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  • Pradip Chakraborty

Swaying The Mind Within A Mind


Citylights



Nowadays, as the pandemic has made us independent and we have enabled our senses to adjust to newer environments, the chances of unnecessary meeting people, mandatory appearance making and condensing conversation have gotten pretty slim. It is the need of the hour that we start crafting our own world with our unique imaginative intelligence. At the onset, I should confess, my geographical sense is not so keen and I am not a touch worried about it, since my handcrafted world has nothing to do with those boundary demarcation, lines of control, or the politically contrived outlines for each country for that matter. I don't seek the compassion of the self-selected moral entrepreneurs in appraising my intuition of state and its people. I have developed my own singular way to do it. Yeah, amidst the throbbing political tension, economic doldrums, and unprecedented loss of human lives, I've intently hoped against hope to effectively carve out a road to my niche, a space that offers me an exposure to excavate my own soul, yet remain contented within.


Asymptote



I am much more inclined in the expeditions into the unfamiliar and the unseen than reiterating the familiar appearance of life on earth. My nerves get tremendously stimulated at the prospect of human's wonderful capacity to create imaginary worlds. The power of art is strongest when the creative impulse works untrammelled, and that occurs only when we shape fleeting visions into concrete forms and pursue wild thoughts until we can capture and master them. Hence, I prefer to abandon the conventional plan of existence for private adventures and thus rise to an inspiring glory. I aim at bringing to a fuller consciousness of my own powers, and feel an indomitable urge to exert the imaginative forces in fashioning new worlds of the mind. Any act of creation performed by the imagination is divine, since the imagination is nothing less than God as He operates in the human soul.


Moonwalk



Like the English Romantics, I believe, the imagination stands in some essential relation to truth and reality. At this point, I won't be a tad flummoxed if some witty cove comes up to me and squarely lambasts all my convictions with his cutting-edge empirical reasoning which infers that the creations of the imagination are mere fantasies and as such, divorced from actual life and label me an escapist or a lunatic. In that case, I'd love to throw some Shakespeare at him as a rebuttal with a pinch of my signature sneering,

"But all the story of the night told over,

More witnesseth than fancy's images,

And grows to something of great constancy,

But, however, strange and admirable."

-Hippolyta in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'


Unmindful



In fact, I want to argue further that imagination reveals an important kind of truth, as in, when it is at work, it sees things to which the ordinary intelligence is blind and that it is intimately connected with a special insight or perception or intuition. So long as the imagination works in this way, it cannot fairly be accused of being an escape from life or being no more than an agreeable relaxation. My task is to find the fine balance of truth in precisely observing, using imaginative faculty in modifying the objects observed and especially to spread the tone, the atmosphere and with it the depth and height of the ideal world around forms, incidents and situations, "of which, for the common view, custom had bedimmed all the lustre, had dried up the sparkle of the dew drops."


Two Sisters



I wish to penetrate into an abiding reality, to explore its mysteries, and by this to understand more clearly what life means and what it is worth. Moreover, we cannot negate the fact that it's quite a gruelling task to live an authentic life when we live in a world that seems to focus on outward appearance, when we live in a time where everything moves so fast, and life is too noisy and complicated. As an artist, my job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the vagueness, pretence and affectation of our anaemic existence.



Adore la beauté

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