From Art To Nirvana

A Satire By Ramendra Kumar (India, 25/12/05) 

I am proud of my erudition. There is hardly a subject under the sun of which I don't profess profound knowledge. Right from the price of potatoes in Pakistan to the 'Utopian Society of Ulan Bator' there are no limits to the wide expanse of my erudition.

Wait. Did I say no limits? I'm sorry. How could I forget my Achilles' heel? The only chink in my armor of knowledge - Modern Art. I have as much know-how of Modern Art as an Indian politician has of ethics.

One day I decided that things had gone too far. I would make an all-out effort to invade this elusive domain of Art. Even though I suffered from a serious handicap of having an IQ of a mentally retarded porpoise, I was confident of success in my noble aim, my sublime intentions.

The first thing I did was to go to a bookstore and get my hands on as many books on Modern Art as my pocket would permit.

But alas, in spite of my quite sincere efforts I wasn't very successful. Apart from learning that Cubism was not the religion practiced in Cuba and that Braque was not an Egyptian sandwich, I hadn't progressed much.

But we die-hard Virgos do not succumb so easily. I decided to resort to more practical means. My strategy now would be a more pragmatic one.

A friend of my friend's friend has an uncle whose nephew by marriage is a painter. When I say painter, I mean that he indulges in 'Modern Art'. He was holding an exhibition of his paintings in our city.

So one bright summer morning I went to the gallery and introduced myself to him. He called himself Pikasen. Since I was the only client (Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread), he took charge of me. When I say charge it is a very loose way of describing the vice-like grip (literally) in which he held me. To him I was a God-sent opportunity. He was not likely to get another 'diehard Virgo' in his lifetime. At least that was the impression he gave me.

Three hours and fifty-six minutes later when I finally emerged out of the gallery I was a mere shadow of my former self. My feelings were similar to those experienced by Napoleon at Waterloo.   If anyone at that moment had so much as mentioned the words 'Modern Art' I would have strangled him with my bare hands. And if anyone had suggested a visit to another gallery I would have cut his left ear and made him chew it.

You may be surprised at this sudden change in my attitude towards 'Modern Art'. Let me make things very clear. Here is a sample, a mere glimpse of what I endured.

The very first painting looked to my ignorant eyes a combination of three triangles, two squares and a rhombus. It reminded me of a 'count the number of figures' problem we used to solve as kids. It was titled 'Nirvana'.

"Nirvana"? I looked at him puzzled. "Yes," he said. "You have, I presume, heard of Nietzche's 'Passionate Individualism'," he began, ..... "and in accordance with Sartre's existentialism and Oriental mysticism that believes in cosmic reality I have named this creation of mine Nirvana," he concluded twenty-three minutes later.

I  wished I could help him attain his Nirvana by strangling him.

"That's a queer-looking spider there," I said pointing to a painting that had attracted my attention.

"Spider ! What spider? Oh! You barbarian, you philistine, that is not a spider. That is Eve the eternal woman. Hasn't she always enmeshed man in her web? Hasn't man, down the ages, always been in her clutches?"

"Yes," I mumbled. Hoping I would be out of his clutches soon.  I looked around. My heart leapt up. Here at last was a 'work of art' even I could identify. Something that was within my intellectual limits.

"That's is a beautiful painting of an onion," I said. "How realistic!"

"Onion!"

"Yes, there ..... to your left."

I was jubilant. At last I seemed to have conquered my ignorance. Now I was truly on the path of attaining expertise in 'Modern Art'.

"That is not an onion," he said, gnashing his teeth and crushing my hopes, my dreams. "It is the figure of the eternal man. Isn't man as perplexing, as enigmatic as an onion ? You remove one layer, you have another beneath!"

I was crushed. After this, I kept silent while he continued his   eulogy to himself and his art. His narcissism was, to say the least, disgusting.

Twenty-six paintings and three hours later we came to the last one.

"That is my latest work. A self portrait. Don't you think it's a masterpiece of psychological insight?"

I hadn't the foggiest notion what he meant by that but, since the figure looked like something out of the Book of Revelations, it could definitely be construed as a mirror image of Pikasen.

I heartily agreed and was walking out when he grabbed me.

Placing his arms around me he said, "Usually I do not sell my paintings. That would be prostituting my talent. But to you as a special concession I am ready to sell the autographed copy of my 'Portrait" for a mere pittance. Just a  thousand rupees."

He looked at me, probably expecting me to jump with joy at his 'generous' offer, to thank him on bended knees for his altruism.

If so, he was in for a disappointment. "I do not want to scare my little sister with that thing! You can burn it or chew it up. Personally, I would prefer using it to write an inscription on your grave," I said, and walked out of the gallery.

When I reached home the first thing I did was to burn the thirteen books, I had bought, on Modern Art. Then and only then did I feel that at last I had attained Nirvana.