interview
Clay, dust and Farooqi
By Arif Waqar  
The News on Sunday: You took ten long years to complete Between Clay and Dust. What were the challenges in writing this story?  
Musharraf Ali Farooqi: I had the complete plot in the first draft which was written sometime in 2000. But it was not the whole story. With time the characters became more complex, the story more layered and the plot more integrated. One of the reasons it took me so long to write it was that I was unsure of the narrator’s voice to be employed in the novel. It had to be just right for the story, or the novel would have come apart. I experimented quite a bit and kept coming back to the narrator’s voice I had attempted in the first draft. So that decision was made, but it only decided one thing about the novel. Delineating the relationship that existed between Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan took just as long. I had to consider the nature of the relationship that grew out of their regard for each other as fellow artists, as well as the possibilities that a rather rigid adherence to their respective professional cultures made available. The arrangement of relationships in the novel was everything, and I could not rush it.  

Musical lineage
Ustad Sharif Khan died on May 26 in 1980 and his 32nd barsi went unnoticed among the music circles of the country
By Sarwat Ali  
Traditionally barsis are held to honour the memory of the ustad and provide an opportunity for other musicians to express their homage. And what better way can there be of paying a tribute than in the language of music. Barsis over the centuries have become the biggest platform for performance and recognition of the significance of music lineage.  

Pride and practice
What distinguishes mere labour from works of art?
By Quddus Mirza
A man sitting next to the dead body of an elephant was mourning loudly. A passerby offered his sympathy. The man stopped for a second and said he is not mourning the death of the elephant; he is crying because he has to dig his grave!
Manual labour for most people is a burden but for some it is a matter of prestige. Mahboob Ali is one such artist who feels elated on his achievement which is a product of hard labour. He proudly states that he has printed a woodcut in hundred (if not more) colours which, in terms of woodcut, means repeating the process a hundred times on the same paper in order to get a single image (and the entire process took one year 4 months and 14 days to complete). This kind of work demands a determination and dedication to method and material. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  interview
Clay, dust and Farooqi
By Arif Waqar

The News on Sunday: You took ten long years to complete Between Clay and Dust. What were the challenges in writing this story?

Musharraf Ali Farooqi: I had the complete plot in the first draft which was written sometime in 2000. But it was not the whole story. With time the characters became more complex, the story more layered and the plot more integrated. One of the reasons it took me so long to write it was that I was unsure of the narrator’s voice to be employed in the novel. It had to be just right for the story, or the novel would have come apart. I experimented quite a bit and kept coming back to the narrator’s voice I had attempted in the first draft. So that decision was made, but it only decided one thing about the novel. Delineating the relationship that existed between Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan took just as long. I had to consider the nature of the relationship that grew out of their regard for each other as fellow artists, as well as the possibilities that a rather rigid adherence to their respective professional cultures made available. The arrangement of relationships in the novel was everything, and I could not rush it.

TNS: What were you aiming to achieve with Between Clay and Dust?

MAF: Perhaps the fact that no matter how difficult the circumstances, good choices are always available to us. Here are two people faced with similar challenges and one of them is able to make good choices within that situation and the other is not; one of them puts man-made principles before human relationships and the other makes a different choice. I also saw it as a love story, and a story about missed chances and redemption. If you can see a glimpse of these themes in the novel, then I have had a measure of success in my effort.

TNS: One of your favourite writers, Dostoevsky, wrote his novel The Idiot as many as eight times. All eight drafts are now preserved in a Moscow museum. How many drafts exactly did you write, and are they preserved somewhere?

MAF: I think I wrote at least four or five drafts. Some parts were revised more than five times and there were some parts, the first chapter, for example, that remained unchanged throughout the many drafts. I have some of the earlier drafts but I am not sure they are fit to be preserved anywhere except in the trash can. I do not believe in curating the writing process.

In all writing, what is of importance is the final product. How it came about is of no significance. At least this is how I see it. Moreover, the record of one writer’s struggle with his material cannot teach anything to another writer. Every writer is unique and so is his and her personal challenge. Even if someone identifies very strongly with a particular writer or his work, their struggle will be different. All that such a document can perhaps show is that sometimes writing is not easy, and if one believes in something very strongly they must persevere with it.

TNS: One feature of your narrative is the detailed and vivid description of the wrestlers’ careful moves; their particular grasps and sleights and other manoeuvres. But this stuff is so inherently indigenous and so “akhara” specific that the very idea of describing it in English, for today’s reader, is quite daunting. How did you manage to achieve this goal? Did you study modern TV wrestling, for example, to access the current terminology of the wrestling pit?

MAF: It was a challenge. If I had only written the names of the locks during the fight sequences it would not have conveyed the sense of movement and struggle in the scenes. To recreate the locks in English, I read up on the names of the moves in Greek wrestling and employed them where I could.

TNS: The cover photograph of Between Clay and Dust is very impressive. Was the image a chance discovery that fitted your theme, or was it an arranged photograph, specifically taken for this title page?

MAF: The two artists responsible for this cover which everyone has remarked on, are the award-winning photographer Sucheta Das and Aleph Book Company’s Creative Director Bena Sareen. The photograph was not commissioned. It was an award-winning photograph that matched the novel’s theme. The magic performed by Bena Sareen’s design has made it one of the most beautiful covers in modern publishing.

TNS: During the last five years, you have established yourself in many capacities. How would you like to be remembered in posterity: a novelist, a translator or a story-teller for the kids?

MAF: Ideally there should be two posterities: One to remember me as a novelist. One to commemorate me as a translator.  For my children’s fiction no special posterity is needed. As long as kids remain in fashion, they will find my books and read them. If they don’t then it would mean that I wrote badly and in that case it would be best to be speedily forgotten.

TNS: Can you tell us about your next work?

MAF: My next work, which is very different from Between Clay and Dust, is the novel Rabbit Rap illustrated by Michelle Farooqi. It will be published next month. I will describe it as a twenty-first century fable about politics, ecology, feminism and corporate greed as viewed from a rabbit warren. I had a lot of fun writing it.

TNS: What’s your criterion for good translation? Do you believe there’s anything such as ‘faithful translation’? When Zoey Ansari translated from Russian to Urdu, he kept the original Russian sentence structure intact, which sounded odd in Urdu but he insisted that he was transferring the flavour of Russian into Urdu. What’s your take on this style of translation?

MAF: I attempt to keep the flavour of the Urdu language but I faced some peculiar challenges while working on The Adventures of Amir Hamza and Hoshruba. The large number of translations from classical Persian and Arabic languages has created a vast body of terms and phrases that constitutes the literary language for translation from Arabic and Persian classical works. That is lacking in our case because The Adventures of Amir Hamza was the first work from our dastan literature to be translated into English, and I struggled to find an equivalent idiom for classical Urdu in English language. I hope that this work will contribute in some small way to building a vocabulary for the translation of classical Urdu prose.

To answer your question about Zoey Ansari’s method, I believe that every translation should be an idiomatic translation in the target language. If a translator is incapable of doing it, then perhaps he should work harder at his skills. Urdu has an immense vocabulary of both words and idioms and they can be usefully employed to create flowing, idiomatic translations of any contemporary or classical work from other languages, and just as English is capable of providing a sense of Urdu’s flavour, Urdu is equally capable of similar feats in the hands of a capable translator.

TNS: This is Manto’s centenary year. Thanks to the English translations of his fiction in recent years, Manto is a known name in several countries of the world. Do you think there are other fiction writers in Urdu who deserve the same degree of attention from the translators?

MAF: It is great that we are celebrating one of our writers. I have read Manto and I enjoy his stories. He had the ability to pick out stories from the cluster of lives around him, and his greatest contribution to Urdu literature is his ability to preserve his period and society in his fictional narratives. But unfortunately he did not have the patience to delve deep into their lives or he would have been a great writer. I have a feeling that we sometimes go overboard in praising someone to the point of undermining others. There are several writers: Azeem Beg Chughtai, Abul Fazal Siddiqui, Ghulam Abbas, Rafiq Husain, Muhammad Khalid Akhtar and contemporary writers like Shamsur Rahman Faruqi, Naiyer Masud, Khalid Toor, Mirza Ather Baig and Ali Akbar Natiq, who are far better craftsmen of fiction than Manto, but because most of their work does not fall into the category of “controversial” writing, as much attention is not paid to their work. I say this because we do have a habit to pay more attention to what sounds sensational. Writers in the latter group are actively writing. All of them should be more widely read and discussed for us to form a better opinion of Manto’s important place in Urdu literature.

TNS: Is it true that you are compiling an online Urdu Thesaurus? How come?

MAF: In my work as a translator of Urdu literature, I have always had problem finding good reference works. Some wonderful dictionaries, thesauruses and collections of idioms and proverbs have been compiled in Urdu, but they are either no longer in print, or not well known. Much of that scholarly work lies hidden and is slowly wasting away or becoming inaccessible. I always used to think that if these lexicographers were alive today, they’d be putting all this work online where it can be far more effectively accessed and employed. The online Urdu Thesaurus is a first step in the effort to make this knowledge available online. A lot of work has already been done on this project and I hope that the thesaurus will go online sometime next year.

 

About the author

Musharraf Ali Farooqi was born in 1968 in Hyderabad, Pakistan, and now divides his time between Toronto and Karachi. His first novel The Story of a Widow (Knopf Canada/Picador India) was shortlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature 2010, and longlisted for the 2010 IMPAC-Dublin Literary Award. His children’s fiction includes the picture book The Cobbler’s Holiday Or Why Ants Don’t Wear Shoes and the collection The Amazing Moustaches of Mocchhander the Iron Man and Other Stories (2011, Puffin India).

He is the author of the critically acclaimed translations of Urdu classics, The Adventures of Amir Hamza (2007, Modern Library), and the first book of a projected 24-volume magical fantasy epic, Hoshruba (2009, Urdu Project/Random House India). An illustrated novel, Rabbit Rap, with art by Michelle Farooqi will come out from Viking/Penguin Books India in July 2012. His new novel, Between Clay and Dust, was published by David Davidar’s Aleph Book Company in April 2012.

 

 

  

Mohsin Shafi’s images are reminiscent of Romare Bearden’s photomontages produced in the 1960s. The majority of photographs and other ephemera Shafi uses in his collages and assemblages come from his own family albums. The use of family photographs automatically makes the work self-reflexive.

Shafi is drawn to pairs, couples, and doubling throughout his work, using photographs in a multitude of ways to underscore the complexity of relationships. ‘Psycho Bitches on Poppers’ includes a self-portrait with a photograph of a friend; other photographs of couples are placed covertly throughout, hinting at the often-illicit nature of love. In ‘Raw like Sushi’, Shafi highlights the physical and emotional distance between the two men, isolating each at the far edges of the central composition.

The celebration of beauty and the trappings of femininity are a recurring theme in the works. The value and significance of such images cannot be taken for granted; here the photographic image is used as a means to project an idealised self for posterity. Hairstyles, clothing, props, and poses are all carefully selected for this purpose; the portrait sitting is accorded a relative solemnity and seriousness. You get a sense of the ‘man’, particularly as seen in ‘Conjoined Twins’, a double self-portrait. Shafi juxtaposes two nearly identical images of himself wearing lace and printed cloth, surrounded by wall clocks. The collage faces a salon-style arrangement of illustrative works on paper in a range of modes: the display is a rogues’ gallery of friends, family and lovers and a troubling alter ego.

The gallery is dominated by ‘Converted Cannibal’, a provocative photograph in which Shafi is ready to devour an eggplant, his tongue sticking out, his chest flayed open like a sardine can. The picture verges on acid-trip surrealism, yet is rooted in Pop reality. There are candid images of friends and unclothed lovers in the exhibition. The young people in the shots radiate a kind of ebullience and rich possibility, characteristics one might have attributed to Shafi himself, who, from the vantage point of our lean times, seems both an enviable and a cautionary figure.

The author of numerous collages that recast the Pakistani dream of plenty in pansexual terms, Shafi, like so many artists of his generation, indulges in the era’s carnal abundance, and his appetites and experiences are reflected in the work, which alternates between the revealing and the puerile. An intimate, biographical exhibition, ‘Dirt Under My Nails’ presents drawings, photo-collages and photographs capturing the artist’s polymorphous perversity in the matters of flesh and art.

It is hard to read the works’ titles without thinking of Shafi himself. Even the dogs have the same effect: Principles of savage energy, they frighten and endear, and one senses the artist’s identification with them. Shafi’s language, too, the titles he has inscribed in each work, while often salty and pungent, has the air of the found and familiar. The collages, then, are the results of a magpie kind of process, like a sort of dictionary of gestures, a shuffling of the available cards. It is as if art making for him came down to combining and recombining the units of a given vocabulary, whether that vocabulary is corporal — the range of possible poses the body can strike, in love or war — or aesthetic, the set of things an artist could do with collage. Mordant and morbid, powerful as argument and troubling as message, these works strike a fractured, complicated mood.

Throughout this exhibition, the photographic fragment — the frozen moment — is a vital thread in Shafi’s work that holds substantial power: the power to dispel stereotypes, unravel personal histories, and signify the spiritual potency of the past. For Shafi, photographic transformation and fragmentation operate like the ghosted, sepia-toned lives of people of colour, lives too often obscured in history.

For Mohsin Shafi, power can be found and insisted upon; voice can be found in the individual and thus in his unique expressive power as an artist. The generosity of Shafi’s work, its particularity and dignity in the depiction of human beings, does not soften the sting of the earlier works. This generosity is always transformative. According to Shafi, “Our past has programmed us to judge ourselves and each other by sexual orientation as well as class and occupation. By defining who we are by our sexual orientation, by calling each other names from rude insults to terms of endearment, is in a way, a continuation of slavery.”

In the case of work that is arguably portraiture, Shafi creates for his subject a newly charged character, imposing both descriptive and emblematic functions and thus raising questions of how society objectifies the individual. In doing so, he creates images that insist on the dignity of the individual and grow out of his belief in the power of selfhood, the power of image making, and thus the essential power of revisionism.

Arguably the emotional power of much of Shafi’s work derives from the marriage of these influences and intersections with the formal statement made through the synthesising practice of assemblage. Throughout his career, Shafi has employed a wide variety of found objects in the creation of his assemblages; this has frequently included the found or mechanically reproduced photograph. Whether it is an actual photograph, a photomechanical image such as a detail from commercial packaging, or a photocopied image, the photographic fragment is to be found in Shafi’s work, ranging from his windows to topless men. Out of the fragmentary image — almost certainly an allusion to the fragmentary nature of memory. Shafi is, in effect, rummaging through the society’s collective attic to create haunting visions that suggest both the tragedy of a fragmented history and a way forward, one that is recombinative and that merges the personal with the collective.

The series of monoprints (photographic transfers) effect a romantic sheen, a soft vapour whispering of genteel European glamour, a constructed vintage that announces its distance from the hard clarity of digital photography. Shafi’s image-based work is paradoxically concrete: technique and process become paramount. If the burden of modernism is at issue in his work, it is as a storehouse of pictorial tactics, no longer a nightmare – not even a burden. Equivocation and self-sabotage are the motivating forces of Shafi’s practice, which proceeds as a two-step of gesture and counter-gesture, each maneuvre feeding on the previous one without negating it.

In the era of Photoshop, could it possibly be otherwise? Shafi’s practice of cutting across pictorial strata closely approximates – intentionally or not – the ontology of digitally manipulated images, the layers of which only gel together in the final, flattened picture. Yet this moment of flattening never arrives in Shafi’s work: Layers sit incommensurably atop one another, confronting viewers with an ever-unstable field of possible foregrounds and backgrounds. Careful viewers will find that Shafi has painstakingly muddled the relationship between the layers, introducing bluffs and reversals at every turn.

But layered surfaces are not the endgame for Shafi; at his best, he is a formidable art maker. Seen together, his works form an exuberant collective, one held intact by a host of graphic affinities.

 

 

But no matter what the title had been, I would have bought and devoured this book anyway, because it is by Sue Townsend, that wonderful British writer, the witty creator of the unforgettable Adrian Mole (who we know from his first ‘Secret Diary’ aged 13 and 3/4 and all his subsequent journals). A Townsend book is always a treat, and the new one is no exception.

The woman in question is Eva who, on the day her gifted twins leave for university, climbs into bed and stays there for the year. Eva is not quite sure why she does this, but after 25 years of marriage to a rather humourless astronomy professor (Brian) and 17 years of looking after the rather weird twins (Brian Junior and Brianne), she discovers she is tired and more than a little unhappy at the way her life has turned out. With the help of an odd job man (an artist with dreadlocks who has given up a successful career in investment banking) named Alexander, Eva tries to strip her life down to the essentials. Her family is puzzled by her behaviour, cross and slightly helpful — yet curiously detached from Eva’s pain.

Eva’s retreat turns her into a figure of awe — and something of a minor celebrity. She becomes a counsellor of sorts, people confide in her and she helps them with her kindness and some advice based on good common sense. Eva at the age of 50 finally gets some time to take stock of her life and deal with the disappointments she has blocked out of her mind for so long. She muses on what makes life bearable and on what is important in relationships, she muses on goodness and selfishness.

Despite the underlying grimness of Eva’s situation, this is a very funny book. Townsend has a terrific eye for comic detail and social irony and her work somehow always reflects the spirit of the times, the Zeitgeist. The accounts of how a TV team attempts to bulldoze Eva into an interview or how she is discussed on Twitter are quite hilarious, as are the descriptions of Brian in his workplace at the University.

But despite all the humour and the sharpness of observation in the book, Eva’s story is one of discovery: of discovering that sometimes you just need to stop, step back and take stock of what you are doing and why, and decide what is important and what is not. And what the book definitely shows to be most essential in our lives is the ability to feel compassion.

Having read the book, the emotion I most feel is... admiration. Sue Townsend is astonishing — her books never fail to amuse and delight me, she is so funny and yet so extremely perceptive. Just when you think that she cannot possibly come up with yet another excellent book, she does. She is a living testament to the power of Literature and storytelling. This is a woman who left school at 15, but was in love with reading and so became a writer. Townsend has also been blind for several years, but she has not allowed that to get in the way of writing — or even observing.

Amazing woman, wonderful novel.

 Best wishes,

Umber Khairi

 

 

 

Musical lineage
Ustad Sharif Khan died on May 26 in 1980 and his 32nd barsi went unnoticed among the music circles of the country
By Sarwat Ali

Traditionally barsis are held to honour the memory of the ustad and provide an opportunity for other musicians to express their homage. And what better way can there be of paying a tribute than in the language of music. Barsis over the centuries have become the biggest platform for performance and recognition of the significance of music lineage.

These barsis ideally should be organised by the shagirds and the connoisseurs of music and then made into a regular affair through some systematic arrangement but it has been seen that the onus of celebrating/observing these barsis falls on the progeny of the ustad. If the progeny is enterprising and has done well in life the level of the barsi programme is reasonably high and the occasion holds some promise. But if it has not fared well then the barsi is either never held or if held fizzles out to such a sorry end that one wished that it had never been held in the first place.

Not only in the case of musicians but the other celebrated individuals, writers, poets or public figures, the barsis are usually held by the progeny or extended family of the individual. The progeny is in a certain fix in this arrangement, for if the family is involved it exposes itself to all kinds of accusations and possible slander like capitalising on the fame of an ancestor for enhancing its own status and glorifying the lineage. But if they do not venture forward then no one else does and the society is deprived of the positive fallout of the event.

The immediate family of Sharif Khan lives in Lahore but the only child who made a name for himself in sitar playing Ashraf Sharif Khan moved to Germany where he has lived now for more than 15 years. He occasionally visits Pakistan to meet his family and to possibly play at a couple of concerts in the various cities of the country. When he lived in Pakistan he was able to motivate a few connoisseurs of music and admirers of Ustad Sharif Khan to organise some event to remember and honour his father’s contribution to the sitar and vichitra veena but since he moved out of the country the annual event is now more conspicuous by it not being held.

Ustad Sharif Khan was born in Hissar which is now in Haryana, probably in the third decade of the 20th century and after dabbling with the tabla and harmonium became a musician at the court of the Maharaja of Poonch. He followed the path treaded by his father Ustad Rahim Bakhsh Khan who too was associated with the state of Poonch, and according to some was the ustad of the maharaja himself.

A virtuoso himself, Ustad Rahim Khan was from a family of vocalists but had switched to the string instruments and became an outstanding instrumentalist under the tutelage of Ustad Imdad Khan, the grandfather of Ustad Vilayat Khan. Ustad Sharif Khan himself became the shagird of Ustad Inayat Khan, the son of Imdad Khan and hence the father of Ustad Vilayat Khan.

For Ustad Sharif Khan, the going was much tougher in Pakistan. He had established himself as a sitar player before partition but the lukewarm response and lack of appreciation of classical music made him look for other avenues to meet both ends. The film was the only platform that could pay him enough to survive and thus continue with his passion of exploring the musical range of both the sitar and veena. He was initially associated with Pandit Amarnath and after partition he found creative affinity with Khurshid Anwar and for whom he played the sitar and veena in his numerous compositions.

Ustad Sharif Khan spent long hours mastering the very difficult art of playing the veena. Nobody in his family was a veena player but when he was taunted by the nephew of Ustad Abdul Aziz Beenkar that it was almost impossible to play the vichitra veena he took it up as a challenge. The balance of both the hands and the technique to be applied had immense differences in the art of playing the two instruments but he switched from the one to the other with seeming ease. The graces in particular the meends so characteristics of the veena found their way when he took to playing the sitar seriously. These meends on the sitar expanded the musical possibilities inherent in the instruments. It can be said without fear of contradiction that no other sitar player has been able to achieve it.

Though he was given the Pride of Performance and Sitara-e-Imtiaz it was difficult for him to keep two ends meet. He really had to struggle hard and it was at the cost of his health. In most of the recordings he could not hold back his coughing and it also got recorded with his priceless music. Struggling to keep economically solvent in a society with only a qualified acceptance of music cost him dearly and he died in 1980 at the prime of his creative life.

 

Pride and practice
What distinguishes mere labour from works of art?
By Quddus Mirza

A man sitting next to the dead body of an elephant was mourning loudly. A passerby offered his sympathy. The man stopped for a second and said he is not mourning the death of the elephant; he is crying because he has to dig his grave!

Manual labour for most people is a burden but for some it is a matter of prestige. Mahboob Ali is one such artist who feels elated on his achievement which is a product of hard labour. He proudly states that he has printed a woodcut in hundred (if not more) colours which, in terms of woodcut, means repeating the process a hundred times on the same paper in order to get a single image (and the entire process took one year 4 months and 14 days to complete). This kind of work demands a determination and dedication to method and material.

In his recently held retrospective at Shakir Ali Museum Lahore (opened on May 24, 2012), a large number of woodcut prints, from various phases of the artist’s long career — from early self-portrait dating 1960s to the most recent works — are on display. This exhibition, curated by Amna Ismail Pataudi, communicates the artist’s preferences in his chosen field of expression and indicates his position on issues of idea, image and skill in art.

The show conveys the artist’s command in rendering views of his surroundings on a difficult medium, woodcut; the details of city scenes, features of people, images of trees and fields, and objects of still life are successfully captured. Likewise, the use of colour, sometimes following the natural order or the artist’s own whims, adds to the visual charms of these prints.

Yet works of art — or great works of art, for that matter — are not purely about an artist’s skill, patience or struggle. No doubt these are crucial in order to fabricate a work, like stone sculptures of Michelangelo or huge paintings of Peter Paul Rubens. If one studies the history of art, one comes across numerous sculptures (bigger than Michelangelo and carved in harder materials) and paintings on surfaces larger than Rubens’ and with more characters and details, but these do not qualify as great works of art.

So what distinguishes mere labour from work of art? Perhaps it is the idea which takes a physical substance into the realm of sublime. Although idea is inherent in every object manufactured by human beings, because functional aspect, societal relationship and religious significance are all concepts; as are the attempts to reproduce reality or follow the custom and convention in art. But an artist of high order introduces new ideas or his work leads to alter the existing notions of art and life.

But in Mahboob Ali’s work the idea is neglected in favour of technical accomplishment. Thus one finds scenes of city from different angles and areas or characters from rural and urban settings selected to make prints, which are more about the wonderful achievement in the technique of woodcut than anything else. So the subject matter or imagery serves as an excuse to demonstrate the artist’s command on his adapted medium. And in this the point of pride is the number of printing he did, rather any other attainment.

One realises that Ali is not alone in this pursuit of excellence, even though he is one of the few (now if not the sole) exponents of woodcuts in today’s Pakistan. One has to go to a musical evening or a dance performance to witness this when a singer starts to exercise his notes in rapid sequence and flaunts his ability of holding his breath for the longest span or a dancer performing her steps so quickly that it seems like an artistic version of lessons in fast typing. The audience applaud them on this supposed show of virtuosity. Art forms are best enjoyed when they appear effortless. One could take this analogy further with two poets and contemporaries Abdul Aziz Khalid and Nasir Kazmi; of the two Kazmi’s familiar and colloquial diction made him eternal.

Often, laborious exertion is a way to take the viewers’ attention away from the lack or banality of thought. Because when artists do not have anything profound to say, they seek refuge in the difficulty of expression (like some of our dear art critics!). The receiver is dazzled by their control on the medium, forgetting that medium is there to convey the message. Mahboob Ali’s work must be seen in that context — whether the ‘message’ or subject matter in Mahboob Ali’s work is just ordinary glimpses of the city or it creates an artist’s vision or idea?

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