I have a lot to write about…. well a lot of non-events.
I’m so tired I don’t even know what’s going on. I wish I could sleep forever.
I feel shattered.
Hopefully this interminable winter is drawing to its close.
Here is one of the logos I did over/before Easter
another one coming up soon.
More photos on the website
Footprint Media – Branding
Well the Indie Art Sale launch seems to have gone really well.
I sold 5 prints!
2 x Enthu Cutlets
1 x High Tea
2x Motels
Enthu Cutlet is a surprisingly popular print. Yet my beloved Rape Rick frightens off my buyers. Tsk tsk.
According to inside source (A4), Rape Rick provoked one of 3 reactions: Laughter, Shock, or Not even the blink of an eye.
Motel selling was a little surprising. I don’t know why. It’s a quiet drawing I’ve always thought, compared to the other louder ones.
I also harassed my poor parents to run all over Bombay looking for a fine art printer and after one or 2 false starts managed to find one that is just what I’ve been looking for.
He can print nearly any size required, on heavyweight Somerset Satin using archival inks (they last 100 years). (Pricey but worth it.)
So on the suggestion of the launch curator Namrata, might plan to do some A1 limited edition prints the next time I go to Bombay.
(Apparently limited edition works like this. Original work = £100, then 10 limited edition prints = £10 each or 5 limited edition prints = £20. I am such a noob I didn’t know any of this.)
I just need to work out the tricky business of pricing and double-check that the scans I made are correctly aligned.
Thanks to anyone who went and bought my prints. Shame I wasn’t there. But I did enjoy looking through the launch photos, pilfered from the Visual Disobedience website.
My works continue to be on sale and available for view by appt. Anyone interested can call this number (0091) 9930044191.
My little patch.
Lovely gallery space. My prints are rather on the small size. But now that I’ve found a printer at last my problems are solved.
Panorama of the gallery space inside
Enthu Cutlet & Gola
Click the images or this link for more launch photos on the website
Visual Disobedience feature in the Sunday Midday here will be hosting an art exhibition in Mumbai to launch their website.
I painstakingly printed out some prints on my home printer to post from London for the exhibition.
The printer repeatedly rejected my beautiful art printing paper. It behaved atrociously throughout. (We have real communication issues.)
But at last, all prints were mailed off. The details ironed out, launch party is all set to go.
I also managed, after 4 years of waffling about, to convert janineshroff.wordpress.com into janineshroff.co.uk. Feeling rather pleased with myself. All the technical stuff with DNS and servers and app keys and god knows what else is really beyond me.
Arty-farty types are going to be here, lots of other people are going to be there.
Damn it. Why aren’t I going to be there?
But some of my prints will be.
Postman delivered, Mother has framed. (After some long distance phone call wrangling)
Now – Watch this promo and go on the 22 & 23 of September!
Go go go!!! (Pretty please?)
Launch invite – Who wants to go?
When: Sept 22 & 23, 11 am – 6 pm
Venue: Julius Macwan Institute, 50-A Huma bungalow, near Quantum Park, Chuim Village Road, Khar West.
Directions: Take the Lane opp Out of the Blue, go past Quantum Park. It’s right next to the cheerful Ganesh mandal
Over the next seven days, you will get a glimpse into what you can expect. Here’s a teaser, just enough to stir up an appetite.
Turkish Bath
The Tea Party
High Tea
The Pool
Enthu Cutlet
Kala Khatta Gola
My eye after the consultation where they dilate your pupil.
When I was young I used to read all my books sitting in this tiny wicker chair in a corner of my room, under the window and near the cabinet filled with the joint collection of my brother’s and my GI Joe and He-Man toys.
I sat in this little wicker chair until it groaned under my weight. I knew it was time to give it up when I got up and it got up with me, attached to my teenage behind.
In the daytime, reading in this chair was glorious. The 2 windows on my right let in ample light and although my room door wouldn’t lock (and the parents insisted it be left open) one of the window curtains hung in a most obliging way on my left, providing privacy from that offensively wide open door.
At night I would sit there still, somethings smuggling pudding in a bowl or tomatoes under my t-shirt (The cook complained I ate all her cooking tomatoes. Which are delicious with a book, like an apple, but tangy-er and somehow richer in taste). There was unfortunately very little light in that corner at night. The obliging privacy curtain was now blocking the light from the lamp above, which was in any case, like all Indian lights some tawdry 60 watts.
Slowly but surely I started to notice that I couldn’t see the blackboard at school very well from the back of the class (no self-respecting person sits in the front of the class.)
I didn’t tell my mother because I knew she would be deeply disapproving of such a defect. She had never said anything to me precisely but something in me knew that resenting this physical fault, she would blame me.
I kept it hidden for a long time, managing by copying notes from better sighted desk partners, who grew annoyed with my inability to make my own notes.
Eventually I confessed to my parents that I couldn’t see. It was at the dinner table. My parents had asked me what I’d done in school or some such thing. There was a pause and I decided to just jump right in there.
“…I can’t see the blackboard.”
“OH NO! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T SEE IT?? OH NO! You’re going to need glasses now!”
Replied my mother on cue. She tutted and sighed, and was disappointed. She reacted, I recall thinking even then, just as I had predicted.
I can’t remember visiting the eye doctor, but I remember my father taking me to get my first ever pair of spectacles. The owlish kind, huge rims in brown plastic, like the ones back in vogue now with the hipster crowd.
My mother installed a reading light above the little wicker chair in the corner of the room. When the fan was on, the obliging curtain would sometimes still obscure it.
My prescription over the years steadily increased. Last week it was a stunning -9.5. I only ever wore my glasses in the house. Outside it was always contacts. The high number distorted my eyes out of shape, the glasses made me feel ugly, like walking around with goggles. My eyes occasionally catching blurred glimpses outside the border of the frames.
Recently I decided that after 20 years or more of wearing glasses it was time to get my eye sight corrected. I actually only decided this because there was a LivingSocial deal for 50% off Lasik eye surgery in London, in what looked like a good clinic. Indians love a good deal.
Spending thousands on eye surgery is rather terrifying. My stomach lurched palpably as I click the ‘Confirm Buy’ button and I had the sickening sensation of having spent what seemed like an astronomical amount of money.
Naturally all the Indians I know promptly said
“Aaare!! Are you crazy? You should do the surgery in Bombay – It’s so much cheaper!”
Which considering that I’m in Bombay for 3 weeks out of 52 weeks in a year was advice that annoyed me. Besides, I don’t feel like I’d like to do some kunjoosy (be cheap) over my eyes. I need them, and Vasant Dhoble vicarious living aside, I’m not actually resident in Bombay anymore. If anything (forbid the thought) should go wrong, I’d like to know my clinic is not an 8 hour flight away.
After the pre-op consult they told me to wear my glasses for 2 weeks, which I grudgingly did.
People frequently stared.
A2, one of the bosses stopped mid-sentence to look at my huge prescription.
No that isn’t a euphemism.
A stupid girl with curly, black hair and thick black, bushy eyebrows who works in the Falafal place I regularly buy lunch from, saw me and shrieked.
“OH MY GOD! WHAT HAPPEN TO YOUR EYES?”
I told her I was just wearing glasses. I was going to have eye surgery.
“Oh.”
She said. She didn’t look convinced that any eye surgery could possibly help me.
While making my falafal she looked up at me repeatedly, staring at my glasses and occasionally sighing melancholically.
Like I had just told her I had AIDS or some malignant tumor.
I repressed a growing urge to grab her by her curly head and smash it straight onto the falafal counter.
The freshly made falfals would go flying, bouncing around the shop, the bowls of sauce would tip over and drip all over the counter.
It would be joyous.
So it’s been nearly a week after my surgery. Sometimes my eyes feel tired and dry but otherwise everything is fine. My number is gone as are my glasses.
I must confess, the moment of revelation hasn’t yet hit me. I don’t really notice the difference much. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel any sense of elation or excitement.
Sure, I notice the small things. The time shaved off in the morning fiddling about with contacts, waking and being able to see. But that hasn’t really struck any deep chord.
I remember wearing my glasses for the first time. The memory is distinct and clear.
I had just walked out of the spectacle shop on the road that leads to Parla station. My father had taken me. I was wearing my first pair of glasses ever.
I suppose I ought to have resented the glasses. I would probably be teased, and be called four-eyes. I’d be ugly. Although a few of those things may have flitted through my mind they didn’t seem to matter.
I put them on, and it was instant. The relief. There it was, the revelation – I could see!
The closest I’ve come to a revelation now is when I tried to take off a set of phantom glasses when I got into bed. It took a puzzled second or two to realise I wasn’t wearing any.
Maybe it’s because I’m an adult now. Revelations are so scarce when you are an adult.
Steroids, Eye drops & Antibiotics
Click here to find out who this ‘Dhoble’ is
Vasant Dhoble’s head continues to float about, looking intolerably smug and generally being a humongous ass.
And although the internet and people on twitter have expressed their rage who the hell knows if anything will come out of it.
“I will be able to register cases for immoral activities in each and every hotel. There is no single discotheque where there are no such activities taking place,”
Dhoble told Hindustan Times in the month of May.
Vasant Dhoble Off Duty.
Dhoble is rounding up all the city strays. They too, have no sense of morality.
Dhoble ke peeche kya hai? (some tedious politician most probably)
Vasant Dhoble’s head flys over Mumbai, looking out for our safety
No sex in the city
Use the cut out head of Vasant Dhoble below to create your very own Vasant Dhoble moment!
Click here to find out who this ‘Dhoble‘ is.
Vasant Dhoble’s head is unstoppable!
He makes his way from party to sharty, gyrating, grinding, drinking tiger blood and all the while dispensing valuable moral advice.
Guru Dhoble unleashes the tiger within!
They call him Vasant ‘VD’ Dhoble…
Vasant Dhoble loves to break dance
Vasant Dhoble visits a temple.
Dhoble raids a party. That girl clearly has no morals. It is his duty to cart her off somewhere and interrogate her.
Vasant Dhoble doesn’t mind overcrowding… except when he wants a drink. They never serve him at the bar!
Vasant Dhoble is a ‘winner’ (and he drinks Tiger Blood)
Vasant Dhoble is very traditional. He is against the youngsters of today being ‘corrupted’ by western culture.
and last, but not least – Dhoble shows a little leg
Use the cut out head of Vasant Dhoble below to create your very own Vasant Dhoble moment!
To quote a friend
“Who the hell is this Vasant Dhoble?”
Vasant Dhoble is a police man who seems to have a stranglehold on the Mumbai nightlife. He disapproves of women drinking, cavorting and fun in general. The youngsters need to be protected he says. (Or so I gather. I summarise. He says a great deal more I’m sure)
Although I’m not really in Bombay anymore, I like to live vicariously.
Besides this man has a head that was designed to be photoshopped.
Vasant Dhoble in… Saturday Night Fever
Vasant Dhoble in … Dirty Dancing. No one puts baby in the corner!
Vasant Dhoble rolling. Tsk tsk. Doesn’t he know this is poor morality?
If you’ve ever been to a wilder party… you’re under arrest.
Haw! Vasant Dhoble attends a Playboy party. Shameless!
Vasant Dhoble in … Eyes Wide Shut. (Fetching mask that)
Vasant Dhoble…in Eyes Wide Shut. He gets more and more depraved as time goes on.
All he wanted to do was dance.
Use the cut out head of Vasant Dhoble below to create your very own Vasant Dhoble moment!
Gola Featured on Mumbai Boss
Hey Peoples,
Was featured on Mumbai Boss! Yay
How sweet is that?
Speaking of sweet there is a free worldwide shipping offer on at Society6.
Go buy some Kala Khatta Stuff now.
http://mumbaiboss.com/2012/04/25/the-good-buy-kala-khatta-gola-laptop-skin/
Fruit wala in Juhu Market
While in Bombay, which seems like an age ago, my mother and I are walking down Juhu market.
Every inch of it is dug up. They dig up the road every single fucking year. It’s a government tradition. Like corruption (See? I can be political.)
Cars are honking constantly and ricks are driven by lunatics. It’s a chaotic, noisy, pot-hole filled, obstacle course.
My mother is not looking up as we are trying to cross the road, and is furiously texting some bum-chum.
“Mom, must we do this now? You can text who-ever when we get home or are off the road.”
“Haan, but it’s urgent! I need to reply to Vivek about our milonga!”
(Apparently a milonga is some dancing get-together thingummy. My mother has grown addicted to Salsa and Tango classes.)
Our roles have rather reversed of late.
For her birthday my mother wore some deadly off-shoulder, tight, lace mini (see above), while I was fully covered up to the neck.
She was dancing away, while I was at the bar drinking.
Chatting to my folks these days is like have a conversation with teenagers.
Mom’s tango class teacher (who is 30 years her junior) is sulking.
People have left his class and have gone to someone else’s class, then have being saying all these bitchy things about him behind his back, so he’s upset and is now saying he won’t come to Mom’s milonga and if he doesn’t come, Mom won’t enjoy the milonga because he’s her favourite and so she’s trying to convince him to come to the milonga.
Who knew you could say milonga so many times in one sentence?
She’s such a dedicated student that she became class assistant. That’s my Mom – class apple polisher.
All this milonga drama and dance class back stabbing made me have vivid school flashbacks.
“Oh my god! Have you heard?? Karishma said that Shipali said that she had a pakoda-nose-pimply-face! No one is going to talk to her ever again!”
That actually happened. Then it turned out that the person who said that the other person said that thing about their nose was lying, so no one talked to her after that. (A garbled business, I know) It brought her crashing down from position of social queen to social leper (for a little while anyway).
It was perfect example of social politics (I love school politics, don’t you?). Instead of taking part I documented it in detail in my diary back then like a huge nerd.
I told my mother that I recommended a nice tight slap for Sulky.
“Aare how can you say that? Poor fellow. These people are being damn mean. But there’s so much politics in this small tango community of ours.”
I love how my father says that. Like he’s experienced dance politics for eons.
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you watch Black Swan?”
I’ve learned a lot from Black Swan. That and watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ religiously.
“I thought I had resolved and smoothed out issues but then today he’s sulking all over again.”
“You should just leave it. What is this? High school?”
Seriously. I feel old listening to this.
“Just tell mom to slap him. Slap him hard.”
Man I really want my mother to slap someone.
“Mom says how can you talk like that? Poor chap. These people are making his life a misery. They say they don’t like his dancing. How can expect him not too sulk?”
Oh.my.god. So much drrrrrama!
“But if they don’t like it, they don’t like it! Loads of people tell me they don’t like my drawings. I’m not so lame that I would sulk. He needs to grow up.”
“Mom says she will bash up these people who say this to you.”
You see – This is what happens when you get a tattoo. You’ll start trying to ‘bash up’ people for no reason.
“Then she needs to bash – Munt, My boss, The ex, and various other sentimental types. Tell this guy to sort it out and go to the milonga.”
The ex and Monty think I need to be more ‘commercial’. They don’t approve of my dark material. Kittens and ponies, that’s what I need to draw. Preferably kittens riding ponies. You just can’t go wrong with material like that.
“Mom says she can kick ass. She works out at the gym. She says tell them that when she comes she’ll kick their ass.”
Aw. Mom is gonna fight people.
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
She’s gotten another tattoo by the way (ankle). Thought you’d like to know.
Rape Rick Final (I scanned it before I stuck the sequins on, as they won’t scan)
So I’ve finished the Rape Rick at last.
By the by, in case you were curious as to why I drew this, please read this post here.
The reason it took so long is that I sort of lost interest half way through making it and it stalled for ages.
Partly because of that app project which started eating into my evening hours as it wound up to a close. (Which I ought to post about at some point but I’m scared that people might find my blog via it. Is that paranoid? Can people do that? I don’t know but I’m nervous.)
Then I started setting up my shops and put up the Enthu Cutlet & Indian woman prints.
I was discussing this with the Fourth A, who is simultaneously doing a PhD, a jewelry class, house-hold DIY and also plans to open a chaddie (underwear) business.
I said she needs to focus more.
So do I. I also need better time management. I spend too much time faffing around instead of knuckling down and just finishing a project. I have 4/5 other projects and drawings that are half-finished. I need to make a list and tackle them one by one, and not start anything new until they are done and dusted. (Mighty last words!)
I had a wretched time painting the Rape rick. The first coat of yellow came out too wishy-washy.
Then I coloured in the black lines and promptly smudged it accidentally. So I had to paint the white again and add another coat of yellow.
So I did a second coat. Then I thought it might be too flat so I added some orange.
Too much orange I think
Then I wanted a gradient so I added more orange on the 4th coat. (I know, madness)
Then I started painting all the leaves and flowers, until on review I decided it was now far too orange so I spent the better part of 2 evenings fixing the orange back to the yellow.
Then I needed to re-paint all the flowers and leaves. Argh!
However I think the chrome yellow is a marked improvement. It had to be done.
Then I scanned it all in, and then finally stuck on the sequins. I love these sequins. The glitter didn’t work on the heavily painted yellow acrylic but I had bought the rhinestones you get to stick to bling up mobile phones and those worked really well. I’m dying to glitter something else up.
You can’t tell from the scan, but the flowers also have gold glitter on them. The text is also coloured in with a red glitter pen, and the thick black lines with a black glitter pen. The glitter pens are quite subtle. When you move you see it glinting.
Penis Close up
Text & Sequins Close up
Girl Close up
Rape Rick Photo
Rape Rick Sequins
I also bought a Gouache set recently, in a fit of New Years stationary madness, that I’m now beginning to slightly regret.
I keep putting my hand on the paper before the paint has dried. Or dropping water on it.
Or even ash if I’m smoking and painting.
Even my ear phones are now covered in yellow and orange since I’ve been watching TV on my laptop while I paint and the wires tend to drag over my palette.
So I don’t know why I bought the Gouache set. (Gouache will move if you add water. Acrylics once dry, set solid.) All that will happen is that I’ll make an unholy mess all over the place. At least acrylics don’t shift once they’re dry.
God painting is so hard. I have no idea what I’m doing.
