Today, again, I felt the story of my life. It started the day I looked at a fountain in Fes. The water is running, a bubbling sound. The sun is high overhead and the shadows short. I look into the zillij and understand everything. How did I not know? How do they not see? The story of my life and all the lives ever lived or living. Tomorrow is a memory and the future’s left germinating in the past.

I understand the pattern of it all, the underlying grid. It is hard to move through space pretending objects are in my way.

I felt myself as a child today. A friend asked me, and I felt the alienation and fear. I saw my family, not as personalities engaged with me, but as small Divinities fighting with their energies, feeding the downward spiral of their beings. I watch them and wonder: where is the good in this? Where is the good? These energies playing without a Master.

My friend asks me how I coped with such a situation as a child. I felt myself inside, which is where I found all the answers I’ve ever found. I realized how much they taught me, the lesson plan carried out by my family and their madnesses. They taught me to go inside. But in doing so as I child, I discovered there is no authority. Just myself.

What a child. Running around in circles waiting for someone to tell me to stop. Who in this life I’ve lived, with these lessons I’ve learned, could ever have a right to tell me to stop?

She was here for the weekend. We drank a bottle of Gigondas. We smoked inside and talked about sex. We ate Moroccan food and watched a belly dancer separate her body into key parts. Good dancer, but more age and fat needed to fully express the power of sex, we agreed. We felt the power germinating within us, near bloom, a seed planted in our past.

We ate breakfast late in the city, wandered an eclectic mansion with hidden doors, walked through mirrors. We visited the neighborhood museum, where I sat in a chair and felt myself as an entirely complete human being.

We went to a psychic, just for fun. Mamma asked me to make two wishes. I couldn’t think of one. I saw only faces and love. No words. She asked me what I wanted. What could I ask that could be answered with what I want? I say something silly about a common worry. She asks me where I want to go. Can’t she read the light glaring off my surface? I go where the light shines.

I stand outside and wait. The eldest daughter is returning from the store. She stops and stares at me. She tells me my energy is strong. I say “Good, I need it.” I tell her I’ve had a reading already and am not spending anymore, still she asks me to sit with her. Perched on a stone wall, plastic bags with orange soda and snacks open at her feet, she asks me if I believe in God. I do. She asks me if I believe in guardian angels, I say yes, though it’s a mild lie. From her eyes I can see she talks to the one on my shoulder. She doesn’t tell me what it says. She tells me to come back Wednesday. I say yes with no intention.

That angel she speaks to and me? We have the same Master. And I have the higher position between the two: myself and angels.

Oh Mamma, so many things I know, you left unsaid. I already know my life is long. Do you think I will pay you to know how I know? No, Mamma, just teach me how to pray.

I want nothing to do with this world or the next,
Yet I do not turn away.

My own heart is filled with a million wonders.
Beholding this sight,
what madness now keeps me
from becoming totally mad?

–Rumi

I never heard of Moorish revival architecture until I saw the Bloomingdale’s home store in Chicago. It is housed in a restored Masonic temple built by architects Huehl and Schmidt in 1912 for the Shriners.

The building was declared a historic Chicago landmark in 2001. After renovations, which included replacing the original domes, the Bloomingdale’s home store opened there in 2003.

According to the Medinah Shriners website, they, aka Shriners or Shrine Masons, belong to the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine for North America (A.A.O.N.M.S.). They’re only tied to an Arabic theme through the imagination of its founders, Billy Florence, an actor, and Walter Fleming, a physician. Florence attended a party in Marseilles hosted by an Arabian diplomat. At the end of the party, the guests became members of a secret society. Florence returned to the States inspired by his Marseilles experience and worked with Fleming to create an exotic backdrop for the fraternity. They designed elaborate rituals, salutations, emblems, and costumes, including the Shriners’ distinguishing red Fez hat.

When the building opened, it housed the fraternity. They gathered in a red velvet audotrorium now filled with escaltors, $1,000 sheets, and a cool sound system designed under the constraints the historic status placed on renovations: no speakers mounted on the dome and floating floors.

The Shriners used to hold parades for children regardless of religion. They still work today towards child welfare and health issues.

The building is obviously Moroccan-inspried. I love the way the eight-point star is used in the stain glass windows like a head of a body.

My mother in law is a helpful person, which is to say that she isn’t very good with people. She full of information on the right way of doing things; the right way to eat, the right way to clean, the right way to pray. She is there to remind you to turn off the light, air the bed linens, and say “Bismillah” before eating and “Hamdullah” after burping. Her knowledge of Islamic practices and Moroccan superstitions is vast, which is to say that she doesn’t know or care much about what people want to hear. She is the harbinger of “hashuma.” More

People smile at me as I walk with my daughter through the medina, my thumb and index finger wrapped around her billowy wrist. These standing witnesses seem like the collective soul of the world, yawning, like a baby awakened with a gentle rub on the back. When my daughter and I are together playful and chatty, we become a catalyst that causes a deep, dear memory to show itself as a smile on the face of strangers. This floating memory is so primal that it cannot enter the conscious mind as a coherent thought. Instead, it enters the semi-toothless mouth of a fruit seller who, in broken English, asks my daughter if she wants some melon. More

There was a group of Americans at the tapas reastaurant where we I ate with two girl friends on a Saturday night. I had grown accustomed to not hearing my native language around me and gravitated towards their words. I knew they must be part of an organized group, perhaps a conference or fellowship of some sort. On my way back from the bathroom and after a second bottle of wine, I stopped by their table to ask. More

When I read articles about Fes being a car-free city, I reflect on my experience in Fes last summer. More

What do Bob Marley, Abd El-Krim El-Khattabi, and Martin Luther King, Jr. have in common? Darga, a popular Moroccan music group.

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Magharebia.com wrote an article on Morocco’s efforts to promote rural tourism. The article fails to mention USAID-funded efforts to identify and establish Moroccan rural tourism projects. The report which was completed by Chemonics for USAID has some lovely photos.

I’ve become a fan of contemporary Moroccan artists such as Mohamed Hamidi, born in Casablanca in 1941. You can see a few more of his paintings online at the Shashoua Gallery although my favorites aren’t featured there. A friend of mine had a book and the book had pictures of the paintings and the paintings aren’t online. Perhaps I will time to scan those pictures so I can share my favorites with you. I found a reading list online, but with the holidays coming I don’t think I will find the time or budget to buy or read any books. In the meantime, I will hunt for inspiration at the Gallery of Marseille and Art-Maroc.co.ma and whatever else I can find online.

I pull up to the Agdal train station and the attendant tells me the lot is full. I wait in the car for another car to leave. I pull into a too-small space. A passerby motions which way I should go as I drive back-and-forth to nudge into the opening. I ignore him. Frustrated.

The Train Station Boy

According to an article by Sarah Touahri at Maghrebia.com, earlier this month the Moroccan Secretary of State for Traditional Crafts Anis Birou revealed government plans to open the country’s first higher institute for training in traditional crafts by 2010. Training in handicrafts has traditionally been done through apprenticeship. A formal training institute will help address problems in production and help the handicraft sector meet international demand for Moroccan goods – a need not being met by current supply. The full story is online at full article at maghrebia.com.

My only question is: can they teach me to make stencils like the ones hanging in this wood working shop in Fes?

I recently read “The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Ebernhardt.” I happened upon the book on a library shelf. I quickly became absorbed by the tale of this cross-dressing, Russian expatriate and Muslim-convert who travels Algeria dressed as a man going by the name Si Mohammad. Despite her excessive drinking, seasoned drug use, and hyperactive sex life, she was welcomed into a mystical order of Sufism. Her life story is filled with drama from her pursuit of absolute individualism and pure self-understanding. I’m surprised that her short life, she drown in the desert at the age of 27, has yet to be converted into a movie.

Isabelle Eberhardt

Now that I am safely at home I can confess that I locked my keys in the car at Chellah. And my cellphone. And my wallet. I had my camera bag with me which held a few dirhams, and my three year old daughter, who was wilting under the midday sun hovering a few thin inches above our heads. I had memorized only one local phone number, which rang a house where no one was home. This is the kind of moment that tests Moroccan hospitality.

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Trying to understand the origins of Moroccan design makes it is easy to neglect the new developments taking shape around the country. Take for example Hay Riad, the suburb of Rabat. The first time I visited Hay Riad in 1996 it was considered a far-out suburb, a cumbersome bus ride away from the city center. Now traffic flows into Hay Riad. It is complete with shops, businesses, gardens, and religious centers.

Hay Riad

Chefchaouen is cool even when its 110 degrees outside ; think dreadlocks mixing with laid-back mowhawks. Walking through the medina, residents greet me with a friendly “Hola,” “Bonjour” or “Hello.” They ask me for nothing as I walk the medina alone, except perhaps a visit to their store or restaurant. This must be the friendliest city in Morroco.

Chefchaouen is Cool

Sitting on the beach in Restinga looking at the Mediterranean I imagine Phoenicians sailing their galley ships across from Lebanon to Morocco. The oarsmen could rest on a windy day like today as they sailed their ship westward towards Tingis, modern day Tangiers.

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I love to spend time at my friends house in the neighborhood of Rabat aptly named L’Ocean, just down the street for the new Bou Regreg waterfront and the Oudaya kasbah. They have a beautifully decorated fifth-floor apartment with a large terrace and amazing ocean view. Its the perfect spot for watching sunset and relaxing with friends. I can’t say enough about how nice it is to have your own place in Morocco…a place on the ocean. But, in L’Ocean, if you turn away from the ocean and look south down the coast you will see a neglected neighborhood that tells the story of suppressed waterfront development in Rabat.

Real estate development on the Rabat waterfront

On our way to a friend’s house in Ain Atiq, we happened upon a fantasia. It was a competitive tournament, not a regular tourist attraction, so I felt lucky that we were able to witness it.

More from the fantasia

Once you see a Moroccan zillij masterpiece, you can spot the style anywhere. It is an art form that has been practiced for a thousand years. It is a unique specialization of Morocco and continues to thrive in Moroccan society within a contemporary creative framework.

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My guide tells me that the color of Fes is blue, but I say its grey. The color of Fes is grey like the clay used to make Fasi pottery and tiles; the grey of pollution and plaster work; it is the grey of the crumbling medina walls. It is a particular shade of grey that is more a complex taupe than a simple mixture of black and white. The color of Fes is the color of creative inspiration. With 50,000 artisans and 15% of the population working in the craft trade, Fes is a specialized source of human creative energy. It is amazing what can be made with Fasi grey.

The color of Fes

As an English speaker, researching the origins and history of Moroccan design has been a nightmare. Virtually no one in the English language writes about the culture of Morocco. The subject is treated by picture books, travel guides, and cook books that do more to inspire than inform.

More on my quest to understand Moroccan design

Driving from Fes to Ifrane, I spotted patches of red amongst a green patch of land. On closer inspection, I realized there were Berber women gathered dying wool in the shallow river-bed. As we drove, I saw some women running towards buses. They carried buckets overflowing with red, freshly-died yarn. I wanted to take their picture, but felt unsure about invading the moment with a camera. To be a good photographer, I suppose you must be invasive. The sight of the women and the red yarn in the green riverbed is a picture I continue to wish I had taken.

Berbers in Morocco

Each city in Morocco likely has its own saint. The Moroccan cult of saints grew from African traditions and Islamic monotheism as a means of providing a bridge between believers and God.

Believing in saints has allowed Islam in Morocco to accommodate pre-Islamic ideas and adapt to the histories of local communities. But make no mistake that the belief in saints in Morocco is still an expression of Islamic ideals. Moroccan saints are socially important persons who can connect their ancestry to the Prophet Mohammad.

Moroccan Saints

I expected to see Moroccan design influences during my trip to Arizona. The desert climate is perfect for tile, cement/adobe houses, and water fountains. A pleasant surprise was an unplanned trip to Mission San Xavier del Bac on the Tohono O’odham Indian reservation. Built in 1777, this active Catholic church has been called the Sistine chapel of the United States. I had never heard of it before. It was beautiful and well-worth the visit.

Moroccan pattern in a Catholic church

As I research the underlying archetypes and philosophies of Moroccan art and design, I’ve begun to suspect the West has a bit of an inferiority complex when it comes to Islamic achievements in art. Islam isn’t commonly credited with having Art, with a capital A. Rather, Islamic art is labeled as decoration or ornamentation. This is probably because 1) the Islamic empire established sophisticated art forms by the 11th century, several hundred years before the Renaissance, which gave European civilizations a political motivation to claim the influence as their own; and 2) Islamic artists don’t do paintings.

Universal Symbolism and Islam's Contributions to Art

more pics of oued laou on flickr

On a recent trip to Oued Laou, a city on the Mediterranean north of Chefchaouen, I saw the opportunity fueling Morocco’s real estate and tourism development efforts. Sheep grazed in an empty lot next to the town’s hotel, enjoying a water front view along with me and my traveling companion. The hotel staff said business had picked-up since they had been featured in the most recent Lonely Planet guide. They seemed nervous about the increased attention, but we were the hotel’s only visitors.

Real estate development in Morocco

Don’t have the time and money to travel to Fes? Don’t have access Islamic art at the local museum? Help has arrived. I’ve collected the following links to Islamic and Moroccan art so you can get your culture-fix without leaving the computer. How’s that for efficiency?

See the list of museums

An interesting documentary on medieval Arabic/Islamic society in Europe, specifically Southern Spain. Includes an explanation of the geometric proportions used in the construction of the Alhambra, which is based on proportional rectangles. The images in the video are from Morocco or Al-Andalus, the Iberian Peninsula. It is a bit odd to see Rifi women in the North of Morocco on screen as the narrator discusses how Mohammad founded Islam in Mecca. Nonetheless, it is a beautiful documentary worth watching.

If you preferring reading to video, a lot of the historical content in this documentary is also covered in the book Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain . “Ornament of the World” is the phrase a medieval German traveler described Granada, which represented a more advanced society than found in the rest of medieval Europe.

What can an American web designer learn from a Moroccan pottery-maker? To do and support the work you love.

Read: Reflections on an Interview with a Moroccan Artisan