KNACK Magazine #67 by KNACK Magazine

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK Magazine’s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists, working artists and established artists. We strive to create a place for

artists,

writers,

design-

ers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a

unique,

informative,

unprecedented art

magazine

and

web-based each

month.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS: 10-12 high resolution images of your work. All should include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). WRITERS: You may submit up to 3,000 words and as little as one. We accept simultaneous submissions. No cover letter necessary. All submissions must be 12pt, Times New Roman, single or double-spaced with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre. KNACK seeks writing of all kinds. We will even consider recipes, reviews, and essays. We seek writers whose work has a distinct voice, is character driven, and is subversive but tasteful. ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include a portrait, a brief biography, which can include; your name, age, current location, awards, contact information, etc. (no more than 250 words). And an artist statement (no more than 500 words). We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which your work is to be displayed please include them. Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions. *PLEASE TITLE FILES FOR SUBMISSION WITH THE NAME OF THE PIECE. THIS APPLIES FOR BOTH WRITING AND VISUAL SUBMISSIONS.

EMAIL: KNACKMAGAZINE1@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT: SUBMISSION [PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN] ACCEPTABLE FORMATS: IMAGES: .PDF, .TIFF, OR .JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .DOC, .DOCX, AND .RTF

REVIEWS

KNACK Magazine is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture related event that may be happening in your community. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which you’d like to see reviewed in KNACK Magazine. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts. If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK Magazine community—no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico. All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 4319 N. Greenview Ave, Chicago, IL 60613. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

EDITORS & STAFF Andrea Catalina Vaca Co-Founder, Publisher, Editor-In-Chief, Artist Coordinator, Digital Operations, Photographer, Designer, Circulation Director, Production Manager, Business Manager Jonathon Duarte Co-Founder, Creative Director Ariana Lombardi Co-Founder, Executive Editor, Artist Coordinator, Writer Chelsey Alden Editor, Writer Fernando Gaverd Digital Operations, Designer BFrank Designer

Cover Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca First & Last Spread Photography: A.C. Vaca Photography Magazine Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca

CONTENTS 10

Artist Biographies

FEATURED ARTISTS 26 30 16 Neerja Peters

Labib Mahmud

Chrisha Nicole Clemente Acal

Rini Rose Mathew

Raheel Sualiheen

Kashyap Parikh

QUICK LOOK ARTISTS 70 74 Binoy Paul

Nermeen Othman

KNACK Magazine, Issue #67

A R T I S T

B I O G R A P H I E S

Neerja Peters

Labib Mahmud

D r. N e e r j a C h a n d n a P e t e r s i s a n a r t i s t a n d w r i t e r. After twenty three years in the Central Government Health Services as a C h i e f M e d i c a l O f f i c e r, Peters left the corporate world to pursue painting full time. She received 3rd prize in the 1st International Painting Biennale New Transformations, January 2021, from IAVPOA, International Association of Visual, Performing and other Arts; Critics Choice Award from World University of Design, 2020; the Wallace Hartley W.A.D. Award, 2020, from IAA India; Bronze award in the Online Art Exhibition Artists’ Collage During Lockdown, from ARTinfoINDIA. COM. Peters currently lives in New Delhi, India.

Labib Mahmud is a writer based in Dhaka, Bangladesh. His works focus on formulating a style that is uniquely his, while exploring themes of contemporary, social, and psychological issues. Currently, Mahmud works as a freel a n c e g ra p h i c d e s i g n e r, while pursuing a degree in English literature. Email: labib.mahmud848@ gmail.com Instagram: labib.mahmudd

Email: neerjacpeters@gmail. com Website: http://duendethestudio.com 11

Chrisha Nicole Clemente Acal

Rini Rose Mathew

Chrisha Nicole Clemente Acal is a self taught digital artist and a student of Architecture from the Philippines.

Rini Rose Mathew is a Language Instructor and devotes her time to teaching English & literature to a group of passionate learners across India from various schools and colleges. She is the author of two poems “The Eternal Thought!” and “The Day She Spoke,” The both published in Font, A Literary Journal for Language Teachers. In 2017, another of her written works received recognition from the National Skills Network, National Level Competition, India. Mathew currently resides in India. Email: rinilinesh1528@gmail. com

Raheel Sualiheen

Kashyap Parikh

Raheel Sualiheen is a photographer & graphic designer based in Karachi, Pakistan. Both self taught and schooled in photography, Sualiheen currently works with clients on product photography, profile shoots, and professional wedding photography in Karachi.

Kashyap Parikh has a graduate and postgraduate degree of Fine Arts from The Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda, Vadodara, India and has shown his excellence a s a p a i n t e r, p r i n t m a k e r, a n d d e s i g n e r. Pa r i k h h a s participated in international exhibitions in the United Kingdom, China, and Bhutan, as well as solo exhibitions, seminars, and camps. He has been teaching at MSU for the last 25 years, and at present he is head of the Applied Arts Department. Parikh currently lives and works in Baroda.

Instagram: raheelsualiheen

Email: kashyaparikh@gmail. com Website: http://kashyaparikh. com 13

FEATU A RT I

URED ISTS

Neerja PETERS Traditionally in India, in fact, making art was itself a ‘reaching towards ananda,’ or pure bliss. It was an act of worship that signified unity with the Godhead. The joy and bliss of creation is akin to the unison of the two lovers. Producing a work of art requires introspection, contemplation, and meditation with the gesture of the divine immanent in all art forms, says India’s foremost spiritual guide, the Bhagavad Gita. The practice of Dhyan (meditation) requires our consciousness to self-gather, focus, discipline, and move inwards toward the inner light. The Brihadaranyaka Upanishad mentions the phase of meditation in which such forms make their appearance, “saffron hued raiment, red colored beetle, flame of the fire, lotus flower, sudden flashes of lightning...”. The colors of this series signify this stage. In today’s virtual world of stress, materialism, and the rat race for success, the human consciousness has forgotten its identity and is lost. It is this separateness of identity from the Godhead that I endeavor to dispel through a revival of Dhyan (meditation) through art.

Blue Lotus Acrylic on Canvas 61 cm 2019

Hope Acrylic on Canvas 45.7 cm x 45.7 cm 2020

Samadhi 1 Acrylic on Canvas 76.2 cm x 50.8 cm 2020

Opposite Page: Inner Joy Acrylic on Canvas 45.7 cm x 61 cm 2019

The Awakening Acrylic on Canvas 122 cm x 122 cm 2019

Naman, Acrylic on Canvas, 76.2 cm x 50.8 cm, 2019

Samadhi 2, Acrylic on Canvas, 45.7 cm x 61cm, 2020

Transcendence Acrylic on Canvas 45.7 cm x 45.7 cm 2020

Gajanan Acrylic on Canvas 76.2 cm x 50.8 cm 2019

Labib MAHMUD My writing focuses on the particular isolation and detachment that comes from living in a developing city during the age of information and the individual inadequacy as a product of the inauthentic portrayal of self. These pieces reflect internal dissonance, a narrative that is elusive yet unfiltered towards the manipulative nature of the world and its digital cruelty.

THICK HONEY

I found myself back at The Coffee Roasters, this time out of breath. Pink hues crawled through the blinds into diagonal parallels of dichotomous worlds in an endless sequence. The pink sky fascinates me; it strips off its blue coat with white stains from the chemical factory next door, displaying the endearment that was lost at a very young age. The endearment comes in little doses on rare occasions, when the limp rays at dusk bounce off clouds and scatter through the humid air forming hues of pink–random yet mapped out, like art. There hung a painting just above the cash counter. A beautiful painting, and it said, “This is not a pipe.” It really is not. I cannot light it up and smoke what had been taped to someone’s sole and managed to pass through airport security. Our screens should have a similar heading: “This is not the real world,” or in a cigarette packet: “Scrolling causes a loss of perspective,” or on a medicine jar: “Patients may feel nauseous and experience difficulty in distinguishing between what is real and imagined.” On evenings of indulgence, I barely go further than examining myself, caught in a current of bourgeois pretentiousness. Once this pretentiousness has taken a hold of you, it sticks to your teeth like thick honey. I am alone today, but I hold no grudge against the world. Grudges are a treachery of the mind which shrouds the heart. Grudges make me weak and exhausted. The lovers talking beside me are the kind of couple who like being seen with each other, flaunting the fact that they will not be spending the rest of their lives alone. They have sailed the currents and have now earned the right to speak through their cardboard masks. Such can be considered an achievement in the modern world. My man, let me elaborate: last Thursday when I could not join my comrades for a night out because of my own selfish desires, I made myself a sandwich and watched Her. You see, triumphant movies are about war, love, death, or any underlying idea of pain that humans unknowingly, unwillingly fetishize. My dear friend, I dare display the portrait of a solitary man. Yes, you may take a few steps back to step out of your bubble for a better perspective. “Excuse me sir, your Americano. Would you like some sugar?” I smile, nodding sideways. Shoot! I was talking to myself again. I don’t take a sip as I would like to finish my thought– indeed! The solitary man will be leading the way when it is due. Detachment is a problem of the modern man, not so much a problem as it is a condition. It enables a persona that belongs to no one but the dark parallel. We seek imagined solitude in a world that is deprived of authenticity. My dude, it is not detachment that underlines the struggle. Detachment is freeing, rather, it is the dark parallel that knees you down by the throat. This pink sky is no one’s claim, but everyone’s to create. Yet, we deny mortality, seeking more and more–what is more?

My brother, the air is mild now. I will take your leave. I must get some sleep, as not holding grudges drains me as much as holding them. Apologies for digressing but I would like to dull my wits and return to the dark parallel now. Oh yes! I am not allowed to think anything and I will be posed in a squat. I can only hope to see the pink sky.

Cardboard Walls The bougainvillea vine on top of my neighbor’s guard room has flourished into beautiful palettes of pink, only then to be crippled by the warm, melancholic spring rain. I enjoy the rain complemented with a bitter cup of coffee and a cigarette. The beans are running low, along with the collective pieces of my self-esteem, and the jigsaw itself cannot be comprehended. It’s five AM: my brain is foggy and I haven’t yet met my allies, nor my enemies. Absence of The Thursday Bar serving cheap debauchery, and The Friday Masjid serving repentance, has stripped me away of all practicality. It has left me naked in the street, deserted, empty, hollow, only sparrows above singing the eulogy. Everyone’s naked in the same street; no one sees anyone, but everyone is there. It’s one PM: the numbers keep going up – 1,000; 10,000; 100,000. I wake up, shower, put on my white punjabi drenched in oud, and decamp in search of the lost order. My father is by my side leading the quest, trying his best to retain some normalcy. I loathe my isolation corner of four cardboard pieces, a table, a lamp and a bed where my soul rests. The soul returns to its cage, plagued by the light of hope gliding through the little holes in my cardboard wall. It’s two PM: lover’s quarrel, projecting detests for their own cardboard walls. Yet, they fornicate from miles away, rather, to the world it disguises as the sparrow’s song. My little family gathers around the dining table, and the two sisters serve us lunch. The chicken curry lacks joy in taste, mirroring the inadequacy in the eyes of the sisters. Everyone needs their own two sisters, just as they need fresh air. They can’t answer back to your dominance and so, they forcefully smile while man gets to keep a clean conscience. Now the conscience is gone and along with it the smile. The inadequacy shows in everyone’s eyes because the solitary man finally has time to reflect. It’s eight PM: I have a virtual party to attend. My comrades are distressed, rolling their emotions in a piece of paper and smoking, for the tar is repressed in their hearts. Their tongues are sharper than ever, picking out pieces of my self-esteem meticulously. I have lost my ability to retaliate and the picture of a post-plague society scares me. I don’t want my mother to go back to work, or see my father replace his tailored suits with jumpsuits and eat lunch out of a plastic box. I hope they don’t shy away from revolt, as the eighth day of the month arrives. It’s five AM: my lover kisses me to sleep as despair looms over my being. I reflect upon the little holes in my cardboard wall, a world that is bound to be morally corrupt and dishonest. The solitary man has learned to live in isolation, an island unto itself. Their only poetic interlude would be abandonment of self. I don’t want to let these men back into society, seeking imagined solitude in a new bourgeois hell.

Chrisha Nicole Clemente ACAL I am just someone who, after a long and hard fight against my own prejudice telling me I cannot do it, is finally creating and painting on the canvas. I started with drawing portraits, trying all possible mediums such as graphite pencil, colored pencil, watercolor, and acrylic. But it is the wonder of digital art that took away my fears. It gave me the courage that I lacked in traditional art. It has been two months in quarantine since I started digital. To transition from someone who was terrified to hold the pencil, to someone who can now paint a decent portrait, is indeed freeing—I don’t want to stop.

Jung Kyungho as Kim Junwan Digital Art 2020

Cho Jung Seok as Eun Shikyung Digital Art 2020

Cho Jung Seok as Lee Ikjun Digital Art 2020

Jeon Mido as Chae Songhwa Digital Art 2020

Kim Daemyung as Yang Seokhyeong, Digital Art, 2020

Innocence, Digital Art, 2020

Wonder, Digital Art, 2020

Opposite Page: Cho Jung Seok, Digital Art, 2020

Yoo Yeon Seok as Ahn Jeongwon Digital Art 2020

Shin Hyunbeen as Jang Gyeoul Digital Art

Rini Rose MATHEW Life is naturally transitory to me and these words strengthen me to connect with people by passing on hope and love. The blemishes and smudges of this imperfect world begs every individual to shine in glory & perfection. A Rose, a rhythmic chime, a simple conversation with an eternal power helps humanity to stand united through art and language. Pouring out words on paper is a form of comfort and space for togetherness which helps to share similar feelings with many around the world. The photographs are moments very close to my heart which cherish and rekindle the lost childhood in a person. The splash of colours captured represents wonder and mysterious conversation with nature. These forms of art and articles help me to recreate myself.

Beautiful Rose

We shall fly again!

A rose is a rose, is a rose… at peak of beauty leaving no time to repose. Rising to all heights, fights with might, holding so tight. I sense a tinge of colour meshed with sashes of lashes, inundating with waves of salty and feisty leashes. When blessings come in bunches, remember no falls of trenches. As roses amidst shades of blue firmaments, with clarity and precision of sacraments , thorny pricks throw reminders of tumultuous surge. Coarse and cold but firm, pent up in loins of freshness, they huddle for a heavenly cuddle. All puddles of unkempt shadows, fade away from the wide meadow. A symbol of affection, appreciation, bouquet, greets many with coquette. Two in love, stewards in appreciation, losses in mourning and anticipation. Arousing human empathy, synthesizing on human sympathy. A demand, reprimand, or an errand, meets at crossroads as commands. As the gongs shatter bringing much joyous patter, melodies of victorious history do matter! I sing of you my lucky charm, in moments of ecstatic harps to calm. Hearken to each call that tolls the gate for every shrill of happiness. Water does not crush despite strokes of sorrow’s brush You live to revive, enlighten, and survive!

The Chime Of Hope Do you hear it? The resonance makes my heart talk, Was it real or reel that which makes me walk. Sweats of aspiration clogged my sense of appreciation. It chimed, my soul rhymed. The assured clinking of humanity, it timed, Dignity, Integrity gave a pull of gravity, Unity, Peace, and Harmony gave a lull of levity. The devil in me chided “money” the angel in me chided “honey, not money” Still do you hear it? … I am fatigued, I am tired, the barbs of indolence wired. The apocalyptic reigns of horror, man frenzied in terror, I felt the tremor. The rays of innocence, lashed at the maze of ignorance. The world dying in pain humanity flying to gain. Now do you hear it? The fruit of temptation, takes the colour of redemption . Man, it is the time for salvation, the slouching monster of frustration. Oust the monster in you, Man, retrieve the human in you. Then, the world gets renewed with a beating heart, healing the fragments, once apart. We shall meet at the shores of hope, on the glorious mountaintop. Of indolence, of insolence devoid obedience, all is on surveillance Do not stagger or stammer this crooked hovering shadow with no assurance of meadows. Fall no prey to it, but preserve Love, Hope, and Peace, and reserve. Now IT hears you, fear IT it no more!

Heavenly Extravaganza

This Is That Offer Through the beautiful edifice, I walk down the lane of sacrifice Memories past, present, and future, those which shaped and nurtured. Like the price tags on a product to destroy, restrict, or to construct! Offers made here and there to care, share, and pair What was that catastrophic vibe? Did it assure anyone to survive? Yes, God made an offer to those in perils to buffer the labyrinths of sin, to examine the harbingers of wrath, to review, dissect, dilute, and derive assert, abide, and arrive a solution to all conclusions a replay of all resolutions Neither a camera of high resolution nor a network with many postulations can sanctify or purify even a simple fly to ply through a world so dampened as it lay curled so burdened. The reciprocation of nature, compels to nurture Yes, he made an offer to all the scoffers to be a scorer With love, hope, and peace,

all uncertainties shall cease. The abundance of compassion, foretells to abound in passion. An offer we so easily fret with derision! A world so fresh and lush all beings at the pink of blush sky so magnificently clear, tempting anyone to peer… It ain’t any magic but avoids more tragic losses. Multitudes of healthy spirits, from being implicit to becoming explicit. His omnipotence offers molding all in ambers. And at the count of five, all beings come alive. ‘My dear sweet child, why have you gone so wild, with the evil tides, the angel within, to hide.’ The world is my image, well written on my page. The mirror of being to not deflect but in Oneness to reflect by Feeling and finding forth Friends and foes, both to Embrace, all in Reconciliation, saving many more from supplication!

To God, I surpassed a tornado, a hurricane, a tremor. I somehow cannot recall the cause and effect of such happenings. The floods surged in my veins for realization It was half past 10 at night, a sudden thunder and lightning with a drizzle jolted me. I closed my book Lightning by Dean Koontz and raced upstairs to collect the clothes hung to dry on the terrace. I made sure all locks were locked before I went back to bed, I submitted myself to slumber after a monotonous and tiring day. At 7 AM, I woke up, and peeped through my tinted glass. Sun was still asleep, enshrouded in the dark clouds, blessing the earth with heavy showers. Roads were empty, damp, and wet. Temperature also decreased. A message beeped saying schools won’t be functioning today as subways, roads and metros have been flooded with water. Oh no! So much water in a day? Why this sudden change? A cup of coffee lures a dull day to freshness. I guess the sun had taken a day off from its routine. At noon, suddenly I felt an urge to say my prayers again. Everything is transitory, but to convince the permanent state of mind, I tiptoed to my room and mumbled a prayer, sincere and earnest, expressing a desire to be safe! Safety? Of course I am safe. All are safe and I wonder why this particular word was stuck on my tongue? All left work for home, Mum was back by forenoon as she couldn’t make it to the heart of the city. “The city is gushing with water, the levels are rising every hour.” I went up the terrace and took a view of the expanse beneath me. A centre where people thronged was waiting for someone, somebody to begin the hustle and jostle of another hectic day. It seemed that everything came to a standstill. The traffic signals stood devoid of its red, amber, and green shades. It stood clueless and dull without any cue for the day! The blue colour of the sky was supposed to be a symbol of rejuvenation but something was unusual. I loved this change initially, but slowly I began to dislike it, with nothing to comment and nothing to share, I sat watching the raindrops… Off went the power! Nothing caused anxiety in the first two hours as it was too cold. However, after a couple of hours I felt the HEAT

from within. A day and night passed, still nothing changed except the level of the waters. The city came to a complete halt. Mum and I began eating stocked food as shops ran out of stock and people ran out of patience. Get the bread or be in pain! Supermarkets became hypermarkets satisfying the needs, not the wants of the public. I could feel the uncertainty of this life. The absurdity of this path. Definitely, I believed it was for a strong purpose! Another day crawled like a giant creeper on your back, paralyzing more dreams in its wake. Man’s greatest friend and enemy, our gadgets zapped and drained of charge! The hour had booked faces plummeting downloads in every instant gram of a second. Having nothing to tweet but a WhatsApp! Unentangled in the labyrinths of networking, life became boring. Everything froze without anything to be liked or shared or commented. Within two days I realized that real POWER is acquired when one goes powerless! I stepped into a flood stricken cathedral. An array of rubbish exhibited on the wet and dirty floorings. No one cared about what they draped or wore but yearned for normalcy. All prayed with unusual heart beats for another usual life! La Maître est là, et T’appelle Yes, Master, that is your Name I acknowledge thy presence! Yours Lovingly, Liss

Vivid glassy Splash!

The Sigh Of A Bud! This yellow hue of taffy grasps many an eye in a jiffy Like a cannon ball held high with a round shot to many a sigh. A blush, as though dipped in cotton swabs, attracts a splash of aphids in a mob. The joy of watching those flashy flag-like fans, inviting brinks of shapes like a pan, slender stalks with yellow nibs dipped in an amorous blend to form a bib. I wondered what made it so proud to stand upright amongst a crowd children in rows uttered a hue aloud. The epic oration in literature with bounty features, inscribes a signature, as we observed in awe at the flora spreading to dispense an aura. A hood of thin blobs dipped in yellow splotches, petals stretching as coloured brooches. Its rich expanse, to teach and delight, the visitors all set alight! The splendor of such richness lurked in our minds to maintain fitness… acquired through such an ambience What a lovely day of incandescence! Passing hours waded and winked at us past as we muttered and munched to rest. Many cannons of ideas both far and wide to many more generations to smart strides!

A Black And White Mourning Shades of black and white decide the lullaby for little Lucy beside A tinge of the duo shades shaded the spread, where Lucy laid I rise, I rise, I rise higher not to heights but in sight… A bulb in Red pops above my head an eagle hovering as if fully fed, steers with dexterity through the clouds it contours into a circle, to a fresh heart so loud…

beyond shutters to lushes

I rise, rise, rise… Shoot a string to the heart summoning me from miles apart. Hold it, fasten it, and hasten it to those deprived of it… it rises, and surprises to lift My canvas in colours to bloom, as the strings fades into the facades of loom… I evince compartments behind me as seven days of a week, SEVEN, the seeker, thinker, and the searcher of the meek… The red blotch finds solace in the fourth, The number constitutes a spell to bring forth Lucy Grey, yes that’s your shade little one… Great Wordsworth fathoms this one; The essence of white and black merges for a compartment that well purges… leaving my Lucy in peace, To rest at ease.

Raheel SUALIHEEN I love keeping things simple, in life and on-set, as I find it produces the best results with little stress. I started photography as a hobby, taking pictures on nature walks, and experimenting with long exposure at night. I also photographed seascapes and landscapes. Gradually my skills enhanced and my ability to understand exposure and to catch moments with the right settings quickly. I learned many tricks and techniques observing how other photographers see things; every photographer has their own way of seeing the world before them.

Bound with that light of our LOVE, 4 nov 2019

Half of her beauty is her brain, 20 sep 2019 48

Reading is a basic tool in the living of a good life, 29 may 2020

Hold yourself to a standard of grace, 8 aug 2018 49

Why be normal when you can be a BEAST, 16 dec 2018

“..I LEARNED MANY TRICKS AND TECHNIQUES OBSERVING HOW OTHER PHOTOGRAPHERS SEE THINGS; EVERY PHOTOGRAPHER HAS THEIR OWN WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.”

Opposite Page: Your physique is in your hand 8 april 2020

Love amidst the darkness, 25 nov 2018

Brothers make the best friend, 15 oct 2016

Every door is another passage, another boundary we have to go beyond 20 may 2017

Cable car at Kashmir, 28 nov 2018

Waking up in the mountains is like waking up in heaven, 26 nov 2018

Kashyap PARIKH In my works, I try to explore & express my ideas about the human being. I convert my surroundings into visual art. The soil, the air, the water where I grew up all have a deep impact on my art. I maintain silent contact with them and eventually I discover their luminosities and their correlations with other subjects. Nature is my key influence. I believe that art should come from nature and elevate it. For years, life has survived in extreme weather and conditions. Inspiration is taken from this unrelenting determination and communicated through organic lines and color. This type of determination inspires me to overcome difficulties in life and continually absorb new knowledge.

Opposite Page: ELEMENTS OF EARTH 1, PEN ON BLACK PAPER, A4, 2020

IN THE FOREST PEN ON BLACK PAPER A4 2020

COSMIC ENERGY PEN ON BLACK PAPER A4 2020

LIFE CYCLE PEN & INK ON PAPER A4 2020

IN THE MOONLIGHT PEN ON BLACK PAPER A4 2020

BODY & SOUL, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS, 2014

MUSIC OF RAIN PEN & INK ON PAPER A4 2020

ELEMENTS OF EARTH 2 PEN & INK ON PAPER A4 2020

A - STORY OF CIVILIZATION 1, PEN ON BLACK PAPER, A4, 2020 B - STORY OF CIVILIZATION 2 , PEN ON BLACK PAPER, A4, 2020 C - ELEMENTS OF NATURE 1, PEN ON BLACK PAPER, A4, 2020

Quick Look Binoy Paul My work is based on the various endeavors of people & the hardship to survive in a materialistic world. It is our toil and fundamental needs that keep the spirit engaged with the mundane predicaments we face day to day. My creative pursuit is to explore the realities of people and their spaces through different materials and media. I concentrate on unconventional materials and their innovative use to fulfill my creative imagination. I have a Master of Visual Art in sculpture from Assam University, Silchar. Currently, I inhabit the remote North-Eastern part of India, working as a freelance artist.

Couple, Ceramics, 16” x 10” x 6”

Family, Mixed Media, 42” X 72”

Floating, Mixed Media, 240” X 180”

Clockwise: Mango, Wood, Each 6” Crying, Acrylic On Canvas, 9” X 11” Nostalgia Of Manipur, Terracotta, 24” x 36”

Devotion, Terracotta, 30” X 24”

Nermeen Othman I am 26 years old and Egyptian. I have a Bachelor of Graphic Design, and have been honing my skills in graphic design and photomontage design for the past few years. I won 1st place at Al Ain University, United Arab Emirates for a painting in 2014, and placed 3rd in a newspaper & painting exhibition in 2019. I currently work as a graphic designer.

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Opposite Page: Nefertiti

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