Simple Rangoli Design With Dots

Sentimental Education: Essays in Art

The visual arts have been at the center of my life from my earliest memories. My mother was a painter and she taught me to observe the world intently; she also conveyed the mysteries of the creative artist; a love of introspection; and an intelligence built on association. My father had a passion for classical literature and he taught me the importance of words, sentences, logic. He introduced thematic concerns. My own form of expression, I like to believe, is a combination of the two.

My sentimental education was not based on failed romances, or successful ones, for that matter. But my maturity to appreciate art. I believe visual art is born in the emotional realm, that it lives in emotion as a human being lives in the open air. A poet once said that art leaves the imprint of the artist’s emotions as she creates.

I hope these essays carry a sense of experimental wonder to whomever reads them; also a love of beautiful forms, and a sadness toward self-destruction. Because I am not a visual artist, I have the privilege of looking on, the privilege of an outsider’s point of view. I admire painting, drawing, illustration, photography, architecture, even music, like a little boy mystified by a magic trick. Literature and writing, on the other hand, is a trick I wish to learn.

Art Essays

Diwali Kolam Design

Kolam is a rangoli pattern, in which a line runs once around each dot and goes to the beginning point as a mostly geometrical figure.




Kolams can be drawn in free style and colored.




Decorate with diyas.

Gustave Dore's Sketchbook

is a poem cycle I'm beginning that joins my love of visual art and classical literature. Gustave Dore (b. 1832-1883) illustrated scores of literary masterpieces including Paradise Lost, Idylls of the King, The Divine Comedy and Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I purchased a book not so long ago that presents his illustrations alongside thirteen of these literary works, and just recently the thought occurred to me to make use of this edition by taking certain selections and writing my own poems based on the original works. I foresee the poem cycle as an assemblage of literary classics, each a fragment from a larger work, placed into a context of my own creation and its development, but reflecting the Romantic style of Dore's illustrations, and the styles of the authors from which each poem will take its inspiration.

The first poem of my cycle is based on "Geraint and Enid," from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Idylls of the King. The poem follows lines 314-344 of "Geraint and Enid". I use the stanzaic structure of the original poem as well as employ some of the exact words or lines in the original.

Then Lethe awoke and stood before his bed,

he didn't know if it was early morning

or if the shadows on the floor meant night.

he looked and saw that all was ruinous

here sulked an unfed plant and here

the milk for the cats, licked to the last

drop, like a plate of steel burnished with neglect,

like a bowl that remains empty for weeks,

and the carpets collected parts of insects,

wings, antennas, torsos, trapped

by monstrous dust while brown stems

grew along the wallpaper and made a map

of bifurcations, and looked like a deserted

territory some poet once dreamed up.

And while he waited in the living room,

the voice of Rosalind, Lethe's mother, spoke

directly from the pencil drawing he hung

on the wall beside the door, and the voice

confounded him, as an unprotected child

whose parents have marooned him in the night,

becomes startled and thinks what other person

could be trudging through the rooms, whose nerves

begin to quiver with the slightest noise he hears,

so the voice of Rosalind shook Lethe;

and made him like a prisoner who jumps

at the sound of keys rattling when the guard appears

and lifts him out of a cold, unwanted bed,

so the shock passed through Lethe, who thought,

"Here is my dead mother."

We are attracted to the infinite

for the moment it lasts

something like the mathematics of miracles or continuous space

we sense it under every mundane awareness

we seize it once or twice

I imagine we're split into particles

each a smaller copy of the whole

we undergo a transformation

with our sudden sprawling capacity

we define an infinite goal

we are not the size of our own height

but the size of what we see

and it may seem foolish to even talk about

these moments

but we're tessellated and amplified

with electricity buzzing through us

even when the infinite seems improbable and distant

we're two mirrors exactly

parallel with our dreams

nesting a shared intuition

that must be discrete.

Garden Terrace Decoration

Hello users! If you have a terrace which is attached to hall, then go green and decorate with plants natural way. Keep some hanging decoration pieces like this to add more value.

The theater is self-contained

and then self-enclosing, like an oyster shell

pink ribbons and flesh-colored brilliance

reflecting on the inner wall,

sudden darkness once the shell

has closed. The origin of the world

may never be found, locked in a mass

of tangled ropes, swaying with the tides,

a prisoner of our dreams, a captive

of our senses, how can I nurture this life?

Where you feel the pulse racing

through a tiny muscle in your neck,

the wheel keeps on turning, it turns

until it stops. Childhood spliced

into fragments, the records tossed

into a vain shoebox, opened irregularly

and easily forgotten; outside a parade

sweeps past the suburban block, girls and boys

hold hands, french-kissing in the crowd,

parents sulk in the heat, holding flags.

Above all, the clouds pull apart like taffy

and the center reveals a satin hue,

it's nighttime and my devotion to these spectacles

is constant and mad, as if I'm viewing

my own poor imprint on the world.

I carry home a banquet and pry open

the door, flies emerge from a carcass

I never knew I had. Unreason dresses me

in the morning and I'm weighted down by

superstitious charms, I don't even have to travel

to hear sermons for what I'm after;

delusion wears a costume of elegant ties

and writes verse in an empty cell.

I'm back at the beginning

as if I've gone nowhere

I demand my rose and my pearl

both were lost along the way

look over this cliff

do you see tomorrow receding

beneath yesterday's waves?

every wrinkle of hope

belongs to another part of me

I don't think we can save ourselves

it is too cold, too deep

the world, family, strangers

reside in far off places, rarely visited

by myths and fables

here the spiral moon talks

to a chorus of insects

I envy your silence, your faith.