Studio Obtuse / Neha Mishra
------------------------------------------------------------





About
Art
And I also writeInstagram         LinkedIn          
Email
Work
1.  Accel Atoms × Google’s AI Futures Fund
2. Accel Atoms X (Webpage Design)
3. Leaptech (Accel Atoms X)
4. Accel Onboarding Kit
5. New Age: Branding Strategy
6. StudioShar (now Dinner Tble)
     6.1.   Project Proposal design
     6.2.  Brand Identity Design
7. Talk Back To Me
8. Light Leak (film)
9. Website Design for Mona Singh
10. Walkative Society Logo Design
11. A Room For The Swell (SXSW 2023)
12. Etchings On Flesh (Costume and Performance)
13. RCA 2023 Show Copywriting
14. Making a camera
15. Commute/Hallucination (writing / thinking)
16. खोया-पाया विभाग (Research Paper)
17. The Elsewhere (Concept & Costume Design)

Writing / Substance
-------------------------------------------------------

a view of morning light shot on 35mm film at my old flat in London | 2022

(when the desire to write/create becomes 
repetitive rupture in the fabric of the present)

It is certainly undeniable that repetition, or in a more jolly context - habit making, is the bone and marrow of any substantial creative outlet. Surely midnight bursts (like this one - it’s 1:35 in the AM) and Sunday spurts have their sweet say in the locating of creative identity within oneself, but if a consistent indulgence is required for the completion of ambitious, and rightfully firmly-believed-in projects, the mundanity of of a consistently off-centre albeit imperative capitalist pursuit of the godforsaken day job becomes becomes both consistent respite and roadblock, and at the end of the day the supposed writer lays horizontal on a sofa too small for that pose to find any grace and only half the imagined textural sympathy, and scrolls away until the viscous drop of unnoticed drool reaches the sleeve of her shirt and the wet brings her back to the persistent and unrelenting nowness. 

Nowness is in constant contention with the writer as well, it’s consistently churning cogs like ticking minutes, like rushed steps, like the nail of the index finger attacking the little piece of skin coming away from the thumb in a consistent rhythm until blood surfaces, like looking at the clock in the hope to make it through just one more hour and just one more after that and then the heavy rock of caught up and piled words can be pushed up the hill again. Oh the sweet patience of daylight, oh the torment of the dark. It is in the dark that nowness sits atop her hands, on her eyelids, on the bottom of her heel aching with every step. The Sisyphean simmering stillness of the present tense has to be made friends with, has to be talked to, has to be held onto. For it is only being beside nowness that drags battered hope through just one more day and one more day after that.



The persistent itch of documentation and cataloging leeches onto the writer and days open up like three-fold-brochures soggy from being held tight, with bleeding margin notes and pink stains from the aftermath of peeling away layers of people and all that they say, because reading between lines might be paraded in intellectual chin-wags as a mighty skill but numbing of the jaw from chewing on one’s own words for too long stays unaddressed, because that skill does not only manifest outward it lives in the overthinking of every sentence that she lets escape from the tightly wound pile that sits still to be pondered over and rethought let alone put neatly in a set of sentences and sent proudly on. 

So here she sits, on a day torn away from the persistent present in which this peculiar pocket of the afternoon (it is 1:35 in the pm) becomes witness to this elongated, stretched, chewed up, spat and analysed version of saying - 
I want to write.