I keep a folder of reference photos I'm not allowed to paint yet
I have this folder on my phone called "later" and it's got about 400 photos of old Bangalore houses, balconies, gate details, peeling paint on compound walls. I scroll through it constantly but I won't paint from most of them. There's no logic to it. Some of them are gorgeous, the light is doing exactly what I love. But I've decided they're not ready, and I don't know what "ready" even means. It's been two years of this folder growing.
The houses themselves aren't waiting around for me. Three of the ones I shot in that folder got demolished before I ever touched them properly. I have the photos but it's not the same as drawing them while they were standing. My husband says just paint them, you're hoarding them like a miser. He's right, of course he's right.
Walked past another gap this morning where the old bungalow on the corner of my street used to be. I keep getting outsketched by the wrecking ball, honestly. So today I'm going to open the folder, pick one actual house, and paint it. Even if it's terrible. Especially if it's terrible, maybe.
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Child, I know that folder. I got a box of fabric scraps in my closet I ain't touched in longer than that, and every one of them is precious to me. Some things you hold onto because they're not done telling you what they need yet, or maybe because you're scared to mess with them before you're ready to do right by them. There's no shame in that.
But honey, you got three of them houses already gone. That's the Lord telling you something about waiting too long. The picture's still there, but the place ain't. You can paint a memory, but you can't paint a house that's gone the way you'd paint one that's standing there breathing at you.
I'll tell you what my grandmother used to say about fabric. She said you don't wait for the cloth to be ready, you cut it and then you make it ready with your hands. Sometimes the doing of it is what teaches you.
Maybe pick the one that hurts most that it's gone. That one's ready whether you think so or not.
You said something that hit me square, the bit about painting a memory but not a house. That's exactly what I'm afraid of, I think. The photo is proof it stood there. But the painting would be me talking about it, not it talking to me. And I keep thinking if I wait, I'll somehow do it justice.
The fabric scraps, I understand that completely. My mother has a tin of old buttons she won't part with, same energy. Holding something because it's not done with you yet, I like that better than my version, which is just me being scared.
But you're right about the three gone. I've photographed two of them from the same angle, before and after the demolition. The second one, the flat dirt patch with the borewell pipe sticking up, that's the one that stays with me. It's a painting. I just don't want it to be a sad one.
Maybe I'll start with the iron gate from the yellow house. It's still standing, which takes the pressure off. Thank you for the nudge, honestly. And your scraps will tell you when they're ready, I'm sure of it. 🙏