The Politics, and the Life Behind

As I'm sure you've noticed by the subject of my blogs lately, questions of time, place, and identity have been very predominant in my thoughts. I'm sure there will be more posts about it as I think more, mulling things over, turning over thoughts like stones.

There's a lot of talk these days. A lot of talk and posturing, armored vehicles with men in helmets inside, political games and wracking up tensions and fear. It's kind of the same thing in America, too, only without the armored vehicles, though I'm sure those are around somewhere too.

From the outside, that's all you see. From the outside, the only thing I see of America is blowhards and shouting, outrage and the media. The headlines cover the calamities, the wrongdoings, the mess of this and the mess of that. Similarily, my parents say the only thing they hear about Cambodia, if they hear about anything at all, is the politics and the election and the tensions and etc.

On Sunday, my flatmate took me to a little place called the Alley Cat Café. It is indeed tucked down an alley, a hole-in-the-wall space that opens up right into the alley. When we arrived, all 5 tables were full, though a space for two was found at one, and stuffed against the wall was a guy playing a guitar and singing. The food is Mexican and it's done well, not the sort of fake burritos I've found elsewhere, and the guy with the guitar was singing original songs with clever lyrics, and the patrons were there to listen and enjoy.

It took me back to several places in the US, to underground live music venues in New York, to the excellent Mexican restaurant in Denver I've been to several times with the family, to the neighborhood pub by my parents' apartment. Places where people go to hang out, to drink, to eat, to enjoy the music, to talk and laugh. Places that have nothing to do with the media or the talking heads, when life is about what it is and nothing more than that.

At the Alley Cat Café, I felt perfectly at home and comfortable. I had never been before, but I knew it already, and the memories attached were all good ones. It reminded me once again that the outside perception is very rarely the whole truth. In talking to my parents, they mentioned that the fuss and furor of the politics affects their daily lives very, very little. "Maybe our tax rates change a bit," Mom said.

Likewise here. Maybe things are about to blow up and maybe things will change and maybe they won't. But I can say this much: since the election, my daily life has not changed at all. Yes, of course I'm a foreigner and not inside everything, but as far as I can tell, life goes on much as it did before, no matter what the talking heads shout about.

As far as my own place in all of this, that's another question. I've been particularly thinking about where I see myself and where I want to be to do what I want, something that's not quite as clear as I thought it was.

But that's a conversation for the next post. In the meantime, I'll leave you with the thought that the outside is madness and black and white, but inside, life goes on.

Commercial is a dirty word: reconciling art and money

Last week, in a smoky speakeasy style bar, an argument took place. The participants were from all different backgrounds, American, French, Cambodian, Dutch, or some combination of the above, from artists to advocates to researchers. The subject of debate was the title of this post: is it possible for art to be commercial without losing its creativity and artistic integrity?

It was such a fascinating discussion that I wanted to make a post about it with my own thoughts, as I think it's a pretty common debate among artists. It is actually the foremost problem for artists. How do you make money and be an artist?

The common answer is, you can't. Or at least, not much. Art is not about making money, in fact, is the common thought. And if it is, it's "commercial", and is therefore less artistic, because it was created to please an audience.

There are two extremes, as far as I can see. There is the extreme business side, which views art mostly as a waste of time and will only give it the time of day if it thinks it can be sold or marketed. It's the "only what can make money, and if it can't, it's not worth anything" side of things. Then there is the extreme art side, which is the idea that art should be made only for arts' sake and only to express the artists' feelings, that it's not meant to be understood by a larger audience, where the spectator must put himself into the artists' shoes, thoughts, and philosophy in order to truly see what the piece is about. This is the side that sees any concession to the business side as betraying the artistic integrity of the artist and their work.

As for me, I'm firmly convinced that while the two extremes certainly exist, a middle ground also exists, where the two cross and blend. Somewhere where art can be sold and appreciated by a larger audience, but still keeps its integrity.

To make commercial art -- that is, when you make art with the idea of pleasing an audience -- does not make you less of an artist, someone in the group argued, but it is less creative. I disagree. If I create something that I think will please an audience (and myself), it is still an act of creation. If I didn't create it, it wouldn't exist. Yes, but doesn't that make you less independent? was the next question.

Does it? Maybe. But I don't want to be independent. I don't want to create something that only I can understand, that comes only from me and is created only for its own sake. I'm interested in creating work that can be shared, understood. Is it about the money? No, it's not. It's about the experience.

That's where I think the cross is. When it is "entertainment," "commercial," "artistic," it's under a label. But how about shared human experience? Something that humans can look at and understand something of, whether it be a gesture or a story or a painting. Because they recognize something of their own humanity, they like it, buy it, consume it, watch it, whatever. But the act of portraying something of humanness, human experience, is purely artistic.

Do I think I'll be rich as an artist? No, I don't. Do I think I'll have enough to continue? Yes. And yes, I do think art can be "commercial" and still retain its integrity. Creation is creation, whoever it's made for. One of my friends used the example of Frederick Ashton, the artistic director of the Royal Ballet in London. He deliberately made ballets with the intention of pleasing the audience, and yet you will find very few people who would not call his work "art".

The business business has no time for art, and the artist artist has no time for business. It is very rare to find someone who is both a brilliant marketer and a brilliant artist. But I do think the two can work together, if both are open to each other, and find a way forward.

Just not my scene: The backpackers

I got talked into going. I suppose in the end it was a good enough evening, but --

I've mentioned this before, and I don't want to point at it as bad or wrong. It's just that in Phnom Penh, and more concentrated in Siem Reap, there is this scene of almost entirely expat, young people, who are here to party, hang out with each other, but just in different countries. Most of them are just passing through, here for  and not everyone who was at the Halloween party at Eighty8 last night is like this, but there were certainly plenty.

Apparently the guesthouse is known as a 'backpacker's hangout'. In Phnom Penh these are more spread out, though we have our own version of Pub Street on 278, where I also found myself last night.

I don't want to get into a holier-than-thou kind of thing. I freely acknowledge that I am becoming more boring by the minute, as anything that doesn't have to do with my projects, work, and career is getting less and less interesting and I literally have to be dragged out at night. It's not because I'm trying to make a point, it's just not where my head is at right now.

And for whatever reason, I just don't understand this backpacker scene. I don't get why you would go to a foreign country and spend your time partying among people like yourself. Maybe it's just an evening thing and you spend the days exploring, but what if you're spending the day just seeing the sights, looking at the places the guide says to, and then going back to party? Or maybe I'm missing the point.

Either way, I don't get it. I guess if it works for the people inside it, that's fantastic. And it's not like I'm saying I want to avoid all expat scenes. Part of the challenge of being here is learning to balance the cultures -- eschewing western culture altogether is not the solution, and I find often that a good western coffee shop does wonders in the midst of a crazily different world.

But there's a different energy, between the backpackers and the coffee shop. The former just has an energy I'm not comfortable with.

New plan: embrace what has been called my "getting-old"ness and zone in on what matters the most to me!

You still have a lot to learn, kid

The first time I showed my choreography to my students, they watched with some confusion. Later, my translator admitted to me he didn't really understand what was going on. Where were the shapes, he wanted to know, that tell you what is going in the story?

I wasn't sure what to say. Cambodian dance is such that each hand position, each shape has its own meaning, a kind of shared cultural language that people use to tell the story. I said, well -- there are no shapes. It's how you do the movement that makes the difference.

I guess, he said, it's dancing from the heart.

Just one difference among thousands between the two art forms. Okay, I thought, so the fusion I want to make has to reflect both ideas.

But today I had a conversation that made me realize that it's not just how you do the movement that differentiates the two cultures. It's also how you present it.

This idea I have to "produce" something is, apparently, a very, very western way of looking at things. The idea of fusion is maybe not as much, but going into something with the goal of performing, a final product in a professional venue -- doesn't that, my lunch meeting partner remarked, sort of take away from the process itself?

My instinct was to say no, of course  not, and what's the point of doing something if you don't have anything to show for it at the end?

I guess if I'm serious about this fusion thing, it can't just be in the movement -- but how it's presented, how the process is approached. I still intend to show it somehow, but I have to put that aside in order to really truly go into the development process with an open mind. What comes will come, and neither I nor any of my collaborators should have a final result in mind to cloud the creative process.

Yes, I keep having these breakthroughs, I keep learning, and then I find out that I still have so much more to learn, and so many cultural habits to let go of. Things I don't even think of as being western brand me as other before I even understand why, but at least -- thank god -- people keep reminding me, and helping me see exactly how far I have to go.

And this is just the beginning.

The East, and the West

Had a conversation with my friend about some key differences between eastern and western philosophy that I thought I would pass on, as they were really interesting.

We got on the subject because I was asking about monks. They are very common here, in robes of varying degrees of orange. On the backs of motorbikes, walking along, giving a blessing after someone gives them food, or quietly, patiently standing in front of a shop, waiting to see if the owner feels like giving them anything. In Buddhism, I learned, monkhood is not just forever. Some people, perhaps following the death of a close family member, will shave their heads and go to the temple for a couple days as a sign of respect.

We then moved onto female monks, nuns, as I haven't seen any Buddhist nuns. They're rare, my friend said, but often becoming a nun means forever, as in Christianity. She didn't have an explaination for that, but I thought it was interesting. In any case, she mentioned that sometimes when a mother has lost her husband, she'll live in the temple for the rest of her life.

I don't think I'd ever get to that place, I said. Even then there'd be things to do.

My friend paused, then remarked that this was a fundamentally western thing to say. She explained that Buddhists believe in reincarnation, and thus the endless cycle of living and dying. In that case, to keep on doing things is kind of pointless, because no matter how much you finish there will be more, and then you'll have to do it all again in the next life.

Well. In my thoughts, this life is all you get, and while some western religions include a paradise (or inferno) in the picture, we all agree that this time on earth is what you get, and just disagree on the following proceedings. Besides, it is a very fundamentally western outlook to just keep doing and living.

So the east looks at the west and thinks, what's the point?

And the west looks at the east and thinks, why are you wasting your time?

Funnily enough, both are equally valid and understandable, given their background.

The last thing I wanted to note was a quick revelation about Buddhism that my friend told me about. I had always thought that Buddhism and meditation was about pushing away feelings, so you don't want anything.  But no, she said, because the point is to not want anything, so if you push things away, it means you don't want to feel.

Therefore, you let yourself feel the emotion or the want fully, but then let it go. I don't think I'll be turning Buddhist anytime soon, but the thought was enough to make me start meditating and practicing that before I go to sleep at night! 

Year 21, in review

Since the time I turned twenty one, I have lived at least a thousand lives. And yet, today I have somehow contrived to only be turning twenty two. I am not sure how that happened, or what, in fact, happened. But it did, and therefore only a year must have passed, as incredible as that is.

Last year this time, I was still in Paris, still in the throes of self-discovery that was the entire year abroad, celebrating my twenty first among people that had become so dear, often in a very short time, that it was impossible to think of leaving. But the end of my stay was fast approaching, and it all coalesced into a bright shining moment of understanding on the morning of July 26th, and less than a week later, I was on an airplane. Leaving after eleven months a city that had become more comfortable and more beloved than any other place on earth. Chatting up the kind Italian woman next to me and trying not to go stir crazy.

I spent a month at home: a month of eating salad and working out like a fiend to drop the extra ten pounds I'd picked up in Paris, a month of letting go and moving on, a month when I often sat on the couch with my mom and cried, trying to make sense of the impossibly transformative experience that I had; as with any transformation, the destruction was just as powerful as the creation.

A month of dealing with culture shock -- as I have often said, and will say again because it's so true -- it was a monster I had prepared to fight but did not even recognize its face; I knew the roads would be too big, the tables, the cars, everything too big, not enough motos and not enough sidewalk cafes, but I didn't realize that my family would have lived a full year that I knew nothing of, had changed and I didn't know it, had a full year of experiences just as I had but not shared. I didn't know about the nagging, uncertain sense of unbelonging, of displacement, of recognizing everything but being unable to picture yourself inside.

In fact, the culture shock wouldn't go away for six months, and soon enough I was on another plane, back to the city that never sleeps, where the cars, noise, and lights promptly overwhelmed me. But it wasn't just the city, but after a year of life suddenly I was in school again, turning in homework, doing research, and preparing a senior thesis. I met the King of Pop, the subject of said thesis, and was inspired, again and again. I wrote a hundred pages and played the academic and the dancer. I got to know not one but two androgynous, genius, and decidedly unstable male dancers, not only MJ but Nijinsky, and loved delving into their stunning ability to move.


Besides the academics, I spent months trying to reconcile the girl I used to be with the girl I had become, until one fine morning in December looked at myself in a mirror and recognized the girl within. Not three weeks later, I was on a plane again.

Another month at home, time to give and to celebrate being together, a time to rest and recuperate. I discovered my pixie heritage (remind me to tell you that story one day; if I finish it without you dragging me to the loony bin it will be surprising), said goodbye to my childhood hometown, and was so fully present that when I arrived back in New York, after another plane ride, I didn't recognize the apartment I stepped into.

I knew where everything was, because I had put it there, but had again the sense of displacement, as though someone else belonged where I was intruding, and it took me a good couple days to shake. By then, I was deep in the throes of my latest project of taking a group to Paris, a project begun the previous semester but left to simmer on the back burners. I put it on high heat, but at the beginning it crawled, like sailors on a beach after a shipwreck. Dancers were leaving, funds were nonexistent.

Nevertheless, because not going was not an option, I headbutted any brick wall in my path and after two intense months of preparation, the trip was funded and I was on a jumbo jet heading over the Atlantic, taking ten days off school to kibitz about Paris; a surreal experience in an increasingly more surreal life. For ten perfect, beautiful days, I was home.

By the time I returned, it was time to graduate, take final exams, and say goodbye to people I had been in school with for four years. My family was in New York, there were two stars next to my name in the program, and it was celebration and madness --

And then I had moved, and was throwing myself into the next adventure. I had already agreed to participate in the choreography showcase, but found myself quite unexpectedly co-producing it, working with dancers ten times more experienced than I, and yet somehow or another the thing got produced and performed. It was an experience that made me feel equal parts totally incompetent and totally competent, and more often than not very very young, and very very inexperienced. And yet -- as with all experiences like it, it taught me a hell of a lot.

But there would be no time to rest, either preparing for or after the showcase, because there was a move to the other side of the world to organize, and with my mom in town for a brief, lovely week, I gathered up my energy for the next big leap.

The last week in New York was filled with goodbyes and the incredibly revealing things that happen in the case when you quite simply don't know the next time you'll be back, if at all. They were all little gifts, little embers to hold somewhere in my soul, little wonderful looks into people's eyes, each separately surprising and fascinating. I spent a great deal of the time running around like a chicken with my head cut off, pausing and posing for a few seconds before fluttering off.

My July 4th was filled with fireworks, you could say, and the next night at 1:45AM I was on another jumbo jet, the lone white female in the back of the plane with a company of the Indonesian Navy, and touched down in a place where nothing at all seemed to be anything like what I had previously experienced, quite literally the opposite side of the world.

Which is where I am currently writing this post, completely baffled by how that all fit into one year, especially since I didn't even mention the half of it. However much I may not understand, though, it was in fact one year, and I am in fact just now turning twenty two. It makes me almost afraid to wonder what will happen before July 17th, 2013, but if experience tells anything -- it certainly won't be boring!!

It should tell you something that I think one of the most flattering things anyone has ever said to me was calling me "strange, or at the very least unusual"...

Everything is Always Perfect (Even when it's not)

I've mentioned this a few times to some of my friends, who always, being very sweet, open-minded people, nod and smile and say, sure, they suppose. But I thought it deserves a more in-depth look here -- at least so I can explain myself. It is, I admit, a sort of strange thing to say, in a world and a life so obviously UN-perfect.

The essence of it is this: I don't mean 'perfect' as in "perfection", or "utopian". These words suggest strange, vacant, vapid places of idyllic beauty, filled with vacant, vapidly happy people stumbling around in a daze on golden streets. No, I don't mean paradise.

I mean perfect as in the idea that everything is always exactly as it should be at any given time, as it must be, because it could not possibly be any other way.

This is not to be confused with the idea of "fate", which is a whole different animal. A cold and unfeeling universe unfolding with no chance of redemption or fixing what has already been given to you to break does not sound like my idea of a picnic. No, the universe is dynamic and changing and changes as we choose and create the realities we want to live in.

But at any given moment, everything is exactly as it needs to be. Perfect. Even if it's not perfect.

It's not an easy philosophy, but it's the only way to make sense of the world for me, especially because it demands a certain loss of judgment. Good and bad distinctions are the world's favorite way of speaking, and I just can't deal with it. I honestly don't believe in "good" or "bad" -- I believe things can be constructive or destructive. Construction leads to life, joy, creation. Destruction is pain, despair, and fear. One is certainly more desirable, but I am loath to use the word "better." I simply try to live my life in the most constructive and creation-oriented way possible, for myself and for those around me.

Getting back to the topic, if everything is always as it should be, then it's very hard to call things good or bad. They simply are. They are exactly what they are and nothing more or less. In that way,  you can just deal with things without the halo of connotations and judgments we carry around life in.

Sure, it requires a lot of patience, and trust, and I freely admit to not always following the philosophy as much as I'd like to. But I do try.

"Whether or not it is clear to you, the universe is unfolding exactly as it should."

Six months and ?? days: Looking back and looking forward

This post is going to be somewhat introspective -- I apologize in advance if that bores you.

As the title suggests, I've now been in Paris over six months. If I actually stop to think and calculate -- it's been six months and twelve days, or in other words, exactly 195 days. That's not forever, nor is it a short time. In a lifetime, it's nothing, of course, but I consider it a good lifetime anyway.

While I don't do it very often, I have adopted the Parisian habit of having a cigarette and contemplating life -- sometimes just stepping out on the balcony just before the sun goes down and watching the sky change while the cigarette burns away -- it's a very zen moment, shall we say. Well, today I was taking a smoke break; I should have been working, but was instead waiting for my computer to load the latest Glee episode, and was out on the balcony --- and had a moment.

It struck me suddenly how far away Paris used to be to me. I remembered this summer, thinking about how far and exotic Paris was and would be. How stressful the visa process was, and how I used to freak out -- quietly or otherwise -- whenever I thought about how soon I was leaving, and for how long. It just seemed strange to me, in that moment, now so deeply entrenched in the Parisian life -- how far away it used to be.

Sometimes I remember conversations I had before I left and I have to remind myself that they were in English. Yes, it's strange, and I notice it -- I think, no wait, that was in English. That was before I spoke French daily and the vast majority of my conversations were in my natural tongue -- and somehow, that seems really strange to me now. Sometimes even here I have to remind myself that the people talking French to each other are actually talking in their natural language. Invariably, I think about when I'll have to do that, and it always seems strange.

Yesterday I called the toll free number on student universe to officially change my plane ticket from May 31st to August 1st. I got a recording saying that due to the tsunami in Japan their phone services are limited. What Japan has to do with student universe is beyond me, and makes me quite apprehensive for when I actually DO get on the phone with a representative -- somebody, no doubt, in Japan -- but it's no big deal, I can wait. It just seemed like a big step -- official. By the time I leave, it will be eleven full months.

And now? Is Paris far away?

It's far in the sense that I have to calculate somewhere between 6-8 hours of time change if I want to talk to my family or friends. It's far in that it's now been a REALLY long time since I've seen these people, and while with Skype it's like they're just on the other side of the screen, hiding behind your computer -- it's not the same. I had a friend from Columbia in town this weekend and there is nothing like having them there, real and breathing and just taking up space, moving the air. In that way, yes, I suppose it's far.

But these days I can't imagine being anywhere else. It's like sometimes I think about where Paris is on the map and how I'm practically on the other side of the world from where I grew up -- but it doesn't matter anymore. The people I'm surrounded by have been here, for the most part, their whole lives, and so have I. It's like I can't conceptualize the distance between me and where home used to be, but all I know is I'm here and living here is as easy as breathing.

Thank god I wasn't ever tempted to go just for the semester.

One thing about having a time limit -- something I know far, far, far too well -- is that no matter what you're doing, it stays with you. Or at least, it tries to. It's like the more fun you have, you know the harder it will be to leave. And so I suppose I have the choice -- but for me it's not a choice. If I leave my soul behind in Paris, well, then so be it. But it's true that sometimes I have trouble not thinking about it -- about the fact that February absolutely vanished on me and now we're halfway through March and I'm now over half done with my time here. Booking my flight for August 1st means that on August 1st I'll be boarding a giant ass jet with two giant ass suitcases that can't possibly hold my life here. It means that life goes on.

Before I left, I sometimes had the strange thought that the people I know won't recognize me when I come back. Of course that's not true, but recently I've been thinking that, in some ways, it's true. The girl who I was when I left will never come back, because she doesn't exist anymore. The one who's coming back -- well, you'll see. She'll the same person you always knew, but she's nothing like her. It's hard to explain.

I think I've said this before, but sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to build a life somewhere and then finish it --- instead of leaving when the bloom is just on the rose, so to speak. But I guess that's not really fair -- because maybe on August 1st, I will have finished. I will have lived an entire life, and finished it. Or maybe I'll just leave it for a time and come back. How should I know?

In any case, spring is coming and my nose is thanking all the pollen. Construction has begun -- directly over my head -- and the sun is out a noticeable percentage of the time more than it used to be. The wind is doux, and you can feel the world starting to pick up it's winter-weary head and sniff the air. I was here for fall, for winter. Now for spring, and soon -- summer.

A nice full circle. A complete life.

I do seem to go through them.

July 15h, 2010

T Minus 1 day.

I would like to tell you that I'm perfectly calm, and I'd be halfway truthful (whatever the hell that means).

I slept in this morning, making it a good eleven hours of sleep last night or something ridiculous. I did the dishes, showered, and once more, got on the consulate website and once more, checked the requirements for a student long stay visa against the documents I have prepared. I walked to the copy shop in the Grove Arcade -- walked, not biked, seeing as I can hardly move after a lot of biking and a ballet class last night -- and got the remaining copies made, then spent a bit of time at Malaprops, chilling out and reading "Heroes of the Valley" by Jonathan Stroud, who in addition to being a great writer, also writes some damn good stories. They are young adult books but I promise you will like them. So there.

In any case, since then I've just been home, packing, reading, and in a bit I'll go roll around on a tennis ball in an attempt to unknot the disaster that is my back. I'm at last somewhat confident that I have everything required for the consulate; the next step is to get there, on time and ready to go, and end up with the visa. I just want it to be over by this point; though I am, I admit, still a little stressed. Less so than before (progress!!).

Oh, and by the way, Raj can come with me. So while we're at it, we're going to stay in Atlanta and chill until Sunday. Celebrate my birthday on Saturday in grand fashion, as grand as can be considering I'm only turning 20. So that should be fun. After Friday I'm just along for the ride.

It hit me a few days ago when I pulled out my cell phone calendar and counted, that I'm only in Asheville for six more weeks. Only six -- and I've been here about seven and a half. The thought is exciting -- but scary -- and a little saddening. I've become amazingly settled here -- I do have a way of doing that with places, especially if I know that there's no real other option to be anywhere except exactly where I am, and that was the case with Asheville. Having no other option, I just sit down and sink in my roots, and I always find it hard to yank them back out. It's just that it seems like all I can remember is here, and seven weeks is such an impossibly short time, but I've already done so much, lived so many moments. I've made friends, found a guy, and though we're hardly around at the same time, learned again to live with my sister. We've always been best friends, but we do have to get used to being in the same space, and now that we are, it will be so STRANGE to not be. It's just comforting to know she's around, and I know she feels the same way. But we'll just have to get used to it how it is, move our separate directions and live. We've always been good at that.

In any case, it is a little startling, even though it means that life is, as it always does, moving on. Now is only right now and forever means very little -- if there is one truth about life, it is that it's never (ever) static. Although it always seems like where you are is where you have always been, because each moment, each day, for heaven's sake, could be it's own lifetime, but they all add up in little increments and moments and consecutive nows to bring us to this exact second of being. And so always we grow, change, and learn. It's how it should be.

I have often wondered how much of life people miss, caught in the throes of guilt or what if or living in the past or the future, and I have to ask, yet again -- you'll get tired of hearing this question -- if anyone has ever truly lived?

In the mean time it's been a great week -- lots of baseball (including TWO walk off wins by the Tourists) -- and I've somehow managed to meet all sorts of interesting people, which is always fantastic. Also, why does it seem like half the people I meet here are from New York or have lived there at some point? Quite bizarre.

In any case, we should be heading out here pretty soon, so I'm going to sign off. I'll update you soon. :)