“My library is an archive of longings.” Susan Sontag
The self infiltrates into the cultural landscape. And this self has the fragile body, indicating a space: of futility, transience and transcendence. The inner perceptions and emotional entanglements get inscribed into the metaphysics of this landscape.
The process becomes an intensely personal yet acutely revealing body of work. The experience deals with the body and stillness, the relationship with space and movement, expressing an intimate moment, where physical and emotional limitations are stretched, tested and broken. The space and non-space oscillate between memory and imagination.
As I look back to these images, I can hear the slender explosion of echoes and unheard voices. The co-existence of the pathos of loneliness as well as the overflow of sensory sequences create a back and forth motion of emotional pulling.
The perception begins to shift so that what was familiar becomes unfamiliar. The reverberation of the past brews the limitless distance and nothingness into the present space of uncertainty and free fall.
The world came to a standstill in March 2020 because of the pandemic. The soul has been battered through different periods of this time. These unusual times have exposed the sore wounds of my inner self to the surface. The wavelength of the exposure has been different and interesting to me! I had started to record these strange thoughts and feelings in order to create some tactile imagery. This lockdown period has given me the opportunity to explore the home’s intimate space, which I recognize as symbolic of the HINTERLAND (the land behind, especially of a city or a port). The socio-spatial relevance of home has created an uneasiness within myself.
The sunlight masquerades the rooms for an hour or so early in the morning, creating this HINTERLAND of happenings beyond the scope of my immediate vision. It creates and re-creates magic. And I have explored my intimate self to play with the light. The challenge thrown by the limited space and opportunity has acted as an abetment. The social distancing, coupled with lockdown, has restricted the “self” and movement. There is this feeling of an isolated island as I go to the terrace to get some fresh air!
The anxiety continues to stay; I constantly look for the equilibrium between the intimate and the distant, masked, and the unmasked. The illusion, dreams, thoughts, anxiety, unconscious self, and the fantasy world — get illuminated through the visual drama. It seems to me we are living a cocooned life, waiting patiently for the completion of metamorphosis when the beautiful butterfly shall gain freedom!
I came across this beautiful thought by the renowned poet and author Amrita Pritam: “There are many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the minds and bodies of women”.
I have been thinking about this. It is necessary to push through the fog and pain of trauma; to create a narrative through the making of images on these ‘unwanted memories’, and, then, perhaps it would help me achieve emotional catharsis.
Growing up in a patriarchal society throws up many challenges. The barriers and discrimination against women have been woven deep into the fabric of society for ages. Irrespective of gender, class or ethnicity people face hostility from sinister forces. For a woman this becomes more challenging. The fear of daily sexual harassment, lewd comments, inappropriate touching in public places lingers. The daily commute to my workplace becomes an ordeal.
Every time anything of this happens, it takes away a part of my self confidence and self esteem. It is like there is a pot inside me which gets filled up with venom with every verbal or physical assault. The restlessness is intolerable.
The traumatic experiences take the form of mental scars. They become unwanted memories. These memories are emotional numbing. They are suppressed into the traumatized subconscious which are difficult to put into chronology. And the body becomes the landscape for the “colonial control”.
The newspaper brings in the unfortunate stories of assault on girls and women of all ages.
The married life is also full of traumatic experiences of domestic violence. Some of these need not be physical, even the verbal abuses can be enough to pull any person’s psychological breakdown.
The very common objects attain a different perspective. The knife that I use for cutting vegetables becomes the tool or metaphor for unending violence.
Man (human being) is violent and impatient towards nature. The masculinity imposes its colonial power to subjugate. One feels lonely and abandoned.
The female body is mostly seen as an object, a commodity. This body, too, has a soul. Who cares?
The darkness is heavy.
Nature is raw, uninhibited and open. I feel a great psychological affliction. I feel like these floating rocks.
There is a longing — a longing to be heard.
Is it not that we worship the idols of goddesses!
Then why does the voice get smothered? The question is pertinent.
The parched soil reflects my psychological condition. My parched soul looks for the light of divinity.
Plunging further into darkness, I search for my roots, my identity.
The pain and suffering are etched as monsters.
Death seems to beckon me.
No, I have to survive. I have to find ways to overcome these violent forces.
Remembering the words of the poet Octavio Paz:
“But I look up the stars write. Unknowing I understand: I too am written.”
I want to snatch the light from the thousands of suns far away in the galaxy, and celebrate my imperfection.
Krishna Goswami 