Those close to me probably know that I was raised catholic by parents who were in religious life—a nun and priest, respectively—when they decided to shift gears and start a family. As you can imagine, the church played a significant role in my early years, though perhaps not to the extent one would imagine given the circumstances. Somewhat paradoxically, I grew up in a relatively left-leaning, open-minded household in which both my mother and my father began to distance themselves from traditional catholic theology. We had stopped going to church by the time I was about twelve and, as of now, my mother studies evolutionary cosmology, my father is a Buddhist, and my brother and I are atheists (as far as I understand it, anyways).
Some years ago, my father gave me the wooden crucifix he used to hang above his bedside table. I don’t remember how he got it or why he gave it to me, though it’s been in the box of crap that I take with me for no reason other than it’s stuff I think I probably shouldn’t throw out. For better or worse, the road has done its damage: I first noticed after my move to Guelph in 2014 that the figure had become detached from the cross (an unceremonious descent, if you will). Then, upon arriving in the UK this past September, I found that Christ’s right arm had broken in transit. Oddly enough, I preferred it that way—it had nothing to do with some sort of revenge fantasy, but rather with a newly found appreciation for it as an object. The figure was, after all, exquisitely carved, and I liked how it looked something like a historical example of a reclining nude when propped up on the screw that once affixed it to the wall in my parents’ bedroom. So, I put it on my windowsill and took this picture:
Recently, I decided to reaffix the right arm to the body in a less conventional position. I’m not yet sure if it’s art, though I think it has earned its place on my windowsill.