You’ve probably seen all the flash mob videos that were being passed around a few months ago and might be a little tired of them by now. But this one is a bit different:
Definitely my favorite. What do you think?
The smell of shawarma flowing from shawarma stands onto the street.
Watching the MBC 4 ads at the end of the month for each ridiculous chick flick they’ll show during the upcoming month. 13 Going on 30 for the eightieth time? Yes, please.
Cobblestone streets.
The late-night culture.
Apollo (a great ice cream parlor in Damascus).
Hearing the Adhan.
Lunch being the big meal of the day.
The people, buildings, restaurants, parks, and streets I grew up with.
Alright. I’m on the verge of tears, so I think I’ll stop there for now.
“Wafaa Bilal, a photography professor at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, had a camera surgically embedded on the back of his head for an art project commissioned by the Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art in Doha, Qatar.”*
My first three thoughts on this are:
What do you guys think?
*Justin Page’s words (as far as I know) (edited only by the removal of hyperlinks)
(Via laughingsquid)
I’m feeling a bit like this:
So today’s post will be short, lazy, and redirecting. Syrian Foodie in London is a fantastic and mouthwatering blog. It makes me hungry, home-sick, and happy at all once. Check it out.
(Photo via A CUP OF JO)
Here’s a brief Q&A with Syrian artist Ali Kaaf that I found on Syria Today (all text (and the photo) that follows (except for the smiley face) is from Syria Today and is edited only minutely in format).:
Earlier this fall, Rafia Gallery hosted Ali Kaaf’s second solo exhibition in Syria. The show inaugurates a new chapter for the young Syrian painter as he returns to Damascus from a 12-year hiatus in Berlin. Syria Today spoke with Kaaf about his artistic process and his return to his roots.
By Nouna al-Dimashqiya
Photo Adel Samara
How do you feel about returning to Syria and exhibiting your work here?
Every time I have an exhibit in Syria, I feel more apprehensive and anxious than I would in Europe. It is difficult for me because this is my homeland. I was raised here, and then I embarked on artistic study and development in Lebanon and Germany. But my roots are here. Syria is also where my life as an artist began; it is not a neutral place for me by any means. I am not able to easily separate myself from the emotion and memories that I feel here, which is something I do not experience when I exhibit in Europe. But this unique and deeply personal context always proves an excellent experience for me. Exhibiting in Syria always gives me a new sense of motivation.
Your work is deeply thematic. Tell us about what concerns you as you take on an artistic project.
I am deeply moved by something the poet Jorge Luis Borges wrote: ‘Happiness need not be expressed in art. One just lives it. Art comes from injury.’ This conflict is the crux of my artistic endeavours – the challenge of creating an image that portrays a sentiment, a state of being, and the many polar dichotomies that fill the human experience. Nothing in life is static. Little is as it seems. Conflict is everywhere.
I am not interested in aesthetics, in making something beautiful. I relish the challenge of catching and representing an idea, making it visual, then translating it into material. And I choose my medium accordingly: black and white, paper, gelatine, fire, glass. The fragility and risk involved in working on paper and with glass embody the impermanence with which I am theoretically concerned.
What’s next?
I have been quite busy in the last few months with exhibitions in Europe. I miss being in the studio. The winter in Damascus will offer me time to concentrate solely on my work, to spend my time in the studio and allow ideas and concepts to marinate. Damascus is an amazing place to work. It’s for me much more intimate, personal, rife with unanswered questions, dilemmas, memories – all rich juice for my creative process. I am working in cooperation with fellow artists – two German and one Peruvian – on a project for an exhibition in 2011. We’d like to establish a project and work together making art in Damascus inspired by Damascus.
The warm blue sky.
Taxis. Particularly the ones with those dusty red rugs covering the seats.
That white garlic sauce for dipping chicken kabobs and french fries in.
Pharmacies on pretty much every street.
The smell of salty corn, wrapped up in newspapers, in Sha’laan.
Syrian smiles.
Watching old men play backgammon in the Old City.
Tea with fresh mint leaves.
“Skating” on the marble floors of our apartment.
Pumpkin seeds.
Gift shops that are always sure to have the most random assortment of things.
The recent influx of dubbed Turkish soap operas. Just kidding.
Arabic radio programs.
Sitting on the balcony in the evening with Syrian friends.
And so many other things,
I got my hair cut last week and while I was sitting in the chair, trying to ignore the itchy snippets of hair falling on my face, I thought over the differences between getting ones’ hair cut in America versus getting ones’ hair cut in Syria. Here’s what I came up with:
America
It’s fast. Half an hour and you’re done. (However, this can depend on how busy the place is.)
As little as possible. If you’re just getting a haircut then your hair gets a few sprays from a water bottle, gets cut, w bes.
The place has less character. Generic layout, furniture and no cigarette smoke.
Syria
It can take a large chunk out of the day. Pretty much every time I’ve gone, I’ve been at the salon for about 2-3 hours.
Washed. Combed. Clipped up with those over-sized brightly-colored plastic hair clips. Cut. *Pause* Observed. Cut some more. Dried. Attempted to be curled. Failed at that part. Dried. Face dusted off with a big poofy brush. Face as crimson as a red torch ginger flower from the thousand degree hairdryer. Finito.
It can be exhausting. You get a headache from the thick cigarette smoke and you go home smelling like it.
There was one similarity this time though. The lady who cut my hair complimented its color and “silkiness” – something that would happen in Syrian salons. We small-talked and it turns out she’s from Pakistan.
Note: My comparisons were made based on an average place in the States versus an average place in Syria. I’m sure the experience would be much different in a more expensive salon in America than the place I went.
