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.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 11, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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