29 June 2008
14 June 2008
Nostalgia 3
Given many house moves and a change of countries in the past ten odd years, its only now that I have got to looking at things packed and unpacked, an inventory of things so to speak. Some photographs are so old and faded that I am trying to digitise them before they crumble - hence the Nostalgia series. This is my mother circa 1988, about 5 years before her death. Its both adventurous and a little sad that even at this stage (my parents were in their mid 40s) we were living in a temporary accommodation and our curtains were little else than made over bed-sheets :-)
13 June 2008
Jia Zhangke's Wuyong
More film festival updates – rather, just the two as I haven't had time to see anything else. Saw Jia Zhangke's Wuyong (Useless). I have the DVD of “Still Life” and then spotted a piece on Ma Ke in a recent issue of Selvedge. A lot of people may end up seeing the film because it seems to have been somewhat well publicized as a Ma Ke film (with a nod to China’s rapid industrialisation). It is not just this but more on that later.
The film has three segments, which segue into each other. The first follows the daily rituals of a factory churning out mass produced clothes, then we go on to Ma Ke’s house/studio which is restful and quiet as also to her appearance at Paris Fashion Week (rather ambiguous section, this). It ends in the director’s home town in Shanxi province. The film is rather weak and lazy in parts – reportedly the director shot 60 hours of footage, so its either fatigue or just an attempt to say as little as possible and let the viewer take home what he/she may that results in a movie where its at times difficult to connect the dots. It doesn’t even seem willfully ambiguous, just somewhat absent-minded in its execution.
Too much has been written about soulless mass produced clothes as well as the slow clothing movement where designers pronounce sagely on the making of things by hand, the environment, the connection between people and the like. I don’t have any quarrel with either even if I am not wholly in agreement. The first section follows textile workers at what appears to be a typical day at work. It’s a mélange of machinery noises, people at repetitive tasks and the things that may punctuate a day like lunch, a visit to the doctor and the like. Unlike in the last section, there is little enquiry into peoples lives in this section apart from an interlude with the doctor (is this a visual pun on industrialisation as malady?).
Then we go on to Ma Ke who appears to be an intense young woman interested in demonstrating that the Chinese are cutting-edge and creative (note that she does appear to be using the factory for her label “Mixmind” since the first section ends with a woman hanging a set of clothes with the Exception de Mixmind label). The house/workshop is organic and beautiful – the wood, the walls, the green outside all act as a exquisite counterpart to the grey industrial landscape of the previous section. Some of what Ma Ke thinks is poetic, some of it comes clothed in the jargon peculiar to the eco fashion industry. The hand made clothes for the Paris show are of course intended as statement (the label Mixmind seems more in the mould of “off the rack” designer clothing), they are voluminous and aged. The Paris section is surreal. There is a backstage interlude with the models, their boredom and bemusement are both captured but eventually they all do a good job of standing still in the clothes. I am not sure if the ambiguity is intended but it is inherent in the spectacle of Ma Ke’s old clothes left to age in the earth, intended to demonstrate both its connection to the earth and to its maker and wearer and the sophisticated bazaar of Fashion Week where this is just one of many shows to amuse viewers.
I can’t see mass produced clothes as fully soulless perhaps because I have a technical background and there is a linear development in textile technology. Certain fabrics, colours and cuts are made possible by new technologies and a wearer must feel as much pleasure as the wearer of handlooms. The connection between the wearer and the maker is often tenuous even when clothes are handmade, in India 20 years back, the weaver/seller would visit your house and I am not sure that knowing how it was made imbued the transaction with something more spiritual, so to speak. The pleasure of clothes after all lies in newness, the feel, the colours, the texture and above all the intoxicating vision of one’s self kitted out in it.
The third section, however, in my opinion made the film almost brilliant (had Jia spent some time on giving all three sections and the film more depth and clarity). Ma Ke visits Fenyang in Shaanxi (in a 4WD no less, which sweeps past a yokel whose progress we then follow) and we are casually plunged into its life. The effect of industrialisation, the abandonment of old professions and the uncertainty of social change are all implicit in this segment. In the mine scenes, as well as in those of miners lounging above ground, you can see the literal clothes of the earth as opposed to Ma Ke’s statement aged clothes. The small time tailor who has pragmatically abandoned the profession for mining in light of the new factories and those who get by mending and doing odd jobs are both present and Jia seems to make an emotional investment in these scenes. Both the factories and Ma Ke represent the new China. Shanxi is the new China too – especially the literal black scars on its green landscape - but its also a China that is disappearing. The film ends on this in-between state of things – the hole-in-the wall tailor uncertain if he can retain his present premises and the reality that he may well have to look for a different place to make place for the new.
Interview with the director here.
Even if not fully clear in the film, the director's sympathy seems to lie with Ma Ke. Review of film here.
A perceptive review here.
The film has three segments, which segue into each other. The first follows the daily rituals of a factory churning out mass produced clothes, then we go on to Ma Ke’s house/studio which is restful and quiet as also to her appearance at Paris Fashion Week (rather ambiguous section, this). It ends in the director’s home town in Shanxi province. The film is rather weak and lazy in parts – reportedly the director shot 60 hours of footage, so its either fatigue or just an attempt to say as little as possible and let the viewer take home what he/she may that results in a movie where its at times difficult to connect the dots. It doesn’t even seem willfully ambiguous, just somewhat absent-minded in its execution.
Too much has been written about soulless mass produced clothes as well as the slow clothing movement where designers pronounce sagely on the making of things by hand, the environment, the connection between people and the like. I don’t have any quarrel with either even if I am not wholly in agreement. The first section follows textile workers at what appears to be a typical day at work. It’s a mélange of machinery noises, people at repetitive tasks and the things that may punctuate a day like lunch, a visit to the doctor and the like. Unlike in the last section, there is little enquiry into peoples lives in this section apart from an interlude with the doctor (is this a visual pun on industrialisation as malady?).
Then we go on to Ma Ke who appears to be an intense young woman interested in demonstrating that the Chinese are cutting-edge and creative (note that she does appear to be using the factory for her label “Mixmind” since the first section ends with a woman hanging a set of clothes with the Exception de Mixmind label). The house/workshop is organic and beautiful – the wood, the walls, the green outside all act as a exquisite counterpart to the grey industrial landscape of the previous section. Some of what Ma Ke thinks is poetic, some of it comes clothed in the jargon peculiar to the eco fashion industry. The hand made clothes for the Paris show are of course intended as statement (the label Mixmind seems more in the mould of “off the rack” designer clothing), they are voluminous and aged. The Paris section is surreal. There is a backstage interlude with the models, their boredom and bemusement are both captured but eventually they all do a good job of standing still in the clothes. I am not sure if the ambiguity is intended but it is inherent in the spectacle of Ma Ke’s old clothes left to age in the earth, intended to demonstrate both its connection to the earth and to its maker and wearer and the sophisticated bazaar of Fashion Week where this is just one of many shows to amuse viewers.
I can’t see mass produced clothes as fully soulless perhaps because I have a technical background and there is a linear development in textile technology. Certain fabrics, colours and cuts are made possible by new technologies and a wearer must feel as much pleasure as the wearer of handlooms. The connection between the wearer and the maker is often tenuous even when clothes are handmade, in India 20 years back, the weaver/seller would visit your house and I am not sure that knowing how it was made imbued the transaction with something more spiritual, so to speak. The pleasure of clothes after all lies in newness, the feel, the colours, the texture and above all the intoxicating vision of one’s self kitted out in it.
The third section, however, in my opinion made the film almost brilliant (had Jia spent some time on giving all three sections and the film more depth and clarity). Ma Ke visits Fenyang in Shaanxi (in a 4WD no less, which sweeps past a yokel whose progress we then follow) and we are casually plunged into its life. The effect of industrialisation, the abandonment of old professions and the uncertainty of social change are all implicit in this segment. In the mine scenes, as well as in those of miners lounging above ground, you can see the literal clothes of the earth as opposed to Ma Ke’s statement aged clothes. The small time tailor who has pragmatically abandoned the profession for mining in light of the new factories and those who get by mending and doing odd jobs are both present and Jia seems to make an emotional investment in these scenes. Both the factories and Ma Ke represent the new China. Shanxi is the new China too – especially the literal black scars on its green landscape - but its also a China that is disappearing. The film ends on this in-between state of things – the hole-in-the wall tailor uncertain if he can retain his present premises and the reality that he may well have to look for a different place to make place for the new.
Interview with the director here.
Even if not fully clear in the film, the director's sympathy seems to lie with Ma Ke. Review of film here.
A perceptive review here.
10 June 2008
Being unIndian
Had a piece published in the SMH last week. I don't always feel this wave of sarcasm, I probably say the same dumb things at times. The English bit does get me though (as also well meaning souls who seem overcome by the "love and spirituality of India"). Here's the piece.
9 June 2008
Carlos Reygadas' Silent Light
I had hoped to see more of the Sydney Film Festival (in particular Terence Davies films) but work took over this weekend. I did catch Carlos Reygadas' Silent Light. Reygadas’ influences have been documented by serious film reviewers (Dreyer, Dumont – though I must confess I preferred Silent Light to L'Humanite). It was all new to me though. It’s a very interesting film – full of philosophy and grace (I am not sure this is entirely due to its Mennonite setting though it helps, I think it’s the approach to the film-making more than the subject). The "non-actors" did a great job – putting on a show seems to be intrinsic to the human race. Its bookend shots of the sun rising as well as a final shot of stars are spectacular (again much commented on) and serve to set the tone of the film. I felt that the composition of the film was a bit too careful – Reygadas nearly pulls it off but you do not forget how carefully composed this film is. But it is a thoughtful and serene gem. The film was followed by a Q&A in which Reygadas illuminated the difference between Ordet and Silent Light (each ending is perhaps indicative of the time the film maker lives in/lived in, Reygadas said his ending is not about divine intervention but more organic and natural). It was a relaxed Q&A and Reygadas also has a sense of sly humor – apparently his lead actor signed on as he has an eye on Hollywood!
A detailed review and interview here.
A detailed review and interview here.
6 May 2008
Nostalgia 2
My parents sometime after their June 1964 wedding. My father looks quite good here. My mother very much the Tamil bride of the 60s.
5 May 2008
Nostalgia 1
Pre 1990 there are few pictures of my family. And barely any of the three dogs we had. One picture that has survived is of Mini, our first dog. This was taken when Mini was 13 and dying and is taken in Menaka, the building in Mumbai we stayed in circa 1984. She's on the balcony chair peculiar to Army houses (the one with white strips woven around the frame).Mini came to us as a companion for my brother who had just had an operation. Story has it that she, a tiny mountain pup (she was a mixed breed Bhutiya), was sent down from the hills to Delhi's hot plains in an ice box. In her 13 years she was to us the bravest and most loyal of dogs with a strong personality to match. All our books were inscribed with her name (usually Mini Moulee or Mini Malini), its a pity that none have survived our transfers. She had a litter every other year and my brother and I would rear her pups and shed many tears when they left home. Two pups stayed on - Cola and Cuddles - but neither came close to Mini's intelligence and sweetness. With time all of them died and we never did have any more dogs - though even today there is the odd day when I open the door and expect to be greeted by three happy furry balls. Simplest and most profound of pleasures.
29 April 2008
Cities
I didn't mean to blog entirely about cities but I suppose it has come about because of the months I spent in Brisbane. Though a short stay in the scheme of things, it was long enough to begin understanding the city, though I always think of Brisbane as a country town.
When I first arrived, it was the tail end of a long drought and all I remember now is a bleached city of pale blue skies and straw grass, the sun so strong that new paint quickly weathered. Then it rained for much of my stay and I now think of it as humid and damp, the rains bringing about an engulfment of available space by vegetation and clouds of insects. On occasion I saw sudden bursts of mushrooms ranging from a sickly white to iron rust. One day there were enough red worms to get clusters of kookaburras in the trees opposite my house, the first time I had seen so many in one place. In the nights, possums would run the length of my little courtyard. Each day would bring something new - life would quickly bloom and disappear.
In the rains, Brisbane was a thick fog of slowness where time creeps and halts at times. It’s not exactly a dead time which makes one fret and long for some excitement (though with very young people it must, given the many who milled around Queen Street Mall on idle weekends). It’s a slowness that seems to be part of the city so that many hours and minutes later, your pace has slowed to its rhythm. This slowness where each day went by in long discernible stretches of time (unlike the “where did the week go” feeling of Sydney) seemed part of a long forgotten life and time and there are days now I feel wistful for the feeling of a Brisbane day.
The feeling Brisbane evoked was also far different from its Southern cousins, in part because of the tropical nature of the city. Sometimes the slow pace, the lush vegetation, jacaranda trees, its closed society, its secrets, its white houses and slow river seemed evocative of the American South. At other times, the mango trees, the sharp red spikes of gingers, indeed a veritable jungle of red blooms on deciduous trees, the sleepiness of the city made it seem like an extension of Asia.
Staying in Brisbane is like its ferry rides - a long, slow, interminable ride in a pleasant torpor induced both by the city’s heat and rain.
Returning to Sydney on visits reminded me of many of the things I dislike about the city. At the risk of a cliché, Sydney often seems a city of shiny surfaces with little soul (and I speak as someone who has lived there) with endless dreary suburbs of dark brick houses meant to shut out the fierce summer sun. Every city has an inner life, every city escapes stereotypes, this I do not deny. It’s the surface, the sense of the city that I am writing about. Too often Sydney feels banal and I find myself sinking in it too, unable to talk of anything else except property, cuisine, fashion and the like. David Williamson’s oft quoted lines sum up the city- ''No one in Sydney ever wastes time debating the meaning of life -- it's getting yourself a water frontage.”
A few months ago I went to La Perouse, a beach on the south side of Sydney. It's a small beach, not as famous as its better known counterparts. There was a bit of a wind but the sun was out and families had gathered as is common in the city. Nearby the old jail was set down like a little toy on the strangely manicured lawn peculiar to penal buildings in the country. Somewhere up the road was a lighthouse, ice cream stalls. And as is usual in Sydney, a cliff rose from the beach, dense with the peculiar clot of grey-green vegetation so common here. A forgotten sensation swept over me, one evoked by the thrillingly mysterious landscape of the city. Amidst the modern city and its modern concerns, there is something ancient, perfect and complete in this setting of bush and sea. The purity of the sensation renders any description of it free of the cliché. That moment in time where everything, life, emotion, land, people is so completely and harmoniously synthesized, so completely revealed to you is possible only here. And I am not the first or last to feel this contradiction. D.H. Lawrence wrote the predictably named Kangaroo on a visit here. In the beginning, Sydney is “swarming, teeming….flowing out into these myriads of bungalows, like shallow waters spreading, undyked. And what then? Nothing. No inner life, no high command, no interest in anything, finally." Then later in Thirroul "It seemed to Somers characteristic of Australia, this far-off flesh-rose bank of colour on the sky's horizon, so tender and unvisited, topped with the smoky, beautiful blueness. And then the thickness of the night's stars overhead, and one star very brave in the last effulgence of sunset, westward over the continent. As soon as night came, all the raggle-taggle of amorphous white settlements disappeared, and the continent of the Kangaroo reassumed its strange, unvisited glamour, a kind of virgin sensual aloofness." Eventually Somers/Lawrence is changed by the country - by the simple pounding of the surf and the constant presence of the spectral bush.
On this visit, my 5 month old niece was taken along. At the beach, on my lap, she sat quite still, her sweet calm face and hair a little bestirred by the wind. She too was part of the elements and I felt a moment of gladness that this place with its sea, cliff, bush, wheeling birds and its easy mix of the ordinary and sublime is to be her inheritance.
When I first arrived, it was the tail end of a long drought and all I remember now is a bleached city of pale blue skies and straw grass, the sun so strong that new paint quickly weathered. Then it rained for much of my stay and I now think of it as humid and damp, the rains bringing about an engulfment of available space by vegetation and clouds of insects. On occasion I saw sudden bursts of mushrooms ranging from a sickly white to iron rust. One day there were enough red worms to get clusters of kookaburras in the trees opposite my house, the first time I had seen so many in one place. In the nights, possums would run the length of my little courtyard. Each day would bring something new - life would quickly bloom and disappear.
In the rains, Brisbane was a thick fog of slowness where time creeps and halts at times. It’s not exactly a dead time which makes one fret and long for some excitement (though with very young people it must, given the many who milled around Queen Street Mall on idle weekends). It’s a slowness that seems to be part of the city so that many hours and minutes later, your pace has slowed to its rhythm. This slowness where each day went by in long discernible stretches of time (unlike the “where did the week go” feeling of Sydney) seemed part of a long forgotten life and time and there are days now I feel wistful for the feeling of a Brisbane day.
The feeling Brisbane evoked was also far different from its Southern cousins, in part because of the tropical nature of the city. Sometimes the slow pace, the lush vegetation, jacaranda trees, its closed society, its secrets, its white houses and slow river seemed evocative of the American South. At other times, the mango trees, the sharp red spikes of gingers, indeed a veritable jungle of red blooms on deciduous trees, the sleepiness of the city made it seem like an extension of Asia.
Staying in Brisbane is like its ferry rides - a long, slow, interminable ride in a pleasant torpor induced both by the city’s heat and rain.
Returning to Sydney on visits reminded me of many of the things I dislike about the city. At the risk of a cliché, Sydney often seems a city of shiny surfaces with little soul (and I speak as someone who has lived there) with endless dreary suburbs of dark brick houses meant to shut out the fierce summer sun. Every city has an inner life, every city escapes stereotypes, this I do not deny. It’s the surface, the sense of the city that I am writing about. Too often Sydney feels banal and I find myself sinking in it too, unable to talk of anything else except property, cuisine, fashion and the like. David Williamson’s oft quoted lines sum up the city- ''No one in Sydney ever wastes time debating the meaning of life -- it's getting yourself a water frontage.”
A few months ago I went to La Perouse, a beach on the south side of Sydney. It's a small beach, not as famous as its better known counterparts. There was a bit of a wind but the sun was out and families had gathered as is common in the city. Nearby the old jail was set down like a little toy on the strangely manicured lawn peculiar to penal buildings in the country. Somewhere up the road was a lighthouse, ice cream stalls. And as is usual in Sydney, a cliff rose from the beach, dense with the peculiar clot of grey-green vegetation so common here. A forgotten sensation swept over me, one evoked by the thrillingly mysterious landscape of the city. Amidst the modern city and its modern concerns, there is something ancient, perfect and complete in this setting of bush and sea. The purity of the sensation renders any description of it free of the cliché. That moment in time where everything, life, emotion, land, people is so completely and harmoniously synthesized, so completely revealed to you is possible only here. And I am not the first or last to feel this contradiction. D.H. Lawrence wrote the predictably named Kangaroo on a visit here. In the beginning, Sydney is “swarming, teeming….flowing out into these myriads of bungalows, like shallow waters spreading, undyked. And what then? Nothing. No inner life, no high command, no interest in anything, finally." Then later in Thirroul "It seemed to Somers characteristic of Australia, this far-off flesh-rose bank of colour on the sky's horizon, so tender and unvisited, topped with the smoky, beautiful blueness. And then the thickness of the night's stars overhead, and one star very brave in the last effulgence of sunset, westward over the continent. As soon as night came, all the raggle-taggle of amorphous white settlements disappeared, and the continent of the Kangaroo reassumed its strange, unvisited glamour, a kind of virgin sensual aloofness." Eventually Somers/Lawrence is changed by the country - by the simple pounding of the surf and the constant presence of the spectral bush.
On this visit, my 5 month old niece was taken along. At the beach, on my lap, she sat quite still, her sweet calm face and hair a little bestirred by the wind. She too was part of the elements and I felt a moment of gladness that this place with its sea, cliff, bush, wheeling birds and its easy mix of the ordinary and sublime is to be her inheritance.
3 January 2008
Melbourne/Bendigo
Just back from Melbourne, which was a bit of a scorcher and gave me a bad flu. We made the obligatory visit to Federation Square and the NGV (the new architecture here takes some getting used to –all of the city in fact seems an ongoing architectural project and the results don’t always look pleasing) but the exhibitions were interesting. Went to Magnation, it was a great browse given that they have two floors of magazines. However, didn't find a single literary magazine - there is so much of an emphasis on graphics/visuals these days that its hard to find a mag that employs pure text. Picked up a small fashion mag published out of Melbourne called A Cloth Covered Button - it was a beguiling mix of acute observations and articles that read like student essays.
We also made a day trip to Bendigo by train, which was great. Apart from the 40C heat, it was an interesting trip. I remain fascinated by these 19th century towns, it seems such an immense enterprise for Europeans and Chinese alike to come to this strange place and negotiate all those miles (in the case of Bendigo for the gold) and to build these towns of mansions and wide boulevards. Our migrations seem so easy in contrast. I haven’t been to South America but Bendigo felt like one of the towns that one finds in Latin fiction – spacious lonely boulevards and colonial architecture set down in a strange landscape.
Thanks to the train trip, got to see a bit of the Victorian landscape, which was exceedingly dry but strangely attractive. Brisbane, in contrast, is all green loveliness at the moment, albeit due to incessant rain. I was glad to be back at the University (though not at work) for the campus looks ever so charming in this quieter time - outside of Delft in Holland, it really is the most romantic campus I have seen. It is to last for just another two months though for I shall soon return to my old job in Sydney.
We also made a day trip to Bendigo by train, which was great. Apart from the 40C heat, it was an interesting trip. I remain fascinated by these 19th century towns, it seems such an immense enterprise for Europeans and Chinese alike to come to this strange place and negotiate all those miles (in the case of Bendigo for the gold) and to build these towns of mansions and wide boulevards. Our migrations seem so easy in contrast. I haven’t been to South America but Bendigo felt like one of the towns that one finds in Latin fiction – spacious lonely boulevards and colonial architecture set down in a strange landscape.
Thanks to the train trip, got to see a bit of the Victorian landscape, which was exceedingly dry but strangely attractive. Brisbane, in contrast, is all green loveliness at the moment, albeit due to incessant rain. I was glad to be back at the University (though not at work) for the campus looks ever so charming in this quieter time - outside of Delft in Holland, it really is the most romantic campus I have seen. It is to last for just another two months though for I shall soon return to my old job in Sydney.
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