29 September 2016

dream: same faced art thieves

I was once a collector of dreams. I watched them play in front of my eyes, woke up and wrote them down in my dream journal which I kept beside my bed so they wouldn’t flee away from me. My precious little dreams. It was weird and wonderful at the same time to read about where my mind and soul went and what they saw while I slept and was scientifically half dead. Sometimes I remembered all the details, sometimes I lost them. But then, one day, my metaphorical dreams took over my mind and heart and everything that was left of me. I wanted to be so many things. I had to work on dreams I made in my head. So I started skipping my good night sleep. I still do that, sometimes, I don’t want to sleep when I’m creative or terribly worried. My dreams stopped coming to me. Or they stopped staying.

But last week, a dream rebelled. It tiptoed to me and it stayed. It’s still in there. It’s like a warm memory walking all around my mind. It refuses to leave. I’ve written it down. I want it to stay, forever. I wish I could film it, play it over and over again because it hurts. It hurts enough to be turned into art.

I saw that I had packed my tiny teal backpack and I was leaving for Lahore with my twin, Noor. I had borrowed money from her.  We were taking a rickshaw from Thatta to Lahore. Since Lahore is a whole province away, it can only happen in my dream. I was leaving because I had to go find a mentor. Someone who’d teach me how to control my art. I felt like it was slipping out of my hands and my mind. I could feel it leaving me and it made me so scared. (Imagine: a girl without art and heart)

Scene changes

Still in rickshaw, it had gotten dark outside. We were in an old part of the city, probably somewhere in old Karachi, with huge old buildings around us. Some historically ruined flats wanting to collapse but couldn’t. We stopped at a shop, asking for directions. (Imagine: a lost rickshaw with two same faced girls who knew nothing)

Scene changes

We were at a university of some kind, looking for an art teacher, trying to hide ourselves because it felt too dangerous and wrong. It felt illegal, chasing an art teacher. It felt as if I was there to steal something v important. (Imagine: two same faced art thieves)
We sneaked into his classroom, looking for him. I still remember how his class looked like. Small grey sofas and small glass tables everywhere with red notepads on them. It shouldn’t look like this, I thought. It looked cold, it felt cold. Things made of glass look rude to me. Maybe I was expecting wood and sunshine.

We found him on his table. He looked like an old business man. He shouldn’t look like an old business man, I thought again. I probably begged him not to kick us out, two same faced art thieves, before listening to me. I told him I can’t go to n art school at the moment but I needed help. I wanted to know how to cope with art, my art. I needed to know how to control it & what to make out of it. I was crying, the wet-face-can’t-speak-anymore crying. I can still feel it in my bones. It was pathetically sad, I don’t want to cry in my dreams.

He wrote something on a paper and before he gave it to me, he was interrupted by a girl who suddenly appeared out of nowhere.  She asked him about some supplies she was going to need for the class. I knew her. I know her in real life. I know she doesn’t like talking loudly and she hates her hair and she is hella shy and certainly doesn’t belong to an art class. But she didn’t know me. She doesn’t know me in real life because we never actually met. Another person stepped in the room. I knew him and he knew me. He was carrying a baby who wasn’t his own. He told my twin that he was trying to find ways to forgive himself. I wondered if he slept peacefully at nights.

Scene changed

We were coming out of the university and I told my twin that my college’s staff is jealous of this place. It was Karachi. This meant I never reached Lahore.

It ended. Without any warning. Or my paper slip from that art teacher.

I don’t know what it means. Or if it means anything at all. I don’t know my dreams and they certainly don’t want to know me. But this dream is what I think should happen in next chapter of my life. Lahore is one of the most glorious cities of Pakistan, famous for its culture and fashion and media industry oh and its art university too. I just want it to find a way to shape my art into something meaningful and handle it with care. I also want people who were once a part of my life to finally find peace.

Have you ever kept a dream journal? It’s a crazy creative thing to do! And I hope your dreams are treating you well.

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16 September 2016

fangirling: my boys

Fangirling is fun, not just because it includes unreal people or people that are god-knows-how-real, but because you're the queen. You're the fangirl who makes things possible. You're given a person, real or fictional or dead, and you can make anything out of it, a piece of art or a poem or a fanfiction or a drawing ANYTHING. If it isn't empowering, I think you're doing it wrong.
My boys, Snow & Healy (Well I think I'll just go with Jon and Matty) are my new emotional investment and the main subject of my fangirling. I prefer my men like them: Fictional or almost unreal.
M  A T T Y    H E A L Y
Until last month I had NO idea who he was and how he hated to be called Matt instead of Matty. But my twin discovered them and told me how insane this musical creature Matty Healy is and begged me to be obsessed with him. So I did it. I'm obsessed with him and his band and his songs and how his broken mind works. Apparently, my most favorite song atm was written about him AND I HAD NO IDEA BEFORE. 
I hope he makes it to the day he's 28 years old. 
He's 27 btw.
If you have watched Somebody Else's video and saw Matty slipping from his skateboard, DID IT HURT YOU TOO? Whenever I step on my own skateboard, his falling body flashes in front of my eyes for 2 seconds. It's our daily ritual now, me on my skateboard and Matty falling from his skateboard in my mind.
And not just that, Matty is my motivation machine at the moment. An insane artist raising another insane artist without noticing. Thank you Matty, I don't care if you don't know I exist.
Making Matty Healy at home:
You're gonna need
a voodoo doll
noodles (for hair)
tissue paper (for skin)
black paint
insanity
money
a lot of words
and a hell lot art
J O N   S N O W
I recently finished Game Of Thrones (AREEBA WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?!?) Jon is the beautiful bastard from Winterfell and one of a few glorious tragedies from the show. I always fall for the most troubled one and Jon Snow quite fits the criteria. He's slightly dumb and usually worried and it makes me so happy to see a lead character who is a total emotional wreck and a very good person. Maybe Jon's heart is made up of cotton balls and hot coffee.
And I'm casually replying to most of the questions someone asks me with:
YOU KNOW NOTHING JON SNOW. I'm actually obsessed.

Making Jon Snow at home:
You're gonna need
ice cubes (lots and lots of them)
a very warm heart
miseries
unwanted attention
black paint
grass & noodles (for hair)
Also, here's my newest green baby, named after two great men in my life atm.
MATTY SNOW! If my fangirling is making the earth greener so it's okay I guess.
Live long, fandoms!
What kind of fangirl are you?
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12 September 2016

inside my head

I've always wanted to buy a black spraypaint and do graffiti but I couldn't. 

1) I didn't know where to buy black spraypaint and I worried WOULD AMMA LET ME BUY IT OR NAH 

2) AND WHOSE WALL I AM GONNA RUIN?

I made this sign today and it says make art. This is something that's been echoing in my mind for many many many days. And there are other things in my mind as well, not all of them sound as good as make art. And one of them says YOU ARE WASTING YOUR LIFE.

Many people romanticize a kid who is drawing and writing and fighting and not knowing where to go ahead all the time. And also, not knowing how to answer all the questions about future others sometimes ask. There are bands that might have written songs about it (have they??!!?) I mean, I'd totally write a book about on it if I ever get a chance but I don't want this to be my own life. A confused hard working art kid putting all of her energy somewhere that's not paying back much. And then a random person would stop, poke me in my shoulder and ask, "Did you sign up for a university yet?" And then I'd freak out. No I'm not going to university this year, thank you for reminding me.

I'm on a gap year and it's somehow so cold and not fun at all. Not that I mind not being a student, I appreciate it very much. It's just that life feels like it stopped somewhere and I'm the lonely planet in this huge and glorious milky way. There are stars everywhere, moving ahead while I just watch. I really wanna go ahead.

I'm not used to be stuck in the space, surrounded by stars, not moving ahead. Maybe I'm afraid I'll get used to being stuck in a place and it will all be normal for me to stay there. It's really scary though, really very scary. I hope it never happens, to me or to anybody in this world.

This was just one the horrible things that were going inside my mind. FEELS GOOD TO LET IT OUT THOUGH. I'll just go back and make art, don't worry.

WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND, BABIES?

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7 September 2016

everything is blue

If you don't believe that a song can turn your mind upside down, you've probably haven't found the right song yet because Halsey's Colors is a song that shook my whole existence. 

"You're dripping like a saturated sunlight 
You're spilling like an overflowing sink 
You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece
 And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink"

I couldn't stop but shriek inside. This song is poetic, artsy, everything I wanted to hear for a long long long time. thank you Halsey, I feel a little insane.

People say that Halsey wrote Colors for Matty Healy, a singer I recently found and again lost my mind because insane artists are my main motivation at the very moment and he's a person who has lost his mind too but has his art. I couldn't be happier to find him, it's the right time.

Everything was blue 
His pills, his hands, his jeans 
And now I'm covered in the colors 
Pulled apart at the seams 
And it's blue

And it's blue.  BLUE BLOODY BLUE.
When people ask me about my favorite song, I tell them to sit tight because I'm about to explode into so many words. You can't ask someone about their favorite music and expect them to be in their normal self for a long while. When I tell people about Colors, I get emotional and maybe a little crazy too. It's a song I'm so proud of, it's a song that means a hell lot me and it's a song everyone should know about. It's not romantic, it's probably wrapped in regrets and memories.

Blue wasn't my favorite color, not before this song but I'm highly influenced, things are blue. Everything is blue. 

These sunglasses that I'm flaunting atm were sent by lovely people over GlassesShop.com. They sent me a pair of blue sunglasses (yAY) and I couldn't be more excited. They're selling eyeglasses online and you can find a whole variety of glasses on their website.They even have prescription sunglasses

More blue couldn't hurt. Find these sunglasses here. They're perfect!

Also, if you're in need of a pair of glasses/sunglasses, use code GSHOT50 and get 50% off on your order of eyeglasses and sunglasses with free lenses (sale frames not included). 

Here're me, being all blue.

What's your favorite song?
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5 September 2016

crybaby

Crybaby - reminds me of young Johnny Depp with a jawline that could kill, Melanie Martinez (obviously), jerks I met while I was growing up and of course my childhood. I was a paradox when I was a kid, I was full of confidence and fears at the same time, who did very well in class and talked of politics but feared rainstorms and stray dogs.

The word, Crybaby, means a hell lot to me. It's the kind of word I want to get written in gold and frame on my wall. It reminds me of me when I was made up of tears and pink color back in 2007. I was a kid who cried a good deal and painted everything pink.

I DIYed this jacket in honor of the word that once scared the shit out of me. 

Wearing nanna's very pink gharara felt weird because I can't even remember the last time I wore this much pink in one single day. Maybe I unintentionally started running away from wearing pink years ago. I don't know, pink doesn't look friendly anymore. But I'm learning to come back to pink because in my life at the moment, I'm either all black or all pastels. And pastel pink is a goddamn glorious shade.

Maybe I am still a crybaby, the young kid of the family who throws ugly tantrums over little stuff because, I don't know how to put this nicely, it feels good. I cried as a kid because I had no choice. But now I cry over things that actually deserve my tears - fictional deaths, emotional books, tears made up of anger etc. The difference between crybaby 2007 and crybaby 2016 is that crybaby 2016 can cry and be okay with YES LOOK AT ME I AM CRYING I'D LIKE TO FIX EVERYTHING ON MY OWN. 

 Are you a crybaby?
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2 September 2016

for the insane artists

People around me associated my art with sadness and it didn't sound as bad back then as it does now. It used to be ~I'm a sad young person with a lot of rage inside~ but the sadness faded away by the time, leaving rage as it is. The sadness didn't replace itself with anything. The heartbreaks I had been writing/drawing about stayed the same, they just didn't matter anymore. And I need to fill that space.

It's just that your art asks for a goddamn price and you are to pay it even if you don't want to, even if you don't even know you're paying it until it actually becomes a routine.

And I don't want to pay it with heartbreaks and sadness anymore, even though some of my best pieces came into existence when I was blue. You see, I want to replace it with madness. But I have trouble being anything whole, I told you I was always a middle product of the emotional state I was in, I was never mad enough, not that I didn't try.

The world has seen insane artists who exploded into colors and art, they changed the world. And I've seen my favorite people turning insane over their art. My twin introduced The 1975 band to me just a few days ago and Matt Healy broke me into so many pieces I had to sit down and collect my existence back and glue it together again. Not that his drug addiction and medically approved insanity saddened me, but what hit me hard is that he is goddamn glorious at his art. I was jealous and then I burst into a good good good laugh, I want to pay the price.

I realized I wasn't Matty Healy who has lost his mind but has his music. I wasn't Van Gogh who ate yellow paint for his happiness. I wasn't even Johnny Depp who is a piece-of-shit-insane but a goddamn living legend. 

I'm Areeba who just can't shut up. 
I don't know what I am going to do for the sake of my art but it will be something more than my own sanity. The price hasn't been decided yet, maybe I will never be able to decide it, I'll just pay. And I'm ready to be one hell of an artist I wish to be, someone I've always dreamed to be.
Has your art asked you for a price?
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