Imagine a darkened room with high ceilings and a raised stage. Fierce pigment blue abstract painings hang on the walls spot lighted in luminous light. DJs stand in the shadows ready to exude a bad ass vibe. I stand, barefoot in platforms and black. The DJs break into a beat and the people are going off.I am in the crowd but my white canvas is lying on the floor waiting for a licking of paint and cyan pigment. The walls are throbbing.
The beat is pulsating through the crowd and the time is ripe for a pigment explosion.I attack the canvas and people are digging it. I'm lost in a stupor and the paint is going on with rhythm and harmony. The VJ starts to blast surreal imagery on a blank wall.
I take a break and let the paint swim. After ten minutes I return to the paint and throw a handful of pigment on the canvas, chuck on some paint and watch the paint converge. The evening continues in this vein.
As long as she could remember, Sanchita Islam wanted to paint. And that she did. From galleries in east London and Bristol to private members bars in Soho, from derelict spaces like Bishopsgates to underworld gangster quarters, her paintings have been seen everywhere.
Sanchita Islam also writes like a madwoman, performing in literary tours with Irvine Welch and doing readings of her own work in various venues including Cambridge and Paris.She is currently working on her third book, "Gungi Blues".
