Tuesday, 3 February 2009


Their mother started painting so that she could keep company with their father who used to study till late in the night preparing for his exams while they slept huddled in their quilts dreaming about fairies and other folks of the faraway tree. So her art is about flowers, snow covered pretty landscapes and mothers and daughters.

His mother paints because that is the only thing they let her do and the only time they let her be herself. She is free to choose the subject, the context, the colours, whether to draw a line here or simply paint over everything in broad, bold strokes of burnt sienna.

Her daughter plays ‘Do Re Me’ on the piano, the little fingers press down one key then the other and she marvels at how can such a little one know so much. And how simple notes can produce music so profound.

You draw Durga with her ten arms riding a tiger in a pencil scrawl and with wild, mad strokes of black paint the thoughts that run in your not yet teenaged mind. And we openly applaud your art while silently stand in awe of the maturity of your ideas.

Life gives meaning to art even as art gives meaning to life. And thus the circle gets completed and starts all over again.

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