When I am empty please dispose of me properly

In 1917 Marcel Duchamp, under the pseudonym of R. Mutt, submitted a signed and dated urinal entitled Fountain to an exhibition organized by the Society of Independent Artist. The name Mutt is a play on the name of the company, J.L. Mott Iron Works, from where he bought the urinal and was additionally meant to hide his own identity since he was also a board member of the Society. They refused to show the piece despite their policy to exhibit all work.

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?

I have collected ceramics since childhood. This Satsuma-yaki yunomi depicting a ripe pomegranate is one of my first pieces of Japanese pottery. I bought it from an old store in one of the covered malls in downtown Kagoshima over a decade ago. Two women, perhaps a mother and daughter, packed the cup and its mate in wood shavings and a hako. I still use it almost daily and to drink from this cup fills my mind with memories of this pleasant trip, and recalls the two women from whom I purchased it and the older woman’s ailing husband who painted it, probably now dead. The inscription on the base of the cup reads, hon satsuma, tegaki, “True Satsuma, painted by hand.” Beyond the beauty of the pomegranate reminding us of autumn, the presence of the painter’s brushwork establishes a human connection between he and I.

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.

For as long as I can remember I have loved collecting objects, particularly things that I could use or that would teach me something about their manufacture and culture. I went to a Waldorf School which gave me an extraordinary opportunity to study a variety of media, such as silversmithing, spinning and weaving, painting, etc. No doubt this has influenced the things that I like. I am particular fascinated with textiles, prints, ritual objects, such as masks, and most of all ceramics.

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

Alux are small pixie like entities about whom many stories are told, even in urban centers such as Mérida, Yucatan. Alux are often visualized as a small child. They are usually held responsible for mischievous events and other minor misfortunes including the loss of objects around the house. More seriously they are sometimes seen as the cause of illness and fever. Though as this particular story makes clear they also serve as field guardians.

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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