Chinda

Kindred 150 x 120 cm Oil on Sewn Canvas 2025 Some revelations noted from @othercinemas ‘s last reading of the year on 8.12.25 Reading the Signs, Empowering the Eye. [Toni Cude Bambarg] inc. annotations from our discussion: Be whole and human again. "The power is with the artist, not the curator." Every contract is a negotiation, stay practiced in their language of transaction and remember that you are rich in material, you have something that is universally valuable and you can reject their terms, say no and choose to protect what is important to you. You are part of the Global Majority. Retain your identity. It is essential to your being and holds all the knowledge of the self that you have had to secret away from aggressors and the apathetic alike. The Black Insurgents at UCLA: "Our task is to reconstruct cultural memory; not slavishly imitate white models; our task leads us to our own suppressed bodies of literature, lore, and history, not the "classics" promoted by Eurocentric academia." We return to the shared space rather than a dominated space. Real recognising real. Whole being validating whole being. Center the community critic as the authority of the quality of the film. It's a conversation. The art form will take on its own life outside of you. Then you can ask the viewer, how would you rewrite/recreate it? A criticism is a reminder that this is not your last creation. Demystify the idea of immaculate creation. Nothing is perfect. Hold onto and cherish your broadness. Popularity is not recognition. Reconsider your end goal. Cut off that frost bitten toe, deprive yourself of money, which is after all the centre of whiteness. Without that invention, what are they but deprived of the ability to sustain themselves on desolate lands? Retain your values and exorcise colonial hatred that made you hate yourself, discern the lies. Listen to that homebound compass nestled in your pocket, lovingly placed by a community, a shared history that has always acknowledged your being. Continue creation beyond completion.

Hallo, I have a solo show coming up on Friday 29th August at St Margaret’s House in Bethnal Green, London. This show was kindly organised by @lucia.sh_ and I’m so incredibly excited to exhibit in this beautiful space with such a brilliant history. St Margaret’s House was founded in 1889, as the Bethnal Green Ladies Committee. This was in response to industrialisation and urban poverty. Their aim being to promote social interconnectedness. With a history of providing social housing, day care for children, nursing the sick, and educational language lessons. Now, the charity runs workshops, creative events and afterschool clubs for young people. The PV will be a sober event with playful elements of bananagrams, mapominoes, and mahjong. The title of this exhibition is an ode to a startlingly obscure word stolen in an epic game of bananagrams. (Please do not come if you are a sore loser). Make sure to register via the link in my bio, if you wish to come. See you there 🌸

Saint Sev’s Exhibition: ‘Many Names Much Like It Amongst You’ Storytelling in Chapel Ruin Wild Welsh Herd Painting Whittled Eating Emma’s Home Grown Tangerines Felt Cyanotypes Facilitated By Sana and Maya Christ i.e. Herself Fire (Some tender memories for the archive)

(Work in progress) Oil paint on Canvas 207 x 80 cm 2024 Photographed by: @kitty_rice_ Contributing to ‘Windowledge’, an upcoming release by @freda_d.souza All rights reserved. (A recent dream) I have lost nothing but the outline of a worm. The foliage has shrivelled but I have not. I took a sip from the steeping cup. The air is not heavy with smoke. The air is gentle on my throat. A seemingly narrow passage extends. The rusted bridge sinking in and out of the grey tide offered an unhinged path that would inevitably fade if the risky invitation was not met. A gradual step forward revealed a cosy room with stones and fossils arranged neatly on the chairs. Providing blue and green treasures. I wanted to pocket one of them that felt smooth and had a hint of grandma’s eyes. I plucked it from its spot. Thrashing masses of water hit the window and I knew it was time to return the stone, exactly as it was, the beginning of the spiral facing downward. Boxed and rolled materials became shrub features of the scarlet carpet. What was left of the trail was a narrow imprint of a route along the backs of the tables. Some of these stones shone with swirls that at first appeared to be ammonites, but after closer inspection were drawn with a sharpened graphite pencil, then coloured and chiselled. A man emerged behind us with a timid woman and flocks of children following after, not meeting our gaze. The man, glazed over his stubble, the roughness could be heard as a scratch and seen on the rash that planted itself on the woman’s pale, drawn face. He started to laugh and hum as we entered the next door which was completely empty, bar a white flickering light that was dim enough to hide the moans for food. We were unable to stop due to the momentum of our feet propelling us forward. The door revealed a market, not unlike the ones at home. Although it was quiet and dark. The sky, eliminated by panelled squares. As we started to run I realised that I was alone. The map flashed with red, blue and yellow paths.

Nest

Restoration

“Wednesday” Oil on Canvas 160x120cm The sleeping swan swallows something sharp, a siren sounds, sobering slumbering serpents, spinning spiders, spilling secrets, scavenge sewage, sweltering smoke, suffocating, spilling silk, study stony shores, surrender stoic solitude, soldiers stifle singing shadows, snip snap swear, squandering swine swiftly sizzle, Sunday’s swimming sorrow, submarine sink, scrawling scaffolding, stranger’s scarf, stay stroppy scroppy, stop stammering, shame-soaked, silence, shudders secondary, sheep, shrug, shriek, sway, sidle, stumble, shower, seek shelter, scorched seeds, succumb sweet sour sweat shop, save souvenirs, salvage souls, sweep solstice sands, ship shape, survive simple squabbles, sneeze scraps, scratch sprouting scabs, spawning spite stings sagging skin, snip snap, stitch snitch, sore stomach, serrated sight, slumping spine suddenly straight, shivering spirit, seasonal symptoms shared, syncing, symbiosis starts, skive, sniffling scrawny sap, scold society’s sacred sanity, steal sin, sanitize self, stagnant, somber storm, speckled-scaled seamstress set sail, scorn superiority, summer’s spoiled sanctuary, statues shatter, smoothing scalloped surfaces. Serenity.

‘Apricity’* 230x160x3cm Oil on Canvas *the warmth of the sun on a winters day

“More than you care to see” Oil on Board Making someone feel like they’re over-sensitive is the lowest form of insult. When image is all you care for, there’s nothing behind your words but syllables. It must be lonely not to care for others. No one exists on their own. There’s no such thing as ignorant bliss in today’s world. No one wants to hear your excuses to justify your intolerant behavior towards others. Sensitivity is a strength. It shows a person is living and breathing, capable of empathy and actively expresses it. Different response to people who drag you into their void: 1).Annihilate that ego of theirs so that they crumble and struggle to sleep. I’m sure they’ll laugh at you anyways to distance themselves from reflecting on the guilt. 2).You could show them kindness, but this often goes a miss on people like that since “kindness” seems to be void of truth-telling. Letting them carry on as usual. They don’t even listen to the truth when put in a kind, considered manner. It’s tiring, this one sided business. Remember It’s not your responsibility to change a person. 3).Look through them. See them for the translucent being they are. No one can call you childish if they’re setting the standard for maturity. Retain your energy. Save your time. Share your company with better people. You know it’s okay to feel your feelings? You don’t have to turn the other cheek- this mentality does more harm to you than you think. So they’ll berate you for speaking; then expect calm; no reaction or emotion to seep through. Then they call you cold. So they’ll hate it if you speak up, since your reason is hilarious. The pain that they cause you; nonexistent. It’s a given that these people don’t deserve any part of you. Equally, they’ll hate it when you’re silent, confronted with having to use that brain of theirs- they’re confused they couldn’t possibly do anything wrong; they’re always in the right. So they violate you again and again. What do you do? Become a numb beating bag, or be degraded to the point where you start to believe in their twisted perception of you? Trust yourself kind people.