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photo source)
So, yesterday I went out clubbing for the first time ever with some of the other Americans here in Oldenburg. It was a sort of event that happens every semester from what I've gathered, called Uni Nach Der Club, where one wristband gave you access to seven clubs around the city. While waiting in a blob line to get into one of the clubs, I was talking to this guy near us who was also waiting. He asked pretty standard questions about where we were from and what we were doing here in Oldenburg. And then he saw my tattoo and asked me what it meant (He also thought it was a crocodile. I'm not sure which is worse, artichoke or crocodile. Even I'll admit the lotus flower sort of looks like an artichoke, but a crocodile? Though maybe at night and in a crowd, it also looks like a crocodile).
I'm starting to dislike this question-- mostly because it's hard for me to give an impromptu answer (I don't think very well on my feet, which you may or may not have known), but everyone asks. The question in itself is hard for me too, even when I have time to answer, because my tattoo does have meaning, but it's not necessarily a wholly figurative meaning which I can easily and concretely explain, and it has more than one meaning for me. On one level, I associate something more akin to an aesthetic feeling with my tattoo. It's simple, delicate, soft, and temporal, in the sense that flowers die and paper eventually disintegrates. On this level, I just like having a piece of artwork (which is what I consider it to be) on my arm that represents part of my aesthetic tastes (not one piece of art could represent one's whole aesthetic tastes. Taste, especially aesthetic taste, is too complicated for one work).
On a second level, it does have a figurative meaning. I went into the tattoo parlor wanting a paper crane tattoo. I have a strong figurative connection to birds, especially small birds such as finches and swallows. I like the idea of flight as representative of freedom. When I first decided I wanted a tattoo, I wanted to get an empty birdcage on my lower back and a bird on my shoulder blade, but the idea evolved into what it is now (which is another aspect of my tattoo I really like, but I'll get to that). The paper cranes as themselves also hold strong significance for me, because it's the only origami that I've memorized how to make, and I enjoy folding paper cranes (I also like making them and leaving them for people to find) and I find them (and paper in general) aesthetically pleasing. They hold all the meaning that birds represent for me-- ease and grace of flight, freedom-- but with the added layer that they're not real birds, only paper replicas. Their flight is an illusion. This second layer may seem contradictory, but I don't think it is. I saw someone else explain the meaning of their origami crane tattoo like this:
"I designed the crane to be origami rather than a real life crane because it symbolises my respect and awe of Japan; try as I might, I will never be Japanese, just as the crane will never be any more than meticulously folded origami" (source).
Not only is her explanation apt as is (because I'm also not Japanese, but have a strong interest in Japanese culture), but also in the sense of freedom. While I've been here, I had someone ask me if I was homesick, and I had to answer "yes and no," the longer answer being: No, I'm not homesick in the sense that I miss home and want to be back/can't wait to go home. I don't miss the place of home, but sometimes I miss the familiarity of home. When I was talking to this other person, I think I said: "I miss having the support system I have at home. I miss the close presence of my girlfriend, my family, and my friends and co-workers." And I didn't fully realize how much I missed my family until I had this conversation. It's not something I expected to happen. I very much expected to miss Zan (and I do all the time), but I didn't expect to miss family as much as I do. It's been especially poignant when I get skype calls (the one Easter weekend and the most recent one the weekend of the twin's birthday), and I can hear the chaos of everyone being together and having a good time and I miss being a part of that. Connecting that back, I have my freedom, but I don't; I have the freedom to travel, but it comes with conditions. (i) I don't think I'm ever going to go anywhere for an extended period of time without Zan again. I just don't want to. I'm half of a person by myself; I'm half of a Zorgan. (ii) I don't want to travel so far from my "home base" that I can't come back and visit for things like holidays and gatherings. As much as it might seem like I don't, I like being part of the energy and chaos that is my family, and I don't want to give it up. I call them "conditions," but they are completely voluntary. In the same way I chose a paper crane over a real bird, I
choose to "condition my freedom" in this way.
While reading
Orientalism by Edward Said, I came across this quote from Gerard de Nerval, an 18th century French poet and essayist traveling in Egypt:
"[For a person who has never seen the Orient,] a lotus is still a lotus; for me it is only a kind of onion."
At the time he wrote this in a letter back home, Nerval was experiencing a common phenomena in 18th century Romanticism, which Said calls "the betrayed dream." For the romantics, the Orient was a rich source of exotic mystery, sensuality, and inspiration, but when these romantic authors actually traveled to the Near East or India, they became disillusioned with the "modern Orient" and it was de-romanticized for them. Said's book has made me think about the way I perceive the East (and I must say I'm guilty of feeling the same sort of romantic attachment to the Orient as the 18th century writers) as well as Japan and "the Orient" or "the Other" in general, and I'm grappling with Said not only on the scholarly level for my Honors College thesis, but also on a personal level. For me, "A lotus is only a kind of onion" has come to be a sort of cautionary. A lotus may be an onion, but it's also still a lotus and carries all the symbolism it carried before I found out it was an onion (I didn't know it was an onion. I hope that's right because authors from the 18th century and earlier have been known to make facts up and just run with them.) My lotus flower has come to mean "I may be an onion, but I'm still a lotus." but also simultaneously, "I'm still a lotus, but don't forget, I'm also an onion." The lotus (or on a bigger scale "the Orient") can carry all these lofty and romantic meanings such as "eternity" and "beauty" and "inner peace" and can be exotic and mysterious, but I also need to remember that it's still a thing in itself. It's still also an onion and serves a realistic and practical purpose. The lotus means to me "I can be both these things (romantic and realistic) simultaneously, and that's okay."
I say my lotus artichoke has "come to mean" what I said above, which transitions nicely into the third layer of meaning my tattoo has for me. There's a concept in art and literature theory (that probably has a name, but I don't know it) that contends that the intent of the artist or writer is irrelevant and that meaning is derived from the viewer or reader. That's not to say that the artist or writer didn't intentionally incorporate themes, symbols, and motifs into their work with the intention to convey something to their audience, but that if a viewer/reader finds meaning in a work that the author/artist didn't intend or didn't foresee, it is just as legitimate as the meaning the author/artist purposefully put into their work. It's what makes it possible to read great books over and over and enjoy them every time you read them. And it's this fluidity of meaning that appeals to me in regards to my tattoo. I went into the tattoo parlor with the paper crane idea and the aesthetic and figurative meaning (as well as the "sense" of the illusionary freedom meaning. I liked the idea of the illusion of flight, but it has gained its more concrete meaning just recently.) that came with them. I talked to the tattoo artist, got his input, and allowed him the freedom to adjust the idea as he saw fit. I trusted his expertise as an artist; it may be my body, but it's his artwork. I trusted him to make something beautiful, which he did, and that was the extent of his responsibility. Even though I allowed him artistic freedom, I still hold control over the meaning it has to me, not as the writer, but as the viewer. And as I continue to change, the meaning of my tattoo will evolve and grow, keeping the meaning that stays relevant, becoming more complicated in meaning, and gaining new meaning as I gain more knowledge and experience.
Some people may read this explanation and call me out on my bullshit, and to an extent, they're right. In ways, all meaning that we think things have (tattoos, art, literature, places, history, memories, and on and on), is all assigned to objects by us and may be considered by others to be bullshit. I'm not guiltless in this; I've listened to other people's meanings, ideas, and interpretations and mentally (or not so mentally) rolled my eyes and called "bullshit." You can go so far as to say (and people have; it's another literature theory) that "if everything can mean something, then nothing means anything." But that's not the point. The point is to find something that is meaningful for you at the time and run with it, until you encounter something that doesn't fit with your old meaning, grapple with it, then adapt, adopt, change, and nuance your meaning until it fits again. Just because the old meaning doesn't fit anymore, doesn't make it illegitimate; but at the same time that fluidity needs to be there or else it may lose all it's meaning. And in the end, the new meaning will fit better and you're understanding will be deeper and more intricate. What I love about my tattoo is what I love about literature and why I study it, and I will continue to love and study it.
I know this probably isn't exactly what you expected, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
