Dipika Kohli
By Dipika Kohli
A friend of mine, whose opinion I respect quite highly regarding art and making it, told me that what I do is ‘create collections.’ Sequences, he had said. I took very seriously this nugget of reflected comment, veering my future artistic creations in a way that has been heavily influenced by this comment. Artist friends can see things you can’t see in yourself. We need one another, to grow as individuals and creatively, too.
I like to meet artists I know, on occasion, and give each other feedback. We value the high-quality exchange. Even with very little communication or regular contact between us, there is an implicit trust that when we meet, we will of course discuss where we were with making.
Looking forward to these encounters is a great joy, and affirming, as having such people in your life can be an immense source of support.
Perhaps that is because with this network, we who wish to make, and make for others, and put our best effort forth to do this, can lean on the threads of a web that’s invisible to the eye, yet so taut and sturdy, and well-perceived by the heart. It is ready to catch us, anytime we fall into the inevitable turmoil of ennui or self-doubt. But it bounces us back, if we let it, and does so with an energy that invigorates us. If we have a support system like this, we can feel safe, secure, and lucky. Acknowledging this web, I feel, is meaningful for composing. Without support, we can’t create well. My friends are my greatest sources of encouragement. I couldn’t be me, as I am, writing as I have come to write, without them.
I still work the way I like to work – in the moment, on the spot. Going where the going takes me, wondering and wandering, and not quitting. I hold on to being open to the possibility of being changed by what I might hear.
I make collections. I write in sequences. Things are backwards and forwards and sometimes they wrap around themselves.
I like the short essay. I like the poem. I liked writing postcards back when that was a thing. Brief and to the point. Is everything you do short and sweet? Another brilliant piece of feedback, from a musician. Me: ‘Yes! Oh, maybe that’s why I like to host popup salons. Or write for newspapers and magazines, and not publish long, drawn-out things that I can’t keep track of because I’m thinking of the next project, the next week, the next encounter and relishing the anticipation of moving forward, moving on.’ I didn’t know when I heard these things that I prefer short works or collections.
The truth is, everything I look back on that I care about is a series of short things.
A series of good conversations, with friends, means there is continuity and progression. A sequence of seasonal sets of written pieces, for my zines, or even a yearlong collection like this very story is a part of. I love to find ways to connect small pieces loosely, across an arc.
In writing and sharing collections, I get to know more about what the subjects are that we are inquiring towards. Viewer and reader, maker and artist. We are in a dialogue. Back in high school there was a romance associated with the hermetic type of person, as in, someone hiding away in a cavelike space, writing or whatever. Not my style. I need and value the artistic support that comes from friends who are going to be able to tell me what they see or feel or sense I could do better.
I see my works as dots and invite people who engage with them to make their own connections. To draw a picture that befits your own aesthetics. To see what you see in yourself, reflected, here.
We talked about seasons, change, midlife and our futures, though we are well aware that with our chosen path, such a thing is all up to the people who will surround us and trust us to deliver on the things we say we can. Art is not the kind of thing that grows your money mountain. But it can help you make sense of sorrows, meet moments of grief honestly, cope, and heal.
I think the strength in artistic work lies there. Its capacity to showcase to you bits of the artist’s lived experience, and implore you to ask, too, ‘Who am I?’ Nature has it set up for us to change as we go, to co-exist with past versions of ourselves that are in conflict with themselves at times, too. We, too, are collections. Of all that we were, and all that we are: the many selves, in the one.
Dipika Kohli is an author who is based in Phnom Penh. Discover her books at kismuth.com and other projects at dipikakohli.com.
