Surprised that I am quoting from a link that has "self-growth" written on it?
Yup. Sad. Reality makes people shift to hitherto unchartered territories.
So what happens when you weigh a little birdie in a cage ? 1. What happens when the bird is at rest? 2. What happens when the bird in flight in the cage? What if the bird was in a closed jar in both of the above cases?
On a recent conversation with S, the role of the Thinnai in South Indian architecture came up. I had assumed that it was a social space were women of yore finished some of their more monotonous chores in the fun company of their neighbours. It could have also been a place where men had their afternoon naps, in the breezy, shady open. It caught my attention when she mentioned that the Thinnai was built for travellers to spend the night or to take a quick noon nap, after a long, tiresome walk in the burning, Southern sun.
Picture the scene: A weary traveller carrying a little bag tied on to a stick, walking in the scorching summer sun towards a possibly religious destination. A destination worth so much to him; to say the very least, worth far more than the many days and nights of travel that he has to endure walking barefoot. He is tired and steps into the cool shade of the Thinnai of a household along his way, and takes a quick nap there. He wakes up to the noise of children darting out of the house into the streets. He drinks a cool, soothing tumbler of MORU from a pot placed delicately beside where his head rest when he was asleep. An elderly woman walks out, a placid smile across her face, watching the MORU being quickly gulped down, wetting the parched throat of the stranger. She makes polite conversation with the stranger; the children pause their activities, hop up and down listening to the stranger's strange stories of travel. Together, they bid farewell to the stranger and he carries along his journey.
But isn't this a beautiful idea? A space for yourself, along with a space for others. You may lock yourself in if you wish, without 'locking' others out.
It makes me wonder with bitter irony and some sadness, about all that we have lost in our search or struggle for I-really-don't-know-what. What is it that we are looking for? Why are there appartment complexes and N-storey buildings springing up like malignant, mutant mushrooms all over the cities? 'Better' opportunities for ourselves and our young ones? More money? Recognition? A dip if not a dive into the real world? Travel?
Or is it freedom that we seek? The freedom that only a fast-paced, modern city-life, spent largely in solitude can bring us! What illusive freedom is it that makes us run away from larger families we cannot "tolerate", set up smaller ones in the presence of people whom we think we can "tolerate", struggle hard to juggle our time in the process, "tolerating" all kinds of other people along the way anyway and yet limiting the number of people we "really" know, like, trust and care for?
Hasn't something gone seriously wrong somewhere along the way, if we simply cannot trust letting a stanger into our house for a drink? Isn't something seriously wrong with us today, that it has become so much of an effort to play host when it was once a daily routine? Isn't it wrong that taking care of one's parents in their last days or just keeping them company is a duty and a momentous effort in a nuclear family setup? Isn't it wrong that children do not know what it is like to go out and play by themselves in the vast, green lands or on stretches of dirty sand, feel the dirt on their bare feet, get poked by a thorn, discover the pleasure of having it removed, have a dip in a fresh water pond, get wet in the rain, lay down carefully constructed, little paper water boats on puddles, fly kites into the open blue skies with friends and strangers or just stare into the starlit skies doing nothing else? Is is not wrong that young adults today take to expensive clothes, cosmetics, fast food and entertainment just for acknowledgement? Isn't it terrible that so many of today's youth are torn between belief and irreverance, go after material pursuits, and perhaps fall prey to substance abuse? *
Is this not a Faustian bargain, when we move from villages and towns to big cities, joint families to nuclear, less to more, simple to complex? Is this what we call freedom? Is this the happiness that we seek?
Lastly, I must mention the act of receiving. There is so little said of it. If you've noticed, the weary traveller in the story, politely accepted the kind gesture for what it was. It is sad that some of us, with all our independence and pride (if that is what it is), are incapable of the simple act of receiving an act of kindness with dignity.
We would wonder about the many things that are left unsaid and unspoken about what we are obliged to do in return (and justifiably so, for how many people perform an act of true kindness today without a thread of expectation strung around it tightly). Or we would just get into what is the self-reflective, modern day, infinite-mental-loop mode of asking ourselves if we are capable of the gesture ourselves or if it is FAIR to acknowledge a gesture when we can't do the same ourselves!
I found it very perceptive of this writer, Khalil Gibran who wrote the following lines in a poem titled 'On giving'. All his other poems, on freedom, etc. are beautifully perceptive as well.
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
......
And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.
* This is not to say that everything about today's youth is terrible and everything ancient is good. I am just making a case for us to think about what we might have lost in the process.
Prehistoric art had cavemen draw animals and people hunting. Food was the central theme! Then humans tried to mimic reality. They created paints, oils and media that helped them capture reality. With the invention of photograph (camera), I guess it was no longer a big deal to capture reality the way it was. So people began experimenting with reality. With impressionism, post-impressionism, pointillism, the technique that was used to represent reality gained importance. Each technique gave reality a unique appearance. Then they began distorting reality. There was fauvism and expressionism, often considered the movements that gave birth to modern art. It was about emotions rather than capturing any form of physical reality. Then I think all hell broke loose with cubism! Now is when it gets really interesting. The ego became the central theme. "I" see reality this way and do not care about what you think of it. Then there was conceptual art, and its ideas. Some beautiful and some mad! (See Duchamp's fountain!) Surrealism is another madness I have been very curious about.
Opinion Art, to me (someone who couldn't appreciate a thing about it until recently), is a curiosity! I now want to look closely at paintings, noticing things I previously didn't care to. There is nothing profound about what you or anybody sees, and everything you see is just as you see it.
If you share your experience with someone and find that they reciprocate the same feeling or thought, you might feel thrilled. Or it might just thrill you to look from another person's perspective. Or you might want to read about it. Each of it could give you pleasure. But art is about exploration. Exploring the unknown. There are no rules. No prejudices. No judgments. If it is about this, then it ceases to remain art. If you don't appreciate something, that's just it. You don't have to. You hate it, it is okay. Perhaps that is just what the artist had intended! Or it wasn't. But who cares!
The artist is not obliged to give you what you want to see. You don't have to feel obliged to say what he or others want to hear. In the disconnect between the artist and the audience, the painting is the only connect. So the next time you see a painting that makes you turn away, turn away. Or if it makes you curious, just look again. Just once more. Talk to the painting. Converse with the artist through the painting.... I hate it... I want to run away... I think the artist was on LSD... I think he had turtles run over at random... Frightening... The red hues disturb me ... The trees seem to be moving... I can feel the wind... I can hear her tears... She looks ugly... Endearing... Dark... Beautiful... Sad... Or just say nothing... Think... Think anything..Feel... Feel anything... Or just nothing.
A quip
Q: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? A: Fish.
My new fascination! These pictures are on my wall now and I can continue staring into them just wondering how he did them. Or just figuring the darned things out. I hate him for his mind and what he does to mine!
It is not the typical conceptual art and yet staring at it gives me the feeling of an eerie surreal painting! He does something to your mind. Both the left and right at that. Could it just be called a puzzle?
Oh, and have I mentioned his woodcuts? Some of these pictures are woodcuts. Spot them! Can you see the levels of imagination it takes? Picasso, Magritte, Dali and Goya can all go to hell for now. This guy is the best! :) Is he a freak? Twisted? Drugged? Genius? What is the difference?
Note: This poem is originally written in French by a French poet - Jacques Prévert. This was performed at my workplace as a recital+drawing duet. I loved it. Such powerful visual imagery in itself, and exaggerated by the performance of the duo.
To paint the portrait of a bird First paint a cage with an open door then paint something pretty something simple something beautiful something useful for the bird then place the canvas against a tree in a garden in a wood or in a forest hide behind the tree without speaking without moving … Sometimes the bird comes quickly but he can just as well spend long years before deciding Don’t get discouraged wait wait years if necessary the swiftness or slowness of the coming of the bird having no rapport with the success of the picture When the bird comes if he comes observe the most profound silence wait till the bird enters the cage and when he has entered gently close the door with a brush then paint out all the bars one by one taking care not to touch any of the feathers of the bird Then paint the portrait of the tree choosing the most beautiful of its branches for the bird paint also the green foliage and the wind’s freshness the dust of the sun and the noise of insects in the summer heat and then wait for the bird to decide to sing If the bird doesn’t sing it’s a bad sign a sign that the painting is bad but if he sings it’s a good sign a sign that you can sign so then so gently you pull out one of the feathers of the bird and you write your name in a corner of the picture.
Here is the original, for those who understand French. (I wish I did)
Pour faire le portrait d'un oiseau Peindre d'abord une cage avec une porte ouverte peindre ensuite quelque chose de joli quelque chose de simple quelque chose de beau quelque chose d'utile pour l'oiseau placer ensuite la toile contre un arbre dans un jardin dans un bois ou dans une forêt se cacher derrière l'arbre sans rien dire sans bouger ... Parfois l'oiseau arrive vite mais il peut aussi bien mettre de longues années avant de se décider Ne pas se décourager attendre attendre s'il le faut pendant des années la vitesse ou la lenteur de l'arrivée de l'oiseau n'ayant aucun rapport avec la réussite du tableau Quand l'oiseau arrive s'il arrive observer le plus profond silence attendre que l'oiseau entre dans la cage et quand il est entré fermer doucement la porte avec le pinceau puis effacer un à un tous les barreaux en ayant soin de ne toucher aucune des plumes de l'oiseau Faire ensuite le portrait de l'arbre en choisissant la plus belle de ses branches pour l'oiseau peindre aussi le vert feuillage et la fraîcheur du vent la poussière du soleil et le bruit des bêtes de l'herbe dans la chaleur de l'été et puis attendre que l'oiseau se décide à chanter Si l'oiseau ne chante pas c'est mauvais signe signe que le tableau est mauvais mais s'il chante c'est bon signe signe que vous pouvez signer Alors vous arrachez tout doucement une des plumes de l'oiseau et vous écrivez votre nom dans un coin du tableau.
Ingmar Bergman has a way of making me despair with an intensity I can't even begin to verbalise. Yet I watch his movies, thriving in that very fear, pain, sadness and madness that his cameras capture so beautifully. Sometimes, I feel almost shameful that I watch his movies just to be disturbed by them. Yet, when I realise that his work moves so many people, I realise I am not the only mad person who revels in the misery and feels the futility of human existence and search for meaning in this mad, meaningless world.
Today, alone at home, I watched Cries and Whispers. I think it is about suffering, death, faith(and the lack of), love(and the lack of) and the human condition. It depicts this by portraying so beautifully, the relationship between three sisters, one of whom is in her deathbed of their childhood home, cared for by a maid named Anna. Her two sisters come to stay with her in her last days.
Agnes is the sister who is in her deathbed. She suffers intense physical pain and visible agony. The other two sisters, Karin and Maria, on the other hand, suffer silently. They live what is apparently a very normal life, but are infinitely unhappy, indifferent and cynical; having lost faith in god and the ability to love. Anna, the maid, is one person who still is capable of some love. Incidentally, she is also the only one who has some faith. Even the pastor's eyes at the funeral were filled with doubt.
How does Bergman portray misery the way he does. You wonder if he searches for it, pins it down, magnifies it and captures it in his camera? But in the end, he leaves you feeling like he really didn't have to "search" for misery. It is just there. EVERYWHERE.
At the end of the movie, Bergman shows Anna reading out of Agnes' diary after the two sisters and their husbands quite coldly, leave Anna home alone :
Wednesday 3 Sept. "The air is cold with the approaching autumn. It is mild and nice. My sisters Karin and Maria have come to see me. It is lovely to be together again like the old days. I am feeling much better too, like the old days. We even went for a short walk. It was such an event. Especially for me, who hadn't been out of doors for so long. Suddenly we all ran, laughing to the old swing. We sat in it - three good little sisters. Anna rocked us, slowly and gently. All my pain was gone. The people I am most fond of were with me. I heard them chatting. I felt the presence of their bodies and the warmth of their hands. I wanted the moment to stay and I thought: This really is happiness. I couldn't wish for anything better. Now, for a few minutes, I can experience consummation. And I feel so deeply grateful to life which gives me so much."
... And so the cries and whispers die away.
God, it makes me cry out with pain... Do you see, the whole experience is a part of what Bergman is trying to portray?? It is one integral journey. I watched the movie because I know what his movies can do to me. And he does exactly that. And worse. Each time. Then you admire the beauty of his art. In this case, the reds. The close ups. The misery only he can bring out. The silence. Minimal, yet powerful exchange of words. You get so immersed in the misery, it becomes yours. But that is exactly what you want and what it is about. That misery is everywhere. If misery is not there or at least not supposed to be there according to all logic, we will make it up. We revel in it. We make it worse. And in the end, you see that where misery is supposed to be, there are traces of happiness. It drives me crazy. Does it do the same to you?
Over the last weekend, I had been repeatedly listening to Tchaikovsky's ballet compositions. I have fallen absolutely in love with them. I watched some of the theatre groups do parts of the acts of their ballet performances, notably - the Dance of the swans, Dance of the sugar plum fairy and The waltz of the flowers. His music fills your mind with images, your heart with emotions and even more so when you watch the ballets! I wish I understood music some more. It is not enough just listening, feeling and visualising. I want to know the instruments he used and the techniques that go into evoking such emotions. I want to know how he lived, when and how he made such compositions. Was the story a result of the composition or the composition a result of the story. It should be the latter unless I am absolutely wrong. I want to live in his times, watch him compose his songs. How? Through a pensieve? PS:
Top Left - picture of the title score. Nutcracker - The dance of the sugar plum fairy. Of course I don't understand anything. :)
Others - Swan Lake. Various sources and ballet theatres performances.
I am drunk with chocolate, day-dreaming about what my "real" calling is, if there is one at all.
I love stationery. It traces back to my childhood when stationery was a child’s (at least my) most coveted possession. Stationery was the measure of richness! My parents only got me stuff when I needed them. I could never hoard stationery. I always wanted to. I always wanted more than I needed. I ALWAYS envied people who had more riches than they needed. I remember the colourful, floral pencils that my benchmate had. He even tricked me into showing him a sum in class, and said he would get me those pencils. But didn't. :( I once even fought over a pretty sharpner my friend showed off, saying pretty things were always delicate, quoting a new saying I had picked up "All that glitters is not gold", all the while wishing I had that sharpner!
One winter, my uncle got my sister and me, a set of sketches, pencils and something else. Me being the younger one who couldn't resist the unfair monopoly the older sibling generally has over deciding who gets what, ended up with that something else. Of course, I wanted the sketches and the pencils! (Even if things didn't concern stationery, I never knew what I wanted until my sister decided what she wanted and then of course I wanted exactly that!)
Then there was the time of the notebook fetish. I always wanted to save up old notebooks' papers that I had, while my mom always wanted to dispose them. I loved the smell of new books. The old books of course had another interesting smell. And the times before school began, when you buy wrappers and notebooks; and sit with your thatha on the messy floor, covering your notebooks and labeling them. I distinctly remember phases when I hated this job, and other times that I just loved it. I loved the part when you did a neat job and could later say, "I covered it on my own", while all other kids had their moms doing it for them! When moms do the wrapping, they don't let you do much, lest you spoil it! But my thatha, ever so encouraging, would make sure I do it and would teach me tricks of doing it nicely. Then there were times when we used to wrap the notebook with shiny white back-of-the-calendar covers. My sister started this, and I followed suit. She later alleged that I had copied her; claims that I squarely denied! (evil laugh)
I have decided that I want to work in a stationery shop. Stationery always made me feel nice. I love the smell of a stationery shop. Erasers, pencils, highlighters and crayon packs give me a high. The more stationery I own, the richer I feel. Plus the customers are usually little kids. Therefore, I want to own a stationery shop. But since that would require business acumen (read shrewdness), I will make do with just working in a stationery shop, owned by somebody else. So will someone who owns a stationery shop, or someone who knows someone who owns a stationery shop, preferably in the peaceful town of Pondicherry, preferably overlooking the beach, preferably with a non-bossy owner who owns a lending library and who also gives chocolates and books out for perks, pleaaaaaaase let me know about it. Cause it is time to listen to my true calling!!!
Can it be said that... free will => existence of an option of death there does not exist an option of death => there does not exist free will. there is an illusion of free will => there exists an option of death! ??
Over the last weekend, I had been repeatedly listening to Tchaikovsky's ballet compositions. I have fallen absolutely in love with them. I watched some of the theatre groups do parts of the acts of their ballet performances, notably - the Dance of the swans, Dance of the sugar plum fairy and The waltz
of the flowers. His music fills your mind with images, your heart with emotions and even more so when you watch the ballets! I wish I understood music some more. It is not enough just listening, feeling and visualising. I want to know the instruments he used and the techniques that go into evoking such emotions. I want t
o know how he lived, when and how he made such compositions. Was the story a result of the composition or the composition a result of the story. It should be the latter unless I am absolutely wrong. I want to live in his times, watch him compose his songs. How? Through a pensieve?
