Art and Honesty: When Slick Makes You Sick

Workout videos always amuse me. This afternoon I was trawling through YouTube to find a good pregnancy yoga video, my 4 1/2 daughter beside me. First we found one of your classic vids, an unusually slick production for the UK, complete with a wood fire in the background, random Zen-like objects on the shelves and French windows onto a tranquil patio (though we could still see the cameraman in the glass of the woodburner).

Warmed up by now, I keep searching and find an American prenatal pilates workout, which exceeded all my expectations (not to mention my fitness levels). The glowingly tanned instructor sashayed onto the screen like a starlet, the tracking shots zoomed in dizzyingly from all over (even the ceiling), and she kept talking about buns. Where I’m from buns are something you eat. Can’t you just call them buttocks and get it over with?

The music was energetic enough to send me into early labour, in fact I had to turn it off after a couple of minutes thinking I was having a kind of cultural heart attack (and I’m half American).

Still looking for decent exercise vids, we then found another British yoga clip that brought things back down to a manageable level of reality. The instructor wore an old tracksuit, the handheld camera jiggled about, there was a terrible glaring light in the background, and after every line the instructor pursed her lips in an apologetic sort of grimace. Ah, that’s more like it! A healthy dose of British realism.

While chuckling to myself over this transatlantic comparison during my familiar pregnancy-induced insomnia, I realised that this isn’t a million miles away from where Muslims are – in the global, cultural digisphere – from the kind of slick PR values currently steering the zeitgeist. For years we’ve heard people saying things like, ‘When are Muslims going to start making decent magazines, TV stations, films? Where are the Spielbergs of the Muslim world? Why can’t we get it together and make things just as well as what’s made in the West?’ And of course there’s the political gripe, which comes just as often (with a self-gratified sneer) from the Islamophobia corner, ‘Where are the Martin Luther Kings, the Gandhis, the Mandelas of the Islamic world? Where are those voices that make the whole world stop and listen?’

The answer to the former question is one that is changing rapidly right now. Navid Akhtar, a regular documentary maker for the BBC, is currently looking for ‘founder members’ to subscribe to (i.e crowdfund) a wonderful digital TV platform called Alchemiya, clearly a cut above the rest in terms of production values, and with the ethos of presenting the most beautiful and fascinating content from the Muslim World today – as often as not emerging from among Western Muslims. People like Canadian-born film-maker Adam Shamash, whose recent video for Californian hip-hop artist and poet Baraka Blue’s song Love and Light was filmed in Fez and London, are upping the stakes with great passion and verve. (If you’re careful you might see me in that clip too…)

In the vanguard of any movement you’ll always find artists. Speaking plain truth and down-to-earth wisdom is the quiet but constant Peter Sanders, whose photography career started with the Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix (he took the last shots of Jimi onstage before his death) and now meanders over the Islamic world capturing faces of saints and schoolkids, worlds inaccessible to the average blogger or newsreader.

Another Muslim Peter is that of the ever-dynamic Gould variety, whose Sydney-based design company pulls a lot of punches and whose Facebook page has over 100,000 followers. His Creative Ummah project, which is likewise looking for support at the moment on LaunchGood (another interesting Muslim enterprise), would create an online learning platform for everything from art to zoology (well, maybe the zoology is going a bit far), highlighting all the talent currently out there in the Muslim World.

And Yusuf
Islam
is back in the saddle with a new album, this time collaborating with an old friend from the Sufi 70s, Richard Thompson, and co-produced by Rick Rubin. One of few Muslim artists who have known serious limelight, Yusuf masterfully injects listenable, well-turned-out tunes with arresting philosophical thoughts.

You get the idea. I’d love to highlight all the Muslims currently putting immense efforts into raising the standards across the board, bringing beauty back into art and design (check out Lateefa Spiker, Iona Fournier-Tombs, Soraya Syed, and my very own dad for inspiring, bar-raising work) but there isn’t the space here and they might unfriend me for writing something embarrassing about them by accident. The point is that as the generations of Western Muslims move into second and even third, the production quality we expect is filtering down into the work we produce. No more cheap books printed in Lahore with text slipping off the page and spines that come undone after one reading.

My problem is that there’s something I quite like about the rubbishy productions we’re growing out of. Sure, the book-lover in me balks at poorly designed covers and pages so thin you can read the whole book just by holding it up to the light, but there’s something kind of honest about it nonetheless.

There is a tipping point at which content begins to be eclipsed by form. For many Muslims, this is exactly what we’re reacting against in the western sphere, an artistic and political stage in which looks mean everything, in which a US president can speak movingly about freedom and justice and the fight against terror while STILL not closing Guantanamo Bay, killing untold numbers of Pakistani and Syrian civilians using drones, or continuing to use cluster bombs even though they are known to kill children who think they’re toys.

We expect politics to be devious, but there has to be honesty in art or all is lost. I would much rather watch an Iranian film with poor film quality on YouTube for its awesome cinematography, brilliant script and effortlessly realistic acting than a Hollywood blockbuster in HD replete with clever jokes, jaw-dropping CGI effects and score sung by some chart-topping megababe. I suppose it’s the frustrated traveller in me that is riveted by ruins, prefers crummy worker’s restaurants with good eats over five-star places, and seeks out people selling food from trays on their head in the street to find out about the meaning of life.

The answer to the second question is not so dissimilar, either. Full marks if you’ve heard of Shirin Ebadi, an Iranian lawyer and former judge awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for her tireless campaigns for women’s rights. Or Samira Saleh al-Nuaimi, an Iraqi lawyer and political activist who criticised ISIS aka Da’esh, on a Facebook page and was tortured and executed for it. (It did appear in a few newspapers, with some photo credits even spelling her name wrong). Meanwhile there are people like the affable Sudanese London-based Sheikh Babikir, who never ceases to preach peace and love and hugging trees, as well as thousands of other ‘good’ teachers with the same message; surely Abdallah Bin Bayyah’s plea for a ‘war on war for a peace upon peace’ is a quote worthy of Gandhi. But love and compassion doesn’t hit the news quite like a beheading.

The voices do exist: they just don’t have full make-up, excellent English and a retinue that keeps the red carpet rolling. ‘Neither did Gandhi or Martin Luther King’, you say. That’s true; but things have changed immeasurably since then. To make your voice heard now in the galaxy of user-generated content online, you have to drown everyone else out. You need a YouTube channel, a manager, a lawyer, a dozen advisers to keep your career on track, a personal trainer, some sort of bizarre diet involving immortality mushrooms, lots of famous friends who will invite you to their shows so you can be photographed there, and the expectation that you are worth it, dammit.

So while I applaud those people who are creating higher quality art and design, more functional websites, better translations, more beautiful gifts, and films to knock your socks off, I’d like to spare some time for the jumble sale rejects, the people with good hearts and great words whose suits aren’t snappy and whose colour schemes suck. May we never get so cool that we forget the dust and decay of the real world. In the great, metaphorical landscape of the internet, I’d rather be in downtown Zanzibar in a pair of flipflops eating a mango than shopping for Prada in a Dubai mall any day.

Man in Stone Town, Zanzibar, not eating a mango.

Man in Stone Town, Zanzibar, not eating a mango.

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In Stillness

The conversation’s changing.

Where we once betted on the odds of rain

or complained about it soaking our shoes again

our sighs are reserved for internet tides,

wifi droughts and downloads shy as brides

while all around a hurricane of data flies

so seek the stillness at its core. If you lean

your curious head out, seeking more

it will toss you about like a toy

but on the inside, everything’s joy.

Watch the furniture dance in its 

ludicrous attempts to allure

watch the frames grow dustier

– it collects as you resist –

and the longer you hold back 

from tumbling in among the grist

in this vortex of desire and need 

of unsatisfying gut-mind feeds

the anger in its frustrated call

blows red and heavies the wind

with firestones and curses.

You counterculture scum – you dare

defy the raging wheel of dunya?

It will pelt you with fearful rocks

pepper you with doubts against your cause

and it seems so hard and physical, but stay

in this tranquillity; don’t take the hooks it throws you,

let them drop. This wall of wind believes 

it will keep twisting on forever.

But it was born of lunar high tides

silent moon gazing in love and

whipping up the whistling waves

that roll in shaggy tubes onto the beach

and end up in rock pools and homes for

crabs, anemones. That force

was forged by other powers

and every one of them 

comes out of stillness

and in stillness it meets

its match.

The Shrinking of the Lens

I used to open a door and

the square would dissolve behind me 

as I went through it,

the earth’s embrace splaying out

in greeting above and around,

a panorama complete with 

nicotina and straw, jasmine and wood,

skin-caressing breezes, mist

and earthy dry dust, grapevine shade 

mottling my arms in a kinetic 

ever-circling animal print,

sounds of children laughing,

pool splashing, sheep ruminating,

wind shushing the birds’

irrepressible tweets.

 

Now the names have turned to hyperlinks 

the square has shrunk to the size of a 

viewfinder, a million views being found 

at every moment; the landscape’s

broken down into a million finger-

to-thumb snapshots, the space between

eaten up by countless, nameless, faceless

stranger’s sights.

 

If I could just step back far enough, it might 

appear as a kind of Magic Eye picture, a Monet

of ads and amateur photography, and 

a figure might spring out from the chaos

reclining on a divan, elegant and serene,

giving me a sly wink as she puts her

feet up on the Beast of Binary Code:

the Spirit of the Times, invisible to 

faces glued to screens.

 

The Shrinking of the Lens

I used to open a door and

the square would dissolve behind me 

as I went through it,

the earth’s embrace splaying out

in greeting above and around,

a panorama complete with 

nicotina and straw, jasmine and wood,

skin-caressing breezes, mist

and earthy dry dust, grapevine shade 

mottling my arms in a kinetic 

ever-circling animal print,

sounds of children laughing,

pool splashing, sheep ruminating,

wind shushing the birds’

irrepressible tweets.

 

Now the names have turned to hyperlinks 

the square has shrunk to the size of a 

viewfinder, a million views being found 

at every moment; the landscape’s

broken down into a million finger-

to-thumb snapshots, the space between

eaten up by countless, nameless, faceless

stranger’s sights.

 

If I could just step back far enough, it might 

appear as a kind of Magic Eye picture, a Monet

of ads and amateur photography, and 

a figure might spring out from the chaos

reclining on a divan, elegant and serene,

giving me a sly wink as she puts her

feet up on the Beast of Binary Code:

the Spirit of the Times, invisible to 

faces glued to screens.

 

The Shrinking of the Lens

I used to open a door and

the square would dissolve behind me 

as I went through it,

the earth’s embrace splaying out

in greeting above and around,

a panorama complete with 

nicotina and straw, jasmine and wood,

skin-caressing breezes, mist

and earthy dry dust, grapevine shade 

mottling my arms in a kinetic 

ever-circling animal print,

sounds of children laughing,

pool splashing, sheep ruminating,

wind shushing the birds’

irrepressible tweets.

 

Now the names have turned to hyperlinks 

the square has shrunk to the size of a 

viewfinder, a million views being found 

at every moment; the landscape’s

broken down into a million finger-

to-thumb snapshots, the space between

eaten up by countless, nameless, faceless

stranger’s sights.

 

If I could just step back far enough, it might 

appear as a kind of Magic Eye picture, a Monet

of ads and amateur photography, and 

a figure might spring out from the chaos

reclining on a divan, elegant and serene,

giving me a sly wink as she puts her

feet up on the Beast of Binary Code:

the Spirit of the Times, invisible to 

faces glued to screens.