http://www.timescrest.com/culture/pakistanis-can-help-pakistanis-7221
Saving Face, a documentary featuring victims of acid violence in Pakistan and the efforts of a British-Pakistani plastic surgeon Dr M Ali Jawad to conduct free plastic surgery for these women, has been nominated for an Oscar. The film is a collaborative effort between the American film-maker Daniel Junge, whose idea it was to document Jawad’s contribution and who has an Oscar nomination for an earlier film, and Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy, a 1978-born Pakistani film-maker who has won an Emmy award for her documentary Children of the Taliban/Pakistan’s Taliban Generation, an in-depth investigation of the Taliban’s methods of brainwashing and training young Pakistani northerners for combat and suicide attacks.
Acid violence, an extreme form of physical abuse aimed mainly at women, is underreported in Pakistan. Official figures state that a hundred cases of acid violence are filed every year, though it is estimated that the actual figure is far greater. An acid attack literally means throwing acid on a person’s face, which burns and melts the flesh, sometimes the bone as well, leading to disfigurement, loss of sight and traumatic physical and emotional consequences. This form of violence takes place in many parts of the world, including Afghanistan, Pakistan, Bangladesh, India and Cambodia. Recent attacks in more developed nations include a mass attack on shoppers in Hong Kong, and the attack on British model Katie Piper in the UK.
The frequency of attacks in Pakistan can be linked to illiteracy, poverty, gender discrimination and inequalities that make it difficult for women to know their rights and to access the judicial system. Reasons of attacks can vary from a turneddown marriage proposal, suspected sexual advances of wives towards other men or simply irrational jealousy. The attackers are usually men, but there are also cases when older women have helped to disfigure their daughters-in-law. The Seraiki belt of southern Punjab is where most of the attacks take place. This is an area of extreme poverty and high levels of illiteracy. Acid is also easily available as it is used to process cotton, which is the major crop here.
Saving Face was filmed in Pakistan, mainly in the Seraiki belt, Pindi, Islamabad and Karachi. The film features Zakia, a 39-year-old woman who had acid thrown on her by her husband after filing for divorce, and Rukhsana, a 23-year-old woman who was attacked by her husband and in-laws and forced to reconcile with them.
British-Pakistani plastic surgeon Dr Jawad has long worked with the victims of such attacks. With his vast knowledge and experience in burns reconstruction, Mohammad Jawad has worked for Acid Survivors Trust International (ASTI) and Islamic Help to support the victims of attacks. He also contributes to the Smiles Better campaign, a rehabilitation project for acid-attack survivors, by providing life-changing reconstructive surgery. He says that the most challenging aspect of working with the victims is managing their expectations. Victims can never look just as they did even after surgery. The directors of the film are also working on an outreach programme to educate the victims and connect them to people who can provide them vocational training. Excerpts from an interview with Chinoy:
Tell us about Sharmeen Obaid Films and the beginnings of ‘Saving Face’.
SOC Films has been a long time coming but I finally opened the production house in Karachi last year. It will allow me to expand my work and focus on some local projects. My co-director, Daniel Junge, asked me to join his team when the project was in its initial stages. I had just had a baby and lost my father all in the span of a few months and I desperately wanted to throw myself into a project that I knew would make a difference. So Daniel who had heard of my work reached out to me at the right time. Daniel thought it would be fascinating to see how Dr Jawad’s revolutionary plastic surgery skills could be used in Pakistan. We wanted to show how Pakistanis help other Pakistanis, and our story shows the audience how a country’s people can help overcome problems.
Dr Jawad came into the limelight when BBC channel 4 aired a documentary about his work with victim and model Katie Piper. Please shed light on his involvement with Saving Face.
Dr Jawad is Saving Face. The documentary would not be possible without his incredible work. He is a great example of an educated and successful Pakistani coming home to give back to his community. He is an incredible plastic surgeon who worked for celebrities but also gave hope and improved the lives of the women who were the victims of acid violence.
Daniel Junge is known as a documentary filmmaker who has an extraordinary ability to elicit emotion and create empathy with his audience. What was it like to direct with him?
Daniel and I felt we were a good match because we both shared a passion for storytelling. Working with him was a wonderful experience. We brought different sensibilities to the table and ended up making a film that we both regard as the best documentary we have produced so far in our careers.
How do you feel about being the first ever Oscar nominee from Pakistan?
These recognitions reinforce the fact that you can come from anywhere but if you work hard and strive for excellence your work will be appreciated at the highest levels. I am humbled and honored that my work has received such acclaim.
Do you feel your profile as a young Pakistani woman brings your work greater attention? Does the profile sometimes overshadow the work itself?
My profile is my work. I am a journalist and documentary maker and that is how I see myself first and foremost. I also help manage The Citizens Archive of Pakistan, so I wear many hats. I don’t think my profile overshadows my work.
Critics of your work describe your films, and specifically ‘Saving Face’, as “fodder for anti-Pakistan and anti-Islam media”.
We do journalism not public relations and so our job is to convey the truth, promote critical discourse and prevent ostrich mentality. We try to encourage people to come together to problem solve as a community. When Saving Face is released viewers will realise it is a story of resilience highlighting the perseverance of the lawyers who fought the cases, the parliamentarians who passed the bill, and the doctors who came to help. It is a microcosmic example of the way Pakistanis can help themselves, and as the strongest narrative, that is what is most relevant. Our solutions lie within our own borders and our own people.
How do you balance the demands of your work and being a young mother? Any tips for women who must work and parent simultaneously?
I attribute my success to my family, especially my husband and to the people I have worked with, they have propelled me to push harder and reach new heights. Juggling work and family is challenging but not impossible. The secret to parenting and working hard is in having fantastic family who babysit whenever you need them to!
In less than nine days from now, my ninth street neighbour will be setting up home more than nine thousand flying kilometres away from where she and I are now. neither she nor I have lived on or near ninth street for over a year, but distance hasn’t kept us away – instead it has created an uninhibited sense of comfort – the kind where you can holiday together, cry together, feel free to embarrass yourself – almost like the highest degree of ownership; the simple privilege of going over and borrowing an egg or a cup of sugar.
My ninth street neighbour who I often write about teaches me about being free, about the beauty of accepting one’s true life and denying stifling boundaries, borders and obligation. She teaches me about embracing love, family, friends and oneself. My ninth street neighbour will be a little farther than I would like her to be, and perhaps the borrowed cup of sugar; the excuse to see her really, will probably become a rare novelty. The distance, I am certain, will result in more holidays, more private traditions, a lot more joy and definitely a lot more sugar.
My ninth street neighbour may not always be there to babysit my son, or help sell my pottery – but she will be there to count on in many other ways. She is a giver, a provider, a maker, a lover – she embraces, like no other. Ninth street neighbour, I have had no words all this time, I have not known what to say or how to wish you good-bye and safe travels, but I think I am coming around. I wish you exploration, discovery, joyous moments, tastiest food, cozy nights and delightful days; all in your new home, in your new city, in our world. It is your time to take it all and relish..cherish..savour and celebrate.
One love.
Psychological Spaces at the IVS gallery in Karachi, showcases not only the personal journey and capacity of each artist, but also represents young Pakistani art and the diversity of the schools of thought present today. The eight artists featured have trained at Pakistan’s most significant institutions, National College of Art, Karachi University, Beaconhouse School of Visual Art and the Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture. In the gallery the viewer sees a fresh and promising collection of expression and technique.
The artists in their brief pose questions and reveal the context of the show as, ‘How do we deal with the constant return to those thoughts which invade our minds? How do we deal with the strange working of our brains? How do we escape? We take the only predetermined measure, available to us. In other words, we make lots of art, with all its colors, and forms or the lack of it, the repetition of nervous breakdowns, or the stillness of time. We immerse ourselves into the psychological, the emotional. And inside we will find all those things which make us naked, vulnerable, man, woman, young, old, and at times, visceral, almost like an untamed youth. As one begins to dissect these thoughts, one begins to see that we are not just one thing. We are actually a composition of our pleasant and horrid experiences. It was in fact an exaggeration of our feelings. Once out, we experience what is commonly known as catharsis. This is when we truly begin to interpret and reinterpret the visual, which was a mere thought, which transforms into an opinion, which then further transforms into a complete work of art. As a consequence, we have now created a dialogue.’
This realization of having created a dialogue hence pushes the art further and creates avenues for deeper investigation, questions and responses. Salman Toor’s work stands out demanding just that. His painting questions personal experiences, memories, and cultural dilemmas and push the viewer to come forth and think. Toor’s mark is alive and his strokes breathe, and his work brought flesh and volume to the show.
Salman Toor, Village Heroes, Oil on Linen
Toor has dedicated himself to the figure and his style is best described in his statement as.. ‘the Italian Renaissance meets seamlessly with graphic painting for local cinema billboards, these pictures are not a literal amalgam of their commercial sources; they look like museum-worthy pieces. They convince us that the impulse to paint vivid images and aspire to the skill of the Old Masters of pre-modern Western Art is not only a feasible one but also a contemporary one. The spiritual light with which Toor paints ordinary merchandise and bodies in an age of exhausted irony and innumerable image banks restores feeling to them.’
In complete contrast to his style is the work of Hina Farooqui. Though she speaks of several issues like personal struggle, weight loss, alienation and the need to restore balance, her work is focussed. Hina Farooqui is on to something and it is most exciting to imagine the work that will result from her current creations and developments. Her art appears naïve and young, playful and personal and at the same time it is very direct and refreshing, unlike a lot of heavy and overly conceptualized contemporary art.
Hina Farooqui, Fields of Gold, Cyanotype and Gauche on Vasli,
Sana Obaid’s ‘Epiphany’ is described as a result of personal struggle, she says, ‘My work is the outcome /revelation of all what I have gone through or going through, my surface can be seen as my mind where so much is going on, where a lot happening same as in my mind all the time but I see the final art works as the Epiphany.’ For a work titled ‘Epiphany’ the words attached to it are inarticulate and vague, and leave the viewer thinking about the real reasons for making this work. It seems that Sana’s art is purely material driven, in her creations she is celebrating and enjoying every piece of double-sided tape, which she has used to create the semi-sculptural work of art. Most of the time art is best delivered honestly, and simplicity is a psychological space in itself.
Another honest and playful document of experience are Farooq Mustafa’s works, he says “This body of work is part of series “Ambiguous Journey” based on my experience of becoming familiar with a foreign environment during the course of my stay in Japan. The fluidity and freeness of my work helps to express my perception of my surroundings, which define our comfort zones and aid in the adaptation to an unknown place.” The drawings are crowded memoirs of visual joy, yet the fact that a ‘gaijin’ has drawn his memories of Japan, almost as if Japanese himself, brings humour and lightheartedness to the work. Nonetheless coming across joyous work in a gallery setting is a rarity these days.
Farooq Mustafa, Ambiguous Journey Series-I, II Mixed Media on Handmade Paper
There were other works, some technically superior than the ones mentioned above, some a bit more clever, some simply created to stun the viewer – the show as a whole worked on most levels. It could have been hung differently, and that would have added to the strength of the display. Psychological Space represented the strength and diversity in young Pakistani art. It addressed questions posed by artists – yet it was quite apparent that most of the work displayed was being made to fit the conceptual criteria of the show, rather than standing for itself.
Sunday 30th October 2011
It is not very often that one, living in this frenzied city of eighteen million, gets a chance to pause and ponder. Busy running and making good time, one forgets to assess and appreciate the now. I never thought it would happen to me, but I think it has – I am beginning to have the ‘when I was younger’ thoughts.
It was near sundown in Karachi, on a usually busy and crowded weekday. A powdery dusty October dryness was in the air and the traffic on the road, intense and impatient. Beyond the smog one could make out the pink of the sun setting on the sea. Like a smoky dream, I found myself reminiscing about my own capacities and energy. I saw myself as a young teaching assistant at the college, sharing the joys of clay with new students, as a traveler without a worry in the world; I remember my bags packed with pencils and sketchbooks, ready to explore landscape, culture and love. I then went far back in time and remembered the white snow, green grass, purple lilacs, red autumn leaves, starry nights and then again fields of snow. I thought of the endless expanse, the possibilities and the well-fed mind.
Moving slowly in the Karachi traffic, I reacquainted myself with the person who worked endlessly, always brimming with ideas and almost always ready for a risk. I recalled laborious nights spent firing wood kilns, drenched in sweat and hallucinating as a result of exhaustion, yet not ready to stop or rest. Never broken, never hurting and never thinking twice. So what changed?
Recently, after wrapping up work daily, I find myself crawling into undisturbed comfort, not especially keen on investigating and exploring too many thoughts. This change is alarming, or is this the destination, is this who I am evolving into? Is finding a comfortable spot the answer? Or is being ambitiously at it, with a mindset almost naïve, yet full of goodness, the way forward? I am concerned; I need renewal.
Then again, something’s never change, as always I am awake early on a Sunday morning, with my coffee listening to Husnain Lotia on the radio. He is quoting Vinod Khanna, “Let the borders be on the maps and not in our hearts. “ He goes onto wishing a happy divali to all his listeners here and where you are. I think of the divali celebration in our home, my son and six other children, many phuljaris, a Jell-O slick floor, smeared rangolis and an apron-wearing mother (me).
And now just as I have finished writing this, I realize, that it is my perspective that has changed, not my energy and not my wit. I look again and I see myself renewed and filled with the joy of a childhood, evolving and consciously making positive, peaceful and progressive choices for him and I. I see the endless expanse, the exciting possibilities and the well-fed heart and mind.
In November, begins, every year the anticipation of a delightful winter, a promise of change and renewal, the blooming alstonia presents the nostalgia of past years; the humid nights turn to meditative evenings. Renewal is inevitable.
Thank God for November.
(Daily Post India)
LETTERS FROM THE OTHER SIDE : Daily Post India
(http://dailypostindia.com/)
Jagjit saheb’s voice lingers in Karachi
Dear India,
As I sit here writing to you, the only words coming to mind are ‘Old McDonald’s had a farm, EE YA EE YA YO’. Yes, indeed I am a mother of a two-year-old who has recently learnt nursery rhymes in baby school, and refuses to go to bed without me singing the same over and over again. Besides that I am also struggling with a mosquito that has managed to find its way inside, through my usually impenetrable border of coils, sprays and desi totka’s.
Last evening after a ridiculously long workday, I finally got down to sowing some herb and salad seeds in the verandah. In this upstairs section of a rented property, I have managed to create a makeshift brick-and-soil ‘kiyaari’ (lawn) to grow these goodies in. October is the time to plant and by December I will have enough to make salad every alternate day, at least. I began sowing an hour before sundown, hurrying it all up to finish before the ‘maghrib azaan’. This is something I learnt from Salim, he had said never ever to sow seeds after sundown.
Salim is a very superstitious, inter-faith, surma-wearing shrine goer, who began work as domestic staff at my family home nearly 25 years ago. He sure is a good laugh, and mostly over the top, but he is always right. He predicts the weather, suggests natural remedies and while cleaning, has been seen speaking to the ‘jharoo and poncha’ a number of times over the years.
Two nights ago, I went to visit my mother, and found Salim in a trance like state sitting outside the main door, accompanied by our dog Zizou, listening to the most insensitive, awfully crude, commercially viable type of an excuse for qawwali, on his Chinese mobile phone.
So while sowing the seeds at my verandah, I decided to listen to Jagjit saheb. All of us have heard and enjoyed his music at some point of our lives. For me his sound is a childhood memory of the early eighties Hindi film release of ‘Aaj’. The softness of Kumar Gaurav’s character, the mastered craft of Smita Patel’s acting and the fluid expressive voice of Jagjit Singh’s Vo Kagaz ki Kishti, Vo Baarish ka Paani. Till this day my father often pulls out the harmonium and sing this for us, and often it brings back that same familiar childlike emotion.
My repertoire of Jagjit saheb’s music is not limited, his music is perhaps what introduced me to valuing and understanding expression in ghazal, leading me to revere, fall in love with and learn from music of the king and queen of ghazal; Mehdi Hassan Saheb and Farida Khanum.
May Singh saheb continue pleasing the heavens with his soulful sound.
We are losing our cultural and emotional connections so very fast, it is time to reach out and share what is still around us, and that, which has enriched our lives and jeweled our memories.
Peace and Love,
Raania.
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Brownies with cake spice topped with M&Ms (neighbours gift), plated on Sunday Bazar vintage Japanese dish.
It is another cloudy day, the last day of July. The sky is almost the same as it was the day you were born, two years ago. I say almost, because it had already rained that year. Just a few days before you were born, I wrote:
‘Heard the rain and thunder in my sleep last night, my room was darker than usual even in the early hours of the morning, and my belly heavier than when I went to bed. The many times I rose to sleep walk myself to the bathroom, I would feel an overwhelming happiness looking at the leaves of trees outside the bathroom window drenched in heavens waters….Despite my pregnant desires to sleep in.. I was curious to go out and smell the house after the rain; the musty dim darkness of our living room, which is lined on most sides by large windows, was a labyrinth of shadows. The rain had pacified the heat. The forty degrees, which filled me with sweat yesterday turned into maybe twenty-seven degrees and the water in the taps was icy for our southern standards. The rain had paused, leaving its remnants on my balcony and on the city, plants were so green and the red terracotta of the planters; a wet orange, bright and satisfied.
A phone conversation with my father and a few bites into breakfast, the thunder arrived once more. And the sky broke its water with happiness and relief, feeling lighter, restful and elated. The clouds began breathing better and the potted plants now overflowed with earth and water, spilling the brown liquid surplus onto the balcony floor. The lamps are lit in my home and lady is singing the song of Mary. I am enjoying the darkness of a monsoon midday shower. The rainfall continues; the sky over Karachi has waited nearly a year to deliver its fruit. I continue to wait eagerly to deliver mine.’ (Pregnant Sky ’09)
Today two years later, the shadows in our house are different, the way the wind, dust and light enter the house through the verandah are different, the tree in the garden under which we cut your birthday cake is ancient, but new to us. I will never ever feel the same way about a house as I did about 47, the home which you came to. A few months ago, when we moved to 72, all I thought of was how fascinating a monsoon shower would be, while sitting in this old verandah, how magical a daytime thunderstorm would be to watch from the stairs, looking onto the lawn, as the trees and flowers would bathe renewing their colours and energy.
It is a bit past midday and there is no sign of rain. I wish you all the same I wished for you last year and each day since then. I also wish for rain, so you and I can play amidst the trees, flowers, birds and clouds. May nature and its goodness always renew and energize you. May you live long, healthy, happy and strong. My beautiful child, I love you.
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For Ivan (31.07.10)
At this hour a year ago you were swimming in my expanded belly. With room only for you and nothing else my body responded to your movements; shifts, kicks, nudges and agreements produced soft waves on the exterior my stretched skin. At this hour I was eager to see your face and you were eager to join the world. And now a year later I know that there is no other who I have unconditional love for. When I see you I see a part of myself.
On that day we wished that you bring love, peace and intelligence to this world. Today, on your birthday, I wish for the same. May your eyes see the beauty and wisdom in faces of strangers. May you sing the songs you love, an speak the words that you truly wish to express. May your hands work honestly and hard - doing only what your heart and mind desires. May you earn well, but only enough to live your dreams and not lose grace and taste. May you read, understand and appreciate all beliefs, and may you never feel superior to any other because of your own beliefs and virtues. May righteousness mean goodness to you, and not differentiation and obligation. Ivan, may you never, never ever represent the unfortunate norms of this hateful world. May the love and compassion in your heart be your driving force. I wish that to those empty minds who look upon you with evil, God provides inspiration and positivity. I pray for you to forever know that you are loved, and that you must love. I pray that you travel to faraway lands to appreciate cultures and people, and to explore oceans and mountains – but not be suffocated by the plastics of globalization. May your mind and heart always say no to methods of war; weapons and hate. May you protest against what you disagree with, but peacefully and with supreme intelligence. May you read what inspires you and achieve the greatest levels of education. May you understand that education is not rigour and system, and know that a true education is self motivated and comes from ones own soul. May you fall in love with all that which moves you and gives you energy. May you always have the liberty the choose. May God bless you with the luxury of freedom and individuality, may you always work to attain this.
Ivan, may your heart forever be as pure as it is today.
31.07.2010
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Some of my work photographed at the summer sale.
(Photos by Fahad Asadullah)
For details of the upcoming pottery sale & other inquiries please contact me via email : Raania.durrani@gmail.com
1.Powers Market, North Bennington VT, USA
2. Blue Benn Diner, North Bennington VT, USA
3. Sam’s Bar, Kathmandu, Nepal
4. Yaffa Cafe, New York, NY, USA
5. Manna, Bangkok, Thailand
6. Patata, Aomori, Japan
7. Lemongrass Grill, NewYork, Ny, USA
8. Ninja Crepes, Koh Samui, Thailand
9. Misakamaru, Tokyo, Japan
10. Flamingo Chaat, Karachi, Pakistan
11. Thai Garden, Williamstown, MA, USA
12. Cafe de Hunza, Karimabad, Hunza, Pakistan
13. Taj Mahal, Nathiagali, Pakistan
….and so many more…shall keep adding to this….yum.
(Please do take a moment to list your tastiest memories in the comments section!)
Dr.Arfa Sayeda Zehra inspires at the Karachi Literature Festival.
The first time I heard Dr. Arfa Sayeda Zehra speak was on the television. It was a heated discussion on politics, society and education. Several prominent personalities were being called for an opinion, nearly all, including a trendy and uninformed anchor, yelled and panted to get their points across. When Dr. Arfa appeared on screen, she brought with her, grace and clarity. Her statements were articulate, and the questions she posed were thought provoking, providing a direction and an opportunity for the listener to ponder and eventually decide upon their own individual stance. This was nearly three years ago. I had often heard about Dr. Arfa from my husband, who was her student during the time she taught at LUMS. He would say that he had never heard a better speaker or been under the guidance of a better teacher.
At the Karachi Literature Festival on Sunday, Dr.Arfa was a panelist at a discussion titled ‘Is Reading Dead & Other Dilemmas.’ (Panelists: Anita Ghulam Ali, Arfa Sayeda Zehra, Ghazi Salahuddin, Ameena Saiyid amd Attiya Abbas. Moderator: Asif Noorani). Mr.Salahuddin began the discussion and emphasized on the lack of resources for readers, he admitted to painting a dim picture and his stance was supported by Ms.Ghulamali, who also pointed out the responsibilities of parents and teachers, who must work actively towards instilling the reading habit specially amongst children. She also spoke of her childhood memories of the Oscar Wilde stories her mother had narrated, and how they have become a prominent part of her memory. Ms. Ghulamali was very opinionated about the ‘bedtime story’ habit, and that reading to children must not only be reserved for that time. She stressed on the need for government initiatives to make recycled material available to publishers, resulting in lower prices of books.
Mr.Noorani who admitted to not knowing of her prior to lunchtime then introduced Dr.Arfa Sayeda; at which Dr. Arfa humorously said that the outcomes of lunchtime introductions often depend on the taste of the lunch itself. She began speaking in her patent, lucid way, her style and tone specifically in the Urdu language is most poetic and expressive. Dr. Arfa began by telling a story of contribution and unity. She spoke of the joint effort that is needed to encourage goodness and positivity in the society, and touched upon the need for neither a masculine nor a feminine way, but a humanitarian way. The only bridge from being an organism to a soulful human is a book, she said.
My dearly beloved Zia, she said satirically, disliked poets and writers. As an employee of the state she was asked to meet with him and discuss this dilemma – he disliked them because they thought and they also expressed. Dr. Arfa then spoke about the irony of the self. She poetically described the act of seeing ones reflection in the mirror; which makes visible what is not there, and hides what actually is. This thought was followed by her disagreement with blaming the government for not supporting the arts. Those who cannot follow and enforce benevolence and humanitarianism cannot be expected to support the arts, she said.
In response to the other speakers she agreed that there was a dearth of writers, books and literature – once again, just as in Zia’s times, she said, writers and poets are concerned about what they write, how they write it, who would read it and the consequences that would follow. In her powerful voice she then said, what happened to Governor Saheb – can easily happen to any of us. Despite the deadly air of silence that prevails, Dr.Arfa seemed hopeful about people and their choices. She pointed out aptly, that if reading had died and readers were no more, the current exchange between her and the audience would not be happening.
About the price of books, she said that many considered a pizza combo deal advertised for Rs.1000 cheap; a deal that would disintegrate by the next morning – but a book priced at Rs.500 seemed expensive. She pointed of the longevity of the book and the many readers it would enlighten – the audience was sold.
After the panel discussion ended, Dr.Arfa joined us for tea. She graciously answered our questions and told us repeatedly that ‘mine is a failed generation – it is yours that must make the change, you must bring about the literary revolution’. When I expressed the need to study Urdu, she suggested some readings and told me to request her recorded lectures from ‘Faiz Ghar’ in Lahore where she speaks often. She urged us to discuss and analyze Urdu literature at our reading group and to start by reading short stories. She spoke highly of the Karachi Literature Festival and the refreshing familiarity it brought to her during these claustrophobic times. At the end of our meeting she spoke about the state of affairs in the country, and a moving thought summed up our conversation. Beautifully phrased in Urdu, Dr.Arfa said that ‘Jo mutmaeen nahi vohi mujrim hain’. (Those who are discontent are the ones who are delinquent’.
Dr.Arfa Sayeda Zehra is a scholar and visionary. She holds a PhD History, an M.A. Asian Studies, and an M.A. Urdu. Dr.Arfa served as the Chairperson of the ‘National Commission on the status of women’. She has written several papers and articles, for journals and magazines, and has served as the principal of the Government College for women Lahore and the Lahore College for women. She formed the Urdu department at the Lahore University of Management Sciences, and now continues to teach at the Forman Christian College in Lahore.
Raania A.K Durrani lives in Karachi (http://raania.wordpress.com)
http://www.thefridaytimes.com/18022011/page18.shtml
A medical webpage states that people are between the ages of eighteen and thirty-four, upon falling ill, ring up their mother first – and not the doctor. It is true. I do the same. It is not just the stellar medical advice she may have to give, but mainly the sympathy, love, care and food – that she will provide that almost makes the illness worthwhile. From dusting my home, bringing heaps of ‘neem’ tree leaves for my bath, to partially adopting my toddler, my mother has aced all areas of ‘caring for a sick child’ (Not to mention that the sick child is an adult who has a child of her own).
My father is a star – a great chef, specializing in good old Pakistani comfort food. Nothing compares. During the past three days of having chickenpox and not having access to my beloved kitchen, cutting board, stove, pots and pans; I have tasted the best of my father’s home cooked compassion. The top five include, ‘Chooza’ soup, ‘khichri’, ‘baghar-e-baingan’, ‘kache-dam ki biryani’ and ‘gajar ka halwa’. My usually enthusiastic appetite is slightly dim, but my husband’s isn’t, and he has rated the halwa as number one in his history of halwa consumption. (He is a very reliable and experience source.)
I love my blackberry. It is so wonderful to be able to send my husband requests (while shivering with fever) for water, pills and sympathy without having to talk or walk over to the other room. He is a kind man who has brought home; plants, flowers, gingerale, calamine lotion, chocolates, movies and books as gifts. Meanwhile, a tray of food has just arrived from my father’s kitchen – I hear it is ‘shaljum gosht’ – the king of comfort food. No my father is not Kashmiri, he is Pathan. So why is he cooking ‘Shaljum Gosht’.. one would think. Well, my nani (maternal grandmother) is Kashmiri to the core, he learnt it from her – and he makes her proud.
In an attempt to ignore the physical discomfort – I continue to write. Saleem, is a middle-aged man who has been my parent’s employee since we were very little. Saleem is a Punjabi – Catholic, who also has interfaith leanings and a strong belief in the Sufi traditions. Salim also celebrates and observes everything that is mystical and poetic. He has instructed me to place a glass of water sprinkled with rose petals on my bedside, and to change the water daily. The water must not be disposed down the drain, but instead offered to the plants. This practice would ensure less pockmarks on the face. I think its working. There is also some talk of inviting seven children on the seventh day of the pox, and making a dot of henna on their palms and giving them gifts of sweet rice. This activity should ensure recovery without relapses or complications. Apparently wearing white is also not advised.
A jet-lagged school friend dropped off coffee and essentials early this morning, and another came over with a beautiful flowering plant – what more can one ask for. it is almost lunch time and the ‘Shaljum’ is calling. Such is the pleasure of being cared for in a culture that over-feeds and never stops loving.
Another writer confessed that she feels silly writing about her observations, art, culture or gardening. She feels it may appear inappropriate in these times. I really feel that we must continue expressing and writing about things we love. We cannot be pressurized and expected to adopt a certain point of view, and forever comment on politics, social injustice and all the gloom that prevails.
Living in Karachi; making a home in Karachi, choosing Karachi – is personal. My relationship with my city is personal. Why is it so that I must not appreciate and share its beautiful moments and only reserve my expression for its hard times and its losses. I want to make clear that I can and must cherish my life. To celebrate one’s life is not meant to mock another’s loss. I have written about this earlier and often wondered why we cannot just for a moment remove ourselves from the gloom and doom; just so we can enjoy and love our lives in our city, and for once not be ashamed of it, or fearful that someone will categorize us as the ‘uninformed’, the ‘FCS’ or as ‘privileged and incorrect’.
Karachi is known as the bifurcated city, the city of millions and the city of subcultures. I was born here, I live here, I work very hard here – I represent Karachi, as I know it; whether under a tree, across a bridge, in my kitchen or in a cellar.
..As you can see it’s full winter here, this november has been the coldest in 250 years and it just goes on and on. I’m already short of wood,so for the first time in my life I have to buy! But winter can also be beautiful, a small river nearby offers thick ice and Mira loves skating. It’s kind of magic when moon, snow and frost plays together. So clean. Christmas is coming (who would welcome Jesus if he came today?) I like this time of the year, sit by the fire, food, candles, think about childhood, laughter and indoor games, accept the greatness of nature. And, spring is not so far off… Love from John and Mira
When I was a little girl in school, I read a story. The story was about vintage furniture that continued to be visited by the spirits of its previous owners. I recall coming home and telling my mother about this and she was moved, as our home is made of years of memories, ours and of those who owned all the old furniture that lived in it with us. Some of my favourite pieces include; a large mirror, sides of which are oxidized and embellished with two tiles of deep mustard and fading green, spelling out OM in Sanskrit. I slept on a four-poster antique bed as a child, it has mirrors at the head and foot and blue and white decorative tiles. The living room door is a folding structure of ancient wood and glass, that was found by my father in a heap of discards in a market. This folding door was once the entrance of a temple.
Twenty years ago from today, my father found an old picture of a table and its stools. This antique design was an inspiration for a family breakfast table, that he and his trusted and skilled carpenter Johnson built. The table became the center point of our days and lives. We ate on it, celebrated on it, I baked my first cake and placed it on it, we did our homework on it and often used the stools to reach up to things our limbs were too short for. On this table I remember being nervous about something wrong my brother and I had done, anticipating the reactions of our parents. It is on this table that I filled out my college applications, and on the same table I opened and read my acceptance letter to Bennington College. It was on this table at the age of twelve when I admired Bano Khala’s; my singing teacher; red painted nails. I recall sitting on its stool, chatting on the phone during summer holidays, and of course making glittery face masks with my best friends on it when I was getting married, I remember my mother telling us to move our glitter and gold to the plastic spread on the floor. I remember sitting on this table after I gave birth to Ivan. I had a C-Section and the stitches were most uncomfortable, especially if I laughed; how I tried so hard to not laugh as my friend narrated the hilarious ‘Akmal Mermaid’ story to my husband, father and I. What a joyous night that was. While sitting on this table I have heard the best music, eaten the greatest food and made priceless memories.
Two weeks ago I moved homes. I am now in an aged house in Clifton, this property is possibly sixty years old. An area contemporarily referred to as Old Clifton. The age and grace of this house is represented in its colonial architecture,high cielings, red floors, vintage ‘General Electric’ fans, the inclusion of a pantry, verrandah, a staff annexe and a beautiful lawn with an even older trees. Today, Sunday morning is the first time I am actually completely alone in the house. I am listening to Madam Noorjehan’s tribute on the radio and drinking wonderful Shincha. Today I am making another special memory – as I write my first story in my new house on the same breakfast table, that my parents gifted to me when I moved two weeks ago.
Karachi; you who demolish me, you whom I love
(The Times of India – The Crest Edition 20 November 2010)
In 1963, while in Moscow, Faiz Ahmed Faiz wrote this dark and emotional nazm (poem).
Paas Raho
tum mere paas raho mere qaatil, mere dildaar, mere paas raho
jis ghari raat chale,
aasamaanon kaa lahuu pi ke siyah raat chale
marham-e-mushk liye nashtar-e-almaas chale
bain karati hui, hansti hui, gaati nikle,
dard ke kaasani paazeb bajaati nikle
jis ghari sinon me doobe huye dil
aastinon men nihaan haathon ki,
rah takane nikale aas liye
Be Near Me
You who demolish me, you whom I love,
be near me. Remain near me when evening,
drunk on the blood of the skies,
becomes night, in its one hand
a perfumed balm, in the other
a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars.
Be near me when night laments or sings,
or when it begins to dance,
its steel-blue anklets ringing with grief.
Be here when longings, long submerged
in the heart’s waters, resurface
and when everyone begins to look:
Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve
is hidden the redeeming knife?
(Translated by Agha Shahid Ali)
It is a sunny November afternoon in Karachi. The Mohatta Palace Museum, stands gracefully in this chaotic urban centre. Seth Shivrattan Mohatta, a businessman from Marwar in Rajhastan, who wanted a summer home in Karachi which was then considered to be a seaside resort, commissioned the palace in 1927. The palace was sealed in 1980, before which it was used as a residence for Miss Fatima Jinnah and Shireen Bai. In 1995 it was purchased by the Government of Sindh for its conversion into a Museum devoted to the arts of Pakistan. Since 1999, the museum has been actively showcasing Pakistani Arts and Crafts, under the leadership of curator Nasreen Askari. Today, I am visiting the museum to see ‘The rising tide’ exhibit.
The exhibit features a large body of prominent works of twenty years (1999 -2010) that have shaped contemporary Pakistani art. The curator of ‘The Rising Tide’, Naiza Khan says, ‘Standing at the top of the mazaar (shrine) of Abdullah Shah Ghazi, patron saint of Karachi, I can understand why this shrine is positioned between the sea and the city. It is the last stop before the rising tide of the ocean, a protection for the city that unfolds endlessly towards the periphery of our vision.’
Paradoxically about two weeks ago, the gates of the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine were bombed. Karachi was in shock, we emoted, but then we carried on.
Inside the museum, Imran Qureshi’s art work , titled ‘You who are my love and my life’s enemy too’, reached out to me instantly, reminding me of Faiz Saheb’s priceless nazm , Paas Raho. The three white panels are stained with red splashes of paint amongst wish are red miniature vegetal patters, almost signifying blood and dying arteries. These large panels immediately tell the viewer a story of violence, of the bombing of the innocent in a busy city street, and of blood that will continue to stain our path even after it is washed away.
I am moved by this piece and my thoughts are consumed by Karachi and its current state. The contradiction between the beautiful silence inside the palace and the energizing urban landscape, coupled with the unpredictable eruptions of violence this city witnesses regularly. I then come upon Roohi Ahmed’s works, the maps of Karachi. Made in 1999, Roohi comments on the fluctuating character of the city and marks out safe passages and routes. The titles of these four maps; such as ‘Karachi – mera hi to hai’ (It is but mine) or ‘Dekh, magar pyaar se’ (look, but with love); represent the Karachiites endless love for this city, despite it being the ultimate opponent.
A fancy wall lamp and a delicate painting of despair, a burning building and a helpless man; is Risham Syed’s depiction of present time, which she says is ironically a moment that has just passed. A frozen moment, a passed reality is what I think of when I see Imran Channa’s work titled. ‘Tale of a day’. These are a series of digital prints, of the artist himself wearing a sherwani, shalwar and Jinnah cap; savouring Pakistan and its history. He says ‘ Here I am representing the real Jinnah, beyond the varied interpretations of state authority.’ There is a vintage romance to these pictures; which makes me feel a sense of regret and nostalgia at the same time.
Naushen Saeed’s ‘Baked delicacies’ (2008), leave a greater mark on me than they did when I first saw them couple years ago. The life size body parts, broken, ripped, red and raw represent the inescapable scene of violence today. These forms made of baked dough, make a comment on carnage, consumerism and the definitive motto of resilience, ‘keep calm and carry on’.
The exhibit showcases a number of significant works, representing the development of expression and culture. In light of the current times though, it was the simplest and most direct works that touched the heart, and pioneered a thought. Farida Batool’s lenticular print titled, ‘Ek Shehr jo udaas he’ (2010) made a mark and fueled a thought, that Imran Qureshi’s paintings activated.
I returned home before sundown, thinking of the show, and the million connections and familiarities. Before sitting down to write, I decided to listen to Nayyara Noor singing ‘paas raho’. Her honest voice and Faiz Saheb’s timeless words resonated with me. This resulted in me looking through the bookshelf, finding the nazm and heading to my nieghbour. Upon my request, she generously spent an hour with me for tashreeh (poetic analysis). Her age, experience and grace explained the contradictions of this poem, and its aptness to our days in Karachi today.
As I walked back upstairs, the door and windows shuddered. My husband who was out on the street, came up looking confused and harassed. We had all heard something menacingly loud and of seismic relevance. Something had happened. The news reported: ‘The massive destruction caused by the blast leads to the reality that the vehicle used to carry out the attack must be carrying 1,000 kg of heavy explosive materials,’ DIG Investigations Iftikhar Tarad said of the blast at the CID building in Karachi on Thursday night.
The entire city heard the deadly blast, from one end to another, many lives were lost and hundreds are left homeless. Karachi, our lover; our tormentor, shook us tonight once again; but tomorrow we will wake up to a new morning, we will emote, love, express, and we will keep calm and carry on.
(The author is an artist/writer from Karachi, she blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com)
The exciting and ever inspiring ‘winter smell’ never arrived this year, the air sure is dry and the lips chapped, even the water in the tap is cold – but no there is no ‘winter smell’. I wrote a few days ago, ‘without the Alstonia abloom November feels like July’. The Alstonia that blooms at the end of October – has not. The intoxicating smell of its flowers – is missing. Yesterday I noticed a few flowers on the tree, but they appear to me as a half-hearted efforts to live up to a promise or an expectation. It’s almost November and the breeze has picked up, but the feeling is missing. Is it the change in weather, is it a result of the floods, it is global warming? or is it just my insensitivity?
Karachi as always lives on the edge. Each new day brings with it a new chaos, and a new silence. Hesitation lives in the hearts of Karachi’s people. We hesitate to plan, schedule and promise, some of us, sometimes, hesitate leaving our homes. Last Saturday and several other days before that represent the emptiness of fear, and the reluctance of living life to its fullest. We walk carefully and speak cautiously – we live reluctantly. Perhaps this reluctance is why; the ‘winter smell’ has not arrived, the Alstonia is not abloom, and the reason for my insensitivity.
A few minutes ago, as we were driving back to our house, we passed by the Mazar. Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s shrine, one of the few places in Karachi which was always celebrating, at all hours of the day and night; sat silent, dark and haunted. Karachi’s Saint, is alone tonight.
The blood may have been washed and the bombers heads may have been forensically picked up and stored in some cold corner…but death remains in the shrine. Tonight our Saint who has saved us from sea monsters and gifted us colour on our dampest days, sits scared and silent under the large depressing yellow lights of the city, the darkness of a very dark night and the horrific aura of death. Guarded and hardly comforted by an empty oil tanker and a busted police car – the shrine and its cold floors are screaming; but the cars, bright golden arches, TV channel news strips and our individual clamour drown its wild and painful screams.
When I saw you – I felt the same sorrow, one feels for a hungry and lonely child sleeping amidst the trash and noise of a street corner. I have a feeling inside me, which I can best, describe as regret, at the moment.
http://abdullahshahghazi.com/
http://tribune.com.pk/story/59816/blood-and-oranges/
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/08/world/asia/08pstan.html?partner=rss&emc=rss
You are luring me again with your colonial shadows, your false sophistication, your nostalgic smell and familiarity, my history lies in your heart, but you repulse me. You repulse me with your savage dwellers, your hypocritical suitors, your dark secrets and your lustful materialistic lovers. Each time I think of taking some time off from us, you call me back – you sing to me, you make me dream and charm me into loving you all over again. The rusty remains in your waters begin looking to me as gems, the dryness in your post September air gives me goosebumps, your moments of silence sound like loving whispers. Your bag of tricks always the same, always have the same effect. I love you more, each time – and hate you even more when you let me know my love is not for you, but for a reflection of you I have in my heart, for a story I wish to believe and a lover I wish to find in you.
Karachi – be kind to me, a little longer than always.
I wrote this story in July ’10,
Tonight my dear friend and nieghbour, made a request, I am posting this for her.
‘For this I went to college!’
It has been a little more than three years living in this wonderful sunlit upper story portion. I recall moving in with all my personal belongings, which consisted mainly of artwork, pottery, books, notepads, stationery, linens, rugs, kitchen accessories and of course, clothing. At the time I moved in I already felt I was able to fill each closet and drawer neatly with memories, objects and nostalgia; not realizing that I must keep some room for what is to come.
I have set a task for myself this summer, a serious task. I will de-clutter, remove, decrease and sort. Each morning I set myself to one room, one closet and one drawer at a time. It is perhaps the most difficult thing to do, what is important and what goes. Despite all the rules read in self-help books about how one should throw away what one has not used in three months, I just cannot seem to bring myself to it. Obviously I am not a minimalist, I love my things.
As kids when my brother and I would shunt and clean our rooms we would end up parading the house in the most ridiculous outfits, assemblages of random hats, socks, snorkeling equipment and wigs that we found hidden in the darkest corners of the closets. I remember our parents having a laugh and us convincing them that each on of those oddities were essential, sentimentally or of extreme importance. This is exactly y what I find myself doing now. Spending the long summer afternoons viewing an overfull drawer of my personal history, convincing myself that it is all needed and essential for emotional survival.
On the contrary, I recall my self as a young adult telling my mother how much stuff she owned, how I would never be able to dust and polish so many little objects tightly packing each corner of their beautiful home, she said that it was more than three decades of stuff, soon I would know. Recently noticing my dilemma she comically said to me, that I owned nearly as much clutter and it wasn’t three decades, just three years that took to collect it. I could only hold my head and sigh, remembering wise words, ‘women become their mothers’.
As a kid I remember the joy of opening one of the drawers in her kitchen. It was the left side drawer of the wooden bookshelf, housing all her cookbooks and now some the pottery I have made. That drawer was my treasure chest. As a child, that drawer seemed to offer a solution to every little domestic issue. Lost a key, no problem, there has to be a spare somewhere inside it. Oops, lights are out, no worries, there are several half burnt candles hiding inside. The drawer was home to the most important items, which would be lost as clutter, somewhere else. Inside it were key chains, broken fridge magnets, candles, souvenirs from travel, old bills, letters, tubes of glue, rubber bands, screw drivers, old cabinet knobs, broken pottery shards, pens, keys and even photographs. That enchanted and magical drawer still gives me grounding and relief every time I open it.
Even though I do not live in that house anymore, I often go over and investigate these little nooks and corners of the kitchen and my old room especially, to smell that colourful memory of my younger years and relive the playtime bird kingdom my brother and I would often imagine as children. Sometimes special things happen, a picture frame will fall over and an old photograph with a handwritten note behind it will fall out as a bonus, hiding underneath the photo on display, this glimpse into the past will tell a hundred stories of another time, old friends, thinner family members and outrageous hairdo’s.
Somewhere underneath the silver plate on my old dresser I will still find specks of gold and silver glitter, the magical fairy dust reminding me of the day I dressed as a bride in front of this very mirror. In the space that was once my sock drawer I will find remnants of childhood friendships and fads. Autographed school uniforms, an oil lamp I bought on my travels in Nepal, a postcard from Serbia, an old camera, buttons, bangles, earrings and even an old sock or two. There is some comfort in knowing I will always find these here, and despite my mothers several attempts at asking me to take these things ‘home’, I delay it by days, months and now years, and let them be at ‘home’.
In the bathroom of my old room, there is a shelf, covered in red adhesive paper with scattered white Laura Ashley looking flowers. This shelf rests on white brackets and has traveled with us from our first house to this one. My mother says she had pasted on the colourful paper herself and for her it was her first memory of making a home out of her house. That shelf and that red and white print is our visual heritage.
In my grandmothers large kitchen there used to be orange and red tiles and very funny decorative tile with a comic drawing of a woman huffing and puffing scrubbing a floor. The text on the tile :‘ For this I went to college’. My mother had bought it on one of her travels as a young adult. For years it stayed in that large over used kitchen, with time the kitchen stop being used, its function changed, grandmother moved out and now the tile is proudly hanging in my very little and yes very very over used kitchen. This is what we really are, house proud, detail loving, shelf building, apron wearing, cookie tin collecting, vintage homemakers. Such is my grandmother, mother, aunt and now I.
These crowded drawers, walls and closets are like rings inside the trunks of trees, marking years, age, history and layers of memory. Definitely treasures, definitely memory makers.
There comes a time when the body and mind really need some juice, and some power. In the hot and hectic Karachi summer, I along with several others have found our power source. After a friendly phone call, a series of questions and references, I finally enrolled myself in the AQ power yoga class. Having had a very eventful year, I needed some serious introspection. Despite regular physical activities whether cycling or working out, something was missing. What was missing in my other activities was a one on one gentle approach to mental and physical wellbeing. What I have found is a positive way to think about and love ones body and not torture it by over working it or being pressured into finding ones limits before discovering ones needs.
Power yoga is a term used to describe a dynamic and energetic, fitness-based approach to Vinyasa style yoga. Vinyasa style meaning a series of poses flowing from one to the other in conjunction with breath, Vinyasa as a noun also means the poses done between the ‘downward facing dog’ poses, such as the ‘caturanga’. Most power yoga is closely related to the Ashtanga school of yoga. Ashtanga is a physically challenging and faced paced form of yoga, Ashtanga means ‘eight limbs’ in Sanskrit. Though Power yoga is not as strictly based on the set series practice of Ashtanga, it is inspired and they both emphasize greatly on strength and flexibility.
AQ power yoga is the initiative of Aqil Amin Sattar, better known as AQ. He conducts his classes at two locations in the city, offering health, peace and wellbeing to his students for the time they are in his class. Once the session is over the challenged and sated body, resonates with feelings of calm and insight into the self. I attend one of his morning classes, which is held inside a bright room of a very commercial area. One would never think of doing any meditative activity in this area, but ofcourse since its early morning, the narrow streets are silent and empty, no traffic jams, no chaotic energy and just some serious morning sun and wind. His other class that I envy a lot, is held in the evenings in a lush garden surrounded by trees swaying in the priceless evening breeze.
It was a bright and very humid Saturday morning when I first attended AQ power yoga for a trial class. A trial class enables one to make an informed decision about making a commitment to this activity and to the challenges it proposes. Being moderately familiar with Yoga, asthanga in particular, I had a general idea as to what to expect. The class started with a series of warm up poses, moving into balance and partner poses, some more dynamic moves and then finally ending in corpse pose closing the hour and a half with a liberating and meditative note. As power yoga is known for, the body is engaged in dynamic cardio vascular activity, stemming from traditional poses and routines, throughout the session. This is challenging and rewarding , one is drenched in sweat and the muscles feel warm and energized and the mind embraces clarity and power.
The sessions are very challenging physically – but there is no pressure. Students are advised strictly not to do poses that cause discomfort. Since this is power yoga, there is no dilly-dallying, no wasting time, no cooling down too much. The one-minute rest in ‘child pose’ feels like a night-long deep sleep after so much activity. Some of the sessions include partner poses, for which people in the class pair up and support each other through a series of poses addressing balance, trust, support and ultimately benefiting the group’s dynamic and camaraderie.
AQ has a story. A young man who was unfit and irregular with his lifestyle, who later got into a car crash, resulting in physical and emotional damage. He was encouraged by family to adopt Yoga, and so he did hesitantly, imagining it to be a boring activity. Under his teachers guidance and persistence AQ explored yoga and realized that gradually his health and fitness was improving. His teacher requested him to share his knowledge and experience and begin teaching, and so he did.
Before the start of each session AQ walks around the room interacting with the students, concerned about the health of each student, he asks what one had for breakfast, how the body had been responding to the last sessions poses, and then calmly offering lavender oil for relaxation before he walks away and begins talking the group into the days poses.
Lately he has compiled an information booklet describing the different forms of Yoga, with the greatest emphasis on the benefits of power yoga and a balanced lifestyle. He is a believer of the natural way of living. I am totally enjoying some of the exciting accessories he brings to class, such as flaxseed eye pillows! The students are also encouraged to eat ‘triphala’. This is an ancient ayurvedic concoction of three fruits. ‘Triphala’ eaten before breakfast, nearly a tablespoon of it, benefits the digestive system, skin, organs and the boosts energy levels.
In Ramzaan, all the classes are held outdoors in a breezy garden. AQ teaches everyone the ‘cooling breath’, for those fasting this should manage the thirst until after. The sun salutations are over, the triangles are done, the evening sky gets cloudier and it is time for corpse pose/ Savasana. It is time to rest and recover, to forget and to free oneself from mind and world. And as the yogis drift into rest, raindrops begin to fall.
With a lifestyle like most of ours, where pollution invades, bills impose and stress attacks – a few hours of commitment to the self are much more beneficial than one can imagine. Sometimes at the end of the session during Savasana I find myself looking inwards and lost in realization of my own self, the way my body is touching the ground, how my sweat drenched hair are emitting heat to cool down or how my eyes are shut underneath my eye lids. At time this realization of self and the present moment, turn to an inward smile and other times an emotional wave within. Only at such moments does one realize how much one ignores the self, occupying the body and mind with details of irrelevant activities.
For more information on AQ power yoga, send an email at akeelamin@hotmail.com
Raania A. K Durrani blogs at raania.wordpress.com
2.49AM PST – Karachi
It is literally the time of Cholera in Pakistan. The national disaster, or better still the beginning of a global disaster, brings with it deep waters of angry skies and melting mountains. The heat is rising, spirits are diminishing and diseases are rapidly increasing. Gastro, fever, scabies, post traumatic stress and yes, cholera are killing the youngest and the eldest. The death toll in the recently established Karachi camps has reached to ten. Yet it is not these furious bacterial waters that are killing our nation. The lack of love is killing it faster.
The headlines for South Asia, a few minutes ago stated:
Pakistan’s situation ‘critical’
Painfully slow
Deadly blast at Pakistan mosque
City exodus
Pakistan probes brothers’ killing
All this and more. Despite the sadness and illness everywhere, our people are still at war, still fighting, still maintaining egos and still being brutal idiots. This week as millions fled their homes drowning in sorrow and filthy water, hate continued to breed. The brothers who were beaten to death in Punjab, will forever be a reminder of this nations frustration, hate and inability to be peaceful and content. The bombs are still going off and the target killings continue. STOP you morons. STOP and THINK.
That is the problem. During a late night discussion with a Baloch friend, we came to the grave conclusion, that a large number of people in this country believe they are divine. They don’t think, they only feel superior to everyone else. No one thinks, no one is taught to think. Those who have been lucky to have kept their values, moral and culture intact are few. Thinkers and visionaries are few. Despite the history of love and spirituality, music and legends – the average Pakistani is beginning to believe whatever they are exposed to via propaganda.
It is Ramzaan, the month of fasting, but strangely, in the past few years it has become “Ramadan Kareem”, the soundtracks of popular television and TV commercials are inspired by Arabian clichéd notes and tunes. Every bearded fellow on the telly has started speaking with an accent best described as: thick, slow middle eastern tones, almost with presence of phlegm in the throat.. Why are we suddenly ARAB? We are not them..What happened to us? What happened to Pakistan? Where is our national identity? Why are we not thinking? Do we have no love for our own people – Pakistanis? I think we have forgotten about us? We are like brainless sponges. Why do we continue to kill ourselves, our heritage, our past and our future?
As the bomb went off in Waziristan this afternoon and the target killings happened in Karachi before sunset, a friend updated his status on Facebook ‘ I am an ashamed muslim, and an ashamed Pakistani‘, I could relate completely. An hour or so later another dear friend and colleague not known to the above mentioned, updated his status saying,
“few people do something wrong, we hate Pakistan and are ashamed of being
Pakistani………………Millions of Pakistanis are doing good deeds in this critical time,
no one acknowledges and feels proud to be Pakistani………..Weird isn’t it?”
I respect this sentiment and yes I am proud of all those who represent strength, peace and positivity – but unfortunately the negativity is just out doing the goodness. There is hate, supreme egos and lack of compassion in every reflection and in every shadow. The relief efforts are ongoing and people I know, including my own near and dear are working on ground - but amidst this great devastation the rich powerful lords and politicians have their own agendas, and are trying to sweep up as much aid and good for their own wealth. How disheartening and frustrating for those in need and those bringing in aid.
There is no being, no politician, no country, no donor that will give us peace in a package. We have to find it inside, somehow. In the small things that give us pleasure, in the large gesture of a helping hand and in the ability to forgive and be human. When there is no food it is impossible to be compassionate perhaps, and hunger is abundant. But the hunger is not only for food, but also for revenge, blood, wealth and power. In the past few weeks we saw in the international and national press, how hungry some prominent figures were, and how they continue to consume our shares, before our eyes and helpless hands.
In light of spiritual teachings of a great man, a friend said today that, divinity and heaven is when the self is at peace inside, and hell is when there no peace within. I look around and I see there is hell in the hearts of many - there is no love, but there is cholera. This way we will kill ourselves, we are killing ourselves. For those who can let’s think and let’s love – before the darkest clouds show up.
I shall now return to my reading ‘The rape of man and nature’ by Philip Sherrard.
Raania.
Love in the Time of Cholera (Spanish: El amor en los tiempos del cólera) is a novel by Nobel Prize winning Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez that was first published in Spanish in 1985, with an English translation released in 1988 by Alfred A. Knopf. An English-language film adaptation was released in 2007.
The term cholera as it is used in Spanish, cólera, can also denote human rage and ire.(The English adjective choleric has the same meaning.)
Photo courtesy: Sunil Sigdel -original art work
SMALL :
a : minor in influence, power, or rank b : operating on a limited scale
It is a noble thought to organize a visual art exhibit that is priced moderately – relatively moderate rather. Interestingly enough the work itself is also rather small – in scale. At the IVS gallery of the Indus Valley School of Art & Architecture, the exhibit on display this month is titled ‘Good things come in small packages’. It has been nearly two weeks into the show, and the humid rain filled air has already managed to make its presence felt. As I walk in, Shalalae Jamil’s work catches my eye. Her work is narrative, personal and descriptive of person, space and emotion. But the vapours in the salty sea breeze somehow manage to reach to these and are making the photos curl and warp, away from the white wall.
There are several works on display in this group show, but not all of them very individually strong or appealing, there is something beautiful about direct and simple thought – best displayed in Roohi Ahmed’s paper and plastic work, titled ‘Love thy nieghbour’. That honesty and strength is missing in a lot of the work in the gallery.
Out of the more conventional two-dimensional works, Abeerah Zahid’s ‘ A little thing 1’ and Sahar Jawaid’s, oil on canvas creations stood out for me. Most of Noor Yousof’s work are bright and appealing to the eye, and the thought that leads from her single painted subject to memories of ones own, is exciting – yet the mixed media inclusion, perhaps aimed at achieving some good old vintage glamour, never quite got there for me.
Soap and human hair is a disgusting visual. Thinking of used bars of plastic coloured soap covered in dirty human hair is just an awfully disturbing thought. SM. Raza got me feeling quite queasy as I glanced upon his installation of – soap and human hair. Once I overcame the disgust, I managed to look at the simple line drawings he has created with these strands on sticky, slimy soap. The work is simple and straightforward, producing an immediate reaction creating mental images of filth in the viewers mind. Finding interest and beauty in filth, I am not sure.
Abdullah’s artwork produced of great imagination, skill and bright red cricket balls, is impressive. Abdullah Syed has managed to create exciting links between visual memory and matters of supreme cultural importance. The red cricket ball taking the shape of so much else, speaks directly to the viewer of nation, power, politics and war, matters known to all overlooked by many.
Surprised by the repetition of older work by some, and the uncharacteristic work of others, I moved on to enjoy Fraz Mateen’s exciting experiments with clay. Not only is Fraz’ s work always technically intriguing, it contains depth and power, reflected in the tiny marks and subtle movements in his clay. What he does with his face may seem repetitive at times, but up-close it provides insight in the artist’s skill and mindset.
The ‘good things come in small packages’ show, featured the following artists: Roohi Ahmed, Abullah Syed, Noor Yousof, Sohail Abdullah ,Rabia Jalil, Sahar Jawaid, Saman Ali, Ammad Tahir, Fraz Mateen, Raheela Abro, Sana Burney, S.M Raza, Masooma Halai Khawaja, Nabahat Lotia, Ambreen Hameed, Faiza Habib, Abeera Zahid, Nosheen Iqbal, Sophia Mairaj and Fariha Nader. This show was curated by Manizhe Ali, and is up on display until the 28th of August 2010.
Raania A. K Durrani is an artist/writer, she blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/aug2010-weekly/nos-22-08-2010/enc.htm#3
It was a very hot and humid afternoon in New York city. I was headed back to Karachi to spend the summer with my family. I had just spent a few nights in the city after packing up in Vermont. In the city I was staying in Brooklyn on a friends couch. It was FIFA season, and the games would begin late night and friends would be eagerly watching the games and I desperately seeking sleep in the comfort of a real bed.
Hating the heat, I had to run around and get some things out of the way before calling a cab and getting to the airport. I clearly remember being dressed in a lime green kurta, jeans and flip flops – I had no time to shower and change after my errands, so I thought, well it’s a direct flight I can just sleep and will get home and relax. I was traveling with a rucksack and a duffel bag, loaded it into the taxi. Heavy rains began and the taxi broke down. Eventually I managed to get to JFK airport – just in time. Hassled and irritated I just wanted to rest now, and get home as soon as possible .
It was the 12th of June 2002. I had wanted to be home for my father’s birthday on the 15th. The PIA direct flight from JFK stopped in Manchester UK for refueling and gave the passengers an opportunity for a stretch. It was a full flight from JFK, loaded with women and children traveling to Karachi to attend weddings and spend summer holidays. The flight from New York to Manchester went by fast, I slept throughout. We landed in Manchester and passengers were asked to leave the plane, I leisurely strolled around Manchester airport, buying some coffee – returning to the gate in time. As I approached the gate I heard an announcement , “ Attention all PIA passengers, due to technical problems, this flight will leave tomorrow morning” and then it was repeated in Urdu.
Chaos broke out in the crowd, almost immediately the many babies from the plane started crying, women panicked and rumours began. Someone had apparently seen some parts fall of the plane during landing. They announced that we would be provided accommodation and meals. I called up a friend in London and told her to inform my family. Waiting around the airport I spotted a girl who used to be in school with me. Yes she was also traveling alone and on the same flight, soon after another girl walked up – she was a New Yorker going for a wedding to Karachi – so three of us decided to hang together. We had twenty-four hours until expected departure.
The hotel was nice, and a relief to see a nice loo and bed. There was one problem though. The ten degrees of Manchester was not working with my 36-degree outfit. I had nothing to wear – this was perhaps the first and yes the last time I would travel without extra clothes and essentials. Without any serious cash, I examined my credit cards and decided I must buy something warm. That night in the hotel there were many young mothers with babies, running out of formula or supplies, without extra cash – there seemed to be serious panic. So we arranged a fund, and everyone provided a little bit of money for this purpose. By evening, the three of us had engaged enough with the other passengers and needed some fun. And so we set off to discover the streets near our hotel. We; my two new friends and I , found a Karaoke bar and the fun began.
Ready and packed to get to the airport at 7 AM, it was announced that the flight would not take off at this time and perhaps by evening! So once again we rang up our families and let them know. It was the 14th of June 2002. A dreadful day for Karachi. As we waited in the hotel room, the telly showed us the horrific news of the Marriot Hotel bombing. We could hardly believe it. The Danny Pearl case and now this – we were hitting the pits. ( Little did I know at the time, that we would see worse in the years to come).
The flight did not leave that evening either. And so the passengers hosted a ‘dholki’ in the hotel for another passenger who was traveling to Karachi for her own wedding. All this was strangely surreal. Nevertheless once again we slept that night all packed and ready to get on a plane – and luckily we did.
In my diary dated 15th June 2002, I wrote: After quite an ordeal I did manage to get home . Safely. I arrived today on my father’s birthday, and was unfortunately greeted by the second of the horrific car bombings. This one outside the US consulate. It was like a wake up call for me, when I heard about it on the news in Manchester. The festivities at home took my mind off this. Yet the stories I heard from guests at the house made my stomach churn; body parts floating in a nearby swimming pool, crushed crash that had flown across onto a park, shattered glass…all these images were gruesome, all very unreal to me. In the warmth of my home I ate the meal my parents had prepared and smelled the orange roses in the copper vase. In the heat of this summers night, I was comfortable in the air-conditioning of my parents home, while bodies of some five young Pakistani women, now absolutely lifeless, were scattered around the city centre.’
Years passed, life changes, I moved back purposefully. Last month returning from a holiday in the mountains, I rushed into Islamabad airport to take our flight to Karachi. In my kurta hating the heat after the cold mountain air, I entered the waiting area of the airport, accompanied by my husband and son, rucksacks, flip flops and all, we settled down into some seats – and then like a flashback I saw the same New Yorker, my sweet Manchester companion sitting across me smiling knowingly. Eight years later we meet at an airport – without a plan without a possibility. She had come to Pakistan for a short visit, and ofcourse was as shocked to see me as I was.
This is my story of one airport to the other, with years of memories, change, agony and happiness tightly fitting in between.
(Raania A. K Durrani blogs at raania.wordpress.com)
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/aug2010-weekly/nos-22-08-2010/foo.htm
Coke studio season 3, offered novelty, soul and shock value. Though it was a collection of five performances, only three stand out as innovative and exciting. The audience’s response to sound and emotions has developed immensely owing to the first two seasons, and this season there was much critical analysis after each episode. Comparisons to past seasons and the artist’s previous performances were made.
The final episode of season 3, began at tem pm sharp on Sunday. Beginning on a graceful and emotional note, we saw Ali Hamza and Ali Noor’s lovely mother Noor Zehra step in with her enchanting Sagarveena. Both the stars of Noori singing ‘ Hor vi neevan ho’ to their mothers accompaniment and initial showcase was fabulous. Both the brothers never fail to astound and astonish, this time around I was moved by Ali Hamza’s soulful softness and Ali Noor’s charged emotion. The two men sang freely exploring not voice, not notes, not timing – just soul. The instruments half way through the song gained momentum and almost sounded purposely off beat. Ali Noor’s play with this chaotic melody created magic. As Ali Hamza’s voice reappeared the chaos and build up worked it way to a place where it would resonate forever, if not on the TV screen, surely in our sonic memory.
I might have still been lost mentally appreciating the first performance, imagining all sort of exciting musical unions. Thinking of some of my favourite music such as Bob Marley, Ali Farkatoure, Fela Kuti..and of course almost my greatest love – vocal jazz. How fabulous it might be to hear Ella Fitzgerald and Marley in one time and space making music together. Not very moved by or Karavan, I excused myself in an effort not to erase the soulfulness left behind by Noori. Zeb & Haniya followed, making a niche for themselves within the niche they have already conquered. I enjoy Zeb and Haniya very much, as many others, but I still find myself hesitant to enjoy the Turkish lyrics, perhaps because I don’t understand them as such – but then again I don’t understand Ali Farka’s words , but I can feel his music. Earlier in the evening I had been listening to ‘Tann dolay” performed by Noori & Zeb and Haniya in episode 2, and ofcourse that melody and sound appealed to the senses in a far more affective and aesthetic way.
The bright green of Amanat’s shirt stood bright and stark against the depths of the Coke Studio set, his bracelets and demenour brought a fresh youthfulness to the general program – but it was his vocal ways that brought substance. Earlier his performance of ‘Aisha’ had disappointed. Wondering why ‘Aisha’ had to be adopted and obviously with lyrics in Urdu that surely stood flat in comparison to the class of this poetic language and ever pleasing melody. This time around paired with young Sanam Marvi, Amanat added sharpness to her melancholy and emotional sound. It was an interesting mix of youthful appearances and a seasoned understanding of their own individual craft. Amanat, the dream playback voice seemed to be challenging his comfort, and bravo for that. This trance-like production, though a bit too trance-like, did seem to make a significant addition to his repertoire.
The fun began when Arif Lohar, dubbed as AL by me, was spotted in the ‘making’ clips, zestfully enjoying himself. As he said himself, rock and folk fit well together. As I heard that, to be honest I was a bit weary of what was to follow, thinking it might be a bit like European ‘turbo folk’, which as its name implies is not pleasant. AL’s lustrous hair, chimta and energy brought happiness to the stage, later turning into a very shocking chaos and death metal sounding wildness, but his joy and excitement as a performer paired with Gumby’s sharp moves made it all worthwhile. The one thing that surely did not work with the mix was the background vocals, ‘ballay ballay, shahva shahva’, it just seemed unnecessary and actually took away more than adding anything. The last minute of this performance shocked and shocked more, he began by swaying his hair either side, transformed into a serious dhamaal or head banging, moving onto seriously effective screams, and when I thought it had all ended, he actually did what he said he would. AL looked into the camera tilted his head and dramatically and leisurely pronounced ‘Bad’. A series of text messages and facebook updates followed. Late Sunday night Al had picked us all up with his ‘Mirza Sahibaan’ and had us bouncing off the walls. From ‘I blame it on AL’ to ‘death metal AL’ the networks were buzzing.
For me obviously Ali Hamza and Arif Lohar are the stars of the season so far. And late Sunday night I was star struck yet again, and as updated I was ‘suffering from the AH’s and AL’s’. Now waiting for the fifth and final episode in August!
(Raania A. K Durrani blog at raania.wordpress.com)
Let’s reach out to the world and let them know we want to live.
Several days have passed by since the Pakistan floods became the headline of every newspaper and breaking news of every news channel around the world. We are all aware of this massive calamity and the volume of destruction it has brought to Pakistani people, land and future.
The day the airblue crash happened, I received a frantic call from a friend in the Far East. It was early evening in Karachi and he had obviously just heard the news. I answered my mobile, and said ‘hi, I am ok’. I value the concern of these great friends but it is rather unfortunate that our friends have to call us so often to find out if we are alive here in Pakistan. Some years ago when a riot would break out in Lahore for instance, we in Karachi would all immediately send out ‘hope you are safe’ messages. Soon those riots turned into shootings, killings and now bombings. No one calls anyone anymore. Our kind friends who call us from faraway, might also soon stop calling,
Since the floods began several people have shown concern and some have also offered donations for flood survivors. Facebook is full of flood updates, links and photos, but I know, that very soon something else will take that place. News feeds will be consumed by another matter, another issue. Our waters will stand still, diseases will multiply and efforts will die down.
The tent cities made after the earthquake in 2005 are still inhabited. The Swati IDP’s from the counter-insurgency operation last summer are displaced yet again. Amidst despair, our people struggle, trudge, cry and try to forget each time. And soon enough are faced with yet another deadly challenge. When do we get to rest? When does Pakistan get some downtime. Why are we the eye of each and every storm?
Before everyone else stops calling and wondering if we are alive, before we give up on each other and this dysfunctional, corrupt and uneducated government, before we think of going away somewhere else, let us all; those who can, let us all give it one more shot. Let us give it another shot by not forgetting, not giving up and by being sensitive to the massive devastation – resilience and the power to endure is our virtue, but for those who are not in chest deep water, our greatest weakness is our memory loss, and the ability to forget very very fast.
Let us all keep at it in any way that we can and open our hearts, minds, observations and assets to those who are surrounded by water but have none to drink. And let us not wait for that phone call to say we are alive. Let us be alive for those who are dying, and will die if we forget to let it be known that we wish to live.
There is no government, no politician, no power struggle that is more important than a life. Let’s let that be known.
————————————————————————————————————————————
Image: Newly born twins lie at a camp set up for flood survivors in Sukkar, Pakistan on Tuesday, Aug. 17, 2010. Many of about 20 million people affected by flooding in Pakistan have yet to receive any assistance despite a growing international relief effort, the U.N. said. (AP Photo/Shakil Adil)
http://help-pakistan.com/main/
http://pakistanfloodrelief.com/
The global clay community is large, but yet so very small, and fantastically connected. Clay artists across the globe speak the same language, a language of earth, fire and appreciation of form. It is the initiative of organizations such as the Asian Ceramic Network that brings artists in Asia together.
I was first approached by the ACN in 2008, and participated in the annual event, which took shape of an online exhibit. The ACN was founded in 2005, in Seoul South Korea. This forum was established to strengthen and benefit the Asian community of contemporary clay artists and potters. The coordinator of ACN is Ms.Naam Sook Chang, a professor at the Seoul National University of Technology. In April 2010, I received another invitation from ACN to participate at the Mungyeong traditional tea bowl festival.
In central South Korea, lies a mountain pass known as Mungyeong Saejae, Saejae meaning, the birds pass, or rather a pass so high that birds find it difficult to fly over it. This ancient pass, of three gates remains today as they were centuries ago. It is a pass that traders, warriors, diplomats and dreamers crossed in search of victory. Saejae was the only connection between Seoul and Busan, in the days when both these places had different names and were governed by dynasties and emperors, unknown to our world now. Most of this ancient route is now preserved as part of the Mungyeong Sae-Jae provincial park; this is where the festival was held.
Mungyeong Saejae is precious. Vaporous clouds dance above hills and oriental skies. At Saejae the pink and white blossoms of spring and lavender buds of lilac bushes scent the air and kiss the senses. Under the clean bright spring sunlight Saejae is a reflecting crystal of beauty, nature’s glory, human emotion, happiness and love.
The city of Mungyeong and the small village of Mungyeong Saejae celebrate their ancient history and heritage each year at the annual ‘Chassabal’ (tea bowl) festival. The Mungyeong traditional tea bowl festival, invites potters, tea masters, monks and traders, every year. Each year the festival brings forth tea and its beautiful history and existing tradition. The detail of the tea bowl and celebration of its maker is the essence of this large festival. With the treasured tea bowls and tea ware of local potters on display, the festival also boasts an international showcase.
Each year a number of international clay artists and potters are invited to Mungyeong to exhibit their work and to interact with the Korean counterparts. The festival committee funds all the selected international artists, providing them travel, supreme living facilities and food. Besides being introduced to the Korean culture and people, the artists are encouraged to exhibit and sell their ceramic works, an art form the Korean people revere. This is the first time, Asian artists have been showcased in such strength at the festival, and all the credit goes to ACN that has taken this opportunity to collaborate and organize this aspect of the festival.
Naam Sook, the coordinator for ACN says, ‘From the beginning of the 21st century, the world culture and arts had moved their focus on Asia, with numerous major ceramic events held around in Korea, China and Japan. The contemporary ceramics had been led by America and Europe; nevertheless, Asian ceramics had been playing a significant role in the world ceramic history. As the arts genre, it is the time now when Asian ceramic should once again plays its leading role in the world ceramic culture. For this purpose, the Asian Ceramic Network was launched in 2005 in Korea. Beyond our surprise, however, with the establishment of this Culture-oriented Network first time ever in such a large geographic and multi-cultural scale, we revealed to the world not only a rich history of ceramic in a several Asian countries that were once “neglected” to the modern ceramic world, like Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, India and Pakistan, but also created a deeper understanding of the underlining culture of its origin that has led and developed the ceramic arts into its unique contemporary forms that are anxious to be shown to the ceramic world.,
The Asian artists participating at Mungyeong consisted of the following:
1. Wang Guo Xiang – China
2. Shan- Shu Lin – Taiwan
3. Mohd. Roslan Ahmad – Malaysia
4. Nguyen Bao Toan – Vietnam
5. Gita Winata – Indonesia
6. Ahmad Abu Bakar – Singapore
7. Raania Azam Khan Durrani – Pakistan
8. Somluk Pantiboom – Thailand
The Chassabal festival at Mungyeong boasted countless exhibits of pottery, crafts, tea, tea-ware, traditional tea ceremonies, Buddhist tea meditation, Acupuncture, Acupressure, award winning ceramics, traditional food, world food and culture, pottery making, music and so much more. The park also had a many exciting treks for visitors, and a very effective foot reflexology path and pond. At the first gate began the potters exhibits, it was there where the international exhibits were set up.
The teabowls we had all brought with us spoke of our own histories, aesthetics and beliefs. Though Mungyeong aims at preserving heritage and the philosophy of tea and the ‘Chassabal’, it also provides a platform for international dialogue, visual culture and experimentation. On an average day hundreds of visitors from all over the country came to view the exhibit. Monks, traders, art collectors, writers, students and critics made connections and discussions with the international artists. The festival provided interpreters and assistants for the artists, making it possible to have a comfortable and most productive experience.
Each artist’s works at Mungyeong, reflected individuality, and this element is what made each pot and tea bowl a masterpiece. Ancient Japanese master, Kazuko Okakura in his sacred text ‘ The book of tea’, says, ‘The masterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest feelings. At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognize, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.’
During the festival the committee arranged day trips to potteries, temples, kiln sites, museums, homes and studios of human national treasures and much more. The local potters, artists and officials were most hospitable and organized several wonderful meals and musical evenings for the international guests. In Mungyeong, teas of all kinds and delicious food were abundant and someone was always there being a great host and offering endless treats. The evenings at Mungyeong Saejae were dedicated to rest and relaxation under the cold starry mountain skies.
The tea bowl and its history is very simple yet most complex. There are many schools of thought and ways of appreciation, yet I relate most to Okakura and his words, ‘We must remember, however, that art is of value only to the extent that it speaks to us. It might be a universal language if we ourselves were universal in our sympathies. Our finite nature, the power of tradition and conventionality, as well as our hereditary instincts, restrict the scope of our capacity for artistic enjoyment. Our very individuality establishes in one sense a limit to our understanding; and our aesthetic personality seeks its own affinities in the creations of the past. It is true that with cultivation our sense of art appreciation broadens, and we become able to enjoy many hitherto unrecognized expressions of beauty. But, after all, we see only our own image in the universe our particular idiosyncrasies dictate the mode of our perceptions. The tea- masters collected only objects which fell strictly within the measure of their individual appreciation.’
We learnt here that pottery and the tea bowl specifically is not about perfection and inhuman excellence. In fact it is about the reality of human imperfection, humility and ever-changing emotion. Looking mainly at traditional teabowls of Korea, Japan and China, one notices many differences in style, yet it is what fills the bowl that remains constant. An audience so great as the Koreans one realizes why clay and pottery is so honest, attractive and so special for the soul. It is a realization that we are all connected by the earth, and require the same emotions and circumstances for existence. It is reassuring to see that culture and history is being preserved and celebrated at such a level.’
The Asian Ceramic Network, and its vision allow clay artists like myself to reach out and create a dialogue, ultimately empowering the self and ones artistic identity.
The Asian Ceramic Network has successfully organized the following events:
2005 :Korean Craft Promotion Foundation Gallery, KwanHoon Gallery, Seoul, Korea
2006: 13th National Ceramics Exhibition, Thailand
2007 : International Contemporary Ceramic Exhibition, Malaysia
2008/2009 : Cyber & Catalog Exhibition (www.koca21.net)
2010: Participation in Mungeyong traditional tea-bowl festival, South Korea.
(Raania A. K Durrani Artist & Educator blogs at raania.wordpress.com)
http://nigaahart.com/default.asp
Nigaah introduces: Sunil Sigdel from Pokhara, Nepal
(By Raania A. K Durrani)
Introducing himself Sunil says, “I have been working with many mediums to represent my thoughts and feelings since my artistic career started. The subject matters in my work involve socio-political crisis of my country as well as the globe and different incidents of my own life. I live in Pokhara, the beautiful silent place near Himalayas, but I am aware of the present situation of my own society as well as the world. My background is painting although I often do installation and performance. I also have experiences doing video work, photography and print. I has done five solo exhibitions and a number of group exhibitions in Nepal, Denmark, Taiwan, UK, India, Bangladesh, & Pakistan.”
I met Sunil for the first time in Bhaktapur, Nepal in 2004, at an international artist residency organized by the Nepalese art collective Sutra. Sunil a resident of Pokhara, just like his hometown, appreared to be a humble and charming person, removed from the trivialities of urban life. At the time Sunil and I communicated best through our sketchbooks, as neither of us were able to speak fluently in either ones language. Bonding over artwork, gestures, music and landscape, the group of artists in Bhaktapur expressed concepts in their art dealing mainly with the self, history and culture. Sunil’s sketches and doodles depicted detail, unusual forms and unending mystery.
Sunil went on from there to create exciting and apt artwork that began to comment on culture, politics and people. In 2006 Sunil visited Pakistan, and participated in a residency organized by the Pakistani art collective VASL. Sunil gifted me two drawings, which continue to inspire and ask questions. The pen drawings are made on old biology textbooks. They incorporate the detailed diagrams with the simple yet astounding alien-like figures created by Sunil. He spoke to me then about Pokhara and its beauty, how life there was simple, and his drawings were an example of just this. The simplicity of using almost anything as art material was his strength and depicted the depth in his work.
In 2008 Sunil participated in an exhibition titled ‘Open Doors’ in London. The curator Sangeeta Thapa, director of the Sidhharta Art Gallery commented on art created in the times of war, saying, “In Nepal, we have experienced ten years of civil war, with countless casualties and the highest number of missing persons in the world. Artists can play an important part in recording and telling others about what happened in that period. They can also influence the course of events…” Sunil’s work by now was becoming more and more politicized by now reflected his country’s chaos. ‘Lingering Presence’ by Sunil Sigdel, (Mao’s image rises among a group of mourning people) was exhibited as part of this movement in the London exhibit, a platform created to provide Nepalese artists opportunities internationally.
In 2008 Sunil also participated in the South Asian Exhibition in Bangladesh. His work was in form of a performance titled ‘Today’s news to history’. Sunil explains his work, saying, ‘we read history to get knowledge about our past. War is a large part of world history. We have learnt from our civilization that many of the big wars were started by the egoistic thoughts and attitude of few people. During each war, there were huge loses of innocent lives and many people suffered for years and years. We still experience pain when we read or hear about those stories. Presently, living a so-called civilized life, just because of few leaders of the world, we continue to suffer directly or indirectly in some way by the effect of the war. For this performance, I have collected images of different war victims, fighters and related people from Internet and newspapers. I also recorded relevant news clips regarding war and terrorism from the BBC. I pasted many bandages on my body and tried to light the images with small cigarette lighters. The microphone was fixed to my mouth that was talking about war. The people of the past seemed to be listening to the present wars of the globe from BBC via my mouth.’
About another significant installation titled, ‘Globalization & Border’, Sunil says, ‘the world we live today has given many definitions to a human being. At the same time it has also taken so much from us. The common belief of globalization has seemingly prepared a parson with boundless possibilities… but the political and geographical borders bind us.
The installation-based performance that I have presented here is the combination of my various social and materialistic beliefs. Here I have adjusted myself on the ground partitioning my body with a wall created by bricks. Then I have placed nails and chili peppers on the ground, around the lower side of my body and near my torso I scattered sweets. We basically experience pain but we perceive solace; because that is what we are made to see. Furthermore, I have also arranged two cameras capturing both the sides of my body, which is continuously being telecasted live on the two televisions on the performance site. I have incorporated television because it is one of the primary devices that links us with the world, promoting the concept of globalization. Therefore, my work is about the primordial pain that is hidden underneath the scientific complexion of human beings.’
Earlier in 2010 Sunil completed an ‘India-Nepal’ collaborative artist residency in Bangalore India, organized by ‘KHOJ’ the Indian art collective. One of his major works ‘SPINE’ produced during this residency is featured in this article.
Thirty one year old Sunil Sigdel has graduated in Fine Arts from Lalit Kala Campus, Khatmandu. His work includes painting, drawing and installation works. He can be reached at sunsee1979@gmail.com
(Raania A. K Durrani blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com)
It was a hot afternoon in Spring, the sun was at it brightest and the dust of Moen Jo Daro like ancient powdery remains flew into our eyes and covered our skin. At the ancient site a vast emptiness and silence was felt, despite the wind and endless sky – it seemed hard to breath. The remains of this organized and sophisticated city reflect the genius of its people and their inventions and systems. In awe of the bricks, paths, constructs and concepts, I walked thinking just one thing. What had these exceptional people done to deserve the violent end they suffered? There is a continued debate about whether the city drowned, was buried underground or attacked by another people, what is known is that the city and its people had a very abrupt and violent end. To me almost like a curse, such that till this day this half buried heritage site smells of its memory of death.
This week, I remembered some of that strange feeling that I had at Moen Jo Daro several years ago. A similar emptiness and silence in the air, the smell of loss and despair. What are we headed for? Endless violence in the city centers coupled with demolition of culture and history, corruption a norm, terror and blood at every corner of the newspaper.. loss of life, no life..people dying. Wednesday the air crash, followed by the greatest floods affecting millions and tonight once again Karachi burns – and the whole country smells of its memory of death.
I hate to sound hopeless, but it is how I truly feel at this time.
At this hour a year ago you were swimming in my expanded belly. With room only for you and nothing else my body responded to your movements; shifts, kicks, nudges and agreements produced soft waves on the exterior my stretched skin. At this hour I was eager to see your face and you were eager to join the world. And now a year later I know that there is no other who I have unconditional love for. When I see you I see a part of myself.
On that day we wished that you bring love, peace and intelligence to this world. Today, on your birthday, I wish for the same. May your eyes see the beauty and wisdom in faces of strangers. May you sing the songs you love, an speak the words that you truly wish to express. May your hands work honestly and hard - doing only what your heart and mind desires. May you earn well, but only enough to live your dreams and not lose grace and taste. May you read, understand and appreciate all beliefs, and may you never feel superior to any other because of your own beliefs and virtues. May righteousness mean goodness to you, and not differentiation and obligation. Ivan, may you never, never ever represent the unfortunate norms of this hateful world. May the love and compassion in your heart be your driving force. I wish that to those empty minds who look upon you with evil, God provides inspiration and positivity. I pray for you to forever know that you are loved, and that you must love. I pray that you travel to faraway lands to appreciate cultures and people, and to explore oceans and mountains – but not be suffocated by the plastics of globalization. May your mind and heart always say no to methods of war; weapons and hate. May you protest against what you disagree with, but peacefully and with supreme intelligence. May you read what inspires you and achieve the greatest levels of education. May you understand that education is not rigour and system, and know that a true education is self motivated and comes from ones own soul. May you fall in love with all that which moves you and gives you energy. May you always have the liberty the choose. May God bless you with the luxury of freedom and individuality, may you always work to attain this.
Ivan, may your heart forever be as pure as it is today.
31.7.2010
1. Comply with rules, standards, or laws.
2. (of a person) Behave according to socially acceptable conventions or standards: “the pressure to conform“
Most of us in the artist community are fearful of the client who wishes to buy a work of art that matches with the colour scheme of their drawing room. Despite our fears, we all manage to come across a few such clients wondering later what on earth made us take up such a commission. Nevertheless the point really is to unveil this mystery and develop some sort of understanding towards acquiring art. An artist’s role is to express, create, communicate and emote. A work of art whether painting or sculpture, is an object derived from original thought, inspiration, emotion and skill. A work of art cannot be created based on the colours of someone’s curtains, rug or sofa, precisely because art is independent of these ridiculous limitations.
It is derogatory and demeaning for an artist to be told that he or she must use a certain colour as it works with the general look of the living room, study or office. People, who find themselves leaning towards such rigidity, should probably not bother commissioning a piece. It is also quite perplexing when one comes across a buyer with such a mindset despite their knowledge of the arts and an existing collection.
Sometimes I really wonder what this obsession with ‘matching’ is. For those of us living in Pakistan, we are well aware of the ‘three piece lawn prints’ that women wear. The stripes on the shirt must match the dots on the shalwar, and of course the duppatta must be the stripe and dot combo. And so if such is the case and everything must be visually connected and ‘matched’, what about the awfully designed ‘wanna be Roman column’ houses in Karachi. Some sitting pompously next to older seventies style constructions with simple lines and beautiful bougainvilleas. Does a ‘WBRC’ inspired builder ever consider that his grand structure would not fit or match? Now isn’t that selfish.
My message to those beginning to buy art, or those currently paining an artist with colour swatches of the new curtains; have some faith, have some confidence, enjoy the details and the diversity – there is no pleasure in overall conformity. A work of art must be appealing enough for someone to come up close to it to feel its details, don’t let it get lost in the hue. Visual language, character and personality are key – aesthetic must be developed by looking and learning. Decide what’s bigger, original art or the orange cushions made in a sweatshop.
My neighbour wisely completed my thought last night, and said‘ It’s almost like not listening to a song, because it’s not raining’. Think about it, it will make sense.
There was once a time when private diaries fitted with precious locks, held hardbound mysteries and secrets of the self. Where almost whatever one expressed, text or image, was only for ones own set of eyes and comprehension. In retrospect all those years of noting down events and feelings made me confident to emote and write. To be able to write not only for oneself, but also for those who one can reach out to, in forms of visual imagery, clandestine messages and metaphors is liberating. My first two blogs were a solution for me, a place where I could document myself, my art and create a point for outreach. Titled ‘Unfinished stories’ and ‘Art & Aspirations’, these blogs contained writings in progress, images of artwork, concept notes and reviews of exhibits.
Within a few years I realized that for me documentation was not the only benefit of self-publishing. As a freelance writer, I find great strength and confidence knowing I am being read. Being read and critically analyzed, by strangers in cyber space is an unbelievably strengthening tool. Every so often I will post a reflection and will get some interesting feedback regarding the content and style. Sometimes readers will surprise me with emails sharing their own personal stories, some of these stories have been emotional and overwhelming to read, and definitely a motivation to keep posting. Moving feedback from the father who lost a son, memories of a Sikh man in India who missed Lahore or the woman in Japan who works at an army base; all these readers make my blog for me, a living and breathing space unlike the virtual plastic kingdom of almost everything else on the internet.
There are some interesting trends in the way people search for matter on the Internet or how they come across your blog. The majority of visitors on my current blog are directed there from facebook, twitter or any of my frequently published writings in papers and magazines that mention the blog address. My blog is an amalgam of documentation, art and personal reflective writing. The greatest traffic in the recent past was when I published in the Hindustan Times this spring. A majority of Indian and Pakistani readers investigated the blog, sending messages of peace and nostalgia. Of course I also received a lot of negativity, and an unending string of angry emails. Feedback is king, and readers are gold. My blog for me is a liberating space where I can play with my artistic license and practice my craft.
Raania A. K Durrani artist, writer & educator blogs at raania.wordpress.com
(Published: Encore – News on Sunday 18 July 2010)
Title: Night Sky (2010)
Size: 3ft by 3ft
Medium: Acrylic and Gold powder
Note: Those interested in acquiring this artwork please email at raania.durrani@gmail.com/ Better images shall follow in upcoming posts.
How fabulous afternoon monsoon showers are, so tropical, so raw, so out of control – and most sensual. Running up and down the stairs to the gate, getting drenched, hair in wet knots – today was the first day of my monsoon madness. It started in the afternoon as a light drizzle – before I could begin my rituals, it had ended and the sun was out. So I went back to the chores and deadlines. Coming home in the afternoon with groceries, I saw the darkness of a gray rainfilled cloud mass forming magnificently above me. I got home put away the yogurt and the fruit in the fridge, lit the oven, poured cake batter into the baking tin, and as I put the tin in the oven – it was back! This time it was pouring.
Ofcourse I love dark afternoons, so I can light lamps, candles and smell the rain in the house – so I did all of that. Opened all the doors and windows to let out the steam and cool the walls of my home. Ivan and I then played in the rain.
Drenched I went to bathe with hot water, changed. Cupcakes and cookies were ready, a friend and her little girls were on their way over. The rain just kept getting stronger, bolder and crazier. I ran down with two umbrellas one yellow and one blue. Tried very hard to get the girls in dry, I almost succeeded – but in the process got drenched once again. My curly hair once again heavy and flat with weight of water; my clothes dripping and feet cold.
So out came the towels, the coffee and the cakes. The children played on the wet floor of my terrace making installations out of terracotta balls, until the thunder arrived and more rain followed. Goodbyes and dry clothes followed. I then got cooking. Some comfort food is a must for a rainy evening without the Man.
After a few more ‘running to the gate barefoot in the rain’ instances. I have decided it is time to be dry and thoughtful at my desk. Hair is still in knots, the plants are a shiny wet green, the umbrellas are not dry yet – and the water in the tap is cold cold cold.
Three years ago in such a monsoon mood I married my Man. It was near sunset, the air was rich, humid and vapourous – just like it is right now.
On June 6th 2010, near 8 pm, cyclone Phet made a landfall near Karachi, not as a cyclone but a reduced version of it. Karachi prepared for this ‘samdari toofan’, or sea storm, like never before. For the first time in the history of natural disasters did the government take on such a positive, powerful and preventive role. Not only did massive evacuation take place along the coastal belt, but also the city was void of large overbearing commercial billboards. At this time when the sky was most looked at, dreaded and analyzed, it was most visible without these obnoxious hoardings. Karachi waited for Phet, imagining disaster, yet believing that no sea storm would ever hit as our patron saints would never let it.
On the 5th of June, while watching the news and searching for the truth about Phet, I realized the people of Karachi are fed up. A woman being interviewed while enjoying the unusually cool cyclonic breeze was asked about her views regarding the expected natural disaster. Not moved or emotional, she simply looked at the camera and said, we in Karachi are so irritated with life, the fear of a storm is not of concern, so why not just enjoy the pleasant weather while we can. I thought about this truth – the only truth that keeps Karachi and its people going. Resilient and invincible, the people of my city face inflation, crime, violence, energy crisis and massive distrust in any authority.
The people of Karachi also truly belive in the patron saint Abdullah Shah Ghazi, who shrine that once was reached by boat is now a landmark on reclaimed land, surrounded by high rises, malls, parks and embassies. It is believed that our Saint and three others whose shrines are located on the periphery of this ever-growing city protect it from any sea borne calamities. Karachi therefore has had many threats of cyclone and tidal waves, but the people’s belief and the Saints have made it go away and change route. I prayed that night for the soulfulness of this city and hoped that this time as always the storm would go away, bringing joy to the people who believe in the power of unseen might, and not in the systems of government or its intended democracy. I prayed that our disappointments in life and its daily uphill trek be overshadowed by the power of joy, belief and cultural strength.
As hoped Phet left us alone, though causing destruction on many parts of the coast, it never got to Karachi. Giving Karachi something to stand by and believe in. Weeks have passed since Phet challenged us, the woman at the beach must be glad to have enjoyed the pleasant weather while she could. It is almost July now and the 5pm Karachi sky is showing signs of its ever destructive yet ever loved monsoon. Muggy and puffy, the air is damp and the skies are a dirty gray at times. As we wait for the season of afternoon rain and flooded street corners, I hope someone is taking care of the electric infrastructure or non-structure, that consumes many each monsoon. The swollen sea and violent waves frighten, but it is rough electric wires when combined with rainwater that kill us. I wish there was a saint protecting us from unsafe systems and urban disasters.
I along with many others still long for those disastrously romantic monsoon skies and silent afternoons that make us heavy-hearted and let us surrender ourselves to our city and its melancholy monsoon mood.
It is that time of the year when I see a cluster of summer trees, a bit of sea and a pale evening moon – now is the time to read ‘The book of Tea’ once again.
Kazuko Okakura in his sacred text, says, ‘The masterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest feelings. At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognize, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.’
In central South Korea, lies a mountain pass known as Mungyeong Saejae, Saejae meaning, the birds pass, or rather a pass so high that birds find it difficult to fly over it. This ancient pass, of three gates remains today as they were centuries ago. It is a pass that traders, warriors, diplomats and dreamers crossed in search of victory. Saejae was the only connection between Seoul and Busan, in the days when both these places had different names and were governed dramatically by dynasties and emperors, unknown to our world now. Mungyeong Saejae is precious. Vaporous clouds dance above hills and oriental skies. At Saejae the pink and white blossoms of spring and lavender buds of lilac bushes scent the air and kiss the senses. Under the clean bright spring sunlight Saejae is a reflecting crystal of beauty, nature’s glory, human emotion, happiness and love.
The city of Mungyeong and the small village of Mungyeong Saejae celebrate their ancient history and heritage each year at the annual ‘Chassabal’ (teabowl) festival. The Mungyeong traditional tea bowl festival, invites potters, tea masters, monks and traders, every year. Each year the festival brings forth tea and its beautiful history and existing tradition. The detail of the teabowl and celebration of its maker is the essence of this large festival. With the treasured teabowls and teaware of local potters on display, the festival also boasts an international showcase. Each year a number of international clay artists and potters are invited to Mungyeong to exhibit their works and to interact with the local community and visitors. Graciously the festival committee sponsors all the selected international artists, providing them travel expenses, excellent living facilities and great food. Besides being introduced to the Korean culture and people, the artists are encouraged to exhibit and sell their ceramic works, an art form the Korean people revere.
Earlier this year I received an invitation to participate in the festival, and in April I was on my way. From Karachi to Bangkok, to Hongkok and then finally mighty Seoul. Going from thirty-six degrees of Karachi to ten degrees of Seoul with my heavy luggage of ceramic ware, I was greeted at the Incheon airport by Kim, Se Wan. A tremendous potter and dear friend who I met in Japan some years ago. Se Wan is a professor of ceramic history and a humble potter specializing in woodfired and Oribe style pottery. He lives in Yeoju, a small town an hour away from Seoul. In intended to spend a couple days prior to the festival in Yeoju, exploring the Yeoju world ceramic exposition, which was underway, at which my friend’s works were on display. Korean people and their hospitality are unmatched, and I am privileged to realize this as soon as I reach Seoul.
I spent a few days in Yeoju with potters and friends, and was touched by the simplicity of the people and the magical landscape. Ginseng farms and rice paddies, amidst blossom trees and tall green grass, spring was almost there, late this year as it was unusually cold. I had written in my notebook one evening, ‘ the sunset and the silhouettes off the hills as I see them look ancient, it could be another time right now, maybe four hundred years ago.’ It is here that I met monks who are now potters, ex-marines who have turn around to make pots, dog farmers, teachers, mothers, travelers…who are all now potters.
One morning, Se Wan drove me to Icheon city (Icheon and Incheon are two very different places). Icheon is known for its ceramics, and was hosting the Icheon Ceramic festival at the time. I took a bus from the Icheon station, as I needed to reach Mungyeong soon. A four-hour trip, on a bus with warm smiling people, none of who could communicate with me verbally, not at all. There was no such thing as English or even broken English. At one rest stop, I had to walk the driver to the restroom sign to explain that I had to go and he had to wait for me. Half way through the trip we had entered a rural landscape of hills and tunnels carved into those hills. The afternoon sun made it all more unreal, making the cold air warmer and perfectly spring.
I reached Mungyeong station near five pm. With flashcards my friend had made me I managed to get to the hotel where I was staying. The rest of the crew was being fetched by the committee at the airport in Seoul; a few of us had decided to get here independently. The village was ten minutes away from the station, I had read about this place before, and it was all that and more. It is a place known for its winter sports and resort facilities, and in summer known for its red apples and ‘Chassabal’ (teabowl) festival.
The Mungyeong Tourist Hotel up on a hill at the entrance of the ‘Mungyeong Saejae provincial park’. The festival this year was being held inside the provincial park at the first gate of the mountain pass. This area is also well known as a film set for many Korean epics. By that night all the international artists had arrived and had immediately made connections with each other, the Asian Ceramic Network members consisting of myself and the other Asians were already well acquainted. So were the Europeans, some of who had been to Mungyeong before. Some of us had already met in residencies before or had common friends. The global clay community though so large, is so small at times.
The international artists consisted of the following:
- Wang Guo Xiang – China
- Shan- Shu Lin – Taiwan
- Mohd. Roslan Ahmad – Malaysia
- Nguyen Bao Toan – Vietnam
- Gita Winata – Indonesia
- Ahmad Abu Bakar – Singapore
- Raania Azam Khan Durrani – Pakistan
- Petr Nova’k – Czech Republic
- Peter Fulop – Hungary
- Somluk Pantiboom – Thailand
- Niek Hoogland & Pim van Huisseling – Netherlands
- Ute Dreist – Germany
- Anne Mette Hjorthöj – Denmark
- Sue McFarland – Australia
- Dainis Punderus – Latvia
- Tora Haabet – Norway
- Claire Linard – France
- Lisa Hammond – United Kingdom
- Barbara Balfour – Canada
- Natalia Vilvovskaja – Russia
- Elena Renker – New Zealand
- John Skognes – Norway
- Monika Patuszynska – Poland
- Linda De Nil – Belgium
- Valentine Burkhalter – Switzerland
- Arthur Park – USA
- Steven Jones – Sweden
- Along with the artists, there were some great people who were a part of the international crew as partners and interpreters, amongst them were Mary Park, Lan, Charlie Youn, Jostien Martinsen and Daniel Klasek; the Czech tea enthusiast and trader.
As we entered the first gate of Saejae the next morning, I realized the grand scheme of the festival. The festival boasted innumerable exhibits and stalls of pottery, crafts, tea, teaware, traditional tea ceremonies, Buddhist tea meditation, Acupuncture, Acupressure, award winning ceramics, traditional food, world food and culture, pottery making, music and so much more. The park also had a number of exciting treks for visitors, and a very effective foot reflexology path and pond. At the first gate began the potters exhibits, it was there where the international exhibits were set up.
The days began early, artists gathered for breakfast, and then moved on to the first gate at Saejae to open up exhibits at ten am. The twenty-minute walk from the hotel till the first gate was a fabulous array of colours and moods. On the walk one saw a variety of flowers, ferns and foliage, abloom as spring had finally arrived. The river flowed through Saejae adding a sense of depth and movement to the entire space. As the blossoms bloomed the breeze carried the tiny petals, showering all of Saejae and its people with pink celestial rain.
The teabowls we had all brought with us, spoke of our own histories, aesthetics and beliefs. Though Mungyeong aims at preserving heritage and the philosophy of tea and the ‘Chassabal’, it also provides a platform for international dialogue, visual culture and experimentation. On an average day hundreds of visitors from all over the country came to view the exhibit. Monks, traders, art collectors, writers, students and critics made connections and discussions with the international artists. The festival provided interpreters and assistants for the artists, making it possible to have a comfortable and most productive experience.
The festival committee arranged day trips to potteries, temples, kiln sites, museums, homes and studios of human national treasures and much more. The local potters, artists and officials were most hospitable and organized several wonderful meals and musical evenings for the international guests. In Mungyeong, teas of all kinds, ‘makali’ (local rice wine) and delicious food was abundant and someone was always there being a great host and offering endless treats. The evenings at Mungyeong Saejae were dedicated to rest and relaxation under the cold starry mountain skies.
The teabowl and its history is very simple yet most complex. There are many schools of thought and ways of appreciation, yet I relate most to Okakura and his words, ‘We must remember, however, that art is of value only to the extent that it speaks to us. It might be a universal language if we ourselves were universal in our sympathies. Our finite nature, the power of tradition and conventionality, as well as our hereditary instincts, restrict the scope of our capacity for artistic enjoyment. Our very individuality establishes in one sense a limit to our understanding; and our aesthetic personality seeks its own affinities in the creations of the past. It is true that with cultivation our sense of art appreciation broadens, and we become able to enjoy many hitherto unrecognized expressions of beauty. But, after all, we see only our own image in the universe our particular idiosyncrasies dictate the mode of our perceptions. The tea- masters collected only objects which fell strictly within the measure of their individual appreciation.’
We learnt here that pottery and the teabowl specifically is not about perfection and inhuman excellence. In fact it is about the reality of human imperfection, humility and ever-changing emotion. Looking mainly at traditional teabowls of Korea, Japan and China, one notices many differences in style, yet it is what fills the bowl that remains constant. An audience so great as the Koreans one realizes why clay and pottery is so honest, attractive and so special for the soul. It is a realization that we are all connected by the earth, and require the same emotions and circumstances for existence. It is reassuring to see that culture and history is being preserved and celebrated at such a level.
Whether it was Petr Novak’s woodfired bowls, or the highly desire teaware of the Chinese artist, or Pim and Niek’s happy earthenware – all our pots said the same, they spoke of love and the moment of peace and honesty when one sits down with them and touches them to ones lips, taking a deep breath and letting the tea do its humble magic for the soul.
The days at the festival came to a close too soon, and off we were on our different paths, some exploring the country, others getting home. Steven Jones wrote a letter last week in which he says, ‘It was 1 degree above zero when Jostein and I stepped off the plane in Oslo. Quite a change from the beautiful weather in Mungyeong the past week. I woke up this morning to the sounds of the cranes eerie cry echoing across the field and hillside. Then I heard all the other smaller birds songs, and I thought it’s good to be back home, sleeping in my own bed. Then came all the ” to do” stress list that builds up while you’re gone. The car won’t start. This or that person wants you to call back. Get this done before the wedding this weekend. Buy wood now for winter and so on. And you’re back. Life is the same, and yet we’ve all changed because of this past visit to Korea. I now have a better understanding or at least an introduction into the lives of friends from Korea and tremendous potter/friends from around the world, and it makes me want to learn more. I’m enriched by having met you all. I’m still the same but somehow different.’
The intense experience of living with so many artists together without personal space and without independent schedules, one discovers a lot about ones own needs and aesthetics. It is liberating to enjoy being part of a group that is so diverse, yet so connected and almost one. We all spoke one language and that was most apparent when handling pots, observing beauty, touching clay and dreaming big. Being in South Korea, made me realize how dependent we as people are on spoken language and on being understood perfectly. Being in a country where nearly no one understands any English, and living with so many artists of different origin – and yet completely understanding each other – spoken word and their meanings seem insignificant. Last night as I worked on this piece I received an email from Niek and Pim, at the end they wrote, ‘if you ever are coming to the Netherlands, the door is open.’
As I write this, the humid Karachi heat permeates my skin and the stresses of bills and decisions push their way into my mind, yet I only think of the pink rain of summer blossoms into my teabowl.
(Raania A. K Durrani is an artist and educator, she blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com)
I received an email last night from my aunt, titled ‘just for you’. She hardly uses email to communicate, rather I feel she was computer phobic up until a few few years ago when we all pressured her into learning how to ‘email’. Now she has graduated to another level, not only does she send the occasional email, she also has a facebook account, and yes, she knows the great craft of taking pictures from the mobile phone and sending them as email attachments. Coming back to the email, so I click on it and it says, ‘You will love it. XX, Khala’. Attached was the picture you can see on this post.
Lilacs, blossoms and spring blooms. I have been thinking of them sitting in hot and humid, concrete Karachi. All winter and into the early months of the year I imagined being able to sit under a fragrant tree of blooming blossoms. I thought of it, wrote of it, found pictures of it. I really began to obsess and perhaps, manifest. A very wise and very talkative dear friend says, that if you keep thinking of something it will happen, so might as well think good.
In March I got a ring from my aunt who was in England at the time. It was late evening in Karachi. She said, she was sitting under a pink blossom tree and thinking of me, so she called. I was touched and so thrilled, and I remember posting a facebook status that night, ‘ Love = when your aunt calls to tell you she is sitting under a blossom tree and thinking of you.
A productive and exciting few weeks later, at the end of April I was on my way to South Korea, for the Chassabal Festival in Mungyeong. I knew spring in South Korea must have passed by now, as all the spring festivals had been planned for March. After much travel and exploration, as I traveled into the middle of the country – the mountainous Mungyeong, I noticed the blossoms were almost abloom. Spring was running late. It had been too cold. The blossoms began showing up day after day, hour after hour and soon all of Mungyeong was lit up, I was in awe. I am not used to this kind of thing in the city.
One day on my way back from the Sae-Jae park I noticed the first purple lilac bush. Overcome with nostalgia of my days in New England, I spent some time enjoying the fragrance and reminiscing. A few days later I found a path full of just lilac bushes, of all kinds and colours. I was thrilled to have found all of this, all of this that I had been obsessing over for so many weeks. Last nights’ email attachment, made me remember the spring and the blooms, and the love and goodness.
‘At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognise, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.’ The book of tea ~Kakuzo Okakura
Late last night sitting with some friends, in humid, dark and disconnected Karachi, I realized that it wasn’t just me.
I was not the only one struggling with inescapable thoughts, questions and frustrations. Who am I , who are we? Am I a gender, a profession, name, culture, nation or religion. Am I just a passport? A religion that I am born into, am I mainly just the representative of that religion …who am I, who are we? Must I be apart. Must I make sure I am noticed. Must I stand out? Must I always have to defend? Is there not a place where no one asks questions, questions that answer nothing but create only bridges and more questions? Who is judging and who is caring? Does it not matter what I have learnt and who I am becoming, or what I am teaching? Does it not matter at all, are my aspirations and decisions faulty? Am I not just a person. Aren’t we all just one race? Aren’t we all just human?
Don’t we all hurt when we fall? Or need love when we are shattered? Does your body need more than mine? Does my mind need more than yours? Do our hearts long for happiness, or am I just imagining it? When does culture stop being an asset and starts becoming baggage? Is it too complex to understand that we have the same interests and desires? Are we not just human? Can I please be human, can I please be imperfect? Can I not be representing things, thoughts and motions that I do not understand, and probably can never make mine? Are we different because we are born into situations? Do we have to be different because we are born in different places, conditions and time?
Don’t we all just need to eat, sleep, love, laugh, kiss and cry. Don’t we all just need love, peace, joy and freedom?
Matcha in Mungyeong
http://blog.naver.com/yosiamoon/20105843294
Online showcase of my work acquired by a collector from Mungyeong Chassabal Festival 2010
Kanayama clay connection: South-Asian potters reflect from Japan
(http://nigaahart.com/sculpture.asp)
‘It’s late Sunday night. I can hear the heavy rainfall outside. I am in my room in the International House in Kanayama Pottery. No matter how late at night, someone is working, making pots or firing a kiln. I particularly enjoy visiting the kiln sheds before bed, one or two members of the superb Kanyama staff are firing. Often Ryoji San or Risako are downstairs in the studio working away. It is unbelievable to see them work, a real treat. Tomorrow morning we unload the John-gama. I am excited about the results. The John-gama was a great kiln to fire, super smooth and relaxed, but only until we hit temperature and had to hold it steady for a few hours until the grand finale of dropping charcoal onto the work. Thanks to my firing partner I had no trouble charcoaling, I could not have managed it alone…the weight of the charcoal rod and the crazy stress of hitting work, off the kiln shelves is amplified by the crazy heat and red embers flying into ones face. Thanks to Wanny who came to my rescue. After the unloading we plan to do a bisque firing for the Haikaburi kiln. This is the only kiln we will be using bisque ware for. With Ryoji San’s killer kiln…green-ware does not stand a chance. I am looking forward to the Haikaburi… it will be one of a kind. All the artists are working away and stressed because the work is not drying in time; dry rooms, tops of kilns, propane torches…everything is worth a try’
-Raania
( Letter from Kanayama, 13 July, 2008)
In November 2007, a friend, senior potter & kiln builder Wali Hawes suggested I apply for the ‘Goshogawara international wood-fire festival’ at Kanayama pottery in Aomori. My interest and experience as a wood firer required an intensive experience in order to bloom. As a clay artist I had worked mainly with high-fired clay and wood firings. In Bennington College Vermont, where I studied to the small kiln in Karachi, wood firing was the way.
Wood firing, is an age-old technique employed by potters to process their unfired clay works into durable and long lasting objects of art and function. All pottery must undergo a firing process in a kiln. Wood firing is when the fuel used in a kiln is wood as opposed to gas, oil or electricity. Wood firing is an acquired taste and a conscious choice. The kilns are built differently and woods are selected depending on temperature requirements, availability and aesthetic needs. Wood when used as fuel fired slowly, some large kilns firing non stop for days, months and even upto a year. Large firings, require large crews and strategies to maximize efficiency and correct firing patterns. Firers , therefore are linked to each other in a special bond, marking their hands, their language and the way they look. Special precautions must be taken when wood firing, just as all other firing process, wood firing can be hazardous especially to those firers who are sleep deprived or heat exhausted. The ash of the burning wood eventually melts onto pots, producing mysterious mark and flashes of flame like beauty. Wood-firers are people who dedicate themselves to this life long exploration of mental and physical challenges. Wood firing is not quick, not economical and not easy – but it is priceless and beautiful. Those who wood-fire are ruined by its charm. I have always thought of firing a wood kiln similar to climbing an eight thousand meter peak. After five thousand meters or in firing terms a thousand degreed centigrade, the climber and firer begins to get exhausted and reality becomes a distant idea. A crew therefore becomes like a family, trusting each other with the flame and with the grand summit.
I remember my first time wood firing as a student; after completing the night shift with a crew as young, energetic and enthusiastic as myself, we sat at the eating breakfast. Our eyes swollen, faces smeared with black soot, heat exhausted and clueless about how we actually got to temperature, there was a silence at the table. It was early morning in Vermont, it had been a long night. We needed to sleep, bodies needed to be washed, and rested, but there was something on our minds, something that kept us lingering at the breakfast table. And then someone said it…’ I would do it all over again..right now’.
After every intense wood firing when I bathe and go to bed, I know I will see flames in my dreams. It happens every time. My teacher, Barry Bartlett told me once if you want to learn to fire a kiln, fire a wood kiln. What he forgot to mention was once you fire wood you don’t want to fire anything else.
All the works in my last solo exhibit in Karachi were wood-fired. Each pot, each object is a document of a firing. I see my pots as a documentation of my investigation and learning. I have been lucky to fire in Vermont, in Karachi and also to have experienced great kilns and fired with fantastic partners at Kanayama Pottery, Japan during the summer of 2008. The pots are an evidence of the long firings, the ash deposits, the thermal shocks, the charcoal inclusions and the constant mental and physical investment in the process.
Ryoji Matsumiya established the Tsugaru Kanayama Pottery, in 1984 in Goshogawara City in the Aomori Prefecture. The pottery produces a variety of ceramic ware using throwing, hand building, and slip casting techniques. All the work is wood fired in a variety of kilns. Using locally dug clay, Ryoji and his staff rely on fire and ash decoration in the Bizen-style. Kanayama-yaki (pottery of Kanayama) is sold throughout Japan and in Korea. Since 2002, the Tsugaru Kanayama Pottery in Northern Japan sponsors an Artist-in-Residence program during the month of July each year. Twelve to fifteen ceramic artists and potters from around the world are selected to participate. The program is focused on the exchange of techniques and ideas about ceramic art and wood fire. By working together and freely sharing information, the sponsors seek to encourage mutual understanding and cooperation among potters throughout the world. Ryoji San in one of his evening lectures mentioned that he chose to build the pottery at Kanayama because the clay reserves were undiscovered and that he wished to make new history. His aim to encourage understanding and strengthen potters of the world is fruitful.
In 2005 I met Reyaz Badruddin, a resident of Mumbai who was his way to Japan. Reyaz had come to Karachi to participate in the Asna Clay trienalle. He shared his reflections on Kanayama with me in 2008, once again in Karachi for Clay Clan 2. It was then that I had just heard of my acceptance into the 2008 festival. Thrilled and curious, I saw Reyaz’s photographs of kilns and heard stories of clay that never runs out. He told me that a few weeks in Kanayama would help me achieve great skill, now I know that this happens because Kanayama makes one fall in love with the process all over again.
‘The fire festival was today. It is now late at night and I cannot bring my mind to rest. I am elated and at the same time melancholy that this wonderful experience is coming to a close for now…I know that the things I have learnt and the people I met will stay with me forever. I am very busy for the next few days, and whenever I get a chance I will try to look inwards because this experience has given me a realization of my actual self. I feel creative and liberated. My work has grown, and my senses have been sharpened. I feel I have acquired friends and mentors who will always remain and be willing to stand by me for life.
I wish to spend the next few days reflecting about myself and my real aims and goals in life as an artist. I wish to return to Kanayama and train with Sensei Ryoji whenever I can get the chance. At this time I am content with what I have gained and positive it will show me a way forward. My network has grown tremendously; at this point I am sharing and constantly learning from the greatest resources for pottery and clay activity in the world. I am truly happy without doubt.
Despite the toil and labour never have I felt over exhausted or physically and mentally burnt out. This time is what I owed my education, my future artistic endevours and myself. For once I have learned that the artist makes things, things do not make the artist. I promise to return with positivity and zest to grow, and with a commitment to my self and my creativity. I believe I ended up in Kanayama because of fate and destiny, because I needed to learn, not because I had much to teach the others.
I am sure of one thing, I am definitely not done with Japan yet. I learnt today that Sensei Ryoji’s pottery is the only venue in Japan where wood kilns (makigamas) are fired most frequently and actively. There are days when more than 4 colossalwood kilns are being fired simultaneously. The nights here are peaceful and quiet but never uneventful- there is always a firebox being stoked.
In high spirits from Japan,
-Raania
(Letter from Kanayama, 26th July 2008)
In my quiet moments with my work, I look at small cracks and thick ash deposits on the work and it transports me back to the firings. How we stoked, what we were thinking of …that time, that space and that energy. The charcoal which marked the porcelain making it pink, the ash in the Olsen Kiln in Japan which dripped like thick lava, the earthquake that night at the Olsen kiln and the memory of the mountain trembling.It is a process that touches a few and marks them for life. Just like the timeless existence of a fired pottery shard, which is an evidence of its journey, the making and the fire; a wood firers story and lifestyle is the evidence of his or her lifelong commitment to the fire. Some of the great firers and potters who shared this experience with me in Japan were, John Baymore and Lee Middleman(USA), Cyprian Ariciu (Romania) , Kim Se Wan, Nan Ho Ryu and KangHwa Su (Korea), SevimCizer (Turkey), JoelleSwanet (Belgium), Rowley Drysdale (Australia), Thangiahand Rangaswamy (India) and Laura Maclean (Canada).
In early 2008 during our conversations about Kanayama, Shruti Bansal, a potter based in Dehli, got interested. His inspired words and my anticipation excited her. Shruti followed my trip via the Internet, and in 2009, Shruti went to Kanayama as a resident.
Shruti Bansal writes from Dehli, ‘Writing down about my experiences at the Kanayama Pottery in Aomori is not easy, lived a lifetime there in a month. I used to think that a month is just 30 days, but this place has to be special to have let anyone live a lifetime in just such a short time. When I left Delhi, I thought I am going to explore a world of Pottery I have only read about in books, Japan being the Mecca of Pottery, it was a place of worship I was going to, but where did I know that I was not just going to live in and with clay there but understand human relationships- the clayeyness of the human beings too. After my experience in Pondicherry at ‘The Golden Bridge Pottery’, it was after 3 years that I lived, slept, ate, drank, and existed in and with clay. I would like to bow again infront of Ryoji San, my “Otosan”, once more for creating such a vision of a program like this. We need visionaries like him in our small Ceramic World.
We were 18 ceramic artists from around the world, living and working together and we all had one thing common in us- ‘Clay’ which brought us together here. So, one sense of the word we were all same as we all loved clay, but on the other hand we were very different coming from completely different backgrounds and that was the fun of it all. Being different but yet so similar, everyone had a different style of work and so every single second was full of learning and gathering experiences.
From morning breakfast table where we had “good morning “ written in everyone’s native language and starting our day by greeting everyone in different languages, that’s how varied everyday was for the next 30 days. Shuttering between working in the studio making pots, to loading the kiln, to constructing a salt kiln, 3 meals of a day, evening lectures, production firings at the studio, to walks in the apple orchards where was the time to sleep, 24 hrs seemed so less.
When one is walking in, around, across, within the house of kilns like- Anangama, Noborigama, Haikaburi, Johngama, Olsen, Sueki…when the hissing of the fire from the fire mouth of these kilns would keep calling us to be a part of the harmonious dance of the trio-the potter, clay and fire, then what else can one do other than dance in harmony with them and that is what I did in this life I lived in Aomori- danced to the melody as I learnt a golden song there which said-
“ Dance with Clay and Flame,
Dance well
Dance well…
See, the pots too will dance with you…”
Living with wisdom of Artists like Cheng San, who is an alchemist, the magic of his mini anagama’s that he created; to Great Mother Maro as I would call her lovingly, her pots would just grow taller in minutes like a magic was spelled on them; to Hillary my soul sister who had something different to make everyday; to Ji Hye’s birds who would just flap their wings and sing their Beethoven song; to Ryoji San’s kindness, words of wisdom and knowledge; to Iosofina’s sumo wrestlers and the fluidity of her forms; Sucheon’s speaking and galloping horses, Lee’s textured vases and bottles; John’s truly Japanese inspired pots and knowledge on kiln building…. Clay spoke different languages everyday through everyone’s work.
There was so much that every day brought with it to inspire and with so much inspiration around, new series of work develops….And so it happened with me…everything inspired me, everyday which reflected in my work, the texture of wood pieces from the wood workshop there, the pattern of the floor, the serenity of the environment like a smooth river flowing through my work, the nebuta fishes and figures, there was no end to new ideas….’
Pakistan being rich in pottery tradition, with an unmatched history of Neolithic civilizations and pottery craft – is still very far from supporting contemporary ceramic pursuit and appreciation. With minimal infrastructure there are still some very committed artists who strive to work with clay as their premier medium of expression. Out of these only very few wood fire. In Karachi, the urban metropolis of a population nearly more than 16 million there is only one known high-fire wood kiln, which also was built recently by an Indian potter Kristine Michael.
This kiln is housed in a major art institution which manages a fully functioning ceramics studio, that unfortunately caters to a handful of students per year, due to lack of interest and enrollment in the ceramics program. Students during their stay are enthusiastic about firing wood but so far no one has been able to continue studio practice after graduation, mainly due to studio facilities available to young graduates support groups and most of all kiln availability.
There are no communal studios present with kilns. Artists like myself are unable to construct wood kilns due to the nature of the city, its planning and monetary and geographical restrictions. During my association with the institution I have seen many ceramic graduates, changing professions or medium and altogether abandoning their craft. Perhaps until enough people get together to acquire a space, and are dedicated to this craft- the situation will not improve.
In an exhibit of my wood fired works in Karachi, I was overwhelmed by the response, yet amazed by the lack of knowledge and understanding a majority of the well traveled audience had. I must admit that there has not been a single solo exhibit of only wood-fired works prior to mine before and perhaps my impatience with the audience is invalid.
As an exhibiting artist, committed to the medium, I still do not own a kiln. Working in Karachi during these times, adds a nomadic element to all my concepts and works. In the past several years of being in Karachi I have worked as an art educator teaching ceramics and making work as I go along. Fortunately, I have figured out ways to fire my pots so far, but it has always been an unsettling and risky operations. Transporting green-ware, working under pressure and massive time restrictions, expenses; gives the work a young, hurried, unfinished and curious personality, which visually leaves questions for the viewers and myself to answer.Shruti’s words are so important, we do need visionaries like Sensei Ryoji in this small clay world of ours.
Until, Kanayama calls again.
Raania Azam Khan Durrani is an artist and educator based in Karachi, she blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com, The Goshogawara wood-fire festival is an excellent opportunity for clay artists and wood firers. Schedules and details can be easily found on the website, www.makigama.org/
No matter how late at night, someone is working, making pots or firing a kiln. I particularly enjoy visiting the kiln sheds before bed, one or two members of the superb Kanyama staff are firing. Often Ryoji San or Risako are downstairs in the studio working away. It is unbelievable to see them work, a real treat.
http://nigaahart.com/sculpture.asp
IMAGES: Pottery produced by author at Kanayama residency
Poetic shadows on urban structures: Varied Impositions at Koel Gallery, Karachi
By Raania A. K Durrani
In the mid morning sunlight, the quiet courtyard transported me into another age. For a moment I was in a time when exotic fruits and animals were brought to ancient shores on large sea vessels; and when teary-eyed ladies carrying parasols waved goodbye to their beloved sailors. A man sat alone at a corner table of this sunny courtyard café, pacified by the calming sea breeze. Though another time and another day, it is the same place. It is the same sea, the same hearts and the same stories. They are stories of love, legends, chaos, heartache and wonder.
What I had seen in the gallery has left a lingering nostalgia in me. I am glad that I went to see this art at a time when the art stood for itself, without the imposed glamour of visitors, critics, eyes, kisses and tea cups. The art in the gallery stood silently communicating and breathing softly as clay must. Varied Impositions featured the works of three clay artists, Maliha Peracha, Sadia Salim and Sohail Abdullah.
I was immediately drawn to the pale pink of the clay tiles bearing imprints of duality, and history. Maliha opened the show for me bringing it refreshing romance and emotion. The soft and dry surfaces of the small slabs, almost like postcards from the past, bore photo transferred images, rather shadows and lines of historical structures of Pakistan and the rest of the world, making dialogue with each other, implying modest grandeur, historical significance and melancholic thoughts. “ I came into being thirty years before you, yet you always strike twelve before me”, said Big Ben to the Empress Market clock tower.
Maliha writes about her work, ‘our world, our time, our space. I attempt to tell a story through my installation: one of sustainability, of reception, of gratitude, of graciousness, and lack thereof, a story of our self-absorption and disconnect as a people. We lie in a twilight zone between the situation and the solution, beyond the platitude of acquiring and accumulating. In point of fact, if we pause to self-actualize we can add just enough detail to our future identity that it brings back and upholds the honour of yesterday. I beseech you the way these images and photographs beseeched me during my months of conceptualizing, editing and executing this body of work.’ Maliha Peracha graduated from the National College of Art in 2000, and was awarded the DAAD scholarship for artists (Germany). Besides exhibiting widely, and teaching A-level art, Maliha is also actively involved at the Ceramics department at the NCA, Lahore; where she is based.
The most striking of Sadia’s works was the lucid white installation borrowing light from the ever-lit courtyard. Impressions of keys marked openings and opportunities, the white sea foam like cluster brought with it thoughts of messages in bottles and treasure chests. The translucent white chips of porcelain reflected the shape of keys, and left a resonance, asking about what they could unlock. This striking installation freed and captured breath, energy and light. In great contrast were her cityscapes, precise and still. Standing tall and silent. Blue, red and white glossy tableware and screened words and images, began to appear as puddles and pools of thought. One in particular for me was like a rain filled puddle reflected the wires, poles and chaos of urban communication.
Direct and minimalist in her approach, Sadia says, ‘Urban lives, text on the walls and newspapers, the concrete structures, the sea and images from television are all part of this work’ Sadia Salim, is an alumna of the Indus Valley School of Art & Architecture, 1994. Since then Sadia has been committed to her work as a designer and potter. She has exhibited her work nationally and internationally, participating in residencies and workshop in Pakistan, Japan and South Africa. Sadia Salim teaches at her Alma matter in Karachi, serving as associate professor for Ceramics. Dedicated to her medium, Sadia intends to pursue her education further.
And then the relics began.
Superstition, mystery, legend and belief –such an important aspect of who we are as a culture or people. As a child I remember being terrified yet secretly fascinated by the snake charmer and the treasured relic of the ‘geedar singhi’. Sohails ‘relics of the sea’ brought back that childhood curiousity. As a student of art I remember being particularly interested in the phenomena of the ‘cabinets of curiousity’. They are often said to be the precursors to the museum. In the sixteenth century ‘cabinets of curiousity’ – a term referring to a room rather than a piece of furniture, came into light. These spaces were rooms for contemplation and solace, displaying treasures of nature, oddities and relics found on journeys. A typical curiousity cabinet would be a room lined floor to ceiling, with preserved exotic fish and birds, rare shells, stuffed mammals, maps, corals, specimen jars of rare stones and insects. Some of the most notable ‘cabinets of curiousity’ existed in Austria, England, France and even Russia.
These relics of the sea, spoke to me of time, erosion, preservation and secrets. The gilded bones and stones added to the rarity and oddity of the showcased object, creating aura and history for each piece on its own. Each piece appropriately sized, detailed and fragile, were displayed on rustic whitewashed wooden tables. Almost vintage in their look, the pedestals his work sat on convinced the viewer of the time and space he spoke of. Sohail’s marks as an artist and maker are composed and curated, owning an organic aesthetic and meticulous methodology. His experiments and collaborations with non-ceramic materials such as metal, wood, oil and plants displays confidence and ability to look beyond the traditional processes of contemporary clay art.
About his work, Sohail says, ‘Relics of the Sea is an unconcluded non-linear series of forms generated as response to objects found at the beach. Most of the created artwork merely incases the found form, seeking to influence the way it is perceived in terms of meaning and value. Gilding has been used to forge in impression of worth for an object which, like any other material thing would be special if it is simply thought to be so. The combining of plants with the form is to juxtapose the perpetually changing with the immutable. The sea with its immensity and vulnerability resonates with the poignant dichotomy of fired clay being at once imperishable yet fragile.’ Sohail Abdullah a graduated from the Indus Valley School of Art & Architecture in 2006. Since then he has actively pursued clay and has shown at several group shows. Sohail has also participated in workshops and residencies organized by the VASL art collective. Sohail lives and works in Karachi, the city that inspires his stories.
Varied Impositions is a show that appeals to the eye and the soul. It is an intelligent and direct comment on the city; the country and its past and future. It is reassuring and exciting to see an increased frequency in ceramic shows, and the artist’s investigation by of clay as a contemporary art media in Pakistan.
(Raania A. K Durrani is artist and educator. She blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com)
