Replying back to a message on what’s app. I am intrigued to write about storytelling. How stories are formed and expressed visually.
Examples of stories:
‘When you are searching for a product ( a plastic figure) and have to run because balloons are being smashed on your head like rocks. When the same rock like ballon smashes on the rickshawallah, he can only look around and show no reaction and just go on cycling.’
Did the story happen in that moment. More than what I would draw, sketch?
‘When you come out from the village and see camels sitting in the middle of the night, and In desperation to share an image, you go on clicking madly to get the right angle, the whole of the camel and then putting on the camera flash to capture the right image. And then hopping on an auto and desperately working on your wifi signal to send the image’
This desperation is in sync with the speed of the auto rickshaw divided by the traffic on the road multiplied by the time of the day which again is multiplied into your pulse rate which subtracted by the level of energy of that moment.
‘When you are overwhelmed and are about to burst into tears but decide to go for a walk, a walk which is not supposed to end because you will jump into the sewage drain or go walking to qutab minar or to the forbidden park where people are mudered for money and your outdated I phone or walking into a tree and refusing to come down because you are not done crying yet.’
‘When your studio space seems like a prison cell and you know three kilometres away there is a chocolate shake you must have and that will inspire you to make some work and so you walk for it and on your way you encounter a dog wearing plastic bags for shoes.
‘When you are lost in the brain and the knees and the eyes and the ears and are told of the midgets who will come eat your balls and special joined bodies which are making love because they are stuck to each other and a creature is running after you and the fish has eaten your third ball and you are running, you are running because you are so unfit to run. And there is not much sun light in the park at midnight. All the monuments are sleeping and you pee inside a tree so then the tree becomes pee tree. And you enter a park because you know it is connected to a colony. And while walking somebody punctures your head which is of a dog who is glued to woman who is glued a man and all have one lover. And the one lover is a confused lover.
Where is the story? Is it on the wall in the studio? Is it now as I write? Is it in the desire to write or is it there because I did not fall into the gutter but I remember it so strongly that I need to write? Why did I feel so miserable to draw on the wall? Why didn’t these stories find their place on the wall?
I know that I was not drawing, but was being drawn and that even when I could walk, move freely in the room. How can you observe in such movements. So was I being drawn at all or just being drawn into a story which I could see formulating? Being drawn means that I am being sketched. My underwear had been kept away from me.
So how did the story form? Where was the drawing? Did I draw, or was drawing audio strokes when I spoke of the white Owls or did I draw on the wall, a story? The complication is that if the story is being told, what makes us fall into a work?
Monuments should be entered from the gate. Why is this a problem when you can climb walls. I can be climbed too. I can be stepped upon. The child behind the empty land was racing away in a broken dead jeep sitting on two cemented bricks, goats were screwing each other on the hill and brave girls (I am a brave girl)were jumping into a boundary of a temple.
Problems mount upon each other making a trash mountain of thoughts. What is a temple? How do I tell that it is holy? I have a problem with holy. Isn’t it good to be a brave pussy and climb the wall of a holy place? Goats and sheeps were dancing in a chain on the hills. There was no exit place. The village had come to an end. The foundation stone of the mall was being laid. Macdonalds was shitting potato burgers.
The problem of the story, is it to be seen or drawn? The trail of humans were passing by and the monument wall was breached. I jumped. My blood sucked by the misquotes, the golf ball smashed my head.
The problem. I am encountering problem again. Did I live the story and if so then what was a doing drawing on the wall? Was it show and tell to the president?
Please tell me what do I come back and make in my studio? Because I am being drawn. And it equivalent to drawing.
I am being drawn:
This means that my body, my wardrobe, my dress is being drawn upon, like you draw upon your dream when you woke up! If you are being chased in a dream, then you wake up and draw upon it. Then you pick up a pencil or a phallus shaped like a breast and you draw it out on paper for others to draw from.
I think how I conclude this is that a story can be fallen into. Lower me so I become a midget. The camera light is not a spot light. Put in my mouth the macro lense. I will eat glue. I should be kissed rightly, said the plastic bag outside the monument gate.
Did I cheat ? Or is this how thoughts are shaped? That I can not draw stories but I am drawn to stories?
A letter is written by a woman to her father. She addresses her concerns of the relationship she has shared with him. I enter this space. I intervene or do something to the story. I am not listening, or is this listening? So there is a way to listen to a story? So what I draw is what I listened to?