IN REVIEW
Susie Paulik Babka’s
Through the Dark Field: The Incarnation through an Aesthetics of Vulnerability
reviewed by Brett Porter
Susie Paulik Babka’s
Through the Dark Field: The Incarnation through an Aesthetics of Vulnerability
reviewed by Brett Porter
Brett David Potter holds a Ph.D. in systematic theology from the University of St. Michael’s College (Toronto School of Theology). He teaches religion, culture, and film at a number of colleges and universities in Southern Ontario. His current research is focused on theological aesthetics and interfaith dialogue, with a particular interest in documentary film. He lives in Toronto with his wife and three children.
There is an obvious connection between the Christian doctrine of the incarnation and representational art, particularly paintings of the human form. God taking on the form of human flesh has provided a theological rationale for the prominence of such forms on canvas, particularly images of Christ himself. But what about a "theology of the incarnation advocated through abstract forms of art" (236)? What can abstraction—the negation of form, as in the jet-black void of Ad Reinhardt’s aniconic Black Square or Barnett Newman’s vast, monochromatic Cathedra—teach us about word made flesh?
Babka’s book is on one level a constructive proposal for the theological importance of abstract art, but beyond this it is a deep reflection on the nature of incarnation. The author leaves aside the customary language of presence and form for the rather different theological vocabulary of vulnerability and emptiness. In her estimation, incarnation must be thought of in terms of radical kenosis or self-emptying—the flesh of Christ as a paradigmatic opening to the infinite Other. Incarnation, for the risky pursuits of both art and faith, is thus about humility and vulnerability—and ultimately the recognition that the "interdependency" which springs from "openness to the alterity of the Other" is at "the very core of existence" (70).
The "dark field" of the book’s title comes from Mary Oliver’s poem "Lightning," which yields the vivid image of the sensual "burning river" of the lightning storm blazing its way "through the dark / field of the other." Lightning, in Babka’s reading of the poem, is a "symbol of incarnation" (81) in its sudden irruption. Yet the empty space or dark field—the void, the Other—is itself fecund, "a meeting place where life emerges from emptiness" (x). In Karl Rahner’s words, this emptiness is where we encounter the "originating mystery"(x–xi) of grace; thus the incarnation, like lightning illuminating a dark field, subsists in the interplay between what is hidden and what is revealed.
Babka also follows Masao Abe in posing a sustained analogy between the Christian doctrine of kenosis and the sunyata or emptiness of Mahayana Buddhism (18). For her, both concepts are inscribed in the Buddhist mantra "form is emptiness and emptiness is form" (37). But here, too, this emptiness or absence is not static, but rather involves the continual emptying of form into the dependent co-arising of all things (293). In Buddhist thought, to realize one’s own emptiness (no-self) is precisely to become aware of one’s interconnectedness with all things—and thus to awaken to compassion. The Christian doctrine of the incarnation may be similarly seen as the "ceaseless emptying of form" (294) for the sake of the Other.
Can abstract, formless art thus teach us about God incarnate? Such art exists on the limen of "kenosis and incarnation" (21). The chapter "The Presence of the Absent God" deals with the question of modernist abstract art, particularly the Abstract Expressionists (237–38)—Motherwell, Reinhardt, Rothko, Newman—each seeking new, visual languages for the spiritual dimension of existence" (114). The seemingly empty canvases of a Rothko or Pollock give "theology an opportunity to experience wildness . . . for the sake of the self-emptying (kenosis) that opens one toward empathy" (259).
Alongside poets and painters, Babka’s primary influences are thinkers attuned to mystery and the infinite, most notably Karl Rahner and Emmanuel Levinas. Babka muses about the possibilities of a Rahnerian theological aesthetics (154) where art and the sensuous would be appreciated as equally valid means of knowing the omnipresent mystery of grace, and where theologians could learn from painters an "imagination for the incarnation" (151). Levinas pervades the text, warning of the dangers of the search for comprehensive or certain knowledge—"knowledge as a closed system" (25)—which is closely linked to the danger of political totalitarianism. Instead, Levinas’s philosophy, shaped by Jewish theology, is based on encounter with the irreducible alterity of the Other, an ethical encounter with primacy over any metaphysical system. As in the story of Abraham under the Oak of Mamre, to welcome the stranger is to show hospitality toward God (71).
The work of art "bring[s] the distant Other into our proximate space" and so is a model of Levinasian encounter. Babka similarly sees God as both proximate to the suffering of humanity in Christ and at the same time, the divine Other. Visually, this image presents itself in the Gnadenstuhl or "Mercy Seat" image in Christian art, where the suffering Christ crucified in the foreground is literally held up by the eternal Father. Yet perhaps abstraction more closely approaches this paradox: the God who breaks idols is beyond what can be thought, comprehended, or indeed rendered visible, yet Christ is the perfect "image of the invisible God."
It is well known that Paul Tillich’s theology was deeply conditioned by his religious experience of seeing Botticelli’s Madonna and Child with Singing Angels. The author recounts her own similar experience with Marc Chagall’s White Crucifixion (1938), where Jesus’ death is painted in such a way as to recall the backdrop of modern anti-Semitism (75). This ethical consciousness pushes Babka to consider Christianity’s complicity in the wreckage of "racism, violence, and imperialism" (42–43)—a crumbling edifice she compares to Barnett Newman’s sculpture Broken Obelisk—and to look for new ways forward. Rather than the comfortable, often totalizing certainty of "positive truth-claims," a vulnerable aesthetics suggests humility and even uncertainty: "to repair the rifts created by violence and injustice" requires not certainty but a "vulnerable truth" (55). The power of art, like the flash of a lightning bolt, has the prophetic power to "challenge the viewer . . . with an experience of alterity that is so radical that it may at first appear shocking, or frightening" (118). This prophetic edge stands in stark contrast to the commodifying impulse in both art and religion (109); art is at its best when it confronts us with the Other in its infinity, alerting us to the beauty and mystery of the dark field.
Babka’s work draws on a number of postmetaphysical thinkers (Kearney, Marion, Blanchot), poets (Mary Oliver, Paul Celan, Carl Phillips), and theologians ranging from Tracy to Cone. Still, it would be good to have more visual artists and specific artworks discussed in detail—works by Käthe Kollwicz, Claude Clark, Jackson Pollock, and Barnett Newman are discussed only briefly, and as a whole the book sometimes feels like it is wandering without a clear roadmap. Overall, however, the book’s unique approach to theological aesthetics in conversation with art, Buddhist-Christian dialogue, and contemporary philosophy, as well as its singular emphasis on vulnerability and kenosis, make it a worthwhile contribution to the field.
There is an obvious connection between the Christian doctrine of the incarnation and representational art, particularly paintings of the human form. God taking on the form of human flesh has provided a theological rationale for the prominence of such forms on canvas, particularly images of Christ himself. But what about a "theology of the incarnation advocated through abstract forms of art" (236)? What can abstraction—the negation of form, as in the jet-black void of Ad Reinhardt’s aniconic Black Square or Barnett Newman’s vast, monochromatic Cathedra—teach us about word made flesh?
Babka’s book is on one level a constructive proposal for the theological importance of abstract art, but beyond this it is a deep reflection on the nature of incarnation. The author leaves aside the customary language of presence and form for the rather different theological vocabulary of vulnerability and emptiness. In her estimation, incarnation must be thought of in terms of radical kenosis or self-emptying—the flesh of Christ as a paradigmatic opening to the infinite Other. Incarnation, for the risky pursuits of both art and faith, is thus about humility and vulnerability—and ultimately the recognition that the "interdependency" which springs from "openness to the alterity of the Other" is at "the very core of existence" (70).
The "dark field" of the book’s title comes from Mary Oliver’s poem "Lightning," which yields the vivid image of the sensual "burning river" of the lightning storm blazing its way "through the dark / field of the other." Lightning, in Babka’s reading of the poem, is a "symbol of incarnation" (81) in its sudden irruption. Yet the empty space or dark field—the void, the Other—is itself fecund, "a meeting place where life emerges from emptiness" (x). In Karl Rahner’s words, this emptiness is where we encounter the "originating mystery"(x–xi) of grace; thus the incarnation, like lightning illuminating a dark field, subsists in the interplay between what is hidden and what is revealed.
Babka also follows Masao Abe in posing a sustained analogy between the Christian doctrine of kenosis and the sunyata or emptiness of Mahayana Buddhism (18). For her, both concepts are inscribed in the Buddhist mantra "form is emptiness and emptiness is form" (37). But here, too, this emptiness or absence is not static, but rather involves the continual emptying of form into the dependent co-arising of all things (293). In Buddhist thought, to realize one’s own emptiness (no-self) is precisely to become aware of one’s interconnectedness with all things—and thus to awaken to compassion. The Christian doctrine of the incarnation may be similarly seen as the "ceaseless emptying of form" (294) for the sake of the Other.
Can abstract, formless art thus teach us about God incarnate? Such art exists on the limen of "kenosis and incarnation" (21). The chapter "The Presence of the Absent God" deals with the question of modernist abstract art, particularly the Abstract Expressionists (237–38)—Motherwell, Reinhardt, Rothko, Newman—each seeking new, visual languages for the spiritual dimension of existence" (114). The seemingly empty canvases of a Rothko or Pollock give "theology an opportunity to experience wildness . . . for the sake of the self-emptying (kenosis) that opens one toward empathy" (259).
Alongside poets and painters, Babka’s primary influences are thinkers attuned to mystery and the infinite, most notably Karl Rahner and Emmanuel Levinas. Babka muses about the possibilities of a Rahnerian theological aesthetics (154) where art and the sensuous would be appreciated as equally valid means of knowing the omnipresent mystery of grace, and where theologians could learn from painters an "imagination for the incarnation" (151). Levinas pervades the text, warning of the dangers of the search for comprehensive or certain knowledge—"knowledge as a closed system" (25)—which is closely linked to the danger of political totalitarianism. Instead, Levinas’s philosophy, shaped by Jewish theology, is based on encounter with the irreducible alterity of the Other, an ethical encounter with primacy over any metaphysical system. As in the story of Abraham under the Oak of Mamre, to welcome the stranger is to show hospitality toward God (71).
The work of art "bring[s] the distant Other into our proximate space" and so is a model of Levinasian encounter. Babka similarly sees God as both proximate to the suffering of humanity in Christ and at the same time, the divine Other. Visually, this image presents itself in the Gnadenstuhl or "Mercy Seat" image in Christian art, where the suffering Christ crucified in the foreground is literally held up by the eternal Father. Yet perhaps abstraction more closely approaches this paradox: the God who breaks idols is beyond what can be thought, comprehended, or indeed rendered visible, yet Christ is the perfect "image of the invisible God."
It is well known that Paul Tillich’s theology was deeply conditioned by his religious experience of seeing Botticelli’s Madonna and Child with Singing Angels. The author recounts her own similar experience with Marc Chagall’s White Crucifixion (1938), where Jesus’ death is painted in such a way as to recall the backdrop of modern anti-Semitism (75). This ethical consciousness pushes Babka to consider Christianity’s complicity in the wreckage of "racism, violence, and imperialism" (42–43)—a crumbling edifice she compares to Barnett Newman’s sculpture Broken Obelisk—and to look for new ways forward. Rather than the comfortable, often totalizing certainty of "positive truth-claims," a vulnerable aesthetics suggests humility and even uncertainty: "to repair the rifts created by violence and injustice" requires not certainty but a "vulnerable truth" (55). The power of art, like the flash of a lightning bolt, has the prophetic power to "challenge the viewer . . . with an experience of alterity that is so radical that it may at first appear shocking, or frightening" (118). This prophetic edge stands in stark contrast to the commodifying impulse in both art and religion (109); art is at its best when it confronts us with the Other in its infinity, alerting us to the beauty and mystery of the dark field.
Babka’s work draws on a number of postmetaphysical thinkers (Kearney, Marion, Blanchot), poets (Mary Oliver, Paul Celan, Carl Phillips), and theologians ranging from Tracy to Cone. Still, it would be good to have more visual artists and specific artworks discussed in detail—works by Käthe Kollwicz, Claude Clark, Jackson Pollock, and Barnett Newman are discussed only briefly, and as a whole the book sometimes feels like it is wandering without a clear roadmap. Overall, however, the book’s unique approach to theological aesthetics in conversation with art, Buddhist-Christian dialogue, and contemporary philosophy, as well as its singular emphasis on vulnerability and kenosis, make it a worthwhile contribution to the field.