We are meant to survive ……….beyond our stories. (Selected works from over four decades) I asked not because I didn’t know but because I wanted to hear it all over again. To think about it… because I heard the rumble of thunder way before the deluge hit. Now I carry only the cloth Within which my dreams can fit. I understood that as an artist the most liberating lesson learnt is that one’s own sense of belonging is held in multiple histories that form the stories of the world. And it is the curiosity of wanting to know about the unfamiliar that invites us through the doorways of many new discoveries. I learnt however that like any sensible traveler, each of us needs to carry along in their journey as artists the memories of our own origins in order to collate with greater coherence, and thereby not loose ourselves at the alters of the great international/global mergers that attempt to homogenize everything for the ease of consumption. I understood the power of the visual artist and equally understood the manipulations of art history and the power lobbies at play in these recordings of documentation. It is difficult to explain to those who enquire as to why I paint. I have no simple answer. Art is an infinite territory of belonging for me. I wander at will through all its passages of time, like a labyrinth within which I alone must know how to find my way to the heart of my own belonging. It is a space where everything I know gets clarified. I observe things minutely at all times. I think this stems from the fact that I do not sketch, so instead, I draw inside my head. I carry these tracings of memory and they accumulate to become my database of references from which I re-assimilate to form a visual vocabulary of transposed meanings. In the midnight hours one goes to wander, Wherever the mind will take one. Sometimes into the fiery red of a burning forest… At others, to the edge of the inky black sea so feared. Or will I find that garden he made whilst the universe fumbled around, when soil turned into soul and the shovel could dig no more, small white flowers whispered her name… Be calm, its only till dawns light awakens you. Rekha Rodwittiya