Paper is Life

A repost from January 11 2015 - In Jaipur

PAPER !

Every artist has that feeling of awe and excitement when they walk into an art store. Some go straight to the paints, others make a beeline for the pens. As for myself, you can find me in the paper section.

When our tour guide Amit asked for an India wish list from each of us, the requests were numerous: my peers asked for everything from henna to elephant rides. But I had only one item on my mind: handmade paper. 

And oh, did he deliver! Yesterday I found myself at a paper making factory. I entered each room with delight and exited with a sense of loss (quickly, of course, replaced by enthusiasm for the next room). There were stacks of paper piled to the ceiling. Orange paper, dusky purple paper, paper with embedded dried flowers. Paper hanging on clothes lines. Wet pulp getting made into paper. Strips of cloth getting made into wet pulp. Crisp, perfect paper. When we took our chai break, we drank while sitting on sheets of paper outside on the ground. I rubbed the dingy worn corners between my thumb and forefinger.

Once back inside, I learned how to make paper, covering my new kurta (a kind of shirt/dress) with a bit of plastic tied on by string. I spread paper pulp over metal mesh in freezing cold water, then stretched a piece of cloth over the sheet. Working with a classmate, we laid hand over hand to flip and press the paper into a pile.

Though the factory workers laughed frequently at my ineptitude, I was sad when it was time to stop, yet fascinated as I watched machinery press the water out the sides of the paper stacks. I wiped away thick, pulpy water with my hand only to watch more seep out.

But the best part was last. I think I hit the pinnacle of happiness in that factory’s paper sample shop. I picked up every sketchbook in zombie like worship. When a worker handed me a bag to carry my intended purchases I thought, “oh, I don’t need this. I won’t be buying that much,” only to take a second bag before filling the first. The bags, of course, were handmade paper.

I literally sank to my knees when I entered the room full of hundreds of sheets of paper for sale. Rather than waste any time on the floor I seized the opportunity to survey paper on the bottom racks, pulling out glorious pieces of deep plums and turquoise. “35 rupees a sheet,” a worker warned me as though I was acting like a crazy person. I think my eyes might have filmed over. What he thought was expensive was only a fraction of the cost of paper at my local art store back at home.

I don’t know if it’s even possible for me to transport all that paper home. I may need to stay in India.

A worker's tshirt - either he doesn't speak English, doesn't share my appreciation of paper factories, or both.