Art Acknowledge - Reflections

The course started off with all of us talking about ourselves. We wrote down 30 things that defined us on sheets of paper, made paper planes out them and flew them around class. Then we chose one and illustrated the different aspects to the person. It was quite fun and we got to know quite a lot about the person. I wouldn't say this helped us understand them completely, but we knew a little more about them.
Later on we picked a medium we were comfortable with. We were now supposed to create a piece that would show our explorations, possibly going beyond our limits.
I chose writing as my medium, though I was thinking of choosing illustration, and wrote 'Tale from a Town'.
The writers were supposed to do something that was post-structural and on researching I found out that post-structural pieces of work were 'pro-reader'. It meant that the meaning the author intended was secondary to what the reader would have perceived from the piece.
Thus a reader could extend, interpret, even give a new meaning to the writing.
I realised this was quite challenging. It's not exactly easy to create a piece of writing that allows multiple, possibly contradictory, interpretations.
I'm not sure if I've done this unconsciously though. But I did not intend the writing to be post-structuralist.

The weeks after that were spent discussing socio-environmental issues. We were to put up an exhibition, 3 of them, on those issues. Our first exhibition, we decided was going to be on theme of 'Individuality vs Utopia'. Individuality as in the person we each as individuals want to be, being able to do, believe, practice whatever we want. Utopia would be the common ideologies of the public, usually orthodox and against the 'minorities' in the society, though they (the minority) are more in number.
It turned out to be the only exhibition we put up. We had discussions with two other facilitators, one about social issues, the other about environmental issues. What we needed was, lets say, a look at the other side of the coin. Having expanded our view on things, we were to take a stand on the topic.
The process behind putting up the exhibition itself was a learning. We learnt:
Space Design - where and how the art pieces would go, how the positioning would affect the movement of the crowd in the N3 basement (where it was being held).
Curatorial Note Writing - a write-up on the exhibition, the issue we were dealing with and the various types of work being put up, apparently very crucial for the exhibition in the sense that it was the basis for filtering received art pieces.
Making Posters and Flyers - classic example of VCD, the optimum font size, colours, size of objects and position of all the elements on the paper.
Making a Website - classic example of Graphic Design, again pretty similar to making the posters, we had to consider the size and colour of fonts, pictures, backgrounds, and the general positioning of all the elements on the webpage.

I'll admit it was quite tiresome, trying to figure out what to do and how to do it. With the talks by various people, we just got even more confused. But at the end of the day we managed to pull everything together and put up a pretty good exhibit of the work we'd received and given in ourselves.
I wrote three more pieces (other than Tale from a Town), two poems (Outcast, Shields) and one story (Knotted Infinitely), and put it together in the form of a book. I've put up the pieces on this blog just below.

It's been a pretty cool course. Quite informative on how hectic organising art exhibitions can be. But it's something I wouldn't mind trying again.

Outcast

They say we have freedom.
But from what?
We're stuck in a void
Where the only people
Who rise,
Are those who have
Already risen.
Our words are
The void we are stuck in.
Their words', absolute.
Who said we have freedom?
Who says we're a democracy?

They mock me,
Push me around,
Watch me fall.
And laugh.
I'm not a plaything, a toy.
I'm not an alien.
I'm not so different from them.
I'm no different from you.
Then why treat me this way?

They don't accept it.
"It isn't a way of life."
"It isn't normal."
Is anything normal?
'Majority wins' isn't.
It's just unfair.
My 'condition' they say
Is a 'disease'.
Snaking its way
Through the crowd
Spreading, making them
Fall at its feet.
I've fallen too.
Not at its feet.
But at their feet
Whose every word is
Framed and hung on walls,
Worshipped like Gods,
By those who've
Shunned us all.

Shields

She sat in the corners 

Right at the back. 

Though dark, she would hope 

They’d cut her some slack. 

But the light of their evil 

Would shine, find her out. 

Torture her, torment her 

Till herself she’d doubt. 

Feelings of helplessness 

Would wash over her. 

For days it repeated. 

She soon was a loner. 

It’s not that people

Did not approach. 

She just stayed away. 

Like they would from a roach. 

Running away 

She hid in a shell. 

How she was coping, 

No one could tell. 

Her parents were also 

Kept far at bay. 

They were so in the dark 

They could help in no way. 

She’d created a void 

Where her heart should’ve been. 

From The Wizard of Oz, she was 

The man made of tin. 

Though the sadists soon 

Got tired of their game, 

The shell and her ‘shyness’ 

Were not to wane. 

She wasn’t cold to others. 

She was cold to herself. 

The only love she felt were 

Words of comfort from herself. 

She’d put on a smile 

For those she called friends. 

Everyone around her thought 

She was making amends. 

Alas! They could not have 

Been farther from truth. 

She was still treating 

Herself with the same ruth 

The kids in her class 

Hadn’t treated her with. 

But what had been done 

Could not be undid. 

She felt as worthless 

Two years after. 

Sad and alone she was 

Despite her friends’ laughter. 

Her parents and friends 

Tried to break through 

The many layers around her. 

Some did manage a few. 

Though she’d allowed them 

To let themselves in, 

She could never let them 

Come deep within. 

The Scar of Difference 

Had burned its way through. 

The only way out was 

To build herself anew. 

It was quite a task. 

Would last her for life. 

The only other option: 

To die by the knife. 

Month by month,

Day after day.

Through two years

She’d found her way. 

She’d met a girl,

Her friend transformed. 

Was just like her.

Her heart was warmed.

The layers around her,

Slowly they melted.

Layered still she was though, 

In case she was pelted,

By tormentors again.

Because of difference, so cruel.

Never again did she want 

To be another tool.

She still shields herself

Keeping everything out.

To this day 

She’s walking about.

A Grey Space

In a black and white world,
There's a third shade grey.
A twilight zone.
Here merging thrives.
Indefinity.
Infinity.
What's the difference?
It's all colourless.
Questions of the ignorant.
They'll never know
That it's a space
Free from superstitious stares.
Free from orthodox glares.
Free from any sort of Ism.
Where democracy is not just ideal, but real.
That it's a space
Where they can run in their dreams
Because that is reality.
Where they can be whoever
And whatever, whenever
Without being eccentric.
Weird is the normal.
And everyone is normal.
That it's a space
Shunned by the fearful world
For they cannot even begin to understand it
Unless they enter it themselves.
Immerse themselves in the grey
They're afraid to experience.
Let it wash over them
To help them see beauty in difference.
That it's a space
Where I can be I
And You can be You
And no one can control Us
When we fight for our beliefs
For we wear no shackles
We have no bounds.
The skies are not the limits.
Neither is infinity.

That it's a grey space,
Full of colour.

The Story Of Part Of His Life

I mean no disrespect to anyone. This is just a story. Plainly and simply a story.
Credits to everyone who helped on the sculpture and story of Cancer-man and his 'muse'.

Cancer-man was not always Cancer-man.
He hadn't always had cancerous lumps all over his body.
He hadn't always been cracked up and weak.
He hadn't always been morose and so deathly brown and still.
He hadn't always been sitting in the most uncomfortable position possible.
To him uncomfortable was now comfortable.

John Doe a.k.a. Not-Atul a.k.a. Cancer-man, had been a basketball player, with big-ass muscles. He was most proud of his jersey, which had to be renamed after his unfortunate misfortune.
He was the best player on his college team. He could shoot hoops, dunk, slam dunk, dribble (running around the court like crazy with a ball) and of course, take rebounds.
He loved the game with all his heart.
He was iron stuck to a magnet.
But he loved the chicks that came with the stardom even more.

So it was a big blow when he found out he had cancerous lumps all over his body. He tried chemotherapy, radiation, ayurveda, all sorts of surgeries and treatments.
And while it may have reduced during treatment, the cancer came back immediately after.
Slowly it would grow, eating him, regenerating eternally, till he could bear it no more.
Till he could no longer ignore the name that his jersey now had printed on.

He quit basketball.
In a few months, he quit college, for although the jersey was locked in his cupboard, the memories in his head, and everyone else's, were not.
A few weeks later he quit life. The jersey was still in his cupboard. He couldn't bring himself to burn it or throw it or flush it down the toilet, because of his pride, his pride and the fact that he didn't want a clogged drain.
He decided to retry life when he later got an epiphany and wore the jersey for the rest of his cancerous life. He didn't have to see his nickname, the visual proof, anymore. All the mirrors in the house were removed and he made sure never to turn around near one.

But as he got weaker he got more uncomfortable and more lumpy. He couldn't sit anyway he wanted.
When his friends came to visit, they'd find him in the most oddest of positions. They knew it was uncomfortable only because they'd tried to sit that way at their homes.
His expression became constant - a morose, distant look. His friends at first thought he was pouting, but they knew two seconds later that he wasn't. Soon even the familiar faces he saw stopped coming into his room. Now he was alone.
Until the day he met her.

Her, whose story he (nor I, sadly) does not know...

Silence?

It's a caged world
Full of chaos.
So much noise.
I can't hear me.
The sounds of outside
Will never stop.
I will never rest.
I can never rest.
My thoughts drown in their noise.
Suffocating, being choked.
It's cruel, insensitive.
But they don't understand.
There's some sort of gap.
A lag, maybe?
Silence is obsolete.
It was never to be.
It will never rule.
Noise is inevitable.

Slow, Efficient Torture

DISCLAIMER:
All events (...and characters) in this post are purely fictional. And they are highly exaggerated. Any resemblance may be coincidental, but should not be taken as offensive. Only because it is mostly not true.


There is nothing worse, as a vegetarian, than to eat a piece of fruit only to find a worm or caterpillar in another you were about to eat just then.

It's even worse if one of your family members cut the fruit into pieces. Worst case scenario: you just happen to have paranoia. It feels like everyone in your family is out to get you.

Have you ever felt lost in a conversation your parents are having? Specially because they're talking in a foreign language? Thanks to all that paranoia you'll probably assume they're plotting to kill you or get rid of you in some really unthinkably crazy way, like studying continuously for the rest of your already miserable life (no breaks at all) or maybe send you to some college you don't want to go to.  Or sign you up for classes that are pointless (which you agree to, thinking it might help after all...see they've already brainwashed you). For all you know, you may be right... You might want to reconsider taking those foreign language classes, using the excuse your younger sibling needs help.

Younger siblings, though they too are on the parents 'To-Torture' list, are equally bad. They hope and pray that one day you will go away, leave home, anything, just so they can have the room all to themselves. And if you ask why, they won't know. They just want you gone, since living in the grandparents' room was never an option. I guess it never will be, considering how spooky the room can get at night...

Now you're probably thinking that's all of the family, since grandparents are too sweet to kill anyone and all the others like aunts or cousins don't really figure as immediate family... But you're wrong. Grandparents are evil in their own way.

Face it. Your grandparents are old. They can't see, hear, taste, smell or feel anything properly. They are not what they used to be. So how do you know what you're eating is safe? How do you know they know what they are putting in the food? How can you be sure they know the difference between chalk, turmeric and rat poison?... You'll be lucky if you have fit and healthy grandparents. They'll probably try to kill you some other way. Something unusual... If you've got that family that's high on discipline and craziness, you know that a caterpillar in your food is a message of near doom.

But you should know that there's probably someone behind all this evil, someone out to take revenge, by turning your family against you, just so that they don't have to do all the dirty work. It's slow, efficient torture...