I remember a space where I was asleep,

a space where my senses were asleep,

I remember a space where my senses were alive 

and the joy of seeing,

you see the sun more clearly,

you see the cloud more clearly,

the mountain more clearly,

more than you see your self.

You are still there.

I remember a space where you ‘are’ your senses,

You see the cloud clearly,

you see the sun clearly,

the mountain clearly,

as much as you see your self.

You are no more there.

As much of you that is there, that much of the cloud

isn’t there.

Here, it doesn’t matter what you paint,

everything is yours to paint,

from the tiny fly to the mighty mountain,

all the colors are yours to savour,

not a color too light, not a color too bright,

just perfect, as always, 

and every hue by virtue of being itself,

by virtue of not conforming, of being purposeless,

beholds a power unique to that time in space,

unique to that painting in time,

In timelessness.

Everything is simple,

freedom is your dancing shoe,

whatever you paint shall be true-

to your space,

whatever you paint shall be right.

I remember a space where you are the sun,

the tree and the fly,

and hence you must be a tool 

through which the sun and the tree,

decided to present itself,

and yet, can a tool think and say,

“I was a tool”?

The tool also says, “Painting is my tool to

discovery”!

I remember a space I met

where I halted a long while,

basking in the warmth, shimmering in the light,

I wanted to pitch a tent 

and move no furthur,

I remember the cold beginings of a tremor

that swept my being,

and the ground beneath my feet overturned,

I remember the crack that split my vision,

when forced to let go, to step into nothing,

the lights fading and fear,

until the next blow of light,

and the desire to halt.

Who was it? Who pushes me, prods me,

relentlessly, purposelessly?

Who moves me on and on and on?

I remember fear before the flight,

and doubt after the joy of flight,

I remember a space that just grabs you,

an enormous space,

complex, simple,

so complex it drowns your complexity,

so simple, it humbles your simplicity,

so filled with it there’s no room for doubt,

what else to paint but that?

what else to be but that?

what else to see, what else to do…

and when it’s all over, the need to halt,

again and again and again.

I remember a space where there’s no need to paint,

you’re living what needs to be lived anyway,

so where’s the need?

I remember the thought that a masterpiece 

is one painted by a master,

and a master is one who knows his thoughts.

I know it’s never too late to remember,

and I know too well the need to end this remembering.

Anuradha Nalapat

Nothing- Nature is so perfect in its imperfection. It

follows no rules, but the rule of being. It flows as

circles, squares and triangles. It is red, green,

blue, anything and everything…and so, nothing. No

thing.

It just is. It doesn’t accept the tremendous weight

that conclusions by their very own nature offer.

Conclusions are full stops. There is a coma after

every full stop, there is no comma without a full

stop.

Crazy Wisdom- There was this thought about something

circular. It could be the sun, the earth, the

cosmos… a flow of energy constantly giving birth to

anything and everything, constantly living and dying.

And swimming in that web of madness, somewhere I could

sense a stillness, a timelessness. 

A sort of crazy wisdom, a crazy freedom.

‘Being’- It takes a lot of ‘seeing’ to see what images

stop you from ‘being’. Once you ‘be’ what more is

there to do? There is an incredible lightness, you are

light, you are free?

An exhibition

Standing in front of your paintings in a gallery where

you have put up a show could mean two things. 

One, your need for an audience to appreciate your

creations still exist.

Two, the realisation that the audience is a bonus, not

a need.

In the second case there is an amazing sense of

freedom and joy that allows the paintings to be, that

allows you to be. In the first case, the very

existence of a need to be fulfilled seems to be

contradictory to the whole purpose of creation for the

simple reason that all needs carry with them the sting

of pain,

(No wonder we are called pain-ters) and the very act

of painting is a living, a movement towards freedom.

It is a taste of freedom.

The freedom to live ones own life, the freedom to be

ones own life, and if that is the goal one has to be

ruthlessly conscious of the need that unnecessarily

arises. The only necessity being the recognition of

its unnecessity. 

Having said that, one also recognises that running

after freedom can itself become a hindrance. It could

become just another habit, just another wall. Breaking

the walls of habit, slavery, you tasted freedom, and

now here you are building another wall called freedom.

Wall after wall after wall, does the search ever end,

or is the search itself the very hindrance?

A particular stroke, and you live the freedom of

having lived half your life; a particular color and

you have just woken the unseen in you; a particular

shape, and you have just crossed a bridge; a black

smudge on a beautifully sensitive painting, and you

have crossed the finishing line, you have broken the

cords of sensitivity itself that binds you; a line,

and you are alone; a touch of white and you get a feel

of what they mean by ` the flutter of a butterfly’s

wing in this part of the world can create a storm in

the other end of the world.’! Such is the insight

offered through creation.

Here, all that matters is one is true to ones own

present nature. 

seeing the imperfection of ones own nature is perfect;

seeing and moving on is perfect; 

seeing and deciding to not move is perffect;

seeing that every creation that you are aware of is a

job well done, a moment lived, is perfect;

seeing anything is perfect;

seeing that perfection is just a word as much as a

tree or a donkey is just a word, is so perfect,

and so, when one is aware of the space from which a

painting emerges, it has served its purpose. It has

lived its life to the full, it is an end in itself. It

is priceless, and priceless means two things- one,

that it is worth crores, and the other, that it is not

worth a penny, not for a price, it is useless, and at

the same time the only experience worthwhile. It is a

doorway in his life that an artist has walked through,

a part of his life that he has lived through it is the

same doorway that you will also have to walk through

one day, you can only postpone it, but you will walk,

for that’s the only path to walk.

A job well done is a job well done, a step taken is a

step taken whether you are paid for it or not, whether

you are praised for it or not. Paid or praised, or

nothing at all, the creator shall continue to create,

that’s his job. That is him.

Creation is no big deal, it becomes one only for those

who make it out to be. It could be the simplest

possible thing that man is capable of. Every single

man.

Anuradha Nalapat