The diagonal
The paintings are placed with substantial gaps between them, so that there is too much wall a soothing creamy coloured wall. The wall is tall and end in array of ventilators that are rectangular small slits, afternoon summer sun burn through the splits in eye numbing brightness. The room is like a deep tight pit with no windows and only thing that could enter from the street outside was muted faint but incessant calls of cuckoo from the tree in the courtyard. There was nobody else in the gallery and I could hear echoes of my own footsteps, the panels of the floor are in alternative squares of light blue and brick red. It was an unusual choice of colours, it increased the thickness in the air. Environment of the room though was controlled as indicated from the readings on the instrument hung on the bottom corner: Temp:27, Hum:68%. On the stool next sat the security guard in bright blue outfit and a matching cap, he drowsed. His hands lay limp towards the floor. I am now standing in front of the painting that covers few feet of the wall, it is about the size of a window. There are dismembered limbs, a head sink in deep blue vastness, it is frozen in anguish, a perpetual soulful anguish in a hopeless mess. A sharp unyielding cruel yellow streak through the canvass, in a brutal finality. I shook and see the painting disturbed by my silhouette, the unkempt hair seeping out, I am held. It turns ash with a surprise, a surprise not auguring pleasant. The features on the faces are almost indistinct, it is as if a terrifying thought was summoned and instantly exited. It was a peculiar face, an expression that wasn’t supposed to be there. It was unbelievable, not seen even on dead faces that saw worst of violations.
The horror of dying mixed in astonishment of recognizing the faces of perpetrators. It was a devastating expression, of loss and incomprehension. The disconnected limbs are contorted in dissipation, life has oozed out slowly, deliberately. A disembodied palm bloom in complete submission while a female torso in revolting pale orange makes a futile attempt to wriggle out. The contrast with blackness is gruesome. I stand there in rising sense of uneasiness. The man sleeping on the stool had his head dug into the belly, and could fall over any moment. I was immobilized, the red and blue of the floor panel seem moving, and spinning at tremendous speed, I am loosing myself. I am being broken into pieces. The anguish trapped in the painting could be heard now. So much sobbing fills my ear that I cover them, still no avail I pluck them. I see the blood, I can feel it, there is so much warmth in the pain. Only voice I now yearn to hear is that of the cuckoo on the tree outside.
(painting by Tyeb Mehta IGCNA Bangalore)
