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Borneo Jazz festival, Malasia 2011 I Photo Credit: www.fernandacunha.com

Brazilian singer, Fernanda Cunha recently released her fourth album, “Brasil-Canada”, which hosts compositions from a wide array of Brazilian and Canadian artists. “I love repertories; sewing different types of music together” Cunha explains via correspondence with Maziart.  Like a sticker-peppered suitcase, Cunha’s songs have traveled from Austria, France, Spain, Portugal, and Denmark to Argentina, and Malaysia.

On October 8th, the Rio native returns to Canada on her sixth Canadian tour, which will include eight shows, one workshop, and nine children’s concerts. What keeps Cunha coming back to Canada is the open arms that she receives from her Canadian pals. “I felt like the happiest person in the world when I arrived at YYZ” Cunha recalls on her very first of many diverse Canadian tours.

“It has been an enriching experience.”

A major staple of the singer is the jazzy yet subtle sounds of bossa nova. “These days it’s impossible to look at the line-up of any given jazz festival and not see a bossa nova attraction, no?” We thankfully nod in agreement Fernanda.

Of today’s Brazilian music Cunha adds that, “Brazil is a ‘farmhouse’ of new singers, yet there always exists a style”. She appreciates the artists that bring an identity and maturity regardless of that particular week’s trends.

“The quality of the work and the sophistication to manage your own career is what makes an artist last forever; even if it’s not obvious in the media” says Cunha.

This Saturday’s show at Performance Works include the guest chorinho trio, Pé de Cana, which is well known for their “sweet and melancholic melodies with a ‘Brazilianese atmosphere faithful to the choro tradition.”

For more info check out the Facebook event page and to purchase tickets visit Brown Paper Tickets.

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Photo by Ron Reed. Pictured: Glen Pinchin in Tuesdays with Morrie.

A Gallery 7 Theatre production of the touching tale, Tuesdays with Morrie opened Pacific Theatre’s 2011/12 season with a double shot of soul this past Wednesday night.

The story is about Morrie, a terminally-ill college professor (played by cop-turned-actor, Glen Pinchin) and his former student, Mitch (played by Ken Hildebrandt) that visits him every Tuesday in his New England home.

Originally based on the best-selling non-fiction book, the play criticizes the overcomplicated, fast-paced life and our wary depositions to death.

Morrie teaches Mitch (and most of the audience for that matter) that life is to be lived well, specially when its cut short. Valuing relationships, and forgiveness burns an immortal memory in the hearts of those around you. “Are you living as human as you can be?” he asks his estranged protege. The upbeat, dying man even hosts his own funeral while he’s still alive.

Remaining a “teacher to the last” his soulfulness shows us the importance of knowing what to hang on to, and when to let go.

Another theme explored is how the life of a man tends to begin and end with the same need for nurture and dependence.

With a warm smile and quirky Yiddish accent, Pinchin’s “old world” portrayal sticks its forehead in the audience demanding a kiss above the eyes.

Photo by Dianna Lewis. Pictured (L-R) Ken Hildebrandt, Glen Pinchin in Tuesdays with Morrie.

With such a natural and affectionate back-and-forth between the two characters and lines like: “dying is only one thing to be sad over; living unhappily is something else”, Tuesdays with Morrie is yet another play at the Pacific Theatre that you shouldn’t miss.

The play runs until September 24th. Call 604.731.5518 or visit Pacific Theatre’s website for details.

Continue reading »]]> With her hit debut CD, Efêmera topping Rolling Stone Brasil’s best album of 2010, singer Tulipa Ruiz rang the new year in with a bang.

With tours across Brazil and selected cities in Europe and the US, the journalist-turned-singer has developed a love affair with the stage. “I’m much more of a stage artist than a studio artist. I feel more free. The stage is a place of possibility” Tulipa explains via Skype from her modest hometown in the southeast countryside of Brazil.

Efêmera (Ephemeral in English) represents her belief in the deep poetry of the fickle features of our lives, such as a fragile flower or a short screening of a shooting star.

“This year, its all about doing shows for Efêmera, in all possible places” says Tulipa through my echoing MacBook speaker.

Raised in a small town of 40,000 to a family of musicians, this tulip was a late bloomer to microphones and choruses. She worked at a record store where the release of a new album was always a weekly event. Influenced by MPB stars such as Ná Ozzetti, and Canadian folk singer, Joni Mitchell, Tulipa spent most if not all of her money on music.

At the age of 22, she moved to the giant sprawl of heat that is São Paulo to study communication, while living with her rocker father, Luiz Chagas .

Like many new artists hailing from Brazil, Tulipa gained a following via social media before booking shows. “The world of the artist is completely different now” explains Tulipa of the importance of leaving your digital footprint on as many glowing screens as possible.

In August 2011, Tulipa performed several shows in Washington DC and Miami, including her NYC debut alongside fellow Brazilian singer, Tiê, where to their surprise, the ex-vocalist of Talking Heads, David Byrne appeared in the crowd.

Tulipa & Tiê with David Byrne I Photo Credit: Jorge Bispo

“It’s impressive how our music can arrive to the people before us through the internet. A concert is like an exchange between new people.”

With memories of the generation-defining movement known as Tropicalismo that arose in Brazil in the late 60s, many journalists have labeled new artists such as Tulipa, Tiê, Karina Buhr, and Marina Aydar as “the new wave of Brazilian music”. But in reality these new artists have been continuing along in the tradition carved by Tropicalismo, which pioneered mixing different types of sounds to create something both new and nostalgic. “Brazilian music is a mix of the music of the world. Its not just a dedication of samba or bossa nova, but of blues music or African music” explains Tulipa.

“Right now there are a lot of artists making great music and this huge offering makes people to want to give it a name. But really its not new music but music that is going down in Brazil right now.”

An interesting experience for the singer was her European tour where she delivered her craft to people that don’t speak Portuguese. Luckily Lisboa was one of her stops. “The Portuguese like the way that we Brazilians choose our words. Never have I heard such interesting questions regarding my lyrics than while in Portugal.”

Efêmera Cover I Photo Credit: Tulipa Ruiz

Another artistic facet that Tulipa actively pursues is graphic design, which includes her rendering of the album cover of Efêmera. “I knew a long time ago that this would be the cover of my CD, even without knowing that I would one day have a CD of my own” she admits. “For me, sound and image have always gone in harmony together.”

As you can see on her blog, none of the figures in her designs have any faces. “Maybe I need some therapy. I don’t know, I think it seems more sincere, without any masks, or anything. Sometimes facial expressions can act as a mask that’s in flux. Without adding eyes, nose and a mouth, the viewer is free to invent.”

On September 24th 2011 Tulipa will perform with Nação Zumbi, the legendary Manguebeat rock group in the Rock in Rio music festival. Other festival headliners include Stevie Wonder, Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Elton John, Shakira and Rihanna.

Continue reading »]]> With two of his friends, my father and I spent a week in the laid back city of Shiraz, in southern Iran. In search of the famous Shirazi wine, I was left completely intoxicated with a warm belly, dry teeth and a total lack of the right combination of words.

One afternoon, we escaped from the heavy sun by chewing on thick and yellow ice cream at an open-air teahouse, when one of them asked about the book I was reading. I looked up from its pages at the fountain ahead and I told him it was The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and was surprised that he had never heard of it.

We went to see if the little bookstore opposite from us had it and the girl behind the counter quickly handed me a Farsi version with the binding on the right. I offered it to him as a gift, and even with the help of the beautiful, hazel-eyed salesgirl, I was left disappointed when he declined.“I don’t read these types of books. I have no use for them!” he said dismissively as he indicated to the tapes of Rumi verses in his bag “…I read poetry.”

‘Unbelievable’ I muttered as I shook my head at the girl. I started to dislike him after that. I mean, what kind of close-minded old man turns down a book?

During dinner as he peeled the burnt skin of his barbecued tomatoes, I watched the way his droopy eyes slowly blinked, while his quaint mouth argued with his pea-brain about whether to breathe air or complain. ‘Everything has to be just so, yes? You eat the tomato meat, but leave the skin? And FOR WHO?’ I thought to myself, ‘if it were my restaurant I’d give you a damn plate of potato peels!’ Luckily, I was distracted by one of my father’s stories about how he got a haircut from a prostitute in Cuba last spring break. After the credits rolled and father smiled from the satisfaction of his audience, I calmly asked him if he had ever left Iran. Without looking up from his neat plate and through his narrow teeth he replied, “Only Dubai”. I took a long sip from my non-alcoholic beer and said, “You’re afraid of new things! Foreign things scare you. And we both know this is not good!” The three Iranian men smiled at my youthful clairvoyance: Yes…’ I thought. Achievement. Eat that you Unranian Islamic Republican!

You see one of the main differences I noticed between westerners and their demographic equivalents in Iran, is that the former are much more vocal with their opinions regardless of the seniority of those within earshot.

For me, horizontal hierarchy allows for a more efficient exchange of ideas. Only through open communication, can we hear a newer version of a story we thought we already knew well. Asking directions to your own street from a stranger, can introduce you to a shortcut or a scenic route you never knew! Different versions of the same story-this is what the true traveler reads. You met a beautiful girl. Don’t stare, pretend you’re blind and she will hold your hand in hers to your door!

For better or worse, I found my Iranian youth to be much more obedient than I would be in their shoes. I guess the Canadian Board of Education programmed it into my head that my point of view actually counts for something. Or maybe my constitutional rights forced them to bite their tongues when I used mine. Though, if you continue to choose to read my words, you’ll see that it was I who spoke a bit too soon this time.

Days after my dinner table triumph, my momentary self-love turned into a soggy cup of melted cream as I read the last pages of my book. In The Alchemist, a young shepherd from Southern Spain follows a vivid dream he had all the way to the pyramids of Egypt, only to find that his treasure was under the very same church steeple in his Andalusian hometown. The principal elements of this novel were taken from a Rumi poem written hundreds of years ago, in which a man from Baghdad follows a reoccurring dream of finding a hidden treasure in Cairo. He gives everything up, and after being mistaken for a thief while begging on the streets for food in Cairo, he tells of his story to the cop, who had the same dream; only his treasure was buried under a street in Baghdad.

Sometimes a journey may lead you through a go-cart maze, only to find that the finish line starts where the starting line ends. The message that shouldn’t be lost here is that if the highs make you feel like you’ll never come back down, and the lows leave you with a feeling of utter desperation, then the voyage could never be in vain. Whether it’s written in one of the 25,000 verses of Rumi’s Mathanawi, or in the English folklore story, The Pedlar of Swaffham the message is same: we all need to escape from our cozy comfort zone to truly see what we had, and hopefully still have.

‘How ironic…’ I thought. I was trying to sell this man on a book that was a mere novelized version of something he already had growing in his backyard; like Botox to a Brazilian, or contraband to the Taliban. I literally went from one end of the intellectual spectrum to the other, which was a great lesson in the importance of opposites. At one corner, stood a 120-pound, instant denouncement of a classic case of cultural fascism with a mouth full of inventive insight instead of a mouth-guard. And in the other corner stood, the ugly, heavyweight of truth, knocking me to the floor, by the legacy of Iran’s oceanic, philosophical gravity. Each side like two beautifully feathered wings hoisted me over temporal, arbitrary fences, which held nothing in and kept nothing out.

To the true listener, a remix, or adaptation never takes anything away from the original. How could it? If Rumi found a traditionalist and a modernist caught up in a primitive fashion show, he would strip both naked, lock them in a room and put a loud speaker up against the door and watch their blood turn into a flowing Shirazi wine!

The novel, the poem it was adapted from and the countless derived works in between are all about The Search. Searching so long only to realize that your search ends where your fingertips begin.

Wisdom comes with age and not always in the pages of a mainstream bestseller. As in the words of Richard Pyror, ‘you don’t get old being a fool, see…lotta young wise men that’s dead than a motherfucker ain’t it?’

Within a day or two I went from being a clever mouth to an infant, recoiled into a modest fetal ball, to a bewildered watcher. The true tragedy is the actor under the spotlight, merely waiting for applause, forgetting that his stage ends where another one begins.

Now that I have poured out my water onto our garden, my old friend, Rumi, will shatter the glass that I thought was my private property:

If I had known the real way it was,
I would have stopped all the looking around.

But that knowing depends
on the time spent looking!
You fear losing a certain eminent position.
You hope to gain something from that, but it comes
from elsewhere. Existence does this switching trick,
giving you hope from one source, then satisfaction
from another.

It keeps you bewildered
and wondering, and lets your trust in the Unseen grow.
I wait and fidget and flop about
as a decapitated chicken does, knowing that
the vital spirit has to escape this body
eventually, somehow!

This desire will find an opening.

There was once a man
who inherited a lot of money and land.

But he squandered it all too quickly. Those who inherit
wealth don’t know what work it took to get it.

In the same way, we don’t know the value of our souls,
which were given to us for nothing!

MG

Continue reading »]]> Plastered in the interior of any given bus in Vancouver you can find the Transplant BC “Live Life. Pass It On” advocacy campaign.

As those photos were seen across BC and boosting registration of organ donation in numbers, I got a chance to chat with the project’s photographer and photo-editor, Cyrus McEachern on a shiny patch of grass on a sunny afternoon. The story starts with NewWest-native Eva Markvoort: a 25-year-old UBC arts student that described her plight with cystic fibrosis as “drowning on the inside”. Her courageous and heartfelt battle ended in the spring of 2010 after her 2007 double lung transplant was rejected by her immune system. While studying at UBC she spend time with her old-time pal, Cyrus McEachern. “She didn’t know anyone at UBC so we got together often, had lunch and talked about life” explains the shirtless and cross-legged 4th year med student under flying frisbees and sunshine. The motley pair starting creating art projects, with the first of which being a cardiology-themed photo contest.

Eva’s story was told in the multi-award-winning documentary 65_Redroses, which will air on the Oprah Winfrey Network in September.

Photo courtesty of 65_redroses.com

Eva prolifically wrote about her experiences in her blog, which inspired long-time friend Philip Lyall and his UBC film school colleague Nimisha Mukerji to film the wait for the transplant. The name of the documentary and blog is the derivation of how young children with the disease pronounce cystic fibrosis. Eva added “red” because its her favourite colour.

After Eva’s first lung transplant, the pair had the idea to paint the new lungs on Eva’s chest and send the photos to BC Transplant in hopes of creating an advocacy campaign for organ donation. “They’ve got good results with hundreds of new people signing up every week to be organ donors” says McEachern.

“Our goal was to bridge that gap between the 85% of British Columbians that say they would donate their organs and the 17% that are actually registered. I think most people have good intentions but its something that they just don’t think about.”

But why was this particular campaign so successful? Why was it not ignored like the countless governmental ads on city buses? McEachern describe the photos as “…captivating… there’s a lot of skin, so its got sexual appeal to it. But the goal was to highlight the beauty of transplant, which is taking a part of one human being to another to save his or her life.”

The point here is that an artsy idea was effectively used as a tool to motive people to make a socially positive change. Donors that offer their entire body can possibly save or improve the quality of live of 7 tiny names on an endless organ transplant wait-list.

Organ donation has not been in the forefront of the minds of British Columbians for years. In fact, most people do not even know that the organ donor sticker on BC plates has not been valid for a decade. What made the “Live Life. Pass It On” campaign so successful was that it brought an eye to the faces of those whose lives have been saved, and of course it never hurts that some are gorgeous. “If someone asked me about donating organs before I would have pictured an 85-year-old man in a wheelchair. You don’t think of a 25-year-old, vibrant, beautiful girl struggling to breathe” admits McEachern.

Live Life. Pass It On. Photo courtesy of BC Transplant

Other transplant recipients in the series included a pregnant woman that suffered from an unknown virus which caused heart failure. She received a heart transplant and 10 years later is having a baby. “Someone lost a life, but ends up not only saving another, but a whole lineage. It’s like recycling life!” exclaims McEachern.

McEachern is currently learning the med-ropes in the operating rooms and wards at a NewWest hospital, and hopes to blend fine art photography into his career as much as possible. You can check out his works on his site and please register to be an organ donor here. MG

Continue reading »]]> The quality of Vancouver nightlife can mean different things to different people. To the Yaletown yuppie, giddy over a $20 appy plate consisting of three olives served in an ashtray, the local bar scene could very well be more than enough. But to the starving student stuck on a dark hill with his circle of friends offering nothing but excuses to stay in tonight, the nightlife remains under par. Don’t skip town just yet for I’ve got the solvent to unglue you down among the living!Now. Come in to my office. Close the door, but don’t lock it. Have a seat, but don’t slouch. Relax compadre. New to town are we? Or maybe a bored local fed up with the greasy grandeur of Granville yes? I’ve got just the trick.

Mother would say that variety is the spice of life, but for your case, we both know that a mere pepper shaker won’t do, even if it is one of those fancy schmancy kinds that grinds peppercorns and forces the powder to walk the plank and parachute to your plate. A mouthful of a more exotic flavor is what I’ve got in mind, but don’t worry; a plane ticket is not required.

License plate mottos aside, Vancouver is a great city. You nod nervously. But the problem is that the rain really kills the nightlife. Plus, Burnaby Mountain tends to keep the SFU student body in the dark and limited to foothill drinking holes like the appropriately titled, Mountain Shadow or downtown B-lines leading to painfully typical nightclubs that neither demand luster from their clientele, nor exclusivity. The untrained eye would assume that when the bar that is decorated with a lengthy line-up, it must be where all the cool kids go, but as a Kid named Cudi once said, “everything that shines, ain’t always gonna be gold.”

Wait! Don’t get upset! You’re still young; you have your whole life ahead of you! But in reality of course that doesn’t mean anything, but I’ll tell you what does. The key to finding inexpensive brews and rare tunes that provoke sudden jerks of the body is word of mouth, so note the words that are coming out of my mouth and type them into a text message to your buddies when they ask you about your plans this Thursday night: I BE GOING TO ASTORIA! Do note that it’s been clinically tested and proven that the use of grammar and spelling faux pas are now fo’ pimp! So if the rims cost more than the vehicle, hop on in chum!

A quick 30-minute ride on the 135 Vomit Comet from campus brings you to your destination – The Glorious Astoria Hotel and their best night is Thursday Ting, an organic riddim of tangy reggae, ragga and dancehall. Breathe easy rude bwoy! It’s not Thursday yet! Sit back down!

The cover is $5 and the DJs are usually bombaat, with the jewel of the crown being Tank Girl; always attracting classic moves such as The White Man’s Overbite and the DreadHead Peacock Wobble to the elbow-saturated dance floor. Unfortunately for those with Friday morning class, the dranks be cheap! $4 beer bottles, $8.50 big Heinekens, and $6.50 for double gin and juice served booty-shaken not stirred, allowing for maximum power steering on those hips of yours, as you trickle for the nearest boom box.

The crowd is hilarious! Everything from pink mohawks perched on lanky legs to hipster hips swinging over heavy heels, to cats with dreads thicker than my forearm. With the right timing and a little bit of luck, you can catch one of the many homeless dudes hanging out outside, spinning plates on their foreheads or busting a freestyle for spare change or a smoke. Ah Asstoria! Never change old friend!

Other nights pulsate as well. Exchange your soapy showerhead for a microphone that reeks of beer on Karaoke Showdown Mondays. You could end up winning one of the weekly prizes, and with suds going for only $3.50, you probably wouldn’t even remember if you did. Like most things on East Hastings, nothing is set in stone, and Astoria is no different. Other nights remain ambiguous and always geared towards the alternative crowd, ranging from live punk bands, 80′s vinyls, to break beats. Checking Astoria’s Facebook page is your best bet on staying in the hula-hoop.

From the white glare on your focused face, I can see that you are appropriately updating your Facebook with your new Thursday night plans. Slowly your head looks up to find me behind my pine desk, fiddling with a Rubix Cube and about to bid you farewell by pointing at the door with my eyebrows.

As for payment of my services you ask? Well, if I were to charge you I’d probably get paid around the time of your distant graduation. So, how about a cold beer and a round of pool next Thursday night at Astoria?

Psst, Download Tank Girl’s latest mix here!

Continue reading »]]> Darting out into the Straight of Georgia like a vainy erection lies famous Wreck Beach: a great place to forget the city for an afternoon, as you conveniently forget to hide your shame. Ah Freedom! I’ve heard so much about you!

A short walk from the UBC bus loop and down 542 wooden steps leads you to a large stretch of sand, hidden from the crowds of Kits and Third Beach. This perfect playground hosts everything from yoga classes, to full-body massages. And if that wasn’t enough, independent vendors with nothing on but a fanny-bag, constantly comb the beach to provide you and your lazy-ass friends with anything you didn’t want to haul down all those steps. It’s simply a great place to crease the binding of a good book, or drop in on a game of beach volleyball.

On this particular day I was squinting through the blinding sand in search of a few friends. A text message left on my phone an hour earlier said to look for red. Later on that night I would be told that in a confused burning event involving a matchstick and a roach left the tip of my friend’s nose with a red dot. As such, he decided that a red bandana and matching t-shirt would make his shame less salient. Welcome of the Beach of the Weird folks!
A blur of red led me to him quite quickly and I was pleased to see that the tide was out, leaving the sand swelled and making it perfect for Olympic-level Frisbee, or World Cup soccer. Shiny eyes and bellies full of Ale kept the games short and the scoreboards arbitrary. After the tournament I was sad to see that my hummus had rotted under the sun, but luckily the backend of Wreck Beach is always lined with makeshift foods stands, serving Japadogs, bison burgers and Peruvian staples. Parallel to the shore, you can also expect to find hippie dresses and scarves, all reasonably priced.

Adding to Wreck’s uniqueness is the fact that it’s one of the few places that the sun drowns out right over the water. You’ll be cussing yourself, wishing your cell phone took better pictures; but don’t worry, soon all is forgotten when you heard the customary applause of your fellow beach bums as the sun turns into an orange rim along the razor horizon.

Being such a regional rarity, Wreck Beach comes with a degree of politics as well. In one corner, weighing in at whatever love handles you can grab at, is the ‘Nude Nazi’. He’s usually hammered and well equipped with a swift tongue if you get too close or too clothed. Signature screams include: “Hey, Jericho is that way buddy!” or my favorite, “This is our beach! Cunt off Textile!” In the other corner, we have the Peering Party-Crasher in the Oakley trunks, and a mouth full of lame pick-up lines. These clowns, with their scattered cigarette buds and beer caps practice little or no beach etiquette. I mean who brings glass bottles to a beach anyways?
I mean let’s face it a lot of the ‘Textiles’ that eagerly hop down those steps are there to check out some naked bodies, and I too, have been inclined to glance at a nipple or two (usually two). The problem here isn’t innocent perversion, but rather a lack of awareness.

Those times that I chose to flap in the wind, I noticed that the number of boarding shorts and bikinis really put a damper on the vibe (the former more than the latter of course). This is something the mainstreamists need to understand. Wreck Beach is a pretty special place and the nudist want to keep it like that.

Mind you I’m not condoning drunken debates, for those tipsy sun-raisins have the wrong approach completely. But what I am stressing is the importance of being sand savvy.

I have been going to Wreck for years now, sometimes in trunks, sometimes not, so I can relate to both sides. The wrinkled nudists can’t stand seeing their beloved beach being infested by clothes and bottle caps; and cold suds under the hot sun makes attitudes exponentially worse. No one likes a tourist, but technically the ‘Textiles’ have just as much right to be there as the nudists do, for Wreck Beach is a clothing option beach.
Getting into an antagonizing debate on your beach day is never fun so here are my words of wisdom for the non-nudist hoping for an Indian summer:

• You’re better off to set up camp around the bottom of the steps or to the right of them, for the best spots (far left) are usually kept nice and naked.
• Don’t take pictures, and if you must, be discreet.
• Take your cigarette butts with you and if you forget to remember and misplaced one or two simply replace them with the orphans lost in the sand.
• Keep your ears open, for at the first sign of the fuzz, a naked Viking toots his horn alarm. No joke! If you happen to be farther than a stone’s throw away from Thor’s yelp please heed the next tip.
• This one goes for nudists and non-nudists alike for in this case the police ironically don’t discriminate. Cops routinely patrol the beach on weekends, pouring beer out and writing $150 tickets for public drinking as you roll your eyes behind your shades. The best way to avoid this tragedy is to leave the cooler at home, buy ice from the UBC store plaza, and like our forefathers dig a hole. Your empty cans are your evidence and are in demand by collectors, so chuck them away from you when you can.

Hands down Wreck Beach is the best city beach, and there’s nothing like running into the silver water at a moment’s notice and floating in the open sea wearing nothing but a tan. I highly recommend it! And if bearing it all is asking too much, then remember my advice and keep an open mind.

Photo credit: Natasha Pirani

Continue reading »]]> Internet: the megaphone of the people brought me the artwork of Tabriz-based photographer, Ghazale Ghazanfari. I first stumbled upon the dark textures and subtle emotions of her images on Iranian.com months ago, and the impression left was just as difficult to shake as tracking her down for an interview.

The 24-years-old artist is completing her MA in Industrial Design in Tabriz: a kind and modest city in the far northwest corner of Iran near the borders of Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan. Her conceptual photos play on morbid backdrops of loneliness, abandonment, self-reflection and the occasional self-portrait of the female artist in gentlemen’s clothes. “When i feel pressed mentally I take photographs” explains Ghazanfari via Skype from her Tabriz home.

“My refuge is photography because there are hardships that we all have including those I have in my own mind; its like a kind of shelter for me.”

The self-confident, yet easy-going young artist’s passion began with a cell phone camera in hand and those very same low-res shots won her a professional camera at a national festival. Since then her camera was like her bow-tie: always within reach.

Her artwork mostly contains one or two characters, which are usually either women or children. “My luck was that I have a little sister [sister yelps 'salaam'] which has shown me my own childhood and in a sense the experience is like taking photographs of my own past.”

The rare inclusion of a male commonly acts as a contrasting element to the female figure in the picture and serves as a source of tension, division or silence. “I feel that men can destroy the picture. I don’t think that there’s much of a special beauty in men. But a girl has a beauty on the surface and a gentleness within” she says laughingly.

Her depiction of the confinement of women is a provocative message that speaks to the digital ears of all young Iranians. Illustrative modes to describe the borders of society include ladders, ropes, barb wire, wedding veils and guitar strings. “I studied philosophy and sociology and I am constantly putting these concepts in my photos.”

The fake veil of modernity in the social roles of wives and daughters is criticized. A mother is seen ironing another’s (perhaps daughter’s?) hair, a symbol of the conflicting roles cast upon women to be both housekeepers and flat-haired dolls.

When asked about the vision of a photographer Ghazanfari replied “…in a way I see this meandering, crooked world in a very simple way. When I take the photos I try to crack the simpleness of this repeating history.”

Other works leave a more sleepily effect on the viewer. Snapping shots of cigarette smoke as it seeps out of closing lips, mysterious grainy doors and bare tree branches are all Ghazanfari favourites. Though not always conscience of her process, she spontaneously draws the viewer into something that radiates an initial peculiarity, but that slowly has the ability to morph an innate quality.

Having never left Iran and fuelled by the support and positive feedback given by friends and fans, Ghazanfari hopes to hold an exhibition of her work aboard. Hopefully her first stop will be Vancouver.

To keep updated on her works you can find her on Facebook and subscribe to her Flickr photostream.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Continue reading »]]> For the first time in contemporary dance, Israeli dancer, Arkadi Zaides teams up with his Palestinian neighbours to perform Quiet, a dance piece that will make part of the 2011 summer festival, Dancing On The Edge in Vancouver.

Quiet: a product of a “torn-apart” milieu is a display of the constant and nonexistence communication between Palestinians and Israelis within the Jewish state.

“I came from the States now, and you have a similar approach to questions [as Americans]” Zaides jokes when asked about his intention with Quiet.

“As if the artists really knows what he wants from the audience! The work is about an emotional landscape and it’s very personal.”

Quiet attempts to describe the intensity of the region’s reality and how difficult it is to make a connection when holding on to the memory of past conflicts and injustices. “This challenge of communication is occupying the body, which is reacting to stress and an endless state of shock.”

“Such a personal communication should be very obvious but it’s not here [in Israel]” Zaides tells MaziArt via Skype from Tel Aviv.

Quiet, a releasing therapy in dance if you will, reminds us that silence is a state of mind that is hard to come by in Israel. “For me it is very hard to find quietness here because I choose to deal with the situation.”

“A lot of people are tired and choose to ignore, but I chose to stand and see what’s going on around me and use it as a material for my work” explains Zaides.

In its Israeli debut, Quiet gained a lot of attention because never before have Palestinian contemporary dancers been invited to express themselves in such a forum. This work also spurred on community work and shows in nearby Arab cities such as Haifa and Nazareth. “I feel that they [Arab audiences] really appreciated this honest try. It’s not to make anything pretty but to work with this honest energy. ”

Histories of hatred on both sides made the interracial collaboration difficult. “Each dancer came with his own reality, so a lot of the work at the beginning was at a very personal level and through the process we discovered how irrational things are.”

Experiences like these have shown Zaides that to communicate directly and build with strangers across metal fences you must let go of what is holding you back.

“When you pile up yourself with the history, there is no room to see the other” Zaides admits.

Future joint works between Israelis and Palestinians looks grim given the post-war boycotts of 2008 and Palestinian fear of being accused of conspiring with the enemy.

“I think that before we cross borders, we have a lot of work to do with the Arab community here [within Israel] and there is a lot of injustice going on. It’s very pretentious to start a peace process with the other side when inside something is really not working” explains Zaides.

Quiet makes its Canadian debut on July 7th at the Firehall Arts Centre with an additional show on the 9th. For more information please click here.

Continue reading »]]> Until this Wednesday, the VanCity Theatre is screening: Outside The Law, an Algerian, French and Belgian joint production that casts Francis Ford-Coppola’s cinematic style to the Algerian independence narrative.

From the very first scene, the struggle of a peasant family of three brothers: Said, Messaoud and Abdelkader is felt when they are forced from their ancestral home by a local tribe on the grounds that they never owned it.

Soon upheaval and violent protests against French colonial rule leaves rows of men dead in the dusty desert streets of Algiers.

With the death of their father in the confusion, the brothers go their separate ways: Said turns to organized crime in Paris, Abdelkader, a very Malcolmsique character discovers the spark of political activism in a French jail and Messaoud via the French army is sent to Indochina to ironically suppress the Viet Minh, a national independence coalition which ends up pushing imperial France out of Vietnam.

A prime attraction of the film is the family’s mother: a thick-faced rock of a woman with a headscarf and a chin tattoo; common among the Berbers of north Africa. Sleeping under cardboard sheets on favours she scrambles to salvage what’s left of her fragmented family.

The setting is the slums of Paris and now the boys are all grown up. Messaoud returns from his tour, Abdelkader is freed and Said is getting ‘hood rich from his underground boxing circuit.

With the Paris Renault factory being the best option for a livelihood, the two older brothers turn to activist support of the FLN (The National Liberation Front of Algeria) against the MNA (The Algerian National Movement) which some say was partially funded by France to validate the claim that FLN rhetoric was not the sole voice of Algerians.

The two soon gain power within the party and catch the swift attention of the French government, which then creates The Red Hand, a secret counterforce to suppress FLN activity, while conveniently remaining immune to legality.

The film was deemed “anti-français” by most French critics, and questions have arisen regarding the plot’s consistency with mainstream history.

Outside the Law is not the best movie you’ll see all year, but it is an entertaining story, which even includes a Carlito’s Way-inspired police chase through the metro of Paris. It’s a root-for-the-little-brown-guy, anti-colonial film that would get the more sensitive segment of a Canadian audience to fall deeper into a misplaced, silly sense of white guilt. Hopefully a pat on the back will help. MG