Difference between revisions of "1936"
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| − | A piece of sound can strike through the centuries, that lie across each other in layers of time, layers of rock. | + | A piece of sound can strike through the centuries, that lie across each other in layers of time, layers of rock. sheets of aam papad. |
Waajid Ali Khan had thought of this sound as word, as sentiment, when he was forced to leave his beloved Lakhnau. Where he had made his practice necessary- of dancing the raas leela as kathak, the skirts of the nawab gracefully touching the billowing skirts of the adjacent dancers, the gopis. | Waajid Ali Khan had thought of this sound as word, as sentiment, when he was forced to leave his beloved Lakhnau. Where he had made his practice necessary- of dancing the raas leela as kathak, the skirts of the nawab gracefully touching the billowing skirts of the adjacent dancers, the gopis. | ||
| − | One day a large man would let into his open eyes, those | + | One day a large man would let into his open eyes, those paintings of the Nawab: sometimes a hovering head over a chestful of the most delicately embroidered flowers, his own left nipple, like the largest one in the meadow, flower and more than flower, peering out of the kurta, provocatively declaring the necessity of pleasure; or the more staid portrait at his tomb, where he looks like a gruff, proud old man, neverthelss bearing muslin that was soft on that skin. And that nipple. |
That day, Amjad Khan would dance within the loose folds of whitemuslin and Wajid Ali would dance within him. | That day, Amjad Khan would dance within the loose folds of whitemuslin and Wajid Ali would dance within him. | ||
| − | But that was on a morrow. Maybe when the moon was Allan Sealy's sliver of garlic over | + | But that was on a morrow. Maybe when the moon was Allan Sealy's sliver of garlic over the silver pencils of Lakhnau. |
| − | + | But this year, now, a man who liked to look sensual in his photographs, reveals a simpler side as he walked across a moving camera in a sultry Bombay studio, holding a harmonium, singing that song live, bringing it alive like never before, and perhaps, never again. | |
| + | People might close their eyes forgetting the image, in the darkness of the theatre. | ||
| − | Deep from within a well where, past the honeyed walls of alcohol, the voice | + | Deep from within a well where, past the honeyed walls of alcohol, the voice strikes a timeless spring- a chashma - because water is larger than history. |
| − | The gramaphone needle | + | The gramaphone needle will tease out of the vinyl the ancillary sound of a finger at a tabla, at a loss in face of that voice, barely hitting the taut skin. And the well of the gramaphone horn will crackle with the sounds of playback, the waves finding their heads cut off as they rose, crackling and still that voice flowed out, protected, like an abandoned baby in a basket, let loose in the waters of a messy river. |
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_BmHDD8rSM] | [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_BmHDD8rSM] | ||
the song, on youtube | the song, on youtube | ||
Revision as of 21:13, 28 June 2010
The return to painting backdrops
this time making Kailasa out of a mountain around Kolhapur
A piece of sound can strike through the centuries, that lie across each other in layers of time, layers of rock. sheets of aam papad.
Waajid Ali Khan had thought of this sound as word, as sentiment, when he was forced to leave his beloved Lakhnau. Where he had made his practice necessary- of dancing the raas leela as kathak, the skirts of the nawab gracefully touching the billowing skirts of the adjacent dancers, the gopis.
One day a large man would let into his open eyes, those paintings of the Nawab: sometimes a hovering head over a chestful of the most delicately embroidered flowers, his own left nipple, like the largest one in the meadow, flower and more than flower, peering out of the kurta, provocatively declaring the necessity of pleasure; or the more staid portrait at his tomb, where he looks like a gruff, proud old man, neverthelss bearing muslin that was soft on that skin. And that nipple.
That day, Amjad Khan would dance within the loose folds of whitemuslin and Wajid Ali would dance within him.
But that was on a morrow. Maybe when the moon was Allan Sealy's sliver of garlic over the silver pencils of Lakhnau.
But this year, now, a man who liked to look sensual in his photographs, reveals a simpler side as he walked across a moving camera in a sultry Bombay studio, holding a harmonium, singing that song live, bringing it alive like never before, and perhaps, never again. People might close their eyes forgetting the image, in the darkness of the theatre.
Deep from within a well where, past the honeyed walls of alcohol, the voice strikes a timeless spring- a chashma - because water is larger than history.
The gramaphone needle will tease out of the vinyl the ancillary sound of a finger at a tabla, at a loss in face of that voice, barely hitting the taut skin. And the well of the gramaphone horn will crackle with the sounds of playback, the waves finding their heads cut off as they rose, crackling and still that voice flowed out, protected, like an abandoned baby in a basket, let loose in the waters of a messy river.
the song, on youtube
