Humor

A man walks into a bar with a chunk of asphalt under his arm. He says to the bartender: "I'll have one drink for me and one for the road."

Here is today's story, straight from my source: Uncle Bouqui and Little Malice. What really struck me about it was how funny it was. It takes a lot, I think, for something written in a book to be really funny, especially when that thing was originally told as a story. I'm sure someone telling the story of Uncle Bouqui and Little Malice well could have his audience rolling with laughter pretty much the whole time. It's a very special gift, this particular aspect of good storytelling, and it's one I'd really like to nurture in myself.

I was riding home with some friends tonight from a very somber play (Sleep No More if your interested - in a league of its own regarding storytelling), and we spent most of the time telling each other really terrible jokes. Sure, we were all exhausted, so that helped, but a lot of the fun of it came from how we were telling them. A stupid joke told poorly is no fun. A stupid joke told well is hilarious, or at least worth a groan, even if the audience has heard it thousands of times before. I was reminded of a kind of Japanese theater called Rakugo that seems to work on the same principle. Unfortunately English examples of it are sparse, but what I've seen of it suggests that it's all in the storytelling. The performers use a very few props, and act out different characters in silly ways, all leading up to one very simple, often predictable punchline, but it's hysterical if done well.

My drawing professor is asking us to examine the role that humor can play in our work this week, so I think I'll be focusing on it for a little while here as well. It feels a bit strange to be taking on this topic when, I'll admit, I haven't been very happy lately. Yes, plenty is going well for me, and I'm very very grateful to be surrounded by people I love, but there's been a lot of bad news in my life lately, for myself and people I care deeply about. That being said, I've always been of the opinion that a good sense of humor has its place in even the most dire of times, or when dealing with difficult subjects, and maybe even especially then. Some people insist that there are some things that shouldn't ever be the subjects of jokes, and I respect that opinion, but on the other hand I would insist that humor is often the healthiest way to deal with unfortunate but inevitable truths. If something makes me uncomfortable or, frankly, scares the hell out of me, I joke about it. I make fun of it. It takes away the power of a fear and makes me feel in control and less confined by what scares me.

Greed

Today's story is Greedy Mariani, another from Haiti. Unfortunately, I can't find an online version of it, so I will have to provide a synopsis for the purposes of my discussion: Mariani is a woman, and she is very rude to her houseguests. She lets people in, treats them very poorly, and then takes their money before kicking them out. One day she lets in a traveler who carries with him four bags of silver. Upon his leaving the next morning, he says he will leave her with one bag, but of course she wants all four, so she follows him down the road as he leads his mules away. She follows him for a while, shouting for him to give her her due, and he leads her right to the edge of a graveyard, where he turns around, revealing his true nature. He is a zombi! Mariani falls down dead of shock.

Now, as a contrast to Mariani, I will tell you a story about my mother. My mother is very good with money. It is thanks to her frugality and wise saving that our family has much of the money it has, not to mention her tireless work for as a nurse in the same hospital for the past... 30 years? Something like that. If anyone in my family is reading, feel free to correct any factual errors. In any case, I used to be not so fond of her practice of frugality, thinking it cheap or stingy. I am not very good with money. I give it away rather freely and have at times spent it on rather useless things. In any case, my opinion about my mother's spending habits changed a few years ago when she pointed something out to me. For all her scrimping and saving, she spends money quite freely when she finds something worth spending it on. For her, that's things for her family. Whenever an unexpected bonus or tax rebate comes her way, she thinks of us first and is happy and even excited to buy something new.

I have come to see saving money as a sort of moral or ethical issue lately. It has always been a bit difficult for me to find the discipline required to save money on a daily basis. I can usually go without buying myself unnecessary items, but I eat out more than I need to, have been pursuing ridiculously expensive art practices, and spend a lot on things like movies and other entertainments. I don't really think of myself as greedy, although prodigal probably wouldn't be too far off. Lately, though, I've been forced to pretty bluntly face a certain reality of money: there are a lot of people out there who simply don't have any. I try to be charitable, and I make a point never to let my (skewed) perceptions of my own lack of funds prevent me from giving to people who clearly need it more, but lately I've realized that I can do more than that. Can't I be more careful about what I spend, the luxuries I allow myself, so that more of the money I make can go elsewhere? For the time being, of course, I'm speaking about Haiti. Sometimes I think of how much money America spends on war. I try not to, because it's massively depressing, but I wonder how much nicer the world would be if that money went towards feeding people and keeping them healthy. With that in mind, I've been trying my best to save money lately, so that, like my mother, I can spend it on what is truly important to me.

I don't want to use this blog as an opportunity to preach, but I really do hope you'll consider using the link at the top of my page to donate to Partners in Health. You don't have to give much, anything you think you can spare will help, but really think hard about where that money would be going if you didn't donate it. As I imagine (and hope) that this will be a thought-provoking topic, I encourage your feedback.

These Arms Don't Fit

The Girl With No Hands - AT Type 706

As promised, I will be discussing my favorite fairy tale today. I don't know why it's my favorite, but I have so far made something like 3 paintings directly based on it and quite a few more roughly inspired by it. I will probably wish to revisit it frequently in the future, as it contains many themes that intrigue and, quite frankly, disturb me.

What I've been thinking about this time, though, is the nature of those silver hands. They were always the most puzzling element of the story, for me. What purpose did they really serve? The girl really never explicitly uses them for anything, and she hasn't gotten her happy ending until she has natural hands again. So what is the deal with the silver ones? Here is my theory, by way of an Absurd Art Anecdote.

One of my latest artistic endeavors is to knit up some clothing for a young girl mannequin in my studio. Perhaps some other time I will tell you the story of how she ended up there. In any case, after a few name changes, she is now known as Audrey (I considered naming her Galatea, but it seemed a bit too on-the-nose), and despite a fresh new coat of pink paint she is otherwise nude. Since I've taken up knitting and using yarn and knitting needles in my sculpture, I thought it would be appropriate to make some clothing and accessories for her. With this in mind, I paid a visit to the local yarn shop, hoping to find a pattern for a nice summer dress for her. Finding knitting patterns for girls around her apparent age (I would guess around nine) is not easy, as mostly people seem to knit for adults and young children only. They even have a name for her demographic: "middle-aged children."

In any case, I asked a lady at the store to help me find a pattern for a sleeveless summery dress for Audrey, of course pretending that she was my niece, because obviously yarn-store attendants wouldn't understand the kind of high-concept art I make. In any case, the lady told me that a girl her age would never wear a knitted dress, and that I should make her a sweater or something. The nerve! To suggest that I wouldn't know what my niece likes, or that she wouldn't absolutely love any gift I put so much effort into. I tried not to let my frustration show, especially since I was already lying through my teeth and very much wanted to leave as quickly as possible. But to be honest, it was really bothering me, and the reason was this: Audrey, being inanimate, would of course like anything I made for her. But what ifI were making something for my real relatives, as I very much intend to do soon? What if they don't like it? Is it presumptuous of me to assume that my young cousins would like clothing I made for them? More importantly, why do stupid questions like this keep bothering me?

Anyway, what I'm trying to say in a roundabout way is that I think the Girl Without Hands couldn't be satisfied with her silver hands because they weren't hers. This is a surprisingly girl-empowering message for a fairy tale, especially one with an implied incest threat and mutilation as retribution for disobeying male authority. As well-intentioned as the king may have been in making her silver hands, she couldn't "win" the story as it were until she got her own natural hands back, through her own strength. Now, given that her strength is piety and constant prayer, maybe we shouldn't be too praising of those old-time Germans' feminism, but it could be worse. The story could end when the king finds her and makes her new hands and marries her, but it doesn't end until she proves herself worthy, through her own actions, of new, natural hands that belong only to her. Now, silver hands are of course a different matter entirely from knitted clothing, but I guess it couldn't hurt to figure out what kinds of clothes my cousins like to wear before I start making things for them...

Nothing Endures But Change

One-Eye, Two-Eyes, and Three-Eyes - AT Type 511

This story is... a bit of an odd one. It's another tree story, because I enjoy running with a theme, and I'm learning a lot. In fact, it's not just another tree story (Green Willow was a tree story too, but I don't think it's anything like these). It's another "tree providing for a little girl when other people are cruel to her" story, which for some reason or another seems to really appeal to me. I think I'll conclude my current visitations on the subject with my favorite fairy tale ever tomorrow. For now, though, I'm writing about this one, because it helped me solve a particular problem I've been thinking about for some time.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about seemingly irreconcilable dichotomies of action or thought. One that has always provided me with a great deal of challenge has been the clash between stability and change. I'm a very mutable person. I'm prone to mood swings, have a very short attention span, and love novelty. I also crave stability. I like having a routine in my life, and forming long-lasting friendships, and repeating things often enough to get very good at them. How can I live with these two forces constantly at war with one another? I want to stick with things for a very long time, but I get bored or distracted or simply overwhelmed with everything else I could be doing.

I am happy to say that I've discovered a new solution today: find things that are a constant part of my life that are themselves constantly changing! How I discovered this was simple. Today I brought the girl I am babysitting to my studio (at her mother's request - she likes art), and we had some time to kill. I asked her if she wanted to try some painting or drawing, or visit other artists at work, but she seemed very interested in the way I decorate my studio. Right now there is thread and yarn stretched all across the ceiling and walls, and lots of things like tree branches and strings of beads and dried flowers hanging from it. She made the suggestion of separating one part of my studio from the other by hanging a bunch of bead strings together to make a curtain. It was a great idea, and we spent the rest of our time working on the project. It occurred to me that the space of my studio, and the sort of general space of "where I am" is kind of like this ever-changing but ever-constant reminder of who I am and the people I care about. The contents, layout, or even location of the space may be constantly changing, but it always reflects the people that matter to me, and keeps me grounded in a very stable reality.

The reason this reminded me of today's story was because of the presence of the old woman. She's a constant source of nourishment for the girl (sort of taking the place of the real mother in the "evil stepmother" stories like Juniper Tree and Magic Orange Tree), but that source of nourishment changes and moves with the girl. First she is given a goat, with magic that works just for her. When the goat dies (as all goats must, especially, it seems, when they're standing in for motherly love), its entrails are used to create a brand new magical tree that only provides food for Two-Eyes. And what's more, when Two-Eyes moves away, the tree moves with her! This brings me right back to the topic of my last entry, the constancy of love. And the funny thing is, even though they're full of fairy-magic happy endings, they're actually pretty relevant to real life if you know how to interpret them.

The Juniper Tree

The Juniper Tree - AT Type 720 (Mother Killed Me, Father Ate Me)

The Juniper Tree is another one of my favorite fairy tales, decidedly morbid though it may be. I read it today because of the similarities I noticed between it and The Magic Orange Tree from Haiti. Namely, they both feature dead mothers who protect or save their children in the form of a tree.

What leads adults to tell stories like these to children? I think we feel their need for us, their dependence and the shelter they seek in our arms, and we fear our own inadequacy. How can we possibly measure up to such love, and such demand for love in return? I've met children who would rush happily into my arms moments after they met me, trusting me completely. Somewhere along the transition from child to adult, we lose the capacity to love unconditionally, unquestioningly. We shut ourselves off for fear that our love won't be returned, or we learn that our trust should not be so freely given. It is this that leads adults to tell children stories like these.

In these stories, the trusted mothers do not abandon their children. They do not fail, they do not die. They live forever and love forever, persisting in magical form as a provider of shelter and nourishment, persisting despite their shortcomings to nurture their children even after death. Only a fear of one's own inadequacy could produce these stories. If you have ever looked into a child's trusting eyes, you have known that fear. How could you tell them you have to leave? How could you explain why? How could you ever explain how much their trust means to you? You can't, you can't. And so you tell them stories, you tell them you'll be back, you tell them everything will work out in the end. And they learn.

Tradition

The Magic Orange Tree

Today's story is very rewarding because it demonstrates, as I had hoped, a number of connections to other topics and traditions I have come across in my fairy tale readings. The first thing I noticed about this story, as it is presented, is that it draws very palpably in its narrative style from the oral tradition in which it originated. The "Cric?" "Crac!" callback and group singing are familiar tropes of Caribbean storytelling, ones which I've only seen in film (and, if I'm remembering correctly, a film set in Martinique and not Haiti), but would love to be a part of in person. I love it when I can feel a speaker's voice in a written story. It serves as a reminder that these tales are quite older than the written word and indeed often flourish in cultures where writing is not at all common. The Grimms' stories often contain these little narrative indicators of a speaker as well, usually in sing-song rhymes or funny little jokes at the ends of stories. They seem odd in a written work, but happily remind us that words are meant to be spoken aloud. These stories work best when delivered by a practiced voice to an eager audience.

Another interesting comparison I found was in the commentary at the bottom of this story, which describes the practice of burying a child's umbilical cord with a fruit seed, and essentially giving the resultant fruit tree to the child. I read here (in a note to one of my favorite stories, The Girl With No Hands - incidentally, this is what inspired my brief obsession with pears in my paintings about a year ago) that a similar ritual was once common in Europe as well. The practice of allowing the child to use the tree for her own economic benefit seems unique to Haiti though, and implies a lot more self-reliance at an early age, a value that is upheld throughout today's story. I very much enjoy the tale of The Magic Orange Tree, and find its message of resilience and autonomous power much more appropriate and truthful when applied to real children, at least the ones I've met. I would say I'd be adding it to my repertoire for stories to tell at Lemberg, if not for that pesky recurring theme of killing evil step-parents. Somehow I don't think that would be well-received by the children, their parents, or my superiors.

Why

Today was not an easy day. It started when I read a Grimm fairy tale, The Strange Musician, that seemed to me yet another divisive, frivolous tale encouraging conflict over communication, an upsetting change from the Japanese stories I had been reading for a few days. I began debating with myself whether it was even worth it to keep reading the Grimms' stories, or whether all I would ever learn from them would be contrary to the lessons they seemed to be trying to teach. Unfortunately, with this minor conflict clouding my mind, I was later brought two very sobering pieces of news, the first being that a child at Lemberg had lost a family member in the Haitian earthquake (which, much to my dismay, I was just learning of this afternoon), and the second being that my paternal grandmother's health had gone into even further decline from its already precipitous state.

With such things hanging over my head, I naturally began to question the nature of the work that I'm doing with this blog. In times of great sorrow, do children's stories and folktales really have any place in our daily lives? Can I read silly fantasies with simple morals when events in the real world are so grave and require such immediate attention? The answer, of course, is yes, and this answer attests to the real, fundamental reason why these stories are important. Whether or not we agree with all of their messages, these are the stories that survive in our culture and have survived for ages, tying together often conflicting generations through common knowledge and belief. What's more, and particularly relevant now, is that these stories transcend cultural divisions, tying our world together as powerfully as mourning or grief. It is with this in mind that I will be reacting to this global tragedy in the only way I know how, by strengthening the bond with my fellow humans most affected by this tragedy and exploring the culture so hard hit by this disaster. In the coming days, weeks, and maybe even months, I'll be seeking out whatever recorded examples I can find of Haiti's rich folkloric tradition, through the internet and whatever books I can find. This will be an intermittent sub-project whose threads will weave together with everything else I seek to do in this blog, so please be on the lookout in future entries as I compile and read through my sources in order to integrate them with the rest of my materials. I urge you as well to reach out to those around you whose lives have been touched by the tragedy, in any way you see fit. Go with your heart and you will find the human soul that links us all. Thank you for reading, and please be safe.

The Very Prince of Badger Tea-Kettles

The story I read today, about a Tanuki that takes the form of a tea-kettle and befriends a poor merchant, is really one of the best stories out there. It's whimsical and funny and magical and comes with a neat little moral about treating people with respect and dignity (at least that's how I see it). I didn't really find a definitive version to match mine, but it seems to be a pretty well-known story, so look up bunbuku-chagama on your preferred search engine and you should come up with lots of nice things.

At first, when I read it, I thought it was pretty frivolous, but the more I thought about the message I was taking from it, the more I realized that this kind of thing is exactly what teachers at Lemberg spend so much time trying to teach young children. Treat everyone you meet with respect and kindness, and not only will they feel a lot better about it, but you will reap quite tangible rewards! I can't tell you how many screaming matches between three-year-olds are solved when I say something like "now, instead of grabbing the shovel, why don't you try asking for it?" So often people of all ages approach situations with hostility, greed, or fear, when a simple humility and openness would work wonders.

Another interesting social phenomenon that comes into play in this story is assumption. The silly old monks assumed that any weird badger living in their tea kettle was something evil, but the poor merchant made no assumptions and asked the tanuki what he wanted. Discarding assumptions often helps a lot with kids, as they do things all the time that appear to have a certain disagreeable intent behind them, but are often quite innocent or harmless behaviors for the children, who don't understand the appearance of actions modeled for them by adults, older siblings, and media sources. My favorite example of this is when I saw a two-year old boy making gun shapes with his hand and saying "bang bang bang!" or something to that effect. Lord knows where he got that from, but I went ahead and asked him what they were. He said they were shooters. I asked him what they shot. He seemed at a loss at that point (obviously - two-year-olds don't know from bullets) so I volunteered a whimsical answer - marshmallows? He agreed, and we played a game where he shot pretend marshmallows from his fingers and I caught them in my mouth.

The wonderful thing about this is that sometimes older children will even recognize the faults of assumptions! One time at Lemberg, a group of three-year-olds wrote and illustrated a book together. Of course they were guided by teachers, but it was my understanding that they invented the plot all by themselves. In the story, a pair of friends named Bober and Fan went to the playground to play, but they were interrupted by a robot named Zober who would only let one person at a time into the playground. Bober and Fan thought about their options for a while, and eventually decided to ask Zober if he wanted to play with them instead of stopping people from getting into the playground. Zober agreed, and the three played together in harmony, proving that strangers really are just friends you haven't met yet. So please, the next time one of your household appliances becomes a talking badger, ask him if he'd like to join you for lunch. You will surely be pleasantly surprised.

The Flute

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find a web-based version of this story, but I did stumble upon a digitized copy of my source book, so if you're really interested you can read any of the Japanese stories I'm reading here. Something about having a rare story in printed form sitting on my bedside table makes me very happy, but of course I'm always happier to share. In fact, this thought leads me quite fluidly in to the topic I have in mind. You see, I'm a bit of a pack rat, and believe strongly in the emotional resonance of physical objects. I recognize that material belongings are nothing compared to real human interactions, of course, but I also see them as being very palpable mementos of such interactions after they have occurred and especially when those people aren't close to me anymore.

Today's story (yesterday's too - I like it very much and was too tired last night to write about it, so I read it twice) is about the most heartbreaking kind of loss, the loss of a child. Once again, this story features no traditional western happy ending, and I am starting to see that its meaning is all the more palpable for being more realistic. What is most powerful for me is the fact that the bereaved father ends the story with nothing but his memories and a single gift from his child: the eponymous flute. One of my favorite parts of fairy tales is the vivid images they can call forth of people, places, strange events, and simple objects imbued with profound magic. The reason this particular image touches me so is that it is by such tokens that I often recall the people I love the most and who are not with me right now. I have not lost many loved ones to death, thankfully, but I have lost many to physical distance and simply a necessary parting of ways. Unfortunately, such is the nature of my work with children and my habit of forming close friendships with people who are planning on studying abroad. I don't think I would survive their absence from my life, permanent or temporary, without the little tokens of their presence in my daily lives. CDs we listened to together, books they bought me, drawings they made for me, toys found in coat pockets from last winter... the list goes on. My home and my studio are both filled with these objects, and though some people see it as mess or clutter, I can't live without it.

It is with this realization, I think, that my art began to change in a major way earlier this year. Understanding how important physical objects were to me, I came to realize that I was merely collecting, never giving away. Certainly, different people have different ways of remembering their loved ones, but how could I feel truly happy creating artwork that I felt embarrassed or uncomfortable giving freely to other people? Of course, I'll always make some art for myself, but I realized, after taking some good, long looks at the kind of art I was making, that I was making virtually nothing for other people. If my goal as an artist was to communicate, I needed to think much more about the people with whom I wanted to communicate. And, tacky as it may sound, I feel a lot better about my artwork when my mother tells me how much she thinks my grandma would like my drawing than when some visiting art critic likes the narrative in my six-foot painting.

Green Willow

Hello friends. You may have noticed that I didn't post an entry yesterday, even though this is a "daily fairy tale writing project." Hopefully none of you are planning on policing my entry rate, but I should clarify that my intent at this time is to post entries five to seven times per week. I did read a fairy tale yesterday. It was The Good Bargain. I think it is rather stupid and I have nothing to say about it, but please feel free to read it. I will skip a story every nce in a while. That being said, I decided to depart from the Grimms for at least a day and read a story from a book I have, entitled Green Willow and Other Japanese Fairy Tales. It was given to me by my good friend Marissa, and contains a number of nice stories. However, the classification of today's story will force me to reconsider my definition of fairy tale in general, if we are to consider it one. At the very least, it is quite different from the largely German and entirely Western fairy tales I've been examining. In any case, I am very interested in classification and genre, so this will be a fun exercise. Without further ado...

Green Willow

(A note on the versions - in the version I read, the story ends when Tomotada, as a holy man, returns to see the three tree stumps, remembers the song he once sang for his love, and then correcting himself and saying a prayer of mourning. Also, much greater emphasis is placed on Tomotada's failure to complete is master's task. He is explicitly told before leaving not to look any maiden between the eyes. In another difference worth mentioning, Green Willow is explicitly stated as being 15.)

The first difference from the typical Grimm formula that I noticed in this story was that it didn't seem to be a coming-of-age story, as the protagonist is not a particularly young man (presumably, given that he's a samurai - please correct me if this assumption is incorrect). It is also a love story with a male protagonist (not a story about making a living, as most Grimm stories about boys seem to be). Finally, it doesn't have the expected happy ending. This last difference is really the most striking to me. I am willing to quickly accept that there are different values being discussed here, given that it's from a very different culture, but that the very structure of the narrative changes is quite surprising! Now, I feel like I could perceive in one of two ways: either this story doesn't have a happy ending, because such an ending is not necessary for Japanese children's tales, or this story does have a happy ending, it's just not the kind we're used to. We (the western reader) are expecting the "happy ending" to involve Tomotada and Green Willow overcoming her strange enchantment and living a happy life together forever. In the version I found online, this sort of happens, in that the two become new trees and grow together. In the version I read first, Tomotada simply mourns and moves on, remembering sadly the life of carefree love he once lived. Could this be a happy ending? Once again, in the version I read, great emphasis is placed on Tomotada's failure to complete his daimyo's errand, and being led astray, so to speak, by Green Willow. In a sense, his eventual progression to a holy life and his ability to mature past the infatuation of his younger days could be seen as a happy ending. In fact, it could also be seen as a coming of age, just an older age. In fact, it even suggests that this is not a love story, but rather a spiritual enlightenment story.

I wish I could show you the exact text of the version I have, because even in comparing it to what I see online shows some remarkable changes in message. The online version is much closer to the western idea of a happy ending and a traditional love story. I would like to believe that my text version is more accurate to the original tale, but this will clearly take further reading. Time permitting (these Japanese stories are a bit longer than most of Grimms') I will stick with this cultural comparison for a while, or at least try to maintain the theme along with all the others. Thanks for reading!

Faithful Johannes

Faithful Johannes - AT Type 516

My primary concern after reading this story was the moral dilemma presented at its end. It is not, of course, a dilemma for very long in the story, because that is not how fairy tales work. In any case, I'll get to that in a moment and ask for your contributions to a discussion of the situation. First, I would like to reflect on the issue of friendship. Faithful Johannes is at its heart a story about loyalty and, in a certain sense, friendship. Although Johannes is presented as a servant to the prince in the story, he is in many ways what a lot of people would like in a good and loyal friend. He helps the prince in his time of need, plays wingman when the prince wants to win a woman, and puts his own safety on the line when he knows he can help the prince. Of course much of what he does goes above and beyond the line of common friendship, but then again very little is "common" in fairy tales.

This story, and a conversation I had with a friend today, led me to think about what I look for in a friendship and, interestingly, what I don't feel like I have found, or at least don't have at the moment. Earlier today I was rehearsing for my friend Phoebe's play, and discussing the role in which she cast me. His name is Palamon, and he serves as a mercilessly honest critic for the main character, a playwright. He loves his friend, and respects his work, and because of this feels totally comfortable tearing it to pieces when asked to give his opinion. I think I would like to have this sort of friend by my side constantly when attempting to produce art, and really in everyday life. It is a certain kind of trust that enables a friend to speak the honest truth, even when it might hurt, and I'm not sure that I have that with anyone right now. I can remember feeling this absence since high school, when I felt that others perceived me as weak or sensitive and tended to treat me with a little bit of a blunted edge. I wonder if this has changed much. I don't mean to suggest that I don't think I have friends who are honest with me. I certainly think I have a few. But the honesty seems to come in only a few areas, or even sometimes to be motivated by personal bias. More often, sadly, I feel I receive condescension or reassuring platitudes when I discuss real problems with friends. I suppose it is a bit much of me to ask for a friend so brilliant, honest, and trustworthy that he or she would clearly see the truth in all of my actions and call me on it immediately, but this train of thought is being conducted by a fairy tale. The most likely cause of this deficit in the end is probably my own unwillingness to trust. On some level, I imagine I am afraid of the honest criticisms I could receive if I were to open up less discriminately.

In any case, I'd now like to bring up the moral dilemma I mentioned earlier. For this I hope you'll read the story to get a grasp of the situation. At the end of Faithful Johannes, the petrified servant tells his master that he can pay for his wrongdoing and bring Johannes back if he sacrifices his two children. Since the story takes place in Fairy Tale Logic, the prince decides to go ahead with it and lops off his sons' heads without all that much deliberation, and soon enough the servant and the sons are all restored to life and everyone lives happily ever after. Assuming a situation wherein I didn't know I was in a fairy tale, I would, in this situation, gladly leave my faithful friend as a statue for all eternity. Is this heartless of me? Those who know me well will hopefully not be offended and understand when I say I would gladly leave them in the lurch to protect any child, let alone my own, but I wonder if my personal biases against (even the most loyal of) adults are clouding my judgment. I therefore would like to open the floor to discussion. What would you do if faced with the prince's dilemma? Would you trade the lives of your young children for the life of your most faithful friend, a man who has essentially given his life to bring you happiness? I look forward to hearing your ideas. As always, I thank you for reading, and hope you never have to make this decision in real life.

The Wolf at the Door

The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids - AT Type 123

It is a great feeling when you know that you are trusted.
It is a greater feeling by far when you know that you are trustworthy.

Greatest Fear

The Story of a Boy Who Went Forth to Learn Fear - AT 326

Tonight I wish to present you with a poem. As with all of these entries, it is a largely spontaneous work, far from what I would consider a cohesive finished product. I hope you will keep that in mind, as it could be particularly distracting when it occurs in poetic format, as the meter and rhyme have not really been hammered out as well as they could be. As always, I encourage your feedback as to how I may improve my work.

One day a little boy went out to see what he could learn of fear
This feeling he had never felt but heard of quite a bit.
"What could it be," he thought aloud, "that captivates so many minds?"
"How stupid I must be to have such little grasp of it!"

So out he went into the land, through hours and weeks, through months and years
While asking everyone he met what thing they feared the most.
Some mentioned death, and others sin, some injury or grave disease.
Still other spoke of demons, or of monsters, or of ghosts.

But none of these could fright the boy, he knew them to be myths, or worse,
The specters of a sullen mind, excuses not to live with mirth.

The boy lamented that his quest had been so fruitless all these years.
While passing through a quiet town on one still, moonlit night
A local overheard his sighs and told him of a haunted place
Where he might pass three evenings and bring all his fears to light.

And so the boy took up this challenge, staying in the house alone
But for three nights he witnessed nothing, though he checked in every nook
Until the final night, when seaching in the cellar there he found
A silver, polished mirror into which he dared to look.

What he saw was strange to him, a cheerful life of peace and love,
Surrounded by a family and a host of caring friends.
A smile crossed his face, because he knew what he could have,
But unfortunate for him, that is not where the story ends.

For you see, this blessed mirror was reflecting only lies,
And in a moment it had changed before the child's weary eyes.

When the shining surface showed the truth, he saw he was no boy, at last,
But just an old and tired man whose dreams would never come to pass.

He'd spent his life in searching and had never really lived,
Nor had ever learned the value of the love he had to give.

Because I Said So

Mary's Child - AT Type 710

One of the issues I often find myself confronting in my work as a preschool teaching assistant is the nature of my power as an authority figure. It's an unsettling position, because I would like to believe that everyone in my role is there to be a positive influence on children, and not because they want to exert control over other people. I'm blessed to be working at Lemberg Children's Center, an environment that strongly echoes my personal feelings about how young children should be taught, socially and intellectually. Of course, after almost two years of working there, this is largely because the environment has shaped my values, but I can recall being very comfortable there from the start and never feeling as though I was supporting an unhealthy system. One of the most fundamental aspects of this system is that all rules are in place for very important reasons - to protect the health and safety of our children and staff, to encourage a cooperative community based on mutual respect and care, and to maintain the safety and integrity of our shared property and space.

I think things have changed a bit since the olden days, don't you? In Mary's Child, we see the same sort of "don't do it because I said so" message that comes up time and time again in fairy tales. Let the kid see the Holy Trinity, why don't you? I hate to criticize the Virgin Mary on her child-rearing practices, but it basically seems like she's giving the child a rule just so she can punish her when she breaks it. I've found that when dealing with anyone above the age of 2, one's best bet when seeking obedience is to actually explain to the child why you're asking them to do something. Well, OK, sometimes you need to tell them you're going to count how many seconds it takes them to put their blankets in their cubbies, and promise you're going to start from Negative Zero. And sometimes you're better off asking them how many feet they have and then indulging them and counting both of their feet repeatedly all the way up to one hundred when that's the answer they give (this method, by the way, is for getting shoes on). But that's beside the point. If you're asking a child to do something, and you can't come up with a better answer than "because I said so," then why are you saying so?

Shared Home

The Cat and Mouse in Partnership - AT Type 15 "The Theft of Butter by Playing Godfather"

Most Sundays, I pack up a few good books and a sketchbook and ride the commuter rail to the Out of the Blue Gallery in Cambridge. I've been so busy for past few months with final critiques, holidays, and other distractions that I haven't been able to make it in for my regular gallery-sitting appointment in some time. In these weeks, I've been able to think about what my presence at the gallery really means. I have sold a few pieces there, yes, I am occasionally the only one around to keep shop or take care of minor chores, but it is increasingly clear that my relationship with the place and the people who work and spend time there is much deeper than one of monetary benefit. That relationship could not have been put in better words for me than it was today.

This morning, I set out bright and early, walking to the train station despite the cold and the snow, ostensibly to wear in my new boots and afraid my car wouldn't make it out of my driveway. However, I think my real motivation was an exhilarated desire to meet every challenge the day had to offer me, because my fairy tale this morning is one of the most silly and disheartening ones I've ever read. To imply that two creatures, simply because they should be natural enemies, cannot by any means forge a trust between one another in a shared living space, is an affront to my every naive belief about the nature of community and camaraderie. Indeed, when I set out for the gallery today I was looking forward to being with people I had honestly missed, people with whom I had no familial bond yet shared the intimacy of a communal space. I was looking forward to my opportunity to test this old fairy tale notion that some people are just destined not to get along.

In any case, I braved the snow and rode into Cambridge, took a subway and a bus to Central Square, and hiked down Prospect Street to the gallery. My day was, as usual, mostly uneventful. I got to chat with the regulars and get a lot of reading done, and at the end of my usual shift the new drumming instructor began to move in his instruments for the weekly drumming circle. Due to the commuter rail schedule, I usually leave around the time he begins setting up, but today I decided to wait around a few more hours and join in, feeling swayed by a newly rediscovered sense of community.

I will be honest (and apologize to him, if he ever reads this), but I've had my reservations about this new drumming instructor. I was very fond of the man who used to come on Sundays, and I don't know why he left, and this new one seemed to be a bit of a hippy. But today I gave him a chance, and he said something that moved me deeply. As I grabbed some extra chairs to help him set up, he was speaking to another drummer, and talking about how he felt that the gallery was like a second home for him because of the music he made there. He gestured to me and said I must feel the same way, because my art is on the walls, and because of this connection we were sharing a home. I knew as soon as he said it that he was exactly right. I agreed heartily, and he started teaching us the rhythms we would use that night. As we played on, more people I know and love, whose art and poetry lines the walls of the gallery, came in to dance and play with us, and for those few hours we shared that warm home, safe from the weather and worries outside.

And no one tried to steal anyone's fat.

The Frog King or Iron Heinrich

Today's fairy tale is one that's been getting a bit of attention lately. The Grimm version can be read here (my translation did not change the names from German), and as a bonus includes the introduction after which I named this blog. As I have not yet seen the recent Disney adaptation, but hope to soon, this story may be revisited later. For now, I'd like to focus on a trait of the male protagonist that actually merits a comparison with my previous story, Cupid and Psyche. I noticed yesterday, but didn't choose to pursue at length, the fact that Cupid seems rather ashamed of his physical form. Perhaps shame isn't quite the right word, but he explicitly forbids Psyche from viewing him. Why, exactly? It's never really stated in the story. There's no magical reason, no spell that breaks or curse that activates upon her viewing him. It seems to be a matter of faith or trust. For all Psyche knows, her new husband could be the vile serpent she was told to expect, but Cupid's true form is of course quite beautiful and powerful. It would seem to behoove the god to reveal himself, but he never reals his true nature willingly.

This is also true of the Frog King, but the nature of his curse might reveal some clues as to the meaning of these silly men's behavior. Like Cupid, the frog king's true form is quite wonderful, but unlike Cupid the monarch's physical nature is quite dependent on the actions of his would-be bride. Without her touch, he is a hideous amphibian, but once she welcomes him (at her father's insistence!) into her bedroom, he becomes the charming man she must of course desire to wed. Both of these stories are most certainly about a maiden's acceptance of her betrothal to a strange man, but being myself a strange man, I am quite interested in what the narratives seem to be saying about men's bodies and our feelings towards them. The male protagonists could be seen as passive characters, meant merely to symbolize The Inevitable Husband or something like that, but maybe they're actually saying something to our about men, or boys who might want to become men someday. Both Cupid's and the Frog King's acceptance or realization of their own physical potential and beauty seems to be dependent on the actions of a woman. Neither is able to reveal his true nature until his beloved, willingly or otherwise, takes it upon herself to form a more intimate relationship between the two of them. Psyche, at her sisters' insistence, shines a light on her beloved, revealing his unexpected beauty, and the Youngest Princess, at her father's command, allows the frog up to her bedroom, transforming him from a wretched beast into a very eligible human bachelor. Perhaps these stories are about girls accepting their betrothal to strange men, but they also seem to suggest that their actions alone are capable of making their men a lot less strange. Take heart, young lads, there is a woman out there somewhere who can reign in that beastly form you find yourself inhabiting these days.

Labors of Love

Lately I have been evaluating the amount of effort I place on various activities in my life. Painting, drawing, writing, knitting, reading, and so on. There is a notion that is often discussed in the art studio about need, about whether one needs to be in the studio, or needs to be making a certain kind of work. For a time I felt obligated by my surroundings to produce a certain kind of work, but I now see that something was lacking in that effort. What was lacking was not exactly need, but something closer to love. I did not love the work I was creating, I did not love myself for making it, and I was not making it for someone I loved. I was making work for the wrong people, and communicating the wrong things with the wrong audience.

Love is something that is worth a lot of effort. Fatigue and exhaustion should not and do not matter when the work is done for love. Time is never lost, but always well-spent, when it reinforces one's bond of love with another person. It took me a long time to realize it, but when I paint it is often not with love in mind. When I painted narratives I did not love the image. I loved the story, but it was not the story I was painting. When I create portraits, I love the people I am drawing or painting. When I create still-lives, I love the objects I am drawing or painting. When I knit something for my friend, I love the person I am creating for, and I put that love in the object I'm creating. When I'm working without love, I can stop whenever I want. With love, it doesn't matter how long it takes, or how weary it makes me, because I don't stop until I'm done.

Cupid and Psyche

My first story is not one of the Grimms', but rather what is considered by many to be the first fairy tale ever written, the myth of Cupid and Psyche. A rather long but enjoyable version, which I chose to weather this morning, can be found here courtesy of Sur La Lune, though I am sure you can find more succinct tellings. Although I do not intend this to be a primarily analytic project, as I'm sure such work has been done far more competently before, I felt it would be appropriate to properly open my writing with a discussion of what I think makes fairy tales what they are, why they are so important, and how this first fairy tale exemplifies these ideas.

There are plenty of theories out there about what exactly defines a fairy tale (since it certainly has nothing to do with fairies), but to me all the stories that resonate the most deeply and feel most like true fairy tales are the ones that say something about becoming an adult. As children are usually considered their main audience, it should come as no surprise that fairy tales often contain numerous messages, often deeply encoded in symbolism and magic, about how one should act in the adult world. After all, this seems to be all anyone ever wants to communicate with children, for some reason or another. I have no doubt in my mind that this definition will fall apart after a while, but for now it holds up, and I think I can quite easily apply it to Cupid and Psyche. To begin with, we have a beautiful young girl, indeed the most beautiful in all the world, whose power over men's hearts begins to grow so potent as to outstrip that of the reigning symbol of femininity, Venus. Psyche's beauty (which is, unfortunately, her only apparent quality), soon draws attention even from Venus's son Cupid, so it is no wonder the goddess should feel threatened. After a time of living together in a somewhat dubious marriage, Cupid and Psyche's love is revealed, and Venus sees fit to challenge the girl to a host of domestic feats in order to prove her worth, or something along those lines.

It would seem that we have some messages for both girls and boys in this story. As is common for a story with a female protagonist, these messages are about falling in love. Boys: do be careful in chosing a mate, you're bound to stir up some envy in your mother. Girls: you had better be quite seriously devoted to your man, or you won't be able to take your place as the primary woman in his life. Here's the only problem: Psyche doesn't successfully perform any of Venus's challenges, but she still ends up marrying Cupid in heaven, becoming immortal, and dancing among the gods for eternity. What gives? I have seen some versions in which it is suggested that Cupid, and not just a random assortment of animals and inanimate objects, helps Psyche with her tasks, and this implies a sort of two-way devotion that cements their relationship. But I have never read a version in which Psyche actually proves herself capable or diligent enough to earn Venus's respect. I am conflicted. On one hand, the notion that a girl must perform a bunch of domestic chores in order to prove her utility is silly and outdated, but this story is thousands of years old so I'm willing to forgive it. What I can't forgive is the implication that she's allowed to just give up and wait for someone else to solve her problems. All she does in the version I read today was try to kill herself each time she found a new challenge, and eventually look inside Proserpine's box when told not to. Obviously she had to do the latter, because she is a Fairy Tale Heroine (perhaps more on the rules of this profession later), but she's definitely one of the most pathetic I've yet encountered. In any case, Cupid eventually rescues her from the underworld and begs his father Jupiter to accept their marriage, with Venus's jealousy all but evaporating. Perhaps the real lesson for girls in this story is just to find a man who is willing to go through hell and back (literally) to keep you around.

Once Upon a Time

Hello friends. You have reached the inaugural entry of Wishing Still Helps, a writing project I intend to carry out through the year 2010 and perhaps beyond. It is my intent to read one fairy tale each morning, the moment I wake up and before I set out to discover just what the day holds for me. Hopefully this will add a needed element of magic and whimsy to my activities, and give me something to think about in my idle moments. Before I go to sleep, I will write a response to the story that started my day. This will come in one of a variety of forms: it may be an anecdote from the day's events, a reflection on some stirred-up memory, a fictional or poetic adaptation, or a literary analysis or comparison. It is my belief that fairy tales, myths, legends, and other such stories persist in our culture through retelling and adaptation because they resonate deeply with us, reflecting deep or universal truths about humanity. It is also my belief that in times of great anxiety or fear on a personal, cultural, or global level we turn to the past and to those things that still remain resonant despite age. By incorporating these stories, most of them quite old, into this strange modern life of mine, I hope to discover what makes them so lasting and to forge new links between myself and the literary history of the world in which I live.

As for the specifics of this project, I will for the most part be making my way through Grimms' complete works, as they are the stories with which I am most familiar, and the ones I have collected in a big worn volume on my dresser. I will make occasional divergences as I see fit, and certainly encourage recommendations from you, my readers. One distinction I will make is that I intend to use only primary sources. I have at my disposal plenty of essays and other pieces of nonfiction that are assuredly enlightening, but my daily story will always be an original fairy tale or, perhaps, a modern fictional adaptation. I may at times choose to use a certain source for longer than one day. I will do my best each day to link to at least one version of my chosen story online, and perhaps to other relevant readings. The greatest resource that I have yet found for fairy tale enthusiasts online is Sur La Lune Fairy Tales, which features annotated versions of many familiar stories, explaining cultural references, symbolism, and other bits of esoterica along with links to similar stories from global cultures, illustrations, essays, and derived works. I can only hope that such a database does not render my work here redundant, and that these stories, having survived for so long already, will fruitfully lend themselves to yet another writer's fancy. Thank you for reading, and sweet dreams.