Museum of Islamic Art, Doha

"The Museum of Islamic Art is more influenced by the mosque of Ibn Tulun than any other building. This mosque is very austere and beautiful, and it has the most refined geometry. What inspired me most was the small ablution fountain in the middle of a large courtyard. The little building is a poem."

-I.M. Pei, The Architect

I learnt something invaluable during my visit to Qatar's Museum of Islamic Art, and that is: even brilliant minds find their inspiration in the works of others.

As I approached the entrance of cubically-shaped museum, I knew that I had seen it somewhere... in fact it felt as if I had been to it before. I had read a bit about how the architect had travelled the Islamic world to gather ideas on traditional Islamic architecture to manifest them in the Qatari museum... but I had never thought that he would use one small feature from Ibn Tulun's mosque to create a whole museum...

See if you can spot the similarities for yourself:



A word about the exhibition on display: the treasures this tiny building contains are preeminent jewels of the Islamic civilization. I could not tell whether the artwork on display originated from Egypt, Turkey, Iran, India, Spain, or China...a testament that Muslims shared one cultural identity throughout the ages.

The Way of the Romantic

"I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's; I will not reason or compare: my business is to create."-William Blake

Reality has made me forget what it means to be a Romantic. The mundane routine of life can take its toll, making one forget his purpose in thie world. Recently, I stumbled upon an exhibition at the Tate Britain that reminded me of why I write, blog, and create. It reminded me that the Romantic is a dreamer, an idealist, a believer. The exhibition, titled the Romantic Movement, made me quite nostalgic of my Virginian days, when I was loner searching for the truth. I recall going to a used bookshop one day and buying 100 books of ecletic genres. Goethe's, Decartes', and Wordsworth's works became my new companions. Without knowing it, I was in a quest to become a Romantic.

According to a caption hung on the exhibition's entrance, Romanticism is a movement that "describes preoccupations of thinkers, writers, and artists expressed with special intensity at a particular point in history: liberty and individual rights, the creative power of the human mind and our relationship to the natural world." In a sense, I see it is a form of worship. By using one's intellect to ponder upon creation and to create and innovate, one is fulfilling his/her purpose. The poets who explored love and the beauty of nature were in essence paying tribute to the factors that make life "special."

I was in awe to see how the oil and water color paintings hung on the museum's walls were a reflection of emotions, moods, feelings experienced by their creators. For instance, Turner actively made use of Color Theory to project certain emotions. Yellow was meant to epitomize hope and divinity, whereas grey and black reflected darkness and emptiness. The Romantics coupled these techniques with images of the sublime. Natural landscapes of mountains, seas, and lakes were meant to show the grandeur of God's creation.

The fact of the matter remains that this was a purely Western movement which thrived in the 17th century. Nevertheless, as a aspiring Romantic, I imagine this movement to be more all-encompassing. Any human being who seeks to use his/her mind to wonder, dream, and create his/her own world qualifies.

As my time in London comes to a conclusion, I am grateful that my time in this city has rekindled my romanticist soul.

The Choir Project in London

A concert in London I was privileged to participate in in support of the Egyptian Revolution.

الناس في بلادي: عالمية الأدب و التجربة الإنسانية

في صف الشعر العربي، قرأت قصيدة مثيرة عن الشعب المصري، وأردت أن أنشرها كتدوين في هذه "البلوج." عبارات القصيدة قوية و تجعل الإنسان أن يفكر عن غاية الحياة. في نهاية الحية، سنرجع إلى الطين الذي خلقنا اللة منه. إذن, يعطينا الشاعر صلاح عبد الصبور صورة من الوقع عندما يكتب "الناس في بلادي." هنا، سوف أطهر لكم قصيدة عبد الصبور ثم تعليقي عن القصيدة

الناس فى بلادى ـــ صلاح عبد الصبور

الناس فى بلادى جارحون كالصقور

غناؤهم كرجفة الشتاء فى ذؤابة الشجر

وضخكهم يئز كاللهيب فى الحطب

خطاهمو تريد أن تسوخ فى التراب

ويقتلون، يسرقون، يشربون، يجشأون

لكنهم بشر

وطيبون حين يملكون قبضتى نقود

ومؤمنون بالقدر

وعند باب قريتى يجلس عمى "مصطفى"

وهو يحب المصطفى

وهو يقضّى ساعة بين الأصيل والمساء

وحوله الرجال واجمون

يحكى لهم حكاية.. تجربة الحياة

حكاية تثير فى النفوس لوعة العدم

وتجعل الرجال ينشجون

ويطرقون

يحدقون فى السكون

فى لجة الرعب العميق، والفراغ، والسكون

" ما غاية الإنسان من أتعابه، ما غاية الحياة؟

يا أيها الإله!!

الشمس مجتلاك ، والهلاك مفرق الجبين

وهذه الجبال الراسيات عرشك المكين

وأنت نافذ القضاء أيها الإله

بنى فلان ، واعتلى ، وشيد القلاع

وأربعون غرفة قد ملئت بالذهب اللماع

وفى مساء واهن الأصداء جاءه عزرئيل

يحمل بين إصبعيه دفترا صعير

ومد عزرئيل عصاه

بسر حرفى "كن" ، بسر لفظ "كان"

وفى الجحيم دُحرجت روح فلان

(أيها الإله ...

كم أنت قاس ٍِ موحش أيها الإله).

بالأمس زرت قريتى ، قد مات عمى مصطفى

ووسدوه فى التراب

لم يبتن القلاع (كان كوخه من اللبن)

وسار خلف نعشه القديم

من يملكون مثله جلباب كتان قديم

لم يذكروا الإله أو عزريل أو حروف (كان)

فالعام عام جوع

وعند باب القبرقام صاحبى خليل

حفيد عمى مصطفى

وحين مد للسماء زنده المفتول

ماجت على عينيه نظرة احتقار

فالعام عام جوع

تعليقي عن القصيدة

من أهم أسباب نجاح أي كاتب، إستخدام مواضيع و رموز الإنسانية تجعل إسلوب الكاتب عالمي. على سبيل المثال، نجيب محفوظ من أشهر الكتاب العرب حول العالم، وخصوصا في الأوساط الأدبية الغربية، لأن تطبق مواضيع قصصه على "التجربه الإنسانية." يكتب محفوظ عن مشاعر إنسانية عامة يستطيع كل إنسان من كل جنسية أن يشعر بها. يكتب صلاح عبد الصبور قصيدة "الناس في بلادي" بنفس الأسلوب. التشابه بين محفوظ وعبد الصبور والكتاب العظماء هو أنهم يستخدمون العالمية كتقنية أدبية في كتابتهم. في هذا التحليل، سأكتب عن نجاح عبد الصبور أن ينقل لنا قصة القروي مصطفى ليعبر عن مشاعر إنسانية عالمية.

باختصار، التجربة الإنسانية تبدأ بولادة الإنسان في هذه الدنيا. في وسط رحلة الحياة، يصبح الإنسان متحير عن وجوده. في هذه المرحلة في الحياة، يبحث الإنسان عن أجوبة أسرار العالم من خلال الدين والفلسفة. في نهاية الرحلة، يموت كل إنسان. يكتب عبد الصبور عن دورية الحياة بترتيب زمني عندما يكتب القصيدة.

في أول جزء من القصيدة، يكتب الشاعر عن الشعب المصري بشكل عام. يصف الشعب بصفات مثل "جارحون وطيبون." علاوة على ذلك، سلوكهم تجعلهم أن "يقتلون، يسرقون، يشربون، يجشأون" مثل البشر في أي ركن من أركان العالم. يستخدم الكاتب تقنية التشبيه عندما يصف "غناؤهم كرجفة الشتاء في ذؤابة الشجر" وكيف "ضحكهم يئز كاللهيب في الحطب." هذه الأوصاف لم تشير للشعب المصري فقط بل للبشر حول العالم كذلك. إذن الكاتب يكتب ببراعة عن الحالة الإنسانية.

بقية القصيدة تتحدث عن شخص خيالي اسمه مصطفي. يعطي عبد الصبور هذا الاسم لبطل القصيدة من أجل إيقاع القصيدة لأن "عند باب قريتي يجلس عمي مصطفى وهو يحب المصطفى." علاوة على ذلك، الاسم مصطفى له دلالة دينية. مثل النبي، يقود مصطفى مجموعة من القرويين عندما يناقشون مواضيع مختلفه عن تجربة الحياة. تأثير المناقشة يجعل بكاء الرجال. يصف الشاعر فكرة الموت بمشاعر مثل: "رعب عميق، والفراغ، والسكون." هذه مشاعر تدل على رد فعل كل إنسان عندما يفكر بالموت. إذن، تصل الشخصيات إلى أهم سؤال في تاريخ الفلسفه وهو "ما غاية الحياة؟"

يستخدم عبد الصبور آيات دينية مختلفة في القصيدة. عندما يستخدم رموز الشمس والهلال والجبال، يشير عبد الصبور إلى رموز إسلامية تدل على وجود وعظمة الله. لذلك، القدرية موضوع مهم للبشر. يعطي مصطفى نموذج عن كيف ثروة الإنسان لا تفيدة في الأخرة. يقول مصطفى، "فلان، واعتلى، وشيد القلاع وأربعون غرفة قد ملئت بالذهب اللماع...ومد عزريل عصاه بسر حرفى <<كن>> بسر لفظ <<كان>>." هذه إشارة إلى كيف الأخرة مرحلة مختلفة تماما عن هذة الدنيا. يعبر مصطفى عن رعبه عندما يقول، "يا أيها الإله كم أنت قاس موحش يا أيها الإله!"

تنتهي القصيدة بموت مصطفى. عندما يضع موت البطل في نهاية القصيدة، يعمم الشاعر كيف كل رحلة حياة تنتهي بنفس الصيغة. عندما يموت محبوب في أي مكان، تشعر عائلته "بالإحتقار." الموت يجعل الناس يشكون في رحمة إلههم. يعطي الكاتب مثالا من ذلك عندما يصف مشاعر خليل حفيد مصطفى "حين مد للسماء زنده المفتول ماجت على عينيه نظرة أحتقار." إذن، تظهر لنا القصيدة مشاعر البشر في المراحل المختلفة في حياة الإنسان. أتفق مع معظم وجهات نظر عبد الصبور، ولكن أعتقد أن الإيمان والتسليم للقدر يجعل الإنسان يقبل كل شيء من الله، حتى الموت.

بإخلاص،

مصطفى

A Snapshot of Friday Night in Charlottesville

I want to write, but I can't seem to think of a topic decent enough worth your or my time. I could possibly talk about my week... but that would be too personal now, wouldn't it? Well how an epic film I just finished watching... That sounds a lot more like it!

Its Friday night. I had the option of partying, but that hobby seems to have lost its flare. Instead, I hopped on my bike, paddled quickly to the Downtown. I was hoping of spending a couple of minutes in the Mudhouse before it shutdown. To my dismay, I missed out on a much-craved-for oatmeal cookie and gun powder tea. I decided to walk.

Walking down the main avenue of the Downtown never seems to amaze! So, in the blistering cold, with my headphones on, I strode along puffing clouds of vapor out from the cold. I passed by all the shut down ma' and pa' shops. I was definitely an outlier at this hour (it was 11:30pm). I was there for the leisure of a walk to clear my mind, contemplate emotions and events, and to have some time to myself. Everyone else was either drunk or "lost". At this hour, the Downtown had lost its aestheticism and beauty. It was dark and shady. I decided to depart. To return in the morning when it was cheerful and sunny.

I biked just as quickly home and made it back before midnight. Since I wasn't that drowsy, I decided to put on "Les Amants Reguliers," an indie French movie I checked out from Clemons yesterday. I actually checked it out randomly. I wanted to watch an intersection of an Indie movie and one that was foreign, so made the cut.

After injecting it into the DVD, I was amazed by how nostaglic I'd gotten. The protagonist reminded me of myself a couple of years back. He plays the role of romantic revolutionary during France's near-revolution in the 1960s. He falls in love and strives for a Marxist revolution. Ultimately, he discovers that these ambitions are mere delusions.

More than anything, this film is a piece of art. With beautiful urban scenes in Paris, 1960s vogue lifestyles, and the humanistic behaviors of artists, poets, and loves, this is indeed a masterpiece. The movie, shot 2005, is in black and white to simulate the milieu of the 1960s. Every scene, lull, and dialogue in the movie is a artwork in and of itself. The soundtrack, cinematography, and photography of the movie lets you live this decade I once aspired to live and emulate.

This is a film where the viewer is not merely fed the events and emotions. Instead of witnessing what the characters feel, you feel it with them, and at times, for them. The despair of failed ambitions is a common theme I feel I can relate to. Also, the dichotomy between idealism and realism is a case in point of the human experience. Anyways, I shall not give the movie away. In fact, I can't since the movie is an abstract painting; a wide range of inferences can be drawn.

The Vinegar Hill

The Vinegar Hill has just become my new sanctuary. I've found myself tracing my steps every Friday back to it. The Hill is a local theater Downtown that views Indie movies. Its the kind of vintage theater with creaky doors, salient popcorn-butter stench, and an old-school tickets counter... just what I'd been looking for!

Lately, I've realized that I can't stand mainstream movies, or mainstream anything for that matter. So this is been my haven when it comes to film-watching. Moreover, I like the ambiance there mostly because of the solitude. There's something about the theater being almost completely empty except for one or two viewers whom I always see there. Something about the dust particles circulating around the beam of light giving life to the screen in complete darkness makes it all so surreal...

I've come to love this cinematic environment. Its almost addictive. Especially when the film has a plot entailing the sequence of a Greek tragedy. What strikes me though is the existential nature of many of the film plots. At some points it frustrates me because its almost as if I know what's going to happen next. There's the introduction, the climax, and the conclusion. Its a pre-ordained script that the characters follow. They're fictitious. But this isn't representative of reality. We don't live life according to some script; or do we?

Unlike the characters in the films I watch, I believe that we are liberated creatures. Our actions define our identity. We can always break out of the script and improvise according to our own free-will. The possibilities are infinite!

So just last night I viewed a movie I'd been anticipating for quite some time. I caught the 9:45 pm showing of the movie, Bright Star. The movie is a romanticist rendition of John Keats' life story. I had only vaguely heard of Keats' poetry before, so I wanted to discover who this poet really was...

Watching the movie made me reminiscent of a the romanticist phase I had endured at one point in my life...well that point still preoccupies me sometimes. I still aspire to become a writer sometime. The movie was a case in point of the little appreciation people give to the creative and literary culture. Some eloquent phrases from the movie that truly struck me were:

-"Poetry needs understanding through the senses."

-"If the poem does not come as natural as the leaves of a tree, then it better not come at all."

Some of these ideas were truly moving... Keats hit the spot for me because I am a great admirer of Romanticist poetry, especially that of Wordsworth and Coleridge since I'd taken them in High School. Nowadays, I mostly indulge in mystical poetry, such as Rumi and Hafiz since they complement my quest for soul searching...

The rest of movie was tailored to those seeking a romantic/love story, which was fine but it was sort of a fantasy fairy tale, which detracted from the authenticity of the Keats' story...

Also, coming up next month is the Virginia Film Festival, which is due to take place in Charlottesville, so I'll definitely be looking forward to that..

What do you know, I've found myself a new Charlottesville tradition...

Where Does God Live?

I once read somewhere something along the lines of:

I looked for God in a church; I could not find Him.
I looked for God in a mosque; I could not find Him.
I looked for God in my heart, and I found Him.

These sage words have remained with me since. Belief in God, I believe, is an internal as the deepest corner of the heart, where His sacred temple resides. I have always thought to myself, does the location and techniques we use to worship Him really matter? Imagine if we could convert a consumerist hub like a mall, with all its luscious space, into a mosque. Or rather, what if it were a universal mosque, where Jews, Christians, and Muslims can worship God in their own approach; because isn't it the same God after all?

Yet, I do have to admit that I was stunned by what I witnessed yesterday. I never thought about it, but to this day, we continue to build our houses of worship in old-age architecture. Why is that? Is religion not compatable with modernity? Hence, for the first time in my life, I had witnessed a modern-style architecturally built mosque; it was simply revolutionary. Not only that, but the mosque's designer was a female, quite a feat in and of itself in the Islamic world.

I was flabbergasted when first reading an article about the construction of this mosque sometime ago on a bbc article, but visiting this mosque yesterday was a completely different experience. The simplicity and modernity of the mosque's interior and courtyard emitted such a tranquility I had not experienced at a mosque before. Even the design of the mosque itself took theological philosophy into consideration, which I thought was remarkable. Although the designer had placed the prayer section for women behind that of the men, it had elevated them to allow them a better glimpse of the mosque's internal view. I thought this to be very much in line with the notion that heaven is underneath mothers' feel in Islam, i.e. the mosque symbolizing heaven.

Overall, I feel like Islam has always encouraged architecture as a means of positively influencing believers. This is not an Islamic concept on its own, but one of all faiths. Yet, since our childhood, we are told that a mosque is God's home. No wonder why the architects of Istanbul's graceful mosques have meticulously strived to manifest God in their work. I recall reading in Alain de Botton's Architecture of Happiness that Islamic theologians strived to write beauty into matter in the construction of mosques, because ultimately beauty beauty translanted into purity and goodness of faith. This was the believe that by absorbing the beauty of architecture, one could become a better person. This is very much in line with the teachings of Avicenna's teachings that "God is the source of every beautiful thing."

I believe that the moral of this story is that with modernity in Islam can still come beauty...

The Philosophy of Emulation

Days and days of delving into literature and art have led me to conclude that everything is a mere emulation of something else, i.e. its double. From people to paintings, nothing seems original to me anymore.

The string of words you read before your eyes and they stylistic means by which I intermingle them are an adoption of the convoluted web of the archives of my literary intelligence. As I extrapolate this theorem, I hereby claim that everything under the sun is a mere replica of...yes, you've figured it out, something else under the sun.

This thought occurred to me not out of a spark of ingenuity, but rather from experience. To claim that two "creations" are identical may be a bit too far fetched, but to claim that all knowledge is built upon a precedent reservoir of other, twin-like knowledge would not be outlandish. So you ask yourself, what about the issues of plagiarism and intellectual property that seem to be the buzz words of today? Well I hate to break it to you, but they're meaningless in the literary and art world. Let me prove my point...

Ever since my youth, I have always taken pride in claiming that so-and-so invention belonged to my civilization, be it Egyptian, Islamic, or Arab...

Just when we were learning about the "atom" in middle school, I recall, during a cab ride up 2nd Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan, the Pakistani driver was insistent on proving to me that the West had ripped off everything from the East. It were the likes of Ibn Sina, Ibn Firnas, etc... that were behind such great movements like the Scientific Revolution and not their Western counterparts. I was convinced.

I was young, biased, and uninformed at the time... for I was later taught that "All knowledge is one!" It doesn't matter who invented what or who stole what from what...as long as it was a contribution to the breadth of mankind's understanding of this dream we call life, the it was valid...

To begin with, all knowledge is traced back to the Source. Whether you believe in God or Allah, all knowledge is divinely inspired, or so I believe. Whether it's Ibn Arabi's account of Mohamed's travels to the seven heavens or Dante's Divine Comedy, they are both one and the same, inspired by the Source. The fact that both discources discuss Heaven and Hell at about the same time to such exact twin-like precision indicates that there must be an inspring Source.

After reading Robinson Crusoe, I was proud of accomplishing a feat worthy of laudation, i.e. reading the first novel ever written in English. I was shocked to then find out that this was a mere copy of the Moorish Ibn Tufeyl's novel with the same plot, except applied to an Arab setting. This time the outcast was marooned on a desert island instead of a nautical one.

The point is to claim that so and so is a rip-off of so and so is to simplistic when delving into the matter of twin-like knowledge.

I recently toured an exhibition at the Sabanci Museum titled "Travel to the West". It was the story of the Turkish artists of the 19th century that ventured to Paris to acquire a taste for design, perspective, anatomy, and artistic concepts that would leand them to emulate the classical, romantic, and realistic movement works of their French counterparts. What these Turks came back with is the skill set of painting Istanbul with the same exact techniques that the French painted Paris. Hence, emulation of knowledge under different circumstances is another attribute of imitation.

This brings me to the point that I've been craving to make. Does it ever occur to you that you try to become somebody else? Well, think about it, don't we live in a society that expects to act a certain way, look a certain way, achieve in a certain way... Say, in religion, isn't it a matter of reaching perfection so as to emulate the virtues of Mohamed or Jesus, in work and business, isn't it a matter of achieving the success of some tycoon, say Bill Gates, in sports its a David Beckham, et cetera, et cetera. The point is, in every realm of knowledge or every activity in life, there is always an extreme that one has to imitate.

To be frank, I really have no clue where I'm going with this entry, but I'm enjoying penning down my stream of consciousness...

But what if one becomes too enveloped in this craving to become someone else? Does it lead to instanity or ingenuity? Can one become one's self? Should one be embarressed that he's not satisfied with his own being and is always eyeing others to emulate or is that what we should aspire to be doing (either because of personal or societal reasons)? I pose these questions to some curious reader who has ventured this far...

But if what if there truly is a soul-mate out there that is meant for us to emulate? Is it loneliness and lack of self-worth that drives one to want to be someone else, or is it truly our destiny to morph into some other being? Whether its through our actions, writings, or reasoning, is there anything that we acquire and produce that is truly original? Does the mere rearrangement of acquired knowledge to innovate considered original?

Now that I do not believe in originality, I believe that the true art of emulation stems from the adaption of the phenomena created, or rather emulated, over the centuries by our forefathers who roamed this world who were inspired by divinity. By drawing upon the creations of these renaissance men, and tweeking these creations a bit here and a bit there, aren't we creating something that can be called our own?

This is the reason why I am inspired to write. Reading something truly magnificent, be it a poem of Rumi's, a prose from some Nobel laureate's speech, or some other great work, I aspire to also become a creator of such a marvel. Hence, to draw upon other sources as I write is a way of continuing the philosophy of emulation.. I implore you to think, dear reader, whether this philosophy could truly be the "secret" that has led many on the paths of success, fame, and glory...

Impressionism, Cubism, Urban Realism, etc...

I just got back from the UVa Art Museum studio, where I spent another three-hour art session enlightening myself on this fascinating world of art. This is a continuation of the art class I've enrolled in to explore my hidden creativity. Today, Fanella, the art instructor wanted to take us down another lane of the schools of art. Subsequent to really focusing on realism in the previous class, she wanted to introduce us to the development of art and its gradual progression to abstraction. As she put it, she wanted to walk us, hand in hand, through a dark tunnel with flashlights. What truly intrigued me was that we were not only surveying the different realms of art, but the development of human perception.

Initially, Fanella, took us to a realism gallery dating from the 1800s. She explained that since the time of the renaissance until the late 1800s, realism was emphasized by the artist. It was encouraged to depict subjects as they appeared in everyday life without any unique signature touches of the artist. This objective reality condemned any deviations that may have expressed the artist's own impressions or emotions. She pointed out some techniques involved in realism, which was particularly objects closer to us, the viewer, entailed a much higher level of detail and that the colors for these objects were much saturated. As one looks into the distance of a landscape, for instance, the colors tend to blemish, become diluted, and the details are not so precise. This would allow the effect of proportionality to take place since the greater the distance, the less clear objects become. Fanella gave the example of road signs; the further they are, they less we can make out what they say. Notice this painting by Millet, titled the Gleaners, where is is very classical realism, but one can make out the details of the women, the colors of their clothing and hats, whereas the distance looks blemished and the colors are fading in contrast to the deep rich colors of the women's clothing.


We were next taken to a gallery of Modern American Impressionism and Urban Realism. This was a much richer type of art in my eyes. The impressionist works we viewed endeavored to capture the experience, or rather the impressions, or the artist. There tends to be much more fluidity, dynamism, and activity in life. It is for this reason, artists attempted to capture this reality by from how we perceive, not merely by how it appears. Impressionism gives us a different sensational feeling than realism and it is for this reason that it deviates drastically from how an object might appear from reality, on the path to abstraction. These paintings were marked with a collage of brushstrokes of different colors, almost appearing like pixels of a digital photograph. The more brushstrokes, the more intense the detail. Moreover, impressionist art overemphasized certain aspects of a painting, such as the emphasis on light. Also, aspects of life that we may perceive to be something ordinary take on a whole new dimension because the artist is attuned on a different frequency level than we are. He captures the reflections, sparkles, current, waves of water with a plethora of colors that defies our expectations of water being simply blue and green. For example, this painting of Monet:

reveals the water to have strands of green, blue, white, brown, black, and even orange to represent the reflection of the setting sun. The human experience is what is emphasized in this genre of art, especially in terms of the angles and perceptions through which the artist visualizes this art. This was a revolution in the art world and it evolved much more outdoors painting simply so that the artist could live the experience and transmit it on canvas.

Our last tour for the day was that of the cubist gallary, which encompassed various modernist paintings of Picasso and Braque, the artists who spearheaded cubism. Inspired by recently imported art from Africa, especially African masks, cubism was a new way for artists to express their perception of the human body into various dimensions. Breaking up the body included realizing that it was a creation of different components with different shades, volumes, and overall specifications. Notice the rigidity and segmentation of the human face in this African mask:

Cubism attempted to breakdown and capture the simplicity and segmentation of the human figure, essentially into cubes. This was a radical and influential deviation from all precedent forms of art. Moreover, human figures tend to be abiguous because the visual images of the human body tend to split up, drawn from different angles, and reassembled to create one object from multiple angles. This allows breadth of insight into the understanding of the artist's perception of the object. One object, drawn on the same canvas from different angles becomes multiple objects morphed into one. Cubism is the as abstract as we'd gotten so far as it times time, pondering, and contemplation to interpret the movement, animation, and story behind each cubist artwork. The following is a cubist portrait of the master of cubism, Picasso:


Our attempt for today's drawing session was to capture still life from a multitude of dimensions, while giving it a cubist and abstract touch. Since we couldn't afford hiring a model to pose for us, we had to settle with stuffed animals for the time being. I picked a stuffed teddy rabbit as my object. Our mission was to capture the three-dimensional, active, movement of this still object. The action would not necessarily be a result of the rabbit moving, but rather, our perception of the rabbit from different angles and with different drawing techniques. Firstly, we drew the objects from one fixed position with a single stroke of a pencil, without ever removing it from the paper; we then drew the object from a different position, with a different colored pencil, this time without looking. Lastly, we drew the same object from a diametrically opposite angle. We then shaded the three rabbits in with the respective colors. At this point, we attempted to morph the three rabbits into one. We did this by mixing and matching the rabbits so as to give them life and animation. Below is my attempt:



I understand that my drawing may come across as a bunch of kindergarten scribbles, but it was my attempt at emulating the perceptions of art I had absorbed for the day. It is through these endeavors, which may seem silly, that I feel like I am stretching my imagination and gaining more confidence in my creations.

Drawing 101

Why is it that I am able to express myself so profoundly verbally, yet lack the means to do so visually? Even though I am a great admirer of the arts, why have I never conjured the courage to endeavor to emulate them? Could that traumatic experience of being told that I am a "blind" when it comes to art by my art teacher in 9th grade have discouraged me for the rest of my life?

These were the questions for which I was seeking answers for when I decided to enroll in the Univerity's Drawing in the Museum class offered by the UVa Art Museum. Whether it had been witnessing someone doodle in class or observe someone contemplate while attempt to copy a masterpiece in a gallery, I have always envied those with the talent of drawing. Yet, I was always convinced that drawing is not a natural talent and can be learned. Why? Because, just like learning to walk and talk, it is a natural talent that we must strive to realize and tap into its potential. We are artists in every aspect of our lives. From getting up in the morning and mixing and matching our clothes to the way we design the interior of our room. It is for this reason that all that is needed to actually realize one's potential when it comes to drawing, painting, or any form of visual art is practice! The potential is in us... In my case, I just gave up way to early and never gave myself a chance.

As I rushed into the Art Museum around 1pm, unpunctual as usual, I was excited to see that the gathering of students signed up for this course were a mere dozen, all of which had minimal art experience. Surprisingly, they were all souls looking for answers to the questions that I was also seeking. One of them found the need and craving to create. The other wanted to revive a childhood favorite pastime. This was reassuring because I would have felt quite intimidated if there would have been some advanced artists.

Just like me, this group were great admirers of the arts. We compared notes on what schools of arts we enjoyed. Everyone but me enjoyed realism. For some strange reason, I felt inclined to side with the abstraction school. Abstraction induces more creativity, whereby the artist doesn't merely give you the answer to your questions, but allows you to interpret them according to your own temperament and experiences.

The instructor, Fenella, walked us through the syllabus, whereby she would take us on a journey through the arts. We would experiment with different techniques; everything from cubism to impressionism. I had always read and admired these art forms, but never imagined myself actually using them for my own productions. Fenella also informed us that the classes objective was the process of creating art and not the end-product. We would focus on emulating the artwork in the museum a

To give us a taste of what we would play around with, Fenella took on a tour of the Picasso/Matisse exhibit on display; I know, I never would have imagined that UVA would ever host the masterpieces of these two art giants. We viewed various portraits, analyzed their proportions, determined what features the artist was emphasizing, etc... Fenella was trying to make us through the art through the eyes of its creator. How much of the art was realism? How much of it was the artist's imagination and creativity?

Upon returning to the art studio, we were told to sit opposite of another student. For the next two hours, we would carry out the daunting task of attempting to draw him/her without making them look absolutely horrible. I was reasured that Elyss, my drawing partner would forgive me. The most important aspect of actually drawing our partner's portrait was to get the proportions right. It is for this reason that Fenella advised us to break down the process of drawing a face into steps. Behind the art was the mathematics. We were required to divide the face using axes lines, leveling the eyes, nose, chin, mouth. There were definitely mathematical techniques to all of this and it was a matter of getting the bigger picture correct before pursuing the rest.

One also had to establish a personal relationship with the subject of the portrait. While drawing, Elyss and I conversed about our backgrounds and origins. This aided us in familiarizing ourselves with one another and to formulate a perception of the other person. This definitely influenced my drawing of her.

It was a very unusual experience because there would be times where we would need to make eye contact for a minute straight without uttering a word in order to capture every detail of the pupil: the glare, the complexity, the intimacy, the depth... By the mere expression on her face, my mind wandered into wondering about her past, what she was thinking at that moment, what are her future plans, was she thinking what was running through my own mind? It was a very absurd, yet intriguing experience.

Once my painting of her began to look ugly in my eyes, I began worrying that she might be disappointed; I began losing confidence. It was at this point that Fenella revealed the drawing to Elyss. The latter was more than forgiving with me, but Fenella gave me some pointers to improve my painting. I needed to add more volume to the lush black hair, I needed to capture the sorrow shades around her eyes, capture the curves of her slim long nose. I felt that Fenella was passing her artistic eyes on to me.

At the point when I felt that my drawing was complete, there was a small modification that I sought. This would lead me to changing a whole aspect of her face, like completely erasing the nose and starting all over again. Regardless of the setbacks I faces, I was learning by doing it myself. I experimented with shading, 3D illusions, details, etc... I was gaining more confidence, rushing to make alterations before they slipped my mind. It was like writing for me; I sought perfection, at least in my eyes.

Portrait of Elyss

Realistically, I understand that my drawing of Elyss is far from complete, but it opened my heart to this new passion of drawing. I stuck around after the session to discuss some techniques about proportions with Fenella. Although I was looking forward to viewing the Picasso/Matisse gallery more carefully after the class, I felt the sudden urge to write, so I run home to pen the thoughts your read before your eyes...It amuses me how one passion stimulates the other.

The Cartoon Revolution

Ever since writing my old post (i.e. A Voice for The Arab World) on Carlos Latuff, the Brazilian political cartoonist, I had started corresponding the artist himself to express my admiration for his cause and his art. I was ecstatic when Carlos replied to me to thank me for comparing him to the likes of Guevara and Nasser for voicing the plight on behalf of the oppressed and speaking out against injustice.

As the current crisis in Gaza is escalating, I am saddened to see the world stand by in idleness as more than a thousand Palestinians have been killed. My sympathy for the Palestinians is not one out of my Arab identity, but one out of the fact that I am a human and cannot stand blind as such a humanitarian genocide takes place. It is in this light that I believe that every human who has emotions should take action, no matter how minuscule his or her impact may be, to put an end to the war in Gaza and bring about Peace in the Middle East. I know that it starts with us, the new generations of the Middle East to bring about any peace and justice. It is for this reason that I have joined the Students for Peace and Justice in Palestine organization here at the university. I and Assad are heading the Publicity initiative to raise awareness by puttying up fliers to keep university students informed of the latest news regarding the crisis. I truly hope that our efforts will make some sort of impact.

Tying this back in with my correspondence with Carlos, the artist encouraged me to spread his work. He informed me that "my art is your art". It is this selfless spirit that will allow us to achieve our dream of bringing about justice in the region. Especially in a country like the US where ignorance tends to be prevalent, I think it is imperative that everyone one who is informed carry out their share of duty to inform those who are ignorant. In the words of Carlos,

"I beg you reader, my brothers and sisters-in-arts, to spread these cartoons. Reproduce them in posters, newspapers, magazines, zines, blogs, everywhere. Let's make the voice of the Gaza people to be heard all around the world."

Likewise, I encourage everyone to do all that they can to raise awareness regarding this issue, even if with a cartoon, to bring about an information revolution that can bring about justice about the genocide taking place in Gaza.

For more of Latuff's artwork, check out: http://tales-of-iraq-war.blogspot.com/
For more artwork to raise awareness about the current situation: http://www.gazaresist.com/

The Art of Chinese Tea

After spending almost a month here in China, I have come to realize that the consumption of green tea is both an art and a lifestyle that is unmatched anywhere else in the world. Luckily for me, my taste buds are akin to the exasperating taste of tea. As I have found out from a Chinese friend, and after doing some reading, the history of Chinese tea is not one that merely satisfies the Chinese, but is ingrained in an ancient philosophy of their way of life, i.e. the philosophy of Qi Gong, which is an art and science of natural energy.

Obviously I knew the difference between green, black, and herbal tea, but never realized that the richness of the tea can vary to various degrees. It was a realization I made when my Chinese friend, Xiaohuan offered me tea from the Yunan province, told to be some of the rarest and most precious tea offered in China. I realized that the aroma, color and taste of the tea all played a role in giving one the pleasure of tea. I was later informed that the cultivation of tea is an art in China. The climate, the soil, the quality of cultivation, and the degree of fermentation all determine the kind of tea one can be sipping. Evidently, green tea is tea in its purest tea as it is mostly unfermented, while black tea is the result of fermented green tea. I was actually shocked to find out that both black and green tea originate from the same plant, i.e. camellia sinensis.

Tea's quality doesn't matter only for aesthetic or flavor reasons, but has a long history. Tea is a natural form of Chinese medicine. Each type of tea, according to Chinese legend, has its own energy level according to the Qi Gong philosophy. Xiaohuan's father once informed me that it is advisable to drink black tea in the winter and green tea in the summer to balance our internal and external temperature levels.

On another level, tea has spiritual benefits and has long been used by Buddhists for meditation. I truly have experienced tea's mood altering effects. Believe me, some incense and tea can be the ultimate stress reliever.

Personally, I enjoy my cup of tea to be bitter in flavor by not adding any sugar to it. I am not sure whether it is a habit to taste the meloncholic life that I sometimes love to embrace or whether its merely my taste buds craving to taste tea in its most original form. From experience, I can attest that tea helps one become serene, bright, and healthy. What I truly tend to savor about tea is the company of friends and family I will be enjoying this tea. Tea is an excellent way to share harmony, peace, and tranquility with others.

While reading some Taoist texts, I happened to cross upon a poem about tea that I tremendously enjoyed.

In gratitude for a gift of fresh tea

The first bowl moistens my lips and throat;
The second bowl banishes all loneliness;
The third bowl clears my mind of words and books.
At the fourth cup, I begin to perspire-
life's troubles evaporate through my pores.
The firth cup cleanses my entire being.
Six cups and I am in the realm of the Divine.
Seven cups-ah, but I can drink no more:
I can only feel the gentle breeze blowing through my sleeves,
wafting me away to the Isle of Immortality!

-Lu Tong, 18th Century Chinese Poet

"Word Painting"

Word seem to trickle from my mind onto the screen like a god sparkling stars in the heavy velvet sky. It is in this essence that I have recently learned of a new writing technique that goes by the name of word painting. In my quest to excel as a writer, I have been seeking alternative forms of the art of writing, similar to an artist experimenting with realism, modernism, impressionism, in an endeavor to best suite his style.

Word painting is a technique similar to oil painting on a canvas but in an analogy a means to ferment our ideas and impressions on the beauty of a certain concept on paper. This is the backbone of all great works that allows the writer to divulge, in deep description about his deepest feelings. Novelists tend to manifest these innermost emotions through the personalities and personas of their fictional characters just as a painter might bring out the beauty of a scenery before his eyes.

At times, we find that our descriptions of certain impressions don't do justice to explain how we really feel. Its not the same as providing your reader the body language and gestures that you might try to convince to a reader of a certain feeling. Simply said, its not the same as a "face to face" conversation with the reader. It is thus imperative to word paint to bring across to your reader the true essence behind what your aim to convey.

Every human is innately an artist. Every human is capable of word painting. It is merely required of every human to search in the deepest of his abysses for the true meaning of his emotions to dig out the right words as if they are unpolished gems and make them shine with the forces of adjectives, adverbs, transition phrases, and descriptors that will make the read as free flowing and colorful as water painting.

When writing of a certain idea or emotion, be specific, inquire as to what it is you really feel. Ask yourself what, where, why, when, and how your may be feeling the way you do. Be concise, avoid redundancy, analyze your emotions, visualize and feel what your are saying. Your words are a representative of yourself. Wouldn't your want to put yourself in the spotlight among other writers and have others appreciate your work as a form of art? Otherwise our writing becomes a chain of phrases, idioms, and expressions that are cliche and borrowed from popular culture outlets, such as films, songs, and other un-intellectual outlets of the entertainment industry. Hence, be original!

Not only does word painting explore our psychological subconscious of how we perceive the world, it opens the reader's eyes to new dimensions of impressions and emotions. We can experience new moods of elation through mere descriptions, such as visualizing vast, lush, green meadows with dew forming droplets of cool, refreshing water on the meadow lining the hill's body like the scales of a slumbering dragon. Visualize the imagery and feel the mood of awe that such a silly statement that can give you. Through such descriptions, we don't only inform the reader of the insight behind the subject matter, but enlighten ourselves as to what moved us and why it did the way it did.

I recently attended an art exhibition celebrating the 30 years of reform in China, where I say several artists with a pen and paper in hand sketching figures and details that inspired from the paintings of the galleries. This reminded me of the time I'd gone to Ataturk's museum in Turkey when I would carry my diary and pen around and "water paint" how I felt towards certain articles of possession, achievements, and inspiring traits of the modern founder of a Turkey. In a sense, I was water painting in an effort to attempt to emulate such a great leader's achievements, with hopes of instilling such impressions upon myself so that I may, one day, when given the opportunity, seek to bring about similar reform in myself, my community, my nation, and my world. Since then, I have carried out this tradition in museums so that I could benefit of the impressions that were drawn, carved, welded, written by the generations of the past. It is through word painting that we can record our impressions in certain circumstances and carry them with us through time to the future. Also through the process of word painting, we are drawn back to past times with the stimuli of smells, sounds, and feelings that allow us to drawn upon our past experiences to record our present condition to influence our future moods. Writing ties together past, present, and future phases of our lives through the mere phrases that define our word painting. It is in this spirit that I am able to visit the Mostafa of the past and talk to the Mostafa of the future.

I dedicate this entry to someone who taught me, but I never had the opportunity to express my deepest gratitude for bestowing me with this fruitful passion that keeps me awake in the late hours of every night. Thank you Dr. Henderickson, my IB English professor. Although you were strict and critical, you opened the world of writing to me, a world that I could spend a thousand lifetimes wandering in. I am forever grateful. Let this be a follow up manifesto towards my journey to develop and hone the skills of a writer.

On the Exoticism of the Orient

Since my arrival to China, I have observed many similar traits that transcend the borders of what has come to identified as the Orient. These traits have been observed, imagined, and recorded by Western Orientalists. Through my readings of oriental works ranging from Gustav Flaubert to Edward Said, I have come to the conclusion that there is a intricate entanglement between fact and fiction of the Oriental world. During my readings of my part of the world and that of the Far East, which I have been trying to familiarize myself with even more, I was astounded to see that there is a truly exotic flavor to what the orient truly is. Through my literary journeys with Flaubert, Delacroix, Voltaire, Defoe, Goethe and even Pamuk, I have come to identify some sources of this multifaceted identity of the Orient that has come to intrigue some of the greatest philosophes to walk this earth.

Before divulging into my findings, I would like to make two points clear. Primarily, my investigation of the Oriental world should not be confused with Edward Said's criticism of Western stereotypes of the Arab and Muslim world, but is an embracement of the literary and artistic achievement of Western philosophers in emulating the virtues they witnessed on their travels to the region. The second point is that although I will aim to extend my investigation to reach the furthest corners of the Oriental World, from Turkey in the Far West of the Orient and China in the Far East of the Orient, my bias will tend to drift to a focus on the center of the Orient, Egypt.

It is in this spirit that I will strive to romanticize the land of the Orient by exploring the various avenues that it has led to occupied in the fantasies of Orientalists for many centuries. First and foremost, Orientalism is a result of the mutual cultural exchange between the West and East and the apprehensions each of of sides had of the other. Various artistic and literary emulations of the East have ranged from Turquerie to Chinoiserie, which respectively are imitations of Turkish and Chinese art forms in the West. I can divulge about Montesquieu's Persian Letters or Van Gogh's emulation of Japanese art, which both seem tremendously exotic to me, but instead I choose focus on land that, although dubbed oriental, doesn't seem to exotic in my eyes, mostly because of my ardent familiarization with it. Although the exotism of Egypt "as a distant land" doesn't quite appeal to me, its ancient history is one that boggles my mind. How could single land have hosted some of history's renown men and women, face so many cultural changes, influence the world and be influenced in so many ways and yet retain such a firm identity. This mere notion excites me with the exoticism of my homeland and fills me with expansive, lovely, glorious, poetic dreams of a land that seems so exotic even though I can claim right to calling it my own. These are the stimuli that exoticism have on one!

Flaubert was once quoted by characterising the orient with a single phrase:
"Long live the sun, long live the orange trees, palm trees, lotus flowers, and cool pavilions paved with marble and wood-panelled chambers that talk of love! the Orient with her burning sun, her blue skies, her golden minarets, her caravans through the sand, the tanned, olive skin of Asiatic women-the Orient!"

The imagery of this single quote is what fills my imagination like a pot filling a cask of cool mint tea on a sunny day in the desert. Reading of the orient quenches my thirst for exoticism, for the desire to continue living and traveling in oriental lands.

Now the Orient isn't just the beauty that the European romanticists depict to be, it is also the dreggy slums and backstreets of Cairo and Istanbul, but I have come to admire the dust and filth as a characteristic that defines the Orients modern day melancholic condition as Pamuk recounts in his memories of Istanbul. I could sit in the midst of the chaos in Khan El Khalili bazaar for hours on end and embrace and appreciate the shouting of the sales bakaals, the multilingual bargaining of merchants with what seem to us as exotic blonde foreigners, the Athan broadcasted above the minarets of El Huessain Mosque, the various aromas of the spice market, the colors of the various Chinese silk and Egyptian cotton garments, the moaning of donkeys, the sparkling lights of the Sufi night shows. Isn't this the colorful clamor that defines the Orient? Isn't the legendary Silk Road the bond that defines the fraternity of the Eastern cultures?

I understand that you may be wondering where this entry is going to take me... but that is another trait of the orient: the fluid, non-structured, and eclectic stream of conscious that might seem heretic to the orthodox mind. The chaos that defines the orient is the natural tendency for life to be all over the place, to be natural, free from the man-made structures and systems that we constrained the freedom of life to flow. Orientalism is the realization that life is the water that flows with volatility when shattering a glass filled with water. Tidiness and neatness disgust the orientalist as he seeks the natural tendency of life! We cannot deny that humans are not the divine, G0d-made creatures that we always envision them to be in their best light, but they are also animals that can be reckless and wild, and the Orient is the epitome of the jungle that defines the freedom for their imagination to flow. This best evident in the arts of Tunisian tiles where flowers, fruits, and nature are intricately intertwined to produce master pieces of art. Moreover, Persian poetry, which is so light and free flowing is what paints these images in words that can allow each individually to paint such imagery with his or her own imagination.

Moreover, the orient is a land where duality is defines the nature of people with an acceptance of the glorious palaces while the witness of the poor and filthy, a history of several milenia while the latest trend setting sky scrapers of the modern cities, the sexual fantasies of the harem and the purity and sacredness of religion, and so on and so forth. It is this duality that makes the Orient so bewildering to the Western mind. How could a culture have such diametrically opposite directions of aims.

To this day, the orient boggles our mind with a vast array of historical novels, films, photos, paintings, etc... Fortunately I can relive this exotic world of the orient through my readings and travels and see what remains of what truly fascinated the Western travelers that came to be known as the Orientalists. I sincerely hope that my fortune to travel and read such an expansive array of works will enlighten me and allow me to carry the torch that has shed such positive light on the Orient in what seem to be the Orient's dark times of today.

Am I A Character In Chicago?

Today, I skimmed through the first couple of pages of Alaa El Aswany's Chicago after reading several synopses of the novel. I was thinking to myself how many many of the characters reminded me of someone, and all of the sudden it hit me that I could be that someone. I believe that El Aswany gives life to each and everyone of these characters and their struggle as Egyptians attending univeristy in the U.S. Each of these characters carries his or her unique persona and gives a dimension to the different personalities of Egyptians, except in a Western context. I felt as if I could identify with each of these characters on a personal level and that each of them give a single facet in a multifaceted being, i.e. myself.

The novel dwells into the many stereotypes imposed on Egyptian characters post 9/11. Having experienced America as an Arab for the majority of the years after 9/11, I can definitely relate to the experiences of these characters on a spiritual and mundane level. Aswany gives life to these characters that I feel that they are fellow students go through the same struggles I go through. At times, I feel these characters personify me, they express what I keep bottled up inside me because I feel like I cannot share some of these emotions with others.

From Chicago, I learn that I learn to seek joy in the saddest places, which is what I used to consider Charlottesville. I have learned to put aside ignorance and close-mindedness and replace them with a sense of eagerness to learn. I hope that my observations will one day pay off, as they have for Aswany through his experiences in Chicago.

To my relief...Syria's booming art scene

Just as I was about to end my blogging session of the day, I stumbled upon some inspiration that gave me hope after my disgruntled mood, as manifest in my last post. So maybe the art scene in the Arab World isn't so bleak after all. While consuming my daily news feed on BBC's website, I caught a glimpse of a refreshing article in the midst of the the dismal headlines that flood the BBC's Middle East page. Never would I have imagined to view an article, or rather a slide show, on the art scene in a country one hears so little about in Western media, i.e. Syria.

Syria is honestly one of the places I have been simply yearning to see. Of the two Arab countries that top my list of places to see, Syria and Morocco, the Eastern and Western endpoints of the Middle East. Despite hearing that Syria is much more conservative than Egypt, I know that I feel like Syrians are very intellectual and sophisticated after exchanging some conversations with the professors here. Moreover, unlike Egypt, I feel like Syria is a pearl that hasn't suffered the same negative repercussions of الانفتاح that Egypt has witnessed after the 1980s. To some extent, I consider Syria as an untouched pearl that has some of the age-old traditions of the Arab world. Anyways, that's just the impression I get from this exotic land of the far east of the Arab World.

Of all the Arab countries, it seems that Syria art scenes is booming beyond imagination despite the limitations on freedom of expression. Not surprisingly, the art scene is driven by Syria's bohemian subculture that congregates of landmark cafes in Damascus. I can almost picture them as shabbier versions of Naguib Mahfouz's Cafe in Khan El Khali, where I absolutely loved going especially for their delicious Omm Ali. What intrigues when reading about the clandestine Cafe meetings is that it is an expression of classical and modern Arabic art, be it poetry or music, whereby the Arab world's art renaissance will come about.

What is unfortunate though is that these artists are forced underground. I was especially endeared after viewing a slideshow of renown Syrian artist Hala Faisal, which is a mere specimen of the conditions that Arab artists have to endure. Its saddening to witness how dire the conditions under which these artists live in. It is almost a deja vu of tragic stories associated with some of history's prominent artists, such as Van Gogh and Matisse, whom we don't give recognition until after their deaths. I just wish that we would appreciate the talent that we have before its too late...

Click on the link to view more works of Hala Faisal's galleries.

A Critique Of Modern Arabic Literature

"Art is one instinct of our nature."-Aristotle

Why is our modern literature plagued with satire, criticism, objectivity, and melancholy? That is the question that preoccupied for the past three hours, as I sat my Arabic Fiction final. As my eyes skimmed the works of سعد اللة ونوس، هالة سرحان، غادة السمان، كليوت الخولي, I couldn't help but think to myself that Arabic literature truly mirrors the bottled-up expressions of the Arab people.

In our part of the world, "art for the sake of art" is a notion of complete absurdity. Art, for us, must voice the resentment for the status quo; otherwise, it is rubbish. In my eyes, it defies logic for art to be logical, as ironic as that sounds. Art should be an expression of, or rather sublimation of, the artist's imagination, purely appreciated out of its historical value. Unfortunately, I there to be a void when it comes to this in the Arab world. For us, Art is a tool that serves as propaganda by the government, criticism by the intellectual, or a mere distraction for the masses though mind numbing pop music and soap operas.

This all started with the initiation of الحركة الفنية الملتزمة where art for the sake of art, or for the sake of creativity, romanticism, and impressionism was looked down upon at a time when the State needed to mobilize the nation to recover from النكسة. This saw the likes of Umm Kalthoum, Abdel Halim Hafez, Abdel Wahab, and others divert their attention from singing of the romanticist time period of the Arab World to that of nationalist populism. Unfortunately, individualist spirit that inspired the births of some of the most ingenious art movements, such as Cubism, Surrealism, and Expressionism in the West, was regarded as being apathetic since they failed to sacrifice for the sake of the national struggle. Instead of becoming an outlet for artists to project their natural artistic tendencies, art had to have a meaning.

I might have this impression due to the academic milieu in which this class was set, but even from my readings outside of the class, such as Alaa Al Aswany's Yacoubian Building, that has become world renown, the success that seems to stem from his work is his criticism and bleek depiction of Egypt's society. Would he have enjoyed such success if he had focused on the merits of Egyptian society? Are there even any merits to the Egyptian society that an artists eye to produce a masterpiece from?

To conclude, I am going to go on a tangent, but who deems whether art is popular? Isn't it Western critics? Why have the critical works of Middle Eastern society, such as Orhan Pamuk and Naguib Mahfouz (with all due respect to these eminent writers), reaped Western recognition and the ultimate medal of honor of Western civilization the Nobel Prize? Isn't it because of their appeal to the Western audience of perpetuating the image that the Middle East is in a state of social decadence?

This may be a very pessimistic outlook, and I truly hope that I am wrong on every point I make, but it just seems to me that art fails to serve its true purpose in the Arab world, and that is to abstract the humanistic sentiments, instincts, and imagination from social objectives, propaganda, and entertainment.

It is in this spirit that one can understand Aristotle's philosophy that Art is not only a sixth sense, but a necessity, just as natural as breathing, to ensure human survival.

Augmentation:

I just found this quote by Orhan Pamuk that described Turkey's literary/artistic scene of the past that is representative of the state in which Arabic Literature is still stranded:

"There was little interest in the problem of the individual creative writer who drew from history and tradition, or who went in search of the literary form that best accommodated his voice. Instead, literature was allied to the future: its job was to work hand in hand with the state to build a happy and harmonious society."

Travel & Expectation

"If our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then perhaps few activities reveal as much about the dynamics of this quest-in all its ardor and paradoxes-than our travels"
-Alain de Botton
As promised to a very special friend who is currently traveling, I will reflect upon experiences traveling as a prelude China excursion this winter. I've always used my diary as a travel log, but for once, I'm going to experiment with travel blogging to track my experiences, feelings, and stream of consciousness when traveling.

I won't go so far as to dub myself a globe-trotter, but I can testify that I've seen a fair share of this world since my youth to say a thing or two about the experiences entailed with traveling. As a child, traveling was a nuisance, being pulled from one corner of the world to the other without my consent, but today, it has become a passion that I yearn for as I sit in my desolate room. I miss the excitement, the anxiety, the joy, and the stress of it all. Although I sit for long hours in my room with the dim light on, I am actually traveling beyond your wildest imagination. My mind takes me from Fiji to Switzerland in a matter of seconds. In lieu of the nomadic lifestyle I once led, I have resorted to books as the cure to my longing to see the world. Whether it's Flaubert's oriental description of the Nile crocodiles, Wordsworth's poetry of the Alps' grandiose scenery, or diary entries about Che's cruises on the Mambo Tango down the Amazon, I devour these experiences with a spirit that makes me hungry to get out there and make my trails in the world.

As a sit in this box I have come to call my world, with Henry Mancini playing smooth jazz as the rain drips outside, all I can do is expect...i.e. expect the next time the wind will blow me off my feet to another continent. From my experiences, this is the first step of travel: expectation. As the dull gray clouds paint the sky, I reminisce on the exotic sunny days of Hainan where all there was to worry about was who would get to the beach volleyball court first. Hainan is the ideal retreat for the mind, soul, and body.
When I reminisce about my stay in Hainan, the subtropical island in the south of China, I conjure images of palm trees on a bright sandy beach set against a magnificent background of misty hills, where coconut juice is the traditional thirst quencher, and the only form of commerce is the sale of peals and sea shells. And the best thing about this jewel was that it was undiscovered by the irksome tourists that seem to infest every natural beauty that exists on this plant. Now don't get me wrong, I am a tourist myself, but I try to avoid being one... I endeavor to experience life as the locals live it. Anyways, before I go on farfetched tangent, let me return to the subject at hand: expectation. When reading about the great voyages of Captain Cook, Ibn Battuta, or even the fictional Robinson Crusue, many expectation to travel is set in motion.
An intriguing conclusion I have come to subsequent to my readings of travel literature in my expectation to actually travel is that there is a stark difference between the imagination and reality that travel entails. Thus far, I have painted a positive image on travel based on my experiences and readings, but to reveal the other side of the story behind expectation may be rather cumbersome. There is the pessimist's view that travel may be an incessant nuisance. The stress of packing, long hours of flying, tedious waits at transit airport terminals, different time zones, jet lag, etc...why bother, when one can stay in one's comfort zone. Moreover, the disappointment of reaching the destination and finding it below one's expectations can all take the toll of detest for travel. In my eye's its a matter of attitude. You make the best of what you've got. I was once told by a foreigner in Egypt that you can paint Cairo with the colors of clamor and chaos or with the colors of beauty and serenity. You are the painter and the strokes of the brush are up to you. The dark side to expectation is that the imagination that it encompasses may deceive the prospective traveler.
Unlike in literature, where travel is fed to you, it is your duty to proactively experience travel. It is easy to experience travel in art, music, and literature because the best elements of the experience are presented to you. Expectation only sheds light on the highlights of travel and omits the boredom. Some may argue that "imagination could provide a more than adequate substitute for the vulgar reality of actual experience," as Des Esseintes discerns, yet I have always resolved that those who have not traveled have not lived life.

Art Gallerying

Although I should be studying for exams, I am going to take this blogging break to reflect upon one of the most enjoyable activities I've taken part in since coming to Charlottesville. Aparently Charlottesville has a very eclectic art scene that I had no idea existed. I know of UVa's lousy art museum, but that didn't cut it for me. The only thing I found remotely appealing the only time I went to the museum was this Aphrodite-like statue:
I was craving something more profound, something more reflective of Charlottesville that gave it its own taste of art. Luckily, I have two friends who attend the Art school. Serina is a art printing major and Denise is a photography major. They nonchalantly invited me to tag along on as they went art gallerying last Friday. I was reluctant to go considering that I have final exams, but I promised them I'd go, and I'll never regret coming. Apparently, art gallerying is a Charlottesville tradition whereby all of the city's galleries put up their new art work on the first Friday of each month. I had run into a couple of hole-in-the-wall art galleries but would have never fathomed of hopping from one gallery to another until I would see all of these galleries in one round! Luckily Serina and Denise were there to be my tour guides. We first went to a holiday party at the art school, which was packed with the artsiest people I've seen on university grounds yet. The art school is structure of magnificence in and of itself:
All this art was such a breather for someone who is used to living the rigid life of an engineering student. Serina then showed me everything from how to make paper, the print pressing process, the photography dark room, and actual painters who were working on some of the most amazing works I'd seen yet. After nibbling on a few snacks, we hopped on the trolley to the downtown mall, where we viewed one of their professor's galleries that was on display. The work was magnificent as you can see below:We then went from gallery to gallery downtown. We stopped by the Mudhouse, which is my regular stop when I'm down at the Mall and realized that there was a new photography exhibitions. One of the galleries even had a mini-jazz band performing to entertain the art viewers:
What truly fascinated me about all this new art was that it all had a message, that it all showed the artists' perception of the world, it expressed those emotions that one can only transmit through art, those impressions that Goethe can only express through literature. In this case, art captured a moment in time and allowed the viewer to infer it as he wished based on his own experiences. I was amazed at how art artists could be so passionate about what they do, the extent to which they could become so hysterically eccentric about their works. It hit me that art was a reflection of their life.
For someone who comes from a very technical background like myself, it was difficult to fully absorb the essence of the art we were viewing in these galleries, but I was gradually learning to appreciate the art. It really captured my imagination. For example there was a painting to an island that led me to drift into thoughts of myself sailing to distant exotic lands, where the climate is tropical, but then I was brought back to reality when seeing that it was freezing outside. We then went into a very unique gallery of a friend of Serina's. This gallery was merely a garage with jars in it. Each of these jars possessed a object that was collected from different parts of campus and hung up over a map of the university corresponding to where each of these objects were found:
I thought it was a pretty subtle idea. That's what it is...the idea behind art is what makes it Van Gogh quality or rubbish. The longer I was exposing myself to this art, the more I felt it sink into me... I was beginning to appreciate and live art.

We then ended the night at some Chinese dumpling place where we discussed the two worlds we come from, I from one that looks rather dull, grey, and systematic, and they from one that is vibrant, dynamic, and vivid. The grass is always greener on the other side I remind myself, but I am glad that I can include art gallerying to another one of my escapist hobbies.