Father Mother Me
PRAXIS
2017
New Dehli-based artist and educator Nilanjana Nandy asked me to create a concept for a virtual “potluck” call as part of the upcoming group art show IN-BETWEEN. Since I’ve been thinking a lot about the notion of family and heritage lately, I decided to invite fellow IN-BETWEEN artists to share their thoughts on the matter.
“As part of my practice, I bring people together to engage in creative activities based on storytelling with the goal of empathy and communal bonding among strangers.
Please create a brief narrative that defines FATHER, MOTHER and ME in your context along with a visual representation of each of these entities. These characters (within a single and fluid narrative or three separate narratives) can be the literal/biological father, mother and self but they can also be a figurative, non-gender-specific father, mother and self. How the narrative explores these three figures is up to you. The overall idea is to consider two sources of care/influence/history that have nurtured and informed a persona in the present and/or future. I believe this will be an opportunity to gain insight into how each of us navigate the ephemeral space between familial/cultural/societal generations.”
Below is the contribution I brought to the table:
Father cannot sleep. His legs ache and his spirit is restless. He gets up from the bed. He begins to pace the room. The dry soles of his feet make a scratching noise against the hardwood floor as he takes each step. He is hard of hearing so he does not notice. He is soon lost in his thoughts. He wonders about the life that has passed, the few remaining years ahead. He doesn’t mind that he is in the final chapters of his life but memories of the past has him feeling forlorn and melancholy. He worries about his children, even though they are adults now and he has grown to depend on them for things.
He sees the day break outside the window. He is exhausted but relieved that the stillness of the night has passed. He returns to the bed. He closes his eyes.
Mother is woken up by the morning sunlight, which lingers on every surface in the quiet room. Even in the stillness, she feels the vitality of a new day. She does not disturb her husband as she gets up from the bed. She knew he had not slept well. She stretches her arms and legs awake—gently, gently. She respects the limitations of her age.
She goes into the kitchen and turns on the rice cooker. She had prepared the rice grains the night before. She opens the door to her daughter’s room. If she was a sentimental person, she may have allowed her mind to wander to her youth when her mother would come to her bedside to wake her up in the morning. But her sole preoccupation is this moment, this morning. “It’s time to get up,” she says matter-of-factly.
Me, I am awake but I try to ignore this fact. I am comforted by the warm glow of the morning light even as its intensity tells me it’s time to start the day. Mother opens the door and tells me it’s time to get up. I reply with silence and Mother leaves the door ajar. I am annoyed by this. Father is also awake. I can hear his feet scratch against the floor as they did a few hours ago. He shuffles to the bathroom at Mother’s gentle command.
The morning calm is replaced by the sound of gargling and coughing in the bathroom, vegetables being chopped in the kitchen. I wish everything was still, I wish I was alone. But then I think about the morning yet to come that is empty of Father and Mother. My mind returns to today and I am relieved for this morning when I am not alone.