CONFESSION: I HAVE a bone to pick with the word “curated” this month. I’m finding that the word, while generally useful in art contexts, let me down during Lent this year.
Let me explain.
“Curation” evolved from the word “curare” (to take care of) but, as it exists now, covers anything from making playlists to putting on a painting exhibition. I don’t have an issue with the chameleonic nature of the term, though I know it’s beginning to vex actual museum curators. What is difficult for me to wrap my mind around is the fussiness that curation implies.
It’s synonymous with caring for objects and, subsequently, caring for an audience by displaying the objects in an interesting and informative way. But, as a representation of spiritual wilderness, Lent seems diametrically opposed to the idea of a carefully considered experience. In Lent, nothing is planned. This year, I simply showed up in the metaphorical desert and started walking. It was a time when I faced myself in truth, without attempting to curate a self devoid of flaws, rough edges, and woundedness. I was instead being asked to see the world for what it is, myself for who I am, to let go of my penchant for materialism and ingratitude. Fun stuff.
The flipside, though, is the ability to be more present with the people around me and the eternal flock of miracles that fall from the sky when I am wise enough to pay attention. In a recent New York Times article, Hans Ulrich Obrist reminds us that the “cur” in “curation” is the “cur” in “curious.” Far from offering a clean vision of beauty, Lent—and other times of spiritual attentiveness—invites us to be interested in the ways God shows up, even in the middle of suffering.
This spring I heard, for the first time, Etta James’ live performance of “I’d Rather Go Blind,” and she sang with a gravitas that belied deep pain while simultaneously wielding her voice with the nimbleness of a trained fencer. After hearing that song, I didn’t know how I had lived my life without it. And it reminded me that even as we wander alone, in dark nights of the soul, beauty is not confined to gallery walls or museum showrooms, or even our playlists. It springs forth, unbidden. May we let it find us.
Faith-Marie Zamblé is an artist, writer, and M.F.A. candidate in dramaturgy and dramatic criticism at the Yale School of Drama. This is her final "Curated" column (for now).
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