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Pull of the picture
HIS abhorrence for food is familiar. The frail, thin frame belying the intense, intrinsic stamina is familiar. The passion for painting in place of eating gives me butterflies in the stomach. The extremely frequent sulky pout, temper tantrums and the seldom-seen-but-heart-warming smile also have the feel of deja vu about them. The lavish, generous expending of energy quite out of harmony with the frugal energy intake is in tune with the rest of his personality. Bent double on the floor, sketch-pen busily working on the white of the paper while all the rest sit and partake of their meal.. he reminds me, quite unhappily, of myself. I examine his sketches and drawings carefully whenever he is magnanimous enough to part with them long enough for me to have a quick perusal. There is much to be said, as far as my subjective opinion is concerned, about his wild, untamed works, the resounding spontaneity of a direct attack on paper communicating an endearing honesty, shorn of any designer frills. I get the impression of having an X-ray vision into the inside of a yet immature plant and see the final growth of what can be possibly termed as "art". Recently, his two older picture-maker friends have started coming with home. He heroine-worships the older of the two, and loves the younger male buddy. The three of them work together to make a cosy picture. In contrast to what I have seen in his drawings, the girl’s pictures are very peaceful naturescapes.. colourful and harmonious.. cool and soothing. The older boy is innovative and original. Quite possibly, sturdy art material. I take a look at the third
drawing and my heart almost stops beating. The influence of his heroine
has stamped itself on his originality. In trying to make his works look
like those of his friend, I see tremulous, intrusive clouds of peace
trying to waft into a surcharged atmosphere of an almost certain violent
flight between two skeletal forms. |
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I see a colourful little house on grass, standing still and solid in a raging storm. His normal blue and green suns have given way to the standard red. It shines unconcernedly with the moon, in sharp incongruity to the lashing wet gray winds. I like the first two drawings, and I wish I had the courage to point out the error in the third one... But I am already my six-year old nephew’s least-favourite aunt for always being bluntly honest.. Who wants to incur his wrath by speaking the truth for the umpteenth time? I think, selfishly, that I would rather he liked me.. In any case, I am the last one to put him on the thorn-strewn path that is almost pre-destined for all those stubborn specimens of humanity, who will and can be nothing but artists.. I observe, feeling the pain in my blistered feet. I rather nurse this wistful ambition that he will be a doctor or a hi-tech corporate employee, or even perhaps a computer whiz-kid... Yet, there is this suspicious pricking at the back of my eyes as he picks up a fourth sheet of paper and attacks it after the departure of his friends... A skeletal hand is emerging from a corner of the sheet.. a broken house rocks precariously on a pair of dancing feet... and a green sun showers blue twisted flowers into the broken chimney of a rocking house... |
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