Showing posts with label just so musings.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label just so musings.. Show all posts

Saturday, November 20, 2010

ख़्वाँ-म-ख़्वाँ

The writer of such plays as 'चूंती टोंटी', 'महकता नलका', 'काँच की बगल' and 'मटकी का तोपची' died accidentally and fatally in an accident today.


Taking note of this event, a bill was passed in the parliament, commissioning this day as a national holiday called "Thank God! day". Noted parliamentarians noted that the significance of such a holiday symbolizes our commitment to free speech, even if it comes at the cost of celebrating such authors.


Tomorrow being a Saturday, people are gearing up for a long weekend in the wake of this unexpected holiday. Youngsters across the nation are praising the author for his timely demise. Is it not said that "the true value of an artist is only known after he is gone"?


The postmodernist expert playwright who wrote the great play 'दरिन्दे का दिल' and it's even-better-sequel [sic], 'दिल का दरिन्दा' said "यह सब क़िस्मत का खेल है. I am writing a blog post about it. Also you can follow me on twitter and like my page on Facebook." Touché!


Amidst all this tension a group of French linguists from New Delhi have expressed their intense interest in the study of Hindi in Hindi plays and consequently in the works of the deceased. Fortunately and miraculously all of them are vampires and thus have nothing to loose anyway. We will write a blog post about it.


Also, you can follow us on twitter and like our page on Facebook.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Life ki Fight

लोग अपनी लाइफ में कितना काम करते हैं यार!


ये लड़का था,


गाँव मे छोटे परिवार का था


साइकल पे स्कूल जाता था


घिस घिस के मराई


फिर बॉमबे आया


प्रोग्रामिंग करी


मॅतमॅटिक्स पढ़ी


लड़कियाँ घुमाई


शादी करी


फिर गाओं भर को भी पढ़ा दिया


सारी भैंस तक बी.अस्स.सी हो गयी


फिर पिक्चर बनाई, ओसकर कमाया


फिर प्रेसीडेंट ऑफ इंडिया बन गया


बाद में सोलह देशों का प्रेसीडेंट हो गया


फिर बॅटमॅन बन के ऊड गया


और कल मिला था


आज-कल dance करना सीख रहा है


और तो और


उस का एक बच्चा भी है...


लोग उसके नाम का आश्रम चलाते हैं.


क्या शान की लाइफ होगी उसकी


और एक तू देख...


भूत की तरह बैठा ब्लॉग्गिंग कर रहा है...


अबे कुछ सीख!!!


दुनिया चाँद पे चली गयी


और तू यहाँ अपना ल* पकड़ के बैठा है!


यार, लोग अपनी लाइफ में कितना काम करते हैं यार!

Monday, August 31, 2009

auteur

…after him his work was still alive, like watches on the wrists of dead soldiers... Jean Cocteau had observed.

He was talking about the work of Marcel Proust at the latter's deathbed.

I wonder if Proust would be flattered with the comment, particularly after his death. I wonder if I would be. (No I am not comparing myself with him, am just asking the question.)

.

Atul and his very fine taste in conversation. I do not get the pleasure often, but I do get it at times. Sadly enough, I am not that great at making conversation. I can only talk about films. At all other subjects, I am miserable. And mostly he bears with me, sometimes provokes, sometimes probes, almost always provides and explores. Sometimes we have a conversation over chat too! :)

We were chatting last night. He told me about a new post he was writing. I could not see the post till lunch time today because of connectivity outage, but when I did, the questions put across suddenly connected. They were once very close to my heart too, but, from a different angle. The questions used to bother me, not as a spectator, but, as the performer.

.

When you think about all the hard work a performer puts in and the in securities that come packaged with the job, the temptation to brand the work with your identity is really strong.

From watching one to actually making a film, I've crossed the fence twice (for small 5 minute shorts). Even though the results were horrible and bad (in order of chronology) the amount of work in both cases was a lot! We had to work so hard that at the end of it all, we could not see anything objectively. Regardless of the quality, the work moved us. We felt extremely attached to it. We wanted our names all over it.

And so the question is: what is an artist's signature? where is the artist's identity within the art? where is the artist's vanity within his work? where is the humility within the artist?

I get a mixed response when I ask these questions to myself. In real life I ended up branding my baby on the forehead. I am not at all proud of it. So, I look around for the masters for the answers. (Again, I coulda talked about other arts, but, as I said, I am only good with films.)

.

To understand it better, remove the credits from a film and then watch it. Never knowing the name of the film and the cast. Also, know that no matter how successful the film, a Herculean amount of thought and effort has gone into making it and making it work.

Take a look at Guy Ritchie. He does a revolver. A film with no credits. None. It still has a Guy Ritchie signature though. Things that move the man and the ways he expresses himself. Experimental edits, chekov's guns, pace set to a beat, beats set to a rhythm, music score in sync with every beat and camera angles that are never objective. Why the loud? I guess it is the way he likes things.

Or at Alfred Hitchcock, the man himself. His signature appearances in his films were popular enough to allow him to use as attention hooks and plot devices. But why did he make them in the first place? It couldn't have been a significant draw in his third film? Especially since it was a silent film. Did he know he could use his appearance to highten the drama or the overall impact of the film? I doubt. Did he feel a need to "sign" a part of the film, on which he had worked so phenomenally hard, like a painter's flourish? Probably. But was that it? Cause then there was his "lost" film - The Mountain Eagle. A film that he himself "was not sorry that there are no known prints". So, did he not love the resultant enough? Is it that he never made a mistake in the films he appeared as cameos in? How could a man who made 60 of the most awesome films ever, not love another one of his own?

Or at Woody Allen. A character so integral to the films he makes, that the film would loose all flavor without him. Is the on-screen importance of the character self-referential? Probably not. Is the character a coincidence? Not at all. But he is almost conspicuous by understatement during the credits of his film. Then again, Bananas and What's up tiger lily were exceptions. Why? His best films lately have been the ones in which he was nowhere to be seen - Match Point, Vicky Christina Barcelona, but, if you are familiar with Woody Allen's work, then you could immediately recognize them.

The list goes on...

Several patterns emerge.

The question of Identity is very strong when you start.

Some filmmakers begin with their names all over the place - on the credits and on the film - though a superficial signature, but, not a bad idea at all. After all it is very difficult to disown the baby you endured all the pains for and just delivered. Some begin with excessive focus on the treatment of the film, so the work takes up part of the director's personality. The vanity is an integral part of the identity here.

There may be another reason behind all this pomp - you need to make it in the business. So the first few films are like your showreels. Exemplifying your "take" on filmmaking.

With time the ego's need for identity matures. In the first case the director becomes the "will power" artist, direct anything that comes his way, losing his "touch" and losing his identity itself (hence those "finding oneself" themes in films, because the search for the self becomes a very personal issue with many directors). In other cases the director's focus becomes keener, he may become more observant, resulting in such fine work that you marvel! But, in the most dangerous case, the ego is satisfied and here is where the one hit wonders come from. The satisfied ego sleeps and there is nothing that the director looks forward to.

And finally the director (and I think any other artist too) learns to "use" his (her) ego. Personally speaking this is a very painful process. Accepting your mistakes, changing tracks, learning on the go. Listening closely to what others (even less accomplished ones) have to say. Learning the aesthetics and the dynamics of when, how and why to put across your point. This clinical dissection of each thought, each need, each moment, each everything becomes painful very quickly, but, I have seen people grow and grow to wonders as this pain starts reducing and becomes the cure.

I strongly feel that it is from this stage that the greatest masters of the art emerge. When finally the art, the work, the content takes precedence over the self. These works of art are still personal, deeply so, but the artist learns to manipulate the self well to make the right impact, a bit like a sculpturer with his chisel. This is the quality that I tend most often to appreciate in art. Not having to think of the maker, just the made. The humility of the identity playing a significant role in the masterpiece.

The harsh truth is that the artist does not matter as much as the art does (I say "harsh" because I am yet unable to separate my "self" and my "work".) But the art of the master at the very end speaks of the artist - "...like watches on the wrists of dead soldiers".
S.

30th Aug. '09

---

BTW:

  1. @conversations, I observe the art keenly, I might improve. :)

  2. Blame the connectivity, the computer, the condition but we could not chat much last night.

  3. There was a time when Atul got me started on those Mondrian compositions in films, with this, he got me going on another longish rant. Good for me. :)

  4. Atul asked me the reason for not working on a film right now and I gave a circumspect answer. The truth is that I am in a state of comfort and fear. Not ready for the leap. Scared. But something tells me that I am probably not a coward. So there is still hope.

  5. OMFG! It's been two years. I better do something!

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Chiaroscuro

5delaroc



I saw this image last night, very late last night and it almost broke my heart.

Almost.

It was like a wave that rose and then receded. It felt so insecure, so vulnerable for a moment and then I had hope again.

Each time I see this picture (I have seen it a lot of times since last night), I see the same see-saw of feelings, of thoughts. The same contrasted darkness and light. Chiaroscuro.

I saw the lady, innocent as innocence, as innocent as I am (are we all not innocent to our own hearts? except when we are guilty), it was her face and her hands that did it. I saw that she was uncomfortable, leaning on her knees, led by a man. Her hands were searching for some support and that support was about to be the executioner's block. She was being led by a man. To the block.

It felt as if innocence is killed in the same way. Everyday. It felt that I could be done away with and there would be nothing that I could do. For my eyes would be blindfolded and my hands would be searching for support. And there would be a menacing axe glinting in the darkness, waiting for me to rest my head. And there would be an executioner with a hard on, getting ready for the release.

But the lady was so white and pure and innocent. Maybe the man wasn't so bad. Maybe he'd come to rescue her. Maybe he'd held the executioner back and was lifting her up. Picking her up from the wooden block as her maids wept with relief. There were people weeping for her. Innocence is so pure and white in this dark dark place that all that can be done, should be done to save it. Maybe there was hope.

And so, I saw the painting. The see-saw. I saw the finely balanced moment that was captured. The point exactly midway between life and tragedy. Where you've still not left hope, but, you know that you may. Where all is not lost, but may soon be. Where there be light or the dark, but, you can't tell yet.

A perfectly captured moment. Full of contradiction, full of drama, full of emotion. I wish I could see the original, a 17" monitor cannot do justice to this.

---

A friend had shared this painting with me last night. At first, in its thumbnail, it was just an image to me, but, the moment I shut down the other windows, did a full screen preview of this image, my heart broke. Almost broke. The image suddenly became a painting for me. Indicating several painful years of hard labor, brush stroke by brush stroke, in pursuit of that singular moment. I am told (by the same friend) that this, in reality, is a very large painting. I am also told that if you stand before the actual one, it moves you to droplets of chiaroscuro in your eyes...

---

edit:

1. ouch! the spelling! 'chiaroscuro' not 'ciaroscuro'. Thank you Atul!

2. The painting in discussion is: The execution of Lady Jane Grey by the french (romantic) painter Paul Delaroche. It depicts the execution of a girl who was queen for just nine days.

A lot of people just talk of the historical inaccuracy of this painting. The real execution took place in public, with officials watching and so on. The 17 year old girl was beheaded in full public view. I feel repulsed thinking of such a moment. I say that the painter made the moment almost human. The privacy of the chamber gave the moment an intimacy with the subject and saved the viewer from the repulsive horror that was reality.

Although I am completely unqualified to comment on Paul Delaroche's work. I feel that this has been a theme across all his major works. To show a moment of emotion and drama, a moment that was known history and hence real once, a moment that the common man's eye could not have witnessed otherwise. Be it the uncertain fate of the two children in the tower, or the death of Elizabeth 1 or Napolean before he gave up. He is best known for a 27 meter long mural of the Hémicycle d'Honneur at École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts. I am awed - reverence and respect and wonder and dread - by his work.

Am yet unsure why The execution of Lady Jane Grey haunts me the most, is it the lady, is it the white or perhaps it is hidden in the dark.

.

Monday, July 13, 2009

on Woody Allen

He has an uncanny ability to be right about all the wrong things. Makes me laugh about things I should be crying on. The one (and the only memorable one) to successfully break the fourth wall in a film! There's almost no better pick-me-up than an Allen film when you are low. More so because, it picks you up and still leaves you depressed (as in Annie Hall). Perfect Cocaine, helps you and harms you. :)

I just saw Annie Hall again. I do not know what to say, I am feeling good and bad at the same time. Here, let me paraphrase:
Alvy and Annie shake hands and kiss each other friendly like.  Annie crosses
the street, Alvy watching her go. Then he turns, and slowly walks down the
street off screen. His voice is heard over the scene:

ALVY'S VOICE-OVER
After that it got pretty late. And we
both hadda go, but it was great seeing
Annie again, right? I realized what a
terrific person she was and-and how much
fun it was just knowing her and I-I
thought of that old joke, you know, this-
this-this guy goes to a psychiatrist and
says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy. He
thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the
doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn
him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but
I need the eggs."
Well, I guess that's
pretty much how how I feet about
relationships. You know, they're totally
irrational and crazy and absurd and ...
but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it
because, uh, most of us need the eggs.


THE END

beautiful!

Monday, December 24, 2007

Plato's Piece of Cake

One day when he was working on the Antikythera,

when I asked Plato "Why do you love programming so much?"

Plato thought.

... and said:

Well, because...

it's not easy as pie,
but,
once done,
you can always brag about it being a piece of cake!!!










Of course there was no other programmer to brag to in his days...

:)
 
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'twas A Dark And Stormy blog by Shaurya Agarwal is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at adarkandstormy.blogspot.com.