#MasterpieceOfMisdirection

[everythingkashmir]

Selective Spectatorship

By Faisul Yaseen

Their selective blindness skills would make even the most skilled magician green. The yarn pullers are experts, carefully picking out any strands that don’t fit their preferred palette. Unskilled artisans work tirelessly, their brutal fingers pluck inconvenient truths that destroy their vision of utopia.

In this absurd theater, the stage of pretended wealth is set up. The orchestra pit is shrouded in strangled screams and strained dreams. Those who utter that cacophony wear blindfolds of the finest silk of their delusion. Their wand cuts the air with the precision of a surgical scalpel.

The audience is turned into an unwanted child. Invisible hands pull their strings, forcing them to dance according to their rules. Those who dare to sing their happy song are soon carried off the stage, their voices lost to the thunderous applause of the sanitised history books.

Visuals also play their part in this phenomenon. The mountains that once stood as silent witnesses now form a convenient canvas, offering works that would make even the most hardened critic mess around and the rivers that once flowed now train the inked preparations of antiquity.

Artists of this work say that true vision comes not from explicit seeing, but from selective seeing. A new garden grows – where the unhappy flowers are soon plucked, leaving only the enforced happiness into an artificial meadow.

In this brave new world, ignorance isn’t just bliss, it’s policy. And as the curtain falls over this tragic irony, one can’t help but wonder: where is the visible faith, and what happens when faith goes unnoticed?

It’s called the emerald bed. But where emerald once shone, a masterpiece is now flourishing. Here the artist is not a tortured soul with a brush, but a hero in steel, his eyes always fixed on the horizon.

It has an incredible fabric – snow-capped mountains that have witnessed countless events and now hold a veil of unflinching silence. The once smiling rolling hills now reverberate with a hollow silence. The heroes are rendered in hushed tones. The heat is indicated by subtle pain.

With wonderful brush strokes, the artist painted a landscape that resembled a cemetery, a peacefulness that was as restless as the smiles they wore.

Here, disagreement is a smokescreen that is easily extinguished, and desires are neatly chopped into strips – wavering and infused.

The work is a testament to skill. With a flick of a finger, the artist has erased an entire chapter from the book. They repeat nausea when the picnics fail, and dismiss voice cravings as irritating coughs.

They marvel in their rose-coloured glasses and miss the finer details. The artist himself is still blissfully blind to the masterpiece he has created.

But the fabric reveals divisions – in the ghostly eyes of the children, in the tired deception of the elderly, in the flying opposition just below. It is these brushstrokes that the artist desperately tries to erase, to silence with a whisper.

This is a strange case of selective emotion. But, like all fantastic fantasies, they crumble under the weight of truth. For in the heart of hearts is pictured a special work, and it is not the work of an unseen and irresistible spirit.

Finale

The stage in the main stage is set in a beautiful setting with snow-capped mountains and lush green meadows. Covered in false signals, actors play endlessly. The audience wide-eyed but cloudy in vision, applauding images that hide reality behind curtains.

The air outside the stage is thick with dreamy smoke and tear-soaked earth. The lives of ordinary people are written in whispers, their movements made of invisible threads.

Disguised as an invisible but omnipresent force, puppetry casts a long shadow over every aspect of life. The streets paint their canvas with images of fear and humility. The sky is their screen, where surveillance planes dance.

In this wonderful arrangement, the architects have perfected the art of sweeping. Cries of distress are silenced under officialdom. The tale of suffering is buried under the weight of a thousand petitions, each more tenuous than the last.