The Fairness of Art

Is Art fair?

The cherished ability to make money and have the textbook “good life” seems attainable even to the most deprived individual even if the chances of “getting there” are slimmer as you slide down to the BoP. People are driven. They’ll take great pains at disguising it as a path to some higher salvation and autonomy. They’ll grind out the hours and become unconditionally loyal to their ambitions. They’ll get to the top through their job or they’ll start a start-up and hope to get to the top. Whatever they do, they’ll want success with that irresistible cocktail of power and means.

The knack of experiencing the overbearing and uplifting enormity of an act of creation is, alas, much rarer. To see a stunning painting, one that captures the senses, one that seems to convey all that is inconspicuous to the conscious mind but is the true reason for adding authenticity to the description, is scarcely seen. You can go deeper. The layers beyond your conscious radar add an element of unfamiliarity, one that sprouts from the artist’s imagination, instantly and subtly inscribing a signature that pulls out the work from the clutter of imitation.

Is the ability to genuinely feel the above undemocratic?

One might argue that it is a provenance of the rich. Surely, the art connoisseurs and critics are generally no ordinary individuals. Their lives are those of privilege. Looking at them, one would not be exaggerating in feeling left out, in feeling that the taste of Art is artificial and lies outside the boundaries of experience of the majority.

And yet, we all go through moments of ecstasy; moments of unhindered, uninhibited joy; moments that transport us to a higher Truth and give us a transcendentally extraordinary realization.

It may be through a dusty old book, a book written originally by an author in a different tongue in a different time and place. The words attain the equivalence of a painter's brush as each stroke defines and conveys thoughts that seem so strangely familiar but would never be expressed with the same lightness of expression and depth of thought. It may be during a music concert when a strange radiance permeates one's thoughts and gives us a ridiculously short lived stay in paradise. At that moment, the lyrics blend together with the music to produce something that goes beyond ordinary expression.

There is, to be sure, a primeval understanding for the beautiful even in the most uncouth of individuals. It is a strange mystery to wonder what sharpens the mind - what tunes the senses to appreciate the beauty of Art. And, what do we gain from it?

Greater people have come and pondered over this matter, not least in the period of the Enlightenment. Let us call upon Jean Jacques Rousseau,

For all the rest of the day, wandering deep into the forest, I sought and I found the vision of those primitive times, the history of which I proudly traced. I demolished the petty lies of mankind; I dared to strip man’s nature naked, to follow the progress of time, and trace the things which have distorted it; and by comparing man as he has made himself with man as he is by nature I showed him in his pretended perfection the source of his true misery. Exalted by these sublime meditations, my soul soared toward the Diviniy; and from that height I looked down on my fellow men pursuing the blind path of their predjudices, of their errors, of their misfortunes and their crimes. Then I cried to them in a feeble voice that they could not hear, “Madmen who ceaselessly complain of Nature, learn that your misfortunes arise from yourselves!”

And he goes on to say,

“If nature has destined us to be healthy, I almost dare to affirm that the state of reflection is a state contrary to nature and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal” 

Rousseau's stand is interestingly contrarian to his own standing as an intellectual. In brief, what he says is that the very act of erudition pushes us into misery. It is an affliction or rather, an addiction. A person who has experienced the bliss of higher beauty or the comfort of knowledge will no longer feel content with basic material joy. This "state of reflection" is a curse, an irresistible power that forces normal primitive man to yearn for that which is beautiful, that which is fulfilling in a deeper sense. Talk about paranoia. And yet, if you ponder over it you would realize that there is more than an inkling of truth in his words.

For all of us are born with a fuzzy appreciation of the beautiful but it is the refined person who truly grasps the layered subtlety of Art. And a person need not be refined by the brute force of wealth. He may do so through a manic desire for learning, or the courage to discard the merely convenient.

A recent article in a popular newspaper quoted an agent of a mainstream novelist as saying that it was an elitist illusion to assume that "Victorian" literature and style was what counted as good writing. What people really want, he alleged, was a read that was more grounded and easy to parse through. That's true, in a way. A good writer is tiresome- he'll make you stop occasionally to let out gasps of amazement, she'll make you re-read entire sections for correct comprehension and also make you use that dictionary you've had decorated on the drawing room shelf. Those who make that effort, who can afford to pause and not check the ending page number of the story, will find themselves bequeathed by something more substantial and longer lasting than entertainment. They'll feel enriched and inspired. Not that I hate the Meluha trilogy (it's all real good fun).

I surrender to the chains of this addiction. I cannot hope for others to follow me- it is good that they don’t. What I know is that every time I read a piece of classical poetry, whenever I ponder over the intention behind an artist’s portrayal of a war or when I see a Roger Federer winner I am transported to a place of pure ecstasy, one that I want to come back to again and again, at the risk of losing touch with the unadulterated joy of normal success…

I believe I am in a position here to write many more pages on the value and fairness of Art. I don't think anyone will read more. If you've come this far, I appreciate it tremendously. Let's talk some time.

HWR - 5

Welcome to a new edition of Haaris' Weekly Round-up where I attempt to clear out all the links I had been meaning to put on my blog as far back as an year. Let's get down to it:

1. Even as the protests and media discussions push for justice, newspapers continue to be littered with more cases of abuse of women. Outraged citizens can think of all that goes unsaid; all that is swept under the carpet and bludgeoned or burned with their bodies. It makes sense to have an outside perspective albeit one with a historical context of our reaction to the many evils that plague our society. 
2. One of my first blog posts had been on how language was never in a state of stasis and was constantly evolving with almost random trends in popular usage. Here's another article with many interesting examples.
3. A long and winding article on the fonts which create the right sort of impact in different situations. A personal confession: I love Comic Sans and use it in my presentations when no one's looking.
4. On to the strange and increasingly inaccessible world of pure maths. A Japanese mathematician has claimed to have resolved the Diophantine problem, a result that would make the Fermat's Theorem a consequence of the general result. The problem? The paper is 500 pages long so any confirmation on its accuracy is not coming too soon.
5. All wars have "collateral damage" and the patent wars are no exception.

That's it for now. 

Status Update

Once upon a time, I had harboured dreams of an active blog with weekly round-ups of wacky and informative links, apart from my trademark intellectual ramblings on anything under the sun. I hadn't factored in longer hours at work or the daily dance classes I took for about two weeks. The presence of some narrow minded, overly ambitious imbeciles also made the task of thinking freely that much more difficult.

Life balanced out eventually. I still put in over 12 hours at work but I'm enjoying my current project. My task is to reduce the raw material waste in production which means I'm using all sorts of high falutin words such as lean management and six sigma or doing statistical tests which are fun to learn. More importantly, I am reading again. I am currently gliding through a collection of short stories by the very talented Henry James. James isn't the kind of author most people I know would read. He is as far removed from fantasy or sci-fi as John Cage was from Bach (though not in any strictly analogous sense). The stories are complex but they would never try and alarm you unduly. The pace is steady with situations that are not extraordinary but allow the reader to sit right there with the protagonist and experience the ironies or frustrations of a rather normal life. My favourite story till now would definitely be Daisy Miller.

Sachin's retirement can mean only one thing -  my tryst with cricket is at an end. I feel truly privileged to have lived in an era which has seen so many (arguable of course) G.O.A.T's - Sachin, Federer, Messi, Armstrong, Woods, Phelps, Isinbayeva; the list is too long. That might also mean, somewhat depressingly, that we're going to have the greatest... in every generation but I'll leave that for my future self to handle. The greatest batsman of our era. Owner of the most transcendental on-drive. A man with 33 of 49 ODI centuries in winning causes. Sachin's retirement also marks the demise of the quintessential Bombay batsman and the "straight-bat". Now, we're left with a bunch of whack-a-mole hitters with very little class. It's a shame I didn't put this post up before all the cricket series of the past 3-4 months because I wanted to say it even then- India's World Cup was won because it was held in India.

I'll be back with my round-ups but here's a set I've meant to share for some time now. Random surfing on the net led me to an awesome concept of basing superheroes on fonts. It's the sort of idea I would have liked to have implemented in my college magazine. Also notable, a letter between two of my favourite artistes, Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke. Letters between great minds make me extremely jealous of the days long past when you sat by your desk and wrote to be read by a friend, rival or lover. Lastly, James Gleick wrote an amusing article on how auto correct tests our patience with its personal opinion on the words we ought to use .

2013 has begun and I commenced my year with a dance contest. For over twenty years, the only dancing I did was at parties. I even avoided shaking the odd leg at weddings. School went by with a strongly entrenched perception of my geekiness which was all cool and humbling but which also meant I was the last to be picked in anything too hip. Come 31st December and I was dancing away for over 20 minutes. I got in some good moves, I stumbled at times and there were technical glitches. All of that is forgiven. We, a ragtag bunch of misfits who spent a little more than 10 days preparing 8 songs, won the contest, a victory in my eyes as great as anything else I might have achieved in my ordinary life.

I couldn't upload it on Youtube. Here's the dropbox link of the first number. Remember: I don't dance.

Shadows in the Night

What was my worst fear has materialized. I'm the owner of a dormant blog.

H

Getting Fresh - II

(For Part-I of this post, visit http://hamstersqueaks.blogspot.in/2012/07/getting-fresh.html)


The lackadaisical lifestyle that dominated my first half at Munger very quickly gave way to frenetic- there's no other word for it- work.

I used the white board more times in three days than I ever did back in my hostel room in four years

I worked for 14 hours a day. I worked on Sundays and I worked from 11 to 6 in the night (or the morning, whatever) and just when it seemed to me that I was going to go the way of the dinosaurs, a convocation happened.

For a couple of days, I found myself back in the infernal institute which had bad food, erratic and mostly poor internet and with a penchant for cutting out the power on the eve of an examination. It was then that I had the most predictable epiphany.

You don't need great luxury if you can slouch all day with a bunch of basters.

Add the fact that I barely had a chance to bid farewell to everyone on my own terms (courtesy a broken fibula) and you'd know that I clicked a lot of photos.

Thank God for convocations; I'm waiting for my official batch reunion now

(which should come on some date in 2037).

*************

On the journey back to Munger, I was struck by the sight of a monstrously long queue awaiting the same train I was supposed to board. Easily running down a hundred metres or so, it was whipped into place by a few policemen who looked bored with the mundane task of handling scores of disgruntled passengers all clamouring for a way to slip ahead in the line, a lathi or two be damned. My attempts to take a snap were aborted when I noticed the anti-elitist stink eye I received from a fair few fellow travelers and I could only afford to lock away the image of that human snake winding its way down the platform in Howrah. The poor souls only wanted a square feet of area (or less) - enough space for a trip back home.

**************

I end this note with what I hope would be an enduring symbol of my experiences in the strange cut-off town that is Munger.

HWR - 4

Strictly or even loosely speaking, the following post is hardly a weekly roundup. I've been on the move for a month now with little or no internet access. I did manage to finish a couple of books. John le Carre's The Spy Who Came in from the Cold  was a well written espionage novel. It was the only copy left in the Carre section at a stall in the World Book Fair (I beat some good friends to that last book). The book is about an agent of the British secret service who's out on a mission, his final one, to discredit and ultimately eliminate his counterpart on the Red End. It's less of James Bond in terms of action and rather heavy with the tribulations of the battered and weary protagonist.

The highlight of 2012 will also most definitely consist of Roger Federer's 17th Grand Slam title, allowing the Swiss maestro to reclaim the rank 1 spot and further emboldening his place in the pantheon of sporting greats. I had written a post on him not so far back as a fan and it's a great privilege to see him play for some more glorious years.

Here, then, is a list of links and articles I found interesting:

1. Allow me to begin with a must read article on the state of Federer's mind before Wimbledon. Positive and slightly cautious in its outlook, it's worth a few minutes of your time.
2. This one's a really #longread. A mammoth 12000 word essay on Gandhiji.
3. I intended to write a long piece on the state of morality in the corporate world but then there are several articles on the Libor case already, including this one from HBR.
4. The demise of Rajesh Khanna closes another memorable chapter of Bollywood's history. Open magazine published an excellent story on the rise and fall of RK a month ago. Do read it.

That's it.

H

Getting Fresh

The blog that you are reading has never had a moment’s rest. It was born out of the desperation of a crippled student stranded on his bed for more than 45 days. Weeks that the student under question could have spent rafting, trekking, bungee jumping, spelunking, hang gliding… or at least clicking a few photos of the small town that is Roorkee.

The canvas has changed dramatically. A fresh post ultimately comes after being inducted into the corporate world. The first two weeks at Kolkata were spent at an awesome luxury hotel. Years spent in a hostel with the very worst in lavatory facilities; it was slightly overwhelming to see a bathroom of such calibre. The corporate induction programme wasn’t bad either.

Heaven hath no joy as this.

A glass of cold milk with ice please

Add another two days of “experiential learning” at a resort that was part fun part farce. Then a week in a jolly old guesthouse that was warm and kind and slightly mouldy. The circle of life was completed rather quickly- I was back to daal sabzi. It was also the week when I began my work life, in a factory with the heavy smell of tobacco and the constant whirring of machines, which meant that a few sensory organs had to be put under suspended animation.

Bangla United

Work life began but not with the smooth pick up of a Ferrari. It coughed and spluttered, gathered pace only to lose direction and finally ground itself to an abrupt halt by Saturday. Restaurants and book stores were visited but with a sort of tired franticness that I had never experienced before. Gangs of Wasseypur also made it to the menu, making June the only month in my entire life when I could see two movies at the cinema.

I am learning again but not from books. A bunch of people with very different views and expectations from the world is a welcome relief from the pseudo protection I received from like- minded peers. I have to fight for my convictions; I have to concede the weaker ones among them.

****************

Munger is a philosopher’s dream. Even after a murderous day of work you can return and spend an hour or so staring at the high ceiling, constantly going through a path of depressing self-discovery. There is a certain sense of desperation in this land of goats and desi kattas; a feeling of distaste lingers at the back of your mind. You are moulting again and it’s no less painful. Bursts of excitement in witnessing the state of the art management practices are interspersed with the wariness that can only come to a body that has never run for more than two hours at a stretch.

My very first week at Bihar also included a trip to adjoining villages. We returned with torrential rain on our heels, the lush green countryside a sight to behold. A trip to an old fort where Mir Qasim allegedly spent his last years in exile was also squeezed into the itinerary. On top of the hill, staring away into the distance with the vast expanse of villages, hills infested with Naxals and rivers and streams slithering away to the sea you couldn’t help but think of all the people out there, playing out their insignificant parts, never to be recorded or remembered. 

The hill will still remain.

 Mentha oil extraction requires this crude but highly effective distillation column

Arvi

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The leg swells up occasionally. My forays into the employee township generally end at the community club where I’ve started playing snooker (I’m at level abysmal currently). For days when I came out, generally accompanied with the harsh and now slightly familiar sting of rookie-destruction, I barely noticed the tennis courts and the curious mix of kids and thirty somethings whacking their way to a sweat. After 8^th July, after Federer’s majestic and awe inspiring victory at Wimbledon, I stop there for more than a few minutes. One thought beseeches my mind.

The court is tiny. I mean it. When you watch the game on TV you often forget that the battleground of the likes of Laver, Borg and Emerson never changed. And I forget that the seemingly huge surface isn’t all that big. To think of all the angles, the insane drop shots and blistering groundstrokes that the Federer racquet conjures up take place in a court of exactly the same dimensions is simply belittling. There I stood staring at the opposite end and wondering how I had let slip this obvious fact. The difference between the top twenty and the rest of the field was never more apparent. It just isn’t enough to know how to play the game. Can you squeeze as much juice per inch of playing surface?

BTW, Federer is the GOAT.

****************

Another Sunday has come and we’ve all been advised to be careful and wary of snakes. I am waiting for my turn as the local barber (naayee) snips and cuts away with the pitter-patter of raindrops in the background.

The place looks a lot like my alma mater

(to be continued)