Truth

A seminal album of the 1960’s is John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme. It was his search for truth. Music was never the same after it. To follow his path is to watch jazz evolve (or devolve, depending on your opinion) from dance music, to improvisation, to bebop, to Avant-garde, and then to something indefinable. To say he was an innovator, though he certainly was, is to miss the point. How many musicians have a church named for them?

Coltrane’s My Favorite Things and Greensleeves were top forty hits, while the later work was derided. His music went from straight ahead jazz to straight out of the universe. A Love Supreme balances between tonal and atonal. Any listening will benefit from scholarly input and a historical perspective; in that way, it is similar to James Joyce’s Ulysses.

A Love Supreme is a four part suite. It is at the same time polished and raw. It was recorded by Rudy Van Gelder, the legendary recording engineer, and retains the excitement of a live performance. Minimal instructions were provided to the other three musicians and so, their genius shows through.

My interest here is in the fourth movement named Psalm. It has a vocal quality because he is chanting his poem, A Love Supreme, through the tenor saxophone. The poem can be read almost note for note as he plays. “Thank You God”, a three note phrase punctuates Psalm’s seven minutes nine times.

As I listened repeatedly to Psalm, I am reminded of the obscure Japanese music called Honkyoku. It is played on the shakuhachi, the venerable two or so foot long piece of bamboo that holds the distinction of being a meditative instrument that doubled as a weapon.

Honkyoku is solo and meditative. It is not considered music by some of its most adept adherents. The music is ancient, and is based on the sounds of nature and in some cases transcriptions of monks chanting. I admit that I cannot prevent myself from looking for structure within the music. The repertoire shares a vocabulary of short passages but as far as a beginning, middle, and end, well it is not obvious.

The music begins and ends without fanfare. It is as if it will go on forever with only the inhalation of breath to mark the passage of time. In this, it differs from Coltrane’s masterpiece, which has a beginning and end. I think this troubled him and his later work tried to address the infinite qualities of God’s love.

I spent decades hidden away trying to master the shakuhachi by playing doyo (children’s songs) and minyo (folk tunes). A few years ago, I came out of my shell to pursue lessons, and purchased a traditional Japanese instrument. Let me say that both the above required more of a learning curve then I would have thought.

But as with most things persistence pays off. Now with a newly tuned flute and a talented teacher I have made progress. I still cannot see the end of the tunnel, but I know that one exists. The one thing that my teacher instilled in me is not to fear the music. I often see this lack of fear in artists I admire. This lack of fear allows them the freedom to express the true nature of their work. Of course, it is no guarantee that it will be accepted or that it will be competent but that is irrelevant to the practice.

John Coltrane and Honkyoku’s inspiration relies on the true and unknowable nature of the universe: one with a secular concept, the other without any at all. So, for me, the notes on the page will remain just that until I can discover the truth within myself. And in that pursuit, I may be running out of time!

Deacember 2017

Chabana

Rikyu, the founder of Chado, the Way of Tea, said to arrange flowers as they exist in nature. This practice became known as Chabana. I have often wondered what does he mean by this. Are we to take his words literally and how do we, practicing chanoyu in Chicago’s brutal climate, emulate the milder climate of Japan?

His simple aphorism has plagued me and because of that, I have sidelined the study of flower arranging in my practice of chanoyu. It is only recently, now that I am more comfortable in my tea making skills that I have begun to contemplate flowers.

In the practice of chanoyu, seven exercises take chance into play. They are called kagetsu. A small paper pocket contains chits, which are randomly chosen by the five participants. These exercises put different aspects of chanoyu into play. One person brings the tea utensils in, the next makes a bowl of tea, the next drinks, all determined by chance. In one koicha (thick tea) is made, in another the charcoal is laid, and in another flowers are arranged.

There is no way, except to devote a life to the study of chanoyu, to prepare for kagetsu. A chit is picked, a task is done, and as the exercise progresses everyone moves into different position within the confines of the tearoom. In the basic exercise, only bowls of tea are made. And at the end, the participants do a military like march to regain their original seats.

It is quite fun, and engenders much giggling and consternation. Though it appeared to be a game, that is until I took part in it, and then, despite the giggles I realized it was deadly serious.

But this is a long introduction to my original thought about Chabana. I was never called upon to arrange flowers until I participated in one of the above exercises. It left me dumbfounded. There I knelt before the tokonoma with a small wooden tray beside me. A knife, a small watering can, and a mass of flowers and leaves rest impatiently on the tray. In front of me was a tall cylindrical vase.

I do not remember if the vase was bamboo, ceramic, or bronze. I do not remember the season or the type of flowers. All I can remember is my lack of inspiration. Kagetsu moves along. It is not meant to be contemplative. Complete the task competently and move on. I muddled through it fumbling with the flowers, littering the tatami mat with debris, and spilling water over the vase. Tea folk are considerate but I am sure I put their patience to the test.

Now thirty years later I still struggle to gain the artistic sensibility to follow Rikyu’s simple instruction and place the flowers naturally. To sit with a few flowers and leaves is to contemplate the vastness of the universe. A flower is on the face of it a simple transient thing, a thing that is in constant flux. Think of a way to arrange them and delay for a moment due to self doubt, and the flowers, as if sensing hesitancy will change, requiring another approach. It is a never ending circle.

Chabana is meant to bring the season into the tearoom. It is meant to represent the ephemeral nature of life. It is not meant to convey the style of the host or to bring beauty into the room. And because of this, it does exactly that, and one hopes in a selfless manner.

With a few flowers in a cracked and repaired bamboo vase, Rikyu conveyed his artistic vision of Chado. One so simple that it took me thirty years to recognize.

November, 2017