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.