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Slightly inland from the seaside town of Cascais, nestled on a low mountain that seems to generate its own cloud cover, is the retreat of former royals and wealthy citizens called Sintra. The mountain and its cloud cover must have made for a pleasant coolness in the hot Portuguese summers. C and I made a couple of day trips up there to visit some former palaces, residences and monasteries.
One of these is called Quinta de Regaleira, the former home of a baroness that was later bought by Carvalho Monteiro, a super wealthy Brazilian, at the turn of the century. After buying the house he then bought up the rest of the hill where the baroness’ home was situated. After a false start at commissioning a design for a place for himself, he decided to hire an opera set decorator to design both the house and its chapel, but also to effectively turn the whole mountaintop into a colossal set, with fake ponds, underwater labyrinths and a series of underground tunnels that functioned as a metaphorical voyage of initiation and self-discovery — a voyage inspired by the Knights Templar, the Freemasons and alchemists as well. Disney take note — this guy was doing freaky cosmic theme parks before anyone else.
So I asked myself, as readers of Dan Brown’s books no doubt have, who were these Knights of Templar?
They came into existence after the crusades had gained a foothold in Jerusalem. The first crusade, or shall we call it invasion of the Middle East by western Europeans, was in 1099. Jerusalem was captured from the Arabs, and Europeans began to make pilgrimages to the Holy Land in significant numbers to see and feel the aura of the place where their faith originated. While Jerusalem was, for these pilgrims, a kind of protected Green Zone, the approach to it was not. The route from the port of Jaffa (alongside present-day Tel Aviv) inland to Jerusalem was dangerous, and scores of pilgrims were slaughtered by what we might now call insurgents, or freedom fighters…or defenders of their homeland? The hapless pilgrims needed to call Blackwater or some other ruthless mercenaries for hire to protect them. So, one hundred years later a French knight proposed the creation of an order that would attempt to protect these pilgrims — the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, so called because they were given a headquarters by King Baldwin II: the Al Aqsa Mosque, which, significantly, had been built over the former Temple.
What was this Temple of Solomon, I ignorantly asked myself? According to Wikipedia it was, in its first incarnation, “the first temple of the ancient religion of the biblical Israelites, originally constructed by King Solomon… It was designed to house the Ark of the Covenant” — so we’re in Raiders of the Lost Ark territory now. Other powerful relics were rumored to be buried at this site, but all we know is that the Templars got hold of bits of what were referred to as pieces of the “True Cross.”
The Temple of Solomon was destroyed and rebuilt a number of times…marking important events in Jewish history. Here is a (somewhat exaggerated?) visual depiction from a Freemasonry website — it brings to mind the Merchandise Mart building in Chicago. Freemasons sometimes claim that the architects and masons who built this massive thing were the original Freemasons — hence the association with the Knights.
Eventually the Romans took it over, and built their own temple there — and at present there is once again a mosque on the site, which includes the oft-disputed Dome of the Rock.
[Source]
Beneath a section of the Dome of the Rock there is a cave known as the Well of Souls. All sorts of wild myths abound:
“Islamic tradition holds that Muhammad ascended heavenwards from the stone above the cave, a related tradition has grown up that states that the Last Judgment will happen at the Sakhrah, and that the souls of the dead gather in the well of souls to wait for that event, and to pray… [and lastly,] according to pre-Islamic folklore, the well of souls was a place where the voices of the dead could be heard along with the sounds of the Rivers of Paradise.” [Source]
That’s a lot of mythical weight to bear!
The Knights were quickly endorsed by the Catholic Church, and wore recognizable white mantles featuring a symmetrical red cross (this cross appears regularly at Monteiro’s theme park). They became an expert fighting unit — proto-Jedi Knights, spiritual warriors and protectors. About 100 years after their founding the Pope not only recognized them but gave them special privileges — one can imagine how noble their cause would have seemed to the European imagination. They were granted tax-free status, and were allowed passage anywhere they wanted to go — borders were no longer of any import to the Knights. Being a kind of military and financial institution (see below), this papal bull was immensely helpful.
[Source]
Though as individuals they were legendarily poor and relied on donations to continue their work, their order quickly amassed massive assets and devised innovative financial techniques. For instance: a pilgrim or entourage might want to visit the Holy Land but not leave their valuables unattended back home. So, they would place them in the hands of the regional Templars in their hometown, and in turn they were issued a paper certificate, which they could redeem for money in Jerusalem. The first form of checking, and banking of a sort, was born. Already the plot thickens — you can imagine the kinds of assets the organization accumulated. The whole island of Cyprus belonged to the Templars at one point!
Their power increased and they became an established institution (partly financial) in Europe and elsewhere in the following centuries. But not everyone was happy about this. King Philip of France ended up owing them a lot of money and he wondered how he could get out of his debts. He pressured Pope Clement V to go after the Templars. At first the Pope was timid in his attack on the Jedi — but King Philip must have had some leverage, because after a bit the Pope summoned the Templars to him and arrested and tortured them all, accusing them of heresy, homosexuality and weird initiations. Some signed confessions under torture (which they later recanted) and most of the powerful Templars were burned at the stake.
[Source]
One cried out to the King and Pope as the flames consumed him that he would see them later; both of them died within the year…but not before the church and king had usurped the accumulated lands and property of the order.
By around 1300 the Templar Order was effectively gone, but as an inspiration they lived on. Reader Luís Bonifácio adds: "The Order was disbanded in all countries of Europe with the exception of Portugal, where King Deniz, when notified by the Pope to disband the Templars, proposed to confiscate all their belongings, and to form a new Knight Order called the 'Order of Christ.' The Pope accepted, and all the knights, churches, monasteries and territories of the Knights Templar were transformed into the 'Order of Christ,' which was simply the Knights Templar by another name, commanded by a member of the Royal Family. Their symbol continued to be the red cross, with a different design, which you can still see in the sails of the NRP Sagres (sister ship of the USS Eagle). A century later, the Knights of this Order, led by the Grand-Master Prince Henry the Navigator, started the Portuguese Discoveries, an expansion towards Africa, America, India, China and Japan. The Order remained in the lead of the Expansion until Portugal's annexation by Spain in 1580. After 1580, the Order was disbanded, and today remains one of the most important honorific orders of medals in Portugal. In the XVI century, the role of the Order of Christ in Portuguese history was taken by the 'Company of Jesus' (the Jesuits), until the early XX century."
Both Knights Templar and Freemasonry were essentially secret societies — though very different from one another — which led to lots of speculation and rumor. They both also had a vaguely spiritual bent — an idea that initiates might be given special knowledge that was passed down, and strange rituals that both bound the members together and were metaphors for personal discovery. [Source]
Various spinoffs of the Masons in the US in the earlier part of the last century made the initiation and other ceremonies into lovely little quasi-theatrical events. Here is a “set” and backdrop from one such ritual that was for sale via the Webb Gallery in Texas:
One could argue that here was a whole genre of theater that existed out of public view.
So, back to Monteiro’s theme park mountain. The house is pretty great — with Arabic-themed rooms, and a hunting-themed room with mosaics of beasts to be killed and a huge tusked boar bust in marble looming out from the wall — but it is the gardens that folks come to see. Visitors head up the hill, along winding paths, past follies and fountains, through a forest of exotic plants imported from Brazil until one reaches a pile of moss covered stones.
We were told that in the past a hidden staircase led to the top of the pile, but as that route led nowhere, one was sometimes led through a crevasse to a hidden stone door with no handle. And the door was way too heavy to move by hand. How to get inside? Our guide showed us a hole in a crack near the rock door, in which was concealed a lever that released a counterweight, allowing the door to swing open — like a fairytale or an episode out of Arabian Nights come to life! Through the door was what is referred to as the initiates’ well…though it was never used as a well.
In Monteiro’s conception this allowed one to metaphorically descend into the underworld — a realm of self-testing, self-discovery and rebirth. At the bottom of the stairs was the entrance to a couple of tunnels. Our guide escorted us into one of them, saying the other led to a dead end. We pulled out our little flashlights.
Monteiro had a whole maze of tunnels constructed under his mountain — some led to grottoes, with no way out, and one led to another well that had no winding staircase to bring one up and out. To really leave the tunnel complex, and symbolically escape from the underworld (the subconscious?), one had to take a tunnel with no light at the end — to head into darkness. Eventually one emerged in the back of a little (man-made) grotto, and had to exit using stepping stones — stepping in a proscribed manner, right foot first.
Fun, eh! None of it is natural, but with the algae and mossy growth it all seems quite believable.
There is a chapel with a Knights Templar cross on the floor and a Masonic eye in a triangle on the ceiling. A mosaic shows a saint on a seashore preaching to fishes — the fish are leaping out of the water with their mouths open in rapt attention. Inside the main house there is a library that must have been constructed as a kind of contemporary art installation. The walls were filled with books on all sides, and around the perimeter of the floor was a mirror that appeared to extend the bookshelves down below the floor we were standing on. The carpeted ground in the center of the room seemed to therefore “float” — it was a creepy, unnerving sensation. I believe the lowest shelf you can see is actually a reflection:
Nearby Quinta Regaleiro is the remains of a small monastery formerly belonging to the convent of the Capuchos order. Like the magic mountain, it too was somewhat peculiar. There was no sign of a large building that might harbor loads of monks — just a small, rough cobblestoned area with two crosses on top of vaguely triangular stones. C looked behind one of the crosses, and sure enough there were steps that led to a crevasse between two huge boulders. In the crevasse was a door.
The monastery itself was not huge, and was tucked into the natural boulders and vegetation — we were told that these monks sought a kind of enlightenment in harmonizing with nature. Inside, the rooms were often lined with cork bark, as those trees were growing everywhere around. The bark walls, and bark covered doors and window blinds, made the tiny rooms appear even more primitive — as if some other kind of civilization lived here. The rooms for the individual monks, their cells, were so tiny and the doors leading to them so low and small, it seemed the monks were a species of Hobbit.
We arrived here from the Denver area, where we played Red Rocks Amphitheatre the night before. DeVotchKa, who are a local band, opened for us and got an enthusiastic response. The setting is legendary, amazing — and the audience was immense and on their feet, even in the chilly Rocky Mountain Foothills evening. 
[Photo: Tony Orlando]
After a brief shower in the morning I stayed on the bus, but soon the weather cleared and Steven and I were met by Jane, a friend of my friend Ford, who was happy to give us a super brief tour. We went to the Gilgal Sculpture Garden, where during the 40s Thomas Battersby Child, Jr. carved and erected some curious sculptures in his backyard that reference both Mormonism and Masonic imagery. Jane said when she was young it was just a run-down, weird place and she’d come here to get high. There was even a moment when it was going to be torn down, but some locals formed an organization to save it. Here is Joseph Smith’s (the Mormon visionary) head on a reduced size Sphinx. 
Around the corner was a man with pants made of bricks — a tribute to man the builder, and the secret Masonic knowledge that enables man to create homes and temples. The Mormon Church of the Latter-day Saints (LDS) eventually disavowed Gilgal and his works, as they wanted to distance themselves from the more “magical” aspects of Masonry. Much of the garden refers to the Book of Daniel, specifically Daniel’s interpretations of the dreams of Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian ruler who conquered Jerusalem and later went crazy. 
We then visited the relatively new LDS Conference Center in Temple Square. The assembly hall inside is massive, like something out of a science fiction movie, and, as in Star Wars, there are instant simultaneous translations in dozens of languages when the LDS faithful from around the world congregate here. There are no columns blocking the views of the podium as a massive steel girder holds the ceiling up — which gives the effect that the roof is magically floating. 
Outside there are other visitors blinking in the summer sun, and a few in fundamentalist LDS garb — ladies in long skirts or modest (some would say frumpy) dresses… not quite the more extreme pseudo-prairie attire, but getting there. The Tabernacle across the way, where the famous choir performs and rehearses, now seems underwhelming compared to this new conference center, but its visitor center next door has dioramas and Bible paintings and a wonderful stairway to the stars. Steven asks Jane and I what exactly Mormonism is, and I say it is a religion that has added additional chapters to the Bible — chapters in which Jesus visited the New World. Jane elaborated a little — this happened, according to the visions Joseph Smith had while reading the golden tablets he reportedly dug up in upstate New York, during the three days after Jesus “died,” and before he was resurrected. Jesus visited the New World and the Indian tribes that lived here. Smith’s version of New World pre-Columbian history is, again, like a science fiction novel — complex, dramatic and convoluted. I recommend a book I read as research when I was scoring a season of the HBO show Big Love — Under the Banner of Heaven, by Jon Krakauer (Into Thin Air and Into The Wild). In the book, which is definitely not loved by the Mormon faithful, a murder amongst the polygamist faction of the LDS (which the official church disavows) is used by Krakauer to thread together bits of Mormon history and belief. In order to “interpret” the golden tablets that he found and that no one ever saw, Joseph Smith put “peeping stones” in a hat, then put his face in the hat and magically the words of the extra chapters of the Bible came to him. A winding ramp leads up to the stars where a giant white Jesus gazes out towards the tabernacle. 
Very cool. I asked Jane about the drinking laws in Salt Lake City and in Utah, as I’d remembered when we played here many years ago we had to smuggle some beers into our dressing rooms. I also seem to remember half the audience being on uppers, as religious laws regarding those somehow slipped though the net. Until recently you could get only get a drink if you were a member of a “social club.” Visitors to the area could instantly become members for a fee. Things have loosened up a bit recently. 
I was told one could get a drink in a restaurant, but the sight of alcohol being poured was deemed to be dangerous and offensive, so pouring and preparation went on behind a glass partition referred to (by some) as the Zion Curtain. This year the Zion Curtain came down. Polygamy was practiced by Smith and others, but due to pressure from the rest of the country it was eventually outlawed from LDS practice. Fundamentalist LDS faithful still practice it. There are houses in downtown Salt Lake City that have special basements where the “sisterwives” can be hidden when the man comes around. I suspect that polygamy was actually a common practice in the Middle East 2000 years ago, so it might not be made up like much of the rest of Mormonism — though it sure must have met some of Joseph Smith’s “needs” at the time. Some of us might roll our eyes at the science fiction religions of Mormonism and Scientology — their preposterous myths and stories and references to cosmic apocalyptic events. Mormons believe that when all have had a chance to hear the word of God the apocalypse will commence… hence the rush to conversion. L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology, wrote that 75 million years ago, the head of the Galactic Federation, made up of 76 planets, was a being named Xenu. Faced with an overpopulation problem, he brought beings to this planet, blew them up with hydrogen bombs, and packaged them. Their spirits now infest our bodies. [from Scientology Lies] We scoff at religions clearly “made up” by men just like ourselves within the last couple of centuries. Peeping stones? Xenu? But what makes the more established religions any less preposterous? Weren’t they also mostly “made up” by men like ourselves? Yes, some have been augmented by other men — additional rules and imagery added over the millennia — but isn’t it just time that gives them more credence or respect? If we’re going to roll our eyes at only the new religions then we are, in my opinion, being very unfair. Salt Lake City had a progressive mayor, Rocky Anderson, until recently — now he is President of High Road for Human Rights. He instituted green programs, mass transit improvements, bike friendly policies, supported gay marriage and more. When Bush visited Salt Lake City Anderson helped organize a protest! Although we might think of Utah as a red state and a bastion of religious-based conservatism, Salt Lake City went blue.
That’s certainly what Canon Samuel Barnett and his wife Henrietta thought in 1881 when they established what would become the original Whitechapel Gallery. “The finest art of the world for the people of the East End.” The gallery has recently expanded and reopened, having usurped what once was a public library next door. The Whitechapel and the public library were both, in their time, efforts to bring culture to the poor masses of East London, a working class area that has been regularly inhabited by waves of recent immigrants. Pictures “raise blessed thoughts in me — why not in you, my brother? Believe it, toil-worn worker, in spite of thy foul alley, thy crowded lodging, thy ill-fed children, thy thin, pale wife, believe it, thou too, and thine, will some day have your share of beauty.” -Charles Kingsley, Victorian Christian socialist, as quoted by Tom Lubbock in The Independent. [ Link to article]
Those damned Christians — always on their evangelizing missions. Always bringing what is right, proper, and by implication, morally good to the poor heathen or unwashed.
Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Art is the path of the creator to his work.” Emerson also said that art existed to make men better. Edward C. Banfield, a Harvard government professor, writes: "The art museum was founded soon after the Civil War as part of a long struggle by the Protestant elite, which ran the large cities, to moralize their populations by eliminating vice and inculcating the domestic and civic virtues." [ Link to article] According to John Ruskin, the English writer and painter who was widely read and hugely influential in the 19th century, “Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth. All great art is the work of the whole living creature, body and soul, and chiefly of the soul.” Ruskin paraphrased: Art is the expression of delight in God's work. From that, he glides to: “All great Art is praise; and, Art is the exponent of ethical life.” And paraphrased again by art historian Kenneth Clark: The greatest artists and schools of art have believed it their duty to impart vital truths, not only about the facts of vision, but about religion and the conduct of life. [ Source]
What mystifies me is the “morally good” part — that a leap is made from simply enjoying or being inspired, to being “improved” as a person by viewing pictures. These guys imply that art that is good (according to whom?) contains vital truths… and therefore functions as a signpost — a guide — for correct and better living. This is the part where I become very skeptical. If being educated at the best schools Western education has to offer doesn’t cultivate morality (look at all the white-collar criminals, and crimes against humanity committed by Harvard and Yale graduates), then what hope does looking at a picture have?
On the foundation of the National Gallery (in 1824, initially a banker’s picture collection), Sir Robert Peel said, “In the present times of political excitement, the exacerbation of angry and unsocial feelings might be much softened by the effects which the fine arts had ever produced upon the minds of men.” [Link] The Gallery, on Trafalgar Square, is located there because at that spot, the rich of West London could visit on their carriages and the poor from the East End could walk — thin pale wife and ill-fed children both. Significantly, admission would be free, further emphasizing that exposure to art could benefit all. Peel trusted that “the edifice would not only contribute to the cultivation of the arts, but also to the cementing of those bonds of union between the richer and the poorer orders of the State...” [Link] It was thought that by exposing the poor and often uneducated to “culture,” their minds and hearts would be stimulated to deeper, more profound and noble thoughts. That exposure to culture is somehow morally uplifting, a bit like a church sermon, but presumably slightly less tedious. It also seems that culture was thought of as a kind of protective security device — from the angry and unsocial feelings mentioned above — and that exposure to it would alleviate the anger of the lower classes and thereby buffer the upper classes from their wrath. It was also thought that learning to appreciate culture would keep the rabble out of pubs and from pursuing other dubious activities. In two senses this seems ridiculous — the first being that the modern art the Whitechapel was aiming to show was and is simply baffling to ordinary people, though in the UK arts current, shock and tabloid value is certainly a draw to many. Ordinary folks — and this is not a criticism — tend to like pictures that show evidence of skill and time spent in their production. Most folks also like to recognize what it is they’re looking at, be it a landscape, a face, a spear or an abstract pattern on a rug — across cultures, the forms may vary greatly. For poor English folks to be told back in the day that looking at wacky pictures would make them better people must have seemed like some sort of cruel joke — or that there was something profound in the pictures they didn’t yet understand. The second absurdity is that this art, and the serious books that the library would deem to make available (libraries don’t usually stock porn or pulp fiction), were deemed worthy primarily by one’s “betters.” The higher, more educated classes naturally decided what pictures and books were good and capable of moral uplift. Given that the higher, especially the upper, classes of English society by nature had more spare time on their hands, there is at least some rationale that they would have had ample time to read and gaze upon pictures… and therefore might have some favorites to recommend — a service which might save those with less free time some precious hours, should they grow curious about those pictures or books. Whether the lower and immigrant classes would be interested in the same pictures or books as their “betters” is never questioned — it is just assumed that the more “refined” taste of the higher classes is better and therefore more worthy. Why this should be so is not explained. For example, I find the machinations surrounding Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy amusing but somewhat disgusting as well — the lives of the rich and bored are often overrated, it seems to me. (However as a witty soap opera the book is hilarious.) Likewise, the novel and convoluted new ways of interpreting the world, and the investigation into modes of visual perception and into art itself that modernism focused on, might also seem a trifle irrelevant to those struggling to stay afloat — unless some of those strugglers aimed to someday pass themselves off as being from a higher class. Good luck with that in the UK! However, I myself can testify that being from an upper lower-class background in Glasgow, with parents who had immigrated and then worked and saved themselves into the middle class in suburban Baltimore, the local public library was invaluable. It was the Internet in a building — a building located down the road, under a bridge, past the train tracks, on a slight rise. For example, in the late 60s, when I was in high school, I fell upon a copy of Naked Lunch, among many other strange and unusual books. I found it innovative, weird and slightly disgusting — though not in the same way as Pride and Prejudice. Even the book cover seemed to refer to some mysterious universe — the shadows and objects depicted are unclear. Maybe they are a junkie’s “works,” but I’m still not sure. 
[Source]
I also borrowed vinyl from the library — Folkways records of gospel, blues and Bahamian singers, Nonesuch recordings of Xenakis, Indian classical music and Balinese gamelan. There were also albums of pop music that weren’t getting played on the local rock station — The Kinks and Buffalo Springfield and many others. So, while some might have represented a rarefied academic and presumably more refined world — Xenakis, Varèse, Ives and Stockhausen, for example — even the academic composers were pretty trippy, and not all that different than what some of the pop musicians were doing, just less accessible. It was all a gateway into a host of new worlds. Lowlifes, highlifes and weirdness beyond anything I could imagine. So, in a sense, the public library did do partially what the Victorians claimed — it made available to me a whole world I never knew existed. On the other hand, it opened my mind to realms of debauchery, experimentation and craziness that was like nothing else in suburban Baltimore. Nothing I’d seen, anyway… though I did go camping with some gal pals once, and their biker friends shot up a watermelon with vodka. That was pretty wild — and tasty. I also took a liking to the visual arts at the time, stimulated at the outset mainly by album covers, psychedelic posters and underground comics. That was what was available to me. I was aware that some of those images and artists overlapped with what was deemed to be fine art, but that was not what made things interesting. I’m not sure if I went to an art museum more than once during high school — though I remember the Walters Art Gallery downtown had a very cool, small ancient carving of a man that seemed to be half tree. There was no modern or contemporary art there. However, one thing led to another and connections, sometimes bizarre, were made. I painted a picture in high school of a phalanx of identical businessmen (who may have resembled my dad a bit), in a style reminiscent of George Tooker (I realize now) — standing against a wall of brightly colored, abstract empty picture frames and on a floor decorated with Northwest Indian tribal images, with hook-beaked creatures and densely packed biomorphic forms. It could have been a psychedelic record cover, and it referenced, or maybe simply imitated, everything visually available to me in suburban Baltimore that seemed wild and cool. 
The big downtown art museum, with its Cone Collection of Matisses was, of course, a repository of high quality art — it had to be if it was housed in such a temple. I knew I was supposed to be impressed, but it was, at the time, nowhere near as inspiring as the counter-culture stuff that was exploding everywhere. [Danielle adds: "Given these examples, another interesting question to pose would be, how has art changed — how have the values changed? And even if they have, has the role of art in social hierarchy changed or not? Because in fact you can now go Harvard on the basis of your Burroughs scholarship; counter-cultural art can give entrée into the privileged strata of society. There’s some interesting inversion that’s taken place where the avant-garde has been re-assimilated and the relationship between high and low has become infinitely more nuanced. Sotheby’s sold some of Manzoni’s shit for a couple hundred thousand dollars not so long ago."] So, was art good for me? It got me out of gym class, that’s for sure. Working on these detailed and obsessive pictures took a lot of time, and the high school art teacher kindly sent a slip excusing me from gym. I made a bunch more of these pictures, and at some point they were “exhibited” in a display case in the school hallway. Probably due to their resemblance to record covers, they were deemed OK and even hip by some of the students, and I was cool for a day — which was pretty great for someone as shy as I, who managed to make this, and later music, a way to be in the world. So in this sense, art was certainly “good” for me at the time. I think discovering and making stuff was good for me in another way too. Not only did making stuff give me, a painfully shy person, a way to communicate, but in the process I got myself sorted as well — at least a little bit. Expressing myself became a process of self-discovery and healing, casting out demons and finding joy. (Not that I’m done now, by any means.) The process was far from conscious — only in retrospect can I see what was happening. And it doesn’t mean the things I was making were all explosions and expressions of angst, terror, fear or guilt — though occasionally, yes, those things would surface. Making stuff gives someone like me a reason for going on, a focus, a pride in oneself. I’m not saying one has to be damaged to benefit from this kind of activity — but we all need a little sorting here and there. I’m not sure the creative process works for everyone — in fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. And I’m not saying that “everyone is an artist,” though I suspect many people have creative urges that go unacknowledged. I’m not sure everyone needs to make arty stuff as a path to self-discovery — home improvement, software development, getting dressed up and general problem solving are all immensely satisfying. But back to the question as to whether art is morally uplifting. If idle hands are the devil’s playground then doing this stuff indeed kept the devil away — for a while. But what about looking at pictures, as opposed to making them? I love doing it — my house and office are plastered with stuff — but I don’t see how it can be uplifting, though I’m willing to be convinced otherwise. My friend C says that pictures are indeed a place, a forum, a venue for ideas, deeply felt emotions and radically new ways of looking at and being in the world. They are, she says, stimulating and inspiring — when they connect, at least. It’s certainly true for those of us who are part of that world. It seems to me that more consistently, it is the act of making stuff that changes a person, although with books, just reading them can certainly open new worlds. Looking at a Jackson Pollock is about as innately stimulating as looking at gum on the sidewalk — but that is not meant as a criticism. Reading about Pollock, his world, why and how he made his stuff and what kind of life he and his contemporaries had, might indeed be stimulating. Then one might see his picture as a kind of corollary — an adjunct piece of evidence connected to his story and those of his peers. So, interesting that the Whitechapel displaced a public library. When I was there a month ago the crowds were immense, with a line to get in, and the galleries were chockablock. The work, mainly a show by Isa Genzken, was pretty kooky, and not at all “easy.” All the papers had run lengthy pieces on the re-opening. Everyone was making a pilgrimage to see the revived and improved space — one had to say one had been there and seen it with their own eyes. I’m not sure all these folks are experiencing self-improvement, and I’m certainly not sure they emerge or soon become capable of greater and sounder moral judgment. But they’re hell-bent on having the experience. But where did the books go? Reading, the part of the Victorian outreach that involved more interaction and could actually be brought into one’s house for a while, is gone. Maybe, with the sheer volume of text on the Internet, it isn’t deemed as important to make books available for free to the poor and newly arrived in the East End. Art you have to visit and see, for the most part, and books you can buy, browse at bookstores or now download. Maybe part of the museum or gallery’s attraction is the social aspect — reading is solitary. The Whitechapel was crowded, and people would presumably discuss their visit later over dinner, or at the office the next day. Picture viewing is also fast, while on the other hand, it takes many hours to read a book — which is another reason the literary experience has such a profound effect. Viewing an exhibition can be done in an afternoon or much less, and if you don’t like it you just walk out. The speed of the visit doesn’t make it less deep — a short experience can also be profound — and visual experiences can imprint if we are receptive enough. (Movies and music, I’ve noticed, are like books — you have to commit a sizable block of time to the experience.) I can see that if exposure to culture brings the lower classes and immigrants into contact — indirectly and incrementally — with the world of the accepted and dominant classes, and thereby into the world of their values and morals, then yes, that exposure helps society to become more harmonious. Most moral values, in my opinion, are not absolute. They vary depending on the culture, and vary from place to place (though some moral commandments, like not having kids with your sister or mother, could be considered absolute — for humans anyway). Morals are rules that allow a society to function smoothly, or smoothly enough. By assimilating the implied values inherent in pictures, viewers are subtly brought into line with what has become accepted and dominant in a society. Although one might complain that what is acceptable and moral has been determined only by a portion of society — the portion in power — if harmony can be achieved without force, terror or fear, then maybe that’s nothing to sneeze at. Survival is better than pure chaos and destruction, though we seem to like those things too. Funny how things that may have once been attempts to overthrow the apple cart of power and dominance are now taught as fine literature or art at major universities. Some might say that this kind of harmony is like living ignorantly inside the Matrix — that it’s not “real” — but maybe that’s another rant.
I’d been to Belfast twice before. Once for an art exhibit, and once to visit my cousin Maureen, who married a sheep farmer in a little town about at hour north of here. On one of those trips I visited Shankill Road and Falls Road — the Protestant and Catholic working class neighborhoods where tensions are high and there is plenty of evidence of the ongoing “Troubles.” On Falls Road, there are murals that align the situation of the Catholic minority with that of the Palestinians, African Americans (one mural featured a large image of Frederick Douglass!) and other oppressed groups worldwide. 
Further on, there are murals that present a Dungeons & Dragons version of Celtic pride and culture. 
A brief history, as I know it: the English formerly occupied all of Ireland — North and South — and made it official in 1801. The Irish island is primarily Catholic, and the English had converted to Protestantism in the 1500s. England first disowned Catholicism so that Henry VIII could get a divorce, and allow his heirs to hold on to the throne — these guys were about not much more than intermarriage and holding on to power. The convenient conversion didn’t take, though, and England retreated — but by the time Elizabeth I took over a few decades later, the reformation was nearly complete. The English didn’t love the Irish — they saw them mainly as a cheap source of labor and goods — and immigrants from the green isle were not all that welcome. It has been said that the famous potato famine was, if not engineered, then allowed to develop and flourish, thanks to the English. A little bit of Stalin in the British Isles. In the early part of the last century, some of the Irish began fighting for their independence. The clump of northern counties known as Ulster happened to contain a fair number of English settlers, and that area wanted to remain part of England. The Ulstermen smuggled guns in from Germany in 1914, making civil war across Ireland almost certain. After a long struggle in 1921, Ireland threw off British rule and became an independent nation — except for that Northern clump, which was held on to by England. Those counties had opposed Home Rule for Ireland all along, and Ulster also contained the formerly industrial city of Belfast — proud site of the Titanic’s construction. So, in 1921, like US Republicans drawing new zoning and voting districts in Texas to guarantee a Republican win in certain areas, the Ulstermen, with the help of the English, carved out an area of the North that was — surprise — mainly Protestant, and mainly Loyalist (loyal to the Crown). The Catholics, a majority in Ireland, were now, suddenly, a minority in that area — and therefore powerless. The writing was plainly on the wall: an unstable, untenable situation had been created, and it only took a small incident to set things off in a very bad way. The Troubles began in earnest in the 1960s with the IRA and others bombing and attacking what they perceived to be the British occupying force. Vigilante groups, aided by British military and police forces, worked violently to keep the cauldron bubbling. Since that time, there have been peace accords — though some bombs went off a few weeks ago. After decades of fear, death and destruction, neither side wants to return to those bad old days, but we’ll see — a new generation raised on hatred might not remember those days so well. Further up Falls Road there is a memorial for the IRA and the hunger strikers — among them Bobby Sands, the young man portrayed in the amazing recent movie Hunger. 
The Orangemen (the Protestants) have regularly attempted to goad and provoke the Catholics by marching in “religious processions” through contested neighborhoods at certain times of year. Like the school kids we saw hanging round these housing estates, they were all itching for a fight. The two neighborhoods are right next to one another — a stone’s throw apart — but, like Gaza and Israel, they are separated by a fence, a wall, barbed wire and a no man’s land. The last time I was here, passage between the neighborhoods was forbidden — in order to cross, you had to go back into Belfast and then out again by a different road to get from one adjacent neighborhood to another. Now there is a passage, though it is still locked up at night. I ran into L & M, and eventually we found the passage between the warring hoods. To the right was a small pedestrian gate that led through a no man’s land to the other hood. 
On the Shankill (Protestant) side, the murals have a completely different tone. Here the emphasis is on historical precedent — the English fighting the Catholic Irish for hundreds of years. One mural featured a quote by Oliver Cromwell from the 1600s, saying that there would never be peace in Ireland until the Catholic Church was crushed!: 
Other murals commemorate the dead Loyalists, and portray the Catholics as a band of pesky rebels and terrorists (which they are, regardless of whether you agree with their political position or not) — a constant thorn in the side of the “legal” government. In some ways the legality of the government here is hard to dispute — but its vibe and rhetoric smacks of the use of similar convoluted logic in other places, where the powers that be — the oppressors — portray themselves as the victims. The ones with all the guns, soldiers, power, politicians and courts somehow turn things around and claim to be the victims — uh huh. Heard that one from the US Religious Right, the US Republican right and the Israelis as well. 
Here is the mural that goes along with this explanation. 
Update:
I stand corrected. A reader of this blog, who knows the depths of Irish (and Scots) history better than I, delves further back into the "mists of time" than I even thought possible — 1000 years! Even still, it seems as though the Elizabethan Plantations were a way for the English to use Ireland as a new territory — and to transform that territory into a more lucrative place as well, with a new, capitalist-friendly populace and religion.
It's something of a Nationalist (Republican/Catholic etc.) credo that the 'Irish Nation' was/is some kind of cohesive unitary entity which can be traced back through the mists of time, and that the irritating Northern Protestants are somehow 'English' interlopers from afar with no real place on the island of Ireland.
Historical reality isn't quite so neat, however.
The original inhabitants of Ireland came from NW Spain in approximately 8000 BC; they moved and settled freely across the landbridge between NE Ireland and W Scotland. The Scots was the name given to precisely these settlers from NE Ireland.
Further waves of invasion and settlement saw successive groups becoming dominant, then integrated with the 'Irish' Celts, Vikings, Normans, English Plantations etc.
But the key historical rupture occurred with the Elizabethan Plantations, because two factors had completely different implications for subsequent Political, Cultural, Economic and Social development and relative under-development: 1) the sheer numbers involved, and the political and economic dislocation this entailed, and 2) the fact that they now came with a new and culturally different religion, and with economic and social practices which were part of the historical dynamics of early Capitalism as it was emerging in Britain itself.
This could not fail to create a 'differentness' about NE Ulster, even without the link to Britain and the English Crown.
This is something which a nationalist analysis completely fails to come to terms with, notwithstanding the further awkward point that these 'Scots' would have been returning to precisely those ancestral lands from where the original 'scots' had first crossed to settle in Scotland — as evidenced by shared surnames and common linguistic structures which persist to the present day. Even today, the dominant blood groups and ethnic characteristics in Ireland come from the original pre-Celtic settlers from Iberia, and not from the many subsequent waves. But perhaps of even greater discomfort to the cosy nationalist notion that somehow the Protestants don't belong is the fact that these pre-Celtic characteristics are most dominant in the northern part of Ireland, amongst the Protestants and Catholics who live there.
Well, enough of potted histories — suffice it to say that all is not quite as straightforward as a simple green nationalist perspective might have you believe!
- Alan McLaughlin
Day Off At Johnny’s suggestion, three of us took a local commuter train 25 minutes east to Howth, a village at the narrow neck of a bulbous peninsula on the seaside. There was a market in the town parking lot with local Irish breads and cheeses and a whole pig on a spit — though by the time we got there, only the head and bones were left. Further on, a path leads around the perimeter of the peninsula, along some spectacular windswept and barren cliffs. When the sun came out, it was gorgeous. 
Back in the village, we stopped for Dublin Bay oysters and prawns — both amazingly fresh. I don’t know if I’ve ever had oysters as fresh; in NA restaurants, they’re usually flown in from somewhere — with the exception of Seattle and Vancouver.
In the Beginning Was the Word Image
The next day, at Keith’s suggestion, I went to view the Book of Kells at Trinity College. The book itself was fairly underwhelming — the vellum (calfskin) pages had yellowed somewhat, and those on view were partially transparent. The blown up reproductions on the walls were easier to marvel at, and much more engaging. Wall texts detailed the book’s history: the monastery on the barren and windswept island of Iona, off the Scottish coast, where it was created; the repeated sacking and burning of the monastery by the Danes (Vikings); and how the book was always sequestered and saved. Some of the symbolism in the elaborate illuminations was explained — for example, the intricate mesh of snakes covering many Celtic objects typically represents rebirth, as snakes do in many cultures, because they shed their skins. 
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But even with the various wall texts, diagrams and maps, something — some vital piece of the information puzzle — seemed to be missing. Why does this book (and some others from the same period) look both so Arabic and Pagan to our eyes? To us, it looks as if the Christian “content” is merely a clever way to distract us from the real mystical shit hidden in all those intricate and labyrinthine illuminations. Sounds a bit Da Vinci Code, eh? I suspect that the mystery-in-plain-sight quality is part of the power and attraction of this “book.” “Book” in quotes, because it was always less a book than a sacred object, displayed on the altar on a specially constructed stand rather than read from. It seems the “information” it carries is not just in the text… though the “word” is acknowledged to be a powerful force. One thinks of the passages in the Bible — “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” — and then the bit where God names things. When something is named, and therefore placed in a separate conceptual box and isolated from everything else around it, that power is immense. It allows us to both think abstractly about things and people, and to intellectually manipulate them when they’re not right in front of us — even if they exist somewhere in the future. These illuminated books seem to celebrate the letter and the word while at the same time rendering them completely meaningless — mere shapes overwhelmed by the deep psychological power of Pagan symbolism. 
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Up some stairs, above the Chubb Insurance Company security case that encloses the book, is the Long Room library... there are a lot of words in this room. 
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You can see where the Harry Potter stuff came from.
Jeremy, a fan, wrote to my office; having read this blog, he offered us some sightseeing tips for Liverpool. Sadly, we couldn’t spend much time there as all the hotels were booked up for the Grand National, a local horse race (in which quite a few horses finished without riders!). Some of us did have time to see the two cathedrals — but that’s all — so, here are excerpts from his letter, with some photos (mine and others’) and my comments added [in brackets].
Dear Mr Byrne
Think of Liverpool, an even smaller city... The Philharmonic Hall [which is our venue] is on Hope Street [a little bit of English humour here]: 
Hope St is also famous for it having a cathedral at each end: the Anglican, which is Europe's largest, and bizarrely enough was designed by the same guy who designed the iconic British red telephone box. Personally I find it a bit bland… [Here is a photo I took. It may indeed be typical of many Anglican churches — though much larger — but I would call it ominous and looming, as opposed to bland]: 
…but at the other end of the street is “Paddy's Wigwam” — so called because it's Catholic (Liverpool is full of Irish Catholics) and because of its shape. [Here is a picture of the “wigwam” — more like a crown for an alien God if you ask me]: 
The best way I can describe it is that inside it is like a cross between a cathedral and an art gallery — all the chapels within have been designed by different artists, each with their own distinctive style. If you should be lucky enough to visit on a sunny day, the light shining though the coloured glass of the tower and side panels is really stunning. A TV programme a couple of years ago invited people who pass by the cathedral each day, but who had never been inside, a chance to see inside — workmen building outside, a nurse who caught the bus on the road outside, etc. — the nurse in particular was very touched by the place, giving a tearful thank you for being shown what she hadn't even realized was there. I don't know if it is still in operation, but last time I was in Hope Street, they had a laser beam from one end of the street to the other, linking the two cathedrals. [For years the Anglicans (Protestants), who hold power in most of England and dominate local politics, refused to grant Catholics the right to build their temple, using various legal and political tactics to postpone or delay construction; eventually the Catholics prevailed.] Even closer to your venue is the Philharmonic Pub — world-famous for its gents toilets, of all things! 
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Very ornate, and a popular place for people of either gender to visit (to view, that is!) Rather than the Tate gallery at the Albert Dock, I would suggest you visit the Bluecoat Chambers in the city centre; this site has a good article, which may explain why I think it may be of interest... though I would add that quite apart from its cultural value, it's also a great place to get a coffee or whatever, in that it has a nice quiet courtyard at the rear, which is a nice peaceful place to take a break — seemingly miles from the busy city centre which is in fact just yards away from the front of the building. I did think that it was near the Bluecoat that the only Confederate embassy outside the US was located, but in searching for links to give you more info, it seems I may have been confused; but for your information anyway... Whether you visit the Tate or not, also at the Albert Dock is the International Slavery Museum, though even just casting your eye on the decoration of buildings & the entrances of the grand buildings in the business part of the city (Brunswick Street, Castle Street, etc), Liverpool's part in the slave trade is all but evident. If you or any of your party care to take a "Ferry 'Cross The Mersey", it may be of interest to know that the model for NYC's Central Park is over there in Birkenhead; I'll let Wikipedia explain... Oh one final example of little-known Liverpool is the tunnels that were built under the city 200 years ago, and of which nobody is certain of their purpose; again, I'll let this link explain... 
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[This is an amazing story. In the early 1800’s, an eccentric tobacco millionaire had secret tunnels dug under his company lands in Edge Hill. For decades he extended them until there was a labyrinth under that whole section of town. Why? For what? No one knows exactly. No one knows the extent of the tunnels either — Williamson was secretive about them, and after he died, his housekeeper sold all of his personal belongings — so if there were plans for the tunnels they haven’t turned up. 
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When construction ended on his business properties and mansions, he focused his efforts on the tunnel project. He employed thousands of men, all digging by hand, and when his wife Elizabeth died in 1822, he doubled his efforts. There are double-decker tunnels, and even a triple-decker exchange has been found — some areas are still being dug out. Some claim that he was being altruistic, as the soldiers returning from the Napoleonic Wars needed work; others claim he had apocalyptic religious leanings, and the tunnels were to be a refuge come the end of the world. Williamson and his followers would seek refuge in the tunnels while God destroyed the evildoers above, then they’d emerge and build a new city — a kind of contemporary Noah. The labyrinth is eccentric — there are tunnels that go nowhere, and some that Williamson ordered dug and then bricked up. There’s an anecdote from the 1830’s about some railway workers who were digging nearby the tunnels. A hole suddenly opened up beneath them; they looked down, and saw Williamson’s workers looking up at them. The railway guys fled in terror, thinking they had opened up a hole in hell. Another anecdote describes a dinner that he hosted for a group of his contemporaries; he served them a poor meal, something like bacon and beans. Some guests left, offended by the meager fare, but those that stayed were rewarded. To them he said, “Now I know who my true friends are. Follow me…” and he led them into another room where a massive repast had been laid out. Thank you, Jeremy!]
Singapore, meanwhile, isn’t quite as bad as HK for cycling. As in Japan, urban cyclists ride on the sidewalks, which aren’t that busy with peds except in certain areas. There are no dedicated bike lanes, but we do all right. The night we arrive, C and I head out to get something to eat. We stop at the Hindu section of town on the way to dinner. The Hindu area, called Little India, is mostly lined with sari and jewelry shops, but in the middle of it all is a typical Hindu temple, with gaudy polychrome sculptures of Ganesh, Shiva and a host of others. We take off our shoes and wander in with all the others, who are there for their evening prayers and pujas. It’s a cacophony — an invisible voice sings along with a tambura drone as people move from one shrine to the next. Some hold cups of chai, and others make offerings and pour oil over the statues or light incense. There’s a grotesque Kali with a skull and blood dripping from her teeth. On the way out I nearly trip over the singer, who is casually sitting on the floor, mic in hand. An assistant guards a little box that electronically produces an endless tambura drone, and feeds it into a tiny amp along with the singer’s voice. On a previous trip to Singapore, I arrived during Thaipusam, a Tamil Hindu festival during which devotees in trance pierce their bodies with metal rods — through their cheeks and elsewhere. Some hung limes from their chests using little hooks embedded in their flesh, while others carried elaborate apparatuses overhead, supported by rods and poles that dug into their skin. 
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There was no blood. Not a drop. I watched as one man was getting pierced. A musician playing a double reed instrument wailed into the adept’s ear, while another man wafted incense all around him, creating a heady, overwhelming environment. Then, fairly quickly, a priest thrust a rod through the guy’s cheeks. There was no feeling of suffering — this was not a kind of penitent deal like the Catholics do. It was beautiful, and not for weak stomachs. We continue on, riding along the sidewalks, as do some food delivery guys. Away from the center of town or the bustle of Little India there’s little or no foot traffic. On my previous visit I had stumbled upon areas of outdoor food stalls called hawker centres. I remembered that the food was fresh, local and delicious — and the place had character and liveliness, in contrast to the restaurants in the glass offices and condo zones that make up much of this city. There are a few of these hawkers in town — this one is called Newton Circus. 
We find an available table and order dishes from the myriad of surrounding stalls offering cooked food. In structure it’s a bit like the food courts in shopping malls or airports, but in content and vibe this is another world. Here the food has wildly unexpected flavors — all good and inexpensive. You can get huge shrimp (more like lobster, really), stingray in sambal sauce, (delicious) crab… 
…cooked vegetables, snails, marinated meat — and for dessert, a mountain of shaved ice with sweet syrup poured over top. Singapore, being a place where a lot of cultures and peoples met — Indian, Malaysian, Indonesian, Chinese — has some of the best tasting food anywhere. The mixtures of flavors are like nowhere else. Though we would have more delicate and refined food in Japan, and more delicious seafood in Australia and NZ, Singapore might come close to taking the prize for: 
The next day C and I went on a more ambitious ride — halfway across Singapore Island to Haw Par Villa. Aw Boon Haw was a businessman who, along with his brother Aw Boon Par, developed Tiger Balm and made a lot of money from it. As a kind of give-back to the community, he built the deco-futuristic Haw Par Villa and gardens (and similar ones in HK too — since torn down, of course), which he opened to the public and decorated with statues representing Chinese mythology and Buddhist Hells. I didn’t know Buddhists had hells, but in this manifestation, they sure do. The difference between this and the Christian hell is that this one is temporary; after a period of horror and unimaginable suffering, you are given the cup of forgetfulness and you move on to your next life. So, welcome to hell — you can have a picnic lunch or a durian popsicle (I did) sitting next to a giant crab with a woman’s head, or a monkey taking a photograph. Or, in this case, a chicken couple having a domestic spat. 
The bike ride to get there was long — and the last part, paralleling an elevated highway, was no fun — but the park is one of wackiest roadside attractions you’ll ever see. Below is the punishment for moneylenders who charge exorbitant interest rates! Thrown onto a mountain of daggers. Isn’t that part of the new economic recovery program? 
A teeny bit suggestive, the placement of some of those daggers, eh? Singapore, unlike HK, does have some public amenities. There are quite a few parks scattered about; playing fields open to the public; a long waterfront promenade and bike trail with seafood restaurants and picnic tables; trees and shade; and institutions like the hawker’s markets that allow people to mingle and relax together. There are streets and neighborhoods with small, locally owned shops and stalls, not just chain stores. There’s a new, incredible looking performing arts center that resembles two halves of a split durian fruit — a curious choice, as durian is notoriously stinky, but maybe it’s an inside joke, as it’s a local fruit. Sadly, we didn’t play there — it wasn’t available; we did a convention center, similar to the place in Hong Kong. Ah well. It went well — the audience was a mixture of locals and expats. The food at catering was (this is Singapore) unbelievably good. Despite all this Singapore hasn’t been able to resist the lure of developers during the heady years of the South Asian economic boom — most of the city is high rises and glass-walled offices. We saw one neighborhood that seemed to represent what Singapore used to be like — charming houses on winding streets with porches and gardens, and small shops on the corners. The area seems preserved, like a monument or physical memory of what the city used to be — like Greenwich Village in NY. Another such area has a sun-covering over several entire streets, creating an indoor/outdoor arcade. The city must have realized at some point that those areas — like Little India and Chinatown — are what give the city its identity and flavor… and are tourist attractions, too. One of the public parks is like no other park I’ve seen. To save the public the effort of climbing up and down the hills, they’ve built a high, elevated walkway that takes you through the treetops. A sign says “Don’t feed the monkeys. Have a nice walk in the park, but don’t lean over too far." 
Why does Singapore have all these things for its citizens when it could have easily covered these hills with more condos, as Hong Kong has done? Both were island “nations” colonized by the British, established (in the British point of view) as commercial hubs where goods from neighboring lands could be traded and exported. Both have large percentages of Chinese, especially in the business worlds — though Singapore is certainly less dominated by the Chinese. What is it that gave one island nation the nerve to say, “No, we will save some parkland for our citizens; we will save some chaotic marketplaces and hawker centres?” (— though I’ve heard that the hawkers here are under attack on health grounds, much like the Red Hook Ball Field stalls have been in NYC). What causes one place to say no to immediate profit if it destroys something in the public’s interest, and another to always see profit as the right way to go?
The next day a small group of us goes for a bike ride — a bike ride in Salvador! It turns out there is a nature reserve on the northern edge of town — more or less a raw jungle — situated around a lake just inland from the sea; a 17km bike path circles it. It’s quiet and idyllic. There is a bike rental place at the park entrance, so we are all set. A few kilometers along the path we come upon a man selling fresh coco (coconut milk) from coconuts he probably gathered locally. I go off to pee and see this old guy with leathery skin, who has most of his possessions stashed a few meters away in the undergrowth.
As we suck on the coconut milk, up ride Margareth Menezes and her husband. I invited Margareth to join me in the early 90s on my Rei Momo tour. She sang backup and had two or three Bahian tunes that she did as part of the show, accompanied by my band. She was a ball of fire on stage and reportedly still is — you have to see her live. She was Queen of Carnival for some years, and her shows here are legendary. We haven’t seen one another for about 15 years — so it’s a lovely surprise to see her — and on a bicycle!
An older man, a childhood friend of Caetano’s from their little town of Santo Amaro, pedals along with us. He wears only a floppy hat, a pair of shorts and some flip-flops and his tan (he’s white) is deep deep brown. I’m told he’s a great guitarist — ah yes, I saw him on Marisa Monte’s tour a couple of years back. He continually gets offered studio gigs in Rio or elsewhere, or offers to tour, but says he hates travel, as “then I’d have to wear shoes.”
We head by car to Nossa Senor da Bomfim ("our father of the good end") church at the other end of town. It’s the first Friday of the month and therefore there will be a mass there tonight, but it seems like most people will be converging there because this particular Jesus is syncretized with Oxala, the cool white God of Candomblé. So, while it might appear that thousands are turning out for an early evening mass, they are really showing their respect for Oxala.
We arrive and the mass is still in progress. Thousands mill about and gather outside — almost all of them dressed in white — the color of Candomblé and especially of Oxala. Candomblé priests and priestesses gather outside, blessing the faithful with bunches of herbs, Baianas sell acarajé (fried bean cakes) and street vendors sell the famous ribbons that get tied around your wrist. I had a “reading” years ago by a Candomblé priest and a great artist named Mestre Didi when I was in town, and he said that Oxala was my saint — "the Orixa that 'rules' my head."
Tonight everyone claims that this is why I kept suggesting we come here, and also why, in retrospect, our visit went so smoothly. Some even claim that this explains why we didn’t hit a traffic jam arriving here.
We can’t get into the church yet to see the amazing room filled with ex-votos (votive offerings to a saint or divinity), so I head to a nearby religious articles shop to see if they have some for sale. They do. I buy a stomach and C buys a bunch of other body parts, all made of wax. The shop is lined with statues of Catholic saints, Candomblé beads and busts of Anastasia, the slave girl who stood her ground. A woman comes in and asks for a statue of Santa Barbara, but we all know that that is merely a stand in for Yansan, the Goddess who don’t take no shit. So, though it might vaguely look like a typical religious article shop, like many shops here this one serves multiple clienteles.
The mass is over and a procession carries Jesus around the outside of the church while everyone sings the Hino ao Senhor Do Bonfum Da Bahia, a hymn sung by Caetano featured somewhat ironically on the first Tropicalia record. We duck through the procession and head for the ex-voto room near the back. Body parts dangle like stalagmites from the ceiling and the walls are plastered with photos of the grateful who survived a disease or car crash.
Caetano says the church has tried to forbid attendees from wearing white — the implication being that by wearing white they’re blatantly here for Oxala and not Jesus — but I think if the church ever enforced that, attendance would be so skimpy that they’d be shamed into admitting the truth. Besides — the essence of syncretism isn’t either/or — it’s both/and.
Paulinha throws a party at the house in the evening. There is a room with rotating fans set up for dancing (I do) and 2 Baianas on a patio making acarajé and abara (the steamed rather than deep fried version of the bean cake). A bartender makes caipirinhas and batidas out of fresh maracuja (passion fruit).
Arto Lindsay is here with his wife. I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been in Salvador for a number of years, but now he’s moving to Rio as there will be more work there. Good to see him.
We leave around two and we hear that, at four AM, just as the party was winding down, Seu Jorge and Beth Carvalho (the singers) show up — both of them with their entourages. The bartenders rolled their eyes as if to say “now the party will start all over again.”
At breakfast my mother was eating off one of my commemorative plates — and she apologized quietly to the Queen Mum for putting bread on her face.
Over breakfast mom began to reminisce about a woman’s place in Scotland when she was growing up.
It was pre-war. There was (maybe still is) a test called the 11-plus that you would take when you were 11, and if you passed you were allowed to got to a high school that prepped you for college, and if you didn’t they taught you home ec and typing. There was no choice in the matter. Anyway, Glasgow didn’t have enough universities even if more folks were available to go. My mom passed, the only one in her class of 30, so she went to the high school, but eventually she was pressured by her family to drop out and get a job as they figured she’d only get married anyway, so why finish? Besides, they sort of claimed higher education might have been getting above her station, as her dad was a sign painter. Most women weren’t allowed into universities at that time anyway. So she was expressing some exasperation and regret — though later, when I was in high school, she went to night school at the local university in Baltimore and earned a teaching degree. She got a job teaching special ed kids and felt pretty fulfilled and stimulated for a while, even though fighting the school administration was always an uphill battle.
Then there was some talk of the war. Her younger sister was sent to the country, as were all children under 15 — to live with relatives if they had any or strangers if they didn’t. Air raids and getting up in the middle of the night with a pre-packed suitcase and hiding in a shelter or a sister-in-law’s basement.
At Malu's graduation dinner I sat next to Michael Daube, who has been building small clinics and hospitals in India and elsewhere. (He said the best place to have a suit made is now Nepal). [Link to Citta, Michael's organization.]
We were talking about fundamentalist Christians, I think — someone at the table had mentioned how the right made abortion the pivotal decisive issue in many elections. I mentioned the talk I’d heard by Jonathan Haidt at the New Yorker conference in which he attempted to briefly delineate the 2 kinds of morality at work in the world. (There’s a good interview with him in The Believer as well.)
Anyway, Haidt says something like this: in a cosmopolitan society like New York, San Francisco, London or many other contemporary cities in which various people and cultures must coexist, personal morality adjusts itself to accommodate the multiple moral codes of the surrounding people. The tendency is for people in multicultural places to adopt a live-and-let-live moral philosophy — what others do is OK as long as it does harm anyone else. This, however, is vastly different than the traditional set of moral codes that most societies live by. In most societies, where most people are more or less culturally the same, there exists a network of moral codes based on family, loyalty, respect for authority, justice, fairness and purity. Haidt claims that “liberal” societies have abandoned many of these moral codes — purity, for example — as being a personal matter for each individual and not something to be imposed by society. You can have religious laws inside your temple or house, the liberals would say, but don’t try to impose them on the whole society. In traditional societies — and, one might argue, also according to our genetic predisposition — the larger network of values holds sway. The two moralities, by nature, are mutually exclusive.
To me it seems that the ideas of the enlightenment have resonated out and are now tearing the world apart as they come into contact with traditional cultures, whether in Colorado or Lahore.
Here’s a paragraph from Haidt and his collaborators: Moral foundations theory proposes that five innate psychological systems form the foundation of “intuitive ethics.” Each culture constructs its particular morality as a set of virtues, values, and ideas based on or related to these five foundations (as well as to many other non-moral aspects of the evolved mind). The current American culture war can be seen as arising from the fact that liberals try to create a morality using only the Harm/Care and Fairness/Reciprocity foundations; conservatives, especially religious conservatives, use all five foundations, including In-group/Loyalty, Authority/Respect, and Purity/Sanctity. The theory is an extension of Richard Shweder's theory of the "three ethics" commonly used around the world when people talk about morality: the ethics of Autonomy, Community, and Divinity.
So…apropos all of this, Michael mentioned he’d recently been to a town in Pakistan near the Afghan border where they practice a rather extreme form of self-punishment. Even little kids whip themselves with blades imbedded in the whips leaving steams of blood running down their backs. Some Western journalists were on hand to view the spectacle, and along with Michael they were rounded up and taken to a “safe” viewing area. I’d seen a similar spectacle in Malaysia, a Hindu ceremony called Taipusam, in which the adepts stick metal rods through their cheeks and hang limes from hooks stuck into their chests. Significantly, no blood gushes forth during the Taipusam ceremonies — there’s a mind-over-body control at work.
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Michael got to talking with some Pashtun lads who were asking him questions about the United States. At some point he could tell they had more burning questions but were hesitant in asking. He said they could ask him anything, no problem, anything they wanted to ask they could ask.
So they asked him, “Why do Americans have sex with animals?” This was, it seemed, not a question about some freakish subculture of zoophiles; the assumption was that it’s quite common in America. This is what Americans do. These boys have limited access to TV or any media — they may have seen some Hollywood movies — and apparently at sometime or other they viewed an American porno featuring animal sex. (My guess is those pornos are paraded and distributed as examples of the decadence of the West. Michael confirms this — “The lads were shown the film by the Wahabi religious leaders in the area! Its a direct way of controlling and rallying the culture against the west.”) These boys also made no distinction between what they saw in movies and what might be reality….movies which would include the decedent sexy behavior of the parade of tarts and slutty women featured in most Western films.
To these lads, whose morality is of the first, traditional, type, there is no question this is ungodly satanic behavior — which should be stamped out for the good of mankind. By any means necessary. And it is proof that the West, whose representatives are surrounding them in increasing numbers, is certainly Satan’s republic.
For members of the Christian Right I suspect the same viewpoint holds sway, at least amongst the churchgoers. I suspect a good number of the ministers, like Ted Haggart, Jimmy Swaggart and the others, are natural-born hypocrites who have become addicted to the power they have over their flocks. But for the congregation an issue like abortion, as Haidt implies, is not an isolated issue — it is a sign that the godless hoards are at the gates and must be stopped before the moral chains that hold us together as human beings are torn asunder.
It all seems pretty hopeless. Reconciliation, I mean. The worlds and viewpoints are mutually exclusive. There is no middle ground. Maybe understanding and empathy is possible, and that is a start, but from across a great divide.
I seem to remember Haidt might have quoted a study that claimed believers are, in general, happier — which makes intuitive sense to me. If a system of believe answers your most profound questions and supports your moral network then you will feel pretty secure and content. But another study (see previous posting) says exactly the opposite — that believers are less happy than one might expect. In fact that study says they’re less happy than atheists! Yale (Luaka Bop) and I had a related talk the other day. He spoke about Tim Maia, the Brazilian RnB singer and how Maia had joined a religious cult in Brazil that believes that the righteous will be taken aboard a spaceship when the time comes. (The spaceship will take them to a better place; this is not about aliens engaged in sexual probes.) He cited Sun Ra and Elijah Mohammed of the Chicago Black Muslims as believers in alien saviors and wondered if there was a reason African-American millennials seem to have a tendency to incorporate spaceships into their beliefs. I said I didn’t know, but the spaceship image seems simply, as Jung would put it, an update of the Christian rapture concept. It’s something millions of fundamentalist Christians, Mormons and others believe in: that when the end days come, when the signs appear, then the baptized, the righteous and the saved will be “lifted up” to heaven and the rest of us will be destroyed along with the decadent earth we inhabited. It’s a really common Christian concept, so, to me, adding a spaceship to facilitate the “lifting up” part is no big deal.
But once again there is a separation between the chosen people, i.e. those to be rescued, and the rest of us infidels. George Bush believes this — that this lifting up will take place — which to me implies a mythical confirmation of what will happen if one breaks the traditional moral chains. Not only are certain behaviors morally wrong, but if George can’t stop the behavior with guns and ammo, then God will deal with it come the apocalypse. So, one way or another, the righteous will prevail. Both George and the Pashtun boys believe the same things…they’ll meet on the same spaceship. It should be an interesting flight.
Thoughts while watching Fernando Trueba’s documentary El Milagro de Candeal on the Candeal neighborhood in Salvador, Bahia, where Carlinhos Brown led a transformation effort. It’s the neighborhood and Afro-Bahian culture viewed through the eyes of a Trueba favorite — Bebo Valdés, the Cuban pianist who won numerous awards for his recent recordings on Trueba’s Spanish record label.
The links between Afro-Cuban music and culture and Afro-Brazilian culture are many. The religious roots are similar — Shango, Oxum, Oxala, Yemanja are all worshipped in both countries, with some variation. Musically, rhythmically, the son and the samba are, for example, quite different, but the way the music is organized is very similar, so there is a lot of jamming together in the film.
John Cage goes Funky
Here (above) either Bebo or Brown comments on the rhythmic clickety-clack and thrum as they cross a bridge in the rural town of Cachoeira.
Carnival and musical groups are seen filling the streets. There are connections here with the “saints”, too — the Afro-Atlantic gods and goddesses. One senses, just watching a street procession, a kind of openness, a generosity, an embrace of the universe.
When I was there shooting my own little documentary I felt this non-judgmental religion and ethos, which is maybe something many have sensed in Buddhism and other eastern philosophies, but here it is funky, sexy…and loud!
Maybe here is a god (or Gods) without God. A prayer to that which is greater than ourselves.
O mia Pae (oh, my father) sings a vocal group in a church built by slaves. But it’s not necessarily the Christian God they are singing to — though he’s welcome to join in as well.
A song to the mystery, to that which is beyond out comprehension, and biologically will ever be thus — I suspect that our brains are not built for understanding everything, evolutionarily it’s not necessary.
And there is acceptance that there are things we will never understand. Many call it God, but I prefer Mystery. It could be called “father”, in the sense that nameless ethereal whirligigs made us, begat us, formed us and the world, but that is a metaphor — it is certainly not necessarily a literal male, a man with a long white beard. Another common metaphor is Mother, and often Africa is invoked as the mother of us all — our evolutionary mother and spiritual mother. That’s where we all came from and that’s where what we are was established.
Musically, here is Africa in Spain, in Brasil, in North America, in Cuba — the roots of RnB, samba, rhumba, son, funk, rock and roll, swing, hip hop, humor, language, cool, digital culture — improvisation and innovation.
Here is Brown’s Mae de Santo (mother of the saints) and mentor, Dona Angelina, as she goes into a trance following Brown testifying to what she and the saints have done for him and the community.
The mysterious may be things we suss the mechanism of, the parts and the mechanics, but which still remain marvelous in their existence.
The awesome power of the sea, of the air, wind, of the earth below us, of ourselves — even of those psychological forces we acknowledge, whose mechanics we sort of think we understand, but whose manifestations are, and remain, like water and air, like a bird or a tiger — somehow still beyond our deep comprehension….and certainly beyond our control. Drugs, therapy and surgery may throw up roadblocks and signposts — but we’re never really in control, like the Gnarls Barkley song says.
Here are Brown, Bebo and Marisa Monte singing together. What does this have to do with the rebirth of a neighborhood? Maybe everything.
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