On the transcendence

of tangible things

and the imperative of spirit in art

The skull rests beside a bouquet of blushing flowers. It is perched upon a book that has been placed on a table amongst a chaotic curation of fine and lovely things. The skull wears a delicate tendril of small olive-coloured leaves, averting its gaze from the baroque floral arrangement, staring intently with its hollow eyes at something we cannot see. Painted by the Flemish artist Adriaen van Utrecht in the mid-17th century, Still Life with Bouquet and Skull embodies the richness, ruthlessness, and romance of vanitas art. A macabre aide-mémoire for us mere mortals of the vanity of wealth, the transience of existence, and the inevitability of death. Once featured prominently in the homes of wealthy Protestants, vanitas paintings were intended to symbolically evidence the emptiness of a life without God, and the worthlessness of worldly possessions and pleasures. Some day you are going to die, the skull reminds us, and the beauty of your blushing flowers pales in comparison to the omnipotence of your creator.

Four centuries later and the bouquet in the still life painted by Adriaen van Utrecht has surely perished, but the same disharmonies between humankind and spirituality remain. Fraught frictions that divide those who have prescribed themselves to the once sinfulness of materialist belief, and those who seek to penetrate the elusive veil that separates us from realms that remain predominantly uncharted to the logically minded mainstream. Vanitas paintings may have mostly catered to Protestantism at the time of their creation, but their contemporary significance has less to do with God and more to do with the suggestion that beyond that which is discernible—skulls, flowers, books—there might be something else that cannot be grasped by our standard version of awareness. The definition of whatever that something else may be remains as unintelligible to some as it is un-traversable to others, felt as an eternally chameleonesque knowing that does not have to be seen by those who feel it to be intuitively believed. Even so, the incalculable nature of the mystical experiences that grant us access to alternative planes continues to discredit their validity in our materialistic culture. To the individual who unquestioningly supports the theory that nothing exists except matter and its movements and modifications, the concept of spirituality is no more than a fanciful delusion. Often considered to be a figment of the believer’s imagination, reason for their unwarranted social condemnation.

Within the parameters of secular society, the collective stigmatisation of spiritualism has become second nature. Driven by a way of being that is exemplified by those who believe in the superiority of mechanistic scientific inquiry—a discipline that one can more safely intellectualise. But in the shadow of every measurement we make, there lies the potentiality of something we might have missed: unknowns obscure to our five standard senses of perception. Despite our best intentions, we stand to lose far more than we think in the damnation of all things that are deemed to be indiscernible or divine. In his book Ways to Go Beyond and Why They Work, English biologist and author Rupert Sheldrake re-charts the relevance of rich realms of consciousness that remain (to most) mere mirages in imagined deserts that have no place on the material plane. To do so, Sheldrake questions whether or not spiritual experiences are indeed essentially illusory, or if they can provide us with direct connections to realms of consciousness that are far greater than our own. Transient worlds where flora glows violet as the sun falls to sleep, where lovers bathe in moonbeams.

‘It would be very important for the development of culture in the West if spiritual evolution was seen as part of [both] personal and cultural development, rather than a kind of private hobby relegated to the sidelines of the mainstream, with its strong secular and materialist emphasis. Spiritual evolution is not only possible, it’s actually happening. It’s important to recognise this, otherwise spiritual concerns remain seen as [ways of] looking backwards to the past and as only marginally relevant in the present.’

Often evoking heavily symbolic images such as antique candlelit altars, the pouring of libations, and ancient basilica architecture, the concept of spirituality is, to the contemporary rationalist, often (and understandably) considered just a touch passé. After all, if you can ask Siri anything, what’s the point of prayer? As such, in a world where to progress is to invest in the areas we’ve been told matter the most—technology, economics, industry—the pursuit of one’s own individual enlightenment has been left largely by the wayside. What we seem to have forgotten is that it takes more than a sail, spine, and bridle to fly a kite. There’s no point to assembling the parts if you’re yet to acquaint yourself with the wind and sky. Contrary to what we’re often led to assume at school, not all things worth knowing can be taught. The sacred rituals of ancient civilisations might seem archaic, but it is the transformative power of spiritual practice that opens our hearts in preparation for the beauty of transcendence. You can’t always take from a book what you can learn by standing alone in the stillness that hides behind the breeze; to be well educated is not always to evolve. As German author Hermann Hesse reminds us, enlightenment does not come to you by means of teachings. Sheldrake tends to agree.

‘Artists are usually educated through the standard educational system, which is pervaded by the materialist philosophy. [And] a lot of the modern movement in art has been explicitly influenced by the mechanistic worldview. Some of the most dogmatic materialists I’ve met are in the art world. However, there are also artists trying to break free from this to come to a more organic and interconnected view of nature, expressing it in what they create. But I think it would be very helpful if art schools made it clear that the materialist view of nature is not the truth but a belief system which is very questionable and which is giving way to a more holistic view of living nature.’

Where the painters of vanitas paintings sought to symbolise the emptiness of a specifically godless existence, many contemporary artists have since taken a more non-sectarian approach to their explorations of, and interactions with, the spiritual realm. To awaken as human and artist is to feel oneself as a creator in a state of perpetual becoming, and that has nothing to do with dogma or religion. To pledge allegiance to something outside of yourself may be your practice of choice, but the most crucial component is the resuscitation of your cosmic pulse. The reharmonisation of your energy with that of spirit—what the late American ethnobotanist Terence McKenna refers to as ‘the shadow that haunts the particularised world of Newtonian matter.’ Some reconnect during silent meditation; others prefer to pray, chant, or sing. It’s not the modality that matters, it’s the resulting cosmic fusion.

As German artist Anselm Kiefer muses, art in itself is spiritual because it allows us to find connections with and between things that we no longer feel connected to. The scientists, on the other hand, Kiefer says, are all separated, specialised into various different kinds. Our only way to find some context in the cosmos, then, is with art. To do so may, by default, open you to higher realms of consciousness, but according to Kiefer, it does not make you religious.

‘Art is not the same as religion. One part of the art is the same as in religion, it’s a mythology. The mythology tries to explain the world as a whole thing. Science has always parts of the world; they can explain this and this and this ... [But] the mythology tries to explain the whole world.’

According to Kiefer, this “mythological way” requires the artist to write their own language to explain their own imagined mythology completely. Hence, art is similar to religion in its intention—to make sense of why we’re here—but it’s definitely not the same. Even so, the imbrication of art, spirituality, and religion begs the question: what or who is it that inspires our artistic creations? Who is Mona Lisa really? Did Goya ever attend a witches’ sabbath? And why did Edvard Munch scream? According to Sheldrake, we remain (and may always be) unsure.

‘In all cultures, people have believed that the arts can be inspired by more-than-human forms of consciousness, such as the Muses in ancient Greece. It’s an open question as to whether the divine imagination works directly through individual imaginations or whether it does so through devolved agents of creativity, traditionally conceived of as muses, spirits, gods, goddesses, and angels.’

In some traditional societies, Sheldrake explains, the making of art is often preceded by an intentional invocation to spirits for inspiration, such as the goddess of music, Saraswati, in South India. But to contemporary artists who don’t particularly believe in the existence of Botticellian angels that speak purely in poetic metaphor, engaging with spirit is often far more abstruse. Even so, to the artist who has awoken to the mysterious multidimensionality of the creative process, the dialogue with a divine something (both within and without) is just as paramount. Attributing that divinity to a separate, identifiable entity is largely beside the point. The most crucial element is the inner knowing of, and surrender to, an indescribable levitation into the transcendence of tangible things. In the words of Kiefer:

‘An artist, I feel, is in a stream. He sits there, but things go through him ... He sits in the middle, and he is always pierced by thoughts and by movements.’

To be impaled by the invisible is, in a strange way, to be at one with spirit. Open to sitting patiently in the water, regardless of how you got there. Some wade into the depths gently; others fall by mistake; some feel pushed by assailants invisible to the eye. What first provokes this impalement need not be known, though many postulate that there may be subconscious promptings at the root of what may or may not be going on. In the words of McKenna, ‘It is the imagination that argues for the Divine Spark within human beings. It is literally a descent of the World’s Soul into all of us.’ A material map sketched by an intellectual mind may lead you to the stream, but it’s faith that gives you courage to leave and let go of the edge. Spiritual practice, then, helps you to open your pores to the cosmos as you float. As Hesse writes in Siddhartha:

‘They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of perpetual Becoming.’

Far from just a fanciful idea, a pretty postulation, the art of spiritual practice is also, as we’re increasingly being made aware, surprisingly scientific. In his book Science and Spiritual Practices, Sheldrake illustrates how descriptive research is now helping to validate seven practices in particular—including gratitude, relating to plants, and rituals—that are at the root of all major world religions. For those of the opinion that nothing is real unless it has some kind of scientific validation, Sheldrake’s findings offer actual rationalised reasons to listen closely to the water. ‘Spiritual practices have measurable effects on people’s brains, bodies, and wellbeing, as well as on their subjective states,’ Sheldrake says. ‘[Thus] the convergence of science and spiritual practices is an important element in our current cultural and spiritual evolution.’

Following the skull’s hollow gaze, my own falls off the edge of Adriaen van Utrecht’s painting. And I think about the sanctity of the rhizomatic realms that may forever remain impossible to intellectually conceive. Then I imagine blushing flowers sleeping soundly in star-kissed meadows, and how their beauty does not at all pale in comparison to our creator. Their beauty is synonymous with our own because our creator is us.

‘It’s difficult to define art. It’s very difficult,’ Kiefer says. ‘That doesn’t mean that I cannot tell if a painting [is] art or not. I can say this immediately. But I cannot explain to you why. You cannot give a definition as upon other things. Art is always... You hold it in your hands, and then it goes away.’ You also can’t properly interpret spirit, either. Nor can you perch it on a book or place it on a table amongst other fine and lovely things. But that doesn’t mean you can’t feel it as it soon as it is there. Silently serenading your senses, impaling your body. We too must learn to know and trust, without the need to explain why.

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You can read more of Kathryn’s writing here.

This article was first published in JANE magazine