I believe in the philosophy behind ‘strife is justice’. That each of us are continuously regenerated from moment to moment, that each moment is unique in this aspect. Things are built and torn down and built again, at an atomic level all the way to a cosmic level. And overcoming uncertainty, consistently moving forward, and rejoicing in this change is where we find stability.
So here’s the interesting thing, when I started this MA I was in search of narrative art. I would look up definitions of narrative art and realize that my art did not really fit the traditional definitions of it. Which would prompt the question that started this whole thing, what even is art?
And then I gradually discovered nuances and meanings within art. I discovered that narrative was not a definition imposed on art, but a substance that revealed itself through art. And within my public art projects, within the broken glass paintings I experimented with, intertwined with my daily life and my ever changing self, there was the soul of a narrative. So I was content as I navigated these new shores, glad that I did not have to forcefully weave traditional storytelling where it did not belong.
But sometimes, convoluted paths lead you to the very same destination. And as I approach the finale of this MA, I am working on publishing two books in two very different genres. Now I know, publishing is a long game and I won’t see these books come to fruition anytime soon, but my point is, we humans move in circles. I started off wondering whether my love for writing was something separate from my art, or whether narratives should be forced into my art. That led me down a path of discovering stories about myself and others and about the places I visit, and I set writing aside as irrelevant to this journey. And then suddenly, at the end of last year I found myself drawn to writing again. I found that nothing is truly disparate, nothing is completely defined or set within boundaries, that we flow fluidly from once thing to next, building ourselves up, breaking ourselves down and yet edging forward slowly but surely. Concentric circles in outward motion.