Embers of Explosive Flowers
The day had dawned with a harsh, unnatural cry. Startled out of his early morning reverie, Sanjay Bhattacharya had stepped on to the balcony. Why was almost everybody in the neighbourhood leaning out of their windows? he had wondered to himself. And then the rude reality of the words sunk in "Rajiv Gandhi is dead", the news vendor was crying out.
"I had never met him in his lifetime," the artist recalls. But who could have remained unmoved by the events of that day in May when the youthful leader succumbed to the fatal charm of a decietful bouquet? The scattered petals of the explosive flowers, the vermilion of the tilak that had got smudged, the lily what angavastra that had wafted away towards the clouds, with the nationalistic hues of green and saffron on its rim; the evening's note was evoked in the most realistic hues when the young artist was given to paint a portrait of the former Prime Minister. Unlike the impressionistic diptych that paints the trauma of the upheavel through hands, several hands, of men and women, saying "Stay" to a setting sun.
In between these two canvases, Sanjay has completed several others. Yes, on Rajiv Gandhi. But no, not portraits of the departed leader. Here, he is a boy visiting Kashmir, the unmistable, sideways glance of his wondrous eyes gazes on the distant horizon lost in the mist of dreams? of uncertainty? of time? There, he is only a hand that is blessed by the affectionate touch of the Mother Teresa? Indira? India? Now the face resting blissfully in the picturespace is Indira Gandhi - the white streak in her hair separating the green of the dark sky from the subdued saffron of the glowing embers draped in flowers. Portrait of nationalism? of a passage to the other world? of a tragedy which, like a refrain, knit the mother and son into a seamless continuity?
Yes, the violent end is deeply ingrained in the subconscious, of the viewers no less than of the artist. Bur until that brief, final moment the man had lived a full life, the artist reminds the viewers. Today he is resting with the icons, away from the hustle and bustle that is the theme song of a life in politics. But only the other day he was riding the crest of political glory. The procession winding its way down Calcutta's S N Banerjee Road had his name on its lips, his image in its hearts. Today he stands in the hall of fame, silent as pictures on the wall. But it is lomg since he strolled down the street, much to the chagrin of his guards, to capture for eternity that fleeting moment in time when the burqa clad women of the Valley stepped into the daylight, leaving the veil of anonymity to the idling male?
The photo images created by Rajiv Gandhi: with those Sanjay found himself on home grounds. As he leafed through the book on Rajiv, the man in his various moods came alive in the artist's mind. Perhaps the exuberance of the youthful Prime Minister struck a chord in the young artist. And then there was the incandescence of a dim light glowing through the window, the decorative panel framing the sturdy mahogany door set off by the bare wall: the architectural photo images synchronized with the subjects Sanjay has come to be identified with. If one was an artist with a sensitive lens, the other was determined to rejuvenate the excellence on canvas, with a skilled brush.
But a series like this will run against several prejudices, Sanjay knows. To begin with, there is the disdain for the realistic, "as if it takes less talent to turn out a successful work in this idiom". Then the "political" subject of the series: it can only result in eulogistic portraits slogan-mongerers crave for, you'd think from the umpteen "tribute" shows. You may also be living with a ghost of Hussain's Indira series. "But tell me, " Sanjay counters the reservations, "which artist on earth would say no to the challenge of mapping the landscape of a man?" Which artist would curb the urge to paint a canvas so wide?
Even portraits so pooh-poohed by art connoisseurs, are not child's play, Sanjay experienced while working on the one that adorns India House in London. There are expectations of those who commission it, and there are the expectations of the viewers. How many since the days of Ravi Verma have actually turned out portraits that are something more than replicas of photo images? Was the appeal of Bikash Bhattacharyya's Indira limited only to the Gandhi family, or did it ring out through all the readers of the magazine that carried it on its cover? But prejudices can't be helped, Sanjay knows. Deep inside him he also knows, critics will be silenced when they stand before the oils and discern that the artist is driven by something more than the mantra of create-something-new.
Reality, of our lives and our times, is the key to Sanjay's art, then. Reality in its varied dimensions. In varied spheres. Of varying intensity. Even the vibhatsa (horryfying) is not to be glossed over, for it is as real as the finest of sentiments on earth. Sanjay can rest only when he is convinced that the limits of exellence in realistic depiction cannot be exerted further.
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