Poornima Manco

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The Man in the Mirror

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Here’s a conundrum: is it possible to divorce art from it’s creator?

It is universally acknowledged that great art be it in music or literature or movies transports you to a higher realm. Personal though the experience may be (and subjective too), truly sublime art cannot fail to move the observer. Yet, at what point does the creator’s life, personality or debaucheries start to influence how you view their creation?

From Wagner’s anti-Semitism to Dickens’ neglect of his own brood to Hemingway’s fractured family to more lately, Woody Allen’s decidedly creepy personal life, Michael Jackson’s (unproven) abuse claims to Rolf Harris’ proven ones- all have been artists/artistes par excellence.

Is it possible then to delineate one from the other?

I, for one, cannot forget that shortly after the child abuse allegations had first surfaced against Michael Jackson, he performed the “Earth Song” with pre pubescent children, with him dressed as Christ, in a ludicrous attempt to varnish his rapidly cracking facade. Jarvis Cocker of Pulp fame, famously wrecked that performance by storming the stage. Rightly so. Yet, there is no denying the fact that Jackson produced and sang some amazing tracks that have withstood the test of time.

Similarly with Allen’s earlier films, and some of his later ones too, it’s impossible to dismiss his genius, his quirky Manhattan world view, his unconventional protagonists. Yet one’s loathing of the man colours any subsequent viewings of his movies.

And what of Roman Polanski? Can one ignore that he raped a 13 year old just because he made wonderful films like “The Pianist” or “Chinatown”?

There is no black and white here. Talent can reside in the humblest, the meanest, the most perverse, just as it can within the noblest, the purest, the most enlightened. As an audience to it, we must judge them separately from one another. I can love a piece of art by Picasso, while not necessarily caring for the man himself (a serial adulterer and psychological bully). I can be transported by “The Ride of the Valkyries” by Wagner, while denouncing his anti- Semitic views.

Nowhere in the mythical Artists handbook is there a mention of a code of conduct. Yes, I would love all my artists to be wonderful, warm, caring, altruistic, loyal human beings. How naive that would be. Just as our world is an imperfect one, so are we.

Hasta la vista baby!

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Two years ago, I had made a loose commitment to myself regarding my blog. I had mentally aimed to write one post a week. Not a major task I’d surmised. After all, writing was easy enough for me, and there were enough topics that piqued my interest, and I could trot out piece after piece without breaking a sweat. Well, haha to that. What I had forgotten to factor in while making these grandiose internal plans, was life. Life doesn’t give a toss about your plans. It flows gentle as a stream or gushes by like a river in flood, and you get swept along, sometimes benignly, other times mercilessly.

Life has been a bit of a storm lately. From all Hell breaking loose at work, to various familial and social undertakings, I’ve felt like I’ve been drowning with nary a straw to clutch at. In all of this, I have not once forgotten to beat myself up over missing my blog deadlines. Ah guilt! What a perverse pleasure to indulge in.

Yesterday, for the first time, I had a minor epiphany regarding my writing. My blogging is a hobby. It’s meant to be a pleasurable past time. Since when did it become a millstone around my neck? Well, since I made it one!

So, henceforth, if I need a break, I’ll take one. I want to come back to it with a renewed sense of purpose and vigour. In the meantime, adios amigos. It’s time for me to recharge, to recuperate and to recover from what has been a frightfully frenetic time. To calmer shores I head. Hasta la vista!

The flip side of genius

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‘Savage Beauty’, an exhibition of Alexander McQueen’s work and journey is a fascinating insight into the mind of a tortured genius. From his start as an apprentice tailor on Savile Row to his rise as the enfant terrible of British fashion, it showcases the convoluted workings of a mind that constantly strained against the leash of conformity.

Born in the East End to a cabbie father and a teacher mother, he knew very early on that he wanted to be a designer. He was also aware of his sexual orientation, and not the least bit embarrassed by it. From Savile Row to Milan to Central Saint Martins college of Art and Design, his education and experience was varied, and contributed largely to giving him the reputation of creating the impeccably tailored look. Yet, it was this very background, this knowledge of construction that allowed him to deconstruct with such confidence and assurance.

With his football hooligan looks, his bizarre vision, his sexual proclivities that he played out in graphic detail in his collections, he set out to shock the establishment. And shock he did. Slasher dresses that paid homage to Jack the Ripper, the bird motif that recurred constantly – nightmarish regurgitation of Hitchcock’s classic ‘The Birds’, bumster trousers that displayed bum cleavage more appropriate to a building site than a runway, fetishist manacles and masks, models sprayed with faux blood or urine, there was no boundary left unexplored, no terrain not rampaged through.

All along though, there was the perfect tailoring. And wild, fantastical art. Juxtaposing elements that had never previously been seen together before- leather, feathers, crocodile heads, lace and tartan, horns and chains… the world fed his imagination, and that in turn fed his creativity.

Yet the demons that haunted him, also purportedly led him to abusive relationships, unprotected sex with unsuspecting young men, and a drug habit that aside of being de rigeur in the fashion circles, had him spiralling down a vortex of despair and self loathing. The more successful he became, the more he outlandish he tried to be. The more the establishment accepted him, the more he spurned their advances.

At age 40, he took his own life, barely weeks after his beloved mother’s death. A cocktail of drugs,pills and tranquillisers were found in his system. He had hung himself after slashing his wrists with a ceremonial dagger and meat cleaver. Just as flamboyant in death as he was in life.

The world lost a designer of significance. For whom, designing wasn’t limited to clothes. It was theatre. Sometimes bizarre, sometimes absurd. Always hugely entertaining.

‘Savage Beauty’ runs at the V&A till the 2nd of August 2015. Well worth a visit. Even if you do come away with a feeling of complete insignificance in the face of a humongous talent.

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Of Parables and Eyes

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What is a parable? It is a simple story containing a moral or a spiritual lesson.

Well, the last few days have culminated in a parable for me. With an unending spate of visitors, the stress of work, the background of friendships going awry, I have been stretched beyond limits. Trying to find a bit of calm in this storm has proven elusive at times, and downright impossible at others.

Parables are associated with the Bible, and rightly so. Yet the Hindu holy book, the Bhagvad Gita has its own set of lessons to impart. One that has stayed with me through the years is the one involving Dronacharya, the royal guru to the warring cousins the Kauravas and the Pandavas. In one particular archery lesson, he hung a wooden bird on a tree branch and asked his students to take aim. Before firing their arrows he asked each one to describe what he saw. One by one they described the forest, the trees, the landscape, the wooden bird. Then the mighty guru asked Arjuna, his favourite student, what he saw. Arjuna merely said, “Guruji, all I see is the eye of the bird”. He went on to become one of History’s greatest archers.

My daughter’s eye operation was scheduled to be at 7:30 am on Thursday. I was meant to arrive from work the night before. Worry had coiled itself into a knot in my stomach. I was apprehensive about the general anaesthesia, and concerned about the operation itself, which involved removing a bit of skin off the conjunctiva and a few stitches. Nothing major, the surgeon had reassured us. Yet, it was her eye! The misgivings would not be quelled.

As bad luck would have it, my flight cancelled, and I was stranded nearly 4000 miles away, with no recourse, except to get home 24 hours later than anticipated.

Helplessness and frustration joined worry and I was a ball of nervous tension by the time I landed. I had missed the operation. I had missed the chance to hold my daughter’s hand as she was put under. I had missed the chance of being there when she came around. I felt like a failure even though none of it was of my doing.

I sped home, desperate to see my little girl. Through it all, the fatigue, the annoyances, the snubs of some and the ingratitude of others danced around demonically in my half crazed mind.

I parked the car, said a quick hello to the neighbours and rushed inside.

She was curled up on her side, her mouth slack in sleep. An eye patch covered her left eye. Suddenly, all that background noise quietened to a hum. I was there. She was well. The operation had been a success. I cradled her in my arms, and kissed her gently. My parable unfolded itself. All that was of true value was right here, in my little home. My husband, my children, their welfare. This was my ‘eye’. My focus.

Nothing else mattered.

The importance of unplugging

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A recent holiday I took felt like a real holiday. We’d left all gadgets behind- smart phones, computers, and all other pain in the rear devices that keep you connected with the world at large, at all times. Aside of a tablet for our girls to watch their films on, we were completely disconnected from the daily happenings of our extended circle of family and friends. Guess what? Didn’t miss it one bit. This was one of the best holidays we’d had in a long,long time. We explored, we walked, we talked, we ‘connected’ with one another in a way that had become impossible with the invasion of these devices. We absorbed all that was around us, without the need to narrate a blow by blow account of it online. We actually took in the beauty and magnificence of Nature without being compelled to Instagram it alongside.

Why has our online living overtaken the real world living? Why do we feel it necessary to record all events for posterity without being ‘in’ the moment at all? Is it because we want to show the world how exciting our lives are, how much more we have travelled, how many more experiences we have had? To induce a bit of the green eyed monster? Yet, ironically, bypassing those very experiences while chronicling them?

As a family, our rule is that one meal of the day is together, at the table, gadget less. I hope that the conversations we have, the laughs we share are the memories that the girls take with them as they grow up, go to University, get jobs, move away, get married etc.

In the meantime, I am trying to enforce a gadget watershed hour too. Come 9pm, switch off, unplug, and enjoy a nice glass of wine, a bath, a book maybe? Our hours on this planet are limited. Let’s not spend them tied to a virtual master.

Make do and mend vs Conspicuous consumption

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Another glaring difference between the generations of yore and present, is how disposable society has now become. Where my grandmother’s and to an extent, even my parents’ generation, believed in recycling, re using, mending and making do, we rarely do any of the above. It is so much easier to throw out an item, and buy a new one than it is to make the time and take the effort to actually repairing it and prolonging its life.

We can blame it on our hectic lifestyles, the paucity and expense of good workmen, the ubiquity of cheap, affordable white goods,clothes,food etc. Or, we can simply realise, that this is a lifestyle choice determined by economic circumstances.

Yet, this easily disposable/replaceable incantation seems to have infiltrated the longevity of our relationships too. Friendship not working. Never mind. There’s always another gaggle or two to fall back upon. Marriage falling apart. Who cares? Divorce, and find another partner. Not getting along with a brother or a sister? Forget them. Move on. Plenty of sibling substitutes out there. Whatever happened to good,old fashioned working on something? Doing the hard graft, unfortunately, is just that : Hard Work! Much much easier to replace than to rectify.

I am no advocate for hoarding useless, unnecessary stuff. Nor do I believe in holding on to relationships that are past their sell by dates. However, some things, just like some people, are too precious to let go at the first sign of damage. There is much pleasure to be had in restituting that which seemed beyond repair. In an age where everything is replaceable,investing time and effort into something gives it more value than any amount of money can buy.

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