Tile Mosaics of Hue

Sometime last year, I stumbled across a twitter thread by the handle culturaltutor. I cannot precisely say how this thread made its way into my view (for I do not even have a twitter account). However, I cannot downplay the effect it has had on my world observations since. The heading was simply: Why Beauty Matters (and how it is being destroyed by usability.) 

The author leads by defining beauty as "that aesthetic quality which elevates ordinary things into something more meaningful." Then follows with the main idea of the post: "And when beauty dies, everything *does* start to look the same. Usability has no identity." 

Ensuing examples include a silver, sleek doorknob in contrast to a doorknob with ridges and a bronze patina. Another example was in regards to a pedestrian overpass - one is boxy and utilitarian, the other ornate metalwork. All are useful, but only one of the pair is memorable. 

Which is the main point of the thread. In the quest for usability, beauty has been sacrificed. Yet, the author argues that we are drawn to unique. Even in our recent forays into Ho Chi Minh, the cameras are not pointed at the glass skyscrapers along district one's Nguyen Hue street; they are snapping shots of the old apartment complex turned kitschy cafe and boutique shops or towards the yellow facade of the city hall built in the days of the French. 

The culturaltutor points out that "beauty and utility are NOT mutually exclusive. The Roman architect Vitruvious believed that every guiding should have three qualities: strength, usefulness, and beauty." Therefore, why has two been sacrificed for one? Most point to money, which reminds me of a Bill Bryson quote from The Road to Little Dribbling: Someone needs to explain to me how it is that the richer Britain gets the poorer it thinks itself.

The result of my exposure to a strange twitter post has altered my observation of everyday item even more. I have always been drawn to quirk and unique, but now I definitely notice whether a pedestrian pole is just a bland stick of metal or if it has grooves and etchings. Does the doorway seem a prison entrance or resembles entry into an enchanted land?  

Of course, the greatest examples are to be found in what we deem old, vintage, ancient, or even ruined. Thus, it was as we strolled the old city of Hue, I found myself snapping multiple photos of the tiled mosaics. They were a vivid example of functional beauty. 

 

We definitely had a deja vu moment walking into the old city on that dreary day, much to our surprise. I knew Hue was the old city and I also knew Vietnam had a very deep past with the adopted motherland. However, I did not realize that Hue was home to a Forbidden City of its own, though 25% smaller. I was immediately captivated and sucked into a historical rabbit hole, for the curators of the old city have done a spectacular job of displaying timelines and photos for references. 

Upon our first visit to Beijing's Forbidden City, a friend told us to look at it through the lens of it being kept up as if an emperor still lived there. It was great advice; a large portion was rebuilt, all greenery was discarded for marble slabs to accommodate the trampling of monstrous crowds, aimless wandering is frowned upon, and the air of peasant-you-do-not-belong-here permeates. In contrast, the Forbidden City of Hue has the feeling of come-see-what-was. Instead of massive rebuilding and extreme polishing, it has been restored in a way to retain what has been left after years of war and neglect. The colors are more muted, the grounds show subtle signs of where buildings once stood, and the surrounding land was filled with wild grasslands and verdant gardens. I loved it. 

And dispersed within the large was the small details, such as the gargoyle-esque gutters, the emperor's mark on roof tiles, gate signs rendered with broken tiles, and meandering rock gardens. Yet, to enter this fascinating spot one had to walk through a clunky, metal turnstile beneath a soaring red brick archway. Quite the juxtaposition.

Contemplations of the Petite Places

There are numerous legends and beliefs around the world that involve wee folk, such as sprites, leprechauns, deities, and kitchen spirits. With such legends comes imaginative lodgings - which is where my mind wandered the other day. 

The thoughts of deity lodgings or places of presence was instigated by a small assemblage I see twice on swim days. While it remains the same setup, it takes on a different look with each pass.

A scene of mishmash dwellings, a perched sage, the lady of the water (Guanyin) and an incense holder all residing in a mini water feature by a front gate. Last week, a rose dipped into the scene, which made me smile. Depending on the time of my passing, this tableau takes on a golden patina due to the setting sun or it is practically hidden by the shade of the home.

Thus, in passing this scene last week, I realized that the cultures of the world really have fascinating ways to make space for or acknowledge the idea of spirits. Granted, most of my exposure has been within Asia, but, for even a specific area, the traditions are immensely varied. 

The charming little houses for Thai dieties are a favorite. 

A little nook or platform for incense is another. 

I really love to see what gets set up along water. 

With this random realization has come an acknowledged appreciation for these small spaces. From the tiny doors at the foot of trees for fairies or brownies to the Mill Ends Park in Portland, OR for a lonely leprechaun to the tiny house nestled on a craggy riverbank for a water sprite, they are a visual reminder that the possibility of mythical beings adds a bit of delight to everyday. And I rather like living in a world that allows space for the what-could-be. If anything, it adds points of interest along a stroll. 

Photojournal: The Ruins of My Son

Even two months on, Zach and I continue to chat about our Tet holiday adventures. This is not unusual considering for the past 12 years, March is usually the month in which we trade our backpacks for routine, chatting about all that was done while planning classes. Even though the holiday schedule has been skewed these past few years, the pattern remains. 

  

Thus, we are still quite chuffed that we got a trip to the ruins of My Son. A romp through ruins is our best days during travel - and these had been on our ruin radar for a couple of years. When we checked into our hotel in Hoi An, there was a large wooden diorama art piece of the ruins behind the desk. Zach pointed to it and commented that he wanted to see that. His wish was granted the next day. 

The Champa kingdom was responsible for these creations, the complex mildly resembling the Angkor Wat complex in Cambodia. While initially used for rites and rituals, the area has been rife with war and destruction for millennia. As we investigated these ruins, we read about maruanding emperors on the placards, walked around the bomb craters left behind from bombing runs, and listened intently has Joel's described how snipers used the ruins for shelter and vantage points. The more I travel and experience the world, I am continually learning that the complexities of history are horrifically sanitized and storylines shoved into labels of good and bad.

As I love doing at most sites, I sought out the artistry. Artistic carvings on the temple walls and pillars are spectacular in this part of the world and trying to find them adds a bit of scavenging to the day. 

The fuzzy foliage faces were my favorite finds of the day. 

Elephant sightings always incite squeals of excitement!

Fun fact: I have a folder of pictures of curvy designs such as this one that I use for quilting inspiration. A couple of quilts I have created were directly inspired by old stones. 

Of course the company of the day was memorable. We have gotten to see grand structures around the world alongside family and friends, which consistently adds a special sparkle to any adventure. 

Mysterious Warblings

We frequently comment that the bravado of Asians to hold a microphone and serenade the neighborhood is unparalleled. We also make the argument frequently with students that one cannot be considered shy in speaking English if one is willing to vocalize with gusto all the wrong words to an English song in public. Watching Beyonce's Halo be sung at a uni singing competition years ago has forever tainted my enjoyment of that song. From entertainment booths to front porches to grand stages, karaoke (or KTV) is a beloved pastime in this part of the world. 

Our little town is not immune to the noise pollution, especially in our little alleyway. On one side of our flat, someone at the restaurant loves to blare Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On, on repeat. On the other side of our flat, is the mystery music. 

I do not know what lies beyond this door or the blue curtain that shields prying eyes when a breeze is wanted. But, I do know this is the source of daily KTVing. Every day, for hours. It is always the songs of Vietnam; the ones filled with longing, want, and loss. My imagination has constructed a wistful soul sprawled on a chaise lounge, with an adult beverage in one hand, microphone in the other, eyes closed, singing the songs of their battered soul. 

This fabricated image may never be wiped away for reality, which is OK by me. It is just a daily reminder that KTV brings solace to many. Therefore, we get to enjoy it as we walk by the door, or (on what we perceive as the most distressing of days) in our flat because it is so loud.