Has Art Ever Brought you to Tears?

By Nicole Henry

Stella Adler, an American actress and acting teacher once said, "Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one." That soul reminder can sometimes elicit a visceral response that can leave one standing in an art museum, or sitting in a symphony, or walking through a forest, with unchecked tears in the eyes, a lump in the throat, and that feeling rising in our chest that C.S. Lewis describes as longing for another world.

You never really know when it will hit you - it's almost always unexpected, which is why it can fell you so fast - but when it does, it causes a kind of reset that cannot be ignored. It's a reminder that Truth, Goodness, and Beauty exist in a broken world. It's the bright beam of light that pierces the darkness and brings hope and refreshment and optimism that all is not lost, that we each have a part to play in the unfolding drama of the world, and that what we do matters, both now, and in eternity.

Such was the soul-reminder that I experienced this past week while wandering through the Spanish art wing of The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. There it was, tucked away in a corner, so easily overlooked for both its subject matter - a poor kitchen maid - and its size, compared to the others in the room.

What was it that arrested me? Its painter, Diego Velazquez, is not known for this particular piece. His portraits of Spanish nobles and their families far outweigh it in terms of prestige and renown, but there is something about it that calls to me. You can see how her hand is resting on the ledge of the table, paused from her work. Her head is turned, ear open to a conversation, eyes almost glazed over as she focuses on something else entirely. The flashes of white in the headwrap, the pitcher, the cloth on the table and at the wrist, are pleasingly symmetrical, drawing the viewer's eye to the lightened side of her face.

What is she listening to? We cannot tell from this piece, but if you know the artist, you know that it is, in fact, a cropped version of his Kitchen Maid with the Supper at Emmaus, which hangs in The Art Institute of Chicago. And if you are familiar with the Gospels, you know that Jesus walked with some men on the road to Emmaus, and opened their eyes, and hearts, and minds to His Truth.

This painting imagines what might have happened once they reached the town and stopped for something to eat. It imagines a poor kitchen maid doing her work as she has done it every hour of every day for probably a good portion of her life. It imagines her hearing the soul saving words of the resurrected Christ as He broke bread, sipped wine, and refreshed Himself after a long dusty walk, probably continuing to unveil things that were once obscured to the eyes and ears of unseeing and unhearing men.

But she hears Him. I would like to believe that His words changed her life, as His words have, and continue to, change mine.

When I saw this piece I knew it was a cropped version of the larger one, because in the Early Modern Invictus Fine Art Guide we have a lesson on Velazquez, and we include the full version of this piece (though we imitate another one of his, The Waterseller of Seville, which I have also included here for you to see, because it is so beautiful), so I knew the rest of the story that Velazquez was trying to tell his viewer. But I have never seen any part of this painting in real life before. I have never gotten close enough to see the brush strokes or the chips in the frame or the grainy texture that is there just beneath the surface.

And so I stood there, eyes awash in tears, humbled and in awe and so much gratitude that I live in a time and a place where, when life threatens to beat down and crush anyone who gets in its way, there is art, and because art is a True good, and everything good is from God, I know that it is really the risen Christ, to whom the poor kitchen maid was listening to, that lifts the soul out of the ashes and the dust and washes it in beauty and reverence and whispers, "Beloved."