Tag: Art

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Through the glass window…

Last Friday, even though it was just me in my solitude (मैं और मेरी तन्हाई…cringe yet?), I struggled to acknowledge, “I did it.” It feels like the moment these words leave my mouth and enter the universe, they cease to exist in the realm of reality; that is, if they were true in the first place. But I did it! And as scared and as vulnerable as I feel saying that, I almost force myself to take a second and breathe it in…and I just cannot.

I write this from my very tiny NYC apartment. It took everything to get here. I have been dreaming about this for 16 years, or maybe more. What I feel right now is what I felt looking at “Starry Nights” at MoMA in December 2023. Art critics who say it’s overrated can take a walk!

I saw Gogh’s paintings for the first time in my “General Knowledge” book in maybe fifth grade, and the groovy brush strokes were almost like an electromagnetic field pulling me in. And I remember wanting to share it with my friends but no one seemed to care. They don’t “get it”, the 10-year-old me had concluded. And it was only the beginning of many things my friends wouldn’t “get” and I would feel completely out of place and time growing up. (And they would all turn out to be WAY cooler than I’d ever be!). So I buried myself in books, and literature, and art. And as a sixteen-year-old, I had thought about what it would feel like to look at “Starry Nights” in real life! So I wanted to apply to colleges in the US based on everything I’d heard, read, and seen on TV, and that idea would immediately get shot down.

Little did I know I would stand in front of “Starry Nights” amongst a supercharged throng at MoMA in a couple decades. And I would stare at it with every strength my eyelids could muster, and I’d just fail to see it because my eyes would just be flooded with tears. “Starry Nights” would always be the embodiment of an impossible dream for me.

For someone who grew up poor, dreams do feel like a carnal sin. You learn very early on to lull it down and shove it deep under your skin. You learn to talk about everything else over time, even your deepest trauma. But you never talk about your “hopes and dreams”. Even today as I sit by the window in awe living one of my many dreams, it feels like an out-of-body experience. It must be a mistake, a glitch in the matrix, I’d wake up tomorrow and this would cease to exist…I won’t get my work visa approved and will need to leave next year anyway, so what’s the point, this is all fleeting!

Last Friday, when I wrote this down, I was surrounded by boxes that needed unboxing, and I was already doomsday planning laying on my back on my mattress on the floor, head tilted backward and staring at an upside-down Empire State Building. I don’t know how long this is supposed to last, but this is life for now. And like every other time I know I’ll see this through okay. But tonight I feel like the six-year-old girl peeping into the Barbie store pining for dolls she knows she cannot have.

Of Art & Artists

Artists have earned a reputation over time. “The artist type” is a different breed- a crude, carefree, cocky, unschooled, impetuous, and volatile one. She might make you nervous or make you fall in love, but many a time, gut-punch you without warning.

You’re not scared of how grotesquely she dresses sometimes or how inconspicuously blends in the background. You’re scared of her mind. The intricate threads of thoughts twining through her being and the serpentine ravines of ideas meandering through her mind; her life force has sifted through ungodly dimensions. She has perceived nothingness and exuded the world. Her hunches have been so accurate, they’ve fostered superstitions and her eyes have locked with yours to make you feel violated.

Remember the last time you read something, and it reverberated so thuderously in the depths of your bosom you gasped? Or the last time you watched a live performance and forgot to clap because the reality of the artist seemed larger than your life? How many times did a painting remind you of your childish, forgotten dreams, and how many compositions have become a part of your personality, not because you grew up on them, but because you grew up due to them?

Artists are the ones feeling every raindrop melting on their skin and every crumb of sand singing their feet. She’s listened longer than you’ve spoken and seen farther than you’ve traveled. She has worn so many shoes quietly, hungrily, and inveterately; her soul has been the real “tramp” of the town.

So, are artists crazy or just a bit more human? In the world that we live today, we have succeeded to some extent, in normalizing getting in touch with our sexualities. I guess getting in touch with our soul should be normalized too. Oh, the faces you’d unlock and the world you’ll see! The best part is – a true artist always leaves the door open behind her. So, whether you follow her work or follow HER, you’re in for the revelation of a lifetime. And if you have a moment, take a long breath, think about what you’d do if you had infinite time and money was not a concern. Your heart already knows. This is just an echo from your heart to never lose sight of that again.

The Dirge

The human heart could not possibly endure the loss of a child and sometimes, sons end up paying for the sins of their fathers. While funerals may vary between the rich and the poor, the grappling grief remains the same.

“You shall not bow down to (idols) or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”

– (Deuteronomy 5:9-10, NIV)

Sati Savitri – Empowered or Enslaved?

Per Mahabharata, the epic Hindu mythology, Savitri was Satyavan’s beautiful, loyal and devoted wife, who was able to revive him after his demise by outwitting Yama (the God of Death). Side note: she was also deemed ‘Sati’, a title conferred to the most chaste of all women. Sati practice (widow burning) on the other hand emerged when the original Sati from another tale sacrificed her life for the love of Shiva, the Hindu God. Sati practice dictates that the widow must immolate herself alive on her husband’s funeral pyre should he die. The husbands do not need to burn themselves if their wives die of course. We abolished that in 1829, so I’m grateful for that! (I’m aware of oversimplifying this- it started as a voluntary tradition for widows, progressing quickly to become a forced practice that did not discount a widow’s wishes, much like every other blast from the past – topic for another day!)

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