utopian introspection
random expressions within defined periphery

catalogue article 1: by salil subedi

explosion, somewhere in the universe. a star is born/dead, time - yet a constant pandemonium in our senses.

perhaps then a flux in the phenomenon – the nature of thing alters their colors and frequency. but the nails – they get constantly hammered to their limits. and us, the hammering beings; human beings hammer them. nails – bearing essence of sinful lust, joys, pleasure… almost all sensory vibrations that are piercing, and strong. a burden so heavy, that the nail alone cannot hold it. even your nailed vision on the nails fails. so it drops.

it drops and dribbles as if like a micro-waterfall on the blank spaces of the paintings. "where art thou?" which utopian dimension do you exist upon? the blue-headed metal nails line up to be hammered. but as opposed to time, in our quest to find oneself heading towards the ‘ultimate high’, is it time for us to stop the constant hammering and come back to the roots?

reverse the hammering process and possible that it might be - to pull out all the wounds we have punctured in the spatial existence of psychic and physical territories over our time on this earth - against our own brothers, sisters and fellow sentient beings.

the red barbed wires upon a cross shout a strong statement, a fundamental truth, on why an uncolored wire actually has turned red and dripping upon "wisdom". the three chairs are ‘elevated’ to different standards – double standards of the reigning authority and power. state of masked friendships, relationships and bond. they mock the hideous masks of men looming around to drink waters of opportunity – as they struggle to jump up to the lowest chair so that from that chair jump to the higher chair is eased. step by step.

and while primate instinct triggers growls and squeals on the streets, rooms and upon the chairs, sujan invites you and your superior human race, to fathom your "interior horizon". come stand in front of your big ‘ego’. put your nose high. stiffen your neck and shoulders in your corporate facade. do you see your fake jewelry and blotted ties flash towards your own face? everybody knows that everybody is beautiful, but why does thing like this happen –

mirror mirror on the wall
the god in me
but reflected as devil
in thy heart?

oh narcissus, in total fuss. feels like plunging down upon the bed of nails. or perhaps to smudge your truth like you would the gold tinted screws, and cover them layered. or would you rather return to yourself, in your own utopian world, recollecting your sentiments, memories of childhood, youth and time in plastic bags in fragments and, in silence.

fragments further fall like the chanting leaves in winter transcending beyond the sounds of devotions, of trance colors, beyond the layers of yellow and orange hues greeting the ‘first’ rays of the void. beyond all pilgrimages of the religions crafted by those who are now all dead.

"meditateonselfdotcom" makes a tough textual contact. each flap you turn corresponds to your own curiosity and an innate desire to flip through the pages, quickly, towards the end. isn’t that a meditation in itself that your mind’s sudden haste ends at an expected goal? the end.

but what is an end? and what is the beginning. watch the mirrors and answer to yourself honestly how grand the interior design your mind has designed for, and, within you. is it only limited within the two-by-six reality that sujan crafts out for your body?

and as you leave the force-field of the paintings, feel among which of the seven sins that you have attached yourself with? the seven sins swimming in the aquarium above the sinner’s wheels… that you might have once more rolled out from your phatic utterances. and then perhaps, is the time to check once again your own heartbeat. hear his, sujan's, on the speakers, and feel yours. that is all there is to say.

i really don’t understand what more you are looking for. why you would be reading this textual mix? madness. perhaps you want to escape from your truth of projecting your real identities, your true reactions, so that first you flip upon these pages to find meanings of the display? or are you doing it as a common ritual that you are used to? you must be then a reading machine. a programmed computing being. apple?

sujan’s will to transcend through the thin veil of ‘maya’ towards the willlessness – riding, groaning, sweating, thundering, breaking and laughing over his mad impulses is beyond my reach. he has the art. i have babbles. he is tireless. i am stone. let him be…

now it is past midnight. buddha’s full moon is well under total eclipse. recollected ideas and reactions upon seeing sujan’s paintings have all deconstructed suddenly in this dead hour. but why – i ask – and this is the reason why you have to see his works, if i may say so, and feel them with your heart and hand. tomorrow is a new day again.

salil subedi ~ sleepless in kathmandu ~ 5 may, 2004
{with a mix of nepali soda, saroj, nabendra, yuwak, tshetung didi and buddha jayanti procession}
{extra ingredients: sujan’s thoughts and works}

catalogue article 2: by saroj bajracharya

spacious silent bulk of wood; pierced with crowded nails. some stand out, some sink beneath, yet they seem lonely as each one is affixed. randomly they are viewed from our restless vision, a vision of penetration, since they are haphazardly being looked upon by human depth. a depth in sighing, a depth yawning, a depth in sleeping during the dimness of the cold night. then waking up every foggy morning on a bed of soil. all this a fate of a restless traveler!

a traveler, covered in rags which have on them stuck half felt but old sentiments. his wavering hand spins the prayers' wheel. depths of countless wishes penetrate the vagueness of existence-a depth of expecting a miracle! containing confusion, chaos and despair in his suitcase, he drifts alone in the depth of his quest. involved in his tragedy of never finding the path: it is the death of this miracle. nevertheless, a spark of satisfaction twinkles in his eyes; dream of a lunatic poet and a nightmarish charm of illusionary birds that fall from the broken skies. now, there is a depth of distortion. from those skies, wings of emotion flap on every dismantled piece. this mood elevates heights of affection, extremes of regressions, closeness of intimacies, pain of pretending, and annoyance of imperfections. none of them rise high enough to find the edge, the rim of absolute heaven.

all the while yet another wild nail is well placed to form a complete consciousness. this whole day's journey has tired the traveler's senses completely, but through half opened eyes there are visions of chairs. affixed on a chair is a water tap. on the other chairs are the remains of his distorted yet somewhat invisible self. these images- the traveler's desire to satisfy his longing for comfort. his need to achieve the absolute brings together all the pieces, but they still seem ever scattered, like the nails on the wood.

the traveler is involved in grasping all things and turns his movements into various photographs, always illusionary. frozen on photographs, the stains of past on the prints of the present seems to project the invisibility of the future. all these- dissections of eternity.

he looks for his suitcase that contained destruction, but to no avail. the search describes on awakening though an actual inscription. now the traveler's lust for life evaporates, as he stands still, affixed on the ground. here he is in the depths of a void.

he sees images of himself surrounding him, like mirrors all around, because he is a nail himself! nails that are deep, nails that stand out- those nails on the spacious silent bulk of wood…

life of a traveler
life-a traveler

saroj bajracharya, may 2004