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Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art, and Culture

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When I received Makoto Fujimura's Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art, and Culture, I was wowed by the evident care that had gone into it's design. It is the loveliest paperback book I've ever seen. I expected to find it interesting, perhaps a little challenging, and certainly full of beauty.

But life intervened, first in the form of a traffic collision, then in the form of a layoff from my job. I found myself with more time on my hands than I was accustomed to having, but the last thing I wanted to do was read a collection of meditations by a Japanese-American artist. I read some, found myself foundering, and put it aside. Then, driven by a sense of responsibility to the publisher for sending me a free copy, I tried again. And again. And again.

I found after all my trying that the book was better than I wanted to admit. It isn't that I don't like art. It is that I do like logical, well-reasoned argument. I like a straight highway and a car with plenty of horsepower. Instead, I was forced to meander on a country path through unfamiliar landscapes, never knowing quite where I was going or how I was going to get there. It struck me that this was the sort of book my artistic wife would like. I'm not sure she has ever read a book straight through. She reads the beginning, jumps into the middle, skips to the end, backtracks, quits for a week, resumes from a different spot than where she left off, and generally leaves me dumbfounded. If I tried to read like that, my brain would turn to pudding.

(Full disclosure: My wife reminded me that she read The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck straight through and enjoyed it immensely. Incontrovertible evidence that she is a better person than I.)

Refractions is a book of meditations. I find that I cannot simply read it; I have to join in the meditation. Some of Fujimura's insights are penetrating. Much of what he has to say has been shaped by his proximity to the collapse of the Twin Towers. His studio was covered with dust from the Towers. His child was evacuated from school. He sees the gap where the Towers used to form the backdrop for his working life every day, a gap that seems to him more momentous and intense than any of the presences that still fill his life. Living, as I do, in Minnesota, the fall of the Towers was distant, like the wars that have come since. In fact, the war in Afghanistan has been more present to me because my son spent a year and a half there and is slated to return this fall. But the wars are also outgrowths from the gap where the Towers stood. For Fujimura the absence of the Towers signifies all the absences in our lives that make us incomplete or broken. Every return to Ground Zero is a kind of repentance, acknowledging that brokenness and calling for redemption. He believes that art can facilitate the healing required; that is one of its purposes both for the artist who creates something beautiful and meaningful out of the brokenness and for the one who responds to that creation with understanding and empathy.

Fundamentalist Christians may find Fujimura's Christianity too inclusive. For example, he draws inspiration from Matazo Kayama, who was a Nihonga master. But like those who say, "All truth is God's truth," I think Fujimura would say, "All beauty is God's beauty." Wherever the creative process is at work, making something beautiful out of broken pieces, God is also at work because God is an artist.

Makoto Fujimura is a contemporary artist whose home and studio are near Ground Zero. Out of a response to the attacks on 9/11, he began to set aside time every Saturday to write. This was a time to process and reflect on the emotions and changes in his life and city. The result of these writings is this beautifully crafted book.

In recent years, we have seen a renewed interest in the relationship between art and theology, and Fujimura offers a significant voice in that conversation. The book is a collection of essays loosely joined by the topics of faith, art, and culture, as the title suggests. While some books seem redundant after the first few chapters, the unique subject and fresh thoughts of each essay pulled me forward into every page turn.

What I appreciate most is the awareness that Fujimura displays of his soul and surroundings. He describes this awareness in the book's first essay:

"The process of creating renews my spirit, and I find myself attuned to the details of life rather than being stressed by being overwhelmed. I find myself listening rather than shouting into the void. Creating art opens my heart to see and listen to the world around me, opening a new vista of experience. This is the gift of the 'second wind.' Such a state taps into what I now call eternal timefullness."

While I was able to engage and be shaped by his thoughts throughout, it was this awareness that challenged me the most. After finishing the final chapter yesterday, I closed the book and opened my journal. With infinite access to information and social connection, all of us would do well to be a little more connected to our own selves.

I wanted to like this book--I really did. The book's subtitle indicates a promising combination of faith, art, and culture. Though this series of blog postings indeed focuses on the intersection of all three, it simply bored me. The writing exudes grace and the visual artwork intrigues, but felt largely bland. I was expecting the author to be sort of like Henri Nouwen (if he had been a Japanese-American visual artist), or this work to be a more contemporary version of Madeline L'Engle's "Walking on Water," and I suppose that is why I am disappointed.

Peace-making and community-building are recurring themes in Fujimura's writing, and I think they should be more emphasized in the subtitle so that someone interested in these subjects would be more likely to pick up this book.

I do not consider myself a visual artist, and so perhaps I missed a lot of the richness of this text because of my ignorance. The book is beautifully presented, and I suspect there's more substance than I was able to appreciate. Anyone who wants to join Fujimura in working as a quiet activist for peace, hope and beauty through the arts will likely be inspired by his writing. However, as an educated layperson inclined to be interested, I was unmoved.

Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art, and Culture collects essays written by Makoto Fujimura to artists from 2004 to 2006. Living in post-9/11 New York City, Fujimura challenges artists: How does your art recognize the brokenness around you? How does your art offer hope and redemption in the midst of it?

I began this book months ago. The essays demand to be read contemplatively, even devotionally. I savored it morsel by morsel, letting each piece roll on my tongue, slide down my throat. As I digested it, it became part of me and part of my art.

Makoto leads artists toward art that recovers dignity and beauty without becoming sentimental or ignoring the hurt and brokeness of the world. In fact, the path toward beauty moves through brokenness.

He encourages artists to take the long view of their art in a time when fifteen minutes of fame, instant recognition, and "[peddling] our goods to find significance and survival" rule the art world. "Artists who labor to develop their craft, artists who are committed to a longer view of their art, suffer" (p. 142). But our art isn't for fame, recognition or even significance. It's to glorify God and offer a sacrament to this world. It is to bring God's power of resurrection to the dead.

To do this, artists need the Church to invest in them spiritually and artistically. They need the Church to walk alongside them, to hold them up, even, to support them (emotionally, spiritually, and financially). Fujimura calls for an expanded role for the Church--not just appreciating the arts and using them in their worship (although these things are good), but to train artists and encourage them.

Fujimura's writing awakens hope for the discouraged artist. And who among us is not or has not been discouraged? I read this at a time where I realized I had a choice: to take the easier (although not easy) and marketable road of art or to take the longer, sufferable road.

I choose the longer road.

I just received Makoto Fujimura Refractions a journey of faith, art, and culture. I have been a fan of his paintings ever since I found the IAM website. His essays are very uplifting for the human heart, whether you're an artist or not. His writing is like having a conversation with an old friend who speaks hope when you need it the most. I would recommend this book to us all, because is there ever such a thing as too much hope?

Makoto Fujimura is an artist, a writer and the founder of the International Arts Movement, and has been a member of the National Council on the Arts. And what he has written in "Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art and Culture" has led me to understand that my job is like a work of art, and unfinished canvas, and the artist's brush is in my hand.

This is a surprise, because "Refractions" isn't about work or the workplace, at least directly. It's a series of essays about faith, art and culture, and the subjects range from living and working near Ground Zero in New York City when it became Ground Zero on Sept. 11, 2001, to the death of an artist friend, an exhibit of the works of Fra Angelico and even rating college tour guides with his soon-to-be college freshman.

But "Refractions" is most of all about art, because Fujimura is an artist and art is indeed about life. All of life, because life is a creative act. "Art," Fujimura writes, "is an inherently hopeful act, an act that echoes the creativity of the Creator." And that idea of hope applies to the artist, the architect, the poet, the choreographer and all the other creators who reach out "in hope to call the world into that creation."

The essays, and the faith and mind that shape them, are quietly and profoundly stunning.

Nowhere is that more evident than in Fujimura's writings on Sept. 11. The evil that led to the destruction of the Twin Towers and the deaths of thousands of people is juxtaposed against the good of the firefighters climbing up the stairs because saving lives was important, an affirmation of good. The ash that covered the trees and bushes, and his own then-10-year-old son, whose school was four blocks from Ground Zero, is set against the beauty of a night sky and the canvas upon which Fujimura would seek to affirm life and faith. As he says, it's not sufficient to run from evil; one must run toward something good, toward "the tower of Jesus, which stands beyond and through our own ground zero experience."

Each essay is a kind of meditation, and needs to be read slowly and carefully, with pen in hand for notes, because there is so much to absorb and ponder in each. More than once I was brought near tears, not any less so when I understood that I could consider my work, my day-to-day job, as a canvas, a canvas for me to create and paint an affirmation of life.

What an incredibly fine thing Makoto Fujimura has done here.

Because I do crafts which involve creativity, I suspected that I could take away some helpful insight from Makoto Fujimura's book since he is an artist and someone who understands the creative process. He certainly does know art, but he offers much more. I enjoy learning new information as well, so it was pleasing to come away with more knowledge than I had before.

A good deal of wisdom about faith and art can be found among the collection of essays which make up this book. The author writes as beautifully as is his artwork, which makes it a bit intimidating for an average reader like me to dare comment about his writing! Take my word for it, readers will feel that they have become more cultured by exposing themselves to his thoughts presented in such an ethereal writing style.

Mr. Fujimura lives with his family in the Ground Zero area of New York City and most of the essays shared were written between 2001 through 2006. As one can imagine, the events of September 11, 2001 had a life-changing impact on him and it is apparent that he has reflected on that day often. No doubt that there will be a few essays that readers will find especially moving to them, as I did.

One note of advice I would like to give is that if a reader is unfamiliar with the definition of the word "refraction," then look up its meaning. It is a word that the author uses about once per essay, so it bodes well to know what it means in order to understand its context as the book is read. See, even before readers open the book there is potential to learn something from the title alone!

Mako, as Tim Keller lovingly refers to him, had been in and around my family of faith in NYC, yet I've never met him. Through this book, a series of essays, I feel as if we've now met. And I feel as if it's been long overdue. Though I am not an artist, my soul slowly dies without beauty of all sorts. And though I hate to admit this, paintings are one of the least refreshing to my soul, I think because I understand their messages the least. But through Fujimura's book, I now feel as if I have a much deeper understanding of artists and what their paintings are saying. Although Fujimura must have a different perspective than most artists due to his faith, it is a perspective I prefer. I was literally brought to tears reading some of his essays. I was reminded, and will continue to remember when I see his paintings, to look upward. I now clearly see how Fujimura's paintings are prayers to God--prayers of gratitude, grief, and hope. This book will be affirming to artists, challenging to those who think God is not glorified in the pursuit of the arts, and enlightening to those of us who connect to God through the arts.

The first thing that grabbed my attention was that cover and the tag line. My all time favorite book (Walking On Water by Madeline L'Engle) is also a book about the arts and faith. I was drawn in. This book is laid out in a series of essays and art thrown in for impact and illustration.

"The Creator God has given us creativity and the arts so that we may "name" experiences, just as God commissioned Adam to name the animals in the Garden" (page 39).

This quote kind of brings the books central message into focus and helps guide the path through this book. This book is not one you just read or go through, but it is one that breathes and walks with you through your own journey of discovering your God given creative talent.

If you are on a journey and looking for a well to draw from then read this book to help you understand what faith and art look like interwoven in life.

There are few books by Christians that articulate the importance of the arts, especially for Christians. In Refractions, globally renowned artist Makoto Fujimura presents an articulate, compelling, and beautiful case for the arts in our world and in Christian communities.

Some readers, especially non-artists, may balk at his grand philosophical visions for the arts, and his seeming overstatements about the actual process of painting (does he really think about everything he claims to think about when he picks up a brush or mixes his colors). However, these speed bumps for some give way to a rich series of stories and reflections that are not only profound and relevant, but worth pondering and rethinking.

I suggest that this book, like good art, demands a slow, careful reading, rereading, and reevaluating. We may not be able to relate to Fujimura's painting process on the first read, but as we enmesh ourselves in his ideas and vision for art, we begin to see the significance of every act for an artist, the power of creating, and the need for this kind of careful reflection and refraction in our everyday lives.

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