Doorknobs.

September 13, 2013

Doorknobs.

No tool exists in isolation.

December 14, 2011

This window has been open since three days. Just can’t get myself to write it all out.

If this seems like an article intensely inspired by Cracked.com, then take my word for it, it absolutely is. However much a fan I’m NOT of that website, the way the articles justify their point is just brilliant (even though it might get a bit over the top at times). I’m in my fifth year of studying art as a subject (2 years ‘O’ level, 2 years ‘A’ level) and currently at university level and I feel that I do have a teeny tiny slight right to rant about how time consuming and blood thirsty it can get at times. Don’t get me wrong here, I absolutely love art and I am a clinical workaholic but hey, I’m human too. And humans tend to vent. I am no genius at managing my time well and I have to pay the price for it Every. Single. Time. Plus, having friends who are mostly studying business really does not make this ordeal any easier. All of the viewpoints mentioned here are from an extremely sardonic Foundation Year student who still feels the need to rant and somehow justify her point to her ‘business-y’ friends. I’m getting carried away now. Let’s get to the point.

Following are five blood curdling examples of sentences that will send you right off the edge.

 

1)      “I didn’t sleep the whole night! So much work, y’know?”

Your first reaction to this would be “WHAT?!” but then again, being the nice person we all pretend to be, you will be compelled to humor the person in question.

The fact of the matter is: Art = ultimate sleep deprivation + no friends. The life changing moment you decide to enroll yourself into an art school, you are literally sacrificing your sleep, your social life and your soul to please the art gods. Yes, we all know we are supposed to manage our time sensibly, and divide our working and resting hours like mature adults but, honestly speaking, no one does that. We’re still young and frivolous and anything as small as a moving leaf would be able to distract us. The restlessness, the ability to procrastinate nonstop and the attention span of a goldfish really does not allow us to ‘finish our work on time’. Admit it, it’s never happening.

However, it is understandable how everyone who did not get a good night’s sleep seeks sympathy from their peers; everyone likes a little sympathetic attention. However, if you feel you will be getting THAT kind of attention from your artsy friends, believe me, you are mistaken. We will empathize but NEVER sympathize. You were up Wednesday night? We’ve been up since LAST Wednesday. Do not take our monotonous nods to your whining as sympathy; it’s certainly not sympathy. We are actually indulging in self-pity and secretly envying you.

 

 2)      How difficult can art school be, yaar?”

Are you the one willing to sell your organs to get more than a B-, YAAR? Are you the one whose entire WEEK/MONTH (as the case may be) is made if your concept has the slight POTENTIAL of being a successful one, YAAR? Are you the one whose heart stops at the word ‘sketchbook’? Are you the one who has ultimately started having nightmares about undercurrents and line quality? Are you envying the star student just because he got a 2.9+ GPA? Are you the one who gets a seizure every time your sheet dents? Do you even KNOW what a mere dent in the sheet is capable of? And you are definitely not the one who starts blaming the wind for that particular dent. And I am PRETTY sure you are not the one who bangs his head into a wall at three in the morning because you accidentally added half a drop more of white to your paint and now your tints don’t match anymore.

 

Phew. That was cathartic.

 

However, on a more serious note, the misconception that art school is all play needs to be eradicated. Time and again my teachers have sadistically mentioned, “Took up art because you thought it was all fun and play, hain na? HAHA LOLZ.” Unfortunately, they are absolutely correct. People DO have this delusion that art students live fairytale lives that revolve around pretty colours and eccentric thoughts. There is also a dark side to this fairytale world, my friend. Ever wonder why artists tend to be suicidal? Exactly.

Anyhow, art does require a lot of dedication, respect, patience and hard work. Trust me, I know.

 

3)      “You guys go to a summer camp.”

Sigh. Yes, we do. This is the only way you can tackle THIS comment (Read: attack). Yes, we do attend the Summer Camp for Art and Architecture. We attend a summer camp the whole year round. Oh yes, we do. Jealous?

 

4)      “Aren’t you tired?”

Why don’t you add some masala to the salt you are currently rubbing on my wounds? The dark circles around my eyes are there because I work part time as a zombie. Oh, yes.

The main problem is that I am a workaholic. And workaholics must not sleep till sufficient work is done. And that sufficient work must be done to the point of perfection. Hence, extreme exhaustion. All art students have, at one point, sacrificed the pleasures of slumber in a warm cozy bed to stay up and finish an unsightly assignment. The second your alarm goes off in the morning, there is nothing more painful than looking at your bed (or at yourself) and regretting the moment you decided to work the whole night. Some of us have become so used to this nocturnal routine and sleeplessness that we end up waking up at 7 a.m. on weekends or suffer from restless sleep because of nightmares revolving around an incomplete submission. It can get worse to the point where you cannot sleep for five hours in a row because of fear of precious time being wasted. So it’s not like I am getting tired on purpose. I just cannot help it.

However, this does reach a culmination point and then everything goes downhill from there. By that, I mean falling asleep in the car with your mouth open, making people wonder what drug the person sitting next to you put you on or falling asleep at every relative’s house because that is the only time you are not working.

At the end of the day, this really is not under my control. So please avoid asking me this question because yes, I’m terribly tired, exhausted, drained, fatigued but I would like to keep myself in deliberate denial.

 

5)      “Art and itna low GPA?!”
This is where you walk away to avoid violence and manslaughter because you are an artist and artists are humanitarians.

 

 

 

Random of the day.

August 7, 2011

(Everyone’s stuffing their faces during iftar)

Dad (VERY randomly turns to me): ‘You’re so tiny. You’d fit in a box.’

Thank you, daddy?

Carpal tunnel.

August 5, 2011

All the signatures fall apart; octavo, folio, quarto.

I’m back at the same place; standing at the edge of a rocky cliff. There are gigantic sea creatures under the glass ground. The fear of the glass dissolving keeps me from succumbing to the temptation of stepping forward. I know an invisible force wants to push me and, funnily enough, I want it to. But only because I want to see what actually happens. The same place every single time and yet, I don’t go beyond the very point. I’m afraid the giant jellyfish will strangle me to somewhere other than death. Or I will either be chased by lions or rabid dogs. The lighthouse does not work. I might slip.

Frail scratched surfaces that I’m tempted to touch; the ripples would only cause the distorted reflection to disperse into several concentric circles; chakras and arabesque patterns. Wait. These thoughts belong to me. There are several tiny cuts on my fingers. Wire. Fingers are less swollen than yesterday. Wire. There is a flamingo lying in the trunk of the car. A wire flamingo.

A pigeon just crashed into the windshield. I did not turn around to see if it were okay. Maybe it fell and got run over by another car. Maybe that is how all the squashed birds on roads happen – Maybe it got disoriented by the new wooden walls. How can you forget which floor you are on when there are only three floors to remember?

All that is required of me is the contours of my flickering shadow while your shrill voice pierces my eardrums painfully. I know it is not real and I continue to stare at the stranger only to see if he would turn around and look. He cannot help me with the signatures; he does not even know I am looking at him. Octavo, folio, quarto. Just this chant seems soothing.

Why does everything seem so sickeningly surreal today?

 

And why are there so many skin treatment ads plastered all over the city?

 

 

Sugar-coated pills.

July 30, 2011

 

(Unfortunately, to my nonexistent audience’s disappointment, I was unable to post this from the Holy Library since I have been stealing the computer technician’s internet since last semester and yesterday it had the cheek to ask me for a password. Shame. Now I’ve moved on to stealing the neighbour’s.) 

A few minutes ago I was roaming around with a single contact lens and feeling oddly comfortable. That’s the thing about contacts; if they start irritating your eye, you’re done for. The last fifteen minutes were spent conversing with my friends with one eye closed until I decided to be less lazy and pay a visit to the restroom with all my contact lens equipment. One odd phenomenon that we were just discussing was that people who highly depend on glasses cannot hear properly once the glasses are taken away. Unfortunately enough, I was the only one who felt so.

I am currently sitting in the library, typing away with a very serious expression on my face, while people around me are busy socializing, scribbling in their sketchbooks and reading the newspaper. This has got to be one of my favorite places on this planet.

You can’t not fall in love with the Holy Library. It serves as a common room for the entire AC-deprived student population that instinctively crawls towards the Holiness of the Library as soon as class is off. Yes, sure, it does get annoying when the airconditioners and the fans are switched off in order to get rid of the pitiful and the sweaty but, then again, that one whiff of an airconditioned room can keep us going all day. Usually, you will find a lot of “pseudo-bookworms” who conveniently place a magazine in the middle of the table and chat away all they want (YEAH, LIKE WE DON’T NOTICE Y’ALL!). OR you’ll actually find some students taking refuge here for a small nap (They’re not stopped despite the signs plastered all over the place. I’ve slept here for a good 45 minutes once). And then there are days when you don’t have any other option besides sharing a small table with a very hormonal couple; awkward, but slightly more entertaining than a report on the food crisis in Thatta.

Plus, we get Vogues issues every month (which are obviously very conveniently censored with a black marker before they are placed on the counter) AND the Holy Libarian’s assistant has a tendency to send you friend requests on Facebook. Now, THAT is cool.

Also, my handbag is attracting a lot of positive attention today. It says “KHATRA- dekh magar pyaar se”.

Yours truly being a coolio busy bee.

 
 
busy smitchzy people.

Typical Holy Library.

 
 

December 21, 2010

December 20, 2010

Simon says.

December 1, 2010

Whatever Simon wants, happens.

Best way to keep a room full of barbaric, underage monsters quiet: “Simon says KEEP YOUR TRAPS SHUT!”

Then all you have to do is sit back, relax and let the fear of Simon rule their weak, little bodies.

Enough of dark humor.

—–

Similar occasion, everyone is obediently listening to me (or Simon), willingly flailing their arms about while trying to touch their noses with their tongues..

Hyperactive active boy (comes running to the group, screams): SIMON SAYS ‘ALLAH O AKBAR!’

(falls in sajda )