My Facebook timeline is at war with itself. This usually happens around sporting events like the World Cup, with people temporarily claiming citizenship of another country so that the match is a bit more fun to watch. Sadly, the frenzy of Rio 2014 has coincided with yet another Israeli-Palestinian war. If you think that football fans are irritating, they are nothing compared to some of those self-satisfied people on the Internet who think that long status updates on the situation are a) interesting to anyone but their mothers; and b) of any use to anyone at all, ever.
The Universe knows I have no issue with you expressing your opinion. Every week I hold you hostage during your morning loo break to do exactly that (don’t we have fun, though?). My problem arises when semi-non-irritants begin to hurl abuses at each other with no real vested interest in the subject, and for no other reason than to get some ‘likes’. They rave and rant and call each other Nazis, write long comments and even longer rebuttals that no one but their friends and/or stalkers will read and absolutely no one will care about the next morning. Yet they go on and on as if the earth’s survival depends on it.
All the Pakistanis I know (except for two contrarians who would be anti-peace if the rest of humanity was pro) are lamenting the tragic fate of those in Gaza. On the other spectrum are my Israeli friends (please don’t arrest me!) on Facebook. They are either giving one-word responses or are silent altogether. Israel, all Pakistanis should remember, is a country made up of many different opinions. Though you (and I) may deplore what the state of Israel is doing, I find it counter-productive and semi-hypocritical to judge an entire country based on the right-wing ramblings of their worst specimens. I know I wouldn’t want to be a judge based on the fact that the newest member of Pakistan’s Supreme Court publicly kissed the man who assassinated Salmaan Taseer.
Last week (also on Facebook, it’s where all fresh ideas go to die) I saw an article people were putting up that was titled “The Other Face of Pakistan.” Despite the fact that the country has more than two faces (“you can say that again…”), I wasn’t particularly interested in reading this piece. You can predict by now how these stories will go: pretty girls (gasp!), fast cars (crash!), big houses (splash!) and shimmering couture gowns (flash!) all meant to project one message: “Pakistan may be cray-zay, but we have our Kardashians too!”
Then one picture from the photo-essay caught my eye. It showed a woman in a snakeskin jumpsuit sitting on the edge of a sofa while she perused her iPhone. All the while her maidservant waited patiently in the corner and held a cold glass of water for her. The caption below this image spelled out the Meaning and Significance of the Scene:
“Educationalist/model Fatima (right) uses her mobile phone while a Philippine domestic worker holds her glass of water.”
The next shot was of the same woman, this time in exercise gear striding past a massive indoor (probably personal) swimming pool, walking with the practiced disregard of someone who wants people to think the paparazzi follow her around all the time. (As they are apt to do to educationalist-cum-models.)
[quote]"Can you balance books on your head while bringing out the tea, dear?"[/quote]
Not all of the pictures are as horrific – some show female cricketers and some interesting interior designers – but the majority are pretentious and posed. One chick in there is very proud that she went to a finishing school in Switzerland (as if that’s not something you do if you don’t get into a real college) and now runs her mother’s company. First off: enrolling at a finishing school in the 21st century means you’re probably developmentally challenged. At a time when Pakistani girls are in every major university on the planet, studying everything from engineering to biochemistry, bragging about finishing school (in Switzerland!) is like telling a rancid joke. That your grandmother used to tell. On her bad days. I mean, what is one supposed to ask the graduate of a finishing school? “Can you balance books on your head while bringing out the tea, dear? How marvelous! I must say, you are so finished...”
While I was fuming over this latest “spread” from Pakistan, I was staying with an artist friend in New York. He loves art, but art does not return his affections. His canvasses look like that painting Phoebe made in ‘Friends’, the one nobody wants to keep because it’s so scary it looks like Satan will jump out of it. Invariably in this artist friend’s work there will be a doll’s head or a broken bottle surrounded by sand and spray paint, and you really, really can’t conceive of how unattractive it all looks. To be fair, that kind of revulsion is something he wants to elicit from his viewers, so I don’t judge him for it. We were talking about his work and the direction he is taking when he began telling me about his process.
“Yeah man, I’m really branching out, trying new stuff,” he said, gesturing at a canvas which had some kind of wool or cloth in one corner.
“I can see that,” I said in the most polite, I-don’t-hate-this-what-do-you-mean tone. “It’s very…visceral!”
“Yeah, yeah. You got it! I mean, that piece is like a whole new direction. I’m working with ‘Found Anatomy’ now.”
In Art, when people say Found Objects they mean stuff they literally found as is, and made into art, like a bicycle wheel, or a fire hydrant, or a chair. Something that already exists. In the many years I’ve heard the terms “found sculpture” or “found wood” or “found plastic” I haven’t come across “Found Anatomy”. So I thought it must be a new trend in American art.
“Found anatomy?” I asked.
“Totally. Found anatomy has brought me to the next level.”
The implication suddenly dawned on me.
“So sorry to interrupt,” I cut in, a horrible inkling descending on me like mustard gas, “By ‘Found Anatomy’ do you mean, and correct me if I’m wrong, but do you mean road kill?”
He was silent for a moment, crushed that I’d reduced his oeuvre to something as basic, as base as the truth.
“I mean, technically, yes,” he managed to say. “I find them on the highway, but…”
I burst out laughing and didn’t stop until I had to pee. Found Anatomy is my new favorite term of all time.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
The Universe knows I have no issue with you expressing your opinion. Every week I hold you hostage during your morning loo break to do exactly that (don’t we have fun, though?). My problem arises when semi-non-irritants begin to hurl abuses at each other with no real vested interest in the subject, and for no other reason than to get some ‘likes’. They rave and rant and call each other Nazis, write long comments and even longer rebuttals that no one but their friends and/or stalkers will read and absolutely no one will care about the next morning. Yet they go on and on as if the earth’s survival depends on it.
All the Pakistanis I know (except for two contrarians who would be anti-peace if the rest of humanity was pro) are lamenting the tragic fate of those in Gaza. On the other spectrum are my Israeli friends (please don’t arrest me!) on Facebook. They are either giving one-word responses or are silent altogether. Israel, all Pakistanis should remember, is a country made up of many different opinions. Though you (and I) may deplore what the state of Israel is doing, I find it counter-productive and semi-hypocritical to judge an entire country based on the right-wing ramblings of their worst specimens. I know I wouldn’t want to be a judge based on the fact that the newest member of Pakistan’s Supreme Court publicly kissed the man who assassinated Salmaan Taseer.
Last week (also on Facebook, it’s where all fresh ideas go to die) I saw an article people were putting up that was titled “The Other Face of Pakistan.” Despite the fact that the country has more than two faces (“you can say that again…”), I wasn’t particularly interested in reading this piece. You can predict by now how these stories will go: pretty girls (gasp!), fast cars (crash!), big houses (splash!) and shimmering couture gowns (flash!) all meant to project one message: “Pakistan may be cray-zay, but we have our Kardashians too!”
Then one picture from the photo-essay caught my eye. It showed a woman in a snakeskin jumpsuit sitting on the edge of a sofa while she perused her iPhone. All the while her maidservant waited patiently in the corner and held a cold glass of water for her. The caption below this image spelled out the Meaning and Significance of the Scene:
“Educationalist/model Fatima (right) uses her mobile phone while a Philippine domestic worker holds her glass of water.”
The next shot was of the same woman, this time in exercise gear striding past a massive indoor (probably personal) swimming pool, walking with the practiced disregard of someone who wants people to think the paparazzi follow her around all the time. (As they are apt to do to educationalist-cum-models.)
[quote]"Can you balance books on your head while bringing out the tea, dear?"[/quote]
Not all of the pictures are as horrific – some show female cricketers and some interesting interior designers – but the majority are pretentious and posed. One chick in there is very proud that she went to a finishing school in Switzerland (as if that’s not something you do if you don’t get into a real college) and now runs her mother’s company. First off: enrolling at a finishing school in the 21st century means you’re probably developmentally challenged. At a time when Pakistani girls are in every major university on the planet, studying everything from engineering to biochemistry, bragging about finishing school (in Switzerland!) is like telling a rancid joke. That your grandmother used to tell. On her bad days. I mean, what is one supposed to ask the graduate of a finishing school? “Can you balance books on your head while bringing out the tea, dear? How marvelous! I must say, you are so finished...”
While I was fuming over this latest “spread” from Pakistan, I was staying with an artist friend in New York. He loves art, but art does not return his affections. His canvasses look like that painting Phoebe made in ‘Friends’, the one nobody wants to keep because it’s so scary it looks like Satan will jump out of it. Invariably in this artist friend’s work there will be a doll’s head or a broken bottle surrounded by sand and spray paint, and you really, really can’t conceive of how unattractive it all looks. To be fair, that kind of revulsion is something he wants to elicit from his viewers, so I don’t judge him for it. We were talking about his work and the direction he is taking when he began telling me about his process.
“Yeah man, I’m really branching out, trying new stuff,” he said, gesturing at a canvas which had some kind of wool or cloth in one corner.
“I can see that,” I said in the most polite, I-don’t-hate-this-what-do-you-mean tone. “It’s very…visceral!”
“Yeah, yeah. You got it! I mean, that piece is like a whole new direction. I’m working with ‘Found Anatomy’ now.”
In Art, when people say Found Objects they mean stuff they literally found as is, and made into art, like a bicycle wheel, or a fire hydrant, or a chair. Something that already exists. In the many years I’ve heard the terms “found sculpture” or “found wood” or “found plastic” I haven’t come across “Found Anatomy”. So I thought it must be a new trend in American art.
“Found anatomy?” I asked.
“Totally. Found anatomy has brought me to the next level.”
The implication suddenly dawned on me.
“So sorry to interrupt,” I cut in, a horrible inkling descending on me like mustard gas, “By ‘Found Anatomy’ do you mean, and correct me if I’m wrong, but do you mean road kill?”
He was silent for a moment, crushed that I’d reduced his oeuvre to something as basic, as base as the truth.
“I mean, technically, yes,” he managed to say. “I find them on the highway, but…”
I burst out laughing and didn’t stop until I had to pee. Found Anatomy is my new favorite term of all time.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter