Paintings 2008

Works

 
Death and its mystery have captured the human mind forever. Like death rituals, art often provides a space to deal with this. Embellished human skulls with seashells for eyes and clay noses were excavated in ancient Jericho lodged in home spaces, much like family photographs. Today 9000 years down the road, the highest priced art object is not surprisingly a diamond studded human skull.

My father told me how a grave is meant to be unassuming and however grand your life, once beneath the mound, let go and make way for others. No cement or stone memorials, let other graves replace yours until you but disappear, my first lesson in mortality.

And so it is, my parents’ graves are thick with grass shaded by kikar trees but without a headstone. I went once to place flowers there and a brood of eager, well-fed goats living in the graveyard rushed to devour the petals. Initial anger gave way to laughter; the goats finally drove the point in, as if through an art performance. Life is the greatest artist and even the most radical work will always be a step behind.

Are the touted benefits of globalization based on the same old colonial charter? Is it kinder to kill children through sanctions or just plain invasion of their country? Is drug testing humane if done in Latin America? Is suicide the ultimate art performance, or is murder the more radical one? Are snuff films art? Iconoclasm is easy enough but worthwhile only if it makes room for something new. The challenge is not merely to negate or ask questions but to find the answers. New values, fresh reference points, to discover what is really precious in life, not to avoid experimentation but to move beyond destruction and take a stand.

What I hear most clearly even now is my mother’s steady heartbeat and the reassuring clicking of my father’s typewriter. More than their faces, it is the shapes of their hands that are vivid in my mind as I catch myself thanking them for their gift to me of facing the light and breathing freely. Kishori Amonkar, Charlie Parker, Pushkin, my children spreading their wings, Manto, friends clinking glasses, a yellow leaf descending slowly to the ground, notes from a burnished cello, absence, seagulls, drunks, dogs and lunatics…inspiration can come from anywhere as long as it is from my own experience.

Ultimately it is only we who can infuse our lives or art with new meaning. Now let me go and scatter some fresh flowers on my parents’ graves, those goats must be hungry

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