May 03, 2008

                       Text and photos by Noor Jehan Mecklai

There was joy in the atmosphere at Wajid Mirza’s recent exhibition in his Mandviwallah Chambers, Talpur Road studio, Karachi. Mind you, to get to the point from where this ecstasy was emanating, some of us had to prove our own exuberance and suppleness of both mind and body, by crossing the railway tracks and ducking under the huge couplings between the carriages of a goods train, since the crossing was closed that day. Others more conversant with flyovers and such like at the end of M.T. Khan Road, entered in a more conventional manner.

Mirza, now in late middle age, was born in the Kingdom of Oudh, and came with his parents to Pakistan at the age of 10. He is completely self-taught as an artist though he has of course read widely on the art of painting and on the lives and work of great artists. His greatest inspiration comes from Vincent Van Gogh, though with great reverence he says, “No one can really imitate him. I would not dare even to try and copy any of his works. The work that I admire most by this great master is his Sunflowers series. Apropos of this I have done my own sunflowers, but it is not at all similar to his”. He is continually saddened by the bitter fate of this artist, who took his own life in despair at seeing his work languish unappreciated; only one of his 2002 pieces being sold in his lifetime.

So how did Mirza set foot on the colourful road of inspiration that he now follows? He loved to paint as a youngster, but thought he had no talent. Then about 40 years ago while on holiday, he felt inclined to capture the beauty of a certain mountain, then of a passing village girl in the north of Pakistan, with whatever makeshift equipment he could lay hands on. Then followed years of artistic drought, till finally, one day in 1998 his wife said to him, “Please start painting again, it will give you peace of mind.” So he painted a tulip with enthusiasm and keeps it in his room as a reminder of the beginning of his long journey.

He struggled with this and that form for over three years, moving through still life to abstract, from abstract to contemporary abstract and so on, having by now given successful private showings in London, Houston and Toronto.

He has given up expensive, imported paints, and now uses a Chinese acrylic range, along with local brushes. ‘Be Pakistani, buy Pakistani’, is his attitude towards his beloved brushes. When asked how he begins a new painting, he said, “Sometimes the idea comes and I start. Sometimes I just sit down and start, and it all comes to me. It may take two or three days to finish a painting, or I may work on it for a week or so and find it’s a failure. It depends on my mood. If I’m happy, the result is likely to be good.” If he’s depressed, then forget it. It has to be thrown on the scrap heap.

Moving into his gallery, one was at first transfixed by his ‘Evergreen forest’, which along with his ‘Blue forest’, is strongly reminiscent of the work of the 20th century Japanese master painter, Kaii Higashiyama, in its dreamlike softness, though slightly more realistic than Higashiyama’s blue tree-bamboo forests, and painted closer up. Mirza’s blending of various greens, in his ‘Evergreen forest’, the foreground a little darker, and behind this the suggestion of sunlight filtering through the forest canopy, is delightful.

Likewise, his ‘Green flowers’, captured in semi-abstract form, using a combination of bold and delicate brush strokes, illustrates his deep love of nature, with a suggestion of the forest wilderness in the background, and of pale sunlight highlighting parts of the flowers all of which makes one stop and gaze.

Seeing also his landscapes, with considerable depth of field, one of them showing excellent contrast of light and shade, and sunlight threatening to break through from the cloudy sky, I asked if he had spent a lot of time observing nature first-hand. “Yes”, he answered. “One cannot really compose such things without a point of reference. I used to travel a lot in India in rural areas with my wife, and in Pakistan naturally I’ve seen the views of nature in Murree and such places”.

Elsewhere amongst his 36 paintings on show that day, his colours could be described as joyous, as in his sunflower rendition, and in his ‘Jungle flowers’ where in abstract one sees luscious red blossoms surrounded by riotous though abstract jungle growth, stimulated by the movement of the breeze. In contrast, his ‘Wild red roses’ features rich and dark colours, the blooms themselves executed in such a way as to suggest hands cupped in supplication, waiting for the blessings of Allah to descend into them. Mind you, Mirza is quick to remind one that much of the viewer’s interpretation of a work of art depends upon what is in his own subconscious mind.

Interesting monochromatic studies include his ‘Pigeons’, ‘Windy sky’ and ‘Climate change’. His pigeons, executed with a dry brush technique, are alone on their canvasses, apart from textured foregrounds and backdrops, and Mirza explained that having seen them many times at mosques, where white is their support, this seemed the correct way to render them. He is impressed by the alertness of these birds, and gave me a ‘lecturette’ concerning their radar brains, their erstwhile careers as wartime messengers, and the uncanny navigation instinct of both these and migratory birds.

By contrast, ‘Windy sky’ is full of wild movement, with what could be the eye of a storm prominently displayed among the vigorously-moving clouds, the latter done with bold brush strokes tapering off into the delicate wisps of cloud that nature produces in this and in other moods.

Suddenly he led me to another spot in the gallery, challenging me with, “Now, what do you see in this painting? “Death”, I answered, seeing an eerie atmosphere of black and red merging gradually with the mysterious dull blue of the upper portion, where a rough circle of light appeares. “You know how people who’ve had near death experiences report seeing the light at the end of the tunnel through which they travel. Well, that’s what I see”. “Great!” he rejoined. “You’re very near the mark. Actually I intended to convey an eerie night with a frightening feeling of a possible  approaching event”.

  Having moved back to the dark colours, one couldn’t pass by the subtle brushmanship of ‘Allah’, with its delicately mottled background and bold lines in green, highlighted here and there by yellow.

Well, there was exuberance in our parting, too, just before I ducked under the train couplings again, as Mirza suddenly presented me with a gorgeous portrayal of spring flowers in blue and white. He hopes some day to have a permanent gallery in Toronto, but meanwhile, let’s look forward to his next show amid the charming rusticity of Talpur road.





Top: Allah

Top left: Jungle flowers

Left: Green flowers