Tuesday, April 25, 2006
William Morris, Arts and Crafts, Energies
Today it did not rain in San Francisco. I seized the opportunity to venture out (I have chosen to stay inside, warm and dry, during much of this prolonged rainy season). I went to the DeYoung Museum, located in Golden Gate Park, where the primary exhibit was the work of William Morris and those associated with the famous Arts and Crafts movement of the late nineteenth century in England.
William Morris was a visionary. He believed that beauty should be honored in everyday life, with lovingly crafted furniture and accessories available to the ordinary citizen. He gathered around him a group of like-minded artists, and they began a common project to reform the tastes and change the buying habits of the middle (and upper) classes in England. They produced exquisitely designed and imaginatively constructed works of art for the home (wondrous chairs, mirrors, vases--an array of items.)
As I entered the exhibit, I noticed something unexpected. My subtle body seemed to "give a sigh," and relax in anticipation of coming aesthetic pleasure. And as I moved along through the exhibit, I felt, yes, tiny yet joyous sensations flowing within. At times I stopped and let my head turn to feel these delicate vibrations which seemed to emanate from the pieces themselves (or perhaps from the lingering spirits of the makers). I have had similar responses in galleries before, but usually they have come from representations of religious subjects, or some sort of visionary art. This was a first for me--to feel the joy of the subtle body (and it was indeed very subtle) from made goods, things themselves rather than representations.
Near the end of the exhibit (a section on Japanese arts and crafts, an independent movement), a life sized carved figure caught my attention. It was a "self-portrait" of Mokijiki Shonin, a wandering Buddhist monk who lived in the 1800's. He paused in each village along the way to do his wooden sculptures. He looked much like certain figures of the bodhisattvas--those with round cheeks, pot bellies, loose garments. He was smiling broadly through his toothless gums. His eyes were twinkling. We can only imagine what kind of poverty and suffering he must have encountered in his travels. Yet, he, like Buddha, transcends the opposites, and sees that all is part of the continuing human drama. I was reminded of the lines from W. B. Yeats' poem, "Lapis Lazuli":
(Three figures are carved on the stone, ancient Chinese who are climbing toward a half-way house on the side of a mountain.)
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli...
(I) Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
William Morris was a visionary. He believed that beauty should be honored in everyday life, with lovingly crafted furniture and accessories available to the ordinary citizen. He gathered around him a group of like-minded artists, and they began a common project to reform the tastes and change the buying habits of the middle (and upper) classes in England. They produced exquisitely designed and imaginatively constructed works of art for the home (wondrous chairs, mirrors, vases--an array of items.)
As I entered the exhibit, I noticed something unexpected. My subtle body seemed to "give a sigh," and relax in anticipation of coming aesthetic pleasure. And as I moved along through the exhibit, I felt, yes, tiny yet joyous sensations flowing within. At times I stopped and let my head turn to feel these delicate vibrations which seemed to emanate from the pieces themselves (or perhaps from the lingering spirits of the makers). I have had similar responses in galleries before, but usually they have come from representations of religious subjects, or some sort of visionary art. This was a first for me--to feel the joy of the subtle body (and it was indeed very subtle) from made goods, things themselves rather than representations.
Near the end of the exhibit (a section on Japanese arts and crafts, an independent movement), a life sized carved figure caught my attention. It was a "self-portrait" of Mokijiki Shonin, a wandering Buddhist monk who lived in the 1800's. He paused in each village along the way to do his wooden sculptures. He looked much like certain figures of the bodhisattvas--those with round cheeks, pot bellies, loose garments. He was smiling broadly through his toothless gums. His eyes were twinkling. We can only imagine what kind of poverty and suffering he must have encountered in his travels. Yet, he, like Buddha, transcends the opposites, and sees that all is part of the continuing human drama. I was reminded of the lines from W. B. Yeats' poem, "Lapis Lazuli":
(Three figures are carved on the stone, ancient Chinese who are climbing toward a half-way house on the side of a mountain.)
Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli...
(I) Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.
