August 01, 2007
Possessive Imaginings: Mazes in Black/Fire in the West
Standing petrified, in a circular universe, braided in rhythmic beauty, light beams, witnessing fluid air manipulated and maneuvered by a Spanish matador and his bull is spellbinding. This was my very first corrida, a Spanish tradition that became very popular in southern France during the 19th century. This Spanish, French, and Portuguese tradition has been traced to ancient Rome and to war strategies of the Moors against Iberian peoples in the 11th century. Many of the Moorish armies would set fire to the tails of bulls which would cause them to stampede. In the Corrida, there are six bulls that are brought into the arena. Each matador has about 20 minutes to perform, because after 20 minutes the bull realizes that he has been tricked and will no longer participate. As the bull is first released into the arena, there are about 4 or 5 matadors with very colorful uniforms (influenced by 18th century Andalusian costumes) and capes (capotes) which are used to trick the bull. The bull is aggressive, domineering, angry, and uses his sharp horns to slam into the walls of the arena, and behind the small wooden crevices where the matadors hide to escape the fatal blows of the bull. During this ceremony, the bulls run after the matadors and the matadors evade their blows by using the capotes. In the first movement of the corrida, the matador observes the ferocity of the bull. As the bull becomes more angry, two picadors enter the arena on horseback, and stab the back of the bull's neck with a lance. I've been told that his calms the bull down, but during the ceremony that I had witnessed, the bull trying to charge the man on horseback. After this, three banderillas (assistant matadors) enter the arena with colorful sticks and try to place them on top of the bull. In the third, and most controversial stage of the corrida, the matador enters the arena with a small red cape (la muleta) and a sword. In this stage, the matador attracts the bull with his cape, getting very close to the bull and often performing tricks from the ground and putting his life in severe risk. In the last movement, the matadors tries his best to trick the bull and weaken the bull with his sword and eventually kill the bull. The first time, I thought that this was kind of horrible. The thought of watching a ceremony for a bull to be killed, seemed very strange to me. It took me a long time to make a "decision" about the corrida. Was the corrida fascinating, was the corrida captivating, was the corrida disgusting. Who knows? I visited a farm in the Camargue that was only for bulls. Walking around, I realized that these animals lived in a place where there was very little automobile pollution, no automobile traffic, and they lived in open fields with space and freedom to run around and interact with each other. I did some research, and talked with the owner of the farm. He told me that in other parts of the world, many animals that are killed for human food are kept in very small cages without ever seeing the light of day, or having the freedom to run around in a field. The owner told me that he had incredible respect for bulls, as did all matadors. He felt that the corrida was an exchange and a struggle between man and bull, testing the limits of survival. At least these animals are allowed to live a very good lives up until the day of the corrida. I still haven't made up my mind about the corrida. The corrida is illegal in the United States, and of course, I am viewing the corrida with a western perspective. The corrida is very popular in Arles and Nimes, two cities with significant Roman heritage. What do you think?
Ryan Morris '08
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July 16, 2007
Newness: Captivate the Masters With Street Poetry
The first time I saw a lavender field, the first thing that I wanted to do was walk through it, experience it. This may sound like a dream for many, but once I realized how many huge bees swarmed each small stem of lavender, I settled for a picture directly next to the field. You'd understand if you were here. I promise. This week, we took trips to St. Remy and to Les Baux de Provence. In St. Remy, we visited the small city where Vincent Van Gogh created many of his most beautiful masterpieces (Starry Night). Surprisingly, this beautiful building was a mental hospital that Van Gogh has lived at for some time. It was from the windows of his room in this mental hospital, that Van Gogh would paint.The city was surrounded by fields of olive trees, grape vines crawling from window to window, and soft light that reflected off of the small rivers that ran down the middle of each sidewalk. I've heard that this is medieval tradition. Les Baux de Provence, is a beautifully restored castle that rests atop very high boulders and rocks. This site was first inhabited by the Celts in 6000 B.C. and during the Middle Ages, it was ruled by the Lords of Baux who controlled much of Provence until the 15th century. 
Each year, the entire French nation celebrates Bastille Day, the end of the ancien regime in France at end of the 18th century. This was an absolutely crazy day. In Arles, there were concerts throughout the squares of the city that hosted artists from Trinidad and Brazil, Flamenco dancers, and musicians from Greece, Italy, and Algeria. My friends and I had a great time. We prepared a four course dinner (French style) and moved from concert to concert after the beautiful display of fireworks over the Rhone river. Tomorrow my very first Corrida! Until next time!
Ryan Forbes Morris '08
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West Coast Recycler: Gravity Moves Revolutionary Corridors
Walking near the arenas of Arles, one would find the fountain of history, emerging planets and experiences of varying degrees, and the perfect mixture of antiquity and memory. This month has been filled with photography exhibitions, musicians, concerts, and festivals. The Rencontres d'Arles began, in which photographers from all over the world arrived in Arles to display their works and talk with fellow artists. The subject matter ranged from the recognition and acknowledgement of sexuality in China to the every day life of women in India. These photos were a testament to the vast range of human experience, and were equally captivating and menacing.In fact, this has been a month in which all perceptions and preconceived notions have been challenged. Last weekend, a friend and I travelled to Montpellier, a small charming town in Southern France. Each day we traversed the beautiful streets adorned with elegant marble and walked through the beautiful curving lanes as the smell of fresh flowers rained upon those that walked in between the soft and inviting walls of the city. One evening, I stumbled upon a Palestinian peace rally against Israeli occupation. This was very interesting for me, because it was one of the first peace rallies that I had attended. The volunteers had built a replica of the wall that separates the West Bank into small isolated villages and showed maps showing how Palestinian territory had been reduced. I learned very many things from speaking with the volunteers, but their bias was evident as well. It was very interesting to hear their point of view, because that same evening I had seen a film in which young Israeli students were protesting Palestinian occupation as well. After seeing the film and talking with the volunteers, I truly began to understand the complexity of simply discussing many of the situations in the Middle East.
One of the most important "themes" of my studies here in Arles have involved the idea of "les autres" which means "the others." Especially from the standpoint of immigration in France, this idea of passing blame upon others is found throughout history and in much of the practical application of immigration and xenophobia in France. Last week, we went to a concert of a French music artist, with Congolese origins, named Abd Al Malik. I was not familiar with this artist before coming to France, but he was raised in a neighborhood outside of Paris and many of his lyrics deal with this idea of "les autres" and the problems of many immigrant families in France. This idea of "identity" was also something that I discussed with my host family. My host mother has Algerian origins, but she was born in France. She says that she is French. She has French documentation, she does not speak Arabic, and she really has no real connection with Algeria other than her parents. Surprisingly, her nephew who came to visit last week, was talking to me about his origins, and he told me that his country of origin was Algeria. Now, this is very interesting because he was born here in France, he doesn't speak Arabic, and has visited Algeria once and told me that he felt like a tourist. It was really interesting to see the gap between the two generations. My host mother says she is French, while her 14 year old nephew says that he's Algerian. This was very confusing, but apparently the identity of second and third generation children living in France is totally different from that of their parents. The manner in which they have "integrated" into society, seems very different. By the way, for those that read the blog in which I described the segregated market, a few weeks ago I walked the entire length of the market, and as I walked further away from the city, all conversation was in Arabic. It really is segregated. I'm still not sure if this segregation is intentional, but it is ever-present.
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July 03, 2007
The (Origin)al Anthropological Mixtape: Subzero Degrees & Interplanetary Invasion
Sometimes when I walk on the mahogany mediterranean tiles of my house, I can feel the heat of the warm oven across my feet. It's amazing to think about the many memories, French delicacies, aromas, conversations, and journeys that have mingled into the floors and walls of this narrow, and beautifully refreshing home.
This week, we visited the Pont du Gard, which is the second most visited monument in France. The Pont du Gard is an aqueduct located in Uzes, which was built in 19 B.C. This aqueduct was used to deliver fresh water to the Roman baths that existed in Nimes. This huge aqueduct, was used to deliver bath water! The Pont du Gard is also well known because it was built without the use of mortar, and is held together by iron clamps. And as you can see, it is very well preserved. 
France is in a very curious location. This has definitely been something that we've been discussing in my Sociology course. When Spaniards fled the dictator Franco many came to France. When Belgians, the Polish, and Italians sought work, many of them came to France. In 1921, the population of immigrants in France was an estimated 1,550,000 persons. In 1982, this number grew to 3,680,100 persons. By 1982, France was full of Portuguese, Spaniards, North Africans, Italians,and Sub-Saharan Africans.
And today, you could only imagine how much the immigrant population has grown, especially after wars of independence. Walking through the streets, you see that it is so impossible to say that someone looks "French." Even before France was "France", there were Celtic invaders, Romans, and Germanic tribes. It really makes you question your ideas about race, and national identity. Our professor asked us to reflect on our own personal experiences in France, as an immigrant. I talked about the way race is constructed in the United States with my host brother Thomas. I told him about the One Drop Rule, and about some of the history of American Indians. He was quite fascinated, but also very much informed about American history.
In Arles, it seems as if interracial relationships aren't treated the same way they are in many parts of the United States. There are very many children in this city of mixed ancestry. I have not heard the racial terms "white" or "black" here in Arles. The only distinctions I have heard here would be for a gypsy (gitan, in French). In America, you find many separate quarters for ethnic groups.
If you travel through downtown Los Angeles, you cross Koreatown, Chinatown, and Little Ethiopia just to name a few. We talked about the idea of assimilation. Are there Americans who still feel like immigrants? Another fascinating idea that I've thought about here in France is the beauty of our origins and Ancestry in Progress. In America, for those of black African descent, we often talk of our ancestry up until slavery. But what about our history before slavery? What about our origins in Africa? In the US, why is Africa treated like a country? Does this make Americans uncultured and uninformed?
All of the young children that I have encountered here know all of OUR history and politics, AND their history, along with a second or third foreign language. People here in Arles have been very interested in the black experience in America, and they ask me all the time about my origins, and slavery is hardly a word that comes up in their questions. Its very weird to think about how our ideas about origins and identity differ. What do you think? Do you feel like you are an immigrant? I think many of the people in my program have felt like immigrants. There are times when I feel like an immigrant as well.
I think a lot of French people will assume many things about Americans in general, but won't assume things about you personally. Of course, this is my opinion. I feel that in America, a lot of our relationships are based on very superficial things (i.e. We can only be friends if you are rich and I can get something out of you someday). 
From what I have gathered, people get to know you as a person and an individual first, before they ask about your profession or how much money you have. Sometimes when we walk into shops, people will say "Oh Americans! Hello Hello!. Very Good, Very Good." This is very innocuous, but it makes you feel weird at times because you are here to learn French and blend into the crowd. But there is something about us, that just says "American." Who knows?
Tomorrow, we are holding another aperitif, and we have invited the Mayor of Arles and other city officials to our school. Then this weekend, Les Rencontres d'Arles, a photo festival featuring artists from Korea, China, India, and all over Europe. And Wednesday night, the first Corrida! Please leave comments. Do you feel like an immigrant in your native country?
Ryan Forbes Morris '08
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For Corners: Feng Shui Catastrophe and Laid Back Linear Walks By Design
When you drive on the small country roads in the outskirts of Arles, you can begin to sense the invigorating aroma of lavender and sunflowers in the air running through your fingers and across your face. This weekend, I was invited to a huge party (ferrade traditionnelle) in a small town near the Mediterranean called Le Sambuc. I attended this party with one of the film students that I had mentioned in a previous blog, and his family. Once we arrived, I could see a beautiful river that stretched through the midsection of the property, an arena, and a huge field full of bulls.
Les Taureaux! 
I have never seen so many angry and hormone driven animals in my life. As the other 300 guests began to arrive, the cowboys of Camargue, portly men with colorful flannel-looking shirts, rode in on their white horses for the Salut des Cavaliers (Salute of the Cowboys). As they performed this ceremony, I couldn't realize why the back of my neck and arms had felt so hot. I couldn't understand everything the cowboys were saying because of their thick southern accents, but I began to smell the ashes of the fire that was stirring in a pit directly behind me.
As the cowboys began to round the vast field, they began to divide in half. Through the parting sea of cowboys, arrived a young bull, yet equally aggressive and robust as his older siblings. The cowboys carefully tied the bull in ropes, avoiding the sharp ends of the bull's horns, and began the ceremony of the Marquage d'un jeune taureau au fer de la Manade. In short, it is customary for the youngest bull to be branded with the number of the year that he was born.
This was a grand occasion for the cowboys, and signified the importance and celebration of birth and harvest. After the branding of the young bull, the aperitif began. As I walked into the aperitif, I stumbled upon six tables overflowing with sweet sangria, pastis, brasucado de moules, a selection of sausages from Arles, and olives de fontvielle. 
I should also mention, that I was the only American at this party, so it was truly a day immersed in the language.
As the wind began to blow, you could hear the echo of six guitars and gold chains fluttering against the gentle wine glasses of the aperitif. Two gypsy women, with olive skin and sky blue eyes, clapped their hands, slowly dancing to the flamenco guitars of the men that followed behind them. The women moved with their dresses, commanding the breezes and the reverberations of light and sound throughout the dusty fields of the Manade.
The crowd stood petrified, as they willingly plunged into the cool waves of gipsy folklore and spanish flamenco. 
Smoke began to rise behind the women as they danced in the burning heat of high noon, and the tantalizing aroma of paella serenaded the senses of each man and woman silently dreaming of the food that would soon be served. During the dinner, the waiters waltzed in shaded squares, delicately blessing each table with small plates heavy with shrimp, oysters, chicken, and thick silhouettes of Northern Spain. After the dinner, everyone slowly paced to the arenas, for the Course a la Cocarde. Young teenagers, dressed completely in white, stood in the middle of the arena, and they anxiously awaited the bull that was pounding on the door of the stable with his horns.
These young guys were in amazing shape, and there were a few times when the entire crowd jumped back as the horns of the bull just barely missed a leg or an arm of one of the raseteurs. 
I must admit, you couldn't have paid me to get in that arena. This was truly one of the most interesting things I've ever seen. But I must cut this blog short. I will be back with pictures from the Pond du Gard, and from the cultural festivals that will begin in Arles.
Ryan Forbes Morris '08
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June 27, 2007
Fresh Spaces: Like A Thelonious Monk I Travel in Peace
Looking through the window of a moving bus is like shifting through infinite mind states. As we rode the bus towards Avignon, blessed again with the delicious warmth of summer and silhouettes of sunlight, I immediately encountered the beautiful white horses that are native to Arles and the gigantic fields of sunflowers and bountiful vines.
As we arrived, I immediately noticed the towering Palais des Papes (The Pope's Palace), a huge gothic palace in the middle of the city, and the Pont d'Avignon, a beautiful bridge that stretches far out in the Rhone. Similar to Arles, this city is filled with narrow avenues, small romantic cafes. The walls of Avignon are towering, and the sound of opera reverberates against the city walls and its shadows. As you walk up the huge stairs of the city, you arrive at a small park, that overlooks the Rhone and offers a stunning view of Avignon's skyline.
Within the palace, the gothic architecture was very evident. The middle of the palace was full of old artifacts, keys, and skulls that had been pierced by gigantic crossbow arrows. Unfortunately, cameras were prohibited inside of the palace. Inside of the Palace, many of the walls were filled with tiles, and mosaics and beautiful medieval manuscripts. If you ever get a chance come visit Avignon. This is a short blog, there will be more. This weekend, the Arles music and photography festival begins. Here are some more photos!
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June 26, 2007
Boogie Down Axioms and Gothic Angles: Stones, Rocks, Subways, Blocks
In Arles, the presence of levels, stages, and development, seem to be very important. I live in a three story home, and sometimes I carry on short conversations with my host mother from windows on different levels of the house. I have come to France to improve my level of French conversation, to heighten consciousness, to develop, to experience the world through a different lens, on a different stage. Last night, I had dinner with a few friends at a small restaurant called Cuisine du Comptoir.The room was filled with smooth ambience, delicate smoke, and timid glances that shifted in curious circular currents from table to table. We began to talk with two women. The woman that sat closest to me was French and Spanish, and her friend was French and Italian. Of course, in the first few minutes of our conversation we were confronted with every American stereotype known to man. (1) Americans eat horrible food, (2) All Americans are Bush supporters, (3) Americans are uptight, (4) Americans are scared. I began to wish that the women had never started talking to us, but I realized that one of the reasons that we were in France, was to combat stereotypes about Americans. We talked to the women for about an hour. We discussed the ever-present gap between the rich and the poor in France, George Bush, Iraq, Darfur, and culture. On Sunday, we went to the beach, and virtually all of my friends were shocked by the sight of women tanning on the beach without tops. This same feeling of "shock" was also present at the Music Festival last week, when many people began dancing in the middle of the street without the fear that they weren't dancing correctly. Is American culture uptight? Are Americans uptight? Why is America so puritanical? Perhaps the women are right. America does seem to be uptight about many things. I couldn't really imagine a bunch of people dancing in the middle of the street to a Comourian band without fear of being judged. We talked with these women for a little bit longer, and we began to talk about the difference between the Black-American experience and the Afro-French experience. In France, most of the citizens of Sub-Saharan African descent are recent immigrants, or they come from French departments (i.e. Guadeloupe). In France, you do not find a population of black citizens that share the same experience (slavery, civil rights movement) like Black Americans. We then moved on to the topic of immigration. I told them about my sociology class, and I asked them if they considered themselves immigrants. They both immediately responded that we were all immigrants, and that French citizens don't look a certain way or have a particular "race". To be French, is to be raised or to adopt French culture. I wonder if many French share this same opinion. Interesting point of view right!? As we left the restaurant, the women told us that they wanted to show us something. Now, I must admit, this kind of worried me, especially since we've always been taught to avoid "strangers." The women then commented "Oh...Americans are ALWAYS afraid." So naturally, we followed. We walked a few feet away from the restaurant and the woman hunched over and looked into a small crevice that resembled a rain gutter. As we looked closely however, we noticed that there were ruins underneath the city. We walked a few more feet in the same direction and entered a hotel. There was a glass floor, and beneath it, laid a beautifully preserved Roman fountain and bath area. The area was spacious, domineering, and immediately sparks your imagination. The idea that the entire night, I had been eating dinner a few levels above Roman ruins. Levels, Stages, History. This is definitely a city without age, a city that exudes a sense of freedom and exploration-- exploration of self and the fusion of past and present.
A day in Avignon. A city very close to Arles, with similar Roman ruins.
1. The View of Avignon from the Palais des Papes
2. A fellow IES student from Northwestern Univ and Me, at the Pont d'Avignon
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