The Artist's Return

There's this stupid certainty that returning to my creative self at age (almost) 47, having burned pretty much all my media/art bridges 5 years ago, with no light in sight, is the wisest way to use my life from here on out. I could be out on my arse financially, I could become homeless (pretty soon actually) but there's this stupid certainty that it's where I need to head.

Because there was this silly little show, maybe you've heard of it, that managed to push through the grey, rubble-laden, packed-stiff-dry-earth of 'Netflix-&-chill' teevee to become this massive moment in popular culture globally...Yeah that little show. Boy, it showed us something.

This is the return of the artist, climbing over debris left by 'content-creators', seeing but not agreeing that audiences are 'consumers' or that art is meant only to confirm the darkness we find ourselves in as the human race. Art can build whatever world it chooses to, and in doing so, give us possibilities of whichever world we want to live in. 

This little show has given us a world which leads with kindness, where conflicts resolve not just with bravado and wits, but with empathy. It doesn't pretend evil doesn't exist, but neither does it treat us like defeatists, exhausted from living these dystopian lives. It takes all that and then gives us a story where compassion becomes the air we breathe in and, more importantly, breathe out.

Whether I define myself as an 'artist', or not, is irrelevant. We're all artists if we lead with authenticity and I guess the only question is: are we -am I- doing that? What is my voice in this world? Is it what a client or a channel or a boss or a 'market' or a political party tells me it is? If it's not, then what it is? If I were to make a silly little show, what would I lead with? Would I have courage if everyone around me said it wouldn't 'work'?

Jacob Tierney seems to have done whatever the fuck he wanted to do (I simplify, I'm sure it was more complicated than that). He has built an almost unbelievable premise, where the worst of humankind never really takes over and the plot twist is: love. How fucking audacious for these times. How fucking radical.

In doing so, he's given the artist in me strength to lead with whatever I want to lead with. My only job now is to go deep and excavate. 

Art Is Confusing

He made a brilliant film, but he tortured his artists.
He tortured his artists, but he made a brilliant film.

Blue Is The Warmest Colour

 

'Hysterical Literature' by Clayton Cubitt

This is just one in a series called 'Hysterical Literature'. The buzzwords are 'orgasm' and 'art'.

For the artist's perspective, read this Salon article.

(via @koopamandook)

Yum*

In The Dewarists' Episode 2, Rapper Akala recounts: 

"1997, I was 13 and an album called 'Wu-Tang Forever' came out and this album is definitely the reason why I write rap lyrics today. Here were these guys from the Park Hill projects in Staten Island, one of the worst neighbourhoods in New York. Many of them had been shot, many of them had been to prison, many of them had been through all the typical 'rap things' but they didn't seem to feel the need to sell themselves off of that. They were coming, using words like 'benevolent' or saying things like 'Behold the bold soldier/ control the globe slowly'...you know, just poetry. More than any other rap group, Wu Tang made it sexy to be intelligent. They were from the ghetto but they had an entitlement to knowledge and to me that was just revolutionary."

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* "There are only two mantras... yum and yuk. Mine is yum." 

~ 'Still Life with Woodpecker' by Tom Robbins

Meanwhile

As the rest of us bumble about wondering how to make brave television in these times of manufactured reality and formulaic cowardice, BBC2 forges ahead.

Just finished watching 'The Song of Lunch'. If you love the English language, Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson and moving pictures, do give this one a go.

Then, if you're anything like me, scour the internet for a free download of the poem by Christopher Reid (because that's exactly what a poet needs - someone stealing from him). It is an absolute joy.

I don't know what it is: the precise imagery of the text, an inspired screenplay that manages to have its own voice or the sheer pleasure of watching Thompson & Rickman (oh that voice reading those words!) act. I wish I could calibrate the exact mixture that creates such potent experiences. But I can't. Maybe that's why I enjoyed it so much.

Kya Picchar Hai, Baap!

Disclaimer: I am currently in the process of educating myself on the subject of social responsibility & the artist by googling 'Social Responsibility & The Artist'. Until then, below are my thoughts.

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A couple of years ago, I joined Bollywood in its outrage against then health minister, A. Ramadoss, who tried valiantly to get Indian courts to uphold a ban against showing smoking & drinking in films and on TV. I believed wholeheartedly in the idea that art's 'job' (if there is such a thing) is to reflect the world we live in, not tell the world how it should be. (I'm very allergic to the word 'should' and am currently on steroids to deal with the matter). A. Ramadoss became a joke, an object of revulsion even. He was The Man and we had to band together and fight against The Man.

Perhaps the fact that I enjoyed my whiskey & occassional smoke had something to do with this.

Then in the last few weeks, two film experiences made me do a full BJP-style, double-standard turnaround. Both films also came closely timed with horrible incidents of criminality that have outraged & horrified the general public. One film made me plain mad. The other made me confused.

The first was Cocktail, over which I have expressed great anguish on Twitter and this blog. First, and importantly, purely as a cinema goer, I was thoroughly bored by it. At one point in the film, someone got hit by a car, making it the only redeeming moment in a dull screenplay (that the victim did not die, was a severe disappointment). This complete disdain, then, facilitated my righteous rage about the stereotypes it perpetuated. At first, these stereotypes were simply annoying (read: Spot The Slut if you haven't already). But after the Guwahati incident, they went from being simply annoying to dangerous.

What took me from a state of being offended to scared was this: The film is marketed and packaged as a hip, young, cool & progressive story of love and friendship that is actually built on highly regressive values. Dressed up all nice and fancy, it's difficult to notice what a sexist, lecherous & frustrated douchebag Saif Ali Khan's character is or what a potentially powerful and moving character, Deepika Padukone's could've been in spite of being scantily clad. I saw an instant connect between the values exhibited in the film and the terrible acts committed in Guwahati. I'll admit, I wished the film had never been made.

Perhaps the fact that I hated the movie and not just its politics had something to do with this.

Last evening I watched 'The Dark Knight Rises' and from the first frame I was hooked. Purely, as a cinema goer, I thought the grammar & symmetry of how its characters, technology, writing, cinematography & editing came together made it a fantastic experience I wouldn't have wanted to miss. Then came the first big shootout scene and I looked away from the screen, towards the exit doors of the cinema hall. "Was this the scene, where Holmes came in on those unsuspecting people in Aurora?" I thought. I quickly banished the idea and turned back to the movie. But how does one turn back from that? How does one disregard the glamorously brandished automatic weapons in the scene, the sexiness of the deranged bad guy? Or not wonder if one is losing ones mind? 

What made me feel torn between the two states of exhiliration & morbid terror was this: The film skirted dangerously between fantasy & psycho-social reality (in fact all Nolan-directed Batman films do). I am used to comic superheroes being exaggerated characters in exaggerated situations (perhaps created as a reaction to prevalent social issues of their time...Who knows? That's my next topic to google.). When I walk away from George Clooney's Batman, it's simple for me to distinguish between him and the real people I meet in the world. 

But the Nolan films aren't content to remain in fantasy land - at least not psychologically, socially or politically. For me, the lines often got too blurry, too rapidly. Maniacal characters like Bane (and the Joker) weren't just comic villains - but people with subtexts & stories I could relate to all too easily. If I were just that much more insane than I am, would I have wanted to emulate them? So I'll admit, even though I enjoyed the film thoroughly, I wish it had never been made.

I still don't know where I stand on holding art responsible for triggering society's ills. Through all my ire at Cocktail or discomfort with The Dark Knight Rises, I have never called for curtailing the rights of either filmmaker to create what they want. If I have a serious issue with them, I would rather bitch, moan, blog, tweet and text all my friends not to see the films. The idea of blanket bans makes me uncomfortable, because so much of who I am today is informed by art that's considered dangerous by someone else. At the same time, I've experienced the double-standards of my own subjective impulses to accept one artistic piece as admirable and the other, not.

So am I looking to unleash my inner A. Ramadoss on anyone? Not any time soon.

But here's what niggles at me: Perhaps the fact that I'm neither that girl in Guwahati, nor an unfortunate victim trapped in a cinema hall in Aurora, has something to do with it. 

http://missioneuropakmartell.wordpress.com/2010/09/10/hate-crime-vs-art/

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Read also: Stupid For Art by Mark Mann

Really, people...Part IV: Look Ma, I'm Racist

Saw this in the papers today and thought - Wow! India has truly become a global superpower if it's beginning to exhibit classic signs of xenophobia in the mainstream:


http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/entertainment/bollywood/news-interviews/Btown-wants-a-ban-on-Hindi-dubbing-of-English-movies/articleshow/10415428.cms

Excerpt: Speaking to DT, Bhatt said, "There are similar apprehensions in Bollywood and everyone is planning to come together and fight this practice of Hollywood films being dubbed in Hindi or Tamil. We cannot allow them to have a right over our mother tongue and use it to their advantage just because they have the budget. Hollywood studios have big budgets for promotions and we can never match that. Hindi film producers are now planning to come together against this. Letters have been written to the I&B ministry secretary in the past also, and I can say with full certainty that something similar is on the cards now. We face similar issues in other states at times. For instance, I cannot get my movie dubbed in Bengali."

Hey Mahesh, here's a revolutionary thought - Let's make films that are less crap and maybe audiences will actually want to watch Bollywood rather than Hollywood films.

Yeah, that'll be Rs. 500. Come again.

What I Do

Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, everything slows down as I release the word 'Screenwriter' from my mouth. I stretch time, savouring their widening of eyes and the 'wooooooowwwwww' that seems to go on for days.
I do this because the next question will promptly crash my little hovercraft of delusions into the ground.
"What films do you write for?"
"Non fiction."
"Like serials?"
"No...like documentary films."
"Like Big Boss?"

Here, I pause. Because they're right. These films I help make (or 'supposedly' help make, as my mother believes) don't reach too many people. The last time I did something that was broadcast, was in 2007. I know of 2 people who saw it. One of them was my mother.

Still, it's a great job. Someone with a lot of money contacts me and tells me they don't have any money. Then they tell me the subject they wish to make a film on e.g: sewage treatment. I am asked to take a trip for research purposes. Thanks to such trips, I have experienced strange & fascinating things like the inside of a mountain, secret rituals of the Khalsa, Malyalee robots bumping into tables, a duet between Manoj & Shweta Tiwari and a Citibank conference.

Researching for documentary films is a respected profession amongst the 6 people who know what it entails. You're the equivalent of a Harvard PhD in this tiny group. What you say & believe about a particular subject is the gospel truth. You are, in fact Jesus of the film crew. (Or so you tell yourself as they delay your payment by another month.) No need for them to know that your analysis of the Guru Granth Sahib was the result of standing in the karha prasad line at the Golden Temple. After all, the final film will only give you 30 seconds of voice-over to expound on Sikh philosophy. Of which 'The Guru Granth Sahib is the Sikh holy scripture" takes up a whole 5 seconds.

After research is done, it's time for writing. This is a task of many contradictions. A good documentary film writer isn't one who actually writes well. It is one who knows when not to write. In a medium where the hierarchy of communication tools places visuals, sounds & interviews above everything else, the writer must constantly 'unwrite'. Shakespeare would've made an awful documentary film writer.

Then there's the unspoken rule. What you write is never right. Takes a while to get used to the gentle sounds of dismay when one presents first drafts. Contempt, horror & anger will be hurled at you by people who can't spell their own names correctly (or even spell 'correctly' krektly).
"Madam, you have not even written anything about our great Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute For the Hormonally Challenged!"
Who will explain to them that the visual of a building saying 'Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute for The Hormonally Challenged is quite Exceptional' does more than what a 2 page voice-over ever will.

And so you unwrite the script and present the film to your client.
They are effusive in their praise - "This cinematographer has done wonderful work!" "Who is your editor? Simply fabulous graphics!" Your chest bursts with pride or something like it and you eagerly await your pay cheque. You discover they've cut your pay because you only wrote 3.5 sentences in the hour long film.
You make like Guru Dutt in Kagaz Ke Phool and renounce the world.

Then, one day you're switching channels and catch a line that sounds vaguely familiar. You realise this is your line. You cringe at how horrendous it sounds but don't change the channel. You wait till the end of the show for that golden moment - the moment that, if your work was being shown in a cinema hall, would be the one when everyone walks out.
In a sea of names rolling up the screen, you see yours for a nanosecond.  It will be gone before you blink, not to return in a hurry, not to see a DVD release or fancy premiere. And so you stretch time again.

Girl Before A Mirror: A Facebook-ish Critique

Having already been told by Facebook on an earlier occasion that I would meet my maker via lethal injection and that I have a couple of secret admirers pining for me somewhere on this planet, I didn't expect much from a quiz called 'A Painting That is Me'.
But then the Girl Before A Mirror by Pablo Picasso popped up claiming to be, well, me.

After the ooo-look-at-all-the-colours reaction (I love visual art but am not the most educated about it), the next thing I noticed was her body. Shite! How does Facebook know about my tummy? How does Facebook know that horizontal stripes look like crap on me? How does Facebook know about my struggles with my hairdo? And how does Facebook know what a non-traditionally great looking babe I am?

Then and only then did I turn my attention to (forgive me, Pablo) the mirror and the fact that she stands opposite it, not just looking at but reaching out to her reflection. According to me the actual girl is way prettier than her reflection (a fact she'll never know, so focused is she on what she sees, thinking that this is what everyone else sees of her as well). I love the half moons of her face - much more serene than her reflection. There are powers this girl possesses that her reflection never will. Yet, she clings to that reflection.

I've been doing a lot of 'mirror work' recently. It's a meditative process of sorts, a highly charged and extremely powerful way to get to the core of oneself and make changes at that elemental level. It involves chanting positive affirmations to oneself while looking deep into your own eyes. It's a completely no-bullshit technique, you can't hide from yourself. If you feel ridiculous, there are things to uncover, if you feel resistant there are things to uncover and if you feel a deep sense of sadness there are things that need to be healed.

And then one day, you look into that mirror and you say something fabulous to yourself and your insides don't fight it. They vibrate with the recognition of the words you're saying. The reflection and reflected come together.

Jazz, By the Way

I went for a jazz concert yesterday. It's part of my experiments with becoming more open minded, doing things I didn't do for the entire decade of my twenties...things I regret not being open to in the past. The whole essence of these experiments is to say Yes a lot. Even to things, I'm convinced I won't enjoy.

Last evening, I decided (against my better judgement) to attend an evening of Jazz. It's a genre of music that I've never understood. It's like a club that I know is really cool but won't admit me. It's like a Jackson Pollock that everyone seems to appreciate the genius of, except me. It's like an Orhan Pamuk book that will always be just out of reach. I feel as if I'm locked out, staring in through a dirt smeared window - the dirt is, of course, on my side of the glass.

I sat in the makeshift lobby area outside the main concert hall, watching the performance projected on the American Centre's walls, right next to the His n Hers. I had been inside for a while but the seats were limited and I didn't want to take up the space of a true jazz enthusiast. Outside seemed perfect for heathens like me. There we were - the yawning, the sleepy and the high-pitched squeakers. The cellphone addicts, the girlfriend pleasers and the 'we thought he was famous' seekers. I tried for a while to pay attention and really give this a shot. How can something so universally appealing, elude me so completely, I thought. I waited for the genius to hit me like a lightening bolt. It never really happened.

Each track seemed like it was on a collision course with the next, crashing into each other, making it difficult to tell which mangled parts belonged to which song. I felt dyslexic - jazz dyslexic. It was all a jumble of plink plink plink, boom bash, budoom-doom-doom. 'Don't think too much about it...there's nothing to 'understand', said my friend. But try as much as I could, it was no use. Jazz and me would never do the whole twain-meeting thing.

On the way back, I asked my friend if I - the self-proclaimed music addict - had actually got it wrong all these years. Had I been more in love with music for the emotional context it fit into? Does my notion of a 'good' track have to fulfil a criteria of matching with the film in my head. Does it have to fit into categories of 'sad', 'happy', 'angry', 'joyful' etc. etc. Am I the bleeding heart, country music loving fool who has no true appreciation for the beauty of music as it is?

Then I heard Saeen Zahoor performing with Noori as part of the Coke Studio project (http://www.overstream.net/view.php?oid=ikmwe5ree7t3) and I realise I have enough stuff to be insecure about without worrying how little I understand jazz. It's ok, if I delay the cooldom. The greater existential implications of my not liking jazz can wait a while. I have a bunch of stuff to illegally download first...

Aik Alif - Bulleh Shah (performed by Saeen Zahoor and Noori at the Coke Studio)

Parh parh ilm te faazil hoya
Te kaday apnay aap nu parhya ee na
You read so many books
to know it all,
yet fail to ever read your
heart at all.
Bhaj bhaj warna ay mandir maseeti
Te kaday mann apnay wich warya ee na
You rush to holy shrines to play a part,
Would you dare enter the shrine of your heart
Larna ay roz shaitaan de naal
Te kadi nafs apnay naal larya ee na

Everyday you fight Satan
But you never fight your own Ego

Bulleh Shah asmaani ud-deya pharonda ay
Te jera ghar betha unoon pharya ee na

Bulleh Shah you try grabbing that which is in the sky
But you never get hold of What sits inside you

Bas kareen o yaar, Ilm-oun
bas kareen o yaar
Ik Alif teray darkaar

Stop seeking all this knowledge my friend
Only an Alif is what you need

Allah Sayyaan Allah Sayyaan
God is All we need! God is All!
Nee main jaanaa Jogi de naal
I will follow the wandering dervish!
Jo naa jaane, Haqq ki taaqat
Rabb naa devey us ko Himmat
If you deny the power of all that’s true,
God will not grant strength to you.
Hum Mann ke darya mein doobey
Kaisi nayya? Kya manjhdhaar?

We have drowned in the river of Self
the boat and the flowing waters do not matter

Bas kareen o yaar, Ilm-oun,
bas kareen o yaar
Allah Sayyaan Allah Sayyaan

Why don't I like the cool stuff?

I am very disturbed. I consider myself to be a patron of the arts and the type of girl who loves a good bit of dramatic expression - on canvas, on stage, in song, in step, in word or on 70mm. I'd like to believe that my senses are acutely tuned to find 'truth', 'beauty' and of course coolness in any work of art that is presented to me.

Two nights ago, I traipsed out in the Delhi heat in response to a Facebook invite promising music, comedy, dance and general fun associated with Mr. Kite type evenings. I even dished out Rs.300 that I do not have, to attend this soiree of the artisitic elite. I withstood the horrendous crush of sweaty bodies, all breathing hot, steaming air, crammed into a space that could barely contain its own waiting staff. For all their pedigree, this lot didn't seem to think twice about shoving their exfoliated elbows into my sides, just to inch closer to the 'stage'. They also thought it acceptable to talk loudly through all the comedic sketches that could barely be heard, in spite of the mics.

I may have bitched and moaned and annoyed my friend to the point of violence, but I swear I tried to enjoy it. I tried to forget that these o-so-intelligent organizers hadn't thought to wonder how they would fit over 50 people into an airtight box that could only accomodate 15. I also tried to get over my own baseless prejudices of this 'spoilt bunch of kids who walk around with an air of entitlement' (I'm human, I too have my internal caste system). But what I could not get over was the level of goop churned out by the actors. Did they imagine they were in a PG Wodehouse novel? Were they in the smoking room of a duke's chalet? Were they longing for the days of the Raj to return? Who were these people? I didn't recognize them.

After the evening was officially declared over with a rousing samba (which I thoroughly enjoyed - I'm not that much of a cynical bitch), my friend and I got embroiled in an argument. She had a valid point - these kids were representing a space that's real and exists and had not been represented that openly on the Indian scene. Hyper-elite art, I'd call it. You have to be familiar not just with Western art forms but also Western lifestyles, references and perspectives. It's cool and it has a right to exist.

I was disturbed because I'd like to think that I stand up for any artist's right to express and for any art's right to exist. Yet I was unable to reconcile myself to these young, obviously sincere people recreating Vaudeville in a sense.

Because, if I want Vaudeville, I'd like to see the real thing. Or if it's being done in India by Indians then I don't just want the bare minimum that the bunch is capable of. It doesn't excite me because there's nothing new except the location of the performance and the nationality of the performers. I don't like when artists set out to do something new and then end up doing the same old. I don't like lukewarm.

As a writer who is not the most gifted or the most appreciated (I've had some hard criticisms thrown my way), there's a part of me that says - awww, let them blossom, let them bloom, let them say their piece because they want to. For God's sake, give them their right to be. They're trying.

But then I look into my wallet and find it so empty that I can't afford to go for Vishal Bhardwaj's next film at PVR and I say - screw you and your well meaning experiments.
I want my money back.