Is ART the Journal of our Times?

by Innerdialect

In conversation with Abhrodeep Mukherjee

Revelation Of My Thoughts
Medium: Pencil on paper
Size: 74cms x 34cms

With Love from India - where over 70% mete out an existence that would defy our most graphic text or visuals. The real stories escape our lens; they breed behind walls hung with a fatigue almost too splayed out to even locate. Literacy has her sweet manners. It holds the best of us from the worst of us. 1.30 billion tales, most never heard, buried under the ashes of time. Tales of pain, love, hunger. There are those who can take a Tiger by its tail. This is that one story in a billion. A 24 year old Engineering Student who studied Art and cannot stop. Some of what he shared is not put to print but read on and you will see a human being working hard against all odds and getting there.

"Tell me what to do with this 'Passion' of mine?" he asked me on Facebook. I looked at his portraits which reminded me of someone else's and I rack my brain to see who. Another Indian, black and white shards in words like "strive for perfection". Something about this young collegian pushes me to do this feature. There are lines here I cannot define. Maybe you will.

Abrodheep's impressions of Reality (see his entire series "Revelation of my thoughts"), run black & white through shades of Night and Day/Lights in a deep corner of a very darkroom. Reflections on broken glass. Or breaking. Even daybreak, half smiles and wisps of delight. Positivity in pain. One must read between the lines, to hear this young artists' voice.

I ask Abhrodheep to describe himself - the words are quick, eager.

Diploma Fine Arts, now an Engineering student; I think spontaneity and vision are at par with the quality of observation. The more I observe, the more I try see the good in the smallest of creatures, never laugh at them, but help. Dont just talk, or blame. Making fun of disabilities, only kills. I want to grow as an individual but most importantly as an artist.

I paint when I hurt - we all have issues, there are things which deeply affect me; they emerge as shadows between Lights. On faces, thoughts, eyes, vision, hopes, dreams. Against all odds, we must not just live, but strive for perfection.

I am inspired by every work I see, mostly Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, Sanatan Dinda, Ganesh Pyne, M.F.Hussain.

When one is in pain it takes the form of his art. It speaks the mind and heart of the artist. No matter what, man is always looking for a friend, one who will not curse, but help me stand tall, though I am imperfect. Broken. Helpless. And I must be a friend too.

We have learnt words of war, but we cannot sit down and eat with each other. We have beauty and talent, but we use our precious fingers to accuse. I must first take care of my own rooms and life. If my own eyes are shut, how can I light a (dheep) lamp for anyone else?

I have lived two decades. Before I finish the next ten years it is my dream to be successful and help people like me, whether they're going through struggles and injustice, illness and loneliness...

Can our young dream dreams? Will they survive? Tell me, what do I do with this passion of mine? Does the Earth have an answer?

Twenty four years old, and he has understood what I am trying to grapple with.

Now I remember who Abhrodeep Mukherjee reminds me of. Song writer, artist, poet, Rabindran ath Tagore (Nobel Prize winner/Literature 1913)

Mind Without Fear
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action...
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
~ Gitanjali Collections

Thank you, Abhrodeep Mukherjee, for the share. May you walk tall against all odds, your light shine through the charcoal and everyday reality. And may you find your true voice.

Is Art the Journal of our times? Years down this lane, will our children, black, white, or brown be empowered enough to walk these streets, absolutely unafraid? Will they remember, this is where we lived. And died. Some of us survived, to rise. These were the wars, these are the crimes. This man laughed. This one cried, that one died, but he was not alone. He looked happy, yes this is charcoal and old chart paper, but look at his eyes...!!

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