Orpheus and Eurydice Go Shopping

(She really didn't want to go in the first place). Edward Poynter's 1862 "Orpheus and Eurydice" altered by the author's brilliant wife.

Shopping is like a hero’s journey these days

One I don’t always win.

Wan, blank faces, less telling than Greek masks,

I may as well be in the underworld itself

My wife was bitten early by the fright,

She is a social distance champion,

She avoids other people at the store

By walking directly behind me

It takes faith to walk on, not hearing or seeing her

As we make our way out of the gloom.

And I have good reason to look back.

She often gets distracted by end cap sales

And one time I got rather far before discovering she was not there.

Divinity and Identity: Xu Zhen's Guanyin

“The European Thousand Armed Classical Sculpture,” by artist Xu Zhen at the National Gallery of Australia's Xu Zhen exhibition, “Eternity Vs Evolution.”

Can nineteen, artfully arranged classical statues of gods, God, and other figures add up to the Chinese Bodhisattva of compassion? A thought-provoking work of art I recently discovered, by the Chinese artist Xu Zhen seems to beg that question. And I love a begged question!

“The European Thousand Armed Classical Sculpture” is actually an arrangement of nineteen colossal statues, made of a variety of materials made to look like bleached Greek marble, currently on view at the National Gallery of Australia’s Xu Zhen exhibition, “Eternity Vs Evolution.” The statues include Athena, Ulysses, Zeus, the Statue of Liberty and Christ, among others and they stand in a line and are posed so that a viewer facing the first statue, Athena, sees an Athena with arms seemingly sprouting all around her. The effect is said to produce the Buddhist figure known in China as Guanyin, the thousand-armed, a divinity putting off Buddha-hood in order to free every being from suffering. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, Guanyin, known by various names in different cultures, may be the most popular figure in Buddhism. Guanyin is known as “the merciful” and “the compassionate” and has been equated by Catholics with the Virgin Mary. The figure may be more commonly known by her Sanskrit-derived name, Avalokiteshvara, and may be depicted in other cultures or settings as a male.

A Comparison of Xu Zhen's Guanyin with a Vietnamese sculpture (called Quan Am) from 1656, now in the History Museum of Hanoi and a Chinese Guanyin in a women's monastery in Anhui. Pictures from the National Gallery of Australia and Wikipedia.

I saw “The European Thousand Armed Classical Sculpture” on a publicity video for an exhibit put out by the National Gallery of Australia, which is currently showing a retrospective of Xu Zhen’s work and I was struck by the pairing of divine figures from different religious traditions and what messages the work sent. The work probably defies most viewers’ internal sense of categorization, including ancient Greek deities, Christ and the Statue of Liberty. I have not, as yet, identified every figure. I believe several are classical male athletes, but even so, every figure represents some sort of ideal, and is it so strange in 21st Century America to worship an athlete or athletic prowess?

Christ, of course, is a savior of humanity, and his sacrifice sounds somewhat akin to Guanyin’s, in putting all of sentient creation before herself. The Statue of Liberty also fits part of Guanyin’s mission: “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” (Emma Lazarus). Perhaps the inclusion of Greek deities requires some flexibility as they are not, as a rule, selfless. But Athena is a goddess of wisdom (and war) who was prayed to for help, as was Zeus. In a particular time and place, these figures may have been the correct sources in times of trouble. Ulysses and the other human figures may have you wondering whether Xu Zhen just needed statues with arms pointed in particular directions, but then, Guanyin, was at least once human, and may continue to be perceived that way. And it is not Christ's humanity that brings Christians closer to God?

There are seeming contradictions, but these, to me, are the most fun to think about. I believe that the figure in the last position of the line, with arms raised above and hands crossed could be Marsyas, a figure from Greek mythology who challenged the god Apollo to a music competition and was condemned to be skinned alive. This is a tricky sell, given that Guanyin is merciful, compassionate, but Christ is clearly merciful and compassionate, and yet, his sculpture in this work of art is in the posture of crucifixion (Xu Zhen removed the cross, but left Christ’s human figure.) That the world would need a Guanyin (or Christ, or even a Statue of Liberty) speaks to the suffering that is native to the human condition. The statues are mostly male, with a female (Athena) in the front, but again, Guanyin is a female representation of a divinity that is also seen as male. I am no expert in Buddhism, but if the figure arose from an Indian tradition, this gender swapping does not at all seem strange to me. Hindu divinities often have a male and female form and gender fluidity is understood as part of life.

I have unanswered questions about “The European Thousand Armed Classical Sculpture.” I haven’t identified most of the figures and I haven’t seen a comprehensive list of identities, even to know where Xu Zhen took all of the statues from. Given the famous ones, I assume that they are all famous examples of classical statuary. I was even reluctant at first to publish this post without knowing for certain (and frankly frustrated that this information was not readily supplied by the National Gallery of Australia) but then I considered the example of Zeus in the lineup, which I believe is based on the Artemision Bronze, and began to wonder if this lack of information is not part of the game of this work of art. The Artemision Bronze, a figure that seems to be aiming a weapon, has been alternatively identified as Zeus and Poseidon. The weapon is missing. Was it a thunderbolt or a trident? We don’t know. And again, even the identity of Guanyin, called by many names, considered alternately male and female, is somewhat in flux. The Statue of Liberty, or at least Emma Lazarus's conception of it, was based on the Colossus of Rhodes, which was a statue of the sun god Helios! The notion that one god (or God) is more than one god is not unprecedented. We also know that gods and religious worship change over time. I’ve done a pretty good job, at least, of convincing myself that it’s okay to post this article without knowing everything I think there is to know about this artwork!

But what do you think? Are you entirely comfortable with this mix of figures? Do you think I’m just playing games with this work of art? Let me know in the comments below. I personally think that the best works of art are those that beg us to play. I think the best stories do that as well. But identifying more of the statues may actually lead to more playfulness and fun and that, to me, is what art is about. So please, if you are an art lover, look at the photos and see if you can identify the rest of the statues that form “The European Thousand Armed Classical Sculpture” and if you are curious, check out the rest of the Xu Zhen show at the National Gallery of Australia. If you like playfulness, you will find much to enjoy!

Into Adulthood's Dark Forest with Bynum's 'Likes'

Likes, and author Sarah Shun-lien Bynum.

Folktales are said to help us deal with the most terrible of human fears, that of the unknown, in ways that make the unknown bearable. What if your mother dies and your father marries a woman who hates you? What if your parents can’t bear the cost of feeding the family and just decide to abandon you? But childhood is not where fears and insecurities end in human life, and author Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum’s recently released book of short stories, titled Likes, addresses the phantoms that range the adult imagination. These stories are frequently about young parents and spouses and the ways that we deal with what is just beyond the horizon of our knowledge. They probe our anxieties about our marriages and children, of our youthful friendships strained by our having grown up. Bynum explores the many ways we may wonder whether we are keeping up. And she does it so well.

I do not know if all of the stories in Bynum’s new collection are based on fairy tales and it would be a bad deed to tell you which ones I've identified because part of my fun in reading them was that moment of discovery. These stories are of modern life, of characters and concerns so detailed and recognizable that I bet you will stop looking for the folk allusions, and then they will sneak up and catch you off guard. One of my favorite stories was “Many a Little Makes,” about three preteen girls discovering themselves and their friendship as it slips from early middle school to high school. Yes, there is a heart-pounding moment when a tampon flies out of a bag and across a seventh grade classroom floor, and an episode where eyebrow plucking goes adorably wrong, but the girls are just as much defined by their changing interests which are not necessarily gendered at all. If you are a Gen-Xer like me, you will adore a scene that takes place in a video store where Better Off Dead competes with The Blues Brothers and Psycho, or when the main character Mari discovers The Smiths and becomes obsessed with Northern England. Mari’s friendship with Bree and Imogen is of the sort that lives in the golden country of our memories, when friends didn’t need invitations to get together. It was simply expected. And if there is not an allusion to a particular fairy tale, there is a sort of fairytale aspect to it, as when the pantry of one friend is always “magically full” or when Mari describes the tall, sleek Imogen as “a wood elf among dwarves or a human escorting hobbits.” The girls do face a trial, which the adult Mari will almost rediscover and reassess through the fog of adulthood.

These tales are frequently of and about women, and women of some means: the associate professor, processing her recent miscarriage while trying to write a chapter about Henry James; the television writer finding herself a stay-at-home, would-be mom, while her more successful partner creates children’s television; the mother wondering whether she royally screwed up in not getting her kindergarten-age daughter into the Waldorf School. As a middle-aged man reading the stories, I noticed early in the collection the number of times Bynum’s characters struggled with, and sometimes seemed weighed down by, things they perceived as unknowable. A husband’s, a friend’s, a child’s, even a dog’s innermost thoughts and feelings are scrutinized by these women who seem worried that they may not measure up. At times, I saw my wife in these portraits, and wondered if the traditionally-gendered role she plays in our household is part of what would make a woman so focused on certain things that I don’t find myself worrying about. She worries about whether I am content with meals, but then she does the shopping and the cooking. The collection's title comes from a tale about a father struggling with his ability to understand and connect with his sixth grade daughter, but even this narrator is crucially a stay-at-home dad, or a dad who at least handles all pickups and drop-offs and waits outside during his daughter's physical therapy. It made me wonder if full-time parenting, which seems to turn caregivers into the chauffeurs and attendants of their children, gives parents too much time to obsess with matters clearly beyond their control.

Bynum’s definite strength is her ability to pull you into the narrative. This said, her stories do not generally follow an obvious narrative arc. More than once I found myself surprised that a story was over and forced to reassess my understanding. I don’t think the stories are left unresolved. More so, I think that Bynum has (impressively) managed to shift the focus away from an obvious resolution and back to the conflicts that the stories present. This allows the stories the leeway to go to unexpected places that lie between the dramas of tales planned to climax in a certain number of pages. A story about a woman who recalls her husband’s long-ago infidelity while he is in the act of telling their child a bedtime story is not a searing tale of anger, regret or sadness that builds to a confrontation, or to the avoidance of one. The incongruity of the moment does not burn with ironic rage. It is rather left for the reader to struggle with after Bynum’s powerful narrative spell is broken. Like many of the tales, it is a story of remembering, and for adults of even a certain age, memories long enough in the past have grown hazy and uncertain in detail. Perhaps that calls for a different kind of fairy tale for adults, one more like life, that doesn’t suggest that the stories have either happy or sad endings--or that they ever truly end. If so, that's just what Bynum has given us: fascinating moments in time that are more real because they are not weighed down by traditional narrative constraints.

But what do you think? Do adults need fairy tales that address our worries and perspectives? Are you interested or excited to read this book? Were you already a fan of Bynum? What drew you to her style of writing? If you’ve already read Likes, or do as a result of this review, let me know what you think. Tell me if I’ve missed the mark or led you astray. And please critique my male perspective of these tales, which are mostly about women.