The Myth of Bunto

This is the story of Bunto. Bunto, a girl woman being of the earth with humble beginnings and stellar rise to success. You may have heard of Bunto referenced in conversation at a party — take note of the of the people who speak know familiarise themselves with her work. They are in touch with art that seeks the ephemeral in a way that hasn’t been seen touched felt in bones this way before.

Bunto, born Buniya Tomar, works in quietness. Her studio is not her home it is in fact nowhere near it. Bunto stitches in anonymity. It is the blessing of the times that it is just as easy to be no one as it is to be someone.

Bunto stitches in red and blue some hearts some flowers and some birds too. She stitches them into the ghost screen cloth one foot under knee eyes look looking at milk pulled taut needle in needle out Bunto loses herself in the day. Bunto’s husband never comes in her way.

Some days she wonders if he even knows of the things she gets up to in her loft studio high up so close almost level with the sun itself soaring above the city in perfect anonymity. She doesn’t see wait peek at the reactions of the public. She answers to messages in a one hour window on one day of the week and then spends the next two hours napping away the exhaustion of talking to strangers on the internet under the filter of the sun. Bunto loves the sun sunbathing in the cold cold air of the room. The air conditioner sometimes needs a break if it’s a hot summer day and she takes that time to have a long cold shower. Then she comes back to her Sakura flower.

Needle in needle out Bunto works without looking at the clock. This is her time her space her corner of the world safe protected so far removed from the outside that she lives in it sole resident of her turtleback island floating shimmering riding through open space. Bunto is in a world of her own.

It began with the ripped edge of a dress, a dinner party at the neighbour’s house down the east wing of the sprawling apartment complex that engulfs a large part of the city. Her dress edge caught on the underside of her chair doing the smallest rip sound that she thought only she had heard. Bunto’s husband asked her if she’d like a new one, she said nothing. She took it to her room and worked on mending the seam and what started as a repair became a blooming meadow…

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