I was struck when I first came upon Klimt's The Kiss.
I remember this was in university; I was working, with zeal, on a project for our German class. Having been given free reign to create a presentation on anything German, I had chosen German art and fairy tales. That's when I stumbled upon Klimt and his works.
The first encounter (and all subsequent ones) with The Kiss aroused feelings of comfort and magic within me. There have been other passing feelings depending on where I am in my own life, but the feelings of comfort and magic seem to have stayed. The light, the gold, the flowers always stand out, as if amplifying the immensity of the kiss-- the gold flow of the infinite foregrounded by the beautiful bed of flowers of this world; the beauty and rapture of a moment meshed in both the finite and infinite worlds.
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Intimacy can be portrayed in many ways. A way that makes space for the magic and the mundane, as Klimt's does for me, is one of my favourite feelings to come back to in art. Which brings me to this: what do you see when you encounter a work of art?
Many in my life have told me that they do not understand certain paintings. The same has been said of poetry, but that's a conversation for another day. They do not know what to make of it. They don't see the point of a particular painting or art in general. Sometimes, I have been told that reading about a particular piece of art has helped some, while for others, being in the vicinity of something famous has made them curious about learning more. I remember feeling immensely excited about seeing The Kiss firsthand. I had felt drawn to Vienna by a couple of things; one of them had been the possibility of seeing the painting up close. What a joke that turned out to be,,,
The Belvedere had two or three copies of The Kiss when I visited it in 2019. I was amused at my own bewilderment when I couldn't figure where I was supposed to look. Somewhere I had been so certain that I would know when I saw the real painting up close but at the museum, I was amused at my own ignorance. The painting (real and imitation) remained beautiful. The original (which everyone finally made their way to) was as crowded as the imitation and I was more than happy to not try to get too close. My relationship with The Kiss was private and I would enjoy it many times over in the comfort of my own laptop or via a high-quality print. So that day, I went over to Schiele's paintings instead. Starker, more muted, more explicit and somehow less forgiving, they drew no crowds to them. Something in me had always preferred Schiele over Klimt. So, I was happy to sit down on the bench in front of Death and the Maiden and enjoy it alone. The thought crossed my mind that I would have no idea if this were a replica. But it was beautiful, overwhelming, sobering. All the more so because it was one turn away from the thronged hall where The Kiss was on display.
If there were other moments in my life where I had realized this, that time at the Belvedere became the sharpest reminder of a strangeness in human beings: we throng to a flame.
There are many points of brilliance in life and in art, but when a flame of brilliance is identified by someone, almost all eyes turn that way. Meanwhile, other artists, regular human beings of immense caliber, live and die out their lives, sustained only perhaps by their desire to create while those around them ignore the work they are creating. So, what can be said to be the place of the art that they make in this world? Is everything that is not a Van Gogh or a Klimt destined for the landfills? Is art about wealth exchanging hands or is it about expression, engagement, the possibility of a conversation, a response?
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A couple of days ago, I was going through some paintings I have made and those that have survived. A couple of people had expressed interest in buying them but neither they, nor I, had been certain of how to price the paintings. Since it's the fruit of my labour, both sides felt it fair that I should price them. So, I thought about the ways to do it and came upon two. But I also wanted to know what people would be willing to pay, so I shared it as a question on Instagram. Someone from the 100 who saw that question responded-- they said it was unfair to price a piece of work since different people had different economic means. This logic does not get applied to any other thing in their daily life I am certain. Everything has a price that people are more or less willing to pay. But it's not so straightforward when it's art.
Sometimes I am caught in a desire to make a lot of money by selling my paintings, sometimes I just want to get rid of them all so that I can feel empty and begin again without looking at any of my past creations. In those moments of self-centered doing, a memory often comes back to me.
About 3 or 4 years ago, I was visiting my cousin in Bankura, a district in West Bengal. He had taken me out on his bike and we had gone through roads with forests on both sides, the green and the sky balm to my mind. Our destination had been Susunia, a small hill.
I had fond memories of going to the hilltop when I was a young child and I wondered if we could do it again. But the sky was overcast and soon it started drizzling, throwing any such possibility out of the window.
We stood by a temple at the foot of the hill taking refuge from the rain. There were some makeshift stalls on the road; some had been fashioned out of a cover and some poles, while some were just the person on a piece of cloth on the road, selling their wares. Close to the body of the hill, by its stony surface, there were three or four stores that were selling stone wares. The artists there worked with remarkable agility, churning out one piece after another, adding them to their pile of things to sell. There were a lot of Shivlingas, and a few other things.
I picked up two bowls: they were the same slate colour as the hill and had simple, clean floral designs drawn on the inside in chalk. How much for this, I asked, thinking about similar things I had seen online, wondering if I would be able to afford the seller's price. 50 rupees, he said, not even pausing to look up from his work. He was carving stone into another Shivlinga. The bigger bowl was 70. My cousin was about to bargain but I asked him not to, paid the money, and we walked toward the nearby tea-stall quickly and in silence.
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Where does need end and desire begin? When do we become unable to differentiate between the two anymore?
I have carried those bowls in my life (they were gifts for a friend but I use one now) as reminders to not let desire cloud the way I live in this world. It's hard for me to do especially in this city life, surrounded by money, things, and more things that I could buy.
The interaction with those artists and my continuing exposure to the art world as a viewer, reading news of paintings of famous and dead painters being sold and resold at billions brings me back to the question of what is the place of art in this world, and that of artists. I guess it's one of those questions one has to live and find out.
As I end this, here are some alive artists whose works I admire. Some of them sell their works and have representation, some sell their work by themselves, some just practice and share. I hope some of the art resonate with you. If not, there are millions of artists in the world. I am sure you will find someone creating whose work echoes with you, who would appreciate your engagement or support, in whatever form.
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