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I remember the sardonic comment about Mahatma Gandhi: "It takes a great deal of money to keep Bapu living in poverty." Gandhi might have wanted to live a simple life, but with the scale of his travels and the size of his retinue, it took a lot of money for Gandhi to live as simply as he wanted. Looks did not necessarily match the reality.
So too is the idea of the tokonoma, the alcove that is carved out of most Japanese rooms. Traditionally, the space is meant to display one scroll or one floral arrangement -- the better to achieve the goal of Zen concentration. But if the space is only meant for one objet d'art, and the display should be routinely changed, where do those other artworks go? In the kuya, the backyard storage shed where no guest will go prying. This is the building that gets cluttered with all of the accumulated pieces of art so that the tokonoma can look so unadorned and spartan.
I spent a summer night in Nanchang, one of the many populous cities in China that nearly no one has ever heard of. What impressed me about the city was the fact that there were so many people out and about on a summer evening. There was no festival or special reason for being out; it was just what people wanted to do at nine o'clock: go out with family and friends, get something to eat, and see and be seen. It was so lively in a matter-of-fact way, and I couldn't help but contrast it with so many downtown areas in the U.S.: empty after dark, and no one wants to walk around at night because no one else is walking around at night. If we don't make our cities livable places 24 hours a day, we shouldn't be surprised if they fail and die right in front of us.
Feel free to do so -- just stick my name somewhere on there for attribution, thanks!
Oh, do I remember those super-tall building cranes that were everywhere you looked around the city! It was absolutely nuts.
Here's one more photo: Nanjing Dong Lu (Nanjing East Road) in 1995. I wish I knew what it looks like now, but I think it's representative of what Dr. Bharne suggested was the difference between Pudong (the sterile financial center with all of its skyscrapers on the east bank of the Huangpu River) and Puxi (the area where this photo was taken.) When a city is made at the intimate level, where it is accessible to foot traffic and shoppers, it cannot help but become the center of urban life, no matter how much of a showpiece another part of the city might appear to be.
If you're interested in a discussion regarding whether a colonial building should be saved or destroyed, look up the "Japanese General Government Building, Seoul" on Wikipedia. In short, it was a beautiful 1920s Japanese building in Seoul that a) was representative of the hated prewar Japanese colonization; b) was left largely derelict after the Korean War; and c) was situated in front of the Gyeonbokgung Palace. By the 1990s, there were surprisingly voices on both sides of the preservation/demolition issue; though the latter group eventually won out, there were many people who argued in favor of moving on and saving the building for its intrinsic beauty. I think that the subjective terrain of colonialism is a variation upon the old saw that old buildings are one of three things that become more respectable with age ...
I was quite fortunate to go to Shanghai three times: 1994, 1995-1996 (when I worked there for half a year), and 1997. The last time I went there, I was stunned at the rapid pace of development; I couldn't believe how much had changed in just 18 months. My friends in Shanghai commiserated with me; one of them said, "Hey, I live here and I can't keep up with the changes, either." And that was at a time when there was one subway line. Now the subway map looks like a plate of spaghetti.
Here are two photos that might help you grasp the scale of change. I took the first one in '94 from a pedestrian bridge that straddled an intersection, and off to one side I could see the furious pace of development. When I went back in '95 I found myself crossing a pedestrian bridge, and off to one side there was a beautiful green park with a paved road and a marble museum, so I took a photo of it. It wasn't until much later that I started wondering whether I'd been there before. Then I suddenly realized I'd taken both photos from the exact same location -- when I put the two photos side by side, it was mind-blowing to see how quickly things had changed.
Well, there's always something new. Ten years ago it was the new Hakata train station, now it's the redevelopment of Tenjin. Regardless, the city almost always winds up in the Top 5 of every list I've ever seen ranking the most livable cities in Asia.
Yes, indeed, it is so much nicer now!
Beats me, but I'm sure with a little digging we could find the answer!
One haiku I like to keep in mind when things go wrong is this one by Masahide:
My storehouse having been burnt down
Nothing obstructs the view of the bright moon.
In Fukuoka, Japan, there is an ongoing dispute over the reconstruction of Fukuoka Castle. Most of the former castle grounds are now a public park with only a few original structures standing. However, the mayor has pushed for a reconstructed castle to be built, as it would give the city another tourist attraction. Some people have protested against this plan -- after all, would you be happy if Athens decided to restore the Parthenon to its "original" glory? -- but as writer Alex Kerr points out, once a bureaucratic plan is set in motion, it is never defeated but simply lies dormant until it can be brought forth at a more opportune time later.
We bought our apartment (or "mansion," as they call it in Japan) while the building was still being erected, so we were able to choose what sort of options we'd like to have. And it was interesting to see what sorts of things might be considered standard in America that we'd have to pay extra for in Japan. One thing I insisted upon was for our large, southward-facing window to be made of double-paned glass. In Japan, you see, windows are almost always of the single-paned variety. We had to pay extra for it, but the cost-savings (because the apartment was that much more insulated from the cold) were worth it.
Sure, the Luo Book diagrams could identify yin and yang, place the five elements correctly, and identify favorable and unfavorable directions for qi -- but did the authors realize how close they were to inventing sudoku?
The first time I went to Ryoan-ji, it was anything but pleasant. There was a recorded voice that played over tinny speakers as I looked upon the garden; presumably the voice was explaining all of the features of the garden to the constant flow of tourists as they looked out over the rocks. When I returned several years later, the recording was gone and I could enjoy the garden in relative peace. The story is that it was the complaints of foreign tourists that forced the change; they felt that the endless loop of explanation detracted from the quiet Zen experience they had come all the way to Japan to savor.