I’m currently on holiday, visiting Adelaide in South Australia. It’s a lovely city, with some fabulous old buildings and excellent museums.
On my first day, I visited the Art Gallery of South Australia. I haven’t studied art or at history beyond what I’ve picked up in various gallery visits. As a result, I tend to view and like or dislike pieces based on my appreciation of the aesthetics (or otherwise) rather than on whether I think the artist has succeeded in achieving their aim … because I don’t know what point they were aiming to get across.
What I do know is that good art should make the viewer think.
Or feel. Or perhaps both. In that way, visual art is similar to creative writing. Authors too want their readers to think and to feel (with the feelings being particularly important in genres such as romance).
So visiting an art gallery and considering the artist’s creative process and purpose reminds me of my own creative process and purpose in writing. In this visit, I was also reminded of God’s creative process.
There were three works that particularly caught my imagination at the gallery in Adelaide. I’m going to share my thoughts on one of those pieces today, and I’ll leave the other two for another time.
Dark Matter Collective
Dark Matter Collective by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson is comprised of 217 solid glass orbs set in a steel frame and weighing in at half a ton (which is a lot for a piece that almost looks like it’s made of air).
The back half of each orb has been polished and painted to form a mirror, and that’s the source of the magic. The first time I approached the piece, I came in from the side so all I could see was light:
I approached and moved to look at the piece from the front—because isn’t that how we can best see and appreciate a work of art, from the front? Yet as I moved, the light left and darkness set in. Walk a few steps more, and the piece is totally dark. A few steps more, and it’s light again.
This isn’t just art. It’s also science (or perhaps art and science are simply two sides of the same coin). Creating a work of art that is both darkness and light depending on the way the viewer is looking at the piece? And using glass balls and mirrors to create that effect? It’s clever science, and impressive art.
If art is supposed to prompt the viewer to think, to feel, to ask questions, this piece succeeded.
As I moved from side to side, I moved from light, into darkness then back into light again. If I looked carefully, I could see myself reflected in the orbs—but an upside-down version of me, because that’s how orbs behave. I guess that’s similar to how a mirror shows us the opposite version of ourselves.
A few things struck me as I moved around the piece, viewing it from different angles. I noticed that as I moved, the work itself changed … except it didn’t.
The glass orbs are static and unchanging (like God). I was the one changing. So if I am seeing God as anything other than light and goodness, it’s not God who has moved. It’s me. And to see God the way He is, I need to be the one to move, to change. I need to step out of the darkness and head towards the light.
The other thing that hit me was the matter of perspective.
No two people looking at that piece at the same time are ever going to see the same thing. Someone who is looking head-on will see nothing but darkness, but the person standing beside them will see light coming around the edges. They are looking at the same object but they’re not seeing the same thing. Even two people standing in the same place are going to see different things. Someone who is shorter will experience it differently someone who is taller. An adult will see it differently than a child.
How many times do we find ourselves in that situation every day—looking at the same thing or reading the same newspaper article or seeing the same social media post, but interpreting it differently because of our perspective?
Later, I found myself approaching the same piece from the front.
It was almost unrecognisable. Gone was the dancing light, which had all been replaced by unrelenting darkness, like a black hole. This reminded me of the story of creation. In Genesis, God’s first act in creation is to separate darkness and light, and light entering the world: physical light, and the spiritual light of Jesus.
As I approached, glimmers of light sparked from the sides, again moving from darkness to light as I moved from looking at the piece from directly in front to looking from the side. In this viewing, Dark Matter Collective reminded me of hope: no matter how dark things look right now, the light is there, just around the corner.