Theloopylululog

One thing I own that holds deep sentimental value? Let me think about this.

Most material possessions don’t move me.

Gold? No way. I stay away from its shine.

Clothes? Nah. Detachment-worthy.

Books? Nope. They come, they leave a mark, they go. I don’t hold on to them. No more.

Gifts? Not them either. I donate them once I reach the point where I don’t connect with them.

The one thing still tethered to my heart are my canvases. I am deeply attached to every painting I have ever created.

But the ones that feel like an extension of my body are two paintings that give me the most joy today.

My very first oil on canvas, which I painted while self-learning oil painting on the go: a rustic home in the wilderness far away from the city.

For reasons known only to God, I developed this intense urge to learn oil painting two decades ago. I was assisting a designer back then, and my working hours would have left even the devils ashamed.

I took an intentional break and went institute-hunting. I had no clue learning art could be so expensive. I chucked the idea and headed straight to a book shop; a hole in the wall that dealt with art supplies.

Armed with a bag full of essentials, I sat down to paint—literally on the floor, balancing the canvas against the wall below a window. It took me three days to finish it, and it remains the one that gets the most compliments even today.

To this day, it surprises me with its deep layers and rich colours—the stories it hides and the longing it sings in bass. Maybe it’s just me, but the home on the canvas looks lived-in.

It symbolises the yearning of the child in me that always seeks Castlerock—where I grew up—wherever I go: the childhood home with wild flowers and a rustic roof that I left behind at eight when I moved to the city.

Did I really move? My body moved. My soul still resides in the same home, looking out that window at the trees and the rain, singing to herself, rocking on a tiny wooden chair that would one day topple her onto a burning sigri (a traditional cooking stove that runs on coal/wood/dried cow dung cakes), marking her for life.

And then there’s the other one, which I seem to have created in a trance—what started off as a sunflower ended up being my Shiva. The warm yellow merged into oceanic blues and began to take the form of Shiva’s cosmic dance. Incidentally, it was painted on a Shivratri.

I stared at the canvas for a few minutes while my chosen playlist played, and then let go and flowed with wherever the brushes and colours took me.

The painting decided where it wanted to stop; it wrote its own ending. I was just the vessel; the painter was the One who remains unchanged—unchangeable.

This one is a testament to my style—a true blue Lulu.

In essence, I am not a materialistic hoarder, but when it comes to my paintings, I don’t like selling them. They all carry my sweat and my blood. Having held my tears and having seen my fears, they bear witness to the best and worst of me.

No wonder my canvases are the only things that hold immense sentimental value to me. They are like my children, and who in their right mind sells their own children?

Image Credits: Paintings by me. Framed virtually by Gemini.