However the main focus in this project has been the fences surrounding the construction sites, rather than the sites themselves; that is because when one looks at all the construction sites, they look almost identical. One cannot tell one site apart from another, as all of them feature cranes, workers, and building materials on the backdrop of the desert. The posters and the fences however, are the ones, which showcase what the future will look like; hence my focus lies with them.
The Promised Land is a series of works inspired by the life in the UAE. Ever since I’ve been here, I have encountered construction and demolition every day of the year. It is a country that never stops building and never stops expanding. In my photo series I explore the process of the future that’s being built. It looks at what the present of the better future looks like, and how the steel rods and cement blocks of today will turn into the promised, glamorous city of tomorrow. While The Promised Land sounds beautiful, what it is in the present is not. It feels like the sound of drilling persists in the air wherever one goes. It is something one cannot escape in cities of Dubai and Abu Dhabi. It is this, which the series explores. It encapsulates the audience with its inescapable presence and surrounds them in a way, that everywhere the audience looks, they see the future being built. The works seem endless and repetitive, which is the experience one gets living in the UAE. However the main focus in this project has been the fences surrounding the construction sites, rather than the sites themselves; that is because when one looks at all the construction sites, they look almost identical. One cannot tell one site apart from another, as all of them feature cranes, workers, and building materials on the backdrop of the desert. The posters and the fences however, are the ones, which showcase what the future will look like; hence my focus lies with them.
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Part 1 of the poem "Exile" written by Andrew Singer. Exile — the word tightens its five-lettered hand
down on my two hands, scrabbling wordlessly up through vaseline æther -- each flailing finger of my own hands is a fugitive now, a body glimpsed darting between brick columns of a portico -- edifice of the shutting down of lands. Exile — the gloved hand hangs, omnipresent, thuggish tendrils swelling down to touch and, paradoxically, pick off detritus -- parasites and soft clinging bits of meat, dislodging chunks of self, or other -- which? it hardly matters anymore -- threatening every worldly bond and plan. Amidst this unjust, crushing authority, how locking eyes relieves the exiled crimp -- how the huge, dull machinery swivels round to presentness, updating the eye — I am here, somewhere. . . . . whirring and registering: New York. Manhattan becomes the human city within a city, Ren, the middle way, a demiurge fluttering between earth and sky. On any given day it will sleeve you up or down — enlightening or debasing -- Manhattan knows your dignity — and your crime. In Harlem on a hot summer day the stores are so worn the hanging food signs are whited to illegible mirage, the grey concrete so densely firebombed with wide splots of flattened, blackened gum; a post-apocalyptic heat drips from faces and collars and the very old, bulging, wilted bodies, tilting against busstands, as cripples and idiots take the streets, the air pungent with compressed human waste, the local bus sticky with thin runnels of piss ribboning up the center aisle -- but the air-conditioning holds and the slow, convivial bus ramp lowers and returns, lifting the hobbled vet for two blocks, in the bus's relative respite as if to a lyrical piano flourish, gentle minor thirds and arpeggios, another Manhattan park movie day. So much here continuously changes. In SoHo, boutique-shops and cafés proliferate up the cranny streets like flowing obsidian lava with names like Mica, Parigot and Baby Grand. One sees it from the flapping market stalls docked on weekends like space pod clusters around that alien outpost, Union Square -- endless, exilic mounds of leafy green: purslane, mizuna, bok choy and tatsoi, zebrune, red sucrine, kale, spigarelli, or up through East 90s' wealth now – suddenly: no insects, and the air is clear; poofy girls are walking poofy dogs, rich frailing ladies tuck into boeuf chardonnay, pretty pink begonias titter maturely in curbside playpens romped around a tree -- around every corner new adventure lies. Manhattan's transit map hangs over all this fecund matter of a summer's day, like a guild schematic of a rotting shrimp with multiple, sinewy intestines. . . . . Later, the far moon steals a cameo, one small appearance over Astor Place: that big yellow smear is a tall streetlight where the gritty, huffing buses start their squat neanderthal crawl uptown -- that small white smear above them, that's the moon -- as the stale air fills with fragrant cloying wisps of laughter after 9 -- dim brick buildings jut at just-strange angles into the zigzag, wild pedestrian flow I am fascinated by destruction and human indifference. It is these things that attract me to photograph certain places; one of those places being the Desert Spring Village in the heart of Dubai. The Dubai Metro unlike other metros, is located above the ground. As it paces through the city, one gets a glance at things from above. Every day I would get on the metro and pass by the Desert Spring Village and I was always fascinated by it. Surrounded by skyscrapers, lay a small, lusciously green community; single floor buildings, with trees taller than the roofs of the houses, and small roads winding through the metal boxes. However, what fascinated me most was the part of the compound that had been demolished with the rubble left right where it had been knocked down.
When I finally decided to go there and document it close up, I was even more shocked by what I saw. It felt like I was in a ghost town, in the middle of one of the fastest growing cities in the world. As we all know well, in the moment when a good idea gets institutionalised and becomes “disseminated”, it becomes turned and twisted, exaggerated and embellished until it looks so different from the original, “clean” thought, that it becomes even difficult to find parallels. It is mostly true about every bit and piece, which comes into the hands of PRists and communicators either now or in the past, without exceptions of noble “truths” of such peaceful religions and philosophies as Buddhism and Daoism. This article provides an insight into medieval, what I could call, PR fight between Buddhists and Daoists in China in their fight for the political influence, listing some “facts” disseminated by each party during this quarrel and some methods how ideologies tried to prevail. Confucius presenting the young Gautama Buddha to Laozi, Wikimedia Commons In the middle of the 13th century in China, a public fight developed between two of three big actors of the Chinese ethical-religious thought: Daoists and Buddhists (Confucianists were left in peace). Buddhists were complaining to the court that Daoists for centuries were disseminating controversial theories about Buddhism and its relations to Daoism, as well as occupied Buddhist temples and destroyed Buddhist images. In order to solve these complaints, debates were organised between representatives of both parties. Daoist representatives refused to participate in the first of them, however, in two other debates 2 and 25 years later, Daoists experienced a shameful rout. Though, from these events it might seem that Buddhists were all clean and innocent, it was not the case, and also they had prepared controversial theories about Daoism and their leaders. Let me introduce you with the selection of these “facts” disseminated by each party during their confrontation as well as other methods used to gain an attention of people (sources used for this collection of “facts” and methods are Buddhism and Taoism Face to Face: Scripture, Ritual and Iconographic Exchange in Medieval China by Christine Mollier and Cultivating Perfection: Mysticism and Self-transformation in Early Quanzhen Daoism by Louis Komjathy):
In addition, it would be interesting to mention that representatives of both religions were plagiarising or cloning scriptures from each other, almost using “cut-and-paste” methods: there were more than one case of transformation of a Daoist text into a Buddhist sūtra, or vice versa. As indicates Christine Mollier, The business was achieved just by a simple change of the narrative frame together with obvious terminological substitutions. As examples could be mentioned Buddhist’s Lotus Sūtra and On the Two Teachings, or Daoist’s Scripture of the Five Kitchens and Marvelous Scripture for Prolonging Life and for Increasing the Account, Revealed by the Most High Lord Lao, which were pirated and utilised by the counterparties. Finally, it went so far that even a deity was “copied” – as notes Christine Mollier, One of the most prestigious deities of the Taoist pantheon, the Heavenly Venerable Savior from Suffering (Jiuku tianzun 救苦天尊), was modeled on the figure of the bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara (Guanyin 觀音), drawing on his personality, function, titles, and image. Not just inspired by the charismatic persona of Guanyin, the Taoists went so far as to compose, at some point during the Tang dynasty, a kind of literary transposition of the celebrated twenty-fifth chapter of the Lotus Sūtra, the “Universal Gateway of Guanshiyin” (Guanshiyin pumen pin 觀世音普門品), in order to promote their deity to the great bodhisattva’s level. To conclude, though PR efforts to promote a good idea can fail and chosen methods for dissemination can be even contradictory to the idea they convey, it does not automatically makes the idea unworthy. In Latvian we have an expression - “Do not judge a man from the hat he wears”, which means that one should search for the essence and not judge from appearances (in this case - the dark spots in the history of Buddhism and Daoism).
Royal Playground for Lovers, Families and Children alias Yuxu Palace in Wudansghan (China)10/3/2015 Photo story on one early spring day in the Yuhu Palace in Wudangshan (China) - the place where the historical Daoist complex has become an open public space for children to play, lovers to meet, families and friends to spend time together; the place, which harmonically merges both with the hilly nature as well as with the town's architecture, without creating an annoying discordance with the surroundings. Colors of Wudangshan (China) at the very beginning of March, one day after the Lantern Festival, are dominantly grey and red. Grey from buildings, bare trees, roads and faces of people; red from leftovers of fireworks, clothes of Chinese ladies, and also historical monuments (which are dominantly painted in red). I aimlessly stroll in this town, feeling as a stranger who does not fit here. And suddenly I have a very trivial need - I have to find a public toilet. A girl from my martial arts school's "brethren" suggests that I have to visit for this specific reason a Yuxu Palace, which, as she says, has very nice and clean public toilets, besides, the entrance is free. I do not follow her suggestion and find not so glamorous toilet immediately next to me, but I decide to visit the Palace later.
When I enter the historical complex, suddenly I can recall again why I loved China so much in my previous visit and why I can love it now, too. Because of its history, because of its parks and its public spaces, because of old ladies who dance together in parks, because of old men who play domino on streets, because of children who are dressed like dolls and are running with kites, because of the community feeling which you can feel almost physically... As always, when I visit historical monuments in China, I wonder how Chinese authorities have managed to integrate them in urban environments. Sometimes these attempts are very unsuccessful, particularly, in case of functional religious complexes, such as, for example, Buddhist temples in Hohhot or Daoist temple in Wuhan; but in this case the Yuhu Palace seems to be nicely merged in the urban and also natural surroundings and constituting something like the main park of the town - like a royal playground for local children, families and lovers. On rainy days in junior high school when we couldn’t do our physical education classes outside, one activity ready in the gym centered around a huge parachute. It nearly filled the gym floor. We would all grab hold of the perimeter, and on signal raise it up, run under without letting go of the rim, and pull it down around us. The comfort of landing all together inside that huge parachute on rainy days was palpable – a sweet island. Sometimes when life shifts and changes, I think of how that parachute rises and falls. We don’t always perceive cause-and-effect, but it’s not as nebulous as mere correlation either: a shift occurs, which we both effect and experience. We are at once both actor and acted upon; we participate in a larger dance, with incomplete information, simply knowing sometimes that things are more right than before. Photo by Kristine Sergejeva I fasted for 45 ½ days a few months ago – a starvation fast of exactly 6 ½ weeks’ duration, drinking only herbal tea and, after the first week or so, eating a few apples each day. Here’s what happened.
I am from New York, but hadn’t lived Stateside in two decades, having been mostly in eastern Europe since university days. I suddenly found myself back in New York, not by choice, this past summer. There is a long and difficult sequence behind this. Suffice it to say here, the dominant feeling being back “home” was one of exile. A part of me inside felt as an east European refugee on these shores. Yet it was in a way no one could see outwardly – since I am from here, born and raised and with family right here in New York. Being back after two decades, thrust into an odd configuration, including with family suddenly, without choice, and by the way separated from my life belongings and plans, I felt severed from narrative – my European narrative, my life narrative – with nothing to replace it. So I felt doubly displaced – an outsider to all I knew. In some ways I was also intimately familiar with where I’d landed – familiar, yet with no clear string back to the life Stateside I once knew. I felt trapped outside my own culture. Displaced. Today’s post will not be on my experiences in Dubai. Well, it kind of will. Homelessness has peaked my interest many times, but it never really went anywhere. It was peaked again a few days ago. Maybe it was because of the thoughts of moving out of the comfortable shelter that is my parent’s house without having a proper job, or maybe it was the two men that asked me for shelter, as they did not have any place to stay; I am very vulnerable to these situations. If it was solely up to me, and if it were not utterly ridiculous, I would take in any stray thing, be it an animal or a person. So this is me blabbering on about my views on homelessness. I started a project last fall, entitled Chicago Cares. It is a project about the homeless in Chicago. I was inspired to do this because of the amount of homeless people in the city. Everywhere you go and turn, there are a homeless people asking for money or food or any other kind of help you can give. My idea was to photograph them, in the rawest, purest form. Not pitying them, and not judging them. Simply show what their lives are like. Despite the fact that they are homeless, they still love, laugh, and have fun, along side all the negative things in their lives. This is what I wished to show in my photo essay. However, the project came to a halt when I came to find that around 60% of the “homeless” were not actually homeless, but people pretending to be, because as it turns out, it is a rather well paid occupation. This made me think twice about what I was doing, and at the moment I still have not decided whether it will be something I pursue. What I wanted to share with you today though, was Derek’s story. Derek was a homeless man on Michigan Avenue, or better known as the Golden Mile. This seemed to be the most densely populated with the homeless. It felt like it was the Wall Street of the homeless. Derek caught my eye, and stood out from the other homeless on the street. It was a rather cold October morning, and while every single homeless person I came across had all hope drained out of them, Derek had a spark in his eyes. Even before I pulled out a $5 bill, he smiled at me, and instead of asking for money, he wished me a lovely day and blessed me. I decided to stop by Derek, and we started talking. He told me about his three children, who didn’t know that he was on the streets begging, as he had been rather recently fired without notice. He told me about his diabetes and how he was going blind. He also told me about a thousand dollars he had received from a basketball player a few days back. There was such a mix of emotions in his stories. He never asked for pity, he simply asked to be heard, and when someone listened, his eyes lit with pure joy. I wanted to share this story because of the two men that approached me the other day. I wanted to share this with all the people who judged them simply because of their appearance, or the stereotypes they had in their minds. Bad luck can strike any one of us, any day. And there is nothing wrong with asking for help when it does. by Magda Jenten
I find myself to be a very weird and distinct soul. I am awkward and usually do not fit in with the norm. I am still trying to figure out where I do fit in, or if a place like that even exists. Being an artist, one would think I should fit in with the art community, and I do believe that to an extent. Which is why I usually attend all the art events that happen in Dubai. Mind you, there aren’t that many, and usually the art events are an opportunity to flash your highest Louboutins, or your new Channel purse in Dubai. When I went to this years’ Street Nights DXB, I did not expect much more than that. However, to my surprise, there was something different about it. There was no flashyness. This was unexpected, and I was taken aback. It was filled with people actually appreciating the street art, and while it was still somewhat commercial, that was outshined by the girls hoola-hooping, and the Bboys breakdancing on the roof of a spray-painted bus.
For a while at the event I felt like I belonged. It was my crowd and for once Dubai had character. 1 km far from Burma, in the Northern Thailand, I walk along the dusty but picturesque road in my search for the Dee's House Homestay. I was supposed to be met by Dee (that is what I was thinking before) in the bus station but I have arrived earlier. Now I see three bamboo sheds similar to the ones captured in promotional photos, and also a tiny woman getting into the car. I am shouting from afar - Deeee.. This was my first encounter with Horm, Dee's daughter, which I was naming mistakenly as Dee. Horm who is born in the same month and day as her mom, who is as tall (or better to describe - short) as her mom, having as strong willpower and wish to succeed as her mom had, and who has dedicated her newly-built homestay to the memory of her mom, who passed away a year before. During three days while I am in Thaton I am spending a lot of time with Horm who becomes my friend, and I hear so many stories about her mom who seems to be still in the centre of Horm's life. Almost fairytale-like stories, unbelievable but real. And I want to share them with you (as my dedication to Horm). Horm (on the left) and her mom Dee (on the right) From Horm's personal archive, Dee's Birth Dee was born once upon a time. It is not clear for sure when exactly, because at those times, for those people (Dee was born in a family of Shans, which is a Tai ethnic group of Southeast Asia), and in that country (Burma) it was not usual to note down the exact day and time of the birth. However, later, when Horm asks her dad if he really does not know when exactly the mom was born, he says that it was late August, and the day of the birth was exactly the same as Horm's. I knowingly smile because their horoscope sign is Virgo, exactly as I presumed, because of the strong character and willpower of these women. Dee's Escape from Burma As a Shan being born in Burma, Dee experienced discrimination in her country and had to leave it. From 70s Shan people had to face extensive human rights violations in Burma (from the source -http://www.burmalink.org/background/burma/ethnic-groups/shan/): According to SHRF & SWAN (2012), the largest and most intensive forced relocation program was carried out in 1996-1997 in central Shan State where more than 300,000 people from over 1,400 villages were forced out of their homes into relocation sites. Most of these villagers are still not allowed to return home, and over half are estimated to have fled as refugees to Thailand (SHRF & SWAN, 2012). Dee was already married with Horm's dad, when they both were escaping from the war and extortion into Ban Therd Thai village in Thailand. This village had a very vivid history - it was the first Akha (indigenous hill tribe living in Thailand, Burma, Laos and China) village in Thailand, it was the basecamp of the notorious drug leader known as Khun Sa in the years 1974-1982 (in the early 1980s the US Drug Enforcement Administration estimated that “70% of heroin consumed in the USA came from his organization” ) who set up the Shan United Army, and also until 2001 it had a big role in drug trafficking. But for Dee's parents it was just a short-term home, as they fled to Chiang Rai, and further. Dee's Shelter in Pig Sty The beginning of the Dee's life in Thailand was very tough. They did have neither money, nor home where to stay. Both Dee and her husband were working as auxiliary workers for different farmers but it was not enough to have their own house, and not even enough to rent a little room where to stay. One farmer from whom Dee and her husband asked for a shelter, suggested to use his pig sty. His old pig just died and the place was empty. It only had to be cleaned and then it could be used for living. That's how Dee got a shelter in a pig sty. Dee's Bamboo House Dee was a hard worker - she wanted to have children and to ensure them a good life. She decided that she would not stay an auxiliary worker for all her life but she would work even harder to buy land and to build her own house. Dee's first house was a house made of bamboos; she built it by herself and her husband (that is the reason why Horm decided that her homestay dedicated to her mom would be consisting from 3 such bamboo houses, similar to her mom's first house). Later on when Dee and her husband obtained more and more land for agriculture, they also built a brick house, but the house made of bamboos was always in their warm memories. Dee's Children Dee had four children: three daughters and one son. She wanted that her children would receive good education, then would create their families and have a good and traditional life close to other family members. However, among her children her daughter Horm did not fit into this model - she did not want to return to her family village, she wanted to travel and to see the world. Though always quarreling, both mom and her daughter were similar like two rain drops: both tough, independent and strong. Despite their love and hate relationships, it seems that Horm was the dearest one for her mom. Dee's Forebodings Dee felt that her time on this earth in her current body is coming to the end - less than a year before her death, while padding rice, she reflectively revealed that she was not sure if she would be around when the rice would be ready for eating. Her relatives got upset about her speaking such a nonsense but she was contemplating further. About 6 months before she died, Dee dreamt that she was lying in the cemetery (where Buddhists burn the dead body) of her hometown in the Shan country. This was the first bad sign. After that, she was noticing more and more signs that soon she should die, therefore, she prepared herself carefully - Dee bought a cover for dead body; and she requested to buy a motorcycle, which had to be donated to the temple after her death (now her motorcycle is in the temple where monks and villagers can use it for temple-related issues; once, as one monk told, a villager took her bike for his own mundane business, and it immediately broke down). Dee's Death from the Wild Mushroom One day Dee decided that she had to go to pick mushrooms. Neither it seemed to be the right weather, nor the right time, but she was very stubborn - she wanted to find mushrooms. She went alone to the nearest hill next to the village but she came home without any of them found. Then she requested that her son would take her by motorbike to the other side of the river, to the hill where the temple and pagoda is located. After not very long quarrel, the son agreed to take her there, and soon she returned with several mushrooms for soup. The soup was very tasty and all family members enjoyed it, but soon after having it, everyone who ate it, became very sick, including Dee herself. But Dee was laughing in the face of sickness - when everyone was throwing up, she ascetically endured her stomachache and was teasing others about being too weak. She was the only one who did not vomit, and she was the only one who died. Dee's Rebirth Family members and villagers believe that Dee was reborn in her granddaughter, the daughter of her oldest daughter. Only few months passed after Dee's death when her daughter unexpectedly became pregnant. All villagers concluded that it has to be Dee herself because, as one villager told, some weeks before passing away, Dee's older daughter and her husband has begged Dee to come to live with them in Chiang Mai. If Dee's daughter would make an abortion, maybe Dee would still be alive but now she is in different body in Chiang Mai and lives happily ever after. That was the story of Dee. PS. If you are visiting the Northern Thailand, do not hesitate to stay at Dee's House Homestay where you will experience the lifestyle of the Shan's villager and can listen to Horm's old and new stories.
This morning I wake up from loud and rumbling sounds of something in between of shooting and unloading cargo. My first thought is that it is an earthquake - because I am in Chiang Rai (Thailand), which has been an epicenter of so many devastating earthquakes in the past, and I also have never experienced any earthquakes before but, at the same time, so scared of them. However, the sound ends quickly and the earth is not shaking, and I am drifting back in my sweet sleep. It turns out later that this was the noise of fire crackers, which repeats more and more often, supplemented with the sound of gongs, cymbals and drums played throughout the streets. The Chinese New Year is coming tomorrow, let's welcome the year of the goat! 2015 Chinese New Year celebrates the Year of the Goat, the eight animal honoured by Buddha, and in the Western calendar this officially begins on 19 February. Chinese New Year customs are numerous and they bring a colorful sense of renewal to this period of the year. Many of the rituals are imbued with a magical meaning - there is a lucky food to eat during the celebration and also certain taboos to be followed. Lucky Food Certain dishes are eaten during the Chinese New Year for their symbolic meaning.
Taboos
Chinese people believe that, as the Spring Festival is the start of a new year, what you will do then will affect your luck in the coming year. This is how to start a great New Year of the Goat: On New Year's day (on the 19th February):
Spring Festival season taboos (from 19th to 24th February):
Happy New Year! |
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