India: February in Mumbai and Bangalore

Akihi (n.): listening to directions and then walking off and promptly forgetting them: you've gone akihi. (Hawaiian)

These are my highlights from my two months in India and (some of) what I learned there. It was a pretty tumultuous time in my life, with the death of my great-grandmother and a major part of my application to (and rejection from) NYU taking place, and it's hard to put it all into words, which is part of the reason why I've been avoiding it. Another component is that my time in India was changed greatly from what I had proposed in my original Watson project, and I'm still trying to digest how I feel about that. Not that this year is going at all like I had proposed—that stopped way back in September—but I had to rethink how I was going to approach India more deeply than I have with other places I've visited.

This year I've grown more and more to value my independence. I go everywhere on my own, plan everything by myself, carry all my belongings on my back and spend the majority of my time alone. It's sometimes lonely, but more often very liberating. Empowering, even. But due to tensions in the north of India, my solo female status (and obvious foreign-ness), and other concerns, made this style of travel in India inadvisable. So after a lot of thought and scrambling, I decided to scrap my original plans to trek in the north and head for the south.

I started off with a couple of days in Mumbai/Bombay, and if you've never been before, let me just tell you it is HUGE. Like we're talking mondo colossal, massive, immense, and just generally vast. Monumental. Gargantuan. Brobdingnagian, even. But I had places to be, so I swallowed my overstimulated panic and went about my business. I used a tour service for the four days I was in the city, so I had reliable (and air-conditioned!) transportation to and from sites, plus guides. It was a good way to start.

My fist full day in Mumbai was spent out in the ocean, visiting the Elephanta Caves on Gharapuri Island in Mumbai Harbour. It's reached by taking a small ferry (which, in the heat of the day, was perhaps my favorite part of the trip) and then hiking up the side of the island to the caves. This site (now a UNESCO World Heritage Site) was a very popular Hindu place of worship until the Portuguese landed in the sixteenth century. The gorgeous statues and bas-relief were used as target practice by the Portuguese, and there are still bullets lodged in some of the sacred stone. The elephants for which the caves were named are almost completely destroyed.

An outlying cave on Elephanta Island, carved into the mountainside

Today, the Elephanta Caves are a place of both tourism and local pilgrimage. One of the most sacred pieces of stonework in the caves, a lingam (which is an abstract representation of Shiva/the universe/the union of male and female/the nonduality of reality/you get the picture it's really complex and hard to explain and I think the meaning changes slightly for each individual lingam) was left untouched and is still used for worship to this day. While I was there it was covered in flowers and many people left oil lamps or other offerings. It's pretty fantastic to realize that a place like this exists both practically and successfully—a place that's been through so much change but can still be used for some of its original purposes, while showcasing its complicated history. So often the places I visit have chosen to either represent history or continue being a place of worship. Not gonna lie, I drooled a little.

Next stop, Kanheri Caves! Located a little ways outside of Mumbai, in the depths of a wildlife reserve, these caves are very similar to the Elephanta Caves—but Buddhist. They were not subjected to the same destruction that the Elephanta Caves were, but are not being used for anything other than as a local sightseeing destination. There are one hundred and nine caves in all, and they are not as artistically developed as the five Elephanta Caves, although this is mainly because many of them were meant to serve as living, studying, and meditating quarters. The main caves that are decorated with sculpture, however, are gorgeous. I especially liked the meditation hall, which was designed specifically so that the repeated om would reverberate strongly through the mountain.

Monolithic Buddha outside the main meditation hall (human for size)

Next, I spent a little while in Bangalore/Bengaluru, which is further south and in the center. Known as the Silicon Valley of India, it has a huge concentration of tech companies and is also delightfully located up on a plateau, making its climate a lot more forgiving than elsewhere in India. What I wouldn't give for a Bangalore breeze right now.

It was in Bangalore that I began to really explore the unique way in which Hindu religion interacts with objects. One of my guides in Mumbai described Hinduism as "a religion of objects" which was naturally devastatingly oversimplified but also helpful to keep in mind. As I have delved more deeply into Hindu practices, it has come to my attention that some principles of “conservation” already exist within Hindu culture. For example, in Bangalore I was able to witness the daily cleansing ceremony at the Bull Temple, a ritual that includes cleaning the temple’s gigantic stone bull statue from top to bottom, bathing it in oils, and decorating it with fresh flowers. The religious ceremonies surrounding this ancient statue already take care of it and emphasize cleanliness and preservation of the statue above all else. If the statue were ever to be severely damaged, it would be given a funeral and buried on temple grounds.

Although institutional conservation is a fairly new field in India, Hinduism has already instilled values that take care of sacred material culture. The art that is important to religious functions, like lingam stones or special statues or even certain temple decorations, are given special attention and care. But more on that later.

My third stop was Chennai/Madras, where I spent a month exploring the uniquely diverse spiritual culture of the city. I'll talk about Chennai and my tour of south India in my next post, coming soon!

Ireland: January in Dublin

Nefelibata (n.): "cloud-walker"; one who lives in the clouds of their own imagination, not obeying the laws or conventions of society. (Portuguese)

Dublin is, in my less-than-humble opinion, a truly excellent city. It meets several of my requirements for excellence, including but not limited to:

1. A river or sea port
2. A slightly quirky but mostly efficient public transport system
3. A historic university campus
4. A slightly-labyrinthine-but-very-inviting covered market
5. Multiple Thai restaurants (preferably that deliver)
6. An improbable yet easy-to-navigate city plan, and
7. At least one enormous bookstore with an extensive Crime and Thrillers section

Also it didn't hurt that Dublin and Boston are very similar-looking cities.

One of my first site visits was outside of Dublin, however, when I went on a day trip to Newgrange. If you've never heard of it, please please Google it because I won't be able to do it justice in my little blog and it's a veeeery cool place. To start with, it's older than the Stonehenge and the pyramids at Giza (think about it. That's five thousand years, people.) Not much is known about what it was used for, or how it was built, but we have learned a lot by studying the materials it is made from, and it's home to some of the best surviving megalithic art in the world. The most fascinating feature of Newgrange is its connection to the winter solstice; the entrance to the interior of the mound is perfectly aligned with the sun and the surrounding terrain that the first rays of sunlight of the solstice pierce directly into the heart of the chamber within, completely illuminating it.

The re-discovery of Newgrange was made in 1699, when local landowners decided to dig for stones on the site. Until its appropriation by the state in 1890, Newgrange was a site of local curiosity and unrecorded popular tourism. Names are carved into the sacred stones going back hundreds of years, scratched into the walls right alongside prehistoric stone art. Since there are no records of the tomb from the seventeenth century discovery, we have no way of knowing how it may have looked when it was abandoned, and no way of finding out what may have been lost.

Newgrange is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and access is restricted to controlled, guided tours through a nearby information center. Guards protect the grounds during the night, and tours are restricted to small groups. When asked about why security is so tight, our guide responded, "Preservation is only possible with knowledge." She explained that because no rules were made for the site for almost two centuries, much of what we could have learned about Newgrange has been lost and its complete preservation was impossible. Now, with the regulations and security, Newgrange can be maintained at its current state and protected from further damage.

This is all making my developing grudge against tourism seems rather petulant. Essentially, the tourism industry is what makes conserving Newgrange possible; entry fees provide for its upkeep, and selective viewing keeps the site intact.

Back in Dublin town I had lots of places to visit, including the National Museum of Ireland. The Museum has several branches, but I focused my efforts on the Archaeology and Decorative Arts museums. There I had the chance to meet with the conservators in their laboratory and view some of their ongoing treatments as I picked their brains. Some of the most impressive conservation work is being done on book shrines that have been discovered in peat bogs, the great environmental conservator. Book shrines are a type of reliquary, an ornately decorated case that houses pieces of sacred text, such as a gospel, saint's letters, or even a fragment of holy text, and the text inside is revered in the same way a bodily relic might be. They are most often made of metal (or at least the surviving ones are) and decorated with jewels, intricate metalwork, and fine enamels. Their time in the peat bogs has reduced many of them to shadows of their former glory, and conservators are working to stabilize and study these treasures.

With funding being what it is, almost no restoration is done at the NMI beyond that which is done for the sake of stabilization. As many relics and book shrines are missing their "sacred bits" (i.e. they were looted and the relic was discarded, or the more-easily-decomposed pages were lost to time), they have lost any sacred connotations they might have had and are consigned to life as archaeological objects. Sometimes, however, the Museum's sacred objects are lent out for special church services, or for reconsecration. The Museum maintains strong relationships with the historical homes of the objects they safeguard, and provides protection that often would be otherwise be impossible for the original institutions to provide.

My next stop in Dublin was the Chester Beatty Library, which is right next to Dublin Castle (well worth a visit if you're in the area!) and is a total geek-fest if you're a fan of the written word. Which I am. To give you the short version, a man named Chester Beatty loved books. He spent his life collecting the best examples of the written word from around the world, and the fruits of his life's work are now housed in the Library. Its collection is displayed in two permanent exhibitions: "Arts of the Book" and "Sacred Traditions." Guess where I went first.

The upper floor is dedicated to seven world religions (Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Confucianism, Daoism, Sikhism, and Jainism) and the manifestations of the sacred within the written word. All of these religions have examples of where a book is more than a book, and the written word is just as sacred as any relic. Needless to say I spent several long afternoons there, soaking it all up.

Perhaps the most profound experience I had in Ireland, however, was my trip to the airport. My cab driver, Robert, was a lovely man and keen to learn about why I, an American, was flying to India after living in Ireland. We chatted on the way to the terminal, all about my travels, and he seemed very concerned. "Do your parents know where you are? Did you get all your shots? What do you do when you get sick? Make sure you take your malaria pills." I tried to appease him, saying that this was my eighth month on the road and that I could handle being on my own; he believed me, but barely. We arrived at the airport and as I unloaded my bags he reached into his pocket, taking out a small lacquered pendant of the Virgin Mary. He placed her in my hand and said softly, "Take her with you. I know your parents must be worried with you traveling alone. She'll look after you" and then returned to his cab and drove away. I stood there dumbfounded and crying for a few moments before I remembered myself and shuffled off to check in.

It occurred to me as I stood in line for security that my Madonna is exactly what this project is about. She's not bedecked with jewels or sitting behind bullet-proof glass--who knows where she even comes from--but she is one of my most precious possessions, and her presence makes me feel safe. I bought a silver chain in the airport and I now wear her around my neck, and I'll continue to cherish her. She's important because of the value and spiritual power belief gives her--she doesn't need impressive provenance or the power to move mountains to make her worth taking care of. Rather, she's the manifestation of goodwill and kindness, and a man's faith that an image, no matter how small, can have life-changing impact.

I know I'm a bit behind on these reflections, and I hope to have more up very soon. I'm writing from Indonesia, and I owe you at least one very long post about the two months I just spent in south India. It's absurd to think that I have less than three months left of this project, and even more bewildering to think that I'll soon be back in the U.S. So, here's to the final quarter!

The Inspiration For It All

Ineffable (adj.): unable to be expressed in words. (English)

Growing up, I was privileged enough to live right down the road from one of the best art historians and life-enthusiasts I've ever known: my great grandmother, Marnie Wengren. Gamgam. One of my earliest memories is of a day spent with her in Boston, the first time she brought me to the Museum of Fine Arts. We visited many times over the years, but that day she headed first for the Ancient Egypt exhibition--her favorite. She led me determinedly past the mummies and hieroglyphs, saying there was someone she wanted me to meet. Finally I was placed solemnly in front of an enormous statue of shining black stone: a woman's body with a cat's head.

"This is Bast." She said, like she was introducing an old friend. "Do you know why she's special?" I shook my head.

"Because she has a secret."

She didn't tell me what the secret was, but I've been searching for it ever since. Over the years Gamgam has been a constant presence in my life. She took my sisters and me to the theater, and sent us to art classes--she firmly believed that if anyone is ever really to love art, they have to try their hand at making it too. Tea is always offered, served promptly at four with her signature chocolate chip cookies and proper teacups. She is an unflinching advocate for the Arnold Palmer (half lemonade, half iced tea,) and a formidable opponent at any card game.

I spent endless afternoons of my childhood browsing her bookshelves, poking through her enormous collection of turtle figurines, and contemplating the Gandharan Buddha that sits in her living room. Her apartment smells sweet, like Carmex lip balm and baby powder, and the sunlight drifts gently through half-drawn curtains. As I got older she took me to lectures on Mary Cassat, documentary films, and could lead me through our beloved MFA even as her eyesight was going and she could no longer see the paintings.

Gamgam instilled in me a deep passion to know and seek out the hidden depths of art, searching as earnestly in the gorgeous oil paintings of John Singer Sargent as in the rather absurd-looking computer-painted chicken I made for her when I was eight. It's that passion that has led me to this year of exploration and self-discovery, looking for the sacred in art around the world. She was absolutely thrilled when I got the Watson, and has had her fingers crossed for me as I wait for a decision from NYU. When I got confirmed at sixteen, she gave me the Saint Christopher medal that I wear constantly around my neck; my first sacred object, the token I took with me to my Watson interview and hold every time I'm on a plane. I've given her paintings, she's given me paintbrushes; we've spent hours talking together about my dreams for the future as an art conservator and her memories from when she worked in various museums and traveled the world.

At twenty-two, most of my friends are astonished that I have a great grandmother--she's ninety-nine, for heaven's sake, and she still makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. I knew when I said goodbye to her way back in July that there was a good chance that she wasn't going to be there when I got back. She knew it too. Now, my worst fears are being realized.

Gamgam is dying.

What was a seemingly harmless problem is no longer, and we only have days left with her. And I'm trapped on the other side of the world. I've been gone for almost nine months but this is the furthest from home I've ever felt.

I know she would never have forgiven me if I had waited at home instead of taking this fellowship. She's read every blog post I've written at least eight times, and we've video-chatted regularly while I've been away. I told her I'd be on her doorstep the morning I got home, and we'd talk about my adventures over tea. She is my rock, the force of nature that has always lived just ten minutes down the road, and the inspiration for all of this; I have never contemplated life without her.

On Monday I got to call her, to tell her I love her. I refused to say goodbye. Instead, I told her about my days in India. I complained about the mosquitos, raved about the food. Finally, I asked her if she remembered that day in the Museum, with Bast. When she nodded, I made her a promise.

I promised I'd keep looking for secrets.

***

Gamgam died while I wrote this entry today. I don't have it in me to change any of these verbs to past-tense. Please keep her and our family in your thoughts and prayers.

Ireland: December in Dingle

Curwhibble (n.): a whatcha-ma-callit; thing-a-ma-bob; whosey-whatsit. (English, obscure)

This post is long overdue and covers oodles of stuff. I ain't even sorry.

Okay, I'm a little sorry. But I'm writing from India! Internet's a bit harder to come by here.

I got to Ireland just before Christmas and spent two weeks exploring the Dingle Peninsula. When it isn't hailing, Dingle is absolutely gorgeous; there are rocky cliffs and beautiful inlets and bays, endless sheep and gently sloping hills. And, as luck would have it, ruins! Well, it wasn't really luck. I did that on purpose. But there are so many ruins that I don't think I could have visited them all even if I had spent the entire year there.

My first stop was Kilmalkedar Church, a Romanesque-style stone church that has lost its roof and is being slowly reclaimed by the greenery. Its holy wells, sundial, Ogham stone and even the church interior are weathered after centuries spent on the coast of Ireland, but the graveyard is still in use and frequented by locals. Kilmalkedar, as it turns out, is a place of pilgrimage--a stop on the Saints Road, which winds its way through the peninsula and stops at various holy sites.

Nearby and another stop on the Saints Road is Gallarus Oratory, a small stone building that was built sometime between the 6th and 12th centuries (I know it's a big window, but that's the fun part of archaeology) and was used as a place of religious devotion and refuge. I visited in the middle of a hurricane, and I can attest to its sturdiness!

Next was the Riasc Monastic Site, which is all that remains of a large community of early Christian monks. All that is left are the low walls of the former buildings of the site, and a couple weathered crosses. Of course, wandering around in places that are so filled with ruins got me thinking about conservation, restoration, and preservation. When I think of ruins I think of abandonment--places that no longer have a use beyond their status as monuments. Although really, these places haven't been abandoned at all. The Saints Road is a popular pilgrimage--some go as far as to call it the Camino of Ireland, and some of its stops have historical ties to other pilgrimages in Europe. Kilmalkedar still serves as an important local landmark; when I was there at least two families came to pay their respects at graves, and it's a well-visited spot on the Saints Road. So who's to say these ruins no longer have a use? They don't seem to be abandoned at all; rather, their purpose has changed over time. And interestingly enough, it's that change that has allowed for their continued existence and use, preserving them through the ages.

I also visited Ardfert Cathedral, which is in Tralee, and has had conservation work done in the past on its stonework. There's even a museum! Of course, since I seem to have developed a distinct ability to visit sites when they're not fully operational or even really open, the museum was thoroughly closed. But there are still outdoor placards with helpful didactics, and yet another graveyard that is a glorious mix of old and new.

Finally I started making my way to Dublin, stopping in Cashel along the way. On the top of the hill overlooking the town is the Rock of Cashel, a castle which not only enormous and beautiful but also home to a very important conservation project in Cormac's Chapel. The chapel is made almost entirely of sandstone in the Romanesque style and is currently the flagship of an effort across Europe to protect and stabilize sandstone structures in wet climates. The humidity and rainy weather in Ireland and other parts of Europe are degrading the stone and introducing microorganisms that further damage the plaster used in wall paintings. Currently efforts are focused on climate control and preventing further deterioration by isolating and protecting the sandstone from the elements, as well as UV irradiation to stop further colonization by microorganisms. In Cormac's Chapel unique wall paintings and carvings have already been lost, but the efforts by conservators will hopefully prevent any further loss in this historic chapel. There are similar projects being implemented in the Rock's Gothic cathedral where there are more wall paintings, but luckily these are not on sandstone and have stood the test of time (and water) better than their Romanesque counterparts.

Next up, January in Dublin. Maybe someday I'll publish a blog post right on time--but today is not that day. Happy six-month blogaversary!

Kyoto: Departure

Anagnorisis (n.): a moment of critical discovery. (Ancient Greek)

So! I know you were all dying to find out, yes--I did make it into a proper Japanese conservation studio in the end! Shortly before I left Kyoto I had the distinct pleasure of visiting Oka Bokkodo, one of the most prestigious conservation studios in the city. There I was fortunate enough to meet with conservators and generally synthesize what I learned during my various escapades in Japan. Are you ready for a geekfest? Here we go!

Some context: since the end of Word War II, Japan's national government has selected objects of cultural value and titled them “Important Cultural Properties.” Each year National Treasures are chosen from these objects, and they are put on the fast-track for conservation, restoration, and exhibition within Japan. The studios that work on these objects, therefore, have to be incredibly well-qualified; there are only twelve in the country that are allowed to work on National Treasures, and only one that has existed since the inception of the National Treasures program: Oka Bokkodo.

Since the government controls which pieces are worked on and by whom, there is often miscommunication and overlap among conservators working on National Treasures; for instance, the studio working on the wall paintings of a National Treasure building will be different from the studio working on the walls themselves, making for overcomplicated treatments and inefficient distribution of manpower. Likewise there are rules and restrictions placed on conservation studios and how much restoration they can actually do on damaged artworks—inpainting, the post-facto restoration of lost pigment by a conservator and a particularly controversial facet of paintings restoration, has been banned in all conservation studios treating National Treasures because of the potential for inaccurate restoration and the resulting outrage from academics and the public.

These regulations become especially complicated where sacred objects are concerned; sometimes the damaged part of an object can impact its sacredness or worship potential, rendering it corrupted or even useless within a sacred context. For instance, there have been several cases of ancient sacred mandalas with pigment loss that affect their utility in meditation practices. However, when monks bring these works to be restored by the conservation workshops they are turned away—the inpainting that would restore the mandalas to their original sacredness is forbidden by the regulations that the government has imposed. Likewise there have been statues of deities that have lost their eyes or body parts due to material deterioration over time, but these pieces must be forever taken out of commission because their restoration goes against government policy.

I found this conundrum particularly fascinating because I have always been in the pro-conservation camp rather than pro-restoration, believing that stabilization was most important and that restoration would be unfaithful to the history of an object—a similar stance to that of the Japanese government. However, it seems that this stance must be reevaluated case by case for sacred objects, because the difference between conservation and restoration is the difference between death and life for many sacred objects. There is a record of a statue in Kyoto prefecture that, through the materials analysis of conservators, was found to have a head that did not match the rest of its body. The academic community flew into an uproar, and the head was removed and swapped out with a replacement to passify the malcontents. The result was the destruction of the central worship figure for a congregation of thousands, effectively ruining hundreds of years of tradition and terminating a massive source of traffic and income for the temple—but at least the statue was right, wasn't it?

Which brings me to a bit of reflection. I am continually surprised by how broad the reach of this project has turned out to be; it's about art and religion, sure, but it's also about chemistry, anthropology, and economics, and politics. It seems a bit obvious, if I step back and look at the big picture; conservation is essentially the process of preserving culture, carrying on ideas and values in their material form. How could that process not cast a wide net? And religion is so often a point of cultural contention that I don't know how I could think its material manifestation to be without broader consequence. And who knows what I'll find in the next six months? It seems that everywhere I go, I explain my project and the response is “Oh, you've come to the right place—we really need that here.”

I had expected to feel exhausted at this point in the year, having traveled alone for six months and anticipating six more. And I do--I'm tired, and I miss my home and my family, but I also feel inspired and invigorated by the thought of what's still to come. So here's to the next six months--the pitfalls and victories, the long nights in airports and early mornings on mountaintops. I'm so glad to have you along for the ride!

Kyoto: December

Vellichor (n.): the strange wistfulness of a used bookstore, filled with the unknowable passage of time. (English, obsolete)

I'm writing from my flat in Phibsborough, Dublin. Kyoto and I parted ways just before Christmas and I spent the holidays here in Ireland. No snow, but rather a lot of rain--we got the full force of Storm Frank (the most ominous storm name ever) and there was glorious hail and gale-force winds and oodles of water flying sideways. Happy new year, by the way! The first of the year marked the first day of the second half of my Watson, which is more than a little staggering to contemplate.

But, we have some catching up to do! December was another busy month (although now that I think about it, all of my months have been busy) during which I did a bunch of travelling (to Nara, and Tokyo!!) and applied to NYU, and said goodbye to what might now be my favorite city in the world. I'll do my Japan wrap-up in two parts, with this being my review of my travels and the second a reflection on what I learned about conservation in Japan, and my thoughts about moving forward. So, without further ado--

Nara is only about an hour from Kyoto by local train, and is a city best known for its deer. Yes, you read that correctly--deer! Nara is home to a massive, open-air deer park; it's said that the deer are sacred, messengers of local gods, so the animals roam free and are treated with the utmost respect. They're everywhere, though it's surprisingly hard to get a good selfie--I lost a perfectly good map to a deer with the munchies attempting it--but the deer are an excellent cure for frowns. Unless you're fond of maps.

Once one progresses past the incredibly distracting deer, there are several gorgeous and impressive temples, shrines and museums to visit inside the park. I went first to Kofuku-ji, a temple known for its two pagodas and scenic vistas on the outer edge of Nara Park. As it would so happen, I couldn't get in to visit the main temple hall--it's being restored. Ah, sweet irony! I guess I'll have to come back in 2018. But I could get to the National Treasure Museum, which is always a good sign. (This project has done nothing to curb my obsession with treasure. Am I conservator or pirate? That's the real question.)

The fascinating thing about Kofuku-ji's museum is that it's set up very much like a temple; silence is to be kept throughout the premises, and an appropriate level of reverence is to be observed. The museum was established by the Japanese government to protect and display cultural objects on the site where they were once revered before they were destroyed due to anti-Buddhist sentiment in 1874. All of the objects on display are sacred, and the more prominent devotional statues have altars and saisen-bako in front of them. I was one in a long line of people waiting to pray and make offerings in front of a statue of a Kannon, a many-armed Buddhist deity that takes a place of prominence within the museum. The museum's purpose seems to be to conserve and stabilize the objects, rather than restore them to any former shiny glory, but it works; the air is contemplative and respectful, with signage and docents to help any intrepid academic wandering the halls. It also helps along the museum's didactic focus, showing the evolution of Kofuku-ji as both a place of worship and a place of history. In short, A+, would definitely visit again.

Next on my list was Todai-ji, a massive temple that happens to be the largest wooden building in the world. In all seriousness, there is no photo I took that could convey the sheer enormity of this place--and that's nothing compared to the statues within. Among others, Todai-ji houses the world's largest statue of the Daibutsu (Buddha Vairocana), sitting pretty at 15 meters tall and weighing 500 tonnes. And to top it off, it's been around since its casting in 752 CE. If that doesn't make you flip out I don't know what will.

The temple is a huge tourist attraction, of course, and consequently it felt a bit like barely-controlled chaos inside. There were of course saisen-bako in front of each devotional statue, and an area for contemplation and lighting candles, but there were also plenty of tour groups mulling about, shouting and posing for pictures, and a gift shop. (It's really common for temples and shrines to have a shop of some sort on the premises, to sell charms and the like, but they're never in the main hall, and they sell chachkies just as often.) It was odd, and a bit disconcerting; certainly a different feeling from the National Treasure Museum, which just goes to show that context can have just as big an impact on the sense of an object's sacredness as its physical state.

I made a trip back to Nara later in the week to visit the Nara National Museum because it's closed on Mondays. Side rant--if I could just get rid of Sundays and Mondays, it would greatly streamline my project. Of course I value days spent in my pajamas just like anyone else, but seriously! Sundays are what seem to be a universal day off (in Spain you couldn't even go to the supermarket), and then Mondays are no-museum day. The number of times I have showed up at a museum on a Monday all fired up and ready to go and gone home grumpy is absurd. Although perhaps this has more to do with my learning curve and stubbornness than anything else. Anyway.

The museum is host to an impressive collection of Buddhist art and is well-worth a visit if you're ever in the area. Unlike the National Treasure Museum at Kofuku-ji, the environment is secular and most sacred objects are displayed as historical, archaeological, or ethnographic objects. It's also undergoing renovation in its Buddhist Sculpture Hall (damn!) but it had a temporary exhibition on the Nara matsuri, an annual festival involving almost every religious establishment in the city. Huge parades, portable shrines, and massive rituals all over Nara--just my cup of tea.

Next, I made my way to Tokyo! For those of you foolish enough to think that Tokyo and Kyoto are close to each other (read: me), think again. It took a ten hour overnight bus ride to get to Tokyo, and whether it was the sleep deprivation or the sheer enormity of the city, I was completely overwhelmed. I really do hope I get back to do Tokyo its due diligence, since I spent two days in a city I could have spent two years exploring; even as someone who's spending a year abroad visiting new places, my "must-visit" list seems only to be getting longer.

My first stop was the Tokyo National Museum which was very large and also under renovation (did they hear I was coming??) but super cool to visit because they have an entire exhibition dedicated to museum conservation and the maintenance of the permanent collection. It was especially interesting to hear about preventative conservation aimed at earthquake protection--it's not something we really have to worry about back home, but they do it so well (and on such a huge scale!) at the National Museum.

Then things got political, as I moved on to Meiji-jinja, the shrine best known for its connection to Japan's imperial history. The shrine is dedicated to the deified Emperor Meiji and his wife, Empress Shoken, and is situated within a massive forest in the heart of Tokyo. It's very beautiful and surprisingly quiet for the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world, and I made a beeline for their Treasure Museum. To my surprise it wasn't the statues and relics I've come to expect from treasure museums on shrine/temple/church/synagogue grounds, but rather a small room filled with the personal effects of the Emperor and his wife. Treasure is really an all-inclusive term, I guess! Although at a shrine dedicated to an Emperor and Empress, it makes perfect sense--like keeping the belongings of a patron saint in a church, for pilgrims to visit. Very neat stuff!

My final destination in Tokyo was Yasukuni-jinja, which is known internationally and shrouded in controversy. It's a beautiful shrine, eerily silent and bare, and houses a museum on the grounds, which naturally I couldn't resist. However this is no ordinary museum, for Yasukuni-jinja houses the enshrined spirits of the Japanese war dead serving from 1867 to 1951, and over a thousand convicted war criminals. I was greeted in the foyer of the museum by a perfectly preserved Model 96 15cm Howitzer from 1936, there enshrined "to comfort the noble souls of the war dead." I knew then I was out of my depth, but that I had to go deeper.

There are a few routes one can take through the museum, and unfortunately I only had time for the shortest tour of an hour. I was led through countless rooms lined with infographics and war memorabilia, essentially a history museum explaining the war from the point of view of the Japanese, which needless to say was a new experience. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and I was not mentally prepared to face all this tension on the grounds of a shrine. As I have since discovered, Yasukuni-jinja is still a very controversial site within Japan and the rest of Asia, and it has been continually criticized for its nationalist sentiments since its creation. But as I wandered through the halls, looking at the endless photographs of the war dead, their personal effects, their last letters home, I felt myself completely unable to form a coherent thought, much less cast judgement.

There are conservators who work on those objects, and maintain the museum's collection--what do they think, as they hold the pocket watch of a dead soldier? What is a conserved machine gun's place in a shrine? And how does a restored bomber comfort the souls of the dead? I hope one day to go back and spend more time on the grounds, to read all the signs on the walls and look at the photograph of every soldier. I'll let you form your own opinions about Yasukuni-jinja; honestly, I'm still processing it. But can I just ask that you visit before making any judgement? There are some things that are just too complicated to feel at a distance.

So, that about wraps up my travels in Japan. I know I ended on a rather heavy note, but I also hope it gets you thinking the way it did for me. Hopefully I'll be back someday, to continue the journey I started rather abruptly in October, and one that will stay in my mind for a long time. As it is, I've got just a bit more Japan left for you in the next entry--some Kyoto-specific conservation nerding out, just for you! Until then!

Kyoto: November

Phalerate (adj.): made beautiful; ornate, ostentatiously adorned or decorated. (English, now obsolete)

November has been a busy month! I really love it here, and it's unbelievable to think that I've already been away for five months. Kyoto in the fall is magnificent, and I've spent a great deal of time walking through the city and visiting surrounding areas to make the best of the beautiful weather. Here are some highlights, to give you an idea of what I've been up to:

Arashiyama. Arashiyama is a little district to the west of Kyoto, and extremely popular with tourists, couples, and school groups. It's best known for the enormous scenic bamboo forest (10/10, would definitely recommend) and its scenic river vistas, but I went for the Urushi Lacquer Festival at Kokuzo Hourin-ji temple. The temple is on top of a hill which is surprisingly hard to find (though to be fair I went without a map like a fool,) and hosts the festival that is a yearly event for lacquer artists in the area to make offerings and pray for success in the coming year. It started with a Noh performance inside the temple followed by ceremonies throughout the day--it was such a treat to visit. I spent the rest of the day wandering through bamboo groves and visiting temples like Tenryū-ji, a Zen Buddhist temple with gorgeous gardens.

Sekizanzen-in Temple. I made my way to northern Kyoto for the Juzu Buddhist Rosary Ceremony. It's the first festival I went to where I was clearly the only Western tourist in attendance. The festival was enormous, and it served as a memorial service for old juzu (Buddhist rosaries.) It was absolutely packed with people who came to have their juzu blessed, as well as vendors and food sellers.

Kiyomizu-dera. This temple was the first that truly reminded me of the dzongs I visited in Bhutan. It is perched on the top of a hill and about a fifteen minute walk from my house, and is an absolutely massive temple complex. There are several temple buildings under construction at Kiyomizu-dera, although the main temple hall is fully operational. I bought omamori (charms or talismans) at the temple office which are one of my favorite genres of sacred objects in Japan. Omamori can be employed for a variety of uses, like protection or good luck--I bought two, one for safe travel and one for academic success--and often take the form of a small, colorful cloth pouch with a piece of paper or wood inside (though they never should be opened, to preserve their power.) There is some debate about the quality of factory-made vs handmade omamori as it relates to their effectiveness, which I find fascinating; over and over during this project I have been encountering the theme of intention and power, and how the process of making an object has a direct impact on its sacredness.

Mt. Kurama. Reportedly the site with one of the highest spiritual energies in Japan, Mt. Kurama is perhaps my favorite place I have visited in Japan. It is a place of intense quiet (and intense walking, but that comes with most mountains) and the further up you go, the deeper the contemplation gets. There are many shrines on the way up, and the air is saturated with energy and cold and quiet. The main temple hall is almost at the top, a temple dedicated to a trinity deity. The summit itself is a cedar grove with exposed roots and a slight wind blowing through the trees; it is believed that this is the founding site of Reiki. I'll definitely be going back again before I leave--it's too special to just go once.

Summit of Fushimi Inari. I decided to revisit Fushimi Inari, the enormous Shinto shrine in southern Kyoto, and make my way to the top of the mountain. The number of times I looked at my map and nearly cried during this hike was astronomical. But the views on the way up were worth it!
(very important side note: there is a Neko Cafe right near Fushimi Inari Station, where you can drink tea and hang out with cats. 100000/10, would definitely recommend)

Uji. Aside from being the green tea capital of Japan, Uji is home to Byōdō-in, a Buddhist temple that has been in operation since 998 CE. It's an enormously popular place to visit being both a Japanese National Treasure and a UNESCO World Heritage Site to boot.  Its most popular feature is the Phoenix Hall, the main temple hall that houses a massive statue of Amida Buddha and a host of flying Bodhisattva carvings. The draw of the site for me, however, was in the on-site Hoshokan Museum, which houses most of the site's treasures and is responsible for their preservation and display (read: drooool.) The museum includes archaeological finds displayed alongside Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, as well as the original bronze phoenixes that give the main hall its name. The conservation efforts on the site are focused on stabilizing the site's treasures while performing technical analysis to study technique and materials, so that the museum can create honest reproductions to put on display in the functioning parts of the temple complex. Their current project is the creation of reproduction doors for Phoenix Hall, a massive undertaking that involves a lot of research into wood and metal. So. Neat.

So! I have about two weeks left in Kyoto, and then I head to Ireland. I'll be sad to leave, but I have a feeling in my gut that I'll be back. Hopefully next time I'll be armed with more Japanese. And Cheetos.