Ajanta and traveler's edge

When I was in grad school working on my MFA in studio art, I took several Buddhist art history courses. Pictured above is the Ajanta Caves which I studied and have been craving to go to for years. Finally, Ken and I will make this destination. It is about nine hours away from Mumbai by train. The complex is shaped in the form of a giant horseshoe and there are twenty-nine caves to visit. This is a World Heritage Site; a remote destination where monks conducted their practices and it dates back to the second century.

In the Buddhist and Jain temples, you start at one end of the temple and circumambulate to each cell of Buddhist icons or idols. By the time you make the journey around the periphery of the temple to each station, you become immersed with the Buddha mind or in other words you delve into a spirit of meditation and enrapture.

My past travels have afforded me to see great Jain temples most notably up north in the Rajasthan area, in particular the cities of Udaipur and Jaisalmer. The Jains feel that every little particle of life is precious and some wear masks to avoid doing harm to any organisms that they may breathe. Men are known to give up their entire possessions at the end of their life, leave the family (very similar to the life of Buddha) and seek a spiritual life without the worldly pursuits. Their temples are amazing; carved with marble pillars intricately fused with astounding minutiae of Indian daily life.

I remember coming back to Anchorage in 2006 from our first travels to India and it felt so good to sit on a couch! Much of the trip was uncomfortable because of the air and poverty; I hope to shed these preconceptions and immerse into Indian reality. To judge a country on one visit would be unfair; am still drawn to the Hindu mythologies and mystical sages. We depart for Mumabi in less than two weeks and for another time I will be able to experience another part of this subcontinent and drink in the many delights mixed with it's insanities.

divine standards

Above is pictured The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa by Giovanni Bernini. This image is often featured as an opening introduction to my art course that I teach at UAA. We discuss what we see and we reflect on what is going on. Saint Teresa was a mystic nun who saw visions. An angel is seen plunging her with an arrow, over and over again filling her with the love of God. This sends Saint Teresa in a state of ecstasy; her face almost orgasmic with pleasure and pain. It was completed in 1647-1652 during the start of the Baroque period and it is housed at the Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome. This is what high art should be, a transcendence of spirit; a statement that stands on it's own.

What is today's standards? In the Oxford Dictionary, they describe standards as a required or specified level of excellence. I am not sure if the word standard fits into our 21st century; I often deny it and easily cast it out and it has become a warped, manipulated concept.

When I show art images, I identify certain works of art as obtaining an excellence and integrity in craft, a tediousness of detail and execution into the final outcome of a masterpiece that lives throughout time, a creation from the divine.

Students can visually see this work and identify it as something quite unique and special. I present this art work as a recognition of a time that we have lost in our own century - a standard of excellence. It is this level of exquisite fineness that takes us to another level. There is no need for any definition, no explanation required. It exists with an intense aura of power and it is perfect.

crass America

This past week-end I was sleeping and woke up to an intermittant dog barking. I laid in bed thinking it would go away; perhaps a moose had sauterned by and the dog was agitated or maybe it was outside a little too long waiting to come into the house? The barking went on and on into the early morning. I let it go and dismissed it thinking it was a one time incident. Sunday night, Ken and I both woke up to the same dog barking, not only at 1 a.m., but it continued on throughout the night. It was still barking in the morning but I had to get to class and so I let it go again. I arrived home and the needy animal was still going on. I went out to investigate finding that it was indeed our neighbor's dog. Peeking through the fence I caught sight of the lanky lab named Beau; noticeably upset that someone had forgotten him. I went home and came back leaving a note on their door.

Later on that day, this guy was walking Beau and I rushed out of my home to ask him what was going on with the commotion; only to be answered in a nasty tone of denial - not even an apology or acknowledgement of the reality of the matter. The owners were out of town and it was their son who was taking care of dog. Well, I replied in a huff, angry and uptight tone and told him to take care of his dog; that he was being neglectful and it was cruel behavior leaving the poor animal out all night in the cold temps.

I thought over my behavior, how I had lost my temper and how upset I became. Now I don't hear a peep from the neighbors yard. Yesterday, I became part of crass America.

on being arbitrary

There are always pluses and minuses to where you live and then there is the gray area, the arbitrariness of life. Driving yesterday on the Glen Highway I wondered why I was here, what was my focus to living in this state. At that moment, the landscape turned into a surreal out of the body experience and I lightly fretted. As an intuitive thinker though, I go by my gut and it has gotten me into trouble several times in the past; have grown wiser because of some impulsive choices but fortunately I have a knack of reinventing myself. I took Alaska and reshaped it into a workable environment and it succeeds to some degree and on the other hand it doesn't. I make quality artworks but my expressions are often too heady, too contemporary and esoteric. On the other hand I have become more socially conscious in the community as an entrepreneur and educator. I have continued to stay here because of my attachment to nature and to my marriage. In some ways, it has given me great insight and perspective not only about the land, but about the nature of people. I miss intense culture of big cities, the banquet variety of choices, but I don't miss the pretentiousness nor the politics. Anchorage has another set of politics, it is transparent and malleable but deep and disarming too; it surprises me and catches me off guard. It works for now and perhaps that is the present.

kindness

Since I have been living in Anchorage, Alaska, I often have wondered about the concept of kindness. Is kindness real or do people put on a mask; try to be cheery, try to be optimistic and is it sincerely genuine? To some extent, at times, I think it is true charity that I encounter. Kindness is something that is ultimately magnanimous. Kindness is everywhere in Alaska. I think it is a wonder land where I live and because of the beauty of nature, you are filled with a underlining happiness or disbelief of the fantastic surroundings. Most of the time the beauty is so powerful that you cannot take it all in. This past summer I was so taken back by the green large mountains that loomed so close to my presence. I became instantly scared; it overwhelmed me and felt small and insignificant. It is a very polite environment, even though Alaskans can be tough spirited, there is another side to their persona that involves an all inclusiveness, like someone reaching out their hand to you to tell you that everything is okay and fine.

I need this kindness because it soothes my anxiety at times. In the early pitch black mornings or on the snowy highways and vacant corridors of the city I need this comfort. Just entering a gas station to exchange silly pleasantries surprises me time and time again on the good nature of folks. I use to think it was terribly corny and provincial but now I see it as a mode of survival. It works and even when I don't need it, it is there, this approachable silly stuff, this gooey good that I sometimes scoff at and on the other hand I embrace it, walking away feeling fortunate that it is there as I choke back this sentiment, I reconsider my cynic being.

the native in me

This past Saturday, I spent the morning at the Alaska Federation of Natives Conference and got to see a group of natives work on resolutions, amendments and adjusting the records. The process was very professional and dignified. Of course, since I have lived here, the native culture has been a part of my residency in Alaska and I have been absorbing it ever since.

Two years ago I observed a totem raising ceremony at the Alaska Heritage Center and spent the day hearing dedications; listened to speeches, prayers, singing and chanting, saw the young and old gather and talk in native tongues. Spending the day was not enough at this gathering to understand and feel the native pride. I wish I was part native, part tribal, an eighth or a fraction of color. When I was in middle school I use to tell my friends that I was part Apache and French. My mother is Swiss born; coming from Huguenots ancestry while my father from second generation German and Dutch roots makes me an official European offspring. The other evening though, I was telling an acquaintance that I am more interested in other cultures than my own.

Presently, I am taking a class at UAA called Alaskan Native Politics. It can be a bit dry some of the time, but integral learning about the foundations of the native people, the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act of 1971, the establishment of their corporations, their ongoing fight for their land, recognition and rights as people and their stories of the ongoing hardships and present trials in rural Alaska. It is like listening to another language; enjoying this challenge and new dialog I try to suck it up like a sponge. We live insular and comfy existences in our homes surrounded with all too familiar people. We think we know the lives of others, how they live and their struggles, but we know so little. The Alaskan Native is a rich culture and hopefully one day I can participate to a greater level of understanding.

one part color

I became an artist because I love color and culture. Lydia Mendoza was my first Mexican girlfriend; we worked together in the garment industry, a job that I despised but was forced to find work and eight years afterwards, I developed a business mind learning great lessons from master marketeers. Downtown Los Angeles was a sprawling large setting; concrete and homeless, vacant store fronts peppered with markets, discount outlets and eateries. Later on, I lived in the loft district, called Little Tokyo, and immersed myself in this community. I loved that part of the city because it exuded a romantic industry; it was there that I grew up, spirtually and mentally as a fine artist surrounding myself with serious thinkers, poets, composers, designers, performance artists and the like.

There was chili, salsa, hot sauce and burritos. I met Lydia's family and I remember her father was warm and sun browned. It was a different neighborhood called East Los Angeles. This was a new place to add to my existence and after twenty years of living there, this Mexicana/Hispanic culture crept into my soul. I felt their taken land, the dry desert, looming catus and vast reservoir of space. Today, I miss it - the heat, their passion and deep humanity coupled with humility.