James Bond and the Sublime 1:54 PM

I keep waiting for someone with a background in German philosophy to write about the obvious connections made between James Bond and the concept of the aesthetic sublime in Skyfall, but so far the entire internet is failing and so I take it upon myself to do the deed.

*PS There are movie spoilers in this post*

Now, I do need to get the obvious art in the movie out of the way before I go to the non-obvious art. Ahem. All art lovers, including myself, were delighted to see the British National Gallery in Skyfall, and enthralled when James Bond and his new quartermaster hold a hilariously frigid conversation about the 1839 painting The Fighting Temeraire by J. M. W. Turner:

C'est magnifique, non?

The 98-gun Temeraire was one of the most celebrated, vicious warships in the British Navy, playing a preeminent role in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. I'm no war historian, but even I found the history of this ship alluring. In Turner's painting, the Temeraire is light and ethereal, a ghostly shell of its former beauty and brute force. It is conspicuously constrained behind the vivid, black, smoke-puffing steam engine--a very modern contraption-- that hauls it away for scrap after fourteen years of lethal service to the crown in 1812.

Throughout Skyfall there are themes of aging and anxiety about modernity, both of which are encapsulated in this painting. James Bond himself displays an ill-tempered longing for past glory and ability. I noticed that the director did lots of visual tricks to demonstrate the ideas of age and clouded vision. Skyfall messes with James Bond's eyesight, and ours, in various ways: light, dark, smoke, water, fire, and human frailty. For the first time, we wonder if James Bond is really as sharp, as righteous, as we have always assumed him to be.

Remember when he totally failed all this tests?

Couldn't get the bad guy that time.

Seeking a killer through a revolving maze of glass and neon.

There is a second entrance of the Temeraire in the movie, perhaps not as highlighted as the first, but just as thematically loaded. In the final scene, after M's death, James Bond chooses to continue his duties and trust his new leader Mallory, played by Ralph Finnes. We see this painting on the wall of Mallory's office:

It's Thomas Buttersworth's oil painting, H.M.S. “Victory” heavily engaged at the battle of Trafalga, from 1825. Sailing alongside Lord Nelson's ship The Victory is, you guessed it, The Temeraire! The past is present again! Ability is eternal! There is a connection to be drawn between M's death and Lord Nelson's death at the Battle of Trafalgar, but that's not really what this post is meant to dwell upon. Ok the obvious art has been mentioned, time for philosophy.

----

The concept of "the sublime" is a storied philosophical one. It's been around since antiquity, first appearing in the writings of Longinus, who used it to describe great and lofty powers of persuasion. It didn't became a lodestar of Western philosophy, however, during the 18th and 19th centuries, where it overtook almost every facet of British and German philosophy. Immanuel Kant is someone no art historian will ever be able to get away from ("Without Kant, you can't!" I believe was our favorite quip in Historiography) because he applied the idea of the sublime to aesthetics. I cannot emphasize this enough: it kind of ruled supreme in Western thought processes for over a century (I'd liken it to the current mood of secular relativism).

To Kant, there is a profound dichotomy of feeling when we view anything. Either a vision is beautiful,  and thus constrained (we see it, we love it, we take it into ourselves, the end), or it is sublime. A sublime sight is both terrifying and entrancing. It is boundless. We are without power to contain or describe what is before us. "Above all, the sublime [had] come to refer to the 'rush' of intense aesthetic pleasure paradoxically stemming from the displeasure of fear, horror or pain."*** 

The Romantics felt this was the infinitely more interesting experience, and sought a thousand different ways to recreate the sublime through art, particularly landscapes. Often, in German and British Romantic paintings, the sublime is represented by a natural disaster: earthquake, avalanche, stormy sea, etc. Later, when the artist Caspar David Friedrich ruled the German art roost, the sublime was also connoted by Gothic ruins, especially of castles and cathedrals.

C. D. Friedrich. Monk by the Sea. Oil. 1809.

You can see how the ghostly Turner Temeraire painting fits into this schemata.

Often, landscape paintings of the sublime included a small person, back to us, viewing the intense and unfathomable scene. We are meant to symbolically inhabit his or her vision. We enter the experience of the sublime through their eyes:

Friedrich. Wander Above the Sea of Fog. Oil. 1818. Kunsthalle Hamburg, GER.

Myself, I always found the concept of the sublime to be a little self-indulgent. Like today's adrenaline junkies but more nerdy, philosophers of the sublime were captivated by the sensations within themselves as they viewed unstoppable forces outside of themselves. It wasn't REALLY about the sea, or the fog, or the moldering castle, it was about the dandy who was viewing them.

One could argue that we are still subject to the powers of sublime today, as we find ourselves motionless before a car crash, or photographs of 9/11, or the Boston Bombings.

Despite my reservations about the writers and promulgators of the philosophy, the more modern interpretation of the sublime object-- something both beautiful and dangerous-- applies, with great ease and value, to the icon James Bond. Blue eyes, magnificent physique, kills without hesitation... he is the sublime personified. Why else would this one spy last 50 years in the cinema spotlight when countless others have been retired? (Val Kilmer's The Saint, we hardly knew thee...). Precisely because he lives out our greatest fantasies of both violence and passion.

In Skyfall, we get to gaze a little longer on the enigma of James Bond; we take a look at his past as he travels to his family's home, where an unknown disaster bereft him of his parents years before. There, the sublime is suggested through even more visual tricks:

Moldering, slightly tragic, stone home.

It's beautifully tragic, and the director had fun capturing its demise  from every possible angle and by every possible source: gunshots, invasion, fire...

This is the scene that first got me thinking about the link between James Bond and the sublime. It has an uncanny resemblance to Friedrich's masterpiece, Abbey in the Oakwood:

Oil on canvas. 1810. Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin.

And, true to British cinema, they conclude the film with James Bon, acting as a stand in for the viewer, gazing out into the great metropolis of London, the true reincarnation of the sublime, of our present modernity, unfathomable and entrancing:

I love my job! 4:45 PM

Daffodils 3:41 PM

I run here all the time. :)

As all the Washingtonians know, spring means daffodils. EVERYWHERE! My favorite are the clumps of them growing up the sides of on-ramps along the freeways. Whoever scattered those bulbs once upon a time deserves a medal.

I'm not really a poetry kind of person but I found this here and it resonated.

March Births
by Alice Walker

Many brave souls
who inhabit my heart
entered the brightening
but still chilly door
of earthly Life in the changeable month
of March.

The deep, noble, easily bruised
Pisceans

Flowers
Themselves

Arrived in that part of the month
when hardly one white or lavender
crocus, daring, vulnerable
& sweet
can be found;
except perhaps
in the prescient
South.

And those others:
the late in the month
born
Ariesians—
Dragons
And butterflies—
Who were born
it seems
to set this world
of shyness
and daffodils
stunningly
on fire.

It was my destiny
to behold and to cherish
you all.

What these births
at winter’s end
teach us to believe
is that what looks
frozen or even dead
may burst into bloom
unexpectedly
at any time.

That to love
another,
any other, is to align oneself
with eternal spring.

It is in fact
Loving
any other being
all one ever needs
one’s self
To come to bud
and flower
once more
and be born
Again.


On this same topic: I'm about to be a nanny of two! My boss Kelly will have a little boy here any day, and so my life revolves around my nanny family and my phone and the as-yet-unnamed-tiny-boyfriend #2. I haven't been this involved in the beginning of a new life since my littlest sister was born in 1994! So exciting. So wonderful. I'm blessed to be associated with such a good family. And I'm grateful for rewarding work.

Life Lessons from Katherine Watson and Jenny Curran 1:02 PM

I watched two movies I haven't seen in a while this week: Mona Lisa Smile and Forrest Gump. I picked up an ongoing lesson running through both, about not being judgmental.

Do you remember this painting, from Mona Lisa Smile?

Carcass,  1925. Chaim Soutine. Albright-Knox Museum.

It's the first off-the-syllabus painting that Katherine Watson, played by Julia Roberts, introduces to her students in attempt to provoke them into an actual, personal, critical engagement with an unknown artwork. (Here's the scene, thanks youtube):



I remember being slightly annoyed the first time I watched this show (2003ish). Whyyyy did she have to pick the most grotesque and darkly modern canvas possible to rouse her students? It's like, half a degree away from Francis Bacon's triptychs (the only art that has ever made me physically ill)! Stuff like this is exactly what scares people away from modern art!

Lovely.

Fast forward ten years to this week, however, when I watched Mona Lisa Smile from my informed vantage point on the flip side of a master's degree in art history. Surprisingly, I saw the Soutine's value, shock and otherwise. I even see its beauty. Colorifically, it's magnificent. The sparkling, crystallic blues makes the blood red shimmer, the yellows and skeins of white throw it even further into relief. The twisted usage of the primary colors gives the painting a rawness, and life-force. Even the sinewy, almost melting movement downwards from the carcass' two hooked legs puts one in mind of bigger forces: hunger, anger, death, murder, innocence, etc. Yes, Maggie Gyllenhal, it can even be erotic.

No one who has ever purchased a fresh cut of steak fails to see something alluring, entrancing even, in the curling swathes of muscle, and I think that was the mindframe Soutine started out with when he selected this strange but arresting subject.

I get it! I'm growing up! Withhold judgment for two minutes and you learn a lot of things!

Can't get over the blues. Yum.

Withhold judgment, and ask a few questions, and you learn even more!  I dug around a little bit this morning and learned that Chaim Soutine was a Jew who grew up in Minsk then moved to Paris in 1913. Throughout the teens and 20s, he befriended early modernists and expressionists like Modigliani and Marc Chagall, sharing many of their same dealers and patrons. Unlike Chagall, however, his career and life were cut short by the Nazi regime. Soutine was forced into hiding in Paris to escape the Gestapo and died of a perforated ulcer in 1943. After researching his history, even Soutine's most offensive and seemingly grotesque painting suddenly took on a haunting contextual depth.

His 1925 Carcass canvas was actually modeled after a Rembrandt van Rijn painting from three centuries earlier, which he studied in the Louvre:

Carcass of Beef (Flayed Ox), 1655. Rembrandt. The Louvre, Paris. 

Now how the shape Soutine chose-- the two splayed legs suspended above a gaping ribcage-- seems less diabolical, more scholarly, when you realize it has a historical source. It makes me want to see both paintings in person, and then stop by a butcher shop and bring home a little crimson, dead something-something to inspire a still life (and possibly a barbeque).

Thank goodness I have movies, and life, to teach me, year by year, the art of slowing down and withholding judgment for just a second so that I might discover some history, motive, or beauty in the actions of others that I would have passed by in earlier years.

This morning I burned through my snowday by watching Forrest Gump on TV. Now, I know this movie is 19 years old (1994!!!), and my thoughts on it are a little late, but I had a totally different experience watching this movie as an adult that I wanted to share. I got a bunch of its historical jokes that flew over my head as a nine year old, and found myself in more sympathy with Jenny Curran than I ever have before.

I remember being incensed at the movie's portrayal of drugs and nudity throughout Jenny's story. I was raised, as most of you know, in a Mormon home, with loving parents, surrounded by a firm, all-encompassing moral code. I did NOT think most of her story was appropriate to show in a movie. I thought her story was just Hollywood doing what it does best; tantalizing.

Today, though, I was blown away by the illustration of principles such as forgiveness, repentance  courage, and love that mark the end of Jenny's journey through every major mistake possible in the 1960s and 70s. These were all the principles that I thought I knew everything about at 9 years old, but really had yet to experience or understand.

In my 20s, I have learned that promiscuity, drugs and alcohol, physical abuse, and manipulation are not just things I see on TV. I have had to make choices regarding my encounters with most of these things myself, and many of them have entered the lives of those I love. They are an inescapable part of reality, but, like Jenny learns, they can be overcome and resisted, through soul-searching, repentance  forgiveness, and most importantly, love. True, there will be inescapable consequences to wrong choices, and it takes bravery to face one's demons, but that doesn't mean one should stop making choices or withhold love. I liked that the movie ended with a focus on family, and love, which is what Jenny, and everyone, deserves. I'm thankful for the Forrest Gumps of the world who will boldly state, "I'm a simple man, but I know what love is," "He should not be hurting you, Jenny," and "I will take care of you," to their Jennys.

Someone. Please. BUY ME THIS! 1:06 PM

HT Lauren, who decided not to put it on her blog:

Modern Art Desserts: Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Confections, and Frozen Treats Based on Iconic Works of Art, by Caitlin Messer. Coming to Amazon in April.

How AWESOME are those pictures going to be?? Ellsworth Kelly fudge popsicles= GENIUS! Why didn't I think of this first?? Someone who loves me, please buy this for me.

I ain't just soft soapin' 2:12 PM

A few Valentines from the Special Collections department of the New York Public Library, via.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Our forefathers outclassed us, so bad.

.... did they meant beetheart??

What exactly do you think hard-soapin' was?

I hope she had a sense of humor...

???? No words.

And, OF COURSE, my favorite:

Food For Thought Friday 11:19 AM

“People are not stupid. They believe things for reasons. The last way for skeptics [or feminists, or whoever] to get the attention of bright, curious, intelligent people is to belittle or condescend or to show arrogance toward their beliefs.” -Carl Sagan

From a post on Empowering LDS Women. Here is her main argument, which I love and try to live:

Juanita Brooks was a historian who covered some of the more painful aspects of Mormon history, including the Mountain Meadows Massacre. My Dad shared this quote with me from Juanita Brooks’ father, and I later heard Greg Prince share it again on a podcast interviewh:


"One day Dad said to me, “My girl, if you follow this tendency to criticize, I’m afraid you will talk yourself out of the Church. I’d hate to see you do that. I’m a cowboy and I've learned that if I ride in the herd, I am lost. … One who rides counter to it is trampled and killed. One who only trails behind means little because he leaves all responsibility to others. It is the cowboy who rides the edge of the herd, who sings and calls and makes himself heard, who helps direct the course. So don’t lose yourself, and don’t ride away and desert the outfit. Ride the edge of the herd and be alert, and know your directions and call out loud and clear. Chances are you won’t make any difference, but on the other hand, you just might.”


The edge of the herd is certainly not a comfortable place. Those of us on the edge are often misunderstood both by those in the middle of the herd as well as by those who have left the herd. If we’re careful, though, we are in the best position to make a positive difference, and to change the course of the herd for the better. We are the game-changers and the bridge-builders.

I hope that's what I'm doing. I sent an email to Deseret Book this week, suggesting a small change in how they fit newly endowed members for clothes, in the hopes of saving girls money and stress. I got a positive response back. No need to protest, cry, or get angry. I have just a little voice, and I will continue to use it.

27 and Basquiat 11:05 PM

 I found out today that Basquiat was 27 when he OD'd on heroin (1988) and deprived the rest of us of an artistic cannon that could have, should have, spanned a full lifetime.

I'm 27, too.

A friend of mine took the time to go to Basquiat's grave in Brooklyn. I thought that was a compelling sojourn for January 21st, 2013, the date of President Obama's second inauguration and Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

Jean-Michel Basquiat lived one of those lives that puts us normal 27-year-olds to shame. A gifted artist--really, one of those rare people who merit the title of genius-- he was adept at drawing by age 4, trilingual by age 11. He grew up in a tumultuous Brooklyn household to a Haitian father and a Puerto Rican mother, who was committed to a mental institution when he was 11. He spent his teenage years running away from and then being brought back home, on and off the streets. He drew postcards and sold t-shirts to support himself and began a notorious graffiti art track. "SAMO" was he and his tagging partner Al Diaz's calling card, which stood for "Same Old Shit." They tagged high and low profile buildings alike. I loved this quote regarding Basquiat's graffiti moving beyond mere public defacement:

"SAMO marked the witty sayings of a precocious and worldly teenage mind that, even at that early juncture, saw the world in shades of gray, fearlessly juxtaposing corporate commodity structures with the social milieu he wished to enter: the predominately white art world. ”
— Franklin Sirmans, In the Cipher: Basquiat and Hip Hop Culture

I've never really dug into Basquiat's story, just casually noted his raucous canvases on the walls at my favorite art museums. He is held up as a black James Dean, a shooting-star-like presence in the irreverent 1980s art scene: the first black American man to break into the pristine white high art world (and many will argue, the first AND the best to date).

J-M B., Leeches, Daros Collection, Switzerland, 1983

If you know me, you know I am attracted to printed words and text in art. What a fantastic mind! You can feel the energy, the frantic evaluation of his world and its ills, leaching through the canvas.

"Basquiat's canon revolves around single heroic figures: athletes, prophets, warriors, cops, musicians, kings and the artist himself. In these images the head is often a central focus, topped by crowns, hats, and halos. In this way the intellect is emphasized, lifted up to notice, privileged over the body and the physicality of these figures (i.e. black men) commonly represent in the world."
— Kellie Jones, Lost in Translation: Jean-Michel in the (Re)Mix

Fascinating how Basquiat the man mirrored those things, those idols, that inspired and tantalized him. I wonder if that's one of the reasons he's so beloved by pop culture today; not only is he a tragic figure, his art reveals the types of concentrated musings and the frustrated, angry, fruitful rages we each encounter within ourselves while passing struggling through modern life.

Basquiat had a musical career, too, rapping with friends and designing album covers (now highly coveted objects in the art world). He counted Andy Warhol as a good friend and collaborator. Their spin on the Olympic rings still intrigues me; they totally take away the vaunted symbolic capacity of the rings and make them into something more grounded, more gritty. The painting, to me, must be how many athletes think of the games when they're still 2 years out: an elusive mistress, a demanding, demeaning boss, and a haunting dream.

Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat, Olympic Rings, 1985, Acrylic and silkscreen on canvas, Gagaosian Gallery

Basquiat's boisterous artistic jaunts around town brought him to the attention of Artforum magazine in 1981, which ran a story calling him "The Radiant Child." Larry Gagosian, infamous New York art dealer/ art king-maker, allotted Basquiat several solo shows in his prestigious galleries and gave him the run of the studio space in his own private home in Venice.

I used the word irreverent already and that's the best way to describe him. You hear scraps of information, whispers of urban legends about all of Basquiat's crazy stunts: painting in Armani suits, scribbling weed-inspired cartoons on magazine covers that later sold for thousands of dollars, painting on women's skirts, etc. The comparison between he and Jackson Pollock is striking (especially late JP when he's angst-y and starts putting human faces back in his paintings). Both lived fast, died young, one was responsible for the machismo Abstract-Expressionist movement, the second made waves as a Neo-Expressionist who also boldly addressed race issues and tensions with his jarring, colorific, wildly composed pieces.

Jackson Pollock, Portrait and a Dream, Dallas Museum of Fine Arts, 1953

J-M B., Untitled Acrylic and Mixed Media on Canvas, 1984 

Sensational, haunting, challenging, uncomfortable, unforgettable, intellectual, enterprising, inspiring, vivid, violent. It's late now, Obama may have even finally gone to bed. What a world we live in. Freedoms are hard won, it's good to remember that, thanks Basquiat. Freedom of expression, of life, of passion.

Nerd Rap Sheet 8:32 PM

My friend B is a magnificent girl. Today she confessed her ubernerd origins to me: in high school she was the type who could carry on an entire conversation in Elvish and always threatened to don a cloak to school. I smiled at her after this revelation and admitted dryly, "I went through a phase where I collected Noah's ark figurines. I have to have at least twelve or so stashed in a closet at my parents' house."

+ 

    

=  Friend MFEO's, am I right??

Tonight I wanted to let all the inner nerds out there have a communal moment in the sun. Here is a recap of my more special adolescent fancies, so that some of you can feel not-so-nerdy and some of you who think you're too cool for school can feel even MORE cool than ever (though I bet you know more about the Kardashians than B or I ever will- LAME.):

My American girl doll (Samantha) occupied a prominent place in my room til probably... ninth grade.

I played the flute in middle school. I think I only made it as high as 3rd chair.

I never went to detention once in my entire 13 years of public school.

During a cross-country road trip with my cousins I prepared and presented an oral report on Adam-Ondi-Ahman. They threatened to maroon me.

For several tween years my favorite movie was The Net with Sandra Bullock, and I cherished the dream of being a computer hacker who spent her days chatting with friends whom she knew only by their edgy screen names and avatars.

Thanks to the brothers, I am fully versed in the Star Wars and Lord of the Rings universes. I held my own in a group of boys last night who were discussing lore, out-factoiding and out-quoting them all! Owning it.

And, the nerdishness continues into the present day. For example,

I have a blog.

I have a Master's degree in Art History.

The end.

Oh hey. I finished grad school 6 days ago. Would you like to know how I feel about it? 12:20 PM

Now you know. It feels Pretty. Dang. Good.

Also, on Friday I got nailed with a nasty flu bug that took full advantage of the fact that I didn't sleep, eat, exercise, or do anything else proper or kind to my body since before Thanksgiving, so right about now I look more like this:

Also, whoever hacked into my computer a month ago and aided "me" as "I" sent the following message to myself, thanks :) It entered my inbox at just the right low point!

A Problem Smiling Me in the Face 10:28 AM

Visual Scripture Reprint and Thoughts After a Baptism. 9:37 AM

Last night was so special, seeing my friend Kristin get baptized. There is an incredible, unique spirit at a baptism. I felt it powerfully when she was baptized, and again at confirmation. It's just about her and Christ (or, to put it more generally, it's about you and Christ). Baptism is a signal that you're willing to go the distance. Then it becomes more- you fuse to the road the Lord wants you on when you are baptized. And it's up to you to stay on it. And hopefully you will always keep in mind the fact that the savior wants you on that path, and that he has given you a precious gift: the holy ghost, received that same day you got baptized, to get through it all.

The bishop gave remarks that started with the seeming randomness of being assigned to a ward by something as arbitrary as zipcode. Then he advised- there will be people in your ward who are so strong in some principle, whom you will need to rely on and learn from. And there will be people in your ward that are struggling with something who will need your guidance and example. You can't know, just by looking at them, who is on top of their testimony, and who hasn't read their scriptures in months. You only find out as you throw yourself into your ward!!!

I sent Kristin a letter containing a reprint of one of my blog posts on faith from several years ago, I just wanted to reprint it for the Christmas season:

How often do scriptures cause us to visualize something in our minds? Stories, people, places, things... all the time, right?? In fact, once you take out the ubiquitous "And it came to pass"'s, you'll see that our holy writ is pretty much stuffed full of amazing visual ideas and symbols. This is one of my favorite features of the scriptures. Somewhere, (you are about to see how much of a scriptorian I am NOT) it says that God speaks to his children at their level of understanding, wherever that is. I feel like he also speaks to us through all of our senses! In addition to the heart and mind, God speaks to our ears, our sense of touch (baptism by immersion, the warm hug you offer to friends in their trials), our sense of taste (sacrament emblems and visiting teaching cookies :), smell (cookies again :) and last but not least, our sight! There are a few vivid "visuals" that I count as my favorite in the scriptures. These visuals, some symbolic and some literal, I imagine again and again, and they never fail to affect me. I'm going to set a couple of them before you, and not offer any art historical dissections. Scriptures sure can stand on their own. That's one of the many reasons why I know they are not a construct of man alone. (I can't resist, however, including a few select illustrations of these scriptures' ideas. The following scattered images are the nearest that reality and the internet come to resembling the truths of these verses, at least as I imagine them. :)

D and C 84: 82-84 For, consider the lilies of the field, how they grow, they toil not, neither do they spin; and the kingdoms of the world, in all their glory, are not arrayed like one of these.
For your Father, who is in heaven, knoweth that you have need of all these things. Therefore, let the morrow take thought for the things of itself.


Isaiah 1:18 Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet,they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.






Isaiah 49: 15-16 Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands. 






1st Nephi 11: 8, 33 (Lehi and Nephi's Vision) I looked and beheld a tree... and the beauty thereof was far beyond, yea, exceeding of all beauty; and the whiteness thereof did exceed the whiteness of the driven snow.

I beheld that the rod of iron,which my father had seen, was the word of God.

This scripture is perhaps my favorite of all these; it comes into my mind all the time when I'm studying the stories and images of the Savior. I'm on an eternal hunt for images that really strike me as looking like Him. It was told to me once that I would recognize the Savior if I saw him before me, which was a sweet thing to be told. It's kind of cool to me to think that somewhere in the back of my subconscious mind I know what Jesus Christ looks like. BYO Illustration to this one :)

Isaiah 53: 2-3, 5 He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him. He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.