‘One body of work, all figures are different.'

Orange tunic to purple
Trousers to green dress
We talk, we join
We breathe
Together
Whole
On our Planet
We combine

Dark skin, arm outstretched
Indian sari swathes woman’s body
Wooden stick clasped
In mans hand
Blonde long hair, arms folded
Small child, sitting cross legged
Red shirt
Together we exist
Touching, needing each other
To know who we are
Embracing humanity
Diverse yet sharing
The same needs
Food
Shelter
Love

Busy
Colourful
Complicated
Canvas contains glimpses
Of our world
We spill over the edges

All races, creeds and colours span the breadth of the white wall. Neatly placed, row upon row, line upon line, Contained in squares, sequences. Sitting on chairs, facing us. Pink sari on dark hair, lilac trousers to turquoise dress. Blonde hair falling on shoulders. Batman. Our worlds collide. In order. Artist traces the shape of our lives, of us. Our reasons for being. Individuals yet part of the whole.

Intercultural mix of nations. Hoping for understanding, tolerance. ‘When I spoke to you I learnt something about your world, different to mine. We grew’. She holds her baby. He spins yarn on a wheel. She carries sticks high on her head. She carries a black case. He has white angel wings.

‘This artist is really interested in people’, as the indigo shirt on a dark skin leads to a maroon swathed grey haired older woman to a naked bearded cross legged yogi.

Awaking to live another day. We watch the sun rise, breathe in unison, shop, be of use to others, giving and receiving. Line upon line, row upon row. Barefooted, wrapped in white cloth, sky blue t shirt. Superman.

‘Have you seen the 101 Dalmatians up there? Jackie Chan down there? Might recognise this person over here? You may have heard about him, Damien Hurst?’ Museum Guide speaks as two little girls in flower pink dresses stand.

‘Is it real though?’ little girl with the lilac shoes asks.

Juliette Llewellyn
24.06.2008

Artes Mundi 2008: Artist - N S Harsha

The package

(Twenty minute writing exercise from a far country)

With the brown parcel paper removed, I can see it isn't a book, my usual parcel. There is gold-crusted red paper, red ribbon with gold edges. My name but no sender.

It sits on the table while I think. Who is it from? Why has it come? Not my birthday, not my namesday, no anniversary I can remember.

OK, boot up the computer, check my journal for this date plus or minus a week or so over the last few years.

Nothing.

Sit looking at it again. Maybe it was delivered to the wrong apartment? No, it's my name, an unusual one, and... Wait a minute - it has my middle name in full. A clue?

Who knows my middle name? Who knows?! That doesn't narrow it down. Or does it? Come at it again. Who would use my middle name on a package like this and know where I live?

Rules out my American friends, because they would use just the middle initial. Rules out my Scandinavian friends, because they would ignore the middle name if it wasn't tied to the first with a hyphen. So...

Ah, could it be from my distant past in Spain? What clues might it then hold? I pick it up again, checking for perfume. It was a long, long time ago, but the nose has a wonderful memory.

Britt-Marie, the tall blonde I met in Madrid, didn't use scent, but I remember well her golden skin with the memory of an after-exercise spray. Her raven-haired friend Isabel, on the other hand, knew all the ways to impress her memory on a man's mind.

Yes, more likely Isabel, but what might she have sent me after all these years?