Humanities Underground

Tagore: Looking Beyond the Mirage of Appearances

Rajdeep Konar [Rajdeep Konar is pursuing his doctoral studies in Center for Theatre and Performance Studies at the School of Arts and Aesthetics, Jawaharlal Nehru University, where he is investigating Rabindranath Tagore’s ideas on aesthetics, especially in the domain of performance.]       “No man loves life like him that’s growing old.” -Sophocles, Acrisius [fragment] It is a fact that in the life of Rabindranath Tagore there has indeed been numerous instances of de-constructing and creating anew. But equating all that with his act of beginning painting at the age of sixty with the others, I think, would not be justified. It is one thing to re-write a play nine times, to change one’s views on matters of political or social concern even if one has believed in it for the greater part of his life and it’s yet another for a sexagenarian poet in Rabindranath Tagore’s position, to say that words no longer fascinate him and it is in a completely different artistic language: painting that he finds his calling. It definitely indicates towards an intense commotion underneath- a storm, which shakes the world of the poet, shakes his faith in the words which once in Budhadeb Bosu’s terms seemed his owned loyal subjects. I would like to direct my investigation, in this essay, towards this sudden loss of interest in words. Therefore, I would be trying to find out exactly what sort of circumstances would oblige Tagore, a compulsive writer by the sheer volume of his works, form an utter revulsion towards the vocation of writing, in the final phase of his life. This as we shall see, will lay bare an interesting negotiation that the old poet was going through with himself, at the time and also enlighten us regarding how he was reacting to the arrival of modernity in Bengali literature. “People grow older with every passing year; but the first half is what can be named growing while the second is withering away.”[i]These are the exact words with which writer and critic and Tagore enthusiast Budhadeb Bosu (1908-1974) begins his book “Shongo: Nishongota / Rabindranath” (1963). Budhadeb, when he was writing these words was already in his fifties and thus we can rest assured that he was speaking from more than intuition. He goes on to speak in the rather longish paragraph that follows about the perils old age has brought to his life:  the fast diminishing physical and mental strength, blurring eyesight, deteriorating memory, the doubts and anxieties plaguing the mind faced with the smallest of decisions. All of this, as Budhadeb writes, affects him as a writer and makes writing, what was earlier pleasurable for him, an irksome and tiring process. We have also heard writers express similar sentiments under such circumstances. “An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick”[ii] is what Yeats felt. American journalist and literary figure H. L. Mencken says “The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.”[iii] Thus, age we find weakens the physical constitution and makes oneself vulnerable, especially artists. So does Tagore too was similarly distraught by his diminishing physical and mental abilities? It does not seem likely at the time he begins painting in the early 1920’s. While there indeed were occasional illnesses, recurring problems like the pain he had in his knee, it was not until his mid or late 70’s that we get to hear from Tagore expressions like- “I no longer want to carry on the garland of pains that I am having to carry in this life”. For confirmation we can go to another Tagore enthusiast and philosopher Abu Syed Ayub who identifies Tagore as the possessor of a “poetic health”, stressing that even in his periods of grave illness Tagore’s poetic abilities remained unaffected[iv]. An allegation which Budhadeb Bosu makes in his work Kobi Rabindranath against Tagore and which might come to our aid here is that: the drama which is found developing through Tagore’s poetry beginning from Manasi ends in Gitanjali and after that Tagore only repeats himself and has not been able to write anything worthy of its creation. According to Budhadeb, specimens of whatever Tagore would write in his later poetry, was already available in Gitanjali. Even though Abu Sayeed Ayub in his work Adhunikota O Rabindranath dedicated to Budhadeb presents a surgical analysis of Tagore’s later poetry to dismiss any such notion; Sankha Ghosh shows in his essay Budhadeber Rabindranath how Budhadeb himself has contradicted his own view on a number of occasions. For instance the collection of poems titled Adhunik Bangla Kobita edited by him begins with Tagore’s post Gitanjali poems. There are definitely instances of poets or writers reaching a certain age and feeling that they have nothing new to say:  Sudhnidranath Datta, a poet from the Kollol Jug in Bengali literature, who was also close to Tagore; for one lamented in his poems much before he was old “whatever was there to say, has been said long ago” while Bishnu Dey among the modern Bengali poets became tragically repetitive in his later years. However, whatever he may be called, the Tagore who writes Sesher Kobita, Shyamali or Sisutirtha, can never be called repetitive. So we are yet to find the true nature of the problem. We might go back from Tagore’s own words on the matter for some light. To Rani Chanda, who by her own admission was the most rigorous witness to Tagore painting, he says- “The bearer of beauty (rasa) is language. That is why the danger, thus everything changes with the change of language…so it often seems to me that my paintings would never be rejected because even if the specialty of lines and forms change, there would never be any dearth in their beauty.”[v] So was Tagore anxious that unlike his writings which may lose their popularity and acceptance with the change in linguistic trends his paintings would be acceptable beyond contexts of time and

Shibu Natesan : Animals, Magic Realism & Multiple-Realities

  Siddharth Sivakumar   [Siddharth Sivakumar is currently doing B.A. in English literature at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan. He has an avid interest in art practices & art history and routinely writes for some of the leading art journals of India. He has edited  two of the volumes of Bikshan Bulletin and is the co-founder and editor of Tinpahar–http://tinpahar.com] —————————- Why should one paint ? What should one paint and how should one paint ? These are basic questions that sooner or later cross the minds of young artists. It appears Shibu Natesan was never troubled by them. His paintings are a testimony of history through images. They march the same path frequented by great story tellers of our time. In the 80s as a student in the College of Fine Arts, Trivandrum, he was exposed to Latin American and African Literature through translations.  Thereby he was well acquainted with the works of Latin American writers such as Gabriel García Márquez and Jorge Luis Borges, who proficiently juggled fact and fantasy. Later in his carrier this intermingling of the real and the unreal develops as a distinct character of his paintings. Like Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, Natesan’s paintings map a certain history; making comments, sharing notes and expressing anguish in a language that shuttles to and fro between reality and the absurd alternatives of the real. The merging of fact with fiction, the smooth trespassing from the usual to the magical are the inherent qualities of Shibu’s canvas. Matthew Strecher defines magic realism simply as “what happens when a highly detailed, realistic setting is invaded by something too strange to believe”[i]. This undoubtedly is one of the notable aspects in Natesan’s works. The magic-realistic approach of his works, invaded by man, machine and animals crafted into a certain compositional marvel, goes beyond mere mediatic realism. The use of photographs or images form published media does not suggest a lack of imagination; rather the images from different sources provide yet another canvas upon which Shibu scripts his stories. The superseding layers constitute a new narrative, a narrative which would fail if not read together. Shibu Natesan’s works stand on firm ground communicating through its unique collage that weaves reality with the fantastic. The visual spectacle grows into a thought provoking exercise by creating moral conflicts that prompts one to explore social orders. The style adopted by Natesan suits and syncs well with his startlingly polemical works. But the very beauty of his art thrives on the apparent invisibility of that polemic. Natesan paints parables which narrate succinct stories, illustrating and illuminating certain universal values in an idiom made common by photography. The parables frequently involve characters at the verge of a moral dilemma, submitting to disputable decisions before culminating in some unpleasant consequences. The artistic language of Natesan is as transparent as the parables for children. There is a Blakean quality to his paintings in a manner of speaking. But the implications are less explicit and at times requires a closer scrutiny. In some of his paintings the presence of animals transforms the parables into fables. This active participation of the animals in the narrative structure happens to be a major feature of Natesan’s flights into phantasmagoria. His works present animals in a fashion so that they are easily identified with human beings. Borrowing Shibu Natesan’s own words, “Objectively for a painter painting human figures and animals are the same. The difference is in our association and meaning”[ii]. Often we find the flora and fauna voicing their disapproval of the hostile powers in an allegorical framework. Man’s domination over nature and the subsequent subjugation along with entrapment of those who rely on the nature, is a terrible reality of our time. Shibu uses his art to portray this uncanny reality. In his Street Charmer we find a young bear dancing to the music of the civilized world. And there are others that show how we utilize nature for our self-interest. Day of Wonder renders the awe a child and his mother share while witnessing sharks imprisoned in an aquatic zoo. The reality is depicted once again, but the stylistic treatment has undergone a drastic change. Paradoxically it is only with this setting-in of the photorealistic style that he begins to ruminate over the same themes and add other layers to it.  A photograph by its definition captures a moment from the past. This momentary memory of a past reality corresponds to a lost time and space. In a world where nature is replaced rapidly with the un-natural, man-made entities, Captured Alive represents a scene dominated by nature. We find a set of lofty ducks paddling against a greenish ground with a half-visible grounded airplanes in the background. This brings about a change in Shibu’s perspective. The empowering scale of the ducks tend to establish a certain importance to their being. The newness of his style brings with it an alternative voice which is more optimistic while focusing on a stark issue. And Shibu soon realizes that the dynamics of time and space and the momentary reality of a situation should be challenged and altered. It is from this realization Shibu sets things in motion. Many of Natesan’s works are inspired by nature. These images often create a contrast by bringing animals and machines in the same frame, sharing proximity. The interaction between the binaries is characterized by the intertwined differences and similitude. Many-a-times flesh is threatened by the masculinity of the metal monsters. Nonetheless the message appears to be straightforward as it gets delivered. In his Untitled we find a cheetah standing upon a yellow Gallardo. The fastest animal on earth shares a stance with the speedy racing car. However the superficial similarity from the primary inspection wanes the moment we realize that there would always be a distinct difference between an inspirational cheetah and its inspired reflection, the natural and the artificial –  something that the car-door bearing the blurred refection of the real tire testifies to. In his painting Against the Wind we find him making a similar point previously

Conversation

  Peter Altenberg [Peter Altenberg, one the central figures among the late nineteenth century Vienna Coffeehouse wits (part of the ‘Young Vienna’), produced some of the finest impressionistic miniatures (a variety of kleinkunzt–art of small forms).  Here is such a piece, titled, Conversation. But before that, Altenberg’s paean to the very milieu that produced the likes of him.       You have trouble of one sort or another…. to the COFFEEHOUSE ! She can’t come to you for some reason no matter how plausible… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You have holes in your shoes… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You have a salary of 400 crowns and spend 500… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You are frugal and permit yourself nothing… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You find no woman who suits you… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You are spiritually on the threshold of suicide… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! You hate and disdain people and yet cannot do without them… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! Nobody extends you any more credit anywhere… to the COFFEEHOUSE ! ————– Most people live out their life with an almost pathologically bottled up world view. The most insignificant occurrences in their own experience and the experiences of their few acquaintances not only preoccupy their thinking, but such people also unknowingly attempt to derive therefrom deep philosophical problems and universal judgments intended to open up wide ranging perspectives! “So what are we to conclude from the fact that Anna had to go and buy herself this particular hat?! How are we to take an impartial position?! Is it just a whim, a childish folly, an impertinence, an extravagance, or somebody in particular perhaps get upset about it?!? That too would be perfectly possible.” Everyone attempts with more or less skill to hang his own empty, irrelevant, ridiculous experiences onto the tail end of the conversation underway like a kind of ‘philosophical-historical’, which process one commonly calls “stimulating conversation.” “Wouldn’t you also agree, despite everything, that G does not really appreciate B quite as much as she rightly deserves, particularly under such extenuating circumstances?”—“Unfortunately, as much as I would like to, I cannot, ‘for reasons of principle,’ give you an answer madam, a principle, moreover, to which you yourself will surely adhere, although in any case a spark of truth appears to flicker forth from your question. Such is “stimulating conversation!” No one is interested in anyone else but he “psychoanalyzes” the other because it’s “stimulating to dig around behind things and set yourself on a pedestal around them!” The “silent man,” the “silent woman” don’t come off as wise or decent, but rather boring. “What does he, what does she, take him or herself for?” Even the “ironic note” is a rotten dodge in the conversation. Should anyone ever seriously hazard a “fiery stand” in favour of something or other, then, following a brief artificial pause, the firebrand is taken aside: “But surely you couldn’t possibly believe that yourself, do you?!?” Conversation is the Moloch that gobbles up and decimates the non-existent spirits and souls! At home one is one’s own man, but in society one immediately becomes a philosopher of life in general. Butchers, bakers, busy businessmen, salesman do not suddenly transform themselves on hours on end into “universally thinking” philosophers predisposed to “look down on the swarming masses of humanity.” “It’s easy enough to listen Altenberg sound off; if it can’t help you it can’t harm you either, but that guy, he’s one curious customer!” But those that seek to make us measure up to themselves, to lead us back to the reasonable, salubrious, normal, decent, useful mien, only they make—conversation with us. ———————————————– adminhumanitiesunderground.org

Charlie Chaplin’s ‘A King in New York’: A Clash of Civilizations?

Ananya Dutta Gupta   [Ananya Dutta Gupta teaches English at Visva Bharati. She specializes in Renaissance and early modern literature. This essay was first published in Bikshan Bulletin, 2011. She has made some editorial alterations in this version for HUG.] —————————- This is primarily a study in a particular work of Chaplin’s in the light of his own statements about his life and work. Some of these pronouncements are culled from his well-known autobiography and others from his prolific biographies. Naturally, my essay endeavours to arrive at a reading of the film that is consistent with Chaplin’s professions about his philosophy and his politics instead of seeing it as an aberration from the creative norm set by his previous work. There are two obvious presuppositions underlying this attempt: one, that the personal professions of the artist in question are sincere and authentic, and two, that they may then be used to understand the figural, hence objective, art of his cinema. It might seem a trifle naïve to look for consistency between art and life these days. We no longer read texts as faithful mirrors of the minds that formed them. We tend rather to be a little suspicious of consistency, having unconsciously learned from post-modern criticism to see postures in what earlier ages saw the self. One may still maintain that the hunt for consistency is as worthwhile in one’s rediscovery of an artist as the painstaking sleuthing for inconsistencies. However, the search for consistency would prove barren if undertaken formulaically. It would be difficult, for instance, to reconcile Chaplin’s on-screen empathy with the underprivileged of the world with his own relish for the lifestyle of the rich and the famous if it were not for the clarification afforded by Chaplin’s own characteristically ingenuous rebuttal of Somerset Maugham: This attitude of wanting to make poverty attractive for the other person is annoying. I have yet to know a poor man who has nostalgia for poverty, or who finds freedom in it. Nor could Mr. Maugham convince any poor man that celebrity and extreme wealth mean constraint. I find no constraint in wealth – on the contrary I find much freedom in it. I found poverty neither attractive nor edifying. It taught me nothing but a distortion of values, an over-rating of the virtues and graces of the rich and the so-called better classes. Wealth and celebrity, on the contrary, taught me to view the world in proper perspective, to discover that men of eminence, when I came close to them, were as deficient in their way as the rest of us. (Chaplin 267)[1] I contend it is precisely such mechanical attempts at marrying Chaplin’s immediate circumstances of life to his purported message in the film that have distorted critics’ response to A King in New York for decades. I make a somewhat paradoxical plea: first, that the film be watched for its own merits, merits that admittedly emanate from its message rather than its style, and second, that the film be watched alongside the past and best works of Chaplin, if it is to be rescued from oblivion. The history of the reception of Chaplin’s penultimate film is a history of misunderstanding. It is ironical that a film occasioned by America’s monumental misunderstanding of one of its most gifted immigrants should in turn engender and encounter comparable misunderstanding among generations of critics. It is invariably spoken of as an artistic embarrassment – a jilted immigrant’s costly slip from the pedestal of true, disinterested art into the abyss of ill-concealed meanness. Uno Asplund, for instance, summarily dismisses the film: And that [Limelight] was where Chaplin ought to have stopped. From Europe he counterattacked in blind rage with A King in New York (1957), a film, which, artistically speaking, ought never to have been made. [2] I would argue that, notwithstanding the artistic lapses, themselves excusable in view of the straitened circumstances under which the film came into being, A King in New York exudes all the mellow, genial wisdom that made its more polished predecessors enduring favourites with the same discerning critics. Chaplin’s wit is ironic and stems from a Janus-like ambivalence shorn of the myopic, egotistical bias that critics allege had gone into the making of A King in New York. John Osborne is a case in point. It is something of a surprise to find that Osborne, whose irrepressibly bitter Look Back in Anger was produced just a year before the release of A King in New York, should think of Chaplin’s film as a work of rage and bitterness. In some ways A King in New York must be his most bitter film. It is certainly the most openly personal. It is a calculated, passionate rage clenched uncomfortably into the kindness of an astounding comic personality. Like the king in his film, he has shaken the dust of the United States from his feet, and now he has turned round to kick it carefully and deliberately in their faces. Some of it is well-aimed – some is not. In fact, for such a big, easy target, a great deal of it goes fairly wide. What makes the spectacle of misused energy continually interesting is once again the technique of a unique comic artist.[3] One is struck not only by Osborne’s misapprehension of the mood of the film, but also by his failure to see in it a continuity of theme and vision with Chaplin’s earlier and greater works, particularly Modern Times.  If Modern Times is prophetic in its depiction of human society so completely mechanised as to have been metamorphosed into a giant machine, then A King in New York is just as staggeringly clairvoyant in its vignettes of a society ruled by a ruthlessly intrusive and exploitative media.    On 17 September 1952 Chaplin and his family sailed for Southampton from New York. A day later he learned that he was debarred from entering the US. Nearly two years would pass before Chaplin would announce his