Tempelhof Airport _ Statement III _ and a Thank You

Berlin’s Tempelhof Airport, famous for its use during the Berlin Airlift of 1948, has been preserved and converted into a public park,
virtually unchanged in its landscape from when it was a functional airport.
It is an amazing public resource and a rare expansiveness in an urban setting; it reminds me of a mini-version of the American Great Plains
with the unobstructed views, open sky and flat, flat, flatness.
This was quite a contrast to the drama of the Himalayas
and the decoction of crowdedness and chaos
I experienced throughout India.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Tempelhof, Great CircleSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Tempelhof, Great CircleSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Tempelhof, Great CircleSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Tempelhof, Great CircleSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Tempelhof, Great Circle

During my three months in Berlin, I took to riding my bike around Tempelhof Airport almost everyday, coasting over the gentle rise and fall of terrain, up and down the runways and around and around the grounds without touching the handlebars for long, extended periods, and this free flow wandering in wide open space helped spur on my thoughts for Statement III, a piece of writing
I promised to publish in a previous post when I arrived in Berlin from India, in June 2014. 

However, Statement III still eludes me.

Below are five rough drafts. The first four are links to previous posts on this blog:

1. How to break a stone – in five easy steps.

2.a) Love G.I.T. – part I
2.b) Love G.I.T. – part II

3. Heutegesternmorgenwelt – a series:

a) Bread, Granite and Heutegesternmorgenwelt
b) Heutegesternmorgenwelt Resolved (Three Birds of Different Orders)
c) To Walk, To Mime … (Heutegesternmorgenwelt REDUX)

4.a) Three Stones from Three Cities – part 1
4.b) Three Stones from Three Cities – part 2


The fifth is a new attempt and a product of my Tempelhof Airport bike riding:

5. The Great Circle (Statement III – a rough draft):

As a young boy, I often imagined a line extending perpendicular from my direction of travel, going all the way around the planet and coming back perpendicularly to my other side, creating a giant ring around the globe, a Great Circle in the parlance of geometry, and, by definition, always concentric with the earth. Part of the excitement was to imagine the ring in its entirety, and go further and imagine that this Great Circle was attached to me, was me, and would move effortlessly with me, around and around our planet, hugging the surface of the earth in whatever way I could imagine. What it saw, I saw – what it felt, I felt – what it experienced, I experienced the same.

I varied the properties of this line by imagining it as different fantasy materials of varying thicknesses and flexibilities – so, I determined when it remained ridged, ignoring all the complexity of the planet and sweeping out perfect arcs of perfect circles and shaving the globe to a perfect sphere; or, I would loosen it up so it moved over only a specific topology like the hard earth crust or then include other objects and mold itself around just animals, or just people, just trees, plants, insects, just homes, buildings, structures; or, I’d make it so thin, so malleable that it conformed to different degrees of detail, zipping over complicated surfaces, effortlessly, conforming to every nook and crag, every flake, scale and leaf, every pebble, glop and glump, tuft, tassel and clump, every marble or toy, every detail and deeper, deeper detail still, sometimes skimming over water, sometimes conforming to every ripple, sometimes hugging the land and descending to the bottom of every depression, every lake, ocean and stream, every pool, every puddle, every bowl of soup, every cup of hot chocolate, every glass half empty or glass half full. As a boy, I figured that in principle my line could even conform down to the microscopic level, and this made me dizzy, as did interior spaces – they were difficult to imagine, too. Nevertheless, even knowing this abstract geometry existed and as I played to maintain harmonious and fluid motion between my mind and The Great Circle, I imagined being everywhere, always, at the same time: a total impossibility, and fun while it lasted, because …

By the age of 12 or so, I forgot about this thought exercise, this fantasy, really, and moved on: life demanded it. Life got more complicated, thinking complex – strategic designs varied with more teachers, more rules, more guidance; more religion, more grist for agreement and quests for influence, more ideology, more ingredience – and, yet, my ability for abstraction both grew and became more focused, more refined. I mean: ‘x’ taking the place of a number in an equations is quite abstract; the tangent of ‘x’ even more so. In short, life and school and communication got more specific in its content and demanding in the way one must, inevitably, engage – and thinking about what was in my immediate purlieu began to dominate.

This Great Circle, this thought experiment, represents a framework of wonder and inquiry of a young boy, a method of investigation, a mode of thinking about his surroundings, an epistemological stance, if you will. I am now using a different method that includes a visual and physical manipulation of material, which marries this curiosity of the boy with all that he was taught and with all that he experienced along with the specific theme of breaking and placing stone, its movement and action, their opposites and the many gradations in between – which now serves as my present framework of discovery and of wonder and inquiry.

With the highlighting of these 5 rough drafts of Statement III, I need to shift my attention
away from this blog and the Internet machine for a while
and devote more concentrated time and effort in other, deeper directions – specifically, toward the work I furthered in India,
Cairns – Shards – Pieces – and, as this work proceeds,
Statement III will inevitably evolve.

I’m not disappearing from this digital land but my intention is to not post on this blog for a while and … well … I’ll let you know what’s next. Its brewing.
Sign up for my newsletter, because then you will be sure
to stay current. 

Thank you for your readership.

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an interlude – People’s Climate March 2014

Samuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkSamuel Nigro, Climate Change, People's Climate March, New YorkClimate_March_2014_008Climate_March_2014_009Climate_March_2014_010Climate_March_2014_011Climate_March_2014_012

How Hot? How Hard? How Fast? – These are the relevant questions about Climate Change …

I got these questions from Peter Sinclair at Climate Crocks of the Week.

Some other good links are:


People’s Climate March



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A Feral Pig Walks Between Us … (1 of 5)

snSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture

(Flashback: India – My Arrival in Varanasi, part 1 of 5)

I arrived in Delhi on a Friday, I travel to Varanasi the following Monday. It is day 3 of being in India, on a trip to find Indian Granite to work with.
Delhi was just a mild precursor. Vulnerability, alienation and dislocation are the operative words.
As promised, here is my arrival in Varanasi in 5 parts and in the present tense,
although this is published 8 months later, and, as a reminder,
I will be explicit about my own reflections and demarcate
my hindsight within theses special
brackets [*…**].

My flight to Varanasi is delayed by deep fog that is standard for India this time of year, but a surprise to me. It is so thick that on my way to the airport my taxi drives through white outs and we can’t see the cars or their brake lights in front of us until we are right on top of them. I am amazed that the taxi didn’t rear end someone, or … get this … run down the police/soldiers and crash through the periodic check points that are set up closer to the airport. My flight takes off 2 hours late.

When I arrive at the Varanasi airport, I find a taxi driver with a sign with my name on it and let my guard down a tiny bit because he was sent by the gallery and they know how much this will cost and, therefore, I have more trust that this driver will just take me to Kriti Gallery without game or machination [*Ha!**]. The above collage is of the gate of Varanasi airport the day I arrive, and tells a big part of the story. The counter balance is a stone, a sedimentary stone, most likely a chunk of sandstone. I rush a picture through the windshield of the taxi before we drive pass, because – as an artist whose material of choice is stone – a stone as a counter weight must be relevant, or something.

It is a long ride, mainly due to traffic as we get closer to the city. Two and a half hours long. Three things amaze me: 1. People live on the side of the road in great numbers in every sort of ramshackle abode, as if in a perpetual state of camping while various commerce and their concomitants take up space or wander about; 2. The road markings, when there are any, are merely suggestions – to everything: both directions of traffic, villagers and animals and bicycles and wagons and cows, dogs, which leads to; 3. Honking and the circulation of traffic which seems to flow on and on like molecules following the laws of fluid dynamics, where everyone is patient and there are no outward displays of anger and honking seems to play no recognizable roll in this flow because no one pays attention to it, but everyone is doing it. [*I wrote this paragraph weeks after my arrival in Varanasi. Even though my opinion about traffic life has evolved, I still have questions about the cultural dynamics of how anxiety, anger and violence are funneled and expressed, because they are complex, historical and different than my own. I have more thoughts, ideas and opinions about this, but I am going to keep most of them to myself for the time being and try just to report what happened**].

All this observed, I should make clear, from my rear passenger window as the taxi zips and weaves through traffic; I make a point to remind myself that my monkey-mind judgments are in no way definitive. I remind myself that I am just gathering material. I try to turn up the volume of my inner voice that says,

Observe, just observe. Perceive – that is all. This is not about you.

We get into the city proper and it is not a Delhi… both are hot and dusty, but Varanasi is just raw. Everything seems browner with dust.
Fewer trees – in fact, barely a green anything anywhere. Wandering Pilgrims. Skeletal Horses. Permanent shanty communities – concentrated.
Little-to-no pavement. None-to-dangerous-void of sidewalks; and more traffic than anywhere I have ever been. I don’t fit in; I look like no one.
If I were just dropped in the middle of this … well, it would be a challenge. I feel the constraint of being beholden to the driver.
(I’m kicking myself for not studying a map of Varanasi more diligently. “This won’t happen again …”
I think, which turns out to be prescient or is it parody. Oh! … hindsight! … more to come).
We are deeper in the city now and I am paying close attention
to landmarks and directions, although I am lost
and bewildered by what I see
and can’t really make
any meaningful

Time and distance passes, I now guess we are on the main road that the residency is on, heading West out of the city, and remarkably I am correct and see the sign for the gallery, but the driver passes.

I say to the driver, “Um … Hello!? … Kriti Gallery…” and point and wave in the rearview mirror.

He gives me the non-verbals and a few quick Hindi phrases that I am sure are the equivalent of  “YEAH, YEAH. Hold your horses. I know what I’m doing.” But, I don’t think he does. I sit back, and the yellow flag of caution starts to rise, it is coming close to half-masted. I wait. He turns the car and goes around … uh … a block(?) or something. He’s back on the main road again going back the way we came. “There it is.” I say, “Kriti gallery.” as we pass the sign again. The yellow flag blows in the wind, full mast. He speaks to me in confident, bold – loud – Hindi and gestures down the road away from my destination.
I have no way to interpret this. I wait: calm, I see the yellow flag
that has been unfurled.

He turns the car around – again! – and heads in the original direction, but stops at the corner well before the sign I saw and the gate, to Kriti Gallery and the Residency that is meant to be my destination! He pulls over and makes to get out. I think:

“What’s going on! You are tired. You are hungry. You are in the shock of the new. This is not your destination.”

The yellow flag begins to turn to red. I move to act, to speak, but something …

Sam, not red. Lower the flag. 

I do…

Get out and engage with the situation. 

I put my hand on the door handle…


What now?@! …

Breathe and smile.

Oh, ok – I follow the directions and make to exit the left side of the car.

I am ready: I open the door and place the full sole of my left foot on the gravel, dirt and whatever other garbage the driver pulled up on. A billow of dust hits my face. I transfer my weight and swing my right leg out of the car. It is hot. I stand and move out from behind the passenger car door and leave it open. I breathe, again. Hot. I give myself a centered, round space and present my full attention to the driver, who is now engaged in animated conversation with a group of men. I think of the smile of resolve and confidence that Julius Caesar must have had on his face as he crossed the Rubicon: I plant my feet, a firm foundation amidst the organic debris, and I am in an ideal position – able to move, shift, parry at a moments notice … legs nibble and strong, hands at the ready; I breathe into my abdomen and lower my center of gravity. Back straight, head up, I focus on the driver and widen my gaze, expand my peripheral vision and push my consciousness out as far as I can make it go and take in as much as I can. Present. Focused. Ready for Godow. I want to know why the driver has stopped and why he won’t take me to my destination that we just passed twice. I stand angled to the driver so to not be too aggressive or to accelerate the brinkmanship too rapidly.  The driver pays no attention to me. He speaks to a group of men who are standing around. And, then, something … doesn’t … feel … quite … right … “Drat! My fly’s unbuttoned.” I have the surprise of a Chris Farley, shuffle my feet, button up and mellow my countenance and my stance is more like Claudius the Invalid than Julius the Caesar. No one notices. No one cares …

Good catch: now, stop joking around and just stand there
and gain contextual knowledge…

Fine. I look and listen. Hindi flies back and forth – hand gestures, head movements. If the driver is lost, then I am in La-La land. But, I’m not and He’s not. The sign for Kriti is right down the road. This place is way different than Delhi. I’ve described this road before, but what I see is traffic, rickety commerce on both sides of the roads and dust and honk, honk, honking … I offer an open-hand gesture and point all five fingers at the 3 x 5 foot sign up the road that says Kriti Gallery and say, “Kriti. This is where I need to go.” A feral pig walks between us. The driver ignores the pig and ignores me. I smile and chuckle and give a little Western shake of the head of incredulity. More Hindi. I think, “What’s going on … Does he need directions? Is he buying something?! Is he getting the latest Cricket score?!?” I have no idea. I say, “Kriti Gallery is RIGHT THERE.” He ignores me. Being distracted by the pig furrowing the ground between us, I miss an exchange: so much for my powers of observation. I think they hand something off between themselves, which way I’m not sure. I have no idea what I’m looking at or what the driver is doing. He gestures to get back in the car. I do, and we drive down 30 yards and pull into a driveway. Whatever this stop was, it doesn’t matter: I made it! This must be it!


A Crash Course in Varanasi Life


They Eat People Here …


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Flashback: India …

By way of reminder, I arrived in India Dec 2013, left June 2014 and went directly to Berlin, Germany
to give myself some time to digest what I had just gone through and to plan how to get
Cairns – Shards – Pieces

Starting in June, the reentry to a Western Culture was well …

1. Out of India – reverse culture shock

2. Adjustment continues …

3. Bread, Granite and Heutegesternmorgenwelt

4. Cogitating … drawing … still adjusting …

5. To Walk, To Mime … (Heutegesternmorgenwelt REDUX)

and I slowly got back into and became able to look at my India material, again:

6. Three Stones from Three Cities – part 1

7. Three Stones from Three Cities – part 2

My posts about my first days in Delhi set the tone and timbre of my whole trip: India got different and I adjusted and learned and grew as my experience with India increased, if for no other reason than I started to see how complex and different and diverse and multi-layered this area of the world really is; but, it never really got any calmer or easier, and I had to decide to hold back on posting so that I could just be there or I’d miss much of what was going on.

If you take those first three posts of Delhi,

1. My first day in Delhi

2. Finding Hotel Broadway

3. Being taken for a ride … in Old Delhi

multiply them by a non-Euclidian field of 3-million-Hindu-Gods-14%-Muslim-population-of-1.2-billion-with-a-handful-of-Christians-and-dash-of-a-few-other-religions-with-hundreds-upon-hundreds-of-languages-spoken-and-with-some-of-the-oldest-evidence-of-Homo-sapien-culture-and-I-am-a-landmass-that-began-it’s-collision-into-Asia-35-million-years-ago dimensional space times the inverse of Planck’s constant, which really means I’m not sure what I just went through, then you get what my un-posted time was like.

But I owe it to myself to finish writing about my adjustment period to India, at a minimum.

So, here comes a 5-part series of my arrival in Varanasi and my first visit to the Ghats … I will try to present it in the present tense
as if it just happened, but I am compelled to fill in the gaps with present commentary using this construction [*…**], which also should be decoded as containing issues or themes
that I have been mulling over and puzzling about and not really sure what to do with
and that have, additionally, slowed my posting momentum.
After the arrival in Varanasi posts,
I will feature the artists I met
at the residency.

But before that, here is a selection of images:

Seconds prior to these cobras almost biting me, I made the connection between the horribly melted, bandaged, rotting, wounded people I saw lying about, immobile, begging, with the fact that they had leprosy, which forced the connection between all the deformed bodies hobbling around everywhere and the scourge of polio. All three of these things – cobras leaping at me, and the realization of people inflicted with Leprosy and then with Polio – occurred within a few steps of one another as I wander the market area around the Main Ghat of Varanasi helping Olga, the director of Kriti Gallery, shop for the residency’s weekly food supply:

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, SculptureSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


Me with my first forehead dot – it was bound to happen some time and this was hardly planned. I discovered an enormous tree at the edge of the city, and walked over to investigate. The priest befriended me [*He told me all about Shiva Power and that the tree was 800 years old, and have to leave it at that**] and, before I knew what was happening, he swept me up into this ritual of placing a bi-colored tilak on my forehead. Seeking some kind of cross-cultural bonhomie, I let him do it. I immediately went to take a picture, but I didn’t realize my phone was set to video, so I inadvertently got my first 4 seconds of reaction …

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


A Gecko.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


A lizard.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


A Monkey.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


Two birds.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


A Goat in a sweater.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture



Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture



Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture



Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture



Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture



Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


and two more

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture

… and lest this gives you the impression that Indians are species-biased …

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture

yup …Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Varanasi, India, Sculpture


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Three Stones from Three Cities – part 2

In part 1 of Three Stones from Three Cities, I discover a series of mysterious broken stones
in Mauerpark, Berlin, Germany, as my friend, Helena, and I walk around one Sunday afternoon,
looking for a place to stand
to watch Karaoke in the

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, Sculpture

The next afternoon I was compelled to go back to Mauerpark with my camera because of the mystery of these puzzling breaks, the Unexpected Field of Trauma as I call it.  The Karaoke singers and gawkers are gone. The park, once a strip of No-Man’s Land when the Berlin Wall was functional, is nearly empty. I walk the full length of the dead-straight road, which is about the length of two American Football fields and runs the full length of the park, parallel to where the outer and inner walls of the Berlin Wall used to run. The eastern facing, or outer wall is to my right as I walk North up the road, and a section of this wall is still standing.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, SculptureSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, Sculpture

After my inspection along the whole road, I see that the only area of trauma, these strange fractures in the cobblestones that I described in the previous post, is where I initially saw them – by the Karaoke amphitheater.

“Hmm … interesting.”

I kneel down to look closer: yes, the breaks are mostly on top, fractures on the surface and some of the stones are worse than others and the breaks sort of go around the stone, and then there is the softening of the sharp edges, similar to how the sharp edges of ice, as with an ice cube, soften as it melts.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, SculptureThree_Stones_2nd_Frame_02Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, Sculpture

The pattern of breaking has no radiation out from a center, as what would occur with an explosion or a downward blow of a hammer. Nor are they directional, like let’s say if a force ran over the top of the stones in one direction, breaking the top layers, like I fantasize would happen with a tank tread or some piece of machinery capable of directing a powerful, continuous force. And, significantly, the stones aren’t disturbed within their housing. However these breaks happened, they didn’t happen in a way that disturbed the position of the stone. My guess is that this happened a while ago, i.e … at least not last week … debris has filled the cracks. But, how? Still not convinced it is the natural cycle of freeze and thaw, I snap a few quick photos. It begins to rain. I run for cover and then leave the park. I take shelter at Friendly Society, a Boutique–Coffee–Bar–Gallery, that is a few blocks away. I talked with Gregor, one of the co-founders, as I sit out the downpour. (If you’re by Mauerpark, take a special detour to have some great coffee and to see their line of clothes you won’t find anywhere else!)

I go home and I forget about the Unexpected Field of Trauma at Mauerpark. I have other pressing issues. Two days later, I am looking through the 5000 plus images I took while in India, because the real reason I have cloistered myself in a Berlin sublet for the summer is to come down from these India Travels, clarify my own questions and develop what next for Cairns – Shards – Pieces.

A significant aspect of India – and it is rather extreme in Varanasi – is that everywhere you go, to one degree or another, people are living or lounging outdoors, essentially camping, and that includes all the concomitant activities such as building fires of all sizes and for various reasons. It is like there is a fluid, but perpetual, state of camping all around you. With few exceptions, even I could have built a fire just about anywhere and just hung out, with impunity. In one of my images of the ghats, I notice someone had built a campfire right next to the ghat steps and, to my surprise, the stone was fractured to the point of not really being a functional step anymore: the heat had burst and broken the stone,
making them … not steps … rather a slope … and … Wow … That’s it …

“How, Now, Watson: make the connection…”

Yes. Fire breaks stone in this way …


… I know, because I’ve done it with an acetylene torch early in my art career; I also have made plenty of campfires that have heated stones and fractured them. Yes, that’s it: a campfire! People built campfires along that cobblestone road in Mauerpark. Fire is the answer. Fire breaks stone, and that’s what caused the Unexpected Field of Trauma. Has to be! It’s my inference to the best explanation, at any rate; and seems to conform to Ockham’s razor.

Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, SculptureSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, Sculpture Samuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, SculptureSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, SculptureSamuel Nigro, Berlin, Drawing, Sculpture

The wall comes down. No-man’s Land is no longer No-man’s Land. People reclaim the space and turn it into a gathering place. The park is built, the amphitheater is built, the cobblestone road is built and the strip of land is reinforced as a natural gathering point. People hang out here, late into the night; at this time, Berlin must not have subtle, oppressive cultural powers executing rules of arbitrary propriety and people make campfires for their fellowship around the amphitheater and on the cobblestones. That has to be it. I’m sure of it. I go back that afternoon to confirm, but will spare you the analysis.

So, this Unexpected Field of Trauma was created by campfires build on top of the stone road. Although all three are important, neither material nor history nor action links the Unexpected Field of Trauma at Mauer Park to my cobblestone in New York City; but rather, it is a question: how did it get that way? And, that is the connection.

The real reason why I write this post is that there is another undercurrent to this inquiry. That is I had another notable, albeit at present unexplainable, experience with another stone while in India. It is an approximately 6 x 2 foot paving stone at one of the Ghats that I discovered during my first walk, ever, along the ghats, during my first day, ever, in Varanasi.  It, like all the stones that comprise the ghats, is subject to the yearly rise and fall of the Ganga where it is covered by Himalayan sediment and then, when the river recedes, the people clean it off by spraying river water at it. For some reason this stone got singled out and I haven’t been able to write about it, I haven’t been able to process it, I haven’t been able to make sense of it – I still can’t – I don’t know what questions to ask! India was too overwhelming, and there are too many factors beyond my own empirical and anecdotal evidence collecting that makes me truly uncomfortable because I just don’t know enough about them. Some of these factors revolve around the socio-economic forces at play in India as well as the country’s conquered and colonialist history. All of this has inhibited any rapid-fire posting (of the sort social media is biased for) during my travels and is partially what I am referring to when I say that I don’t know what I am looking at.

I won’t try to explain the Indian paving stone; except to say that this discovery is a cross between the punctuation I experienced with the New York cobblestone and the puzzlement of the Unexpected Field of Trauma at Mauerpark, times the first 7 primes in the base 12 number system and a Goat in a sweater (or something). That’s it. That is all I can say. It is at Rana Mahal Ghat, and here it is:

Samuel Nigro, India, Varnasi, Drawing, Sculpture Samuel Nigro, India, Varnasi, Drawing, Sculpture

The next dozen or so posts to follow belong to a set I call Flashback: India, where I will make good on my promise to tell you about my first day in Varanasi and my first walk along the Ghats, and I will introduce the other artists I met during my time at the Kriti Gallery Residency, as well as a few other things. I write this post to you today as a way to ease my way back into writing about and telling you about my India experiences and the things that caught my curiosity …


Flashback: India


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