When I was in the first grade, we were given a barnyard scene to color. I colored the cow, purple. My teacher, Sister Myles, said, "Patty Jean, cows are not purple." But they were! They ARE! At least to me.
I know I didn’t understand the importance of purple cows until much later, but that moment was the beginning of a life long journey into color and a spirituality that has been enriched by image making.
Art and spirituality are words that evoke feelings on many levels for almost everyone. It is important for the reader to understand from the beginning what those words mean to me to make sense of anything I say. And, defining is a messy process. My definitions will not be found in dictionaries. My definitions will be experiential in that examples of knowing will reveal the meaning.
I want to start with my purple cow. I still remember WHY I colored that cow purple. The moment my teacher (whom I adored) told me I was wrong, "cows aren’t purple." I knew inside that she was wrong. Teachers aren’t supposed to be wrong, but I knew she was wrong. She gave me another page and told me to color the cow correctly. I couldn’t help myself. I colored the cow purple again. My teacher was surprised to find that I had once again, colored the cow purple. This went on for some time, with several pages being given me and the result was always the same purple cow. Finally, I had to stand in the corner for coloring my cow purple. I don’t remember her ever asking me WHY I colored the cow purple.
So, why did I color my cows purple? Certainly, I knew that cows are black and brown and spotted and white. We had just returned from Winterset, Iowa, my Grandma’s farm, where I had spent the whole glorious summer with my cousins and Grandma. There were plenty of cows on the farm and I even had one of my own. Her name was Loretta. I got to name her. To me, Loretta was the most beautiful name in all the world and I gave it to a little brown calf Grandma told me I could name. I knew full well the color of cows but I also knew something special. There were other cows. Cows could be purple if you would just stop and look and listen.
Before we left Winterset, we were all together the night before. There were cousins from all over the Midwest and Iowa. It was a party, Iowa style. We had a hayride and caught fireflies and ended it all with purple cows.
I never had a purple cow till that night. It was magical and mystical and produced giggles of delight from all of us. Most of all it was an imprinting experience. Whether Grandma made up the name for that special drink of ice cream and purple soda, I’ll never know. It didn’t matter. It connected me to Grandma in a way I’m not sure I can explain. From that day on, cows were purple in my mind. Purple cows mean Grandma and all she stood for, all she was. Grandma was the best spiritual guide in my life. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, either. I just knew that Grandma cared.
I don’t know when, but the color purple slipped over into identifying how I felt about a lot of things. But it wasn’t just purple. I knew that colors could talk for me if I just listened. They said a lot more than I could ever say with words. When I colored the cow purple in first grade, maybe part of me wanted to share how I felt when I had my first purple cow. Maybe another part of me wanted to tell everyone in first grade that I had a most wonderful grandmother. Maybe I was telling everyone that fireflies are a beautiful sight and the smell of hay is more satisfying than any perfume. I don’t remember. All I do remember is that I wanted to color my cow purple because it was telling the truth. It felt right. It felt warm. I had to stand in that corner for if I changed the color of my cow, I’d be telling a lie.
Grandma was no ordinary Grandma. I suspect that everyone who has a special grandmother would make that claim. But, my grandmother really was different! Her easy way mixed the telling and doing and acting out of biblical stories into our daily lives. Make no mistake about it, I already had catechism lessons and God was real in my life, as real as God could be in a little girl of six. Grandma took God out of the catechism and God had tea parties with us. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Spirituality is not religion. Religion can have a spirituality. Maybe some religions have no spirituality that is easily accessible. When I speak of spirituality, I’m talking about something that helped me, continues to help me recognize who I am and it connects me to something, someONE outside myself. This is a universal thing, I’ve found, or I wouldn’t be talking about it here.
In divinity school, one of the theologians we studied was Paul Tillich who promoted the idea that there was a potential for the arts to reveal the infinite in the finite. This grabbed my attention because my own experience as an artist could acknowledge that he spoke the truth. I had known moments of transcendence in both dance and in graphic arts. Many times Grandma’s way of story telling which inserted each of her grandchildren in the story also was fertile ground for moments of grace. In "Symbols of Faith" in Dynamics of Faith (Harper & Row, 1957), Tillich says that there is the potential to open levels of understanding of reality not knowable other than through the arts and symbol. This aspect of knowing through art and symbol is perhaps a clue about the truth of spirituality. Within these moments transcendence is possible. It might be called, Living in Grace Through Art. This is the name I have given this column as a way to keep before me always, the truth of art and symbol.
"God and Tea Parties," Part 2 of this article will deal with Grandma’s brand of spirituality. How that was passed on to her children and grandchildren. The way I intend to deal with spirituality is to share some of my grandmother’s stories. Through the symbols in her storytelling we might reach into that huge constellation of wordless opportunities for grace.
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