Vache
In 1930 Alexander Calder twisted a wire or two and made a sculpture of a cow. He called it Vache, which is French for cow. Vache is also French for mean and nasty.
I saw this piece, which is small enough to fit in the proverbial bread box, at an exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum. Calder is best known for his mobiles, which floated majestically through the exhibit. But it was the little wire cow that held my attention.
What fascinated me is the interplay between what is there and what is not there. What is there – tail, horns, eyes, four small teats made of tiny coils of wire – plays against what is missing – the white space where the top of the skull should be, the mass and bulk of flesh surrounding the suggestions of legs and neck sculpted by the wire.
Our minds, as they will, fill in the blanks easily. When my granddaughter saw the small postcard of this work I tucked into my mirror, she asked why I had a picture of a cow. It’s clearly a cow, a child can see that.
But it takes a master to understand which parts to leave to suggestion and which parts to show. We know this about artists, right? I remember studying Hemingway and being told that it’s all about what he left out. Hemingway suggested that writers show only the tip of the iceberg and that, if the writer knew the rest of the story that was buried under the water, the weight of that knowledge would be felt by the reader. I didn’t know that the short story “The Hills are Like White Elephants” was actually about an abortion when I first read it as a teenager, but I felt the depth in the story, nonetheless.
Emptiness intrigues me. The quiet space when we don’t speak or post or buy or consume. The person at work who doesn’t talk often but when she does brings a focus and clarity that throws everything into a useful high relief.
Religious traditions have always used fasting to focus the spirit and clear away distraction. Popular culture has adopted dry January and now boysober, suggesting the value of a period of time away from alcohol and sex and dating, respectively.
A Buddhist friend of mine goes on silent retreats. They eat simple, small vegetarian meals, there’s no conversation, and they sit, or meditate, most of the day. They don’t use any electronic devices, there’s isn’t a screen to be found.
If art, spirituality, and culture have all tapped into the benefits of doing without, editing away, paring down, what does that open up for us?
Fasting is not dieting. It’s not a restriction for self-improvement or to better conform to some unattainable societal ideal. A retreat isn’t about returning to your busy life with a different schedule or eating habits. It’s about getting a different perspective. Fasting is reframing. It is looking at your life, your work, how you occupy your time and asking yourself what is essential to me, what is critical to the relationships I value, the work I feel called to do in the world? What are, looking at Calder’s small sculpture, the things necessary to evoke and sustain the whole? You see the cow’s face. We recognize faces, as humans we invent faces where there are none, on potatoes or the moon. What are your essentials, the elements that define you? They will often be how you perceive the world, eyes, ears, nose, mouth.
It might be your work. Cows are known to be producers of milk, which gets us to butter and ice cream and all the cheeses. What do we produce that is extendable, life-giving, varied and delightful?
What is the essential structure of your life? What will you be remembered for when you are gone? Who will mourn you for the rest of their lives? For many Christians, Lent starts on Feb 14th. And Lent starts with thinking about death. In Catholic neighborhoods everyone used to walk around with the smudge of ashes on their forehead. I remember some priests being liberal with the ashes, so it cascaded onto my nose. And others being more fastidious, a small swipe swipe. They all say a variation the same thing, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Death or the thought of death can also bring into focus what is essential.
What makes you happiest? How often do you do those things? What do you think you’ll do more of at some imaginary future time when you have more time/resources/energy? Is there really no way you can do more of the thing that makes you happy now? When I start to complain about how I don’t have time to do something, I ask myself how much non-work time I spent staring at a screen this week – my computer, my smart phone, tablet, television.
I grew up without smartphones or personal computers but spent plenty of time watching television. I got bored. I daydreamed and made-up stories and played outside. That emptiness gave space for ideas and narratives. My sister and I would take our bikes out in the summer and we’d come home only for meals. My kids wore bike helmets and had play dates and less of that heady unstructured time outdoors. But I watch my grandchildren get completely absorbed in watching a bug walk across the patio, or digging in the dirt, and I realize we all have that capacity for focus.
Where do you want more space? Some quiet or emptiness or unstructured time? Are you afraid of it? Sometimes I am. There’s a reason I don’t go on silent retreats. Vache is also “nasty” or “mean” in French. With space, feelings and old hurts or worries can seep in. Many of us try to keep those away with busy or noise or false drama, or darker paths, like addiction. There’s a reason so many artists are addicts and alcoholics, so many tremendous talents dead too young because of an excess of a substance meant to buffer, numb or stimulate.
What many of the trendy apps about meditation don’t tell you is that meditation can sometimes bring up difficult emotions or sensations. Which is why I always suggest people interested in a serious meditation practice try doing it with a community, spiritual director or some guide that can help them navigate whatever comes up.
Space, silence, emptiness and fasting of any kind can be restorative, creative, fruitful. And it can also bring up feelings or understanding that can feel brutal. Or it can be both at the same time. Maybe what I like best about Calder’s Vache is that it’s funny. There is a spirit of play, a joyful silliness. My toddler grandson covers his head with a blanket, pulls it down and yells peepaboo. That moment where he can’t see us is a space for him to play with absence and return and he finds it joyful, laughing with his whole body. We go away, which is scary, and then we return, which is joyful. Step away so you can see what is essential
I saw this piece, which is small enough to fit in the proverbial bread box, at an exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum. Calder is best known for his mobiles, which floated majestically through the exhibit. But it was the little wire cow that held my attention.
What fascinated me is the interplay between what is there and what is not there. What is there – tail, horns, eyes, four small teats made of tiny coils of wire – plays against what is missing – the white space where the top of the skull should be, the mass and bulk of flesh surrounding the suggestions of legs and neck sculpted by the wire.
Our minds, as they will, fill in the blanks easily. When my granddaughter saw the small postcard of this work I tucked into my mirror, she asked why I had a picture of a cow. It’s clearly a cow, a child can see that.
But it takes a master to understand which parts to leave to suggestion and which parts to show. We know this about artists, right? I remember studying Hemingway and being told that it’s all about what he left out. Hemingway suggested that writers show only the tip of the iceberg and that, if the writer knew the rest of the story that was buried under the water, the weight of that knowledge would be felt by the reader. I didn’t know that the short story “The Hills are Like White Elephants” was actually about an abortion when I first read it as a teenager, but I felt the depth in the story, nonetheless.
Emptiness intrigues me. The quiet space when we don’t speak or post or buy or consume. The person at work who doesn’t talk often but when she does brings a focus and clarity that throws everything into a useful high relief.
Religious traditions have always used fasting to focus the spirit and clear away distraction. Popular culture has adopted dry January and now boysober, suggesting the value of a period of time away from alcohol and sex and dating, respectively.
A Buddhist friend of mine goes on silent retreats. They eat simple, small vegetarian meals, there’s no conversation, and they sit, or meditate, most of the day. They don’t use any electronic devices, there’s isn’t a screen to be found.
If art, spirituality, and culture have all tapped into the benefits of doing without, editing away, paring down, what does that open up for us?
Fasting is not dieting. It’s not a restriction for self-improvement or to better conform to some unattainable societal ideal. A retreat isn’t about returning to your busy life with a different schedule or eating habits. It’s about getting a different perspective. Fasting is reframing. It is looking at your life, your work, how you occupy your time and asking yourself what is essential to me, what is critical to the relationships I value, the work I feel called to do in the world? What are, looking at Calder’s small sculpture, the things necessary to evoke and sustain the whole? You see the cow’s face. We recognize faces, as humans we invent faces where there are none, on potatoes or the moon. What are your essentials, the elements that define you? They will often be how you perceive the world, eyes, ears, nose, mouth.
It might be your work. Cows are known to be producers of milk, which gets us to butter and ice cream and all the cheeses. What do we produce that is extendable, life-giving, varied and delightful?
What is the essential structure of your life? What will you be remembered for when you are gone? Who will mourn you for the rest of their lives? For many Christians, Lent starts on Feb 14th. And Lent starts with thinking about death. In Catholic neighborhoods everyone used to walk around with the smudge of ashes on their forehead. I remember some priests being liberal with the ashes, so it cascaded onto my nose. And others being more fastidious, a small swipe swipe. They all say a variation the same thing, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Death or the thought of death can also bring into focus what is essential.
What makes you happiest? How often do you do those things? What do you think you’ll do more of at some imaginary future time when you have more time/resources/energy? Is there really no way you can do more of the thing that makes you happy now? When I start to complain about how I don’t have time to do something, I ask myself how much non-work time I spent staring at a screen this week – my computer, my smart phone, tablet, television.
I grew up without smartphones or personal computers but spent plenty of time watching television. I got bored. I daydreamed and made-up stories and played outside. That emptiness gave space for ideas and narratives. My sister and I would take our bikes out in the summer and we’d come home only for meals. My kids wore bike helmets and had play dates and less of that heady unstructured time outdoors. But I watch my grandchildren get completely absorbed in watching a bug walk across the patio, or digging in the dirt, and I realize we all have that capacity for focus.
Where do you want more space? Some quiet or emptiness or unstructured time? Are you afraid of it? Sometimes I am. There’s a reason I don’t go on silent retreats. Vache is also “nasty” or “mean” in French. With space, feelings and old hurts or worries can seep in. Many of us try to keep those away with busy or noise or false drama, or darker paths, like addiction. There’s a reason so many artists are addicts and alcoholics, so many tremendous talents dead too young because of an excess of a substance meant to buffer, numb or stimulate.
What many of the trendy apps about meditation don’t tell you is that meditation can sometimes bring up difficult emotions or sensations. Which is why I always suggest people interested in a serious meditation practice try doing it with a community, spiritual director or some guide that can help them navigate whatever comes up.
Space, silence, emptiness and fasting of any kind can be restorative, creative, fruitful. And it can also bring up feelings or understanding that can feel brutal. Or it can be both at the same time. Maybe what I like best about Calder’s Vache is that it’s funny. There is a spirit of play, a joyful silliness. My toddler grandson covers his head with a blanket, pulls it down and yells “peepaboo.” That moment where he can’t see us is a space for him to play with absence and return and he finds it joyful, laughing with his whole body. We go away, which is scary, and then we return, which is joyful. Step away so you can see what is essential