War is Beautiful

True drama can be conceived only as resulting from the collective impulse of all the arts to communicate in the most immediate way with a collective public. – Richard Wagner

Air Raid Precautions

On April 13th 2012, students from 4th Year Fine Arts (with their friends from other years and the Department of Architecture) declared and performed a “beautiful war” at NCA Rawalpindi Campus. This was their response to the following (given to them by the brilliant Fatima Hussain as part of their minor project):

“War is beautiful because it establishes man’s dominion over the subjugated machinery by means of gas masks, terrifying megaphones, flamethrowers, and small tanks. War is beautiful because it initiates the dreamt-of metallization of the human body. War is beautiful because it enriches a flowering meadow with the fiery orchids of machine guns. War is beautiful because it combines the gunfire, the cannonades, the cease-fire, the scents, and the stench of putrefaction into a symphony. War is beautiful because it creates new architecture, like that of the big tanks, the geometrical formation flights, the smoke spirals from burning villages, and many others … Poets and artists of Futurism! … Remember these principles of an aesthetics of war so that your struggle for a new literature and a new graphic art … may be illumined by them!”

- Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, 1912

It is interesting that Marinetti was able to ‘abstract mass destruction into the “world’s only hygeine” and he was able to view war as an aesthetic gesture.’ The objective of this assignment, however, was not to just find beauty in carnage, but to somehow transform ideas and notions about war and beauty. I couldn’t help thinking of Bertolt Brecht and his War Primer scrapbook project from the 1940s:

Popular war imagery is always beautiful. Popular war notions are also beautiful and moving. A friend recently said to me that “war is man at his best.”  Considering all of this, one has to contextualize war within the standards of beauty and attempt to understand how it can be transformed into process and product (another aspect of the assignment).

Meanwhile, the following illustrate the process and product of the response:

More pictures here.

The Living Newspaper

On April 4 2012, a group of final year students from the NCA Rawalpindi Fine Art Department, performed the “Living Newspaper” at Liaquat Bagh, Rawalpindi. This is on a day when Murree Road was blocked for a strike protesting the rising petrol and gas prices. In a way, it made sense for them to perform the agony (and ecstacy) of the news in public. Unfortunately, not many people were lying about at the Liaquat Bagh. I have often stared vacantly into Liaquat Bagh, to and from work since late 2007. Usually I see many people sprawling or sleeping on the grass as if the park was their personal space. In my head, I see it as a public bedroom. It has many romantic connotations – a bed of grass and a ceiling of sky. Considering the history of the park, one has to stop and wonder at how this space becomes a bedroom for so many people.

The Public Bedroom

From Wikipedia:

Liaquat National Bagh (Park), usually just referred to as Liaquat Bagh (Urdu: لیاقت باغ), is a famous park on Murree Road in the city of Rawalpindi, Punjab, Pakistan.

Two Prime Minsters of Pakistan have been assassinated in this park.

The park was formerly known as Municipal Park, but was renamed “Liaquat National Bagh (Park)” after the assassination of Liaquat Ali Khan in 1951. It is known as a place for political gatherings and for speeches. Benazir Bhutto was assassinated on 27 December 2007 while leaving an election rally at the park.

One would think that this park was relevant to the Living Newspaper performance. However, it was used because it was most convenient on the day of the strike. Responding to convenience is usually the next best thing.

Following are some pictures from the performance in the public bedroom:

What I observed was a general apathy – a sleeping nation. I have no right to make sweeping statements, really. Some people roused themselves when the students seemed to be making a commotion (one performance involved loud shouting which gained some attention). I read the entire experience like an experiment of sorts. I have been accused of apathy time and again. It was interesting to see that everyone was apathetic. They didn’t really give a shit. These are the masses (well, a small fraction of the masses) that are referenced in everything – conversation, as expected (or unexpected) audience and in the news. It was hot and they were tired. They wanted some entertainment. Humor was gladly accepted. They were also confused about what we were doing there. One individual thought we were silly “not involving the media” in our cause. Did we have a cause? Did it seem like we did? I had a marvelous time.

He wanted to get his picture taken.

Unwoman

“My red skirt is hitched up to my waist, though no higher. Below it the Commander is fucking. What he is fucking is the lower part of my body. I do not say making love, because this is not what he’s doing. Copulating too would be inaccurate, because it would imply two people and only one is involved. Nor does rape cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven’t signed up for.”

From A Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

A friend suggested A Handmaid’s Tale and I cannot help responding to it – in my own context, mostly. This book has shaken me somewhat but I wish to limit my musing to myself and not aspire to make sweeping statements or have opinions about the world of men and women. Frankly, I am as lost as the next person. I am merely a revisionist. I revise myself as I see fit (or unfit). Sometimes, I feel like I have no right to opine on anything since everything revises itself.

My “context” is also revised – by men and women alike. I usually feel like a bystander, watching people tell me who and what I am. I revise myself and I watch as others revise me. And I am aware that I am not a victim. This is just how things are, I suppose, within a social construct. I can only bitch and whine. “Take control” they say. And I nod and plod on. What else is one to do?

I know and don’t really know, how others view me. Communication is deceptive. Sometimes, I catch myself believing them. Sometimes, I feel paranoid and withdraw into myself. No harm done. However, I feel a disconnect that I cannot explain or articulate. Is it the curse of the artist? I keep revising the myth of the artist, you see. We watch and we make. We watch from afar. We watch unseen. We have a gaze – the all powerful gaze, that is borrowed from the world and then given back to the world. The audience takes over and we are gone. Maybe we are living on borrowed sight.

This disconnect is powerful. It takes away my sense of self and emotion. It hollows me. Maybe I am living on borrowed self.

“nothing is going on here that I haven’t signed up for.”

In the book, the word that struck me most was Unwomen: Unwomen are sterile women, widows, feminists, lesbians, nuns, and politically dissident women: all women who are incapable of social integration within the Republic’s strict gender divisions.

Dissedence is deceptively alluring. I am a person who dissents from established policy only to assent to another established policy. The show goes on. Only half of me is really awake. The other half is disconnected.

A New Resolution

From my post last year on March 23rd:

In Pakistan this day marks the passing of the Lahore Resolution. Republic Day of Pakistan was first observed in 1956 when Pakistan officially became an Islamic Republic (previously Pakistan had the status of a Dominion). The main events of this day include a full military parade and the awarding of honours at the Presidency (Presidential Palace) by the President. Every year, on March 23, the Pakistani people commemorate their National Day in remembrance of “The Pakistan Resolution” passed on March 23, 1940, in the historic city of Lahore which is also the day the country was declared a republic.

I was at Minto/Iqbal Park, Lahore on March 23rd this year for Lahore Agitprop Theatre performances (more on that here) and encountered a strange phenomena that I can inarticulately call a “moment” that changed my perception. And for a while, I didn’t feel cynical, bored or jaded. Perhaps it was the day itself, the space, the city, the performances and my students that created this amazing feeling. I am convinced that any other combination would not have worked.

These days all I feel is despair. The future seems bleak. I have no affiliations with any political party or their odious bullshit. I feel that I can do nothing; that I am helpless. Every day, I face people who are monstrous in their hate and ignorance. I work with such people; those who are teaching despite their ignorance and the vile poison they preach. I feel dejected and depressed. I don’t even remember what I believed in that brought me here.

But that moment at the park, I realized I was amused, delighted and moved. I am not jaded afterall. There is still work to be done. I don’t know how long this feeling with last but I intend to make the most of it. Maybe I should thank my students and colleagues with me that day. Maybe I should live in it for as long as I can.

3 In a Crowd

Sentimentality: falsely emotional in a maudlin way; extravagant or affected feeling or emotion

Mawkishness makes bad art. But then again, that is a matter of opinion. The work of these three artists is notmawkish. In fact, it is all but sentimental. And  that, in my opinion, makes their work fascinating. In my quest to find meaning within every visual stimulus available, I have often been disappointed by the overly mushy sentiments of the angsty. Also, I have been forced to keep an eye out for images that are compelling without the artifice of sentimentality. With this work, I feel like I need not worry about the maudlin depth of emotions.

The three artists have externalized what they have felt into images that one can relate to, without the discomfort of too much familiarity. We don’t want to live inside their skins, yet we do want to see what they see. We like mystery and we like to be amused. These artists do not disappoint. Most importantly, the work is relevant to the space and time they exist in which makes it more fun to look at and ponder on.

Atiph Khan and Sophiya Khwaja enjoy satire. We can see that they laugh at the misery inflicting our universe. Yet, it doesn’t appall us – this amusement. We laugh with them. Atiph draws from the so called history and culture of the region as well as the popular visuals of truck art and other kitschy iconography to reflect on what surrounds him. He is interested in the commonality of popular imagery as well as the news – which afflicts us daily and imposes a veil of threat on our lives. Laughing at it makes it digestible. His work also reflects on the current position of many people on the events in the country. We are frustrated and we laugh it off to survive in the chaos.

Sophiya Khwaja uses figures in humorous poses to make amusing statements on the current events in Pakistan. These figures are awkward and funny in the face of terror. Representing a particular culture within the country, the culture of the English-speaking, upper middle class Pakistanis, she brings out the attitude of laughing intelligently about the horror thrown in our faces daily. We can chuckle with her at the absurdity of it all.

Zaira Ahmed speaks about time changing familiar things. She draws upon an image she has seen for years of a building that dilapidated with time. This image perhaps means a change for the worse. What keeps her work within the realm of the “non-sentimental” is the essence of sensible observation of architecture. Her images represent a sort of unemotional vision of things falling apart. We need not shed tears for a building. But we sense impending doom or even loss.

All three artists speak of the transient nature of time and space. In this, they are screaming in a crowd louder than themselves. However, that does not take away from their work but gives it a place within the madness. In Bob Dylan’s timeless words:

There’s a battle outside and it is raging/It’ll soon shake your windows
and rattle your walls/For the times they are a-changin.

PS: Unfortunately, Atiph (or Atif) Khan felt that whatever I had written about the show was too “negative” and did not know who Bob Dylan was. My little opinion was discarded. However, I am posting it here because I can.

Seat 48D

The following is what I wrote in a shaking aircraft where there was no internet. I got to where I was supposed to be in one piece. Some art did occur.

The Barf Bag

October 8, 2011

02:22pm

I’ve spent my entire life in airplanes but now they frighten me. Suddenly it isn’t so cool to be suspended in mid-air inside a frail metal body. It isn’t cool at all. Turbulence and no smoking; blocked sinuses and impaired hearing. No, I don’t like it anymore. They have a strange monitor display up that shows a garishly colored map that is supposed to tell me where I’m going. Like it’s a consolation – like it’s supposed to give me a sense of purpose while I sweat in growing terror. Also, the sudden turns this plane seems to be making seem unfamiliar. Am I imagining things?

There isn’t much to amuse me around here. Maybe I should pay more attention. Meanwhile, the craving for a cigarette (a nice fulfilling deep drag) is driving me a little crazy. Maybe this has everything to do with my stupid addiction. I’ve noticed smoking is the most boring addiction. It doesn’t even make you look good anymore. It just smells bad and hurts something awful. Oh well, so much for that.

Atleast there is eye-candy. For some reason, there are only male flight-attendants on this flight. And most of them are a sight for sore eyes. Maybe you are required to be decidedly pretty before they hire you now. The older ones looked like anybody’s uncle. I wonder if they’re straight or gay. I’m tempted to ask just to have something else to do besides get paranoid about the turbulence and crave cigarettes. I wonder how they’d react though.

This brings me to something I have been noticing recently. It suddenly seems to be that the majority of the Pakistani male population is unattractive. When did that happen? Was it always like this? How did I not notice before? Has something changed? Every day on the road, I make it a point to look for at least one attractive man. I look into cars and stare at the pedestrians. I know that is mostly rude but if the men can do it, so can I. Besides, I feel like if I could spot one good looking man on the streets, then there might be hope for Pakistan after all. And everyday, I am disappointed. Maybe you have to be on a plane to spot nice looking men. These days, even clean-looking men give me hope.

I have been periodically reading the instructions on the Nicotine Replacement Treatment gum I bought before I left. I still haven’t popped it. It’s for when the craving gets so bad, I start groaning with pain. If I can still type, it isn’t too bad. I wish they had internet on the plane so I could tweet about everything. Also, has anyone else noticed how suggestive my seat number is?

Smack My Bitch Up

the woods

by Nadia Batool Hussain on Saturday, April 7, 2007 at 2:26am

it started with the eclipse, with how kissing a man and marrying a man are very different things, with neruda, with tears on the early train, legs brushing on strange legs, gloved hands and sitting on the floor. but then the keys were misplaced. and we got lost. and then we found it. the finger bridge. the hot chocolate. navigating the slippery rocks in trusty boots. gurgling stream – or was it the river? i am not a nature girl. we were looking for something in the woods. a story? then began the telling and the listening. the diner. the cemetary. sprinkles and jimmies. more words for my brain. if only i didn’t feel so sick.

The internet is a funny place. It documents life in a way. All those years ago, I was looking for something. In those faraway lands, right here at home – I was looking for something. We’re all looking for something.

In my quest, I found a lot of pain. No, this is not a sentimental journey into the past. This is a frank self-evaluation. If you’re not interested, nobody is forcing you to read on. Why so glum, chum? I ask myself a lot these days. Everyone makes mistakes but some of us make more than their fair share. We make the mistakes you can overlook on a good day. Our hearts and our minds are carried away by kindness. And then, when kindness is replaced with what lies under it, we are disappointed. And then we are marked with yet another scar. All of this is almost self-inflicted. We allow and so, we deserve.

And here I am, so many years later wondering if indeed I am masochistic. Nothing new here, people. I’ve talked and written about this too many times. But am I masochistic? Are we all masochists? Do we enjoy this miserable game? I look around me and all I see is suffering and insecurity. As somebody told me recently, these are difficult times for us all.

On another note, there has to be more to life than just this crap. That’s what I tell myself every day. My art practice is almost at a standstill. My health has deteriorated. Work is weird. Everything seems to be falling apart. Even the aunties have quit their aunty-ness. This is all so depressing.

But there is something…perhaps a new obsession which is difficult to define at the moment. It is absolutely illogical in the context of “real life” and makes no sense if I think about it too much. However, it has given me more inspiration than anything else for a long time. That got me thinking about the practice of art-making. Maybe the whole idea of muses was closer to the truth than I thought. Who knows? In constructing my own reality, I can do anything. And isn’t that what I do? I construct reality and then show it to other people. For some reason, they’re interested in looking. That part of art-making has always pleased me a great deal. People like to look. As long as its worth looking at, I suppose.

Sometimes when people tell me that they “don’t get art” I want to smack them. What’s there to get? Why do they expect profundity? Why can’t they just look and let it tell them about a new world somebody else constructed just for their viewing pleasure (or their own viewing pleasure). In this brave new world, where we “share” everything – our thoughts, ideas, pictures and emotions, what’s the harm at looking at some artwork and just – looking? Why do people expect some profound statement in a picture? I have to admit it frustrates me.

hand touching hand

Many years ago, in another world, I was manning the coffee station at a wedding at the Racquet Club, Philadelphia (wearing my sweet black bowtie) and the wedding singer did a cover of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” – the following lines got stuck in my head:

Hands, touching hands, reaching out
Touching me, touching you

Those were good times indeed. I had been on my feet for 10 hours but I felt alright. That’s where this drawing came from. Those were good times, yearning for that feeling – but it was a good yearning. That’s where my artwork comes from. Life and those moments when songs or people get stuck in my head. Is that so profound? It is something we all know.

The Chitral Diary – July 2011

Almost 12000ft above sea level - in a jeep.

Disclaimer: This post has nothing much to do with the ARTEd Outreach Workshop. It is of an entirely personal nature and does not reflect on the workshop. I’ll post details of the workshop some other time once I’ve completed my obligations to the funding organization.

This summer has been – eventful. After a series of fortunate and unfortunate events in July, I’ve been in hiding. As I write, it’s mid-August and I still don’t know when I’ll post this. I’ve tried not to do anything in a whole month and it has been surprisingly easy. Meanwhile, my mother has been diagnosed with Hepatitis C and it seems to be responding well to treatment which is more than I can hope for. Lets just say that it has made me stop altogether and I have done absolutely nothing (except take care of her needs) and I feel oddly still. Perhaps that is why I couldn’t write. I have been so – still. It’s almost like I am afraid to move.

But that happened later. It happened after I got back from Chitral. And I think this post is about Chitral mostly. More on Hep C later sometime. When I can think about it without cringing into absolute stasis (is that even possible? I’ve come to believe anything is possible).

I went to Chitral to do something honorable (in my opinion). A friend and I had come up with this idea a couple of years ago (more on that some other time) and we finally managed to get funded for it (meagerly funded, if I might be honest which some people call ungrateful – people and their funny words!) We planned an art-education workshop for young people in remote regions – oh, you know, to make them aware of possibilities. Also to impart a basic skill-set if they were to pursue art after high-school. A noble cause. For art. For education. I was passionately motivated. I was driven. And then I went.

It began with great enthusiasm – especially when people paid attention to the idea and they wanted to fund it. Then the pain began. The pain of disagreement with my friend. The criticism. Collaborations can really suck sometimes. But I am a woman of my word. And I really wanted to do this. So I endured. The worst moment was when I questioned the clothing I was supposed to endure during this trip. I was supposed to go in sack-like garments with my head covered at all times. Ofcourse, I am completely unaccustomed to being forced to cover-up. But if it’s a requirement (for safety or to mix more easily with the locals) I suppose I didn’t mind so much. However, my friend, who hasn’t heard of tact, just rubbed me the wrong way about it, and I soured instantly. I hate self-righteous lectures. I hate judgement. And I never understand when people lack the patience to explain something unfamiliar to me. Ofcourse covering up isn’t entirely unfamiliar. I do live in Pakistan. But the drama could have been avoided. I was blamed for every immoral act known to man (emphasis on man) and old grievances were brought out and thrown at me. Oh how I hate dramatics that aren’t even interesting. How I yawned inwardly. And then fumed inwardly. And then outright exploded. In short, not a good start.

So it began. With trepidation. With absolute dread. I wrote a little while I was in Chitral. I should paste the appropriate excerpts as I go along. Yes, this is going to be a long post.

Day 1

July 1, 2011

In spite of thunderstorms and strange luggage misfortunes, I managed to get to the airport on time – at 5:30 am. I had been nervous all night and couldn’t sleep. I could tweet, though. I think I spent most of my twittering ranting about clothing restrictions. But I had a bad feeling about this trip besides my frustration about the clothes I had been advised to wear. Negative, I know – but sometimes you just get a feeling and you have no choice but to see it through and hope for the best (or the worst – usually both, at the same time).

I tried not to think about it but my stomach was churning. I had to pick up Aleem and Mehrbano on the way to the airport. On the highway, we saw a nasty accident. Also, it was raining but the storm had abated by then. The accident seemed very nasty and I couldn’t help feeling a sense of foreboding. I was worrying the flight would get cancelled and I had really put myself into getting this project on its feet – so it would have been disappointing to go back home from the airport. However, deep inside somewhere I was hoping the flight would get cancelled and I would go home. Something didn’t feel right.

At the airport things were uneventful. However, they have removed the smoking section altogether which didn’t help my mood. Also, I gulped down Red Bull which just made me edgy. I wanted to sulk for no reason but I masked it. Afterall I had decided I would try my best to hide my true feelings. My true feelings usually bother other people. I’ve noticed I’m expected to be considerate even though if somebody throws a tantrum I try my best to reason with them without being harsh or mean. I even pander to people’s shit. I usually never get that kind of respect. It must be a personality thing. Sometimes, I want to just not know the people I know. I believe I am too generous with myself.

Upon entering the aircraft I had a bout of claustrophobia which I did not expect. It was too damn small! I’ve never been like that inside a plane before. And I’ve spent my whole life in airplanes. This frightened me and I had a strong feeling that nobody would understand. They never understand my anxiety and the irrational but real fear. They never understand how my throat starts constricting. They never know how I know it’s irrational but I can’t help myself. Fortunately, I had remembered to bring ALP – that usually helps me with anxiety. But they had already closed the doors when I dry swallowed a pill. I had this insane urge to start screaming and forcing them to let me off. But I didn’t. The kind of self-control it took is now hard to believe.

The claustrophobic ATR

The ATR took off and fortunately it didn’t jerk around too much. There was some commotion from an air-guard when I walked into the cock-pit with the pilot’s permission. Nobody had informed the air-guard and he was worrying about security. I guess he was just doing his job. And I was just out of luck. But that was just the beginning.

We got to Chitral in one piece though and I had almost sighed with relief. But then my phone went beserk and nobody at Mobilink could help me. Apparently, they can’t if I’m in Chitral. And Blackberrys go beserk whenever they want. So there went any chance of an internet connection. With a sinking heart I shared my disappointment with my friends who of course did not understand. Instead I was chided for ruining things for everyone and also yelled at. I went to the bathroom and cried a while. Alone. They can’t judge me if they can’t see me.

Damn. That sounds pretty bad – even to me. Paranoid and sulky. And downright silly, even. But I feel bad too. Because I actually felt that way. Things got better later. Once I started taking my happy pills and the work started, things did get better. They were almost good.

Day 2

July 02

Next day, everything changed. Ofcourse it changed. I had drugged myself with a Xanax in the night and everything looked brighter. Sometimes, it’s just chemical.

The rest is a long account of the workshop and the way we got to our various destinations. I’d rather not go into that right now. I believe this is a personal post. The material about the workshop can go on my website – once, I’m done editing it. So, maybe it was chemical. Maybe I am a chemical myself. Something that is volatile and keeps changing.

The workshop was quite interesting. No, it was good. We did what we set out to do. Infact, I’d say it was a success. But the people were shocking. Yes, they shocked me. Here I was, yelled into submission for my clothes and my thoughts and scared out of my wits that I might accidentally offend somebody. And then I met the locals. They were unlike anything I had expected. They were arrogant and insane – besides being sleazy. Especially the girls. I’ve never encountered so many sleazy girl-women before. They tried to pimp their men to me. I was shocked and amused all at once. And so angry. I had been misinformed. I would have armed myself with something other than fear if I hadn’t been confused with dramatic lectures about culture and morality. As if I’m stupid and insensitive. My friend with the dramatic lectures almost had a nervous breakdown when he began to realize what we were up against. His mind couldn’t accept what was happening. Good for him. A hard jolt once in a while should shake any self-rightous know-it-all into common sense.

Once the workshop was over, we decided to go watch the final polo match at the Shandur Polo Festival. At 12,200 ft. Yes, that’s pretty high. Ofcourse I was given more dramatic lectures but I tried not to be afraid. By this time I was tired of the lectures and the criticism. So I braved it. And the ride was absolutely breathtaking. In my secret heart, I was elated. This made it worth it all.

With my luck, once I was up there, I smoked a cigarette and walked too fast and got altitude sickness. Fortunately, it was mild(ish) – I only threw up everything I had eaten in a year and couldn’t breathe – but I didn’t die. I got yelled at and criticised and everything else. But I didn’t care. I was alive. And it really had been my fault. I shouldn’t have smoked. I think I try to admit my mistakes. And I believe that once somebody admits their mistake, they should be left alone and not lectured endlessly. Ofcourse my friend never knows when to give up. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with his shit. I believe its called being friends. Kudos to me.

Also I spent the night in a tent (gasping for breath until I passed out). This was a first for me. I’d never been camping before. I’m quite proud of myself and very amused. I’m a stickler for brushing my teeth but I couldn’t because it was too cold and I couldn’t breathe. And I didn’t care. Cold has a new meaning in Shandur at night. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. Having barely any oxygen to breathe also made me reconsider my claustrophobia. On the way back to Islamabad, the airplane didn’t bother me at all.

I think I was just happy I was alive

By then my bad luck had pretty much run out. I had a wonderful experience in Kailash. It is a beautiful place with beautiful people. They are much nicer than the people we met in the rest of Chitral. And they are pagan(ish) which definitely makes them more fun. I totally recommend Kailash to everyone. If you don’t mind driving on very small dirt roads with your wheels off the ground and in thin air over great ravines once in a while…

Kailash and it's beautiful people: Gulistan, my new friend.

Meanwhile, I learnt a few things. I learnt to have more patience with people and their funny ways. I learnt that I have no fear of heights. I learnt that I can survive altitude sickness. I also discovered that my claustrophobia has lessened somewhat (after the no oxygen in a very wide open space ordeal). And most importantly, I discovered a real friend in Mehrbano – who I’ve always gotten along with. I discovered that she is a truly wonderful human being. So the trip wasn’t all that bad afterall (considering how well the workshop went, too) and as long as I learnt some important things, it was worth it.

So that’s my story for July. Weird summer.

The Travelling Egg

Invite

One egg’s lower half transformed

And became the earth below,

And its upper half transmuted

And became the sky above;

From the yolk the sun was made,

Light of day to shine upon us;

From the white the moon was formed,

Light of night to gleam above us;

All the colored brighter bits

Rose to be the stars of heaven

And the darker crumbs changed into

Clouds and cloudlets in the sky.

-From the Kalevala, the Finnish National Epic

The egg is an organic vessel in which an embryo first begins to develop – in a way, this marvelous vessel houses the creation of life. Just as the cosmic egg held the entire mass of the universe, compressed into a singularity before it was born, the egg is the beginning of wondrous realms of imagination and creation itself. It is a pause before something happens.

The Traveling Egg showcases the work of seven artists, who got together to think about eggs. These artists are curious people in search of images that best represent something as absurd and wonderful (and profoundly common-place) as an egg.

Note: This thing is driving me crazy. I thought it up and it sounded like such a great idea at the time. Right now, I’m just nervous, anxious and a little scared. Not good. But good luck to all the artists. Will hang the show today and figure it out.

I Want to Break Free

I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied I don’t need you

I have been wondering when I’ll just say enough and make everything stop. I was listening to Queen and it struck me – enough is enough! I’ve run out of patience and self-control. What have I become?

Once upon a time, there was this girl who was part crazy and part girl. The crazy was a prosthetic that helped her cope with life. Then the girl grew up and there was no room for her prosthetic crazy anymore. So she just had to grow a pair, and get on with it. The end.

I was watching the Borg “resistance is futile” bit in some Star Trek episode and wondering how cool prosthetics can be. A week ago, I even had a discussion with a kid in college about prosthetics. Everything is a prosthetic. Our fucking lives are add-ons. But there’s a price to pay, see? So you get a prosthetic limb and call it security/confidence/self-respect. But then in the end, it is a prosthetic. It’s a constructed notion to make you cope, see? Because just living can be such a drag sometimes.

I’ve been trying to find the source for my cynicism and I’m at a loss. Perhaps, it’s the order of the day: The Divine Order of Cynical Beasts. We beat our chests and proclaim to have valuable opinions. I’m so tired. I’m young and a terrible beast of burden. I’m tired of having an opinion.

Maybe this is what growing up means – the entire world creeps into your realm of existence…it crawls in through your ears and starts to live in your brain. But enough about my brain. More on freedom:

freedom: the condition of being free; the power to act, speak or think without externally imposed restraints; immunity from an obligation or duty.

As always, I revert back to the classroom. Does freedom exist? This has come up in our discussions recently and it struck me how I never really considered the idea of freedom to be such a sham before. Is this my cynicism? Or am I just being pragmatic? Having endured a nosebleed from being out in the terrible sun isn’t helping.

The recent events AKA the OBL issue has driven me up the wall. Conflicting information, the annoying so called NEWS and most of all, the opinions (oh GOD the endless opinions) are making me sick in the head. I don’t know what to make of “historical events as they happen” and “breaking news” anymore. Why can’t they have “breaking free news”? Wouldn’t that be awesome. I have no sympathies with terrorists but I have no sympathies with the news either. Both make me puke in my mouth a little.

Coming back to freedom: I saw a sticker on a car today (unfortunately, I was too zonked in the early morning to reach for my phone to click a picture) and it said …and the truth will set you free. Really? Set you free from what, I ask? Can we ever really be free? We aspire to be free. We want freedom. We want things that are free. We want free porn (well, some do) and free tickets and free entertainment. Free is such a powerful word. It draws us like flies to something sweet and sticky.

My colleagues were just fighting about a stupid word. Is that freedom? It’s just disgusting. And here everyone thinks they’re free to say what they like when they just make me sick. Everyone is self-satisfied and so right. Everyone has an opinion. And they’re free to shove it in my face. I’m having trouble with freedom right now. Especially when I got up so early in the morning.

God knows, God knows I want to break free