One of the things that makes a good, timeless story is depth—that is, many ideas or themes interlaced that will stand the test of time. Holy Frit, a film now streaming on several platforms, has no shortage of themes. If you’re looking for something new to watch this summer, I can’t recommend it enough. I’ve followed this movie from small screenings and limited big-screen showings with great eagerness.
Many good and all great stories share this skeleton: An overarching goal or desire, obstacles to that desire or goal, and eventual overcoming of those obstacles—often changing the main character irrevocably in the process. Holy Frit, originally filmed as an independent work by talented videographer Justin Monroe, shows the agonizing and triumphant arc of painter-turned-glass artist Tim Carey as he overcomes external and internal obstacles to the task of creating the world’s largest “stained glass” (actually fused glass) window.
You can read a synopsis of the movie and watch the trailer, but what is amazing is that Carey, a talented artist employed at the time with The Judson Studios, a venerable stained-glass studio in
California, helped Judson through his artwork win the contract to do this colossal window for the United Methodist Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, KS. But there’s just one problem: almost all traditional stained glass techniques, as it turns out, couldn’t be used in this window effectively.
So, Carey enlists the help of the Italian fused-glass master Narcissus Quagliata. And then the real work begins. The huge victory of having achieved the goal of winning that bid turns out to be Carey’s biggest artistic struggle.
(CodaWorx-Kyle Mikelson)
And here’s a short list of some of the outer struggles he and everyone else involved face: setting aside known skills for unknown and very foreign skills (and learning them quickly); inefficient and inadequate studio space; fundraising; government environmentalist harassment of the glass supplier; and tight time constraints on the project. There are more, but I’ll leave you to tease these out of the movie.
One big question this movie raises is, What does it mean for an artist to do works for hire? Most of us have probably seen the clause in an employment package that says in effect any creative work you do is the property of the employer. While Carey doesn’t struggle with that, per se, the sheer scope of the project brought out some hopes in him that he and Judson Studios had to grapple with, and these tough moments lead naturally to another question: When is it time for an artist to move on? Quagliata, while not telling Carey what to do, lends his hard but clear-eyed experiences as a young artist decades earlier for Carey to mull over. Other themes related to the questions above are: Does talent guarantee equality—or respect--or should it? What do artists do when important parts of their artistic souls take a beating?
Quagliata, a force in his own right, comes and goes throughout the project, but it’s worth noting two of his reasons for getting involved in the first place. First, Carey and Judson really needed the help, and I suspect Quagliata relished the challenge this huge window gave his already highly honed skills. And his desire to see his work and skills poured into Carey in a larger public, mainstream context is something probably every artist wants. Even with all of Quagliata’s success around the world as a glass artist, the desire to have more eyes and hearts touched by his glasswork—both firsthand and through Tim Carey--is certainly a legitimate desire. Creativity means nothing without a deep connection to audience.
What about the juxtaposition of talent and tutelage? Quagliata had to set aside his strongest artistic self for Carey’s growth. Carey, on the other hand, had to set aside his talents to be taught. Both are incredibly humbling and difficult.
And let’s talk about risks. First, Carey had to take the risk of Quagliata telling him, “No, I can’t help you. Are you crazy?” Judson studios had to take the risk of investing a huge capital outlay to complete the project (can’t tell you what they did—watch the movie). Quagliata had to decide when to leave Carey to fend for his artistic self—in essence, when to move aside so Carey could grow—a selfless act for the good of a younger artist. And the Church of the Resurrection had to trust them to get the work done on time.
I could say a lot more about the movie, but I want to leave you with some thoughts about the redeeming quality of glasswork, which I’ve touched on in other blogs. The impact of this massive project, both in its process and its final product, almost defies description. It transformed two artists, a church and its members, and a company. Those who come to see the Resurrection Window, as it’s called, leave with more light in their hearts. Lastly, the Window is a testament to Christ’s work and the sweeping arc of God’s plan in the world.
In this way, the Resurrection Window itself is like a great piece of literature, showing in luminous detail an overarching goal or desire, obstacles to that desire or goal, and eventual overcoming of those obstacles—changing the main character irrevocably in the process.
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