Turning apples into oranges and anguish into smile
A
couple of days ago I was discussing poetry with a Turkish friend. She
asked me if I had read a poem by Nazim Hikmet about painting happiness.
I had not. She quickly translated the first few lines and emailed it to
me.
"Can you paint happiness
Abidin
but without the easy way
out
not the rosy cheeked
mother breastfeeding her
child or the red apples
on a white cloth
nor the jolly fish darting
aquarium bubbles;
can you paint happiness
the kind without lies?"
The idea is old of course and speaks to the ancient debates about the
purpose of art and the true calling of the artist which will remain
unresolved. No one, Hikmet included, can commission the artist to paint
this or that. It is the artist's decision. And here, before I am
misinterpreted, let me add that we are talking about people who take
their art seriously and who are not influenced by 'market realities' and
the play of demand and supply when it comes to choice of subject,
material or style.
Nazim's concern is simply and elegantly put. He wants the artist to
depict for us those tender things that reside just below the surface
called 'appearance' or that which is lost in the clutter of the
everyday. Perhaps. I don't know. I assume. Anyway, it made me recall the
oft-quoted and ill-employed lines from John Keats' 'Ode to a Grecian
Urn', 'Beauty is truth and truth beauty; that's all ye know on earth and
all ye need to know'.
How does one paint happiness, 'the kind without lies', I wondered. On
Sunday evening, I found out.
I went to watch a street theatre performance in Moratuwa. It was
organized to commemorate the birth anniversary of late Gamini
Haththotuwegama, widely recognized as the pioneer exponent of this form
of theatre.
It was exactly one month after he passed away. It was a
trans-generational affair with members of the original troupe performing
with the present lot, old favourites infused (as has always been the
case) with present-day reference, slang, prop and cultural allusions.
There was naturally a tinge of nostalgia that hovered over the
players and the performance given the significance of the event. That
quality was enhanced by the vocal and physical presence of the master's
son Rajith. Rajith would I know dismiss all this as unimportant as he
should and he wouldn't be wrong. On the other hand, he alone possesses
his father's voice and in this sense it was 'complete'. The father was
present in son, chosen genre and the excellence of performance.
Back to happiness. People and human relations are not red apples (or
mangoes) on a white table cloth; nor are they 'aquariumed' specimen
swishing this way and that to be gazed on and painted by the random
passerby. They are not one-dimensional and are never made of either
black or white but both as well as a multiplicity of other colours and
shades.
The story of a single human being is an epic. The story of social
process is an untenable proposition in that it is never amenable to
reference in the singular; there are millions of stories and millions of
version, all cluttered by the grind of the diurnal and the paint of
ideology and political prerogative.
It is not easy to paint human being. It is not easy to find the
colours that do justice to the human condition in all its complexity.
Indeed it is hard to pick and slice and describe it without injuring
that which was chosen for dissection.
The performance, divested of nostalgia, to my mind was an expression
of what Hikmet demanded of Abidin. It was 'happiness without lies'.
'Happiness' not because that which was commented on through word, action
and rhythm was about a world without blemish, a world warranting
salutation and celebration. It was a 'true' depiction and it rang true
because the colours were believable.
Social comment suffers in delivery because it is often painted in
harsh colours and is devoid of humour and wit, whereas people regardless
of what kinds of drudgery they suffer are not humourless and not
one-dimensional in response or being.
The critical edge that I saw in the performance was the fact that the
script while being ruthless in criticizing the status quo of a number of
things still endowed the 'sufferer' with the power to laugh at the
oppressor and oppression, injustice and its perpetrator, not in a
revengeful way, but an almost paternalistic manner.
More than this, the 'sufferer' also laughs at himself. This is one of
the most endearing human qualities and I think this is what allows us to
believe in and work towards a different social order.
I do not know what Abidin said to Hikmet. I do not know the rest of
the poem and what else Hikmet asked Abidin. I have never seen Abidin's
paintings. But I think, had Hikmet lived in Sri Lanka and had known 'Hatha',
he would have written a different poem. Or perhaps added an extra verse
to the 'Abidin poem'. Something like this:
Come Abidin,
Let us to the pearl
of the Indian Ocean
The tear of all tears
Blood soaked and
benign.
There, I have heard
Lives a painter
Who turns apple
into orange
Draws it out of table,
table-cloth and frame
To feed revolution;
Who disguises scream
as laughter
Anguish as resolve
And tickles himself
to death
So he can live forever.
[email protected]. |