I have a little bit of art for you this morning. Howard Finster was a folk artist from Summerville, Georgia. Kenny and I went by his homeplace when we were on our honeymoon, a wonderland of folk art structures in the middle of an old neighborhood. Apparently, Finster was a preacher, and preached twice on Sundays. One Sunday morning, he had the distinct impression (again) that his congregation was paying no attention. That evening when he preached, he asked his congregation if they could remember three things that he’d said that morning. He got none. Closing his bible, Finster left the pulpit for good and took up other means of telling truth, ones that people would see and hear. There’s an edge of child, and edge of crazy, an edge of prophet and a clarity of vision to Finster. He’s well worth spending some time considering.
I wrote this about him:
FINSTER
Finster was on to something.
Like Miracle on 34th Street’s Mr. Claus,
I want to be in the nation of Imagination
Where you can take your boat to China and back in a day
Where you can have snowballs in summer-
So spoke Santa.
Finster’s imagining organ, however, told truths.
Mister Finster’s flying jumble of prophesy and two dimensional wavy folk folks
I NEVER SEEN A PERSON I DIDN’T LOVE
Laid down his sermons and walked out
To tuck them into bits of art where they’d be found
More an Easter egg hunt than a lecture lost on the listeners
Who said they never heard a word.
Told it like Braille for the eyes for those who can’t hear so well.
Raving like a man who can see with some other sense
Raving clarity of an anti-lunatic
Craving a means of feeding the poor and blind.
He rolled up his sleeves and scribbled like a saint.
Hey, have you read Gilead by Marilynne Robinson yet? I say this in all seriousness–next time I ask, the answer must be Yes.