The artist

Artists convert their emotions and psychological fluctuations into something more concrete and communicable. The creations become a trail of breadcrumbs to their identity. If one closely examines my works or achievements (both technical and art forms) years from now, one will realise how lonely I was when I lived. Each one of them originated in my solitude. Even when I used to be surrounded by a chaotic crowd, my mind shifted itself to an anonymous island surrounded by still blue waters.

People scare me. I can’t relate to them. My misadventures have taught me that everyone has an agenda. But life told me that it’s spontaneous with a dark sense of humour. Everything one considers near and dear are merely ways to distract one from the reality that nothing is permanent. A man, his preoccupations and obsessions will perish. The only question is in which order.