His beard grew and grew and grew

This body of work is like a novel. The narrative of its story emerges through visuals (artworks). These visuals create the chapters within the story and like any chapters in a book; they come together to complete the novel. Each chapter conceives its own space which is integral to the entire project and while doing so it emphases its relevance to the fable. The story is left ambiguous to let the viewer envision his space with the objects; to let their imaginations fill the space around them and interact with the installations. Every piece is relating to a certain significant moment in this account of a man who has gone through an experience that has changed him. The objects herein are tales that hold nuances of his truths and the fictions of his imaginations.

For instance:

This moment, this very second, that the artist choose to tell this man’s tale, personifies ‘the perfect timing’ a piece of the puzzle. The moment he was looking for his whole life, the moment when all four hands of his life clock would meet: luck, fate, fortune and chance, the moment he never got. The artist has frozen that time to make way so that his story may be narrated. Visually, four clocks (installed) that functional with their seconds hands synced and moving, however the other two hands in every clock make a perfect view-finder, almost as to bring to light and in focus the forgotten story.

Similarly another chapter ‘and then poured the black rain’ personifies those black monsoon nights filled with a deep dank sorrow.

Here is an excerpt that I have written of this man: I see a silent man, who lives on an abandoned corner property of a busy market street. There, some of his belongings lie, a broken pot, an umbrella, a few broken image frames of unknown people and an old audio transistor; that only makes noise when he turns it on in the silence of the night. One cannot hear any reception except the white noise of radio distortion. He collects matchsticks and discarded glass bottles. To him everything in his space is very important to him and he treats them as if they are priceless belongings, things with which he holds very dear connections.

Some people claim that they have seen him again and again talking to a particular wall but no one really believes them because everyone knows he doesn’t speak. People say that an insane man lives here, no one knows where he goes in the morning, if someone gives him food he eats, if some one gives him clothes he wears them.

Always busy, he is never sitting idle. He is always looking for something within the clutter, always searching for something, no one knows and sometimes it seems as if nor does he. Like a worker bee, never aimless, and when not examining his prized possessions, he seems to be calculating something, with a distinct look of a man who has lost something, and is trying to remember where it might have been.

His eyes hold a searing gaze. Staring into the skies, piecing through the vastness of the empyrean almost as if he could see past the clouds, something that no one else can. And while he was always seemly preoccupied, very rarely, deep inside his abode, he would indulge in contemplation, and his eyes would transform. From his cold steely countenance, he would change, to a man lost to despair, hopelessly immersed in sorrow and grievously praying for his wait to end.