Felix Culpa

Castlerigg Stone Circle. Click to Enlarge. Copyright Katherine L. Carlson, All Rights Reserved.

I was quite literally shooting from the hip. The moment I saw the older couple at Castlerigg Stone Circle in England's Lake District, I started trying to nab an image. Near the end of the human lifespan, they were nevertheless infants next to the stones of that prehistoric human-made monument. The scene was at once an analogy and an a juxtaposition. It was also entirely sweet.

The results were plagued with all the technical problems one would expect from clandestine photography. I painstakingly sharpened, cropped, and brightened the picture, and I even removed several tourists who were lolling against the stones. I could fix the composition, but I was asking more of those pixels than they could bear. At its full size, the image looks like it narrowly survived the smallpox.

I still love it.

Honoring flawed work is rather a proud moment for one who thinks her perfectionism renders her far from perfect. I don't like it because it is flawed, though -- only in spite of that. Yet I do wonder if some art is improved by its flaws. 

Like many teenagers, I once had a bulletin board full of quotations. One read "Use what talents you possess: the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best." Google reveals that these lines were by Henry Van Dyke, who wrote the lyrics most commonly set to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy." Aesthetically, he did a better job with the latter. However, Van Dyke's sentimental and hackneyed bird quote is in some ways brilliant. Its tortured meter embodies its message.*

Examples of perfection through imperfection, or what Gerard Manley Hopkins might call "pied beauty," remind me of the medieval concept of felix culpa -- the fortunate fall. If humanity had remained in Edenic innocence, the rather unusual logic goes, than we would never have experienced the wonder of divine redemption. 

Maybe I can actually love my stone circle photograph because of its flaws, rather than in spite of them. If these flaws help me overcome my perfectionism, they're fortunate. If, like Hopkins' marvelous poem, they invite me to a definition of beauty that transcends narrow aesthetic rules, they're fortunate. If snatching a permanent record of a moment in time resulted in technical imperfections, well, that is very  fortunate. It embodies the paradox of human mutability, and -- lucky me -- the paradox of human mutability just happens to form the central motif of the scene.

*In a similar vein, I typed and deleted the final prose lines of my post on the Book of Kells many times before I decided to let a really a bad pun prove its own point. It still makes me feel vulnerable, though.