Rhea Gupte

When work travels away from the recesses of a studio or a camera, onto somebody else’s sanctuary, a screen, another country, onto sterile white walls, it ceases to be what it meant and becomes a part of what it may mean to the one experiencing it. We as artists work on honing our minds, make a feeble attempt to have a voice, express it in a way that it fills up with what we want to say, all along knowing impermanence and obscurity. Art can be intimidating, words may lose meaning as they get longer. Do concepts which need pages and pages to be understood close more doors than they open? Expression is understanding oneself, understanding the role of oneself within the systems at play.

Who we become has a lot to do with who we were born as and how much we work towards erasing the ignorance that befalls us and others around us. To challenge oneself to make better, is to be better. And in this quest of betterment is a sense of togetherness. Tadpoles in a pond, growing in a limited space, feeding on rationed takes, together. We are trained to compete when competition is made to exist, limiting what was limitless, contriving a reality where only a few can thrive or worse survive, myths invented and followed, to keep powerful those in power. Always in a line, bred to feed the mouth belonging to the hand that feeds. Hands which feed can be violent too. Ponds which house can be prisons too. As long as you are in line, you are permitted through. Worms, thrown as feed, masked as freedom, enjoyed by the select few. Support masked as approval.

Approval, you are alright, approval, you are permitted to shine, approval, you don’t challenge much. The more honest your art, the more you may be maligned, crucified, words clipped, tongues censored. Born is a pack, feeding, running, growing, growling. Again, together. Murmurs and whispers become a hum and resound. Beating hearts find each other and astound. Doorbells can’t open doors which need to be destroyed. Frail eyelashes can become swords inside an eye.