Image of the Invisible God: Visual Artworks as Theological Texts

Tracy Chevalier's luminous novel, Girl with a Pearl Earring, records the following imaginary dialogue between Jan Vermeer and his adolescent serving girl, Griet:

"Sir," I began when he came up to the attic to mix linseed oil into the white lead I had finished grinding. . . .
He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Griet?". . .
"Are your paintings Catholic paintings?"
He paused, the bottle of linseed oil poised over the shell that held the white lead. "Catholic paintings," he repeated. He lowered his hand, tapping the bottle against the table top. "What do you mean by a Catholic painting?"
I had spoken before thinking. Now I did not know what to say. I tried a different question. "Why are there paintings in Catholic churches?"
"Have you ever been inside a Catholic church, Griet?"
"No, sir."
"Then you have not seen paintings in a church, or statues or stained glass?"
"No."
"You have seen paintings only in houses, or shops, or inns?"
"And at the market."
"Yes, at the market. Do you like looking at paintings?"
"I do, sir." I began to think he would not answer me, that he would simply ask me endless questions.
"What do you see when you look at one?"
"Why, what the painter has painted, sir."
Although he nodded, I felt I had not answered as he wished.
"So when you look at the painting down in the studio, what do you see?"
"I do not see the Virgin Mary, that is certain.". . .
He gazed at me in surprise. "Did you expect to see the Virgin Mary?"
"Oh, no, sir," I replied, flustered.
"Do you think the painting is Catholic?"
"I don't know, sir. My mother said—"
"Your mother has not seen the painting, has she?"
"No."
"Then she cannot tell you what it is that you see or do not see."
"No.". . .

"It's not the painting that is Catholic or Protestant," he said, "but the people who look at it, and what they expect to see. A painting in a church is like a candle in a dark room—we use it to see better. It is the bridge between ourselves and God. But it is not a Protestant candle or a Catholic candle. It is simply a candle."

"We do not need such things to help us see God," I countered. "We have His Word, and that is enough."

He smiled. "Did you know, Griet, that I was brought up as a Protestant? I converted when I married. So you do not need to preach to me. I have heard such words before.". . .

He seemed to be waiting for me to speak.

"Though I have never been inside a Catholic church," I began slowly, "I think that if I saw a painting there, it would be like yours. Even though they are not scenes from the Bible, or the Virgin and Child, or the Crucifixion."

He picked up the bottle again and carefully poured a few drops of oil into the shell. With his palette knife he began to mix the oil and white lead together until the paint was like butter that has been left out in a warm kitchen. I was bewitched by the movement of the silvery knife in the creamy white paint.

"There is a difference between Catholic and Protestant attitudes toward painting," he explained as he worked, "but it is not necessarily as great as you think. Paintings may serve a spiritual purpose for Catholics, but remember too that Protestants see God everywhere, in everything. By painting everyday things—tables and chairs, bowls and pitchers, soldiers and maids—are they not celebrating God's creation as well?"¹

Vermeer's dialogue with his servant introduces the topic I explore in this article—visual artworks as theological texts.

I share the contention that there is no such thing as a...