On the eve of the Moon Festival holi- day, Typhoon Meari cast its cloudy pall over much of Taiwan. It was in doubt whether most residents would be able to enjoy the sight of the full moon the next evening.
On such a gray, dank day, speaking about "beauty" does not particularly excite one's interest. People today typically associate beauty with something spectacular or the manifestation of an exceptional idea-as exemplified by the bold effects of French impressionist painting, the new Guggenheim Museum designed for Taiwan by architect Zaha Hadid, or the myth-inspired extravaganza at the opening ceremony of the Athens Olympics. Meanwhile, the traditional Chinese legends with their more restrained sensibilities are gradually coming to seem further and further removed from popular conceptions of beauty.
What is beauty? Why are so many places in the world (including some corners of Taiwan) so "un-beautiful"? Why do others soothe the soul of those who simply sit in their midst? There are locales that overwhelm us, making us want to visit them again and again, while other places strike us as oppressive, driving us away from them.
These questions must often occur to Taiwanese, inveterate world travelers that they are. As this issue's cover story "Charting the Aesthetic Map of Taiwan" notes, Taiwanese are increasingly disinclined to tolerate filthy and visually unappealing surroundings, having reached a tipping point in their desire for an aesthetically pleasing environment. Looking at the country as a whole, virtually without exception community-oriented campaigns have aimed to create a more beautiful living environment. Taiwan finds itself afflicted by anxiety about beauty.
To understand this anxiety, Sinorama editor Tsai Wen-ting has attempted to tease out critical factors necessary for creating a society sensitive to aesthetic concerns. Interviewing everyone from academic experts to rural residents, she discovered that the key to beautification is not the amount of money spent, nor the particular ideas behind beautification projects. Nor is it to be found in the superiority of particular styles over others, or even in whether creativity is in evidence. Instead, successful beautification must draw on something more fundamental: for example, a tranquil mood, the contemplation of a particular place and time, or mutual respect between people.
From this perspective, it's not difficult to see why Taiwan often gives people the sense that it is not beautiful. Officially working 44 hours each week, but in many cases far more, Taiwanese labor perhaps harder than the residents of any other country in the world. One result of this industriousness is that Taiwanese are too rushed and too preoccupied by purely pragmatic concerns to give their attention to much else. If the beauty is not of the spectacular sort, such as a firework display, that can gain media attention or win fame and fortune for its creator, it may not even be considered worthy of being described as beautiful. It must occur to many to ask whether this shift from simply not being beautiful to being full of superficial forms of beauty truly represents progress for Taiwan-or a step backwards.
We discover that the sense that something is beautiful springs from a harmony-not only one that appeals to the senses, but one that is spiritual. It is grounded in conciliation between people and nature, between people and material objects, between people and each other, and between people and themselves. It imbues us with a thorough understanding, a selfless stoicism-and, as Master Hong Yi declared, "a mingling of remorse and joy."
Master Hong Yi himself can be considered the first person to have introduced Western aesthetics to China. He was not only thoroughly familiar with the principles and sensibilities behind Western painting, drama, and music, but had a similarly profound understanding of Chinese poetry, painting, and calligraphy. Finally, however, he relinquished these worldly means of creating beauty, and took the vows of a monk, living in a monastery where he pursued another world of beauty through spiritual enlightenment.
In stark contrast to Master Hong Yi is the character of a Nazi military commander in a movie I recall seeing. In the film, this commander affects an elegant manner in playing a recording of Schubert's Octet for Strings just after having casually discussed the monstrous plan to exterminate the Jewish people. The pairing of the exquisite melody of Schubert's music with the murderous intentions of the Nazi commander chills us. This horrifying contrast is repeated in the concentration camps, where the Nazis demand that Jewish musicians play the violin as a send-off to their brethren entering the gas chambers. Can the hideousness of a soul so without the most basic sense of humanity be in any way ameliorated by its owner's aesthetic sensibilities, no matter how refined?
Beauty is mysterious, and worthy of our thorough exploration and contemplation. The answer to the question of what is beauty should be sought both outside ourselves and in our inner being.
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