Owl City - Fireflies (2009)

Fireflies (a song) shares some very charming lyrics. I simply adore Owl City's ballad to dreams and fantasy. Lucky for me, I have personally seen (nearly) '10 million fireflies light up the world', and I truly felt, in those moments, that 'planet earth turned slowly'. And I too have dreams bursting at the seams, but, for me, my dreams burst when I am awake (rather than when I am asleep) and most nights, I dread the time when my body and mind shut down and I have no other choice but to sleep. Perhaps, then, similar to the artist, I experience insomnia. And it is all so decadent :)

The video for this song is disappointing. The depiction of planet earth as a plastic globe, fox trots as a trot, and a disco ball as an actual disco ball are interpretations that are all far too literal. Where is the imagination? The lyrics surely inspire us to think outside the box.

The set (i.e. a cluttered bedroom) reeks of insomnia in a most creepy and unromantic sense. Clean up your space! Or at least allow one of mum or dad (because, clearly, you still live at home) have a go with the vacuum. As mentioned earlier, I, myself, experience insomnia. I have been nicknamed 'owl' precisely because of my own spells of thought that linger from dusk into dawn. But let us romanticize for four short minutes, no? Depict, for us, a video of unreachable heights in both astronomical and mental space.



You would not believe your eyes
If ten million fireflies
Lit up the world as I fell asleep
Cause they'd fill the open air
And leave tear drops everywhere
You'd think me rude but I would just stand and
Stare

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns, slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Cause everything is never as it seems

Cause I'd get a thousand hugs
From ten thousand lightning bugs
As they tried to teach my how to dance
A foxtrot above my head
A sock-hop beneath my bed
The disco ball is just hanging by a thread
(Thread, thread...)

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns, slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Cause everything is never as it seems
(When I fall asleep)

Leave my door open just a crack
(Please take me away from here)
Cause I feel like such an insomniac
(Please take me away from here)
Why do I tire of counting sheep?
(Please take me away from here)
When I'm far too tired to fall asleep

To ten million fireflies
I'm weird cause I hate goodbyes
I got misty eyes as they said farewell
(Said farewell)
But I'll know where several are
If my dreams get real bizarre
Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar
(Jar, jar, jar...)

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns, slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Cause everything is never as it seems
(When I fall asleep)

*image courtesy of http://media.photobucket.com

Remembrance to Pay Reverence

Remember today, and everyday, that we should be grateful to our veterans of war. We agree and disagree with the declared and undeclared reasons for war, the highly potential sacrifice of brave and ambitious youth, and the sometimes clear but mostly convoluted costs and benefits of battle, among a myriad of other debates. But let us only agree that our veterans are selfless; who, on directive from governing power, defend justice, integrity, and order at the highly probable risk of death.

When veterans return to our countries and communities, we need to welcome them, embrace them, and applaud them. Applaud those who return, and those who shall not return, so fiercely, to demonstrate our respect and debt. And let their stories push us to create a tomorrow free of veterans.

**image courtesy of teddington.richmond.sch.uk

Measha Brueggergosman is Some Kind of Fabulous

Measha Brueggergosman marries vibrant vocals with stylish and unapologetic chutzpah.

Brueggergosman is relatively young and already an internationally celebrated opera singer. Past performances have been staged at New York's Carnegie Hall and London's Royal Albert Hall! She is only more radiant in protein and every ounce of her personality, which Brueggergosman shared at last night's Star Talks (a collaboration between the Canadian national newspaper, The Toronto Star, and the Toronto Reference Library), is personable, charming, evocative, and unquestionably authentic.

Brueggergosman spoke of the resilience and value of deep learning in musical theory, multilingualism as her passport for traveling the world, the discovery and development of her identity as a Canadian only until arriving abroad, her every intention to eventually settle in New Brunswick, racy scenes atop European stages, the sassy Christian Diors strapped from her ankles to toes, her philanthropy with the African Medical and Research Foundation, and her near-death experience post-surgery from gastrointestinal bypass.

When classical music does not hit the spot for Brueggergosman, she dabbles in popular culture. Canadian youth (myself included) continue to first stumble upon Brueggergosman through programs such as Much Music's Video on Trial, Project Runway Canada, Bravo's Star Portraits, and The Surreal Gourmet.

I look forward to attending, for my first time, a performance by Brueggergosman. Join me!

**images courtesy of
ccl-cca.ca
bullfrogpower.com

Steve Paikin! Live Taping of TVO's The Agenda

The Agenda aired live from the Munk Centre for International Studies, University of Toronto. My colleague and I were fortunate enough to score tickets for seating in the live audience! The host, Steve Paikin, was charming. Paikin requested that I pick up his script from the floor and read aloud, should he fall into cardiac arrest. I interpreted Paikin's directive as a sign of his severe dedication to the job; how loyal!

The Agenda is a current affairs program produced by TVOntario. Much like the host, Paikin, the program is an intellectual gem. Topics are select and explored in-depth. Panel members span geographic, political, and professional globes. Interaction between guests and viewers is most democratic, with a variety of communications being promoted, including podcasts, blogs, live web submissions, and live audiences. At times, the ubiquitous channels of communication seem in excess. I am happier, though, to have such varied access.

View a free videocast of the episode I attended, 20 Years Later: The Fall of the Berlin Wall, at tvo.org/theagenda

*images have been captured by myself

Vandana Shiva's Earth Democracy; Oxymoron?

In celebration of World Food Day, Vandana Shiva spoke of Earth Democracy: Food Freedom and Ecological Balance at the Hart House Theatre, University of Toronto.

Is Earth Democracy an oxymoron? Are these two terms / concepts / structures / entities harmoniously opposed? Where earth is a natural manifestation and democracy is a civil manifestation, does Earth Democracy generate clash or harmony between the natural and civil worlds?

Anarchists (Bankunin, Kropotkin etc.) distinguished between two categories of rights: i) natural rights, and ii) civil rights.

Natural rights are governed by natural laws. Even today, many communities, such as tribes, reside in the jungle / bush / outback where natural elements of earth wind fire water administer natural rights to food shelter light peace. Natural rights are inherent to sheer existence to which we become entitled instantaneously upon successful entrance into the world (or, rather, successful exit from the womb).

Civil rights, by contrast, are governed by civil laws. Civil rights are demanded, drafted, legislated, defended and are, thus, constructions of a human order; not a natural order.

•Natural earth is not a civil democracy. What is, then, the socio- politico- economic-order of earth, if any?
•Does natural earth lend itself to being governed by civil democracy?
•How does the natural order of earth change when we orient it to a more civil order of democracy? Are the results favourable or less than favourable?
•Can democracy help us to cultivate earth in a manner that is more equitable sustainable effectual? Or, is tension created when we re-organize natural earth as a civil democracy?

**images courtesy of
harthouse.utoronto.ca
navdanya.org

The Best Store in the World - Visit Smash.To

Ionda swears that Smash is the best store in the world. She is lovely gorgeous stylish glamourous; do not bother trying to disagree with this creature of grace, and, especially, because Smash has the goods to back up their claim. Self-proclaimed as a "best source of quality salvage materials, vintage fixtures and character architectural pieces", I cannot capture in words a better description.

Smash is, in fact, the best store in the world. I dare you to prove us (i.e. Ionda and myself) otherwise. I have had the privilege of sorting through the junkiest wildest of markets; Portobello and Camden in London, Porta Pese in Rome, Janpath and Chandni Chowk in New Delhi, Chor Bazaar in Bombay, Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, Kensington Market in Toronto, Amazon.com (just playing). Smash is impressive.

What sets apart Smash? The goods are on a size so grand so impressive so stunning so surprisingly affordable! A grandiose flag of the Union Jack drapes the wall behind the cash register. A spiral staircase (from the brownstone era?) cushions a corner in the far back. A metres-wide mural of Vegas, painted by a Chicago-based artist, has caught the attention of a museum. Several pieces are rented for film shootings.

I had my eye on a vintage punch card holder which (during some decade) displayed when employees signed-in and -out of work. I imagine it can display my postcards.

Learn more about Smash at Smash.To and smashto.blogspot.com. Browse their inventory at flickr.com/photos/smashsalvage

**images courtesy of flickr.com/photos/smashsalvage

In the Loop (2009)

Step into a circus of policy and politics. Committees are both ad hoc and absurd. Political staff are pre-pubescent. The media is manipulated; nearly puppeterred. Consequences are on a grand proportion. And the film remains fantastically light-hearted through all of it.

In the Loop (2009) satirically narrates coordination and calculation of democracy on a national-, then cross-national- and, eventually, global-scale. The UK is expressly and accidentally considering war. The US is split and partisans on either side are seeking British alliance. All culminates at a meeting of the UN.
The protagonist, a capricious Minister in Westminster (i.e Westminster is a pet name for the British Parliament), can be likened to the manager in The Office, a fantastic and original mockumentary starring Ricky Gervais in the UK and Steve Carell in the US.

The ringmaster is a hot-headed and mouthy Director of Communications, played by Peter Capaldi. His fluency with the political process is matched with wit so priceless that it effectually excuses his violent arrogance and crass offences. Capaldi is the silver lining.

It is wonderful to see Anna Chlumsky all grown up (as a girl, Chlumsky was popularily cast as Vada in My Girl and My Girl 2). Chlumsky portrays a young and rising civil servant whose character is all-at-once intelligent naive vulnerable smart. Her performance is bang-on.

Venture across the Atlantic, from the UK to the US, Westminster to DC, Big Ben to Capitol Hill, Downing Street to the White House, and laugh at all that is ridiculous terrible tragic in our corner of the world.

**image courtesy of ifcfilms.com

Reading as Travel Therapy

During six months of backpacing across India, reading provided me with hours of escape from circumstances that were far less than desirable. Kiran Desai and I fled Gurkha soldiers encroaching upon properties of the former British Raj in the Inheritance of Loss. I rode a local bus insouthern India with R. K. Narayan and met quirky conversationalists along the way in Man-Eater of Malgudi. Salman Rushdie and I lost our way through the mystic Bengal jungles of the Sunderbans in Midnight’s Children. Amitav Ghosh gave me a tour of East India Company’s opium industry from Bihar to West Bengal to Mauritius in Sea of Poppies. I lived in a flat in Bombay with a Farsi widow, a student from the hills of Kashmir, two tailors of chammar caste (i.e. low caste of leather-makers), and Rohinton Mistry in A Fine Balance. I thank these writers for their trap doors.

Thank you to Paul Coelho for introducing me to his guru, The Alchemist, and to his muse, the shepherd boy, who, like myself, left all the world’s securities in pursuit of destiny. During my return to Delhi from Assam, the Rajdhani Express (train) stopped for several minutes at a station in the northeast. I hopped off the train car for some fresh air. A mobile bookstall parked spot in front of me on the platform. The Alchemist, positioned front and centre, was beckoning to me, at the cost of 195 Rupees (or was the salesman beckoning for 195 Rupees under the guise of The Alchemist?). Just as omens guided the shepherd boy to his destiny opposite the Pyramids of Egypt, so has The Alchemist, as an omen for me, confirmed that I am still on path towards my destiny.

My India 2009

City State Country

For six months, I explored a handful of destinations in India, including, but not limited to, New Delhi, Amritsar, Bombay, Goa, Lucknow, Benares/Varanasi, Assam (Guwahati, Kaziranga, Manas, Majuli, Pathsala), and I explored them thoroughly. I was lucky to have had contacts in all of the geographies I visited. I encountered and experienced lifestyles (e.g. urban, rural, jungle, bachelorhood with and without parents, happy and unhappy non-marriage, no happy marriages, monogamists and polygamists and Brahmacharyas, students and young corporates, retired and purposeless etc.), considered worldviews (e.g. leftist socialist Congress, rightist Hindu nationalist, pro-corruption, anti-Muslim versus anti-Islam, anti-Pakistan versus anti-Pakistani, anti-Bangladeshi-migration, anti-Anglophone, separatist, conservationist, extremist etc.), and conversed in several tongues (e.g. English, Hindi, Punjabi, Assamese, Marathi, Sindhi, and Urdu).

India’s reputation of unprecedented reception and accommodation, of overwhelming hospitality and interest-free warmth, has fled town. In big cities, like New Delhi and Bombay, capitalism, consumerism, and competition pollute traditions of generosity. Indian urbanites honk you off roads and are quick to shuffle away overnight guests promptly after breakfast. You will be made to feel like a burden with messaging all so ambiguous: “The maid complains that her back aches from having to wash an extra set of clothing. Maids find every excuse to skip work” , “You must be missing home. When is your return flight? Stay for longer, though, no?”

Along with the dangerously extinct tiger and elephant, old India of unconditional warmth is secluded to rural areas. While in the state of Uttar Pradesh, during a visit to our driver’s village, we spotted a gorgeous zucchini plant hanging off the edge of a clay home. We asked our driver to stop the car so we could admire the beautiful vegetable. Fourteen people, trailing behind an elderly woman, exited from inside the humble clay home. The woman noticed I was gazing at her family's lovely zucchini. She reached towards the plant, tore the fruit from its stem with the clang of her four gold bangles, and gifted it to us. I refused to accept! Her family could starve with any slight shortage in crop. Once our driver translated to the grandmother my concern, the woman offered to gift me her family’s cow because the honour that would be bestowed upon them would fill their bellies far more than any meal. I was made speechless.

Rural Assam is where I was spoiled with unmatched affection. All members of all families in the villages of my friends were eager to inquire about my country, entertain me in their homes with introductory chai, and invite me to return later that evening for dinner. Following supper, when parents retired to their quarters, laughter and rice beer was exchanged between youth sans strings. Whenever I communicated my interest in reaching an Assamese locale, my friends would secretly arrange for an entire group of us to visit together. Motorobikes and engine oil, deep fried flat bread and boiled water, and a scenic route would all be charted. My interest in reaching any tourist destination catalyzed for all others a much needed group outing. I remember rural India most romantically.

Transport Me Hitherto

• Indira Gandhi Airport, though significantly refurbished since my last arrival four years ago, still stank like the armpit of a drainpipe.
• Bombay’s domestic airport, in comparison, was fit for a vintage Hollywood film, with white parachute canopies tenting the receiving area.
• Transportation between Bombay and Goa aboard a non-air-conditioned and non-insulated coach bus was hardly enviable.
• Biking along the sandy coast of the Arabian Sea for eight hours to the southern tip of the state of Goa was well rewarded with crispy pakoras (i.e. deep-fried potatoe fritters) and a milkshake flavoured with freshly grated coconut on Benaulim Beach.
• India’s railway trains are comfortable. Booking railway tickets, though, is frustrating!
• Driving through the state of Uttar Pradesh during the night, from Benares/Varanasi back to Lucknow, was terrifying. Roads present drivers with countless stop points, where rail trains pass, and your vehicle is forced to huddle alongside numerous politicians and their armed guards who are constantly alert for possible assassins hiding in the surrounding jungle.
• The three-hour ferry ride between Majuli, the world’s largest river island, and mainland Assam was surprisingly serene and relaxing. The ferry lacked a barrier wall and, with any slight push from the rowdy men gambling behind me, I would have been sunk straight to the bottom of the Brahmaputra River.
• Sleezy autorickshaw drivers in Delhi, always keen to overcharge, were counterbalanced by honest autorickshaws throughout Bombay where rates are fixed and honoured.
• The metro in Delhi is incredibly modern, punctual, safe, clean, and affordable. But, patrons have much to learn in etiquette. Seats labeled, in English and Hindi, “Reserved for Elderly”, “Reserved for Women”, and “Reserved for Children”, are not intended to serve able-bodied business men.
• Reach Assam to ride atop the hood of a public bus, in the open air, with hands clutched to an iron railing, opposite the conflict-ridden tribal territory of Bodoland along the border of Bhutan, abode to wild elephants, tigers, and monkeys!

33 Beds

Constant travel required I become intimate with all too many beds. I slept in 33 beds, which averaged to a new bed every week for six months. Indians sleep atop foam mattresses or down-filled blankets, layered with more blankets and bed sheets. Mattresses and box-springs (unlike myself) remain foreign! All bedding was stiff and most of my sleep was unsatisfying. Preferring to travel light, I improvised a weightless and portable pillow: an empty pillow case stuffed with clothing I would later wear.

• The best bedside view was offered from the window beside my bed in the sleeper class cart aboard a train. The landscape was decorated with patches of neon green mustard fields and, later, an orange sunset that illuminated silhouettes of palm trees.
• The most uncomfortable bed was in Manas, Assam, where I was put to sleep void of a mosquito net and suffered scratchy (and, subsequently, bloody) wrath of extremity.
• The most memorable bed was at the Hilltop Lodge in Guwahati, Assam. Deers' heads were mounted on the walls and the shaggy skin of a tiger was sprawled on the floor with its mouth kept open.
• My most anxious night of non-sleep was in Delhi’s neighbouring satellite city, Gurgaon, where, the following morning, I was due to write my Graduate Record Examination for application to a PhD program.
• The most luxurious bed was in the posh colony of Lodhi Estate, New Delhi, where I stayed at a grand and marble home fitted with Persian rugs. Portraits of Chinese Emperors on the wall opposite my sleigh-bed seemed to have been surveying me.
• My most awkward night of sleep was in Santa Cruz, Bombay, when I was forced to sleep at the home of (who was at that time) a complete stranger in order to help my friend sober up from a glamorous evening of 130-Rupee-Rum.
• The most charming night of rest was spent in Amritsar where, five of us, including my giggly mother, laughed ourselves to complete exhaustion atop a single queen-size bed.

Moments in Memory: Good Bad Ugly

• In Amritsar, my headstrong uncle proved to me his fortitude by pushing through a crowd of teen-aged testosterone to sneak us into a beauty pageant.
• I watched my favourite Bollywood film, Dilwale Dilhunia Le Jayenge (1995), at the Mathura Mandir Theatre in Bombay, which has been playing the flick daily at 11:30 a.m. for over 13 years now.
• I was (temporarily) homeless in Goa.
• Hindu extremists can be found at the Waga Border of India, opposite Pakistan, yelling ‘Jai Hind! Hindustan zindabad! Long live India!’. Pakistani nationalists, on the Pakistani side of Waga Border, fervently exclaim in response 'Pakistan zindabad! Long live Pakistan!
• I ran into friends from the cities of Toronto and London on the same night and at the same nightclub/disco in New Delhi!
• During Holi, the relatively secular Hindu festival of colour, I witnessed a drunk teenager torment a mentally ill beggar. When provoked, the destitute woman ran into the street, mindlessly. The woman's blouse tore off, baring her exhausted breasts to the burning sun, and the drunk teenager laughed without relent.
• I suffered violent vomiting after eating Chinese food in Delhi. Diagnosis? Chinese cuisine in India is flavoured with Ajinomoto (a.k.a. MSG!).
• I was befriended by eight different people during my journeys between mainland Assam and Majuli. Majuli is an island situated in the middle of the Brahmaputra River. The day I departed Majuli to return to mainland Assam, the captain of the sole ferry that operates between the ports of Assam and Majuli, the kindest of all friendly strangers, volunteered to drive me back to my home in Assam and effectually rescued me from six hours of bumpy roads and body odour aboard public transportation.
• In Bombay, we paid an exorbitant 120 Rupees to an autorickshaw driver to take us to Juhu Beach for a midnight sip of ghola (i.e. a fruity sugary syrupy concoction poured over packed shavings of ice).

Missing My Favourite Things

I miss the feeling of security. I want to seek respite on a bed that is situated in a room and in a house that belongs to me and that no one can drive me away from. I want to return to a space where, if people are being a disturbance, I have complete impunity when I request that they ‘please, shut up’.

I miss continuity. Every time I establish myself in a new geography, I have to navigate which languages I need to converse in between English Hindi Punjabi, introduce myself and develop friendly rapport with curious family and friends, and participate in that first week of superfluous hospitality between host and guest coloured by excess smiles pleases thank yous. I learn quickly my way around the home, including which bedrooms I will remain uninvited from entering for reasons undisclosed. Weeks pass and I carve out for myself a niche in the domestic politic of my new home. Host and guest create a common language consisting of two or more tongues plus hand signals. I frequent the kitchen tables of curious neighbours who cheer my name and though, at first, I feel damned because I cannot remember any of their titles, my memory eventually licks up their names. Similarly, after having given my digestive system opportunity to adjust to new foods and local water, my feces settles on a single family of shades.

And, predictably, most sourly, the onset of further time ushers in how genuinely accommodating my hosts necessarily are. I am made increasingly aware that the party is over and, soon enough, I shift geographies. I arrive in my new land and endure this process (language, personalities, shit, facilities, formalities) all over again.

I miss a sense of belonging and of fitting in. Every time I make friendly with new people, I am educated on the different personalities habits histories of the characters in my new circle. With each new circle, I am (understandably) demanded to declare my personal professional ethnic identities to help others decide how much of me they are able and interested in engaging with. Their old jokes are new to me and my old jokes are wasted on them. The most frustrating situation is when the people around me exchange words in a language I do not understand and they translate their conversation for me only when they conclude I am fit to be informed. While they have the ability to converse in a language common to us all, including one or more of English Hindi Punjabi, they remain committed to one of India's one-thousand other tongues. I cannot even participate passively in conversation, by just listening, because I have no access to the language. I imagine a glass barrier that excludes me and only I seem to be aware of this invisible barricade. Interestingly, though, I overcame language barriers by (unconsciously) developing a sixth sense for reading body language and tone of voice.

Lucknow, Bombay/Mumbai, Goa

I headed out to Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, India. I spent a fantastic week with my uncle, who is of nearly 80 years. He shared with me incredible stories from his time as an ambassador for India in Kabul, Afghanistan. I learned that pre-Soviet-invasion, Kabul was a marvelous and modern capital. I flipped through the pages of his yearbooks from the former American institute in Kabul which enrolled students from every corner of the planet (the US, Japan, Egypt, India, South Africa etc). I perused through countless pages of my uncle's charmingly disorganized photographs which documented his road trip across the US, all the way to Berkeley, California, in a 19** (year forgotten) Lincoln. Aside from my grandiloquent uncle, Lucknow offered fragrant and buttery kebabs, the most select collection of literature at the Ram Advani bookshop, and opulent palaces. What else might one expect from a capital of Mughal past?


While in Uttar Pradesh, I reached Benares (a.k.a. Varanasi), about six hours away from Lucknow, to take a dip in the holy waters of the River Ganges. The river was serene and the dip was invigorating. In the days previous to my arrival in Benares, Mumbai was under terrorist attack, and India's capital cities, including sights of religious significance such as Benares, have since been under tight watch. Benares was heavily armed with officers in all visible corners of the city. Upon attempting to enter a popular temple, I was halted and interrogated by 12 or more six-foot, fully-armed, and intimidating officers. To gain entry, I was demanded to somehow prove my blood was Hindu (with a litmus test?) and was eventually denied entry to half of the shrines. My mother was distraught. I was entertained (and, without question, shitting in my pants).

Ironically, then, following Lucknow, I flew south to Mumbai (against the wishes of all my relatives, given the recent terrorist attacks). Mumbai is awesome. Mumbai is amazing. Mumbai is cosmopolitan and international and young and fresh and happening and tropical and laid back and glamourous and delicious and always awake and I just could not get enough of all the amazing cafés and strolls along the Arabian Sea and anti-climatic celebrity sightings (Raveena Tandon, Rishi Kapoor, Sanjay Dutt etc) and all ingredients that make for an amazing vacation. Mumbai is frenzy is sexy is a lifestyle is all things a vacation orders. Shopping is prime in this town. Peoples from every corner of the world visit and reside in Mumbai, making it truly cosmopolitan. The entire city has a very tropical-Londonesque feel with cobblestone streets and palm trees. My ultimate neighbourhood of choice is Bandra where I would consider spending a good portion of my life. I watched my all-time favourite Bollywood romance, Dilwale Dilhunia Le Jayenge (1993), at the infamous Maratha Mandir Theatre, which has been playing the flick everyday at 11:15am for over 13 years now!! And will you believe me when I tell you that the cinema hall was sold out?! At the then age of 18, this movie inspired me to backpack Europe. Muah to Mumbai.

Finally, for eight glorious and sunny days, a friend and I reached Goa with to celebrate the new years 2009. Cocunut was the order of all meals. We greeted Goan sunrises with papaya and watermelon topped with freshly grated coconut, daubs of curd, and warm honey and we savoured Goan sunsets with spicy cocunut curries and crispy rotis from the tandoor oven. The sun sand sea were most therapeutic. We rented a bicycles and trekked along the shoreline of the Arabian Sea until we reached the most southern edges of the Goan coast line. We spotted a quaint church nestled in the hills of a village across the river. We paid a grouchy fisherman 20 rupees to row us to the other side. We docked on the opposite side of the river and the fisherman gave us 30 short minutes to visit Jesus in the hills before he was prepared to pull anchor. On the bike-ride back home, 100s of baby crabs rose frantically from the surface of the sandy shore to catch a glimpse of my bright yellow shorts.

*images have been captured by myself

Critters of Assam, India

1. (unknown)
2. lady bug
3. cotton plant red ant
4. common fly

*images have been captured by myself

New Dehli - Nation Reincarnated

My last two weeks in India are being spent in the capital. Many of you might recall that my last reflections on New Delhi, entitled 'New Delhi - Reincarnation Nation', were less than positive. The chaos of traffic and of my pestering family amounted to a reincarnation nation that erected withered destroyed re-erected fatigued emaciated razed annihilated me (i.e. constant reincarnation).

My experiences since returning to Delhi have been delightfully dissimilar. This city has certainly been a merciless labyrinth, what, with winding roads made uncertain by makeshift construction projects and winding sessions of interrogation by the relatives. But, once I quit fighting the elements and accepted the Delhi I detested, I was no longer as bothered by opportunistic vendors and nosy neighbours. Commensurately, my body language transformed from being chronically tense and frustrated to appearing nonchalant. Autorickshaw drivers lost confidence that they could take advantage of me, and the rest of the cast of New Delhi followed suit. My Delhi was reincarnated!

Last weekend I walked along Old Delhi’s paper trail. Every Sunday, in the borough of Daryaganj, hundreds of street vendors spread sheets of plastic tarp on grimy pavement to sell new used pirated books at deeply discounted prices. One-hundred rupees can purchase for you up to five books. I stumbled upon several gems, including Sons and Lovers and Farenheit 451 and incredible works by local writers. Much of the selection, though, was plain bizarre. Take, for example, a directory of North America’s most cherished bed & breakfasts (i.e. family-owned hotels). Smog, massive and pushy crowds, and the honk screech vroooom decibels of traffic ensure that what you save in cash money you pay for with every ounce of stamina and with sweat of the most prickly-heat kind. Endure the entire stretch and reward yourself with a cold shower to wash away the dusts of shoving balancing dragging haggling.

I then visited the Asia’s largest mosque, the marvelous Jama Masjid; Mughlai archways of red stone and landscape views of the Red Fort, complete with crows gliding through warm winds. With the heat of Delhi’s sun weighing me down, I lumbered through the pandemonium that is Chandni Chowk (market). I slipped away from the market’s main road into a side-tunnel of vendors selling cottons and silks. Delhi’s clamor receive respite in these burrows of billowy textile. All sounds that enter this maze of materials are quickly absorbed by fabric, leaving a sort of dead stink of noise hanging in the air. I bought some threads of this and several yards of that. I exited the cloth market, negotiating for myself space among the crowds on the main strip, and a crescendo of clatter streamed back into my ears. A chorus of hullabaloo, snuggled within the threads of the fabric I purchased, fluttered back into the Delhite air, before I stuffed the cloth into my knapsack. I look forward to revisiting the voices of Delhi months and years from today, by holding my ear up against this cloth, like the echo of oceans in a conch seashell.

Later in the week, I visited Roshan Di Kulfi (restaurant) in Karol Bagh (market) for an infamous platter of chole/chane (i.e. chick peas in a spicy gravy) with bhatura (i.e. fry bread). I resisted devouring this decadent dish for six months (for the sake of keeping my figure of a Greek god...haha). And no visit to Roshan Di Kulfi (restaurant) would be complete without Roshan’s kulfi (i.e. Indian ice cream): pistachio, saffron, sugar, cream, vermicelli noodles, yum yum. I worked off my sinful lunch with a stroll through the deer park in Hauz Khas. Peacocks possibly outnumber deer while roses definitely outnumber peacocks.

My last sunny afternoons in Delhi are punctuated with tall glasses of sweetened lassi (i.e. a beverage of sour yoghourt blended with cold water and crushed ice and flavoured with salt or sugar). I cannot seem to get enough of it! I love lassi best when it is served in a steel glass. Droplets of condensation take form on the outer rim, drip downwards, and create a shallow concentrated pool of the city’s heat. And it is so ironic and well-timed that, similar to my relationship with Delhi, I have never been a fan of lassi --until now.

*images have been captured by myself

Favourite Indian Lands

For my last month in India, I designed several possible itineraries: tour the backwaters of Kerala, motorcycle through mountains of Kashmir, backpack the former French colonies of Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu (etc.). I reflected on my travels in India, thus far, and felt that the past five months had been as exhausting as they had been exhilarating; both because of navigating the streets customs language of several cities and states. For my last thirty days in the motherland, I decided to revisit my favourite spots, rather than discover new terrain.

I first reached Amritsar for four short days. I spent an entire afternoon basking in the warmth of sun rays bouncing off the Golden Temple. Instead of entering through the front entrance, as I had done most times in the past, I steered through a maze of markets that bury the back end of the compound and slipped into an inconspicuous entrance. I encountered the Golden Temple from a new angle and the sight was breathtaking. I worked my way through the crowds, seated myself on an empty patch of marble alongside the perimeter of the central pool, and, after some time, began noticing all of the otherwise invisible patrons performing seva (i.e. service); a young woman was wiping floors, an elderly man was wading in the pool to brush bacteria off of metal gratings. I decided against eating langhar (i.e. food from the community kitchen). My last serving of langhar left me with an upset stomach from all the red chilies. But, I eagerly devoured a buttery mound of warm halwa (i.e. a granular sweet dish similar to porridge). The following afternoon, I hunted for and brought home a pair of traditional Punjabi jhooti (i.e. leather shoes) with ornate gold embroidery and toes that curl up to the sky. Amritsari evenings were full of chai, laughter, and farewells to family.

My next destination, after Amristar, could be none other than Assam. Durng my first trip to the northeast of India, I spotted rhinos in Kaziranga National Park and reached the villages of my new Assamese friends. This time around, I headed first to the tiny town of Pathsala to celebrate Holi, the festival of colour! Fuchsia parrot green cherry red cobalt blue flooded homes shops streets. A convoy of us eight young men strolled through town. A group of young girls, fashioned with a bamboo branch, threatened to harm us if we refused to submit ourselves to their ‘well wishes’. We played by their rules as they giggled and smeared our cheeks foreheads noses necks with bright powder. For a single day, all Indians were the same multi-colours, void of caste, often marked by complexion, which is still omnipresent in rural India.

Last week we motorcycled along the dusty gridlines of farm plots and paddy fields. We passed green rivers, crippling wooden bridges, cranes nibbling on bugs nestled in the hairs of cows, goats sneaking bites from cabbage patches, a Kali Ma temple that performs animal sacrifices upon bisons, handloom collectives that promote women’s empowerment, the mighty Brahmaputra River, wood mills carving illegally forested timber, bamboo thatched-homes constructed of mud, and plantations of tall and slender betel nut palm trees. Darkness soon swallows whole the sweaty and tropical landscape and new characters became visible: slithery eels shining under the swinging light of bulbs at the fish market, a million blinking fireflies floating like a string of Christmas lights, and grimy chai stands bustling with the clangs of glass cups slamming on wood tables, of steel spoons slicing through sweetmeats, and of men, old and young, sharing anxieties about the delay in rainfall this season leaves their fields extraordinarily thirsty.

And finally, I arrived at Manas National Park. Manas straddles the border between India and Bhutan and is truly a non-human land where the wild is master. Manas is at the bullseye of a biodiversity hotspot. A three-kilometer hike transports you from palm India to deciduous Canada to fern Brazil. I am intoxicated by perfumes and colours of saturated sweet fauna and musky reddish bark. We will be lucky should be spot footprints of an elephant or tiger, let alone stumble upon either of these nearly extinct species. Shaggy and golden langur monkeys leap with fierce elegance and I finally develop an appreciation for the value of biodiversity.

Manas is also home to extremist political warfare which has plagued this rarely visited region since 1991. Timber is cut, illegally, and transported across the South Asian sub-continent. Proceeds are used to finance intra-tribal conflict. I am befriended by members of a non-governmental organization (NGO) who enthusiastically share with me their mandate to protect Manas' jungle habitat. The NGO monitors on their own progress and self-reports to their generous American donor. We spot numerous loggers in the jungle, armed with heavy axes. "Avoid eye contact and scurry by unnoticed", I am instructed. Some days later, and behind closed doors, I converse with animal poachers who teach me about their operation and introduce me to officials from the forestry department who allow illegal timber felling in exchange for bribes. According to both animal poachers and forestry officials, NGOs are becoming as corrupt as the rest of the lot by reporting false progress reports to their American donors.

I am further documenting this volatile hub of political ecology.

*images have been captured by myself

From Assam With Love - The Glorious Northeast of India

All aboard the Rajdhani Train Express departing from New Delhi and arriving in Guwahati! Your journey will last two whole days. Surprisingly, the 48-hour trek is über comfortable. I manage to read half of Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children (1989). I make friends with an auntie and her bratty kids as I gaze, from the comfort of my sleeper class seat, across the neon green patchwork of mustard fields that span the rural landscape of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.

Within seconds of stepping foot on the platform at Guwahati Central Station, I am whisked away to a lodge nestled in high hills overlooking the Brahmaputra River. A cheetah skin hangs in the foyer. A tiger skin is sprawled on the floor. Deer heads line the walls. The wooden staircase that leads me upwards to my bedroom creaks most romantically. Archie comics, The Hardy Boys, Naomi Klein, Noam Chomsky, Burmese warfare, Nehru's biography; the book shelves are stacked.

The following morning, four hours away from Guwahati, I reach Kaziranga National Park. On the way, I wave at a rhino, four elephants, cranes, lizards, wild pigs, and sheep. We drive into Wild Grass Resort (oldassam.com). Mangoes, Chinese roses, betel nuts, guavas and Indian olives hang from their stems among the lodges. A local artist paints pottery made from his own hands. Adivasis (i.e. Aboriginals) of Assam perform ancient dances and earn a fair wage. I step into the colonial-style dining hall. Framed maps of Britain's India and watercolours of native ducks hang on the walls. On the opposite end of the dining hall and through a set of French doors, out onto the veranda, I see my intense and bearded companion, my old flat mate from England, deep in conversation; we will call him Haati Walla (i.e. Elephen Man) because conducts research on conflict between humans and elephants in this region. I drop my luggage and, before I am aware of it, we are exchanging old stories. Haati Walla was raised in this eco-tourist resort and I am excited to finally arrive in the world that built my exceptional friend.

Haati Walla’s countless friends, who offer countless gestures of friendship, welcome me with open arms. I lodge with a trio: Bipul the butterfly researcher, Swapna the physics lecturer, and Ranadeep the pre-law candidate. In the late afternoons, when the warm winds settle, we play badminton. During the evenings we pack ourselves into a roofless jeep, driving atop unlit dirt roads. Quite high above sea level, the stars are close enough to swallow. During these winter months in Assam, when the Bihu festival of fertility is celebrated, home-brewed rice beer (like an apple-infused Japanese sake) is served with platefuls of spicy potatoes and pork. We eat sticky rice, yellow lentils, duck, and local fish simmered in a sour curry. I speak with a little girl. She is dumbfounded by my Hindi (or maybe by my shaved head). In Hindi, I ask the girl "How old are you?" She is dumbfounded the Hindi language spewing out of my Western face and cannot muster the words to tell me her age. I ask her if she is 30 (which seems to snap the girl back into conciousness) and she blurts out in response: "are you out of your mind? I'm 11!" During the rest of the week, we conclude cricket matches with pints of beer, I ride atop an elephant during sunrise in search of wild rhinos, and we race through countless acres of tea estates.

Following, I reach Majuli for two days; the world’s largest river island, floating atop the Brahmaputra River. The journey from Wild Grass Resort to Majuli is an exhausting six hours of rough roads and water, but I am coddled by the goodness of Assamese folk the entire way. After two hours on a bumpy bus and 30 minutes on an even bumpier auto rickshaw (the bruise marks that freckle my head now serve as the state’s Barometer of Bumpiness), I arrive at Nimati Ghat (Nimati Port). From Nimati Ghat I ride a ferry to the island of Majuli. Aboard the ferry, I am befriended by a 22-year-old Assamese MBA candidate. He is friendly and has passionate opinions about Bangladeshis migrating into Assam. The wrinkly captain of the ferry asks us to present proof-of-payment and the MBA informs me that the captain, who appears quite ordinary, can speak in three tongues and is father to a chemist (i.e. a pharmacist). The young man sitting behind us, an army soldier from the state of Maharastra and stationed in Assam, appear enchanted by my spoken Hindi and excitedly joins our conversation. After three hours, the ferry docks at Majuli. The MBA departs towards his direction and the army soldier, who has come to Majuli for only a few hours (before having to head back to Assam proper to report to his General), sticks by my side. From the dock, we ride in a shared jeep towards the city centre of Kamalabari. Squashed into the hole of a rubber tire, I sit opposite a tourist from Spain, who speaks little English and is enjoying his fifth trip to Bharat (i.e. India). Once I reach Kamalabari, army soldier by my side, I meet my local contact, Dulal, who is a monk serving as head priest at the monastery Uttar Kamalabari Satra. Dulal is a modern monk. With his mobile in hand, he operates a newspaper and stationary store to finance maintenance of his monastery. I stay with Dulal in his monastery for two days. Seated cross-legged on the cool clay floors of the monks' huts, I eat from brass plates with the most primal utensil (i.e. my hand). I attend prayers during one of the 14 daily musical sessions of symbols drums and vocals and draw milk from the teets of the house cow.

During the ferry ride back to Assam proper, the same captain (with three tongues and a son of science) asks me to present my proof-of-payment. In English, he asks me if I enjoyed Majuli and I inform him that, yes, I did. In Hindi, I ask the captain if his son is a chemist and he replies, in clear English, 'No, he is not a chemist (i.e. a pharmacist). He is a scientist and he specializes in chemistry'. The ferry docks, the captain grabs my wrist, and he offers to drive me to the local city centre to eventually grab a bus to reach my home in Kaziranga; thereby bypassing three hours of local buses. I peep into the captain's car. A young couple and their 5-year-old are seated and are heading to the same destination. The sight of a well-groomed family makes me feel less apprehensive and I gladly accept the captain's offer.

After a week in Kaziranga and two days in Majuli, I reach Pathsala, a most authentic Assamese village, to visit the homes of my new friends, my lodge mates from Kaziranga: Bipul (butterfly enthusiast and bollywood dancer extraordinaire), Swapna (the physicist, whose theories, in his mind, will break ground once the length of his hair grows beyond his shoulders and to reach earth and literally break ground), and Ranadeep (mister law-101, whose freshly shaved head (razored to match mine) makes him appear more suitable for occupation as lawbreaker rather than aspiring lawmaker). Their homes, set within the depths of palm tree jungles, opposite acres of cauliflowers potatoes mustard green beans, are fantasies of rural fair. Morning, afternoon, and night we sip on hot Assamese chai brewed in milk extracted from the home cow. Local rice beer among youth is reserved for the evenings when parents retire to their own quarters. Mind you, the elders probably sip on their own private nightcap. Food is endless as are the smiles and hugs from each local in the village. Every three hours I am whisked off to another relative or friend of the family who are eager to welcome me at their front door, to seat me amongst their children, and to stuff my belly with creations from their fire-pit (like cylindrical rice cakes baked inside bamboo stalks called pitha). They each request that I return for chai at least one more time before departing Pathsala. One night I cook my wildly popular spread of Kashmiri food for a band of 15 brothers, cousin-brothers, and village-brothers.

By my fifth day in Pathsala, news has spread (like wildfire) that a non-local and foreigner is in town. That afternoon, I am stopped by the local paan walla (i.e. man who prepares and sells paan, a mouth-freshener consisting of betel nut wrapped around a leaf from a betel tree). He inquires fervently why we have not exchanged words yet. Our conversation does not last too long because he already knows my name, where I am from, my purpose for visiting (etc.).

Assamese hospitality should be touted as a tourist attraction in its own right!

*images have been captured by myself

Slumdog Millionaire (2009) – Dev Patel, Freida Pinto

The opening scene of slum children being chased by sweaty officers for illegally playing cricket on an airstrip is visually captivating. The children’s intrepid provocations towards the police are endearing. No other sequence in the film is as extraordinary. Consequently, everything else in the film is comparably ordinary.

The play between present and past tenses becomes predictable within minutes. The protagonist, working towards a million-dollar grand prize on a game show, is presented with a series of questions for which he digs into his life experiences to deliver every correct answer. An unnecessary love story is woven into the plot. The characters are neglected even the slightest opportunity to develop. And the film concludes with an awkward dance number that will make you squirm in embarrassment on the behalf of the cast.

Thank you to Anil Kapoor for displaying what little talent exists among (most) Bollywood actors by overacting all dialogue. And why exactly is Kapoor’s character (i.e. the host of the game show) insecure and scheming? Irfan Khan’s role gave him little space to flex his full talent.

Music
Why is A. R. Rahman the only artist receiving applause for the soundtrack? Granted, the composition during the opening scene, entitled ‘O Saya’, is incredibly pulsing and very much connected to the narratives of slums in Mumbai, what with the screeches of steel slicing against Mumbai’s rails and the drum-beat crescendos that capture the hurried essence of life on the run. But this track is only as richly nuanced as are the vocals performed by one miss M.I.A.

She is funky, punchy, and modern. M.I.A.'s personal contribution to the film, one of her previously released songs entitled ‘Paper Planes’, is the only track worth international accolade. Her Oscar Nomination should have been for this track rather than ‘O Saya’.

*images courtesy of
http://www.bfi.org.uk/

http://doinmusic.com/

New Delhi - Reincarnation Nation

New Delhi has been built and re-built more than times. And after only nine days, this hectic town can instill within oneself that same sense of constant collapse and chaos. I have now surpassed nine weeks. I am Delhi and Delhi is me: well, busy, great, exhausted, tried and tested, exalted and buried, and resurrected!

A demanding city; personally, professionally, emotionally, socially (etc., Etc., ETC.).

The traffic demands that I step aside (honk, honk!). The vendors demand that I shell out my foreign earnings without discretion. The locals demand that I declare my ambiguous tongue and origin. All prospective employers from even the most non-corporate of sectors demand that we behave in a conduct that is strictly corporate. The ubiquitous armed forces demand that I submit myself to countless rub-downs when entering the metro, temples, parks (etc.). The cows demand that I hop-scotch around their droppings. The breeze demands that my throat endure gaseous ammonium evaporating off innumerable sights of public urination.

These demands eventually generate demands within myself: "Escape! Get out before you are consumed!" I reach Amritsar to savour warm and buttery gulab jamuns (i.e. a syrupy sweatmeat). I soak in the Arabian and therapeutic sunsets of Goa. I ride elephants through Assamese jungles. I am rebuilt and renewed! My mind clears. I am at ease. And my appetite for Delhi returns.

I pursue that return ticket to Delhi and still fetal flame burns out most quickly. The saying goes that who ever builds a new Delhi will lose it. Every time I build my new self in New Delhi, I lose it; literally! On top of the demands from the city, there are demands from the relatives.

The relatives demand that I justify unemployment. The relatives demand that I justify an academic qualification that does not bear the acronym of MBA or IT. The relatives demand that I justify shaving my head ("I am deeply devoted to Krishna"; that is my answer and I am sticking to it). The relatives demand that I consume a spoonful of ghee (clarified butter) for every spoonful I (attempt to) refuse. The relatives demand that I explain my comings and stayings and goings beyond that which their own children are never confronted with. The relatives demand that I be interested in conversing about the quality of the food served at a wedding, the size of the lawn rented out for a wedding, the necessity to book a wedding hall well enough in advance when a lawn cannot be sorted, the pros and cons between marriage to a Punjabi versus a non-Punjabi, the differentiation between a wedding that is pretentious versus one that is ostentatious (etc.). Subsequently, the relatives demand that I enjoy myself although I am uncontrollably (and undeniably) bored.

The relatives, the relatives, the relatives, the relatives…I give up! I will never stand tall in this capital (at least never for too long a time) when among relatives.

Delhi cannot escape this cycle of reincarnation (and neither can I, so long as I remain here) because, as history can attest, it is bound to permanent impermanence. Architectural remnants bear testament to the numerous resurrections and reinventions of Delhi. The elegantly crumbling Lodhi Tombs, leftover from the 15th century by the Lodhi Dystany, play backdrop to family picnics and shy lovers who sneak love-bites in the dead of day behind brush. Mughal structures, like the towering Qutub Minar, remain erect with rather romantic scars of neglect. Fast-forward to the British Raj and their Parliamentary edifices which now administer 'the world’s largest democracy'. Government offices have maintained their physique but many political critics might suggest that democracy in India endures considerable decay.

Delhi’s present narrative of reincarnation, under new found rules of market capitalism and freedoms of trade, remains much the same. Newly paved curbs crumble at the corners because contractors mix sand into the cement to pocket the savings. Steel frames envelop concrete and glass to construct sparkling new shopping malls that will soon close for business because vendors cannot possibly afford expensive commercial space void of rent control and, further, vendors cannot compete with the prices offered in adjacent bazaars selling comparable goods (though, not matched with customer service).

A day away from Delhi is a day spent well. Do not hate on me. Hate on the experience that is my Delhi.

*images have been captured by myself

Shahid Datawala - Shadowboxing

A few weeks back I had the pleasure of sampling a bit of Delhi high life. With invitation to a private viewing, a friend and I made our way towards an enclave amongst the pretentiousness of South Delhi: Lado Sarai. My destination was Gallery Art Motif. The latest works of photographer Shahid Datawala, entitled Shadowboxing, were on exhibition. I expect the photographs will receive a warm commercial reception. Most of the imagery is front and centre with little abstraction for the viewer to decode.

A few comments must ensue about the neighbourhood, gallery, and crowd, before arriving at thoughts concerning Datawala's work. Upon turning off the main arterial road towards the gallery, our vehicle, fresh with filth from a congestion attuned most specifically to massive overpopulation, was whisked (five feet) away by valet. Venues nearby were receiving guests in similar fare. The gallery is, what I might suspect, the industry standard: dark floors and wide white walls, with enough space to exhibit a fairly substantial collection. Visitors included an entertaining mix of wealthy buyers, the artists and lovers who live off them, unconditionally supportive friends, and discerning colleagues. Thick-framed eyewear and raw-cotton kameezs were abound.

Datawala's photographs featured images of various (visibly failed) housing complexes in Mumbai. The work is rather striking and equally as conventional.

[Click: http://www.tasveerarts.com/artists/ShahidDatawala_gallery13.shtml#]
In reference to Untitleds 2, 4, 27 (pictured above), the juxtaposition of occupied space opposite the empty sky, of the glonky concrete overhang opposite the minuscule crow floating above, has already been tried and tested; it is the ying and the yang. Untitleds 12, 18, 28, 58, 66 share a similar aesthetic.

Several photographs feature a subject most centre and, hence, most obvious. Untitleds 5, 17, 23, 34, 38, 42, 73, 74, and 77 are examples of such.

Other photographs split the shot into three rows of contrasting colour, texture, and/or depth. Untitleds 15, 16, 39, and 40 are examples of such.

I enjoyed the following additions because their (possible) messages are not necessarily as straightforward nor as overbearingly simplistic (which is the risk one takes when documenting in black and white):

Untitled 22 is suggestive of a lovelorn story between home and dweller. A house which once gave shelter and warmth to a needy few now stands lonely, abandoned, and shrouded by unassuming trees.

Untitled 35, which is the most geometric and less organic, ironically, feels most natural; especially opposite Untitled 36. Untitled 35 features an angle that most could likely access. With the overhanging wall on the left, Untitled 35 feels like a shot one sees as they approach the stairwell ahead, whereas the shot of Untitled 36 feels imposed. Suppose you were walking down the hall in Untitled 36. As you approached the steps, your body would pivot 90 degrees, onto the first step and up towards the top of the stairs. It is unlikely that one would ever position themselves at the end hall way, negligent to the stairs nearby, only to stare straightforward.

I know I am insane. Thank you for entertaining me with your attention.

*images courtesy of
tasveerarts.com

Obama Will Kill Osama

During last night's debate, US presidential candidate, Senator Barack Obama, told America and the world that he will kill Osama Bin Laden. Bin Laden, leader of the Al-Qaeda terrorist network and self-proclaimed perpetrator behind 9/11, among other attacks on the U.S., is thought to be hiding in Pakistan's mountainous range. Republican Candidate, Senator John McCain, likely holds the same position.

Based on Obama's statement, it would appear that he supports capital punishment. As American president, he will seek to kill Bin Laden. There was no discussion around detainment and questioning so much as there were directives made to capture and kill. Although the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights clearly stipulates that "everyone has the right to life”, 24 countries are known to have exercised the death penaly in 2007, with a majority of executions taking place in (in descending order) China, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, the US, and Iraq. Amnesty International, the leading interest against capital punishment, contends that "the death penalty violates the right to life. It is the ultimate cruel, inhuman and degrading punishment. It has no place in a modern criminal justice system." However, a Declaration, unlike a treaty, is not legally binding. As such, the European Parliament signed the first international treaty banning capital punishment without any exceptions because they consider "capital punishment an inhuman, medieval form of punishment and unworthy of modern societies."

Many might passionately contend that Bin Laden amounts to a rare and grave exception. But then, how many lives and precisely how many attacks amount to an exception? At what point is the principle up for compromise?

This posting does not serve to suggest that capital punishment is necessarily right or wrong, or good or bad. Rather, it questions whether Obama's explicit position to kill translates into an acceptance for capital punishment.

*image courtesy of
69tribe.com

Dale Chihuly: My International Love Affair

The inception of my international lover affair with the glass creations of Dale Chihuly (b. 1941) dates back five years and spans across three countries; how sordid! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETJhw9_B_X4

Chihuly, an American artist native to Washington, received his education at the Rhode Island School of Design and as a Fullbright Fellow on Murano island in Venice, Italy. Murano arguably beholds human history’s richest and finest contributions to glass art. Any trip to the sinking island makes Venice's heritage of glass most evident from the vast array of glass sculptures and jewellery that embellish Venetian storefronts.

Thoughts
Chihuly reinvigorated glass as a medium for artistic expression. The more minimalist movements of contemporary art tended to shy away from materials like glass that were conventionally manipulated most ornately. Chihuly, however, has been instrumental in breaking such preconceptions about glass with the use of a more modern colour palette and the execution of organic designs comprised of simplistic parts that amount to an intricate whole

Chihuly does not seem to follow any preconceptions. Some aspect of nature appears to strike within Chihuly an inspirational chord; setting off countless reinterpretations of a single design with slight architectural distinctions and wild variations in colour. His series of works, including Baskets, Ikebana, Macchia, Persians, and Seaforms, among others, appear to document exercises in experimentation and improvisation with considerably little forethought.

Some critics suggest that Chihuly’s pieces exist within a vacuum. He does not react so much as he simply creates. He takes inspiration but does not necessarily challenge, question, critique, or reflect. As such, Chihuly often faces censure that his pieces are not art because they remain disconnected from any broader movement. Personally, I would suggest that while Chihuly’s work tends to be conceptually superficial, his technique is brilliant and can spark, even for the slightest moment, a sense of awe.

Toronto: Sandra Ainsley Gallery, Distillery District
I first stumbled upon Chihuly around 2003 after brunching at the restored Boiler House restaurant in Toronto’s historic Distillery District; a cluster of Victorian-style factories from the 1800s that once formed the world’s largest whisky distillery. I stepped foot into the Sandra Ainsley Gallery, which, in addition to the Boilder House, is another space of ‘industrial chic’ member to the District. I remember being taken aback by a ten-foot bouquet of marvellous glass flutes; neon green and coral blue, and rimmed with ribbons of fluorescent pink and yellow.

A few years later while living in Ottawa, I learned that a friend (let us call him Señor X) who I had only recently met in the city had formerly worked in Monterrey, Mexico for Vitro. Vitro is one of the world’s leading producers of glass. While in Monterrey, Señor X collaborated with Chihuly and his team on a project. Some time later, when I moved back to Toronto, Señor X visited for a weekend away from the capital. At the Sandra Ainsley Gallery and at a temporary exhibition of glass paperweights at the Royal Ontario Museum, Señor X gave me a priceless education on the techniques of glassblowing, how acids and bases can be used to achieve different effects, and how to distinguish glass pieces that are masterfully crafted from those that are less than so.

London: Victoria and Albert Museum
Fast-forward to 2007 when I was living and studying in England. I used to spend my Friday afternoons volunteering at an Oxfam charity bookshop steps away from my college. I mostly enjoyed perusing political economy, philosophy, religion, history, English literature, fiction, and, of course, the ‘decadent’ collection of books on art. While shelving away bibliographies on museums, I picked up a publication on the Victoria and Albert Museum (a.k.a. the V&A) in London which reported that the V&A held the largest collection of Mughal art outside of India. I was quick to hop on the first coach direct to the Underground.

I ended up visiting the V&A three times before I finally managed to reach the Mughals because the museum’s collections are so extensive. The unbeatable admission price of £0.00 placed at my viewing disposal some of the most phenomenal collections of Chinese, Islamic, Italian, Japanese, and Korean art; hats off to the Monarchy! For those readers who plan on visiting the V&A, I highly recommend spending some time with the ethereal Raphael Cartoons; you will be as utterly speechless. Among other works is Chihuly’s dazzling chandelier which dominates the V&A’s front lobby. While the fixture borders on garishness, it pays a most respectful tribute to a centuries-old artistic form. The design fuses contemporary lines into a classic silhouette.

San Francisco: de Young Museum
My most recent brush with Chihuly was in 2008 at San Francisco’s de Young Museum (http://winstoninwonderlandart.blogspot.com/2008/09/san-franciscos-art-scene.html). The exhibition chronicled Chihuly’s landmark collections as featured in the photographs posted here. For the series of caramel bowls, Chihuly took inspiration from Native hand-woven baskets. The series of wavy sunbursts, entitled Seaforms (third picture from top), was actually more of an accident than directly inspired by seashells. The glass balls were showcased in a gondola to, presumably, pay homage to Venice.


*image of Dale Chihuly courtesy of
tfaoi.com
*all other images have been captured by myself

Nuit Blanche 2008 in Toronto

Nuit Blanche 2008 in Toronto, 'a free all-night contemporary art thing', was a hit. Nearly 800,000 people took to the streets; strolling around the downtown core, the Front Street area, and the fashion and art districts on and around Queen Street West. It felt so unique and special to feel a warm buzz in the city from sunset until sunrise at 7:00 a.m.!

Regretfully, the installations were rather disappointing. With some exceptions, most pieces were amateur in execution. Many young and emerging artists had pieces on display; which was fantastic to see. But too few of the attractions were worthy of international accolade.

Overall, though, Nuit Blanche was a success because it gave the city back to Torontonians; artists, lovers of art, and lovers of artists alike. Hopefully, the number of patrons and the quality of the installations will improve with each coming year.

Exciting Moments
Maple Leaf Gardens, the historic home to Toronto’s hockey team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, was space to giant screens that depicted a ‘milky’ illustration of sound. The voices in the videos were terribly inaudible but the opportunity to step into a space of such grand hockey history was unmatched!!

The face of Toronto’s uber sexy and ‘modernesque’ city hall was transformed into a television screen. With controllers in hand, visitors played video games with city hall depicting characters, weapons, and the score. Lamps were placed behind each office window to depict images in an LED-style layout. More details on this piece by Berlin artists Tim Pritlove and Thomas Fiedler: http://blinkenlights.net/

Amanta Scott invited visitors into a very warm and private space for 15 Minutes of Fame. A volunteer from the crowd was invited to arrange items that were placed atop a prison bed from a local penitentiary. Afterwards, the volunteer was invited to speak about their arrangement. The absolutely CRAZY detail of the installation which everyone but myself failed to ask was ‘who did the bed belong to?’ Are you ready for the answer? The bed belonged to Karla Homolka (Canada’s most famous serial killer who, along with her husband Paul Bernardo, were responsible for the rape and murder of three teenage girls, including Homolka’s sister, Tammy): http://www.amantascott.com/Art/art_installation/art_inst_15Minutes.html

Into the Blue was an enormous, blue, ‘turd’-shaped balloon hanging and spinning from the roof of Toronto’s Eaton Centre. The piece was installed by Fujiwara Takahiro of Tokyo. From a distance, it looked pretty cheap and ridiculous. From directly below, however, staring up until the acrylic well, it was marvellous.

More details about the 18+ cities that celebrate Nuit Blanche: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuit_Blanche

*images have been captured by myself