The Hazards of Studio Life
All in a days work: I knelt on a tack which left a nice little hole in my knee, nearly missed mistaked a tube of acrylic paint for lip balm, burnt a large patch in my floor with a soldering iron (on top of a tire-sized puddle of previously-spilt wax), and now I'm trying to remove a chunk of glue from my hair.
I'm ready for a break that includes a clean floor and Muppet movies.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Do you ever find yourself in those moments when all the seemingly disparate things that you love collide into one atomic bomb of sheer goodness? Well, that bomb went off for me last Friday night. A random collection of friends and I went out for Ethiopian food at a neighboring restaurant. A couple that I was with had befriended the restaurant owners as they live directly behind the restaurant-- and they're just those fantastic kind of people who take interest in those they walk by.
Oddly, for a Friday evening, the place was empty by 9pm, except for our motley crew. After a feast of curried goat and lentils sopped up by tangy injera, the lights went dim. A South African dj began setting up his table and lights. He came by with small sheets on which we could make our musical requests: regaetone, house, South African, West African, and old school. My friend had spent time in South Africa and swapped some Zulu words back and forth with the spin doctor. With a huge smile, he collected our requests. Donning headphones and the serious pose of a true mix master, he produced a veritable feast of tunes that propelled us onto the dance floor. The Ethiopian wife of one of the chef's came out and danced to C&C Music factory with us. In between Michael Jackson and Enya, we talked to the proprietors, asking them how they found our midwestern city.
Disco lights, new friends, an exchange of cultures- it was truly a taste of heaven.
Oddly, for a Friday evening, the place was empty by 9pm, except for our motley crew. After a feast of curried goat and lentils sopped up by tangy injera, the lights went dim. A South African dj began setting up his table and lights. He came by with small sheets on which we could make our musical requests: regaetone, house, South African, West African, and old school. My friend had spent time in South Africa and swapped some Zulu words back and forth with the spin doctor. With a huge smile, he collected our requests. Donning headphones and the serious pose of a true mix master, he produced a veritable feast of tunes that propelled us onto the dance floor. The Ethiopian wife of one of the chef's came out and danced to C&C Music factory with us. In between Michael Jackson and Enya, we talked to the proprietors, asking them how they found our midwestern city.
Disco lights, new friends, an exchange of cultures- it was truly a taste of heaven.
Friday, November 9, 2007
That's my studio mate, Lisa. She's making sugar-cast little girls. Sometimes she has moments when she feels that all sweetness in the world has turned sour. So she stabs her sugar babies.
The other picture is our crew on Halloween. Previously, Ann-Maree was dressed up as crazy headress lady, Chakia. Too bad there's no photo of that. I'm a sculpture professor that I TA for. Very convincing, let me tell you.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Who do the voo-doo that you do-- so well!Pictured here with a visiting artist, Chakia, a sculptor from NY. I had to hide in the corner of a studio to get my giggly smile to go away before I met with her. Doubled over with silent, painful laughter, I did some cheek excercises until the threat of an outburst passed.
As my friend Ann-Maree described the artist's elaborate accessory-- "Just picture, it's like you wrapped 20 dresses from an African thrift store around your head." I kept dreaming up other articles I wanted to stuff in there-- I decided tube socks dangling from each side, like floppy bunny ears would be pretty funny. Or she could pay homage to destructive tornados and have pieces of siding, perhaps a tree branch jutting out.
And yes, the party's only upstairs. Below the voodoo mama headdress and African printed fabric that was knotted into a top, she wore a navy blue painter's jump suit and paint-splattered Vans. So, somehow, she manages to get paint while balancing a whole wardrobe on her neck.
If only her work was as interesting as her get-up. But that's a tough act to match.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Oh Maya! The semester began with one of those savory moments when you realize that you're reaping the rewards from simply being where you're meant to be. We got to help install a Maya Lin show at a museum here. This one, where we sit like band members, is made of all 2x4's. Lots o' drilling and meticulously puzzle-piecing the smaller tiles-- and photo op's.
Then, we got to be best friends with Maya! We skipped down the sidewalk, ice cream cones in hand. If only. But I can tell you a few insider secrets about Maya. She doesn't like "esoteric" potato chips-- the ones fancy delis give you with spices sprinkled on top. She does like, perhaps only for nostalgia sake, White Castle hamburgers. When we went out to dinner with her after the opening, she had the restaurant serve everyone White Castle-esque burgers, except these tasty bites were made with Kobe steak. And, she has a little chin. If I were that fruit vendor in Amelie, I'd make a Frenchy rhyming song with the phrase, "Maya Lin! Little Chin!"
She also thinks collaboration, mainly b/w artists and architects, is way overrated. I found that interesting-- and refreshingly honest. She's communicates clearly and simply, like a middle school science teacher-- the ones you could listen to for hours. Simple curiosity generates all of her work, leading her to investigate geographical forms and translate them into forceful poetry. Unnh! Go Maya.
Friday, September 21, 2007
I'm Stateside now, but still processing a very full summer in India. I wrote the following over a month ago.
Riding in Cars with Boys
...Means not actually riding in the car. I learned this truth, among many other insights into male traveling preferences, on a spontaneous trip to Nepal last week. I was desperate to leave Delhi. My fellow Texan, Sam needed to renew his Visa by reentering India. He called at 5 pm to let me know that a bus was leaving at 7pm. So, at a moment’s notice, an adventure was born.
In eight minutes I was showered, haphazardly packed, and running down the street to catch an auto. I met up with my friend and his co-worker, Gitesh who would host us with his family in a Nepalese border town. Traffic was against us, and we realized we’d miss our bus, but unanimously, we decided to just take the first bus out of town and see where it took us. I was exhilarated! I’d been in Delhi over a month without having a truly wandering adventure. My smog-burdened soul needed this!
Eighteen hours later, after a series of jack-hammer bus rides through an Indian night, savory roadside paneer, middle of the night chai, and a 5 am cycle rickshaw ride through a wakening farm town, we arrived in Palia, Gitesh’s hometown on the Western border of Nepal. We jumped off the rickshaw in front of a shop selling floor to ceiling housewares—stacks of plastic buckets, thermoses, teacups, flashlights, cutlery. A tall, stern-looking man with a bit of a paunch stood up and greeted us: Gitesh’s father, the shopkeeper. We were home; his family lived above the shop. We climbed freshly mopped marble steps, carefully stepping over stacks of wares, to be met by a grinning mama and a white haired man with huge earlobes.
No sooner had we slumped our greasy, travel-weary, bodies onto his mom’s lace-covered sofa, than we were served a feast of rich, buttery japati, dal, rice, and curried goodness, followed by a plate of julabi (syruppy, golden, deep-fried curly-cue sweets). Contented and weary, my Texan friend and I went into a deep sleep, while Gitesh, energized to be at home, set out to meet old friends and family scattered around the town.
But time was precious, and adventure awaited. Gitesh procured two friends with motorbikes and we were off for a ride through the jungle, in search of lions, tigers and, monkey-eating buffalos. Fact about Indian men: they’re never too grown up to sing songs about high school friendship. Indeed, wild, testosterone-driven bike rides can and should be accompanied by nostalgic sing-alongs. As we rode through a wild life preserve, I was informed that it was my turn to sing. The only song that came to mind was a Hillsongs worship tune, but they gave me backup crooning that encouraged my faltering voice. It began to pour, so we hopped off the bikes to have a proper puddle romp. One of the friends lost his eyeglasses, and I burned my leg on the bike's tailpipe, but these are all details that qualify such an excursion as a true adventure.
The following day we were to cross the border into Nepal, but we woke to flooded streets. It had been raining all night, and there were no signs of letting up. On a mission for his morning cigarette, Gitesh rolled up his trousers and sloshed through 18" high flowing water. Sam, a burgeoning filmmaker put his skills to work, and the two of us made a riveting short film about two paper boats-- the S.S. Mongoose and the Black Pearl. It was a complicated plot involving spying monkeys with laser guns and a scandalous love affair. I'll let you know when it's out in theaters.
By mid afternoon, the rains have died down, and Gitesh deems the streets driveable. We haven't been driving for ten minutes, before Gitesh climbs out of the little sedan's window onto the roof of the car, hooting and hollering, "I'm the king of the jungle!" It's not long before I assume the role of the queen of the jungle right beside him. The view is much better from above, I conclude, as we cruise through the verdant jungle landscape replete with frolicking monkeys and statuesque termite pillars. After constant thudding against the roofrack, my butt starts to hurt, but Gitesh reminds me that "comfort and excitement do not go together."
Though we barely cross the border, the difference between the two countries is noticable. Nepal is more serene, quiet, cleaner. And we saw a pig with the hugest balls you've ever seen. I think he was rabid as well-- I pity the lady he descends upon! We splash around in a creek and, again, ride on the rooftop through the foothills. Glorious.
But more beautiful than the scenery was the send-off by Gitesh's family. A mom's tears for his son, cheek-pinching, hugs, gift-giving, and some cheek kisses. His mom gave me beautiful bejewelled, green fabric to have a suit made.
On the long bus ride home, I made the boys play "Masher" with me. (Any girl who was a junior-higher in the 90's knows what I'm talking about.) Actually, the boys were more into it than I was. Sweet Gitesh wasn't mean enough to give Sam the crappy options, like New Jersey for the honeymoon. I think I ended up with McDreamy in Mumbai. The rest of the night Gitesh and I talked about how faith has shaped, or does not shape, what we believe to be possible. Suffice to say, I learned alot-- and gained a brother.
I return to Delhi exhausted, greasy, and with mosquito bites dotting my face-- but oh so content.
Riding in Cars with Boys
...Means not actually riding in the car. I learned this truth, among many other insights into male traveling preferences, on a spontaneous trip to Nepal last week. I was desperate to leave Delhi. My fellow Texan, Sam needed to renew his Visa by reentering India. He called at 5 pm to let me know that a bus was leaving at 7pm. So, at a moment’s notice, an adventure was born.
In eight minutes I was showered, haphazardly packed, and running down the street to catch an auto. I met up with my friend and his co-worker, Gitesh who would host us with his family in a Nepalese border town. Traffic was against us, and we realized we’d miss our bus, but unanimously, we decided to just take the first bus out of town and see where it took us. I was exhilarated! I’d been in Delhi over a month without having a truly wandering adventure. My smog-burdened soul needed this!
Eighteen hours later, after a series of jack-hammer bus rides through an Indian night, savory roadside paneer, middle of the night chai, and a 5 am cycle rickshaw ride through a wakening farm town, we arrived in Palia, Gitesh’s hometown on the Western border of Nepal. We jumped off the rickshaw in front of a shop selling floor to ceiling housewares—stacks of plastic buckets, thermoses, teacups, flashlights, cutlery. A tall, stern-looking man with a bit of a paunch stood up and greeted us: Gitesh’s father, the shopkeeper. We were home; his family lived above the shop. We climbed freshly mopped marble steps, carefully stepping over stacks of wares, to be met by a grinning mama and a white haired man with huge earlobes.
No sooner had we slumped our greasy, travel-weary, bodies onto his mom’s lace-covered sofa, than we were served a feast of rich, buttery japati, dal, rice, and curried goodness, followed by a plate of julabi (syruppy, golden, deep-fried curly-cue sweets). Contented and weary, my Texan friend and I went into a deep sleep, while Gitesh, energized to be at home, set out to meet old friends and family scattered around the town.
But time was precious, and adventure awaited. Gitesh procured two friends with motorbikes and we were off for a ride through the jungle, in search of lions, tigers and, monkey-eating buffalos. Fact about Indian men: they’re never too grown up to sing songs about high school friendship. Indeed, wild, testosterone-driven bike rides can and should be accompanied by nostalgic sing-alongs. As we rode through a wild life preserve, I was informed that it was my turn to sing. The only song that came to mind was a Hillsongs worship tune, but they gave me backup crooning that encouraged my faltering voice. It began to pour, so we hopped off the bikes to have a proper puddle romp. One of the friends lost his eyeglasses, and I burned my leg on the bike's tailpipe, but these are all details that qualify such an excursion as a true adventure.
The following day we were to cross the border into Nepal, but we woke to flooded streets. It had been raining all night, and there were no signs of letting up. On a mission for his morning cigarette, Gitesh rolled up his trousers and sloshed through 18" high flowing water. Sam, a burgeoning filmmaker put his skills to work, and the two of us made a riveting short film about two paper boats-- the S.S. Mongoose and the Black Pearl. It was a complicated plot involving spying monkeys with laser guns and a scandalous love affair. I'll let you know when it's out in theaters.
By mid afternoon, the rains have died down, and Gitesh deems the streets driveable. We haven't been driving for ten minutes, before Gitesh climbs out of the little sedan's window onto the roof of the car, hooting and hollering, "I'm the king of the jungle!" It's not long before I assume the role of the queen of the jungle right beside him. The view is much better from above, I conclude, as we cruise through the verdant jungle landscape replete with frolicking monkeys and statuesque termite pillars. After constant thudding against the roofrack, my butt starts to hurt, but Gitesh reminds me that "comfort and excitement do not go together."
Though we barely cross the border, the difference between the two countries is noticable. Nepal is more serene, quiet, cleaner. And we saw a pig with the hugest balls you've ever seen. I think he was rabid as well-- I pity the lady he descends upon! We splash around in a creek and, again, ride on the rooftop through the foothills. Glorious.
But more beautiful than the scenery was the send-off by Gitesh's family. A mom's tears for his son, cheek-pinching, hugs, gift-giving, and some cheek kisses. His mom gave me beautiful bejewelled, green fabric to have a suit made.
On the long bus ride home, I made the boys play "Masher" with me. (Any girl who was a junior-higher in the 90's knows what I'm talking about.) Actually, the boys were more into it than I was. Sweet Gitesh wasn't mean enough to give Sam the crappy options, like New Jersey for the honeymoon. I think I ended up with McDreamy in Mumbai. The rest of the night Gitesh and I talked about how faith has shaped, or does not shape, what we believe to be possible. Suffice to say, I learned alot-- and gained a brother.
I return to Delhi exhausted, greasy, and with mosquito bites dotting my face-- but oh so content.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Guerilla Mission Accomplished
We put the posters up in Delhi today, I and a photographer accomplice who documented the mission. The posters were woodcut prints of myself, trying to make sense of India-- I know, hard to picture without a visual. But maybe it's better that way. We went to a bustling hub in the city, I with my fat brush, tub of glue, and armful of hand-printed posters. It's funny how having a mission can give you a sense of ownership over a place, particularly an enigmatic and overwhelming city like Delhi.
I'm seeing the clear advantages of displaying art in a non-major art city, as it's easier to create interest. I put up a poster on a trash can in a crowded bazaar, and before I had half the sheet glued down, a small, inquisitive crowd had gathered. I did avoid the metro station for a weenie fear of security cameras and guards galore, though I was prepared to bribe policemen. But only two people discouraged me and both were very polite, one saying "Please, miss, this is not possible. Is not permitted. I'm sorry miss." Another followed me after I'd just pasted one, apologetically explaining, "I do not know if this is legal. There may be some law, I do not know. I just thought you should know." Sweet, really. Other responses included: "What is this? A poster for a missing child?" and "Miss, what is the meaning? I thought maybe this was some terrorist..."
We avoided dialogue, although my intention wasn't to be evasive about meaning-- crowds just happen too quickly in Delhi. I mostly gave short anwswers like, "It's art." And they seemed happy with that answer, some very much so, as one man exclaimed, "Yes! This is fantastic!" I think my accomplice and I both had that odd satisfaction that often comes with putting yourself in uncomfortable, vulnerable positions. And I was reminded how much I love art outside of galleries-- and I'm not talking about big red metal things.
TV Land
I was there today, although I can't tell you exactly what it was like. I was on the morning news, but I didn't actually see my debut-- was just told I'd be airing at 8:30 this morning. A film crew came to the Village yesterday after seeing a press release about the upcoming residency exhibition. So they interviewed and filmed a few of us. It's encouraging that art creates as much interest as it does here. I think I'd maybe take interest over understanding, if I had to choose. Interest, in general, implies a humility I think, that there's something that you don't know and want to be taught. Of course, I'm not talking about the fake, patronizing interest-- though that's not necessarily bad. Or maybe it's assumed understanding that can be so disappointing-- on either end, for the audience who refuses to engage the art, ask the difficult questions because they believe to already understand-- and for the artist who assumes the audience can read his mind and does not need to be further engaged.
We put the posters up in Delhi today, I and a photographer accomplice who documented the mission. The posters were woodcut prints of myself, trying to make sense of India-- I know, hard to picture without a visual. But maybe it's better that way. We went to a bustling hub in the city, I with my fat brush, tub of glue, and armful of hand-printed posters. It's funny how having a mission can give you a sense of ownership over a place, particularly an enigmatic and overwhelming city like Delhi.
I'm seeing the clear advantages of displaying art in a non-major art city, as it's easier to create interest. I put up a poster on a trash can in a crowded bazaar, and before I had half the sheet glued down, a small, inquisitive crowd had gathered. I did avoid the metro station for a weenie fear of security cameras and guards galore, though I was prepared to bribe policemen. But only two people discouraged me and both were very polite, one saying "Please, miss, this is not possible. Is not permitted. I'm sorry miss." Another followed me after I'd just pasted one, apologetically explaining, "I do not know if this is legal. There may be some law, I do not know. I just thought you should know." Sweet, really. Other responses included: "What is this? A poster for a missing child?" and "Miss, what is the meaning? I thought maybe this was some terrorist..."
We avoided dialogue, although my intention wasn't to be evasive about meaning-- crowds just happen too quickly in Delhi. I mostly gave short anwswers like, "It's art." And they seemed happy with that answer, some very much so, as one man exclaimed, "Yes! This is fantastic!" I think my accomplice and I both had that odd satisfaction that often comes with putting yourself in uncomfortable, vulnerable positions. And I was reminded how much I love art outside of galleries-- and I'm not talking about big red metal things.
TV Land
I was there today, although I can't tell you exactly what it was like. I was on the morning news, but I didn't actually see my debut-- was just told I'd be airing at 8:30 this morning. A film crew came to the Village yesterday after seeing a press release about the upcoming residency exhibition. So they interviewed and filmed a few of us. It's encouraging that art creates as much interest as it does here. I think I'd maybe take interest over understanding, if I had to choose. Interest, in general, implies a humility I think, that there's something that you don't know and want to be taught. Of course, I'm not talking about the fake, patronizing interest-- though that's not necessarily bad. Or maybe it's assumed understanding that can be so disappointing-- on either end, for the audience who refuses to engage the art, ask the difficult questions because they believe to already understand-- and for the artist who assumes the audience can read his mind and does not need to be further engaged.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Snakes on an Auto!
Oh no he di-int. (Yes, he did.) The crazed man asking for money done shoved his coiled reptilian friend in my face! He wasn't asking for money. He was threatening, with beady eyes, screaming demands for money, shoving a slithering snake on my lap. Like the exploited snake, I too coiled back, against my friend sitting beside me in the auto rickshaw. We were stuck in traffic. We couldn't go anywhere. The driver calmly told the crazy fool "Nay, nay," gently shooing him away. I'm sorry, gently shooing doesn't work with snake-wielding vigilantes. So I shout at him; my Taiwanese friend gets more insistent than I've ever heard him. This went on for a very long minute.
Okay, I think I'm over that. Just wanted to offer some solice to you guys beating your steering wheel during rush hour in the States-- at least there are no snakes in your auto.
Oh no he di-int. (Yes, he did.) The crazed man asking for money done shoved his coiled reptilian friend in my face! He wasn't asking for money. He was threatening, with beady eyes, screaming demands for money, shoving a slithering snake on my lap. Like the exploited snake, I too coiled back, against my friend sitting beside me in the auto rickshaw. We were stuck in traffic. We couldn't go anywhere. The driver calmly told the crazy fool "Nay, nay," gently shooing him away. I'm sorry, gently shooing doesn't work with snake-wielding vigilantes. So I shout at him; my Taiwanese friend gets more insistent than I've ever heard him. This went on for a very long minute.
Okay, I think I'm over that. Just wanted to offer some solice to you guys beating your steering wheel during rush hour in the States-- at least there are no snakes in your auto.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Thank God for Birthdays
What would I do without birthdays in India? I hadn't had wine or brownies since I've been here-- almost a month! So, the occasion called, and I found an expensive imported grocery store with all sorts of goodies, including Duncan Hines double fudge brownie mix. Wendy, a vivacious New Foundler made a Mexican dinner (is that allowed, asks the Texan-- apparently, if she can conjure cheddar cheese and tortilla chips this side of the GMT). Preparations were only momentarily interupted by a too-large and too-close-for-comfort rodent. Some of the staff shooed it outside eventually, after having a good laugh at us dancing to avoid the beast.
Takin' it to the Streets
After another frustrating delay in promised materials, I've adopted the screw-it attitude. In my art-making process, this attitude usually means something exciting is coming. Lest I make empty proclamations, I'll just stop at saying, "Look out. Tori's taking guerilla printmaking to the streets of Delhi." Pray she doesn't get arrested and that cheap craft glue sticks to cement in monsoon rains.
Delhi Art Scene
We got another glimpse into the Indian art scene today. A friend of a friend's here owns a gallery and was kind enough to pick us up, show us some work he privately collects. There seem to be two buzz words with curators in Delhi, "modern" and "contemporary." Beyond that, the art world seems to lack much definition while remaining in a narrow classification. Galleries, at least in Delhi, seem to mostly show paintings and some bulky abstract sculptures, most of which seem derivative of Western modernist work. India's at a very funny place right now, deciding what it will be. It's an exciting time for a fascinating country, but I hope that it has the wisdom to look outside of the Now and: 1) consider and take pride in its heritage and 2) look at what's being done in the art world internationally. I believe in you, India! Rise up!
New Favorite Street Treats:
chaat-- oh my goodness. you haven't lived until you've tried this. A gloppy, messy, street finger food with fried potatoes, other fried batter goodies, sweet yogurt, chickpeas, chili sauce.
water balls (I forget the Hindi word) fried hollow ping-pong sized balls that they dip in this vat of spicy cold broth with a miscellany of spices and vegetables. You then pop the whole thing in your mouth. Delish!
What would I do without birthdays in India? I hadn't had wine or brownies since I've been here-- almost a month! So, the occasion called, and I found an expensive imported grocery store with all sorts of goodies, including Duncan Hines double fudge brownie mix. Wendy, a vivacious New Foundler made a Mexican dinner (is that allowed, asks the Texan-- apparently, if she can conjure cheddar cheese and tortilla chips this side of the GMT). Preparations were only momentarily interupted by a too-large and too-close-for-comfort rodent. Some of the staff shooed it outside eventually, after having a good laugh at us dancing to avoid the beast.
Takin' it to the Streets
After another frustrating delay in promised materials, I've adopted the screw-it attitude. In my art-making process, this attitude usually means something exciting is coming. Lest I make empty proclamations, I'll just stop at saying, "Look out. Tori's taking guerilla printmaking to the streets of Delhi." Pray she doesn't get arrested and that cheap craft glue sticks to cement in monsoon rains.
Delhi Art Scene
We got another glimpse into the Indian art scene today. A friend of a friend's here owns a gallery and was kind enough to pick us up, show us some work he privately collects. There seem to be two buzz words with curators in Delhi, "modern" and "contemporary." Beyond that, the art world seems to lack much definition while remaining in a narrow classification. Galleries, at least in Delhi, seem to mostly show paintings and some bulky abstract sculptures, most of which seem derivative of Western modernist work. India's at a very funny place right now, deciding what it will be. It's an exciting time for a fascinating country, but I hope that it has the wisdom to look outside of the Now and: 1) consider and take pride in its heritage and 2) look at what's being done in the art world internationally. I believe in you, India! Rise up!
New Favorite Street Treats:
chaat-- oh my goodness. you haven't lived until you've tried this. A gloppy, messy, street finger food with fried potatoes, other fried batter goodies, sweet yogurt, chickpeas, chili sauce.
water balls (I forget the Hindi word) fried hollow ping-pong sized balls that they dip in this vat of spicy cold broth with a miscellany of spices and vegetables. You then pop the whole thing in your mouth. Delish!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
I made the entertainment pages again, what can I say. Mom must be proud. A rather large, awkward photo of me standing outside a concert hall, hands awkwardly holding phone, camera, bag. (Does anyone else have issues knowing what their body is doing? For me, my hands and wrists are my deviant appendages-- I'm never quite sure what they're up to.)
New topic of great rejoicing:
I'm going to the mountains! I'm going to the mountains! Yay wafer-thin air, bumpety bus ride, night sky chalk full o' stars! I love the mountains, don't get those much back home. I'm forfeiting the Taj to go, but I don't think I'll regret it. I need some God-made goodness.
That's in 2 weeks, so I have plenty of motivation to work hard.
Another celebratory commentary:
Spent the day with delightful folk at the church, helping w/ some publication stuff. They've got the greatest community, heartily fun, genuine, and kind. I pray that it grows and grows to include people who desperately need that. And that God would make them even bigger dreamers. India's full of dreamy floaters and pragmatic doers-- how powerful to have the church be made of big-dreaming doers!
New topic of great rejoicing:
I'm going to the mountains! I'm going to the mountains! Yay wafer-thin air, bumpety bus ride, night sky chalk full o' stars! I love the mountains, don't get those much back home. I'm forfeiting the Taj to go, but I don't think I'll regret it. I need some God-made goodness.
That's in 2 weeks, so I have plenty of motivation to work hard.
Another celebratory commentary:
Spent the day with delightful folk at the church, helping w/ some publication stuff. They've got the greatest community, heartily fun, genuine, and kind. I pray that it grows and grows to include people who desperately need that. And that God would make them even bigger dreamers. India's full of dreamy floaters and pragmatic doers-- how powerful to have the church be made of big-dreaming doers!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Multiple Choice Question:
Today, your state of mind could best be compared to:
A) The mangy dog taking a dump in the middle of oncoming traffic, sniffing upwards at the exhaust-filled air, unaffected by the buses, taxis, and motorbikes swervering around him.
B) The wild-eyed autorickshaw driver puffing nervously at his cigarette while dodging cow road blocks and acrobatic pan-handling children.
C) That banana leaf paper tray, once so beautiful as it cradled syrupy golden sweets, now trampled underfoot by apathetic cows nosing their way through piles of garbage.
As I've come across these images lately, I think I can make an informed decision: the last, C.
It had been a productive morning, placing orders for materials with an actual person, finding myself contentedly dirtied by studio work, so I thought I could spare an excursion afternoon. My adventure buddy, Anne and I took off for Old Delhi. Yes, New Delhi has its evil twin, Old Delhi. Actually, sometimes the two swap places, making things very confusing. We were set on seeing big old things, the city's oldest and biggest mosque, Jama Mashtid, and Lal Qila, a walled red fort perched atop a hill. (To you Roman historians, it seems to stretch the size of Circus Maximus!)
The fort was closed, so we made our way to a Hindu temple that appeared to be open. As customary, we took off our shoes to tiptoe through suspiciously colored puddles and fresh bird poo. (Turns out, the back of the temple housed a bird hospital decorated with the most marvelous informational painting depicting how birds get hurt: young boys armed with kites and sling shots seem to be the targeted culprits, followed by the often demonized carnivorous cat.) The interior of the temple was closed, so we flagged down a cycle rickshaw and, after incessantly insisting that, "No, we don't want the grand Old Delhi tour," had him drop us at the old mosque.
Let's just say women, especially foreign women, beware Jama Mashtid. We had our heads covered, but not well enough, I suppose. They rifled through our purses, charged us camera fees, and kept pointing at a rules signboard as we watched other non-Muslim but Indian women file through. They kept us outside the gates, telling us to wait. Again, us watching other women, many with heads uncovered, walk past. A small crowd gathered, men wanting to tell us what the mosque rules were, some very passionate, and it became a game of sorts, one that grew in number. After a vehement, "Shoes down! Shoes down!" (We were standing with shoes in hand to give to the appropriate shoe-keeper.), We forfeited and left, without seeing the splendor that lay past the entrance. I'll return eventually, I'm sure.
You know, one of my motivating reasons for coming here was to empathize with those who struggle to belong in cultures they find themselves in. So, along those lines, I'm grateful for today. Love for people and places must be tested before one can proudly don the "I heart Delhi" T-shirt, literally and metaphorically.
Today, your state of mind could best be compared to:
A) The mangy dog taking a dump in the middle of oncoming traffic, sniffing upwards at the exhaust-filled air, unaffected by the buses, taxis, and motorbikes swervering around him.
B) The wild-eyed autorickshaw driver puffing nervously at his cigarette while dodging cow road blocks and acrobatic pan-handling children.
C) That banana leaf paper tray, once so beautiful as it cradled syrupy golden sweets, now trampled underfoot by apathetic cows nosing their way through piles of garbage.
As I've come across these images lately, I think I can make an informed decision: the last, C.
It had been a productive morning, placing orders for materials with an actual person, finding myself contentedly dirtied by studio work, so I thought I could spare an excursion afternoon. My adventure buddy, Anne and I took off for Old Delhi. Yes, New Delhi has its evil twin, Old Delhi. Actually, sometimes the two swap places, making things very confusing. We were set on seeing big old things, the city's oldest and biggest mosque, Jama Mashtid, and Lal Qila, a walled red fort perched atop a hill. (To you Roman historians, it seems to stretch the size of Circus Maximus!)
The fort was closed, so we made our way to a Hindu temple that appeared to be open. As customary, we took off our shoes to tiptoe through suspiciously colored puddles and fresh bird poo. (Turns out, the back of the temple housed a bird hospital decorated with the most marvelous informational painting depicting how birds get hurt: young boys armed with kites and sling shots seem to be the targeted culprits, followed by the often demonized carnivorous cat.) The interior of the temple was closed, so we flagged down a cycle rickshaw and, after incessantly insisting that, "No, we don't want the grand Old Delhi tour," had him drop us at the old mosque.
Let's just say women, especially foreign women, beware Jama Mashtid. We had our heads covered, but not well enough, I suppose. They rifled through our purses, charged us camera fees, and kept pointing at a rules signboard as we watched other non-Muslim but Indian women file through. They kept us outside the gates, telling us to wait. Again, us watching other women, many with heads uncovered, walk past. A small crowd gathered, men wanting to tell us what the mosque rules were, some very passionate, and it became a game of sorts, one that grew in number. After a vehement, "Shoes down! Shoes down!" (We were standing with shoes in hand to give to the appropriate shoe-keeper.), We forfeited and left, without seeing the splendor that lay past the entrance. I'll return eventually, I'm sure.
You know, one of my motivating reasons for coming here was to empathize with those who struggle to belong in cultures they find themselves in. So, along those lines, I'm grateful for today. Love for people and places must be tested before one can proudly don the "I heart Delhi" T-shirt, literally and metaphorically.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
One big ARRG. Perhaps it's a bad idea to blog when one is grouchy, but I just want India to hear me if she's listening-- Whyyyyyyyyy? I can't accomplish a thing today-- incorrect email addresses, blocked credit cards, non-existent paper factories, promises long expired, air so thick it seems to suffocate, flies that don't understand boundaries.
I will write more when things look up because I know they will soon... all about perspective and reminding myself that "those who hope in the Lord won't be disappointed." Ice cream sure would help though.
I will write more when things look up because I know they will soon... all about perspective and reminding myself that "those who hope in the Lord won't be disappointed." Ice cream sure would help though.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Going to the Movies
It had been a long day, and a few of us needed to escape the large group. (I can see why there's alot of pot-smoking in hippie communes.) So we hopped in a taxi headed for the MegaMall, a bright, blinking, winking block of glowing advertisements, distantly flanked by the more common stacked concrete shops with spilling store fronts and hand-painted signage.
Nothing like escaping the dusty, steamy, beeping city in an AC movie theatre. Think Baskin Robbins, coffee shops, even brownies! Okay, not so fast on the brownie perk-- we made them give us the biggest one they had to discover it tasted... like fish. Ick. Going to the movies here is like boarding a plane. You get a ticket with an assigned seat and have to wait in a designated area before you have your bags security-checked and are then escorted into the theater. The best part of the movie was pre-screening commercials: twirling, starry eyed children and seductive mothers in sequinned halter tops mothers gleeflully shouting about an orange drink, "Manzanahhh!"
Today is a work day-- I'm trying my hand at some plaster molds. Not surprisingly, the plaster here behaves a bit differently...
It had been a long day, and a few of us needed to escape the large group. (I can see why there's alot of pot-smoking in hippie communes.) So we hopped in a taxi headed for the MegaMall, a bright, blinking, winking block of glowing advertisements, distantly flanked by the more common stacked concrete shops with spilling store fronts and hand-painted signage.
Nothing like escaping the dusty, steamy, beeping city in an AC movie theatre. Think Baskin Robbins, coffee shops, even brownies! Okay, not so fast on the brownie perk-- we made them give us the biggest one they had to discover it tasted... like fish. Ick. Going to the movies here is like boarding a plane. You get a ticket with an assigned seat and have to wait in a designated area before you have your bags security-checked and are then escorted into the theater. The best part of the movie was pre-screening commercials: twirling, starry eyed children and seductive mothers in sequinned halter tops mothers gleeflully shouting about an orange drink, "Manzanahhh!"
Today is a work day-- I'm trying my hand at some plaster molds. Not surprisingly, the plaster here behaves a bit differently...
How do you spell relief? In a Delhi summer, I spell it r-a-i-n. It’s been mostly grey today, but nobody’s complaining.
I think I may just do a performance piece here with foliage wrapped around my body. There’s plenty of that here, and it’s proven very difficult to get the materials I need. I’ve been in countries with slower time sensibilities, but India takes the cake, or, shall I say the sweetmeats.
I am rather excited about a field trip I take tomorrow to a paper-making factory run by an NGO where mentally disabled children make the paper.
Handiwork seen around Global Arts Village today:
-roof-thatching: apparently a dying art here, incredibly time-consuming.
-iron work: two workers hand-bending iron around a pattern sketched on plywood
-poo-smearing: women re-mud the floors of an outdoor yoga area with a cow poo/mud mixture—to think that each morning we salute the sun atop a mound o’ dung!
Favorite Tasty Treats:
-lichee fruits—the most wonderful texture, perfect amount of sweet—mmm!
-paneer-- (a mild, firm cheese) cooked Italian-style with roasted peppers and tomatoes
-mangoes—‘tis the season! Sticky orange dribble down the chin...
I think I may just do a performance piece here with foliage wrapped around my body. There’s plenty of that here, and it’s proven very difficult to get the materials I need. I’ve been in countries with slower time sensibilities, but India takes the cake, or, shall I say the sweetmeats.
I am rather excited about a field trip I take tomorrow to a paper-making factory run by an NGO where mentally disabled children make the paper.
Handiwork seen around Global Arts Village today:
-roof-thatching: apparently a dying art here, incredibly time-consuming.
-iron work: two workers hand-bending iron around a pattern sketched on plywood
-poo-smearing: women re-mud the floors of an outdoor yoga area with a cow poo/mud mixture—to think that each morning we salute the sun atop a mound o’ dung!
Favorite Tasty Treats:
-lichee fruits—the most wonderful texture, perfect amount of sweet—mmm!
-paneer-- (a mild, firm cheese) cooked Italian-style with roasted peppers and tomatoes
-mangoes—‘tis the season! Sticky orange dribble down the chin...
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Dance Dance Revolution
Because I’m living with two very on-the go nineteen year olds, I found myself at a dance club on a weeknight. They’d been wanting to check out the Indian discotheque scene, so we were directed to a generically posh bar, the equivalent of one of Dallas’ West Village dives. Fancy hors deuvres, young professionals in trendy attire, flat screen TV in the corner showing a New York fashion show—none of these elements were conducive to the kind of dancing I wanted to do, namely bad dancing.
But the night was young and the foreigners were getting restless, so I strapped on my spelunking headlamp that I’d stashed in my jeans pocket. My makeshift strobe light and killer moves, I daresay, got that party started. Even our friend Musto, a self-proclaimed King of Indian Cool, strapped my winking accessory on his head. Just wait, the trend should be hitting the States anytime now.
You Know You’ve Made it When...
You find your picture in the Delhi Times. That’s right, Monday, June 25, 2007, yours truly was pictured with her posse in the local paper. Again, I found myself at a place I hadn’t planned to be (quite common these days); it was supposed to be a free dance concert given by the Ministry of Sound. (Whoever thought one of the five senses needed its own governmental department is a genius!) But before the dancing started, we had to sit through some power point presentation on kidney transplants because everything free comes with a mind-numbing “brought to you by....” Then, some rolly polly man sat on stage with his instrumental gang and chanted jibberish for over an hour. There was a steady stream of anxious escapees, including us. As soon as we burst through the exit doors of freedom, we were greeted by journalists from Delhi Times who wanted to know how we liked the show, if they could take our picture, and what our names were. To which I responded, “Heck no, Sure, and Violet, Gladys, a Darlene—no, not Darling, Dar-leen.” So there we were in print, posing like fools with our alias names underneath, claiming to have enjoyed the show immensely.
Family Reunion
I’ve found them, my long lost Indian family! To all who have been praying that I would find a spiritual family here, thank you. Your prayers were answered, quite miraculously I might add. Last week a young man came in for an interview here at the Village and had sitting beside him a copy of Bonhoffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. My heart leaped. The conversation started there. We had lunch together and before he left I had an invitation to church and promises of prayerful support.
So Sunday morning, this man, Chris and his adorable girlfriend picked me up, and I spent the rest of the day with them, returning home at midnight. I think the happiest moments of my life have been worshipping with brothers and sisters in other countries. Joyful tears sprang up in my eyes at the first note of Blessed be the Name. We spent the day lunching, lounging, and then celebrating one of the youth’s birthday celebrations in his home with homemade food and sing-alongs. And! I ran into a guy at this same church with whom I went to high school! God is so funny, no? It was the best day yet. I left with a phone full of numbers, a new family, and a contented soul.
Under a Monsoon Sky
It’s coming, or so they keep saying. Just wait for the rains. Last night, I climbed atop the flat roof of the Village’s main building and watched the sky pulse with light, each piece of sky seeming to have its own heart beat. A refreshingly cool breeze, warm concrete on my back, and distant rumbles lulled me to sleep. Perhaps the most memorable thing I’ve experienced here. And it had nothing to do with culture.
Because I’m living with two very on-the go nineteen year olds, I found myself at a dance club on a weeknight. They’d been wanting to check out the Indian discotheque scene, so we were directed to a generically posh bar, the equivalent of one of Dallas’ West Village dives. Fancy hors deuvres, young professionals in trendy attire, flat screen TV in the corner showing a New York fashion show—none of these elements were conducive to the kind of dancing I wanted to do, namely bad dancing.
But the night was young and the foreigners were getting restless, so I strapped on my spelunking headlamp that I’d stashed in my jeans pocket. My makeshift strobe light and killer moves, I daresay, got that party started. Even our friend Musto, a self-proclaimed King of Indian Cool, strapped my winking accessory on his head. Just wait, the trend should be hitting the States anytime now.
You Know You’ve Made it When...
You find your picture in the Delhi Times. That’s right, Monday, June 25, 2007, yours truly was pictured with her posse in the local paper. Again, I found myself at a place I hadn’t planned to be (quite common these days); it was supposed to be a free dance concert given by the Ministry of Sound. (Whoever thought one of the five senses needed its own governmental department is a genius!) But before the dancing started, we had to sit through some power point presentation on kidney transplants because everything free comes with a mind-numbing “brought to you by....” Then, some rolly polly man sat on stage with his instrumental gang and chanted jibberish for over an hour. There was a steady stream of anxious escapees, including us. As soon as we burst through the exit doors of freedom, we were greeted by journalists from Delhi Times who wanted to know how we liked the show, if they could take our picture, and what our names were. To which I responded, “Heck no, Sure, and Violet, Gladys, a Darlene—no, not Darling, Dar-leen.” So there we were in print, posing like fools with our alias names underneath, claiming to have enjoyed the show immensely.
Family Reunion
I’ve found them, my long lost Indian family! To all who have been praying that I would find a spiritual family here, thank you. Your prayers were answered, quite miraculously I might add. Last week a young man came in for an interview here at the Village and had sitting beside him a copy of Bonhoffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. My heart leaped. The conversation started there. We had lunch together and before he left I had an invitation to church and promises of prayerful support.
So Sunday morning, this man, Chris and his adorable girlfriend picked me up, and I spent the rest of the day with them, returning home at midnight. I think the happiest moments of my life have been worshipping with brothers and sisters in other countries. Joyful tears sprang up in my eyes at the first note of Blessed be the Name. We spent the day lunching, lounging, and then celebrating one of the youth’s birthday celebrations in his home with homemade food and sing-alongs. And! I ran into a guy at this same church with whom I went to high school! God is so funny, no? It was the best day yet. I left with a phone full of numbers, a new family, and a contented soul.
Under a Monsoon Sky
It’s coming, or so they keep saying. Just wait for the rains. Last night, I climbed atop the flat roof of the Village’s main building and watched the sky pulse with light, each piece of sky seeming to have its own heart beat. A refreshingly cool breeze, warm concrete on my back, and distant rumbles lulled me to sleep. Perhaps the most memorable thing I’ve experienced here. And it had nothing to do with culture.
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