Monochrome Series: Rowdy Friends (incl. Paddington Bear)

Inspired by a recent exploration of the black-and-white photographic archives of George Lucas and Rian Johnson on the making of their respective Star Wars films, I took the plunge and began my own first ever serious experimentation with this distinct mode of seeing and cataloging the world. So accustomed to colour have I always been, as if it were the sole essence and definer of perception I was, to confess, a tad prickled by the prospect of omitting it completely from the frame. If light was the mother of optics then surely colour was the crowning blossom, that which the eye was designed to seek out and luxuriate in its infinite varieties.

I was wrong.

In my maiden foray into a world extracted of colour I learnt that far from this preconceived notion that I was about to eviscerate the very lifeblood from visual phenomena, I was instead met by a gasp of discovery. I had arrived in a world that spoke through contrast and lines and textures, where the self-administered hibernation of the visible spectrum of colour awoke in its place a new kind of interpretative fluency in the deeper dialects of nostalgia and reflection.

There are no rainbows in black-and-white because there is too much of its arc and wire, the raw and resolving and celebratory poetics of a creative Universe.

Words & Pictures: © Mazzy Khatun | UK  2018    

 

 

  Olga-1   

 

   Olga-3

 

Gulsum-1Gulsum-3

 

Samka-1

 

 

Samka2

 

Samka-3

SamOlga-2

SamOlga-1

Jenny-6

 

 

Jenny-4

 

 

Jenny-3

 

 

Jenny-2

 

Jenny-1

Group-2
Group-1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Happy Halloween!

The murk of the underworld and I lunged my hand down

Saw her faded orange

Skin scarred, bruised

I picked her

That evening magicked words

Into the crypt of her womb

Words that drew into the deep black

Smiling earth-bound flickers

Of the sun’s maternal flesh:

Light.

Light.

Light.  

 

Words & Pictures: © Mazzy Khatun | 2017

Happy Halloween!Happy Halloween!Happy Halloween!

Bookish Magic

She read the book attentively, and so at peace was her heart that it surely must have stilled the unseen forces that made the wooden bench what it was, breathing a sweet smiling silence all around, making listeners out of ivy and holly and the dew orbs that to the red berry was its wide ocean. 

Words and Pictures by © Mazzy Khatun | 2017 

 

Bookish Magic

Bookish Magic

On An Otherworldly Day

Sands from the Saharan Desert, a world far far away, journeyed on the backs of forceful winds, eventually spraying itself over the skies of our British Isles, and in its wake softening our sun to a quiet yet resolute timbre of red.

Below, our feet still sought adventure in the grounds of Lainston House.

Pictures and Words by © Mazzy Khatun | 2017

 

Samka-19Samka-1Samka-2Samka-3Samka-4Samka-5Samka-6Samka-7Samka-8Samka-9Samka-10Samka-11Samka-12Samka-13Samka-14Samka-15Samka-16Samka-17Samka-18Samka-21Samka-20

And last, but not least…

And last, but in no way least, if I have shown even a morsel of courage to accept the writer that I am today then it is you – only you – who is the reason for my sunburst renewal. Thank you, thank you, thank you my dear friend. Alive again and always yours, M. 

And last, but not least...

An Interview With My Protagonist, Alok

A Your Echoes In Space Presentation: An Interview With My Protagonist, Alok

Words and Pictures by © Mazzy Khatun 2017 

 

His eyes were dark and reassuring, two pits of ancient coal. I could taste the light and fire sealed inside them. I cleared my throat, ready to write.

‘Where do your stories come from, Alok?

A koel perched on the window ledge. He glanced over, gave a soft smile. ‘You know that place, you know it well.’

‘Are you talking to me or the bird?’ I grinned, chewed my lips.

He turned and looked at me, tenderly, meaningfully. ‘Far off places that are close by. That’s where my stories first yawn. Oceans, forests, caves; places near to the heat and heart of the earth, so near that if you ask they will tell you everything, they will remember for you as far back as the beginning of things.’

‘What you mean to say is that stories come from deep within us.’ I shifted in my rattan chair.

‘Where else?’ He chuckled.

‘Any stories you would like to tell me that have inspired your own writing?’

He searched my face, my eyes. ‘All the ones mingled with my mother’s voice.’

‘Your mother was a storyteller?’

‘She was. She is.’

I tapped my pen on my knee. ‘What stories of hers do you remember?’

He leaned back, sighed. ‘Myths, legends, fairy tales, folk tales, tales of long ago when people wore bearskin and conch shells and gathered round roaring fires.’

My eyes widened, glimmered. ‘That is an impressive list.’

When he smiled a dimple appeared on his left cheek. It felt familiar. ‘I’ve hardly begun. And then there was – there was One Thousand And One Nights.’

When he smiled a dimple appeared on his left cheek. It felt familiar. ‘I’ve hardly begun. And then there was One Thousand And One Nights.’

When he smiled a dimple appeared on his left cheek. It felt familiar. ‘I’ve hardly begun. And then there was – there was One Thousand And One Nights.’

 

One Thousand And One Nights?’

‘You know it, you know it very well.’

I nodded. ‘I know I do.’

He raised his hand, and with his index finger traced a spiral in the air. ‘A story within a story within a story…’

I imagined the teller of those tales. ‘Scheherazade.’

‘Yes. Scheherazade.’

I clicked my tongue. ‘She told stories as if she were a daughter of infinity.’

He smiled. ‘Yes.’

I looked up at the fan, whirring. A car honked outside followed by the curses of a street vendor. Good old Kolkata. ‘You know, Alok, I remember them: Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, and Aladdin, and The Fisherman and the Jinn, and The Cat and the Crow.’

I looked up at the fan, whirring. A car honked outside followed by the curses of a street vendor. Good old Kolkata. ‘You know, Alok, I remember Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, and Aladdin, and The Fisherman and the Jinn, and The Cat and the Crow.’

I looked up at the fan, whirring. A car honked outside followed by the curses of a street vendor. Good old Kolkata. ‘You know, Alok, I remember them: Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, and Aladdin, and The Fisherman and the Jinn, and The Cat and the Crow.’

 

He came closer. ‘Yes, but which one was your favourite?’

I met his gaze. ‘Why do you ask, Alok?’

‘Because you are making me, right now, right this moment. I am so real that I want to know more about my storyteller. Her story. Your story.’

I reached up to my left cheek, felt the coal pit in the dimple of my smile, so fertile with light, ready to shine out to the world.

My Berry First Act

A Your Echoes In Space Presentation: My Berry First Act

Words and Pictures by © Mazzy Khatun 2017

The curtain was long and black, and it hung down in perfect motionless ripples. I looked all the way up to see where it came from. Did this curtain have roots – roots that grew out from somewhere high up in the ceiling? I squinted, my eyes searched, but I could find no hint of their origin. The upper world of the stage was a mystery, a convoluted pipework of metal and interlacing wires. Bulky studio lights stared down at me. Their square flaps looked like ears trained to listen in to our every word.

Someone spoke and my eyes came down. I turned and looked out. Beyond me and the polished black floor of the stage was a sight new, and not new. It was the intimately familiar, but out of reach, existing a million miles away. Over there I knew their ways and rituals, over there was a safe world.  It was a sloping world of seats. A steep slope. A terraced paddy of red. They rose upwards and away from me. The back edge seemed to be still growing, receding, pushing back boundaries.

I pondered on my situation. I was well acquainted with buying a ticket, be led to my seat, and play the role of the seated. The watcher of the show. The ice-cream gobbler at intermission. The clapper to the act.

Take-to-the-starry-stage-1

“I was well acquainted with buying a ticket, be led to my seat, and play the role of the seated. “

“The watcher of the show. The ice-cream gobbler at intermission. The clapper to the act. “

Not this time.

This time there was a story. It was burning. Deep inside of me. A winged origami with veins of fire. It was a creature of flight and voice and expression. It blazed day and night, and the tips of my thumb and index finger, the clamping points for my pen, seethed with heat.

When the opportunity arose for taking part in the first ever MA Writers Voice venture, an exciting collaboration between storytellers and the unique multi-sensorial textures of theatre, I leapt at the challenge!  This was my golden chance – a chance to test Edward and Alok. The ultimate litmus test. If I could convince my audience of the integrity of my two protagonists, if I could engage and compel strangers to lean in closer, if I could entice new ears to want to know more of the trajectory of Your Echoes In Space, then I had a chance. A ticket. A portal to a bolstered sense of confidence that here was a story that others could care about, too. Whilst the dream diary reinforced my faith in the narrative, a theatrical hybridisation shone with the potential to resuscitate my characters. To bring them alive.

And so the night of the reading came.

The stage glowed with expectation and fertility. A black open-air womb. Tonight my throat, my hands, my eyes, my every cell was invested with purpose: To add bone. To add flesh. To add voice. There on the controlled and lit sacred ground, the grand black stage, with its black as night curtain and watchful black studio lights, I willed for Alok and Edward’s reincarnation, their magnificent metamorphosis, their osmotic transition into the real world.

I unclipped the mic from the mount. I faced the familiar world of red seats and the inquisitive eyes of the audience. I caught snatches of eager whisperings. I took a deep breath. The side spotlight warmed my cheek. I felt my sneakers tell me wise things, that there was nothing to be afraid of. I was reassured that I was not separate from where I stood. I grew out from the stage, a black protrusion, a tree of motion, conceived of moon and night.

I had nothing to lose.

Nothing at all.

So, I gave it all.

And.

I came away with more.

Much, much more.

The Berry Theatre experience was a beautiful and priceless landmark event in the development of Your Echoes In Space. I realised that I deeply cared for my characters, Alok and Edward, and with the sort of intensity that was potent enough to peel them off the page.

Over the course of one night, my two boys were no longer characters. I gave them permission to leave their roots.

For five minutes, they were people.

“The stage glowed with expectation and fertility. A black open-air womb. Tonight my throat, my hands, my eyes, my every cell was invested with purpose: To add bone. To add flesh. To add voice. “