When I'm not cloud watching... @mew767 - Tumblr Blog

Using my neurosis to call Myself An artist was better than to have been Simply Neurotic

What would happen if the rotation of the

Earth suddenly began to slow down?

What would happen to our days?

What would happen to our crops?

What would happen to our minds?

Goosebumps

It’s all mere possibility, an unfulfilled potential,

a seed that has not yet sprouted.

In that state, even my desire to become

free or enlightened is just another craving

for fulfillment or completion in the future.

To rise from ashes

we must first burst into flames

And crumble to dust.

We ask Yash Bhandari, a Bengaluru-based artist to tell us about his work and his thoughts on being an artist in India.

tête-à-tête

Casia Phallic Gaze 2016

Oriental Moss Carpet 2016

Thom yorke demonstrating, when one door opens, another one closes. 23 times.

#radiohead #daydreaming

You flew in following the light, thinking you deserved to scrape through the night. The circle of life owes you no eulogy now surrounded by flowers and petals, under my scrutiny. I am the murderer, I am the murdered.

Mohan

#perforamance #art

Dimple

#performance #art #vagforum

Raghu Wodeyar

#performance

On days like these.

It’s 5 PM on a dry Summer day, thunderbolts roll out a purple carpet, the electricity goes out.

The gallery in the middle of which you stood, no longer exists. A change to absolute darkness.

No longer a kindling poem, just an ember forgotten at the campsite.

The raindrops fall only to quickly evaporate at your surface, sizzling away it’s existence , and you know you are still alive. The lack of colour, overwhelms, what could be out there? Can anyone see me? Your voice find no corners, no reply. The rain tries to freeze your flames, thundering you with whats meant to revive a lake. Yet, still you burn. Although it feels like a shotgun bullet through your chest. Still you breathe. All the light that once surrounded you, where does it go, you wonder? All the streetlights that led you home, where do they lead you to now in their absence? Still nothing. Yet you burn. All the wonders you had seen, all the stories you had written, who would read them now? Someone lights a cancer-stick with what remains of you, wonder if they have a death wish, You are that ember at the end, I think the point is to rather die in your own hands leave no story, leave no trace, turn to smoke.

There is no fuel to feed on, there is no wood to burn. Still you breathe.

Now your silent screams turn to lava, the rain no longer able to contain your froze flames.

A kindle.

Your featherless wings appear by your side. A phoenix you were.

Forgotten that you once burnt like the sun, Did you?