Paragone

During the time of Michaelangelo, Leonardo, even as late as Rubens and Bernini, artists engaged in a dialogue called the paragone. The paragone can be seen as battle between disciplines...which is better, painting or sculpture? The painters argued that their art was better because it is an art of vision rather than matter. When you see a painting of fruit, there is nothing there but color and design. It is a purely visual sensation and requires great ingenuity to decieve the senses into believing that matter exists. The sculptors claimed that their art was the "true" art. The work of their hands produced a verifiable object that could be touched and felt. As you can see, the conversation went beyond a discussion of painting and sculpture; the significance of the debate between the superiority of either vision or touch included philosophers with interests beyond the arts.

The paragone is relevant today and perhaps it even continues in the form science versus spirituality. We might say that actually, both are important and that painting actually requires matter in the form of pigment and sculpture requires the deception of sight in the same way that our nation needs both the ingenuity of of disegno, of design, even of planning and foresight. But, that these things mean nothing without the hands to carry out the vision.

Lullabye

Tonight, I sang a lullabye:

On the wings of a wind,
O’er the dark, roaring sea
Angels are coming
To watch over thee
Angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep
So list’ to the wind
Coming over the deep.

The words were whispered, softly sung, to the cadence of the waves in the dark as I rocked back and forth. My baby boy wiggled and squirmed at first and then nestled down in my lap with his cheek on my stomach.

The smooth rhythm of the song, echoing the rise and fall of water, the rise and fall of my breath, the back and forth of the rocker, combined the rhythms of life to that of nature. I am a guardian of life; his breath is steady now, against my abdomen. I tell him of tradition (the rhythm of people passed down through generations) in the chorus my father sang to me.

Hear the wind blow, Love.
Hear the wind blow.
Hang your head over.
And hear the wind blow.

In the patterns of the day, the need for sleep following play, the preparation of food, the consistency of chores, the repetition of the seasons, the rise and fall of the tides, the going and coming of the sun lies the security—the continuity of nature, the continuation of life, the pattern of eternity. I am the guardian of his life, I tell him about eternity, in the rise and fall of my breath, in the cadence of my song as I rock him back and forth.