Northern Laos

Greetings,

Four new image galleries are in Northern Laos. Live, immediate and direct. A visual river. They transmit sand, waves, tides, fresh air, mountains, communities, dancing light and humans.

For example: 

This boy said, Before dawn follow the woman on the one red dust road to the market. It is small, near a school. Women spread their produce all green and fresh on blue tarps, natural fibers weaving their muted voices inside cool mist mountain air and baskets of chillies wearing happy leather faces.

Across the bridge children climb mountains to harvest wood for home fires.

Somewhere in Laos a child is carrying the world on their back.

Metta.

Laos

Greetings,

It feels wonderful to be in Luang Prabang with new language, music and energies. Very refreshing cool temps.

It is high season. Luang is on the tour circuit for backpackers, lots of French and the odd super anxious German. Lots of elderly folks exploring their planet using canes. Tribes of noisy young white people walk down streets drinking beer and ride bikes without shirts and many foreign women think they're on a beach.

Camera happy snappers. Similar to all those crazy folks at Angkor feeling the experience with their digital.

Hoards of snapping tourists focus on orange rows of meditative monks at dawn receiving alms from locals and the extensive golden and red hued wats or pagodas. Architecture. Soaring wings.  Lines of small alleys and wooden homes. Plentiful gardens. 

Mix in the reserved Japanese and super rude pushy and arrogant Chinese and everyone's happy. Babble tongues. 

It is a small world heritage city surrounded by mountains and bisected with two rivers. The Mekong flows strong. I move like a river.

Initial impressions: the Lao are more laid back than the Cambodians. They don't speak loud or yell. No whining and crying children. They don't hassle visitors. They smile. They are gentle people with a deep spiritual life. Serene. 

Population density: Lao 6 million, Cambodia 14, Vietnam 85.

The night market rolls with lights, merchandise, food, and souvenirs. People watching.

Textiles are huge in Laos; lovely silks with animistic and natural designs - peacocks, birds, fish, rivers, protector dieties, ancestor worship, woven Buddhist prayer flags. Traditional values and motifs. Visual woven stories.

Hand made paper is an integral part of their life. The art of paper, making paper, using paper, honoring paper, community and family paper, painting and writing. Burning paper, making offerings. 

All the Lao girls and women wear a sarong. Delightful and soft. Art, culture and life. 

Metta.

Traditional Arts & Ethnology Center, Luang Prabang, Laos. http://www.taeclaos.org/

less is more

the last a thing a fish knows
is water

light bird song
she remembered struggling in Shanghai
with no formal education
searching for the perfect love
writing her story in Chinese
following her heart

after the rush of stimulation orchid
settled down into lassitude 
misfortune wedding children
polite monosyllabic conversations

Sam and Dave sleep

Greetings,

The bent nail gets hammered down, yelled a Chinese teacher next door to my classroom. 

The Maija artist accepted the photo from the grieving relative set up his easel, using a magnifying glass to see the face, using a pencil to capture the 8x10 likeness. On the chipped plaster walls were examples of his work; peasants, farmers, aunts, uncles, husbands, wives and young and old Pioneer communist members with tight, tight red scarves knotting their necks suffocating their passion. 

Today he was sketching an old unsmiling stoic woman. A sad resigned peasant. These were people who had suffered. They’d suffered at the hands of the nationalists then the communists, then the new economic revolutionaries. The indignities of old age.

An old three-string wooden musical instrument hung on the wall near red streaks of paint inside this fine art museum. A black fly on the left shoulder of the artist rubbed its feelers together. Tasty. 

An old man with his emaciated skeleton face and paper thin arms carefully opened a bag of tea and poured tight compressed leaves into his bony right hand. He dispersed this into an old chipped blue pot and added water. We shared tea watching the artist work. The artist was good. The likeness was close to perfect. The tea was delicious.

The same kind of images decorate the altars in Vietnam. They sit in various temples around the cities. Death is a big deal. Ancestor worship. 

Do all the ancestors hear, understand and acknowledge all the yelling? Yes. Do they open their mouths and request a little peace and quiet? On anniversary death days they meet all the other ancestors inside narrow mazes of alleys where piss, drain water, used cooking oil, daily slop and vicious liquids drain into punctured cement holes flowing along narrow passageways slanted toward the middle where voices become echoes? Yes. 

The dead formed a rubber stamp committee to address family noise. ‘It’s come to our attention dear comrades, dear people, dearly beloved family and friends...that we have a communication issue here in the neighborhood.’

‘Silence! We are trying to sleep. The long peaceful and restful sleep. Leave us be.’

Metta.

Sam and Dave Part 4

Greetings,

Inside every family’s deep dark Hanoi space was a main room and altar for dead relatives, candles, fruit, burning incense a spirit food, and the black and white and color images reminded me of the Chinese artist in Maija, the poor pig village near the Fujian university where I lived for two years riding my bike across hills up and down narrow dirt back roads,

watching butterflies mate in the dust, old people threshing rice in fields, a woman lugging piles of white cauliflower to market in her bamboo baskets suspended on a bamboo poles, down long small tight dusty paths past athletic shoe shop sweat shop factories filled with morose girls and women hunched over threading clacking Butterfly machines making uppers, lowers, tongues and seamless survival wages until I reached a narrow street to sit drinking Chinese green tea with a man in his little shop. 

Further up the hill were small wooden shops with appliances, family market stalls, street food, electrical stores and butchers. In a small mud and brick place was an artist. His job was drawing pictures of dead people. 

After someone died a relative gave him a common small black and white image, the kind from 1949 when the country declared itself free, independent, and open with 3 Represents and benevolent Chairman Mao (our grandfather bless his heart) smiled at the masses.

Before he told the peasants, “Eat Grass.”

It was an image used throughout their life: in documents for residence, work, school and party politics. The people had the three iron rice bowls. A guaranteed living space, guaranteed work unit, and guaranteed rice rations. It was a great deal. Everyone was treated the same, wore the same clothing, said the same thing and followed the leader, like kids playing a game. No one got out of line. Comrade. 

Metta.