I was thinking... Jobs

After struggling for weeks trying to write my thesis, once I was done with it, I lapsed into thinking nothing. My brain was free; no worries for the next day, no deadlines, no meetings, no more running participants and adjusting your schedule for the day according to them. And I enjoyed my new-found liberation by doing mundane things, such as riding the bus, doing my laundry, packing my suitcases (although I should say that was still a 4/10 on the stressful scale), watching shows online and reading. Nevertheless, I relapsed into thinking again at some point, but this time it was borderline philosophical: It wasn't about what I had to do in the next few hours, but in general what my life would be or could be like in the future.

Estimating from my performance and stress level scale in the past 2 months, the future is nowhere near a fun party, but rather a life-long performance that mostly asks you to sit on your ass and stare at pixels on something-inch rectangular frames. When you're in standing position, you mostly have to walk in anxious, hurried steps to wherever you have to make it, on time. Or stand in desperation in public transportation. Or if you've sat on your ass enough to afford the luxury, then ride in a fancy car, stuck in terrible traffic.

Well it's no wonder why we work our asses off: money. The strongest secondary reinforcer of our lives that enables us to buy all the other reinforcers that we want and need. I am in no position to cast doubt on the importance of money, but my wanderings were more about what usually is associated with money: jobs.

When you're born, your parents give you a name, and everybody usually calls you that. Or you might have a nickname, same thing. Basically, you are just a name. When people describe you, they say your name and they might also say something about how you look and your character. Perhaps these times when you're just a name (usually between the ages of 0-7) is when you're a person in your purest form, physically, mentally, emotionally (as we know and assume), (but) even occupationally. Because once you turn 7 and you are sent to primary school, perhaps the first innocent step towards a lifelong (literally) working, or even maybe for some, suffering is taken. Because once after you turn 7, you cannot just be a name; you will always strive to be something else, other than just your simple name. (Of course, for some this might start a little earlier or later, but it starts for everyone at some point.)

This fight for an occupation, status or position, whatever you call it is so fierce and demanding that the society even has a title for those who do not care to have a title. You could be an "unemployed Alfie", "homeless Harry" or "stay-home Stan". But you can never simply feel proud of all the good adjectives that meant so much as you were growing up. Being just (the good-old) "good Gaby" does not earn you applause anymore, you'd rather be the "good housewife Gaby" or  maybe "sweet stewardess Sally". It is also incredible to me that we are pulled into this competition, which underestimates our simple name and identity, so discreetly; we never question its necessity, and for those that do we do have a not-so-coveted -ist title: anarchist.

And many a times, having as many of these new shiny titles as possible is associated with money and fame. Think of the times you wikied a person and they were: a singer, recording artist, designer, writer, entrepreneur and an actress (i.e. Madonna) and you let out a little "Wow!" at how that person manages to do it all. There is a reason you wiki that person, they are probably rich and/or famous. But I also wonder if these people actually do have a life, a time when they are free to do anything with no worry about the next day. Of course in the case of some very famous people, it is those people around them who do all the planning and the menial stuff. But for most of us, our work is simply our life and even a significant part of our identity.

I came to think about all this after having read the wikipedia excerpt on Mila Kunis. In explaining why she quit That '70s Show, she mentioned: "[I had] and epiphany. I decided I wasn't going to take my career so seriously and make my job who I am. I just want to be happy with my life." The majority of us let work take over our lives and define who we are. And we accept sleep-depriving, hair-whitening stress as a normal factor of work life. Some of us are even so consumed by work that when given free time for a quite a long stretch of period, we do not know what to do with ourselves.

Should the shiny occupational label be as core to our identity as we make it and take it to be?

Marrakesh (1)

It feels as if it's been ages since I've been to Marrakesh, when it has only been 2.5 months. When I was there, I already started writing a blog entry, but then at some point I felt too impatient and restless to write because of all the things I could have been experiencing instead of writing. But I never forgot Marrakesh, and it still keeps its place as the most unique place I visited during the Spring Break travels.

We flew from Madrid to Marrakesh in the morning, mostly uncomfortably sleeping on the plane. We landed, got out of the plane to be welcomed by a two story airport mostly made of white concrete and red bricks, simple, but still reflecting the semi-modern, semi-palace-like Moroccan architecture. Another welcomer was the distinct heat that seeped us in itself like a vacuum. I was ecstatic feeling the hot temperature; although Spain was warm, it wasn't summery hot and after months in England, one yearns for the hot weather. We went through the passport control, picked up our luggage and hurried for our first adventure in Marrakesh: haggling with the cab drivers. What basically happens is you get out of the airport, trying to look cool and indifferent to the cab-men (I don't think all of them drive the cabs, some of them are sort of like 'cab-pimps', trying to get you to take the cab they own.), but however cool you're trying to look, they know that you're a tourist and they know that you're dying to get a cab to wherever you will go to save yourself from melting in the hot weather and make it to cooler temperatures in which human metabolism can survive. So they approach you, "Take this cab, madam." and you ask, "How much?", "Three hundred dirhems!" (approximately 30 euros) and you know that's way too high a price, and having read many forums on taking cabs in Marrakesh, you say "No." They object to your objection, saying things like, "Well, that's the price, I can't go any lower. It's actually 500 dirhems (no, it's not.)." So you walk away, not knowing where you're actually going, or even if you will find another cab-pimp, but it's a part of haggling, so you do. They finally ask, "What's your price?" and although you sort of know what to say from the forums you've read, you're still hesitant, because what if you say a lower price and they do accept? But you still play it safe, because you know.. you're actually dying to get a cab- the thought of cool sheets in your bed, the mint tea and hookah they serve at the hostel (you've read about this in the hostel reviews, too.), a cold shower... And you say your final price, "200 dirhems." The cab driver stops in astonishment. He has that look in his eyes that says, "How can you even think of that?" for a split second, but then he reaches his hand for you to shake it; it's a deal.

African Pneus, which we ran into quite often.

If your accommodation is in the old city part of Marrakesh, then your cab stops at Aragana Cafe. From there, our host from the hostel, Ali, picked us up and we walked to the hostel, which was not that far away. The hostel, La Casa del Sol, was the nicest place we stayed during our travels. Sipping delicious mint tea and learning about how we should act in the old city, we payed our hostel fees. That first night, after we came back from a traditional meal at  Djemaa el Fna, the main square in Marrakesh, we went upstairs to the terrace and smoked hookah in the calm, warm night of Marrakesh.

Old men conversing at Djemaa el Fna

The things you see in Djemaa el Fna do not just surprise, but fascinate you. It is a fusion of the unexpected and the outrageous, with snake charmers and musicians, story-tellers and fortune-tellers, food-sellers and tricksters. At around 8'o clock, the square lures you in with the smoke coming from the kebabs grilled at the portable food stands. You take a step towards one of them and a guy dressed in a white jacket like a lab coat starts cracking jokes at you: "Come on skinny, eat at my food stand." You walk away and hear him call, "Twiggy, slender, skinny, slim, scrawny! Why are you leaving? Eat here!" behind your back. The mere fact that he knows so many synonyms of 'slim' cracks you up and you walk back to that food stand, smiling. He shouts in absolute joy, "You're back! You won't regret eating here. The bread is free. We have the best food. All the food stands charge the same, but it's about quality. This is where all the Moroccans eat." So you sit down and order from the menu in which the most costly food is 70 dirhems (7 euros). Of course, you read online that people get food poisoned in Marrakesh, and their whole trip gets ruined. But you see other people, Moroccans too, dipping their bread in the juice of the Tagine and you ask yourself rhetorically, "Why not?" The food looks delicious, although the conditions don't seem all that sanitary... Eek.

I personally never got sick in Marrakesh, although we ate at the portable food stalls every night. And also I never came across malicious cat-calling (although when it was only me and Sharon walking around without Ben we heard more "Nice ass!"es and "Sexy!"s.) In that sense, my fears about what we would experience in Morocco turned out to be much better than what I expected. The people are a little xenophobic towards Americans and it's much easier to negotiate and become friends with them if you can speak French. Nevertheless, the variety of the languages the Moroccans can speak amazes you. Anyone we met could speak Arabic, French and English fluently. Many street-vendors also can speak Spanish and they also can welcome people in Japanese (we know this because Sharon is Korean, but people thought she was Japanese and we heard "Konnichiwa"s screamed at us quite often.) Also, if you yourself greet people and thank them in Arabic, it definitely earns you some friendly tourist points. I personally even played the Muslim card in several occasions, and although it helped quite often, it didn't prevent my getting ripped off when buying a pair of silky shalvar trousers (which I blissfully show off below).

Me at the Madrasah

Love Triangle at "Au Rendevous des Amis"

Having mentioned Kiki de Montparnasse, I just remembered this little story of three people of whose entangled little love story we just happen to share at a cafe in Paris. Not having anything else better to do, Ben and I were playing chess at this little cafe, (preciously) called Au Rendevous des Amis while sharing a jug of beer. There were groups of people occupying the other tables, but most particularly two girls and a guy were sitting at a table right next to us on my left. The guy and one of the girls, the red, curly haired one, were sitting next to each other and were acting like a couple, kissing an cuddling now and then, and at times engaging in lively conversation with the blonde-haired girl (who Ben and I thought was the prettier one). The guy was wearing a black turtleneck, which Ben thought was very French of him; I thought it added to his later-to-be-more-evident suaveness.

The blonde girl seemed quite drunk, kneeling towards the guy and saying stuff in French, then switching to English and Dutch at times with the red-haired girl. At some point, she stumbled out of the bar, most probably to have a cigarette. With her fortunate absence, the couple started making out passionately. At this point nothing is wrong, and it's not like we're watching the couple make out you know, it just happens to be in our visual periphery while we were playing an absolutely fun game of chess, which I was shamefully losing.

So after a while the blonde girl came back, the couple stopped making out, and for some reason this time the red-haired girl decided to leave, I'm assuming to have a cigarette(?). All the while the suave French guy didn't move, he surprisingly didn't need any cigarette breaks (although he's French-stereotyping? yes.), and thus he became the very vertex of a feisty love triangle. During her friend's absence the blonde girl started flirting with the guy, kneeling towards him in drunken demeanor, mumbling stuff, which in my imagination was something like: "I'm so jealous, I can't stand the way you are so cuddly in front of me with her." And the French guy replied: "Oh, don't worry, you're always on my mind. She just happens to be my girlfriend at the moment." And boom! All of a sudden they started making out like there's no other. At this point, their table was not the bewildered focus of only our table, but of the table next to us, and of the other standers-by at the bar. The new couple went on and on, until three minutes prior to the red-haired girl showing up, who was completely oblivious to the betrayal that's going, literally, behind her back.

The red-haired girl took her place next to her supposed boyfriend and without any words spoken they start kissing. The whole thing became even more strange when the blonde-haired girl started sleeping on the table with her head covered between her arms, and the couple continued making out as if she did not even exist. Not paying attention to the apparent misery of the blonde-haired girl, the couple went on and on for about ten minutes. Finally, prodded by some conscience, the red-haired girl asked her friend if she was okay, to which her friend curtly replied, "I'm fine." Not satisfied with her friend's half-hearted answer, the red-haired girl urged her boyfriend that it's in fact time to go. They left the cafe, the red-haired girl holding her boyfriend's hand, and the latter holding the blondie's hand. And as I watched them leave, I wondered if the whole thing- the longer than necessary cigarette breaks, the turtleneck guy never leaving the table- was actually a little plan with more unscrupulous and perhaps more scandalous intentions on the girls' part.

Kiki de Montparnasse

Aesthetic and witty in many ways, Man Ray's photo of the Parisian model more famously known as 'Kiki de Montparnasse' is one of my favorite 'body' photos. The cleverly painted F-notes on Kiki's back is a symbol for how Kiki's body is an instrument, in this case a violin; thus the title of the photo Violon d'Ingres. Kiki does not have the second name Ingres. The attribution comes from her looking like the subject of a painting by a nineteenth century artist named Ingres. On a side note, Ingres was also an amateur musician. So you can see the many underlying themes and jokes in this simple but elegant photo.

Source: Photography by John Ingledew

Photography Project

It's been a long while since I last updated my blog, mainly because I was busy with projects near the end of the Spring Term at Sussex and then I just flew off to travel right after that.

But I'd like to share my Final Project for my Photography Class. It's a portrait of the people in an area called the North Laines in Brighton. In my opinion it's the most exciting place here, since the district is full of hundreds of independent stores and always bustling with the most interesting characters you will ever see. I decided to mainly focus on the store-owners, although there are a couple photos in there of people who just happen to be standing, or sitting right outside the store. We had to choose 6-8 photos for the project, so here is my final 8.

The lady at the second-hand clothing store To Be Worn Again. I feel that I owe her a lot, since after asking her my meek attitude in asking people to pose for me transformed into a more brave one.  She acquiesced right away and posed in this incredibly self-confident attitude. I love how her red sweater contrasts with the blue background.

The veteran man who was sitting right outside the tobacco shop. I walked past him and I really wanted to take his photos but was too shy and intimidated to ask. After taking a turn to another street, I decided to go back and ask him. 

The guy in front of Amps and Guitars

The owner of the music store Borderline

The pink haired girl in the second-hand store

The guy who works at Dirty Harry

The hair-stylist from Mr. Toppers... Great Haircuts

My buddy from juggling store Oddballs. I call him my buddy because I always stopped by at this store whenever I went to North Laines to take photos. All the people that worked here were incredibly laid-back and quite fun, and would always ask me how my project was going.

...and Bath

The day I went to Stonehenge I also went to Bath. Bath is a small town on the west coast of England near Bristol, famous for the Roman Baths (thus the name of the town). It was a very small town, nothing too exciting but still a cool little place. When I heard the history of the Roman Baths though, I could not help but imagine the Romans indulging themselves in the hot springs in hedonistic pleasure.

   column, ceasar and the moon

"mere mortals, i now let you go."

This musician girl seemed engrossed by her music and I love how everyone in our group stares at her as if hypnotized. The music she played was very serene but also mesmerizing.

violin player on a string

He loved playing with fire.

                                                   

Stonehenge

It's been a long time since I last posted. But two weeks ago I went to Stonehenge and Bath and took a bunch of pictures.

Stonehenge is definitely a sight to see, but nothing majestic like I conjured up in my mind when I first saw its pictures in a childrens' encylopedia fifteen years ago. The mysterious aura of the place gets lost once you see  that it's actually surrounded by highways, and is right now just an intersection in the middle of civilization (well not really, it's in a rural area but you can hear the buzzing of cars from the highways.)

But what's funny is that currently these ancient stones are watched (and protected figuratively maybe?) by flocks of sheep that just graze as they quietly gaze at the stones, which some archeologists believe are in the shape of women genitalia...

The interesting fact about Stonehenge: Scientists believe it took 20 million hours to build it. (wikipedia) Wow..

And you know, jumping pictures never get old...