Invisible Threads: Art, Reflection, and Transience
a contemplative exploration of the invisible threads that connect our inner world with the universe around us
There has been a lot on my mind. I’ve been thinking of balance. I have been wandering between the delicate path that threads between figuration and abstraction in my art. Like a dreamer walking a tightrope between two worlds, I play with the lens of perception, focusing closely and distantly on scenes, objects, and beings. This endeavour, as intricate as the weavings of a spider’s web in the morning dew, is less about detailing and more about harmonising. Colours, subjects, values—they all dance together in a silent symphony. Edgar Degas wrote, ‘Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.’ With each stroke, I strive to perfect the art of making the invisible visible and evoke the unsaid. My favourite walking companion, Alan Watts, once said, “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” In my search for balance, the fluid boundaries of my art have yet again opened up views about life. Balance is in the speed, focus and clarity with which I zoom in and out of different situations.
In the past year, I have woven a hypothesis: Joy is the elusive bird that perches quietly on the middle branch of existence. As I delve deeper into the forests of thought - health, career, art, family, friends - I stir the energy lying beneath the fallen leaves. Carl Jung’s concept of the ‘collective unconscious’ comes to mind, suggesting that our deepest thoughts and images are universally shared, transcending individual experiences. I try to notice when the middle branch is still. Those are the very moments when I sing, dance and revel in this funny existence. I have been reading Rilke again. Rilke is my patron saint of solace. In Rilke’s ‘only journey within,’ my energy is a wild horse, magnificent but untamed. In these turbulent waters, my soul finds its lighthouse in poetry and art, my vessels to navigate the storm. I grasp joy in the moments that are ordinary and mundane. Like spotting this kingfisher while casually walking past it in the park.
I realise that I have written so much about healing and becoming in the last year. I have realised that I must learn to live amid all the healing. In the delicate ecosphere of healing, I mustn’t forget to live. A visual image that I can think of is this truth: healing, like a wildflower, must bloom in its own time, yet the rough edges will continue to exist. One must not worry too much about the edges and continue to journey, holding all emotions. In ancient times too, Hippocrates knew this dance well: ‘Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.’ Thus, I tread softly around the tender shoots of grief and loss, giving them room to grow at their own rhythm. Watts’ words echo in my mind, “We cannot be more sensitive to pleasure without being more sensitive to pain.”
I am doing an intensive spring term course at Royal Drawing School. Today while at the art school, I confronted myself with the need to rewrite the scripts etched within. I dismiss my creations as ramblings. I now stand at the crossroads of humility and meaningful pride. There is a universe to learn, a craft to perfect. Yet, like a bird instinctively knows the art of flight, I, too, create from a place deep within, where imagination helps me spin images from life’s endless threads.
Sylvia Plath’s echo resonates within these walls:
‘The worst enemy of creativity is self-doubt.’
In the quiet battle against this foe, I find my truest ally in authenticity and acceptance of how far I have come bearing the gifts I have created. Jung’s idea of individuation, the process of becoming aware of oneself, integrated and whole, guides me on this path.
In the fleeting shadow of time, I try to grasp the fragile nature of our existence. There is a heightened awareness of the fragility because of personal situations. A decade ago, a young girl, Aisha Chaudhary, spoke words that now twinkle like stars in my night sky. I had the privilege of hearing her speak in person at an INK Conference in 2013. Her life, brief as a comet’s blaze yet profound as its trail, inspires a heightened awareness of life’s fragility. Her book, My Little Epiphanies, sits on my bookshelf. She was an artist, too. I read her book at times for strength and courage. Aisha’s advice about singing in the lifeboat returned to me at an important time. Sometimes we find people known and unknown, holding out a lantern through their words, poems and gestures. Everyone echoes to treasure each fleeting moment and dance in the rain of life’s uncertainties.
I have rambled on with my all-over-the-place thoughts. In this new year, I want to tread lightly and softly and try to keep it joyful. To kick off the year, I wanted to share the poems that spoke to me and an erasure poem I managed to create from a birding magazine.
Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me by Jane Hirshfield
The world asks, as it asks daily:
And what can you make, can you do, to change my deep-broken, fractured?
I count, this first day of another year, what remains.
I have a mountain, a kitchen, two hands.
Can admire with two eyes the mountain,
actual, recalcitrant, shuffling its pebbles, sheltering foxes and beetles.
Can make black-eyed peas and collards.
Can make, from last year’s late-ripening persimmons, a pudding.
Can climb a stepladder, change the bulb in a track light.
For four years, I woke each day first to the mountain,
then to the question.
The feet of the new sufferings followed the feet of the old,
and still they surprised.
I brought salt, brought oil, to the question. Brought sweet tea,
brought postcards and stamps. For four years, each day, something.
Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace.
Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder.
Today, I woke without answer.
The day answers, unpockets a thought from a friend
don’t despair of this falling world, not yet
didn’t it give you the asking
[Traveler,your footprints] by Antonia Machado
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea.
In the end, love is the thread that is connected to each of us and the universe of our existence. As Mother Teresa once said, ‘Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.’ With these words as my guiding star, I wish for each of you a year embroidered with love, kindness, creativity, joy, and abundance. We find our way in the dance of light and shadow and in the ebb and flow of tides.
Together, we’ve got this.
Some evergreen messages that I enjoy visiting annually that you might like :
Sharing some art that I created while exploring new mediums.
Love the poems, the thoughts the art, the birds. the colors ... how nice .. lovely, evocative Thank You!
Thank you, Gail :)