SWARN

Today I talked to Swarn.

It is already the end of the afternoon but the temperature seems as high as at midday. I'm strolling around Los Feliz with a friend. On north Vermont Ave, we pass by an immaculate white temple. It is a square building with onion shaped cupolas. We can't figure out what kind of temple it is, so we decide to get closer. 

At the entrance door, a skinny Indian man is sitting on a metal chair. He tells us this is a Sikh temple. "From the Sikh religion," he says. He agrees to let us in and comes with us to a locker room. There is a high shelf with tiny compartments in it. "You leave your shoes here," says Swarn. "And you put this on your head," he adds. He points at a big basket full of yellow, orange and royal blue headscarves. Then, Swarn shows the piece of fabric tied on his own head to make sure that we understand what he just said. Swarn doesn't seem to have an age: his eyes are lively but some of his teeth are missing. He has been living in the U.S. for thirty years, and has worked at the temple for only four months. Before that, he was working at a motel. When his boss stopped paying him, he had to leave. He says it was tough for a while. He lost his apartment and couldn't find another one without a job. So he came to the temple. Now his job is to take care of the building. He also have a place to sleep, on the second floor. Every morning he opens the temple at 8am and closes at 9 in the evening.

My friend and I walk through the hall and enter an empty silent room. The floor is covered with  rugs. In the center, there is a large square that looks like an altar full of holy objects. Behind it on the wall, a wide picture of the Golden Temple of Amritsar, in the North of India. This place is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. I remember spending one night there when I was backpacking through India a few years ago. Everyone was welcome to take a shower and sleep for free in the temple compound. The generosity of this community has stayed with me until that day.
 

We stop at the altar and look around. Two bearded men wearing turbans, and sitting in the far end of the room, are watching us. We greet them in silence and sit down. The men start to play music and sing. It is a simple and beautiful music. Then, Swarn puts a napkin in my hand. "Both hands," he says. So I take the napkin in both of my hands. He puts two large spoons of a brownish thick mixture on it. It is sweet and greasy. My friend and I look at each other, intimidated by the setting, the music, and Swarn's kindness. "Come on Sunday, at 9am. There's two hundred, three hundred people here. Black, White, everyone comes." We ask Swarn what is that food. "Flour, sugar, and butter. Special butter," he says. "It's the message from God."

A man wearing a large orange turban enters the room. He bows, throws a bundle of dollars on the altar, walks around it, salutes the priests and exits. Another man approaches the altar, bows with his hands on his forehead, moves them to his heart, and finally kneels down on the floor. He remains with this head on the floor for a while. We decide to get out of the temple, so I can take a picture of Swarn. But when we get there, the sun is disappearing behind the roofs. I decide to come back the following day.

 

The next day, nothing has changed. Swarn is sitting at the same spot at the entrance of the temple. The priests, Ajit Singh and Sohan Singh, are standing outside with him. They recognize me right away. One of them goes inside and brings back a warm cup of Indian Chai. The flavor of the spices and sweet milk is delicious. Swarn poses seriously even though he looks intimidated by the priests' presence. Then, when it is time for the picture, the priests strike a solemn pose, raise their heads, looking in the far distance. They become monumental figures of authority. I trigger my camera. 

 

AMBER

Today I talked to Amber.

I enter the Paparazzi Hair Studio that stands between a shoe repair shop and a restaurant in Sherman Oaks. It is Sunday and Amber, my hair stylist and the manager of place, opened the studio especially for me and another client.

The first time I came here was a month ago and I was thrilled with my hair cut. I immediately called my mother and friends to tell them that I had found my new hair stylist. I love how Amber works. She literally sculpts hair. She is focused and extra precise. What I also appreciate is that she doesn’t make small talk. Hair stylists who bombard me with millions of questions bore me to death. On the contrary Amber is mellow. She seems grounded yet energetic. Her clothes are simple but her hair style stands out. She has a curly red Mohawk, and both sides of her head are shaved with drawings in them.

Rap music fills the empty studio. Solomon, Amber’s eleven-year-old son, is sprawled on a soft couch next to the entrance door. Amber starts to cut my bangs. “Where are you from?” I ask. “I’m from L.A. But I've got family in Denmark and Sweden,” she answers. “My grandfather was a jazz musician. He was traveling a lot and had children all over the world. Thanks to him I got to travel too and I saw a lot of places!” she says. Her grandfather is Don Cherry. He was a cornet and trumpet player, and played with John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, and Archie Shepp to name only a few. Tiny bits of hair fall on my eyes and mouth. I try to blow them away. Amber continues. “The good thing about my grandfather is that he kept us connected. We’re a big family now.”

Solomon looks bored. From the other side of the room, he shoots questions at his mom about some kind of contract. It makes me curious. “What does your son do?” I ask. “He does music. And I’m his manager,” she answers. She tells me she has invested in music equipment so he can create beats. “I was into the music gang myself,” she says.

In the 90’s, Amber was a rapper and her artist name was Cobra Red. Her band was the 5 Footaz. “We chose this name because we were all short,” she adds, and then laughs. Amber started cutting hair because she needed a day job. “Music is a dirty gang, you know. I was dying down.” She hands me a mirror to let me check my bangs. “You need everyday money. So I started doing hair and I found a new passion,” she smiles widely. “People come from all around,” she adds. Recently a new client of hers flew all the way from Japan to have her hair done. It doesn’t surprise me. Her style is fresh, a little crazy, and perfectly executed.

Amber hands me a brush to remove the sticky hair from my face. My bangs look great. Then Salomon comes closer and sits down into a chair. His feet can hardly reach the floor. I ask him what music he loves. He giggles and rocks from side to side. “Rap,” he says. “And what else?” I ask –“Hip hop,” he hesitates shyly. Amber tells him to answer seriously, as if it was a real interview. Salomon is intimidated. But after a long silence he finally enumerates: “Naughty By Nature. Eminem. MC Lyte” and then he falls silent again. “He likes old school type of hip hop,” Amber shouts out on her way to her desk.

It is picture time. We all go out of the studio. Solomon strikes a cool pose and Amber laughs. In front of the camera she is totally in charge. She tries out groovy poses, squeezes her Mohawk between her hands and suddenly freezes. Ventura Boulevard freezes with her. This girl is amazing. Whatever she does, she’s all about rhythm.

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