Today I spent eight hours at the Soap Factory gallery in Minneapolis participating in and being witness to an extraordinary multi-disciplinary and multi-focused examination of consciousness, childhood, spirituality, and our relationship to the earth.
It was organized by poet, fiction writer, essayist, photographer Wang Ping. (Since in Chinese, "first" and "last" names are reversed from English, I will refer to Wang Ping using her so-called "last" name, as I would with any artist I discuss on this blog.) First, Wang's writing.
For me, what runs through most of Wang's work is a tremendous faith and fidelity to her subject matter. From her fiction that details the horrors of Maoism to photographs documenting the impact of the Three Gorges Dam on the Yangtze River and its people and beyond, I sense so often at the center of a listening. She seems to open herself to whatever is there, no matter how horrible.
She does this with her own brand of what I'll call objectivity. It's not, of course, the objectivity of science, where a methodical way of thinking overwhelms the object. Rather, it's formed by what I sense as an almost boundless affection and care, a quietness that allows what is to emerge, come forth, shaped by her art.
Put simply, her objective method seems to emerge from a specific attentiveness opened by care.
Now, that's hardly all that is going on. But, for me, it seems to characterize most of my favorite work of hers.
Best comparison? Easy. Poet Lorine Niedecker.
For the past several years, Wang has been working on, among other things, the Kinship of Rivers. It has a Facebook page, a website, and involves plenty of traveling for Wang:
"Kinship of Rivers is a five-year interdisciplinary project to build kinship among communities along the Mississippi and Yangtze, and bring much awareness to the river’s ecosystem through art, literature, music, food, and installations of river-flags made by river communities. Since its creation in spring, 2011, our facebook group has gathered over 1820 poets, writers, artists, and activists to share poetry, art and news about rivers on the daily basis. Our www.kinshipofrivers.org website has published thousands of poems, stories, music, art, videos and photographs. Making River Flags — a medium inspired by Tibetan prayer flags— is a key element for the mission. Wang Ping and other artists have visited hundreds of schools and river communities to share poetry, make river flags, and install them along the rivers."
Today at the Soap Factory was a KOR celebration. It was a little like a Midwestern "Open House," where people could drop in at any time and stay as long as they liked, although things got packed toward the end, when the Ten Thousand Waves Ensemble performed and the mandala was blessed.
When I arrived about one o'clock, I walked around and noticed a Tibetan monk, Lama Yeshi, making a sand mandala.
"The general meaning of the word mandala is 'circle'. But it is much more than just a circle, it is the basis from which all spiritual mandalas are created. It is a wheel within a wheel representing wholeness and the infinity of our universe" (Wang Ping).
He used various colors of sand, and applied them using a curious tool, a metal tube with a rough, file-like outside. He rubbed another piece of metal against the ribs to cause the sand to fall evenly. I was amazed at how long he remained stooped over his work. I later learned from Wang that he had been working on the mandala for days.
Next, I encountered Lisa Steinman, who has been central to the project from its inception. She asked me if I would like to make a flag (see above). I, of course, agreed, and improvised a poem about the heat of the day—written in the spirit of a type of Japanese poetic calligraphy where the poem must be written quickly and fluidly on thin parchment or the paper breaks. Now, I printed it using a marker on fabric, but I made sure it came quickly and fluidly and was written in the spirit of the day. Lisa helped me stamp the fabric using red, Chinese ink.
I don't want to remember what it says, exactly: I want it to be my gift to wherever Wang takes it. Let go! (If, on the very off chance, someone ever gets around to wanting to publish a collected poems by me, they will have to travel the world hunting that one down. Wink.)
Next, some dumplings. Apparently, they were Wang Ping's own recipe—pork, beef, garlic, and other stuff. I liked that the vegetables were not cooked until they were watery. I brought the chefs a jug of water and some cups because did they look hot.
The tea ceremony was beyond charming. Peiju Liu Picard, proprietor of High Mountain Tea in Lauderdale, Minnesota, served individuals or groups in the chairs in front of her table as we wandered over. She told the story of how she was in finance until, one day, she could do it no longer and lost her memory. It was then, after a series of events, that she became a tea importer and a developer of what she teasingly called the Taiwanese-Minnesota tea ceremony.
The tea smelled beyond heavenly, and she poured it into very small cups. She taught us how to hold them (I could barely do it given my large hands.) and how to bless. Since she had shared some personal details, I told her I would be writing on the event. She said I could write anything down that she said.
Today at the Soap Factory was a KOR celebration. It was a little like a Midwestern "Open House," where people could drop in at any time and stay as long as they liked, although things got packed toward the end, when the Ten Thousand Waves Ensemble performed and the mandala was blessed.
When I arrived about one o'clock, I walked around and noticed a Tibetan monk, Lama Yeshi, making a sand mandala.
"The general meaning of the word mandala is 'circle'. But it is much more than just a circle, it is the basis from which all spiritual mandalas are created. It is a wheel within a wheel representing wholeness and the infinity of our universe" (Wang Ping).
He used various colors of sand, and applied them using a curious tool, a metal tube with a rough, file-like outside. He rubbed another piece of metal against the ribs to cause the sand to fall evenly. I was amazed at how long he remained stooped over his work. I later learned from Wang that he had been working on the mandala for days.
Next, I encountered Lisa Steinman, who has been central to the project from its inception. She asked me if I would like to make a flag (see above). I, of course, agreed, and improvised a poem about the heat of the day—written in the spirit of a type of Japanese poetic calligraphy where the poem must be written quickly and fluidly on thin parchment or the paper breaks. Now, I printed it using a marker on fabric, but I made sure it came quickly and fluidly and was written in the spirit of the day. Lisa helped me stamp the fabric using red, Chinese ink.
I don't want to remember what it says, exactly: I want it to be my gift to wherever Wang takes it. Let go! (If, on the very off chance, someone ever gets around to wanting to publish a collected poems by me, they will have to travel the world hunting that one down. Wink.)
Next, some dumplings. Apparently, they were Wang Ping's own recipe—pork, beef, garlic, and other stuff. I liked that the vegetables were not cooked until they were watery. I brought the chefs a jug of water and some cups because did they look hot.
The tea ceremony was beyond charming. Peiju Liu Picard, proprietor of High Mountain Tea in Lauderdale, Minnesota, served individuals or groups in the chairs in front of her table as we wandered over. She told the story of how she was in finance until, one day, she could do it no longer and lost her memory. It was then, after a series of events, that she became a tea importer and a developer of what she teasingly called the Taiwanese-Minnesota tea ceremony.
The tea smelled beyond heavenly, and she poured it into very small cups. She taught us how to hold them (I could barely do it given my large hands.) and how to bless. Since she had shared some personal details, I told her I would be writing on the event. She said I could write anything down that she said.
On to some music. Carleton Macy played Chinese music, and then some original compositions, on, of all things, a wooden Renaissance recorder. He sat behind wind chimes which had a fan blowing on them, creating a random accompaniment. I listened carefully to his full tone and rhythmic sophistication. He also hit a gong a few times, which I then walked over to study. He asked me to accompany him. I did my best to improvise fills. It was the best time I had all day. After his recital, he and I briefly discussed Jon Yang, a jazz pianist.
One of the two highlights was a performance of Wang Ping and composer Bruce Bolon's "Ten Thousand Waves" by the Ten Thousand Waves Ensemble. (Bolon is a Hamline University physics professor who writes music in his spare time.) The somber, dirge-like piece concerns the tragedy on February 5, 2004 in Morecambe Bay, England, when 21 Chinese immigrants were drowned by an incoming tide off the Lancashire while picking cockles.
The ensemble consisted of string instruments and an oboe, and there were about six or seven singers. The feeling was Western classical, although a Chinese zither, the guzheng, was used at the beginning of the performance:
The Lichee tree I planted is blossoming
White flowers hide under dark green
The first moon comes and goes
But I haven't returned as promised
These are the heartbreaking thoughts of an immigrant who has left home far behind only to work countless hours in the dark, in the wet, only to drown far from home in the cold salt water. I shivered just listening to Bolon's dirge behind these words.
Shattering.
Finally, the mandala ceremony. Lama Yeshi chanted over the mandala and hit various gongs and triangles. I didn't watch; I meditated. Afterwards, he did not hesitate to brush the beautiful sand, which he had painstakingly arranged, into a heap at the middle of the table. He placed it in a jar, put a piece of fabric over it, and we walked to the Mississippi with a Chinese lion.
He said a prayer and dumped the sand down, down to the Mississippi. Can a prayer actually affect the sand which affects the toxins and poisons which heals the river? Not according to science. But according to human conscious attention it does.
And here we come full circle, to the writing of Wang Ping, to her special attention. What matters, whether or not the sand has become magic, is that the attention and care poured into the making of the mandala focuses Lama Yeshi, his prayer focuses us, and the metaphor of all that care and attention going into the river can only make us more aware of the river, the earth, the beings—magic or no magic.
Thank you, everyone for a fun and refreshing and enlightening day. See this link for photos and posts. Be sure to scroll down. Everything on the page does not pertain to today's events.
_____________________
See poetry and multimedia work by Wang Ping in AlteredScale.com 1.
One of the two highlights was a performance of Wang Ping and composer Bruce Bolon's "Ten Thousand Waves" by the Ten Thousand Waves Ensemble. (Bolon is a Hamline University physics professor who writes music in his spare time.) The somber, dirge-like piece concerns the tragedy on February 5, 2004 in Morecambe Bay, England, when 21 Chinese immigrants were drowned by an incoming tide off the Lancashire while picking cockles.
The ensemble consisted of string instruments and an oboe, and there were about six or seven singers. The feeling was Western classical, although a Chinese zither, the guzheng, was used at the beginning of the performance:
The Lichee tree I planted is blossoming
White flowers hide under dark green
The first moon comes and goes
But I haven't returned as promised
These are the heartbreaking thoughts of an immigrant who has left home far behind only to work countless hours in the dark, in the wet, only to drown far from home in the cold salt water. I shivered just listening to Bolon's dirge behind these words.
Shattering.
Finally, the mandala ceremony. Lama Yeshi chanted over the mandala and hit various gongs and triangles. I didn't watch; I meditated. Afterwards, he did not hesitate to brush the beautiful sand, which he had painstakingly arranged, into a heap at the middle of the table. He placed it in a jar, put a piece of fabric over it, and we walked to the Mississippi with a Chinese lion.
He said a prayer and dumped the sand down, down to the Mississippi. Can a prayer actually affect the sand which affects the toxins and poisons which heals the river? Not according to science. But according to human conscious attention it does.
And here we come full circle, to the writing of Wang Ping, to her special attention. What matters, whether or not the sand has become magic, is that the attention and care poured into the making of the mandala focuses Lama Yeshi, his prayer focuses us, and the metaphor of all that care and attention going into the river can only make us more aware of the river, the earth, the beings—magic or no magic.
Thank you, everyone for a fun and refreshing and enlightening day. See this link for photos and posts. Be sure to scroll down. Everything on the page does not pertain to today's events.
_____________________
See poetry and multimedia work by Wang Ping in AlteredScale.com 1.
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