Several years ago I was asked to design a glyphic mural for the town of Santa Elena as part of a gift to the community for allowing the Duke University-UNC Summer Yucatec program to be housed there for part of their six week course. Instead of simply copying ancient texts that have little direct connection to Santa Elena, I suggested that we should produce our own in Yucatec Mayan, but in the style of the Classic period glyphs. This way the language of the inscriptions presented in this mural would match that of the people living in Santa Elena (the ancient inscriptions are in the Cholan family of Mayan languages), as well as telling stories that are currently popular in the town. Through this a connection is made between past and present in a way that we hope generated something vital and new.

We also hoped that the mural and associated texts would arouse the interest of the frequent tourists to the museum who come primarily to see Santa Elena’s famous “Momias,” or are simply passing through on their way between Uxmal and Kabah. By involving the community in the creation of the project–both in the telling of the stories as well as in the actual design and painting of the mural–we hoped that the project would truly be a joint one and not just something that was imposed top down (as are so many other things in rural Mexico). For my part, I wanted people to see that Yucatec is interesting and that old stories are important in whatever language they are told. In the end, it seems like many of these desired effects have been achieved. People were excited about the mural last year (2006) when it was completed, and are especially so now that the first set of labels have been installed (2007).

A note on activism
There is much in the world where the kind of activism to which we are normally accustomed here in the US is important and necessary. But sometimes–and this is perhaps something that bears repeating in anthropology–just revealing how the past is connected to the present, showing an interest in people’s lives and learning a language are enough to make major changes in people’s perceptions of themselves and how they are viewed by others. Just imagine how much more impressive it is for a youngster to see that a foreigner has taken the time to learn the language of his grandparents, than it is to proselytize (both religious and secular causes) through direct instruction or to make often false claims to righteousness. It has been my experience that all people recognize hypocrisy and condescension and do not enjoy these qualities. The kind of activism–if such it is–that this mural and associated texts are, is a more passive kind, but one that grows from listening to what people want and framing what they have said in ways that put their voice front and center. To my knowledge this is one of the only places where glyphic Mayan has been re-inscribed in a church with texts that are directly connected to the contemporary community.

The following text is the label that accompanies the mural (pictured below) painted in the Casa de la Cultura y Museo, housed in the annex of the Colonial church of San Mateo, Santa Elena, Yucatan. In addition to this label, a number of stories, such as the previously posted narratives of the Origin of Alux and Juan Tuyub are also posted in the museum.

Label to the Santa Elena Mural and Folklore Project

This mural represents a combination of ancient and contemporary aspects of Maya culture and a collaboration between the residents of Santa Elena and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Duke University Summer Yucatec program. As visitors to Southern Mexico, Guatemala, or Belize know the Maya are still very much present. The so-called collapse of the Classic Maya kingdoms in the ninth century had major effects on the political and economic structure of Maya society but it did not extinguish Maya culture. In fact, contemporary Maya are the direct descendents of the people who built the structures that attract much of today’s tourism to these regions. The observant tourist will no doubt hear Mayan spoken in the streets of the Yucatan Peninsula and in such US cities as Los Angeles and San Francisco, where there are now large populations of Maya. As a site of constant negotiation, culture is always in a state of flux and is never the same from one point of time to the next, but it has been an oft-repeated mistake to relegate the Maya and other indigenous peoples to the distant past in such a way as to minimize real cultural contiguities with the present. This mural and its accompanying stories help to bridge the gap between old and new.

The Glyphs
The mural uses the glyphic writing system of the Classic period (200-900 AD) to present information specific to Santa Elena. The double column of glyphs to the left (read from left to right top to bottom) records the approximate date of the founding of Santa Elena’s church in the year 1779 (or 13.9.2.12.0 13 Ajaw 13 Keh in the Classic period notation). The column to the right names various stories and histories narrated by the residents of Santa Elena.

Mayan:
Left:
13 B’aktun, 9 K’atun, 2 Haab’, 12 Winik, 0 K’in 13 Ajaw 13 Keh liikmeyaj le k’uh naaha’

Right:
Te’ela yaan u tz’ikbalil nokakab nohpat, xk’oox, xtabay, yenano uxmal, wan tuyu.

English:
Left:
On January 17th, 1779 the Church was built.

Right:
Here are the stories of Santa Elena, Nohpat, Xk’oox, Xtabay, the Enano of Uxmal, and Juan Tuyu.

The exact day of the church’s foundation is unknown thus the date of January 17th was chosen because this was the first Ajaw date of the year 1779. The Classic Maya calendrical system tracks the number of days that have elapsed from a base date of August 13, 3114 BC. Thus, there is no way of recording the general idea of a year; rather, a specific day must also be present. Ajaw dates in the 260-day ritual calendar were import periods of time and it was on these days, particularly on period-endings, that new structures were dedicated.

Symbolism
The symbolism of the mural plays on its placement in a doorway and represents the idea of fertility, which is a loose translation of Santa Elena’s Maya name, Nohcacab. Traditional doorways, especially into temples, were seen as portals. The capstones used to close the gap in the corbelled arch were decorated with fertility iconography and were believed to be the location through which communication between terrestrial and celestial realms could occur. In the mural the glyphic name of Santa Elena, no-ka-KAB, for Nohcacab, is painted where a capstone would have been placed in traditional architecture. To the left of Nohcacab is the glyph for sun, k’in, and to the right the glyph for water, ha’. These are the two main ingredients, apart from earth, essential to the cultivation of maize–the staple crop of Mesoamerican peoples. The maize growing from these glyphs makes these ideas visually concrete. To each side of the actual doorway are stacks of witz monster masks. These stacked masks often decorate the entrances of ancient temples and emphasize the fact that when a person enters a shrine they are conceptually entering a mountain cave. Portal jaws, again symbolizing the entrance to another realm, frame the entire assemblage of glyphs and imagery.

Thus, the text and imagery of the mural plays on ancient iconographic themes to present concepts and narratives relevant to Santa Elena as it exists today. This was done to emphasize the strong cultural links between the ancient past and the present day. The museum encourages visitors once they have viewed the exhibit to step outside and see for themselves the vitality of contemporary Maya life in the streets and plazas of Santa Elena.

This surface quality of stony weight and subtle texture that he creates through his firing process lends a kind of silent monumentality to what are relatively modest pieces, ranging in form from vegetal inspired sculptural subjects to vessels echoing ancient objects, such as Jou (Chou) and Han dynasty bronze artifacts. In past work, he seems to have created forms that almost suggest a prototype in metal, again similar to certain ancient Chinese ceramics, which were in fact meant to imitate bronze. However, Mihara’s vases and bowls do not imitate vessel forms in other media nor should they be seen as doing so; but are, rather, echoes of past moments from the history of art, echoes whose cadence Mihara has captured in his own ?artifacts. In this sense, his pieces strike me as a kind of artistic archaeology. That is, they communicate an idea of past materiality in a tangible, haptic way that transcends verbal descriptions of ancient forms because his work brings them new life and allows us to experience them afresh.

The pieces represented in the current show move toward greater abstraction and simplicity, perhaps to better emphasis the rich surface textures and variations of color achieved through his innovative firing technique. The segmentation that divides many of these recent pieces horizontally nearly mirror bamboo joints. However, rather than maintain a fixed, identifiable mimetic referent, these facets create simple, compelling surfaces upon which variations in color record the dance of the kiln’s fire. To see Mihara’s latest work as a surface to be written upon is not entirely devoid of merit when one considers the explicit analogy he makes between clay and paper in his origami pieces. The ambiguity of form enriches the work and provides a dynamic movement that complements the color complexity of his new vessels. Mihara’s artistic production represents a significant new direction in contemporary Japanese studio ceramics as well as a profound engagement with ancient forms.

Below I have compiled links to much of the information available about Mihara. He is soon to have a show in New York, but until then one may find several articles about him in Japanese in the magazine, Honoho Geijutsu. A relatively in-depth piece in Japanese can be found here and at the Yufuku website. English information on Mihara is available from Wahei Aoyama’s gallery site, Toku Art Limited, and Robert Yellin’s e-yakimono.net. Below, I have compiled a series of photographs from these websites, but please visit the sites themselves for a more extensive selection.

[Show as slideshow]

In this third part, I want to continue with this discussion and stay with ceramics to examine a couple of examples, which were never created to be viewed as “art.” In the next post I will turn to studio ceramics which are produced with the idea of art clearly in mind.

I bought the Seto sakabin illustrated above in a small junk shop located in the valley through which the old road between Fukuoka and Oita-ken passes. There is now an interstate highway so few use this old road except those who find the drive itself pleasant or are looking for a remote onsen. To judge by the condition of the shop few actually stopped there. It was filled with old vessels, perhaps none of great value, but many of them beautiful for the kind of unselfconsciousness that Yanagi Soetsu has found praiseworthy in Korean Yi dynasty Ido wares. The pots in this shop were not created with great care and were never intended to be seen as art. Nor perhaps do they even seem likely candidates to be promoted to the level of found art, if the Kizaemon Ido Chawan is the standard by which they are judged, but for those of us used to paper and plastic they are nevertheless special. They make us think. Having outlived their original function, they petition us to find a new use for them. They persist and resist annihilation.

I have a similar feeling for this green glazed bowl from Antigua, Guatemala, which in 2000 cost about three dollars. It is not old like the sakabin, but to me it and the other pieces that I choose from the kiln are of great aesthetic value not only because of their appearance, but also because they add something to every meal in which they are used. Again part of what makes this bowl special is the experience of acquiring it, of walking along the streets of Antigua and especially of visiting the potter’s workshop.

The conflict that the trickster Duchamp’s submission provoked changed a simple urinal into the sculpture Fountain. When Alfred Stieglitz photographed it in a sincere attempt to salvage respectability–so that we, too, could contemplate this urinal–he actually, as Thierry de Duve has suggested, served to infect the history of art with this aesthetic conflict.

What does a urinal have in common with the Kizaemon Ido Chawan, the embodiment of the mono no aware or the more commonly discussed wabi-sabi aesthetic? Quite a lot to be frank even if the formal properties and aesthetic ideals of the two pieces are rather different. With it we have the prototypical Duchampian found object in the sixteenth century. And even this was not the first instance of the readymade. Similar events have happened throughout history. The Mexica undertook excavations in Teotihuacan to find objects to emulate in their own art and on occasions re-inter them in Temple Mayor caches. The logic and purpose of the readymade or found object has been nearly the same throughout the history of art. Essentially, an object becomes art through a kind of conceptual alchemy. A change of context or the act of appreciation itself often makes an object “art.” Above all this is what the creative collector does; she or he assembles objects that say more about her- or himself than about the objects collected.

The chanoyu, tea ceremony, created the conceptual frame through which the Kizaemon Ido Chawan could come to be a Japanese national treasure. Examining the aesthetics of the Tea Ceremony might lead us back to Yanagi’s beauty of the, “plain and unagitated, the uncalculated, the harmless, the straightforward, the natural, the innocent, the humble, the modest…,” but this would be at risk of missing the entire context of what established these features as beautiful. The tea ceremony turns this simple bowl, and other utilitarian objects, into points of meditation that materialize entire philosophies into a single object and experiential moment. The aesthetic reassignment of such objects in turn creates a value for the form separate from the original social context that initially selected that form. The object once selected and anointed comes to inform an entire sequence of objects. There is an attempt to consciously reproduce the form that the prime object, to use George Kubler’s term, embodies. Self-consciousness is born at such moments. The dictates of the tea ceremony might have lead to the selection of the Kizaemon Ido Chawan, but the form of this chawan became a model to be emulated and thus the bowl became a marked form within the history of Japanese art–how could it not become so under such pressure?

So if we return to the question of folk art or readymade and aesthetic value how can we establish value when things are always in flux? How does one select from amongst the innumerable objects of this world? And what makes one person’s selection a readymade or found art and another’s merely kitsch? Why is the disposable Whataburger cup from which the title image of this page comes also not art? Could it be?

My first experiences with clay were as a child in ceramic classes. Later, as teenager I experimented with different kinds of firing techniques in an attempt to reproduce the style exemplified by the ancient pottery shards scattered across the landscape of the American Southwest. These experiences are now so long ago it seems like another lifetime. Since then academic pursuits have taken me further away from the actual production of things. What has remained though is a deep love of ceramic art.

In art history, ceramics are often placed in the category of craft. Even ceramic sculpture is seen as a second-class art in many ways. Utilitarian pieces are given even less coverage in survey books. Thus, pottery follows the standard divide where useful objects are crafts, while useless objects are fine or high art. This is partly due to the value that the West has traditionally placed on ceramic art, but it is also connected with the difficulty of talking about nonrepresentational art at a general level. I will come back to this issue later. However, in cultures where the dichotomy between fine arts and crafts is less evident or where the categories are different, pottery as a useful art has flourished. In the art history of East Asia and the Middle East, as well as in the ancient Americas, ceramics were and are a high value art. It is upon this base that some of the most technically and conceptually ambitious work is being produced.

I am interested in pottery because it destroys what I believe to be a false dichotomy. Through the dissolution of the high art/craft distinction “art” can more easily enter our everyday lives. It can be useful in other words. How much better it is to drink from a yunomi that has been with me for years than a polystyrene disposable cup. Does it not focus our attention to the act of drinking and the moment that we are in more intensely?

This is all well and good but in terms of aesthetic judgment does that really make any of these objects art? Not necessarily. But let us take the famous example of the Kizaemon Ido chawan pictured below. It is a Japanese national treasure, yet originally it was a simple Korean rice bowl. Yanagi Soetsu (1889-1961), one of the founders of the mingei movement, had this to say about this bowl upon seeing it.

When I saw it, my heart fell. A good Tea-bowl, yes, but how ordinary! So simple, no more ordinary thing could be imagined. There is not a trace of ornament, not a trace of calculation. It is just a Korean food bowl, a bowl, moreover, that a poor man would use every day–commonest crockery.

A typical thing for his use; costing next to nothing; made by a poor man; an article without the flavour of personality; used carelessly by its owner; bought without pride; something anyone could have bought anywhere and everywhere. That is the nature of this bowl. The clay had been dug from the hill at the back of the house; the glaze made with the ash from the hearth; the potter’s wheel had been irregular. The shape revealed no particular thought: it was one of many…. The kiln was a wretched affair; the firing careless. Sand had stuck to the pot, but nobody minded; no one invested the thing with any dreams. It is enough to make one give up working as a potter….

But that was as it should be. The plain and unagitated, the uncalculated, the harmless, the straightforward, the natural, the innocent, the humble, the modest: where does beauty lie if not in these qualities? The meek, the austere, the unornate–they are the natural characteristics that gain man’s affection and respect.

But we shouldn’t fall into the trap, as Bernard Leach and others possibly did, when for them functionality and a lack of self-consciousness became the touchstones of artistic success. This would confuse two relatively distinct issues and force us to exclude important work on the grounds of its uselessness–in essence we would simply be jumping to the other side of the useful/useless aesthetic dialectic. Our goal must be to transcend this dichotomy entirely.

People often ask, “Why do you spend so much time and money on these things?” I must confess the answer is hardly profound or academic. They simply make me happy. Objects often concentrate the memory of a trip or an adventure into a token of that experience through which I can relive it in a more tangible way than if I were to rely on memory alone. This kind of recollection is similar to the way music or a scent takes one back to a particular moment. Therefore, the memory of the process of collecting has been just as important for me as the object itself at times.

Nevertheless, over the years I have come to gain a greater appreciation for the finer objects within the genres I collect. In art history this is an aspect of connoisseurship, which has rightly fallen out of favor as part of discussions of visual culture. However, it does have a place in collecting. And the process of collecting has greatly influenced my thinking about art and my teaching of art history. In this and subsequent posts, I would like to describe some of my thoughts and feelings about collecting and art.

In line with my interests I will write about the following topics, as well as irregular posts on specific artists and genres:

• Ceramics
• Textiles
• Prints

Don Enrique narrated this story in Mayan and also wrote a shorter version in Spanish in the summer of 2005 as part of a folkloric project for the community museum. It was recorded with Don Enrique’s permission and is part of a collection of stories and oral histories to be housed at the community museum in Santa Elena and on this website.

This story compares interestingly with the Don Hernan’s description of how his grandfather would create wax figures called b’ox kib’ (black wax) which were placed around the field at the four cardinal directions. These figures were also feed blood to enliven them and were created to protect the milpa. However, there are also strong parallels between this story and Genesis. For instance the act of forming the figure from dough could be read as being equivalent to the God shaping Adam from clay. Blowing into the figures’ nostrils to enliven them is also reminiscent of Genesis 2:7 where God does the same to breath life into his creation. These elements could also reflect an amalgam of mythological strata.

El relató y origen de los Aluxes de Yucatán

El origen de los Aluxes fue en Nohpat donde existó los sabios “Sayam winikes,” estos hombres por naturaleza poseen cuerpos dotados y sabiduría para crear estos aluxes. Ellos utilizaban la masa de maíz y lo ponian en olla de barro para coser ya después lo molían y formaban los muñecos para colocarlos en los cuatro puntos cardinales (en maya lakin, chikin, shaman, nohol) oriente, poniente, sur y norte. Para que le de vida a los muñecos, estos sabios elaboraban atole con un poco de su sangre (sacab) para presentarlos en unas jicaritas (luch) durante nueve días para que tengan vida soplando la nariz, la misión de estos aluxes es para ahuyentar los animals de las milpas de los sabios.

The origin of alux was in Nohpat where wise people known as “Sayam winikes” lived. These men by nature were physically gifted and wise enough to create alux. They used maize dough and put it in a clay pot to sew. After which they ground it and formed dolls in order to place them at the four cardinal points (in Mayan lakin, chikin, xaman, and nohol) east, west, south and north. In order to give life to these dolls, these wise people made atole with a little of their blood (sacab) and presented it [as an offering] in jicaritas (luch) for nine days. So that they would have life, they blew it into [their] nostrils. The mission of these alux were to drive away the animals from the milpas of the wise people.

For futher information about alux see the Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán (UADY) website.

This is an old story that Don Hernan’s grandfather told to him and that he has shared with me about a dog who could speak and his master Juan Tuyub. The story was recorded in the summer of 2005 and Santiago and I transcribed and translated it in 2006. The Yucatec transcription follows the English version.

The following might be of interest if you are interested in Maya verbal art:

• Popol Vuh: The Sacred Book of the Mayas by Allen J. Christenson
• An Epoch of Miracles: Oral Literature of the Yucatec Maya by Allen F. Burns
• Verbal Art and Performance in Ch’orti’ and Maya Hieroglyphic Writing by Kerry Hull.

Juan Tuyub and Lol Yax Nik
Another story I’m going to tell you all, you all who are my friends, is a story, a little, ancient story about an old man who hated animals, who hated his dog. The name of this old man was Juan Tuyub. This old man was a farmer.

There was a dog, his little dog, by the name of Lol Yax Nik. That was the name of his dog. The name of the area where he made milpa, that forest, was One Chaak. One Chaak was the name of the forest where he made milpa.

When he went there he brought a bit of ground maize, he brought a bit of pozole, enough for three days. When he finished his work for the day he went to his little hut. When he saw the sun setting in the west he took the comal and placed it over the fire. When he finished preparing the fire he took down his maize dough from where it hung from the rafters of his hut and placed a tortilla on the comal. When the tortilla was cooked he picked up a piece of his meat and placed it over the coals. When the meat was cooked he began to eat.

One day while he was eating he heard a voice. He heard a voice that said,

“hey, master please give me some of your food.”

Then the old man turned to look to where the voice had come. When he looked, he saw his dog lying there but he didn’t think it was his dog who had spoken to him. He did not think so. He didn’t do a thing.

The next day, when he came back from work and rested in his small hut, and he saw that the sun was nearing the western horizon he took out his little comal and put it over the fire and took down his maize dough and made his tortillas. He then put them on the comal. When two tortillas were done cooking, he then took his meat and broiled another piece. And then he started to eat. While he was eating he heard someone speak to him.

“Master, give me a bit of the food that you are eating, it smells so good. Please give me a piece.”

The old man turned around to look. When he saw that it was his little dog that was speaking he was amazed. He took his tortillas with the meat and gave them to his little dog.

Yax Nik, Lol Yax Nik did you speak?

The old man then untied his hammock and put it into his backpack.

“Let’s go back to town.”

When he arrived at his house he said to his wife,

“You’re not going to believe this. You won’t believe what I am going to tell you.”

“What is it my husband? I know I will believe whatever you are going to tell me, tell me.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“This dog spoke to me. He asked for the piece of the meat that I was eating, for him to eat.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Well, I didn’t answer him at all.”

“What I did, I– women, my wife, I took my food and gave it to him to eat. Can you believe the dog spoke?”

“Why would I not believe you my husband, she said to him.”

“I have told you for a long time not to insult that dog. It’s not good, not good at all. They have guardian spirits, they have protecting spirits. I have told you often not to insult dogs. Why do you hate that dog of yours?”

Then the old man kneeled in front of the dog. When he had kneeled he then asked the dog,

“Ah, my dog, Lol Yax Nik,”

he said to his dog,

“forgive me for what I have done, forgive me for what I did to you. I never thought you would ask me for food.”

Well, when the old man, Juan Tuyub, died never again had he hit that dog, never again did he insult animals.

The end.

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