Dream Watcher

Mates

Mates - 24x36 Oil on Canvas

The Contrast -II

The Contrast

Passion

Castle

Rise of the Phoenix

Iago -Abstract rendition of charecter from Shakesphere's Othello

Iago: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16 " x 20"

Atlantis - II -Manhattan

Atlantis - II Manhatten: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20"

Innocence

Innocence: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20"

Santorini

Santorini: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20"

Atlantis - I : L'arc de triomphe

Atlantis - I- L'arc de triomphe : Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20"

Black Rain

Black Rain : Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 24" x 30"

The Mind's Eye

The Mind's Eye: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 24" x 30"

The Mind

The Mind: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20".

A famous mathematician of our time, recovering from paranoid –depressive schizophrenia once remarked something along the lines that ‘he was happy to be back to normal, but maybe in being abnormal he found the statement of extraordinary mathematical brilliance.’ And maybe in this ability of the mind to realize the unimaginable lay the greatness of man.

To conjure the infinite, seemingly tangential trains of thought, so that an absolute truth, singular and triumphant will emerge from this chaotic rubble. Surpassing the defines of space and time, free in every sense of existence. Creating the “Real” in a flash of thought, if this is a human mind, then what is God?

The Heart

The Heart: Abstract oil painting on canvas by Khalisthi, 16" x 20"

After numerous failed attempts at trying to write about the dynamics of feeling generated by the emotional function of the heart, I have realized that I am not qualified for such a task. Inorder to write about a thing material object or otherwise, one must be familiar with it, know is attributes, understand its working principle and the end result. I have heard, read and perceived in my interactions, the general notion that, heart and feeling is a name we give to the beautiful illusion that permits us to weakly acknowledge the presence of a want and not be responsible for having to pursue it. It allows us to live under the false premise we are not compelled to act on our wants, that everything is a mirage and that “time will heal it – whatever it is”. It is cozy place where feelings lie tied up in bundles, opening up at some metaphysical encounter with the various forms of human element, numbing all other senses and recoiling in panic like a threatened animal when faced with thought. I feel sad when I see poverty – what will you do about it? I feel happy because I am good – good at what? I love you but I don’t know why!

I am not familiar with this side of my heart, have no clue it exists, and if it did what its purpose might be. This is the kind of heart I know. It is not the subconscious space for floating abstractions of what I wish, but a persistent originator of what I want. Where every wave of want surges towards the shores of fulfillment. Not the final resting place of a sense of achievement and happiness at the end of a pursuit, but the motivator urging me to revel in these emotions at every step I take toward achieving my goal.

Not bound by the shackles of guilt, regret; burdened by convention or forced to accept and submit in defeat. It’s not an aging prison that uses the feeble, crumbing social standards of propriety to restrain soaring flames of every kind of passion, not a rule of the dead that says sorrow and suffering are but inevitable in ones life and one must patiently, willingly suffer inorder to become deserving of happiness. It’s an untiring warrior with a restless spirit, incapable of relenting, unaccepting of defeat, impervious to suffering. Silently challenging anyone refusing it the right to exist. To exist with undying passion for life and freedom.

Not a warm corner filled with pure selfless love, love that needs no explanation, love that’s beyond all logic or reason, love that wants nothing and gives everything away. No…. this heart is hungry beast that thrives on lustful longing, dark pleasures and a fierce need to posses everything, in everyway in what it loves.

The only heart I know is the one that works on the ‘principle of want’. This is a heart that sees no impossibility, acknowledges no motive greater than its own pleasure and this the place where every conscious action begins and ends. This is a heart that thinks!

Art and Me..

Several years ago I read Oscar Wilde’s book, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. It had both, thoroughly mesmerized and faintly scared me. That was 12 years ago, but the familiarity is unmistakable. Every time I see a painting I am reading the Dorian Gray. And it seems like I am trying to unravel the cryptic truth they are challenging me with. People have asked me several times “What is art? Is it reality? Is it an artist’s perception of reality? Or is it just something that cannot be encompassed in words?” I wouldn’t know, and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to say. I chose the canvas when I realized one word beside another could not do justice to the all the feelings and thoughts of the conscious and unconscious mind. Art is all these and more.

It’s not always real, I think. Mostly its want I want to see, sometimes what I don’t want to see and a few other times, what I cannot escape. The bygone moments from the past; the expectations of the future, all wanting to be immortalized. As if it was this desire of theirs to exist forever, gave me the mesmerizing power to create them. Create serene beauty in a violent storm or eternal beauty in a dying flame. Art is beauty. The infinite stretches of sky beckoning me to pour life into its desolate soul, splash it with colors and make it alive. Art is life.

As I stand and watch those lines emerging from an abyss of nothingness, numbing my senses with its own ethereal form, it makes me wonder, ‘am I really creating it? Or does art have a mind of its own?’ The lines are there for that’s how they were meant to be. Taking me to the dizzying heights of artistic ecstasy, where every line is definite, perfect in its place. The reverberating colors hypnotic enough that, even the wildest imagination is a suffocating reality. I could own up all the pain, the unfathomable sorrow, the darkest of pleasures, the purest of joys. They are all mine.

But in a fraction of a moment the emptiness returns. Reality that was there a moment ago is now a floating illusion. Beauty is dissolved in a myriad of meaningless colors, slowly fading away into oblivion. Art, so full of beauty and life; so distant and obscure.

Now I am scared. What are these paintings trying to tell me? Each time it’s a different thing. When I try to reach closer and understand them, the lines blur, I only see colors scattered around me. Where words left a gap in my thoughts, paintings tear away parts of it. Now alone, collecting the scattered pieces of thought, wondering if there will be another chance, I hear these words, I recognize them now and it’s the same thing, what every piece of art I ever saw was screaming. The same words 12 yrs ago I read in Wilde’s book “All art is quite useless”.