An Art Installation - Fine Art on Toilet Paper

In the cold Himalayan terrain on that unfamiliar night, I walked carefully towards the wooden hut, feet sinking into the snow. I wondered with each step if I was walking into a mirage, an irony I would learn later of the illusionary matrix of our existence. The image of the hut became larger until I was standing outside the doorless frame, choiceless yet contemplating as a chilling wind escorted me inside.

As my body entered the warmth of the room, I was washed with a wave of familiar comfort, the same feeling that wrapped me as a child in my bedroom, painting on the floor in the middle hours of the night, as my father waited patiently, sitting sleepily on a chair, yet smiling, waiting to turn off the lights and put me to sleep.

Inside the freezing darkness of the unmapped hut, I looked up to see the ageless eyes staring calmly straight at me. Seeing my shivering cold skin, the ageless man gently heaved a pile of wood into the pitted fire on the floor and the room lit up in an orange cast with large shadows. Immediately my eyes fell upon a dynamic triangular design superimposed across the wall in front of which the ageless man had been sitting in timeless silence. My eyes were again held captive in awe just like they were by the first magnetizing abstract painting I saw as a child, the only difference that this was multi-fold stronger. I wanted to ask what was this mesmerizing formation but a power in the room held my throat still, and I waited for the rest of the night to unfold.

Inside the hut that was sheltered from the cold winter snow showering outside, I happily took off my drenched socks and started warming myself up near the pitted fire while constantly gazing at the mesmerizing symbol imprinted across the wall. After a brief introduction and explaining to the ageless man how I stumbled upon here, I finally asked the question he knew I was waiting to have answered. To my curiosity, he explained, “To understand the power of the artistic design you see, you have to first understand the science of spirituality.”

I quickly dismissed this innocent statement. Years of education had made me wary of such beliefs, only to be corrected with an amused smile by the ageless man that spirituality had nothing to do with belief. Spirituality, he said, is knowing, not believing, the truth about oneself and the world, and that the symbol had multiple layers of interpenetrating triangles, well researched as a powerful shape in modern science. Gazing at the orange flames of fire reflected in the eyes of this wise sage, my belief was dispensed and I realized that spirituality was truth as it is.

A decade later, confined inside my room in the midst of a global pandemic that held people prisoners of their own homes, I decided to paint the artistic power of spirituality only to find myself without canvas or access to paper. I chose the only available medium around me, toilet paper, ironically the most precious paper sought during global lockdown at this time. Recalling the cold and warm nights of the years of my expeditions, I picked up my brush and began to paint the truth.

As a child, one summer vacation at my uncle’s home in the foothills of the mountains, I was happily painting on the bed when my uncle asked me to immediately shift to the floor. The next day at the local sweet shop with my cousin, I raised my hand to buy some juicy gulab jamuns when a thundering roar shook the walls as bullets flew across our civilian heads. A regular skirmish between the Indian army and local guerrilla forces that summer morning was an early introduction to death. As we fell to the floor in cover, I understood the importance of life without knowing the meaning of it.

Years later, in the over-powering company of the ageless man, my body continued to shiver to the cold breeze that occasionally swept through the door. Looking at me he asked to sit with my hands and fingers in a particular posture. Before I could fully understand what I was doing, within minutes my body started sweating. I felt warm in every cell of my body. “Life” I shared proudly in relief, “means collecting moments of warmth in the cold.” Amused again, the ageless man responded that the search for meaning is a game played by intellectuals when the fragrance of a flower is analysed instead of quietly experienced. The pleasure of the senses was a privilege, he explained, that can be experienced in extreme when we first take care of our faculties. I nodded my head silently as if I understood and continued to warm myself up in front of the fire.

A decade later, I enjoyed the first few strokes of my painting. I looked outside my window, feeling safer than I did in my childhood summer and went back to the floor and continued to paint.

A little hungry and weary from my expedition, my body started to protest. I curiously glanced around the barren hut, “There is no food here.” Knowing that there was no produce or village anywhere for miles around the hut, the ageless man responded by telling me the key element essential to survive….Air. We get our energy from the air around us, no food, no grains, nothing to kill or consume. Baffled at his answer, without believing it, I asked how he harnessed this energy. Before I could get my response, I remembered our discussion on knowing not believing. So the ageless man, without saying another word, demonstrated an organized breathing technique for me to follow. In minutes of following his instructions, I felt energetic, light, and my hunger faded. Before I got too excited, he assured me that my hunger would return until I mastered the technique with regular practice. Seeing my excitement he added what else could be harnessed through the air surrounding us: peace, physical comfort, fulfilment, and mental liberation.

“Do you have to live in the Himalayas to the harness this energy?” I wondered, to which he assured that air was not exclusive to the Himalayas. Now understanding that anyone can breathe and energize anywhere, I asked why then he chose to live here, to which he shared that not everyone can mentally liberate themselves when living in society and for some it becomes easier in the silence of nature’s company, and the mystical air of the Himalaya.

Years later, as I take a deep breath of the air surrounding me, looking at the unassuming toilet paper rolled across the floor, I prepared to paint the mystical superpower of air.

I always love good food, good company, and a good story. These timepoints of experience act as colours that make my art come alive. As a seeker in the Himalayan terrain, I wasn’t sure if these luxuries would have to be sacrificed to attain some higher knowledge. As hours passed into the night inside the fire-lit hut, a phrase mentioned by the ageless man stuck with me.

Mental Liberation. Does this mean we must liberate from our attachments and leave everything that we have? A valid and pressing question that I had for my mystical companion. As dawn approached close, he explained that liberation is unification and not detachment. You don’t leave anything but rather unite with everything and yourself. You become supremely compassionate, free from judgement, and so conscious of every being, the animate and inanimate, that you are immersed into everything without being attached to it.

I had my soul full of answers that I could absorb in one night. I glanced again at the triangular design imposed across the wall, allowing it to play a maze with my mind. As a final quench for my artistic inquisition, the ageless man explained that the triangles intersected in a certain direction to represent fire and masculine energy and in another direction to represent water and feminine energy. An overlapping of these two formations symbolized creative energy from which all cosmic activity flowed and when disjointed they represent the cessation of time and of all cosmic existence. The allure of the symbolism left me entranced.

The first ray of sunlight trickled inside the roof of the hut. I knew it was time for me to leave. The warmth of the hut and the pleasure of the ageless man’s company... I had more paths to tread and knew I would soon be hungry.

I picked up my shoes to leave my miraculous abode for the night. The ageless man stood up at which point I saw the length of his hair, longer than the longest bark of a coconut tree I had seen. I asked for how many years he kept it growing to which he he just smiled, leaving my question unanswered.

After getting directions for my next destination, I ventured north, guided by the snow-peaked landmark of mountains in the distance. The snowfall was now calm and sky clear and my bag didn’t seem that heavy any more. Yesterday I didn’t know much about myself. Today I became more aware of my being and the things I carried. I was aware of my temperature, the speed of my breath, my energy reserve, how much food I am carried, and whether it was a clear path to tread on.

A decade later, while painting the marvels of revelation and exploration, I was aware of all the elements in my painting room, the texture of my brush, the amount of colour I dipped into, and the sounds of police vans outside my window beating those that ventured outside the barricades of the lockdown without a protection mask. Peaceful amidst the chaos, grateful for the sanctity of health, and resolute to create fine art on toilet paper, I continued to paint the ancient Indian wisdom of the phases of development of the human mind with my brush.

To be continued...