Donatello and his time

This weekend, while watching a brilliantly crafted 4-hour documentary on the Medici family and their influence on the Renaissance, I felt as if a dream is unfolding before my eyes; a brick-by-brick recreation of some of the greatest artistic achievements of the human mind. Listing names would be futile; like trying to put a galaxy of stars inside a fruit basket. In that dazzling confluence of some of the most revered names in human history, I came across the name of Donatello.

Donatello (1386 – 1866) was one of the greatest sculptors of all time and one of the earliest pioneers of the great new artistic movement then sweeping through Florence, which later became the ‘Renaissance’. Rejected by many, in his life he was as much a non-conformist as one could get. He himself not only rejected most of the conventional art existent during his time (at the expense of facing public ridicule), but also developed a great notoriety for sometimes smashing his creations to pieces rather than handing them over to ‘unworthy patrons’ who would not understand.

His artistic conviction, however, was not limited to venting of angst. He also created some of the most path-breaking sculptures (like the bronze David, the first known free-standing nude since ancient period) of his time, breaking all existing conventions and fuelling great public debates, often facing mass hatred. He however, stood his ground. Alongwith Brunelleschi, he was instrumental in forever changing the face of Florentine and European art and architecture.

In our present age, where the concept of ‘selling’ and ‘getting acceptance’ lies at the source of every activity (including art), life and times of people like Donatello needs revisiting. It is artistic conviction like his (and not mere striving for popular acceptance) which lies at the source of all great creations and creative milieus of our history.

A Prayer for Swapneel and his brothers

Swapneel, my son, is six-and-half month old. He sleeps with his hands stretched on both sides like wings, his face assuming an almost comical seriousness. He often smiles in his sleep; amused and self-contained in his world, a world where I’m sure (atleast hope) things are quite different from that of ours.

Yesterday, lying by his side, I was reading ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’. The contradiction was kind of strange and disturbing; looking at my child as he slept, innocent like a flower, and at the same time reading about the insane horrors of our own heritage, of our own past.

And then, I came across these bizarre lines:

“Comrade, I did not want to kill you… you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand grenades, of your bayonets, of your riffle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony – Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy? If we threw away these riffles and this uniform you could be my brother…”

I don’t know which way lies our future... how many more to come.

Lying there, book in my hand and my child by my side, I prayed… I prayed for Swapneel and all his brothers,wherever they are.

- Siddhartha (May 6, 2009)

Stranger

The lane that leads to the sea

the picturesque lane lined with tropical trees,

tourists,

souvenir shops,

and a dozen evening bars playing jazz


I've traveled along the road

traveled towards the evening sky

hanging perplexed beyond the beach

where children played


beyond the sea

beyond reach

in a distant land


I've traveled

I've traveled

the sound of jazz and swinging doors

and nightfall

reminded me of many things


but I was no Lazarus

nor wanted to be


the beach now abandoned

except for the tireless rhythm of the waves

the hungry waves rising up


in the loneliness of the night


and I was no Lazarus

nor wanted to be