ANDERSON UNIVERSITY ART+DESIGN DEPARTMENT
SENIOR PROJECT RESPONSE: CARYN CREVISTON
Marian Osborne Berky
Spring 2010
When asked by Caryn Creviston to serve as respondent to her senior art project, I imagined that I would be viewing paintings, since until viewing her work for “id(entity),” the only one of Ms. Creviston’s pieces that I had seen was a triptych submitted for an assignment in “Hebrew Roots of Christian Faith.” I found that painting to be striking. It had elements of darkness – even elements that could be interpreted to be human blood, but I liked it. It also contained beauty, and it was thought-provoking. As I sit in my office composing this response, I am looking at that triptych. I still like that (those) painting(s).
What, one might ask, has the above referenced assignment for a class in Religious Studies have to do with Ms. Creviston’s senior art project? For me, the connection is in my response, and perhaps, in the way it differs from the initial response of others to Ms. Creviston’s work. In her thesis, Caryn makes reference more than once to the fact that other people, when first viewing her work, find it to be shocking, or surprising, or frightening. I find none of those adjectives to be descriptive of her work on display in Wilson Galleries this spring. What I do see on display is the work of a multi-faceted artist – of one who is deeply introspective. As I see it, Ms. Creviston’s inner self is less veiled than that of many artists because she uses such varied media in her work. In the lyrics to her songs, and, especially, in “Book,” I hear those inner thoughts articulated in words. And while words, like emotions, are “susceptible to miscalculation and misjudgment,” those in Ms. Creviston’s work assist me in grasping the overarching intent of her work.
In Ms. Creviston’s written thesis, I find mystery. She tells us that she spent years unaware of her inner person, out of touch with herself and unable to create emotionally honest relationships with others. She tells us that she began to want to change this, and that her senior work reflects this growing self awareness and change. She encourages those who view her work to seek the same sort of inward journey. What she does not offer is even a hint about what it was that precipitated this change in her. Why did Ms. Creviston begin to want to know herself, and from where did she find the strength to begin the journey? Her readers and viewers are only left to wonder. Perhaps, though, this omission is intentional. As I consider its absence more thoughtfully, it is at least consistent with Caryn’s approach to her work. Not knowing about these precipitating factors keeps our focus on the process, on the journey toward self-knowledge she describes. And as Ms. Creviston tells us, process is very important to her.
Ms. Creviston also tells us that, for her, creating art has therapeutic value. This is no where more evident than in her description of her work with the series of elongated elephant figures. As she began to create these sculptures, they had no clear identity for her. And yet, she tells us, she knew they had some meaning that was awaiting discovery. I am struck by the following statement: “This is when I realized that I was making self-portraits.” These sculptures were accidental self-portraits. What a fascinating thought…… what an intriguing idea…… that one could create a self-portrait and not realize it. I first heard Caryn describe these long-legged elephants as self-portraits, and I simply accepted them as such. It was when I read her description of the process of discovery of the self portraiture that I began actively thinking about such an idea. Do people often create “accidental” self portraits? What materials other than those of the visual arts are used in these “portraits”? Is our clothing a part of such a self portrait? What about the language we choose to use? Our profession? Our families of choice ? Might we not describe any of the trappings of modern life as “accidental,” or inadvertent, self portraits? And we might claim that these portraits are all the more revealing when those of us accumulating them claim so adamantly not to be defined by these things. What an interesting idea! The similarities between Ms. Creviston’s “accidental” self portraits and these others, though, stops here. For Ms. Creviston, in recognizing the portraits for what they were, she began a journey of self discovery, and she tells us that she recognized that she was “doing something extremely beneficial to my emotional and mental health.” Most of us, I suspect, fail to make such a recognition in our own lives, continuing, instead, to describe ourselves in a multitude of ways, the significance of which we are utterly unaware.
Such thoughts about self-knowledge lead me to respond to “Sleep Machines,” the piece that is, perhaps, my “favorite” of Ms. Creviston’s works in this exhibit. “Sleep Machines” is an honest reflection of the society in which we live. It is a disturbing reflection of the university campus on which we study and work. It is, for many, a disturbingly honest reflection of relationships with peers. As Ms. Creviston and I discussed “Sleep Machines,” she talked about her perception of so many campus passings – individuals walking by each other, not knowing, and not really seeing, the other. She described people as “machine-like,” as intentionally not revealing themselves to others – for the purpose of ensuring that their façade would be “acceptable” to, or at least not rejected by, them. Sadly, I recognize truth in Ms. Creviston’s portrayal of many of our societal “interactions.” I would locate the root of such human disconnection in fear. I witness the fear of being different, or of not being perfect, of not measuring up to the other’s standard, which is both created and perpetuated by these unreal exchanges. I recognize the fear of being rejected, or of being recognized to be vulnerable. I see the fear of someone else discovering something we don’t know about ourselves, and thereby, perhaps, of their discovering who we really are. Ms. Creviston’s art work has allowed her to spend time in self-discovery, and perhaps it is this discovery-work that has allowed her to see her surroundings with such clarity.
Ralph Winter, a successful Hollywood film producer, recently spoke on the Anderson University campus. Winter articulated the same truth that is reflected in “Sleep Machines” as he talked about the “hidden brokenness” shared by all people. His claim, not unlike what Ms. Creviston has discovered, is that by revealing this hidden brokenness to others we can be healed of its insidious power and be freed to be fully ourselves. Winter went on to talk about the church, and the church’s practice of presenting “neat, propositional truth protecting the Bible,” but not addressing the multitude of questions being asked by our culture. Christians should be addressing these questions, said Winter, but we are not. The church should be striving to understand the deep pains of our culture, said Winter, but we are “protecting the Bible,” instead. In a final stinging criticism of today’s church, Winter claimed that, in fact, “the world articulates the truths of the gospel better than the church does.”
I hear echoes of Mr. Winter’s remarks each time I view “Sleep Machines.” While Ms. Creviston has discussed this piece as a reflection of individual interactions, I see it also addressing in a profound way, as noted above, problems on our campus and problems in the church. What is at stake for us if we make visible to others who we really are? How might things change if wired facades were exchanged for honest human interactions and institutional structures that called us to address the hard questions being asked by our world? What might we discover about our community if it became a safe place in which to shine light on our “hidden brokenness”?
Each time a Christian pastor or priest leads a congregation in celebrating holy communion, s/he speaks the words of institution. “This is my body, broken for you,” words attributed to Jesus in the gospels, proclaim Jesus’ deep identification with human suffering and brokenness. On the one hand, we elevate brokenness as the ideal, since it is in Jesus’ brokenness, we are told, that we can clearly see his absolute love for humankind. And we are to be like Jesus. On the other hand, as Ms. Creviston expresses in “Sleep Machines,” we find brokenness to be so unacceptable that we go to great lengths to keep it hidden. What might we discover if our community because a safe place in which to reveal brokenness? Likely we would discover that it is only in that sort of honest, “stripped down” state that we can begin to reflect the Divine.
In the 21st century U.S., “sleep machine” usually refers to a device known as a “C-PAP.” This sleep aid may be prescribed for patients suffering from a condition called “sleep apnea.” The C-PAP forces air into one’s respiratory passages, thereby ensuring that one continues breathing regularly during periods of sleep. In that sense, this “sleep machine,” unlike Ms. Creviston’s piece of the same name, is one that “frees” a person from what could otherwise be an exhausting, even dangerous, condition. Perhaps, like this literal “sleep machine,” Ms. Creviston’s “Sleep Machine” could also be used to encourage a sort of “freedom.” Understood as a prophetic call to action, Creviston’s “Sleep Machine” can lead its viewers to change. This can happen, though, only if they are willing to begin to disassemble the personal and social phenomena it represents, methodically replacing wires with honest human exchange, with openness to hurt and misunderstanding, with possibility of disagreement, and, most importantly, with the hope of transformation.
TWO: "Book"
THREE: "Her wisdom from your discouragement"
