Tag Archives: art practice

Lunch

The importance of making a good lunch can pretty much decide how wonderful an artist really is. So, you see it’s quite simple. Maybe I should work on my culinary skills before I even attempt to produce any art-work. Maybe I should give up on art-work altogether, and just cook lunches.

He made great lunches and target paintings

His paintings were cool, disengaged and impersonal. Sometimes, I wish I could be cool, disengaged and impersonal without guilt. Damn those lunches.

Sharam aur Haya: Capitalizing on Offences

Guilt:

  1. The state of having committed an offense
  2. Remorse caused by feeling responsible for some offense

I have been interested in guilt for a long time. I think most people are. We are not guiltless. I refuse to believe that anyone can completely let go of guilt. Shame is another thing altogether. But guilt and shame do go hand in hand.

Beyond the semantics, however, I have been considering guilt. I am guilty of the offence of numbness. I am guilty of the offence of bystander’s apathy. I am guilty of the offence of airing my opinion but then forgetting about it and sleeping in my warm, comfortable bed and going to work in the morning (to air my opinion some more) and so on. Such is my guilt.

Me: smiling in the face of adversity - or: completely not giving a shit

What can one woman do? I am a woman without shame for a lot of people. They see me and they see no shame. But what do they know? The burden of my guilt and my helplessness is my own to bear – and so is my shame.

I have lofty justifications for what I do. I cannot claim to be pompous and self-satisfied but I am reasonably (and unreasonably) certain about all the choices I have made. Yet, I cannot explain my weariness. Why am I so tired? I don’t even know what to feel. Perhaps, the world is beyond my understanding afterall. I spent so many years trying to be aware and conscientious and I learnt compassion somewhere along the way. This fatigue is inexplicable. Everything that happens isn’t my fault!

Sometimes I feel compelled to make work about anything that would make a difference. But my heart gives up. I feel mildly retarded for being so passive in a world that is crazy. Should I have to?

Here I am, with so many questions. And tired. So tired.

The God of Love

consuming assumptions

why am i still apologizing?
guilt: the state of having committed an offense; remorse caused by feeling responsible for some offence
 
inhaling poison day and night. talking non stop. i watched the sun go down behind the tall tall monsters today. the moon is directly overhead here sometimes. how strange. while i spoke of feudals and pawns, i watched the sun, orange and gold in my peripheral vision. can one go blind peripherally? what do they think of me? do they wonder as i wonder? what do they see?
 
soon i will go back to start and collect 200 and things will try to be the same. wonder where they all are.
 
sometimes i remember. sometimes i have to remember.

 

April 2007 (I think). That was a long time ago but does that even matter?

Time is strange. In my art-practice (silly as that sounds) I have tried to ignore time altogether. I remember spending a lot of time bullshitting about my own ideas of the present not being possible at all. Now that I look back, it all seems rather silly. But that could just be my usual self-deprecation talking. I’m always looking back, belittling myself in hopes of achieving some twisted understanding of myself in humility. But that too, is bullshit. I’m just looking for something.

I remember when I was looking for freedom. And it was sweet (like revenge -bittersweet):

March 14, 2007

yuengling

your hand in mine. such a perfect day. i should cut my hand off. tyranny and cruelty are imagined violations. sometimes i wish i could turn it back and turn it around. but it is too late. i just didn’t understand. in this amber haze, i can only sigh and relent. repent. look back turn back. but nothing. no voice no hand.
it’s time. to give it up. to let it go. i let it go. so there.
who are you when i’m not watching? it’s too late, too late now. maybe that’s why my story brought me here. to move. movement like motions. sensations of sensations. moments of moments.
today on the train i thought about spaces. i make spaces. white ones. purple ones. on my body. my body unraveled with desire of things past. the piano plays. people dance sometimes across my mind. such beautiful landscapes. crescendo. rain and snow. what do you see now? did you even see me at all?
not really. i couldn’t even see myself. here in these big wide open spaces i see myself. flying in a red biplane with two yellow dots. the thing of dreams. the red biplane of my dreams. you sent me a picture of it once. where did you find that picture? where did it come from? what did you want from me?
questions that will never be answered.
the piano plays on.
outside the orange globes and the rain go hand in hand. your hand in mine. our hands.
turn it around and you’ll see the mark you made. nothing takes it away. not one thing. not anything. i can stay here for as long as i want and wish it all away. sometimes in my dreams nothing changed. and maybe that is frightening. i never knew who you were. it was all in my head. who were you? who are you?
now i am myself.

 

And now… What concerns me now is so different. But is it? Can one change an approach completely? Sometimes I remember myself as somebody else. Sometimes I remember being me. The complete fantasy of memory is a wonderful past-time. Spinning tales round and round. Who am I? Am I the same that I was? Will I ever be anyone other than me?

The constants are something to consider here. The fantasy of memory is elusive and dangerously seductive. Like the game of chinese-whisper, facts turn into fiction. The fiction of memory, therefore, becomes a cornerstone or even, a point of origin for nostalgia.

I am concerned about nostalgia these days. If I look back, who do I see? Where do my ideas about myself/the world come from? Is truth important? Can fiction create further realities/fictional realities?

das Verstehen vs. das verstand

(understanding as a general concept and understanding as a faculty of the human mind)

 In trying to understand Kant and his rant, I have seriously started to consider transcendentalism and how it might be behind some of my beliefs. I was watching “Little Women” (I read the book eons ago but recently found the 1994 film) and I noticed the emphasis on transcendentalist thought. It is hardly a mystery, considering the author of the book had transcendentalist parents (I found that bit of information on the internet).

What interests me the most is the notion of an ideal spiritual state that “transcends” the physical and empirical and can only be realized through the individual’s intuition. This would make intuition more important than intellect. There are some things I know before experience. Then there are things I know after. I sometimes find myself relying purely on intuition and not experience. Experience comes later and perhaps reinforces whatever it is I just happen to know. Perhaps I am trying to force this understanding into the idea of transcendentalism.

I found myself in a situation last week when I had to “justify” my (much criticized) teaching methods. I used the word intuition a lot and then realized that as usual I could not articulate my intentions as well as I had conceived them. It was then I realized that my new mission is to completely understand what exactly I am doing (quite successfully, I might add but which could just be a fluke) so I can add to it and make it better or so to speak. Thus, on this brave quest I am compelled to read as much as I can to discover the true nature of my intentions.

I had read somewhere that this is the age of cynicism and nihilism. Or maybe even that is obsolete now. I just know that I must have a purpose or I cannot justify the act of living to myself. And so, here I am trying to understand understanding.

Articulation is important. It drives the vultures away like a hunting rifle.

Coming back to the event that triggered this brave venture into my very soul: my critic demanded an explanation for my methods. What exactly is my method? I believe in guiding a student to her/his own mind and experience. But before that I believe in guiding a student to the core of her/his being. What is being? Is it a metaphysical substance? A feeling? An intuitive realm where all knowledge resides? I believe in a spiritual mind – a mind that is capable of knowing all there is to know.

Next, I feel the true path to this spiritual mind comes from self knowledge. And then the knowledge of the world follows. How experience fits into this still eludes me somewhat. I can almost put words to it. There is some knowledge beyond experience and experience follows?

And as far as guidance is concerned, there are tricks. Magic tricks. The carrot and the stick, uncomfortable questions on beliefs, love and more love. How can any form of guidance exist without compassion? Without love for the human race (sentimental, I know) how can anyone teach at all?

My practice involves more than making art-work. It involves teaching and guiding towards a spiritual realm beyond the confines of organized religion and its doctrines. It involves “transformation” (a term given to me by a former teacher) of the human condition/experience. It then becomes a worthwhile practice. I am still developing my own sense of morality and integrity. This excludes religion and includes compassion and common sense.

I am still nervous. Just a few more hours to go and then I will be at the hospital. I haven’t slept a wink.