Tourism

It’s something I’ve heard about a lot these days. Tourism. They say tourism is going to save regions from economic hardship and failure. Tourism it the best and only option for saving cultures. Tourism is what is keeping the money flowing and the people out of poverty.

Tourism.

What does tourism really do? Tourism paints a happy face upon every page and every day. You visit a new place, somewhere you’ve never been before, and there, life is good. Life is happy. Life is free. Hawkers smile at you and show you their wears—trinkets to remind you of the place you came to see, a place so far from home. They wear beautiful, “traditional” clothing, and they smile. For that bit of time, while your troubles are left at home, you are in a postcard, a painting, a dream. And no one around you is real. It is you and only you in the center of the world, and the world is free of troubles.

There is a group of visiting scholars here at my university. I’ve spent some time with a few of them, and it is a joy to have them here. In the past few days, however, I have been wondering if they, in a way, are seeing life through the rose-colored glasses of tourists. They have organizers and volunteers—an army of men and women—here to help them and very happy to serve them. We drive them to the supermarket, make sure they arrive to their meetings on time, and make ourselves at home in their apartments, watching them make pulled noodles from scratch before our eyes. I realize here, too, that I have become a tourist.

In my eyes, these men and women from half way around the world… they have no problems; they face no fears. They are never angry or fearful or pained. And perhaps for them, I am the same way. Perhaps for them, I am a girl with a smile forever painted on her face. I have no troubles, no fear, no heartache. We don’t show our visitors our frustrations or anger or pain. We don’t want to trouble their hearts. We don’t want them to feel sad. This is their moment in the sun. This is their time away from their troubles. And we do not want to add grief to their lives. Our goal is for them to enjoy—enjoy America, enjoy their time, and enjoy our friendship.

Tonight, I broke the unwritten tourism code. Someone I know is quite ill. I took a call, and as I waited for my friends to come out of class, the details of the situation filled my ears. I was hurt and angry and sad and frustrated, but like a good tour guide, I set it aside. It is nothing, I told myself; just let it go. Take them home to their warm apartment with the balcony facing the moon. Take them home and then you can be real. Don’t make them sad, too.

My heart won out over my head tonight, and as we walked to the bus stop, I felt it begin to overflow with all the things that had been poured into it. My strong face broke; my eyes filled with tears; and the unwritten code of the tour guide was rent, adding pain to a trip that should be joyful. One of my friends threw a strong arm around my shoulder. We walked to the bus stop. I composed myself, took my smile out of my pocket, and put it back on my face. I should be happy with them, right? And leave my grief at home.

There are so many layers to this story. Layers of culture and habits and behaviors. America, as they say, is an emotionally rich place. We are encouraged to wear our hearts on our sleeves. But is that always appropriate? I wonder what my friends would say to that question. And I wonder what you would say, too.

Life is not always ideal, and I find myself asking now if I should portray it as such. Should I allow my guests—my new friends from half way around the world—to know that I am a real person, with faults and failings and, dare I say it, feelings? Or should I pack those things away and only allow them to know that I am so happy they are here? Do I allow them to know I have pain, or only that I have joy?

I suppose by now, the cat is out of the bag. I am a real person, and now they know that. I’m thankful, I think. And I hope the experience of seeing that this American is a real person enhances their time here, rather than detracts from it. And I hope they know how happy I am to have them here.

"Disenchantment is a conspicuous event because it is marked by a loud shattering of hypertrophied forms. The rustling-in of enchantment, by contrast, is by its very nature a discreet affair, and apt to pass unnoticed." (Ramble, 361)

Once again, I have said too much.

So often, I find myself speaking out of turn; saying too much; with words pouring out of my heart unchecked, unbalanced, un-fettered by the dignity or decency of a filter as to what should and should not be said. “Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks” has rarely been truer than it is for me. At least, that’s how I feel so often.

So not long ago, I was talking to a friend. I knew it was time to go—time to cut off the conversation and go home. But what did I do? Did I say good night and part ways with my friend? No. I just kept talking. I talked myself into a topic that was just not necessary to bring up—a situation that did not involve my friend, and it didn’t need to involve her. A situation that was best left quietly finished, as it was. But did that stop me from delving into it? No. No, but it should have.

As soon as I started into that new topic, I was reminded, as I so often am, to close my mouth. To stop talking. Just stop. I’ve gotten better and better at listening to this warning from deep in my heart over the years, but for some reason, this time I just talked right through it. I didn’t obey. I chose not to obey. What utter foolishness it is to choose to disobey.

Recently I find myself fidgety in my faith. I’m not looking for a different one or having some sort of change of heart. I just find that it’s hard to process it and think it through. These are the times I envy you, the internal or mental processors out there—those of you who don’t need someone to talk things through with. Sometimes I really do envy you. For me, there are things that I think over for days, weeks, even years sometimes before they are spoken of to anyone, but most things I have to talk out with someone. I need sounding boards in my life. I need people willing to listen and respect me and take time to hear my thoughts without judgment. I need people willing to give feedback and speak back into my life and be heard on the topics heavy on my heart. Lately, I think that’s something I’ve been lacking.

For all the wonderful friends I have, and I do have some pretty wonderful friends, I don’t have one here in my current location that shares the same heart, the same faith, that I do and can delve into the deeper topics of life with me. I don’t have a sounding board for most things. And I wonder why not.

I think this is what has left me fidgety in my faith. So many things to talk out… but.

I know what many of you are thinking—there’s an old hymn with the answer. Take it to… And I have. I have. But I know that we were made for more than simple answers. I know that I have taken it to Him. I know that there is still a craving for one of like mind.

For what they’re worth, these are my thoughts for the night.

Too well written not to share

This is my friend Kendra's post about her family. It's very worth the read.

http://rachelamariah.blogspot.com/2010/09/gift-of-more-time.html

Have you found love?

I'm in the process of closing down a blog I started many moons ago. It was blocked by the Great Firewall and eventually left for dead. Interesting to go back and read old posts.

In the meantime, this song has been speaking to me tonight and making me think of the Father and where I am with Him these days. See what you think.


"Love" by Clarensau (Click to listen)

I saw love in a hurricane
Just after the storm
Running through the rain
I saw God on a busy street
In the face of a lonely man
Whose wallet was so thick, you wouldn't believe

I found love
I found love

I saw grace on a hotel floor
In a girl who's crying now
Hoping that there's something more
Than the cards she's been given
Than the hole in her heart
Than the pain and the memories
That Daddy left and caused

But I want to tell her
Oh, she has to know
I've found something bigger
Something that won't let go

I found love that will not leave
It will not leave, I found love

Even when I'm hurting
Even when I'm down
Your love will never leave me
I've found love

Even when I cannot stand
On my two feet again
Your love will never leave me
I've found love

Even when I find myself
At the end of my rope
Your love will never leave me
I've found love

Even when I've dug myself
Into a deeper hole
Your love will never leave me
I've found love

Wow… bad move.

You ever hear someone tell a story or read a post somewhere online—one in which the teller recounts a great triumph in some difficult situation? “The man” tried to stick it to me, but I stuck it to “the man!” Or She tried to tell me I couldn’t, but I did! You ever read one of those stories and think, “Wow… you really messed that up,” or worse? I did the other day.

I read a story someone I know tangentially wrote about their triumph in a situation where they were accused of doing something that they did… but they did unintentionally. The accuser was… rude… to say the least. That person? They stood up for themselves and stuck it to that accuser. Let me just say here that this was something mild and really not worth fighting over at all. The fact that not one but two people got riled up in the situation was, in my opinion, ridiculous. But I digress.

I read this person’s story of ‘triumph’ skeptically. It was an inter-cultural situation, and it took place in a place and culture I don’t understand very well. Despite that fact, after reading the story, all I could think was “Wow. You really messed that up. You messed it up, and you’re proud of yourself. Brilliant.”

So what do we do when we see someone patting themselves on the back, rejoicing in their perceived triumph, and really they just messed it all up?

I debated saying something, but I stopped myself half way through the first sentence in my head. I knew it wasn’t the course to take in this situation. Like I said, I barely know the person, and I’m not convinced I should say anything. But in the back of my mind I wonder… Should we tell people what we really think when the situation appears to be not exactly what they think it is?

I think the deeper question here is, when do we say something and when do we keep still? There doesn’t seem to be a real answer to that… at least from my perspective. The Spirit moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes He asks us to speak, and sometimes He asks us to be still. And there’s no telling which He’s asking someone else to do, either. But sometimes when I see every comment following a story like that all cheering the person on—all telling him what a great job he did and how that other guy was such a jerk (for standing up for himself, mind you, albeit rudely), it just leaves me feeling unsettled.

Part II: Can you feel it?

Last night’s queries having given way to sleep; this morning’s sunrise has given way to suspicion. There must be more to the story than that.

When I lived in China, I came across a curious phenomenon. That curiosity was soon lost, replaced with a hopeless acceptance of the inevitable. A copy-this-format culture will inevitably lead to technically beautiful, emotion-less art.

Allow me to explain. Sitting and listening to friends, students, and friends’ children play the piano, I found one thing was true nearly across the board—these children played the piano with technical rigor, agility, and precision. There was often nearly nothing wrong with their pieces, technically speaking. They were perfect, but were they “好听?” That is to say, were they beautiful to listen to? Not really. Were they moving? No. There was no passion. There was no intimacy with the composer. There was nothing but flat notes on a 2-dimensional staff… only this and nothing more.

So take this phenomenon back to photography and think it through again. I have seen beautiful, precise, well-exposed photos; photos whose creators have taken the time to set the scene, check the lighting, and even done a bit of editing (“Kosher,” could-be-done-in-a-darkroom editing) to make their photos shine. I know people personally who have taken (technically) absolutely stunning photos, and I have even “liked” some of those photos… but are they 好看? Are they beautiful to look at? Well… yes and no. It comes back to the same issue—they are technically beautiful and emotionally distant. When I consider them at first, I find them stunning in their precision, but given a few minutes I find them cold, despite the warm red of an Anzac Day poppy. They are flat, emotion-less, two-dimensional representations of skill with no heart.

And so we come to part two—what is art if you cannot feel it? Is their beauty with rough edges? Is there beauty without emotion? Can art be technically beautiful but emotionally lifeless, or does “art” require both to be… well… art?

More old questions… your thoughts, as always, are welcome.
(Written on Sunday... finally posted today.)

“It’s not art until somebody says it is.” “IT’S ART!!”

I’ve been thinking lately about art, or, more specifically, photography.

As an avid peruse-er of the week in photos on the BBC’s front page; an on-again-off-again reader of the Lens Blog (NYTimes); and an avid amateur with a little digital Canon, I find myself often thinking about this art-form… this photography phenomenon of our generation.

Photography used to be something left to those who understood words like “F-stop” and “exposure time” and the odd “hot shoe” reference. It was left to people who could change lenses, catch the right light, and would be willing to wait for the right expression… the right look on a child’s face, the desired positioning of the moon over the ridge line, or the stretched flat wings of a swallowtail. They were the ones who understood the contrast necessary for black and white photos to look… "good." And they made art.

Today, photography is much simpler. One could say it has become a mass medium of art… and the masses are enjoying. Today you don’t buy a macro lens; you push that little flower button on the camera. Today you don’t turn up the shutter speed for your kid’s football match; you turn the dial to that picture of a little guy running. The camera will do the rest. Fancy, that.

Certainly one of the biggest changes to the medium is the price of film. It now costs nothing—that is, nothing but some hard drive space. This makes taking frame upon frame of friends, poorly lined up, red-eyed, drunk-looking, and uploading them to the social networking site of your choice, tagging them with names (links) and leaving commentary all the easier. What happened to the day when junk pictures hit the trash bin? I suppose these odd pictures of backs and blur are here to stay… for now.

So I step back and consider the “art” that is all around me and I wonder if this is the loss of an art-form, or just the inevitable change that takes place when “art” reaches the level of the unwashed masses who’ve never studied the theory or the “rules,” they just like to take pictures. People, like myself, with a camera and some friends and a home in an interesting, beautiful place.

Take for example the photos below:

One of them is available here. The other is available on my hard drive. Which one is art? Do we have to choose? Is the NatGeo photo art simply because those with some authority have chosen to publish it—the right people have said, ‘IT’S ART!’ Is that all the qualification it needs?

What about these two:

One of them is available from NatGeo.

And what about these two? One was published in Time Magazine for a story on adoption… the other’s just a shot of typical Hunan, Feng Huang.

I don't have any particular photography skills, but those three that aren't linked are mine. Are they art? And if so, whose pictures aren't?

These thoughts all come on the heels of two recent NYTimes blog entries. The first, found here http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/29/iowa-bird-story/, chronicles the photographer’s (artist’s?) attempts to capture a beautiful, 114-year old woman in a photo. How do you take a photo worthy of America’s oldest living resident? Is there a photo worthy of the beauty of this woman?

The second, found here at the Lens Blog http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/30/readers-11/, appropriately, talks about an interesting experiment that will take place tomorrow morning for me, tonight for those of you in the Middle Kingdom—capturing a moment in time. I like the sound of that.

‘Attention: everyone with a camera, amateur or pro,” they write. “Please join us on Sunday, May 2, at 15:00 (U.T.C./G.M.T.), as thousands of photographers simultaneously record “A Moment in Time.” The idea is to create an international mosaic, an astonishingly varied gallery of images that are cemented together by the common element of time.’ Makes you want to grab your camera and take part, doesn’t it? Well, I say go for it…

But the question remains… with the proliferation of art, does it lose some of its value; is the value in the rarity? Is there greater value in a slowly assembled and considered photograph than there is in my quick snapshots, even if the quality, color, and composition were comparable? Is there greater inherent value in that one family photo taken when grandpa was 5 than there is in another photo of an assemblage of neighborhood kids covered in mud and playing gleefully? Where is the line drawn between art and… not art?

Is photography losing its value as a medium given the proliferation of simplification, the mass-produced imitations, and the wannabe Ansel Adamses?

It’s an old question… and your thoughts are welcome.