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SEVEN years, 25,000 paintings. That’s the treasure trove of spectacular art work Clint left for his parents and the world.
If there was one thing he couldn’t do without, it was colour. He lived, literally, only so he could paint. The prodigy was blessed in a way only some of nature’s most gifted humans are. His skills, effortless strokes, medium and perception were all in the league of master artists. To add to his amazing story, none of it was acquired. It only built up as a creative storm within him, threatening to engulf, maybe even drown him, if it didn’t find quick release on canvas. His doting parents did all they could to nourish his voracious appetite for colours. His father would bring used sheets from office while his mother would patiently let him be, as he went about painting the walls of the house in all conceivable hues. But their happy world would come apart following a brief illness that struck Clint, but whose prognosis was all but accurate. A progressive kidney infection confined Clint in body. In spirit, he wouldn’t give in. He drew till his last breath, finding peace in his creations. From Clint’s responses, it seemed he knew his death was imminent. It was a matter of time. When he collapsed, and they thought they’d lost him, he regained consciousness for a short while. His last words were: “It’s nothing, mummy… I might suddenly fall asleep. I might not wake up when you call me… I’m just sleeping. Please don’t be sad, mummy… please don’t cry.” That Clint would have grown to be a celebrated artist is without doubt. His refrain would have been similar to what arthritis-ridden French Impressionist artist Renoir responded when asked why he still painted if it hurt him so much — “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.” Clint was meant to achieve greater heights. He would have, but for his life cut short by tragic quirk of fate. Ammu Nair’s narrative is superlative. What Clint did with his paintings, Ammu does with her story. And that’s what makes it a perfect tribute — only a dreamy, sensitive storyteller could have told the story of the little master so tenderly and poetically. His story could not have been told in a better way. The book is a rich canvas of words and colour all the way through. Reading it would make you grow in many ways and see life and nature Clint’s way. And there’s heartache. You miss little Clint, like he was your very own.
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Born in Kochi in 1983, Clint (his father named him after Clint Eastwood), the only child of his parents, discovered his passion for drawing when he barely began to crawl. What made the toddler Clint haul his tiny frame up against the wall was his need to reach for a plain surface that hadn’t been covered by his masterful strokes to fill it with his drawings once more.