My obsessions with taking pictures, immersing myself in nature, drawing and painting anatomy, researching and exploring, building and playing, have always been part of my person — even the tiny, three-year-old me. But a recent history of incredibly difficult things, and a near death experience, has forced me to share my work and take life more seriously.

It began with a very pink toy camera (VTECH, for those wondering).

My fascination with green and red stems back to my kindergarten classroom, where the memory of left and right has nearly burned a hole in my mind. The dichotomy of these colors is still endlessly interesting to me — two hues on opposite ends of the spectrum, so polarized, yet in greyscale, indistinguishable. I like my work to be accessible, to feel tangible; ensuring that the values of each hue are differentiable — that there’s enough contrast to grasp the form — is critical to me.

Sometimes, all I see are patterns and contrast. And I follow them.

My interest in hands began when I’d examine those of my parents, marveling at how dexterous and beautiful they were. The same fascination extended to the architecture of the whole body. I have strong hands myself and have always loved the tactile — the sensation of touch — giving massages to friends and family, studying the wrinkles at finger joints and palms, the texture of the sole of the foot, the ridges of fingerprints.

Everyone seems to be enchanted by the ephemeral — florists stay in business — and I am no exception. I have always adored the way a flower petal holds a metallic, twilight-inspired shimmer, a softness, and an unnameable hue. How does one capture that, forever?

Nature's macroscopic intricacy has always entranced me. The sights, textures, and sounds are infinite, literally and spiritually speaking. Sometimes, people think that humans are separate from nature — and to me, it seems so obvious that we, along with every creation and movement we make, are also inherently natural.

Music is intrinsic to my person. It is a catalyst of emotion and movement. I love to create sound. I love to experience live vibrations. From classical pieces, to hard guitar solos, to modern rap lyricism, to abstract noise — they all produce a visceral electricity in the body.

Independence, too, has shaped my work. Learning to nourish myself through cooking and to create spaces of warmth and welcome — a kind of southern hospitality I inherited from those I am blessed to be around — has been another exploration of form and feeling. To host, to care, to build something living: it all feels part of the same impulse that drives my hands to create.

Darkness, friction, and difficulty took great part in molding me into who I am.

But like Gwendolyn Brooks’ Speech to the Young —

“Even if you are not ready for the day, it cannot always be night.”

One must have darkness to have light.

WITH LOVE, AND MY BEST, ALWAYS,

MEHRU