‘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)
On the 28th of April I flew out of Karachi, eager and excited about my upcoming adventure.
On the plane from Hong kong to Seoul I read an article in the newspaper…
‘Oh Eun-sun ( Korean woman climber ) claims the record for becoming the first woman to scale the World’s 14 highest peaks located in the Himalaya and Karakoram ranges, after reaching the summit of Annapurna in Nepal.’
I felt terribly proud as I love mountains and those who pursue them. I wondered about Oh Eun-sun and her ambitions, her travels and her accomplishments. I was leaving home yet again to pursue my nomadic dreams in search of culture, self awareness and beauty.
On the 13th of May, at 7.00 AM I left the Incheon Sky Hotel for the airport, saying good-bye to South Korea. On the plane once again I read a news piece about Oh Eun-Sun and that she had returned to her homeland the day before, greeted with love, flowers and endless questions.
On the same day at 7:00 PM – Karachi time, I reached Jinnah International Airport, and was greeted by my beautiful mother and gorgeous son. Ivan wore a red t-shirt and was holding a red rose and a happy mothers day card for me. As we drove home the early evening sky, and the 32 degrees of the humid Karachi evening turned from mauve to deep blue. Night lights, traffic and urban chaos told me I was home. As I turned into my street, I saw my nieghbour and dear friend drive by in her red jeep. It was all just as I had left it, except Ivan had gained some height and a sweet little tooth was now beginning to appear. Ivan is now 9.5 months old.
Mungyeong was a treat, and I thank all of you for making this a love filled and enriching experience for me. Exiting my crowded city and consuming life, I was able to take time to think and appreciate beauty, after a long time I felt youthful, and soaked in information, learning an immense amount. I wish to extend this experience by making more art, teaching less, taking time off for myself, loving people and beauty and ofcourse by drinking endless cups of tea.
I wish to return to beautiful Mungyeong one day, but this this time with more to share.
I am touched by the similarities amongst people and reassured by the mutual love and respect we all as different nationalities possess for each other. The people of Korea have been most gracious and kind, and unbelievable hosts, I hope I am able to reciprocate one day. Cheers to the Korean people, picturesque mountains, flowers, food and ofcourse to the makali.
Golden sun
Freezing fingers
Pink Rain
(Yeoju – South Korea Spring 2010)
Lost to my sleep, in the early hours of the morning, I dream.
I dream, of a small dark space half full of water, water that is darker than the space.
I float, curled up on a small piece of broken wood, holding tightly a bag of dead fish.
I tremble and wish they were not dead. Are they just fish out of water?
I open the bag and give them to their water, not sure if life will return, but then I am only just emptying the bag, shedding the weight.
I stare into the darkness of the tiny room, and then like a miracle…
The fish come to life.
One by one they swim…tiny little silver fish, they swim and dance.
There are some goldfish too, who remove themselves and swim away.
But there is a large black fish, the only one that keeps swimming to me and keeps rocking my float.
It is darker than the water, and darker than the space.
I cannot swim; there are more fish than water. I cannot leave, as there is no door, no window, and no sky. Where if I stood on the wet surface, I would not fit , I would have to crouch.
So I push myself, and my float again and again, off the walls of this tiny windowless box of dark water,
Saving all of myself from the fish,
from the same fish, that were once in a bag, dead.
Raania A. K Durrani – 22 April 2010
Dream time (ENCORE – The News on Sunday, The News International, Jang Group Pakistan)
Have we as educators and parents ever wondered why in most of our children’s paintings, every cloud is blue? Why is the sun a yellow space at the corner of the drawing? Why do all houses have sloping roofs and chimneys? Or why are trees without branches?
By Raania Azam Khan Durrani
Having studied in Pakistan up until college, then pursuing art education abroad and now as an artist and teacher in a prominent art school in Karachi for several years, I have been exposed to a new group of eighteen year olds each year. A new mindset and familiar and young outlook on art, and every few years it seems like the entering group evolves being a generation on its own. The mindset of incoming students and their guardians often is synonymous with the word “easy option.” A few months into college, they realise such is not the case.
Art education at higher levels is to a certain degree considered as another easier option. There have been instances of applicants who have simultaneously applied to business schools to study economics, marketing or finance. Baffled at that approach and lack of direction, I often wonder what the primary and high schools are teaching these students about the arts, and what is it that makes them so clueless about what they plan to commit themselves to.
Common terms used at most schools and homes when talking about art are — natural flair and inborn talent. Is there any such thing? Perhaps there is. People are naturally attracted to certain paths, ways and resolves depending on their internal make-up, personality and experiences. The words we hear and things we see as children stay with us. Hiding somewhere in our memories, our eyes and our touch – when investigated; through direction and education, those memories come back to determine the way we touch things, the way we look and how we think. Curiosity and interest, therefore, are the keys to exploration. The natural flair and inborn talent therefore applies to all pursuits not just art.
Art is the key to development of culture and the catalyst to reform. Art enables people to feel, analyse and choose. Aesthetics are something that develops with appreciation and observation. At school level though, art is often taught as not art but craft. Craft is a colourful and exciting way to make children discover their aesthetic abilities in a hands-on way. Children love making “real objects,” objects they can take home and set out on display or use — pasta jewellery, painted flower pot, or the tin can pencil-holder. The obsession with creating things that are close to reality and the superiority of technical excellence often overshadows the free thinkers and the ones who are actually communicating through their art.
As learning for myself, some years ago, I conducted art workshops for children between the ages of six and twelve. Each session was titled and designed in way that it could apply to any age group. A four-week course titled “Karachi -my city” dealt with the physical aspects of the cityscape. Karachi and its history and people, and ultimately its soul and character, was the subject. The group explored this concept through collage, drawing, painting, discussion and critique. It was fascinating to see emotional details in the art, honestly and truthfully portrayed through simple lines and thoughts.
Recently while teaching sixteen year olds at a school, I realised that these students are not used to looking at details, or even noticing the obvious. Young, bright and privileged students are so consumed with daily urban stresses that their senses refuse to acknowledge the basics. I often ask students to name a few striking sights they noticed on the way to the class, or a touching painting, film or song they have come across, or even if they noticed any new advertisement billboards on the road. I am often amazed at the responses that lack interest, excitement or opinion. Why are they not looking?
Visual art – the term is self-explanatory. Visual artists look, wonder, visualise, imagine, emote and share. A young student at school must be taught to unlearn rather than learn. Have we as educators and parents ever wondered why in most of our children’s paintings, every cloud is blue? Why the sun is a yellow space at the corner of the drawing? Why do all houses have sloping roofs and chimneys? Or why are trees without branches?
If a child is told to look and reflect, he will know that clouds are fascinating shapes, vapours, houses (at least in Karachi) have all sorts of roofs, and no chimneys emit smoke. The sun is a glow and has no shape unless it is sunset, and trees are to be climbed one branch after another. Each person is born with his or her own make-up. The heart, mind, feet, face and hands of each person are unique and different from the other. Then what comes out of the mind and the hands must also be celebrated as its own special mark.
A group of young children I teach are these days exploring dreams. The time we spend painting is called dreamtime. Today an eight-year old boy made rainbow pattern on eggs that had wings. Flying above a navy blue ocean, amidst words written in purple and green, “I dream of peace.” A while later looking at the drawing I wonder what he must think, or what he will think when he looks at his painting twenty years from now. Are the eggs children dancing freely in a happy sky? Is the smooth blue depth water or is it a colour field representing calm? His dream of peace is appreciated. Another young boy drew a cityscape and in the shapes between, he found a large multi-coloured mobile phone, a huge pencil and a large lipstick. His urban line speaks of urban objects; it tells us what is on his mind and on that of other city-dwellers.
Art fascinates us all. Good art and true expression changes lives and develops nations. If art curriculums at school level are approached as more of a process and exploration, rather than rigour and timelines, students will fall in love with expression. The beauty of a good education is that it stays with one for life, enabling one to ask, learn and question. In these times, we must teach young children to free their minds and express their individuality. We may just be making visionaries for tomorrow.
(Raania A. K Durrani is an artist & educator, she blogs at http://raania.wordpress.com)
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/apr2010-weekly/nos-18-04-2010/enc.htm#1
Indoors on a sunday afternoon, an afternoon takes ages to turn into night. How the hot day has turned into a priceless Karachi night – I do not know. I have been inside – Sundays are not for being indoors. Being indoors on a Sunday brings downtime – too much downtime. All that said and reflected upon, what brings glee is someone or something that brings massive love and happiness to the heart and that slow sunday darkness turns into a bright breezy evening. Just a few moments ago I felt that breeze. When a friend tells you they are thinking of you without really telling you, that is the perfect potion for a warm happy heart. Whether it is a song you have childishly obsessed over, with three dear friends or a photo your friend has shared on her facebook – small meaningful gestures like these make the slow melancholy sunsets into breezy beautiful nights. I once said to someone, I miss the friends who miss me. It’s a great feeling. I know now.
lilac memory
by Dolores S. Slowinski
tightly pursed
misty lavender lips
burst open exhaling
sweet breath
of a thousand tiny throats
fills the air
every grandmother
had a lilac bush
whose aromatic seduction
surrounded me each spring
with a heady fragrance
as I rode my bicycle
hands free eyes closed
through the neighborhood
so familiar
that rich attar
filled my nose
dove into my lungs
entered my bloodstream
pulsing purple perfume particulate
throughout my body
disappearing into the air
those lilacs
with heart-shaped leaves
wilted no matter how
quickly I put them into water
burying my face in a fistful of blooms
running to find vase, jar, anything
as quickly as possible
smashing the stems with a hammer
adding sugar, aspirin
hoping such injury and ameliorative efforts
would force more liquid
into the stems
up into the blossoms and leaves
so that for one more day
just one more day I could sink
into the glorious redolence on my bed
flowers next to it
on the dresser
fill the room with the same
intoxicating sweetness
that carried me down the street
drunk on the scent coming
from every yard
hold it in my head in my mind in my body
as I fell into my dreams
not enough
to satisfy the senses needing more wanting more
deliciously delicate florescence
from reality to fantasy
too soon
leaves grew limp
blossoms toppled and drooped
on skinny-necked stems
never enough water
to maintain turgidity
shriveled like spent penises
like sagging old breasts
given up their milk
the lilacs faded
unable to satisfy the craving
for the sweet sweet fragrance
of a thousand grandmothers
now the cultivars are sophisticated
shades of designer colors french
white expensive perfumes
launch runway shows
anorexic models strut
kick out legs as thin
arms as fragile as lilac stems
no sensuous emanations enrapture
sub-divisions as air-conditioned cars
transport toddlers to grandmothers in condos
living in another state not on the next block
no lilac essence floats appreciated on the wind
no lungs fill but mine in memory
until I spy one bush then another
flanking empty city lots
abandoned houses torn down
spring grass grown over old foundations
neighborhoods devoid of life
save for the lilacs
poor women’s frangipani
where yards used to be
I walk over pull down a branch of blossoms
breathe in that familiar fragrance
make no attempt to pick
bouquets of futile efforts to trap
the scent of a thousand sweet grandmothers
for my dreams
I sniff, drink, gulp, swim
drown in the sweetness
kick off my shoes
throw off my jacket
and drift
eyes closed
perfumed wind caressing my face
tightly pursed
misty lavendar lips
burst open exhaling
sweet breath
of a thousand tiny throats
fills the air.
Dolores S. Slowinski, artist/writer anticipating lilac season in the midst of gray Detroit.
bahaar aai to jaise yak baar
laut aaye haiN phir adam se
vo Khvaab saare, shabaab saare
jo tere hoNtoN pe mar mi-te the
jo mit ke har baar phir jiye the
nikhar gaye haiN gulaab saare
jo teri yaadoN se mushk-boo haiN
jo tere ushshaaq kaa lahoo haiN
ubal paRe haiN azaab saare
malaal-e-ahvaal-e-dostaaN bhi
Khumaar-e-aaghosh-e-mahvashaaN bhi
Gubaar-e-Khaatir ke baab saare
tere hamaare
savaal saare, javaab saare
bahaar aai to khul gaye haiN
naye sire se hisaab saare
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
April 1975
English Translation by Agha Shahid Ali from The Rebel’s Silhouette:
It Is Spring Again
It is spring, And the ledger is opened again.
From the abyss where they were frozen,
those days suddenly return, those days
that passed away from your lips, that died
with all our kisses, unaccounted.
The roses return: they are your fragrance;
they are the blood of your lovers.
Sorrow returns. I go through my pain
and the agony of friends still lost in the memory
of moon-silver arms, the caresses of vanished women.
I go through page after page. There are no answers,
and spring has come once again asking
the same questions, reopening account after account.
Impulse, dream, desire…
To all those places that make me walk the way I do.
To all those people who are in my eyes,
For all those words that enrich my mind.
For all the clay that touches my soul.
To all those breaths, those sentiments, the journeys and those flickers.
To me as I was
Loneliness like a good, old friend
visits my house to pour wine in the evening.
And we sit together, waiting for the moon,
and for your face to sparkle in every shadow
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Karachi is too short a word to describe this city.
The Karachi I speak of is close to the sea and far away from the rest of the country, yet it is the caretaker, the provider and the stimulant to it. It is Thursday night non-stop in the city.
The heat wave hit us hard last week. It is only at sundown that the city finds relief. The sun goes to sleep and the breeze sweeps the sea and envelopes this loud, dusty metropolis.
HIGH ON ART AND LITERATURE
At the gallery where my art is on show, a young boy with an almost incompre- hensible American accent came to interview the curator and artists. He spoke of art and youth with great energy, suggesting that our exhibit was a rare and noble event for Karachi. His ignorance was amusing. This week Karachi was beaming. Between the Birth of Pakistan exhibit at the Mohatta Palace Museum, the Tilism theatre fest, the All Pakistan Music Conference, the literary festival and the gallery openings Karachi is definitely too short a word for this huge celebration of people, culture and invincible resilience.
REVELRY AT CRITICAL MASS
Fridays are dedicated to the anticipa- tion of Jumma prayers. Everyone wants to get chores done before the namaaz.
Businesses shut down between one and three. Friday is when the traffic jams begin around one, when streets are occupied by the spillover from mosques. It is also the only day when the licensed liquor shops are closed.
I live off Khada Market. Salons, bak- eries, art galleries, dry cleaners, dine in and take outs — everything is avail- able at all hours. It is in Khada Market that Mehek, the salwar kameez-clad hijra, drinks tea at the chai khana late at night, and keeps abreast with market gossip. It is here that the ladies get their hair done over coffee and chitchat. It is here that artists buy canvas, paint and clay. It is in this market that the Balti families run the best bakeries, and Noor sells prawns at atrocious prices.I often call it the East Village of the city.
Facebook tells me I am invited to a St Patrick’s Day party on Saturday night, bar open only till half past eleven. It says I must wear green. I think about Sunday morning. I have to wake up at seven for Critical Mass.
Critical Mass promotes biking on city roads. I go biking with two girlfriends ; one a single psychotherapist who rides a jeep, the other a writer and ener getic mother of three. Last time we rode, we ended up at the roadside Café Clifton enjoying chai and paratha.
These are people who speak of the environment, peace, cooking and jazz. We are the people who dream of a gun- free Karachi.
THE SEA OF STORIES The beach calls on Sundays. Though the sea is just five minutes away from where I live, the beaches to go to are an hour away. Hawksbay and French Beach are where the private huts are.
The French Beach is a quiet fishing village surrounded by a boundary wall on one side and the ocean on the other.
Inside are private beach huts opening up to the rocky beach. The people are perhaps the most laidback in Karachi.
Joseph, the old fisherman, walks around delivering home-cooked crabs to visitors. Then there is Fateh bhai, who hates leaving the village. A dark skinned fisherman with long, grey hair, cargo pants and Jesus sandals. He is often seen cooking fish, while sipping Murree beer and enjoying the good life in the sun.
Tonight Maaria went home to her four kids who are fasting for Lent, hoping it will affect their school report card.
Mrs Abidi returned home with travel plans on her mind. Kishore went home thinking about his upcoming wedding.
The single friend will come home to assess her dinner date, the mother of three plans her week on her kitchen chalkboard. I come home and feed baby Ivan some fish.
Ivan sleeps peacefully in his cot.Removed from the activity and stresses of the house, yet being the heartbeat of the home.
Such is my Karachi, away from the rest of the country, removed and sheltered, but sending the ancient marine breeze with love to the land.
The author is an artist and educator based in Karachi. She blogs at raania.wordpress.com
I woke up this morning – and almost immediately got to rearranging the plants and flowers on the terrace. The heat wave sweeping the sub-continent since the past few days has almost killed my salads and blooms, strangely today is the first day of Spring. Trying to figure out where there would be a little less burn time for the dahlias and roses, I almost threw off my back as I mindlessly lifted the very heavy marble slab; part of my makeshift coffee table. The sun was shooting its heat down on us, the plants and I. Though it was morning, it already felt like noon. Right about then I realized I had something in the oven. Running back into the house towards the oven, it occurred to me that my eyes had not yet adjusted from being in the sun – and therefore I could hardly make white from black.
Earlier in the morning, missing my mother who is on vacation, I was remembering the days when she would bake in our apartment kitchen. What a beautiful apartment that was and what a lovely kitchen she had. She would make us many cakes, iced with roses and writings. As children we would be fascinated with the shapes she would make with the simple pans she had, caterpillars, butterflies, dolls and flower baskets. Each year before my birthday I would sit and look through all her baking books over and over again, trying to decide which cake I would ask her to make. Amma would sit for hours with all her icing equipment, making rose buds on butter-paper and curly words of love on the wholesome cakes, licking of her fingers each bit of extra icing that came her way. How exciting it was to wait for her to pour in the chocolate cake batter so my brother and I could wipe off any remain in the bowls or spatulas. Sometimes she would make an upside down, and how fun it would be to see the cake being turned up. Pineapple slices and red cherries glazed with caramel, embedded in a cake – simple honest home-baked sunshine.
So I pulled out my pans and decided to enjoy that memory, and luckily looking through the cabinets I found all that I needed. Amma knows her baking perfectly, I don’t. I like to play and I hate to measure. Nevertheless, my father’s rule of cooking is not to have rules. So trying to learn from both schools, I measure a bit and let the rest happen as I taste. My upside down today had cake spice, cinnamon, yogurt, flour, butter, eggs and golden syrup. I layered the pie tin with pineapple slices and cherries poured over a golden syrup caramel and then the batter. And into my little old rickety and temperamental oven it went.
As the eyes adjusted, the sense of smell took charge. Whenever I bake I make sure not to switch on the exhaust fan in the kitchen. Just for a little while the house smells of love and nostalgia. The cake was done, and I had to almost tie myself to keep away – I don’t like to wait for things to cool off. So after a few minutes of ladylike grace, impatience and excitement took over and I flipped the cake. The eyes had adjusted by now, and I saw a bit of yellow and red childhood. Ivan ate the first bite, lovingly.
After a tiny siesta, I woke to hear the sound of air. There was a great wind blowing. I could hear a gush here and a sweep there. Out on the terrace at 3pm there was soft golden sunlight – spring had arrived in a beautiful way. Maybe tomorrow there will be dry heat again, but for today let it be Spring.fter a wonderful Nauroze celebration in the evening, I returned home. Dreamtime had begun for the little one, and daydream time for me; with my slice of upside down out on the terrace.
The Earthen Dreams exhibit is up, and my night lights are on. The opening night was fantastic, thank you so much to all those who came. Thank you Jamal Ashiqain for the wonderful photos!
The show is up until the 28th of March, 2010 for those who missed the opening. Venue and details can be found in my earlier post.
Dear friends, artists & students,
I am showing some of my new work at a five person group exhibit at the Faraar Gallery (T2F), Karachi, titled EARTHEN DREAMS. Following are some of the details specific to my work.
Earthen Dreams
Group show featuring 5 clay artists
Faraar Gallery T2F, Karachi
Opening night: Saturday Mar 20, 2010 6:30 PM – 9:00 PM
http://www.peaceniche.org/faraar
NIGHT LIGHT by Raania A. K Durrani
It has been now ten years since I first found clay as my medium of expression. It is often late at night when desperately seeking sleep; my mind fights with my fatigue and wanders to places I long for, and searches for resolve. The idea, the concept, the image, the form and most often the curiousity to make more art is found in those wanderings. It is that night light that keeps me, the artist from going to sleep. ‘Night light’ (series) are works dedicated to all those late night mental investigations and dreams of creation. The drawings, marks and translucency depict my clay works of the past ten years. ‘Night light’ represents the diary and the sketchbook in the artist’s mind, my mind.
Raania.
IMAGES:
Detail of section from Night Light 1 & 2,
Media: Clay and supporting materials on canvas (light boxes)
Dimensions: 4ft by 4ft
At the end of a very busy day, after walking, talking, meeting, negotiating, dealing and understanding – I return home. So moved by the day and what it brought to me, I find myself looking through old books. I find Lorca, who I had been thinking of, and for a while I search through pages of musical writing and golden thought. It has been so many years since I had left these books unopened, I find then the words I was looking for.
Alta va la luna.
Bajo corre el viento.
Mis largas miradas,
exploran el cielo.
Luna sobre el agua,
Luna bajo el viento.
Mis cortas miradas,
exploran el suelo
(From: ‘Nocturnos de la ventana’ by Garcia Lorca)
I gaze with nostalgia and a heavy heart, at the books I studied years ago and my pencil scribbles in english, I had been desperately trying to understand the symbols, the metaphors – eagerly noting down everything Montserrat would explain.
As we drove back to our hood tonight, my dearest neighbour and I, at the traffic signal, spoke of lessons and classes we wish we had attended while at college. Our minds travelled to curriculums offering tutorials in Japanese fiction, creative writing, vocal jazz and much more. The beauty of education I realize is the never-ending desire to learn and the curiousity to explore what you love. The moon is high tonight, my longing gazes are saved for it and my sky.
Alta va la luna.
Bajo corre el viento.
Mis largas miradas,
exploran el cielo.
Am thinking of Japan today. I am thinking of the Kanayama studios and the green mountains of Northern Japan. It was summer time, I arrived at night, tired and jet-lagged. It must have been near midnight when I reached Kanyama, and soon went to bed. My first sunrise in Japan was at 3.40 am, and what a beautiful morning it was.
My days at Kanayama as I have written about plenty before were unbelievable. I had never worked so much, slept so less and felt so good ever before. The clay was abundant and so was the fire. But it is one night of great magnitude, that I just cannot seem to feel less about even as time passes.
It was the night shift at the olsen kiln, up in the wooded area. I was firing with a fellow firer, easing up with the kiln, the masses of wood and the ever so temperamental temperature. As we sat across each other on our makeshift living room benches waiting to stoke, I heard a dull yet significant rumble, overpowering the clicking of the burning wood. I instantly looked up at the swinging auto light we had fixed on a beam. My body was stunned and tears began forming and spilling out of my eyes. I knew this was an earthquake, but I did not know what to think or do. My partner who at nearly fifty had never experienced one before stared at me as stunned. All of this took a few seconds, before he shook me and we leapt away from the burning kiln, away from the benches, meters and the possible shifting of the bricks and a result flowing flames.
Under the stars in the woods in Northern Japan, my friend and I felt the earth tremble largely for what seemed like a long time. That was a night I cannot forget, and cannot feel less for.Tonight I have the Kanayama blues.
as Ella would say;
‘The tables are empty
The dance floor’s deserted
You play the same love song
It’s the tenth time you’ve heard it
That’s the beginning
Just one of the clues
You’ve had your first lesson
In learnin’ the Blues’
March 9th 2010.
Another Tuesday spent. The lights are out, and I have a very strong feeling that this may be the beginning of a lightless summer. Karachi and its outages, such an irreplaceable aspect of my childhood, and now possibly of the childhood of my son. I associate outages with mangoes, rain, dead phone lines and mostly silent humid nights. But then again, those were the childhood memories of outages; when it was almost like an essential summer time activity, to sleep on the rooftop, play games in the dark or search for candles in the wooden drawers my mothers’ wonderfully full kitchen.
My recent memory of a major outage, that possibly lasted near four days constitutes of : being humungous and at the very verge of producing Ivan, lying out on the takht on my terrace at 5 am, drenched as I tried to cool off in the shower. The UPS had done its best. It was no more. That night there were no mangoes, no dead phone lines, no games in the dark, and though it was humid – it was not a silent night to enjoy. The air that night smelled of diesel and my ears by the end were pretending to not hear.
The romance of the memory of a summer outage as a child is no more. That’s why I like winter so much.
19.11.2009
‘Amidst hell, it is not hell’ ~ Calvino
We spoke of Paris and of Venice, not realizing that we are sitting on Bogra road of Bath Island. Bath Island, a drive through which brings to me memories of Karachi which I do not have, but wish I had. Tonight I came home and looked for old images of Karachi, to unlearn and rediscover what I know now of it.
A novel, a short story, a note, a moment, and a memory… what is good writing? What is good reading? We read a ‘note’ of great effect and a response to it by someone we have not met or know, who gave our discussion definition. Memories he spoke of, memories which are baggage but without which we are lonely.
I respond to him, hoping he can hear me, that it was his reflection to the ‘note’ and not the note itself that moved me more. It is the afterglow that is far more fascinating than the sunset itself. I speak of unlearning as an artist, and removing oneself from ones familiar visual/sensory memory to realize the truth of the form.
Culture is what we design and practice with joy, belief is what we derive from logic and spirituality, terrorism is a children’s school lined with sand bags and snipers, madness is continuing to send our children to these schools – because the learning must not stop, academic, intellectual or social. Fear is watching a celestial storm and worrying about who is lurking in the dark, ignorance is conforming, and to live in these times in this place is food for great thought.
So inspired, so interested, so curious…we all are. I sit in the car and think, ‘Amidst hell, it is not hell’ (Calvino).
Raania A.K Durrani
28.12.2010
Each morning many of us wake to the sound of traffic, others to the squeal of an excited baby and even to the smell of the neighbour’s full fat breakfast. Throughout the day we move from place to place transporting ourselves in the noise and congestion of the city, by bus, taxi, rickshaw, car, donkey, cycle and on foot. Karachi a city of perhaps seventeen million has two major train stations, Cantt. and City, but, a nearly non-existent inter-city network. I sometimes think that a train to a city is like a clothesline to a rooftop, essential, aesthetic, convenient and very very poetic.
In the evening after a long and tiring day spent searching for food, money, love and peace, we return. We return home, to the excited squeal of an infant, the sound of speeding cars and the smells and sounds of over-bearing nieghbours. We live a city without trains, and hardly any trees, birds, saints or mystics – but we are joyous and we continue to wake every morning to search and celebrate life.
Raania A. K Durrani
4.3.2010
Earlier in the evening when she and I were alone in the study, we stumbled upon old memories of taste. Those recipes were documented in our senses; puddings, berries, cream and custard; the sweetest deserts of childhood. We walked out to the herb garden, where Quddus the scarecrow stands, scaring no one. The evening breeze prompted her, and she complimented it saying this is why we were lucky to live in Karachi. We had both knew that it was the fine details of life that were in fact the most essential; Quddus, the Karachi breeze, the herbs and of course the activity we were there for.
Why did we all not have a dusty old chest of treasures in our box rooms? Where did those without inheritance find the ability, taste and matter for Urdu literature? Why were the few books in print so ugly? What happened? And why was there militancy between the writers of the two languages, and the have reads and the haven’t reads?
The luxury of being read to was on my mind. The conversation drifted to the story times of childhood, grandmothers and great grandmothers tales. Of Shahzadis and cats, of jewels and grandeur, of love found and lost. Where did the cat that was the Shahzada disappear to? Was it just the anticipation, which was keeping him there and so in love?
New books, new writers, new stories or…old stories? Yes mangos, bees, the grandmothers garden and achaar recipes were becoming the repetitive content of many sub-continent writers works. We condemn and criticize the clichés, the names, the relationships and the exotic descriptions – not realizing that it is the stories of puddings, custard, shahzadis, jewels and blue saris that keep us going too. Though not always the content of the art we make, our histories and mysteries determine the way we hear, see, taste, smell and feel.
Ma Jian, Fehmida Riaz, Amy tan, Elizabeth Gilbert, Mishima, Gregory David Roberts, Edgeworth, Coelho, Mehta, Ghalib, Iqbal or Faiz – they all represent their own mysteries and histories.
My story is different from his story, but story times are the best times.
Raania A. K Durrani
March 3rd and spring is already summer.
The much-anticipated winter that hardly arrived, the slight spring when the flowers began to bloom, and suddenly the endless Karachi summer, which has begun in March.
Karachi seems to be at its best when indecisive or in transit. When night turns to-day, and evening to-night – it is during this transition that the breeze is priceless.
The summer that never ends begins with the sea breeze, the moist smell of the sea, an unexpected encounter with a lizard, the tickling of mosquitoes at sundown..and the absence of silence in the air.
Spring is already summer.
Magic Mirrors
By Raania Azam Khan Durrani
The end of the year at all art schools is an exhilarating experience for students and faculty. Deadlines have to be met, nights must be spent awake and working, and the performance must be cent percent despite zero energy. Pressure is the theme; and sometimes some of the most magical and significant artwork is produced under these circumstances.
The 2009 fine art and ceramic show was fresh and relevant. The works ranged in technique, style and concept, showcasing the strengths of the maker and the challenges he or she had taken on.
I was visiting the show to meet with Nabahat Lotia, who I have taught in the studio and learnt from as well. Nabahat Lotia has graduated this year as an older student from IVSAA, department of Ceramics. Nabahat’s work was about ‘seeds’ – where some of the forms resembled the plant seed, others appeared to be a derived version of them, such as the piece with the multiple bowls. Though some of the larger pieces were over assembled using metal, losing the softness of the ‘organism’.. or the ‘seed’ The treatments and firing results were impressive, as were the smaller assemblages – measured and calculated but yet not clinical and sterile. The most successful in my view, were the salt glazed** works, expressing luster and depth, and providing a dimension which, the raku-fired* work could not.
Delighted and moved by Nabahat’s work, I walked over to the Fine arts display, where Sivim Aroosh Naqvi’s , ‘along these lines’ a collection of mostly digital prints reminded me almost instantly of why I studied art. Sivim’s works reached out to the eye in a comforting yet questioning way. Her photography and its content are humble, homelike, regular and familiar – the treatments are electrifying (literally) and almost supernatural. Though most prints were humble, displaying detail of lines and shadows, two large images with neon tube lights outlining the content spoke directly to me of how shadows and humble remains of a memory can begin to have a glare, in times such as this. My heart went out to one digital print, which is now hanging in front of my desk. A red Formica tray, on the top left a greenish white empress market ceramic bowl, used as an ashtray for a thin pine light cigarette. A few bobby pins left behind, a key chain with a million keys, spectacles with a beaded chain, some thick books on the left piled on top of several bills and mail… When I saw it first I felt as if I had just gotten up and walked away. Walking up to it, the work is titled, ‘Were you sitting there?’.
Filza Ahmad’s installation*** brought back a childhood memory of entering people’s drawing rooms which were dark and unused, sofas and tables covered with layers of plastic – to prevent use? Or damage? Or what? Filza has managed to capture this phenomenon by wrapping her entire studio space tightly in clear plastic sheets, bubble wrap and cello tape. She fights back dust, grime, humidity and protects her studio from being destroyed. This display in particular, radiated confidence and relevance to me. Bravo.
Of special mention is Saman Ali’s work. Leaving marks, as she calls it – to me her sculptural displays are a poetic three-dimensional reflection of her delicate yet energized drawings. Saman has captured line, history and sensation – encasing found objects displaying beauty to her eye. The cases lit from beneath created an aura in the space, exuding drama, curiousity and warmth. Saman Ali was awarded the 2009 Zahoor-ul-akhlaq drawing award, at the graduation ceremony.
Other works in the show, which stood out specifically were those of Zarmeen Bilwani, Durab Udham Tariq and Aashtee Adil Zaidi. Zarmeen’s concept was best supported by her piece of work described best as ‘magic mirrors’. She quotes Max Bill, ‘traced in magic mirrors, pseudo-spaces are spell bound’. Aashtee’s self-portraits spoke about her personal history, as a baby, a child, an adolescent and now an artist. I specially enjoyed one, which she describes as ‘meera-esque’; it is a dramatic self-portrait, of her applying a nearly orange lipstick, the face overloaded with bright eyeshades and products, looking at the viewer as if he were the mirror. I see this piece as a very important work displaying the alliance of contemporary art and south Asian cinema painting. Durab’s large round canvases I was not sure of at first. I looked and looked again, the porthole like works telling the story of a rainy afternoon, an empty hallway, and a busy street through the ‘iris’ itself. The paintings distorting, refracting and skewing as the iris shifts and the viewer relocates. His works were labour intensive and ambitious, and can be explored further in many ways.
Among the other displays were those of Meryam Ahsan working with found objects, cut out and assemblages – expressing cultural, social and global meanings. Anya Akhter and Mehreen Hashmi’s works were personal, very personal and somewhat esoteric. I wish Anya Akhter best of luck, her sweet and simple investigations of line and colour, represent her honestly and youth. Mehreen’s images and content spoke of national identity and urban chaos. I recall Mehreen as a first year student, and the work she would produce for my class titled, ‘ The document, diary, sketchbook and travelogue’ contained similar images of public transport, her strong connection with truck art and poetry and her personal stories of her travels in buses and rickshaws. Mehreen continues to explore what she discovered some years ago, she speaks of a hidden discomfort and anxiety in her stories, she has very well managed to convey that.
Despite hearing much criticism from many, I feel that the 2009-degree show for fine art & ceramics, represented prevalent concepts and themes in art. In my view the work produced speaks for the exploration and discovery an undergraduate degree is all about. Perhaps it is the graduate degree or intensive studio work after four years of exploration that should result in direct, resolved and ‘figured out’ art. It is an honest and fresh response to art making unlike much of the seasoned and sometimes heavily repetitive artwork we see usually.
(Raania Azam Khan Durrani is an artist and educator, living and working in Karachi)
REFRENCES TO TERMS:
*The use of a reduction chamber at the end of the raku firing was introduced by the American potter Paul Soldner in the 1960s to compensate for the difference in atmosphere between wood-fired Japanese raku kilns and gas-fired American kilns. Typically, pieces removed from the hot kiln are placed in masses of combustible material (e.g., straw, sawdust, or newspaper) to provide a reducing atmosphere for the glaze and to stain the exposed body surface with carbon.
(http://en.wikipedia.org)
** Salt glazed or salted pottery is created by adding common salt, sodium chloride, into the chamber of a hot kiln. Sodium acts as a flux and reacts with the silica in the clay body. A typical salt glaze piece has a glassine finish, usually with a glossy and slightly orange-peel texture, enhancing the natural colour of the body beneath it.
***Installation art describes an artistic genre of site-specific, three-dimensional works designed to transform the perception of a space.
(http://en.wikipedia.org)
Karachi’s Sputnik Sweetheart
By Raania Azam Khan Durrani
Walking underneath the shadow of the Mohatta palace museum, a friend commented on a photograph we had just seen inside. ‘Doesn’t it seem like Paris, seems like we still own a sense of aesthetic’. The image was shot in the remnants of colonial Karachi, the interior of a café on the corner of the street, man sitting alone at a rickety table, on a malbari chair drinking tea, looking out. The man in the picture just as the building itself was aged, his hair in knots displaying his irregular and isolated state of self. Almost as if he waited for someone disapproving to push him off the chair.
It was dark now, but I had spent the late afternoon up, until sunset, on the roof of an old building across the palace itself. My students, inspired by Gauguin’s ‘Yellow Christ’ painted away, and I watched them concentrate and emote. Their aesthetics young and fresh, unaware and delightful, precious yet casual – made me envious. How wonderful it is to not know too much, how wonderful it is to have less to unlearn. How wonderful it is to be making ones own history.
My eyes wandered and as I enjoyed the evening air, I realized there was so much to look at and think about. In the far distance there was the smoggy city line. Chundrigar and its overused buildings could be identified vaguely. A green plot of luscious grass was being prepared for many wedding guests to walk on with their sharp shoes. The palace windows were being polished and cleaned, the half built structure of an ambitious yet hopeless construction stood abandoned. The intended pompousness of this structure was jutting out starkly amidst the classy grandeur of old architecture.
The very thick trunk of the old trees and the shadows they cast on the buildings, made me wonder how many people had passed in glee under this shade, and how many hardships had been endured by these organic and inorganic structures. Through the dry branches I could see the ‘Bhopal House’. It sat quietly packaged in a boundary wall that had obviously been built, rebuilt and repaired over the years. Some of its windows were open, some glass was broken, and the exterior had developed a unique patina, a result of age, sea breeze and distress.
On January 12th 2010, I returned to the same roof to teach. It was a bright January morning. Driving past the ‘Bhopal House’, I was once again excited by its vintage glamour and curious about its history and future. I came home that night and began to search for information. I immediately found an image of a very dear fellow artist working in that space. So I sent out a message to him, ‘ What can you tell me about the ‘Bhopal House?’ almost immediately I got a reply, ‘I can tell you lots’. I wrote back, ‘I am curious to go in and see it. I pass it everyday and am intrigued by its emptiness. It looks so beautiful. Can we go in?’ He replied, ‘It’s not empty. A friend lives there … will be free on the 15th. We can go across then, sure.’ ‘Who is your friend?’ I say, he replies, ‘that’s a complicated question. I’ll let her answer that herself. Will introduce you when we go.’
I did not know then that our plan would sit tight, forever orbiting the cyberspace.
On Friday January 15, 2010, I learnt the following. Asim Butt, thirty-one years of age, contemporary Pakistani painter, genius and academic, had passed away the night before. The golden sky of the late afternoon of 15th, jointly spoke of liberty, glory, sorrow and loss. This day that I had expected to spend with the city and its true guide, I instead spent thinking. I thought about life and the moment at which life ends. I thought about how my frequent one-line exchanges with him were so constructive and meaningful. I thought of his genius, his art, his honesty and how he was someone I counted on to set a precedent and to lead. In my last reflection in this publication, I spoke of visionaries, who were gathering to tools and were in the making. Asim Butt was one of those.
I thought of all the things one thinks of, when someone passes.
Not being able to understand or register his sudden worldly absence. I retreated to Murakami, and picked up my favourite, ‘Sputnik Sweetheart’. A story of loneliness, alienation, non-conformism, dreams and eventually the search for a lost lover, who Murakami charismatically transports beyond our worldly boundaries to a place far, very far away. An odd triangle of love and longing, where the main character removes herself from life and disappears into the unknown, her two lovers in search for their sputnik; travel, explore, reminisce and lose. The book ends with a telephone call from the unfound sputnik sweetheart. No longer in the world, not alive, not dead, but drifting somewhere else in Murakami’s written magic.
‘Ever since that day Sumire’s private name for Miu was Sputnik Sweetheart. She loved the sound of it. It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out of the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could Laika be possibly looking at’
(Excerpt from Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)
It is Saturday, morning of the 16th now. Karachi’s sputnik sweetheart has made his journey. He will be remembered on quiet nights and in urban dreams, when his art will reappear on the white washed walls of the Abdullah Shah Ghazi Mazar, and the debris of the broken walls of Metropole hotel. Added to the shadows of Karachi’s classic spell and aesthetic residue, is the nostalgic memory of this artist, who painted the city that he, owned.
I quote the following from Nafisa Rizvi’s note, titled ‘ In memory of Asim’
Should I go or wake to another day
The door is closed but it looks ajar
I’ve held the impulse at bay
But I’m tired and need to travel far
(Raania A .K Durrani is an artist and educator based in Karachi)
‘An evening such as this’
By Raania Azam Khan Durrani
A late December evening such as tonight is dark and long. This slow, long and silent eve brings with it the desire to rest in my warm home. My body is used tonight, by the many roles and functions it has. My shoulders are sore and eyes are small, my feet dirty and my hair dusty and tangled. The duties of the day have come to a close, or so I wish to believe. The money for today has been earned, the dinner has been cooked, the lamps have been lit, the family has been pleased, the baby is almost asleep and even God has called His people for the fifth and final time for the day. It is on evenings such as this when my mind wishes to please me by dreaming and rewarding my senses with modest yet magical treats. I imagine.
It is Christmas Eve in Karachi. I am at my desk listening to great jazz on a live stream. Dean Martin sings about a ‘white Christmas’. The candles in my home are lit tonight, the tree is glowing, the gray spotted nieghbourhood cat and her offspring, have found their cozy spot on my terrace. Between the blast in Peshawar this morning, and the abundant use of automatic weapons for late night recreation, in my nieghbourhood – I am glad for my bubble. If it were not for this bubble, the scent of Karachi winter, the unusually starlit night and the taste of the indulgent Christmas cake would go unnoticed. The beautiful, yet simple luxuries and fine details of life would be lost.
Sarah Vaughan sings passionately, I’m feeling mighty lonesome tonight…A woman’s born to weep and fret, and stay at home to tend her oven and drown her sorrows in coffee and cigarettes..’ I think of the many Christmas eves I have spent with people, unlike this one, which I spend alone.
I recall the cold, very cold night I was taken in by a Polish family, strangers to me then. I have never seen a blizzard such as that one. Along with many holiday travelers, knee deep in fresh snow, luggage drenched and in transit. I left the airport of that strange town. The town was snowed in, I had no one to call and nowhere to go. It was Christmas Eve that night, and a Polish boy ‘Seba’ (Sebastian) welcomed me off the narrow dark street of a seriously strange American town, into their small, rundown, but gleeful and very warm home. That night they trusted me and cared for me as their own. I understood that night, what the storybook, ‘Christmas Spirit’ is all about.
Farida Khanum sings ‘Mere hamnafas..mere hamnava’ for me, in my house – on an evening such as this. It is now when the white walls of my home appear pink via my rosy eyes. How the softness of each pillow appears softer, and the colours of each kilim appear renewed. It is at such a time that the paintings on the wall become three dimensional, and my pottery begins to breath.
On an evening such as this, many sit in silence remembering those lost to war. Many, so many, lost so much; home, possessions, health, love and ultimately life. It is on such an evening when I enjoy my tree and my jazz, another woman like myself cries for her man who died serving the country. It is on such a long and dark December evening that old parents weep. In the corner of a small room in a large family home, a young boy prays to God to send his father back. A motherless baby wails in the arms of his helpless father, on an evening such as this one. A man misses his beautiful wife and a sister misses her brother’s love.
It is my grandmother’s eightieth birthday tomorrow. Till this day she sleeps with her valuables under her pillow. ‘You don’t know loss’ she said once. After a privileged childhood, she was left with a small box – homeless, disoriented and traumatized, she survived the first war. Struggle, hard work and after many tough times, she found love. Rediscovering beauty and the luxuries of life. The next time she had to leave it all behind, the small box had not only her own memories, but of her two girls as well. Today she lives strong and hopeful, marked by her past, but not disheartened by it.
Her birthday marks the arrival of faith and much goodness. Born on 25.12.1642, Isaac Newton said, “I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people.”. On 25.12.1919 Naushad Ali came to the world to bring us bliss, with music such as that of ‘Pakeezah’ and ‘Mughal-e-Azam’. Humphrey Bogart, born 25.12.1899, states..’You are not a star until they can spell your name in Karachi’. I hope we can spell Jinnah in Karachi.
When the body has given up, it is the mind that revives. The country is in crisis. Neither a historian, nor with enough years of experience – I think it is one of the worst times. I believe so, because I long for visionaries; leaders, dreamers, thinkers and lovers; I long for someone to renew and revive this the soul of beautiful land. I asked ‘ where are the visionaries?’, a dear friend responded, saying..’we are in the making, we are gathering our tools..’
On an evening such as this many years ago, John Lennon sang again and again…
‘A very Merry Christmas,
And a happy New Year,
Let’s hope it’s a good one,
Without any fear
War is over, if you want it
War is over now’
On such an evening when my body is worn, my mind is dreaming to nourish me. Tonight is such an evening, turning into such a night. It is not the time to create differences, it is the time to celebrate all. War is over, If you want it. Peace 2010.
(Raania A. K Durrani; artist & educator, lives and works in Karachi; raania.durrani@gmail.com )
Reference: www.imaginepeace.com
IMAGES:
1. ‘Displaced Children of Swat’ (Mardan, NWFP) by Rayyan Durrani
2. ‘Moonlit’ (Sunderban River, Bangladesh) by Rayyan Durrani
3. ‘Dan Dige’ (Dhaka, Bangladesh) by Rayyan Durrani
| Raania Azam Khan Durraniraania.durrani@gmail.com
www.raania.blogspot.com Education:
Work Experience:
Key Achievements:
Key Skills and professional strengths:
Objective: My education and work history has led me to explore several aspects of art; art making, art administration, and education. I wish to work in environments conducive to intellectual growth, social and cultural progress, and most importantly peace and acceptance. I wish to create exciting solutions and constructive platforms for art promotion and appreciation. My clay art; my main visual art process is detailed in concept and form, constructed with mostly locally abundant material and highly experimented upon in the making and firing process. As a writer I always prefer to express details capturing the essence of the moment being described. I am most interested in creative non-fiction works. My most significant works include: ‘Memories of a Landscape’ 2003 (Creative non-fiction travelogue, part of graduating show at Bennington College), ‘Afterglows’ (A collection of notes; currently in progress). I wish to use creative platforms to develop this work further. In 2008 I organized a reading group: GOLDSTAR in order to make such creative & analytical feedback accessible to others and myself. I believe in the inter-disciplinary approach to art, and wish to develop my writing in a way that it reflects and gains from my works in other mediums. Shows:
(Images of art work available on: www.raania.blogspot.com) Selected Projects:
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Raania Azam Khan Durrani
Clay Artist & Educator
www.raania.blogspot.com
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I hope the beast-like insurgents who bring hate to our beautiful country, who sin in the name of God, are stunned by the magnificence of His celestial shower tonight (Leonid Meteor Shower 2009), and can be inspired to change their ways, ironic how they would have the best view as well…I just read the following and was inspired, "Come to the door, father, the world is surely coming to an end." Another exclaimed: "See! The whole heavens are on fire! All the stars are falling!" These cries brought us all into the open yard, to gaze upon the grandest and most beautiful scene my eyes have ever beheld. It did appear as if every star had left its moorings, and was drifting rapidly in a westerly direction, leaving behind a track of light …"
-Raania
28th October 09
Its is nearly seven pm, the lavender seeds in my make shift seed tray are being acclimatized to Karachi weather as they sit under the fan near the window of my living room, they shall back in the air-conditioned bedroom by night, and hopefully they will germinate if I keep this up. Routine is not my specialty, rules are not my thing and consistency is a virtue I long for.
Yet every time year-end approaches in Karachi, I feel a sense of calm, and it’s the same every year. I understand that I like many others are driven by the atmosphere and are affected by the weather and what nature brings to them. I read a quote once which I immediately related to: 'There are three reasons for becoming a writer: the first is that you need the money; the second, that you have something to say that you think the world should know; the third is that you can't think of what to do with the long winter evenings.'(Quentin Crisp)
I have a lot to say, wish I could make money that way…but there is nothing better than a long winter evening, a cozy throw and documenting ones thoughts. Though winter in Karachi as I wrote a few days earlier, is mild and very short – it is most magical; yet more magical that the winter itself is the great anticipation of its arrival. For those of us who have dedicated our lives, hearts and skills to this city- the short, smoky, fragrant and dry winter is a time for renewing our vows and foolishly falling back in love with this city and its baggage every year.
I wrote a few days back; ‘its almost time for: nights to be quieter, crabs to be tastier, baths to be warmer, Karachi sun to be friendlier and my faraway friends to be nearer. Just a few days till I eat breakfast under the sun on our tiny terrace, get nostalgic each night under that same small piece of sky that I think I own…If I was Ella, I would sing about the strange anticipation of the mild yet magical winter in Karachi.’
There was a time when each year in spring the smell of lilacs would govern my day and night, those were my years in the evergreen Vermont. My first winter at 47/1 in Karachi brought with it a fragrant surprise. A small tree planted at our entrance, which to my understanding is a relative of the exotic ‘raat ki raani’ (queen of the night). This variety botanically known as Nyctanthes Arbor-Tristis literally means the ‘tree of sorrow’ or the ‘sad tree’. It blooms each year around October and lasts the winter months.
The scent of these fragile white flowers surrounds my home each year-end, reminding me that winter is arriving. My terrace each evening is drenched in its essence. The smell travels into my home with the breeze, through the windows and other vessels, perfuming my days and nights. It is believed that Lord Krishna brought this heavenly plant to earth.
The tree of sadness, also known as the lovers’ tree is known to have grown from the ashes of a suicidal princess who fell in love with the sun. When the sun had set, she took her life. The tree represents her love and sorrow, blooming at night, radiating her passion, telling her story and shedding her tears in form of white fragrant flowers at the first light of dawn; the first sight of her lost love.
It is just the end of October, and our terrace is already populated by most of its winter visitors. The rocket leaves are growing, the summer flowers are gone, the herbs are sprouting, the grey cat ‘bilqis’ and its annual offspring’s are getting cozy behind the Banana palm, and the lovers tree is beginning to sing its tale.
Mansoor and I sat outside after dinner, breathing in the aromatic desert and discussing our winter tree. A few moments later Mansoor claimed to be getting dizzy and sleepy. We come indoors and I resume writing and researching.
Nyctanthes arbor-tristis has several medicinal uses I discover. Other than proving beneficial to patients of jaundice, malaria, fever, cancer, rheumatism and constipation – it is known to induce sleep and tranquilize. Its flowers are known to have been infused and sipped by Buddhist monks longing for a nights rest. I also learn that when tested, it only works on the males.
It is now eleven pm, and I am sitting wide eyed with my laptop on the sofa. Ivan is asleep on the floor to my right. Across me, lying flat on the divan is a sleeping Mansoor, silent and heavy. They both seem to be under the spell of our winter tree.
May your home be as fragrant and your sleep as sound. Goodnight.
its almost time..for the candles to burn longer, the feet to be cleaner, the nights to be quieter, for the KESC bill to be much lesser, for the hair to be straighter, for the crabs to be tastier, for the baths to be warmer, for the days to be shorter, for the air to be cleaner, for the Karachi sun to be friendlier, for the roses to be fresher, for my faraway friends to be nearer…its almost time till I wear bright shawls and warm socks, eat breakfast under the sun on our small terrace, and get nostalgic each night under that same small piece of sky that I think I own and imagine the city becoming softer…If I was Ella, I would sing about the strange anticipation of the mild yet magical winter in Karachi.
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. This city deserves this celestial downpour; it is tired, targeted, dirty and overworked. One shower makes the city come alive with romance and calmness.
Despite my pregnant desires to sleep in I woke along with Mansoor, who is now eager to be in office at eight each morning. 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.
The stillness of the sky is inspiring. The sun-filled hot dusty day has transformed during my afternoon slumber into an evening covered in a gray-mauve sky that refuses to breath, as if it is waiting to cry out and express. It is humid and my clothes and body are drenched in sweat, which seems to have an abundant source. The pregnant belly creates a distance between the writing table and I, each time I get excited and move forward to look closely at my writings, I feel the large stiff wholeness against the table and am reminded of my state. The heartburn begins at this time every day, four pm marks the start of an evening of heaviness and my incapability to consume anything without a reaction from my over full body. My baby squirms and shifts inside me like a dancer doing ‘contact improvisation’ with a large piece of fabric. I listen loudly to ‘Ave Maria’ and my body and mind ease itself, losing themselves to feelings of nostalgia, peace and longing.
Raania A. K Durrani
June 8th 2009 – Karachi
I was looking out the kitchen window this morning, drinking green tea, observing the neighbours roof where an electrician was fixing some connections. My mind was occupied with mundane thoughts; domestic in nature, washing the bathroom tiles, cleaning the kitchen cabinets, when suddenly my eyes wandered to the left and fixed themselves on the two corkscrews hanging off a hook, looking a bit rusty if I may say so. It has been eight months, since they were last used. That’s a pretty long time sitting idle for the once most used kitchen appliance. Just a few more weeks in hibernation…
Have you ever been in a situation where you just can’t find a corkscrew? I sure have, since that day I placed many corkscrews in several parts of my kitchen, so in times of dire need anyone could find one if they opened a drawer or two. There was one time when a friend and I waited for two hours trying to locate one, desperate and thirsty – old school that we are, never realized that it was a twist off. Two hours of irritation, distress, searching and some angry phone calls later, we examined the bottle, twisted off the cap and poured ourselves a much-needed drink. I don’t like twist offs. It’s like eating steak on a plastic plate. Which reminds me of my ceramics teacher Barry Bartlett who told us once, don’t bother cooking great food if you won’t serve it in a good pot, just go buy a microwave dinner instead.
And so there are three most important corkscrews in my kitchen. One a light blue one taken from my mother’s kitchen when moving into my own house, the second was handed down to me along with a great wine, by my 9th street neighbour; who I share some great memories with. It was used and had an electric blue film wrapped around its metal self when I first saw it, it now has very little of that film left. And the third one is a sturdy stainless steel corkscrew given to me by a friend who found religion and lost himself in it, and had no need for a corkscrew anymore.
The corkscrews came with their own memories, and are now being marked with the patina of mine.
Raania Azam Khan Durrani
interior
URBAN COMFORT When artistic minds collide the after effects are usually amazing. This house is one such example where the fusion of a designer and a filmmaker has resulted in sheer inventive bliss… By Raania. A.K.Durrani Photography by Naqeeb-ur-Rehman Maleeha Choudhary is a fashionista in the true sense. She dresses sharp, contemporary, and stylish and always looks comfortable. Her husband Nasir is artistic, cool and casual. Both of them have a home which truly reflects their styles, and their love for urban comfort. The house is located in a quiet residential street off a very busy Karachi main road. Despite being so near the city traffic the home is sheltered by the street and surrounding houses, which gives it the much loved cosiness and calm. The house which is contractor erected, was designed by the couple themselves, with some assistance from a friend Natasha Ghani. Built in 2006, this house occupies nearly five hundred square yards. It contains two bedrooms, two offices, four bathrooms, one powder room, a large kitchen, one open lounge and dining area and one large basement space, which really is the centre-point of the house. Maleeha is the head designer for her line of clothing 'Daaman'. She earlier worked as a buyer and consultant for a women's clothing store in Karachi. Her own line of clothing is modern, straightforward, and aesthetic, and is becoming very popular amongst the ladies. Maleeha maintains an office and display space for her clothing at her home. Nasir primarily a filmmaker owns and manages 'Periscope' which is a production house specialising mainly in corporate films and documentaries. Nasir's office is also in the house. With both of them working out of the house, the abode has become a multi-faceted space, which almost has a simultaneous occupancy, a double function, and changed personality from day to night. The main door opening up into a small foyer space leads one into the open lounge and dining area and the powder room to the left. This open plan is welcoming and spacious. Beyond the dining area is the kitchen, which is large and minimal, the counter spaces are a chef's delight. The lounge is a sunken space with cosy seating and colourful artwork. The greenery and water feature outside complements the cool blues and greens of this room. Beyond the lounge area on the right is a glass door leading out to the plants, which, A staircase parallel to the living space leads down in the basement. The basement again is open spacious and not typically basement like. It is well lit and decorated with exciting pop art images. The pool table is the main feature of this room and is quite a treat for the guests at their parties. The couple does most of their evening entertainment here in the basement. On one end of the room is a cosy sitting, similar to the lounge upstairs; restful seating, bright soft furnishing, complimented by a mix of contemporary and tropical art and accessories. Maleeha thanks IKEA for a lot of the accessories and interior accents of the house. Neither one of them believes in a formal entertainment space, so Maleeha and Nasir both wanted a warm and comfortable house that would be young, trendy and truly contemporary in design; and most importantly one, which, would fit within a budget. With much hard work, contemplation, decision – making and efficient execution, they succeeded. Their home is a multi-function design that is effective for creative work and good living for these two young active and motivated people.
(Raania A. K Durrani is an artist and educator lives and works in Karachi,www.raania.blogspot.com)
surrounds the master bedroom. This creates an illusion of split-levels and is a fantastic solution for bringing the outdoors indoor and utilising space at its best. They do feel that if ever they were to redo the house, they would try to close in the lounge space, as cost effective cooling in the summer becomes a problem. Both Maleeha and Nasir speak of their bedroom and basement as their favourite spaces in the house.
there is no drawing room type space in this house. As a result of that all guest usually feel a sense of belonging and warmth when visiting this house, the hosts and the spaces are relaxed and most convivial. Along the open space are the rest of the rooms, the doors opening up into the centre of the basement.
Wonder-women You Magazine, The news international 12 May 2009 By Raania Azam Khan Durrani During my few years of association with the arts in Pakistan, I have come across several inspiring women artists and exciting art works. In the past few years there has been rapid growth and boom within the visual arts. As an artist and art educator I see a positive shift in the general perception towards art as an academic and career pursuit. Pakistani art is now making its presence felt internationally. Pakistani artists are reaching out, and through the help of artist collectives and galleries they are getting a chance to exhibit worldwide. Every week in the major cities, Karachi and Lahore, there are two to three art exhibit openings. We often see new galleries inaugurated and artists featured. The press supports these artists and mostly all exhibit openings, are well attended by the public and featured by the print media and television. The visual arts are being celebrated and to be an artist is now more glamorous than ever. Away from this hype, glamour and often clamour and glare, are some women artists who are working away mysteriously, producing work that is sensitive, direct, relevant and contemporary. I am privileged to have had an insight into some of these multi-faceted and sophisticated women's lives and works, which are both stirring and captivating. Samina Raza She is a self taught and exceptionally skilled artist. Her paintings, mostly watercolour and mixed media represent life, dreams, stories, fantasies and realities. The colours are extremely fresh and almost alive. The drawings so detailed and resolved. Samina's work truly represents her great history and her eclectic choices. Her many years of work as an art teacher and illustrator for children's books reflects in her work, as each piece contains some playfulness, and a riddle like quality. The work is approachable, direct andcommunicative. Samina has exhibited her artwork nationally for several years, in group and solo shows, her latest ork will be on exhibit in Karachi this summer. Samina Raza, artist and mother, began her career in Lahore; she now lives and paints in her wonderfully colourful and dollhouse like home and studio in Karachi. (SEE IMAGE) Ghania Badar She is womanly and proud, and loves clay. She is fascinated by her pottery wheel, and like most of us clay artists, is tied and most loyal to her medium. She often spends her days working away in her studio at home, and managing her home and kids simultaneously. Ghania's work is ambitious, with limited ceramic resources she aims to produce the conceptually driven work, which delivers the modern art feel in form and finish. I had the chance to show with her once in Lahore at the Al-Hamra Arts Council where she displayed her table piece, colourful, full of form, detailed and narrative. She recently displayed her work addressing the issue of honour killing, at the National Art Gallery in Islamabad. Ghania Badar, artist, mother and homemaker lives and pots up in the hills of Islamabad. Fizza Saleem Sensitive, playful and kind, Fizza has explored a variety of mediums and themes during her seven year career. She has trained at the NCA in Lahore and also at the Indus Valley School of Art & Architecture in Karachi. Her drawingsand paintings are enchanting and childlike. Dorothy's magic shoes in the Wizard of Oz inspire Fizza's current work, and through her work she explores a child's world. She has shown nationally in group and solo shows, her latest work is on exhibit in Karachi in May 2009. Fizza Saleem, artist, mother and homemaker lives and works in Karachi. Nurayah Sheikh Nabi She is vibrant, feminine, spontaneous and headstrong. So is her work. Her art, which mostly consists of printmaking and drawings, is rich and substantial. Her concepts stemming from the self, the woman, are depicted in the strong marks of her tools. Nurayah's use of the female body in her work is moving, and her skill does justice to the forms. She says about her work, "The fascination of a single line in a circular movement which takes on varying forms or tentacles just on their own, recurring symbols that signify the self in isolation and the self as part of a whole. Stages of life and evolution of self have been constant in my work. This constant back and forth makes my work evolve." Nurayah has exhibited her work nationally at several shows; Nurayah artist, educator, mother and homemaker, belongs to Karachi, but currently lives in Lahore, where she first found art and love. Aliya Yousuf Aliya is quiet, pensive and straightforward, works diligently with clay. A medium she hasgrown to love over the years. Trained primarily as a miniaturist, Aliya now focuses on her ceramic sculpture. Her works are detailed, fine and full of form. Her recent works are a series of hand built clay forms, standing precariously and delicately on probe like limbs. Aliya initially worked with low-fired red clay, but has now moved to high-fired clays and is constantly challenging her ceramic skill and knowledge and experimenting with many types of treatments and firings. Aliya has shown in several group shows nationally, and is now working towards a solo exhibit. This summer Aliya will be showing new work in a two-person show in Karachi. Aliya Yousuf artist, educator and dedicated mother lives and works in Karachi. Sarah Bakhtiyar Young and positive, this girl has been showing her work since 2005. She is a painter in the true sense. The first solo show, which I curated, consisted of paintings more than fifteen feet in width or height, the show also contained a 30-foot wall mural as the major piece of the show. She uses colours and energy in abundance, sometimes layering with paint, sometimes searching and at times discovering. Her earlier works defined her as an action painter. Even though Sarah began working at a smaller scale recently, the work has no less energy or action. She addresses the space in her paintings as if searching for a solution. Her work truly develops visually and conceptually during the process of being worked upon. Her works are open ended, colourful, moving and growing each day that she works in her studio. She has exhibited her paintings and murals nationally and internationally in solo and group shows. Her new body of work will be on display in Karachi this autumn. Sarah Bakhtiyar an artist, teacher, curator and new homemaker; works and lives in Karachi. Saba Iqbal She is brutally honest, humourous, and to the point, makes lesser work but each art work delivers a bigger message each time. She is a meticulous person, possessing an even more meticulous artistic skill. Saba is primarily a sculptor and knows her materials inside out. Her works consisting of wood and metal reliefs are detailed, narrative and yet to the point. Her sharp tools and her vivid thoughts mark her works. Her drawings, which often are the precursors to many of her final works, are as scrupulous. Saba's work reflects her thought, without question. The work is not diplomatic and neither is it offensive. She finds humour in the gravest of situations, yet is able to deliver her thought with adequate depth and reason. Saba has shown in group shows nationally, and has a number of furniture design and commissioned projects to her name. Her latest work is inspired by the aboriginal history of Australia. An artist in the true sense, Saba belongs to Karachi, mind, body and soul, but is currently spending time in Australia. (Author Raania A. K Durrani clay artist and educator lives and works in Karachi www.raania.blogspot.com) http://jang.com.pk/thenews/may2009-weekly/you-12-05-2009/index.html#1
ON LOCATION An ethnically diverse metropolis of 15 million, the port city of Karachi lies on Pakistan’s southern coast. Geographically and socially removed from the northwestern tribal areas that Western commentators call “the most dangerous place in the world” because of its reputation as a hotbed of militant fundamentalism, Karachi is the country’s financial capital. The city breeds a steely, enterprising spirit that has fueled the development of its artistic community and a local art market driven by young collectors from Karachi’s new upper class. Pragmatic yet innovative, the contemporary art produced here reflects the cosmopolitanism of its artists and the experimental agendas of the city’s local arts organizations, most notably the nonprofit Vasl and the progressive Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture (IVS). During the last couple of years, new art spaces and commercial ventures such as Koel Gallery, initiated by textile artist Noorjehan Bilgrami, and Gandhara-Art, sprung up almost on a weekly basis in the affluent neighborhoods of Clifton and Defence Housing Authority. The global economic instability that now threatens many of these fledgling galleries felt remote at a recent opening for young photographer Izdeyar Setna, a member of what the English-language newspaper Dawn dubbed the “Karachi fraternity” of leading photographers. By the middle of the evening, the buoyant crowd at the ten-year-old Canvas Gallery had snapped up three-quarters of Setna’s impressionistic, double-exposed photographic portraits of women. In late March, Sameera Raja, the owner of Canvas, moved the gallery to join others in Clifton. What Pakistan’s largest city lacks is a major museum. With the attention and resources of the ruling Pakistan Peoples Party devoted to maintaining law and order in the Northwest Frontier, the government has few residual resources for the arts. Pakistan’s first national art museum, the National Art Gallery (NAG) opened in Islamabad—700 miles northeast of Karachi—in late 2007 after decades of planning. But a museum in far-off Islamabad has little impact on Karachiites. Canvas Gallery’s Sameera Raja believes that private citizens need to do more to support the arts: “We are a country of rich people and poor government, so the people need to take ownership.” Karachi’s artists aren’t waiting for a government-sponsored museum. Instead they are launching their own initiatives with entrepreneurial zeal, fulfilling a crucial role by integrating global art-making practices into the local scene. The artists’ collective Vasl, Urdu for “to come together” or “a meeting point,” was founded in 2001 by a band of artists including painters Anwar Saeed, Naiza Khan and sculptor Khalil Chishtee. In December 2008, Vasl partnered with British filmmakers Karen Mirza and Brad Butler on The Museum of Non Participation, a London-Karachi project commissioned by UK-based nonprofit Artangel that questions, in the words of Vasl coordinator Auj Khan, “the systems of modernity underlying the cities as well as systems of making art.” In Karachi, this exploration included a food vendor who used a newsletter created by Mirza and Butler to wrap up naan bread for takeout customers. The artists also painted bilingual English-Urdu signs on walls throughout the city that read “The Museum of Non Participation,” an appropriation of the graffiti typically used by political parties and businesses. The expansion of Karachi’s art community has been supported by the Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture, founded in 1989 by a group of now-established artists and designers including architects Arshad and Shahid Abdulla, sculptor Shahid Sajjad and textile artist Shehnaz Ismail. Despite the very real implications of Pakistan’s unpredictable political and economic environment, the arts are rapidly attracting interest in Karachi as a viable career path. IVS ceramics professor Raania Azam Khan Durrani, who is in her mid-twenties, ran one of Karachi’s first alternative, interdisciplinary art spaces, the Commune Artist Colony from 2005 until it closed in 2008. In her own characterization of Karachi’s art, Durrani cites the artistic possibilities borne from Karachi’s freedom from tradition, allowing artists to experiment with materials, interrogate the boundaries of art and craft, and incorporate the motifs that shape daily experience in the frenetic city. Fellow IVS faculty member Adeela Suleman works with housewares like stainless-steel drain covers, kitchen tongs and tea kettles, which she morphs into sculptures resembling human forms or fashions into colorful helmets—a nod to Karachi’s massive contingent of motorcycle riders. According to artist and professor Durriya Kazi, who established the visual studies department at the University of Karachi in 1999: “There is a social and cultural divide among artists as much as there is in Pakistani society. Art schools to a large extent shrink this divide.” Unlike IVS, many of the students who study fine art at the University of Karachi come from low-income families, but through the two schools and Vasl, artists from both sides show together. Kazi’s former student Abdullah Qamar recently started the Dhaba Art Movement; he and fellow artists organize art activities in the roadside tea stalls, or dhabas, where most of Pakistan’s citizens have cheap meals, an effort to bring art to poorer areas. As a relatively safe haven from the fundamentalist violence plaguing northern Pakistan, Karachi is a place where contentious cultural issues can still be investigated. In late January, the London nonprofit gallery Green Cardamom brought their three-city exhibition “Lines of Control,” supported by the Rangoonwala Trust, to the Karachi’s VM Gallery. Work by Karachi natives Bani Abidi and Roohi Ahmed was shown alongside that of Indian filmmaker Amar Kanwar and multimedia artist Nalini Malani, addressing the controversial legacy of India’s 1947 Partition. In March, however, Pakistan’s evolving political turmoil gripped Karachiites as lawyers led non-violent demonstrations demanding the re-instatement of the supreme court chief justice ousted by former president Pervez Musharraf. Seen as part of a larger anti-government corruption effort, the protests and chief justice Chaudhry’s eventual re-instatement electrified the art community, inspiring hope for political change. Abroad, Karachi’s artists are earning growing recognition. Representation of contemporary Pakistani art has been dominated over the past decade by the neo-Mughal miniature painting movement based in Lahore at the National College of Arts, among whose most notable graduates are painters Shazia Sikander, Imran Qureshi and Aisha Khalid. In “Hanging Fire: Contemporary Art from Pakistan,” which opens in August at New York’s Asia Society, curator Salima Hashmi will include IVS graduate Huma Mulji, now based in Lahore, whose sculptures with taxidermy animals—a camel shoved into a suitcase, a water buffalo stuffed into a drainpipe—are metaphors for development gone awry. Hashmi has also picked IVS faculty member Naiza Khan, known for her layered abstractions and metal sculptures of women’s garments. As Karachi’s art community steps onto the international stage, it challenges perceptions that Pakistani art is limited to one location, one medium or one history.
Karachi: Cultural Safe Haven
By Allison White
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© Copyright 2008 Art Asia Pacific Publishing, LLC.
(Re-edited March 2008)
Day 1
” I wonder what is in her mind but in my mind…I find only you “
Sunset in Karachi breaks my heart. As evening approaches, your quiet city, which lives in my heart, is being taken over by the loud sounds and bright lights of Karachi. The gloomy mauve of the city evening brings me down. As the sun drops down into the ocean, my heart sinks into the endless thoughts of you.
Day 2
Tonight the air in Karachi is humid and warm. I lie in my bed thinking of what the air is like where you are.
I think of the dark crowded night when we were dressed in white and tiny flames were lit around us. It was the funeral of a lion. I had to climb up some stairs so I could see what was happening beyond the crowd of mourners.
To feel is my strength – to generalize and be numb is my weakness.
Day 3
Many things come between many people and many people between many things. It is natural. Interruptions are real. To withstand these interruptions of reality, we must choose to be real first.
Day4
Our geographical distance is enough to make us suffer; must we also always consider our political boundaries?
Day5
I saw the mountains again. The sudden bends on the curved roads. I met the fair people who enjoy clean air on the higher altitudes. I am traveling once more.
Day 6
Rain is not the same everywhere. I saw the first rains of the monsoon season in another country. I recall running across the tiny street and climbing up the small stairs and then finally finding a dry spot under the door of a huge Temple. I remember the heavy raindrops falling into my coffee cup- diluting the rich, hot liquid into a watery, cold, light and almost dreamlike concoction. I can almost hear the sound of your voice, which sang near me. The pink kite paper, the drenched red bricks, and the many colourful flowers of the small garden – they all added to the scene. They all enjoyed the beat of the rain and the sugar in your sound.
Today I sit in a place away from you, and away from my own home – I hear the continuous raindrops hitting the parked car, which I sit in alone, waiting for the others. It is evening, and the storm was short, but the rainfall seems to be never-ending, No one is with me but the memories of your voice and the smell of the abundant red bricks of your village. I see lush green hills around me. I see absolute organization and planning. I see this gorgeous land coexisting with impressive urbanization. What I do not see is the colourful clothes of the street children. I cannot smell the oil lamps of the temple. I cannot hear the bell, which was rung a hundred times at dawn and dusk.
Amidst the chaos of this rain- the chaos of this rat race, and the clamour of the status conscious women – I realize I do not fit. I do not belong to this new city, I do not know these rain drops, and I do not own this car.
Day 7
Still no rain here. The monsoon has still not arrived, no rain here at home. The happy faces of the smiling children are with me. In lie in bed clad in white covered with layers of white bed linen. I look out the window. I want to go out but I cannot move. Through the window I see some sky- I see the coconut trees and their leaves shimmering in the 5 ‘o’ clock sun. They are dancing in the salty sea air. The longer I look at these green blades, the longer I wish to continue looking at them.
Day 8
They say it rained last night. I was asleep. When I woke up this morning, I saw no signs of any rainfall. There was no smell of the soil and the leaves did not look any greener. Maybe it is all in my mind. Maybe the leaves this morning were a hundred times brighter. Perhaps the dust had settled and the soil was damp. Maybe the air smelled more of the land than of the sea. I would like to believe that. I would like to wake up tomorrow and experience all the above without thinking so hard about it. When I was with you I could see so much. I think of that morning when the leaves were the brightest, the soil of your fertile land was most fragrant. My senses were so alive. I wish to have that morning back. I wish to walk through the heavy afternoon rain. I wish for the sound of those innumerable raindrops to engulf my mind. Maybe it’s not the rain that I wait for.
Day 9
The breeze was priceless tonight.
Day 10
It begins to drizzle as I sit out here on the steps. The dogs and I enjoy the very scarce but electrifying droplets. I enthusiastically believe that this is rain, when in reality it just a light mist. The breeze is taking the clouds away, I think. I realize that the breeze in my city is unmatched. Leaves of the ‘badaam’ tree are restlessly moving in all directions. The birds are returning to the trees, they are very loud in the evening; I wonder what it is that they discuss. Usually the moment before the rain is heavy, silent, melancholy and unbearable – but it is just a moment. Today that moment is too long. The breeze continues.
One lonely brown leaf falls to the ground. I look at how different the coconut tree is to the ‘badaam’ tree. They stand together but their moves are not the same. I hear the voices of some men quietly speaking in the house next door. They are speaking a language that I do not understand. Our homes stand together but our language is not the same. The mist is gone- there is no electrifying spray. Why does it not rain where I am now?
Day 11
It has been more than two months since I saw the first rain of the monsoon. Been so long since the large raindrop diluted my coffee and your magical sound filled my ear. Yet I am afraid of what it will be like once it does rain. Will my longing end? Is it the monsoon I long for or it something other than just that? August is near its end. Karachi becomes dustier, dirtier, filthier- day by day. We make the money in Sindh and it is invested upcountry. Political chaos, urban decay, over population – all seem to be issues of just Karachi. Sindh suffers.
Friday once was a time when the family got together. The women prepared lunch at home and waited for the men and boys to return from ‘Jumma’ prayers at the mosque. It was a happy day, a day which we spent with our grandparents when we were young. Now Fridays are difficult days. Friday prayer time is a weekly high alert for terrorist activity. Bombs and bomb scares are common. Guards with Kalashnikovs examine the worshippers prior to entering the mosques. Killing machines have made their way into the places of worship. While praying men think of which one of them has a bomb tied to his chest.
Friday afternoons the air is filled with sounds of the ‘ Qutba’ from different mosques, the once calming sound that I associated with brotherhood and camaraderie, is now a sound that I pray passes without being accompanied by blasts. My Karachi seems unfamiliar to me, as if it is no longer mine. The dark gray clouds are back, and evening in Karachi is heavier than ever.
Day 12
I lie alone in the darkness of my room. The light of one tiny torch aids my vision and my ability to write. What makes a distance colossal is the different names of the two places. My dark room has transformed itself into a colourless concrete cube. I see nothing, nothing at all.
Today like most other days, I woke up early and may have procrastinated in bed for near five minutes before stepping out and beginning the day. The day actually began around 5 am, when I sensed dawn approaching through the sheer white curtains of my bedroom. Instantly my hand reached for my eye patch, pink on the outside, boldly stating ‘ Leave me alone’ in thick black letters. Once on my eyes, it was dark again and my sleep got deeper.
I had a strangely detailed and fearful dream earlier in the night. I kept thinking of it all night in my sleep. I am sure I have had similar dreams before, some very close to this one. I dreamt of sitting on a hill by the beach with three others. One my husband and the other two a prominent artist and her theatrical husband, both intellectual and sophisticated. As we sipped white wine under the cloudy afternoon sky, lost in a deep conversation about the arts…we happened to look down the hill and noticed that the large expanse of sea…was now barren. More than half of the sea from shore to sky was void of water. Now there was just debris, black rocks, sand and an awful silence. It is a disastrous idea just to even think of it now.
At the surreal sight of this, I leapt and began to run away from the hill. I kept saying, ‘ the sea has gone back, now it will return, we must run’. But no one except me ran. No one was afraid of the strange and frightfully weird sight. I ran and ran and reach a small room, which looked boat like. Inside were many small children crying, screaming and scurrying about in fear, and one nurse like woman trying to taking care.
I had been correct. The sea was coming back, and with fierceness like never before. The room began to shake and was enveloped by high, strong, dark waves. Saving the children was the task at hand, on my mind though was my husband and the others who still had not returned. But I knew they were fine and on their way. I repeated loudly over and over again ‘ the sea has gone back now it will return…’ The children and two of us were drenched and panicking, the sound of the waves was deafening and the sky was a mouse like dark and curious colour. The dream ended there, but many other short insignificant dreams followed. I know I have had dreams like this one before.
At 9am I ate breakfast; a drink of fruit and yogurt, with toast and some marmalade. I now had the crossword before me to finish.
I had forgotten about the dream, up until now. It is late afternoon and I am writing eagerly, hoping not to forget details as the reality of this day consumes my mind.
Raania.
2008 has been a year of investigation, exploration and realization.
As a student at Bennington College Vermont, USA, being part of a wood firing crew was the most exhilarating experience ever. I remember my first time; after completing the night shift with a crew as young, energetic and enthusiastic as myself, we sat at the dining hall porch overlooking the 'end of the world' 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 recent 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 thrice in Karachi in 2008 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.
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.
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 programme. 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, 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.
As a result of this the audience really ends up not developing an appreciation or understanding for wood fired pottery. Karachi has a thriving arts community where each week major art opening and events take place. The attendance to these visual art showings is reassuring and promises a bright future for Pakistani art. Ceramic exhibits often well attended as well, lack an educated and appreciative audience. There are only a handful of people in the audience who are mainly artists themselves that understand the process, the labour and the aesthetic of wood fired pottery and ceramics. The majority of the audience seeks out, appreciate and purchase ceramics which I categorize as commercial, brightly glazed, formed with a machine like precision, and definitely lacking soul. The maker’s touch and evidence of the process in not appreciated.
In a recent solo exhibit of my wood fired works at a premier gallery 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 wood-fired works prior to mine before and perhaps my impatience with the audience is invalid.
At the exhibit itself I handed out write ups explaining the works and the process involved. Following the exhibit many write ups and interviews contained detailed accounts of the mental, physically and mystical elements of the process and my intent. I only hope that soon enough more opportunities for showcasing wood fired pottery will arise.
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 six 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, institutional red tape; gives the work a young, hurried, unfinished and curious personality, which visually leaves questions for the viewers and myself to answer.
My growth as a wood firer and potter I feel is stunted at times because of the conditions prevalent in the city. Yet it poses many questions, opportunities to vouch for my craft and a struggle, which will eventually result in good for the ceramic arts in Pakistan.
Raania Azam Khan Durrani graduated from Bennington College VT, USA in 2003. She has since then been working as a clay artist and educator in her hometown Karachi, Pakistan where she is living with her husband. Her work has been exhibited nationally, and she has traveled abroad for artist residencies. Raania can be reached via email or through her blog.
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 an 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 Asia 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 etc. but also 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.
2008 4th ACN Cyber & Catalog Exhibition
www.koca21.net
48 artists from 12 countries
China, India, Iran, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Nepal, Pakistan, Singapore, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam
(We have members from 13 countries Included Indonesia)
The snowing cold winter in Korean was marvelous to artists from South-East Asia, and to artists from Central Asia the tropical fruits in the Buddhist country Thailand and Moslem country Malaysia were certainly a pleasant memory. With the relations we have built up through the Network, many of us share an affinity connection of the unique “Eastern scent” without much explanation. ACN has provided ceramic artists from Asia truly remarkable experiences that will continue to encourage and aspire each of us.
I would like to share with you all a piece of good news that a Taiwan artist, Mr. YungHsu Hsu, has just won the Grand Prix at the 2008 International Ceramics Festival, Mino, Japan. Once, a member artist stated: “We expect our juniors can learn the world contemporary ceramic in Asia and grow up in Asia”; with my sincere wishes to all of our dearest members, I would like to keep these words deeply to my heart.
Rayyan’s photography in my opinion is a reflection his curiosity towards his subject, and of the way he experiences cultures, faces and spaces. The strongest being portraits and scapes. The compositions are narrative and very direct. The images have a story to tell and each one making the viewer curious about the next.
Rayyan’s art can be seen on http://rayyandurrani.deviantart.com/
Ceramics is a multi – layered, multi faceted art form & such is clay as a material. I often wonder why viewers, students and even artists do not see this. Why is it that the works and styles of different clay artists, potters and makers are compared as one. During a heated discussion with some clay artists – we all questioned this dilemma we often face and came to a conclusion. The curators, painters, sculptors and others in the Pakistani art community, specifically, need to challenge their thoughts and try to understand the simple fact that just like painting has several forms such as ; miniature, abstract, action, etc – so does ceramics. I found the following lecture interesting and informative. Below are some extracts. To read the full lecture please follow the link : http://ceramicsmuseum.alfred.edu/perkins%5Flect%5Fseries/greenhalgh/ EXTRACTS: Social Complexity and the Historiography of Ceramic Fourth Annual Dorothy Wilson Perkins Lecture
Modernity is not a simple matter in relation to ceramics. If we sit down and list the total number of things that influence the appearance of a piece of ceramic we realize that we are dealing with a plural discourse. That is to say, the number of sources and influences coming to bear on the perception of ceramic, both from the production and the consumption end, mean that it is a priori open to multifarious interpretation; it will never have singular or pure meanings. It will always have boundaries that leak, it will impinge on other spheres and will be impinged upon as a matter of course. It is part of its condition. Virtually without effort we can list sixteen factors which contribute to the visual condition of any ceramic object:
Paul Greenhalgh
Schein-Joseph International Museum of Ceramic Art
at Alfred University
October 14, 2001
Ceramic has no historiography because it has too many histories.
Ceramic has no history because it has too much past.
Ceramic survives. Eventually it becomes the only thing the means anything in a culture.
Ceramic is forced to constantly wear the past in the present but has rarely managed to wear the future in the present.
Ceramic appears nowhere in 'The Story of Art' because it appears everywhere in life.
Ceramic is not modernist, but has been deeply concerned with modernity.
Modernity has been a phased development over several centuries. The phase we have just completed was not particularly conducive to ceramic practice. The next one will be.
Ceramic is a discreet set of stories within the History of Ornamentation.
The maker's personal background (her or his personality, family heritage, sexual preferences, physiology)
The maker's social background (her or his ethnicity, nation, religion, geographic region)
The technical proficiency of the maker (her or his ability to exploit the material)
The consumer's personal background (her or his personality, family heritage, sexual preferences, physiology)
The consumer's social background (her or his ethnicity, nation, religion, geographic region)
The role of the object (it's function)
The history of the specific individual objects (where it has been, who bought it, how it was used)
The class of the object within the genre of ceramics (it's status in relation to other ceramic idioms and objects)
The technical state of the medium (the contemporary condition of the technology and chemistry of ceramic)
The condition of the marketplace
Current general political and social trends
The history of ceramics
The material itself
The history of other genres that relate to ceramics
Current general styles and trends
The social hierarchy of the arts
Sculptural works by Raania A. K Durrani 2008
Medium: Found materials in workshop
Photos by Ciprian Ariciu
Sunday, November 16, 2008
By our correspondent
Karachi
Clay is the medium that lets a person get his hands into the earth – literally. It was this very philosophy and the feel of the ‘Mitti’ that got Sheherzad-e-Alam into clay and ceramic arts. This was shown in an exhibition of clay works titled ‘Earth Fire Water Air’.
She, along with a few other Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture faculty members got together to make clay art. The exhibition featured works of Sheherzad, Sohail Abdullah, Raania Durrani, Rabia Tehmina Shoaib, Ambreen Hameed, Faraz A. Mateen, and Aaliya Yousuf, along with the works of Master Potter, Mohammad Nawaz from Harappa and the works of children of various schools.
The series of workshops titled ‘Ustaad Shagird Workshops’ saw Sheherzad and Nawaz come to Karachi and work in October and November to impart their knowledge to young, old, new and experienced artists. Sheherzad worked with schools of Citizen Foundation in Machharr Colony, Grammar Schools of Lahore and Karachi with children of the age groups 10 to 12 and of 15 to17.
Sheherzad was of the view that until and unless the children get their hands into the mud and clay they will not form a bond or connection with the soil and will remain disjointed with the land. In addition to that clay is the medium in which much of our culture has been preserved and the new generation needs to remember this culture.
Sheherzad-e-Alam’s ceramic pottery was simple yet elegant. She used some Sindhi inspiration in her forms. However, there was one piece that stood out of the rest — a broad based cylinder of sorts which had a couple of the visitors in debate as who wanted to buy the piece more, and who got it booked first.
Raani Durrani’s work followed her characteristic wood fired pottery, similar to her recent exhibit of works baked in the kilns of Japan. This time her pottery though was much more conventional. Sohail Abdullah crafted some conceptual pieces. Making some canteen like vessels. In addition to that he made smooth rock like objects with small oil pools to serve for lamps – radiating the section of the hall with his dancing flames.
Master Potter Nawaz had recreated many of the objects in Harappa Museum for the audiences here to experience the traditional arts. He recreated chess boards, clay models of bull carts, houses, figurines and pots, along with ornaments such as bangles and necklaces.
Among the visitors, Shalale Jamil, a photo artist was enthralled by the pottery. Sculptor Abdul Jabbar Gul too loved the work of Sheherzad . Artist Akbar Ali too loved the work on display.
