#and yet they manage to render themselves unrecognizable

[markiafc]

i love and appreciate western media very much, but there really are some feelings only chinese media can tap into. it's the eternal tension between conforming to long-established tradition v. defying it all and being something new, something deviant. we find that conflict in the ideological battles between chinese philosophies; the criticisms and derivations between confucianism, buddhism, daoism, mohism, etc. we find it in the way chinese states are always torn between honoring traditional values v. loosening their grip to accommodate those at the margins. we find it in people like myself; i grew up in a very religious chinese buddhist family, having to studiously study buddhism and some prominent confucian texts. inside the cultural consciousness, there are real living people. and they want so badly to break free from convention, its suffocating and painfully limiting. at the same time, it feels so important and they want to keep engaging with it, they can't abandon something so close to their identity and heart.

mlc also dedicates itself to discussing this push and pull. and it lives in this grey area, this overlap of tradition and nonconformity. fanghua exemplifies this wonderfully, by embodying the traditional and non-traditional family all at once.

lxy is fdb's master, his role model. he is the ideal patriarch of jianghu (as @seventh-fantasy very rightly points out, lxy is the ideal picture of a mohist leader, mohism is the ideological inspiration behind wuxia fiction and all). on the other side of this same coin, llh serves as fdb's protector and guardian. he takes fdb under his wing and roof, looks out for fdb and passes his teachings down to him. llh raises him as a fair, wise and dependable jianghu figure, so much so that llh names fdb as his successor in the farewell letter. fdb inherits everything that was llh's, his house, dog, his skills and his legacy.

to fdb, he is both lxy and llh's heir. he owes them a lot. he wants to do right by them. he is their charge, the seed they both nurtured.

lxy/llh is also 长辈 an elder to 晚辈 the junior, fdb. there is an age gap between lxy/llh and fdb. in addition to his canonical status as master, guardian and uncle in a way, llh is a member of the older generation and fdb is a youth of the new age (the era of lxy's sigu sect v. the era of baichuan's sigu sect). tianji is fdb's family in regular society and llh is fdb's family in the jianghu world. and fdb is lucky to have parental figure(s) in both spheres.

to lxy/llh, fdb is his responsibility. fdb is his burden and also his pride. he is the naive youth that llh accepts into his home to mentor. lxy/llh holds seniority. and there is a certain amount of distance he expects from fdb. even if fdb refuses to abide. similar to the princess zhaoling who was kept at arm's length by the older girls in the mansion, fdb is kept at arm's length by llh.

so traditional dynamics and social roles lie at the root of fanghua. and yet there is:

a) an explicit rejection of blood family (fdb rejects sgd and lxy/llh chooses his adopted jianghu family over bloodline) wherein the family & marriage is said to be a foundational unit of chinese society,

b) an ambiguity, it is hard to slap one single label on fanghua because they embody multiple things at once. their dynamic derives from the traditional chinese concepts of family and seniority. there is duty and obligation that goes both ways. but the boundaries delineating each form of that are broken down. fanghua resembles father/son, and mother/son, and uncle/nephew, and master/disciple in one package. fdb also believes them to be shoulder to shoulder in friendship, equal partners, and that adds another layer of ambiguity.

there is a unique mobility and ability to traverse between definitions, and that marks them as non-traditional. an elusive quality that is built on top of the traditions that we know.

[libraryleopard]

jesus take the wheel

Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, 1.3k, no archive warnings apply, read on ao3

“Maybe I’d be a better driver in America,” Nicky muses. “Everything is opposite, over there. Switching things up might help.”

“I don’t think we need to test that hypothesis out,” Joe says. “Nothing is better in America.”

Or: A domestic one-shot in which I project my terrible driving skills onto Nicky.

The thing is, Nicky is fine driving when it's life or death. (Well, not death, he supposes. But there’s certain phrases you can’t drop from your vocabulary, no matter the language or century, and hyperbole has its place in every dialect.)

The point is, he’s great behind the wheel of a car when careening and explosions are involved. When the goal is to get away as fast as possible with a minimal amount of limb regeneration, consequences be damned.

But anything more mundane? Well. There’s a reason Joe is the designated driver. Nicky tends to drive like an army is on his heels, no matter the circumstances.

“I miss horses,” Nicky grumbles. “You never had to care about stop lights when there were horses.”

“Horses didn’t have air conditioning,” Joe points out, drumming his fingers aimlessly on the steering wheel. “And they smelled a hell of a lot worse.”

Nicky can’t exactly argue with that—the twenty-first century may have its horrors, but the torrent of cool air pouring from the car vents is certainly not one of them. He props his feet on the dashboard, eyeing the red light ahead. “There’s no one here, anyway, can’t you just go?” The tiny eastern European town they’ve settled in for the time being–just until the dust settles, Andy claims–is small enough that even on a weekday, the main intersection at the center of town remains empty.

“That, my darling Niccolò, is exactly why you have not been entrusted with the leadership on this most delicate mission,” Joe replies.

“Yusuf,” Nicky sighs. “I think I could manage a grocery run.”

“Nicky,” Joe sighs back. “Your lack of respect for the great traffic laws of Croatia says otherwise. I will compromise Andy’s baklava for no one. Else we might find ourselves testing the limit of our immortality rather sooner than we expected.”

“What about Malta?” Nicky retorts. “I was a superb driver in Malta.”

“You were superb in many ways in Malta, my love,” Joe concedes, a smile tugging at his lips. Nicky knows exactly what Joe’s remembering when he side-eyes him, gaze catching on his lips. “But as the car still ended up a flaming wreck, I’m not taking that as proof of your everyday driving skills.”

“Those were unique circumstances,” Nicky protests.

“And these are not.” Joe eyes the stoplight, which remains stubbornly red.

“Maybe I’d be a better driver in America,” Nicky muses. “Everything is opposite, over there. Switching things up might help.”

“I don’t think we need to test that hypothesis out,” Joe says. “Nothing is better in America.”

Technically, Nicky can drive. He has the license to prove it—several dozen, actually, though since the names and birthdates are far from accurate, they don’t exactly prove much. He’s just not…particularly up to date. They all have blind spots in this modern world–Andy’s attitude towards smartphones is a reluctant reliance above some mixture of confusion and paranoia and Joe occasionally finds himself less than clear on the ever-shifting borders of countries (when, exactly, did the Soviet Union stop regularly appearing on the news?). Nicky’s blindspot just happens to involve four-way intersections and general bemusement at yield signs.

“It’s barely been a century,” Nicky protests. “Give a man some adjustment time.”

Stoplights are not really the problem, if he’s being honest. It’s more the sudden vehicular evolution that really threw him–how a few automobiles cruising at thirty kilometers an hour exploded into a world-wide industry of speed that always catches him off guard when he looks away for a few years. Now they talk? And drive themselves? It almost seems a waste to stay on top of such an ever-evolving invention. By the time he’d gotten comfortable with a stick shift, they were practically obsolete.

The light finally flickers green and Joe eases the car into acceleration with a whiff of exhaust and a rumble of tires against concrete.

The thing about cars, Nicky supposes, is that they truly remind him of how far he’s come. There’s always a moment—a pure, unavoidable split second—when his foot hits the accelerator and he realizes just how unrecognizable this world would be to the man he once was. This great hulking beast of metal and glass at his command, roaring through smooth stone streets with a belly full of gas and sparks.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have dreamt such a thing. Not in his days as a priest with his rosary smooth beneath his fingers, not once he’d traded worn beads for a knight’s sword, heavy with purpose and intended glory. Not even once he’d seen his flesh improbably knit itself together, once he’d met the eyes of a man once placed as his enemy and felt a spark that was anything but animosity. That mankind could forge metal and distill substances from the depths of the earth into something he could tame with a single press of his foot, with the turn of a key, is still remarkable to him.

He likes to remind himself, still, of the everyday miracle of living so long. There’s always heartache, always the wounds that fade from flesh but never soul, but there is also this moment here in a creation his civilization never lived to see, alongside a man he would have died hating if not for a turn of fate.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Joe asks as they slow to another stop. He’s always testing out new idioms, letting his tongue trip across the fresh inventions of language, as fleeting as sugar between the teeth.

Nicky shakes his head. “I don’t like that one as much. Are you supposed to be paying me to speak my mind? And pennies are so transient, I’m sure they’ll be gone in a few decades and the whole phrase rendered useless.”

“Better make use of it while it lasts,” Joe says. He reaches out for Nicky’s hand without even looking, easy as breath, and smoothes a thumb across the back of Nicky’s hand.

Nicky traces his own finger across his husband’s hands, the contours almost as familiar as his own. They wear rings for now, having deemed this place and time safe enough to indulge. They’ve been married almost more times than Nicky can count—in Arabic, in Italian, in English, in Dutch, in silence, in a dozen more languages than he can count, alone beneath the sky or in grand churches or mosques—yet they’ve always had to be cautious about it. Perhaps the world is finally beginning to catch up, in fits and starts, to what they and so many others have always known to be true in their hearts, even if only witnessed by the shadows.

“We should get married again,” he says, suddenly. “It’s been long enough since the last time.”

Joe tilts his head, the evening light pouring through the windshield sparking gold from his brown eyes. “You think? Perhaps we should spice things up and get a divorce for once.”

Nicky scoffs. “That involves more paperwork than either of us is willing to cough up. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Joe laughs. “Fair. Another marriage, then.”

“Yes.” Nicky laces fingers tight with Joe’s, feels how perfectly they weave together as if some long-ago creator molded them to fit. “Now that Nile’s here. It’d be nice, I think, to celebrate with someone new.”

The unsaid between them: that this will be the first wedding in centuries without Booker, where he can’t get wine drunk and quote rambling sections from classic literature on love and commitment and they’ll all pretend his tipsiness isn’t to hide an edge of bitter jealousy. That Andy may not live to see the next time they exchange vows.

But at least they have Andy for now, and Nile, and each other.

“It would be nice.” Joe’s free hand is still splayed on the steering wheel and for a moment, Nicky is possessed by the urge to take it, to take all of him, and hold him tight, Croatian traffic safety laws be damned. Nicky at least knows enough to check in the mirrors that the road behind him is clear before he leans in and reminds Joe that there’s one language their mouths will always be fluent in, no matter the century.

[lvaartebella]

Feature: The Value of Being Knocked Off Your Axis

Complacency is the enemy of creativity. The very real and honest expression that authentic artists require of themselves demands challenge and occasionally it is important to upset the apple cart a little bit in order to rediscover the muse.

A 2013 exhibit at The Patio Gallery in the Jewish Community Center illustrated the idea in pointed fashion. As curated by Stacey Reason, the show, which was titled Pairallels, was described as a “collaborative exchange” in its prospectus materials, a sharing of work in the form of a hand-off from one artist to another, with virtually no restriction on what the second artist would bring to the effort. The prospectus used the word “subtract” to suggest what might be allowable for one artist to do with another artist’s unfinished work, and what resulted in some instances was a complete deconstruction of the original piece, as well as a sharp lesson in how two different generations of artists tend to define the word collaboration.

Artists who contributed to Pairallels were Brandon Bass, Andy Cozzens, Sarah Duncan, Mallorie Embry, Linda Erzinger, Meghan Greenwell, Brandon Harder, Phillip High, Mary Dennis Kannapell, Shohei Katayama, Keith Kleespies, Sally Labaugh, Kathy Loomis, Kacie Miller, Karisssa Moll, Jacque Parsley, CJ Pressma, Kelly Rains, Lelia Rechtin, Alli Wiles, Jenny Zeller and Suzi Zimmerer.

Ms. Reason is a founding member of The Louisville Artist’s Syndicate, an ad hoc group of young and primarily visual artists whose mission is to inspire and promote networking between what they felt was a disparate collection of painters, sculptors, filmmakers, musicians and writers, all working in the Louisville area but lacking the connectivity necessary to accomplish greater things. The group, active at the time, has become dormant in the years since.

By contrast, an older generation of Louisville artists, many of them members of the informal “Artists’ Breakfast Group”, had for many years enjoyed a camaradarie and interconnectivity that might be a model of what the Syndicate hoped to foster among its core constituency: a flow of energy and understanding that makes it easier for creative individuals to support each other. The Patio Gallery’s director at the time, Bette Levy, had been a long-standing member of this group and invited Reason to mount her exhibit there.

In today’s creative culture, it is more difficult than ever to characterize any group of artists collectively as having a shared sensibility, but the more prominent members of the Syndicate were preoccupied with art that is of the moment: ephemeral, fluid, and at times limited in its concern for archival survival. Another exhibit that year at Spalding University’s Huff Gallery featured two Syndicate members, Andrew Cozzens and Brandon Harder, whose bold sculptural forms relied on the effect of the elements and the passage of time for their full impact. Some of the pieces, for all intensive purposes, existed only during the duration of the opening reception. A delicate assemblage of wires frozen in pieces of ice and suspended on string, for example, were allowed to slowly descend off of the string while they melted. What remained for the subsequent run of the exhibit were the underwhelming remnants of wire and string that lighted onto the gallery shelf beneath. What interests these artists is the specific process of change and deterioration, not a final, marketable, objet d' art. The approach is fascinating but it risks occupying the same place in the cultural memory as a good joke badly-retold: I guess you had to be there.

Whereas the breakfast group, for the most part, makes art in a more traditional context, paintings, prints, and sculptures created, at least in part, with an eye on the marketplace. Most have been doing this for many years, and their body of work can often define them in very specific terms, a signature style that might be immediately recognizable when you enter a gallery. Jacque Parsley's assemblages and C.J. Pressma’s photographic quilts are but two examples of art that is sought after by collectors and marketed at premium prices, reflecting the quality of the work and the esteem in which these artists are held.

Both are valid perspectives, but once artists from both pools were drawn into the Pairallels project, perhaps it was inevitable that some level of disagreement would follow. "My idea was to let the art speak for itself," explains Reason. "It was supposed to be about the object, but it wound up being entirely about the artist."  By design, there was no input between the individuals sharing the work, and apparently none of the artists saw the final results before the opening reception in June.

Among the breakfast group there were mixed reactions, including shock and outrage from a small number at what must have seemed a violation of their personal artistic integrity. In a few instances the piece from the first stage was physically deconstructed and enough parts discarded to render the source nearly unrecognizable. Elements were identifiable but the hand of the receiving artist might be said to have obliterated the original creative intent. Some tempers flared and some heads were scratched, mostly from within the breakfast group.

When, a few weeks later, there was an opportunity to sit down and talk it out, what was interesting was how much the conflict had turned into an opportunity for most of the participants. Creative types often like to indulge in a certain amount of denial that there is any gap between artists owing to generational differences, yet the reality of two distinct mind-sets about how visual artists approach their careers was obvious. During a meeting at one of the artist’s studios, the outrage was absent, replaced by an admission of recalcitrance from some, an expansion of perspective from others, and, arguably, enlightment all around. Some of the younger members spoke of the lack of attachment to the objects that they had fashioned and how they were sometimes excited to see the drastic alterations that had been employed once they passed off their work, while some in the breakfast group emphasized how they had chosen to dive into the project because, “...doing the same thing I had been doing”, wasn't good enough.

Coming away from the experience, the lessons may be as varied as the individual sensibilities that populate both groups of artists. Breakfast members had come together out of an attraction to build a social context for like-minded artists who were rarely critical but always supportive of each other, while the Syndicate reinforced an aesthetic that embraces the notion that being knocked a little bit off your axis is sometimes a healthy thing.

Four years later, Reason reflects back on Pairallels: “The project was a great learning experience for everyone involved, myself included. I had no idea what kinds of outcomes to expect, and what happened was far more than what I could have anticipated. The dialog that was created surrounding the project was very productive - it gave a fresh look at individual studio practices, reminded us all of our potentials, and pushed everyone out of their comfort zone, which invariably made us all more comfortable in our individual practices. It was very rewarding to serve as the catalyst of this conversation that I think is still being carried out today in some form or another. If nothing else, it brought together two important groups/generations of artists in Louisville that hadn't intersected before.”

Pairallels was on display June 16 through July 16, 2013, in The Patio Gallery at the Jewish Community Center, Louisville, KY.

Stacey Reason is now the Director of the Yeiser Art Center in Paducah, Kentucky.

This Feature article was written by Keith Waits. In addition to his work at the LVA, Keith is also the Managing Editor of a website, www.Arts-Louisville.com, which covers local visual arts, theatre, and music in Louisville.

Entire contents are copyright © 2017 Keith Waits. All rights reserved. Used with permission.