An Idiot's Guide to Sundance

The Sundance Film Festival was started by Robert Redford in 1978 in Utah and is the largest independent cinema festival in the States, promoting both American and international indie films. If you have a few hundred dollars for airfare, a few thousand dollars for hotel accommodations, and a week off in late January, then here's what else you have to do:

1. Spend some time with the online film catalogue and make a list of what you want to see. It is stupendously international and topically diverse. More than you can possibly take in, even if you watched movies all day all night for 10 days. For you blockbuster junkies, this is the kind of indie arty thinky film you don't want to watch, but then you watch and realise it's the best thing you've seen in years. Your list should include where the films are showing (more on this later), and it should be a long list because you might not get your first or even your fifth choices. Luckily, it's an all star list.

The Orator: the first feature length Samoan film (ever!), and New Zealand's nomination for best foreign film in the 2012 Academy Awards. A richly shot depiction of village life in Samoa, with a cast of unusual and nuanced characters (all untrained actors from the village), and a satisfying plot. A little long and slow, but nice. 

2. Register in the fall (ticket package registration starts in September and individual ticket registration in November), and get everyone in your party to register too, even those who aren't sure they're coming. It's free to register. Everyone who does gets randomly assigned a three day slot (it's not first come first serve). Within this three day slot (hopefully someone in your group will get lucky with an early slot), you get one and ONLY ONE SHOT to buy tickets for the movies you want to see. Individual tickets cost $15/each. The package or festival pass options give you earlier ticket selections and some other benefits (like awards night party tickets), but cost double or more.

Father's Chair: A Brazilian film about a family falling apart, a gorgeous (natch) wife who wants a divorce from her husband, and a teenage son who flees this discord. His father takes up chase and their asynchronous journey through the countryside outside Sao Paolo is the heart of the film. It's a little heavy handed with the father-son remonstrations, but totally moving and worth watching. 

3. Book your Park City accommodations early. Since you might not know til just before the festival starts where your films are being shown, I suggest booking your place in downtown Park City (several months in advance), and when the time comes, either choosing films being shown in Park City, or accounting for travel time from there. At least this way, you'll be in the heart of the festival, near the quaint and cute Main Street pubs and restaurants and lounges, and close to great skiing spots.

Note that if you do your research and book early enough, then your downtown Park City vacation home with 3+ bedrooms and a hot tub will cost the same as a cookie cutter hotel suite sans private luxury amenities 20 miles outside Park City (doh). Be prepared to shell out $400-$1000/night. However, these condos and town houses sleep 8-12 people more than comfortably. So get your posse in gear.

This Must Be The Place: The always brilliant and mutable Sean Penn gives a bizarre and endearing performance as an ageing goth rocker who embarks on a hunt through middle America for his father's Nazi tormentor. The film had the potential to be great - some fabulous cinematography, strong acting, and able direction (by Italian director Paolo Sorrentino), but the plot didn't hold together enough. Still worth a look on Netflix when it gets there. 

4. Rent a car, preferably a four wheel drive SUV. It is nowhere clearly stated on the Sundance website that the films are being shown in four different cities in Utah, some of which are over an hour from each other, driving at full speed. Most of the films are in 2 locations: Park City and Salt Lake City (45 minutes apart - given no traffic and good weather). But quite a few films are also shown in Ogden, an hour and half from Park City, and another city I don't remember.

Arbitrage: a high tension high finance thriller starring Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon that we were all looking forward to seeing but missed, despite a valiant 2 hour effort, because of rush hour traffic and blinding snow on the road to Ogden. 

You'll also want the car because it's highly unlikely you'll manage to book all your films in Park City, and even if so, you'll still need to get from Salt Lake City airport to Park City (an $80-$150 taxi ride each way). The aforementioned posse would make a taxi or rental car split much more affordable.

Even more critically, transportation wise, Sundance takes place in the heart of winter. In the four days that Tayo, Natalia, and I spent in Utah, over 20 inches of snow fell (boarders' wet dream and Japanese painter's inspiration). Highway 40 shut down because so many accidents occurred, cars slid off the road by the dozen even after the storm was done, and tire chains were required on certain roads at certain times. I've never been so happy to drive a gas guzzling monstrosity as in Utah in January.

Marina Abramović The Artist is Present: "Seductive, fearless, and outrageous, Marina Abramović has been redefining performance art for nearly 40 years." i.e. she's my new hero in the world. I gave up the ticket for this film showing in Park City to try watch "Arbitrage" in Ogden. Fail on both counts, but I'll keep watch for both to hit the theatres. 

5. Make friends, or put your friendly friends to use. You will need them to hobnob and find out where the much vaunted celeb studded afterparties are (if that's your bag). Some of these events are hosted by big corporations, although Sundance is trying to limit the elite/corporate element and focus on the films. Other parties are private do's. These parties will probably be well attended and feature gorgeous skinny actors and models and those who love them.

Wuthering Heights: this updated version of the Emily Bronte classic features a black Heathcliff (!) and promised fine performances and arty cinematography. Timing/location idiocies on our part prevented us from seeing it, but my list of movies to see grows. 

6. Set aside time to wander. There are numerous installations and exhibits and music events and panels and workshops and performances and so on, all around town, most of them free. New Frontier is an organisation supporting innovative storytelling, and how new media folds into these efforts. One of their featured installations in 2012 was Ho Tzu Nyen's "The Cloud of Unknowing" - a surreal atmospheric experience that uses sound and steam to blur the lines between film and audience. Another was "Question Bridge: Black Males" a multimedia project that attempts to build a dialogue and a new kind of social network among black men nationwide.

Where Do We Go Now: Lebanese director Nadine Labaki (who made the fantastic 2007 international hit film, Caramel) tackles religious conflict in Lebanon with her whimsical lyrical edge. I was dying to see this film but couldn't get tickets before it sold out.  

Lastly, pull on your boots and go for a walk in a snowstorm. Stand in knee deep powder by the edge of the icy pond under the black and white mountains. Press your camera to your frozen face. Click.

Summering in Millay

I can't imagine a better way to return to America after 6 years of jaunting than spending one summer month at the Millay Colony for the Arts. Austerlitz, New York is 2.5 hours north of NYC by train+taxi. The day I arrived (June 2, 2011) (yes, this blog post is way overdue) was brilliantly sunny and just a little bit nippy. White clouds, blue sky, private studio, cave like bedroom. Could I ask for more? Apparently so.

Donna was our chef extraordinaire. She cooked three course gourmet dinners for the seven of us, five nights a week, and for our other meals, did all our grocery shopping, paid and delivered. Dark chocolate? Check. Blueberries and oranges and grapefruit and strawberries? Check. Bacon? Check. Quinoa? Check. Avocados? Check. Pretty much anything our hungry hearts desired.

Then there was my studio - small, warm, flooded with sunlight, filled with books (it used to be the library), windows on two walls, one big fat desk and swivel chair, a super long bench seat with comfy pillows, and enough floor space to do yoga, pilates, or dance around like mad.

Then there were my six arty companions.

Amanda is a writer and performer, eloquent and precise and hilarious, as thoughtful as they come, killer Bananagrams player, and in the midst of her transition from a lifetime in California to a running start in Brooklyn.

Jesse is a dry humoured and self deprecating painter of layered mythical scenes, up for a stroll or a dance or a rousing discussion about farms or religion or art or really anything.
  Casey is a playwright, irrepressible and charming, romantic and idealistic (and she follows through in deed), Twin Peaks fan, and champion of our artistic patron, Edna St. Vincent Millay (whose house and grounds were all around).

Dustin is a sweet and smart visual artist (and fellow Penn alumni), who was about to start on a Western odyssey of art residencies. During his time at Millay, he covered and recovered the walls of his studio in the barn with sculpture/drawings so contained and subtle and careful I had to look and look again.

Lydia is a writer from Arizona, tall and lanky and sun blonde, with an addiction to baked beans and bacon and beer, an excellent music collection, and a jewelry making business on the side. She and Dustin soon discovered their mutual dream to start their own art colonies.

Liz is a painter of colourful geometric work, former punk girl rocker (and dances like she means it), open hearted and playful and dedicated, and my yoga and bathroom mate.

Our crew grew really close, playing Bananagrams and watching Twin Peaks after dinner, bbqing on the weekends, going for long drives, shopping at thrift stores, jumping in Lake Queechee every chance we got, and even making a movie together (starring a hapless Monster in the woods).

The Hudson River Valley is an escape for many city folk. Country and weekend homes abound, and there's a reason the cutie main streets in many towns feature fusion restaurants, hipster thrift stores, and movie theatres catering to Big Apple tastes, from indie flicks to the smarter blockbusters (we watched Bridesmaids and Win-Win - both were excellent).

One of the joys of Millay is your phone doesn't work. For four of the residents, the ones who slept and worked in the barn, the internet didn't either, unless they came up to the main house where there was wifi. Even though I elected to live/work in the main house, I'm quite sure I would have been about a million times more productive if I had been in the barn. But I'm addicted to the internet, you see. It's not just facebook (I swear). Six years of gypsying, not always having a phone, or a phone no one will call because it costs a bomb to call a Dhaka mobile, has inured me to web-enabled communication. Chat, email, facebook, twitter, G+, blogs - I get my friends+family fix through the ether. I think I'd die without it. Or be a great deal unhappier anyway.

But there was at least one way to make a call (other than Skype-out): if you walked across the gravel road, past Vincent's lovely house, into the garden where she held her debaucherous naked parties, up the hill and past her little writing cabin, through the tree line and the first meadow, you get to what the June Millay residents called "the cell phone hill."

Up there, Vincent had built a clay tennis court (now overgrown), on a plateau on the hill. You can still see the posts for the net, and to the side, a wooden table and metal chair for sitting and writing and drawing. Or staring at the distant hills where you could just make out the cell phone tower, ie you got bars and got your call on.

I know it was a terrible shame to walk through all that beautiful landscape just to make a phone call, but maybe you know what a hermit I can be. At Millay, I tried to venture out at least once a day - there were poetry trails, hidden meadows, lush woods, overgrown cemeteries - GREEN! SUN! WIND! SKY! THE WILD OUTSIDE! - but there were some days I only went out to call you. Yes you.

Of course, the whole point of art colonies is so you have time and space to work. So I worked: 25 new pages of my novel, and 10 submissions to grants, lit mags, photography contests, prizes, agents, and publishers (and the grind goes on).

I ended my residency at Millay with an art workshop led by the ambitious and accomplished (and hottie) Nina Katchadourian (pictured on the right; Caroline, Executive Director of Millay to the left). One of the many things we talked about was a creative tribe or artistic family: who teaches you, who you look up, who looks to you, who you work with.

I loved the way Nina approached her artistic life, everything geared towards making art, to recording her ideas in some musical or artistic or literary way. If she didn't know how to do something or couldn't learn something fast enough, she found people to collaborate with. And her brilliant and hilarious "Seat Assignment" project proves that sometimes you don't need anything but imagination and time.

Perhaps Nina has felt unsure in the past, but the overwhelming feeling I got from her in those three hot shiny July days was the sheer joy and power and rightness of art making. It poured off of her. There didn't have to be any other point to the making than the making. It was a given, a pursuit as worthy and unchallengeable as anything else.

There are writers I admire, writers I know, writers I want to be (oh, David Mitchell). I'd never thought of them (us) as a tribe. In my head, as untrue as I knew this to be, I had been working on my ownsome. And though I've had a great advisor or two (ah, Stephen Beachy) and many amazing editors and readers, I had never thought of what it meant to have an artistic mentor (hello Nina). Chalk up yet another reason to heart my time at Millay. And thank you Calliope and Caroline for the chance to return in the winter. A sensate artful treat.

Dhaka in Heat

Bangladesh in May steams in heat. It's a cinch to teach hot yoga. You just shut off the fans in the Black Belt Academy studio, and voila, instant humidity, and a constant temperature of oh, 90 degrees (32 C). I didn't have as many students as I did last year, but it's easier and more fun with fewer people in class. As I discovered last year, I love watching different bodies approach and gradually master the poses. It's the only kind of teaching I've ever enjoyed, and I've taught a lot, from business to writing to test taking. It's too bad it's so expensive to get certified to teach yoga in the States ($4000-$12000, depending on the style), plus it's a hustle finding work. Yogis in NYC are a lithe dime a dozen, so it's not a good way to make money. BUT if I ever decide to settle in Bangladesh, I know how I'll be making a living.

One of the highlights of my month in Dhaka was when my childhood friend, Madhurima (who used to live in Nigeria as well) came to visit from India. Mads is hands down one of the sweetest loveliest people I know, a joy to be with. And I finally got the chance to (partially) return the enormous favour of her hospitality whenever I've visited her hometown of Kolkata.

Unfortunately, we spent way too much time in the hot boxes that are Dhaka's CNGs (three wheeled compressed-natural-gas-powered taxis). Rampant theft and assault have resulted in the CNGs being caged, literally. Green metal grids block both sides of the vehicle, making the whole experience hotter and more claustrophobic. The city traffic worsens every year, and we must have spent between 2-4 hours a day boiling away in jam after jam. A trip between the neighbourhoods of Dhanmondi and Mohakhali could take less than 10 minutes after midnight - or 5 to 10 times as long during the day. And travelling between Old Dhaka and anywhere else? Forget about it. Two traumatic hours, minimum.

But I'm hoping that Mads will focus on some of the nicer parts of her visit to Bangladesh. Such as when we couldn't find a CNG near Dhaka University (thank god), and instead took a bicycle rickshaw to Old Dhaka. One should never travel that route any other way. First, it's breezy. Second, you can see! And what a fantabulous sight Old Dhaka is from the vantage point of an open rickshaw.

This was my second trip to Old Dhaka in less than a week. I would ordinarily not subject myself so, but my intense and beautiful ex-boyfriend, Ram, was shooting a film in Bangladesh, and had only one measly day off before he returned to Bombay. So we spent part of the day on a boat ride on the Buriganga River in Old Dhaka. The ride was hot as hell, with dark smelly waters, but as Ram noted, keenly romantic, and a visual treat. I heart boat rides.

Mads and I also went sari shopping in Hawkers Market, where she found an ashes of roses Jamdani which she fell in love with (Mads - I'm still waiting for a photo of you wearing said sari, as is my mom). When we exited the market, we found that the sky had opened and flooded the streets. Cue yet another CNG ride, but this time in the glittering cool of nighttime rain washed Dhaka.

It was with Mads and teh awesome Tarfia that I discovered the new Bongo Bazar. The original landmark market burned down a few years ago, and now the place to fulfill all (and I mean all) your wardrobe needs is Dhaka College'r Oolta Dige (literally, "Opposite Dhaka College"). If you can bear tropical jungle conditions, crowds of determined shoppers, no fitting rooms, and clothes with any number of defects, then you're set. Not for nothing is Bangladesh one of the world's major suppliers of garments. Look carefully for misplaced pockets and missing text (ONGE OB Squarepants, anyone?), and don't pay more than 70-100 taka for anything ($1-$1.25). [Note: If you can't take the heat, then Artisan in Banani is a great alternative. Their prices are twice as much and there isn't as big a selection, but they have fitting rooms (yay!) and AC (double yay!).]

My fabulous cousin, Sabbir, accompanied Mads and me on a day trip to Tangail, about three hours from Dhaka. There we were treated by the wonderful nonprofit UBINIG to yummy food, a tour of the local seed bank, a meeting with master Jacquard weaver, Kartik Bashak, a look at the silver jewelry shops, and of course Tangail sari shops (thank you Sabbir for my boudoir red Tangail sari skirt).

But the best part (for me anyway) was our long bike ride through the rice paddies of rural Bangladesh. I can still hear the man who sang as he worked in the field, his voice a bell in the clear bright air. Our bike ride ended at the ornate and beautiful 17th century Atia Mosque, in the middle of wondrous nowhere.

Dhaka has always proved a feeding frenzy for me. I eat myself into a stupor every time I visit my various families: Hasina Fupu and her family in Uttara, Shirazi Bhai and family in Dhanmondi, and everyone's favourite chef, Mala Mami in Shantinagar (see her send off dinner for me to the right). YUM.

Plus I scarfed momos at Hot Hut, fuchkas at Prabarthana (see left), margaritas at the American Club, biryani in Old Dhaka, steak in Gulshan, and tons of hilsa and vegetable mashes and shutki at Neeta's.

Speaking of Neeta, I'll end with my curly girl who hosted me for the month of May, and it was to celebrate her bash of a 45th birthday that I even considered this last gypsy turn (6 years come to an end). She's one of my favourite people in the world, outrageous, outspoken, stylish, warm, and generous, and a kick ass mom to two lovely girls. Her wardrobe is incredible and varied, and her shoe collection even more impressive, but it's our midnight to dawn conversations that I heart (and miss) the most. She's not on Facebook, erratic on email, and hard to pin down even in person, unless you're living in her house. I don't know when I'll be back in Bangladesh, but it'll be for her that I go. And of course, the myriad pleasures of my adopted/inherited home.

Indian Spring

I came to Delhi to celebrate my 38th birthday this April. It was my reward for finishing the first draft of my novel - a two month trip to India and Bangladesh. My mother laughed when she heard. People go out to dinner for their birthday, she told a friend. This one goes to India... But listen, maybe you'd have done the same if you didn't have enough money to go out to dinner but had just enough miles to get to Delhi (my return to the States will have to be funded by teaching yoga in Dhaka).

I'm also hoping that this hiatus from novel writing will be time to lay out and fund a photography book that I've been dreaming up for years (I'm writing this down to embarrass myself into doing it). Check out this website I'm building to help plan and pitch it (suggestions and sponsorships welcome).

I've been to Delhi three times now, and each time has been wildly different from the last. The first time I came to Delhi, in 2007 (i.e. pre-Facebook-ubiquity), I knew no one. I had two contacts through friends, and another one even more transitive than that. I stayed in Chittaranjan Park (of course), with friends of my aunt. Mona and Sagar housed and fed me, took me to extravagantly tasty Bengali dinner parties, and otherwise let me wander on my own.

The last two times I've visited Delhi (last spring and this April), it's been as a guest of host extraordinaire, Sheba Karim, herself a recent transplant from New York. Because she is an adventurer, and a researcher par excellence, she knows what's what. Plus she speaks the language(s). I didn't have to think twice in Delhi. I didn't even have to plan. It was all done and with style.

Still, I almost miss the Delhi I discovered my first visit. Or rather I miss that feeling of standing uncertainly, under the tangle of electric lines in Chadni Chowk, before the gate of Qutb Minar arguing for a local's entrance fee, facing the crowded alley dividing Khan Market, in the shopping warrens under Connaught Place. That fear and anticipation before the joy of seeing that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

That said, I was exactly where I wanted to be this April, which was in the company of the new face of Cointreau, ie Ms. Karim. Flanked by fellow travelling partiers Rahim and Diyari, and fabled event planner Punit, Sheba threw me a fabulous birthday bash at her Delhi barsati (rooftop flat), with a cocktail hour sponsored by Cointreau, candles and fairy lights, a (lemon! not chocolate!) cake with a photo emblazoned on it (how do they do this?), enough biryani and booze for a small army, and a disco dance floor. What better way to turn 38? I couldn't say.

Because I can never come to India without visiting Kolkata and my lovely friend Madhurima, I also spent a week in West Bengal, and enjoyed Mads' usual stupendous hospitality, despite Kolkata's horrible humidity and my constant greaseballness (Dhaka awaits, argh).

In my seven steamy days in Cal, I had fuchkas and ice cream, floated down the Hougly at sunset (see left), shopped Gariahat's street stalls, wandered the overgrown gorgeous desolation of South Park Street Cemetery, hung out with writer/filmmaker/chef Ruchir, took about 100 auto rides (I heart Cal's shared auto route system - please to do this Dhaka), ate more than my share (ilish mach!), and on my last night went dancing at the Underground with THE man about town, Rana - where I met more than a handful of hotties (um, why didn't I go out earlier in the week?).

And in Delhi, Rahim, Diyari, and I were shown around Sheba-style: ruin hopping, an eye candy photo exhibition, qawali and kebab night, a fashion show at Pragati Maidan, jazz fest in Nehru park, house party after house party, dancing at the Zoo, Sheba's reading and reception at Alliance Francaise, yummy Bhavan and Gunpowder dinners, quiche and champagne at Punit's, shopping and snacking at Khan Market, Easter Brunch at Olivia's, and of course, plenty of lazing on the terrace with fresh mint drinks.

Click here to read about our dazzling trip to Orchha and Khajuraho. And here for Part 1 of my Delhi 2011 photos, and here for Part 2.

Someone told me Delhi is poised to be the next cultural capital of Asia, this after years of being maligned as a cultural wasteland. With all the art and music and literature and verve, I can see it. And thank the gods for dry heat. And air conditioning.