"Beauty will save the world," said Dostoevsky. His words may be taken in a general fashion or referring to the Creator Himself. Either way, he speaks to a deep truth.
Gregory Wolfe supports the power of this statement in his beautiful essay titled "The Wound of Beauty" in which he defends the need for beauty. He also writes of the power of beauty to strike us to the very depths of our being: "Beauty itself wounds us, pierces our hearts, opens us up."
If beauty wounds, then where shall we find healing?
Ultimately the source of our healing can only be found in the Incarnation. For there the great rift between God and man is healed by the Creator becoming His own creation.
All of us are called to participate in that great work of healing through incarnating truth in our very selves. Those of us called to be artists must take that incarnation a step further, revealing the depths of God through various mediums that reflect the core of our very selves.
Yet we artists are no less broken.
Unless we participate in the great work of redemption—the great work of healing—we fail in our vocation. Our art becomes worthless, a merely shameful display of our talents and self-worth, an excuse for pride and vainglory. Yet when we allow ourselves to collaborate in Christ's redemptive sacrifice, our handiwork has power beyond what we can imagine.
The question I would propose for you to ponder is this one: how does healing come through art?
I would argue that it comes through much the same way as when Christ healed. He looked for an open heart—a heart of faith. When He healed a man who was deaf and dumb, He said: "Ephpheta, which is, 'Be thou opened.'" (Mark 7:34)
It is through being open that we are healed. Returning again to the theme of the wound of beauty, you can understand how it ties in here: the act of wounding is a means of making an openness. Whether we allow that wound or whether beauty strikes us without our awareness, opening up our brokenness, we find ourselves in a perfect position to be healed because we have that openness—that vulnerability. In so doing, we may find ourselves becoming channels of God's grace as well.
Sometimes I think our greatest challenge as artists is to embrace that vulnerability and not to flee from it. We are often masters of flight. We disguise our cowardice as perfectionism or scorn or pride or any manner of things.
In the end, when we allow ourselves to be powerless, we experience the freedom of true creation. That is the paradox. As Saint Paul said: when we are weak, then we are strong.
That experience of freedom—whether through creative work or through some other means—touches the very depths of our being. It fills our restless hearts and we want nothing more. For where we open ourselves to His working, we become one with Him, and He brings healing.
The presence of God hurts. Beauty wounds.
Yet just as sometimes a bone must be re-broken to set aright or a wound opened to be drained, pain precedes healing—it opens the way. So God sometimes hurts in order to heal.
All we need to do is open the door of our hearts. When we have the support of those around us and see their own battle-wounds, we may find the courage to choose the glory of what feels to us like death.
For ultimately the battle for openness lies within the boundaries of our own hearts. We must go into the desert there and wrestle with ourselves.
A seed must die to bring forth fruit.
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