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View of “Shezad Dawood,” 2016. Wallpaper: Tantric Wallpaper, 2016. From left: Cave Variation 1, 2016; Cave Interior, 2016.

Shezad Dawood

Timothy Taylor Gallery

View of “Shezad Dawood,” 2016. Wallpaper: Tantric Wallpaper, 2016. From left: Cave Variation 1, 2016; Cave Interior, 2016.

In October I went to Kalimpong, a small town in West Bengal, India. I traversed the snowy peaks of the Himalayas, where I followed the hulking form of an abominable snowman until he dissolved into iridescent mist. I visited the venerable Himalayan Hotel, once owned by the British trade agent David Macdonald, with its multicultural decor, potted plants, and Tibetan scrolls. Here, I picked up an ancient manuscript and, with trepidation, approached a giant bony finger enclosed in a glass cabinet—the relic of a yeti? As I left the warm, protective atmosphere of the hotel, I entered a dark cave. I was scared; I met a Buddhist monk. And then, suddenly, the earth seemed to move, to slide away. I was floating, suspended in a midnight sky glittering with silvery stars. I had reached Nirvana.

There is a more prosaic way of describing what I did that day: I was in London, visiting Shezad

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