Can a Christian be an Abstractionist?

I recently took a course from Australian artist Lorna Crane. I wouldn’t really describe it as a course, but really more of an experience–a journey through a greater understanding of my own visual language. It helped me to uncover a lot of what’s been missing in my work, but it also left me with an internal struggle that, while not entirely new to me, has taken on a new dimension.

In my work, I’ve always moved towards the abstract. When I’ve tried to create something within pre-defined boundaries or parameters, I find myself frustrated, irritated, annoyed, and unable to make anything of any real substance. I feel boxed in.

I was always the girl that colored outside the lines.

Maybe it’s because I struggle with rules. I’ve always struggled with rules—mostly because my questions, which often go unanswered, are always rooted in the basic ‘why’ at their core.

I’m not a stranger to the tension between control and chaos, beauty and ambiguity. Sometimes, there isn’t an answer to the ‘why’ of an issue. Sometimes I just have to accept that in this fragmented and broken world, that groans alongside me to be made right again, ‘why’ isn’t an explanation I may ever get. 

So I keep sitting in that tension between what’s definable and what isn’t. It’s uncomfortable and sometimes, it makes me at war with myself.

Lorna’s course experience opened up a world for me that’s been missing from my work. It was almost like giving myself permission to finally be ok with not having to follow the rules (which I don’t typically need anyway, as I rarely do) in what I make. Because there’s always a slight insecurity in my work, a hesitancy in whether I’m making anything of value, having the permission to make unique marks, make hand-made brushes, paint textiles, deconstruct and reconstruct personal marks, it was like breathing new life into my artistic journey. 

It was like hearing my name called, despite being in a loud, busy crowd–it was my name, the one I respond to, the word that speaks of me.

So now I feel my abstract work being gently pulled into an even more abstract world.

And that tension, between the control and chaos, the beauty and ambiguity, gets even stronger.

As I look at what I’ve been creating lately, I think ultimately, my question is: can a Christian be an Abstractionist?

Can a Christian create abstract art and have it point to Christ?

How does my abstract work reflect the Lord? 

How can I invite others to see Him in the middle of what may seem like a blur of lines, shapes, and color?

Lots of questions, lots of tension.

Abstract art can feel like a contradiction when placed next to the Gospel, which proclaims a clear and timeless truth. Historically, the aim of art has been to move us outside of ourselves and ultimately point our eyes upward. If it’s so abstract, and doesn’t seem like it means anything to anyone but me, how can I even call it art?

I think maybe the temptation is to think that my work must always be a visual sermon, a direct and obvious message about the Lord’s nature and His great love. The more I question though, the more I wonder if abstract art has a unique way of pointing us to the mystery of God’s presence in our world.

I think we all feel a type of tension, living here as we do. This tension between what we see and what we don’t, I believe exists in all of us. We tend to live only horizontally–always existing as if what we see, what is tangible–is all there is. I think we often ignore the vertical world–that which we can’t always see, but is just as real as what we do. 

This world full of contrasts—light and shadow, clear understanding and deep mystery–what do we do with it all? 

Scripture reminds me that “we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Corinthians 13:12). I know that my understanding of the Lord and His work in the world is often imperfect and fragmented. 

Could there be something beautiful about abstract art that invites us into that same kind of wonder? 

When I create a piece filled with layers and unexpected forms, could I be mirroring the truth that Christ is always more than I can fully grasp? 

He invites me to trust that He goes before me and that in Him, all things hold together…even when I don’t see the full picture or have clear understanding of what I’m seeing.

The Creator of all things spoke beauty into existence with a divinity of order and precision, but He also designed the unpredictable—the ocean’s waves, the randomness of raindrops, wildflowers that grow where no one expects or even sees. 

Could it be that abstract art speaks into this fusion of clarity and unknown? 

Could it be, that what seems to be swirling shapes and unrestrained brushstrokes, could be a reminder to us that even in chaos, there is a God who reigns sovereign and good? 

Could it be that if I lean even more into abstraction, I could hope to capture a semblance of this divine mystery?

More questions.

I pray as I paint, asking the Lord to guide my hands and to work through me, even when I don’t know what the final outcome will look like. I ask Him to meet me in the space between my brush and the canvas.

Maybe that’s enough, for now. I don’t know.

Can art be full of mystery and invitation rather than complete certainty and understanding?

When I step back from a finished piece, I don’t always see the message spelled out in black and white, but I trust the Spirit can move in ways I can’t predict. If I can point people to the love and glory of Christ, even through shapes and colors that defy simple explanation, am I then fulfilling my calling in this season of artistic struggle?

I don’t know. I hope so.

I pray so.

For now, I live with the tension.

I keep pressing forward with notions of fragility, fragmentation, and repair. Much like my sojourning on the uphill road. 

Much like running the race of sanctification. In all things, to God be the glory.
 

Even in abstraction.