This morning I woke up to a news (in Elle, People, etc) that the print of the painting that Prince Harry bought for Meghan Markle, is now available here. While the original cost a few thousand pounds, the prints are available between £599 and £799. It’s limited edition, and is numbered and signed by the artist. That brings us to who the artist is. It’s a British artist called Van Donna. The name is a pseudonym, a mix of Van Gogh and Madonna – her two idols. Apparently she has also had another celebrity client own her work – the Beatles star, Ringo Starr. What Prince Harry bought was a black stencil image of a boy and a girl holding hands. It is reminiscent of the ones done by the popular graffiti artist Banksy. A two-panel piece, while one has the couple on it, the other has a string of words. Written in red cursive, it reads – Everybody needs somebody to love. ❤
I tried replicating Donna’s work. And to give it a twist, I did it on two discarded boxes of tea bags. Here’s the result.
I am a Nicholas Sparks fan. The Notebook had me in uncontrollable tears, A walk to remember wrenched my heart into a tight twist, and Message in the bottle haunted me for days after. Almost 15 years after I read Message in a bottle, here I am taking a cue from it. In the novel, the protagonist, Theresa Osborne, a columnist, finds a bottle that had drifted ashore, during one of her walks along the beach. It is a moving, heart-melting letter written by a husband to his late wife. Almost possessed with the idea of finding the writer, she sets on a journey, that makes the rest of the story. So after I painted this bottle…
…I decided to leave a message inside it. Nothing profound, but something that gives a sense of how light, easy, and relaxed life can be.
Whoever finds the message, maybe 10, 20 or 50 years from now should know that in the mad rush that the world is in, some days you can afford to slow down. Fetch a bowl of chips, a cup of tea, and a book. Find a spot with a good view, and some breeze. Sometimes, that is all it takes to experience bliss.
After the four-day buzz of travel, we get a two-day rest at home (before hopping on to a plane again). It’s exciting to see new vistas unfold, to meet with people who speak different languages, and to observe the topography of a city change in a few hundred miles. The constant adrenaline rush and the thirst to know more, to see more, follows us like a shadow, as we taste a new dish, step into a new gallery or watch the sun set in a different State. We come back home with a handful of experiences in our diaries, and some ‘miles’ in our cards. And we are greeted by the familiar softness of the throw on the couch, that painting of red tree on the wall, and the scent that sticks to everything in every room. We are home. And in here, we find a deep-seated peace, more like a pat on a head and a soft whisper that says, ‘All is well’.
This was a Prego Tomato and Basil sauce bottle, until I painted it neon pink 🙂
I mistook a water strider for a bee. It was almost midnight. With eyes half closed, I went in to use the restroom. And there, just as I was washing hands, something brown flew directly to my face. I screamed, jumped, and threw myself out the door. To a third person, it might have given some comic relief. But I was convinced that I was stung at the back, and now a mountain of a swell was growing around it. It was only later that I cringed at the stupidity, there was no pain. There was no sting to start with. It was all the works of my fear-drenched mind. Later, my husband and I examined the restroom, and we found a very elegant, almost still, water strider, resting on the tile. We slowly went towards it with a polythene cover. It can’t hear anyway, it catches its prey by sensing the vibrations on the water surface. We walked stealthily, and placed the mouth of the cover around it. Once safely inside, we freed it into the cool rainy Thursday night.
The areal flood warning continues. And with the rain drops come a sense a lethargy and gloom. The stove is left unused, the laundry bags are full, and the beds remain unmade. The best option is to curl up in a couch, with the remote in one hand and a book in another; and just wait, be it crankily, for the clouds to move on. But in the meanwhile…
This year, we went to the cherry blossom festival at Tidal Basin, in Washington DC, during the peak bloom season. The plan was to start early morning, and get there before the rest of the world. To be an early bird. Get the worm… But the night stole all the promises that we had made to ourselves. And sleep, the night’s hand, made sure we woke up late to greet the morning. Even as we tied our laces, walked down the stairs and started the car, the crowd at the Basin thickened in hundreds. After battling the traffic, we parked our car at the Arlington National Cemetery, and decided to walk to the hot spot of Sakura trees. On the way, we saw a bright pink tulip, its petals firmly hugging each other, like sharing a little secret. It remained still, almost unnoticed, in the carpet of green. People walked by, hardly giving it a glance, rushing towards a destination full of flowers, just not this one.
A while later, we rejoined the crowd. Finally, at the Tidal Basin, we walked for hours under the shade of cherry blossoms, and watched the soft pink and white flowers flutter in the wind. We wanted to take a selfie with the flowers in the backdrop. But every photo came out with a stranger’s face on the side. Anyway, having quenched the desire to see the famed beauty of a 3,000 cherry blossoms in full bloom, we decided to call it a day, and trace our way back. This time, we stopped again to say hi to our little closed tulip. Only, now, the petals had unfurled, shining a dark pink under the sharp rays of the sun. A full blown tulip, that no one stopped to take a selfie with.
In the days that followed, we were frequently asked the question: “So how much time did you spend seeing the cherry blossoms?” And every time we replied: “Enough time for a tulip to bloom.”
Now, over a month later, in memory of the tulip that opened up for us, I made origami tulips and stuck them on a brown paper bag. A personalized shopping bag.
Outside, the clouds look ready to burst. So my husband and I spend the Sunday cooped up at home. After a long session of cleaning, watching Netflix, and then some more cleaning, we reward ourselves with a ‘drink and paint’ session. (Read about our previous paint night sessions here and here). This time, in line with the Finding Art in Trash Challenge that I began earlier this month, we decide to turn a simple wine bottle and a Trader Joe’s paper bag into works of art. With Yanni’s music in the background, and a glass of Bulgariana Cabernet Sauvignon on the side, we start work on our respective pieces. While I give the brown paper bag a chalky base, he rubs the wine bottle clean off the glue. While I apply fat brush strokes of acrylic carefully on the bag, he pours volumes of white, red and blue colors with a creative recklessness. My rose petals emerge along measured lines and curves; in his, a hundred shiny rivers of different colors merge into a common ocean. And just as Yanni finishes with The rain must fall, we are done with our art too. We place them aside to dry, and continue our night outside in the patio, watching a new week emerge from between curtains of heavy rain.
It’s strange how certain things/beings/experiences, though unwelcome, crawl into our lives and become a part of it. Like wrinkles. Or a new accent. It’s so organic, you would be a fool to resist it/them.
At Trader Joe’s my husband and I pick up something that isn’t on the shopping list. Laceys box of dark chocolate almond cookies by. ‘It just happened,’ we tell ourselves.
Fast forward to a week later. Our dinners end with a bite of the flat brown slab every night. We share one, I take a small bite, then he does. Then I do. And slowly, it becomes a habit. Our every dinner now needs a cookie. Like a sentence needs a full stop.
Our days are only complete with that little crunch of sweetness in the mouth. The cookie turns into a trophy for living the day, a refrain in the song called life, the horizon where our days end and nights begin…
And then one day, the last of the cookies is had.
Now, our dinners end without cookies. Together, we wriggle free of the yearning for sweet something, like a snake sheds its skin. Such is life. Even the clingiest of habits can be shaken off in time.
Until a new thing/being/experience, though unwelcome, crawls into our lives and becomes a part of it.
I made a showpiece to keep on top of our record player, with the cookie box. Used acrylic paint and red sketch pen.
The illustration is inspired by a lino cut work by artist Mike Anderson.
We have tried quitting. But the fizz and sugar… it just isn’t fair. After what we thought would be our last bottle of coke, we took a resolution: No more aerated drinks in this house.
But with a get together just a week after, we went to Food Lion and bought the biggest bottle of Coke.
Over the week, I ungracefully chugged large portions of it while watching Netflix, when bored, to wash down a sandwich, and sometimes as an alternative to evening tea… The bottle was over in no time.
The very next week, we bought more — packed a bottle of coke, and another of Mountain Dew, to the beach. The bottles drained clean with the ocean as witness. That would have been our last, if not for John Krasinki,
It had been two weeks since we had had any. But last Friday, a friend dropped in in the night, for dinner and movie — Krasinki’s latest, A Quiet Place. He was largely a Burger King loyalist, so we bought a mountain of fries, burgers, and a ‘bucket’ of Coke (for him).
Since we were running against time, the friend left a half full cup of coke behind at our place.
And just like that, the very thing that we had tried to shun, was back in our lives.
The sketch is inspired by an illustration scene on shutterstock. Scroll down to see the Before image.
Our apartment is on the second floor. We rest in our patio with a book and a glass of wine for hours. A convenient height separates us from the hustle and bustle of the world below. Cars drive in and out of driveways, dogs sniff and poop, kids run and shout, the elderly take a leisurely walk, their steps slowed down by heavy gossip. While life at a higher pedestal seems comfortable, there are times when we have to tiptoe around our own house in the night and shush each other while in the patio.
A month after we move in, a bunch of friends come to visit us. A night which starts with small glasses of wine, matures into multiple rounds. Intoxicated, and mostly just happy, the song from the turntable has one grooving on one’s wobbly legs. Like an infection, the urge to dance spreads. And soon, six of us are on our feet. A jig which is cut short by a firm knock. It’s our neighbor from downstairs. He asks us to keep it low.
A few weeks pass by, and another group of friends visits us. This time, we make sure not to dance. All the energy is channeled towards animated conversations, fueled by laughter, loud claps, and sometimes, walks across the table to pat someone on their back. And all of a sudden, there is that familiar knock. This time, with surprise creases on our faces, we wait to hear the complaint. “Everything, just everything is too loud,” says our neighbor, looking distressed.
Ten days later. There is excitement in the air. Star Wars Last Jedi is releasing tomorrow. With a pack of chips between us, we flop into the soft cushion of our sofa, to watch the Star Wars prequels, well into midnight. And just when we take in our first mouthful of chips, we hear the knock, which we acknowledge with a contempt that only familiarity breeds.
So on Thanksgiving Day, my husband and I put on our best smiles and knock on their door. We gift them a bottle of wine, and shower apologies. Months pass without a knock on our door. And then one fine evening, our house is filled with guests that includes my two-year-old niece. For her, the house is a play field. She kicks the ball, catches it, throws it with all her might, kicks it again. Then jumps, dances, rests and repeats all of it.
Sometime close to midnight, she freezes on her toes, when the knock echoes, loud and clear. Only this time, it’s not on the door. But from underneath the floor. Guess, ‘knock knock’ is not a joke anymore.
The sketch is inspired by John Tennial’s illustration in Alice’s adventures in Wonderland, published in 1865
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I used an empty can of Focal Banger (The Alchemist Vermont) to make this. Even before I painted on it, the can looked stunning. This particular drink was ranked Number #1 in the India Pale Ale Category, in 2015, according to www.ratebeer.com.
Earlier this month, my sister set up her garden. Mint leaves, and some anonymous flowering plants. Today, on a video call, she walked with the phone in hand to her backyard, where fresh green leaves had unfurled. They looked as if polished with oil, in the morning sun. Her garden smelt of mint and new life.
We have relatives who, while cooking an Indian dish, walk to the corner of the room, pluck a few curry leaves from an indoor pot, and walk back to add the fresh ingredient to their hot pans. There is no greater satisfaction than cooking with vegetables and leaves grown by self, my grandma used to say. She had a backyard full of tomatoes, red chilies, green chilies, papayas, bananas, spinach, pineapples, mangoes, gooseberries, cashew nuts, coconuts, and more, back in my native State, Kerala.
Standing in our patio, in the warmth and glow of the sunlight, my husband and I contemplate on setting up our own garden. How cool would it be to make a lemonade out of lemons grown by us? We are consumed by the idea, and discuss the size of pots, variety of plants, and aesthetics. But soon it dawns on us that every plant we buy comes with a baggage of responsibility.
Our calendars warn us from thinking about pink roses, round lemons, and dark green coriander leaves. Away for weekends, sometimes weeks, for the next few months, it wouldn’t be the best idea to line the patio with a row of pots, we realize. Though we bury our desire to see a flower bloom in our house, a part of us still clings to it secretly. So, now, we have four little pots all ready for some spring time sprouts, just in case.
These were made out of empty cups of Trader Joes’s Banana and Strawberry yogurt.
This photo is from the site OWTK (Out with the Kids). In the excitement of painting them, I forgot to take pictures.
The base is a cardboard piece that came with an Amazon package. I used a metallic brown and black paint mix to give it a varnished wood finish (as seen in the first photo).
I carelessly aimed the last of sea salt and pepper peanuts from the The Carolina Nut Co box into my mouth. With the container now empty, and swiped clean, I pealed off the cover, which unlike the beer bottles, just required a small pinch and pull. So there it was, a nice cylindrical bottle, which, with a little color could be turned into a beautiful storage box or a simple home decor.
I decided to make a candle stand out of it. The result was this little stand that besides lighting up the setting, sparks some interesting conversations over dinner.
Naveena Vijayan 