Gardens

Two different British gardens for today.

First up, Ian Hamilton Finlay's Little Sparta in Scotland which appears to be strewn with historical references. The Sparta bit is apparently a reference to Edinburgh terming itself the "Athens of the North". And the garden also has Finlay's own musings on gardens like - "Classical gardens deal in grave generalisations, modern gardens fussy particulars". Would like to visit - some day.

Pic Source here.

Second as above, Derek Jarman's garden at Dungeness which is all rock and pebble and salt air plants and a thing of strange beauty. Jarman's account of the garden is a wonderful read interspersed with Howard Sooley's muted and lovely photographs. More pictures here.

A Paluskar Song

The past week I was listening to the songs of Baiju Bawra and it occurred to me that I had almost forgotten that D.V. Paluskar sang a song in this movie. And that at one point in my life I had a Paluskar record that I listened to every day, so enraptured had I been by his voice. Anyway to make up for lost time, the song (Aaj Gawat Man Mero) has been on high rotation for the past week. As also youtube snippets.

I can't say who is technically the better singer, Amir Khan or DVP, but it seems sort of fitting that DVP sings for the lead character because his technique is tempered with a sweetness and charm.

Baiju Bawra also reminded me that Meena Kumari and Dilip Kumar remain perhaps the best actors that Hindi cinema has ever produced (bar their descent into caricatures of themselves in the latter half of their careers). And that the purity of diction they possessed is in itself a certain kind of poetry.

Of course Baiju Bawra also reminded me that Bharat Bhushan remains the benchmark for actor most likely to approximate a tree. Though trees are things of beauty and it's probably an insult to compare them to a wooden actor.

Lingering British Nostalgia

Thanks in part to ABC2, I have been having a bit of an overdose of period drama. First up was The Jewel in the Crown, which was sort of a TV event in the 80s, post which everyone went out and ploughed through the Raj Quartet. This time around I watched it intermittently. The episodes I watched raised a number of questions. Like, was Art Malik the first subcontinental type likely to appeal to all womanhood? Did he have a Japanese girl fan club? Is Judi Dench the new Peggy Ashcroft i.e. called upon to do duty whenever an old with acting chops is required? And whatever happened to Geraldine James, who looked crisply efficient even when snogging Charles Dance? IMBD of course has the answer. Is Saeed Jaffrey just plain annoying or a likeable ham? I am tending to the latter. How did we ever think Tim Piggott-Smith was "excellent" as Merrick? Must Englishman be allowed to pose as European types, accents and all? Answer: No. Will there be a film remake? Unlikely, the Raj has become boring on all fronts. But if they do, can Sendhil play Hari Kumar?! In a more serious vein, the series is a bit creaky in parts but holds up quite well. And it’s nice to see “India in the 80s” locales. But no subaltern deconstruction here, for that is even more boring and obsolete than the British Raj.

And now they are screening The Forsyte Saga. I didn’t plough through the book but a friend did, back in the 80s. I have a soft spot for it because while said friend fed me portions of the book, we were slowly moving towards falling in love (yes folks, the way to a literary girl’s heart is through - a book!). I don’t know how faithful the series is to the book but I will say this - while the author won a Nobel Prize, the TV series approximates a very pretty, overblown Edwardian soap opera. Cold fish Soames is married to pretty ice cube Irene who thaws when she meets dashing architect Bosinney. Architect dies. Edwardian hippie Jolyon, cast out by family no thanks to cousin Soames, then snags Irene. Soames and Jolyon feud. Have children. God, must we watch the children’s storylines too? Yes, you must, because everything and everyone is so – pretty. Galsworthy, the author, sets out to create the world’s most unsympathetic husband in Soames – rumour is he is based on the guy Mr. G was cuckolding. The friend who fed me portions of the book felt sorry for Soames. Watching the series I can only concur. It doesn't help that Damian Lewis, the actor playing Soames, plays him as a cold fish who is so inexplicably alluring that you expect Irene to discover the smouldering volcano behind that starched front followed by smackeroos all around. Or is that from another soap opera?

Watching period drama makes me think a bit about the books they are based on. Are these books now only popular in former British colonies? While Indian colleges presumably teach fusty classics left behind in 1947, has contemporary Britian itself moved on to Irvine Welsh and Jordan territory? Quite likely. On the other hand, they do keep churning out period adaptations from the nth Austen adaptation to obscure ones like Lark Rise to Candleford. So perhaps a certain kind of nostalgia for a British past remains in the UK and here. But what if ABC2’s habitual viewers are expats with an English education and local olds who collect royal memorabilia? Sobering thought!

More French Film

Two French films that I saw last year are lovely, chaotic pieces that strongly tend towards verite. The Class, Cantet’s Cannes winner, is based on a semi-autobiographical book. And it’s quite unlike any classroom film, including French films like Etre et Avoir and It All Starts Here. Though the movie’s central figure is a white teacher in an inner city school full of immigrants, he is neither heroic or patient nor immediately inspiring. Instead, in Cantet’s film, the teacher is well intentioned but prickly. Further he is constantly challenged by his racially diverse unruly class and in the film’s pivotal scene the students end up hostile and the viewer remains unsure whether the teacher was well-intentioned. Cantet’s hand-held camera work also captures the classroom action very effectively. In short the film captures both the liveliness and potential of the classroom and the inherent tensions in the school experience where teachers remain authority figures. The film is morally ambiguous, it is hard for example to feel for a disruptive student, nevertheless you sense that the response of the school is only likely to push the boy into further bad behaviour. In fact so free is Cantet’s film of polemic that a moment when one of his students casually reveals herself to be a reader of Plato when the teacher assumes otherwise grates. Of course Cantet’s film is hardly a documentary, as this review (one I do not completely agree with) makes clear, but it is all the more interesting for pulling it off so well. Another review here.

Unlike The Class, Summer Hours did not make an immediate impression on me. Assayas' film is only nominally the story of siblings who come together after the death of their mother to settle her estate. Instead it is an exploration of the things we accumulate and what they mean to us, especially in a world where identity is increasingly fluid and a family may live on different continents. In the film, Binoche’s character is a high end designer in the US and Renier’s character makes mass produced goods in China and are therefore connected with the making of things. The eldest son (Berling) is an academic and the only sibling in France. More than his siblings, he wants to hold on to his mother’s estate and her possessions for the memories they hold. Because the film is funded by the Musee d’Orsay, there is a diversion into the process of how museums acquire estates. But Assayas’s film is not about things per se, in fact for a movie about objects it does not choose to showcase them attractively (which I must add helps the film as it does not take a detour into object porn). It is more about what objects mean in our lives, the memories they hold and how they touch people, be they children or domestic help (in one of the film’s slyly funny moments, the mother’s longtime help modestly takes what she thinks to be a lowly, simple piece which is in fact quite expensive). It is also about the idea of France/country itself. The eldest son wants to hold onto the house so they can “return at least for the holidays” but it is clear that these holidays and reunions can only be infrequent. It is also about inheritances and how siblings may view this in different ways. The film ends as it begins with a summer party with the granddaughter enjoying a brief idyll at her grandmother’s – savouring so to speak a little of what she has left behind. Perhaps I found myself thinking of this film more than The Class because at middle age I feel a sudden sadness at the loss of many of my mother’s things. And I have little idea of what will be the future of my grandparents house, for so long a central point of our nomadic lives. The realization that time is a straight arrow that will render all these concerns meaningless somehow makes these concerns all the more legitimate and poignant. It's probably why the film has grown on me.

Emmanuelle Devos is the most graceful and subtle of actresses. It is therefore not surprising that her almost wordless performance is up close and centre in Gilles' Wife (which I saw again on SBS - and long may it live!). The tale of a mid 20th century worker’s wife who faces a double betrayal in her husband’s affair with her sister, the effectiveness of the film rests on the inherent goodness of Devos’s wife and the extent she will go to restore the love of her husband. It’s a simple albeit beautifully shot film. There has been plenty of criticism of its slightly shocking ending but Devos’ face, so suffused with feeling and pain, is so riveting that you can forgive the film almost anything.

Another face riveting in its innocence and suffering can be found in Bresson’s classic, The Diary of a Country Priest which I had been wanting to see for a long time. I had mixed feelings about the film itself finally, though it is undoubtedly something of a masterpiece and I simply couldn’t stop watching it. Bresson’s film touches on the nature of faith and perhaps it’s such an unfashionable thing these days that you cannot engage completely with the central conversion of the film. The voiceover necessitated by the diary entries can be distracting, although this is balanced by the purity of Bresson’s camera work. In the film, Bresson’s naïve priest find himself in an unfriendly parish and from thereon he is subject to suffering of both mind and body. It’s quite difficult to quantify what is so riveting in this tale of an ordinary priest tossed into a world which offers neither the redemption or grace he is searching for, but riveting it is. But at least in part the film’s success is because everything it has to say is concentrated in Claude Laydu’s face – and like with Devos in Gilles's Wife, it is a face of such intense purity that you cannot look away.

Apply Apply No Reply

It isn't just potential couples who face Disproportionate E-mail Response Syndrome.

If like me, you like writing, are often carried away by your wit and want to charm and please here's what happens. Compose email or post, send to family/friends/email group, feeling of exhilaration. 24 hours later, no reply. 48 hours later, zilch, nada. Time to cringe, feel stupid, swear never to compose another email. 72 hours later, a little better, some new ideas fermenting in your head. But you desist from approaching the keyboard. A week later, humiliation at non-response has dimmed. You both look forward to and fear sending another email/facebook post. And you know you will.

And so it goes.

Three Short Poems

Three Japanese poems copied out in a library many many summers ago.

MODESTY
You claim to be modest
And I will not say you lie
Yet no one wears a scarlet skirt
Expecting to get by
Without attracting notice
From the quicker kind of eye.
Anon (8th century)

KEEPSAKE
The keepsake which you gave me.....
Once I had thought you kind
So to ease the pain of our parting
But now I find
That, of intent, you have given me nothing
But a thistle in the mind.
Anon (9th century)

GREEN LOVE
No matter how one darks oneself
And I've tried, I've tried
The love thoughts that transluce the flesh
Are as hard to hide
As those green lights which a firefly's body
Suffers from inside
Anon (10th century)

On My Wall-Coat, Qi Pao, Freis

My love affair with clothes sometimes extends to putting them on the wall. Apart from providing me with a daily opportunity to admire them, it breaks the monotony of wall pieces. Unless they are elaborate I tend to use them in more casual places, normally near my bookshelf or in the passageway.

A few pieces have been specifically bought to be hung. One of the first that I bought here was the embroidered coat below that I found at the Glebe markets. Sure it's machine stitched and quite likely made in China but I like the colours and it feels vaguely Spanish to me. The akubra was a gift and the brooch is hand made from stuff I had.

Another early piece was the qi pao below, bought at the Paddington thrift shop. It was a tad expensive by thrift shop standards but has served me well. The padded nature of the coat makes it easy to hang with less droop. The silk is quite delicate, the pink and olive green on a duck egg blue background quite lovely - the picture does not do it justice. It seems quite old but well preserved and I often wonder who once wore it. The beads are also from the thrift shop.

The third piece below is a recent acquisition and I am unsure whether it should go on the wall. I am not quite sure why I have been wanting a Diane Freis piece for long because her dresses are not exactly the kind of clothes I wear. I put it down to simple nostalgia, it is very 80s and the mix of prints which is a Freis trademark is also a characteristic Indian 80s trend. Her pieces turn up here and there in ebay auctions and the vintage shops stock a few but they are expensive. Imagine my surprise then to find a day dress at a modest price at my local thrift shop (so keen have I been on a Freis that I spotted it from a distance on a crowded rack). It falls beautifully when worn - but not so much on the wall - so I might have to think of a better way to display it. It looks a tad girlish but it appears Freis designed for the mature woman.

A closer look. You can see the ultra feminine collar details and the signature mix of prints.

One last curious detail that I noticed was what in patent language I might call a fastening means. The dress has buttoning on the padding on the shoulder (remember the 80s!) so I assume it was added to make sure the dress remained on the hangar. Or to make sure the bra strap didn't stray (ah those days of modesty!).

PS: Spent some time admiring the details of the dress: it's excellent condition, the number of fluted bits beneath the sleeve (for volume?), the accordion pleats for the dotted fabric at the bottom and the fact that the dress can fit anyone from size 6 to 14. The sheer volume of the dress is combined with a perfect fall, maybe this is why she worked in georgette.

New and Old

Two unconnected pictures for the day.

First, a picture of the city on a rainy day a few weeks ago.  Taken on a quickly darkening afternoon while attempting to keep the camera out of the rain.

The other is from a friend I recently got in touch with. Taken more than two decades back on an afternoon spent amiably strolling through the campus. Things have changed much since except I have never met a tree I didn't feel like climbing :-)

Stepping Out on a Summer Afternoon

In all my time in this country I have never owned or driven a car. In a country where distances are the norm and public transport outside city limits is practically non-existent, such a state of affairs smacks of both stupidity and a quixotic streak. In reality, it wasn’t a decision I took as much as a state of affairs that came to be. The alternative, at least for short distances, is a bicycle. Though cycling is entirely fashionable these days, my chequered history with cycles has meant that I have ridden them sporadically. My current bicycle, for example, was bought from a collective in Brisbane simply because I had a sudden enthusiasm for the old “ladies bicycle” common in India in the early 80s. Thus I paid a good sum for a cycle shipped from India and re-upholstered here that is difficult to ride and prone to flats and now rests in the car park. So it is that where public transport is not available I walk. And over time I have grown addicted to this most lowly form of getting from A to B. For the minute we get on to a vehicle, be it even a bicycle, its all about flight and speed. Walking, in contrast, is leisurely, contemplative and eminently suitable to take in the sights. I owe many a discovery of odd spots in Sydney simply due to walking.

This weekend, for several reasons, I ended up walking around my suburb. Like many a suburb in Sydney, it’s a mix of high rises and houses set along streets. Many of the independent houses must have been built postwar though here and there you see older houses. A few bungalows are of the type called Californian here – these in fact are modelled on bungalows in British India. The older houses are from a time when the sun was sought to be shut out, the newer ones are built to bring in the sun. On a hot summer day, the sun can in fact be intolerable and reminds me of nothing but the summer heat of North India that brought on sun strokes. On such a day the dark brick houses look inviting, conversely on winter days they add a touch of somberness.

I like walking most in the autumn and winter. I like the coolness of the air, the drifts of leaves, bare branches, pale flowers against dark and glossy leaves, the early arrival of darkness and the chinks of light through shuttered houses. In summer on the other hand, the light is around till the night and everything is either blanketed by white, searing heat or air heavy with moisture through which you struggle to move.

This weekend was mildly hot and very muggy so I did not relish the prospect of a walk. Still, I had tasks, people to meet. Along unfamiliar streets were houses unusually astir with life. Summer flowers here and there, creepers of delicate pink-veined jasmine in bloom. White washed houses, the salty air, people at the beach. People walking on footpaths, children eating ice-creams. For perhaps the hundredth time, I thought of how Sydney in summer stirs ancient memories. Perhaps it’s my childhood spent in places much like this suburb, perhaps it’s the endless summers of my childhood. Perhaps it is something so old, so unknown that I cannot put a name to it. To walk the streets of Sydney in summer is therefore like something half-remembered, a feeling of having been here before.

Some houses are like my grandparents' before it was rebuilt. Many are in a row, closely stacked and share walls. I want to walk into these and be as before. My uncles, loose-limbed and gangly and so very young, teasing us. My brother in a corner or curled up next to my grandfather reading a comic he has read a hundred times before. My grandfather doing a crossword. The lingering smell of morning coffee in the kitchen, my mother and my grandmother engaged in desultory talk. The heat bouncing off the asbestos roof. Endless hours of playing on it. Uncles playing card games under the trees. Four o’clock flowers blooming extravagantly on the street. Eating fallen guavas and custard apples. 20p from my uncles followed by boiled sweets or "gold" chocolate coins from the corner store. With the fall of the evening, desultory chat on the doorstep after our meal till one by one we feel tired and then drift in to sleep.

Walking around I am invaded by such a sharp sense of nostalgia, maybe even something more keen like saudade, that it makes me feel immensely sad. It’s a sensation too extreme and yet one I want to continue to feel. What seems like an eternity later I am at the plant nursery. I pick up a cup of coffee and walk down to my cousin’s place.