Monday, February 19, 2018

Friday, January 19, 2018

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Armin Greder: His book, The Mediterranean and his Drawings.

"Recently I was told of an elderly woman who refuses to eat fish because she doesn’t want to eat African refugees. To me the implications are not so much gruesome as realistic: the fact that we are eating fish that well may have eaten fellow human beings is a perverse demonstration of how closely and inescapably the Europeans are tied to African refugees."
~ Armin Greder 

For me, the two most striking illustrations in the wordless picture book Mediterraneo  (The Mediterranean) by Armin Greder, my former illustration teacher,are these –

In this image at first the play of dark against light seems almost Escher. But when you look again and take in the image slowly, you realize this is a far more complex image, the sickly undertones of purple and ochre churn into a circle of warning culminating in the ghostly waiter serving the fish.

The play of highlights lead my eyes towards the white skinned patron with a face as impassive as the dead fish being served to him. 

The waiter’s hands on the plate are deathly blue, they echo the shape of the fish and the few strokes of charcoal that have constructed his presence lead my eyes up to his face, he looks sub human;

and then suddenly you realize, no one in that restaurant is quite human at all!  A horror story is about to unfold.

This is a Last Supper, there is going to be betrayal and death.

And then this image -

The highlighted faces of the refugees are crisscrossed with the dashes that make up their features.

The mast makes up a cross with the bow of the boat that carries its inhabitants towards their crucifixion.

How does the artist manage to say so much with his images? How does he know what to do? 

Here is what Armin had to say about drawing out the story for Mediterraneo:

"I finished the drawings for the 
fish story. The idea was so clear that all I had to do was start at the beginning and go along, virtually copying the images in my mind. It has never before happened to me that a story has presented itself in a blinding flash, finished, complete, ready to go. And I doubt that it will again."

Sometimes with a few, very few chosen people, after well over a 100 years worth of consistently exorcising demons on paper, these people simply know how; and when they draw, all that they want to express, all that they feel, all those deep and powerful stories that kept them awake night after torturous night, beautifully and serendipitously fall into place, like during those auspicious alignments of stars and planets that make marvelous things happen mysteriously, ever so occasionally and just often enough.

In real life however, you wouldn’t give a person who made such powerful images a second glance. The artist could be just another grouchy, unassuming man of a certain age with a big moustache who just happened to be sitting at a corner table of a wine bar you visited somewhere during your travels.

The author has very kindly given me some of his drawings and sketches to use in this post along with some words about the subject.

On Drawing the Human Form -

I keep asking myself what lies behind good drawing. It has to do with practice. But if the hand now is more agile and obeys better to what I want it to do, my orders to it must have improved too. This, I think, is a matter of looking beyond the mere shape of a leg or a torso and seeing their essence, seeing how they feel. 

When I taught life drawing I would get the models to behave like they would in a waiting room (the students would complain She has moved! I would reply This is live drawing!); I would get them to stand up and ask the students to draw them seated; I would get them to walk around; I would have a woman as a model and ask the students to draw last week’s male model instead. It was all designed to get the students to look and see and to understand the nature of what was in front of them, rather than to merely measure angles and curves and lengths. 

When I draw someone I mentally assume the pose in which I draw that figure (this is automatic, sometimes I am not even aware of it). I feel where the stress is and where things are floppy. I feel the aches of the cheap chick who walks clumsily, like a kind of mild polio victim, knees slightly bent because the downward angle her ankles allow her feet to assume is not enough to compensate for the exaggerated height of her heels.  

When I look at people it is as if I was I passing my hands over them; I feel the soft weight of the buttocks of a young woman in front of me, quivering ever so slightly as she is walking, so different from the tight arse of the bodybuilding macho imbecil who is doing hundredandfifty pushups; the tits of a young girl with their smooth silky skin and their curves - slightly concave the upper one, more convex the lower; the tired bits of flesh held in place and given the shape of breasts by a salmon coloured bra of an old woman with tinted hair and excessive makeup. I fondle these anatomies, I palp and squeeze and stroke them, I even smell them, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes with a shudder. And that, in the end, is what I draw.

All images ©Armin Greder

#armingreder, #mediterraneo, #themediterranean, #armingredermediterranean, #armingrederbooks, #armingrederdrawings, #armingredermediterraneo, #orecchioacerbo, #refugees

Friday, January 12, 2018


An illustration I did towards the end of last year for The Indian Quarterly was for a story called The Circle, featuring the last of the Anglo Indians, the prejudices inherent in them and how it ultimately destroys them.
The print has turned out a bit darker than the original, so I am adding the complete original below along with a detail of the illustration.

The haunting story which makes us cringe at the extent of prejudice and perceived superiority that one community has for another reminds me of the remark made by a friend of mine after she had broken up with her Anglo-Indian fiancee. She said, "How long are these Anglo-Indians going to prefix "Anglo" to define themselves? They are Indians!" This is true of course, but try telling that to Anglo-Indians, you'd probably make them writhe in agony.

Once, some years ago, during coffee an Anglo Indian acquaintance of mine remarked that the father of her niece was a Malayalee. When I expressed surprise, my acquaintance hastily added, "But she (the niece) is not Malayalee! She is one of us! She is one of us!" I was perplexed at the absurdity of that remark and at the determination of my Anglo-Indian acquaintance to completely erase the Indian aspect from her family.

Some explanation for these mindsets can be found in William Dalrymple's The White Mughals and more briefly in City of Djinns.
Here are a couple of memorable quotes from City of Djinns -

'And they're a fascinating people, the Indians. I'll say that for them.'
I've always had friendly relations with them, mind. It's their country. That's what my father always used to say.'
'That's right. The Indians are a nice people. Provided you treat them as human beings.'

'You see we're not Britishers', said Mr Smith. 'We're something different.'


Saturday, January 6, 2018

Moving On

This illustration is the last illustration I did in 2017. It is for a Jim Corbett book cover.

The last time I drew a tiger was sometime in 2009 for Deccan Herald when I used to do illustrations for their kiddie section. The pay was so low, the stories were so trite that the work became a chore. I decided to move on to other things. The picture below was the final illustration I did for them for a very nice poem. It was a good way to end, the 2009 tiger, sweet faced and hopeful.

Since then I have certainly moved on and in 7 years I have tried my hand at all kinds of wonderful projects which I never even dreamt I would do. However once again the red lights are flashing around my head and there are sirens in my ears every time I take up an editorial or a cover. It is time to move on again, this time to solving far more complex puzzles on my table and at my own pace.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

A Morning Walk in Russell Market

I finally went on one of those Bangalore guided walks because this one at least wasn't at some unearthly early hour in the morning. I had always wanted to dip my toes into the terrors of Russell Market and this was the opportunity. Plus, I even had two of my friends enthusiastic enough to join me.

It was a case of willingly dragging yourself out of your comfortable cocoon and plunging into filth, chaos, filth, feathers, shit, entrails, muck, filth, vegetables, get the idea.
Above, a tea shop man serves us pungent Suleimani Chai, the flavor on par with the madness outside. 

Chicks for sale above (at least they are not dyed in lurid colors this time) and below a curry trimmed with sheep's brains.

Perhaps the best and nicest part of the walk was the old doorways and signages which haven't been modernized.

Just a few of the shops that I managed to photograph.This is all pretty much very idealized, all the chaos around me has been neatly cropped out.

We went to a Sufi dargah, espied a temple and went inside this famous basilica where the atmosphere was like some kind of carnival in Disneyland.

Above, what was truly amazing was the bhakti, the reverence in the faces of each and every one of the worshipers inside this basilica.It was as if they were in a trance or something.

Below, the crimes we commit against art in the name of religion - look, our very own Pieta.

While Santas celebrate in the foreground in the picture below, the center of those salmon colored rays holds a relief of Mother Teresa no less.We cram in as much as possible!

Cakes to match the colors of the surroundings.

One dreadfully frugal looking masala dosa for breakfast. At least they could have served it to us in bright blue plates or dyed the potatoes pink or something.

Only a few of the heavily patterned saris and blouses that I saw around me.

The main market building which is hardly noticeable due to the cacophony around it.

Below, what we actually came to see, "The Forgotten Clocktower". To get to this, we went inside the market building through alleyways and bustling crowds following our guide who pointed this out to us and tried to vainly imbibe us with some history and a film on his phone. Rather than listening to him we were trying to breathe as we gagged and chocked at the air around us which was full of bits of feathers, dried chicken shit, muck and god only knows what else.


Back homeward through narrow lanes in the auto, I realized that what I am seeing is the complete and utter annihilation of my city.

I wish I could end with some kind of moving epiphany of self-discovery especially since this is my last post of the year but there was nothing except a mental paralysis, the kind that results after you've been through a Montreal winter been through hell and back. I have never scrubbed myself as much as I did than in the shower this afternoon.I am not sure I want to go here again.