Abstract Mind Finds Free Way on Shillong Road Because the I Saw Red
Photo-Edit of Some Mundane Clicks did Surprise Me…..
To me, photography is an art of observation. It’s about finding something
interesting in an ordinary place… I’ve found it has little to do with
the things you see and everything to do with the
way you see them--Elliott Erwitt
Abstraction for me is a way of life, oxygen to my constantly wavering jellyfish mind.
If you ask me what is my subject to photograph, I would say it is dictated by my imaginative mood.
These photos were taken on a leisure evening in Shillong, a sleepy town in North-East of India, the capital for State, Meghalaya. It was in hours of sun down when the light was mellow and dark yet to drop in.
I always enjoy these in-between moments, the abstraction of it, which doubles up for mystery of the unspecified.
With these photos I did an experiment giving them a spooky, dracula-esque abstract edit, and what better to depict suspense/thriller than RED!
Someone forgot to whisper your death to the bees And so all the bees have left And the fruit trees have died.
In the house there are twelve ghosts And all of them you— Caught like birds in the stations of girlhood.
One ghost kneels before an empty fireplace; She sings her sister’s name Into the cool mouth of the chimney, Listens as the voice shivers Its return.
A barefoot ghost pitches stones Down the red dirt road. The melancholy sister at the kitchen window Waits for a letter, watches for the postman. Twelve ghosts. Each sister ties A different color ribbon in her hair.
One sweeps all the rooms of the house. Two stand before the mirror. But it’s bad luck For two to look into a mirror at the same time; The youngest will die. And what of the one in the basement? No, we don’t visit her. Twelve white plates laid on the table for supper. All twelve drink water from one well.
Each daughter moves in the mood of her own month. They carry the tides, the seasons, the year of you. Each daughter, each dancer, Delivers the message of you. One dreams she’s a racehorse rider— She straddles the propane tank in the yard And rides recklessly into the night
One ghost plays a nocturne on the piano,
While another skips into the room,
Strikes the discordant keys, and vanishes.
The last ghost leans with her ear against a dead wasp nest.
She closes her eyes and listens
To you, still singing Beyond the kingdom of the living…
This beautiful poem I used as a conversation here is written by Ansel Elkins,
titled Someone-forgot-to-whisper-your-death-to-the-bees
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