The Eagle

Wednesday 21st February, 2024 ~ Chris Ellis ~ 2 Comments

Well – the eagle has finally landed! Or perhaps I should say that it has finally taken off, as I launch this new website of Chris Ellis Art, showcasing some of my paintings and sketches and providing a new home for my blog Crammed with Heaven. I hope you like the new header image, a detail from one of my paintings of a golden eagle, highlighting both my delight in painting birds and other animals and hinting at the focus of my blog: the connections between art and spirituality.

The eagle has long been a symbol across human cultures, often using the eagle as a symbol of power. After all, it is at the top of the avian pecking order – so think of the imperial eagle and its potency in heraldic displays. But the eagle has also been admired for its majestic flight and it is this which has made it an important symbol in Christian art.

Many historic churches will have lecterns where the Bible rests on the wings of an eagle. The Word of God comes from above and is winged to all corners of the earth in mission and proclamation. The eagle declares that this is not just any book, but comes from God and lifts us up so that we, like the promise of Isaiah 40.31, might soar like eagles.

The eagle had also long been the symbol of St John the Evangelist and here is my watercolour copy of an illustration of this eagle symbol. It is from the Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript book of the four Gospels. Regarded as one of the greatest treasures of Insular Art, the Book of Kells was probably created around 800 CE either on Iona or in one of the other monasteries which had been founded in Britain or Ireland by St Columba (521-597) and his missionary movement.

Connections have long been made between the symbolic living creatures in the visions of Ezekiel 1 and Revelation 4. The first writer to do so was probably St Irenaeus, bishop of Lyons in the second century CE, and he and later writers linked particular gospels to particular creatures in a variety of ways. But it seems to be St Augustine of Hippo and St Jerome the Bible translator, both writing around 400 CE, who first associated the eagle with St John Gospel.

The most common explanation for the symbolism, both if the lectern eagle and of the Fourth Gospel, is that the eagle was believed to be the only bird who can look or fly directly into the sun. Whether this is, or is not, ornithologically correct is beside the point. It is the symbolism which matters. Struggling to follow the soaring flight of this majestic bird will have left countless observers blinking blindly into dazzling sunlight.

At one level, John’s Gospel takes us to heights and possibilities beyond our earth-bound concerns, even though there is much of suffering and humility also to be found in it’s pages. The nuances of the Gospel’s presentation of glory’ are for another blog, another time! For now, we can celebrate the way it enables us to soar as well as go deep.

Symbolism is a fertile but tricky business and often won’t work in a reverse direction. We mustn’t imbue eagles with spiritual or anthropomorphic characteristics. This predator of the sky, this majestic hunter, is one of God’s creations – a creature of beauty and strength, of grace and elusiveness. Let us celebrate the bird, while also allowing it to nourish our imagination.

Crucified Love: a Good Friday Reflection

Friday 10th April, 2020 ~ Chris Ellis ~ 2 Comments

This Lent I have had two devotional projects which, I think, will continue far beyond Easter.

First, I have been painting the face of Jesus on the cross. I have attempted different media which have brought their various technical challenges, but in each case the concentration required has drawn me back into giving attention to Jesus Christ. Sustained attentiveness is rarely easy, but painting his face has drawn me in.

I have used various icons and paintings from the past as inspiration for my artistic

endeavours. These prototypes have provided a starting point for prayer as well as painting. The painting (right) is a study in acrylics (a medium new to me) inspired by a crucifix painted by Giunta Pisano in the middle of the thirteenth century.

Which brings me to my second Lenten project – a study of the historical development of how the crucifixion has been portrayed, both in Orthodox iconography and early Western art. I have been particularly intrigued by the transition in thirteenth century Italy from Byzantine iconic influence to the more naturalistic renditions of Western art.

There is, of course, an important difference between Orthodox iconography, with its almost sacramental intention of offering a window into the spiritual realities represented, and western art which has tended to focus more on the humanity of the subject of the painting. Whereas the icon, painted with prayer, offers in visual form an invitation to relate to whoever is being represented, the West has been more concerned with drawing the viewer into the drama of a scene, often by touching the emotions and encouraging an identification with the subject.

Giunta Pisano: Crucifix of San Ranieri (c.1240-50)

I know this is an over-simplification (perhaps a theme for another blog on another day) but it provides me with a vantage point from which to be intrigued by the developments in thirteenth century Italy. As the century went on there was a move towards more naturalistic (I won’t say ‘more realistic’) painting from the relatively flat surface of the Byzantine icon to the three-dimensional humanity of Giotto’s paintings and beyond.

In the painting of crucifixes for churches this moved from the Romanesque representation of Christ alive and reigning from the cross – dressed, bearing his own weight and with eyes open and arms outstretched in blessing – to a dead Christ, slumped with eyes closed and bleeding side. (It is true that Byzantine icons of the crucifixion had begun to present Christ dead on the cross, but with more of a sense of regal repose than of human suffering.) It has been suggested that the compassionate influence of the Franciscans (Francis died in 1226) had a bearing in Italy on the devotional attention to the suffering of Christ and the increasing naturalism of its pictorial representation. Certainly, meditation on the cross has been fruitful for so many Christians as they have been led to respond to the appeal of God’s love to win their hearts.

It is not only in the visual arts, however, that this can take place. In the Reformed tradition word pictures have often replaced painted images as poets, hymn-writers and preachers have evoked powerful images in the mind’s eye. None more so than Isaac Watts who, early in the eighteenth century, invited his London congregation to visualise the cost of God’s love for us and our salvation. Firmly in the Western artistic tradition, those who sing his hymn ‘When I survey the wondrous cross’ are invited to gaze on the crucified saviour and respond to his loving sacrifice:

See from his head, his hands, his feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down;
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Picturing God

Friday 18th January, 2019Friday 18th January, 2019 ~ Chris Ellis ~ Leave a comment

In my previous blog, I published a recent hymn I’d written which focuses on the Trinity. When thinking about what image to present with the text, I quickly decided on the icon of the so-called Old Testament Trinity painted by Andrei Rublev, probably in the 1420’s near Moscow. It is a famous image of the three angelic visitors to Abraham and Sarah (Genesis 18) which has traditionally been interpreted as an epiphany, or revealing, of God.

Later, I realized that I had simply opted for the default image – just research how many books on the doctrine of the Trinity published in the last thirty years or so have this image printed on their covers. The image is attractive and intriguing, but its popularity probably also reflects the way in which Eastern Orthodox perspectives have influenced recent theological explorations of the Triune nature of God. This has included a greater emphasis on the relational, or social, dynamics of Father, Son and Spirit, perhaps correcting some of the more hierarchical aspects of some Western theology. I have tried to reflect and celebrate some of this divine interaction – er, I mean Love – in the hymn text.

I have tried to think of other images which might be used instead of the Rublev icon – images which might present the Triune nature of God in a way which communicates something significant. The challenge is greater when we consider the reticence there is in portraying God the Father in art. In Eastern iconography it just is not permitted and it would be considered idolatrous. Rublev’s angels are a subtle symbol which avoids this pitfall – another reason for its popularity. Occasionally you may see a hand or an arc in heaven (like on the icon of the baptism of Christ) but that is all. In iconography, the majesty of God is normally portrayed through the icon of the Pantocrator, an image of the enthroned Christ (who is the image of the invisible God – Colossians 2.15).

In Western art, however, there have been some Trinitarian attempts which include portraying God the Father. One striking example is Masaccio’s fresco in Santa Maria Novella in Florence. Intriguingly, this Renaissance exercise in scientific perspective was painted almost exactly the same time as Rublev’s icon which is normally dated by historians sometime before 1427. Yet these two works are worlds apart. The subtle simplicity, and mysterious ambiguity of the Rublev image (after all, which is which?), is far away from the scientific exactness and supreme draughtsmanship of Masaccio. Remember that perspective drawing is a kind of trickery (look at the way that the image is framed in what appears to be an architectural setting but is, in fact, two-dimensional paint! We could reflect on this clever deception contrasts with the so-called ‘inverse perspective’ of eastern iconography but that is a blog for another day…

Somehow, the bravura artistry gets in the way of the painting itself and even when we try hard to look through that skill, the image disappoints, at least this viewer. The Father stares stoically into the distance and, while he seems to be supporting the cross, there is little relating going on. The Spirit in the form of a dove darts between the two and we are presented with a moment in time rather than a relating in eternity, which seems to be more about atonement than eternal love.

A similar tableau is presented in the stained glass of Prague Cathedral. I’ve not been able to identify the artist but think the window is probably early twentieth century – and would be delighted to have more information if anyone can help here. I took the photo some years ago by resting my compact camera on a friend’s shoulder. The original has striking colours and the image is quite heroic – yet there is the pathos of the Father embracing the body of Jesus (rather like a western pieta where Mary is portrayed embracing the body of her son). Here, however, the Spirit appears more as a witness than a participant so, again, there is less emphasis on the relating of the members of the Trinity and theologians will no doubt comment on this artistic clue about Western perspective which need some Eastern correction. Enter the Cappadocian Fathers and Andrei Rublev again!

Before the time when time began,
   before the cosmos came to be,
God lived in love and love was all
   and love o’erflowed the One in Three.