Interlocked pieces of thoughts. Thoughts with edges and texture and imprints of fading memories. Thoughts that are like scrunched up papers. Like rocks that want to melt. Like marble shards. Like Origami shapes. Like autumn leaves. Pieces of clouds. Aged slate. Fragmented canvas. Pyramids of impulses. And the brush that squiggles, drags itself across a sea of colour, piles shadows with light, bleeds, stays still, is an impressionist and an expressionist and abstraction and free verse in just one square inch.
 
GS Shenoy's Wild Rocks exemplify the miracle of what happens when you follow a single thread of inspiration into the wilderness (in this case..in Hampi), fearlessly and allow it to take charge of a canvas and let it do what it pleases. What emerges is an elemental explosion that flows like lava and yet is contained, shaped and moulded by restraint into shapes that are unrepeatable almost as if they belonged to Nature. As if they were real things born of the earth and the sky and water and fire. Who is to say they aren't?