My advice to all artists, or to anybody trying to do anything creative, would be a dictum from the French sculptor Auguste Rodin (1840-1917), toujour travailler, ‘work all the time’. And I’d add to that Überleben ist alles, ‘survival is all’, which is from the Bohemian-Austrian German poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926).
Why does a writer write, or an artist create art? Because it is in his nature. As the fish swims and the bird flies. Not every fish is a great swimmer and not every bird is a great flier – some birds have even lost the power of flight. Fish are always in the water but birds are not always in the air – arists are more like birds than fish, in that sense. But birds too nest on the ground – or in trees. Birds too die and in the end the earth is as full of birds as the skies.
What does that teach us? It teaches us that an eagle is just another bird until it spreads its wings and soars. The artist is most an artist, all of an artist, when he creates. The rest of the time he is just an ordinary human being, but an ordinary human being dreaming of fame & fortune, in the short run, and of immortality, in the long. Hey, I like that ‘in the long’ – ‘run’ implied or understood – which is actually a German usage, a teutonism of the kind that can creep in after you’ve spent a lifetime – well, half a lifetime – in this country. Where was I?
The artist hopes for remembrance and dreams of immortality. The great Nirad C. Chaudhuri of the Bengalis, of The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian fame, was hoping, as a nonagenarian and with tears in his eyes, that the Bengalis, at least, would remember him. Martin Amis reportedly told Salman Rushdie that he was hoping to leave behind a shelfful of books – presumably after he’d checked into the Horizontal Hilton (which is one of the 101 euphemisms for dying I found online). I call it the Tragical History Tour of the artists, on the parallel of the Magical Mystery Tour of the Beatles.
All artists, politicians and Great Men – women less so, strangely enough – are desperate to get on to that bandwagon called History. Now check the full definition of ‘bandwagon’ on Merriam-Webster/Google: a bandwagon is a usually ornate and high wagon for a band of musicians especially in a circus parade, wow! Is there a better description of History, that Eternal Circus Parade that all Great Men – less so the women – are ‘dying’ to get into?
The trouble is that you cannot write – or paint or make music – for posterity just as you cannot write a classic, which would be like giving birth to a baby with a beard. You have to write a bestseller first, which will turn into a classic some day – hopefully, since not every bestseller turns automatically into a classic. Hence the only way to find out whether you are a Tagore or a Shakespeare is to live 155 years (counting from 2016), if you are Tagore, and 452 years, if you are Shakespeare.
Tagore, good that the name has cropped up: take the ‘Ta’ of Ta-Ta and the ‘gore’ of Al Gore and you’ll have Tagore, or Tagoray, if you are a German, since the British cannot pronounce any word, the French pronounce everything by half and the Germans pronounce every letter of every word – including the ‘e’ at the end of Tagore.
Robindronath Thakur aka Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was of course the national poet of the Bengalis who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913 for some of the most atrocious translations of his own poems from a collection called Gitanjali. I say atrocious because my Bengali soul revolts when I see ‘ekti nomoshkarey probhu’ turned into ‘One salutation to thee, my God’. Tagore did the translations himself, partially while residing in the feudal mansion called Kuthi Bari of the Tagores in Shilaidaha, in the Kushtia district of today’s Bangladesh.
The purpose of Tagore’s many sojourns in the picturesque Bengali countryside was mainly or partially to manage the family estates. That he wrote some of the greatest poems & songs of the Bengali language in his spare time – such as Sonar Tori or The Golden Boat – while lounging comfortably on the family houseboat – I’m sure nobody has anything against it, though I’m yet to ask Marx & Engels.
From his houseboat, Tagore must have seen what I used to see on the Bag Bazar canal in my childhood, while sitting in the 79c bus on my way to ‘Dhaneshkhali’ for the summer or the puja holidays. One couldn’t see the canal from the Jessore Road, but one could see what looked like giant golden tortoises creeping across the green ricefields – just towboats laden with hay, or floating hayricks, as I’d find out later. No corn, please note.
Tagore, on the other hand, wrote a wonderful poem in which the Golden Boat of Time comes and takes away the golden corn of the artist, who gets left behind like the poor farmer – it is an image which has not left me since, ever since I came across that poem for the first time, at around the same age that I was watching my own Golden Tortoises crawl past Jessore Road trying to hide from the ferocious Tata Mercedes Benz buses. The buses won, as usual.
I also think of us ‘also-ran’ artists/writers – the scrub or the undergrowth of the art world in its semi-arid zones, if you like – I think of us as the farmers who have to take their meagre produce to the market, and haggle with the agents over the price, and get cheated by the middlemen and duped by the con men and harassed by the police…
No wonder we get drunk on hooch & go and visit bad women & come back and beat up our duteous wives – women are less violent – finally go and recruit ourselves as factory hands leaving the Golden Boat to find its golden corn at some other bend in the river the next time.