The air was still and the sky heavy; not entirely dark, nor entirely quiet. Around a fire, footsteps shuffled through occasional murmurs. It was hard to hear the trees and there wasn’t much of a breeze. A deer made an alarm call, once. The quietness that followed felt as though the fire turned its volume down. We stared into the darkness, waiting for our ears to direct us. Nothing. Silence.
I waited—aware, listening, searching, and surveying the taste in my mouth and the rhythm of my breath. A flash of lightning startled the ground. Did we hear something through the thunder rumbling in the distance? The wait continued. One stayed alert while the others grazed…
In another place, I embraced the scorching sun as I rode my bike to the school where I taught. The route took me along cotton and paddy fields that extended into the horizon. The same crops looked different each day but the routine of sowing, growing and harvesting was similar to enrolling, schooling and graduating. Nurturing is a routine.
Soundscapes filled my childhood home—my parents’ music practice sessions with the electronic tambura’s drone in the background, often lulled me to sleep. Over the years, I got used to parallel sounds emanating through the home: a carnatic music lesson from one room, bossanova from another, a water pump motor, clanking utensils, and the telephone ringing. It is hard to explain how one breaks into song with a borrowed voice. During quieter moments, I observed designs and patterns on needlework, embroidery and other handcrafted artefacts that adorned our home. Repetitive patterns interest me because they create rhythm and gradually sensitize us into resisting deviations. However, improvisation gives us opportunities to willfully deviate, explore unknown territories, and return. I improvise in each painting like exploring varying renditions of a musical composition, or retelling a story.
When I am in my studio, imaginary worlds open. My approach to painting is similar to entering a house with multiple doorways. Drawing is one of the many entry points; but at times I begin with a field of colour or a specific spatial arrangement.
I have never gotten bored of drawing the human figure. With acrylics, I experience an urgency and mild anxiousness about the paint drying too quickly as I mix, blend and delineate—a forehead, nose, cheeks, jaws, chin and then the eyebrows and eyes. The face and body that I paint seem familiar and yet strangely new every time. Reels of a make-up artist play in my mind as the brush smudges highlights on the nose. The bristles move over the canvas grain like feet that are used to navigating rugged terrain. The figures call for movement, even in the breath of a sleeping figure. A voice from some audio media speaks into my ears as blaring horns and rattling vehicles leak through shut windows. Two parallel narratives play simultaneously—one from the audio, and the other in my painting. Spaces pause for hues that hum and talk to shadows.
I rediscovered the beauty of Origami during my teaching interactions with children. The forms, patterns and rhythms that emerge from folding and unfolding paper allow me to play with both the physical and illusional spaces within my paintings. In contrast to the harsh realities of urban construction and the arbitrariness of raising and erasing shelters, paper folding helps me contemplate on the process of making and shaping spaces that hold gentleness, flexibility and grace. I find solace in building imagined worlds that aim to rise above the flatness, creating room for people to carry evocations into the future.