the lace peacock

Reason & the Heart of the Matter

2010-11-14T00:13:00.011-05:00

Recently, I have not had time for my blog because I have been studying French and scrambing to sell every last random item in this household on eBay to drum up extra cash in my times of unemployment. I am briefly back in the United States, until February, where I will begin my French language classes, it is an intense and chancy gamble but I trust I can do this. Thus the abandonment of this blog for temporary reasons seemed inevitable, as I would like to switch my mind over into a French thinking mode, and that would be the key to understanding better the language in every aspect.

Allow me an aside if you will, on this topic of sudden discretion. Why do I study French? Why am I willing to spend my hard earned money and, even more precious, time on a seemingly useless, Eurocentric indulgence? I shall be brief: the anglophone oriented world as we know it has ceased to interest me for a variety of reasons: personal, academic and political. My life is called to be in France, for as long as I am needed there, for reasons beyond reason; for the irrationality of my own meaning and purpose in life.Thus I have begun to ponder: the distinction between meaning and reason, and how great a distinction it is.

Now, I take a pause from my sabbatical to write one last article here upon this small and humble hypertexted space, a tiny diatribe upon the essence of the meaning of existence, and how we should live accordingly, in a moral and right way. Being a self-professed and semi-educated student of philosophy, I am more familiar with the modern Western theories than that of the ancients. Thankfully, this article, entitled A Life Beyond Reason has referenced those for me, and how helpful it is, and to what understanding it has brought me. This article is about a boy with a great mental and physical disability, and his intellectual university professor academic father whom has learned to care for him. The article is extremely long-winded (quite like my own blog), but every word is necessary.

"Can you hear it? Can't you hear the horrible voice that screams from the whole horizon, that voice that Man usually calls Silence?"

The father had been a well-learned student of the philosophy of Enlightenment, which proposes that Reason and Logic are the pinnacle ability of humankind, and therefore also the defining property of what it is to be human. Upon the birth of his son, he encountered something which he had not expected: his instincts of love, which quickly threw his world into turmoil:

My son's birth initially cast me into a wilderness of perplexity, doubt, and discontent. This was part of my wife's and my tragic mode. My formerly complacent assumptions began coming apart, and over the next few years they crumbled. I had seen the dark side of medicine—the quintessence of the Enlightenment—and firm ground slipped out from under me.

...

In my teaching and scholarship, I now interrogate some of the ideas that once informed my assumptions, and the questions that I ask fit awkwardly into the academic landscape. Is it really true that the unexamined life is not worth living? And is it accurate to say that only the possession of logos qualifies an entity for human status?

...

Especially in an academic environment that rewards being smart, how do I broach the idea that people with intellectual disabilities are fully equal? We academics advance in our careers by demonstrating how clever we can be, and because so much depends on flaunting intelligence, it is harder for us than for most people to steer clear of prejudice.

Please do read the entire article. The author states he has arrived at questions which he cannot answer, and yet, to his questions, I will provide one in detail, with references even. Firstly, his point about academics being prejudice is true, but it is true of all human beings. In fact, prejudice and judgement are one of the key traits of a rational mind, if not the essence of it. To deliberate, ruminate and decide the superior from the inferior is the entirerty of all intellectual pursuits. And yet, it is a vacuum because it does not account for man's ability to think with his heart, for his ability to believe and to love. The heart is a thinking thing, it is a mind of Meaning rather than that of Reason. The Enlightenment has failed to provide this man with answers because it has failed to produce a purpose for life itself, for the life of all living things great and small. For these ideals, in Western thought, we must go back to the "unenlighted" times of the Middle Ages, where logic was seconadry to a deep spiritual faith which guided all understanding, to the acceptance of mystery, to the veneration of harmony and completeness outside the self, of the self, and of the self with the world outside it. Dostoyevsky once said:

“The secret of man's being is not only to live but to have something to live for.”

And yet, if that is so, then is not Reason the atom of understanding, the ultimate building-block of the mind? No, because even behind Logic, there lies the essensce of its existance: the belief that it is good for the world, the belief that it is understanding, and the warm-blooded value placed in its goodness, which stems in the faith of the idea, the faith of truth. This was the ruling idea in the Middle Ages, which stemmed from the idea of agape love, the unconditional outpouring of goodness, caring and unbending trust which dominated the philosophy and theology of the time. None of which was stemmed in logic, but in purpose and meaning. This is where the logiticians, and scientists fail to grasp the entirety of the human spirit, that a thought man cannot exist without a deeper meaning in his life, for if not his thoughts will eventually become superfulous.

And this the conundrum at which the hero of our article has arrived: not what is a human but, what is the meaning of a human's existance? And in his life, his son has provided that purpose, and given him a thing in to care for unselfisly, a thing to love unconditionally, the kind of love that Dostoyevsky and Kierkegaard understand, and the same unwavering love that the cathedral builders of the Middle Ages laboured under: to work for something by love, and love alone, is work enough, because it provides you with a meaning and a selfless extension of the self which fullfills the self by reflexive action and regconition. To love a thing wholly yet without an expectation of self-benefit is itself fullfilling to the highest end, this is an idea well-understood by the aforementioned philosophers, and in the Christian thought of St. Augustine and other prominent minds of the Middle Ages. But the real question here is about the man's son: to what ends is he fully human, and why does he exist, and to what purpose can we understand them? The crux of the problem here is that this is an entirely selfish question. Allow me to paraphrase John Ruskin's idea: A man's purpose is to do what he is best able to do, and to the best he can, and for the best end.This does not exclude a disabled person, for the disabled person's purpose is to be loved, and if he can do that, his purpose is equal to that of anyone who has fullfilled their own. Back to the article:

...August's disability does not form a part of "God's plan" and does not serve as a tool for God to teach me or anyone else wisdom. What kind of a God would it be, anyway, to deprive my boy of speech and movement just to instruct me? A cruel and arbitrary God. August's disabilities are not a blessing; but neither are they a divine curse. To traffic in a cosmic economy of blessings and curses is to revert to an ancient prejudice. Indeed, even though August's disabilities offer ample opportunity for public interpretation, they do not mean anything at all in and of themselves—they have no intrinsic significance. They simply are what they are.

And the simplicity of allowing a thing to be what it is meant to be is the purpose of being, which is why the real evil in a person's life comes when an able person chooses to ignore their abilities, in that sense, the disabiled person, being unaware of their consciousness, will remain a pure object to be loved and loved only, an existance which a person possesing a judgemental consciousness could never attain. They exist in pure duration, and are more informed of goodness than others because they have been deprived of conscious choice, and may only exist in a pure and uncorrputed state. The conscious mind which chooses to ignore its fullest abilities is truly more unhuman, because he chooses to inhibit himself by ignoring them, whereas the disabled person does not have this ability, and remains forever wonderous in a state of pure duration, of pure living, like the flower, like the mountain, like the living and breathing Earth that lives without asking why, but to fufill its reason of continuation without an acknowlegement of time and space, uninhbited by the consciousness from where all evil and torment stems. The begining of the article, the author states:

Many such well-meaning people would like to put an end to August's suffering, but they do not stop to consider whether he actually is suffering. At times he is uncomfortable, yes, but the only real pain here seems to be the pain of those who cannot bear the thought that people like August exist...

The torment is within ourselves, not within the disabled person. If you give a disabled person the love you can provide, what suffering could they have? Could they even be aware of suffering? I believe that it is impossible to suffer by love, love can cure ills that logical doctors do not understand, because there is a faith in the mind that the meaning is true, and the intent pure. I detect a slight bitterness in the end of this man's article, because he is rebelling against a false assumption of a "God" instead of seriously examining what the meaning of it might entail. If he looked to Dostoyevsky (who's books often feature disabled characters), Søren Kierkegaard, John Ruskin, and works of art that seriously examine the deeper and more mysterious aspects of humanity, he will abandon his "englightened" past for the comforting shadow and unknowning mystery of agape love and surrendered faith of the heart. These are ideas I hope to elaborate on in the future, for now I hope these brief sketches have been of some use and will suffice for my own reflections momentarily.

This article reminded me of Werner Herzog's film The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser ( Jeder für sich und Gott gegen alle), the story of a strange foundling, mysterious in everyway and posssive of a learning disability, where he is passed around from all kinds of people in the society, to a normal family, a side show, a teacher of Englightenment ideals and finally a kind old man who only wants to care for him and love him as he is. Here in the scene with the logitican:

And does Kaspar's inability to understand make him less human? The entire film explores the question of what is humanity, and happiness, and we see in the end the most contenment comes not from the (ironically) angry logictican, but the loving old man who takes Kaspar under his wing and loves him as he is, a pure being without intention and only to be loved, and taught what he can, and if he does all he is able to, he is as fully human as another who lives their life to their fullest ability.

For a closing remark, I would like to source a point of understand that the author of the article reached which he isn't even aware of it: his sacrifice of his career for that of the caring of his son. While this is an illogical choice, it is a choice driven by purpose, and driven by meaning. Such choices are the best that a person can make, because it helps one to live to their fullest ability, and to their purpose. For similar reasons I am off to France in the future, to fullfill the abilites I can do, to pursue that which I am able, to the fullest and best of ends, and such a life lead cannot falter in unhappiness, it cannot be underminded by reflection, because it is driven of the heart, and powered by the faith in the good.

To Keep A Life You Love Beside You

2010-06-20T22:47:00.005-04:00

“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul, than I was in the souls of both.

“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place — then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement — and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”

by Charles Dickens (February 7, 1812 – June 9, 1870)
from A Tale of Two Cities

Oh, Sydney Carton, you are a true hero. Condemn me for praising you, tell me that I am besotted of a tarnished old fashioned world, irrelevant to the quicker pace of modern life. But who with a heart could not be moved by your subtle sincerity, your rightly guided passion, your calm bravery? For to die with great cause is a far, far better thing than to live in hapless vain. Purest joy in such death can be found than in the baser pleasures of one's life. A second chance was not made to be given, but to be taken: willfully, lovingly. Your gentle embrace of of Madame Guillotine was the softest she ever felt, for scarcely had she felt so noble a gesture from one unknown who had laid his heart down so serenely: For you were not his mortal slayer, my lady, but his transcendental savior.

"I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

***

The Divine Feminine

2010-04-03T02:09:00.014-04:00

I recently stumbled across an interesting website, consisting of essays and various other writings by a passionate admirer of Medieval French art. I enjoy such writing, as it is pure adoration without the adulterated style popular in academic works. My attentions were caught by his writing entitled The Divine Feminine, which examines various works from Musée de Cluny, Musée National du Moyen Âge, in Paris.

Statue of a woman, Musée de Cluny.

While the subject has become rather vulgarized by the contemporary conspiracy theory age of Holy Blood, Holy Grail and The DaVinci Code, from an aesthetic and philosophical perspective, it remains a legitimate line of inquiry. It is of interest that the word "beautiful" is often acquainted with the female idea and the female form, much more so than the male counterpart. I once read a comment on some political article debating the body-image of women in modern society, and one feminist commenter stated: "Why can't people realize that the fact that a woman is beautiful or not is irrelevant [to her personhood]?" The sentence struck me as being insightful, but at the same time uninformed and rash, as to assume that beauty is merely the physical and bodily manifestation of the fashionable moment.

Being one who worked in the modeling industry, photoshopping feminine features every day to make them more physically perfect, I can say that beauty is not, and never can be, physically embodied. This is because the mind will always strive more something more perfect, and more refined, so long as we take the physical body as ultimate reality; it is the infinite desire which drives the human being. This is an idea postulated in George Santayana's The Sense of Beauty, that the mind's creative force is its own destructive source of perpetual desire for perfection. The same idea is seen in Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story The Birth Mark, where even the slightest flaw upon the most beautiful woman beheld by the protagonist, is a cause of immense obsession to the point of death. While that is the most extreme case of such an idea, this is what currently occupies the contemporary world of feminine beauty: the unachievable, physical ideal, as seen in the digital world of photoshopped imagery. As such, this extreme, physical idea has caused contemporary feminists to abhor the idea of beauty, to reject their feminine identity to rival that of men, where supposedly beauty is of no importance, but only merit.

If we compare this concept with that of the Middle Ages, we see a complete opposite in the ideology of the feminine. To the medieval mind, the physical concept of beauty was merely a small part of the greater whole, for the mind, body and soul must harmonize with the beliefs, faith and hope of the medieval Christian faith. Physical beauty is often portrayed as symbol of the good, the pure and the the enlightened, for these were the supreme ideals of the Middle Ages; for they did not believe the physical body to be the ultimate as Santayana does. Medieval saw beauty as a manifestation of the holy, and therefore it penetrated various elements of the world, Nature, and of the spirit, Heaven. A person of beauty, therefore, is one who is reverent of all these things, and therefore, in art and poetry, is said to be a beautiful being. The archetypal beauty of this ideal can be seen in Dante's Beatrice, whose beauty becomes greater as his spiritual and intellectual understanding grows from within. The esoteric perception of beauty is one that manifests itself in the highly structured, secretive art of the middle ages, showing creations of multitudinous depth, where physical form and spiritual idea are closely intertwined. This is why art for the medieval was of such importance, it was a way to reconcile the physical, the mental and the spiritual into one experience of complete ecstasy. Beauty of the Middle Ages was not driven by a critical, desirous eye who takes the physical as ultimate reality, but an ever-seeking search for harmony in all things of existence, both worldly and otherworldy.

La Dame à la licorne, Musée de Cluny.

The desire for physical beauty alone shall always end in unhappiness, and indeed a woman possessed of immense physical beauty will find that if she is loved for only that, her existence will be filled with woe and wrought with fleeting appreciation. I have seen a film which so perfectly captured such a sad existence, Kenji Mizoguchi's The Life of Oharu, detailing the incredibly sad life of a woman used for her beauty, and even denied spiritual suffrage from its curse. Because of stories such as this, and the contemporary ideal of beauty, many modern women hold the idea of beauty with great disdain, however, if they could only come to understand beauty as it is fully intended, they could see beauty for its real meaning.

Sonia, Raskolnikov's salvation.

Fyodor Dostoevsky once said, "Beauty shall save the world." He was heavily derided for this comment, as in his time beauty was more and more coming to be seen as a symbol of indulgence, and not for the deeper concept he knew it to be. If we examine Dostoevsky's novels, we can find his idea of beauty, which is so in accord with the medieval ideal; indeed, Sonia's character in Crime & Punishment is of biblical parallel to Mary Magdalene herself. Dostoevsky, however, does not see this form of physical and spiritual beauty as being limited to women, but is also embodied in his male characters of Alyosha Karamazov and Prince Myshkin, who are described as being of a "wholly beautiful" nature, indeed, referencing that beauty is not only physical, but encompassing of a completeness of the soul and the self in harmony with the ideal. While the idea of beauty is heavily laced throughout The Idiot, it is not the tortured Natasha who embodies the ideal of beauty for Dostoevsky, but Myshkin himself, who's deep understanding of the idea informs his whole being. The feminine element of beauty is merely one of many sides, and is indeed beauty is always a subject of relevance, so long as human beings can ponder its values, for are not the pondering and appreciation are what make it so?

Stranger in a Strange Land

2010-03-24T03:38:00.009-04:00

Thus marks my return to this sadly neglected blog. For two months now, I have been living in Tokyo, Japan. My escape from America has been successful thus far, each passing moment being enjoyable, enlightening, educational and even a bit of cultural dissonance. In order to properly enjoy such a country, one must familiarize oneself with the history, basic customs, manners, and of course, language. Japan possesses a very unique contemporary culture, and yet so much of it is heavily influenced by its past. I have just finished reading Japan: A Short Cultural History by G.B. Samson. A good read, yet it reminds me why I prefer to learn history through art and not through written documents. His style is a bit dry, I do have to agree with him that Japan has a special and deep aesthetic appreciation, which indeed ruled the court of Kyoto during the Heian period.

Now I have began Lafcadio Hearn's In Ghostly Japan, written by one of Japan's oldest assimilated foreigners. Though the man himself is endlessly fascinating, the ghost stories of Japan are beyond any ability to be elegantly eerie and filled with mystery. The film Kwaidan (1965) by Masaki Kobayashi was based on his masterful retellings of some of Japan's most beloved ghostly tales. Hoichi the Earless (耳なし芳一: Mimi-nashi Hoichi) is arguably one of the best ghost stories of all time, and captured brilliantly in the film.

Tokyo is a much greener place than I had imagined, but the plant life is found mostly in the details, not in wide open spaces. Flowers are not only plentiful, but well taken care of. The city is so large, it envelopes both bustling city center as well as serene temples and shrines. The people keep to themselves, and there are many peaceful havens within the city. Traditions are very much alive and the Japanese have a strong sense of cultural identity, but most of all respect for public space. All this I hoped to find in leaving the US, and for now, it shall be a charming retreat for as long as I can stay. がんばります！

Das Lied von der Erde

2009-08-09T08:50:00.012-04:00

For my next article, I am preparing a philosophical inquiry into the spiritual aspects of creativity, especially in visual art and music. It is an ambitious endeavor that will require some additional research, as I hope someday my writings will be taken seriously by scholars and enthusiasts alike.

In the meantime, I would like to spend some time exalting another brilliant artist who has personally inspired me, the incredible composer Gustav Mahler. My first actual encounter with his music, where I was attentively listening to it as opposed to just hearing it in the background of my high school printmaking class, was viewing Luchino Visconti's Death In Venice (a film based on a novel of the same name by Thomas Mann). The film is beautiful and attentively shot, but the real quality of it is the painstakingly beautiful music, mostly excerpts from Mahler's 3rd and 5th Symphonies. The entire film is so painfully European that I feel the pangs of Stendahl syndrome rising in my heart after a while, for the beauty and detail is indeed overwhelming to my mere American spirit.

Gustav with his daughters, 1905.

Concerning the film, I enjoy it immensely but I can understand how non-artists would find it incredibly tedious, even painful to watch. There are so many things happening that it is difficult for the mind to focus, the multitudes of obsession are dense and broodingly arranged all to a very dismal and bleak effect. Being the lover of wisdom that I am, the blatantly philosophical debates within the film fascinate me, as the main character Aschenbach is equally torn to shreds by them, his downward spiral due to his unique and extreme sensitivity. While all these are merit-worthy aspects of the film, without the sensual caress of Mahler's music the whole thing would've been inconceivable, which is why I think Visconti changed the role of Aschenbach from an author to a composer. Strangely, that conversion is more truthful to Mann's own inspiration, in which he was so moved after witnessing poor Gustav break down into tears on a train departing from Venice.

While the film itself is loaded with all kinds of questions and artistic dilemmas, my main interest here is the trascendental quality of Mahler's music. The man himself had an endlessly tragic life and deep spirituality, which is not surprising at all when listening to his music. He required solitude and would shut himself up in tiny komponierhäuschen ("composing huts") near the lakes or in the mountains where he would endlessly work up a feverish storm of inspired ecstasy to create his beautiful and moving music. This kind of devotional isolation is a motif I notice amongst many great artists, the removal of the self from society in favor of the splendor of nature, to clear the mind and contemplate the ideal and meaning of existence.

Komponierhäuschen in Toblach, Italy.

Mahler's life and music was impacted greatly by his relationship with his infamous wife Alma. The Adagietto from the 5th Symphony was a musical declaration of love from Mahler to his would-be wife, in which he mailed her a copy of the score as one would a love letter. A compelling figure in her own right, Alma herself was also a composer who's ambitions were eclipsed by that of her husband. She has since become more famous for her numerous affairs with prominent men. After his death, Alma's accounts of Mahler's life and her relationship with him have proved false and misleading (this has come to be know as the "Alma Problem"), further shrouding Mahler's legacy in mystery.

Alma and Gustav.

All of this has taught me the importance of love, nature and spirituality in the life of an artist. Mahler's sojourns into the mountains are a perfect actualization of Thoreau's ideas in Walden when applied aesthetically: to build your individual spirit and work in harmony with nature, and yet to bring the self back to the world of civilization for the further development and enjoyment of humanity. The relation of man and nature, and its spiritual liaison, constitutes an age old conundrum for the thoughtful, creative being that has sadly been overlooked in today's "art world". Mahler was a 20th Century composer, yet his music sounds eternal and its appeal is as powerful and lasting as the mountains he so adored. Some artists speak to their contemporaries, others speak to the eternal forces of life and death, seeking revelation and redemption. As long as the human spirit suffers, music like Mahler's will sooth the soul and fill our lives with meaning and truth. For further reading this subject, I highly recommend this lovely article, Mahler: Alienation & Spirituality.

North + South

2009-08-05T14:59:00.005-04:00

Paintings by Antonello da Messina.

Well, I was born in the desert....

2009-07-13T19:02:00.026-04:00

What am I about to detail in the contents of this entry is something I never thought I would give the time of day to think about, let alone praise. The world is full of discovery, if you keep your eyes and ears open and allow yourself to be surprised. At this shifting time in my life, I've learned to open myself to things merely as a way to escape my own personal demons. Wether it is insanity or idiocy that haunts my mind, I can't say, for I've been accused of both. Now, I drop all of this senseless self examination, and proceed to dabble in the art of appreciation.

Like many people, listening to music has always been one of my favorite past times, even though from a technical standpoint, I am at a loss to really understand it as music. I was born with the strange ability of synesthsia, and thus have always described music in terms of textures and colors, pure visual sensation in my mind. It gets to the point where different sets of speakers can affect the colors of the exact same song, this has always been frustrating for me, but underneath that external aspect, the music itself (the structure, as musicians would say) has an integral color and feel, and by those sensations is how I judge them. My favorite songs and compositions are ones that consist of multi-faceted layers of patterns, and colors, or bold strokes. For an example, Scott 4 by Scott Walker is very black and white, whereas anything from The Beach Boy's Pet Sounds is incredibly vivid with color, and something like Wagner is velvety and heavy, almost an oppressive darkness filled with momentary shocking brightnesses. Now, this probably sounds extremely "trippy" to people who do not experience this, but as one acquittance of mine once put it, "It's like you are naturally on drugs"! I can't vouch for that, because I've never been a drug user, but if that is what it does for people then I'll take your word for it.

My taste in music has always been very concise, to me, but the extremes which it encompasses baffles others. Essentially, I've always been attracted to purity, complexity, and things done with obsessive detail and faith. The colors range from everything under the rainbow, it's structure of the colors and textures that make it beautiful, just like a work of art! That said, there isn't one genre of music I haven't attempted to listen to with the intent of looking for beauty. Due to the frustrating conditions at my job, the internet radio has become the ultimate soother of the savage atmosphere of a stressful office in New York. The fact that I can listen to this radio has been a real life saver for me, it calms my perpetually nervous state, I don't think I could make it through the day without it. The wonderful thing about internet radio is that it caters to your taste based on past listening habits, often suggesting similar artists or songs at random. It is the ultimate way to discover new music, because it opens the mind to a continuous flow, without the presumption of who the artist is, what era, it's just pure sounds without the preconceived notions or genres or names. This long winded introduction is necessary, for the artist the radio has specifically turned me onto is to this day one of the most controversial in music history. That's right, I speak of none other than Don Van Vliet, more famously known as Captain Beefheart.

Yes, I'm in love with Captain Beefheart: in love with his sultry voice, his staccato compositions, his ecstatic experimentation, his sensical non-sequiturs, squealed out in his distinctly sensual growl. Strange as it may seem, this man makes me swoon, he upsets my sensational being in frantic nervousness. Wether I am terrified or touched, I tremble most hingedly on his every utterance! Of course, at the moment, I am a bit dazzled by the novelty, but I believe there really is something to be found in this cavernous conglomeration that is his music. (Note, I would like to point out the immense skills of The Magic Band, who due to their introverted natures and humble spirits, often don't get enough credit for their fantastic musicianship.)

Never before has a figure so polarized listeners, he truly is the arbiter of the ambivalent amongst audiences. These intense feelings he stirs in the hearts of listeners is fascinating to me, but not nearly as fascinating as the man himself. My first experience with his music was the infamous Trout Mask Replica, tersely recommended to me by my father. From the first minute, I utterly hated those sounds, especially the voice, of this bizarre musician. Thus, after a short listen of a total of three minutes, my brain immediately judged this as terrible, awful music, and thoroughly overrated. Years later, in fact a few weeks ago, I heard an amazing voice eminante from my speakers at work, and I was shocked to see that is was none other than Captain Beefheart. The song in question is "Zig Zag Wanderer", which I loved, mostly for that incredible voice of his, which I had previously labeled as horrible and grating. Later, I learned that he posses a four-and-a-half octave range, which once you listen to, is immediately noticable, such an incredible range and so filled with spirit and soul, I am pressed to say that it is most expressive voice in all of modern music. It has that wonderful quality that all "untrained voices" have, so rich and commanding, why I was in love with it from that moment on. Safe As Milk is now one of my all time favorite musical recordings, for the beautiful structures of the music, but mostly that incredibly powerful voice, which I feel compelled to listen to, because of its excessive passion and daring soulfulness. "Electricty", "ABBA Zaba", "I'm Glad", and almost all the songs from that album are so passionately delivered and bursting with life.

Van Vliet is such an endlessly intriguing and endearing man. His music is purity and complexity combined, and so innocent, dismissing any pre-conceived notions about what anything has to be, but only what he thinks it should be. The thing that impresses me most about Beefheart is his utter conviction, his passionate belief in his own forms. That same conviction is heard in his strong, visceral voice. I am still listening to his music with awe, my brain cannot process fast enough the complex structures which literally jump three to four times within one short song! It most certainly requires repeated listening, it is like exploring some underground cave which was built entirely differently from our standard dwellings, comprised of obsessively detailed parts to make a truly baffling whole. Lyrics have never been of interest to me, because musically speaking, they do not interfere with the colors or textures of the sound, so to me, a song like "Electricity" is just a beautiful symphony of fantastic colors, and that amazingly textured, powerful voice. However, Van Vliet's lyrics are truly astonishing in their own right. Ranging from complex wordplay ("Ella Guru", "Doctor Dark", "Sun Zoom Spark") to stark sincerity ("Dachau Blues", "Petrified Forest", "Orange Claw Hammer"), he even penned a number of simple, heartfelt love songs ("Her Eyes Are A Blue Million Miles", "My Head is My Only House Unless it Rains"), a reflection of the enduring love for his wife to whom he is devoted. Van Vliet's lines always seem very purposeful, wether it be mindful insight or poetic ingenuity. His words have a sardonic kind of humor, whilst other moments are blatantly dark, this contrast of the lightness and darkness is what makes his work so strong and life-like. His ability to exist in impossibilities, to be simultaneously melodic and noisy, and humorous but also incredibly bleak, are the essence of the power of his art.

The bold conviction in Van Vliet's music is a revelation of the strength of the faith found in a creative and unbending soul. He does not apologize for his clear, albeit decidedly strange and unique, vision. Van Vliet himself is synesthetic, a fact that makes perfect sense, for he endlessly wanted to create complexities upon complexities, texture upon texture. (He famously gave up music to return to his first love of art, mostly painting, famously declaring "You know a lot of people can't hear my paintings and they should be able to. God knows, they're noisy enough.") Trout Mask Replica is a work of a true genius, a true passionately driven visionary, accepting nothing but perfection of his own work. It is such an intense experience of sensation, that it drives people mad trying to figure it out. Everyone knows the story, in which the band lived in cult-like reclusory confinement for eight months under the concise direction of Van Vliet's artistic tyranny, every note in place until it was perfected exactly as he wanted it. Such dedication and the fact that is was actually executed is inspiring for any artist! While others see this as arrogance, I see it as devotion. Yes, of course, all human beings are flawed, but what good is it to dwell on that? When an artist has the full control to produce a great work, they put out an edited version of themselves, without the flaws. That is what lasts, that is what endures.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not think Van Vliet was an attention hog, nor was he trying to make himself exceedingly strange for the sake of others. He posessed a notoriously nervous disposition, a victim of anxiety and stage fright, never fond of live performances. It shocked me that he blew his big chance at fame whilst walking out of the Monterey Pop Festival due to a fit of nerves, a gig with launched the careers of other much more famous but less talented musicians. It makes perfect sense to me upon reflection, that one who possesses such a deep and moving voice, such an unabashed and uncompromising gift, and for all his charisma and charm, would be a such sensitive soul! Van Vliet is hands down my favorite American musician, he encompasses a condensed version of all the expression of the diversity of American music. To me, this is the culmination of American culture in one condensed form. Is it beautiful? Any music made with such painstaking love is essentially a work of true beauty, despite its daring ambitions and unusual nature. Of course, later on in his career, things changed and evolved, but at the times when he was fully conscious and in control, we see clearly straight down the crossroads into the soul of this phenomenal and frenetic white bluesman. His music is as sparse and pointed as the desert itself, at first seemingly devoid of life, but actually teeming with it.

As far as the word "avant garde" goes, I abominate genres and classifications altogether. I especially hate that phrase, for it quantitates art, which exists solely in qualitative duration. The word "avant garde" is like trying to figure out beauty by mathematical deduction. To me, there is only good music and bad music. There is expression and humanity, and there is deadness and soullessness. I do not care about technically or accessibility, but only heart-filled and lovingly-made works, produced with purity of spirit. If this is what you seek in art, then please study Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band! It's impossible balance of darkness and brilliance, a masterful discombobulation of words and sounds, of impassioned wailing and literate exploration, a true expression of the American soul.

The Cat & The Christ

2009-06-27T18:47:00.015-04:00

First, I offer my apologies, for this blog has not been what I should like it to be. My sister has failed to post because of her own trials and tribulations, while I have been so bombarded and oversatured with ideas, thoughts and opinions I have found it extremely difficult to sit down and focus on one specifically. I often have Skype conversations with her, on these topics, searching for answers and discussion, attempting to reveal some kind of answers. I do not want my blog to be a series of idiosyncratic, personal trite, which nobody wants to read but everyone is inclined to write. My absence in writing has been due to many factors, including moving uptown, being exhausted from work and the discovery of Dostoyevsky.

Reading Crime & Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov and his short stories has had such an impact of me as a person, it is devastating to my whole existence. I fear to even begin writing about this because his works are such vast chasms of brilliance, for in those dark depths radiate the most blinding truths, that my own summation of what he has written himself will pale in comparison. At the moment, I am reading The Idiot, in which a painting of Hans Holbein's takes a great significance in the minds of the characters. That a painting has such impact on Dostoyevsky and his characters shows what impact he would like his own works to have upon us, to bring meaning and purpose to the self-articulation of art for both creator and viewer.

The idea of perception, although not discussed outwardly in The Idiot, is something my mind naturally focuses on due to my nature as a visual artist. I still believe this is a topic that is so blatantly obvious in our media-driven society that people fail to contemplate and inquire about its origins. The questions about the values surrounding it have also collapsed, except for in certain debates such as "What is the difference between art and design?", and such a question usually ends with psuedo-philosophical answers and assumed definitions of the cultural zeitgeist rather than any real inquiry of thought. The assumption of reality and definitions are a form of faith, an unescapable part of existence, to believe in an abstract reality of some kind is essential to the progress of thought. It is inevitable to arrive at such an idea, and the more analytical thought becomes, the more necessary it is to presume to existence of that reality, at least when operating in the realm of epistemology. However, there becomes an ever growing disparity between epimistological reality and a metaphysical one the further science attempts to explain and define the phenomenon of perception.

The classic theoretical riddle to illustrate this discrepancy is that of Schrödinger's Cat, a quantum physics version of "If tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it fall, does it make a sound?". Without going to explicit detail about the riddle, the paradoxical element orbits around the questions of perceptions and reality, as part of our conscious understanding of the universe. Since "a system stops being a superposition of states and becomes either one or the other when an observation takes place", if no one is there is observe the cat, it exists as simultaneously "dead" and "alive", until the observation has taken place, until the human eyes have perceived it as "dead". Such questions expose the instablity of science and its persumtions of a conscious reality. Science requires the contradictory belief in simultaneous conscious reality and phenomenal reality in tandem with one another, the moment that the perception of these realities is questioned, science becomes theoretical, abstract and removed from that which is perceivable in phenomena. The answer to Schrödinger's Cat has been concluded in the "objective collapse theory", in which "the universe observes the cat", a statement when you come to think of it, says that the universe itself is a perceptive being with a consciousness? Now we have entered the realm of the metaphysical. The discrepancies in these theories have lead to another theory called "Hidden variable theory", which concludes that for all of our effort and understanding, the mechanics of the universe are revealed to our consciousnesses "incompletely". In non-science words, it remains a mystery.

The questions of perception also operate in the realm of the visual arts, but rather than attempting to explain the elements of matter and the "state" of particles, perception in the visual arts operates as a value-giving reality. Art is defined as a series of values, both phenomenal and philosophical. The reason why art is essentially philosophical is because the perception of it exists in tandem with the judgement of its values. The critical nature in which we approach art reveals its philosophical and ethical foundation. Science, however, presents itself to be the objective reality proven by equations and experiments that can be observed and processed as "fact" or "fiction". The theory either works, or it doesn't. One cannot be critical in science, one must have ultimate faith in the observed truth. The realities are formulated within the mind, and tested in phenomenon. When harmony is reached between the two, knowledge and understanding has been gained. In order for art to be considered good, it must also achieve a harmony of idea and perception, and therefore create understanding. Art becomes subjective to our perception because it is articulated with knowable purpose and immediately perceptible qualities, unlike the mysterious universe of quantum mechanics.

Art is a Schrödinger's Cat of sorts, but instead of posing paradoxical riddles to question our understanding, art highlights the perceptible universe consciously to gain understanding of perception itself, a reflexive act of observation and creation. Philosophy, science, art and other such actions of consciousness are all an effort of understanding, but art is the most explicitly seen purely as a value, as a purpose-filled act of creation driving our existence towards the completeness that is lacking in quantum physics. The Holbein painting discussed in The Idiot is titled The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb, decipts a rather scientific view of a decaying corpse resembling Christ.

The scientifically accurate and gory detail of the depiction greatly upsets Prince Myshkin, the title character of The Idiot. He describes the work as powerful and horrifying, and imagines that those who observed the body of Christ in this state surely must have never believed he would rise again. But perhaps Christ at that moment was the same as Schrödinger's Cat? A strange question, but the state of dead or living can only be defined by our perception, and for Holbein to paint such a work shows us he understood this idea long before Schrödinger ever did. Looking at this Holbein painting in relation to its subject and our understanding of the percieved, is essentially the same thing as the aforementioned paradoxical riddle. The difference is that to question our faith in a being such as Christ, even though the concept of resurrection remains to scientfically be osbserved in today's world, gives us definition and value to our understanding of the universe, whereas quantum theory ends in questioning the "incompleteness" of its own understanding. Art, however, is always a work of total completion and understanding, and can provide us with understanding through meaning. This is what good art does, even though other art might be values for different reasons, art as a a product of conscious thought and effort, harmonizes our sensual perception with our intellectual ones for the benefit our expanding our understanding and appreciation of existence.

Schrödinger's Cat and the story of Christ exist to bring a higher understanding to the discrepancy in our perception of reality. Art is the articulation of such efforts in the phenomenal world, transcending the gap of physical reality and conscious reality, a web of reflexive existence between outward images and inner imagination, much like Orthodox icons and quantum physics diagrams. Art, however, takes its faith not in the presumptions of the human mind, but in that of the qualities of beauty in the mysterious, natrual world. By placing faith in the natural world, the artist opens his questions to the viewer, asking you to question not the physical constitution of the work, but the values your own mind places on the things it perceives. The offerings art can give us are not deductions of incompleteness, but totality of understanding and meaning, and to search for that totality in the physical world is to be an artist, whereas, to contemplate the limits of human understanding is to be a scientist.

Progress!

2009-05-29T21:22:00.004-04:00

They Did Not Expect Him by Ilya Efimovich Repin

In my absence, I have discovered many new and wonderful things. I shall soon write of them here, once I have fully had a moment to dedicate myself to write it all down!

Les voilures

2009-04-23T23:15:00.005-04:00

"If some people really see angels where others see only empty space, let them paint the angels."
— J. Ruskin

Русская душа

2009-04-11T22:09:00.004-04:00

... when I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world cannot stand and be.

from The Brothers Karamazov by F. Dostoevsky

Anorexia Mirabilis & The Donning of Hairshirts

2009-02-26T09:41:00.007-05:00

The turnique and cilice of Louis IX, from the Treasury of Notre-Dame de Paris.

Working at a fashion modeling agency, I see extremely thin to starving women almost every day. Weight and the ideal feminine form are things that have evolved over the years, but from the Venus of Willendof through the corsets of the Victorian era, the buxom, curvy woman was considered ideal of earthly, erotic reasons. In the Middle Ages, a phenomena known as a kind of holy "loss of appetite" occurred among deeply devoted women. They were seen as taking such extreme dietary methods as complete starvation to meals that solely consisted of bread and wine alone. Today, scientists classify this as "Anorexia mirabilis", an anorexia in which the lack of appetite is cause by the spiritual nature of the person, often accompanied by similar ascetic lifestyle choices. I am reminded of the central character of Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest and his "absurd" diet of bread-soaked wine. A few books have been written on the subject, notably Holy Anorexia by R.M. Bell and Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women by C.W. Bynum. This subject remains controversial, but I believe there is a major difference between Anorexia Mirabilis and Anorexia Nervosa.

Another asetic fashion that fascinates me is the hairshirt, also known as the cilice. Saint Louis, Charlemange, Sir Thomas More and Thomas Becket of Canterbury were among the famous wearers of the cilice. For years, I never really understood the mystery of the hairshirt. The idea of wearing something which causes suffering is certainly the polar opposite of fashion today! Hairshirts remain one of the truly important points of Christianity for me, proving how our daily actions, even down to the choice of clothing we wear, can reveal the nature of one's soul.

Recently, thinness has come back into style, but for a completely different reason. It is mostly due to the ideal "camera beauty", as what the lens of a camera sees dictates the way we see ourselves. Thinness and tallness are prized highly in the world of fashion because it is extremely photogenic. Although, even this is not entirely true, as I often photoshop the bodies of already extraordinarily thin women for the sake of contemporary fashion.

The Sublime & The Beautiful

2009-02-10T21:10:00.014-05:00

In Edmund Burke's A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, there is a great distinction made between that which is sublime and that which is beautiful. Burke's view of beauty is very specific, and mostly includes things possessing a variety of attributes: small, light colors and hues, and makes us feel a desire to preserve it, to love it. The sublime, for Burke, is rather the opposite: of large scale, darkness and shadow, and causes within us a desire to preserve ourselves: fear, in other words. His philosophy is a causal structure, and the purpose of the artist is to cause such effects in its viewers as to bring forth delight, wether it be a sublime delight, or a beautiful one. All of Burke's ideas are reduced to particles, and do not venture beyond the epistemological.

For Burke, there can possibly be no mixing of both the sublime and beautiful which would result in greatness: it would only produce 'the ridiculous', or 'the odious'. On paper, his theory seems very fluid and to hold much validity in the ways of art. When viewing a truly sublime work, we see that Burke's description is very true, and we are delightfully terrified. Upon beholding an object of beauty, we feel the need to preserve it. However, it is in the mixing of the two were Burke has failed to see the possibilities for great art to arise.

Peter Weir's Picnic At Hanging Rock is a film that dares to tread between the two. Set in the Victorian-ruled Australian Outback, it tells the story of a girl's school's outing on St. Valentine's Day to an ancient rock formation in the Australian bush known as Hanging Rock. Decorated with tiny details of feminine Victorian imagery, the life and aura of the girls school is contrasted greatly by the looming presence of the volcanic formation and the wild, natrual environment they find themselves in.

Intrigued by the rock, a few of the girls decide to explore, little to their knowledge that they will never return. After they do not return, the headmistress decides to investigate for herself, but she, too, goes missing. The remaining party returns to the school in a state of distress, where the mysterious disappearance soon causes widespread panic throughout the town. With each day, pieces of the mystery are slowly uncovered, but only leads to further questions, which are never answered. The film is a mystery within a mystery, and remains as such, never resolving itself. Aside from the presence of the rock, there is nothing remotely scary in the film, and it is the presence of the mystery from which we derive sublime delight. The panic of the missing girls is filmed against fine decorated and beautiful scenery, which not only please the eye, but highlight the tragedy of the disappearance. The film is a triumph in all forms: visually stunning, subtle yet evocative, and one of the most haunting I've ever seen. The balance of such opposites is the work of a master filmmaker.

It is the emphasis on mystery which makes Picnic At Hanging Rock so appealling. The film shows us everything, but explains nothing. The emphasis on the metaphysical aspects of the natural world is a constant source of wonder. The beauty of Miranda, of the girls who disappears, is attributed to that of an angel, while Hanging Rock remains an alluring and ominous natural phenomena. We know the origin or source of neither, only that it must be something beyond our own knowledge. Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote:

But never yet the man was found
Who could the mystery expound,
Though Adam, born when oaks were young,
Endured, the Bible says, as long;
But when at last the patriarch died
The Gordian noose was still untied.
He left, though goodly centuries old,
Meek Nature's secret still untold.

The groundskeeper at Hanging Rock has seen every cast member from the film return to the site, quietly and unnanonced, still drawn to the mystery of the rock.

"A passage of Solemnity and Darkness..."

2009-02-03T20:57:00.009-05:00

I never knew that right in the middle of the street where I do my grocery shopping, there lies a secret underground tunnel left over from the old Vanderbilt railroad empire! There is a manhole right next to the Trader Joe's where I buy my groceries, and I often wondered why it was left open. I had no idea the story behind it would be so interesting! Walt Whitman even wrote an article about it. I found out through the Curious Expeditions blog. In his article "A Diamond Below", you can read the full story and history of the tunnel.

To make the long story short, the Atlantic Avenue tunnel was conceived as a brainchild of Cornelius Vanderbilt, who wanted a more efficent way to run his train through Brooklyn. When Vanderbilt sought new plans of railroads out West, the tunnel was no longer needed and was left to decay. The trains in Brooklyn were declared a "nusiance" (let's not forget that Brooklyn and Manhattan were seperate cities at this point in history, with Brooklyn being the more desirable for living), and tunnel was to be filled in and officially put out of use. Due to the greed of a corrupt politician, the money set aside for the project was pocketed, and the tunnel only "filled" by means blocking off the manholes and shoddily assembled brick walls. The tunnel soon fell into obscurity, and remained a memory of the old railroad days, believed by almost everyone to have actually been filled in.

In the late 1970s, Bob Diamond, a Brooklynite heard news of the tunnel via the legend of John Wilkes Booth's missing journal pages and a 19th century steam engine which supposedly were hidden inside the secret underground tunnel. Diamond, with a passionate interest in history and trains, decided to take matters in his own hands and search for the long lost tunnel. After much research, he uncovered the original plans for the tunnel in the old archives of the Brooklyn Eagle. The plans lead him to a seemingly ordinary manhole right in the middle of Atlantic Avenue. Sure enough, after convincing the department of transportation to let him have a look, under the manhole was the legendary tunnel, buried beneath dirt and bricks.

Inside the tunnel, both ends are sealed off by brick walls. Diamond believes that on the other side of one of those walls lies the long lost Long Island Railroad steam engine and the pages of Booth's diary. This has intrigued me, and I plan to take a tour of the tunnel very soon, hopefully this month! They are currently raising money for the excavation of the wall.

Long live the Latin Mass

2009-02-01T11:41:00.010-05:00

In the modern world, those who aspire to tradition are considered troublemakers. This is not only seen in secular circles, but in religious ones as well. These naysayers often live by time rather than the Bergsonian truth of duration, and fail to see why such traditions should be revived and lived. I stumbled across an interesting article through an old friend's blog, Rediscovering Traditionalism. It once again brings into question traditions, why they have been forgotten and why their relevance still survives. The Latin Mass is not only an endangered species, but also a form of social stigma. People misunderstand its purpose, even after countless efforts by Catholics and non-Catholics alike pleading for its survival.

The French, being a people of ever restless spirit and passion, of course took matters into their own hands. To this day, France is the holiest place I have ever visited. In churches there, if you closely observe, you will find the devout still praying by faith, at one with the peaceful glory of the old cathedrals. This surprised me, for the French are not exactly seen as "catholic" today by outside views, but perhaps it is because of the Church's 20th century dismissal of its own rites.

Something unexpected seems now to be happening in the Catholic Church. Far from attachment to the old forms dying away, a generation of younger priests and lay Catholics is coming into view that is enthusiastically attached to the Tridentine mass, and to Catholic orthodoxy. In France, one in five of all priests currently being ordained is devoted to the old mass. And this is a committed, determined minority growing up in a virtual wasteland for the French Church. Only five per cent of French Catholics attend mass regularly. In one diocese, the Cathedral attracts seventy worshippers on Sunday, while the chapel of semi-schismatic Society of St Pius X (of Archbishop Lefebvre) attracts seven hundred to a traditional mass. Indeed, it is suggested that an actual majority of church goers on a Sunday in France attend Lefebvrist services.

For those reading this who have never attended a Latin Mass, I'm sure the article makes very little sense. It saddens me greatly that the rituals and actions that accompany the arts of the West no longer correspond with the works themselves. To paraphrase an oblivious American my sister overheard in Paris: "When I visited Notre Dame, I was shocked to see people actually praying, and like, then I realized that 'Oh yeah! It's a church that people still use!'". It's astonishing that this disconnect has happened, but its distruction is partly through the church's own doing, and of course the rise of the "modern" world. Could one imagine the implements of the Japanese tea ceremony without the matcha, or the teahouse? We display the objects of old medieval churches as such, completely out of context with its natural use. Part of this is the Church's own fault, for alienating its truest followers. To people who did not grow up Catholic like myself, this is a source of continuing confusion. There is a glimmer of hope on the horizon, and even the original 1971 petition still strikes chords in people to this day:

We are not at this moment considering the religious or spiritual experience of millions of individuals. The rite in question, in its magnificent Latin text, has also inspired a host of priceless achievements in the arts -- not only mystical works, but works by poets, philosophers, musicians, architects, painters and sculptors in all countries and epochs. Thus, it belongs to universal culture as well as to churchmen and formal Christians.

In the materialistic and technocratic civilisation that is increasingly threatening the life of mind and spirit in its original creative expression -- the word -- it seems particularly inhuman to deprive man of word-forms in one of their most grandiose manifestations.

When in London recently, my sister and I visited Westminster Cathedral with our friend Kevin. The structure is crumbling, being held in place by scaffolding, and in desperate need of renovation. Perhaps it is cliche, but it really seems like a metaphor of all Catholic traditions: the beauty of the structure is immediate, the desire to save it naturally following such feelings, but the actual progress of the preservation seems almost at a standstill, being carried on by the passionate few.

花言葉 ... langage des fleurs

2009-01-31T12:04:00.006-05:00

Hana kotoba (花言葉), the language of flowers, a once fluently spoken tongue, has now disappeared into nostalgic oblivion. The eternal appeal of the flower will always be, but its greater purpose in our lives seems to have diminished to gifts for the occasion, such as love, death, sickness, birth, and simple human joys and pains. What of the appreciate for the flower itself? Thankfully, in Paris many flower lovers can still be found, and in Japan, o-hanami (お花見) is still charted with anticipation every year. But the more man expands his creations into the natural world, the more we take from the flowers, especially in our attempts to capture them for our own sake. No one better contemplates this than Okakura Kakuzō (岡倉覚三) in his writings in The Book of Tea, which I just finished reading:

Tell me, gentle flowers, teardrops of the stars, standing in the garden, nodding your heads to the bees as they sing of the dews and the sunbeams, are you aware of the fearful doom that awaits you? Dream on, sway and frolic while you may in the gentle breezes of summer. To-morrow a ruthless hand will close around your throats. You will be wrenched, torn asunder limb by limb, and borne away from your quiet homes. The wretch, she may be passing fair. She may say how lovely you are while her fingers are still moist with your blood. Tell me, will this be kindness? It may be your fate to be imprisoned in the hair of one whom you know to be heartless or to be thrust into the button-hole of one who would not dare to look you in the face were you a man. It may even be your lot to be confined in some narrow vessel with only stagnant water to quench the maddening thirst that warns of ebbing life.

Thankfully, the tradition of o-hanami still preserves the beauty of the cycle of the seasons, of blooming and death, as we revel in the passing glory of nature's art. We become one in our admiration of their sacrifice, ceasing only to exist for the presence of their beauty. Even the samurai stopped the enjoy the flowers, aware of their ethereal beauty, drawn towards the fleeting presence of the petals. The flowers die, in in their withering fill our world with beauty to remind us of the universe beyond ourselves.

Uncovered Works

2009-01-27T20:11:00.006-05:00

There are times when the internet bridges gaps between the accessible and the obscure. Part of me feels certain things should remain obscure, allowing only the most dedicated and passionate beings to eventually discover them. The other part of me rejoices in the glory of being able to have a glimpse into such rarities, and shares in the gladness that a group of other people took the time and effort to make it known to others!

Such is a website as this: The Morris Online Edition, a collection of works by William Morris, in full color scans, giving us a glimpse into every page of the books! We must thank the University of Iowa for this labor of love, making Morris' work accessible to the public, even if it is just the digital version.

Please enjoy this wonderful website, however, be sure to turn your speakers down as your browse, for the only drawback is a "page turning" sound to accompany every click. Be sure not to miss the astonishing handwork of William Morris in this Gallery of Illuminations. The index includes galleries of other Morris works, as well as other images of interest.

The Unknown Craftsman

2009-01-26T22:55:00.012-05:00

Whilst browsing the traditional arts section at Kinokuniya, I stumbled across a volume entitled The Unknown Craftsman: A Japanese Insight into Beauty. I browsed through the strange format (a large, almost "coffee table" size book) and immediately sought to find a copy at my local library branch (I sing the praises of the New York Public library for carrying such a great selection of work!). This book exceeded my expectations; it offers more than an insight into Japanese aesthetics, but a universal philosophy of nature, man and creation.

Yanagi Sōetsu (柳宗悦), philosopher and founder of the 日本民芸館 (Japan Folk Crafts Museum), is a man of beloved conviction, but does not argue as a heated debater. His book rather seeks to restore a natural order, to him which has been greatly corrupted by the rise of industrialism and the misplacement of nature. The book is filled with illustrated plates, the color ones being reserved for the objects Yanagi considers to be the triumphs of true beauty. Upon first glance at these plates, one will be underwhelmed and puzzled, failing to see what exactly is so special about such "ordinary" objects. Yanagi anticipates this as the Western response, and allows us to "see" the object with our eyes rather than our intellect, for there the beauty will make itself known to us.

To Yanagi, modern day craftsmen take a certain individual pride in their work, often placing their seal and signature on their pieces, to distinguish themselves as finely produced crafts. This is in stark contrast to the anonymous art produced before the schism of the "fine" art and the "folk", when craftsmen, Yanagi argues, were unconscious of their work as "art", and created objects just as they breathed the air, unaware of the specific beauty of the object, and aiming to create for purpose and use. This purpose of objecthood, which Yanagi explains includes form (physical use) and pattern (aesthetic use), is essential to beauty. To use and object is to love it; the two are intertwined, life and art become one. Therein the value lies, in the objects use, not in its historical importance, mere aesthetic, or signature of artist. The value is inherent, not written. Namelessness is akin to timelessness, where any man can find the object of use to himself if he should so desire. The nobility of anonymity, Yanagi states, is found in the traditions of the East, but also in the guild system of the Middle Ages of the West. Could there be no object from that era which was not considered a masterpiece? The hierarchy of art ceases to exist; it becomes redundant when beauty is so varied and natural, as if trying to say some trees are more beautiful and valuable than others. Each piece is a reflection unto itself of handmade nature and virtue, formed of love by use, where written names and calculated dates played no importance.

Authorship, perhaps the premier importance of the Modern era in art, has lead us to forgery, individualism, historicism and "the art market". Alexandra sent me a link to clip of Orson Welles, in a later work entitled F For Fake, a film centering around an art forger, concerning the value of art and its "authenticty" as we think of it today. Welles' character, struck by the undeniable power and beauty of Chartes cathedral, contemplates the essentials of what is beautiful, and the true value of "art":

In an age where so many works go "Untitled" yet clearly embellished with idiosyncratic signature, perhaps the most bold move of all the contemporary artist could make is to produce works "unsigned". To leave the name unknown shows a creator who knew more than any of those who try so hard to understand, only to abandon the corruption of conscious language by further acknowledging it, failing to return to the purity and simplicity of works made for life, use and humankind.

Bienvenue!

2009-01-24T22:56:00.012-05:00

This is a blog shared by two twin sisters living apart. Anastasia lives in New York City, USA, and Alexandra lives in Paris, France. Anastasia currently works in the art department at a modeling agency, but aspires to become a craftsman. Alexandra attends the Institut Catholique de Paris, and aspires to study theology and stained glass making. Due to our interest in languages, this blog will be bilingual, English and French, with trilingual tendancies, having occasional Japanese.

This blog will be for philosophical musings on art, aesthetics, ghosts, Japan/learning Japanese, French culture/France, health food, organic food, macrobiotic, Catholicism, astrology, the Middle Ages, textiles, films, the soul, and anything else that we feel the need to write about.

As on Mount Olympus, only one rule applies: let the games begin!