The Tremble in the Soul of an Idealist - Limited Edition of 25 Print

The following, written on the day of the work's completion itself, in October 2014: 'I decided, after reading through Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road for the fiftieth time in two days, that I just had to start making bigger works again- begin working upon my own ideas and not just go on doing studies. And this experiment of mine- to complete a picture in a day- entirely from imagination, with the condition that it had to be at least somewhat realistic, showed to me how far I am still in that respect. It is like my mind has transformed into that of a painter, but my hands have not. Figure drawing in particular, when I draw purely from imagination, added with the complex compositional ideas that I come up with, I am utterly unable to handle with the degree of realism that I should want. The laws of perspective too- my intuition has not yet become able enough in them. The work is in watercolour, and style-wise, may look like that of a child, of a child who has a great and noble idea but is too impatient to work towards expressing it as best as he can. But, of course, only practice is how he can improve. The circling prisoners in the high-hanging birdcage over the vast mustard field, and the officers and businessmen on the side, are after Van Gogh's Prisoners' Round (which itself was after Gustave Doré's Newgate Exercise Yard). Here, I have tried to express the terrible inner conflict- the birth pangs- going on- absent at one moment, roaring the next- inside the mind of a person with high ideals; who having collected enough courage, is at the brink of breaking free and pledging allegiance to the truth, but pauses to reconsider. The great works of art he has seen, the great books and poems he has read, the great philosophies of universal love he has thought through, all seem to be saying to him, 'Come with us, do not be afraid. What we say, has been tried and tested by us, have faith. Jump. Stake everything on your values, take the plunge. You will not fall, we will catch you. Wings will erupt out of your sides and you will soar, high, high in the sky. We have spoken honestly, from the depths of our hearts! Have the strength to open your eyes; let the unimaginable glory you have hidden from yourself all this while flood them. This is how we all really ought to live.' But just then, when he's about to jump, 'escape' from his prison of lies and hypocrisy and thoughtlessness, he is struck by doubt again. Familiar faces, and his own stale, over-employed thoughts begin to vex him. 'Practical', 'real'- these words annoy him when they come out of another person's mouth; because he knows what he will be reminded of. That he may fall. That he may fail. 'Granted that  life is meaningless here, and according to you, false and dull', he is told, ' at least, every one here believes it to be as it is, and considers himself fortunate to have so much comfort and convenience all around him'. 'What will you gain by going against everyone? Nothing. You will lose. You are deluded. Do you not want to be loved and respected by us? Like the rest of us? Why would you ever want to leave all that humanity has achieved- the heights to which we have risen in all these centuries? Do not be a fool! Look at how well your friends and family have done. Come back to your senses! Step back before you injure yourself.' Still, the man waits- he cannot retreat now, he has so often been lead astray with such arguments- and tries to reorient himself. There are vast fields, fresh cool air, loving creatures full of life that await him, that call out to him. Yet, it is difficult to remain calm among all the discouraging chatter of the living but dead machine people behind him, bleating, one behind another, to the bang of a gunshot or the ruffle of banknotes. He cannot stay with them any longer; he would have liked to help them directly, but he has realised, that only by example can he make them understand. He must not get scared he says to says to himself. 'There is much to be learnt; and I admit, I may be wrong, but I am willing to take all responsibility. And I have thought carefully, my decision is not based on a whim. Really, there is no other way now.', he says to himself. The man might wait a little longer, but he has made up his mind. It is his own decision; he will jump.' The original not being on sale, high quality giclée prints are available on archival 310 GSM Hahnemühle paper, 1:1; printed using archival inks, these prints will last one a lifetime. Though, really, it does not make much sense in limiting the number of editions of a digital print, as I also indeed wish to control what aspects of quality I can (by way of supervising printing myself, and thereby being excluded from being able to sell open edition on Saatchi), I have decided to limit them to 25. As regards the costing rationale: having attempted selling my prints, previously, at their cost prices themselves, and having left the evaluation of my labour upon my customers to decide- and consequently, not having been able to make ends meet, I have decided, for the first time, to set a fixed profit for myself, in keeping with current practice. Wishing to remain entirely honest however, I must add that it costs me ₹475 per square foot to have the print printed, and ₹100 to have the original scanned, besides which packaging can be accounted for by adding another ₹1000. Entirely unable myself to set a price upon my work, I have chosen what I've seen on Saatchi itself being set for other similarly sized prints (choosing to remain still on the more reasonable side of things). It is for me, really, I must admit, an experiment, this.