8. To J. Alfred Prufrock

Love, of course. Threshed to pulp, rinsed to the bone and blown into bubbles by poets and mendicants alike, it has yet allowed us to voyeuristically peep into its moist little pockets to scour out another stringy strand of warm gratification or cataclysmic failure. It rips open our guts and shows up pink insides while for some, it is what they have been waiting for their whole lives. It is an irony, an intention of evil, and justification of human nature all rolled into one.

The bringing together of these artists is not only an attempt at forging new interpretations of the sweet-sob tales of loss and solitude, but also an opening of a tin-box of fictional narratives and fleeting shades of love. While the relatable is not to be subverted, I hope this pipettes a drop of nectar where you thought there were no taste buds.

This show is brought together by Indu Antony.