The Process

The school year is winding down, and it is just one of many things coming to a close. It's time for reflecting on our Bamako years and celebrating all we've experienced. Sometimes I forget to appreciate the many things we have done, in the midst of feeling isolated and far away. (from what, I can't exactly say, but Bamako inspires in me a sense of distance.)

The painting / book project I began just over a year ago is also coming to a close. We will have the first of two final showings, complete with book mock up, 11 paintings and a music and dance performance. It's a fitting end and feeling like the best finale I've had leaving a country.

The project involved creating a series of paintings to explain the traditional dance called Dansa. I had brought up the idea one day after dance class when I heard that the instructor had an organization dedicated to researching origins of traditional dance. His group also had an objective of bringing traditional dance to public schools. I love dance in schools and thought a literacy component would be a great addition. I also figured Malian students would really benefit from having books documenting their cultural heritage. So began a year of collaboration.

Drissa and I signed the paintings yesterday. We started with a kind of solemn, formal signing on the first few and then hurried things along. I tend to do everything too quickly.

But I have been reflecting on the process- of painting together, of telling the story, of crafting the scenes and of gathering information.

A few mistakes were made from the outset, some of the kind that I knew were not such a good idea at the time but chose to ignore and others, well, I am not sure how they happened.

The biggest mistake was in getting the story right. Somehow we were under the impression that the dance we'd chosen to depict was a wedding dance. I can see how this information was misinterpreted, but it was still surprising to find out, once the project had been nearly complete.

This process was heavily focused on the images, not so much on the story. I've never approached it that way and it is another reason the miscommunication did not get worked out until the end. It was easy enough to rearrange the story a bit, so it remains factual and still fits our images. But next time, double checking the information seems like an obvious first step.

My fact finding mission, really just a clarification of details, involved a meeting with the griots- two ladies the dancer and his wife know. They arranged an evening at their house so I could ask questions and verify the order of events. Initially, I'd had some questions about the role of the bride and how she felt about some of the steps in the wedding process (being sequestered for several days) and the role of the henna painting (was it true red henna meant innocent and black henna meant not so innocent? and who would ever choose the black henna?) but by the time of the meeting, I'd worked through my angst about the details. And my curiosity. I was more focused on the big picture.

The ladies were helpful in describing the order of events, though all stories seem to evolve in that circular thinking common to tales involving African tradition. It's hard to keep track of a story that isn't linear. When one path leads to another and a suddenly interesting detail is revealed, which brings us down a whole new path, but doesn't really relate to the original question....yeah, it's a bit of a challenge to pull out the relevant information. But I was more enriched for the immersion of it all.

They liked my idea and caught a quick glimpse of the images which prompted them to do some on the spot praise singing. The older woman began, and actually seemed to put the younger woman on the spot, as she was still eating. She managed to sing out a few words in between bites, eventually succumbing to the pressure to sing rather than eat. The difficulty of being a griot- always in demand.
They sang so beautifully I wanted to rest my head on someone's shoulder and curl up and be comforted. Their voices were soothing.

Of course, I couldn't understand everything they were saying, aside from my name. Occasionally they threw in a French word or two, something about painting, something about telling stories, and oh yeah, something about my long nose. Leave it to the griots to sing it like it is.

I never really know how to respond to moments like that, so I just sat and soaked it up, hoping to file away the goodness for one of those days when I need a happy memory. I left with my pages of notes and sincere thanks for the evening.

Another step has involved getting the paintings photographed, which we are still not sure has been done correctly. But I do have a file of high definition photos from a Malian photographer who has worked on the national archives (Mali has a history of acclaimed photographers and is in the process of uploading works to digital storage) among other projects, as well as his own work. When I asked him about printing, he suggested the photography school and asked if I had time right then to go visit. We took off on his motorcycle and arrived within minutes. I really appreciated his understanding of my deadline and his willingness to see me though another phase.

We spent about an hour talking to the director, calculating sizes and discussing the objective of the project. The printing room hosted a 12-ink color printer larger than I am tall. Swiss, I was told. There was another under cover that had come, perhaps, from France. I am sometimes still amazed at the things that get imported in. This was impressive.

The director was incredibly helpful during both of my visits. He was patient and interested in the creative aspects of the project. He understood my dilemmas (one of the mistakes I'd chosen to ignore was the size and format of the paintings - clearly not ideal for transformation into a book. I knew this at the time and yet, we'd forged ahead anyway with the materials on hand.)  Because there were 3 basic sizes, each one had to be calculated in relation to the others. And there was the problem of the two landscape formats, which would need to be split to cover two pages.

The director, Youssouf, was a very kind man who worked hard to understand my vision and help with formatting and printing the images. While we waited for a sample print, we talked art and even yoga. He told us a story about the need for movement in keeping the body spry and showed off a few of his poses. When the young kids come into the studio for training, he sits them down in a circle and gets them stretching. He challenges them to touch their head with their toes. The best life lessons always come in unexpected places.

When our test sample was complete, we made a few more minor adjustments. Youssouf talked about his own experience as painter, which he gave up when he found it couldn't provide his meals. He said he was taking careful interest in our work, treating it as he would his own. He seemed really interested in the creativity of the work. "We are not a print shop, we are artisans, We're crafting something," he told me, once we'd finally figured out all the measurements, especially the tricky landscape split. I am hoping to pick up the finished product in the next few days and add the text. Drissa may even have time to add some designs to the page borders, which are quite large in some cases due to our awkward canvas dimensions.

The last piece to all of this is the dance. I have been wanting to perform since I arrived full of energy and enthusiasm to be dancing with such great drummers again. However, this has all come together so quickly, there isn't really time to prepare the way I'd like. We've only practiced twice and there might be two more times before the exhibit. That's about a billion times less than the number I'd really hope for. I'd feel much better if the moves were so ingrained I didn't have to think much about them. Or listen so hard to hear the break.

But I do love dancing and the performance part, our amateur part, is sure to be over before it really begins. I guess what I love is dancing in class when the music goes on and on and we have a million times to get it right. When it feels full and open and free. I am not sure I will be able to replicate that feeling in a 5 minute performance in front of a bunch of people I don't know. But I am willing to try.
It will be the most fitting way to say goodbye to Bamako.

The Cognosu- where a new bride is secluded
for a week after her wedding. She's not
completely alone, her mangamaga
prepares her meals and gives her good
advice about wifely things 

In the circle of artists

I think it was Jimmy Fallon and Jerry Seinfeld, in an episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, who were discussing hanging out with other comedians. I understood immediately what they meant, and I was kind of relieved to see my neurosis wasn't really neurosis after all, just human nature.

Because they weren't talking about just hanging out with comedians, they were talking about only hanging out with comedians. Fallon says something along the lines of really only enjoying things if he is with other comedians. There is a common habit of using humor to see the world, in such a way that only other comedians really get it.

I feel this way about artists. I prefer hanging out with other artists, only. If artists aren't going to be there, I'm not really interested. There is a certain perspective creative types bring to the world that is soothing and intriguing and comforting. I just don't have as much fun if there aren't other artists around. I don't feel as connected to what's happening unless I can exchange a glance and smile with a fellow artist that says, "Did you see that? You saw that, right?" And of course they did. They saw it, they heard it, they imagined the rest of it in a way that only artists do. 

In terms of African dance and music, I've had the privilege and honor of mostly being in the inner circle. Those of us who are obsessed and passionate about traditional African music spend a lot of time with other artists. We go to events in the circle of artists, which allows for an inside view of how things happen. How dances get choreographed and songs get composed. How performances get put together. How weddings and birthdays and other celebrations get infused with spirit and revelry. Any event without music and dancing isn't really complete. 

It is just in these last few months that I've come to understand there is an entirely different view of art and artists. I should have known. I did know, but not in a truly aware way of knowing. So many artists have a similar story- either they are from a long line of artists, or they're not. And if they're not, it's likely they've suffered some serious repercussions for choosing a life of creativity. From physical abuse to being thrown out and disowned, families who are not artist families do not want to "lose" their children to this path. 

Here in Mali, I hear a lot about families who do not want their children to experience drumming or dancing or anything to do with traditional arts. They don't want their children hanging around those people. Others don't mind the drums, but draw a line at the balafon or kora. These are reserved for griot families- the generations tasked with keeping stories. Music and dance are really just about storytelling and keeping history. 

There is no doubt people think these things are important- that's not really the issue. Kings and queens and chiefs of villages need these griots to sing their praises and make sure everyone else realizes their wisdom and importance.  But after that, keep your distance. It becomes something of a caste situation. 

It all translates into a complex relationship between the praiser and the one who is praised. There is power in being the composer of history. It's not so different from Chimamanda Adichie's view in The Danger of a Single Story. Those who write the stories hold the power. And in the case of musical presentation, there is the potential for another kind of power. Music is compelling and hypnotic; music makers are slightly magical. Attractive, mysterious, captivating. Potentially more captivating than the ruler himself. This is where the danger lies. Jealousy and mistrust brew. 

I'm told this is a West African thing, though I hadn't noticed it so much in neighboring countries.  I've been too busy being in awe- surrounded by artists and trying to learn as much as possible- to stop and consider someone might think there is another way to be. That this way should be separate and the music makers kept apart. Or maybe I just enjoy being kept apart. The caste system in this case doesn't really define higher or lower, but just separate.  

I can't imagine any other way to experience things except through art. Through the creative eye. With rhythms of the drums pulsing through you, matching your heartbeat, taking you back to the original birth, the first energy source that connects us all. Maybe that is the scary thing: facing our human connection, facing an intangible energy that is profound and un-knowable. The inner view.  It truly is magical, and life would hardly be bearable without it.

*UPDATE* Here's an article discussing exactly what I was talking about. It's funny how that comes about.

the value of a praise singer

It is human nature to become accustomed to our surroundings. Whether good or bad, after the initial adjustment period we begin to adapt. We start to take certain conditions for granted and no longer realize the effects they have on our daily well- being.  Only in their absence can we begin to evaluate the formative impact elements of our environment have had on us.  Sometimes these elements come in the form of a person.

It was only with the recent restoration of peace to what had become a tension filled interaction that I was able to remember these truisms. This year has been particularly challenging for me in terms of exciting developments in my professional career and perplexing difficulties in my classroom.  For several months the stress of it all has invaded my quiet, thoughtful evenings turning them into long, questioning nights.  It spilled over into my personal relationships and colored my communication with abrasiveness.  As things have begun to settle, students developing routines and modeling new behaviors, I have been able to return to gentle expressions and appreciations of those around me.

I have even been able to challenge some of my students by introducing them to one of my favorite books, The Ear, The Eye and The Arm by Nancy Farmer.  This book is set in a futuristic Central African country and weaves elements of tradition and science fiction expertly together.  The story follows three privileged but sheltered children who set off on a “field trip” across the city and end up getting kidnapped. One of the main characters is the family praise singer who struggles with his guilt in helping the children escape and conflict with his mother over their imprisonment and return.  I like to point out the role of the praise singer to students as a decidedly African element.  Praise singers have maintained their role in recording and spreading African history for centuries. Most notably, West African griots continue this tradition in their songs and music produced today. Radios all over Africa come alive with songs dedicated to presidents and politicians during election campaigns-the most modern knock-off of the traditional praise singer role.

We discuss the merits and drawbacks to having a personal praise singer, as described in the story. His job is to sing for the family members each morning sending them off to face their daily duties in good spirits and pumped with positive adulations of themselves.  Students generally point out that hearing only wonderful things about yourself might lead to believing that there is no need for improvement.  They discuss the oddness of having someone make public your every move and a bit of uncomfortableness at giving someone the ability to influence and sway your thoughts- clouding judgment and the ability to reason.  They seem to understand that praise, when used without discrimination, can be a powerful tool that leads to greed and delusions. In the story, the praise singer is so effective that the parents are lulled into a semi trance state where they comply with any request and can be easily fooled. This is how the children, sons and daughter of a presidential general, make their escape from the house and begin their journey into the world for the first time.

The concept of such a praise singer never ceases to intrigue me. Because while too much praise can be detrimental, just enough seems essential. How many children pass through their days without hearing a single positive comment about who they are or who they will grow up to be? How many children are lacking the confidence or the ability to dream because no one has ever told them they could? I often see the children selling things on the street or the ones who are begging for bits of small money and wonder if they have ever heard they are beautiful or clever or brave? I ponder what effect it could have on them, like a treasured secret, to know someone is thinking they hold such value.

I return to this often. It is the idea that we consistently search for significance in ourselves through validation from others. Though mystics and yogis may tell you that only the individual should determine   self- worth, this interdependence seems an integral part of human nature. We crave attention and confirmation from others.  I suppose the idea is that if we are surrounded by positive affirmations as young children, we will grow to embody them and come to recognize these attributes as desirable in others. But life is damaging.  Our individual journeys take a toll on our spirit. Some of us become dented and distorted along the way. A well placed comment has the ability to brighten a moment or rejuvenate a tired day.

And so it was that I heard such a quiet comment, offered in such a casual way that I remembered the value of praise singer.