An Unforgettable Day for Art Enthusiasts… On February 24, 2025, under the initiative of our esteemed mentor, Abduvahob Qodirov, we, young enthusiasts of art, had the opportunity to visit the Botir Zokirov National Institute of Estrada Art. This visit was not only a chance to gain new knowledge but also an opportunity to meet and converse with living legends.
From the moment we arrived, we were greeted by a unique creative atmosphere. At the entrance, we met the renowned artist and devoted figure of national estrada art, Mansur Toshmatov. He welcomed us with sincere wishes and shared valuable guidance to deepen our love for art even further.
During the visit, we attended master classes conducted by great artists. In the hallway, we encountered the famous artist Yunus To‘rayev and were fortunate enough to have a long conversation with him. He shared his journey into the world of art, the challenges he faced, and his invaluable experiences. Every word he spoke inspired us, reinforcing the importance of perseverance in achieving our dreams.
We also had the privilege of participating in lessons at the institute. The kindness and sincerity of the instructors deeply impressed us. Each of them generously shared their knowledge with warmth. Particularly, the performance of talented young singers alongside Sevinch left a lasting impression on our hearts. Their soft and enchanting voices resonated deeply within us, sending shivers down our spines. Witnessing such extraordinary talent for the first time was truly astonishing. Gulyora Majidullayeva also captivated us with her melodious and mesmerizing voice, leaving us with unforgettable emotions. The master class concluded with a magnificent performance by Abdumalikova Madina Alisherovna. In reality, we did not want to leave the institute.
At the end of our visit, the institute’s Vice-Rector for Academic Affairs, Akbarjon Mirzayev, shared warm and sincere thoughts with us. His humility and kindness amazed us. Without any arrogance or pride, he told us about the history and activities of the institute. This visit turned into a true celebration of art for us. The creative atmosphere, sincere individuals, and incredibly talented performers made a profound impact on us—words cannot fully express the emotions we experienced. Once again, we felt that this institute is not only a center for estrada art but also a true school of mastery. With heartfelt gratitude, we hope to be welcomed again as guests in the future!
Nozima G‘ofurova, a 2nd-year student of the Travel Journalism program at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan.
BALLET DANCER sits on a wheelchair, her leg clearly wounded. Enter MODERN DANCER.
Modern Dancer: Hey. I thought I’d dance for you.
Ballet Dancer: Why?
MD: To cheer you up. To distract you.
BD: That’s awfully arrogant.
MD: Fine then, maybe I just feel like dancing.
BD: Oh, here we go. The spirit of dance moves you, the Holy Ghost possesses your bones, and now you have to show it off in front of a captive audience. Where’s my aspirin?
MD: You’re so contemptuous and condescending. God, Don’t you ever just dance for fun?
BD: You’re one to talk about condescension, treating ambition and focus as a mental illness. Go ask a medical student if he ever stays up three days in a row for fun. Ask a law student why she can’t just take a month off. Ask astronauts why they look so stressed. See what they tell you.
MD: I see your point. But you’re not an astronaut, you’re a wounded ballerina. And I feel like dancing, so I will.
BD: Suit yourself. And I’m a ballet dancer with an injury, please don’t make it sound more ridiculous than it is. “Wounded ballerina,” it sounds like a book of bad poetry. Speaking of mediocre art, keep your leg straight.
MD: That’s not the way this dance goes.
BD: Oh I see. You’re out of tune, but you meant to sound flat, so it’s OK.
MD: Oh we’re going for a musical metaphor? It’s more like, there are a few discordant notes, but it’s part of the symphony’s larger harmonic structure.
BD: Did you just compare yourself to a whole symphony? You’re a dancer who can’t be bothered to stretch a muscle!
MD: Everyone’s a critic.
BD: So you’ve taken it one step further. You’ve dismissed the concept of criticism completely.
MD: Aren’t you an artist? Don’t you know it’s subjective?
BD: No, good art is subjective. Crappy art is recognizable as such.
MD: Jesus, if it means that much to you I’ll straighten my leg. Happy now?
BD: It’s nothing to be proud of.
MD: I’d like to see you do better from where you’re sitting.
Don’t cry. I’m just kidding. Of course you can. As I said, it’s all subjective. I’m just doing my thing, I’m enjoying myself.
BD: You’re a hedonist. You have no sense of discipline and resent those of us who do. It takes no practice to be wild.
MD: And you’re enjoying yourself too, I think. You can’t dance at the moment so you kick. You don’t like my music so you bang the pot louder. It DOES take practice to be that rude.
BD: Look down on my manners all you want. Meanwhile, thrust your chest forward, throw your head back, weave around the stage and call it art. A drunken robot could do that.
MD: You just basically described the routine of a wind-up toy.
BD: Did I? How embarrassing for you and the drunken robots.
MD: Ha ha. Your clever insult makes YOU look petty. Reducing what we do to mere tricks and jumps shows you have no imagination, that you’re not paying attention to real art, truth and subtlety, because you’ve decided the form is beneath you. That’s so…bland.
BD: Go watch people do a “let’s pretend we’re kernels of popcorn” exercise and tell me who’s bland.
MD: First of all, that sounds fun.
BD: Uh huh. If you’re five.
MD: Secondly, so what? If you don’t like one teacher, one choreographer, do you discount the medium?
BD: Don’t be silly. There are other reasons to dismiss the genre. It’s… generic. Modern dance, what does that even mean? If I do jumping jacks to catchy music, I could probably convince you it’s a sophisticated yet minimalist routine.
MD: That’s not modern dance, that’s post-modern dance! It’s…you…I’m making up a dance based on your argument! I’m calling it “The Strawman!”
BD: I see. Ballet dancers aren’t as concerned at winning arguments through reason. We’re too busy DANCING WELL.
MD: Bull. You just love how restricted and repressed you are. You’re comforted by the weight of your costumes, the tight lacing of your shoes, and not breathing feels as natural to you as breathing feels to us. The dancing itself? Well, that’s just a side effect. The real joy comes from your sense of burden. We danced our way out of that tiny box and onto a larger stage.
BD: You’re not more evolved than I am just because you forgot your fundamentals, or ignore them.
MD: But discipline isn’t beautiful. It doesn’t look graceful, your artificial grace. The more spectacular the pirouette, the more the audience cringes in pain. Do you think we’re stupid? That we don’t know your feet hurt?
BD: Why are you so soft, that you no longer tolerate pain? There’s no way to be a part time ballerina, and yes, that requires….You can’t “wing it” and stumble into your footing, then say, ha, I meant to do that.
MD: So you resent that our lives our easier, that our talent comes more naturally?
BD: We resent that you have a loose measurement for what constitutes talent.
MD: Do you really think so little of us? That anyone can do what we do? Wrong! Some of us are gifted, even though we didn’t have our backs broken into ugly straight angles by the time we were ten. You’re like those snobs who deny that a Shakespeare level genius can emerge without elite education.
BD: If geniuses emerge in middle age and later, from amateur night classes, then maybe the term gets thrown around too much.
MD: Fine then, who cares whether or not we’re anointed bright and shiny? You’re jealous because we dance out of love. You stopped loving it so long ago you’ve forgotten the beauty of dance.
BD: Don’t question my love. I sacrificed a literal leg for love. You just put on some comfortable pants and rocked out to fun music. Oh, maybe you memorized a few specific moves, some beats. But you’re self-indulgent. The audience is just watching you play with yourself. I’d rather watch a child color, or a teenager masturbate.
MD: Did you ever find to time for either activity? You were born so old, so cynical. You don’t have dance partners. You have adversaries. You’re on stage with them, trying to out-dance them, trying to prove you’re the best. Even when we don’t touch, we lift each other up. True collaboration makes for better art, even if it’s less symmetrical.
BD: Symmetry is beauty. It’s hard to achieve, but magnificent.
MD: Well, I’m sure your feet are equally calloused. They’re bumpy and beaten by your mistreatment of the part of your body you’re supposed to love, without which you can’t do art, but at least they’re symmetrical.
BD: That’s my business. My feet stay in my ballet slippers. That’s another thing. I’m so sick of looking at your feet. It’s as if you think you’re farmers or priestesses, so holy, so in touch with heaven and earth. But it’s a well-lit floor in an indoor theater. Why are you showing us your ugly, dirty feet?
MD: Come on, they’re not so bad. (Removes her shoes and socks)
BD: What are you doing? Put them away! I don’t want to see them!
MD: This is how your feet look now. Your calluses are barely there anymore, but your feet still know how to dance. The break in your leg? You can barely see the scar.
BD: I’m a ballet dancer. Any flaw is visible.
MD: Well, I’m not a ballet dancer, not anymore. And so I forget, sometimes, how hard it was. You’re right: I’m arrogant. It comes with being a dancer.
BD: I know ballet is as ballet does, but…You really don’t feel like a ballerina, on the inside?
MD: No. But I was. And it helped me. I’m a better modern dancer because of it, better than the people who didn’t first learn the structure before they played with it. I know I pretend I never compete with my fellow dancers..,I try, but I’m still human.
BD: We’re dancers.
MD: Besides being the same person and having the same DNA, dancing is what we have in common. It’s what binds us, foot to foot.
BD: Then do you think, for old times sake, you could do a few tour jetes? Give them a modern spin if you must.
MD: You taught me well. I’ll do my best.
BD: (Clapping) Yay! I’ve still got it!
MD: Yes and with a few new moves!
BD: Show off!
MD: …Sorry!
BD: I didn’t say stop!
Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram. Playwright’s note: Clashing Tempos was originally produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, in February 2015. It starred Sarah Ann Masse as Ballet Dancer, and Arianna Taxman as Modern Dancer.
Ibrahimova Halima Vahobjonovna was born on February 11, 2007 in the Shafirkon district of the Bukhara region of the Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently, she is a 10th grade student of the 7th MFCHÕIDUM in Uchkuduq District, Navoi Region. Until now, she participated in several international competitions and anthologies and received certificates. She is the author of the poetry book “Lines in my heart” and a candidate for the state award named after Zulfiya. Some of her poems have been published in magazines and newspapers. She’s the owner of the “Young Creator 2024” badge, and a member of the People’s Democratic Party.
ART AND LITERATURE – THE MORAL CORRECTIVE FOR A FALLEN SOCIETY
“Perhaps we failed to draw a line between what gives us happiness and what takes it away. And, a more serious question is: was happiness the destination of human progression? Philosophically speaking, it was. – Anand.
The title of this article casts aspersions on the idea of human development and the progression of the civilization. It is a serious question which stares us in the face: are we in the progressive mode or is it a decline? If we compare the good and the evil of our modern society, can we feel satisfied that whatever we have achieved speaks well of us as conscientious human species? In spite of all that we have accomplished, the final feeling of mankind is that happiness still eludes us. There are still disparities and injustices on a vast scale and a huge proportion of our population is under-blessed. All this in spite of the fact we possess great powers of science and technology. We are highly ‘blessed’ if we consider our ‘killer potential’ but to counter it, our sense of self-preservation and self-improvement stands nowhere.
Why has happiness and joy of being eluded mankind? Reasons are obvious, because all the physical assets that we have created are meant only to give comfort and happiness to mankind. In the midst of plenty, we are feeling deprived, dispossessed and unhappy.
Perhaps we failed to draw a line between what gives us happiness and what takes it away. And, a more serious question is: was happiness the destination of human progression? Philosophically speaking, it was.
However, the first phase of human progression has been the instinct for survival. And after survival, when we feel secure, we think of the idea of happiness. And what grants us happiness is Art whose very idea lies in the fact that the society in which we are living is twisted and has edges which cause bruises to human psyche. Art is the balm, a pain-reliever, which give us a sense of joyousness. Art is never the activity of a happy mind. It is the outcome of a tortured psyche and a disturbed soul. The greatest artistic works were the creation of human minds which were on the boil.
Art and Literature:The Moral Corrective
Thus, art and literature find their justification in a society which is built on injustice and inequalities, and it is through art that human soul seeks relief from persistent pain. Literature is the pain-reliever, which provides a release to human nerves and saves the society from explosive situations. Art does not justify the ills of a society, it takes men towards a resolution and release of pent up emotions, which Greek Masters called catharsis.
Art is the greatest moral corrective, which makes people understand their problems in their naked reality, feel the pain, and also the relief. In final analysis, art is nothing beyond a happy arrangement of words and how they are said, or colors how they are arranged.
The Fall
The human society has suffered a great fall. A young student who is studying Economics, or Commerce, or Engineering or Electronics will never realize this fact. The governments are always telling the people how GDP is increasing, how wealth creation is going on, and how the happiness index is going up. The addition of new inventions to the inventory of joy indicates how modern society is poised towards a revolution in human comfort, and the greatest achievements in space exploration and scientific development. It is going on unchecked. It is one side of the story of success of mankind. But, unfortunately, it is matched by another devastating story. Of the fall of mankind. Mankind suffered a fall when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit. Now we are suffering another great fall. Knowledge has risen to our head. We have never looked back to check if our actions are in the right direction or amiss. Knowledge is a great power, but, it was Satan who set us after knowledge, and we are serving his ends only. Knowledge has destroyed our Innocence, our Joy, our Peace and our Happiness in Being. This is the real fall that humanity has suffered.
What are we doing to retrieve our lost happiness? Our joy and our Paradise? Can we just disown our Knowledge? Can we stop the progressive spree of mankind? Can we stop the exploration of the space? I think No. The moral corrective lies in the fact that we stop the blind pursuit of success, and wealth and the exploitation of nature. We should tell our younger generations that the real purpose of human living is not isolation, nor success, nor wealth creation, but Peace, Happiness and Joy. It has also to be mentioned to them that if they have success, but not happiness, it is all waste. And one more thing that needs to be mentioned here is that Happiness comes to us only when we give happiness to others, and do not disturb the balance which nature has created around us. If we respect the phenomenon, if we show respect to the planets, to winds and waters which make our life possible, we shall regain our dignity as well as our joy in being. This is the Moral Corrective needed to re-build a society which believes in the well-being of creation as a whole.
[Dr. Jernail Singh Anand has authored 175 plus books of which 11 are epic poems. He won the Seneca Award [Italy], the Charter of Morava [Serbia], Franz Kafka [Ukraine, Germany & Check Rep.] and Maxim Gorky Award [Russia]. His name adorns the Poets Rock in Serbia. He is President of the International Academy of Ethics. [ethicsacademy.co.in].
like slow motion, every detail is exceptionally clear,
every sprout of grass brings joy,
branches become soft, less prone to breaking.
After a strong wind, we wander in the countryside,
the colours of the fields deepen, gleaming in the light,
bare hillsides, snow turned into shadows,
the wind penetrates our clothes, as we lie on the hillside for a while,
the earth gently trembles, vibrating through our ribs,
lifting a clod of soil reveals
rows of white roots as fine as hair,
those were the innocent days, like birch trees, free and melancholic,
you thought you would stay in this city forever,
in old Slavic yellow houses,
with vinyl records, brass candlesticks, green lattice windows,
the hazy, enigmatic gaze of old photographs,
drinking until late at night, sometimes we wouldn’t say anything,
just listening to the darkness outside,
as if expecting something to happen,
yet nothing ever did.
You walk home alone slowly,
on the quiet, deserted street corner, a lilac tree
emits a faint but persistent fragrance,
like those friends who have long departed this world.
Silence at Nightfall
It’s already too late, to pursue the study of life,
but studying death is nothing more than listening
to a vague whisper through the bushes,
as if something is about to happen,
like a small glass jar of a streetlamp
rises on water, delicately
wavering with small fishes of flickering flame.
Words on the doormat in front of the door,
How do they resist the winter floods?
Talk about rainy days, heatwaves, or distant battlefields
can also bring about dangerous moments, truth
swings between a dependence on things and a dependence on people.
“You are to bring Harbin to Nanjing
instead of bringing Nanjing back to Harbin.”
Deceased loved ones guide me in my dreams,
faith is a matter of geography.
Immersed in the unpredictable,
what you want to do is what others want you to do.
And if you act according to opinions, you will find yourself
in the terror and silence of a Pascalian universe,
where all opinions are nothing more than
your encounters with some people when walking alone at night,
exchanging unclear words with each other
before quickly disappearing into the darkness they came from.
Is it knowledgeable ignorance, or blissful ignorance?
Prometheus warned Sathiel to be careful of fire,
Plato said all writing is a public act,
while you say, writing is rhetoric, which turns people into citizens
and then turns citizens into mobs,
using games to gather thugs in the caves of Rome.
A Cat Looks at Me
A cat halts at the foot of the building,
gazing at me as if looking elsewhere.
Its ears float above the low bushes.
It maintains a walking posture, never sits down
It looks at me as if at an unnamed body,
as if I have no name, no clothes, no identity to be labeled.
My past deeds disappear in the waves at the end of the dam
and the future is just a gaze. I halt my steps
after all, this is a real cat, not a ghost,
A stray, not mine, nor anyone else’s,
It belongs to itself, not a word.
The air between us seems to thicken and grow stale
When its existence on the brink of stepping out of fur
all changes halt along with subtle regrets.
It no longer converts to my standpoint,
but it feels more like a silent blessing and salvation.
It’s just this ordinary and specific cat
quietly stepping out of the vast and blurry array.
It’s not from the childhood libraries and corridors,
the fables of cats chased or followed by people.
In an instant, my existence is laid bare,
my memories and loves turn into shame.
I become ignorant of good and evil, history and labor
with a gentle flick of its ears, I disappear.
After all, this is a genuine cat looking at me
It turns me from an individual into humanity.
My hollow existence like a frozen posture,
one of us must first depart this place,
leaving the other in unnamed death.
A New Poem to Ease the Melancholy
On a spring morning, melancholy lingers,
Surely from dreaming of nameless things again last night.
The revelations it brings are hazy
the grand halls left dim as gods depart,
The stubborn black sheep emerges wrapped in mist everywhere.
Perhaps late loved ones once wore darkened faces,
Sitting by my bedside, gazing at me in deep slumber,
Only to leave disappointed, without a word spoken.
The old house I couldn’t preserve grows shorter and shorter
And cherries the size of thumb tips illuminate the eaves.
Perhaps there were giants treading mountains,
Stacking peaks against the void in a fiery revolution,
And you didn’t know which side to stand on,
You were preoccupied with thoughts,
like a harvest god adorned with flowers,
Forgetting to count pods, grains of salt, seeds, and years.
Perhaps there was a enchanted fairy island,
Lost in treacherous seas,
Taking with it knights crossing the night sea,
And the maiden gazing from the cliffside window.
Or perhaps it’s you, solemn muse of my poetic gaze,
As I toy with words like a brave tin soldier,
Unknowing of good, not calculating human evil.
You lift the veil, pass over my shoulders,
Gaze down upon my harmless play.
I dare not look back.
Your breath brushes against my ears.
Perhaps there’s no evidence of a beach,
Where clear water slowly fills my footprints.
No tangled thickets, nor “cave of ideas”,
Only heat echoing the receding tide’s sound.
A day that begins with poetry may find salvation,
But it’s hard to say how it will engage this day’s daze.
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included seven poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.
