April 12, 2003

In Europe and America, and may be in other parts of the civilized world too, there is a breed called Sunday painters. They are amateurs in art and pursuing their regular vocations — either doing jobs or business or shop-keeping — but as Sunday morning dawns the art bug bites them and, picking up their paints and brushes and their easel, they troop out to open country and sit down to paint the whole day. If there are any in Islamabad, the ideal for landscapes, I’ve never come across one.

These amateurs may be good, bad or indifferent as painters; the only thing is they are not professionals. You may be surprised to know that Britain’s great wartime Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, was also a Sunday painter. But he was so good that he made it to the Royal Academy (you can call it Britain’s national art gallery) and has at least two of his works hanging there. Of course Churchill was an extraordinary man, being also a writer and historian of great merit.

We have no Sunday painters in Pakistan. If anyone has the artistic talent, apart from their routine vocation in life, they never let it get the better of their sense of propriety, for they feel that even if they dabble in painting in their spare time, people will laugh at them. I don’t know why people should laugh at them. In fact their worth would increase on merit.

There is a fashionable men’s tailor in Islamabad who is not bothered by what anyone says about him, and he not only paints landscapes after working hours but (get ready for the big surprise) also paints portraits and accepts regular commissions from his clients who were initially introduced to him as his customers as tailor. He is not a proficient portrait painter, but the uninitiated will be satisfied with anything that resembles them.

Some years ago I walked into the premises of a new tailoring establishment here in Islamabad. I asked the proprietor casually about a painter friend of mine who lived in the upstairs flat of this commercial building. (This was Humayun Talat about whom I shall write in detail some day, for in addition to being a fine painter he is also a credible palmist!) The man’s face brightened at the mention of Humayun’s name and he took me into the back where his assistants worked and where a number of paintings were hanging on the walls. “These are mine”, he said proudly, “and Humayun Sahib is my ustaad”.

You could have knocked me down with a feather, as the British proletariat says. Javed (the tailor) copies landscapes for pleasure but paints portraits on commission. He is serious as a painter, even if critics like you and I may not take him seriously. I could imagine him asking a new client, “Have you come to have a suit stitched or your portrait made?”

Don’t ask me what Javed is worth as an artist. He is a good copyist and would make an excellent painter of cinema hoardings, though I wouldn’t ask him to paint my likeness. But when we met some year ago I felt that he would improve with practice, for he had the seed in him. I asked Humayun the other day what was the latest about Javed and he told me he had shifted his shop to G-8 Markaz but was pursuing both his profession and his pastime, though he couldn’t say if many people came to him to have their portraits painted.

The subjects of Javed’s portraits come not from the elite and the cognoscenti but from the well-to-do middle class, although, as a tailor, he caters for the highest in society. You can imagine his success from the fact that, pointing to the portrait of a middle-aged businessman, he told me he was going to charge Rs5,000 from the man. And this was some years ago. His charges must certainly have gone up in this time. In fact he may even be thinking of giving up cutting and stitching!

Looking at the type called Sunday painter, or at the man who follows a permanent vocation far removed from art but paints in his spare time, there is nothing surprising in Javed’s indulgence in portraiture. It is only the fact that he is a tailor in real life that makes the circumstances unusual because you don’t see this sort of thing in Pakistan.

Talent can sprout anywhere. In the ‘50s I was posted in Peshawar. A friend’s father was in the income tax department. One day, on a visit to his father’s office for a cup of tea, my friend introduced an office peon to me as “a very good artist”. On my showing interest, the young man produced a bundle of drawing sheets on which, with an ordinary 4-B pencil he had copied landscapes, the kind that are normally sold in most picture-framing shops. Such paintings are popular with our middle class families who want to have something artistic in their drawing rooms.

The young peon was really good. His draughtsmenship was impeccable, almost flawless, though he had no art in him otherwise, neither did he have that comprehension of art which nowadays is a must for all artists. He had never taken any lessons in drawing, and whatever he produced came from within him. He was born with a talent for drawing but was without the leaven of the intellectual content that marks modern art schooling and training.

There is another field in which sometimes genuine talent is wasted. This is the field of hoardings comprising scenes from Pakistani films that you see displayed outside cinema houses. They are not bad at all so far as realistic and photographic portrayal is concerned. I remember writing on the subject in a newspaper some time ago. God knows how many of those engaged in that craft are potential Sadequains and Shakir Alis and what they could have turned out to be if they had been properly educated and instructed that line.

And now, before I close, let me tell you a personal story. During my second posting in Peshawar in the ‘60s I was tempted to try my hand at painting and decided on oils as the medium. First I bought a book for learners in oil painting, followed by the necessary materials. The result was three canvases — two flower studies and a scene from our drawing room.

Then I stopped, having realized in time that I may dabble in paints as much as I liked but I could never become an artist, not even a Sunday painter. Thank God I had that much sense. The three works hang in my bedroom where only close friends and relations can see them!