My Point of Review

Love this!!!

aasimah — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 21:51:29 -0400

Love this!!!

A ‘Wintern’ at Condé Nast

aasimah — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 17:11:00 -0400

Reflections on my internship at Bon Appétit magazine.

______________________________________________________________

My roommate rushed to my desk, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. Just a few moments ago, I had revealed to her – with forced enthusiasm – that I had been offered a photo internship at Men’s Fitness magazine.

I had got several different reactions to this bit of news. My friend Sarah called me as soon as she heard. “You get to take photos of naked, buff guys? You have to take it,” she gushed, “And if you don’t, send them my information.” My mother was skeptical, “Will you be working late nights? Are you teachers OK with this?” She couldn’t believe that my mentors would proudly send me off into the world of semi-pornographic photography.

After this, watching someone actually be excited for me was refreshing. As Kelundra marched toward my computer, I started feeling better about myself. Maybe this internship isn’t as bad as people are making it out to be, I thought.

But then Kelundra pulled up a website significantly lacking in muscled men. “This is where you should work,” she declared, “I’d rather my roommate work for a magazine my mother actually subscribes to.”

The website was www.bonappetit.com.

______________________________________________________________

Over Thanksgiving break, I submitted applications to 18 magazines in New York City.

Two weeks later, I found myself at the 42^nd street station, on my way to interview at Bon Appétit. I was excited. I could feel my pulse quicken to match that of the big city. The prospect of working in the Condé Nast building on Times Square took my breath away.

From then on, I only remember the day in flashes.

That first sighting of the building. Canopy. Engraved address plate. 4 Times Square.

Standing in the Condé Nast elevator, looking up at the little boxes with floor numbers and magazine names.

Handshake. Smile.

Walking through meandering corridors with pictures of pasta and chocolate cake on the walls.

The interview. More smiling. Another handshake.

Riding the elevator again, with a copy of the latest Bon Appétit issue clutched in my now-sweaty hands.

Walking out of the building. Deep breath.

Turning back to take a picture of the address plate.

Thinking, I have to get this internship.

Train back home.

End scene.

______________________________________________________________

A week later, I met up with my friend, Josh, for one of our regular refueling stops at Starbucks. We talked of internships and interviews. I told him that I really didn’t want to work at Men’s Fitness. He told me he really didn’t want to work at Maxim.

As if on cue, an email popped up on my smart phone. It was from Hannah Sullivan, and the subject read, “Web Editorial Internship at BA.” I couldn’t read it. I asked Josh to tell me what it said. I squeezed my eyes shut. For a long time, he didn’t say a word. I prepared myself for the worst. I looked over, wanting to spare him the misery of having to tell me that what I wanted so bad wasn’t going to happen.

“I didn’t get it, did I?” I said, resignedly.

“I don’t know, it’s still loading!” he said. Thank you, Starbucks.

And then, “We are thrilled to officially offer you the Spring Website Internship … you got it!”

______________________________________________________________

Winter break was a blur. I put together some kind of professional wardrobe, filled out

paperwork, traveled to the city for two more interviews – with Time Out New York and Budget Travel – decorated a Christmas tree, designed and printed business cards, and cooked – a LOT.

I started my internship on January 19, a day that felt much like the first day of school. Hannah, the internship coordinator, met me at the door, and showed me to a room marked “Interns.” I was handed an orientation packet, and pointed to one of the Macs in the room.

After we had read through all the rules and regulations in the packet, my fellow interns and I were led on a tour of the office, where we were introduced to the Bon Appétit staff, all of whom were polite enough to make it seem like meeting us was the best part of their day. Our heads were crammed full of names, faces, and a mental map of the office, one that wasn’t fully fleshed out till at least three weeks later.

The highlight of the day was getting our ID badges from security. We could now swipe in and out of the building without having to stop at the scary security desk and whip out photo ID. We were insiders. It felt wonderful.

At the end of the day, I sent out an email to my friends and family from my new company email address. I signed off, “Aasimah Navlakhi, Bon Appétit Magazine.”

______________________________________________________________

What surprised me most about Bon Appétit was the intimate relationship it maintains with its readers. To me, writing to a major national magazine was equivalent to sending out good thoughts into a black hole. But at BA, every query was answered, and every suggestion acknowledged.

One of my first jobs at the magazine was to respond to recipe requests sent in by readers. Their requests ranged from the desperate to the absurd, and were relayed in messages spanning the entire spectrum from curt to epic. Where some readers knew exactly what they were looking for, right down to the issue and page number, other requests had us foraging in the vast BA library to find recipes of, for instance, “brownies that taste like wonder bars.”

______________________________________________________________

Writing for the website was probably my favorite thing to do. I remember getting an email from Julia, an associate editor, asking me to write up a short blurb on Chocolate-Oatmeal Moon pies. I spent an hour thinking of what to say, and how to make it funny. The next hour was spent crafting, as I called it, “my moon pie masterpiece.” This is what finally appeared on the website:

“What’s better than a cookie? Two cookies! And boy, do they fit snugly around some fluffy marshmallow cream. Pop these moon pies in the oven and watch your willpower melt away with every waft of fresh-baked goodness.”

From there, I’d like to think they got better. After all, Julia asked me to write 13 more.

______________________________________________________________

Being an intern, I knew it was only a matter of time before someone sent me out on a coffee run. And I was right. My time came about two weeks in. But I wasn’t getting coffee for an editor. I was grocery shopping for a shoot.

Interning at BA involved a lot of time spent outside the office, tracking down obscure brands of coffee, artisan Parisian macaroons, advance copies of cookbooks, and trial versions of incredibly expensive cookware.

One sunny February afternoon found me in the Upper East Side, at the Parisian macaroon store, Ladurée. Armed with a corporate credit card, and an unspecified budget, I bought $300 worth of macaroons. When I reached the register, the cashier walked out from behind the counter and handed me my bags with a little bow and a smile I’m certain she reserves for visiting Hollywood stars.

It felt pretty good.

______________________________________________________________

One of my last assignments at BA was to assist on a photo-shoot for the “My Morning Routine” segment of the website. For this section, celebrities spoke to BA about their morning routine. What time they woke up, what they ate, what they read etc.

On the morning of the shoot, I sped across the city, buying copies of The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal, ordering Mexican food, picking up green smoothies, and choosing the most photographable sushi box from a deli around the corner from Times Square.

Back at work, I spent the day cooking oatmeal, broiling salmon, and grilling steak in the BA test kitchen, amongst professional chefs who were grilling peaches, and browning whole turkeys for a massive Thanksgiving themed tasting session. In April, the test kitchen was already testing new recipes for the October issue.

The food I cooked was laid out, photographed, and trashed.

We shot five images. It took nine hours.

It was worth it.

______________________________________________________________

I could not have asked for a better internship.

I met driven, intelligent, and hard-working people, and was fostered in an encouraging, open, and inspiring environment.

I was entrusted with responsibility, given opportunities to pitch ideas every week, and allowed to work in departments I was interested in learning about.

In the ruthless, unforgiving magazine world, I believe that Bon Appétit is beloved for a reason, and I am glad that I was able to be a part of it for this short period of time.

I hope to continue my relationship with BA and I will be only too happy to go back to work there, if and when they’ll have me.

______________________________________________________________

Syracuse Stage Produces a Fiery Red

aasimah — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 13:26:42 -0400

Red.
What is it to you?
Sunsets, or ﬁre? Roses, or a slash of the wrist? Santa Claus, or Satan?

For much of John Logan’s Red, my brain was frantically working on conjuring answers to the questions that were ﬂung across the stage, between Mark Rothko (the unﬂinching Joseph Graves), and his assistant, the young hopeful, Ken (Matthew Amendt).

The play, set on the Bowery in New York city in the late 1950s, is a conversation, rocking back and forth with an imminent rhythm like brushstrokes on a canvas.

Rothko, a Russian-American painter, is part of the dying breed of abstract expressionists, believing that a painting must have “tragedy in every brushstroke” and dismissing Warholian soup cans as, “disposable, like Kleenex.” Stoic, orderly, desperate and misunderstood, Graves embodies Rothko in one ﬂuid motion at the opening of the play, with his line, “What do you see?” that encompasses all of the angst, hope, desperation and genius that is Mark Rothko.

When we meet him, he has just undertaken a commission to paint a collection of 40 murals for the newly constructed Four Season’s restaurant, for a fee of $35,000 – he makes it clear at the beginning of the play that “all artist’s should starve – except me.”

He hires an assistant, Ken (Amendt), to help him with stretching canvases, applying base coats, mixing paints, cleaning brushes and picking up food and cigarettes. As they work together in Rothko’s studio, they embark on a series of whimsical, intense, philosophical and, at times, maniacal conversations that give the audience a sneak peek into the workings of a brilliant, but troubled artistic mind.

In many ways, Ken gives voice to a new age of artists, challenging expressionism and advocating Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol as reﬂecting “this moment right now, and a little bit of tomorrow,” and pointing out that Rothko and his kind were being made obsolete much in the way that they had killed Cubism.

Frequently during the play, Ken and Rothko explode in spurts of brilliance. Working seamlessly together, Ken is calm, assuring, and clear-headed during Rothko’s bouts of freneticism, and Rothko is provocative and encouraging, leading Ken away from mere youthful hot bloodedness into a realm of self-discovery and enlightenment.

For a large part of the play, I felt like I was on a psychiatrist’s couch, with questions like “What do you see?” and “What do you feel?” being asked, over and over again, pulsating on stage much like the paint on Rothko’s canvas. I felt challenged. And humbled. And awed.

Joseph Graves (as Rothko) in Red at Syracuse Stage. Photographer: Michael Davis.

The set, designed by William Bloodgood, was gritty, real and superbly executed, maneuvered dexterously by the actors (kudos to director, Penny Metropulos), whose performances were honest, sincere and well-delivered.

But, although predictable at times, and redundant at others, the script is what pulled the audience to their feet and drew in the thunderous applause.

In all, Metropulos has taken a daring and challenging script and presented it with conviction and integrity. And, if Rothko is right, and art requires the viewer in order to be complete, I urge you to go partake of this transaction, and rest assured, you won’t come away short-changed.

Lillian Bassman's Fashion Photography

aasimah — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 17:15:28 -0500

Lillian Bassman's Fashion Photography

I wouldn’t do that if it were me.

aasimah — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 11:01:25 -0500

I wouldn’t do that if it were me.

The Extra Mile

aasimah — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 22:41:18 -0500

To me, New York city always symbolized a beast that could not be tamed. A vigorous, kinetic, living organism with an unparalleled zest for life, harboring inspired individuals who pulsate through its streets like blood flowing through its veins.

Last week, an ominous 13 years after I beheld the island for the first time, I returned to the city with fifteen of my colleagues, to immerse myself into the culture and creativity of this wildebeest. And this time, I did it in style.

No more falafel carts, hackneyed touristy experiences and aimless meandering on Times Square. This time round, we lodged in style at the historic New Yorker hotel, a mammoth art deco structure occupying a million square feet in midtown Manhattan. We walked the High Line and explored the meat-packing district. We ate at gourmet restaurants serving up authentic foods and flavors from the far-reaching lands of France, China, Italy and the Middle East. We wined and dined with the cream of the crop; writers from New York magazine, editors and critics from the New York Times and best of all, Goldring alumni who are consistently rising up in their respective fields.

It was a great week for theater. I watched Allan Rickman tear down aspiring writers in Broadway’s Seminar, sat agape in the fifth row of the inimitable Wicked and stumbled onto my now favorite play at a sketchy warehouse in Dumbo, Brooklyn.

We were greeted by cheers at The New York Times (security was tickled that basketball’s number one team was paying them a visit) and recorded the laugh track at Jon Stewart’s Daily Show at a live taping of the series.

Our visit to the MET was instrumental (the music wing was particularly fascinating), we literally slid through the New Museum in a burst of cathartic euphoria and we experienced the prevalence of ritual at the Studio Museum Harlem.

We recreated the Apollo’s infamous amateur night on its historic and star-studded stage and indulged in fried chicken, corn bread and banana pudding to warm up on a cold, windy day.

I was a princess for five days. And I’ve emerged with experiences, opinions and inspiration that no class, and no degree would allow me to possess. I didn’t tame the beast. Far from it. But honestly, I rather enjoy its brutish tendencies. There’s something about an unharnessed spirit that is New York city that keeps me coming back. The trip was called the “immersion”. But I have a feeling I’ve only scraped the surface.

And all I can say is, “I’ll be back.”

Bulb Fiction

aasimah — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 02:09:48 -0500

Kitson doesn’t demand much of his audience. Simply that cellphones be switched off, freeloading press people found taking notes be punched in the face, and head licking be avoided at all costs. Rule number three was inspired by a couple getting racy in the first row during Kitson’s performance of “It’s Always Right Now Until It’s Later” at St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn.

A stand-up comedian since age 16, Kitson’s latest “story show” follows two strangers, Caroline Carpenter and William Rivington, illuminating seemingly insignificant moments in their ordinary yet surreal lives. And no, it’s not a love story. As Kitson clarifies from the get-go, this play is as much about love as the Bible is about woodworking.

Naked bulbs hang from the roof of the stage, dropping down to different levels, each one representing a moment in Caroline and/or William’s life. Kitson is the storyteller. The opening chapter finds William, 79, on his deathbed, and Caroline eight minutes away from being born. The rest of the tale is told at a rapid fire pace -quotidian snippets about nothing in particular and everything at once. Moments that are reflected in the lives of every member of the audience.

The script is bursting at the seams. Crisp, endearing and sparkling with delightful vocabulary, it reaches out and grabs the audience, loosening its grasp only several minutes after Kitson has left the stage. In his impeccable Yorkshire accent, he tosses out antiquities such as “toboggan” and “garden center” and clarifies that when he says ladybird, he in fact means ladybug.

He describes a couples’ first shower together as an “aquatic atrocity” and spends several seconds analyzing the etymology of “eggy bread”. The comfort level between a married couple is symbolized by the “culinary reallocation” that is the trading of mushrooms and tomatoes at a weekly breakfast, and, in all sincerity, reduces teenagers to “unmitigated dickbags”. Then somewhere down the line, without the least bit of warning, the mood changes. The laughs are still as large, but they are wetter. There is an energy running through the audience. An undercurrent of triumph, rebellion and exhilaration, washed down by uninhibited sobs.

And it’s all Kitson. As an artist, there are few that match his endearing charm. His performance is a dialogue, and his narrative a conversation. He resorts to no gimmicks and attempts nothing outlandish. He simply tells a story. And in those 90 minutes, audiences gravitate towards him, teetering at the edge of their seats, hanging on to every word knowing full well that all too soon, right now will become later.

The train ride to Brooklyn was worth it. The bitter cold wind became inconsequential. Nothing mattered except the fact that I had finally stumbled upon my favorite play, in a quiet corner of Brooklyn.

I Have Been Changed For Good

aasimah — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 02:21:02 -0500

The year was 2004. The place was Bangalore. The moment? Well, that was surreal.

I remember snuggling up with my mother to watch the Tony awards. I didn’t know what they were. I was there because the television was on. I was there because, as a 16 year old, I had nowhere to be on a Friday night. But mostly - and this is what I want to believe with all my heart - I was there because of fate. I was meant to be there. I was destined to witness a moment that would be a part of me for the rest of my life.

As a theater actor with a small independent theater group in the not-so-theater-savvy city of Bangalore, India, the fact that the cast of Wicked could pull off a performance with a complete set, full make-up, dazzling costumes, unmatched acoustics and magic tricks, for a simple 90 second excerpt at an award show, was mind-boggling.

When Idina Menzel rose into the air, with not so much as a muscle twitch, I could feel my heart booming about two feet away from my chest. The fact that she was singing, emoting, and performing simultaneously only sunk in later.

When I discovered youtube, the video of her performing the piece was the first to make it to my favorites list. I watched it every day for the next four months. I showed it to everyone who had the faintest interest in Broadway musicals. Then the categories became wider. You love Idina Menzel? Oh, you live in Manhattan? How do you feel about the color green?

Today, I sat in the orchestra section at the Gershwin theater - center aisle - to watch the magic happen in person. My heart was racing. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had already picked out the merchandise I wanted to buy. The house was packed.

When the orchestra hit the first chord, I blacked out for a second. I didn’t for a moment expect anything less than to be bedazzled. Amazed. Awed. Stunned.

And I was. My mouth hung open the entire time.

The set changed quicker than I could say OMG. And that’s just three letters.

After a performance at the Apollo, and a walk through what is New York’s most artistic town - Harlem - I was already pumped up on adrenalin. Watching Broadway work its magic only solidified my belief that no matter how bad things are, no matter how many wars are being fought, no matter where in the world you might be and how bad reality seems at the moment - art will always, always, always make life worth living.

Love this moment captured by my friend, Abhishek Dasgupta. Truly...

aasimah — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 01:41:00 -0500

Love this moment captured by my friend, Abhishek Dasgupta.
Truly a carefree moment. Oh, to be young again. :)

freezefugitive:

i don’t know the heaven or the shooting stars, i need my today, gokarna 2010

We Barbarians Preview (Josh Breeden wrote this.)

aasimah — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 02:05:40 -0500

We Barbarians Preview (Josh Breeden wrote this.)

Lucky Now by Ryan Adams. Now by Josh Breeden. Love it!...

aasimah — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 01:13:05 -0500

Lucky Now by Ryan Adams. Now by Josh Breeden. Love it! :)

jwbreede:

Lucky Now (Ryan Adams)

A Theatrical Production: What Happens Before the Cameras Come Out.

aasimah — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 09:19:26 -0500

Advertisements are everywhere. In magazines, on iPads, and even on Pandora. Mostly, we flip through them without a second glance. That was before Stephen Wilkes and his wife Betty flew down from Connecticut to talk to us about “The Business of Images.”

Stephen Wilkes takes the photographs. Betty Wilkes monetizes them.

The process starts with a call. The clients send across a layout, explaining what they want. Then Stephen gets ten minutes to woo them over the phone with his unique, dazzling ideas. Once the bid is won, they get to work.

To the uninitiated, photography is about clicking a picture. Pressing that button at the right moment. But for commercial photographers most of the hard work is done before cameras even come into the picture.

For example, one of Wilkes’s assignments was to shoot a DHL campaign. The layout specified a shot of a log cabin in the snow, with a DHL snow mobile visible through the window. The ad was supposed to imply that DHL had just dropped off the package and the carrier was driving away in a snow mobile.

Looking at the image in a magazine, I would imagine that the company took two seperate pictures. One of a snow capped mountain range, as seen from a luxurious hotel balcony, and one of a woman sitting with a DHL package in a log cabin. Bam. Easy.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The team flew out to Alaska, to scout a location. A log cabin was custom built for this shot, as were the yellow and red DHL panels for the snow mobile. The mountain range was shot using a helicopter, in below freezing weather, and there was no talk of luxurious hotels or balconies.

Similarly, for the cover of the New York Times magazine, humans in body suits were used to form the silhouette profile of a human face. More models were used inside the silhouette to form the tree of life. The camera was suspended 50 feet above the models to shoot the image.

What I learned from this talk is that every image, no matter how simple it looks, is staged like a full scale theatrical production. There are costumes, make-up, props and lights, each of which constitute an imperative ingredient in the process.

For the DHL ad showing a model walking down a ramp, 200 extras had to be cast, styled and made up for the shot, to fill the seats on either side of the ramp. The team spends hours on post production. A lot of colors, shades and even objects are created in CGI.

Worlds away from photojournalism, here things are lit, modified, added in and edited out. Many a time it’s trivialized. Looked down on. Shunned as not being “real photography.”

But it is hard work. It takes tenacity, persistence and the ability to create and recreate, like putting together pieces of a puzzle.

Now, I look at every advertisement as a piece of art, and applaud the effort that I know has gone into it. I finally understand the business of images.

"Waiting on a Requiem" OR "Let Me Tell You About my Awesome Grandpa"

aasimah — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 17:17:54 -0500

My grandfather has lived a wonderful life. His story reads like the adventure every little boy wants to embark on. Only a few of them achieve the fantasy. My grandfather is one of those few.

His parents couldn’t afford to send him to school past the eighth grade. He started working at the age of 14. He delivered papers and did milk runs. He worked with his hands, fixing things, sewing patches on his clothes, and most importantly, drawing. His artistic ability exceeded that of any I have encountered since. When my brother and I were growing up, he couldn’t help us with English or Math, but our art books and projects were the envy of the class.

He lived in Africa, in the middle of nowhere, teaching children English. He lived on a pittance, and loved every minute of it. He travelled. He saw things. He met people. He came back home and joined the airlines as a clerk. In a few short years he was a senior manager. Soon he was flying his wife and daughters to Paris, Japan, New York and London.

He didn’t know about calculus or computers, but he knew about things that mattered. History. The war. Religion. He had the answers to all the questions that weren’t in the text book. He was my hero. He was infallible.

He saw his two daughters fall in love, get married, have children, and move away. He saw his job through till the age of 65 and then retired.

Today, he falls asleep to the glare of the television as he massages my grandmother’s feet at the end of the day. That’s how he used to put his daughters to sleep. And his grandchildren. Me.

He sits at home all day, waiting for a phone call. A visit. A good comedy show on television. Waiting for life to happen to him. His children have their own lives. His grandchildren promise to keep in touch with him through Facebook. But he doesn’t understand that machine that sits in the corner of the room, gathering dust. His son-in-law has hooked it up for him, and spoken of video conferences and social networking. But the television is so much easier to operate. And surely, if his children wanted to speak with him, they would pick up the phone and call. He waits much longer than he should have to for that to happen.

His hands aren’t steady anymore. He can’t help my cousin with her artwork. His lines are fuzzy. He’s embarrassed by it. He feels unwanted, unneeded, unheeded.

Ellen Burstyn’s downward spiral in Requiem for a Dream brought to mind striking images of my grandfather lolling in front of the television, receding into himself, and waiting, constantly waiting, for his family to need him again.

I have thought of death many a time. It doesn’t scare me. What scares me is growing old. Being left to the fate of Sara Goldfarb, set to a requiem that is playing well before time.Being left to the mercy or cruelty of men in white coats, as they shock my brain into remembering what I once was. Waiting by a phone that doesn’t ring.

When I get home today, I have one very important phone call to make.

Creating a Moment: Stacy Pearsall embodies passion and persistence, and lives to tell the tale.

aasimah — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:38:00 -0500

She opens with a joke. She talks of big hair and cassette tapes. Of her farm license and favorite country song. Of being fondled by Oprah on national television. The last thing you would peg her as is a military combat photographer. Yet, by her own admission, the military is all she knows.

Stacy Pearsall joined the air force when she was 17, following through with the tradition laid down by her great grandfather, a WWI veteran. An SU alum, Pearsall came into the Newhouse photojournalism program with a Military Photographer of the Year award already under her belt. Till date, she is one of the only two women to have attained this honor. Twice.

Pearsall went out with troops on missions of every nature, the only difference being that she shot with a camera and not a gun. In her job, shutter speeds were always high, and unfortunately, there was no lack of moments to capture.

“Many a time when things got rough I had to put down my camera and pick up a gun,” said Pearsall, recounting her days in Baghdad to Newhouse students at her lecture, “Worth a Thousand Words,” on Thursday, Nov 10, 2011.

Injured and retired at the age of 28, Pearsall was told that her career was over. Having to go from a 1000 miles-per-minute to a 2 mile-per-hour lifestyle, Pearsall started bringing her camera to the vet rehabilitation centers. Talking to veterans, and taking portraits of them became her new occupation. Soon, she started bringing studio lights into the reception room. Then backdrops. Soon after - light meters. The works. The camera had become a part of her, and she couldn’t let go.

From there, she went on to do commercial photography, creating unnatural light and shadow that came naturally to her previously. Pearsall sums up the difference between photojournalism and commercial photography in three words - “I lit stuff!”

Pearsall’s journey hasn’t been easy. She lost friends and troop mates on missions. She took their pictures for official documentation. She captured moments most of us would want to run away from, screaming.

After going through intensive and painful physical therapy for several months, Pearsall stood before us - healthy, happy and hilarious. But she still can’t talk about some experiences with her husband. There are still parts of her that she can’t return to. Moments that she hasn’t accepted.

And yet, when asked whether she would do it all again, the answer comes in a split second. “Yes.”

There aren’t many moments in life you know you won’t forget. But that evening, in a lecture room in Newhouse, every person in the room was inspired. To find the passion that surpasses all fear. To persist in that passion with every fibre of one’s being. To be bold, brave and beautiful. Once again, Stacy Pearsall did what she is best at. She captured a moment. Only, this time, it was a moment she created herself.

Photo

aasimah — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 03:35:59 -0500

A Disco Ball in the Rough: Alec Soth's Exhibit at the Everson Museum Fascinates and Disturbs all at Once.

aasimah — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 03:20:00 -0500

Alec Soth knows how to evoke a response. Almost every piece in his collection makes you want to keep looking. Or avert your eyes and wish you had never seen it.

The pictures that mesmerize reveal themselves slowly, telling stories that go beyond what you see. Those that you can’t look at tell stories so dark, you don’t want to listen.

The collection, “From Here to There: Alec Soth’s America”, showcases images from his well-known series Sleeping by the Mississippi and Niagara, several portraits, rare black-and-whites,and his latest work, Broken Manual.

Impeccably curated, the exhibit is currently at the Everson Museum of Art in downtown Syracuse and begins with images from Sleeping by the Mississippi. We play Jim to Soth’s Huck as he takes us with him on a journey downriver, documenting people, places, porches and paper planes along its banks.

“Peter’s Houseboat, Winona, Minnesota 2002” ,at first glance, seems to be a pretty picture of a house sitting cosy on a blanket of snow. But keep looking and the layers reveal themselves. You notice that the house sits atop a wooden raft and boasts a facade adorned with animal bones. You notice that this house in the middle of nowhere is house number 706.

But most striking is the clothesline that extends from the house to an unknown point beyond the frame of the picture. Hung out to dry, or rather, freeze, are an array of regular, nondescript clothes - shirts, sweaters and ties in varying shades of pink, green and white.

This image keeps with Soth’s theme of bringing the ordinary into the extraordinary. Much like honeymooning couples wanting to photoshop themselves into a Swiss landscape or standing beside the Eiffel tower, Soth looks for day-to-day life in once-in-a-lifetime settings.

Peter’s home, and his clothesline, on a suburban street, flanked by house number 704 and 708, wouldn’t be disturbing. But it wouldn’t send Soth rushing to set up his 8 X 10 camera either.

Neither would hangars in their designated place in a closet.

Part of his collection, Broken Manual, is a picture of the corner of what appears to be a recently whitewashed cave. A metal rod is installed in the crevice, from which hang half a dozen hangars.

The collection, as Soth explains it, is about “the desire to run away and the knowledge that you can’t.”

Featuring disco balls hanging from trees in the woods, satellite dishes drilled into rock faces and Rubber Maid trash cans in the wilderness, this collection is out to prove that in Soth’s America, even hermits occasionally need Walmart.

Aptly named and seamlessly displayed, this exhibit truly redresses every prejudice, reinvents the bounds of imagination, and rekindles the spirit of adventure.

Portraits: Alec Soth

aasimah — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 11:52:00 -0500

Portraits: Alec Soth

Connect the Dots: Keynote speaker Alec Soth inspires at SPE Conference

aasimah — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 01:54:12 -0500

The air was abuzz. People milled about looking at the exhibit, drawing on their imagination to decode Alec Soth’s photos. They created their own stories behind the moments he has captured. They conversed with the subjects in the photographs, naming them, conjuring their past and predicting their future. Amongst the crowd were murmurs such as, “Most exciting photo show ever to come to Syracuse!”, “A miracle is upon us,” and the less informed, but equally accurate, “He’s so cute!”

At 6:30 p.m. Friday night, art lovers, photographers and students poured into the lobby of the Everson Museum of Art and were greeted by a sign proclaiming: Alec Soth - Sold Out.

Soth was the keynote speaker at the Society for Photographic Education (SPE) Conference, orchestrated by Syracuse University in partnership with Light Work. The conference focused on publishing and the ways in which traditional book publishing is changing due to the increasing popularity of self-publication and online publication.

Soth was introduced by Doug DuBois, an associate professor of Art Photography at the Visual and Performing Arts School at SU, and recipient of the honored educator award.

Soth, a native of Minneapolis, Minn., stepped into the limelight with the publication of his book, “Sleeping by the Mississippi,” in 2004. The book consists of a narrative collection of pictures he compiled on a road trip down the Misissippi. He self-published 25 copies of the book, which caught the eye of peers, critics and publishers alike. Since then, the road trip hasn’t stopped.

Soth’s lecture, “The Narrative Photobooth and the Democratic Jungle,” dealt with narrative arc and storytelling through images. The democratic jungle, he said, is populated with iPhones, Google Images and bloggers. Soth’s inspiration comes from Robert Frank, one of the most influential photographers of the 20th century, and author of the seminal work, “The Americans”. Soth opened with a quote by Frank.

“If all moments are recorded, then nothing is beautiful and maybe photography isn’t an art anymore. Maybe it never was.”

Soth’s outlook, however, is less bleak.

“The narrative machete is the way through the democratic jungle,” he continued. “You need a beginning, a middle and an end.”

Soth believes in engaging the viewer on a deeper level. He holds that when looking through a photo book, the viewer must become the protagonist.

Commenting on his current exhibit, he said, “I just wanted to follow the line and connect the dots - link one picture to another like a website link.”

Addressing the decline in photo book publishing, Soth identified the issue as the quality of photos being published.

“A problem I have with so much photography is that it’s just a collection of pictures,” he said, adding that books are the most powerful narrative vehicle in photography. The photographer, however, must connect the dots and tell a story through his work.

Soth’s lecture was received with thunderous applause.

“It was amazing,” said Groana Melendez, an SU alum who currently works in New York City. “I love how accessible he seemed and how humble he was.”

The conference continues this weekend with panel discussions, image workshops and a closing lecture by contemporary American photographer, John Gossage.

Many of the events are being streamed live on the web. More information can be found at http://lightwork.org/blog/.

TWAS STRANGE BUT FAR FROM PITIFUL: Baldwinsville Theatre Guild Crafts a Quirky & Compelling "Othello"

aasimah — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 20:44:00 -0400

Donʼt let the Army uniforms, ponchos and go-go boots throw you off. Directors Stephanie Long and Kim Jakway set their Othello in 1960s America, against the backdrop of the civil rights movement, war, and peace-loving hippies. And it works.

“Othello” is essentially a story of love gone wrong. Chosen over his attendant, Iago (Trevor F. Hill) for his honesty, bravery and immovable constitution, Othello (Maxwel Anderson) is given command of the US legion at Cyprus. Iago isnʼt too thrilled. He sees Othello for what he really is:

“The Moor is of a free and open nature,

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,

And will as tenderly be led by the nose

As asses are.”

The play follows Iagoʼs attempts to poison Othelloʼs mind against his wife, the sweet Desdemona (Lynn Barbato), using the young, impressionable Cassio (Cole Salo) and the naïve, desperate Roderigo (Michael King) as puppets in the process.

In a bold move, the directors set the first scenes of Act I before the curtain, with Iago and Roderigo entering through the audience and performing off the stage, which allows for minimalist sets – two stone benches and two mammoth marble pillars.

There is no doubt that this play belongs to the actors. Hillʼs crafty, vulgar and seductive performance as Iago is faultless. He owns the role with an ease and passion that is unparalleled, especially in the delivery of his monologues during which he locks eyes with the audience on several occasions without dropping character.

Maxwel Andersonʼs Othello is understated and sometimes wooden, warming up as the play moves along and shining most in his interactions with Iago and Desdemona.

King is adequately pitiable as the fervent lover, Roderigo, and Saloʼs seemingly amateur portrayal lends an endearing quality to Cassio.

But the show belongs to Barbato. From the moment she walks on stage, she owns the show. She oozes vivacity, sparkle and sincerity, delivering Shakespearean dialogue as it were regular parley, and raising the scale of the performance so drastically that the audience almost wants to stop watching once she is dead.

Her character develops without a hitch, from the doe-eyed, happy bride to the obedient wife and finally the confused, defeated and betrayed lover. When Othello turns on her, slapping her to the ground and calling her a whore, you can see the light go out in her eyes, and her ﬁnal death scene leaves the audience gasping for air as we join her struggle to keep breathing.

The supporting cast consists of a lot of newbies, many of which are very apparently so. Rachel Torba-Grageʼs portrayal of Emilia is unconvincing, and Sarah Bradstreetʼs Bianca leaves audiences cold.

I must tip my hat to the directors of the show. They manage to give a fresh, new face to an existing classic that has seen more than its share of adaptations, throwing in little gems like the choreographed synopsis of the first three acts before intermission, and a musical score including tracks from the Rolling Stones, The Band and Jefferson Airplane. If they missed one thing, it was to adapt the dialogue from its Elizabethan origin, resulting in hippies speaking Shakespearean.

This play did not produce a single dull moment. Make a note in your calendar. This is one show you donʼt want to miss.

“I call eggs pre-birds.” bitemefoodblog: In a Parks...

aasimah — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 00:22:55 -0400

“I call eggs pre-birds.”

bitemefoodblog:

In a Parks and Recreation episode about a health initiative for the Pawnee City Council Tom shares some hilarious food names