LIE BACK AND THINK OF ENGLAND

Up till two weeks ago it had been seven long years since I'd been back to London and boy oh boy was I looking forward to going back, even if I had to do (yuck!) work in the form of a conference presentation to justify it. I returned to Indiana on Sunday from nine long days in that city on the Thames, suffused with visions of pubs, street art, corgis, markets, fashion hijinks, sandwiches, dear old friends, and familiar places as seen from the top of a double-decker bus. I forgot to bring my camera (though I had the one in my phone) so the pictures below could be better, but I think you'll get the idea...

Lord Nelson at Trafalgar Square from the National Gallery.

One of the kitties I saw every day.

Who taught the hippies about street art?

The Strand, near LSE and the Courts of Justice.

Outside St. Paul's cathedral where I attended a service so as to get out of paying the $22 entrance fee. Sorry about that god.

St. Paul's and the Millenium Bridge from inside the Tate Modern.

Beautiful Gerhard Richter abstracts at the Tate.

One of the Rothko paintings in the Seagram's room - one of my top ten favorite rooms in the world. I sat here listening to Radiohead and cried with happiness.

Currently "missing" Chinese artist Ai Weiwei's "Sunflower Seeds", more than 100 million hand-painted and hand-fired seeds filling the Tate's Turbine Hall. Beautiful and sad.

A cheerier sight: a girl with a tiny wee top hat affixed to her head sketching dead birds pinned to the wall. I love modern art.

Bridget Riley's To a Summer's Day.

Another favorite room: Soviet propaganda posters from the museum's collection.

Sunset over the Thames.

Spitalfields market from a church yard in my old neighborhood.

Having coffee in the urban environs of Carrie's neighborhood.

I was irate upon first seeing this Chihuly sculpture at the Victoria & Albert museum but it has since grown on me (a little). Still, does the only thing from Seattle in the collection have to be this?

Medieval castings at the V&A.

So much art nouveau/arts & crafts; it's almost as if they are readying themselves for Mark Siano's 2012 Olympics visit.

A highlight of my day.

Triple portrait of Charles I, 1750, and a clear predecessor to those eerie school portraits with both profile and front-views. If only Chuck I here had posed with his chin in his hands it would have been perfect.

South Kensington

Museum of Natural History

Making faces at La Porchetta

THANK JEEBUS THAT IS OVER WITH

Carrie loves getting department store makeovers, and I have to admit I kind of do too

She also loves napping in parks, being called "Dr. H", and taking pictures that give the illusion of semi-paralysis of the face

Me, I just like sandwiches

And gaping at consumer goods

And savory pies

And gin/grapefruit sorbet

And the way that springtime sunny days in Britain fill every available green space with bbqs, open containers, and very happy people.

My my that was nice. Now just ONE MORE cup of tea and I'm totally going to start writing my dissertation...

THE FOUR CABALLEROS

In the beginning, there was Nick & Nora, and they provided avian company to my father in his new home in Colorado Springs and it was good. Then came Craig's List, and it delivered unto my father a "parakeet mansion" of enormous dimension (and containing many new perches and toys) and lo, it seemed empty with only two parakeets inside (besides, they wanted a new roommate to split the heating bills). And so PetSmart begat a third bird, Asta, and feathers of a new color joined those already sailing through the air following the nestlings' frequent flyovers. These were the three caballeros and they chirped and tweeted and chortled and frolicked and when their cage was covered they shut the hell up and rested.

But hark, trouble in the menagerie! Asta's arrival threw off the alpha/beta order of the universe and the chirping turned rancorous. The wildly popular "keetcam" even had to be pulled offline due to the effect of violent images on at-risk youth. There was nothing to do but add a fourth budgie to the mix, though this could only occur after a color consultant made a careful assessment of how best to achieve aesthetic congruity in the cage. Finally, Topper the Grey was procured, and harmony prevailed once again.

And now, from my cacophonous bunker in Colorado Springs, I present to you, for the first time ever, your guide to The Four Caballeros:

NICK, "the gregarious one"

Representative sound: warble with staccato chirp

Likes: swings, chewing on rope, throwing things off cage

Dislikes: squirts of water

Pecking order: alpha when outside the cage, zeta within

NORA (/NORMAN), "the peacemaker"

Representative sound: vibrato chirp

Likes: millet, classical music

Dislikes: bad jokes

Pecking order: beta

ASTA, "the nervous nellie"

Representative sound: high-pitched warble

Likes: heated perches, the sound of dish-washing

Dislikes: visiting parrots, hats, vacuum cleaners

Pecking order: beta

TOPPER, "the homebody"

Representative sound: allegro chirp

Likes: broccoli, mirrors, a roost of one's own

Dislikes: leaving the mansion, human fingers

Pecking order: alpha within cage (especially at snack time), zeta outside

APPETITE FOR CONSTRUCTION

Perhaps it was that whole growing up in a cult thing but I've always sought ways to stretch and warp the symbols that define us and confine us; believing that infinite meanings can be creatively produced from the cultural matter that is so effectively manipulated by powerful people to make us believe or make us want. "The absurd," writes Camus, "is the essential concept and the first truth", to which Reggie Watts has added "Absurdity holds the key to surviving in reality."

I read an article once about 20th century Polish movie posters and the tradition of creating bizarre and frequently disturbing images that are little, if at all related to the film they represent (some of the posters are incredible and a helluva lot better than my postcards, you can browse a few here). Writing about the poster for Luis Bunuel's satirical The Phantom of Liberty by Wieslaw Walkuski, Michael Atkinson makes the following observation:

Walkuski's canvas is an eye-seizing monster on its own, but as a movie poster it acquires a secondary vein of significance--its accord with Bunuel is indecipherable but not necessarily absent, and thus between the two artworks lies a secret, and an implicit expansion of the signifying range of both.

I'm smitten with this idea, and keep it closely in mind when I make postcards, hoping that the secret they contain will bring amusement or inspiration to their recipient.

And now, as requested, here are a few of my constructions of the last few months. Now go out and make some of your own!

One of these things is not like the other

Serious people

Animals with intentions

Barbies and Beijing real estate

Talking Heads take Rajasthan

FIVE GOOD THINGS ABOUT LIFE IN BLOOMINGTON

The maze of slightly blurred nuance, that feeling of barely grasped meanings which had been my constant companion in Morocco overtook me once again. But now I was home. (Paul Rabinow, Reflections on Fieldwork in Morocco)

I was preparing my lecture for a class this week on reflexivity when I came across the quote above and had to stop and sigh. Though frequently guilty of taking myself much too seriously I do know how good I have it and try not to wallow excessively. Yet I find it difficult to square my big concerns with injustice, inequality, and ignorance with my small egotistical concerns about whether I am doing anything useful in the world or being recognized for such, and complaining that it’s soooooooo hard to be back in a town where I’ve never felt at home and am still so far away from friends etc et al doesn’t seem likely to tip things in the right direction. But it seems all right to acknowledge that the whole ethnographic enterprise does a real number on one’s brain; as much as I enjoy being constantly surprised and challenged when you set your mind on constant-observation-and-self-reflexive-analysis you’re bound to tumble down a rabbit hole from which you cannot easily escape. It also seems important to report that all is not ennui and lassitude here, there are some things I like quite a bit…

1. living in a house

In January I was lucky enough to replace an outgoing roommate in a well-established anthro-house a little way from campus where the deer frolic and the rabbits bound. My two roommates, Zarko and John, are some of the nicest fellows imaginable. They would also mock me ruthlessly (and rightly) if they heard me gushing about what a pleasure it is to have them sitting at the table talking about their day over beers while I bake scones, to cook and share Chinese/Serbian/Ethiopian meals together, or how nice it is that no one ever has to be reminded to clean up or take out the garbage – we all take responsibility and it all works out. It’s almost enough to make a lady believe in socialism.

I have the spacious master bedroom as well as an office of my own with two full walls of bookshelves and a dedicated tea corner and you can imagine the contentment that affords. Outside there’s even a deer-fenced garden where I will be doing some planting very soon.

2. teaching

I teach ethnographic methods twice a week on the second floor of this lovely limestone building and I love it. My students are a bright, earnest bunch, if a little sleepy sometimes, and I find it endlessly exciting to present them with ideas and techniques and see what they do with them. In my favorite class of the semester so far we discussed materialist and idealist approaches towards the history-making events in Egypt and Libya and I flattered myself that they left feeling more confident in their own abilities to understand and engage with their worlds. It’s nauseating really: I even like grading.

The course is structured by its service-learning aspect: each student has a site where they contribute volunteer hours while carrying out their research: a homeless shelter, the Boys & Girls Club, a high school LGBTQ club. It’s been a lot of work getting things set up but I’ve appreciated the opportunity to be a part of the community outside of the all-dominating university.

3. new friends

My ambivalence about my university and department does not need to be documented but I will say that it is swell to be back among compadres who follow when I reference an article about reciprocity or make a dumb joke about Strathern. I almost hugged someone once when I asked her what she was working on and it turned out to be assessing the literature on the flaneur as it spoke to the consumption of brand-name cosmetics in the Brazilian Amazon.

I am also enormously grateful to have gained a few new marvelous friends, friends I am indebted to for, among other things: art and food and comradery, roller skating dates, gifts of vintage wool and chiffon, and last but not least the opportunity to spend my afternoons “doing research” inside fraternity houses, a dream I thought would never materialize at this late date.

4. rediscovering American values

I don’t mean this ironically or facetiously. My memory holds on to random things, like a teacher I had in junior high who quoted Kipling’s “He who knows only England knows not England” and is thus to be blamed for providing a patriotic justification for all my later wanderings. Having been trained in anthropology I intended to be vigilant against the Orientalizing gaze, but I always expected I would understand American culture more deeply as a result of my attempts to understand Chinese culture. Instead I just got really confused. “Americans 爱打” (love war), taxi drivers would tell me, and though they probably weren’t looking for anything more than an opportunity to grumble aloud I would sometimes try to engage them, explaining our justifications for international actions, trying to connect all the bleating about freedom with the actions my country takes internationally. But there’s no getting around the hypocrisy embedded in much, if not most, of our foreign policy.

Lord knows the Chinese government does many detestable things; working on the paper on nationalism I’ll be presenting in London next month I have been reminded well and thoroughly of that. But it is the US that claims the moral high ground of democratic representation and yet while we citizens have the responsibility to call our government to task for favoring military might over the health and welfare of its people most of us don’t seem to care. About a month ago when I brought up Gaddafi (in an anecdote about development as the new imperialism which featured his son who was in the same program as I at the LSE), not ONE of my students had ever heard of him, despite the fact that our nation’s economy (read: energy demands) has a profound bearing on the plight of the Libyan people. Charlie Sheen though? He’s a household name and a hero.

None of this is new to you, I know, but it still makes me angry and it still makes me feel disillusioned with my nation and fellow citizens. Sadly I would have been hard pressed to provide a list of admirable American values had I been called to do so at immigration (a requirement which probably isn’t far away).

But here’s the punchline: circumstances (and my excellent friend Mindi) conspired to get me watching a TV series that’s been around for a few years, Friday Night Lights, and this show about high school football in a small town in Texas quite single-handedly restored my faith. The ever-reliable sports narrative doesn’t exist in China; their TV shows and movies are typically more about the burdens of history and filial duties versus the pressures of modern life. And they’re typically quite tragic. Friday Night Lights has hope and human kindness and inspirational speeches and people who acknowledge their failings and try to be better. And Bloomington has people who will offer strangers a ride when it’s snowing and bus drivers who stop and wait when they see you running. America is built on the idea of the equal value and potential of every individual and that is something I am proud of.

5. 把中国文化发扬光大了

I did learn a lot about China, though whether or not it is enough for a dissertation remains to be seen. I do believe that the profoundly relational quality of the culture (and incredible density of the population) means that for most people it’s fine, even necessary, to let someone who has nothing to do with you suffer harm without intervening; I’ve heard enough anecdotes from Chinese friends and interlocuters to know it’s not just some bullshit generalization about how Asian cultures are group-oriented and ignore the individual. But I also know that when you cross the line into becoming a part of any social entity, whether as guest or honorary family member, you are welcomed with genuine and limitless warmth and generosity. I’m typically someone who has treated food as a fuel issue, something I need in order to get more things done, but China won me over to the pleasures of sharing long meals with friends, and it is with love and gratitude for those who took care of me there that I try to do the same here. I wish I could hold a giant hot pot dinner to serve each and every one of you, to fill your bellies with warmth and fortify you with enough courage and affection to keep on fighting that good fight, whatever you believe it to be.

NOSTALGIA

Aside from a little cold I'm nursing it's my usual Bloomington Saturday afternoon: my half-hearted attempts to work interrupted mostly by tea breaks and flashes of loathing for this cruel little town. Inhale fresh air and unrestricted internet; exhale boredom and nostalgia. Repeat. Forever.

So it was fortuitous that while searching my computer for some notes I made on an event I'm trying to write a conference paper about I came across the story below. I wrote it about a year ago for a friend's magazine but never posted it here. Along with the usual stuff I remind myself about how lucky I've been to see what I've seen and to have made such fascinating friends, this reminded me of the downsides of being anomalous (forced drinking! powerful sleazy men!), and how I'm probably still hungover not just from all the excitement and intellectual stimulation of Beijing, but from not being so goddamn remarkable. Maybe B-town isn't so bad after all. Maybe it's me that's being a spoiled brat.

But I do miss the good old days. And badminton.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

One January afternoon Mrs. Li picks me up in northern Beijing. I settle into the backseat next to Ms. Li, who apologizes that the sheepskin covers that normally adorn the seats of her friend’s baoma (BMW) are at the cleaners. The car accelerates several feet to regain its place in the stagnant traffic and the man in the front seat turns to greet me. Isn’t he shuai (good-looking)? Mrs. Li asks. I take in Mr. Xu’s receding pompadour, lined face, and Burberry scarf and grunt in polite assent.

At the club Mrs. Li checks in and we follow her to our assigned badminton court. Appraising me in my tennis skirt and t-shirt, Mr. Xu pronounces me hen jiankang (very healthy). I thank him and mutter something about the importance of physical fitness in a modern society. Mrs. Li takes me aside to explain that Mr. Xu is not only the chief partner in her law firm but one of the 10 most famous lawyers in China. Inwardly wary of her intentions I smile and tell her I’m delighted to meet him.

The next stop is a pre-show dinner a few kilometers away. It takes us nearly an hour in traffic to get there. In the car Ms. Li tells Mr. Xu she has looked forward to dining with him for almost two years and insists on treating. Mr. Xu counters that he is not accustomed to letting meinv (pretty women) pay for meals and that he would be honored to treat.

At the restaurant a valet parks the car and a hostess meets us at the door to usher us to the elevator. Another hostess leads us from the elevator into the restaurant, passing us on to a third who brings us to our room, past fountains, chandeliers, and various gilded objects. A waitress is already stationed in our private suite.

Chrysanthemum tea and cold dishes arrive first. Mr. Xu has ordered a bottle of Moutai, a famous brand of baijiu (white spirit), weighing in at 106 proof and retailing for 120USD. Elegantly prepared dishes are placed in the rotating center: roast duck, spicy beef, fish soup, filet mignon.

Dinners among Chinese seeking to pan guanxi (literally “climb relations”) involve endless toasts and little actual conversation. Toasting requires florid language and magnanimous mutual praise, but its basis is often random. At one point, Mr. Xu asks me if I think Mao Zedong was “a good person”. I respond diplomatically by parroting the accepted dictum: his actions were 70% good, 30% bad. Mr. Xu is delighted; a foreigner that knows the 70/30 formula! He desires to toast me and so we clink our small glasses over the table (I am careful to raise my cup at his level then lower it quickly to meet his glass, showing my subordination and respect) and empty them.

As Mrs. Li is driving and Ms. Li has a “delicate stomach”, the bottle is mostly left to Mr. Xu and myself. I wonder if I can will myself to remain even-keeled, particularly after Mr. Xu hushes Ms. Li for bringing up his wife living abroad, and the thought that I am being set up as a potential mistress abruptly suggests itself. While I am quite curious about the intelligent and powerful Mr. Xu, my curiosity does not extend to wanting to see him naked.

The packed theater smells of kettle corn. While I try to follow the play Mr. Xu repeatedly leans over to explain things, ask my Chinese astrological sign, and reach for my hand, unclasping my fingers, to place a stick of gum in it. There isn’t much plot to follow; the play is a huangdanju (absurd drama) with ridiculous characters, disjointed scenes, and satirical humor bordering on sacrilege.

I can understand 90% of the dialogue but only about 25% of the jokes. A parody of the National Day review of the troops conducted last October by Hu Jintao gets one of the biggest laughs. At curtain call the director arrives on stage with his upper body emerging from the sunroof of a tiny Smart car. Using words and motions identical to those of the Chairman as he appraised the nation’s military forces, the director barks out “tongzhimen hao!” (hello comrades!), his cast shouting back “wei renmin fuwu!” (we serve the people).

Mr. Xu isn’t ready for the evening to end. He directs Mrs. Li to drive us to a German-style beerhall where young Chinese women wearing ill-fitting Bavarian dresses bring us large glasses of pilsner and assorted snacks. I attack the garlic bread and paw at the dried sausage, calculating its liquor absorbing capacity to be negligible at best. Mr. Xu is in high spirits but Mrs. and Ms. Li look exhausted. Their attempts to drink as little as possible do not go unnoticed. “Gei wo mianzi!” (give me face) Mr. Xu admonishes, raising his glass.

By the time we are driving Mr. Xu back to his posh residential community I am feeling the effects of twelve hours with the Chinese elite. I recall Mr. Xu’s nonchalant response to Ms. Li’s questions about the CCP’s recent attempts to recruit him, considering that such a savvy, intelligent, powerful man must have access to people and places completely off-limits to foreigners. For most foreign researchers in China, the word access has an irresistible, almost erotic, power. Suddenly I find myself wondering whether being the mistress of a married Chinese man 18 years my senior wouldn’t be a welcome break from the decidedly non-glamorous life of a graduate student. A creepy farewell hand caress from Mr. Xu abruptly breaks the spell. I go home and fall sleep, still burping baijiu when I wake up in the morning.