Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

Like the wings of a cricket woven into a fish hook, sleepy high schoolers in an early morning art class need bait to wake up and start thinking. Curiosity works like bait. Wake. Up.

This was the start of the semester. New class. New students.

The last success their cherub fingers likely achieved in fine jewelry-making was likely the act of stringing fruit loops in kindergarten. These fresh faces were as green to heavy-metal processing techniques as Kermit the Frog. 

My bent spine dragged the 2,400-degree cloissane' enameling kiln out of the sweaty storage room the day before with many groans to go with it. It's daunting black and toasty presence was now positioned in a full-view corner on a thick wooden plank along with heat-gloves, metal mesh, eyewear, glass shards and copper wire upcycled from the local electrician.

For good measure, the school nurse's direct phone line was scrawled in sharpie marker on bold-colored paper and taped to the wall with a small jar of bandaides and burn-salve nearby. A little intimidation never hurt anybody when it comes to safety.  Heat mixed with carelessness is what hurts.

After a history monologue, a salute to the kiln, a few 9-1-1 burn stories and a due date written on the white-board, students were released with the energy of a herd of pent-up wild boars to start quietly writing.

The stapled hand-out I slid in front of each nose (some nostrils with implanted earrings) showed pictures of an archeological dig and a mysterious set of unearthed rings with an ancient mystery intact that I lovingly called, "Kings and Rings". It could have been a deleted scene in any one of the Tolkien movies. But, it wasn't. It was real.

An elaborate set of cloissane' enameled rings were created, but remained ungiven, when a catastrophe happened. Whatever catastrophe burried them too soon also took with them the knowledge of the purpose of their creation; forever unknown, but widely wondered. 

Despite the 100's of years that their ancient artisanship lay dormant beneath layers of rubble, thier beautiful found condition was a pristine testament to the longevity of the cloissane' enameling technique. Fire is carefully harnessed in a marbling of melted sand and copper: a pre-cursor to the glory of stained glass.

Inset in fine silver, rings of this caliber could only have been afforded by royalty. The complexity of design could only have been crafted by a master. A set of multiples would only have been commissioned to signify an important agreement among a round-table of select influencers.

Or, were they a set of rings created in anticipation of an agreement, but the round table attenders were unwilling to come to a mutual peace. Then, a catastrophe buried them?

Our modern world will never know. But, 21 modern minds whose wiggly bodies clad in ripped-knee jeans sitting off-balance on the spindly 4-legged stools of my art class would take pen in hand to write 2-page papers imagining ancient characters and scenarios.

Had the round-table of unknown influencers, kings, politicians, leaders or war-lords came to a resolve that warranted the wearing of the small treasury of rings...the act of each ancient hand sliding the heavy, cold, shiny decorated band over their unnamed knuckles would have signified a truth--that they and the people they represented were engaged in a celebratory servitude of a mutual agreement.

It was a serious big deal back then. The putting on of rings...together...that meant something.

At this time in history, rings were not a reality to the middle class. Rings were commissioned and exchanged only by the wealthy or elite royale'. Earrings, nose rings, jaw rings or finger rings identified ownership and rank of owned slaves. Like cattle, servitude was branded. 

Our culture imagines rings to originate within the romantic institution of marriage. Rings originated within the institution of slavery. Servitude---a forced tribute to allegiance. In the opposite extreme, rings were also flaunted on the hands of royalty as identity signets to mark authenticity of documents, alliances or good-faith agreements.

This particular "Kings & Rings" mystery happened 100's of years ago. There is no record to explain the "wonder of why" away. No amount of imagining will reveal the truth of what actually happened. My students were assigned to give the mystery at least 2 pages of creative imagining. What they did or did not imagine revealed who the the real artists were in the room.

But, I didn't tell them that part.

On the first day of a new class in a new semester of a new school year, there is no better way to know who to watch. My true artists emerged first in their writings before the works of their hands were ever seen by my eyes.

Two questions were asked as creative writing prompts, 

"What were these rings created for?"

"Who were they created for?"

"What catastrophe buried them?"

No doubt, my art room was always full of creative students. This assignment sifted out the most creative. It never failed. A few would write about something other than the prompts given. That's what I looked for: the outside-of-the-box thinkers.

"What for? Who for? Why for?" were largely questions these one-of-a-kind students left out of their imaginings. 

The students to watch often bypassed the obvious mysteries and asked questions like, "An archeologist or museum curator may have been the last one to touch these rings, but who was the first? Who was the artist?"

The curiosity of their minds simply reached farther than the questions given them to ponder.

These were the students I took note of. I was never wrong, by the way. Throughout the semester, the work of their hands did not disappoint. Attention to detail never fell short.  The wonder in their eyes never grew dull.

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September 24, 2020. With this story in the archives of my pre-studio teaching years, I opened my Bible after a long day. 

It was one of those days that was so bazaar-of-heart that it seemed a negative strategy was in motion against me. Angles from compartmentalized aspects of my life seemed to be pointing to one common theme, "Just. Give. It. Up."

Give what up? The frustrating whisper hissed, "Just live a normal life. Be a normal person. Do laundry. Drive your kids around. Stop pursuing. Stop wondering. Stop imagining. Stop reaching."

If this were true, then, why were the Kings & Rings Mystery Papers never wrong to identify the top of my class?

"God, I need more faith." I prayed. I'm slipping away from what I have always tried to inspire others to be. 

I was reminded of the story in the Bible where a group of men asked Jesus, "How do I get more faith?" (There were also women, by the way. I have always imagined myself among them.)

Jesus basically said, "It doesn't work like that." And then reminded the askers that if faith was even the size of a mustard seed (think poppyseed lemon deli muffin), a mountain could move out of their way.

This passage often left me feeling under par. "Well, it's a me-thing. I just don't have enough faith?"

But, if this passage was only meant to instill guilt, then why was another of my favorite stories even included in the Bible?--a chronically bleeding woman crawling between the sweaty sandals of a pressing crowd. She reaches out, touches the fringe of whatever tweedy material Jesus would have been wearing at the time and instantly was healed.

Jesus sensed power flowing from him. "Who touched me?", He said.

When the woman identified herself, her faith was identified by the Healer.

It is no secret. Her issue was an intimate woman-issue. The bleeding stopped. She would have been the only one who could testify to this.

Could she also have marveled and argued with Jesus words (I may have), "My faith healed me? No way. Nope...Jesus, it was you. My faith is shrunk and blistered. My faith is hopeless. YOU healed me, not my faith. I promise, I was so desperate I have nothing left. Not even faith."

Could Jesus have smiled back and said, "Exactly."?

Great faith healed her? I suspect this woman no longer applied the word "great" to herself in any way after what she had been through. She was a sick, broken-down woman with the most invasive, personal and vulnerable affliction: bleeding and unclean. Unclean in that society was so staunchly abhorred that if an unclean person touched a clean person, the clean person (think Lysol) was now unclean (think covid). 

Should she risk Jesus? If not for her sake, than his?

But, like my few students, she chose to consider the creator. She reached. She chose to consider her Creator.

She took a chance to believe that if her faith (poppy seed muffin) could touch even the smallest fringe of the dirt-trod edge of the material that was hanging off Jesus, then...it, He, was her only hope. And, she was at the end of hers. Great faith? Hardly?

Somehow and divinely, 2,000+ years later, this story made it into the select passages captured in the Bible. How many hearts over the centuries can claim that the the devastating and desperate faith of this woman helped to keep theirs afloat?

I can.

On September 24, 2020, again I remembered her. I remembered how the disciples asked Jesus to grow their faith. I wondered that maybe faith grows retroactively? Maybe faith can be both experiential and contagious. Maybe great faith is not what we think it is.

Maybe this woman's poppy-seed faith of reaching was...weak. Maybe it wasn't even the size of a poppy seed on a deli muffin, maybe it was only like a fruit fly on a dried-up muffin-top crust.

The reach of her faith has been recounted, reread, and clasped onto by many others, like me, over the years. Her faith was...strong enough to inspire others. Is this great faith?

To Jesus, her faith was strong enough to reach Him. Because her faith reached Him, her faith made it into Scripture. Her story strengthened my faith. Perhaps my stories have strengthened yours? This, is the synergy of the sharing of faith stories.

Maybe this is how faith grows? Not by measure; but by sharing. 

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September 24, 2020, the opening of my Bible was a last act at the end of a too-long day. Reaching to pull back the cover of my Bible was my last act of faith before I really...just wanted to close my eyes and look forward to the sunrise.

This small act of reaching, too, is an act of faith as small as a poppy seed. This is what I found at the end of my reach.

"But now, note this; from today, this 24th day of the 9th month...and from this day onward, I will bless you." -- Haggaii 2:18, 19

"I will make you like my signet ring, for I have chosen you.' declares the Lord." -- Haggai 2:23

"Instead of bronze, I will bring you gold, and silver in place of iron. Instead of wood, I will bring you bronze, and iron in place of stones..." Isaiah 60:17 

A teacher of art and metalsmithing knows full well the value of metals. God exchanges lesser value for greater. He is taking what we have in our hands and replacing it with what He has...of greater value.

Our act of faith is to reach out with whatever we have in our hands and whatever measure of faith rests there.

My hands hold the tools of an artist. My words hold faith stories. So do yours. Faith stories have power. Share.

An artist-friend, Carol Stroud, shared a verse with me that rang so true,

"And they overcame him (Evil) because of the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony and they did not love their life even to death." -Rev 12:11 

I now wear on my hand a ring specially commissioned by a master metals-creator*, Carol, that I wear every day to remind me of faith that is counted in the reach...faith that is counted in the share. It can be seen on my last finger in the photo below.

Just as I once gave a writing assignment to sift those who imagine further, I wonder that God is looking for those who reach and share...and count it as greater faith.  

And, with the first extension of our heart and mind and hand, "Exactly.", Jesus says.

Because, the fringe of great faith that trails along the bitter end of the hem of His clothing, is an open invitation to everyone.

------

*Carol Stroud/ArtJewelry can be found HERE.

**Special thanks to Artist, Mercia McDonald, for the use her beautiful geli-collage depicting the woman touching the hem of Jesus' garment. Absolutely beautiful!