Wednesday, September 21, 2011
An artist’s journey from Radi to Amsterdam
Rooted in Buddhist philosophy, colours, wisdom and symbolism, Passang Tobgay’s art will take you to the colours and content of the east and the west, and many shades in between, as a Bhutanese painter struggles and journeys from a small village in Trashigang, Radi, inspired to paint ever since he was seven years old. The artist’s destiny and art and the willingness to learn and exercise his skill and promote contemporary Bhutanese art at home and in the west would take him to one of the craziest and maddeningly beautiful artistic and inspiringly so- the European city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands. Passang who is twenty eight years old today studies fine art while engaging himself every minute in an artistic endeavour of either painting, sculpting or making installation art. He pays his tuition by what he earns from the sales of his art.
Though art cannot really be defined in words but art analysts say art is content and form. Form means: the elements of art, the principles of design and the actual physical materials that the artist used. Content is idea based and means: what the artist meant to portray, what the artist did actually portray and how we react as individual and actual masses. There is always room for intentional and affective fallacies, like in any other form of art. Content also includes ways in which a work was influenced by religion, politics or society in general, at the time the work of art was created. Of course art is always open to interpretation and the best way to experience art is to surrender and “feel.”
Bhutanese art not until a decade and half or so was very much based on the strict religious iconographic rules and details of traditional art where an error in painting equaled a sin, and where artists did not sign their names. Contemporary Bhutanese art has evolved a long way since especially with establishment of VAST but is there a difference between contemporary art in Bhutan for Bhutanese and tourists who visit Bhutan and being an artist outside Bhutan catering mostly to a western crowd? It is for you to judge the journey of a traditional painter who made his way to abstract art and performance art, yet with values very much rooted in principles and colours of Buddhist philosophy.
Passang studied traditional art in Zorig Chusum for six years, worked in VAST for two and is now based in Amsterdam. Passang’s exhibition is going on in the Ayala gallery, Tarayana centre and the event was graced by HRH Ashi Sonam Dechan Wangchuck on the 6th of July. The exhibition is free and open to all and the paintings will be showcased for a month. Passang will also exhibit his work of art, paintings and installation art in London sometime this year.
Kuenga Wangmo, who will receive her Doctorate this fall from the University of Cambridge, a Bill Gates scholar and a current post doctoral fellow at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London, an Archaeologist by profession, is helping support and exhibit Passang’s art. She feels that a human society’s growth is often characterized by its art and its prominence and wishes to help and work with all upcoming artists to explore the global market.
Passang is inspired by traditional Bhutanese artists, Azha Karma, Ugyen, and western artists Rembrandt, Van Gogh, contemporary Tibetan artists and Chinese artist Ai Weiwie.
Labels:
Art,
Bhutan,
Bhutanese Paintings,
Eastern Art,
Exhibition,
Modern Art,
Painting,
Passang Tobgay
Thursday, September 8, 2011
My Old Blog ID
I started blogging four or five years ago and this-then was predicted to be the next big boom. And it has been so.
My old blog still remains, with my tit bits of memories, worries, pain, joy and all emotions in between. Even naive and childish at times but it documents my growth as a person and a human being.
There is a poet in all of us, after all we were all once children ;)
The link to a Bhutanese poetess.
http://mw17destinationsearch.blogspot.com/
My old blog still remains, with my tit bits of memories, worries, pain, joy and all emotions in between. Even naive and childish at times but it documents my growth as a person and a human being.
There is a poet in all of us, after all we were all once children ;)
The link to a Bhutanese poetess.
http://mw17destinationsearch.blogspot.com/
Friday, July 29, 2011
Lovers and their Lies
If I could look into your eyes and not see the lies,
Perhaps I am in love.
You said that thrice,
Three little words that to lovers mean the world,
And the third time I knew it better than a murmur of prayers,
They were there in your eyes,
I could read those and not the lies.
Liars lie with their eyes,
Lovers love with their heart,
What is so new about it all?
Love and deception are the best of friends,
Love remains while the lover cheats,
In the end in hell we shall meet?
I wear my breasts and my bones,
Like it was the best apparel I chose,
If there was another form I could be,
Would I sing a song as an ant looking into another ant’s eyes?
Only a woman could see lies in her lover's eyes
And believe them until love flies.
Perhaps I am in love.
You said that thrice,
Three little words that to lovers mean the world,
And the third time I knew it better than a murmur of prayers,
They were there in your eyes,
I could read those and not the lies.
Liars lie with their eyes,
Lovers love with their heart,
What is so new about it all?
Love and deception are the best of friends,
Love remains while the lover cheats,
In the end in hell we shall meet?
I wear my breasts and my bones,
Like it was the best apparel I chose,
If there was another form I could be,
Would I sing a song as an ant looking into another ant’s eyes?
Only a woman could see lies in her lover's eyes
And believe them until love flies.
Imagination can be absurd, not that the world is not
When instead of buttons you find holes,
Instead of socks its gloves,
The paper writes on the pen,
The moon shines at daytime and the sun at night,
Is that a mad man’s world or mine own?
When laughter seems like a scream,
A wrinkle a sign of growing younger,
Would babies look like grandfathers?
And grandmothers like toddlers?
What if aging meant growing younger?
How then is old age a second childhood?
Are these a mad man’s thoughts or mine own?
When logic fails to reason,
Imagination knows no reason,
Nor no season,
It spurts like a tree with its leaves in the ground,
Branches as roots and rootlets as leaves
How then would the world be?
How then would the world be if tigers mowed on grass,
And cows ate humans?
Chicken shat on us and for dinner we were on their plate?
What if gorillas were writing poems,
Orangutans chirping like birds,
The belly dancer was the fox,
The elephant the mistress of the ant?
How then would the world be?
Are these a mad woman’s thoughts or mine own?
Instead of socks its gloves,
The paper writes on the pen,
The moon shines at daytime and the sun at night,
Is that a mad man’s world or mine own?
When laughter seems like a scream,
A wrinkle a sign of growing younger,
Would babies look like grandfathers?
And grandmothers like toddlers?
What if aging meant growing younger?
How then is old age a second childhood?
Are these a mad man’s thoughts or mine own?
When logic fails to reason,
Imagination knows no reason,
Nor no season,
It spurts like a tree with its leaves in the ground,
Branches as roots and rootlets as leaves
How then would the world be?
How then would the world be if tigers mowed on grass,
And cows ate humans?
Chicken shat on us and for dinner we were on their plate?
What if gorillas were writing poems,
Orangutans chirping like birds,
The belly dancer was the fox,
The elephant the mistress of the ant?
How then would the world be?
Are these a mad woman’s thoughts or mine own?
And
and all these days that pass with the sun half down when am half up, the gentle afternoon breeze that shakes willow tress, the murmur of the bees and the wilting dance of petals in the rain, the sky an azure blue, the clouds shining in the rain, rainbows play hide and seek, a romantic sighs at the passing beauty.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Soliloquy of the Wind
tonight the wind sang me a soliloquy,
the pigeons and sparrows hushed and listened,
the fire flies danced till they burnt themselves to death,
the clouds moved impatiently to hear them from near,
the wind sang endlessly till the song was a summer's chance,
only the ears that could listen heard the glorious night dancing to the beat of time.
the pigeons and sparrows hushed and listened,
the fire flies danced till they burnt themselves to death,
the clouds moved impatiently to hear them from near,
the wind sang endlessly till the song was a summer's chance,
only the ears that could listen heard the glorious night dancing to the beat of time.
Moonsoon
It’s a dark night,
The moon decided not to shine tonight.
Rain drops hit the tin sheets above my head with a drumming sound,
Drop by drop it tells the stories of the rain,
the moment is the rain
and at this moment it is raining.
Pouring thoughts like droplets in a sea,
Where if all our memories were ours to be,
Strings of knots and thoughts,
where I could think what you think,
and you think me,
if I could be you and you could I,
if I could be we,
then do you see the three?
you me sea and the tree
Turtles still climb the tree.
Do you see the fresh happy knots hanging on many dew drops of rain on a moonless Himalayan night?
It’s a rainfall of thoughts, lots and lots.
And I hear the last drop of the drum, it has stopped raining.
But the moon is still waning
It is yawning quietly curled in the corner of the night.
The moon decided not to shine tonight.
Rain drops hit the tin sheets above my head with a drumming sound,
Drop by drop it tells the stories of the rain,
the moment is the rain
and at this moment it is raining.
Pouring thoughts like droplets in a sea,
Where if all our memories were ours to be,
Strings of knots and thoughts,
where I could think what you think,
and you think me,
if I could be you and you could I,
if I could be we,
then do you see the three?
you me sea and the tree
Turtles still climb the tree.
Do you see the fresh happy knots hanging on many dew drops of rain on a moonless Himalayan night?
It’s a rainfall of thoughts, lots and lots.
And I hear the last drop of the drum, it has stopped raining.
But the moon is still waning
It is yawning quietly curled in the corner of the night.
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