Beneath the Mahua Tree

2008 has been very good, because at last I am beginning to do some of the traveling I have wanted to do for so long. So while New Year was ushered in amid the scent of coffee at Coorg, this past week while on a trip to Delhi for work, Aneeth, Chinar and I set off to Chanderi, Madhya Pradesh for a day. Fittingly enough, our trip was on the 8th of March (Women's day).

We left Delhi at around 10.30pm, taking a cycle rickshaw to Nizamuddin Station, that lies just behind their house. That is something I really love about Delhi, how despite the addition of Noida and Gurgan to its area, in some pockets this old fashioned and charming mode of transport remains. Of course, as the traveller it's easy for me to say this, I don't have to pull overweight, fussing people behind me to earn money, but at least these drivers are living with dignity, both for themselves and for the environment.

We got on the train, earnestly setting our alarms for 5am, since that was when we expected to arrive at Lalithpur station. We were travelling by the Gondwana Express that finally stops at Hyderabad, so missing our stop was a very real fear, for after all in between bigger stations like Jhansi and Gwalior, where does Lalithpur stand? The train would at the most stop there for 5 minutes or less. Of course one can disembark from a train in 20 seconds if need be, especially if all they are carrying is one backpack, but anyway, we did not relish the prospect of renacting any scenes from the film "Jab we met".

Through the night, people came and went. We heard that Jhansi itself had not come, which meant that Lalithpur was far away. Finally we decided to get upright at 6am, and sit, wrapped in our shawls, waiting, as the sun poured into our coach.



At around 8am, we arrived. Chinar had arranged for a car to meet us, since Chanderi itself was an hour's ride away. Not wanting to waste anytime, since our trip was only for a day, we bundled into our taxi (a huge hulking Sumo) and set off, stopping once to pick up chai and breakfast.





The ride was lovely, amid fields where Mahua trees would suddenly rise up to stand solitary and defiant. On our left, all along the road, we could see the dam in the distance. Aneeth spent sometime speculating on several disaster theories regarding that wall, all of which could have been made into a blockbuster summer movie.

It was especially nice to make this trip with them. Chanderi is a town of weavers, and so visiting it with two textile designers gave me a unique perspective on it. In addition, Chinar had also lived in Chanderi for almost 8 months, completing her diploma project there.

We arrived, and checked into our hotel to wash and leave our shawls and bags behind. Its name was "Hotel Tana Bana", and its name and decor really belied its true nature. At that very moment there were individual designers, representatives from the company Fab India all staying there, while they conducted business in the town itself, which was a 10 minute walk away.



Above is the hotel's switch board, and though there is an electricity cut twice a day, just the shape and the design of this board itself is potent enough to tell you what the hotel is like. I would have to say that given a choice, I would like to try and stay in the village as Chinar had. Set just outside the town, and seemingly offering certain "creature comforts", the hotel still made me feel a bit awkward. It seemed to draw a line between us and them, the weavers that lived just over the hill.

Hitching a ride from a friend, we reached the main street of Chanderi. At that point,to tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed. I just saw a main road, with buildings that could have been out of Ahmedabad or even Delhi. It had no character as such, and was just uniform. Of course, I was to later find that this road was just a facade, behind it lay the 'real' town, with the homes of the weavers itself.



From what I now understand, the town gives its name to a special type of silk produced there. Like Mashroo from Gujarat, Chanderi silk is also a combination of silk and cotton (one is in the warp and the other in the weft.) Unlike Mashroo, where silk can be only be felt on one side with cotton on the other ( which was borne out of the fact that the Muslim Shahs of Gujarat could not wear any material derived from an animal on their skin), in Chanderi, cotton and silk are combined seamlessly. In fact, when held upto the sun, the material gives a beautiful shimmering effect, looking like water almost.







After our first stop-over at the Bunkar Vikas Sanstha, the organisation that Chinar worked with during her Diploma project, the three of us set off with a weaver who was working on a design of theirs. It was then that we walked into the old town of Chanderi.

The little alleys and painted walls were more than picturesque, as they twisted and rounded on themselves. Our guide was walking ahead with Aneeth, and each time I stopped to take a picture, Chinar and I found ourselves hurrying ahead to make sure we wouldn't lose sight of him. She had told me about the town earlier, talking about the sound of the wooden shuttle clacking back and forth. Follow the sound and you will find a weaver and his loom, she said. As I write this here, the fact sounds obvious and logical. But as you walk through that town, around corners and into bylanes, that sound drifts out to you on the wind, drawing close only to pull away. It is like the call of a siren, and it seemed that only our guide understood what it had to say.





We reached his house, a little compound set off from the others by an outer wall. Inside were around 4 houses, a joint family living and working together. In fact, the week before we arrived the whole town had celebrated 14 days of nikaahs and marriage ceremonies. Most of the youngsters had married into other families within the own itself. They didn't want to leave Chanderi.The house we were visiting was no different. At its entrance was painted a message to a newly wed couple of the family inside.

The architecture was beautiful with everything washed in white. The staircase leading up to the first floor emerged from the building itself, part of it and not added to it. We walked up, into a room where three looms stood, almost seeming to grow out of the roof itself through vines of silk thread in various colours.



We spent a long time there. I would say for myself, that I was glad to only be able to watch and not understand the technical aspects of the work itself. The movement of the shuttle and the sound itself were more than enough for me. The weaving work is so very fine, requiring immense patience, effort and care. The repetition of the design and the movement are hypnotic to all of one's senses. As I sat there, I felt and heard time slipping away.













In the silence, I found I had many questions to ask of myself, borne out of my firsthand view of their life and work. Can we apply our standards to their lives? Should we? The fact remains that they are now getting paid almost twice of what they used to receive, because of organisations like the Bunkar Vikas Sanstha. But what kind of life is it where a weaver gets Rs. 50 or so per metre of cloth that he weaves? In the world today where we are rediscovering the 'hand-made' are we forgetting that it is their hands that actually make ?

As designers/artists we continually question how sometimes our idea can be valued much more than that which helps it became a reality. I am not saying that the idea itself is not important, but the question I am asking is how much more important. In the west, such 'hand-work' is either dead or extremely exclusive. We must not head that way. The day when Chanderi silk is worn only by the rich who can afford to buy it at exclusive boutiques, is the day when the craft dies. So where do we draw the line?

I don't know.



That night, as we sat eating dinner on Bacchubhai's terrace, I looked up and found some portion of my answer. You see, the skies above Chanderi are dusted with silver stardust. Against the inky black night, they glow so brightly that they seem close enough to be touched. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. There is silence all around. It is 8pm, and the town is at peace.

It is 8pm and I can hear myself exhale and breathe.

Capturing Light

For the last few months of 2007, I was working on a new project, a video installation, which was something I had never attempted before. In addition, the project was for the Alliance Francaise, the language and cultural centre of the French Embassy in India and the theme/concept for the piece was also to be left to me. It really was a dream opportunity.

To say that I was not at all nervous would be blatant lying. Which is not to imply that I was having a case of 'stage-fright' but well, it was important to me that this project go well. After going through a range of subjects, from a visual exploration into 'shadows', to a piece on women and their bodies, I finally ended up with idea of light and the memory of a photograph.


In addition to the range of his artworks in varied mediums such as painting, collage and sculpture, Pablo Picasso also worked with photography. He teamed up with an Albanian photographer called Gjon Mili, and created a series of drawings with light. From some depths of my unconscious, I remembered seeing one of these photos. So I went and looked for it, which means that after drawing a blank in my library, I googled it.

I realised that I wanted to work with light, and try to create an experience where light seemed to be captured and collected. This experience would work at the level of the film itself, that would be used in the installation and in the installation space itself.

As I had done while I was working on "Sartori" in Paris, I roamed around for awhile, looking at things around me, at light with a greater attention than before. I guess my friends can testify as to how I was always spacing out in the middle of a conversation. Perhaps they welcomed this, because otherwise I was a bundle of nerves.

For the first time, I took photos of the diya dance, the final day of Garba at NID, where all the light are switched off as the students, holding a small lamp in their hands, do the traditional steps of the garba in a circle. Just watching them from my camera's eye helped me clarify in my own mind, how I envisioned this installation.
In that sense, the timing of this installation, though delayed from July-August to October-November, really worked out in my favour, since both Garba and Diwali- the Indian Festival of Lights occurred at around this time.


It was also important to me to create a story for the film that I was going to use in the installation, even if its meaning could not be grasped in full by a viewer. This was because I see light as something essential but ephemeral, we can never understand it or see it completely. In that sense I see a correlation between light and life, especially since all life on Earth began with the influence of (sun)light. So I created a film that explored this relationship, using various mediums of light from a candle flame, to a torch light, to fire-works (sparklers) as well as light from a mobile phone to tell my story. Shooting took place mostly at night, and we worked with both stills as well as video.


After that, while compositing took place, we also began to collect the materials for the installation space, sourcing glass bottles and containers from everyone ranging from my neighbour, to the local junk seller to shopkeepers (from whom we had to buy the pieces of course.) We also conducted experiments with the projector, exploring the use of silver paper and stickers, as well as understanding whether we had to use any liquids in the containers to maximise the effect of 'capturing'. We also tried to figure out how we would place the projector and the bottles in the space.

In retrospect, I guess it's good that it sounds like we did a lot of work, because we did. Installations in their multi-disciplinary nature itself are difficult to conceive and carry out. But it is this quality in them that makes them rich pieces of art. I especially like the fact that their interpretation is greatly dependent on the viewer, each of whom is free to see the piece in their own way. So here you go, below is the video of installation "Capturing Light". Do let me know what you think.

A late New Year, complete with (2) hangovers

I guess I have finally caught up with the rest of the world. As the saying goes better late than never. A certain project has been taking up my time, since October of last year. But the mystery alas, will be revealed in the next post.

For now, a glimpse of RGB, NID's first design fest organised, hosted and carried out by the students. With attendance from other design and fine arts colleges from all over India, I really think it was a great step in uniting the growing design community in India. Of course this vein of thought leads one to the eternal question:" Is film art or design ?" And from there, it is but a small step to the next great question: "Are Art and Design the same? If not, can they ever be the same ?"

I guess the RGB effect has still not left me. So here, a photo from my eye at the said event. The protagonist, Mr. Mouli Marur, who kindly came by to be a part of the fest. :)



Then after RGB, Chitrakatha took place. NID's first animation film festival, it not only showcased a range of films from all over the world, but also conducted many seminars and discussions on various issues related to animation. For me in particular, two talks by the artist Jose Belmonte (from Spain) and Prakash Moorthy stood out.

It seems fitting then, that adopting Mr. Belmonte's philosophy of complete hand crafted/ drawn works I present Mr. Moorthy's lecture.. (Y)Enjoy..

Stunned...in Technicolour

Of late I've been feeling like I am on a permanent..well trip..but not a good one...everything is too loud, too much too fast..and I am just perpetually reminded of the lines in some random poem that I learnt while I was in a convent ( for a short time, but that's a whole other story); 'No time to stand and stare'.

I know my twenties are meant to be lived at full throttle, burning the candle at both ends so as to say, but I perhaps maybe have been born already 10, so that makes me 30 now...I wish that I could actually 'see' the life around me instead of just 'looking' at it. Of late, I always seem to be on the run, making lists of things to do, that makes me feel like the manager of my own life rather than its main protagonist. Pay bills, check, buy vegetables, check.

I wish for a day where I could wake up and have nothing 'urgent' or 'necessary' to do. I want to wander aimlessly, untouched by time and its passing. I want to compose my life, remove elements unnecessary from it, like essential phonecalls at inconvenient times that prevent a beautiful moment from flowering into what it could have been. I want conversations to rise into the air, words float around above my head, rise into the sky, and come back down when the time is right. I want to exhale as I feel the silence around me, I want to find a moment to finally open my journal and write write not what I know but what I feel. I want to skip through it's pages at whim, and colour in here and there...

But maybe it's because I want so much, that I never really do, because I spend too much time thinking about it. But really how can you think on your life, when you are smack dab in the middle of it? But if you aren't there, what do you really have to think about?

Lalu aur kalu

Shot using the pixellation style for my intra-college festival. Uses references to classical Bollywood story structure and melodrama, as it tells the story of two antagonists, who realise they are in fact brothers!!Enjoy!!

Something Fishy

A short film, made on a mobile phone, its attempts to use the nature (size, portability) of the meduim itself to tell an interesting, but 'fishy' story.

Sartori:Revelation

An experimental film that I made when I was in Paris, it is inspired by the art of M.C. Escher and the poem 'Burnt Norton' by T.S. Eliot. Look for the clues, both visual and structural in the film.

when we see time..

To the party of one that reads this blog: rejoice!!
I am now in the position of being able to call myself a single working (hold on for it) woman (should I be more politically correct and say person? ).

Anyway, even though that is not a very recent or new development, it places me at a vantage point of obervation with regards to viewership and commentary on life and how it passes(perhaps because I am frequently unemployed? Note also the lack of reference to the word 'participation') Well, suffice to say it, for this year at least, I have decided not to join the 'rat race' or whatever equivalent of it, if found, from culture to culture. Living on my own, in a new city, having to manage bills, rent, my house, finding work and of course, food which basically means COOKING..

This past week found me having a minor ephiphany with reference to the latter..
You see, I've been trying to work hard on some projects of my own, and only manage to do that in the evenings, because I am working (trying to) somewhere in the day. The hours seem to pass by quickly, what with me being armed with the foreknowledge that I have to get up early the next day and so cannot work till late, it seems everything; relaxing, thinking, working has to be squeezed within a few 6 hours. Hence I find myself heading out for a quick bite to eat for around 15-20 min at night, so I can get back to work all the faster.

Now I do enjoy cooking, but it takes time and planning, well because you need ingredients...
So I was waiting for my cheese omlet at this mobile food stall outside where I work, and I was watching the road, and the man cooking for me and I had the ephiphany I talked about earlier. You see:
When we go out to eat, we are really never paying for what we eat...

We in fact, usually pay for time (first), then convenience, then bravado (for the man who takes his date out to a really really expensive place), then pride, then sex perhaps. And last of all, the food itself..Its so ironic, especially since we eat to sustain ourselves. But I guess, in today's world where white can be blue, men can be women and day can be night, food- that most essential of tangibles can become time-'the' intangible, something we cannot even see, let alone digest.

my heartbeat in a mirror

When i was
young i wished
for my heart to
beat on the
right side of my chest.
Because that
would make
me rare &
special. I
thought.

Of Bohos and Bobos

I found out today that Bohemia is actually a place...
It's part of the Czech Republic (look to the right for the coat of arms).

So my question is:
What are we all doing here? Bohemians return to the land that gives you your name!

In fact, the assumption that gypsies and other wandering artists mostly came from here, was what led to the coining of the word 'bohemian' and all that it implies today.

Then the authors took it up, and it began to imply a sort of anti-conventionality, beginning with the gypsies and their lifestyle, one that soon began to be coveted by artists, painters and writers at the end of the 19th century.

Of course, amongst the Bohos themselves, are the Bobos, or bourgeiose bohemians, but we should devote another post to that word...

Today Venice Beach, Greenwich Village, Kathmandu, Ithaca (NY) are some of the places where modern Bohemian Communities live. What about where you live? And what about Bohemia itself?

Might have beens

paris j'taime...

...On July 30th 2007, both Michaelangelo Antonioni and Ingmar Bergman died...

Now, it might seem shallow to talk only about these two men, when I am sure many others also died on that very same day, but I am going to muse aloud anyway. Why should these two artists of film be deemed worthy of more attention that the subjects who inspired them?

Perhaps because of the coincidence in their dying on the same day? They really might have had a prior rendezvous with each other, who knows . I guess the reason they were floating around in my head, is that though they both made films, and were considered to be part of the avante garde in the 50's and 60's, they both were just so different.

One was prolific, but dysfunctional. The other sparse, selective but happier. One could not bear to watch his own films, the other felt them to be like his children...

However, both of them found inspiration in life, in Bergman's case this was a very personal inspiration, and some of his films seem to be vocalisation of conversations he might have had with himself. I read that in his life, moments would present themselves to him, that would take flight in his mind. Any work of mine, that I feel even remotely happy about, begun like that. I am surprised that he didn't lose himself, pouring his soul out into the very many films that he did.

In that respect, I identify with Antonioni more, and the fact that he really didn't make so many films in his life, and after an initial traumatic try, did not attempt one for ten years. He was okay with his films not being understood, in fact he intended it that way. As a film-maker, when showing a film like that to an audience needs a strong stomach to say the least...(check out the links below)

As film-makers and perhaps artists, do we all not feel an ambiguity towards our work at one point of time or the other? Only now, after a year can I see my last film with some semblance of acceptance. But I have also now, only after almost a year(again), started making films once more. For a long time, I could not even watch them. I am not even really sure why. As for my drawing and writing, well thats been on an ebb for these past two months. I seem to be waging a battle to be and to do everything, but ending up doing very little at all. Very far from the bright flame that was Picasso, burning, burning all his life.

So which are you? An Antonioni or a Bergman? Or perhaps someone else...Check out the links below and decide.


http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/30/movies/30cnd-bergman.html?ex=1186977600&en=aced39c053c830d9&ei=5070

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/31/movies/31cnd-antonio.html?ex=1186977600&en=577cc8bb2f268b9f&ei=5070