I never knew my drawing and painting could be a major source of some hearty laugh, subdued chuckles and broad grins that could last more than normal and lure others to join in. In all fairness, I used to super exhaust my imaginary talent in drawing and painting those flowery designs on a glistening white sheet that tempted my dormant desire to be a Picasso-like painter (if not better) some day. I was filled with this steely resolve to make it big as an artist, when I grow up. But it could never be. For all my efforts generated fountains of guffaws from my art teacher who made it a point to show it to all others and laugh her lungs out.
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Dr Simmi Gurwara is Professor & Head, School of Languages & Culture at Sharda University. She has penned academic books, research papers, articles, short stories and poems that have been published in reputed national and international journals, magazines and newspapers. Creative writing has been her forte.She has extensive media related experience to her credit. She is the script writer and commentator of 4 documentary films commissioned by Films Division (Govt. of India). She is the concept writer of a Hindi feature film “Coffee House” that was screened at prestigious Cannes Films Festival in France in May 2009 and also at the Film Festivals held at Mumbai, Chennai, Goa, Dubai and Iceland. She has worked as translator and dialogue writer of bilingual documentary and crossover films.
No, it wasn’t that she made me a butt of ridicule (or so did I believe). She loved me no end (something I was more than sure about). Actually, it was my grossly misplaced craze for the subject that brought me unsolicited funny moments.
My monitor ship was never questioned, in spite of regular smirks from my classmates during the drawing period. But I could never resist feeling the pinch of being a borderline case in artistry that seemed to cloud my above average performance in other areas. But I wasn’t deterred. My inadequacy in art prompted me towards my temporary stint in science. Math, the most horrendous of all, challenged my little brains out, driving me to believe that the nought is no better than the broken lines and blotched colors. They could at least be done redone, replacing one shade for the other. I was not cut to play the zero some game in any way.
With time, my uncouth and kitsch drawing disasters swept off my misplaced goal of becoming an artiste par excellence into a black whole. I was back to my square one state where I mused upon my ‘what would I be when I grow up’ option. I was heartbroken. It dawned upon me that I would not be able to make it as an artist who is envied for the artistic acumen; loved for the unparalleled mastery over the art. How would I join the hall of fame? After all you have to showcase some extraordinarily extra talent to be lapped up by the masses (being unaware then that it is the classes that make an artist). Poor lings have no palate for art. It’s a prerogative of the high and mighty.
It was then. Good old school days.
Surprisingly, it isn’t any different even now. Things appear to be just the same, if not worse. The inspirations might have changed but the fervor is intact. I still struggle hard when I am required to draw the line, quite literally. I still undergo the stroke of breathlessness when I have to color my argument in the face of upcoming restraints and constraints. I failed then. And I find myself fighting hard to learn it gradually now, as I age. Does it come with age? In all probability, yes. I am a self confessed optimist. It’s never too late. Skill can be practiced.
I am vying to be an ardent practitioner. So that when the time comes to draw the line, I do not squirm and beautifully paint the picture perfect. I may not be in the league of Picasso but my undying zeal is tarred with the same brush.
If art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, isn’t it good to be arty. What say?
Dr. Simmi Gurwara
