|
Flowing with the River of Memories
Anuradha Nalapat, Bangalore-Kerala based painter recounts her journey as an artist. Through the rendition of a lyrical memory, she tries to capture the worlds that she has seen, felt, enjoyed and recreated in her canvases.
A sharpened red and black striped Nataraj pencil. On the blunt other edge a small portion is shaved off and a name is engraved. The tool is now ready, the game shall soon begin.
Thin lines carefully move down the single ruled notebook, pausing a while, moving confidently, pausing and eagerly moving again. They take a studied curve at the chin of the goddess, settle into a small cleft and then move upwards steadily forming full cheeks. Up the ear, down the earlobes, piercing a half moon on to them and then falling gently into curls of black hair. The flow of the slope of the shoulder is intercepted by a beaded necklace. Small, perfect circles cruise one behind the other, ending in a large red circle for the pendant with smaller blue ones orbiiting it. The lines curve in fascination along the shape of her large breasts and slow down in earnest to create the most beautiful design for the border of her saree.
The journey has begun in the mind of a seven year old.
The lips have slipped a little too close to the chin for comfort and the nose, quite like a blob of clay. The bend of the slender fingers which hold the stalk of the ever enigmatic lotus flower, a flower that teased and taunted and inspired the ancient rishis no end, was definitely flawed. But it didn't matter, not even the ruled lines that meticulously sped across the paper to cut the beautiful being at regular intervals.
What mattered was that these lines were a testimony to a claim laid on an unknown space, that would later, as you navigated its heights and depths, allow you the agony and ecstasy of treading its jewel studded pathways. What mattered was that these were first impressions marked on earth by a young soul. These were the cross stiches you painstakingly hemmed on to the borders of your very first handkerchief which transformed it into your personal hanky. These were the lines marked on the playground from where the runner would hoist himself into the final leap...
But all these grave words like claim, journey and leap were of no consequense, then. All that was done was pretty much unintentional, just guided efforts. No questions asked, no Why?, What? How?
Then of course, one graduated into Donald Duck on unruled paper books, coloured in with bright sketch pen ink and marvelled at the way the flat beak curved, straightened and curved again. Mickey Mouse, Goofy; was that a dog or a duck, one is still hazy on that front, but they sure had an overwhelming presence on the young at heart, very close to the one held by the good old goddess.
Later at eighteen one does not even know why art school happened, though it's quite possible and reasonable to expect that the fear of injections and mathematics (which left out a respectable career as a doctor and an engineer) pushed one into the uncertain avenues of the heart. The next few years saw lines probing straight into ones own self, leaving the comfort zone of Mickey and Donald far behind. All crutches would slowly be eliminated. One was stepping, or was it falling, headlong into a cauldron of boiling emotions. It took many years and many paintings to find the water that could douse the blaze, and many more years to actually use the water to douse the flames!
Caught in this giant wheel of churning, innocent Mickey Mouse lines were caught unaware, unprepared. Lines froze, colours gathered shyly and then rained heavily, they walked, they plunged, they broke, they healed, and they finally stumbled on art. They resisted, they gave in, old boundaries were broken and space merged and presented themselves to be treated wisely! Visions sharpened. But clearly, caught in emotional tides, rising above them was not an option that appeared, not yet.
Luckily the goddess whose saree border was designed with great love and care many many years ago hadn't forgotten. She came to the rescue. New places, new environment, new people are gifted and there's an instant shift from the cauldron to an intelligent construction of a painting. That would be the first step towards what one until then was taught blindly to call a "painting'. Just to call it a painting indicates a separateness from you, and the earlier paintings were too bound to claim separateness. A subtle, clever distance appears between the painter and the painted. Survival instinct could be behind the cleverness.
(Another ten tears later, another canvas load later, this very separateness decides to collapse, break free and merge again! The painter and the painted is one again, but on a different plane than before. The view is awesome, the experience electrifying. Fulfilling.)
Space yields to the intelligent manipulation of the hand that wields the brush. There's a growing sophistication in the 'handling' of the medium. The physicality of bodies is fading and new ways of expression present itself. Experimentation is the key word (and later when one reaches that place where the view is awesome, there is no 'need' for experimentation.) and as a result, over the next few years, recognizable forms have been aptly reduced to their basic shapes. Circles, triangles, ovals.
@ 20, 21, 22 tears of age, yes, tears, one is brimming with poetry, life experiences, energy. One is bold and eager, life is knocking at your door and one is there to receive it. You don't run away, and you know that you didn't choose to run. You're a thinking artist and thought is your master. Thought is, and abstraction is the answer to your thought. The canvas throbs with awareness. Every colour that you mix, every line that plays its part in this grand scheme of things, the thin ones, the fat ones, the broken ones; every form that takes its place is carefully laid out, like an architect lays his designs. Mathematics is back though you scored a miserable 35/100 in school. Organisation, precision. Along with it the silent prison walls are also growing and they are also cemented pretty precisely.
It's time for another shift. Just like you didn't think you could rise above the great giant wheel, here also, you didn't think you could rise above the thought wheel which in fact is even more gigantic. From the fire to the frying pan seems to be the gist of the story of painting/life. But no, its not a sad story.
At this juncture our goddess has just remembered the priceless pendant on her neck. Red ruby surrounded by the brilliance of Ultramarine. Gold filigreed bangles and waistband.
You take a break. After the ravages of a harsh winter that stripped you bare, after the soothing sleep of hibernation, life slowly begins to stir in your eyes. There's a swift drop from the head to the heart. (if you can call them names) Blurry eyed, you have just witnessed the whole mind package you've been faithfully churning out. A true servant of a master mind.
For the first time since the joy of Mickey and Donald, painting becomes joyous again. Painting falls from its pedestal and turns divine. You're in touch again, you're in the stream that's overflowing, you're love. Yes, yes, yes. You're amazed at the beauty and simplicity of your own creations. You hesitate to sign at the bottom of your (the) painting 'cause you know you were just a medium. 'Cause you know the pain of effort is missing in these paintings; then how does one claim to have painted? Who claims?
Colours are getting subtler, sensitive, alive. So subtle you could melt in them. Every color that takes its place is yours to savour, no favourites, because there’s no mind stuff that intervenes. You navigate the dense black cloud and the brilliant white with equal joy and ease. Each painting is new. (May and may not be evident to the outside world). There is no conflict here, just a joyous bringing forth. Flower,seed, leaf. Then came Trees, Mountains, Water. All of nature, gifted to you in a platter of love.
Trees because they were there to be painted, mountains because of their sheer size, insurmountable. (You can only scale one side of it, a tiny portion of it.) Mountains because they are still, unmoving, because they defy sketching. Water, for the same reason, uncapturable, flowing, teasing.
And yet when one attempted to capture, one felt one with the rhythm of the mountains and their silent hum, it yielded for you, it stooped down for you, it shed its secrets for you. All you needed to do was attempt and trust the self. Trust the masters who said that the seed is within you, all seeds. Then the famous leap and the immersion, and then the bringing forth of gems that were promised.
At this stage there is no 'need' to paint. You could do anything and still be in joy, so why paint? Painting ceases to be an addiction, an escape, which it sometimes is reduced to. Like a child who lets go his mothers fingers, learning to trust and leave that which has nurtured his soul and led him into beautiful blossoms and wild fragrances, one moves forward into uncharted territories.
One tastes new mediums that shall fulfill ones eternal search. Cooking, gardening, cycling, swimming, you name it, you have it. These are opportunities that test ones mettle, that polish ones own self like a diamond tested for its purity.
The whole universe is conspiring to help you fulfill your moments. Painting and gardening, both used for fulfilling moments, but it is only through painting that I myself have experienced a complete destruction of existing images/memories, a starting from emptiness in terms of this is an idea I want to work on or this is the way my space shall be constructed or these are the colors I would use, or I would be taking images and letters from the outside world to convey or probably to evoke a certain feel in the onlooker, to make him think, understand etc.
Nothing, nothing to convey whatsoever, if anything, it is exactly that. The freedom in breaking all needs. And from this emptiness, one creates, yes, just like god created, or shall we say plunged into, the first mountain and the first sea. The result needn't be something extraordinary in terms of images or colour. It could be just dry rocks!
But those rocks are the result of a deep deep search. And while one is lost in this process, sometimes even painting takes a back seat and it is bound to have its repercussions in the real world? How long can one retain the magic, how long before one is swept into the influx of time? Into reality?
But having tasted water, having flowed like water, at this juncture as time raps at you door and constantly stalks you, one stands afraid, hesitant, head bowed, behind the door and hoping the knocks will cease. Somewhere one knows that it shall not stop, at least not yet.
Step outside, step outside, join the procession, is the constant call. |
