this will be tough. really tough. Entering the hospital in Old Delhi, the corridors of the psychic ward, the problems of the mind, brain. Cognition to altered mind set. Just today was the death of my mothers sister. She was close to 70. The art world offers a path which is worth navigating. But it doesn’t offer science, hospital and answers to my curiosities.
Cambridge has the botanical garden, disused mental asylums. Goldsmith writes that the Phd should be persuasive and is not an extension of a Masters in Fine Arts. Thus the research should be an ORIGINAL contribution.
I am not divided but seeing the two spaces. Its like how Sartre writes – ‘ To perceive, to conceive, to imagine: such are indeed the three types of consciousness by which the same object can be given to us’. I can at this very moment imagine what it feels like to see a patient or listen to a psychiatrist about mental illness.
The art fair is coming. It has no life. It has dead works, paintings, people, installations, food, more people. The hospital has pain. There is pain in the sun light which hits you when you pass through the corridors like I did, to meet a patient brain dead. Very little cognitive skills, or is it motor skills – ability to BLINK.
My mothers sister after her gall bladder operation had stopped moving after coming back home. She could not even turn in the bed. She was not speaking. she barely lived a month.
I had a question i sent to a flat land in europe:
This question came up because everyone has something to say which is bound by logic, reasoning, emotions, memory…..and so there is meaning to everything and this meaning comes from the mind. Can anything exist which is out side of this consciousness?
answer from the flat land, somewhere in europe:
‘meaning itself is a byproduct of consciousness’
The cremation was not easy today. Oil poured over the eyes and mouth of the deceased. On my jacket, particles from the burning wood from a nearby fire came and rested. My turban was filled with it.
Delhi creates a pressure to perform. There is an order to things. Religious orders, rituals to be followed which HAVE to be practical.
the funeral home, the gurudwara, pick of the ashes, the gurudwara. In-between I should go on with my performance as an artist in the city. The drive from model town to my home passes through ISBT and a long corridor highway. Its strange to be on it.
Psychiatry is a science. I keep on drawing in my sketchbooks. I am waiting for emails to come which will make me momentarily happy. I have to have what is not possible.
something is not wrong, its not right either. But this is the way things are.
Confool is a confused fool. a person who is a fool, an idiot but is confused.