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After Kagoshima, I activated my Japan Rail Pass, and took the (relatively) newly opened Kyushu Shinkansen up to Fukuoka. The main purpose of stopping over in Fukuoka was to see a procession scroll held by the Fukuoka City Museum. I do wish that I had planned a bit better, gone over to visit Kyushu University, checked out their library, maybe met up with a friend/colleague or two. But, everything was just so up in the air. I focused on getting permission and arranging an appointment to see this one scroll, and then just figured I would take the opportunity to see the rest of the City Museum, the Kyushu National Museum, and whatever else I might happen upon.

The only other time I’d been to Fukuoka (visiting a friend for a weekend in 2008), I made the mistake of trying to visit the Kyushu National Museum on a Monday. I had forgotten that National Museums (and a lot of other places) are closed on Mondays. And I had heard such amazing things about this then very newly opened national museum, which supposedly had such new and innovative approaches to the way its displays were organized. So, I was glad to get to finally go and check it out.

The Kyushu National Museum.

Sadly, the Kyushu National Museum turned out to be quite the disappointment. Firstly, because unlike the Tokyo National Museum they don’t allow photography, meaning I couldn’t capture anything of the really incredible artifacts on display, which can’t be seen anywhere else.

These included a 1591 letter from Nguyen Hoang to the “Ruler of Japan” (i.e. Toyotomi Hideyoshi), which I actually blogged about a short while back. The earliest extant communication between Vietnamese and Japanese rulers, ten years older than what was until very recently believed to have marked the earliest such exchange, this letter was designated an Important Cultural Property in 2018. I researched and wrote about late 16th – early 17th century Japan-SE Asia relations in my first MA thesis, and for more than ten years now have been excited to eventually get to see some of these letters. But now that I finally have, I wasn’t permitted to take photos for my personal enjoyment, or to post here. I guess the best I can hope for is either that Kyûhaku will eventually change their policies, or that the object will eventually go on exhibit somewhere else, that does allow photographs.

A series of seals from Korea were also of great interest. Coming from the collection of the Sô clan, samurai lords of Tsushima, these seals have a rather special historical pedigree. By which I mean, I’m sure there are plenty of Korean seals out there created for all different purposes and which made their way around the world for all kinds of reasons. But these are some of the very seals which the Sô clan lords were given directly by the Korean court to use as authorization to trade. These are not simply examples of something sort of similar, these are the very objects I have read so much about, in discussions of Tsushima’s special position in the history of Japan-Korea trade relationships. The Korean court granted seals or tallies to certain groups and individuals, which they could then use to identify themselves as authorized merchants. The Ming court gave tallies to various samurai warlords for similar purposes, and Toyotomi Hideyoshi and the Tokugawa shoguns later gave “red seal letters” (shuinjo) to authorized merchants in a similar fashion. In fact, the 1601 letter which I mentioned above, exchanged between Nguyen Hoang and Tokugawa Ieyasu, discusses just such trade concerns and red seal authorization papers. Of course, any such system is going to lead to the creation of forgeries – fake authorization documents (or seals). Such forgeries appear prominently in discussions of Korea-Tsushima interactions, and so to see them on display as well was fantastic. No photos, though. Boo.

One more I’ll mention is a scroll painting by Sesshû, one of the most celebrated Japanese ink painters of all time, depicting “peoples of various countries” 国々人物図巻 and including beautiful and detailed depictions of Qing/Chinese individuals of a great many ranks or social positions, from King to monk to peasant.

Entrance to the “Cultural Exchange” permanent exhibits gallery at the Kyushu National Museum.

Sadly, the organization and design of the exhibition overall was quite the disappointment as well. I had heard wonderful things, that it was going to be so innovative. But unfortunately it feels little different from any “international contacts” and “cultural exchange” section of any other museum, just expanded somewhat.

The exhibits are organized only very roughly into any semblance of chronological order or by geographical or cultural logic. There is not much of a coordinated narrative, but rather just a splash of many different examples of exchanged. A few items related to red seal ships and Vietnam, a few related to the Sô/Tsushima and Korea, a model of a Chinese temple in Nagasaki. But no discussion of Korean or Ryukyuan embassies to Edo, or of Dejima or the Nagasaki Chinatown. At least not in as clear and explicit a way as in the British Museum, for example. And no sense of the overall history of interactions between Japan and any one other culture or country. Things aren’t really placed in a context. We get some Ryukyuan ceramics but no discussion of the embassies. Some items related to interactions with Vietnam, but no models or paintings of the red seal trading ships that constituted one of the central forms of interactions in the 16th-17th centuries, and no discussion of Ayutthaya or anywhere else in SE Asia at that particular time.

Overall, the entire thing is very scattered, very bara bara as they say in Japanese. Outside of large numbers 1,2,3,4, on the walls, there’s no real structure guiding you through the galleries – it’s all open plan and you’re left to wander around in no particular order, and thus within no particular structure of narrative order or context.

As cool as it is to have so many SE Asian artifacts on display, it doesn’t feel so revolutionary so much as it just feels like the Asia galleries of the Tokyo National Museum.

In some sections, objects from all over Asia are displayed together, with no context or framing device at all. In one room, they have a Gandhara Buddha, a Buddha head from Afghanistan, Goryeo & Sui Buddhas from Tsushima (very cool examples of very early cultural interaction), and a large bronze Bishamonten that’s apparently the only surviving bronze of its kind by the Ashiya 芦屋 foundry. But no labels saying “Buddhism appears differently around the world,” or “each culture’s Buddhist sculpture was influenced by others, including from as far away as Afghanistan.”. Nor anything about the history of Chinese and Korean Buddhist sculptures entering Japan.

I can see why they didn’t have a catalog of their regular exhibit, but only catalogs of “treasures of the collection”: because there is no real logic, no real narrative.

Portraits of the Kuroda lords and other artworks, at the Fukuoka City Museum.

By contrast, the Fukuoka City Museum was excellent. They allowed photos throughout most of the exhibits, if I’m remembering correctly, had lots of fantastic stuff on display, and followed a clear and structured chronological narrative.

Easily one of the most famous objects in the Fukuoka City Museum collection is a golden seal from the year 57 CE. The oldest object with writing on it ever found in Japan, it was a formal royal seal granted by the Emperor of the Han Dynasty to the ruler of a small kingdom called Na, based at that time somewhere in the general vicinity of what is today the city of Fukuoka. Who knows what happened to the seal for 1700 years, but sometime in the 1700s, a farmer found it (!?!?) on a tiny little island just off in the bay, near the castle-town of Fukuoka. In the museum today, the tiny seal, only about one or two inches square, is dramatically displayed in its own small room. Immediately afterwards are displays including 18th-19th century manuscripts writing about this discovery.

From there, the museum goes on to tell a thorough but not too overly-detailed narrative of the history of the area, in a very well-organized and engaging way, with lots of wonderful objects on display and good thematic divisions, gallery labels, etc.

They allowed photos of much of the exhibits but not everything, and for whatever reason I never really wrote down any notes while I was there. So I have nothing too deep to say, except that it seems a very well-done museum. I really love local history museums like this one, where they have a really grand worthwhile story to tell – the history of one of Japan’s greatest and most intercultural port cities throughout the pre-modern period, the home of a most ancient kingdom, and later of various palaces and castles of great historical significance, including becoming home in the 17th-19th century of the Kuroda clan, one of the great samurai families, who left behind tons of great treasures. We don’t learn nearly enough about any of this in, say, the National Museum of Japanese History or the Tokyo National Museum, let alone in our survey histories (or even our much more in-depth seminars or the like), and so it’s wonderful that here it is, a museum telling this story.

The Asian Art Museum, Fukuoka, was another exciting stop. I had never actually heard of this museum before, but as it turned out it was just down the street from the place I was staying at.*

Once I learned that there was an “Asian Art Museum” specializing in modern art from across Asia, I got excited that it might be some Nihonga, Yôga, Guohua, and the equivalents across the region. Maybe it’s just purely because I had an MA advisor who specializes in such things, but I’ve really grown quite interested in that period towards the very end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th when Japan, China, and I presume Okinawa, Korea, and elsewhere as well, began engaging with “modernity” in art, wrestling with whether to make their own traditional modes of art “modern” in some way, either making them into “national arts” or “national traditions,” or ditching them in favor of Western styles and modes of art (which were seen at the time as obviously more “modern”) and adopting that as the new national art. And all at right around the same time as much of Europe was in fact leaving behind such expert masterful realism in favor of various modes of “modernism”, beginning with Impressionism.

In any case, there was not to be found any such discussion or display of issues of modernity or modernism at this museum. Here, “modern” really means “contemporary,” as in contemporary art of the last decade or two or three, meaning a very different set of types or styles of artwork than Nihonga or Yôga. Which isn’t a problem – it was still very cool.

Still from Yamashiro Chikako’s video piece, “Your Voice Came Out Through My Throat” (2009).

In fact, to my surprise, the very first work in the gallery was by an Okinawan artist. Yamashiro Chikako (b. 1976) is an Okinawan video artist. In her 2009 piece 「あなたの声私の喉を通った」(“Your Voice Came Out Through My Throat”) – I’m sorry I haven’t been able to find the video online – a survivor of the Battle of Okinawa tells of his experience, and his voice is heard even as we watch Yamashiro’s face, mouthing (seemingly speaking) the words. Complete with her tears and facial expressions. At one point, she stops talking and just cries, losing her composure at the thought of these horrors, as the voice continues describing them.

I really appreciated the way that Yamashiro’s work was displayed. I had been in Okinawa just a few days earlier, and I really felt – really got the feeling – that this is pretty much just how it would have been shown in Okinawa too. Catalogs for key recent exhibits of Okinawan contemporary art, including Okinawa Prismed and Okinawa Bunka no Kiseki, were placed for visitors to read, alongside catalogs specifically about Okinawan women artists. Yamashiro’s work was displayed very straightforwardly, without exoticization, I felt.

And the Asian Art Museum allowed photos! Very surprising for a modern art museum, and especially for one in Japan. Truly, a most welcome thing.

Modern art from across Asia is shown, not country by country, but by periods and themes. I was a bit disappointed to not see more Nihonga and Yoga, but the great range of stuff from across Asia is pretty great in a different way.

Still lots to see in Fukuoka, though. I’ve got to go back sometime.


*Incidentally, a nice place worth staying at. Sadly, I didn’t remember to get photos of this place, or to take good notes either. But from what I can remember it was extremely clean – that white, bright, new aesthetic that I just don’t understand why the business hotels with all their brown don’t aim for. I had a small room all to myself – bunk beds, if I remember correctly, but I guess you can book the room rather than only booking by the bed. Small but perfectly clean, good showers/bathrooms down the hall. The whole place had a slightly funny nautical theme, like you’re staying in a modified spaceship or cruise ship or something. I dunno. But in any case, they also had a nice sunny common room on the top floor. I’m not super into socializing with other hostel-stayers; I’m a bit too old for that partying backpackers sort of vibe. Or maybe I’m not too old and it was just never my thing to begin with. But, free wifi, plenty of tables, a nice big kitchen up there. And just a good, bright, clean, aesthetic. Not gloomy or claustrophobic like the business hotels. Plus, WeBase Hakata is pretty conveniently located – only a couple blocks from the subway, the Asian Art Museum, and a major theatre venue.

All photos my own.

Just someone’s bike parked at the Kagoshima University Dept of Agriculture

Continuing my way-behind recounting of my summer adventures:

One of the really wonderful things about being back in Japan is the feeling of infinite possibilities. Especially when I’m in Okinawa, I feel like if I had ten lifetimes, I could research and write about such an incredible variety of topics. Really explore a diversity of aspects of Okinawan history and culture. Not to mention trying out countless cafes and restaurants, going to shows, getting to know performers/scholars/activists, etc.

Back in Naha for the first time after living (nearby) there for six months, and I just kept thinking, I love this town. Part of it, I think, is just the self-reinforcement of how familiar it’s become. The more you get to know a place, the closer you get to it emotionally, just from familiarity. But I think a lot of it also just has to do with the city itself. I love the feel, the culture, the food. Of course sometimes it’s brutally hot out but even then, much like in Hawaiʻi, the sun just makes everything so beautiful. The colors pop, the sky is so blue and those buildings and whatever that are white are so white, and when there’s a breeze, or even when there isn’t, it just feels so open and airy. Maybe that’s just the difference of coming to Naha from Tokyo and NY – anywhere is going to feel open and airy compared to the “canyons” of Manhattan.

The view of Kokusai-dôri in Naha from my guesthouse, AbestCube Naha.

Coming back to “mainland” Japan from Okinawa, I always feel the cultural difference pretty strongly. It’s not a difference like one would get culture shock, like going from the US to Japan or the US to England or something like that. But, just that Japanese food and Japanese traditional architecture and certain other things like that are, basically, foreign in Okinawa, or at least they’re a minority cultural presence. When you go to a “Japanese restaurant” in Okinawa, it stands out, it feels like you’ve entered a different space, much like for example a Japanese restaurant in the US. You’ve stepped out of Okinawan cultural space into Japanese space, where the food is different, the aesthetics are different…. And, one does get a sense or a feeling that this is the culture that conquered and annexed and sought to assimilate Okinawa. I don’t mean that in an overly political, fist-shaking, crying for revolution, kind of way; I don’t mean it in an anti-Japanese kind of way; but just that I do get a little bit of a sense of that. And it is tied into a certain ignorance – which, again, I don’t mean in an overly political way, but just that it’s interesting to go from somewhere where the tension between Okinawanness and Japaneseness is ever-present, to somewhere where there is (more or less) only Japaneseness, and thus no tension – whether in Tokyo or in Kagoshima, Okinawa is just not at all on the forefront of the vast majority of people’s attention, just as Hawaii or Guam or Okinawa for that matter are not at the forefront of people’s attention or awareness in LA or DC or NY.

Okinawa University of the Arts as seen from Shuri castle.

In any case, on a separate subject, for my first few nights in Kagoshima I was staying in a real proper hotel for the first time on this trip, and was seriously wondering why. I got it for quite cheap, if I remember correctly, so that’s good. But, honestly, I stayed with my dad in a motel on the side of the highway in middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, and the place was nicer than this. I guess I should have expected it – I’ve stayed in enough Japanese hotels in my life. But it’s just funny, it’s weird, you know? Here I am, moving from what’s ostensibly a lower-class of establishment, hostels and cabin hotels, youth backpackers’ sorts of places which are kind of, in a certain sense, on the margins of the hotel industry (insofar as they are not the big chains which dominate the industry). And yet, both the &AND HOSTEL AKIHABARA that I stayed in for a few nights at the beginning of my trip, and the Abest Cube Kokusai-dori place where I stayed in Naha, had a much brighter, cleaner, nicer, newer aesthetic, and, really, in a certain sense, better facilities. I mean, having your own private bathroom should of course count as a plus over having a shared bathroom down the hall. But, actually, I just really don’t like these tiny in-suite box bathrooms. The hotel room itself is so small that you’re literally sleeping just two or three feet away from the bathroom door, just two or three feet away from the toilet, albeit with a wall in between. And it’s just gross. Plus, these box bathrooms always feel cramped, and quite often you have to switch over the water from the sink to the shower – I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. It feels cheap, low quality, to me.

And while the room, and the hotel overall, certainly look clean enough and don’t have an overtly run-down sort of feeling like so many hostels do, still, in comparison to the very bright, clean, white sort of aesthetic of the nicer, newer, hostels, I don’t understand why it seems so standard in mainstream hotels for everything to be brown / tan / cream. Not that I think it’s genuinely less clean, but it feels less clean. It feels darker, smaller, more closed-in. It lacks that sunny, airy, open feeling that you get at places like Abest Cube and &AND HOSTEL. Why do they do that?

Halls at Abest Cube Naha.

Sure, they’ve got some funny stuff, like how you can’t control your AC individually, and how they don’t want you talking on the phone in your room (because I guess the walls are too thin, and the noise carries?). But outside of those two things, I have absolutely no complaints at all about Abest Cube Kokusai-dori. Everything looks perfectly clean and sleek like it’s brand new. Not just recently cleaned, but honestly like-new perfect. There isn’t even the tiniest hint of the place being rundown or “discount” or lesser-than. It’s no glitzy five-star hotel, but who needs that honestly? The bathrooms and showers are perfectly clean. The water pressure and temperature in the showers is excellent. The beds are nothing super amazing (memory foam or anything) but they’re big, and more than comfortable enough. The common rooms are nice, and offer a nice view overlooking Kokusai-dori. The breakfast is small and basic, but it’s freshly made and it’s included. A slice of toast, half a hard boiled egg, a little salad, a little fruit, and a little soup.

And I can hardly imagine a more convenient location. It was cool staying in the guesthouse in Tsuboya, and it would be cool to stay *in* Heiwa Dori as well, really immersed in a neighborhood like that. But this is really the next best thing. A couple minutes walk to the monorail, a few minutes in the opposite direction to the entrance to Heiwa Dori. Sure, Kokusai-dori is crazy touristy, in some respects it’s like staying in Times Square. But even so, it puts you right in the center of everything. And I managed to get a room – a private room, not a capsule or a dorm bed – for less than $30/night.

*This* is the right way to do lodgings. I wish I could stay at Abest Cube all the time everywhere I go.

Right: Heiwa-dôri, a maze of a shopping arcade in central Naha.

“Ryûkyûjin ôrai suji nigiwai no zu,” c. 1850, Uetsuki Gyôkei, detail. Section of a handscroll depicting the hubbub in the streets of Edo just after a Ryukyuan embassy procession passed through. Small, low-quality photo found online somewhere – no thanks to Kagoshima University Library, who refuse to make such images available at all.

Turning to my time in Kagoshima, my sincere thanks to Hori-san at the Kagoshima University Library for allowing me to see two beautiful and one-of-a-kind paintings, even though the library’s website seems to suggest that as a basic policy they don’t generally show anyone the originals. No thanks to his institution’s policies, meanwhile, which do not allow researchers to take photographs, even with an application /permission form, and which insist we should satisfy ourselves with the rather poor, low quality digital images of which, even those, can only be viewed at the library and cannot be downloaded or otherwise copied to take home. I don’t know how anyone is supposed to do research like this.

No thanks, too, to the Kagoshima Prefectural Library, which on multiple occasions has shown the most obnoxiously strict interpretations of copyright law I have ever seen. Even when other institutions explicitly say you can copy one whole article out of a journal so long as you’re not copying the whole journal, only at Kagoshima Prefectural Library would they consider an article one whole and expect that anyone should be okay with only copying parts of the whole. Seriously?

Above: Model of Kagoshima castle main gate, which apparently they’re planning to rebuild by 2020.
Below: A shiden electric streetcar passing through the Tenmonkan neighborhood of Kagoshima.

All that said, though, Kagoshima is a city I could see living in. I don’t know anything about which institutions might ever hire me, but I guess thinking more along the lines of a several-month fellowship or something, I just like that it’s such a good size city. Tenmonkan is a great vibrant but cozy shôtengai neighborhood, and more or less everything else in the city is in either short walking distance or there are the shiden streetcars, which I love.

There’s something about the Tenmonkan area that just makes me feel like it’s the classic model shôtengai. After a night or two in that crappy business hotel, I found a wonderful AirBnB right in the middle of the shôtengai. I was nothing too special, not fancy at all, but for less than $35/night I got to have an entire apartment to myself – small kitchen, private bath/shower, A/C, wifi, and (oddly) three beds in the one large bedroom. I don’t know when I personally will find myself looking to stay in Kagoshima with 2+ close friends as a whole traveling group, but if Take’s apartment is available, it would be an excellent place. And the shôtengai itself is nice, too. Not particularly touristy, not particularly hipstery/gentrified, but also not too run-down or out-of-date. Just, I dunno, normal. A good, decent, assortment of shops. I imagine that if I lived there more long-term, it could be a decent place to go shopping, to find favorite stores or bars or cafés… Not as exciting as Naha’s Heiwa-dôri, but, a nice taste of the “regular” (non-touristy) Japanese shopping street experience.

Outer walls of Kagoshima castle.

All photos my own, except where noted otherwise.

model

The musical instruments stores area of Tokyo, near Ochanomizu.
My summer adventures continue. After accompanying my gf to a conference she was presenting at, and then spending some time home in New York (and Philly) with family, I was fortunate to receive some kind and generous funding for a research trip to Japan; just for a few weeks, to grab a few more materials I hadn’t obtained in my year there, to catch up with professors again now that I have one more year of progress under my belt, and so forth. One advantage: being on a tourist visa rather than the year-long student or researcher (cultural activities) visa meant that I was able to get a JR Pass – unlimited rides on Japan Rail, anywhere in the country, including most bullet trains (shinkansen), for one week.

Deep gratitude to the University of Tokyo Historiographical Institute (Shiryôhensanjo) for allowing me affiliation for this brief period. Though I was not physically in Tokyo for most of it, it was a pleasure and a privilege to have access to walk around the stacks (rather than only searching the databases and requesting books from the desk) and to have a workspace of my own, to use at any hour of the day or night (rather than being limited to the hours and policy restrictions of the Reading Room). Not to mention having somewhere to receive mail – since I was moving around from one hostel/guesthouse to another every few days, it was wonderful to have somewhere I could order books to. In so many ways, having affiliation as a “visiting researcher” at the Hensanjo really saved me, 助かりました as they say in Japanese.

I’m still rather behind on my blog posts, so this is about two months ago already, but here are some of my thoughts from that time:

The Red Gate (Akamon) at the entrance to the University of Tokyo, in a woodblock print by Oiso Yoshihira (1903-1988).

After living here for a real amount of time now, it feels weird to come back for such a short period. Really just sort of dipping in, and then back out. Coming back to Tokyo yet again, for what I guess must be my eighth(?) time, there’s that relaxed feeling of happiness, that smile of comfort, that sigh of relief that comes with being here. But normally, or I guess I shouldn’t say normally, but last year at least, being here for the better part of a whole five months, it was such a completely different situation from this time. That excitement about being here is tempered by the knowledge that I won’t get to see very much of it at all. I’ll see a few friends, go to a few archives, then leave, that’s really about it. I mean, I suppose, over the course of the next three to four weeks in total, I’ll get to experience Japan, for sure. The food, the convenience stores, the trains, etc etc. All the little things I love about everyday (and not so everyday) life in Japan. But just not all that much in Tokyo specifically.

Coming back to the Hensanjo, also, has that same feeling. To be here, it’s so tempting to want to think I’m here for some real amount of time. To settle back into the office, and to just sit and get back to work, get back into a routine. But that’s not to be. It’s a wonderful feeling to feel familiarity with such a place, and a certain sense of belonging. But it’s so oddly temporary…

I also feel much the same feelings I do about any place I’m nostalgic for – remembering the daily routine I had and probably romanticizing it. Thinking of the life I led, or could have led. It sounds stupid perhaps, but walking past a particular Starbucks and thinking of how you could have – even though you didn’t – but could have made that a regular place you regularly studied at, for example. Or just thinking about life at the visiting researcher dorms at Oiwake, and how nice that apartment was and how nice it could be to live there again (or, how doing so would be too much of a return to the same-old, and that I might actually get kind of sad about being there, and should instead seek out new experiences!).

An early 20th century (?) hand-drawn copy of an 1832 document diagramming the Ryukyuan envoys’ ceremonial audiences with the shogun in that year. A tiny little booklet just tucked away amongst the multitudes on the shelves of the Historiographical Institute.

On a rather different train of thought, another thing that I was reminded of as I explored the many floors of shelves of books at the Hensanjo is how much my interest in History is in part informed by a love of materials and images – a love of for lack of a better word, show and tell. I want to show people what neat stuff I’ve found. But the structure, or culture, of our academia, focusing not on the materials themselves but only on what can be learned from them makes this difficult, if not impossible. There’s no good way to show in a citation the wonderful variety of documents you’re citing, and more to the point, I’m not sure anyone (officially) cares. Which I think is a terrible shame. In person, most historians would be excited to see what kinds of things you’ve found, but in citation, it’s only about the quality of the argument, which I think is a real shame.

But, then, I suppose that’s what blogs and social media are for. I’ve truly loved getting involved in Academic Twitter. People sharing their adventures and misadventures in the archive, the cool things they’ve found and so forth. And just seeing that some of the scholars who produce the most interesting work are not simply professionals, but are also simultaneously the kinds of people who might tweet about cats, about food, about all sorts of things. Makes them human. But, returning back around, while I sometimes hesitate to post photos of objects for which I was only officially permission to take photos specifically for research purposes, and while that continues to be source of frustration and disappointment for me, I am glad for the outlet where I can share at least a little of something of what I’ve found. All my photos of things I feel comfortable sharing, if they don’t appear on the blog, then on Twitter, and if not on Twitter, then at the very least they will appear on my Flickr. Though I am very far behind in both uploading and labeling, so I do apologize for that.

In my ongoing search for a particular Ritual Theory approach or Performance Theory idea that will aid me in interpreting things for my dissertation research in just the right way, I somehow came across the 2008 book Ritual and its Consequences: An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity, co-written by Adam Seligman, Robert Weller, Michael Puett, and Bennett Simon (Oxford U Press).

It is obviously cited widely enough that I did come across it myself. But at the same time, it’s refreshing and interesting to see a book that’s not one of the same big names, that might be able to bring a new, different, foundational Ritual/Performance approach to work like my own. While in the grand scheme of things one might say the core arguments of the book only really contribute to one particular side or aspect of the much broader, more complex, topic of Ritual/Performance, even so, I think it a good solid book on Ritual Studies in general. If I were to go back over the list of all that I’ve read about Ritual and Performance and choose just five or six works to suggest to others, if I had to choose, this one would definitely make the cut.

———–

The book makes two chief arguments:

One, that whereas most scholarship on ritual discusses it as closely interconnected with harmony, unity, and so forth, Seligman et al wish to emphasize that the harmony or unity effected by ritual is necessary precisely because the world is fractured and imperfect. Ritual helps us create a “subjunctive,” as Seligman et al put it, an artificial and temporary space where things are as if the world were harmonious, unified, living up to some ideal. In other words, whereas much scholarship talks about ritual as reflecting political or social realities, Seligman et al say that ritual decidedly does not represent the world as is, but rather an imagined ideal, enacted artificially and temporarily, in a bid to help us bear and manage and create/maintain order in our world.

Two, the authors introduce a dichotomy, or rather a sliding scale, that I suppose no one in the field had quite articulated before, between individual or societal value placed on Ritual, and value placed on what the authors term Sincerity. The Confucian societies I am studying, along with many others around the world and throughout history, placed great importance on Ritual. As numerous scholars have written regarding Confucian concepts of propriety or etiquette (礼, C: , J: rei), and as Luke Roberts and others have written specifically about life in early modern Japan, the notion of propriety or etiquette, as well as the “authorities[,] were less concerned with orthodoxy, or correct belief, than they were orthopraxy, or correct practice.”1 What was important in Confucian society, for the most part, as well as in countless other times and places, was not that you believed correctly, but simply that you behaved correctly. Take your hat off when entering certain spaces, or the presence of certain people. Leave your hat on when in the presence of God (i.e. always). Bow deeply on these occasions, and not so deeply on those occasions. When meeting with the shogun, after lord so-and-so says such-and-such, you shift forward exactly three tatami mats, bow three times, say these words, bow again three times, and then present this document by holding it up and forward with both hands. Things like that.

One portion of a model of an investiture ceremony, at Shuri castle, Okinawa.

And there is a mountain of scholarship (well, presumably. I still haven’t found any that really explicates it to my satisfaction) pointing towards the notion that these kinds of actions, regardless of sincere belief underlying them, do function to create political realities. Bowing before a lord, or before a god, has emotional (affective) impacts, and it has discursive impacts through the process of seeing and being seen. When I attended reenactments of Ryukyuan court ceremonies held at Shuri castle, and individuals playing the roles of the Ryukyuan king or of scholar-officials in his service kowtowed to Heaven, to those playing the roles of Qing envoys, or to the one dressed as the king, the feeling of subservience, of hierarchy, was truly palpable. These might not be the greatest examples, as my own sense that it was palpable was likely very much influenced by my modern and American (individualist, democratic) perspective, rather than by some unattainable objective knowledge. Wish I had had the chance to talk to any of the performers about how they felt about it. But, regardless, when performed for real (and perhaps even when performed merely as reenactment), acts such as these are not “mere ceremony” or “mere formality.” Ritual actions such as bowing before a lord make you feel subordinate, and they make you look loyal. What, after all, is the difference between being loyal and merely acting loyal? So long as one bows and presents gifts and does all the things a loyal retainer should do, how is that any different from being a loyal retainer?

Seligman et al contrast this with “sincerity,” arguing that in many times and places throughout history but perhaps particularly in the post-Enlightenment, post-Protestant-Reformation “modern” world, society has been dominated not by a notion of ritual, i.e. correct practice, correct behavior, orthopraxy (a word which incidentally doesn’t appear anywhere in the book), but rather by an emphasis on sincerity, i.e. correct belief, or orthodoxy. Ritual is seen as just formality, as oh so much fluff – nonsense, really, under which lies truth; and if one is not truly loyal, or not truly devout, and is only behaving as such, then one is insincere – a deceiver, a betrayer, or at the very least simply inauthentic; less than, in some fashion. The Protestant Reformation, after all, attacked idols and icons, and excessive decoration and ceremony, and advocated a return to a more authentic form of worship, focused on the worshippers’ beliefs, their devotion, their love, and so forth. The Enlightenment, similarly, disparaged superstitions and emphasized the human mind – what’s real, what do we know, what do we think.

A church in Cambridge, England.

Some sections of this book really helped me shore up something I already had quotes for from other scholars, providing a necessary stepping stone for my work on ritual. Before we can talk about specific rituals, what they meant, how they functioned, after all, we need to first establish that it’s okay to not go down the rabbit hole of trying to figure out whether each and every participant was sincere in their enactment of the ritual actions. When daimyô prostrated before the shogun, gave him gifts, and otherwise ritually reaffirmed their loyalty to him, was this done begrudgingly, with gritted teeth, because political, economic, and/or military considerations required them to do so rather than to more openly oppose the shogun? Or were they sincere and honest in their reaffirmations of their loyalty, their recognition of the shogun’s authority, their praise for the shogun’s virtuous and benevolent rule? In the vast majority of cases, we simply don’t know. We can’t know, because the diaries or other sorts of documents that might indicate a lord’s innermost thoughts simply don’t exist.

Of course, it would be great if we did have such documents and could get some real insights into that issue. But, we must also acknowledge that rituals have meaning and impact regardless of the personal beliefs or political attitudes of their participants. By acting out the role, one becomes it – not in a magical sense, but in a discursive, functional sense.

————–

One thing I found particularly interesting about this book was the way it addressed major issues in modern history and contemporary politics – namely, (ultra)nationalism and religious fundamentalism. Their explanation of both of these phenomena as being founded in an excessive emphasis on sincerity, and on what Seligman et al call “gnosticism,” really helped me get a new perspective or insight into what’s going on politically in so many corners of our world today.

By Turkish political cartoonist Izel Rozental, from his book Karikatör.

As they write,

the Wahabbism championed by the Saudis [to take an example] rejected (and continues to reject) traditional religious practices and representations in search of an authentic, original religious experience—a pure, that is, sincere religious expression that cuts through the historicity of all real, lived traditional religious practice. In fact, it rejects tradition in favor of a putative original, founding moment, of which it claims unique understanding. This is the core of what today is so often termed “fundamentalism.” It equates truth, which is nonindividual and supraindividual, with its interpretation, which is invariably personal and conditional. This is where the basic contradiction between fundamentalism and true tradition lies. There is no tradition that permits the individual or group, solely on the basis of its own assertion, to proclaim its own knowledge to be infallible and absolute.”2

As this quote hopefully shows, they use the term “gnosticism” to refer, essentially, to attitudes in which one individual or group claims to have the true knowledge, and to speak for what the religion (or the nation) really is, or should be, and what it is not. It’s a form of modern nationalism or religious fundamentalism that claims I know better than everyone else, and the version of the religion, or society, that I wish to create is the best one, or the most true or authentic one, because I know so. It ignores and often actively rejects diversity, complexity, tradition. They give the example of Saudi Arabia funding the construction of Saudi-style mosques all across the Muslim world which gradually come to replace those in more locally traditional styles. This rejects the truth of how Bosnian or Syrian or Iranian Muslims have lived and worshipped for centuries – the reality of their tradition – in favor of some artificially imposed idea of one particular group’s vision of what constitutes the truer, more authentic, purer Islam. Of course, one could cite countless examples. Just look at nationalist revolutions in late 19th and early 20th century China, Turkey, Russia, and Japan for instance, each of which could be said to have rejected the ethnic, cultural, and political diversity of their societies, to impose upon everyone the vision of a particular leader, or a particular group, as to what “true” Chinese, Turkish, Russian, or Japanese identity meant, and what the “authentic” Chinese, Turkish, Russian, or Japanese nation should look like, or should be like.

these orientations gave birth in our times to the enormously powerful ‘‘secular religions’’ of the twentieth century: Nazism, fascism, and communism (or, perhaps better, Leninism rather than all forms of communism). The firmly held conviction of the leaders, followers, and elites of these movements—that they knew the course of history, the telos of existence, that they possessed both the practical and the theoretical knowledge necessary to realize the Endzeit — led to the worldwide horrors of what were, at their outset, reform movements par excellence.3

This gnosticism is very often intertwined with an excessive emphasis on sincerity. What’s really interesting is that on the surface, one might assume these sorts of fundamentalist, authoritarian, or ultra-nationalist ideologies to emphasize ritual. And they do, in certain ways. Stand for the national anthem. Fly the flag. Put up pictures of the great leader in your home and shop. Talk the talk when it comes to the “ritual” performance of claiming to stand for supporting our troops. Be sure to be seen attending all the right rallies or military parades or whatever they may be. But, as Seligman et al explain, societies that truly emphasize ritual over sincerity don’t care much what you believe, so long as you do what’s expected of you. By contrast, in authoritarian, fundamentalist, gnosticism-based societies, it’s not enough to just perform your duties as a good upstanding member of the group: you have to be pure of thought or belief as well. You have to be a true communist, or nationalist, a true islamist or evangelical, a true devotee of whatever the gnostic leader’s precise particular personal ideology may be. Disagreement, criticism, or debate are not tolerated – they are seen as traitorous. Non-believers or those who think differently are to be eyed with suspicion. They are criticized, ostracized, even imprisoned, “reeducated,” tortured, killed.

But, such matters are so pressing and so ever-present in our lives today that any further discussion could easily lead into an even more extensive digression than I’ve already done. Let’s move on.

Drinking kava (or ‘ava). A natural root, ground-up and suspended in water; relaxes your muscles without altering your mind. I really miss participating in ‘ava circles at East-West Center.

Another contribution I found particularly useful and interesting in this book was its categorization of ritual into four types. This is borrowed from work by Roger Caillois, but is nevertheless explained at length by Seligman et al, and was new to me.

The vast majority of work I’ve read on ritual either explicitly defines what types of ritual it is focusing on (e.g. Shingon Buddhist rituals supporting claims of sovereignty in 14th c. Japan), or it speaks of ritual in very general terms without providing a clear idea of the full range of what myriad types of ritual there are out there in the world – leaving the reader trying to imagine for themselves what types of acts or events any given theory or argument might (or might not) apply to. Caillois’ four categories help clarify this considerably, reducing down the wide wide world of ritual into four graspable categories:

(1) Agôn – Agônic rituals include ritualized sport, combat, and other forms of ritualized competition. Seligman et al give the example of a cricket game played out in such a way that it incorporates aspects or overtones of traditional ritualized combat “fought” between clans or tribes in that region. In agônic rituals, the participants both act as themselves (without taking on some other role or character), and they are in control of their actions, playing out the sport or combat just as freely as if it were real.

(2) Mimicry – Rituals in which participants take on roles or identities and follow a ritual script, but remain consciously in control of their actions. A great many religious rituals, from communion and baptism to Bar Mitzvah and the Passover seder, would seem to fall under this category, as would the diplomatic and court rituals I study. In diplomatic and court rituals, for example, the participants are not simply themselves (e.g. Steve Smith or Anne Black or whatever), but they are taking on the roles of lord and vassal, diplomat and head of state, and they follow a script, entering the hall in a certain way, bowing, presenting documents in a certain way, declaring certain pre-determined phrases, but remaining in control of themselves in contrast to rituals which involve, for example, spirit possession.

(3) Alea – and no, I don’t know where these names come from. I imagine it’s explained in the book but I’m afraid I’m not going back to look again. These are rituals in which the participants don’t take on roles or identities – they act as themselves – but they give over control to fate or the gods. Divination rituals are a key example of this category. Carve questions into bone and throw it into a fire to see how it cracks; leave the dregs of your tea or coffee and then see what forms they take; hold a seance; or simply roll dice. You’re being yourself, but the outcomes of the ritual are determined by some outside force.

(4) Ilinx – in the final category, participants give over both their identities and control over to some other force, such as a spirit or a deity. These are rituals of trance or spirit possession.

I really like these categories because, as I said before, they help make the broad wide world of myriad different rituals seem graspable. They help us to understand what types of things the huge wide category of “ritual” might include. And in doing so, they help us to understand what ritual theory is talking about, by helping us to know categories of examples.

The funeral procession of Marquis Shô Ten, last crown prince of the Ryûkyû Kingdom. This funeral was the last ceremony to ever be officially performed as a Ryukyuan royal ritual. Photo on display at Tamaudun (royal mausoleum, Shuri, Okinawa).

I do have one quibble with the categories, though. While they seem to cover all possible ritual in a nice broad way, covering all combinations of AA, AB, BA, and BB (whether participants give over their identities, and whether they give over control), in fact I feel that there is a problem with the second category (mimicry), or else that there is call for a fifth category. Seligman et al talk about the Passover Seder as one in which we imagine ourselves having spiritually or metaphorically been there at Mt. Sinai ourselves – not our ancestors, but ourselves – as Moses received The Law (the Torah) from God. And so, in that way, we are taking on roles, taking on identities, even as we remain in control of our actions (we are not possessed, even though our actions /are/ determined by a ritual script). Okay. And as I said, in political rituals one is performing as head of state, as diplomat, and not really as oneself, so in those cases too one is taking on an identity. But what about in the vast majority of other basic religious rituals, and secular rituals, that we perform? When you stand in synagogue and recite words out a book for three hours, sitting and standing and bowing at prescribed times, I suppose you’re playing the role of “worshipper.” But is that really so different from simply being yourself? Or, if we’re always playing a role – as teacher or student, as parent or child, as shopkeeper or customer – then what is the meaning of any category of “not taking on another identity; simply being yourself”? I think the slippage in these categories as applying to ritual comes from the fact that Caillois – something I missed on my first glance-through – wasn’t actually talking about ritual, but about games, or play. There, the categories (perhaps) make a lot more sense: games of competition, games of “make-believe,” games of chance, and games of just losing yourself.

Still, despite this slippage, I found these categories a very helpful theoretical construct for wrapping our minds around ritual. All in all, I found the authors’ arguments regarding ritual and sincerity very interesting, and very important contributions to the larger conversation on ritual. Though I suppose I was hoping for too much to think that somewhere in the book they might happen to touch upon all sorts of other aspects of Ritual Theory, thus sparing me having to go out and read yet another five or ten other books. That was an unreasonable expectation on my part; that issue aside, taking this book for what it is – contributing one particular argument to one particular facet of the broader discourse on Ritual – I would definitely put this (or at least the Introduction, or some portion of the book) on any Ritual Theory reading list.

All photos my own.


1) Marcia Yonemoto, The Problem of Women in Early Modern Japan, University of California Press (2016), 221.
2) Seligman et al, 161-162.
3) Seligman et al, 132.

After our fifteen minute tour of Independence Hall and a quick peek at the Liberty Bell, we made our way to the National Museum of Jewish History. Beautiful building, very new shiny clean exhibits. The first three floors house a permanent exhibition on the history of Jews in America, and on the top floor, until Sept 2, they’re showing a special exhibit on the life of Leonard Bernstein. Now, I really must admit, I had only the vaguest idea who Bernstein was. I knew he’s a famous musician, and I’ve been to his grave actually, but that’s about it. Even so, I learned, and I found the exhibit just fascinating and wonderful. For someone so deeply involved in Jewish spirituality, music, liturgy, and philosophy, who composed so many pieces directly based upon or inspired by liturgy, to become so popular and successful in such a mainstream way is really incredible. I know some composers or musicians today who, I don’t know their career aspirations or anything, but who are definitely deeply involved in Jewish music. But if Bernstein can be accepted and loved and therefore successful in a mainstream and widespread way, and not only within the niche world of Jewish music, maybe they can too.

The exhibit was, of course, not terribly musicological. We didn’t learn much at all about precisely how or why his music was groundbreaking. How he used the devil’s interval in “Maria” in West Side Story, or how his half-speed rendition of the fourth movement of Mahler’s 5th Symphony, featuring the harp, was so revered. Or that Mahler was Jewish, for that matter. At least, I don’t think I remember seeing any of that in the exhibit; just learned it from my gf.

One thing I really enjoyed about the exhibit was how well they included multimedia interactives. There were several listening stations and also small screening rooms, where you could listen to his music, watch segments from a performance of his “MASS,” or watch segments from all over popular culture reenacting or referencing bits from West Side Story. There were also several video screens with clips from documentaries about Bernstein, including one I found particularly interesting, on his trip to Israel in 1967.

There was also a station where a whole bunch of wooden blocks were scattered on a table; by choosing a block and putting it in a designated spot, you could activate a screen with video and audio relating to one of Bernstein’s works. By turning the block to different sides, you could get the screen to focus on the lyrics or the composition or the recording or other different aspects. They could have just done this with a series of buttons, or any number of other arrangements, but doing it with blocks was very neat, I thought. The whole thing, the whole exhibit, was just really interesting. Learning about this man’s relationship with his Judaism, but then also with African-American music and civil rights, with allegations of association with Communists – even suspicions that Bernstein was explicitly a Soviet spy. He was never actually brought up on any charges of any kind, nor subpoenaed, so far as I know, in connection with any of that, but a copy of his 800-page FBI file was on display in the exhibit. Pretty incredible.

Bernstein with the Ex-Concentration Camp Orchestra, in a Displaced Persons (DP) camp in Germany, 1948. People who had suffered and survived the concentration camps only to be left in refugee camps for years… and yet still had enough strength, and talent, and memory of their training & skills, to perform as an orchestra. Just reading about this was terribly moving.

And, he went to Germany in 1948 and conducted an orchestra composed of DPs (displaced persons, i.e. refugees), and went to Israel just after Independence Day, going back again in 1967, when he then conducted the Israel Philharmonic, previously the Palestine Philharmonic, composed originally of some of the absolutely best musicians in Europe, members of the Vienna and Munich and Prague Philharmonics, who were given visas and documents and help to leave Europe in the late 1930s or very early 1940s if I remember correctly, escaping from the Nazis before it was too late.

Two of the three floors of permanent exhibits.

And then we turn to the permanent exhibits, which were pretty great. More than just being a “Jewish Museum,” this is a Jewish history museum, and actually really endeavors to tell the history chronologically. We learned of the first Jews in the New World – all Sephardic Jews living in South America. Some of them then relocated to North America fleeing Catholic persecution, and became the first Jews in the British colonies. The first synagogue in New York, as I already had known, was a Sephardic synagogue. After these early stages, the vast majority of the exhibits after that made little mention of the Sephardim, however, which is a real shame because I was curious and would have loved to learn more about their history.

Today, I am told, there are more Jews in New York City (or maybe it’s the broader greater NY metro area?) than in any other single city in the world. But, still, that doesn’t mean that NY Jewish history is all there is to Jewish history in the US! I found it really interesting to learn about the first Jewish communities in Charleston, SC; Newport RI; New Orleans; Detroit; all these different places. I was sad to not see any focus on LA at all, only since I’ve been spending more time there lately and would be interested to learn more about that history as well.

But, while I suppose one could write a whole blog post solely on the issue of how this compares to other “ethnic” history museums, my head’s not really in that game right now. It would certainly be interesting. The key thing which struck me and got me thinking about that was the one section on the role of Jews in the Civil War. I suppose you might not be surprised to learn that there were Jews on every side of that political / ideological conflict, as there were also in the Revolutionary War. I don’t know what to say about people of any other ethnic or national background, but Jewish residents of the 13 British colonies, just like Protestant and Catholic residents, included both some loyal to the revolution and some loyal to the Crown. And I’m not at all surprised. Though we might in retrospect consider one side “patriots” and the other side “traitors” or whatever, at the time, in the moment, how the hell was anyone to know? Not just in terms of thinking strategically in terms of siding with whichever side you think is going to win, but just simply the fact that there was no simple right answer. Do you remain loyal to your country, which yes has imposed some unfair laws and whatever, but generally speaking is the only government you’ve ever known, and one which has provided some notable degree of security and stability and all of that, or do you join up with this rebellion that’s led by who exactly? fighting for what exactly? to separate from one of the great powers of Western Civilization in order to instead build a new nation (or thirteen separate ones?) in this rugged frontier? …. I think about Jews living in Europe in the 1930s, and especially those of some wealth and privilege, those who perhaps had the most freedom to actually get out (e.g. disposable income to pay for train tickets, political or civic connections to get the papers, connections elsewhere in the world to have somewhere to arrive to), but who also in a certain sense had the most to lose. I think about people invited to join the Palestine Philharmonic Orchestra, who had such comfortable, upscale, well-to-do lives in Vienna or Berlin or wherever, who really didn’t know what the right decision was. How could they know in 1936 just how bad it would get, and that it really was going to get like that? … And in light of that, in light of the genuine reality of people not knowing what to do amidst what turned out to be one of the most extreme situations in recent history, it’s really quite reasonable to realize that of course there would be Jews on both sides of the Civil War. Many Jews just like Protestants and Catholics were slaveowners, and many Jews were abolitionists. Many Jews were farmers and many were industrialists. Many were small-town people and many were big city people. Many braved the frontier and settled the West (and probably were pretty horrible to Native Americans and others in the process). Many did not. Is this because we were “white”? Maybe. I don’t know. But we were still an ethnic/national and religious minority. So while there are pretty stark reasons that the vast majority of Blacks, Chinese(-Americans), Native Americans, and members of certain other groups went one way politically, and very few another way, at various times in history, on various contentious issues, there are surely numerous other groups which were more divided, more diverse, in their positions and actions at such times. I’d be curious to see other ethnic history museums address this issue. I don’t recall seeing JANM or NMAI address such matters… And I can certainly understand why. But, even so, our country has been more diverse than most people realize for a much longer time than most people realize, and I’d be genuinely curious to learn more about more individuals of different backgrounds involved in the Revolution or the Civil War on both sides, people of different ethnic/cultural backgrounds involved in (or in trying to stop) actions against the Native Americans, hell for that matter, people of all different backgrounds involved in overseas wars as well. After all, history is rarely so simple, as to assume that all our ancestors, in whichever ethnic or religious community, were on the “right” side of history so to speak.

Of course, such matters are by no means the central theme of the National Museum of Jewish History either. After the Civil War, the exhibits go on to talk about the origins of the Reform Movement, early 20th century immigration restriction policies, and numerous other topics and themes, before eventually getting to the Holocaust. This section was very well-done, with concurrent videos of Hitler’s and Roosevelt’s speeches run next to each other, giving a sense of the history going on at the same time, as it indeed was.

One thing I found particularly interesting and somewhat unexpected in this section was examples of just how anti-semitic American society was at that time. We like to believe in a story of how the US was this bastion of freedom, this great hero that came and eventually rescued the Jews, and the world, from Hitler and Nazism. And of course there’s truth to that. I one thousand percent am happy to live in a world where the Nazis lost that war. But even so, to have the displays be not about conditions in Nazi Europe and about US heroism, but rather about anti-semitism here at home, was kind of eye-opening, actually. And very sad. And a lot of it echoes very strongly with what continues to go on today with other groups in the case of fears of immigrant groups overwhelming the American population and taking over the country. But a lot of it echoes with anti-semitism that continues to go on today as well. A booklet published in 1939 entitled “Am I an Anti-Semite?”, which on first glance you might think would be a good thing, a book educating people about Jews and about anti-semitism. But, no. This is a book justifying the author’s anti-Jewish sentiment through discussion of the horrors of (Jewish-associated) Communism. I’m not sure whether the author’s answer to “Am I an Anti-Semite?” is “no,” or if it’s “yes, and for good reason,” but either way, the same might as well be published today, just denying or justifying the author’s anti-semitism by talking about the horrors of Zionism instead of Communism. Or just flat-out continuing to repeat the same-old “Jewish conspiracy” lies. These days, in the era of Trump, we’re seeing some of those old canards come roaring right back, to a truly frightening extent sometimes. Some things never change.

There was so much to see, we ran out of time twice, coming back to see the museum a second day, and then even on the second day not getting to see all of it. I ended up rushing through much of it, getting very few photos of the 19th century section at all. Afterwards, we made it to the UPenn Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, which was fantastic, but only for a brief time there too before turning around to head home entirely. Much still left to see in Philadelphia, another time.

Philadelphia

For some reason, growing up we never took family trips to Philadelphia even though it is only a few hours away. Boston, DC, we did, but not Philly. So, this June we finally took a short two-day peek at what Philly has to offer.

I loved the historical city center. I don’t know nearly enough about American history – or, to put it another way, US history isn’t my thing strongly enough – for me to get the most out of all the different plaques and statues of these various colonial/revolutionary era Patriots etc. But it’s still very cool that they’re there. And the architecture is just great. I’ve been away from the East Coast so long, to see that colonial/federal style architecture, all that red brick, is just great.

Independence Hall was a bit of a surprise. Though quite large from the outside (or at least appearing so, since it’s nearly connected with the old City Hall, the philosophy society bldg, etc.), it turns out it’s only two rooms on the inside. A 15 minute tour for which we waited at least half an hour. Still, pretty damn incredible to think about these being the very rooms in which such incredibly historical events took place. Everything is all set up using genuine vintage 18th c furniture (obtained from, I guess, museums, auctions, who knows where, in order to make this work) and the one object actually original to the building – the chair Washington sat in as he presided over the Constitutional Convention.

Independence Hall.

Our National Parks tour guide was unnecessarily blustery, yelling the entire tour at us, truly shouting. But I liked how he emphasized that the building has a history outside of just those particular exceptionally historical days in 1776 & 1787. It was the old State House even long before Pennsylvania was a “state,” back when it was still a colony. One of the two rooms was the main courtroom, and had a large wooden carving of the royal coat of arms hanging over the bench before rowdy revolutionaries tore it down. And he also emphasized that the dates we celebrate and revere so much were really only some of the many dates that things took place on. We celebrate July 4th, but what was the date the Constitutional Convention began? When did it end? When was the Constitution ratified? A decade earlier, on July 2, the Continental Congress met to vote on a resolution declaring independence, and the Declaration was officially read out two days later, though it wouldn’t be signed by all those now-famous figures until Aug 2.

Finally, our guide also spoke of how much disagreement and debate there was amongst the representatives of the colonies. I suppose we all know that, it’s part of the narrative we’re all taught. But rather than solely being representative of a theme of how, out of earnest debate the greatest ideas and best solutions can come forth (or however exactly the standard patriotic narrative might frame that), I was struck by the notion of just how contingent all of history is. People revere the Declaration and Construction as if they were God’s words, as if the Founding Fathers were divinely inspired geniuses, larger than life, who produced such utterly perfect documents. But what we have is only one of myriad versions that might have existed, and if any of those alternative versions had been the final one, we might be sitting here in a slightly different, or very different, United States thinking that /that/ version was so perfect, so ideal. To take just one example our guide mentioned, since I don’t know the texts and debates well enough to get into other ones, a significant number of the colonial representatives said they were hesitant to call King George a “tyrant.” That doesn’t simply mean they were wrong and Revolutionary patriotism or whatever prevailed – it means there were different views on this. And it’s only by chance that we’re sitting here today thinking how brave and how right our Founding Fathers were to go ahead and call him a tyrant, rather than sitting here and saying just as reassuredly, just as comfortably, that our Founding Fathers were so wise, so genteel, and so right in their civility to not go that far even though some blowhards or hotheads among the group wanted to.

Boldly displayed on the front of the National Museum of Jewish History, mere blocks away from Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.

Certainly, as elegant as it may be, and as historical and fixed in stone as the language of the Constitution is, it’s got some real problems. We think of these words as excellent just as they are because we’ve had them repeated so many times, they feel like poetry, they feel like Bible verses, they feel like something that was always meant to be and couldn’t possibly be otherwise. But, in truth, they were happenstance. One draft ended up winning out over another. One editor’s phrasing ended up staying while another drafter’s suggestions did not. “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion”? There’s obviously tons to be said for how language changes over time, and how the need or desire for legal language to be phrased really really precisely in a particular manner is a particular product of the modern age, not to mention the particular political/cultural context of what the Founding Fathers thought about religion, their experiences and their intents…. But look at some of the speeches, letters, and laws regarding religion, written by Washington, Jefferson, and others at that time, and think about what if some of that phrasing we’re in the Constitution. What if, instead of this very general ten-word phrase, we had some other phrasing, that spelled out even more explicitly what the Founders intended regarding the separation of church and state? What if the ideas revealed in these well-known but not that well-known texts were enshrined in the highest most fundamental law of the land?

Right: “Religious Liberty,” a sculpture erected in celebration of the centennial of American independence.

The Founding Fathers were mostly concerned with religious freedom in the sense of not being discriminated against for your beliefs. That people of any various variations of Protestantism (or other religions) should be allowed to believe and worship and practice without persecution. Okay. But, still, Jefferson himself coined the phrase “a wall of separation between church and state,” and somewhere in their writings I wouldn’t be surprised if there really was some argument, stated more explicitly than just “shall make no law respecting”, that said people should not be made subject to one or another sect’s particular religious beliefs, practices, or laws. It would be hard for people of that day to really separate it entirely and say that God’s law is not man’s law or something like that, but even so, I could believe that Jefferson, Washington, Penn, or someone else would have felt that These United States should not all of them have to be subject to Quaker or Puritan or Methodist law, and that that really was a part of their understanding of religious freedom at the time. If only they’d said it more explicitly in the Constitution.

And of course, don’t even get me started on the Second Amendment. But, the point being, it’s just a document, just a text. Any number of variations of the phrasing might have been, but we just happened by chance to end up with exactly this version. So, let’s not take it as God’s given word.

The interior of Independence Hall.

Another thing which really struck me in visiting Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell is that, especially in our exceptionally polarized current political climate, but also in general, how do National Parks sites like these navigate their political role, welcoming visitors of all stripes and conveying to them lessons or stories or meaning about our nation’s history without coming across as too grossly liberal or conservative?

This of course is a broad issue, and I’ve actually studied it a bit, looking at examples like the Smithsonian, the exhibits at Pearl Harbor, and so forth, as well as thinking about those issues as they pertain to places like the National Museum of Japanese History, and the Okinawa Prefectural Museum. But, all the more so in these times, and at sites as central as these – Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell belong to all Americans, left and right, and I just couldn’t help but wonder what the other tourists around me were thinking about all of this. A block or so away from Independence Hall is a stone with the First Amendment inscribed on it. We happened upon it at exactly the same time as another man, and we got to talking, just for a minute or so, weren’t the founders brilliant, isn’t it amazing how poetic their language was back then… But who knows how this guy was taking the message. Is he a super Patriot , the kind of guy who reveres the founding fathers as near to Gods, who thinks the United States is the one and only greatest gift of God to man on the planet, the singular shining example of freedom in the world? Is he the kind of guy who thinks the First Amendment and religious freedom is all about protecting Christians’ rights to impose their views on marriage, abortion, sexuality, etc etc upon the community & broader society? Or does this stone belong to those of us who think religious freedom also includes freedom from religion, so to speak, that Congress shall make no law imposing the views of any one establishment of religion upon all the rest of us? In a nation where half the people take Independence Hall and all the rest as symbols of exactly the sort of liberty and freedom and liberalism that might ultimately prevail against Trumpism, and the other half take it as symbols of an “America First” sort of patriotism, who’s right? Who gets to claim it and be correct in doing so? It would be easy to just say “both,” but we know that no one is really comfortable with that answer. I wonder what the park rangers, the staff, themselves think.

It’s been such a summer of adventures, and I can’t believe I’m still only about halfway through blogging about them. (Of course, the summer isn’t over yet, either.)

Our room at Les Terrasses d’Essaouira. I guess it doesn’t look like much in the photo, because of the bad lighting or something, but I promise it was a pretty nice room.

Leaving Essaouira, even though I had already seen more or less all of the historical sights, I still felt as I almost always do in every city I visit, that I wished I had just one more night. I think this is also a function of leaving so late at night – when you’re preparing to leave in the middle of the night to catch a very early morning flight, as you pack up your things and maybe sit on the bed, all you want is to sleep in that bed one more time. And, yeah, maybe more generally, regardless of what time of day you’re leaving, wishing to walk the shopping streets or visit X restaurant or Y shop just one more time…

We got a taxi at 1am to drive us the 2 ½ or 3 hours to Marrakesh airport, to get there by 4am so my gf could check in for her 6am flight, and me for my 7am flight. We split up for the next ten weeks or so, going different places for our research and so forth. I caught a short flight from Marrakesh to Marseilles, and then from Marseilles to London Stansted, where I was supposed to transfer again to a flight from London to New York, to get home. But because of the way the flights were arranged, I couldn’t simply go through “International Transfers” or “Connecting Flights” or whatever they call it. I had to go through Immigration, wait for my bag, then go back around to Departures to then check in and drop my bag like normal, like as if I had just arrived in the airport from staying or living in London. This takes time. So when the flight from Marseilles arrived 20 minutes late, and then the ground crew at Stansted took their sweet time getting the stairway/jetway to the plane, deplaning us 20-30 minutes late, and then the little transit shuttle between parts of the terminal broke down, I lost enough time that I ended up missing my connection.

I took this photo basically just to send to my gf to say, “hey, you’ll never guess where I am,” since my flight was supposed to be out of Stansted. But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself.

The two staff members at the check-in desks who I talked to – I wish I’d gotten their names – were not only unhelpful, but flatout rude. I suppose they deal with tens of people every day who have missed their flights for various reasons that are their own fault – just not planning ahead well enough or whatever, so I guess to a certain extent I can’t blame the staff for taking that particular perspective. Still, ultimately, this wasn’t my fault. Yes, I scheduled a connection that left only 2 ½ hours to make the connection, and didn’t leave a lot of room for error. But, this was a set of flights that was an authentic one offered to me in my online searches – not something I hodgepodged together myself. And 2 ½ hours really should be enough, if everything goes according to plan. And if it doesn’t go according to plan, well that’s not my fault – it’s Stansted’s fault, really, for whatever happened with the severe delay to the deplaning process, and for the transit shuttle, which anecdotally I get the impression breaks down on an almost daily basis. The staff member at the airport information booth, by contrast, was very kind, even looking up for me any possibilities of any other flights to NY from any London airports that evening, though she suggested I would have to pay out of pocket for those flights, £350 or whatever it may be.

Thankfully, even where the airport and the airline were unwilling to be of any help whatsoever, Kiwi.com (where I’d booked my flights to begin with) was willing to rebook me on a new set of flights for no additional charge. But, keep reading – it’s not all roses and happiness with Kiwi. I called them, and they said they’d look into alternative options, and they would get back to me within 2-4 hours. Reasonable enough, I thought at the time, though in retrospect I feel like every other time this sort of thing has happened to me, someone has searched and figured it out and offered me a new flight almost immediately, in 5-15 minutes or whatever, while I stood there. Still, okay, whatever. So, knowing there were no more flights to New York that evening and that no matter what happened I would need to stay over in London overnight, I got on a bus into the city. In retrospect, I suppose I should have just stayed at the airport. But, then, I couldn’t have known exactly how things were going to play out. It was still relatively early in the day, and while it would be too late to visit museums or anything, I guess I thought there was still plenty of time in the day to put down my stuff at a hostel somewhere and then go out and experience London a little bit, walk the streets, whatever – maybe meet up with a friend for dinner or a pint. As it turned out, that’s not quite what happened. After a very long bus ride into London proper, I schlepped myself around to several hotels asking for a last-minute room, and all of them were inexplicably booked solid. I finally ended up getting a bed at a youth hostel – definitely the most cramped space I would have ever slept in, with four beds crammed into a tiny corner room, plus it was terribly muggy in the room, with no A/C and only one small window which somehow didn’t seem to help enough. Before I settled in at all, though, I then got an email from Kiwi offering an alternative plan – saying that they would book me at a 4-star hotel near Gatwick, and book me tickets on a set of flights the next day to get me home. Great. I clicked to Accept that offer, to set the ball rolling on them actually booking those things for me, and headed out towards Gatwick. Turns out the hotel is not right at the airport, but a good ten-minute drive away, in essentially the middle of nowhere. Cost me £16 just for the 10-minute taxi ride, though I suppose I must have accidentally come across some expensive “car service” instead of a normal taxi. Finally got to this very nice hotel, and mind you it’s been about two hours at least since I clicked “Accept,” and still no confirmation email from Kiwi. I am just so relieved that after all these hours and hours of traveling, I’ll have a nice bed to sleep in, a private room with a shower, and I can really genuinely just relax before my flight the next day. So, imagine my surprise when the hotel tells me that not only do they have no reservation for me, but that they and all the other hotels for ten miles are completely booked solid. I called Kiwi again, and they said essentially that they were still working on it. Still working on it? It’s been hours since I clicked to Accept this offer of a rebooking, and it’s now 11 o’clock at night and all I want to do is shower and sleep. I’ve just spent £16 to get to a hotel in the middle of nowhere, and now what, I’m supposed to spend another £16 to get back to the airport and then take my chances with finding somewhere to sleep there, either in an airport hotel or lounge or just on the benches out in the lobbies? How long does it take to make a set of bookings for someone? And don’t they know that they have to move quickly or else it’ll get booked up?

Thankfully, the manager at the hotel was very kind and rather than just saying “no room at the inn, I’m so sorry sir,” and kicking me out, instead he let me sleep on a couch in one of the back rooms, a restaurant or reception room far from any activity. It was really wonderful. I cannot thank him enough. As upset as I was at the time, feeling stranded and lost, and just not even knowing whether or not I would in fact have a flight in the morning, it really was just so great to have somewhere to sleep. I generally don’t need that much in life – a shower would have been great, but a couch is just as good as a bed, much better than a bench or a floor, and I had outlets to charge my phone + computer, and a quiet, dark, room to myself where I could actually get some sleep.

I got up about five or six hours later to find an email saying that Kiwi had in fact booked and confirmed me for this new set of flights. So, now I was to take an early morning flight from Gatwick to Paris, have a seven hour or so layover, and then take an evening flight to New York. Okay. Amidst all of this craziness, and as tired and un-showered and sore (from so much sitting on planes, buses, and trains) as I was, the opportunity to visit Paris for even just a few hours was a real silver lining. I’d never been to France at all before, so this was great. Still, before we get into that, let me just highlight again: I am very glad that Kiwi was willing to rebook me on a new set of flights, and to even offer me a hotel for the night, and reimbursement for my various buses and taxis within London, even after the airport and the airline both said “you’re outta luck.” I’m very glad and grateful that, even though none of this was really Kiwi’s fault to begin with – it was Stansted’s – they would do this for me and spare me £350 or whatever the amount would have been. … And, admittedly, I’m not positive whether or not I will use Kiwi again. I just might, though I guess I’ll try to be more careful about planning long enough layovers to account for any potential problems. But, just to state it out explicitly: it should not take 2-4 hours to find an alternative set of flights, and it should not take an additional however many hours to actually book and confirm that alternative plan. Once they offered me a room at that Gatwick hotel, and especially given the intervening two hours it took me to get to the hotel (during which time they could have been making the calls and making the booking), I should not have ended up at that hotel at 11 o’clock at night with nowhere to stay for the night, and no confirmation (yet) that I would actually have tickets for the flight they offered me, which was departing only 8 or 9 hours later.

Apropos of nothing going on in my story, a US military plane on the tarmac at the Marseilles Airport. Why? What are they doing here? Do we have military bases in France? I didn’t know.

I’ve been fortunate to not have to deal with this sort of situation very many times in my life, but when I have, it’s never been like this. It’s always been the airline either rebooking me immediately, or saying go walk around the airport, get a coffee or whatever, come back to me in 30 minutes, or 45 minutes or an hour, and I’ll see what we can do for you. From what I remember of my first time ever going to Hawaii, that was pretty much what happened. It was either USAirways or United, I forget which, but on their flight from NY to Phoenix, it was way too cold in the cabin, and not only were they charging money for blankets but they were sold out. So I was freezing. And they were also sold out of any vegetarian options for food. So by the time we got to Phoenix I was already in a bad state, having not slept much the night before because it was a very early morning departure. We then transferred to a different plane at Phoenix, which had been sitting on the tarmac in literally 110+ degree weather, and it was absolutely boiling inside. I passed out, and was taken off the plane by paramedics or EMTs or whatever. The airline immediately offered to book me on the next flight, and I don’t remember exactly how it happened but somehow or other I suggested that I didn’t feel well enough to fly yet and they offered to pay for me to have a hotel in Phoenix for the night. So, I got a hotel, and a new flight, easy as that. I don’t remember exactly how long it took for them to schedule it, but it happened. I wasn’t left stranded, left in the dark as to what was going to happen to me or where I was going to stay for the night or when I would ever make it to Hawaii. All in all, relatively easy and efficiently taken care of. Not so with Kiwi. So, buyer beware – be careful with Kiwi. I don’t think this is by any means an isolated incident. I imagine that with just a tiny bit of Googling, one could come up with plenty of other similar stories from people who were not treated so well by Kiwi. And thank god I had the flexibility in my schedule to be able to deal with this. Imagine if I really truly had somewhere to be the next day.

So, that said, I did get to spend a good few hours in Paris. It’s a very weird feeling, to visit such an incredible big-name world-class city, but only for a few hours. To go back to the very first lines of this series of blog posts on my trip to Morocco, to feel that I’m actually in Paris, *the* Paris, the one and only one, and yet, to be seeing so little of it and then just leaving again. It’s a very strange feeling. Can I even really say now that “I have been to France,” that “I have seen Paris,” when really all I’ve seen is the Louvre, a short set of streets on the walk from the Chatelet-Les Halles train station to the Louvre and back, one sandwich shop, and one boulangerie? I’m glad that in addition to the museum I did think to go to a genuine Paris boulangerie and get a baguette sandwich with camembert, experiencing the authentic Paris version of what I’ve had so many times at French-style places in LA, Tokyo, and elsewhere. But, yeah, it’s a funny feeling. Someday I’ll have to go back, see the city so much more. See the Musee Quai Branly and the Eiffel Tower and all the rest. In the meantime, I did that horrible thing that tourists do, that as a proper art historian I’m a bit embarrassed about, but knowing this might very well be my only time in Paris for who knows how many years, I ran around the Louvre just making sure to see, and photograph, every one of the most famous artworks I could. To be totally frank, I don’t actually even know what I got out of that experience.

My photos aren’t nearly as good as what I could pull up in five seconds on Google Images, and it’s not like I stayed in front of any of these artworks long enough to appreciate them further, more deeply, than to just capture a photo, so, what am I really doing? … But, still, I guess there was something to it. I’m glad to be able to say I’ve been to the Louvre, and to have gotten some sense of how it looks and feels and how it’s all laid out. Now, when it happens to come up in conversation, I can have at least something to say about it, yes, I have some sense of how amazingly difficult it is to find your way from one section of the museum to another, constantly going upstairs in order to get downstairs, and going all the way down one end of the building just to be able to cross over to get to another section… And I have some sense of how opulently decorated the building itself is, the walls, the ceilings, even beyond the artworks on the walls and plinths. And some sense of how exceptionally Eurocentric the collection is, which I had not realized. One very new gallery in the basement, opened in the 2000s, dedicated to what they used to call “Primitive Art” – the arts of the Americas, Africa, Oceania, and Southeast Asia – while the entire rest of the museum is just Western European art, chiefly Spanish, Italian, French, German, and Dutch. (Oh, yeah, plus a section on Islamic Art). Not a single Chinese ink painting or Japanese woodblock print in the entire building, and that’s a building that’s at least as big as the Metropolitan or the British Museum. But, okay, to each their own. Next time I’ll have to be sure to visit some other museums – the Quai Branly, the Guimet, and the Cernusci. In the meantime, I got to see, if not to really engage with, the Venus de Milo, Victory of Samothrace, Da Vinci’s portrait of St. John the Baptist, Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, Gericault’s Medusa, the Grand Odalisque, Jacque-Louis David’s Horatii, the incredible crowd around the Mona Lisa, and so on.

One of Delacroix’s beautiful notebooks.

Actually, one neat unexpected highlight of the Louvre trip was that they had up at the time a special exhibit on Delacroix, which included a handful of his works produced during his trip to Morocco. So, for me, this could not have been more timely. To spend a week and a half in Morocco, and then immediately afterwards see these Orientalist paintings and sketches of what Delacroix saw a century earlier, precisely the paintings that in part inspire our Western conceptions and imaginations of a fantastic Morocco full of bellydancers, harems, and so on and so forth.

Delacroix’s Women of Algiers in their Apartment. I had been told that since Muslim women were inaccessible to him, hidden within their homes and not visible to a foreign visitor, he had painted Jewish women. That a great many of the Orientalist paintings of “women of North Africa” from that time were in fact of Jews and not of Muslims. But the Louvre webpage for the painting suggests otherwise. Interesting.

And then, after that, I made my way back to CDG Airport, and finally home to New York, no further surprises or hiccups.

This Delacroix exhibit will be up at the Metropolitan Museum in New York Sept 17, 2018 to Jan 6, 2019.

All photos my own. My thanks to the Louvre for allowing photographs, even in the special exhibition.