The rectangle of book has become a circle by shooting.1 -Robert Beavers How large is that thing in Mind which they call Thought? Is Love square, or round?2 -Jonathan Edwards The common cartoon of American preacher and theologian Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758)-summed up simply by words fire and brimstone-rapidly loses its bold outline under Perry Miller's biographical lens. Miller, renowned intellectual historian of New England mind and founder of Yale edition of Works of Jonathan Edwards, narrates Edwards' lifelong labor to tolerate and resolve collision between divine sovereignty and modern science, to crafta colonial porous enough to absorb Enlightenment insight. In exchange for a picture of supreme spokesman of Puritan authoritarianism, biblical literalism, and a punishing God, Miller paints an Edwards who is one of America's five or six major artists, who happened to work with ideas instead of with poems or novels, one of those pure artists through whom deepest urgencies . . . of their country become articulate, and, emboldening his claims even further, the prefigurement of artist in America.3 Edwards' creative and philosophical powers are under-recognized but no less potent because theology was his medium; Miller calls him a psychologist posing as theologian. Primitive, aboriginal, and ahead of his time, he met forces [of this country] in their infancy, [foresaw] their tendencies.4 For Miller, then, Edwards represents a great arc of continuity, cultivated in original soil and prescient of persistent speculative strains in culture. For more than four decades, American avant-garde filmmaker Robert Beavers (b. 1949) has made lucid and delicate films, condensed odes to pulsing vitality of both spectator and medium. They exist at what Susan Oxtoby has called intersection of structural and lyrical filmmaking traditions and were shot mostly in locations across Europe and Greece, in dialogue with natural world and work of artists both known (including Ruskin, Leonardo, and Borromini) and unknown. Much of his work involves study of and identification with hand- and craftwork (his films feature intricate labors of sewing, bookbinding, cooking, stone-chiseling) and incorporates his reliance, in front of camera, on intuitive knowledge and gestures of his own hands-antidotes to forces of intention. Beavers has articulated an original film language through his enduring investigations of colored light and construction of space within frame; he invented variously shaped mattes to obscure and contain aspects of image, and produced his own gelatin filters to generate subtle varieties of colored light. And starting in 1990s, Beavers spent a decade reediting many of his films in creation of My Hand Outstretched to Winged Distance and Sightless Measure, an 18-film cycle of completed works made since 1967. There is little superficial encouragement for bringing Beavers and Edwards into common view. Born in Massachusetts, Beavers leftthe US in 1967 with his longtime partner, filmmaker Gregory Markopoulos (1928-1992), and has lived in Europe ever since. Indeed, Beavers' Ruskin (1975/1997), film that catalyzed my desire to look at two artists together, is thoroughly steeped in Europe. The last of a series of four films made in Italy and Switzerland (after From Notebook Of . . . , The Painting, and Work Done), Ruskin was inspired by its namesake's The Stones of Venice and was shot in sites of English critic's writings in Venice, Alps, and London. Ruskin opens amid swamps and cathedral of Torcello, island just north of Venice that was a trading and economic center until twelfth century, and comes to dwell in city itself among architectural details (windows, arches, gargoyles, carvings) and building exteriors that Ruskin drew and wrote about in Stones. …