The Studio and the white table

Table on the east wall

Table on the west wall

Table on the north wall

It has changed to each change possible. Table on the east wall to the west wall and on the north wall. Each setting seemed befitting of its presence. Each giving immense satisfaction, till it seemed unfitting. It accommodated a cupboard in between. A guest for a year or two. Many parties on many nights. A few sleep overs. And clutter as a constant companion.

A studio is supposed to feed thoughts.To aid working.To nurture dreams.To push the artist to explore. Did it serve its purpose? Am yet to decide.
It became a sort of a den. Housing fights,providing comfort,hosting people,collecting smoke.And work in between.But it could never generate the energies of my previous studio.
But it did satisfy the artistic ego-of having a studio.
Does the space aid the artistic thought?Or does the artist propel its space around?It is like a dilemma of living in the head. When one perceives things differently or rather lives inside thoughts.When the present is like a denial.The denial of the table for example.It(table) was constructed with the thought of working on it. But all it was used for was the computer and stacking of material.There was hope of using the material everyday.But it was never achieved. But the satisfaction was always there that it was there.That I will empty some space and use it.
But many hours were spent just clearing it.That effort itself consumed so many energies that the energy to work also got consumed.
And funnily,as I type this today-that studio no longer exists.It is morphed into a bedroom now.

Drawers

Drawers: they engulf what is fed to them. In whatever form it is given. They give themselves completely-each and every inch of themselves-without holding back. They are as obedient as can be. In many ways they are lessons on learning. How to keep things,how to utilise space,how to accept what is stored. They become the faithful presence. Of things collected. Of things dumped.

And they never give up. They never change shape or size. They are what they seem. Total transparency in this relationship. 

Bookshelf

It was welcomed with great joy...the joy of finally having a place for books,with the intention that being on display and accessible I would reach out and READ!! Pure and true intentions. Also seemed achievable. Success rate?? To be honest 3-5%
Staying true to 'morphing' it has been shifted 5 times since its arrival. Each position convincing the self-I will read more now/this place is perfect.

The room it is kept in is not very wide,10 feet I think. Standing in the middle of the room,on the same axis of the bookshelf,it is not very far. Taking into consideration 1 foot space for standing,1 foot width of the bookshelf,it would be about 3 feet away from access. Yet each time this point/position was crossed or used,the bookshelf became invisible. What is even more amusing is that 'khalaara' had successfully established its presence even there. The order of books had perfectly been displaced. Nothing was in order,it was just stashed and then piled on. There was fiction,non-fiction,magazines,more magazines,instructional books,tutorials/manuals....various kinds with hopeful intentions. Ideally there should be a shelf for each category and space was also not lacking. Other than the books there were also some 'show-pieces'-which I realise now as I'm writing is not a great idea. They had no 'matlab' to be there.But yet they were there. Serving no purpose,just as the books.
The poor thing became just a storage space in the end. And the act of reading became an after thought.
Each time a book was picked up,it was read half heartedly,partially. I am still to decipher this disease of half reading.No book I pick up,have I finished till date. Was it the lack of time?or was it this desire of sitting in a comfortable chair with a cup of chai along-which never happened!! Maybe this issue could be dealt later. But the conclusion here is that no book gets finished.It comes off the shelf,goes in the carry bag,comes out in some free time,but then gets forgotten.
And the bookshelf stands,trying to look important yet becoming just another furniture. 

Attempt

Each attempt to sit and work got overshadowed by cleaning things. It sprung from misplaced things-images,notes,diaries,hard drives,pens, and SPACE.
Frustrations escalated and the body cringed inside. There were feelings like-shame,guilt,self hatred. How could I misplace important documents,hard drives? How could carelessness be so engrained? With each loss,there was delay.Delay in production,delay in thoughts,delay in effort. The viscousness was alarming. Deeply successful in trapping oneself in cyclic patterns.
Though the intention was always there to beat the cycle,but it was always greeted by defeat-with its tongue hanging out.
By the time all energies were gathered to produce something,all precious time was spent in finding things and soon it ended with time to make -breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Nothing got achieved. Just the dinner.

Studio Clutter

Clutter in the studio made absolute sense. It sort of ,was satisfying to see it . There was a justification to the mess around. I definitely knew where it had sprung from , how it happened . It took absolute responsibility of its arrival.
Made me feel proud in a way-for they were residues of a day of labour.

Almost

Before and after shots

Almost cleared,though would not be appropriate to say clean. The best efforts a seven year old could have done.

Being clear about personal spaces should be a well maintained habit. The (only) bedroom is often fought over-its my room says the daughter

no,its our room says the mother,even though I just sleep in it. There is nothing 'mine' in this room,leaving a dressing table. 

But how would one define a room? By who occupies the space or the furniture?Let me list the inhabitants of the room with the ownership

1)Study table-Brishti

2)Cupboard-Brishti

3)Book shelf/cupboard- Brishti

4)Small cupboard-Filled with toys of Brishti

5)Wall shelf-Brishti

6)Folding table/bed table-used by Brishti

7)Dressing table-me

8)Bed-shared

Should let the daughter claim the room I guess! 

Khalaara

'Khalaara' the punjabi word for 'clutter'. Though 'clutter' sounds quite sophisticated, it does not have the feel of 'khaalara'. 'Khalaara' resonates the spirit of the house,the people inhabiting,the moods and definitely the absent mindedness.
Khalaara springs up on its own. I see it as clues of traces of the day....how the room was entered,how I walked past which furniture,where I took off my shoes...
am quite used to khalaara...having grown up in a household with three siblings- two sisters n a pet dog...with mom managing mostly everything, especially with dad travelling endlessly- Khalaara ,is second nature to me. It starts in patches.Small bits initially-lying innocently. Accumulating by the third day to a larger pile. The pile though is not a mountain shape. It is,so to say a fallen mountain. The innocence level starts receding. By the fifth day it clutters the mind. Its strange for me that Khalaraa suits my visual language,but it becomes clutter in my head. The mind and space become one. There remains no place to sit on the sofa/chair. The shelves get filled up with 'I don't know how this reached here?' There is no memory of putting some of the objects there,yet they have arrived there somehow.
Though I know that they cannot reach their destination by themselves, the body refuses to take any action. Any action which transports any object. Denial wins perpetually. It enables blurring the vision. Khalarra becomes faded.