Skip to main content

An Artist’s Memoir

Writing memoir is like talking to oneself with frequency that is impossible for anyone else to decode. People might read but will see only words and stories, their meanings hidden deep behind somewhere in the chasm of the writer’s soul. A memoir is like a painting. Behind the bright and dull, there exists a world which only the blessed ones can occupy. Below is the memoir by my artist friend Prakash Pacha. He shared it with me after my incessant requests ever since I came to know he had dared to write, partly to satisfy my sense of superiority through judging the work, and partly due to my curiosity. It’s a long one for my blog, to be included in a single post. So I am dividing it into parts, hoping my friend Pacha would not mind. 
 Aiming the Impossible
I
I never tried this; writing. I feel insecure. This is not my thing. It is after the advice of my writer friend, that I am trying this. I had been teaching at a private art institute in Kannur, after my post graduation in Fine Arts.

Then came a moment when the so-called National Eligibility Test conducted by the University Grants Commission became the only criteria for teaching jobs in colleges. At this point in my life when I must find a job of my own and be independent from my family that still provides me, the Eligibility Test showed itself as a monster with chuffed perfection. In front of it I found my self inferior and helpless. To qualify the Test meant to do things the best way as they say. But I believe in doing things the best way I want. I am an artist for whom art is religion, and creativity God. Each moment spent at work is worship.

The test is special. Once you qualify, you are a part of the NET qualified teachers’ community. There will be questions in the exam that have nothing to do with art or creativity. The Answering in the test involves processes such as darkening the bubbles—the objective test—and a written test, where you are asked to write essays on what a specific art movement’s name means. I am artist, not an art historian. It thus eventually sucks all the creativity from your soul and leaves you dead.

The application was sent, the fee was paid and all the travel expenses were taken care of, by my family. The day of the exams came.

I had to go

It was in the examination hall I thought; if I wanted to sit for the whole day or not. The choice was mine. Sitting there for the whole day meant spending a day in front of a set of meaningless question papers prepared by university blockheads who have no idea what the word ‘art’ means, other than what their dusty old tomes told them.

So I rose and went out. 

{Will be continued in the next post}

Comments

Terri said…
I can see why you to have become friends...much is expressed here so well but when I got to "University blockheads"...It made me smile...I think someone else has referred to them that way too. (smile)
I look forward to sharing the next installment.
Hugs
Your Tia
ANULAL said…
You are my Tia! You caught me!;)
good day!
Saru Singhal said…
Quite interesting, I would love to read what happens next!

Saru
AbhiLaSH RuHeLa said…
Awesomely written buddy.

Popular posts from this blog

ANCIENT PROMISES BY JAISHREE MISRA: Janu and Arjun

Ancient Promises is Jaishree Misra's debut book with a fresh narrative voice in comparison with the other novelists of her time.
An unforgettable story, told in first person narrative, Ancient Promises combines in its narrative strategy, romance, myth and social criticism. Jane Austen succeeded in bringing irony in her novels, through interesting and poignant observations, which were most often witty as well. Taking the same line of novel-writing strategy, Jaishree Misra gives opportunity for readers to enjoy the book in multiple perspectives than just a single faceted love story.
Of course, Janu, the protagonist is the narrator and this is her story. However, this is also the story of Kerala and its marriage customs. Many irrational and unjust customs still exist in this southern land situated in India's south. Many European cultures have established trade relations with Kerala, even before the time of the British. But in the long run, it can also be observed that the nature …

DELHI IS NOT FAR BY RUSKIN BOND: A Love Story without Losses

“…and I know that this one lifetime, however long, cannot satisfy my heart” (111).
__ Ruskin Bond
The Commentator says; When it’s about love, some believe it’s natural to make mistakes. The truth is ‘mistakes’ and ‘love’ do not coexist. Mistakes are not love. Love is not a mistake. Before the book review, let me recount to you a love story flew by my life a couple of months back. As some of you know, I love blogging. As some others of you are well aware, more than blogging, I love the experience of writing. Blog or my other publishing ventures, this love for writing is at the core of it all. A couple of months before, I had thought of writing a review of the book Delhi is Not Far by Ruskin Bond, author of The Lamp is Lit. Opening a word document, I wrote the title of the book with the author’s name as a ‘clever’ appendage. Then I kept it to gather some inspiration and relevance. Then I forgot. To be more precise, I pushed the priority to love to another rather unimportant spot and, for…

Spam Luck

Our client is looking for 100 English writers; we could pay up to $10,000/month with bonuses for writers who deliver good content on a regular basis. No experience required. Payment via Paypal, Check, or a Bank Wire.
Mithun Vadakkedathu signed out. But he did not forget to mark the mail he just read as spam. He had been signing up in job sites and this has become his day job.
The previous week he had gone to the Parassinikadavu temple and paid for Vellaattam, the worship dance for pleasing Muthappan, the deity of Parassinikkadavu temple, the ancient God of the commoner.
He groped in his wallet which had holes inside and threads were coming off from its bottom. The outer layer of rexine was removed from many places by time.
Mithun took out three pieces of paper, three tickets: one red, one grey, one pale white in colour. He murmured; “O God, all my prayers, all the Vellaattam I paid for are gone without purpose. I must have done something terrible that I still do not know myself. Perhap…