"... then they cut off their heads and ate them."
I instantly turned my attention back to the tour guide, a lean young man of the type they call "black Irish," with black hair and eyebrows. His look was the kind I would consider handsome. His voice was hoarse from chain smoking, but he showed no sign of pausing in his running commentary.
It was difficult for me to simultaneously look at the scenery outside the bus window and to listen to his stories of Maori--British war in the 1800s, especially sitting in the back of this clanking beat-up bus. Well, it was free, so I could hardly complain about it.
"The British army was quite shocked and sent another troop armed with new rifles. The Maoris killed and ate them all, too." His eyes lit up like a boy watching "Star Wars." I chuckled. He pulled up one sleeve and showed us his tatoos of Maori patterns. The guys on the bus all went "ah..."
First day in ChCh, we took a free bus tour from the hostel that drove around the outskirts of the city. The woman driver (supposedly on the job for the first day) took us up and down the rolling mountains and valleys that were covered with patches of purple, bright yellow, and red wild flowers. The hills tumbled down into the sea, which was an odd powder blue.
We stopped at a suburban beach town centered around a shopping mall. The spanking new department stores and spotless sidewalks were pathetically empty. It was Friday, but only a few groups of tourists were hanging around. No bored kids or housewives seeking social connection or minor thrills. Right outside the entrance was the vast and equally empty sandy beach. Along the sidewalks, bunches of unknown exotic flowers were blooming in madness.
The only crowd was found in the ice cream parlor at the street corner. I was torn among at least four flavors, but finally decided to try Kiwis' favorite hokey pokey. It was just vanilla with caramel dots imbedded. Like the pastries and muffins and yogurt, NZ's ice cream is incredibly rich but not nearly as sweet as their American counterpart. I suppose the cows scattered all over the hills could attest to that.
The tour guide stood by the bus waiting for us, a cigarette in his mouth. He could have walked right out of "Rebel with a Cause," I thought. I asked if I could take a picture of his tatoos, since he bragged about the Maori tatoos on his arm. He said the tatooist was an "official" Maori one who would do the faces for real Maori people. Traditionally, Maori men have their whole lives tatooed on their face, recording their birth, status, and achievements. Certain symbols must be earned by bravery on the battle field. Obviously, if the tour guide could get these tatoos on his face, he would.
Arts Center
Christchurch is well known for its arts. The somber buildings of the former Cantebury University College now house galleries, artists studios, arts and crafts schools, a theater, and arts and crafts shops. In the cavernous chapel-turned-gallery, Jesus and the Saints on the stained glass window looked down on the paintings being exhibited on the floor. If I had a few thousand dollars to spare, I could take home a landscape of Cantebury or a Maori-influenced abstract. Or, for a hundred dollars or so, I could pick up a hand-knit wool sweater or a piece of modern wood carving sold at one of the studios in the Old Chemistry building. But my pocket was empty and my suitcase small, so I simply wandered from room to room, watching the local artists weaving, carving, chiseling, painting in the rooms.
One woman told me that often three or four artists would share a studio and take turns to man the shop and work for two days a week. Because the studios/shops are subsidized by the government, an artist must apply for a spot in the Center to work and do business.
On the courtyard of the Arts Center, an open market gathers every Saturday. This allows vendors and locals who could not get into the Center to sell cheaper and cruder pieces of greenstone carvings, small jewelry, bone carvings, pottery, clothes and wool products, and, of course, food. I love all open markets. Wandering among the crowd and the merchandise while munching on a piece of Irish soda bread with raisins I bought from a sweet old woman was pure delight, even if I couldn't afford the fish-hook-patterned ornaments sold by the Maori women. On the sidewalk a street performer in Irish green clothes was teasing the crowd.
Art Gallery
ChCh is well known for its long tradition of art, especially decorative art. The modern-looking Gallery was full of the works of local artists, most of whom have gone on to bigger fame in Australia, Europe, or even the States. I had not heard of most of the names, but I could feel an influence of design and practicality in the many pieces.
Currently, they were exhibiting an exhaustive retrospective collection of Jeffrey Harris, who is known for an introspective emotional intensity in style. His subjects are often himself or his own family dynamics. His colors are bright and conflicted, even tumultuous. In the endless self portraits, his gaze pierced out of the frame and into the viewer's mind.
Kate really disliked Harris' paintings. She never has much interest in non-Chinese art in the first place and even less patience for modern art. So she went to the cafe by herself, leaving me with the obscure, unpleasant, and sometimes assulting images all around us. I couldn't say I liked Harris, but I nevertheless find him distinctive and ... interesting. (Thank God for the word "interesting".) "I can see that he is constantly struggling internally and searching in the depth of his own soul," said Kate, "but a higher intellectual state would be to live in peace with oneself. He obviously lacks an emtional calmness and philosophical clarity that I often find in Chinese art."
I did not know how to argue with her, but inside I disagreed. Art cannot be judged by whether the artist has reached enlightenment or the seventh level of karma or such philosphical greatness. Lowly human instincts and desires often make better drama than great thoughts or inner peace. A good artist is not a philosopher or a self-help guru; he needs not be smart, wise, virtuous, kind, intellectually superior, or morally unimpeachable. He just has to be able to arouse the viewer and stirs up a reaction in him.
I grew up seeing only classical paintings and sculptures, so modern art seemed bizarre and inferior for a long time. Now, however, I find modern art rather ... interesting. Its greatest contribution is diversity --- the diversity of media through which ideas are conveyed to the viewer by the artist, and the diversity of the ideas themselves. In my personal opinion, a common failure of modern art is its singlemindedness and detachment from art's commercial appeal. Many works of modern art are too intellectually driven. These works often have one theme explicitly stated, like Andy Warhol's critique of modern commercialization. Once you get the concept, it's over. I like art that is ambiguous and complicated and allows different people interpreting it from different angles for different reasons. It is neither a directly appeal to one's primary senses, like blocks of colors, nor an equivalent of a Ph.D. thesis.
My favorite piece in the gallery was a painting called The Fall of Icarus by Bill Hammond.
It instantly reminded me of Miyazaki's anime film "Princess Mononoke." The tone of the colors, the forest setting, the mysterious creatures, the mythical theme... The painting is obviously based on an old Flemish painting Landscapes with the Fall of Icarus, in which the center of the event was pushed deep into the background. The poor young man who flew too close to the sun fell into the sea unnoticed, while life went on as usual in the foreground. In Hammond's painting, however, the on-lookers of the tragedy are bird-men standing on tree branches, silence falling like the rain. Are they men who dream of possessing wings (like Icarus) or birds who have a mind and a soul and live in a kingdom of fairy tales? I gazed at the painting, completely mesmorized. Reading the commentary by the painting, I realized another oddity -- both Miyazaki's movie and Hammond's painting had a component of environmentalism.
Wandering around the gallery, I took up a chat with the young man who worked here. He was almost a kid, with freckles around his nose and wildly curly brown hair. He said he graduated as an art major, as I suspected, and enjoyed working at the gallery. "Beats waiting tables." (chuckle) I asked him whether he had plans for a career in art. He said he wanted to go to Australia, even farther away to New York, like so many other local artists. New Zealand is too small and too provincial. It's hard to get anywhere or make a name. Opportunities are scarces. I said I understood his dilemma. In a place like Sydney or New York, the competition is fierce, but agents are also abundant. One is more likely to be discovered there. "But," I thought out loud,"if one has talent, usually he will make it. Time has changed since Van Gogh's period. The market is bigger, and communication is fast and global." He agreed and told me his girlfriend, a singer, just got a contract in New York. His eyes brightened. I wished him good luck.
The Cafes
Mon ami,
First congrats on your wedding in December. I mailed a gift to you before I left; hope you receive it soon.
At this moment, I'm sitting on the upper floor of The Java House, a little cafe in Christchurch that's cute beyond words. I'm reminded of my grandmother's attic. When I was little, it was my favorite place to hide to waste an entire afternoon. I could see the roofs of neighbors' houses and a piece of sky and hear the ships blowing their horns not too far away. Now the house is long gone and the place is a subway station, while I am thousands of miles away from Shanghai. But the same setting sun is shining through the window. I could see the ceilings of other buildings around us. American pop music is playing softly in the background. The streets outside are almost empty.
The floor is decorated more like a living room than a cafe. At the far corner two teenagers are making out in a worn but comfy couch. I am the only other customer in this place. The ceiling is painting into the sky with clouds and dots of birds.
On my table are a jar of hot chocolate and a bowel of muesli with fruit. Yeah, a jar, probably for jam originally. I threw the marshmellow in it a few minutes ago. Damn it's rich. All the baked goods are incredibly rich here -- scones, muffins, cakes, brownies... I had no idea what muesli is before I came to NZ. Apparently it's the European version of granola or cereal. Also rich, of course. One could really get addicted to these foods.
A few young women just walked in. The girl behind the counter begins to make coffee. The espresso machine hisses and gargles. People take coffee very seriously here, I've learned. They sit down and sit it from real, elegant cups with matching saucers, not running in and out with big paper cups with plastic lids. It took me a while to figure out what they mean by "flat white," "tall black," "macchiato," etc. Besides hot chocolate, latte is my favorite--very pale, a little sweet, and, of course, rich and creamy. They like to make deliberate patterns on the white foam with a drop of coffee. At the last cafe I went to, my flat white was topped with the shape of a Christmas tree. The girl here made a swirl for me.
Somehow this seems to be the perfect place for writing postcards to my friends, who seem (and are) so far away. I feel like I'm living in a dream. My mind is perfectly silent except for a calm joy of nothingness. I am so tempted to slump in the couch at the other corner and fall asleep right now, but afraid that when I wake up the entire NZ would vanish in a puff and I'd be back in my routine.
A sentence enters my mind, which I saw on a piece of abstract painting at the Art Gallery yesterday: There will never be a moment like this is... To this sentence I add, but this moment will live on in my memory for the rest of my life...
Send my greetings and congratulations to Steve please, and tell him he is the luckiest groom in the world.
From New Zealand with best wishes,
jun
