Impressionism

It's so silly putting framed paintings on a blog. You can download them from any of the thousand copies on the Internet. But I feel a bit of pride - I saw these Monet Paintings (and many more) with my own eyes at Musee D'Orsay. Yes, the originals. Almost a year back, 'How do we know' sent me a book. It was big and heavy and had a green cover. It had the complete collection of Monet Paintings. When I asked her about the heavy book, she lightly replied that it was her duty to hand the book to its rightful owner. I will never forget that favor.

Back in my childhood days, my father had a collection of art books. There were one's on Renaissance, on Toulouse Lautrec and many others. I remember fondly flipping through the pages. Mom had decided to go back to University and on Saturdays I would visit the Jehangir Art Gallery in Mumbai and sit with the artists on the roadside, until Mom would be done with her lectures. I had painted deer on my bedroom walls and when headlights from cars would flash from outside (I don't know how they reached so high, all the way up to the 20th floor!), the deer would come alive. In the day time after school I would run to my friends apartment and talk about kung fu, girls and sometimes about paintings.

I don't know when I first saw his paintings, but I had learnt to recognize them almost instinctively. Once in San Francisco, at the Museum of Modern Art, I saw a photograph. It had a girl in a garden and they were having breakfast. And I saw in it a Monet. It was not his painting of course, but the photograph was inspired by a Monet painting. I asked the guide, "Monet?" She nodded. That was the first time I saw Monet.

Granny would say, an artist holds a mirror to the world. Does Monet hold a mirror to the world? That lady in the field with red flowers, her face isn't even complete. The boats sailing in the lake, isn't the lake up in the sky and sky down in place of the lake? Then there is the cart that trundles on the snow, the sky is brown and the trees appear blue with snow. The plates on the table take centre stage and the people are the background. The house of parliament a hazy shadow, the sun and its reflection hazier still. The little boy in utter darkness beyond the illuminated curtains and flower pots.

In Monet I see the world.

Elephant Girl

After a long day,
Of paper cups, keyboards and saucepans,
She notices some lines,
Pencil marks under her eyes.
She rubs the mirror.
"Sheets of paper cannot hide,
From an elephant memory."
She decides to think of the bus schedule,
The laundry list,
And other important matters,
While the elephant quickly hides,
Under the writing desk.

Versailles

These are pictures from late October when Mom and Dad had come down to visit me. They found it very cold so we visited places near and around Paris. Versailles is a colossus. Its gardens are the biggest I have seen and the palace is incredibly lavish. Louis IV came here in 1682 and the french kings stayed here all they way until the revolution forced Louis VI out of the palace in 1789. But the place is much older and the first chateau was built here sometime in the 11th century.

The best part about this place is the expansive set of interconnected gardens that are spread across an area of 8000 hectares. In between is a waterbody that is a cross between a lake and a canal. Part of it flows right to the foot of the main Palace. Ships would sail into it at some point in history. There is more than one chateau here. Including a mini chateau gifted to Marie Antoinette with its own chapel and garden. It is all so spread out that it would tire one to walk around the whole place. So mom and dad bought tickets for a tram that shuttles around the palace.

A tree

Old walls connect a distant past,
To a courtyard and a house,
Large spaces inside,
And a restless tree.
Bare branches crawl up,
A side of the wall,
Stick a hand out,
And wave at the passerby.
Hey did you see the winter,
Coming this way?

The passerby stops,
Pops his head out of the hood,
And gives his neck a good shake.
His features blur,
A blank page behind a long nose,
Protected by the shaggy beard.
He says, Pardon,
Je suis sur mon chemin,
And walks away.

The tree squints at the horizon,
Spots a dab of red,
And imagines a sunset,
Behind the gray evening.

Champs Elysees

The street that needs no introduction. Charles De Gaule (pronounced Shah de Goul) stares longingly at one end hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Arc de Triomphe that adorns the other end. The pictures are from early October and the air is so wonderful sans the winter chill. The sky was so clear that day, that when I reached the top of Arc de Triomphe through a long, winding staircase, the city of Paris opened her arms to greet me. The sense of history weighed down upon me - everything around me was hundreds of years old that it made even the Eiffel Tower seem young and sprightly. Originally commissioned by Napolean in his heydays (but alas he never saw it completed), the Arc de Triomphe is now symbolic of all the wars that France has seen. Beneath is the tomb of "The Unknown Soldier" (just like in the Jim Morrison song).

In October the bars and cafes sprawled into the road to bask in the sun. It's hard to find people who speak French on this road as there are hordes of tourists clicking away with their cameras at whatever they can see. The last time I went there was in late October, when Mom and Dad came visiting. Dad was feeling awfully cold so we went into the Grand Palais and saw an exhibition.

The Order

The left right left of peeled faces,
Marching to the fore,
Towards the sweaty shore,
A silent menagerie,
Beneath the livid sea,
Heads and feet emerge for a while,
And subside into a mangled broth.

The circle, circle around the digit,
The cheerful clamor, the fist rigid,
Round and round they go,
A mass of bodies,
Exulting in their nudity,
Stepping upon each wayward mononity,
Shunning the absurdity,
Engulfing a vast multiplicity,
Evening the oddity.

The up down up of unattired limbs,
Untiring, unabashed, indiscriminate revelry,
Gyrating in rhythm to a raucous rhapsody,
Erupting in a communal paroxysm,
Echoing each others emotion,
Churning, churning the ever-life,
To its last sap of youth.

Chateau

This is my home now. And that is my cycle. That sleepy alley leads me to my new home. See how the signs scream 'Gymnase Henri Chapu'. The gym is actually right opposite my house and you can see kids outside the gym on regular evenings. That is my chateau with a beautiful garden. The pictures are from September and that is why the garden is so overwhelmingly green. So many people come to my town just to see the Chateau. Napolean lived here once. But the Chateau is many centuries older than him. It dates back to the times of Louis VII in the 12th century. Close to my town the Barbizon painters painted scores of paintings. In September, I would spend hours at the chateau. Staring at the garden. Admiring the swans, the shapely pond, the clear blue skies.

Those swans have flown away now that it is December. The sky isn't as blue as it was in September. It is predominantly gray, and the sun rises late in the day. It is so cold that my words shiver and refuse to leave the warmth of my home on Rue Henri Chapu.