...Numerous lines...
One after the other, each line gives definition to the previous one. Each forms its own identity, physical or meta-physical, when it appears. White pages transform into sermons, Black screens vamp into multitudinous streaks of colour. From its inception to its end, in solitude or in company, each line is a bearer of meaning; purposeful, descriptive, definitive, informative, creative and participatory, in the entire assemblage.
Often, a line does more, than connect two points. Some lines work in succession, others work in their discontinuity.
A collection of them, can convey meanings of serious proportions. One line can make, or break, cross, or connect. An appropriate line can create history, an erroneous one, blasphemy. Broken or continuous, rhythmic or random, old or new, they all work in synchronism…at the end of which, we see the bigger picture...
...A well-written piece of prose or a well-drawn piece of architecture!
P.S: I draw for a living and write for existing. Lines, thus are my constant companions and best modes of expression. The above piece is a tribute to them.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Spring!
Temperatures have crossed over the 40 deg F line. The last snow-storm went by, it seems, as usual, without bidding adieu. It’s time to dry clean the winter coats and woolen wear and pack them in mothballs. Sweaters and scarves have to be replaced by skirts and kurtas. Snow boots will step behind, to make place for “jootees” and slippers. Spring fashion has already hit the store windows.
Trees will soon start showing signs of life. Days have already become longer and the skies are picture-postcard blue. Winter seems to have passed us by nonchalantly.
Windows at home, have started staying open. The fire escape will soon regain its social-pad status. Before long, the Air conditioner will have to be re-installed. The old Italian couple, next door, will soon start planting their garden in my backyard, accompanied by the clink of their wine glasses and loud Italian chatter.
The gym has become crowded, as women flock to shape up for the impending summer. ‘Happy hours’ are announcing themselves all over the city. My pushcart breakfast provider has started displaying “Cold-coffee” and “Iced Tea” in his regular menu.
Manhattan is going from black-and-white to colour, seems like Spring is here!
Trees will soon start showing signs of life. Days have already become longer and the skies are picture-postcard blue. Winter seems to have passed us by nonchalantly.
Windows at home, have started staying open. The fire escape will soon regain its social-pad status. Before long, the Air conditioner will have to be re-installed. The old Italian couple, next door, will soon start planting their garden in my backyard, accompanied by the clink of their wine glasses and loud Italian chatter.
The gym has become crowded, as women flock to shape up for the impending summer. ‘Happy hours’ are announcing themselves all over the city. My pushcart breakfast provider has started displaying “Cold-coffee” and “Iced Tea” in his regular menu.
Manhattan is going from black-and-white to colour, seems like Spring is here!
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Moving Windows
Give me a moving window and I am lost. It’s almost as though I’ ve been a captive in a cell without a window for years. All my life, I have been one of those “window-seat” persons. From my childhood days to the present, this is the best way to shut me up.
(I think it possibly originated when Mom would ask me to “look out of the window” when a T.C would approach us in the train. Apparently for a very long time after I had turned 5, I could pass off to still be under it. Mom always optimized this to her advantage and never bought me a full ticket (a.k.a adult fare ticket) in the train, for quite a few years. Yes, you can safely say, that my ‘cheating the system to save some money’ habit, is a much-valued inheritance.)
In a window-seat, I can sit and stare, without talking for hours. Time and again when I have done this, (in a train/ car), I have often been misunderstood to be arrogant, quiet, reserved, feeling out-of-place etc by my fellow travelers. But that’s usually me taking my time-out, from being the social, talkative person that I am, to becoming a recluse, engaging myself with the sights/ sounds/ smells that the window brings.
Looking out of the window, I acquaint myself with the outside. The window is a threshold, between the world and me, both of us moving in sync with each other, one ahead, the other behind. The window reveals different worlds, usually ones different than mine. Sometimes tinted, sometimes not, the windows always speak. They tell me stories and I listen. They show me sights that I see and emanate smells that I experience.
Not all windows engender a dialogue. Those that do, are ones in buses, cars and trains (in India), especially when kept open. Mainly, because they are also the most dynamic and interactive. Airplane windows fall more in the reflective category; the monotony in their view instigates my mind to reflect. Subway windows, reflect the inner scenes on themselves and ironically, superimpose the ‘inside’ on the ‘outside’.
Moving windows make voyeurism legal. They exist so they may be looked out of, sometimes even looked in to. Moving windows are frames in motion, their movement being the essence of their existence that perhaps lures everyone from children to adults, to window-seats.
It’s almost like sitting by a painting in process, a story in progress and a journey in rhythm; a collage of multiple images like a slide-show, where the slides proceed in an iota of a second...and I lose myself in what has gone and what shall soon be gone.
(I think it possibly originated when Mom would ask me to “look out of the window” when a T.C would approach us in the train. Apparently for a very long time after I had turned 5, I could pass off to still be under it. Mom always optimized this to her advantage and never bought me a full ticket (a.k.a adult fare ticket) in the train, for quite a few years. Yes, you can safely say, that my ‘cheating the system to save some money’ habit, is a much-valued inheritance.)
In a window-seat, I can sit and stare, without talking for hours. Time and again when I have done this, (in a train/ car), I have often been misunderstood to be arrogant, quiet, reserved, feeling out-of-place etc by my fellow travelers. But that’s usually me taking my time-out, from being the social, talkative person that I am, to becoming a recluse, engaging myself with the sights/ sounds/ smells that the window brings.
Looking out of the window, I acquaint myself with the outside. The window is a threshold, between the world and me, both of us moving in sync with each other, one ahead, the other behind. The window reveals different worlds, usually ones different than mine. Sometimes tinted, sometimes not, the windows always speak. They tell me stories and I listen. They show me sights that I see and emanate smells that I experience.
Not all windows engender a dialogue. Those that do, are ones in buses, cars and trains (in India), especially when kept open. Mainly, because they are also the most dynamic and interactive. Airplane windows fall more in the reflective category; the monotony in their view instigates my mind to reflect. Subway windows, reflect the inner scenes on themselves and ironically, superimpose the ‘inside’ on the ‘outside’.
Moving windows make voyeurism legal. They exist so they may be looked out of, sometimes even looked in to. Moving windows are frames in motion, their movement being the essence of their existence that perhaps lures everyone from children to adults, to window-seats.
It’s almost like sitting by a painting in process, a story in progress and a journey in rhythm; a collage of multiple images like a slide-show, where the slides proceed in an iota of a second...and I lose myself in what has gone and what shall soon be gone.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Keys!
I am an only child; I do not have siblings. Never felt the need for any too. Except, when both my parents ganged up against me, and my arguments alone did’nt stand ground. Perhaps then, a sibling who could be part of my defense team would have helped. But otherwise, I didn’t really need anyone.
Both my parents are professionals and have worked throughout the time I was raised. My Mom proudly narrates that she was back to work three months after I was born. She is also proud of the fact that I was raised in a crèche, run by a neighbour, since I was 6 months old.
Since I was 10, I have been spending a lot of time alone at home. Until that age, Mom (She’s a teacher) and I both went to school at 12 pm and got back at 6 pm, conveniently synchronized.
At 10, when I graduated onto the fifth grade, I had morning school, from 7 am to 1pm. Since I was old enough according to Mom, I was handed a set of house-keys and allowed to stay home alone after school. Thus; I had my first set of house keys at the age of 10. That, in retrospect, was a lot of freedom, at a rather young age, which none of my friends enjoyed.
By handing me the house keys, Mom had entrusted me with the responsibility of the house for six hours everyday. Six hours of being alone at home, every weekday, for the next 13 years of my life, was an important lesson in responsibility, independence and in a little way, house management.
The keys gave me independence. I no longer had to wait in a crèche, until Mom came home from work. And when I went home, I had the house all to myself. I started to make my own decisions at a very young age.
Time spent alone at home, made me think a lot, so I became frequently introspective. Since I am quite talkative and there were no siblings to talk with, I spoke to myself; sometimes aloud, at others through prose or poetry. It is around then, that I began to write. Being home, alone, also made me responsible, not just towards the house, but generally towards my own life and possessions.
As I grew up in these circumstances, I started valuing my time spent with myself. It became an important part of my life. I also acquired the skill of withdrawing myself from the world whenever I felt like it, much to their annoyance. It didn’t matter how many people or how much noise surrounded me, I could contract into my shell and delve.
It is through this one act, of handing over a set of house keys to me, at a very young age, that my Mom indirectly introduced me to qualities such as independence, responsibility and decision-making. By having me be home alone, she unknowingly instilled in me, value for time spent with myself. In those moments of being home-alone, I gravitated towards expressing myself through poetry and prose, both essential parts of me, even today.
It’s almost as if the keys opened the doors to growing up.
Both my parents are professionals and have worked throughout the time I was raised. My Mom proudly narrates that she was back to work three months after I was born. She is also proud of the fact that I was raised in a crèche, run by a neighbour, since I was 6 months old.
Since I was 10, I have been spending a lot of time alone at home. Until that age, Mom (She’s a teacher) and I both went to school at 12 pm and got back at 6 pm, conveniently synchronized.
At 10, when I graduated onto the fifth grade, I had morning school, from 7 am to 1pm. Since I was old enough according to Mom, I was handed a set of house-keys and allowed to stay home alone after school. Thus; I had my first set of house keys at the age of 10. That, in retrospect, was a lot of freedom, at a rather young age, which none of my friends enjoyed.
By handing me the house keys, Mom had entrusted me with the responsibility of the house for six hours everyday. Six hours of being alone at home, every weekday, for the next 13 years of my life, was an important lesson in responsibility, independence and in a little way, house management.
The keys gave me independence. I no longer had to wait in a crèche, until Mom came home from work. And when I went home, I had the house all to myself. I started to make my own decisions at a very young age.
Time spent alone at home, made me think a lot, so I became frequently introspective. Since I am quite talkative and there were no siblings to talk with, I spoke to myself; sometimes aloud, at others through prose or poetry. It is around then, that I began to write. Being home, alone, also made me responsible, not just towards the house, but generally towards my own life and possessions.
As I grew up in these circumstances, I started valuing my time spent with myself. It became an important part of my life. I also acquired the skill of withdrawing myself from the world whenever I felt like it, much to their annoyance. It didn’t matter how many people or how much noise surrounded me, I could contract into my shell and delve.
It is through this one act, of handing over a set of house keys to me, at a very young age, that my Mom indirectly introduced me to qualities such as independence, responsibility and decision-making. By having me be home alone, she unknowingly instilled in me, value for time spent with myself. In those moments of being home-alone, I gravitated towards expressing myself through poetry and prose, both essential parts of me, even today.
It’s almost as if the keys opened the doors to growing up.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Images of the Season
The coming weekend will see the close of Cristo's art installation at Central Park, titled "The Gates: Central Park, New York, 1979–2005"....easily what this year's winter will be remembered for!
Some images that my walls will wear soon...
Cristo's sketch
Yellow
Silhouette
Some images that my walls will wear soon...
Cristo's sketch
Yellow
Silhouette
Saturday, February 12, 2005
The Colours of Winter
The weekend that passed, had a theme. It was colour.
Not pre-planned, turned out such.
From the insane wish-wash of colour at the newly opened Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) in Manhattan, to the artful expression of darkness, coupled with excellent technical lighting proficience in "Black" (the movie), to the vibrant hues of orange, smeared across the woody, barren and wintery canvas in Central Park....This weekend was about the colours in the New York winter.
The city infamously known to turn "black" in winter, revealed its subtle colourful side.
Manhattan is Modern again....The MOMA is back!
'Black' is beautiful!
Cristo's "Gates" at Central Park are fluttering in the wind, interactive, and 1.089 million yards of orange-yellow fabric pieces, enveloping its 23 miles of dynamic pathways!
All of them are forms of art, at its very best!
Not pre-planned, turned out such.
From the insane wish-wash of colour at the newly opened Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) in Manhattan, to the artful expression of darkness, coupled with excellent technical lighting proficience in "Black" (the movie), to the vibrant hues of orange, smeared across the woody, barren and wintery canvas in Central Park....This weekend was about the colours in the New York winter.
The city infamously known to turn "black" in winter, revealed its subtle colourful side.
Manhattan is Modern again....The MOMA is back!
'Black' is beautiful!
Cristo's "Gates" at Central Park are fluttering in the wind, interactive, and 1.089 million yards of orange-yellow fabric pieces, enveloping its 23 miles of dynamic pathways!
All of them are forms of art, at its very best!
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