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| Gustave Courbet |
Thursday, December 31, 2015
The Most Arrogant Man in France
Yesterday afternoon while
roaming through the crowded galleries of the New York Metropolitan Museum of
Art, I came across a painting in the 19th century European paintings and sculptures
section that seemed coarse yet real. It depicted a woman in nude standing beside
a waterfall, and instead of the usual frontal nudes, this one depicted the
woman’s behind.
Titled ‘The Source’, the
painting was by a French artist Gustave Courbet. I hadn’t heard of the artist before. The
painting and the artist were in a section that housed some of the best known
works and artists of the 19th century. And so while it was impossible to find
space to view Claude Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’, or Edgar Degas’s ‘Little Dancer’, nobody
seemed interested in ‘The Source’.
The museum’s introduction to
the painting explained, “This nude is painted in an unflinching natural style
and is devoid of the trappings of academic allegory to which the painting’s
tile alludes. Courbet is thought to have intended it as a response to (JeanAuguste Dominique) Ingres’s own La Source
(1856, Musee d’Orsay, Paris), which was exhibited at the Galerie Martinet,
Paris in 1861. The picture by Ingres depicts an idealized nude holding a jar
from which water pours, as allusion to a spring or river source, and
symbolizing poetic inspiration.”
Later in the evening, I browsed
the internet to know more about Courbet, and discovered an artist who did
everything that an artist should do – challenge preconceived notions of what
should or shouldn’t constitute art. Courbet (1819-1877) created Realism in the
mid-nineteenth century, and influenced early modernists such as Edouard Manet
and Claude Monet. He rejected the then prevalent classical and theatrical style
by focusing on the physical reality of the objects with all its imperfections.
He introduced egalitarianism by making commoners his models, and painting their
lives on a scale that had previously been reserved for either royalty or
religion.
According to a website (www.gustavecourbet.org) dedicated to
his work, “For Courbet Realism dealt not with the perfection of line and form,
but entailed spontaneous and rough handling of paint, suggesting direct
observation by the artist while portraying the irregularities in nature. He
depicted the harshness in life, and in so doing, challenged contemporary
academic ideas of art, which brought the criticism that he deliberately adopted
a cult of ugliness.”
Courbet shook the French art establishment
until then dominated by classicism that had been central to art since
Renaissance. He forced the art community to consider an alternative vision that
took cognisance of the prevailing sociopolitical and religious trends. He also declined
the Legion of Honour that the despotic Napoleon III wanted to bestow upon him.
Active in the radicalization of
the working class in France, he abandoned art briefly to serve the government
during the Paris Commune of 1871. Courbet was put in charge of all museums and
entrusted with the task of saving art from the rampaging mob that had taken
over Paris. Subsequently, he was held responsible for carrying out the Commune’s
decree of dismantling the Vendome Column erected by Napoleon I, and had to flee
to Switzerland after he was ordered to pay for its reconstruction.
Courbet was opposed to the
dominance of the state-sponsored art patronage and worked hard to establish a
direct market for his work. He understood that an artist’s responsibility was
not just to create art, but also sell it. He created new ways to create
awareness about his art and himself, becoming one of the first artists to
utilize the newly-available mass media of newspapers to create a wider audience
for his work. Courbet’s efforts succeeded in getting women of Paris interested
in art. (The Most Arrogant Man in France:Gustave Courbet and the Nineteenth-Century Media Culture).
In a review of an exhibition of
his works at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2008, The New York Times’s Roberta Smith wrote, “Courbet virtually wrote
the definition of the modern artist as a bohemian, narcissistic loner and
political radical who shunned the academy, tutoring himself at the Louvre and
living by the phrase “épater le bourgeois,”
or “shock the bourgeoisie.” He emerged in Paris in the 1840s, when court
patronage was long gone, but the modern art market was still in formation. He
was quick to grasp the usefulness of three related, also nascent phenomena:
newspapers, popular illustration and especially photography, with its new
realism.” (Seductive Rebel Who Kept ItReal).
Forever a rebel, he called
himself ‘The most arrogant man in France’; and continued to provoke the art
establishment and the society with his paintings. In the late 1860s, he began
to focus on eroticism depicting female genitalia and featuring two women in
bed. Naturally, these works were banned. In fact, when his works were exhibited
in New York, the John Golding in his New
York Review of Books observed that the layout of the display was such that it
allowed the guards to deny access to parties of schoolchildren.
Just a year before his death,
he formed the Federation of Artists (Federation des artistes) for the free and
uncensored expansion of art. The group’s members included artists such as Andre
Gill, Honore Daumier, Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot, Eugene Pottier, Jules Dalou,
and Edouard Manet.
Courbet’s ‘The Source’ is an
antithesis of Ingres’s original. Ingres was a preeminent artist in France in
mid-nineteenth century. His painting defined him. Kenneth Clark, one of the best
art historians of the last century, described Ingres’s 'The Source' as the most
beautiful figure in French painting. Courbet’s ‘The Source’ eschews
romanticism, and realistically depicts a woman’s anatomy in a manner that was
considered rude, vulgar and unnecessarily provocative in the mid-nineteenth
century.
Images:
http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/436022?=&imgno=0&tabname=object-information
Labels:
Gustave Courbet,
Realism,
The Source
Saturday, December 26, 2015
The Scarlet Muse
Thanks to the efforts of my nephew Tapan Ramchandran, I have
received a copy of The Scarlet Muse,
an anthology of Polish poems translated into English by Umadevi (Wanda
Dynowska) and Harischandra Bhatt (my grandfather).
The anthology was published in 1944 by Nalanda Publishers
(NM Tripathi Limited), Princess Street, Bombay.
About a couple of years back, I had tried to get a copy of
the anthology for Aleksandra Skiba is a librarian at Pomeranian Library (The
Central Library of the West Pomeranian Province) in the Polish city of Szczecin.
Skiba, the researcher and librarian, had done good work unearthing
information about Harischandra and Umadevi available in Polish library
archives. If you’re interested, you may read the earlier posts here:
Rediscovering a poet.
Poland is engulfed in a fresh bout of constitutional crisis.
I’m reproducing two poems from the anthology from the World War II era, but have
resonance even today.
The Song of Warsaw
(Broadcast by the Warsaw radio station Blyskawica)
are high,
Fighting Warsaw fights on, none here weeps
in despair!
We straddle the Hun and with bare hands we try
To strangle the beast as he creeps to his lair.
While you still complain of the bloodshed
and flame
Devouring Warsaw as day succeeds day,
We here with our bare breasts the enemy stay
And laugh at your praise and suggestions of
fame.
But why must your song of lamenting still
sound
When everyone, men, women, children are
found
Fighting and bleeding for Poland, for home!
Let the mournful dirges no longer be heard.
Here beats the great heart of Poland – intact!
Warsaw speaks! Warsaw thunders! And
this is her word:
“Spare us your praise. Give us arms. We
must act!”
(Translated by Elizabeth Clark Reiss)
The other poem is The
Muse Scarlet (perhaps the poem which gave the anthology its name).
The poem is by Marian Hemar (1901-1972). When the anthology
was published, Hemar, a Polish Jew, was alive and in exile in London, having
escaped the clutches of the dreaded Gestapo. He could never return to Poland,
because the Communist regime that ruled Poland after the end of the war. He
died in England in 1972.
The
Muse Scarlet
O Poetry full of grace
Do pray for us.
Thy honour is now coming
In thunder’s crash,
Thy hour is now pouring
In torrents of flame.
Lift up on us thy golden face
Thy wonderous countenance.
The glare of God’s wrath
Falls upon us,
Cast thyself in despair like a lion
On the path of His blaze,
Seize His hand which lifts up
His heavy sword over our heads,
O Poetry! Thou art the last
Rampart of Polish defences!
O walls of Zbarazh!*
Of Kamyenyets** invincibly proud
O tower of Mountain of Light!
Westerplatte falls,
Hell – villains will steal,
But thou wilt endure
Holy fortress of our Poets great.
Over our heads that lie in dust
Burst the bowl of thy dew.
Grant the grace of a sob
To our dumb, silent lips.
Wash our wounds and defeats
With thy holy tears.
O Poetry! Kneel and weep
And pray thou for us.
When by the flame
All words are twisted and curled
Like metal’s shabby plates,
Thou knowest alone the secret
Of words which defy all fires,
Born themselves out of flames,
Words – tears, words which are
Bread and salt of all life,
Which grow from the soil
And from heaven come down.
Sweep thou above us!
In a current og blazing white
And another of crimson-blood!
O poet, your hand to the standard!
No wreath for your brow,
No place for laurels now,
What matters it’s the flag
Not the hand
That holds the shaft* a city at present in Ukraine
** a city at present in Belarus
Kashmir should top the Indo-Pak agenda
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| Hand-in-hand: Sharif-Modi Bromance |
Narendra Modi has taken a bold
decision to visit Pakistan and meet Nawaz Sharif. This spontaneity will
undoubtedly lead to a breakthrough in thawing the relations between the
neighbours; it’s about time for India and Pakistan to make a new beginning.
It’s a calculated risk that the
Indian Prime Minister has taken, one that is fraught with inherent risks, and
one that will certainly draw flak from his own party. But it’s a step that all
sane people in the subcontinent will support, and encourage.
However, beyond the optics, and
the people-to-people bhai-chara, it
will be necessary for both sides to deal with concrete issues. For any
meaningful forward movement, the Kashmir situation should be on the top of the agenda.
The Bharatiya Janata Party
(BJP) leadership has given the dark days of Emergency (1975-77) under Indira Gandhi
nearly the same status as the Quit India movement (1942), because its leaders were part of the nationwide struggle to fight and overthrow Mrs. Indira Gandhi’s autocratic misrule; and they have always considered
Jayaprakash Narayan, the socialist leader who led this fight, as one of their political philosopher.
![]() |
| Jayaprakash Narayan |
It would do Narendra Modi a
great deal of good to read what Jayaprakash Narayan had to say about the
Kashmir situation (which has changed for worse since JP issues this press
statement more than 50 years ago in December 1964; it’s reproduced here from
Makers of Modern India, Edited by Ramchandra Guha, published by the Belknap
Press of Harvard University Press, 2011; Guha has reproduced it from Balraj
Puri’s JP on Jammu and Kashmir, Gyan Publishing House, 2005):
“The question we
must squarely face is whether constitutional integration of Kashmir with India
is more important in the national interest than friendship with Pakistan and
justice to the people of the Valley of Srinagar. Legal technicalities will not
provide the answer. What is needed is a mature and realistic reckoning. As far
as I can see, the disadvantages of the present policy far outweigh the
advantages.
“Let me take up first the issue
of justice to the people of the Valley. There has been no credible proof yet
that they have freely accepted the legal fact of accession. Constitutional
integration has little meaning in the absence of emotional integration. In this
age and time, it is impossible to hold down by force any sizeable population
permanently. If we continue to do it, we cannot look the world straight in the
face and talk of democracy and justice and peace. Nor, on account of the
historical circumstances, can we take shelter behind the internationally
recognized limitations of the right to self-determination. Perhaps the most
harmful consequence of the policy of forcible integration would be the
death-knell of Indian secularism and enthronement of aggressive Hindu
communalism. That communalism is bound in the end to turn upon the Hindu
community and destroy it.
“As for friendship with
Pakistan, let us calculatedly determine how dearly we need that friendship. No
country can afford to buy friendship at any cost. So let there be a reckoning
of gains and losses. First of all, let us be mature enough to understand that
we persist in our present Kashmir policy, there can be no friendship with
Pakistan. The leaders of that country have not left us in any doubt on that
score. If we disbelieve them, we shall have only ourselves to blame.”
After analyzing the
geopolitical fallout of the differences between India and Pakistan over
Kashmir, JP concludes with a sharp observation on the emotional division the
rift has perpetuated between the people of subcontinent.
| Modi at JP anniversary celebration program |
He says, “The last and in some
way the most disastrous consequence of the quarrel is its human and moral cost
and the alienation of peoples that it threatens to bring about…These conditions
would be sure to cause mass human degradation on both sides. The political division
of the subcontinent cannot hide the fact that the peoples of India and Pakistan
are really one people. This is not the first time that India has been divided
politically. But there had always been a feeling of oneness and identity among
the people divided between kingdoms and republics. Today, Bengalis of the West
and the East are one people, irrespective of region; so are the Punjabis. In
like manner, the Bengalis and Punjabis and Sindhis and Pathans and Jats and Rajputs
and others of both countries make up one single Indian people, who are distinct
from all other people of the world. States are passing shows, but people are
eternal. Therefore, I would consider this alienation of the people of India and
Pakistan from one another to be the most disastrous consequence of the present
quarrel.”
Images:
http://www.business-standard.com/article/politics/modi-leaves-lahore-for-delhi-after-meeting-sharif-115122500527_1.html
http://www.kamat.com/database/content/pen_ink_portraits/jayaprakash_narayan.jpg
Monday, November 30, 2015
Pi-Dog - A poem by Arun Kolhatkar
1
This is the time of day I like best,
and this the hour
when I can call this city my own;
when I like nothing better
than to lie down here, at the exact centre
of this traffic island
(or trisland as I call it for short,
and also to suggest
a triangular island with rounded corners)
that doubles as a parking lot
on working days,
a corral for more than fifty cars,
when it's deserted early in the morning,
and I'm the only sign
of intelligent life on the planet;
the concrete surface hard, flat and cool
against my belly,
my lower jaw at rest on crossed forepaws;
just about where the equestrian statue
of what's-his-name
must've stood once, or so I imagine.
2
I look a bit like
a seventeenth-century map of Bombay
with its seven islands
not joined yet,
shown in solid black
on a body the colour of old parchment;
with Old Woman's Island
on my forehead,
Mahim on my croup,
and the others distributed
casually among
brisket, withers, saddle and loin
- with a pirate's
rather than a cartographer's regard
for accuracy.
3
- no proof of course,
just a strong family tradition -
matrilineally,
to the only bitch that proved
tough enough to have survived,
first, the long voyage,
and then the wretched weather here
- a combination
that killed the rest of the pack
of thirty foxhounds,
imported all the way from England
by Sir Bartle Frere
in eighteen hundred and sixty-four,
with the crazy idea
of introducing fox-hunting to Bombay.
Just the sort of thing
he felt the city badly needed.
4
On my father's side
the line goes back to the dog that followed
Yudhishthira
on his last journey,
and stayed with him till the very end;
long after all the others
- Draupadi first, then Sahadeva,
then Nakul, followed by Arjuna and,
last of all, Bhima -
had fallen by the wayside.
Dog in tow, Yudhishthira alone plodded on.
Until he too,
frostbitten and blinded with snow,
dizzy with hunger and gasping for air,
was about to collapse
in the icy wastes of the Himalayas;
when help came
in the shape of a flying chariot
to airlift him to heaven.
Yudhishthira, that noble prince, refused
to get on board unless dogs were allowed.
And my ancestor became the only dog
to have made it to heaven
in recorded history.
5
of man's devotion to dog,
we have to leave the realm of history,
skip a few thousand years
and pick up a work of science fantasy
- Harlan Ellison's A Boy and his Dog,
a cultbook among pi-dogs everywhere -
in which the ‘Boy' of the title
sacrifices his love,
and serves up his girlfriend
as dogfood to save the life of his
starving canine master.
6
No,
not the exclamation of disgust;
but the U pronounced as in Upanishad,
and gh not silent,
but as in ghost, ghoul or gherkin.
It's short for Ughekalikadu,
Siddharamayya's
famous dog that I was named after,
the guru of Kallidevayya's dog
who could recite
the four Vedas backwards.
My own knowledge of the scriptures
begins
and ends, I'm afraid,
with just one mantra, or verse;
the tenth,
from the sixty-second hymn
in the third mandala of the Rig
(and to think
that the Rig alone contains ten thousand
five hundred and fifty-two verses).
It's composed in the Gayatri metre,
and it goes:
Om tat savitur varenyam
bhargo devasya dhimahi
dhiyo yonah prachodayat.
Twenty-four syllables, exactly,
if you count the initial Om.
Please don't ask me what it means, though.
All I know
is that it's addressed to the sun-god
- hence it's called Savitri -
and it seems appropriate enough
to recite it
as I sit here waiting for the sun
to rise.
May the sun-god amplify
the powers of my mind.
7
What I like about this time and place
- as I lie here hugging the ground,
my jaw at rest on crossed forepaws,
my eyes level with the welltempered
but gaptoothed keyboard
of the black-and-white concrete blocks
that form the border of this trisland
and give me my primary horizon -
is that I am left completely undisturbed
to work in peace on my magnum opus:
a triple sonata for a circumpiano
based on three distinct themes -
one suggested by a magpie robin,
another by the wail of an ambulance,
and the third by a rockdrill;
a piebald pianist, caressing and tickling
the concrete keys with his eyes,
undeterred by digital deprivation.
8
the city slowly reconstructs itself,
stone by numbered stone.
Every stone
seeks out his brothers
and is joined by his neighbours.
Every single crack
returns to its flagstone
and all is forgiven.
Trees arrive at themselves,
each one ready
to give an account of its leaves.
The mahogany drops
a casket bursting with winged seeds
by the wayside,
like an inexperienced thief
drops stolen jewels
at the sight of a cop.
St Andrew's church tiptoes back to its place,
shoes in hand,
like a husband after late-night revels.
The university,
you'll be glad to know,
can never get lost
because, although forgetful,
it always carries
its address in its pocket.
9
My nose quivers.
A many-coloured smell
of innocence and lavender,
mildly acidic perspiration
and nail polish,
rosewood and rosin
travels like a lighted fuse
up my nose
and explodes in my brain.
It's not the leggy young girl
taking a short cut
through this island as usual,
violin case in hand,
and late again for her music class
at the Max Mueller Bhavan,
so much as a warning to me
that my idyll
will soon be over,
that the time has come for me
to surrender the city
to its so-called masters.
Labels:
Arun Kolhatkar,
Pi-Dog,
The Kala Ghoda Poems
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