till we have faces — rachel telian

where all the beauty comes from12”x15”charcoal, acrylic, paint pens 2015The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing- to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from… do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but going back. All my life the God of the Mountain has been wooing me.C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

the priest16”x12”pen & ink, acrylic, paint pens 2015He frightened me: the holiness of the smell that hung about him. I was afraid of his clothes too, all the skins they were made of, the dried bladders, and the great mask shaped like a bird’s head. It looked as if there were a bird growing out of his body.C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

memory waked9”x14” acrylic, gel medium 2015It would be better to rewrite it from the beginning, but there’s no time for that… What began the change was the very writing itself. Let no one lightly set about such a work. Memory, once waked, will play the tyrant… The change which the writing wrought in me was only the beginning- only to prepare me for the god’s surgery. They used my own pen to probe my wound.C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

i dont (want to) see it : incurvatus se5”x6”charcoal 2015I was like a condemned man waiting for his executioner, for I believed that some sudden stroke of the gods would fall on me very soon. But as day came after day and nothing happened, I began to see, at first very unwillingly, that I might be doomed to live, and even to live an unchanged life, some while longer.My aim was to build up more and more of that strength, hard and joyless, by learning, fighting, and laboring, to drive all the woman out of me. C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

this is my real voice16”x12”acrylic 2015There was utter silence all around me. And now for the first time I knew what I had been doing. While I was reading, it had, once again, seemed strange to me that the reading took so long; for the book was a small one. Now I knew that I had been reading it over and over- perhaps a dozen times. I would have read it forever, quick as I could, starting the first word again almost before the last one was out of my mouth, if the judge had not stopped me. And the voice I read it in was strange to my ears. There was given to me a certainty that this, at last, was my real voice.At last the judge spoke.“Are you answered?”Yes. The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered. Lightly men talk of saying what they mean. Often when he was teaching me to write in Greek the Fox would say, “Child, to say the very thing you mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.” A glib saying. When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time been saying over and over, you’ll not talk of the joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces? C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

a myth retold: again16" x 12"book pages 2015Now you who read, judge. C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces