Light and Shadow

My recent email to N.

Light and shadow have always fascinated me. Some of my earlier photography was dedicated exclusively to shadow and geometry. Even in life we move through shadow and light continuously. Just this morning on the drive to work a heavy shadow had settle on me and now I feel like I’ve moved into the light. Its like I’m walking through a thick canopy of trees where the sun shines through irregularly but frequently. The trick is I guess to find beauty in the shadow as well and have as much joy in not knowing and not seeing as in knowing and seeing.

—-

(I recently discovered what I think might be a hidden gem in the thick folds of the fabric of San Francisco, http://www.shadowlight.org/slp/)

Trees can teach us

I love trees. They manage to stand absolutely still with majestic grace while teeming with inner Life. Growing forth silently in myriad forms in joyfully free expression of the creative consciousness inside them. Always seeking the light in replete silence giving rise to the most delightful chaotic beauty. Thoughtless, mindless consciousness that manifests without pretense. Entropy generated by a supreme formless intelligence that we can only hope to imitate crudely. That is what trees can teach us. To transcend word and thought and tap into the formless stillness from which they all come. The creative act stems from that deepest realm of consciousness. A silent, alert presence. When we silence our minds and connect with the inner Being and let the creative Life force burst forth from that infinite pool and manifest as voices in our head, notes on the piano, forms on paper or words on keyboard. That, is freedom. That, is joy. That, is what trees can teach us.

Street Level Curating

This is a piece on Street-Level Curating that was co-developed by members of the N.I.C.E project. Thought some of you might dig this. Please visit the website for this and more cool stuff.

Street Level Curating

What is Street Level Curating?
The neighborhood is where the majority of our lives unfold. It is also the space that witnesses the continuous flow of cultural exchanges and micro-interactions on a daily basis. Living rooms, backyards, gardens, sidewalks, corner stores, cafes and the street are filled with vernacular debate and conversations about politics, community, family, art, technology, the economy, the environment, the latest romance, and the best place to get a tattoo. Street Level Curating aims to tap into this energy by bringing together artists and creative thinkers to transform everyday living spaces into artistic cultural hubs that prize the exchange of innovative ideas. It seeks to create a sustainable model for arts-presenting and community engagement that carries creative experience and work beyond the domain of traditional arts presenting and arts exhibition venues.

How it Works
The model works by the participation of community members who volunteer a space from their home and then work in partnership with a team of street-level curators to co-create an afternoon and evening of visual art and performance. The event takes place simultaneously in concert with other spaces participating in a neighborhood arts happening (the NICE Project utilizes San Francisco’s bi-monthly MAPP event). Curators meet regularly during the month leading up to the event, dialoging with the space holder and participating artists, developing ideas and clear guidelines for how to most appropriately and respectfully utilize the space to create an environment for cultural exchange. Once the event has passed, the team regroups to review the process and then chart the next course.

Relationship Building
What is unique is that the model rests on relationship building while using the arts to stitch together the diverse and fragmented groups that constitute our communities. Where most artists and arts curators traditionally work at a distance from the public, street-level curators endeavor to become embedded in the community. The success of their work is equally dependent on their capacity to forge new and diverse relationships as it is on the quality of artistic work itself.

Diversity
At the core of the NICE Project’s Street Level Curatorial practice is the recognition that diversity of participation is inextricably linked to the project’s success. Being that our communities are growing in the diversity of their members, stretching from all origins worldwide, it is imperative that the curatorial teams are diverse in their make-up, and that they seek out ever more diverse partnerships in their work. If a project is going to succeed in facilitating broad community interaction, then it must reflect the multiplicity of groups that form that community. This is, to say the least, tremendously challenging. Nevertheless, the project continually endeavors towards this end. What has been helpful is understanding that the participation of even small percentages of varying communities constitutes a window through which future participation may grow. This is how we have come to view the project as forming a “space of in between”, not dominated by any particular group, but formed of the many.

Connection Found in Tiny Places
The 21st century has seen a mass-personalization of the process of art creation. While traditional structures are seeing diminishing audiences, technology has enabled the rapid production of art work by anyone who finds the inspiration. More and more, people are seeking out a participatory experience. But just as technology connects us, so does it create new forms of disconnect. Street Level Curating places face-to-face human interaction at the center of tiny intimate-scale venues. With the humorous insight that big egos can’t thrive in small spaces, the model brings a whole new tone of interaction into the realm of arts presenting. It brings the arts setting back to the scale of whence so many artistic disciplines emerged, that of the tiny throbbing salons and centers of communities worldwide. No big stage, no grand scenario, no pristine “neutral” space, but pure and direct experience in the round, saturated with human flavor, in garages, patios, gardens, street corners, and tiny studios.

Experiments in Contrast

Artist’s Statement

experiments in

c o n t r a s t

Here I study the interaction of light with surface that

occurs around mid-day when the sun is directly overhead.

Perception is stripped down to bare geometry. An

alert stillness permeates all of space. The shapes that

stand out in sharp definition make a strong impression

on mind and film.

Saif Ali is based in San Francisco and has been teaching himself photography for some inordinate

amount of time. He was born in New Delhi, India where he spent 25 years before moving to work

as a software engineer in the Silicon Valley. Saif is interested in creating imagery that invite the

viewer to suspend thought and dissociate from the forms on the paper. To view the image without

labeling anything and experience the silent void inside the self. He also likes to take pictures

that look cool. Saif is a stage improviser in his spare time. Having recently moved to the city he

spends left-over spare time writing checks to SFMTA.

experiments in c o n t r a s t

Here I study the interaction of light with surface that occurs around mid-day when the sun is directly overhead. Perception is stripped down to bare geometry. An alert stillness permeates all of space. The shapes that stand out in sharp definition make a strong impression on mind and film.

Saif Ali is based in San Francisco and has been teaching himself photography for some inordinate amount of time. He was born in New Delhi, India where he spent 25 years before moving to work as a software engineer in the Silicon Valley. Saif is interested in creating imagery that invite the viewer to suspend thought and dissociate from the forms on the paper. To view the image without labeling anything and experience the silent void inside the self. He also likes to take pictures that look cool. Saif is a stage improviser in his spare time. Having recently moved to the city he spends left-over spare time writing checks to SFMTA.

What Being On Camera Can Tell You

That you’re not comfortable in your own skin. That you’re naturally low status and that you are overly self critical. Turns out I suck in front of the camera. I just concluded a six week class titled Improv For Camera taught with great aplomb by Barbara Scott. It is recommended for improvisers with no camera experience. Because if you are like me and thought that having good improv on you will make you feel comfortable on camera, newsflash. My knees immediately fill up with lead and I clench like Lord Voldemort has just caressed my cheek with his cold finger.

There’s a lot performance can teach you about yourself. And one of things that Im sad to learn that Im naturally not a high status guy. I’m too apologetic for the stuff I do. So if I mess up on camera I immediately laugh and apologize. Why?? Its just tape. Do it over and dont go all whiny voiced. Man, I cant wait till my first audition. Still debating whether to take the acting class. It might do some good for my leaden footedness.

My first show is coming up entirely too fast. Looking forward to all the rush though. Performing at a Union Square location is bound to be somewhat heady. Stay tuned for afterthoughts. 

Speaking of performance, went S’s screening at the SFMOMA which was hugely successful. You know a film is successful when people come to you after the show and claim to have cried a little bit during the film. It was well done, no joke. S is on her way to Indie Film celebritydom. And I get to say I know her. Now thats high status.

My Dream House

A hot summery afternoon in the airy room of Class III-B. A casual visitor would be apalled at the profusion of sweat in the classroom. The children have run amok in the lunch break, white shirts sticking to their backs revealing wet skin. Strands of hair stick to the temples of the long haired girls in class. Some of the more rowdy type of boys have let the cold tap water from the drinking fountain run over their hair which now ramifies mixed with perspiration on their brow into tiny distributaries. The orderly ones wipe it away with a carefully folded handkerchief.

 

“My Dream House.”

 

Decalres the teacher, hot and bothered. And pulls her pallu tightly around and tucks it in her waist band reducing the surface area of cloth about her to expose more skin to the soothing breeze of the ceiling fan.  Her imagination dulled by the similarity of the years and the squawking of the staff room. It does not inspire me. I am least interested in any kind of essay right now, let alone a 200 word one. I feel the salt drying on my cheeks leaving them grimy. My mind is filled with the anticipation of the end of the school day and I am languidly passing the time knowing that half the day has been gotten over with. 

 

The early advent of summer in California has surprised everyone. “It was India hot today!! 103!” declares my best friend’s facebook status. The warm stillness of the outside air about the sprawling AMD headquarters engulfs me as I dive into  it like a drop of permanganate into clear water. The car is hotter still inside and my shirt sticks to my back. I drive by 3rd street and a girl rides her training-wheeled bike with feverish pace across the street. Her elder brother drains a flourescent yellow bottle of gatorage and it drips down his cheeks separating into tiny channels as it does. A Sardar Ji eyes me from the high window of his Toyota RAV4, the cloth of his turban wet around the edges. The AC has kicked in and my back dries up leaving the shirt wrinkled. 

 

“My Dream House.”

 

The thought comes to me as if from nowhere. A decade and a half has elapsed. Since that afternoon I have traveled the world, dipped my toes in the Pacific Ocean, purchased car insurance with my own money, stood thrice in Times Square and used the Left Luggage facility at London Heathrow Terminal 5. Its about time I wrote that essay.

My Freudian Universe as it was the other day

I think it began at a party of sorts. I often slip into daydreams about making casual conversation with strangers of intrigue in elegant social situations. I usually carefully construct my dialogue with surgical precision to nab the listener at the exact moment and unveil their veneer of inhibition like Salim revealing the statuesque Anarkali (at 3:00) with a brilliantly shot arrow in Mughal-e-azam. On this occassion it was Eddie Murphy who held the attention of a few guests among whom I was one. And he let slip some candid borderline inappropriate remark about Indians when he saw me standing there. He was caught off guard and started muttering disclaimers. The moment was ripe for the intervention. I took a step closer into the circle and delivered the alleviating line. Then I went in closer and put one hand on his shoulder and shook his hand with the other. Admittedly, this conservative (to say the least) gesture is not in context but its not like my conscious self was in control here. It had the effect. Immediately the other guests melted away into the disco light darkness and Eddie was smiling widely at me beckoning me to the bar.

We are  leaning on a mud wall. Its Will Smith. He has recovered from the faux pas and is now more in his element. My buddy G has joined us and Will is just as if he’s hanging out with his peeps. We ask him casually about Hollywood and life and the conversation turns to fancy cars. It seems he is proud of his own car which stands out against the run of the mill Italian sports cars that people bandy about. G and I know that we’re gonna go for a ride in it soon and before anything is said, he has offered us a ride and we’re heading toward his prized vehicle. He was right, of course. It does stand out and is nothing like a car you would expect a celebrity of Will’s stature to own. The general feeling at first is that of a Mini Cooper but thats only the first impression. It is a cross between an Italian sports car and a monster truck. It has a compact feel but the chassis is mounted high on the suspension. The wheels are disproportionately big. G is riding shotgun even though clearly Will is my pal first. I get into the back and the leather upholstery is stitched to perfection. The slipperiness of the leather which is generally a problem in most cars is done away with expertly by having high arm-rests on either side so it is akin to a first class airplane seat. You are locked in, engulfed by the firm softness of the leather. Its hard to say if there is a seat belt. My vision is limited to a  finite  sphere around my person that doesn’t reach the waist. The car speeds up silently to a dizzying speed but the relative rest inside is perfect. The chassis and the suspension are simultaneously tightly meshed and totally uncoupled making the car react beautifully to the slightest push on the accelerator but transferring no impact of bumps to the passengers. We are going backwards, the car is reversing at the same speed it was going forward but we are still going in the same direction. We turned around, went into reverse gear and sped up to our original speed without a single moment of time having elapsed. It apparently comes as no surprise to anyone in the car, Will is demonstrating this unique feature of the car but by no means does it appear magical, just fancy.

We have either slowed to a drifting pace or sped up to an extent that our observation of the surrounding is smeared like jam across space and time. It also seems like we are now hovering a foot above the ground. Alien looking vehicles that look like the concept cars of today float by outside and can be made out as slow moving objects slightly blurry around the edges. But again, the relative rest inside our own vestibule is perfect so as to make our perception of each other and Will crystal clear. I surmise to Will that this must be a rich neighborhood in LA.

“Beverly Hills?” G offers.

A green bus hovers into view right outside my window, I can see it only partially but it is framed  perfectly in the window for me to look upon the double-arrowed DTC logo on its side. So its Delhi?! The bus performs an unlikely burst of acceleration and vanishes from view. In this same moment reality sucks in its breath and we are transported to the courtyard of an apartment complex. Its one of those newly built ones that still look cold and unlived in. I assume this is sub-urban New Delhi. A mustard yellow wall painted to fake the appearance of rough texture is immediately before me. Off to the side, a stairway goes up obliquely away from the wall. The stairway is painted the same color but the banister has a thin covering of white limestone as if snow has fallen freshly on it. Will grasps the rough white layering and has gone up away from us now beckoning. No words are spoken but it is made clear to me that this is one of the most exclusive parts of Mumbai. The information puzzles me but I accept it without resistance as the absolute truth. So what looks like a hastily built apartment complex for medium-income young professionals is some kind of obscure bastion of the intensely wealthy. But nothing, absolutely nothing sets it apart from its mediocre appearance other than the resounding silence all around. I walk forward to see what is perhaps an unmanned stall selling cigarettes, paan and other silly things. It is located in seemingly a hole that is cut into the wall but extends to the outside. The wall itself is on a mound of earth that is caked dry. It is uneven, like someone left a pile of wet mud and forgot about it until the sun baked it hard. Cracks develop along the center and empty packets of guthka-the ghastly, treated, chewing beetle nut-are scattered about. Will now lounges on a cane sofa and asks us what we would like to drink. With some formalities being exchanged we decide on gin and tonics which arrive in tea cups. Will offers to pay but G stops him and insists on paying. I think to myself that this is stupid of him, this is pocket change for Will. We are informed by the unformed bartender that the drinks amount to seven thousand rupees. G is stunned but now cannot refuse, moreover Will has accepted that he is not paying the bill. G is irritated with himself. I look at my cup and it has only the dregs of the clear drink that was supposed to be mine. A few short strands of hair are settled at the bottom. I discover that G has drunk out of everyone’s cups and then invalidated them to allay his annoyance at the situation. His phone rings and he uses this as an excuse to walk away from us, fingering his pocket. As he walks further away, the ring gets louder and louder. Everything fades to white.

N is calling me.

I tell her I dreamt vividly of G and he is a jerk for not keeping in touch.

Not with a bang but with a whimper

I remember that line from a highschool textbook. I can do that, remember lines. Today it really echoed loudly in my ears. For those of you who have never had to see someone being laid off, I will try to describe it. Its not something that happens under covers in dark corners in clandestine fashion. It happens on a perfectly sunny late morning when you walk in a little annoyed with yourself for not having woken up a little earlier. I was walking in while one of my colleagues greeted me at the side entrance to the company and said “So all right Saif, I am leaving the company.” I was puzzled and amused. I shook his hand blankly but still didnt know what was going on. Another couple of co-workers came out behind him pushing a trolly full of boxe. I STILL didnt register it. I though they were transporting equipment. I walked inside to my cubicle trying to shake off the inexplicable feeling of discomfort. When I saw two more co-workers talking in hushed voices at the entrance to one of their cubicles. They looked at me both of them as I walked up and came to a stop 3 feet short of them and blinked at one and then the other in succession. This wordless exchange made it crystal clear to me in a way that even literally seeing the guy himself walk out and say “All right Saif, Im leaving the company” did not.

On Smoothies

Its unclear whether that set of tasks required to make a smoothie can be called a recipe while keeping a straight face. Anything involving raw ingredients, a blender and a mild resolve will end up in something resembling a smoothie. This doesn mean though, that a smoothie-making effort is trivial. As someone who has at least a month of experience under his belt I have to share some moderately useful observations. A smoothie can by anything between an amorphous congregation of shapeless blobs held together by a glue of blended material that flop into your mug to a rich creamy thick saucy fluid that pours in a silent stream into your tall transparent freshly washed and dried glass. I like a drink that is somewhere in the middle. A frothy excitement at the top giving way gradually to a smooth cold thick liquid in a medium sized glass tumbler. But thats just a personal preference, not a recommendation.
 
There are many questions to be addressed before you delve into an ecstatic glugging experience. How much froth would you like? How thick do you want it? Would you like it with chunks of fruit or as a smoothly blended beverage? What binding agent would you like (if any)? Do you want ice? What is the time of day? How can I get my hands on a pair of “Bush shoes”? Oddly, the question “What fruits and vegetables to use?” has no good answer and is generally a personalized parameter. It can be something that each smoothie enthusiast can arrive at with sufficient experimentation. Though there are stipulations to be made about the “type” of fruit to use. (Cool note on the English language: Fruit is a collective noun that takes on a singular verb. And the plural form “fruits” is used only when talking about different species of fruit).
 
Generally, the optimum number of fruits to use to make a smoothie is 3. Undoubtedly, many things can be done with even just a single fruit smoothie (banana for example) but its hard to write a blog about it. 2 fruit smoothies are interesting and could be written about but 3 makes it complex enough to be an interesting read. If you can discern more than 3 flavors in a smoothie than you probably have your tongue insured for a huge dollop pf gold, are wearing a white long hat in a huge kitchen somewhere giving disapproving looks to a scared intern. Out of three, one must be the base fruit that will provide the bulk. This fruit will typically have the dominant taste as well. If I were living in India I would always choose this to be mango in the summer and banana the rest of the year. Since I live in the US where mangoes are grossly misunderstood, its bananas perenially. Some people choose strawberry for this purpose and I have no political objections to that. If you like strawberry, have at. I call the second category of fruit “distribution fruit” because it is a kind of secondary buld fruit that will go and uniformly distribute itself in the glue of the bulk fruit. This fruit will typically have higher water content than the bulk fruit. Here we can have peach, pear, apple, guava, nectarines, chikoo(will someone tell me what its called in angrezi). The third type is the “spike” fruit that you will want to use in small quantities of provide a zing to your smoothie. This includes fruit with high water content that have a sharp piercing taste like kiwi, raspberry, blueberry, grape (sorta). Oranges and lemons in smoothies are an interesting area of research.
 
To make a balanced smoothie, I would pick a fruit from each category with the bulk fruit being in larger quantity than the other two. Of course, the lines between each category are thin and different people may classify diffrently. In fact, a strawberry banana smoothie uses two bulk fruit and is immensely popular. But in general, when making a smoothie one must balance between fruit that add volume, texture, flavor and water. Certain fruit add a lot of grain like pear and apple. If using these, program the quantity so that the experience is not overly textured. The peel of fruit will be grated to bits and will suspend itself in the smoothie as colored accents. Decide ahead of time how much of this decoration you want if at all. For example, the skin of a peach shows up as bits of red which are interesting in moderation but kind of annoying when too much. Seeds are a no-no so please take the time to remove them to save yourself from belching on a weirdly bitter gulp every now and then. De-seed all fruit that is sanely possible to do like apples, pears, chikoo etc. I wont ask you to de-seed a kiwi for example because I want you to have enough time in the day to do other stuff. Which brings us to a subject of prime importance. The binding agent. Some people are of the “bare-bones-put-fruit-in-blender-and-press-frappe-thankyou” opinion. I personally like a bit of a smooth element to my … well smoothie. This is added by the binding agent. In ascending order of “chances that it will cause coronary attacks” you can use 100% toned milk, 2% milk, whole milk, non-fat yogurt, half-and-half and fresh cream. So while Hanumant – the gentleman who used to work out with me at the gym and had biceps the size of my thigh that looked exactly the same flexed or unflexed would prefer fresh cream, Paris Hilton might like 100% toned milk. I alternate between 2% milk (only a step away from Paris, sheesh) in regular days and non-fat yogurt during ramadan. Perhaps water … if you’re an Olson twin.
 
The recipe then. Pick which fruit, chop into reasonable size (unless you have my blender), put in blender, press Blend (or whatever, some medium speed), wait some time, pour, drink. Note: Do not blend too long or too hard if using binding agents on the Hanumant side, this will cause butter to rise to the top that will deposit itself on the roof of your mouth leaving you more foul tempered than ever. Try banana-guava-kiwi for a jade coloured Slender Green or Mango-Peach-Raspberry for an Orange Beauty.

First Impressions

I do not have stage freight. Quite the opposite frankly. I hadn’t been on stage very often though. I understood a generally sociable outgoing personality and pleasantly endearing demeanour to be indicative of the lack of it. Since the age of 13 I could do impressions that people often told me were spot on. With the exception that I could never do celebrities. Only real people and that too after having known and observed them for a while. I never selected who it was that I would impersonate. It would come to me naturally. I will go to the extent of saying that while I “did” them I “was” them. Which is why spot on.  It was effortless for me to reproduce the voice, the expression, the tone and attitude. I could make them say things that they
hadn’t actually said. I could put them in different situations and locations and construct complicated improvise narrative. But only people that I knew well. I retain this gift till date. I sometimes find that if I think a person particularly fascinating and inspiring I start talking a little like them. Nothing the generally spaced out humanity will notice but slowly my mannerism will take on more and more of their characteristics. The odd mispronunciation, a particular kind of eye contact or hand gesture. I can control it
well, the extent to which I let them in. From the tiniest fleeting resemblance to full fledged possession that will lead to the impression that blows people away.

I wasn’t on stage very often. This was partly because I dreaded auditions and therefore would probably not try for the larger school productions or would try for a smaller one and come out looking below par. To do training in theater and drama in New Delhi cost a lot of money and generally require time and resources like transport. My family might have afforded these if it was a priority. It turns out it really wasn’t. Good enough that the boy was generally bright and confident and well liked by all. Everything that I’ve said after the first line in this paragraph is peripheral truth.

I wasn’t on stage very often. This was because I had an overwhelming fear of not being good enough.