Jesus and The Beauty of Emotional Intelligence

 

As a hurricane is bearing down upon us, potentially upending some patio furniture, I think back to some words I first published in 2018. The Gospel reading this past Sunday at church reminded me of what first prompted these thoughts. Here is part of that reading:

Jesus set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

In this part of Mark’s Gospel, we hear a story about Jesus’ encounter with a Canaanite woman. It is easy to overlook a critical aspect of this story ~ the fact that Jesus chooses to travel to an area populated by Gentiles. There, he is confronted by a woman who for two reasons is ‘an outsider’: she is not an Israelite, and her daughter has a demon.

By overlooking Jesus’ choice to travel to Gentile territory, it then becomes easy to mishear a vital aspect of this Gospel reading. It’s Jesus’ willingness to be playful —even dangerously playful — as he enlarges our concept of God’s Kingdom. Some contemporary commentators don’t recognize this about Jesus’ journey into the region of Tyre. For they view it as a story about how a Gentile woman enlarges Jesus’ concept of the Kingdom. This follows from the way modern theologians stress the humanity of Jesus over his divinity. In other words, ‘how he was like us’ comes to overshadow ‘how he was different from us.’

This is especially true with our understanding of intellect. We associate ‘intelligence’ with skills like computing numbers and remembering information. Yet, the key to this Gospel story may lie in something different, in what is called “emotional intelligence.” Emotional intelligence is relational, and involves feelings, character, and temperament. It depends on maturity, and relies on insight about what enhances or hinders well-functioning community. When we overlook these fuller dimensions of ourselves, we limit our concept of what it means to be human.

Think, for example, about humor. We assume humor depends on being witty, and making fun of people and situations. We forget that we also deal with serious things through humor. Humor approaches life indirectly, from the side, instead of straight-on. In medieval times, Christians actually debated whether Jesus ever laughed! We know he wept, but Scripture never records Jesus as laughing. Surely, we can see beyond this narrow assumption that Jesus never laughed or spoke with irony and humor.

Appreciating how Jesus uses playful humor helps us understand his interaction with the Canaanite woman, and how he is compassionate rather than rude in speaking with her. The story displays the beauty of his emotional intelligence instead of a limitation in his perception of his vocation.

 

This post is based on a homily I offered on Sunday, September 9, 2018. The Egyptian Arabic manuscript illustration above is credited to Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rabib (1684).

St John the Divine – A Building and a Gospel

 

 

In the summer of 1974, I left my Massachusetts prep school as one of the few graduates not intending to go on to college. I moved to Manhattan in a youthfully naive venture to try and replicate an aspect of the life of my hero, Frank Lloyd Wright. I wanted to follow his career path of eventually obtaining architectural licensing through practicing in the field, something that was and may still be possible.

Unfortunately, as a career move this was at an improvident time, largely due to what was then called “the oil crisis,” and its effect upon the economy. No architectural office was hiring beginning draftsmen, and some were taking on licensed architects to do the kind of basic drafting work for which I wanted to be hired. The former Frank Lloyd Wright associate, Edgar Tafel, was most gracious in allowing me to come to his New York City office for an interview and then by how he tolerantly responded to my youthful exuberance and evident lack of preparedness for the work. Philip Johnson was less patient with me. When I managed somehow to reach him by phone, he said, “Look – I don’t do the hiring around here. Talk to my associate!”

I had found a room a block and a half from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, which was a prominent local landmark and soon became a welcome place to visit. Only years later did I discover that the house in which I had been able to rent my room, the former Alpha Delta Phi fraternity house, on 114th St, opposite the Columbia University Library, was where Thomas Merton had lived when he was a student there.

I would walk over to St. John’s, an alluring place to stop and rest. Now, at this point in my life, I would say it was ‘to pray.’ But I would not have said that then. Yet, as one beautiful phrase in The Book of Common Prayer Catechism puts it, “Prayer is responding to God.” Those are profound words. If taken seriously, we can recognize how many, many people in this world ‘respond to God,’ quite spontaneously and quite naturally – and aside from doctrine or ritual.

The magnificent space and architectural achievement of the unfinished cathedral of St. John the Divine was a profoundly converting space for me, in ways I did not realize then, and in ways that would not really make sense to me until much later.

Drawn to this place, absorbed with my intuitions about its architecture, and visiting frequently with inquiries, I volunteered to become a docent, a kind of tour guide for visitors before places like this cathedral became commercially oriented, leading to the charging of fees and the like. In the process of my time as a guide, I learned many arcane and obscure things, among them the size and height of the granite columns surrounding the main altar (54’ tall, 6’ in diameter); the number and architecturally significant variations among the chapels adjacent to the ambulatory surrounding the apse that encloses the high altar; as well as significant features of other side chapels in addition to the crypt.

If you had asked me then about the nature of my interest in that building, I would have said it was purely of architectural significance. Ask me now and I will tell you that I was seeking a closer experience of what St John the Divine shares with us in his Gospel. I was – as we say in a paradoxical way – unconsciously looking for God. But what I was really looking for, as we all do, is the experience of being found… and of feeling found, by God.

I think it is also providential that my year in New York, and the brief time I served as an occasional volunteer guide at the Cathedral, was when Canon Edward West was Sub-Dean, and Madeleine L’Engle was officially the cathedral librarian. I may have had only passing contact with either of them, but both were exemplars of how the arts may draw people into a more direct experience of what our Christian faith is all about. The Cathedral of St. John the Divine has represented this vision and value for decades.

Where St. John the Divine as a building nurtured my nascent spiritual awareness, the Gospel given to us through St. John the Divine, and the hymn-poems in his Revelation, have been for me a key, a doorway, and a beckoning gateway into a greater fullness of life.

 

A Beautiful Holy Place: San Marco, Venice

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A city and its cathedral, San Marco, are built upon low-lying islands and saltwater marshes. From its earliest history, Venice has contended with the sea. But in recent times, the municipality and its basilica have continued to suffer from sinking land and high waters, much to the grief of those who love this historic place. This emerging geographical tragedy is of world-wide significance, and begs for sensitive and imaginative responses. I can only offer a personal spiritual witness.

For it is one of the most beautiful places I have visited, and one that has played a significant role in my spiritual journey. Formally, the building is the Patriarchal Cathedral of San Marco, in Venice, and is named for the Gospel writer, Mark, whose remains are believed to be entombed in the structure.

In the autumn of the year when I experienced adult conversion to the Christian faith, as a college exchange student in Europe in 1976, I found myself pulled. Pulled forward, toward an unappreciated and an intellectually misunderstood faith, and pulled away from having been a largely agnostic art major. By God’s grace, two buildings played a significant role in my spiritual journey.

The first was the basilica or shrine commemorating St Francis, in Assisi, with its incredible Giotto frescoes. The second, and for me the more enduringly influential, was St. Mark’s in Venice. It was an unexpected but important precursor to what I experienced recently at Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. For what strikes many visitors is how much San Marco owes to the architectural heritage of the Christian East, even though we also see how aspects of it are congruent with earlier buildings found in the West.

While growing up in Japan, with my family I visited Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, many of which seemed to be genuinely holy places. I believe these experiences helped to prepare me for what happened when I walked into San Marco on a Sunday morning for the Eucharist. I found it breathtaking. For it was and is a place that draws people in, not only to marvel at its beauty, but a place that seems historically and organically to be imbued with a reverent sense of devotion to what is transcendent, to what is other. On my first visit there, I could see that I was not alone in this perception, especially as I experienced being present for worship in that transformational interior. As T.S. Eliot said about another church, San Marco is a place “where prayer has been valid.”

Notice, above, the elongated or stretched domes as we find in the much later Sacre Coeur, Paris (recently featured here)

There are reasonable grounds for supposing that the actual remains/relics of St. Mark were brought to Venice around 830 A.D., and that the earliest form of the basilica was then built to house them, completed by about 836 A.D. This was at a time when the Republic of Venice began to emerge as a regional power in the Byzantine continuation of the Roman Empire. One observable reflection of Western influence upon this very Eastern-looking building can be seen in the foreshortened dimensions of the chancel or sanctuary space. This space contains the altar, surrounded by a semi-circular apse, in the liturgically eastern arm of the Greek Cross plan (at the top of the diagram shown below).

Floor plan of San Marco, showing the Greek Cross pattern with five domes

In the Christian West, we have – at least since the Englightenment – been inclined to see the heart of Christianity as expressed in doctrinal terms, and doctrine as conceived primarily in a propositional way. In my acquaintance with Eastern Christianity, I have found a predominant disposition towards mystical theology and the spiritual life. A personal fact connected with what I have shared above, is this: after camping and fasting for about 5 weeks on Crete between Oxford terms during that same exchange-study year, I was baptized at the Easter Vigil, in St. Paul’s Anglican Church, in Athens, Greece. It was on March 25 (a significant Marian date), 1977, in a place that is a gateway to the Christian East.

I have long had a devotion to St. Mark, stemming from my experience in this beautiful cathedral building dedicated to him in Venice. I was ordained on St Mark’s day forty years ago, and was later called to serve as Assistant Chaplain of Keble College, Oxford, while pursuing my doctoral studies. These experiences gave me a heightened sense of God’s mysterious Providence in bringing together unexpectedly connected threads in my personal history. For blessed John Keble, in whose memory my Oxford college was founded, was himself devoted to St. Mark, having been born on St. Mark’s day, a day which was then chosen for the foundation and eventual dedication of the college.

San Marco and its public square, as – sadly – it more frequently appears. When I returned to Venice and San Marco in the early 2000’s, I was dismayed by how much the tiled floor of the basilica evidenced significant warps in its surface, principally from water intrusion.

 

Roger Tory Peterson’s Art, Helping Us See

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If you wanted to buy a guide to help you identify birds, what would you choose? A book with glossy photographs showing birds as found in nature? Or would you choose an artist’s rendition of those same birds abstracted from their natural setting? Without considering the question closely, I suspect that I am not alone in being one who would choose the former for what seems an obvious reason, that photographs purport to capture reality in what we call an objective way. And when seeking to identify birds, correct apprehension of reality is what we are after. Paradoxically, Roger Tory Peterson’s, Field Guide to the Birds, first published in 1934, has long been valued precisely because his paintings and notes may aid accurate identification of birds to a greater degree than can be obtained by studying photographs.

As we also find in the presumed intent of more recent, photo-based, bird books, Peterson’s aim was to help us see, and then upon seeing, correctly identify the birds we have apprehended in our sights. Yet, Peterson, a much-regarded pioneer in the environmental movement, sought to aid our perception by prioritizing the various unique properties of individual species, and then to highlight those features that distinguish them from other birds. With the aid of his editors and book designers, he helped to achieve these goals by adding small black lines or dashes pointing to various parts of each bird on the color illustration pages displaying his paintings.

These small lines correspond to observation notes in the text, signaling to the reader the principal identification marks and points of difference between various similar-looking species of birds (see below). His creation of this method for the identification of observed field marks in birds has come to be called the Peterson Identification System.

A pre-publication page from Peterson’s Field Guide. Note the small black lines or dashes, explained above.

The paradoxical limitation that may accompany a photographic guide to birds is that a photograph captures an object in only one posture in one moment of time. Photographs are also dependent upon existing light conditions, and where the object of attention may also visually be obscured or overwhelmed by its larger context.

With paintings, Peterson may have been better able to help us see three dimensional aspects of the birds he portrayed while yet employing a two dimensional medium, in part because those birds are presented against a non-distracting neutral background. By painting rather than photographing, he was able to emphasize and enhance certain features of birds, such as subtle areas of color and the impact of light upon them, to a greater extent than would have been possible with the photographic means available to him at the time. In the process, Peterson demonstrated a consistently high degree of proficiency in his work of illustration, while also achieving what are arguably finished works of art that help us perceive beauty in the natural world around us.

The Finches page from my grandfather’s 1959 edition of Peterson’s Field Guide

 

Note: Having featured Peterson’s work, there are many newer bird identification books being published, and they are worth exploring when someone seeks a reliable birding guide. For many people of my generation, Peterson’s work will always be on the shelf, given its art rather than his having employed photo-based images, especially since his books are so widely available. I am proud to have and use my grandfather’s annotated copy (above), with his sightings noted on numerous pages going back to the 1960’s.

I am conscious of the fact that I featured multiple color photos of the Common Nighthawk in my prior post, as well as having offered a substantial amount of information about this particular species. If bird guides were to offer an equivalent kind and amount of coverage of every species commonly observed, they would be immense, and very expensive!

Roger Tory Peterson (1908-1996). It is one thing to be serious about one’s life work, and another to be able to laugh about it!

 

 

Encountered Beauty: Nighthawks in a Dark Sky

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I have clear memories of a particular time of day in a town where I lived for two short periods of time, Northfield, Minnesota. In middle school, and then during college, I would frequently walk over the Water Street bridge spanning the Cannon River, by the old dam and historic Malt-O-Meal mill. On summer evenings and nights, I remember almost always hearing the distinctive nasal or buzzing be-zeet, be-zeet sound of birds calling to one another in the sky above. When I first observed them, I wondered what kind of birds these were, and about their surprising nocturnal behavior as compared with other birds more familiar to me. Based on the white patches on the underside of their wings, visible from the reflected glow of the lights in the town center below, I was able to identify them as Common Nighthawks, based on Roger Tory Peterson’s well-known book, Field Guide to the Birds.

Seeming to fly far above me, I was curious about their size, imagining them to be rather large. I then learned that their size and weight puts them somewhere between a common robin and a crow, suggesting that they do not fly as high as I had first imagined. Nighthawks are insect-eaters, which accounts for why they are so evident on summer nights, amidst the target rich environment of flying bugs swarming over city lights.

With their long wings, these birds engage in bat-like flapping as well as in gliding, and I remember them flying closely together as they went about their nocturnal feeding. The American Bird Conservancy website describes them in this way: “the Common Nighthawk’s erratic, acrobatic flight style gives the bird its folk name, ‘bullbat’.” Memorable in this regard is the way that they make occasional dives toward the ground. Some observers report that these dives cause the wind under their wings to make a booming or a whooshing sound, though I don’t remember hearing it.

I was intrigued to learn that, given their relative size, these birds will roost and nest on such apparently vulnerable locations as the ground, elevated tree limbs, ledges, and even gravel rooftops. Among things I appreciate about Nighthawks is how their mottled coloring, with blends of light and dark feathers, has adapted them well to survive in a variety of environments, and helps to protect them from predators like hawks and falcons. Of course, there are those incongruous white wing patches, which may be an evolutionary bow to some needs parallel to survival, both the attraction of a mate and the procreation of offspring.

The shape and size of Nighthawks’ comparatively long wings aid not only their feeding activity while flying, but also the extraordinarily long annual migration they make between their breeding grounds in North America to their winter habitats in South America. In fact, they are believed to have one of the longest migration patterns of all North American birds.

To me, Nighthawks are an unexpected kind of bird to find in a town center or in a city, given their dimensions and surprising willingness to live and reproduce in proximity to the commercial activity we associate with such areas. I am always delighted when I recognize their sounds above me on a summer evening, as I look up to see them wheeling about in the darkness, with their white wing patches flashing here and there.

In the natural world around us, with all its dynamic interrelationships, these amazing birds are our fellow creatures. In relation to them, as well as to other examples of what traditionally have been termed flora and fauna, we are called to engage in God-like stewardship. We all seem to have our favorite species in nature that we want to protect and care for. Needless to say, Nighthawks are high on my list.

 

The Nighthawk page from my grandfather’s copy of Peterson’s Field Guide to the Birds

 

The Architecture of Sacre Coeur in Paris

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This past weekend, we had the opportunity to watch the men’s and women’s Olympic long distance cycling events, involving 80-90 riders. After multiple hours, these races took them from outside of Paris back into the city. The telecasts of the races highlighted the latter segments, which included the challenging ascents to Montmartre, as the participants sped their way through and past the large crowds gathered on the hillside surrounding the church of Sacre Coeur. As they did, race commentators noted that the church is said to be Paris’s second-most visited tourist site after the Eiffel Tower.

With its soaring lines and its location on one of the tallest elevations in Paris, along with its stone surfaces, Sacre Coeur may remind us of some medieval European cathedrals. Despite its historic appearance it is a relatively modern building. Construction began in 1875, and concluded in 1914. What first strikes many viewers is the building’s structural emphasis upon height, reminiscent of Gothic predecessors, which is accentuated by its notably elongated or stretched rather than hemispherical domes (as is evident in the drawing above).

What is unique about this building is its homage to the Greek Cross plan, including its Romanesque arches. These features recall the general design of Constantinople’s great church, Hagia Sophia, and the common pattern for Islamic mosque architecture subsequently derived from it. Sacre Coeur’s Greek Cross plan is also reminiscent of Venice’s medieval basilica of San Marco. Roughly contemporary with Sacre Coeur, is H.H. Richardson’s evocative Trinity Church in Boston (1872). Like Trinity Church, Sacre Coeur’s design has been described as neo-Byzantine (as well as Romanesque), and the label fits specifically in connection with the historical precedents of Christian and Islamic origin just mentioned. Sacre Coeur’s design-dependence upon this history is most evident by studying the drawing provided below.

The above rendering of the floor plan of Sacre Coeur is vital for appreciating how this church building is as characteristic of the Christian East as it is of the West. The key point to observe involves the inner four columns that support the large central dome, and the four smaller domes on the peripheral corners that encompass the central square. These smaller domes as well as the huge principal one are suggested in the floor plan by the patterns of concentric circles adjacent to the four columns.

Between the domed spaces we find four rectangular areas of space that parallel one another in size, forming the arms of the Greek Cross. Like mosques geographically oriented along an axis directed toward Mecca, Christian churches traditionally are oriented with the altar on the eastern or sunrise side of the building, in honor of the Resurrection. Yet, due to the chosen site for a new church, the structure might have its chancel and altar on the north side of the building, as is the case with Sacre Coeur.

The apse, or altar area of Sacre Coeur is indicated in the above drawing by the Latin cross-shaped floor pattern. It is mirrored in length by the entrance portico, shown in the lower portion of the drawing. The semi-circular chapels surrounding the apse and its altar reflect an homage to Western and Latin medieval Gothic precedents. In Western, Gothic-inspired church architecture, the placement of these chapels is thought to represent the thorn of crowns placed on Christ’s head.

The choir or chancel at the liturgical ‘east’ side of the church

The remarkable ceiling mosaic over the choir

Another distinctively ‘Eastern’ feature of this building is its adornment with mosaics, and principally by the vast mosaic covering the ceiling over the chancel and choir, above the main altar. Designed by the noted painter, Luc-Olivier Merson, whose Annunciation painting I have previously featured, the mosaic is composed of some 25,000 ceramic tiles, many of which are gilded. With this church dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, it is not surprising to see the Lord depicted with outstretched arms and the golden namesake of the building emblazoned on his chest. Yet, even with this distinctively Western motif, the mosaic recalls the frequent choice in the East to portray Christ the Pantocrator, or the Almighty, in a mosaic or painting on the surface of a principal dome or semi-dome in a church.

I admit to this. Sacre Coeur in Paris has in the past looked to me like a Disney park caricature of a grand, historically classic, stone church. Having studied the plan and its design with more attention, as well as learning more about the original architect and about many of its details, I have a heightened appreciation for this remarkable and liturgically conducive building.

 

Vivian Maier, Who Saw Beauty in People on the Street

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A classic self-portrait by Vivian Maier

 

Vivian Maier (1926-2009), whose artistic works were until recently largely unknown, is now credited with being among the most significant street photographers of the 20th-century. Her main way of supporting herself was as a nanny in New York City. But clearly, her vocation was to see the people around her in a sensitive and insightful way, and document her encounters with them through the art of photography. As a perceptive observer, she captured them ‘as they were.’

My hunch is that her much-appreciated work as a caregiver for children, in the context of their families, positively reflected an inborn gift for discernment about other people as she apprehended the beauty she found within them. This may have provided her with a greater sense of tolerance and comfort with how others could appear, some of whom she photographed in states of disarray, plagued by the challenges of poverty and or illness, as well as those who seemed to be among the elite and socially inaccessible.

Vivian Maijer took thousands of photographs in the years before our new era of digital photography, and she never had a sizable proportion of her images developed into stored negatives. Traditional cameras in her era allowed light to pass through their lenses so as to impact chemically-coated light-reactive rolls of plastic film. These rolls of film then required either commercial processing, or the equivalent in private ‘dark rooms,’ where the light-sensitive film could be transformed into a stable medium. It is worth noting that, in its earlier days, photography was dismissed as being a lesser (or not even an) art. Yet, photography, as Maier’s work exemplifies, has the power to communicate great beauty, inspire goodness, and convey significant truths.

She was nevertheless unassertive with regard to what may have been seen as her ‘hobby’. She seems to have had confidence in her talent, and in the reasonable validity of her expenditures on cameras and film (a lot of film!), as well as the costs of developing the film she chose to have processed. And yet, we can only wonder why she did not seek out public recognition of her talents and work in a more encompassing way.

A compelling example of Maijer’s work

Three variables mark Vivian Maier’s accomplishments in photographic proficiency:

First, she was adept at capturing compelling and memorable images of people whose face and expression, and or posture, caught her interest.

Second, she became very proficient in producing images in black and white that have a significant light value contrast between those two reference points (light and dark). She also appears to have become adroit in manipulating the technical features of cameras such as shutter speed and aperture. For example, and taking into account the speed at which various film types absorb light, a quick shutter speed is often required when capturing people and objects in motion, to avoid a resulting blurred image. At the same time, when the shutter speed is fast, the aperture or degree to which the shutter is set to open in terms of size, not only affects how much light is let in but, interestingly, also affects how far objects in the distance remain in focus. Her attainment of these skills allowed her to be in greater control of depth of field, something important when taking photographs of people in public settings.

These first two variables involve skills that can be learned through practice. The third significant variable is picture composition, an inherited gift as much as it may be something that can be taught. Whether or not it can be learned through study, I believe that she had it naturally.

The following are some of the most significant images I have found in the available online archive of Vivian Maier’s oeuvre or life’s work.

There are, to be sure, photos of men (as below), but her most compelling images, I believe, are those involving women from a complex variety of what are now called ‘social locations,’ in New York City.

I find the following artistic self-portrait both visually compelling as well as insightful about herself.

What a remarkable ‘amateur’ photographer was Vivian Maijer!

 

 

Finding Beauty in the Most Unexpected Places

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Actor Koji Yakusho portraying Hirayama looking upwards, in the film Perfect Days

 

An improbable premise underlies the remarkable film, Perfect Days, and it is displayed in two principal ways. A Tokyo public toilet cleaner has a positive attitude, even a cheerful spirit, as he approaches his daily routine of attending to places where other people leave their waste. And yet, the primary places where this man is lucky to work are the architecturally significant public toilets commissioned and built for the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. The film portrays these places well. Some have suggested that the architectural features of these structures may have inspired the movie’s production. Nevertheless, the film is centered upon one man’s approach to how he lives every day.

He is a man about whom we know only his surname, and we learn more about his daily routine than we do about his inner life. The latter, his interests and perhaps aspirations, are suggested by the books he reads and the music to which he listens while driving. Many scenes depict him at his work. But the film does this in ways that do not romanticize his occupation, while he is shown cleaning and polishing toilet bowls and seats, as well as sinks and other aspects of plumbing. The film skillfully negotiates the ambiguous terrain lying between a heroic portrayal of an apparently righteous man, and a sentimental celebration of an unreal figure.

A montage of some of the public toilets featured in Perfect Days

The approach to life epitomized by Hirayama in the film is one of contentment. He models someone who accepts the limitations presented by the contexts in which many of us live, and he displays an openness to unexpected moments of discovered and quiet beauty. The film is not overtly spiritual. Yet, these qualities may represent – to some Western viewers like me – compelling reflections of Japanese culture as it has been shaped by Buddhism.

Hirayama at work on a hobby, Bonsai

In addition to the overt paradoxes at the heart of the film – a happy toilet cleaner and beautiful public toilets – the film subtly presents other aspects of Japanese society that Western visitors might notice. In what may surprise many who are not of Japanese heritage, regarding a very private culture where people typically meet one another in commercial establishments rather than in personal dwelling places, public baths with full nudity are common. I experienced occasional visits to public baths in my youth, growing up in Japan.

Hirayama in the neighborhood bath house

And within the context of this very private culture, some Tokyo public restrooms were created with transparent glass walls, appearing to risk users to full disclosure (the glass walls magically become opaque when the doors are locked).

Three motifs or tropes in the film are memorable. Hirayama is portrayed as always looking up to the sky when emerging from his home in the morning on his way to work, and is also seen gazing upwards (as in the photo at the top of this post). This suggests that he unconsciously senses a connection with something bigger than himself, and this may be the source of his frequently displayed habit of smiling at others.

Another motif, surely related to the first, is the employment of black and white sequences that portray flickering images, usually of dappled sunlight glimpsed through tree limbs, which Hirayama captures with his old-fashioned film camera. Most often, he seems to take these photos during his lunch breaks in a local park. In relation to these images, the movie highlights the Japanese word, and concept, of komorebi, which in a single word expresses the idea of sunshine filtering through the leaves of trees overhead.

The third is the employment by the movie makers of the Sumida River in Tokyo, long celebrated in Japanese art, over which we see Hirayama cross while walking, driving, or biking. The river appears to symbolize a form of divide between the part of the city where his small apartment is located, and the more elegant commercial district where he usually works.

My favorite image of Tokyo’s Sumida River in art, a woodblock print by Kobayashi, Kiyochika ({1847-1915} name in traditional Japanese order)

These juxtapositions in Perfect Days of contrasting details, color versus black and white, and interior privacy and public life, along with the harmony in which they are presented, distinguish this film. To me, it is remarkable that this movie was made by a Western filmmaker, regardless of the assistance provided by Japanese colleagues. A studied sensitivity to what I know about Japanese culture is evident in the film’s portrayal of this fictional character in improbable circumstances, as it invites us to discover – along with Hirayama – beauty in the most unexpected places.

Hirayama, gazing upwards, holding his old-fashioned film camera

 

Chora Church: A Byzantine Treasure

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Dome over the Side Church (or parecclesion), Chora Church

 

We missed being able to visit this remarkable place by a day! Sadly, after staying in Istanbul for four nights, the historic Chora Church that had undergone four years of renovation would not reopen until the day after our departure.

Dating back to the time of Constantine in the early fourth-century, the Chora Church was built as part of a monastary outside the walls that were constructed when Constantinople became the new capitol of the Roman Empire in 330 A.D. Its rural location led to its formal title, Church of the Holy Savior in the Country (or Chorai, in Greek).

Interior of the original central nave (naos) in use as a mosque, with Christian mosaics and frescoes covered over

Chora, like the later Hagia Sophia, has over its history served as a church, a mosque, a museum, and now once again as a mosque. As I have noted in prior posts, the fact that buildings like Hagia Sophia and Chora have been able to transition from church to mosque without significant structural change helps us perceive how what became normative in mosque architecture had its origins in churches from the early Christian, pre-Islamic era. As a precursor to Hagia Sophia, the original walls of Chora may provide one of the earliest examples of what would develop into the cruciform plan for churches, a design pattern that became predominant in the Christian East. This approach to design for worship spaces is centered on a square, covered by a dome, a departure from the early rectangular basilica plan favored in the western Roman region.

Floor plan of the Chora Church

In the floor plan above, note the subtle Greek Cross pattern of the central nave (or naos) below the large dome. As this plan indicates, the original, late Classical period Chora was significantly expanded during the Byzantine period, between the 11th century and the 14th century.

Section drawings of Chora Church showing the location of some murals and frescoes

In addition to its cruciform plan, and the church’s great antiquity, another feature that distinguishes Chora is its impressive collection of well-preserved Byzantine mosaics and frescoes, largely from the early fourteenth-century.

Visitors to Chora admiring the murals in the Byzantine-added “side church”

The bulk of the surviving mosaics and frescoes are located primarily in the side church (or parecclesion). This may be due to the central nave or naos having been used for Islamic worship during a significant portion of the building’s history. One of the many beautiful frescoes depicts a common theme found in works of art from the Christian East, that of the Harrowing of Hell. Images based on this theme depict the Christian belief concerning the first saving actions of the Risen Christ: pulling Adam and Eve out of their tombs and the clutches of the underworld (image below).

A fresco in the Side Church – Anastasis (or Resurrection): The Harrowing of Hell

A beautiful example of the Chora mosaics depicting Joseph and Mary’s enrollment for taxation in Bethlehem

Interior view of the side church

Like the later Hagia Sophia, Chora Church – for a time as a museum and now a mosque – still serves as an edifying spiritual place for Christians and people of other faiths to visit. For Orthodox Christians in the East, Chora’s numerous mosaics and frescoes provide multiple opportunities to (re)engage with biblical stories and with articles of faith in a way that the contemporaneous art in the much larger Arena (or Scrovegni) Chapel in Padua, Italy, provides enrichment for Western, Latin, Christians.

Exterior view of the southeast corner of Chora Church (note the later addition of a ‘flying buttress’)

A 1903 photograph of the west entrance to Chora in the late Ottoman period

 

The Beauty of Bonsai

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A local plant and garden center recently offered an introductory workshop on Bonsai, the Japanese and originally Chinese art of propagating and arranging miniature versions of living plants and trees. Upon registration for this workshop (and for a relatively modest fee), participants would be provided with a starter plant, a container for the project, and the basic tools and materials with which to begin their own Bonsai arrangement. With my childhood in Japan, and my interest in the arts, I jumped at the opportunity to learn some basic principles of Bonsai, an art which I have admired for many years. Nevertheless, I have been largely ignorant of the mechanics of this aesthetically-pleasing horticultural practice. Attending the workshop, I was not disappointed by the learning opportunity offered.

Upon going to our assigned places after arriving, each of us found a potted portulacaria afra, a succulent commonly called dwarf jade plant or elephant bush (photo below). We also found a glazed ceramic container, plant medium, and basic tools with which to create our first attempt at a genuine Bonsai arrangement. My potted starter plant was in a 6” plastic pot, about 18” – 24” in height, and root-bound in its container.

An example of portulacaria afra

Our first step in the process was to prepare the pot or container to receive the plant. I learned that the most useful plant containers have two drain holes, as well as two very small holes for upright wires. The photo below shows my pot after attaching the wires and screens.

Wires secure small mesh screens over drain holes, while a longer U-shaped wire emerges from below, to help secure the plant

Our next step was to remove the plant from its plastic pot, and determine where the upper primary roots lay. We were then asked to remove almost all of the former potting soil material (identified as pine bark mulch), and then to anticipate trimming the roots. Here, I found my first challenge. As an amateur gardener, disturbing the roots of a plant – much less removing the planting medium in which it has been nurtured – hit me as strongly counter-intuitive. Yet, this was actively encouraged.

A participant’s plant after removal of most of the original planting medium, before cutting extraneous roots

After initial preparation of the plant, we had our third challenge. This was to cut and shape the remaining exposed roots in such a way that the plant might sit well in the provided pot. The overall natural shape of the plant provided a starting point. But an aesthetic judgment was also needed for how this particular plant would best sit in this particular container. Here, I was beginning to discern how at first seemingly mysterious Bonsai practices become compelling to so many people. There appeared to be at least thirty or more participants in this workshop, on a Tuesday evening before the 4th of July!

So, how might my particular plant best fit in my provided pot?

How I situated my plant in the pot, secured by the upright wires

My plant before I trimmed the upper stems

Then came the most challenging aspect of Bonsai for me as a beginner. How should I trim the top of the plant, and to what extent should I prune back the stems and leaves? The main lesson I received here was this: do not be afraid of pruning!

Indeed, with the art of Bonsai, and apparently according to recognized horticultural principles, the more we prune our Bonsai plants, we will find a real diminishment in the size of the leaves as the organism grows!

Here, below, is a photo of my Bonsai plant project at home, after some significant pruning.

The ‘windswept’ natural posture of the potted plant appealed to me, and I want to accentuate this by continuing to allow for the lean of the plant (to the right, in this photo), while counter-balancing this lean by promoting growth toward the opposite direction. As my recent mentors stressed, pruning will be everything!

What my portulacaria afra might look like some day

 

Note: as mysterious as this art-form may seem to Westerners, it is accessible to beginners in terms of method, materials, and technique. Ask your local plant and garden store about it!