepted, some problems are bound to arise. For one thing, if the artisan feels “unworthy,” there will be an almost compulsive temptation to multiply the use of sacred symbols on the work. This multiplication has a “desanctifying” effect, for the harder we try to “make” something holy, the more we are assured of failure. The multiplication of symbols weakens the power of the object. By accepting the fact that the object will be transformed more by use than by symbols, the artisan is free to do what he or she does best. Creative energies can then be focused on making a beautiful form through which the liturgy can come alive and flower in the community.
This topic of the object’s holiness has personal parallels for the artisan. On our own, we might achieve virtuous lives with great effort. But we cannot make ourselves holy; God alone does this. We can offer ourselves to God and cooperate with God’s actions in our lives, or we can choose not to. We can receive the Lord’s blessings joyfully and gratefully, or we can take them for granted. We can share God’s gifts with others or keep them to ourselves. But if we offer ourselves to God, as the work of the artisan is offered, then God can use us for God’s own purposes.
Respecting One’s Craft
God’s work in completing the process of liturgical design does not diminish the importance of the artisan’s effort. We must bring to any work we do for churches a sense of reverence and respect, but not to the point of timidity or immobility. Being self-conscious is as much difficulty as being insensitive to the work’s importance and potential. Fear of doing something that is unintentionally funny, absurd, or even scandalous—something that will be shown as a “bad example” in someone’s slide show at next year’s liturgy conference—must be overcome again and again. Otherwise one will do only what is “safe,” repeating something that succeeded in the past. That course of action results in work that has a deadly, sanitized look. Removing the risk means removing all the things that invigorate a work; it is the death of creativity. “Playing it safe” won’t displease or offend anyone, but neither will it move people to smile with joy, shed a tear, or pray spontaneously.
I have resolved this tension between safety and risk by making the best work I can. Then I show it to someone whose judgment and taste I respect, for comments and criticism. This dialogue helps me to grow and try out new ideas. Looking at other works, traditional and contemporary, also helps.
People who are interested and knowledgeable in liturgical design are difficult to find. When I do find them, I consider them gifts. Various people appear in my path when I need them, and for that I am grateful. Both their encouragement and their critical comments have helped me to continue working in the liturgical field when confidence wavered or when logic could provide no answers. One such resource person I met through a magazine article, and we developed a correspondence. I met another when friends brought someone into our shop. Others came from a design workshop and a visit to a seminary to look at a vestment collection.
I value my dialogue with these people who are vitally interested in a rather specialized field of design work for which good books and periodicals are hard to come by. These people are clergy and lay, women and men, of various ages and backgrounds. What is important is that we share a common vision: we want to create beautiful things to be used for a sacred purpose by the worshiping community, and we each have different abilities to contribute to that end.
Catalog versus Craft
Why order custom-made work when articles can simply be ordered from a catalog? While there is nothing inherently wrong with ready-made vestments or altar cloths, they can never replace objects crafted with the personal skill, inspiration, and creativity of an artisan. Never having the chance to commission original art would be a great loss to the community as well as to local artists and artisans. The presence of something unique and beautiful is a great gift; it calls forth peace and healing—even conversion—at deep, unspoken levels in both the artist and the viewer. Thomas Merton said, “Sacred art is theology in line and color, and it speaks to the whole man.… The material elements of the image become as it were the vehicle of the Holy Spirit, and furnish Him with an occasion to reach souls with His hidden, spiritual power” (Thomas Merton, Disputed Questions [New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1976], 156).
When parishioners make a vestment or an altar cloth, they often think that materials must be ordered from a church goods catalog; yet actually, they could purchase the same fabric locally. In a local store, they can examine the material, or ask for a courtesy discount, or have the owner order just what they need. But some church goods catalogs suggest that their fabric is special, beyond the ordinary; the fact that it costs more than local goods only seems to enhance its desirability. Catalog prices for mass-produced items are often so high that an experienced artisan can produce work at competitive prices. Catalog prices, after all, reflect the cost of employees, accountants, equipment, and 200-page annual color catalogs. Responding to the desire for crafts, some suppliers list handmade or handcrafted items, like carved crosses from Italy, that cost thousands of dollars. Imported crafts are not necessarily better than domestic crafts; artisans working in this country can produce equally authentic and beautiful objects, and at less cost.
Adapting the Ordinary
Why can’t an artisan’s ordinary production items be purchased for use in church? If you buy a handmade iced tea pitcher and goblets to hold and serve the consecrated wine, you are not making use of the artisan’s ability to design something special for liturgical use. The maker of a custom Communion set considers such important aspects of the design as the capacity of the vessels, their size in scale to the altar, the extra stability required, and ease in passing them from hand to hand. Such a design takes time and should be done sensitively. Artisans should pray for the grace to do simple and subtle liturgical design work. Obvious solutions, such as putting a cross on an existing iced tea pitcher or sewing the word Alleluia on a spring hanging to make an Easter banner, do not make good liturgical design.
The obvious does not invite us to go deeper, to reflect, to look, to wonder. Sensitive use of color and symbol in church design work is a natural means to lead us into supernatural realities with all their mystery. The obvious solution (“Alleluia!”) has a bullying quality that brings out our defenses or numbs us; subtle solutions lead us gently, gracefully, into worship. “Where there is revelation, explanation becomes superfluous” (Frederick Frank, The Zen of Seeing [New York: Random House, 1973], 28).
For an artisan, the completed work becomes a prayer to which the community can say “Amen.” Freedom, however brief or fleeting, can be found by losing oneself in such a work. Though questions linger, their importance fades. What matters to me at the creative moment is that both the artisan and work serve a sacred purpose and become incarnations in which God’s spirit can live.