Monday, February 12, 2007
Labels: Art, Revolving Doors
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Hotel rooms, amidst the measured queen size bed, the table lamp and the basket of fruit, have their own passive life.
When I first arrived in Somerset, for months I was at this hotel, unremarkable in every regard except one. It had a large framed print of "Lament for Icarus", the print itself was of average quality. Uneven colors, and not particularly well framed either.
It's a Victorian Nude of course; Icarus lies dead by the sea after his flight to freedom ends in disaster. He is tended by nymphs who hold him and lament his unfortunate death.
Daedalus, imprisoned by King Minos, devises wings built out of feathers and held together by wax, as a means of escape. His son Icarus follows him in flight. Once in the skies, Icarus, apparently convinced of his abilities of flight, gains altitude and the sun melts his wax bonded wings. The young man falls to his death in the sea.
The months I stayed in that hotel room, at times I stared intently at the print, at most other times was oblivious of its existence. On sleepless nights, with a village in slumber beyond the window, Icarus and the lamenting Nymphs often came to life.
No magic realism, no emerging characters, no talking nymphs.
Like a ghost beyond the horizon.
After sleep, after blinding light.
After the fear of heights and the depths of the sea.
A place to rest your head.
The afterglow of life. Beyond the middle place.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
I am on a break, like one of those big televised snooker matches. A chance to run the gauntlet, for a while - without running into a wall.
Had two wonderful days Tuesday and Wednesday.
Two very different evenings, different experiences, both provoked thought, brought joy and reflection.
Here's what happened on Tuesday.
Went to an event showcasing George Sand, her Literature and her influences. She by the way was courted by Fredric Chopin for nine years, though their relationship didn’t materialize into marriage, kids or anything of that sort, it evolved and had influences of a wholly different sort, and I daresay more meaningful.
The whole reason I went to this event was because they were playing selected pieces of Chopin. The focus was on, how Sand influenced Chopin compositions, and how in turn their relationship influenced her writing. The literary machinations apart, I was there just to listen to the master.
They played four pieces, notably the Raindrop Prelude and the Impromptu Fantaisie, apart from a ballad and a Mazurka.
Frankly it was exquisite. Just exquisite.
The Raindrop prelude, as usual struck a chord with the soul. Impromptu Fantaisie was performed with great skill and flair. The bit at the end, the pianist’s fingers caressed the keys, and the keys responded with musical strains of in-ordinate beauty.
It was enthralling. As I sat there listening to Chopin, I thought about the greatness and universality of music. Chopin, a Pole settled in France, created such exquisite beauty – so full and true, that years later it has the potency to enthrall a room full of men and women, in distant Calcutta. I mean if this is not the mark of greatness, what is?
A creation of beauty, which has transcended time and space, and is applauded by so many for so long. In a wonderful everlasting way, touching all those who hear it.
It was truly humbling, the spirit of man and his abilities of creation.
Later in the evening, went out for dinner with some friends. It was a different sort of evening, a lot of conversation, airing of ideas and opinions. Unfortunately not something which happens much in a group situation, in my group of friends at least. Generally conversation veers towards, the common-past we as friends share. The life at school, movies watched together, and girls we knew, things we did collectively…da-da-da.
But that evening, we talked about all that is generally excluded, the thoughts and opinions of the “individual” and not so much “the friend”. While listening to one of my friends, talking about her experiences and its associated emotions and reflections, I wondered, “There is indeed so so much, to a human being?” In this whole process of labeling people as– scientists, doctors, sailors, hoteliers, we alienate the person itself. It’s like identifying a house by its postbox number and not looking at the house itself or the people and lives that inhabit it.
People have their own private, intrinsic, peculiar response/ emotion/ opinion about so many different things. Some of it is influenced by societal mores, some by what we read, learn or are taught, and yet so much which is just intrinsic and rooted to who or what the person actually is. The variety of emotions, a single event or thread of conversation can elicit from different people is staggeringly diverse, distinct and unique.
Wonderous aint it?
It’s the same bundle of organic matter, which constitutes all beings living. Yet we are so different, not different only by the way we look or the whorls of our finger prints, but so varied in the way we respond to an event, or draw from an event. Even the way we are affected by it, triggering various different emotions and mental processes in each one of us.
Cannot help but think of what Aldous Huxley once wrote, "Every mans mind is his own private literature".
Labels: Art
