“Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest,” so said Friedrich Nietzsche. A few weeks ago I was one of the Maun visual artists who took part in the first group exhibition by Maun based artists.
Each work in the gallery was strong yet different enough to stand on its own. A number of artists sold their pieces during the show. Some of them are Keamogetswe Meralo, Sonja Raats, Gurudev Korvi, Thitaku Kusonya, Mike Smith and Ompatile Sebuelo. However, about two or three works in the exhibit were tagged NFS. Surgery, my artwork – or a part of my artwork since I believe it’s still in the making – was also labelled ‘Not For Sale’. I learnt, however, that quite a few visitors were interested in it. But you see, Surgery is not the kind of artwork one would like to hang on his office or home wall. It is an artwork sourced from deep within my emotions. In fact, like I once said, fine art, just like poetry, happens to be able to reveal my true feelings. Surgery is supposed to be a triptych – and it will be. I am currently working on two other panels.
Now, here is the Surgery story – at least what I can read of it;
Highly conceptual two-dimensional and mixed-media piece, Surgery is. Based on tea-stained and mono-printed fabriano paper, molten bees-wax is pasted almost haphazardly, yet somewhat controlled, over subtle and fading prints of illegible words. The shape formed by the paste is stitched painfully on the edges in black and white embroidery thread. Crimson acrylic had been squeezed though cracks in the wax, giving an impression of clottedblood. More careless stitches can be seen around the artwork, creating an unpleasant border.
The eligible words, when given a microscopic look, can be vaguely read. Most of these words don’t seem to make much sense, even as they force the viewer squint painfully in order to read them. They fade into the dark background, the voice of a man who seeks to be heard, yet, somehow his words don’t seem to tell the ‘right’ story. A few words on the artwork are pretty much large and bolded (as though highlighted) indicating those few moments when the speaker would actually shout in attempt to forcibly drive his words through the ears of whoever could be listening.
But he is trapped. He is trapped in a mud of sorrow, like a fly stuck in wax. Memories bring to him nothing but pain, hence the blood-like creaks through the wax. It’s a memory of black and white, or white and black, or a black and white memory, stitched in his brain by a careless surgeon. He is trying to recover, to be mended, but what the surgeon does, alas, is to increase the pain. The medical gauze/bandage stitched over the wounds does little impression, however.
No comments:
Post a Comment