HARVEST

1.
It's a common sight in Nepal these days: women (mostly) preparing rice for drying. Grain flies through the tiny slits of big round sifters (with the help of an electric fan in the absence of breeze), and lands in knee high piles shaped like cones on burlap squares in the sun. Tourists are encouraged by Lonely Planet to look out for such scenes; expect them, photograph them. Instead of whipping out my camera, I, ever obsessed with the roots and origins of things, think about the rice "terraces" stacked like stairs along the Himalayan mountainside. I think about what it takes to get those rice grains from there to here in the village square. Think about the women I've seen higher up in the Himayalas, drinking chai from silver travel mugs on their breaks, tilling the soil in saris glamorously red and pink, even doing such hard labor.

2.
Summer in Copenhagen saw Prince put on two days of The New Power Generation Festival, featuring Janelle Monae, Chaka Khan, and Raphael Saadiq as opening acts. The man himself was accompanied by Maceo Parker and a New Orleans brass band. We jumped and grinded until the last sweet burp of Parker's sax sounded out in the packed Scandinavian field, saturated by Purple Rain.

Blue Eyed Soul managed to wrangle us a spot in line for the after concert, coiled around Amager Bio. Janelle Monae sang "Tightrope" acoustic, then each member of the NPG took her/his turn at the mic, as The Purple One emerged sporadically to bless the efforts of his hardworking clan with his magical guitar. He was wearing a funky red suit with a matching head band, I believe. But to be honest, Blue Eyed Soul and I were making out so furiously we barely registered that Prince was in the room. Much of the next day (my last in CPH) is also a blur. I remember clearly only the sweet, drunken Greenlander called Vistus we befriended in a shady Christainia saloon, and Blue Eyed Soul's flat. It was central and littered with boxes and the evidence of a man who liked transit. This was too fucking good. I had to pinch myself.

"Dude, did that happen? Did we see Prince last night? Wait--do you think he saw us??" Looking back, we were shockingly indiscreet.

"I think if he did see us," Blue Eyed Soul answered, "he'd approve."

B.E.S. was moving to Kathmandu for a course in Tibetan Buddhism in only a week. In a few hours, I'd be on a flight to NY for a month of family time. "You should come," he said for about the 3rd time since we'd met. The first time, we sat overlooking the harbor docking the Queen of Denmark's yacht. I said no. Yet here I am traveling the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal; om-ing, writing, and throwing dancehall/reggae parties in the Himalayas. "We're lucky." I tell him. "It's a blessing, he says back.

3.
As any personal blogger will tell you, it's difficult to maintain blogging when you're going through personal turmoil. Turmoil is not quite the word...perhaps...change. Your content is all wrapped up in musings about your everyday, which becomes impossible when events are happening too quickly, or even, too painfully for you to assimilate them properly before sending them out into the void of the Internets. Blogging demands a certain momentum and timeliness, while life change deserves stillness and time.

The main upheaval was my break up with the Serb*. I'm more clear now than I was in the months leading up to it that this was for the best. This sounds cliche, but once we actually pulled the trigger, which (not to pile on the platitudes) had been a long time coming, I had all kinds of energy. Energy to meet deadlines and get paying writing gigs, travel, date, and finally, admit to myself that it wasn't working. That's always been the hardest for me in relationships: admitting that it's time to fold.

But once I do accept that something (something I very much cherished) is over, I waste no time moving on. I'm swift and timely like the best of power bloggers. And it isn't about trying to replace what I've lost. I've learned not even to register it as a loss, but an opportunity. Everything has burned to the ground and it's about creating something entirely fresh. No harsh feelings or animosity. Just opportunity. Fertile ground. Then comes the tilling. Then, the harvest.

For those of you curious and caring enough to inquire by email, Twitter, tumblr message, blog comment and the like, things are just fine. Better than. Stay tuned. NAMASTE.

*The Serb is doing great, btw. On some real "theaters near you" shit. Super proud of him.
**This photo of Blue Eyed Soul was taken last week in the Himalayas.

Confronting a Legend: Guyana's Kaieteur Falls

Kaieteur Falls from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

"[Poet AJ] Seymour's "Legend of Kaieteur" has it that Kai was the chief of the Patamoona Amerindian tribe. According to local legend, a neighboring tribe, the Caribisi, suddenly waged war on the Patamoona. When the destruction of his tribe seemed imminent, Kai went to Mokonaima Falls (also spelled Makanaima), to ask The Great Spirit to save his people. The Great Spirit's messenger-birds return to tell Kai that he must come "before His face for ever". Only in exchange for this will The Great Spirit make sure that no harm comes to the Patamoona. Thus Kai set off into the flood in a "frail boat", neither his body nor his boat seen again. It is said that Kai still sits today looking into the face of The Great Spirit of the Fall, listening to the siren-like voices of the fall's feminine spirits."

This is an excerpt from an essay I wrote it in 2001. I saw Kaieteur Falls for the first time in December 2010. According to another legend Kai was a miserable old man; so unbearable was his character that his own family put him in a boat and pushed him off the falls. In a far more probable tale, it's said that most Guyanese have never seen it.

*Kaieteur is misspelled in the beginning of the vid. Sincere apologies to the great spirits.

Blood On the Dancefloor

A very wise filmmaker once told me, "Interracial relationships live and die on the dance floor". Or maybe it was, "The dance floor provides the true test of any interracial relationship." Either way, in the case of the Belgian Billionaire, this was almost literally true.

We met at a party hosted by a Jamaican couple in South Florida. He had a full head of silver and black slicked back hair. Tall, buttoned down and jacketed, looking like he came out of an Ocean's 11 remake, I liked him immediately. He acted like I didn't exist. Luckily it was New Year's Eve, my entire family was there, and we had all the makings of a classic night.

I won't apologize for being the stereotype* when it comes to black people, dancing and sangin'. Especially when I'm all euphoria and loved up and surrounded by other black people. That night I went buck wild like it was '94, and hip hop and dancehall were life. At one point I remember standing at the edge of the dance floor and turning to see my parents in the kitchen, bouncing in unison to some ignorant dirty south song or another. Luke or Lil John. We're not even drinkers. It's all natural crunk.

Bill and I ended up dancing with each other for most of the night, until on a slow roots reggae tune, he tried to kiss me. This was problematic. Yeah, I thought he was cute. And by that point I'd been officially grinding on him for the better part of 2007. But so? Where I come from, you can dance with someone, all night even, without there being meaning beyond the dance. Not so with European men, it seems. As far as they're concerned, you only dance with someone so intimately because you want to have sex with them. This is not as 'rapey' as it may sound. Not like normal guys will force you if you decline. But there isn't this idea that a dance is just a dance. It's normally the beginning of something, not an end in itself.

Barely a year after that night, we were living together in Belgium, being chauffeured to the party where I'd meet his friends for the first time. It was hosted by a couple who lived in a house separated from the street by a moat. A footbridge led you to the main structure; it wasn't really just a house, but something like a complex of small buildings. In the middle, they'd erected a party tent. Couches, candles and tables on one side, a dance floor on the other.

The first Real Housewife of Flemish Belgium I met, a pretty blonde in black cashmere who greeted me with her arms folded across her midsection, said, "You seem nice. I might like you. But I liked his ex-wife, too". The husbands brought me pink, girly drinks, talked to me about selling rare automobiles and drilling wells in West Africa. Others took turns tossing me around the dance floor. People in Belgium do the hustle, ballroom-style, like, at parties and in nightclubs. They were highly entertaining. All except for mine. He insisted I wasn't having a good time.

"Why aren't you dancing?"

"Did you not just see me dancing with Husband #5?"

"Yes, but you are not like you were on New Year's Eve."

We had our first real fight that night. Obviously, the spirits of dance are not likely to visit upon one in a house with a moat in Flemish Belgium (not even Brussels!) in the same way as they would at a Jamaican party in South Florida. Obviously. Either this man wasn't aware of the mysterious ways in which the spirits of dance move, or he didn't know who I was at all. Was it that he was afraid I wasn't enjoying myself unless I was bouncing off the walls? Or was he just craving gyrating exotic girl me? I waited until after we crossed back over the footbridge to ask.


*I don't want to get into any big thing about stereotypes, and "how dare you [I] suggest that all black people can dance!" Because most black people can dance. And if you are black and this doesn't describe you, then this isn't the post for you.

In Which A Korean Performance Artist Sets Out to Sell Snow on the Beach

Korean artist Yva Jung had been slanging snow straight from New York City for almost an hour when the police came by. Without a permit, they said, selling on the beach was illegal. Yva, original from Seoul, but has been working and schooling first in Montreal, and currently in New York City, had no idea what was really being said. Her boyfriend, an up and coming Catalan photographer called Joel was doing all the talking. They seemed determined to make her leave. Then they thought about it. Snow. In an envelope on the beach in Barcelona. On a sunny day. She wasn't going to sell a damn thing. They let her stay where she was.

Amidst a range of reactions, responses, and feelings (yes, people had feelings about it all!), I tried to translate. But the truth was that I had no idea how Yva managed to put snow in an envelope.  I witnessed...


Mistrust:
"But how is that snow from New York?"
"How do I know it's really from New York?"
"Is it authentic?"


Skepticism:
"How is snow in an envelope? Doesn't it melt?"
"So, you have some technology in the envelope to preserve the snow..."


Anger and annoyance: 
"Well, what's the purpose of this? Why are you selling it?"
"What would I do wih snow?"


Amusement:
"Is this a hidden camera prank? Am I going to be on Zapping (like, a Catalan Punked) next week?"

Respect:
"Que guay!"
"How cool!"


Yva didn't even tell me what was in the envelopes until 3 hours after I'd been standing there. Suffice it to say, you just might buy it if you knew what was in it. She's a visual artist; then the sale of that art becomes a tableau that potential buyers enter. It's about the exchange. The show. The story, in the end, the story to tell, that's the ultimate creation.

The day before, Yva sold spoons in Plaza del Pi. Teaspoons she'd sent to artists she knows around the world. Some were international art hot shots like Lucio Pozzi, the Italian painter last seen at Art Basel, and Belgian Johan Grimonprez, the filmmaking Belgian who brought us 'Double Take', a meditation on Hitchcock and an accidental doppelganger. She asked them to create a sample of their work that fits in the spoon, and then set a price for it. Some artists requested as much as 200 euros for their spoon sample. Others wanted only a photo of the buyer, or requested the buyer hold hands with Yva for a few minutes as payment. One sample was set as priceless. The little boy who bought this one decided a hug and kiss, literally, fit the bill.

It's these stories, beyond the tangible art; what Yva, in her lilting English calls, "accidents" that she's in search of. Sparks. Magic. Curiosities. The sublime. That which, as Kant says, reveals something in excess of the object.

The best is to see it for yourself. Like that time she sold bags of artists' breath in Union Square, and that performance yeilded another.


Spring Sale on Saturdays from Yva Jung on Vimeo.


Photos via Joel Ventura

To Señora With Amor: TEFL Teachers, Should You Be Dating Your Students?

Never dated any of them, but they were hi-larious! Suffered crying-laughing-gotta-leave-the-room jags every class.

I started dating Peter the Catalan on the last night of the year's final trimester. Up until he showed up at the summer staff party, we had just been exchanging heated, lingering glances in the school hallways and library. "My student likes you," one of my colleagues tattled one day. I knew exactly who he was talking about. Peter the Catalan with his perfect green eyes and blondish hair and starched shirts and pink ties. "Really? Which student?", I said like I hadn't been watching him too. "The guy with the blonde hair and ties," my colleague specified. "He likes you likes you". Peter the Catalan officially introduced himself on that [very scandalous] night and thus began my first summer amongst Barcelona's upper echelons. I spent St. Juan at a party in a mansion in Tibidabo and Sundays at the country club reading by the pool while he played tennis; date nights at this amazing Italian spot tucked away in Sarriá that I will never ever write about for fear of ruining it with travelers. That white hot summer culminated in a trip to the Hospital del Mar for the morning after pill. Can't say I regret that summer. Well, only for a brief moment at the beginning of the Fall semester, when it looked entirely possible that he might be in my class. It seems he left the school--I never saw him again after I ended it more than 2 years ago.

Browsing the magazine section at the huge FNAC in the city center last Thursday, I heard my name and turned to look right into a similar pair of gorgeous green eyes and dirty blonde hair. I hate seeing exes and prefer to think that after me, a part of them dies. Okay, that's not quite right. I like to think that they die.* Good thing this wasn't Peter the Catalan, but an equally "cutest boy in the band" type student from last semester. I gave him a big hug. Chatted with him in Spanish for the first time, genuinely happy to see him. "I was so mad at myself that I didn't get your phone number before the end of the trimester," he said. "Ieishah, I want to see you again..."

There's nothing more awkward than realizing your student has the hots for you. Like that time another suited up student asked, "Do you work out? I can see the muscles in your legs through your jeans," in front of the whole damn class. Adults get less and less teachable as the years go by. And that teachable quotient, paradoxically, drops when you add sex and emotions to it. I've even had to drop straight female students once we got too close. So how smart is it to become personally involved with students?

My TEFL course included a few sessions with a career counselor. The first session began with notes on how to write a TEFL friendly resume, and ended with the counselor telling us about how many people she knew who ended up marrying students. It was something like, "ALL of my co-workers ended up marrying former students!". If you're teaching grown ass men and women, it stands to reason that you'll encounter people worthy of your after-hours.

Dinner with Intensive course students in '08. Another great group I never dated.

Teaching adults can bring all kinds of characters into your life, savory and unsavory. Especially in a language class. Most students are professionals: I've taught (and summarily flirted with) a Michelin-starred chef, the CEO of a shoe company, writers, waiters, and ballers, all who've come to class to add English fluency to their list of resume skills. I don't think there's any other job you could have abroad where you'll meet locals from all over the social spectrum. Not to mention one where the groundwork for a friendship is laid by about halfway through the very first class. If you're the kind of teacher who believes in making learning personal and encouraging above all, conversation, you'll have all those soul-draining getting-to-know-you details out of the way well before the first date.

I say go for it, within limits. Never date a current student. Even if they ask. And even if they're hella funny and cute and offer to take you on motorcycle rides through Extremadura. (Not that that happened.) Also, I'd err on the side of caution in making the first move. Students know you're in a foreign country, building your life from scratch. In my experience they don't hesitate to invite you out for a coffee, under the guise of practicing their English, of course. You may want to make a habit of offering your email to all of your students at the end of a class. This mitigates the awkwardness of singling out the hot ones. Or if you live in a city as small and intimate as Barcelona, you could just wait to run into them in a random cafe some day.

*I don't really mean die. Perhaps 'cease to exist'.

Transcendence, Team RiRi y los 73 Retratos

Our constant craving for evolution and transcendence, especially with regard to our personal circumstances and actions, is the most lucid evidence we have of ourselves as spiritual beings on a human, flesh and blood, brick and mortar journey. When we say we want to "just get past" or "move beyond" something we're not just talking temporally. Time continues it's monotonous march forward whether we fucking like it or not. There's a part of "getting past" something that's about memory and how it connects to emotion. For the most part, you ain't moved past something if the memory of it elicits an emotional response. A pain. A pang. A flip in the gut. A lump in the throat. A chair through a window. No one has gotten past Chris Brown's beating of Rihanna. Not even Chris Brown.

Naomi Williams, an acquaintance I'd met through my flatmate during my first year in Barcelona, approached me at a wedding reception and asked if I'd participate in her photo project on domestic violence, La Próxima Eres Tu. The twisted irony of where this conversation took place is not lost on me. No portent, there. The couple is beautiful. Nevertheless, Spain lost 73 women to domestic violence incidents in 2010. Naomi wanted to dedicate a portrait to each one. The idea came to her like so many of mine come to me: over coffee. "I don't know...I was just reading the newspaper one day--this is when the number was still at 60-something--and I just thought, this is ridiculous! I want to do something," the Dutch/Dutch Caribbean native says of her inspiration.  Naomi told El Periodico, "The idea is to let people know that they have to act quickly, that if they see signs of domestic violence in a neighbor or loved one's home, they should ask about it, take action...", as there's no moving beyond without it.

In Spain, 68% of all murders are domestic violence-related. Whatever the numbers are for the States, in the end, we're still talking about the Chris Brown-Rihanna incident because people die at the hands of loved ones. And far too often.

The exhibit opened last Friday at Galeria Cosmo on Enric Granados, featuring 30 of the portraits taken. Each captured qualities that comprise relationship, ranging from conflict and rage to trust and bond. I appeared in two portraits and only regret that I didn't take a moment to dedicate the photo shoot to the two fallen women in whose honor those portraits were being taken, send up a prayer for the domestic violence survivors I've personally known across the 3 continents I've lived on, or at least play some Ri-Ri.

If you're in Barcelona, check out La Próxima Eres Tu at the Centro Cívico Guinardo from April 8th-19th.

Mala Rodriguez @ Cabaret Berlin

Mala Rodriguez in Barcelona from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.


Even Andalusian rapper Mala Rodriguez admits that when it comes to Spanish rap no hay mucho. Last year's Latin Grammy winner for Song of the year admitted as much last night at Cabaret Berlin in Barcelona. Still somehow La Mala managed to complete her 2-hour DJ set for Golfostar's Spanish Joint, a party dedicated exclusively to rap in español without the help of even one English language joint. Or any Pitbull!! (Also they've had this party more than once!!!) Immediately upon entering I started thinking to myself, what's that one Spanish language tune that's going to have everyone's hands in the air? That everyone's going to be losing their minds over and touching the sky? Turns out that as far as Spain's concerned, the closest thing Spanish rap has got to a you-must-know-the-words classic is La Niña, by Mala herself. Mala blessed us with a little impromptu performance last night even though she wasn't being paid. Genial.

Lunching With the Stars at the Guggenheim Bilbao

Believe the hype about the Guggenheim Bilbao, built in 1997 by Frank Ghery. Well, believe the hype if you don't live in Spain. For 3 years, my Catalan friends (don't be offended, y'all!) have slandered that museum. I'd heard everything. "It's the only thing to see in the neighborhood," "They just plopped it in the middle of a slum," and the worst: "That building is disgusting!!". (Seriously. And if you can find a better translation for asqueroso, let me know. I'll amend.)

Frank Ghery famously sketched the design for the Guggenheim Bilbao on the back of an envelope in pencil, not lifting it until he was finished. The result is a playful, dancing creation that works even better from the inside. What look like random curves and awkward protrusions from the outside make for organically-formed installation nooks. Keep your contrived walls and square corners. Gimme the Guggenheim.

Our original plan was to sample executive chef Martín Berasategui's dinner menu at the Michelin starred restaurant housed in the museum, but upon hearing that the lunch menu was a quarter of the price, well....

To tell you the truth, overall, it looked better than it tasted. The eggplant stuffed with mushrooms and Bechamel I ordered for a starter had us singing such praises, the waitress ended up gifting us another. Though my little balls of bacalao in tomato sauce were a disappointment (no one does bacalao like in the Caribbean, Spanish and English speaking) Hollywood's mushroom filled tomatito over squid ink risotto was stellar. Good wine selection, great presentation, and an understated but scrumptious chocolate desert, I can't say that I wouldn't go back.

Go to the Guggenheim, however, for the art. The contemporary wing hosts a great mix of pop art and grand interactive installations that engage you as both viewer and participant. I'm gonna hope for your sake you make it while "Stillness (in 3 movements)", UK artist Tacita Dean's somber, brilliant multimedia tribute to late modern dance legend, Merce Cunningham, is still on.

In a word, the surrounding neighborhood is tony. Hotels, shoe shops, high end bakeries, and a short walk away from Gran Vía, where you can find the oldest cafés and more shopping. The Guggenheim is the what-to-see in Bilbao, but the entire city seems to have polished up to match the museum's titanium shine.




Michelin star, cafeteria-style at the Guggenheim Bilbao.



Mushroom and Bechamel-filled eggplant.



Bacalao balls.



Tomatito over squid ink risotto.



...filled with mushroom...so yummy.



Fuck if I know. Flan??


Chocolate bizcocho and honey ice cream.



I almost jacked this Almodóvar cup. Almost.

Tips:

* From the Guggenheim Bilbao, catch the nearby tram to the Casco Viejo (the oldest part of the city). It's a great way to get the lay of the land and make a full day of it.

* The six-course dinner is actually only 75 euros per person. But you can still say you've eaten at the Guggenheim for 20 euros at lunch. Make reservations in advance.

* Check the website for special events happening while you're in town. There are big monthly museum night parties at the Guggenheim showcasing famous DJ's from around the world. We missed it by a week, but it sounds like it could be a classic night out with cool locals!

Interview: M.O.P. in Barcelona

Peace to BeatCN for making this possible!

Ashanti Does Georgetown

Ashanti does Georgetown from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

I still don't know how I feel about Beyonce blackening up for L'Officiel's Fela tribute. Frankly, as someone who blackened up (digitally) once before, I do understand the impulse to do it for 'art'. What I can say, is that Beyonce has been moving towards Africa since the day she went solo.

First, she went islandista on us in "Baby Boy", featuring Sean Paul. Come to think of it, she was already in Africa in this video, via the Middle Eastern Belly Dance sequence. And it's not just about that single. Her whole style of movement, with the emphasis on the waistline, took on a Caribbean flavor. Vybez Kartel would pay homage to this in '08's Beyonce Wine. (If Beyonce were Jamaican, like Vybez Kartel, the issue of whether or not she bleaches her skin would be a non-issue. At the very least, a curiosity. She fair, eee? She ah bleach 'ar skin or som'm? Cho... Pass me some ackee...) And when Beyonce performed in Barcelona, "Baby Boy" segued into a not half bad cover of Sister Nancy's reggae classic, "No No No".

If B played at Caribbean on her first solo album, she went full on motherland on her second, B'Day. Remember the African dance sequence in "Deja Vu"? What was that dancing?, many thought. She look crazy!, others thought. Meanwhile, there's B, in a grass-like skirt, Josephine Baker-ing her peers right out of the game.

It's no accident that Rihanna, herself from Barbados, was one of the only songstresses to survive the slaughter.

Trace the trajectory, and it's not really a surprise, the whole blackening up and becoming African thing.

Then there's Ashanti. 'Foolish' put her in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most weeks spent at the top of chart for a female artist. She was major. Until Beyonce Josephine Baker'd her right out of the game.

Christmas night 2010. Georgetown, Guyana. I didn't know what to expect from Ashanti. What I never could have predicted, was her performing barefoot to soca music in a Guyana flag catsuit. But it happened. Got the video to prove it.

I say, if she's going to have any chance at a comeback, she should probably never take it off.