Sunday, February 22, 2015

New Wine in an Old Bottle








I finished reading Walter Isaacson’s “The Innovators”. I was delighted by his previous work on Einstein and was hoping to be captivated by this one too. It was not the case, and when I reached the final pages a line from Isaacson, while written for another context, summed up my thoughts: it was “old wine in a new bottle”. I found little innovative thinking in this book, but that line made me think.

Where did the saying come from? Today it insinuates that one is “pouring” old ideas into a new framework and selling it as a new creation. Was that the origin of the saying?

So I did a bit of research.

Interestingly, “new wine in old bottle” is a conceptual transliteration of a parable found in the New Testament. There are different versions of it, but the one in Matthew 9:17 reads:

Nor do people put new wine into old wineskins; otherwise the wineskins burst, and the wine pours out and the wineskins are ruined; but they put new wine into fresh wineskins, and both are preserved.

A little more reading on this and I discovered delightful anthropology and philosophy to form the background for explaining this parable.

Indeed, historically wine was made by first fermenting the pressed juice in clay jars to let the gassy phase take its course. Then the fermenting juice was placed in new vats or if to be transported, in “wineskins”. The wineskins were actually the entire skin of a goat where the openings of the legs and tail were tightly sewn. The opening of the neck was the “neck” of this container and the partially fermented wine was poured in the opening at the neck then tied off securely. (Now I know where the “neck” of a bottle came from!)

One never puts freshly pressed grape juice immediately into the goat skin “container” as the gassy phase (Tumultuous Stage) of fermentation would burst the wineskin. But once partially fermented, the “calmer” fermentation of the juice can be accommodated by the stretchiness of the goat skin. But “old” wineskins stretch once, and if new juice is poured into old wineskins, even the calmer fermentation phase would tear the skin!

Wow!

So, the “new wine” is not really wine yet; and, the “old bottle” is not even a bottle! Instead, the parable has at least two philosophical implications:

            a. The container should be adequate for accommodating what is poured into it; and
            b. Tumultuous phases should be contained within flexible contexts.
Of course these are my interpretations and I am sure there are a multitude other ways for analyzing this parable.

… So, I believe that today we are using the old parable in a non-authentic way. But does the lesson, the implications and philosophy of the parable still hold true today?

The poet in me immediately placed wine within the context of love and passion. After all, even today, wine is often associated with romance, and from Rumi to Baudelaire has found its place in poetry. So I went to search in my favorite poets’ and philosophers’ works lines about wine and love.

Let’s start with Rumi:

There are thousands of wines that can take over our minds. Don’t think all ecstasies are the same!

Was he really talking about wine or about what passions can fill our lives and gives us the ecstasies we so pursue? If one replaces “wines” by “passions” would the message be the same?

Wine and”French” cannot be dissociated easily, so I looked into the works of Baudelaire, Colette, and even Pasteur.
According to Baudelaire:

One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters…But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, if you so chose. But get drunk.

Again, wine seems irrelevant to this saying. He is suggesting a life of passion, of going to the limit, of being totally driven and taken by our interests. Poetry, science, philosophy or love of nature – it does not matter.

Colette brings wine into the domain of “influence” and psychology when she writes:

There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.

While pharmacologically easily understood, these lines from Colette can very easily also dissociate themselves from wine. What will happen if I replace “wine” again with passion, or ideology, or professional drive? Would our psychological state show similar side-effects?

Since we are talking pharmacology, let’s go to Pasteur, who is often quoted to have said:

Wine is the most healthful and most hygienic of beverages.

There is no poetry here, nor any philosophy. It is the most famous bacteriologist who looked at the composition of wine from a biological point of view. Possibly Pasteur never got drunk, nor did he pursue Rumi’s ecstasies. For him it was a medium where fermentation took place.

… What about wine and love?
It can be as simple as a bucolic setting to which wine adds a special touch. Pablo Neruda said it simply and with grace:

I like on the table, 
when we're speaking, 
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.

Every time I read these simple lines I see a painting in aquarelle. What would have happened if Neruda and Monet were contemporaries?

Yet love is never pure aquarelle. It is never two-dimensional as a painting. It is rarely the “light of a bottle”.  W.B. Yeats, in a few words, brings love and wine together:

Wine enters through the mouth, 
Love, the eyes.
I raise the glass to my mouth, 
I look at you, 
I sigh.” 

… So what to do with the wineskin and wine parable? Can one resemble the wineskin to a person’s soul? A soul where love had already fermented and given the passion, the ecstasies and their side-effects? So now would it be wise to pour new love into this used, expanded to its limits, and old soul? Would the “Tumultuous Stage” of a new love’s fermentation tear this soul to parts?  
In other words, and to stay conform to the original parable, should one pour new wine in an old bottle?

.. And I smiled realizing that our present day usage of the saying is “Old wine in a New bottle”!  The implications of this version deserve a discussion in a separate essay….

February 22, 2015
© Vahé  A. Kazandjian, 2015

I wanted a picture that also represents the old and the new, while touching on the topic of wine. So, I used the new technology of scanning film negatives and decided to use this picture of a man in a large city drinking wine in the street. The quality of the scan is so bad that it cannot be used for photographic work, but the bad quality also preserves the privacy of the person. I took this picture with a 1970’s Mamiya 645 medium format camera.

PS/ I hope this essay will also have an additional contemporaneous dimension as 2015 is the Chinese Year of The Goat!  



Thursday, February 19, 2015

Thank You!

This is a special entry on this blog which I started 1 year ago. As many of my visitors have discovered by clicking the “About Me” icon, I do have two other blogs as well which are often visited regularly by my unknown-to-me readers… Indeed, while I can see the countries of the visitors and the pages they visited and read, I do not know who they are nor can I discover their email addresses. I think it is better that way.

The reason I am posting this short note is that my three blogs were visited 10,000 times as of today! It is an important milestone since my blogs’ focus areas (photography, poetry, and literary essays) are of interest to people who are not just surfing the Web but purposefully looking for specific topics.

Further, the tally of the countries shows that I have had the privilege to be read by visitors from 62 countries!  It sure gives me the encouragement to continue to share my street photos and literary essays with renewed passion.

So, to all of you who I do not know by name but who read my work, THANK YOU! And for those of you who after reading sent me an email (or two) and shared your thoughts and suggestions, please know that you have helped me tell my stories better.

Hope our joint and mutual journeys continue.

February 19, 2015

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015

Monday, February 9, 2015

Flattening Identity







Of all the belongings one can have, belonging to an identity and keeping it is perhaps what defines us.

Born as an immigrant, I have been an immigrant on every continent where I have lived. I suppose one can call it “immigrant recidivism” when one never becomes indigenous to the context, even after decades of being there.

While that is the observation or outcome, the reason of the “thousand shades of an immigrant” surely varies. Some try to “melt” and become part of the pot’s porridge; others want to find a win-win alternative to remain an immigrant yet be mostly unnoticed as such; and there are those who feel at peace only when their inherited identity is protected and cherished only by remaining an immigrant.

I have written about identity, published essays and books in different languages, and ended up with a motto that seems to encapsulate my observations about myself and others. I have proposed that “There is no “I” in Identity”. That, being who we are, while it can be a personal decision, is often defined by who we were. And if it is true that with time and age we become our parents, then I think the definition of identity evolves over time, and eventually takes a dominant posture along that time spectrum.

… I finished reading Thomas Friedman’s “The World is Flat: a Brief History of the Twenty-First Century” and while the book is not about identity, it seems to indirectly touch on that topic. There was a specific passage in there where the author meets with young Indian job-seekers in India and helps them learn how to speak American English, specifically the pronunciation of words as Minnesotans would. The goal was for these young Indians to do telemarketing and not letting folks in America know that they were calling from India. This supports the book’s thesis that the world is increasingly flat and that the opportunities are available to all no matter where one is on this otherwise round globe.

But that passage on page 27 ended with this:
On the surface, there is something unappealing about the idea of inducing other people to flatten their accents in order to compete in a flatter world. But before you disparage it, you have to taste just how hungry these kids are to escape the lower end of the middle class and move up. If a little accent modification is the price they have to pay to jump a rung of the ladder, then so be it—they say.

I looked at that page for a long while. The author was talking about a purposeful changing of accent, but my mind was to change of identity. I have seen many who tried to melt and become part of that pot’s porridge by first changing their accent. Then changing their name (I have received many calls from India where the caller identified himself as “Burt” or herself as “Sandy”…) Then stop mentioning where they were born but instead stress where in America or The United Kingdom they went to college.

… As I continued to look at that page and letting my mind travel free, I recalled a line by James Allen from his work As a Man Thinketh:
                                              The oak sleeps in the acorn

Indeed. And in the case of identity, we are both oak and acorn: while we have extended deep roots in our ground, we need to make sure our acorns remember they came from oak trees. Not just this oak tree but the ones before.  In some way, the oak sleeping in the acorn need to have a dream.  An old dream.  A dream forests of oak trees have had, even if many have been cut with rusty axes.

The acorns have survived.

… As I turned the page, I remembered a line from Paulo Coelho in The Alchemist:
     The only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

An oak tree drops many acorns. It does not matter if some do not wake up from that dream.

February 9, 2015

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015

Saturday, February 7, 2015

Frankincense





It was a feeble flame
But it warmed my house
It burned upon its own ashes
And upon ancient scars

From dusty temples of India
To floating altars of Kyoto
From Taiwan and Morocco
Incense somehow paved my way

How the swirl of a gray plume of smoke
Can fill one’s soul of grace and fear
How a trembling flame of sunsets makes us hope
Where colors exhale their brightness and peace

It was a feeble flame upon nuggets of resin
Trees in the Sahara had dripped one secret night
Yet they found their way to my room somehow
To take me where a kid I once was

Life was all sunrise then
And when the sun let its hair down to bathe
In the bluest of seas
I did not think of sunsets

…Tonight
It is dark outside
But that swirling flame
Makes me think about sunrises, again

February 7, 2015
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2015