She had been to Amsterdam, Ira was saying as she ambled along the river with Anmol. She had seen The Girl with a Pearl Earring and The Milkmaid. She had been to Paris and had gorged on Water Lilies. She had also traveled to Madrid. Unfortunately, it was a Monday and the Sorolla was shut. She had also been to The Borghese Gallery and Vatican Museums. But now that she had taken ill, traipsing about all over the world was not possible.
“I, too, have been to Paris, but it was only a flying visit to see a childhood friend who was sick. I’ve also been to Tate Modern although I couldn’t spend a lot of time there,” Anmol reminisced. “I’m glad I have not seen as much as you, because it only makes me hopelessly discontented with my own work, it makes me acutely judgmental of my own creations.”
“Well, we can’t all be Van Goghs and Picassos, Monets and Michelangelos,” Ira told Anmol in a matter-of-fact way. “And obviously everyone can’t be Ira,” she chuckled disdainfully, haughtily.
“I would paint, nevertheless, because if I didn’t I’d die,” Anmol tossed off his insecurities into the river. “Some of my days pass in a torpor, but every once in a while, I am enraptured by something and there is a feeling of unbridled enthusiasm, fulfilment and joy. I am awed by something greater than myself. It is in these moments in life that I find inspiration. Somewhere between self-doubt and confidence, somewhere beyond that crazy internal monologue, I am given these moments that help me get on the other side.”
“Well, I am my own muse. My own source of creative inspiration. The other day I’d painted a woman carrying a basket of golden apricots, pyramids of cherries and grapes, and a ripe russet split open. No sooner did I finish my masterpiece than a few birds flew down and greedily pecked at it. I could have given Caravaggio a run for his money,” Ira tooted her own horn more than once.
“Well, weren’t the birds intimidated by the woman carrying the basket?” Anmol couldn’t resist taking a dig at her.
“I, too, have been to Paris, but it was only a flying visit to see a childhood friend who was sick. I’ve also been to Tate Modern although I couldn’t spend a lot of time there,” Anmol reminisced. “I’m glad I have not seen as much as you, because it only makes me hopelessly discontented with my own work, it makes me acutely judgmental of my own creations.”
“Well, we can’t all be Van Goghs and Picassos, Monets and Michelangelos,” Ira told Anmol in a matter-of-fact way. “And obviously everyone can’t be Ira,” she chuckled disdainfully, haughtily.
“I would paint, nevertheless, because if I didn’t I’d die,” Anmol tossed off his insecurities into the river. “Some of my days pass in a torpor, but every once in a while, I am enraptured by something and there is a feeling of unbridled enthusiasm, fulfilment and joy. I am awed by something greater than myself. It is in these moments in life that I find inspiration. Somewhere between self-doubt and confidence, somewhere beyond that crazy internal monologue, I am given these moments that help me get on the other side.”
“Well, I am my own muse. My own source of creative inspiration. The other day I’d painted a woman carrying a basket of golden apricots, pyramids of cherries and grapes, and a ripe russet split open. No sooner did I finish my masterpiece than a few birds flew down and greedily pecked at it. I could have given Caravaggio a run for his money,” Ira tooted her own horn more than once.
“Well, weren’t the birds intimidated by the woman carrying the basket?” Anmol couldn’t resist taking a dig at her.
