Sacred Objects 2005

Sacred Objects 2005
Clay and Paper

Installed at Commune Artist Colony ~ Karachi

to pray for

to wish for

Waiting for the rain - June - September 2004

Waiting for the rain
Raania Azam Khan Durrani

June 18th 2001 – Karachi
“ I wonder what is in her mind but in my mind ..I find only you “
Sunset in Karachi breaks my heart. As evening approaches, your quiet city, which lives in my heart, is being taken over by the loud sounds and bright lights of Karachi. The gloomy mauve of the city evening brings me down. As the sun drops down into the ocean, my heart sinks into the endless thoughts of you.

June 20th 2004 – Karachi
Tonight the air in Karachi is humid and warm. I lie in my bed thinking of what the air is like where you are.
I think of the dark crowded night when we were dressed in white and tiny flames were lit around us. It was the funeral of a lion. I had to climb up some stairs so I could see what was happening beyond the crowd of mourners.

To feel is my strength – to generalize and be numb is my weakness.

June 23rd 2004 – Karachi
Many things come between many people and many people between many things. It is natural. Interruptions are real. To withstand these interruptions of reality, we must choose to be real first.

July 2nd 2004 – Karachi
Our geographical distance is enough to make us suffer; must we also always consider our political boundaries?

July 13th 2004 – Muree / Nathiagali
I saw the mountains again. The sudden bends on the curved roads. I met the fair people who enjoy clean air on the higher altitudes.

July 15th 2004 - Islamabad
Rain is not the same everywhere. I saw the first rains of the monsoon season in another country. I recall running across the tiny street and climbing up the small stairs and then finally finding a dry spot under the door of a huge Temple. I remember the heavy raindrops falling into my coffee cup- diluting the rich, hot liquid into a watery, cold, light and almost dreamlike concoction. I can almost hear the sound of your voice, which sang near me.The pink kite paper, the drenched red bricks, and the many colourful flowers of the small garden – they all added to the scene. They all enjoyed the beat of the rain and the sugar in your sound.
Today I sit in a place away from you – I hear the continuous raindrops hitting the parked car, which I sit in alone, waiting for the others. It is evening, and the storm was short – but the rainfall seems to be never-ending, No one is with me but the memories of your voice and the smell of the abundant red bricks of your village.I see lush green hills around me. I see absolute organization and planning. I see this gorgeous land coexisting with impressive urbanization. What I do not see is the colourful clothes of the street children. I cannot smell the oil lamps of the temple. I cannot hear the bell, which was rung a hundred times at dawn and dusk.
Amidst the chaos of this rain- the chaos of this rat race, and the clamour of the status conscious women – I realize I do not fit. I do not belong to this city, I do not know these rain drops, and I do not own this car.

26th July 2004 – Karachi

Still no rain here. The monsoon has still not arrived, no rain here at home.The happy faces of the smiling children are with me. In lie in bed clad in white covered with layers of white bed linen. I look out the window. I want to go out but I cannot move. Through the window I see some sky- I see the coconut trees and their leaves shimmering in the 5 ‘o’ clock sun. They are dancing in the salty sea air. The longer I look at these green blades, the longer I wish to continue looking at them.

28th July 2004 – Karachi

They say it rained last night. I was asleep. When I woke up this morning, I saw no signs of any rainfall. There was no smell of the soil and the leaves did not look any greener. Maybe it is all in my mind. Maybe the leaves this morning were a hundred times brighter. Perhaps the dust had settled and the soil was damp. Maybe the air smelled more of the land than of the sea. I would like to believe that. I would like to wake up tomorrow and experience all the above without thinking so hard about it.When I was with you I could see so much. I think of that morning when the leaves were the brightest, the soil of your fertile land was most fragrant. My senses were so alive. I wish to have that morning back. I wish to walk through the heavy afternoon rain. I wish for the sound of those innumerable raindrops to engulf my mind. Maybe its not the rain that I wait for.

August 14th 2004 – Karachi

The breeze was priceless tonight.

August 19th 2004 – Karachi

It begins to drizzle as I sit out here on the steps. The dogs and I enjoy the very scarce but electrifying droplets. I enthusiastically believe that this is rain, when in reality it just a light mist. The breeze is taking the clouds away, I think. I realize that the breeze in my city is unmatched. Leaves of the ‘badaam’ tree are restlessly moving in all directions. The birds are returning to the trees, they are very loud in the evening; I wonder what it is that they discuss. Usually the moment before the rain is heavy, silent, melancholy and unbearable – but it is just a moment. Today that moment is too long.The breeze continues. One lonely brown leaf falls to the ground. I look at how different the coconut tree is to the ‘badaam’ tree. They stand together but their moves are not the same.I hear the voices of some men quietly speaking in the house next door. They are speaking a language that I do not understand. Our homes stand together but our language is not the same.The mist is gone- there is no electrifying spray. Why does it not rain where I am now?

August 27th 2004 – Karachi

It has been more than two months since I saw the first rain of the monsoon. Been so long since the large raindrop diluted my coffee and your magical sound filled my ear.Yet I am afraid of what it will be like once it does rain. Will my longing end? Is it the monsoon I long for or it something other than just that?August is near its end. Karachi becomes dustier, dirtier, filthier- day by day. We make the money in Sindh and it is invested upcountry. Political chaos, urban decay, over population – all seem to be issues of just Karachi. Sindh suffers.Friday once was a time when the family got together. The women prepared lunch at home and waited for the men and boys to return from ‘Jumma’ prayers at the mosque. It was a happy day, a day which we spent with our grandparents when we were young.Now Fridays are difficult days. Friday prayer time is a weekly high alert for terrorist activity. Bombs and bomb scares are common. Guards with kalashnikovs examine the worshippers prior to entering the mosques. Killing machines have made their way into the places of worship. While praying men think of which one of them has a bomb tied to his chest. Friday afternoons the air is filled with sounds of the ‘ Qutba’ from different mosques, the once calming sound that I associated with brotherhood and camaraderie, is now a sound that I pray passes without being accompanied by blasts. My Karachi seems unfamiliar to me, as if it is no longer mine.The dark gray clouds are back, and evening in Karachi is heavier than ever.

September 2nd 2004

I lie alone in the darkness of my room. The light of one tiny torch aids my vision and my ability to write.
What makes a distance collosal is the different names of the two places.
My dark room has transformed itself into a colourless concrete cube.
I see nothing; nothing at all.

Raania Azam Khan Durrani

Today I have come back to work after a week long holiday in the mountains. It was lovely there, almost unreal from the heat and madness of the city. Many friends joined and we enjoyed sunny days and moonlit nights. One night it was very cold and foggy and I was sitting out on the hill listening to ABBA. The moon was very magical and I could not stop thinking of the night you and I saw the red moon, and the cold night when we sat at the end of the world on two Adirondacks and a broken bicycle.

Love,
Raania

Bennington, Vermont, October 2002

OCTOBER 2002.

I am studying Interactions.
Of me and the light that passes through the
translucent sheet of paper;
Of me and the woman who spoke of the geography of
Pakistan;
Of me and the men I know.

Of me and my disappointments;
Of me and the women I don’t know.
Of me and my clothing;
Of me and the memories of my family;
Of me and the thoughts of my father;
Of me and the child in Hunza, who sneaked up on me
mysteriously and sang songs about a Golden Hawk.

Of me and my energy of constantly speaking and writing
in this language.
Of me and the cold air and the hot sun.
Of me and the big mirror;
Of me and my disappointments;
Of me and what I long for;
Of me and my hopes.

Of me and my thoughts about, “ what would have
happened if…”
Of me and the blinding afternoon sunset;
Of me and the big blue mass above me as I lay on the
textured green, and look up;
Of me and other people’s relationships;
Of me and my thoughts of,” what If I was..”
Of me and the way other people express themselves.

Of me and a stranger’s eyes on me;
Of me and the people who think I represent my entire
country,
Of me and people’s opinions on democracy;
Of me and other people’s voices,
Of me and the men I don’t know.
Of me and the culture I am a part of right now.

Of me and my perceptions of temperature, time and
space.

Bennington, Vermont Spring 2002

Raania Azam Khan Durrani
Spring 02


Sometimes when I feel that I am very far away from
home; I close my eyes and this is what I see.

My mother.

I see the colour of my mother’s clothes; red, orange
and yellow. She is wearing handloom cotton accompanied
by a large striped shawl. A Shawl that wraps around
her gracefully , and reflects off her glowing mocha
skin. Her slippers are made with twisted
ribbon..Fuschia, pewter and lemon. Her bright glass
bangles reflect the sun when she is hanging clothes
on the washing line. Even when there is a power
failiure on humid monsoon nights , I have noticed her
bangles shimmer in the moonlightas we sit out on the
porch. Her brown kajal enhances her hazel eyes, and
her lips are stained red when she eats paan with
catechu.

The street.

I see the colours of the roses and marigold at the
florist on every street corner. There are plastic
buckets that hold hundreds of long stem roses of every
colour. There are festoons of colourful wedding
garlands that sway every time a breeze passes through
them .There are gawdy, flourescent paintings on cinema
billboards and trucks. I see the Afghan man who sells
fresh fruits and vegetables under a small shed. The
colour of the mango is complimented by the
pomegranates and grapes. Then I see the snake charmer
walking by; he is wearing bright plastic beads on his
neck. Following him is a man who is selling chicks,
whose soft baby fur is dyed pink and yellow, to
attract children. There is a covered market nearby,
and there I see a man selling spices. There are mounds
of spices of all kinds. The yellow turmeric , red
chilli powder, ivory sea salt, saffron...the powder
like spices are like miniature mountains of colour.

My grandmother’s garden.

Amidst the grove of cocunut trees , there are small
bushes of hibiscus and bougainvilleas. The Hibiscus
are cherry red and fushcia, with yellow stamens. These
grand and exotic flowers are like wine cups. I see my
grandmother , in her blue sari. She is instructing the
gardener to clear out the weeds, and plant marigold
seeds.

My father.

His hands are like soft clay, that has recieved a
perfect molding.He has long fingers, with nails like
the silver cresent on the third day of the new moon.
He is cooking fish on a Sunday afternoon. Beads of
perspiration shine like dew drops on his nearly bald
head. He is tall and broad , with an overpowering
presence and personality that compliments his
physique. He fills the room like warm sunligght on a
December afternoon. Singing joyfully , he is stirring
with one hand, while the other hand strokes the hair
of a little girl who is standing on her toes, trying
to peak into the steaming pot.

The soil

After the monsoon rain, the rusty dust become red
moist and fragrant clay. It is quite a contrast to
the silver sand of the beach , whose thirst is
quenched by the Arabian sea. I see myself walking
along the sea, the silvery mush sticks between my
toes. For days my skin will shimmer with this diamond
dust,and no water or soap will remove it.

The Sea

The monsoon has taken over the ocean, like the demon
in the heart of an evil soul. The fisherman’s green
wooden boat is being played by the waves , like the
fishing net that plays the fish. That demon leaves as
the winter arrives. I see myslef sitting in that same
boat at night in the silent dark ocean.The air is
crisp yet damp with the salty smell of the sea. My
family and I are fishing for crabs and lobsters ,
which we will cook on the boat. I see a Rothko
painting in the orange spices and the pink flesh of
the lobster .

The Shrine

A man with a green parrot is sitting under a tree ,
and is reading my palm. I am looking up to the shrine
whose one hundred stairs are the same colour as the
parrot’s feathers. Bright rags and ribbons are tied
tightly to the trees nearby,the knots as strong as the
pilgrim’s faith. The courtyard is flooded with fakirs
and disciples , who are hungrily eating rice from blue
plastic bags. The rosary beads in the fakir’s neck are
jingling as he solemnly walks towards me. He then
raises his right hand in a gesture of blessing, while
his head moves vigourously from left to right; he
praises Allah. Behind him there are pilgrims dancing
to the beat of drums. Musicians dressed in bright
yellow garb stand in the sunlight all day long keeping
the beat alive. Suddenly, I see a white pigeon
flutter onto my lap. For it too, is looking for the
refuge that hundreds of lost souls find at the shrine.

An evening in the ‘diamond market’

It is dusk and I am walking trough a narrow street
that is lined on both sides with old colonial
building. Just like every other evening , the same
gorgeous women are relaxing in the intricately
constructed balconies , waiting for rich suitors who
will come to buy their love later tonight. It is
almost as if the architecture is competing with the
beauty of these women. I see small shops on the street
selling musical instruments , and ghungroos. I see
myself climbing a narrow staircase that leads to the
roof of one of these buildings. The evening sky as I
see from the roof is the same colour as the pink stone
of the Moghul Era Mosques. I see the horizon where the
earth meets the sky, I see the Mosque that towers over
the small buildings. Hundreds of coloured kites are
swaying above the city. The pink sky then gently gives
in to nightfall , as the woman below gives in to the
street .

Metaphor and meaning in Landscape

October 7th 2002
Metaphor and meaning in Landscape

The landscape develops and is related to the movement
of those who inhabit it. Landscape is a visual
documentation of lives. Lives develop and are related
to the formation of the land.
The jelly in the bowl contracts and expands the way I
ask it to. My movement dominates its form. The
landscape is the jelly in the bowl. It has been walked
and lived on for time that cannot be summed up in
words. The weight of the life on the landscape tells
it where to rise and where to drop. Life and
landscape, movement and colour, scale, size and
structure – are all related.
There the mountains were not part of the terrain; they
were simply the terrain. That is the place where the
landscape is so overpowering that sometimes the life
on the landscape is ignored. But the life there is
simply incredible. The landscape so large and
frightfully vertical makes the people and the green
bow down in modesty. Life is warm, inviting and so
mystical. The landscape hides the secrets of the
people. Embraces their belief and provides them
shelter to protect their simplicity from exploitation.

The mountain though large and powerful is accepting;
finding spaces and making way to integrate. The river
that runs through its gaps and the highway that flows
around its mass- are all examples of its nature. The
mountain so high, and so above everything is still
humble. It is afraid to touch the sky, grab the stars
or kiss the moon. It just sits below the blue enormous
mass, a mass more enormous than itself. It is like
watching the two fall in love over and over again. In
the day the mountain blushes in the heat of the sun,
accepting and reflecting. The wind blows each cloud
into the mountain attempting to shyly touch its white
body. The whole day the sky and mountain play these
games. At night the moon and stars caress the tiniest
crevices of the mountain with their soft light. At
night the heat calms down, and they sit all night
realizing their love. The mountain and the sky are the
kind for who future emerges in the night. Their
romance touches the landscape and serves the people,
changing their lives, evoking love in them and the
patience to appreciate and adore. The mountain in the
day is confidence and inspiration for its people. At
night it is the once who keeps their secrets.

Memories of the morning

October 8th 2002
Memories of the morning

Something about the air this morning reminded me of
Hunza. The mid-morning air on a fall day in Vermont,
made me think of the early morning of a summer day in
the Himalayas. A clear image came to mind. I thought
of when I would wake up early morning in Karimabad,
and come out of my room wrapped in a warm shawl.
Before me would be a wall, an incredible wall. It was
lit up by mustard sunshine, which was purified by the
snow- capped peaks that it would reflect on,
Then the sweet Hunzai man, who had a mustache, would
walk down the terrace stairs. He would smile at me,
and greet me with the genuine, ‘ peace be on you’. He
would then ask me what I would like for breakfast.
Few minutes later, he would come back with cooked milk
tea in a kettle, accompanied by a Hunza version of the
Pakistani Omelette. The Hunza food is as simple and
uncomplicated as the Hunzai people are. As I would
eat, I would watch the mustard light grow stronger on
the seven thousand-meter mountains before me. I would
watch the mountain as if it were a painting. A
painting of many colours and many details. Or like a
sculpture of many angles, and several toll marks. How
landscape is pure art would amaze me- how no colour
combination in landscape are wrong would challenge my
mind. How the creator is the artist would make me feel
humble and shy. All my efforts to art and aesthetics
are so small, I thought. But each morning as I stared
and felt the crisp air on my ears and cheeks, I
thanked the creator for giving me the senses to be
overwhelmed by his creation.
And this morning when for a short moment the air
reminded me of those mornings, I felt blessed, once
again.

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Raania Azam Khan Durrani

BA Visual Art, Bennington College, Bennington Vermont, USA
Hometown: Karachi, Pakistan

As a visual artist I feel strongly about documentation. The travelogue, the sketchbook and the diary are platforms for documenting spaces and experiences. My interest lies in experimenting with documentation via writing and then eventually integrating it with visual art.