Amba | Towers

Adi Parva © Amruta Patil, 2012

While the circus continues elsewhere

The Rishis | Excerpt from Adi Parva © Amruta Patil, 2012

The Endless Areola Debate

Indian mythology shows us that a point is driven home with a disarming nudge, not by applying a club to someone’s head.

One needs to pick one’s causes. And when the corpus of work is as infinite as it is, infinitesimal in detail, you find yourself winnowing and sifting on a moment-to-moment basis. There was the matter of areolas, for example. The areolas of apsaras, to be specific, and whether they should be depicted at the risk of a future book bonfire fuelled entirely on face value; or whether the areola ought to be covered in cascades of hair, safeguarding the book for the present, allowing the audience to be carried along to the next threshold, one of ideological concerns. Of such continuous, subtle manipulation is the work of a communicator made. Thin line between the editorial and the censorial. It is amply clear that in a country like India everything is as infinite as it is infinitesimal, in both rule and exception — life for upholders of the law must be an endless array of areola-debates — the latest, highly nebulous conversation about freedom of expression being among them.

The kind of ‘freedom of expression’ most people seek (and defend) could, in fact, be renamed ‘freedom to rant’. Which means, “I will say what I want to say, whether you are listening or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether you understand or not, whether it interests you or bores you to tears.” A legitimate demand, of course, and one that must be served — as long as one doesn’t count on there being any audience. Interestingly, the people who rain down on the ranter’s parade are the yin to their yang, complementary match on the colour wheel, their perfect counterpart on the other side of the wall. The ranter’s opponent, it turns out, is also a ranter — often strident, sometimes retired, with ample time to file (and follow up on) court cases. “I will oppose you whether I fully understand you or not, whether I have read your work or not, whether your enquiry is genuine or not, whether you have homework in place or not, whether I have my homework in place or not.”

Two disclaimers we know too well, but must remind ourselves about anyway: 1. Entrepreneurs who put a gag on freedoms are almost never ‘the masses’. The masses keep it real and close to home; have little time to visit gallery, literary fest or bookshop; and even lesser time to harbour deep-seated resentment of the sort that will turn into sticks and stones that break people’s bones. My aunt in Vikhroli, for example, has been known to hold a grudge or two, but it is seldom ideological. She is the 99.99 %

2. Artists who really don’t give a deuce about what people think of their work normally do not share it except in personal journals, or on the walls of their cave. Let us not fool ourselves; there’s nothing humble about wanting to broadcast oneself in a public space (which is okay, because a healthy sense of self does facilitate a bunch of things). In the same breath, there is nothing egalitarian about art — never was, never will be. This business of a paintbox in every room, and a podium for every human being is historically unprecedented. Historically, art has been commissioned for extremely specific reasons, for extremely strategic (and mostly elite) audiences. If you are going to go Lowest Common Denominator and suspend yourself publicly from a windmill, the least you can do is come dressed to deal with a draught of cold air on your derrière. Someone’s going to love the work, someone’s going to choke on it — and make whatever choking sounds they want to make, while they’re at it.

Marge Piercy summarised it tidily in the poem For The Young Who Want To: “You have to like (the work) better than being loved.” A small percentage of people come to the freedom of expression debate with higher stakes, sometimes a body of thought and work behind them. They are, bless their lion hearts, beacons of light on a horizon of bleakness: social commentator, educator, activist, agent of change; and they’re understandably reluctant to be pushed to the wall by someone whose only argument is, “Nya nya nya nya nya! Not listening! Go talk to the Hand that is Clause 2 of Article 19(1)(a) of the Indian Constitution.”

There used to be the fine tradition of shaastraarth, where people of different points of view gathered, not to pluck one another’s teeth and eyelashes out, but to discuss and clarify ideas. The obvious drawback of shaastraarth is that it presupposes that the people engaging in it are equals. If that weren’t logistically hard enough to arrange, they must be equals who have the time and inclination to listen, reflect and return to the discussion; and not be hastily moderated into 15-second sound byte gunshots for live television.

Rather than lamenting the predictable woes of the gagged, it is worth rowing to the other shore of freedom of expression. It is known as the Responsibility to Say Things in Such a Way That People Actually Understand What The Fuck You Are On About. School teachers know exactly what this is: the great and terrifying responsibility of standing in front of 50 fidgeting children, wanting every one of them to lend you their ears and minds willingly. If your job is that of a guide, you had better speak in a language your wards understand, and you had better have it in you to beguile them into staying awake. Oh yes, it’s a hard job, charming the socks off people. Lot harder than the job of stuffing them into a sack and sitting atop it so they won’t wiggle.

Mythologist Devdutt Pattanaik made an astute observation about how, every time we open our mouths, what spills out is the language of war and violence. We lapse into it unquestioningly, while speaking of the most innocuous things: deadline, crossfire, shellshock, ammo, siege, blitzkrieg, cutting edge, annihilate, decimate. Slapping a lawsuit on someone, crushing opposition, thrashing out the matter, going for the kill. If it’s a battle we anticipate around every corner, it’s worth holding onto one of the Top 50 Latin phrases in an IB student’s checklist of impressive devices: Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges. In times of war, the laws fall silent. If it’s a battlefield you’re traversing, rest assured you won’t get what’s rightfully yours until something’s bleedy or dead. Freedom of expression will be casualty #1. You may be casualty #2.

There is an occupational hazard with my work: one can’t stop bleating in parables. Myth is the lens through which the world is processed. And it isn’t as simplistic a lens as the children of Logos would presume. (On the contrary, some of the most passionate connoisseurs of the Indian myth I have met are not fellow artists, but people in the fold of law, policy-making, business). The Indian subcontinent is one of those rare places where old stories weren’t effaced when a new regime brought in new lore. The mythology that exists, thus, is truly distilled from the wisdom of the multitude. Far beyond the purview of a single-author project. And it is this mythology that repeatedly urges one to make a switch from ranabhoomi to rangabhoomi, from battlefield to playing field. A sweeter terrain, where a point is driven home via disarming nudge, not by putting a club to someone’s head.

As someone who spent a better part of her youth harvesting gravitas and a patently useless burn-your-retina intensity, I’ve come to the playing field rather late. And I am grateful I made it here at all. In the lore I swim in, the headquarters are led by an androgyne with a permanent smile and a lotus growing out of his nombril. The only things there’s no room for in this multiverse are bores and bigots. The mad man on the fringes may have been laughed at, but he was never institutionalised — what if he were the wielder of some atypical crazy wisdom? The colour palette inside slowly changes. How could it but spread its vivid tint to the outside?

~
This essay appeared in Tehelka (February 18th 2012) as part of the ongoing freedom of expression debate. Image above from Adi Parva © Amruta Patil, 2012

Crucible

Work-in-progress from Adi Parva © Amruta Patil, 2012

रणभूमी या रंगभूमी? Battlefield or playing field? As former turns into latter, there's a cellular-level throb. 'Hope the mettle can withstand the heat, but if refractory material does crack, at least I'll have gone smiling. Choppy water turns gentle at the desk. I give thanks for all that enables.

Ethics, aesthetics

A friend introduced me to a quote that expresses the direction of effort:
"I've handled colour as a man should behave. You may conclude that I consider ethics and aesthetics as one." ~ Josef Albers

The Unblinking Hive

© Amruta Patil, 2011

Bismillah your old self | To find your real name.

Find the complete poem here.

Something like a website

http://amrutapatil.wordpress.com

Ganga enters this mortal coil

Adi Parva © Amruta Patil, 2011

The next sutradhar

"The mad man won't stop ranting. Do you want us to get rid of him?"

"He's no mad man. He's saner than the lot of you put together. And he will be your next threadbearer."
"Just look at him. Who will listen to his stories?"
"No one. That is the fate you must fight to avert: You won't have the good sense to stop and listen. But we run ahead of ourselves. The ground must be readied before you recognize what sane really looks like. The hard part is admitting that it may not look like you."

Suparna Garud

Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

Boatman Who Would Be Queen

Satyavati | Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

In Italia

FERRARA: 2nd October, 11:30 AM
'India, metropoli a strisce',
Sala Estense, Internazionale Festival

FIRENZE: 5th October, 6:00 PM
In conversation with Cinzia Zanfini
Florence University's Gallery Ganzo

Tabula rasa

Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

Every pearl in my paintings would be a prayer...
~ Kim Water (illustrator, 'Illuminations from the Bhagavad Gita')

Arjun's eye

'I must only warn you of one thing. You have become a different person in the course of these years. For this is what the art of archery means: a profound and far-reaching contest of the archer with himself. Perhaps you have hardly noticed it yet, but you will feel it strongly when you meet your friends and acquaintances in your own country: things will no longer harmonize as before. You will see with other eyes, measure with other measures. It has happened to me too, and it happens to all who are touched by the spirit of this art.'

~ from Eugen Herrigel's 'Zen in the Art of Archery'

O Sun, O Water, O Cow, O Herb

Durvas gave Indra a garland that would never wilt.
In a moment of insolence, he tossed it aside. | Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

15th July was Guru Poornima, day to honour the teacher. If I stand upright after that shaky start in Smog City (and all it brought), it is because of the grace of teachers. PT's early intervention about right occupation, attitude, speech. Rumi's lesson in loving the Shams-Sun with gentle, joyful abandon. Trungpa's luminous teaching about queenly posture and the warrior's path. Meera's fearlessness in the face of vicious, mocking others. Debroy/Doniger/ Ganguli's efforts in rowing Sanskrit texts to English shores, thereby opening a sealed vault for the rest of us. Kabir and Raashmi, real-time kalyanmitras who helped side-step muddy puddles. I give thanks for not being abandoned despite wandering off course so often.

Been reading Debroy's translation of the Vedas. The Vedas are eat-humble-pie bootcamp: Unclog thy miserly mouth, let praise flow for the worthy instead of flowing for those that mirror one's impoverished standards, or are only marginally better than oneself.

In an übercasual age when no one seems to merit appropriate posture or well-enunciated greeting from another; rivers of self-effacing praise are an absurdity and irritant. I am repeat-offender, having held onto a deluded view until recently: that beings who don't keep the Individual in solus position are like Stepford Wives. (Ironically, it is individualists that most often dismiss the Bodhisattva aspiration as being impossibly arrogant. Lofty goals being the irritant in this case, I suppose. Euthanize the unicorn. Desaturate the rainbow.)

Critical shift happened on being allowed to see that praising the Sun, Water, Cow, or Herb has nothing to do with pampering their sense of self; and everything to do with putting one's own touchy, bloated ego in its correct place - i.e, underground. Amn't doing anyone but myself a favour by learning to bow. The absurdity of imagining that the Sun has anything to gain from clumsy human odes and prostrations!

We have been busy accumulating solace. Make us afraid of how we were.
~ From Jalaluddin Rumi's 'The Core of Masculinity'

Malini

Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

Invisible hand that had put a stay on my painting has lifted for the present. Retaining pure colour palette needs continuous effort - just like avoiding distortion and ugliness do.

Disaffection: Musings on Sedition

First appeared in Himal Southasian © Amruta Patil 2011

Thank you Menaka Guruswamy for invaluable conversations and feedback.

Tat Savitur Varenyam

Sure enough, as amrit abandoned devlok, the tread of asurs started growing heavier and heavier. When they could escape the realisation no longer, Mount Meru grew crowded with penitent devas. | Adi Parva © Amruta Patil 2011

They Live

Obey, Consume, Conform, Stay Asleep: A still from the film

Inspite of (because of) modest budget, dubious acting, and skeletal-reptilian masks so terrible they transcend to awesome - James Carpenter's self-deprecating film manages message delivery of the sort the ruddy pumpkin brigade of Bollywood has never managed. Watch parts 1 through 10 of the film on Youtube.