He Fa on the Red Velvet Robe

The dark red robe hangs down, black plush cuffs set the openings for the hands deep within them, and a thick gold chain draws another conspicuous line across the chest. A straight black fringe frames the face in the middle. I look as if I have just dressed far too formally for something very small. With no definite dynasty or person to claim here, I let this become an experiment in costume and ritual.

Even reaching through such a cuff for an ordinary cup would probably slow the action down. The robe separates the everyday acts of rising, turning and reaching, as though each step must wait for the previous one to finish. It can help someone be solemn, but it may also make them forget that what needs doing is very simple. The louder the gold chain announces itself, the less the water in the cup needs an explanation.

I want to preserve this awkwardness in ritual. People and their days need some less efficient divisions, so that endings, beginnings and rest have boundaries that can be felt. But if a boundary can exist only through elaborate dress, those with no time to change will struggle to obtain equal solemnity. A ritual should be able to shrink—to a sheet of paper, a pause, or even a clear explanation.

He Fa's broad cheeks and sparse beard make it harder for the robe to turn me into a distant aristocrat. The grandeur borrowed by an ordinary person can be interrupted at any time by life's small needs: cuffs must be rolled up, and the belt loosened a little. These concessions have not destroyed the ritual. They make it serve the wearer again, instead of requiring the body to endure at length.

I am willing to steady that imagined cup first, then decide whether to keep the robe on. Let the red velvet keep its color and the heavy chain its light; they need not carry all the meaning. A day that has truly begun still has to be made through how the time ahead is used.