Istela
Istela is a visual artist, graphic designer and illustrator based in Bangladesh.
It is a wonder as to the number of ways we express ourselves through our art, especially our love for it. The emotions we portray and the ones we don't, the way we use colors as our hands move on paper. The collages we put together to create universes in a small confined spaces ; spaces that only a handful are able to comprehend. The photos here are just a glimpse of the perceptions we hold of oneself and that we see others make of us.
It's nothing grand, it's nothing simple - just two women in a city, making conversation through their own medium of art.
It is honestly a wonder as to the number of ways we express ourselves through our art, and our love towards it. The emotions we portray and the ones we don't, the way we use colors as our hands move on paper. The collages we put together to create universes in a small confined spaces - spaces that only very few are able to comprehend.
This brilliant artist photographed here is someone I met in 2019 during a fashion shoot. We bonded over small talks, our artistic passions, some very questionable topics of life over messages and the magic of being “Dhakaites”. This collection of photos present here was years into the making because of our contrasting schedules, and is just a glimpse of the perceptions we hold of oneself and that we see others make of us.
Questions took shape as we put together these photos.
How much of our little bits do we spill out onto a canvas? A small inkpot, a jar - a glass, a palette, a bucket or a whole factory of paint?
Do we pour our brains, our thoughts, our hearts - the thoughts, the confusion, the notions of rights and wrongs - the straight lines or just a cornucopia of it all?
Does it bring us peace, a sense of sanity and logic into the space around us? Does it add in the color or drain it?
Does it suffocate or does it make us breathe?
Do we need to know it all though?
Somehow, when you live in this city - Dhaka , I feel like a lot of the layers one would like to show is somehow lost in translation or stowed away in a crowd of stares and whispers and glittering lights.
If one could just let live, maybe we'd all be breathing in a bit easier, maybe we'd be glowing in the skin we live in, laughing at ease and letting our universes burst forth. Maybe the music we play in our heads as we confidently but cautiously walk around in the city, would be heard by people with the same playlist. Conversations would be more honest, and our genuine selves would be proud of us as we let ourselves be as close to being the truest versions that could be.
And so, when you look at yourself in the mirror - which version of yourself do you see in it? Is it a genuine reflection of who you think you are/ought to be/ want to be - or is just a photograph staring back?
Here's hoping to an end,
of every little whimsical fears and lies we weigh ourselves down with each day. The little doubts creeping through our minds, the rage we let seething in our veins. The dialogues we play in our heads everytime we face the unhinged stares and stalkings.
Here's to an end,
of not knowing where to start and when to end. To hiding ourselves behind the whispers this bizarre city has somehow built. To letting ourselves belittle our courage and not owning up to our desires. To stop letting layers and layers of illogical survival kits be passed about.
In honesty, I love Dhaka with all it's ups and downs. The memories it has bestowed on me, the laughter - the fear, the stares, the tears ; this city is as much me as that I am of from here. But this city shackles one down a lot. It makes you think again and again, breathing in its doubts and obnoxious notions of irrational woes. This city blooms as much as it withers. And if you're trying to figure this maze as a lone woman, this city is a never ending challenge to behold.
