God the Artist

GOD THE ARTIST* By Raymond F. Peterson In the dim, dead days gone by, God created this world by some slow, laborious process. As he thought of the plan of free agency that he had devised, he thought that he must create a world that would inspire those men, those super-creations, who were to come here to dwell, that they would exemplify him in their deeds and actions. He created these humans with a conscience, a spirit, or whatever it is your pleasure to call it, that they might receive inspiration and be guided aright. Some of his children he created with certain gifts that they might inspire their fellows. To some he gave the art of painting, to some the gift of music, and some were given gifts of modeling and sculpturing. Others were given other gifts and arts. These artists are, in a true sense, men of God. Who ever gazed on the works of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, or of any of the great painters and received no inspiration? Who ever heard the "Minuet in G," "The Spring Song," "The Soldiers Chorus," any of the masterpieces of music and received in his heart no desire to do better in the future? Who has ever gazed on the works of the world's master sculptors ahd felt unchanged? Who has ever wit- nessed the works of any of the world's greatest artists and came no nearer to God? The beauty of it is, that not only these great artists, but many of lesser fame, have these same powers to bestow inspiration. I re- member one painting of our great, glorious, white Timpanogos. In it is some of the inspiration of greatness, of self-sacrifice, of the big- ness of this creation. In it is the beauty of minute details. The changing light brings changing effects, so that no matter what my mood, no matter what my need, this picture serves to inspire me to bigger and better things. I stood gazing at the picture in rapture. It was the truest and most beautiful picture that I have ever seen. But as I walked outside and saw the clouds rolling, rolling off that great, white moun- tain, and saw the sun burst forth in a silver spray of sunshine, com- pletely covering that vast expanse of pure, white Snow, my eyes dimmed and my throat caught, as I thought of our weakness, our lack of power, our utter inability to imitate the works of God. In my mind I compared the painting with the original. What do we know of art? Timpanogos is his painting. We can't even copy it. We make our outlines on canvas. He blends his colors on the horizon. What are the masterpieces of the art of painting? The Madon- na of Raphael? Mona Liza? Perhaps these. It makes no difference. *The prize-winning speech in the Y. M. M. I. A. public speaking contest, June conference, 1927.

888 IMPROVEMENT ERA What artist ever put into his painting the beauty of the model from which it was taken? How can the painting compare with the true beauty of the real Madonna and Child, the mother and babe? The most beautiful pictures ever struck off the brush of man have been of women. But what artist could put, into his copy the true bloom of beauty of the original form which he paints? What artist ever RAYMOND F. PETERSON, ALPINE STAKE; WINNER IN Y. M. M. I. A. PUBLIC SPEAKING CONTEST; PRIZE, GOLD MEDAL put the blush of love and life into his painting? Our God alone. Music is said to be the greatest, that is the most universal, of the arts. It has its changing moods. It is the art for every circumstance. It is the art of sound, pleasant sound. It is the very essence of harmony. Musical instruments have been designed to play every kind of music, for every occasion. What the masters of this art

GOD THE ARTIST 8 89 cannot do can only be done by that same great Divine Artist. For who ever made for us a musical instrument with such quality and beauty of tone as the human voice that God gave us? What musical instruments harmonize as do human voices? Oh, the Great Master shows the way! Has Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, any of the masters of music, ever written a melody as sublime as the music, the song, of the human heart? What musician, with his staffs, his bars, his sharps and flats, his notes, his rests, what musician has ever put upon paper harmony as soothing, as wonderful as that harmony of happy, hu- man hearts in tune? The most divine strains ever heard are the strains of pure, innocent laughter of childhood. Our God is our great musician. The sculptor has been said to have the rarest and the most diffi cult of arts, the art of molding and chiseling from clay and- stone. It is indeed a rare art, and it is rarely appreciated. I admire and try to appreciate the sculptor, but who ever modeled from clay a face with the character; the firmness, yet gentleness; the love of fellows and charity for enemies; the simplicity, yet beauty, found in the face of Abraham Lincoln, — man — creation of God? Who ever carved from rock a scene as inspiring as the Grand Canyon of the Colorado? Who has made us realize our own in- significance and His greatness to such a degree? Who could, in similar fashion, make us realize our purpose in life? Who has ever chiseled so intricate shapes and shades as are found in Bryce Canyon? Who can produce such art? Our God models the beauty of his world to suit his best purposes. We know a little of art. We are learning more. Someday I hope we may become nearly as perfect as He is, but until then we must study the models of beauty; of grandeur, yet simplicity; of ruggedness, yet fineness; of unparalleled beauty of thpse inspiring, over-powering works of God, the artist! Immortality Even in the form inanimate, We find assurance of a life to be; To eyes that death's cold hand has touched and sealed Whence came the force that gave them power to see? Are we yet doubters in captivity? The lips that unresponsive are and chill, Once with blithe laughter rippled; aye, and true To the endearment of caressing words, Unto their own the hearts of others drew. And, what of mind as day by day it grew? This is not clay mechanically contrived, A puppet toy; 'tis immortality. Who can look on the form inanimate And say, This is the end of you and me? The lifeless form portends a life to be. Prozo. Utah GRACE INGLES FROST