Theophany comes from the Greek, meaning the appearance of a god. From this definition (think burning bush), and what I know of his earlier work, I am led to assume that John Sousa’s new series, “Theophanic Angels,” is some yet-to-be-determined commentary on religiosity. I, therefore, consider the familiar brown coloration of the amorphous figures in his paintings to be purposeful, perhaps Ghosts of the Renaissance. I would also expect the smattering of ancient scripts and glyphs that coexist with those figures to function as references to the ancient texts of Christian theology. I begin to think, that Sousa surely knows that this good Christian writer—like others of my ilk—is primed/schooled to use what is familiar within these paintings to decipher their meaning. Indeed, with a viewer so prompted and conditioned, this reaction is immediate and inescapable.
A look at Sousa’s technique is necessary for a deeper understanding of the work. As is the case of most art, Sousa’s process of discovery leads toward the final pieces. Clearly, the textual elements are laid down in white before color is applied. They add a good portion of the texture. (Other raised elements, numbers and patterns, are applied in this initial stage as well.) In the final product, the text appears over-printed and above the flat color, and it acts as commentary, much in the way captions function, yet without a summation of content.
The image we see behind the text and numbers is actually a blending of several digital images files into one master image that is then laid down in a printing process. While arguably laid flat on the surface, the technique gives us the impression that a scene takes place behind the raised areas. In many cases, these blurred images are composed of layer upon layer of largely scientific and technological subject matter. The outcome is somewhat serendipitous, and their coloration a demonstration of color theory. I am therefore reminded of any number of such apparitions, including the banal serendipity of the Saviour appearing on burnt toast.
So my first impression persists; yet it must be said that Sousa’s titles encourage me: “Disciple – Anima,” “Disciple – Exscribo,” and “Visio – Eques Nebula,” etc., the Latin adding a certain authority and license. Even so, little encouragement is needed, for we have learned to expect our apparitions to always already be legitimate as a measure of our devotion, just as our assertions against doubters gives them agency.
As complicit as Sousa might be in my quick read, it would be unfair to say he depends on this line of thinking for a complete reading of this work. Spending more than a few minutes with any one of these paintings, it becomes abundantly clear that my first observations cannot hope to account for the complexity of his compositions, nor for the density of content therein. Secondly, we must acknowledge that Sousa’s paintings are fabrications, and as such, while the viewer can try to blame him for sparking the associations, ultimately that viewer must take responsibility for the experiences, the lessons, and even the indoctrination we bring to the image.
One might protest: “But I see the human form in many of these pieces. It is unmistakable!”
Whether evidence fuels faith or faith fuels evidence is lost to the illogic of simple belief. Because it is art I am looking at, my interpretation—otherwise possibly seen as contrivance were it not in the realm of art— becomes like religious faith, to a large degree depending on pretense, or rather, foundational presuppositions. Call it subjectivity. Or rather, a gap in intersubjectivity—to each their own. It would seem the artist is charged to encourage belief in the burnt-toast Jesus, not because of the absurdity in the happenstance of the toast, but because of the surety in the divinely unknowable mystery of both the Christ and the art object. And yet, we want to know, so we continue to look for clues.
As mentioned above, there are repetitious patches of short phrases in some paintings that look like typefaces one might find in old German Bibles. There are also numbers arranged in sets and sequences, again repeating, along with what look to be shipping labels, item numbers, and product instructions. A phrase or single word staggers from line to line, torn away from its original context and suggesting an urgency. Some snippets are layered on top of each other, which has the effect of obfuscation. There doesn’t appear to be rhyme or reason apart from repetition. Still, the fragments of text and numbers relay a message, albeit an incomplete one. They emote more than clarify, (in this way more akin to the blurred images with which they are paired) and are emphatic by way of their rhythm. If we so choose, we can then convince ourselves we are observing a charismatic experience, though we cannot know—and it may not matter—if this is prophesy or heresy.
Nevertheless, it is after this initial assessment that my task as viewer and writer begins to bear fruit. I have been on a hunting expedition of sorts, all in order to find a vantage point from which to determine the source of the voice in the art that is distinct from my own. I have employed a strategy that has so far been not so much trial and error as it is more tangential to my own experiences, while also applying my analytical abilities.
In this manner, the work is demonstrably linguistic in its intent. Sousa has written: “I do believe language determines how we think, and how we think determines what we see.” The question remains: Why do we come to language? The simple answer: It promises comfort in the face of the unknown. It is how we come to know, both tied to and apart from that which we want to know. As Sousa confirms: “This series does not try to say anything specific, but it is suggestive, full of meaning and stimulus.”
By producing something that is in some regards familiar yet also sufficiently confounding, Sousa ignites a spark. He prods us. If the subject matter is too familiar, little is to be learned; if it is too obscure or insular, the same dead-end results. Despite the immediate and overwhelming associations made when initially viewing the art, those aspects that are persistently incongruous clue us into the possibility of a richer complexity that we can glean while allowing it to remain on the edge of our understanding. There are things we know, and there is the mystery that makes us want to know more, and there is that which will always remain a mystery.
If we understand an apparition as an illusion derivative and/or suggestive of the experienced physical world, and also as a non-physical-law-abiding deviation that is unexplainable from how a similar manifestation of cause and effect has been previously experienced, this will open the door to providing a higher degree of significance—an extra effort to fill in the ethereal gap. After all, much of what is ascribed to divine intervention comes from not knowing, and one’s faith is being okay with that.
This is the faith John Sousa wants us to have.
Patrick Collier writes art criticism for Oregon ArtsWatch (www.orartswatch.org) in Portland, Oregon. When he lived in Chicago, he wrote for The New Art Examiner. He is the author of a number of catalogue essays.
Holding a BA in Philosophy and an MA in English Literature, both from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, plus an MFA from the University of Illinois at Chicago, Collier is also an artist. His approach to art making is multidisciplinary, including poetry, drawing, sculpture, photography and video, often in the same artwork or installation. Recent exhibitions include The Suburban in Illinois, Nine Gallery in Portland, ArtWorks CEI Project in Corvallis, and at Portland State University.