Under the Gaze: “Things Made While Being Watched” 

^{Mohanty Tuhina}

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Rather than a past hobby, a job, or even a talent, I have lately been thinking of craft as a kind of protest. A demand. This essay explores that concept via three fictitious short stories I created, all derived from the same eerie sketch I created: Overseer of the Communal table. It made me consider how much of what we see, do, and experience is shaped by outside variables. Maintaining one’s craft in a society constantly observing, planning, and demanding conformity calls for constant adaptation.

 I. The Eye 

Every morning on their way to the data centre, they passed the graffiti, which was a huge eye with a boardroom table inside its pupil. Around it sat faceless figures, drawn in stiff suits, their hands clenched over paperwork they couldn’t see. It bothered them in some way. It was like déjà vu stitched into concrete. Perhaps because it wasn’t a mural but rather a mirror. 

Their work was neat and silent. Including theirs, there were hundreds of desks set in a grid. Blinking in unison, computer monitors hummed above fluorescent lights. They handled numbers, streams of them, and occasionally they added their own original style to spreadsheet formatting. Conditional formatting and cell borders were jokes they said were creative ideas. 

But in their pocket, carefully folded in a tissue, was a bird fashioned from copper wire and old circuit boards. While commuting one rainy evening, they had arrived. Their wings were not uniform. The soldier had flaws. But it sat in their hand like a heartbeat. They couldn’t justify keeping it. It solved no problem, brought no honour, and accomplished nothing. But it was a reminder that they could still make things with their hands that were not necessary for a system. 

The haunting eye and the graffiti turned into a checkpoint. A daily reminder that the boardroom was infiltrating offices and not just existing on walls. They began to wonder every day: who has the authority to determine what one can see and do? 

And still, they held the bird. 

II. The Mould 

They were the logical and effective type of students that everyone admired. School was easy. Like clockwork, the awards piled up. From early childhood, a plan was mapped out: work hard in school, pursue engineering, and join the future-makers. The road was paved with assurance. predictability. 

However, a pottery wheel that was no longer in use was concealed in a dusty attic at their grandmother’s house. On the weekends, when they should have been studying, they would slip up the stairs, turn on the wheel, and let their hands forget what they were supposed to be doing. 

Clay moved slowly. It resisted. It swayed. In ways that textbooks never did, it demanded attention. Accuracy was secondary to presence. Their first bowls were a complete failure—caved in, twisted, and ridiculous. But they went on. Not to get better. Just to feel. 

One piece cracked completely while drying. For some reason, they started crying. Not irritation, but relief. They also felt as though something had burst open within them. A place to be uncertain. A place to be untidy. 

They kept it to themselves. Clay didn’t appeal to the school. Bowls were not a question on college applications. The system rewarded calculation, not craft. 

Years later, they spoke at a tech conference without showing a graph. Instead, they put that broken bowl on display. “This taught me more about systems than any syllabus,” they claimed. because I stopped trying to be flawless as a result of it. 

There was silence in the room.” I’m just listening in a different way, not confused”. 

III. The Feed 

They had no intention of creating a brand. For some reason, their posts gained popularity despite starting out as crude and odd little sketches. Comments, shares, likes and followers poured in. Brands reached out. The algorithms beaming. 

Soon, the drawings were altered. The edges softened. The colours merged. They started drawing for the grid. Likes replaced intuition. What began as a play turned into a performance. 

At first, they were not aware of the change. Like a fog rolling in, it was slow. But eventually, instead of thoughts, they were waking up with fear. Each post felt more like maintenance than an expression. They stopped drawing in their notebooks. Every mark needed to be presentable. Every idea needed a hook. 

One night, while scrolling endlessly, they stumbled upon a sketch that had been uploaded by someone else. An eye inside a boardroom. An anonymous table. cold. observing. 

It was like a slap to them. It felt as though their originality had been repurposed as corporate property. Internal observation. They weren’t truly alone, even when they were by themselves. They were being watched by imaginary audiences. 

So they turned their phones off. I took out my old sketchbook. drawn an ugly thing. Something real. It didn’t make sense. It lacked symmetry. It had no future in their feed. 

They closed the book and went to bed. 

For the first time in months, they didn’t grab their phone in the morning. 

They grabbed a pencil. 

These aren’t my stories. But they’re me. 

They discuss what it’s like to craft in a culture that discourages it. to produce something without a target audience in mind. To build, stitch, shape, or form—because your body needs to be reminded that it is living. 

The eye sketch haunted me. There was something deeply honest about it. My long-held conviction that our inner gaze is no longer genuinely ours was encapsulated in it. It’s commercial, business-related, and carefully moderated. Approval and expectation are seated around a table in our minds. Our creativity is filtered by trend cycles. Even our instincts start to sound like the language of algorithms. 

When I make something for likes rather than for sale or display, I remember who I am. when I sketch without planning. when I use ink, clay, or fabric to create space sculptures. when I behave slowly. calmly and thoughtfully. I consider what it means to choose. 

One means of paying attention is by craft. Craft is the way I know I’m not passing through the roles assigned to me sleepwalking. I break off the look with craft. 

In a world that watches, crafting is reclaiming rather than only creating. 

You are seeing with your own eyes. 

And in all the important respects, I believe this is also what keeps us alive.

^{“Overseer of the Communal Table”}