Castrato. Castrati. And so on.

Wednesday. A day of reading at Barnes & Noble in the Arboretum. A fine day. 

And then, I met the bizarre.

I had gobbled up at least three of them, books - before I arrived at the fourth. I went no further than four books because something in the last book left me both intrigued and pained. With a little indigestion, even.

It was no fault of the author. Lunday, the author of the fourth book, chronicles the lives, achievements and works of a selection of classical music composers from the different eras of music history - in a sturdy book, not more than an inch thick. A brilliant book, I thought, despite its shocking title. So real, so deep, and yet so concise. An easy book to read, I liked most things about it - the caricature illustrations, fonts and Lunday's humour (which kept cracking me up). My appreciation for classical music and her composers has bulked up with just one read. The book, however, is certainly not the most conventional of its genre. Lunday is creative in familiarising the opaque, bizarre and complex details that they become especially memorable.

Alas, I am stuck ruminating on the subject of castrati. The most memorable thing ever.

Castrati does not spell the name of an Italian dish, although I have no idea why it reminds me of food. Castrati (singular: castrato) were the breed of "angelic" voices who have inspired great operatic arias in especially the 18th century. Where and how were they made? In special surgical rooms of Italy, talented pre-pubescent boys who had consented to devote their lives to becoming opera singers or royal vocalists (whether by their own choice or by that of their parents who desired stardom for their sons for monetary reasons) were castrated to prevent them from reaching puberty. The castrati were Italian eunuchs in the name of art. 

The result of the brutal pursuit? Their voices never broke - and therefore, retained the flexible vocal range of young boys. Such voices were favoured for their pitch and power, with the high notes of a pre-pubescent boy passing from the intensely cultivated anatomy of an adult. (Of course the castration was just the beginning. They had to train hard. More about the castrati here and here.)

Well, my curiosity got the better of me. 

I absolutely had to listen to a castrato sing. 

I did. And my heart broke. For the life of me, I don't know how people could have ever thought such singing to be angelic, magical or ethereal. It made my skin creep, hands-down. (It also made my first encounter with a human cadaver seem mild.) It was not merely about voice quality. I have nothing against men who achieve falsetto naturally via technique (I do know of such a person). Or eunuchs. Or those born with the genetic condition of Kallmann's. Rather, it was knowing the story behind the voice that made the difference. I couldn't imagine how any parent could have had the heart to set his/her sons on such a career path. Difficult decisions must have been made. And I won't attempt to put myself in the shoes of the Italian eunuch, exotically glamorous his life must have been. 

Picture Source

Well, the castrati were celebrated artists in their own right, no doubt. If I had lived that many centuries ago, when women were barred from stage-work, I might have been a fan myself. Perhaps, I might have savoured the singing. But here I am, a child of a different era. I enjoy jazz and harmonising tenor voices.

Which brings me to the almost unrelated subject of pain and the artist. I have blogged about this before (just in case you find it familiar).

Pain is often food to artists, bitter as it is for the moment.

Food. Not merely knowledge, beauty or even the love that warms one's lonely heart - but pain.

Vincent Van Gogh's "Starry Night"

An artist often goes through hell to bring the world a glimpse of heaven, so to speak. I won't over-generalize, but this, I have often found to be true.

It is often through the worst, darkest, most desperate times and circumstances of an artist's life - that the most moving songs, poetry, dances or paintings have been birthed. Such forms of art have been known to refresh others who are in pain. Like a soothing balm.

The elegance of pain-birthed art is like that of a pearl embedded in an oyster's shell. As a result of irritation, the pearl took form in a dignified, determined and unperturbed manner out of existing God-given resources. Its lustre shakes the core of hearts and induces peace in the midst of unrest. Even when reality points to the absence of a present solution, one feels comforted that the artist can identify with his/her pain. Even if wordlessly.
 
But is there comfort and healing for suffering artists?

In prayer and solitude? Undoubtedly so. In the company of the like-minded? Probably. But perhaps, suffering also calls for artists, having looked up and around, to bear down and push.

Maybe... put it all into a song, a poignant dance, a poem, a humble painting, a rough sculpture, a drawing in the sand, a bottle of stars, a crafted jewellery, a knitted dress, a patchwork quilt, a heart-warming cake, what have you ~ and push it out as fervently as you possibly can for the many eyes, ears, noses, mouths, minds, hands and heart to perceive. Take time every now and then to appreciate God's artistry. Be out in the wild, listen to the nocturnal serenades, watch the dances of nature, feel the wind against your face - or study human anatomy. And then be inspired by God's authenticity in His creation of His world. Beauty in the deep, form in a formless void, light in darkness, a man from mere dust.

Healing might or might not come in a gush... but all the same, healing begins. Furthermore, as any creative effort and appreciation of creativity are the embodiment of the image of our Creator in us, we would have rubbed shoulders with Him - who also heals.  

Subsequently, we may express our art in the backdrop of promise and hope.

They say that an artist's legacy rests on whether or not his art was true to his heart. I would like to add that an artist's legacy also rests on whether or not his art resonates with the hearts of those it has been created to reach. Suffering is a necessary ordeal in this world we live in. Only artists who understand the sufferings of mankind and hope, can truly produce their empathic balms.

Finally, to fellow Christian artists: we are responsible for our artistic expressions.

Our art should not merely serve to entertain. It can and will and must - but our art should also redeem. The Greek word for "redeem" in the Bible is used of the ransom paid to free slaves from slavery or captives from captivity. It is an important metaphor used to help us understand what Jesus has done for us on the cross - with regard to sin and death. Art that redeems not only induces a yearning for freedom in its beholders. It also holds the key to freedom for its beholders - from their many bondages. Such art envelops the hope of Christ. Such art, God also uses to bring life.

I am not saying that we need to brand our art with Bible verses or churchy jargon. A drawing of a flower, for instance, could just consist of a stalk, two leaves and five petals on a blank sheet of paper. It could be a drawing of a withered flower if need be. However, it is worth exploring how our hope in Christ may shine forth in such a drawing - creatively and extravagantly. Of course, to do so we need to first embrace this hope and know what we are hoping for in the midst of the pains that we endure.

This is not easy. I often struggle to embrace hope. But let such struggles not be wasted. I pray that out of these struggles, I may give more and yet share God's love and hope with others through my art. Yes, the love and hope of the God who stoops down to look at us and raise us from the dust (cf. Ps 113:6-7).