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.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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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