Lomo Diary: Journeys that Lead Us to Ourselves

Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.
- Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

One of the timeless classics that belongs to my list of Books that I Have Been Planning To Read For Ages is Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities. To explain why I have not read it, I will have to go a little back. All the way back to my college days in fact. For as long as I can remember, I have read about Calvino’s If On a Winter’s Night a Traveller. You can say it has been haunting me for a while now. It still sits on my book shelf, not forgotten but pushed to the back of my reading list.  The entire novel known for its narrative felicity in second person leaves me a bit cold. I always believe that books choose me. I think this book hasn’t chosen me yet.

And now, I can feel the pull of Invisible Cities. (It helps that I am submerged in another Calvino book Hermit in Paris: Autobiographical Writings.) Of late, I seem to find it everywhere either as a quote or a memoir or an article. It’s as if the book is calling out to me subtly. But I am a bit shy now. I think I will wait to be chosen by it overtly. The reason I started talking about it is that with a camera in hand, I can truly understand what Calvino was trying to say when he wrote Invisible Cities.  It’s as if there are layers to a city that peels away as the photographs develop. What is a city but a reflection of my own state of mind? When I saw these photographs, I was astounded by how much it revealed not just about the city but about myself.  I am the traveller that is discovering the city and myself simultaneously. The following photographs are of the cities both near and far.

On this thoughtful and pensive note, have a fantastic new year 2012!

About the photographs: Taken with the Diana Mini using Fujifilm Sensia 400 in bright sunlight. Head over to Lomography India for a holistic idea about photography and more.

Notes on Books: The Scandalous life of the Lawless Sisters by Philip Ardagh

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I discovered Philip Ardagh in a nondescript bookshop in a traditional part of town known for its temples not books. I couldn’t get enough of his writing. His Eddie Dickens and Unlikely Exploits series have kept me chuckling with delight. His Quixotic characters from the heart of Victorian and Edwardian England face extreme distress in the most entertaining manner. Everything turns out well in the end, which is the point of a children’s book.

The Scandalous life of the Lawless Sisters is a departure from his other books both fictional and nonfictional. But the trademark Ardaghesque (if I may volunteer an adjective here) humour is intact and thriving. It’s a departure in the sense that the story has been created in the pure spirit of whimsy with illustrations taken from issues of Punch from 1880. The humour comes from the incongruity between the text and the image. For example in the first page, a harmless image of a mother and child in the library is accompanied by the following lines:

The Lawless sisters had a tough start to life. Their mother would often leave them stranded upon the drawing room mantelpiece whilst she took recreational drugs in the library.

It’s the start of a story that had me laughing uncontrollably. A seemingly unrelated illustration has been made the basis for the start of the story in a completely tongue-in-cheek manner.

Dark humour thoroughly permeates the book. It’s not a book for children but has enough recklessness that appeals to the child in you. I finished the book in one sitting and enjoyed the anarchism that the book embodies wholeheartedly. In that sense, it is quite Dionysian. Read it for some laughter and to perceive the same things in a completely new way.

Lomo Diary: The Charm of Open Air Markets

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There’s something elemental about an open air market. I mean a market where the merchants sometimes shout out their wares, where the sun shines benevolently, and people come together in easy camaraderie. I am not talking about a supermarket or a departmental store, that monstrous twist on the neighbourhood marketplace. I am talking about a market where the colourful fruits and vegetables bask in the sun. The vivacity of voices, the eclectic mix of products, and the buzz in the air: it is truly food for the soul to soak in the chaotic spirit of the market. What I like best about a market like that is that it is deeply sensuous. You can smell the oranges, feel the undulation of a beaded necklace, or slip into colourful footwear. Or just watch the world go by.

About the photos: Taken with the Diana Mini using 35 mm Lomography film in bright sunlight.

Lomo Diary: Theatre of Light

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That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

What is this need for stories? What is this need to willingly suspend our disbelief? To sit in the primeval darkness and experience theatre is as old as storytelling itself. It’s a small step away from sitting around the fire pre-electricity days, listening to elders of the clan telling stories.

When we enter the darkness of the theatre (film or stage), we enter into a contract with the creators of the performance to believe whatever they are saying for the moment no matter how outrageous. It is an unconsciously acknowledged contract. That is why we can laugh away the improbable plots. That is probably why we don’t usually start criticising or praising until after the performance. For the moment, we let our guard down, rest our rational selves and relax. We are ready for the story to be staged in the theatre of light.

About the photos: Taken with the Diana Mini using 35 mm Lomography film at night. No flash. Multiple exposure.

Lomo Diary: Suno! Suno! Suno!

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Accidental Fame Junkie’s (that’s me!) Lomo diary starts today. I will record my thoughts on anything and everything accompanied by pictures taken with the Diana Mini along with a sometimes whimsical, sometimes serious, sometimes poetic, sometimes realistic narrative. It’s a diary and also much more. You can think of it also as a visual arts initiative, photographic essay, social commentary, personal documentary, and prose poem that explores ideas with words and images.

Coming up is the first entry.

PS: Let me know what you think of it. 

A Dream Come True: The Diana Mini

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Sometime last year an idea caught me by the neck and didn’t let me go. It was surprisingly nothing to do with writing or books, though you could say it was peripherally connected. The idea was analogue photography. That live breathing art that transforms a moment into magic. What drew me intoxicatingly close was the world of toy cameras. I collected a few of them, explored the differences and was always pleasantly surprised by their behavior.

If you say toy cameras, can Lomography be far behind? Lomography was founded when two students on vacation serendipitously stumbled into old Russian cameras with plastic lenses. It was a fascinating find which grew into a technique, a philosophy, a magazine, a community and thankfully several cameras. It was bright, sparkling, and inviting world. Images of brilliant hue dotted its landscape. It was like a hall of mirrors. How could I not be a part of it?

Cut to this year: After establishing offices all over the world, Lomography opens its India office in Mumbai. They select Indian bloggers to try out the Diana Mini. I am so incredibly lucky to be one of them. Big thanks to Lomography India and Akshay Bhoan for being so unbelievably gracious! I feel like I am looking at a dream while holding it in my hands. Yes, I know it’s surreal.

Let’s turn to the dream now, I mean the Diana Mini. The Diana Mini is a small 35 mm toy camera that does many big things. Its size ensures that you can carry it anywhere. I know because I have taken it to work, to community gatherings, to lunches with friends, book readings, bookshops, in fact anywhere because photo opportunities don’t knock before they appear.

It has a really cool retro finish that guarantees second looks from passers-by. I saw quite a few people taking a peek at the Mini in hand while I stood in line for billing recently. Once you get to know the basics, it’s easy peasy. I needed just a few simple steps to start off:

  1. Take off the lens cap
  2. Gauge the distance between the subject and the camera
  3. Set the marker to an approx focus distance
  4. Set the aperture settings: sunny day or cloudy day depending on the weather
  5. Set the shutter mode: N for a sunny day and B for long exposures
  6. Press the shutter lever
  7. Advance the wheel

The Diana Mini does so many things: multiple exposures for instance. Don’t advance the wheel and expose the same film again for a surreal collage effect. Toggle between rectangular and square formats as you want. I stuck to the square format because I loved it. For shooting at night, there is a hot shoe flash attachment. Little transparent slides of plastic inserted into a slot in the flash allows you to bathe a scene in a color of your choice. You can give that yellow tone or red tone to any frame.

The Mini doesn’t need batteries. It’s pure physics of light, which means that if you are stuck in a part of the world which has little or limited electricity and if you have film and it’s sunny, you can still use the Mini.

The Diana Mini is analogue toy photography at its best. I am waiting for the results come back from the lab for the real surprise. I will be uploading my experiments soon as well. Till then, feast your eyes on the camera itself.

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Go to Lomography to know more about the story, its driving force and how you can also step into this wonderful world. For Indians, Lomography India should be your photo home. Visit the Facebook page as well for personal interaction with the Lomography people, Lomography enthusiasts, tips on analogue photography, and so much more. So, what are you waiting for?

Notes on Books: Manikda: Memories of Satyajit Ray by Nemai Ghosh

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This is not a book that screams for your attention but it gets it anyway. A compact pocket-sized book, it records one man’s close encounter with Satyajit Ray (also called Manikda). Nemai Ghosh is a familiar name today because of his long-time photographic association with Satyajit Ray. The accidental photographer, who picked up a camera on a whim, invites us to glance at a world that was pregnant with creative promise. The book is proof that the 60s and 70s was the golden age of film both moving and still.

Two things attracted me to this slim volume—Satyajit Ray and photography. Having grown up listening to stories of Ray, the Renaissance man and reading his books, how could I resist peeking into his life? And photography because of my obsession. The book packs in many classic black and white photographs of the filmmaker in the field as well as a pensive Ray at home. The photographs create a larger-than-life image of him contributing to the existing iconography of the man behind the movies. Holding the photographs together is an emotional tribute from a fan, which chronologically chronicles the long and fruitful association starting with the film Goopy Gyna Bagha Byne.

Ghosh hero worships Ray and that comes through in a completely transparent and unapologetic manner. The “Oriental” tendency to efface the self characterises much of the text. The text, which has been published earlier in Bengali and French is a translation from Bengali. Why in French? That’s because of Ghosh’s friendship with Henri Cartier-Bresson. The text would, however, benefit from a stronger editorial hand. A foreword by Sharmila Tagore, a Ray discovery herself, enriches the book and adds a bit of glamour.

A very small detail caught my eye. If you look with attention at the b/w photographs on the front and back covers of the book, you will notice something odd. On the front cover, Ray wears his watch on the left hand but on the back cover, it’s on the opposite hand. Watches are objects of habit, usually worn on the same hand all the time after the wearer decides which hand it sits comfortably on. So something seems amiss till I reach page 32 and see the same b/w photograph as the back cover but with one major difference: it’s flipped the opposite way. This is tiny detail, which will not interfere with your enjoyment of the book in anyway. But as a Feluda fan, I had to point it out! Pick the book up if you are a Ray fan and require some light reading for a journey.

Notes on Books: The Tiger’s Wife by Téa Obreht

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 The Tiger’s Wife is not about the tiger’s wife. It’s about a story, a quest, history, and incidentally also a certain wild animal with stripes. Obreht juggles the different subplots deftly hinting at underlying connections, subterranean currents, the weight of history and the push of circumstances. You can truly feel for the individual, the lone molecule in an ocean whose life is determined by accidents.

Obreht’s debut novel is assured and well-crafted; chapters are structured in a way that leaves you with a feeling of suspense. With alternating strands and multiple storylines, the reader is pushed to go on reading. At the heart of this novel is a quest, just like all good stories. Strike that out. There are several quests encased inside each other like Russian dolls—a quest inside a quest inside a quest. The crust of the story is of Dr.Natalia Stephanović of erstwhile Yugoslavia. This later divides into a physical quest for her grandfather’s personal effects and a metaphysical quest for her grandfather’s story. The second (this ordering is entirely mine—feel free to disagree) is her grandfather’s quest for Shere Khan/tiger. The third and final quest is of the deathless man who wants different things (water, to die, and Natalia’s grandfather’s copy of the Jungle Book) at different times in the narrative. All these wants are parallel and valid. These quests and subquests intersect and interplay against each other creating a fine tapestry of stories.

Obreht is not a fabulist or a magic realist. Her stories border on the surreal but are in fact very rooted in reality. The reader can never really give the author a willing sense of disbelief. And we take the author’s word for it that Natalia’s grandfather has had an encounter with a deathless man. In the olden days, such things were possible. The world was gossamer light and some walls were porous. It’s the same sense of belief we bring to a grandmother’s tale.

Obreht is almost like a ventriloquist: she changes her voice to suit the narrative thread. When she talks about the village life of her grandfather, she resorts to a gossipmonger’s tone that inflates the events so much that you can’t take it seriously. Moreover, the first person narrative is reserved for Natalia’s own story adding a certain modernity and immediacy to this part of the narrative, whereas the third person narrative is reserved for all other narratives effectively creating an emotional distance. Obreht’s voice is sharp, relies on tradition but also knows that we stand on our own at the end. The author shows her post modernist leanings by openly confessing to not knowing many things herself. She turns the novel into a journey of discovery for both herself and the reader.

Obreht truly comes on her own when describing the effects of war on the psyche of the people – from denial to protest to fear to fearlessness and to, the last bastion, the absurd. If there ever was a ‘five stages of grief’ theory for war, then this is it.

The most delightful bits are the encounter between her grandfather and the deathless man. Natalia’s doctor grandfather’s scepticism is so great that Gavran Gaile, the deathless man has to provide proof of his inability to die. It’s fabulously far-fetched and the stuff of good stories. The fact that this is happening in some war-torn far off East European country aids in hanging on to our sense of detachment.

The only flaw, if you can still call it so, is the long digression into back stories of some the characters (Darias and Luka’s stories). Now, a novel thrives on digressions but somewhere the steam runs out when talking about it in such physical and psychological detail. However, in exploring these back stories, Obreht throws us another surprise. She is the master of an important aspect of growing up–that defining moment that changes a child’s life. The impact on a child’s mind of that one transformative experience, the one that defines the person he/she becomes in later life. She describes the event in all its psychological glory that you know you are reading a master not a debutante.

The Tiger’s Wife is a blend of the old-world storytelling and new-world psychological realism. She explores some old old themes like war, love, childhood, grandfather-grandchild relationship, the fascination for the unknown, and yet never loses her sense of wonder. Therein lies her accomplishment.

The Book that Peeps into the Well

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Note: This piece was also written for a column sometime early last year, which did not take off. 

As an event, the Holocaust is a literary well. And yet, it has not been looked into enough. So many of our pursuits that help us understand ourselves − movies, books, reports,

 news− have gone into examining the exterior of this well. Therefore, our understanding of it is imaginatively lacking. Based on this premise, Martel presents his second book, Beatrice and Virgil, the book that peeps into the well.

Martel is the voice of Henry, the writer who insists that it is not enough to remember the historical reality of the Holocaust but to also aesthetically engage with it. To make sense of this mass illusion that descended on a section of the human race. Through Beatrice and Virgil, Martel tries to answer that most difficult and fundamental of questions: why?

Henry the author is a fictional equivalent of Martel. Henry is surprised when the novel he has written to fill a hole in himself hits the bull’s eye. It’s a novel that uses animal characters (a la Life of Pi) for alienation and delineation. Buoyed by such success, he pens a fiction and non-fiction piece each based on his theories of the Holocaust. Martel has indicated on his website to adding a layer of autobiographical resonance that adds authenticity to the voice of Henry. Unlike Martel, Henry the writer is confronted by general apathy of his editors in recognizing his point of view. In a moment of poetic epiphany, Henry the writer’s will to write leaves him.

What doesn’t leave him is the creative urge. After moving to an unnamed city with his wife, Henry starts acting, takes up playing the clarinet and works in a café. His wide range of fans continues to correspond with him. In the mail, one day he receives a cryptic story written by Flaubert and a note asking for help from a namesake in the same unnamed city. Henry, the writer is intrigued. He answers it perfunctorily but decides to deliver his reply in person. And inadvertently starts a creative collaboration with the taciturn Henry the taxidermist.

Henry the taxidermist is struggling with a Waiting for Godot-ish play of two characters, Beatrice the donkey and Virgil the howler monkey. Contrary to appearances, Henry the writer realises that Henry the taxidermist is trying to do that which he had set out to advice using its own unique and unconventional theatrical grammar.

A part of this grammar lies in choosing animal characters. Henry the writer and Martel use animals to talk about a human event because an animal is outside the moral universe of man and is not tainted by it. Therefore, it makes them exempt from its consequences and best suited to tell the story without bias.

Beatrice and Virgil is rich with connections. Writing about the Holocaust is like the play Henry the taxidermist writes; it is fragmented at best and incomplete at worst. The action of the event is contrasted with the inaction in the play. Characters don’t grow because the conflict is outside not inside them. Without being overtly stated, the events in the play makes the reader think about the Holocaust starting from details such as the description of a pear (how does one describe something to someone who has never seen it before?), the striped shirt (the infamous uniform of the camps), the mindless violence (when Virgil is tortured) to the very core of the play. The fragmentary and flawed and yet effective play turns out to be the essential and practical application of Henry the writer’s theories.

When the story nears its end, all that remains of the play is a few surviving dialogues and the memory of it. Martel seems to be asking, isn’t that how in the end the Holocaust survived in our midst?

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