Uneasy serenity: O to be Picasso for just a single day…….

As I sat there staring the computer with no work in hand, the noise from every corner bounced off the contours of my outer ear ridges, deflecting off the curves and transported into the inner drums where they reverberate to be perceived as meaningless, inconsequential sounds. The constant din made the room extremely quiet. I was left to my own brooding devices.

And I drearily looked up to discover the painting of a forest with a serene lake right in front of my eyes (by a Asher B Durand). There is something shoothing to the eyes hanging around in the office after all, besides the hot babe in one of the Bureau, of course. Paintings never cease to amaze me.

A painting always brings a sense of awe as I wonder what the artiste feels when he is in the midst of his work. What inspires him, what prompts him and what kind of emotions he goes through in the process.
And i wondered what would come out if i could put all my emotions on a canvas-channeling my feelings onto the tip of a brush. Would it turn out as elegantly expressive as a da vinci, as gloomy as a van gogh, or as abstract as a Picasso- would it be a masterpiece ?

I can't paint, so let me try to express in abstract words the moody, frustrated inexplicable emotions that envelops my thoughts as i try to envision them being represented as Oil on Canvas, although the 'Tempera' technique always gets my vote.

It could turn out quite scary, to be honest, because (let me begin) this whole world, viewed under the gaze of a psychedelic temperance makes it look like the oeuvre of an abstract artist's impression of deep voodoo-smeared ritualistic landscape.

Heavens look darker, shapes are more distorted, lives and lines are blurred; the only entity that maintains its form and focus is the vision that remains in the inner recess of the consciousness.

And as i cringe at one corner feeling that- paraphrasing Gabriel Marcia Marquez- time goes in circles, I think i almost know how Vincent Van Gogh felt when he painted his portraits, when he cut his own ears and eventually died with no one who understood him; although the diagnosis I can come to of my own state of affairs is still not as serious as to be considered as manic depression -i'm just having a bad day.

What i want to incorporate on my canvas- A mosaic of hues and colours interwoven and mixed that beguiles the vision - spread over the canvas-floor and circling each other, one on top of another, each on the side of the other, to give a stirred porridge look that circles in to a point in the centre where a hallow glow emanates.

Dead vegetation, rotting in the humid and damp floor of the forest where no light ever reaches. The stuffy air with the decaying smell of putrid fruits making it a torment to take every breath to fill one's lungs with what little breathable air is left in this swampy realm....Hold on, i think i'm drifting off into images of a mixture of Garcia's imaginary Macondo and Edgar Rice's Jungles of dark Africa.

I'd better stop. I've just realised there's no originality in this world anymore, even while trying to emote our very own conciousness. O to be Picasso for just a single day. What i would give....