tang dynasty times

Thinking of Mi fu

--from the Peony archives (shocked to realize not a lot has changed either when it comes to me and Mi Fu...)

The other day, talking about how beautiful Japanese kimono are with a friend, he said that he thought it was a shame that we too don't have more chances to dress up in the styles of a hundred years ago. 

Dressing in the styles of a hundred years ago...

After pausing ever so slightly to imagine what exactly that would look like, I found myself smiling and thinking immediately of Mi Fu. Madman Mi, as he was also lovingly known, served for a brief time at the court my lover the Emperor-- for indeed, the two shared much in common, and I like to imagine that maybe they were even good friends.

Born in Shanxi (Hubei?) Province, it is believed that Mi Fu's family was also of Sogdian origin-- a fact that Peter Sturman suggests Mi Fu went out of his way to conceal-- even changing one of the characters used to write his name (to give it a more Chinese sound).  Thanks in part to his mother’s connections at Court, where she served as a Lady-in-waiting to the Consort of Emperor Shenzong, Mi Fu was able to enter the official bureaucracy without ever having had to take any of the official examinations.

Despite his excellent connections, though, Mi was never particularly "career-oriented" --as he remained till the very end devoted to the creation, study and collection of art. In fact, to this day, Mi Fu is considered to be one of the greatest connoisseurs of art in Chinese history. His passion started while he was still quite young, and he has described in his writings how his mother more than once sold her ornamental hair combs in order to fund his collecting while he was still only a child.

To call him an eccentric would only be an understatement.

For he walked the streets of the capital dressed in the fashions popular hundreds of years earlier during the Tang dynasty, because he claimed he admired the styles back then.

He was also known for introducing himself and bowing to especially fine specimens of garden rocks which were of the type he collected; addressing them politely as “elder brother.” Greatly admired by Emperor Huizong for his knowledge and style, he was appointed Director of the Calligraphy and Painting Institute at Court where the Prime Minister was said to have observed, “Mi Fu is the kind of person we must have one of, but cannot afford to have two of!” Even though his knowledge was formidable, his personality was such that he didn’t last long at Court.

Spending his later years roaming the waterways of the country on his houseboat, named “The Mi Family Calligraphy and Painting Barge,” he managed to acquire an immense collection of important works of calligraphy, painting, ancient bronzes, and other antiquities. His acquisitions were sometimes of a dubious method as he was known to have replaced some originals of borrowed works with replicas, and on more than one occasion threatened suicide to friends who wouldn’t agree to sell their masterpieces to him. He was also reported to have stolen the plaques from temple gates because they provided fine samples of a particular style of calligraphy. His foibles were usually forgiven, because, of course, he was considered a genius. What Mi Fu was unable to acquire, he managed to at least find the opportunity to view, and so his knowledge of Chinese art was encyclopedic.

When I think of Mi Fu, I always smile for I, too, like his style. With his huge personality and great appreciation and knowledge of art, like my Emperor, he is, in the end, forgiveable.  Thinking of my recent conversation with the mysterious Professor A. Ku, I wonder if it could even be argued in Kierkegaardian terms that Mi Fu's thievery and conniving was just another case of the suspension of the ethical-- that is, it was all in the line of duty. For art was for Mi Fu, his life's Defining Commitment, absolutely defining him in the way all geniuses are defined by their art.

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Mi Fu is the kind of guy I would love to go to coffee with-- but you will notice he was not selected to go to Paradise with me. Why? Well, perhaps I have grown tired of big personalities-- which I have noticed lately seem to come with their equally bad side.

My friend in the Hanlin Academy is also concerned with issues of character (人徳等) and says, "think about what the difference is between having a lot of personality and a lot of character." I believe perhaps it is true that character demands a kind of consistency-- in one's speech and actions-- and more, that such consistency itself demands a kind of restraint (rather than a leap into something new as in Kierkegaard, for example).

This is probably a famous anacdote but my tea sensei loved it. She said, Michaelangelo didn't sculpt images in marble as much as he simply cut away what was unnecessary and extraneous, thereby allowing that which was already present in the rock to come forth. She said that this was the Way of Tea. The removal of everything unnecesary or superfluous. Each movement has meaning, she said. "Do what comes natural to you" (I found, though, it worked better for me when I did the opposite of what came natural...!)

I know my Emperor would have been delighted if I had invited Mi Fu to Paradise with us.... but really, like with so many people with big personalities, I think the dangers were not worth the risk.

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This is the best book on Mi Fu I have read. It is probably hard to come by now...

Above painting by Vietnamese painter Hong Viet Dung, Girl with Lotus Leaf. Below: Boy with Lotus Leaf

And, The World of Mi Fu's Art: another National Palace Museum wonder.

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Parag Khanna had another great article in Foreign Affairs, Beyond City Limits. Wondered if the photo was by Michael Wolf (whose work I am a huge fan)--and then there is this funny meditation on cities by Glenn Gould (thanks M) 

 

shimmering blue

   

Kublai Khan: There is a sense of emptiness that comes over us at evening with the odor of the elephants after the rain and the sandalwood ashes growing cold in the brazier, a dizziness makes rivers and mountains tremble on the fallow curves of the plainspheres where they are portrayed, and rolls up, one after the other, the despatches announcing to us the collapse of the last enemy troops, from defeat to defeat, and flakes the wax of the seals of obscure kings who beseech our armies' protection, offering in exchange annual tributes of precious metals, tanned hides, and tortoise shell....Italo Calvino

I recently read that so tightly controlled was the Great Khan's empire that it was claimed that a beautiful woman could cross the great expanse of pax Mongolica carrying a solid gold tray atop her head and be assured of arriving wherever she was going in perfect safety. 

Empire does have its advantages, I suppose.

In spite of his tremendous power and wealth, however, the Great Khan seems restless; and while he doesn't necessarily believe everything the Venetian tells him, still he enjoys the listening; for indeed, there is no better way to wile away the evenings than in storytelling.

And so like a magnificent Caliph in a long and luscious dream, Kublai Khan listens to the Venetian tell stories of marvelous and exotic cities located on the edges of his vast empire. And, in this way, the Khan and his humble servant Marco Polo engaged in the most exquisite conversations-- where sometimes they even speak without words, as one imagines what the other wants to say, the other imagines answering.

You will recall that I too sometimes have conversations with an emperor. While we often talk about the way the light reflects on the icy cold river, whose waters flow slowly south from Siberia; sometimes he will silently-- extemporizing a poem-- describe one of his paintings; delicate and perfectionist paintings of flowers or tiny, plump birds-- "paintings

which are but a promise
of a thousand autumns to come
Painting Autumn birds"

Every so often too, we will playfully try and describe a partiular shade of color. This game often goes on for hours as describing a shade is never easy. Some may even say it is impossible to describe a color.

He said, "Close your eyes and imagine the color of the sky, in early morning after a rainshower..."

I closed my eyes and recalled that

over the years, my Emperor and his unquenchable “yearning for blue was a beautiful, imperial dream which had somehow worked its way into my own heart (in the way of all truly fine conversations). And, I became fascinated not so much by his passion as by his method-- for what better way to capture a shade than in porcelain?

And as the wish of the great Emperor, it wouldn’t take long for the ingenious potters at nearby Ru to provide him with exactly what he as looking for either.

The most beautiful porcelain in the world

Because Ru ware was created with the Emperor’s particular taste in mind and then disappeared mysteriously without a trace after the fall of his dynasty, it has been forever after associated with my man. And, with less than 100 surviving examples, a very small piece was sold several years ago at Sotheby’s in New York for approximately 1.5 million dollars. The National Palace Museum in Taipei holds the great majority of the remaining pieces, with a large amount held British museums as well.

As rare as they are stunningly beautiful; the celadon glaze ranges from pale green to a lavender blue and is characterized by its delicate opalescent quality caused by minute crystals and air bubbles trapped in the glaze. It is this shimmering quality--this transportive luminecence-- which reminds me of the luxerious purple of the Roman emperors.

The glaze is also characterized by a fine crackle, a quality which was highly appreciated as a kind of natural decorative element to the otherwise unadorned vessel. Due to its watery translucency and magnificent green-blue color, the quality of its much admired glaze reminds one more than anything else of jade, and although countless artists and even scientists have tried to re-create it, its exact method of production remains a mystery. 

Researcher, Fumito Kondo, on assignment for Japan’s NHK, visited the Ru kiln site not all that long ago, and he describes his meeting with a Chinese researcher, a certain Mr. Zhu, who had been working for over 20 years en-situ, attempting to unlock the glaze’s secrets. Kondo writes,

On the day we arrived at Ru to begin filming, 30 pieces of celedon were being fired. The color in celedon glaze is extremely delicate and so  slight changes occur depending on where the vessel is placed inside the kiln. Mr Zhu, carefully removing each piece, upon examing
them, discovered that not one piece had turned out! Mr. Zhu then
exclaimed that 20 years at Ru together with all the advances in
modern technology had been unable so far to bring back that very
mysterious color blue.     

Its not just Ru ware either. Many of the most renowned Song dynasty glazes as yet remain impossible to perfectly reproduce. Isn't that amazing?

My emperor. When he spoke of his Palace so faraway-- it was almost as if like a swallow traveling south-- his eyes too were locked faraway on the horizon.

 How can I ever forget that old Palace?
 Sometimes I visit in dreams
 And yet all alone
Sometimes I am even unable to dream

To not be able to dream-- and yet, so well did he describe that  rain-drenched color of the morning sky after a rain-- that, well, I don't believe he ever stopped dreaming-- though sometimes I understand how he felt.

-- It's not the voice that tells the story but the ear (Calvino's Cities by Colleen Corradi Brannigan)

-- Recommended viewing: Ru Ware at the Palace Museum

 

  

 

city of dreams

         

夢の都...

It was known as the "City of Dreams." But not much remains of what was once the most populous city in the world; for the ever-flooding Yellow River has all but washed away the history of this once beautiful capital city of a thousand years ago, Kaifeng.

Fortunately there is a famous hand-scroll, thought to have been once part of my lover's collection and now kept at the Palace Museum in Beijing, called Going Up-River at the Qing Ming Festival, which shows us something of what the city must have been like in its heyday.

A full five meters in length (!) the horizontally unrolling handscroll begins at right-- in the suburbs. Well outside the city gates of Kaifeng, we see people traveling on donkeys or on foot among the willow trees and thatched-roof dwellings in what is really a semi-rural scene. Just for those few out there who may not recall, the Qing Ming Festival referred to in the painting’s title is an important festival in China even today, and occurs on the third day of the third month according to the lunar calendar. It is a day of Purification when Chinese people travel back to their hometowns to sweep the tombs of their ancestors and celebrate the return of spring, and the people we see in the painting are perhaps home from the capital to visit family or to pay their respects at the family tomb or shrine.

Canals created from the great Yellow River dominate the scene with boats traveling lazily up and down the waterways. If we follow the canal from the suburbs traveling down the painting, we soon find ourselves drifting closer and closer toward the great gates of the capital. As opposed to the Tang dynasty when the gates at Chang’an and Loyang were guarded during the day and then shut firmly at night, I am told that at Song Kaifeng, the city gates were open twenty-four hours a day, and people were free to move in and out of the city as they liked. 

And so we too walk through the great gate..

Traveling through the painting, before long we arrive at the gracefully arched Rainbow Bridge-- considered by many to be the central focal point of the painting of the handscroll. Packed with people (there are over 700 people drawn carefully into this picture), the bridge is lined with food stalls and vendors, with ladies being carried aloof in palanquins trying to make their way through the crowded city scene. As a large boat packed with passengers struggles to negotiate its way under the bridge, we finally make our way though the great city gate and enter the city proper. Passing a camel train of traders on their way out of the city, we come to the painting’s secondary focal point: the town pub. An imposing two-story building, the sign out front reads: zhengdian (?), the “main branch” of what must have been a chain of pubs.

From here we come to a main intersection, crowded with ox-drawn carts, more palanquins full of aristocratic ladies and all variety of people; we see merchants, Buddhist priests, professional story-tellers, gentlemen, peddlers as well as deliverymen all making their way through the crowded scene. Although the artist, Zhang Zeduan, was an Artist at Court, in this picture he depicts not the refined world of the Palace but rather the vibrant and prosperous world of this great merchant city-- which is reminiscent of another, much later "Eastern Capital" to the east (東京).

**

Kaifeng

It was into this city that my man was born and raised in. The readers of these pages will-- I am quite sure-- recall that, perhaps more than anything, I love to think of him roaming the busy streets disguised as a scholar.

Didn't Peter the Great also take a long overseas trip disguised as an aristocrat? I remember reading about him causing all kinds of trouble in England when he wanted to keep up his show but of course everyone knew he was the emperor-- or did I only imagine reading that? And wasn't another emperor's galavanting in disguise the reason why you still knock your fingers on the table after receiving tea in Hong Kong? Don't quote me, I am away from my books and my trusty librarian Señor Borges isn't returning my calls again-- so this is just how I remember it-- not necessarily how it really was...

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And, so he had special tunnels dug under the Forbidden City in order to visit his favorite courtesan’s house or walk the streets of Kaifeng un-detected and so could continue obliviously writing his poetry and lavishly spending on the arts as his country teetered on the edge of disaster.

I think when one is facing a terrible dilemna there are 3 possible approaches.

One, you can ignore the problem.

Two, you can face the problem head-on

or

Three, you can seek to eliminate the causes of the problem so that the problem will cease to arise.

His detractors perhaps could accuse Huizong of the first, while those who are fond of him might prefer to posit the third.

And, there he was. The country on the brink of disaster and rather than mobilizing the army, he sought instead to throw himself into the study and re-cataloging of the ancient bronzes. As if to say, in the words of one of my aristocratic friends, if I could just get the bronzes right, everything else would follow suit.

Great archaeological and art historical research-- respected even today-- was undertaken to both interpret the inscriptions found on the bronzes as well as to properly reconstruct the rituals in which they were used so that “[k]nowledge that was barely retained in the Han period, and was all but lost since the third century, was recovered almost in an instant.” For this purpose, Huizong created several palace institutes devoted to the Rites and Music, and countless new bronzes vessels were re-cast closely following the aesthetic and technical blueprint of the ancients, to the success that, also in the words of James C.Y. Watt, “[t]oward the end of the Northern Song, period, bronzes made in the archaic style were virtually indistinguishable from Shang and Zhou prototypes.”

**

Knowing their government by seeing their ritual; knowing their virtue by hearing their music (Mencius)

It is such an obvious point and yet for some strange reason, it is one that I delight in thinking about. And that is, that in the same way that ritual served as an expression of the government and an music expression of the virute of the people, so too did ritual also serve to shape and affect the government as music helped to influence the virtue of the people. Because probably not all that unlike the way you couldn't perform the elaborate procedures of tea ceremony unless you had prepared yourself, at the same time the performing of the procedures would itself have a profound affect on the performer.

Alan Baumler wrote a post a few days ago concerning teaching about the Rites and Music to US-based students. Like Alan, in my thinking, I tend to somehow remain focused on the Rites, when in fact it might just be the music that will serve to be the more interesting thing to think about. Awhile back, I was told by a man serving at the Court in Yogyakarta that the Javanese gamelan had its roots in this ancient Chinese ritual music. I don't know whether this is accurate or not, but when I think of this ancient music that so delighted my man, I almost always imagine it to sound like the music in one of my favorite gamelan recordings, Court Music of Kraton Surakarta (King Records). All the japanese recordings in this series are absolutely gorgeous, but this one in particular has a strong affect on my mood.

Alan ends his post, with this link to a Daniel Bell book (concerning Confucianism and music), and so I guess I too should add that the much-awaited (??) Daniel Bell book reading will start here sometime next week and continue on at Chris' place-- or vice versa. For those interested, please check back next week.

Cheers!

*

Google has a really surprisingly good article on the painting here.

 

 

View from Inside a Bronze Ding: Part 3

    

From Xia to Shang
   And from Shang to Zhou....

You know the story: Nine bronze tripods-- caste in the mists of great antiquity-- were treasured by ancient Kings as a symbol of their right to rule.

Passed down from dynasty to dynasty-- for nearly 2,000 years-(or so the story goes) until the time when the First Emperor, Shihuangdi, finally toppled the last Zhou King-- and rather than see their transfer to Shihuangdi’s new dynasty-- the last Zhou King cast them forever into the River Si  (泗水?)

Given their symbolic significance, Shihuangdi actively attempted to dredge up the sacred bronzes from the river, but it was to no avail, and scholars of later dynasties saw this as further evidence of the lack of moral virtue of the First Emperor.

For you will recall the wise words of the Zhou King's steady servant Wáng-sūn Mǎn (王孫満):

The tripods do not matter, virtue does.

Perhaps in one sense different than the regalia of ancient kings of Europe, it was never that the tripods were treasures of state in and of themselves, but rather they served only as symbols of the virtuous character of a wise king-- linking current kings to those exemplary models in the past. In that way, I suppose the tripods had more in common with the Medieval concept of Excalibur. 

Indeed, on that thought, I wonder what powerful object Obama will inherit as his right to rule? Please don't tell me the only thing we've got to pass down nowadays to our kings are launch codes for nuclear weapons...

Epicurus asks me, "What grabs you about the bronzes?"

 

I am too stingy to re-purchase the book, but I think it was Foucault (working off Heidegger) who did the best job of examining the way objects "present themselves" to us differently over time.

Well, one thing which I find so fascinating is the simple fact that they have been greatly treasured in an unbroken line for probably 4000 years-- is that possible? Over such a large expanse of time, it is therefore all the more interesting to think about both the continuity as well as the fluctuations in the way these once sacred objects have been viewed within Chinese culture. (Conrad's ancient Greek tripods have had almost as long a history, and I wonder if their meaning has changed in similar ways over time?)

Although outdated by jade carvings by several thousand years, their appreciation has followed a similar-- though much more dramatic--pattern, I think. As Beurdeley described and I quote in another post, these bronze vessels from the Shang and Zhou dynasties were in huge demand among the elite during the Han dynasty and remained the most highly prized of all the Chinese collectors’ arts-- at least until the great rise of calligraphy much later in history.

Like jade, ritual bronzes were valued, in part, for their great beauty, which appealed to aesthetic preferences perhaps unique to the Chinese. Traditionally valued in China well above gold and precious gems, jade was prized for its soft lustrous color and subtle glowing quality which is so different from the dazzling shimmer of gold and sparkle of diamonds. Even more, jade was valued for its extreme hardness and fine resonance which was likened to music when struck. Bronze, as well as porcelain and the finest scholars’ stones of later times shared these attributes which had, at least by the time of Confucius become associated with concepts of virtue and the moral right to rule.

Also, like Jade, the creation of bronze vessels was highly labor-intensive, and therefore its use was confined to that of the most important rituals of ancient Shang and Zhou kings and aristocrats.The oldest Shang dynasty vessels were used in rituals centered around the sacrificial offering of food and wine to ancestors. Like elaborate banquets for the dead, foods which included meats and grains as well as rice or millet wine and sacrificial water were prepared and presented in bronze vessels and then ritually offered at family altars, often located in a separate structure within a family compound. As British scholar, Jessica Rawson, explains:

 These were essentially family ceremonies in which both the dead and the living took part. The dead remained an integral part of everyday society, requiring the kind of attention also given to living members of the family. The banquets or rituals were a show of respect to the dead so as to ensure that they would help their descendents by interceding on their behalf with the gods and spirits. Without help from the dead, and a proper acknowledgement of their role, human affairs might fail and their descendents suffer.

This was especially so of kings, whose ancestors not only had the power to affect the fortunes of their descendants, but were semi-godlike, having power and influence over the entire population as well. Thus the most elaborate rituals-- more like ceremonies of state than the private rituals held by aristocratic families-- were performed by ancient kings. Highly decorated bronze vessels created in sets played a leading role in these rituals-- containing sacrifices and hosting their preparation.

(With this in mind, it stands to reason that the ghosts of the passage that were being riled to fury were not the collective ancestors of the people but rather were the ancestors of the fish-cooking king).

I was looking through an essay in a Japanese book last night which wanted to stress the manner in which these bronze vessels were set aside for ritual use only. In Japan, there was not this same rigid separation of vessels for ritual use and for everyday use. In ancient China, it seemed, these vessels were for ritual-- and for ritual alone-- and in that way were truly sacred objects-- much the like heirloom jars from Borneo that I so covet.  

Over time, however, the role played by the bronzes changed and came to be associated less with religious observances, and instead associated more with aristocratic power and conspicuous consumption. This became especially so after the overthrow of the Shang and establishment of the Zhou dynasty. While the Zhou still used bronze vessels in elaborate rituals of great pageantry, which included poetry and music, their function changed from that of being the containers or instruments used to ritually communicate with gods, to becoming “monuments” in bronze commemorating great deeds or events in the lives of the person who had them commissioned.

Important political events, decisive battles, or honors bestowed by kings were described in sometimes very long inscriptions cast inside many of the Zhou vessels. As one scholar writes, such bronzes demand “reading not seeing.” The National Palace Museum in Taipei contains one ding tripod, the Mao Gong Ding, from the Western Zhou dynasty,  which has an inscription of over 500 characters. Truly an amazing example of the high technical level having been attained by ancient Chinese craftsmen, the characters cover the entire curved surface of the inside of the tripod, and describe the many honors bestowed by the king on Mao Gong, a statesman of the period. These honors included gifts of horses as well as many bronze and jade vessels. The ding was cast to commemorate the event for all eternity (Use the magnifier here to see just how phenomenal the calligraphic carving is).

In trying here to explain the meaning of the "five dings" in this quote 

丈夫生不五鼎食、死即五鼎烹耳」
出典：「史記－主父偃伝」

which I translate as

"If I can't have it all, then boil me in one of the 5 dings."

(If I cannot partake in all five delicacies of the five dings, then I choose the worst punishment of the realm-- boil me in a ding)

Epicurus mentioned that the state stipulated the number of bronze vessels that one could use by rank. This is from the wikipedia article, for example:

The ritual books of old China minutely describe who was allowed to use what kinds of sacrificial vessels and how much. The king of Zhou was favoured to use 9 dings and 8 gui vessels, a duke was allowed to use 7 dings and 6 guis, a baron could use 5 dings and 3 guis, a nobleman was allowed to use 3 dings and 2 guis.

This was also similar to jade. I am pretty sure that during Confucius' time, aristocrats wore jade pendants around their neck whose number was also prescribed by rank. When they walked, one could hear the bell-like tinkling sound of the jade pieces clinking against each other so that those of higher rank (who had on a greater number of pendants) could be heard louder than those of a lower rank (with less jade).

This melodious sound, Confucius (I think?) called the "sound" of a virtuous man and according to the Japanese kojien, the etymology of the kanji, 玲玲 refers to this beautiful sound of jade (cf. 玲瓏). If Adonis had been a girl, I wanted to name "her" 玲香 ("the fragrance of the beautiful-- and virtuous-- sound of jade tinkling"-- isn't it nice how much information 2 kanji can squeeze in?)

So, to answer Epicurus' question: obviously I am deeply attracted to this "fragrance" of history and antiquarianism which surrounds bronzes; I also marvel at the tremendous technical (problem-solving) skills involved. The ancient bronzes were made in such a surprisingly large variety (given the times) of shapes, most which I find to be extraordinarily pleasing. Maybe that is what I love about them the most-- their shapes (which have greatly influenced ceramics, of course).

Finally, whenever I see an ancient Chinese bronze vessel, my mind inevitably turns to one of two people. The first, my beloved, spent a lifetime cataloging the ancient bronzes in his care. Even as his empire teetered dangerously on the edge of destruction, he kept steadfast in his research and cataloging, believing indeed that if he could just get the bronzes accurately described, then everything could well take care of itself. There are, I'm sure you will agree, worse ways to lose an empire.

The second person, I've also written about in these pages.

Lady Li.

One of my all-time favorite art history books by my hero, Michel Beurdeley, The Chinese Collector through the Centuries devotes an entire chapter to Lady Li-- indeed she probably deserves an entire book.

Quite famous during the Song dynasty, Lady Li and her scholar-official husband had built up one of the finest collection of ancient bronzes-- not to mention books (unbelievable volumes of books) in Chinese history. She and her husband were known during Song times for their scholarship and passionate love poems (many to each other). They were like movie stars. That is until those damned Jurchens stormed the walls of Kaifeng and everyone had to run for their lives.

Leave behind the collection?

She screamed, Never! And so it went.

Here is her last poem

"The wind dies down, the scent of flowers fills the dusty air
The flowers are fading.
When evening comes I am too tired to dress
But I still have my pieces. My beloved is gone, all is finished.
I cannot speak without weeping." 

Even as the outside world around them teetered and indeed they lost everything-- neither faltered in their heart's occupation. Indeed, that inner world seemed to hold the greater significance.

Inside a bronze ding-- again.  

**

More bronze bells here and also Inside a Bronze ding Part 1 and Part 2

Lothar Ledderose describes the way these tripods were manufactured in his book Ten Thousand Things. Made in sets, they were mass-produced through division of labor and QA practices that perhaps are not all that different from goes on in a Chinese factory today.I would imagine that this was pretty different that what happened in ancient Greece-- although maybe not. Conrad, by the way, recommends Calasso's The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony

Photo at top by Wang Wusheng

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For Switzerland and Hongkong:

(On Translation)

From Kyoto Journal 2002 interview with Red Pine (available here, it is highly recommended reading)

“I tried to do things that I saw happening in Chinese — the Chinese language is a very telegraphic, terse language — time is almost irrelevant, their subject is also dispensed with. A line can be very ambiguous. So I started to play with that in English and still make sense.

“Words carry a lot on their surface, but a lot is under the surface that we don’t see when we see the word — a lot comes from contextual familiarity.

People identify words with context. I was intrigued by the nature of Chinese poetry and its brevity — there were these flashes of meaning.

“What I do now is more of a performance,” he says. “Before, I was usually sort of reading the lines like an actor, but now I perform the book — what I do now is closer to dance. The words have to follow along my physical feel for the rhythm, the feeling of what’s happening in the Chinese poem. I don’t see the Chinese as the origin anymore. The Chinese was what the authors used to write down what they were feeling.

“I’ve gotten so used to the words I don’t have to think about them anymore. I’m more concerned with the spirit. I don’t think I have a philosophy of translation, but you have to be very open.

Two Bachelors & Hannah Arendt

--For Bill Haines (whose delightful, shimmering blue conversation about potatoes  and other matters had me smiling for the first time in a week、感謝)

It was at least six months ago when Cyrus said to me, "I think you box yourself in."

Of course I do. But, don't all mothers really? Isn't that part of the package? And, what, I wondered, could a bachelor really know about boxes? Of course, I have closed myself up in a box-- but what is the alternative?

It's interesting, but I say that a lot these days:

"But, what's the alternative?"

It reminded me again of a quote by Anais Nin I like:

*From The Diary of Anais Nin (1931):
"... You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book..., or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hybernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hybernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death."

Discussing this state of hiberanation with Apollo, the whole thing seemed to annoy him, and he said, "yes, i suppose this is the state of dissatisfaction you mention earlier.  but -- is anais nin a little naive in automatically assuming (even if she does not do this consciously) that falling in love is the only option to get out of her ennui?  i should imagine her to be a really dull person if she could not interest herself in something, find herself some employment for her mind and heart. i always can.  this is a character trait known as auto-telic personality -- one capable of setting himself his own goals, choosing his own games and toys.  it is a useful character trait."

Again, what would a bachelor really understand about this? (And anyway, who was talking about falling in love?)

I mean, I consider myself to be an auto-telic personality. And yet, life can drag you out to Sea. Remember Odysseus?

Work, child-rearing, being responsible for another human being (spouse, child or even parent) can bring a heaviness to life. It can drastically reduce your options and clip your wings. It is the unbearable heaviness of being (as the wikipedia article states: because we live but once, everything matters; or better: because we love, everything matters). It is indeed the ancient diochomy between light (freedom) and weight (obligation and duty).

Indeed, sometimes by the very weight of what we are involved with, we can only choose inaction (無為）.

Interestingly, the Great Gialbo (ruler of a strategically-important kingdom on the very edge of the empire) himself was confused by much the same issue. A line from one of the famous passages of the Dao de Jing had caught his attention, and he asked,

Dan Robins and I were wondering how to interpret “cooking small fish.” The first thing that comes to mind seems to be to be careful because of the fish’s delicacy. I’ve favored in the past, thinking of small fish as actually requiring less delicacy–i.e. small fish can just be tossed onto the pan and cooked whole, without any cutting or cleaning–sort of like smelt (which only helps you if you’ve ever cooked or eaten smelt). But Dan pointed out to me that at least in contemporary China and probably in the recent past, larger fish are also often cooked whole without any cutting or cleaning, as anyone who’s gone to a good Chinese restaurant can attest. So, I guess I don’t really have a compelling interpretation, unless cooking large fish whole is only a recent development. Any thoughts? Any early Chinese cuisine experts out there? Any other interesting or weird interpretations? Jump in…

Under normal circumstances, I never would have jumped into the frying pan on this one. For the obvious two reasons that I do not understand classical Chinese nor have I read the Daodejing since I was in junior high school (though I did read it very carefully and also repeatedly at that time). Despite my misgivings, though, it was quite clear that the King (as well as his sidekick Dan) had quite possibly never cooked a fish before-- and so I left a comment, which turned into a string of comments (which anyone who is interested can read by traveling to the Great Gialbo's domain).

Out of the conversation, I have come up with my own translation, which I dedicate here to the brave knight Bill and to the souls of all dead fish:

六十
 治大國、若烹小鮮。以道莅天下、其鬼不神。非其鬼不神、 其神不傷人。
非其神不傷人、聖人亦不傷人。夫兩不相傷。故徳交歸焉

The Sage governs a large kingdom as he cooks a small fish
By approaching (莅) governing in this way-- this way of the Dao--
The spirits of our dead ancestors will not haunt (其鬼不神).
Even if these spirits do not stop haunting
Still, their haunting shall not harm the people (人民）.
The Sage of a large realm too (亦） shall not seek to harm the people
If neither with each other causes harm
Then so shall virtuous governing be achieved

It's not the fish, nor the ancestors haunting which are really at issue (though they were the problematic aspects, I think in terms of translation), the issue at hand is on how to govern a large kingdom in a virtuous manner. And, I think the answer is clear. One does not seek to impose one's will in an overly heavy-handed manner but rather keeps a watchful eye on things in an effort to rule with delicacy.

Of all the aspects of this startlingy elegant passage, it is this proposition which I find to be most thought-provoking:

the heavier the burden, the less that willfull force ought to be used

You see, I think that is the thing. The more we love; that is, the more we are a part of something bigger than ourselves, the more we ought to hesitate in inposing our own will in too strong a way-- because of the almost unbearable heaviness of the situation (Nietzshe).

Having said that, though, as Calvino has said, it is neither lightness or heaviness, but rather knowing when to move lightly and when to move heavily that really matters. The passage from the DDJ above, I think, illuminates one aspect of this aim of trying to attain this kind of balance.

Another interesting thing I think which can be gleaned from the passage is that, when thinking about the important things in life (philosophy), one should also (亦）aim to balance rationality with embodied experience. Yes, depending on our frame of mind, great philosophical insights can be attained right there simmering fish (actually they can probably only be attained there).

Or as Hannah Arendt has hinted-- The heart always needs to go visiting.

Two Emperors and a Shogun

     

Part 1: Slender Gold

He was born in the City of Dreams. Known throughout history as the “Aesthete Emperor,” he devoted himself almost exclusively to the arts and scholarship, and much like Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria 750 years later, his passion for the beauty would cost him his throne. Actually, it would prove so devastating as to help lead to the downfall of the dynasty itself.

Born in 1082, as the eleventh prince of Emperor Shenzong, it was never conceived that Huizong would ever ascend the throne. His early years were therefore full of much freedom which allowed him to pursue his many interests-- chief among those the practice and collecting of art.

While his older brothers closer in line to the throne were educated and disciplined in statecraft, Confucian political philosophy and the Classics, Huizong was pretty much left alone to dabble in his hobbies. And, by the time he was in his late teens, his literary fame was already known outside the walls of glorious capital. 

A series of mishaps and our man in Kaifeng-- against the odds-- ascended the throne in 1100. 

How, you wonder, did he begin his reign?  

Well, with a grand building project to construct a magical garden which would reproduce all the famous mountains and rivers of the domain; thereby creating a miniature cosmos which he could then preside over. Rocks and rare plants were transported from thousands of kilometers away. In fact, it was probably this enterprise more than any of his others that really ruined the country-- for his passion for rock-collecting was dangerously expensive. In one of my favorite art history books, there is an 18th century print of rocks being transported by boat. In each of the several boat pictured, there are half a dozen crew members all devoting themselves to the task of safely delivering the one fine specimen in their care. Even in the black and white print, one can see how "fantastical" the rocks must have been.

It wasn't just rocks either.

Priceless antiquities and works of art, as well as precious stores of incense and medicines, musical instruments and books filled up the galleries, which had individual names such as, “Steeped in Antiquities,” “Appreciating Antiquities,” “Studying Antiquities” and “Abiding in Antiquities.” Here the Emperor would examine his art works, alone or in the company of a favored official; compose poetry or work on his calligraphy, perhaps even partaking in a bowl of tea “whipped until a milky foam filled the surface” and served up in a porcelain teabowl with fresh lichi fruits and oranges imported from the south. 

In Japan, of course, not only is the Song style of tea preparation preserved within tea ceremony, but this concentrated focus on connoisseurship-- as collector, scholar and practioner-- has also been preserved right down to today as well (see Utz Part 2 for more on "the embodied" commitment to art).

Wen C. Fong in his book about Chinese painting, Beyond Representation, writes that Huizong’s most important contribution to the history of art was the completion of two catalogs, the Xuanhe Era Catalog of the Imperial Painting Collection and the Xuanhe Era Catalog of the Imperial Calligraphy Collection. Dated around 1120, both were edited and many parts probably penned by Huizong himself, and they are important both for the high level of scholarship, as well as for their early date which places them as being one of the earliest studies of the Collection in Chinese history.

Looking first at the catalog devoted to calligraphy, we find some 1,240 works by 197 calligraphers, including 213 by the “god of calligraphy,” Wang Xizhi. Both ancient as well as contemporary works were collected, studied and categorized by script type (standard, cursive and semi-cursive) which is the manner in which calligraphy continues to be studied today. In addition to short biographical information on the calligraphers, works were appraised and critical comments made. One entry, for example, is devoted to Tang dynasty calligrapher Huaisu’s (ca.735-ca.799) famous work, Autobiographical Essay. A Buddhist monk, it was claimed that Huaisu created all his best works drunk. And the catalog (according to my Japanese sources) had this to say regarding his wild cursive script:

Intoxicated with wine, he wrote with such drunken passion and emotion that its hard to believe this is the work of a mere mortal 
 
This work, documented in Huizong’s collection and one of several, is still a part of the Palace Collection in Taipei today-- over 800 years later.

Turning next to the painting catalog, we discover some 6,396 paintings by 231 artists, including 126 works by Tang dynasty’s most esteemed painter and poet, Wang Wei (699?-761?). The paintings were divided and studied in the following ten subject categories: religious (Taoist and Buddhist); figure; architectural; barbarian tribes; dragons and fish; landscapes, animals; flowers and birds; ink bamboo; and fruits and vegetables. Wen C. Fong points out that these highly specific categories shows just how specialized scroll painting had become under Huizong’s patronage, and that the high number of flower and bird paintings (with 2,786 representations) reflects the growing interest in the natural world which occurred during the Song dynasty.

This was also the genre Huizong himself preferred to paint in.

Characterizing the entire period, a Confucian-style “Return to Antiquity” (復古) was the catch phrase of the day, and scholars and thinkers engaged themselves trying to re-define the meaning of the great classical texts and works of art of the Shang, Zhou and Han dynasties; seeking to both reconstruct that which had been obscured by time, at the same time delving further than ever before into their spiritual implications.

This was especially so during Huizong’s reign. With the empire at more risk from invaders than ever before, it may seem odd that Huizong would occupy himself almost exclusively with such cultural and intellectual pursuits, but it has to be remembered that these activities gave his regime great prestige and stood in as his mandate to rule.  A friend once said it was as if he thought, "if only I could get the bronzes right, all the other stuff would work itself out."

Indeed, ancient bronzes were given particularly special study as the entire imperial collecion was re-catalogued. These studies culminated in two catalogs, both published along with very fine woodblock-printed pictures of the treasures. Great archaeological and art historical research-- respected even today-- was undertaken to both interpret the inscriptions found on the bronzes as well as to properly reconstruct the rituals in which they were used so that, in James Watt's words, “[k]nowledge that was barely retained in the Han period, and was all but lost since the third century, was recovered almost in an instant.”

And, like the great emperors before him, Huizong sought to bolster his new reign by re-casting a set of nine bronze tripods as magnificent symbols of his power. (See my post on the legendary nine bronze tripods).

*************

The Palace Collection today is sometimes referred to as “Qianlong’s Collection.” This is because the collection as it now exists took much of its form during his reign. However, it can be argued that the collection is as much under Huizong’ imperial debt as Qianlong’s. For under Huizong’s reign, art and imperial patronage were given a political importance like never before, and his artistic tastes and collecting styles can still be felt strongly in the great Chinese art galleries and auction houses of the world.

Indeed, even today, anything once believed to have been part of Huizong’s vast collection carries a prestige and is valued almost beyond compare (here in Japan, as well). In the end, though, what can be said of the man whose personal artistic impact was so great?

In East Asia, it is said that a man’s character can be read in his handwriting. Our emperor is known above all for just that: his magnificent calligraphy-- and humbly disagreeing with the eminent Professor Fong, it is here that I see Huizong’s greatest contribution to art history.

Surprisingly conservative, the long history of Chinese calligraphy is characterized by how very few new styles emerged after the sixth century. However, Huizong, while still just an imperial prince had already created his own style of writing-- “the slender gold” (瘦金體)-- which is described by its admirers as being like “floating orchid leaves,” or “bamboo moving in the wind” or even more aptly, like “the legs of dancing cranes.”

His detractors however complain that the “skinny legs” are “too scrawny” to hold up the body, or “too bony”, like “a starving student in misfitting clothing.” Whether one is partial to his characters or not, the fact remains that, like any distinct style that appeals, the “slender gold” is not going to go away.

Trying to read the man by his handwriting, then, let’s take a look at the characters themselves. 

The first impression that strikes us is that despite the sense of speed and pleasing movement that these “dancing crane legs” convey, there is also a precision and something almost methodical about the writing, especially in the endings and connections between strokes. Like jade, there is a hardness, coolness and resonance as well. His writing appears every bit the ideally elegant and refined handwriting that every scholar-official throughout Chinese history strove for. It is about as elegant a man's writing gets, I think.

And “reading” his writing carefully, one almost senses-- at least when it came to the arts-- a perfectionist side to his character, as well, calling to mind a self-portrait created by the Emperor, called 聴琴図, now in the Palace Museum in Beijing. In this painting, we find the Emperor giving an impromptu performance on the scholar-gentlemen’s instrument of instruments, the Qin (an instrument I may just take up myself one of these days).

Seated in his garden under a tree and facing some flowering branches in a vase placed delicately on a stand made out of one of his beloved collector’s rocks, he appears in his scholar’s robes from head to toe every bit the image of the true gentleman-scholar. And it was this aspect of his character which people have found appealing enough to forgive the fact that he was to lose his country to foreign invaders.

Instead of blaming their “Aesthete Emperor,” the problem has instead historically been laid at the feet of Huizong’s “evil last minister,” Cai Jing-- here dressed in red robes and seated at the Emperor’s left. The evil minister was himself a calligrapher of the highest rank and was once included in the list of Song dynasty’s Four Great Calligraphers.

His blackened name however was removed by later scholars and replaced with that of Cai Xiang, to be included with the other three Greats: Su Shi, Mi Fu, and Huang Tingjian. For in the Confucian world-view, a work of art must be viewed through the lens of the artist’s moral strivings. Therefore, when Cai Jing’s name became blackened, so too did his calligraphy.

More of the Emperor’s “slender gold” appears at the top of the painting. Can anything else be discerned in the characters? After the immediate impression of precision wears off, perhaps the strongest impression that one is left with is a sense of fancifulness; and a willingness to ignore conventions for the sake of beauty. Indeed, Huizong consciously broke the rules of writing characters in order to achieve his unique new style. We can see this, for example, in his poem here (詩帖巻、徽宗) where downward strokes rebelliously snap back upward instead of obediently stopping, and the character for “north” (use magnifying lens: 14th row from right) is not written according to the conventional rules.

Perhaps it was this same part of his character that would explain how this emperor who had special tunnels dug under the palace in order to visit his favorite courtesan’s house or walk the streets of Kaifeng un-detected could continue obliviously writing his poetry and lavishly spending on the arts as his country teetered on the edge of disaster. For it was only a matter of time before he would see his glorious capital plundered and he, along with two hundred years of Song dynasty imperial collecting would be carted off as war-booty to Manchuria where they would be scattered, and many lost forever.

For our Emperor was to end his days alone in a cold Manchurian prison not far from present-day Harbin.

There remains one lonely poem supposedly written by the Emperor not long before he died so far away from his beloved Palace Collection that reads: 

 Swallow Mountain Pavilion
 I tell of the sorrow of partings upon partings
 To a pair of swallows
 Who refuse to understand

 The heavens are so faraway; the earth so faraway
 Separated by countless rivers and countless mountains
 Oh, where is that old Palace?

 How can I ever forget that old Palace?
 Sometimes I visit in dreams
 And yet all alone
Sometimes I am even unable to dream

It is a poem I think of constantly. In fact, I don't even know if my Emperor really wrote it. Just now, trying to locate the source for my translation, I wondered, maybe it is not a translation at all but maybe some poem I made up years ago while dreaming of my favorite emperor...

I am reading Calvino's Invisible Cities. In the book, Marco Polo and the Great Khan have the most exquisite conversations-- and sometimes they even speak without words, as one imagines what the other wants to say, the other imagines answering. In the same way, I cannot help but wonder where does Huizong's lonely dream end and my own feelings begin? Someday, I would like to travel to that northern place where he supposedly ended his days. There is, I read, a beautiful icy-cold river there. 

**

If anyone knows the source of the poem, I'd very much like to see the Chinese or English versions. I will keep looking for the Japanese. It's got to be in the library here somewhere. (I'll ask Señor Borges if he knows). 

View from Inside a Bronze Ding: Part 2

Inside a Bronze ding-- again

Conrad tells me about a time in the 1930s-1940s when scholars in America sought to re-introduce into universities a pedegogy inspired by the curriculum of Medieval universities. Undergraduates, he describes, were to "receive an all-round education in the arts and sciences, and their reading would revolve around a series of classic texts later labeled the Great Books."

Conrad calls this a metaphyics of education, and sees this movement as aiming to position a "canon" of Great Books-- perhaps in much the same way as Confucian teachings have served as the foundation for traditional education in East Asia.

This leads to the question, I think, as to how the American scholars actually viewed these texts. Because the thinkers were -- to my mind-- not necessarily understanding their canon of books in the same manner as the Medievals were understanding their canon of books, right?

To the Medieval student, the canon of Great Books would have functioned (again much in the same way as Confucius' teachings) as a foundation informing behavior and thought: as exemplary model. That is to say, the Medieval books served as religious, philosophical or moral model. I question whether the Great Books of our times served the same function to the American thinkers (who included, Conrad tells me, Scott Buchanan, Stringfellow Barr, Mortimer Adler and Robert Maynard Hutchins).

However, having said that, though, I think that the Great Books served some metaphysical function for these modern thinkers is without question.

Dreyfus also talks much about the underpinnings of the Great Books program. He says that by the time he got to Harvard it was hardly more than a class, but that this class (ie, "The Great Books") had a particular metaphsical understanding, which can be characterized as the humanist perspective. You can still see this, he says, in the cliff notes or introductions written about the Great Books, and college professors too mostly teach the canon from this particular point of view.

What was the view?

Well, that since the beginning of time, humans have remained basically unchanged  and that over time we are becoming clearer and clearer about our human nature as indivuals-- each with their own psychological desires and wants.

This is a story of self-fulfilling individuals in Hegelian (progressive) history, and it is the humanist project to uncover the truth about things (since only humans are able to find truth). The Great Books, then, serve as kind of milestones in the ever-evolving story of human understanding. In this way-- and according to the humanist story-- Shakespeare was able to express fundamental truths about what it is to be human that stand as more accurate expressions of our condition than say the ancient Greeks. And this is why Hamlet is somehow more "familar" to us, than Odysseus, for example.

Heidegger, in contrast, rejecting this unfolding view of Hegelian history-- whereby humans are getting clearer and clearer about being-- instead sees humans as dwelling within particular understandings of being; so that the Greeks lived within their worldview and the Medievals within their's-- with no world view being better or worse than another.  Rather than collectively developing, the Greeks collectively stressed certain things within their world view while the humanists of the Renaissance stressed other things. This was Heidegger's great rejection of historicity. (Heidegger's Letter on Humanism)

And, the Great Books?

Well, Heidegger sees them as "works of art working;" that is as exemplary models that illuminate a given society's understanding of some aspect of being, so that the ancient Greeks, and then the ancient Romans, and finally the Victorian British each understood Conrad's tripod (shown above) from a different perspective (and from perspectives borne of their own unique world views). None had it "right" and indeed none were particularly superior. And, this was the big move, I think, that Heidegger made in his later works, which sought to place language, poetry and art in privledged positions as the means by which being shows up as intelligeable to man (not vice versa).

****

Anyway, I've already written about all this in Penelope Waiting for Odysseus.

What is relevant here is, of course, this shared belief that an underlying metaphysical understanding is helpful in looking at the Great Books, and for pedogogical issues in general. In Conrad's words,

Hutchins applauds the medieval acknowledgement that the articulation of an underlying system is an essential first step in understanding the purpose and interrelation of the various academic fields of study. Once the foundations have been sorted out, then the specifics of the disciplines can be established; and once the university as a whole is given some sort of order, it can start producing citizens able to contribute to a stable society.

This liberal arts approach stems from the Classical conception of the Greeks, which "aimed at imparting general knowledge and developing intellectual capacities, in contrast to a professional, vocational, or technical curriculum (wiki)"

It was the education deemed appropriate to the freeman-- as opposed to a slave who might require a more specialized vocational training.

So, what is the metaphysical foundation underpinning the humanities (or a university education) today? 

Well, I would say the rug has indeed been pulled out from beneath the liberal arts; for today, it seems that the relentless drive toward efficiency (humans as resources) has created an education which aims-- by necessity-- to be useful, so that university degrees, rather than being "aimed at imparting general knowledge and developing intellectual capacities proper to a freeman" as in the classical conception, instead now have more in common with the education "proper to slaves."

Perhaps this Will to be Useful is the new metaphysical understanding...in that case, there may no longer be a place for the liberal arts at all-- or a the very least the liberal arts would need to demonstrate the manner in which they are useful. Just to reiterate what I said here,

Art, religion, relationships, education, political policy all must serve the greater good-- that is, it must be useful or find itself obsolete. This goes well beyond materialism or efficiency as an adjective. This last point has so much resonance, I think, when we start talking about "American Philistinism" or "Where have all the Intellectuals gone?" it is a useful place to begin-- as indeed, education is no longer viewed as something to edify but rather as something that will serve a useful purpose, and intellectuals themselves are under the gone to be Relevant. People who care about intellectual matters are seen as snobbish and in Ivory Towers and indeed it is publish or perish-- (ie, be economically useful or find yourself another job) It wasn't always like this either (Recently I "read" a biography about Joseph Needham and his career would be quite frankly impossible today. Scholars just can no longer freely follow their interests that far afield.)

And so Conrad's question remains.

If we do find the metaphysical core of the Liberal Arts pulled out from under our feet, can we continue to accept the structure of the academic humanities as we know it?

An intriguing question to be sure.

**

(And in case you missed yesterday's post on Autumn Sakura, I link it here.)

**

Classicist Mary Beard is an interesting example of someone in the humanities making themselves "relavant" (efficient). She is, by the way, in Berekely to deliver the Sather Lectures this Fall and described her orientation to California here.

Talking to Confucius

About a month ago, Shunya had asked me what it was that so interested me about Confucianism.

First, I had to stop and think for a minute.

Am I, in fact, interested in Confucianism?

Being interested in Confucius in one sense is like being interested in Socrates-- we really have nothing in the sage's own writing, as everything handed down to us are really the interpretations, extemporizing and extrapolations about what the sage is supposed to have said by those who came after him. 

I suppose it is true that the older I get, the more I am drawn to certain practical or tempering aspects of these two practical philosophers-- both whom I am sure I never really appreciated when I was in my Nietzschean twenties.

So, what is it about Confucius? We learn he is even being resurrected after decades of silencing by none-other than the Chinese communist party. What is it about his thinking that continues to speak to us even after 2500 years?

Remember the Nine Tripods that I was telling Mr. Roth about the other day? Remember what the Zhou King's trusty minister 王孫満(*) said to the rebellious Chu army general camped out outside the city walls?

The tripods do not matter, virtue does.

I think this is one aspect of his philosophy that is so appealing to so many-- this stress on individual cultivation, character and virtue (don't all three of those terms seem quaint or old-fashion now?)

I remember reading years ago that China has long been characterized as being a “wise man”--in contrast to “holy man”-- culture (such as those found in India or the Holy Land, for example). While this characterization can be traced all the way to ancient Zhou Dynasty times, with Confucius, the significant role given to self-cultivated wisdom (humanism) came to take center stage.

What does that mean, then, for an individual?

Well, for one thing, the way we live our lives here and now, become very important; for according to Confucius it was this life--rather than metaphysical issues of God and an afterlife-- which truly mattered. To put it very simply, Confucius believed it was in man’s best interest-- indeed it as his true nature-- to live morally and in harmony with nature and in society.

Sam Crane at The Useless Tree describes it this way:

 For Confucius, "harmony" is an effect; it is the thing created when individuals fulfill their social roles, especially in regard to their closest loving relationships, their families.  It is generated, in a social sense, from the bottom-up, from the myriad individual enactments of personal responsibilities happening in innumerable families and close social networks.  Any implementation - in a modern public policy manner - of these sensibilities would have to concern itself with enabling individuals to perform their family and social obligations.

Be sure to read on for his discussion of how this differs from both communist party collectivism as well as liberal individualism.

Confucian harmony is best attained through the cultivation of self, both by the correct performing of rituals (li) which had the power to put one in contact with the wisdom of the past, as well as, and above all, through a Socratic type of self-study ideally leading to the transformation of self.

In the words of one French scholar, Confucian wisdom, inextricably linked with morality, could only be acquired “after an effort lasting every minute of one’s life, by control of the smallest details of conduct, by observation of the rules of life in society (i), by respect for others and for oneself and by the sense of reciprocity (shu)” Man’s task, he explains, was to devote his life to gaining such wisdom through education, ritual, and proper social organization.

A task to last a lifetime; the cultivation of self as expressed through our social interactions, relationships and contributions-- these are all things which I found very compelling. (Do you think a lifetime of reading and travel that was achieved for reasons of pure personal pleasure are as Good, for example, as those which bear fruit in contributions that benefit other people-- even just one's family members, for example? This is an honest question, not a statement).

**

One compelling by-product of Confucian thought which affects the culture at large would be-- first of all, a stress on the past. 

Confucius' "Ethical Way” is presented as something passed down from Heaven to the idealized sage-kings of antiquity, and Utopian society was something seen to have been already realized, solely in the reality of the past. It was never, for example, imagined in any sort of hope in the future or an afterlife as in the West. And it was in the past that one could find the “exemplary models” necessary for all moral actions, including the methods of enlightened government. In a similar way to the Italians of the Renaissance who held the Ancients to be the “Grand Exemplars” in everything from art to politics, Confucius taught that the problems of the present age could be best solved by a “return to antiquity.” He considered the ancient kings to have been men of perfect virtue and therefore having been almost godlike.

Confucian, and later Neo-Confucian scholars and philosophers tended to elucidate on everything from political intrigues to philosophical dilemmas in terms of past precedents, “for only those with a clear vision of the past can uphold civilization’s future.” This is something referred to by one famous Chinese art historian as "Possessing the Past." Therefore the libraries and art collections of the various imperial palaces in Chinese history (the area from which I am writing in fact) became potent links to this highly venerated past, representing “a form of historiography that showed how rulers employed ritual, symbol, and history to legitimatize their rule.” 

This is also something that appeals to me personally. Indeed, I am no Utopian thinker.

Ideally as well, scholars, philosophers, artists and other literati would have a central place in a Confucian society. As Gloria Davies mentions in her interview with Alan Sanders in a recent edition of the Philosophers Zone,  

It's interesting, and in fact I think the Chinese government probably pays a lot more attention to the ramblings of intellectuals in China than any Australian government would to the ramblings of academics like myself, and that's because elite Chinese culture actually does turn on a kind of conviction in the power of ideas. The power of ideas to transform people, to transform society at large. When an intellectual comes up with a particularly catchy phrase, or a persuasive way of describing a situation, you'll find the government actually taking that up.

A government of scholars who are adept at the arts-- what do you think? How would that compare to a government of engineers? Or a government of successful businessmen or career politicians?

I know, I know, it's never going to happen-- no matter what Sam Crane says about Mr. Clinton!

So, I guess we are left with Shunya's issue with the New Confucianism (a movement whose main proponents were in Taiwan, Hong Kong and the US, I believe). To be honest, I just do not see it as being as problematic as Shunya thinks-- for indeed, I always like more Confucius if it means less Maoist philosophy. Yes, Mao's image was scrubbed from the Olympics and harmony and humanism were held up in his place. Was that any worse than the alternative, though?

Having spent my entire adult life in East Asia, I have watched as issues surrounding "Asian Values" starting with Mahathir 15 or so years ago have continued to generate much anxiety and rhetoric (not much dialog really). We, of course, also had Huntington's Clash of Civilizations and I just finished Robert Kagan's new book which paints another dark picture of more conflict between the liberal democracies and the world's many autocracies. And then Shunya asks, "Can't one be progressive without being self-righteous?" Which, I suppose is too ask can one not impose their utopian vision on another culture and still remain *not* on the side of the executioners?" 

I think so, but I wonder what Confucius would say?
 

(*)  It is interesting to note that the story of the wise minister (J. I am still waiting on the pinyin for his name! I only know the japanese reading) lives on over a thousand years later in Japan where even today the expression, “to inquire after the weight of the tripods” is still used (albeit by the older generation!) when someone’s ability is being called into question by an inferior.

The Philosophers Zone interview with Gloria Davies is recommended listening.

Red Cliffs (赤壁）: Afterward

 "Posterity is for the philosopher what the other world is for the religious." --Diderot

As I was writing this meditation on Red Cliffs and Heian period salons; far, far away on another island nation across the galaxy, a certain Mr. Roth was similarly writing about this task of not just existing but of truly living-- and this, he hints, is something that can be meaningful not just in life but in death as well.

Yes, Diderot's Posterity. Historians in particular must appreciate a philosophy where History--replacing God-- becomes the final judge of human actions. 

Back to the mysterious Mr. Roth, though.

I don't know much about him-- just that he is young, brilliant and charmingly devoted to his wife. I love to read his essays as they are as beautiful written as they are thoughtful.

I love to read and yet, I know that if Mr. Roth had a salon, I would probably never be admitted into his club. Even take his latest achievement-- I gleaned what I could, but let's face it, the disparities in our educational background pretty much assure that I am missing "the cultural, artistic and psychological associations" in his work, and that-- hence-- truly elegant conversation is most likely out of the question as well. "Cicero before bedtime," and "M. Chateaubriand on his deathbed"-- the associations remain very sadly lost to me.

I could, of course, look everything up on the Internet. I did just that, in fact. Just like I described in Heidegger's translator, all the information was just at my fingertips. Guess what, though? The associations were still lost on me. Why? Well, the answer to that probably lies in this article, by Nicholas Carr, that I linked to in the above post.

Is Google making us stupid? Maybe.

**

Learning by heart

I talked about memory in my last post. It just so happens I am re-reading Jonathan Spence's Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci, about the life and times of 16th century Catholic monk, Matteo Ricci. (That's him at the top shown in a shiny black Ming dynasty "scholar's robe"). He was apparently a man of abundant talents-- from cartology to mathematics, he is also said to have been both interested and open to Chinese culture (in particularly Confucian thought and language).

Spence's book centers around the priests introduction into China of a very useful tool used by Europeans since Classical Greek times. The tool is known as a Memory Palace and is a simple technique that was used to help people remember things. What is to be remembered of course depends much on the person doing the remembering, but I think it is safe to say that in all pre-Internet cultures, remembering certain bits of information (that is learning them by heart) was an important aspect of education and culture. So, Matteo Ricci, for example, sought to remember important scenes from the Bible or battles (like details from the all-important battle of his day, the Battle of Lepanto).

Known as the Method of Location (or Ars Memoriae 記憶術) wiki tells us that for centuries the technique was taught in schools and was an essential part of both rhetoric and dialectics. That is, for the humanties-- in particularly perhaps philosophy and history. Remembering things by location, for some reason, served as an outstanding device for both remembering and recalling. Ricci taught the Chinese this European art.

This is from the wikipedia articke

In ancient advice, loci were physical locations, usually in a familiar large public building, such as a market or a temple. To utilize this method, one walked through the building several times, viewing distinct places within it, in the same order each time. After a few repetitions of this, one should be able to remember and visualize each of the places in order reliably. To memorize a speech, one breaks it up into pieces, each of which is symbolized by vividly imagined objects or symbols. In the mind's eye, one then places each of these images into different loci. They can then be recalled in order by imagining that one is walking through the building again, visiting each of the loci in order, and viewing each of the images that were placed in the loci, thereby recalling each piece of memory or speech in order.

In Spence's book, Ricci's memory palace is described as a grand Western-style palace with the things the Priest wanted to remember symbolized by items in the great rooms and halls.

Also deeply intrigued with the idea, American novelist, Nicole Mones, used the device in her book, A Cup of Light, a novel about the world of Chinese ceramics. The novel's main character is a ceramics expert working for a large auction house like Sotheby's, and  uses the technique to remember all the important information necessary to make accurate appraisals of the art. 

The expert had "built" her huge memory palace in the form of a Chinese Examination Hall. There was the large courtyard with the main hall, along with hundreds upon hundreds of small cubicals where examinees once spent the several gruelling days (up to 3 days I think?) working on their exams. When the main character Lia would hit upon some aspect of a pot that eluded her, she would go in search of the answer in her own memory.

Doesn't that have a real appeal? A palace in your own mind....A place to wander around remebreing things in? ( 臥遊).

In Mones' novel, Lia would walk down the great courtyard, notice the leaves of the tree moving gently in the wind, perhaps chat a bit with a fellow examinee, she would thendisappear into one of the darkened cubicles to find the precedent she was looking for. Yes, there it is. In  year x in the Yuan dynasty, the palace workshops, unable to secure their blue pigments from their usual place in the Western regions, had been forced to buy their cobalt blue from a different Persian source. The color, she recalled had differed slightly during that particular time. Yes, the pot in question was definitely from that reign in the Yuan dynasty,

**

Khourosh asks what appeals to me so much about all this. Well, I suppose the manner in which people would seek to memorize aspects of their culture that were collectively judged important; so that an essential aspect of the Heian court salon, for example, would have been the internalization of certain poems, fragrances, music, dances and historical anecdotes from both native Japan and continental China. This stress on cultural patrimony is the first aspect.

The second aspect, though, is the manner in which knowledge in internalized. For, I do think the data was stored differently, for example, than how it is stored on the WWW as it was bodily stored within people's minds via imagination.  

I wrote in my last post that sometimes Westerners will disparage the focus on rote memorization that one finds in the East. I think it helps to keep in mind, however, that the memorization of facts was only the first stage.

Many never made it past this stage, but, the internalization of knowledge eventually led to imaginative and creative conclusions. So that, for example, the rules and conventions of writing calligraphy are rigorously taught. If a character is not written according to the rules, it is marked "wrong." This rule is upheld much further than elementary school. It is not, however, the end of the road. And, the same can be said of the traditional subjects as well-- in particular medicine, mathematics and philosophy: vast amounts of knowledge were bodily memorized taking years. This, however, was never the final goal. My calligraphy teacher used to tell us that the breaking of calligraphic rules are only beautiful or interesting in those people who have mastered the rules. Never the other way around.

Perhaps one slight difference in this type of learning and that of the West is that in Europe, knowledge was taught systematically (which is actually related to our concept of Law 法), while in the East knowledge was imparted by example (お手本）. So that, in music or dance, for example, in Europe, the basic concepts would be broken down into parts that form the system and these parts would be presented to the students. This is how Adonis is now learning the violin.

Students after mastering the system gained the necessary knowledge. This type of systamtized knowledge is based on, according to one Japanese philosopher I work with, a mind-body division (Descartes). In pre-modern Japanese, according to this philosopher, there was no division between mind and body in the language as "mi" and "karada" 身体 encompassed both mind and body. For that reason, he exaplained, traditional Japanese arts, like dancing and music, were taught by emulation. There was no breaking down of the whole into parts, not real systematization, but rather the pupil just copied over and over again the teachers example. It was, in fact, true bodily learning.

Before I came to Japan, I studied legong dancing in Bali and srimpi in Java and then in Madison. There were no mirrors, no explanations, no breaking things down by part of phrase. It was just me standing behind the teacher and trying to emulate her. My teacher in Madison urged the students to "forget your own body" and just try and "imagine yourself inside the teacher's body doing what the teacher is doing." It was strikingly different from how I was taught ballet. This is precisely how tea cermony or any traditional Japanese art is taught as well.

I wouldn't say either style of learning is better that the other. Just perhaps that the maybe the Chinese style has more emphasis on the character of the person doing the teaching-- as indeed, an Example is never an Example just in their technique, but rather in their bodily Self. Which is to say, the character of the teacher is very important.

**

Anyway, reading Mr. Roth's latest post, I couldn't help but feel his memory palace and my own memory palace were very different places indeed. In fact, because our Catholic Priest Ricci must have read and actively remembered much the same things as Mr. Roth, even separated by hundreds of years, the two of them would have plenty to talk about. Someday, I will read Cicero. I will re-read Dante and try and remember something of the Fall of the Roman Empire. It remains an empty room in the palace of my mind for now, though.

--written as I was having an imaginary conversation about Spence's book with a certain Qing historian.

Update: Mr. Roth took up my challenge and wrote a Post of his own regarding memory (over at his place). It is yet another beautifully written pensee, which is highly recommended reading-- indeed, something to be committed to memory. Here is a bit:

Man, by remembering, and especially by arranging his memories in the correct order, would not only grow in knowledge: he would actually take the universe into his head and thus become a microcosm, a Godlet, containing multitudes. Even the atheist can take something from this.

Connected to this as well is his older Post here.

Inside a Bronze Ding

This morning, the mysterious Mr. Roth and I were discussing bronze tripods (that is us on the left: me sitting on said tripod; him wishing I'd hurry up and get on with what I have to say).  

He was telling me about a certain tripod which was unearthed in  the South of France in 1629. The object, he told me, had been imemdiately sent to a famous French scholar of antiquities who had announced that the object was a miniature representation of the tripod upon which the Delphic priestess had sat during her mystical revelations (like the one in the picture).

Europeans have, of course, always been fascinated with antiquities-- especially, he says, with those concerning the pagan oracles of the ancient world.

His story reminded me very much of the situation in China.

Michael Berdeley in his Chinese Collector through the Centuries, writes that:

During the Han Dynasty ritual bronzes were sought with the feverish excitement that accompanied the quest for Greek and Roman vessels in the  Renaissance. One criminal was pardoned by an official because he knew  where to lay hands on early bronzes. Collectors sought them because the  vessels inspired respect by their venerable antiquity, apart from the aesthetic pleasure of handling them.

These bronze vessels from the ancient Shang and Zhou dynasties were in huge demand among the elite during the Han dynasty and remained the most highly prized of all the Chinese collectors’arts-- at least until the great rise of calligraphy. And, just like in Renaissance Europe, the unearthing and study of antiquities became surrounded with mystery and prestige; as well as infused with concepts of political legitimacy.

After telling him about this, I then asked him if he had ever heard of the legendary nine bronze tripods (jiu ding 九鼎) of ancient China.

Shaking his head, no, I went on to explain that, like the regalia of Medieval English kings, it was believed that there once existed nine bronze tripods and that these tripods were thought to confer political legitimacy on whomever possessed them.

The Chronicles record that the Nine Bronze Tripods were cast when King Yu (r. 2205-2198 BC) of the first ancient dynasty, the Xia (2100-1600 B.C.) gained control of the country and received as tribute, bronze from all nine provinces of ancient China. Thereafter, the bronze tripods became a symbol of the Mandate of Heaven and were passed down from dynasty to dynasty-- for nearly 2,000 years-- or so the story goes.

From Xia to Shang, from Shang to Zhou, the tripods were treasured until the time when the First Emperor, Shihuangdi, finally toppled the last Zhou King and rather than see their transfer to Shihuangdi’s new dynasty, the last Zhou King cast them forever into a river. Although Shihuangdi actively attempted to dredge up the sacred bronzes from the river, it was to no avail, and scholars of later dynasties saw this as further evidence of the lack of moral virtue of the First Emperor.

I had promised not to digress, but I couldn't resist:

There is a well known story, I told him with a slight smile, which supposedly took place at the start of the Eastern Zhou Period (770-256 BC). Severely weakened by external and internal threats, the Zhou kings came to rule in name only. Although the Zhou dynasty was the acknowledged recipient of the Mandate of Heaven and therefore possessor of the Nine Tripods, the real political power was held by the kings and generals of various surrounding kingdoms, chiefly those of the Qin, Qi, Chu, Wei and Yan.

The Chu were especially troublesome, and after some showy military displays near the Zhou capital of Luoyang, the worried Zhou king dispatched his trusty Minister to negotiate for peaceful relations with their southern Chu neighbors.

When the Minister arrived at the military camp outside the capital, the belligerent Lord of Chu immediately inquired about the size and weight of the Nine Tripods, thereby implying that with their transfer to the House of Chu, the Mandate of Heaven would also be transferred. The ever-quick Minister sharply responded that unless it could be shown that the Will of Heaven had in fact changed, then it was forbidden to inquire after the weight of the tripods. He then went on to explain that the actual weight of the tripods was beside the point as their weight corresponded directly to the virtue of the king who had them in his possession; that is, if the ruler truly held the Mandate of Heaven then the tripods would be immovably heavy. However, should a ruler lack virtue, the tripods would become weightless and therefore meaningless as a political and psychological symbol.

The Lord of Chu, moved by the Zhou minister's logic, was thus convinced of the righteousness and virtue of the Zhou Dynasty and a tentative peace was agreed to.

Turning back to my point, I said:

As I told you, Shihuandi actively tried to locate the Nine Tripods, attempting in vain to dredge them up from the river. His lack of success was seen by later historians as being proof of Heaven’s displeasure, for as the Minister explained, “The tripods do not matter; virtue does.”

Shihuangdi’s reign lasted a mere 15 years, and it was followed by the Han Dynasty (206 BC-AD 220.) Contemporaneous with the Ancient Roman Empire, the Han Dynasty was one of the most prosperous and comparatively harmonious times in all of Chinese history.

The greatness of the Han saw its proof in the fact that “bronzes began to emerge from the earth in a fashion a little short of miraculous.” In 113 BC, for example, when an especially beautiful tripod was found and sent on to the emperor, he was so moved by its beauty and great antiquity that he began a new reign name to the period which had just begun, calling it: “The Year of the Tripod.” This dynasty, where the arts and philosophy flourished, is looked upon as one of China’s past “golden ages.”

At this point, my dear Mr. Roth got a very expectant look on his face, and actually shouted out: "Finally!" As it appeared that I was at last nearing my point.

This great fascination with antiquity, I suggested, is much intertwined with the pre-Renaissance idea-- both East and West-- that a Golden Age was something seen to have been already realized, solely in the reality of the past. It was never, for example, imagined in any sort of hope in the future or an afterlife. And it was in the past that one could find the “exemplary models” necessary for all moral actions, including the methods of enlightened government.

In a similar way to the Italians of the Renaissance who held the Ancients to be the “Grand Exemplars” in everything from art to politics, Confucius, for example, taught that the problems of the present age could be best solved by a “return to antiquity” (fugu). He considered the ancient kings to have been men of perfect virtue and therefore having been almost godlike. Confucian, and later Neo-Confucian scholars and philosophers tended to elucidate on everything from political intrigues to philosophical dilemmas in terms of past precedents, “for only those with a clear vision of the past can uphold civilization’s future” 

This, I told him, was what I had found so intriguing about John Gray's Straw Dogs (See my Post here).

In the end, I realized that for 2 people that I wouldn't have expected would have much to talk about (see my recent post) , we actually had a huge amount to share from our respective positions within the depths of an ancient bronze tripod.