New York Movie

Oil on Canvas, 1939

Edward Hopper

"The tide of the twentieth century was flowing in a different direction altogether. It was the picture palaces, their fronts so brilliantly lighted, inside so mysteriously dark, that provided our true churches and chapels. There we sat, separately or clasped together, in scented darkness (in those days attendants during intervals squirted perfume like Flit over the heads of the patrons in their seats) and worshipped our tribal gods: sex, money and violence as they were projected on to the screen and entered into our own minds and bodies. Thus the new gospel was propounded in the beginning was the Flesh and the Flesh became Word; to be carnally minded is life dying in the Spirit to be re-born in the Flesh. There was no more ardent acolyte than I, and yet, trudging homewards late at night along the empty tram-lines, a fearful sense of desolation would fall upon me. I strained my ear, but heard only the sound of my own footsteps; I peered ahead, but saw nothing except the tramlines reaching into the distance."

--Malcolm Muggeridge, Jesus Rediscovered

For more items of this nature please visit our Oil section here but not here.

As the first number of months and seasons of the Ironic Era have come and gone and upon it words have been written (see here, here, or here for a few examples), an update from a rather delinquent correspondent may be proper. Seeing as eras are less like pushing a stroller and more like being dragged behind a large dog, one must try to get a glimpse of street signs before the neighborhoods become completely unfamiliar. However, like street signs, the following are purely academic.

The Ironic Era found in the neighborhood of public discourse:

Street Sign # 1: "The Irony"
Once we categorized individuals, decisions, and actions (with a thought to truth for finding the best ones). Now the category (after truth had been dismissed or the need for it "gotten over") is the only meaning. The irony is that the category has overtaken as truth any truth it tried to described or reflect.

Street Sign #2: " Working Definition"
The ultimate pursuit and seeming success of categorization of thought and culture (without the foundation or aim of truth) rendering individual sincerety non-superlative and bringing individual doubt as to the transendence of the idea beyond category. The aim being to attain to the supreme position of passive observation and commentative critique while enjoying the best physical and emotive parts of any ideology. The irony is that the act of categorization is seen as above the need for truth or meaning. This in no way impugns categorilationist's impregnable position as most reasonable and unquestionable!

Street Sign #3: "The Assumption"
The assumption is that people assume their roles in categories or groups out of imitation of that ideal and then the irony seems to come when the person is ascribing to a catagory and not to the truth that would naturally find its outworking in creating some action that could be described by that category. Thus, the precipitative loss of sincerity or allowance there-of.

Street Sign #4: "Mistakable Synonyms"
Categoriomatic Era, Personification Era, and Axiomatic Era.

Street Sign #5: "Central Peripherals"
Pursuing the most reasonable and enjoyable life by having established its meaninglessness, people have come around to searching for fulfilling peripherals in life simply leaving the foundation to those they would dismiss as unreasonable (but whom they base their hope for final meaning if push came to shove). In other words, if nudge came to a gun at the back of the head the fall-back is that "surely one of these ridiculous sincerists has a correct undergerding of logic and truth and hopefully I picked the right one."

Street Sign #6: "The Orator"
The orator of the ironic era cannot be questioned if he is able to turn on the questioner and dismiss what they are saying by simply pointing to its cultural context and origins, its categorical position.

Street Sign #7: "Not the Postmodern Era Anymore"
Because words lost their meaning in the postmodern era, in the ironic era the one who has power in public discourse is only the one with the greatest knowledge of cultural quips, trends, connections, anecdotes, and parties. One's public cultural afluence and thus influence is based on the ability to wax discerningly uprejudicely eloquent on cultural connections and not on absolute worldview and meaning.

Street Sign #8: "The All-Important Response"
The emotional response to the visual is the meaning when the postmodern graffitti has been left to the next era. Words and messages are subjective, but by gaining the greatest widespread personal response to effectively done visualization, (filters, graffics, filmography, social environment images, cinematography) the key to success, power, and cultural affluence (which is influence in the ironic era) is wielded and an emotional response of categorical empathy can be achieved!

Maybe the mapping of another neighborhood will be performed in the future. However, now, as always, yours faithfully,

-A foreign correspondent

Now, I know that what happens in my life and the activities that I would often relate are not uncommon. In fact, they are quite common, but just in this fact lies the value. While some find inspiration in the supposed fantastic, I would argue the common is just the fantastic that God chooses to allow the most people to experience.

Just such a common activity of gardening was commenced and enjoyed this past weekend with my wife and children. The subject of gardening has already been grandly stated by Stuart Busenitz here. Being speechless (or rather write-less) after his defining treatment of the topic, I am left with only a peripheral matter, that of the garden wall.

I must say our particular garden "wall" stretches that imagery to the limits. I constructed it this week by burying four large studs and screwing in 2x4's and 2x6's to establish what some may describe as a box around our garden. This wording may be more accurate, but it takes all the romanticism out of a garden wall. With the job completed, the results pleased the eye and delineated the garden. Rabbits could jump it and blackbirds could thwart it, and, yet, the garden was better for being marked out and stated clearly. Now we have a garden!

Upon surveying and ruminating on the completed "walls," I could come to no other strong purpose for them other than in delineation. Our garden wall is defined by what it defines; a noble, but humble position. As a glass aquarium, picture frame, or book binding, the value is solely in the defining.

At this point I am reminded of another garden. The Secret Garden, or at least it was until Mary Lennox found it out, in the work by Frances Hodgson Burnett. While this was a most wonderful garden, one only appreciated it because of the wall that so clearly defined and guarded it. The wall was nothing in itself, but what magic it made when serving its purpose of defining.

No one, however, would say that Mary, discovering the wall, had seen the garden. This I am very much afraid is where we stumble upon the problem. People seem to mistake the wall or the definer for the defined. For, again, no one would say the traveler who stood before the great wall of China had experienced that vast land. And yet, and yet, we do this very thing quite often.

Like this great oriental wall, There are two different kingdoms separated in our midst: the kingdom of this world and the Kingdom of Heaven. In many ways the wall that runs between and defines the two is the moral law upon our hearts. Now don't stop here, for while the wall that is the law is immovable and steadfast, it is not the kingdom of heaven as many would claim. It is the definer, the delineation between harmony and rebellion. On the other side of that wall is a vast and majestic land. The wall, however, is what one must see first as he approaches this glorious kingdom and it is much more daunting and impenetrable than the Great Wall of China. People seem to end up thinking of the Kingdom of Heaven as simply impossible rules to keep, but they are unfortunately looking at the garden wall covered in vines.

No one would say the traveler who stood before the Great wall of China has experienced that vast land.
No one would say that Mary Lennox, discovering the wall, had seen the secret garden.
No one should say that he has seen the Kingdom of heaven in the law at the border.

No, what one really needs is The Gate!

Phillip Tippin
During the storms of spring
Roeland Park, KS

Painting: Stanley Spencer, Hoe Garden Nursery 1955

Enoch Arden
Watercolor heightened with bodycolour, 1924
George Goodwin Kilburne

For simple reference here is the narrative poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson of the same title.

For more items of this nature please visit our Oil section here but not here.

It was misting and grey when I looked out the window last Saturday morning, and the forecast was rain, ice and snow. Better still, my wife and I had no plans but to make no plans and relax. We had a breakfast of eggs, venison sausage, fried potatoes, milk and coffee. As we ate, the mist turned to rain which turned to snow and some of the snow began to stick on the grass, tree branches and the windshields of our cars parked on the street. A walk was clearly out of the question, so we decided I would read to her while she put together some crafts for an upcoming family wedding.

For months now, off and on, we have been reading The Hobbit aloud, usually in the evenings when my wife has a project to do that requires little brainpower. So, as the snow picked up and early morning turned to late morning, I read to her about Bilbo and Gandalf and giant spiders, elves and scary dark forests. At times I would wonder whether she was listening as she worked, but I was reassured when I read a particularly grisly description of a giant spider’s eight hairy legs and she said, “Ew, Nasty!” Every once in a while I would look up from the book out our large picture window and exclaim, “Look at it come down now!” or “Heather! Look how big thoseflakes are!”

It was one of those days that make me think to myself, “You know, living in Newton is about as good as living anywhere else I can imagine.” A morning in Trafalgar Square, London or a night walking along the Seine in Paris could not have been any more satisfying than sitting in front of that picture window, watching the snow, sipping coffee, reading to my wife and digesting that hearty breakfast. Oh I’ve heard the exclamations, and at times they’ve come out of my mouth: “I have to get out of Newton!” “This place is holding me down.” “Nothing happens here.” “If only I lived in_________.” There is nothing wrong with wanting to expand your horizons by seeing and experiencing new places. I’ve done that; it was life altering and perspective enlarging, but it’s no good thinking those other places will make you satisfied or happy; they won’t. Move for practical reasons; move for career reasons; move for study reasons; move for family reasons, but don’t move for reasons of happiness or satisfaction. Newton has about as much to do with your happiness or unhappiness as a plastic flower has to do with photosynthesis.

At the end of the broadcast of the 1998 Kansas State, Nebraska football game in which K-State had defeated the boys in red 40-30 for the first time in twenty-nine years, the TV announcer, Keith Jackson, declared, as he watched students swarming the field and goalposts, “So It’s a goodnight from the happiest place on Earth—Manhattan, Kansas.” Last Saturday evening, as I lay in bed thinking about the day, I think I could have said the same about Newton.

R. Eric Tippin
In The Study on 8^th Street

Though it may be only a trifle, let me lay this problem before you...

It is a great struggle to drop a habit. Sometimes even more so before the habit is established! This is just the case with pipe smoking and myself. The shear value of smoking a pipe is growing on my mind by the day and great difficulty has arisen in finding a substitute for the habit that I seem to be driven to adopt. For, my only hope in this instances, as it appears to my mind, is the discovery of a substitute.

Before I go much further, I must further address the reason for the surmounting worth of such a habit. For, if value is found in necessity, these pipes may be worth the pawning of the kitchen table. As I see it, the worth advances upon me on two fronts.

Firstly, at the root, it seems I am unable to or at least absolutely inept at, sitting quietly and thinking for long periods of time without being engaged in at least some menial activity. I often have the desire to sit and think for mental rest and refreshment, but I find an overwhelming sense of guilt at the very point of sitting and doing nothing. I'm sure the underlying psychology of this is rather too torturous to be addressed here. None the less, this wonderful meniality of the task is the nitch that pipe smoking has filled with such gusto. It allows someone to be "doing something" while really doing nothing but sitting and thinking. One would assume that such a function could be picked up easily by some other means. Yet, all the possibilities that come to mind are either not peaceful or are quite distracting.

In looking for a substitute it had to be something that allowed my eyes to wonder around God's creation and not take too much thinking within itself. This ruled out whittling, reading, sketching, and writing. Knitting, although a man's game (see Flight of the Chonchords or just trust me), would not be acceptable simply because of a lack of skill on my part. Health concerns, though not completely ruling out smoking in this case, do seem to rule out chewing and the rather necessary aspect of spitting at intervals. Poking a fire would also have seemed to do quite nicely, but availability of said fire could often become a difficulty. Probably the most nearly adequate option could have been sipping a hot cup of tea or coffee. This however did not suit in that I quaf coffee in two shakes when I am not in conversation with another or absorbed in studying a text. It's brief duration, then, is its downfall as a true substitute.

Smoking, I'm afraid, has all of these benefits and none of the downsides. And for those of you, myself included, who may be slightly adverse to the health risks, any undue concern could be quite easily dispatched with a cost/benefit analysis. If an hour of introspection and contemplation could be gained, the value could far outweigh a week of thoughtless living that may or may not be granted by the LORD in a furthering of these earthly years.

Secondly (It seems quite a spell since I said firstly), its value as simply a reason.

One cannot underestimate the value of being able to give a reason for or description of what one is up to. Many of my ruminations are not well enough constructed to be described in a word or two. The wonder of a tied activity is that it fulfills this most important of requirements. To be able to say "I'm enjoying a pipe," or "I'm eating a bowl of cereal" is of utmost value. A true statement is thusly provided while allowing one to finish the mental construction project. If you are caught simply thinking all sorts of ramshackle tidbits, sentences and concepts may be required in an explanation, for, I'm afraid, "just thinking" is rarely an adequate response.

This was to be the end of the story with a subtle wrap up in defense of smoking in a rather un-smoking world, but it was not to be! At the moments of these finishing touches in the smoke tinged air, a very real blast of fresh air removed the cloudiness of my thoughts. Wouldn't you know it, I'd been assuming the necessity that I be "still" to be "still." This was a great folly. For, I found myself on a walk.

Phillip Tippin
Thought, but not written, under snowy oaks
Roeland Park, KS

Whether innocence does or does not define childhood, one thing that certainly finds its fullest expression in youth is sneakiness. Yes, that special trait that is not only present in childhood but actually pursued with vigor. For, the rewards are unparalleled: Laughter, excitement, freedom, discovery, and adventure, just to name a few.

Here is a young fellow coming to the realization that his sister does not know he is in the living room as she quietly reads her book. Is it not laughter which may be gained by embodying sneakiness before yelling "Bonanza!" at close range?

Here is a barefoot little girl, I would say about 6 years of age. The cuteness of the furry squirrels about her in the trees cannot be understated, but, Oh, to see them up close! Her motionless visage awaits the opportunity to bound around the tree for a close encounter. The joy of an explorer and the satisfaction of discovery.

Here is a youth on a warm sunny afternoon restricted to a time in his room for "rest." The minutes slowly tick by and although he is sure they forgot to wake him, just in case, he must tip-toe to the kitchen to find whether his time has been served. "Please, let the clock say three" runs through his head as he stealthily creeps down the hall to have a look. Is not freedom the hope of the sneaking lad?

One final picture must be described. Here is a gang of three young friends. The battle to gun down the outlaws has gone on for over an hour. The mothers seem to be oblivious to the dangerous renegades on the loose in the back yard as they sip their Diet Coke, but the boys will protect them just the same. Seeing that there is no cover by the sandbox, the boys simply must sneak behind the toy firetruck to have a clear shot at capturing the outlaws beneath the trampoline. They sneak for adventure and they fight for fun.

It seems quite established in my mind, therefore, that sneakiness can be a valuable asset in the young, but I have more than a sneaking suspicion that all of this changes about the time we find the wider world before us. At first blush it would appear that the change is one of roles. We simply are no longer the sneaker but rather the sneaked upon. This view is probably the one most accepted based on the language we employ. All kinds of things begin "sneaking up" on us from parenthood to the thirties to the forties to grandchildren! However, I would argue this is a blatant excuse and misuse of language. We have, rather, lost our own sneaking aptitude more than, in any way, we are being sneaked upon.

I would suggest it is a matter of expectations and preparedness. For, how can we say that things are sneaking up on us when we ourselves are steadily moving toward those stationary objects? The very things that we ought to be approaching cautiously and with great anticipation become the dreaded surprises when we simply stop and look around us at different intervals on our way. This is a shame, because it takes away so much of the reward and excitement of each new discovery.

Really, we impune the innocence of our current situation because of our woeful under preparedness to encounter the surprising. We must reclaim the sneaking for ourselves. Stop the defense and go on the offense. The effect of offensive sneaking in our old age may, in fact, surprise us! Who knows what we will find on the other side of the tree if only we will approach on tip toes and with bated breath.

Phillip Tippin
In 6/8 time
Roeland Park, KS

     Recently, in an interview with Rainn Wilson, Elon Musk—founder of Paypal, champion of atheistic science and aspiring Mars Colonizer—in response to a question about why he would want to colonize Mars said this: “Because, uh, I think that’s the best place where humans can become a multi-planet species, and a space-bearing civilization, cause I think that’s one of the most important things that we could accomplish. Uh, in fact I think it’s important enough that it would actually fit on the scale of evolution itself. You know, I think perhaps it is at least as important as life going from the oceans to land. The probability of consciousness existing for a long time, uh, would be much greater if we were on two planets.” Later, he answered the question, “What do you worship?” with, “Well, I don’t really worship anything, but I do devote myself to the advancement of humanity, uh, using technology.”

     So his highest goal in his life is to ensure the existence of the human race as long as possible. But, I suppose as an atheist, it is the highest “good” to which he can aspire. What struck me was how his words echo, almost exactly, the sentiments of the atheist, Mars-colonizing villain, Weston in C.S. Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet. When faced with an alien civilization that asks him why he would want to colonize Mars and disposes them Weston gives the following response:

“To you I may seem a vulgar robber, but I bear on my shoulders the destiny of the human race. Your tribal life with its stone-age weapons and beehive huts, its primitive coracles and elementary social structure, has nothing to compare with our civilization – with our science, medicine and law, our armies, our architecture, our commerce, and our transport system which is rapidly annihilating space and time. Our right to supersede you is the right of the higher over the lower . . . Life is greater than any system of morality; her claims are absolute. It is not by tribal taboos and copy-book maxims that she has pursued her relentless march from the amoeba to man and from man to civilization.”

       “Well, I don’t really worship anything, but I do devote myself to the advancement of humanity, uh, using technology.” “Life is greater than any system of morality.” You’d think Mr. Musk and Mr. Weston had been sharing notes. Even in our ironic era, the goal of atheistic materialists has not changed. And C.S. Lewis is still a genius.

R. Eric Tippin
In The Study on 8th Street
Newton, KS 

My brother, Phillip Tippin in a previous Ink Society post cogently examined the concept that memories are mortal and, “That memories are simply reminders of . . . current realities.” He also claimed that clinging to the past, especially through modern technology can be potentially dangerous. I applaud his brilliant treatment of this subject and ask you to read his post here but certainly not here.

I would like to further examine the subject... (More)

Two feet of snow has a way of domesticating the populace. Only now are people venturing out to the task of errand-running. Finding myself out with hopes of having my hair trimmed, I sat waiting across the room from a mother soothingly humming to calm her small child. Her songs choices included the well familiar tunes of Pour Some Sugar On Me and Hey Ya!, reassuring her little child with the familiar folk songs of our time. Melodies sung to the next generation encompassing famous times of yore. Needless to say, the child was soothed and we all enjoyed our wait in peace, undisturbed by a child's exuberance (music from the overhead speakers continuing to supply comfortable noise to the untrimmed assembly).

The snow was beginning to melt, and obviously the audible drone had begun again. For, this snowy imposition, along with stopping errand traffic, lends its wonderful dampening affect to the hum of musical and non-musical modern noises. Although possibly just a white, fluffy supplementing happenstance, I had already been enamored lately with just these hidden, quietest of sounds close about me and the snow only added to the wonder: my feet on the creaking wood floor, setting down a cup, rubbing my hand across my chinny-chin-chin, etc.

It all began when wearing headphones (coincidentally) between songs. All the sounds of movements (rustling of my shirt and my breathing in and out) were amplified in my ears and I was reminded of the crystal clear natural "movement sounds" in Masterpiece Theater films like Bleak House or the movie Lincoln. In the quietness of the solitary individual footsteps, creaks, fingers tapping on a desk, a ticking clock, the shrug of a shoulder, and the crunch of snow under foot, life is given a natural clarity. The amplification of quiet sounds adds such a poignancy to the story portrayal. Though amplified for our pleasure in films, they are no less loud in reality if we can only get rid of all the other noise to enjoy them. This theme was one of the aspects that I enjoyed most from my brother R.E. Tippin's notes on his time at a monastery. His description moved like a fairy tale upon my mind as he painted the simple scene of the sounds at the dinner table!

The delight of my heart as of encountering fairyland in Eric's portrayal and my own quiet moments is rooted in an ancient magic. This interaction to make little sounds gives me strangely new understanding of being alive and awareness of the brevity of life on earth. Many have come before, even just short years ago, who can no longer make any kind of sound or have the slightest affect on the physical world as I can at this moment. These fingers of mine, whose atoms were spoken into existence brief years ago, freely go on tapping out a rhythm on my knee. But the opportunity won't last long for me either and I will be dead below the ground if the LORD tarries. We wait, with those who have fallen asleep, for the resurrection with physicality. In this we will follow our LORD as His resurrected body would have caused the snapping of sticks in making a fire while his feet quietly trod on the seaside. He will make all things new to relieve the groans of the earth, but His power and wisdom even now are made ever clearer as my walking stick taps the path and makes a small sound ring forth. Life has sound effects!

Although I could stop right here, I would be doing a dis-service to the quiet genre ever fighting the background music of our time. For, there is not just one but two types of quiet sounds: the subtle ones mentioned above and the ones which are only quiet because of the distance from their source!

Pervasive and permeating indeed is the modern hum! However, the source of this constant sound is quieter than the historical equivalent because it is ever near: ten short feet to the store speakers, an arms length to the car radio, and physical intimacy with headphones. In days of old (as noted in the passage London Bells and London Cars) this was not the case. The source of the music and songs were more scarce and therefore had to be louder at their source to have any kind of reach. For this reason, the music of the church bell rang clear at a distance but with alarming power and vibration in its very presence.

The hymns of the bells from the steeples have informed generations quietly from a distance as daily work was performed. The impact could gain its full voice, however, the closer one came to the source. The weekly gathering of the body at the very center to once again tune hearts to sing His praise, to regain right thinking before the Father who calls us while we were yet sinners going our own way upon the hills! In the days of now, chimes are ever nearer, yet with my ear smashed all the way against the speaker grill I do not come any closer to the music of the spheres.

The reminder must be noted then that even in these weekly moments of relative boisterous sound as we gather together with the body are only hushed whispers across time relative to the day the voices grow into the roar of the multitude as the throng of those robed in white by the blood of the lamb, the song of life becoming overpowering in the beauty of its Theme, draws near the throne. For here is the Source of all music, ruling with utter power and majesty. Although the bells of this music now only just reach our hearts over the distance, these soft pure tones are enough because we know the Source!

So, we are left with these two quiet sounds: the softness of the now and the softness of the melody in the distance!

LORD, tune my heart to sing your praise,
Your distant bells ringing in the vale of days.

Phillip Tippin
A few days ago
Roeland Park, KS