In 1999, I took part in a paper-making workshop at
Visthar, outside Bangalore. Tired of the computer at Deccan Herald, afraid my
fingertips would turn to plastic from the tic-toc-tic of my daily keyboard routine,
I decided to revive my finger skills.
I already loved baking. And pottery. And haiku. This
time, I was super-happy to plunge head-first into paper-making.
My companions at the paper-making workshop were
names to reckon with on the Bangalore art scene: Yusuf Arakkal… Antonio E Costa…
Raghavendra Rao…. Aziz T.M….. Ayisha Abraham… C.F. John… and Jenny Pinto.
I loved the Visthar experience so much that, for
years afterwards, I looked at clouds, leaves, twigs, branches and everything
around as potentially paper.
A few months later, to my amazement, the output from
the workshop was translated into an ‘art show’ at the local Karnataka
Chitrakala Parishath, sponsored by Gallery Sumukha. And, despite my protests, my
very amateur experiments went up on the walls, alongside works by more seasoned
artists. That was my very first experience of being an ‘artist.’
Here are my thoughts from the brochure of the
exhibition, titled ‘Paper Trails.’
Thank you for the unforgettable experience, C.F.
John.
·
*
* *
Fleecy
clouds, liquid lines
A
splash of ideas
A
breeze of a fern
Pulp
afloat in a vat…
A
new-born sheet of paper.
Ideas and words. Words and
paper. Lines and notions. Colour and material. Can they ever be visualized
apart?
To a writer, paper is
life. It is the Word at the very Beginning. It is the watermark of a true idea,
born to breathe. It is the exquisite calligraphy in natural inks on gossamer
paper, crafted by hand, revered by generations. Both for the veracity of the
thought and the medium.
As one who has viewed
paper as a medium for a message all my living days, the creation of my first
sheet of paper by hand was an incommunicable joy. As joyous as the lapping of
the surf at my toes. As refreshing as the tang of the breeze in my hair. As graceful
as the glimmer of a haiku on the inner eye.
Hands dipped in the
paper vat, elbow-deep, sifting for pulp and coming up patchy and damp at first
draw. Clouds steep the mind, though the fuzz of failure. And then, a stirring
of the pulp deep in the trough, a gentle rocking of the meshed frame in the
swishing metal bin, a lifting to the surface with hope, and the nominal notion
of paper comes true in life.
As the fresh drawn
sheet is laid to dry, the verdant world around comes into focus afresh. The tall
grasses. The pine cones. The swaying ferns. Peanut shells. Thin copper sheets
in sunset tones. Chicken-coop wire mesh. The dried blossoms tossed by the wind….
How does each element
relate to paper? Can we take of nature to make pieces that are natural?
Hands
playing with pulp
Soft
fingerprints
On
the mindscape,
Enmeshing
leaves and longing
Into
paper lore…
Amidst recycling and
redefinitions, paper is reborn to my mind as part-prose, part-poetry; always
poetic, never prosaic.
All it takes is the intuition
to tell the mundane from the magical.
At Visthar in 1999: (from left) Ayisha, Jenny, Aditi, Yusuf, John, Raghavendra, Antonio, Aziz |
my very first memory of you is that of a friendly smiling face with her elbows sunk into paper mash!!
ReplyDeleteHahahahaha! I recall that moment in reverse ~ a curly-haired, big-eyed pretty young thing being introduced to me, as I struggled with a deckle-and-mould and big dreams of incredible paper! So happy we got to meet, Krittika, no matter how odd that first encounter was.
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