When the previous dancer mentioned Valarie, I knew that she was the one for the role.
Valarie and I met five years ago during our senior year of college. She was a student at Stanford at the time, while I was going to Smith. My mother teaches in the religious studies department at Stanford, where Valarie was writing her thesis about post 9-11 hate crimes, which later turned into her feature-length documentary film Divided We Fall. It was during this same year that Valarie took her first Kathak class, which eventually inspired me to take up the dance practice myself. From the time we first met, we connected very deeply. Although our friendship was mostly long-distance, we would exchange extensive e-mails discussing love, life, art, and the universe. When we were able to meet every once in a while, we had long magical conversations. We would often bounce creative ideas back and forth and give each other moral support through the trials and tribulations of our various artistic undertakings. I had always considered her my sister in creativity, so of course it was only natural that she be one of the first to know about Sagar. I sent her a long e-mail as soon as I got the idea. It was several weeks before I received any kind of response. And when I did finally hear from her, it was not in answer to the e-mail I sent.
"You may have noticed that I dropped out of the world for a little while," she wrote. "I lost my phone, let email go, closed my ears to the news, and instead turned my attention to the sea. Every morning, I walk to the ocean so that it may teach me things. I am just beginning to listen, but I still have anxiety to work out of my body. So I dance and do yoga and stretch my arms to the sky."
"Wow," I thought. "What an amazing and bizarre coincidence. I have been envisioning a girl dancing out at the ocean, while she has been living it." But did she know about what I was trying to do? From the tone of her e-mail -- which was sent to a few different friends, not just me -- it sounded like she did not. Just shortly after receiving this e-mail, we spoke briefly on the phone.
"Did you get my e-mail?" she asked me.
"Yes," I told her. "Did you get mine?"
"I haven't checked my e-mail for a very long time," she said.
I told her to take a look at it when she got the chance. Hopefully, she would understand and appreciate my idea. At the very least, she would probably be intrigued by the coincidence. It wasn't too long before she sent me another e-mail:
"Karuna, I have chills. Do you know - for the past month - that I have been taking a wooden platform out to the sand in the morning, wrapping my ghungroo around my ankles, bowing in pranam to the ocean, and dancing? It has become a deeply spiritual practice for me. And afterward, I lay down on my beach towel, and imagine going out to the ocean, the waters running down my neck and back, washing away the pain, healing me. I imagine the ocean lifting me into the sky - and disappearing. Before I return again.
Karuna, your story, your vision, and what will soon be your film - is exactly what I have been experiencing.
I have no words. I take it as a sign. That you must do it. And we will talk about it."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Prolific progress, simultaneous setbacks
Now that the choreography was starting to solidify, it was time to begin storyboarding. Maya, Ken, and I met at Lake Merritt. I performed the choreography while Ken got out his sketchpad and Maya took still photos to see what angles would and wouldn't work. By the end of the session, we had a plethora of material to serve as the building blocks for our storyboards and shot list. We reviewed the photos over dinner. For the first time, the project felt real. I was no longer doing abstract preproduction activities on my own. We were a team, and we were actually planning out what we'd be doing on the shoot. This was the artistic part. This was the reason I was doing the project to begin with. The obstacles had finally cleared, and now it was time for us to move forward. This is how I felt, but only for a moment.
I was still in the meeting with Maya and Ken when my phone rang. The caller ID told me it was my dancer, who had just returned from an intensive Kathak retreat. After she got back into town, we were to meet with Sam to go over the movements she'd already choreographed and then collaboratively work out the rest. But, as I would soon find out, these plans were about to change. "I have some news that you're probably not going to like," she started to say. From the sound of her voice, I knew it couldn't be good.
Before she had left town, I told her about what had happened with the dance school (to which she still belonged). I assured her that we were not going to step on their choreography; that we were creating movements that were totally new. I did, however, want to use a few Kathak steps that were definitely not property of this particular school. At the time, she agreed that she would be willing to incorporate these steps. After the retreat, this all changed. She said that, when the teachers at the Kathak school found out she might be using these steps, "they didn't say no, but they didn't look like they exactly approved." Not wanting to do anything that the dance school would deem disrespectful, she opted to bow out of the role. Of course I was disappointed, but I understood how long a relationship she'd had with her teachers and how important this practice was to her. Not wanting to do anything that would jeopardize these things, I agreed that her leaving the project was the best idea. But who would be my dancer? There were very few people I knew -- if any at all -- who could fill such a specialized role.
"You could ask Valarie," she said. "I'm sure she'd be willing to do it if she had the time."
A light bulb went off in my head at that moment. Why didn't I think of that before?
I was still in the meeting with Maya and Ken when my phone rang. The caller ID told me it was my dancer, who had just returned from an intensive Kathak retreat. After she got back into town, we were to meet with Sam to go over the movements she'd already choreographed and then collaboratively work out the rest. But, as I would soon find out, these plans were about to change. "I have some news that you're probably not going to like," she started to say. From the sound of her voice, I knew it couldn't be good.
Before she had left town, I told her about what had happened with the dance school (to which she still belonged). I assured her that we were not going to step on their choreography; that we were creating movements that were totally new. I did, however, want to use a few Kathak steps that were definitely not property of this particular school. At the time, she agreed that she would be willing to incorporate these steps. After the retreat, this all changed. She said that, when the teachers at the Kathak school found out she might be using these steps, "they didn't say no, but they didn't look like they exactly approved." Not wanting to do anything that the dance school would deem disrespectful, she opted to bow out of the role. Of course I was disappointed, but I understood how long a relationship she'd had with her teachers and how important this practice was to her. Not wanting to do anything that would jeopardize these things, I agreed that her leaving the project was the best idea. But who would be my dancer? There were very few people I knew -- if any at all -- who could fill such a specialized role.
"You could ask Valarie," she said. "I'm sure she'd be willing to do it if she had the time."
A light bulb went off in my head at that moment. Why didn't I think of that before?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Back at the beach
Sam and I met briefly at her house. I played her the song, told her my ideas about the concepts and timing of the choreography, and left her to brainstorm by herself for a few days. We agreed to meet the following Monday. She suggested we review the choreography on the beach, since that was the only way to know whether or not it would work on the actual shoot. Logistically, it was a brilliant idea. And it felt really right to return to the ocean, since the ocean was the essence of the piece.
A few days later, we drove out to the windswept Albany bulb, a lovely little beach lined with running dogs, tall eucalyptus groves, and wild junk art. It was a beautiful sunny day. We found our spot on the sand, and she showed me what she had. It was exactly the style of dance I was looking for. She had not copied the Kathak choreography, but had clearly been inspired by it. She also drew inspiration from the lyrics of the song; highlighting a few words that spoke to her, stringing those words together in a poem, and transforming the reconstructed poem into a dance. Additionally, we devised themes for each of the verses. Since there were five sections of choreography for each verse, we decided to make the first verse a tribute to the elements and the second a tribute to the senses. Again, we were taking Kathak-related themes, riffing off them, and creating our own original choreography. She taught me the steps, which I learned so I could perform them for Ken, the storyboard artist, and Maya, the DP, in order to brainstorm storyboards and shots.
After Sam and I parted, I excitedly listened to the song, re-envisioning the music video with the new choreography. I had found my choreographer at last. My troubles were over, and the project would prevail. At least, so I thought.
A few days later, we drove out to the windswept Albany bulb, a lovely little beach lined with running dogs, tall eucalyptus groves, and wild junk art. It was a beautiful sunny day. We found our spot on the sand, and she showed me what she had. It was exactly the style of dance I was looking for. She had not copied the Kathak choreography, but had clearly been inspired by it. She also drew inspiration from the lyrics of the song; highlighting a few words that spoke to her, stringing those words together in a poem, and transforming the reconstructed poem into a dance. Additionally, we devised themes for each of the verses. Since there were five sections of choreography for each verse, we decided to make the first verse a tribute to the elements and the second a tribute to the senses. Again, we were taking Kathak-related themes, riffing off them, and creating our own original choreography. She taught me the steps, which I learned so I could perform them for Ken, the storyboard artist, and Maya, the DP, in order to brainstorm storyboards and shots.
After Sam and I parted, I excitedly listened to the song, re-envisioning the music video with the new choreography. I had found my choreographer at last. My troubles were over, and the project would prevail. At least, so I thought.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Reinventing the dance
After getting the e-mail from Maya, I quickly wrote a new e-mail to Salman and the Sagar production team, telling them that perhaps I pulled the plug too soon and this project may still have a fighting chance. I then immediately began the search for a new choreographer.
Auspiciously enough, I simultaneously received a phone call from an old friend who used to be a dancer at the Kathak school. I told her my predicament, and she suggested I contact a friend of hers -- a dancer/choreographer who also happened to have studied some Kathak. We met and discussed the project, and she told me that although she found the project very interesting, she didn't feel that stylistically she was the right person for the job. After watching a few film clips of her work, I agreed that our aesthetics -- though similar -- did not quite match up. I’d had such high hopes for the project after hearing Maya's idea, but I was now coming to realize that finding the right choreographer might be harder than I’d originally expected.
But there was one other hopeful candidate -- Samantha Blanchard. Sam Blanchard and I had worked together twice, on the two productions of The Faith Project -- a collaborative play about religion and faith. We had done the first production in the summer of 2004. We then put the project to rest for a year, after which time we spent nine months completely reworking it and adding new cast members. We performed it again in spring 2006, and during that performance I actually delivered a spoken word poem recounting my experience at the Fort Bragg sand dunes. Having already worked closely with Sam, I had a pretty good idea of her movement style, and thought it might be just the right fit. Also, because Sam had heard my dunes poem so many times, she knew the story well.
I got a call back from Sam, telling me she was interested. I told her what I was looking for, and she said she'd see what she could come up with. Would this be the dance? Would she be the one? Only time would tell.
Auspiciously enough, I simultaneously received a phone call from an old friend who used to be a dancer at the Kathak school. I told her my predicament, and she suggested I contact a friend of hers -- a dancer/choreographer who also happened to have studied some Kathak. We met and discussed the project, and she told me that although she found the project very interesting, she didn't feel that stylistically she was the right person for the job. After watching a few film clips of her work, I agreed that our aesthetics -- though similar -- did not quite match up. I’d had such high hopes for the project after hearing Maya's idea, but I was now coming to realize that finding the right choreographer might be harder than I’d originally expected.
But there was one other hopeful candidate -- Samantha Blanchard. Sam Blanchard and I had worked together twice, on the two productions of The Faith Project -- a collaborative play about religion and faith. We had done the first production in the summer of 2004. We then put the project to rest for a year, after which time we spent nine months completely reworking it and adding new cast members. We performed it again in spring 2006, and during that performance I actually delivered a spoken word poem recounting my experience at the Fort Bragg sand dunes. Having already worked closely with Sam, I had a pretty good idea of her movement style, and thought it might be just the right fit. Also, because Sam had heard my dunes poem so many times, she knew the story well.
I got a call back from Sam, telling me she was interested. I told her what I was looking for, and she said she'd see what she could come up with. Would this be the dance? Would she be the one? Only time would tell.
Let's give it another go
So I sent the e-mail out to the group, letting them all know the situation with the dance school. Despite my disappointment immediately after the phone conversation, by the end of the evening I had reconciled myself to letting the project go.
"If it happens a year from now, great. If that happens 10 years from now, great. If it never happens, that's OK too. But I have the strong belief that this creature should not be put to rest so soon. And if and when it does reappear in another incarnation, I'm sure it will be all the richer for everything that has happened in between."
This is what I had written in the message, and I truly meant every word of it. I got a few nice e-mails back from members of the crew, as well as Salman, who said, "have passion,detachment,finesse and timing...all will be revealed." Indeed was right, though the revelation came a lot sooner than I expected.
One of the e-mail replies came from Maya, who -- as always -- had an excellent idea. He suggested that instead of completely killing the project, we could find somebody else to choreograph the piece, thereby moving forward without having to gain the approval of this particular dance school. Although I had sentimental attachments to the Kathak movements I had learned, I was open to the idea of other choreography. It would give us more freedom, more creative license. And perhaps we would surprise ourselves and come up with something even better suited to the project. But it couldn't be just any choreographer. It had to be somebody who truly understood the story, and could capture its essence through movement.
I set up meetings with a couple of choreographers to see who was interested and whose work might stylistically fit the peace. At this point, I still wasn't sure whether or not to continue the project. We were, after all, trying to meet the Scary Cow Round 3 deadline, and time was running out. And if we were creating a completely new dance, that would make our schedule all the tighter. I decided that the choreographer would be the deal breaker. If I found the right person within the week, we would move forward. If not, I would once again call the project off.
"If it happens a year from now, great. If that happens 10 years from now, great. If it never happens, that's OK too. But I have the strong belief that this creature should not be put to rest so soon. And if and when it does reappear in another incarnation, I'm sure it will be all the richer for everything that has happened in between."
This is what I had written in the message, and I truly meant every word of it. I got a few nice e-mails back from members of the crew, as well as Salman, who said, "have passion,detachment,finesse and timing...all will be revealed." Indeed was right, though the revelation came a lot sooner than I expected.
One of the e-mail replies came from Maya, who -- as always -- had an excellent idea. He suggested that instead of completely killing the project, we could find somebody else to choreograph the piece, thereby moving forward without having to gain the approval of this particular dance school. Although I had sentimental attachments to the Kathak movements I had learned, I was open to the idea of other choreography. It would give us more freedom, more creative license. And perhaps we would surprise ourselves and come up with something even better suited to the project. But it couldn't be just any choreographer. It had to be somebody who truly understood the story, and could capture its essence through movement.
I set up meetings with a couple of choreographers to see who was interested and whose work might stylistically fit the peace. At this point, I still wasn't sure whether or not to continue the project. We were, after all, trying to meet the Scary Cow Round 3 deadline, and time was running out. And if we were creating a completely new dance, that would make our schedule all the tighter. I decided that the choreographer would be the deal breaker. If I found the right person within the week, we would move forward. If not, I would once again call the project off.
The let-down
I had a clear vision. I had a great production team. I even had a rock star who believed in my idea; enough so to fly across the country -- maybe even the world -- to help me make my dream come true. It seemed like this project was meant to be. Then, one little phone conversation changed it all.
When I first got the inspiration to do the music video, I contacted several key people to let them know of my idea. Among this group was the dance school where I had taken Kathak classes. It was, after all, the dance of the Kaliya-daman that has inspired me to jump in the ocean that fateful day on the Fort Bragg Dunes, so I wanted to make sure I could get proper permission to use the school's choreography. I had heard rumors that they were very careful about maintaining the dance's sacredness and authenticity. In my e-mail, I had emphasized the fact that I had the utmost respect for this dance form and wanted to stay true to its original intent. For a long time, they had not responded to my e-mail, and in the meantime I felt the need to move forward with my production plans. Finally, the day after my first production meeting and my auspicious e-mail from Salman, I got an e-mail from the school informing me I needed to call one of the teachers ASAP.
Often, I get overly worried over things I should not get worried about. I thought that this may be one of those occasions. Perhaps I just needed to relax, hope for the best, and stop anticipating the worst. But something about the tone of the e-mail sounded foreboding. Indeed, they did not seem welcome to my idea, nor did they seem happy with my incorporating their choreography. I pleaded my case, doing my best to make them understand that this was not a Bollywood spin-off but a vision that came from a spiritual experience, one that I believed in the bottom of my heart. At the end of our conversation, they had told me that for now the answer was no, but that maybe once the head teacher came back from his travels they could try to work something out.
By the time I hung up, I was devastated. All that hard work, all that inspiration, all those good wishes from all those amazing people, suddenly down the drain. I did not feel angry at the dance school. I understood where they were coming from, and certainly -- as someone who has studied and come to respect the dance -- did not want to do anything that would be deemed disrespectful. More than anything, I felt hurt by the fact that I had been moved so deeply by this dance, and had meant for the project to be a tribute to it; a way for me to reciprocate the inspiration by my own means of creative expression. But perhaps it wasn't meant to be -- at least for now. I e-mailed everybody on the production team, as well as Salman, to tell them that the project was off.
When I first got the inspiration to do the music video, I contacted several key people to let them know of my idea. Among this group was the dance school where I had taken Kathak classes. It was, after all, the dance of the Kaliya-daman that has inspired me to jump in the ocean that fateful day on the Fort Bragg Dunes, so I wanted to make sure I could get proper permission to use the school's choreography. I had heard rumors that they were very careful about maintaining the dance's sacredness and authenticity. In my e-mail, I had emphasized the fact that I had the utmost respect for this dance form and wanted to stay true to its original intent. For a long time, they had not responded to my e-mail, and in the meantime I felt the need to move forward with my production plans. Finally, the day after my first production meeting and my auspicious e-mail from Salman, I got an e-mail from the school informing me I needed to call one of the teachers ASAP.
Often, I get overly worried over things I should not get worried about. I thought that this may be one of those occasions. Perhaps I just needed to relax, hope for the best, and stop anticipating the worst. But something about the tone of the e-mail sounded foreboding. Indeed, they did not seem welcome to my idea, nor did they seem happy with my incorporating their choreography. I pleaded my case, doing my best to make them understand that this was not a Bollywood spin-off but a vision that came from a spiritual experience, one that I believed in the bottom of my heart. At the end of our conversation, they had told me that for now the answer was no, but that maybe once the head teacher came back from his travels they could try to work something out.
By the time I hung up, I was devastated. All that hard work, all that inspiration, all those good wishes from all those amazing people, suddenly down the drain. I did not feel angry at the dance school. I understood where they were coming from, and certainly -- as someone who has studied and come to respect the dance -- did not want to do anything that would be deemed disrespectful. More than anything, I felt hurt by the fact that I had been moved so deeply by this dance, and had meant for the project to be a tribute to it; a way for me to reciprocate the inspiration by my own means of creative expression. But perhaps it wasn't meant to be -- at least for now. I e-mailed everybody on the production team, as well as Salman, to tell them that the project was off.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Making of the Sagar Music Video - Part 1
Here's the mini Documentary about the Sagar Music video!!!
It's finally out! Enjoy!
It's finally out! Enjoy!
Monday, October 1, 2007
The Build-up
Soon after I got the inspiration to do the music video, I e-mailed Salman and told him my idea. We e-mailed back and forth many times, discussing various aspects of the idea. He also sent me a translation of the lyrics, which until that point I did not know, not having studied Urdu. I knew that "sagar" meant "ocean", and that one of Salman's major influences was Sufi poetry like Rumi and Bulleh Shah. Even before I knew what the song was about, I had been captivated by its haunting melody. Now that I knew what the words meant, I loved it even more. But what really blew my mind more than anything else was that the lyrics he had written seemed exactly in line with the story that had come into my head. The English translation of Sagar is as follows:
speak to the canoe shape of your lips
to keep flowing in the stream of your breath
be in harmony with the waves
so that the ocean is your only destination
swept up in the tsunami of life
caught in a crossfire of the storm winds
surrounded by sleeping waterfalls
your my life's shore
in the circle of fire
within the hell on earth
there is a search for paradise
you are my day of reckoning
When I was thinking about the character of the dancer, these were the very themes I kept returning to. The ocean as the destination. Joining with the waves. Searching for paradise. Meeting with one's day of reckoning. I kept imagining the dancer dancing on the dunes; journey to the ocean; dancing at the ocean; diving in. Then, I also began to imagine Salman as part of the journey -- playing his guitar alone in the desert. Part of me was afraid to entertain the idea. After all, he was a prestigious public figure with a very busy schedule. I wasn't totally sure if he believed in the idea, and even if he did, it would most certainly be impossible to coordinate my shoot with his busy international travel schedule.
After he sent me the translation of the lyrics, we had a few more e-mail exchanges. He asked me some legitimate and challenging questions about my artistic vision, which I answered to the best of my abilities. Finally, he sent me an e-mail saying, "Okay let's do it!" I wasn't exactly sure what he by this. He approved of the project, which was a very good thing. But who did he mean by "let's"? Did he himself want to be a part of the project, or was he merely supporting my idea from the sidelines? I was almost too afraid to ask. Of course, I knew what I had to do, so mustering all the courage I could find, I sent him an e-mail with the million-dollar question: did he want to be in the video? Surprisingly, he answered yes to this too! Now, I channeled all my Jewish chutzpah to ask him the even more daunting question: we had no money to pay him, nor did we have it in our budget to even fund his air ticket from New York. Would he and could he still do the project? He responded in a one-line e-mail that haunts me to this day: "If you build it, he will come."
speak to the canoe shape of your lips
to keep flowing in the stream of your breath
be in harmony with the waves
so that the ocean is your only destination
swept up in the tsunami of life
caught in a crossfire of the storm winds
surrounded by sleeping waterfalls
your my life's shore
in the circle of fire
within the hell on earth
there is a search for paradise
you are my day of reckoning
When I was thinking about the character of the dancer, these were the very themes I kept returning to. The ocean as the destination. Joining with the waves. Searching for paradise. Meeting with one's day of reckoning. I kept imagining the dancer dancing on the dunes; journey to the ocean; dancing at the ocean; diving in. Then, I also began to imagine Salman as part of the journey -- playing his guitar alone in the desert. Part of me was afraid to entertain the idea. After all, he was a prestigious public figure with a very busy schedule. I wasn't totally sure if he believed in the idea, and even if he did, it would most certainly be impossible to coordinate my shoot with his busy international travel schedule.
After he sent me the translation of the lyrics, we had a few more e-mail exchanges. He asked me some legitimate and challenging questions about my artistic vision, which I answered to the best of my abilities. Finally, he sent me an e-mail saying, "Okay let's do it!" I wasn't exactly sure what he by this. He approved of the project, which was a very good thing. But who did he mean by "let's"? Did he himself want to be a part of the project, or was he merely supporting my idea from the sidelines? I was almost too afraid to ask. Of course, I knew what I had to do, so mustering all the courage I could find, I sent him an e-mail with the million-dollar question: did he want to be in the video? Surprisingly, he answered yes to this too! Now, I channeled all my Jewish chutzpah to ask him the even more daunting question: we had no money to pay him, nor did we have it in our budget to even fund his air ticket from New York. Would he and could he still do the project? He responded in a one-line e-mail that haunts me to this day: "If you build it, he will come."
Rallying the Troupes
The next day, I made my pitch at the Round 3 Scary Cow meeting. There were many people there with many interesting ideas for films. After everyone was done making their pitch, we stationed ourselves around the room so whoever was interested in working on our project could sign up to be part of our team. Several people approached me and put names on my sign up list. It wasn't a huge crowd, but it was just enough people with just the right kinds of skills to make the project happen.
Included in the sign ups were Maya Sedgwick, who volunteered to DP. We had worked together the last round in Quarter Life Crisis, on which I was doing acting and he was doing sound. I found it pretty interesting that we would now be working together in such a completely different roles. This is the beauty of Scary Cow. Another person who approached me was Autum Turley, who did film making as well as music and composition. She told me she was also an aspiring music video director. Ken Gulley, an animator and illustrator, also volunteered to do crew in addition to becoming storyboard artist. We needed to start storyboarding right away, so his expertise was much appreciated. It was a very surreal thing to be standing at my station, meeting and greeting my future crew. For the first time ever, Sagar was moving from the realm of the abstract to the concrete. All of a sudden, it was more than just a crazy idea that was swirling around in my head. It was a real thing that would soon be carried out by real people. Somehow, it scared me a great deal. But it was also exhilarating beyond belief.
Soon after, we had our first production meeting. We gathered at my house and ate dinner. I told them the story of what inspired me to do this project. I played them the song, gave them a rough sketch of my production plans, showed them pictures of the dunes, and we all brainstormed ideas. All in all, it was a really great meeting. I liked everybody on the team, and was slowly beginning to realize what an amazing project this could be. There was much work to be done, but already the story felt richer than before. It was an auspicious beginning indeed.
Included in the sign ups were Maya Sedgwick, who volunteered to DP. We had worked together the last round in Quarter Life Crisis, on which I was doing acting and he was doing sound. I found it pretty interesting that we would now be working together in such a completely different roles. This is the beauty of Scary Cow. Another person who approached me was Autum Turley, who did film making as well as music and composition. She told me she was also an aspiring music video director. Ken Gulley, an animator and illustrator, also volunteered to do crew in addition to becoming storyboard artist. We needed to start storyboarding right away, so his expertise was much appreciated. It was a very surreal thing to be standing at my station, meeting and greeting my future crew. For the first time ever, Sagar was moving from the realm of the abstract to the concrete. All of a sudden, it was more than just a crazy idea that was swirling around in my head. It was a real thing that would soon be carried out by real people. Somehow, it scared me a great deal. But it was also exhilarating beyond belief.
Soon after, we had our first production meeting. We gathered at my house and ate dinner. I told them the story of what inspired me to do this project. I played them the song, gave them a rough sketch of my production plans, showed them pictures of the dunes, and we all brainstormed ideas. All in all, it was a really great meeting. I liked everybody on the team, and was slowly beginning to realize what an amazing project this could be. There was much work to be done, but already the story felt richer than before. It was an auspicious beginning indeed.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Pitch
I had dinner with Chris Rasmussen the night before the pitch meeting for Round 3 of Scary Cow. I had wanted to get him involved with the project—not only because of his amazingly bright and buoyant energy, but also because he had a special skill—underwater cinematography. The day I met Chris at the first Scary Cow screening, I knew he was a person I wanted to get to know. That day, he handed me his business card, with the title “Deep Sea DP”. I remember thinking that it sounded like a cool idea, probably useful mostly within the context of marine documentaries. Then, when I got the inspiration to do Sagar, I knew I wanted him on board. The song was, after all, about the ocean, and what good would the ocean be if you didn’t dive in? On the other hand, I knew that Chris was very busy and would only commit himself to projects he strongly believed in.
We chatted over Chinese food for a long time, mostly about things other than my project. As always, we had fun hanging out, but part of me couldn’t help being nervous. Would he want to work on this project? Would the scheduling work out? Would we figure everything out by midnight tonight, the deadline for turning in my pitch?
Finally, we arrived back at my place. We sat down in my bedroom, and I played him the song. I’d been anticipating this moment—knowing that we liked each other, we wanted to work together in theory, and we both had a connection to the ocean. But would he relate to the actual music?
I pressed play on the CD player. Chris slowly closed his eyes. I could feel him sinking into that meditative space where he was hearing and feeling every note. For 5 and a half minutes, he let the melody overtake him. I watched him take his journey behind closed eyes. When the song was over, he returned to the room. I could tell from the huge smile on his face and the energy that was surging through every part of his body that he got it. He was on board.
He left me to my own devices, with just about an hour to figure out my pitch. I filled in all of the standard information—name, telephone number, title of the piece. When I got to the section where I was to describe what the piece was about, I drew a blank. How did I want to present this? What would be my selling points? What was this project about, really?
Time was running out. I had no idea what to say. Describing the whole story would take pages and hours. Finally, a few sparse but vivid words popped into my head. At 11:59 p.m., I turned in my pitch:
The open ocean. The desolate desert dunes. A soul-searching singer. A dancer on a quest. This parable, timeless and infinitely reborn, has kindly reincarnated itself in the landscape of my imagination. Set to the striking score of a Pakistani rock star, this story is simply begging to be told. All it needs is you.
We chatted over Chinese food for a long time, mostly about things other than my project. As always, we had fun hanging out, but part of me couldn’t help being nervous. Would he want to work on this project? Would the scheduling work out? Would we figure everything out by midnight tonight, the deadline for turning in my pitch?
Finally, we arrived back at my place. We sat down in my bedroom, and I played him the song. I’d been anticipating this moment—knowing that we liked each other, we wanted to work together in theory, and we both had a connection to the ocean. But would he relate to the actual music?
I pressed play on the CD player. Chris slowly closed his eyes. I could feel him sinking into that meditative space where he was hearing and feeling every note. For 5 and a half minutes, he let the melody overtake him. I watched him take his journey behind closed eyes. When the song was over, he returned to the room. I could tell from the huge smile on his face and the energy that was surging through every part of his body that he got it. He was on board.
He left me to my own devices, with just about an hour to figure out my pitch. I filled in all of the standard information—name, telephone number, title of the piece. When I got to the section where I was to describe what the piece was about, I drew a blank. How did I want to present this? What would be my selling points? What was this project about, really?
Time was running out. I had no idea what to say. Describing the whole story would take pages and hours. Finally, a few sparse but vivid words popped into my head. At 11:59 p.m., I turned in my pitch:
The open ocean. The desolate desert dunes. A soul-searching singer. A dancer on a quest. This parable, timeless and infinitely reborn, has kindly reincarnated itself in the landscape of my imagination. Set to the striking score of a Pakistani rock star, this story is simply begging to be told. All it needs is you.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Story # 3: The Moment of Inspiration
Story # 3: The Moment of Inspiration
I remember the day and the moment clearly—July 2nd, 2007. It was the day after the screening for Scary Cow Productions; the amazing San Francisco film collective to which I belong, and without whom this project would not be possible. Every three months, the members of Scary Cow—filmmakers of all experience levels, backgrounds, and trades—get together and produce shorts from start to finish. At the beginning of the round, we all gather, and whoever has an idea for a project they want to do gets up in front of the group and makes their pitch. Everyone becomes part of at least one team—most people are involved in several projects at a time, often playing a variety of roles. For three months, we work work work, and at the end we screen all the projects at the Victoria Theatre in San Francisco. We then vote on the films we liked best, and the three films who receive the most votes are rewarded a budget for the next round.
So far, Scary Cow has had two complete rounds. The first round, I went to the screening and was completely blown away. The second round, I acted in a couple of the projects. It was definitely my intention to be more involved in the third round, but I had no plans for making a pitch of my own.
After the Round 2 screening, I was feeling unusually buoyant and inspired. It was wonderful to see so many people’s creative work all in one place, at one time, and on one large, beautiful screen. Something started to happen, though I had no idea at the time exactly what.
Meanwhile, Salman had been organizing a contest for people to make remixes and music videos of “Naachoongi”—track 1 off the Infiniti album. I had thought about trying to direct a video myself, but didn't feel I had a strong enough idea to really create something good. Also, “Naachoon gi” was not the song that spoke to me most clearly. Then, all the sudden, it hit me.
The morning of July 2nd, I was taking a walk through my neighborhood. The images flashed strongly in my head—the sand dunes, the ocean, the dance. The story started to crystallize—of a girl walking through the desert in bare feet with ghungru (ankle bells) in her hands. She finds her spot, puts on her bells, and starts to do pranaam (the opening prayer sequence Kathak dancers do each time before they dance). The dance starts out slowly and builds speed throughout the course of the song. She dances for a while on the sand, but eventually feels the need to move on. She then walks from the dunes to the ocean and starts to dance on the beach. The dance intensifies until it builds to a climactic frenzy, which happens during the interlude of the guitar solo. Finally, when she has danced all there is to dance, she is seized by a stillness. She stares out into the vast expanse of ocean and, as if possessed by a force outside of herself, begins to walk hypnotically into the sea. She immerses herself in the water ceremonially like a baptism. The last shot we see is the pile of ankle bells sitting on the shore without its owner, being washed by the waves.
This was the moment when “Sagar” the music video hatched. Since then, it has grown and strengthened and soared. Stay tuned for the next installment of its miraculous unfolding!
I remember the day and the moment clearly—July 2nd, 2007. It was the day after the screening for Scary Cow Productions; the amazing San Francisco film collective to which I belong, and without whom this project would not be possible. Every three months, the members of Scary Cow—filmmakers of all experience levels, backgrounds, and trades—get together and produce shorts from start to finish. At the beginning of the round, we all gather, and whoever has an idea for a project they want to do gets up in front of the group and makes their pitch. Everyone becomes part of at least one team—most people are involved in several projects at a time, often playing a variety of roles. For three months, we work work work, and at the end we screen all the projects at the Victoria Theatre in San Francisco. We then vote on the films we liked best, and the three films who receive the most votes are rewarded a budget for the next round.
So far, Scary Cow has had two complete rounds. The first round, I went to the screening and was completely blown away. The second round, I acted in a couple of the projects. It was definitely my intention to be more involved in the third round, but I had no plans for making a pitch of my own.
After the Round 2 screening, I was feeling unusually buoyant and inspired. It was wonderful to see so many people’s creative work all in one place, at one time, and on one large, beautiful screen. Something started to happen, though I had no idea at the time exactly what.
Meanwhile, Salman had been organizing a contest for people to make remixes and music videos of “Naachoongi”—track 1 off the Infiniti album. I had thought about trying to direct a video myself, but didn't feel I had a strong enough idea to really create something good. Also, “Naachoon gi” was not the song that spoke to me most clearly. Then, all the sudden, it hit me.
The morning of July 2nd, I was taking a walk through my neighborhood. The images flashed strongly in my head—the sand dunes, the ocean, the dance. The story started to crystallize—of a girl walking through the desert in bare feet with ghungru (ankle bells) in her hands. She finds her spot, puts on her bells, and starts to do pranaam (the opening prayer sequence Kathak dancers do each time before they dance). The dance starts out slowly and builds speed throughout the course of the song. She dances for a while on the sand, but eventually feels the need to move on. She then walks from the dunes to the ocean and starts to dance on the beach. The dance intensifies until it builds to a climactic frenzy, which happens during the interlude of the guitar solo. Finally, when she has danced all there is to dance, she is seized by a stillness. She stares out into the vast expanse of ocean and, as if possessed by a force outside of herself, begins to walk hypnotically into the sea. She immerses herself in the water ceremonially like a baptism. The last shot we see is the pile of ankle bells sitting on the shore without its owner, being washed by the waves.
This was the moment when “Sagar” the music video hatched. Since then, it has grown and strengthened and soared. Stay tuned for the next installment of its miraculous unfolding!
Story # 2: The Songwriter and the Song
Story # 2: The Songwriter and the Song
In May of 2005, I saw a concert at Stanford University of the world-famous Pakistani rock band Junoon . Their music was like nothing I’d ever heard— a wild combination of South Asian rhythms and melodies with Western rock. The lyrics were in Urdu, so I couldn’t understand any of the words. But the music spoke for itself. It was provocative; it was passionate (for those of you who don’t speak Urdu, Junoon actually means passion); and despite the language barrier, I could tell that their content was deep. At one point, Salman Ahmad— the band’s co-founder and lead guitarist— told the story behind one of their hit songs “Bulleya”; originally a poem by the mystical Sufi poet Bulleh Shah that the band set to music. (I never thought I’d see the day when a group of scantily clad college girls swooned at the mention of a Sufi poet!)
Through a strange set of circumstances, I found myself sitting down to dinner with Salman and a few others in North Beach the following night. I had never met a rock star before, and didn’t know quite what to expect. But any expectations I might have had, he broke and exceeded almost instantaneously. He was warm, down to earth, extremely kind, and extraordinarily socially- and self-aware. We drank wine and talked about art. He also mentioned his solo album, Infiniti, which was soon to be released. A few months later, when he came into town to do a screening of his documentary film It’s My Country Too, I got a copy of the album and gave it a listen.
Again, the lyrics were in Urdu, so I had no idea of the meaning of the words. But the music mesmerized me all the same. One song in particular struck me above the rest. It was, of course, “Sagar”—track 10 off the Infiniti album. It started with an ethereal, lilting guitar riff. Then all of a sudden, a low and heavy bass beat kicked in. The song went back and forth between these 2 opposing melodies until about three-quarters of the way through when it dove into a fast, fierce, Led Zeppelinesque guitar solo. What an enchanting tincture Salman had brewed! It captivated me completely, from first note to last.
Later, he told me that sagar was the Urdu word for ocean. “Wow,”, I thought. “That song I fell in love with is about the very thing that stirs my spirit to the core.” Immediately, I thought of my experience out on the Fort Bragg sand dunes in November of 2004.
A few months after this conversation, I was involved in a show called The Faith Project, a collaboration about religion and faith. I wrote about my Fort Bragg dunes experience, and with the help of the director, Susannah Martin, turned the story into a spoken word poem, which I performed as a "sermon." As we were building our characters for the show, Susannah asked us various questions, including our characters’ theme song. Mine came pretty instantaneously—without a doubt, Sagar was it.
When the show was over in May of 2006, I put the story and song to rest for a little while. But again, they have reincarnated themselves in a different form.
In May of 2005, I saw a concert at Stanford University of the world-famous Pakistani rock band Junoon . Their music was like nothing I’d ever heard— a wild combination of South Asian rhythms and melodies with Western rock. The lyrics were in Urdu, so I couldn’t understand any of the words. But the music spoke for itself. It was provocative; it was passionate (for those of you who don’t speak Urdu, Junoon actually means passion); and despite the language barrier, I could tell that their content was deep. At one point, Salman Ahmad— the band’s co-founder and lead guitarist— told the story behind one of their hit songs “Bulleya”; originally a poem by the mystical Sufi poet Bulleh Shah that the band set to music. (I never thought I’d see the day when a group of scantily clad college girls swooned at the mention of a Sufi poet!)
Through a strange set of circumstances, I found myself sitting down to dinner with Salman and a few others in North Beach the following night. I had never met a rock star before, and didn’t know quite what to expect. But any expectations I might have had, he broke and exceeded almost instantaneously. He was warm, down to earth, extremely kind, and extraordinarily socially- and self-aware. We drank wine and talked about art. He also mentioned his solo album, Infiniti, which was soon to be released. A few months later, when he came into town to do a screening of his documentary film It’s My Country Too, I got a copy of the album and gave it a listen.
Again, the lyrics were in Urdu, so I had no idea of the meaning of the words. But the music mesmerized me all the same. One song in particular struck me above the rest. It was, of course, “Sagar”—track 10 off the Infiniti album. It started with an ethereal, lilting guitar riff. Then all of a sudden, a low and heavy bass beat kicked in. The song went back and forth between these 2 opposing melodies until about three-quarters of the way through when it dove into a fast, fierce, Led Zeppelinesque guitar solo. What an enchanting tincture Salman had brewed! It captivated me completely, from first note to last.
Later, he told me that sagar was the Urdu word for ocean. “Wow,”, I thought. “That song I fell in love with is about the very thing that stirs my spirit to the core.” Immediately, I thought of my experience out on the Fort Bragg sand dunes in November of 2004.
A few months after this conversation, I was involved in a show called The Faith Project, a collaboration about religion and faith. I wrote about my Fort Bragg dunes experience, and with the help of the director, Susannah Martin, turned the story into a spoken word poem, which I performed as a "sermon." As we were building our characters for the show, Susannah asked us various questions, including our characters’ theme song. Mine came pretty instantaneously—without a doubt, Sagar was it.
When the show was over in May of 2006, I put the story and song to rest for a little while. But again, they have reincarnated themselves in a different form.
Story # 1: The Ocean, the Dunes, and the Kaliya-daman
Story # 1: The Ocean, the Dunes, and the Kaliya-daman
There is an Indian story called the Kaliya-daman which has had a very powerful impact on me, and keeps resurfacing and in my life in different forms. It's an ancient Hindu tale that starts with Lord Krishna dancing and playing with a ball by a lake near the banks of the river Jamuna. Inside the lake lurks a monster called Kaliya, of whom everybody, except Krishna, is afraid. It is sleeping beneath the surface, and its presence is poisoning the water and all the creatures that live around it. Cows who drink the water fall gravely ill. The forest surrounding it dries up. Birds that fly over the pond immediately drop dead from the toxic vapors.
Krishna is playing ball with his friends, all of whom are terrified of the monster. Because he is a mischievous boy, Krishna accidentally-on-purpose throws the ball into the water. His friends beg him not to go in after it for fear of waking up the monster. But Krishna does not listen to them. He not only dives into the dark water where the demon lurks, but he pulls on the serpent's tail, deliberately waking it up. Krishna and Kaliya struggle against each other. Kaliya wraps Krishna in the coils of his tail, but Krishna breaks free from Kaliya’s grasp. One version of the story says that Kaliya is stunned by Krishna’s dancing because it is so unexpected. Another version says that Krishna’s stomping trampled Kaliya into submission. A third version suggests that because Kaliya is incapable of understanding the beauty and benevolence of Krishna’s dance, the dance actually tortures him almost to death when for others it would bring nothing but good fortune. (And in all versions of the story, the demon vomits blood.)
As Krishna dances on Kaliya's head, the serpent gets weaker and weaker. The pounding feet grievously wound the serpent, and Krishna’s dancing brings Kaliya to the point of near death. However, Kaliya’s wives beg Krishna to spare their husband’s life, and Krishna does. He sends Kaliya out to the ocean where he came from—now chastened and presumably no longer moved to hurt others.
This story is powerful to me for many reasons. I love the fact that Krishna conquers the monster with his dance. Rather than using brute strength to overcome the demon, he uses exuberance, creativity, and beauty. Another intriguing aspect of the story is that Kaliya is the only monster Krishna fights and defeats but does not kill. The story, then, becomes about facing one's fear—diving into the dark water and not simply crushing your demons, but embracing and forgiving them at the same time.
I first encountered this story when I was studying Kathak, a dynamic form of Indian dance that also involves storytelling. The dancer recites the story partially as the narrator, switching back and forth from third to first person and, through the course of the story, inhabiting all of the characters—the monster and the scared friends, as well as Krishna himself. It is a very powerful story, and each time I danced it I felt it became more and more a part of me.
Then, in November of 2004, I had a spiritual experience relating to this story. I was out on the sand dunes in Fort Bragg—an amazing landscape where a vast expanse of desert suddenly transforms into the wide open sea. I started dancing the Kaliya-daman simply because nature and wide-open spaces make me want to dance. Then, suddenly I came to the part where Krishna drops the ball into the water. I looked into the deep, endless ocean and realized that this story was not simply a story. It was happening to me right now. I had thrown the ball into the dark water where the demon was lurking. It may not have been the exact demon that Krishna saw, nor was it any kind of actual living monster. To me, the ocean itself was the demon serpent—endless and unfathomable, so powerful it could swallow me whole. Suddenly, I felt very scared and very bold all at once. I knew I had to encounter this demon. I had to encounter it like Krishna encountered Kaliya. So the moment the dance was over, I ran toward the ocean and jumped straight in. It was November in Fort Bragg. The day was completely cold and foggy. It was a decent walk back to the car, and I had no suit or towel. But somehow in that moment, it didn't matter. The coldness of the water, the rumble of the waves, the unimaginable depth and force, only increased my courage. I emerged from the water jumping, laughing, feeling as though there was nothing I could not do. I was alive; emboldened; ready not only to face the world, but to dance through it.
There is an Indian story called the Kaliya-daman which has had a very powerful impact on me, and keeps resurfacing and in my life in different forms. It's an ancient Hindu tale that starts with Lord Krishna dancing and playing with a ball by a lake near the banks of the river Jamuna. Inside the lake lurks a monster called Kaliya, of whom everybody, except Krishna, is afraid. It is sleeping beneath the surface, and its presence is poisoning the water and all the creatures that live around it. Cows who drink the water fall gravely ill. The forest surrounding it dries up. Birds that fly over the pond immediately drop dead from the toxic vapors.
Krishna is playing ball with his friends, all of whom are terrified of the monster. Because he is a mischievous boy, Krishna accidentally-on-purpose throws the ball into the water. His friends beg him not to go in after it for fear of waking up the monster. But Krishna does not listen to them. He not only dives into the dark water where the demon lurks, but he pulls on the serpent's tail, deliberately waking it up. Krishna and Kaliya struggle against each other. Kaliya wraps Krishna in the coils of his tail, but Krishna breaks free from Kaliya’s grasp. One version of the story says that Kaliya is stunned by Krishna’s dancing because it is so unexpected. Another version says that Krishna’s stomping trampled Kaliya into submission. A third version suggests that because Kaliya is incapable of understanding the beauty and benevolence of Krishna’s dance, the dance actually tortures him almost to death when for others it would bring nothing but good fortune. (And in all versions of the story, the demon vomits blood.)
As Krishna dances on Kaliya's head, the serpent gets weaker and weaker. The pounding feet grievously wound the serpent, and Krishna’s dancing brings Kaliya to the point of near death. However, Kaliya’s wives beg Krishna to spare their husband’s life, and Krishna does. He sends Kaliya out to the ocean where he came from—now chastened and presumably no longer moved to hurt others.
This story is powerful to me for many reasons. I love the fact that Krishna conquers the monster with his dance. Rather than using brute strength to overcome the demon, he uses exuberance, creativity, and beauty. Another intriguing aspect of the story is that Kaliya is the only monster Krishna fights and defeats but does not kill. The story, then, becomes about facing one's fear—diving into the dark water and not simply crushing your demons, but embracing and forgiving them at the same time.
I first encountered this story when I was studying Kathak, a dynamic form of Indian dance that also involves storytelling. The dancer recites the story partially as the narrator, switching back and forth from third to first person and, through the course of the story, inhabiting all of the characters—the monster and the scared friends, as well as Krishna himself. It is a very powerful story, and each time I danced it I felt it became more and more a part of me.
Then, in November of 2004, I had a spiritual experience relating to this story. I was out on the sand dunes in Fort Bragg—an amazing landscape where a vast expanse of desert suddenly transforms into the wide open sea. I started dancing the Kaliya-daman simply because nature and wide-open spaces make me want to dance. Then, suddenly I came to the part where Krishna drops the ball into the water. I looked into the deep, endless ocean and realized that this story was not simply a story. It was happening to me right now. I had thrown the ball into the dark water where the demon was lurking. It may not have been the exact demon that Krishna saw, nor was it any kind of actual living monster. To me, the ocean itself was the demon serpent—endless and unfathomable, so powerful it could swallow me whole. Suddenly, I felt very scared and very bold all at once. I knew I had to encounter this demon. I had to encounter it like Krishna encountered Kaliya. So the moment the dance was over, I ran toward the ocean and jumped straight in. It was November in Fort Bragg. The day was completely cold and foggy. It was a decent walk back to the car, and I had no suit or towel. But somehow in that moment, it didn't matter. The coldness of the water, the rumble of the waves, the unimaginable depth and force, only increased my courage. I emerged from the water jumping, laughing, feeling as though there was nothing I could not do. I was alive; emboldened; ready not only to face the world, but to dance through it.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Greetings and salutations, my Sagar bloggers!
Greetings and salutations, my Sagar bloggers!
I am unbelievably excited about this music video project, and it is amazing to be able to share the adventure with all of you. The universe inspired me to do this piece about 2 months ago. I set out to create a heartfelt story out of a stellar song. From then until now, it has evolved into a life changing journey. I encountered many struggles along the way, some of which almost convinced me that I would not be able to see the project through. However, it has also received a tremendous amount of positivity and support which has somehow allowed it to overcome all the obstacles. An indescribably awesome crew has come together as if by magic. Two phenomenal performers—both of whom have busy travel schedules and live far distances away—have found a way to become part of this piece. They are perfect for the project for so many reasons, and their presence has breathed the story to life. We still have a ways to go on this journey, but I can tell you now from the bottom of my heart that Sagar the music video has blown me away beyond belief.
There is so much to tell, I can barely contain myself. But let’s begin at the beginning. Three stories came together to inspire this piece. So here they all are, in the order in which they occurred.
I am unbelievably excited about this music video project, and it is amazing to be able to share the adventure with all of you. The universe inspired me to do this piece about 2 months ago. I set out to create a heartfelt story out of a stellar song. From then until now, it has evolved into a life changing journey. I encountered many struggles along the way, some of which almost convinced me that I would not be able to see the project through. However, it has also received a tremendous amount of positivity and support which has somehow allowed it to overcome all the obstacles. An indescribably awesome crew has come together as if by magic. Two phenomenal performers—both of whom have busy travel schedules and live far distances away—have found a way to become part of this piece. They are perfect for the project for so many reasons, and their presence has breathed the story to life. We still have a ways to go on this journey, but I can tell you now from the bottom of my heart that Sagar the music video has blown me away beyond belief.
There is so much to tell, I can barely contain myself. But let’s begin at the beginning. Three stories came together to inspire this piece. So here they all are, in the order in which they occurred.
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