IMG #1: Still Life

 

"Are You Going to Scarborough Fair?"

The Category of Joy (7)

After our Easter Octave investigation into the category of joy, which we endeavored without pretensions of exhaustiveness, or even of utter precision – and during which we looked at the state of joy as being associated with (artistic) creation, with (a type of, or a state of) laughter, with the act of marriage, with unconditional love and with sacrifice, and finally with Resurrection (or what follows after the Resurrection) – after this week-long series of discussions, then, perhaps it is time now to draw a line and to summarize what we have learned, proposing some...

7. Conclusions

And what have we learned? Well, essentially, that the state of joy seems to be associated with a (true) expression of being. And we saw this in artistic expression (or creation) – with the artist who, like a bird, can but sing... And we saw this, in a similar, “natural” fashion, in the case of children at play – who are unruly, like “wild animals”, unless they are tamed and guided – but in whose play there is an inherent goodness, being the natural expression of their (pre-moral, or on-the-way-to-becoming-moral) being.

But here we get into more troublesome territory, and closer to error – by which I mean all the misguided attempts at pursuing “joy” - that is, all that generally passes under the name of “pursuit of happiness”, yet is lived as a pursuit of self-satisfaction, of self-enjoyment (in various guises). Yes, there is a natural goodness to being. However, our human condition also contains the choice  - of the right living out of being, or of the wrong living out thereof; and the difference between these alternatives is that one of them is actually truthful to the true order of our being – while the other one is not.

And the best example in this regard, and one that we discussed this past week, is marriage – understood as a re-enactment or, even more so, as a living out of the original truth of the human condition: “Man and woman he created them... in the image of God he created them... [and] God looked ... and found it very good” (Gen 1:27, 31) Yes, one felt a sense of peace, of serenity, of an act being in accordance with “how things should be” (in our own, and in general existence) – when one looked at that statuary group depicting the betrothal. There is, thus, a choice – for us, moral animals – of living according to the truth of our being (and of Being, itself) – or not.

And this choice is the choice of what is truer, better, greater - over what is less so (or even the opposite). And we saw this choice being lived out both in the example of marriage (as choosing one person means rejecting all others, forever), and of the monks of La Grande Chartreuse (or of the Trappist monastery of the Tibhirine). As these monks explained in the film sequences included, theirs was a choice of a greater happiness, of a greater love; greater, in the sense of truer and more complete.

Detail of the Transfiguration Mosaic
from the Basilica of Sant'Apollinare in Classe (6th century) 

The state of joy, then, is not some shallow, ir-responsible, selfish seeking of enjoyment and pleasure, of “fun”. Instead it seems to be a calmer, deeper state of being – in which our being is more truthful to what it truly is, and to what it truly desires – and thus to the true order of existence. And this can mean a living out of the natural self, as in the case of the artist and of the child - pre-moral, as it were, but soon enough needing to be guided by a moral choice: the artist needing discipline, and to say no to self-seeking exhibitionism, in order to remain truthful to his vocation; and the child needing to be guided and to be reined in, so that his joy may be complete. And it can also mean a sacrificial pursuit of the true order, of the truth of our selves - for example, as in marriage, or as in a life completely consecrated to the Being that is the Source of our being.

And we used the term “sacrificial”, and we discussed it – to immediately see that this is, in fact, a voluntary, and most delightful and pleasurable sacrifice (although, yes, it does include a “no” to certain impulses or parts of our selves, and it might include pain), because it is done joyously, out of love (marriage), and drawn by love (monastic vocation). Love... if ever there was a more misunderstood, misconstrued, oft-misused expression! And yet, in the case of this term, “love”, as well, the same distinction can easily help us: between a self-seeking love (pleasure, enjoyment, satisfaction of oneself) - and a self-giving love (of marriage; of monastic life; of unconditional love).

And, indeed, we did talk about unconditional love, as well, as a sort of a basis or condition for joy – namely, for the expression and manifestation of being. For example, as in the case of the watchful gaze and continued care of the grandmother (unrecognized, anonymized), which allows for the children to play. Or, on a grander – or deeper – scale, the unconditional love of, as it is written, the “heavenly Father, [who] makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust” (Mt. 5:45) – the constitutive foundation of the being of us all.

What do I mean? Well, the fact that - just like with the clueless children, or the fish in the pond – we simply find ourselves within being, and with being; in other words, that our being is not something of our own making, but is an unconditional, unmerited, free gift that we have received - and continue to receive. Being, then, seems to be a fruit of an unconditional love in action; and this is why the monks we cited talk about responding to a love (because we are not the initiators of this relationship of being).

And this takes us to the Resurrection – and to the “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” of the Messiah chorus - which are the eternalized interjections expressing being, or life, finally and eternally victorious - that is, “being” without end.

In fact, the tremendous Easter Triduum (the three days, from the Last Supper, to the Resurrection) illustrates in a concentrated fashion the essential drama of all that we have been trying to express: the sacrifice that seems to be an inevitable corollary of choosing the good (or the truth of our being; as in the marriage choice, as in the monks' choice – and as in the cross of Good Friday), and the victory of Being, definitive, complete, and unalterable (over its apparent opposite – death, non-being, the diminishing of being, the corruption of being). This is how and why we associated “joy” with “Resurrection” – or, in fact, with what comes after the Resurrection. Because, if joy is the expression of being, then Resurrection (eternal life) is the final, complete, and definitive victory of being – its full manifestation. A state in which the members of the choir (which sings those “amens”) partake in the Being who is the very Source of our beings - in the unconditional Love that made us and that keeps our being in existence. Like the child who is drawn to the lap of the grandmother, so being tends toward the source of Being, which is Love.

Because being is - our self is - inherently dialogical, social, open to the other; yes, this is another thing that we have discovered, or that was confirmed, yet again, over this past week. And, since being is dialogical – so is joy; and thus we noticed that every manifestation of the state of joy also entails a relationship with, or at least an openness toward, an other (explicitly or implicitly, visibly or invisibly). This is true for the artistic act – for the child watched over by the grandmother – for marriage, essentially – and for the monks – and, of course, for Resurrection. Because Resurrection (or, more precisely, what follows thereafter) is a dialogical eternal life – a life with the Other (and with the others).

But let us conclude, here, this Easter Octave-occasioned, modest attempt at an investigation into the state of joy - into its manifestations, forms and expressions – and, finally, into its nature. We have listed all of our conclusions - or, the gist of them – above.

What remains to be talked about, perhaps – in a very brief postlude – is laughter. Yes, back to “laughter” – but, as explained, a specific kind or state of laughter. Yes, laughter, because I find it a most handy, accessible, universally available experience – or, at least, sign - of that state of joy that is the expression of true being. Again, we are referring here to a specific kind of laughter – which is the simple, free (childlike), and exuberant expression of the joy of existence itself - but also (implicitly) of the dignity and transcendence of the self, over and against the (sometimes) oppressive, burdensome, reductionist aspects of historical and material existence. A laughter that is the thumbing of one’s nose at the self-seriousness of what are – ultimately – "unserious", passing things. (And, for a manifestation of such laughter, see again the scene with the Carthusian monks sliding down the snowy hillside, in the Alps, not far from La Grande Chartreuse.)

And you can even take this – this idea of laughter - with you as a bookmark, perhaps - to remind you (and us), from time to time, of that state of joy that we have been discussing - that is associated (or so it seems) with the living out of our being, in its plenitude, truth, and openness toward the other (the Other).

The Category of Joy (6)

And...

6. Joy as Resurrection

This is – famously – the very last part of Georg Friedrich Händel’s oratorio, Messiah; and the story is that, after composing this piece, Handel came out of his study and said, “I have seen [or experienced] Heaven!” Now, one could put this (his exclamation) down to a sort of aesthetic exaggeration; and, yes, the story is apocryphal. However, the fact is that I do find this final “Amen” chorus to be a most moving and powerful figuration of the Resurrection – or, more accurately and precisely, of what follows after the Resurrection – of life, eternal and glorious.

Of course, the entire work, Messiah, is a monumental feat of artistic genius. Musically, of course! – but what I am referring to here is its very core concept, of using only (or mostly) texts that are not from the Gospels, in order to tell the story... of the Gospels. In other words, using texts mostly from the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible) - to tell the story of the life of Christ (which is the central story of the New Testament), from his birth, to his death and resurrection. To tell an entire, momentous story, using only (or mostly) indirect language... prefiguration, metaphor, analogy, prophetic language – what a feat of artistic (and spiritual) inspiration! But I did not come to praise Handel – although that is most deserved, certainly – but to give a little bit of a background, which might help contextualize that very last chorus, “Amen”.

So, back to the chorus, let’s ask ourselves what does this word "amen" (of Jewish origin) actually signify? Well, in brief, it is an expression, affirmation and confirmation that something truly is; a “yes”, a “verily”, a “truthfully so” given to... well, to what is this “yes” given, in the oratorio? In the Messiah, the “Amen” chorus follows right after a piece that intones, “Worthy Is the Lamb”: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing... for ever and ever.” In other words, the “Amen” chorus is preceded and prepared by a brief restatement of the death (on a cross) of the Lamb - and by a statement of the victory of the Lamb over said death (victorious act that is usually expressed through the word, "resurrection").

And what does this word, “resurrection”, mean? Etymologically, it means to rise again (in Latin: resurgere) – or, to rise from the dead (in Church Latin: resurrectionem). And what is “death”? It is, apparently, the radical opposite, the sworn enemy, the end and the destruction, of life.  But! - not here! – as here the Lamb that was slain passes from life temporal – through death – to life eternal (through the act of Resurrection). Thus, “O Death, where is thy sting?”, sing the soloists, in a preceding section of the oratorio... The “amen” that comes at the very end of the oratorio, therefore, does not mark the "end" of the story of Christ - but is a repeated and confirmed affirmation of the fact that there is no end.

The meaning and the aftermath of the act of the Resurrection is, then, the definitive and ultimate victory of life, over death –. and the repeated “amen!” is given to that victory of life. And, listening to this chorus, we hear the musical lines (sung, as it were, by millions upon millions...) flowing up and down, swelling, overtaking each other, overflowing - “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” – an eternalized crescendo of the eternal joy of the victory of life, eternal and glorious. “Amen”, then, becomes an expression of the unending joy of witnessing and of partaking in Life, eternal - in being, accomplished and fulfilled.

As we have seen in the previous installments of our investigation, the state of joy seems to be associated, in a deep way, with being - with the plenitude and the full manifestation of our being. Resurrection, on the other hand, is precisely the definitive victory of being - over and against what apparently is its very opposite, death (and, more broadly, over finiteness, imperfection, temporality, misery...) And this is why I have proposed this equivalence, of “joy as Resurrection” - and why I have used, as illustration, the final chorus from Handel's Messiah – because this final “Amen” seems to be an expression of the joy of Being - Being unending, glorious, victorious.

Indeed, I find this “Amen” chorus so uplifting and moving because it proclaims the eternal victory of Being - through the continuous, repeated, magnificent – joyous – affirmation of the simple yet powerful expression: “IT IS” (“amen”).

***

And thus we have reached the end (almost) of our inquiry into the category of joy. What remains to be done, still, is to review and to conclusively summarize what we have learned from this week- (or Octave-) long investigation; and that is what we will do in tomorrow’s, final installment of this modest series.

The Category of Joy (5)

What is joy? Continuing our investigation...

5. Joy as Sacrifice

At first sight (and not just at first sight), these terms seem incongruous. And, if someone is familiar with Mother Teresa of Calcutta’s experience of the “dark night of the soul”, the picture below might seem slightly inadequate, as well.

What could this mean, then – this, “joy as sacrifice”? Well, let’s just think of the example of the grandmother, as discussed in yesterday’s installment of our little investigative series – who was the “giver” in that relationship of unconditional love, which the receiver lived out as (a condition of) joy; and let us remember that we asked ourselves then whether “joy” might actually be found (felt) at that giver’s end, as well, and not just at the receiver’s. How can we answer that question? Well, what do we know about the “giver” of unconditional love? We know that such giving of (and from) the self is – or implies, inevitably - an act of self-denial, of self-sacrifice – and that, as such, it also incurs, inevitably, pain, as well. So why does the grandmother do that? Out of love, would be the immediate answer – yet this is no sentimental, fluffy, romantic love, but the actual, harsh love of self-giving (giving of the self, and from the self). And, being an act of true love, there is in it – or behind it, beneath it -  a deep sense of joy, as well, a joy that is associated with living out what appears to be the vocation of the human being – which is, essentially, the giving of the self to(ward) the other. (Note that the same act of self-gift, but in reciprocal form, is what constitutes that “unity of man and woman” that was discussed in yet another earlier episode of this series).

It seems therefore that sacrifice is an aspect, or element – perhaps the visible one, the one that we perceive most readily – of what is, at a deeper level, existentially, a mysteriously joyous (?) act of self-gift (“self-gift” that is the true meaning of “love” – far from the sappy, romantic, sentimental, even self-seeking mis-understanding of the concept).

And now let us look at this thing from yet another angle, using the video below, which is taken from a documentary, Into Great Silence, which presents (with little to no commentary) the daily life of the Carthusian monks of La Grande Chartreuse (in France). It should be noted that the Carthusian order is among the so-called “strictest” contemplative orders; for example, the monks spend most of their days – even their time together, at meals or at work - in silence.

But here the aforementioned notion of “strictness” necessitates some further elaboration - and, in order to do that, let’s start by asking, “who are these monks, and why are they there?” The answer is that these are men (from different walks of life, originally, and of different origins) who have voluntarily decided to turn away from “the world”, from the temporal, in order to dedicate themselves completely, bodily and spiritually, their entire time, and life, to God. The aforementioned “strictness” of the order, therefore, is not some externally imposed, arbitrary, nonsensical rule – but it is the personal choice of each of them, to renounce the things that, in their eyes, represent a lesser or a partial good (of the world, of the temporal order), for a greater, eternal good (of God). Here is another excerpt from the same documentary, in which one of the monks talks about how their choice is, in fact, for happiness - a greater happiness.

I have chosen these examples in order to exemplify “the other side”, as it were, of sacrifice. Indeed, their style of life, of these monks, and their discipline, will seem – for many of us – very hard, even harsh; that, indeed, is the “sacrifice” part. And yet this sacrifice is but a means and a path toward what is considered by them a greater goal, a truer end – which is not dissimilar to how in marriage one in fact renounces (a sacrifice) all other possible options, all other persons – in favor of only one person - in the name of a truer and greater love. See below a short snippet (just some seconds, really) from the trailer of a movie, Of Gods and Men, which recounts the true story of a group of Trappist monks from Algeria, from the monastery of Tibhirine; in this very short sequence, an older monk, while in conversation with a young woman from the village, explains that he has known human love (which is a good), but that he has given up that kind of love, for a greater love (i.e. for Love itself).

[that sequence starts at 1:01]

Can there be, then, deep joy in sacrifice? It seems that there is - but not in a superficial, light, easy way. Instead, that deep joy seems to be the specific counterpart of a certain kind of sacrifice – one that is life-pursuing, life-searching, and life-giving. It seems also that this deep joy is associated with – and might arise from - choosing what we start to grasp as the truth of our being - while sacrificing what is only apparently or temporarily (or perhaps selfishly) so. Meanwhile, however, all of this does not remove the sting and the pain of the act of sacrifice. And yet – at least within this temporal human condition – it seems that sacrifice is almost a necessary corollary, even an inevitable condition - for the pursuit of that deeper joy.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? Well, yes, just like Good Friday is the necessary, inevitable, paradoxical path and condition – for experiencing the joy of Resurrection; so much so, that there is no resurrection without the cross. And what is “resurrection”, if not the experience of the plenitude, fullness, and accomplishment of being? But more on these, later.

And, not to leave our initial reference to Mother Teresa somehow open-ended, and inconclusive – and to further explain my initial choice of using her picture – all of this might also reflect how, in Mother Teresa's case, her inner “dark night of the soul” (her inner sacrifice, suffering) became, when turning toward us, the image and the face of unconditional love and inexpressible joy – in a very real way, for so many of us!  But these are not easy things...

So let us conclude by remarking how the state of joy that we are investigating seems to be very different from, and utterly unlike, the easy, superficial state of “having a good time”, or of “being happy” - understood as self-centered satisfaction. Indeed, we see yet again that joy seems to be an essentially outward- and other-oriented state – perhaps because our very being is essentially dialogical, and open toward the other / the Other. Finally, it seems - again - that this state of joy corresponds to a living out of - with a living according to - the truth of our being.

The Category of Joy (4)

Continuing our Easter Octave investigation into the various possible aspects, or meanings, or manifestations, of the state of joy, today let us talk about:

4. Joy as Unconditional Love

As you can see below, in order to illustrate this meaning of the concept of joy, I have chosen the image of a grandmother’s hand, holding her grandchild's hand. I am sure that, for some, an even better representation would be that of a mother’s hand, holding her child’s hand – and that is perfectly fine. There are various reasons for using this image, from my perspective – and one of them is that I consider that a grandmother’s love possesses an added dimension of frailty and vulnerability - of a love given, as it were, without authority – and thus, of gratuitousness - of unconditionality.

Still, this equivalence (and this concept, of unconditional love) is not without difficulties – first of all, because we implicitly tend to look at unconditional love from the perspective of the receiver (because this is how, instinctively, we associate it with the state of joy). But what corresponds to this “at the other end”, of the giver - a “giver” that gives so deeply, without holding back - is there also “joy”? Perhaps we should talk about this in another installment of our modest investigative series. For now, though, let us be satisfied with, and “joyous” because of, benefiting – as receivers– from this unconditional love, and let us look at the concept from this perspective.

Here again, though, we notice that the concept continues to pose difficulties - and I am referring to the fact that unconditional love, instead of being joy, seems rather to provide the condition for joy. What do I mean? Well, let’s take the example of a child (of the grandchild), for whom, more often than not, (the) unconditional love (of a grandmother) passes completely unobserved, being perceived as a natural condition of being, as normality. Later in life, of course, the ex-child will discover that nothing just is – and that what they experienced once as a given, as normality. was in fact something created, sustained, and offered to them, by someone else – mostly, without them observing. But back then, when they were at the receiving end, these children were like fish in the water, basking and swimming in it without care, unawares and unbothered by thinking about the necessary conditions... for the existence of water. And, just like said body of water, unconditional love is life-giving, life-sustaining and life-caring – even if the stupid fish seem to know nothing about it.

Thus, unconditional love seems to provide the condition for being to be - freely, in its natural state - with some good and not so good behavior, with straying and with coming back etc. You know – like the animal, in its natural habitat, doing what the animal does.

Unconditional love is thus connected with joy by being the underlying condition that allows, or that provides, for being to exist. Or, if it is joy, this unconditional love, it is that only at a deeper level, or in a deeper way; for example, at the level of a glorious summer afternoon of play from our childhood – in which we were busy with the rush and with the give-and-take of the play, with all its screams and chases, agitation and laughter – all the while not knowing and not observing that the glorious summer afternoon was – so normal, so everyday-like it all seemed. Unconditional love is like that afternoon – it is, so that we can be.

Later on, during adulthood, the former child will learn to distinguish and to notice the presence of such glorious summer afternoons - by learning to experience their absence. To put it differently, the adult will gradually learn to think about receiving unconditional love – especially in what concerns interhuman relations – as well-nigh a miracle, its possibility so remote as to be effectively dismissed (unless it is received from their still-living grandmother - or mother etc.). Until, of course, it is this adult’s turn (if it ever comes) to give that sort of unconditional love – perhaps as a grandparent - modestly, unknown, self-giving; but that, again, is a different side of the story.

To conclude, unconditional love seems to be the thing that provides the condition and the possibility for being - to be, to manifest itself, to flourish, freely. It is therefore associated with “joy” inasmuch as it seems to provide the condition (remember: life-giving, life-caring, life-maintaining) for the plenitude of being (to manifest itself); and, as this investigation proceeds, we seem to associate  - more and more - the state of joy with a state of plenitude of being. 

Unconditional love – then – makes being possible – and thus makes joy possible.

The Category of Joy (3)

Let us continue our investigation into various hypostases of the state of joy, by talking about:

3. Joy as Marriage

What in the world could this mean? Well, if the term “laughter” necessitated clarifications, this term (and this equivalence) surely does, as well. In order to do that - to look into the ways in which “marriage” corresponds to and is expressive of “joy” - I will employ as a visual aid the following image, of a statuary group from the Cathedral of St. Matthew in Washington, DC.

the betrothal of Joseph and Mary
(by Vincenzo Demetz, Italy; installed 1961)

So, in what manner would the term “joy” find its manifestation – or one of its manifestations - in “marriage”? Gazing at this image of the betrothal of Mary and Joseph, one is struck (or I am, at least) by a sense of “peace”, of settledness, of “things being right” (impression that is, of course, supported by our contextual knowledge about this couple). Indeed, marriage – that covenant or sacred bond between two people, endeavored before God (see the enlarged image of the chapel, below) – is, according to John Paul II (in his commentary on the book of Genesis) reflective (in its original state) of the perfection and unity of God.

How does that work? Well, according to the mythical story of the Book of Genesis (“mythical”, in the sense that its main concern is not with relating “historical events”, but with revealing some essential truths about the nature and the condition of the human beings), after God created the human being (in Hebrew, adam - which is not a person’s name, but a general term denoting human beings, without determination of sex), the resulting human being looked around and “saw”  that he was as yet unaccomplished, incomplete – that it was alone. In consequence – so the mythical story goes, revealing additional information about the nature of the human beings - God put adam in a deep sleep, and then out of this adam He made man (in Hebrew, ish) and woman (in Hebrew, ishah). Then and thus - and only then and thus - was the creation of the human being accomplished:

“God created mankind in his image;

in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.” (Gen 1:25)

In other words, the perfectly accomplished creation of the human being, in the image of God (i.e. reflecting His perfection, goodness, and unity), is only accomplished in this “original unity of ish (man) and ishah (woman)”. And “[t]hat is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.” (Gen. 2:24) – i.e. thus, marriage. According to this Jewish-Christian understanding, then, marriage is a sacred covenant through which the man and the woman live out, together - and, in a way, re-enact - that original harmony and perfection of the original human condition – even if now only imperfectly, and in a flawed manner.

Thus, the image above, of the very Jewish wedding of Mary and Joseph (see, to the right, the young man who leaves, seemingly disappointed, while breaking a stick on his knee - which is a sign, according to Jewish customs, of being a rejected suitor of the bride), seems to embody and to reflect such a moment and state  - which connects them (and us) with, and which re-enacts, that original state of unity and harmony (of the creation of man, in the image of God, accomplished in the unity of ish and ishah). As such, what one “gets” from looking at this statuary group is a sense of peace, of “things being right”, of the world “being set aright” - of all the puzzle pieces finally falling into place, for once.

And it is in this sense that I identify in marriage another manifestation of - and thus set of meanings for – the existential state of joy. Joy, as a deep living out of our being being “at right”; of us being in the right place and in the right condition; before God, who is the source of our (and of all) being.

Note also that marriage is – naturally and essentially - a social, dialogical act; that this state of harmony and peace is attained (or aimed at, imperfectly) only through the common act of two persons, an act that binds them; that it is this covenant in which they enter, together, that endows them (as a couple) with the perfection (again, imperfectly lived out) that we were talking about (the image of the original unity and perfection of the human being). Thus we see, yet again, that joy seems to be a state that is essentially social, or at least fundamentally open toward the other - just like the human being itself is essentially open to - and in need of - the other.

The “Wedding Chapel”
(Cathedral of St. Matthew, Washington, DC)

“Ways of Escape”: A Dialogue on a Train

A: Nice pictures!

B: Thank you! Yes, we just got back from tropical island Z; it was great!

A: Great?

B: Well, yes, we had a good time. I mean, the kids were a bit rowdy, and I was... you know, to be honest, I was in a sort of a foul mood for most of the week; but it was a beautiful place, nevertheless, and overall we enjoyed ourselves - a lot!

A: How come that you went there?

B: What do you mean?

A: What led you to choose tropical island Z – to go there? How have you heard of it, if I may ask?

B: We’ve seen pictures of it, and heard some stories from people who’ve been there... you know?

A: Yes, but, if I may ask - why did you go there (as you could have gone somewhere else)? Or, better yet, why go anywhere?

B: I’m not sure I understand your questions...

A: I’m sorry; it’s just something that preoccupies me... Why go anywhere? Or, why not go somewhere closer to home – some park...?

B: Well, you know, the image of a tropical island... the white sands, the endless blue ocean, a few white clouds scattered over the otherwise clear blue sky, the palm trees - all that... It’s – you know - the ideal image, isn’t it?

A: Yes, “ideal” is a good word for it.

B: What do you mean?

A: That “ideal” is a word that we use to indicate an image that we project of, of...

B: ... of the perfect spot?

A: ... of perfection, rather. You see, that’s what interests me about all this – the reason why I ask; namely, why do we create for ourselves such images, why do we chase such images?

B: I'm not sure that I get what you mean.

A: Well, you said that you saw pictures of this place (I suppose, on social media), and I would say that they probably resonated with something... something in you (sorry to presume, but I assume...)

B: Well, yes, yes! I always wanted to go to one of those places...

A: Who wouldn’t?

B: ... white sands, blue ocean, palm trees – I mean, this is the kind of place that you see in the movies: where people retire, at the end of the heist movie, after having escaped the cops – and then they buy a bar there, and spend their lives on the beach – or?

A: Indeed, indeed – right you are. But... now that you’ve been there, is now – I mean, is that need, that desire for these kinds of a places - is it now... fulfilled?

B: Need? Desire? What do you mean, exactly?

A: Well, like you mentioned – the need or desire that made you “always want to go to one of those places”... (and me as well, by the way; I am no different).

B: Well, it’s a nice place...

A: Yes, but you mentioned “ideal,” and movies... That’s what I am referring to – the apparent need (shared by you, me, and those moviemakers) that drives us all toward such “ideal” places.

B: ...

A: And yes, yes, I know that they’re nice. But, here it is – we go to the pristine beach, to a spectacular waterfall, to the virgin forest, or to the icy-blue mountaintop – and, does that "need" ever cease? Is it ever... fulfilled? Do we ever just go there, and then just... sit and rest, as it were ... accomplished, fulfilled... complete?

B: Ha, ha - well, I can’t say that you are not right, in a way, you know? Truth be said, while I am still living off the sensory memories of the warm days and starry nights spent on the beach (not staying up too late, though, because we had to put the kids to sleep), I know that in a couple of months me and my wife will start thinking about our next destination...

A: Yes, yes, that’s what I mean...

[A seems to be looking for the right words... Brief silence.]

A: Well, you know, the reason why I’m asking... You mentioned that you saw those pictures, of tropical island Z, online somewhere.

B: Yes.

A: My question is, why do we post these kinds of images... – besides the fact that they’re nice (which they are!). What I am referring to is – did you notice that every day we are, I don’t know, bombarded by not just nice images, but news stories, pretty videos, inspirational messages about ... some place, some people, some things, some ways of doing things...

B: ...

A: You know, those news stories about... about how in Finland, for example, they have eliminated homework in their schools, and how that has created the “best educational system ever”; or how in Italy there is this valley where people live to a hundred years, and we wonder about their diet and their lifestyle, and what we could take over from their habits; or how in Japan the transportation minister resigned last year (or was it the year before?) because the trains had a cumulated delay (across the entire year!) of one minute and thirty seconds...

B: ... yes, and?

A: ... or how, according to studies done by some British researchers, this or that country in Scandinavia is considered to be “the happiest” in the world...

B: ... yes, and?

A: Or, or – and I promise that I’ll end with this – how about those videos made by that young Chinese woman, showing us the simple rural life, and how to cook using only simple tools and natural ingredients...

B: And?

A: Well, aren’t these just as much “ideal places” (or ways of being, or of doing things), not unlike your tropical island Z? “Ideal images” that we keep sharing, and reading about – always trying to find – the next one?! (And, my question is - why?)

B: What do you mean?

A: Well, my question is - why this endless stream of stories, images, messages, coming at us every day, all proposing some other place, other life, other country, other way of, I don’t know, being?

B: Because these are models of how to live better, or where to live better, and so on! ...aren’t they?

A: Yes, but once we learned about them - and once we start doing that diet, or after we move to country X in Scandinavia... well, does our search actually end, then? Are we satisfied, fulfilled, finito - done?

B: Well, no; clearly not. In fact, the place where we live right now, in this country – me and my family just moved here a couple of years ago from...

A: But that’s it!... Sorry to interrupt you – but that’s exactly it! That’s what... that’s what’s been keeping me up at night, lately – or, to be honest, for the past couple of years, in fact.

B: Really? What, more precisely?

A: Well, trying to think about, and to actually get to terms with, the fact that we are engaged in this, I don’t know, seemingly endless pursuit, never satisfied by anything that we find. Trying to understand why it is so. What we are chasing. Or, better yet, why we are engaged in this chase – what is driving or chasing us...

B: You mean, why are we always, even if we go to any of these places, still... I mean, why do we remain “hungry” for more?

A: “Hungry”! – “hungry” is a good word! Well, yes, what is this  - as you said - deep “hunger,” or need, or whatever it is, that fuels this endless chase – for some thing or things that seem to always remain just a bit too far, just beyond our reach, just there, around the line of the horizon... So, I’ve been asking this... it's been preoccupying me...

[Pause. They sit in silence, glancing through the window of the compartment at the fields that are rushing past their train.]

A: [breaking the silence] Are you familiar with Graham Greene? The writer?

B: No...  well, I’ve heard the name, but I do not know much about him...

A: A great writer... Anyway, one of the volumes of his memoirs is titled, “Ways of Escape.”

B: “Ways of Escape?” Why, why did he call it that?

A: It’s called that because it chronicles the many ways in which Greene had been running - trying to run away...

B: Running away from what?

A: Away – from his native England, from his wife, from the Western world (the book was written around the middle of the twentieth century – or that’s when those things took place), from... well, at the end of the day, from himself, actually; he was trying to run away from himself, in fact.

B: And (just out of curiosity) where did he try to run away?

A: Well, to the Far East, to various instantiations of the “Third World” (as it was then called) ... but, you know, not just to places, but to things, ideas, persons; for example, to a beautiful Vietnamese mistress, to causes and revolutions, to opium dens... Opium -  what more of a “way of escape” can one even think of!

B: Not very much of a way of escape, I would say; more of a way of self-enslavement.

A: Well, yes, long-term; but, for the moment, I guess it works - as an escape.

B: So... what about it? Why did you bring this up – Graham Greene?

A: Because, while at the end of the day all these “ways of escape” turned out to be futile, fruitless (so, it is kind of sad, his story, overall) – what I do admire about him is the courage to... you know, to look at himself and at his life and at his deeds, to look them “in the eyes,” and to acknowledge - and also to share with us – that these were actually attempts to “escape.”

B: But why was he trying to escape – all those things?

A: That, I think, is the right question - it’s good that you put it that way; not “where,” not even “what from” – but “why.” Well, I contend that his frantic attempts at escaping are no different than our own attempts at chasing the ideal place, or thing, or person, or manner of doing things – the things that we’ve been talking about. And also that, just like in Greene's case, no matter where we go, and what we try to do... [smiles]

B: What? What are you smiling about?

A: Well, I was just thinking: do we really care about... the transportation system in Japan? Does any of us one just toss and turn, night after night, waking up in a sweat, torn by the crucial question of how to reform the transportation system in our country?

B: Ha, ha, ha... no, clearly not...

A: Because that’s not the point, is it – the transportation system in Japan? That is not the reason why we both heard that news story, a while ago, and paid attention, and remembered it! And the same with the Finnish educational system, and so on, and so on... It’s not what these stories are about, but that they seem to illustrate a country or a place where “things have been solved,” where everything works just fine; again, an “ideal place," only - just another version of it...

B: Yes, I would agree.

A: So, the issue, in fact, is not so much about the “what” or the “where,” but about - what's with this seemingly endless pursuit for things that always seem to leave us ultimately unsatisfied, unfulfilled,  "incomplete." 

B: Ha, ha! “You complete me!”, said Tom Cruise to Renée Zellweger...

A: ...in “Jerry Maguire!” Exactly! And then, of course, the movie ends.

B: But, it turns out (or it would, if the movie would have a sequel) that, well, she did not actually (and eventually) “complete” him...

A: Nor him, her.

B: Indeed. Look, I am married – even, what they might call, “happily married;” but, like you said (and, the more I listen to you, the more I understand what you mean, or so I think), this restless search, truly, never ceases. I mean, we care deeply for each other, me and my wife (even after all these years) - but that chase, as you called it... continues; only now, we do it together. It does not cease... and I wonder why.

A: Me, too, I have been wondering about this, and looking for answers.

B: And, what have you found?

A: Well, some things... How shall I explain... Well, look – if we take all these examples we mentioned – tropical island Z, the Finnish educational reform, or the Japanese transportation system – what do all these things have in common?

B: Well?

A: Well, they all seem to be variations of the same thing...

B: Of the same thing? How? What do you mean?

A: Well, they all seem to be – how shall I put it... “horizontal” things, horizontal “ways of escape.”

B: “Horizontal”?

A: Well, I am trying to express myself as clearly as I can... “horizontal,” meaning variations of the same kind of thing... different places, different times, but always variations of the same... – and always remaining “outside” of us, as it were...

B: “Outside”? How?

A: Think about it: you go to this pristine beach, or to that wonderful waterfall, or to that ancient forest - but, these are just varieties of “places”... Or, you find another way of doing this thing or that thing – but these are just varied ways of “doing things”... Here’s the thing (and I am really struggling here, trying to express my thoughts and feelings as clearly as possible) – while we alternate between locations, methods, reforms, diets – the need always seems to remain the same, unfulfilled.

B: ...

A: So, the “outside” things keep on changing, but our “hunger,” as you called it – remains the same. So, I vary these outside sort of things, on, and on, and on – and, clearly, if the answer or solution would be “outside,” then one of these variations would finally have to work, and the chase would have to end.

B: But it does not end.

A: No, it does not. So, if the external things keep on changing, and yet the need remains the same, I have to ask myself – through all these external variations, what is there that always stays the same? What do I always “take with myself,” wherever I go, whatever I do (while everything outside, from the specific place to the educational policy, changes)?

B: Well?

A: Well, myself – isn’t it? The one constant amid all these places, people, or ways of doing things - is myself; so, given the fact that the “hunger” is the same, never satiated, no matter the external changes, clearly the origin or solution to the question is not in any of the external variations – but is somewhere inside, within myself. This is why I can go to a beautiful spot – and still feel (while nevertheless enjoying the place!) deep down unfulfilled, unsatisfied - even a bit melancholy. So, this is why I called these solutions, these things that we are chasing, “horizontal,” because the cause or source of the chase, its origin, seems to not be on the same plane as these... seems to be of a different nature... in a different direction.

B: Namely?

A: Well, I don't know - perhaps "vertical," or internal, or inner?... I’m trying to find the right words... In any case, of a different kind and nature and direction, than the solutions that we are ceaselessly chasing.

B: ...

A: Well, this need seems to be something deep within us, seemingly (perhaps) at the very foundation of our being. Because – and this was a momentous realization for me, when I understood this – our entire life is defined and driven by this deep need, starting from childhood! This is why we keep chasing, and projecting, and dreaming, throughout our lives – for an ideal place, an ideal person, for something in the future... So, so, if this need seems to be determine and to drive our very existence - if it seems to shape, deep down, our entire life - well, then, if ever there was a question to pose, and to try to answer, then this is it. Namely: what is this deep drive, that shapes our entire existence? What is its origin? Because, if I know what it is, perhaps I can also ...

B: ... get a chance to fill it? to fulfill it?

A: Well, that sounds ambitious... but still, I need to ask! So, yes, indeed - this is the question that's been keeping me up, for the past, I don’t know, maybe couple of years; and what I’ve been reading, asking, talking with people (like you) about,,, trying to understand – if anything, then this!

B: So, what have you found? What have you learned? I am curious! I am genuinely interested, because I agree with your, let’s say, existential diagnosis.

Clovis, NM

It was in the second half of the 1600s that Marquis Auguste Coriolan de Lagardiére (or Augustus Coriolanus, Marquis de Lagardiére), together with a company of about 30-40 men, stopped in a fairly unremarkable spot on the staked plains region of what would later be known as the southwestern United States. Tired and dusty after a fairly long haul, they made a fire, drank some wine, ate some dried meat, and went to sleep – and woke up the next day to the realization of the fact that they were being surveyed, from afar, by a small group of natives (Indians) - who left soon thereafter. They had rested along the banks (if one could call them that) of the mostly dried-out Blackwater river (although they did not call it by that name; in fact, for them it did not have a name, nor did they think that it deserved a name, given its meager appearance). That day the Marquis, together with about half of his men, continued the journey, leaving behind 15-20 men, some of whom were sick or had minor injuries, and others with orders to set up a base to which the Marquis and his retinue could return, after having explored further down south. But the Marquis never returned, nor did the men who left with him; those left behind, however, befriending some of the natives (including some of those who had surveyed them during their first night there), were helped to discover a better place to camp, with more grass for grazing, with fresh water (which was scarce all around), and with better opportunities for hunting. This camp became a settlement that was first known by the full name of its “founder,” Auguste Coriolan Marquis de Lagardiére, but then, for some reason, only as Coriolanus / Coriolá – the latter version being used by the Spanish-speaking peasants who also settled there. But the core of the population, those who gave the town its identity and its name, were still the descendants of the Frenchmen from the Marquis’ original retinue. And these people continued to speak French (although they learned, of course, some of the local tongues, as well), and in fact the town used French in most of its official dealings, and in the local school, as well - because, as hard as that is to believe, they did not lose contact with the “homeland;” or, mostly, with the French colonial territories of North America (although even “Louisiana”, that large swath in the middle of the continent, running from north to south, on the left and right of the Mississippi river, which was at a certain point claimed and partially controlled by France, was quite far off). Nonetheless, they managed to stay in contact with “France,” and even to receive some material support (such as books printed in French) and some French people (some clergy, perhaps a teacher here and there, some women, and, of course, some adventure-loving Frenchmen). Thus, the French connection was never broken, nor was the town entirely forgotten by the people in France (or, at least at the royal court in Paris, where they were still listed in the books as a kind of French territory or claim). And all this will become very important later, during the time of the French Revolution.

But before we get to that point, another important moment in the history of the place needs to be discussed, namely when, after the French and Indian War, the territories in North America that used to be under French control, were transferred to Spain's authority. Although the exercise of this authority was quite patchy (as in the case of most European claims on this continent), it so happens that the place we are discussing fell in the way of a Spanish aristocrat’s expedition for new territories, namely in the path of Barón Miguel Cardozo de Salazar, who rode into town one August evening with a retinue of heavily armed men. Long story short, part of them remained there, while the Barón left in order to discover (and claim) other places; unlike the Marquis de Lagardiére. he did return (for a while), before leaving definitively (and disappointedly) for Spain. A part of his men, therefore, together with their wives and households (those who had such things had brought them up from further down south), settled in what they now called (in honor of their “founder,” and clearly in spite of the local French people) “Cardozo”. And so it happened that for some fifty years thereafter the place bore two names, which were used competingly by the two dominant populations, the French (or, rather, francophones) and the Spanish (as in, those related to the original adventuring party from Spain). At the same time, some the simple Spanish-speaking peasants (unrelated to Spain proper) who lived in the area settled the issue by simply referring to the place as “Plano” (perhaps because it is located in the flat high plains?).

What is important here, however, is that the two dominant socio-cultural groups, the French and the Spaniards (to put it simply, because the so-called “French” were only culturally that, since most of them had been born from intermarriages with locals - and soon enough the same was true for the descendants of the original “Spanish” soldiers) still defined themselves in relation to their original European, aristocratic origins (and to their “founders”). And, as it happens in such cases, what had been a natural, lived condition originally (that is, being part of the retinue of a nobleman, and living in an aristocratic, feudal society), became sublimated culturally, embellished, and transformed into a gold-letter tradition that functioned more like an emblem of the given group, than as a social reality. But perhaps it is exactly the fact that there existed two rival social and cultural factions, the “French” and the “Spaniards,” that contributed to the survival of these aristocratic identities, traditions, and cultural frames of reference (as one’s identity is never stronger, and more ardently affirmed, than when it is challenged by a rival identity). And the ways in which these identities were affirmed and maintained were manifold – from keeping alive the memory of the “founders” (for example, by unveiling a portrait of the Marquis de Lagardiére in the house of a prosperous French landowner; or by purchasing an icon for the local Catholic church, which included a depiction of Barón Cardozo de Salazar, kneeling and looking at the Virgin and Child,  as a “donor”  - although it was in fact the current Spaniards who had commissioned and paid for the painting, and who were thus the “donors”), to other practices cultivating this "aristocratic" culture (or, what they felt as pertaining to, or expressing, such a culture). One of these practices was the development among the “Spanish” population of a real cult of Miguel de Cervantes - or, rather, of his hero, Don Quixote – as, ironically enough, representing said aristocratic culture. A “Cervantes club” or parlor was thus formed, which functioned somewhat like today’s cultural or heritage-keeping associations. Although there was no similar club on the French side, in the local school the French language and culture were still being taught and propagated – so perhaps that functioned as the equivalent of such a cultural association.

The next important moment in the history of the town was, as mentioned, during the time of the French Revolution (1790s) – and here, the fact that the ties with la patrie were never entirely broken played a crucial role, namely at the point during those turbulent years when the court and the aristocracy in France were in a febrile search for external allies, support, and ways of escape. As is known, during the harshest and bloodiest persecutions many noble families – and not only – escaped from France to aristocratic England; some of them, however, also went to North America – and it was a descendant of the Marquis de Lagardiére who remembered at that point that there existed in those savage North American lands a settlement that bore (or used to bear) the name of his great-great-great-...grandfather; and thus he took his household and moved, after an adventurous and dangerous trip that lasted about eight months, to  - what? – Coriolá? Cardozo? or just Plano? This move – which represented a lifeline for the Marquis and for his family – was also a boon for the local “French” people, who saw their claims and aristocratic “identity” thus confirmed, reaffirmed, and – they felt – definitively instated.

But another interesting – and crucial - development also took place, as a consequence of the Marquis' arrival and settlement in this town. What is this about? Well, we did not mention earlier the fact that the “original founder,” the Marquis de Lagardiére, was actually a Huguenot, and that part of the determination that fueled his bold ventures in North America (and the reason why he was accompanied by such a large retinue) was that he himself was in the process of escaping the anti-Huguenot policies and sentiment prevalent then in France. His later descendant, however - Louis Marie de Lagardiére, who was in fact a descendant of the original Marquis’ brother – was a fervent Catholic, even more so as he was escaping a regime that persecuted with equal viciousness royals, aristocrats, and the Catholic Church (clergy and believers). His religious affiliation had become thus something assumed both personally, culturally, socially and, why not, politically – and thus a defining trait for him and for his family (who were, therefore, proudly French, aristocrats, and Catholics). However, they had landed in a place where the division between the “French” and the “Spanish” groups also represented the dividing line between Protestants (namely the French, who were Calvinists) and Catholics (the Spaniards). So, although the Marquis, as a French aristocrat, was a boon for the local French population, he did not share their religion, but practiced the religion of the other faction, of the Spaniards.

But this potential source of tension or conflict became, surprisingly, a way of bridging the gap between the two distinct (and long-separated) communities; suffice it to say that the first time that the Marquis, his wife, their two daughters and their baby boy made their appearance in the (mostly Spaniard-frequented) Catholic church, it caused quite an upheaval – but also a kind of a pleasant surprise and relief for the Spanish. (By the way, I know that we are not saying much about the other local populations – the Spanish-speaking peasants, or Mexicans, as they would soon call themselves; or those of Native American origin; or the not-so-many English-speaking inhabitants; I know, but the reason for that is that the socially, culturally and economically dominant - and relevant for the town's identity - communities were the two I mentioned.) During the six months preceding their appearance in church, the Marquis and his family have been having the local priest say mass at their home; after a while, however, they decided that this could not go on any longer – the wife and the girls insisting that they missed going to church on Sundays, and being able to attend daily mass. But, for all the courageousness of the Marquis' initial gesture, how do we get from simply attending mass, to “building bridges between the communities"?

Well, one must remember that in France at this time French history (and French identity) was being re-written and re-thought, with the intention of brushing over (or even erasing) the feudal and Catholic dimensions of that tradition. In response, those opposing these developments accentuated and emphasized exactly those elements of French history that reinforced these aspects; and among these was, of course, the figure of Charlemagne, the great French Catholic emperor – and of Clovis, the first Catholic king of the Franks. Meanwhile, as Spain’s influence was dwindling in North America (and also in Central and South America), and as the new independent state of Mexico was being formed (and will in fact soon form), the local “Spaniards” (i.e. those descended from, and affiliated culturally with, continental Spain) felt somewhat under siege and insecure about their future. This is then the context in which Marquis Louis Marie de Lagardiére‘s aristocratic and Catholic identity came as a boon – for both communities. Thus, although some of the Spanish protested, the Marquis was nevertheless invited, soon after his church visit, to the “Cervantes” parlor, to give a speech on “The State of Politics and of the Faith on the European Continent.” After the speech, although he did not alleviate everyone’s suspicions, a noticeable change of heart and of mood took place among the Spaniards, who now realized that they might have some new allies not only in the Marquis’ family, but also among the local “French” population - at least in what regards their shared aristocratic and ancien régime identity.

Soon thereafter, at the Marquis’ initiative and under his leadership a new parlor was established, named “Clovis”, which was open to both communities (!), being designed to appeal both to the French (Clovis being one of the major figures of French history, and representing a period long before the Reformation) and to the Spaniards (Clovis as a Catholic, ancien régime monarch). Furthermore, the Marquis arranged for some of the meetings to take place in the refectory of the Catholic church, alternating with meetings and soirées held in the shade of the trees of the now-expanding orchard situated on the Marquis' property. Although not all “Spaniards” joined or attended the new club, it was regularly and most pleasurably attended both by the French and by the Spanish, and thus it enjoyed a great success. Overall, the Marquis soon became a most beloved figure both for the French (for whom he represented France, aristocracy, the ancien régime, and their very founder) and for most of the Spaniards (for the reasons explained above, and also because he reminded them of their own ardently Catholic founder, Barón de Salazar).

In 1828 the Marquis died, aged 65, leaving behind six children (three born in North America), a second wife (a Spanish Catholic woman! - the first wife, whom he had loved very much, dying eight years after their arrival, after a brief but severe illness), and a general population – “French” and “Spanish”  - for whom he had become a guiding light and a pillar of the community. As mentioned, at this point the place still bore several names - mostly referred to as Coriolá-Cardoso by outsiders and neutrals – but now the grieving town decided to settle the matter, once and for all, renaming it in honor of their beloved deceased Marquis. However, since they could not name it (again) Lagardiére, and given that “Clovis” had become the “meeting ground” for both groups, and a source of renewal for their (shared) aristocratic and European identity - and also honoring in this manner the decisive impact that the Marquis had on the life of the town - they decided to rename the place “Clovis” (thus affirming, once and for all, that this town’s identity was European, aristocratic, and – broadly speaking – Christian).

Of course, many things happened in the two centuries that followed after the town received its new name of “Clovis”. Among the more noteworthy events that one could perhaps mention was the arrival of a small group of French aristocrats (of a different kind, most of them being liberals and Freemasons) during the 1830s-1840s, who were also the last “immigrants” from either France or Spain. After that, other groups also settled, but in smaller numbers – mostly Mexicans and Anglos, but also some Irishmen and Germans. Of course, as time passed, fewer and fewer people spoke French or continental Spanish – so that by 1920 there were only English-language schools in town (while the Mexican children learned their language at home or at church).

But what is the situation today? Well, even today certain things remain – one still has the Cervantes Club (for a short while called the Don Quixote Club, but that did not really catch); although the Clovis parlor stopped meeting soon after the death of the Marquis, the Clovis “spirit”, and the name of the town, obviously survived; there is a small garden dedicated to the Lagardiére family, where there are always fresh flowers; and, importantly, other clubs and associations have formed, disbanded, and re-formed, over time, all with the goal of maintaining and cultivating this European, aristocratic, and (now very broadly) Christian identity (for example, one such association was, I kid you not, the “Medieval Knights of Clovis”). One can notice, therefore, in various places in Clovis, buildings constructed or adapted so as to reflect this identity, and where clubs meet or events are held in keeping with these traditions (such as the short-lived Renaissance Festival) – even if, as said, nobody speaks French anymore, and those who speak Spanish are in fact the local Mexican-Americans.

However, these remain the defining traits of the place – and that is quite something, given the fact that Clovis, NM is located in the heart of the rural, agricultural region of the dusty staked plains (“llano estacado”) of the Southwestern United States (not far from the border with Texas).

The seat of the Cervantes Club today; also a medieval-themed restaurant.

This granary was used for the Renaissance (later Medieval) Festival
(as a venue & for "capture the castle" competitions) 

           

This water tank is owned by the Lagardiére Water Co.
(the name is painted on the opposite side, facing the railways)

This was built (adapted) for a short-lived (re)incarnation of the "Clovis parlor";
now it serves as the meeting place for a French-affiliated Freemason club

***

This, then, is the alternate history of Clovis, New Mexico.

The Ages of Man

I always felt that every age has its own atmosphere, its own "air." Correspondingly, there are ages that feel akin, and others that repulse me.

I have no definite sense of Greek antiquity. Mostly, it leaves me cold. It seems mostly cold. Dead, even - in the way the eyes of its sculptures look dead, with the original paint peeled of. Their problems, dilemmas, drives, reasons, values and orientations - it all seems alien. The city-state and its arrangements, the physicality / muscularity of its culture, its images of the "other world" (Hades, the world of shadows, Charon crossing with the boat)... It is not crepuscular, but it is a world of twilight and savagery.

The Roman period inclines even more towards worldly "virtues" - honor and debauchery, war and commerce, and what looks like a boring, bourgeois everyday life.

Skipping abruptly to the end of Renaissance and then to the Enlightenment. Here the centuries start acquiring their own distinct identity (to my affective memory). The 1500s might be a turning point, as after 1600 it all becomes - slowly, surely, unidirectionally - tired and emptied of truth.

The seventeenth century has too many elegant clothes. The English routines of tea and church start being only about tea; a slow, gradual transformation, which achieves its culmination in our day (just visit an Anglican place). The philosophers of the 17th are already too far removed from the essence of things, to be able to say anything worth dusting off. Plastic arts - painting, sculpture - move strongly towards academism; the freshness of the discoveries of the preceding centuries is gone; we have acquired the techniques, we improve on them, but we immerse ourselves only in touches and dabs of paint, here, and there, and here again. The Dutch lose all opening to the cosmos and to the skies, and succumb into domesticity. Interiors, only interiors - little light, not much air, too much furniture.

The eighteenth century goes on in the same manner, just more so. The flame becomes almost extinguished.  We spend our time in this-worldliness, a sophisticated yet utterly vain pastime (all is vanity). And yet this is supposed to be the Enlightenment, but what I see are dimming lights. Or, rather, homes lit by candles, and there is nobody on the streets; everybody is inside, slightly afraid of living out existence. An oppressive existence.

Jan Davidsz De Heem: A Table of Desserts (1640)

The least appealing century, the nineteenth. There is almost nothing to which I can relate, except for the last twenty to twenty-five years - and just because they lead to something else. Everything seems so empty; it passes with a bang, and bangs are gone as fast as all sounds are, even the loud ones. Sounds are not remembered, either - not in the collective memory.

The turn of the century brings again exciting, burning times; for me, Vienna, symbolist poetry; it all becomes modern, but in a conflicted, adult way. Sentences become shorter, paint on the canvas braver, yet differently than before. It starts becoming my/our time.

But before going into the twentieth, let us make that short excursion to the middle ages. Glowing with embers, simple huts of men, really living and really dying. It is as if the following centuries (17th-19th) have accumulated so much civilizational ballast, so much commentary, that lives were lived afterward in what we ourselves made up, and not in the dust and water (and passion) of reality. (Hobbes and Locke and Rousseau and their states of nature, and their inferences from it - what a cosmic-sized yawn!)

Civilization is commentary on existence; given our imaginative capacities, it can walk a close line along reality, or get farther and farther removed from it. Our openness to the truth of what there is (out there and in us) is reflected in how we live our daily life. Do we draw the curtains, do we live inside, or do we step outside, fearful and hopeful at the same time - fears as visceral as the hope for the beatific vision is strong.

The Middle Ages were real, mud as well as stone; Romanesque architecture expresses it best: simple, ascetic, yet more alive than any other style. Of course, early Middle Ages were less exciting - too much darkness, too much awakening, before we dared to grab a hold of the hand that builds, of the thinking mind, before we dared to confront the world and to integrate it into our this-world/ that-world complex.

Renaissance is like a heightened Middle Ages; all those early tendencies, discoveries of the Middle Ages, like young, strong plants, giving their first buds and daring flowers during the Renaissance; still fresh, still alive, still hopeful, not yet fallen into the stuffy domesticity of garden bushes.

Back to the beginning of the twentieth century.. what a century of horror to follow! And yet, very much alive; if not on the surface, then immediately beneath; not in the governing forces, but in the resistance. True life did not happen at the surface; the surface was terrible. Example of touches and swaths of living fire: in France, from Claudel to Bernanos, from Maritain to Frossard; or the underground currents suddenly coming back to the surface as fresh, new sources, in Britain - from Chesterton to Tolkien to Waugh. Also, civilization pure and simple - for example, an urban culture that has shed the sooth and grime of early Industrialization. Jazz!

The short century. It started in 1918, which signaled the end of classical civilization (as embodied in classical Europe) with a grand war of nations and nationalisms, of strong monarchs and personal alliances. Post-1918 we wake up to find that the world has been disenchanted - which, however, does not stop us from making up our own realities as we go (fantasy wars & al.). We continue to lose in the plastic arts and in the world of sounds; by now, there seems to be little left to say, and equally little to de-compose, destruct, smash through; but the middle of the century is just in the middle of it, so still alive with it. A horrific century of oppressive rules that tried to change human nature - in a natural follow-up to the 17th and 18th and their making up of reality as we go, and of the 19th with the freeing of man to become the abject subject of other men and of their ideas. The twentieth century, which started in 1918, ends in 1989, by which time cold wars of many types lose their grounds of existence. Idle men will try to come up with new reasons for new wars, hot or languid.

But the twentieth century is too close for me to be able to form any precise impression of its nature, of its air; it is very much alive, since I was living it.

No clear color, besides confusion, to the still very young twenty-first century.

Willem de Kooning  - Easter Monday (1955–56)