Archaeology of Memory: Reflections on DeStaebler's Sculptures

The invitation to write an article about Stephen DeStaebler's Winged Figure began a fascinating journey. I hope the old saying, "The journey is more important than the destination," is true, because I have not reached a destination, but I do know that the process has been and continues to be a profound experience. As I reflected on the Winged Figure , I also felt compelled to see other sculptures by DeStaebler. By the time I began to write this essay, it was difficult, if not impossible, to disentangle my thoughts and feelings about the Winged Figure from the other exquisite sculptures I have encountered.

For the last few months, I sought out as many of DeStaebler's works as I could find in the San Francisco Bay Area. At times, I felt propelled by a force from the Winged Figure to engage in this quest. At other times, the Winged Figure pulled me back into its orbit. I became obsessed by my desire to understand the power and meaning of DeStaebler's marvelous, mysterious creations. As a part of my quest, I used both still and digital video to enhance my search.

Bay Area Creations

My exploration of DeStaebler's other sculptures began with Seated Man with Winged Head (1981) and Seated Woman with Oval Head (1981). Installed at the Pacific School of Religion in the Mudd Building, these sculptures evoke images of objects uncovered in an archaeological site. The Newman Center at the University of California at Berkeley contains one of the most awesome sanctuaries I have ever seen. Designed and created by DeStaebler in 1967 and 1968, the stunning clay figure of Christ on the cross seems to radiate a light that fills the concrete structure with a warmth that enlivens the alter and other clay objects that emerge out of the floor as if they were alive.

Shifting to San Francisco, I visited 720 Market Street to see DeStaebler's Angel (1989). It is hard to imagine a location more different from the GTU Library, the Mudd Building, or the Newman Center. The street people, business men and women dashing to and from important meetings, tourists gazing at the good, the bad, and the ugly of San Francisco, all coming and going in front of the elevated Angel . A homeless man told me that many people stop and look at the Angel as they walk up and down Market Street. He also confessed that he felt comforted sitting near the Angel as he sought assistance.

I also visited the Man with Flame (1985) at the Moscone Parking Garage. Every time I visited that installation, the winds were strong, the sunlight harsh, and the place less inviting than any of the other installations. This figure appears to me to be the least human in form of all the DeStaebler sculptures I saw. Also in San Francisco is the Torso with Raised Arm II (1990) at the Portman Building of the Embarcadero Center West. With a beautiful, delicate breast, the torso tantalizes, but leaves much to the imagination. The setting is beautiful, but somewhat secluded.

I was enchanted by the Three Figures (1993) at the Oakland City Center Garage West/Amphitheater. The amphitheater is large, with a seating capacity of at least 200 people. One figure, with wings, is prepared for flight. Two other figures, one male and the other female, are beings with remnants of wings. They are sitting, far apart, in the amphitheater. One major attraction of this installation is that I was able to touch the sculptures and sit or stand with them in a very large setting that was sometimes empty. A maintenance worker responsible for the amphitheater told me that people often come from the nearby high rise office buildings to eat lunch or take breaks.

DeStaebler's Two Figures: Three Columns (1998) is located at the Chiron Corporation, Emeryville. The male figure, as if wrapped in a burial shroud, stands looking at three elegant, simple columns. The female figure sits on a bench, looking at the male figure and the three columns. Unlike the other figures in the Bay Area, these figures are not frail, fragmented beings, but full-bodied and more complete in appearance. There are even faint hints of features that could form faces.

The Winged Guardians (1993) at the San Jose Convention Center are spectacular, lovely angels on each side of the vast entrance to the center. High above us, they appear to be just at the moment of flight, but their feet are still touching a large, flat, vertical pedestal on the walls.

The Clubwinged Angel (1987) at the Copia in Napa, CA is a frail, thin being whose color and texture so closely resembles the stonewall behind it that they virtually merge. In contrast, the Winged Walking Woman (1987) at the Staglin Family Vineyard in Rutherford, CA is a vigorous, almost strutting figure in a lovely garden of the Staglin Family home.

Reflections and Projections

DeStaebler's creations are like Bronze Rorschach [1] inkblots that serve as screens for my projections. What do I bring to these figures? What feelings, thoughts, ruminations, fears, desires, wishes, hopes, or terrors do I carry within myself as I look at these haunting, perplexing, delicate, but fierce, beings that sit, stand, or fly in public spaces filled with people dashing from one appointment to another? Do they wait, watching us, "speaking to us," but we do not hear them because we are not listening?

What follows is a series of meditations on various themes that emerged from my encounter with DeStaebler's sculptures. The most important theme that clusters around and within these ruminations is the power of DeStaebler's work to evoke memories. I had a stroke almost a year ago. That disconcerting experience forced me to face my own finitude and made me keenly aware of the elusive, fragile nature of memory. Within the last three years, my father and mother died after prolonged illnesses. Timothy Lull's untimely death unleashed grief and anger. I also write as a recovering fundamentalist. My post-modern, fragile faith pushes forward, but is tentative, hoping for redemption but harboring residual fears that fundamentalism might be right. These are some of the personal experiences that shaped my responses to DeStaebler's creations.

Enchantments of Art

The greatest testimony to the power of a work of art is its ability to elicit sustained reflection and engagement on many different levels. The meaning of a piece of art is not contained in one specific interpretation, or experience, but the true measure of its value dwells in its capacity to engage us intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. By that standard, DeStaebler's sculptures are great pieces of art.

DeStaebler's figures have taken up residence in my mind. I sometimes think of them as persons or sentient beings. As I contemplate the Winged Figure and the other installations I visited, I began to wish I could write a play or a musical or even an opera in which these figures would come alive in order to speak, sing, and dance. I also felt that these figures formed a community of angels, people, or beings of some kind sent to us on a mission.

De Staebler's figures are sometimes high above us, yet just out of reach. My still camera cannot get close enough to see the textures, lines, and feel of the bronze. I look up at them with a desire to touch them. I want to see them face-to-face. I wish I had wings, or at the very least a ladder so I could rise up, defying gravity to see them at eye level. I stretch; I stand on tiptoes, but to no avail. With my video camera's zoom lens I am able to get closer to these figures above me, but still I wish to touch them, to look directly into their faces, but then I remember they have no faces. Some have no heads, but none have faces, perhaps very faint traces of an eye, or an ear, or a nose. Did they have them and lose them or did the artist remove them? I do not know. So many unanswered questions remain. These figures seem so alive, and yet I know intellectually, that they are bronze objects frozen in time.

Where are the faces? Where are the missing arms, legs, wings, and other parts of these slender, frail beings that stand, sit, and perch in Berkeley, San Francisco, Oakland, Emeryville, Napa, and Rutherford, and in other places in the United States? Are these beings broken, shattered, or wounded because of traumas of their journey into this world, or are they beings that are still in formation, waiting for completion in the process of their creation?

Are they messengers to our own broken lives and communities, which can no longer be touched by messengers that are perfect, strong, and beautiful? These objects, I want to say "beings," invade my memory and haunt me. I am perplexed, sometimes in the sense of being drawn to them and somehow mysteriously touched, and at other times frustrated by these objects/beings because I yearn for them to be more complete or their message clearer.

I find that while the overall impression of DeStaebler's art is not beautiful in the classical sense of the term, there are hints of an allure that briefly captures our sensual imagination: a stunning hip, a delicate foot, a beautiful breast, a well-formed kneecap, or a lovely leg. I know I am exploring delicate, intimate issues here. Many times I had flashbacks of my mother and father, especially as they were going through the agonizing process of dying. Seeing DeStaebler's art is like being with an older person whose body has suffered the ravages of time. With the slightest gesture or tone of voice, or some part of their body, perhaps a hand or an ear, a trace of the person's spectacular beauty remains and lets us know that this person was once truly beautiful and full of the energy and vitality. But that moment, especially for those of us who have seen many decades on this earth know, is fleeting.

Those hints are often present to the observing eye and open heart of a person who looks attentively at DeStaebler's art. Those qualities are not easy to see in the atrium of the GTU library. The Winged Figure is too high above us or too far from us if we are on the second floor looking down slightly to get a better view. But seeing the piece through the lens of a digital video camera with a zoom lens gives us a closeness and intimacy that is not otherwise physically possible.

The Winged Figure

The environment of the Winged Figure is extraordinary. It is as if the GTU Library Building was built in the early sixties and was waiting for completion that would be consummated with Stephen DeStaebler's gift of the Winged Figure in 1993. The beauty and symmetry of the ambience is stunning. I sit or stand in the basement and marvel at the Winged Figure as the light that enters from the apex of the structure illuminates it. The space from the basement floor to the top of the library is an amazing creation!

The Winged Figure stands on top of a tall pedestal. Is this lovely creation landing, launching, perching, or precariously balancing on its left foot? From one angle the foot appears to be embedded in the pedestal. From another angle it is rather precariously clinging to an indentation that serves as either the landing or launching pad for this exquisite being.

The right side of the body looks as if it were torn from the right arm to the groin area. The left leg, the left portion of the torso, the left arm, and a portion of a wing remain. Only a large right wing remains of the right side of the body. Unless you look carefully and in the right light one does not fully realize (at least I did not) that there is not only not a face, there is also no head on the Winged Figure . Initially I did not notice it because there appears to be a shadow of a chin and a dark indentation that seems to contain the head, but when carefully observed, there is no head.

Is the Winged Figure pointing to something with its left hand? Was the right wing injured in battle, or was it modified to serve as a shield from the weapons hurled at it? Why is it so flat? Did it hit an object in flight, or was a projectile cast it its way as it flew? Where is its head? Is a library, of all places, the place to lose one's head? Did this angel "lose its head" in some folly or fight, or is it symbolic of someone who might "lose his or her mind" by too much study? Is this figure warning us not to lose our courage for battles in the real world, or is it warning us that we can lose our minds if we "live only in our heads," a peril often encountered by monomaniacal intellectuals?

The GTU needs a guardian angel. Created in 1962, the GTU is a fragile and delicate consortium of seminaries and institutes that have their own individual struggles and strengths. The Winged Figure does not demand attention, but invites it, and rewards interaction, dialogue, and even resistance or debate. Engaged or not, the Winged Figure blesses the GTU enterprise and those who search, write, create, celebrate, and agonize in the search for new knowledge.

Art and the Recovery of Memory

I had looked at the Winged Figure , but had rarely spent more than brief moments reflecting on it. It was interesting to me, but sustained, critical reflection was not a part of my agenda. The art form that most engaged me was film. Having grown up in rural, central Texas, film was about the only accessible art form available, other than the pastel art on the Sunday school cards used at the Pearl Street Church of Christ in Comanche, Texas and a pastoral scene painted on the walls of the baptistery. Sometimes during the hundreds of hours I spent in that church, I would focus on that scene which appeared to be a river or a creek that flowed into the baptistery and which probably was intended to evoke associations with the River Jordan. In any case, the paintings in the family Bible were the only other sources of art in the world I inhabited.

I have visited such museums as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, and various museums in Europe, North America, Israel, Korea, Japan, and China. The sad truth is that I was never captivated by art until a fateful day when I visited the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. Three years ago I visited the museum as a part of my preparation for teaching a course on Jesus. I wanted to explore the nature of images of Jesus in the Gospels, literature, art, and film. I was also interested in people's experiences of Jesus, such as mystical episodes or some other profound sense of connection with Jesus and/or of Christ. I had originally wanted to focus primarily on my most exciting form of art, film. But being a conscientious professor I wanted to "cover my bases."

I walked into the Norton Simon Museum and was surprised. I had not expected it to be much more than a transformed mansion for the collection of a wealthy Southern Californian. I was, however, dazzled by the lovely building and was immediately drawn into its ambience. I had limited time, so I rushed to the section that I thought would have some images of Jesus. I walked into a room and directly in front of me was a small painting (15 1/8" by 11 1/8"): Hans Memling's Christ Giving His Blessing . I was mesmerized. It was as if Jesus were looking at me through a very small window. His left hand was resting on the base of this tiny "window" and his right hand was raised in the gesture of a blessing. The gentle, somewhat sad eyes of Jesus penetrated my soul. Time stood still and Jesus was there "speaking" to me through his silence, his radiant face, and a slightly detached, but inviting, facial expression. It took my breath away. For the first time in my life, I was truly touched at the deepest level of my being by a piece of art.

Even though Memling's piece was tiny, from 500 years ago, and was not even a face of Jesus that I find attractive, there was a confluence of personal needs, personal quest, vulnerability, and openness. This elegantly simple and profound piece of art enflamed my weary heart. My heart had not moved very far from a deconstruction of a strict, conservative Protestant sensibility. That tradition focused on following the rules, yielding to a ruthless conscience, and living in terror of the wrath of God. In Memling's tiny painting Jesus was, somehow, alive and present to me at that very moment. I knew that something had changed in my perception of the world and of art. I realized that all those museums I had visited, all the art I had seen in many places in the world, were only quick tours, more out of obligation to be a good scholarly tourist. The art had never really touched my soul. But on that day in Pasadena, I was captivated by this wonderful experience of "seeing" Jesus with my own eyes.

I looked at many other pieces of art in the museum that afternoon. The colors were dazzling, the details astonishing. I felt that the spirit of the artists were present in the gallery. I was seeing art in all its glory, as if for the first time. I felt that somehow I was living in a different world, on a different plane, in a zone of reality that I had been behind a glass wall before, but now I was "on the other side," and I was delighted, enthralled, and transported by the experience. From that time on I "saw" art with new eyes, but I did not expect that almost mystical experience to happen again. It was always just beyond my grasp, and there were brief moments when that experience would return to tantalize me with the possibilities of the rapture I had felt before. Engaging DeStaebler's Winged Figure (and his other works around the Bay Area) gave me that gift again.

Photography, Videography, and Sculpture

Each medium, whether it is oil, clay, stone, bronze, photography, or video possesses unique characteristics that enable artistic visions to be communicated in different ways. Mixing and combining these media is not easy and is not always satisfactory. While a photograph of a sculpture is valuable in preserving an image on a sheet of paper, it does not, as a two-dimensional object, capture the weight, presence, and three-dimensionality of the original sculpture. This may be, of course, obvious to others, but I gained this insight from my diligent attempt to capture the essence of the Winged Figure from more than 100 photographs and thirty minutes of video. Viewing the piece from the basement, the main floor, and the second floor gave me an opportunity to see the Winged Figure from three different levels. Also, because of the architecture of the GTU library building, I was able to get a 360-degree view of the object from each level.

One obvious contribution of photography is the preservation of an image and the opportunity to view it later. This allows for a continued rumination on and appreciation of the unique qualities of the object. One cannot, of course, touch the object, but one can see it and delve into its mysteries after actually having been in its presence.

Photographs capture an image. “Capture” is an interesting word in itself. Do they really "capture" the object? The answer, of course, is no. Photographs freeze in time a fraction of a second. The photographer takes prisoner the light, the angle, the frame of that instant. Is that the reason we say such things as a photograph is "shot"? Through the eyes of a particular photographer at a specific point in time, an image is created. The photographer is, of course, cognizant of variables like the nature of the light source and is constrained by the specific strengths and limitations of the photographic equipment, film (or digital technology), and his or her own talents and skills.

Photographs provide me with powerful memory triggers. After my parents died, I sometimes found myself looking at dozens of old photographs of my parents. Through my imagination I could, even if just for a moment, enter their world, whether it be in the 1920's, 30's, 40's, or later. My photographs of DeStaebler's sculptures serve a similar purpose. I can recapture some of the sights, sounds, thoughts, and feelings elicited by my original visits to the installations. Meditating on various works by DeStaebler creates a cascade of memories and feelings, not just about his work, but my own life history.

Zoom lenses also enabled me to get closer to the objects that were high above me. In the case of the Winged Figure that ability is a great blessing. Being so high above us, there is no way to actually touch the object itself, only the slender pedestal that holds it up in the air. There were times that I felt I was touching the figures with my digital camera as I slowly zoomed in and out, moving all over the figures with my digital video camera. All the while I hoped for a revelation to come forth.

My use of photography and videography, however, was not always productive. Several times in the midst of my frantic quest to take the best photograph possible, I had moments of realization that I was blocking my personal, direct experience of these figures by using a camera. The camera was intended to be a tool by which to somehow capture the image of the figures but was, unintentionally, keeping me at arm's length from the objects themselves. By concentrating so much on the mechanics of photography, I was not really looking at and being with the objects directly in order to allow them to have an impact on me. For most of this journey, I had thought that my cameras would be valuable vehicles to enhance my perception and experience of the objects, but, in fact, they turned out at times to be ways to distance me from the creations.

How does one capture a piece of sculpture in a still photograph or in a video? It is impossible. The sheer "reality" of a piece of sculpture cannot be reduced to another medium. One can make beautiful photographs or even accurate moving pictures of the object, but they still fall short of the experience of being in the presence of these pieces. They are solid, three-dimensional, heavy, and "real" in a way that a photograph or a moving picture cannot be. A piece of sculpture is real, like our bodies. It takes up space.

In the past, I have generally been more interested in motion pictures, still photographs, and oil paintings, rather than sculpture. In my exploration of DeStaebler's work, I have come to appreciate and at moments be enthralled by, the power of sculpture. And, then I remember. In 1965 I saw Michelangelo's Pietá at the New York World's Fair. Memories began to flow. Thirty-five years ago, while living in Reading, PA I often visited Philadelphia. There for the first time I saw the astonishing work of Rodan (1840-1917). Engaging De Staebler's sculptures has become an archeological expedition in my own mind. Experiences forgotten, repressed, displaced, or ignored come forth to enrich and expand aspects of my self that have, for whatever reason, have been “lost” in time. The mind is amazing. Thank God for memory. Memory is a resource that we carry with us for as long as we live, assuming the brain is functioning well. Our experiences are recorded deep within us, waiting to be reactivated in various ways to serve our needs. DeStaebler's art has thus served as a form of therapy and healing for me.

Bay Area Pilgrimages

I am obsessed by DeStaebler's sculptures. No matter that I have been to various installations many times before. I continue to return, especially to see the Winged Figure at the GTU, the Angel on Market Street, and the Three Figures in Oakland (these are the most accessible to me) in the attitude of a seeker on a pilgrimage. I have a pilgrimage route that I follow to these three installations. I am mesmerized, propelled by an urgent desire to wring some message or meaning out of DeStaebler's ensemble of compelling figures around the Bay Area.

I feel compelled to go to the places to look again and again, demanding that the mystery be revealed, as with the Holy, art's revelations seem to happen on its own terms and not on demand. These creations can be objects of desire or objects of meditation. I also see them as icons or archetypes of the contemporary predicament. I ask them: Please, please tell me what you mean. What is your message? Why do I keep coming back to these figures, over and over again? I bring my cameras each time, hoping for the perfect light, the perfect timing, the perfect angle, and the perfect mode of approach that will reveal the truth of DeStaebler's work. I sometimes hate the figures because of their powerful, mysterious hold on me. I do not want to admit it, but I sometimes hate God for the same reason.

DeStaebler's sculptures ignite my memory. Echoes from other things I have seen return to my mind. Perhaps, there are flashes of memories that come forth that remind me of a wounded starship warrior whose thin, frail body battles like the machine it is. I see their shattered remains that fall by the wayside. Some look faintly like a mummy I have seen in a dark corner of a museum, while others look like an unfinished sculpture I have seen somewhere, but I do not really remember exactly. In any case, they seem vaguely familiar, but just beyond the border of my finite, fragmentary memories. I want more. I wish they could talk. I sometimes wish Stephen DeStaebler would provide me with an interpretation that would sooth my searching mind and console my restless, weary heart. Give me a message that is direct, clear, and comforting. Are these figures angels testifying to the presence of the divine? Are they here to let us know that our every thought and action is graciously observed and supported by the presence of beings from the transcendent realm? [2]

No clear revelation comes. What comes is a deep awareness of the power of art to seduce, enchant, engage, and educate us. Above all, art tantalizes us. Various great pieces of art (whether oil paintings, music, films, photography, or sculpture) somehow crystallize important facets of the truth about the human predicament. Discussions about the nature of beauty and truth may provide intellectual gratification, but we know on a primal level of our psyche that something profound is happening. We are drawn to DeStaebler's Winged Figure , as with his many other mysterious, magical, and maddening figures, because his work is somehow at the intersection of the human and the divine. These figures are not fully human, nor are they fully divine, blending the immanent and the transcendent, the human and the divine, in a fantastic alchemy of art that emerges from clay, bronze, imagination, fire, and light. We cannot explain great art. We are enchanted by it. We can struggle to find ways to explain and explore these magnificent objects that seem to take on a life of their own. We develop relationships with great works of art, much in the same way that we have relationships with important people in our lives. We adore, appreciate, and love these people, but, at various times we are frustrated, even enraged, with them for not giving us exactly what we want. We want deliverance. We want perfection. We want truth. We want so many things from the objects, people, and, yes, even from the gods in our lives. We desire. We yearn. We plead and we beg, but only momentarily are we able to grasp the objects of our desires. But we keep coming back. We want to be transformed. We want to experience transcendence. We want it all, but DeStaebler's art reminds me that the human and divine are both fragments, unfinished at best, damaged at worst, experiences that we all encounter, whether we are aware of it or not.

Conclusion

DeStaebler's Winged Figure waits silently for our encounter. We can avoid its presence by being preoccupied with finding a book or an article in the library. No matter, it is there. We do not know if it is listening; it has no ears. We do not know if it is watching; it has no eyes. We do not know if it is speaking; it has no tongue. We do not know who it is; it has no face. What we do know is that we have eyes, ears, tongues, and faces. We can mediate on this splendid piece of sculpture that hovers between heaven and earth in our midst. We can marvel at its beauty. We can be perplexed by its mystery. We can celebrate and remember, if we have forgotten, what it means to be human, with our urgent persistent desires for something more, something meaningful, and something beyond.

We engage in a frantic search for the meaning of these fragmentary, chillingly beautiful remnants of people and angels or beings that insinuate themselves into our consciousness, haunt us, prod us, and tantalize us with visions of beings or objects that defy easy interpretation and which do not pacify us. No easy answers can be found. More mystery and more provocation meet our inquiring minds and hearts. We glean glimpses of meaning here and there, but overall we find a sense of haunting beauty that offers no easy consolation.

Notes:

[1] Hermann Rorschach (1884-1922), a Swiss psychiatrist, devised a projective test based on abstract inkblot images. Based on psychoanalytic assumptions, the test would discern unconscious issues and themes derived from a person's experience. Technically speaking, my reflections are best described as “active imagination.” Carl G. Jung developed this method as a way by which patients could explore and embellish their dreams in order to further their individuation process.

[2] Films influence my imagination and thus, my interpretation of DeStaebler's work. Wings of Desire, a 1987 film directed by Wim Wembers is perhaps the most important. Everyone who has seen this marvelous film will sometimes feel that there are, indeed, angels attending to us. Even if we do not believe in such things, we wish it were so. City of Angels , a 1998 Hollywood film directed by Brad Silberling is probably more familiar to a younger generation. Michael , directed by Nora Ephron in 1996, influences me to some degree when I find my imagination becoming somewhat perverse and cynical vis-à-vis the subject of angels.

[Forthcoming in Space for Faiths: Stephen De Staebler's Winged Figure, Art and Religion at the Graduate Theological Union , edited by Doug Adams, Pacific School of Religion. Please do not quote or copy without permission. Lewis Rambo, 32 Valley Road, San Anselmo, CA 94960, LewisRambo@aol.com]