tang dynasty times

A thousand years imagining paradise

I have tried to write Paradise
Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise-- Ezra Pound

The winds of paradise-- like the wind of fate-- surely they are musical, potent, and exqusitely fragrant. 

They say, Cleopatra herself lived in a cloud of incense and in a dream of purple.  Perfumed in Frankiscence, myrrh, lotus, sandalwood, and rose water... she traveled the Nile on a boat, said Shakespeare, adorned with purple sails so perfumed, that the winds were love-sick with them …

Surely the winds of paradise are like that--perfumed and love-sick.

In Japan, the winds in May have traditionally been known as the most delightful winds of the year-- for May is "the time of perfume winds"　(風薫る五月). And, closing my eyes on a breezy afternoon in late May, I am immediately transported by the sound of the wind outside my window.

Paradiso.

I've long wondered, why it is that everyone prefers Dante's Purgatorio to his Paradiso?

Am I the only one who-- while utterly unable to imagine hell-- often finds myself lost in dreams of paradise?

For me, paradise is like a Persian garden. I imagine the fragrance of roses, jasmine and gardenias intoxicates. There is music, gently perfumed spring breezes and unending picnics. Adonis flies a kite as philosophers wander nearby discussing Aristotle with my friend Señor Borges. As they talk, they are looking for the name of God in the pattern of the rose petals. They are just close enough to hear-- just close enough to be able to join in in the conversation too. The great Sam Hamill is there reciting poems from Almost Paradise as Tullio draws maps of imaginary worlds in black ink.

Averroes and Avicenna are there. Izumi Shikibu and Lady Rokujo are also there debating with each other in the most charming way-- as are all Genji's lovers. But so too is Beatrice and Hannah Arendt (Heidegger, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear, didn't make it this far). My lover the Emperor sits not too faraway (while the object of my affection sits closer still).

The philosophers are speaking in all the great languages that could once be heard in the teeming markets of Chang'an. And, of course, Anna Karenina and her Beloved the Count sit cuddling under a great Chinar tree. 

Picnics that never end include Persian yogurts and every type of biryani; the finest oolong tea, like champagne, from the misty mountains of Formosa, or green tea served in heirloom teabowls by Tea Masters with long lineages. The tea is served with beautiful sweets from my favorite shop in the Province of the Clouds faraway-- everything the verdant color of new grass. There is Japanese chocolates and dimsum from Hongkong so delicious I brush away tears of delight with  豆腐花 so divine-- well, I know that I must be in Paradise....

And pizza, in a garden with a view.

In the distance, a great ziggurat rises toward the shimmering blue sky. Containing every book ever written, it stands as a place of great possibility. Beijing is there in the ziggurat with Borges writing his books. I rarely go there. For I prefer my unending picnicking under the Chinar trees listening to the sound of wind in the trees. A book of poems, by Conrad Roth, lies there on the blanket-- just within reach. Icarus he writes,

the wind sang in his wings,
and his wings wandered
and wended their wanton way to the sun—

It's not just Icarus either, for everyone is wearing wings--rainbow wings.

There are long tunnels covered in wisteria-- white, yellow and purple... They remind me of the covered walkways at the Summer Palace outside Beijing that I have read about. Long covered walkways which the Dowager Empress in Qing China would walk for her exercise-- sometimes reading a book as she walked along. Long, shady flower tunnels-- all leading toward ancient wisteria trees, which one could circumnambulate like Mount Kailash, before choosing one of five other flower tunnels each leading in a different direction to travel down. 

I am, however, still lazily sitting on a large quilt with a friend who has a giant pink peony tucked behind his ear. He is urging me to try another sweet as music from a harpsichord draws my attention toward the towering mountains in the distance. Beautiful animals wander among with gardens and palace interiors.

I see two little children in their kimono with the wings as they alight from a colorful dragon boat on the river with the 10,000 curves. They begin slowly walking toward me.

Watching them, I recall that Makiko-- 10,000 miles away in Turfan-- is probably seeing paintings depicting the same birds of paradise on the walls of the Buddhist temple caves there.

The Buddhist bird of paradise is known in Sanskrit as Kavalinka (迦陵頻伽). It is the bird whose singing begins before it even hatches from its egg. Little voices of paradise, their song was thought to be so beautiful, they were likened to angels.

Angels, arias and manicured gardens being common to most people's ideas of paradise....mountains loom large, rivers flow purely.

On the other side of the river of lights is the Double Greeting Wanton Shop with its $10 prostitutes and BBQ pork. You can take a number at the counter and have your fortune told in the back. The Ambassador is there, sitting with Professor Wang. Splitting a piece of Hungarian cheesecake, they are waiting their turn, happy.

In Dante's Paradise--there is no concept of enlightenment. The soul is not a resource to be improved or utilized and people do not aim for detachment or perfection of any kind. All that is required is love and hope.

That's it. Faith and Fidelity are just other names for it.

And in this place where poetry has been resurrected and playfulness rules the day (in the playground of the mind).

Kant would be displeased, not doubt, but in the realm of souls, reality is nothing but thought and spirit. And this, then, becomes the definition of inner freedom. For the burning hot Medieval heart; true love, true play, and any true heart's occupation (whether according to Kierkegaard or Proust or even Plato) will --no matter what-- be an end in and of itself. Like a kiss, like love, like everything worthwhile, paradise revolves around beauty and playfulness. Souls being guided by their metaphysical pursuit of the Good/God ---generate a reality that necessarily determines itself (rather than being externally or causally generated).

In my paradise, along with kant, Hume too doesn't have a leg to stand on.  

And in this world of play and beauty, in addition to unending picnics, I imagine there is also an exquisite calendar of ceremonies, feasts and rituals---where just like in the world of Genji, sutras are read, incense is burned and dances performed by little children in wings-- not because anything will come of it, but merely because it is beautiful and therefore Good. 

Paradise is like a perfect picture-- just as Lady Murasaki described. A vase filled with perfumes.

Heavenly photos by Karen Knorr.

   

persian picnics and other elegant pastimes (春山淡治而如笑)

 -the vernal equinox 春分

Some say Nowruz, or Persian New Year, is a holiday that goes back 2,500 years. Seems impossible, but everyone agrees it is one of the world's oldest celebrations-- a celebration which continues to be one of the most looked-forward to events in the Persian calendar. 

Part of the festivities include a picnic-- hopefully with a fire. Persians love their picnics-- as this devotion to picnics can be seen across the vast expanse of what was once the Great Persian Empire. From Turkey, Afghanistan, Central Asia to Kashmir-- even in Tehrangeles, in the more elegant part of LA-- people picnic around the vernal equinox. 

It is a civilized pastime, very much like cherry-blossom viewing-- a day to relax and dream of paradise-- enjoying both the company and  spring itself-- the birds, the clouds, the sunshine, and more than anything the flowers.

And, why is it that everything tastes better outdoors?

I was indoctrinated into picnics long before I came to Japan (by a Persian best friend back home). It is a custom which I carried with me to Japan-- where, of course, it fit like a glove.

So, every year we would celebrate the vernal equinox by picnicking. And, in my heart, this will always be the real New Year.

Like clockwork, the ducks and egrets return to the Uzumagawa River and specks of green start sprouting in the lawn-- yes, the return of life and the start of a new year. I cannot help but start imagining all the picnics and flower-viewing-- and somehow everything seems so filled with possibility.

    

The Kid and I usually would start taking to the mountains just before the equinox to go "baby fern hunting."  Called "zenmai" 薇 you know how they are like little coiled springs waiting till it gets to be just the right time to unfurl?

They are so cute and adorable. I read once that ferns used to cover prehistoric forests... so maybe they're very old like dinosaurs? Can you imagine wandering in never-ending forests of ferns as huge, prehistoric dinosaur birds soared in the skies above?

There is an expression used in haiku poetry composition around this time of year: "Mountains smiling in early spring" Borrowed like so many other things from China, the painter who coined this phrase, the Northern Song painter and Literati great, Guo Xi, is most famous for his work titled Early Spring. His poem about mountains smiling appeared in an poetry anthology in Japanese known as  漢詩集 「臥遊録」 (yes, that's right, the Han Anthology Dream Journey Jottings)

春山淡治而如笑
夏山蒼翠而如滴
秋山明浄而如粧
冬山惨淡而如眠　

Mountains smiling in early spring was a theme much appreciated at court-- even during my beloved's times-- which came about 100 years after the painter wrote his legendary poem. Imagine after what must have felt like an almost unendingly long period of cold and depressing "mountains sleeping," the mountains in March would seem to almost "spring" to life again.

First, came the slow but sure return of green. Followed by a splash of color here and there: plum, robai, and finally sakura. And, so people would take to the hills....

This was also after all the best season for a love affair ---for of course, we all know everything is always dashed to hell by mid-Fall so it's better to get started early, right? :))

In China, people travel back to their hometowns around this time of year for qing ming to sweep the tombs of their ancestors and celebrate the return of spring-- very much like Japanese O-bon. There is also a custom of eating outdoors to celebrate spring.Some scholars see the Japanese cherry blossom-viewing custom having its roots in qing ming --as a day of family communion (between the living and the dead), picnics (celebrating spring) and purification. Ideally, one picnics on top of a hill and purified oneself in a river (to wash away in bad deeds or bad luck). There are probably poems about friends climbing hilltops （踏青）or maybe about picking mountain herbs　(山菜摘み）...

It was this idea, of "stepping on blue" （踏青→ getting out and walking in nature）, along with the Japanese idea of the gods of the fields returning from their long slumber around this time of year that are most deeply connected to Japanese sensibilities surrounding cherry blossom viewing.

And, it's that time again.

**

 Shalimar Garden; one of Srinagar's three famous "gardens of love," one the most memorable picnic I ever had in my life took place in the shade of one the garden's many chinar trees. Beautiful tulips were planted alongside the many fountains, and families sat in the pavilions as what seemed like an army of newleyweds strolled across the grass....Sultan's wife had prepared a true Persian picnic of pollo rice and yogurt, kebabs and tea served in glasses. Although nearly 20 years have passed since then, I will never forget it. Sultn's wife had brought the most beautiful tomatoes I have ever seen and we laughed and talked about the flowers and all the future children we would have.

To sit in the warm sunshine in a cool garden surrounded by the sounds of flowing water and laughing children truly is the perfect pastime for a spring day. I only wish I could go back in time and somehow insert my son right smack in the middle of the memory. Of course, he is war of rice with nuts and fruit in it and isn't crazy about tomatoes....Still, I think he could have really had fun in those fountains.

Persian New Year article in National Geographic: Persian New Year Transcends Religions, Regimes

  

 

o-shogatsu

 Oshogatsu--

It is one of the most enjoyable holidays of the Japanese year. My first impression of Japanese new year was of how very, very quiet it was. 

Until more recent times, you will remember, the Japanese calendar was based on the Chinese solar-lunar calendar, so oshogatsu fell closer to the spring equinox—like the Chinese New Year of today. Therefore, it was both a celebration of the new year, but also a welcoming back of spring (and new life).

In spite of its obvious celebratory mood, for me it will always be the Quiet Holiday. And that is saying a lot in a country that is pretty quiet anyway-- well at least compared to Hong Kong!

Lasting several days, it is as if the entire country is blanketed in a heavy snowfall. 

**

The First Day of the First Month-- in addition to its names referring to the coming of Spring-- 新春、猛春、開春—the old calendar term for January was “mutsuki” 睦月. Mutsu means "intimate, harmonious or friendly," so mutuki signifies that this was month "when people come together." It’s true, for even today, if anything oshogatsu is a time for families to re-connect, as all over Japan, people return in great waves—empting out of the cities—to return to their hometowns. When I lived in Tokyo, I always thought the city felt almost like a ghost town during the New Year holiday--even Tokyo Station emptied out.  

A quiet celebration of the return of spring. In Japan, it is also a time of reflection and contemplation, and I think it was this aspect of the holiday that drew me in so deeply when I first arrived in Japan. Of course, in America, we make our New Year’s Resolutions, but that is perhaps the extent of the contemplativer aspect of the holiday. For most Americans, I think New Year is a great party. A celebration of what will probably be another great year. In Japan, perhaps more in common with Easter, the coming of spring is of course a reference to new life and the ability to renew; to be re-born. And, the holiday is marked by its reference to “the firsts”—

The first dream 初夢
The first glance in the mirror 初鏡
The first visit to the Shrine 初詣
The first bath 初湯
The first smile 初笑

Along with spring, the self is also reborn and one should experience all the blessings in life as if they were happening for the first time. Contemplation underpins this holiday in a way I wouldn’t have been able to imagine had I not gone and lived there. And I love that. You look at your image in the mirror all the time. The First Glance in the Mirror, however, urges you to step back, empty your mind and really look. 改めてみること。Look again; look deeper, and look with a clear heart explains my favorite book of Japanese seasons.

Mirrors have long played a religious role in Japan. Like many cultures, the Japanese thought they had the power to show a person’s soul. Symbolizing wisdom, one of the Three Sacred Treasures (三種の神器) of the Japanese Imperial family from the beginning of time in Japan has been a mirror. Mirrors are also a symbol of Japanese New Year in the form of glimmering white and transparent mochi. The most popular New Year’s decoration, kagami mochi 鏡餅、is just as the name implies in Japanese, “mirror rice cakes.” Long ago, they were solely offerings traditionally made at shrines and temples. White rice cakes like mirrors to reflect the image of god as well as the soul of the person making the offering. 

Oshogatsu requires a lot of preparation. Not just cooking but traditionally women spent a lot of time cleaning their homes to start the year pristine as possible....

In addition to the cleaning, there are the foods to arrange and other decorations. One aspect of the holiday that was hard for me to become accustomed to was the stress on endings. Not only do things need to be prepared on time, but even more—things need to be finished on time.

A few years ago, Yoshimi called me on the telephone. “Is Osawa-san alright? Her New Years decorations are still out so I have become very worried about her.”

The proper day you should put away your decorations depends on where in Japan you live, but in many places it’s the first full moon of the month, known as Small Oshogatsu. That is usually the official day for bringing your decorations to the shrine to be burned. It was always a challenge for me to get the endings right. No matter how much I enjoy the preparations and the holiday itself, I tended to forget that there was a specific day in our town that the decorations are meant to be taken down. But now, when I look back, I think these calendrical events give form to life in a very significant way-- they call us to look beyond the everyday busy-ness and need to control things, and to just let go to "how things are done" according to the calendar. 

I hope you all enjoy your new year wherever you are!

 

 

 

 

the tears of passing geese (雁の涙や野辺を染むらむ)

I used to love listening in the evenings to the sound of geese flying overhead. That was in Madison. According to the ancient calendar, it was the Eleventh Month--in the time of Frost Falling (霜降).

Imagining Autumn Leaves, I always like thinking how the frozen dewdrops of November were in ancient times posited as one of the possible causes for why the leaves changed color so dramatically during this time of year. I mean, there had to be a reason, right?

白露の
色はひとつを
いかにして
秋の木の葉を
ちぢに染むらむ

How is it
that dewdrops of pure white
stain the leaves of
these Autumn trees
so many, many colors? ---Toshiyuki no Ason
Kokinshu 257

  

Known in Japanese as "Koyo,"or "red leaves" (紅葉), in very pre-Heian times the word koyo was written using the character for yellow-- as in "yellow leaves" (黄葉) This was a convention taken from ancient classical Chinese texts. By the mid-Heian Period, however, yellow was replaced with the character for “red” attesting to the preference the Japanese of the time felt and still feel for the particular beauty of the red color maple trees-- which in Japan, rival the beauty of the famous maple trees of New England. Indeed, some two-thirds of the worlds maple tree species are to be found in Japan and China. Nowadays in common speech, just like the word for "flower" (hana) is used interchangeably to talk about the cherry blossoms, so too is the word for maple tree (momiji) used interchangeably to talk about the autumn foliage- such is the maple tree's preeminence among trees in Japan.

++

In what is yet another ancient battle-- this battle of the seasons--the cherry blossoms and autumn leaves were often paired off. There are many well-known seasonal pairs- the spring rains versus autumn rains; the May wind versus early autumn wind, as well as the elegant battle of the seasons (between spring and autumn); therefore this pairing of the autumn leaves with the spring cherry blossoms should come as no real surprise. 

This “battle” was played out most famously in The Tale of Genji, between the Lady Murasaki who favored Spring and Lady Akikonomu, whose very name means “being fond of autumn.” Toward the middle of the Tale, when all four of Genji’s ladies were being installed in to their respective quarters- Murasaki in the Southeast (spring); Akinonumu in the Southwest (autumn); Lady of Akashi in the Northwest (Winter); and Hana Chiru Sato in the Northeast (summer)- on a cool autumn evening, when Akinomu’s garden was in its fullest Autumn splendor, she sent apoem, placed in a beautiful box decorated with maple leaves and autumn grasses from her garden to her rival Lady Murasaki:

“Though longing impatiently for spring,
Will not your garden at least admit
These autumn leaves which come floating in
On the wind from my garden”

Needless to say, Murasaki is not amused and sends back a poem remarking that, though Akikonomu’s leaves are beautiful, so soon are they too likely to scatter....

Probably most people are like me-: wishywashy. Every year, I decide that autumn is my favorite season of all-- only to change my mind yet again when spring rolls around and I catch sight of my first peony.

In tea ceremony, there is a famous Edo period teabowl that every practioner knows. A favorite design motif, which is used especially on ceramics but also on lacquerware and in textiles, it is a pattern of interconnected cherry blossoms and maple leaves. It is said that the pattern was first introduced by Kenzan (1663-1743), but it was truly made famous by an Edo Period bowl by Nin’ami Dohachi (1783-1855) another Edo Period potter, who created many works in the style of Kenzan. This particular bowl had one side decorated lavishly with an explosion of brilliant pale cherry blossoms and the other side of the bowl just as lavishly adorned with bright red maple leaves. The design has come to be known as “clouds and brocade” (unnkin-de 雲錦手）because it is thought that cherry blossoms, when gazed at from a distance look like clouds covering the mountains, and likewise the autumn foliage of reds, oranges, yellows and greens resembles beautiful brocade:

霜のたて
露のぬきこそ
弱からし
山の錦の
織ればかつ散る
Frail indeed are these
cross threads of frost
and drawn threads of dewdrops-
For no sooner are they woven then
do these mountain brocades scatter
-Sekio, Kokinshu 291

Clouds like flowers and leaves like brocade, brocade was a metaphor borrowed from Tang Period poetry. This is one of my favorites, by  Li He (790-816):

frost walking in the wind
autumn leaves, gorgeous as brocades
in heaps along the roads

 

Autumn is so beautiful in Japan. What could have caused such moving beauty? The autumn leaves are known as momiji and the etymology of the word momiji, can be traced back to the belief that the autumn colors were somehow “rubbed out” (momidasu 揉み出す) of the leaves at that time of year. Perhaps it was the the gem-like dewdrops or the icy frost that affected this transformation. Or maybe it was the long autumn rains that gradually seeped into the trees at night, staining the leaves all those vivid colors.

Another explanation-- my personal preference-- was that it wasn’t the dew at all which was to blame, but rather the tears of passing geese:

秋の夜の
露をば露と
置きながら
雁の涙や
野辺を染むらむ
Might it not be that
the dewdrops forming on Autumn nights
are only just that- dewdrops
And that it’s the tears of passing geese
which stain the fields red
- Mibu no Tademine
Kokinshu 258

Shimmering snow by moonlight, flowers falling like rain, windless summer heat, and the tears of passing geese. 4 seasons: 

oxcarts

  

In this world
If there were no ox-cart
How should we escape
From the burning mansion of our thoughts--anon

世の中に牛の車の無かりせば 思ひの家を如何で出でまし

++

She was a lady that didn't get out much. In fact, Izumi Shikibu spent quite a lot of time sitting on her wooden veranda, sometimes listening to the autumn insects and gazing out at the brilliance of the moon; and other times wondering when the long rains would stop and she could see him again. Her time sitting on the verenda gazing out at the world was not unlike the Two Venetian Ladies in Carpaccio's oil painting--sitting on their wooden altane, wiling away the hours looking out toward the lagoon.

Not a lot happened in the world of aristocratic ladies of the Heian period --unless, of course, they were in the midst of a love affair. Then, a lady's lover would visit her after dark on consecutive nights, or sometimes she might go out riding together with him in his ox-drawn cart.  

Many, many years ago, I bought a black lacquer comb (簪). It had caught my eye at a department store the first week I arrived in Japan. I knew it was a comb for a woman's hair, but I had no idea that what decorated the comb was a picture of an ox-drawn horse, parked among the pine trees in front of a lady's veranda.

And, when I finally did figure it out years later, I liked the comb even more.

By that time, I knew that ox-drawn carts were not just a means for ladies to go about town in Heian times, but the image of an oxcart also calls to mind the Parable of the Burning House from the Lotus Sutra. I don't know why but the Parable has long been one of my favorites-- the image of the kind father whose house is on fire luring his sons, who refused to listen, to come outside with promises of new toy carts to play with ("expedient means"). And there outside, there are indeed carts (real ones) to wisk them away to safety.

The oxcart of the poem at the top, just as in the parable, stands for Buddhism; while the burning house (思ひの家→ 「思ひ」 の 「ひ」 を 「火」 にかけて，火の家つまり火宅（かたく）をいう）is the mundane world, or samsara.

When I showed the poem to Mei-- herself a beautiful Heian lady, with long flowing dark hair who spends her evenings writing exquisite love poems to her beloved--she said, 

 The Burning mansion of thoughts reminds me of another quote by Kafka: "This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces… And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me." (The Diaries of Franz Kafka). 

This immediately reminded me of a certain Kashmiri carpet-wallah (who happens to be married to Mei) who had only just reminded me of the fundamental and absolute importance of faith. I love the quote by Kafka and was so happy Mei thought to tell me about it. As Kierkegaard insisted, our interiority is paramount, but we must take a stand and actualize our defining commitments. And, this "exteriority of interiority"is probably only possuble via faith. Mei later explained that what her carpet wallah meant by faith is "not thinking "everything will be fine," but more a complete surrender to what's beyond us, what's unknown, mystic and infinite (basically what's out of our control). To let go."

"To let go".... now that is a challenge, indeed. 

Below, Faye Wong singing the Heart Sutra.

  

city of transience (東京物語）

A city known for its earthquakes and fires, Tokyo --says British scholar Paul Waley-- is the city of perpetual destroy and rebuild.

Wasn't it also the city Godzilla terrorized again and again?

Even way back when, Edo was called the "city of fires." Famously referred to as Edo no hana (the “flowers of Edo;” from 火事と喧嘩は江戸の花); people suggested that the all too frequent fires of the city resembled “the autumn leaves.”

From fires to earthquakes, a vulnerability to natural (and man-made) disasters remains one of the most enduring tropes or moods of the city. Just recently, in fact, The Guardian had an article which quoted Tokyo University researchers as predicting a 50% chance of Tokyo being struck by a major earthquake in the next four years. They predict about 10,000 fatalities.

飛花落葉

This historical fact has become the way the city imagines itself and given this narrative of the city, it is probably not surprising that the people of Tokyo are known for their celebration of transience and pleasure (pleasure in the face of vulnerability).

浮世

The floating world: to float (浮) signifies sadness in the face of life’s many hardships and pain. From the Heian period it has been used as a metaphor for the suffering of our world. It later became associated with the Buddhist notion of “this transient world” (無常や仮の世) .

In China, I think the term is more traditionally associated with a life of retreat from the world. Alex Kerr mentions the old Chinese novel called 「浮生六記録」"Six Records of a Floating Life," which is a romantic true story of an impoverished scholar and his beloved wife Yun who lived in early 19th century Suzhou. Although poor they tried to live a life of elegance with nature and poetry in a little cottage. This is not unlike Tao Yuanming’s ideal of plucking  chrysanthemums by the eastern fence (採菊東籬下) or Lady Li’s sobriquet: "the inhabitant who is easily contented" (易安居士). See here.

In Edo, though, this notion was turned on its head. Rather than seeing it in the pessimistic light of Buddhist philosophy, transience was held up as liberating: “If this moment is all we have, we had better live and love with gusto!” And, so in Edo, the floating world took on the meaning of love affairs and play→遊 For me, this will always be the "spirit of Tokyo."

Natsumi Hayashi Levitates 浮遊！！

Below, my favorite scene from Tokyo Monogatari.

 

神無月 The Godless Month

 

 Kannazuki 神無月-- There is an old belief in Japan that during the Tenth Month, all the gods from the various provinces come together in Izumo to discuss affairs of state. And with all the gods of the land away from home on business, the Tenth Month has come to be known as "Kannazuki" ("the month of no gods").

Despite the absence of gods, the Tenth Month still manages to awe, arriving as it does wrapped in a glorious cloud of fragrance. At least in Tochigi-- for almost as soon as October rolls around, the sweet perfume of the fragrant olive blossoms overwhelm. 

Sweet Osmanthus, in English, it is also known as the fragrant olive. In Japanese, it called kinmokusei 金木犀 --that is, "golden," "tree," "rhinoceros." Why rhinoceros? Well, apparently the ancients felt that the tree's gray mottled bark resembled the hide of a rhinoceros. An evergreen shrub or tree, kinmokusei is native to China and the Himalaya, and for many people the fragrance is more a symbol of October than even the chrysathemums. My friend Chieko often complained about the gloomy "northern country" skies of Paris. Autumn in Paris must be beautiful, I always thought. No, she said, it's too far north. There is no beautiful autumn foliage: no clear, blue autumn skies; no celebrated mid-autumn moon and no kinmokusei!"

They also love kinmokusei in Hong Kong and the flowers are used in jams and sweets, and dried osmanthus flowers are infused with oolong and green teas to produce what Hong Kongers call, 桂花茶-- katsura blossom tea. I sent some to Chieko in Paris for her morning tea and she cried saying, "Oh the fragrance makes me long for our home in Mejirodai."

In China, where the tree is native, there are many varieties. Most are also known by the same chinese characters 金木犀 , or 木犀　(mùxī). The flowers of the tree, however, are referred to as guì huā (桂花,  in English, "cinnamon flower" or "cassia flower"). And, it is the blossoming of this flower that was posited as one of the possible causes for why the moon is so particularly beautiful in Autumn. For the ancient Chinese believed that the "katsura" trees on the moon blossomed during the fall and it was their luminous color which caused the "harvest moon" to glow orange.

This idea, then, filtered into Heian Japan and so we find one of my all time favorite waka from the kokinshu:

久方の月の桂も秋はなほもみじすればやてりまさるらむ　　ただみね
Might it be because
The cinnabar tree on the moon
changes colors in autumn
that the autumn moon shines so brightly-- Tadamine

Interestingly, though, it wasn't until way into the Edo period that the trees even arrived in Japan, so the above poem was based purely on imaginative transmission-- like the wood carvings of elephants created at Nikko created by sculptors who had never seen such an animal.

And speaking of those blossoming lunar trees, in China, a beautiful young man 桂男-, who lives on the moon-- was thought to be responsible for having planted the trees up there. The monster-loving Japanese, however, believed that the man on the moon was an incredibly elegant and handsome demon, and women were cautioned to never look too intently at the moon, otherwise the katsura-moon man would steal their souls! So beware!

**

Painting top by Le Thanh Son.

Miki Minoru's Autumn Fantasy below:

   

the autumn moon お月さまの仁徳 (中秋節)

--from the peony archives

名月を取ってくれろと泣く子かな　一茶
Grab it, cried the child, pointing up at the full moon- Issa

Tonight, a substantial portion of the world's population will will in waves collectively turn their eyes up toward the moon. Yes, the Mid-Autumn Festival 中秋節 is upon us again.

The appreciation of the mid-autumn moon is a custom dating back at least to Han dynasty China-- probably even earlier.Indeed, for at least 2000 years now, it has been the full moon of the Eighth Month (approximately present-day September) which has been considered the most beautiful moon of the year.

In Japan, the custom of moon-viewing was adopted from China during the early Heian times and fantastic moon-viewing parties were a celebrated part of court life from these early times. The aristocrats would drink plenty of rice wine and floating lazily on their dragon boats, they would drift around man-made ponds as they gazed at the moon (perhaps composing poetry and snacking on mooncakes).

K-sensei-- who also loves this time of year-- sent me an essay he had written the other day for a local newspaper in which he writes,

秋の長夜、お月さまを仰ぐたび、日本人に生まれてよかったと思う。稲田をわたる秋風を淋しくて、どうにも身にしみるが、コオロギが競って鳴くころのお月さまなんとも味わいがある。
"On long autumn nights, gazing up in awe at the moon, I feel glad to have been born Japanese. On those nights, as the sad, lonely autumn wind blows across the rice fields and the sound of the singing crickets seems to penetrate me, I feel something deeply meaningful as I look at the moon."

He tells me that many Japanese people feel something along the lines of aesthetic and spiritual awe when they gaze at the moon. K-sensei, in the grand tradition of nihonjin-ron, then goes on to compare the Japanese experience of moon-viewing with that of the West. 

In the West, he explains, the full moon has long been associated with insomnia and insanity. The night of the full moon was a night to ward oneself against evil or lunacy. We see this aspect of the Western tradition perhaps in our word "lunatic," which, of course, comes from "luna." Indeed, the full moon has long been associated we are told with everything from vampires to excessive dog bites. (Cat Power and the Moon)

In contrast,

東洋人の心の中に月は、あくまでやさしさと純粋さを映し出すもの、人間の良心を引き出してくれるあいじょうのようなものを持つ。西瓜畑の泥棒がお月さんがじっと見ているので、恥入って西瓜を盗むことなく退散した話がある。
"The moon that lives in the hearts of those in the East, if anything, possesses a kindness and purity which has the ability of bringing out the best in humans. There is a story of a thief in a watermelon field. The moon shining down on the thief made him feel so ashamed about what he was about to commit that he left the field unable to touch even one watermelon."

The moon, then, is like a brilliant mirror reflecting back the purist and most beautiful parts of our hearts. It is another instance of the Japanese belief in the power of beauty*

Finally, K-sensei writes,

また中国では、お月さまを玉兎とも形容した。そこから、兎が住み餅をうくというコミカルな発想に結びつく。そうしたイマジュネーションは、東洋人のつきに対する思いの表れであり私たちの心をどんな平和にしてくれることか。
"The Chinese believe that a jade hare  (玉兎) is pounding mochi rice cakes (In China, medicine to help the sick) up on the moon. This comical story of a rabbit pounding rice cakes has long been associated with moon viewing, and this type of imaginative story-telling about the moon is an expression of the way in which the moon lives in the hearts of the people of the East. Images such as this, unfold within our hearts a feeling of peacefulness and happiness." 

**

 So, this year, we too-- along with millions of other people-- will celebrate the beauty of the moon. In Hong Kong and Kaoshiung-- everything was so lit up and my memories of mid-autumn festivals spent in those cities are less about the beauty of the moon as they are about delicious dinners and mooncakes, lanterns and lights, and the great festivity that transformed the streets. (Like my friend Billy, I remain a sucker for a good mooncake).

In Tochigi, it is quieter, but, I think, no less enjoyable. 

Like last year, I'll put pampas grass 薄 in a tall bamboo basket and set it out on our red deck (which, in autumn, we call our "the moon-viewing platform" or 月見台). We will probably drink beer and eat Kaori's o-tsukimi dango and just sit there quietly looking at the sky. Last year was cloudy and the moon just wouldn't show her face, so Adonis (being a feisty six year old) growing frustrated, grabbed the pampas grass out of the basket and waving the branches at the sky yelled, "Come out, come out, o-tsuki-sama!" 

We trained our eyes on the brightest part of the sky, knowing the moon to be hiding there behind the thick clouds, and sure enough, after maybe 20 minutes, out slipped the brilliant full light of the moon. The clouds were in constant motion up above, making the moon itself look like it was rolling on a great ocean of dark waves. Everytime the moon would slip out past the clouds, we would gasp, and I could hear the neighbors voices, "Look, the moon!" "It's out from behind the clouds, look!"

Many of you will perhaps smile to learn that the the Japanese alone have two moon-viewing festivals. In addition to the Chinese-originated mid-Autumn moon of the Eighth Month (September by the current calendar), the Japanese do it all over again-- with a slight twist-- in the Ninth Month (October).

It's said it all started when Emperor Daigo, who ruled during the Engi Period (around 900 a.d.), up and decided that he preferred the late Autumn moon. And, from that time onward, it came to pass that Japan celebrated the autumn moon twice: once during the spectacular full moon of the Eight Month, and then again when the moon was not quite full on the 13th Night of the Ninth Month

It's hard to say why the Emperor preferred the three-quarter moon over the full moon of the previous month, but perhaps the appeal has something to do with the Japanese aesthetic preference for the slightly imperfect over the perfect. Or maybe it is due to the ancient Taoist idea that the perfectly full moon is already in a state of decline. I've also read that the Japanese take pride that this 13th Night Moon of the Ninth Month is their original invention-- and not yet another custom imported from the continent.

We always drink cocoa for the second one so Adonis and I call the moon of the ninth month the "Cocoa Moon"

**

And for moon viewing in Mongolia, see Don Croner in Mongolia on the Harvest Moon.

**

Thanks to MWN for another beautiful photograph of the moon (above). And this beautiful shot.

  

Music recommended by Monsieur PC Cheng of Facebook (多謝！）:

 

Everything I have ever heard about Chrysanthemums (重陽の節句）

-- from the Peony Archives (re-uploaded: 09-09-09)

I have to admit, it took me a long time to really understand chrysanthemums. Compared to all the colorful flowers of spring, chrysanthemums had always left me somehow under-whelmed. That is, until I really started looking at them.

Because I am stuck again in ancient calendar time; and because according to the ancient calendar, today happens to be the Chrysanthemum Festival, I will tell you everything I know about chrysanthemums.

The Chrysanthemum Festival-- also known as the Choyo no sekku 重陽の節句 (known as "the double nines" for you all on the Continent) occurs on the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month (during the Time of White Dewdrops). Choyo no sekku marks the final festival of what is known as the Five Seasonal Festivals (go sekku 五節句) of the old lunar calendar, following the Seven Grasses Festival (or jinjitsu, falling on the Seventh Day of the First Month), the Peach Blossom Festival (or Girl’s Day, falling on the Third Day of the Third Month), the Iris Festival (or Boy’s Day, falling on the Fifth Day of the Fifth Month) and the Star Festival (or Tanabata, falling on the Seventh Day of the Seventh Month.) All five of these festivals have their origins in China and were festivals marking the major changes in the seasons.

According to i ching philosophy, the doubling up of the odd, or yang numbers 1,3,5,7,9 was seen as auspicious, so that in Japan at least we have major holidays occurring on January 1st, March 3rd, May 5th, July 7th and September 9th. These "double yang" holidays were days of both celebration as well as purification and abstinence. Like so much else from China, the five festivals were adopted from the Continent by the Heian Period aristocracy; only over time being transformed according to Japanese tastes.

In ancient China, the ninth day of the Ninth Month was considered to be the seasonal marker of the “first chill of Autumn.” It was thought to be particularly potent because of the belief that the number nine, being the highest odd number (yang) from one to ten was especially lucky, and therefore this day with its “two nines” (that is, Ninth Day of the Ninth Month) was considered to be the ultimate in propitiousness.

Like the phases of the moon, the ancient Taoist philosophers taught that everything in the universe was in a constant state of vacillation. Everything therefore was either in a stage of waxing or waning so that at that very moment when something appeared to reach perfect fullness, its waning had in reality already begun. In this way, things which appear to our human eyes to be perfectly complete or full are in fact already in decline. Due to this belief, the number nine was preferred to the number ten (since 10 was already-- according to this way of looking at things-- already in a state of decline).

In much the same way that the number 10,000 indicated countless or endless numbers, the number nine signified “the largest” or “the greatest.” It was believed that there were nine heavens above reflecting the nine provinces comprising the ancient empire below, and this was further reflected in the Nine Gates and Nine Imperial Decorations of the Chinese Imperial Palace. The number nine therefore signified, "All under Heaven." It was also thought to express virtue or virtuous actions, so that when people bowed repeatedly or made offerings at formal occasions or at temples, this was known as the “nine bows” (九頓首) or the “nine offerings” (九献). This, too, eventually filtered into Japanese thought, and the “nine bows” of ancient China came to be known in the Japanese phrase sanbai-kyuhai (三拝九拝) which means to “bow repeatedly.” The “nine offerings” became the rational behind the Japanese ceremonial partaking of the “three times three exchange of nuptial cups of rice wine” (三三九度) which is still one of the main rituals performed in a traditional Shinto-style wedding ceremony in Japan today.

Nine, by the way, has always been my favorite number.

In ancient China on this day people climbed hills, had picnics outdoors and long life was prayed for by drinking chrysanthemum wine. Wang Wei, in the mid-eighth century, wrote of feeling very homesick spending the festival alone in a faraway place:

Remembering My Brothers in Shandong on the Double-Ninth Festival:
  Alone, a stranger in a distant province-
  At festivals I’m homesick through and through.
  In my mind’s eye, my brothers climb the mountain,
  Each carrying dogwood- but there’s one too few
   trans. Vikram Seth

“Dogwood” is how Seth translates the Japanese word for shuyu-- a Chinese type of citrus plant (related to the Japanese pepper tree, sanshou 山椒, cf. Kojien 562) which was placed in bags, called shuyu-no-fukoro. These bags were hung in homes and carried around on that day in the belief that the magical plant had the power to purify, scaring away evil demons-- much like the effect of garlic on vampires. Because of this practice, the day was also known as the “Dogwood Festival” (shuyu-setsuKojien 1241.) This custom spread to the Japanese aristocrats of the Heian Period, and these shuyu-no-fukuro 茱萸袋 were put up on the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month replacing the “medicinal bags” (kusuri-dama 薬玉) hung in rooms (especially rooms where people slept) beginning on the Iris Festival on May Fifth.

Chrysanthemum wine has been prepared and consumed in China, at least since the Han Dynasty (206BCE- 220CE) as both a cure against sickness and aging, as well as for reasons of purification similar to that of dogwood described above.  Beautifully cultivated chrysanthemums were displayed and admired on this day, and the flower, in addition to being known as one of the “four gentlemen blossoms” (四君子）in the company of orchids, bamboo and plum blossoms, has long been associated with longevity due to the fact that the flowers bloom so magnificently just when the rest of nature seems to be giving up and dying (Kojien 1685.) In Chinese, the flowers’s name, ju(菊) is phonetically associated with the word for “nine” (jiu) and is identical with the word for “long time” (jiu) so that this symbol for long life was firmly associated with the Ninth Month from very ancient times. This belief was early on transported to Japan:

消えぬべき
露のいのちと
思わずは
久しき菊に
かかりやはせぬ

Rather than dwell
on the dewdrops
which only fade away
Why not instead align yourself
with the long-lived chrysanthemums?
-Izumi Shikibu Nikki

The flower was often used as a metaphor in poems written- to the Emperor, for example- wishing long life or a long reign. In both China and Japan, the Ninth Month was known as the “Chrysanthemum Month”. In Japan, however, this is only a secondary name, as the month is mainly known as the “Long Month,” (Nagatsuki 長月), or “Nights Growing Longer Month” (Yonagatsuki 夜長月).

The chrysanthemum, which eventually became not only associated with the Emperor of Japan, but, along with cherry blossoms, became symbolic of the Japanese people themselves, is believed to have been native, not to Japan, but to China. There is no mention of the flower in all of the Manyoshu and it is assumed to have arrived in Japan only in the late Nara to early Heian Period, valued at that time for its medicinal qualities. By the mid-Heian Period, it was cultivated and appreciated at Court and among the aristocracy. “Chrysanthemum Flower Contests” (菊の花合わせ）with poetry matches and banquets (菊花の宴）were held, and in relation to the world described in The Tale of Genji, Ivan Morris describes the festival in this way:

The emperor and his Court inspect the chrysanthemums in the palace gardens. Afterward there is a banquet. Poems are composed and the guests drink wine  in which chrysanthemums have been steeped. After a performance of dances, Palace Girls present small white trout to His Majesty, and later the guests are
served dishes of white trout.

 Lady Sei Shonagon, in her Pillow Book, describes the Heian custom of covering the court chrysanthemums on the eve of the festival with cloth and allowing the perfume of the flowers to mix in with the autumn dew, seeping in overnight so that the next morning they could be rubbed over one’s face and body to prevent aging and premature death. And, Murasaki Shikibu records in her diary that:

On the ninth of the ninth month Lady Hyobu brought me floss-silk damp with chrysanthemum dew.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Her Excellency sent it especially for you. She said you were to
use it carefully to wipe old age away!’

The Festival is also briefly described in The Tale of Genji:

Early in the Ninth Month came the chrysanthemum festival. As always, the festive  bouquets were wrapped in cotton to catch the magic dew

(Collecting dewdrops-- Why does that continue to fascinate me?)

The Heian Period was a time of huge admiration for anything Chinese- from literature to clothes to flowers. The aristocrats of the day associated Chinese things with the height of elegance, and the chrysanthemum festival was part of this cultural milieu.

 It wasn’t until the Edo Period that chrysanthemum-viewing and the Chrysanthemum Festival became truly popular with all classes of people, and by this time many new types of chrysanthemums had been introduced so that chrysanthemum-viewing became part of the yearly calendar of events of the common people. While aristocratic families continued the custom of drinking chrysanthemum wine on this day, common people prepared and enjoyed chestnut rice, giving chestnuts, which had recently been harvested, to friends and relatives. Because the Ninth Month of the old lunar calendar coincided with the time of year when the harvest work had been recently completed, over time Autumn Festivals in celebration of the harvest came to be held around the time of Chrysanthemum Festival so that the original meaning of the Chrysanthemum Festival became blurred over time.

Then by the Meiji Period, with the introduction of the new Western solar calendar, the significance of these “double nines” had all but completely been lost, except that it was still reflected in customs surrounding certain harvest festivals called “o-kunichi” (the ninth day お九日) or “o-kunchi.” These harvest festivals were traditionally held across Japan in the Ninth Month (lunar or solar) on the Ninth Day (either the 9th, 19th or 29th.) Also because of the month-long gap created by the introduction of the Solar calendar, Chrysanthemums are in fact no longer in bloom during the Ninth Month thereby further obscuring the original meaning of the festival.

早く咲け９日も近し菊の花
芭蕉

Hurry up and blossoms
-Chrysanthemum flowers-
The Ninth Day is drawing near
-Basho

In spite of the fact that chrysanthemums are no longer in bloom during the Ninth Month, The Chrysanthemum Festival is still celebrated on the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month by the Imperial family, as well as being indirectly celebrated in the Tea Ceremony where the festival is evoked at the “chrysanthemum tea gatherings” (菊の茶) held in September. At these tea gatherings, much like when the cherry blossoms bloom in spring, tea utencils which have names associated with the flower are used and appreciated; tea kettles or incense containers shaped in forms reminiscent of chrysanthemums are used, and of course the flower is used to decorate the alcove in the tea room. Outside the court or the world of tea, this is the least commonly celebrated festival of The Five Seasonal Festivals-- which is a shame since it is a day both rich in beauty and philosophy.

In the end, I too have fallen under the charms of the lofty chrysanthemum. Perhaps that's because I too would like to partake in the flower's secrets of everlasting beauty. While my favorite flower of all, the peony dies a dramatic-- and yes, unsettling-- death (all her flowers falling at once) chrysanthemums just seem to dry out in a beautifully preserved state. They are, in fact, beautiful till the end. And, its true, when the last chrysanthemum has died, no more flowers will bloom till the start of spring the following year. They are the last to bloom. Stubbornly holding off winter with their sheer act of will. You really cannot help but admire them, can you?

Update (9月10日〕

Andrew Leonard of Salon magazine links to this post in his article The Bicycle Theory & the Tao. Andrew, thank you very much for your kind words!

Update (９月１７日）

Athena sends me this link to the New York Botanical Gardens "Kiku" event-- for those in New York.

Our Man Utz (commedia dell'arte)

 
  

Our man Utz. It all started when he was a boy. Like most great love affairs, it had been love at first sight. Little Kaspar usually spent his summers at his grandmother's castle in the Czech countryside. It was a castle full of all kinds of random, dusty bric-a-brac and among the suits of armor and antique porcelain, little Kaspar Utz

found himself bewitched by a figurine of Harlequin that had been modeled by the greatest of Meissen modelers JJ Kaendler.

 

So, we know the exact time and place--the moment of possession, if you will.

And he begged his grandmother for the piece and receiving his heart's desire, little Kaspar,

pivoted the figurine in the flickering candlelight and ran his pudgy fingers, lovingly over the glaze and brilliant enamels.

He had found his vocation: he wanted to devote his life to collecting--'rescuing' as he came to call it--the porcelains of the Meissen factory.

So, we have the Fall (the passion and possession); then we have the commitment (and with all great commitments, it is "to the death") Utz then sets about acquiring the knowledge that will come in handy on his Quest-- a Quest, I am sure you will agree, no less great than that of the Holy Grail.

And so, our man next seeks knowledge as he begins to make his early purchases.

By the end, he had some 2000 pieces cram packed into a tiny Prague apartment. Space became the big issue but that wasn't the only problem either. There was a larger enemy--  The Government. This great beast tried greedily to take away Utz's collection, and-- indeed--  it took all his powers to hold them off. The dragon was hungry and devoured everything in its path-- to the extent of planting a listening device in his apartment. Those who could leave, did so. The dragon, never satisfied, took everything, leaving nothing but a "one-color world" behind in its wake. Utz, too, decided to leave but in leaving his collection behind, he knew he was taking a great chance of losing it to the Government forever.

Every year when life in the Czech capital became too much for him, he did leave. But a few months was all it took. The lure of his true love was too great. And back he walked into the lion's den. In France, he remained bored.

Maybe a different country?

Germany? Italy? France? Three possibilities/ None of them inviting. Germany? Never. The break had been final. England? Not after the Dresden raid. The United States? Impossible. The noise would depress him dreadfully. Prague, after all, was a city where you heard the snowflakes falling. Australia? He had never been attracted by the colonies. Argentina? He was too old to tango.

And his coup de gras: a complete Commedia dell arte series of figurines.

Of course, like all the world's greatest lovers, Utz has a philosophy. He tells us that "Leibniz-who believed this world was the best of all possible worlds-insisted that porcelain was its best material." After a lifetime of Jung, and Goethe, Christian alchemy and Chinese alchemy, Utz was convinced that porcelain functioned as a golem; born from the fires of hell (the heat of the kiln) it was none other than the philosopher's stone: white gold.

In the West, of course, the hallmark of porcelain is its translucency. In the East, like ancient jade, it is its ringing sound when struck. (You might remember how when buying porcelain at Mitsukoshi or Takashimaya, the sales lady will flick the rim of each and every piece to make sure it rings.)

**

This was my second time with Herr Utz. I had read UTZ years ago in Ubud. Re-reading it again after all these years-- something struck me, and that is, I have none of Utz in me. The passion of the collector is just not part of my personality as truly neither the thrill of the hunt nor possessing more than two of something appeals to me. And, yet it is not that I don't pine for things like Utz.

I suppose you could say I fall in love very differently from men like our man Utz. Not only that, but the entire time I was "with Utz" my heart was actually faraway-- spending time with one man, I was imagining myself faraway with another. All the way in Borneo, in fact.

I have long pined to own an Heirloom Jar from Borneo. The great jars of Southeast Asia are famous enough-- the peoples of Vietnam and Thailand to Borneo and the Philippines have long stored water and rice in large jars of Southern Chinese origin. A Japanese anthropologist once explained to me how the invention of the pot prolonged human life by at least a decade. Utsuwa, in Japanese, jars and vessels store our food and water-- they are therefore utterly intertwined with our lives. In parts of SE Asia, many are considered Sacred in fact.

In Borneo, for example, they are treated as Oracles that can tell the future, and are also known to be able to turn into deer and run away. Like the medicine jars held in the hands of Buddhas, these jars too stood at that same place of crossroads-between the sacred, the medicinal and the everyday.

Very high quality earthenware pots, they are used to bury the dead. Of all the ways to go, wouldn't you like to be stuffed, fetal position into a great jar and then put back into the side of a mountain or into the ground?

Just imagining owning one gives me the greatest thrill. I would like one in an earthy brown. My first choice would be to have a raised flower design of the same color around the rim, but even there, I am not picky. What I desire is a jar so simple that my imagination can fill in the blanks-- just like in an ink painting, where the white space is in fact the most pregnant part of the picture. 

The jars also became part of the brisk ceramics trade that existed within Asia from the 15th-18th century. Many of the finest pieces of this trade-- as is well known-- remain preserved today in Japan, where they have been prized by Japan's great aesthete tea practioners. Famous among the utilitarian ceramics prized in Japan are the famed teabowls from Korea, which have long been valued as objects of tremendous prestige. The teabowls are known as Korai (meaning Korea) chawan (teabowl). Shown left is the famed Kizaemon Teabowl, which is a designated National Treasure of Japan. Of the 26 registered meibutsu (famous) teabowls, the Kizaemon is considered to be the finest of all-- indeed, it is thought to display all the greatest qualities of a work of fine art: dignity, beauty, composure and pedigree.

In all probability, when it was "discovered," it was probably just an old rice bowl in a peasant's house. But Hideyoshi's soldiers had been given strict instructions: bring home anything of beauty you find in your ploundering. And so this teabowl made its way back to Japan-- changing hands for greater and greater sums of money until it became priceless- a treasure of the nation. 

Utz's alchemy.

And like with all alchemy, possession occurs via the colloboration between physical form and human imagination; for as the staff at Sothebys knows, without the narrative, the pots are nothing but lumps of clay.

Utz part two here

 

 
  

Our man Utz. It all started when he was a boy. Like most great love affairs, it had been love at first sight. Little Kaspar usually spent his summers at his grandmother's castle in the Czech countryside. It was a castle full of all kinds of random, dusty bric-a-brac and among the suits of armor and antique porcelain, little Kaspar Utz

 

So, we know the exact time and place--the moment of possession, if you will.

And he begged his grandmother for the piece and receiving his heart's desire, little Kaspar,

He had found his vocation: he wanted to devote his life to collecting--'rescuing' as he came to call it--the porcelains of the Meissen factory.

So, we have the Fall (the passion and possession); then we have the commitment (and with all great commitments, it is "to the death") Utz then sets about acquiring the knowledge that will come in handy on his Quest-- a Quest, I am sure you will agree, no less great than that of the Holy Grail.

And so, our man next seeks knowledge as he begins to make his early purchases.

By the end, he had some 2000 pieces cram packed into a tiny Prague apartment. Space became the big issue but that wasn't the only problem either. There was a larger enemy--  The Government. This great beast tried greedily to take away Utz's collection, and-- indeed--  it took all his powers to hold them off. The dragon was hungry and devoured everything in its path-- to the extent of planting a listening device in his apartment. Those who could leave, did so. The dragon, never satisfied, took everything, leaving nothing but a "one-color world" behind in its wake. Utz, too, decided to leave but in leaving his collection behind, he knew he was taking a great chance of losing it to the Government forever.

Every year when life in the Czech capital became too much for him, he did leave. But a few months was all it took. The lure of his true love was too great. And back he walked into the lion's den. In France, he remained bored.

Maybe a different country?

Germany? Italy? France? Three possibilities/ None of them inviting. Germany? Never. The break had been final. England? Not after the Dresden raid. The United States? Impossible. The noise would depress him dreadfully. Prague, after all, was a city where you heard the snowflakes falling. Australia? He had never been attracted by the colonies. Argentina? He was too old to tango.

And his coup de gras: a complete Commedia dell arte series of figurines.

Of course, like all the world's greatest lovers, Utz has a philosophy. He tells us that "Leibniz-who believed this world was the best of all possible worlds-insisted that porcelain was its best material." After a lifetime of Jung, and Goethe, Christian alchemy and Chinese alchemy, Utz was convinced that porcelain functioned as a golem; born from the fires of hell (the heat of the kiln) it was none other than the philosopher's stone: white gold.

In the West, of course, the hallmark of porcelain is its translucency. In the East, like ancient jade, it is its ringing sound when struck. (You might remember how when buying porcelain at Mitsukoshi or Takashimaya, the sales lady will flick the rim of each and every piece to make sure it rings.)

**

This was my second time with Herr Utz. I had read UTZ years ago in Ubud. Re-reading it again after all these years-- something struck me, and that is, I have none of Utz in me. The passion of the collector is just not part of my personality as truly neither the thrill of the hunt nor possessing more than two of something appeals to me. And, yet it is not that I don't pine for things like Utz.

I suppose you could say I fall in love very differently from men like our man Utz. Not only that, but the entire time I was "with Utz" my heart was actually faraway-- spending time with one man, I was imagining myself faraway with another. All the way in Borneo, in fact.

I have long pined to own an Heirloom Jar from Borneo. The great jars of Southeast Asia are famous enough-- the peoples of Vietnam and Thailand to Borneo and the Philippines have long stored water and rice in large jars of Southern Chinese origin. A Japanese anthropologist once explained to me how the invention of the pot prolonged human life by at least a decade. Utsuwa, in Japanese, jars and vessels store our food and water-- they are therefore utterly intertwined with our lives. In parts of SE Asia, many are considered Sacred in fact.

In Borneo, for example, they are treated as Oracles that can tell the future, and are also known to be able to turn into deer and run away. Like the medicine jars held in the hands of Buddhas, these jars too stood at that same place of crossroads-between the sacred, the medicinal and the everyday.

Very high quality earthenware pots, they are used to bury the dead. Of all the ways to go, wouldn't you like to be stuffed, fetal position into a great jar and then put back into the side of a mountain or into the ground?

Just imagining owning one gives me the greatest thrill. I would like one in an earthy brown. My first choice would be to have a raised flower design of the same color around the rim, but even there, I am not picky. What I desire is a jar so simple that my imagination can fill in the blanks-- just like in an ink painting, where the white space is in fact the most pregnant part of the picture. 

The jars also became part of the brisk ceramics trade that existed within Asia from the 15th-18th century. Many of the finest pieces of this trade-- as is well known-- remain preserved today in Japan, where they have been prized by Japan's great aesthete tea practioners. Famous among the utilitarian ceramics prized in Japan are the famed teabowls from Korea, which have long been valued as objects of tremendous prestige. The teabowls are known as Korai (meaning Korea) chawan (teabowl). Shown left is the famed Kizaemon Teabowl, which is a designated National Treasure of Japan. Of the 26 registered meibutsu (famous) teabowls, the Kizaemon is considered to be the finest of all-- indeed, it is thought to display all the greatest qualities of a work of fine art: dignity, beauty, composure and pedigree.

In all probability, when it was "discovered," it was probably just an old rice bowl in a peasant's house. But Hideyoshi's soldiers had been given strict instructions: bring home anything of beauty you find in your ploundering. And so this teabowl made its way back to Japan-- changing hands for greater and greater sums of money until it became priceless- a treasure of the nation. 

Utz's alchemy.

And like with all alchemy, possession occurs via the colloboration between physical form and human imagination; for as the staff at Sothebys knows, without the narrative, the pots are nothing but lumps of clay.

Utz part two here