Let anyone win something, they will come with their struggling stories. Lend your ears to them, everybody will glorify their sadness and everyone’s just the same, when they try to narrate their stories differently. Of lately, folks watch melodramas or motivational talks, and try to sermonize the world, without experiencing anything. You cannot talk about shitting bricks from your rectum, unless you actually have. You cannot preach about the subjects which you haven’t learned and practiced. You cannot tell the tales of finding solaces in melancholy, unless you have gone hungry for weeks yourself. I narrate this story, not to please the eyes of those who wish to speculate to hear a success story or this is not my life’s valedictorian moment, this is as it is, as the journey unveils something, a narration from a juncture – this is merely penning down of moments and memories, so that in distant future, I too want to come back here, read it, remember and then perhaps, if situation merits then, must I smile.
We grew up in Kharbandi, in a colony, and during those days, television was a means of luxury. Not everybody had it. Whenever the students left their hostels and departed for their villages during summer or winter holidays, me and my friends would raid their left overs. We would loiter around the abandoned hostels and collected unfinished note books, half inked ball point pens and anything that we thought were valuable during those days. I remember vividly, that a student had left half-filled water colour tubes and he had painted on a white tile. His painting was that of blue mountains and green trees. The tubes were missing and there was an overworked brush which needed to be disposed.
But that was also the year, when I was twelve years old, the year that we shifted to Thimphu, and I got my first art project. I was guided by my cousin brother Mahesh to paint banners. We distributed the money and it was a lot for us then. We however, painted in those cold nights of Motithang, and the paints took time to dry. We were also trying to give our best, so we bought the best clothes for the banner, which we wrongly purchased – nylon kira. The cloth didn’t hold our paints and we wasted a lot of paint, dirtying the floor. Now I realize that we had bought the best clothes for kira and not for banner, despite paying double the sum of what the best banner clothes costed.
|Sometime in 2004, painting banner for some workshop. |
|Rima's sketch, which wasn't done well.|
|One of my works after breaking my hand. |
Later years, I tried to experiment with acrylic colours, and it was embarrassing to realize that I once painted a brown rose, thinking it was maroon or red. That’s the gift of colourblindness.
|Details with dots. |
Hence, I only continued to do draw with dots, when I was stressed and it kept me calm. With time, I realized that Mr. Phupa was right, that it needed patience. Later years, I realized that it was more of meditation than art and it was a form of therapy to sooth all the melancholic moments thrown at me for being in construction industry. Hence, after twenty years of self-learning, being passionate, getting jeered and losing every competition, I am improving each day and trying to find my own style and themes. I am grateful to all the souls whom I have met and had gifted me something for my artworks. My friends gifted me sketch books, charcoal pencils, graphite pencils, pens, inks, and all the materials that I have, from across all the corners of the world. I will always remain indebted and beholden to them, and as I look back upon my journey, the voyage in the art world, I cannot claim myself to be fully self-taught. I was inspired by people around me. I was cheered by my friends that pushed me to do something interesting and better. To all the faces that I sketched and screwed up, thank you.