Stone Poetry: Jiyuseki's Stone Sculptures

I am a collector of sorts: I pick up newly fallen leaves and make them book-marks, I collect feathers (peacock, Indian roller-wing, sea-gull, and pigeon), finding them homes in clay bowls or once again, books. Sometimes, I collect anything that catches my fancy. For many years, I kept in my possession a tender green pine-cone I found nestled at the foot of a pine-tree in a Rhine-side German town when I was eleven years old. It constantly shuttled from one surface to another in my room and I reluctantly threw it away only when I was going to university and had to prune my life of all those extraneous possessions that I had accumulated so far.

When I was little, though, I collected shells...and rocks. Oman's incredibly rich geological heritage meant that I only had to walk some distance from my home and find a huge array of different kind of rocks awaiting me. I possessed such a mania for rock collecting that I would return home with my loot of the day and write up detailed reports with accompanying meticulously water-colored sketches and drawings (yeah, I was a geek:) If blogging had existed then, I would have surely begun a blog to document my rock discoveries! Having exhausted text-books and library books about rocks in those pre-internet days and wishing to move beyond the igneous/sedimentary/metamorphic paradigm, I even sought out geological experts to show my reports and learn more; bless their souls, instead of dismissing me, they provided me books which were infinitely more sophisticated and technical in their breadth and scope of geological knowledge. I probably understood and absorbed little but I was fascinated to the point that I was even seriously contemplating becoming a geologist when I grew up.

And so I grew up...yet, that carefully maintained pile of rocks in my backyard eventually diminished before entirely disappearing altogether. While I still do occasionally collect shells, I cannot think of the last time I embarked upon a rock-hunting expedition or brought a rock home.

Handbag

Yet, when I stumbled upon these incredible stone sculptures wrought by Japanese artist, Jiyuseki, I could not help hearkening back to those childhood days in which I found myself interpreting my surroundings through the language of stone. Jiyuseki's works reminded me of the reasons as to why I gravitated towards rocks: they were undeniably solid and impenetrable, and therefore, seemingly forbidding...yet, they were also simultaneously so beautiful through their colors, patterns, and textures. Furthermore, akin to a tropical fruit which may look non-descript on the outside, an otherwise dull-appearing rock would reveal gorgeous interiors within upon slicing through it. 

Popsicle

Mining the language of stone to the fullest, these works are examples of stone poetry indeed. I love the fact that these sculptures celebrate the sheer solidity of the stone form...and yet, also transform it into something friendly, fluid and open to interpretation; it is reminscent of the manner in which wind, sunlight, water, and other chemical processes collectively combine to carve rock surroundings into natural sculptures, reminding us that rocks are not so indomitable, after all. 

Bread Roll

It has been a delight to discover these stone sculptures, jogging my memory cells of a childhood mania that I had almost forgotten about. These sculptures are also something that I can  imagine adorning my work-desk, keeping me company while I write or muse or contemplate; they would be objects of beauty, inviting admiration, function, paper-weighting my clutter, and curiosity, eliciting attention.

All images courtesy Jiyuseki

Of Memories and Star-Rain

If I had my way, I would photograph all the memorable - extraordinary and ordinary - moments in my life; when my memories would inevitably dim one day, I would still have the photographs to refer to and subsequently refresh the memories. But a camera cannot become an appendage or an extra limb, no matter how much you think it could be - and photographs cannot substitute for memories. Life ultimately is a series of moments - and you can choose to preserve and embalm them in photographs...or let them let loose in the the wonderland of your memories, allowing them to change shape and texture as the years go by. 

These are the thoughts that lazily swim through my mind during these unusually mild Omani July nights when I walk through lamp-lit streets, crunching upon fallen, brown-green neem-fruit (wasn't it only sometime ago that the branches were heavily laden with sprigs of white blossom - and the night air was palpably drenched in their fragrance?) and walking past balding bougainvillea bushes. When I look up, I can see the star-scape in crystal-clear clarity, twinkling away, utterly the same, as it has presumably been for so many centuries. Perhaps, a star extinguished itself centuries ago; perhaps, another one is taking birth - right this moment - as I write. But for my memories of these nights, there are no subtractions or additions to the sky scape; I simply walk and walk, their silver light raining down upon me, warm as a drizzle. 

Image courtesy here

Sanjay Nanda: Pinning Down Elusive Somethings...

Several posts ago, I had mused about joining Pinterest; while I have obstinately refused to jump on the Twitter bandwagon, I could not help contemplating for the longest while that Pinterest may prove to be the exactly kind of thing that would appeal to me. I decided to try it out - and was I hooked and how!:) Its combination of online scrapbooking, mood boards, and accumulating piles of visual images, reflecting my varied interests in architecture, style, art, photography, was completely addictive and my day is definitely incomplete if I don't stop by there at least once a day. Amongst other things, I have had such a good time discovering eclectic jewelry pieces, funky style-statements and even gratuitously (and sheepishly) indulged in my affection for cute animal pictures (I have called that particular pin-board 'Adorableness Central'!) Also, judging from the insane amount of gorgeous looking food and interior ideas posted there, I am on my way towards being completely inspired about transforming the way I cook and decorate.

In the meantime, what has definitively inspired me vis a vis my photography is Indian photographer, Sanjay Nanda's work. I can't quite recall whether I discovered Sanjay through Pinterest or not; however, what I did observe is that one of the images that I pinned (below) has been the object of several repins...and with good reason, I feel.

The Marigold Offering

First off, to pare down their description to the most fundamental level, Sanjay's images are viscerally beautiful. This image of a bright, rain-washed leaf green alcove with burnt orange marigolds placed inside them is not just about exoticising the flower or encouraging dialogue about faith: it is also happens to be stunning image to look at, period. I must confess though that at times I experience a strong, almost academic need to extract some sort of narrative from a photograph - it must say something, it is saying something, or perhaps, it is indeed speaking volumes and yet, I am the one unable to hear anything! However, when glimpsing Sanjay's work, it struck me that you can often be content with the sheer aesthetics of the image alone. Perhaps, there is an intriguing story embedded inside this image; however, for me, at least at this particular moment, even if there isn't, I am equally OK with that.

A View Through the Past

This photography is the kind of work that I would aspire to create; there is something about these images that you cannot help but look at again and again. What is that elusive something-to-be-looked-at-ness though? What is it that compels you towards these images? My relationship with photography as a spectator is often dependent on the associations and thoughts that immediately mushroom through my mind while looking at the image. For example, this particular image cannot help but remind me of the textures of the walls found in the courtyard and open terraces of my ancestral haveli...there are similar arch-shaped alcoves studding the walls too. Through this image, I am transported back to my haveli while simultaneously and independently appreciating the visuals of the image itself: the graffiti heart, the layers of exposed brick, peeling plaster, and graffti, and the white and blue serenity of the domes and walls glimpsed in the distance. I love how this image is both personal and impersonal, leading me to create a completely unique relationship with it if I were to, say, hang it in my most immediate space and see it every day.

Barred Gods

Sanjay's images also deal with subjects and approaches which are akin to what I have been seeking to explore in my photography, such as eye-ball-catching wall art, and windows and doors; these are works that are inspirational in the truest sense and I look forward to further extending my explorations and fine-tuning the articulation of my particular photographic voice. At times, when you are wont to become jaded of your inclination towards a specific subject matter, someone else's fresh, full-blooded perception of the same things greatly infuses life into your own approach. Yet, the issue then becomes of ensuring that your voice remains startlingly original without falling into the trap of imitative mode...but that's another story - and post!- altogether:)

Handprints on the Wall # 2

Whether you're creating or engaging with art, it is not always necessary that you have to invest your work with multiple meanings or layers of narrative...nor must you feel obliged to to wade through them in order to fully appreciate the work. Sometimes, the act of creation is as much a thunder-bolt as the act of looking at the work itself: it need not be any more complicated than that. When I close my eyes after seeing this image above, what crystallises in my mindspace is the marriage of red and blue and flatness and depth and creates an altogether different and utterly personalised image in my head. That is art for me.

All pictures courtesy Sanjay Nanda, Indipix Gallery; have a look at his brilliant work over here.

The Wall Project: Muttrah Scribblings...

Muttrah, 2008

It is usually and often in the most quotidian, mundane, that I encounter an invigorating sense of wonder and story. On first glimpse, true, there is nothing arguably very arresting about this image: a sign-board, glass-window displaying freshly tailored garments, and a chunk of a sloppily painted white wall featuring exposed pipes, wires, and mobile numbers and other sundry numbers written upon its surface. 

I remember taking the picture of this wall four years ago; I am now trying to recollect as to why I took it. I was supposed to do a story about the Muttrah souk for an UAE newspaper; however, I was utterly exhausted of the conventional, trite pieces exoticising the souk and instead, chose to train my attention upon the alternate world which existed behind the souk. I wanted to talk to the people living there, who had made it their home for so many decades and what made them call Muttrah their home. I walked into this tailoring shop and listened to the stories of the Bangladeshi tailors, who had been here for almost two decades; there was a sixteen-inch TV positioned in one of the cornices of the room, which constantly played songs from 90s Bollywood and a noisy air-conditioner, which breathed out gusts of cold, oddly perfumed air, that accompanied our conversation. I emerged from the shop and out into the intensely hot June evening. The air smelt of a soup of odors uniquely peculiar to Gulf cities: shwarma, petrol fumes, dust, spices, and newly rotting fruit from the nearby green-grocer and the heat was like someone breathing down your neck. I momentarily stood there outside the shop, unsure of what to do or where to go next and my gaze must have then fallen upon the mobile numbers - and it must have birthed a dozen absently curious questions: whose numbers were they? why had their owners chosen to inscribe it upon the walls? who was meant to call whom?

Perhaps, if it weren't for the numbers upon the wall, I would never have taken this picture; for me, it's the presence of the numbers which invests this picture with a lively identity, always compelling those very same questions that popped into my mind the moment I glimpsed this wall. 

Yet, there is one more thing: that particular story about Muttrah souk never did get published. The stories of the Bangladeshi tailors and others whom I spoke to that evening are somewhere in one of my many notebooks, their words visibly present on the pages but destined to be unheard. All that remains from that evening walking through Muttrah souk is this picture - and whenever I look at it, I find myself stopping outside the glassed-in tailoring shop and hearing the stories once again.