The Englishman
refer to- The Discourses of Reynolds, a mentor of Indian academic artists... noble art should give no hint of craftsmanship the new premium on the idea of genius
He liked the way the grass caught hold of the earth here. Strong green shards and at the point they struck out of the soil, they shared its deep red brown. Looking down at the stretch of the earth kept him occupied all the way to Lockwood's cottage. Outside the stone walls of the Art College, he could hear the din of the market place. He smiled. No, he had no complaints of India, none at all. If he had any, they disappeared a few minutes into the dark cavern of his classroom, facing all those young, expectant eyes. Beautiful eyes, all of them, of the Dhurinders', the Abalals', the Pestonjees'. Eyes that look towards him, so beautiful that they made his breath catch sometimes.
He never had this feeling in England, where he had taught for a good while.
"My dear, you are living out your dream of the exotic. Enjoy it while it lasts" Lockwood pushed a ceramic cup towards him, filled with the promise of that thick sweet liquid they called tea here. It carried that extra sinuousness of form, muscular form, he did not know how else to describe it, that made the Orient what it was. He felt attached here, to the place.
If there was a woman ,.. of course the thought came to him,often. The so called 'best years' were passing him by. Well, unless he had an affair with a married woman, they seemed more interesting.. or else, maybe he would make a trip to see the famed white women of Mahabalesvar. Some hogwash myth in all probability. "Now therefore while that youthful hue/Sits on thy skin like morning dew" Surprising how much poetry he was recalling here. He did not know he remembered so much of it. Must be to do with having to live surrounded with a completely unknown language.. like driftwood, choice lines of his language kept returning to him.
They discussed again, that trip to Ajanta that he had recently been alluding to. Lockwood was being very good about it, really, he had heard him out patiently, a few times by now.
" Those were beautiful works, John, actually beautiful works, not just of craftsmanship, but they had something infinitely more.. and none of these boys could see it. Not one! Some of them actually refused to make copies. I had to finally pull rank with them to get them to do it"
John looked at him with that quiet patience, that sometimes seemed bullheadedness to Griffith..not saying that thing that Griffith was probably trying to provoke him into saying" Are we doing it all wrong? Is that the point of this whole conversation that you make us have again and again?"
Or maybe Lockwood did not think that at all. What had he said last time " We are forced to be pioneers, Griffith, and that will be rough".
What were they saying in class that were making these young men contemptuous of the finest work of their country's craftsmanship?
The caves returned to Griffith as he went to bed. Those delicate coloured shadows haunting the walls, Griffith almost wanted to turn back and see who those exquisite creatures were who had cast such shadows on the walls of the caves. But the students.. Pestonjee's sullen expression returned to haunt him. And then he would feel "guilty,guilty, guilty". To what end? Did he really believe that all that he told them about ancient Greek art was worth nothing. No, quite no one compared to Michelangelo, of too he was sure. He was not just espousing the cause of some white Englishman, he was trying to communicate the eternal values of art, to get these wonderful young boys to recognize it when they saw it. So then where, between the introduction of the new- and for these boys sometimes all of it was new, certainly the evaluation of their own monuments that they had hitherto treated with a completely utilitarian approach.. between the introduction of the new and..?? Sleep came closer, and unbolted many doors in the dark. New-old images floated up. The familiar film of sweat squirted its way out of his pores,all over his body and evaporated into a cool air that finally lulled him to sleep. As he was slipping away, he heard midnight crows making bedlam of that hour.
