I started telling you about the Bollywood dance project I worked on last year. And the people I met while I was doing it. Some I did not meet, but enjoyed talking to. And a few were difficult enough for me to abandon the idea of speaking to them, after a whole lot of tries over the phone and else-how. In the process of collecting the information that I needed, I came across characters that I will include in a novel, if I ever wrote one, that is. They had their quirks, their madness, their passions and their manners, all in the places that they belonged, and had no compunctions about displaying any of it to me, a stranger who had wandered into their lives and was asking questions about everything.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Friday, April 30, 2010
As I was saying…
I started telling you about the Bollywood dance project I worked on last year. And the people I met while I was doing it. Some I did not meet, but enjoyed talking to. And a few were difficult enough for me to abandon the idea of speaking to them, after a whole lot of tries over the phone and else-how. In the process of collecting the information that I needed, I came across characters that I will include in a novel, if I ever wrote one, that is. They had their quirks, their madness, their passions and their manners, all in the places that they belonged, and had no compunctions about displaying any of it to me, a stranger who had wandered into their lives and was asking questions about everything.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
’Tis the season!
It’s starting all over again now. After a seemingly endless dose of cricket that mercifully came to a rather eventful climax with controversy dogging its last staggering steps, it is now time for the television reality shows to start their new editions. American Idol is almost over, with just six people left to sing their way into an enviable contract and more promotion than they could ever expect otherwise. The Indian shows are airing promos between any other programming and even as you watch a soap or a crimi (which is what the one-corpse-is-never-enough-for-a-self-respecting-detective-to-figure-out serial would be aptly called in Germany) or even a food-based show, you are bombarded with bytes featuring popular faces wriggling various portions of their anatomy to garner votes and stay in the game. My favourites are the dance contests, from Zara Nachke Dikha to Nach Baliye to even the less polished Saas vs Bahu. Dance India Dance is just over and Indian Idol is just getting into the groove, which makes it all a lot of fun for a viewer like me who prefers these to the average soap and is always grumbling at the end of watchable dramas like Bones, Criminal Minds and, soon, it is rumoured, Psych.
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
’Tis the season!
It’s starting all over again now. After a seemingly endless dose of cricket that mercifully came to a rather eventful climax with controversy dogging its last staggering steps, it is now time for the television reality shows to start their new editions. American Idol is almost over, with just six people left to sing their way into an enviable contract and more promotion than they could ever expect otherwise. The Indian shows are airing promos between any other programming and even as you watch a soap or a crimi (which is what the one-corpse-is-never-enough-for-a-self-respecting-detective-to-figure-out serial would be aptly called in Germany) or even a food-based show, you are bombarded with bytes featuring popular faces wriggling various portions of their anatomy to garner votes and stay in the game. My favourites are the dance contests, from Zara Nachke Dikha to Nach Baliye to even the less polished Saas vs Bahu. Dance India Dance is just over and Indian Idol is just getting into the groove, which makes it all a lot of fun for a viewer like me who prefers these to the average soap and is always grumbling at the end of watchable dramas like Bones, Criminal Minds and, soon, it is rumoured, Psych.
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The road ahead
It’s been a long and winding road – whoever did that song, I hate the concept! – for me for some years now. Occasionally, just once in a rare while, it gets to me, as it is doing right now. Of course, I could always go stand under a cool shower and bawl until the knot in my head dissolved, but that would get me nowhere except on the trail of foolproof undereye depuffing and de-dark-circling gunk which never does the right trick anyway, so why bother! Of course, I could always eat, but then that would reverse the hard-won benefits of a year-long gym regimen that has me actually believing what my former physiotherapist would say when he was doing something particularly agonizing to my legs: ‘no pain, no gain’.
Or I could shop, except that I have put myself on a budget stricter than any financial planner would do during crunch-crisis time. So no more shoes – and right after I decided that, I was pushed into buying two new pairs, since the sandals I was wearing at the time, both times, suddenly gave up being footwear and morphed unexpected into strips of leather that were totally useless for my needs at that moment. Luckily, the restaurant I was headed into just accepted my bare feet as an eccentric accessory of a fairly frequent customer and the people I met seemed resigned to the fact that a creative mind mandates a quirk or more along the way. I may not have bought the pair of shoes and the sandals that got added to my shoe closet on those occasions, but having been pushed into that specific corner, I must admit the takeaway was not a bad choice. But it was not a choice I would have made right now.
I could go gallery hopping, of course, to beat the blues, if that is what this is. There are lots of decent art shows on in the city and I could probably even find something to write about if I could find somewhere that would publish it. And, of course, eventually pay for it, which they do not do that easily, that quickly, or that happily. But the art is often interesting, frequently amusing and once in a while even worth the longwinded drive into town to see it. I have made friends of various artists that way, from the prolific and articulate Jitish Kallat to the newer talents on the Mumbai scene like Sonia Jose (“spoken” to only online, I must confess) to some pushy publicity seekers who cannot be counted as ‘friends’ but can be relied on to provide a suitable quote when required to.
Of course, perhaps the easiest way to dispel the low mood is to cook, for me at least. I could whip up a culinary storm with my famous sinful chocolate cake, except for that I need to go out and get chocolate and flour and…well, you get the idea. I have a fridge full of food that needs to be eaten, but none of it – or at least very little – is of the conventional variety and would be instantly recognized by anyone with less exotic and esoteric tastes. I recently revived an old favourite recipe of mine for a deep, dark and very sinful chocolate cake that used four egg whites and lots of chocolate. But I am now told that those with a compulsive need to eat chocolate are most likely depressed, which is in part caused by the chocolate that they crave. Not really craving chocolate but more than willing to eat some if it is given to me, I navigate myself out of those waters for now…
I could, of course, figure out what I am feeling low about and get around to fixing it. It could be the result of watching too much late night television with the sound off so as not to disturb the rest of the family, or it could be due to the fact that it is very hot and sweaty and I am not happy about that. It could, indeed, come from the fact that I should get around to working again and I want to but do not know how to go about finding something to do and I feel terribly guilty about not being as involved in doing so as I should perhaps be. Convoluted? Yeah. True? Yeah. Unsolvable? Nah. Let me just pull myself out of the trough of not-quite-despond and labour onwards, along the long and winding road that I hate traveling but can’t seem to find a way off of. Until then, I smile and tell the world just how happy I am. And I actually am!
Or I could shop, except that I have put myself on a budget stricter than any financial planner would do during crunch-crisis time. So no more shoes – and right after I decided that, I was pushed into buying two new pairs, since the sandals I was wearing at the time, both times, suddenly gave up being footwear and morphed unexpected into strips of leather that were totally useless for my needs at that moment. Luckily, the restaurant I was headed into just accepted my bare feet as an eccentric accessory of a fairly frequent customer and the people I met seemed resigned to the fact that a creative mind mandates a quirk or more along the way. I may not have bought the pair of shoes and the sandals that got added to my shoe closet on those occasions, but having been pushed into that specific corner, I must admit the takeaway was not a bad choice. But it was not a choice I would have made right now.
I could go gallery hopping, of course, to beat the blues, if that is what this is. There are lots of decent art shows on in the city and I could probably even find something to write about if I could find somewhere that would publish it. And, of course, eventually pay for it, which they do not do that easily, that quickly, or that happily. But the art is often interesting, frequently amusing and once in a while even worth the longwinded drive into town to see it. I have made friends of various artists that way, from the prolific and articulate Jitish Kallat to the newer talents on the Mumbai scene like Sonia Jose (“spoken” to only online, I must confess) to some pushy publicity seekers who cannot be counted as ‘friends’ but can be relied on to provide a suitable quote when required to.
Of course, perhaps the easiest way to dispel the low mood is to cook, for me at least. I could whip up a culinary storm with my famous sinful chocolate cake, except for that I need to go out and get chocolate and flour and…well, you get the idea. I have a fridge full of food that needs to be eaten, but none of it – or at least very little – is of the conventional variety and would be instantly recognized by anyone with less exotic and esoteric tastes. I recently revived an old favourite recipe of mine for a deep, dark and very sinful chocolate cake that used four egg whites and lots of chocolate. But I am now told that those with a compulsive need to eat chocolate are most likely depressed, which is in part caused by the chocolate that they crave. Not really craving chocolate but more than willing to eat some if it is given to me, I navigate myself out of those waters for now…
I could, of course, figure out what I am feeling low about and get around to fixing it. It could be the result of watching too much late night television with the sound off so as not to disturb the rest of the family, or it could be due to the fact that it is very hot and sweaty and I am not happy about that. It could, indeed, come from the fact that I should get around to working again and I want to but do not know how to go about finding something to do and I feel terribly guilty about not being as involved in doing so as I should perhaps be. Convoluted? Yeah. True? Yeah. Unsolvable? Nah. Let me just pull myself out of the trough of not-quite-despond and labour onwards, along the long and winding road that I hate traveling but can’t seem to find a way off of. Until then, I smile and tell the world just how happy I am. And I actually am!
Friday, April 23, 2010
The meaning of art
Over many moons of watching the whimsical world of art from a distance and at comfortably not-too-close quarters, of meeting and speaking with artists, of wandering about museums and galleries, of writing about shows and gazing with great puzzlement at some works, there is one clear-headed and much-amused conclusion that I have come to. Art is a lot like fashion. Or history. Or even the seasons. What goes around invariably, inevitably, comes around again before long. And if there is something that arouses argument, debate or, best of all, protest with a degree of violence, it is considered to be not just successful art, but path-breaking, significant and, perhaps most importantly, saleable. Along the way, there have been many occasions where I have had to call some artist or the other and ask about the ‘latest trends’ in art, a question that is surpassed in banality only by that masterpiece of mundane mumbling: ‘Who do you think will be the artist to watch?’
Today, art and its makers have changed. There is indeed a trend, one that veers towards alternate professions and adventuring. A recent show in Mumbai that I saw had a number of women artists who were better known – or perhaps more visible – as illustrators, architects, fashion designers, graphic designers, photographers, or other fields that are indeed art-related, though not from the obvious, conventional perspective. This is in keeping with the trend to more experimentation in art. From the maverick MF Husain’s Shwetambari many years ago, where pieces of white cloth and shreds of newspaper scattered the floor of a large gallery space all covered in white, to the more recent model of a water tanker (Aquasaurus) made of bones crafted from resin by Jitish Kallat to an esoteric display of experimentation in fashion by Shilpa Chavan (aka Little Shilpa) at a current show, art has slid off the canvas and into spaces that are still being explored. At each stage, of course, there has been a degree of shock greeting the display – Husain’s work was reviled by many, but lauded by ‘those-who-should-know’, of the ilk of Akbar Padamsee and Tyeb Mehta, whom you would think would be a better judge than the average Joe. Kallat’s bones aroused curiosity and a certain morbid fascination that his eloquence did much to dissipate. And Little Shilpa’s hats have taken the fashionista audience by such a great storm that the arterati have got carried, perforce, along with it.
In all this artistic adventuring, even the averagely-talented creative expressionist has gone global. Many claim fame with local self-sponsored shows and citations from ‘foreign’ names decorating invitations, along with a resume that includes exhibitions in various parts of the world that they may have traveled to. Some of these exhibitionists – in the literal sense of the word - of course, are genuinely talented and gradually find inclusion in reputed collections and support from enviable fund-pundits. A few become international celebrities, trotting frenetically around the globe from show to show, working hectically to keep pace with demand and, somehow, pulling off the coup of always remaining creative, inspirational, lauded and coveted - again, Kallat is a case in point. And one or two think beyond their own careers as artists to become support systems for others and curators of the kinds of shows they themselves want to see, like Krishnamachari Bose, for instance.
Along the way, the medium has become, in a strange way, the message. The use of video and audio clips is more popular now. Often, painting melds with photography and can become part of an installation that includes sculpture, with a few bytes of sound and moving pictures thrown in to complete the sentence. That sentence is meaningful at various levels – to the artist as an individual, to the viewer as an unconnected passer-by and to society at large as an audience that needs to be made aware of something, from child abuse to contemporary forms of suffrage to political rot. A work by Sonia Jose that impressed me recently had a white rag rug lettered in black reading ‘so much to say’ – the message could be anything, the directions of thought countless and the mood an entire spectrum from dark and deadly black to a clear, joyous white. It left the viewer to decide, even as it hinted of a deeper mental process for that same viewer to decode and debate.
Perhaps the best part of art today is that it gives the person looking at it, feeling it, experiencing it, something to do. It is not interactive in that you need to get hands-on and fiddle with buttons and knobs and listen to beeps and whistles like with a video game, but it provides a sense of freedom of interpretation. There is something serious going on, but it’s all left up to you to decide what that something could be. And that, methinks, is really what art should be about!
Today, art and its makers have changed. There is indeed a trend, one that veers towards alternate professions and adventuring. A recent show in Mumbai that I saw had a number of women artists who were better known – or perhaps more visible – as illustrators, architects, fashion designers, graphic designers, photographers, or other fields that are indeed art-related, though not from the obvious, conventional perspective. This is in keeping with the trend to more experimentation in art. From the maverick MF Husain’s Shwetambari many years ago, where pieces of white cloth and shreds of newspaper scattered the floor of a large gallery space all covered in white, to the more recent model of a water tanker (Aquasaurus) made of bones crafted from resin by Jitish Kallat to an esoteric display of experimentation in fashion by Shilpa Chavan (aka Little Shilpa) at a current show, art has slid off the canvas and into spaces that are still being explored. At each stage, of course, there has been a degree of shock greeting the display – Husain’s work was reviled by many, but lauded by ‘those-who-should-know’, of the ilk of Akbar Padamsee and Tyeb Mehta, whom you would think would be a better judge than the average Joe. Kallat’s bones aroused curiosity and a certain morbid fascination that his eloquence did much to dissipate. And Little Shilpa’s hats have taken the fashionista audience by such a great storm that the arterati have got carried, perforce, along with it.
In all this artistic adventuring, even the averagely-talented creative expressionist has gone global. Many claim fame with local self-sponsored shows and citations from ‘foreign’ names decorating invitations, along with a resume that includes exhibitions in various parts of the world that they may have traveled to. Some of these exhibitionists – in the literal sense of the word - of course, are genuinely talented and gradually find inclusion in reputed collections and support from enviable fund-pundits. A few become international celebrities, trotting frenetically around the globe from show to show, working hectically to keep pace with demand and, somehow, pulling off the coup of always remaining creative, inspirational, lauded and coveted - again, Kallat is a case in point. And one or two think beyond their own careers as artists to become support systems for others and curators of the kinds of shows they themselves want to see, like Krishnamachari Bose, for instance.
Along the way, the medium has become, in a strange way, the message. The use of video and audio clips is more popular now. Often, painting melds with photography and can become part of an installation that includes sculpture, with a few bytes of sound and moving pictures thrown in to complete the sentence. That sentence is meaningful at various levels – to the artist as an individual, to the viewer as an unconnected passer-by and to society at large as an audience that needs to be made aware of something, from child abuse to contemporary forms of suffrage to political rot. A work by Sonia Jose that impressed me recently had a white rag rug lettered in black reading ‘so much to say’ – the message could be anything, the directions of thought countless and the mood an entire spectrum from dark and deadly black to a clear, joyous white. It left the viewer to decide, even as it hinted of a deeper mental process for that same viewer to decode and debate.
Perhaps the best part of art today is that it gives the person looking at it, feeling it, experiencing it, something to do. It is not interactive in that you need to get hands-on and fiddle with buttons and knobs and listen to beeps and whistles like with a video game, but it provides a sense of freedom of interpretation. There is something serious going on, but it’s all left up to you to decide what that something could be. And that, methinks, is really what art should be about!
Paying the piper
When I was a small child, I was told the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. It was only many years later when I grew up a bit that I understood the significance of the fairytale and learned how life is all a fairly balanced equation of give and take. The plus matches the minus, the debits and credits add up to a nice zero and the yeas and the nays must find a neat middle ground. Over time I found that I had a lot to give that people wanted to take and gave of it freely and willingly, without even thinking of what I got in return. But now it seems that it is time for that little calculation to be done: I need to get back.
Getting back is not about debt, not for me. There are people whom I owe more than I can even begin to think about, be it Father or my best friend or just the lady at the back desk at the bank we have been with for generations who never hesitates to jump in to sort out forms and files without ever losing her cool or her charm – it is not her particular job or her duty as a bank employee to help us, since she is busy with her own work, she just does it when she is needed. We all do that a lot of the time; we set aside what protocol dictates we should be doing and dive in to where we can be of use to someone, just because we are in a position to do so and do not consider it a kind of IOU that needs to be repaid. Most of us do it without thinking, as part of that unspoken deal that comes in the guise of ‘friendship’.
But once in a rare while I start feeling put upon. There have been occasions that I have given unstintingly, of myself, of my talents, of my resources, of my heart and mind. There has never been a moment when I have felt that I should get something in return, since it does not matter that much, perhaps that potential feeling is even satisfied by a knowledge that somewhere along the line karma and dharma play a role and that, in the end, that great Power that is will give me my due. Who knows what the reason or the motive is; the help is available, it costs me little, I give it. If the label ‘friend’ is attached to the person I am giving to, then there is no question about the giving, it is done with joy and optimism. And people who take know what they are taking and value it as they should. In that, I get the thanks I deserve without asking for it, without even wanting it, because that friendship means more than any payback could.
Right now I feel a little taken for granted, in a way used. No, there is nothing too negative in this feeling, nothing that can be fixed either, by anyone’s apologies or actions. I am not losing anything by the giving and would probably be willing to keep on giving if the other person wants me to. But that sense of wariness, of caution, of almost calculation has now entered the equation for me, which is fatal to not just the giving, but the relationship itself. I still have plenty to give and can still give it, but now I am feeling a reluctance to give without getting. I am not asking for money, for privilege or for even a word of acknowledgement, but for a hint of awareness that it is becoming strained as a balance, that the taker now needs to give back. Maybe what I want is a certain accountability, a sense of responsibility that allows questions to be asked, that gives answers even without those questions being asked, that provides information in exchange for encouragement and support and, yes, information given.
Do I want to explain all this in simpler terms? No. Do I want to say what it is all about and who is involved? No. They know. I know. And if they become aware of what I think of the situation, which I have in fact expressed on an earlier occasion, that does the job for me. Do they read this? Yes. Will they do anything about it? Probably not. If they were the kind of person who would repair the situation, if they were conscious of the fact that it is happening, they would never have allowed it to happen at all. They, like me, would know what friendship means. And it is not about saying sorry or not, it is about not needing to.
Getting back is not about debt, not for me. There are people whom I owe more than I can even begin to think about, be it Father or my best friend or just the lady at the back desk at the bank we have been with for generations who never hesitates to jump in to sort out forms and files without ever losing her cool or her charm – it is not her particular job or her duty as a bank employee to help us, since she is busy with her own work, she just does it when she is needed. We all do that a lot of the time; we set aside what protocol dictates we should be doing and dive in to where we can be of use to someone, just because we are in a position to do so and do not consider it a kind of IOU that needs to be repaid. Most of us do it without thinking, as part of that unspoken deal that comes in the guise of ‘friendship’.
But once in a rare while I start feeling put upon. There have been occasions that I have given unstintingly, of myself, of my talents, of my resources, of my heart and mind. There has never been a moment when I have felt that I should get something in return, since it does not matter that much, perhaps that potential feeling is even satisfied by a knowledge that somewhere along the line karma and dharma play a role and that, in the end, that great Power that is will give me my due. Who knows what the reason or the motive is; the help is available, it costs me little, I give it. If the label ‘friend’ is attached to the person I am giving to, then there is no question about the giving, it is done with joy and optimism. And people who take know what they are taking and value it as they should. In that, I get the thanks I deserve without asking for it, without even wanting it, because that friendship means more than any payback could.
Right now I feel a little taken for granted, in a way used. No, there is nothing too negative in this feeling, nothing that can be fixed either, by anyone’s apologies or actions. I am not losing anything by the giving and would probably be willing to keep on giving if the other person wants me to. But that sense of wariness, of caution, of almost calculation has now entered the equation for me, which is fatal to not just the giving, but the relationship itself. I still have plenty to give and can still give it, but now I am feeling a reluctance to give without getting. I am not asking for money, for privilege or for even a word of acknowledgement, but for a hint of awareness that it is becoming strained as a balance, that the taker now needs to give back. Maybe what I want is a certain accountability, a sense of responsibility that allows questions to be asked, that gives answers even without those questions being asked, that provides information in exchange for encouragement and support and, yes, information given.
Do I want to explain all this in simpler terms? No. Do I want to say what it is all about and who is involved? No. They know. I know. And if they become aware of what I think of the situation, which I have in fact expressed on an earlier occasion, that does the job for me. Do they read this? Yes. Will they do anything about it? Probably not. If they were the kind of person who would repair the situation, if they were conscious of the fact that it is happening, they would never have allowed it to happen at all. They, like me, would know what friendship means. And it is not about saying sorry or not, it is about not needing to.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
A woman's work
(Published in Crest, April 3, 2010)
It’s a woman’s world, for sure. Even as an annually tom-tommed Women’s Day brings with it its ephemeral share of promises of reforms and more, the woman knows her place. Silently, powerfully, determinedly, she goes about her work to the best of her personal ability, never mind the support the government, society and family may or may not give her. And, like all those anywhere, everywhere, who know why and how they are strong and essential, what she does may not be seen, heard or acknowledged, but it rarely remains undone. Which makes her indispensible; her work never done.
Tapping into that truth is Bose Krishnamachari, curator of a two-part art exhibition: Her Work is Never Done. At Gallery BMB, Mumbai, the first part opened earlier in March, while the second began March 26. It showcases the work of a number of young, not-often-seen women, most involved in more everyday careers, be it architecture, graphic design or fashion. There is no unifying style or concept, just a deeply felt and sometimes quirkily expressed creativity that cannot be categorised or classified, but which says a great deal about feeling, sentiment, society, environment, a global culture and an oddly exciting message about freedom and the will to succeed. The artists include Aishwarya Laxmi, Atmaja Manidas, Charmi Gada Shah, Dia Mehta, Divya Thakur, Koumudi Patil, Nisha Ghosh, Parvathy Nayyar, Poorna Rajpal, PS Jalaja, Puja Puri, Remen Chopra, Sakshi Gupta, Siji R Krishnan, Suchitra Gahlot, Nandini Valli, Leena Kejriwal, Parul Thakker, Nivedita Deshpande, Shilpa Chavan, Sukanya Ghosh, Shaina Anand and Lavanya Mani.
Bose, who brought these diverse sensibilities together under a loosely encapsulating title, explains that he has been looking at exploring this for a while now. “When I was looking at Indian contemporary art, traveling around, talking to people doing good work, people associated with different art practices, I found that there is a constant exchange – architects are always interested in creating sculptural works, graphic artists experiment with poster making, for instance.” He believes that “Young girls, more in cities, are dedicated and talented, capable of doing future art. They have multiple interests, each being an extension of what they normally do - which makes them complete artists, expressing themselves in so many ways.” And it made sense for him to bring these talented individuals together into one space.
Sonia Jose, showing carbon pigment diptychs on paper and a handwoven shag rug, says, “Bose chose work that he thought would fit into the show; the decision was largely his, but he also discussed it with me. The works shown, I had already done; I had them in my studio but I hadn’t yet exhibited them.” The diptychs need study, but the rug has a more direct message, though its significance has to be explained. “I made the work at a time when I was looking for solutions to calm my mind. Friends suggested meditation. Through the ages and across cultures, forms of repetition have been widely used as a tool for meditation. I chose the words ‘so much to say’ hoping that repeating and playing with them might slowly eclipse my need/desire/compulsion to have anything to say. But the work wasn’t about the words, or the finished rug, but the process, which was very cathartic,” Jose explains. Spread on the floor, the piece invites a lie-down and the viewer is drawn to do so…and then the words take over, the whiteness stops any advance. “The text on each strip is legible, but appears noisy as a whole. The rug appears soft and inviting, but it is also white and sterile-looking making it intimidating to touch, walk over or lie on. The idea of displaying it as a rug was a formal and conceptual decision that came during the process of making the work.”
According to Nisha Ghosh, a Bangalore-based architect, “Bose has seen my earlier work exhibited in Mumbai and allowed me the freedom to do what I felt was appropriate for this show.” Her sculptural piece has a stainless steel mesh in the company of lacquered wood in egg shapes, all imbued with a somehow cool and calming effect. Her deconstructed fish, which “has its own story, was made a while ago, but was put together recently in response to a ‘thought jotting’. The work happens always in bits across time, sometimes stitched, sometimes collaged, to talk about an idea.” And what, in this case, is the idea? Ghosh days, “There are clues in the form, clues in the materials used and clues in the composition that may be obvious…” Or perhaps not. But then she provides another clue: “It is in one sense also a tight-lipped, tongue-in-cheek frustration at an environmental apathy that can mutate things out of normal course.”
Perhaps most directly apropos to a woman’s work, especially in this country, is Shilpa Chavan’s mannequin with some rather extraordinary baggage attached to it (her?). Often called the “hat lady” with a considerable amount of awe and respect flavouring the nickname, Chavan is best known as Little Shilpa, her fashion moniker, and creates some of the most fantastical and, indeed, interesting headgear and accessories seen on the ramp – Indian and international – today. Her work stands tall; a mannequin for which “the title of the show was the inspiration. I wanted to revolve it around the woman and what she uses around the house and in everyday life.” The figure is decorated with rubbish scoops, tea strainers, rubber slipper straps and other utilitarian objects familiar to any woman who knows how her home functions. The mosquito netting skirt holds moon-like lights, with babies inside, the head has wheels turning. “She multitasks, making babies, working in the house, her brain is always functioning. And with all this, she holds a mirror, she is always thinking of being beautiful.” Whimsy makes for art with a message conveyed not with a sledgehammer, but with wit and that little twist that makes it fun. Chavan says, “When I do fashion shows, it is art. When I do art, it is more like fashion. I am in an in-between phase, which I am okay with. The fashion world interprets it in their way; the art world sees it in their own way.”
Hair is the bon mot of Nandini Valli Muthiah’s work, “for lack of a better title”. For the original set of photographs, created for another time, place and show, “I had originally planned to shoot as many women as would have been willing, but ended up with shooting only about eight, myself included. The brief wanted the artist to explore sexuality and I thought about how hypocritical our society has become about sex, considering that our temples have imagery that might state otherwise.” It took time and introspection before inspiration struck, and Valli “came up with what flowers really represent in our culture, mostly southern Indian culture, since I’m from the South. Flowers for the hair are worn by women of all walks of life, irrespective of caste and class, even some sects of South Indian Muslim women. They are used to show that the woman is fertile; you will never find a widow wearing flowers in her hair. That is the conditioning that the society has done to us. Flowers are a significant part of traditional Indian attire of the sari for almost every Hindu,” especially for a dress-up occasion. The four images on show have women, two married, two not, who come from two distinct classes - the middle class and the lower class (who work as maids or cooks). The complete series represents women from all walks of life from the lower to the upper class. They sit, dressed up, bejeweled and wearing flowers in their hair, with their backs to the camera, proud, beautiful and powerful.
And there are plenty more. Dia Mehta’s photographs, imbued with the olde worlde charm of Lala Deen Dayal, create elaborately staged and posed royal tableaux, with the women being not real people, but mannequins, which could be a rather telling statement about their status in that society, or even a more modern time. Aishwarya Laxmi shows portraits of Brazilian transgender individuals, with elaborate makeup and disturbing additions to the pictures of garish jewels, brilliant flowers and more. Jasmeen Patheja of the collective Blank Noise documents street violence and even teasing in a video installation, while Nivedita Deshpande’s installation captures the spirit of the feminine with shadows and light and ordinary materials used in a very un-ordinary way.
Some of the works on display are recent, Bose says, while others have been in the making and planning for a while now. “Some have not been seen much, or not been recognized the way they may want. I wanted younger artists, newer ideas, to make meaning out of an association. I am never interested in thematic projects, but in the talent of the artist – how much potential, how interesting, how creative, etc, they can be.” He has also explored the concept of arte povera, or using very cheap, very ordinary, everyday materials to create art. “I find it very interesting, the mediums, the process, and so on.” It is all a work by various women in progress, one that will change and evolve and grow with time and situation. After all, a woman’s work, she knows well, is never done!
It’s a woman’s world, for sure. Even as an annually tom-tommed Women’s Day brings with it its ephemeral share of promises of reforms and more, the woman knows her place. Silently, powerfully, determinedly, she goes about her work to the best of her personal ability, never mind the support the government, society and family may or may not give her. And, like all those anywhere, everywhere, who know why and how they are strong and essential, what she does may not be seen, heard or acknowledged, but it rarely remains undone. Which makes her indispensible; her work never done.
Tapping into that truth is Bose Krishnamachari, curator of a two-part art exhibition: Her Work is Never Done. At Gallery BMB, Mumbai, the first part opened earlier in March, while the second began March 26. It showcases the work of a number of young, not-often-seen women, most involved in more everyday careers, be it architecture, graphic design or fashion. There is no unifying style or concept, just a deeply felt and sometimes quirkily expressed creativity that cannot be categorised or classified, but which says a great deal about feeling, sentiment, society, environment, a global culture and an oddly exciting message about freedom and the will to succeed. The artists include Aishwarya Laxmi, Atmaja Manidas, Charmi Gada Shah, Dia Mehta, Divya Thakur, Koumudi Patil, Nisha Ghosh, Parvathy Nayyar, Poorna Rajpal, PS Jalaja, Puja Puri, Remen Chopra, Sakshi Gupta, Siji R Krishnan, Suchitra Gahlot, Nandini Valli, Leena Kejriwal, Parul Thakker, Nivedita Deshpande, Shilpa Chavan, Sukanya Ghosh, Shaina Anand and Lavanya Mani.
Bose, who brought these diverse sensibilities together under a loosely encapsulating title, explains that he has been looking at exploring this for a while now. “When I was looking at Indian contemporary art, traveling around, talking to people doing good work, people associated with different art practices, I found that there is a constant exchange – architects are always interested in creating sculptural works, graphic artists experiment with poster making, for instance.” He believes that “Young girls, more in cities, are dedicated and talented, capable of doing future art. They have multiple interests, each being an extension of what they normally do - which makes them complete artists, expressing themselves in so many ways.” And it made sense for him to bring these talented individuals together into one space.
Sonia Jose, showing carbon pigment diptychs on paper and a handwoven shag rug, says, “Bose chose work that he thought would fit into the show; the decision was largely his, but he also discussed it with me. The works shown, I had already done; I had them in my studio but I hadn’t yet exhibited them.” The diptychs need study, but the rug has a more direct message, though its significance has to be explained. “I made the work at a time when I was looking for solutions to calm my mind. Friends suggested meditation. Through the ages and across cultures, forms of repetition have been widely used as a tool for meditation. I chose the words ‘so much to say’ hoping that repeating and playing with them might slowly eclipse my need/desire/compulsion to have anything to say. But the work wasn’t about the words, or the finished rug, but the process, which was very cathartic,” Jose explains. Spread on the floor, the piece invites a lie-down and the viewer is drawn to do so…and then the words take over, the whiteness stops any advance. “The text on each strip is legible, but appears noisy as a whole. The rug appears soft and inviting, but it is also white and sterile-looking making it intimidating to touch, walk over or lie on. The idea of displaying it as a rug was a formal and conceptual decision that came during the process of making the work.”
According to Nisha Ghosh, a Bangalore-based architect, “Bose has seen my earlier work exhibited in Mumbai and allowed me the freedom to do what I felt was appropriate for this show.” Her sculptural piece has a stainless steel mesh in the company of lacquered wood in egg shapes, all imbued with a somehow cool and calming effect. Her deconstructed fish, which “has its own story, was made a while ago, but was put together recently in response to a ‘thought jotting’. The work happens always in bits across time, sometimes stitched, sometimes collaged, to talk about an idea.” And what, in this case, is the idea? Ghosh days, “There are clues in the form, clues in the materials used and clues in the composition that may be obvious…” Or perhaps not. But then she provides another clue: “It is in one sense also a tight-lipped, tongue-in-cheek frustration at an environmental apathy that can mutate things out of normal course.”
Perhaps most directly apropos to a woman’s work, especially in this country, is Shilpa Chavan’s mannequin with some rather extraordinary baggage attached to it (her?). Often called the “hat lady” with a considerable amount of awe and respect flavouring the nickname, Chavan is best known as Little Shilpa, her fashion moniker, and creates some of the most fantastical and, indeed, interesting headgear and accessories seen on the ramp – Indian and international – today. Her work stands tall; a mannequin for which “the title of the show was the inspiration. I wanted to revolve it around the woman and what she uses around the house and in everyday life.” The figure is decorated with rubbish scoops, tea strainers, rubber slipper straps and other utilitarian objects familiar to any woman who knows how her home functions. The mosquito netting skirt holds moon-like lights, with babies inside, the head has wheels turning. “She multitasks, making babies, working in the house, her brain is always functioning. And with all this, she holds a mirror, she is always thinking of being beautiful.” Whimsy makes for art with a message conveyed not with a sledgehammer, but with wit and that little twist that makes it fun. Chavan says, “When I do fashion shows, it is art. When I do art, it is more like fashion. I am in an in-between phase, which I am okay with. The fashion world interprets it in their way; the art world sees it in their own way.”
Hair is the bon mot of Nandini Valli Muthiah’s work, “for lack of a better title”. For the original set of photographs, created for another time, place and show, “I had originally planned to shoot as many women as would have been willing, but ended up with shooting only about eight, myself included. The brief wanted the artist to explore sexuality and I thought about how hypocritical our society has become about sex, considering that our temples have imagery that might state otherwise.” It took time and introspection before inspiration struck, and Valli “came up with what flowers really represent in our culture, mostly southern Indian culture, since I’m from the South. Flowers for the hair are worn by women of all walks of life, irrespective of caste and class, even some sects of South Indian Muslim women. They are used to show that the woman is fertile; you will never find a widow wearing flowers in her hair. That is the conditioning that the society has done to us. Flowers are a significant part of traditional Indian attire of the sari for almost every Hindu,” especially for a dress-up occasion. The four images on show have women, two married, two not, who come from two distinct classes - the middle class and the lower class (who work as maids or cooks). The complete series represents women from all walks of life from the lower to the upper class. They sit, dressed up, bejeweled and wearing flowers in their hair, with their backs to the camera, proud, beautiful and powerful.
And there are plenty more. Dia Mehta’s photographs, imbued with the olde worlde charm of Lala Deen Dayal, create elaborately staged and posed royal tableaux, with the women being not real people, but mannequins, which could be a rather telling statement about their status in that society, or even a more modern time. Aishwarya Laxmi shows portraits of Brazilian transgender individuals, with elaborate makeup and disturbing additions to the pictures of garish jewels, brilliant flowers and more. Jasmeen Patheja of the collective Blank Noise documents street violence and even teasing in a video installation, while Nivedita Deshpande’s installation captures the spirit of the feminine with shadows and light and ordinary materials used in a very un-ordinary way.
Some of the works on display are recent, Bose says, while others have been in the making and planning for a while now. “Some have not been seen much, or not been recognized the way they may want. I wanted younger artists, newer ideas, to make meaning out of an association. I am never interested in thematic projects, but in the talent of the artist – how much potential, how interesting, how creative, etc, they can be.” He has also explored the concept of arte povera, or using very cheap, very ordinary, everyday materials to create art. “I find it very interesting, the mediums, the process, and so on.” It is all a work by various women in progress, one that will change and evolve and grow with time and situation. After all, a woman’s work, she knows well, is never done!
Saturday, March 06, 2010
The chicklit click
(TOI-Crest, today)
In 1996 a phenomenon hit the shelves at bookstores all over the world. Called Bridget Jones’s Diary, it told the story of an overweight, under-confident, (fairly) young woman who wanted what - the author and publishers presumed - every average young women wanted: a nice man to marry and a happily-ever-after kind of life. It may not have been high literature or, indeed, very clever or intellectual writing, but it worked. Backed by the acting talent of Renee Zellweger, the book translated well onto the big screen, as well as into so many different languages that everyone involved raked in the moolah and the age of chicklit was ushered in.
But it was not new. Those who have done academic studies of the subject insist that it all began a long time ago. Once upon a time there was Jane Austen with Emma, Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice (which is said to have found a new avatar as Bridget Jones’s Diary), and the Bronte sisters - with books like Shirley and Villette from Emma, Jane Eyre by Charlotte and Anne’s Agnes Grey - who wrote about young women and their dreams. It was all, of course, not classified as such then.
The term itself, ‘chicklit’, started being used in 1988 as a bit of a joke – a word used slangily and perhaps semi-pejoratively as the title of an anthology of ‘female literary tradition’ called Chick Lit: Postfeminist Fiction. It stretched the concept to be more about the contemporary everywoman in her 20s and 30s, dealing with life not from the point of view of existential truth and angst, but also the more mundane worries of men, relationships, love, body image, career, shopping, fashion and, of course, sex.
Which led to a gentle segue into the more blatant tales of sexual encounters as experienced by Carrie Bradshaw and her soul (or should that be sole?) sisters in Sex and the City, Candace Bushnell’s book, which was followed up by Lipstick Jungle, both of which made it big on television and then wandered, heels a-click, on to the big screen. Melissa Bank wrote The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, HB Gilmour came up with Clueless and Sophie Kinsella prolifically produced the Shopaholic series. There were plenty of wannabes and a few who made it. And then there was Kavya Vishwanathan, the young woman who nabbed an enviable contract and many kudos with her How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life…and then got canned after it was discovered that she had ‘borrowed’ substantial parts of her creative expression from elsewhere.
By then, the Indian chicklit factory had started production. But perhaps further encouraged by the seeming though ephemeral success of young Vishwanathan, there was a sudden geyser of writers on the local literary scene. Of course, keeping in context, the topics of womanly angst and interest were more ‘Indian’, in a way even more straitlaced and prudish, less sexy and far less explicit where sex and rampaging hormones was concerned. Parents arranging marriages – or at least meetings with potential grooms – was a unifying theme, and even as the young woman in question made it all happen for herself in the big city working world, she always yearned for the ‘right’ man, with whom a mangalsutra and babies was a given, with astrologers, fervent prayers and the trials of learning how to cook being part of the process. Piece of Cake from Swati Kaushal, Almost Single by Advaita Kala (who is now writing a Bollywood script, an indicator of her popularity), Rupa Gulab’s Girl Alone and Rajashree's Trust Me, the biggest-selling Indian chick lit novel yet, have heroines who are not all ‘good girls’, but deviate from the traditional image to live alone in a city not their own, drink, smoke, have boyfriends over at home, cannot drape a sari and spend all night working on corporate presentations that, eventually, win them the coveted promotion, if not the man of their admittedly steamy dreams.
Today, chicklit is devoured by young women all over the world, by their mothers who are trying to understand them, by their male friends and family members who sometimes hide the usually pink or red covers displaying graphics of lipsticks, high heeled shoes and shopping bags behind newsprint camouflage and by reviewers who like trashing the writing and the plot but have to admit that the books are a quick, easy and often fun read. And the bug is slowly spreading – for instance, the Chick Lit Media Group produces and promotes trends for young women, there are chicklit blogs, clubs, online groups and forums, increasing numbers of publishers and imprints of the genre, all of which are linked to merchandising in myriad forms, and thus to increased sales and thus, profits. As long as there are young women with dreams, there will be people who want to know them!
In 1996 a phenomenon hit the shelves at bookstores all over the world. Called Bridget Jones’s Diary, it told the story of an overweight, under-confident, (fairly) young woman who wanted what - the author and publishers presumed - every average young women wanted: a nice man to marry and a happily-ever-after kind of life. It may not have been high literature or, indeed, very clever or intellectual writing, but it worked. Backed by the acting talent of Renee Zellweger, the book translated well onto the big screen, as well as into so many different languages that everyone involved raked in the moolah and the age of chicklit was ushered in.
But it was not new. Those who have done academic studies of the subject insist that it all began a long time ago. Once upon a time there was Jane Austen with Emma, Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice (which is said to have found a new avatar as Bridget Jones’s Diary), and the Bronte sisters - with books like Shirley and Villette from Emma, Jane Eyre by Charlotte and Anne’s Agnes Grey - who wrote about young women and their dreams. It was all, of course, not classified as such then.
The term itself, ‘chicklit’, started being used in 1988 as a bit of a joke – a word used slangily and perhaps semi-pejoratively as the title of an anthology of ‘female literary tradition’ called Chick Lit: Postfeminist Fiction. It stretched the concept to be more about the contemporary everywoman in her 20s and 30s, dealing with life not from the point of view of existential truth and angst, but also the more mundane worries of men, relationships, love, body image, career, shopping, fashion and, of course, sex.
Which led to a gentle segue into the more blatant tales of sexual encounters as experienced by Carrie Bradshaw and her soul (or should that be sole?) sisters in Sex and the City, Candace Bushnell’s book, which was followed up by Lipstick Jungle, both of which made it big on television and then wandered, heels a-click, on to the big screen. Melissa Bank wrote The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, HB Gilmour came up with Clueless and Sophie Kinsella prolifically produced the Shopaholic series. There were plenty of wannabes and a few who made it. And then there was Kavya Vishwanathan, the young woman who nabbed an enviable contract and many kudos with her How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life…and then got canned after it was discovered that she had ‘borrowed’ substantial parts of her creative expression from elsewhere.
By then, the Indian chicklit factory had started production. But perhaps further encouraged by the seeming though ephemeral success of young Vishwanathan, there was a sudden geyser of writers on the local literary scene. Of course, keeping in context, the topics of womanly angst and interest were more ‘Indian’, in a way even more straitlaced and prudish, less sexy and far less explicit where sex and rampaging hormones was concerned. Parents arranging marriages – or at least meetings with potential grooms – was a unifying theme, and even as the young woman in question made it all happen for herself in the big city working world, she always yearned for the ‘right’ man, with whom a mangalsutra and babies was a given, with astrologers, fervent prayers and the trials of learning how to cook being part of the process. Piece of Cake from Swati Kaushal, Almost Single by Advaita Kala (who is now writing a Bollywood script, an indicator of her popularity), Rupa Gulab’s Girl Alone and Rajashree's Trust Me, the biggest-selling Indian chick lit novel yet, have heroines who are not all ‘good girls’, but deviate from the traditional image to live alone in a city not their own, drink, smoke, have boyfriends over at home, cannot drape a sari and spend all night working on corporate presentations that, eventually, win them the coveted promotion, if not the man of their admittedly steamy dreams.
Today, chicklit is devoured by young women all over the world, by their mothers who are trying to understand them, by their male friends and family members who sometimes hide the usually pink or red covers displaying graphics of lipsticks, high heeled shoes and shopping bags behind newsprint camouflage and by reviewers who like trashing the writing and the plot but have to admit that the books are a quick, easy and often fun read. And the bug is slowly spreading – for instance, the Chick Lit Media Group produces and promotes trends for young women, there are chicklit blogs, clubs, online groups and forums, increasing numbers of publishers and imprints of the genre, all of which are linked to merchandising in myriad forms, and thus to increased sales and thus, profits. As long as there are young women with dreams, there will be people who want to know them!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The art of a half-eaten roti
(Published yesterday in Times of India, Crest)
“Frankly, I don’t think I have achieved much. That is an honest assessment.” Coming from someone who has won almost everything that spells success in the vast and varied world of contemporary art as it is today, the modesty seems suspicious. But from Jitish Kallat, hailed as the Boy Wonder as far back as in 1997, when he was just 23 and presenting his debut show at the Chemould Gallery in Mumbai, it is as true as truth gets, since he is astonishingly self-deprecating and disarmingly modest. Or perhaps it is just that he has set his personal bar so high that each honour and achievement is just a tiny step to where he wants to be, whenever he knows where that is.
Over the years, he has continued to wow critics in India and abroad with his creativity – the quirky magic of auto-rickshaws made of bones (resin), panoramic photographs and, now, food. His new show, to open in February at the Haunch of Venison gallery in London, includes scans of familiarity as seen on dining plates, from rotis to samosas. Kallat is one of the selected fraternity major artists to show at the enormous Christie’s-owned commercial art gallery founded in 2002, which represents well-known contemporary artists like Turner Prize nominee Zarina Bhimji, 2002 winner Zhang Huan, Bill Viola, Wim Wenders and others, and also has branches in Berlin and New York. And even as eyebrows begin to crinkle with doubt as Kallat speaks with enthusiasm about the innards of edibles, you cannot help being charmed by eyes glinting passionately behind the pebble-glasses, the not-quite-in-condition figure under the clinging white turtle-neck, the long-toed shoes that seem to stretch towards you as he explains…
He has said, “The scale of my work is humungous.” And it is. From the 200-foot 365 Lives, which has the sculpture of a life-sized car parked in the middle of the installation and surrounded by 365 photographs, to the “merely 50-foot” ‘short’ Anger at the Speed of Fright, some of his works “rely on scale to generate meaning”. And “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor,” he explained about these pieces. Just as with 365 Lives, where the viewer sees the various aspects of the work with only gradual realisation, from the blood and rusting car body parts to rushing traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Some works need time and space to be even partially appreciated, like the 200-plus-foot long Public Notice II, which has 4,500 bones made of resin shaped into alphabets spelling our Mahatma Gandhi’s speech just before the non-cooperation movement was launched. Kallat’s Dawn Chorus paintings make the mind work overtime to catch up with the eye, showing street urchins at traffic junctions selling books – their hair is made of traffic and pedestrians tangled into the mess that is integrally Mumbai. These works are mounted on bronze reproductions of wall carvings from Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, or VT station.
This time, in London, his works include Conditions Apply, a series of large photographic images that looks like seven large lunar formations. “Each is a progressively eaten roti, back lit, and it kind of glows.” A joke or art? Kallat says, “If there isn’t a spark of humour in all that disturbance, then that work is not complete for me. But then there is the experience that is about sustenance, the notion of nourishment, life, survival.” “The first roti was one of the simplest works I have ever made, scanned at 1200 dpi. The new rotis are a collaboration between Nisha (the house help) and me --- she took one of the pictures into the kitchen and tried to make all her rotis look just like that one, with the same amount of burning…!” Does it make sense to a non-roti-eater? “It gives the experience of a lunar cycle. But when you come closer to it, you see that it is not a normal moon. Even somebody who doesn’t know what a roti is can figure it is some kind of food, just from the particles and bite patterns.” And when does a gastronomic experience become art? Kallat explains that “Most of these images are sourced out of thoughts, notions, ideas, playing with metaphors and symbolic structures that then find a necessary vehicle in terms of an image. When that does happen, it becomes an artwork.”
Much of his thought process found practical expression in a pathology laboratory, Kallat says, and in collaborative efforts with a friend who is also an animator, a motion graphics expert. He used the lab to do “several 100 scans of various foods – the equipment you would use for, say, a chest X-ray, would have samosas or vadas being scanned on it! The entire staff of the X-ray department was with me, checking if what they were doing was right. The image making process begins in the lab or a kitchen, and then goes through the artistic process”.
Kallat has earned success that is rare for someone just 35 years old? And perhaps some of that rapid rise came from the fact that his life was not prescribed by his background or his family. As he puts it, “My parents didn’t tell me to become something or the other. If I was my dad I would probably have said that to me. Perhaps there was some grasp that what I was doing was what I should have been doing. There was nothing that I or any of us could fall back on; we were a typical south Indian middle-class family living in the far western suburbs of Mumbai. It was nice that my parents were extremely supportive and enthusiastic of the journey I was taking.” Though his father passed away soon after Kallat’s debut showing, “I feel that he did see a journey that he may have believed had some value.” But success is not what really matters, he believes. “None of anything today can be taken too seriously. You take pleasure in the processes and sit back and wait to see what the outcome is and decide whether it works for you.” And for him, it certainly did. “Looking back, I was fairly detached. But I was absolutely happy that Dad saw it happen, and when anyone told Dad that he was being silly in letting me do silly things…they could not say that any more.”
However complex his work may seem to the viewer or critic, for Kallat, “Art is not a complicated affair. “The roti piece, for instance, is all about the instant scan. The moment it is scanned, it is a ready artwork. Its intrinsic complexity will neither be related to the process that it went through, nor to the fact that either one will have a greater density of meaning.” As for art itself, “As simple as it can be would be better. And in its simplicity should be the concentrate of that meaning that you could dilute in parts when you want to, at will, at different historical times, hopefully. Maybe years later, a pinch of that work should be able to regenerate itself in a different form.” Which only means that “If the work has to be simple, somewhere you have to be simple. The rest of the time you are dealing with a world that is complex and you are busy decoding it.”
That fits neatly into the general perception that Kallat is a deeply intellectual artist who cannot be easily understood by his audience. Even as the complexity of his work can stun, each layer can seem almost childlike in its simplicity. He has said, “The work has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” And he reiterates with “When I get down to making the work, or when I speak, I hope it is not complex. In a specific context, like an international conference, for instance, the theme looks complex, but I do hold my own. I don’t mind tolerating that language in pursuit of simple meaning. I am not looking to hang out with theoreticians because its complex, but hopefully in that complexity will be a simple meaning. At the same time, I try to make art that is simple, but which will have in it deep resonances of meaning to reinvent itself beyond me, after me, around me, without me.”
Without him? “As long as the work is self-rejuvenating, across time and people and retinas and cerebrums, it will be able to regenerate itself. All one can do when you do that effort when you set out to make art, is to have a strong belief that what you are working on can potentially become that. Anything that does reach this stage has journeyed along with you for a very, very long time. And unless your own assessment can live up to what you are, you are not there yet.”
( ‘Universal Recipient’ by Jitish Kallat opens at the Haunch of Venison in February)
“Frankly, I don’t think I have achieved much. That is an honest assessment.” Coming from someone who has won almost everything that spells success in the vast and varied world of contemporary art as it is today, the modesty seems suspicious. But from Jitish Kallat, hailed as the Boy Wonder as far back as in 1997, when he was just 23 and presenting his debut show at the Chemould Gallery in Mumbai, it is as true as truth gets, since he is astonishingly self-deprecating and disarmingly modest. Or perhaps it is just that he has set his personal bar so high that each honour and achievement is just a tiny step to where he wants to be, whenever he knows where that is.
Over the years, he has continued to wow critics in India and abroad with his creativity – the quirky magic of auto-rickshaws made of bones (resin), panoramic photographs and, now, food. His new show, to open in February at the Haunch of Venison gallery in London, includes scans of familiarity as seen on dining plates, from rotis to samosas. Kallat is one of the selected fraternity major artists to show at the enormous Christie’s-owned commercial art gallery founded in 2002, which represents well-known contemporary artists like Turner Prize nominee Zarina Bhimji, 2002 winner Zhang Huan, Bill Viola, Wim Wenders and others, and also has branches in Berlin and New York. And even as eyebrows begin to crinkle with doubt as Kallat speaks with enthusiasm about the innards of edibles, you cannot help being charmed by eyes glinting passionately behind the pebble-glasses, the not-quite-in-condition figure under the clinging white turtle-neck, the long-toed shoes that seem to stretch towards you as he explains…
He has said, “The scale of my work is humungous.” And it is. From the 200-foot 365 Lives, which has the sculpture of a life-sized car parked in the middle of the installation and surrounded by 365 photographs, to the “merely 50-foot” ‘short’ Anger at the Speed of Fright, some of his works “rely on scale to generate meaning”. And “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor,” he explained about these pieces. Just as with 365 Lives, where the viewer sees the various aspects of the work with only gradual realisation, from the blood and rusting car body parts to rushing traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Some works need time and space to be even partially appreciated, like the 200-plus-foot long Public Notice II, which has 4,500 bones made of resin shaped into alphabets spelling our Mahatma Gandhi’s speech just before the non-cooperation movement was launched. Kallat’s Dawn Chorus paintings make the mind work overtime to catch up with the eye, showing street urchins at traffic junctions selling books – their hair is made of traffic and pedestrians tangled into the mess that is integrally Mumbai. These works are mounted on bronze reproductions of wall carvings from Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, or VT station.
This time, in London, his works include Conditions Apply, a series of large photographic images that looks like seven large lunar formations. “Each is a progressively eaten roti, back lit, and it kind of glows.” A joke or art? Kallat says, “If there isn’t a spark of humour in all that disturbance, then that work is not complete for me. But then there is the experience that is about sustenance, the notion of nourishment, life, survival.” “The first roti was one of the simplest works I have ever made, scanned at 1200 dpi. The new rotis are a collaboration between Nisha (the house help) and me --- she took one of the pictures into the kitchen and tried to make all her rotis look just like that one, with the same amount of burning…!” Does it make sense to a non-roti-eater? “It gives the experience of a lunar cycle. But when you come closer to it, you see that it is not a normal moon. Even somebody who doesn’t know what a roti is can figure it is some kind of food, just from the particles and bite patterns.” And when does a gastronomic experience become art? Kallat explains that “Most of these images are sourced out of thoughts, notions, ideas, playing with metaphors and symbolic structures that then find a necessary vehicle in terms of an image. When that does happen, it becomes an artwork.”
Much of his thought process found practical expression in a pathology laboratory, Kallat says, and in collaborative efforts with a friend who is also an animator, a motion graphics expert. He used the lab to do “several 100 scans of various foods – the equipment you would use for, say, a chest X-ray, would have samosas or vadas being scanned on it! The entire staff of the X-ray department was with me, checking if what they were doing was right. The image making process begins in the lab or a kitchen, and then goes through the artistic process”.
Kallat has earned success that is rare for someone just 35 years old? And perhaps some of that rapid rise came from the fact that his life was not prescribed by his background or his family. As he puts it, “My parents didn’t tell me to become something or the other. If I was my dad I would probably have said that to me. Perhaps there was some grasp that what I was doing was what I should have been doing. There was nothing that I or any of us could fall back on; we were a typical south Indian middle-class family living in the far western suburbs of Mumbai. It was nice that my parents were extremely supportive and enthusiastic of the journey I was taking.” Though his father passed away soon after Kallat’s debut showing, “I feel that he did see a journey that he may have believed had some value.” But success is not what really matters, he believes. “None of anything today can be taken too seriously. You take pleasure in the processes and sit back and wait to see what the outcome is and decide whether it works for you.” And for him, it certainly did. “Looking back, I was fairly detached. But I was absolutely happy that Dad saw it happen, and when anyone told Dad that he was being silly in letting me do silly things…they could not say that any more.”
However complex his work may seem to the viewer or critic, for Kallat, “Art is not a complicated affair. “The roti piece, for instance, is all about the instant scan. The moment it is scanned, it is a ready artwork. Its intrinsic complexity will neither be related to the process that it went through, nor to the fact that either one will have a greater density of meaning.” As for art itself, “As simple as it can be would be better. And in its simplicity should be the concentrate of that meaning that you could dilute in parts when you want to, at will, at different historical times, hopefully. Maybe years later, a pinch of that work should be able to regenerate itself in a different form.” Which only means that “If the work has to be simple, somewhere you have to be simple. The rest of the time you are dealing with a world that is complex and you are busy decoding it.”
That fits neatly into the general perception that Kallat is a deeply intellectual artist who cannot be easily understood by his audience. Even as the complexity of his work can stun, each layer can seem almost childlike in its simplicity. He has said, “The work has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” And he reiterates with “When I get down to making the work, or when I speak, I hope it is not complex. In a specific context, like an international conference, for instance, the theme looks complex, but I do hold my own. I don’t mind tolerating that language in pursuit of simple meaning. I am not looking to hang out with theoreticians because its complex, but hopefully in that complexity will be a simple meaning. At the same time, I try to make art that is simple, but which will have in it deep resonances of meaning to reinvent itself beyond me, after me, around me, without me.”
Without him? “As long as the work is self-rejuvenating, across time and people and retinas and cerebrums, it will be able to regenerate itself. All one can do when you do that effort when you set out to make art, is to have a strong belief that what you are working on can potentially become that. Anything that does reach this stage has journeyed along with you for a very, very long time. And unless your own assessment can live up to what you are, you are not there yet.”
( ‘Universal Recipient’ by Jitish Kallat opens at the Haunch of Venison in February)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Panning out
(Published yesterday...)
I was in love. I stood there, staring fixedly, even as people brushed past me in the aisle and muttered. It was just what I had always been looking for, even without my knowing that I was looking for it. My first true-blue piece of cooking equipment: a cast-iron pan, almost a skillet, wide and just deep enough, with a neatly fitted lid. It was a pristine enameled white striped nattily in gold, with a black handle and a little round button to lift the cover off. I bought it ($19.99) and admired it at home for a long time before I started using it. Then I left it on the hob too long and burned a hole right through the base. A rush trip back to the store earned me another, but in a less endearing blue. I still use that pan; it is heavy, non-stick, ideal for whatever I make in it, from pancakes to bhindi-ki-sabji to broiled fish to hash browns to semiya upma.
But age catches up with us all and I need to replace my treasure. So every time I see a home store anywhere, be it in a mall or in Lohar Chawl in town, I dive in, my bloodhound instincts working overtime. So far, alas, nothing has had the same impact. To be fair, I did trawl through my own kitchen, scanning all the stuff my mother had acquired over years, to no avail. There was gorgeous flame-orange Dansk casseroles, a heavy scarlet paella pan, an oversized orange iron skillet, even a vividly red wok, along with shiny steel Revereware and brightly enameled Silit along with some Amber Visions and Cranberry Corning, but nothing that was the right weight, the right size, the right non-stick surface and (this was an optional need) the right colour.
I found some options in the Indigo deli’s selection of Le Creuset. The colour was right. The heft made it. But the surface did not. And neither did the price – I wanted to buy cookware, not a first-class air ticket to buy it! A store at Atria mall selling heavy gauge pots and pans pulled me in; the stuff was gorgeous, the prices hideous and the suitability limited – I did not, after all, feed 50 people at every meal! And plus it was not any kind of colour that fit with my kitchen, I told myself and the salesman snootily. I have since looked everywhere, from Big Bazaar to Hypercity to Home Stop to a small shop in Matunga that I cannot remember the name of. I find good Indian brands, from Prestige to Jaipan to Hawkins, all priced very affordably below Rs1000, many in a nice colour range between orange and red, with reputable and lasting surfaces, good handle attachments and enamel finish, but none with the weight I so long for. Even if I am willing to be a little less Scrooge-ish and spend more, I cannot find the heft I want.
Until that happens, or else I come across another pan of the ilk of my cast-iron non-stick buddy, I keep looking.
I was in love. I stood there, staring fixedly, even as people brushed past me in the aisle and muttered. It was just what I had always been looking for, even without my knowing that I was looking for it. My first true-blue piece of cooking equipment: a cast-iron pan, almost a skillet, wide and just deep enough, with a neatly fitted lid. It was a pristine enameled white striped nattily in gold, with a black handle and a little round button to lift the cover off. I bought it ($19.99) and admired it at home for a long time before I started using it. Then I left it on the hob too long and burned a hole right through the base. A rush trip back to the store earned me another, but in a less endearing blue. I still use that pan; it is heavy, non-stick, ideal for whatever I make in it, from pancakes to bhindi-ki-sabji to broiled fish to hash browns to semiya upma.
But age catches up with us all and I need to replace my treasure. So every time I see a home store anywhere, be it in a mall or in Lohar Chawl in town, I dive in, my bloodhound instincts working overtime. So far, alas, nothing has had the same impact. To be fair, I did trawl through my own kitchen, scanning all the stuff my mother had acquired over years, to no avail. There was gorgeous flame-orange Dansk casseroles, a heavy scarlet paella pan, an oversized orange iron skillet, even a vividly red wok, along with shiny steel Revereware and brightly enameled Silit along with some Amber Visions and Cranberry Corning, but nothing that was the right weight, the right size, the right non-stick surface and (this was an optional need) the right colour.
I found some options in the Indigo deli’s selection of Le Creuset. The colour was right. The heft made it. But the surface did not. And neither did the price – I wanted to buy cookware, not a first-class air ticket to buy it! A store at Atria mall selling heavy gauge pots and pans pulled me in; the stuff was gorgeous, the prices hideous and the suitability limited – I did not, after all, feed 50 people at every meal! And plus it was not any kind of colour that fit with my kitchen, I told myself and the salesman snootily. I have since looked everywhere, from Big Bazaar to Hypercity to Home Stop to a small shop in Matunga that I cannot remember the name of. I find good Indian brands, from Prestige to Jaipan to Hawkins, all priced very affordably below Rs1000, many in a nice colour range between orange and red, with reputable and lasting surfaces, good handle attachments and enamel finish, but none with the weight I so long for. Even if I am willing to be a little less Scrooge-ish and spend more, I cannot find the heft I want.
Until that happens, or else I come across another pan of the ilk of my cast-iron non-stick buddy, I keep looking.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
An independent woman
I always tell myself and many others who are interested in knowing, that I am an independent woman. Or, rather, I used to be, when I worked full time and earned a decent salary. I went to work at what seemed to be the crack of dawn, came home at the dead of night, was wonderfully tired and ate all the wrong things and finally quit when I had more problems than I wanted to deal with at the time. Having got myself sorted out both physically and mentally, I now need to start seriously considering going back to work somewhere, but without the - greatly self-induced, I have to admit - trauma of the last experience. And, along with it, go back to the vestige of independence I so fondly believed I had at the time that my bank account got regular inputs and I bought lipstick without thinking about whether it suited me and I needed another shade of red that was not ideal for my skin tone. I battled with work in the office, work in the house and work to keep myself sane and afloat, without ever realising that I was doing none of the above with 1) any degree of efficiency and/or organisation and 2) no help at all.
Ok, having dealt out that double negative with masterly nonchalance and confused anyone who may be reading this and myself, let me explain...
AT HOME: My biggest source of support and strongest ally is Father. He not only manages all the money and all of us (himself, Small Cat and me), but also manages the home without letting me feel in the slightest way that I am not the one in charge. I do look after the culinary functions in the kitchen, but more because I like cooking than because I need to do the cooking, if you know what I mean. The maid looks after the dishes and the floors, though on occasion we need to do that ourselves - meaning that she plays hookey for longer than planned and while I am out at the gym or gallivanting in town, Father cleans up. The driver manages parking our car when he is available to drive us/me around, which at the moment is a bit of a sore point with us, since he too has decided to play hookey and gone awol. Of course, both Father and I drive pretty well, but have made a conscious decision not to need to, or to have to find space in our overcrowded city to park with the assurance that all the bits and pieces on our car will be there when we come back to it.
AT WORK: The only pleasure in being a wage slave, apart from the regular paycheck, is that someone else can call the shots. When decision-making is in your own power, it is a lot more fun, but considering the way that media works today and the fact that no-one that I know that works in media is in the best-fit position, it is generally the norm that you are directed by someone else with greater powers (though perhaps not intelligence or qualifications) than you have. In other words, most people follow orders, which makes it easier in a way, albeit a right royal pain in the somewhere impolite. So any ideas that you may have about being independent are best left where they belong, in a wonderful dreamscape that never really happens in reality.
So how does that, or did that, since the AT WORK part is now history - all of the above, I mean - make me an independent woman? Blast, another bubble burst there!
Ok, having dealt out that double negative with masterly nonchalance and confused anyone who may be reading this and myself, let me explain...
AT HOME: My biggest source of support and strongest ally is Father. He not only manages all the money and all of us (himself, Small Cat and me), but also manages the home without letting me feel in the slightest way that I am not the one in charge. I do look after the culinary functions in the kitchen, but more because I like cooking than because I need to do the cooking, if you know what I mean. The maid looks after the dishes and the floors, though on occasion we need to do that ourselves - meaning that she plays hookey for longer than planned and while I am out at the gym or gallivanting in town, Father cleans up. The driver manages parking our car when he is available to drive us/me around, which at the moment is a bit of a sore point with us, since he too has decided to play hookey and gone awol. Of course, both Father and I drive pretty well, but have made a conscious decision not to need to, or to have to find space in our overcrowded city to park with the assurance that all the bits and pieces on our car will be there when we come back to it.
AT WORK: The only pleasure in being a wage slave, apart from the regular paycheck, is that someone else can call the shots. When decision-making is in your own power, it is a lot more fun, but considering the way that media works today and the fact that no-one that I know that works in media is in the best-fit position, it is generally the norm that you are directed by someone else with greater powers (though perhaps not intelligence or qualifications) than you have. In other words, most people follow orders, which makes it easier in a way, albeit a right royal pain in the somewhere impolite. So any ideas that you may have about being independent are best left where they belong, in a wonderful dreamscape that never really happens in reality.
So how does that, or did that, since the AT WORK part is now history - all of the above, I mean - make me an independent woman? Blast, another bubble burst there!
Friday, January 01, 2010
A new beginning
So it has finally happened. The new decade has begun. Newspapers, magazines and television channels have been going crazy doing special editions to celebrate first the end of the last year and decade and now the start of a new one. And most of them say that life can only get better now. But can it? And was it really that bad? And does a single moment, when past becomes present, make that much of a difference? As with any decade, the last one had its ups and downs - doesn't everything? There were terror attacks and deaths, a recession and many peaks in the sensex. There were successes and their counterparts: failures. It is all part of the game, isn't it? What goes up must come down and all that good stuff?
For me, as an individual, life had its share of good and bad times. I found friends and lost some, slid out of relationships, sometimes with great trouble and pain and sometimes more easily than I would have thought possible. And I made new bonds, meeting people I felt I had known all my life, going through the testing process of trying to know whether they could be mine or not, and finally adding them to the inner circle that we all treasure and protect. There were moments of intense joy and times I wish had never been part of my living memory - I lost my most precious ties in my mother and my cat, both with agony that no one ever should know. But in that I gained a central core that is strong, unbreakable, one that I will not allow anyone to enter without special permission. I worked on many projects, enjoyed a few of them and resolved, at the end of it all, when I finally took the decision to stop working full time for a while, to do only what would and could give me a satisfaction that would make me want to go back to it every day. It has not been easy, that last twist in my tale, but it had to be done.
Over the past year, a lot of growing up has happened for me. I understood what I was all about and became happy with what I was rather than craving what I could be if I really wanted to and if Fate allowed. I had always known that power did not come from a title or a paycheck, but lived that ethos in a way that made it my personal and governing principle. And even as I cursed that same Fate and mourned loss of various kinds, from people to ego, I liked the choices I made.
And the only resolution I will keep for the next year, the next decade, the rest of my life, is to be myself and happy with it.
Which makes a whole lot of sense, don't you think?
For me, as an individual, life had its share of good and bad times. I found friends and lost some, slid out of relationships, sometimes with great trouble and pain and sometimes more easily than I would have thought possible. And I made new bonds, meeting people I felt I had known all my life, going through the testing process of trying to know whether they could be mine or not, and finally adding them to the inner circle that we all treasure and protect. There were moments of intense joy and times I wish had never been part of my living memory - I lost my most precious ties in my mother and my cat, both with agony that no one ever should know. But in that I gained a central core that is strong, unbreakable, one that I will not allow anyone to enter without special permission. I worked on many projects, enjoyed a few of them and resolved, at the end of it all, when I finally took the decision to stop working full time for a while, to do only what would and could give me a satisfaction that would make me want to go back to it every day. It has not been easy, that last twist in my tale, but it had to be done.
Over the past year, a lot of growing up has happened for me. I understood what I was all about and became happy with what I was rather than craving what I could be if I really wanted to and if Fate allowed. I had always known that power did not come from a title or a paycheck, but lived that ethos in a way that made it my personal and governing principle. And even as I cursed that same Fate and mourned loss of various kinds, from people to ego, I liked the choices I made.
And the only resolution I will keep for the next year, the next decade, the rest of my life, is to be myself and happy with it.
Which makes a whole lot of sense, don't you think?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
End of days
It's the last day of the year, the end of 2009. I am hoping that 2010 is better rather than worse, with lots of new friends, new work, exciting times and buckets full of joys great and small. My last day of the year promised good things and if they all happen, I will be a very pleased human indeed!
So, God (or whoever the power-that-is may be) bless us all and make us live a healthy, happy and humour-laden life, whoever and wherever we are and will be.
On that confused note, I bid adieu to 2009 and resolve to be a better little blogger in 2010.
Cheers and all the best, folks!
So, God (or whoever the power-that-is may be) bless us all and make us live a healthy, happy and humour-laden life, whoever and wherever we are and will be.
On that confused note, I bid adieu to 2009 and resolve to be a better little blogger in 2010.
Cheers and all the best, folks!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Long time...
...no write. Yes, I know. When I started this blog, I was working full time, newly managing a home and trying to deal with a lot of emotional fallout from life at the time. Today, not working except from home, not doing much because everything I do has been ruthlessly organised and happy with it all and having the time to do more, I am not able to find the time or the leisure (call it 'mindset' if you will) to write a blog. Or maybe I believe I have nothing much to say, which is indeed the case, oddly enough. Life settles into a kind of peace sometimes and you don't want to say anything that would conceivably disturb it, I think. And I think I have found that place in my mind and soul to be at peace...at last.
I went to see a kind-of-friend of mine recently. He is an artist that is on my sms-list and is pretty well known and respected. I first interviewed him for DNA, the newspaper I once worked with, some years ago and just liked him and his earnestness, as well as his passion for his work and his inspiration. The fact that he was young, articulate, wrote well and was a fabulous artist helped, of course. So when Times Crest asked me to speak to him about his latest show due soon in London, I agreed, without any hesitation. Talking to Jitish Kallat - yes, it was him...he? - is always a delight. He challenges even as he is challenged, to think, to analyse, to put in words, whatever it is that we are speaking of at that moment. Best of all, I rarely need to explain what I am asking about - a few words, even incoherent, and he leaps in with his interpretation. From there, the conversation inevitably travels to points not even thought of in my brief to myself when I planned the interview. And more comes out of the time spent in his company than I would ever have expected. Which is the best aspect of the meeting, and my acquaintance with him.
Another friend - and this one is firmly classified as one, since the bond is not just mutual, but long-standing - was in the city recently for his show, this time of photographs, a kind of documentary of a disaster some years after it happened. Samar Jodha, well known in both commercial and artistic realms as a photographer of much note, has been a friend since we met again serendipitously many years ago in Delhi. We first came across each other when I talked to him for a feature about a book on Jaipur that he had collaborated on and then again when I was asked whether I wanted to be involved in a book on India. In Delhi, we talked some, spent lots of laughter-time together and made friends. This time, the chemistry had changed. It was far more serious, perhaps the fallout of growing up, sometimes taking the hard route to there. We spoke of his work, his need to do more, his possible future and, as will always happen, the past, the history that had brought us both to the point where we sat across a table from each other and saw ourselves as responsible adults with definite directions and goals. It was new and exciting in its own way, even though I mourned the passing of a time that was sunnier, happier, lighter and in a way more fun.
And since then, I have met new people, rediscovered some I had almost forgotten and felt the new excitement of anticipation, to see what they are all about and how they could fit into my life as it is now. They could be friends, some were once friends, colleagues, classmates, those who were part of my childhood. Now, as a grown-up, how do they matter, where do they link in, who have they become? A new adventure, a new sense of knowing, a new joy, perhaps? Who knows! As the cliche goes, only time...and space, of course...will tell.
I went to see a kind-of-friend of mine recently. He is an artist that is on my sms-list and is pretty well known and respected. I first interviewed him for DNA, the newspaper I once worked with, some years ago and just liked him and his earnestness, as well as his passion for his work and his inspiration. The fact that he was young, articulate, wrote well and was a fabulous artist helped, of course. So when Times Crest asked me to speak to him about his latest show due soon in London, I agreed, without any hesitation. Talking to Jitish Kallat - yes, it was him...he? - is always a delight. He challenges even as he is challenged, to think, to analyse, to put in words, whatever it is that we are speaking of at that moment. Best of all, I rarely need to explain what I am asking about - a few words, even incoherent, and he leaps in with his interpretation. From there, the conversation inevitably travels to points not even thought of in my brief to myself when I planned the interview. And more comes out of the time spent in his company than I would ever have expected. Which is the best aspect of the meeting, and my acquaintance with him.
Another friend - and this one is firmly classified as one, since the bond is not just mutual, but long-standing - was in the city recently for his show, this time of photographs, a kind of documentary of a disaster some years after it happened. Samar Jodha, well known in both commercial and artistic realms as a photographer of much note, has been a friend since we met again serendipitously many years ago in Delhi. We first came across each other when I talked to him for a feature about a book on Jaipur that he had collaborated on and then again when I was asked whether I wanted to be involved in a book on India. In Delhi, we talked some, spent lots of laughter-time together and made friends. This time, the chemistry had changed. It was far more serious, perhaps the fallout of growing up, sometimes taking the hard route to there. We spoke of his work, his need to do more, his possible future and, as will always happen, the past, the history that had brought us both to the point where we sat across a table from each other and saw ourselves as responsible adults with definite directions and goals. It was new and exciting in its own way, even though I mourned the passing of a time that was sunnier, happier, lighter and in a way more fun.
And since then, I have met new people, rediscovered some I had almost forgotten and felt the new excitement of anticipation, to see what they are all about and how they could fit into my life as it is now. They could be friends, some were once friends, colleagues, classmates, those who were part of my childhood. Now, as a grown-up, how do they matter, where do they link in, who have they become? A new adventure, a new sense of knowing, a new joy, perhaps? Who knows! As the cliche goes, only time...and space, of course...will tell.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Sari state
I was at a wedding with my father the other night and had more trouble with my clothes than I have ever had in my whole life, that famous time where my buttons kept popping open notwithstanding. (That story later in this blog, I promise.) It was a Sunday evening and the outing had been planned for some days. It was a must-do, social obligation and all that good stuff. So, in spite of stinkingly bad colds and coughs, something decent to watch on television (which has to be the lamest excuse ever!) and little inclination to dress up, put on makeup and heels and go out for dinner long after dinner is usually done and dusted in our house, we did just that. Father was natty in his silk kurta, while I did my best to look grown up and dignified in a flame-orange and gold silk sari.
The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.
But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.
The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.
That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!
(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)
The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.
But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.
The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.
That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!
(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Remember the time...
I have been thinking about this one for a while now. I had all my phrases planned, my pauses calculated. And then it struck me that that would be as hypocritical as all the hype that I profess to hate. So instead of writing about whatever happened a year ago and how it is being dealt with now, I decided instead to give thanks. And this is what I must say a big thank you for...
For being alive and well. I am, I hope to stay that way. Those who are really important to me are still with me, and I hope they stay that way too. I pray for nothing these days, but I hope I can keep those I have with me, those I need, in physical reality, alive, well, whole and happy, for a long time to come. Since my wishes tend to be in five-year cycles, at least five years is a good start. Aim for that, hope for a lot more. Hey, you up there, the power that is, are you listening?
For being fed and clothed and housed. There are so many who are struggling with the everyday smallnesses of living. So far, I have managed never to be in that situation, thanks to those who stand by me and thanks to my own destiny and my own strengths. I hope that it stays that way for ever.
For being happy. I am a happy person in essence. I like seeing the good in people, in things, in times, in situations. Sometimes that becomes impossible and I go from being happy to being not at all happy. Which in itself makes me not at all happy. So I hope to stay happy. I hope that there will always be laughter and joy and that spirit in me that shows me good over bad, that shows me the way to find that goodness no matter what I am living through.
For being me. I like who I am, after a long time of not knowing who that "I" is. I thank everyone who has made me ME, from my parents to my life, to the power that is to my circumstances, to all the decisions I have ever made, good or bad. And, at the risk of sounding like an endless speech I could make at the Oscars, I hope there is more of the good stuff and very little of the bad stuff to come in the rest of my life.
It is Thanksgiving in some parts of the world. I give thanks for it all...
For being alive and well. I am, I hope to stay that way. Those who are really important to me are still with me, and I hope they stay that way too. I pray for nothing these days, but I hope I can keep those I have with me, those I need, in physical reality, alive, well, whole and happy, for a long time to come. Since my wishes tend to be in five-year cycles, at least five years is a good start. Aim for that, hope for a lot more. Hey, you up there, the power that is, are you listening?
For being fed and clothed and housed. There are so many who are struggling with the everyday smallnesses of living. So far, I have managed never to be in that situation, thanks to those who stand by me and thanks to my own destiny and my own strengths. I hope that it stays that way for ever.
For being happy. I am a happy person in essence. I like seeing the good in people, in things, in times, in situations. Sometimes that becomes impossible and I go from being happy to being not at all happy. Which in itself makes me not at all happy. So I hope to stay happy. I hope that there will always be laughter and joy and that spirit in me that shows me good over bad, that shows me the way to find that goodness no matter what I am living through.
For being me. I like who I am, after a long time of not knowing who that "I" is. I thank everyone who has made me ME, from my parents to my life, to the power that is to my circumstances, to all the decisions I have ever made, good or bad. And, at the risk of sounding like an endless speech I could make at the Oscars, I hope there is more of the good stuff and very little of the bad stuff to come in the rest of my life.
It is Thanksgiving in some parts of the world. I give thanks for it all...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Body language
I was at a dance performance at the National Centre for Performing Arts last night. It was a social event as much as it was an artistic one, with lots of hugging and kissing and high-pitchedly happy greetings breaking the silence of the vast and usually serene lobby of the auditorium. It had been a long time since we had been there to watch a show and it felt wonderfully familiar even as my feet protested the conjunction of deeply plush carpet and four inch stiletto heels with every step. We were, as almost always, very early, and sat on a studded leather seat watching the world cruise gently past…until the frenzy began.
The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.
The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.
The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.
What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.
Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.
The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.
The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.
The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.
What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.
Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Dogs of Wall
(This was published today in TOI's new Crest edition. Written in almost 20 minutes, perhaps less...!)
Many years ago, in a time that feels now like it was another life, we lived in Germany. It was West Germany then, a clearly distinguished part of the world very separate in almost every way from the other Germany, the place known as ‘East’. Between the two was a vast realm where nightmare ruled and red-eyed dogs patrolled on leashes held tight by hard-eyed soldiers, where life was a matter of belonging to the place from where escape was vital or to where escape had to be made. In our small village, high in the hills and nestled into the Black Forest, a small suburb of Heidelberg, life was sunny, the bread was fresh and crusty, the bank manager was amiable and the walk to school wound through the woods where the biggest danger may have been the rare wild boar or wolf, of which more was heard than seen.
I was very young then, my memories of that time and place more impressions than actual data. I had heard vaguely of the great divide between east and west, but believed it to be something that happened to someone else, me and mine undisturbed by its reality. And then we traveled across that rift for the first time. Father had to attend a conference, Mother and I would go with him, as we always did. Packed into our car, German-made, German-registered, with German number plates…West German. The autobahns were as clear, clean and efficient as only the Germans could create. The traffic marvelously disciplined, the super-fast lane a speedway for cars I only now can appreciate – Audis, Porsches, Ferraris. The turn-off for Berlin and the East was significant only because Mother suddenly said an audible prayer and asked me to sit up straight. The city was lively, lights on and traffic buzzing. And then there was a more careful control. Checkpoint Charlie. As Indians, we had no restrictions; as Herr Professor with a reputed institute, Father was entitled to an obvious respect. But rules were rules.
The evening was cold. The car was examined carefully. There was nothing underneath and no one hidden behind the seats or in the boot. But there was something: We had the wrong kind of number plates. They had to be changed. Father was outside, doing things with a screwdriver. We sat, Mother and I, in a small and very cold room, where the man behind the desk was not unfriendly, but hardly encouraging. Mother’s hand was cold, I was curious. At barely ten years old, it made little sense. Peering through the window into the deepening dark, I dimly saw high walls. Along the top wound rolls of barbed wire, punctuated by what looked like small houses – you could see the silhouettes of a couple of men in each; they were holding guns, I was told later. Outside, guards walked purposefully past, dogs pacing by their sides. Once it was all over, we drove across what was called No-Man’s Land, where many had died, I learned much later at a museum exhibit in the United States, trying to run away from the repressive world that was the East to a more gemutlich one in the West.
We lived in Germany when the Wall was still a symbol of division - in lifestyle, opportunity, economy and, of course, philosophy, apart from politics. At that time, there were two distinct Germanies, two vastly different lives. We travelled through Checkpoint Charlie a number of times and my very young memory still sees moments of watching the dogs and the soldiers march grimly along that narrow divide between the two nations. Having mirrors rolled under the car and the seats pulled out and poked to see if anyone was inside when crossing into Czechoslovakia, as it was then, or having our luggage turned inside out while going into Hungary, for instance, was not as dark an experience. My kiddie vision of the wall was not a graffiti-laden stretch, but grey brick, cold and truly nightmarish.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Voice over
So, back to the Kala Ghoda (mini) Festival…
It was a long evening and my feet hurt. But somehow the adrenaline had taken over and I could not feel anything (no, not even my aching feet, unless I thought about them) beyond the humid warmth of the evening and the beat of the music pounding somewhere deep inside me. I had run up and down the high stairs of the amphitheatre so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed (and me with fairly severe vertigo, too!), and knew my script for the compeering stint I was doing almost by heart, allowing for an occasional pause for a comma or to swallow a cough. Once in my car for the drive back home, I could feel the entire sequence of events go through me, from the moment I started getting dressed at home to the time I walked to the car after a nice dinner and a hug from a close friend I had dined with. And somehow it all ended up at my feet, which throbbed in parts and reveled in the highness and sharpness of my heels in others.
The fashion show was to be at 7 pm that evening. At 3, when I was leaving my home to drive into town, I was vaguely sleepy and not sure I wanted to get into whatever I had got into. But having got into it, I had to honour my commitment and stay with the programme. The ride was punctuated by regular calls from the store I was helping with the show, asking where I was with rising levels of hysteria with each conversation. Finally, I was there and bounced happily up the stairs that I have a tendency to fall up and in through the glass door, to be greeted in various pitches by various people in various degrees of panic. There was a rehearsal in progress, with many of the models not sure where they should be, which side they should face and what their next move should be. Some were in advances stages of makeup, with strangely ghostly faces glowing pink and beige, unlike anything real and human. Under the arc-lights they would look very pretty, but in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the space, they seemed like visitors from another planet.
I played Mother Hen quite happily. One girl was almost in tears because of something the manager had said the previous night. Another had no idea what to do after she had finished the second turn and was forgetting how she got to where she was standing every time the choreographer yelled at her for being there two beats too long. Two of them looked so grim that they could have fit right in at a retrenchment meeting , while a couple of others stood morosely around wondering when they would get something to eat. I wandered about wondering what I was doing there, but oddly enough enjoying the chaos; it was like the days when I danced on stage, and spent many moments feeling like the only oasis of calm and sanity in a world that was rapidly descending into hell flavoured by hysterics.
Finally, the show began. In the sound box at the very top of the amphitheatre I was positioned just behind and to the right of the sound engineer, my fingers ready to tap him on the shoulder every time I wanted the music turned down. The other hand multitasked – holding on to my script, waiting to tap the light-man on HIS shoulder when I needed the spotlight on or off and the stage in darkness, hanging on to my purse that dangled from arm and holding on to the rail to keep my head from spinning itself off my neck at such a steep height away from street level. My slippers were off and placed neatly on the step behind me, my bare soles feeling every tiny pebble under them as I stood there. The dance performance in progress on the stage ended, applause crashed out echoes against the stone blocks of the amphitheatre and I got my cue…
The commentary went smoothly. I managed not to stumble over my carefully crafted words, no cough burst into my sentences and everything worked as it should have, even with an unexpected demand from backstage to keep talking since the girls were not ready for the next sequence. One set of garments gave way to the next, each segueing neatly into the other. There were, of course, glitches – one girl went in the wrong direction after a central turn, leaving her partner standing on one leg for a small moment, not sure where to walk to. Two of the girls collided gently somewhere in the middle, but recovered fast and continued their sashay along their designated paths. And a model-designer finished her sequence with incredible sangfroid and professionalism even as her husband collapsed in the audience with a serious health problem.
As soon as it was over, I thanked my new-found friends in the sound box and bounced down the stairs, bag in one hand and slippers in the other. Once on the road, I put on my heels and ran – the pain was not being felt yet – across to the greenroom to check on the girls. They were ecstatic, laughing and exclaiming at their success. I was hugged by the store owner, the manager, the choreographer, the models…perhaps even by an unknown gentleman who seemed very happy to be part of the group, no matter who he was and what he was doing there. It had been a long day, and I would probably regret parts of it when I had time to think about it all, but for that moment, I was pleased with life. It was time to meet my friend, get my hug and giggle over a quick dinner….
It was a long evening and my feet hurt. But somehow the adrenaline had taken over and I could not feel anything (no, not even my aching feet, unless I thought about them) beyond the humid warmth of the evening and the beat of the music pounding somewhere deep inside me. I had run up and down the high stairs of the amphitheatre so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed (and me with fairly severe vertigo, too!), and knew my script for the compeering stint I was doing almost by heart, allowing for an occasional pause for a comma or to swallow a cough. Once in my car for the drive back home, I could feel the entire sequence of events go through me, from the moment I started getting dressed at home to the time I walked to the car after a nice dinner and a hug from a close friend I had dined with. And somehow it all ended up at my feet, which throbbed in parts and reveled in the highness and sharpness of my heels in others.
The fashion show was to be at 7 pm that evening. At 3, when I was leaving my home to drive into town, I was vaguely sleepy and not sure I wanted to get into whatever I had got into. But having got into it, I had to honour my commitment and stay with the programme. The ride was punctuated by regular calls from the store I was helping with the show, asking where I was with rising levels of hysteria with each conversation. Finally, I was there and bounced happily up the stairs that I have a tendency to fall up and in through the glass door, to be greeted in various pitches by various people in various degrees of panic. There was a rehearsal in progress, with many of the models not sure where they should be, which side they should face and what their next move should be. Some were in advances stages of makeup, with strangely ghostly faces glowing pink and beige, unlike anything real and human. Under the arc-lights they would look very pretty, but in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the space, they seemed like visitors from another planet.
I played Mother Hen quite happily. One girl was almost in tears because of something the manager had said the previous night. Another had no idea what to do after she had finished the second turn and was forgetting how she got to where she was standing every time the choreographer yelled at her for being there two beats too long. Two of them looked so grim that they could have fit right in at a retrenchment meeting , while a couple of others stood morosely around wondering when they would get something to eat. I wandered about wondering what I was doing there, but oddly enough enjoying the chaos; it was like the days when I danced on stage, and spent many moments feeling like the only oasis of calm and sanity in a world that was rapidly descending into hell flavoured by hysterics.
Finally, the show began. In the sound box at the very top of the amphitheatre I was positioned just behind and to the right of the sound engineer, my fingers ready to tap him on the shoulder every time I wanted the music turned down. The other hand multitasked – holding on to my script, waiting to tap the light-man on HIS shoulder when I needed the spotlight on or off and the stage in darkness, hanging on to my purse that dangled from arm and holding on to the rail to keep my head from spinning itself off my neck at such a steep height away from street level. My slippers were off and placed neatly on the step behind me, my bare soles feeling every tiny pebble under them as I stood there. The dance performance in progress on the stage ended, applause crashed out echoes against the stone blocks of the amphitheatre and I got my cue…
The commentary went smoothly. I managed not to stumble over my carefully crafted words, no cough burst into my sentences and everything worked as it should have, even with an unexpected demand from backstage to keep talking since the girls were not ready for the next sequence. One set of garments gave way to the next, each segueing neatly into the other. There were, of course, glitches – one girl went in the wrong direction after a central turn, leaving her partner standing on one leg for a small moment, not sure where to walk to. Two of the girls collided gently somewhere in the middle, but recovered fast and continued their sashay along their designated paths. And a model-designer finished her sequence with incredible sangfroid and professionalism even as her husband collapsed in the audience with a serious health problem.
As soon as it was over, I thanked my new-found friends in the sound box and bounced down the stairs, bag in one hand and slippers in the other. Once on the road, I put on my heels and ran – the pain was not being felt yet – across to the greenroom to check on the girls. They were ecstatic, laughing and exclaiming at their success. I was hugged by the store owner, the manager, the choreographer, the models…perhaps even by an unknown gentleman who seemed very happy to be part of the group, no matter who he was and what he was doing there. It had been a long day, and I would probably regret parts of it when I had time to think about it all, but for that moment, I was pleased with life. It was time to meet my friend, get my hug and giggle over a quick dinner….
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