The gaps are the thing

"The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery.
Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock--more than a maple--a universe."

Annie Dillard

Lift the stone and you will find me;

Cleave the wood and I am there.

Jesus (The Gospel of Thomas)

Prepare ye . . . the feet

As I took my morning walk along the river hill-ward under a blue sky seasoned with early cherry blossoms the text for Maundy Thursday was coming through the ear buds of my mp3 player. The feet, my own blessed feet,* for which I am ever-grateful, anchor me to the world I thought in that loose aimless way of thinking which walking welcomes. 

When Jesus washed the feet of his disciples in that exquisitely beautiful, humble and love-giving act, he sanctified our walk in the world. The Easterners I live among have foot rules which sound similar to those of Christ's time. The feet, shod, belong to the outside world. Shoes are removed at the threshold because coming inside is entering holy space. But the very Earth, too, can be your threshold as Elizabeth Barret Browning's poem reminds us: "Earth's crammed with heaven,/And every common bush afire with God; / But only he who sees, takes off his shoes . . .." Your feet, the soles (no accident, perhaps, the homonym with 'soul'?) tell you where you are in the world, they have a way of remembering, letting you know in which harbour you are anchored.

And doesn't the anchor, that ancient Christian symbol of hope, bear some resemblance to the feet that anchor us to the Earth? The anchor, dropped deep to reach our deepest, darkest and most secret places set beside the washing of the feet carries the meaning that even the lowest part of me is seen, held and known by Divine Love.

The cross as an anchor with two fishes. The epitaph to Antonia, originally in the catacomb of Domitilla.

We are fish saved through the cross of Christ, 

a sure anchor for our soul 

as we traverse the waters of death.

Richard Harries, The Passion in Art, 2

Love your feet and use them for your prayers. Here is a teaching from the Zen tradition that will show you how.

* (For a celebration of the advent of feet, watch the Ghibli movie Ponyo. It's available I think on Vimeo)

A Lenten Lapse, or This Is It!

                                                                                ©MAAB

I adore looking at images like this and letting myself veer off into spells of daydreaming -  the desert's 'there-ness', its purity, quiet depth and that special stillness . . . Ah me! What can I say, I have a lively romantic streak: I am easily, indeed quite regularly, seduced by beauty.

There are, however, experiences of the desert that have nothing to do with the physical locale and as I have been reflecting on the past few weeks I have been carrying with me the marvellously droll Yiddish proverb: Der Mentsch trakht, un Got lakht, Man plans, God laughs. The desert one enters with such mindfulness, sobriety and care in late winter has, I think, one thing to teach: surrender.  However one encounters it, the desert aims to bring one into the space of being that knows, whatever the circumstances, that one is in God's time and place. 

One may enter Lent with a mind to reorient the self; to open up the channels and see what's what and who's who in the zoo? Spring is coming in the northern hemisphere and all is quickening; it makes sense to have kept vigil before the coming of the light. Yes, it makes sense and we do what we can to position ourselves to catch the halos but it depends entirely on grace as to what comes, with whom and how and when.

'Ordinary' time Lent is not, in church parlance. Nevertheless, this present cannot be avoided. Time is time: this present, a gift. A gift just as it is, not as we wish it to be.

This morning I read only the first sentence of Stanley Hauerwas' tribute to Rowan Williams and it was affirmation and comfort enough: The hardest thing in the world is to be where we are. Why? Because life is complex and we have to live with that. The desert experience, during Lent or any other season of life in fact, entails a solitude which forces people to confront their fear and evasiveness and so equips them for involvement by a stripping-down of the will.

There again is that shedding I wrote about a few posts ago.

I am reminded of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's resonant observation in Gift from the Sea that,

The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea.

I have always loved the wave-like rhythms of the 'patience, patience, patience' and for all that the waves spoke and speak. It suggests to me a gentler kind of renewal than the rather more bracing 'stripping down of the will' that Williams characterizes. The end result is the same. We need, Williams says, to participate patiently in the conversation necessary for the discovery that we swim in the sea of God's love.

[Are you wondering how I moved from the desert to the sea so casually? Do you not see the waves hidden in the dune pictured above? :D]

There is so much in Williams' work that I am so grateful for, so much that I treasure. Today, I will close with this pearl:

[One] must also learn to live in and attend to the reality of the Church (or, Life, if you prefer--Kate) as it is, to do the prosaic things that can be and must be done now and to work at my relations now with the people who will not listen to me or those like me--because what God asks of me is not to live in the future but to live with honesty and attentiveness in the present, i.e., to be at home. We constantly try to start from somewhere other than were we are. Truthful living involves being at home with ourselves, not complacently but patiently, recognizing that what we are today, at this moment, is sufficiently loved and valued by God to be the material with which he will work, and that the longed-for transformation will not come by refusing the love and the value that is simply there in the present moment. Living in the truth involves the same sober attention to what is there - to the body, the chair, the floor, the voice we hear, the face we see--with all the unsatisfactoriness that this brings. Yet this is what it means to live in the kingdom where Jesus rules, the kingdom that has no frontiers to be defended.

Francis & Francis, Word Up

Preach the Gospel always. If necessary, use words.

                                                       (St. Francis of Assisi)

Now, that's fine food for thought. Then the Holy Father endears himself with the following:

Have a good Sunday and enjoy your lunch!

                                       (The Namesake)

Art Island, Naoshima

The temptation is to wax lyrical about the place & the experience. To do so may affect the marvelous breath of fresh air it was to me; you should not be cheated out of this. However, if you are interested in art--even if (perhaps especially if) you don't know that much about it and particularly the more modern side of things--promise yourself to visit the place. Profound, mind-bending experiences are possible and you may find yourself skillfully detained by more than a few of the art works you will encounter in your wanderings. For me, a week later, they resonate still.
                


Naoshima is home to the Benesse Art Site and is located in the Seto Inland Sea, sometimes referred to as 'the womb of the Japanese archipelago'. That these islands are settled at all is amazing. It's another awesome frontier story involving finding your way at sea. The story goes that mainlanders set off in boats loaded with seeds and seedlings and knew from the signs, floating fruit and birds flying overhead, that they'd arrive sooner or later on terra firma. Where Noah took his family & other animals (nod to Mr. Durrell), these settlers brought seeds & seedlings. As in Noah's story, the winged ones gave the sign of the dream about to be fulfilled.


To think, the islands are so close and yet I'd never yet ventured over! No regrets but I am really glad that the first time was so deeply satisfying. Part of my reluctance, if indeed that's what it was, may have been that people had raved about it and so I expected crowds. I avoid crowds whenever possible; in my opinion, crowds and (most) art do not mix.


When a young friend who works on the island offered us an off-season discount for a stay-over four of us decided to make a night of it. Took a train to the ferry landing and hopped on a 20 minute ride before arriving at the Yayoi Kusama-adorned Pumpkin Port.
                                       

A short taxi ride took us to the Art House Project, a remarkable restoration of old houses transformed by artists into works of art. These spaces are shaped in conjunction with the original architecture, previous inhabitants, and Japanese traditions and aesthetics. The project houses are interspersed among islanders' homes, part of a vision that shows great insight into the purposes and possibilities of art. This meeting point of between the old and the new looked very promising to the eyes of this outsider. The 'citizens', as our friend referred to the islanders, are an integral part of much of the artwork on the island. The principle behind this seems to be founded on the principle of a mutually beneficial and dialogic relationship between the art-world and islanders.

Fram Kitagawa is one of the most influential and important art directors in Japan and is closely involved with the island project. He notes:

"In today's society . . . the riches of nature are being destroyed, and people are losing their psychological and spiritual well-being. The world has been inundated with standardization, administration, and efficiency, and the light in our spiritual lighthouse has begun to dim."

His solution:

"It is necessary to restore a world where human life resonates harmoniously with the sea and the islands, and contemporary art can help. Art can be used to reveal the characteristics and true nature of the land. It has a festive quality that can be brought out with the help of local people and supporters from all over Japan and overseas. . ..”

He claims, too, refreshingly against the grain, that art should not be used as a ‘monument to consumerism’ but rather as an act of remembering what has been lost.

"The contemporary age puts the highest value on approaching information in the shortest way--the most rapid way. I want art to be contrary to that, to be slow. Contrary to the idea that art should sit on top of consumerism, I want to revive art in a different way. The original purpose of art is, I think, to help us measure the distance between humans and the nature or civilisation they have left behind."

How do you feel about art as a means of measurement? As a means of mourning? Do I read the quote too literally? Has it been translated faithfully from the Japanese? I’m not sure, but I do feel there is something important being intimated. A reminder of good things we have forgotten, yes! But the sometimes painful work of reclamation, facing humanity’s folly --that’s not as easy, but is arguably more important so that we can truly move on. Move on as in ‘repent’, perhaps, to turn our lives around.

Kitagawa’s philosophy has been called 'idealistic'--hurrah! How else do visionaries emerge? How else are we to imagine alternative futures? It is backward looking in a nostalgic way, but in a slow, careful and beautiful way that is also, Janus-like, forward-looking, long-range, resistant to global trends and critical of the negative consequences of Japan's over-development in the past.

His philosophy of art is hopeful: it aims to 'revive a society unable to think itself back out of the urban/development mould.' To be enabled, by art, to think and to imagine and to live into a life based on a different foundation--one based less on fear and more on beauty, one that is not concerned with breathless, willful and narcissistic expansion, one that allows spaciousness and leisure to nourish the whole human person, one that values and honours humility and humour and harmony in relationships and offers a wonder-filled, textured milieu for enjoyment--all these ideals are very much present in the experience of the Naoshima project, but in a suggestive and organic way rather than a dominating or overtly didactic manner.

The tension between tradition and innovation is being very carefully held; the results are delightful. I had been having difficulty in the week prior to my visit with language that insisted on “concrete ideas”: an oxymoron if ever there were one! Serendipitously, Tadao Ando’s concrete structures made me smile, for here were ideas made concrete which were so elegant and unusual. They were serene and calming, formal and modern and fun.

I’ve been eyeing a book sitting on my shelf in the TBR pile called Spirit and Tradition: An Essay on Change by Stephen Platten and George Pattison which so the blurb tells deals with the very question of innovation in relation to tradition in the context of the church. I’d like to grasp the similarities between the 'radical conservatism' explored by the authors in relation to church life and the revivification of more harmonious living in a broadly ecological sense here. Pattison is a great writer on art, too, and I’m looking forward to delving more into his work in this area.
Below: one of the noren that fabric artists are displaying in the area; this shopfront's red and white is noren sea-themed.

                                       


The heavens opened as we were enjoying lunch in a big, beautiful, warm tatami-matted restaurant. The rain did not dampen our enthusiasm. In fact, postprandial site visits were enhanced by the smell and sound of raindrops. It added a lovely dimension to the experience of sitting alone in a dark, thatched installation space. Alas, however, it did rather subtract from the sunset champagne welcome on a viewing terrace that the hotel offered. Fortunately, by the time we did arrive at the hotel we were so filled with good things that after a rest and a glass of wine, we were ready for the lovely dinner brought to our room. Conversation, as you may imagine, was animated--our souls had been called upon, the doors of our minds opened. We talked late into the evening, the rain dried up, the lights on shores in the distance became visible.  

                                            

                           

One of the perks of staying at the Benesse house is that guests have the ability to live out their very own ‘Nights at the Museum’ fantasies. The museum stays open to the public until 9pm but is open for guests until 11pm. This suited my crowd-free preference most luxuriously indeed! But even in this more ‘conventional’ museum space it was the outdoor pieces that were more about experience than about simply looking at that held my attention. The big stones and the vistas (up and out) were my favourites. I trusted my unmediated attraction to them much more than I did the modern art pieces by known artists. Somehow there’s already a label and a response path laid down so it’s difficult to know what I honestly feel [about those works] and why. Much of the art is, I suppose what is called ‘conceptual’: who knew that it could be so engaging?

The Chichu Museum was our focus for the following day and after a leisurely morning we hiked up the hill past the Lee Ufan museum (saving that for another time!). The name 'Chichu' translates to ‘In [the Middle of] the Earth’ -- get a look at this entryway (yes, that’s a door on the far end of the wall) and you’ll know what an Alice in Wonderland experience we were in for! More I cannot say except if you’re wondering whether to go or not --you must, must, must visit this museum. 

                                

The whole thing was a complete and joy-filled revelation to me and I cannot recommend it highly enough. My personal top experiences, if I had to choose, would be one involving a James Turrell experience of darkness, so thick you could almost taste it and another James Turrell space, this one an experience of light.

Thank you, Naoshima! I can't wait to return.

Here are a few pieces from elsewhere that may be of interest:

• Pico Iyer's piece in the Guardian last year is linked here
• Artlog's Piece is by Spenser Nelson is here (the photos under the header are superb!)
• Adrian Favell's piece on the philsophy of Fram Kitagawa is here