Zombie Train

Kings Cross. It's a beautiful piece of architecture, when admired from far, but the thought of getting into the underground is already making me nauseous. It is a huge trek getting to the Northern Line, in fact any line in general. What a maze of a station. I wonder if walking to the destination might have been quicker?

Making it to the platform, waiting in impatience for a train that isn't packed enough, so I manage to squeeze in, just as the door slam shut. And then, just like that, I enter a void, a capsule that holds a deathly lull. It takes a while for the eyes to adjust and even longer for the brain to comprehend. I saw before me rows of bodies, their heads bowed down. Some due to the weight of sleep, and others at the pull of their tiny mobile phone screens.

But these are not as strange as the ones with their heads up, and staring beyond the window, into the dark oblivion of black tunnel walls. Those blank eyes. Maybe they are dreaming with their eyes open. A sad dream. There is a still of sadness. Like a rosy drying in the silence of winter, looking up straight, as it grows lifeless. Every now and then, there is a light twitch. And like a yawn, this was spreading. I now see more heads looking up slowly ahead, looking through each other in vacant stares. It's like a disease that's catching up to me. It's a mexican wave, waiting to hit me. In front ot my eyes, people were turning into cold faced zombies, and now only a few bodies away from me.

And then, the train halts and the doors slide open. Not a moment of hesitation I jumped out, and run towards the inner edge of the platform and look back to the see the doors shut. I see them sitting inside looking towards me. But I know they are not looking at me. They are just dreaming with their eyes open. And the zombie train zips past.

So my friends, dust out those old cycles.

Because, if you choose travel by the London underground, you face a huge risk - of turning into a zombie. Take my word for it.

My baby is finally taking shape

After completing the summer course on typography, I was itching to create a font. Something from scratch. Something beautiful. And to be honest, I hadn't done anything entirely original in a while and wanted to get my hands dirty! 

And so I embarked on this rather tedious journey of designing the font. After spending weeks wondering where to begin, how to design, and hours of googling, I found a tutorial on youtube on how to create a font using Adobe illustrator. This is exactly what I was looking for.

For any designer who wants to create a font, and doesn't quite understand the technical complexities and mathematics involved, just follow the instructions. It is absolutely critical that you start right, with the correct file size and format so that you don't struggle at the end. Even a tiny error can impact the entire exercise and you might end up re-doing all 52 characters!

Having said that I am nowhere close to end myself, but so far this tutorial has proven very very useful.

I was keen to base my font on something that inspires me, interesting design wise, and also connected me to my roots. I thought about Indian art, Indian architecture and Indian textiles. And there it was... IKAT. It is rich, it is distinctive, it is traditional, and yet so geometric and contemporary. I just knew this was it.

Here's a sample of my work in progress. Far from complete, I still have the entire lower case and numerals to go. And of course all the fine tuning and adjustments. I can clearly see already that the 'O' looks too big! So fingers crossed, I should get this done by the end of the year at least.

Haunting Walks

I had never been to a cemetery.  On a recent visit to Scotland, we were walking down the Royal mile, and I was somehow drawn towards the Cannongate Kirkyard. On a hillock, overlooking the city, it felt like a spot of untouched beauty, that endured the passing of time and the world that grew around, and stood it's ground, imposing. 

I can't help getting all choked up , walking through the gravestones, through people who were loved, some taken away before their time, their stories set in stone, to be read centuries later, by a stranger from the other side of the planet. 

It's the overwhelming feeling of feeling connected and yet disconnected. Intruding... yet not feeling like an intruder.

Down the road is another gem, the Greyfriars Kirkyard. I was most touched by the story of Greyfriars Bobby. Greyfriars Bobby belonged to an Edinburgh city police night watchman. When the watchman died, he was buried in Greyfriars cemetery. Bobby refused to leave his master's grave and spent the rest of his life sitting over it. He never left the spot for nearly fourteen years, till his death. He was then buried close to his master.

A statue and fountain have been erected to commemorate him, 'the most loyal dog in Scotland'

The beauty of the West Cemetery of Highgate, is unsurpassed. It was for me, like walking through Tolkien's Old forest. It probably is one of those hidden treasures in London. Forgotten paths, dead ends, moss covered graves, the stone angels that remind me of the weeping angels from Doctor Who. It's haunting contrast of the burning orange autumn leaves against the cool green moist moss, makes it a magical setting for tales of a distant past. I thought of Neil Gaiman's story of a little boy whose home was a graveyard such as this, in the care of ghosts.

Discovering Letterpress

So what have I been up to off late?
Super interesting 'computer- free' (can you believe that) course on Typography. Totally digging the assignments which involve a lot of cut-pasting, photography... and never thought I would get to work on one- A Letterpress!

I realise I had lost the joy in small things..for example choosing a font for a project, was the biggest bore and a chore! But now I'm looking forward with experimenting and being more aware of a font I decide to use. The hands-on craft DIY approach is how teaching art should have always been.

Meeting and learning from teachers who are experts in the field, who know what they are doing. I missed this in India. I would really love to do a longer course here at Central Saint Martins. (if only the fees weren't insane!)

Basingstoke

I went to Basingstoke a couple of weekends back, to volunteer at the Basingstoke World Party, an event organised by my cousin. It was a festival of song, dance and food from all across the world. I managed to capture a few interesting portraits, as Eastrop park.

Discovering the Routemaster

One sunny Sunday, a good day to head to Finsbury park for the Routemaster 60, a parade celebrating the iconic buses on their 60th anniversary. I went to the par expecting to see a few old buses, but what was displayed turned out to be such a treat!

There were more than a hundred buses at least on display, they looked almost surreal, like a row of toy buses neatly stacked together by a child in his playroom. Shiny and polished, they seemed to be in mint condition, even taking tourists on short rides around the park. The old bus drivers, re living the nostalgia.

It was an afternoon well spent, and on the side, Finsbury park is actually quite lovely. I wouldn't mind coming down here more often and spending long hours on the grass with a book.

Bike to work

Bought a cycle... something I was looking forward to and dreading at the same time.

It's been over 25 years since I have ridden a bike... in and around gullies near my home in Bangalore. When I grew older I got too scared to ride around in India. The traffic, the total lack of lane disciple, the utter chaos in streets, and lastly... the soot in the air.

So the past couple of weeks, I have been riding all over London like a total noob. Crossing roads only if I don't see cars up to a mile away. Causing long traffic pile ups behind. Inviting stares, glares rather.

In India I would have been yelled and cussed at. I used to drive a car back in Mumbai. I hated people who held up traffic, couldn't decide on a lane, and blocked both lanes. Idiots who drive in slo-mo. All my frustrations released through loud incessant honking.

Today, I have become the same idiot I used to hate. I am probably annoying everyone on the road, and I do feel for them, they don't even honk!  People here just too polite. I appreciate that now.
I seem to be the slowest even among fellow cyclists. But hopefully as I gain confidence and stamina, I would get faster, and ride smarter as well.

I bought a Trek, under the biketowork scheme. It takes me a good 30-35 minutes one way from Islington to Aldgate. Fairly good exercise, (the only exercise I get). I'm really enjoying the experience, I like to ride in a leisurely pace, look around at all the houses and the parks. Quiet and empty streets with only the birds chirping.

Seems like I get excited by little things, but these are what I missed back home.