Experimenting with these different mediums, I found them, especially the charcoal to be a very unforgiving medium. At times when things didn't appear right, I found myself hoping there was an undo button where I could erase my mistake. But this was just my wishful thinking. Working with such humble tools; a needle and the thread, the process was tiresome. Having to sit for hours, punching holes on the canvas and finding the ends of the thread.
My grandmother worries about my small imperfections I have as a human. Being unable to sit properly with my legs bend, being unable to converse well with fellow countrymen and being hesitant, she worries always. She requests me not to return back, to live with her and learn from her. Literary like the needle guiding the thread up and down through the holes in my canvas. But I'm here and as I choose to remember her as the lady with winkled hands, dried up lips and sunken cheeks, she'll recall me as the hesitant boy who finds it a challenge to sit and speak, always.
My grandmother worries about my small imperfections I have as a human. Being unable to sit properly with my legs bend, being unable to converse well with fellow countrymen and being hesitant, she worries always. She requests me not to return back, to live with her and learn from her. Literary like the needle guiding the thread up and down through the holes in my canvas. But I'm here and as I choose to remember her as the lady with winkled hands, dried up lips and sunken cheeks, she'll recall me as the hesitant boy who finds it a challenge to sit and speak, always.
0 comments:
Post a Comment