I remember watching a short film in my college, the gist of which could be summarized as below.
A man who works at a NGO and takes care of people who have no family members to look after them faces difficulty in looking after his parents at home.
At times, I have found the artistic process to reflect the irony of this short film.
I remember a night when I was writing a post about my mother. I was in the middle of it, still figuring out how to end it. My mother walked into my room and started talking about her day at office. A part of my brain listened to her while another part of my brain continued working on the essay's end. The writer in me wanted to succeed as much as the son in me.
I remember another day when I was writing a post in my college hostel, reminiscing about the wonders of college life in it. I was writing it seated in an empty room while all my friends were in the neighboring room, cheering and shouting for India in a cricket match.
I have often questioned myself about the price one has to pay for one's art.
The want to communicate a truth of life through a painting or a poem or a photograph costs hours of solitude and days of relentless practice. I am sure that no artist would complain about the cost. Yet, aren't some experiences lost during the process of converting some parts of our lives into art?
As I type this, I remember a director's roundtable where one of my favorite actors/directors Denzel Washington said this about making a movie.
"You know...your son got shot in the face, that's difficult. Making a movie is a luxury. It's a gift. It's an opportunity and most importantly, it's a gift...don't get it twisted. It's just a movie. It ain't that big a deal."
These lines always get me. Just like Denzel's movies.
****
About a week before I joined my first job, I became nervous wondering if I would be able to continue writing despite my daily job. Not knowing a way out, I told myself that I would treat my regular job as a part-time job and consider writing as my full-time job, measuring the success of my professional life through the quantity and quality of my writing.
As I look back at the last four years, I hold mixed feelings about my presumed professional life. I feel happy about some nights when my mind pushed my body into typing down my thoughts after a long day at office. Yet, there have been some instances during the first two years of my job when I refused to join my friends for lunches/dinners/treks because Iwanted forced myself to spend more time reading about and practicing art. Not in a way where words and images made me fall in love with them. But in a way where the process gave me an excuse to isolate myself and justify not connecting with people.
I had to lose a few friends to remind myself of why I got attached to art in the first place - to lead a life with better understanding and more love.
Over the last couple of months, I had returned to the zone of making myself as busy as possible with either reading about or practicing art. And strangely, as I was in this zone trying to prefer art over people, Stephen King caught me red-handed through his wonderful book, On writing: A memoir of the craft, and brought me back to life.
"It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."
How art makes you aware of its own importance in life is another beautiful irony.
A man who works at a NGO and takes care of people who have no family members to look after them faces difficulty in looking after his parents at home.
At times, I have found the artistic process to reflect the irony of this short film.
I remember a night when I was writing a post about my mother. I was in the middle of it, still figuring out how to end it. My mother walked into my room and started talking about her day at office. A part of my brain listened to her while another part of my brain continued working on the essay's end. The writer in me wanted to succeed as much as the son in me.
I remember another day when I was writing a post in my college hostel, reminiscing about the wonders of college life in it. I was writing it seated in an empty room while all my friends were in the neighboring room, cheering and shouting for India in a cricket match.
I have often questioned myself about the price one has to pay for one's art.
The want to communicate a truth of life through a painting or a poem or a photograph costs hours of solitude and days of relentless practice. I am sure that no artist would complain about the cost. Yet, aren't some experiences lost during the process of converting some parts of our lives into art?
As I type this, I remember a director's roundtable where one of my favorite actors/directors Denzel Washington said this about making a movie.
"You know...your son got shot in the face, that's difficult. Making a movie is a luxury. It's a gift. It's an opportunity and most importantly, it's a gift...don't get it twisted. It's just a movie. It ain't that big a deal."
These lines always get me. Just like Denzel's movies.
****
About a week before I joined my first job, I became nervous wondering if I would be able to continue writing despite my daily job. Not knowing a way out, I told myself that I would treat my regular job as a part-time job and consider writing as my full-time job, measuring the success of my professional life through the quantity and quality of my writing.
As I look back at the last four years, I hold mixed feelings about my presumed professional life. I feel happy about some nights when my mind pushed my body into typing down my thoughts after a long day at office. Yet, there have been some instances during the first two years of my job when I refused to join my friends for lunches/dinners/treks because I
I had to lose a few friends to remind myself of why I got attached to art in the first place - to lead a life with better understanding and more love.
Over the last couple of months, I had returned to the zone of making myself as busy as possible with either reading about or practicing art. And strangely, as I was in this zone trying to prefer art over people, Stephen King caught me red-handed through his wonderful book, On writing: A memoir of the craft, and brought me back to life.
"It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."
How art makes you aware of its own importance in life is another beautiful irony.
