A Patch Of Corn - A Year On From Ground Zero

The woman was most certainly in her late forties, face darkened with years working in the sun-laden fields, hands callous with the damage of demanding physical labor. She gestured towards a small small, solitary patch of corn stalks standing in a quiet corner of her farm fields. Although the heavy grey clouds overhead hide the sunlight, the stifling summer air can easily mean dehydration for anyone working in the unforgiving farmland.

The woman is asked about the corn stalks, for they seem an anomaly amidst the rows of rice terraces that make up the majority of her family's agricultural income. Her eyes glint as she answers - the corn is grown on the very patch of land that her older sister and sixteen year-old son are buried under.

About four hours later, ten miles away in the town of YingXiu, a great white slab lies upon steps of crimson red carpet. It is a memorial site; a giant analogue clock face with thin fissures serving as clockhands, marking a ghostly hour of death at two twenty-eight in the afternoon. The sight steps on the accelerator for memories a year earlier; at the time the entire region was shuddering in a devastating earthquake of 8.0 magnitude, shaking apart the land and shattering hundreds of communities and thousands of lives, while drawing the eye of international attention immediately. Today, however, the site is silent. Chinese President Hu Jintao alongside other members of his cabinent is bowed in a deep, quiet minute, whilst a squadron of soldiers handle large vases of flowers and arranging them before the memorial.

The president and the rest of the political figures of authority proceed to pay their respects to the victims that reaches a staggering figure of approximately ninety-thousand. Each person in the line lays down a single white chrysanthemum flower before the giant white clockface, whilst giving their attention in the form of silence to the dead.

It was such a solemn event that captured the intense despair and tragedy of the calamity a year earlier. It was the worst to afflict China in thirty years, and with so many of the deaths being students and young children didn't provide a modicum of salvation for anyone. There has been a constant battle between parents who have been left childless; wives who have been left widows; husbands who have been left alone, against those responsible for the shabby construction of schools in the area. But with the collective opposition of government hush money, or intimidation to keep quiet has prevented much of their unquenced torment and anger from being expressed. Even now some still have doubts over the real figures of student and children deaths and numbers missing are truly accurate; some get the feeling the government is avoiding confrontations with those allegedly responsible, because such claims may only be riding upon interminable sadness and rage, and that such pursuits would ultimately use up much of the resources provided by such generous dontations from around the world.

The suicide rates of survivors have been clear indicators of the true trauma. Soldiers of the Communist Party that spent entire weeks after the earthquake carrying survivors over the trecherous, improvised mountainpaths to safety ended up losing their own children and loved ones back in another region, and have found the grief simply too much to bear. They have lost any type of memorabilia in the earthquake debris; the only thing that remains is a passport photo they carry in their wallets, or the final colored drawing done by the child before they were claimed by the earth. Others strip their walls of any reminders of the family they once had; picture frames are turned over and hidden, whilst photos are wrapped and stashed away - out of sight.

The earthquake does what all natural hazards do; they demonstrate the true fragility of human life amidst the progressing events of Mother Nature. It expresses with frightening clarity just how transience our existence is on the planet; that in the bigger picture of plate tectonics and physical geographical processes our established settlements are trivial and superficial. The despair that shocked us has never been so raw and devastating before, and even with life beginning to move on in a compulsory direction if it must rise and progress, SiChuan and the rest of China is still feeling the tremors of the May 12th 2008 earthquake, because hearts and souls are still shaken by its tremendous power.

Crouching low on her knees before the nearest corn stalk, the woman gently ran her palm along its thick stem. Her brown lips cracked a thin smile; she grips herself to not feel despair or sadness any longer, because this cornstalk represents what she hopes to soon embrace: that out of the disaster and tragedy, the small and new seeds of life can break from the trauma and begin to grow and thrive once more.

Waltzing with the Great

I was digging through some old movies in my cabinet and came across The Great Waltz, which was originally filmed in 1938. For the next hour and forty minutes I was charmed by its classical masterpieces that were both enormously powerful and stunningly graceful, created by composer Johann Strauss II. Some, such as The Blue Danube, were strikingly familiar, and contained enough energy to fill a palace. Others were softer and more graceful, but still got my foot tapping to the beat as I watched the characters waltz enthusiastically in the black and white motion picture.

In particular I felt very moved by watching the autobiography, especially with the artistic inspiration and sympathy that I received. Johann Strauss II was a musical protege from the start of the movie, portrayed as one who could not leave his passion as he secretly scrawled music scores whilst working as a banker. When he is fired for slacking on the job, I felt reminded so that there was a great difficulty to become financially stable when living as an artist. Later in the movie when he first becomes successful and signs a contract to a member of the Imperial Palace, thus agreeing to hand over every piece of completed music he writes, I feel that he had attached himself to something that perhaps did not fully appreciate his abilities - for personally I felt that no amount of money could substitute or be exchanged for his composition. When he becomes married and thus very financially comfortable, there is a sudden sense of anxiety and bitterness, for I felt that he was caught between two different worlds and decisions. Despite having everything he could have possibly wanted materialistically - money, fame in Vienna, and wife - the only way he could continue to further pursue his musical passion was to give even more of himself to the Imperial Palace.

The matters were complicated when the opera soprano Carla Donner seems to be the only one who really appreciates his ability for writing such brilliant waltz pieces. Yet she is a member of the Imperial Palace, and thus visibly puts pressure onto the marriage between Strauss and his wife with her love for his music. The beginnings of an affair between her and Strauss came across to me as even more tragic because for Strauss, he could only take his zest for music further by being with a woman such as Carla, who understood his passion more than his wife. Strauss realized that although he was socially and financially happy, spiritually he was not because his own passion could not progress unless he hurt someone important in his life.

I felt a strong pull towards the portrayal of the young artist in The Great Waltz. There was the brooding atmosphere of trouble when Strauss is pulled into an affair with Carla, and for me there was even more pain because I saw his music could only progress by moving past what he currently had. When his own wife was so devoted to his welfare and happiness, Strauss still could not afford to lose his grip upon his passion, and here the tug of war began erupting even further. What compounded the problem was his integration and interaction with the rich: the close friends of Strauss particularly did not prefer the rich, and this is peaked with the revolution that occurs later in the movie. Here Strauss puts even his own social bonds and connections at risk here for the pursuit of his passion and love, and I found myself looking at the plight of an artist as he faced such pressures and restrictions. I always saw it as too unfortunate when one delved too much into the arts that they neglected their family and loved ones, but after viewing The Great Waltz I saw it as almost inevitable - or at the very least very likely to happen. And with that I found myself wondering if I would have to deal with such a frightening dilemma if I were to pour myself into an artistic passion. Would there still be room for anyone or anything else in my life? Or would my only love be what I was creating?

The Calligrapher

He was a man no older than forty. His serious face became even more stern as his brow furrowed with concentration. Instead of brush writing on a table or platform, he used the jagged concrete street surface.

The skill of his East Asian calligraphy was unquestionable. The thing that drew the crowd around him was his lack of something we all take for granted: his two hands.

It was four in the afternoon in one of the busiest locations in Hong Kong: the sprawling district of Mong Kok. With the nearly interminable Nathan Road that runs through it, traffic can stream through here all day long. Add that to the magnitude of pedestrian shoppers that filter through its alleys and sideways, and it's just chaos all very local to Hong Kong. Today I had just finished a periodic visit to my dentist, and as I began heading back towards the Mass Transit Railway (MTR) station through a road that mainly sold electronics, I noticed a line of people all motionless in the middle of the street.

I slowed and moved over to join the line, which soon began to elongate into a gathering throng of people twenty-strong. It was a young man alone on the street, with great big sheets of thin paper called XuanZhi 宣紙 paper laid out on the rough concrete before him. On the ground beside where he crouched were a couple of dirty Bonaqua water bottles, a cracked inkstone, and a small circular seal paste plate. Between the dry blackened remaining stubs of his arms clasped a battered and decrepit paintbrush.


My chest tightened as I saw a small pouch lying near the set of phrases he was currently working on. He was begging for money - a few pieces of change that the enthusiastic shoppers of the bustling electronics and hardware stores around him may want to get rid of. He continued writing without pause, at times using his teeth to straighten and realign the thick paintbrush that sat neatly in between his two arms, which were severed at the wrist. I felt myself wondering what tragedy could have befallen this unfortunate man. Could it have been a deformity from birth? Had he suffered a devastating burn or injury that resulted in amputation? Was it a devastating accident that he experienced during his previous job as a carpenter or blacksmith, which could've been very well-paying? I felt these questions bombard me as I continued to silently eye the painting calligrapher, who let the brush dance elegantly under his control. One would have needed the practice for several years to achieve the standard he was producing before my eyes at that moment. And even so it would be with all ten fingers and a very dexterous wrist: I couldn't let myself imagine what sort of hardship this man experienced without the prehensile hands we took for granted. Had he been this skillful before he had lost the lower halves of his arms? Or had he been forced to adapt a different way of calligraphy due to his physical ability - and still managed to create something so artistically masterful?

The phrases he wrote were all ancient Chinese sayings: ways of the word spoken by philosophers and scholars and emperors alike. They embodied a very traditional aspect: four characters per line, which could have vast symbolic meanings. Between his focused and delicate strokes observers moved forwards to drop a few coins into the small pouch that openly displayed its empty interior to the crowd. The clinking of metal upon metal triggered the man to look up from his work and nod at the generous act, as he crinkled his haggard face into a sad smile, and verbally expressed his thanks out loud before continuing with his writing.

It took no longer than five minutes before he gently laid the brush down onto the inkstone, wiping his forehead with what remained of his forearm. He then hopped backwards and used his feet to slowly nudge the seal paste plate forward, where he then hoisted the metal container to his mouth and pried open the cap using his teeth. The bright red paste was used to imprint his name onto the completed work as a sign of his own craftsmanship and creation, serving as the artist's signature upon his piece of brushwriting. The seal itself was made of gray stone - no longer than a finger - and the calligrapher fumbled with it for sometime before he finally managed to dip it into the sticky paste and stamp it onto the sheet. A nearby onlooker knelt down to inspect the writing more closely, before nodding and dropping a couple of money notes into the small pouch before rolling up the paper and carrying it off with him.



Beside the calligrapher were a couple of already completed sheets, held down at the corners by the empty seal box and some half-filled water bottles. The wind ruffled the edges and began lifting the bottom of the sheet, but it was very legible to onlookers as they crowded round to admire his work and at the same time feel a stinging in their hearts at his downtrodden condition. One of the Chinese proverbs I found the most meaningful was this one:

(The proverb is read from right to left:自強不息)

Translated, its meaning referred to the mindset of constantly standing strong for yourself and no one else. It emphasized self-improvement and self-governance: the strength of willpower for the individual only. This struck me has incredible apt, because here we had the calligrapher fending entirely for himself on the streets of Mong Kok. His physical disability could have always had the potential to faze his artistic talent and abilities, but instead of allowing that to heavily affect him he fought onwards. Even without individual fingers to guide his brush and a palm to steady his strokes, the calligrapher amazed every onlooker with his poise, accuracy, and grace. The elegance of his work was unquestionable: and here the very proverb he was writing out to sell to other people was an ancient philosophy that he was still living by in today's ruthless modern world. The strength of his own willpower was incredible, and that afternoon I felt myself feel inspired by this calligrapher, knowing it meant even more so that things we take for granted should instead be appreciated to an even greater extent.

The entrance into the year of 2009 probably hit the world in showers of sparkling lights, excitement, and exploding fireworks. People of Hong Kong were rushing out to get their hands onto great deals in the stores on the street as monetary issues become more and more difficult to handle. But amidst such energy, this calligrapher was a reminder of how the strength of an individual truly should not be underestimated - and more importantly one thing we cannot take for granted either.