Man and machine

Why is it that I do not particularly like Nadal and Hrithik? I do not dispute the fact that they have got talent. :P People might even argue that it is an understatement. But I have the right to put forth my opinion about them. So here goes. I think they are too plastic. Too machine-like. Too muscly.

Nadal plays like he has a mission to accomplish. He runs to and fro on the baseline, is agile, hits power shots at unbelievable angles and reaches the ball no matter where it is placed on court. He attempts shots to keep the ball at play, hits winners - ONLY from the baseline, and if lucky maybe from elsewhere, all of them with machine-like precision. Little wonder that he wins most games. And yes, his angles and the way he reaches for every shot makes one gasp, but I have somehow decided in my head that he is too plastic for my tastes. Agreed, after he finishes a match, when he wins and takes off his head band, I feel a sort of fondness for the emotional/non-plastic kid in him. The way he talks, his spirit - he is a sport and hence a sweetheart whether he wins or loses. When the win is against Federer, all this doesn't hold of course. :)

Federer on the other hand, has more variety. Watching his tennis is like listening to music, as so many people have rightly put it. And even a non-believer would agree, after watching fed's strokes in slow motion alongside the symphony playing in the background of the rolex advertisement. He can(or is it could) play against anyone, with any style of game, on any surface, improvises his game anytime required, and comes up with shots that are a beauty to watch. He is just art at work.

And Hrithik is another story. He dances well. Okay, maybe very well. But I just do not appreciate his dance. His movement is fluid alright. But again is so machine-like in precision. Like he was programmed to dance that way and he would move every muscle just as much as it was programmed to move.

This is how I see them. Maybe it is partly because I think perfection isn't human? No, it is because, I think to achieve perfection, one needs to be free. To be boundless. To be free to improvise. To do what one really wants to do. To do it in a split-second of thought or even without thought. To do it because you just knew it was what you ought to have done. To fail. And in the end maybe, just maybe, win. :)

The fury of the seas

Last night I'd visited the Pondy beach. It must have been at least 6 months since I last visited the place. The place was transformed. Le Cafe had been renovated. The whole sidewalk had a new look to it. It looked lovely. The bamboo bench-rests, the shades, the palm trees planted and even the mobile toilet! We've been doing a lot to promote tourism I could see.

What struck me last night most of all, was the power of the mighty ocean. The vastness of our seas have always invoked a sense of awe in me, only this time, the feeling was much more exaggerated.

It was a calm, dark night at 11:30 PM. Couldn't spot a star in the sky. Couldn't even see if it was cloudy. There wasn't much of a breeze that night. The tide was high, although it was still a week to go before full-moon day. The sea was rough. The sea appeared 'lifted'. It was as if the sea was at a higher level than I was! I stood on the muddy patch, a little beyond the rocks - which were approximately 5 to 6 foot at a higher level than the water it overlooked. In spite of the height at which I was standing, the waves looked like they were formed at my line of sight, just slightly below my eye-level. They appeared to grow bigger and higher as they moved closer. The waves were really high but only managed to crash on the rocks and slightly beyond, with great power. Only a few drops managed to get to me. And that is because I would move back each time, at the deceivingly furious wave that appeared higher and mightier than it probably really was. It is beyond me to explain why I felt the fury of sea so pronouncedly yesterday. I felt I could now imagine how the tsunami would have looked like.

I was not alone in what I felt. Everyone I went with conceded that the sea was extremely 'scary' last night. My friend's dad and her mom also mentioned that they felt they could imagine what the tsunami would be like!!

It was perhaps the sheer volume of water at so close a level and the formation of the waves so close to us, that gave height to the waves and made us feel its power. But then I wonder why the waves only flattered to deceive.

Another thought when I saw this lone guy sitting on a slippery rock so close to the powerful waves without being afraid... I wish I could go there every night and sit on one of the rocks. Alone. Unafraid. Just idling. It gives me the goose bumps. Goose bumps because of the intensity of fright and the intensity of pleasure this would give me. The scary waves, the dark night, being out there alone, together with the pleasure of being alone with something so powerful, vast, wild and endearing, and philosophically motivating, putting us all in our rightful place.

I plan to go there once again tonight with my parents.

art articulated

When it comes to art, I always have been in the dark.

We had 'art' as a subject in school. We were forced to draw/paint themes chosen by our teachers and our submissions were graded. It was just like any other assignment in school. It didn't really give me any pleasure. It didn't stir profound thoughts my head. In the end, we would compete with each other wondering whose 'drawing' or 'painting' was the best. To us, the best paintings were those that most closely mimicked reality. Mine had never been the best. Except in a second standard colouring competition where I let my imagination run wild. When I won the first prize, I had no clue why I did. I liked my friends' colourings better.

It was the same when it came to music. I learnt music for 6 years not knowing why I did so. I just sang songs and played the harmoniam. 'Good' music appealed to my senses and I can say that occasionally, I connected to music at an emotional level.

It NEVER occurred to me then to understand what art meant. In fact I have really never spent much time thinking about art until very recently.

Intuitively, I knew it had something to do with the senses, but never thought about it as having too much to do with the mind.

Maybe again it boils down to the question of separation of the body from the mind. How much is a person's emotional/mental experience dependent on his sensory experience? This question presupposes an answer to another question on whether sensory experience is indeed essentially different from the emotional experience. I believe that they are mostly connected at some level. I shall not delve into justifying my belief in this post.

I only understood what it meant to emotionally bond with a work of art when I saw a picture of David Munch's 'Skrik'. It had a direct impact on me, visually and emotionally; I could relate to it philosophically. But I couldn't make sense or articulate what I felt then. The colours and the distorted, flowy background had an effect. The greys melting into the bright oranges. The expression. The unheard scream. Dissolving into the background. The overwhelming sense of helplessness. Of not being heard. People far away. A disconnect. Of not making a difference. Fear. Of just being there and then going away. Pointlessness. Only when I went and read about it, did I understand that it made sense for me to have connected to it. Never underestimate the happiness you get when you connect to something so weird and inexplicable! To know that you aren't alone feeling this way.

This brings me to other questions. Why can't I appreciate all art equally well? At least other famous works of art? Am I tasteless? Emotionless? Unrefined? Have a low IQ? A genetic defect? Or is it just my near-nil exposure to art? Then again, does it take experience and exposure to appreciate art? Does it require reading about art and knowing art enthusiasts to appreciate art? As I mentioned before, I wouldn't have appreciated 'Skrik' as much, had I not read about it, in spite of the very obvious effects it had on me.

In any case, henceforth, I would go ahead and read about art, look more closely at it and analyse my reaction to it, whenever possible. I wouldn't want to miss out on other 'skrik' experiences. :)

Won't spring last forever?

I am weak when it matters most. I don't know a thing. It has been sunny all my life. The chirping of the birds never stopped. The brook sang a gentle song as it bubbled past. Spring is nice. But spring doesn't last forever. I wont survive a winter's wind. I don't want winter to come. But I live through spring waiting for the terrible winter yet to come. Dreading it. Knowing well that I won't survive it.