Is it a Cloud or is it a Bean?

I love the arts, and I marvel at pieces that truly engage us.

Guess who?

An artist friend, whom we call Japat, had his first solo exhibition at Tashkeel in Dubai in 2009.  It was a breathtaking collection.  Larger-than-life paintings of human figures, portrayed in a gruesome dystopia of machinery and flesh-and-bone.  He also showcased his fine-art photography.  Superb resolution, colors and composition of people, including himself and his family. 

An hour into the exhibition, we were wondering, Where's Japat?  Someone said he was coming.

Another hour later, he finally ambled in.  Wearing the very outfit and clown makeup he wore in one of his self-portraits, along with the small red wagon of stuff which he was tugging in that same photo.  We immediately saw that he was in character, and moving about the gallery picking off pieces that he had masking-taped at various places on the floor.

In the meantime, we all followed him along, as though he were the Pied Piper.  Except we were not following in a line, but more like a amoeba that opened around him fluidly, then closed after him and oozed along.  Once we had circled back to where he entered, he stopped, opened containers of paint from his wagon, and offered a brush for any of us to paint on his shirt.

In general Japat is shy and quiet, but as a performance artist he was naturally social and thoroughly engaging.  We were so enthralled by his entrance, that many indeed took turns with that brush and painted freely on him.  It was a tour de force effort, and one memorable evening, for sure. 

Cloud Gate, by artist Anish Kapoor

So it was with The Bean, our nickname for Anish Kapoor's enormous installation at Millennium Park in Chicago.

You see, there are masterpieces hanging so sacredly at museums around the world, that we viewers dare not come close.  Lest our breath or touch mar their sanctity.

For example, I literally rushed to the Louvre, during a layover in Paris, en route from Bahrain to Chicago, just to see the Mona Lisa.  After all that excitement, however, I was very disappointed to see that it was a small piece of work and also to find roping that kept us a few feet away from it.

But Kapoor's artwork is a social masterpiece.  It definitely draws a crowd to it, beneath it, and around it.  We touch it freely, and play at taking all kinds of photographs.  Walk underneath in the middle, for example, look up, and we are transported into science fiction, with an odd array of shapes, shadows and reflections.

Better known as The Bean

In a way, Kapoor fashioned an artwork that re-created itself every moment that people were there.  What it reflected of the day and of the night also shifted from one moment to the next.  The changing light, the passing clouds, the ebb and flow of traffic.

Japat disturbed our notion of what it meant to be human by merging metal with flesh.  In a radically different vein, Kapoor challenged our notion of metal by making his installation breathe with the life of the city.   

My Sense of Place in Istanbul

In the film 'The Lake House,' the wizened, often grouchy architect (Christopher Plummer) mentors his talented, love-starved son (Keanu Reeves) about their lifelong passion.  He says that the architect must take into account the environment and must see how light in particular pours into a room, if he or she deigned to build something that would stand the test of time.

But what I loved most about this conversation is Plummer saying something along the lines of, The light in Barcelona feels different on our skin, as it does in Prague, as it does in Tokyo.    

Architecture has, and must have, a sense of place.  It speaks to its surroundings, and engages in a dialogue with nature.  Moreover, it is unlike many other arts in that it must merge beauty with utility.  The first without the second is merely display, and the second without the first is simply carpentry. 

I see art as sensuous.  Not necessarily sexual or erotic.  But art as a medium for experiencing things with all of our senses, and we come away all the richer for it.  Besides the feel of sunlight, I keep myself open as best as I can with how my surroundings truly are in their completeness.

In the past decade, I dispensed with my camera while traveling:  one, because it was excess baggage, and, two, because I risked theft or damage.  Most importantly, I sacrificed having photos, in order to gain an more authentic, unencumbered experience.  

Train ride, Istanbul (image credit)

So it was in Istanbul

I took the train from the airport into a city center, and noticed the largely drab colors of coats that both men and women wore.  Some women, though, dared to wear muted but notable colors in their head scarves.  Muslim women in general are careful about colors, but feel varying degrees of comfort versus risk, depending on where they are.  Maybe it was my travel fatigue and weary eyes, but their demeanor struck me as emotionless and their manner interactionless.  Maybe they led downtrodden lives, and did all they could to keep it quiet in such a public setting.

Once at the city center, I walked around.  There was a nip in the air, and thankfully my sweater was enough to keep me warm.  Still, waiting to cross a street at a red light, I closed my eyes for a moment and angled my face toward the sunlight, so as to feel its warmth and find out how different it was than anywhere else.

It's easy enough to take a taxi anywhere, but to get to really know a place I want to feel the pavement under my feet.  One stretch of sidewalk angled, for instance, and I felt it before I noticed it.  Then, I saw that some slabs of concrete were off kilter, and could easily trip the otherwise preoccupied tourist.

I wanted to rub elbows and shoulders with people there, too.

How it was in Riyadh

I had a security detail in Riyadh one time, and he cautioned me not to even come close to the women.  Even an accidental minor contact would've landed me in jail.  We were in the souk, shopping for a local sim card for my mobile, when evening prayers were called.  Everyone rushed out of the shops, poured into the streets, and scattered in all directions.  Owners quickly shuttered their shop windows and doors.  Karim and I waited several seconds for the flurry to subside, before heading back to the car, with me walking nervously and attentively every step of the way.   

Karim, me, Rolf and Herdie, King Abdulaziz Historic Centre, Riyadh (2005)

I used to be positively frightened even about having eye contact with Arab women, so I'd keep my glance downward in an elevator with them and my hands duly clasped with one another.

It's less strict in Istanbul, but still I don't think I actually rubbed anything with anybody.  Better safe than sorry, as we say in the US.

Back to Istanbul airport

I was headed back to the train station, and noticed that I was famished.  Besides garment and electronics shops, there were many small restaurants along the way.  I looked in one, and passed.  I looked in another, and passed as well.  I must've done this a few times.  There was a gentleman standing outside one of them, down the sidewalk.  He must've seen me doing this, and probably looking hungry and dissatisfied at the same time, because once I reached his restaurant he led me inside with his arm around my shoulders.

Another tourist could've been easily frightened by this gesture, but I wasn't.  It's virtually a consistent thing in my travels that people are warm and friendly and they take care of me. In fact, this gentleman treated me as if I were a prince in his humble restaurant.  To be sure, I hardly look princely, but I smiled and felt more deeply grateful inside than I could ever convey in a thank you.

Of course, I was wary for my safety and belongings, but just for a few moments.  His waiters treated me in exactly the same way.  I had a very pleasant meal, he thanked me when I paid for it, and I went off into that increasingly crisp Istanbul autumn and the sun declining ever so slightly in the afternoon. 

Walking into a Protest

How do we stop those cuts? How do we fix the deficit?
Tax, tax, tax the rich! 

Pay your fair share.
Stop corporate greed. Jobs with Justice.
Tax the 1%.

I believe I was on Madison St., heading eastward, when I literally ran into this protest.  It was a peaceful one, clearly, but there was a row of police officers who walked and biked alongside them on the street, near the curb.

I pulled out my iPhone, and turned on the videocamera.  I kept it at chest level, that is, without looking through the viewfinder.  I didn't want to show anyone that I was videotaping, and possibly have my iPhone confiscated or otherwise get into some trouble.

It was months later that I found the perfect soundtrack on YouTube to accompany it:  "Clockwork Tangerine," by Paul Mottram.

Chicago Morning Elegance

Temperatures were pleasant, sun rays poured all around, and the breeze waxed and waned with the distant traffic. On a walk along West Randolph, Chicagoans like me live for spring mornings like this.

The song is "Morning Elegance," by Oren Lavie, and this is his standout music video:

Memorial Day at Millennium Park

In Chicago, we have a standing belief: If you plan an outing or a picnic on a holiday, then it's sure to be cold and rainy.  But not so, this past Memorial Day!  The temperatures rose to the unseasonable 90s (F). No matter, celebrations went on swimmingly at the fountains of Millennium Park. It was better than going to a swimming pool, and it was open to everyone.

It was delightful to see quite a lot of people at Millennium Park.  Children in some neighborhoods are wont to wrench open a fire hydrant, and enjoy the rush and the cool of water on a hot summer day.  Of course, that's not really cool, as it's wasteful of water and it depletes supply for putting out fire.  But the fountains at Millennium Park were a wonderful, more resource-conservative alternative for children and their families.

Created by artist Jaume Plensa, the Crown Fountain streams captivating, animated faces on monument structures.  I gathered some Chicagoans have asked whether their faces can be displayed, too.  The answer is no, apparently, as the School of the Art Institute of Chicago curates the display, according to an agreement with the City, benefactors, and the artist.

I'm sure it's just a passing curiosity.  The fact that these monumental faces spew a stream of water, periodically from their mouths, adds more than enough delight to families' outing.

Chicago Sax Man

Dusk in the Chicago Loop, when most everyone has left for home and the crawl of traffic has dissipated. Even in May, the temperatures are still at the edges of cool and warm, so a light jacket is apropos.  Enter, Mr. Sax Man.  You could hear his music a mile away. Sometimes street musicians have a way of shifting your mood, and they do so unknowingly.  I asked him if I could video him, and he nodded. We shook hands, and he graciously gave me his name. Joe.

I love downtown Chicago.  When I moved back here in late 2011, and my family and I spent a day at the Museum of Science and Industry, we passed through the Loop.  I realized how much I missed it.

People are not exactly warm and friendly, in the ways I've found them to be in the Middle East.  Downtown is where they work, and their public mind and demeanor are merely in transit between office and home.

Still, Chicagoans have an energy and vibrancy that I feel at home with, and it's the commerce and culture of the city that drive them.

One such people are the street musicians.  I was thankful that Joe let me video him, as he edges out a small living with his anonymous music, which is less so now.