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Kunst og arkitektur

IMAGE 94 - Fall 2017

Now one of the leading literary journals published in English, IMAGE is read all over the world—and forms the nexus of a warm and active community. The publication seeks out and brings to its readers work of high artistic quality that engages with the historic faith traditions on a profound level, without easy answers or false uplift, and with a serious respect for beauty and truth.

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1 År

I denne utgaven

9 min.
the erasmus option

PICTURE THE OLD HUMANIST standing at his desk. The year is 1533. Desiderius Erasmus is living in Freiburg, as he says to a friend, “like a snail in its shell.” It’s another temporary stop on his long, peripatetic march through northern Europe, as he seeks to avoid persecution at the hands of Reformers and Catholics alike. He may be the most eminent scholar and writer of his generation, but the political and ecclesiastical situation in Europe is constantly shifting and dangerous. It’s true that he could head south to Rome, where Pope Paul III has offered him shelter and support in a bid to make Erasmus an official spokesman for the Catholic cause. The pope will, in fact, offer him the cardinal’s red hat in two years’ time, but Erasmus will…

22 min.
the afterlife

THE BEDROOM IS BARREN but for the love seat. Bess told the movers to leave the love seat. It was a present from Houdini a decade ago, an apology, crated and shipped from a Paris display window the morning he barked at her in a hotel lobby for wasting a postcard stamp. One of the cushions is spotted where she tipped a saucer of tea, and the red petals have grown pink along the arm nearest the bedroom window—the side where Bess likes to sit and read, where she has sat for one hour every Sunday for the past year, where she is sitting now. There is a book in her lap, her mother’s Bible, but it’s closed. How petty to remember that silly stamp. And the way Houdini’s voice fluttered,…

7 min.
feast days

There’s such a thing as end-time pilgrims, disciplesof the hoard—water, a tightwad inventory of canned food to outlast the famine foretoldby Hiram’s dream. Life will go on, skimpily and in secret, no seasons and no art,no poet to lament the end of days. They’ll arm themselves to the hilt, tracking thingsto hate or kill. That is their lot, survival their only offering, preservationof the cherished self. No looking back, except to see the bullets take root, to gloryover blood, a blackish stain on the flank of anything that moves. With the world stilled,they mistake God’s silence for God’s anger. I rest, ecstatic, inside God’s silence,but more than that I revel in his voice, delivered, perhaps, as blot-all darknessbearded by time-lapse clouds. Call me angel of the overlooked, my halo made of weedsand the feathers of grocery-store birds. Hoppers, I named…

23 min.
lost and found karen swenholt unmakes identity politics

FOR A MOMENT, ONE CAN MISS whose arms are whose: one pair is gaunt from famine and hard work, the other thin from age and grief over two sons gone astray. The faces and nearly bald heads are mirrored, too—the aged and the youthful each leaning on the other for support in their moment of unlikely reconciliation. Skin and bones and hair and fabric are rendered in the rough, fibrous texture of the Aqua-Resin sculpting medium, left uniformly white and unglazed, further dissolving the difference between the two figures. Yet against the overall roughness of the modeling, the delicacy and care with which the faces are rendered is striking, especially as both men’s expressions suggest weariness and relief more than an all’s-well-that-ends-well joy. Karen Swenholt’s life-sized sculpture The Return of the…

1 min.
god reads the poem of the world with interest

For Kathy Meermans Orange leaves float through airlike sunfish lazing in a pond and the hungry boy with a cowlickwalks by my house again, dirty boy,they say, who watched men sethis mother on fire. His teacherbrings him cheese and applesin her blue cloth bagand when he wipes his noseon his shirtsleeve, she offers hima Kleenex. Think of howwith the same fingers that nowgrasp his yellow pencil, hewill some morning lift outthe lenses of broken eyes,his hands delivering the blindto see how orange leaves can swimthrough air—the rods and coneshe’s learned, the macula, the cornea, while his old teacher still sneaksfood to broken kids, because?Because God has no body here on earthbut ours.…

1 min.
the years were patient with me

I used to think truth was a fast trainstreaking from the station, self-confident, unapologetic, on time.Or a seagull wheeling, plunging in onewhite flash toward glassy wavesto scoop a minnow from the waterin the black arrow of its beak. Later, older, I could pluck truthfrom trees when I wanted,weigh it in my hands: ruddy, sun-warmed, firm as an apple. Thoughsometimes, yes, I had to search beforeI’d find it fallen in an orchard. But asI parted the air to lift it, the airhealed itself deftly as a door closing. Years passed, patient with me, tillI saw another kind of truth:a man totters from the airportone freezing morning with the faceand shoulders of a CEO, but oldnow, fumbling to push his arminto his Armani trench coat, overand over, trying, missing,standing, trembling, finallywandering to the doorman,…