Forgive us, Father, for we have sinned

Between the memeification of monasticism, the ethereal God-fearing girlies swapping their tarot cards for lost lambs, lace and rosaries, as well as trading their femme-fatale mysticism for virginal, sapphic ambiguity, there is a clear romanticisation of Catholic devotion.

This revival of Catholic aesthetics extends to the art world, with new programmes such as the iconography course at Ealing Abbey which aims to ‘galvanize’ the Catholic art scene in UK, as well several upcoming exhibitions focusing on the reimagining of Biblical scenes, like Central Hall Manchester’s 2024 project Made in God’s Image: Art Matters. Mousy-brown haired, open-corseted revivalists of Catholic-core in the music scene include Ethel Cain, who reflects a need for guidance and redemption that only a God can give, or take away: “Take care of me God,” Cain sings, and “forgive these bones I’m hiding.” Lana Del Rey, similarly fusing her Catholic roots with nostalgic Americana, sings in Chemtrails Over the Country Club that she is “Nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter.”

@death2loscampesinos its either that or i pull an uncle ted and build a cabin in rhe middle of nowhere and start sending care packages to government officials #silly #sane #normal #mentallystable ♬ where is my mind – ?

A return to God it seems, offers not only redemption or care, but agency. To belong to a God is better than to belong to a system of subjugation. Let us be holy, so that we might belong to something outside of ourselves. Let us be holy, so that we might transcend the bounds of our own bodies, as well as the institutions and family structures they seem to belong to – no doubt a sentiment that nuns have historically shared. Del Rey goes on to sing, “There’s nothing wrong contemplating God,” and it seems that such contemplation is harmless. But, how far can the romanticisation of religion go?

In spite of the ironic adoption of this aesthetic, we can, as with all cultish microtrends, expect to find a deeper, hidden desire – somewhere underneath the dainty crucifixes, white linen blouses and veils, lies a longing for community, care, forgiveness and devotion that God seems to offer. There is a wish to belong to something, or someone greater: someone that we can get down on our knees for and devote our lives to in a nun-like frenzy. The allure of ironic Catholicism, spear-headed by lost girls in lace, might also be a quest for a father figure, even if the father figure lusted over is ultimately absent and incorporeal.

Though this desire for belonging and guidance seem harmless, aestheticising Catholicism might not be as innocent as it seems. Predominantly pioneered and followed by Tumblr girlies, Catholic-core instates the importance of purity, virginity and whiteness. In the same way this trend has been followed, it assumes an unquestioned following, the kind that Cain (“I followed you in”) or Del Rey (“I’ll follow you into the dark”) allude to. It seems to romanticise catholicism without considering the darker implications, such as sexualised virginal piety, and most of all, power.

LatchKey Gallery’s: ‘There is no God and we are his prophets’, a two-person exhibition with works by Esteban Whiteside and John Brendan Guinan, asks this very question. How can we romanticise God and religion in a world that favours the elite? Whiteside’s 1-866-heaven dial mocks a world where Godly salvation is something that can be bought. Faith is in this sense a marker of privilege – how are those who have not been favoured by “good-faith” alone, expected to blindly believe in it? Detached prayer, ironic worship, and satirical light hearted God-like devotion, emphasise the ease that privilege enables some to connect with the divine.

Guinan’s church pew laden with weapons, in front of Whiteside’s works, many of which reimagine whitewashed biblical figures, and the world of worship entangled with advertisement, capitalism and popular culture. Guinan’s gun encrusted pew, and bulletproof vest, amongst his other works, offer a militarised vision of the divine, where God exists simultaneously with objects of control, and brutality. Guinan’s works ask how a God might exist within a climate of systemic violence, emphasising the absurdity of romanticising religion in a climate of war, injustice and chaos. Catholic-core’s downfall, is ultimately a lack of self-awareness for its own, sexualised, whitewashed, Tumblr-fied, version of the divine, which fundamentally excludes the privilege of faith, and narratives of a God entwined with sovereignty and violence.