On a misty night over 700 years ago, high in the mountains above what is now Nikkō Japan, a strange and fateful birth took place. A boy –small, sick, and weak– cried in his mother’s arms. This boy would grow to become one of the most influential sculptors, painters, and artists in history. He was called Jingoro.
They say Jingoro’s gaze was so intense that upon gazing at one of his own sculptures for too long, the statue, a perfect rendition of a patron’s daughter, began to mimic him and slowly come to life. Jingoro had an insatiable appetite for learning and crafting, and once completing his training as a sculptor and far surpassing his tutors, he turned his attention to other arts to master. He became a blacksmith’s apprentice and made katana swords. He quickly excelled in blacksmithery and his work was so magnificent that during his apprenticeship the other apprentices, in a jealous fit, held him down one night and chopped off his right arm. He then immediately bested them in sculpting with his left arm earning him the name Hidari. He continued learning eagerly his whole life and worked his way through apprenticeships until he became an architect’s apprentice and oversaw his magnum opus, the construction of the royal court in Kyoto. His list of artworks, buildings, and tools is extensive and can still be seen all over Japan.
In the Tōshō-gū shrine in what is now Nikkō Japan, near the place of his birth, is one of Hidari’s most famous works. Here reside Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru, the three wise monkeys. I’m sure you have seen them before dear reader, perhaps as emoticons on your phone, each symbolically blocking one of their senses.
During a friend’s New Year’s Eve party this year I stumbled into the bathroom and found myself face-to-face with a statue of the three monkeys. One covering his eyes, one covering his mouth, and one covering his ears. It reminded me of the story of Hidari, and it made me think about what sort of intention I wanted to bring to the holidays and the new year.
Contemplation of these figures elicits two common interpretations. The first is that by ignoring or ‘turning a blind eye to’ tough truths and injustices of the world, a person is made complicit in their continuation. There is an ethical responsibility to witness the troubles and engage them. The second interpretation is that of forming a practice of not dwelling on ‘evil’ thoughts, thus starving the ‘evil’ gods of our valuable psychic energy.
As a journal focused on highlighting efforts to make the world better through design and construction we have a lot to learn from Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru. We have every indication that those pushing conventional construction and construction’s conventions (the dominant ways of financing, developing, and constructing buildings or simply: the real estate component of capitalism) are not prepared nor interested in actually addressing the crises (climatic, economic, health, etc.) they have deepened. But Hidari’s wise monkeys tell us not to become absorbed, and to direct our ears, mouths, and eyes toward what we are doing to make the built environment better.
In this magazine we dedicate space to case studies from which we might learn new ways to address these crises. For this issue we focus on Community Rebuilds, an organization created in response to affordable housing needs in Moab, UT. We believe carefully examining organizations that are challenging the dominant dead-end housing and construction paradigms can be an inspiration to us all. In addition to this we’re also excited to share projects that caught our eye this season, from the backyard scale to the industry-shaking scale, and the inspiring people that are making it all happen.
with love,
The Last Straw Editorial Collective
P.S. As publishers, we feel the need to call out evil we see in the world, if only so that it doesn’t fade into the flattening doom scroll where massacres assume the same importance as lifehacks. In this issue we briefly honor the memory of Manuel “Tortuguita” Terán, a climate activist of the Defend the Forest movement murdered by state agents during a raid on the forest. This is a tragic reminder of what those who extend the climate crisis do to maintain things as they are.
One rainy afternoon, as I sat in the gazebo in the Intrenchment Creek parking lot with Tortuguita, I asked what success would look like for them. Tortuguita told me, “The abolitionist mission isn’t done until every prison is empty and there are no more cops.” They acknowledged they didn’t expect to live to see that. “I smoke,” they said wryly.
But wasn’t there something more immediately achievable? An incremental victory? Tortuguita looked at the rainwater cascading off the asphalt and collecting in expanding pools beneath our feet.
“This,” they said, nodding. “We’re winning every day we’re out here. It’s a kick to the cops’ morale. Every party we have is a success. Every time somebody has a nice, warm, dry place to sleep in the woods.”
Tortuguita motioned toward the rain and shrugged. “Well, maybe not dry. Less wet.”
-from David Peisner’s “The Forest for the Trees” for The Bitter Southerner
