If its proper, its not art.
Me, My Thoughts, Rants and Raves.
If its proper, its not art.
Yes, i may be a nudist, but at least i am not vulgar, i am not one of them ( men ) who ogle at women, who strip them in their heads the moment they set their gaze at her, reducing her to an object, an object to quench their sexual urge, voiding them of all respect that they say they have for her. I am anything but at least not a hypocrite who would go out of their marital commitments to sleep and fondle with other women, while telling their own wife to bloody stay home and work and see no other man other than them, and if she does as much as sets her foot out without their will, they beat a her or even take her life, all in the the name of honour. Honour which is in respect and is killed with the women the moment she is killed in its name.
I am far better than those men, living under a cloak of being pious and decent while the vermin of vulgarity has rotten their heart and soul reducing it into a smelly bile which oozes out of their every pore .
I am proud that i may be undressed completely but i yet can reach nowhere, even near the height of the vulgarity achieved by all these dressed pious men.
Blood is thicker than water, No wonder it refuses to flow, and clots so quickly. I like water better, i flows to take shape of any vessel, any number of times, without showing any resistance, it takes the color of its surroundings it makes the path on which it flows greener. its more beautiful, more lively, more full of energy, more full of life more pure in all its aspects, while the blood is stagnant unless its in your own body, its more still more selfish, indeed much thicker than water.
Thoughts, of barren lands, fluid landscapes, of houses void of living beings, of people empty of their souls , bodies surrounded by cold walls, of redbrick as red as blood, of metal as cold as ice.
Thoughts of caged souls peering out from behind the eyelids, shy to confront the cruel world, frightened to be killed by the devil.
Thoughts of dark days and nights, of flowers and green being rained by blood, blood which burns all fields of hope, blood that stinks, and stales the air, suffocating the ones with heart of gold .
Scrubbing the dished, seems like a easy lame job but today since mom is not feeling well and i am as usual doing the dishes, i realized how hard its gets when you have to scrub off that portion of the dried out cornflake from the porcelain bowl you left without a rinse in the morning to make thing worst that left over 20 ml of tinted coffee from the breakfast in the morning stunk really bad in the mug. but its not just that, I also realized how inconvenient that stupid fancy dish washing contraption I bought for mom is, no wonder she never used it.
Lesson learned ; I wont waste money on those fancy stupid contraptions anymore.
I am boggled, I am drained , and i am tired , i am on the verge of disowning the society in which i had always been a misfit, a society to which i tried to give so much, but my efforts kept going to a waste paper basket, or rather a garbage shredder from which even the the tiny bits of the good i did were not retrievable and than to make it worst i was taken advantage of by a number of pseudo human right activists and that number made the majority, a dominating majority so strong that nothing good bypassed their vicious circles , they filtered everything milked it, juiced it, and only but filled their pit less pockets.
Than came the world of art, I thought this was a world of pure expressions, where people with greater visions will be expressing their concerns, where artists will be dipping their canvases to open to the larger truth but i was soon introduced to the grim reality. The expressions of the majority of the main stream, leading local artists were only but busy cashing into the sensations of today’s international popular believes. Their works are void of any emotional connection with their soul, they are utterly a product, produced to a formula, not to raise an issue or voice a concern, but only to serve the hunger for the sensation the world has to attract the buyers and cash into the exaggeration of a very shallow vision.
I found it suffocating to realist how the majority of the local art dealers and gallerist were making and breaking artists, manipulating and controlling the local art scene. Any one who would appose these lobbies and the bigwigs of this art world would never get a show in any leading gallery of the city, you rub them the wrong way and you as an artist are doomed, of-course unless you are rich and wouldn’t care if the local galleries allow you to show with them or not and you take your work abroad and make a mark internationally.
but then I see, although very few but honest artists, I realize there will be a time when people will see how shallow and superficial the works produced from this region are , how in the name of “contemporary” was used to manipulated the international market. A work of art is like a book it reveals its secrets in layers with time, it will spell out every single truth, and when that happen the bubble will burst and we will are see a spectacular blue sky and bright sunshine which will wither to death this valley of poisonous mushrooms, the destroying angels of today art world and all the fool’s funnels among the social activists.
Jab un ke nazrain hum ko kam kaheen aur zara zayada daikhain ,
Dill yeah chahay unn ankhoon main hum mircha phainkain