From the Small Chapel in St. Paul's
London..is whiplash.
glorious whiplash. The bridges that cross the Thames' expanse at once connect old and new. They are like slingshots, my spirit is tossed from modern ramblings on art and culture to the ancient-like pillars of St. Paul's. The beautiful link - the millennium footbridge - between Art and Holiness is telling that the two are not separate, yet they seem to take distinct places in my mind. That's why I love London..the two interplay so seamlessly, and in fact, join the dance with nature in parks and squares.
But while I can see the beautiful, mysterious transformation of wine to blood examined in Rainer's "Weinkruzifix", it's St. Paul's, not the Tate that is intended for God's glory. Gold, relics, glass, stone, all infused somehow, though not always evidently, with the Spirit of God.
Transformation - the word is chained to the walls of my mind. The concept is riveting. His death...my life. the Blood...transformed to Wine. Bread...becomes the Body. Spirit becomes Flesh. My flesh transforms into Spirit. The earth transforms in seasons...
TRANSGENDER* TRANSPORTATION* TRANSCENDENTAL* TRANSCRIPTION* TRANSITION* TRANSIT* TRANSACTION* TRANSATLANTIC* TRANCE...
Pictured at RIGHT: Exhibition in Tate Modern's Turbine Gallery. "Shibboleth" by Doris Salcedo.
Yep, its a giant crack in the concrete floor. At its widest point, it could fit a small baby, or a sprained ankle. It's intriguing.
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