Loading Video . . . Author A.J. Kandathil crafted this short story inspired by the theme of "Lies" from Genesis 29:20-25, the story in which Jacob marries Leah. Genesis 29:20-25 Leah Wrestles with God By AJ Kandathil Credits: Curated by: Emily Ruth Hazel 2013 Short Story Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link When I chose “lies” as the theme I’d be working with, it took some time to settle on a certain passage, as the Bible is littered with liars. There’s the moment when Abraham denies that Sarah is his wife because he fears the consequences, then there’s the lying serpent, and of course there’s also Peter’s famed denial of Christ, just to name a few. But I decided to focus on the story of Jacob, Laban, and Leah because Jacob was someone God undeniably favored, despite his tendency to use and deceive people (and, therefore, to be used and deceived). Although I chose to tell the story from the perspective of Jacob’s first wife, Leah, I can identify with Jacob as well—with his propensity for twisting God’s arm, with the ambition that defines him. In the Bible’s account, the story belongs to Jacob, and he is—by many measures—a hero. But what of the people who became little more than detritus on his journey to father the nations? What of the wife he didn’t love? Though the traditional American ideal of the biblical “hero” can lean toward the simplistic, I prefer the ancient Greek notion of the hero, one that’s much more troubled, and thankfully, much more human. The Greek hero has the capability to hurt those he’s meant to protect, and even those he loves. In the often told story of Jacob’s wrestling match with God, we know the outcome. Jacob wrestles with God for His blessing, and he gets it, though he walks away with a limp that will last the rest of his life. But what isn’t often talked about is the fact that Jacob got to wrestle with God. The very notion suggests an equality between partners, an occasion for an intimate fight, as one sometimes engages in with a beloved. Can you imagine it? Having that kind of access? Much of the women’s inner lives in the Bible are excluded from scripture. Even if we don’t know much about Leah other than her role in the master narrative, God knows the smallest details of Leah’s life—her secrets, her disappointments, her triumphs. In some ways, Leah’s whole life may have been a wrestling match with God. Who’s to say? So this is my imagined account of it, told from Leah’s point of view. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection A.J. Kandathil is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in Burner Magazine, Newfound Journal, Hippocampus, and The Tottenville Review. She currently writes about the cross-sections between literature and television for Ploughshares , and she is at work on her first book. You can find her on Twitter at @ajkandathil. Website AJ Kandathil About the Artist AJ Kandathil Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art If I could, I'd wrestle with God over one truth in my life: my father had to lie to get me a husband. View Full Written Work LEAH WRESTLES WITH GOD by A.J. Kandathil If I could, I’d wrestle with God over one truth in my life: my father had to lie to get me a husband. My father, Laban as he was known, thought if he got his nephew Jacob drunk enough, if it was late enough, and if my face was veiled enough, Laban could fool him into mistaking one daughter for the other. That’s who I was then—the other daughter. I was older, but Rachel had the kind of beauty that put her ahead of me in every way. For seven years, I’d watched my sister steal secret moments with Jacob. You could feel the spark between them all the way on the other side of our fields. Jacob had always been kind to me, but it was a selfish kindness, a tool to get what he was after. And that was my sister. I was jealous—of course I was. Snaring men had always been so easy for Rachel. I never felt anything but invisible in her company, and I knew I wasn’t beautiful enough to catch Jacob’s eye. I’d also always known that my father was shrewd—just as shrewd as Jacob turned out to be. There wasn’t any ceremony. There were no vows. This was what marriage was: an agreement between two men. When Laban came to me the night of the feast, even I was shocked at his cunning. His plan to exchange my sister for me under cover of darkness seemed like a curse. Had I waited so long to be married only to be yoked to a man who was fooled into my bed? “Jacob didn’t work seven years for me,” I said as my father led me away from the crowd. “He worked for Rachel.” Unaware, my sister threaded her way through the dense clot of guests. She was happy; she still thought this night was for her . Only from a distance could I see how this ignorance adulterated her impenetrable beauty. The party was loud and lit by fire, a blazing star in an empty expanse of farmland. That was our home—open space that stretched beyond our ability to see it, with enough secret spaces to hide so no one could hear you laugh or cry. My father didn’t flinch at my words. Instead, he waved his arm in dismissal. “He won’t even know it’s you until morning, and by then it will be too late,” he said. The farther we got from the feast, the more we hurried. It was already late, and Jacob was waiting in his tent. I’d need to be inside it before my father told Rachel what he’d done.Wait one week, he’d tell his daughter to quell her anger. Let your older sister have one week, then you can marry him, too. Laban had me by the wrist, and I could feel my fingers swelling beneath his grasp. What was he going to do? Throw me at the feet of his nephew? I couldn’t stand the humiliation of it. I might not have been beautiful, but I still had my good sense. I stopped just short of the tent where Jacob had intended to spend the night with my sister. Laban’s arm petrified like a piece of stone. Even though I looked for his eyes in the dark, I couldn’t find them. I wouldn’t ask him if he knew what he was doing. Of course he did. After a minute of silence, he loosened his grip. My father turned toward me and rested his hand on my back, just as he used to do when I was a girl and afraid of the deepest part of the water on the far end of our land. Even then, he’d pushed. “Don’t you want to be married?” Laban asked me. Before he’d been urgent. Now he sounded weary. He’d asked those words, but they didn’t form a true question. If I didn’t marry Jacob, then I’d either never wed, or I’d be wed to an outsider who might take me away. This was the only home I knew, and I didn’t want to leave it. In that brief moment, I saw my father’s deceit for what it might have been—a kindness to me, his eldest daughter, who had always been overlooked. Even he thought of me as the other sister. I’d never find a husband like Jacob on my own, and my father knew it. It was this kindness, even in its deceitful cradle, that undid the tangles of my integrity. This action, for better or worse, would hold our family together. I took a timid step toward Jacob’s tent, and I touched my father’s cloak. “Don’t do this,” I almost said. Almost. The truth was–I did want to be married. But to take what belonged to my sister? That was cruel, even though I’d been forced to share everything with Rachel since the day she was born. She was tireless with her own desire. “If I don’t have that blanket, I’ll just die ,” she’d say during the colder season, or “If I don’t get that apple, I’ll just die .” Rachel had ways of getting what she wanted. That was something she’d learned from our father. “Hurry, now. Hurry.” Laban’s words covered me just like the veil he placed over my head. So I stepped into Jacob’s tent and waited for him to turn toward me. I don’t need to tell you how my heart pounded. I was sure everyone at the feast could feel its vibrations. When Jacob reached for me, I smiled beneath my veil as I reached back. For one week, just one week, I wouldn’t have to share. My wedding night was the best and worst night of my life. I felt beautiful. I felt worthy. Most of all, I felt like myself. A miracle occurred: I was not my sister, and for once, Jacob could not tell the difference. For a moment, I was happy. But by dawn of the next day, the rest of my life began. Just before Jacob opened his eyes, he sighed and rubbed his head. I could tell he had a bad hangover. When he opened his eyes and the previous night’s haze dissipated, he looked confused. Was I Leah and not Rachel, his beloved for whom he’d slaved for seven years? How had he ended up in the wrong tent? I watched the realization of truth creep over him, like a sunrise over the mountains. Laban, his own flesh and blood, had played a dirty trick on him. I was the dirty trick. Jacob didn’t say a word, and he didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. The recognition was devastating for us both. From that morning forward, I started to pay the price of being seen . Before, Jacob had just disregarded me, and now he looked at me with contempt. He couldn’t see who I was. He could only see who I wasn’t. And Rachel’s wrath was even worse. She was used to getting her way, as the pretty ones always are. Do you think I wanted this? I wanted to scream at her. For my husband to be in love with you? But she would never understand that I was the kind of girl who had to take what she could get. After that night, our lives became a jumble of lies and second-bests. Seven days later, Laban came through on his word and gave his second daughter to be Jacob’s second wife. This time, there was no party. The damage had already been done, and no one wanted to celebrate what had occurred at the hands of two liars. Even though I’d had no choice, I’d become my father’s accomplice. I lost the nerve to look anyone in the eye. We all flirted with bitterness. Around our supper table there was never any talk of the twelve tribes or fathering any nations. How could any of that come from a family like ours? We were known by our strife. Our misunderstandings. Disappointments. Loneliness. Attempts at forgiveness. Don’t do this , I almost whispered to my father on that night before the irreversible occurred. It would have changed the course of history, but I wasn’t worried about that. Instead I was haunted by the quiet devastations that constructed my life. I’d never been romantic, but I wanted to be loved, and not just by my husband. By my father, too. For years after our wedding night, Jacob was outraged to be so deceived by my father, but he should have seen it coming. When Jacob lied to his own father to secure his older brother’s birthright so many years before, our crooked story began. Lies beget lies, and liars keep company with their own. Still, a cheater is always surprised when he gets cheated. And some of us just get caught up in the chaos, wondering whether the truth ever mattered. God might not lie, but His people do. Close Loading Video . . . If I could, I'd wrestle with God over one truth in my life: my father had to lie to get me a husband. Download Full Written Work

Bernard Lee The Fruits Of Mercy Loading Video . . . Artist Bernard Lee's work cultivates the thriving that results from shared mercy as encouraged Jude 1:22. Jude 1:22 The Fruits of Mercy By Bernard Lee Credits: Curated by: Michael Markham 2017 Acrylic Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Doubt comes in many different forms: in a brief moment, a season of life or even longer. For believers in particular, even a moment of sin is an expression of doubt in the goodness of God's will for us. We are all in need of receiving mercy in these moments ourselves. Because we remember that we were first the recipients of mercy, so too should we pass on God's mercy so that others may thrive. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Bernard Lee is a Los Angeles based illustrator and a former Art Director and Designer at Scientific American . His past collaborations as an Art Director and his own illustration work have been featured in numerous annuals including the Society of Illustrators, SI-LA and American Illustration. Bernard now works as an illustrator primarily in the field of editorial and publishing. His work can be seen at www.bernardleeart.com . Website Bernard Lee About the Artist Bernard Lee Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

ddu_image2.jpg ddu_image1-resized.jpg ddu_image2.jpg ddu_image3-resized.jpg ddu_image4-resized.jpg ddu_image5-resized.jpg ddu_image6-resized.jpg ddu_image7.jpg ddu_image8-resized.jpg Loading Video . . . Photographer Daniel Du brings us this beautiful set of photographs in response to the theme of "poverty" and Philippians 4:19. Philippians 4:19 Decay and Provision By Daniel Du Credits: Artist Location: New York City Curated by: Brian Dang 2014 16 x24 inches Photography, C Prints (8) Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Walking through the streets of New York, there is a pervasive amount of decay and waste. There is a sense of temporality and fragility in the human structures that cross our paths. Looking closer, there is evidence of the passage of time and the stratification of generations of cultures one on top of another in the peeling of layers and in the accumulation of debris. In this photo series, I look to decay for renewal. Is renewal evident as time wears objects from order to chaos? I think the answer lies in perspective, in the viewer's vantage point. Whether it's how light changes, how compositions are rearranged, or how points-of-view are juxtaposed together, there is room to reflect on all the layers behind the veneer of what we see within a wider context. Looking this way shows evidence of sustainability that transcends these structures and materials. This series reveals an enduring renewal through the passage of time. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Daniel Du is photographer living and working in New York City. Born in Shishou, China, Daniel got his BFA at the University of Texas. Daniel is currently an artist in residence with Transform Arts and is a member of the Long Island City Artists Collective. Website Daniel Du About the Artist Daniel Du Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . The three bandmembers in SHPWRCK explore their personal connection to the story of the prodigal son in this passionate response to Luke 15:11-32. Luke 15:11-32 Prodigals By SHPWRCK band Credits: Lyrics and Music, SHPWRCK; Guitar, Lead VOX, Brock Elliott; Drums, Kyle Jeremica; Bass, Support VOX, Chris Ireland; Recording and Mixing, Pat Hills at Earthtone Record Co.; Photography and Video, Highflier Productions Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2019 Song Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This passage has always resonated with us as a band. As Christians, the story of the prodigal son is one that shocks, frustrates, and warms our hearts. The son, in an act of cold, heartless dishonor, demands his inheritance and leaves his fathers house, wastes every cent and finds himself in ruin. It's in this realization of lowliness, that the son determines to return home and beg for a chance to be a slave in his fathers house. The father spots his lost son returning home and runs to his son, throwing his arms around him, showing immediate grace, forgiveness, and restoration to the family. This story is closely tied to our faith and represents the love God has shown towards those whom He has called. Like the son — who raised his fist to his father, left his home, and squandered his inheritance — we find ourselves in ruin and without hope. We have broken God's law and because of this, we face the righteous judgement of God, but in an ultimate display of mercy God sent his one and only son to take the punishment that we deserve. Jesus Christ took our place on the cross and we stand, justified by Him, rescued and restored, forgiven of every rebellious act we have every carried out. Just as the father greeted and forgave his son, we too have been radically forgiven by God. The music was written with this state of rebellion and restoration in mind; as the song moves from minor to major, mellow to intense, the words paint a picture of two first-person views of the story: from the view of the Prodigal son, and from the view of his father. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection SHPWRCK is a three-piece aggressive indie rock band out of Sacramento, CA. The band consists of: Lead vocalist and guitar player — Brock Elliott Drummer — Kyle Jeremica Support vocalist and bass player — Chris Ireland Established in 2015, their music ebbs and flows from heavy to melodic, driving to ambient, bluesy to experimental, with Christian themes and lyrics throughout. Website SHPWRCK band About the Artist SHPWRCK band Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Sletten Create Clean Heart Lighter Smaller Cef Contrast Adjustment Loading Video . . . Visual artist Ingrid Sletten was naturally drawn to Psalm 51:11 as the longing expressed by the psalmist mirrors the themes of her works that seek to depict the divine residing in the physical body. Psalms 51:11 A Clean Heart, O God! By Ingrid Sletten Credits: Curated by: Laurel Justice 2017 8 x 11 1/4 inches Gouache on heavy paper Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link About the This Work Life is difficult! It has ups and downs. My faith sustains me in the journey. I have a daily prayer ritual that includes Psalm 51, of which this verse is a verse that I recite daily. In that reciting I am fervently asking God to direct me to the light, to the positive side of the soul. So, when Spark and Echo asked for a verse I had an easy choice! I selected what I pray every day from the heart. I am showing my experience of God’s answer to my prayer in me and around me. In the image I am gazing out at you and you can see intimately the spirit at work in response to my prayer. The Spirit is in the abstract forms around me – circles of various sizes and colors. The colors suggest the bright light – and also the essential minerality -- of the Spirit. The varying thickness of the paint shows the palpable, tactile sense I have of the energy of the Spirit. My face shines with the infusion of the Spirit! It is, I am, experienced as having been cleansed. I hold this moment, this image, as another and eternal prayer for continued cleansing of the heart. About My Body of Work I have painted human figures and abstract shapes for the last seventeen years. In some images, the figure is alone in the work. In others the abstract forms occur alone. The human and the abstract forms also appear together. Most of my work is on paper using tempera, water color and charcoal. For the human figure I draw from life using a model. My figures are often drawn larger than life. The abstractions are linear or circular shapes. Both language systems are necessary for what I wish to communicate. Through the figurative language I intend to depict the divine that resides in the physical body. These depictions communicate the presence of the divine spirit, or a divine spiritual state such as joy, peace, tranquility; truth. The abstractions depict the energy of the divine presence that may be within and around the body. My work is connected to meditation and reflection practices combined with the experience of life drawing. Abstract images of shapes and colors may come to my imagination during or after meditation. As I draw from life or reflect on existing drawings of the figure, I imagine the energy in or around the figure in a particular form or color. “My images are intended to represent the divine within the human person, through natural depictions of the physical body as well as through abstract forms.” Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Descended from Norwegian immigrants who settled in Wisconsin in the early 20th century, Ingrid Sletten moved to New York twenty years ago and considers herself a New Yorker. She is proud of her hometown as a collective of diverse, courageous and persistent people. Fifteen years ago, Ingrid began a journey as an artist and a spiritual director. She is now an active visual artist producing exhibit work that depicts human figures and abstract shapes with a focus on the presence of the divine in the images. Ingrid has a Master’s Degree in Christian Spirituality from Fordham University, Bronx, New York. Privileged to serve in the media industry in New York, Ingrid worked in the field for twenty years -- serving Fortune 500 Companies through the dot.com boom and beyond. Six years ago she began a career in the Architecture, Engineering and Construction field where she found joy combining her expertise in business and media with her first love: spirituality and the visual arts. Ingrid's family property, The River Cabin, is located in Chetek, Wisconsin. Her family is beyond dear to her. They help her focus on God’s presence and social justice; areas in which she hopes to champion as long as she is graced to be on this earth. Website Ingrid Sletten About the Artist Ingrid Sletten Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

veridical_claire-bateman.jpg Loading Video . . . The lush visuals of Claire Bateman's work hearken to the tangible abundance of God's mercy offered in Jude 1:2. Jude 1:2 Veridical By Claire Bateman Credits: Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2017 Alcohol inks on three stacked layers of polyester film Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link May mercy, peace, and love be lavished on you. In my piece, "Veridical," I imagine this lavishing as a kind of botanical abundance, as expressed in Hildegard of Bingen's poetic statement, "The Word is living, being, spirit, all verdant greening, all creativity. This Word manifests itself in every creature." Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Claire Bateman is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently, Scape with New Issues Poetry & Prose (Kalamazoo). Her other collections are The Bicycle Slow Race (Wesleyan University Press, 1991), Friction (Eighth Mountain Poetry Prize, 1998), At the Funeral of the Ether (Ninety-Six Press, 1998), Clumsy (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2003), Leap (New Issues, 2005), Coronology (Etruscan Press, 2010), and Locals (Serving House Books, 2012). She has been awarded Individual Artist Fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Tennessee Arts Commission, and the Surdna Foundation, as well as the New Millennium Writing Award and two Pushcart Prizes, and has taught at Clemson University and various workshops and conferences. She lives in Greenville, SC, teaches at the Fine Arts Center, and is an advisory editor for Orison Press. More of her work can be found at clairebatemanwork.blogspot.com Website Claire Bateman About the Artist Hannah Claire Bateman Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . In this collaborative project, musician Peter Mawanga and visual artist Nicora Gangi teamed up to produce a multi-sensory response to John 16:33. Below are the lyrics and images from their project. John 16:33 Yimbira (Sing) By Peter Mawanga + Nicora Gangi Credits: Collaborating Artists: Peter Mawanga + Nicora Gangi Song Written + Composed by Peter Mawanga Nylon Guitar + Vocals by Peter Mawanga Electric Guitar by Faith Mussa Bass Guitar by Alfred Sitolo Nkhoma Trumpets by Kelly Dehnert Saxophone by Rick Deja Drums by Dryson Mwimba Visual Artwork by Nicora Gangi Curated by: Spark + Echo Arts 2020 6 x 9 inches Paper + Glue Collage Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Peter Mawanga This collaboration was an eye-opener for me as a musician, and I believe it can only be the works of the Holy Spirit. I believe that merging art and music means a new door has opened for my music ministry and another step taken towards the great commission. Nicora Gangi Collaborating with Peter Mawanga was like crossing the threshold of joy — the Spirit of Christ lifted us out of our flesh and placed us in the realm of making melody in our hearts, singing with abandoned exuberance to Him. “Sing to the Lord a new song!” ( Psalm 149 ). Process: By means of a concordance and commentary I studied the John 16:33 passage “so that in Me you may have peace.” I was lead by the Spirit through color and design to create a series of paper collages (pieces of colored paper cut from magazines and glued to a support). The colors and movements of this passage are ones based upon both activity and passivity. Jesus' statement, represented by colors of red, yellow, and orange) is active: It is what He will do for those who believe in Him. We are the passive recipients of this peace which we did nothing to deserve (represented by colors of blue, brown, green, and white). The will of Christ that His disciples should have peace within, whatever their troubles may be without informed my designs concepts of opposition, transition, and subordination. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Peter Mawanga has attracted worldwide acclaim with his music, Nyanja Vibes , performing on world stages in Africa, Europe and America. Not a stranger to the BBC and other media outlets, Mawanga has established himself as one of the living legends in Malawi and Africa. Blending traditional instruments as the Nyanja’s Nsansi (thumb piano), Visekese (shakers), Valimba (xylophone), and Kaligo (a single-stringed instrument), with contemporary instruments, he produces music that is fondly described by many as therapeutic and spiritual, drawing from the Nyanja’s core values of love, peace and calm. Nicora Gangi was educated at Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York, USA (BFA 1974 and MFA 1976). She was a Professor of Art at Syracuse University for 29 years. Gangi has been awarded many Grand Prize and First Place awards and grants including the Pollock-Krasner Foundation Award. She has been and continues to be published in numerous artist books on pastel paintings. She has lectured regionally and nationally as a visiting artist at universities and artist’s guilds. She is represented by: MME Fine Art (New York, NY), Bender Gallery (Asheville, NC), and LM Gallery (Saratoga, WY). To view more of her work visit www.nicoragangi.com . Website Peter Mawanga + Nicora Gangi About the Artist Peter Mawanga + Nicora Gangi Other Works By Lyrics Lekani kubvutika ndi zinthu zapadziko (Do not be troubled by the affairs of this world) Musekerere kuti tiziyimbira Yesu (Rejoice in the worship of Jesus Christ) Chorus Timuyimbire Yesu Mpulumutsi wathu (Sing for Christ our redeemer) Musaziunjikire chuma chapadziko (Do not focus on the accumulation of riches) Poti dzimbiri ndi njenjete zimachiononga (In due time riches will be lost) Image Stills STILL 1 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 2 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 3 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 4 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 5 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 6 FROM YIMBIRA STILL 7 FROM YIMBIRA Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . As the fourth work in a collection also featuring the works of Vanessa Kay, Mary Jane Nealon and Alan Heathcock, curated by Shann Ray; this short story by Shann Ray explores the theme of "Light and Darkness" from the perspective of Isaiah 61:3. Isaiah 61:3 Fourteen Types of Hunger By Shann Ray Credits: Curated by: Shann Ray 2013 Short Story Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link In this story I’ve tried to speak to the inner life that accompanies both desolation and consolation. The overwhelming fact that all people experience pain and joy, and that sometimes we have no idea of the great sorrow the person next to us carries, is one of the central inspirations for the art that informs my experience of our shared humanity. In my own inner life “the garment of praise instead of the spirit of despair” is both a leap of faith in this world of violence, and a deep and enduring hope in the intimacy that exists here and now. When we love others and we are loved, I believe we are given the grace to see the Divine in them and in ourselves. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Shann Ray ’s collection of stories American Masculine (Graywolf Press), named by Esquire as one of Three Books Every Man Should Read and selected by Kirkus Reviews as a Best Book of the Year, won the Bakeless Prize, the High Plains Book Award, and the American Book Award. Sherman Alexie called it “tough, poetic, and beautiful” and Dave Eggers said Ray’s work is “lyrical, prophetic, and brutal, yet ultimately hopeful.” Shann’s creative nonfiction book of leadership and political theory Forgiveness and Power in the Age of Atrocity (Rowman &Littlefield) explores the nature of categorical human transgressions and engages the question of ultimate forgiveness in the context of ultimate violence. His book of poems, Balefire, is forthcoming with Lost Horse Press. Shann lives with his wife and three daughters in Spokane, Washington where he teaches leadership and forgiveness studies at Gonzaga University. Website Shann Ray About the Artist Isaiah 61:3 Collection Shann Ray Other Works By As the fourth work in a collection also featuring the works of Vanessa Kay , Mary Jane Nealon and Alan Heathcock , curated by Shann Ray; this short story by Shann Ray explores the theme of “Light and Darkness” from the perspective of Isaiah 61:3: and provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor. Related Information View More Art Make More Art THE HALLS are set with grey-white tile that shines a dull light, the walls built of hard red brick tall and straight. As the boy walks, the other students look at him funny. Everett Highwalker is a freshman in high school. View Full Written Work FOURTEEN TYPES OF HUNGER by Shann Ray 1 THE HALLS are set with grey-white tile that shines a dull light, the walls built of hard red brick tall and straight. As the boy walks, the other students look at him funny. Everett Highwalker is a freshman in high school. Shock of black hair. Slender, he holds his head down. He carries his basketball wherever he goes, places the ball under the chair during class, cups it like a loved one everywhere else. He is five feet seven inches tall and weighs just over one-hundred pounds. From sorrow over the loss of his father, he does not thrive but he gets taller, and as he does he works and the school seems to grow smaller as he grows larger. Sophomore. Junior. He studies, plays, puts time in the gym, runs, shoots, lifts weights, gains strength. He grows to six feet four inches tall, weighs one-hundred ninety-five pounds, and starts for one of the top teams in the state. A velocity breathes in him and he sees how the other athletes seem to look at him as they might a lion that paces and peers. He lives in Portland, Oregon where the mouth of the Columbia opens wide and wounds the body of the ocean. 2 HIS SENIOR year he walks more upright but still he keeps his head down. When teachers ask him about last night’s game he says how well his teammates played. When they ask him about his vertical, his jumper, his defense, how he won the game on a last second shot, he replies, “Still working. Gotta work hard.” “Where did you learn to work like that?” asks the Vice Principle who overhears the boy in the hall, and always loves to talk hoops. Sandy haired older man of slight build, he played shooting guard at Duquesne in the late 60s. The boy holds the ball in his hands, shuffles his feet. “My father,” the boy answers, and the VP says, “How about getting some lunch?” and the boy says, “Sure,” and they walk together to the cafeteria. They find a place near the far wall. The boy’s father was half-Cheyenne, and big. He loved basketball like he loved family. “He taught you what it takes to be great, didn’t he,” says the VP who looks the boy in the face. The boy stares back and says, “He did,” and puts his head down quickly and clenches his jaw to keep the tears out of his eyes. They sit at a table folded flat on benches attached by metal to the under works of the table frame. The boy cups the ball, turns it, rolls it, considers the curve and the channels, the leather, the feel of heat in his hands and despair and loss and love. 3 HIS FATHER had cupped his face and said, “When you shoot you focus on a target within a target. Got that? If your shot slips in and out, it’s always the eyes. Lock your eyes in and that won’t happen.” “Yes sir,” the boy said. “Got it.” “And I got you,” his father had replied pulling him hard to his chest and holding him tight. This, a month before his father’s death. He is gone, the boy thinks. And the thought eats at the edges of his mind and only stops when he is working on his game. Ball fake, drive left, pull up, nothing but net. Shot fake, drive right, pull up, bank off the glass. The movements and the rhythm provide a sense of calm. The VP knows the boy’s dad worked at the mill. Worked heavy machinery and died when the boom of a crane broke loose and crushed the man’s chest. A giant of a man, bold in the world. 4 THE VP reaches, touches the boy’s shoulder. “Your father could shoot the J,” he said, “and defend like no one else.” “Serious baller,” the boy says, and looks down. “A thing of beauty, watching him play,” says the VP as he holds his own follow through in the air and smiles. “Meet me for lunch again?” “Sure thing,” the boy replies. 5 THEY EAT lunch every Wednesday. They talk hoops, life, family. The boy gets offers from a few small colleges. He dreams Division 1 and decides he will walk on at the University of Oregon in the storied Pacific Athletic Conference, the PAC 12, where the Wizard of Westwood, John Wooden, guided UCLA to 10 national titles and four undefeated seasons. That summer, the VP invites him to travel on a tour team of all-stars from the Pacific Northwest, an international travel team to Great Britain, Scotland and the Isle of Man. The VP is the coach. The boy averages 37 a game. He feels unstoppable. The team goes 9 and 2 beating Wales, Liverpool and Manchester. They lose to the London Knights and the Torches of Edinburgh. In the US, at the D1 level, no one knows his name. He walks on at Oregon and makes the team. The coaches dog him. Run him. Yell at him. Curse him. Though he thinks he has no chance at earning playing time he works hard and sacrifices himself, and his hunger grows harder and his love for the game grows stronger. 6 HIS FRESHMAN year, he plays a total of 22 minutes in four games. He shoots 0 for 3, gathers 2 rebounds, fouls twice, and garners 1 steal. His sophomore year, three guys get injured. He weighs 210 pounds and gets 14 minutes per game, averages 4 points, 4.5 rebounds, and 1.3 steals. He takes care of the ball. The team improves and breaks .500. Midway through the season he sweeps in from the wing for a rebound in the half court offense. Untouched, the players seem to part before him and he plants, launches into the sky and catches an errant shot that has caromed wide off the rim. Everyone is far below him as he tip jams over two defenders, the force of the dunk like the barrel-swing of a sledge hammer. He lands off kilter in the middle of the pack and bounces to his feet as the crowd erupts and the sound is deafening and the air seems to compress and expand and roar. He looks at his hands, sees a red mark high on his wrist, like a blood wound from the rim, and his teammates mob him and holler and pound his chest. The team talks about the high wire smash for weeks. From this single event he gains the nickname: Tomahawk. The play is the first of many more to come. Twenty games in, the coaches tell him what a huge contribution he has made to the team and that they will scholarship him next year. After the season, the coaching staff confirms their promise. At home for the summer, he holds his head high and walks into the gym and tells his friends from high school. They give him 5 and hug him and laugh and look at him almost as if he is from another, brighter world. In the dark at night, he sits beside his father’s grave and tells him about the scholarship and weeps. “I miss you,” he says, “I need you,” and as he walks from the cemetery he remembers how the sorrow takes a long time going, and perhaps is never completely gone. In his dreams, his father walks with him. Everett has lunch with the VP and tells him about the scholarship too, and the VP slaps him on the back and looks him in the eyes and says, “Congratulations! You’ve worked hard for this. Keep working.” “I will,” he says, and before he leaves, he looks up at the VP and pauses. “I wouldn’t be where I am without you,” he says. The skin on the VP’s neck turns red. The man looks down at his feet and taps the boy on the shoulder a few times. “Count on me every home game,” he says. 7 MID-SUMMER before Everett returns to campus, an assistant coach calls. “Couldn’t give you the scholarship,” he says. “We have to take it back because we need it for other positions.” 8 “THAT’S NOT right,” the boy says softly. “You lied to me. You broke your promise.” “Happens,” the assistant retorts, “get over it.” The boy does, but a fire burns in the chambers of his heart, burns at the dishonesty of men, men unlike his father, unlike the VP. He burns and he works. He runs and jumps and increases in power. He weighs 220 pounds now and benches 260. His vertical tops 40 inches. He dribbles all over town, the ball an extension of his body, the jumper, the follow-through, the release, the backspin like a gift from his father, the net on fire, the sound of the swish roaring inside him like a blaze to consume the world. “He plays defense like an army of men,” his old teachers say. “He rebounds like a wrecking ball.” He knows what they say is true because when he defends he feels alive, alive for his father. And when he crashes the boards, the other players fall away from him like trees felled in a forest. He remembers when his father took him to the Beartooth Mountains and the boy shot his first bull elk on the pass north of Two Oceans Plateau, the animal huge and ominous in the early light, a rack of tines hung back from the head, the horns thick and pointed skyward even in death. He’d used his father’s Remington .243, the stock warm against his cheek, a deep breath blown smooth from his lungs as the report rang over the valley and the animal fell before the echo died. He held the legs as his father made the cut from neck to base and drew the skin away from the rib cage with clean swipes of the hunting knife so that the white inner lining shown in the half-light. His father pulled out the entrails, his arms drenched in blood to the elbows. He looked to the boy then and said, “My father’s people went hungry.” He shook his head. “Don’t forget that, son. Ever.” “I won’t, Papa,” he’d said, and he watched as his father boned out the animal, cutting through the joints with the bone saw, quartering the elk and removing the hooves. In the end his father caped it out, bagged the meat, tied the head and horns to his pack and the boy and his father walked the land in tandem as something angelic and ethereal, the horns above his father’s back heavy and arched like wings. 9 BEFORE SUMMER’S end the boy and the VP travel to Alaska to put on an assembly for a school in Seldovia where the VP’s good friend is the principal. Seldovia, a harbor on the edge of the ocean, a town of blue water in a bowl of forest and rock surrounded by small well-built homes, smoke adrift from tight round chimneys. Every kid in town shows, and their parents with them, and the box gym is filled to the rafters as the VP speaks to the kids about school, and leadership, and grades, and dreams. The boy comes to the microphone in a baggy sweat suit and clean white Nike Air’s and speaks about life. The kids are a mix of Indian and white, native, and northern, and the people who gave them breath fill his field of vision, mothers and fathers, and they are strong and good, he thinks, and he feels thankful for them, for his own family, for the VP, and for basketball. He tells the kids he believes in them, and he places his hand over his chest and tells them God resides in the strength of their fathers, in the joy of their mothers, and in the end he says, “Don’t stop dreaming your dreams.” He removes his sweats and walks onto the court in a white t-shirt and baggy silk shorts bordered green and gold. He lines up the kids under the basket on one end and the dunk show begins. He throws himself alley oop lob passes from half-court. He tosses the ball high and it bounces off the hardwood and lofts itself to a point far above the rim. He runs and flies and meets the ball in the sky. He rises up and hammers home one-handed tomahawks and two-handed shoulder blades, a flurry of reverses, windmills, and 360s. “Clap out the beat!” he says and the people clap in unison to a deep drum rhythm as he puts backspin on the ball and watches it return to him before he lofts another lob from half court, rounds the turn, launches, and soars on a sideways lean with his back to the rim. In mid-air he snatches the ball in his hands, touches it to his heels, and when he smashes it behind his head he hears a bang louder than a gunshot. A sound like a shout from the barrel of a cannon. The rim breaks free and the backboard shatters. He lands in a rain of glass, and everyone goes silent. Shards of glass fan at his feet, and out from him in an arc that reaches to the top of the key, and wider still and more dispersed passed the half court line. He sees the rim on the hardwood floor, displaced like the shed horn of an animal. He turns to the kids packed along the baseline, their eyes wide and mouths open. Finally, one of the kids stands and starts clapping, then the kid shouts and lifts his hands and the others stand then and applaud loudly and the whole gym gives an unforeseen but extended cheer as the kids gather around Everett. They touch his hands and his arms. They pick up pieces of shattered glass to take home. He shows them the bruises the rim has made on his wrists, and he smiles directly into their eyes. 10 IN SEPTEMBER he returns to the team. He gets 22 minutes a game his junior year. He weighs in at 225 and hauls rebounds like a freight train. He runs faster, jumps higher, and grows stronger. He gets time, goes after every loose ball, turns the momentum of the game. “He’s a beast,” the head coach whispers, secretly in awe, and the boy’s numbers ascend. The coaching staff again promises him a full ride. The team takes another step, battles for a top four position in the league and ends up third. They lose their first two games in the league tournament but win two games in the National Invitational Tournament, the NIT, losing to Seton Hall one game before the semis and Madison Square Garden. He meets with the coaches post season. “No scholarship,” they tell him again. He puts his head in his hands. The words pierce him like bullets; they circle his head like barbed wire. “We don’t have any scholarships left,” the head man says, “we gave the last one to the big man from Germany. You know how much we need a big man.” That weekend the young man goes home. Face flushed and heart pounding he tells the VP. They return together to meet with the coaches. 11 THE HEAD coach begins and his words are smooth but they sound brittle and foolish in the air. “We’ve been more than fair here,” he says but already the VP has had enough. The VP stands. “Shut your mouth,” he orders the coach, “I’ll do the talking here.” He slams his hands on the table and leans across the open span until they are eye to eye. “You are a liar,” he says, “and a two faced liar at that. This boy is like a son to me, and to the whole town he comes from. You need to treat him right.” The VP’s face is red, the tendons in his neck like taut wire. He turns and looks at Everett and his face softens and returns to itself. He draws himself back and sits down again. He stares at the coach. “You need to be a better man than this,” he says. “This is beneath you and your program. Treat him right. He’ll give his all for you.” The coach’s head is down now. He looks up into the face of the boy. The boy stares hard back and does not waver. “We will treat him right,” the coach says. 12 AND THE COACH treats the boy right. The boy signs a scholarship and enters his senior year ready. He is elected team captain. He starts every game, averages 11.6 points, 12.4 rebounds, and 2.1 steals. He is named conference Defensive Player of the year and the team advances to the championship game of the league tournament winning 92-87 in double overtime as the fans swarm the court and the players and coaches dance. The VP meets him near the center circle, and they embrace and cry together as the streamers rain down on their heads. After the nets are cut down, the team gathers in the locker room, where the head coach holds one of the nets out to Everett and says, “To our captain,” and he places it around his neck and the team shouts, and the point guard punches Everett’s chest and says “For playing die-hard ball,” and the first assistant yells out, “For leading us here!” Everett bows his head and the team bumps his shoulders and he embraces his teammates and they go all the way to March Madness where they ride a wave of momentum to the Sweet 16 before they are finally knocked off in Indianapolis by eventual champion North Carolina. 13 WHEN THE BOY returns home, he goes to the high school early and asks the VP to breakfast. The VP gladly accepts and they walk in the dark to a bright-windowed diner two blocks north. Midway through the meal the boy takes the net out of his backpack, reaches out his hands and places the net like a necklace over the older man’s head. “For all you’ve given me,” he says. “It was nothing,” the VP says, and his voice cracks, “and thank you.” 14 WHEN BREAKFAST is done they stand and the VP grips Everett’s arms. “Let’s go show your father,” he says, and in the dim light they go to the grave where the boy listens as the VP tells the story and thanks Everett’s father, and tells the father his strength runs like mighty horses in the boy. When they walk together from that place the ground is soft beneath their feet. Down a slight slope the grass rolls, deep green and glistening. A remnant of darkness still holds the land as they walk among granite forms uplifted from the earth, crosses over apexes of stone, marble angels whose arched wings and raised swords beckon dawn. In the distance the trunks of great trees pattern the land, their limbs reaching steadily upward, and when Everett Highwalker looks he finds the trees alive with light, the sun a bloom of fire in the sky. Close Loading Video . . . THE HALLS are set with grey-white tile that shines a dull light, the walls built of hard red brick tall and straight. As the boy walks, the other students look at him funny. Everett Highwalker is a freshman in high school. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . “The Capture” and “The Escape,” written by Nicolas Destino, respond to Jeremiah 13:20 and the painting, “From the North” in further correspondence with Spark+Echo Art’s “Sheep” theme. Jeremiah 13:20 The Capture, The Escape By Nicolas Destino Credits: Curated by: Seth Hiler 2012 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link “The Capture” and “The Escape,” written by Nicolas Destino, respond to Jeremiah 13:20 and the painting, “From the North” in further correspondence with Spark+Echo Art’s “Sheep” theme. “Lift up your eyes, and behold them that come from the north: where is the flock that was given thee, thy beautiful flock?” (Jeremiah 13:20, KJV) Like the missing flock from Jeremiah’s passage, Nicolas notes that in his writing he “invests in the constellation of objects within a landscape, [so] that which is missing from the story is often more tangible than what’s explicitly narrated.” Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Nicolas Destino ’s work has appeared in The American Poetry Journal , Bellevue Literary Review, Broadsided Press, 322 Review, Barge Journal, As It Ought To Be, Assaracus, Verse Daily, and others. He is author of the double chapbook, “ Of Kingdoms & Kangaroo ,” First Intensity Press, and his first full length poetry collection, “Heartwrecks,” is forthcoming through Sibling Rivalry Press, in February 2013. He works as a part-time English professor in New York and New Jersey. Website Nicolas Destino About the Artist Nicolas Destino Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art The Capture If you're counting on the arrival of soft creatures, some miracle, forget it. They won't come. View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . The Capture If you're counting on the arrival of soft creatures, some miracle, forget it. They won't come. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Cellist Mike Block found inspiration in the passages of Proverbs 10:18; 14:29; 17:28; Ecclesiastes 7:9; 10:14; Matthew 5:22; James 1:19-20 and the theme of Fools to write the song, "Surplus of Words." Matthew 5:22 Proverbs 14:29 Ecclesiastes 10:14 Ecclesiastes 7:9 James 1:19-20 Proverbs 17:28 Proverbs 10:18 Surplus of Words By Mike Block Credits: Written, Composed, Vox, Cello by Mike Block Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2013 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I tried to write a song with characters who are both partly-wise and partly-foolish. The singer's character is following many Biblical directions to avoid folly, except for being "quick to anger", and calling someone else a "fool." The character being accused as a fool is definitely a liar, although he wisely doesn't say too much. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection HAILED BY YO-YO MA as the “ideal musician of the 21st Century,” Mike Block is a pioneering multi-style cellist, composer, and educator living in Boston. While still studying at the Juilliard School, Mike joined Yo-Yo Ma’s Silk Road Ensemble, and shortly thereafter also joined Mark O’Connor’s Appalachia Waltz Trio, which he played in for over three years. Mike has also toured extensively with Darol Anger’s Republic of Strings and The Knights orchestra. HIS MOST RECENT ALBUM of original songs, Brick by Brick, features music he wrote and recorded while missing nine teeth, as the result of a traffic accident. In 2011, Mike released Naive Melody, an instrumental folk album with The Triborough Trio, and in 2009 and 2010, released two albums of original music with The Mike Block Band: Words R Words (songs), and After the Factory Closes (instrumental). MIKE HAS PERFORMED on “Late Night with Conan O’Brian”, “Regis and Kelly”, NBC’s 30 Rock, NPR’s “St. Paul Sunday Morning”, WNYC’s “Soundcheck”, APM’s “Performance Today”, WNBC 4’s Chuck Scarborough Show, VH1, The Disney Channel, and the CBS “Early Show”. Mike regularly subbed as on-stage cellist in the Pulitzer Prize winning Broadway Musical, “Next to Normal”, and he also worked with the director of the 2012 film, “A Late Quartet”, as a Music Consultant. Mike was the subject of a 2011 feature article in the Wall Street Journal for his Artistic Directorship of the GALA BROOKLYN Music Festival, and was reviewed by the NY times as having “vital, rich-hued solo playing”. MIKE RECEIVED THE 2004 JIM HALL PRIZE FOR UNDERGRADUATE ACHIEVEMENT at the Cleveland Institute of Music, where he studied cello with Richard Aaron. Mike also earned a Master’s Degree from the Juilliard School, where he studied with Darret Adkins and Joel Krosnick. These days, Mike proudly uses a cello from the Wayne Burak Shop, as well as D’Addario strings, and a David Gage Realist Pick-up. www.mikeblock.net/ Website Mike Block About the Artist Mike Block Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Multi-disciplinary artist Dominique Gibson reflects on her personal connection to 1 Thessalonians 5:24 as she plays with meanings for the word "call" in this spoken word piece. 1 Thessalonians 5:24 The Call By Dominique Gibson Credits: Curated by: Davelyn Hill 2022 Spoken Word Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I learned 1 Thessalonians 5:24 when I was in an after-school program called Good News Club at my elementary school. This was the first scripture I learned, and it stuck with me. I went through many struggles during my youth that left me in a dark mental state. I wondered where God was during that time and hated that I couldn't hear Him like others could. Years later I learned the true meaning of this passage as I lived it out. The day before my graduation from USC Upstate I felt a wave of warmth within my body and received clarification of the meaning of this scripture passage. I heard God tell me that even when I'm not faithful to Him, He is always faithful to me. He has gotten me to this point in my life where I am able to celebrate my many accomplishments. He showed me that all the trials and tribulations weren't for nothing. They were just a part of the process that I had to go through to see my true potential in this world, and that my purpose is greater than my failures. In writing this poem I wanted to show the faithfulness of God in contrast with the inconsistency of humans. The metaphor of the phone helped me put the verse in modern terms to aid in understanding and yet the truth spoken remains the same. I wanted to use both free form poetry and narrative poetry to create a dynamic spoken word piece. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Dominique Gibson is a native to Spartanburg, SC where she got her start in the arts with her church and school. She is a musician, actress, dancer, and writer. She found her writing potential as a fellow with Writers Well Fellowship . She started developing her writing skills through workshops and retreats. She was able to co-facilitate Reading for Transformation for Children through Speaking Down Barriers . She has also performed spoken word poetry for their Evening of Transformation event. She studied psychology and child advocacy studies at The University of South Carolina Upstate. During her time at USC Upstate she did an internship with the Boys and Girls Club where she was able to help young girls use writing to express their emotions in healthy ways. She graduated from USC Upstate with a bachelor’s in psychology and a minor in child advocacy studies. She is now serving her community by co-facilitating in an after-school program at Spartanburg Preparatory School with Speaking Down Barriers . She continues to perform at community events and works part time. She has plans to continue her education to earn a master's degree. Website Dominique Gibson About the Artist Dominique Gibson Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art He called I silenced the ringing phone He called Sent to voicemail View Full Written Work The Call by Dominique Gibson He called I silenced the ringing phone He called Sent to voicemail “Your call has been forwarded…” He called My phone was on silent I answered, too late Hang up Over and over, He called But I couldn’t talk to Him My untrained ears were never on His frequency And my eyes couldn’t find clarity through my tears You’re not good enough screamed loudly in my mind Pushed me to self-hatred and self-harm Yet He never gave up trying to contact me He reminded me of His love through emails Posted photos of His forgiveness on Instagram And sent text messages asking me to come home Even when I hit do not disturb He stayed consistent in His actions He knew I would answer one day His call And I did “Hey God. I’m sorry I’m just now answering. I thought I could walk this life without you, but I was wrong. The world around me seemed so beautiful but became ugly quickly. Those closest me gave empty promises of an easier life. Easy paths aren’t always the right ones. With every decline of your calls, you continued to find a way to communicate with me. You found a way to comfort me through music. You helped me align with my purpose. You remained faithful, even when I chose everyone and myself before you. Why?” He answered. “Dominique, despite you choosing the world and yourself over me, I stayed true to the word I spoke to you. I called you to a path of greatness. A path that will not be easy, but worth it; I will remain faithful to being with you through each step. Guiding you. Comforting you. Healing you. Loving you. Even if you decide to walk a path other than this one, I will be there calling you until you come back.” Close Loading Video . . . He called I silenced the ringing phone He called Sent to voicemail Download Full Written Work

bernd-klug_babil-iraq-hr.jpg Loading Video . . . Austrian musician and sound artist, Bernd Klug offers an interactive art piece in response to Genesis 11:1-9. Genesis 11:1-9 Confusion of Tongues By Bernd Klug Credits: Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2016 Sound Installation Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This piece is based on the story of the Tower of Babel, from Genesis 11:1–9, in which the confusion of tongues frustrated the construction of this spectacularly high edifice, scattering its people over the world. I aimed to decode this text (and the passages leading up to it, describing Noah’s settling and ancestry) through different internet-based, real time translation programs in order to investigate the seemingly open and direct worldwide information exchange of modern communication. I also wanted to juxtapose the ongoing conflict among various interpretations of Bible texts with the cultural ignorance which has long plagued religious movements (as in the Middle East, where Babel and most of the Old Testament were located and which remains a similarly diverse and problematic area in recent inter-religious/cultural dialogues between East and West). Although I am a native born Austrian, I wrote this piece from an English-speaking perspective, the “native language” for our western internet realm. I used the New International Translation, commonly used in the US, and recorded a speech translation into each language, and then tried to re-translate it in real time with this software back to English. Each of the audio files is a recording of this process, using languages which relate to the place (Arabic), the historical translations of the story (Greek, Latin, and Hebrew), my own mother tongue (German), and the world’s most common languages (Chinese, Spanish and Hindi). This decision was also based on the narrow possibilities free translation programs provide and is in no way meant to be judgmental or prioritizing already established power dynamics, but rather to point to the limited accessibility of global understanding and the dangers of cultural appropriation. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Bernd Klug – sound art / double bass (US/AT) http://klug.klingt.org Bernd Klug is an Austrian born, Brooklyn-based sound artist and double bassist. In sound installations and solo concerts, his music encounters our everyday circumstances as found forms and questions our perceptions of sound and social space. His installations make use of acoustic phenomena like feedback, room frequencies and electromagnetic waves and explore strings, wood, metal and other materials as audiovisual components. Recently Klug has shown his works in solo exhibitions at Harvestworks (NYC 2013), Art Now at Monmouth University (NJ, 2014, ce.ins_0006) and the Austrian Cultural Forum NYC (2015) as well as collaborations with Daniel Lercher at mo.ë (Vienna 2014) and ‘Bearing’ with Johanna Tiedtke at Galerie Freihausgasse (Villach, AT April 2015) and group shows, such as, Groundswell 2015 (Olana, NY) and Klangmanifeste (Vienna 2012). His solo double bass work (cupreous donkey and the CD ‘Cold Commodities’ Innova 902) focuses on the world inside and around the double bass: the bow, the body, and room frequencies lay the groundwork for a radical reduction of both the composerperformer’s role and the traditional musical narrative. He has played solo concerts at CTSwaM Fridman Gallery, Share Issue Project Room, Biegungen Ausland (Berlin), CoCART - Tarun (PL), CNMAT (Berkeley) and Radiokulturhaus and the Porgy and Bess in Vienna. As an improviser and bassist, he has collaborated with Burkhard Stangl, Keiko Uenishi, Shelley Hirsch, Radu Malfatti, Franz Hautzinger, Butch Morris, Bernhard Lang, John Butcher, Gust Burns, Danielle Dahl, Mimu Merz, Daniel Lercher, Henrik Munkeby Nørstebø, Laurie Amat, Brendan Landis, Lucio Menegon, Kjetil Hanssen, ctrl, OENCZkekvist and Ritornell. His most recent bands include the experimental techno noise band T-Shit (w/ Bernhard Hammer and Sixtus Preiss) and the dramatic chamber duo Rash (with Meaghan Burke, cello). His compositional cycle “sine tempore” is a series of works experimenting with sound designs in non-dramatic contexts. Together with New Yorker cellist Meaghan Burke, he is an organizer of the Transit Festival, which provides a platform for connecting experimental music with different musical genres, audiences, places and countries. Bernd Klug is a Wave Farm Artist In Residence 2015 and was recently awarded the award for interdisciplinary arts 2015 from the Carinthian government, AT and the “New Austrian Sound of Music” prize for 201415. His compositions received commissions by New Music USA and the BKA (Austrian Federal Chancellery). He was granted an educational scholarship at Harvestworks (NYC) in 201213, and received the BM:UKK Startstipendium (federal Austrian grant for artists) in 2011. He graduated from Bard College’s MFA program (Music/Sound) in 2015 and holds a BA in bass performance (popular, contemporary, and classical music and music education) from the Vienna University for Music and Performing Arts. Website Bernd Klug About the Artist Bernd Klug Other Works By There are two ways to listen to this piece: A) In private, on a computer. Click play on the language you feel most unfamiliar with, start another track as soon as you understand a word and so on. (Don’t stop the different tracks or play them separately, they are supposed to overlay each other.) B) As a public performance for 8 people with smartphones. At a public space or Christian church, do not announce the piece at the moment before the performance. Each person chooses one language (so that all of them are chosen) Load the homepage. Spread out so that you can just still hear each other Arabic starts Each subsequent person else hits play as soon as you hear a familiar word CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work