Sunday, June 12, 2005

Wandering into green

And so wander out into green I did. Yesterday I took the Tube to Putney Bridge and walked several miles along the south bank of the River Thames to Richmond. Apart from a deluge of power walkers, joggers and cyclers hurtling past me between Putney and Hammersmith, and despite being a Saturday, I was overwhelmingly and blissfully alone.

At the beginning of the journey, my mind was busy chattering away with itself. After an hour or so, however, its only awareness was the rhythm played out by the movement of my legs, the crunch of the earth as my feet pounded the dirt track, the singing conversations of birds, the rustle of the wind through leaves, and the green space and flowing water around me.

After several hours of movement and silence, I was in dire need of re-fuelling. And at Richmond I hopped back on the Tube for a deliciously meat-laden dinner at the excellent and very busy Turkish restaurant Antepilier on Green Lanes.

A wonderful day of restoration that has left me feeling incredibly chilled even into Sunday. I need to do that more often.

Links today:

+ Nuptials. The wonderful mating rituals of eels, cranes, lizards and wasp moths.
+ Dates in Star Wars. A chronology of the Star Wars world eg 3900 BBY -- The planet Naboo is colonized by settlers from Grizmalt.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Chilly

The day's warm weather led us optmistically to eat dinner outside at Goya -- a teeny, tiny, teeming Spanish tapas bar tucked away in a nondescript sidestreet in Pimlico. Over conversation ranging from the varieties of HIV education in India to the varieties of committed relationships, we tucked into a very delicious meal of gambas al ajillo al pil pil (prawns in olive oil, garlic and chilli), sardinas a la plancha (grilled sardines), albondigas (meatballs) and fabada (sausage and bean casserole), mopped up with lots of crusty white bread and butter and robust Campo Viejo Rioja. But of course, being England, the weather turned very chilly and I was already calling it a night and legging it to the warmth of the Tube by 10pm. Shame on me.

I need...

The things I need right now are slow, soft kisses; long, gentle embraces; to be enveloped in the arms of damp, green trees and the scent of freshly-mown grass; to gaze out of the window, daydreaming of anything and nothing; to sit and watch the world go by with no need to engage; to wander aimlessly; to wonder aimlessly; to see and hear running river water; to trace the path of a trickle of rain down my window pane with my finger; to doodle without feeling guilty; time out; stillness; silence.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Like father, like daughter

Took the last few days off work to keep my father company as he accompanied my mother -- on a conference -- to London.

Poor man bore the full brunt of my bossy, short-tempered and easily-bored nature as I dragged him from one museum to the next in South Kensington: the photographic exhibit of Robert Scott's final expedition to the Antarctic at the Royal Geographical Society; the space, mathematics and computing exhibits plus the breathtaking Space Station 3D IMAX movie at the Science Museum; and the haunting Face to Face photography display of ape portraits at the Natural History Museum.

He got his bossy, short-tempered, easily-bored revenge yesterday, though, when he forced me to sit in Borders bookstore all morning helping him work through the exercises for the word processing course he is taking, and then dragged me all over Soho, where he used to work, to see his old haunts and murmuring -- sometimes appreciatively, sometimes sadly -- "London has changed, London has changed". [Update: when I called them just now to check whether they had arrived back to their home safely, my father took umbrage at me describing him dragging me around Soho: "But whenever I said, 'Go left', you turned right. Whenever I said 'Go right', you turned left!" The story of our relationship, I think.**]

In the evenings, my mother joined us and the three of us indulged in our love (craving, addiction, obsession) for food: a Chinese all-you-can eat buffet in the industrial wastelands of Park Royal, where my parents were staying; South Indian vegetarian at Ravi Shankar near Euston; and Turkish/Lebanese kebabs and tabbouleh at Shish in Bayswater.

In all, a lovely time was had. Though we have our familial ups and downs and each one of us are stubborn as hell, we're lucky to get on so well.

Photos

** A few instances when my father said "Turn left" and I turned right:

  • When I decided to study social science A levels rather than science. My father didn't talk to me for six weeks.

  • When I decided to take two consecutive gap years between my undergraduate and graduate degrees: one working as a checkout clerk in Sainsbury's supermarket, the other teaching high school in India.

  • When I turned my back on an academic career in favour of new media.

  • When he realised I have never dated a Bengali (not even an Indian) and may very well never marry one.

  • When he reads on Planethalder that I've been out all night again.

But he never fails to say "I'm proud of you", at least three or four times a week.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Little wonder

The new 20Gb Sony Walkman is out. I handled/caressed/fondled it in a store on Tottenham Court Road the other day and was smitten, but am waiting for the 30Gb version to come out in a few weeks before I buy one. Smaller, sleeker, lighter, longer-lasting than the ubiquitous, plasticy and frankly girly-looking iPod, I can't wait!

Related links:

+ Tech Digest description
+ Engadget's Sony and iPod size comparisons

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Hothouse

"Better never to lay eyes on a man, never to have seen one. Ever since I was a child, I've been frightened: the look of men, yoking up the oxen, picking up sacks of wheat, calling to each other, their thick voices, their thick boots. Every time I passed, fear of their hands, of their touch. God made me weak and ugly. It's his way of keeping them away."

After a lovely dinner on Friday night -- of smoked sausages, black beans and rice, plus chicken in tomato and red pepper sauce with rice -- sheltering from a torrential downpour at Canela in Covent Garden, we walked across the River Thames' roiling currents to the National Theatre to see David Hare's adaptation of Federico GarcĂ­a Lorca's vivid and claustrophobic The House of Bernarda Alba.

The play is set under the oppressive shadow of Catholic morality and against the backdrop of the stifling rise of Franco's fascism in Spain in 1936. It focusses on the tortured relationships within an all-female household, between the newly-widowed and monstrous matriarch Bernarda Alba ("a twisted old gecko" whose housekeeper would "happily thread hot needles through her eyeballs with my own hand"), her two female servants and her five unmarried daughters: unattractive Angustias, assertive Magdalena, bookish Amelia, resentful Martirio, and flighty Adela. Each daughter is a prisoner of her own repressed sexual urges, fighting for the attentions of an unseen Pepe el Romano -- seemingly the only marriageable man in town -- whose masculine presence is the only means of quenching, in Adela's words, the "fire coursing through my legs".

Repressed love, thwarted passion, desperate yearning, torrid melodrama: my kind of soap opera, though the last third dragged a little as I got tired of the daughters' relentless histrionics and hysteria. My favourite characters by far were the decisive Bernarda and the forthright housekeeper.

I enjoy the theatre and should go more often. I really love Peter O'Toole's description of theatre as a living, ephemeral thing:

"Oh, it's painful seeing it all there on the [movie] screen, solidified, embalmed. Once a thing is solidified it stops being a living thing. That's why I love the theatre. It's the Art of the Moment. I'm in love with ephemera and I hate permanence. It's more than behaviorism, which is what you get in the movies... Chrissake, what are movies anyway? Just fucking moving photographs, that's all. But the theatre! Ah, there you have the impermanence that I love. It's a reflection of life somehow. It's...it's...like building a statue of snow...."

Related link:

+ Full text of the play in Spanish

Other links today:

+ BBC's Beethoven Experience. All 9 symphonies for download in MP3 format from Monday 6 June.

+ New Scientist's 11 steps to a better brain. All to do with eating Marmite on toast for breakfast and omelette and salad for lunch, getting enough sleep and positive thinking, apparently. Curiously bland article lacking in any concrete science.

+ The well-read life. "Never force yourself to read a book that you do not enjoy. There are so many good books in the world that it is foolish to waste time on one that does not give you pleasure and profit." The more books you discard half-finished, the more you will read fully.

Friday, June 03, 2005

All I want to do...

Have been busy, out and about after work: seeing films (the fabulous CGI world of video game, whoops sorry, movie Star Wars 3 -- my first ever Star Wars film, believe it or not -- on the truly wonderful Leicester Square Odeon screen, and the dreamy but distressing Mysterious Skin); eating good food (Korean at my favourite Bi-Won and Chinese at the cheap and tasty Cafe De Hong Kong); seeing art (Peter Doig, Luc Tuymans and Marlene Dumas shine in an otherwise bland The Triumph of Painting show at the dark and oppressive Saatchi Gallery); going for walks (along the South Bank). But when I come home to write about it, all I want to do is read (the gripping Every Dead Thing by John Connolly) or sleep. Still haven't got round to seeing the last two episodes of Desperate Housewives yet, either. Tonight we're seeing Lorca's The House of Bernardo Alba, adapted by David Hare, at the National Theatre, but no doubt you'll not get to hear about it until next week.

Here are some links instead:

+ Green Cine's movie primers. The how-to, what-the-hell-is, best-of primer of all sort of movie genres from Adult to Anime via Bollywood and French New Wave.
+ The Omnivore: Learn to eat everything
+ Watching TV makes you smarter
+ Mindfulness over matter. Familiarity with things breeds liking, not contempt.
+ The BBC asks do blogs have anything to say. Mine certainly doesn't, but it serves as a useful reminder to myself of the things I do (rather than the things I feel).
+ How to become an early riser: Part 1 and Part 2.
+ Info-mania dents IQ more than marijuana, says the New Scientist.
+ Concentrating while studying

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Strolling the canal

Returned to London from my parents' house in East Anglia on Sunday evening and saw the wonderful Abbas Kiorastami film The Wind Will Carry Us at the NFT. This funny and beautifully shot film follows a film engineer and his crew as they travel from Tehran to the remote Kurdish village of Siah Dareh on an unspecified mission to do with a sick woman.

Towards the end of the film, the protagonist meets an elderly doctor who lectures him on the glory of creation. According to him, death happens when "you close your eyes on the beauty of the world". Though I've only seen two, it seems to me that Kiorastami's movies are less about grand narrative and more about noticing the beauty of the world, from the yellow cornfields whizzing by through a car's windows to the gnarled trees standing isolated on Iran's rugged and desolate terrain.

Inspired by Diamond Geezer's excellently detailed account of his walk along the length of London's Regent's Canal -- 8.5 miles from Paddington to Limehouse -- we decided yesterday to walk along just a small segment of it, from Little Venice to Camden Lock. Despite being a Bank Holiday there were very few people on the towpath, and it had just rained before we arrived, so everything was brightly lush and green, and incredibly peaceful. At the end of our journey we ate delicious chicken kebabs and Thai squash curry at Camden Lock market. Can't wait to walk the 6.5 mile stretch from Camden to Limehouse.

Photos of our stroll

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Being nobody, going nowhere

Going to the theatre, visiting a gallery or eating out constitute a break from routine for many people.

For me, a break from routine is relaxing in my parents' garden in East Anglia, listening to the buzz of bumble bees and the whoosh of the wind through conifer trees, basking under the scent of a thousand flowers exploding from terracotta pots -- rust-red camellias, creamy marguerites, hot pink azaleas, blue lupins, orange dahlias, white lillies and purple heather.

A break from routine is also eating good home-cooked Indian food -- in this case, curried cauliflower, and spicy chicken with spinach and coconut. And watching goofy TV such as a 23 year old accountant's clapped out 1985 Ford Econoline van being transformed into a spectacularly flashy pornmobile complete with red velvet seats and a hot tub in MTV's Pimp My Ride! And need I mention Big Brother?

I've been spending a couple of days away from London and all its work and play freneticism, recharging. Sitting still, thinking no thoughts, going nowhere, being nobody.

The challenge, I realise, is to experience these feelings in the midst of the bustle of my regular life.

Other link today:

+ Gardens of Glass: Dale Chihuly at Kew Gardens. Can't wait to see this: what a perfect setting for Chihuly's exquisite work.

Friday, May 27, 2005

Pull the trigger

The pistol hairdryer (via Popgadget). I'm veering between jumping up and down feeling appalled (perhaps not one for mommy to use in front of sonny) and jumping up and down in excitement (I want, I want).

Though I must admit to loving Philippe Starck's rather gratuitous 18-karat-gold Kalashnikov lampstand.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Histrionic gingerbread

"James Dean is a mass of histrionic gingerbread. He scuffs his feet, he whirls, he pouts, he sputters, he leans against walls, he rolls his eyes, he swallows his words, he ambles slack-kneed—all like Marlon Brando used to do. Never have we seen a performer so clearly follow another's style. Mr. Kazan should be spanked for permitting him to do such a sophomoric thing. Whatever there might be of reasonable torment in this youngster is buried beneath the clumsy display."

Thus spake the New York Times when the movie East of Eden premiered in 1955.

Having loved James Dean (one of my earliest girlhood crushes -- along with Jack Kerouac, Sam Shepard, David Bowie and other long dead or old people) and his movies (all three of them) throughout my childhood, I was excited to see East of Eden for the first time on the big screen last night at the NFT, and for the first time in widescreen.

The larger-than-life view magnified so many of the flaws I loved: the moralising script, the melodramatic soundtrack, a mumbling, barely coherent and self-conscious Dean, the naive psychoanalysis (I'm bad, because Daddy doesn't love me).

As wonderfully cheesy as I remembered it.

The cinema was packed with a far more eclectic crowd than I had expected. A good mix of young and old, from smart elderly couples to shabby students. Alas, no Dean look-a-likes...

Monday, May 23, 2005

Weekend in the life of my feet

I put my shiny, new, pampered feet to good use over the weekend by stomping them up and down staircases with boxes and bags, helping a friend to move flats.

I'm not that much of a tyrannical taskmaster though. I allowed my feet some respite from time to time:

On Saturday afternoon I treated them to hanging out at the Beaconsfield bar on Green Lanes for the Arsenal v. Manchester United match. My feet were Gunning for Arsenal of course, even though the team didn't play as well as United. In the evening, my feet lounged around at a friend's birthday party in The Lounge in Brixton, where we got cornered by a man moaning about the reasons why he couldn't finish his PhD -- without realising that he was surrounded by three of us who had -- and about the company I work for.

On Sunday, we were still moving things, but managed to find time for a leisurely big fried breakfast, including bubble and squeak, at a cafe in Pimlico and later some delicious baklava dripping honey in the Antepilier cafe on Green Lanes. We always find time to eat.

We took the night off from boxes and dust to watch Abbas Kiarostami's wondrous Taste of Cherry at the NFT, featuring the enigmatic and morose Mr Badii driving round the barren hills above Tehran, giving lifts to men he hopes will bury him after his suicide. The film focusses on his encounter with three men with different philosophical views on suicide and death. An absorbing masterpiece of subtlety and humour.

Despite the respites, my feet and I were exhausted by the end of the weekend. I think tonight I will lie in bed all evening and catch up with Desperate Housewives and the weekend's newspapers.

Related link:

"I have too much respect for my audience to tell them complete stories," Abbas Kiarostami tells The Telegraph. "I want them to be involved in the narrative process, sharing the director's chair with me, so I leave my films half-made."

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Retreat

Yesterday, I joined the throngs of London and jostled my way down to the basement of the National Gallery's Sainsbury wing to view the Caravaggio exhibition. The 16 paintings on show had been created during the last four years of his life in exile after fleeing Rome, where he had killed a man in a duel in May 1606.

Most of the paintings are Biblical: David with the Head of Goliath, The Flagellation of Christ, a young St John the Baptist, the beheading of John the Baptist, the Raising of Lazarus, for example. Under Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio's brush, however, the religious subject matter is fabulously lusty, sexy, violent and even a little profane.

Many people have criticised the show for the crepuscular exhibition space, with its oxblood and slate-coloured walls and minimal lighting. But I found the darkness enhanced the passion, violence, drama and intensity of Caravaggio's work.

Of course, Caravaggio's major legacy was a whole new vocabulary of light: the radical contrast between shadow and light, framing each dramatic moment, that created a potency unparalleled in earlier art. And it is this luxurious interplay of light and dark that struck me most today.

The luxury continued when I went to Harrod's Urban Retreat spa to replenish my energy with an indulgent pedicure, involving all the trimmings plus a wonderful foot, ankle and calf massage with aromatherapy creams.

The spa was so noisy with the babble of voices and R&B, though, that any hope I had of being able to slip into a coma of relaxation as the therapist pampered me quickly slipped away. Therapists -- male and female -- gossiped about work and play, a wedding party of three chatted excitedly about the Big Day this weekend, and a besuited man still wearing his sunglasses took business calls on his mobile throughout his treatment. At one point his pedicurist bizarrely mentioned that men rarely have pedicures unless they are gay, to which the business man equally bizarrely spent 5 minutes reiterating he wasn't gay.

The pedicure was heaven though. I now have glossy red toenails and supersoft feet.

Afterwards, I was met in Harrod's food hall and we picked out a delicious selection for our dinner, including lemon almonds, corn nuts, the sweetest and most succulent mangoes I've ever had (costing -- gulp -- £12.49 for two -- which we only realised were so expensive as they were being rung up at the till), supersweet strawberries and some pastries.

Related links:

+ He lived badly, brutally. The Guardian sets out to see every known Caravaggio in existence and discovers a brawling, philandering gangster who created some of his greatest work on the run and wanted for murder.

+ Caravaggio in pictures

+ Caravaggio gallery

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Streets of shame

A few years ago, American artist Susan Hiller was wandering through Berlin when she came across a street sign: Judenstrasse, or Jews' Street. On journeying through Germany, she discovered 303 streets preserving the memories of former residents who had only recently been killed. Judenstrasse, Judendorf, Judentreppe, Judenhoflein.

Surprised and shocked, Hiller embarked on an obsessive three year journey, photographing and filming each and every street, from bustling cities and bland suburbs to snowy farmland and leafy lanes, so that the histories would forever remain visible. She then drew an annotated map, marking every Judengasse, Judenweg, Judenpfad, Judenhain, Judenbackel and others in the entirety of Germany, from Aachen to Zerbst.

Viewed in isolation, the images are quite mundane, but packed tightly together in the Timothy Taylor Gallery on Dering Street, so many questions rise up in the viewer. Were the street names ever torn down like their namesakes? Who were these Jewish communities living in isolated villages in the countryside or the busy cities such as Munich or Berlin? What were their unique and personal experiences? What do the street names mean to current residents, if anything?

More questions arise watching the accompanying film entitled The J Street Project. For 67 minutes, the video camera focusses on different "J-streets". Some are devoid of any movement but leaves rustling in the wind or the sun setting behind the horizon; others feature people blithely cycling along, having their hats blow off as a juggernaut hurtles past them, or waiting at a railroad crossing in their cars. You wonder if they are even aware of the history of the streets they are moving through; if they look up at the street sign and reflect upon its significance to German history.

"These signs commemorate something, but who remembers it?" Hiller told The Observer. "Nobody. All of my work deals with ghosts in a way that some people see and some people don't. Now the signs are seen as respectful, but what do they commemorate? A history of racism and segregation."

Overall, the senses provoked in me were disquiet, unease and absence. However, my mood considerably perked up upon leaving the gallery when David Hockney walked in and opened the door for us. We were both stunned into silence and couldn't even say thank you! Blond and wearing a light-coloured trench coat, he looked fit, agile, tanned and much younger than in his photos.

A little shell-shocked by this fleeting encounter, and grinning like loons, we could move no further than the end of Dering Street, where we tumbled down into Fiesta Havana for a hearty meal of corn chips with red chilli, coriander and lime salsa; gaucho steak with blue cheese and fire roasted corn; steak burger bound with spicy chorizo; and Corona beers, strawberry caipirinha and raspberry mojito.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Music to my ears

My musical weekend began with a trip to Oxford to see Canadian "gay messiah" Rufus Wainwright perform at the New Theatre. Usually I love Wainwright's grandiose and melodramatic warblings, but in Oxford on Friday the sound was so appalling that Rufus' adenoidal drawl ricocheted painfully around my skull and the instruments blurred into a single, flat noise. Sack the soundman, I say.

The monotony was only relieved in the last 15 minutes, when the very cute Rufus exchanged his respectable shirt and suit for a buttless sequined thong, lipstick red stilettoes and blue stockings as Miss Oxford.

But even this frivolity couldn't beat the real highlight of my night, when I returned with my friend to her house in Summertown and she made us chocolate fondue with organic strawberries (at last, strawberries that taste of my childhood rather than of water). Scrumptious.

On Saturday, we enjoyed a moorish stew of smoked sausage, black beans and rice, followed by a gooey carrot and orange cake at the wonderful Brazilian-Portuguese restaurant and bar Canela in Covent Garden. Then we crossed the river to hear fadista Mariza sing her soulful brand of Portuguese fado at the Royal Festival Hall.

Fado ("fate") perhaps developed out of the Portuguese presence in Brazil during the 19th century, as a blend of African slave rhythms, traditional music of Portuguese sailors and Arabic influences. Linked to the word saudade and embodying nostalgia, longing, sorrow, loss, love and happiness, this mournful music typically features lyrics such as, "Why did you leave me, where did you go? I walk the streets looking at every place we were together, except you're not there." The Portuguese Blues, indeed.

29 year old Mariza is often billed as the current crown princess of fado, which is the main reason I wanted to experience her melancholia live. Born in Mozambique and of mixed parentage, she grew up in a traditional neighbourhood of Lisbon, surrepticiously listening to the amateur fadistas who sang weekly in the smoky, dark confines of her parents' cafe. She herself began singing at 5 years old.

On Saturday, she swayed across the stage in a long and black diaphanous dress, wrapped in a traditional black shawl, with her trademark helmet of bleached, cropped hair glowing out of the dark. Flanked by musicians -- also swathed in black -- playing violin, cello, Spanish guitar, Portuguese guitar, acoustic bass and an adufe drum, she sang with the strength of a woman twice her age. She doesn't quite have the depth, range and passion of a diva such as the Cape Verdean Cesaria Evora, but she is very close.

A wonderful performance that had me swinging between elation and sorrow all evening.

Related link:

+ Fado figures. Mariza and Portugal's other female fadistas.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Exuberance

This painting by Marc Chagal, exhibiting the sheer joy of existing, perfectly captures my mood right now. Joyously and outrageously life-affirming.

For a variety of reasons, I haven't had a chance to write much recently. I had a fabulous lamb-laden Turkish meal on Green Lanes last night where all the waiters wore Turkish football shirts, but otherwise, since returning from Spain, have simply been relaxing reading and kicking back with friends at home.

Tonight, though, I'm off to Oxford to see Rufus Wainwright in concert, and tomorrow it's back to London to see beautiful Portuguese fado singer Mariza at the Royal Festival Hall. Yipppppeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Sevilla

Seville was charming, romantic and seductive. We stayed in the Hotel San Gil, a beautiful four-star hotel in La Macarena district, complete with marble courtyard and tiled lobby.

We wandered around the monumentally Gothic Cathedral de Sevilla and the Moorish palace Alcazar. We spent an afternoon chilling in the Arabic baths, Banos Arabes, where we drank mint tea, luxuriated in a steam room, a salt pool and three other pools ranging from ice cold to hot, and basked under candlelight and Arabic music.

But mostly we meandered through the narrow, twisting, cobbled streets, stopping at whatever bar or cafe took our fancy. One of our favourite meals took place in Triana district on the Rio Guadalquivir which flows through the city. Triana is a fishing district and there we ate delicious dishes piled high with freshly grilled or lightly fried calamari, sardines, prawns, and clams, plus a refreshing tuna nicoise.

On other nights we ate gazpacho, garlic prawns, chorizo, jamon serrano (cured ham), black pudding, olives, beef steak, squid, whitebait, other fish, plus a stew of pork with dates and bacon at the tiny Cuban restaurant Habanita... In fact, mainly meat, fish and seafood.

We were rarely served vegetables to accompany our tapas or racions unless we specifically asked for them. Once we ordered a spinach and chickpea stew, and although it was tasty, the spinach and the chickpeas had obviously come out of a tin. And, despite all the orange trees growing on every street, we had to buy fruit (oranges and strawberries) from a store. An Atkins dieter's paradise!

We started our days with jamon serrano (cured ham) sandwiches, madeleines (small sponge cakes) or greasy and delicious chocolate con churros (deep-fried pastries dipped in thick melted chocolate), all washed down with freshly-squeezed orange juice and coffee.

And of course, lots of ice cold beers, mojito, caipirinha, and sangria. The best place for drinking was the run-down and buzzing Alameda de Hercules plaza of Alameda, where a younger and more alternative crowd hung out.

We didn't get to experience any flamenco or bullfighting, but then there's always next time.

Photos from our trip

Monday, May 09, 2005

Plaster casts

Cast Court at the Victoria and Albert Museum, May 02. More photos.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Frozen

On Sunday we saw Iranian filmmaker, artist, poet and photographer Abbas Kiarostami's Forest Without Leaves installation at the V&A. We drifted through a three dimensional forest composed of huge hollow tubes wrapped with photographic images of the barks of trees -- complete with carved Persian graffiti. The rationale behind the installation is that we are so out of touch with nature in natural surroundings that we can only observe it with care when placed and framed in an artifical environment. The effect was utterly haunting and mysterious.

We also viewed his Trees In Snow exhibition -- a series of photographs of stripped alpine stands of trees and their skeletal shadows silhouetted against winter landscapes that somehow manage to convey not bleakness and loneliness but beauty and serenity akin to Japanese pen and ink drawings.

Simply beautiful.

A season of Kiarostami films begins this month at the NFT and I'm very excited as it will be my first exposure to his work.

I'm off to Seville now, so won't be posting until next week!

Related link:

+ "Who is this 65-year-old Tehrani and why are the film, art, publishing and academic worlds so excited? According to the high priest of art cinema, Jean-Luc Godard: 'Cinema began with D. W.Griffith and ended with Abbas Kiarostami.' One American critic wrote: 'We don't know it yet, but we are living in the age of Kiarostami.'" The Times on Abbas Kiarostami.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Bank Holiday drifting

The long and humid Bank Holiday weekend began for us on Friday evening with drinks at Two Floors and Alphabet Bar in Soho, then dinner at the lively and packed Tex-Mex restaurant Cafe Pacifico in Covent Garden. We drank mescal and rosemary cocktails and devoured comfortingly cheesy ground beef burritos and quesadillas. The band Travis also sauntered in to eat, but I seemed the only diner to notice them.

On a hot and listless Saturday, I dragged us down to Bethnal Green and Bow for a disastrous few hours of "non-shopping", after which we had little energy but to sprawl across the grass in Green Park, along with the rest of London it seemed, and read the Saturday papers and people-watch. Rejeuvenated, we then wandered around Soho enjoying the summer evening, before devouring oysters, lobster and king prawns at the fabulous seafood restaurant Randall & Aubin on Brewer Street. We sat at the front of the restaurant by the open window, and as seafood juice dripped down our fingers we watched the very camp waiters air-kiss their friends who were passing by, and tried to work out whether the apartment opposite with the red light in the window and heavy drawn curtains was a brothel or not. We were nearly convinced when five or six Indian men leapt excitedly up the adjoining staircase, but then began to doubt when they leapt back down laughing a few minutes later.

Sunday was another chilled day, but this time largely spent working and surfing the net. In the evening, however, we headed back into Covent Garden to watch the fabulously witty Melinda And Melinda -- Woody Allen's return-to-form movie that convinced us to re-watch Manhattan, Annie Hall, Hannah And Her Sisters, and Crimes And Misdemeanors on DVD some time soon. This was followed by a filling but average Thai dinner back in Soho surrounded by male gay couples and a "suit" on a first date unsuccessfully trying to convince his female guest that affirmative action is a bad idea. Somehow I don't think she'll be putting his telephone number on speed-dial.

Today (Monday) we lazed around all morning reading the Sunday papers (bought the night before), then headed out to the V&A in South Kensington for Iranian filmmaker and artist Abbas Kiarostami's haunting and ethereal installation Forest Without Leaves and exquisite photographic exhibition Trees In Snow, more of which tomorrow. We also meandered through my favourite room in the V&A, the dank and decrepit Cast Courts cluttered with monumental and intricate Victorian plaster cast statues, altars, door frames and columns.

Afterwards, we headed back to the West End to watch the hilariously crude A Dirty Shame -- "Pope of trash" John Waters' new movie about sex addicts in the Baltimore suburbs, with Tracey Ullman, Johnny Knoxville, Chris Isaak, Selma Blair (complete with eye-knocking triple-Z cups) and Patty Hearst (yes, the one and only). Apparently, according to IMDb trivia, "When the MPAA were asked what would needed to be cut to obtain an R rating, they replied that if everything the MPAA objected to were to be removed, the movie would only be 10 minutes long." After 90 minutes of much-welcome cheap laughs, we ventured back out into the early evening sunshine to loll around the grass at St James' Park and plan our long weekend trip to Seville in a couple of days -- hurrah!

My God, when did April slip in to May?

My body senses summer approaching faster than my mind because it starts craving ice cream: anything from a cheap synthetic generic vanilla through Häagen-Dazs cookies and cream to Green and Blacks dark chocolate. So long as it's ice cream. Today at the cinema it was Häagen-Dazs panna cotta and raspberry. Bliss.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Free Flickr

Does anyone want a free Flickr Pro account? Hurry, while stocks last! Email me if you're interested.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Lolling around

A couple of evenings just lolling around.

Last night, browsing through magazines (Scientific American, Utne, Burn and Heat) and people-watching in Borders; wondering why all the Liverpool fans were chanting in Trafalgar Square at 6:30pm ("Have they lost their way?"); demolishing a hot Peri-Peri roast chicken and lemon cheesecake at Nandos; watching the last few minutes of the Chelsea v. Liverpool game on the street through a pub window; wandering past Buckingham Palace and down along Millbank wondering why St James' Park stays open all night ("Do they all stay open in central London?", and ahem hoping to catch a bit of action watching two guys walking through the park in the pitch dark) and which building is which (MI5, MI6?); flicking through Wired and Time Out magazines, curled up on the bed, sipping wild berry tea.

Tonight, savouring a juicy fruit salad (courtesy of M&S) for dinner; enjoying Rhys Ifans' creepy performance in Enduring Love on DVD; finally booking the Caravaggio show online; sinking into a rose-scented bubble bath, surrounded by candles; and now, after writing this, taking a novel to bed to fill my head with other worlds, other lives as I fall asleep...

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Operation Pandora's Box

On 22 February 1974, paranoid and embittered office supply salesman Sam Byck shot and killed an airport security guard at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, stormed onto Delta Airlines Flight 523 and attempted to hijack and fly the DC-9 into the White House. When the pilots told him they could not take off until the wheel brakes had been removed, he shot them both, grabbed a woman passenger and demanded that she fly the plane. Of course, he was thwarted in his ambition to kill President Richard Nixon, and shot himself fatally in the head whilst still on the plane. Six months after the bungled assault -- codenamed Operation Pandora's Box by Byck himself -- Nixon resigned from office.

Director Niels Mueller has revived this footnote in history, and in The Assassination of Richard Nixon has produced a character study with a tightly-wound Sean Penn terrifically evoking the role of an alienated and socially-inept divorcee with a rigid notion of right and wrong and a life that is falling apart.

The would-be assassin's job is failing, his marriage is over, his children are sullen, he can't get a loan to start a tire business, his country is fighting in Vietnam, his President lies from every TV screen, and even his dog doesn't seem to care whether he is dead or alive. Penn's character blames all his problems on Richard Nixon's presidency, and becomes so frustrated with the little Dick -- "He made us a promise, he didn't deliver, then he sold us on the exact same promise and he got elected again" -- that he visits his local Black Panther office and tries to persuade them to rename themselves the Zebras and admit white members.

Penn's character will never be as bleak, compelling or provocative as that other obsessive loner De Niro's Travis Bickle, but the escapism this movie afforded me was just what the doctor ordered last night to help me through a particularly stressful couple of days. Of course, the peach bellinis we quaffed and salmon fishcakes we wolfed down afterwards at Galileo's helped lots too!

Reviews:

+ "Overheated and overacted, but very watchable for all that." Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian.

+ "There's no discernible point to 'The Assassination of Richard Nixon', no sense of larger purpose, the film has only craft and technique to recommend it." The New York Times (reg. req.)

Other links today:

+ On cruise control: How to get out of a life rut. "As human beings, we made it through the process of evolution because we're flexible and adaptable, so we are wired for change. When we're in a rut, it's another way of saying that we're not experiencing enough change or variety. It can be easier to stay with what feels familiar, rather than take the initiative to make adjustments. However, if you face your fears, experiment with new approaches, and then take consistent action, no matter how small the steps, you will feel a sense of empowerment and increase your confidence."

+ iPod killers? "Mobile phones that rock, jam, thunder, and swing are on the way. Wireless operators around the globe are working with music studios, phone makers, and artists in a sweeping effort to turn the mobile phone into a go-anywhere digital jukebox."

+ Knowing when to log off: Wired campuses may be causing information overload. "There's the real danger that one is absorbing and responding to bursts of information, rather than having time to think. What's only gradually becoming clear is not just a pragmatic drawback but an intellectual drawback to having so many trees that there's no possibility of seeing the forest." Surely this should be the point of Adbusters' Turn Off TV Week?

+ Why literature matters. "The percentage of Americans reading literature is declining. The decline in reading has consequences that go beyond literature. The significance of reading has become a persistent theme in the business world. The February issue of Wired magazine, for example, sketches a new set of mental skills and habits proper to the 21st century, aptitudes decidedly literary in character: not linear, logical, analytical talents, but the ability to create artistic and emotional beauty, to detect patterns and opportunities, to craft a satisfying narrative. When asked what kind of talents they like to see in management positions, business leaders consistently set imagination, creativity, and higher-order thinking at the top."

+ The holy war: Mac vs Dos by Umberto Eco:

"I am firmly of the opinion that the Macintosh is Catholic and that DOS is Protestant.

"The Macintosh is counter-reformist and has been influenced by the ratio studiorum of the Jesuits. It is cheerful, friendly, conciliatory; it tells the faithful how they must proceed step by step to reach -- if not the kingdom of Heaven -- the moment in which their document is printed. It is catechistic: The essence of revelation is dealt with via simple formulae and sumptuous icons. Everyone has a right to salvation.

"DOS is Protestant, or even Calvinistic. It allows free interpretation of scripture, demands difficult personal decisions, imposes a subtle hermeneutics upon the user, and takes for granted the idea that not all can achieve salvation. To make the system work you need to interpret the program yourself: Far away from the baroque community of revelers, the user is closed within the loneliness of his own inner torment."

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Degenerates

After a full English breakfast at Brixton's The Lounge on Sunday, we headed off in the glorious sunshine to the Tate Modern, where the fascinating story of the treatment of modern art in Nazi Germany is being displayed.
"Our patience with all those who have not been able to fall in line is at an end. What you are seeing here are the crippled products of madness, impertinence, and lack of talent. I would need several freight trains to clear our galleries of this rubbish. This will happen soon."

Thus spake Adolf Zieglar, president of the Reich Culture Chamber, in 1937 at the beginning of the Entartete Kunst exhibition in Munich, during which some 650 paintings, sculptures, prints and books from the collections of 32 German museums were displayed by the Nazis as examples of "degenerate art".

Artists included Max Beckmann, Otto Dix, Max Ernst, George Grosz, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Paul Klee, Emil Nolde (ironically a Nazi), Franz Marc and Pablo Picasso (a major opponent of Fascism). Artistic movements included Dadaism, Cubism, Expressionism, Fauvism, Impressionism and Surrealism. Eventually, the concept of degeneracy led to the confiscation of over 20,000 works of art by over 200 artists.

German artists were branded enemies of the state and many were forced into exile, for example Beckmann to Amsterdam, Ernst to the US, Klee to Switzerland. In 1938, Kirchner committed suicide in Switzerland. Those who remained in Germany had to endure a ban on producing work or working in universities. Many of Jewish descent, of course, eventually ended up in concentration camps.

"Degeneracy" had its roots in the views of such pseudoscientific theorists as Max Nordau, whose 1892 book, Entartung (Degeneration), proclaimed that artists suffered from decayed brains, and that modern art -- from paintings to poetry -- was the product of mental pathology. Impressionism's "painterliness", for example, was the product of a diseased visual cortex.

These writings became the rallying point for the Nazi's theories on the racial purity of art. For the Nazis, only racially "pure" artists could produce racially "pure" art such as Romantic realism. Modern art, with its primitivism and abstractness, was all the more abhorrent because of its racially "impure" creators, and such impure work apparently had a decadent, destablising influence on German society.

At the Entartete Kunst exhibition, examples of degenerate art were crammed onto the walls and surrounded by emblazoned slogans such as "Insolent mockery of the Divine under Centrist rule", "Revelation of the Jewish racial soul", "The ideal - cretin and whore" and "Even museum bigwigs called this the 'art of the German people'".

The show is considered to be the twentieth century's first blockbuster art exhibit, with an estimated attendance of 3 million visitors. It ironically exposed many people to their first viewing of prime examples of modern art.

This tiny exhibition at the Tate is well worth a visit. Afterwards, we relaxed in the member's lounge upstairs and tried to read the Sunday papers in the midst of bickering couples and playful children, before taking a boat back along the choppy Thames to Pimlico.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

"Coincidence?" *

First picture, Lucio Fontana's "Waiting" at the Tate Modern today. Second picture, one of cigarette company Silk Cut's famous adverts. Unfortunately, the first reminded me of the second, rather than the other way around, and I didn't hesitate to let everyone around me know it: "Oh, it looks like the Silk Cut ad!"

* An in-joke -- at my expense. Please excuse me.

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Down and out in suburbia

The bleak and brooding side of American suburbia was explored today in 14 panoramic, ĂĽber-theatrical and colour-drenched photographs by Gregory Crewdson at the White Cube gallery:

Take one: A scratched and sodden woman with knees encrusted with mud sits alone on the bed with the remains of a rose bush in her hands. Behind her lies the long trail of thorns, petals, roots and dirt on the carpet.

Take two: A man and woman lay post-coitally naked on a dirty mattress in a squalid garden littered with debris, oblivious to both their immediate surroundings and the windows of the house overlooking them next door.

Take three: A mother and son sit inert at a table, not looking at one another. Their untouched dinner includes a half-cooked roast leaking blood. There are upturned bottles of pills on the dresser and an undrunk glass of liquour and ice on the kitchen counter.

Take four: A woman sits on the passenger side of a car that is idling at the traffic lights of a deserted crossroads, gazing absently at the empty driver's seat beside her.

Crewdson's work presents a very different portrait from the pared-down and spare vernacular America of Diane Arbus, Edward Hopper or Stephen Shore. Crewdson's photos are intensely theatrical, technicolour dramas encrusted with finely-delineated detail.

We can only speculate what went on in each of his photos, for it is as if the camera lens has caught the action mid-scene. You would not be mistaken for wondering if these are staged film sets: each has been produced on a soundstage and Crewdson collaborates with a roster of actors, lighting crews, art directors, set dressers, grips, gaffers, and hair and makeup artists.

If the scenes are short on context and plot, they are long on cinematic atmosphere: deserted main streets, damp forests, overgrown railroad tracks, misty skies, shabby carpets, dripping blood, vacant faces, dimly-lit motel rooms.

Most of the scenes suffer from such an overload of detail that at times my imagination disengaged. Was it really necessary, for example, to scatter lots of props to convince us that the bleeding, hunched, glum woman in front of us is truly unhappy: an over-flowing ashtray, a discarded pair of stockings, tranquillisers and slimming pills strewn across a table?

Moreover, the dark side of American suburbia is a tediously over-worked concept these days. From Twin Peaks through American Beauty to Desperate Housewives, murder-madness-sex-and-death-in-the-'burbs is familiar cultural territory for most of us.

Despite these misgivings, I found the overall effect to be unsettling, intriguing, and technically mesmerising.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Liliphilia

After a disastrous dinner of aubergine and sweet potato curry (when will I remember that aubergines will release much of the oil they absorb once they are cooked, so I needn't add so much at the start), we settled down to watch the enigmatic, opaque and utterly disturbing All About Lily Chou-Chou on DVD.

Lily Chou-Chou is a popular Japanese pop star who may or may not be real. Her legions of alienated teenage fans seem able to find solace and meaning in their lives only via an internet site devoted to her. One of these fans is Hayato, a high school student living in the provinces, who has a crush on music prodigy Ayumi. Online, Hayato expresses his devotion to Lily with passion and verve. Offline, like Ayumi, he is painfully shy, unassuming and lonely. He and others like him are easy prey for extreme forms of bullying -- which include public masturbation, rape and prostitution -- at the hands of a group of boys whose ringmaster is bored classmate, Shugo.

Shugo and Hayato were once friends, joining the kendo club together, discussing astronomy and engaging in a little petty crime. But Shugo began to change after a trip to Okinawa ended fatally. On his return to school, he defeated the reigning school bully and unleashed his own violent and arbitrary brand of humiliation that left few -- including his friend Hayato -- untouched.

An extremely painful and graphic story of wanton teenage cruelty, made all the more haunting and bleak by the beautifully kinetic digital cinematography.

Related link:

+ "I started out wanting to depict a youth who lives in a state of confusion between daily life and virtual reality, someone for whom the virtual reality is totally confused with real life. But as I developed the story and worked on the film, I realised that most people are living that way." Director Shunji Iwai.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Bebo and Diego

Last night, we witnessed the magic of Spanish Gitano (gypsy) cantaor Diego el Cigala and Afro-Cuban pianist Bebo Valdés at the Royal Festival Hall. This ended up being a real treat for me as my knowledge of flamenco -- indeed, most Latin -- music is very poor.

El Cigala was born in 1968 and began singing on the streets of Madrid before accompanying flamenco dancers on stage. The strength and passion of his voice soon distinguished him as a solo artist. Valdés was born in 1918 and has been playing the piano in Cuba and in Europe for more than 60 years. He is considered a pioneer of Afro-Cuban music. Last year, the two artists released the heartfelt Lágrimas Negras (Black Tears) -- an album that fused rumbas, guajira, sons and boleros, and won the two stars a Grammy.

Flamenco has always been a mélange of musical traditions, from the gypsies who brought their music perhaps from northern India, through Spanish, Jewish, Arabic and Berber influences, to blending with the blues, jazz, hip hop and rock. El Cigala's blend of flamenco and blues is produced by a voice that is hoarse and soulful: the voice of a man who drinks too many whiskys, smokes too many cigars and has had his heart broken one too many times. And yet this is a man who is in such command of his voice that what fills the hall is mellow, smooth and heart-stoppingly beautiful.

I'm not a fan of Latin jazz (much contemporary jazz at all, in fact), but Valdés plays with such virtuosity and flourish that I was captivated by the melodies spinning out of his fingers as they danced across the piano keys.

The band also included a mournful double-bass, skittish percussion and shuffling cajon. The musicians faced each other in a circle and played to each other in a call-and-response style that was so intimate, our presence as an audience felt like an intrusion.

Yes, I was utterly seduced.

Related links:

+ "I began to discover similarities between Cuban and Spanish music. For example, there's a malagueña cadence which is exactly the same as our guaguancó. As in many other cases, there are similar rhythms and harmonies thanks to African and Indian influences." Interview with Bebo Valdés.

+ "In flamenco there's more and more desire to learn all the time, people are dying to create." Interview with Diego el Cigala.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Masala night

Spent a chilled evening catching up with friends after work. We met in Soho's Alphabet Bar for mohitos and caipirinhas, then walked round the corner for an Indian (as opposed to a Bangladeshi) at the modern, open-plan and split-level Masala Zone.

Masala Zone serves tasty, earthy Indian street food such as dahi puris (bowl-shaped, feather-light wafers filled with spiced chickpea and potato) and chana dabalroti (chickpeas, lotus root and toasted bread); thalis (including ayurvedic), noodles and curries; nimbu pani (salt water lemonade), sweet and salty yoghurt lassis, beer and wine.

Indian street food is comfort eating of the highest order in my thoroughly biased opinion, and my fondest memories of India are of eating deep-fried puffy vegetable samosas or lamb cutlets with tamarind sauce and drinking freshly-squeezed sugarcane or sweetened lime juice from a steel beaker, whilst perched on rickety metal benches, in makeshift tin huts, as cars and lorries hurtle by.

Tonight, we had mixed starters, including minced lamb patties and chickpea samosas, and then substantial lamb thalis -- metal platters with timbales of rice, poppadoms, chapatis, dhal, gobi (cauliflower) bhaji, coriander and mango chutnies, and tender curried lamb stew.

We were too stuffed to even finish our plates, let alone have one of their delicious desserts -- such as creamy srikhand (strained yoghurt with saffron), sticky gulab jamun, and mango kulfi (dense Indian icecream).

Oh well, there's always next time.

Related links:

+ Up Bombay. "Long before it appears on the world's hippest menus, India's most authentic cuisine - the street food of Mumbai - can be sampled for a few rupees from the city's myriad and varied stalls. 'Western people do not understand street food. It is all about someone doing one brilliant dish for years, passing the spice mix and secret ingredients down through the family and everyone in the city knowing the best stalls.' " The Observer Food Monthly on Mumbai's street food.

+ It's curry, but not as we know it. "New wave Indian restaurateurs are eschewing the traditional image of chicken tikka, lager and flock wallpaper in favour of stylish interiors and posh cuisine. But one thing never changes - wherever you eat your curry, you can be sure they've got nothing like it in downtown Bombay." The Observer Food Monthly on the "new wave" of Indian cooking in Britain.

Other link today:

+ Navigating open source licensing. "The decision to use an open source license can plunge Web professionals into a mire of patent, trademark and copyright law. In this expose, Sitepoint speaks with Eric Raymond, cofounder of the Open Source Initiative, in an effort to untangle the complexities of open source licensing."

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Crumbs

Today at the Whitechapel Gallery, we viewed the satirical comic strips of Robert Crumb -- sometimes described as the godfather of the underground comics movement. I rarely read comic books or graphic novels, bar the odd Sandman or Akira, but I enjoy Crumb's irreverent and sardonic take on his own and American life, and his dense, black and white graphics packed with action.

Robert Crumb in The Guardian:

+ G2 in Crumbland
+ "America has become this soulless suburban culture"
+ "I'd rather be dead than mediocre"

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Twists and turns

We spent the afternoon in Soho, eating a scrumptious falafel sandwich in wholemeal pitta bread, with salad and chips at the Maoz cafe on Old Compton Street. Then we wandered over to the heavenly-aromatic Algerian Coffee Store across the road to buy some coffee and violet-flavoured candy. This store has a long presence in Soho -- opened in 1887 by one Mr Hassan. It now sells over 60 different types of coffee beans -- raw and roasted. The scent from my bag followed us all over Soho for the rest of the afternoon.

After mojitos at the Alphabet Bar, we crossed the river to the Purcel Room to watch the dazzling young dancer Akram Khan perform a series of epic Hindu mythologies to Kathak -- an ancient Indian classical dance form. Stories included that of the reluctant warrior Arjuna -- so powerful a marksman that he can hit the eye of a revolving fish -- who is persuaded into battle by Lord Krishna; and Arjuna's son Abhimanya, who learned the ways of war inside the womb.

Khan dances with such exhilerating fluency. Tonight, his mercurial body spun across the stage and his quicksilver arms shattered the air into a thousand shards. There were moments when his body practically levitated with an intense series of vibrations that went from his head to his toes. Yet Kathak is a very linear, precise, methodical dance form and at no point did Kahn lose control. His agility was taut and composed.

I've only ever seen Khan as part of a larger ensemble, when he performed Ma here last year. So I was unsure whether he alone would be able to command all my attention. I needn't have worried. Khan has enough physical magnetism to fill a stage several times over. The Independent once summed up Khan's appeal perfectly: "Khan has more charisma than a fistful of veteran star performers. When he transfixes you with his kohl-rimmed eyes, you feel he could charm a whole pitful of snakes."

And actually, he wasn't alone. His live band included sitar, tabla, mridanga and cello as well as the haunting and sublime Sufi vocals of Faheem Mazhar, who once performed suspended upside down on stage for Khan. Their musicianship was so spectacular that they frequently stole the show.

Related links:

+ "Everything in Indian music works mathematically and is very logical. Once that's understood, the music can be appreciated in a different way, and you can start playing around with the rules. There's a lot of improvisation, and the complex patterns we work from are more simple than they look." Akram Khan speaking to Culture Kiosque (Reg. req.)

+ The mathematical precision of Kathak

Friday, April 15, 2005

"When I hear the word culture I take out my checkbook"

On Wednesday, we went to hear Barbara Kruger and William Gibson discuss Contested Territories: Conversations in Practice at the Tate Britain.

When artist Barbara Kruger's red and white slogans in bold Futura typeface appeared in the store windows of Selfridges last year, it was impossible not to spot the irony of using anti-consumerist messaging to promote a summer sale.

Kruger's slogans appropriate public spaces that would otherwise be given over to advertising. Her slogans appear on book covers, posters, billboards, t-shirts, matchbooks, buses, bus shelters; in galleries, subway stations, newspapers, magazines:

  • "I shop therefore I am"
  • "Buy me, I'll change your life"
  • "We are slaves to the commodities around us"
  • "When I hear the word culture I take out my checkbook"
  • "You want it, you buy it, you forget it"

When a woman in the audience accused the artist of selling out to Selfridges, Kruger replied, "There is no space outside the global market economy, so I try to work within it." Kruger did not comment on the irony of the audience member discovering Kruger's window dressings whilst shopping in the Selfridges sale!

Author William Gibson also spoke of mediating the constant flux of information we find ourselves a part of. He said his work is an attempt to model the constant flow of information of modern life; an attempt to achieve parity between it and his "authorial membrane". The aim of all his writing has been, he said, to pass the Turing Test: can you put a machine behind a curtain and have it pass for human?

An audience member asked him about his research techniques. He replied that he doesn't "do research" as such, that his mode of being in the world is as an "automated magpie": everything he sees, hears and experiences goes into the "giant skip" of his mind where it vanishes and takes on a life of its own. "Later, when I reach back in, it comes out as if the elves created it." Often, the thing comes back as banal and peculiar.

Both artists ruminated on the effects of living in an ever-connected -- a cyber -- world. Kruger wondered what it would be like to live life not viewed though a lens, and celebrated the fact that we can use the media rather than have it use us: "We can use a camera and not call ourselves photographers; we can write but not be writers." We use these things as tools, as pleasure, she asserted, to process and shape information rather than be defined by it.

Gibson claimed, "One day our grandchildren will look at us, as a species, as 'not fully human' because we are constantly connected. The nature of human experience is being altered by this stuff." And yet, he too was not casting a negative judgement on this condition, situating it within a wider, longer, historical context that includes the connective technologies of cave paintings, the printing press, telephones and TV. As such, he said, he feels a part of a long human project that predates religion.

An interesting night, for which my summary here does no justice.

Related links:

+ Webcast of the discussion. Not yet online, it seems.

+ "The Billboard Liberation Front states emphatically and for all time herein that to Advertise is to Exist. To Exist is to Advertise. Our ultimate goal is nothing short of a personal and singular Billboard for each citizen. Until that glorious day for global communications when every man, woman and child can scream at or sing to the world in 100Pt. type from their very own rooftop; until that day we will continue to do all in our power to encourage the masses to use any means possible to commandeer the existing media and to alter it to their own design."

Other links today:

+ Life lessons in virtual adultery. "If you walked into a room and found your partner in a passionate clinch with someone else you'd probably have good cause to worry. But would you worry if those doing the kissing were characters in a game being controlled by your partner and someone else?"

+ Playlist anxiety. "Sharing playlists on an office network turns out to be something like a peacock spreading his feathers for display. People actively work to create an image of themselves through the music they make available to others, just as they might by buying a new car or showing off a cell phone. Public embarrassment may now be the routine lot of the unhappy freshman who gets caught with a collection too heavily weighted toward the collected works of Weird Al Yankovic."

+ Foiling spies at the Vatican. "Computer hackers, electronic bugs and supersensitive microphones threaten to pierce the Vatican's thick walls next week when cardinals gather in the Sistine Chapel to name a papal successor. Spying has gotten a lot more sophisticated since John Paul II was elected in 1978."

+ What does Dubya listen to on his iPod? "George W Bush is a fan of country music and classic rock, but he also likes 'a little bit of hard core and honky tonk', his iPod playlist suggests."

+ The annotated New York Times. The NYT complete with blogging citations. Fantastic!

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Island living

The latest Dubai man-made island project consists of some 300 islands grouped together into the continents of the world.

Other links today:

+ Nehanda Abiodun. Fascinating story of a black activist's exile from the US to Cuba and how she got her moniker of "godmother of hip hop cubano".

+ Cuban hip hop reaches crossroads. The politicisation of Cuban hip hop.

+ What do you call two straight men having dinner face-to-face without the aid of a television or the crutch of sports? A Man Date. (Reg. req. Via randomWalks)

+ "Star Wars fans have started queuing seven weeks early for the opening of the final movie - but appear to have camped outside the wrong cinema." Silly link of the day!

Monday, April 11, 2005

Saturday on my mind

On Saturday, we also visited The Photographers' Gallery to see work by the four artists shortlisted for this year's £30,000 Deutsche Börse Photography Prize. These included Luc Delahaye's monumental panoramas from war-torn frontlines, Jörg Sasse's manipulations of "found" photographs, JH Engström's magically tense portraits and interiors (below) and Stephen Shore's colour-saturated slices of American life (above).

The latter two were my favourite, and although both photographers share a fondness for capturing abandoned meals on tables and unmade beds in motel rooms, their photographs are quite different.

Engstrom's are ethereal, nervy, twitchy, tense photos of subjects and objects caught trying to escape the lens. His people and interiors are lonely and forlorn.

I've written before about my fondness for Shore. His photos of Americana are rooted, grounded, solid, posed, composed -- objects and subjects presenting themselves to the lens. His is a crisper, brighter world.

Of course, we then ended up in the wonderful cafe, perusing the papers, drinking tea and eating chocolate cake.

Afterwards, we made the grave mistake of watching Sahara, featuring actors who are as monumentally monotonous as the plot. I'll leave it to The Guardian's wonderful Mr Bradshaw to sum up the acting in a way no one else can:

"Once again, Matthew McConaughey proves that he is modern cinema's Mr Zero Charisma. He is the celluloid equivalent of Rohypnol: a deadening whiff of pure boredom that deprives you of the power to think, speak or move your limbs. It wears off after a few hours, leaving you face-down in a stagnant pool of vanilla Diet Coke."

Saturday, April 09, 2005

KĂĽba

After a sunny full English breakfast, coffee and iced cranberry juice at Brixton's The Lounge, we headed to KĂĽba -- the art installation of Turner prize nominee Kutlug Ataman, at the derelict Sorting Office on London's New Oxford Street. Ataman interviewed forty residents of Istanbul ghetto KĂĽba and we viewed their stories on battered analogue televisions from an array of frayed and shabby armchairs that could have come straight from any of their own homes.

The residents were largely Kurdish and -- as the name may suggest -- KĂĽba was originally set up in the 1960s by hard-left Kurdish nonconformists looking for a place to hide. Now the shanty town is a refuge for all kinds of people who have slipped through the social net, who are marginalised and disenfranchised. Hardly the kind of place you'd see featured in a guide book or the travel pages of a Sunday newspaper.

A girl tells of her beatings at the hands of her stepmother, a father hopes his son will use education as a means to escape poverty, an elderly woman bristles with pride at the closeness and unity of the KĂĽba residents, a young boy giggles as he breakdances on the floor for the camera, a woman describes the torture she endured for putting up an anti-government wreath, another woman cries because her family cannot afford a car to drive her child to hospital each day, a movie buff talks at length about his favourite movie Notting Hill.

A complex, diverse, and intricately-knit community of outcasts emerges from the cacophonic narratives and makes this installation utterly compelling. It demands repeated visits.

A grittier, more politicised Kurdish counterpoint to the Royal Academy's lustrous Turks exhibition.

The Post Office Sorting Office itself is an extraordinarily dingy, cavernous, labyrinthine shell of a building, full of concrete and graffitti, industrial chutes and nailed planks -- a place from where, up until 1995, almost two million parcels and letters were delivered each week. The site was a refuge for squatters and pigeons before Artangel used it to house KĂĽba.

The Sorting Office (photos)

KĂĽba installation (photos)

Related link:

+ Kutlug Ataman introduces some of KĂĽba's characters to The Guardian:

"Erol has a coop full of special pigeons. His hobby is quite a financial burden, so, to sustain it, he steals money from people at knifepoint, or puts his life in danger by robbing other pigeon coops. ... Nejmi is a complete dyke, but she doesn't realise it. Even her mother says: 'What kind of a girl are you? You have girlfriends!' Nejla says she is in love with the neighbour's daughter. 'I am the boyfriend,' is how she puts it. ... Guler was in love with someone else, but she had had to marry her husband because he had raped her - she married her own rapist because he was her aunt's son."

Friday, April 08, 2005

Hip hop con Cubanismo

First we grabbed a quick bite to eat at Pizza Express -- delicious Giardiniera pizza with leeks, petit pois, peperonata, mushrooms, olives and tomatoes; and spicy American pizza with lots of pepperoni -- then we walked to the Festival Hall for a scorching night of Cuban hip hop, courtesy of Orishas.

My knowledge of Cuban music is lamentably weak -- believing that it has fossilised during the economic blockade into endless varieties of easy-listening Buena Vista Social Clubs. But thankfully Orishas have not been strangulated by poverty or tradition: they draw on traditional Latin sounds such as son, rumba and guaguanco, to add piquancy to their distinctly urban hip hop beats. The result is a dynamite sound assessible to both the Buena Vista "oldies" and the hip hop "headz". They obviously live up to the meaning of their name: Orishas are Yoruban guardian spirits who traverse two worlds.

Tonight, Orishas' explosive music combined with an electrifying performance to produce an exhilerating evening and a desperate desire to hear and see more.

Related links:

+ Orishas: Gods in two worlds. "Still many people say, 'Yeah, Orishas is great but it's not real Cuban music'. We say it's normal, Orishas is Cuban music - but it's evolution. Cuban music isn't only Compay Segundo, no. It's the roots for my country, the roots for my music, but many many people like us are coming to fuse ragga with traditional music, ska with traditional music you know. And it's still Cuban."

+ The elements of revolution: The spirit of hip hop thrives in Cuba. "A lack of access to equipment combined with a disorganised market for the music has stumped many Cuban artists. Although strides have been made, there is only so much that can be done while living under a 40-year-old economic blockade. Graffiti artists live without spray cans. Breakers live without sneakers. MCs don't have notebooks and DJs have only one turntable and barely any vinyl. Yet no matter how sparse these tools might be, hip-hop is alive inside of them. Their expression won't be slowed down by want."

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Latin mix

Last night we spent several gluttonous hours luxuriating in Sabor, a Colombian-owned Latin American restaurant with a menu fusing Colombian, Brazilian, Peruvian and Argentinian cuisines.

Sabor is a small and modern jewel on the dingy Essex Road in Islington. It's artfully-lit in ever-changing washes of bright colour, and has only the odd piece of brightly-painted wooden folk art on the walls. The food was fabulous: it was well-presented and all the flavours were well-balanced, despite practically every dish featuring tropical fruit.

We started with a platter of empanadas mixtas -- three traditional, deep-fried savoury pastries made from cornmeal dough and filled each with minced lamb, crab and plantain, and mushrooms, all served with fresh mint salsa.

One of our main dishes was pato con maracuya -- a deliciously juicy pan-roasted breast of duck with plantain/sweet potato/pecan nut mash and a sweet and tart passion fruit sauce. Another was a meaty coffee- and chilli-glazed red snapper with a sweet and sour tomato sauce and gallo pinto (black beans and brown rice) mash.

Somehow we found space for dessert: a moorish platter of mature manchego cheese, gorgonzola and guava jelly; and a heavenly-light papaya and whipped cream cheese terrine with mango sauce.

All this washed down with a pisco sour and a margarita de maracuya - Sabor's house cocktail of fresh passion fruit and lime juice blended with a white tequila, triple sec and passion fruit liqueur.

My only knowledge of Latin American food is of comfortingly stodgy stews and lots of meat, so the subtleties of the cuisine at Sabor was a very pleasant surprise.

We were so stuffed afterwards, we couldn't do anything else but go home. Which was lucky for me because I was just in time for Desperate Housewives!

Other links today:

+ How to get the perfect shave. For men.

+ Get slick. MeFi's comments on How to get the perfect shave

+ Utne online. Recent articles: a feminist Koran, the religious right, and a breast-feeding protest in Starbucks. Always thoughtful.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Growing up black and white

I returned to the Royal Festival Hall again tonight for the Africa Remix literature series, in which authors Delia Jarrett-Macauley and David Nwokedi discussed how they negotiate their ethnicity in England and in Africa.

Humour framed the entire evening. Nwokedi's novel describes a Nigerian-born, English-raised boy's life in England with a Nigerian father and white English mother. The mother valiantly struggles to remind her children of their Nigerian heritage through food: most of the week she feeds them typical English fare of bubble and squeak, fish fingers and frozen peas, fish and chips... Then one day she decides to try her hand at fried plantains and jollof rice, but replaces the traditionally-African chicken with the traditionally-English corned beef.

The Nigerian father repeatedly reminds his son to "be proud -- you are part African" and yet the boy ends up scrutinising his reflection in the mirror, wondering which part exactly of himself is African and how on earth he could be proud of it.

Nwokedi grew up in New Haven in southern England. In his school of 1500, there were only ever 3 other black students, and he and his two siblings thought they were "the black community". He first came to London in his late teens when his mother took her children to see The Black and White Minstrel Show. It was the first time he saw so many "black" people in one place.

Jarrett-Macauley is of Sierra Leone origin and she remembers visiting Africa for the first time at 7. She rushed off the plane in excitement and then promptly ran back in. "Mummy, mummy, everybody's black!" Her mother replied, "Yes dear, this is Africa." "So this is where they all are!" Jarrett-Macauley grew up in England on jollof rice and pigs' feet, but still thought "lunch was a sandwich".

A really entertaining night that made me think of my own experiences as the child of Indian parents, growing up in an all-white community in middle England, moving to multi-ethnic London, visiting India, and living on a Native American reservation as "a real Indian". But I'll save those reflections for another time.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Maria full of cocaine

Last night, we saw Maria Full Of Grace, a movie about Colombian cocaine mules -- those people (usually women) who transport cocaine from Colombia to the US using their stomachs as cargo bays.

The BBC and The Guardian have both criticised the film for its lack of macro-political context, but this is the very reason I enjoyed it so much. The story does not feature hyberbolic, machinegun-toting drug men chasing one another through mountains and cities. Instead, it eschews violence and melodrama in favour of the more human and subtle story, the kind of which we rarely see in films about drug trafficking.

Moreover, the mules have resorted to drug smuggling through economic pressures and yet they are not here portrayed as obvious victims: the lead character, Maria, for example, does not think like a victim; she is forthright, intelligent and clear-headed, turning to drug smuggling as a way to support herself during pregnancy after having refused the suggestion from her slacker boyfriend that he do the right thing and marry her.

The attention to detail is phenomenal and the camera never flinches as it shows Maria taking medicine that slows the digestive system before swallowing 500g of cocaine -- divided between 62 latex-wrapped pellets the size of large grapes -- in Colombia, and then washing them in toothpaste after she excretes a few in the airplane toilet and re-ingesting them. It also does not shy away from showing the fatal effects on another mule of a pellet bursting in her stomach and her stomach being cut open to retrieve the rest of the drugs.

A calm, clear-sighted and compelling drama that I would like to see again.

Related link:

+ 'Everyone deserves a decent burial'. "Orlando Tobon has a mission: to identify the bodies of drug mules - and return them to their families. As a film about his work opens, The Independent meets a Colombian hero."

Other links today:

+ Why can't you pay attention anymore? "It may be the greatest irony of the information age: All of that data flying at you by e-mail, instant message, cell phone, voice mail and BlackBerry--it could actually be making you dumber. No one really multitasks. You just spend less time on any one thing."

+ A big breakfast at Burger King. Chain debuts Enormous Omelet Sandwich with more calories, fat than a Whopper.

+ Is the surfeit of culture dulling our senses? "Our home, our city, our world, our life is now a supermarket for the satisfaction of the senses. We could binge on Peking Opera if we wished, or read nothing but Uruguayan poets, or fill up our Netflix queues with films from Japan and Japan alone. I can think of some serious downsides to this wealth..."

+ De.lirio.us is the cheeky new social bookmarking tool on the scene to compete with del.icio.us

+ MacDonalds to pay rappers up to $5 every time a song name-checking the Big Mac is played

+ Watch manufacturers nervous as people use their cellphones to tell the time

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Weekend

My weekend began on Friday with a comfortingly wholesome dinner of black bean and smoked chorizo stew with rice served in a heavy earthenware bowl, washed down with a sweet and tart freshly-squeezed passionfruit juice at Canela, a fabulous and tiny Brazilian-Portuguese cafe tucked behind the Seven Dials of Covent Garden.

Then we strolled in the evening warmth across Hungerford Bridge to the Royal Festival Hall to experience the northern Senegalise singer Baaba Maal in concert with his band of -- it seemed -- one hundred. The spectacle was exhilerating: from Maal's spiraling and twisting wail, the dancers' flailing limbs and multiple colourful costume changes; to the spontaneous breakdancing, manic drumming and screeching saxophones. All performed to a projected backdrop of the art of the Africa Remix exhibition.

Saturday was another sunny day, so a return to Covent Garden was due and my first ever wander around the London Transport Museum, before a simple sushi lunch -- mackeral, salmon, prawn and octopus -- at the small and spartan Kulu Kulu. My craving for some American candy brought us to the very cute Cybercandy store, crammed wall-to-wall with candy from the US and Japan, where we bought jelly beans (garlic was the featured flavour but we weren't brave enough to try, let alone buy), vanilla cream soda, Reese's Pieces (peanut butter chocolate smarties) and Red Hots (cinnamon flavoured hard candy). We window-shopped our way down Floral Street to the Photographer's Gallery, where we scoffed chocolate and carrot cakes with tea at the cafe's wooden benches and tables, and caught up with the Saturday papers.

Still invigorated from our Baaba Maal experience, we returned to the Africa Remix exhibition today at the Hayward as it's the last week, before ending the day by watching the very excellent Maria Full of Grace -- a movie about Colombian drug mules. But more of that tomorrow.

Related links:

+ "A musician in Africa should be someone who educates. You can educate people and tell them their history and share information with people with your songs. When anything happens, people want to know your reaction, your advice, and what they should do. And not just to do with culture. It can be anything, from politics to religion." Baaba Maal speaks to The Guardian.