Time, passing

Time, passing – clinging and clayey
like the mildewed earth
in the fallow flowerpots
stacked in one corner
spider webbed
mottled like rusting skin
exposed too long
under the aging sky –

The lime thicket, untended all summer
puts unkempt caramel leaves to the air
that smell of fruit souring.

From the old cane chair
where I sit, sniffing the fermenting mist air
I watch the overgrown plot adjacent
unattended, caught in a prison term
fenced by choking wild grass
and writhing creepers
encircling a collapsed shack
its termite ridden bones
half eaten by the soil
and still-born concrete masonry
rising against a wasting horizon
like the grappling remnants
of some wounded mammal
of a lost epoch
encrypted in sedimentary rock.

And it’s another year,
another new sun,
already old.



 Time, passing.

After the funeral of the dead year,
already a memory, a bird—
frantic or ecstatic or gone mad
in the thickets—
hammered open my night

Full of verve,
sure of his pitch,
and Time, passing
levitated in miracle
and good news.

Then swift and deafening,
a staccato burst of raucous revellers,
silenced him.

-Rita Putatunda

A Work In Progress

I've been at this stodgily, but my heart isn't in it, and it shows. I'm still recovering from Thomas's death and I just can't paint when I am so terribly sad. Thomas was a special cat.. All the animals in my life are and have been special, in their own way, but there was something about Thomas.. she was more human than any of the others, except for Shulky, my dog, who died of old age. Somehow, losing a loved one to old age is easier to accept than something like what happened to Thomas. I still see Thomas shadowing me around wherever I go in the house.. I turn around to look and only emptiness meets my eyes.. there is no way I can explain how empty that feels.

Anyway, I am determined to struggle on with my painting, and though I know this will not get rid of the emptiness Thomas's death has created in my life, I will dedicate this painting to my beloved cat.

I'm still getting used to the nuances of acrylics, most of which I'm discovering via trial and error. I need to push that second flower back so that the focus is on the first flower. I don't know if I want to put more details on the leaves.. at the moment I feel they are fine as they are. Maybe I'll texture the red leaves a little more. I sort of struggled with the background on this one.. I didn't know whether I wanted it lighter or darker than the foreground.. I think the darker one that I opted for at the bottom part is working well to give that pop-out effect for the leaves. But the flowers are sort of getting lost in the lighter background on the top half. Maybe I'll change the background colour there, instead of changing the value.. use a complementary colour and see if that works. The best thing about acrylics is that I can do that, and in a jiffy.

The drowning fish

Nobody could hear her – the fish drowning

As she lay soundlessly groaning

Where they had hauled her

And thrown her under

The sun beating down without mercy



Screaming – with silent gills gasping

They didn’t say poor thing

Let’s put her out of her misery

Let’s finish her quickly



As she lay dying – gills still heaving

They weighed her and scaled her

And cut her guts open

Spilling her life out

In one last gasp


- Rita Putatunda

The Banyan Tree

I go to the Pune University sometimes to sketch and paint. If I lived closer to it I would spend large chunks of my life there. I love the quiet green environs of its sprawling grounds, which are filled with ancient banyan trees. Here's a little ode to these graceful grand old trees.


Gnarled and ancient stood the huge banyan tree in a quiet corner of the forest

It’s branches knotted and twisted bent to the rough forest floor

Carpeted by the brown earth on which grew rough grasses

Thorn bushes and young saplings and myriad trees of every kind

The tamarind so sour and the flaming gulmohar

The sool babool so straight and the neem with its bitter leaves

They grew tall and spread their branches too

But the banyan strong and wide stood sturdiest of all

It’s trunk spanning the girth of the life of the ancient forest itself

Its branches encircling the earth itself

Each branch sending a daughter branch down

Which took root in the dirt and sprung new leaves and new branches

Which flowered and fruited and sent more roots down to give new birth anew

In its embracing shade the banyan gave shelter

To the small and the big to the weak and the strong

To the brown mynah and the singing koel to the crow and the peacock

To the mischievous monkey and the gentle deer lifting its nibbling snout

Without difference to anyone the banyan gave of itself to every one

To some its soothing shade to others its fruit

To some a haven for the ebullient spirit

To others a resting place for the weary soul

To the seeking mind it became the tree of knowledge

To the hungry soul it turned into a fountain of wisdom

To the child of the forest a nurturing mother

To its older sisters and brothers an indulgent father

To the wayfarer the traveler the wanderer a generous friend

Asking nothing in return taking nothing as due

Ancient yet with the sap of youth coursing in its knobby soul

Tall and wide and wise and old the banyan stood


-by Rita Putatunda

the aching

the aching of living

the aching of trying

to make sense

of a throbbing

neverending sobbing

the aching of trying

to keep believing

there is a meaning

the aching of whiling

away present tense

of a groping

unremitting unknowing





the aching of dying

the aching of crying


-by Rita Putatunda

Painting tiger lilies, Twitter & its "gurujis", And a song

The sketch is done on the canvas and it's waiting for me to paint the colours in. But as usual, before I begin a painting, I get the jitters. Something like stage fright. Something like butterflies in the stomach. Something like I used to feel before a big match in badminton and Table Tennis when I knew my opponents were tough. Once I hit the shuttlecock or TT ball, of course, my mind would be so engrossed fighting it out, in winning the point, that all the butterflies disappeared. It's the moment before the first stroke that is the really tough part.

One terrific thing about my getting back to my art is my getting rid of my twitter addiction. I hardly ever feel the need to go there now - only do so now when my bro wants me to promote a piece of his. I don't know why I ever wasted my time for so long on that site. Now when I do drop in for a minute or two and read the tweets on my TL - and I follow a wide range of people, from the crass to the erudite - all I see are these silly smart alec quips, each trying to prove how clever/wise/smart/funny etc they are. Most of them sound so pompous and full of themselves. And then of course you have these "guruji" types - creepy hypocrite mediocrities - ugggh!

I had a fat "guruji" coming and getting all pompous and patriarchal on me, "advising" me to be serious, and that too about my painting, if you please! I really wish I had taken a picture of the sly DM he had sent me saying he wanted to flirt with me. These "gurujis" should be exposed for what they really are. And when I told him that sure he could flirt with me as long as he did it openly on TL, not on DM, the coward - these types are always cowards - quickly deleted his DM. Got scared shit of course.. ha ha! Anyway, one sees this kind of thing happening so blatantly everywhere - that ugly fart Judge Ganguly, that creep Tejpal being the most recent examples. Along with all their pals who come to their defense.

It's this stupid "guruji" that finally made me realise what a silly waste of time twitter is - and wow, am I glad for that!

Anyway, enough procrastination, to my tiger lily painting I must go with this beautiful song on my lips :)

Thousand Violins by the Tiger Lilies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9a5MbslOHQ

And here's the lyrics:-

I’m calling out but no one will be hearing
I’m laughing but I cannot be heard
I’m crying but no one will be drying
These tears that fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

It’s raining without a sign of stopping
It’s sunny but no-one’s getting warm
In Heaven the harps have all been broken
And these tears they fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

All through the days now faded away
One thought remains one thought does stay
It haunts me still it will remain
I’m lost in wonder and I hear again

Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin
Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
Tell me how do we ever even start to begin
Thousand violins

Your Silent Words

With your silent words/ I sat/

Not still/Restless being that I am/

As Restless as a brewing/Storm/

I paced – I read/I brooded – I fret/

I pottered around/In my kitchen/In my garden/

Dashing up to your silent face/To wonder/To ponder

Every now and again/I dream/Sometimes – I scream/

With the computer monitor/Open in my face/

I sit/Fingers ready to jab/And jab/

I did/Endless jabs of silent words//


But suddenly somewhere/somehow/

There was a breeze/and the jabs ceased/

My mind was seized/but now released/

The silent words/The silent face/I’ll keep/

When parched/with the unknown thirst/unquenched/

Long draughts/I’ll drink from/them//

- Rita Putatunda

Sunflowers in the winter

Though I'm saying it myself, I think my winter sunflowers have come out superb :) I'm so happy with the colours and depth I've managed to create. I also like the metaphorical aspect given to the painting, juxtaposing a dead remnant of a flower along with a newly opening bud and the other flowers in various stages of development, or stages in life.

Oranges in foliage

The more I use acrylics, the more I fall in love with it. I adore the brilliant colour options - a wider range than you get in oils, I noticed - I have access to. I wish I could've cut out the shine of the sun on the painting, but there just wasn't enough light indoors, hence clicked it outside, in the driveway (hence the the grey stony background). While clicking it a neighbour happened to pass by and she took one look at it and asked me if I was having an exhibition of my painitngs, and that she'd certainly want to visit it if I did. That made my day :D

The thing about this painting is, I used a more realistic technique with the oranges while I did the foliage in a loose abstracted way. And I like the effect that has created. Like I mentioned in a past blog, I'm really really loving these still lifes. Flowers and fruit and leaves are such fun to do, particularly because they have such fabulous colours. Meanwhile my sunflowers painting is almost done, just needs a few finishing touches. I'm doing that in oils hence it's taking longer, which is another aspect of acrylics that I'm appreciating more and more.

My wine tasting cum painting weekend was great fun, though the wine wasn't particularly great. Let's just say Indian wines are still a work in progress. Even the cheapest foreign wines one gets here taste so much better, but then they had a head start on us of course.

And now for some Ludovico Einaudi

Lovely.. sublime music to take into my dreamland :)



Time Lapse: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7baW85kLcLI

Burning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_z65hhnY6Lw

Earth Prelude: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9X6sGu8oTiQ

my next two most fav Leonard Cohens

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mO5fBcWmPfE

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye and Ring the bells

Leonard Cohen's I tried to leave you

One of my most fav Leonard Cohen songs.. and I love love love Sharon Robinson too, phew, what a voice.. and the instrumentals.. they're particularly a great feature in Cohen's songs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dx7tTmRr7xk

Her half of the full circle

She was running. Her feet flying. She didn’t know where. It was an empty path. The dusty road endlessly jumping ahead of every milestone she passed. On each milestone sat a figure cross legged with flowing hair. Rigid as stone. Each flying past. The faster she ran the faster they became the past. Some had open eyes. Like poached eggs. The disintegrating yolk hardened in gooey yellow streams. On their stony cheeks. The trees on either side reaching their leafy hands across the road forming a tunnel through which she ran. Even as she ran she held her mirror to her face. Jumping up and down as she pounded on and on. And even as she ran, and the tunnel grew deeper and darker, she heard the pounding steps of someone else running towards her. And her heart pounded. She wondered who it was. Another life? She wanted to meet another life. Another heart that pounded like hers. Another pair of feet that bounded like hers. And who were these cross legged, lifeless stony figures that watched her with their poached egg eyes. She could see them as she left them behind reflected in the mirror she held up to her face. On and on they jumped endlessly behind her even as they sat in their rigid poses. On the empty dusty road. Sometimes it felt as if she was running on the same spot. Caught in this endless tunnel without a beginning without an end. And yet, there were the footsteps she distinctly heard. Coming towards her. Louder and louder they grew the faster and faster she ran. On her spot. But no, the road was moving under her feet. The dust swirling every time her foot punched against its skin. So she must be moving ahead. Getting somewhere. Where was she running? Whom was she going to meet? There was not a glimmer of sky in the jumping images in her eyes in her mirror. Where was the sky? Would the tunnel ever end? Who was it coming towards her? Could they hear her pounding feet? And her pounding heartbeat? The tunnel had many bends in her half of a full circle, and suddenly when her footsteps turned around the blind bend, the tunnel disappeared. An evening sky spread above her head. The horizon bleeding with the sun setting across a wide river with turbulent waters where her feet came at last to a halt. And across the river, in the dim light, she saw another dark forest with a dark tunnel disappearing into its heart. And at the clearing on the bank on the other side of the stream, sat a cross legged figure, ancient and rigid. Its poached egg eyes watching her. Who are you, she called, her heart pounding across the churning waters of the stream. Even though in her heart she knew. It is you. Nobody else but you. Don’t you recognize yourself? A voice like the turbulent waters of the river answered. She flung her mirror into the moving waters. She no longer had need for mirrors. As it struck the surface it broke into infinite multitudes of tiny pieces. Each a tiny reflection of her face, ancient and rigid, with eyes like poached eggs, the disintegrated yolk hardened into gooey yellow streams imprinted on its shiny face, before disappearing forever into the churning river.

-by Rita Putatunda

Mystic Angel

Trying to add music - another major passion of mine - to my blog. Let's see if it works. Mystic Angel is so beautiful and peaceful, especially at this time of the night.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86AlGBEct4s

Bashful Moon

she walks beneath the glowering clouds
the sky looks down with a questioning brow
a whispering wind ripples the writhing trees
with a restless hand; leaves twist and turn
the bashful moon hides in the sleeve
of tangled limbs spreading searching fingers
tipped with new born buds which have just begun to form
seeking the breathless breath of the coming storm

when the first drops spill
a shiver ripples and quivers through the satin petals
and in the heavens the unruly Gods dance
with mad abandon; the earth - prostrate
lies askance in acquiescent surrender
as the lightning slits and stings with a jabbing bite
the telephone lines tremble on poles
that tap-dance on tapering toes
the street snakes into the gloom
its skin slithering slick grey
tremulous in the treacherous squall
a solitary car slides cocooned in its hissing spray
the streetlights spatter in the hazy foam
a sudden razor slash rips through the thick clouds
revealing the bashful moon - plastered pale pliant peeled
excruciatingly exposed
she spurts and bleeds and sputters and spits
trips and tips over the brink
and drops with a clumsy flop into the muddy slush
the street winds on - brazenly bare, hardly aware
it glides it slips it drips it sinuously slides out of sight

she walks in the dying wind
she slides she slips she drips she hides she glides
out of sight - into the whimpering night

-by Rita Putatunda

Splotched

I lie here – splotched

Grey skin on grey tarmac

Stretched – Like a cry

Limbs outstretched

Clawing a last appeal

Head smashed flat

Teeth sharp white

Spread wide

A grimace of death

Guts spilled out in

Soft pink coils

In the soft pink dawn

Blood – still warm

Spattered like

Rose petals strewn

On a new corpse

Eyes staring

Clinging to my

Last life



A few minutes back

I used to be a creature

With nine lives

Flowing across the road

Like a fluid moment

Of light

Now, here I am

Splotched

-by Rita Putatunda

blind mind block

turning back the clock a blind mind block
a pair of hoarded old socks a frog croaks under the rock
the cry of the peacock a crow rudely mocks
a girl in a frothy frock with her hands caught
red-handed in the forbidden crock full of ticks and tocks
the defendant sits in the dock justice is ad hoc
the room is filled chock-a-bloc rows of eyes wide in shock
knock knock a hammer is breaking the lock
thoughtless feet flock pocked faces gawk

-by Rita Putatunda

Still Life with Flowers

This one took me a while. Done in oils, and that too with thick layers, I had to wait for each layer to dry, or at least semi dry, before adding the next layer. Meanwhile, of course, I did get on with some other paintings I'm doing.

Painting white blossoms is great fun, because white is never simply white. Shadows and reflected light and colours from the atmosphere and neighbouring objects reflect on white. Yet, while adding those colours, one has to take care to make it look white. Which is challenging. And I love it when it gets challenging. Painting can become a bit of a bore if it gets too easy. Though, I must say, that with each piece that I'm finishing, the next one gets easier, in terms of manipulating the paints, creating special effects - do look at the leaves closely, I love the effects I've created on them - and general ease of something one gets used to because one is doing it regularly.

Though I'm really loving these still lifes - the adherence and discipline to creating realistic forms and structures, which I feel I need to go through at this stage - every time I start putting paint on my canvas, I keep getting visions of the abstracts I'm dying to do. I'm feeling so torn. Should I do what I feel is a necessary step on my art journey, or just give in to what my heart wants to do?

I met and made friends with a couple of artists this week. I chatted with them and they said certainly I should follow my heart :)

You see, She thought I cared

For Dehu bai – who did my daily chores for 15 years or so – who died after a second heart attack --

Sometimes she’d cut her finger washing the utensils

(she never was careful about that kitchen knife

though I had warned her a zillion times)

Or scrape her skin

Grazing it on some rough part of the floor or door

As she laboriously swabbed it or dusted it –

And I would absentmindedly

-- Almost impatiently really

 for she’d often catch me when I had the least time

for the likes of her --

Put a band-aid on her wound –

And she thought I cared for her --

And sometimes it would be a headache

Which would have me rummaging for an aspirin

-- just to get her off my back, you see,

irritated at the nuisance she was being --

And she’d think I really cared about her

I could see it in her eyes

I could see it in the smile

She’d give me

Sometimes she’d say Memsa’ab, I’m tired today

Can I just wash the dishes and leave the rest for tomorrow --

And I’d say resignedly, Ok, go home and get some rest –

More really to get her out of my hair

Than anything else --

(I suspected all she wanted was to play hooky

and dash off somewhere to merely gossip with the

other baais that she loved to chat away the day with) --

And she would think I cared for her

I could see it in her eyes

I could see it in the smile

She’d give me

In the fifteen years that she did my chores for me

She often played truant

Especially when she’d go away on her pilgrimages

To her beloved devas  –

And I’d throw a tantrum

And the cynical atheist that I am

I would taunt her silly worship

Of those lifeless idols of hers

And she’d smile indulgently

And keep working for me

And I’d let her stay

For it was too much bother really to look for another maid

And she’d think I let her stay

Because I really cared

I could see it in her eyes

I could see it in the smile

She’d give me

She was getting on in years, you see

And few others wanted to have her work for them

She was slow, her bones creaked

She would often stop to take a rest

Sipping her endless cups of tea

(took her time really

when you come to think of it)

But I didn’t care

If she pottered around all day

As long as my work was done –

And she thought I cared

I could see it in her eyes

I could see it in the smile

She’d give me

I could see it in her eyes

I could see it in the wan smile she gave me

When I visited her in the hospital

(she looked so frail, so feeble) –

Perhaps she saw something in my eyes

Or on my face

For her to give me that smile again

From her discoloured hospital bed

Wedged in a corner of the crowded ward

Which told me that she thought

I really cared --

And on the way back home

In the sunshine that blinded my windshield

I wondered how and where and when I’d find

A replacement –

(maid servants are so hard to come by

these days, you see…)

At seven in the evening

The servants in the neighbourhood

Came and gave me the news

Dehu bai was no more

A second attack had taken her swiftly –

And they sat on their haunches

(as they’re wont to do when

they settle down for a long gossip)

On the landing outside my doorway

And reminisced -- chewing their paan

Looking solemn and sad --

About how Dehu bai had of late

Stopped working for everyone else

Except for me –

You see, apparently,

She had told these women,

(when they had asked her why she persisted

working for me in her advanced age)

That she’d work in this house (my house)

Until the end of her days

Because this Memsa’ab (that’s me)

Really cared for her

You see, she really thought that,

That her Memsa’ab really cared for her –

I saw it in her eyes

I saw it in the smile

She’d give me

-by Rita Putatunda

In these green shades of Madhuban

(trying my hand out on a completely different genre - not easy for me since I'm so convent educated anglicized)

Radha O Radha, my lovely,
Why don’t you believe me,
I am your dark lover,
Your Kanha, who loves you
With all his heart,
Come my sweet Radha,
Wipe those sulks off
Your fair face,
Come, your Kanha will
Play a tune just for you
On his bansuri,
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

Kanha O Kanha, my dark lover,
You say you love me,
But I’ve seen you play
With the gopikas in
These green shades
Of Madhuban,
I’ve heard you play
The same tunes for them
That you play for me
On your bansuri,
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

Radha, O my lovely Radha,
You know I merely dally
With those gopikas,
Look into my heart
In my heart there is only one,
Only one fair face,
And that is yours,
My sweet Radha,
Come, come, come to
Your Kanha,
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

Kanha, O my dark trecherous Kanha,
You whisper your sweet lies
Into your Radha’s ears,
Like honey dripping
From the bees’ hive,
But like the bee you sting me
When you dally
With the gopikas,
Laughing and cavorting
With them
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

O Radha, my lovely Radha,
Can’t you hear the sweet
Tune I play for you,
Can’t you see
How I long for you,
How my arms ache
For you,
How my heart swells
For you,
Come, my lovely,
Your place is here,
On your Kanha’s
Dark breast,
Within his loving arms,
Which long for your
Lovely charms,
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

O Kanha, my dark dark lover,
You whisper in my ears
Like you whisper
In your bansuri,
You play your fingers
On your Radha’s
Tender longings,
Like you play
On your bansuri,
And like your bansuri
That bursts into sweet tune,
Your Radha bursts
Into song,
O Kanha, O Kanha, O my Kanha,
My dark dark lover,
In these green shades
Of Madhuban

-by Rita Putatunda

I am your friend hailing from India (edited)

a tribute to Ezekiel –


Oh hello hello jee

Good evening jee

I am very very much happy

You are dropping in

To my humble home

Think it is your home only

Relaxing relaxing


But saar I am very very much not happy

you are not coming everyday, you are not talking

you are not telling

you are liking or not liking me

you are understanding na why I am anger


but still I am telling you

ok ok

but is not ok ok na

why you are not liking me?

I am not expert writing

But very very much I liking you

very much I am trying

everyday poems I am writing

from my head only

I am not understanding

strophes apostrophes catastrophes

I am very much confusing

I am breaking my linings

I am not realizing

what all my wrong doing

what you are wanting

I am not knowing those

but I am not neglecting

my education making me better person

everyday I am reading

history geography politics

improving my self - good for nothing

I am always believing

self improvement of myself only

so that you are always liking me

you are teaching so many things

I not knowing at all

India is my country

I am proudly saying

I am watching on TV news

I am improving my gk everyday



so when you are coming

and showing what mistake I am making

then I am correcting myself only

then you are liking me, no?



I say, saar, you are going? so soon, I say?

no commenting? I am writing and writing

but you are no commenting I am feeling so sad

you are not liking or what?

when you are coming again? you are coming again soon, no?

you are commenting next time, no?



I am your friend hailing from India

Only

-by Rita Putatunda

The Empty Canvas

The empty canvas – a fathomless void

So blank it engulfs even thought

It swallows every glimmer

Of imagined conceptions

Knowledge and revelations

That the mind can grasp

In that void – this blot

A dot, a tiny spark

Beginning to revolve

Meandering drunkenly

In the expanse –

Not yet a manifestation

But about to be

A maiden flight

That is about to spring into life

The silence surrounding the sound

At the birth of the countdown

A motionless womb –

Then the resounding boom

A flash of blinding light

Illuminating the endless vacuum

A devastation of fire white heart

Melting exploding in shards

Of multihued gaseous grist

Seed atom molecule particle

Swirling supernovas coalescing

Clotting into swirling consecrations

From within this vast womb

Of revolving bodies

A tiny being of flesh and blood

Looks in awe at this vast creation

Of germinating births and deaths

And makes a tiny dot – a spark

Meandering drunkenly

On a blank canvas – and leaves marks.

An infinitesimal fraction of a heart beat.

-by Rita Putatunda

Still Life with Vase and Fruit

Ha, finally made myself colour the fruit and vase, although in a new painting! I did it by just eschewing the underpainting.. I know I would've become so enamoured with my underpainting that I just wouldn't put the colour on. It's important to work with colours for me at the moment, just to get back the feel for them, their behaviour, so to speak. Painting is much like any other skill, as I said in a past blog. So it gets rusty or wobbly if you don't do it regularly. When I restarted my painting after the long gap I stupidly gave it I would often tear my hair out in frustration - simple things which came naturally to me eluded me. But now, I'm feeling quite upbeat - it's all coming back - what joy! But the thing with something as obsessive as painting is that one just doesn't have time for anything else in life. Your canvas, paints, brush just take over your life.

Every time I finish a painting - although I'm wondering if I should add put some flowers or a plant in the vase, so technically this is not done yet - I feel a sense of emptiness. One enjoys the process so much, one gets so engrossed in it, with heart mind soul, that suddenly when you put that last stroke of paint and realise it's done, there seems to be a yawning gap in your life. Of course there is the next painting to do, that's not the point. The point is that your love affair, your obsession with this one is over, and you feel the lingering waves of nostalgia for it.

I think I shall keep doing more of these vases, fruit, flowers stuff - enjoying them so much. Though I do have a sort of a darkish landscape forming at the recesses of my mind - saw a picture of it in the National Geographic, which I want to adapt to the one my mind is creating, based on that.

Unruly

Yep, I think "Unruly" is a befitting title for this painting. Although oils still remain my favourite medium, every time I try out acrylics, I enjoy it anew. So I think I'll just let it rest. Enjoy both and be at peace with myself.. LOL.. Bought myself a packet of oil pastels, which I used to play around with in the past. I love the soft textures one can create with them.. will probably do a similar flower painting with them.. if I'm still in the mood.

At the moment I am in this flowers, vases, fruits mood. These are basically practice pieces. This one, for example, helped to practice painting loose, while exploring tonal applications to create a feeling of depth. Flowers and fruits offer me the best opportunity to explore tones. One of the biggest challenges is of course trying to create a three dimensional illusion on a two dimensional surface.. depicting changes in tone helps to create that. It's always fun and exciting to explore this aspect of art, whether one is creating it or views it in others' art works.

Brush work also needs constant practice, and flowers are one of the best subjects to practice that, I've found. And then, the subtle colourings.. Oh, I love it all - the sheer joy of painting :)

I am Creation

 (I think this needs some more work, but keeping it here for the time being)

I am that wild thing that races in the wind.

I have spit out the bit. I have shaken off the bridle.

I cannot be harnessed by mundane punctuation grammar structure syntax.

I’m the laughter in a child’s eyes, I’m the wing in the bird’s flight, I’m the call of the wild.

I’m the chaos of erupting lava. I am the abstract in the rainbow colours.

I am music without harmony. I am the incongruity in nature’s wanton.

I am the river in spate that obeys no binding boundaries. I gush. I rush. I break my banks.

And spill all over. Swirling. Gouging. Devouring everything in my path. Yet creating new life.

I am disorder. I am revelry. I am the rejoice in the birds’ chorus. I am the undomesticated in Mother Nature. I am the child of liberation. I am celebration.

Not for me the well ordered gardens of governed minds with neatly trimmed hedges. Give me weeds. Give me gorse. Give me thickets. Give me undergrowths where creatures wriggle struggle survive die.

I am the voice that blunders in Life. I am the burst in the star’s birth. I am the lucent remnant in a celestial death. I am the cosmos whose motif cannot be contained. I am form without form. I am song. I am Creation.

-by Rita Putatunda

Flower Pot and Three Oranges

I just don't have the heart to colour those oranges orange, or make the flower blue, or the flower pot a brick colour, as had been my original plan when I began painting this. It just looks so perfect and intriguing like this, at least to my mind.

Woman Wanted ; Woman Found - (Edited)

An Internet friend of mine sent me this poem for some laughs.. My reply follows below his poem :)


Woman wanted

I’m looking for
a pleasant female.
Looks and size,
don’t give two hoots;
more long than wide,
usual attributes;
two of them,
one of those,
tapering legs,
diminishing toes;
b-flat voice,
not f-sharp,
some hair on top,
no moustache;
mustn’t guffaw,
a normal laugh;
call me love,
rather than honey;
old,
poor health,
bedridden,
no benefactors,
is ok ...........


....accompanyed
with
lots of money.

- by my Friend


My Reply:



Woman found


I’m pleasant most times, except when I’m not

I’m long most times, except when I’m wide

I have diminishing those and tapering that

So their numerical counts do fit your needs

My voice is flat, except when it’s sharp

I have plenty of hair, but most of it not on top

I laugh normally, when I don’t guffaw

Honey, I’ll always call you love

Glad you don’t mind my dentures

And my crutches

A moustache I haven’t,

Except when I forget to shave

And I’ll get lots of money, honey

When I dig into your till


So, hon, come on over

And have a look,

And don’t forget that

cheque book.


- by Me :D

Strange Still Lifes

Every morning starts off with such great potential. The sun is shining, the birds singing and the sky seems to be waiting. Unless I’m in the middle of a painting that I’m engrossed in, every morning begins with the question ‘what am I going to paint today’, which fills me with great excitement and anticipation. By mid morning, I realize the day is moving on and I haven’t put a stroke of paint on my canvas. I wrack my brains – what is it that will excite me enough to actually motivate me to put it on canvas. You see, unless I get enthused about a subject, I just don’t feel like painting it. Some of my artist friends say they don’t break their heads about this – just take a flower or a bush or a mountain and paint it, they say. I can’t. I have to be in love with my subject, I need to find joy in it, to want to explore all its mysteries with my brush, paints and mind.

Anyway, desperate for something to paint, I decided I’ll just do some still lifes, you know, fruits, flowers, vases and jars sorts of things. And suddenly now I’m fascinated by them all, because, even though I begin with the idea of painting them as realistically as I can, they are ending up in these strange still lifes.

Oh, must tell you.. one of my non-artist (haha, he'll love that when he reads this) friends read the 'what's the point' post and chided me, saying, you artists are such spoilt brats, I wish I could draw/paint like you, I would have been the happiest person and never ever complain. To which I retorted, well, you can. Anyone can draw and paint. Children draw and paint instinctively. Only thing is most children don't get the opportunity to develop the inborn skill further - in our country because of the pressure of studying in order to get a job taking precedence. But, given a chance, it's a craft like any other craft or skill, which anyone can train herself/himself on. Look around you, practically everything you see can be reduced to their basic shapes; cylinder, sphere, cube, cone. Draw the basic shapes, getting the proportions as accurately as you can, which is also easy to learn, and put it on your paper or canvas. As for the colour, they're just basically various compositions of the three primary colours, red, blue and yellow. A little practice and you can create a huge variety of hues with these.

The question then of course is when does a drawing, a craft, become art. Will talk about that in my next post. I had wanted to upload another strange still life, but it's just taking too long today. I need to paint.

Well, I decided to add the background to this one and also coloured the flower pot. Still pondering whether I want to colour the flowers or not. Trying to upload a couple more still lifes I've done over the past couple of days - taking very long.. slow internet today :/

BTW, this has been painted on an unstretched canvas, hence it has been stuck on a drawing board to keep it in place. Once dry, it will be mounted and framed.

Nirvana Moksha Paradise Peace

I live in my foul breath
I breathe in my fetid fumes
I walk on my stumbles
I bumble over my hidden treasures
I’m humbled by my wonders
I fall into my potholes
And break my bones
I deafen in my din
I’m enthralled by the intricacies
Of my soul’s ragas
I writhe in my aches
I ooze in my untended wounds

I rejoice in the gathering clouds
I drown in my monsoon tears
After I burn in my summer blaze
I shiver in my tattered winter blanket

While I warm my hands and feet
On the fires I build in my throbbing heart
I fling the colours of holi
Into the green leaves of my spring season

I pay obeisance to my Gods and Goddesses

Krishna Rama Durga Kali..too many to name

While I flow in the slime of my gutters
I choke in my clouds of dust
I wrap myself in my flies
My garbage my rags
My stray dogs my beggars
My famished children with
Their empty hands and empty eyes
Staring from my staring eyes
But I teach my children
To unshackle their hands and minds
I put wings on their feet to fly free
Even though my holy rivers flow with black refuse
Littered with leftovers from my venerating masses
Bits of flower petals mingling
With plastic bags industrial waste
And half burnt dead bobbing up and down
Refusing to leave my banks
Over which fat dogs snarl and snap
And yet my waters flow with life giving green
Where striving people dare to dream
My crowded streets are death traps
Yet flowing with smiling faces
Mixed with sweating people
Belching cars crapping crows pissing cows
Dogs trucks rats buses hovels
Brown bowel movements
Withered fornicating flesh
Left on broken sidewalks
Over which incessant
Unseeing feet walk by
Tossing me a few coins
Without even a sideways glance
Where I sit cross-legged
My eyes shut tight
My street crawling through
My grime encrusted eyelids
Into my gritty eyeballs
Erupting into leaking blisters
My crowded lanes swarming
All over my filth coated limbs
Festering with pus-filled sores
My flesh infested with
Living breathing biting things
Laying eggs in my knotted hair
Hatching out into tics lice worms
Maggots mosquitoes monkeys monks
Speaking the language of 

Sadhus saints corruption
Festivals funerals roadside
Cursings laughings bickerings
Squabbling human flotsam
Caressing killing kicking screaming
Whispering jostling gouging
Juggling shoving thrusting
Shopping malls street stalls
Their ware hanging out
To be fingered fondled fought over
Factories fortunetellers fundamentalists
Ecclesiasts eclectic non-conformists
Conforming conformists philosophers
Human traffickers women’s abusers and libbers
Rising concrete constructions

Lowly corrugated dwellings
Trading haggling buying selling
Human blood bank notes rice dal roti
Struggling stragglers warring waking dying
Me myself bursting
Into my gasping windows
In through my gagging doors
Right into my retching
Bleeding heaving room
The walls of which are painted
With the rainbow colours of
Hushed heavenly hibiscus hues
Burning incense wafting wispy perfumed smoke
Bird song papaya fruit jackfruit
The mangoes of my childhood
Narayana Allah Buddha Christ

All seeking --
Nirvana moksha paradise peace

-by Rita Putatunda

The "Guruji" (according to some)

(the other day that lump of lard, that fathead, who is paid obeisance to as “guruji” plonked himself into my favourite evening news show, thenewshour, and spouted his usual mindless inanities, which is regarded as great wisdom by some. He began with “this is surreal” – wonder if he actually knows the meaning of the word, but phonies like him like to impress their slavering acolytes with highfalutin sounding words. As he screeched “let me spik, let me spik” I composed this little gem.. heh heh heh! Sure had fun writing this one!)

As the sun sank into a dark horizon
The ants and the termites emerged
The centipedes and the millipedes
The roaches and the crawling maggots
Creeping worms and flurries of fleas
All with deadbeat brains as large as a pea
The crawling denizens of the dimwitted world
Lead by their leader 

An ugly flabby ignorant vile creature 

Also referred to as "Guruji" by some
Who thought he had the wisdom of the sages
Little did he know that with every word he uttered
All he displayed was the vast emptiness of his tawdry fat head
Filled with rudimentary inanities and boorish bullshit
He was the one who held aloft the flag of their realm
The kingdom of fawning flatterers
And lead the way to gorge on the squished butterfly
Tearing her delicate diaphanous wings to shreds
Like flies converging on putrid flesh
They engulfed the gasping dying butterfly
And after crushing her to death
Went back to their kingdom of Foolsland
Deep in some dank dark daft interiors of a cave  
Rejoicing over their conquered bounty

-by Rita Putatunda