As an immigrant fiber artist from India, my work is constantly informed by my existence between the two cultures, woven by the threads of transcending memories, nostalgia and cultural identity. Most often I find myself drawn to my roots, exploring the complexity of migration and belonging. I contemplate on how cultures, countries are bound together by the warp and weft of civilization, how we are wrapped in cloth ever since our inception.
The delicate and nuanced thread work in Jamdani (a traditional weave from my country and Bangladesh) creates a sense of ethereal beauty and translucency, which I find deeply inspiring. As a contemporary artist, through the use of this traditional technique I aim to create modern, non-traditional art that push the boundaries of what is possible with this timeless art form. The shadows produced by the layering and interplay of light on the intricate weaves create a mesmerizing depth and movement with patterns and textures. Through the tactile nature of fiber art, I invite viewers to immerse themselves in a sensory journey, tracing the contours of each woven line and unraveling the stories woven within.
Apart from delving into the realms of childhood reminiscences, this body of work also reflects the wanderlust that has taken me across borders and continents. Some of those countries, places and people have left an indelible mark on my soul and have evoked a deep sense of connection to my home country. Blending strands of cultural exchange and personal discovery, I strive to blur the lines between past and present, home and abroad through ordinary iconic metaphors.The inevitable shifts in our contemporary world, environmental degradation and their unsettling impact on our future generation leave me overwhelmed. And it deepens my yearning for the bygone days. But nostalgia is always bittersweet and I find solace in making new memories with my art, an essential thread in the fabric of human existence.
I would like to acknowledge two poet soulmates of mine, whose words have resonated with me to the extent that I wanted to incorporate them in this body of work, along with my own words. They are Shuvra Das and Bhaswati Ghosh.
Boisali Biswas
The delicate and nuanced thread work in Jamdani (a traditional weave from my country and Bangladesh) creates a sense of ethereal beauty and translucency, which I find deeply inspiring. As a contemporary artist, through the use of this traditional technique I aim to create modern, non-traditional art that push the boundaries of what is possible with this timeless art form. The shadows produced by the layering and interplay of light on the intricate weaves create a mesmerizing depth and movement with patterns and textures. Through the tactile nature of fiber art, I invite viewers to immerse themselves in a sensory journey, tracing the contours of each woven line and unraveling the stories woven within.
Apart from delving into the realms of childhood reminiscences, this body of work also reflects the wanderlust that has taken me across borders and continents. Some of those countries, places and people have left an indelible mark on my soul and have evoked a deep sense of connection to my home country. Blending strands of cultural exchange and personal discovery, I strive to blur the lines between past and present, home and abroad through ordinary iconic metaphors.The inevitable shifts in our contemporary world, environmental degradation and their unsettling impact on our future generation leave me overwhelmed. And it deepens my yearning for the bygone days. But nostalgia is always bittersweet and I find solace in making new memories with my art, an essential thread in the fabric of human existence.
I would like to acknowledge two poet soulmates of mine, whose words have resonated with me to the extent that I wanted to incorporate them in this body of work, along with my own words. They are Shuvra Das and Bhaswati Ghosh.
Boisali Biswas
Excerpts from Featured Poems
By Shuvra Das (SD)
Sunshine on the angled roof of the treehouse
enriched the streaks of earth-tones
- exposing rich layers of untold tales from seasons past,
stories that lay hidden in the echoes of ancient footsteps
on the gravel path that meandered
from our cottage to the farmhouse.
The same crunchy path that you and I now stroll along
on the way to make some stories of our own.
Those flowing flowery dresses, nightwears, and tights,
saris, huipil, and peplos, yours and mine
and millions of others on the clothesline,
weave tales of the river of life.
They flutter like butterflies in the wind,
the colors dazzling as they soak up the sun, and tie us
with invisible knots of love like the
voices of our grandmothers
from a distant past.
Kolkata beckons me in my sleep
like a hot cup of tea in a long lost
dream, stuck in the quicksand of time.
বৃষ্টি ভেজা সকাল শেষে রোদ ঝলমল দুপুর,
চোখ বুজলেই সেই কবেকার তক্তপোষে উপুড়।
দগ্ধ আকাশ, তপ্ত বায়ু, ভেজা কাপড় মেলা,
ঝুলতে থাকা তারের ওপর, চলতো ঝুলন খেলা।
খেলা ছিল লুকোচুরির, ছায়াই খেলা তখন,
সিক্ত কাপড় গা ছুঁয়ে কয় ঝাপসা মনের কাহন।
আজকে যখন তপ্ত বাতাস, দমকা হাওয়া বয়,
সেই সেদিনের ছায়ার ছবি, ছায়াছবি হয়।
As the sun's rays kiss the rain-soaked morn,
You lie on that ancient cot, eyes forlorn.
The sky ablaze, the air a fiery embrace;
wet clothes on the line, a dance of grace.
A game of hide and seek, of shadow and light,
the damp fabric caresses with tales just right.
As the hot wind blows, stories unfold,
of love and longing, timeless and old.
Sunshine on the angled roof of the treehouse
enriched the streaks of earth-tones
- exposing rich layers of untold tales from seasons past,
stories that lay hidden in the echoes of ancient footsteps
on the gravel path that meandered
from our cottage to the farmhouse.
The same crunchy path that you and I now stroll along
on the way to make some stories of our own.
Those flowing flowery dresses, nightwears, and tights,
saris, huipil, and peplos, yours and mine
and millions of others on the clothesline,
weave tales of the river of life.
They flutter like butterflies in the wind,
the colors dazzling as they soak up the sun, and tie us
with invisible knots of love like the
voices of our grandmothers
from a distant past.
Kolkata beckons me in my sleep
like a hot cup of tea in a long lost
dream, stuck in the quicksand of time.
বৃষ্টি ভেজা সকাল শেষে রোদ ঝলমল দুপুর,
চোখ বুজলেই সেই কবেকার তক্তপোষে উপুড়।
দগ্ধ আকাশ, তপ্ত বায়ু, ভেজা কাপড় মেলা,
ঝুলতে থাকা তারের ওপর, চলতো ঝুলন খেলা।
খেলা ছিল লুকোচুরির, ছায়াই খেলা তখন,
সিক্ত কাপড় গা ছুঁয়ে কয় ঝাপসা মনের কাহন।
আজকে যখন তপ্ত বাতাস, দমকা হাওয়া বয়,
সেই সেদিনের ছায়ার ছবি, ছায়াছবি হয়।
As the sun's rays kiss the rain-soaked morn,
You lie on that ancient cot, eyes forlorn.
The sky ablaze, the air a fiery embrace;
wet clothes on the line, a dance of grace.
A game of hide and seek, of shadow and light,
the damp fabric caresses with tales just right.
As the hot wind blows, stories unfold,
of love and longing, timeless and old.
By Bhaswati Ghosh (BG)
Addresses have slippery loyalties.
Elopers with time, they whisk away
drafts of air, sunshine from a courtyard,
faceless friends. Trick you into letting
go of them but hang around like
apparitions with missing ID cards.
Soft strings of dawn light
Echoes of a left-behind place
A smile still survives
Take your time to walk in the
garden. Better still, discard
time when you go there. Bend your
knees to hear the whisper of
glass blades and the scolding
of honeybees. Speak with buds
before they become flowers.
remember the affection you
received as a child. Daub
onto your skin the earth's
scent and its fever-warm intimacy.
Addresses have slippery loyalties.
Elopers with time, they whisk away
drafts of air, sunshine from a courtyard,
faceless friends. Trick you into letting
go of them but hang around like
apparitions with missing ID cards.
Soft strings of dawn light
Echoes of a left-behind place
A smile still survives
Take your time to walk in the
garden. Better still, discard
time when you go there. Bend your
knees to hear the whisper of
glass blades and the scolding
of honeybees. Speak with buds
before they become flowers.
remember the affection you
received as a child. Daub
onto your skin the earth's
scent and its fever-warm intimacy.