"To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

Art-Thoughts | Down the Art Lane

Archival stuff have their own magnificent aura, ain’t they?

Well, I’ve always had this quaint fascination for all things archival!

Be it a letter, a memorabilia, a sweet little memento in remembrance of things past, a letter that carries warmth and love from a sweet friend or family folk – written ages ago – or that precious book of cartoons that made our nights all the more livelier, or a Greeting card, or an old VGA-ed Nokia phone – of the 1100 types – and on and on and on!

Well, they have a lovely uniqueness and a cute thisness to them, ain’t they?

In short, they act a point of reference wherein the pastness of the past relates, reaffirms and reconnects with the present, (and future) in their myriad socio-cultural contexts!

Apart from Literature - our daily bread, Music and Painting have always enthused me ever since childhood – as cake for special occasions!

Single-stroke cartoons especially were my added fascination and delight!

Especially on free-time mode during school days, like when Jane Eyre dabbles in painting, when she was at Lowood’s!

So tempted to quoting Jane, from Jane Eyre – [And yes! may I also beseech thee, dear reader, to take some little added time as you browse through this conversation between Jane and Rochester – and to admire Charlotte Bronte’s language here. Super-awesome by all means!]

Here goes –

“Adèle showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don’t know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?”

“No, indeed!” I interjected.

“Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its contents being original; but don’t pass your word unless you are certain: I can recognise patchwork.”

“Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir.”

I brought the portfolio from the library.

“Approach the table,” said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

“No crowding,” said Mr. Rochester: “take the drawings from my hand as I finish with them; but don’t push your faces up to mine.”

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.

“Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,” said he, “and look at them with Adèle;—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and some thought.”

“I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no other occupation.”

“Where did you get your copies?”

“Out of my head.”

“That head I see now on your shoulders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has it other furniture of the same kind within?”

“I should think it may have: I should hope—better.”

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochester presently.

“I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”

“I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant?

There ends the conversation!

By the way, giving y’all some moth-eaten fragments of my own little dabblings in the world of art – as a series, dear reader, that, I’ve tried to secure through the shadow of my thoughts decades ago!

Here goes –

Well, termites had terminated a section of the cartoons, unbeknownst to me even! On that count, felt a tad sad as well! But thankfully, the rest remains! and i'm thankful for that! 

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And some in the vernacular, as well! - 

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Artsy thoughts to continue....