Quote UnQuote 1: Death

Rachna, the rachnakar (creator) of the popular blogs Rachnasays and Rachnacooks tagged me in the three-day quote challenge. I had been unsure how to do this because most of my posts already have some quote in them (often a long one, and sometimes a passage actually). To be honest, I would have probably skipped the challenge if it were not for the warm and affectionate Rachna!

Then I thought why not do something that I haven't done in a while. That is, be brief. And yet stay close to the spirit of this blog. So I am going to write only 100-word posts as part of this quote-a-day challenge. Now that will be a challenge for the brevity-challenged me, I think! Just to clarify, this preface and the quote itself will not be counted in the 100 words :)

So without much ado, here I go, with the first post today.

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"This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go." 

These are reported as Oscar Wilde's last words on his deathbed.

Nobody else could have said this! Wilde knew the real effect of real beauty on mind, heart and soul. His thoughts, words, wit are proof enough. His fashion sense too for those interested in only outer beauty!

But there’s more to these words. They make you think about the last thing you’d like to see before closing your eyes. For ever. Or maybe every night till then. Or tonight.

What is it? An object? A face? A vision? Something indescribable, perhaps?

Why not visualize tonight? Conscious death takes preparation.

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...."

Song for Sunday

A new post in the series - A Poem and A Song

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.

If you have visited this blog often or even only occasionally, you know music gets its due share on this blog. In fact, a few of my recent postings (see here and here) have been about some of my all-time favourite songs.

So go ahead, ask me. Ask me if there is a particular song that I am enjoying today. Ok, don’t ask me. I will tell you anyway.

Yes, there is.

After a long time I listened to one of my favourite songs today. And of course I listened to it many times, over and over. Don’t know why I hadn't felt like listening to it for so many days, weeks. But today being my first Sunday back home after being away for three weeks, this somehow turned out to be a perfect song for the day. Lingering, melodious, captivating, almost compelling the listener to slow down and go with the flow, flow of music, flow of the words, flow of the heart. 

Listen and you might agree. 

Singer/Composer: Jagjit Singh, Lyricist: Gulzar

And then to make the experience of the song even richer and fuller, I was reminded of the following lines by Rumi:

When I am with you, we stay up all night,

When you're not here, I can't get to sleep.

Praise God for these two insomnias!

And the difference between them.

So if the question for the day would be - Is there a poem and song for the day for you? My answer would be - yes, there is.

How about you, do you have a song for the day?

Image: Painting by Bindu Popli

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

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

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Linking this with Write Tribe: Answer a Question

"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

Led by a Photograph

Source

Yes, this is the photograph. The photograph that led me to an interesting and beautiful discovery.

I first came across this photograph a few years ago on some website but didn't really bother to read anything on that page and was simply mesmerized by the picture itself. Or perhaps at some level I was also somewhat aware of what this picture seemed to be doing to me -- inviting almost to just experience it on some level. There was something so genuine, so tender, so sweetly real about this picture, at least to me...so I just downloaded it and saved it on my computer in my already-brimming folder of inspiring photographs I find on the web. 

Every few days I would simply open this file and take in the beauty of this picture for a few minutes...not at all trying with my mind to decipher what was going on in this image. I would just simply look at it...merely to enjoy it, if you will. During a few fleeting moments however, the photograph did reveal some meaning or message, and in fact on a couple of occasions I even used that "meaning-laden" version of this picture as part of my presentations or classes for my teaching work. But for the most part, I simply enjoyed the beauty and gentleness of whatever feeling or emotion this picture was trying to represent or perhaps even create for me at that moment in time.

I didn't have any curiosity to know anything about this picture, where it came from, what was it about, who was the photographer, nothing...just that this picture existed was enough. 

Until today....

Today I finally used the trusty Google Image search engine and was delighted to find that this picture is actually a shot from a 2009 film based on the letters written by the great English poet, John Keats to his beloved, Fanny Brawne during the last three years of his very short 25-year-long life. Don't really know why I got curious today, but I did. And of course, I am now quite curious to watch this film, titled after one of Keats' poems, Bright Star! But what I find so gratifying right now is that the picture I have enjoyed for last several years without knowing anything about it actually does have such wonderful context around it. Joy of spontaneous discovery, I suppose!

I wonder however, if after watching the film, and particularly the sequence where this particular shot appears, the photograph will still continue to retain that unspoken mysterious appeal for me as it did until today. Maybe I will come to the conclusion that perhaps sometimes we don't really need to know! But who knows, maybe I will find the photograph even more beautiful after I watch the film. Maybe John Keats did say it right when he said - "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever". But speaking very humbly, I am now also quite curious to see if he was indeed right about this :) 

I can see that a sequel to this post might be on the cards soon!

A Thing of Beauty (Endymion)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead; 

An endless fountain of immortal drink, 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

~ John Keats

Postscript: The sequel to this post did come about after watching the film. You may read it here.

Only You

A Poem and A Song - II: 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.

Artist: Freydoon Rassouli

Some years ago, I discovered the amazing work of this Iranian-American artist, Rassouli. In most of his artworks that I have seen on the net I find a deep mystic quality and a sort of an invitation to go deep into the inspiration behind the work itself. An artist influenced by Sufism and Eastern mysticism, Rassouli takes the viewer to a journey within through his paintings. In his own words, "My paintings are inspirational for they allow the observer to experience infinite viewpoints and perceptions. They are not abstract for they represent what is actually more real than what our eyes are able to see. They allow the viewers to be inspired by taking their own perception beyond their senses and their surroundings."

In one of his artist statements, Rassouli says - "Creation is the product of synchronizing our energy with the universe. Once we experience the whole and recognize it, we become aware that we are nothing but the Divine Creative Force."

You, You Only Exist

You, you only exist

We pass away, till at last,

our passing is so immense

that you arise: beautiful moment,

in all your suddenness,

arising in love, or enchanted

in the contraction of work.

To you I belong, however time may

wear me away. From you to you

I go commanded. In between

the garland is hanging in chance; but if you

take it up and up and up: look:

all becomes festival!

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Singer: Pandit Jasraj

To see previous post in this series, click here.

Reckless Lovers

A Poem and A Song - I: 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.

Dream by M.A.R. Chughtai

How does one write anything about a piece of art like this? It captures the essence of love between a lover and beloved, between two souls merging to become one, become earth and sky, become Radha and Krishna. No words are necessary. Only a feeling. Or if you must have some words, let them be of Rumi. Or of Amir Khusrow.

Love is reckless

Love is reckless; not reason.

Reason seeks a profit.

Love comes on strong,

consuming herself, unabashed.

Yet, in the midst of suffering,

Love proceeds like a millstone,

hard surfaced and straightforward.

Having died of self-interest,

she risks everything and asks for nothing.

Love gambles away every gift God bestows.

Without cause God gave us Being;

without cause, give it back again. 

~ Rumi

Singer: Ustad Shujaat Khan, Lyrics: Amir Khusrow, 1253-1325

We Pray that It will be Done in Beauty....

It has been a while since my last post...critical matters of heart, matters of life have become the sole occupation. And while that still remains so the following words on my Facebook feed this morning resonated deeply.

To pray, you open your whole self

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

To one whole voice that is you.

And know that there is more

That you can’t see, can’t hear

Can’t know, except in moments

Steadily growing

and in languages that aren’t always sound

But other circles of motion

Like eagle that Sunday morning

Over Salt River

Circled in blue sky, in wind

Swept our hearts clean with sacred wings

We see you see ourselves

And know that we must take

The utmost care and kindness

In all things

Breathe in knowing we are made of all of this

And breathe, knowing we are truly blessed

because we were born and die soon

within a true circle of motion.

Like eagle, rounding out the morning inside us

We pray that it will be done

In beauty, in beauty

Poem by Joy Harjo

And whatever remains to be felt and expressed and heard beyond words, art does it all...

Prayer by Bindu Popli