FEELING GREY...OR SHOULD IT BE THE USUAL 'BLUE'

Have been feeling grey since the last two days. Mucky kind of grey. ‘The Gift of the Magi’-sixth paragraph-kind of grey. Not good at all. And all this for a couple of people I will very likely never meet in my life again. No matter how much I keep my fingers crossed, hope still slips away through the paper-thin gaps between my crooked fingers. I will never meet them again. One is Mrs. Perth. She is leaving Sarnia for good. Home beckons, and so there has been a flurry of dinners and farewells and coffee-sessions. She was the one to welcome me with a tub of gardenias, moving on with time to give me books and magazines and contacts but what I will remember most about her is that she tried. She tried so tirelessly, so unfailingly for me, trying for me even when I had stopped.

The other Sarnia institution I will so dearly miss is Gregory Peck. Handsome, grumpy, never one to learn the spelling of my name, never reluctant to incite the feminist in me, too set in his ways, too gentlemanly Gregory Peck. My ultimate Hollywood hero. Seeing him leave has left a void which can hardly be filled because whoever’s, destiny it shall be to fill it, he/she has a tall task ahead. Gregory came up to my flat on Monday evening to say goodbye. He has given me two books to read and throw away. I know I will keep them forever, in memory of a time that will never come back, in defiance of a time that will never permit that we meet Gregory again. I don’t know whether I will ever go to Ireland, to Galway or Dublin but I know in the deepest recesses of my mind and in the core of my heart, that every time I will ever read Yeats’ love poems celebrating Maud Gonne, every time I will ever walk in my mind, in the by-lanes of Joyce’s Dublin and every time I will ever go fishing in Synge’s Aran Islands, it will be with a very special friend, Gregory. I wish we could let him know adequately, how much we have grown fond of him, how much we will miss him, how his old-world Irish-ness has rubbed off on us, how much he will always remind us of vintage wine and rainy-afternoon classics, how special and rare he is because he is old wine in an old bottle. We love you, Gregory. And no matter, how hopeless hopelessness can be, we hope that someday, we shall meet again, good, old neighbours and even better, good, old friends.

Until then, Sarnia will not be the same.

AD-LIB

Interesting. Very interesting. The divorce rate in Poland is very high. However, this is hardly interesting. What is is the fact that during the communist years the rate was rather low. Ask why? Arre baba, divorce hoyega to ghar chorke kahan jayega?? One flat per family. No place to move out to, so stay put and stay married. This reminds me of a line I read somewhere, 'I am dead but I am home.'

AND NOW...THE CONTEMPORARY ARTISTS

The first image uploaded here is of a painting that I absolutely love. It is a photorealist portrait named 'Lesende' by Gerhard Richter.

The second one below it, on the left is 'Kathryn's Pasttime' by Joseph Ogle.

The one to its right is 'Girl with Cat' by Merle Keller.

The next four images are of paintings by the American artist, Karen Cooper. I love them. They are called 'A Paperback-Novel Kind of Day', 'Reading in a Red Dress', 'Amantes Dispuetos' and 'Elementary School Readers', respectively.

The next is an image of a painting called 'The Reader' by the American oil painter who uses the 'verdaccio' technique of the old masters, Roger Ehmpke.

The next one is an image of a painting by Mark Sasha and is called 'The Beach Reader' .
The one following it is by Sheri Lynn Boyer Doty.

The next one is by Felicia Marshall and is called 'The Reader in Red'. Felicia incidentally blogs and her blog is called 'An Artist's Journal: Daily Paintings'.

The last image in this post, way below, is of a painting by Margaret Harris. I uploaded it here because though it looks very different from the others here, I found it rather cute.

READERS AND READING IN PAINTINGS

Since I claim to be an avid reader, I thought of looking up some paintings of my favourite painters, both European masters and more contemporary American and European artists who have portrayed readers or/and the act of reading in their paintings. I choose to upload quite a few of my favourite paintings in this post just so I can look at them, all in the same place without running a google search on the painters everytime I want some aesthetic pleasure. I will not upload them in chronological order. However, I do intend to group the masters and the contemporary artists separately in two separate posts.

The first painting is by Van Gogh and is called 'The Novel Reader'.
The second one also called 'The Novel Reader' (1853) is by Antoine Wiertz.
The third is a Monet, simply named like so many others, 'The Reader'.
The fourth is a Renoir.
The fifth is the 1880 painting by Anton Weber and is called (no surprises) 'The Reader'.
I currently have no information on the sixth one that I have uploaded but will have to look that one up.
The next one is the 1631 oil on panel by Rembrandt called 'The Prophetess, St. Hannah'. It also has a second title called 'Rembrandt's Mother'.
The young girl in yellow is 'The Reader', an oil on canvas in the style of the Rococo period by Jean Honore Fragonard (c. 1770-72).
The last one uploaded here is interesting on two accounts. First, because it is also referred to as 'Rembrandt's Mother' apart from being called "Reading Old Woman' and secondly, because this one shows in great detail what the old woman is reading.
My favourite contemporary artists will take all the space in my next post.

WHERE TROUBLES MELTED LIKE LEMON DROPS

We were having this conversation the other day about growing up in the 80s in middle-class Bengali families and it was so comforting to discover that the children of the 80s had certain common features in their lives that locked them together in a very special bond. Darby and I set out to recall what bound us together though we were unaware of each other's existence then and two unforgettable memories came up tops.

1) Our love for 'Camlin Flora' and 'Apsara Beauty' pencils,the first all white with pink flowers spiralling up and down as you twirled one in your chubby hand; the other mysterious, dark, alluring, evocative of power with its glistening black body and its flaming red blob on the top. I do admit that their names were as cocky as they can get. For some odd reason such pencils were never bought for us. Perhaps they were more expensive than the boring red-and-black striped 'Nataraj' pencils that we got, rationed and doled out to us, even as we broke them, lost them or schemed to lose them in order that we may be given the priceless floral 'Camlin Flora' or the attitude-flaunting black 'Apsara'.

2) Our love for 'Gold Spot',...our liquid desire for all things twisted, tangerine and tangy. O what divine pleasure the mere thought of being allowed to buy one only once in a blue moon! As children we could only hope for 'Limca', the lesser of the two evils but 'Gold Spot' was a big no-no for it was supposed to be detrimental to our oral hygiene, our overall health. But, if we were really lucky, if we had not pestured our Moms to distraction, we would sometimes, on liquid gold summer afternoons, win the prized bottle of liquid gold. I can still see ourselves,my friends and I, chubby little kids, mothers' little cherubs, sipping at our drinks, gleefully aware that with each sip, our tongues would change colour. What fun then to stick them out at each other, comparing whose was the tangier. Though occasionally we pined for a bottle of 'Thums Up', that was truly off limits,...bottles of carbonated pleasure for thirsty adult souls. I remember how while playing I once pretended to be the grown up sophisticate, pouring 'Thums Up' into a tumbler and believing for a brief playful moment that it was my glass of wine.

Those were the days, my friends, of living with minor childhood deprivations, of crying into fluffy pillows for requests turned down, and of occasionally waking up to find some long forgotten wish fulfilled. We are a humbler, happier generation for we know the pleasures that a mammoth fifty rupees can buy. We are children of no lesser God and our childhood of frocks and 'check-shirts'... a place from long ago where troubles melted like lemon drops.

THE BONG CONNECTION

The incident that I will now recall took place two Saturdays ago. Darby and I had been invited to a party at Polish Doll’s place. She lives in a pre-War apartment and I cannot even begin to relive what I felt going up the stairs of a little piece of history. But that is not what this post is about. After a lot of drinking and dancing to Bollywood numbers that I do not even remember, a few of us decide to head towards Łodz Kaliska. It is a Saturday night and the place is teeming with the sloshed and the not-so sloshed gyrating to European chartbusters. Nothing is short of fever pitch. Darby and Joan make their way towards a corner and take their seats. Foot-tapping continues as Darby and Joan spot a couple of guys whose features betray that they are from the sub-continent. Darby and Joan have been spotted too. The guys come forward. Here’s the brief conversation that took place between the two pairs.

Guy 1: Are you from India?

Darby: Yes. And you?

Guy 1: From Bangladyash. Where from in India?

Darby: Kolkata.
.
Guy 2: Arre Dada (Brother), Bengali?

Darby and Joan: Yes, Dadas (Brothers), Bengali.

Guy 1: Kotodin bhalo maach khaini, Dada. (Haven’t had some good fish in a long time,
Brother)

Darby: Arre Dada, she katha ar bolben na. (Oh Brother, don’t even remind me of this.)

Guy 2 (referring to Joan): Apnar bandhobi? (Is she your girlfriend?)

Darby (Grinning from ear to ear): Hyan kintu abar stree-o bote. He, he, he… (Yes, but
she’s also my wife. He, he,he...)

Guy 2 (hesitantly): Dada, ekkhan katha boli…kisu mone korben na. Ehane prosur maiya, kintu amago Boudi shobseye shundor! ( Brother, let me tell you something...please don't mind. there are lots of girls here but our Sister-in-law is the most beautiful!)

The conversation stops abruptly as a sozzled Polish beauty, doubly drunk, what with the music and the atmo, chooses to come and sit on Joan’s lap. Ouch!!!

O bother, my Brother!

NEIGHBOURHOOD TRUTHS

I have been in the silent zone for no other reason except that I am neck deep in hedonism, living my version of the perfect sybaritic life. Reading, travelling, watching films, socialising, wining, dining, appreciating good looking women and even better looking men, clubbing, pubbing, jamming…the works. You name it and Joan has been doing it.

My White Mughal showed us ‘There Will Be Blood’ and I realized the movie was from the same year that had another movie with blood in its name—‘Blood Diamond’. Wedged between Gregory and Mrs. Perth, I felt like I was watching Doordarshan with Mom and Dad on either side. The evening had rambled on and I was crestfallen. However, thankfully for me, now that I am in a different frame of mind altogether ever since I left Kolkata, Brit tragic hero and I seem to have struck up an unspoken arrangement, taking frivolous flirtation to a new level altogether. Let’s consider what happened yesterday. While returning from an absolutely gorgeous walking tour which deserves some space…but later on, Darby and I came face to face with him. I don’t exactly look dainty anymore but it takes a sensitive Englishman to appreciate beauty even in spare tyres. I had some wild flowers in my hand including a pretty yellow one that I do not know the name of. And immediately, Brit tragic hero comes up with, ‘Are they for me? Really?’ and I serenade, ‘uhmm, uhmm’, and we both gesticulate and shoo away a helpless Darby. I quite like the role reversal bit of it but there is nothing remotely intellectual about this little bit of drama played out under a huge chestnut tree. The discussions in Sarnia get more cerebral only after midnight perhaps when novelists and the advantage of their form of expression, or screenplay writing and its essential lack of latitude take over harmless and inane flirtations.

Let me give you two more examples of the inanities. English Babu tells us tales of how Polish students reel under the baggage of the English language in his class. Knowing their tendency to take down the words of the Anglo-Saxon lecturer as if they were part of the Delphic oracle, once he had chosen to flummox them with the line, ‘…and so when the Normans came they burned down the women and raped the churches’ and he succeeded! They had taken down his words and only after a couple of minutes managed to point out what turned out to be their own momentary lapse of reason. The inanities gain momentum when Irish Gregory joins us. I ask tragic hero, ‘…so tell me A, why haven’t you married?’ He shyly admits, ‘Not from a lack of trying’ and Gregory quips, ‘Why don’t you ask him why he does not have children and he’ll say the same…not from a lack of trying’. And so life goes on in Sarnia…