Saturday, March 2, 2013
The New York Times did a moving article about the Catholic mission in Nigeria some weeks ago. It's just the kind of thing that fuels my longstanding Catholic-envy. Why is it that the Catholic church doesn't worry about racial and ethnic diversity? (There are more Catholics now in the southern hemisphere than in the northern.) Why is it that the Catholic church can pack working-class people and intellectuals into the same room? What are the mechanisms that ensure that David Tracy and Jean-Luc Marion speak the same spiritual language as the abjectly poor Nigerians who sleep on the church floor (see image)?
Yesterday my Episcopal parish held a very nice dinner for newcomers in one of the parishioner's house. The house was filled with books, American Indian pottery, Victorian photographs, Oriental rugs, handmade ceramic dishes and cups. The guests were friendly and welcoming, many of them were professors from the University of Oregon and many could be overheard talking about their dissertation topics. Ten years ago, I would have found this environment foreign and "other": they would have represented to me the habitat of educated upper middle-class white people. Today, I find this environment familiar. Since my involvement with the Episcopal church in college, I have become as "waspified" as one could as a Taiwanese-American immigrant. Even though I was still the only non-white person at the dinner, this environment is no longer "other" to me; it is a part of me. By participating in it, I feel that my place is ever more secured among educated white people who are also my natural work colleagues (I was one of those university professors at the dinner last night). It also means that my distance from the abjectly poor Nigerians is increasing.
During one of the conversations last night with various people, I briefly mentioned the Anglican church in Nigeria. My interlocutor immediately commented on a well-known fact: "The Nigerian churches are extremely homophobic." Indeed, I wouldn't deny it. But this comment also suggests that the Anglicans and Episcopalians of North America have very different values and priorities than their African brothers and sisters. (Do they consider the Africans brothers and sisters? The Catholics would.) Is the ordination of gays and lesbians the most important issue in a country where, according to the Catholic leaders in Nigeria, the church is only functioning institution, where people have no place to sleep and no access to adequate medical care? While the social advancement of gays and lesbians is a worthwhile cause for middle-class persons living in the northern hemisphere, is "homophobia" enough of a reason to break with the African churches? Should we consent to choose between LGBT brothers and sisters, who resemble us in class and education, and African brothers and sisters who may be homophobic but do not shop for organic vegetables?
The Roman Catholic church is said to be homophobic, misogynist, anti-modern, anti-democratic, patriarchal, etc. In fact, I can even add more adjectives if I wish: corrupt, crypto-pagan, mafia-like, sadomasochistic, perverse. The truth remains that this institution has survived for 2,000 years because, despite all its failings, it is concretely and not simply rhetorically committed to the universal brother- and sister-hood of human beings across race, ethnic and class divides. It has held on to the notion of "We are all one body," excruciatingly as it may be at times. The idea seems to be that it's better to go to hell all together as one big family than to be in heaven as separately saved individuals.
Recently, a completely irreligious young man asked me gleefully, "Hey, I heard that the Episcopal church is not religious at all, it's all about people making social connections with the high powers. That's the way it should be! Maybe I should join!" Needlessly to say, my Catholic-envy only increased.
Monday, February 25, 2013
I was teaching Duchamp today. In 1913, without having any notion of creating a work of art or a "readymade," Duchamp mounted a single bicycle wheel on top of a kitchen stool. In so doing he destroyed the stool: it could no longer be sat on. He also destroyed the wheel: it could only turn in vain instead of serving as an instrument of locomotion. This new entity amused Duchamp; it also calmed him. He compared to the experience of watching it turn in his studio to the experience of watching flames in the fireplace. Without the two being the least alike in visual resemblance, the flames in the fireplace and the bicycle readymade had in common their timelessness.
What a strange thing to say: The Duchamp bicycle wheel is timeless like the flames dancing in the fireplace. One may imagine easily the timelessness of the flames: most likely the fire did for the cavemen a similar number as the one it does for us now. But the Duchamp is a distinctly twentieth-century invention. In retrospect, Duchamp had invented the first work of conceptual art. What can this possibly have in common with the timelessness of the flame?
One way of thinking about timelessness is that it is eternal, forever unchanging. Another way is to think about it as out of time, in the sense of having stepped out of ordinary time, no matter for how short or for how long. One must therefore imagine the wheel spinning on top of the kitchen stool as something that profoundly changes the way we think about movement in relation to time. In ordinary time, the speed of the spinning wheel corresponds to the speed in which the bicycle carries us from point A to point B. The faster the wheel spins, the shorter the time it takes for us to get to our destination. Movement in this case is utilitarian, or interested. We have an interest in how fast or how slow the wheel spins. By mounting the wheel on top of the kitchen stool, Duchamp effectively disinterested it. Now, the wheel no longer carries anything. Nothing is at stake in it anymore. Whether it spins fast, slowly or not at all has no consequence in life whatsoever. It becomes like the flame in the fireplace: whether it flickers this way or other, whether it cracks now or then, it makes no difference to the fire as a whole. Above all, the wheel is not going anywhere no matter how fast or slow it spins. The stool is stationary: it holds the wheel up but also grounds it. The entity therefore has the effect of a turtle or beetle turned over on its back: its legs frantically moving in vain.
Yet there is nothing frantic about Duchamp's bicycle wheel. Duchamp's own view of it is that of an affectionate detachment: he smiles instead of despairs over the finitude of the wheel. Does Duchamp smile because he thinks the universe is closed like a chess game, but enigmatic because of the infinity of moves that can nevertheless be had within a strict set of inviolable rules? Probably. But I think he is smiling also because he found a way to defeat interested-ness; he found a way out of time. This is why the object is ultimately a calming object: it is the paradox of a static movement or a moving inertia that suggests the uselessness of all efforts to move, to beat time.
Paradoxically, it is the way out of time that allows Duchamp to make some of the most important interventions in twentieth-century art; by stepping out of time, he makes history. How so? In an increasingly utilitarian world, we might entertain the counter-intuitive idea that only the non-utilitarian has real value. For instance, what I am writing here has no scholarly value (probably). I will not publish it; I will not use it advance my career; I will not need it to demonstrate that I am learned about Duchamp (I am not). But for the very reason of its disinterestedness (other than that it amuses me, distracts me, relaxes me), what I am saying this evening about Duchamp may have more interest in the long run, more interest than my scholarly publications. Interest for whom, for what? The fact that I cannot answer these questions is already suggesting to me that I may be right.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
This week, a difficult encounter with a student in a course I taught this term plus the disastrous news from Newtown, Conn. made it hard for me to concentrate on my writing.
I am an art historian, I do research and teach students the history of modernism and the avant-garde. But I am also an educator, which makes me an officer of the intermediary realm between home and society for our nation's young people. In my short career of teaching, I have regularly encountered students who are mentally ill, and who need more urgent help than what I can provide. Within the infrastructure of the university, I have to refer them to other professionals for help. Even when I successfully send a student off to more qualified providers, I never stop thinking about them. I always wonder if they end up stepping out of their predicament.
Gun control would be a very good idea indeed, but not enough. It is imperative that we reflect on the rise of adolescent mental illness, the social marginalization of suffering individuals left to cultivate their destructive fantasies in a private theater whose curtain only opens when it is too late.
As an academic, my immediate social and professional milieus consist mainly of educated middle-class white people. It is striking to me how rarely parents discuss problems and/or difficulties of their adolescent children. I have the impression that people delight in cataloging the adorable gestures, speeches and talents of their toddlers. I rarely hear people discuss the anorexia of their teenage daughter, the drug troubles of their teenage son. At the same, I know for a fact that these problems are as real as the success stories of families.
Troubled adolescents are a lot less charming than angelic toddlers. In the wake of the Newtown disaster, we are still more interested in heart-warming anecdotes concerning the victims than in the dark despair of the killer, whose anger against life itself caused him to carry out a series of highly symbolic acts of destruction. It is no accident that this act was carried out during Advent and Hanukkah, when the rest of the world rejoiced, just as spring time is high time for suicide. To kill one's own mother is the ultimate act of denying life: one assaults life by killing the one person who gave one life. After the killing of the mother, all others became possible: innocent children became the target precisely because they symbolized life at its purest, most untarnished. True to this act of pure rage and destructiveness, the killer didn't spare himself; in fact, the whole shooting had been one massive, explosive suicide in which other innocent lives are included merely to aggrandize his descent.
From a theological point of view, we have less to worry about the innocent victims, who are no doubt in heaven, than we have to be concerned with the killer and others like him. To overcome my depression, I re-watched Archbishop Desmond Tutu's commencement speech at Gonzaga University, in which he talked about God's reliance on young people's passion as the means to do His work. It may be that in biblical times, young people were valued and given opportunities to work and apply their passion. Today, we don't value young people other than in their capacity as consumers. The capitalist market promises all kinds of happiness to adolescents other than the kinds that strengthen them, guide them toward productive and meaningful relationships with humanity. But young people will always remain passionate. If their passion is not directed to good things, it can go elsewhere.
With all the talk about angels, perhaps it's time to talk about fallen ones too.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Apparently you can call an angel on the cellphone now. This story about the human impersonation of an angel in Holland provides insight into how religious icons are created and then sustained. First, you need an iconography (image, preferably a statue). Second, you need a name and a site (angel, cathedral, etc). Third, you need a method of activation (in the Middle Ages, touch is the way; in the 21st century, you call on a cell phone). Fourth, you need a public (lonely people in need, in this case). Once you have all these elements, the religious icon becomes fully operative - and that's when the Catholic church moves in to make a few bucks.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
I (almost) blamed Mondrian for my (almost) forgetting Ash Wednesday this year. In the days leading to it, I had nothing else in my mind other than improving my lecture on the Dutch abstract painter for my modern art survey class. I checked out new books and scanned new images in order to make the perfect PowerPoint. I wanted every image in the presentation to be thoroughly researched and then studied closely, and every slide ought to tell a story (for instance, the influence of Cubism, the problem of the diagonal, the move from lozenge to geometric shape, the difference between him and the rest of De Stijl). Even more importantly I wanted to have something compelling to tell my students beyond mere facts. Like a 19th-century Kunstwissenschaftler, I believe that art history should not be taught as a catalogue of works. Nor should students be treated like tourists in a museum: they are not here to be entertained. The rigor and fastidiousness of Mondrian must be presented in the right way so as to both challenge, dazzle and awaken the students from their habitual West-Coast stupor.
The lecture was successful: I got worked up preparing for the lecture, and I got really worked up delivering it. The students were excited to find out that Mondrian was right: the diagonal ruins everything, it seduces your eyes, it makes you focus on one area in the painting instead of giving general attention to the entire picture, and it deludes you into thinking that there is a little figure somewhere making faces at you (c.f. 1914 Oval Composition at the MoMA). I also found out that the majority of them have never seen a Mondrian in person. That’s something to aspire to, says Professor Cheng. One student came to see me after the class and told me how much she enjoyed “that last artist.” She realized the difficulty of abstract art when taken seriously. This is pretty good for a first lesson in Mondrian, I thought. How gratifying it is to know that Mondrian’s permutations of perfection still resonate today with our young, as long as we explain to them in the right way.
I was feeling rather pleased with myself when I found an e-mail from Gale: Don’t forget to get ash-ed this year! Suddenly the horror and sense of dejection from last year came upon me. By now Gale knows how good I am in missing feast days. One year I missed Palm Sunday twice in a day because my clocks and watches were not adjusted to daylight saving’s time. Last year I missed Ash Wednesday service, which I had remembered in the morning but forgotten at night, having been absorbed by my assistant-professor-frantically-preparing-for-lecture mode. I walked around the desolate streets of Eugene at around 8 p.m. in the evening, looking for a service, and I just missed the Episcopal service at St. Mary’s downtown, which ended at 7:45 p.m. In brief, I did get ash-ed last year, but through rather un-orthodox means (thanks to the good office of St. Mary’s young parish priest at the time). The important thing was to realize how abandoned, “left out,” as it were, I felt, when I entertained the idea of not having participated in Ash Wednesday service and therefore not having begun Lent the right way and therefore will not be “clean” for Holy Thursday and therefore the whole Triduum will be ruined and therefore the Resurrection of our Lord on Easter will not have the same meaning, etc and etc. In short, the world will come to an end.
Thanks to Gale, I didn’t miss Ash Wednesday this year, but I went to a Roman service on campus (it was the closest one at hand). The sanctuary was completely packed (so many Catholics in Eugene!) As is the case with Roman parishes in Eugene, it’s where you see all the people of color that you don’t see anywhere else in this town. I sat next to an elderly French woman, and all around me were Hispanics, Filipinos, South and East Asians, Afro-Americans as well as whites. The congregation looked like the utopia of the diversity initiative of the University of Oregon, who cannot seem to get the percentage of minority students to go into the double digits.
The priest had an affect typically associated with gay men, and he opened the service with a sassy reproach. “I’d like us to take time to look around and welcome the newcomers, many of whom probably don’t come to weekly Sunday mass [cough, cough].” The mixture of reprimand and affection in his tone appealed to me. It manages to scold and tolerate failure at the same time. That’s a trick I have to steal for my students who show up only on Wednesdays for the quiz, I thought. After all, what is Ash Wednesday but an opportunity to reflect on finitude? The important thing is that my students did come to class, just like the church-slackers who come running to the chapel on important days. When we do come back, moreover, God is as content and satisfied as Professor Cheng when she watches her students writing industriously in little green exam books in class.
But industry and discipline are both hard to come by. The priest tells us to fast, but admits that he himself is not particularly hungry: “I already had my meal today and it was good.” The strange thing is that God loves us anyway, as the priest told us over and over again, and I could not help feeling overwhelmed by what Gale used to refer to as the “kitsch-factor of Christianity.” In fact, my very first impression of Christians was in fact that they were “cheesy” people who could not stop talking about “love.” But is there something philosophical behind the “kitsch-factor”? At least for Episcopalians and Catholics, there is the strange fact that we can stray as far and as long as possible, we are still welcomed back to the church whenever we do decide to show up. This was the miracle that struck Jean Cocteau, who, when he finally returned to the Catholic church, wrote to the theologian Jacques Maritain of an angel who had been “saving his seat” ever since he left, in the hopes that he’d be back one day.
Who is welcome to the church? “Sinners, sinners!” says the priest, waving his hand energetically to signal his role as the first-sinner-among-equals. Yet it doesn’t really make sense. How can God love sinners as much as he does the righteous? It doesn’t seem fair. Unless, it suddenly dawned on me, sinners are the ones who testify to the existence of God more than anyone else. Sinners make God be because they need God more than anyone else. Thus, in a strange way, it also kind of makes sense. I think of an analogy from the classroom: Student A is intelligent, industrious and independent. Student B is confused, often absent in class, and likes to come whining at my office hour. Student A is easier on me but student B needs me more. If I do my job properly, I would give him/her more than what I give student A. Thus, in a paradoxical way, it is student B who makes me the good professor that I am. As Gale said to me once, the good student doesn’t make us a good teacher; s/he merely deludes us into thinking that we’re good. It’s the bad or mediocre student who gives us a chance to become the good teacher that we should all strive to be. So in the end, it does comes out even. God gives more to sinners than to the saints because sinners need God more.
So what’s in it for student A, or the “good one” who exerted almost no pressure on the teacher? I was a student A, so were many of my friends in college. These are motivated people who had high expectations for themselves. Some of us strive for perfection so much that we cannot let ourselves off the hook. But the will to perfection and the self-persecution that results from failure are in fact the other face of hubris, which God does not commend. After psychoanalysis, who can deny the exalted sense of election, the glory of martyrdom, the sadomasochistic power that an individual permits him/herself to feel when s/he succeeds in persecuting him/herself? As Bernanos’s young country priest says to a parishioner who condemned herself to a life of perpetual self-reproach, God also wants us to have mercy on ourselves. Since each of our souls belongs to God, to be unforgiving toward oneself is also a way of disrespecting God. Judging and sentencing oneself is pretending to do what only God has the power to do. After all, beyond the desire to regain mastery, is there not a more devious motivation behind someone’s taking the whip into his or her own hand, namely, to outshine the other fellow human beings in the competition for virtues, so as to have priority seating in the concert hall called paradise?
My Ash Wednesday ended with a concert of eighteenth-century music, performed by faculty in the School of Music at the university. It took place in the lobby of the university museum, with makeshift chairs and a small staff. The space was packed and many of my friends in the community were there. The leading musician of the chamber ensemble was Marc Vanscheeuwijck, a musician and professor of musicology, who gave a brief presentation about the program entitled “Le concert galant.” It consisted of music written right after the end of the Baroque era but cannot yet be considered as classical. It included pieces by Heinichen, Schiffelhoz, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Platti, Mattheson, De Fesch and Blavet.
As I listened to the energetic and heartened performance, I understood what the leader of the ensemble referred to the mixed, irregular character of the music. I also could not help remarking how un-Mondrian this music is, so much it embodies qualities that he had abhorred: heterogeneity, lightness and, yes, pleasure. Furthermore, due to the non-standardization of eighteenth-century instruments and their relative imprecision (we had learned earlier that cellos of the period did not have to have a fixed number of strings), the music inevitably sounded out of tone to my “musical ear,” or what the Anglophone calls the perfect pitch. This music is the opposite of perfection. At one point the flutist had to cough and restart the piece. Yet why was I enjoying it so much? Why did I find myself relishing in the specific gifts of each musician: the cellist’s tremendous musicality, the flutist’s fluidity, for instance? Is there something compelling in this music and in this performance, something that becomes obvious to me precisely because we are not dealing with a Beethoven symphony or the Chicago Symphony Orchestra?
As the concert wrapped up with joyful applauses from the community of audience, many of whom were friends of the musicians, I realized, with a mixture of both surprise and relief, how much goodness and joy can be shared in the intermediary space (Zwischenraum) between perfection and finitude. Both – the temptation for perfection and the inevitable limits of being human – are part of God’s plan, but God also means for human beings to have a lot of room to live in between. In-between-ness is what this eccentric eighteenth-century music taught me. Once in a while, one among us will make a go for the extreme, as Mondrian did in painting, Simone Weil did in philosophy and ethics, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer in action. Most of us will not come even close in our entire life times to the inhuman rigor of these individuals and the solitude they were prepared to face. It is therefore a comforting thought that such wingless creatures as we can still achieve goodness through small, gallant leaps, and that the apparent frivolity in this refrain from Verlaine can also be a humble acceptance of our finitude and humanity: “Dansons la gigue!”
Thursday, September 1, 2011
New jobs, new cities, new projects.
And now summer's coming to an end and classes start up again. Living in close proximity to college students, September always makes me think about change and my first weeks at college. Even though I tend to remember happy memories over anxieties and complications, in this case, I don't remember being excited, but I do remember being apprehensive. In fact, when I see the freshmen and their parents unloading their cars, the ghostly shadow of that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach returns. Why did I think it was a good idea to move 1000 miles away from home, again? I worried about finding someone to sit with in the dining hall and figuring out where my classes were meeting, and I can distinctly remember getting up early on a Sunday morning and going in search of a newspaper because I wasn't sure what else to do with myself. The student union was empty, the dining hall was closed, no one else was awake, and there was a stranger still sleeping on the bunk below me. Of course, by the end of that first week, I had made friends - many of whom are still my friends - and the sensation of the world atilt had subsided. A day spent exploring Chicago with two new friends had helped, as had the bonding experience of smooth-talking our way into a cocktail party being held in the Hilton penthouse. How could they say no to three bright-eyed college freshmen who just wanted to see the view of Grant Park and the lake?
Since I am now advising a few first-year students as well as teaching a first-year seminar, I try to keep these memories fresh. Are my students experiencing similar anxieties? Probably. At least to some degree. I don't want and can't get a window into their worlds, but I wonder if cell phones, Facebook, and Skype make going to college different than it was ten or fifteen years ago. It's different to reconnect with high school friends five or ten years on than never to lose touch in the first place. With friends on speed dial, on Facetime, and posting regular updates of their first weeks of college, the jump from home to away-from-home must be less harrowing.