So Jesus didn't know he would be resurrected all along? To me the idea of abandoning oneself is I impossible.

For us to be abandon by departed loved ones, especially when they are young, is a terrible tragedy but it lasts until death. For us to be abandoned by God, however, is a terrible tragedy which, unlike the atonement of Jesus, lasts forever.

Even after the fall, it seems that art is still inclined

An interesting usage. Can you point me to any examples of "pre-fall" art for comparison??

Hoping to encourage discussion on the topic of the relation of art to reason and faith, I note in the above a reference to kitsch, which has been defined for me as art not having a moral basis. I can only hope to solicit a response as to what this means to you. Christianity has long found blessedness within the sorrows of life. We are urged to reflect on the Way of the Cross for instance. But how/when would morality in art entail an 'insufficient humanism or naturalism'. What would constitute a deliberate focus on ugliness.

I put forth my 'take' on Picasso from about a decade ago, to point out a possible conflict in interpretation between that presented by the Dominicans, and an attempt to present a possible psychological basis within Picasso for his ability to empathize. An early painting of Picasso I have seen takes for its subject a young girl receiving Holy Communion. The photographic realism of this early painting is remarkable considering the different techniques he later adapted towards art. He did truly 'explore' both the aesthetic possibilities and moral elements within the life process. I take this to be an opportunity to reflect on how these two characteristics can be related. Is Christianity the only and true basis of morality for instance? What is 'morality'?

.

"Good Friday. Well, here she is. A fool's mate. That's what she is. A fool.
A fool with a stake in her heart, nailed to the cross of love. Sacrifice, without salvation. Sanity, stained by sin. Well, they might as well have built a coffin
too. Instead of the cross. For love has died tonight. Another metaphor. That's what it is. Love after rape is nothing but a misplaced,
mixed-up metaphor. Enough of these
metaphors. It is as certain as the
night is dark, that the body will never be resurrected."

"'Not
so Good' Saturday". The night has
passed, but it is indeed their moment in hell, together. What else could go wrong? There were doctors and nurses running around
their cell half the night. The
epileptic had a seizure. Not that she
could help it. But now they are all
sleep deprived. And Teresa is still not
speaking to Annette. And Penny is right
in the middle of it. Trying to patch
things up. Trying to get Teresa to tell
Annette what she is angry about. Trying
to get Annette to remember what she has done.
Penny doesn't like the role of mediator. She is sure she will do something wrong and
then they'll both be angry with her.
But things could be worse.
Anastasia, the artist, has loaned Penny the book she has been reading on
Pablo Picasso. And so Penny is now looking
over the illustrations trying to decide for herself whether or not he is the
charlatan that Anastasia says he is.

"Line
drawings. The shortest distance between
two points is not a straight line. It's
a line drawing by Picasso. Clean,
clear circling lines, circumscribing a content. 'If a work of art cannot live always in the
present it must not be considered at all', Picasso says. The capability, the capacity of
genius: 'What one does is what counts
and not what one had the intention of doing'.
And the cruelty of a charlatan: 'If there was a single truth, you
couldn't make a hundred paintings of the same subject'. But what was he drawing? Character or caricature? Was this the laughter of the gods?"

Penny looks up from her book. The epileptic is sitting on the stool talking
on the phone. But she doesn't look very
well. She looks like… "Seizure?" Penny runs to her as quickly as she
can. But she has already fallen. She is already thrashing around on the
floor. What do you do? Just hold her still. "Somebody call the guard. Somebody get some medical help."

"Hold her tongue, down,"
says Teresa. What is she saying? It's hard enough to hold her head still so
that she won't be banging it on the floor.
What do you do in situations like this when you don't have any training?

"We’ll take her," says the
guard. But she is quiet now. Looking like she is in some kind of a coma.

"Sorry I didn't get to you
before you fell," Penny says. "But if it happens again, I'll know the
signs."

"You should have held her
tongue down, like Teresa told you," says Annette.

And now the nurse is there giving
out the medication. And he's teasing
Penny. Saying that maybe she should be
taking some medication, too. And now he's
asking Penny about Anastasia. Wanting
to know if she has been taking any showers.
Asking Penny to keep an eye on her.

"You're not going to spy on
Anastasia, are you?" asks Teresa.
"You wouldn't do a thing like that, would you?" And Teresa and Annette walk off together to
discuss the possibility. They are
talking to one another, again. They are
talking and walking. And they are
keeping their eye on Penny.

Medication. She's tried that medication. It blocks your mind. So that you can't think of anything. You become a walking zombie. You become the walking dead. But not even that condescending male nurse
can make you take any medication. Not
if you don't want to. That's what's
good about being on the range. It's
better than the hospital. Because no
one's going to give you a needle, if you screech or scream. No one's going to put you in solitary
confinement if you shout, shriek or squeal.
You can express yourself.

"Black
lines dissecting colored cubes.
Distorted, chestnut clumps of festering flesh. These were the goddesses of the
underworld. These were the cadavers,
the carcasses of the living dead.
'Tous les desmoisselles d'angler'.
Women before mirrors. Women at
the beach. Women at a well. Was this the veracity beneath the mask, the
verity behind the masquerade? Feeling
torn into fragments? Emotions ruptured
and rent? Spirit split and severed,
sliced and shredded into bits. Spirit,
wearied, wintry and worn. But he had
drawn no portraits, no pictures of prisoners.
No prisons. No
penitentiaries. And he had made no
sculptures of women who were not considered sane. Yet all of these women were in hell. All of these women were in prison. Picasso was no charlatan. This was not deceit, deception,
duplicity. Picasso had drawn what he
felt. He had drawn what he knew. That is why all of these women were in hell. That is why they were without
salvation. Picasso felt himself to be
a criminal. Picasso knew what it meant
to be demented and deranged."