Appreciating the Female Nude...

While I've always admired and appreciated art, not until very recently did I start understanding it and learning to read a painting and see what the artist is trying to say. Obviously in my less informed days, I expected all art to be beautiful in a gentle, pleasing manner and anything that was raw, asymetrical or unconventional failed to inspire me. So it is hardly surprising that my favourite artists were all Impressionists. I did however admire a few other artists, Edgar Degas being one of them. Very often recognised as an Impressionist, Degas infact worked more often in the studio than in the natural light and his subjects and techniques differed slightly from those of his contemporary Impressionists. I've always appreciated Edgar Degas' series of women at their toilette, finding the voyeur's perspective fascinating and sensual at the same time. That was perhaps my first step towards appreciating nudes in art.

As I slowly discovered other works with the female nude as their subject, I began to analyse them further. For instance, none of Degas' women meet their viewer's eye, unlike Velazquez's Venus (1644-48) who coyly looks at her viewer through the mirror held up for her toilette by an angel.

The sensuality of Ingres' Odalisque (1840) who looks over her shoulder and meets the viewer's eyes with an open frankness and not the slightest hint of coyness stole my breath, even if the proportion of the back in comparison to the rest of the body was a little skewed. Or maybe it was that sensual curve of her back that added to her appeal?

Odalisque with a Slave, in stark contrast presented a frontal view of Odalisque stretched out sensually while a slave played music for her pleasure and another one stood at guard. Obviously influenced by Ingres' study of Oriental culture, it is an incredibly sensual work of art, but I personally prefered Georgione's Venus Asleep (1510). The casual indolence with which Venus is stretched, demurely covering her sex with her hand is far more sensual than the obvious sensuality of the Ingres' Odalisque.

But if Georgione's Venus hand covering her sex is a demure gesture, when one sees Titian's Venus of Urbino (1538-39)covering her sex, it seems almost like an after-thought as she stares straight into the eyes of the viewer. The dog curled at her feet and the familiar household scene in the background seem to add to the erotic nature of the painting. However, she still seems demure, despite the openness of her look.

On the other hand, Manet's Olympia (1865), reposing on her bed while similarly covering her sex is anything but demure. The bold look invites the (male) viewer to enter her private chambers and sample what's very obviously on offer. The blatant sexuality of this work scandalised the public in the 19th century. While the nudity itself no longer shocks, the intent of the painting when considered in its contemporary social setting does indeed shock me as well. But I must profess to hugely admiring this particular work of art and all that it suggests, whether subtly or obviously.

Whatever be the intent and the style, none of these have truly bared the female sex to the viewer as do the modern works of art. Call me prudish or conventional, but I prefer this sensual representation of the female nude in comparison to the deconstructed nude which holds little as sacred (and the female sex is definitely not sacred for the modern artist). If I had to have a print of any one of these works of art in my house, I'd reach out for Olympia without batting an eyelid.

Diasporic Angst...

I remember the first time I went back to Bombay in June 2004 - my heart was singing from the moment we crossed the toll naka in Vashi, my eyes soaking in the sights of the familiar roads, rolling down the windows to take deep, gulping breaths of that salty wind. It was the same each and every time I disembarked from the plane on my way back home from Germany/France. Muggy, disgustingly hot even in the middle of the night or not, breathing in the air of Tinsel Town put a spring in my step. Bombay, I have always maintained, has a unique smell that only a true blue Bombayite can appreciate. My trips to Bombay decreased in frequency over the years, but the feeling of going back home everytime didn't change...till this time.

This time, for the first time, I felt out of place. The humidity and heat made me feel almost sick the first evening - the squalor and dirtiness of the streets made me wonder when the city had turned into a gigantic garbage dump - the smell pervading the streets made me screw up my nose in disgust - the ambitious metro project which is being awaited eagerly by everybody struck me as a huge eyesore. Of course work is still under way and what I saw of it, was just dug up roads, leading to mucky roads and massive traffic confusion, but it hasn't appealed yet. The worst was the feeling that I no longer recognise the city. The shopping centers and malls cropping up at every corner make me feel rather lost, when I can't locate the familiar landmarks.

Yet, I can not deny that the city still rocks my boat, like little else. Is it merely because nothing better exists or because my city truly does rock, mugginess, squalor et al?

Impressions of a Sunrise

Have you ever woken up before the crack of dawn and sat in the dark listening to the sounds of silence envelopping you in their silvery embrace?

Have you ever heard the adhan from the neighbouring masjid or the crowing of the roosters announcing the dawn of a new day?

Have you ever seen the fiery rays of the rising sun streak across the sky and set it aflame? Or watched as stars twinkling against the inky blackness of the night slowly fade as the sky became progressively lighter?

Have you ever started your day with nothing for company but a mug of tea/coffee, your myriad thoughts and the strains of the santoor strummed by none other than the great maestro Shiv Kumar Sharma?

If you haven't, you must, for I have mere words which don't even come close to describing the pleasure of these experiences.

Claude Monet - Impression du Soleil Levant (1873)

Rien de Spécial

Standing at the fag end of the weekend, I smile as the warmth of content spreads slowly but steadily through my tired body, making me forget how sleep deprived and exhausted I am and that an extremely tiring week lies ahead of me...so what did I do this weekend? Rien de spécial - a visit to one of my favourite places in the city, i.e. the Khadki cemetery(which is also hopefully the first of several such visits in the Pune Darshan plan for a new friend), efficient and quick shopping expeditions for friends, rambling conversations, drinks and a midnight meal of Maggi with friends, Dhansak and Salli boti at Dorabjee's café with Extempore who is here to help Landmark shift across the road to a much larger space with a hugely improved stock which makes it difficult to resist the urge to splurge which obviously means new books, in this case two new books by Gerald Durrel (whom I blogged about here) both of which I'm most eager to start reading...

As I said, rien de spécial - just an extremely satisfying week-end :)

Tchin Tchin

From 2004 to 2009, I've attended five 14 juillet soirées organised by Alliance Française de Poona. I started the journey in 2004 as a new student lost in the crowd, painfully awkward and bored stiff due to lack of company. A year later, I still didn't know many people but sure had fun with Kitana and PJ. The following year saw me in a new position as a professor, but back in the old shoes where I found myself isolated since I didn't know any of my colleagues well enough to spend time with them and ended up spending the evening on the dance floor with students...it was also the first time I condescended to drinking beer! A couple of years later, things have changed so much. For one, the party was not on 14 juillet but (for a bunch of strange reasons) on the 1st of August. Secondly, I now enjoy glugging beer. Thirdly, our party was a complete disaster in comparison to the rocking parties we've had in the past. There was no music and I never got around to eating so I can't comment on the food. Yet for some strange reason I had a great time - I was on my turf, flitting from one group of students to the other, stopping in between to gossip with P, N and K. Times like this, I am most tempted to pinch myself and check if this butterfly is the same Plain Jane who would not so much as indulge in small talk with people, leave alone flirt outrageously, tease mercilessly and refuse to let anyone get bored or feel lonely. I think I quite like the butterfly, so let's drink to that, shall we?