The Complete Artist’s Guide to Morocco: Part I

I recently spent ten days in Morocco, not because I have family there or had any artistic background in Morocco, but because I knew almost nothing about it.

After trekking through gorges, medinas,and endless mazes of souks (markets), I reached a new level of understanding of their art, cuisine and culture as a whole.

Morocco is situated on the northwest tip of Africa and through the years has been a Berber kingdom, French colony, Spanish holding, and is now under Arabic rule. It presents an artistic conundrum with its Portuguese turrets, Muslim minarets, and endless Francophile references that linger in its cafes.

In a series of posts, I hope to introduce anyone who is curious (or simply confused, like I was) about Moroccan culture and history. As a point of entry, I’ll start with Moroccan doors, almost all of which beg you run your hand over their intricate designs before opening the latch into another world.

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The first thing to know about Moroccan doors is that they serve a functional purpose. They let people into your home, but they also do a great job of keeping hot winds out of your inner courtyard oasis. This top photo is a perfect example of a typical Moroccan door of entry into a school or Mosque. It sits within a typical Muslim horseshoe arch that tapers at the top into a point (unlike Roman arches) and has two options for entry. The large doors serve as barn doors to let loads of air (and people!) inside, while the smaller doors serve merely to let smaller crowds and small gusts of wind inside.

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Typical house doors that offer entry from the street are often another matter. They lack the larger barn style door, but make up for their lack in size by providing the pedestrian with a visual feast for the eyes. Incorporating stars, circles, squares, and triangles blended together in a myriad of ways, the Moroccan front door acts as an excellent precursor to the intricately tiled Moroccan interior.

Moroccan riads (or large houses that can host many visitors) are largely interior-focused. Since the temperatures can drop thirty degrees in one day and the winds have been known to blow Saharan sands, Moroccans have become masters of home climate control. This is why you will see very few windows in the typical Moroccan home.

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Moroccan doors also incorporate the common West African practice of ‘fractal scaling’ or the repetition of a theme on large and small scales. This door (above) incorporates the Jewish six-pointed Star of David, frequently featured in Jewish districts of Moroccan cities such as Marrakech and Essaouira.

 

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Three-dimensional representation of the Jewish star, a repeated design motif.

An important thing to know about any Muslim architecture is that animals and people are strictly forbidden. There is some leeway in a culture like Morocco, where European and Berber influences bring animals and body parts to the table (e.g. the hand Hamza symbol) but largely, figures are prohibited.

Some exceptions are below:

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The swan’s head is barely a figure. From far away, it merely appears to be a curved line with an arrowhead. No harm of being heretical there.

The second object (the hand pictured above) is a ‘Hamsa’ (simply meaning ‘five) to Arabic speakers or ‘the hand of Fatima’ to Muslims. It serves an apotropaic function to ward off evil when the fingers are open and to bring good luck when the fingers are closed. The symbol pre-dates Christianity and Judaism, believed to have been found at sites of Mesopotamia.

Either way, it makes an enticing door knocker.

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Moroccan doors can be any color and any design. They often bear a resemblance to the architecture of the building they occupy and more often are the most ornate and functional parts of a building. They ward off evil and let in guests. They can be symbolic, beautiful, and powerful.

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Or, if you happen to be staying in a Berber camp in the Sahara desert, they can simply be a piece of fabric that keeps unwelcome sand gusts from disturbing your slumber.

Food for Thought

Once upon a time this is how I cooked: look in fridge, see all the colors vegging – red green yellow pep, translucent white onions, sunset tomato, garlic (also white ish), earthy orange carrots, more green broccoli and of course pale root potato – chop it all up into rainbow dice, throw it in tortilla wrap with lunch meat, or a quesadilla (basically the same but cooked and folded rather than raw rolled), sauce on the outside over lettuce bed, salsa rice side dish instead of chips or fries and the point is everything went in all at once and always with cheese because why not?

Whatever it was, breakfast lunch or dinner it all went in – I said it’s healthy, keeps my colors nice and crisp and lucid like the nuclear reactor my brother saw at Indiana University, a small cube two feet all around submerged in a deep circle well and the water is the cleanest around and it vibrates – that’s how I picture my mind after a meal with all the vitamins present and glowing and I don’t eat enough as it is – got no time to coordinate ingredients into cohesive meal, all it is is protein, veg, fruit, grain and alcohol, five groups, mostly grain and booze, so when there’s room for one veg everyone tags along and I developed a blanket veg taste in everything I ate and I stopped enjoying food. Call me picky but life is just too short to eat the same taste for every meal, to take a thing like food and make it consistent and I thought of the movie Wall-E and how they drink food out of straws and that’s the least of their problems.

And it’s not just about food, if I can’t enjoy a simple meal and have to rush to get it down and on to this or that, then what else is flying over my head, under the radar? And if not I then who’s there to enjoy anything little and sparkling and insignificant anymore, and I see my future self in a dream never being impressed with visions and sounds and strange tastes and sooner or later I am on the edge of the grand canyon and I’m trying to locate the exact spot where a high resolution digital photograph I saw on the internet was taken and there it is and I’m seeing it with my own eyes and I am disappointed – I can’t zoom in or sit down and it’s hot out and I wish I had stayed home and known this place strictly through the laptop window, and it’s all been seen and lost its shimmering newness. And I wake up and wish future Josh had walked off the edge of that cliff.

Back to food, I had thoughts of how there are words between lines on pages, there’s music in the silent bars of a classical symphony or wild bop ride, and there are knives hanging from strings off of the end stops of poems stacked in my bookshelf, there is color and beautiful silence in the shy spots of a painting or the empty white of a fresh canvas – this applies to food because if everyone cooked everything together for every meal we would all be eating the same rainbow mush from a blender (for convenience) and our tongues would devolve and forget about how things taste better next to other things like colors and words vibing and rhyming and rolling off the tongue and eyes just right and you can tell – it’s cooking as a process of elimination, what not to cook, that’s the real question and it’s really what not to see and I ask myself all the time when I’m walking around outside and looking down at all the little colored stones in the sidewalk and my portion control is much better these days. I probably still don’t eat enough but I’m enjoying meals and sticks and puddles and little tricks of light in windows at dusk and passing moments with strangers and smiles and I think what a shame it would be if I threw these things into a blender and ate them all at once.

Letting It Go

So last week at the Oscars, Disney’s Frozen took home two rather predictable awards (though my hopes had been that Miyazaki would sneak away with it, the way many have hoped Leo DiCaprio might finally get his first).

While I haven’t seen the film, I’ve heard the song and probably ever conceivable cover by this point–one even involving a traffic reporter:

What is the fascination with this song? Is it that it’s sung by Idina Menzel, the Tony Award winning vocalist who starred as the original Wicked Witch of the West in the musical Wicked (whose name was pretty horrendously marred by John Travolta at the Oscars when he called her “Adele Dazeem”)? Sure she can hit really hit those notes with soul, try listening to her incredibly similar in both theme and structure “Defying Gravity” from Wicked, but does that really justify the attention of the whole internet?

To be fair, the song is pretty catchy and the message is certainly relatable. The overarching theme is made pretty apparent in the title, “Let It Go” is all about releasing yourself from the past. Additionally, and here the similarities to “Defying Gravity” are really obvious, a secondary theme is included revolving around discovering and releasing your true self/power. However, as I look at the lyrics more intently, I notice what seems like a contradiction. When the song starts, the lyrics state that there is “not a footprint to be seen” in the snow. But that’s not really true, all of the footprints leading forward are still apparent in the snow behind you when you walk. This implies that the singer is just not looking back, not that those footprints don’t exist. This is what creates the contradiction to the latter part of the song, when the speaker claims that “the past is in the past…that perfect girl is gone,” because that previous iteration of the singer’s self isn’t gone, her past has followed her footstep by footstep even if she wants to just look to the as yet untrod future. Further supporting this is the line “my soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around,” which has intriguing implications surrounding their mathematical definitions. I’m not a math person, but according to Wikipedia definitions: “a spiral is a curve which emanates from a central point, getting progressively farther away as it revolves around the point” and “a fractal is a mathematical set that typically displays self-similar patterns, which means it is “the same from near as from far.” Putting that together as best as an English major can it seems to imply that the singer’s soul is moving farther away from a central point (her past) and yet is doing so in such a fashion as for her end point to be paradoxically as close to where she began as when she started.

Which might seem to defeat the point of the song, but honestly it’s what I think makes it so cool. I mean, the whole song builds up to that last line “the cold never bothered me anyway,” which I feel is such an awesome twist. Basically, she’s saying that despite the whole song being about how she’s moved away from the past, she hasn’t really changed at all! The cold has never bothered her, the power that she’s gained, is all power that she’s already had, she’s not letting go of the past as much as she’s letting herself accepting who she is for the first time. I think what this song shows, when you really think about it, is that letting go doesn’t mean ignoring the past but recognizing that you can only overcome the things that you first embrace.

Sources: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/idinamenzel/letitgo.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spiral
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fractal

True Detective: HBO’s new Thriller

The new HBO series “True Detective” structures itself around a series of well-known tropes: two macho cops find their different personalities and worldviews clashing and conflicting when they are forced to work together; a woman’s body is found in a murder scene with occult, ritualistic overtones; a detective follows his superior intellect to investigate a potential serial killer. Yet writer Nic Pizzolatto and director Cary Joji Fukunaga use these familiar plot devices as a simple basis on which to build an eerie, dark character study and southern thriller.

The series uses a surprisingly effective story-telling device, as detectives Marty (Woody Harrelson) and Rust (Matthew McConaughey) are questioned separately in the present-day about the particulars of a closed homicide investigation that took place fifteen years in the past. Aged by makeup and hair, the actors respond to their interrogators, providing narration, commentary, excuses, and the key implication that the case we are following is somehow not quite closed. As we listen to Rust and Marty’s different perceptions the investigation – and eventually watch their stories diverge from reality as they lie to the detectives – Pizzolatto establishes a theme of storytelling and subjectivity. As the detectives interrogate liars, drug dealers, and potential murderers, and as Rust establishes himself as a first-class, cold-hearted winner of criminal confessions, the subtle interplay between questioner and story-teller becomes more interesting than the allegedly murderous truth.

Though Pizzolatto excels at intertwining an intriguing plot with complex character development, the dialogue can be clunky and overwrought. Rust, an intellectual with a dark past as an undercover narcotics CI, has a particular penchant for pessimistically philosophical dronings. When Marty often gives his partner the verbal equivalent of an annoyed elbow –  Jesus, man, what’s wrong with you? – it comes as a comical moment for anyone who ever wanted to do the same to Dexter, Travis Bickle, Rorschach, or their pop culture brethren. The monologuing can get tiresome, and often it’s to McConaughey’s credit that he can pull off some of Pizzolatto’s most nonsensical lines. With a thousand-yard stare, a drag on a cigarette, and the humble obfuscation of a deep (and recently parodied) southern drawl, McConaughey can skim rhapsodies about “mainlining the truth of the universe” without batting an eye – but the other actors, specifically Michelle Monaghan as the philandering Marty’s beleaguered wife, struggle more noticeably with the unwieldy prose.

Though the writing is sometimes uneven, the direction is consistently excellent. As the detectives drive up and down the bayou, Fukunaga’s cinematography brings the scenery to life with the bleakness of direct sunshine and the suspect rottenness of fertile land, a blend reminiscent of Sally Mann’s photographs of the American south. Fukunaga may have cemented True Detective’s critical reception with two outstanding wordless sequences in Episode 4. First, Marty trails a woman as she leaves a strip club and makes her way through a dystopic rave to a drug dealer contact, the camera moving with dreamlike focus through the flailing, blindly exultant partiers. Then, in an incredibly choreographed six-minute tracking shot, we follow Rust as he flees an undercover drug heist that has spiraled out of control. In one of the best ‘chase scenes’ I’ve seen on television, the camera follows Rust’s desperate yet calculated escape, weaving feverishly in and out of tenement houses and between chaotic groups of drugged, gun-toting dealers.

After the 5th episode marked a peak in the series’ action, episode 6 followed the disintegration of the partners’ relationship in the past, as in the present the interviewers finally pose direct questions about Rust’s involvement in the supposedly closed case. The seventh episode abandons the retrospective story-telling device and places the scene firmly in the present day, setting the scene for the alcoholic, disheveled Rust and the hackneyed, divorced Marty to put aside their conflicted estrangement and reunite for the series 1 finale on Sunday night.

The series creators have confirmed that the season will be self-contained; the series will continue next season with a new cast and storyline. Although I often enjoy watching characters grow over multiple seasons of a show, with a thriller series there’s definitely something comforting in the knowledge that this mystery is the fully realized product of a complete thought process. Though Pizzolatto has promised that there won’t be any serious twists, True Detective fans are certainly hoping for a suitably twisted ending to one of the most fascinating thriller series on television.

It’s Good To Be

The breeze blows
across the water
that a fish breaks

each now
and again

like a lover’s leg
erupting from
white satin sheets

spiders hang
on silken threads
on silver webs
we’ve hanged
ourselves

but I look down
and realize
that I could chase

fireflies

my whole life
and be happy

by hamsterlobotomy

Happy Spring Break everyone!