Chartreuse

When I arrived in Grenoble, I had no clue what Chartreuse is about. The first Saturday, Madam Biron brought me to a lovely museum (Musée dauphinois) sitting on the mountainside. We stopped at a place where we could view the whole city. “Chartreuse,” she pointed to the mountains at the distance, “très jolie.” Now I have stayed in Grenoble for almost a month, and have gained some ideas of its basic geography. Grenoble is surrounded by mountains: Chartreuse in the north; Vercor in the southwest; Chamrousse in the east.

Yet Chartreuse is more than just natural beauty. The Grande Chartreuse, a monastery of the Chartreuse Order established in the 11^th century, sits there for more than 900 years. The Order is not well know because the total number of monks and nuns who practice this obscure type of religion does not exceed 400. Most of their monasteries are in Europe, one in the US and two in South Korea. The unique feature of the Chartreuse is its practice of silence throughout the life, a life-long meditation and solitude. The Order became known to the outside world after the German director Philip Groning made a great documentary about the life of the monks in the monastery in 2005 (Into Great Silence). That is my personal connection to the place. I have seen the film before, and I would had never imagined that one day I would be able to visit the site in person.

And it happened!

Three weeks ago, the Boston program organized a group visit to Chartreuse. We did a short hike to a peak from which we could see the monastery from afar. It was a foggy day. The monastery was shrouded in the mist, making it somewhat mysterious. The monastery is not accessible, but there is a museum not far that replicates its structure and offers all kinds of information about the Order to the curious tourists. The group trip included the visit to the museum, though quite rapidly. To make sure I didn’t miss anything, I visited the museum again last weekend, by myself. Again, since my French is rusty, I could only get a gist of what is happening in the monastery. The life of the monks inside is simple and rigorous: meditation, reading, working, praying, etc. Days after days; months after months; years after years. It is hard for a person who lives in the modern world, with all its distractions, to image this kind of life. The determination and perseverance must be uncroyable!

From the museum to the monastery exists a road with the mountains on either side. Walking on this road is simply a joy. Chartreuse is a special place because it weaves natural scenes and human spirituality so beautifully. Not unlike the Chinese conception of fengshui, the location of the monastery becomes part of its religious practice. As if not to disturb the natural rhythm, the Chartreuse monks choose to remain silent, perhaps “remain” is not the right word since silence is also an action for these monks – an action to shut down, an action to purify, an action to contemplate. (The interaction with nature is simply my speculation based on its analogy to certain Chinese religious practice. The religious meaning of silence in the Chartreuse Order awaits a more serious investigation.)

I sat on a small hill outside the monastery looking at this mesmerizing place. For the tourists including myself, Chartreuse is an interesting place precisely because it is so different from what we experience everyday. We all need a break from time to time, and nothing is better than sitting outside a medieval monastery and imagining the life of these monks that seems almost exotic to us.

I don’t know why I am fascinated by a place like Chartreuse. I am not religious, though when I am getting older I might become more spiritual. Again, I think there is a crucial difference between imagining a way of life and actually living that way of life. I may respect or even admire the life of these monks, but I don’t have the power to live that life. Human spirituality is a powerful thing. The more progress we make in this world, the stronger a desire we have to counter that progress, to return to somewhere we feel we belong to, we feel more content. 

Musée Archéologique

Suddenly, I have the urge to write today. By now, I have been in Grenoble for exactly three weeks. I have done so many things here on the daily basis that once I lost the tract of my writing, it became impossible to catch up. And it really takes an effort for me to reinitiate the writing. I need to start from somewhere, like, today.

Now I am sitting sur la Place Notre-Dame, just outside my apartment. Il fait couvert maintenant. I am sitting outside a café at the square. Facing me is the center of the square, with a beautiful fountain commemorating the historical event in 14 June, 1788, when the parliament in Grenoble organized a meeting in which they decided to defy the heavy taxation from Louis XVI (that is 13 months before the prise de Bastille, the proud of the city). Farther in the distance are the mountains. Here in Grenoble it is hard to avoid mountains in the horizon; they surround the city and is part of the city. In fact, this is one of my favorites in Grenoble. Looking at mountains has become a routine meditation for me.

And of course, there is French, both for the language and for the people. I think I am improving, but I want to improve more. Perhaps “resolution” is a good word to convey my experience here. My understanding of French culture and French people is a bit fuzzy due to the language barrier. I can get the gist of things, but often lose subtleties. Sometimes this is frustrating, and exhausting. An interesting experience nonetheless, the experience of being lost. Right now, I am sitting at this lovely café, surrounding by the French, and their language. Par mal?!

It just started to rain. The patisserie across the road lights up its windows. The rain, the bread, and the joyful conversation flowing in the air. C’est la vie française.  

As I said, I have done so many cultural activities that to give a superficial survey of all is meaningless. Perhaps they will be permeated in my future entries. But at the moment, let me tell you my excursion early today at the musée archéologique. The museum is on the other side of the river, not very far away from where I live. It is a small museum, but I like the design quite a lot. In a sense, it epitomizes the city, with a long history and vibrant modern life. (The rain is hardening, and the view of mountains is lost in mist.) The museum was built on an archeological site that can be traced back to the time of antiquity. It was a burial site for the city since the 4^th century, and later when the region was Christianized churches were built upon it. Archeologists found at least 1500 tombs here, from the 4^th century to the 18^th century, and with the technology of “bioarchéologie,” it becomes a valuable place to study the evolution of the society and human health in the region. The heart of the museum is a huge pit where human remains are displayed. A machine projects the lights of five colors onto the pit, demonstrating the architecture of five renovation/rebuilding of the site in the past two millenniums. A nice combination of old archeological finds and new technologies. And there is music as well in the background, a sort of solemn religious tones that make visitors to contemplate death and eternity.

And there is the story of Saint Laurent, to which the current church is dedicated. Living in the 3^rd century, he was one of the martyrs who defended Christianity. The Roman emperor tortured him by putting him on a grill and let the fire burn him slowly until he died. Later he became a saint, and Christians in Middle Ages prayed to him to cure their burns and skin illnesses. A very interesting connection to my subject.

Well, at the moment let me stop here. I will not overwhelm myself by writing too much at a time, since that only intimidates a future writing. Perhaps “peu en peu” is better. Just like this beautiful fountain in front of me: let the water flow more slowing and continuously.

The rain just stopped. The air feels fresh and cool. It is about the time that people here begin their night life, and there are so many things in summer for them to do, and for myself as well!

À Grenoble

The first few days in Grenoble is overwhelmingly thrilling. The city, located at the foot of the Alps, has many cultural heritages and natural beauties. I live in a lovely apartment in the centre-ville, with a kind host grandma, Madam Biron. From the porch of the apartment, I can see the mountains at the distance with snow on the top. That is a lovely scene. 

I may say that the geography of Grenoble is somewhat similar to Kyoto, both surrounded by mountains. The difference is that the mountains in Kyoto are imbued with temples and cultural sites. For Grenoble, though not completely absent, the mountains are primarily a natural resort for skiing and hiking. I will surely "profiter de ça."

I have been discovering more in the city: Do you know Stendhal was born here in 1783? And he absolutely abhorred this city! Do you know Rousseau stayed here for a short period of time as well? Do you know Napoléon passed here in 1815 before he went to Paris to retake the power from the Royalists? And there are a few beautiful monasteries on the mountainside. One of them, la grande Chartreuse, is where the documentary "Into the Great Silence" was made. A place to which I have no access, though mesmerizing to contemplate the life inside. 

Each of these deserves a separate entry. And that will be done. But the city itself, especially the old section where I stay, is fascinating as well. I have already experienced the cultural difference between America and Europe. Everything here is delicately small: alleys, cafés, restaurants, bookstores, bakeries, etc. I have taken a few times of walk around the area. It was absolutely lovely. There are also many "places" in the area, where I can often find churches, monuments, or other historical sites. The summer time is the best in Grenoble. People here love to hang out outside, chatting with friends, enjoying the sunshine, having a good meal. A different kind of life. 

Well, c'est tout pour aujourd'hui. Tomorrow the class starts, and perhaps it is the start of my transition from the initial cultural excitement to a more gradual cultural adaptation. On verra. 

Norman Rockwell

Before I knew who Norman Rockwell is, I encountered his works three times. In Japanese, perhaps I can say that this is 縁があります. We have a special tie. First time was in K's lecture, where he showed one of Rockwell's paintings.

The girl in front of the mirror has two images: one is her reflection in the mirror, and the other is the actress on the magazine. The painting struck me because I feel it portrays something universal. All of us have these two images: who we are and who we strive to be.

Early this year, when I was at AAS, a professor showed me and a new friend we met a mural preserved in a Song tomb. The mural is about the daily life of a family, which apparently manufactured medicine for living. "This is like Rockwell's paintings on American lives," they commented. I was at a loss. Who is Rockwell? They then explained to me by showing another painting of him. 

This is a rather amusing image of a boy, before receiving the penicillin injection, examines the certificate of the doctor. I encountered this image again in JG's lecture on American history of medicine, from which I learned more about the social context of the image. Despite Rockwell's playful depiction, doctors' authority was rarely challenged in the mid-20th century America, when this painting was produced.   

So who is Norman Rockwell? He is one of the most eminent illustrators/artists in the 20th century America. What made him famous is the over-300 cover illustrations that he produced  for the Saturday Evening Post magazine from 1910s to 1960s. The popularity of the magazine made millions of Americans familiar with his works. In a sense, Rockwell's works are quintessential American, because they captured the spirit of everyday American lives in the 20th century. 

Rockwell spent the last 25 years of his life in Stockbridge, a small town in the western Massachusetts. Hence a museum was built there after he died in the 70s. Out of curiosity, I went there last weekend. Unlike most of the museums I visited before, this one is located in a rural area. On my way there, I was driving through dense forests in a mountainous region. And almost all of a sudden, the museum dashed into my eyes, sitting on a big grassland with mountains in the back. It was beautiful. 

The museum is not very big. On one level, it hangs up all reprints of the 323 paintings that Rockwell made for the Post. Going through them is like a quick survey of American history in the 20th century. Many people may not say Rockwell is a true artist, and Rockwell himself admitted this. Most of his works are for commercial use; he worked for deadlines and had to follow the guidelines of those magazines he worked for. For example, his illustrations for the Past are generally uplifting and bright, even during the dark period of the Great Depression. This is because the Post, a conservative magazine, set the style. Similarly, Rockwell's portrayal of American lives after the WWII is positive, with soldiers coming back home and establishing happy families. The reality may not be that simple. The malfunction of the American middle class in the 50s is widespread, though only gradually recognized later. If you want to get a real sense of what this is about, go to see the movies such as "The Hours" and "Revolutionary Road."          

But I don't intend to devalue Rockwell's works. If he is not a great artist, he is a great story-teller. The commercial concern made him efficiently produce paintings that can tell stories in a few seconds in order to catch the eyes of his audience. And he did it quite successfully without sacrificing the meticulous details of his artwork. In fact, traditional training made him pay great attention to details. As a result, his works are both arresting and accurate. No small an achievement. Just look back to the painting "Girl at the mirror." Isn't there something beautiful in this painting, something sadly beautiful?  

  

A new time

When I checked the date of my last post, it is Sept. 5, 2011. In French, I would say "j'ai la honte," that is, I am pathetic! Nine months have passed. Lots of things took place during the time: I submitted my prospectus; my prospectus got passed; I taught two courses; I went to visit my brother in SF; I received a fellowship for my research abroad. And many more. On the other hand, nothing seemed to happen at all. Right now, I am sitting on the window seat in my living room, looking over the quiet street outside and musing upon whatever in my head, or nothing. That was exactly the situation one year ago, when I started this blog. I love summer time in Cambridge.    

Time is an interesting thing. Everyone agrees that it is irreversible. It flows in one direction, like a river. But time is never an abstract concept. It associates with things in this world and our experiences. Hence, the contour of its flow becomes more complicated. Sometimes, it repeats itself, either through a natural pattern (seasonality, for example) or by personal experiences. We can also think about memory, which makes our past part of our present. Surely we can contemplate a historical time, that is, a time flowing from the past to the present. Many historians contemplate this issue. One of my former advisors even claimed that the conception of time is the key factor to distinguish a modernist from a post-modernist perspective.

What does this mean? Let's put these technical jargons aside, and just think about a popular narrative of time - a progressive time. This makes sense at the first glimpse: with the development of science and technology, we are living in a better world than those who live in the Middle Ages. Barely can we find a person who prefers to live in the past, no matter how nostalgia he/she is, where epidemics abounded and the living condition was miserable. This progressive narrative, though, is not without problems. These days it has become a tacit knowledge among historians that a progressive time does not do justice to history, because it usually engages the use of applying modern standards to the evaluation of the past. This inevitably ends up with a glorious celebration of the present at the expense of dismissing the past as backward, unsophisticated or even alien. The end result: a complete disconnect between the past and the present. Historians wouldn't be very happy about that.

Let's listen to what Walter Benjamin, the eminent social critique in the early 20th century, comments on the topic. Here are his words on a painting by Paul Klee :

"A Klee painting named 'Angelus Novus' shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to say, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress." 

What historians try to do is to remove the violence of progress in order to "awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed." 

Why do I say so much gibberish about time and history? I don't know. I would like to say more things about Benjamin's fascinating writings. But at the moment, it might serve to alleviate my guilt of not writing for my blog for such a long time. Time is not a linear, seamless thing. Neither is my blog writing. Enough about excuse. Now I want to initiate a new time for my blog, to keep writing in the following year, when I will travel extensively. Let's see where my angle flies.       

   

The power of writing

The last week of the summer, before the fall term began, turned out to be the most productive and surprisingly enjoyable week for me, in a strange way. Throughout the week, I dedicated myself to the final writing of my prospectus draft, a goal I set up for myself at the beginning of the summer. That sounds barely exciting, doesn’t it? We all have the painstaking experiences of writing research papers in their various forms. Especially for a non-native speaker, this exercise is all the more daunting. I agree entirely. Writing is never easy, even for a native-speaker. And I have plenty of memories of finishing up term papers in a short period of time, memories of squeezing out the right words, being stuck by one sentence, or creating a prose that was both articulate and elegent. Indeed early in that week, that feeling did occur to me, perhaps due to the pressure I gave to myself, a feeling that was immediately familiar and unsettling.

But as I proceeded with my writing, something started to change. If I can take the liberty of anthropomorphizing my writing, during the early stage I was pulling her with great force to move forward. Yet as the time went on, the power relation inverted: I felt being pulled with great force by her. This sense of losing control of oneself was quite marvellous and indeed intellectually rewarding. My mind was occupied with the writing all the time, to the degree that I even could not sleep very well. New ideas popped up constantly and all I did was to keep the rhythm going. I can only remember two cases in Ann Arbor, both on a much smaller project, that brought me the similar experience. Yes, the writing could be enjoyable.

That is why I found writing a mysterious enterprise. We all know that we write in order to express our ideas. Plato emphasizes the paramount importance of the precise definitions of words and the proper use of them to articulate thoughts in our minds, or to be more exact, the intangible yet illuminating soul inside each of us. That is why writing is a fundamental communication tool for humans. But my experiences, as many other writers, tell me that there is another creative dimention of writing, that is, writing seems to have her own agency to initiate and propagate ideas of her own. Put it in another way, writing sppears to have this peculiar power of reorganizing our minds and surfacing our subconcious thoughts to a tangible form. How strange!

Writing could be powerful and enjoyable because it mediates our conversation with our inner self. “Mediation” is the key word here. For Plato, the ideal of writing, or speech or any form of language maneuver is to make it like a mirror, a crystal clear mirror so that it can perfectly reflect our soul, a stable, unchanging entity within us. But other philosophers, especially those in the continental vein, would argue that neither writing, or language in general, is a passive exercise nor our soul can be degraded into something concrete and stagnant. There is no mirror, just as there is nothing to be reflected onto it. Instead everything is mediated; everything undergoes constant flux and metamorphosis. Our world, just as our selves, is forever chaotic, forever unstable, forever transforming.

This is not a place to contemplate continental philosophers’ thoughts on writing and language, but I do appreciate the unpredictable aspect of writing as they point out. This unpredictability, the peculiar process of indentifying our inner selves in the most unlikely corners, is perhaps the most fulfilling part of writing for me. Eventually the power of writing resides in the power of our minds, with their manifold manifestations in our world. It offers a window through which we can peek into a space that is at the same time puzzling and galvanizing. Of course most of the time we don’t find writing so edifying especially when we do it under external restrains. But occasionally when it happened, as what happened to me during that week, it was a surprisingly wonderful experience.

When I was in Michigan, one friend of mine gave me this quote: “When you write, always follow your pen.” I resonate with that. People might say that it is more of a technique for novelists and creative writing, but how can you draw the clear boundary here? Of course as historicans, we are confined by historical sources and cannot write down things based on our sheer imagination. But I think that if we properly make use of this creative aspect of writing, certainly involving lots of skills and experiences, we can make unexpected connections and bring illuminating discoveries to our audience, and also to ourselves.    

Boston Summer and Tanglewood

As the summer approaches its end, a melancholy sentiment gradually surged from my heart. I don't remember what was the last time I had such a peaceful summer as this one. My summers in the past few years had been busy and full of activities: graduation, language studies, traveling, emotional roller coaster, etc. They were rewarding experiences, but a bit hectic and overwhelming. This summer, on the other hand, has been truly serene. I stay in Boston, set up my own life routine, see some old friends, and explore the New England area from time to time. Some moments, though seemingly commonplace, are quite memorable. For one, every time when I finished swimming at the Blodgett Pool in later afternoon and biked back home, I crossed the bridge on the Charles River. As I turned my head toward the river, I saw the sunset lightening up the water creating myriad of sparkles on its surface. Canoes and sails slid elegantly on the river, with everything tinged with a golden color. To find beauty of life, you don't need go afar; it is right next to you, as long as you have the eyes to see.

No wonder I began to like Boston more. I didn't like it when I firstly moved here. It had less to do with Boston than the metropolitan life in general. I found the traffic nauseating, people intense, and the rhythm of life faster (of course this is in comparison to Ann Arbor, a mid-Western university town). But now after two years of living, I realized that city life has its own appeals, especially for a historical town like Boston. When I was in Kyoto last summer, my mentor K told me this wonderful Japanese saying over a dinner: Wherever you live, it is the capital (of your life). [住めば、都] There is also a similar saying from Analects that goes "Since you have come, settle down at the place." (既來之，則安之) I think I am making Boston the capital of my life at the moment.

That is probably why as the summer is getting over, I became a bit anxious. The busy schedule of fall is looming large: teaching, course taking, prospectus writing, lots of other academic activities. Although I still have work to finish by the end of the month, I found somewhat difficult to concentrate perhaps due to melancholy derived from nostalgia for the fleeting summer time. Nonetheless, I hope the rhythm of my life will continue.

Yesterday, as part of the summer activities, I went to the Tanglewood Musical Center to watch a performance there. The center is located in Lenox, a small town in western Massachusetts not far from the border between MA and NY. This is the summer arena for BSO (Boston Symphony Orchestra), a prestigious orchestra with 130-year history. [Interestingly, Tanglewood was named after Nathaniel Hawthorne's work Tanglewood Tales.] I have to admit that I am not a crazy fan for classical music, though I listen to them from time to time largely because of their beautiful melodies (so let's say, pieces from Mozart, Chopin, and Tchaikovsky are more accessible to me). Back in Ann Arbor, sometimes I went to see a classical music performance not because they were good (I couldn't tell anyway) but because they were famous. This time, I chose a different kind of show: a pop musical event; a performance on Hollywood movie soundtracks conducted by the legendary film music composer John Williams, who made music for Star Wars, E.T., Schindler's List, Jurassic Park, among others. In addition, Morgan Freeman also showed up, narrating an episode written by William Faulkner accompanied by John Williams's music. His voice was quite magnetic as people usually say.

Perhaps it is worth two and an half hours driving to participate such an event. The atmosphere was festive. The arena is oriented to family gatherings; behind the regular seating is this huge lawn where people can bring food and drinks, and enjoy the show under the sky. As the performance started with the familiar soundtracks and a collage of movie clips shown on the big screen (similar to the opening of the annual Oscar Ceremony), people became excited and exclaimed delightfully. The old lady sitting next to me seemed to be very emotional when she saw some familiar images on the screen. I understood the sentiments well. As everybody else in the audience, I came here primarily not because the content of the music (it is euphonious for sure), but because the memories connected to the music and the movie-watching experiences. The whole generation of Americans grew up with watching Star Wars and Jaws, which have become an important part of their identity. I can easily imagine the lady next to me is one of them. Although I myself don't share the same experiences (for one thing, the Star Trek or the Monty Python references still elude me), I resonate with them how memories and life stories intertwine with music and movie-watching experiences. My stories are too many to recount here (perhaps save for a future episode), and indeed they have shaped my identity significantly. So I sat there, enjoying the familiar tunes with flashes of memories in my head, some more fuzzy than others. I felt greatly contended.