by Anupama Krishnakumar
It’s Sunday morning and as we feast over peanut-buttered wheat bread, roasted eggs, fresh veggie salad that has a sizeable portion of my favourite baby corn, and cranberry juice, Uncle Fred announces gaily that he wants to tell me about a photograph. ‘I had taken it about 35 years ago, as a 25-year-old young man!’ When he says that he stresses involuntarily but poetically on ‘young’. I can sense the longing that laces his sighing voice. ‘Perhaps those days were magical for Uncle Fred,’ I think, ‘full of verve and mighty artistic spirit.’
Uncle Fred, the artist, the photographer; our neighbour since I was born, my inspiration. It has always been this interesting practice of ours, a unique tradition that we have shared, to meet every Sunday morning over breakfast at Uncle Fred’s home and listen to each other’s stories. But for most part, through these years, I have been the fascinated listener, paying rapt attention to the lovely little tales that Uncle Fred would bring to the table. These would be about his childhood, stories from far-away lands that he had visited at some point in his life in search of inspiration for the art that he creates, or historical accounts of some of the greatest painters and sculptors.
‘What is the purpose of any form of art?’ he once questioned enthusiastically when I was about ten. I remember that he paused a bit as I searched his pink face with a beautifully crinkled nose for answers. Interestingly, I remember I was toying with my fork and knife to cut through a maze of delicately cooked fusilli pasta while dreaming about a tastefully decorated cream cupcake simultaneously. He took a deep breath and said, ‘The purpose of art is to create dazzling new worlds with layers of intense creative imagination. It’s purpose is to unleash magic by taking people on a journey to these worlds and eventually letting them confront their own selves and their lives.’
‘Art is everywhere, all over the place,’ he said firmly once, ‘imagine tiny creative particles floating invisibly around us.’ He then drew circles in the air because he was explaining to a child. Gazing at those invisible circles and enthralled by what I was hearing, I think I abandoned what I was eating (and well, table etiquette too.) ‘These particles,’ he explained, ‘channelize themselves through us, the creators of art, and gain perceivable forms.’
Snippets of conversations like these would come gushing to me now and then, years after they had taken place. It’s these breakfast stories and my constant visits to Uncle Fred’s studio (whose rustic smell of fresh paint and drawing boards and sights of strewn brushes, film rolls and photographs of varying sizes, overflowing palettes and splashes of colours would never fail to take my breath away) that would eventually lead me to embark on the journey to become an artist.
This morning, this breakfast chat, when Uncle Fred speaks about a photograph that he wants to show me, is a Sunday meeting that’s happening after almost a year-and-a-half. Two years back, I moved out of our little town to the city. Now, I travel far and wide showcasing my art and ‘seeking inspiration for art’ as Uncle Fred would put it.
As we eat, I tell him about my upcoming exhibition. ‘Oil paintings,’ I say, ‘life on the streets of Paris.’
‘Oh, Paris! Wait,’ he says, for that’s when he remembers the photograph again. He sets his juice aside and goes to fetch the picture that has me intrigued ever since he mentioned it to me. He returns after five minutes, a large brown envelope in hand.
‘This picture,’ Uncle Fred tells me, ‘I took during one of my visits to Europe. I had forgotten about it till I rediscovered it about a month ago in my mother’s abandoned tin trunk.’
‘I wonder how it found its way into that,’ he adds.
He pulls out the photograph bringing it to full view.
It’s not an extraordinary picture. But I find it very intriguing,’ he offers his comment.
I think the same too. Not extraordinary. Intriguing nonetheless. The lady in black, her face hidden behind her black umbrella, screams of mystery.
‘A chance encounter,’ Uncle Fred says, scratching his chin thoughtfully and not particularly looking anywhere. ‘I just clicked the moment the sight met my eyes. The black only accentuates the mystery.’
‘So, did you eventually go around to see her face?’ I ask with a smile.
‘I was your age when I clicked that picture. And an aspiring artist. What would you have done in my place?’ he asks.
‘Well, I wouldn’t venture to see her face. My artistic spirit would soar over and above the need to indulge my hormonal instincts,’ I answer.
He laughs for the first time this morning.
‘Oh, my fine young man,’ he says, ‘I did just that. I let the mystery be.’
I am not surprised. I feel a tickle of pride riding down my spine.
‘I haven’t stopped looking at this picture ever since I rediscovered it,’ Uncle Fred reveals. ‘I often get the feeling that the photograph is calling out to me and during such times, I abandon whatever I am doing and rush to take a look. And each time, I see a new face.’
Uncle Fred talks about his new project – a series of paintings themed ‘The Face behind the Umbrella’, inspired by the photograph of the unknown woman.
I tell him it’s a great idea. He shakes his head thoughtfully.
My gaze shifts to the photograph that is now lying between the two of us on the table. I close my eyes and see the picture of the woman in my mind.
For a while, I don’t have any thoughts. But all of a sudden, I see it. Tears of shock sting my eyes. I feel my body shaking violently.
I see the fine, young, glowing face of my mother as I had seen her last when I was five – the way I have remembered her all my life – a face that’s now a piece of distorted memory.
I breathe heavily and tell myself to calm down.
‘Are you alright, my boy?’ I hear Uncle Fred’s voice, dripping with grave concern.
‘Yes..,’ I stutter, ‘I am fine… fine,’ I say, gaining composure.
‘Good,’ he smiles as he says, ‘you haven’t finished your juice.’
I hold the tall glass with both my hands and as I sip the juice, wonder why I saw what I had seen or rather, what the photograph had shown me. Suddenly, I recall the purpose of art that Uncle Fred had talked about years ago.
‘The purpose of art is to create dazzling new worlds with layers of intense creative imagination. It’s purpose is to unleash magic by taking people on a journey to these worlds and eventually letting them confront their own selves and their lives.’
‘Why should I be surprised,’ I think looking at the picture, ‘the photograph has only done what it is meant to do. And who am I to escape its magic, its purpose?’
