Sunday ka Funda

"Most days it feels as if the world is whirling around me and I am standing still. In slow motion, I watch the colors blur; people and faces all become a massive wash."
- Sarah Kay

When I posted the sidebar image, I also found another one by Henri Matisse called Still Life with Dance. I was immediately struck, not so much by the painting as by the title. Dance is movement and fluidity; still life is, well, still. How and why did they come together.

I have been looking at it frequently, and the more I look the more I find the dance to be still and the still objects to appear moving. The flowers  seem to almost quiver, and the fruits glisten with new dew.

Naturally, then, I'd say the same about all that happens in life too. The moving and the static can interchange at any time.

Umbrellas under the sky

The umbrellas are out, and the city weather is such that they only serve as accoutrement. Mumbai rains are more about tarpaulin sheets as awnings; water collected in little pools is muddy, dirty. Yet, there is something uplifting about grey skies and a downpour. I know this is a luxury only those who have homes and windows can afford. I know that newspaper pictures showing slum kids enjoying the rains are really about the water they rarely get to see. I know.

Back in the days, it was the mother of one such kid who sheltered me from sudden showers. I was walking to school, and had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to carry an umbrella. While raincoats were bad enough, umbrellas too conveyed a need for playing safe that my new teenage mind was naturally not inclined to. I stood beneath a tree as the downpour continued. She worked as a sweeper at the school. Hesitant at first (we are a casteist society), she finally asked, “Aaogi (will you come)?” Of course! In the seven-minute walk, she took care to cover me even as her sari was getting drenched. I still remember her face.

A painting by Leonid Afremov

I like faces under umbrellas – they look vulnerable, especially if the brolly is a foldable one. These became fashionable accessories, the two-fold and later the three-fold. Unfurling they looked as though a camel was getting up. Occasionally, they caused embarrassment when they refused to open up or the button got stuck.

My uncle once gifted me a fuschia-coloured one. It was a regular ‘ladies umbrella’, and it always seemed as though one was blushing. The flush of youth, the carefree gait as though one owned the damp roads that reflected light.

A scene from 'Shri 420'

Romance and umbrellas have a history. Two people sharing an umbrella signals proximity, and also the whole drama of wetness, hair dripping, faces aglow, and the low hum. This scene from ‘Shri 420’ epitomises it. Raj Kapoor and Nargis singing, “Pyaar hua iqrar hua, pyaar se phir kyon darta hai dil…(There is love, and an admission of it, yet why is the heart so afraid of it)” Perhaps because like the showers, there is no “manzil” (destination)?

Chaplin used the umbrella for other reasons

The large black umbrella is ubiquitous in the streets. They may come in different varieties, but the sturdy one with the curved handle stands for the person who has nothing to gain and nothing to lose. It was there is R.K.Laxman’s cartoons of the common man. And it is there in Chaplin, the tramp, the guy who does not think about winning or losing, and bumbles his way through life that is often slippery. And slip he does, rain or no rain. It also acts as a crutch, something to hold on to when things go a little wrong or one’s own resolve is a bit shaky.

The black stands out against the mélange of colours, not only of other umbrellas but also of the shades that dot the Indian landscape, from paan spit to dead flowers, to neon clothes, to kitschy posters.

Umbrella tree - street art

This piece of street art is not Indian, but such a fine tribute to the umbrellas that have been a part of my monsoons. Some were lost or got stolen as they stood propped up outside stores or in buckets…and some just closed themselves on me.

© Farzana Versey

In-Visible

They are everywhere. Hidden men. Hidden women. But if they are hidden, how are they visible?

When I read about traces of a bearded man, wearing a bow-tie, his chin resting on his hand, that was found in Pablo Picasso's 'The Blue Room' my first thought was that it was a mind trick. I still believe so, despite expert analysis. Is that a fairy in the clouds, or are feathers flying from pillows in the sky? Sand dunes look like women in repose, and try splitting a flower into two.

If blood flowing from the veins of a Christ image is a miracle, why is Picasso's work seen as a superimposition of one painting over another? If you look at the woman bathing, you might see other images — of touch, of gaze, of remnants. Beneath the skin there is a lot that is hidden.

Think about the hidden man and what it could mean as part of this painting. He might be watching her as she pours water. But he looks bored. And why is he dressed up? Is this a salon for men of leisure to slake their thirst, as water dribbles over body?

I am aware that he is not in the frame. They never are. Hidden men. Nobody draws them, or draws them in. They are scrawled over.

There are other paintings in the painting, there is a vase with flowers, a window. Different pictures. They are visible. The moment the invisible was noticed it took over, captured the imagination. 'The Blue Room' is now about the hidden man, the brushstrokes that covered him, who he could be and what he might have meant.

For me, he represents what the woman triumphed over. Can't you see her cleansing herself? Blue was Picasso's low phase, but the lady and her hidden treasure of emotions are best expressed in her nudity that reveals so much that her secrets ricochet off blank walls and imprint her belly.

She too becomes the hidden woman. Born.

--

© Farzana Versey

The Artful Dodgers

If a celebrity sells a refrigerator to an Eskimo, it will be sold. We see this often in our society pages. So, why is it surprising if a painting by West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee goes for Rs. 1.8 crore?

Narendra Modi landed up in Kolkata for the BJP campaign and alleged:

"Your (Mamata) paintings used to be sold for Rs. 4 lakh, Rs. 8 lakh or Rs. 15 lakh, but what is the reason that one of your paintings sold for Rs. 1.80 crore. I respect art. But who was the person who bought the painting for Rs. 1.80 crore?"

The reason for his interest in art is, of course, to score political points. In this case, "the multi-crore Saradha ponzi scam". Sudipta Sen, the key accused, said, "I didn't buy the Chief Minister's painting."

A couple of points:

• Is there also a check on those who act as decoys for such deals? Does the reputation of a buyer matter?

• If it is alleged that this is illegal money, then all parties take donations that are not all above-board.

• The Trinamool Congress (TMC) maintains that all payments for the paintings are taken by cheque, and used for social service activities.

• In January last year, at Kolkata Town Hall, Ms. Banerjee did exhibit her works for polls:

The entire amount which will be raised from this exhibition will be used to run campaign of the Trinamool Congress for the ensuing panchayat elections.

The Election Commission is being called upon to intervene in such cases now and is wasting its time. If there was indeed such a transaction, it is not possible to keep tabs if some of the money was paid in cash. And certainly no party can take a moral position on this.

The TMC's Derek O'Brien repeated his bluster, seeing how his 'bravery' is appreciated by social media activists:

"Blood is still fresh in the hands of the butcher of Gujarat. If he makes personal attacks against (TMC chief) Mamata Banerjee, we can also ask tough questions."

Why is it a quid pro quo? Why hasn't the party asked those questions before their leader was the target of personal attacks? This personality cult stinks. The riots and killings are well-documented. A bunch of people capitalise on them only when it suits their politics.

Memories are evanescent. Or, perhaps, agenda-driven. If you hate Modi, forget Mamata Banerjee's track record in Singur, in rape cases, in dislocating villagers, in censoring, in not permitting any criticism of her?

This is what passes for liberal analysis.

© Farzana Versey