Article Title: Classified
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| Karl Marx Avenue (Wikipedia Sourced Photo) |
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“Always
think of what is useful and not what is beautiful. Beauty will come of its own accord.” – Nikolai Gogol.
They weren’t marked on rail timetables but
the train would stop there. There was no
indication on bus routes apart from the name of a tiny village nearby or a kilometre
marker. There was no demarcation on publicly
available maps and as for postal delivery letters and parcels had to be
addressed with the name of a nearby city as a code. I’m referring to the cities that didn’t
exist, the cities where residents underwent security checks before moving in
and were sworn to secrecy thereafter concerning their classified addresses.
What follows is advice for the traveller:
what to do when facing that particular predicament of having nowhere to stay in
a city that sort of didn’t exist. Secrets
can’t substitute, after all, for a watertight roof and a pillow.
During the summer I reached that “place”,
the one that, well, I’m not entirely convinced I should name, but as it’s
acknowledged and open these days I suppose it might be okay to write it just
once. Wait. It might be better to put it in square brackets:
[Dnipropetrovsk].
Home to over a million people, that place was
once a key centre for the nuclear, arms and space industries of the Soviet Union , the reason it was closed to foreigners
until the 1990s. It’s an attractive place,
or non-place, set on the meandering bank of the majestic Dneiper
River that roughly divides Ukraine Ukraine to be referred to as the bread basket of
the Soviet Union .
The “city” itself is a typical Soviet
showpiece if slightly more polished than average: it has its Lenin Square
watched over by a Lenin statue; the broad tree-lined, tram-lined Karl Marx
Avenue is there, at several kilometres in length; and the Karl Marx traffic
lanes are separated by a parkland strip where artisans set up easels to sell
paintings and stalls for handicrafts, and there are benches for loitering and
street food to enjoy. In summer the Karl
Marx strip has a fairground quality. In
another park is a collection of old Soviet tanks.
That “city” is the third in Ukraine Ukraine , where
the break-up of the Soviet Union seemed to
have been easier than the break-up of Intourist.
In the Soviet Union
foreigners were restricted to state-run “Intourist” package tours and in each
city would be at least one, generally enormous, state-run Intourist Hotel to
cater for them. Those hotels were still
running and remained grossly overpriced with the cheapest room for perhaps US
$50 per night and with that "city" having been a closed city there might not even have been an Intourist Hotel there. But even if there was, the room rate would have been approximately
half a month’s salary for my Ukrainian teacher colleagues. I stood on Karl Marx convinced that I
shouldn’t pay so much either. Rather, I
contemplated what Ukrainians would do: they would not be staying at any former
Intourist Hotel. They’re much too street savvy.
After a few moments the answer found me:
Ukrainians would stay with friends. Problem
number two: I had no friend in that “city.”
After a few moments the answer found me: I
did have a friend in Kyiv who I’d always thought was clever enough to devise a
successful peace plan for Israel-Palestine if she sat down for a few minutes
with a pencil and a notepad. She’d
certainly given an impressive speech once at the Toastmaster’s Club. Perhaps it would be worthwhile calling
her?
I collected kopiyok and hryvnia coins from
my wallet, knowing that public phones ate them rather rapidly and there’d need
to be a good number in hand to push in at speed for extra credit. I dialled the phone number and you know, when
I think about that “city” I also start to wonder if I should name said
“friend.” Who’s to say she isn’t
classified? Although, as she does tend
to use her own name, I suppose it might be okay to write it just once. Wait.
It might be better to put it in square brackets: [Stacia].
‘I’m in [insert city name here] and I have
nowhere to stay,’ I said.
‘Call me back in ten minutes,’ [insert
friend name here] replied.
It was as a Soviet storyline, standing on
the footpath waiting for ten minutes to pass.
I watched the comings and goings and without reason tried to look inconspicuous. Ten minutes later with a new bunch of coins
in hand I dialled again. The answer,
when it came, was all but Soviet-perfect!
‘There’s a Daihatsu on its way,’
aforementioned friend said, ‘It’ll pull up where you are within five
minutes.’ Needless to say I’d told her
where on Karl Marx I was; needless to say that in Soviet times it wouldn’t have
been a Daihatsu exactly.
In the allotted time said Daihatsu did pull
up at said curb in front of me. ‘Hi, I’m
Julia,’ said the driver, ‘You’ll be staying with us. Get in.’
The first stop was a stilt platform café on
the river for light refreshment, and I’m told that the bridge across the
Dneiper is 1.4 kilometres long. I’m told
that Julia’s mother is quite distressed that she won’t be able to talk to me:
she only speaks Russian.
Thereafter we reached the family apartment,
one of the Soviet many; and Julia’s parents, Sergei and Lidia have thought of
everything: keys to the flat, access to the fridge, phone number, huge dinner,
toothpaste available on the bathroom shelf and well, beer. It was wonderful! Lidia needn’t have worried about the
communication: she fired off rapid Russian and although I couldn’t distinguish
a single word, somehow the overall meaning seemed to get through; or at least,
the gist. It was just like my friend Jayanta’s
mother used to do in Bangla in Kolkata.
Before leaving, Lidia kind-heartedly gave
me a book, in Russian, duly inscribed on the inside cover in Russian Cyrillic
lettering, as a memento of the short time we shared. Although I can’t read it or the inscription,
to me that little book is priceless. Well,
I’m not entirely convinced I should name the author, but I suppose as he is
internationally renowned it might be okay to write his name just once. Wait.
It might be better to put it in square brackets: [Gogol].
[Important: Do not circulate or discuss this
article. Forget what you have read.]
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| A Russian stamp featuring that author. from Wikipedia |
Also classified are the National Secrets of Kyiv to the west, a meeting with Mrs Val to the east, or a bit further still.... go swimming with Osama. Because it's best to keep busy.
This article also published in Star Magazine, here: Article Title [Classified]
Impassioned Rage in Civilised Dress
Art is a window to a culture’s soul, so is it any wonder I
should have sought out a flagship piece upon moving to Dhaka
several years ago?
It’s daring. It’s brash. It’s bold. The poster, ‘Goriber Chele, Boro Loker Meye’
or ‘The Poor Family’s Son, the Rich Family’s Daughter,’ in English, is
simultaneously an art piece that is undeniably contemporary in outlook and yet
without reticence in its clever allusions to tradition. Without doubt a virtuoso accomplishment at
the cutting edge of the twenty-first century Bengali nihilist collectivist pop
art postmodernist movement, within the post-contextual stream, it is an artwork
not to be underestimated. Or at least, without
being an art expert per se, that’s what I’m thinking.
To begin with, in its unusual print-on-paper poster format
of bright colours and in its audacious collage arrangement of busy, engaging imagery,
‘Goriber Chele’ is a work that isn’t in need of a polite introduction in order
to draw in the attention of the viewer.
Rather, it screams to be looked at.
That is surely why when carrying it home from the framers by rickshaw
people on the street were laughing to see it and calling out their
approval.
And ‘Goriber Chele,’ the poster, upon having captured our
attention, surely has little potential to disappoint. Not least, the plastering of multiple
editions of the work at one time across the city was surely an appeal for
artwork for the masses, and as an artistic achievement, even Warhol must have
admired it. But what is it exactly that
makes ‘Goriber Chele’ so memorable?
For a start it’s in the detail, such as the sunshine in the
hair of the woman portrayed in the top right of the piece. With her sunlit hair strands almost
reminiscent of freshly cut rice hay, there is clear allusion to the countryside
and to nature. The contrast with her
unmistakably urban attire, with her make up and hair style clearly creatures of
the city, is masterful, bringing one to wonder at the conflict between modern
urban living and the natural environment.
It is after all within the natural world that our urban lifestyles must
continue to exist. And one is led to
consider, is it modernity that made her slightly but pleasingly crooked smile
or rather the warmth of the sunlight on her hair? Like the Mona Lisa before her, we ask, what
is it she is smiling about?
Meanwhile her male consort, who the artist Someone-or-Other
has chosen as the focal point of the piece, looks intently into the distance,
as if to survey the future not only for himself but for her too, and possibly
the whole of society. While his gold
chain might signify that the present is not too bad, his expression and the
fact that he hasn’t had time to brush his hair speaks of risk and danger in the
coming days and years. Surely
Someone-or-Other has made a deliberate decision to not have him look directly
into the eye of the viewer, giving us to understand that it is not the current
society around him that is of primary concern.
Indeed, we are mere distraction.
Another subtlety to admire is the angle of the gun he
carries. It’s pointing skyward in what
may well be a further concession to nature.
We cannot deny that it’s an angle which must be perfect for shooting wild
ducks. It’s all about survival. Is that the message?
Also in the primary images of the man and woman are small
yet significant symbols of Bengali culture, in the hand printed pattern of his
bandana and in her delicately painted folk jewellery. There can be no question that the artwork here
conveys a sense of continuity, that whatever tensions he views in the future,
whatever it actually is that is making her smile, the future will regardless occur
within a Bengali cultural paradigm. Bangladesh
forever is what it says. Bangladesh will
survive.
Below the primary images, the male and female in the piece
are reproduced, this time with the fellow holding a lathi or stick, and the
woman in a more distressed state perhaps because her thumb is caught in her
hair. The joining of hands here gives
purpose and strength to the pair and can it be that the two are battling the
crowds and traffic in order to complete their Eid shopping in time? It’s an image that’s relatable. It’s an image that’s very much ‘now’. And from the blood on his forehead we are
given hectic, stressful and even barbaric: the full array of adjectives for the
Eid shopping experience. And another
question looms unanswered: did they find the right sari for Aunty?
An artist of lesser talent may have stopped there, but
Someone-or-Other was not content. In the
bottom left we meet two other portraits, of a business-suited bespectacled man
aiming a pistol and another gentleman in a yellow jacket with a Munch-esque, horrified,
shrieking expression, quite possibly conveying the important social message
that things don’t always go well at the hairdressers’.
The pistol-toting gentleman meanwhile wears two rings, like
taps in red and blue, hot and cold, which may point to the perennial changing
of seasons or perhaps to the coexistence of extremes that we face while living
in this mega city. His is a gaze of
greater intensity than that of the principal figure; and that expression of
rage when combined with his suit and tie once again returns to us the idea of
extremes, with impassioned rage in civilised dress, which is, not accidentally,
a possible description of Dhaka itself. And what is he aiming at? Well he’s almost aiming at us, isn’t he? His Dhaka
includes and consumes and menaces us too.
That’s what it says.
As if all of that were not enough for us to take in,
Someone-or-Other has taken the pains to illustrate the scene of burning cars in
the background, which may be a plea for consensus on key issues or it might
represent the feelings of enflamed frustration aroused in drivers and
passengers while locked in the jam.
Perhaps it is up to us to decide which particular interpretation the
artist has intended?
Lastly, worth mentioning, is the inclusion of the artwork’s
name in bold, striking font at the bottom left.
Here again we must consider the work’s pop art foundations and there
would seem to be overtures to business marketing in it, to branding and
enterprise, a subtle statement that in the environment of the current century,
even an artwork of this stature must have a capitalist purpose beyond its
perplexing, philosophical array of themes and sub-themes. It is not merely an intellectual feast
extraordinaire, but also, almost, some kind of advertisement.
It has been a great privilege to have work of quality such as
‘Goriber Chele’ hanging on the wall at my house for the last several
years. It’s an art piece that invites
critique from all comers, and in particular has brought a warm and welcome
smile to some of the tradesmen who have reason to arrive, time to time. And as much as it is a work to be enjoyed
everyday, so its value as an investment cannot be overlooked. With an initial purchase price of zero, when
the cinema manager first gave it to me, I am convinced a work of such magnitude
cannot but appreciate, and must be worth at least three times that amount
within the next several years.
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| It's a work that invites critique. |
Thinking Chinese art is a river is more to your liking? Or maybe vampire crafts are more your thing? Or sit back by the campfire and light the nights with a violin...
This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Impassioned Rage in Civilised Dress
Bangladesh Dreaming: Article Index for articles about Bangladesh
This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Impassioned Rage in Civilised Dress
Bangladesh Dreaming: Article Index for articles about Bangladesh
A Beginning and An End
Azaleas were for the springtime, the air
sweet with the pungency of gardenias. Impatiens
kept the colour through the year. In Grandma’s
garden, phlox and hollyhocks, snapdragons and dracaena coaxed from cuttings
kept the days filled. It was annual and
perennial. It was growth.
The side gate was wooden and immaculately grey,
and upon stepping into the garden she’d greet me with a ‘G’day mate.’ The
greeting stood out as an older Australian tradition, historical at the least in
Sydney
She’d likely spent hours in sun-hatted
toil, trowel turning, digging, weed removing and thinking; for her efforts
there was talk, not only of the plants but of the blue wrens for which the bird
bath had been bought. It was the result
of hours on a mat on her knees.
We’d wander inside and the reddish
linoleum-topped table was set with deliberation, the tablecloth positioned
diagonally and the homemade biscuits and sour tasting sandwiches of pickled
onions, mustard or relish at home on the particular decorative dish she’d
chosen. There’d be a plump, patterned glass on its coaster for soft drink. Tables aren’t set so precisely anymore, not
for morning tea.
Always neatly dressed, Grandma kept her
hair short, curled into a perm with hot rollers; and after the food she’d bring
in the teapot to rest upon the wooden teapot board. The pot would be dressed in a hand knitted
cosy to keep the tea warm. Such detail!
Perhaps I only wish to show that there was much about her to seem
old-fashioned.
And there was contrast, for hers were not the
only morning teas in those busy years that bookmarked the millennium. In the government department where I worked
there was, scheduled once a week, a morning tea for team-building. There was a cake roster but we’d each arrange
our own cup of coffee. Naturally, those
morning teas were hastier and marked by slightly forced chat that overshadowed
the stress of deadlines. The bosses
rarely attended. They were busy.
Meanwhile, Grandma used to have a doctor, a
hairdresser, several others visiting her home.
She’d mark up their scheduled comings in her diary. That’s how many westerners like to imagine
their old age, staying independently. I
know she enjoyed those visits because they brought company in the daytime
hours. But on the day I arrived while
the doctor was visiting, I was surprised to see Grandma embarrassed.
Once the doctor left she said, ‘she’s a good
doctor but she always talks badly about the Greeks and Italians. But they do alright here, don’t they?’ The doctor thought they used too much
concrete and tiling in their Mediterranean gardens, Grandma explained, but she
didn’t mind their style.
I never heard her speak badly of any
nationality, but we never spoke of such things.
She seemed somehow distinct from society. Nonetheless, on that day I thought perhaps
she was at the start of something.
What was more surprising happened at the
time she was admitted to hospital for a minor procedure, just for a few
days. She found herself in a ward in a
suburb of Sydney
Grandma thought to make mention of how the
Greek lady kept her company. She’d
sampled homemade Greek food and liked it.
And she lent towards me to whisper, ‘but that other lady, she is so dark
that sometimes when I see her face after waking up I forget where I am and I
get scared. She tried to talk to me. I don’t understand a word.’ She was being
totally honest.
‘But I suppose she’s alright,’ Grandma
said, ‘We are who we are, aren’t we?’
It’d never occurred to me how much Australian
society had changed since she was born.
In the span of her ninety plus years, change wasn’t only a matter of
electricity, cars, vacuum cleaners and microwaves. There’d been the migration waves too: amongst
them the Italians and Greeks from the 1950s and Africans since the 1990s. When Grandma was born, assuming it was in a
hospital, it’s probable that all of her baby-contemporaries shared her fair
complexion. It was a largely
British-Australian society into which she was born.
As I said goodbye in the hospital, I leant
in to kiss her and at the same time shook her hand; and after that,
instinctively and accidentally, put my hand to my heart. I was embarrassed by the small gesture she
hadn’t noticed, because it’s not an Australian custom but a welcome habit from
the Bangladeshi village.
Meanwhile at the office there was
contrast. It was strange the day one of
the bosses not only found time to attend morning tea but embarked upon a small
speech about how it was that Muslims would never fit into Australian
society. ‘They think differently,’ she
said to her team. It was her main
point. As it was known I had friends in Bangladesh
I’d not bother to mention it but it wasn’t
the only time I heard senior public sector managers talk like that. Such displays in Australia
In a broader sense there would appear to
remain some confusion between racism and leadership in Australia
Grandma meanwhile had a spontaneous
side. The woman who would never forget a
birthday, having presents wrapped and tied with ribbon sometimes months in
advance, was also the one who thought to crawl under her dining table to hide
from her great grandson. He had to find
her. Her mind stayed sharp and her bone
joints were not unwilling to bend.
The last year of my father’s mother was
2001. Her grandchildren had grown and Sydney New
York
Some people adapt. Others don’t.
And it’s interesting because just as Grandma’s tolerance of others
seemed to be on its rise, so it quickly faded, as if there was no place left
for it. And there was loss.
But at a time when tolerance in Australian
society was in steep and rapid decline maybe there really wasn’t any place for
it.
 |
| At age 93. |
One could
say it’s still the nation’s foremost
security risk, the type of ‘us and them’ exclusion that prevents any
society
from flourishing and creates all the other security consequences. It remains well-protected, the ‘us and them,’
because down under the ‘us and them’ retains many important advocates. Some degree of extremism is not a problem as
long as it’s of the white kind.
Some people adapt.
Others don’t.
I wonder if Australian public processes will ever catch up to
Grandma.
It can be that she waited,
several months
later when she again went into hospital.
Her hair was long, straight and tumbled down over her shoulders
when I
saw her last. I never knew she had hair
like that. If it had been of a colour
other than white she might’ve looked as a teenager.
Of course it's all about learning to think, appreciating different ways of thinking and, well, adding a little heart.
This article also published in Star Magazine, here: A Beginning and An End
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