rearranging reality

Hello friends.  I’ve missed you, really…
A little reverse chronological order:

I cherish the squat toilets, funny English, cold bucket “showers” that drench the bathroom,  and signs on the road such as “be gentle on my curves”.

This morning I ate brown bread for the first time in a month.  Such deliciousness in my system was well worth the 30 rupees.

From my somewhat damp but warm and soft enough bed this morning, the sun rose directly outside my window.  Outside of it I see down the hillside of Darjeeling, and mountains faint with fog in the far distance.

At a monestary near Kechupuri (sp?) Lake in Sikkim, I saw the snow-capped Himaliyas for the first time.  Mountains are SO powerful - the day just before I hiked 30 kms to reach this tiny heaven, a little Shangrila, and the inclines happily kicked my lungs and butt.  Just seeing the distant peaks that morning was something of a darshan experience - hiking up the mountain to the monestary I met “the reincarnation of Patma Samba Wa” who “hadn’t eaten for 7 years” and was on his way to Darmsala to get “recognized by the Dalai Lama”.  He had told me that the next morning would be significant (and gave me an orange candy - thought it would make me see purple but it didn’t).

Palla, or father, runs the guest house at the monestary.  He is a tiny man whose face would take a lifetime to explore and a heart that cares for little boys and girls of the monestary as well as Ferengi travellers.  His warmth provided Stephane (my French/Canadian Sikkim traveling buddy) and I (upon our arrival) with warm tea, a hot bucket! with which to bathe, big beers, a warm fire, and a hug.  A taste of commune life - I took the job of giving compliments.  SO HARD.

Sikkim is remarkably well developed.  Compared to Darjeeling, in which electricity and water are not givens.

The train-ride to Kolkata - speaking to people about my travels, I received so much skepticism about traveling alone.  Watch your bags, keep your money with you, trust no one.  If I can trust no one, can’t I trust anyone?  Do surveillance, paranoia, and fear increase crime by making it a possibility, a forbidden fruit?  The men and women I encountered during my train travels were absolute sweethearts.  They taught me Bengali, warned me against eating cashews because they would make my throat worse, told me where to get off, and gave me cookies and chai.  I dreamt about working in northern BC but having a constant source of chai-wallas to refresh me as I worked.

I saw cows with their horns painted different colors, goats, dogs, children playing, women doing laundry on the tracks (didn’t their mother tell them!), cities becoming farms, harshly beautiful wasteland, wild forests, and more sprawl, a dark night sprinkled with welcoming lights, seeming to say “here there is a warm fire, a friend, and some possible food.”  Between the spaces of passing train cars the landscape blinked seductively at me.  I arrived in Kolkata covered in dust (that still hasn’t washed out, though I haven’t really tried) and stayed in a dorm more packed with beds than I thought possible.

It’s good to be in the mountains, out of the city… I came here to chill a little but just found more adventure.  In a few days I plan on going to an organic farm, hopefully to do a little working and a lot of learning.  Much love.

I remember you had a few play dates with Oquirrh before you came to us.  You were cute and soft and all, but I was overwhelmed with school, and nothing could distract my love and affection for Oquirrh – my dog.  When you first came to live with us, we didn’t really click and I don’t think I understood why until we knew that you were a permanent member of our family (about a year later).  I was afraid to love you if I knew you were just going to leave.

You were Oquirrh’s foil – perhaps this difference was alienating to me at first.  Oquirrh was impulsive, pushy and loud and self-assured.  When you first joined our household you were the most timid creature I have ever met – afraid to bark, cowering at loud sounds, hiding from people and the world.  Mom always told me that Oquirrh and I were alike, and I don’t think she meant just in appearance.  I suppose my first reaction was that you were something of an intruder who took attention away from “my” puppy. 

Au contraire.  As soon as I learned that we had fully adopted you, my heart warmed and you won me over.  I was intrigued by this change in me.  And realized - you didn’t take away from (my) Oquirrh - you gave to her.  You became her best friend, and one of mine. 

You could never run as fast as Oquirrh, jump as high, or do as many tricks.  After a while, once in a while, you did begin to run in the hills with joyful abandon, instead of cowering alongside us slowpoke humans.  Watching you break free was as joyful and liberating for me, I think, as it must have been for you. 

But Oquirrh could never be as “good”, obedient, or compassionate as you.  You taught her how to slow down and how to love, I think.  (Ad in turn, you taught me how to love as well).  Or at least, to not chew up people’s shoes. 

Through all your transformations, however – learning to playfight, learning to bark at people and dogs who dared to cross our window, learning to sit on the prime spot of people’s feet under the dining room table, and learning to run free – you never lost your sweetness and caring.  You were the type of dog people dream of, the one who always puts her head in your lap at the time of need.  Oquirrh, not so much.  But she learned from you. 

One of my most favorite memories of you was just this winter.  I took you and Oquirrh on a long walk/run in the hills.  As we were leaving Perry’s Hollow, you ran off and Oquirrh remained by my side.  You had taken off on your own rebellion, something you would never have done when we first met.  I felt proud of your discovered strength and freedom. 

I see you and Oquirrh as two sides of feminism.  Oquirrh is the go-getter, do-anything-er, nothing can stop my achievement of great speeds and tricks and prizes.  She is inspirational in her strength and overcoming of odds, but sometimes, if you don’t play her game, you’re a sissy and really, just in the way.  “Give me pets, because I deserve them!”  And you, Sophie, are the submissive, chaste, docile housewife, the woman who is not afraid to be feminine and not afraid to love.  You empower others and give to the world, saying “my choice is to be a gentle girl, now just don’t exploit me or take advantage of it, if you please.  And if it’s not too much trouble now, how about a little ear-scratching?”

I love you dearly, Sophie girl, I am so sad to lose you.  I will miss your soft head, sweet nuzzles, and kindhearted demeanor.  The world is not a better place without your empathetic soul.  But what you have taught (by consideration, example, and affection), will carry on (to the best of our ability) through those whom you have touched. 

5^th Feb, 2007Today we had a lecture on Bhakti in Indian art, took a dance class from 3 very talented women, received a lecture and concert from “Chamuprana”, and attended the last half of a class on Hindi.  It was a long and wonderful day.            I was misconceived about Bhakti.  I assumed that it was just like any other religious movement or devotion – but our lecturer described it as a deeply personal relationship with a God/dess, in which one is “divided” from the world and “united” with the God/dess.  According to our lecturer, Bhakti is about love, whereas religious devotion is more based on fear. 
            Speaking of religion - I was glad to go to the Mosque and the
Hindu
Temple yesterday; one of the things I love about
India is the spirituality seemingly ingrained in everything.  However I think I missed being surrounded by it – not just learning about it and seeing examples of it – it felt really good to be in a location where people were praying.  I thought a lot about my own limitations when it comes to meditation and prayer – the feeling that I need to understand something, to figure it out before I can let it go, the difficulty for me to have faith in something I cannot see, or something someone tells me to worship.  So I liked when our lecturer described the Indian understanding that God is unborn unless humans give him/her human form (through words, imagination, and ones’ own consciousness), such as in one ritual where the devotee gives communion to the deity in its anthropromorphic form, and dissolves the deity at the end of the ritual.  He connected this to Yates.  The love of Bhakti is focused.  Whereas some religions can make you lose your capacity to love by demanding that you love your enemy as your friend, followers of Bhakti create the object to love, embodying ones’ own temperament.  The love is so intense that the object disappears; such as, “the color and the page are all” (not what they depict) – and eventually one becomes able to love as Buddha and Jesus did.  I would probably follow the sort of Bhakti that worships a formless God/dess (Nirguna Bhakti).  I love these aspects of Bhakti:  empowering the downtrodden, paradoxes and spontaneity in art forms, incorporating aspects of folk and other cultures, freedom from convention, and that passion is more important than technique.  In incorporating folk and Islamic art into traditional Hindu art, were Bhakti followers appropriators?  Or fusionists?  If race is an social construct, and culture is a blurry many-layered something that for many must be defined post facto, if language is becoming more uniform and globalization more multifaceted, where do appropriation and fusion begin and end?  No idea is new or fresh.  Where do they come from if not from another space/time?  Are superstitions really challenged in Bhakti?  What is
India without superstition?  Is there a balance or synthesis between Yogi and Commissar world-changing?  If the world is an illusion, then what isn’t?  If senses are paths of greed, then what isn’t?  It is interesting to hear how different each person’s definition of Rasa is.  Today: “all that is capable of engaging and moving us produces Rasa”.How Bhakti is accepted and suppressed to the world?1)       It exhibits great ebullience, creativity, enlightenment, and energy (what do Hindustanis think of creativity?  Can it exist?  In FPA 111 we learned that nothing is ever new, nothing is creative – we are simply art-producers.  I suppose then we could talk about art-ownership)2)       It flies in the face of establishment, and establishment oppresses3)       It goes underground or compromises with establishments – creativity ceases, theological writings increase, and the creativity goes somewhere else.  I always take the side of the underdog – anti-establishment.  But if transgressions against the norm become normative, then “the establishment” becomes the transgressor.  I wonder if this is a common dynamic between Muslims and Hindus.  It becomes so very complex when you consider multi-normatives and multi-transgressions (ie, add the English into the equation).  Fanton (in our first custom courseware reading) says that this conflict is necessary for a national identity to emerge post-colonialism.  I am very curious about the process of compromise that follows the realization or introduction of “difference” – from modernity in
India to the incorporation of western instruments into Indian music (the flow of tradition).   

From the documentary:  I would like to learn more about the differences and similarities of Indian and Western documentary methods – symbolism, perspective, angles, and choice of music.  I would like to learn more about connections (which is perhaps the new study for poor ole binary lovers) between religions in different parts of the world, such as the saint of education in
South America compared with Sarswati, female deities and their affect on “collective consciousness”, and so on.  It what ways does a documentary artist impact those he/she is studying – by existing, by filtering, by editing? 

And concerning the concert.  Strong, medium, medium, strong seems as common in Hindustani music as it is in pipe music.  What can I say but how lucky we are to have evolved ears and brains sensitive to colorful vibrations, vibrations which “remove physical dust and psychological dust and stain”.  The self shines forth (swara)… like scent, music can have the ability to evoke memory.  When I am lucky enough to listen to in-the-moment engaging music, I am reminded of times in my life when I have felt very alone, but strong in that alone-ness, and knowing that in the end, alone is really what my experience on this earth will amount to – but that this experience is shared by everyone.  Connected to how Rebecca reacted to the musings on Bhakti, perhaps we are never alone (the god/dess is within us).   

February 10^th, 2007            I have a lot on my head from the lectures with which we have been treated here in
Delhi.  I love being immersed in this artsy world, here on the other side of the earth.  Lucky me.  So here goes… something of an expanded list, I suppose.   

On “universal” emotionsThere are 8, 9, or 10 Rasas/ Bhavas (I am unclear on the difference between these two).  In my biased upbringing, I learned of fewer base emotions - sadness, joy, anger, and fear.  (Elham says they are just fear and doubt, in the west).In Rasa, they are:Love in union and separationHumorPathos/sorrowAnger/wrathHeroismFear/panicDistaste/recoil/disgustWonderment/surprisePeaceShyness 

A little bird told me I love to classify.  I’ll just call it organization, or simplification… 

Sadness:Love in separationPathos 

Joy:HumorHeroismWonderment/surprisePeace 

Anger/wrath 

Fear/panic:Distaste/recoil/disgustShyness 

These emotions are also associated with color… intriguingly different from western counterparts:Love in union/separation = green = jealousyHumor = white = purityPathos/sorrow = dove = I’m assuming this is gray = dullness, industry (SFU!)Anger/wrath = red = anger, eroticismHeroism = wheat brown = dirtFear/panic = black = deathDistaste/recoil/disgust = blue = calm, coolnessWonderment/surprise = yellow = cheer 

Do these inconsistencies mean anything?  I am reminded of personality tests that ask you to organize color or gain some meaning from your favorite colors.  I guess, then, that “meaning of color” is a cultural construct.  There being different scales of culture – perhaps the “meaning of colors” is different at individual, familial, community, city, state, national, world, and universal levels?  Are emotions felt differently by color-blind people and animals?  Do we all perceive colors differently?

I am reminded of another connection.  I met Rahul, an art critic, on the art-installation field-trip bus.  After much discussion of structuralism and post-structuralism and truth and identity, he told me about one perspective in which we are defined by who we are not.  Kind of like, a color is actually whatever is not reflected.  I like that.              In the same vein, are there implications of meaning in sound?  In the west, we seem to have adopted Shakespeare’s “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”, while here, syllables and sounds carry more meaning (such as “om”).  Are certain sounds more masculine and feminine, and does this create division in language and experience as well as in gender?  Perhaps the meanings and genders of sounds carry over to non-human acoustics. 

Somewhere between minimalism and ornamentationCan ornamentation be un-superficial?  Can it be simple?  I am drawn to both simplicity and complexity.  I love fractals, where the mega-structure is similar to the micro-structure, such as flowers and galaxies, atoms and planets.  I love intricate detail (in doodles, visual art, music, and dance).  I am drawn to ideas such as “words within words” and “reading between the lines.”  I loved how Matvi Gupta, an Orissi dance instructor, described pieces as flowering – the gradual addition of more and more detail and ornamentation.  Maybe it is the contrast, or balance, between minimalism and ornamentation that strikes me (is this possible?).   Is there a difference between contrast and balance (not to confuse balance with symmetry)?  The division between a fraction and the whole leads me to discretization.  Whenever we take photos, take notes, or attempt to document an event, we discretize it.  We no longer experience it continuously.  Yet, engagement (for me) is never continuous either (I filter and fall in and out of focus).  Some people prefer analog photography to digital because the discretization of the silver particles is irregular as opposed to regular – it is possible that we are aware of this subconsciously if not consciously.  We can apply this concept to acoustic vs. digital music as well.  I haven’t really thought about irregular vs. regular discretization before, but maybe this is why I fell in love with Chuck Close in high school, and gush over mosaics whenever I come across them.  Maybe it’s also the notion of creating a whole from fragments and broken parts (potential trash).  Every particle is as important as the whole (though perhaps the whole is greater than the sum of its parts).  Mosaics seem to exist the world around. 

Where clothing is more erotic than nudityKavita Singh, in discussing Indian miniatures, told us that in
India the clothed female is considered to be more erotic than the nude.  Most sculptures of females that we have seen here in lectures and on tours are nude, and to my eyes appear erotic.  In much of the “obsessively erotic art of Khajuraho and Konarak” shown in Partha Mitter’s Indian Art – the sculptures are nude, but perhaps it is their actions (“oral sex, group sex, and bestiality”) which make them erotic (not their clothing).  Perhaps it is in Islamic art that the female body is more erotic when clad and in Hindu art that it is also erotic when unclad.  Certainly clothing can make a person appear more sexual than no clothing (if it is cloth which accentuates the titillating hot spots of the time).  I find contradiction in Partha Mitter’s descriptions of ideal beauty and the ideals that we have seen.  She quotes the ideal as “Slim, youthful, with the eyes of a frightened doe, fine teeth and red lips like the bimba fruit, slim waisted, deep-navelled, slowed down by the weight of the hips and bent by her full breasts, she is the best of her gender created by god”.  The Cola bronzes we have seen in lecture and in Indian Art are quite slender at the hip.  Many of the female sculptures we have seen are round, and many of them are slender.  The turn of the century artist Abanindranath Tagore, in search of an “indigenous style eventually led to his paintings on the divine lovers, Radha and Krsna, which introduced to the Bengali audience an alternative, emaciated ideal of feminine beauty” (Mitter).  I suppose beauty is different all over
India and throughout time, as well as different around the world.  And concerning eyes of a frightened doe: coming from a different time period, many of the women in the movies we have seen are more belligerent than “frightened” or “submissive”.  Hooray for variety.  I liked the embracing of Akka in the documentary we watched the other day – that her nudity was not a symbol of sex, but a symbol of asceticism.  However… I wish it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing for her to be a sexual figure.Are breast portrayed differently around the world?  Are they smaller in Western or East Asian art than South Asian?  I remember going through art museums in the states and in
Europe when I was younger, and marveling at the often odd looking breasts (maybe they are difficult for artists to mould).  Like any other Westerner, I am fascinated by temple-connected erotic art in
India, and I want to romanticize the roles of Devidasis.  I want to be able to appreciate sexuality, beauty, and eroticism (whether male or female).  It is not always exploitative – it can empower women (such as Prof. Shamsul Islam’s impression of the Cabaret in 1900s
France).  I suppose one example is the Tantric movement – “Yoginis or female ascetic-sorceresses were feared because of their association with Tantric practices.”  And -  “the mother cult: Prehistoric north-west India was part of a large swathe extending from the Indus valley to
Asia Minor where a matriarchal religion of sexual cults and sacred prostitution was practiced.”  PARTS OF
INDIA WERE ONCE MATRIARCHAL??  Tell me more.  Power and repression have such strange cycles and manifestations.  It makes me sad that most religions and societies are hell-bent on virginal purity (especially with women).  It makes me sad that women oppress other women because they themselves have been oppressed.  How are these sculptures horrific and erotic at the same time, as described by Professor Naman Ahuja?  Is this a social construct? 

It is fascinating to me that sculpture can be revered to the point of having a legal identity, yet sculpture artists/producers lived and worked on the outskirts of town (according to Professor Ahuja) because what they did was “dirty” work - physical as opposed to intellectual labor.  Elham and I, looking at a sculpture in a museum one day, talked about how we looked at it: I think about the artist’s intent, and what they would be proud of in the “finished product”.  Elham gives importance to the art production process, and that is the artfulness that matters, which resonates in the final object.  Both of us consider the “production process” to be potentially meditative, which in my mind is intellectual.  But not always – sometimes work can be pretty wretched.  Often workers produced art that was for a religious purpose different from their own, which leads to a questioning of the importance of intent.The destruction of these sculptures is such a powerful image – Taliban destruction of Buddhist sculptures, stealth bombing of archaeological sites.  To me it is tragic, but clearly others have different agendas.  I am mystified by (the living, breathing) Prof Shamsul Islam’s Bush-bashing experience. Was it because of ignorance, repression, and fear?  The same reasons that over half of
America voted for Bush in the first place?The destruction and undervaluing of sculptures is sad, and inevitable, but also seems to be necessary.  There is so much artistic production – will it fill up the world?  Would this be such a bad thing? 

The bird as a symbol of connection to the heavensThe hyma bird, in the miniatures, was a symbol of royalty.  The Muslims spread corn kernels for the birds at the Jamu Mashi Mosque.  A stork (escaped from the local zoo) brought my sister’s soul to my mother before she was born.   

Narratives.  There are so many different methods – syncretic, synoptic, continuous, frame-by-frame, aural/oral, musical, dance, film… For a time, Western art was as connected to the bible as Indian art is to the Ramayan or Mahabharat.  Like life in the west, I believe the art has become less dependent on the bible for inspiration.  Yet, as an art student deficient in Biblical understanding, I feel I can still appreciate Western artwork (though I may not understand the background or context).  Would this be possible in Indian art?  Perhaps it is the emphasis on the narrative in so much of the Indian art that we have seen that would make appreciation less difficult without understanding.  Or maybe I know more about Western Biblical references than I think.  Anyway, the timelines and evolutions of art seem to be different everywhere, depending very so much on social, political, and economic situations. 

The importance of DarshanAccording to Prof. Ahuja, when one removes an artwork from its environment, it loses a sense of scale, context, and understanding.  Does it removed darshan, as well?  How does darshan exist to people who believe more in nonimage?  Are works in
India less precious because of the notion of nonimage (such as the “Jain Nonimage” representation shown in class)? Can devotion be as strong to a nonimage as it is to a religion or God/dess, to an art form, to a parent or lover?  Devotion requires faith, I think, which is perhaps why it eludes me – but it fascinates me – I think one can gain a more in depth experience and understanding of the devoted, with devotion.  It seems so connected to passion and love.  I’d like to explore this further.  Can the process of de/recontextualization (at the same time) be experienced by a non-image? 

On the evolution of religion, tree spirits, and sculpture“The Pagan” has influenced religion in Europe, India, and the
Americas (as well as other places, probably).  Mythic stories evolve into bibles and moral codes, such as the “abducted woman” evolving into Sita.  I am drawn to the Yaksha/Yakshini figure of old who reciprocates and embodies nature - the tree spirit who gives the Buddha a hand as he walks over water, the protector - exhibiting grace, seductiveness, and ornamentation, and symbolizing fertility.  (According to the professor that I’m in love with, they are represented best by terracotta for its fluidity, freedom, and immediacy). How are they represented in religion today?  I was very moved, also, by the (simple) earth goddess image we saw in class. 

A few questions on symbols.Garnet eyes are so striking in an otherwise stone/clay sculpture – this contrast I am sure is experienced much differently when the sculpture is painted “garishly” (we have no idea).How did the British respond to the use of human bones for ritual purposes?The simple symbol of Tripataka (palmed hand facing forward) is everywhere… in Southwestern American Indian rock-art, the Hand of Fatima, the symbol for Buddhism, and a mutra in Indian dance.  It is a symbol I like so much I wouldn’t mind getting a tattoo of it on my body.  But due to its ubiquitous-ness, does it have more potential to become the new Swastika?  I am interested in the dress/ceremonial gear aspect of a cultural production.  There is such a ritual to costuming oneself.  My band certainly performs better when we are in uniform – some people believe that children who wear uniforms to school do better.   

FearlessnessIn cultures where dance is a part of every-day life, imperfection and wild abandon seems okay and even commonplace (such as, the spontaneous dance).  The connection to other people via body movement is sometimes seen as a path toward enlightenment (for example, whirling dervishes).  Many people in my social circles back home fear dancing and body movement, feeling self-conscious and awkward.  Does the lack of fear in these “other cultures” carry over to different aspects of life?  Is it evidence of an alternative aesthetic that classical Indian art (eg dance) seems more open to portrayals/appreciation of life-ugliness and awkwardness than classical art in the west?

In Varanasi with Pamela and Elham

Last Tuesday we went to Shubendra and Saskia’s beautiful gracious home for refreshments and a lec/dem.  Shubendra lived and studied with his guru Ravi Shankar for 10 years.  Saskia is Hildegaard Westerkamp’s niece and introduced cello to Indian classical music.  The evening was eye-opening, and the concert was one of the most engaging and mind-altering that I have ever experienced.  Shubendra and Saskia kindly agreed to meet with me periodically while I am in Delhi to teach me more.  Durjey, the head-bobbing-master tabla player agreed to perform with me for my presentation on Indian influence in Western music (and vice versa).  I am the luckiest girl in the world.
Today I went to Shubendra’s house, introduced him to the pipes, and learned more about how I can apply Indian music to them.  I will go again in a few days.  Certainly I won’t learn to play a raag- that would take years and years to learn.  But hopefully I will gain some understanding of the language/grammar, culture, tradition, and history, and further free my pipes (and self) from limitations.  Maybe, even, we’ll get to jam.
Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni.

We went to the Independence day parade our first day in Delhi, and met a man from Texas.  Our prefessor is from Texas so of course they knew each other (joke) and there was instant connection.  We planned to all have lunch together but went back to his hotel first, which was nearby, to grab some water.  He was staying at a very very expensively rich hotel.  We had fun playing on the mod couches and riding the elevators.  Our friend (Steve) was leaving town the next day but would be back later on.  A few days ago he called us to say he was back in Delhi and invited us for dinner and drinks at his hotel.  So 6 of us girls, Patricia, Martin, and their two sons, and the token male student all giggled and drank wine in his hotel room replete with vanities, sundries, and “mood lighting” options of orange and blue.  After dinner, we students went to a bar lounge where our host catered to every possible whim (waiter: wine, water, chips, chocolate, waiter: please turn down that light, waiter: could you change the music?).  Fascinating.  I danced chatted with 2 Hollanders and a man from Denmark dressed as Aladdin.  When the bar/lounge closed and everyone else was ready to go home, I wanted to keep dancing, so said goodbye to my friends, promised to be safe and good, and went with Aladdin to another club.  Two locals in front of us in line at the door got us in quickly.
Alladin quickly became upset at the attention I was getting (males and females alike).  I felt no need to give in to demands that I felt were silly and controlling, and while trying to explain myself he removed himself of his “responsibility” for me and we parted ways.  One of the men who had gotten me into the door, Karen, tried to entertain me with magic tricks.  I didn’t get to dance very long before the club closed.  Karen and his friend drove me home to the hotel.
The next day Karen phoned and begged to go to dinner.  I was tired from the previous late night, and knew I had to get up for school relatively early, so was just planning to grab a quick bite nearby with my roomie, Brett.  I told Karen this, and he said he’d join us.  He said he would meet us at 8:00 at a more central hotel than ours.
In India, if you ask where something is and the unfortunate responder doesn’t know, he (I say he because this has been my experience) usually gives you directions anyway.  “down the street, take a left.”  Not there.  20 questions later, Brett and I mounted a cycle rickshaw that turned out to be broken, and arrived at the “central” hotel at 8:40.  Karen wasn’t there, so I phoned him - “I’m so close.  10 minutes, I’ll be there.”  An hour later, I phoned him again - “I got into an accident with a motorcycle.  I’m so close.  10 minutes, I’ll be there.”  20 minutes later he arrived with his friend, Also Karen.  But before we went to dinner we had to pick up a shirt from another friend who lived nearby.  Karen was adamant that Also Karen not get out of the car when we got there, but that Brett and I should come meet his friend.
Karen described his friend as “very fair, my best friend since elementary school.”  He turned out to be the most feminine man Brett and I had ever met, very sweet and gentle - the demeanor of Mr. Rogers, a shirt like where’s Waldo, and the hand gestures of Albert in The Birdcage.
Back in the car, we asked Also Karen what the conflict was between the two.  Also Karen said, “You know, he just likes me too much, like he’s obsessed with me, he’s just too sensitive, like if we became friends he’d be too afraid of losing friendship.  He’s totally straight, he’s just a sensitive guy.”  Brett and I knew full well the taboo of homosexuality in India, but Brett asked, “Do you guys know any homosexuals?”  “No no, of course not.”   Brett asked, “Do you think it’s strange that we have homosexual marriages in Canada?”   “I mean, homosexual sex happens all the time, just behind closed doors, no one talks about it.”
We drove and drove and drove, Brett and I looking at one another with suprise, because we thought we were going somewhere quick and close.  Of course not… 30-45 minutes later we arrived at a club.  Hungry tired Sylvias aren’t so good when it comes to not getting what they were expecting, especially when GETTING FOOD IN THE BODY RIGHT NOW and SLEEP are on the line.  I try to not let it affect those around me, but I’m pretty terrible at being opaque.  Brett had a much better attitude.  We found seats in the crowded loud upstairs, ordered food, and looked in awe at the model-esque Europeans all around us.  Maybe a third of the patrons looked Indian.  Downstairs, imitations of erotic Indian sculptures canoodled on the walls.
As we waited for our food, our suspisions that our driver was completely insane were confirmed.  He constantly asked us about his hair, his appearance, he introduced us to all of his friends! but got upset when we talked to other people for too long, he asked us to marry him an tell others of our plans.  He was practically manic.  Brett guessed coke.  I didn’t know.
After too long at the club, I demanded that we leave.  “Let’s dance for 5 minutes.”  “By 5 minutes do you mean an hour?”  “You are so rude!”  “I want to go home.”  “Let’s just say goodbye first, okay?”  So we did.
Also Karen had left earlier because of work.  On our way home, Karen talked to Brett in the front about how upset I was, what was wrong with me, about how fair his father and friend were, about his own appearance, about who was the prettiest girl at the club, about how amazing club climax was on a Saturday night!, about his birthday on the 6th of Feb!.  Brett, the incredible actress, played along.  When she tried to explain why I wasn’t happy chipper, he became very defensive.  Denial, not a river in India.  It is a strange experience to sit in the backseat of a car listening to “she’s upset!  she’s upset!  what’s wrong with her!  such an attitude!  so rude!”  With curiosity, I said nothing, aware that my silence probaby perpetuated the problem.
When we got to our neighborhood, Karen was lost.  He asked me to drive because he was tired.  “No, thank you.”  He begged for 2 minutes to rest.  “No, we need to go home.”  When we stopped to ask for directions he appeared to sleep.  When Brett said she needed to go to the bathroom, he insisted that he stop - “No.”  He complained about us not going to his house to drink champagne and have a good time.  He was somehow unable to follow the directions that we tried to gather 4 times.  When Brett and I said we would find an auto rickshaw to take us home, he became very distressed and hurt.
The next time he stopped, I got out of the car.  As Brett tried to get out, he started driving.  She escaped with no trouble, and we approached some auto-rickshaw drivers (who are relievingly and unbelievably ubiquitous) to take us home.  As they debated over where our hotel was, Karen joined us, arguing that he would drive us home.  Brett and I got into the rickshaw.  Karen followed us all the way to the hotel.  We said our goodbyes when we paid the rickshaw driver, but Karen followed us into the hotel “to use the bathroom”.  Brett and I joined the comforting arms of a few of our friends who were in the lobby lounge finishing their journals for school; Karen came to talk to us but the hotel administrators pulled him away.  When we went up to our room, he was still talking to them.
Since then, our phone has rung at least 8 times.  We don’t answer it any more.
Hooray for bonding times and funny stories

Mike and Tim had a house together just off of the hill. I went down there for help with fixing my bike. On the way I heard rumors of an article Tim had written for the Peak: it was “why Punte Alan is the greatest place on hearth” (and by Punte Allen, he meant SFU). It was a beautiful article that made everyone at SFU believe that they lived in paradise. It probably helped that the clouds and sky were dramatically good looking that day.
Mike was surprised to see me, but very kind; he gave me some cornflakes and strange potato patties to eat while he worked on the bike. Tim was either not around or upstairs. I wasn’t feeling particularly comfortable or welcome, and the feeling increased when Doog arrived. But he was also ambivalent to my presence. I assumed that everything was subdued because of the Peak article and the beauty of the sky.
Mike finished with the bike and I rode it back up to the school.

Art critics are almost always negative. (Or, they come across this way to me). As a former visual art student and current student composer, I fully appreciate a good proletariat-communist-esque critique session of my work. There is really no better learning. But the negativity with which we are supposed to view past art makes current artistic production/practice a wee bit daunting. I am very very good at making mistakes and being flawed - I think this is one thing that drew me to the aesthetics of failure when I learned about it in FPA 389 (Barry Truax’s sounsdape and context composition class). We were talking about the context of technology and glitch. Around the same time, I was taking FPA 240, Martin Gotfrit’s superuberfun performance class, and he told us about open performance groups which didn’t discriminate against the unskilled. I loved these ideas so much that I wrote a paper applying the aesthetics of failure to aesthetics in Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera.

Susan Schwartz, in her book on Rasa, gives art critic Rowell’s general criteria “that the tradition offers for the qualities of individual musical performance”. These include:

flawless.
refined, a category that includes both precision and delicacy, with negative value attached to the vulgar, harsh, rough, or careless.
plastic, in the sense that it reveals the vital force that animates all life, as demonstrated in graceful, linear configurations, with negative value attached to the static, lifeless and awkward.
abundant and richly fertile, with negative value assigned to what is dry, parsimonous, fragile, strained, or limited
clear in projection of the text, with crisply enunciated syllables
integrated and organically unified in an orderly manner, not disordered, broken, disjointed, or chaotic.

And here’s a cute story from Beryl De Zoet:

It is told of Narada, who was a sort of Indian Orpheus, inventor of the vina and chief of heavenly musicians, that he caused a good deal of suffering to musical spirits, in the course of acquiring perfect mastery of his instrument. As we should put it, he murdered” the music. Krishna, the divine flautist, a friend of Narada, devised a way of bringing this home to the sensitive musician. He took him to heaven in which many nymphs and angels sat weeping and in great pain. Narada was horrified at the sight and rushed forward to help them. But he was told that these were the very ragas and raginis whose limbs he had torn and mangled in his clumsy efforts to force their living forms to enter his melodies. Their sprits, he was taught by this sad demonstration, cannot safely descend from their celestial abode to live in their physical sound-forms unless the musical vehicles are perfectly shaped to receive them and delineated with the utmost perfection of technique as well as spiritual vision.

I love Erik Satie, Janis Joplin, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Boards of Canada, Bob Dylan, Aqua, Autechre, non-drum-machines, and That Musician on the Street as much for their brilliance as for their flaws. Their voices and music would not be so endearing were it not for imperfection - CHARACTER. ACESSIBLE. Why is it such a bad thing when my drones are out of tune? Such beating is desirable in Indian drone machines. But… am I just another “artist” “appropriating” “folk art”?

I didn’t like the term failure because I felt it was negative, or too extreme. So I started saying “the aesthetics of mediocrity”; Rebecca said that to her it connoted bland, poppy, giving up music. That’s not what I meant. She told me about Wabi Sabi - a Japanese movement which honored the flaw, against music that sounded too forced and polished. We talked about:
Is passion and love enough for music to be good?
With so much bombardment of expectations of perfection, how can we ever be satisfied or content?
Consequently we live in a state of fear (of failure, of production) and jealousy (because others are always better) and loss (I missed my chance, I should have, I’m deteriorating).
Self worth seems to be based on the possessions of perfection, beauty, agency, control, (and material goods).
And onto the discussion of ego: too much of it limits artistic production (self-consciousness, honor, “wanting it too much”). So often we desire to remove ourselves from ego in order to achieve accomplishment and recognition. So we have an egotistical intent in being not egotistical - the goal is to better achieve perfection, prevent flaws/failure.
It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation - you are flawed if you are too perfect, too egotistical, desiring to be un-egotistical, or just plain mediocre.
(I still want to practice and get better).

I asked our lecturer (stuttering): Bad performance in historical India were said to injure and hurt the gods, so performers in India used to go through rigorous training to achieve good performance. Despite this, the uninformed Westerner called it primitive. Critically, historically, how did the Indian audience respond to failure?
She talked about how families would be punished/punish if their child/disciple dishonored the gods (I’m assuming by having a flawed performance). She talked about freedom and stylistic variation, despite stringent structures, and a dialogue between performer and audience. Another professor mentioned that much of the audience was not informed of these strict rules of performances, so may not have been affected by the failure.
I should have asked the question concerning, more, the difference between folk/refined art and if failure was ever seen as endearing.

I read a book on Rasa by Susan Schwartz. Rasa describes many things; essence, flavor, taste (probably more “yummy” than “mmhmm, why yes, that aht does whet my posh palate”), one of the seven essences in Ayurvedic medicine that “maintains the integrity of the organism”, a curative element in alchemy, an aesthetic principle with religious origins and contexts, offering access to devotion and wonder, a description of the primacy of performance and its goals and design…

“Rasa is at once an inner and outer quality as the object of taste, the taste of the object, the capacity of the taster to taste that taste and enjoy it, the enjoyment, the tasting of the taste. The psychophysiological experience of tasting provided a basis for a theory of aesthetic experience which in turn provided a basis for a systemization of a religious experience.”

Whew. So in the spirit of Rasa, the performer must make the divine and transcendence of the material world more accessible to the audience (even if momentary - I thought of epiphanies), must honor the gods, and must go through rigorous training to achieve her (or his) goals. They are trained to exude awesome presence, transcend duality, and be subtly creative within strict constraints.

Right now, I want to talk about the dualism. #1. A prerequisite of enlightenment, says Schwartz, is to collapse the perceived distinctions between body/mind, spirit/substance, affect/effect…

“The worldview of the Natyashastra [the earliest "aesthetic"-y-ness-ish text in Sanskrit] is organic and dynamic. It proceeds through paradox: impersonality and intensity; the specific and the universal; the inner and the outer; the bindu (point) and its projection into infinite variety; stillness and movement; the physical body and its transcendence; the crucial nature of form, its development into a multitude of forms, and its final movement beyond form.”

So it is the goal and even responsibility of the Rasa performer to embody transcendence of these binaries, in order to help the audience achieve transcendence of this world.

#2. In class today, the lecturer discounted this book because Schwartz often quotes an art critique who looked at the difference of Western and Eastern art using binary logic - Western art is material, noble, and naturalistic, Indian art is spiritual, simplistic/overly ornamented, and not naturalistic (preferring to portray monsters, demons, etc). We talked a lot in class about this binary view of Eastern/Western art and aesthetics, and how we must rise above it.

And #3: My experience of India vs. Chacha/Bablo/Baboo’s experiences in India (various “average” Indians I have gotten to know - notably all male). I live in a nice hotel (albeit with cold water and cockroaches), I get driven around in cars or taxis or a tourist bus, I eat out in restaurants frequently and still spend less than I would at home, I have a camera and a computer and “gear”. (Is this the time to mention education?) Oh, and the pale hair and eyes.
Perhaps having the comforts of a hotel, frequent rich meals, vehicles, and “gear” makes me more able to engage when I do finally make it out on the streets, and into contact with Indians. Perhaps my differences just set me apart so much that I will never fully experience INDIA.

Elham, a fieldschool girl from Emily Carr, has tried to explain to me her notions of artful-ness: what is art is not the final product, but is the process of producing. It is not in creating something that will be called “art” - artful-ness can be enacted in every day life.

Can I achieve Rasa in my everyday life, by dissolving the dualism I see? How can I dissolve the dualism between East and West, between my Indian experience and an Indian’s Indian experience?

Jan 28, 2007
I was hanging out with my old band.  We went to a sort of tourist spot with lots of rock formations.  There were many different chutes to go down and explore; sometimes holes connected them.  Though I was with the band I was wandering around by myself mostly, looking for some contemplative time.  I left my backpack down one chute thinking that I could get it through a hole, but I couldn’t; someone helped return the bag to me.  I went down one chute that entered into a chamber with an office and two displays.  Two people “discussed intensely” in the office as I looked at the displays.  Every so often they looked at me, not with foreboding, but more with curiosity.  When one of the office people left, the other woman came out to talk to me.  She was a bit of a diva and shared some of her opinions of the other person with me.  I played with the displays; one had a little shelf for a laptop.  The diva woman told me the laptop was another man’s, and made some comments on why they had chosen this particular laptop for him.  The other parts of the display were intricately carved wood.
The scene changed to a committee meeting including the diva woman and the other people associated with her office.  All of the women were topless.  The meeting was in the same chamber; Arnold Schwarzeneggar arrived in it and went into shock over what he saw.  He had an exhibition the next day; one of his tricks was to lift a huge barrel water cooler over his head and drink from it.  He was shaky, and commentators mentioned how out of form this was.  His chest was only half waxed, and badly, and mentally he just wasn’t there.

Jan 27, 2007
I was shopping for a cell phone.  Street stalls were outside, like in Delhi.  The shop was bright and I was excited and nervous.

Jan 26, 2007
I was fooling around with G___ in his bed.  The scene changed to fooling around with B___ in an elementary school classroom.  I wanted to look for a condom, so stopped and wandered around the room.  We each found one around the same time.  Mine looked like it had already been opened.  By the time we had found them, though, B___ decided to leave, feeling too tormented and guilty.
I went snowboarding with a friend.  We sat watching a movie afterward, on a communal couch somewhere.  A new coworker of his entered the room and sat on the other side of me.  He started flirting with me, which bothered my friend; he said “You know how I feel from before.  Do what you want with that information.”  I gave his arm a hug.  The man was rugged and handsome, but too insistent.  He and my friend decided to prove themselves by performing some car mechanics.  My friend said something about choosing between someone with more experience (him) and someone with some different characteristic.  I felt turned off by his coworker’s grotesquely large thighs (which seemed to be growing).

Jan 23, 2007
Gabe shaved his head.  I loved it.

Jan 22, 2007
Dream
It was my birthday.  Some friends and I went snowboarding, and afterward we made cookies.  We were going to watch a movie; it was someplace between the Cineplex Odeon on 33 South and State and my living room at home.  But Baby and Gabe weren’t there.  So I tried to call them; I had to go down to the front desk of the Odeon to use the phone.  I could smell the popcorn.  I couldn’t get get ahold of Gabe, and I wasn’t too worried about it, but I really wanted to talk to Baby (for some reason I didn’t called him).  I wasn’t incredibly concerned about my birthday, but I was happy to be with my friends.  I had to pee so badly, but I knew the movie had already started (7:30).  I went to the downstairs bathroom of my house.

Dream on the plane (Jan 20, 2007)
We were in India.  The fieldschool girls and I went to a ghat or “town hall” by the ocean, where we were going to watch the sun rise.  The colors were amazing – rich red, glowing blue, surrounded by black and gold.  Brett was a phenomenal fiddler and needed to practice; people encouraged me to practice as well.  I got out my pipes but my reed wasn’t working so well.  I tried another reed, though both were brown and old looking.  Trying to play, the pipes still weren’t working well at all, and when I took my chanter out again the reed turned out to be made for a ritar.  I set my pipes down on a table to figure out how I could make them work.  After I had adjusted the reed situation, I discovered that the people around me had completely dissected my pipes… all the stocks had been untied, and the bag cover was off.  I was devastated.  I didn’t know if I could fix them in time to play with Brett.  As I tried, another instrumentalist came through – the timbre sounded like bagpipes, but when I looked at the instrument, it was constructed of two strings on a huge wooden contraption.
Somehow I fixed the pipes, tuned them, and ready to go I went outside to find Brett.  Despite the beautiful sunrise, it was still dark outside.  Brett was tired and sleeping in her chair, and I roused her when I touched her shoulder.  She seemed reluctant to play (should have happened long ago).