Three in One, by Sarah Gorham

Icon Triptych, Abbey of Gethsemani, by Lavrans Nielsen (USA) before 1976. With permission from the Abbey of Gethsamani.

Three in One

1.
The arrangement of these panels speaks worlds. On the left, Mary. On the right, in another half-panel, there’s St. John the Baptist. His hair is tousled his clothes dirty We could easily read a story line just from their postures. Both figures lean towards the Christ Jesus, in their eyes a worried yearning. The artist left a smudge under Mary’s arm for a reason we may not understand. She bows her head, arms extending from her purple garment, like a blue branch. She is only one side of the parentheses. St. John is on the other side—his clothing dirty, his hair unwashed and knotted. He seems to slip away slightly from Jesus, yet all the same, closing up the parentheses. 

In the centre of the Deesis is the One, the Christ, the One. See the full-blooded colour of his pillow, the sandaled feet, resting above. The flowing navy-blue cloak of the Christ matches the fabric of Mary’s dress and draws them together. It suggests a deep shadow, perhaps the tip of a spear. But behind him there are three glimmering halos, Blue is the dark, where Jesus is precariously perched, as if he might withdraw from us and drop into a bottomless well. In one arm he holds a book, but the words are faint. Will we ever discern His message? 

The mystic Meister Ekhart believes that some people prefer solitude. Their peace of mind depends on this. Others prefer to go to a church. Ekhart notes: “If you do well, you do well wherever you are. If you fail, you fail wherever you are. God is with you everywhere—in the marketplace or in the church. Your surroundings don’t matter. If you look for nothing but God, nothing or no one can disturb you. God is not distracted by a multitude of things. Nor can we be.” All you have to do is love somebody. If you love somebody, you will never give them up. The experience itself is yours alone, never in the hands of another human being. In this way, God moves into the hallways of your mind and emotions, and broods.

The Virgin, by Abbott Handerson Thayer (USA) 1893

 2.
The Virgin, by Abbott Handerson Thayer
 
In this painting, a young girl (Thayer’s daughter) marches forth in gold cloth from head to toe, a grandchild to each side, all barefoot. We can see there’s a breeze, their hair and edges of their clothing tossed gently to their right. They are each wrapped in cloth, staring outward, the youngest in olive green transitioning to beige, the eldest in red, her legs naked from hips down. The daughter is swathed in gold; we see only the tip of her toes. 

Behind them is a huge cloud formation strongly resembling a pair of white wings, seemingly attached to the daughter’s shoulders.  There’s a sprig of pale flowers between. All three are virgins. The eldest is Mary, who serves as leader, and the three are heading together into what looks like scorched territory: a field of withered brush and smoke with a flicker of ember encroaching. The tone is a break from his usual subjects and no wonder. Thayer’s wife had recently died; he’d lost two children within a year of each other. He also suffered from what he called “the Abbot pendulum,” when his mood swung from “all-wellity” and “sick disgust.” 

These were his words. But the household was full of women: family, students, housekeepers, models for the paintings. In his surroundings he saw what he called “feminine virtue and aesthetic grandeur.” He was also a great caretaker of birds, founding the Thayer Fund, designed to protect the trees on Mount Monadnock. He and his family slept outdoors year-round. They were raised as Christians, but he claimed he had no religion, except one of his own. And yet, what seems to me most important is the religiosity of these paintings. For example, the halos of Winged Figure, Study of an Angel, and Winged Figure upon a Rock alone are a testament to this. “I have set my bow in the cloud,” God says, meaning a rainbow. It can be seen in the fleur-de-lis, a cross-like construction, with a more floral feel. Three-petaled and unfurled in layers.

Yes, the body can be a cross-like thing. Each arm lifted, outstretched to the side, fingers dangling, legs held together like a tree-trunk, the head dropped to the shoulder, and the glory of God bursting through the foliage above. And the clouds are the dust of His feet, a promise of faith, hope, justice, and patience. And better yet, the Iris carries the scent and colours of the rainbow, especially purple, my favourite.

Irises, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands) 1889

3.
The Iris

The body can be seen as a cross, arms extended from the side, fingers drooping, a tree-trunk for support. The flower is purple, the colour of death, deep water, the stem gray in the meagre light. The name of the flower is Iris, and the woman too is called Iris. It reminds her to ask the particular question. Who is God? God leans down and at first, tells Noah, “I have set my bow in the cloud,” meaning a rainbow, a kind of covenant. But she can’t hear a word He’s saying. 

Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh, and Picasso have all used Iris plants in their paintings. They appear in religious gardens that promise to bring us closer to heaven. Some have described the flowers as “bearded.” This makes sense, since most images of God find Jesus with a moustache and beard, common among Jews. But Easter brings a plethora of colours too—burgundy, pink, orange, yellow, white, copper, green, rust, in addition to bearded.

On Easter, purple stands alone. It’s the sombre colour. The soldiers below Jesus’s cross dressed themselves in purple, mocking and beating Him.
 
The fleur-de-lis too can resemble a cross. Three small petals indicating the head, two extending with open hands, a spray of white on each petal, the waist cinched, or is it starvation? His body is slowly taken down, wrapped in rough fabric and laid in Mary’s lap. The wagon arrives with the wooden casket, built in a hurry. The mourners gather round, weeping. 

The petals of the Iris burst upwards from the stem. And while the flower is opening, it’s supported by the sepals enveloping the stem. By two hands, as if pleading or praying. And when the flowers are fully open, there is an offering, life or death or both. 
 
Sarah Gorham
 
Sarah Gorham is a poet and essayist, most recently the forthcoming essay collection Funeral Playlist from Etruscan Press. She is the author of Alpine Apprentice (2017), which made the short list for 2018 PEN/Diamonstein Award in the Essay, and Study in Perfect (2014), selected by Bernard Cooper for the 2013 AWP Award in Creative Nonfiction. Gorham is also the author of four poetry collections— Bad Daughter (2011), The Cure (2003), The Tension Zone (1996), and Don’t Go Back to Sleep (1989). Other honours include grants and fellowships from the NEA, three state arts councils, and the Kentucky Foundation for Women.