The element of death has been quite prevalent this year, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. When is a good time to accept death? When is it ever welcomed upon arrival? At the end, on the precipice, people will always long for just a little more time, and that’s what saddens me. So much of life is spent looking forward to tomorrow, a lot of it is postponed, unaddressed, and unlived.
On a little more lively note, or not, I feel like I’ve arrived at a junction in life, there are many paths but something lacks in all of them, and there’s something coming, I don’t know it, but it’s always been coming.
Maybe it’s death. Ha!
Question – Do artists all sign their work? How do you feel about signing your work? I find it a bit strange doing it but I understand it. Since venturing back into ‘art’, I’ve signed 2 pieces (because I seldom finish anything, and I don’t sell anything…for now, we can have ambition can’t we?).
Another question – Have people experienced theft? I mean plagiarism or others displaying your work as their own? I’m very curious to hear about your experiences. The digital world can be unpleasant to partake in.
Final question – How has death affected you this year?
To know a person, is it driven by passion? Intrigue? The human propensity for social connection? What lies beneath the strategically manufactured shell of man? Layers and layers, a man within a man within a man further shrouded in perceptions and opinion. Personality, predelictions, convictions. How do you know a person? Know at once all of the things that constitute them? Their elaborately constructed veneers and the essence quietly harboured, seldom expressed unconsciously.
And the human soul, have we preserved it?
On another note, I miss travelling. This pandemic has made me realise that I am a city person only when I can be in many different cities. But now I would really appreciate some peace and quiet, the sea, the stars, a forest, the mountains, clean air.
I have been quasi living in a lab with no windows for the past week. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so intensely submerged in the same activities for that duration. All white white white and fluorescent lights, 60 pages or so. This is the nature of my work and I love it, but some sunlight would really do those places some good I think.
So, following my week of unceasing processes, I did not have the quiet weekend that I had hoped for. And I sat in various corners of the house dodging arguments and nursing the vestige of a headache from Thursday that lingered in my ears. I drank a lot of tea, and convinced myself that I had developed tinnitus. It would make sense.
My dreams too did not fall short of this trend of undesirable experiences this weekend-very strange fragmented dreams. I’m starting to think that maybe the entire week was a dream. It makes sense.
In one corner of the house on Saturday morning, I really wanted to create a dark painting, very red and dark, and so I began to and unsurprisingly didn’t finish.
In another corner of the house, Sunday afternoon, It was a little quieter, I began a shadowy drawing with charcoal and my fingerprints, an unmatched combination!
While trying to reach a train station (we were lost, a lot of aimless walking happened that afternoon), we walked passed a little quaint detached building on the corner of the road, with a board that essentially read ‘…arabic art’ and that was all we needed to read to go in very quickly.
And inside were a collection of prints from a famous Sudanese etcher: Mohammad Omar Khalil. And honestly, aside from my connection and intrigue with the loneliness pervading his work, I was really fascinated with the depth and contrast in all the prints. The black looked beyond just ink on paper, it was almost like looking into the night, different shades of night.