tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75795234966000193472024-03-05T15:19:09.478-08:00viktor-vijay-Litart (contemporary Indian art-literature)creative indian writings--poetry, novels criticism by Fine Arts Indian artist Viktor Vijayartbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-18998906375016407292011-03-06T22:48:00.000-08:002011-03-07T10:51:28.511-08:00Indian art n artists at crossroads<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8DtLwTEAApoz0OoH0As0e9f6_2Ep4DtXXURSdnRj6TtqaKN1FtBkb478wj7lJ0KGiwRtF90tEYCFfEksb2vB7wmgl5bMLvBpU1qEXTcLBR6-9XunfKRW3QDk9M3aDEIv4eIe6zQdf24/s1600/Indian+Art--Black+is+beautiful.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8DtLwTEAApoz0OoH0As0e9f6_2Ep4DtXXURSdnRj6TtqaKN1FtBkb478wj7lJ0KGiwRtF90tEYCFfEksb2vB7wmgl5bMLvBpU1qEXTcLBR6-9XunfKRW3QDk9M3aDEIv4eIe6zQdf24/s400/Indian+Art--Black+is+beautiful.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581227390934523810" /></a>artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-14257138990388144212011-03-05T05:28:00.000-08:002011-03-05T06:21:05.997-08:00the Story of India and its art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitS35l0mnvSqiXAx68cUzXsMyX55vauKDM6-YM0_Sut6J1cDJDbRNiVk_jk9t7nUFFXhhX2BsrXxnSaTIZwCTZ-MzqVAdYjnSFrV5RCXsTD-zTeXYZ1NqlqZylpLFmabUh4VxMvksE6DQ/s1600/Viktor+Vijay-India+n+its+art.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitS35l0mnvSqiXAx68cUzXsMyX55vauKDM6-YM0_Sut6J1cDJDbRNiVk_jk9t7nUFFXhhX2BsrXxnSaTIZwCTZ-MzqVAdYjnSFrV5RCXsTD-zTeXYZ1NqlqZylpLFmabUh4VxMvksE6DQ/s400/Viktor+Vijay-India+n+its+art.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580600709659636434" /></a><br />The arts of a contemporary society, here I refer to India, are based on the philosophy and religions it professes. Indian art celebrate the holiness in the human life and not holy as a higher abstract, unknown Order descended from heavens. The social interactive celebratory culture of Hinduism lead and influenced religious plethora in developing and nurturing Indian art practices in Humanism <i>par excellance</i><div><i>"</i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:16.0pt; color:black">The decadence of the West originates from its unbridled individualism abhorrent of social collectivity common in Asian, African and societies of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Americas</st1:country-region></st1:place>."</span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">excerpts from the book</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:26.0pt;font-family:Elephant;mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:black;mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA">Mona Lisa does not smile anymore</span></b></span></div><p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:16.0pt; color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-85262056200811304192011-02-25T00:43:00.000-08:002011-02-25T00:55:36.701-08:00Indian art a fresh look--Mona Lisa does not smile anymore<div><br /></div><div>Contemporary Indian art</div><div>Exbtn catalog CHANCON Art A new movement in art by Viktor Vijay</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7u8saKHVi2xnNRsqkjHQphnSp1zMjfRMAiG2LLjZYuF1fih5s3QSo5neo0CPW617qB4A6iTGTbWzE5Xw5A75YPF0NwfKZH3bXuiEXK75rvx2zkgGPCgVQRyxlo2uB7H6FsUiqcicmWTs/s1600/Cover+Page.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7u8saKHVi2xnNRsqkjHQphnSp1zMjfRMAiG2LLjZYuF1fih5s3QSo5neo0CPW617qB4A6iTGTbWzE5Xw5A75YPF0NwfKZH3bXuiEXK75rvx2zkgGPCgVQRyxlo2uB7H6FsUiqcicmWTs/s400/Cover+Page.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577547325158686946" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkoR_gWtbzLB-VIXlXYSibjmbJ6Ql7q7hEiUgNJYoQZCKM_WvBBiPIZSSAZBenBX99gCt-pIAtnTqQKxaMARUrnaVI62N-tconWfs74AGQvdz5Z76Vpe6H2xliqMYyzcI8GTGy5J3tOE/s1600/Indian+art--+Viktor+Vijay+CHANCON+art.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkoR_gWtbzLB-VIXlXYSibjmbJ6Ql7q7hEiUgNJYoQZCKM_WvBBiPIZSSAZBenBX99gCt-pIAtnTqQKxaMARUrnaVI62N-tconWfs74AGQvdz5Z76Vpe6H2xliqMYyzcI8GTGy5J3tOE/s400/Indian+art--+Viktor+Vijay+CHANCON+art.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577545843710280258" /></a><br />Indian art at threshold--release of book Mona Lisa does not smile anymore and solo exbtn CHANCON--Chance consciousness--a new development in the art field.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-45511463339111067102011-02-14T11:07:00.000-08:002011-03-06T00:12:14.949-08:00Mona Lisa does not smile anymoreContemporary Indian art, <b>Gandhi</b> a painting by Viktor Vijay (58"X78",acrylic on canvas, 2010) Modern does not deny inspiration for art from traditional.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9lbkVUIx4jRAMXtunObxkBQvfj-VKCU-3f7IDRTDAxYjmWsB3XRHraSFNe6vom_-lBUmVBJik9XaIXN5bQTiFRNyFQi6olfkcdOPzwq6eRs4HGT2DY162w0nhwfVP8PbYzk_Lbg9NoM/s1600/Gandhi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9lbkVUIx4jRAMXtunObxkBQvfj-VKCU-3f7IDRTDAxYjmWsB3XRHraSFNe6vom_-lBUmVBJik9XaIXN5bQTiFRNyFQi6olfkcdOPzwq6eRs4HGT2DY162w0nhwfVP8PbYzk_Lbg9NoM/s400/Gandhi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577120347375314738" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzTksORtHrDyNzu1lvrmb8SzSiRoN2CYom254g68WIHm_KCs_oB_RPm74Wiy2iDTIe3ZYZjopPuzQ3lnVqulbiTgdryLMcjh4oiTzENqHLBfQ4TnxWHf1JcWSb-EGo6J-nvLTiobiM2k/s1600/Himachal+Pradesh+114.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzTksORtHrDyNzu1lvrmb8SzSiRoN2CYom254g68WIHm_KCs_oB_RPm74Wiy2iDTIe3ZYZjopPuzQ3lnVqulbiTgdryLMcjh4oiTzENqHLBfQ4TnxWHf1JcWSb-EGo6J-nvLTiobiM2k/s200/Himachal+Pradesh+114.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573626081075244322" /></a>Contemporary Indian artist Viktor Vijay publishes his new book <b>Mona Lisa does not smile anymore </b>(ISBN 9788184655124)<br />I publish my new book on art of India and Europe. the book published by Studio Vasant New Delhi is available in leading bookshops in India. the book is about the spirituality of art of India and the art of the West specially the 'Renaissance' period. Art of India has a sterling holism and inclusiveness of humanity while Western art lingers. The secular elements are predominant feature of the temple art of India. Contemporary art has much to be inspired by the past art.<div><br /></div>artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-60428722244333160252010-03-08T20:19:00.000-08:002011-03-07T08:03:37.966-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRKwT3xRJ4m4-DIuahELGO_qxLy_PS6ixKdUypSG869eo9Ca2ojDNDATsH5HvTik5bb195bGGkG5hIZI3u7uZVVNCbG5H6IdOST1tyNEFY6zzH9aQ9JOzyWsqZgj6Y589n4i1otcibY0/s1600-h/100_2667-.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRKwT3xRJ4m4-DIuahELGO_qxLy_PS6ixKdUypSG869eo9Ca2ojDNDATsH5HvTik5bb195bGGkG5hIZI3u7uZVVNCbG5H6IdOST1tyNEFY6zzH9aQ9JOzyWsqZgj6Y589n4i1otcibY0/s200/100_2667-.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446484662627274514" /></a><br />The Song flows from stones but may go mute—Karnataka temple art<br />Pattadakallu in North Karnataka will feature in this year’s Republic Day Tableau for it is a UNESCO protected site. In Dec2009-January 2010 I travelled to North and south Karnataka on personal art awareness trip. I visited Gadage, Lakkundi, Dambol all part of Western Chalukyan empire. I travelled to Badami, Aihole Pattaadakal, Mahakuta and Hampi and I came down south to Halebidu, Belur and Sravanbelgola.<br />Its mesmeric its bewitching, its romantic opera and it’s the space that you enter and come out transformed, resurrected. I discover myself as I see more of others. I have grown up in a country which is strewn with exemplary spiritual and erotic art in every form from end to end. My sensibilities were sheathed by too much all around. I keep discovering such aesthetic highs that my marvel grows and grows. But I suffer too in the process.<br />The story is one of great joy and pride in what our ancestors left for us and that of pain and sadness of how we are totally oblivious, ignorant, and destructive of our great past. While tourist –focus places like Hampi, Pattadakal receive the care and protection they so rightly deserve a large number of exquisite archeological sites are in a shameful condition. If you remember in October 2009 the Malaprabha River flooded the village of Pattadakal razing almost all the mud and mortar houses, the harried villagers took shelter in the high grounds of the temple complex along with their cattle. How can you protect your heritage if the people living in surrounding areas have no basic civic facilities and live in degrading poverty?<br />Every place that I visited in these parts to see the temples I lived in two worlds—one that was magical, ethereal and the other that was the Purgatory. In Lakkundi the impoverished farmers live by the temples and share the space with gods. . Many of the old ruins and relics in Dambal are surrounded by human excreta for there are no toilets and it was impossible for me to reach them... To reach the Buddhist caves and the Jain Basadi on top of the hill in Aihole I walked through human excreta.<br />When I walked in the village it was a horrifying sight of unhygienic conditions, open drains, rotting garbage, open toilets, free roaming pigs and lack of infrastructure and utter poverty. Apart from being demeaning to the locals it is impossible to reach an old temple for all around is human faeces and stench. The rearing of pigs in these parts is a solution the villagers have worked out to clean open air toilets. I found near Pattadakal a row of abandoned and derelict toilets that for sure lacked cleaning and water.<br />In Badami village I walked by congested hovels where village women valiantly carry their lives on. They clean their utensils outside their houses and the water flows on the pot holed roads and all around is permanent slush and garbage. I walked around to reach the Agastya Pond it is in the middle of the village and is full of floating garbage and is surrounded by human excreta. The village women daily walk up to the pond to wash the family clothes and all the soap water flows in the tank. The story was repeated in Lakkundi, Dambal, and many other places. In Aihole and Lakkundi villagers share space with ancient temples and park their bullock carts, their washings and their farm implements in the temple precincts. Recently there was a hue and cry when someone organised a dinner in the precincts of Ghalib’s house in Ballimaran Delhi.<br />No conservation and preservation of our heritage can be effective without involving, and educating the local populace and improving local economy and quality of life.<br />Living in different parts of Europe I saw how the local populations benefited greatly by the historic sites and highly developed infrastructure. Venice with its excellent infrastructure benefits from the millions of tourists that visit each year. So do smaller places like Krakow in south Poland, Bansca Bistrica in Slovakia, Prague in Czech, Dresden in Saxony and many many more places.<br />A friend from Europe once told me that India is a golden jewel box but smeared with excreta and to see inside its wonderful heritage you have to soil your hands.<br />Lets change it!!!<br />I suggest<br /><br />1. Create infrastructure for local communities around the historical sites—Toilets, electricity, roads, transport, tap water<br />2 Educate the villagers/children about their heritage and need to protect it by using community leaders. In schools lessons on local heritage sites and the need to protect them are made compulsory. The Government can introduce syllabus on the local heritage and the need for conservation. I found literally thousands of kids (also grown ups) on school trips touching the sculptures in Halebidu and in Hampi. In few years time we will have no sculptures on temples if millions of people fiddle with them every year. When I talked to some teachers about the need for protecting the heritage for the great grand children of the school kids on trip they admitted their ignorance about the harm and rebuked the children impromptu.<br />3 Bring economic benefits of tourism to locals by encouraging restaurants, hotels, tourism guides, and development of local crafts, heritage photography and archaeological literature on the temples. Make them involved and proud of their heritage.<br /><br />I diverge a bit to focus on forgotten and generally ignored jewels of temple art that exist in Gadag, Lakkundi, Dambal, Haveri. There is near total amnesia about this great group of temples. They are not far from Hospet Hampi.<br />I arrived in Gadag a sleepy town about and hour’s journey from Hospet. Gadag was the capital of Western Chalukyas. They flourished in 11th and 12th century AD. Their art and architecture is an important link in the later evolution of Hoysala temple art and is called the transitional phase. I hired an auto for the day and went around Gadag, Lakkundi and Dambal that are in an area of 20 kms. There is only a hotel or two; there is no knowledge about most of the historical wonders around Gadag and there are no tourists and no interaction with the outside world. The town itself has a number of ancient temples of which Trikuteswara temple is outstanding with very nice carvings on the pillars and I can not forget the excellent cakes locally baked and sold by bakeries for a pittance. Some of the architectural breakthroughs that I encountered here were used by Hoysalas later in Halebidu and Belur temples. The Kalayani chalukyas used outer wall in a star shaped plan to create extrusions and recesses and decorated them with sculptures. This style was used with telling force by Hoysalas later to sculpt the marvels of decorative art in Halebidu and Belur located in south Karnataka.<br />Artistically and aesthetically it is an important part of our cultural history and requires infrastructure and promotion so that at least Indians from around the country can learn and be proud of their heritage. The positive feelings generated by viewing heritage sites imbues us with a greater enthusiasm for moulding a better future for our motherland and we need it in no small measure while we think about India arriving on world scene with a bang.<br /><br /><br />Viktor Vijay Kumar<br />23rd January 2010-01-24<br /><br />Mobile 9818301496artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-51491846493644624372009-08-04T11:46:00.000-07:002011-03-10T10:04:21.450-08:00Journey of an Artist-19, forthcoming book by Viktor Vijay<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjOMFGQ3xicvvNq0DqP8i5IO9INbJp1oEBDEo8glQKwoV1Gk1E_UXMVDylFU6XPsgSIw9nZB1Ns27h9kqMH6XapLrvRQgC7VBvXmJy2CGRJ2aw1XrTvPU53vhxsQ4rj4YbsQfgjUDTN4/s1600-h/26--kiss+of+Nature-1+80%27X80%27+2000.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 396px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjOMFGQ3xicvvNq0DqP8i5IO9INbJp1oEBDEo8glQKwoV1Gk1E_UXMVDylFU6XPsgSIw9nZB1Ns27h9kqMH6XapLrvRQgC7VBvXmJy2CGRJ2aw1XrTvPU53vhxsQ4rj4YbsQfgjUDTN4/s400/26--kiss+of+Nature-1+80%27X80%27+2000.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366183347505110370" /></a><br />The glorious peaks of Himalayas looked so serene and stately that I forgot the arduous track that I had been walking on for five days. The valley through which was this track is very picturesque—flowing water rivulets, verdant forests, fragrance of wild flowers, wind coursing through valleys, and meditative-blue sky. On the way, I had come across dangerous landslides caused by rains. I forded swift flowing emerald green river in some places, at others crossed on precariously hanging ancient wooden bridges. Melodious singing waterfalls accosted me, sweet chorus of birds welcomed me, and pleasant sunshine treated me to its hospitable warmth. I was resting on a rock to recruit more energy for the next incline that seemed quite daunting. Just then, I noticed someone walking up the track.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-30227196839498275772009-07-17T06:37:00.000-07:002009-07-17T06:57:33.679-07:00Journey of an Artist-18,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFsNiZO2ZGrY3BOUPjpEwB7J7dB_Cw3K4KDAzzlYP6xoqZKQCTAVIwIrts_cJObX2tcoN_9rX_NnAIUGV7rYfviF_YQz3ju_9ye4OxgKEgldsUJIW5LuRFfS7p0r7OgB91RpOt_hb_zc/s1600-h/DSC_8136.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFsNiZO2ZGrY3BOUPjpEwB7J7dB_Cw3K4KDAzzlYP6xoqZKQCTAVIwIrts_cJObX2tcoN_9rX_NnAIUGV7rYfviF_YQz3ju_9ye4OxgKEgldsUJIW5LuRFfS7p0r7OgB91RpOt_hb_zc/s400/DSC_8136.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359427473243416562" /></a><br />We possess the indestructible soul. Is love not that soul, for what else can give meaning to life? To love is dedicated my life and in love I live and bloom. I am beginning the journey of my life that would take me to harbours in nameless oceans yet unknown to me. And Ruhi would soon renew herself in a new love, in a new man she would accost at the crossroads of her life. These are the destiny's winding streets. Still love stands outside of the fragility of time. I crossed the threshold of fragile into infinite when I loved. There was no coming back from beyond.<br /> (page 29)artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-22091445818613696622009-07-13T09:26:00.000-07:002009-07-13T09:40:54.495-07:00In search of Blue Sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgwG78n0gMnRZwiOlcvEOXPrAOpDFJSiuDu1edmpot1atApJYWiwtvURMYkiwnOiYGDjnqeCAivWWfQAAmv_c5LfUORBbbP4tG72f2Q6gD5QRUYr0WiDjNYQEVeE-rgwPHOGjhVHL5wMo/s1600-h/Energy+010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgwG78n0gMnRZwiOlcvEOXPrAOpDFJSiuDu1edmpot1atApJYWiwtvURMYkiwnOiYGDjnqeCAivWWfQAAmv_c5LfUORBbbP4tG72f2Q6gD5QRUYr0WiDjNYQEVeE-rgwPHOGjhVHL5wMo/s400/Energy+010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357982640058278610" /></a><br />'Sing for me O song eternal, I waited in vales and in deserts burning, you are the fire love's yearning. Your lotus eyes bloom and the time withers. Blowing wind I settle in you, blow me to the shore unknown. I walk but not, yet your distances I close. I look in your rose fragrant eyes and my soul in your music grows. Hold my hand outside of ageing time; kiss me so that our souls coalesce. I waited for you before the beginning of time, till your fragrance I find it shall incubate an unborn child.'artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-22416447826866525782009-06-03T11:11:00.000-07:002009-06-03T11:15:18.624-07:00Journey of an Artist-17,I do not want to think much about all this: it is enough that I feel the fragrance of yellow mustard flowers and ripe mangoes rising from one end of my childhood to the other end of my life today. All is light. With swooning love I feel Ruhi and her sweet fragrance, her wondering, wandering large eyes flower my childhood once again. I am a Rimbaud rewriting the poetry not of my adolescence but of my childhood. My soul’s rainbow is the bridge spanning my childhood and my present. Love is fragrance; love is bringing lost time back to present ‘A la Cherche Temps Perdu’. It is not the Madeleine dipped in tea but the fragrance of Ruhi that brings back childhood to me. My hands explore her as infinity, indestructible by time or space. To love one has to create this infinity everyday of life....<br />(pages 28-29}artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-5468176395104159352009-05-31T08:45:00.000-07:002009-05-31T08:48:31.430-07:00Journey of an Artist-16Her smile had the fragrance of the dancing joys of peacocks in monsoon rains, it was like the elixir of raindrops that fell on the oven-heated body in summer, and it was like the rainbows that appeared in clear sky after the dark clouds had their play.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-79576696945118163792009-05-30T11:16:00.000-07:002009-05-30T11:17:27.981-07:00Journey of an Artist-16,<“Hello,” I uttered not knowing after how long a time.<br />“I like this work,” she cooed in musical sonority. Are you also an artist? She queried.<br />“Yes,” I felt a primeval energy in her; I extended my hand as I introduced myself. Her long-fingered warm hand lingered in mine for a longer time as if transferring some sweet energy; may be so I felt or may be so it was.<br />“What do you do?” I asked.<br />“Well, I am final year student at art college and my name is Ruhi” she was sizing me up with her bright, electric, lively eyes.<br />“Oh! That’s great! I pressed her hand softly introducing myself and asking if she would have some wine.<br />“That will be nice”<br />I picked two glasses, proffering one to her.<br />Together we explored the whole exhibition, discussing the fine nuances of each work. People were talking animatedly; the gallery overflowed with life, all existed in the moment. Sounds of rustling clothes mingled with that of glasses, peoples’ voices with smells of different perfumes they wore, aroma of snacks with wine, and all this with the drama of life. I became oblivious to the life around me, other than the joy of the company of this sunflower-girl. She smiled often as we talked. Her smile covered the whole space and floated beyond.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-5036585518169012532009-05-29T11:55:00.000-07:002009-05-29T11:56:24.859-07:00Journey of an Artist-15,As I looked around through the evening crowd of artists, critics, connoisseurs and people in general, I noticed a young lissom girl. Standing in front of a painting, she was totally absorbed in it. Her face was radiant with joy and she exuded exuberance and energy akin to electrifying, fresh forest winds. Her skin-kissing dress held her slim, perfect body like a dainty vase holding soft, fragrant narcissuses. Like full-bloomed blossoms, her breasts tugged impatiently at the material of her dress. Her long dark hair, framed her light round face in liquid softness as if morning emerging sun was pushing back the surrounding darkness. I felt suddenly a silence. I walked up near her and appraised the painting. It was a warm sun-lighted landscape with a profusion of flowers. Standing entwined in the landscape were the silhouettes of a man and a woman. Magical silence pervaded the landscape and subtle joy emanated from it. Time seemed to be resting in peace; frozen embrace held the love constant—no before or after—only the sunshine, the silence, and the endless space. Just then, the girl turned her face a wee bit, our eyes met and stayed frozen for a while. I felt the same music of fathomless joy as was flowing from the painting rush to me from her eyes. She smiled and I felt drops of honey float in the air. All was fragrant. Her full, sensuous lips quivered in the light and I stood captive.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-59609301119840830752009-05-25T10:54:00.000-07:002009-05-25T10:59:56.341-07:00In search of Blue Sky'Sing for me O song eternal, I waited in vales and in deserts burning, you are the fire love's yearning. Your lotus eyes bloom and the time withers. Blowing wind I settle in you, blow me to the shore unknown. I walk but not, yet your distances I close. I look in your rose fragrant eyes and my soul in your music grows. Hold my hand outside of ageing time; kiss me so that our souls coalesce. I waited for you before the beginning of time, till your fragrance I find it shall incubate an unborn child.'<br />That is how I loved him. Love that is in the order reserved for gods. Gods who are gods because we keep them on a pedestal. He was my ship in which I sailed. The cargo of my virginal love I packed as to different ports we departed.<br />The hot dusty gusty summer wind blows. The clouds of brown powdery dust loosened from the earth rise and whirl carrying the yearning for a little liquidity. It is so much like my own inner landscape, dry and water-starved. The sky was veiled by the revved up hot piercing sand that accelerated in all directions. The hot particles hit like arrows of fire. Though my body was covered in the long cloak that I wore, my eyes and portion of the face that was exposed cried in the hot blast of the wind. The stray sturdy thorny kikar the cynosure of the desert fought the parching clime, though bereft of its tiny leaves. On the hot burning sandy surface it drew a drawing in shade on the ground with its leafless thin branches and trunk. It fought on, starved of food and water. It had only the dust and the sun for company. The song of the whizzing dusty wind it heard and nodded its dry branches in appreciation. The songs of fiery pain are no mean music for the soul.<br />It was an orange yellow-red landscape. While the winds gathered their breath to blow again with redoubled energy, I could see electric threads of heat rising in the distanceartbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-57270188830166019442009-05-22T10:33:00.000-07:002009-05-22T10:35:06.278-07:00Journey of an Artist-14My childhood comes flashing to me whenever it desires, for the innocence has no time table attached to its recall. As I stayed in chair the sunshine of my childhood lighted up my present. I did not feel the chasm that separated my childhood from my flowing present. The time has melted away with such vehemence yet the lived elements of childhood appear to be a just a touch away. I am in front of the canvas in my studio. I am mixing colours on the palette; the fierce intensity of orange is vibrating against the cerulean blue. The unspoken colours are having a dialogue of silence and explosive energy. Fathomless blue of sky, of endless golden landscapes, and resurgent cosmic energy of orange, fiery sun seem to be playing my childhood rhapsody. All this seems to stem from the little honey drops that dripped incessantly in my days of joy when life was an endless feast. This is the continuous churning of time that brings up sparkling diamonds of matchless beauty from the deep ocean of resurgent soul. It is these gleaned at will, lighted scraps of time through which soul resurges and creates oasis of beauty. <br />“Your coffee’, I hear Ruhi call in her singsong voice.<br />The aroma of south Indian coffee invades me. “Thank you darling,” I say almost caressing her through my voice. She takes a chair next to me as she surveys the painting.<br />“Dazzling energy oozing from the painting, celebrates the rose garden of life.”<br />“I am still working on it,” I say as I take her hands in mine, while my childhood still held its discourse going in whispers. She has such soft warm hands. I run my hand over hers, and I feel that I am caressing the jasmine branches that swayed happily in the courtyard of my house in the village. She leans over me in repose of contented thoughtlessness. I sip my coffee slowly. Ruhi's fragrance wafts alongside aroma of coffee and I put my arm around her, feeling her soft voluptuousness course through me. I recall the first time we had met in the vernisage of a friend’s exhibition.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-53061750367442695442009-05-19T12:13:00.000-07:002009-05-19T12:14:06.657-07:00Journey of an Artist-13,It was here that I learnt my initial lessons about beauty and love, to develop my aesthetic sense later. Changing seasons taught me a substantial number of these lessons. They imbued in me refreshing feeling for beauty of landscapes, unsullied virginal nature, singing birds, buffaloes wallowing contentedly in village ponds, snakes scurrying in the thickets and startled hare suddenly jumping from their hideouts. As goes the feminine love my teacher covered very good ground, unknown to him. He was the ultimate role model for all of us.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-68832251976404573572009-05-07T11:00:00.000-07:002009-05-07T11:14:56.666-07:00Journey of an Artist-12,Villagers thanked the gods who gifted them such precious bounties. They made offerings by burning corn in the fire, to thank gods for their benevolence. They danced in the temples to share their joys with the gods. For the gods were also happy gods, they liked music and dance and the colourful attire villagers put on the festive occasions. But that did not mean the gods gave only what the villagers desired. Sometimes they made the blizzards roar through the valley and trample the golden crops that were waiting to be harvested. At other times they sent rains that would loosen rocks from the mountains hurtling them down heartlessly.<br /><br />It was one such night gods seemed to be in foul mood, and it had been raining. Lying in bed, I was hearing the pleasant pitter-patter of the rain drops rushing to meet the earth with a yearning that echoed in the ferocious wind and the lightening that lay seize to the little village. A primal rude fear hurled me to an unknown discomfiture generated by the sound of thunder and blinding crash of lightening. The dark clouds forebode hell's arrows and I shivered inside and outside. As we grow, we learn to fear but the reasons change over time. Our journey through the life is infested with fear at every turn every corner.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-61010483411786512152009-04-30T11:08:00.000-07:002009-04-30T11:11:25.138-07:00Journey of an Artist-11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJKOp1LUuwBdb3RMEje2dOAmNq1f_CA3GpUEg7STbT_UDFxc1uxm-kaVijIo0aNckYgqXw1u8k4TY01aaf_dkWgo8ayPEq01Q3tMIbLZ3Tl5QOQ1e2rqyVrQvmIWAeiWrIcId6-QToenQ/s1600-h/Energy+006.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJKOp1LUuwBdb3RMEje2dOAmNq1f_CA3GpUEg7STbT_UDFxc1uxm-kaVijIo0aNckYgqXw1u8k4TY01aaf_dkWgo8ayPEq01Q3tMIbLZ3Tl5QOQ1e2rqyVrQvmIWAeiWrIcId6-QToenQ/s320/Energy+006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330548407356480866" /></a><br />Life was not a search for special secrets of living. It spun around simple days and nights that carried the songs of birds in the morning and of the villagers in the evening, it came from the sweet melodies of fragrant winds and of shepherds' flute, it came from swaying wild roses, poppies, irises, and the gay abandon of village dances by the fire. The village lived more by the gifts that the God gave without putting a price tag. There was plentiful sunshine that matured the crops and the fruits as also the joys of the villagers. It was a happy smiling contented village.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-86729620984457879612009-04-29T06:00:00.000-07:002009-04-29T06:01:43.290-07:00Journey of an Artist-I bowed to the destiny. Whispering night and sweet Tana spun a magical web, she sailed with me to unknown joyous lands. The spirit climbed glades of unparallel beauty. She made me realize the string music of my body and opened the closed doors to my soul. I offered my soul at the altar of love that transcended the physical into eternal. Soon I would realize greater truths about life and living. The eternal journey was on.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-67466749029546420412009-04-22T09:54:00.001-07:002009-04-22T09:54:55.797-07:00Winding Streets'How would I catch the glimpse of the eternal from these vanishing moments? That was my search, and that's what I had to paint. Such big quantity of time had always been passing in fragility. Yesterdays were mere specks of memories stringed together, existing in, but emptiness....<br />These are the destiny's winding streets. Still love stands outside of the fragility of time. I crossed the threshold of fragile into infinite when I loved. There was no coming back from beyond.'<br />excerpts--Journey of an Artist<br /><br />Bless you the dweller in landscapes of eternal hues!artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-27429582379916932982009-04-21T10:53:00.000-07:002009-04-21T10:54:23.789-07:00artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-29341196161315797312009-04-21T10:48:00.000-07:002009-04-21T10:56:07.179-07:00Journey of an Artist-10,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhf1EMQGUlEEWWysV98Ou1mtXbU69TBTbHMWxIAcPHCh1PxySp4ag5ShsUeNGakho5qofM8sBKW6x-Yk7btHRly4cV14tMzdrjVRqF_pF2yU24dqv01SRojRPNtIGOZYng8rfHjup_gk/s1600-h/Energy+005.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJhf1EMQGUlEEWWysV98Ou1mtXbU69TBTbHMWxIAcPHCh1PxySp4ag5ShsUeNGakho5qofM8sBKW6x-Yk7btHRly4cV14tMzdrjVRqF_pF2yU24dqv01SRojRPNtIGOZYng8rfHjup_gk/s320/Energy+005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327204058291143874" /></a><br />Our exiles help us to fashion from shadows of past the most beautiful sunshine landscapes. Upasak – for that was the name of the poet—presented to me a collection of his poems. When I read the poems soft as the fluffy clouds, shiny as the sun-kissed dewdrops and beautiful as a little baby, my heart cries. It cries for Upasak’s beautiful soul that travels to his Indian abode collecting fragrance of blooming mustard flowers, of wet earth in Monsoon rains or the aroma of lentils cooked by his mother and a thousand other fragrances, aromas, colours, tastes and sights. That meeting changed something in me. I did not realize what or in what way. I understood better the tales of gypsy kings and the lost lands of honey and happiness that my mother talked about in her magical tales of yore.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-54516478217089582622009-04-13T08:38:00.000-07:002009-04-13T08:45:18.785-07:00Journey of an Artist-9<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5JTaNjZDd0RS0SqdJR5zMElpAXRCoTGHESU5R3mOVx9vjIR2f8B8vMCGuip1IYQlRrO3-4eicptof9_eO_wAa5nFQ3Oq8QqZ3NT7luYyRsTit2v2BJXvin5z-JjV-BjLvJ20dtTFREE/s1600-h/26.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5JTaNjZDd0RS0SqdJR5zMElpAXRCoTGHESU5R3mOVx9vjIR2f8B8vMCGuip1IYQlRrO3-4eicptof9_eO_wAa5nFQ3Oq8QqZ3NT7luYyRsTit2v2BJXvin5z-JjV-BjLvJ20dtTFREE/s320/26.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324202357398125874" /></a><br />You always take some character of the city you live in for long, in your own personality. I have become a mini Vienna in part of my being—with its idiosyncrasies, moods, frivolities, and its rainbow coloured cultural cameos. When I move away from the city, stronger it asserts its fragrance in me, but remains imperceptible, taken for granted presence, in its dazzling lights when I dine with it everyday. It is as if when in Vienna, I ask for Turkish coffee and when in Istanbul, Viennese coffee. Yes, it feels tastier!<br /><br />Exile, even temporary has it own nostalgic fragrance. Some years back I travelled to Poland, where in the musical city of Krakow, I met a poet from India, who had arrived dusty-time back in Poland to study engineering. On way to earn his degree in engineering, he also earned the love of a sunshine-bright Polish girl. He married her and raised a happy family. He invited me to visit his family. In the house, I saw a small Ganesha sculpture, pictures of Indian gods, sandalwood incense, an old map of his city in India and music from his growing up period in India. He had a daily ritual of offering incense to gods. He told me that he was not particularly religious but as a child, he used to observe his mother worship everyday and light incense. He indulged in this ritual not from force of faith but because it brought him the pleasant nostalgic feeling for his childhood. He played for me Indian songs he grew up with in India; they were like memory tracks for him.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-75398332620414089862009-04-12T10:26:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:30:19.862-07:00Journey of an Artist-8<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcM2qDSoH_KoR5VLK6PhsmutNTleAbY4etAPaKyWAi0fH9DemIaQI9tSqYq5ox6VYHIu0uKjEIWSXlugSLW4igCkuf84CedLZp7-371RxYaTASVZz0rrUJVezFLbt5xhkgUaA2UvXXK5U/s1600-h/0771.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcM2qDSoH_KoR5VLK6PhsmutNTleAbY4etAPaKyWAi0fH9DemIaQI9tSqYq5ox6VYHIu0uKjEIWSXlugSLW4igCkuf84CedLZp7-371RxYaTASVZz0rrUJVezFLbt5xhkgUaA2UvXXK5U/s320/0771.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323858236927060258" /></a><br />This humanity carries a memory of the golden land from where they self-exiled like the gypsies, to which they probably would never return. Nevertheless, the land would continue to flourish in their soul and small icons unfurl fragrant memories and exist side by side their life in Vienna. On their visits back to the land of their past they bring tokens of cultural memory to sustain them in their exile—an exile of voluntary choice. Humans create webs of memory to fall back on, whether its separation from the beloved person or from the land of their forefathers. This is the beauty of human resilience. To eliminate this missing, this lack, this absence, this unwilled silence they create a new reality in the recesses of their souls. This is the fountain of all creativity—to bridge the lack, the missing by inner dynamism; the writers, the poets, the painters, actors, singers etc. use this angst to live and to create flowers of extreme beauty. Eternal Vienna, the forever city for arts as also for the exiles! However, all artists are exiles, self-exiles. Their search for precious pearls makes them cast their nets wider, deeper, and in distant lands of their souls. The city taught me a lot about humans, humanity, art, artists, freedom, and suffocation.artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-86229332960015990612009-04-11T11:04:00.000-07:002009-04-11T11:11:39.545-07:00journey of an artist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRIcm86tu-AznrJuqwx1wVChJ6V153iRbZsW3gPp6dnXde9u9Avemws70aFv4MHKW7rsR4EDZhiEAkl5eSomRndKXEzKBcYJWP0dpGuNnz5ZDBYSy7dlarhNAH_TSq_HN9TjuqZ239b0/s1600-h/Energy+020.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRIcm86tu-AznrJuqwx1wVChJ6V153iRbZsW3gPp6dnXde9u9Avemws70aFv4MHKW7rsR4EDZhiEAkl5eSomRndKXEzKBcYJWP0dpGuNnz5ZDBYSy7dlarhNAH_TSq_HN9TjuqZ239b0/s320/Energy+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497137546847426" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:16;color:black;" lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Journey
<br />Acrylic on canvas
<br />42"X34"
<br />artist: Viktor Vijay
<br /></span>Elena had been telling me about her last assignment covering a war in <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>. How something changed permanently in her soul when she observed so much futility and hatred among humans who have but a temporary stay on earth. That is the story of human civilization all through the ages. We have finished our coffee and after paying the bill, we walk out on the street. It is early evening and the light is still good but beautifully soft. Aimlessly we move in the city feeling the warmth of flourishing life. The neon lights are slowly taking over as we take a promenade by the <st1:place st="on">Danube</st1:place>. The reflected city in the <st1:place st="on">Danube</st1:place> water looks like a genie emerging from the lamp. The eternal river of <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>, its fertile soil, its life sustaining water sustained humans and animals alike for thousands of years. It has become symbolic of confluence of people and cultures. A collage of large humanity finding its moorings in <st1:city st="on">Vienna</st1:city> of eternal Danube; Asia, Africa, Latin America with myriad cultural cameos come to fertilize the social and cultural landscape of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Vienna</st1:place></st1:city>. This humanity carries a memory </span>artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7579523496600019347.post-86761888078274198442009-04-10T10:49:00.000-07:002009-04-10T10:59:32.274-07:00Song of Light<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFquld-Dcx7VveIrEAiZ3pzOwLcXnvqGSg-AhQbt3EQvbyG_XVbxjQh2wAUK-9m7fBMfyidymLAMT9vU3xAYDXO8JqrAUB-vMs1H7uGqBFqKJamkbT7VRYUHO8FxRFHWOzcqSIWTar03k/s1600-h/03.psd.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323122409118728162" style="WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFquld-Dcx7VveIrEAiZ3pzOwLcXnvqGSg-AhQbt3EQvbyG_XVbxjQh2wAUK-9m7fBMfyidymLAMT9vU3xAYDXO8JqrAUB-vMs1H7uGqBFqKJamkbT7VRYUHO8FxRFHWOzcqSIWTar03k/s320/03.psd.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Song of Light</div><div>Size: 42"X34"</div><div>Acrylic on canvas</div><div>Collection: artist</div>artbloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03930803792148586625noreply@blogger.com0