Earlier this month, my friends and I spent some time in San Antonio, Texas. I must say, the Lone Star State is much better when you intended to be there. (My prior Texas experience involved a blown engine on the highway and an unexpected stay in Shamrock.)
This better visit in 2022 involved Tex-Mex, a Cappuccino machine, and breaking into the Alamo. And because SeaWorld was closed, on our last day we visited the Briscoe Western Art Museum.
I dream about some day in the future, after I’ve sung my songs and sold my books, picking up the brush and entering my George W. Bush era. Painting requires zero words, and the grass is always greener.
I love the art form of painting for three reasons:
The first I already mentioned. No words.
The second is their all-at-onceness.
This is a term from my freshman-level humanities textbook. Unlike a song or a movie which you experience linearly—from beginning to end—the whole of a painting presents itself at once. You choose where to place your focus. Zoom in, zoom out. Choose your own adventure.
The third thing I love about paintings is their realness.
They’re tangible: real pigment applied to a real surface. As such, there is only one “real” copy of any work. And the artist has one real shot to get it right.
When I find myself somewhere like a western art museum, I can’t help but crowd close to the paintings, singling out the individual brushstrokes. I marvel at the miniature grooves and shadows. The work as a whole becomes that much weightier with the recognition of what it is: just a collection of simple strokes combining for a greater picture.
There’s even a technique for maximizing this effect called impasto. The artist applies thick swabs of paint to create texture on the canvas. Done well, I’m a sucker for it.
Whenever I visit a new city, I try to wrap my head around it. I feel the need to understand it. It’s not that I picture myself living there; I try to get in the headspace of someone who would live there. What type of person lives in San Antonio, or Shamrock, or Dallas, or Miami, or Roanoke?
Until I crack the mental code, I have a hard time enjoying the place. I’m lost in my head, turning over the factors. I feel a compulsive need to “get it.”
Earlier this year, I had the same emotional experience but in a very different manner. Rather than involving a new place, it came from a podcast. A friend texted me the link to watch Bert Kreischer interviewing John Crist.
If you aren’t familiar, this unexpected duo are two comedians. Kreischer is known for his brash humor and impressive alcohol tolerance. Crist came on the scene posting Christian jokes about church and Chick-fil-A before experiencing later scandal. When I saw the link, I clicked as fast as I could.
I’m still fascinated by the episode, and I haven’t fully “gotten it.” Whenever it comes to mind, I still try to grasp parts of their conversation.
What’s easy to comprehend is that they’re friends; after all, they’re both comedians. Nor am I a stranger to the Christian culture they discussed.
But what completely engrossed me was the admiration that Bert described of him and his colleagues for John Crist. Midway through the episode, John describes moving to Los Angeles to break into the comedy sphere. His videos had already taken off, but he wandered into open mic nights like a stranger, hoping to make it for real.
Except, as he learned, he had already made it. Veteran comedians at the club—big names—slowly caught wind of Crist’s following (and the massive venues he was filling) and began to pull him aside. In one pivotal moment, he describes Anthony Santino telling him, “You shouldn’t be here. We’re all trying to do what you are already doing.”
As Crist was trying to make it, he was already one of the biggest comedians in the country. But to him, playing in churches didn’t count.
Lest you think I’m going to hand you an easy moral, remember that I’m still turning it over. Because I’m with Crist—does Christian comedy really count? Making it there is not the same thing. As the movie trailer for Faith Based articulated so well, “Christian [arts] don’t have to be bad. They just don’t have to be good.”
Growing up in the church, I have a chip on my shoulder about Christian art—presumably the same as Crist’s. To hear famous comedians praising him breaks all my categories. I project my own imposter syndrome. But, as Kreischer reasoned, if Christian is who you are, then it’s the most fascinating thing you could show.
The episode is three hours long, but I find it worth the time. It’s like watching oil and water play. They never quite mix, but it’s quite entertaining as they swirl around the dish. They offer advice and explain their backgrounds, but neither is trying to change the other. The two personalities know so clearly who they are—and who they aren’t.
They say that an artist’s work can be recognized by their brushstrokes. Van Gogh, Monet, da Vinci—experts identify the person behind the brush by examining the simplest unit.
In the previous post, I wrote about character as a collection of our marks—more specifically, the marks made on us.
There is also a characteristic quality in the marks we make. Like a fingerprint, our brushstrokes are unique.
Bert sees the auditoriums John fills in the middle of nowhere. John sees the cultural legitimacy Bert and his friends have. They can help each other grow, but neither can be the other.
Picasso can paint a soup can, but that doesn’t make it a Warhol. His own brushstrokes would betray the scheme.
According to an oft-repeated anecdote, one painter reproduced his works extensively. Each time, he tried to improve on the original’s perceived weaknesses. But as it went, he’d wind up releasing the original. Imperfect as it was, it was usually the best of the bunch. It spoke intuitively, not professionally.
People aren’t paintings; we aren’t experienced all at once. Perhaps if we were, it would be easier to categorize our characteristics and understand all our idiosyncrasies.
We’d be more cognizant of what messages our lives speak.
Like a good painting, though, we’re all just collections of pieces, combining to make a whole. Look closely enough, and you can find the grooves and shadows.