It used to be a long wait for the Saturdays. Every Saturday afternoon - when many would prefer a siesta in hot and humid Kolkata - I used to walk down to the art school at the corner of a road with my colourful umbrella and a giant-size drawing board. I was only six at that time. Gradually, I would take to the world of painting every now and then; everyday were turning into Saturdays. The pencils and the brushes, the textured papers and the colours became my best friends. The Russian fairy tales I used to read would all take life on paper. This was the beginning of an effort to put my dream world on paper, although I did not know my teachers would later call it 'fantasy'.
I left for Santiniketan at the age of seventeen to pursue my studies in Painting. It was a wonder-world for me. During the seven years in Santiniketan, the countryside University founded by Tagore, I was taken with the thrill of walking on the moist grass at dawn, sound of insects on a summer night, and the whooping banyan-tree in Kala Bhavana (Institute of Fine Arts) campus. The excitement would be evident in my paintings: the big bottles of colour looked like puddles, taking shapes and sizes of the ponds of Santiniketan. I would then immerse myself in those colour-puddles.
It was also a new exposure to the world of artists. I developed strong liking for the works of Rabindranath Tagore, Nandalal Bose, Gaganendranath Tagore, Benodebehari Mukhopadhyay, Auguste Rodin, Henry Rousseau, Marc Chagall, Rene Magritte, Frida Kahlo and Bhupen Khakkar. Above all, the influence of Kala Bhavana (Institute of Fine Arts) was unmatched, and I liked the way it endorsed individuality in art works. My early paintings of fairy tales were now changing. I was still narrative in many ways, but the beautiful magician Vasilisa was not there in my paintings anymore. The narrations of my paintings were now created around the many stories of my own life. The self-reflective dialogue of my image became evident. And the reality was inextricably interwoven with my dreams. I saw myself in various moods of Santiniketan: the sombre afternoon, monsoon night filled with the croak of frogs, or the Kopai River on a winter morning.
Finally, the Santiniketan period ended. I came back to Kolkata, the city that I had once loved, in spite of its dust and smoke. The images and the colours of Santiniketan period bear a world of ecstasy. Once I shifted to Kolkata, gradually that world of vivid colours started to fade. My detachment with the city introduced my paintings with the darkness of the pitch black and the colourful dream of fantasy lost itself into darkness. I found myself falling in the intense darkness of an abyss. The appearance of colourful images floating against the black background signifies that the traces of colourful dream still linger and the darkness of the lost dream surfaces as the background in the paintings. I find myself drifting and floating in the dilemma of being attached and detached to the city and thus one can see floating images in my work. Yes, I still continue missing the vibes of Santiniketan: the river's mild rumble, the rustling of the eucalyptus leaves beside my studio, the half-light of the late evening, and Prince Ivan of the fairy-tales. The search continues in my canvas and colour.
I left for Santiniketan at the age of seventeen to pursue my studies in Painting. It was a wonder-world for me. During the seven years in Santiniketan, the countryside University founded by Tagore, I was taken with the thrill of walking on the moist grass at dawn, sound of insects on a summer night, and the whooping banyan-tree in Kala Bhavana (Institute of Fine Arts) campus. The excitement would be evident in my paintings: the big bottles of colour looked like puddles, taking shapes and sizes of the ponds of Santiniketan. I would then immerse myself in those colour-puddles.
It was also a new exposure to the world of artists. I developed strong liking for the works of Rabindranath Tagore, Nandalal Bose, Gaganendranath Tagore, Benodebehari Mukhopadhyay, Auguste Rodin, Henry Rousseau, Marc Chagall, Rene Magritte, Frida Kahlo and Bhupen Khakkar. Above all, the influence of Kala Bhavana (Institute of Fine Arts) was unmatched, and I liked the way it endorsed individuality in art works. My early paintings of fairy tales were now changing. I was still narrative in many ways, but the beautiful magician Vasilisa was not there in my paintings anymore. The narrations of my paintings were now created around the many stories of my own life. The self-reflective dialogue of my image became evident. And the reality was inextricably interwoven with my dreams. I saw myself in various moods of Santiniketan: the sombre afternoon, monsoon night filled with the croak of frogs, or the Kopai River on a winter morning.
Finally, the Santiniketan period ended. I came back to Kolkata, the city that I had once loved, in spite of its dust and smoke. The images and the colours of Santiniketan period bear a world of ecstasy. Once I shifted to Kolkata, gradually that world of vivid colours started to fade. My detachment with the city introduced my paintings with the darkness of the pitch black and the colourful dream of fantasy lost itself into darkness. I found myself falling in the intense darkness of an abyss. The appearance of colourful images floating against the black background signifies that the traces of colourful dream still linger and the darkness of the lost dream surfaces as the background in the paintings. I find myself drifting and floating in the dilemma of being attached and detached to the city and thus one can see floating images in my work. Yes, I still continue missing the vibes of Santiniketan: the river's mild rumble, the rustling of the eucalyptus leaves beside my studio, the half-light of the late evening, and Prince Ivan of the fairy-tales. The search continues in my canvas and colour.
