Sepia Saturday: India Memories

This photo from February 1992 was from my first visit to India while making a documentary about a women's health program in Deenabandupurum on the border of Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu. If I get ambitious, I might post a digital version of that video that I haven't look at in easily a decade. I'll never forget the "protagonist" of the piece, a low caste woman named Jeya Laxmi who endured years physical abuse from her husband and went on to run against a Brahman man as mayor of her village.

The Illustrated Adventures of Louis Sullivan

On the snowy afternoon of January 5, 1890, beloved local architect Louis Sullivan is having his portrait made at the photographic studio of Hesler and Associates of Chicago. Not only is Sullivan America's greatest architect, he has also been described as the windy city's most "bewitchingly bewildering bachelors".

He is noted for his beautifully twinkling dark eyes and a beard that the notorious tabloid Bachelor Boys Bonanza describes as being "pleasantly plush and pliant."

Suddenly the photographic session is interrupted by the entrance of a breathless, half naked bike messenger dressed as Mercury who announces, "Mr. Sullivan, I have been instructed to invite you 120 years into the future to the grand opening of the great-great-great-grandchild of your magnificent contribution to modernism, the Auditorium Building."

Though initially perplexed, Sullivan is too easily seduced by adventure not to respond and is soon on the Trans-Arabian Zephyr racing into the future and the Mideast.Sullivan, who 12 decades earlier created the tallest building in the world, has been asked to share his opinion of the latest holder of this somewhat dubious title casting its long shadow over Dubai. Just as Robert Oppenheimer came to regret his best known invention, Sullivan's eyes swell with tears and he coughs as he chokes back a hearty sob. Finally, as the architectural tabloids press him for an opinion on the Burj Khalifa, formerly known as the Burj Dubai, Sullivan finally offers succinctly but honestly, "Well, it's clearly of very juicy proportions."
The master architect is soon whisked to the building's elegantly appointed penthouse where Lulu Brobstein, the reported Perle Mesta of the Gulf is hosting one of her notorious parties filled with "perennial bachelors" who banter about art, politics and the latest innovations in shoe cream. Lulu's wrap around balcony boasts views of both the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman. "On a clear day you can see from Dubai to Mumbai," Lulu cackles. Sullivan also notes that on a windy day, the top floor sways a good five feet in each direction, a clear reminder to him that any structure taller than the Woolworth Building is obscene excess. Though no stranger to such parties in 1890s Chicago and able to carry on an enlightened conversation about art and the grammar of ornamentation, Sullivan feels quite uncomfortable in this bevy of constructed socialites. He pretends not to hear comments about his "Edwardian ball pinching garb" and resists snarking back about how their suits remind him of elephantine drapes floating around the bloated torsos of unenlightened Buddhas.
This stale atmosphere soon tires Sullivan and he retreats to a notorious, abandoned mosque near the darkened waterfront. Here he encounters gentlemen more suiting to his taste and temperament, but he soon realizes their "gentlemanly" hesitation and inability to articulate the obvious is both tedious and fruitless.
Finally before making his way back to the Trans-Arabian Zephyr, Sullivan saunters into a waterfront saloon where the drinks and men are of more than juicy proportions. He admires the seamless towers of glass, thinking of structures devoid of a steel skeleton and able to enjoy their cool refreshment and intoxication yet still unable to embrace that towering monstrosity he was dragged here to pay homage to. Finishing his last drink and bidding adieu to his fellow bachelors, Sullivan realizes his proper place is back in the twilight of the 19th century,where he can peer ahead into the possibilities of modernism without having the endure all of its detours and mis-steps.Midway through the journey backwards, the Zephyr stops to refuel and offer figs and chai to its passengers. Sullivan spies something curious outside the window and then steps out to more closely examine this curious ritual. Why it is our own Junk Thief executive committee, worshiping a golden pig in front of an ornate Indochinese pagan shrine. At first a bit disturbed by such idolatry, Sullivan is soon struck by the elegant beauty of the shrine itself and joins the trio in their worship. But his prayer is soon interrupted as the Zephyr whistle blows and he is transported back to 1890 yet mildly aware of the impending arrival of the shattering of time.

Junk Thief Is Dreaming Jodhpur...

...and cool colors in hot places, and warm passions in fog.

Twee Straights and Gorgeous Baggage

It's pretty rare these days that a "gay" movie has any appeal to me. I can barely remember the last time I went into a bookstore that has a rainbow flag in front of it, and I am often baffled that as late as 1993 or 1994 I would gobble up a volume on queer culture or read tripe such Out and Genre. And Brokeback Mountain had less relevance to me than a film about an elderly woman running a tea stall in Cambodia.

These thoughts went through my head as I headed to watch with considerable anticipation Wes Anderson's new Darjeeling Limited. Knowing that he had returned to topic of a dysfunctional family set in a country I have visited several times and simultaneously adore and abhor. After the great disappointment of The Life Aquatic, I was preparing myself for another great let down and mumbled under my breath "please don't be crappy, please don't be crappy". The few reviews I read warned that it was no where equal to The Royal Tenebaums but mostly pretty good with some considerable flaws. I'd pretty much agree with that, and while there is a moving segment during what I will only reveal as the river sequence, it certainly didn't enrapture me into a foreign but terribly familiar world the way Tenenbaums did but came close a few times. And again visually and aurally it provided a trip that could make you forgive whatever weaknesses there are in the script.

An interesting article on Anderson in the last issue of New York outlined a lot of the characteristics that make me relate to his work before any Brokeback tales or RuPaul or porn star tales. Anderson is a Texan with a European sensibility and though critiqued for being a tad too twee and precious (how dare people criticize the Dalmatian mice!), makes me feel very much home with his dysfunctional, privileged but not necessarily wealthy families with their eccentric bohemian formality.

It was Tenenbaums that introduced me to Emmitt Rhodes, and no movie can have too much Nico. The soundtrack was wonderful and diverse again this time, with at least four Merchant Ivory films referenced. I felt like an absolute indie movie nerd when the brothers got onto a bus and I not only recognized the tune Typewriter Tip Tip sung by Asha Bhonsie and Kishore Kumar but was quietly singing along in Hindi until I saw a head in the row in front of me about to turn in disapproval.

While Anderson's post-metrosexual heterosexuality has never been in question, he has far more of a omni-queer vibe than many film makers working today. And unlike Brokeback Mountain, the three male leads are saying "I love you" every five minutes, albeit as three decidedly straight brothers.

It's impossible to watch Owen Wilson's physically and emotionally damaged character without holding it up against his recent suicide attempt. I've never been much of a fan of his, but I found him very touching with his often inept attempts to become the new patriarch of the family.
Though it won't hold up in my heart the way Tenenbaums did, especially coming so shortly after 9/11, it is a film I know that I will want to come back to in the future, retracing routes on a luxury rail car of the imagination in the very real Rahjistan.

And, of course, I would love to have that full set of Marc Jacobs bags designed for Louis Vuitton. I'm glad they got screen credit since they deserve supporting actor nominations.

Would Mother Theresa Have "Gotten" Junk Thief?

Mother Theresa, it turns out, wasn't an absolute saint after all, and my opinion of her has gone up a few notches. Although I would never characterize her categorically as a bad person, she has never been what I would consider to be a model life if only because her absolute devotion to her cause demonstrated what most personal coaches would have been screaming at her as being an unhealthy work/life balance. Something tells me that she would not have been sneaking off to watch JunkThief TV on YouTube had it been around back in the 1980s and 1990s.

An article by Richard Rodriguez and Mary Ambrose in the current issue of The Nation takes on this re-examination of her life and concludes that her moments of doubt are perhaps her most redeeming quality. I've long felt that doubt is one of the most defamed of human emotions and one that can ultimately unite and redeem us, and one that ultimately leads me to belief in a higher being. Rodriguez, who is a gay, doubting Catholic, argues that "The Left" has made a huge mistake by generally running in horror from anything remotely linked to faith. He goes so far as to disdain the likes of Bill Maher and Christopher Hitchens for what he calls their "farts in the chapel" of dogged irreverence and seeming obsession to debunk anything with the slightest affirmation of any belief system.

I tend to agree with this assessment but ultimately come back to questioning many of the motives of Mother Theresa and the need to assign saintliness to her behaviors that were often condescending, showed a lack of faith in human potential and fatalism. I have met many missionaries in my travels through the years, and they tend to live in a bubble and always let you know that there is ultimately a wall between them and those they serve no matter how dirty their hands may get in the process. And there never seems to be much joy, much humor and enough doubt in them for me to believe that they have taken even a second to listen to those whom they feel they are helping.

A wealth of books and celluloid have been dedicated to this topic through the years, but my favorite is undoubtedly Black Narcissus, or as I prefer to call Nuns Gone Wild. The disdain the one sister has for the titular perfume worn by Sabu's character seems to me to signal the ultimate fissure in the faith of such missionaries. It is not their doubting of their faith that will lead to their inevitable fracture, but the implosion caused by its hermetically sealed exclusion of any contradictory idea. Sometimes by looking into the face of the absolute opposite, that which one most fears or fears one could become, does faith grow stronger.

The recent faltering of the Ted Haggards, Larry Craigs and their ilk demonstrate the frailty of steadfastness, a single course menu that lacks the nourishment needed for anything remotely resembling a healthy life.

Had we met, I would hope Mother Theresa might have taken a moment to view at least one episode of Junk Thief TV or at least sat with me and enjoyed a drink and Gravy on a Stick.

Melting in May

Egads, what a miserable weekend it was in San Francisco. Saturday was almost tolerable, but today it was nearly 90, and at 10 p.m. it's still over 70. It feels like I'm in some shithole city in the south, with slowly lunkering lunkheads hanging out of their windows and on the stoops. No relief until mid-week, and I am still dealing with the aftermath of my virus, so every temperature point feels as if it's been tripled.

At least it's not has horrible as that heatwave back in July, but it still is not fun.

Before the heat hit, I managed to make it to the new Flora Grubb. I have to love a garden center that has an Edsel in among the perennial and an espresso bar next to the upscale gardening books. They're just settling into their new digs off the 3rd Street corridor, so I'll give them time before deciding whether they are style or substance, but I came away with far less than I did at the more practical albeit less glam Flowercraft. There's something to be said for their no-frills atmosphere and mix of cute Latino boy and crusty Sally-gal staff members.

I hope the heat does not scare away the butterflies that I saw all day Friday. They helped cheer my spirits during the main activity of my weekend -- writing proposals about Apurimac, Peru, and Bihar, India, thought got delayed from being flat on my stomach the first two days of the week. Though being the Peruvian Andes right now sounds great -- it's late autumn there right now.