by Nick Caistor
He explained that this was his latest project: dance halls in Havana. Recalling his earlier explanation, it was not hard to interpret them, but even so they had a strangeness about them that made them interesting. The montage of the different pictures was perfect. What they showed were empty salons, some of them with tables and chairs, a piano, or a platform or stage, a bar, doors, windows. At first glance the image looked like a single photograph taken with a wide-angle lens, but closer observation revealed distortions in the perspective and besides, it became obvious that the shot was too wide. The left- and right-hand edges coincided at exactly the same point; if either picture had been even a few centimetres longer, there would have been a repetition, and although this would have made reading the image easier, it would also have revealed the trick.
Napoleon showed him a dozen or more of these images. They were in colour, and printed on very glossy paper; the dance halls, some of them bigger than others (although it was hard to tell), were sordid and sad, contrasting sharply with the strange air of luxury lent by the mechanism of straightening out the circular shape. None had any people in them. The little Buddhist monk asked if this was a deliberate choice always.
Which indeed it was, in all the series. Only when there was no piece of furniture to suggest the human scale did he introduce an isolated figure to suggest the dimensions… At this point there was a short silence, one of those polite pauses the French couple would have to get used to with an interlocutor of the unusual size that they had stumbled across.
Well, then: after the Havana dance halls, he had wondered: now what? And decided…
One moment. Forgive the interruption, but how did he choose the themes? Because after all, there were ‘spaces’ everywhere. Without needing to quote Pascal and the ‘miseries of mankind’ that came from ‘the impossibility of man of staying at home along in a quiet room’, it had to be recognised that the house one lives in is also a ‘space’.
Yes, that was true, but the idea was to explore culturally charged spaces. And the photographer’s vocation had always been that of a traveller. How did he choose his subjects? As he had already said, whim and chance were part of it. He found his subjects through reading, films, TV documentaries. Sometimes he just set off on an impulse, or went in search of one thing and discovered something different.
What about now? Why Korea?
His current project involved Korea’s Buddhist temples.
On hearing this, the little Buddhist monk raised his eyebrows. He thought for a while, glanced at the long photographs spread over the table, thought about it again, and nodded. Napoleon Chirac smiled, relieved and content. With good reason: it was important to him to get the approval of an intelligent local who after only the briefest explanation had understood what he was trying to do.
I have to warn you, said the little Buddhist monk, that the temples you’re going to find here are not enclosed spaces.
The Frenchman already knew this. On this occasion it was not a random voyage, although every trip had something unexpected about it that made it worthwhile. He had done his research, and this openness of Korean Buddhism to nature was the challenge that had led to his choice.
Did he have a particular temple or temples in mind?
He took a tourist map of the country out of his backpack and unfolded it. He showed him photographs of the temples of Bulguksa, Sinheungsa and others.
What do you think of them?
There are other less touristy ones. If you will allow me, I could guide you.
This was what the French couple had been hoping for, and they leapt at the offer:
Seriously? Would you be so kind? It would be such an invaluable help to us. Would you have the time to spare? Won’t it interfere with your duties?
I have absolutely nothing to do. And even if I did, I could think of no better use of my time than to serve an eminent artist and to enjoy the company of an educated, delightful foreign couple with whom I can practise my poor French.
Many thanks. How kind. We ought to agree on adequate financial compensation…
Not at all! he interrupted the Frenchman. I’ll do it for the pleasure and honour of doing so. This is where the sacred duties of hospitality and the most elementary patriotism coincide. Besides, the order I belong to forbids me to receive any emoluments. I don’t know if you noticed, but my apparel doesn’t have any pockets.
The French couple were delighted. They couldn’t believe their luck. The little fellow was giant-sized.
IV
To celebrate they ordered a bottle of champagne. No one could deny it was worth it, because they really did have something to celebrate. Even so they hesitated for a few moments, because they were aware that drinking champagne in the morning was a bold statement. When asked, the little Buddhist monk declared that he had no objection to alcoholic beverages. And among these, rather than a cheap sherry or a run-of-the-mill whisky, Napoleon Chirac, to whom the choice had been left, was inclined towards what was after all most logical. Champagne had the exact symbolic resonance that the moment called for, and was appropriate above and beyond the symbolic, since it was a good aperitif; and besides, it was no longer that early in the day.
But when they raised their glasses in a toast, the French couple froze in surprise. The ‘clink’ of the glass captured a snapshot of their astonishment. The only things moving were the tiny bubbles inside the glasses, and it was precisely these bubbles that were the object of the foreigners’ rapt attention: instead of rising, they descended, going from the surface of the liquid to the bottom, where they fizzed about in crazy swirls.
By now entirely assuming his role as a national guide, the little Buddhist monk dismissed the supposed miracle with a laugh. Instead he gave a perfectly rational explanation: they should not forget that they were on the far side of the world, and the magnetic poles were reversed.
In addition, he went on, as they sipped their drinks, in general Korea had something of the ‘world upside down’ about it. Not so much in its practical, visible aspects as in certain mental structures. In fact, the country’s modernisation that followed from contact with western travellers and traders in the sixteenth century had been the by-product of a religious polemic that had its roots in a strange inversion.
The French couple drank in his words. His French was so perfect and elegant it sounded pre-recorded. Encouraged by their close attention, he explained:
The conflict had arisen between two branches of Buddhism who were arguing about the way to tell jokes. One of them, innovatory thanks to western influence (and which ultimately was triumphant), proposed telling them with the punchline at the end. The other school resisted any change, and defended the traditional Korean way of telling them, in which the punchline or climax should come at the beginning, not the end.
An example? Of course. The innovators proposed:
I have no legs. I’m a snake.
Whereas the traditionalists argued in favour of the ancient way, one that had made so many generations laugh:
I’m a snake. I have no legs.
The little Buddhist monk readily admitted that this example might not help clarify things much. It was not for nothing that one of the two schools of thought had won out, and for centuries had shaped the mental categories that were part and parcel of the perception of the joke. From the vantage point of the present it was hard to understand the virulence of the passions aroused by this debate. One had to take into account the force of habit, and the ancestral creation of expectations. That was what it was about: the role of people’s expectations. What also needed to be taken into account was that the controversy took place in a religious context, so that jokes were not jokes in the modern sense, but parables with a spiritual significance.
However, the undisputed, complete triumph of the modernising school, which gave Korea its place in the modern world, had not led to the disappearance or forgetting of the ancient way. On the contrary, its persistence as a mental substratum was
what made jokes funny.
How strange all this is, said Napoleon Chirac. It gives one such a strong impression of having left the normal world behind and of being on the far side of the looking-glass.
The little Buddhist monk responded to this with a conciliatory smile: it wasn’t that big a deal. Globalisation, so reviled by nationalists of every stripe, had led to greater communication, which meant that previously unnoticed inversions were lent greater contrast and meaning.
Korea, he said, had not only taken but given. A great exporter of products with high added value and cutting-edge technology, it had become respected throughout the world as the supplier of the most demanding consumer goods. And it has also exported a valuable human resource, in the substantial emigration of a disciplined, hard-working labour force, enterprising traders, small business owners (and big ones) who have established their picturesque Korean neighbourhoods in every city around the world.
And, turning to a specific point that might interest them, Korea also exported art. From the most serious kind, the art of museums, of which one eminent example was Nam June Paik, whose work they surely knew (they nodded) to the most popular forms of entertainment such as the amusing cartoon of SpongeBob SquarePants.
Was SpongeBob SquarePants Korean? They thought it was American.
It was true that now it was promoted by a North American company, but it was created in Korea, and was in fact a typical Korean creation. It still bore traces of that even after the distortions it had suffered at the hands of western cartoonists.
Moreover, he went on, in the genesis of SpongeBob SquarePants there was an echo of the old controversy about jokes. Did they know what the cartoon was about? It shows the adventures of a boy sponge and his friends the starfish, the squid, the crab who owns a fast-food restaurant, the little diver squirrel… Well, the original idea was to have this character live either on the bottom of the sea, which is the natural habitat for sponges, or in a bathroom, in the little porcelain niche above the tub where human beings interact with sponges. In this latter case, it would have been an example of the traditional kind of joke from Korean folklore, with the resolution coming before the development. However, due to pressure from the North American TV channels, the other format was adopted, with the result that the climax of the joke would have to come at the end (the logical end) of a vast poetic saga that was both almost infinite and also very convenient from the commercial point of view.
The French couple were fascinated by this torrent of information, of which their tiny friend seemed to be an inexhaustible source. Since by now they had emptied the bottle, they ordered another one, and took advantage of the pause to change subjects. Napoleon Chirac picked up the tourist guide that had been left on the table and opened it in the middle once more, at the pages devoted to the famous temple at Bulguksa, a standout tourist attraction with three stars.
So you are of the opinion, he said, that it’s not worth a visit to Bulguksa? Won’t the series be incomplete without it?
Of course you must go there! exclaimed the little Buddhist monk. Of course the series would not be complete without the supreme diadem of the treasures of our Korean temples! What I said was that there are others which are more interesting because they are less well-known or celebrated. But Bulguksa is a must, it’s unavoidable, like the Eiffel Tower or Times Square.
And in fact, he went on, Bulguksa had successfully withstood tourist vulgarisation. It could make a good subject for his photography, especially sectors such as the platform of the main shrine in the complex, Daeungjeon, where the two famous pagodas were placed.
The shrine was built in the second half of the eighth century by a prime minister, Kim Daeseoing, who was a follower of Buddhism. He had the two temples built in memory of his parents, and this could explain the differences between them if it was true, as tradition had it, that one was dedicated to the father, and the other to the mother. They are placed symmetrically on both sides of the square, though all the charm comes from their lack of symmetry, because they are very different to each other. The ‘motherly’ or ‘feminine’ pagoda, called Seokgatap, is the lower of the two (8.3 metres) and the simpler. It has three levels, and is elegant and austere. The name Seokgatap means ‘the pagoda of Sakyamuni’, the historical founder of Buddhism. Its construction represents the spiritual ascension following the rules imposed by the Buddha Sakyamuni. The symbolic idea is that this ascension is relatively easy if one adheres to the dogma. And perhaps it also means that this is the path recommended for women, who should not concern themselves with any great intellectual complexities but pursue the established rules obediently.
The other pagoda is called Dagotap, which means the ‘Pagoda of a Thousand Treasures’. It is taller (10.5 metres), more solid and much more elaborate, with eaves, cornices, balustrades, doors and windows. Its baroque style symbolises the complexity of the world, whose ‘thousand treasures’ are mankind’s ambition.
There exists a legend about these two pagodas that might interest you, said the little Buddhist monk.
Of course it would. The more he spoke, the more interested they became. This was both automatic and inevitable: had this not been the case, if their interests had already existed separately from each other and had to collide, it could never have happened. It would be like the Buddhist tale of the turtle that sleeps on the sea floor and swims up only once every hundred years. It can appear anywhere on the immense surface of the oceans, while also somewhere in that vastness floats a ring that is ten centimetres in diameter. What probability is there that, as it pops up, the turtle’s head will pass through that ring? How long will one have to wait before that coincidence occurs? Just as unlikely are the odds of saying something to coincide with the interests of the person to whom one speaks. (The modern version of this turtle is SpongeBob SquarePants.)
The legend says that one morning a dead horse appeared in the square of Daeungjeon. It was flattened against the floor tiles, its spine crushed, skull smashed and brains spattered all around. It had obviously fallen from a great height, which explained the noise heard shortly before dawn by the monks now gathered crestfallen around the carcass. In their semi-conscious state they had thought that part of the temple had collapsed, but the Buddha sent them so many dreams at that time of morning that they had preferred to stay in bed.
The monks knew the dead animal. It was an imported Chinese pony that was tired of life and wanted to commit suicide. Its lack of knowledge of Korean botany meant it could not find the toxic herbs that could have brought its existence to a discreet end, and so instead it decided to throw itself into the void from the highest point it could climb to. In the region, there was nothing higher than the two pagodas at Daeungjeon. But how could it reach the top? It’s not easy for anyone, still less a horse, to climb the outside of a steep building, to practise architectural rock-climbing. One has to realise the importance in Buddhism of the number of legs each living being has: an importance even greater in this case. With two legs (man, partridges) the climb would not have presented any great problem; with many (a centipede) even less; with four, it was mission impossible! Despite this, the horse’s determination to end it all was so great that it set off on the climb. It chose the Seokgatap, which although it was slightly lower seemed to present fewer obstacles. It was an infinitely demanding task. Clinging desperately to the cornices, its hooves slipping everywhere, its round belly dangling to one side and its haunches to the other, in a clumsy imitation of Spiderman, climbing one centimetre and sliding back three, head down, curling up into a ball, folding and unfolding like an electrician’s stepladder, the horse sweated and panted upwards for hour after hour. The monks recalled having heard during the night an irregular series of scraping sounds, thuds and snorting; they had attributed this to a flock of storks mating in the temple roofs.
Finally the desperate pony reached the top of the pagoda, and without giving it a second thought launched itself into the air. As it fell, at that supreme moment when everything w
as already decided, it saw it had made a mistake, and that rather than scaling the Seokgatap it had climbed the Dagotap. Instead of making things easy for itself, it had made them difficult. And during the instant of the fall it had time to reproach itself for this lack of attention, and to think that perhaps it was this failing that had led it to despair of life.
What a beautiful, sad story, the French couple commented, and what a rich message it must surely contain for anyone who can correctly interpret it.
V
They had been talking so much that the morning had sped by and, whether it was because they wanted an excuse to continue their conversation sitting down without having to start work, or because the champagne really had worked as an aperitif and had opened their appetite, the French couple suggested they have lunch together. They did so tentatively, admitting they did not know at what time Koreans ate, or more importantly, what plan of action the little man might have devised, since they had tacitly left it up to him.
Amply justifying their decision, the little Buddhist monk took charge. Yes, it made sense to go and eat, and to have a good lunch so that they could devote the whole afternoon to photography. He had already decided on the temple where the distinguished visitor could make his first foray: one that was in the vicinity of the city, easily accessible by train, not often visited but very characteristic.
They at once paid and left. The little Buddhist monk hurried along in front of them, saying he knew a nice place close by where the food was good and there was no problem getting a table. He set off through pedestrianised alleyways, and the French couple followed without losing sight of him, admiring the ease with which he slipped through the crowd of people who could not even see him. Although they paid close attention, they were always on the point of losing him, because he was rushing along so quickly at ground level, and so many people kept getting in their way. This pursuit gave them little time to see where they were going, but that was not important anyway, as they would never have been able to get their bearings: the narrow alleys became a real labyrinth. They turned to the right, then to the left, then right again, while at the same time the streets also turned right and left; they crossed roofed-in sections, one of which housed a bookshop, turned left and right again, and there they were. A set of very worn marble stairs led to a creaking glass door through which they entered before they could even glance at the front of the building or the signs outside, which they could not have read anyway.