Tagged

I have been tagged... Its been a month since blogger buddies, Dithi and  Jagriti  urged me to put down six things about me  before I could pass on the pickle to another six people.

Although it sounds easy, I have taken my time with this one. If  there are only six things to say, like only six things mattered, what would one say and what would one leave out? 

Instead of spending too much time procrastinating about what it will be and why, I'll post pictures of six things I made at pottery class a few years ago.

What is important about these six things is  that they are really bad, quite the opposite of the magnificent artistic game plan with which I approached them. Please understand that these misadventures in amateurish shapes and awful glazes are more about the love than success.

Despite my perseverance and complete dedication, I never graduated beyond hand-building. The few sessions I spent in the studio were usually a complete waste of time, but how I enjoyed myself!

Beating mounds of hardened clay down to smooth malleability, the squish and slurp of slurry.. the hours of contemplating singular shapes, the intense meditation it is possible to achieve and the labour of it all.. Sometimes after the class, the only thing that would bring me back from the pure state of zen I'd achieve in the preceding two hours was the sight of the monstrosity staring back at me from the work table.

So it is with a lot of courage and apprehension that I will unveil if only for the sake of the tag, six terrifying signs of a failed potter... again and again,  you are urged to look on only at the love. 

Now for the six people who I am going to pass the tag on to,

Priya from tHe pluM tRee

Prashant from Chai ki dukan  

Shireena from Masala Chai 

Vineeta from Artnlight  

Ashwiny from the window seat design 

and

Rachel from buttons magee 

Rules

1. Link to the person who tagged you.

2. Post the rules on your blog.

3. Write six random things about yourself.

4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.

5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.

6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

There guys, happy tagging and happier blogging.

Warp and weft : Indonesian Ikat

Posting first on a series on traditional weaves  from Asia.

Traditional textiles are among the most exciting and sought after categories of traditional art from around the region.

There is  much to offer- a profusion of techniques, fabrics,  raw materials, motifs, patterns and applications.

Most traditional weaves are durable, and lend themselves to excellent use around the modern home. Decorating with kaleidoscopic colours of  indigenous textiles rich in texture and imagery is rewarding not only for the visual appeal it generates, but for the fact that it helps sustain age old craft traditions and low-income rural economies.

Featured today are a few weaves from Indonesia. The archipelago's various people have age old weaving traditions. Most weaving is carried out by men and women at home using back-strap looms of varying complexity    

                                                                                                                                                                             

                                               
Among the noted weaves from different Indonesian islands are the Balinese Songket and Rangrang, West Timorese and Sumbanese Pahikung, West Timorese Buna and the exceptional Ikat. Ikat derives its name from the Malay word Meningkat which means to tie or bind. Originally introduced to the archipelago from India, by the British East India Company, the tradition dates back to 700 A.D.

It is a complex weave in which the warp and weft threads are dyed separately before each cloth is woven . The typical, blurry outlined patterns that distinguish the end product only begins to emerge when the individually dyed warp and weft threads are woven together. The skill behind the process lies in the ability to work out before hand where the dyed sections will intersect and what patterns they will create. In Tengenan, Bali, weavers  tie and dye the same pattern on both the warp and weft, a technique called double Ikat.

For the fact that they used very basic raw materials, like bark and fronds, Ikats from Indonesia         display ingenious creativity. 

Used traditionally to weave lengths of fabrics for a variety of uses-  royal and ceremonial regalia, sarongs and hinnggyi's and other items of clothing- Ikat has always been considered a powerful medium to tell stories, preserve memories, provide people with their indigenous identities and to work magic. In various parts of Indonesia, exceptionally woven pieces with intricate patterns were said to process magical powers and were used as talismans for luck and protection.

  

  

The weave is s replete with motifs like conch shells, birds, fishes, flowers, animal and human figures.  Expressive and very dramatic figures representing deamons and other mythological characters also abound.

           

Indonesian Ikat also comes in a veritable feast of colours, Sumbanese rusty reds and deep blues in bold patterns. In rainbow stripes from Timor and deep browns, oranges and navy blue from the islands of Alor, Flores and Savu.

            

Images top to bottom.

• Cotton sarongs from Jepara, Java, Sumba motif.
• Here, two sarongs have been opened up and joined in the middle to make a bedspread.
• Cotton throw from Bali.
• Silk sarong 
• Silk Sarong, detail.
• Cotton, sheet from Java, used as table cloth.
•  Tapestry and runner in cotton and hemp, Bali.

For more images and information on ikat and other Indonesian textiles refer to the site below.

www.nga.gov.au

Reuse

In the lexicon of Proust and Monet, ombre means "shaded." In the decorative arts vocabulary, it fittingly refers to a historic method of dyeing fabric that renders subtle gradations of color from light to dark. An offshoot of a European weaving process, ombre has adorned pre-Civil War quilts and furniture textiles, Victorian-era ribbons and trims, and even -- in a wilder moment -- 1970s disco wear. In recent years, the technique has taken a sophisticated turn, appearing in all manner of fashion.

- Martha Stewart Living 

http://www.marthastewart.com/article/looking-deeper?rsc=also_try

I've had a set of plain cotton napkins for ever. Must love them dearly, for every time they begin to look a little out of colour, they get a fresh start with over- dyeing.  They have changed colour from white to off white, pale yellow, canary yellow and now- taking a cue from MS Living- a two-toned Yellow and Orange avatar.

Have done it with a variety of other fabrics around the house, table linen, bed sheets, kurtas and Tee's.

Posting the napkin how to:

5

4

3

2

1

0

1,2,3

Posting a few pictures of a quirky little stand I found a few days ago.

A carved handle attached to a tiny wooden rectangular stand, which has a tiny little drawer at the side. It is hard to say how old it is or what purpose it might have served.

For now it is happily lending itself to different uses around the house, mostly ornamental.

To house a single stem here.

towels and little things in the bathroom.

Or simply a tea-light sometimes.....

M's House

Had started a thread  a few months ago, only to leave it in limbo like many other things  that need to be done until something the other day reminded me of M. 

Sweet, young and kind of forever pregnant with a protruding belly bearing twins the first time I met her and very quickly, with  a sickly little girl born premature only to die a few months later.

When I think of M, I remember  curly long hair always worn in a single  oily plat and funny ever changing shadow like marks--near the eyes sometimes or near where her cheeks sunk into deep dimples when she smiled.

 

She lived with the twins and ailing parents in a mud and brick house, right across from the house my family rented for the three summers we spent in her tiny village near Trichy. 

If I stuck my nose far enough between the trellis patterned grille on my window, I could have a good look at her house and the backyard. A simple affair like the others in the village. Squat, rectangular, covered with ramshackle red black tiles.  A porch running its length. A very white house barring a few flashes of green for windows and doors.

I could see a cattle shed at the back with its two pointy horned beasts. Here M  spent most of her day thwacking dirt with a stick broom,  a stone and mud well where her father did his early morning gargles- loud enough to rouse the village and beyond. What I could not see too clearly was a kitchen that the back door led to. A  window less room, made even more glum  with years of soot climbing up the walls and the chimney. 

I have vivid recollections of drinking coffee sweetened with tiny jaggery dumplings in her kitchen. Her mother called it `Kapi', the, sweet dark broth that left brown sand like grit at the bottom of little tumblers.

I had to steal into her house after school to drink the coffee, and that was the best part.

For reasons I only understood partially then, my mother strongly disapproved of us going to M's house. I had a feeling it was because of this funny looking man I saw on the porch one morning a few weeks after we came to stay in the village.

I saw him  sitting on his haunches in a dirty vest and rolled up lungi tied at the waist in a half skirt. Large red eyes looking vacantly at nothing in particular. A dark and brooding guy with curly black  stubble for hair.  His mere presence giving  the house an oppressive air.

I understood why that night when we woke up to loud noises coming from M's house.

Groggy and heavy with sleep , I looked out of the window to see, M's parents hunched over near the door on the porch. Loud screams followed by whimpering noises echoed out of the house for long.  I did not see M the next day. She emerged a day later in her backyard scrubbing the shed as usual.  She had a few new shadows on her face,- angry and purple.

We soon realised it was a frequent event in the life of the household and the village. Occurring every fortnight or so when M's husband Mutthu - the dark guy sitting on the porch -would come visiting from his transport business in Erode.  I heard people murmur, it was because Mutthu was a `drunk' and it was some `business'  between husband and wife.

The only night I saw anybody bother about it was a few weeks later, when my father went up to their porch and asked M's father to stop Mutthu.  The old man just shook his head in quite desperation and murmured something about fate and not having done his bit years ago when the girl was born in the first place.

I remembered M well, but comprehended her story fully only years later as an adult myself.

Transformation

Getting back to blog after a longish break. Plenty has happened.  

Summer has very slowly changed to winter here for one.  These are the sweet days of the year, when it is chilly but not the biting kind of cold, not yet atleast.  The winds roll but not with the intensity of gales. The suns rays warm and benign  slant ever so little but not in an evasive kind of way.

It feels to good to be here like this.  A time for reinventing and reacquainting with life. Time to revisit my much neglected house and blog. Posting before and after pictures of  the living room, as it changes with the season from summer into winter.

Living room in Summer....transformed quiet simply by breaking up the sectional sofa, replacing the rug and shuffling the accessories  and art work around  little.

making the area a little cosier and more intimate for the winter.

This winter I am promising my self to rest and just be.  Turn inwards into meditative silences. Treat myself to more  solitary afternoons spent with books guzzling endless cups of tea.

Celebrate  the colours of the earth and skies, with  winter flowers fruits and berries.

Listen to music on long chilly evenings...... 

To all my blogging buddies out there,  enjoy this time to rest and restore, love and be loved. Do also  visit this  space again and have a wonderful season !

Cat Street

 Uploading a few shots from an aimless tread around Upper Lascar row, or`Cat Street Bazaar' a few days ago.

In the true style of flea markets, although mostly situated astride a single street, this one is dishevelled, aging and full of odd things.

I  start  somewhere at the end of Hollywood road. Walk past old antique shops, cafes, and swanky new service apartments. A little near Man Mo temple, a narrow alley beckons me,  I walk in, contemplating the graffiti on a crumbling plaster wall. Behind a row of glitzy stores and cafes, the alley is cool and deserted. A blast of hot dog smoke blasts from the back of a charred makeshift chimney. The smell lingers only moments before the rancid smoke bearing it raises to the heavens.  At the far end of the street disembodied Buddhas sit chained to rusted iron stands. A plastic sheeted Vishnu waits patiently for a buyer. 

A nose-less ear-less wooden horse,  keeps the Gods quite company beside a reeking yet ever flowing drain.

Endless, unfathomable fascination with graves, foot binding shoes, spittoons and Chairman Mao draws folk down to Cat Street. Queer looking utensils, wine holders and chamber pots sit beside each other with new found dignity on dusty shelves. Their vendor swats mosquitoes with practiced flair, incinerating fidgety creatures with a battery run, racket like contraption.

 An old lady, strings of coral and turquoise in hands haggles with shoppers. 

Cat street is awash with objects, things old and new. Piled in mounds at every corner, pillaged from graves, dead people's homes, garbage dumps, flea markets, and dingy Chinese factories that churn out souvenirs in bulk by the hour.

Even with a surfeit of things around, more arrives here each day. More is created here, in this quite, old span of a few meters, way smaller than its former self, or so I am told.