Patterning Market Memories

I know that is has been awhile since I last posted, but it's been slightly crazy with our last papers and projects. Believe it or not, we leave a week from today. Enjoy this article that I wrote for class. It's a bit long, so grab your drink of choice. This should be an interesting glimpse into how I've processed this experience...


I am waiting.

Let me rephrase that; I am trying to be still. Waiting inherently implies future events, the possibility of being late for example. Stillness just asks for satisfaction with the present moment. Easier said than done for this American student. I start by observing my surroundings.

A dusty blue sky arches over Mali. In this dry season, the sun refuses to allow clouds to paint this canvas and it’s hot, but tolerable. A sheep bleats, a tailor clangs his scissors to announce his services, and a child sings “toubabou” from the doorway of a nearby house. At one point in the beginning of my semester, I would have described the garbage-strewn dirt road as filthy; it probably still is, but now my eyes just look for bits of discarded fabric that I could use for an art project. It is mid-morning and I am casting my mind out over the market I’m about to visit and don’t know what thoughts I’ll catch.

I’ve taken the bachee, the Bamako version of mass transit, enough times to seem countless. If I reflect back on these visits to the market, they blend into one memory so that each appears the same. I know they are not as any page in my journal will reveal various episodes: my first solo trip, the dismay of taking the wrong bachee, the sensory overload of the inner market. I cannot remember the specific details of each experience, just general impressions. Perhaps this is the reason why I’ve had to make this trip so many times, so I could truly understand what I was witnessing.

At this very moment, however, I am still “waiting” for my bachee. It arrives soon enough, a lurching block of green that swerves to avoid potholes and herds of goats. I flag it down with a hand and purse my lips to make a sound something between a “psssst” and a kiss. The apprenti bangs the side of the vehicle to command the driver to stop. As I climb inside, I look at a hand painted notice that limits occupancy to 20 passengers. I count 28 already sitting. The physical space that one’s body inhabits here in Mali seems driven by fluid dynamics, able to shrink and grow at will. It’s as if living along the banks of the Niger River for a millennium has caused their cultural gene pool to favor the physically adaptable. I scoot in and, closing my eyes, begin to descend into a space barely five inches wide. When I open them, I’ve squished myself in, albeit not comfortably, and we’re moving along.

On occasion, I’ve been able to sit in the very front with the driver knocking my knees as he shifts gears. Some of my classmates prefer this position but I personally find it terrifying. Looking through the windshield, I am suddenly privy to a game of Bamako transportation where the rules of the road are quite different and the only objective is, in my mind at least, to make it alive from point A to Point G (pun). The driver aims for a space in-between a Diarra Transport bus and a taxi and I swear we’re going to shear off the side mirrors. I hold my breath and clench my stomach until we’re through and I feel like I’ve cheated death once again. This is why I prefer to sit in the back, blissfully ignorant of the crashes we narrowly avoid.

I am usually fairly quiet on these commutes en ville, preferring to remain observant as an anonymous foreigner. I find that it is a good time to examine the variety of fabrics on the people sitting around me. In the market, everyone moves too fast for me to fully catch a specific motif, but stuck on the bachee, I’m free to analyze their patterns. Well, at least until it gets awkward and I pretend that I was staring out the window and not at them. Really, I’m not undressing you with my eyes, I’m just deconstructing the symmetry of your fabric, I swear! While I’ve become more educated about the fabric qualities and popular subjects, I remain clueless about fads and other nuances conveyed by one’s clothing. Are Malian teenage girls perusing through their closets like my sisters at home, complaining to their mothers that “this pattern is so last year”? Might I find a particular cut to be flattering while the elderly woman next to me mutters to herself about the declining morality of today’s youth? Clothing is an unspoken language but in my case, it is not culturally universal. By the time I reach the city, I’ve occupied my mind with more questions than answers, but I think that’s a good perspective to have while walking through the world.

I disembark at the Grande Marché in downtown Bamako and feel like Dorthy looking upon Munchkinland for the very first time. It’s as if all my senses were turned to Technicolor during my commute. Fresh goat meat sizzles on skewers made from bicycle spokes. Pungent fish dry in the harsh sun and are countered by the whiff of a perfumed business woman. The air is heavy and humid and the ground feels warm through my flip flops. Vendors shout out their wares, calling to me, the obvious toubabou in the crowd. Motos, bachees, and taxis all honk ceaselessly in their high-pitched voices and it would be cute if not for the fact that it means I’m about to be hit by one. Bright colors and bold patterns swirl, mix, and rush by with the Malians who wear them. Squint your eyes and let them unfocus. It’s easy to imagine being in a Jackson Pollack painting, where the entire canvas is not only bursting with color, but also fantastically expressive.

Some of the color pallets push the boundaries of Western aesthetics, like navy blue, mustard yellow, and neon green, while other fabrics call attention through their icons of computers, lipstick, or current political leaders. The women wear pagnes, a three piece suit of sorts that includes an ankle-length skirt, a top with flowing sleeves, and a wrap for one’s hair. The men may be dressed in their boubous, draped over their shoulders like ample tunics. These are traditional styles but not made with traditional textiles. It was common for market stands to sell dark indigo with its stark white patterns or the earth toned bogolan hand painted in dark brown symbols. Now, it is le wax, the fade-resistant fabric from Holland, which is the most popular.

This fabric is displayed in various arrangements, from loose, tossed, sheets to impressive towering stacks. In the latter, the fabric is rolled into folded bundles that, to this starved American author, resemble brick-like burritos. They are the stacked like Lincoln Logs, two to a layer, to heights that reach above my head. As I scan the designs, I hope that I don’t find the one I like at the bottom.

There is one spot in my normal market route that always bottlenecks with pedestrians. I maneuver it like jumping from one stone to another across a creek, careful not to slip into the gutter or catch the heel of the person ahead of me. As the flow of people pushes me from behind, my eye catches a particular fruit vendor with her oranges spread out in precarious stacks on the ground. She’s made pyramids, three at the base supporting another on top. Then, in order to maximize space, she delicately balances an extra orange at the apex. It’s a barely solid structure in a world of moving feet. I’d like to stay and see if any ever topple, but by that point, I’ve already been moved forward.

Walking on the “sidewalk”, that narrow and dangerous space between motos and merchants, I often find myself being passed by women holding massive aluminum bowls on their heads. A small bit of fabric is wrapped into a thick doughnut that, placed in-between the head and bowl, provides more surface area and presumably more comfort for the wearer. I get stuck in the crowd while they navigate through space in deft movements until all I can see are their wares bobbing along like vessels carried by a river’s current. It is only when they pass me that I notice that there is often a baby tied to the lower back, slung in a fabric pouch that is tied in front across the breasts. The infant looks at me with impossibly dark and wide eyes and its mouth forms a surprised “O” as if to question this awkward toubabou in the crowd.

I turn a corner into a tunnel of stalls, walking through what appears to be the tailors’ market. I’ve never been here before, though I’m certain that I pass this side street everyday. Raw fabric is of course sold, but also hundreds of zippers and hemming material that is hung like drying pasta. I follow a set of stairs to discover a balcony full of tailors, hunched over their whirring machines. They look up at me, surprised, but their hands don’t pause. A stack of discarded fabric seems like a free treasure to me until I find snot on the first scrap I grab.

I continue through the innards of the hidden market and do a double-take as I pass by two elderly gentlemen dressed in traditional bogolan shirts. They are sitting next to the rolls of hand woven cotton bands that resemble wheels of cheese. I recall that these lés are the most basic of West African textiles, the strips sewn together to form sheets. At one point in history, they were popular as currency and anyone with a loom could “print” his own money. It was still being used in World War II when the French Army commissioned Sudan for 2000 km of cotton lés for conscription and civil needs. Now it is has fallen to the back alleys of markets and I am excited to have found this stall.

I greet these two men with an “I ni sogoma” and an “I ka kene” and they are pleasantly surprised to hear a toubabou speak Bambara. I find that these greetings, no matter how butchered, are the easiest way to befriend a Malian. I consider it a form of respect to use the native language and not the one of their colonizer. As a savvy shopper, I’d also like to believe that I will be cheated less if I have this basic Bambara exchange. I am charged 250 CFA per meter and walk away with my own small wheel of cotton.

I’ve lived in Mali long enough to shed the label of tourist and yet, I cannot claim to be Malian. I covet their grace and agile movements through such market chaos and wonder if a lifetime of dancing has shaped their posture. I cannot move like that, but when I see a foreigner trying to maneuver through the crowd, I know that I don’t move like that either.

I look at the painfully obvious tourist across the street and after giving him a nod of recognition, I think, I looked like that three months ago? The clothing is always the same: cargo shorts, sweat-wicking travel top, giant backpack, sunglasses, and…God forbid… socks and sandals (which I never wore). But it is the body language that betrays his foreign origin. He’s always turning around to find his bearings, a tough thing to do when every building is two stories high. He checks his watch as if he’s late for something. He’s sweating profusely and swatting at black flies that land to suck his perspiration. Mostly, he’s walking too fast and randomly stopping to consult his map. This is a pointless effort because Bamako has more streets than the map shows and less street names than the map indicates. In this moment of confusion, I see him ambushed by a group of “helpful” young men and I watch, morbidly fascinated. It’s like lions taking down a helpless water buffalo. Standing on the other side of the street, I know that I’m safe, but also that I’m no lion. I’m the weathered and more experienced buffalo who has his own scars to prove it.

I am a little weary and make my way back to the bachee stop (amazingly indicated by an actual street sign). I’m the first one in the vehicle, which means I have another twenty minutes before we actually leave. I pass the time enjoying a frozen cranberry drink, held in a small plastic baggie, and suck thirstily from a corner. It’s Mali ji (water) I’m sure, but one of the rewards of three months here is a digestive system made of iron. I’m tired, warm, but pleasantly satiated after successful shopping.

The sun has begun its afternoon descent as I take the Gaurantiguibougou bachee to return home. Warm light spills inside and illuminates the faces of its passengers. We’re a fairly silent and tired group, the women especially. I imagine that this ride is their only reprieve from a full day of work. Household chores await them as soon as they arrive and they sit as if they relish this one opportunity to be still. It is not uncommon to see a baby nursing happily while the mother leans back and sleeps.

I glance down and my eye catches something about these women’s feet. Deep brown henna designs radiate across their toes and under their soles, called jobi in Bambara. The ink arches and crosses in beautiful curves and my feet feel naked next to theirs. Actually, looking down at mine, they look quite dirty in comparison though I know we’ve walked the same dusty streets. I am reminded of a random fact from my research that for some reason has resonated deeply in my understanding of patterns. Le wax is a batik process where wax is applied to fabric as a means to resist the dye. But it’s not perfect. There are always tiny cracks where color seeps through and the end result has a marbling effect where only empty space should exist. Consequently, the designs for le wax are created to specifically hide these imperfections, though not cover them entirely. One large motif is repeated across the fabric, a guinea fowl or presidential candidate perhaps, while the space between each image is webbed with smaller patterns. These oscillating lines and shapes mask where the dye has penetrated the wax. One can still see such crackling, but it appears more organized and controlled underneath the repeated pattern.

Is this the reason why we are so drawn to pattern, because of its ability to hide the chaos in our lives? On the tattooed feet and colored fabric of those sitting next to me, I can barely notice the red dust that seems to permeate my own skin and plain mono-toned clothing. I start to think about architectural tendencies for repetition, wooden lattice windows for example. Is the uncontrollable world outside our homes somehow visually manageable when viewed through these symmetrical frames? Have I found new questions to explore in future art projects? I think about my current drawing, a travel narrative expressed through changing patterns. My blank white sheet has been dirtied by pencil smudges and water marks from a squirt gun fight but are now barely noticeable under my black inked lines. And the designs themselves, being hand-drawn, are neither perfect nor precise; but it doesn’t matter. The individual cells of a pattern are not to be viewed in isolation; their strength and meaning comes from their connection to their neighbors. As a group, they become flawless.

This then is how I shall remember my Mali: memories of wanderings and lessons learned that have been inked across my mind. Individually, they are the faint and first stars of dusk. Collectively, they command the majesty of a crisp midnight sky. I worry, because how often are we still enough to observe the stars above, to reflect on our memories? I’ve certainly had more opportunities here in Mali and am thankful for that time. However, I need to remember that night does not happen here any more times than home. The night sky will always exist. I just need to be still enough to remember.

Breakdowns and Breakthroughs

There is so much to update regarding my final art project. For those of you who have never gone to art school, this should be an interesting glimpse into the mind and methods of an artist. To my friends in art school, all I can say is I miss having you around late at night in the studios to bounce around ideas (though I don’t really work at night anymore because the lighting is too poor, i.e one fluorescent bulb).

When we last left off, I was doing a quasi-venn-diagram piece on travel narratives and collective memories, as depicted through patterns. I had collected stories from everyone and begun creating their corresponding designs.


For example, Monica had spoken about walking through Djenne at night, with the famous mosque illuminated by the moon and stars above it. She described looking out over the city, an island with narrow roads and twisting alleys, and thinking about how she would like to name her first daughter Djenne.

I spoke with Abdoulaye Konate, showing him my now overflowing notebook of collected textiles and sketches, and got a very positive response. The idea of other people’s perspectives on similar experiences was solid, but we needed to figure out the best form and material. The circles, in his mind, were somewhat inconsistent with the concept of story-telling, at least the ones cut off by the edge of the paper. If each circle represented a story, why would you leave half a circle; one never gives half a story, n’est-ce pas?. Well, I think that’s what he said, since the entire conversation was in French. I promised to reflect on this issue and return the following week with the final form.

At first, I mused about the possibility of working in 3-D, since it’s a little less mind-numbing and keeps both my hands occupied. While I was planning this, I was also writing an article on traditional Malian textiles and found my form in these wool arkilla blankets used by nomads in the desert. They were made up of narrow strips called “lés” and to me, could be used to depict each story. Nine strips, nine stories read horizontally with various vertical bands that would act as interruptions to the story telling. I would still do it on paper, with ink and watercolor, hand drawing each pattern (36 total. I think). Is this starting to sound a bit compulsive? Maybe you can see where this is all going…

I started to struggle when choosing colors. I did not want the piece to be total chaos with 36 patterns and 36 color schemes and so I toyed with the idea of using just cool colors (for me, memory seems bluish, like fog in our mind). In the end, I just settled on using red, blue, yellow, black, and white, traditional colors of these arkilla blankets.




Before I saw M. Konate again, I wanted to do a little test run-try some patterns next to each other in real size and color.


It took two days.

I was sick.

And it felt awful because I realized that in order to pull off this project, I would have to remain inside drawing day and night for the last three weeks and that was not how I wanted spend my time. Already I was feeling guilty, having to decline afternoon tea or playing with Ton Ton and Cheik. Honestly, last week was my most off week of the semester and by Wednesday, after spending two days sick in bed and drawing, I knew I had to change something or else go crazy. The designs were just too meticulous and, despite my training here in Mali, I just don’t have that patience to do that much detail work on something 3ft by 5ft.

Sometimes, it’s so good to just put down your work, step away for a day, and start afresh.





What has emerged since then has been somewhat of a breakthrough and a sense of relief. The idea is still the same, to show how memories can mix and transition into each other, to use patterns as visual cues. But I’m taking a much more creative license to these narratives, even to the patterns themselves (the pattern can evolve and change). It still requires a great amount of detail drawing, but there’s enough diversity to keep my mind active and enjoying the process. I now look back at the prospect of drawing the same design over and over again for 5 feet and shudder. That said, there is so much to be learned from taking the time to do pattern by hand. It’s not as perfect or efficient as doing it on computer, but there is a wonderful human quality to the little mistakes we make. I’m finding myself getting mesmerized by this drawing. Already it’s feeling opulent and richly charged and I am so happy to be working on this piece. We’ve had some wonderful work sessions this past weekend, chilling in the house with music played off of someone’s laptop, hunching over the paper, drawing on the ground as always because we have no desks.

So that’s kinda where I am today. Abdoulaye Konate has seen the beginning stages and other than “be careful of smearing and stray marks,” he likes the direction that it is going in. It’s quite a strange “apprenticeship” but I’m glad to have had enough free time and independent study to have such personal discoveries. Everything, from my paper to this project to my life in general, has really started falling in to place nicely. Maybe this will make more sense once you read the article (to be posted later this week).

On a somewhat related note, I curious to see how I’ve changed when I return home. We all have benefited from the time for personal reflection as well as being in a foreign environment that can’t help put show what makes you…well, you.

I’m getting too deep here and my stomach’s grumbling so I’m going to wrap this up. I’m wishing you all the very best and cannot wait to catch up in another three weeks! Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

PS. The boys have joined in my drawing sessions.

This is Where I Live

I thought it was about time to post some photos of where I'm currently living: Guarantiguibougou, just south of the Niger River in Bamako. It's about a 2-vache and one hour ride back to Djoumanzana where we'd been living for most of the semester. It's a bit more urban and I love how close the supermarket and internet cafe are (I'm become such a regular at the internet cafe that I was given a t-shirt last Friday. No joke). Anyway:

This is what I see when I leave my bedroom each morning


The Living Room


A make-shift classroom on the roof of the house



Views from the roof, my new favorite place to relax





(Notice smoke? That's from burning garbage and it smells like burnt corn husks and irritates my nose in the evenings. Other than that, the sunsets are lovely).

Weekend Highlights

I’ve come to realize that every thing I experience over here requires pages of background to fully explain what I am witnessing. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to do that (wait until December). So until then, enjoy these snippets of life in Mali:

Friday Afternoon-
Going to a sacrifice with Erica who is apprenticing with a healer of sorts, someone who uses trance and her jin (a personal spirit) as her tools. First thing I see as I walk into the courtyard are about 12 chickens bleeding to death, scattered between me and where I need to sit. I start to tip toe through this battlefield when another is tossed in my direction, throat slit and exposing a lot of glistening red stuff one never sees at Krogers or Meijer. I have to remain motionless because the chicken is flopping around like an unpredictable football. And everyone is acting like this is the most casual thing in the world, so blasé. Erica has a goat sacrificed for her jin and everyone goes home with fresh meat for dinner.

Friday Night-
While lounging around after dinner, Michelle pokes her head in and asks if anyone wants to watch a hunter’s ceremony, just down the street. Sure, why not. The last one we went to got rained out before the magic started and we were determined to see some tricks. 300 people, mostly men are standing in a large circle that is illuminated by vertical fluorescent lights. For the most part, hunters of various groups (those who’ve fought in wars, those who’ve killed big game animals) are called up and sung to while they process around in a circle. We of course are persuaded to get up and dance, much to the amusement of all the bystanders. Honestly, it was a bit boring because you can’t understand what they’re saying, but we stayed wide awake because of civil-war era rifles being shot off at random intervals. Usually, it’s close enough to feel the shock wave as well as the shower of glowing sparks. No magic tonight other than some cigarette parlor tricks. Next time.

Saturday Afternoon-
A baptism for the family that Jake and Kunal are living with. Like most ceremonies—okay, all the ceremonies we’ve witnessed—one never actually sees the thing being celebrated. Instead, it’s a huge block party with dancers, drummers, and griots (praise singers that require adequate tipping).



Saturday Night-
Watching a hip-ho performance downtown at the French Cultural Center, a collaboration between French, Malian, and German youth. Afterwards, we visit our favorite establishment, The Patio, for a late-night snack and chat with the owner, Muhammad, who looks like the ideal grandfather. Or a CIA operative.

Sunday Morning-
The discovery of the Broadway Café and a real brunch: waffles, warm syrup, fresh fruit (bananas, pineapple, papaya, and grapefruit), and…a frappucino. Oh my God my stomach hurts from all this goodness. We see a Peace Corps Volunteer we had met in Dogon country as well as an American entrepreneur who is creating an art gallery in Bamako. Best feature of the café: stacks of books in English, left behind by travelers.

Why Carrie Bradshaw would love Bamako:

Lately, I’ve been giving up the last remnants of home, silly little things that are evidence of my time here in Mali. For instance, I just consumed the very last of the food I had brought with me in September. It was a peanut butter and chocolate chip granola bar, something I had stashed away at the bottom of my backpack for desperate situations. On the day that I unwrapped it, nothing warranted its consumption other than the fact that I wanted just finish my snack stock.

It was stale.

It tasted exactly like something that had been living at the bottom of a backpack for 2 months. Is there a lesson to be learned about hording things for the future and never really enjoying the present? Currently, I’m in love with these Metro chocolate bars that cost about 40 cents and these short-bread oreo type cookies that cost 50 cents a package. The supermarket is way too close to where I’m now living.

My big step towards becoming Malian was choosing a new pair of sandals after walking through my GAP pair (which, for the GAP, held up much longer than expected). In the markets, it seems like 1 out of 3 products sold are flip flops, coming in infinite colors and sizes. And at 500 CFA each ($1), you could buy one for everyday of the week should you choose (I did not). I could have waited a little longer for holes to appear in the soles, but was suffering from a lack of arch support.
So, without any further hesitation, I’d like to introduce the newest member of my currently small and dirty wardrobe, my Burberry flip flops:

Woooo!

Just finished my essay. Thought you might like to know.

A Day in the Life of Mali

So I’m here at the local Cyber-Café, (pronounced see-ber café, which makes me smile for some reason), trying not to think about my research paper that’s due on Friday. Actually, it’s just the rough draft and it’s only 8 pages, but it’s just weird to have to type it in this public setting where a blinking clock on the computer reminds me how much time I have left. It’s just weird in general to think about writing a formal essay here in Mali…for some reason, I don’t think it’s a normal component of one’s everyday education. I’m missing how easy it is to access information back in the states. U of M easily has more books than all of Bamako. My Malian family is teasing me about all the “homework” I’ve been doing this week, “You Americans are always so busy!” they say as I try to translate “Textiles du Mali” into English. But I did take time for tea this afternoon, so I don’t feel too bad.

As I was washing my clothes this morning, and by washing, I mean doing it by hand in the courtyard with a washboard and then line drying the clothes on the roof, my mind started to think about all the differences between America and Mali. Life here has become so…normal that sometimes I forget that my friends and family back home aren’t walking around in flip flops and taking cold showers everyday. The more that I thought about it, the longer the list became. Here are some random glimpses of what is considered ordinary here in Mai (in no particular order):

-Tiny lizards running around everywhere and little boys running after the lizards with sticks
-Black flies landing on your skin to suck off sweat/moisture, especially in the morning and during meals taken outside
-Cooking food over an open flame/barbeque instead of a microwave, stove, or oven.
-Instead of sidewalks, using the dusty shoulder of the street which is right next to open sewers and cesspools (Cam has fallen into one already and Jamila promises that should that ever happen to her, she will go straight to Air France and fly home that evening. And then get tested for every known disease).
-Soda that comes in glass bottles and must be consumed on the spot because the vendors take the bottles back to be refilled. Everything is overly sugared and I prefer Sprite because of the beautiful green glass.
-Drinking water from 1.5 liter sized-bottles and never using the tap, not even to brush one’s teeth. In cases when I’m out of bottled water, I’ve been using iodine and I think I actually prefer the taste.
-Public toilets that are just holes in the ground with a plastic kettle in reach to wash one’s left hand (what, you think there’s toilet paper available? Don’t worry Amy, I always bring my own).
-Meals that are often taken separately by various age groups and sex. When the children have finished eating, they thank their elders with “A baryaca” to which we respond “A baryaca Allah”. This translates to “thank you” and “thank God,” roughly.
-Evening air that is a bit cooler though very smoky from all the open fires of women cooking dinner.
-Evening power outages that usually last from a couple minutes to over an hour.
-Never wearing shoes or socks
-Sleeping on the floor with a pillow case stuffed with dirty clothes and towels


-Really being in touch with the environment. Nothing’s climate controlled here and when it gets too hot in the day, well then, you adjust and just lounge in the shade until evening. Too hot at night? Sleep on the roof.
-Incredibly cheap local products- like fried dough and goat meat for 30 cents and ridiculously expensive imported products, like quarter sized Pringle chips for $2 and Cocoa Puffs for $6.
-Public transportation that only costs 25 cents and taxis that are never more than $3.
-Seatbelts? What seatbelts?
-Open air markets everywhere. You can find anything you really need in life in about five minutes.

These are the things I’m going to miss a lot, the daily rhythms of this place. At some point soon, I’m just going go through the city and take pictures of the most seemingly ordinary things…cars, signs, fruit stands, etc. But I’ll feel like a tourist and that’s a label I hope no longer applies to me.

And in honor of the elections, Ton Ton and I announce our bid for Presidency.

Tea Time

I’m slightly, okay, more than slightly caffeinated right now. Since I’ve yet to find a Starbucks here in Bamako (which is probably a good thing), I’ve decided to embrace the local custom of taking tea. If I could pick just one Malian tradition that would be representative of this culture, it’d be taking tea. Everywhere you walk in Mali, you can find a group of men lounging on low chairs around tiny tea pots and shot sized glasses (the women are too busy working for tea. Sigh, I know…). Historically, it began with millet beer, but switched to tea after Islam was introduced and forbade consumption of alcohol (thankfully, this is no longer true).

Three glasses of tea are poured throughout this ceremony and the entire process takes over two hours. The first is said to be “Bitter as death,” the second, “Mild as life” and the third, “Sweet as love.” Kinda like Goldilocks. In a weird somewhat related way. The tea is incredibly concentrated (think espresso) and one’s skill as a tea maker is measured by the amount of froth. This requires considerable hand-eye coordination as you have to pour from about two feet above the glass. I make quite a mess but the guys promise me that I’ll be good enough by the time I return home.

At first, I couldn’t sit still that long because, being the good American that I am, I kept thinking of other things I could be doing. I quickly realized however, that this is an invaluable opportunity to practice my French and to really understand another culture. I’m learning more in my two-three hours of tea each day than I have in many formal lectures at school. Here are just a few conversation topics from last night:
-Saddam Hussein’s sentence and capital punishment in Mali
-federal prisons
-taxes
-fasting and Sabbaths

I plan to pick up my own tea set to bring home, but more importantly, I hope I can return with the peace of mind that it takes to sit for two unhurried hours with friends.


(Laya Kassogue and Boucary Kassogue, my Malian uncle and cousin)

Look Ma, no strings!

Here are some photos of my friend and roommate Em Harris who is apprenticing with famed puppeteer Ya Ya Coulibaly (you may have seen his work on Broadway’s “The Lion King”). Em doesn’t have a digital camera and wanted me to post these pictures for friends and family back home. She’s certainly catching on quickly, though I do have to say that it’s a little creepy to wake up in the morning with a wooden marionette hanging right next to my head.

Maybe it's the water...

So I’ve been sick this past week and it sucks. Massive headache, sore throat, achy body, etc. I’ve been going into the city everyday and all the pollution, noise, sun and heat have taken its toll. I guess being in Africa for eight weeks can be taxing and my body feels like my flip-flops right now: worn through and dirty.

Perhaps even worse than being physically ill is the effect that it’s having on my mind. I felt drained by being here and wanted nothing more than to be back home on my couch, watching a movie, and eating lime jello and grilled cheese. I wanted access to cell phones and supermarkets and restaurants and coffee shops and all my friends and family. But that’s not the right mentality I should be having for these last four weeks, right?

Fortunately, those thoughts have mostly passed. So why am I sharing this? Because life isn’t always perfect and amazing and wonderful (as this blog may indicate). Sometimes it’s pretty crappy. At this wise old age of 21, I’ve come to realize that everything’s temporary. It’s like the boat ride from Mopti; it’ll be over at some point, but until then, you just have to endure it. Alright, moving on…

Some people sleep in color; me, I only dream in patterns

Okay, so it’s time for me to make an executive decision. I have a list of about ten different themes or experiences from my two weeks of traveling that I would like to write about on the blog. They were such profound and wonderful experiences that to accurately articulate them, by my standards, it would require something of a small novel. My dilemma is that this backlog of entries is preventing me from writing about current happenings and believe it or not, I don’t have the time here in Mali. Four weeks from tomorrow, in only 28 days, we leave to return home. That’s nothing and I have to be more forward thinking/writing in order to capture what little is left of this semester.

That said, the stories from our trip will not go unshared because (segue into next topic), this happens to be the theme of my final art project.

Before I was to begin my apprenticeship, my art mentor Abdoulaye Konate asked that I reflect on a concept, “un theme,” for my work. This freedom to choose whatever I felt was important is surprisingly daunting because most art students are used to specific assignments (draw this still life). What is it that I am truly passionate about? What do I believe? Why even make art in the first place? Those were the questions that occupied my mind during the many hours on the road, boat ride, and hike through Dogon.

This is a list of convictions I jotted down in my journal:
-the importance of education and the transmission of knowledge in ways that are relevant, interesting, and inspiring
-the ability to be a critical thinker
-travel as a way of challenging oneself and gaining respect for new cultures and places
-the seemingly invisible connections that exist between each other and our environment.
-a purpose in life and the power to make change
-ownership over our lives, playing by our own rules and agenda
-art as a social critique, a looking glass to see the everyday in new ways, to challenge our minds and perceptions.

My project manifested itself in so many ways throughout the trip and unfortunately, I don’t have an overflowing sketchbook to show for it. Because I am a visual thinker and mentally see in 3-D, I’m more likely to mold and shape and test out an idea in my head before ever picking up a pencil and paper (this is a very Malian practice). Erica’s pointed out that my facial expressions reveal my thinking, that my eyes flit back and forth and purse my lips while working out a thought. Apparently it’s hilarious, but when watching her imitate it for me, I think it’s kinda weird. Anyone else notice this habit of mine?

So it was in the last few days of our trip when things really started falling into place. I felt like not only did I have direction for my final art piece, but also a wealth of ideas and themes to pursue back home (international affairs, maps, human diversity, webs and ecosystems, making invisible connections visible, just to name a few). For the first time, I’m driven by a concept rather than material (think plastic bottle sculptures from earlier this semester) and it’s exhilarating.

On to the project…
From the beginning of our two weeks of travel, I had the sense that our upcoming experiences would be worth sharing through some sort of art piece. At the very least, I knew that I would share mine, but what about everyone else? I became very interested in the idea of a collective memory, that we can all be visiting the exact same places but having completely different experiences. How are our perspectives different and how are they similar? Will the memory of the trip be stronger when collected by nine students rather than one? This was something I wanted to explore, but now had to assign it to some sort of medium.

The textiles in Mali have always fascinated me with their rich patterns and bright colors. It’s rare to see the same design twice and I’m convinced that there are stories hidden within their motifs and symbols. There’s also something infinite about pattern, something about its repetition that mesmerizes me (there’s also this structured mathematical part of my brain that is satiated when creating and deconstructing complex patterns). And so, I decided to challenge myself to see if I could create textile designs based on our travel narratives.




(our newly painted door)


I have this crazy elaborate system that is, as pointed out by classmates, fairly reflective of my organizational skills and thought process. I’ve been conducting interviews, asking people to share one particularly vivid story and listening for any images/objects/colors that could be represented in a design. At its very basic, the entire piece will look like this, with each circle representing one student and one particular memory:


You’ll notice though, that the circles overlap each other, that they are connected to four other memories. In those overlapping spaces is a new perspective on the original memory. For example, India decides to share a story about the boat ride to Timbuktu and Kunal’s is about our first night in Dogon. Because their circles overlap each other, I’ll do a follow-up interview and ask India to describe her first night in Dogon and for Kunal to reflect upon his boat experience. Based on these two perspectives, a new pattern will be created for the overlapping space. It’s like a giant Venn-diagram.

It is my hope that this piece will be like telling a story. When viewed from a far, it’s just an impression of colors, like how we describe an experience when passing a friend on the street (Oh how was your trip to Mali? Incredible!). But walking up closer to the designs will reveal more detail, though maybe reduced to a few key symbols. But isn’t that what happens when we tell the same story over and over again, that we find ourselves repeating the same phrases and details? It’s when other people chime in to share their perspectives that the narrative becomes much fuller and richer. That’s the hope anyway.

Anyway, I’m smelling eggs being cooked for breakfast so I’m going to wrap things up quickly. At the same time that I’m working on this project, I’m also writing a research paper on Malian textiles and checking in/”apprenticing” with Abdoulaye Konate. I’m using quotations because he’s not really a full time studio artist anymore and me following him around all day would mean me sitting in his office watching him check e-mails. And so we have an agreement to meet up once or twice a week at the Conservatory and then he has my phone number to call me if he needs any assistance with his art projects at night. It’s probably the most realistic scenario I could ask for and I’m secretly pleased with it because I get more personal studio time. I’ll keep you posted of my progress and of course, would welcome any ideas/thoughts (I miss the art school community!). Scrambled eggs, here I come.

(written Saturday morning)