In film memory of a conversation.

As ink falls on simmering oil. I watch an artist left alone with the fumes of their splintered curiosity. What? Signatures fly like birds and nature doesn’t demand consent. What? Thereafter, therefore, thereby: she floats away in a wooden canoe actually made of plastic. We don’t know and we will never know, if she doesn’t know what she floats on.

Questions to an () artist:

  1. What is the first question you would ask yourself? Alone and in public
  2. Close your eyes, see an artist. Describe an artist. The image and the imagination
  3. Is ink a color?

Shringi’s comments [ask]:

To trace/ re-trace/ erase

To generate/degenerate a root that unburdens the tree. The leaves become montages of one’s life. We read stories from the distance of a wind-form. Finding- re-finding. Describing-erasing. The mythology is both the reality and the fantasy and we can not pull them apart. We have lived and will continue to live a spiral moving in all directions.

As I ()trace my ascend/descend.

To wash away interviews that keep outlining my being into words and monuments. To evaporate from that form into the form of a half-truth, organic-truth— — past-truth. A future folktale written in impressions.

Storytelling stops being a choice but a flow of the twisting pith of the tree. I do not write a story. A story is written and unwritten as I willingly/unwillingly — in pain/outside of pain continue/discontinue.

A thread. The absence of the same thread. A story becomes ash fallen at the foot of the tree, ready to be blown away by the next wind. Holding mud with its roots/(re)roots.

Shringi’s notes [skin]:

Is a pop up balloon

Water balloon

A russian doll balloon — one inside another — — all translucent

The beauty of the body is in its lack of beauty. When you smell the staling oil in the scalp and count falling flakes of ink— — you see how much you disintegrate.

The common language of body scratched and scooped to the bone of it. Is funny. The decoration is funny. The body taking directions and moving and falling is funny. Like a hammer with no weight.

Shringi’s comments [art(is)t]:

— accidents of the body.


Pronunciation of ‘arts’ alludes its comedy. A mammal sucks and art erupts as raining milk.

I don’t like milk so I suck on air — — so much that my teeth hurt.

I invade words — that is my artlessness. I FULLfill my ()air — — and its fills me back HALFly

Shringi’s comments [man]:

Dhum dhum dhum — BEATS

Size of rain water. All particles combine in multitudes. Feminism is the lens to atomic structure that allows and allows formations and information()s.

: Art talks and it reverberates. Our problems rise with STOPPING OURSELVES from responding to the beats of ourselves and the world. Art unburdens the dam and allows the feet to walk. Art is like the root that grows and grows and can invade the forest (of inks). It can also breath a new forest. Hope — — (re)hope. Unravelling- Naked

: Color story of ink. Color theory of oil

One particle changes the color by one HEX. Pink to purple — — A shift in ()code — in ()routine.

Shringi’s comments []:— — HEAR IT, EYES speak the fumes.

Drifter; Poet. ‘The Saree Shop’ is my debut poetry collection.

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