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BY OUR LADY A Brief and Eclectic Survey of Art as Potential Prayer from the 7th Century to the 21st Jordyn Christine Rector Murray A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts University of Washington 2019 Committee: Linda Bierds Richard Kenney Program Authorized to Offer Degree: English 1 ©Copyright 2019 Jordyn Christine Rector Murray 2 University of Washington Abstract BY OUR LADY A Brief and Eclectic Survey of Art as Potential Prayer from the 7th Century to the 21st Jordyn Christine Rector Murray Chair of the Supervisory Committee: Linda Bierds Department of English This paper examines works of poetry, visual art, and performance art from a variety of cultures and time periods in an attempt to approach an understanding of the defining features of prayer, to the extent that these might exist. The paper probes the extent to which various kinds of art can operate as prayer with and without regard to specific religion, identified speaker, or even language. An eclectic sampling approach is utilized, and the materials discussed include (but are not limited to) Cædmon's Hymn, Meredith Monk's Dolmen Music, Johanne Laache's Winter Choir, the evolution of Mexican ex-voto artwork, and Jasmine Khaliq's vasco road poems. 3 THE SOUND OF PRAYER is not one single thing. To the question is it prayer? I have found that I can never issue an answer of no. This is because, ultimately, prayer (not necessarily the situation of formalized prayer, but rather, spiritual communion) is an individual action and an individual experience. Ilya Kaminsky has thought quite a bit about this. In trying to open up the poetry of "true mystic" Adélia Prado to readers, he invokes Edward B. Taylor's definition of prayer as "the address of personal spirit to personal spirit."1 ("I pull on his white beard./" writes Prado of God; "He throws me the ball of the world,/ I throw it back.")2 Indeed, if such is prayer––and I eventually find myself arguing that prayer may be so very personal as never to leave the fragmented but closed system of the self––then it is impossible to say that a work of art or an experience cannot constitute prayer. But, moving in the opposite direction: if there is always potentially a chance that an experience be prayer, what makes it more likely that it will be prayer for any given person? And (particularly important to me): can there be prayer without religious belief? Can one create what others might experience as prayer without oneself believing? Can an individual working within one religious belief system create work that can be understood and experienced as prayer by individuals who adhere to other systems of belief? Can a believer create work which is prayer even to a nonbeliever? Again, it is my contention that the answers to all of these questions are yes. This hypothesis has personal and poetic implications for me, but it also has implications for a world in which one formalized religion is constantly being pitted against another. As contemporary philosopher and theologian David Reinhart asserts, "...when a place of prayer is proposed within blocks of the former World Trade Center, it becomes difficult to assess 1 Kaminsky 6. 2 From the poem "Two Ways" (Prado 11). 4 the proposal in a rational way. Simple prayers that are intended as sincere acts of devotion are sometimes heard as a challenge from another continent or another religion. It becomes more important than ever to understand the sameness of prayers and discuss how particular prayers participate in a shared experience and are not a threat."3 And yet, my hypothesis remains just that. There is no way for me to attest to others' experience of prayer except by repeating or interpreting their words and actions. I do both in this essay as I examine the work of poets and artists who take the form and content of prayer into their own hands that they may better express their need and question their (and our) situation. I also present poetry and art that posits prayer as potentially universally understandable (and affecting) regardless of language or even in its absence. Ultimately, though, when I draw conclusions about whether a work can function as prayer, these conclusions speak only to my own experience of the work and to the work's potential, as I understand it, to produce comparable experiences in others. As Reinhart acknowledges, "How one hears a prayer can depend on one's narrative identity; the stories by which one understands oneself."4 I would expand the sphere of this dependence to include the stories by which one understands others, even and especially others with differing religious and spiritual beliefs and practices. This is to say that I believe we may be more open to experiencing as prayer not only that which resembles prayer within our own religious, spiritual, or cultural traditions, but also that which we believe to resemble prayer within other, different traditions––although this too constitutes only a part of what may be experienced as prayer. The more we know about different forms and discourses within prayer, the more capacity we build for understanding (and potentially experiencing) work 3 Reinhart 2. 4 Ibid. 25. 5 as prayer. The likelihood of my apprehending prayer has increased even as I have been writing this essay. A WORD ABOUT METHODOLOGY As a politeness to my readers, I would like to acknowledge at the outset that the instances of potential prayer examined in this essay may seldom seem immediately or obviously related to one another. They do not, for example, all come from Western history and literature, though I may speak much and know most of the West. Nor do they all hail from poetic works and the bodies of criticism concerned with these, although it is with poetry that the degree for which I do this work is principally concerned. I cannot even boast a highly academic treatment of religion, an aspect of human life I readily admit to having little firsthand experience of. Instead, I draw case studies from my personal life––tied up as much with visual art as it is with literature, and with Spanish sometimes as much as English––and my own reading history, many entries in which are the products of translation. The sections of this essay and their topics and approaches may seem greatly disparate at times. My work here has consisted in attempting to build a large number of small bridges between these disparate parts of my own experience in order to come even slightly nearer to an idea of prayer and what makes it possible. "BUT WE ARE PRAYING." This assertion came from a member of the professional choir attending a suddenly loud and seemingly overcrowded performance planning meeting hosted by artist Johanne Marie 6 Aagaard Laache at the close of summer 2017. The chorister spoke in response to Laache’s attempt to answer a question raised by one of her fellows about what, exactly, their choir would be doing in an imminent performance at Oslo's Kulturkirken Jakob. The question was not about what the choir would, in the letter, be doing during the performance––its members fully understood what was being asked of them technically. Choristers would interpret in real time the sounds they heard through headphones which played to each singer their own randomly ordered sequence of twelve different five-minute recordings––or actually, the same recording, with volume profile altered in twelve different ways. The choristers themselves would serve as a further filter of sound, each necessarily altering what they heard to a certain extent in attempting to repeat it. The performance would run for a single hour, and be the last in a series of three almost identical events, two of which would be conducted in Christian churches. The recordings, the choir understood, were of an excerpt from the Salah, Islamic daily prayer. The chorister's question, then, addressed the spirit of the choir's performative task. Laache had asked her performers not to attempt to make their rendition of the voice recordings playing through the headphones sound like language at all, and in particular not to try to make it sound like Arabic. As she explained in an interview this winter, "The prayer and what the prayer meant wasn't the point at all...the point was what the choristers actually interpreted; the point wasn't Islam, or to show something about Islam, but to show what these men and women interpreted as Islam with their voices and, I guess, bodies and expressions." Nevertheless, the choristers knew that what they would sing would be prayer, in some sense––and their audience would know this, too. In the summer and autumn of 2017, 24-year-old 7 Laache was somewhat frantically pulling together a public performance piece on a scale she had never before attempted: she would orchestrate performances by three different Oslo choirs, each member of whom was to perform a cycle of twelve versions of a recorded excerpt from the Salah. Two of the three performances were scheduled to take place in local Christian churches, a source of some public discussion in the months preceding the events themselves. Laache's primary design, however, was not to provoke. Or rather, not to provoke alone, but to "study the defining moment where we make up our minds about something we're unfamiliar with".5 Laache wanted to allow both the choirs and their audiences to experience the sounds of the sampled prayer for the first time in the moment of the performance, and to experience them, in effect, as differently embodied.

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