|Khoj, Kirki Village, New Delhi 2012.
Commissioned and supported by Khoj International Artist Association.
[…] It is not justifiable to cover up when it rains just as when it is just recommendable to eat the food of strangers. He went in with two bottles under his arms and when he poured that luminous liquid he said to himself over and over again: immunity does not exist. Historical links tell us that it is only possible to use fiction because historical technique is not able to focus on precision. We need to relive what can no longer be seen as precise. This is why it is necessary to use the method of myths instead of narrative method. Everything must be rebuilt, reinvented and bygone myths made new once again offer us their spells and enigmas in an unknown face. New myths with new fears and tiredness. Returning to those times where imagination prevailed to become history and thus created imaginary eras. […]
[…] There are too many overdesigned oneiric cities, too many maps of unknown places, as if they had been taken from the pages of a travel log, to lead him to the labyrinth of the cooking pots where the Sybil awaited. He never intended to map but more chart the burnt out bases of the cooking-pots that worked long after sunset on the gas and charcoal stoves. Even more so in a place where what is popular is able to erode the tarmac and concrete to turn everything back into soil. It is not just willpower but effort and inertia that smoothes the paving stones and rounds off corners. The heavens are on sky and the earth is in the sky. Look and understand how through a lens everything is upside down. In this place everything is a question of destiny. Perhaps this is thanks to Danu’s liquid quality that allows us to see through it in order to observe the upturned image of an immersion. […]
[…] There is always a meeting point in thought between East and West. The sea is the flow that joins them. Notions without knowledge, intuition to apprehend. We will have to invent a spoon that blends into these backgrounds to become a mirror. A reflection that was once papyrus for observing. There is no way to approach the unapproachable and that is why it is so called. There are places where one never ceases to be a foreigner. There should not be appropriation but simply interference that alludes to another reality. Making the unknown part of us is without a doubt implanting one’s own ecosystem in a foreign body and thus eroding the never understood rules that we long for. The strategy must be of an offering so dynamic yet ephemeral to be invited to your own feast. So only those who were present will know. […]
[…] It was getting towards seven in the evening and the food from the five stalls of that small town walled now by the modern city started to change as a result of the light. The sun started its descent and the night crept in as a stranger. The samosas, pakoras and jelabis began to glow like fireflies in the night, interfering in the life of the busying passers-by whose day still had hours to run. The folks started arriving who knows out of curiosity or to witness the miracle. This morsel gleaming to become food. Mouths that were dyed with light while they smiled, bodies which paint their skin to dance to the sounds of music as if it were the last “Holy” offered up to those present. A community of stomachs which danced inside in liquid gold to later expel and be the sole participants and guardians of the memory. […]