Three Houses of Worship

I have been promising this post for awhile. If not directly to you, then many times in my head. I have so much to say yet feel such little time to write these days.

Entering the veil. (Photo Aunt K)

While in Houston, my Aunt K took us to three houses of worship (these links connect to Google images): The Chapel of St. Basil, Rothko Chapel and the Byzantine Fresco Chapel.

My experience in the Chapel of St. Basil immediately left me longing for more (in a good way). Most befittingly, the structure is a space of eternal interest. I would want to experience it in all kinds of weather, at all times of the day. Yes, I believe I could spend all day every day for weeks in this space. Silent. Observing. Contemplating. Squinting with my painter's eye, and marveling at the changing light and shadows.

The sideways, cut-away cross (the "X" in the photo below) always sets the brightest value in the naturally lit interior. Below, on the same wall, the stations of the cross are actually carved into the wall and as such the perspective seems to travel with you (like they are following with you) as you move. The dome at the front of the chapel acts like a spotlight on the altar (looks like the "O" in the photo below). Off to the side is a statue of Mary holding young Jesus which is lit by another dome, though this one lets in less light and offers the most divinely feminine curved Omega line in and out of the while structure. I could observe this curve alone, for hours. The feel in this space is welcoming, warm and Holy. I can hardly imagine surviving an actual service here (in a good way).

I snapped this photo with Cody's iPhone on the way out. The back lit curve at the top left is the main gold dome seen in photos of the exterior.

If you were to paint this photo, the only color on your palate should need to be white, right? The whole interior is the same white wash. Squint at the photo and it becomes obvious you would actually need every color of the rainbow. Amazing, huh? I can hardly get over the contrast and the color brought by pure light (and we rationally, automatically see things as colored, themselves.) Simply divine.

After St. Basil's, my aunt dropped me off at the Byzantine Chapel while she took Cody back to the record store (his house of worship, haha). This ended up being a perfect arrangement, as I am now so glad I got to experience this space alone for the first time. I was literally the only person there besides the two flashlight bearing museum docents.


Oh. My. Goodness. I still can barely find words. Transporting. Eternal. Disorienting. Captured. Whole. Unbelievable. (I know some of those words seem to war---but I assure you both can exist held in opposite hands.) Imagine 150 antique mirrors randomly suspended from a 28 foot tall suspended round and rotating structure. In a pitch black room with a few colored spotlights and an indecipherable, yet familiar, sometimes deafening soundtrack. The glint and the glare of the mirrors bouncing off each other and the walls? Yeah. It was completely mind blowing.

If you know me, you get why The Infinity Machine is a nearly perfect set-up for me. I have 5 mirrors from our great/grandparents in my home. I once had a beautiful dream/vision once about a woman suspending "mirrors" of wisdom which flashed in every direction over a large body of water. (I tried to paint it, but disgusted and without "vocabulary" threw it away.) I treasure people and their stories and I love imagining the truth of each face logged in the memory of an old mirror...if only it could talk. I love disco balls. I love found things. I love old things. I love assemblage. I love nearly everything about this installation.


What is not to love? As much as the dark room is perfect for its first exhibit, I would love to see it suspended out of doors, catching natural light, over a body of water with no land in sight. The natural, earthy soundtrack of waves, sea gulls and distant ship horns. Or how about suspended over a dark valley under the night sky? Or suspended over a pastoral hillside reflecting all that blue and green? Ooo...what about suspending it in the Grand Canyon? My favorite art opens me up and leaves me searching. This piece is psychically massive...and I will never be done with it.

So this, too, is a place where I can worship. Of course I loved the thin reflecting pool outside. The Byzantine Fresco chapel itself has an amazing history. What do you do with a building made specifically to house divine stolen frescoes that were purchased, restored and promised back to their original culture after an allotted time, and were eventually returned to their rightful owners? I guess the hole left in the wake was pretty massive. The Infinity Machine seems a nearly perfect followup.

The first place we visited was actually the Rothko chapel. I am relieved we visited it first. It was the only place of worship I originally intended to visit while in Houston...and it definitely left me wanting more (not in a good way). The Rothko canvases themselves were amazing. Though they are giants in an of themselves, the chapel's energy lured me away from them like a vortex. The chapel itself felt cold and heavily weighted (not in a good, grounding sort of way). The contrasting elements in this space felt (and were in fact mostly) artificial. Interestingly, the top dome of natural light was shielded (to preserve the space) and now supports the man-made spotlights which shine on the front canvases privileging them in a ways that would probably piss off Mr. Rothko. It has taken me until this very moment to find words for the experience: as a space where gray and balance and tolerance must have been intended, it completely, utterly fails the felt sense.

Holy texts of all faiths can be found sitting along a low-lying bench when one enters the space. Instead of having an all faiths welcome effect, it actually seemed to dare. Will I pick up the wrong one? If I take one should I take them all? There they sat, palpable, not actually touching, like big magnets with repelling charges. Putting black and white words next to each other does not restore peace. Instead the environment felt full of suspended tension above a shallow surface. Even the reflecting pool and amazing sculpture out front could not compete with the pull that day.

I am sure the best psychoanalysts would say I am projecting here...I am not entirely opposed to the idea (1 John 1:5). Still, I like to say I can worship anywhere. I did enjoy the discomfort of sitting in that space because of the ultimate direction in which it continues to point me. I am glad the space seems to be searching for a solution, but I do not believe it is found in the discomfort of manufactured tolerance (if there is such a thing) and creepy silence. Take out the fake lighting and plastic chairs out, leave the paintings, put humans of varying faith next to each other in a space like this, shut the door, consent to silence and peace might actually stand a chance.

Some of our own mirrors given to us by CC Briscoe, Rosemary Cloud, & Virginia Watson Briscoe. (I should have edited these, but can't stand the thought.):