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from Triple Canopy


Excerpts of pieces up for National Magazine Awards

Apr 30, 2009

The National Magazine Awards began recognizing excellence in online magazine journalism in 2001. Looking at a publication’s unique editorial identity on the web, the category recognizes excellence in the web site of print magazines as well as online-only magazines that publish original content.

One of this year’s nominees among sites that receive fewer than 1 million average monthly unique visitors is the online-only Triple Canopy (
www.canopycanopycanopy.com ), which was launched in 2007. This is its first National Magazine Award nomination.

Triple Canopy collaborates with writers, artists and researchers on projects that deal with culture and politics. It aims to present work and ideas informed by a multitude of disciplines and perspectives, and to disseminate them among a broad and diverse audience. Most of the magazine's articles are presented with multimedia elements, such as videos and interactive games.

In "Flash Yr Idols," writer Bidisha Banerjee takes readers “from Kolkata and the universe within Krishna’s mouth to Vermont and the pleasures of virtual prayer.” The piece was presented with a video game in the magazine’s fifth issue. From “Flash”:

“At sunrise, like a martinet, before the city of Kolkata grew restive, my grandmother rang her hand bell; then she ground sandalwood into paste. With some of it she adorned our family pantheon, saving the rest for her cheeks. Fresh flowers were delivered along with the milk and reverently tossed at our idols. The day began. Commerce, gossip, traffic jams, cooking, and family feuds did, too.

Everyone knew that on Thursdays between 2:30 and 5 p.m., subtle planetary movements rendered our own stirrings inauspicious; as the sun glared the world into submission, we loosened our pajama strings and fell into a deep sleep. These stupors were different from the siestas we took on other weekdays; on Thursday afternoons, we dared not do anything important, even in our dreams. Was it mere astrology, divine doctrine, or family predilection that also led to bans on trimming our nails after sunset and on learning to swim?

Every evening, when he sat down to eat, my grandfather put a tiny bit of food and water aside. He was a man of the world. He idealized the sixteenth-century Mughal emperor Akbar, cried when President Nixon, Mother Teresa, and Princess Diana died, and railed against Gandhi. As a young Communist enthralled with Subhas Chandra Bose, the Bengali nationalist who brought troops to support the Japanese during World War II, he had flung away his sacred thread. He still hated the stringy caste mark, with its pernicious branding of division. He never failed to feed our Brahmin ancestors, but toward the end of his life, when illness prevented him from carrying out annual rites for his father, he smiled and said, “By now he’s been reborn. He’s playing somewhere—he doesn’t need my devotions.””

In "Star Wars: A New Heap," writer John Powers looks at “Star Wars” and modernism. From “Star Wars,” featured in the magazine’s fourth issue:

“Thirty years ago, American film audiences pressed low in their seats as a massive white wedge of machine parts passed overhead. With the release of George Lucas’s Star Wars, the smooth, silvery flying saucers that had dominated postwar sci-fi became embarrassing reminders of an obsolete vision of the future. Lucas envisioned a World of Tomorrow dominated by black, white, and gray; hard-edged, massive, and inorganic forms, covered with a salty acne of apparatus. The film’s visual program was a departure from the saucers and occasional capsules writ large that sci-fi audiences had grown accustomed to, but its colorless symmetrical ships should have been recognizable to at least a small portion of its audience—those familiar with contemporary art.

In a 1967 essay on minimalism, Clement Greenberg, America’s most influential critic, could have been describing Star Wars: “Everything is rigorously rectilinear or spherical. Development within a given piece is usually repetition of the same modular shape, which may or may not be varied in size.” Greenberg rejected minimalism as pedestrian. “Minimal works are readable as art,” he wrote, “as almost anything is today, including a door, a table, or a blank sheet of paper.” Perhaps because of its fantastic nature, the Death Star has never been recognized as an essential work of minimalism—but it is one. Its destruction has never been acknowledged as a turning point for modernism—but it was one.”


Abigail Azote is a staff writer for Media Life.




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