What to do! What to do! That one professor for whom you can do nothing right. It's all a C, whether you give it A effort or not. Well then Miss J-, if nothing will satisfy you, then I shall satisfy myself. The following is an essay I wrote over the course of the night (along with two other essays for the same class) about a book that nearly killed me. Whatever you do, don't let Kajri Jain near a publisher. She does not know how to write. Her doomful tome, God's in the Bazaar, is a calamity of word wreckage. You know it's bad when I have to start a vocabulary list; it's worse when I stop because the list waxes superfluously interminable. Unfortunately I was assigned a paper on the tex; fortunately only four pages. I don't think I have ever struggled so much with so short a page length. Between 7pm last night and 12am this morning I agonized to organize a worthy outline. It's a bit of a challenge when you haven't understood more than say, every 20th word you read. When the clock struck twelve I abandoned all reason - why be reasonable with the unreasonable? - and took to inventing a paper on the whim of my thoughts. I even flipped through the book, snatching quotes that at least vaguely supported my non-argument. It's more of an imaginative musing. What can I say, I'm a creative individual. I might have drawn a cartoon to go with one of the other papers I finished last night...I might have...
- The Transversal of Indian Calendar Art through Spaces and Between Values -
...a response to God's in the Bazaar
Indian calendar art by its nature as an art form is an expression, like movement, of something larger and more complex than its individual elements, or even the configuration of those elements. It is an example of how a realized art piece not only fulfills the role and expectations of its creator, but how it passes through several other spaces, fulfills other roles, and takes on other values throughout its individual existence as well as the greater timeline of Art the concept.
Like movement, Indian calendar art is a thing: it occupies a space; it has palpable features; it is a creative articulation. Beyond these obvious parallels, Indian calendar art and choreography represent pieces of a greater story, fragments of a larger whole. Individual motions and images do tell vignettes of their own. However, they are inherently describing something greater than their individual elements or even the configuration of those elements. Calendar art and choreography are viewed as “things,” though one is an object and the other an action. Each one acts as a representative: one, a painting depicting deities on paper also marked by the days and nights as defined by our solar and lunar cycles; the other, a series of momentary images portraying relationships. Yet the two are more than substantive entities. Both the complete image and the choreography link to and grow from a historical framework of theoretical cultural values that, over time, are translated with variation into these material art form expressions. Jain maintains that, “any image is the bearer of a multitude of possible meanings, both potential and actual, that vary over time and in different contexts” (Jain, 319).
Clearly, Indian calendar art is not “just there;” it and other art forms are products that exist because of the particular values in a culture and, in their realized state, they move through the many spaces of the corollary society. The first, though not the greater, part of calendar art’s existence within the larger Indian culture passes simultaneously in a number of spaces later contradicted by opposite or “unlike” spaces: public and private, sacred and secular, Eastern and Western, traditional and modern, artistic/aesthetic and commercial/popular. Within these contrasting spaces, it fulfills different roles and takes on different values depending upon its role within a given space.
Calendar art’s dance through these spaces begins in the minds of men - publishers, artists, and upper level businessmen - where it is purely cerebral. As is necessary to build any marketing strategy (such as a Kellog’s campaign to sell more corn flakes), publishing companies must research their potential and existing market to determine the values and desires of the members of these markets. Based upon that knowledge, and any other determinable patterns as understood through the research, publishers are able to not only cater to taste, but also create desires and therefore expand the market; calendar art is something everyone participates in. The walls of each home, each shop, each office, each factory, each prayer room bear witness to the fact. Calendar art is, at this stage of its existence, merely as a commodity, or a potential commodity: mass produced and capital-driven, a process marked by an interest in commerce and studies of popular culture in order to create mass taste as well as cater to localized taste.
Niche markets exist to be reached or are created based on these localized tastes, defined typically by color choice and combination, subject matter (e.g. local landscapes, deities, historical and political figures), stylistic rendering (realism versus the fantastical), and other artistic variances. The art of the South, for example, is gaudier and mostly considered low art or the art of “the common man” in comparison to the finer, more delicate Sivakasi prints (Jain, 184). This “shouting” look is therefore considered a part of the commercial space.
Yet this is more than a box of cereal, which holds no sacred value at any point in its existence. It seems ironic that though Southern art is commercial, it still can and often does function in the sacred space as well. Corn flakes meet their end and their beginning in secularity – baking, boxing, and mindless crunching at the breakfast table. Calendars, Indian calendars, do more than hang on a wall. Images may begin in the minds of men and be rendered by men, but everyone buys calendar art from that open, public setting of the bazaar and removes it to the privacy of the home where, for many, that icon will serve as a touchstone, the materialization of a spiritual being to which one can bow and pray. That is the treatment worthy of a god. These images are a face to which a worshipper can turn to pay homage, supplicate, or meditate. Centuries of worshipful practice lie beneath present attitudes of respect.
As indicated above, a shift in space correlates to a shift in value. That shift begins in the time between when the seeking eyes settles on the image and the mind behind that eye determines to make the purchase. Someone has seen it and placed value and faith in it. Its purchase actually increases the image’s value in many instances because once in the private realm, the image receives honor and respect - treatment indicative that this art is seen and valued as more much than the sum of its parts – mere paper and ink. Only paper and ink, aided by an artist’s hand, came together to create a representation of something greater than human. The image is more than shapes, lines, and coloring; it is a deity, physical elements culminating in a spiritual being imaged on paper. And more than imaging a spiritual entity, the renderance bears undertones and overtones of cultural values as they are translated into imagery.
Calendar art’s ubiquity as well as its mass production and overflow from the bazaar raise questions regarding proper treatment of the sacred material. In private spaces there is no doubt of reverence, but in the journey from easel to factory floor to wall to worship the images pass through multiple value status that imply treatment greatly in contrast to that of an revered icon. The author, however, recounts Igor Kopytoff’s assertion that “in the course of its ‘cultural biography’ an object can move in and out of the commodity state” (Jain, 226). Despite their brief habitation of the commercial realm, Jain allays the fear that they run the risk of remaining permanently in the unnaturally secular space. “The sacredness of the iconic image is suspended as it is produced and traded (on the artist’s easel or the factory floor, in transit, or while displayed in a catalogue, shop, or stall), but it is able to return once the image leaves the realm of circulation” (Jain, 226).
The fact that art is indicative of a culture’s values and can flex and move through the menagerie of societal spaces, changing roles and gaining or losing value attests to the super-reality it offers as both a means of escape from and enlightenment of that culture. Jain explains that through the evocation of divine presences in the everyday, calendar art achieves “inculcation of a devotional attitude by bringing the gods to affective life” (Jain, 202). For though the color, subject choices, and scale of much Indian calendar art may not accurately reflect the reality of ordinary humanity, their arrangement and portrayal offers a new realism in technicolor.
Monday, December 20, 2010
As Though Before a Mirror - Reflecting on the Challenges of First-Time Fieldwork
This semester I took a class in visual anthropology, hoping to learn the practice of ethnographic film. To my disappointment, we spent only the last 2 and a half weeks on that unit. My group visited and volunteered at a soup kitchen in Amherst during those two weeks while taking footage, conducting interviews, and participating in the general flow of things - from pot washing to cooking to chatting over dinner. The following is my essay on the piece. As part of our classroom agreement, the film is not available for viewing by the public. I hope my next one is though!
- As Though Before a Mirror: Reflecting on the Challenges of First-Time Fieldwork -
The three of us sat awkwardly at table 8. People came through the door alone and in familial bunches, settling at tables with pastry and coffee while they waited for the main meal to be served. There was some exchange of greeting between a few of the guests, a nod of the head or “hello.” The comfortability was quiet; everyone seemed to know each other or at least be familiar with the presence of the others. Still we sat at table 8, not sure of what to do next. Toting around a camera and interviewing strangers about their lives seemed like an appealing idea eight months ago when I signed up for the class. Today it felt bewildering. Supplied with digital and video cameras, a tripod, a voice recorder, notebooks, pens, and some theoretical knowledge of ethnographic film, we ventured forth with the mandate to extend a microphone to an underprivileged, unheard from community.
The afternoon before, our group had gathered around another table not far away to brainstorm filmic options. Pressed for time and short on ideas, we settled on what felt like an uncertain choice, a last resort.
“There’s a soup kitchen in Amherst,” offered Tenzin. We all looked down at the small round table, fidgeted with our nails, and thought a moment. I recalled going to food pantries during some touch economic times in the early '90s when I was still quite little. But a soup kitchen? I had never been to one of those. I worried it might feel uncomfortable. We left a message on the program director’s answering machine – I gave my phone number twice - and agreed to meet the next morning at 10:00. Convened in the observatory parking lot the following morning, still not having heard from the kitchen’s director, we decided to risk it and drove away to Amherst with a map on the dash.
I could supply the reader with a ten-page narrative of the team’s filming adventures over the course of the following days - typical fieldwork issues: relationship and trust building, the discomfort of participation, ethical limitations, etc. To address these issues is, however, redundant in light of the concurrent papers of my two colleagues. Instead of a broad route, I have chosen a deep one that will address the two challenges that resonated the most for me throughout the extent of the project.
REFLEXIVITY
My first challenge appeared unexpectedly in the form of the acute self-awareness that overcame me earlier that Saturday morning. Still warm in green fleece pajamas, I rifled through my dresser searching for something vague and neutral to wear to the soup kitchen; I spent so long hunting that I missed breakfast - how about that for adding to the reality of participation. Inquiring of my vibrant closet I found only what I hope to find on a typical morning: bright colors and complimentary cuts; nothing seemed achromatic enough. For today I did not want logos or brands, school paraphernalia, not even the names of teams or events sported across my back or chest. Generally I do not enjoy acting as a walking billboard, and particularly not on an expedition such as this. Typical, close-fitting block colored tops would not do either. For whatever reason, I felt unusually aware of my sexuality and wished to prevent any potential distraction my body might create, even silent objectification. Eventually I settled on a loose pair of jeans, well-worn canvas shoes; for once I pushed the black Danscos back under my bed, not wanting to be any taller in the hope of making myself more approachable. In the bottom drawer I found an old white T-shirt I stole from a brother; over top of that, my mom’s least favorite sweatshirt. I enjoy the unraveling cuffs. Loose jeans and black and white on top - very neutral, very unlike me.
Then came the trouble of earrings. I almost always wear earrings, but having lost my studs, the next plainest thing was a small pair of gold hoops - fake gold, but they looked, well, weird paired with blandness. Still, I would not forgo the earrings. A girl dressed in boyish clothing with androgenously short hair - I felt the need to clarify my orientation, hoping to avoid one less assumption when people found out where I go to school. My own assumption was that apparent neutrality would make me approachable and safe for the people I was preparing to interview. I hoped they would say more of themselves without any distraction from me. Responses might depend upon how participants observed me. The more I could blend in and become a seemingly natural participator, the less alien my presence and the more acceptable my friendship. But was I just inventing a ‘gap’ between people, confusing it for the gap between circumstances?
Throughout the day I noticed how comfortable the clothes felt. My wardrobe did not say much about me for once and I was enjoying it. That comfortability - it was as though I had temporarily veiled my sexuality. It was a new freedom. A relieving freedom. These past two summers in Ethiopia have worn me out. I worked hard to be seen from the inside out. Unfortunately, my general experience was one such that I was not only objectified almost everywhere I went, but loudly and several times physically. Residual responses from those months keep me, even now, a little on edge. I still live with the thought turning over in the back of my mind, “Wait for it, waaait for it.”
HOLISM
The premise of our ethnographic project was to amplify the voice of an unheard population. Ironically, we worked with a community where many “refused” the opportunity to be seen or heard because many wished to preserve personal privacy. Consequently, the range of our footage is drastically narrow. This visual limitation intimates limits on holism in the final piece. We attempted to compensate for the lack of movement and faces with a series of stills, however only a few individuals agreed to being photographed.
The trouble was not so much the images themselves, but the underlying issue of relationship. We had no prior knowledge of these people or they of us. There was no connection and if we were going to make this film, we would have to build trust among the people first. Our method of establishing contacts evolved from simple conversation to actually working in the kitchen and cleaning up afterwards. Becoming a part of the work immediately pulled us a little closer to the center of the circle. Still, I learned how to ease in the topic of the project the hard way a more than once. There is a fine line between building rapport and holding back actual intentions.
On the second visit, I sat at a table with two elderly, well-educated men discussing the merits of women’s college. It had only been a few minutes, but we were enjoying the debate. Seeing a group member making her way to our table with the voice recorder in hand, I panicked inwardly. It was too early to introduce my intent but I did not wish for either of the guests to feel misled when my group member sat down with an obvious piece of recording equipment in hand. There was nothing to do but blurt it out, which I did as graciously as I could. Immediately one gentleman sat back and crossed his arms over his chest; his lively expression from a moment before disappeared. I had tripped the breaker. The instance lingers in my mind and even now I mull over how I might have prevented severing the beginning of that relationship, mostly because it bothered me that I had offended the gentleman’s humanity.
Over the course of four visits we made a number of friends and were accepted into the wider community of the soup kitchen. Even so, most of the people willing to interview in some capacity were the people who warmed up to us the first day. We recorded video as well as audio interviews and once jotted down an interview on paper for someone uncomfortable with being recorded in any capacity. Protecting the privacy of participants is all-important but not easy. We quickly recognized how limited footage severely separates how we observed the environment as compared to how our film viewers will. They see brief moments, no whole acts or whole bodies as we did - not even snippets of guests interacting with one another. How does one obtain images when people do not wish to be seen? One cannot. As for those who agree, their image portrayals cannot be viewed in a fully natural environment either because we could not film their ordinary activity and interactions at the sight.
Heider suggests doing fieldwork first and filming second because once the anthropologist returns she has only a limited supply of footage (citation). Fair enough, however since we began the project as strangers, there was not enough time to form relationships and establish contacts before filming began. We learned as the camera rolled, as our raw footage reveals. The very first interview (Marcy) is painful for me to watch. Reviewing the footage, the noticeable dis-ease apparent amongst all of us makes me feel more uncomfortable than when I actually stood in the hall interviewing Her.
Because of the privacy constraints, the “wholeness” imaged in the film is very much a “chosen wholeness,” meaning participants where shown or included as wholly as they wished to be. Unfortunately this stilted result raises questions regarding accuracy and expression. Can parts so limited still convey the greater whole witnessed by myself and the other two project members? Perhaps had we had a semester to strengthen our relationships we might have achieved more footage, but we may not have.
CONCLUSIONS
For the time being this was all we could capture. Little film makes for an odd film, a product I had not anticipated. It also prevented us from making many artistic choices simply because we did not often have the choice as to what could be shown and what could be told. Constraints, however, are welcome because on an artistic level limitations demand creativity. On an anthropological level I suppose they are a hindrance of proper portrayal, however I do not know enough to say as such for certain. The experience on the whole was compellingly uncomfortable and prompted me to reflect both inwardly and outwardly, as though before a mirror.
- As Though Before a Mirror: Reflecting on the Challenges of First-Time Fieldwork -
The three of us sat awkwardly at table 8. People came through the door alone and in familial bunches, settling at tables with pastry and coffee while they waited for the main meal to be served. There was some exchange of greeting between a few of the guests, a nod of the head or “hello.” The comfortability was quiet; everyone seemed to know each other or at least be familiar with the presence of the others. Still we sat at table 8, not sure of what to do next. Toting around a camera and interviewing strangers about their lives seemed like an appealing idea eight months ago when I signed up for the class. Today it felt bewildering. Supplied with digital and video cameras, a tripod, a voice recorder, notebooks, pens, and some theoretical knowledge of ethnographic film, we ventured forth with the mandate to extend a microphone to an underprivileged, unheard from community.
The afternoon before, our group had gathered around another table not far away to brainstorm filmic options. Pressed for time and short on ideas, we settled on what felt like an uncertain choice, a last resort.
“There’s a soup kitchen in Amherst,” offered Tenzin. We all looked down at the small round table, fidgeted with our nails, and thought a moment. I recalled going to food pantries during some touch economic times in the early '90s when I was still quite little. But a soup kitchen? I had never been to one of those. I worried it might feel uncomfortable. We left a message on the program director’s answering machine – I gave my phone number twice - and agreed to meet the next morning at 10:00. Convened in the observatory parking lot the following morning, still not having heard from the kitchen’s director, we decided to risk it and drove away to Amherst with a map on the dash.
I could supply the reader with a ten-page narrative of the team’s filming adventures over the course of the following days - typical fieldwork issues: relationship and trust building, the discomfort of participation, ethical limitations, etc. To address these issues is, however, redundant in light of the concurrent papers of my two colleagues. Instead of a broad route, I have chosen a deep one that will address the two challenges that resonated the most for me throughout the extent of the project.
REFLEXIVITY
My first challenge appeared unexpectedly in the form of the acute self-awareness that overcame me earlier that Saturday morning. Still warm in green fleece pajamas, I rifled through my dresser searching for something vague and neutral to wear to the soup kitchen; I spent so long hunting that I missed breakfast - how about that for adding to the reality of participation. Inquiring of my vibrant closet I found only what I hope to find on a typical morning: bright colors and complimentary cuts; nothing seemed achromatic enough. For today I did not want logos or brands, school paraphernalia, not even the names of teams or events sported across my back or chest. Generally I do not enjoy acting as a walking billboard, and particularly not on an expedition such as this. Typical, close-fitting block colored tops would not do either. For whatever reason, I felt unusually aware of my sexuality and wished to prevent any potential distraction my body might create, even silent objectification. Eventually I settled on a loose pair of jeans, well-worn canvas shoes; for once I pushed the black Danscos back under my bed, not wanting to be any taller in the hope of making myself more approachable. In the bottom drawer I found an old white T-shirt I stole from a brother; over top of that, my mom’s least favorite sweatshirt. I enjoy the unraveling cuffs. Loose jeans and black and white on top - very neutral, very unlike me.
Then came the trouble of earrings. I almost always wear earrings, but having lost my studs, the next plainest thing was a small pair of gold hoops - fake gold, but they looked, well, weird paired with blandness. Still, I would not forgo the earrings. A girl dressed in boyish clothing with androgenously short hair - I felt the need to clarify my orientation, hoping to avoid one less assumption when people found out where I go to school. My own assumption was that apparent neutrality would make me approachable and safe for the people I was preparing to interview. I hoped they would say more of themselves without any distraction from me. Responses might depend upon how participants observed me. The more I could blend in and become a seemingly natural participator, the less alien my presence and the more acceptable my friendship. But was I just inventing a ‘gap’ between people, confusing it for the gap between circumstances?
Throughout the day I noticed how comfortable the clothes felt. My wardrobe did not say much about me for once and I was enjoying it. That comfortability - it was as though I had temporarily veiled my sexuality. It was a new freedom. A relieving freedom. These past two summers in Ethiopia have worn me out. I worked hard to be seen from the inside out. Unfortunately, my general experience was one such that I was not only objectified almost everywhere I went, but loudly and several times physically. Residual responses from those months keep me, even now, a little on edge. I still live with the thought turning over in the back of my mind, “Wait for it, waaait for it.”
HOLISM
The premise of our ethnographic project was to amplify the voice of an unheard population. Ironically, we worked with a community where many “refused” the opportunity to be seen or heard because many wished to preserve personal privacy. Consequently, the range of our footage is drastically narrow. This visual limitation intimates limits on holism in the final piece. We attempted to compensate for the lack of movement and faces with a series of stills, however only a few individuals agreed to being photographed.
The trouble was not so much the images themselves, but the underlying issue of relationship. We had no prior knowledge of these people or they of us. There was no connection and if we were going to make this film, we would have to build trust among the people first. Our method of establishing contacts evolved from simple conversation to actually working in the kitchen and cleaning up afterwards. Becoming a part of the work immediately pulled us a little closer to the center of the circle. Still, I learned how to ease in the topic of the project the hard way a more than once. There is a fine line between building rapport and holding back actual intentions.
On the second visit, I sat at a table with two elderly, well-educated men discussing the merits of women’s college. It had only been a few minutes, but we were enjoying the debate. Seeing a group member making her way to our table with the voice recorder in hand, I panicked inwardly. It was too early to introduce my intent but I did not wish for either of the guests to feel misled when my group member sat down with an obvious piece of recording equipment in hand. There was nothing to do but blurt it out, which I did as graciously as I could. Immediately one gentleman sat back and crossed his arms over his chest; his lively expression from a moment before disappeared. I had tripped the breaker. The instance lingers in my mind and even now I mull over how I might have prevented severing the beginning of that relationship, mostly because it bothered me that I had offended the gentleman’s humanity.
Over the course of four visits we made a number of friends and were accepted into the wider community of the soup kitchen. Even so, most of the people willing to interview in some capacity were the people who warmed up to us the first day. We recorded video as well as audio interviews and once jotted down an interview on paper for someone uncomfortable with being recorded in any capacity. Protecting the privacy of participants is all-important but not easy. We quickly recognized how limited footage severely separates how we observed the environment as compared to how our film viewers will. They see brief moments, no whole acts or whole bodies as we did - not even snippets of guests interacting with one another. How does one obtain images when people do not wish to be seen? One cannot. As for those who agree, their image portrayals cannot be viewed in a fully natural environment either because we could not film their ordinary activity and interactions at the sight.
Heider suggests doing fieldwork first and filming second because once the anthropologist returns she has only a limited supply of footage (citation). Fair enough, however since we began the project as strangers, there was not enough time to form relationships and establish contacts before filming began. We learned as the camera rolled, as our raw footage reveals. The very first interview (Marcy) is painful for me to watch. Reviewing the footage, the noticeable dis-ease apparent amongst all of us makes me feel more uncomfortable than when I actually stood in the hall interviewing Her.
Because of the privacy constraints, the “wholeness” imaged in the film is very much a “chosen wholeness,” meaning participants where shown or included as wholly as they wished to be. Unfortunately this stilted result raises questions regarding accuracy and expression. Can parts so limited still convey the greater whole witnessed by myself and the other two project members? Perhaps had we had a semester to strengthen our relationships we might have achieved more footage, but we may not have.
CONCLUSIONS
For the time being this was all we could capture. Little film makes for an odd film, a product I had not anticipated. It also prevented us from making many artistic choices simply because we did not often have the choice as to what could be shown and what could be told. Constraints, however, are welcome because on an artistic level limitations demand creativity. On an anthropological level I suppose they are a hindrance of proper portrayal, however I do not know enough to say as such for certain. The experience on the whole was compellingly uncomfortable and prompted me to reflect both inwardly and outwardly, as though before a mirror.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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