I'm in a vunerable place. My heart is pounding harder with each step. The room is full of familiar faces, as well as strange faces. Standing behind a heavy, red curtain in the dark, I am waiting.
Being on stage is something that for me, was like breathing, sleeping, eating. I needed it. I didn't need it for attention, I didn't need it to prove anything to anyone. I needed it to escape. It was safe, but daring at the same time. I was safe from turmoil and tears at home, but I was embarking on the most magical adventure under the lights and set. It was an excuse for me to be someone else, even for just a few hours. Or perhaps it was an excuse for me to be myself without feeling the need to justify anything. Behind the costumes, the make-up, the hair, the dances, the script, I am building a character whether it be mine, or the one on paper.
I used to sit on the cold, hardwood floor, facing the stage. My 10 year old little heart, weighing heavy in my small frame, just longing to be one of those beautifully dressed women dancing and singing on stage. I would beg my father to take me to rehearsals with him, and I would willingly sit there for hours wide-eyed, full of love. I would help in any way I could, just to be closer to the stage. There was a hallway that stretched across the back of the stage,where the actors and actresses would make fast costume changes, or silently wait for their entrance. The wall was adorned with picture frames full of posed little girls in tu tu's and glitter. I would slowly walk up and down the stretch of that hallway in the dark picking out my favorite one in each picture. It seems that by the time I reached the end of the wall, I was silently waiting in the dark for my entrance. I was one of those beautifully dressed women. I wasn't that little 10 year old, with a heavy heart longing to shine under the hot lights. It was my turn.
Patience. Hope. Faith. Determination. Love. Passion. It took those things to get there. It was years before I was given a one line solo, or even one word to say, but that did not matter to me. I wanted to be a part of it in any way that I could. I was in love. I still am. I miss performing. I need that again. That's the problem with growing older. I make excuses for why I can't do the things I once held so dearly. Maybe I will have to change that.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Find me now
I remember sitting on an enormous boulder covered in moss. It towered over what seemed like a 60 foot drop that would most likely lead to a less than comfortable death had I slipped. I was alone for the moment, and felt a real beautiful second of peace. I was so very content in that moment. It was late spring, the kind of weather where you need a jacket for when you are walking in the shade, but once the sunlight reaches your step you feel the heat beating down, and can't bare another moment clothed. I slowly relaxed my body into a comfortable position, leaning against my recently shed jacket. To my left there was the most magnificant waterfall tumbling down an even larger boulder over a cliff. I sat there in that moment breathing real fresh air, and listening to the wind softly blowing through the freshly budded trees. The only thought or care I had in that moment was that I never wanted to leave. I didn't want that moment to ever end. I seriously considered the possibility of staying there forever. All I wanted was a paint brush and a canvas, or a camera, or a book and a pen. Anything to capture that moment.
I could feel my body slowly sinking into that rock, wanting to leave a permanant impression. The sunlight was trying so hard to find me now, only providing even more comfort for my now drooping eyes. It was so beautiful it made me want to cry. Why can't everywhere look like this? Why can't I just build a small cabin here and survive on the land? I stood up and climbed along the side of the cliff towards the waterfall. I snuck my way behind the waterfall and stood there in the cool shade letting the water splash onto my face without a care. I was covered in mud and stains, but nothing seemed to matter anymore.
I experience many moments in my life much like this. I try to tell myself in that moment, I will never forget this. I will remember this forever. As I grow older, I slowly seem to forget these moments. I seem to forget how to feel that real beautiful peace. I forget how to be carefree. I forget how to let go and just feel. It just doesn't seem fair to experience that much beauty in such a cheated amount of time. I can't say that I talk to God that often, but I thanked him that day. I thanked him for giving me a place to escape, even if it was for just one moment.
After washing my hands and face in the cold water, I scooted my way back up the cliff and towards my resting spot in the sun. I stood there one last moment letting my eyes steal a last glimpse of what seemed like heaven.
I would give anything to return to this spot right now. I just want to be carefree again. I want to breath fresh air again. I want to feel again.
I could feel my body slowly sinking into that rock, wanting to leave a permanant impression. The sunlight was trying so hard to find me now, only providing even more comfort for my now drooping eyes. It was so beautiful it made me want to cry. Why can't everywhere look like this? Why can't I just build a small cabin here and survive on the land? I stood up and climbed along the side of the cliff towards the waterfall. I snuck my way behind the waterfall and stood there in the cool shade letting the water splash onto my face without a care. I was covered in mud and stains, but nothing seemed to matter anymore.
I experience many moments in my life much like this. I try to tell myself in that moment, I will never forget this. I will remember this forever. As I grow older, I slowly seem to forget these moments. I seem to forget how to feel that real beautiful peace. I forget how to be carefree. I forget how to let go and just feel. It just doesn't seem fair to experience that much beauty in such a cheated amount of time. I can't say that I talk to God that often, but I thanked him that day. I thanked him for giving me a place to escape, even if it was for just one moment.
After washing my hands and face in the cold water, I scooted my way back up the cliff and towards my resting spot in the sun. I stood there one last moment letting my eyes steal a last glimpse of what seemed like heaven.
I would give anything to return to this spot right now. I just want to be carefree again. I want to breath fresh air again. I want to feel again.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
another chapter.
I do not recall ever being a horribly bad child or one prone to misbehaving often. I’m sure I had my moments. If I did not get my way, I made sure that everyone knew what way they should have given me. I was very loving and passionate, in every aspect of my life. I loved playing pretend more than anything. Playing dress up, and make believe, and adventures were my favorite things to do. For the most part I was extremely easily entertained as a child (I still am).
Growing up in the neighborhood that we lived in there were many children to play with, and of course I had my closest playmates, my brother and sister to keep me company. I can remember in the late fall we would ride bikes down the block playing what we called “truck drivers”, breathing heavily, and blowing out air as to imitate someone smoking a cigarette. I also had a fancy for playing cars. I would draw out very intricate and elaborate roads and neighborhoods and cities with chalk in the driveway and then drive my cars all around. My brother and sister eventually grew out of the age where it was cool to play with your little sister, and I became nothing but an annoyance to them. This is when I felt we really started to grow apart, because we never became close again after that.
I always wanted to make money as a child. I planned all different kinds of schemes with the neighborhood kids to raise money. We held the typical lemonade stands of course, but sometimes we would add a twist to entice our customers, such as “Buy our lemonade, all donations are going to the Humane Society!” and we taped pictures of our cats to the poster. I can assure you that we had every intention of giving that money to the humane society, but in the end I don’t think we really did. I also made a daily effort to bargain with the ice cream man whenever he would roll into our neighborhood. I would try to use the barter system to get some ice cream. I would offer him a friendship bracelet, or one of my painted rocks for an ice cream sandwich, but he never seemed interested.
I have a hard time recalling any memories at all of my entire family together. I have memories of course, but when I really think about it every one of them is either a memory of us with my mom or with our dad. About the only thing I can remember with my father in that house was when he started sleeping on the couch, and fighting seemed to happen more often than not. The night that my father moved out my mother took my brother, sister and I to a hotel for the night. I know it is possible for children to fabricate reality, and think that something happened when it really didn’t. I think back to that night at the hotel (the night my father moved out), and I can remember the man that would soon become my stepdad meeting us there. I never ask about this, I never have questioned, but I still wonder. In returning to our home the next day my father had left a t-shirt out on the bed in a display like manner that read “Worlds # 1 Dad”. I don’t know if that was supposed to make us feel guilty or what he was trying to prove. I was nine years old, so I felt pretty indifferent about it all and didn’t understand. I have literally blocked out this part of my life, subconsciously.
It had been four years we lived in that house when my father moved out. I am nine years old. My brother is 10, my sister is 12. My mother requests our presence in the kitchen. All three of us kids sit down at the table with her. Sitting downstairs watching TV is Mark Bragdon whom we know from church, a “friend of the family”. Someone my mother had been spending a significant amount of time with the past few months. My mother starts talking and rambling about things I cannot comprehend, and I sat there nodding my head with a smile on my face. Basically she was just trying to help us understand something I still to this day have never quite understood, something I still never talk or ask about. She informed us that the man sitting downstairs would soon become our stepfather, and move in to live with us. (Keep in mind two weeks prior to that night the papers of her divorce from my father were finalized). This man would be moving into the house my father had just moved out of. I do not remember feeling sad or angry at the time. I never once felt that any of what was going on was my fault. I just pretended like it never happened that everything was fine and normal.
For my siblings this was a little harder. My sister was 12 at the time, so this was a much more pivotal moment in her life and she did not take this situation lightly. I just never questioned anything or tried to understand. The more I find out, the less I want to know.
Mark Bragdon was not a complete stranger to us when he moved in, yet in so many ways he was. He had been a friend of the family for several years; we knew him and his wife and daughter from church. I cannot recall the exact date that Mark divorced his wife, but I can only assume it was around the same time my mother and father divorced. I never knew his daughter (Sarah) very well. We never became close. She was older than Susan by several years and did not come around very often. The relationship between Mark and his ex-wife was pretty non-existent, so Sarah has never been a large part of my life. Come to think of it, whenever I am asked how many siblings I have I often forget to mention Sarah.
When Mark first moved in with us I was ecstatic. It was something ‘new’ and ‘cool’. Looking back now I can see that he tried to be cool in a way to win our approval or something. And I did think he was cool at first. He told us he was a football player, an ex-marine, a racecar driver. He was huge, and tall and muscular. He seemed like he was the smartest and the best at everything. He was our new playmate for my brother, sister and I.
Then I began to go through an awkward stage in my relationship with him. I never quite knew how to refer to him when I was younger. He was not my father, yet he was married to my mother. I think my mother saw this struggle that we were having so she eventually came up with the idea for us to call him “Major Dad”. It is kind of sickening when I think back to it. I feel like we were brainwashed into thinking all these things about him, and calling him that. This title lasted only a while, and then once I reached a certain age I started calling him Mark. As we grew older it seemed he grew more comfortable. You know how it is when you first get to know someone and they put on this act or make them out to be what you want them to be. Then once they grow more comfortable they slowly melt off that mold, and layer by layer you really start to see what is underneath. Thus began our emotionally abusive relationship.
Growing up in the neighborhood that we lived in there were many children to play with, and of course I had my closest playmates, my brother and sister to keep me company. I can remember in the late fall we would ride bikes down the block playing what we called “truck drivers”, breathing heavily, and blowing out air as to imitate someone smoking a cigarette. I also had a fancy for playing cars. I would draw out very intricate and elaborate roads and neighborhoods and cities with chalk in the driveway and then drive my cars all around. My brother and sister eventually grew out of the age where it was cool to play with your little sister, and I became nothing but an annoyance to them. This is when I felt we really started to grow apart, because we never became close again after that.
I always wanted to make money as a child. I planned all different kinds of schemes with the neighborhood kids to raise money. We held the typical lemonade stands of course, but sometimes we would add a twist to entice our customers, such as “Buy our lemonade, all donations are going to the Humane Society!” and we taped pictures of our cats to the poster. I can assure you that we had every intention of giving that money to the humane society, but in the end I don’t think we really did. I also made a daily effort to bargain with the ice cream man whenever he would roll into our neighborhood. I would try to use the barter system to get some ice cream. I would offer him a friendship bracelet, or one of my painted rocks for an ice cream sandwich, but he never seemed interested.
I have a hard time recalling any memories at all of my entire family together. I have memories of course, but when I really think about it every one of them is either a memory of us with my mom or with our dad. About the only thing I can remember with my father in that house was when he started sleeping on the couch, and fighting seemed to happen more often than not. The night that my father moved out my mother took my brother, sister and I to a hotel for the night. I know it is possible for children to fabricate reality, and think that something happened when it really didn’t. I think back to that night at the hotel (the night my father moved out), and I can remember the man that would soon become my stepdad meeting us there. I never ask about this, I never have questioned, but I still wonder. In returning to our home the next day my father had left a t-shirt out on the bed in a display like manner that read “Worlds # 1 Dad”. I don’t know if that was supposed to make us feel guilty or what he was trying to prove. I was nine years old, so I felt pretty indifferent about it all and didn’t understand. I have literally blocked out this part of my life, subconsciously.
It had been four years we lived in that house when my father moved out. I am nine years old. My brother is 10, my sister is 12. My mother requests our presence in the kitchen. All three of us kids sit down at the table with her. Sitting downstairs watching TV is Mark Bragdon whom we know from church, a “friend of the family”. Someone my mother had been spending a significant amount of time with the past few months. My mother starts talking and rambling about things I cannot comprehend, and I sat there nodding my head with a smile on my face. Basically she was just trying to help us understand something I still to this day have never quite understood, something I still never talk or ask about. She informed us that the man sitting downstairs would soon become our stepfather, and move in to live with us. (Keep in mind two weeks prior to that night the papers of her divorce from my father were finalized). This man would be moving into the house my father had just moved out of. I do not remember feeling sad or angry at the time. I never once felt that any of what was going on was my fault. I just pretended like it never happened that everything was fine and normal.
For my siblings this was a little harder. My sister was 12 at the time, so this was a much more pivotal moment in her life and she did not take this situation lightly. I just never questioned anything or tried to understand. The more I find out, the less I want to know.
Mark Bragdon was not a complete stranger to us when he moved in, yet in so many ways he was. He had been a friend of the family for several years; we knew him and his wife and daughter from church. I cannot recall the exact date that Mark divorced his wife, but I can only assume it was around the same time my mother and father divorced. I never knew his daughter (Sarah) very well. We never became close. She was older than Susan by several years and did not come around very often. The relationship between Mark and his ex-wife was pretty non-existent, so Sarah has never been a large part of my life. Come to think of it, whenever I am asked how many siblings I have I often forget to mention Sarah.
When Mark first moved in with us I was ecstatic. It was something ‘new’ and ‘cool’. Looking back now I can see that he tried to be cool in a way to win our approval or something. And I did think he was cool at first. He told us he was a football player, an ex-marine, a racecar driver. He was huge, and tall and muscular. He seemed like he was the smartest and the best at everything. He was our new playmate for my brother, sister and I.
Then I began to go through an awkward stage in my relationship with him. I never quite knew how to refer to him when I was younger. He was not my father, yet he was married to my mother. I think my mother saw this struggle that we were having so she eventually came up with the idea for us to call him “Major Dad”. It is kind of sickening when I think back to it. I feel like we were brainwashed into thinking all these things about him, and calling him that. This title lasted only a while, and then once I reached a certain age I started calling him Mark. As we grew older it seemed he grew more comfortable. You know how it is when you first get to know someone and they put on this act or make them out to be what you want them to be. Then once they grow more comfortable they slowly melt off that mold, and layer by layer you really start to see what is underneath. Thus began our emotionally abusive relationship.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The start of an Autobiography.
“Never change Caryn, never change”. This is something I have heard over and over again year after year from the mouth of my father. Perhaps this could be what gives me hope, encouragement, and confidence in some aspects of my life.
June 28, 1957 Cindy Sue Levine was born, she is my mother. A year later August 7, 1958 Rondle Dale Creviston was born, he is my father. They met at Anderson University, fell in love and married in the year 1980. Two years later October 20th my mother gave birth to Susan Marie, my sister. Three years following that on March 12th Adam James was born he is my brother.
October 1, 1986 at approximately 12:30 a.m. my mother began experiencing some sort of pain in her stomach area. My father was more than slightly concerned, he immediately began packing bags and gathering my mother to begin their journey to the hospital. All the while my mother is insisting that it is not time yet, and she should just go back to sleep, however my father would have no such thing. So they arrived at the hospital, lo and behold I am born two hours later. Caryn Michelle Creviston ( I have grown up always correcting the pronunciation of my first and last name.)
I remember the first house I lived in a two story, white house with a screened in porch on the side, and sits right off of Range line Road in Carmel, Indiana. This would be the house that provided a basement full of daddy long legs ( I never went in that basement because of this), and the house that I would unwrap my first Christmas gifts in, the yard I would catch and bury fireflies in with my brother, the house I would begin a chewed gum collection in. It would be the house my parents would fall out of love in.
As a child I was ecstatic to be alive, to play, to dance, to sing, just about anything made me happy. Now, that is not saying I did not have my “bad” days. Every child has to be sent to the corner, or bent over their parent’s knee at some point in their life, but I was happy for the most part. I was carefree. I had the biggest imagination, and nothing could ever tear me away from my make believe world when I was so focused on being a princess in a far away land.
At about four years old my mother signed me up for ballet lessons at Jordan Academy. I remember feeling so proud of myself when I was in that class. Looking back, it was probably one of the only things (at the time) that I can say I was really, truly good at. I continued taking ballet lessons for the next five years. The year after I began ballet, 1991, my parents decided to move into a larger house. It was time to move on to bigger better things I suppose. So they found a house, not too far from where we were living at the time. 11224 Woodbury Drive Carmel, Indiana 46033 was my new address. I will never forget the day that we moved into that house. My mother escorted me to what would be my new OWN room. It was the smallest room in the house, possibly the smallest room I have ever seen in my life, but I did not care one bit. She took me upstairs and showed me which room was mine, then continued moving more furniture inside, leaving me to become acquainted with my new nest. I stood in the empty room soaking it all inside as slowly as possible. Then I immediately went to the closet, sat down in the small corner and closed the door slightly to inspect the room some more from a different perspective. There were crayon markings all over the walls of my room and in the closet from the previous owners of the house. I remember thinking what misbehaved children they must have had. This would be the room that I would find myself in, the room that would provide comfort and safety when I was upset, the room that would hold my most cherished possessions as a child.
I have always taken such care in the appearance of my room. A person’s bedroom says a great deal on their personality. I became very organized as a child, and took much delight in cleaning and organizing my room and toys. By the time I was in junior high school I began to organize my clothes by color. I might even go as far to say that I am obsessive compulsive about cleaning. I find cleaning to be relaxing, and therapeutic. The results of cleaning and organizing provide me with a lot of comfort and satisfaction.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Red Cream Soda
One of my fondest memories is when I was a young girl, on a hot summer afternoon, my mother would take my brother, sister and I to the public pool for a swim. I used to love swimming so much more when I was a child. I still love it, it just seems to be more of a hassle now (or I have just become less spontaneous and carefree or something...). I would swim all afternoon without a care in the world, and then when they blew the whistle to announce 'adult swim', (the time all the children hated the most) and I was forced to put my imagination on hold and take a break. During this time my mother would present me with two quarters, then I would run down to the soda pop machine and pick the soda of my choice. And I always chose red cream soda. I don't even like red cream soda that much. But whenever I have it now, it makes me think of those days.
And I miss not caring about such silly things that I care so much about now. It is simply disheartening.
And I miss not caring about such silly things that I care so much about now. It is simply disheartening.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
(id)entity.
These are some photographs of the pieces selected for my senior art show.
ONE: "Breakdown"
TWO: "Book"
THREE: "Her wisdom from your discouragement"
NOTE: The next two pieces are intended to be viewed while listening to the songs I have written that each of them are based off of. So I will post a link under each one that will take you to a webpage where you can hear the song. :)
FOUR: "Sleep Machines"
http://www.myspace.com/medikko
(Listen to "Sleep Machines")
FIVE: "Blood & the Sun"
http://www.myspace.com/badwolfproductions1
(Listen to "Medikko-Blood & the Sun")
ONE: "Breakdown"
TWO: "Book"
THREE: "Her wisdom from your discouragement"
NOTE: The next two pieces are intended to be viewed while listening to the songs I have written that each of them are based off of. So I will post a link under each one that will take you to a webpage where you can hear the song. :)
FOUR: "Sleep Machines"
http://www.myspace.com/medikko
(Listen to "Sleep Machines")
FIVE: "Blood & the Sun"
http://www.myspace.com/badwolfproductions1
(Listen to "Medikko-Blood & the Sun")
Thesis Response
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.
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.
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