Traditionally, the New Year brings New Year’s Resolutions, and even New Year’s Predictions in the media or as party games. In that vein, I came up with a list of New Year’s Wishes — things I hope will happen for Mormon Literature, Media and Culture:

I wish:

• For a new, original Mormon work to be published in any language except English.
• For Deseret Book to recognize its responsibilities to Mormon Culture as the dominant retailer and publisher in the market.
• For the LDSBA to make an effort to expand distribution of LDS books outside the Intermountain West.
• For a popular work of LDS fiction to be published during the year that is worthy of literary respect.
• For an LDS mystery or crime novel to be published during the year.
• For an advertising or marketing avenue to develop that will reach a significant number of LDS Church members outside of Utah.
• For a work of LDS fiction aimed at men to become popular.
• For one additional University to add a course in Mormon Literature.

I know they all seem a bit far-fetched. I can dream, can’t I?

Please add your wishes for the year to this list.

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I recently prepared a Christmas package for my missionary son and hit upon the idea of searching past Ensign magazines for missionary Christmas stories to add to the package. I’m not sure if these stories are typical of other missionary Christmas stories, but I can say that the stories I found included two broad themes: stories of missionaries caroling (or giving other musical performances) and stories of missionaries overcoming loneliness. [I do believe there are other themes in these stories, I just didn't come across them in my very limited search.]In the latter theme, I found a very fine first-person account by George Durant entitled I Found the Heart of Christmas about what has to be one of the most difficult missionary Christmases anyone has experienced. That story is  worth your time.

I also included in the package to my son one of the oldest examples of this genre, a story by Nephi Anderson entitled The Lewellen Family’s Christmas Present, published in the Millennial Star, a predecessor of the Liahona, on December 14, 1905.

As a sort of Christmas greeting, I thought I would present it here. Its somewhat typical of Anderson’s stories–it might be described as didactic because Anderson can’t resist explaining gospel principles in the story. But it also echoes this same theme of overcoming loneliness. Also notable in the story is the significantly different missionary practices of a century ago, including less emphasis on companions staying together, missionaries working alone, and missionaries visiting friends and families during their missions.

Don’t expect too much of the story. It is a century old, and isn’t in the same league as the masters of that time, let alone those of our time. But it has a kind of pleasant, sweet tone that, I think, makes it worth reading at least once. [I look forward to comments on this story, or on the missionary story genre.]

THE LEWELLEN FAMILY’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

BY ELDER NEPHI ANDERSON
(from the Millennial Star, 14 December 1905)

ELDER MARTIN was lost. Much as he disliked acknowledging the fact even to himself, the truth was plainly evident. He had lost his way in the black fog, which rested as a pall over the city.

He had started out from his lodgings that afternoon to buy in for his Christmas dinner the next day, His companion had gone to visit some relatives in London, having received an invitation to spend a few days of the Christmas holidays with them. He did not like to leave Elder Martin alone, but the latter urged him to go, and so he was now alone–a stranger in a strange land that Christmas Eve.

Although the mills had closed down for the holidays, it seemed that the smoke from the forest of chimneys still hung over the city, as if loath to leave. The short winter afternoon soon turned to evening. The gas lamps were lit, and down the main streets the electric lights gleamed and sputtered.

Elder Martin had taken his time about making his purchases, and when he at length left the business section of the city to go back to his lodgings, he found that he was considerably out of his usual course. He walked about for some time trying to get his bearings, but the twists and turns of the streets seemed to twist and turn him until he was bewildered more than ever, For a time he took it good naturedly, realizing that even if he was lost, there was no harm in it. He rather enjoyed the sensation, as he wandered about from one street to another of the big, busy city–and then, the walk kept the sense of lonesomeness, which weighed heavily on him from becoming too acute.

Feeling tired, he asked a policeman to direct him to the street where his lodgings were. He followed as best he could the directions of “the first turn to the right and the second to the left, and then keep straight ahead,” but after fully an hour’s walk, to his astonishment and vexation, he came back again to the point from which he had started.

But the young “Mormon” missionary was not to be beaten at such trifles. He started again, and got well out into the residential parts of the city. The smoke seemed to be mixed with a damp fog, and the darkness became intense. Traffic was stilled, and few people moved about. He asked for directions a number of times, but the persons he met did not know his street. The police seemed to have vanished with the daylight, as none were to be seen. Elder Martin stood at a street corner, speculating what direction be ought to take or what he ought to try next.

Then he walked slowly down a narrow street. He would have to knock at some door and make enquiries, but Elder Martin was yet timid, as be had been in England only three months, and he was not naturally a self-confident man.

From a house nearby came the sound of singing. Elder Martin stopped and listened, as the song was familiar to him. Girls’ voices were singing Luther’s Cradle Hymn:

“Away in a manger, no crib for His bed.
The little Lord Jesus lay down His wee head;
The stars in the heavens looked down where He lay;
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.
Asleep, asleep, asleep, the Savior in a stall,
Asleep, asleep, the Lord of all.”

Elder Martin listened until the close of the song, then knocked on the door, which was presently opened by a pleasant-faced woman of over middle age. He stepped into the open doorway, by force of tracting habit.

“Pardon my disturbing you,” he said; “but I, being somewhat a stranger in the city, have lost my way, and am trying to find someone that is able to help me to find it again.”

The woman stood looking at the young man for a moment without replying. Then she said, “Come in–sit down,” and handed him a chair. At a glance he took in the room and its occupants. The mother, evidently, was the central figure, and around her was her family of five children, ranging from a little girl to one who had attained to the years of womanhood. They were all very attentive to what the young man and the mother were saying, having turned from the piano, where they, no doubt, had been singing.

“I live at No. 14 Lethom Road” said the Elder. “Am I anywhere near it.”

“You are at least two miles from Lethom Road,” replied the mother, “as it is on the other side of the city.”

“Well, I am indeed lost,” he exclaimed.

“You may be a long way from home, sir, but, I hope, not lost. My boy will show you a tram that will take you home.”

“I thank you very much,” and Elder Martin arose to go.

“Pardon me,” said the woman, “but if you are not in a great hurry, I should like to ask you a few questions.”

The young man sat down. He was pleased enough to stay, and as his business was to talk to all who would listen to him, he never let an opportunity go by when he could get a hearing. Again, this house into which he had so strangely come seemed to him so cozy and home-like that he felt drawn to it. But what could be wanted of him? He was certainly a total stranger to them all.

“You are a preacher, aren’t you–a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus?”

“Yes; I am a missionary,” answered the astonished Elder.

“And you have come with good news for us–tidings of great joy–I know it, for you see, the Lord has shown it to me.”

The woman’s face beamed with a fervent joy, while the others looked strangely at her.

“You will think this is strange,” she said, and she drew a chair up to the table and sat down; “but let me explain it to you. My name is Annie Lewellen, and these are my children. Their father died ten years ago, and we have all struggled along together until now. It has been hard, and now the mills are only running half time–but, pardon me, that isn’t what I want to tell you about. For years I have been dissatisfied with what goes by the name of religion in this country. I have found no satisfaction in any of it. I have gone to churches and chapels. I have heard learned divines and fervid revivalists, but nowhere have I found that which satisfies me. They all seem so far from that which I read of in the Bible!”

The girls took seats around the table and listened to the mother as keenly as did the visitor.

“My husband,” she continued, “was not what the ministers call a religious man. He very seldom went to church, because he said he could not believe much that was preached; but he was a good man, was my husband, no matter what all the preachers in Christendom said to the contrary. Never a hard word, never a visit to the dram shop, always kind to me and the children… But there, I’m rambling again. I have also given up going to church, but I don’t feel at all right. I fear that we shall all grow up heathens. The truth must be somewhere, and we–I say we because my daughters have been with me–we have pleaded with the Lord that He would show us the right. About six weeks ago I dreamed of a young man coming in at the door just as you came in this evening. I thought he had a Christmas box under his arm, but on the box was written in plain letters ‘Gospel.’ He put the box on the table, opened it, and gave each of us a present. Maud”–turning to the oldest daughter–”did I not tel1 you of my dream at the time?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Well, this gentleman is the one I saw in my dream. I knew him the moment he entered the door.”

Elder Martin moved his chair up to the table. Then from the inside pocket of his coat he took his Bible and placed it on the table. He thought not of the immediate errand that had brought him there. He forgot his loneliness. As he looked into the beaming eyes about him, his soul went out to the hearts yearning for consolation and hungering for the bread of life. And then a power came over him, a power that drove away fear or hesitancy, that made him master of the situation. They all watched him intently.

“This is Christmas Eve,” said he, “and I will give to you all the most beautiful Christmas present you have ever received… I am a missionary, an Elder in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and my name is Martin. I have come from my home six thousand miles away to tell you of the restoration to the earth of the same Gospel that was preached by Christ and His disciples anciently–the Gospel that has power to bless and to save not only in the world to come, but to bring peace and joy into the life we are now living.”

One of the girls placed some coals in the grate, and then came back to the table. Another turned up the gas. Elder Martin opened the Bible and began to teach them “as one having authority, and not as the scribes.” Faith, repentance, baptism, the Holy Ghost–its office and operations–were explained and proved from the Scriptures. They all drank in his words eagerly. Even the smallest girl drew her chair up, and, resting her arms on the table, looked steadfastly into the face of the teacher–a face that glowed with the inspiration of the Spirit, for never before had the young Elder had such freedom in explaining the Gospel.

There was the most perfect quietness. No questions were asked; no objections were raised. Elder Martin touched lightly upon the apostasy, and then explained the need of a restoration. He described the Church of Christ with apostles and prophets, enjoying the gifts and blessings as the natural outgrowth of the Spirit of God operating within it… “But I fear I am tiring you,” he at last suggested.

“You are not, Elder Martin, go on. See how interested we all are. Are you tired, girls?”

There was a chorus of “No’s.”

Elder Martin looked at his watch. It was only eight o’clock. No one was waiting for him at his lodgings–besides, he was not lost now. Outside, the fog and the smoke might be ever so black, inside there was light, and peace, and love, and he felt contented and happy.

“My husband believed all that you have just told us,” said the mother. “He used to talk to me about these principle, and he often wondered why the churches of today did not teach them.”

“Well he might,” was the reply, “but, you see, the falling away from the faith explains that. The world has been without the Gospel in its purity and power for hundreds of years, and it is the beautiful story of its restoration that I have been sent to tell.”

“Tell us about it.”

Then the simple yet sublime story of Joseph Smith’s first vision was recited. He told them of the angels’ visits, of the opening heavens, of the Hill Cumorah and its sacred contents, of the organization of the Church, and briefly, of its trials and persecutions.

“We are known to the world at large by the name of ‘Mormons’” he said, as a concluding sentence, “but our true name is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

The Elder noted carefully what effect this announcement would have on his listeners, for he had learned through experience what power a name has on the prejudices of men and women; but he noted with pleasure that they were not shocked by the announcement.

“I care not for the name,” said the mother, “or what people say; what you have been telling us appeals to me as the truth–and the truth is what I want, no matter by what name it is called.”

Elder Martin again suggested going, but they would not listen to it until he had had supper with them. “Our fare is very simple,” was explained, “but you are welcome, very welcome, if you will stay.”

Elder Martin thanked them. One of the girls took his coat, and he seated himself on the sofa out of the way of those who became busy with table and dishes. He coaxed the little girl to come and sit on his knee, and she soon became friendly with him. He told her of his own little girl at home across the sea, and they speculated what she might be doing that same Christmas Eve. Then the table was ready and they all surrounded it again.

“I have not introduced you to my family yet,” said the mother. “This is Maud, the oldest.” Elder Martin shook hands with her, and then also with Isabella, and Susan, and Willie–little Martha he knew already.

Tea was served to all, but the young man asked if he might have a cup of warm water instead. He flavored it with milk and sweetened it with sugar as the others did.

“Is this the family?” enquired the young man.

“Yes,” replied the mother, “We are all here. So far, we have been able to keep together, thank the Lord–and, more than that, all my girls are good girls.”

“Well, mother!” remonstrated Maud.

“Make no protest,” said he. “Your mother knows, and it does not harm you to hear her say so. When I see the sin and degradation in this big city, I think you ought to be very grateful indeed that you have been protected from it.”

In their talk around the table he learned that the three oldest girls were workers in one of the mills. The mother was housekeeper, and Martha and Willie went to school.

“I am a ‘twister,’” explained one of the girls, “and I have to stand on one leg all day.”

Elder Martin was nonplused at the remark, and the girl explained further that the nature of her work in the mill brought into play the lifted knee, first one and then the other as she went back and forth tying the broken threads. He was very much interested in her explanation, as also of those of the other girls who gave an account of their daily occupation in the mill.

Elder Martin’s mission was to follow in the example of the great Master who went about doing good, and with the truth that he had and the priesthood that he bore, to bring the blessings of the Gospel to as many as would receive them. He was eager to give, but, strange as it may seem, the great difficulty was to find those who would accept. The more lives his life could touch, and by that touch impart to them some happiness, the fuller, the richer, the happier his own life became. That, no doubt, was the reason why he felt so very happy that Christmas Eve.

It was ten o’clock before he finally arose to go. Willie got his cap to go with him and show him the right car to take.

“When shall we see you again?” asked Mrs. Lewellen.

“I shall be pleased to call at any time,” replied the Elder.

“Come and eat Christmas dinner with us tomorrow.”

Elder Martin hesitated. Had he not in his capacious overcoat pockets the purchases for his own Christmas dinner!

“You say you are alone, so come and eat with us. It will be simple fare, but you will be welcome; and I have many questions to ask you.”

“I will come if you will take the place of my house-keeper to-morrow. See, I have already made my purchases, and I don’t want to be disappointed in my rice pudding. Are you going to have rice pudding tomorrow?”

“Well, we were not, but–”

“That was to be the chief course in my dinner,” he said, as he placed some packages on the table. “If you will make me a big rice pudding, and put in plenty of raisins, I will promise to come. Is it a bargain?”

As none of the older girls answered immediately, little Martha spoke up: “I can make a pudding.”

“Good,” said he, and he lifted her on to a chair by the table, “Here, examine these and see if they will do.”

He made a hole in the side of a bag, and out fell some raisins.

“Taste them,” he admonished, “as he filled her hands. “I am a poor judge, but you, as an experienced cook, will be able to tell.”

Martha tasted, and said they were good, and would do.

“But there isn’t enough now. Willie here will go with me and we’ll buy some more.”

“No,” spoke up the mother, “there will be plenty.”

“It’s a bargain then?”

“I suppose so,” she said with a smile.

“All right; but before I go, sing again Luther’s Cradle Hymn.”

They gathered around the piano. Martha looked at Elder Martin with a peculiar expression on her face. He saw it and asked, “What is it, Martha?”

“I can’t understand how you are a preacher.”

“Why, how is that?”

“Well, you can’t be a preacher–you are so different–an’ besides, your collar doesn’t button at the back.”

Martha had not intended to be funny, and she could not understand why they all laughed at her.

“But if you are not a preacher, what shall I call you?” she continued.

“Call him Santa Claus,” suggested Willie, who had also had a handful of raisins.
Then they all sang,

“Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay.
Close by me for ever, and love me, I pray–”

Outside, the fog and smoke still filled the air. The top of each street lamp looked like a luminous cloud with a bright center; but its light did not penetrate far into the darkness. By the aid of the little boy Elder Martin soon found his way to the car that took him homeward. Although alone, he was no longer lonesome, for had he not the companionship of pleasant thoughts, and an assurance that he had brought the one great Christmas present to a home where it would be prized as the pearl of great price!

So here it goes:

1. Mormon literature is like that Kafka quote about the axe and the frozen sea, except with a tub of Jello and a rubber mallet instead.

2. Mormon poetry is like the cute but slightly overweight girl (or guy) you meet at youth conference and end up hanging with the whole weekend and then make sure to dance with several times at every stake and multi-stake dance that year, but never contact or really even think about in between dances.

3. Mormon genre fiction is like a cheap knock-off of a counterfeit Louis Vuitton bag.

4. Mormon literature isn’t athletic enough to be a jock, emo enough to be a freak, funky enough to be ethnic, or well-dressed enough to be preppie.

5. Mormon creative non-fiction is like the overt overuse of alliteration in a conference talk.

6. Mormon journals are like the people at work who always bug you with “we need better lines of communication” or “well, has everyone gone over the business plan” or “we need to rewrite our mission and vision” or “we’re still looking for volunteers to be emergency building coordinators” or “want to sign up for our potluck/fun run/food drive” or “how will this lead to greater synergy in the organization.”

7. Mormon short stories are like that woman at work who still thinks her first generation pink Motorola Razr is cool.

8. Mormon bloggers are like the kid in the back of your first grad school class that gives every single text and every single discussion a Marxist/Lacanian/Feminist/Jungian/Reader Response reading.

9. Mormon novels are the Trader Joe’s of the world of crafted, sourced gourmet food. Or maybe Cost Plus World Market is better because Trader Joe’s has some humor in the way it markets.

10. Mormon literature is that turquoise and coral bead necklace your aunt gave for Christmas one year that you really want to like and maybe even wear, but for some reason it just stays at the bottom of your jewelery box and gets tangled up with the Young Womanhood Recognition Medallion and the cheap charm bracelet your first boyfriend gave you.

11. Mormon film is like that one time you and your companion taught the first discussion to a couple that were clearly not married, not interested and most likely stoned.

12. Mormon criticism is that one guy in IT who is a major Linux/open source enthusiast/evangelist in an organization that uses Microsoft everything.

13. Mormon literature is klezmer without the Jewish history and Gypsy-ness, polka without the irony, speed metal without the virtuoso guitar work, twee pop without the hip pop cultural references, post-punk without the politics, modern R&B without the AutoTune.

Okay, I think I’m done. Feel free to add your own.

With the abundance of short stories, the two critical essays and especially the original art, this double issue, in my mind, is the closest Irreantum has gotten to becoming the refreed, (utterly) literary journal that it claims it wants to be. These changes culminate a process that began several years ago when Laraine Wilkins took over the reins from Chris Bigelow. I have very mixed feelings about this process — and my reaction was made all the more complicated by the fact that this issue marks my debut in print.

But before we get to that, some quick takes on a few pieces from the issue:

Yeah, so it’s a conflict of interest, but I like Tyler Chadwick’s poems. They’re approachable and real and funny. And the other poetry was pretty good too. I think I’m warming up to the Mormon poetry idea.

The critical essays are great. The reviews are pretty good — and I do like the more critical review type format, although it does seem like several of the reviews are way past the cultural moment (which is too bad).

Now we get to the fiction. Theric has already posted his reactions. Here are mine in an order that will soon become clear:

I like that “Gypsy Holiday” by Kristin Carson is a Mormons in Diaspora story. All the others are Intermountain West oriented (with several being rural) and I’m a little tired of that even though it needs to be done and is by no means exhausted (heh — just noticed that Theric is also sick of the rural thing). So this is a nice departure. A straightforward story about a Mormon mom who Thanksgiving tradition is broken when the Mormon family they usually host decides to go to a family member’s celebration instead. It’s a good story, but nothing really stands out and, as Theric mentions, the point of view switch at then end is lame. And in fact I’d judge it more harshly than him. I think it ruins the story. I think the mom needs to have a moment at the end rather than disappear off camera.

“Reap in Mercy” by Darin Cozzens is quite similar, actually, to his short story “Light of the New Day” in the previous edition of Irreantum (9.1). It’s all about a rural, emotionally reserved man whose life is affected by the death of a farmer father (although this time it’s another character’s father who dies). Cozzens is an excellent writer with a knack for nice images and if the ending is a little too sweet, I don’t see anything wrong with exposing what Adam Greenwood likes to call the sweetness of Mormon life. It wouldn’t be the strongest story in the collection, but I could take a set of Cozzens short stories that hang together the way these two do (albeit with, hopefully, a little more variation among them).

With “This Afternoon” by Wayne Jorgensen, I can’t help but feel that he’s making this out to be much more clever and much less trangressive than it actually is. Also seems a bit old-fashioned. Emotional infidelity is all about Second Life and Wow, these days, you know? But really, it’s an okay story. I didn’t learn much of anything from it, and I didn’t get much enjoyment out of it. It’s simply rather flat.

And now we reach where I’m really going with this post: the three best stories in issue and the ones I have the biggest problems with: “Calling and Election” by Jack Harrell, “Salt Water” by Arianne, Cope, and “Cause” by Mark Brown.

These are well-written, very literary, very modern-American-literature stories. And I didn’t really like reading them. And although they sort of got their hooks into aspects of my literary fanboy personality, they didn’t do much for me as a Mormon, and the final reading experience was one of distaste and detachment.

It’s kind of difficult for me to say why. And this is more of a personal than a lit-crit reaction. But I think has to do with the usage of Mormon materials. All three stories have searing images and symbolism. They really try to make use of some Mormon concepts and moments. But they do so without humor and without any sort of real nod to faithfulness and most of all they employ the rather annoying technique that so many literary fiction writers seem to be in love with these days of using the fantastical and/or the freakish. And it’s not done in a way that I would consider either magic realism or Mormon folk realism. In fact, I think that modern American literary fiction writers need to think real hard before they use the fantastical in their stories because too often when they do, it leads to clumsiness and cul-de-sacs of meaning.

In addition, although I completely understand the siren call of ambiguity and fascination with that certain clever (Theric invokes Jonathan Safran Foer) deployment of grotesqueness that turns out to have nothing to say about anything other than its own self. Truth be told, I don’t hate these stories or even the methods they use. But I had a particularly allergic reaction to them this time.

I also have the sense that with these stories the literary has swallowed and hollowed out the Mormonism rather than the Mormonism subverting the literary. And although that’s completely a predictable and perhaps even a desirable result, I was left wanting more from the evident talent on display. Once could remove the Mormon elements from each of these stories, and the images would be just as searing. And the searing, at least in my case, had no power to refine.

So although I can clearly call this edition of Irreantum a triumph of literary respectability, it is less clear that it has a whole lot of interesting things to say about Mormonism, or at least about LDS life, and I’m not convinced that it’s a direction that’s going to lead to anything more than literary respectability. And I’m not at all interested in being respectable.

To be clear, this is not an Orson Scott Card denunciation of all-things-literary. Although I am a fan of genre, I’m also well aware of its limits and annoyances and tendencies — limits best typified of late in Brandon Sanderson’s conclusion to the Mistborn series, which is most definitely a triumph filled with some nice Mormon resonances, but on the whole contains blunter satisfactions and shallower deepnesses than what can be achieved using more literary tools.

And all the above should read in light of two personal quirks of mine that no doubt highly influenced my reactions (because I can see myself being a lot more excited by the three stories I single out above at other times in my past — and perhaps future).

The first, as expressed in my liner notes to Speculations: Trees, is that my reading experience was no doubt colored by my own authorial anxieties about misreading of intentions, which were stirred up even more by the company my work finds itself in because of a probable non-fear that the surrounding literary ambiguity is propping up my little vignettes more than I would like because my whole idea was for them to implode in dark humor and post-post-modern absurdity (hypermodern is the term Theric uses — I’m not quite sure I like that one, but I suppose it fits) thus refracting, hopefully, some brackish light on an orthodox core.

The second is more difficult to explain but has to do with the fine-edged restlessness I find myself reaching where nothing Mormon or secular, genre or literary seems to satisfy. A needless compressing down of the radical middle into not so much a semi-precious stone as a cheap trinket that glows only under the right light most likely suggesting that I need to blow the whole thing wide again and reset the filters. Which I’m, of course, already doing. After all, both Fritz Leiber and Saul Bellow can be good for the soul, and I’m thinking it’s time for some young adult novels and, yes, some Mormon fiction again. But still. Even though it’s most definitely not burn out, I suppose it’s only natural that in refining an aesthetic, one’s going to reach a point where the palette needs a break or at least a refresher. Which now that I think about it, may be the reason for a newish, unprecedented interest in orchestral and other forms of metal (although to be honest, it’s not really doing it for me yet).

Anyway. I reserve the right to change my opinions. A rereading of Irreantum and a look at the Jack Harrell interview may make me reconsider. But this is my initial report. Oh, and I should add that I’m a big fan of Harrell’s novel Vernal Promises. It’s very much worth picking up.

Like any good product of the YWs Personal Progress program *wink*, I set a goal. To be specific, I set a goal to read one book a week for the entire year. It seemed like a lot to me at the time. (I got schooled by Th. who has read twice as many and I’ve heard authors/writers like Tristi Pinkston read hundreds of books a year.)  I was pretty jazzed about my goal but I quickly realized that my previous reading habits (which included lots of historical nonfiction, regular nonfiction, and “literary” novels) would kill it. Those books are too hard/engrossing for me to read in a single week. I tend to let books tell me how to read them and most of those kinds of books want to be read slowly.

I ended up reading a lot of fiction, more than I have since my literature survey courses in college. And, surprisingly, over half of my 52 books were LDS/Mormon titles. I inter-library loaned almost all of them since there are only a few at my local library and I’m not made of money. Here’s a rundown of those titles split into categories of “Must own”,  “Worth the inter-library loan wait”, and “If someone happens to hand it to you, why not?”  So if you are still shopping for a literature lover (or yourself!) here are some ideas (beside William’s hawt AMV t-shirts).

Must own books

*Enna Burning by Shannon Hale. Read my  previous review and read Patricia Karamesines review. A chick who can control fire? Sweet!

*Bound on Earth by Angela Hallstrom. This book has been blogged and blogged about. I personally think it marks a change in what LDS women can/will write.

*The Pictograph Murders by Patricia Karamesines. There was such a spirit of grace and charity about this book–even though it was a riveting murder mystery! Definitely worth it.

*Angel of the Danube by Alan Rex Mitchell. I *heart* this book! Okay, that was unnecessarily cheesy, but I LOVED this one. A fictional sort-of-memoir with a main character that was so run-of-the-mill Mormon I couldn’t help but identify with him. AML Novel of the Year awhile back.

*This is What I Did: by Ann Dee Ellis. Read my review and interview here.

*On the Road to Heaven by Coke Newell. There’s no way you haven’t heard of this one. Whitney Award winner and AML Novel of the Year. Good, good book.

*The Earthkeepers by Marilyn McMeen Miller Brown. This beats out any pioneer story I’ve read. Loved the addtion of American Indian characters. Wanted more from them actually. That’s the book’s only flaw in my mind. This book deserves a full on review but I’m worried that I’m hogging the blog so I haven’ t done it yet.

Worth the inter-library loan wait

*The Backslider by Levi Peterson. It’s a Mormon classic. You can’t talk about LDS literature without having read this one. Well, you can. But you’re missing out. It is a little graphic and rough (which makes me hesitant to own it. What if my children find it? How do I explain the masturbation and the self-mutilation and castration? Talk about awkward!), but portions of it are devestatingly beautiful. There were paragraphs I read multiple times simply because they were so well written.

*Not In Vain: The inspiring story of Ellis Shipp, pioneer woman doctor. by Susan Evans McCloud. This book is a biography of Ellis Shipp, one of the first female doctors in Utah. Oh, and she was also Mormon and married to a man with other wives.  Shipp’s story is riveting, and its implications for our modern culture of LDS women are huge, but McCloud’s telling is overly romantic and taxed the patience of this reader. This story could use another telling. I hope there’s a historical fiction writer somewhere out there who’s up for it.

*Heresies of Nature by Margaret Blair Young. Beautifully written–the metamorphosis of Cody is crazy/cool– but so, so, so sad. Bummed me out for a couple days. But worth it.

*Lost Boys: A Novel by OSC. You actually don’t need to ILL this one. It’s probably in the stacks. Interesting take on Mormon life. The Mormon characters seemed a little contrived and the bad guys were almost too bad to be believable, but in essence it portrays Mormon mindsets pretty well.  Oh, and the Atari/Commodore 64 stuff made it feel dated, but not dated enough to be vintage.

*Angel Falling Softly by Eugen Woodbury. I was really shocked by this one the first time I read it (lesbian vampire sex scene!). Interested enough, though, that I went back and read it again. It’s not on my “must own” simply because I’m still not sure how I feel about it. I also think it didn’t go quite far enough. There were some essentially Mormon questions that it toyed with but, in my opinion, should have wrestled with.  Good read though. Loved the comparison of bubbling cider and Utah culture. Laughed out loud.

*Kindred Spirits by Chris Bigelow. I reviewed this before and didn’t like it so much.  This book is a great conversation piece.

If someone happens to hand it to you, why not?

*Princess Academy by Shannon Hale. If I were, like, eleven, I would love this book. Good message about the power of good friends and community.

*Hooligan: A Mormon Boyhood by Douglas Thayer. I didn’t understand this book, but that might be because I’m not a ten year old boy growing up in rural Utah. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t read it.

*Salvador by Margaret Blair Young. Literary equivalent of ordering a hamburger and only getting the bun. Not bad, just unsatisfying.

*The Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer. Nuff said. You want more? Submit a paper here.

*Funeral Home Evenings (Kevin Kirk Chronicles, 2) and Early-Morning Cemetery by Patricia Wiles. Diverting enough for books aimed at young readers.  I really appreciated how these books weren’t set in Utah.

*A Soul So Rebellious and its sequels by Mary Sturlaugson Eyer. Found these memoir of the first black LDS woman to serve a mission on the “free” table at Church. I think they could’ve used some better editing.  The author was always telling her history inside of another, almost more interesting, saga. The first book is told as she is waiting for very, very, very white fiancee to meet her very, very black family.  But the book doesn’t tell that story. It’s about how she joined the Church.  It frustrated me. Of course, given Eyer’s place in our history, these are important books. I’m glad I found them.

*Charlie’s Monument by Blaine Yorgasen. This is such quintessential Mormon Literature. You can get used copies of it cheap. Worth knowing about.

I learned a lot about myself reading these books and I look forward to another year of voracious reading. Be sure to leave me your recommendations in the comments. Oh, and happy (you’ve only got six shopping days left–act fast if you have to ship something) shopping!

Even more unusual, the book seemed to me like something that should be aimed at a national audience, something that Deseret Book has no strength in whatsoever.

I have no idea what will happen to the book I saw announced. I can’t imagine that Deseret Book will publish it — it doesn’t seem to me like it fits Deseret Book’s publishing program. I also don’t expect that any national publisher is likely to pick it up, so I guess it will either not be published at all, or appear on the list of one of the print-on-demand service companies that I’ve warned authors about.

More and more incidents like this one convince me that many LDS authors don’t really know what it means to be an LDS author, and how that might be different from being some other kind of author. And, most importantly, these LDS authors don’t know what they need to know.

Now I don’t mean to suggest that being an author who is LDS somehow means you have to write for the LDS market, or that you can’t write some kinds of works. But I do think that a author’s religion has to have an effect on their writing. I’m sure someone will comment in response to this post saying that there shouldn’t be any difference at all. If so, then what good is a religion that can’t manage to influence the kind of material that an author writes or how the author is perceived? I tried to answer that question recently in the post What’s the Difference?

I also don’t mean to suggest that there exists some special body of esoteric knowledge that only LDS authors will understand. I think what LDS authors need to know is easy to understand, but at times difficult to put into practice. Largely, what LDS authors need to know is the same as what other authors need to know, except for two broad areas that are exceptions.

First, and most importantly, LDS authors need to know how their religious beliefs, culture and experience impact both their writing and the process of getting the works they produce published. Of course just like other authors, LDS authors need to know how to approach a publisher, how to format a query and how to negotiate a contract. But I’m not talking about that knowledge. There are dozens of author guides and other resources that give that information. I’m talking about the direct effects of the author’s beliefs and culture on writing and on negotiations with publishers–how including LDS elements or themes in a book can affect whether or not a publisher looks at the manuscript, or how NOT including expected material, again because of the author’s LDS beliefs or culture, might trip up getting it published.

It is, of course, simplistic to say that an author’s LDS values, regardless of what they are or how they might surface in a book, will automatically prevent it from being published because of the “liberal bias of publishers,” just as it is simplistic to believe that the LDS experience is unique or common or fascinating to others, leading publishers searching for LDS works. The details of a work determine its success. How a work is written, how it is presented and to whom it is presented matter far more than the publisher’s biases (if any) or the public’s inherent interest, or lack thereof, in Mormonism.

Second, LDS authors need to know about the LDS market. Again, I will not be surprised when someone says that they will never ever publish in the LDS market. I think they still need to know some basics about the LDS market. Not only is it foolish to ignore a place where the author’s work might be sold (I don’t know ANY author who can say what every future work they write will be about, and therefore be certain that those works will never find their best fit in the LDS market), it is also shortsighted to believe that nothing can be learned, positive or negative, from the market. If nothing else, the LDS market might become more valuable by the participation of more authors.

Both of these areas encompass a wealth of questions and judgments that LDS authors must face and navigate. I’m not sure that I know them all, and I certainly don’t have experience with most of them. So I’m interested in what you, dear reader, can add to these questions. What do LDS authors need to know? What problems have you run into that would have been smoothed if you knew more ahead of time? Am I right about these two general areas of needed knowledge? What don’t you know that you would like to know?

But Poesy … alas!  Frequently she is reduced to nothing but a score – print on a page, unplayed, uninterpreted, the harmonics of her voice lost upon the eye, even when it is able to observe, “I see alliteration here and at these points, rhyme.”  Limiting poesy’s ear-mind marriage to poetry’s eye-mind dalliance clips the maysie’s wings and nudges poetry into social limbo.  To ascend to her full and rightful social position, poetry must be seen and heard.

I don’t think I would bother to write verse anymore if I didn’t expect to perform it.  Therefore, I support by attending and/or I perform at poetry readings whenever possible.  The Bluff Arts Festival hosted a wonderful reading where I was able both to perform and also sit back and let it all wash over me.  My son accompanied me—his first public reading.  Here’s the write up.

The event was held at the Nada Bar in Bluff, a former bar converted into a private home.  Replete with an antique (I think) counter, barstools, and floor space that might be easily cleared for dancing or other social events, the Nada Bar provided a unique environment for a potluck and poetry night.  The walls and ceiling of the Nada Bar are decorated with paint handprints and other whimsical artifacts of human contrivance.

The evening began with a potluck dinner, a famous tradition in Bluff.  A fellow whose name I did not catch (I’ll try to correct this later) sat up on the stage providing a guitar accompaniment for the meal.  While I didn’t know very many of the people in attendance, I felt comfortably part of the gathering.

At 7:00 p.m. the reading began.  Father Ian Corbett, formerly of the St. Christopher’s Episcopal Mission in Bluff, returned to attend the Arts Festival, which he helped found, and ended up emceeing the event.  A poet himself, Father Ian is used to shepherding a wide variety of people with wit and grace.  Having spent many years in Bluff at the mission, he knows practically everybody, and he knows them well.

Since the festival’s theme rotated around the growing attraction between the arts and the sciences, readers were encouraged to read poetry “with a scientific flavor.”  The reading had two parts.  The first half featured invited writers Katharine Coles, Lorraine Nakai, and Orlando White.  The second half was an open mic, which yours truly kicked off.

But before the reading started, retired Hansen Planetarium and Albert Einstein Planetarium Director Von Del Chamberlain stood up to explain the stunning configuration of the new moon and two bright stars lingering near it.  Venus, he said was the brightest star and Jupiter the lesser of the three lights.  The best was coming, Chamberlain said.  The sharpest conjunction would occur on the following Monday and he urged anyone traveling home to cloudy vistas not to go but stay in Bluff where they would be able to enjoy the spectacular celestial view.

Lorraine Nakai, a local poet and crop entomologist, performed first.  Lorraine provides a good example of how being present for a live reading heightens the experience.  Lorraine is Navajo, so she presented an interesting study for the eye, dressed as she was in a black dress, black stockings, and a bright red beret.  She read so quickly, in a dry, tight voice reminiscent of the buzzing of grasshopper wings, that I couldn’t tell where one poem began and the next left off, which was itself an interesting effect inspiring wonder. 

Up and coming Navajo poet Orlando White read next.  His remarks introducing his verse caught my attention because he said that he believes language has become merely routine, objectified, inanimate.  He explained he was interested in the animated side of language, which he’d explored in a series of poems written about the letters of the alphabet.  When letters become objects, he said, sentences become skeletal and lose their animation.

Orlando’s ideas on “animated language” took a rather different turn from what I expected.  When he spoke the word “animated,” I imagined he meant he was interested in breathing life into language.  For Orlando, breathing life into language carries strong overtones of “animated” in the sense that cartoons are animated works.  He explained how he was taken with exploring the exotic and evil sides of letters, such as the letters i-j, which he imagined as a letter couple.  The “i” is a man dressed in a tuxedo and wearing a bow tie; the “j” is a lady wearing a flowing black gown.  At one point, he mentioned that in exploring their evil side, “j” beheaded “i” and “i’s” head rolled to the end of the sentence.

He read from his alphabet series, which for me was an fun ride into a fanciful realm where letters held hands and engaged in other human-like activities.  It was one of the strangest turns I’ve ever seen on what used to be called the pathetic fallacy.  All the same, the poetry stays with you.  A couple days later, I saw the word “hijinks” somewhere and wondered what Orlando would make of those letters cavorting like that.

Katharine Coles read a couple poems invoking mathematics, one a long love poem to her husband that danced around their setting up house together.

Following Katharine’s reading, we took a break and milled a bit.

I must compliment whoever provided the microphone for the event.  It was an excellent piece of equipment that gathered and carried the readers’ voices exceptionally well without overwhelming the audience, except in cases where performers showed themselves to be overwhelming by nature, which happened twice.

I had the honor of opening the open mic portion of the event with three poems, a new one I tried out for the first time, “The Mendicant’s Plea,” and then “Stone Mirrors” and “The Pear Tree,” which won BYU’s 1987 Eisteddfod crown competition for the themed poem category.

Then followed a host of some of the most lively performers I’ve ever witnessed, including an absolutely wonderful performance of “peace and good, brotherhood” poetry by a statuesque young lady calling herself “Moonflower.”  Wearing tattered skirts (yes, more than one – it’s late autumn, after all) a jute cap, and a shy smile, she strode up onto the stage and performed a series of centering breathing exercises, which the mic picked up well, before launching into her slam-rap style pieces steeped in empassioned fragrances of sincerity and sermon.  Her very long hair hung down her back, except for one lock in the front, which had been twisted up, died green, and treated somehow so that it stuck out about eight to ten inches in front of her faces, like a tendril looking for a trellis.  Reciting from memory freed up her hands which kept in constant motion shaping all kinds of gather-you-in, you’re-part-of-me-I’m-part-of-you-everybody-is-part-of-the-whole gestures. Talk about animated.  She brought down the house, which by now was up for anything, the wine having flowed for two hours.

I’ve attended many readings, and usually there’s a pattern where the energy level of performers and audience members drops as the night wears on.  Some attendees left after the featured readers performed, and by the end of the evening, the audience had thinned out considerably.  But the spark of the performances remained charged to the very end, and members of the audience who sat it out were well rewarded for their persistence. A wide variety of poetry on various subjects and in a wide range of styles paraded through the room, much of the work straying rather far afield of the theme of art and science, but I guess that by virtue of everything being part of the whole the math and science worked out somehow.

The final reader was another Native American, Simon Ortiz, a member of the Acoma Pueblo and prize-winning poet.  He echoed in his Native American way Moonflower’s theme of inclusiveness, saying, “We are all part of what is indigenous to being.”  But his poetry reflected the dark angle of the belief.  He read from his work From Sand Creek, winner of the 1981 Pushcart prize.  From Sand Creek is a free verse collection of narrative poems detailing such matters as how “good” Christian soldiers massacred 400 Cheyenne and Arapaho women, children, and elders at an encampment in southeastern Colorado Territory. The massacre took place on the morning of November 29, 1964, upon whose 144th anniversary the poetry reading happened to fall.  In the verse he read that night, Ortiz asserted how we share accountability for such atrocities.  Since all of the massacres he referenced had been performed by Americans against non-American or non-white communities, I’m not certain who he meant when he said “we.”   In general, his work is noteworthy for its concern with the problem of how Native American peoples are oppressed.  His reading had the unfortunate effect of turning down the light on the generally positive energy ricocheting off the walls, but one could argue that it fleshed out the evening in a compelling way. 

His final act was to conduct something of a sing, a Native American ritual supplication for healing.  His song focused sharply on the My Lai massacre that U.S. Army forces perpetrated against villagers in South Vietnam on March 16, 1968.  Ortiz has a beautiful singing voice that overwhelms all physical boundaries, pouring into the defenseless ear with a flash flood’s forceful earthy tones and rippling waves.  His “My Lia” song, which he stated he sang so as to promote healing, carried common Native American intonations, cadences, and repetitive phrases as well as unique turns in English and perhaps in Acoma (just guessing—don’t speak Acoma) on the name “My Lia.” A hearer of Ortiz’s song would have to be strong, indeed, to resist its almost surgical implantation of “accountability” into the acoustically anesthetized soul. One description of Ortiz’s work says this: “The writings of Ortiz are emotionally charged and complex. His expressions of anger, passion, love, fear, and threats to human existence make the reader question the backdrop of the society in which he or she exists.” The poems he read and song he sang that night of the Bluff Arts Festival’s potluck and poetry fall squarely into that category.

It was a high honor to be part of such a professionally and culturally varied gathering.  The vocal spectrum was stimulating.  I look forward to participating in the event next year, if I can.  My son also found the evening interesting, though he liked the second half of the reading better because he thought it was more energetic and the performers were “better spoken,” and because the second half “opened with my mom.”  However, he did not like the “rapidity of Moonflower’s hippyishness” and he found her tendril annoying.

First up: Killer t-shirts

We’re launching a Spreadshirt store. The first offering is the traditional “advertise our blog t-shirt” — but with a twist. I’m not too keen on turning you all into walking billboards. In fact, I generally refuse to wear any item of clothing that prominently displays a logo. So here’s what I have come up with: the phrase A Motley Vision (which as you will recall is from an Orson F. Whitney poem) transliterated into the Deseret Alphabet. The t-shirts come in either white lettering on black t-shirts or black lettering on white t-shirts. The transliteration has been verified by AMV’s own Deseret Alphabet expert Katherine Morris and uses a true-type font created by Joshua Erickson. I don’t want you to advertise AMV: I want you to non-advertise it. And in so doing connect with the funky Mormon history we know and love. I personally love this concept. I have no idea how others are going to react. But for me, the idea of this alien set of characters on your chest that’s a phrase from the overwrought epic poem written by the godfather of Mormon literature and the name of the premiere Mormon arts blog totally cracks me up. And is also very, very cool.

Here’s what it looks like (click to view a larger size):

There are both men’s and women’s t-shirts, but I’m limiting it to just one style for each gender for now (for reasons why, read the FAQ below). And as a caveat: I have yet to order from Spreadshirt, but after an exhaustive Internet search of all the major t-shirt on demand sites, it seems like the best one to use.

PROMOTION: If you order $30 worth of shirts (that means two or more) between Dec. 9-11, you get 15% off the total (not including shipping). If you order $30 worth between Dec. 12-15, you get 10% off. Use the coupon code NOW1 or if you are using Canadian dollars, it’s CADNOW1.

This just the first t-shirt design. We’ll roll out more every few months or so. There are a couple more Deseret Alphabet-themed t-shirts on tap, and we also have some other very cool, eccentric, esoteric Mormon-themed concepts in development.

Second: Shop at Amazon and AMV gets a cut

If you haven’t done your Christmas shopping yet, and plan to do any of it on Amazon, consider doing it by clicking on this link. Most readers probably know how this works — if people get to Amazon via links from this blog and buy something, we get a very small percentage of the sale. I don’t have high expectations for this one, but every little bit counts. Plus, if you are going to shop Amazon, you might as well do it in a way that benefits your favorite Mormon arts and culture blog.

We’ll also be using Amazon links occasionally in posts — in fact, we already link to Amazon fairly often so it seems only fair that we get something out of it. But as befits our vibe, we’ll be low-key about it. By the way: we’re doing this Amazon Associates thing, but that’s as far it goes. We’re not going to do Google AdWords, banner ads or any other advertising that would clutter up the site.

Third: Coming in the new year — direction donation + incentives

Sometime in early 2009, I’m going to open up PayPal donations. But we don’t expect anyone to donate without receiving a little something in return. So I’m working on an incentive that we’ll e-mail to anyone who donates a dollar to AMV. First up will be a PDF file featuring a translation I’ve done — but others may include special MP3 readings, photography, etc. So if the two options above don’t appeal to you, save your hard-earned dollar(s) for next year.

I also may come up with some premium incentives for those who wish to give at generous level.

How the funds will be managed and used

Currently, I have everything set up to go into an AMV PayPal account. All money received will go towards hosting costs for AMV. If we meet our hosting costs for the year, donations will then be used to buy specific Mormon cultural products for each of the AMV bloggers (in order of seniority) to thank them for what they do and have done to build this excellent blog (with the expectation that they’ll post about whatever novel, film, subscription, etc. they end up receiving). If we do reach that point, I will announce it here. The idea is to reward my co-bloggers, support Mormon artists and generate more well-written content.

In terms of keeping it all legal: Spreadshirt already takes out taxes and unless we experience a surge in Amazon Associates earnings and PayPal donations, we’ll consider any taxes owed to be my donation to AMV. So yes, I’ll include all earnings on my personal income tax form. However, if this takes off, we may look at a more formal means of organizing the financials. I plan on being upfront with my co-bloggers about all income generated, and I will provide some indications of how things are going to AMV’s readership. This is meant to be a cooperative effort.

Does this all make sense? If you have an suggestions or concerns, feel free to e-mail me at my-first-name AT motleyvision DOT org.

FAQ

Why Spreadshirt?

Because they seem to have the best rep online and because they offer plot printing. Here’s the thing: I was a screen printer for a summer. If I could make them myself, I would love to do so. But I don’t have the space, time or start-up money to set up my own shop.

Why not more t-shirt styles (slim fits, long sleeves, etc.)?

In part because of the plot printing thing. AMV is only allowed so many vector graphic designs and some t-shirt styles require a different size graphic. If the t-shirts sell well enough, Spreadshirt will give us more vector graphics slots, which we will then use to offer more styles (and more designs). However, if there is something you desperately want, e-mail admin AT motleyvision DOT org, and we’ll see about setting up a standard digital print design (which can still provide excellent results).

Why do the t-shirts cost so much?

Because they are high quality t-shirts with cool concepts. But here’s the breakdown: I have put a $5 design fee on each t-shirt. That’s the only mark up (e.g. I haven’t added a mark up on top of the design fee — which is possible to do). Of that $5, $1.90 goes towards taxes and the rest goes into AMV’s PayPal account. I plan there being a $5 design fee on future designs, but for those that aren’t designed by me, I will be giving half of the $3.10 profit to the designer as payment for his or her services.

In addition, I apologize for the shipping costs. I don’t think that they are extraordinarily high, but shipping is certainly an annoying part of e-commerce. I’ve had the experience of finding an amazing deal on a product online only to realize that shipping costs were going to make it no cheaper than picking it up at a bricks and mortar store — although this is one area where the cost would probably be even higher if I made the shirts myself.

* Actually the first seven months or so of AMV’s non-blogspot existence were covered by the check we received from the Association for Mormon Letters for receiving an award for criticism. Many thanks to any AML members who paid their dues in 2005.

…thou shalt not make unto thee any graven images, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.
(Exodus 20:4)

This little verse has caused more turmoil in art and in history throughout the monotheistic world than perhaps any other. It characterizes Islamic art, which for centuries has avoided the depiction of any living creature, for the fear that the artist who tried to create was usurping the role of the One true Creator. It characterizes the turmoil in Byzantium, it crops up again in the Protestant reformation, which sees Netherlanders whitewashing their cathedrals to separate themselves from their Catholic Belgian cousins. Its subsequent transformation into anti-religious fervor is the battle cry of the French revolutionaries, the Bolsheviks, and the Communists in China. In more recent years, it rears an impious head as the Taliban government of Afghanistan destroys monumental Buddhist sculpture.

And faithful Latter-day Saints find themselves alternately sympathizing with both viewpoints.

Vern Swanson points out that most of the 19th century pioneer Mormons came from Protestant traditions of Northern Europe, and carried their characteristic whitewashed iconoclasm with them across the plains. The dearth of Mormon art in the 19th century may be construed as a curmudgeonly holdover of this culture, or it may be a legitimate doctrinal concern. Even when the church purposely conscripted “art missionaries” to study fine art in Paris, they studied the casual genre scenes of the Impressionists rather than the monumental allegory and mythology of the History Painting tradition that was always a staple of Catholic France. While Mormons may not have taken a violently anti-art iconoclastic stance, it seems that they did inherit the bourgeois sentimentality of the Dutch Baroque. The Dutch were adept at sublimating blatant depictions of religious stories into subtle commentaries on morality through still life, landscape and genre scenes which decorated the interior of middle-class homes rather than adorning the pulpits of cathedrals. This is a very sympathetic aesthetic for the family-as-cathedral Mormons, who led lives, not quite of stark aseticism, but of tranquil domestic simplicity.

Except for the notable exception of Minerva Teichert, who produced grand historical and scriptural scenes in the early part of the 20th century, there is no notable presence in the fine arts for Mormons until the 1950s and 60s. This is not to say that Mormons of the Great Basin era weren’t engaging in the arts - early Mormon settlements were renowned for their bands, choirs, and theaters - they just weren’t creating “graven images.”

Lest we think this was a mere cultural preference, Swanson illustrates how very profound its religious underpinnings were, even into modern years, by relating an interchange between artist Arnold Friberg and Church President David O. McKay. President McKay instructed Friberg not to paint pictures of Deity because “the Finite cannot conceive of the Infinite.” When Friberg challenged that the church was already using pictures of the Savior painted by others, the Prophet answered, “Those were not done by our people! Our artists are not to portray the Lord Christ!”

While the official prophetic prohibition was soon lifted, remnants of the revulsion against graven images remain to this day.

When I was in the MTC, a well-meaning mother sent me some little bookmark-sized versions of the newest Del Parson painting - Christ’s Love. It wasn’t really my style, but I thought the other sister missionaries in my dorm would appreciate them (since sister missionaries tend to be into such things) and I handed them around. I was a little surprised at the reaction I got. Sister Pyper laughed. “Sorry. It just looks like Jesus got glamor shots.” Sister Dance gave it back. “Sorry, I just don’t think it’s very reverent.”

Funny how something as seemingly simple as a smiling Christ, in an era where a lot of the more commercially successful artists are capitalizing on modern social sensibilities being translated to traditional subjects, as in this depiction of Christ embracing His mother by Liz Lemon Swindle, could evoke such a reactionary response. But I think even amid the sudden movement to embrace very frank and very Americanized views of scripture and Deity that seems to be selling so well, there is still a vast sea of unsettled angst and discomfort among the membership of the Church.

Another anecdotal experience, but it illustrates my point well, comes from an elder I served with. One day he came to district meeting with a very odd-looking, small spiral-bound book.

“What is that?” I asked him.

“Preach My Gospel,” he answered. It was about 3/4 the size of the copy I owned. I looked at it quizzically. “I got sick of it,” he elaborated, “all that note space on the margins. So I cut it all off. And I wanted to go through and cut out the pictures I didn’t like, but there was important stuff on the back.” He indicated a few of the pages, “so I just used a magic marker.” And indeed he had - he had blacked out every Simon Dewey painting in the entire book.

“I just don’t like the way they portray the Son of God,” he said firmly.

The Church itself has no official position on the depiction of Deity, and uses many direct representations of the Savior in its official publications. While for years it relied on Harry Anderson, a Seventh-Day Adventist, to illustrate the Savior in its media products, it eventually did give official sanction to the now-famous (and often urban mythologized) portrait of Christ by Del Parson. A definite reversal of President McKay’s counsel is obvious.

But what of the average Latter-day Saint who is trying to avoid idolatry in his life, trying to tear down the groves and the wooden fertility goddesses that so plagued the Israelites, trying to teach his children to worship a living God and not an image? What of the conscientious artist who sees the need to instruct and to testify but fears the potential to blaspheme? I imagine this is a discussion that will continue for years, especially as people from less pictoral traditions, or, more compellingly, those from very idolatrous traditions who were asked by the missionaries to remove shrines and statues from their houses, swell the ranks of worldwide church membership? It’s an issue that still lies at the heart of our visual aesthetic.

But I think, in our noble Dutch tradition, some of us are still approaching it very deftly.