Immediate reactions upon leaving India (and landing in Bangkok)-
-I can't seem to stop wagging my head at people-the South Indian way to acknowledge almost any action- and am having to remember that in other places than South India this motion very closely resembles no rather than yeah, sure, good, fine, of course, no problem. Almost ended up rejecting the flight meal because of this confusion.
-Immediately fell in love with Bangkok because it is NOT Chennai. Am worried this new, dumbed-down way of gauging my affinity for cities could lead to misconceptions in the long run.
-Am tempted to bargain hard for everything, which has thus far resulted in several auto drivers laughing at me as they leave me in the dust. Need to stop assuming that everyone is charging a minimum of double the going rate for everything.
-And, not too surprisingly, but with odd decisiveness, my stomach appears to be the happiest, or at least the most understanding, about being out of India. Immediately after checking into my hotel it decided to relieve itself of all existing matter, I assume in the great anticipation of eating new and more easily solidified food.
That's all for the immediate.
27.3.08
India.ari - India = _______
I’ve reflected, I’ve rejected, I’ve reinstated. I’ve complained, I’ve compiled, I’ve computed. I’ve misappropriated, I’ve misconstrued, I’ve misused. I’ve sinned, I’ve signed, I’ve signaled—I’ve blogged.
And eight months hence, I’ve reached a critical juncture: I can no longer entertain the masses as the blogger known as India.ari because I will no longer be in India and that would just be stupid. I know I avowed that I would be masquerading as the Jewish New Mexican in India for a whole year, with promises of a “life more interesting”, a life chock full of details worth documenting and experiences worth recounting, but things change, life happens, life doesn’t happen, time heals, and sometimes we don’t get what we want but what we need.
So, sparing the details and the ins and outs, which might be better presented over coffee and a sandwich some lazy salad day when everything feels less cumbersome, but more hazy, less immediate, but better understood (possibly), I simply ask you to take note, at least fleetingly, of the fact that in two days I will no longer be in India.
I will be something like this (if interpreted in hypothetical-blog form): Thailand.ari, Laos.ari, Portland.ari, NewMexico.ari, California.ari, PuertoRico.ari, and then…________.ari (most likely Portland.ari again, but I like to build the suspense).
So, don’t hesitate, just ask, “Will you keep blogging?”
And I respond, “I think so, at least for the next couple weeks, after that I’ll need to consider other things like creative new blog names or if my life still surpasses the interest-threshold required for me to want to think about it overtime enough to continue to write about it.”
And I continue, saying mostly to myself, “But in the meantime, let’s buck up for the ride. Let’s perk up for springtime, and let’s brush off the seat of our pants. Let’s learn from all this and remember why we came here in the first place. Let’s be appreciative and compassionate and forgiving. And forgetting.”
And, in unison, united for a brief moment, we all say, “Let’s!”
And then we all abruptly return to thinking about clever blog names and feeding ourselves and considering our relationship with this incredibly complex planet we live on and the nature of this or that, girls, jobs, money, politics, friendship…
So it goes.
And eight months hence, I’ve reached a critical juncture: I can no longer entertain the masses as the blogger known as India.ari because I will no longer be in India and that would just be stupid. I know I avowed that I would be masquerading as the Jewish New Mexican in India for a whole year, with promises of a “life more interesting”, a life chock full of details worth documenting and experiences worth recounting, but things change, life happens, life doesn’t happen, time heals, and sometimes we don’t get what we want but what we need.
So, sparing the details and the ins and outs, which might be better presented over coffee and a sandwich some lazy salad day when everything feels less cumbersome, but more hazy, less immediate, but better understood (possibly), I simply ask you to take note, at least fleetingly, of the fact that in two days I will no longer be in India.
I will be something like this (if interpreted in hypothetical-blog form): Thailand.ari, Laos.ari, Portland.ari, NewMexico.ari, California.ari, PuertoRico.ari, and then…________.ari (most likely Portland.ari again, but I like to build the suspense).
So, don’t hesitate, just ask, “Will you keep blogging?”
And I respond, “I think so, at least for the next couple weeks, after that I’ll need to consider other things like creative new blog names or if my life still surpasses the interest-threshold required for me to want to think about it overtime enough to continue to write about it.”
And I continue, saying mostly to myself, “But in the meantime, let’s buck up for the ride. Let’s perk up for springtime, and let’s brush off the seat of our pants. Let’s learn from all this and remember why we came here in the first place. Let’s be appreciative and compassionate and forgiving. And forgetting.”
And, in unison, united for a brief moment, we all say, “Let’s!”
And then we all abruptly return to thinking about clever blog names and feeding ourselves and considering our relationship with this incredibly complex planet we live on and the nature of this or that, girls, jobs, money, politics, friendship…
So it goes.
20.3.08
On Trains
For a long time I've meant to write a blog detailing my experiences on Indian long-distance trains; to chronicle my 36-hour Chennai-Delhi (and back, another 36) business trip back in January; to document my nearly full week spent on trains since my arrival in India. But alas, time does not travel by track, it flies, and my aspirations, instead of dashing forward, have been dashed.
I even jotted down memorable train happenings in preparation--the people I sat near, the food, the toilets, the views, the noises, the smells, the "whatever...maybe I'm crazy thoughts" experienced near hour 23, the "I'm a fucking genius" epiphanies near hour 32. I even recall spending several hours on the train considering how to address this elusive train entry, probably mostly because I was pretty bored (hours 6-9 perhaps?).
I wanted to convey the odd feeling of waking up in the morning after a stop-and-go-night, a loud-horn-hot-cold-disturbing dream-night, removing your earplugs, straightening your pants, and watching village people relieve themselves by the side of the tracks as you pass by at 30 km/hr awaiting your chai and your chance to use the toilet and leave your own mark on the tracks. I wanted paint a nice picture of the routine Indians have on the train--sleep, eat, talk, reshuffle things, yell a little, drool a little--they can take a 36-hour train ride and not have anymore entertainment than the day they were born. It's quite amazing considering my step brothers get a DVD player in the back seat of the car or the hoards of ipod shufflers tuning out and waiting for the 5th subway stop to arrive. I wanted to say something about simplicity, and practicality, about sustainability and reliability. About how I always seemed to end up bunked in the middle of a Jr. High cricket team or a Middle School field trip, about the casual manner in which everyone disposes of their trash out the window, about the way little kids can stare at the white man until, until, maybe until he turns dark.
But Chennai is getting hot and at 33 C and up maybe it's hard for me to stream all these special little occurrences together when my body would rather my mind not stall on day-long train rides for too long, but rather ice cream or bagels, or mountains. So, as has become routine (similar to my routine complaining about the heat), when words fail then I resort to ill-conceived digital camera videos which offer mildly better insight with far less effort. I have to credit Adam and his fancy "audio recording" camera for this clip, and for keeping his sense of humor after waiting 3 hours for the train while immersed in a sea of Indians with rummy 500 and acetaminophen, and each other's company, as our only solace.
18.3.08
Blog vs. Caveman (#$*%@ vs. AARRGGHHH)
Sometimes, more times than some might think, I find myself in the midst of a histrionic cavemen impersonation with no clear idea how I arrived at such a point or how now to regain my standard solemn composure. Whether in freshman calculus, while walking down a crowded drunken street, or within the intimacy of nighttime snuggle, a barbaric snort or threatening growl can prove surprisingly satisfying. Just try it—furl your brow, push out your chin, widen your lips, flare your nostrils, and, well, meet yourself version 1.0.
These caveman expressions are only natural I tell myself. Furthermore, people even seem to enjoy them, laughing with me, or at me, or whatever. The point being everyone gets “caveman”: loud, obnoxious, uncivilized, dirty, disgusting, dumb—no ego, no superego, all id. Just plain, wholesome id sprawled over the great untamable earth, like a beautiful caveman dance being choreographed as it pans out across the plains of time, maybe a little like Capoeta.
And what represents the opposite extreme, the ultimate manifestation of the unnatural and artificial, of these caveman noises and gestures, these brutish manifestations of our, humankind’s origins, our roots and essence? I’ll tell you what: blogs. Try imitating a blog. It’s no fun. What do you even do? Write self-absorbingly about mundane things? Flesh out your day-to-day life by recording it on this digital screen-thing that doesn’t really exist anywhere. Cavemen may only exist in the past, but they also exist within us, and is there a blog inside each and every one of us?... The scary thing is there just might be.
I must admit that making caveman noises for an hour is not always as satisfying, although physically yes it is, as writing a pointless blog entry for the equivalent duration. With this under consideration, I propose we drop the contrasts and instead focus on the similarities: people are watching and judging you all the time, whether you are howling like a rabid hyena or blogging about your sister’s boyfriend’s sister (what a babe!), and this is important to remember.
If I apply for a job, can I make caveman noises in the interview? Unless I’m auditioning for that Gecko ad campaign, probably not. Can I blog about how I sometimes make caveman noises in similar real-life situations? Probably still not a good idea, but, apparently, one that can’t be ruled out.
So be careful in which contexts you open the vents through which your primitive energies may release themselves in grunts and growls. Make sure you consider, if only for a fleeting moment, the words you post in your public journal and the meaning, once strung together, which they form. Because your girlfriend, or your mother, your boss, or that person you got a picture of while they were scratching themselves—they could all be reading, carefully, between the lines, forming their opinions of you and judging your every character, judging your very character!
Which means, of course, make sure to read their blogs also—because if we can’t resolve our issues like cavemen (and we can’t, I’ve tried…), at least we can read about our issues and maybe think about how much better as a society we really are than cavemen, how advanced we are, how literate we are. Because, no, we can’t hit people with wooden mallets or drag people by their hair anymore, but we can pound keyboards.
These caveman expressions are only natural I tell myself. Furthermore, people even seem to enjoy them, laughing with me, or at me, or whatever. The point being everyone gets “caveman”: loud, obnoxious, uncivilized, dirty, disgusting, dumb—no ego, no superego, all id. Just plain, wholesome id sprawled over the great untamable earth, like a beautiful caveman dance being choreographed as it pans out across the plains of time, maybe a little like Capoeta.
And what represents the opposite extreme, the ultimate manifestation of the unnatural and artificial, of these caveman noises and gestures, these brutish manifestations of our, humankind’s origins, our roots and essence? I’ll tell you what: blogs. Try imitating a blog. It’s no fun. What do you even do? Write self-absorbingly about mundane things? Flesh out your day-to-day life by recording it on this digital screen-thing that doesn’t really exist anywhere. Cavemen may only exist in the past, but they also exist within us, and is there a blog inside each and every one of us?... The scary thing is there just might be.
I must admit that making caveman noises for an hour is not always as satisfying, although physically yes it is, as writing a pointless blog entry for the equivalent duration. With this under consideration, I propose we drop the contrasts and instead focus on the similarities: people are watching and judging you all the time, whether you are howling like a rabid hyena or blogging about your sister’s boyfriend’s sister (what a babe!), and this is important to remember.
If I apply for a job, can I make caveman noises in the interview? Unless I’m auditioning for that Gecko ad campaign, probably not. Can I blog about how I sometimes make caveman noises in similar real-life situations? Probably still not a good idea, but, apparently, one that can’t be ruled out.
So be careful in which contexts you open the vents through which your primitive energies may release themselves in grunts and growls. Make sure you consider, if only for a fleeting moment, the words you post in your public journal and the meaning, once strung together, which they form. Because your girlfriend, or your mother, your boss, or that person you got a picture of while they were scratching themselves—they could all be reading, carefully, between the lines, forming their opinions of you and judging your every character, judging your very character!
Which means, of course, make sure to read their blogs also—because if we can’t resolve our issues like cavemen (and we can’t, I’ve tried…), at least we can read about our issues and maybe think about how much better as a society we really are than cavemen, how advanced we are, how literate we are. Because, no, we can’t hit people with wooden mallets or drag people by their hair anymore, but we can pound keyboards.
11.3.08
After nearly seven months in India I've been given new eyes to see through. And although these eyes might not always be the most expressive, not entirely usurping my jaded views, they are nonetheless fresh and inquisitive, and have managed to rejuvenate my long-suppressed traveler's instincts.
Mostly that means that Adam has arrived and that we had a fun weekend slurping up food with our hands, visiting new age cities based on unity AND diversity (and propaganda), and cramming into the front of buses, where our American tushes were warmed by the engine and our American imaginations warmed by the lush scenery and death-nearly-not-defying driving.
Adam also managed to warm my soul, no simply task one might argue, by providing fruits from the outside world--decent quality hard alcohol. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm not sure which, I previously learned the hard way that it's difficult to drink a lot in India and not regret it for a lot longer than you appreciate it for, so mostly we've kept our imbibing limited to a few meal-time sips.
It's been nice to feel like an accomplished host, and as I took Adam on the neighborhood tour-- snacks, juice, tape shopping, movie rental, toilet paper, beach, cigarette stall, tailor, dinner, more juice, soda for the booze--I had no choice but to come to terms with my superb navigational skills over this town (large suburb of giant Indian city). Maybe people can intuit this accomplishment somehow, considering I continue to get asked directions by people far more Indian looking than myself.
I remember I spent the first week after I arrived mostly holed-up inside, eating buttered toast and reading guidebooks in an attempt to get a handle on what was happening in the exotic, and chaotic, land beyond the confines of my residence. I've noticed Adam has been experiencing similar symptoms.
Mostly that means that Adam has arrived and that we had a fun weekend slurping up food with our hands, visiting new age cities based on unity AND diversity (and propaganda), and cramming into the front of buses, where our American tushes were warmed by the engine and our American imaginations warmed by the lush scenery and death-nearly-not-defying driving.
Adam also managed to warm my soul, no simply task one might argue, by providing fruits from the outside world--decent quality hard alcohol. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm not sure which, I previously learned the hard way that it's difficult to drink a lot in India and not regret it for a lot longer than you appreciate it for, so mostly we've kept our imbibing limited to a few meal-time sips.
It's been nice to feel like an accomplished host, and as I took Adam on the neighborhood tour-- snacks, juice, tape shopping, movie rental, toilet paper, beach, cigarette stall, tailor, dinner, more juice, soda for the booze--I had no choice but to come to terms with my superb navigational skills over this town (large suburb of giant Indian city). Maybe people can intuit this accomplishment somehow, considering I continue to get asked directions by people far more Indian looking than myself.
I remember I spent the first week after I arrived mostly holed-up inside, eating buttered toast and reading guidebooks in an attempt to get a handle on what was happening in the exotic, and chaotic, land beyond the confines of my residence. I've noticed Adam has been experiencing similar symptoms.
7.3.08
"You've Got Mail...But You Wouldn't Know it"
Dear Dad,
Thanks so much for your caring package. Even though I would have loved some new ceramics to place on my mantel, considering the state of the package's arrival I am glad you chose to mail used copies of books I mostly don't want to read instead.
As I waited for my change at the post office this morning, having already had to run across the street to the hotel to make smaller change for the clerk to make even smaller change from, I thought I might as well inquire about that package you mailed me over a month ago. I took the usual path to the parcel area, walking behind the counter and weaving through the stampers and shufflers, until I reached the stackers, and, primarily, the sit-arounders. I pointed at myself and announced my name, my address, the color of my skin and the word 'parcel.' After several repetitions someone took note and pointed to the legally blind guy over in the corner who always seems to be rubbing his glasses as if they are the cause of his blindness, otherwise known as my neighborhood postman.
I walked over to him, placed my face inches from his face, and began repeating the same phrases as before. A few moments later he realized someone was talking to him, replaced his glasses, and said something like, "Ah, patouti package." Pretty soon everyone except me began repeating "patouti package," a bit like that scene in "Being John Malkovich" where all the Malkovich heads repeat "Malkovich" in different intonations. Someone advised me to take a seat and a few people began moving things around.
Eventually a cabinet adjacent to my blind postman was opened, and there on the top shelf sat my package, looking as good as the day it first emerged from the dumpster. A man made a few apologetic gestures and then showed me a piece of paper describing the poor conditions of the package, which seemed unnecessary since I could clearly see for myself.
I guess if your parcel is "patouti" they don't need to notify you of its arrival, they can just wait for you to come and claim it, or you can just never come, whatever really--when you're a blind postman it's not really your job to over-analyze these situations.
So, as I was saying, thanks for the package dad. It finally arrived and I can now reread "White Fang," just like I always wanted.
It's good to know you care though, seriously.
Your estranged son,
Ari
3.3.08
I've Somehow Ended Up in India, part I; CHANGE
Below is part 1 of a longer piece I've been working on based on my time in India. I already have a few changes in mind for this section, but I thought I might as well post it and see if any feedback came in. In anycase, I'll be happy if people just take a look.
I. Change
“I’ve been in India for six months” I say. What a boring way of seeing things. What a linear approach: I was born, I was alive for this long, I’ve been in India for this long, and so on. No wonder I’m having trouble. It’s like I’m waiting in line. For what? For life to begin? By doing what? By getting closer to the end. This is not right, I should not think this way. In India they don’t wait in line. In India they cluster, they nudge, they jar, they even shove. They hold their money in their hands and wave it. Dirty money all over the place, like the crowd at a Phish concert, but dirty bills instead of dirty lighters and everyone’s yelling angrily for the next song to start. I keep my money in the bank and watch the value fluctuate online like a temperamental Gigapet or something. I stare at a screen and type passwords that remind me of things I would rather not be reminded of. I swipe plastic through plastic, occasionally glancing at the magnetic strip incredulously. How can I hold my money out in front of my face, how can I exhibit this recklessness, this disregard yet inherent respect for chance, for vagary, for change, if I can’t even permit things to become physical in the first place: if I can’t allow the change to jingle. If I can’t relinquish some of these unwelcome perspectives, these obstructive patterns, how can I really start or, more importantly, end?
But I’ve somehow ended up in India, and that could be considered a start, right? I might’ve just heard a little jingle deep down in my crisp pockets. Let’s see if we can’t translate that jingle into something a bit catchier, a bit more memorable.
John Berger is a famous art critic, still alive and breathing somewhere in Paris last time I checked, most famous for his book Ways of Seeing where he attempts to explain Western Art and culture since the Renaissance in terms of semiotics, the study of signs, rather than in terms of the inherent qualities of the art itself. In large part an exercise in not mistaking subjective things for objective things and understanding where our perspectives originate. For example, how does art become something of great monetary value? Is it because the object is really so magnificent and unique that it is clearly priceless, or is it often largely due to the surrounding culture and the people and processes in control of what that culture “values”? Or why do the women in most pre-20th century oil paintings usually stare passively away from or beyond the onlooker rather than directly confront their gaze? Is this because that’s how women look or how men, almost always the painters, chose to depict women? Or, an example applicable to India: why are the women in advertisements and movie always much lighter-skinned than your average Indian woman? What purpose does this serve? What could be the original motivations behind these choices? Does art imitate life or life art, what is the relationship?
These are the types of questions Berger raises in Ways of Seeing, in my opinion an educational, informative, maybe even ground breaking book, but at this point, dated and docile, not going far enough as 21st century post-theory, post-everything would like it to.
And the change continues to jingle, just a bit perhaps.
John Berger had some hand (perhaps in my pocket) in me ending up here in India. I read John Berger in college and this at least, and really at most, mildly influenced me in pursuing my current trend of life decisions in which I make them mostly because they are unusual, interesting, and/or unorthodox, or, honestly, often simply without any clear “good” reason. I can remember sitting in a large lecture hall reserved from 6:00-7:50 p.m. for Visual Arts 1A feeling the need to escape somewhere far away, both due to the content of the course and my desire to have nothing to do with it. I imagine Berger would appreciate these moderately anti-establishmentarian sentiments, considering his skepticism of things unconsidered, things left unchecked. Yes, even if I have been taking jobs and making “connections” under the guise of pursuing a career, inside I’m still just a student in a classroom—comfortable enough with my cushioned chair and discreet crossword, but anxious to get out, for the bell to ring, so I can see if I can’t shake this perpetual feeling that I’m missing something.
More important than that digression though, John Berger was a primary influence on the founders of the publisher I work for, and without his past academic and cultural breakthroughs, his critical writings, this ambitious, and ambitiously independent, project might never had come to fruition and I might never have been Intern #1 (I arrived first), design intern, and, as it were, lazy, bored and selfish intern.
And the change falls silent, cold stares all around. Could there be a hole in my pocket?
There’s no denying it, I am getting lazier and lazier as the seconds tick slowly by. Maybe I should just walk out onto the street and situate myself somewhere amongst the endless supply of men who’s livelihood seems to consist of sipping teas and fresh juices, and occasionally preparing those teas and fresh juices as well. I feel at about their level of productivity right now. I could take off my pants, tie up a lungi (a sheet basically), and mosey on over to the local chi stand for a day full of nothingness. Is that laziness? What I’m considering doing? What they’re doing? What I’m doing? Sitting here avoiding the menial tasks I’ve been assigned? Yes it must be. I’ve been conditioned, to see, to feel, to believe this to be laziness. I am actively fulfilling the definition of laziness: unwilling to work or use energy. I’m lazy, maybe not quite as lazy as the Indians lounging around day after day in front of the tea stall, but how productive can one consider oneself when reduced to comparing and contrasting levels of laziness with tea walas?
But let’s dig a bit deeper, see if we can’t generate some noise, if only for John Berger’s sake. Where do I get my impression of laziness? It turns out, with a few clicks of the mouse, I can relearn that laziness is known as ‘sloth’ in Christian moral tradition, basically the tradition under which all Americans are raised, and it is considered one of the seven capital sins. No wonder I see laziness as representing something so heretical. No wonder I consider lounging around drinking tea most of the day so preposterous; it says right there, "For Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." ("Against Idleness and Mischief" by Isaac Watts). Somehow I doubt that Indian culture views idleness this way, in fact, having lived here six months I know it doesn’t, otherwise they’d all be possessed by Satan. Although the more Westernized India becomes the more change it desires in its pockets, the bigger its pants pockets get, and the less time it has to relax.
And so we can glimpse the importance of understanding the various ways of seeing that different cultures possess, seeing them as subjective rather than objective—through different lenses perhaps—as contingent upon ourselves rather than independent from us.
In fact, now that I think about it, it gives me hope, although fleeting, to see these Indians outside, hanging around, suspended somewhere between celebrating one God’s marriage and another’s birth, paused en route between the rice vendor and the next Bollywood flick. This could be more natural. This could be more in accord with the way the world spins, in a self-perpetuating circle, rather than in a line, en route to where? Maybe this is more giving, more holistic, less conducive to unhealthy neurosis, rampant pill popping and other ailments the West has self-proscribed. But then again, most people in India don’t have indoor plumbing, or electricity. And pill popping is nearly just as big of a problem. So you see, of course, it’s very confusing. There’s change passing hands, changing pockets, every which way in this crazy world, and India, although I sometimes find it hard to believe, is most certainly a part of that world.
I. Change
“I’ve been in India for six months” I say. What a boring way of seeing things. What a linear approach: I was born, I was alive for this long, I’ve been in India for this long, and so on. No wonder I’m having trouble. It’s like I’m waiting in line. For what? For life to begin? By doing what? By getting closer to the end. This is not right, I should not think this way. In India they don’t wait in line. In India they cluster, they nudge, they jar, they even shove. They hold their money in their hands and wave it. Dirty money all over the place, like the crowd at a Phish concert, but dirty bills instead of dirty lighters and everyone’s yelling angrily for the next song to start. I keep my money in the bank and watch the value fluctuate online like a temperamental Gigapet or something. I stare at a screen and type passwords that remind me of things I would rather not be reminded of. I swipe plastic through plastic, occasionally glancing at the magnetic strip incredulously. How can I hold my money out in front of my face, how can I exhibit this recklessness, this disregard yet inherent respect for chance, for vagary, for change, if I can’t even permit things to become physical in the first place: if I can’t allow the change to jingle. If I can’t relinquish some of these unwelcome perspectives, these obstructive patterns, how can I really start or, more importantly, end?
But I’ve somehow ended up in India, and that could be considered a start, right? I might’ve just heard a little jingle deep down in my crisp pockets. Let’s see if we can’t translate that jingle into something a bit catchier, a bit more memorable.
John Berger is a famous art critic, still alive and breathing somewhere in Paris last time I checked, most famous for his book Ways of Seeing where he attempts to explain Western Art and culture since the Renaissance in terms of semiotics, the study of signs, rather than in terms of the inherent qualities of the art itself. In large part an exercise in not mistaking subjective things for objective things and understanding where our perspectives originate. For example, how does art become something of great monetary value? Is it because the object is really so magnificent and unique that it is clearly priceless, or is it often largely due to the surrounding culture and the people and processes in control of what that culture “values”? Or why do the women in most pre-20th century oil paintings usually stare passively away from or beyond the onlooker rather than directly confront their gaze? Is this because that’s how women look or how men, almost always the painters, chose to depict women? Or, an example applicable to India: why are the women in advertisements and movie always much lighter-skinned than your average Indian woman? What purpose does this serve? What could be the original motivations behind these choices? Does art imitate life or life art, what is the relationship?
These are the types of questions Berger raises in Ways of Seeing, in my opinion an educational, informative, maybe even ground breaking book, but at this point, dated and docile, not going far enough as 21st century post-theory, post-everything would like it to.
And the change continues to jingle, just a bit perhaps.
John Berger had some hand (perhaps in my pocket) in me ending up here in India. I read John Berger in college and this at least, and really at most, mildly influenced me in pursuing my current trend of life decisions in which I make them mostly because they are unusual, interesting, and/or unorthodox, or, honestly, often simply without any clear “good” reason. I can remember sitting in a large lecture hall reserved from 6:00-7:50 p.m. for Visual Arts 1A feeling the need to escape somewhere far away, both due to the content of the course and my desire to have nothing to do with it. I imagine Berger would appreciate these moderately anti-establishmentarian sentiments, considering his skepticism of things unconsidered, things left unchecked. Yes, even if I have been taking jobs and making “connections” under the guise of pursuing a career, inside I’m still just a student in a classroom—comfortable enough with my cushioned chair and discreet crossword, but anxious to get out, for the bell to ring, so I can see if I can’t shake this perpetual feeling that I’m missing something.
More important than that digression though, John Berger was a primary influence on the founders of the publisher I work for, and without his past academic and cultural breakthroughs, his critical writings, this ambitious, and ambitiously independent, project might never had come to fruition and I might never have been Intern #1 (I arrived first), design intern, and, as it were, lazy, bored and selfish intern.
And the change falls silent, cold stares all around. Could there be a hole in my pocket?
There’s no denying it, I am getting lazier and lazier as the seconds tick slowly by. Maybe I should just walk out onto the street and situate myself somewhere amongst the endless supply of men who’s livelihood seems to consist of sipping teas and fresh juices, and occasionally preparing those teas and fresh juices as well. I feel at about their level of productivity right now. I could take off my pants, tie up a lungi (a sheet basically), and mosey on over to the local chi stand for a day full of nothingness. Is that laziness? What I’m considering doing? What they’re doing? What I’m doing? Sitting here avoiding the menial tasks I’ve been assigned? Yes it must be. I’ve been conditioned, to see, to feel, to believe this to be laziness. I am actively fulfilling the definition of laziness: unwilling to work or use energy. I’m lazy, maybe not quite as lazy as the Indians lounging around day after day in front of the tea stall, but how productive can one consider oneself when reduced to comparing and contrasting levels of laziness with tea walas?
But let’s dig a bit deeper, see if we can’t generate some noise, if only for John Berger’s sake. Where do I get my impression of laziness? It turns out, with a few clicks of the mouse, I can relearn that laziness is known as ‘sloth’ in Christian moral tradition, basically the tradition under which all Americans are raised, and it is considered one of the seven capital sins. No wonder I see laziness as representing something so heretical. No wonder I consider lounging around drinking tea most of the day so preposterous; it says right there, "For Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." ("Against Idleness and Mischief" by Isaac Watts). Somehow I doubt that Indian culture views idleness this way, in fact, having lived here six months I know it doesn’t, otherwise they’d all be possessed by Satan. Although the more Westernized India becomes the more change it desires in its pockets, the bigger its pants pockets get, and the less time it has to relax.
And so we can glimpse the importance of understanding the various ways of seeing that different cultures possess, seeing them as subjective rather than objective—through different lenses perhaps—as contingent upon ourselves rather than independent from us.
In fact, now that I think about it, it gives me hope, although fleeting, to see these Indians outside, hanging around, suspended somewhere between celebrating one God’s marriage and another’s birth, paused en route between the rice vendor and the next Bollywood flick. This could be more natural. This could be more in accord with the way the world spins, in a self-perpetuating circle, rather than in a line, en route to where? Maybe this is more giving, more holistic, less conducive to unhealthy neurosis, rampant pill popping and other ailments the West has self-proscribed. But then again, most people in India don’t have indoor plumbing, or electricity. And pill popping is nearly just as big of a problem. So you see, of course, it’s very confusing. There’s change passing hands, changing pockets, every which way in this crazy world, and India, although I sometimes find it hard to believe, is most certainly a part of that world.
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