Market got you down? Turn to the arts...
12 February 2009

    Back in March, I was amused at how former real-estate brokers were realizing their suppressed dreams of becoming artists as the business of selling homes crumbled around them (see “Real Estate Got You Down?” below).  Now that the housing implosion has proven to be only a small segment of the total self-decimation of the economy that is currently underway, a new form of interest in the arts has emerged—this not from the creative, but the business-minded side.
     Because every work of good art is unique and has the furtive, intrinsic power to entrance, affect, and overcome the ingenuous observer with its aesthetic value, it may also command a hefty monetary value in the world of capitalism.  A collection of art, in other words, is a money tree waiting to be picked.
     This is the reasoning being adopted by some institutions as times (or, really, resources) grow increasingly slim:  pluck the art and bring it to the market to make up for other less successful—and less tangible—investments.  There is nothing new or wrong with this:  one sees the artistic prosperity of the courts and institutions of Renaissance Europe thrive and deteriorate with the tides of economic wellbeing (and, of course, personal taste).  Art, after all, is a renewable resource; new fruit will continue to grow on a well-cared-for tree, even after a few harsh seasons.
     But here is the catch.  The news recently has also announced that several public schools are eliminating arts programs (along with physical education)—including even the prestigious and well-established Boston Latin School.
     The potential scenario with the arts does not seem very different from other modern-day sustainability issues, such as irresponsible logging and over-fishing:  unbridled harvest of the current supply for short-term profits without fostering the replenishment of that supply for the long-term good.  A chopped tree will produce neither more fruit nor new trees, but it can be sold.
     Or for another comparison, it’s like an egg farm (with very unique eggs) seeking to make a profit and cut expenses by selling all of its eggs and slaughtering all the chickens.
     Before long, many institutions, districts, regions, cultures may be left without a chicken or an egg.  Of course, art has mushroom-like persistence—one couldn’t stamp it out if one tried, for it will only grow underground and spring up elsewhere at a later time—but the environment can quickly be made inhospitable, in which case there is much less hope.
     Hence, there is a danger in applying business models to art.  With the unguarded loyalty to fiscally-minded strategies, one can only hope that when the ground ceases to crumble, we do not look around to find that somehow, amidst all our financial worries, art has fallen through the cracks.

Snow squalls on the agrarian plain
16 January 2009

     There was a driveway near the end of our road that led over a hill and disappeared. At least, we always assumed it was a driveway (there was a mailbox at the end), even though we could not tell if there was actually a house hidden back behind the hill. The driveway was unpaved, but then, so was the road itself. We were always told that the old farmer Jim Allen, father of Jim and grandfather of Jim and Jeff, lived there.
     Things have changed since then:  the road is paved, there is a stop sign at the end (which we ignore by the grandfather clause), and the house of the late Jim Allen (now occupied by his grandson Jim) stands completely in view, even when full-grown corn fills the field between the house and the road.  What happened to the hill?
     The answer becomes quite obvious when I run up the road heading west in the morning when Jeff or Jim is plowing the field and see the cloud of dirt billowing from the ground and trailing off toward the east.  Erosion.  The west wind is typically much stronger in the winter than in the summer, but it almost always seems to be there, picking up flecks of dirt or snow and carrying them off to wherever it goes—a field downwind, the Adirondack Mountains, the ocean, the Land of Oz.
     The land around home in upstate New York is largely agricultural, stripped of trees and drained of water, aside from solitary patches of woods where the ground is too swampy, steep, or rocky to farm.  This bareness makes it much more efficient for the farmers, with few trees to dodge and maximum use of the space.
     Whether one is driving on the roads, running, sitting in the house, or working the soil, the effects of this bare landscape in any season are inescapable.  In summer, the sun is blazing and relentless.  Not only is it hot and uncomfortable, with shade being such a limited commodity, but it dries out the topsoil making it light and loose for that ever-present wind to snatch easily and escort away.  On top of this, it is common knowledge that trees (and their roots) help immensely to reduce erosion by holding the soil together, soaking up some of the rain water (rather than letting it leech the soil), and blocking the wind.
     In winter the clearing of farmland becomes more an issue of public safety and energy conservancy.  The roads of upstate NY, even when there is no snow falling at the moment, become in the winter a treacherous circuit of drifting snow and white-outs as the wind frantically whips away the snow from the fields in its thirst for vulnerable topsoil.  Many times it seems like there is no snow even on the ground, because it is all sweeping through the dim, frigid air.  The snowy wind is the wily rival of the snowplow drivers, making their job never done, and its persistent lashing at the walls of houses saps their warmth as quickly as the oil and wood can produce it.
     What is the remedy for the erosion and winter squalls that stem from our necessary use of the land we live on?  This must be a complex question, since nothing seems to have a simple answer in today’s world, particularly when it comes to the fine balance of sustainability, economics, safety, and ethics.
     But there does seem to be one remedy—something the Europeans and New Zealanders have been doing all along:  hedgerows.  It seems simple enough:  a few trees along the perimeters of fields and along the roads to block the wind, clutch onto the soil, and shade the sun (not to mention soak up some tasty CO2).  A hedgerow of trees or shrubs may make turning the tractor around at the end of the row a little more challenging, but it may also mean that there will be fewer of those moments when you can’t see the road in front of you, and you can only pray that a car is not coming in the other direction.
     If only old Jim Allen had gone to Canterbury and seen what the hedgerow can do, his white house would still be hidden behind a hill a quarter-mile from the road.  Besides, it may even make the fields look a little classier.

Farmer Allen's house at the end of the road

Running from Oz
6 July 2008

     Yesterday morning I woke up and could not figure out where I was. It was very green outside and there was a wooden structure that looked like a play set. I decided that I must be in Hong Kong by the park, and the structure was one of those playground-like exercise apparatuses that they have there. This morning, Sunday, I woke up and could hear country music, and I could not believe that anyone in Vietnam would be listening to American country music. Both times I fell back asleep before solving the riddle of where I was: at home, in the room I’d slept in since I was 4 years old.
     I flew home from overseas on July 4th; fireworks were sprouting up from the plains and speckling the rosy-peach western horizon as I flew along the Great Lakes and into Rochester, NY at sunset. It was a fantastic way to return after nearly two years abroad, but it felt bittersweet: am I really ready to come back to the U.S.—to the land of superstores and SUVs; of high-fructose corn syrup and health for the wealthy; of SATs, leaf-blowers, factory-farms, and corporate conservatism?
     But July 4th holds another, personal significance for me: it was on that date back in 2000 that I last missed a day of running. I was visiting New York City, woke up early to drive home, and decided to take the day off. Boy, I will never forget the withdrawal symptoms. Even before then, I always ran when I’d planned to, regardless of the conditions: snow, rain, hail; illness, soreness, tiredness; holiday, travel, final exam—it doesn’t matter (and it helps that I rarely get sick or injured).
     So I must admit, I was a little concerned when a veteran-runner friend in Canberra swore that I would never be able to run in Saigon. I didn’t quite know what to expect, but by his description it sounded grim—the traffic, the smog, the relentless busyness, the crowds and lack of space. At the same time, I took this as a challenge.
     Many people cannot fathom why I would want to run while on vacation. I just think of all the things these people miss by not running on vacation. Out in the early morning in a totally new place, covering good ground at a decent pace without the confines of a road (or, oftentimes, a map)—could there be a better way to explore?
     While I had been looking forward to moving on from Australia, there were several things I was really going to miss, such as those usual things like friends, the covert spot where I played my guitar, the parrot that chattered outside the window, Vegemite. But in particular, with the nature reserves, mountains, and boundless trails surrounding it and woven into its structure, the city of Canberra is a mecca for outdoor athletics. I could run out the door at sunrise, and within twenty minutes be looking down on the city from a dirt track high along a mountain ridge. It is always hard to leave behind a comfortable, familiar place, but there is so much out there awaiting discovery.

Sometimes it's hard to find a little peace in the Australian bush
(notice the onlooker in the distance)

     For the first leg of our May–July travels, our morning runs led us to spectacular lookouts, crocodilian bogs, old WWII barracks, rock pools on clifftops, deadly snakes, sacred sites of Australian Aborigines, and long red-dirt roads. This was the wild Top End of Australia, encompassing Kakadu National Park and Katherine Gorge. Running here was always an adventure, and in the early-morning hours we almost always had the terrain to ourselves.

     The situation couldn’t have been more different in Saigon: there were people, motorbikes, vendors, taxis, and bicycles (oh yeah—and food!) everywhere and at all hours. There were two tricks to running in Saigon. The first we learned quite quickly: get out early. Our hotel was right across the street from a large park in the middle of District 1 (the city center). Most of the time, the park is full of strolling adults, playing children, and cuddling teenage couples. But if you get there between 5 and 7am, you see an entirely different side of the Vietnamese: the park is absolutely bustling with activity—people walking, playing badminton, doing aerobics or tai chi or curious exercises, and even a few people jogging. We eased ourselves into running in the city (and in the stifling heat) first by sticking to the park (about 2km around), and when Michelle called it quits after 10km or so I would venture off alone, expanding the boundaries a little further each day.
     Then, one Sunday when I was on my own, I decided just to get on the road and run right in the midst of all the mayhem. I followed Ðu’ò’ng Nguyên Thi Minh Khai (one of the city’s major streets) to the east, through an absolutely insane roundabout, and into an area of Bình Thanh they call “the island” (because it sits in an oxbow of the Saigon River). The run was about 23km total; by about 8km from the start, well inside “the island,” I could have sworn I was in a rural area, not in the core of an immense city, as I made my way along narrow dirt roads surrounded by rice paddies. After this incredible Sunday run, running in the streets with the motorbikes and bicycles became for me the solution to the challenge of running in Saigon. And it was also really damn cool—unlike anything I have ever experienced. I should emphasize, though: you do have to be careful and always vigilant.
     What I enjoyed most about joining the swarms and the mess of Vietnam’s streets was how much I was able to interact with people, from the cyclists on the streets (coming from all directions), to those having pho’ and coffee on the sidewalks, to xe om (motorbike-taxi) drivers lounging on their bikes at the corners.
     What I also loved was the energy that pulsed across the surface of the city. There is a distinct rhythm to the streets of Saigon that isn’t so apparent from the outside or even from the passenger seat of a bus or taxi. It’s the feel of a hurried rhythm to a relaxed, cool tempo that sweeps you along like a Viennese Waltz. The drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians all have a sense for what is happening around them, and they adjust fluidly to everyone else’s movements. As I ran, I was constantly making eye-contact with those approaching and passing me, somehow sharing the rhythms of our intentions with one another. There were never those awkward moments when you hesitate, not knowing which way to move. I have a feeling that if such a moment of indecision took place, I would have paid for it.

Map of run through Saigon (23km).
Click for an enlarged view.

     Running in Hanoi is similar, only the people of Hanoi seem much more aggressive and frenetic—truly, more western—and hence lack the composure and smoothness of the Saigonese. There were more places well suited to distance running away from the traffic in the capital, such as around its many lakes (which were also thronged with early-bird exercisers). Each morning I usually ran laps around a couple of different lakes, getting from one to the other by way of Hanoi’s crazy, winding streets.
     One of the most memorable runs—not only of these travels, but of my life—was around the “big lake” (Hô Tây) in Hanoi. Against my usual practice, I was forced to run in the evening that day, as we’d just returned from an overnight cruise on Halong Bay. There was a massive thunderstorm—parts of the city lost power for the entire night, and the streets were flooded—plus it was rush-hour, as our shuttle arrived in Hanoi around 4:45pm. But I was anxious as hell to get running, so I dashed out into the rain and mangled streets.
     What surprised me most about the lake, aside from how difficult it turned out to be to navigate my way around, was how suddenly the settings turned from frantic modern city to rice paddies and bamboo shacks. On the northeastern edge of the lake it seemed more like the Mekong Delta than the capital city, as I was running on muddy unpaved roads through rustic neighbourhoods. All the while, the wind lashed out across the eerie brown lake, and lightning streaked in all directions. Nonetheless, there were still teenage couples sitting by the water’s edge and young men waist-deep in the water fishing. At least I didn’t feel so nuts for running out there.

Running route around Hô Tây (West Lake) in Hanoi, ~24km. I must admit
that for parts of the run I have no idea where I went, so I fudged the map a bit.
Click for a larger image.

     The next morning’s run was equally unforgettable, but for very different reasons. After running loops with Michelle around Hoàn Kiêm Lake and Lenin Park (two major havens for fitness fanatics), I headed north through narrow streets to Trúc Bac Lake. Here I came across an older runner who said, “G’day.” His name was Bob, and he was actually from Canberra. We were chatting as we made our way around the lake, when a sudden look of fear came across his face. I turned to my right just in time to see a dog open its jaws and take a chomp at the outside of my right knee. It was only after the dog bit me that it (and the two smaller dogs following behind) started to bark.
     All the locals enjoying their morning coffee and soup were laughing hysterically as Bob yelled to get the dogs away—until they noticed the blood streaming down my leg. The owner of the dogs and her son, Nam (who had lived in the U.S. and spoke English very well), assured me that the dogs had their shots. In my many years of running and being chased by dogs of all sorts, it figures that I get bitten for the first time in Vietnam, of all places.
     The rest of our four weeks in Vietnam brought many more remarkable daybreak runs—almost all of them to places I would never have experienced otherwise—along muddy mountain roads through tribal communities of Làu Cai Province, inside the walls of the dynastic Citadel of Huê, on narrow pathways through the rice paddies and villages on the outskirts of fashionable Hôi An, and back to the cool pulse and rapid rhythms of the streets of Saigon.

Running on the outskirts of Hoi An

Rice paddies on an early run outside Hoi An

One day's run departing from Hoi An and passing through several villages and
islands to the west and south. Click for an enlarged view.

     Like the Vietnamese, the people of Hong Kong flood the parks in the early hours, but instead of badminton and idiosyncratic aerobics, they prefer Tai Chi and fan dances, along with walking and running. The city of Hong Kong is much slower waking up than the cities and towns of Vietnam, but its streets are much less favourable to running: where in Vietnam the streets are filled with an assortment of objects—cycles, motorbikes, buses, pedestrians—moving seamlessly and nonchalantly as a disorganized unity, the streets of Hong Kong are mottled with stop lights and barriers, and there is a total detachment between the traffic of buses, snazzy cars, and trams on the street and the pedestrians. On top of this, the pedestrians themselves seem awkward and confused when dealing with other pedestrians—some move to the left, some move to the right, but generally they just manage to get adeptly in your way. Needless to say, this makes running (and even walking) a chore wherever there are streets and people, which is just about everywhere.
     Fortunately our hostel was in a crook between a park and the harbour in frenetic Causeway Bay. All we had to do was cross one street (which was an ordeal in itself), and we could do laps of the sizeable Victoria Park and take a footbridge to the promenade along the northern shore. As in Saigon, we ventured a little further afield each morning, and one day—a little frustrated with being confined to park and promenade—we headed off through the streets in search of some new running territory. We did find something new: Happy Valley Racecourse. They open up the ambulance track along the inside edge of the horse track to runners and walkers … and of course in every available cranny around the arena there are people doing Tai Chi.
     After being away, I always look forward to running again at home in Upstate New York, but this usually turns out to be a delusion. The countryside is beautiful and serene, with long, undulating roads through the farmland. But over the years, the miles on end of dirt roads that I appreciated so much were gradually overlaid with bone-jarring pavement. To make it even worse, the roads are crested in the centre and slope down on either side for runoff, which is a nightmare for distance running. The open, treeless fields, so nice to look out across, make for an unremitting sun in the summer and ruthless and bitter squalls in the winter.
     You’d think that returning to the country would be a nice relief from more urban settings, but the lack of shade, hard and uneven surface, and harsh weather make for a recipe that is hard to find pleasurable. While it’s rare that I suffer lingering pains or an injury, after about two weeks at home I can feel my hips, legs, or back aching from the damn slanted country roads. Yet, as excruciating as it is to run against the icy wind in the single digits (F)—with a wind chill well below -10F—or in the dry summer sun for 25km, it feels that much sweeter arriving back at the door when the miles had been such a challenge, sometimes even an outright torture. I guess it’s foolish things like these that distinguish the everyday runners from the total freaks.

When the engine's off
18 May 2008

     Just last weekend, my dad and sister pulled up in the driveway and after half an hour still had not entered the house. My mother kept saying she was getting concerned, but I knew what was up and that these things should not be tampered with: parked-car conversations are sacred and should be left to run their course, especially if the engine is not running.

     Some of the best conversations happen in a parked car when the engine’s off. I think of high-school evenings after play rehearsal when I would drop friends off at home, how from time to time they led to sitting in a cooling car with the radio on, occasionally restarting the engine just to turn the heat on for a little while. After ballet rehearsal in college, a similar thing: grab a 99-cent “cappuccino” at the gas station, begin talking over the impossible petite allegro combination during the ride, and not long after the car’s no longer running and we’re sharing our deepest aspirations and doubts of life. One of the most memorable conversations with my dear friend Chris happened on New Year’s Eve, when we left the pubs, bought hot chocolates and muffins at the doughnut shop, and drove up to a hill overlooking the lake.
     What is it about the front seat of a car, the turning off of an engine, that draws forth such openness, such outpourings of confession, such entreaties for insight?
     It seems like a natural enough progression. During a car ride two people get talking; when they arrive where they’re headed, things are typically wrapped up and farewell is bidden. If the conversation needs a little more time or is becoming unduly drawn out, the engine keeps running in anticipation of soon being on its way. If both individuals, however, find themselves willingly surrendered to the undulating and unforeseen course of meaningful discourse, then the engine simply goes off.
     There can, of course, be other motivations behind snuffing out the motor that have little to do with a genuine submission to conversation, one of the most standard being the ever so conscious solicitation of courtship banter. This is memorable and meaningful in a different way—the engineless exchange that yearns to end in the first kiss. The conversation is often soon discarded, but the kiss long after remains. The lead-up to the last kiss is oddly similar, only the result is the reverse: the kiss is soon forgotten, but the words—so piercing without the droning-motor backdrop—stubbornly stay. Yet, unhinged from any defined intention, the dialogue that flutters before the dashboard of a napping car becomes treasured unto itself.
     One must wonder if the current swelling of fuel prices will have any effect on this relationship, so innate to our culture, between intimation and engine condition. And if so, what misunderstandings we could be in for. Now, what one passenger takes as a commitment to conversation could simply be a concern over consumption (or pollution). In fact, the entire correlation could be turned on its head: leaving the engine running on a frosty autumn night would now be the sign that all cares have been dismissed for the sake of discussion, that the sacrifice of fuel is no concern whatsoever; while turning the motor off would be merely a way to cut costs during a brief adieu—as if to imply, “We’re here; I really should be going before the car gets too cold.”
     But still, the conversation that drifts on with the engine off and through diving temperatures shows the utmost of absorption and loss of worldly mindfulness, as neither the unmoving motor nor the chilling of fingers distracts the warm meanderings of coupled minds.
     It may be hard to imagine for someone who's not experienced it, how a setting that seems so trivial may be bound to such weighty moments. Similar to the walk along the street or a river, or the bench looking out across the lake or the park, the front seat has no urgency or agenda, no queue of customers glaring at your table. But unlike the sidewalk, the park bench, the coffee shop, it comes without expectation: the situation—the indifferent farewell—has become so routine that its sudden swerve into something of value leaves one bedazzled, displaced, allured. Indeed, like many of the vital experiences of our lives, it springs upon us from behind that unremarkable, lazy stone.

Real Estate got you down? Turn to the arts…
31 March 2008

     I heard an interesting segment on NPR this afternoon about the slumping economy—you know, the “sub-prime” mortgage crisis, the recession, the ruptured real-estate bubble, or whatever metaphor you’d like to use for “big mess.” But despite all the skepticism and panic, I couldn’t help but notice the potential positive sides to America’s (it’s-not-a) recession.
     The news segment began with a young woman who’d been living comfortably —actually, quite exorbitantly—for several years as a real-estate broker, but who has now been forced to pick up a part-time job as a waitress. Meanwhile, newly built houses left over from the last days of housing-market expansion sit on their tight lots of fresh sod, and formerly owned homes join them as vacant tokens of a past age of material prosperity. Now the builders can take their long-deserved breaks and let the real-estate agents do some work—serving coffee and toting greasy plates, that is. We’ve put enough houses on this land to last a fair while anyway.
     The third woman they talked to—the second was a veteran broker who was sticking out the slump by dealing in foreclosures—had also turned to waitressing. But it was her final statement that really caught my attention: “I’m thinking about becoming a writer.” Could this be true—brokers casting aside the splendour and security of real estate for the reckless and bleak world of the arts? Suddenly I feel a well of hope for all the throngs of aspiring undergraduates that abandoned their goals of artistic greatness in exchange for degrees in business and economics.
     Leaving the brokerage for the Muse, the suburbs for The Village, the craft of smooth-talking for rhetorical eloquence—has the world turned on its head? Forget about ruined assets: the red blaze of the market fallout bears the promise of a new age of rediscovery and expression. It’s time to send our Blackberries skipping across Walden Pond, our investment portfolios scattering from the windows of a rattling old Cadillac, our plans for a torpid retirement to the sleepless rains of Rue Morgue Avenue. The day is nigh onto a Realtors’ Renaissance!

Beechnut among the Eucalypts
15 December 2007

     It’s nearly Christmas, but it feels almost nothing like Christmas in the early-summer evening warmth of south Canberra.  I took the dog, Ricky, for a walk after arriving at Stephen and Kim’s house around 8pm.  It is my first night house-sitting for them while they’re away in China, and Michelle and I are looking forward to spending the holiday in their home.  The house is full of artworks that either have been collected on their many trips around Australia and overseas, or that Kim (a photographer and artist) has made himself, and there is generally something very relaxing and warm about the house—maybe the way everything is arranged and spaced, combined with all the artwork, rugs, windows, shades, photographs.
    Of course, Ricky adds greatly to this warmth.  He is a yellow lab with amazingly disciplined manners and a cheerful demeanour.  I can say, “Go to your rug, Ricky,” in a casual speaking-voice, and he will head off to search for his rug.  The rug can be placed anywhere in the dining room or living room, and he will seek it out and lie on it.  The routine is that after we eat, we feed Ricky:  after filling his bowl with two scoops of food, he sits by the bowl staring at me until he is given the go-ahead (“Okay, Ricky”); then he eats unhurriedly.
    After dinner comes Ricky’s walk.  Usually by this time it is dusk, and being a week and a half before Christmas, many houses have their arrangements of lights turned on.  Tonight I took him along the usual route that lasts about 45 minutes, and even though I work in Starbucks, where they have done their best (in their corporate way) to give an air of festiveness, this was the first time this year that the feeling of Christmas really came over me.  It was bittersweet in a way, though, like many of the holidays here, because the feeling of Christmas is intermingled with a sense of being misplaced.  Maybe one could say it’s the melancholy twinge of nostalgia or yearnings of home dashed upon the almost ingrained excitement that comes in mid-December.
    As if these mixed effects of distance from home and the twinkling of Christmas lights weren’t enough to keep my mind meandering as Ricky and I walked along the sloping suburban streets, when I passed one house on the edge of the eucalypt-strewn park, I was over-swept by a smell that can only be found in the evenings of summer.  For me, this smell is Grandma’s house—the smell of Wrigley’s Beechnut gum and the cooling air, bicycles, the sounds of minor-league baseball coming from the stadium a few blocks away, old cigarette smoke, wicker furniture, flowers, a distinctively creaky front door, and those other unidentifiable scents that can be found at Grandma’s house in the summer.
    I took several deep, deliberate breaths, and it didn’t seem strange to experience the conflicting senses of summer and Christmas all at once.  But it was a little sad to experience the smell of Grandma’s house as it was so many years ago, and to realize for the first time how long it has been since it smelled that way.  It smells differently now:  Grampa no longer smokes; Grandma no longer cooks those long-stewing Italian soups and sauces; the baseball team has moved to another town; and my brother and I no longer skid around on bikes waiting for Mom and Dad to pick us up.  Parts of the smell—the old oak trees , the cooling night air, the strong black tea—are still there, but as time goes on, strands of the scent strip away.  But somehow they have come together again, years later, at the top of a hill in mid-December on the opposite side of the world.