Concerts

For the vast majority of my life, I had no interest in concerts. I imagine this was a combination of living hours from the nearest venue and inheriting the musical tastes of my parents, which included few actively touring groups. Then I made it to college and a bigger city (though still a hinterland by the standards of those friends from Seattle and similarly sized cities). My musical tastes expanded to groups still crafting and recording new songs, and actually seeing them in concert became a real possibility. This past weekend, I attended my fifth concert in the past eight months and, incidentally, my life. In order, these concerts by Bloc Party, Rodrigo Y Gabriela, the Young Dubliners, Andrew Bird and Josh Ritter, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I apologize for the low quality, which really is to be expected as they all are illegal recordings made with handheld sub-par equipment, but as this is a post on the concerts, it seemed more appropriate to link to these than music videos or anything professional. By way of recompense, I offer these links to earlier posts dedicated to my first and second concerts. Part, too, of what I believe kept me from concerts so long, even after arriving in Spokane, was a general confusion. What is the point of attending of attending a concert, shelling out enough money to buy another album or two, to listen to music which you more than likely own? To take it even farther, more often than not we attend concerts already with a favorite song in mind. If that song is not part of the set, we suffer some disappointment, minor as it may be.

The trick, I have discovered, is that while both attending a concert and turning on the mp3 player are both ostensibly about listening to music, the experience is completely different. A concert is immersive. It is only about the group and music. Cell phones and the other distracting accroutement of our daily lives are (hopefully) discarded to limit intrusions into the next few hours. Technics and lights and smoke machines come together to increase the suspense of an extended introduction and enhance the mood. It is something special, I believe, to simply listen to music. Far too often, and I am as guilty of this as anyone, we put music on as background noise, a rhythm to run or eat to. To actually tune in to what you are hearing and revel in the melodies and lyricism and whatever is lost in a casual listen and to enjoy it in such a forum is something special indeed. Let us not forget that the sound quality of a live performance, even on weak equipment, is many factors better than the best recording. Nothing drove this in better for me than my attempts to find a decent recording of Carmen's "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" after seeing it at the Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz. I eventually came across the scene from the 1984 film version with Julie Migenes and Placido Domingo. Despite the presumably superior singers (at least more famous) it could not touch what I saw there in Munich.

There are other elements, too, of course, that make the concert a completely different experience from just picking out a good album. Most obviously, there is the sense of community, publicly coming together with others of a like mind. To find guys in Mannheim and be able to start a reasonable conversation with them over a common interest and see the lighters (put to a different use during "Mary Jane's Last Dance") come out for "Learning to Fly" and "Free Fallin'" are just cool experiences.

The rest of this kind of delves (even deeper) into reminscing and all that. If you have been bored by this post so far, nothing that remains will redeem it. In that case, I suggest you now visit Arts & Letters Daily and find something of more interest. Still I write this because these are the moments stuck out to me, that made the concert special, moments I do not want to forget. Like actually seeing Rodrigo y Gabriela play live and realizing all the more how amazing their playing was and hearing Gabriela tell the story behind "F.T.U.S.V.D." in her surprisingly small voice. Like watching the entire dance floor take five steps closer to the stage when the Young Dubliners took a break but the electric bagpipes stayed on and broke out the most entrancing solos. Like Keith Roberts inviting everyone out for a drink after the Tuesday night gig because he is so excited about opening the tour. Like seeing Josh Ritter get to play in the city that was his equivalent of Paris in school and repeatedly the lighting operator that he really did want all the lights all the way down and not bumped up until the end of his solo piece.

Recorded music is good, but it never offers memories like this.

My dad atop Mt. Kit Carson

This photograph was taken over a year ago when my parents came out to Spokane for a little visit last summer. Little fans of the city's attractions, we spent most our time outside of it. On this day, we opted for Mt. Spokane State Park and went to the summit of its little brother, Mt. Kit Carson. Not a hard hike, it does offer a nice view at the end and is not so popular that one is constantly running into others. There is a nice breeze on those rocks too which dries the sweat right off.

Generally I am in favor of this picture. Not so much for its compositional elements, though. Excepting the very overexposed sky, which I believe is more the fault of a poor scan job than printing, I feel they are solid if not particularly exciting. Few elements make it a little boring, but there are clear lines leading to my dad and distinct fore- and backgrounds. No, I prefer this picture because it is an honest portrayal of my dad. That is what he is like: fully engaged and prepared for whatever he is doing at the moment. You can be sure that backpack is sagging because it is loaded with our lunch, snacks, extra water, rain gear, first aid kit, GPS and all else. He has all the appropriate gear (and then some) and carefully considered every piece before buying it. The clothes, from the hat down to the socks, are probably designed wick moisture right off. I bet the backpack was one personally used by Cliff Jacobson or Colin Fletcher or one of their rugged ilk. And really, at most, we might have spent three hours there.

This picture was also included as part of a set I gave to my sister as a (incredibly) belated birthday present but on-time welcome-to-college gift.

Learning Argentine Tango: Leonard Bernstein's "The Joy of Music"

Before immersing myself in the music of Tango, I wanted a firmer grasp on the art of music itself. I can read music. I sang in the children's choir at my hometown church and played French horn in the school band for four years, but music and its vocabulary is beyond me. Good grief, in my original post on the Rodrigo Y Gabriela concert, I mixed up melody and harmony. I absolutely lack the understanding to say much more than I like a piece of music. If I stretch myself, I might be able to say something about the poetry of the lyrics, but that is as far as I go. I was hoping Bernstein's little book, which I was told is very friendly to beginners, would be a good start in general.

Leonard Bernstein is passionate about music. That much is apparent. What is unique though is his ability to express this passion on a wide variety of topics from the unique talents of Gershwin to the necessity of the orchestra conductor to the defining traits of opera, jazz and classical music since Schoenberg clearly to the layman. The writing is simple and clear. The only disappointment is that the final seven chapters are transcripts from his Omnibus television program, and they rely heavily upon musical excerpts. Obviously more than a little was lost in the translation from screen to page, but the spirit is still there. For anyone else starting with nothing but looking to begin their own journey into music, I would most heartily suggest The Joy of Music.

But there is serious thought in this book too. It is, after all, The Joy of Music instead of A Beginner's Guide to Music. In the very first chapter, I found one of the most troubling and powerful ideas with regard to art I have ever read. In the first chapter Bernstein imagines a conversation between himself and an imaginary poet. The poet makes a poorly considered remark on the hills and Beethoven, and Bernstein tears into him. Every time the poet tries to defend Beethoven's exalted place in the pantheon of composers, Bernstein matches him. The melody of his Symphony No. 7 is static. His Fifth Symphony is nothing but the same three chords and variations on them over and over again. Yet Bernstein ultimately admits that Beethoven still deserves the highest regards. As he says, "When you get the feeling that whatever note succeeds the last is the only possible note that can rightly happen at that instant, in that context, then chances are you're listening to Beethoven."

Music is inscrutable. We may know through and through or, in the wise words of the Oracle, balls to bones that a composition is beautiful, transcendent, perfect, and everything else good, but when it comes to the particulars, we are completely at a loss to explain why. Every attempt to explain what makes Beethoven's or any other composer's work great has to come after listening. There are no progressions of notes or tonal scales or juxtapositions of forte and piano that guarantee a beautiful work. There are no rules, and the only standard is that the work and its performance draw something from us.

I wrote that this idea is both powerful and troubling. On the one hand, it means that music and its beauty are open to everyone. Of course one with a background in music theory and history may be better able to appreciate a truly original composition. Another who plays an instrument can discern between superior soloists. This does not mean that I, with the little formal knowledge of music I have, am any less swept up in the final movement of Beethoven's Ninth. At worst, those others appreciate it in different ways.

On the other hand, if music truly is inscrutable, if our response to it is visceral, then how can we talk about it in a meaningful way? Yes, a musical vocabulary has been developed. We can talk about melody and harmony and the like, but these are nothing more than identifiers. In and of themselves, they carry no trace of quality. We may be able to better identify and explain what part of the music we are reacting to, but we still cannot explain why.

But perhaps that is not such a terrible thing. Even if we cannot wholly express our response, by no means does it suggest that we are the only ones who ever felt that way. It is just beyond language to express. Instead, upon further reflection, I find it an invitation to celebrate our humble and majestic humanity. Music is so basic and primal that we can hardly conceive of a culture entirely bereft of it, yet total comprehension of it will never be within our grasp. No matter the analysis the great symphonies are subjected to, no one will ever be able to use these conclusions to devise a program that creates comparable music. Within ourselves, humans have a creative ability which lies beyond our imagination to impart to anything else. I find that rather exciting.

Residency

Earlier this week I became a Washington resident. In anticipation of my coming 21st birthday and the expiration of my Minnesotan driving license, I went to the local Department of Licensing to ensure my continued legality. After cresting the one major hill between my house and the department, I realized that I had forgotten my passport. Still, I biked on in the hopes that my soon-to-be expired license was proof of identity enough. It was not. A few days later I returned with all of the appropriate documents and even a few extras, waited for over an hour, spoke with the clerk, had my photo taken and received a temporary paper license. Upon closer examination, I realized this license was also an under-21 license. Thus, I get to repeat the whole procedure in two weeks. Freak.

Anyway, like I wrote, I am now an official Washington resident. It feels strange to write that. I lived in Minnesota for roughly 15 years and have physically been in Spokane for only about two years, but my state's next big election will be between Christine Gregoire and Dino Rossi instead of Norm Coleman and Al Franken. I have only spent two nights in Seattle, do not fully appreciate "You might be from Washington if ..." jokes and have little interest in Starbucks. Even if my accent is not so bad as that of Fargo's Marge Gunderson, it is not unusual, either, for people to make fun of how I pronounce long "o's" or "bag." Still, I have held two different jobs in the state, and that is enough for proof of address and residency.

For those not paying attention, I do not feel much like a Washingtonian. In its own peculiar way, though, it is a relief to have this new residency. It makes concrete a break I have known was coming since I accepted entrance to Gonzaga. I never really expected to return to Minnesota, much less my hometown, for any significant length of time when I made that decision. There was no spite in that. I am fond of Minnesota, and even Baudette despite being hours from anything. However, I wanted to leave and find something new, something different. There is, after all, a lot to the world beyond Minnesota. Then again, the decision to leave was not so hard to make. I am an immigrant from upstate New York myself and simply have no roots in the state. The only other relatives to live there followed my family.

At the same time it is strange to declare myself a citizen of Washington. At the very least, I have another eight months here before graduation, but a year or two of volunteering overseas is definitely on mind after that. And after that? I do not know. I have a general preference for those states with four seasons and distinct winters, but more than likely, I will follow the job opportunities. Over the course of my travels this past year I do not even find it so hard to envision a future where I do not live in the United States. The future is wide open, and it seems presumptuous to even change my residency when the current situation is so temporary.

What does this all mean? Not much. While Minnesota may not be my home now or anytime in the near future, I know Minnesota. My driver's license may say something different, but there will always be the rider "... but I come originally from Minnesota." If we are to dip into cliché, a Washingtonian by name but Minnesotan by heart.

What I am more curious about is how long I will consider myself a Minnesotan, an American. How many years will I have to live in another state, another country before that becomes my home and part of my identity? Or can any number of late years ever overcome those formative ones of youth and adolesence? Those are questions which only experience will answer, utterly unanswerable in this blog now. I have reached a limit.

Considering "The Dark Knight"

I was not really interested in posting my thoughts on this latest entry into the Batman franchise at first. Really, what more was there to say? I was there on opening weekend and enjoyed the movie an awful lot. The pacing was frantic in the best possible way, the imagery was terrific and the acting, especially that of the late Heath Ledger, was spot on. What impressed me most, perhaps, was how the movie made the most of the briefest, most understated scenes. When Wayne turns his scarred back past the camera, when the Joker rides through Gotham, his head outside the window and the street lights glowing something like a carnival behind him, I caught my breath. But Rotten Tomatoes currently provides links to 235 other people who think the same thing and have communicated the sentiment with greater eloquence and a superior background in film.

Then I came across these two articles, one an opinion found in The Wall Street Journal and a feature in Spokane's The Pacific Northwest Inlander, on consecutive days. For those lacking the will to read the pieces themselves, let me summarize the most important points. In the Journal, Andrew Klavan argues that the hero of The Dark Knight is a metaphor for the Bush administration which has been forced to take morally questionable actions in its defense of America and been declared vile for performing them. In the other article, Steve Schneider suggests that Batman and Harvey Dent represent the literal black and white halves of Obama and his politics of hope.

Something had to be written. Thus, the post.

Both articles take The Dark Knight in unexpected directions. Both articles do so with more-than-competent writing. Both articles, unfortunately, are also trash. Klavan's interpretation offers far more self-justification than any analysis of the movie. Klavan takes a very simple and clear theme of the film, the need for evil to sometimes be committed in pursuit of good, and applies it to a modern situation, President Bush and his War on Terror. There is nothing wrong with the appropriation. The problem lies in the application. Why Bush? Why not Steve Jobs? I hear the man is a jerkwad, but he does turn out some terrific products. The extent of Klavan's reasoning is that the Bat signal kind of looks like a "W."

Schneider's article just confuses me. "... Our collective anxiety over the resurgent politics of hope."? Obama is the freaking presumptive Democratic nominee. If America' citizens were really that bothered by the core of his campaign, why did they vote for him in the first place? Because they thought he looked good? I doubt it. And do you really want to compare your favored candidate to Dent and Batman, characters who respectively go insane and become a fugitive?

It is obvious that neither man is truly interested in engaging the film, merely looking to justify their ideologies by finding them in the film and wallowing in the typical citizen's supposed agreement as demonstrated by Knight's record-breaking box office returns.

Big whoop.

Rebuttals to the articles were not the main point originally. By themselves, they really are not worth the time. Who cares if two politically-minded writers drag some pop culture by the barest threads into their arguments? I do not, and I wrote the stupid post. What these articles represent, the elasticity of interpretation, does, however, matter to me. I thought I would write some grand indictment of the deconstruction which allowed these interpretations to arise, but once I thought about it, that post became far more difficult. The Dark Knight is not an ambiguous movie. There is evil, there is good and the difference between the two is obvious because death is always on the line. Evil crosses that line without a thought, and good, though it may be tempted, stays on the right side. Where does the ambiguity arise that two men are able to interpret the film in such radically different ways? It does not. Then again, neither article provides a convincing argument, much less a valid one. What I needed to accept is that people will do stupid things and look for reasons in the wrong places. Bigots will base arguments on Biblical passages, and Al-Qaeda terrorists will find inspiration in the Qur'an. It hardly means they are right. It is no different for Klavan, Schneider and The Dark Knight. All we can do is be reflective and retain the ability to discriminate between the good and true and the false.

Learning Argentine Tango: The beginning

Something curious happened to me the spring of freshman year. While perusing the class catalog and planning my schedule for the coming fall, I discovered that Gonzaga offered a Dance minor. That is not the curious part. Unexpected, maybe, but not curious. The curious part is that I wanted it. There was absolutely nothing in my history to predict this choice. I am still amazed by it. For what little they count, I attended maybe six dances total in high school and stayed far from the dance floor during each of them. In physical education, the square dance units were far from my favorites. This was not some long process of a niggle of interest leading to full-blown desire following intense consideration of how this might benefit my future plans and impact my studies in college. Quite honestly, I thought This looks like fun. I should do it. and began making room in my schedule. Thus, having never before seen a ballet nor holding a clear conception of what sacred dance was (unless the movements to "Our God is an Awesome God" count), I took Ballet I and Sacred Dance in the fall of 2006.

Later that same semester, I realized it was impossible to complete a major in Journalism and minors in Philosophy and Religious Studies and study abroad and still have time for a Dance minor. Still, I discovered over that single semester an enjoyment of dance serious enough to keep up with it, both in and out of class. Last summer I came into contact with Argentine Tango through free Thursday night classes offered by a local club. By this time I had some familiarity with most social dances, but the Tango captured me in a way none of the others had. Not so flashy as Salsa or genteel as Waltz or sensual as Bachata, Tango (and not its bastard ballroom child) was intimate and smooth and did not require you to plan eight steps ahead to pull off a move.

I began to dabble in it outside of formal class. I bought a few compilation albums, listened to the Tango station on AccuRadio, and picked up The Basics of Tango, an iTunes Essentials. It was not long before I discovered Astor Piazzolla. That was the turning point. The man and his works were a revelation. The emotion of his music was palpable. Not so grand and overwhelming as Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 and the like, Piazzolla's music was personal. It did not carry you away so much as give voice to your own feelings. No question, his compositions are beautiful. Perhaps more importantly still, they made me want to learn more about music, his and the art in general. I want the vocabulary to better express what I find in his music, to know his influences and descendants.

Thus I finally come to the point of this post. I want to learn more about Tango. This is a conscious decision. I also have no real idea of how to proceed. I am starting from almost nothing. I played the French Horn in the school band for four years and can read music well enough but have never studied musical theory. I can dance a little Argentine Tango, but that is it. The best advice I have received in this endeavor is to start with what you like and move out from there. For me, it is Piazzolla and the dance. I begin by ordering Leonard Bernstein's The Joy of Music, suggested to me by a professor I respect very much, for the basic music background, and Christine Denniston's The Meaning of Tango for the history of the dance. On iTunes, I buy Piazzolla's "Tango: Zero Hour," Hugo Díaz's "Tangos" and Gotan Project's "Lunático." And I go to the dance class on Thursday. I could do worse for a start.

This project is something new for me, and I want a record of it, to capture my earliest thoughts and impressions, to follow their development. Thus I begin the "Learning Argentine Tango" series. Posts to it will, obviously, focus on my growing relationship and understanding of the music and dance.

For a taste of what I have found so captivating, I offer three takes on Piazzolla's "Libertango." The first is a studio recording of Yo-Yo Ma and his band. The second is a music video with clips of dancing from the film The Tango Lesson cut with Yo-Yo Ma, again, playing the cello. Finally, set against a fan-generated slide show, Rodrigo and Gabriela take it on with their guitars.

Self-portrait

The subtitle of this blog is "An exploration of the philosophies, thoughts and artistic yearnings, both as creator and audience, of Christopher F. Heinrich by Christopher F. Heinrich." It was only a matter of time before that narcissism which impelled me to create this blog with the idea that other people might be interested in my ideas and experiences would also drive me to post a picture of myself and admire it. Seriously, I like this picture a lot. It is simple and has few elements, but there is a strength to it. The camera and sunglasses stand out and stare straight back at the viewer. They have an intensity that holds the attention. It looks as though the picture is being taken of the audience rather than the photographer, and the self-consciousness that often emerges with that idea is put in direct contrast to the photographer's apparent comfort with it. There is no playing for the camera. Just a simple shot of a subject who seems almost disinterested. No doubt, that appearance is aided by the highly reflective sunglasses.

I think this picture also excels in the basics. There is a strong contrast between the light of the shirt and darks of the sunglasses, camera, and background, none ever going so extreme that all texture and visual interest are lost. The composition, with the body off-set and head slightly cocked do a lot to elevate what is otherwise a very simple picture with few elements. The only thing that really bothers me is my right hand. I find its position and hold of the lens distracting.

It is a surprising picture, too, for how well it turned out. The light sensor was off, and I took this shot in a freaking bathroom. You can even see the curtain rod behind me. Still, this picture came of marvellously well. I like it when that happens.

For what it is worth, I took this picture for my photography class. My final portfolio needed to include a self-portrait. Pictures of myself really do not attract my interest, which may also explain why I prefer to be behind the camera.

A Month in Jakarta: The observations

I saw and experienced a lot in Jakarta. Of course not all of it made its way to this blog, some because I simply could not wrap my mind around them, some because I could not build a full-length post out of them. For the latter, this is their chance to come to the surface.

• Forget football (soccer). Badminton is Indonesia's sport. Of course, football is big. There was good natured ribbing between the kids and I when FC-Bayern came to play the Indonesian national team, and there were pick-up games wherever there was an empty lot. Still, these do not compare to badminton. Rope was strung up across the fence to form a net, and when even that was not avaiable, boys and girls and parents and everyone would just hit the birdie back and forth. Badmiton's primacy became really apparent when one of the kids was actually able to name a professional badminton player.
  
• In the absence of electric security systems and neighborhood watches, Indonesian homeowners take security into their own hands. They surround their homes with fences that have nasty points on top. Those looking for something sturdier or affording more privacy than bars with two inches of space between them, sunk broken glass into the setting cement. The defenses of both styles of fence could be and were bolstered by lying barbed wire atop the rest.
• It is a gesture of respect from the young to their elders to hold their hand and briefly raise it to their forehead. Of course you will always different forms of respect in different cultures, but it freaks me out when I do not know the appropriate response or was just expecting a handshake. Should I stand up when they do this? How much attention should I pay to their hand? Can I talk to someone else while this is going on, or is that rude? Should I be doing it to the older volunteers?
  
• I came to Indonesia knowing absolutely no Bahasa Indonesian except for a few greetings and "My name is ..." which a Timorese friend taught me. Most of it has slipped out of my mind by now, but that which I learned best revolved around food. It is easy since it is so nouns centric and opportunities for practice come up about three times a day. And they just kept trying to feed me. I do not think I will ever forget Saya suda mekan (I already ate).
  
• Thrice the orphanage picked up a few boxes of individually plastic-wrapped pastries. Those things are the real-world Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Normally the sweet ones were easy enough to pick out, sometimes glazed or covered in chopped nuts. Other times it was more difficult. Thought that was frosting coming out? Wrong. It was mayo. By the end, I was afraid of accidentally taking another cold chicken pot pie.
  
• It was hot in Jakarta. No joke. The men dealt with it by sometimes rolling up the bottoms of their T-shirts to just below the ribs, making the top resemble something like those half-sweaters which enjoy some popularity over here.
• An effective means of getting kids to like you, or at least pay attention, is to juggle and then teach them the same.
  
• The most difficult transition in coming to Jakarta? Getting used to the sun setting at 6 p.m. in June. I have never lived farther south than 47 degrees north. A 6 o'clock sunset for me means it is early spring or late fall.
• Despite the early timing of the first call to prayer and scratchy speakers, waking up to the layers of calling voices from all directions was beautiful.
  

A Month in Jakarta: The running

For a month abroad, I am fairly proud of how little I took. Everything fit comfortably in my day pack and a World War II Army duffel, never straining the seams. I managed this by cutting out all non-essentials. The only things which I considered luxury items among my luggage were my camera and film, devilsticks and juggling balls, and my running gear. It is with these last items this post revolves. I packed them with little hesitation and even some excitement. I had read earlier that running was a good way to explore a new city and had never really tried out urban running before since every other city I ever ran in had such easy access to trails and parks far away from traffic.

In all truth, the running gear may as well have stayed behind. I ran only four times before giving up. There are a number of reasons for this. First, the roads were a mess, the anti-Munich if you will. As straight and wide and reasonably designed as the roads outside of Munich's Innenstadt were, Jakarta's roads were narrow and curvy. I would even have taken the centuries of twisting Cadolzburg streets over those in Indonesia's capital. Literally, I do not think you could see more than 200 meters straight ahead in any direction because the road would already have to go around some houses. Or just end. Deads ends were an unmarked rule, and I would have to burn down alleys to escape them because backtracking was sure to get a few laughs from people who saw me go by the first time. I was very unwilling to try the main roads with how insane the traffic was and poor the sidewalks were. Breathing that deeply on the roads did not seem like that great of an idea either considering how many people on motorbikes wore masks and covered their mouths.

This was already enough to give me pause, but running had the bonus made me stick out all the more, too, not something I was terribly eager to emphasize any more. If it was not easy enough already to pick out the 6-foot bule, running in a bright yellow running shirt made it so obvious that they could be blind and looking entirely the wrong direction and still notice me.

But there was something more obvious than my height or glowing pale at these times: I was absolutely the only runner. I am used to other runners. It is a rare outing when I do not see muscle-bound guys trying to get some cardio in before the free weights or older people keeping active or even those few who are actually competent at running. It is something entirely different to be the only runner whatsoever. In America, this might inspire a feeling of superiority, healthier-than-thou or something like that, but it just made me uncomfortable in Jakarta. Many run in the States to keep the weight down and body in shape. In Jakarta though, despite the dearth of runners, I did not see many overweight people and absoluely none of those whom are so fat they give cause to marvel at the elasticity of human skin. I like to think that I run for the sheer enjoyment of movement and the release of energy, but being the only runner was enough to remind that America's running culture is one built on the privilege of plentiful food as much as anything else. And that was enough to cause me to quit running for the month.

The awareness of privilege by simple chance of birth and nationality is something any American who gets out of the Western world eventually has to deal with. Someday I hope to have a better answer to it than withdrawl, but recognition is a beginning. Maybe the eventual answer will find its way here.

A Month in Jakarta: The development

Early on I thought a blog post which imagined what Jakarta would look like as a fully developed First World nation might be worthwhile. But there is a problem with that. It assumes Indonesia is not already developed. Granted, once outside of Jakarta and Bali (an opportunity I never really took advantage of), one might discover more animals pressed into transportation roles and find Internet access a mite rarer, but that does not preclude the existence of neighborhoods which the cosmopolitan would be completely comfortable in within Jakarta. Internet cafés and the like do not look like some shiny refugee from the future but blend easily into their neighborhoods. Even the slums are dotted by TV antennas, at times resembling a porcupine with how thickly they cover the buildings. While basic services like sanitation and public transportation have a ways to come yet, the basic trappings of a material, Western life are all there. Digital cable is a long way off, but we certainly are not talking about grass huts with dirt floors and wood fires for heat.

While I became most clearly aware of this in my final week in Jakarta, another discovery ran parallel. By and large, these places were not for the Indonesians. They were not developed and implemented by the locals but dropped in wholesale by their Western owners. The clientele and staff at the Starbucks we visited was entirely of a northern Asian persuasion, and the menu was listed in all its faux-Italian English glamour. Besides the fact the prices were typically around 30 (and that is after the last three zeroes were dropped because, even with the dollar's recent economic troubles, it still trades for a little less than 1000 rupiah), there was little to distinguish it from a Starbucks anywhere in the United States.

Consider this second case. During the last week, I also visited Sarinah, the purported oldest mall in Jakarta. Even before entering, the sense of displacement was already severe. Jakarta's Hard Rock Cafe was in the same complex, and customers of a nearby French restaurant with a French name used the same parking lot. Coming in only heightened it. Yes, we were there for souvenirs and completely bypassed the Muslim fashion and bookstore floors, but the absence of any feeling of being in Indonesia was unsettling. Everything was English. The coffee listed its qualities as "rich and earthy," the clerks did not even try to speak Indonesian to me (understandable as I am so white), and the cash register read "Thank you" when the last of my postcards were slipped into their bag. In the statue section, they gave up entirely on any pretense of being an Indonesian place. Statues of a white golfer immediately post-stroke sat alongside laughing Buddhas which looked suspiciously similar to those I had seen in San Francisco years earlier. At least Indonesians worked in Sarihna, and some conceivably shopped there.

Maybe ethnic Indonesians are not Starbucks' core market because they prefer their own coffee, its Javan and Sumatran varieties so highly regarded by the rest of the world, Starbucks included. Probably native Jakartans have little interest in buying shirts and postcards with "Bali" on them, especially in their home city. Still, it is more than a little unnerving to find such unabashedly non-Indonesian environments in the capital city. Of course it is possible to find the same sort of thing in the United States. Ethnic restaurants try their hardest to recreate the feeling of being in another place, and America is home to Chinatown and Little Havanna. What I found in Jakarta felt different, though. Not introduced by immigrants trying to maintain their heritage, these came in packages from global corporations.

I make no predictions of an imminent, multi-national homogenity where we all eat at McDonald's and wear United Colors of Benetton and shop at Wal-Mart. It was no problem to avoid Starbucks and Sarihna, my late discovery of them convincing evidence. I came to Jakarta expecting something completely different. Far and away, I did, but this feeling of placelessness, even in a city so unlike those I have known, does depress me some.

A Month in Jakarta: The occasional calm

I have been back in the States for about three weeks now, but that does not mean the past month is no longer on my mind. No, very much it continues to occupy my attention, and I need the rest of the summer just to process what all happened and all that I experienced. Thus, the "A Month in Jakarta" series goes on. I will take a line break or two to allow the applause to die down.

I spent my elementary and high school years in a town without a stop light. If even that little traffic noise became too much for me, I could walk outside the city limits. When I moved for college, that did not change terribly much. Yes, I do now live in a city of roughly 200,000, but the campus is in a fairly calm neighborhood and insulated enough to be a quiet place itself. While escape is no longer possible on foot, a 20-minute bike is enough to get well away from everything.

Jakarta, a lot louder, a lot bigger. The heaviest traffic was a block off and a row of houses absorbed most of the noise, but piped motorbikes exploded the occasional calm. Food carts and their owners, and there were an awful lot of them, made their presence known with bells and calls or the most irritating possible 5-second recording on loop. The morning call to prayer, a swell of layered voices from innumerable mosques, did not have that same beauty as the later ones, probably because it began sometime around six in the morning. Getting away from the noise was not really an option, given my debilitating fear of Indonesian public transportation and nowhere quiet within a reasonable distance.

All of this made those few opportunities to escape to somewhere quiet all the more appreciated. These came twice in the form of visits to Monas and Bogor.

Monas is the national monument, Jakarta's attempt, I figure, at the Eiffel Tower, a symbol that the city can instantly be recognized by, a little something for the keychains and to be integrated into national advertising campaigns. Normally, this sort of thing does nothing to attract my attention. I rarely have an interest in joining a swarm of tourists and the beggars and trinket sellers. Jakarta, however, is still a far cry from being a tourist city. The only people to populate the massive park which surrounded the national symbol were, as far as I could tell, locals, waiting in line to see their nation's constitution in Monas' base or taking advantage of skies not crossed by powerlines to fly their kites and a few open soccer fields with proper goals and dimensions. My first opportunity to enjoy something nearing peace and calm, the visit was marred by also being my first time seeing Jakarta's homeless population. Not just stuck in the slums, these were people who, for whatever reason, were sprawled out on sheets of cardboard under bushes and small groves that could provide some shade. I work at a homeless shelter and walked through the slums a few times yet seeing them was still unsettling. Maybe the system is set against them for whatever reason or they do not know how to help themselves or simply cannot, but you see them and know that things are still not working.

Bogor, in contrast, was a small city about 30 minutes by train outside of Jakarta and had something very special besides a lack of traffic: green space. A few patches of lawn with lines of trees took up some space around Monas. They were nothing special but a far sight better than the park jammed into a rectangle smaller than most lawns in my hometwon a few blocks from the orphanage and only one in the area. That was all put to rightful shame by Bogor and the expanses which surrounded it. Once away from the main drag which ran past the train station, it was nothing but the lushest, deepest green rolling hills and little encroachment by urbanity. Walking one of the few streets, a local pointed out to me all the fruit that was available for picking and grabbed me starfruit and Indonesian cherries straight from the branches. It was more than enough to make the attempted pickpocketings on the train worth it. Too bad about the military kicking me off their base, but I can understand why you would not want a foreigner, especially one as obvious as me, walking around with a camera.

A Month in Jakarta: The poverty

I think it is a failing of mine that I rarely create adequate expectations for whatever lies before me, much less make expectations in the first place. I just kind of make a decision and stumble into it with only the vaguest ideas of what lies ahead. On the one hand, this does tend to mitigate the inevitable let down when the experience fails to live up to the expectation. On the other, the experiences just wash over me, and I never drive for anything in particular, opting to just take suggestions and options as they arise.

In the case of Indonesia, I really only had one expectation. I would be working at an orphanage, serving there "the poorest of the poor" and "the marginalized of society." I was expecting something Dickensian, inadequate lighting, an irremovable dampness and an unusually drab assortment of grays everywhere. Rough types would probably prowl just outside the nine-foot stone walls topped with barbwire. For this middle-class kid attending a private university, it would be his first experience of poverty.

That expectation was wrong. Except for the barbed wire, but everyone uses it here. The orphanage is a decent place, lacking a number of Western conveniences but nothing intolerable and really quite nice. It is even in a decent part of town, and a private security force makes it feel safe enough that women freely walk alone at night.

Thus, the first exposure to poverty did not come until maybe a week after arrival, when I tagged along with a veteran member of the organization as she and one of the kids visited his parents. Turns out orphanage is a bit of a misnomer. Corruption at high levels has produced death certificates for parents in order that officials and criminals might benefit from otherwise well-meaning grants and charities.

It was strange. From this neighborhood where every third mailbox has the title 'Doctor' on it to what can rightly be called the slums, it was only a ten minute, fifteen at the most, walk. Literally, we crossed a road and went from two- and three-story opulence with small yards to cement brick, two room homes which were barely larger than my room at university. With a step we went from asphalt-paved roads to dirt tracks better suited for off-road biking enthusiasts than real transport. Occasionally there was a motorbike but the cars had disappeared along with any suggestion of a disposable income. And the place was filthy. Do not get me wrong, Jakarta in general is a filthy city, but the presence of a nearby dump and a slum population which undoubtedly routinely goes through it, do not help matters in the least.

I wrote earlier this was strange. That is not quite precise. The transition was incomprehensible. The only way to make it was to stop thinking, stop paying attention for a while and only consciously realize you were in the slums by the time the middle-class neighborhood was out of sight.

It took another five minutes of walking through it all to arrive at the kid's house, and this was no case of a prostitute with a heart of gold, of an ugly exterior hiding a beautiful inside. There was no such thing as glass windows. Protection from the elements came in the form of sheet plywood shutters and covered the square hole in the wall which offered the only light besides the door. The floor was a cold cement slab with a mere layer of floral print paper between it and myself. There was no furniture but for a single end table, and the only decorations were paper posters with religious imagery. If they had not been scavenged from the dump, they had almost certainly been on those walls for years, they were so tattered and faded.

It was mortifying, the visit that is. Soon after we arrived, the mother slipped out and came back minutes later with iced tea for us guests. It was my first iced drink since arriving in Jakarta. Not only did this family make less money all day than I did in a single hour of work back in the States but also that money supported five people while I provided only for myself and still received help from my family, and they gave me this gift. I sipped it and sat quietly for a half hour as they all spoke in Indonesian. When our time was up, I offered the greatest thanks I could. Twenty minutes later, we were back at the orphanage and had running water and air conditioning available once again.

So that is what poverty looks like. There is more to it than that: the hope for even a single, simple meal each day; the crime; the begging and indignity, but that is all I could understand by myself in my short time there.

I fear that fetishizing it after this briefest of encounters is all too possible. There is a lot to be disgusted with in American culture, and it is all too easy to see its antithesis in the slums. By Western standards, I saw the most severe material deprivation possible, but I saw easy smiles too. In the streets, they did not look bitterly at me so far as I could tell, and the family even gave me the gift of a cool drink for being nothing more than a guest. The people who lived there obviously did not have club memberships or wallets full of credit cards, and they seemed okay with that, still capable of generosity. Does that not sound idyllic? I was probably there for less than an hour. What do I know?

The founder of the charity I am with here arrived a few days ago, and tomorrow she wants to take us volunteers through through the slums. We will just have to see what happens then, what is revealed and understood.

A Month in Jakarta: The food

Part of my woefully inadequate preparation for Indonesia included an attempt to familiarize myself with the cuisine. Considering the dearth of Indonesian restaurants in Spokane, I turned to recipes and their accompanying pictures, but there were no determined efforts made in this direction, no searches of online cookbooks or orders from Amazon. At best, whenever I found myself in a bookstore, I would peruse the cooking section. There was always an Asian section and plenty of Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese and Thai samplings within it but, disappointingly, never any Indonesian.

Shortly after my arrival I thought this was so because a cookbook completely composed of "Make white rice. Make sauce. Put sauce over rice." would not be terribly interesting to most Americans. Since expanding my palate, however, I am convinced it is because America simply lacks the ingredients.

And that is a mighty shame because they have some excellent food here. I do not often see a single ingredient enhanced with spices treated as a centerpiece as the Indonesians are so keen on mixing everything, but that hardly matters as the food they have developed is so delicious. Rice is, without a doubt, the staple and the primary means of preparation is putting a sauce over, but that is hardly the alpha and omega of the Indonesian kitchen. Tofu, tempeh and this wonderful sticky rice which is stored in a pocket of folded leaves introduce some wonderful textures and are freely added to various recipes, and these weeks have proven my first exposure to rice noodles, a tasty exposure to be sure. Of course the tolerance for heat is at an entirely different level than this northern Minnesota kid is used to, but the spice has been kept in check and been down right tasty. All this is not to disparage the rice and sauce style either. The Indonesians do some exceptional work with a mortar and pestle, especially where raw peanuts, chilis and garlic are concerned.

Of course, all that is not to say Indonesians do not have their culinary failings. First of all, to not have anything fried (goreng) with a meal is unusual, and this is not just a minute in hot olive oil. No, this is the submerged-in-vegetable-oil-for-fifteen-minutes-until-the- outside-is-crispy-and-inside-creamy fried. Maybe breakfast is fried bananas. With lunch and dinner you might enjoy some fried tempeh or eggplant as a side to the rice with sauce, a sauce which, more than likely, has at least one fried ingredient itself. For a snack, and even a topping at times, there are beef rinds. The Indonesians prefer to call them 'crackers.' (I'm actually not sure if that is the proper name, but they are basically pork rinds, just made from cow rather than pig. Eighty-eight percent Muslim population and halal and all that, you know.) To be fair, I had pork rinds exactly once before this, and they had the texture and taste of old Styrofoam. These at least are fresh and edible, but the idea of literal slivers of fried fat as a snack is still enough to make me roll my eyes. I guess these is to be expected in a country where I have yet to see an oven, and the tap water is not for drinking, thus making boiling a much less appealing option.

It is fascinating to me that Indonesians lack an American conception of "fast food." Of course KFC and A&W have made headway here (no McDonald's surprisingly enough) and maybe the people there eat in a on-the-move American style (I would not know as I have not been), but I just do not see people walking and eating here. Even the carts and their owners who prowl the streets with their meatball soup, the Indonesian equivalent of hotdog stands, will pull out a few stools if you buy something from them and wait patiently for you to finish and return them. One of the kids here told me that is because eating while standing, even if it is because all the chairs are taken, is rude. It is just amazing how well ingrained this attitude is.

All of this has amounted to a tremendously nice surprise. With zero exposure prior to my arrival, ignoring the surprisingly accurate Indonesian dinner we prepared to publicize my trip, this has all come as something completely new, and the formerly exotic, in this case meaning the exceptionally high-priced fruits at Safeway, are common here. Literally, I have enjoyed starfruit and Indonesian cherries, which probably go by some other name in the States, straight from the tree. I will miss that.

A Month in Jakarta: The traffic

While my pre-departure Indonesia research was disappointingly little, I did manage to catch one article that appeared on the front page of BBC News. It tended more towards the novelty aspect of journalism. To keep people from catching rides on the roofs of Jakarta's subway cars and subsequently falling to their deaths, guards were being ordered to spray a special colored solution on rule breakers, so they could be identified and fined later. I have yet to see this subway, but considering what I have seen of the traffic in Jakarta, that exterior seat was probably as safe, if not safer, than the roads.

Since making good my escape from rural Minnesota, I have seen some frightening traffic. The circle around the Arc de Triomphe and all of Istanbul rank high, but at least there was some vague conception of law there. Here, the only rule anyone seems to care for is stay on the left side of the road, and even that is fairly flexible. Fading across the centerline on major thoroughfares in heavy traffic is a common enough occurrence that it no longer draws my attention, and a motorbike may drive, as far as possible on the right, against traffic until the driver spots an opening large enough to cross on.

Passing on either the right or the left is no big deal and made all the more frightening by the plethora of slim vehicles which like to fill every possible gap and improve their position, regardless of dividing lines. Unless the nearest motorbike is 50 meters back, you can never just assume it is safe to go on a right-hand turn because they will make room to get by if they cannot get on the outside.

Instead of slowing at intersections, drivers just lean on the horn to warn others they are coming through. To say it is a change from Spokane where drivers would stop and wave the pedestrians across is an understatement.

The city seems to have accepted this state of affairs. In my near-two weeks here, I have only seen two traffic lights and cannot recall any stop signs. Rather than try to enforce the speed limit in residential areas, speed bumps are used a stronger reminder than signs. The motorbikes still skirt around their edges.

There is one odd thing about the traffic, the vehicles especially, in Jakarta which I would like to point out. Ignoring the obvious examples of the 15-person buses (vans) and banjajs (three-wheeled jalopies that pour blue smoke like a garden hose), there are no old cars. Everything is shiny and new. No rust stains or any of that. Seriously, it surprises me to see anything earlier than 2000. I imagine its because it takes a while for used cars to enter the system, and cars were just not that common a decade or two back. That or the income disparity is just that great. While the majority scrimp by buying fuel-efficient motorbikes, the upper crust buy a new car every other year. Really, I have seen families of four on a single motorbike and others packing tables on the things. I doubt the latter, though, because there are just too many of the things.

A Month in Jakarta: The only white guy

This month in Jakarta has provided me with a number of notable 'firsts.' It is my first trip across the Pacific. It is my first time south of the Equator. It is also my first time ever being in the minority for being white, and for the neighborhood I have been staying in, this particular minority is even smaller than the non-white communities in either Baudette or Spokane, both very heterogenous cities.

For the most part, this is not such a big deal, even if I stick out all the more for standing at least four inches taller than the average and having lighter hair. People just tend to stare or watch a little longer. Maybe ever other day, some random person who knows a little English will try it out on me. The first guy knew no more than basic pleasantries but was pleased enough that he could pull that off (and that I had to backtrack past him when the road ended shortly thereafter in front of someone's house). The second spoke fluently and with an Australian accent, which was a little off putting. It is to be expected, I guess, because you have to learn English from someone, somewhere, but it is still not what I first expect. British, maybe, but never Australian.

Sometimes, though, it is a little more irritating. Someone yells "Hey, mister," to see if you respond or calls "What is your name?" after you are far past because it took that long for them to work up the courage. It is an act of bravery rather than friendliness to try and draw my attention because, if I turn to look and reply, they are laughing with their friends and pulling away. Maybe my size is threatening or movies have given them outlandish ideas about violent whites. I do not know.

More irritating are the people who say bule (boo-LAY) as I pass by. I have been told it means Westerner and there is no insult in it, but to be picked out like that and commented on in the belief that I do not understand is not the most comfortable feeling. At some point, I want to start pointing at myself and nodding and saying bule, too, just to give them a little start.

I think what gets me about all this, considering the apparent lack of malice, is the feeling that I am being treated at these times as more of an amusement or curiosity than a regular person. Take the time I was riding the bus, which in Jakarta means a hollowed-out van with two parallel benches facing each other. I ended up next to a toddler and what must have been her grandfather. She silently stared at me, and with the way he looked across at me, I assume he was telling her something like, "He's not from around here. Maybe across an ocean or on the opposite side of Asia." It was harmless enough, even cute at the time as the there was no ill will in the man's face and, like I wrote, the kid was quiet throughout, but looking back now, they were definitely interested in me as something new and different.

There is a darker, far less amusing side to this that goes well beyond me. Not surprisingly, the developed world has a good handle on Indonesia. Visiting the VCD rental place one evening, the vast majority of the films were American and British, and the most prominent advertising campaigns are from the West and feature white models. Even the mannequins before clothing stores have a distinctly white look to them. At times, this is funnier. One girl told me after I visited her school that her friends said I am handsome. Then there are the less pleasant experiences. One of the boys said he was ashamed for having darker skin than me. My responses then were not the best, telling her to tell her friends they were wrong and telling the boy he did not want to look like me because I am disgustingly white, respectively, but they put me off balance. I guess white is the standard of beauty, and while I see no reason for people to always think they are beautiful, they should at least be comfortable with their appearance.

Being faced with all this, it is uncomfortable. Race is an issue that has never really cropped up in my life. The non-white community has always been small enough and never vocal enough that it just never came up, not that I would have cared. Among the many forms of identity politics and groups, race always ranked near the bottom for me because you could do nothing to change it. You just had to accept it and treat those with a different skin color fairly. Of course it has come up in the abstract, during English and history classes and tap dance most recently, but this is something different. It is a little shock, to find that this sort of thing matters and that the rest of the world does not agree with me on this. Perhaps this is part of the reason Westerners are invited here, to give the kids real exposure to the world outside Jakarta. I do not know, and I have little more to write, this is so outside of my experience. Maybe more later.

A Month in Jakarta: Raison d'Etre

I arrived in Jakarta to begin my on-site work at the International Humanity Foundation's orphanage on Monday. Perhaps you already know this through personal contact with me or this earlier post. Now seems like a really bad time to be considering my reasons for coming here. Last summer would have been a far better time to be having these thoughts, but I guess it is natural. Coming in, you have some hopes of how you will be received, what you will accomplish. Maybe these expectations are unconscious, or maybe you have been daydreaming about them. Regardless, they are there. Perhaps you believe that through brute kindness and good intentions, you will teach the children conversational English and open their eyes to what lies beyond Indonesia, altering the course of and immeasurably improving their lives in a single month. If you are not quite so starry eyed, at least you hope to make a difference, to believe that your presence and actions changed something for the better.

And then you arrive, and a short while later, reality takes over. The organization ran just fine without you and will continue to do so after you leave. There were other volunteers before you and there will be others after you, just as outgoing and friendly and helpful as you, if not more so. You are not indispensable. In all likelihood, it will be something if anyone there remembers you after you are gone.

This whole, "You are not making a difference (at least not a noticeable one)," thing struck me yesterday. In a wonderful example of futility, I was trying to teach a computer class to Indonesian kids whose English skills were lacking on American Windows machines with fritzy mouses. I was forced to physically open all the windows, make all the selections and press all the buttons and hope the children remembered exactly what I pushed because there really were no other options. Even more, the day's topic, which I learned mere minutes before starting, was "Print Area in Excel." The classroom had no printer, which just made the exercise all the more pointless. I know very well that Nicholas Negroponte and Seymour Papert would argue that simple interaction with a computer is enough for children, but there are few times in my life I have felt as useless as I did then.

What then is the point? If I doubt my ability to actually affect change, why then am I here, besides the fact this doubt did not appear until after my arrival? Because I think it's right, and doing the right thing is the only thing worth doing. It is right to try. It is right to care and to actually follow through, not just expressing it in some limp-wristed, "Ah, isn't that sad" way. It is right to break off from everything you are comfortable with and use without any real appreciation to see how you come out of it, to know you can do just fine without conveniences as basic as running drinking water.

If nothing else, this feeling of futility arose quickly. It may dissipate with equal haste, and I am certain I am doing no harm in being here. Next week I will be taking over some English classes, classes in which I feel much more comfortable in actually transmitting some form of information.

Retrospective

And a happy third year anniversary to this blog. It has been a long while since boredom during my senior year of high school first pushed me off in this direction. It has been cool, this opportunity to consider and dump my thoughts, preserving them for a second-look sometime in the future, and in all honesty, I have been surprised how long I have kept this thing alive. I always figured I would get bored with it someday. Fortunately (except for those who claim I think too much), that assumption has been shown to be wrong.

As a means of celebration, I offer my favorite posts from the intervening years to give you an idea of what has most stayed with me and still fascinates me. It saves you a lot of time from searching the archives yourself, I guess. Of course, any longtime readers who would like to offer their own favorites are welcome to, too.

Journey
The oldest of the posts, hailing from an era when rereading what I had just wrote was (more) rare, the idea remains solid. I could have developed it all a whole lot more, but I remain faithful to that central theme of the journey being of greater importance than the destination.

A Crude Life Philosophy and On thinking about yourself
Right here, these two posts demonstrate a large part of this blog's raison d'etre. It gives me an opportunity to see the evolution of my thoughts. Came pretty quickly after one another.

Animorphs
Looking back on the formative book series of my youth with a mature eye and still finding something worth anything in it. Cool. And remembering Marco's truck theft still makes me laugh.

Further thoughts on volunteering
This post was a revelation, and Mission:Possible itself, though I did not realize it then, marked a turning point in my life, the time when entering into social work of some sort after graduation first niggled into my mind.

On the morality of elliptical machines
Not linked to so much because I liked this post but because of the response from my friends who are incredulous that I can have an opinion on elliptical machines but not the upcoming election. I refuse to support any candidate until the end of October. There's plenty of time for things to get complicated.

A modest proposal as regards education
Possibly my most original idea yet. Now to get into Teach for America and implement it.

Running in winter
To change it up every once and a while, I write about an experience. This is one of the better ones.

Considering "Babel" and "Into the Wild"
If you let it, a movie can sneak up and rock you back. These two did that for me.

I love you
It's true.

Also, be sure to check back frequently over the next few days. I will be spending the next month in Jakarta, Indonesia working at an orphanage and teaching English classes. It will be my first time across the Pacific Ocean and south of the Equator. Should provide some good fodder for travel writing.

Rain on the river

Quite honestly, this is one of my favorite pictures. Certainly not without its flaws (I am fairly certain that is my shadow down the middle and the only reason the rock is there is to break up the scene, something which could have been more subtly and effectively accomplished with more thought), but there is such a rich texture to this river and a full range of contrast. The ripples on the river suitably set against the rough rock. I thinks it is a wonderful picture, even if it is just the appreciation of a moment, no greater philosophy behind it.

Conditions were just right for this too. It was a light summer rain, enough to be refreshing without being a downpour, and the clouds were just thin enough to provide ample light without glare on the water. I am unlikely to come across that again any time soon.

Too Much Information

In near record time, the Internet posting of the latest issue of Charter is up on Gonzaga's website. Here is my submission, "Too Much Information." In all honesty I do not like it that terribly much. This idea that information without action is useless seems common sense. There is no reason to submit an essay on it. Still, the editor was in need, and I was strung for ideas. Editor said she liked it though, and as I asked her to be honest, hopefully others will as well.

Should you have the time, other essays to check out include Emmett Tribolet's "The Logic of Kabbalistic Mysticism: Defining the Code," Stephanie Scarff's "Identity, Relationship and the Internet," Kaitlin Vadla's "Narrative in the Postmodern Age," and Eric Cunningham's "The Omega Point: When Information Becomes Eternity."

Andrea Crow, writer of "A Hard Habit to Break: Addicted to Information," will be the editor next semester and I a member of her team. The first issue will be on globalization. There is something to look forward to and submit to should you be of the Gonzaga persuasion.

Racism on stage

I never thought the class I would most explicitly deal with racism would be Beginning Tap Dance. I could very easily imagine it happening in English where so much of the theory seems interested in problematizing the Protestant, white male canon and drawing out marginalized voices, but gender has received greater play there than racism. Even in a hard science or philosophy class by means of mea culpas for granting legitimacy to theories of degeneracy and social Darwinism could I see racism cropping up before dance. Knowing what I do now, it should not surprise me that much. The origins of tap lie with the rhythmic dancing of African slaves in the Americas. Until suits and spats and class were integrated into the dance, clear references to clumsy, oafish slaves were a major component of performances and moves based on these slurs still remain in the canon.

The other thing is, within those other classes, we would have approached racism detachedly. We could have seen what these people in the past believed and wrote; said they were wrong, stupid, wrong, bigoted, wrong; and gone on with the lesson. In Beginning Tap, however, we created a piece which told the story of tap. You cannot just say then that racism and slavery are wrong but must show it too. Naturally, the question of how do we deal with this emerged, and we had to consciously deal with it.

Allow me to lay down the story from the beginning, to the end, in its entirety. The idea of a collaboration piece in which all of the dancers would perform in isolated segments according to a narrative was proposed early in the semester, and our instructor expressed her desire to integrate some sort of social statement on class or race issues or whatnot in it. That was the extent of it for a while since we got distracted by practicing for our '50's rock medley and Singing in the Rain. However, as the time of the recital grew closer and we still had not begun developing the piece, I grew nervous with how it might go down without time to re-evaluate or debate.

I am really uncomfortable with race issues. They are simply something that has not immediately appeared in my life. My hometown in northern Minnesota was homogeneous enough that not having a pure Scandinavian or Germanic heritage was enough to make you stand out, and diversity in ethnicity and race is a continuing problem at Gonzaga where roughly only 15% of the last few freshman classes have not been white. All I ever needed to learn about racism I learned from Sesame Street and believed it should be enough to simply accept that people are people, all bleed red and should be treated according to how they act and what they do, not the color of their skin. That is the solution, end of story, all that needs to be said regarding racism. Time to move on to ending poverty or some other problem. What good is it to keep harping on a past of injustices when we know better know?

I finally spoke with our instructor after class and expressed my concerns that we were not adequately prepared to deal sensitively and appropriately with this issue. Thankfully, she agreed with me. While not willing to scrap the idea, I gave her the name and contact information of one of the heads of Gonzaga's multi-cultural program. Eventually this turned up another multi-cultural director who agreed to help the class out. He originally came just to teach us the hambone but eventually became the reader of our story and accompanying drum player. I was content at this point. Accusations of insensitivity would be harder with him to vet our decisions.

The major problem emerged when the piece was finally assembled. Our instructor began the piece by describing how the masters took away the drums of the slaves to kill their culture. This was accomplished on stage by having a student whip the floor as the drum, played off-stage, faded out. Despite the class' discomfort with this, the strongest protests were not raised until the second-to-last rehearsal. Then our instructor added a white hood to the whipping student's outfit.

She gave two reasons. First, to shield him from any potential backlash for playing a disgusting part. Second, to draw the racism into the present, remind the audience that racism is not simply a vestige of the pre-Civil War era but was still present decades ago. This lead to near mutiny. I do not remember a single student in support of this in the least and the featured student tried to go over our instructor's head when she refused to bend. He was met with the same answer at all levels. Racism and a history of slavery are not something we should be comfortable with. Why should we present it in a less than uncomfortable way?

We ended up doing the piece as she wanted it, but that does not settle the question, unless your question was "Who would break first, instructor or students?" I still stand by my original conviction. People are people and should be treated according to who they are and should not be tainted by any stereotypes of any group they belong to. I think that is where the class was at. For us, "racism is bad" is redundant. We know that and have never been told differently. The challenge for us is to figure out exactly what is racism. Our instructors, however, remember when large segments of the American population and public officials were still fighting integration. A good number of people still had to be convinced then that blacks should share the front of the bus with whites, a far cry from affirmative action to be sure. Partially, I think their resistance to our protests was based on this experience of racism.

In general, I think our student understanding of racism is better. The debate whether racism is right is over. Racism is wrong, so let us treat one another equally. We do not need to keep every imperial colonial power, every act of oppression, every genocide in mind at all times. They were wrong, if not outright evil, and we must not repeat their mistakes. The past cannot be atoned for, but we can do better in the future because we realize we all deserve some measure of respect and kindness just for living and being human.

For the piece though, I have since come around to agreeing with our instructors. I am still wary of the hood since the Klan was formed after the Civil War, but cruel things are a part of tap's history. It did not begin with Shirley Temple and Fred Astaire but with slavery. I doubt anyone in the audience needed to be reminded that treating people as property was wrong, but to treat something so cruel in a way gentle to the audience and even us as performers would be disingenuous. If we are going to deal with evil, let us deal with it honestly and not as we would prefer to. Beware excess and hyperbole, but do not forget that whips were used.

Considering "The Cult of Sincerity"

Lately I have been discovering something about those movies which most resonate with me. These are not merely the films which grasp my attention with brilliant artistry or stick in my mind with a clever line but those which strike a deep chord and firmly wedge themselves in my mind, the movies which ask to be mulled over and actually emerge in my life. These are the movies whose characters fight this sense that things are not quite right, not just in their own lives but with all of society are off. The characters strike off on their own to try and discover the truth and the ways things ought to be. Fight Club and American Beauty did it in 1999, and Into the Wild went after it again almost a decade later in 2007.

The latest of these films to catch my attention is The Cult of Sincerity. Released early this April, much of the accompanying press has been about its unique method of release, straight to YouTube. You can find the entire film there, free of charge. Revenue is generated through a partnership with the music site Amie Street. Undoubtedly, this is a fascinating idea, and I hope it works because I would very much enjoy the opportunity more independent films receive a broader release. However, my concerns lie less with the economics than the film itself, something which has been passed by in favor of singing the praises of its new business model.

The titular Cult of Sincerity is an idea developed by the lead character, Joseph, at open-mic night. Driven by his parent's recent divorce, the twenty-something lashes out against the entire hipster generation and a bar full of them. Joseph calls them to task and disparages their philosophy, their fashion, their lack of caring in the strongest terms possible. He wants out. He wants something to believe in and care about. Once off the stage, he goes about it moronically.

At first Joseph strives for doing the right thing all the time and generally makes a nuisance of himself rushing to open doors and give directions. After getting arrested for turning a dime bag in to the police, he tries to apologize for everything and only ends up revealing his own ignorance in the process. At least, he is trying. The majority of his friends, stuck in their respective narcissistic, nihilistic, juvenile ruts, fare no better, and their scenes demonstrate excellently what Joseph is striving to throw off. I am not ready to say "Sorry for the atom bomb," but I am bloody well not planning on falling asleep playing Guitar Hero and waking up to it in the morning or shooting the edgiest, most hyperreal film yet.

Still, Joseph's desperate search for meaning and the right thing does bear some fruit by the end. With the help of a friend, whom he screws with something terrible, and a guy at the bar, Joseph bears witness to either the most beautiful thing you will ever see or the most stupid, love. It all depends on whether you believe in it. And that is the trick, is it not? If you are not willing to believe in it, it can never mean anything.

I do not dispute that Joseph is spot on in identifying the problem. Though his attack is broad and against a segment of the population that is not terribly hard to disparage, there is something vile in hipster culture. It neither celebrates nor honors anything except that which can provoke a response, and the response itself does not matter so long as it exists. I have no argument with his antidote either. The only proper response to apathy is passion. The only remaining problem is telling us exactly what love is and what it demands of us. Joseph certainly does things that look loving and knows an awful lot of other people pursuing the same thing in their own ways. Certainly some are better than others, but none seem quite right. The rest is up to us, I guess. Normally, I would rail against a work that merely asks the question and fails to provide much of answer, but it seems appropriate here. Like Joseph, we need to go out and discover it for ourselves. We need to know that it is right and not merely be told so.

As for the film itself, it is an enjoyable watch. Understandably low budget, it excels in creating an appropriate mood and tone through its location, soundtrack and acting, Joseph's roommate particularly impressing me. The writing is generally strong, not quite ready for an Oscar, but honest. The Cult of Sincerity's only severe weakness is its failure to distinguish itself artistically. Its shots, varied and engaging, feel as if they have been lifted straight from film school textbooks. Its creators are young though, and I anticipate seeing their later works as they mature and their unique voices develop. Then, of course, there is its true independent aesthetic, shot guerilla style and on-site. It makes for a much different experience than any sharp studio film or "independent" movie starring Nicole Kidman or George Clooney.

Interested in seeing it for yourself? Here is the link to the complete movie. Not ready to sit at your computer for the next hour and a half or want a better sense of whether it is worth your time? Here is the trailer. The cultofsincerity channel offers scenes of some of the more philosophically engaging moments and the other two links, in case you want them all in the same place or whatever.

Father and son

And here we have my accepted submission to this semester's Charter and the partner piece to "Off-balance," my last photo post. Content-wise, it is more of the same: a chuckle at how out of place these suburban types look at a downtown skatepark, but I find the photo's structure far more interesting here. It was simpler in the other, just a single, dominant subject, but a bit more is going on this time around. The two subjects, a father and son, are sitting in near identical positions on one of the park's walls, both looking towards the right, but a sharp division, several times repeated, separates them. The line of graffiti breaks between them, two poles stand in the middle and the background becomes considerably darker on the son's side. The presence of the convertible Beetle, half-hidden by the wall, gives a little more weight to the father's side, too. Still, there is a general similarity in the fore- and backgrounds that delivers a sense of unity that transcends these differences.

It is unfortunate then that I have no clue what this all leads to. There is a lot going on and I feel there must be some meaning that lies beneath it all, but I do not see it. I could suggest that the two are the same person. The son is the father a few decades younger, and the son will eventually grow into an adult and become just like his father. The father looks towards his past, the son towards his future and they find it in the same place, but that all sounds awfully pretentious. Ultimately, I guess this all just feeds into my friend Emmett's understanding that the artist is hardly ever aware of all that they put into their work, but that just raises the question "How much is a snapshot art?" art with me, a question I am not now prepared to answer.

If you have the time, it is worth kicking around and checking out the other submissions to Reflection. Personally, I recommend Anthony DeLorenzo's "Untitled," Martha Buttry's "Love Song to the Argentine Mullet," Sabrina Mauritz's "On my way to lunch," and Spencer Allison's "The Grieving Process."

Understanding art

While covering the new art exhibition at Gonzaga for the student newspaper, something fascinating happened to me. I had the opportunity to ask an artist whether my understanding of their work was right. Okay, I can think of things far more fascinating, especially for the bulk of any audience I might have attracted, but for a guy who has been bothered for some time now by questions of whether priority in artistic interpretation lies in the artist or audience, this is a big deal. Trust me.

To cut to the short of it and avoid the extensive narrative of multiple attempts to make contact with Ms. Ingalls, a tale replete with wrong phone numbers and conflicting schedules, my interpretation of her exhibit was right. She was celebrating everyday life in her paintings of domestic spaces and stovetops. Eggs on the stove? A bathroom several times removed from those found in Home & Garden? All common and beautiful and worthy of our attention. How much of that interpretation was purely mine is debatable as I did interview the museum's assistant curator and read the associated tri-fold first, but, when I asked whether she would agree with my interpretation, her agreement was enthusiastic. I must say, it is kind of a heady feeling to not merely believe but know you get it.

But then that feeling kind of fades. After all, part of the fun in art is arguing to the point of broken friendships whether the artist is offering a message of hope or despair, being satirical or serious. Debates revolving around art, unlike those on physics or political science or anything with numbers really, retain a good deal of subjectivity. When the majority of evidence is drawn from only your own opinions and experiences, no research or history necessary, anyone can play the expert, but if the artist goes ahead and judges which one of you is right, that all kind of falls apart unless you honestly feel like telling the artist they had no idea what they were actually creating. What's left then besides analyses of technique, placement in some historical context and relationship to other works by other artists, topics not so readily approached by lay folk because they actually require some level of knowledge?

A fair bit, I think. There are the piece's emotional effects and style of representation or lack thereof. It seems arrogant, too, to leave the analysis at such a broad level. Even if the artist's theory never develops a single iota in some new direction, every piece approaches it in a unique way that bears a little reflection. Okay, so these are all celebrations of the common and everyday. How is she demonstrating that in this glance of a friend's living room?

Art, in the words of my design professor, is not all about the message. Otherwise it would be an editorial. This should be a no brainer. There is this whole aesthetic component after all. Obviously though, I had problems with it, and I think others may as well. I blame abstract modern art, the sorts of works which first cause the audience to question what exactly they are seeing before any other response rises in their minds. When we are distracted by attempts to figure out who exactly is doing what to whom, questions of whether we even like the piece or not tend to take a backseat or shift quickly to the latter due to unnecessary complexity.

Art is meant to be enjoyed as much as it to be understood. I just needed a reminder of that and maybe some others do to.

Granted, this little bit of analysis all comes from a guy who has not yet gone back to the original exhibit.

Considering "Persepolis"

Beginning during my sophomore year, I took to decorating my room with newspaper clippings. Seemed appropriate for a Journalism major and, more importantly, was very cheap. You might even say it was free. Interesting articles and exceptional photographs from The Spokesman-Review and The New York Times have since graced my otherwise bare walls. Among them is a full-page advertisement for Persepolis, the film adaptation of Marjane Satrapi's autobiographical graphic novels. At the time, it represented more of an appreciation for the page design than any particular celebration of the film, which I had yet to see. Fortunately, however, Spokane's new non-profit, art house theater, The Magic Lantern, was able to bring it in for a few weeks, and I was finally able to see this remarkable French film, well deserving of its Academy Award nomination for Best Animated Feature but unfortunately placed against the equally excellent Ratatouille. Like few other films, Persepolis manages to successfully blend humor and drama and everything in-between, all while steadfastly remaining itself and not pretending to be anything else.

For an element that comes across so simplisticly in the stills, the animation really is brilliant. The black-and-white character designs are faithfully adapted from the original illustrations, no doubt due to the direct work of Satrapi on the film, but impressively infused with spirit by the animators. Motion is so beautiful in this film. Whether it is the young Satrapi practicing Bruce Lee's moves on a cousin or the history of Britain and the Shah re-enacted by marionettes, every movement is clean and distinctive. The serpentine attacks of two older women coming down on Satrapi for wearing Western clothing is a great example of the animators being able to bring personality into their characters so simply.

Which brings me to something curious, something I only realized several blocks after leaving the theater: no direct attacks were ever made upon religion. Given the strict, religiously-based laws of Iran's fundamentalist Islamic government and the prejudices of the Viennese nuns, this was quite the surprise. In fact, barring God's physical apparition a few times and the cross on the wall of Satrapi's room in Vienna, religion was hardly ever explicitly mentioned. Take this as you will, perhaps as a cynical attempt to not alienate potential audience members, but I understand it as an attempt to universalize the film. The problem is not religion but discrimination. Though religion is the particular form through which it appears in Satrapi's life, she does not confuse it for being the only source of oppression. Any force, any person which denies self expression and freedom based on gender or ethnicity or whatever is the problem.

Persepolis is a coming-of-age story. It follows Satrapi's life from child to adult, from Tehran to Vienna and back before the final journey to Paris. More than her failed romances, more than the fall of the Shah and rise of Islamic fundamentalism in Iran, more than anything else, it is her maturation that gives structure to this film. Everything else is just another challenge she must deal with as she grows into adulthood. It is a timely theme for me. I am 20 years old and a junior in college. I am well past the age of consent and a couple of years past when a parent or guardian needed to sign papers with me. I can sire children. Next year I graduate, but I do not feel like much of an adult. Not long ago in America and still in many nations, I would be providing for my own family by now, but I very much remain dependent on my parents. Neither am I giving much to society, except for whatever being a consumer counts for. What does it mean to be an adult?

For Satrapi, adulthood is taking for responsibility for yourself and defining yourself on your own. When she is young, so much of what Satrapi says and believes comes off as parroting. Cute, especially in the bandanna, but parroting nonetheless. In Vienna, she falls in with nihilists and, after them, hippies. Satrapi becomes the people who surround her, and when they fail her, she runs. Through her grandmother's admonitions though, Satrapi begins to become herself. She reads and finds her own reasons for her beliefs. She stops pretending to be French and proudly stands by her Iranian heritage. She stops wallowing in self-pity and faces challenges rather than skirting them. The movie ends with her divorce and flight to Paris. By then has learned all she can from her family and leaves to stand on her own. Then she is an adult.

I do not agree wholly. Undoubtedly, these are good things, self-responsibility and self-definition, but their attainment alone is not enough to make one an adult because an adult is a member of a community. You do not become an adult in isolation but amongst other, through helping them on their own paths to fulfillment or adulthood or whatever. At some point, one must pass the lessons they have learned on to others, lead them further on. Then again, as already written, I am no adult myself and hardly in a position to be defining it, whatever inklings I might have. And not to appear too harsh to Ms. Satrapi, perhaps this film is Satrapi's lesson and its transmission.

Whether this assessment be true or not, it is a film with a few things to say about a few important things: adulthood, freedom, love. It is worth a see and a thought or two. Maybe even a discussion. At the very least, a blog post.