#sketchingwithwords

[doabugis]

28.11.17 | Chronicles of an Immigrant - Mixed Media / 2017 Belonging to two worlds without being either one or the other, an immigrant’s experience has been defined by their intersecting identities. Several factors consolidated the mixture of cultures and identities in a way where all cultures are involved in one another. The attempt to bring these groups to a middle ground through the shared history of immigration is at the heart of this project. In Edward Saeed’s words, “No one today is purely one thing. Labels like Indian, or woman, or Muslim, or American are not more than starting-points, which if followed into actual experience for only a moment are quickly left behind.” To know more, keep an eye out! #soon #thoughtprocess #sketchingwithwords #newartwork #weareallimmigrants #alittlebitofanthropology

[resonanceofthought]

Not poetry...

The wind sweeps its cool arms through the window making an eerie whistling sound as it fiddles with the soft green, floral curtains that hang drowsily against the wall. The silky fabric beats gently against the kitchen chairs and the pages on the calendar flicker with every new push. The clock in the corner ticks monotonously, cutting through the silence with every stroke and echoing against the walls of the small room. Every once in a while the faint chirp of a cheery bird or the droning of a far off lawn mower will chime in. Overhanging the window opposite are horizontal blinds that slice the suns rays into rectangular blocks that stretch and scatter over the surface of the table.

 It is here where it sits.

 Perfectly placed in the centre of the wooden table is an elegantly designed crystal vase with intricate patterns that simplify as they snake down the sides. It contains a beauty that doesn’t demand to be seen, it instead prides itself in showing off the beauty it holds within it. However the whole image has been nullified by the flowers’ lack of cooperation. They are dying. Their petals are wilting into faded colours of purple, red and pink. Their faces are downcast as if yearning for rich, dark soil to sink their crippling bodies into. They bathe in foul, murky water that has turned into a diluted, dark mustard colour and flakes of decayed plant matter lie underneath the mouldy plant stems. Kamikaze petals lay strewn around the base, a sick smell of rotting green flesh corrupts the once innocent air and the aura of death embeds itself into every thread of attempted beauty.

 The ticking clock is now a mockery, a constant reminder of what is to come. Every piece of the scene suddenly alludes to the inevitability of the flowers’ fate. They will all come to the same end, regardless of their colour, shape or design. They have been neglected, forgotten and forced into a shadow of a once satisfied existence and now what previously fit into this peaceful scene has become the ruin of it.

 Are they a product of a broken heart; hated yet still a part of the person that can’t be let go? Have they been forgotten by the infinitely happy whose mind is consumed by that of their beloved? Or are they just another symbol of the increasingly languid and self-destructive world we inhabit. Either way, someone has quite literally failed ‘to stop and smell the roses’ and now you wouldn't dare to.

 Perhaps one day they will be replaced by new life and the picture will once again be complete, but for now it will remain a bitter sweet contradiction.

[wendikavanaugh]

Day 18 - J'adore Day 19 - you

[doabugis]

‎28.11.17 | يقول محمود درويش في قصيدة طباق (عن إدوارد سعيد) “أنا من هناك. أنا من هنا. ولستُ هناك ولستُ هنا. لِيَ اسمان يلتقيان ويفترقان.. ولي لُغَتان, نسيتُ بأيِّهما كنتُ أحلَمُ. لي لُغةٌ انكليزيّةٌ للكتابةِ طيِّعةُ المفردات، ولي لُغَةٌ من حوار السماء، مع القدس, فضيَّةُ النَبْرِ لكنها لا تُطيع مُخَيّلتي. والهويَّةُ؟ قُلْتُ.. فقال: دفاعٌ عن الذات.. إنَّ الهوية بنتُ الولادة لكنها في النهاية إبداعُ صاحبها, لا وراثة ماضٍ. أنا المتعدِّدَ... في داخلي خارجي المتجدِّدُ. لكنني أنتمي لسؤال الضحية. لو لم أكن من هناك لدرَّبْتُ قلبي على أن يُرَبي هناك غزال الكِنَايةِ... فاحمل بلادك أنّى ذهبتَ وكُنْ نرجسيّاً إذا لزم الأمرُ/ - منفىً هوَ العالَمُ الخارجيُّ ومنفىً هوَ العالَمُ الباطنيّ.. فمن أنت بينهما؟” … to be continued! #thoughtprocess #sketchingwithwords #newartwork #weareallimmigrants #alittlebitofanthropology Music by my good friend and the multitalented: @feermcrambo

[doabugis]

28.11.17 | Chronicles of an Immigrant - Mixed Media / 2017 Belonging to two worlds without being either one or the other, an immigrant’s experience has been defined by their intersecting identities. Several factors consolidated the mixture of cultures and identities in a way where all cultures are involved in one another. The attempt to bring these groups to a middle ground through the shared history of immigration is at the heart of this project. In Edward Saeed’s words, “No one today is purely one thing. Labels like Indian, or woman, or Muslim, or American are not more than starting-points, which if followed into actual experience for only a moment are quickly left behind.” To know more, keep an eye out! #soon #thoughtprocess #sketchingwithwords #newartwork #weareallimmigrants #alittlebitofanthropology

[doabugis]

‎28.11.18 | يقول محمود درويش في قصيدة طباق (عن إدوارد سعيد) “أنا من هناك. أنا من هنا. ولستُ هناك ولستُ هنا. لِيَ اسمان يلتقيان ويفترقان.. ولي لُغَتان, نسيتُ بأيِّهما كنتُ أحلَمُ. لي لُغةٌ انكليزيّةٌ للكتابةِ طيِّعةُ المفردات، ولي لُغَةٌ من حوار السماء، مع القدس, فضيةُ النَبْرِ لكنها لا تُطيع مُخَيّلتي. والهويَّةُ؟ قُلْتُ.. فقال: دفاعٌ عن الذات.. إنَّ الهوية بنتُ الولادة لكنها في النهاية إبداعُ صاحبها, لا وراثة ماضٍ. أنا المتعدِّدَ... في داخلي خارجي المتجدِّدُ. لكنني أنتمي لسؤال الضحية. لو لم أكن من هناك لدرَّبْتُ قلبي على أن يُرَبي هناك غزال الكِنَايةِ... فاحمل بلادك أنّى ذهبتَ وكُنْ نرجسيّاً إذا لزم الأمر/ - منفىً هوَ العالَمُ الخارجيُّ ومنفىً هوَ العالَمُ الباطنيّ.. فمن أنت بينهما؟” … to be continued! #thoughtprocess #sketchingwithwords #newartwork #weareallimmigrants #alittlebitofanthropology Music by my good friend and the multitalented: @feermcrambo

[doabugis]

28.11.17 | Chronicles of an Immigrant - Mixed Media / 2017 Immigration is inherent in the history of mankind. We have all come from somewhere and ended up somewhere else. The premise of Chronicles of an Immigrant originated even before I was born. My forever muse, my late grandfather, relocated to Makkah when he was 17 years old seeking knowledge that he could not find in his hometown. He was a scholar, an astronomer, a poet and as cliche as it may sound, a forever student in the school of life. The legacy he left behind, from his mundane journals to astronomy observations and analysis, inspires me tremendously and has a strong influence on my work. How can one person that existed in his humble bubble have such impact 30 years after his death? Yet, during his lifetime, he never claimed to be of any significance in a very modest way. His signature on his books was always: ‎الحقير الفقير إلى مولاه القدير حسب الله بن حسن بن عبدالله غفرهم الله بوقس His story of hijra and the struggle to embrace the paradox of identity that reflected his complicated reality is the subject matter and the little narrative that I attempted to depict in this series of work that will be showcased soon. … to be continued! #thoughtprocess #sketchingwithwords #newartwork #weareallimmigrants #alittlebitofanthropology