All posts by asheth

A Suitcase Full of Art Supplies

Profile

Vinita Karim tilts her head to get a better look at the canvas. We’re in her art studio in Dhaka, Bangladesh, dwarfed by the huge canvases that fill the space. Karim is dressed in loose-fitted white linen pants and a kurti with minimal embroidery. She pours yellow pigment onto the canvas, disrupting the previous harmony of blue and earthy brown. If I look carefully, I can see traces of an emerging city: rooftops and ports.

I ask Karim how she sees herself. “As an artist,” she replies, “a mother and a global citizen”. While these seem like three distinct identities, they are very intertwined. I know this because in the hour we spend talking to each other, she probably learns as much about me as I do about her. She speaks with the vision of a painter, maintaining the delicate balance between intuition and expertise. Her face lights up with a smile as I ask her to meet Anaya, my fourteen-year-old sister. Excited and embarrassed, Anaya rushes to my side to greet her favorite artist.

From our conversation, it is abundantly clear that there is a connection between Karim’s cosmopolitanism and her art. Her passion and vocation align as she travels the world, getting to know “so many people and experiencing so many cultures”. Born to a diplomat father in Burma, Vinita Karim was uprooted as a young girl and sent to school in Kuwait. It was not an easy transition. Then from Kuwait to Khartoum and then Islamabad. Every time, she started from scratch: making friends, navigating schools, seeking solace and a secure connection to the culture. Later came Stockholm, Manila, Cairo, and many more. By the time she was an adult she was fluent in six languages and, she says, “conversational in another two.” Today, travelling with her paintbrushes, colors and palette knife, she’s learned to create a home wherever she goes. Her solace now is capturing the architecture, history and vitality of cities real and imagined. I wonder if her travels are motivated by her desire to be seen as a global artist? Or is she following her heart wherever it takes her?

She has lived in over 15 cities and held over 23 solo shows across the globe. Her specialty is oil on canvas, accentuated with other mediums including gold leaf and embroidery. A unique blend of bold colors and distinctive shapes, her artworks seek to bring to life what she calls the “chaos amidst the structure” of cities. No painting represents a specific geography. Instead, she superimposes elements of different places as her imagination dictates to produce a set of highly distinctive cityscapes. “I am a fan of all things layered”, she tells me with a twinkle in her eyes.

The one constant in her adventures across the globe has been art. Turning her biggest challenge into her biggest strength, she started looking at “travel as a sort of education”. Karim’s love for cities shines through her contemporary renditions of landscapes. She refers to the cities she creates on her canvas as the confluence of “concrete jungles and cultural heritage”. Each element signifies a different story. Yet, they all tie in together into a union that “no camera can capture.”

Confined now to our houses, deprived of travel to other countries, we are reduced to the truth of our shared experience as humans. Vinita Karim packs up and brings along everything she needs when she’s able to travel. But her suitcase full of art supplies will likely be gathering dust in her basement for the foreseeable future. For her, and for us, the memory and imagination of the artist will have to do for now.

Can Bollywood Go Mainstream?

Op-Ed

Churning out more than a thousand films annually, Bollywood is the largest film producer in the world. Bollywood films, which come in at about 3% the cost of production of Hollywood films, incorporate multiple genres and spectacles of all kinds: flamboyant costumes, elaborate musicals and dramatic dialogues. Bollywood dares to explore the uncharted territories that are taboo in Indian culture: homosexuality, extramarital affairs, IVF treatment, and more. These films communicate the unspoken truths of society. The question is, can Bollywood successfully transition from capturing the Indian audience to going mainstream?

On a gloomy January afternoon in Boston, I found myself bawling my eyes out at my favourite Bollywood movie of all time: Kal Ho Naa Ho. Made in 2003, this 3-hour-plus spectacle transports me seamlessly to the living room of my childhood, where I am huddled with my grandparents. A genre of its own, Bollywood has the ability to teleport you to the heart of Indian culture, to really remind you of home.

Bollywood and I have a complicated relationship. Films are extravagant, commercial and ludicrous all at once; an anathema to the contemporary Western standards of aesthetics. I have my moments questioning Bollywood’s depiction of life. Like most others, I live by more subtle emotions. So imagine my discomfort  at this melodramatic attempt at a larger-than-life production. Yet, there I was, fully assimilated into this film about a girl falling in love with her secretly ill next-door-neighbor who hovers over the family like a guardian angel. In rollicking dance numbers, they break into song as they redecorate their family-owned café on the streets of New York. Three hours later, I gathered myself together, my cheeks stained with tears.

Is it realistic for the lead actor to run along the centre painted line of street without getting hit by a car? Definitely not. Is it reasonable to believe that with every sad conversation, the clouds can no longer withhold the rain? Perhaps not. Is a coordinated dance at a nightclub a possibility? Most likely not. Yet despite the inaccuracies and unrealistic portrayals, Kal Ho Naa No (like many others), is an anthem to the average Indian. Indians don’t just accept the extravaganza, they embrace it and live vicariously through it. Anyone born within the decade likely knows its dialogues by heart, and definitely grooves to its super hit number, “It’s time to DISCO.”

Bollywood is aligning itself to meet the demands of a new world with an explosion on over-the-top (OTT) platforms such as Netflix and Amazon Prime. It is doing what it always did: animating the faults and frictions that torment our world, but targeting a much wider audience. Recently focusing on numerous short films and series, it is attempting to capitalise on the shortened attention span of the average viewer. Cinematic demand has transitioned from emotional appeal to intellectual engagement. In the last decade, the number of films with a strong social message has significantly increased. Films that were first used to escape reality are now attempting to address it

Critics argue that the essence of Bollywood lies in its extravagance. These musicals have shaped the dreams and aspirations of several generations. Of these critics, I ask, is that to say that Bollywood’s singular aim was to be a cultural export? In the past, did these films not have an intrinsic message?  Beneath the veil of music and melodrama, there was always a reality that resonated with every Indian. It was present, stretching your mind, prodding at your heart, stinging your eyes. Only now, it is more to-the-point, following the evolution of most successful entertainment channels in the 21st century.

That afternoon, as I cried my heart out to Kal Ho Naa Ho in my dorm room, I realised the true power of Bollywood. Loved as a commercial work of art by over 1.4 billion people, its penetration is about to increase exponentially. There is so much more to cinema than Western Superhero productions and French Mademoiselle movies, and the rise of Bollywood into mainstream media is likely to prove just that. Seen as unrealistic and extravagant outside its native culture, Bollywood is strong enough to survive in the “big league” merely by tweaking itself  to cater to a wider audience. Indian Cinema is no longer limited by national borders and language barriers: it is on its way to sweep the world off its feet. All it needs to do is take that leap of faith.

Dreaming of a Democratic and Feminist Iran

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

Women Without Men (2009) is a tragic feminist allegory of Iran. It’s set in 1953, during the political turmoil in Tehran that saw British-American troops bring down the government of Mohammad Mossadegh in order to maintain Britain’s control over Iranian oil. Adapted from a novel by the feminist author Shahrnush Parsipur, directed by the contemporary visual artist Shirin Neshat, and filmed by Neshat’s cinematographer Martin Gschlacht, the film is a confluence of striking visual and narrative moments. It captures the lives of four women from vastly different sections of Iranian society: personal, political and social. Treading on the edge of historical veracity and magical realism, Women Without Men is a story of solidarity and companionship in the midst of a coup d’état, which marks the beginning of Iran’s contemporary issues. If the film doesn’t leave you rubbing your eyes as you seek to tell dreamy elements from real ones, it will definitely leave your mind racing to put all its pieces together.

In an inventive and innovative style, Neshat makes room for presenting feminist characters and invites you to join this 99-minute curated experience. Almost like playing the role of “the mother”, Fakhri is an upper-class matron long married to a general who backs the Shah. Exasperated by her abusive marriage, she leaves her husband to buy an orchard in the countryside. The first to reside with Fakhri is Zarin, a young, emaciated prostitute, who fled the brothel she had been serving to cleanse herself from her traumatising encounters with clients. Munis, “the rebel”, is a 30-year-old budding feminist activist who listens obsessively to the radio, to keep up with political developments. She constantly attempts to subvert her brother who imposes unreasonable restrictions on her actions and choices. Finally, Faezeh, embodying an iteration of the “Madonna”, is Munis’s friend and is in love with this tyrannical brother. Faezeh is rather timid, always veiled, and alarmed by Muni’s boldness. All four women unite in Fakhri’s orchard: the mystical centre of the film and a symbolic safe haven for women who have been victims of Iranian patriarchal institutions.

The variation in cinematography echoes the fragmented storyline. Gschlacht plays with light and shadow, creating mesmerising images in monochrome interspersed with muted colours. The film opens with Munis contemplating suicide on the roof of her home; the white building is beautifully framed against the fierce blue sky. The visual contrasts reflect the stark difference between life and death. More importantly, they shine a light on Munis’s state of mind, grabbing your attention and hooking you on to her story. The scenes in the streets of Tehran are predominantly black and white. You might find yourself navigating the print of a daily newspaper, or making sense of a newsreel. Neshat creates a blueprint to experience the repressed livelihoods of women. In an alternative reality, bright colours emerge in the orchard. While readjusting to chromatic changes, beware of the cuts replaced by dissolved transitions. Hold on tight to your chair: don’t float away with the surreal fluidity that envelops the screen.

The juxtaposition of visuals with sounds—or the lack thereof—compels you to listen and assess the background noises. Without any direct relation to the plot, these sounds tie the film in as one final product. The prayers, birdsongs, roaring crowds, wailing women and rushing water create a document-like reality, complete with historical accuracy. At the same time, Ryuichi Sakamoto’s morose soundtrack invites you to wander the world of fantastical constructs. Neshat seamlessly switches between authenticating reality and fuelling fragmented tales. The presented conversations between the four women are strained and hushed, allowing the audience to view their defiance through an intimate lens. Yet, profound and uncharacteristically loud monologues urge you to map out the possibilities of a democratic and feminist Iran: a construct of Neshat’s imagination.

Women Without Men balances on a tightrope between illusion and reality. Following Munis’s suicide, she is buried in the backyard of her house by her brother. As a citizen of the democratic world, this is your initiation to the horror of being silenced in your own home. As Faezeh returns, she hears Munis’s muffled voice and digs up her resurrected body. Like a ghost, she spends the rest of the film haunting the streets of Iran with her fierce intelligence, loyal activism and resolute feminism, making use of her newfound freedom from patriarchal oppression. Munis’s progression  stands as an emblem of everything Iran could have been, but failed to be. Another instance of a fantastical allegory is Zarin’s last interaction with a client in the brothel. In the hyperreal setting of the whorehouse, the sudden appearance of an eyeless, mouthless man is monstrous, and stupefying. As the catalyst of Zarin’s escape, the client represents everything the four women aim to get away from: the despicable institution of patriarchy. By now, you are sensitised to the reality of Iranian women.

Frail and helpless, Zarin acts as a metaphor for the exposed and vulnerable among the women of Iran. Withdrawn and silent from prolonged sexual exploitation, she strips naked in the public bath, violently rubbing herself to cleanse the marks left on her by the men who have used her. Even after reaching Fakhri’s mansion, Zarin is suspended between life and death. When Fakhri decides to host a party, she symbolically opens up the women’s safe space to the Iranian public. With this, the function of the villa as a safe haven dissipates, embodied by Zarin falling ill at hearing the news. Invested neck-deep in the powerless dame, you’re now aware that the safety of the sanctuary is intertwined with her fate.

This film is not just a work of entertainment and a political statement, but also a piece of art in itself. Different elements in Women Without Men work in unison to create a collage, that is an allegory, an artwork, a kind of poetry. The film offers a multidimensional perception of what Iran could have been by holding up a mirror to the harsh reality of its present. These women champion the journey of a ship scouting for the port in the storm: feminism in a man’s world. Something that makes your eyes pop out of their sockets, makes the hair on your hands stand on end, and leaves your stomach unsettled, this is a must-watch masterpiece.

The “Perfect” Caricature

Letter to the Editor

Rodrigues claims that Apu Nahasapeemapetilon of The Simpsons is simply a comedic caricature that needs to be modified to keep up with modern times. I argue that Apu is in fact perpetuating a faulty perception of South Asian cultures that is not only offensive, but also dangerous. With The Simpson’s wide sphere of influence, several South Asian performers’ experiences have been tainted by the representation of Apu.

An illegal immigrant eliciting laughter, Apu is the “perfect” caricature of an Indian shopkeeper with octuplets in an arranged marriage—perfect to fuel xenophobic sentiments. With a last name that is a frustrating tongue twister and a ridiculous over-the-top accent, Apu is a fallacious, noxious pastiche of South Asian stereotypes. Is it still an overreaction for Hank Azaria, the voice of Apu, to step down? Hank Azaria is right. The outrage is more than warranted—it is necessary. Even more so, his portrayal strengthens the first-world conception of foreigners coming to the country, stealing jobs and raising large families and “invading” America.

Since 1989, The Simpsons has a wide viewer base tracking its 30 seasons and has been a pioneer in exploiting negative racial stereotypes. The show has thus fuelled intimidation on school grounds, resentment in office spaces, discrimination in employment opportunities.

Is The Simpsons the first or the only series to use ethnic clichés for entertainment? Certainly not. Yet, the attitude of the animated series is an ethically suspect choice, not a moral one. It is conformity of a concept that is politically incorrect, irrespective of changing times.

The Fox Network is under the misconception that all they need to do is tweak the characters that fuel racial stereotypes to adapt to the modern age. Xenophobia is not a modern concept—it is a timeless disease. It is high time the entertainment industry became sensitive to the consequences of creating these not-so-perfect caricatures.

 

Article: https://www.thenational.ae/arts-culture/television/apu-in-the-simpsons-is-everyone-overreacting-over-the-racial-stereotype-1.968381

Big Fat Indian Wedding

Feature Report

I adjusted my camera lens to capture the spectacle of the wedding ceremony. The sacred fire lay in the center of the stage. Hot ribbons of light danced in synchronization with the rhythm of the feet marching around it. The bride and the groom held hands. Her hand-embroidered crimson ghaghra (ornamental skirt) and his embellished ivory kurta (collarless shirt) were tied together by a thread as they went seven times round the fire, each one signifying a different marital vow. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the groom attempting to trip the bride. She reciprocated by subtly stepping on his foot. Of course, all that the camera captured was the seamless marriage ceremony.

At the same time, the pundit’s (priest) chants reverberated through the tall ceilings of the hall. I zoomed in on his wrinkled face, adorned with his long, white beard. The creases on his forehead deepened and a vein popped in his neck as he recited mantras with conviction. In the Sanskrit language, he prayed for the lifelong well-being of the couple. Clearly, he had performed this ceremony a thousand times. Guests watched him reverently. Hidden beneath the pile of flowers was a piece of paper with the words scribbled on it. I watched attentively as the pundit eyed it every so often to ensure he was sticking to the script. No one else paid attention.

They say that a Hindu marriage is between two families, rather than two individuals; the 1200-person turnout attested to the truth of this. As relatives and companions conversed amicably, I captured wide grins, firm handshakes and warm embraces. Behind the cordiality of public faces, I spotted not-so-subtle scowls, cheeky tittle-tattle, exasperated eye-rolls. In a hall full of people who are outwardly affectionate to each other, who is to know how many mothers had to explain to their children that the woman they just hugged is their father’s second cousin’s daughter-in-law?

I took a wide-angle shot of the buffet before the crowd moved off in different directions: children at the pasta counter, twenty-year-olds at the chaat (street food) counter, old diabetic men at the dessert counter. With a shallow-depth-of-field shot, I captured the chicken tikka which looked cooked to perfection, its edges slightly burnt. When families look through wedding photos years hence, the quarrelsome vegetarian grandmother who demanded a pristine, meatless pan be used to cook her food will be nowhere apparent. 

It was time for the bride’s private photoshoot. I focused my camera to capture the intricate mehendi (henna tattoo), reaching from her fingers to above her elbows. Somewhere hidden in this design was her husband’s name; it is said to be good luck if he can spot it. Large sets of red and white bangles clung to both her wrists. If only I could capture on film the tension I felt in the room. The bride had just emerged victorious from a yelling contest with her stylist: they could not agree on which way to pin up her dupatta (ornamental scarf). Camera at my side, I watched silently as the stylist left the room, his face flushed with anger.

 I spotted the dynamic duo who was behind this entire ceremony: the wedding planners. The one-woman-one-man pair covered all the bases. Dressed elegantly in western formals, they held a glass each of Bombay Sapphire on the rocks. Eyes gleaming with pride, they watched as their designs became reality. Gracefully, they bridge the gap between the world in front of the camera and the world behind, for one cannot exist without the other. They had delivered what they’d promised, a spectacular production, one that both families would relive, thanks to the photo albums passed down from one generation to another. I looked more closely. The knowing looks on their faces concealed the series of calamities leading to this grand event: countless arguments amongst family members, constant haggling with the caterers, multiple altering sessions with the designers. 

Mediators between the disparate worlds on the two sides of the camera lens, the wedding planners witness all aspects of Indian culture: the most infuriating and the most exciting. 

Catching Flights and Feelings

Blog Post

They say that airports have witnessed more sincere kisses than wedding halls. Three years ago, I kissed my beloved Bombay goodbye as I left for my four-year educational journey to Boston. Since then, I have flown back and forth several times, transitioning from Bombay’s muddled madness to Boston’s meticulous methods. The artist in me embraces the disorderly bustle of Bombay, while the economist in me appreciates the organized arrangement of Boston. The two cities are nothing alike, but they both have my heart.

Dreading my first trip to Boston, I set off for T-2 International Terminal, Bombay. I crossed the drop off lanes carefully, dodging the gridlock of cars that refused to abide by lane discipline. Flocks of families wept as they bid farewell to their loved ones. Their respective cars awaited their return only to worsen the traffic. I sped up a little every time I heard someone honk at me, dragging my carefully weighed 23 kg suitcases behind me. My ears buzzed with the cacophony of taxi drivers calling out to passengers. The turmoil kept me swift and speedy.

As I searched for the check-in counter, I couldn’t find a single sign with the word “Emirates”. Well, of course: the only way to find directions in Bombay was to ask someone. The airport personnel were gathered in a circle, chattering away. Drowning their voices were the constant announcements on the airport speakers. Hesitantly, I built up the courage to ask for directions. “I think it is straight ahead?” an attendant responded unassertive. I walked on, following intuition instead of instruction. 

 Finally, I found my way and joined the queue for the check-in counter. Just as it was my turn, a middle-aged woman cut in front of me, saying, “I am joining my husband, he was already in line.” Skeptical of her alibi, I reluctantly agreed to let her in. Everyone behind me glared and growled at this inconvenience. To top it all off, her bag was overweight, courtesy of the kilos worth of Indian snacks stuffed inside. I understood why she had cut me. There was something competitive that ran through our veins: a compulsive need to be first. I proceeded to show the officer my documents, a hurried and silent interaction.

23 hours later, I arrived at Boston Logan International Airport. As soon as the flight touched down, I unbuckled my seatbelt to find my cabin baggage. I was surprised to realize I was the only one doing so. I found my way back to my seat so that I didn’t draw any more attention than I already had. Calmly, silently and row-by-row, people moved towards the exit. Something about this rhythmic transit satisfied me.

As soon as I was off the aircraft, I picked up the pace. But, racing my fellow passengers to queue was pointless here; I couldn’t figure out which line to get into. I looked around, hoping for airport personnel to guide me, but there was no one in sight. Out of options, I looked up to read the signs: “US citizens”, “TSA pre” and “H-1B”. Which line to pick? Flustered, I followed young adults wearing Harvard and Northeastern hoodies, hoping they were students with the same visa status as me. Carefree and amenable, the crowd sorted itself into lines like clockwork. Thrilled by the test, I attempted to uphold the precision.

 An oppressive silence filled the air. My phone buzzed, drawing undue attention once again. I was whispering into the phone, reassuring my mother I was safe, when someone pointed in the direction of a sign: “No mobile phones”. My face flushed with embarrassment. When I finally reached the immigration counter, I had my documents ready for inspection, expecting the same abrupt interaction as the one in Bombay. The officer greeted me warmly, “So, Wellesley is an all women’s college?” Taken aback by his interest, I answered mechanically, “Yes.” While  processing my fingerprints we had a full-length conversation about the color of my nails. The exit, much like the rest of my experience at Boston Logan International airport, was a systematic dispersal. Clearly-labeled signs led me to the designated ride-sharing app pick up location. In a separate lane, cars moved nonchalantly, pausing tolerantly for pedestrians. I was fascinated by the diligent movements. 

Now, Boston is just as dear to me and my beloved Bombay. I am as comfortable in the coordinated, courteous conduct in Boston as I am in the chaotic, competitive confusion in Bombay. Here, the economist in me proceeds with methodical clarity; there the artist in me explores with instinctive idiosyncrasy.