The Expulsion from Eden

So much has been written about the African safari, so many seductive images have been created, that it is impossible to put aside all expectations and preconceptions when one prepares to travel there.  Yet once our small plane lands on a simple gravel airstrip, the actual experience is overwhelming, almost religious.

Imagine a green, gently undulating plain, stretching in all directions as far as eyes can see. On the plain, there are innumerable groups of animals, big and small, standing still or moving gracefully. The notion of Paradise comes to mind, once and again. There is violence there, but all hunting and eating of flesh happens in such dignified, purposeful way that there is nothing gruesome or troubling about it. The beauty of our old good planet Earth – an old clichéd sentiment, perhaps – suddenly acquires a new and very exact meaning.

On the way back I made a mistake to stop in Nairobi, for a brief tour. This concrete metropolis, a 1970-s modernist nightmare, is a home to Kibera, one of the Africa’s largest slums. All ills of a 3-million-large city are in evidence: traffic, pollution, crime, and above all, an overwhelming ugliness. Stuck in endless traffic on the way to the airport, I imagined the site of Nairobi only one hundred years ago (the city is barely 100-years-old). This place probably looked much like the green plains of Africa that I have just visited.

What are we doing to our Earth?

A Happy Day

Outside of Mexico, the Day of the Dead appears silly, if not outright bizarre. What else can be made out of dangling skeletons, skulls made of every imaginable material, including sugar, and macabre monsters of all kinds?

Yet, after a visit to Mexico City, which by chance happened around this Mexican holiday, I see things a bit differently.

“This is my favorite day of the year,” confessed a woman-professor at a local University.

“Why?”

“It gives us a chance to get together with the entire family, and to reminisce about our departed loved ones. We always have such a fun time.”

Fun? In the family of my in-laws on Upper West Side, such occasion would generate tearful silences, soul-searching conversations, and would be considered a generally traumatic experience. Not so in Mexico. The special bread they make for this day is sweet, and they eat it with chocolate. They also make a favorite dish of their grandmothers, lost uncles and cousins, and savor it together.  In an unusual way, the Day of Dead becomes a cause for spontaneous mass creativity. Curious altars are created in every home, like mini-museums of the passed family history.  There is nothing didactic or sad about those displays. Personal items of the remembered, the aroma of food and marigold flowers, fire of a candle, tissue paper ornaments, fluttering in the wind, period music – all this contributes to a complex multisensory experience.

It is believed that the dead consider it disrespectful to see grieving at their altar. 

An Icon

“There may be no greater tribute to Steve’s success than the fact that much of the world learned of his passing on a device he invented,” stated Barak Obama in his memorial statement on passing of Steve Jobs today.

The press likes to stress the numbers of Apple devices sold around the world (and the numbers are staggering: 129 million phones sold to date) What is more remarkable, though, is the equality of distribution of Apple products. Here in Doha, it is likely that both a sheikh and his driver will own an iPhone. In my class, I have it and so do most of my students. On Occupied Wall Street, the protesters (a.k.a. The 99%) are using it to tweet their anger about the other 1%. 

Andy Warhol once wrote about Coca-Cola, an older American icon: A Coke is a Coke is a Coke, and no amount of money will buy you a better Coke that the bum on the corner is drinking.  Today, it is true that no money will buy you a better smart phone than iPhone. If Andy was alive, he would have probably painted Steve Jobs, or an iPhone. For sure, he would be using one.

Magritte's Smile

Rene Magritte is probably rarely named as one’s favorite artist. And he hasn’t been mine, either. But I should say that my opinion of him and his work went miles up after visiting Museum Magritte in Brussels.

The story of his life, even though it lacked the drama and largesse of, say, van Gogh or Picasso, was still full of inner struggle and artistic anxiety. And it was life entirely devoted to art, as hundreds of tiny strange photos, sketches and documents prove beyond any doubt.

Magritte came to fine art from the field of advertising and poster design (and he regularly retreated back whenever the money was tight). His paintings, therefore, often give impression of strange posters, created for no other reason than to announce something unsettling: a sign to stimulate one’s mind and imagination.

For me, this was the experience with a small painting from his “impressionist period” of the 1940s, entitled simply, The Smile.  It is a simple – a little kitschy – depiction of a stone plaque with the carved date: Year 192370.

In our design field we often talk about the future, about the world in 2030 or 2050. Some really far-fetching future experts can venture into the year 2100 or maybe even 2500. I think, only once I read some science fiction, which took place around the Year 7000. It was pretty weird stuff already.  But 192370?  In geological terms, the world is still likely to exist, in one way or the other. But what will become of us? Are we all going to be just one brain?  Will love, nature, culture still exist? Will there still be MoMA? New York City? The United States? It goes from there...

I am not sure if these rambling thoughts were something Magritte intended with his work. Perhaps, his title says it all. Faced with the eternity, all we can do is smile.

Reboot

Oman is a remote destination: until the 1980s the country has been off limits to any foreign visitors. To get to the south of the country, into once-rebellious Dhofar region, is difficult even today. Two crowded commuter planes per day depart from the Omani capital, or one can take a 10-hour drive on a mountainous road.  From Salalah, the center of Dhofar, there is a gravel road that leads north, over the mountains, then through the desert. After two hours one would reach the ruins of ancient city of Ubar. Beyond is nothing, the vast expanse of sandy Arabian desert, known here as the Empty Quarter.

Why do people travel to places like this?

Some scholars see a desire to experience the most remote and the least accessible places on the globe as a quest for personal authenticity. “They expect, and find, rejuvenation when they 
reach a world as far as possible away from their own, which changes them not only because of its purported primal spiritual power, but also because of the 
dangers and discomfort they have gone through to reach it. Tourists of this type 
resemble pilgrims to a holy site, practicing austerities along the way to ensure
 the validity of their religious experience.” (Charles Lindholm, Culture and Authenticity).

Exact nature of this “rejuvenation” might be hard to define.  I think it is different and personal for each participant, for each tourist. For some, it is just a welcome break, for others, a kind of immersive meditation. Getting a new sense of perspective. Clearing your head, as if restarting a computer. In times like these, we all should be doing it once in a while. 

Holy Agriculture

Recently I was lucky to spend ten days in Veneto, and to make trips to a few of Palladio’s villas presently open for visitors. The word “villa” has a strange undertone in today’s English; on hearing it one imagines a place of idle leisure and slightly questionable taste. All this was very different in the early 16^th century when Palladio had developed the typology and language of his buildings. The circumstances and background of the villas’ construction offer curious analogies with our present, early 21^st century state of affairs. History always repeats itself.

Five hundred year ago, the Republic of Venice found itself in a state of never-ending war with the Islamic world (the Ottoman Turks). Venetian ports and trade outposts were subject to frequent terrorist attacks by pirates and mercenaries. The sea trade with the East plummeted, being too dangerous, and the economy went into a protracted recession. In these dire conditions, Venetian merchants and noblemen turned their attention inward, towards their own long neglected mainland.  They saw agriculture as a novel way of generating income and producing much needed reserves of grain, food, and vine.

The villas were needed, first and foremost, as buildings for agricultural production. The living space of the owners was prominent but relatively small. The rest of the estate was taken by the barchesse (or utility structures), used as workers’ housing, stables, storage for grain and supplies. The genius of Palladio was to turn this complex and heterogeneous program into symmetrical classical compositions, perfectly set into the open landscape of the Veneto region. All this became possible because Palladio and his enlightened patrons saw agriculture as humanistic activity, something close to our present appreciation of ecological, self-sustaining way of living. For them, working with land included not only economics and politics, but also the art of observing, decorating, contemplating, and almost religious appreciation of the landscape. “Holy agriculture”, the expression used by Palladio, would perfectly summarize it all.

Recently, John Thackara has promoted his idea of a bioregion as a blueprint for development in many areas of the world. “It triggers people to seek practical ways to re-connect with the soils, trees, animals, landscapes, energy systems, water and energy sources on which all life depends. It re-imagines the urban landscape itself as an ecology with the potential to support us”, writes Thackara. In this respect, the history of Venetian villas could provide some useful insights. Who knows, maybe the bioregion movement will give us the next Palladio.

The Real Fake

In her 1999 book The Unreal America, Ada Louise Huxtable made a critical distinction between categories of the “real fake” (which she applied to Las Vegas), and the “fake fake” of nondescript shopping malls.  In many ways, she echoed Baudrillard, who described simulacra as a defining characteristic of all America, excepting Las Vegas and Disneyland, which he saw as uniquely authentic places; for him, the simulacra was “anywhere but here”. Both of these opinions seem to recognize that when qualities of pastiche and excess are presented openly, consistently, and “honestly”, without pretend shame or aesthetic hypocrisy, they create a sense of place as memorable and striking as any “real” historical environment.  Authenticity is created by exorbitant excess.

Ever since I moved to Doha, I was trying to determine whether this place is real fake, or fake fake. There is certainly an excess of borrowed imagery here, and a sheer audacity of making the impossible happen. There are also fragile fragments of history, and traces of traditional Arabic culture. What is authentic Doha – these disappearing traces of the old, or the new Villagio Mall, complete with Venetian-style canals with gondolas, frescoed ceilings, and polished marble floors?

These thoughts were triggered again this weekend, when, walking at the local trade fair, I saw an object that defied a name. It could best be described as a “coat hanger masterpiece”: a series of generic coat hooks mounted inside an ornate gilded picture frame. It was a staggering example of kitsch – but a kind of kitsch that could be easily “borrowed” by the likes of Philippe Stark or Marcel Wanders, and placed in a trendy boutique hotel. In such new setting, the object will become a “real fake”, something that might generate attention, a smile, or an ironic wink of a design buff who’d appreciate the transgression.

What are we to do with objects like this? Should we continue a Quixotic fight to eliminate them from the face of the Earth, or try to embrace and interpret them? I did see people buying these frames. They will likely go well with their home décor. Perhaps, in absence of any acceptable universal truth, the real fake is the next best thing.

The Ladder

The long quote below is from The Anthologist, the latest book by Nicholson Baker, who happens to be one of my favorite writers. The book is about poetry, about thoughts and doubts of a middle-aged, medium-successful poet. It struck me how well his bleak vision applied to us designers, to the entire life effort of so many of my friends and colleagues.

“And now it’s like I’m on some infinitely tall ladder. You know the way old aluminum ladders have that texture, and that kind of cold gray color? I am clinging to this telescoping ladder that leads up into the blinding blue. The world is somewhere very far below. I don’t know how I got here. It’s a mystery. When I look up I see people climbing, rung by rung… Tiny figures, clambering, clinging. The wind comes over, whsssew, and it’s cold, and the ladder vibrates, and I feel very exposed and high up… And I look down, and there are many people behind me. They are hurrying up to where I am. They’re twenty-three-year-old energetic climbing creatures in their anoraks and goggles, and I am trying to keep climbing. But my hands are cold and going numb. My arms are tired to tremblement. It’s freezing, and it’s lonely, and there’s nobody to talk to. And what if I just let go? What if I just loosened my grip, and fell to one side, and just – ffshhhoooow. Let go. Would that be such a bad thing?”

True East

Ever since I came to the Middle East, I have been looking for authenticity. Tourists and visitors often search out authentic food. As product designer, I wanted to find local, truly authentic products: things invented here, made here, and used here by the locals and their families.  This proved to be far from easy. The vast marketplace ­– from souks to supermarkets – offers products that inevitably fall into one of the two categories: multiple reiterations of European/American prototypes, or commercial items specifically concocted for tourist consumption.

Then I discovered something called mabkhara. The proof of these objects’ authenticity starts from the fact that the word itself does not translate well into the English language. Most often we use a descriptive expression “incense burner”; there is also little-used and confusing word “censer”. (“Distinguish from sensor, censure, and censor”, warns Wikipedia.) In all cases, both the word and the object itself come to stand in Western culture as a symbol for something alien and exotic – a component of sensorial Oriental allure, much celebrated in the European literature and the arts of the last two centuries.

To be sure, incense burner has been a familiar presence in many religious services outside the Middle East. In the Catholic Church, a censer suspended on chains is called a thurible, and is used during important masses. In Greek and Russian Orthodox Church, the use of censers is even more widespread. Every church prayer and ritual, from christening to burial, features a deacon swinging a censer (panikadilo) back and forth. It is significant that in both religions laypersons are not allowed to handle and swing the incense burner; this is a right reserved only for the ordained.

In ancient China and Japan, the use of censer was more open-ended and democratic, yet the object clearly retained its spiritual connotations. On the contrary, the Middle Eastern mabkhara is not a religious object. First and foremost it relates to the home, where it is a part of daily family traditions and some uniquely Arabic domestic rituals. There is, for instance, the habit of airing and perfuming the clothes, when a man or a woman would stand over a burning censer for a few moments to let the aromatic smoke permeate everything under the long robes. Other traditions guide the use of the object at gatherings of friends or family. During the meal and conversation it is common to have the incense burning in the majlis (special living room reserved for entertaining guests).  At the end of the evening, the hostess will walk with the burner around the room, as if to refresh the air. For the guests this serves as a clear signal that the party is over.

Daily use of incense burners is an inseparable component of sensorial culture of the East. The famous scents of the Orient: frankincense, myrrh, laudanum, sandalwood (oud), which to date remain the mainstay of all perfume manufacturing, derive from resins produced by desert trees grown only on Arabian Peninsula. Since ancient times, harvesting and trading these substances has been a source of wealth for the region, and the cause of many attempted conquests. From literature (e.g. sensual stories in The Arabian Nights) to architecture, with its elaborate secret gardens, the celebration of the sense of smell has reached a high level of sophistication.

Early on, it was discovered that burning the incense was the most efficient, and perhaps more spectacular way to generate and transmit the scent. According to Diane Ackerman’s seminal book A Natural History of the Senses, the hand-me-down model was probably applied to incense burning: first it was reserved for gods, then for rulers and their court, until eventually it reached the people, becoming a truly popular tradition. The burner itself has likely followed the same trajectory – evolving from a precious vessel to a basic object for domestic use.

Functional requirements for an incense burner are very simple. The object has to be sufficiently stable, and a good handle for taking it around is a plus. The top, where one places a burning charcoal briquette, must obviously be fire resistant. Beyond these simple needs, the object can take any imaginable shape and almost any size. And it does. Form does not follow function here. If anything, form follows the objects’ material and their traditional way of making. Every Middle Eastern country has a preferred material, special techniques, and a particular formal expression for its own version of mabkhara.  In addition, there are many contemporary kitsch versions, which simply defy description. (Presently I have started collecting and cataloguing various regional varieties of the object.)

When a designer stumbles upon a new, relatively unexplored product typology, he and she immediately start thinking about making a design contribution of their own. Does the world need a new, designer version of incense burners? What would be the nature of “design improvement” for these objects, which already serve their purpose so well?  Perhaps I need to stay in the Middle East a little longer before I am able to answer these questions. 

Art of Artificial Grass

Spring has come to town! In Doha, it means that rolls of artificial grass are being spread outdoors over large parcels of land in anticipation of summer heat and dust. Every lawn that does not have an underground irrigation does not stand a chance of survival.  This is where fake grass comes in handy. A harsh plastic look of these new lawns is somewhat mitigated with a curious design improvement. Here and there, the workers dump sand and occasional rocks onto the grass carpet, which seems to serve a double function:  to keep the carpet down, and to give it a more imperfect, natural look.

Strangely, this reminded me of an ancient Zen practice.  When Buddhist monks clean their gardens of fallen autumn leaves, they would always throw a bunch of leaves back onto a perfectly raked garden. According to traditional aesthetic principles of Zen (Wabi-Sabi), nothing should be too perfect. Not even artificial grass. 

Less Is More

On a recent trip to Amman, I indulged myself in a visit to hamam, the traditional Turkish baths. After elaborate, long treatment (a subject for another story), on my way out I was served a glass of hot Turkish tea.  A curious small glass had no handle, nor was any glass holder provided. Thirsty, I tried to pick it up, but couldn’t  – the glass was too hot. "This is not very smart," I thought, as my memory evoked the images of elaborate silver-plated glass holders, common in a Russian tea service.

I had to wait a few minutes. When I finally managed to lift the glass, I found the tea perfectly hot – and not scalding, as was often the case with the first sip from a Russian glass. It all became clear. The absence of handle was a perfect design feature to insure the optimal tea temperature. If the glass was too hot to handle, it meant that tea was too hot to drink.

From time to time, all of us designers could learn a bit of simple oriental wisdom.

Hole in the Head

An exhibition of modern Arab art in Doha can mean many things. The inaugural show at the MATHAF temporary space on the Corniche would not look out of place in New York or London – perhaps because most selected artists do live in one of the two cultural capitals. An installation of one of these Iraqi-born, New York-based artists, Wafaa Bilal, stood out in a remarkable and disturbing way.

The artist has surgically implanted a digital camera on the back of his head. Every minute, a picture is taken automatically, which is then uploaded on a special server where the images can be accessed and viewed. The first room shows the video of the entire process of making and inserting the camera, in graphic and gory detail. The film generates a sense of marvel at artistic dedication and endurance; an anticipation for the project’s creative potential is mounting up.

The second room is devoted to photos from Bilal’s server, featured on multiple monitors. I entered the room imagining a kaleidoscope of images, an infinite mosaic of textures, objects, and people – in other words, the richness of life. Instead, I saw a picture of overwhelming banality: fragments of ceilings and door jambs, corners of furniture, fluorescent lighting tubes, random wires on patches of grey sky. The material was so generic, it could belong to anywhere, to anyone. Is this because the view was from the back?  Yet I doubt that the pictures would be much different if the artist implanted the camera onto his forehead instead.

What do we really see? How do all these meaningless fragments add up to memorable images, beautiful landscapes, lovely faces that we remember? It seems that snapshots of our daily existence by themselves are not very telling. Like random letters, they need to be processed and arranged in order to become a poem or a story.

In the introduction to the project, the artist talks about his desire “to objectively capture my past as it slips behind me”.  He wanted to record life without any mediation “by the complete removal of one’s hand and eye from the photographic process”.  Instead, he has proven that without mediation there is no life.

Travel to Oz

The first group of tourists visited Oman in 1983. Prior to that year, an official government invitation was required for any entry. At the time, there were only two consulates in Oman, British and Indian, and the ruling sultan Said considered the country’s membership in the United Nations unnecessary and suspicious.

A few decades later, the capital of Oman has a full assortment of five-star hotels; the buses, rental cars, and even cruise ships full of tourists arrive daily. What do they see? A land of powerful strangeness: architecture that defies description and style; surrealistic mountains in the middle of the city; lush flowers on streets; multiple portraits of handsome Sultan Qaboos. “Like being in Oz”, said Laurene, as we stood at the gates of the Royal Palace.

Oman is a prosperous country, where much revenue is generated by oil exports. There are state-of-the-art roads, impeccable service industry, clean beaches, and yes, McDonald’s. But there are no skyscrapers in Muscat, no starchitect-designed museums, no mega-malls, and no déjà-vu feel of a generic international metropolis. Whether by happy coincidence, or by ingenious planning, Muscat did the right thing, and managed to retain its own unique and peculiar character.

Considering that decisions about virtually everything in Oman are made inside the Royal Palace, the Sultan Qaboos must have a special design sense – just like the legendary Wizard of Oz.