The Lost Painter

Does one forget cycling…? Maybe not, but after a long gap, it takes some shaky unbalanced attempts to be able to keep your bicycle from toppling over while you peddal your guts off!Similarly, art also brings with it, this dilemma of losing connect with one’s own psyche. The psyche which mingles with colors and rough sloshes of paint brush to translate itself into a piece of art. It seemed so natural once upon a time to ventilate through this medium. But today, I sit for long quiet moments staring at the blank yellowing paper of my sketch book. Finally a few strokes of pencil later I decide that I am being too deliberate. Where did all the spontaneity go? Scribbling and erasing…scribbling and erasing…its a struggle between the new improved me and the unaspiring simpleton of yesteryears.

 I have not lost hope, though. Will keep trying to get back to my childhood love of old musty sketch books, the incomplete canvas that lies in my childhood home…the pencils, charcoals, pastels and paints that beckon me whenever I chance upon them while browsing through old valued items.
Some day in a more tranquil scenario, when call of duty is lighter and responsibilities done with, the same uncomplicated me might emerge and start humming on my fav old melody.And my hands will get busy swaying to the rhythmic strokes on paper….as I become one with the layers of colors in absolute bliss….