When Art Opens toward Ananda

A new post in the series - Satyam Shivam Sundaram

A series featuring inspiring words from various sources, words that speak of timeless truths, words that remind me of the deeper and hidden truth behind surface events and phenomena, words that shine light when all seems dark, words that are just what I need - for this moment and for all times to come.


I recently had the opportunity to witness some of the great marvels of Indian sculpture and temple architecture in southern Karnataka. The world-renowned temples of Belur, Halebidu and several other small towns and villages on what is famously called as the Hoysala trail showcase some of the masterpieces of the magnificent scultpural heritage of India.

One could write plenty of words to describe what the experience of being in the presence of such splendid works of art is like. Or one may simply say nothing. Today I am inclined to choose the second option.

But the other day as I was trying to re-live, for myself, some of those moments of standing in a silent awe when faced with the marvelous and intricate beauties of these ancient temples, I recalled some words I had read some years ago.

I recalled the words on Beauty and Ananda by Nolini Kanta Gupta, a great yogi-scholar, a poet and one of the foremost disciples of Sri Aurobindo from his revolutionary days. These are words which remind us that great art, perhaps all art, is not merely about creative expression or aesthetic satisfaction.

Great art has the potential to open the mind and heart to the Truth. To the Knowledge, knowing which all else may be known.

Great art can be an opening to the Delight. Delight in and of the Truth, Beauty, Knowledge, Power, Love. Delight in and of the Divine.

Both for the true artist and the true rasik.

At Hoysaleswara temple, Halebidu
Photo by Suhas Mehra

OF BEAUTY AND ANANDA

Truth is Beauty's substance -- it is Beauty self-governed.

Beauty is Delight perfectly articulate.

Love is Beauty enjoying itself.

Knowledge is the light that Beauty emanates.

Power is the fascination that Beauty exerts.

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All Art is the re-creation of Truth in Beauty.

Rhythm is the gait of Truth dynamic with Delight.

The Truth of a thing is its native substance, the being in its absolute self-law. Satyam is that which is of Sat.

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Beauty is delight organised.

Poetry is the soul's delight seeking perfect expression in speech.

Speech is self-expression. It is the organ of self-consciousness. The nature of the speech shows the nature of the self-consciousness. The degree of perfection in utterance measures also the extent to which one is conscious of oneself.

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Beauty is the soul's delight perfectly articulate and organised.

Where the soul does not speak out, where the rhythm of the spirit does not manifest, there comes in ugliness.

Things are ugly when they are not true to themselves, not sincere, not self-expressive.
In a sense, natural and beautiful are the same, the perverse commensurate with the ugly.

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Beauty is not merely balance, symmetry, measure, a regular disposition of features. A form, an embodiment, need not be pretty to be beautiful.

Mere formal beauty is a power, but a surface power; there is a deeper unity of rhythm in the embodiment that is beautiful by its transparent soul-expression.

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Art is the incarnation of Truth in Beauty, The Divine the truest Truth and the Beauty most beautiful, The incarnation of the Divine the supreme Art.

An art with the Divine left out is like a trunk without the head: It is built with the lower members and not with the higher members of Beauty; Skill it may possess but not greatness; it may please the senses, but cannot enrapture the soul.

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The very nature of Art is rhythm and harmony.

The Divine is integral harmony and perfect rhythm.

The element of divine harmony and rhythm is the measure of the beautiful in Art. Even so it is with the art of life.

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All things are beautiful, for the All-beautiful is in every thing.

The domain of Art encompasses the entire creation.

The Divine is present everywhere, but in essence.

In the manifestation there is a varying and developing degree of the Presence.

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The Brahman is there equally in the saint and the sinner, in the knowledge and in the ignorance, -- it is the static Brahman.

But the saint and the knowledge manifest and embody the dynamic Brahman.

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The stress of Life is to reveal and incarnate more and more of the dynamic Divine, the creative Ananda of consciousness in its self-nature.

The progress of art too consists in recording this march of the soul in its ever-growing consciousness and ever-deepening Ananda towards a higher incarnation of the Divine.

~ Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta, Vol. 2, pp. 357-359

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To see the previous post in the series Satyam Shivam Sundaram, click here.

To see all the posts in the series, click here.

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Linking with ABCWednesday, O: O is for Opening

Untitled Meanderings

A few weeks ago, a friend and I had a brief exchange of thoughts on Facebook about Raja Ravi Varma's style of painting. I had said to him that I don't really care much for that kind of artistic work, and an interesting discussion ensued about Indian art, the inner and outer dimension of art, personal aesthetic preferences and a few other things about culture and human motives in life.

That exchange sort of inspired this post. I was hoping to go deeper into some of the points my friend and I had briefly touched upon. But as I started writing, the post took on a life of its own and it has now become something totally different.

That's okay, I go with the flow.

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Antaryatra (Inner Journey): Painting by Bindu Popli

Like I said in an earlier post, I am not an artist. Unless one considers writing that I do on this blog as some sort of "artsy" work. I highly doubt that. But I deeply admire and respect the artistic process that artists, sculptors, poets, creative photographers, writers experience - from that first inspiration to the final work of art they consider as done.

At the same time, like everyone else I know, I have my personal preference and taste in art or what I consider artistic. I am not fond of what may be called as realistic art or art that captures reality as is. For me, that piece of art doesn't say much if the only thing it says is an imitation, no matter how good and perfect, of what is found in nature or life. A perfectly done portrait of a person or an inanimate object is not really my preference in art. Where is the mystery, my mind and heart ask. Where is the hidden, my mind and heart search.

All bad art comes from returning to life and nature, and elevating them into ideals. Life and nature may sometimes be used as part of art's rough material, but before they are of any real service to art they must be translated into artistic conventions. The moment art surrenders its imaginative medium it surrenders everything. As a method realism is a complete failure, and the two things that every artist should avoid are modernity of form and modernity of subject-matter.

-- Oscar Wilde

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Over the last few years I have also come to a realisation that realism in writing also doesn't do much for me either. I am discovering that I don't care much for the kind of writing that is merely a documentation of what is observed or heard or experienced. I used to do such writing as part of my social science research training and professional work. Such writing serves an important purpose in advancing our collective understanding of outer human experience and I know from experience it isn't easy to do.

But that was then.

Now I am more inclined toward writing that doesn't merely reproduce the various 'facts' or 'realities' of life and nature as experienced by the subject(s) or character(s) in question. I am touched by the writing that makes room for the unseen, the invisible, the 'un-real' almost. No matter how enjoyable the turn of the phrase and how masterful the wordsmithing, a piece of writing that is only about 'what is' doesn't really move me. I am moved by the writing that seems to invite me to explore 'what isn't but could be', the writing that compels me to 'see' the invisible behind the appearance, to 'hear' the silence between the two audible words, to 'experience' the stillness behind all that is in motion.

That's the kind of writing I aspire to do someday.

No, not fantasy. Not science fiction. Neither fiction, nor non-fiction. Not abstract philosophy. No, no.

O Poet, O Artist, if thou but holdest up the mirror to Nature, thinkest thou Nature will rejoice in thy work? Rather she will turn away her face. For what dost thou hold up to her there? Herself? No, but a lifeless outline and reflection, a shadowy mimicry. It is the secret soul of Nature thou hast to seize, thou hast to hunt eternally after the truth in the external symbol, and that no mirror will hold for thee, nor for her whom thou seekest.

-- Sri Aurobindo

I hope to write of life and about life, but life that isn't only lived on the outer surface. I hope to write about nature, but nature that isn't only seen with the outer eyes. I wish to engage in an experience of writing that tries to seize something that is only vaguely expressing itself, or hiding itself, through the outer expression of words, sentences, paragraphs. The writing that engages with the invisible behind the visible, the eternal behind the temporal, the spirit behind the form.

If I had the Midas touch, that's the kind of writing I would like to do...



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You may also like a few more posts on writing - On Writing in English,  Blank Pages No More, Light is All You Need, Why Should I Write

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This post has been picked as a WOW post by BlogAdda. The topic this time is - "If I had the Midas touch...."

"All Art is Quite Useless": What a Wild(e) Idea!

A new post in the series - Satyam Shivam Sundaram

A series featuring inspiring words from various sources, words that speak of timeless truths, words that remind me of the deeper and hidden truth behind surface events and phenomena, words that shine light when all seems dark, words that are just what I need - for this moment and for all times to come.

Source

One Monday afternoon. Around 3:30 pm. I thought of taking a little nap to rest my eyes after some long hours of staring at the computer. But of course, there was no sign of sleep anywhere.

Without even looking I picked up a book (yes, I still read actual printed books, not the kindle kinds) from the pile of books on the bedside table, thinking maybe reading a page or two might make me tired enough, and sleep would then bless me.

It was Oscar Wilde's classic 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' - something I had read years ago. But a few months ago my husband bought a new copy of this thinking he would like to read it. Of course, he didn't and the book had been taking a good rest on the bedside table.

Until that Monday afternoon.

Those who have read the book may recall the famous "Preface" to this book. I admit I had forgotten most of it, except for a couple of sentences which I have seen quoted in many other places in the last several years.

I am not an artist, but I have close family members and friends who are - painters, photographers, musicians, dancers, poets. And when I read Oscar Wilde's Preface that Monday afternoon, my thoughts went to all those artists I know and those I don't. And I didn't read anything beyond that Preface. I still haven't.

Here is the Preface.

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.

What a collection of witty aphorisms here! So Wilde-like.

By sharing this Preface here, I am not declaring my complete agreement with all the things Mr. Wilde says. For example, I am not convinced that "All art is quite useless." Of course, one would need to first figure out what is meant by Art. And what is meant by Usefulness? Does a beautiful piece of hand-made pottery, say a vase or a bowl, made by a studio potter qualify as art?

But I think I somewhat follow the line of argument that Wilde is making here and see the value of his point and accept its partially and contextually relevant truth-value. And certainly, when one situates the Preface in the larger controversy that surrounded this particular book, the author's words become hugely significant and very apt.

Wilde added this Preface to the book, along with several other changes, after the first, 1890 edition of the book was highly criticized. He used it to "address the criticism and defend the novel's reputation." The collection of statements in this Preface also "serves as an indicator of the way in which [he] intends the novel to be read." 

But the main reason why I became fascinated by this Preface is this: It serves as an excellent illustration of what Sri Aurobindo refers to as the conflict between Aesthetic and Ethical tendencies of the human mind. In his major work on social philosophy, The Human Cycle, he writes: 

There is in our mentality a side of will, conduct, character which creates the ethical man; there is another side of sensibility to the beautiful,—understanding beauty in no narrow or hyper-artistic sense,—which creates the artistic and aesthetic man. Therefore there can be such a thing as a predominantly or even exclusively ethical culture; there can be too, evidently, a predominantly or even exclusively aesthetic culture. There are at once created two conflicting ideals which must naturally stand opposed and look askance at each other with a mutual distrust or even reprobation. The aesthetic man tends to be impatient of the ethical rule; he feels it to be a barrier to his aesthetic freedom and an oppression on the play of his artistic sense and his artistic faculty; he is naturally hedonistic,—for beauty and delight are inseparable powers, —and the ethical rule tramples on pleasure, even very often on quite innocent pleasures, and tries to put a strait waistcoat on the human impulse to delight. He may accept the ethical rule when it makes itself beautiful or even seize on it as one of his instruments for creating beauty, but only when he can subordinate it to the aesthetic principle of his nature,—just as he is often drawn to religion by its side of beauty, pomp, magnificent ritual, emotional satisfaction, repose or poetic ideality and aspiration,—we might almost say, by the hedonistic aspects of religion. Even when fully accepted, it is not for their own sake that he accepts them. The ethical man repays this natural repulsion with interest. He tends to distrust art and the aesthetic sense as something lax and emollient, something in its nature undisciplined and by its attractive appeals to the passions and emotions destructive of a high and strict self-control. He sees that it is hedonistic and he finds that the hedonistic impulse is non-moral and often immoral. It is difficult for him to see how the indulgence of the aesthetic impulse beyond a very narrow and carefully guarded limit can be combined with a strict ethical life. He evolves the puritan who objects to pleasure on principle; not only in his extremes—and a predominant impulse tends to become absorbing and leads towards extremes—but in the core of his temperament he remains fundamentally the puritan. The misunderstanding between these two sides of our nature is an inevitable circumstance of our human growth which must try them to their fullest separate possibilities and experiment in extremes in order that it may understand the whole range of its capacities. (CWSA, Volume 25, pp. 95-96, emphasis added).

A lot is packed in this one paragraph. It may require a slow and careful reading. Perhaps a few times to fully appreciate the point being made here.

Many of the controversies that we witness around art and literature can be understood in the light of this psychological basis, this misunderstanding between the two sides of human nature and mentality. It certainly explains much of the criticism Wilde's book received, the plot of which also interestingly deals with similar themes of aestheticism, hedonism, morality, virtue and beauty.

Is there a way to move beyond or reconcile these two sides of our human nature? That is an obvious question. But in life there are no quick or obvious answers. The only answer I can give now is - read the full chapter at least, if not the whole book :)

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Click here for the previous post in this series.
Click here for all the posts in this series.

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Linking this post with ABC Wednesday, W: W is for Wilde

Change, Beauty and Truth

Change is the only constant, it is often said. But nothing in the world is as simple as a cliche.

We must dig a bit deeper if we want to get closer to the truth.

What kind of change are they talking about who speak of constant change? Is it only an outer change? Or only an inner change? Or both? Who or what makes the change possible? Does it happen on its own? Or does someone or something compel or force or push for a change? Is change a natural phenomenon? Or is there another master-plan working behind the surface phenomenon of Nature? 

What is the outcome of change? Is it always for the better? Can change also be for worse? What distinguishes a good change from the one that is not? Who decides what is a good change and what is not? Who decides what is good, period?

So many questions. And I am not done yet. There is also the question of why.

Why does change occur? What is the need for change? Why can't things stay the same? Is there a  plan being unfolded through all the changes we see happening around us? Can we ever know that plan? Or even get a glimpse of it?

I am not sure I or any of us can have the complete answers to any or some of these questions. I am not even sure if I have all the questions yet. 

But sometimes you don't need to have the answers. Or at least not right away. You just need to keep asking the questions. More questions. So that you don't believe anything just because it is told to you by an authority, by your textbook, by your teacher. 

Change maybe a constant. But perhaps so is Beauty. So is Joy, and so is Delight.  

This may not make any sense the moment we start looking around and see all the horrible stuff happening. In our lives, individually and collectively. In our homes, in our communities, in our worlds. Where is any Beauty in all the gross, all the terrible, heart-breaking, horrendous human behaviour that we witness all around us? Where is the joy, the delight in any of that? 

And that's when we begin to want a change. We begin to lose our innate joy, our innate delight in the world, in life, in existence. We begin to question Beauty. We begin to question whether any of this madness makes any sense. We begin to feel restless. We begin to wonder if we can do anything to change something. We begin to ask what changes we need in the system out there so that some of this madness can be stopped. We begin to get angry, more angry when we don't see any changes happening. We get more restless. And so it goes on....

But where does it all take us? Do things ever change? Does the system become better? Does the horrible stuff stop? Or does one kind of terrible replace the other? 

And a time comes when we start using another cliche - the more things change the more they stay the same.

If all change leads to only more of the sameness, why change in the first place? 

So we are back to not really knowing anything. Not really having any answers. 

And yet we must continue. Continue asking the questions, continue living the questions. With the hope that someday we will be able to "see" the truth, not in a book or in a system or in a religion, but within.

Change, but not for the sake of changing. Change, for evolving, progressing, transforming. Change, for constantly discovering beauty, joy, and truth.

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, 

but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

~ Maya Angelou

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This reflection was triggered after a conversation I had with my 20-year-old niece studying Sociology, trying to make sense of this thing called 'Society.'

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Linking this post with Write Tribe Wednesday Prompt: Write a post inspired by a Maya Angelou quote. The quote I have chosen is not exactly a quote on writing, as per the prompt guideline. But on some level, everything in life has a connection with writing, including a butterfly's beauty and change. 

Image source: Google

Light is All You Need

A new post in the series - Reminders to self

Note: This could be seen as a sequel to my earlier post on Why Should I Write, in which I share some writing advice from Sri Aurobindo, advice that speaks to me personally at this point in my writing and in my life. The words below may be seen as a response to another one of my questions - How Should I Write.

When all feels dark, kind of lost

Thoughts are all better-off tossed

Ideas don't work, no fix in sight

All you need is one little Light.

Light in the heart, Light in mind

Go seek, and ye' shall find

Light in action, and inaction,

Stillness of one moment's fraction.

In this Light when all feels changed

Remember to shine it on those estranged

Feelings, thoughts, words repressed

Lest they rally to make a protest.

A moment speaks, a truth revealed

Only that rigid mind won’t yield

Slave of habits, oppressor of a kind

Don’t force it, slowly make it refined.

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Linking this post with Write Tribe - 100 words on Saturday 2014 #16: The prompt was to imagine a conversation with a favourite author on writing. 

I realized that any questions I could think of had already been answered as seen in the excerpt shared above from Collected Works of Sri Aurobindo, Volume 27, p. 599. The light of his guidance however inspired me to pen down the 100 word-poem to further dispel the darkness of my doubts.

Image source: 1: mine; 2: Google

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To see previous post in this series, click here.
To see all posts in the series, click here.

Designing Mom

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

(The difference this time is that the picture is given as a writing prompt by Write Tribe - a wonderful resource supporting writers, bloggers, and wanna-be writers)

One look at the “girl’s room” of the ‘model-home’ in the residential complex where they would soon relocate, and her 10-year-old instantaneously pronounced – “Not even for a second think about doing my room like this.” 

She smiled and felt relieved. Her aesthetic sensibility and preference for simple design had passed on to her daughter. 

“What if she'd wanted some ‘artificial’ décor, like that ‘beach-ey’ poster on the wall in this concrete jungle? Would the designer-in-me agree?” She shook her head as if to not even entertain the thought and walked out, knowing exactly what their ‘real’ home would look like. 

Source: Image 1, Image 2 mine

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To read previous posts in the series "When a Picture Leads" click here.

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Written for Write Tribe 100 words on Saturday Prompt - using prepositions in, on, at, and the picture of the pink bedroom above.

Priceless are the Moments....Part II

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

To read the first part of the story, click here.

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He had offered her a life of beauty, a life with nature, trees, flowers and butterflies. She had said yes, a big happy yes. That's exactly what she had wanted too.

But something changed. What? Why?  

Maybe she was wrong. Nothing had changed. They did have a beautiful life, at least that's what everyone she knew said, about their life. They had a good life, a luxuriously comfortable home, big backyard with lots of trees and exotic plants, a little pond with waterlilies, flowers of almost every imaginable colour, and yes, butterflies too. 

This last part she assumed. Because she hadn't really seen any butterflies. At least not in the last few years. She just didn't have the time. Wall Street kept her busy and busier. 

She looked again at the picture on her ipad and remembered those moments. Those moments when all she needed was to lay down with him under a shady tree and close her eyes. And she would dream of butterflies and flowers, flowers and butterflies.

She knew what she had to do. She looked again, this time at the ring she was holding, her actual engagement ring. And walked to the little shed in her backyard. 

This was his place. A photography studio he had built for himself, with all his cameras - old and new, lenses, tripods, a computer, printer and all other paraphernalia an amateur needs. He had kept up his love for nature photography, even if it meant working part-time. She envied him now, for this.

He was cleaning some old lens. She walked up to him and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked up inquiringly. She just kept quiet and smiled. Something in her eyes told him. He knew that she had seen the email. He knew that she remembered. They just kept looking in each other's eyes. Silently.

And then he saw it. Dangling on the chain around her neck was the ring. 

The ring he had made for her. With those tiny little seeds that he had found on one of their walks together in the woods. She had no idea what he was going to do with those, and she didn't ask. After all it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. They always gathered dried leaves and little pebbles and seedpods and what not...and most of the times those priceless riches went to either his place or hers. She used to love these little treasures from Nature and decorate her room, bookshelves with those. She had filled up many old jars with such treasures.

But that was back then.

He now saw the seed-ring dangling on the chain on her neck. After all these years, she was actually wearing it. It wasn't really a ring that she could wear. Or anyone could wear. And they had laughed about it when he gave her that as their engagement ring. But she had loved it. Loved it absolutely. And he had loved her laughter, and joined in as he tried to place the ring awkwardly on her finger. It was a ring that spoke of their shared love, their love for each other and their love for the woods, the nature, the trees, the flowers. And the butterflies.

But that was back then.

And now here it was, dangling on the chain around her neck. Her finger casually circling it as she stood there smiling with her eyes. In silence. And he knew. He knew that their love was back. 

He stood up and held her hand. They walked out of the shed, into the backyard. Holding hands in silence they kept walking back and forth, around the trees, around the lily pond and just back and forth. 

And then she saw. After several years, she saw a butterfly. Really saw it.

Yes, they were there. They had always been there. It was she who had gone missing. 

He looked at her. She was smiling. And remembering. Those priceless moments. And he knew. He knew she was back. Their love was back.

They continued walking, in silence, making their moments priceless. Once again they were in love.

~ Photos by Suhas Mehra

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To read the first part of this story, click here.

To read all the posts in the series, click here.

Priceless are the Moments...Part I

A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

He knew he had to capture it. That sight. That moment. For his love.  

Dangling on the chain was that beauty he knew his love would love. A thin little branch, a chain of the big tree of life, and there it was dangling on it, a beautiful brown and blue butterfly. 

 

Beautiful in its simplicity, in what it seemed to be saying.

He captured the beauty on his camera. And emailed it to her the same evening. He wasn't even sure if it will reach her, but it didn't matter. But he specifically chose to send it to her old email address, from several years ago. He thought it was more charming, more romantic. His mind worked that way - then and now.

She had however changed, and not just her email address. 

But she still checked that old email address once or twice a week...just in case... 

And that day she checked. She couldn't believe her eyes. Was it really his name she saw? Why was he emailing her? And at this old address? With a slight irritation she shook her head impatiently and opened the email and saw.

There were only two words in the subject line - For love....

And below, only four.

Remember the moment when....

And then she opened the attachment. 

She sat in silence, looking at the picture, remembering. Not just that one moment, but a lot of those moments. Those walks, those flowers, those butterflies, those moments of beauty, those moments of love they experienced together. 

When did those moments end? Why did they end? 

And she remembered that moment too. That moment when she knew exactly what she wanted. Him. A life with him.

Her left forefinger casually went up to touch something on her neck. Dangling on the chain was an intricately designed diamond pendant. She walked to her bedroom and straight to her closet. She opened the drawer and found it. The ring he had presented to her when he asked her to marry him. 

That was the moment.

The moment when they had spotted a beautiful butterfly dangling on a thin little leaf, and the passion with which they admired the beautiful yellows, reds, whites and blacks of the butterfly contrasting with the green of the leaf. And the way their eyes and hearts could see and feel the love that was all around in nature, all around them, in them.

Several moments passed. The butterfly just sat there, and so did they, in silence. They smiled at such beauty and looked at each other with smiling eyes.

That was the moment she knew what she wanted. And she knew he knew it too. And he too knew that she knew what he wanted most of all. Their love was like that, silent and beautiful.

This was the moment for which he had kept that ring carefully hidden in the side pocket of his camera bag. He gently took it out and presented it to her. And asked her the question. Simply, beautifully. Amidst those trees, flowers and butterflies.

(Pictures by Suhas Mehra)

To read the second and concluding part of the story, click here.

To see the previous posts in the series, When a Picture Leads, click here.

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Linking this post to Write Tribe- Wednesday Prompt - Dangling on the chain was....

Also linking this post with ABC Wednesday: P - P is for Priceless

Mr. Keats and Ms. Brawne

Remember this post I did about a beautiful photograph? And how on some quick search it turned out that the photograph is a still from a film called Bright Star based on the love letters written by John Keats to his beloved Fanny Brawne in the last four years of his life? Well you may read about all of that discovery process here if you have forgotten. I, of course, remember the photograph and where and how it led me, very clearly in my mind.

Yes, I also remember that I also wrote at the end of that post that I may do a follow-up after watching the film. And this is that follow-up post, finally :)

I watched the film soon after that post, in fact watched it twice in the same week itself. Yes, it is that good. Beautiful actually, if you ask me. The beautiful love story between the brooding and aloof English poet of beauty and his lady love, the charming and full-of-life Fanny Brawne. The way their love begins, blossoms and matures, the pain of separation and the depth of longing, the tragic loss of one's beloved to disease and death, the frailty of emotions and the delicacy of the moment, all is captured beautifully by Jane Campion.

And oh, all that beauty of English countryside around them! Campion has masterfully created a visual poetry in this film, with some valuable help from the beauty of Keats' poetry as well. May be it is her feminine sensitivity or her love for Keats' poetry or Romantic poetry in general, whatever it is the result is an absolutely delightful treat. As a reviewer wrote, "if Campion intended to inspire an appreciation and rediscovery of Keats' poetry, she has not only succeeded but herself created an artistic monument to his life, love, poetry and soul". The way the change of seasons is depicted through the changing colours, light and all other moods of nature is absolutely gorgeous and brings such a sense of deep beauty all over you. You just have to watch those scenes in silence and let the beauty take you by hand into itself.

I am not exaggerating. If you have seen the film, you know that already. And if you haven't, you may see for yourself in some of the still shots I share below. (And I hope by now you have already seen the photograph with which this whole journey of discovering this beautiful film started for me. So you already have some idea of what to expect).

 

John Maguire in his review of the film captures beautifully the beauty of the film in these words:

[Fanny’s] emotional journey becomes the engine of the film, as the poet and his poems fill the wondrously detailed background. This delicate treatment extends to the intimate pacing, which is carefully graduated to allow the chaste lovers to come together naturally. We know their love affair will not last, but Campion presents their joy in each other in such a precise and vibrant manner, that knowledge doesn’t intrude on the story.

There are poetic graces too in the telling, with Campion’s static camera searching out stolen frames of everyday life in the household, piling on the detail to create an immersive world. These moments are counterpoised with grand dramatic sweeps that climax in heaving gulps, a sun-dappled kiss, a heavy loss, a long separation. Campion favours a striking image to a page of dialogue, so conversations are short and sparse. Saying that, there is a fascinating scene early in the story where Keats responds to Fanny’s sincere questions about the proper understanding of poetry that seems to capture the meaning of the film itself. “A poem needs understanding through the senses”, the poet tells her. “The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought”. It’s not being overly lyrical to suggest that the same is true of Bright Star. 

Yes, it is true. The film does feel like an experience beyond thought. At least to me in felt that way. As I am about to end this post, I am thinking that it might be time to repeat that experience...soon. And maybe another post will follow!

In the meantime, let me re-read Keats' poem, Bright Star.

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-- 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to death. 

~ John Keats

(All pictures courtesy of Google)

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Linking this poem with ABC Wednesday, K is for Keats.

Art and Society

This post was re-published in Tamarind Rice, July 2014


A new post in the series - When a Picture Leads

A post inspired by some late night browsing of old pictures; 
this time from a visit to Cholamandal, an Artists' Village near Chennai

In today’s world where art has become another peg in the mighty wheel of commercialism and consumerism, we have experts -- art critics, museum and gallery wallahs, art dealers and others -- who tell us what is “beautiful” art, what is more “valuable” and what is “priceless.” They do this through their selection process and via picking up the art they believe can ‘sell’. In some sense they are not only reading or guessing society’s aesthetic sense; they are also shaping it. 

While there are serious drawbacks to this process of erecting an industry out of and for art, I am wondering if this can be, in some way, seen as an 'interim' solution to the perpetual question of how the society supports the arts? If as a society our sensibilities are more consumption-oriented and commercialistic at this point of our collective evolution, our approach to supporting the arts will also be along that line.

How might this change in a future society that has evolved to a higher level of individual and collective consciousness? 

Perhaps some hints of an answer to that can already be seen in the emerging trends of community-level art fairs featuring local artists, artist cooperatives which manage galleries and organize exhibits, and artists’ villages. Certainly there are examples of such ideas being translated in practice in many parts of the world. 

In my neck of the woods we have Cholamandal, an artists' village near Chennai, which has grown "without any funding or support from the government, quasi-governmental bodies, charitable foundations, art bodies like Lalit Kala Academy or persons apart from the small grant that it is entitled to, like any other art organization in the country." The village welcomes visitors to enjoy their permanent gallery of paintings, sculptures as well as the display of art and craft work which are available for sale by the artists themselves. Go on, click on their website to know more.

Perhaps this is a sign of things to come. Perhaps change is already happening, societies are evolving, art is evolving, artists as discoverers of Divine through Beauty are evolving, as they are searching and discovering new forms of collective living and working which doesn’t in any way inhibit or limit their individual creativity and work. 

Perhaps I am being too optimistic. But why not?


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All photos by yours truly.

For previous posts in this series, click here and here.

Linking this post with Write Tribe Festival of Words, Free Write
Linking also with DailyPost Weekly Challenge: Threes

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Love, the Beautiful

 A new post in the series: 

A Poem and A Song - XII:  A Series to Celebrate Art in All Forms 

It is actually quite amazing when you find the same thought being expressed through a picture, a poem, a song, or even a gesture.

Perhaps it happens because the thought has sunk deep into you, at least for the time being, and you just view a certain picture, read a certain poem and hear a certain song as expressions of that singular thought.

Or perhaps they really are conveying the same thought, but in different shades and hues. 

And it just so happens that when that very thought captured your attention, certain pictures, poems and songs also appeared before you allowing you to delve deeper into the thought and let it reveal its deeper essence to you.

Regardless of how it happens, it is always a moment to relish and cherish the beauty. The beauty of the picture, the song, the poem. The beauty of the experience. The beauty of the moment.

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Earthly Love and Love for the Mother Earth. 

Love for the Nature, Love for the Beloved, the Marriage between the Two  - these are expressed here beautifully and with sensitivity, through the mode of new arts, and the old.  

A work by an Austrian digital artist, verses by a Chilean poet and a melodious composition by an Indian musician....all combine here to speak of a simple and profound truth - Love makes all things beautiful. Beautiful is the beloved, Beautiful is the Earth, when seen in Love and with Love. 

Digital Artwork by Christian Schloe, via

In You The Earth

Little

rose,

roselet,

at times,

tiny and naked,

it seems

as though you would fit

in one of my hands,

as though I’ll clasp you like this

and carry you to my mouth,

but

suddenly

my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:

you have grown,

your shoulders rise like two hills,

your breasts wander over my breast,

my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin

new-moon line of your waist:

in love you loosened yourself like sea water:

I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes

and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth. 

~ Pablo Neruda

Composer: R.D. Burman

Can love stay beautiful, always? How? Perhaps love alone can answer. 

Previous posts in this series:

What Might Have Been?        Fly Away              Which is Sweeter?       Life, a Song of Love and Memories
Diwali with a Modern Indian Poet and a Legendary Indian Musician            Of Temples, Poetry and Life
Remembering the Mother               On the Road               Who is that Presence?             Only You
Reckless Lovers

Beauty in Opposites

A new post in the series - "All Music is Only the Sound of His Laughter."

Sometimes you find beauty and meaning when you come across two absolutely contradictory things. 

Like this ghazal by Ghalib, in the young voice of Jagjit Singh from late 1960s. The feeling of Hopelessness, Lost-in-the-World is wonderfully expressed through the words as well as the singing. 

And then, a few days later you see something like this -  

Photo by Hengki Koentjoro, via here

This picture appropriately titled Hope by the photographer captures and expresses so perfectly the essence of what Hope is  - a bright light shining through where all seems dark and dreary. 

This oscillation between Hopelessness and Hope is what our ordinary experience is mostly about. There are days we feel so full of hope, optimism and a quiet feeling of assurance that all is well, and all will be well. And then there are days when we just don't know how to let go of this persistent feeling of doubt, despair and hopelessness. 

Maybe it is this oscillation that keeps us real and grounded in this relative realm where the chaos and mess of every-day life can at times be overwhelming and over-powering. Perhaps if we can somehow grow in our acceptance of this simple truth that the length of the shadow is only as real as the movement of the light, maybe we can then learn to see this oscillation as part of the inherent beauty of this worldly existence of ours....just like the dance of light and shadow. 

Perhaps. 

Click here for the previous post in this series.

Click here for all the posts in this series.