A thought for the day....

I have no space in my life for any God. To those who are religious this sentiment can appear down right ludicrous, because not believing in a God somehow seems to suggest to those who are religious, that I am perhaps dysfunctional. Politeness of course disallows such an outright condemnation of me, but their eyes often betray deep pity for what they must consider "the lost soul" of sama.

I do have people in my immediate life who are religious. In observing their lives I very rarely witness the quiet force of human compassion and deeds of service emanate from them; nor see positive and purposeful conduct that impacts me to understand what goodness religion can give to daily life. I would imagine that religious teachings should guide those with faith to live their lives with more thoughtfulness, but most times the only thing I see is a pompousness that is mildly irritating to say the least!

Lies, cheating, corruption, manipulation, abandonment, abdicating from responsibilities of family and so much more gets the waters of life murky each day of many a religious minded person, and yet at the end of it all the talk that prevails will be only the fear of GOD and nothing about attempting to be a better person. But since the day of reckoning is normally after death, I am guessing that it is a sort of a nagging fear that doesn't quite kick ass to alter the unholy ways of being!!!!

I abhor the divides that all religions breeds, and the hate and violence that it harbors.

To free oneself of the crutch of religion requires the ability to confront fear; and to accept the vulnerability of recognising that there are often questions that do not always have convenient answers to comfort us.

I feel thankful to the circumstances of knowledge and exposure that gave to me a bigger world to inhabit; where religious doctrines do not hold me imprisoned to any one framework of thinking that would restrict me from looking at "other" worlds of enquiry. I enjoy the freedom of not belonging anywhere in particular, but rather everywhere instead. For me I fear my own conscience.

The Third eye

I had an interesting late night conversation yesterday, about photography and what a camera means for me. I studied photography under Prof. Jyoti Bhatt in the late '70's and what I learnt from this experience were valuable lessons on how to perceive; and why we look at certain things with the desire to hold them for closer examination and reflection. Photography for me is much more than a technical process that allows me to fix an image as a possession that I can hold or to flaunt as proof of my association with it. Equally, ideals of perfection bore me in the way artists have used photography in recent years, as a method to find subjects to replicate as painted images; and the countless offerings of photo-shop alterations that reinvent the initial subject, are in most situations gimmicky and trivial. For me the real mystery and power of photography lies in why we "frame" something to bring it back to be contemplated over.

I view the camera to be like a travel companion with whom we converse. It is in these "conversations" that photographs are taken. To bring an image away from its physical existence would then require for one's consciousness to connect with it in ways where it does not serve as a mere reminder alone, but as a point of re-engagement with a space of reflection.

The moment when a photograph is being taken is one that most often disallows an intimacy of contemplation with the subject. However when the image is reclaimed as a photograph it allows that vital space for contemplation to exist. It offers an intimacy and time that has no other interruptions or agendas to distort the space of a personalized reflection with it. It becomes a whole world rather than a fragment.

I find the process that makes a subject become a frozen image, that then transforms to become a "framed" independent entity, and which then posses the potential to invite and embraces an expansion that will release and free it into multiple other "locations" : to be the truth of where the magic of photography exists for me.

What my initial years of learning photography with Jyotibhai taught me, was how to look at a world and know what to blur out of focus, and what to hold sharp and defined in that instant moment of seeing; and to then comprehend its meaning and purposefulness of engaging with it.

Allow the dark clouds to blow away.

I was speaking with a friend yesterday who I am beginning to notice is becoming progressively fatalistic and narrow minded in ways of perceiving and interpreting life. It sort of made me do a 360 degree turn around to view why such attitudes seep into the positive spaces of thinking and corrupt us; and I am wondering whether monetary success alone in life finally moderates the philosophical core that is meant to shape peoples personalities. I would like to believe otherwise: that financial success plays only an incidental role in defining the choices we make about our spiritual inner selves, however I am forced to recognise that this does not appear to be the common view. Especially in the art world, I observe the cynicism that many an unfulfilled dream has produced; and the "money talk" which somehow always umbrellas conversations that are mixed-up ramblings of desires for critical acclaim and cheques in the mailbox!

Last evening at 7.30 a friend called up unexpectedly and asked if he could drop over. When he came by I opened the front door wearing my apron, and ushered him immediately into my studio where we chatted as I painted. He was slightly surprised that both Surendran and I were still working in our respective studios till late in the evening, and that this routine of many years still held us engaged in ways that were private and personal; and uncluttered by the trappings of "success". With the prior conversation of my friend still echoing inside of my head, I suddenly felt that making choices that are simple are sometimes the hardest ones for many to make.

It isn't the pursuit of money but the exquisite joy of the discipline and the power that painting commands from me; the energy and the challenge it requires, that makes my art practice the only territory I wish to be anchored to.

Each day something will unfold in my studio. Sometimes fantastical thoughts driven through nosing in the pages of books from our library. Sometimes failed hours of rubbished work that humbles. And sometimes orgasmic moments that are bursts of utter wonderment, known only to that inner self; and indescribable even to the closest confidant.

What many are loosing are these simple moments that are not trail blazing factors but like the quiet pulse beat, actually holding the essential rhythm of life. I tire of those voices that hold the unnecessary baggage of burdens that are irrelevant and petty. I find it futile and exhaustive and without the illumination of the light of truth. I prefer then instead, the silence of my studio, and to call into it the magic of the wisdom of voices from spaces that can open my world even further. Just open that window of perception wider dear friend, and great gusts of fresh air will come rushing in.

At the heart of the matter....

My studio has always been the central hub of the house; perhaps because when we initially lived in smaller spaces, all the rooms were interconnected; and in close proximity of one another. But if truth be told, this isn't the real reason that my studio has always been (and till today), remains the cockpit of the home. I say this because many of my friends and colleagues who are writers and artists or who have jobs where they work from home, find ways to isolate themselves away from the routine of daily life; and prefer to have a separation between their work and other factors of their lives. For me I have chosen otherwise, and though on some days I feel a bit frazzled, I know without a doubt that I would never feel as fully alive and enriched, without the rhythm of the world around me parading it's existence.

I don't know whether this situation of allowing the world of my studio to co-exist with all else around me, occurred because I went to college each day of my (medically rather difficult)pregnancy; and further insisted upon being back in my studio in college four days after my delivery. Or whether the simple practicality of having my studio as the central base made it easier to be an artist when I was multi-tasking, and thereby not compromising on the many worlds that define my personal existence. I don't really have the answer, but what I do know is that it has always been a structure that keeps me free to do all that I choose to, and this is personally very satisfying.

It was amusing to many that whilst I was hunched over with abdominal stitches after being operated on only days earlier for a hysterectomy in 1993, I had the hospital corridors lined with paintings and photographs of art works because I was in the middle of curating a show. To me it just seemed so normal and I was slightly irritated to imagine that anyone else thought otherwise!

Mithun, and my adopted granddaughter Aditi have each played for hours as children in my studio. Corners of my studio have transformed into garages and race tracks, bowling alleys and marble competitions, dolls schools and concert areas where imaginary audiences silently ask for endless encores! Even today Mithun, when he visits home, will come up in the afternoon to my studio and snooze (all stretched out on the settee that doesn't fit his lanky frame), to channel surfing and read comic books or magazines or just mutate. My mother has her Sunday scrabble sessions in my studio too that often get rowdy with words being challenged and accusations of cheating ranting the air. Countless students have sat all wrapped up sipping hot beverage that range from soups to chocolate milk or horlicks comforters, as I play Florence nightingale to some fever or the other. Sometimes my teaching sessions have students scattered all over my space, drawing or reading.

Yesterday my friend had the blood drained from a jambed finger, and was in pain and just wanted to be home with us. She came home and sat with her bandaged thumb (like little Jack Horner) reading in a corner of my studio, as I painted. She said to me that though she loves every nook and corner of our home, that somehow it was only in my studio that she feels the completeness of her relationship with me. It made sense because my studio really is the heart of my home for me.

The quiet whisper of truth...

I have always believed that it is oral histories that holds stories of exquisite potency. Yesterday I was once again a privileged participant to a situation that took my breath away; and where my imagination was held captive in that moment of sharing.

The simplicity with which this young woman explained her critique about her colleagues painting was through a quiet and brief anecdote from her own childhood. The nakedness of the narration via it's poetic deliverance, brought instant tears to my eyes. Not because of any extreme tragedy that the story held, but because the power of her personal experience was translated so effectively to embrace our understanding of the wider worlds of meaning.

It is these chanced upon and often accidental interludes that embroider my imagination and give me other spaces to explore inside my head; and so when I sit within my studio, I am visited by these voices that breath more life into who I am and what I know.

It is also the innocence of learning that can reveal insights of wisdom in ways one least expects to find.

I love it when I see my own blindness, or catch the glimmer of a rainbow in the darkness of my own head.

Tomorrow it may be you....

Our friend rushed off to Ankleshwar yesterday evening because his uncle had fallen and broken his ankle. Today I called up to find out how everything was, and to get more detailed information as to what exactly had happened. The saddest part of the story recounted was how this old man sat by the side of the road asking to be helped for over an hour, but nobody stopped or provided any assistance to him. It was only when an acquaintance saw him by chance, that he was able to be taken to a hospital.

Why have we become so uncaring of one another in ways that are dehumanised and hateful, uncaring and shameful. I cannot even begin to comprehend these attitude of selfishness; where the effort to engage with the life's of others, appears so difficult a task. The basic principles of how a society functions in accordance with interdependency and the cooperation of people with one another, is the essential framework of any society's governance; and every citizen would be obliged to play by these rules if we are to benefit from the wisdom of this structure of coordination.

When I lived for six months in New York in 1990, I had a lovely apartment in Manhattan. Located in Chelsea, the city outside my window was always alive and pulsating. But the paradox was, that on either side of my apartment lived two old people: shut away in their respective studio apartments, perpetually fearful and alone. Nobody ever visited them nor did they encourage any interaction; and I would always think to myself that if it was India, then such a situation of neglect and abandonment would be impossible to imagine. How foolish were my naive sentiments!

The collective that we have at home today, continues to address these very issues of engagement and concern to things around us; that if as people we do not consciously cultivate, then the process of our own awareness would be potentially stifled and limited. But everyday is like battling a strong wind whilst holding a lit candle. Each day one has to dig deeper to hold the conviction that mediocrity will not finally bury us all. I wonder what will it take for us to make these simple changes in attitude that will open our eyes to a wider horizon of wisdom; or do we just prefer the little prisons of pedestrian values we choose to live by and finally die by too?

I am let down one more time...!

Every time a young politician makes a vote-bank choice over issues that need vision and reform to be the political will instead; I feel as though one more nail in the coffin of our democracy has been driven in. I feel such shame that Navin Jindal could not get it right. A man from urban India who politically supports organisations that practice the the rituals of honour killing, cannot be ever viewed as a leader of modern India. What goes wrong with these leaders? Does education and personal ideals mean so little, or is it the headiness of power that obscures the basic intelligence of such people?

I know only this that as a citizen and as a woman, I feel betrayed one more time. The cowardly stance of a politician who so openly can defraud the faith of those who needed protection the most is one who does not deserve my respect. Dalits have been oppressed and treated with utter disrespect by the Khaps; women and men killed brutally in the name of honour: and yet here stands this young man, all dressed in the politicians trade mark emblematic crisp white uniform in the rivers of blood of others, defending the archaic laws that no democratic constitution will ever uphold. And his party stands silently watching; issuing a statement to only distance themselves but doing nothing to shut him up. Yet MP Jairam Ramesh gets his knuckles wrapped for speaking out of turn!

I suppose what do a few lives lost in violence, matter to the conscience of Navin Jindal. The bright lights of power are focused squarely on him. Poor boy, no wonder it blinds his vision so completely!