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    <loc>https://www.namitapaul.com/works-namita-paul</loc>
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    <lastmod>2026-07-26</lastmod>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1657314909995-X8XVGF3V5LSF39647BYR/001.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works</image:title>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1668638746564-RX9LW3W8YO2Q63UL8Z78/MHeiderich_ReflexionenZwei-05-2500x1875.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Continuum</image:title>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1670187264157-08ECC9ME119ORAB0BZ0X/MHeiderich-Southbound01-2500x1875.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Indigo Interior, Detail</image:title>
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    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1670188758542-GRXVNCAJY41JO0SB1VV4/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Ladli Beloved</image:title>
      <image:caption>Canvas and thread 46.5 x 36.5 2022</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1668660483137-OMWXJJISZMJTV8BTCBO7/image-asset.png</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Illustration by Gordon Fung of installation of The House in My Bones,</image:title>
      <image:caption>Read more</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1675832556790-QCNF5CL6S9ED1ETBA61T/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Courtyard</image:title>
      <image:caption>A collection of five objects on painted wall 2023</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1676187759258-J783EQ3XUS4BQ0FSY5D1/City+of+stairs+at+OCCCA+view+3.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works</image:title>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1691460995190-5AHPKOT9PWPUZ0MJNJZK/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Patience</image:title>
      <image:caption>36 x 4 x 36” Canvas, loosely woven fabric, rice paper, gold leaf, embroidery thread, rose petals, acrylic, dirt, rain, storm. 2023 Photo credit: Mido Lee Photography</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1624572479770-4C2GBCQINQ1YW1MWXKZ2/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - A Thing Of Beauty</image:title>
      <image:caption>Oil on Canvas 36 x 30” 2021 The Blue Sari series began with this painting. I was looking for ways to situate the work and myself in a place. How do you fix a place? I decided to turn to local flora and fauna to map geography. The blue jays, acacias, and olive trees of my home state of California adorn the backdrop of this painting, while the figure floats in space. Do you assimilate? Or, do you become anew? For purchase inquiries please contact me. All Rights Reserved Copyright © 2021 Namita Paul</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1773754585261-4T0A3I28L212ULR85FDQ/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Vitrified Threshold (The Gable)</image:title>
      <image:caption>The Gable serves as a translucent monument to the structural memory of home. In architecture, the gable is the triangular portion of a wall between the edges of intersecting roof pitches—a symbol of shelter, stability, and the fundamental silhouette of a dwelling. In this work, the gable is reimagined through the radical transformation of sand-casting. The sharp, peaked edges carry the grit of the shoreline, fossilizing the "invisible labor" required to maintain the boundaries of a home. By placing this architectural fragment against the scale of the eroding cliffside and the rising tide, the work explores the tension between the permanence we seek in our structures and the inevitable "unraveling" brought on by time and displacement. It is a form that is both fragile and enduring—a refractive threshold that holds the light of a memory even as the landscape around it shifts. Here, the "rupture" of the casting process gives way to a quiet grace, suggesting that while the physical house may be left behind, its geometry remains embedded in the spirit of the maker.</image:caption>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1744155577582-BI4XMG3PKZN3REL5U2LR/Coming%2Btogether%252C%2Bcoming%2BApart%2Bcopy.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Coming Apart, Coming Together</image:title>
      <image:caption>180" X 81" Canvas, thread, plastic, indigo dyed bedsheets, organza, burlap, sindoor (vermillion) and haldi (turmeric) boxes, rhinestones, shredded silk, leaves, cotton wicks, sharpie. 2025 Coming Apart, Coming Together is a large-scale textile installation that reckons with grief and ritual as spatial, material, and corporeal forces. Built from hand-dyed canvas bricks in a spectrum of reds—blood, wound, fire, flesh—the work conjures a wall that is both shelter and collapse. At its center, a rupture: bricks fall away, and stitched threads hang like exposed muscle or unraveling breath. This absence becomes its own architecture—what remains when a person is gone, when the center cannot hold. The threads do not repair; they bear witness. Accretive in nature, the work gathers offerings from daily life and ceremony: windblown leaves, debris, sindoor, cotton wicks, little plastic boxes of kumkum and haldi, threads of silk, rhinestones, shredded fabric, Ladli, embedded. These are not adornments, but residues—each carrying the weight of touch, memory, and repetition. Canvas here is treated like skin—marked, dyed, stitched, torn, and ornamented. The act of sewing becomes a devotional labor, and the wall, a site of invocation. What does it mean to hold your grief together with thread? What does it mean to let it fall? Coming Apart, Coming Together is not a monument to loss. It is a place. A place where something was loved. A place where something broke. A place where the artist returns, again and again, to listen, to gather, to begin.</image:caption>
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    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1785087042559-5XCRCX6FVY1XBE83HAX8/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Community Landscape</image:title>
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      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1681338430548-YHEB6L2LUJ27GTVEBTRE/image-asset.jpeg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - Testimony</image:title>
      <image:caption>82” x 185” Canvas, thread, gold leaf, paint, lentils, wheat berries, assorted textiles, 2023 Testimony reflects on my family's experience of displacement following the Partition of British India in 1947. Inspired by the architecture of my grandparents' home in Punjab, the installation brings together inherited history and deeply personal memory: the sun-scorched courtyard, the rhythm of overhead fans, the sound of my grandmother's voice calling us to eat, long summer holidays, and the profound sense of safety I found there as a child. Constructed from canvas, grains, fabric, sequins, gold leaf, and other materials drawn from my family's history, the work does not reconstruct a particular house. Instead, it evokes architecture as it is carried through memory—fragmented, embodied, and continually reimagined. The niches embedded within the structure recall the small recesses in my grandparents' home that held everyday objects, becoming quiet markers of human presence, care, and ritual. Through Testimony, I consider architecture not simply as shelter, but as a witness to migration, belonging, and the ways memory continues to inhabit us long after a place has been left behind. Testimony was first exhibited at the Cantor Arts Center at Stanford University as part of Spirit House, before traveling to the Henry Art Gallery at the University of Washington in Seattle. The exhibition will continue to the Museum of Contemporary Art Denver in fall 2026.</image:caption>
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    <image:image>
      <image:loc>https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a5aab4290bccee036649b40/1669779788533-GTPUDVE92EVGZ7V1OZBJ/WM265_insituRD_lateafternoonlight.jpg</image:loc>
      <image:title>Works - W.M.265</image:title>
      <image:caption>70” x 183” Canvas, Burlap, Indigo Dyes. Sequins, Currency, Mirrors, Acrylic 2022 W.M. 265 marks the beginning of my exploration of architecture as a container for memory. The work emerged from an attempt to understand how places continue to shape us long after they have disappeared, carrying histories that are both inherited and lived. Inspired by my grandparents' home in Punjab following the Partition of British India, the installation draws together fragments of architecture and memory: the open courtyard, weathered walls, niches, overhead fans, and the rhythms of everyday life. Constructed from indigo-dyed canvas, photographic transfers, fabric, thread, and found materials, the work assembles these fragments into an imagined architecture rather than reconstructing a specific house. The structure reflects how memory itself operates—partial, layered, and continually rewritten. Created while reflecting on migration, displacement, and belonging, W.M. 265 asks how home persists after its physical loss. The house is no longer accessible to me, yet it continues to exist as an emotional landscape, carried through stories, family photographs, and embodied memory. Rather than offering nostalgia, the work considers architecture as something we inhabit internally, where personal and collective histories become inseparable. W.M. 265 established the conceptual foundation for my practice. It introduced questions that continue to shape my work: how architecture bears witness to human experience, how materials hold traces of memory and care, and how acts of making can reconstruct belonging from fragments.</image:caption>
    </image:image>
  </url>
  <url>
    <loc>https://www.namitapaul.com/blue-sari-artist-statement</loc>
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    <lastmod>2022-11-10</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.namitapaul.com/about-namita</loc>
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    <lastmod>2026-07-23</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.namitapaul.com/pagecv</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-05-16</lastmod>
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  <url>
    <loc>https://www.namitapaul.com/artist-statement</loc>
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    <lastmod>2025-04-08</lastmod>
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