Artist and writer Anuradha Nalapat, using her personal observations as a key attempts to capture the dynamics between art history writing and the actual creation of works of art. She argues that the history exists for the artist and not the artist exists for art history.
The language of the Art historian and the language of the artist; how is it possible that there exists a long bridge between them? Why is there a huge gap in understanding each other? The two seem to be having a symbiotic relationship and the subject they are dealing with is the same; then why the distance?
Art is basically simple, how can it not be? It is just a slice of life the artist has lived through and then understood. That is, if he is capable of distancing himself from the experience endured; and to look upon it in amusement as a child does his new toy. Then, if he has understood the experience and if he has the talent, he brings it forth. (Difficulties in expression arise when he encounters the so called rules of the game and when he tries to get ahead of himself.) So how does the language that is used to unravel this simple expression become so complicated? The reason could be that life is complex; hence its expression is also complex; and therefore the interpretation is complex. Or the interpreter of life is complex, because his gaze is complex.
Now, before we strip the stubborn gaze, let us consider the fact that the artist and the historian are both children of the same mother pig. But remember; “mother pig sent them off when they were old enough with their knapsacks in search of their own ways.” The three little pigs traveled together up to M.G Rd junction; and from there, one went this way, one went that way, and one the other way. That’s what the crisis is about; different paths leading to the same. Quite like religion.
The historian being true to his profession, traveled externally, traversing the magical world of the written word, where the word remains a feeble attempt to capture the uncapturable. The artist, true to his search, dived inward in search of the elusive soul. One went in, the other went out. One found the answer in the stillness of mountains; in the network of branches of trees that resemble the life line of arteries and veins in the human body and in the insurmountable ‘flow’ of water- the river of life. Strange, whether you go in or out, you actually encounter the same. Shut your eyes or open it and you still see the same qualities of mountains, trees and water. The artist sometimes sees the very same stillness of the mountains in his soul; at times he sees the intricate web of trees and at times his soul simply flows like water. Hopefully both will realize that there’s no ‘in’ or ‘out’; only the ever fluid movement of going somewhere…
But ‘The gaze’ filters it and sees say, “Landscapes”, not the giant leap from rigid mind structures into the fluidity of nature and the self. Looking at such landscapes, nothing arises in the viewer; no questions that bubble from a hot spring of discontent. And if no questions arise in an age ripe with questioning and in times driven by the power of thought; if there’s no room for thought; then what is the picture worth? This is the thick filter ‘the gaze’ operates through. One is so used to thought/movement; to muck; that one is lost without it and cannot recognize stillness.
Both, historian and artist, had the same aim; to unravel the network of thoughts and emotions (Gaze) and view the larger picture which is the source of freedom. This stripping of the gaze is the journey we indulge in. This is what art is about; what spirit actualization is about; what good old life is about. The excavation tool largely used by the artist is his intuition. It is possible that the art historian relies more on books and indirect experiences to unravel the mystery of art and life; instead of relying on his own journey. (Probably due to his training) Are these theories anointed in print applicable to the artist’s or for that matter, the historian’s journey?
The art historian gazes into a painting and says that since the artist has chosen to share the picture; since he/she has chosen the gaze; he must also accept the interpretations that come with it. This view comes from a long standing training imparted; and the temptation which leads one to delve into Art history pages for an explanation or an understanding of the images in a painting is the aftermath.
The artist must accept the interpretations (if that is the right word) of his images’ place in history; its origin traced back through history pages from the way it appears and behaves or probably transacts. It will help the artist see his perspective and make him aware of his personal little footstool from where he comfortably chooses to be seen and heard. This view will serve to free the artist; free him from his own gaze.
The artist does not need to know history to paint. He paints his own history and there is none other that he needs to paint. He discovers history through his own history! If he has the capacity to paint his history; then his history is everybody‘s history- universal.
Most of the time the artist is dragged through the historians’ gaze into an alien maze of symbols and images that are not his. He is not worthy of their comparison because he has not known them personally. As an artist, he delves into the self; (mine and yours) intuitively dives into the deep reservoir of the self and brings out the treasure he has found- old symbols and images which have already taken their rightful place in history books. Images may be interpreted and traced back and he needn’t be granted the image/symbol; but he should be granted the joy of sighting. That is the moment of creation; that is his alone.
That’s all there is to it- the joy of the first sighting; the joy of the first love; the joy of the first drops of rain after a drought. Every experience thereafter is always diluted by the gaze. Why hanker to take away the experience with references and comparisons to previous rainfalls? Why build the bridge with references and comparisons from history? Can we accept the possibility that in the process of a painting coming into being; in the process of unraveling and traveling the path of intuition, history book images slide off the skin, untouched?
Grant that the artist is discovering an image for the first time in himself, without the crutches of prior knowledge gained from books. Then why do we dip into dead pages of books when reality stares in our face? Living the experience or image is not only different from knowledge gained from books; but it also takes time. We forget that living through an experience or an image is an event that fulfills itself through time- Sometimes two, sometimes six months; a year; and at times in a day! After that, and only after that, can an artist begin to go beyond the experience. But time (we) is running these days! Where is it running? Ahead of its own self!?
Meanwhile, the art historian does not necessarily live the images his eyes are watching. He’s learnt about them. He can trace its appearance in history and he knows its place in the unending carnival of myths. He is knowledge incarnate; he is the larger eye observing from outside; and the artist plays the role of the smaller eye; actually living the image as and when it arises in his life. He has no idea about its positioning in history or mythology. All he knows is that right now it is in his living room! Right now it is reality for him; and only after chewing the cud will he be able to see and understand its place in history.
You may ask then, isn’t the artist a part of history? Can he be a separate entity; can he be granted bail? Yes, the artist is a part of history; but he needn’t be aware of the history; and it is only through living his own self that he shall discover the world’s history; not the other way around. It is in fact the only way possible; through the individual. In that sense, No, the artist is not part of history, but history is part of him. The artist cannot separate himself from the identities that history is built upon. But his sighting must be hailed and separated from the seen image. Traveling in or out, in search of identities; i.e. in the process of stripping the gaze (both artist’s and historians) the inside becomes a mirror to the outside, and vice versa. So let’s train our gaze, not unto the artist or the historian, but unto the movement…
These questions put forth do not aim to protect or separate the artist from history. It only tries to shift ones focus from searching for the answers in history books. The validity of these theories used to judge a painting, becomes mere identities of the historian in the long run, and are suspect; probably as suspect as the artists reliance on his feelings and emotions, which in turn are just his identities passed down over the ages.
In dealing with such complex situations, intuition comes to the rescue of the artist. You could call it by whatever name you want, but basically it is a voice in your head, or perhaps heart. Intuition being the voice of the self, following it might be the right thing for the self. Intuition by itself is a pointer, a sign board with an arrow pointing in a direction. That’s about all that can be said about it. If you ask, does it lead to the truth? It leads, yes, to the truth of the moment. And why bother about the so called larger truth when the truth of the small moment is not yet tackled. (Somebody said, “God is in the details.) Also never mind whose truth it is, yours or mine, but the fact is that it has always opened the right doors.
Here in this small space, truth or freedom is ours in the blink of an eye; and most importantly one must believe in it. Believe that what was just tasted is accessible at all times. One must constantly remember the taste of freedom; and go on remembering until it comes to rest in us naturally. And once we have tasted freedom from a mind construct, we would want more and more, until unfortunately, we turn that hunger too into yet another construct; yet another identity to seek freedom from. And thus proceeds the grand cycle of life we are both participating in.
So here we are, trotting on different paths in different garbs, leading to the same. Our identities are not under threat. Ironically, we are fighting the same battle of the sinister gaze.
We feel safe when we are able to clearly say that we have taken this path called ‘A’. There’s a sense of security embedded in that belief when in reality there is no inner or outer; no A or B. There’s only one single movement towards fulfilling a desire that presents itself at that particular moment in time. The belief that we’re traveling the right road grants us the courage to continue this lonely unraveling. We seem to need crutches; beliefs; to give ourselves wonderful experiences; to even grant ourselves courage. We need the crutch of a beautiful dress, to make us feel ‘good’, a wise man to grant us wisdom, a guru to guide us and to believe that god (or something) loves us. First the crutch of guru, then the crutch of ‘God loves me’, in order for us to believe that we can love ourselves! We endure the crutch of rituals so that we may believe that there’s a way out of misery; that evil is ousted and good prevails; only goodness. (Hangover of movies?)
We like middlemen in all walks of life. Through him our prayers will be granted; through him our produce will be marketed and there is no other way. We fear we might get exploited but what’s the choice? We prefer to not have the choice than to trust. We nurture doubts and we like leaning for support; we like to avoid one, and lean on the other. So we avoid doubt and lean on trust or vice versa. We lean on a sign or a good omen, in order to believe in the existence of god. The fact that we’re alive and breathing right now is not proof enough for us. These attitudes, judgments and fears passed down through history/memory is what the gaze/bridge is made up of. Hopefully this is not what our art is made of.
The sighting of the bridge calls for a dismantling of the bridge and a merger of the two entities- the gaze and the gazed. In fact the very knowledge of the presence of the bridge should suffice in actually melting the bridge. As it melts, the art historian and the artist fall into each others laps! What emerges is the recognition of an intensely individual, and hence a universal perspective of both our journeys. The more individual the outlook, the more universal it is. Again, the very calling it a ‘journey’ brings a wide gap to be dealt with because of the weight of the meanings’ implied in the word ‘journey’. It sounds weighty and suspiciously spiritual. Probably the word ‘movement’ will be less threatening and apt. lt should serve to do justice to our explorations and our realizations; for it only lightly suggests the opposite of stagnation and death! It is harmless as it just talks of the joy of growth in both our lives. The poor word is harmless; thank god it need not be perceived as a potential threat!
When we now turn our attention to the ‘movement ‘we are part of, we see that it is about moving ’in’ and ‘out’. Moving with the opposites; with yes and no; with plus and minus; life and death.
After all, we have all played in our childhood, the game called ‘in the pond, out the pond’. One person says in, out; in, in, in; out, out, out; or in, out, in, and the others jump in or out of the pond which is a line on the floor! The same game is religiously played whether one is 50, 60 or 70 years of age. When the pigs are little, the game is called ‘in the pond, out the pond’. When they’re grown up it is called ‘inward’ and ‘outward’ journey. This is the movement we indulge in; the pendulum swinging constantly; moving in and out of life; prey to the opposites and the duality that reigns over us. The line that separates us or the bridge that separates is hypothetical like the line of Equator or Cancer that passes through the earth. These are lines drawn by us to make it convenient for our studies on the subject. We forget its purpose; which was ease in navigation; easy to understand and easy living. Instead we believe it to be real, quite like religious symbols; quite like our numerous gods meant to be symbols of an inner space; an inner possibility.
After it has served its purpose, the lines must be erased at least from our minds.
The world around is collapsing; or probably, let’s hope it’s really not the world around that’s collapsing, but the bridges; the gaze, not just in art, but in all our transactions.
