“ Bachpan ki khayi hui khaaq ab ugal rahay hain,” as if the clay savored in our childhood is being cascaded now, is a phrase that holds the secret to my success. Nothing special here, only the humble roots in which I was nurtured and lessons from my hometown, Laki Marwat, where my sculpting came to life. Now, my work is admired as a miracle. Still, at first, it met with horror from my family, especially when I subtly brought my brother to his mortal fate. It may seem hyperbolic, but if you were the one to witness it through the silhouette of what I created, maybe you'd agree with my family and, obviously, with my overreacting brother. The work was inspired by "Ainak Wala Jin," literally meaning a ghost wearing glasses, a TV show from my childhood and a cultural phenomenon in my country.
Sometimes, I wonder where it really all began and where my inspiration first took flight from. Was it even a muse or just a skill passed down from generation to generation, now treated as talent or mastery by the trendy world? Was I destined to do this all along, or was it my subconscious that made me choose something that was easy and right there? Am I bound by my craft, or do I possess true free will? I guess I'll never know. I can pretend that it was a part of my destiny and that I discovered my cherished talent, but that would disrespect the people who raised me, my mentors, and their legacy. The secrets held by the clay were revealed to me by my "Ustaad," or how to create this uncommon sourdough native to Muzaffarabad, Kashmir, or to mold vivid caricatures from stones and gems.
In a way, it keeps them alive forever. Whenever I create something, or even an idea is born, the first thought takes me back to the smack I received on the back of my head for doing something wrong during the creative process. Moments later, it was transformed into an appraisal that made me feel I was on top of the world.
I think of it now: how might what I do not bring me the joy it used to, simply because I miss the adrenaline rush of going wrong and upsetting my Ustaad. Some might find it regressive, but they may not see it as I do. They pity me for that; I envy my younger self for it because, you know what, it was a source of revelation to my creative process.
People ask me what it is about my work that is so special or how it is unique. Surprisingly, they'll be awed by the most simple and unassuming answers. It's funny, but it also makes me feel like I'm building an empire on a facade, or as my audience sometimes say, it's just strategic storytelling. The contemporary standing of the world also makes me hate my art sometimes because now I feel like I'm doing it for someone else. Where in fact, I always did it for someone else, but it was me changing perspectives on what is admirable and what good work is, not the other way around. The creator in me admires rawness, but I believe raw does not always sell, so we cope to survive, but it costs us our peace, leading to a constant tug-of-war between staying true to ourselves and dancing to the rhythm of others' expectations.
Of course, I have expectations as well. You want to know what I want from you? I want you to listen to my story. I'm hesitant to tell it when people ask about me and finally glimpse me through my artwork, I'm stunned and unable to communicate. The pride in me might deny that I want your validation or recognition, yet when I reflect on the lessons my Ustaad imparted about passing on a legacy, I understand that there is no single path to achieving it. Your admiration is one way, and your understanding is another.
I desire for you to revere my art as I do, to feel the pulse of it, to understand its essence. My artwork binds us as blood intertwines, sharing a purpose and a deep-rooted need. Though our worlds and values differ, we connect when you admire what I've created. When you gaze upon it, you see me, and in the moment I witness you discovering me, I uncover your essence. In this dance of understanding, we find a connection beyond words. No matter the origin, this isn't just mine; it's ours, free to all who yearn for its artistry. Am I a spectacle for aesthetics, or is this refined crowd genuinely interested in me and what I do? I ponder this sometimes, intimidated and annoyed, yet grateful that my efforts are not in vain.
