I spent two hours looking at paper, cloth, glass, paintings and installations. Staring, reading and feeling an immense gush of words coming toward me.
I’ve written some words down, disconnected and connected by ‘them’ and the dotted line.
‘Them’ being all the humans that created this art.’Them’ being all their influences.
India Art Fair 2017
I’ve always moved with an open wind
rolled up but free
What is the ‘them’ though?
Circles is the theme
and choice the main under- theme
There’s always fear no?
A sudden breach of trust even in a public place
There’s a black and white fish hanging from the till and she screams a silent black
I’m a little worried, what are these lines for?
Sharp like they’d draw blood
Cold and lust-less
For then, I have nothing to give.
That’s as lasting as love shall be
Poor children on my silk dress.
Silk and poor old milk
is the colour of my dress
When you have reached a height
A height high above
Higher than the high angle of the aerial shot
You’ll find yourself looking at your own house
Your own city
And it will only be a zigzag of colours. You’ll feel real dizzy for a long moment and you’ll even forgot that Raza made them.
Sketched, painted or stubbed
Overwhelmed you into further gooey puddles inside your mind
And your kind cannot take so much and
You sit down and look at the floor
on which you still see the reflection of your roof
The terrible thumping of the blood.
The oppressed, the oppressor, the hungry for power
tall large small piles of human tongue and hands moving to only score a bit of that power
All I hear is the terrible thumping of the blood.
Underwater fires and underwater mines if only they exploded above
I’d see them for the angels they are
The abomination of a chimera
Them the angel
Pulling down the ship that babbles
The babel tower
I will achieve and I will rise
All that we want
All those floors to the deck, the ship rising
I don’t look at other souls anymore
The exchange has become unnecessary
and evenly painful