"….reality has never been in painting, but only in the mind of the spectator."
-- Antoni Tapies
Some people believe all biographies are works of fiction whereas all novels are autobiographies. Yet, writers and readers as well as publishers and librarians categorise them separately.
There have been books in which the author blends both genres to produce a unique piece of literature. One example is Jose Saramago’s novel The Year of Death of Ricardo Reis, in which the Portuguese Noble Laureate fabricates the last years of Ricardo Reis -- a fictional name adopted by Fernando Pessoa to compose his poetry (he had two other pseudonyms, Alberto Caeiro and Alvaro de Campos).
Interestingly, in this captivating novel, the fictional character appears as real, while the poet who lived and created this persona is described to be an imaginary being.
In Urdu, perhaps, the most impressive book written in this form is Gardish-e-Rang-e-Chaman -- the autobiographical novel of Quratulain Hyder. Here, the author traces her ancestors but her way of delineating the past becomes a boundary between the actual and the fictional. This reminds one of various visual artists’ claims that no matter how realistically you render the outside world, ultimately it turns into a work of abstraction.
Now we have a painter’s life treated this way. Sheen Farrukh has reconstructed the life and times of Ali Imam in the form of a novel. Madaar is a work of fiction, subtitled as ‘Ali Imam’s biography’. But the book exists on various levels -- extending to the history of Pakistani art, art criticism in Urdu, and a research book (there are 41 entries in the section of bibliography at the end).
More than anything else, the book is a serious contribution to writing on art in Urdu (in fact, writing on art in Urdu can be considered as a form of public art!). Our discourse on art revolves around English which sets in place a system of power that, like other spheres of our society, segregates classes. In this scenario, someone who writes on art in Urdu either employs a flowery diction or turns too simplistic and banal. At times, it seems the author has translated the text into Urdu from English.
Many writers including the great Urdu writer Mohammad Khalid Akhtar and celebrated Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami have been accused of ‘thinking’ their works in English. Critics forget that writers like them add to the power, potential and potency of a language, preparing it to tackle new concepts.
Farrukh has taken up a difficult task in Madaar, since the subject of art is not widely picked or preferred by our authors, except the lone crusader -- the late Shafi Aqeel who tirelessly transcribed our art history in Urdu. Apart from readability, the most impressive aspect of Farrukh’s book is the way she uses Urdu as a natural medium to express her ideas and observation. It reminds one of Asif Farrukhi’s Urdu translation of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Compared to the English version, Farrukhi’s Urdu rendering, with its heavy tone of Hindi, appears like the original text, because of the harmony between language and protagonist’s location.
In a similar sense, the diction of Sheen Farukh seems natural because it deals with the artists of Pakistan who may have written and read in English, but mostly spoke Urdu. Thus their story in the mother tongue of Pakistani art sounds more convincing and real. Even though the passages on art history, from Renaissance to Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism and Expressionism, somehow look alien and odd, one admires them because Farrukh has attempted a new format of creative writing in which different types of realities are blended with imaginary elements.
The novel is split into two sections. The first section begins with Ali Imam’s childhood in undivided India, an account of his father being a forest officer (his second marriage) and the first love of Ali Imam with a girl in Mumbai. In a sophisticated way, the author fabricates the story of Imam who is lonely and lost but is passionate about art, having spent time with his elder brother Yusuf Raza (father of another famous painter Nahid Raza). The family history does not stop here; it includes the name of S. H. Raza, the elder brother of Ali Imam who, unlike his relatives, decides against migrating to Pakistan and stays an Indian.
Yet, Imam is fond of Raza and travels to meet him in France after the breakup of his first marriage to an English woman in London. The first part of book is constructed in such a way that even if one knows about Imam, reading his early years in Pakistan, his involvement with politics, his trouble on being a member of Communist Party, his teaching career in Nathiagali and Bahawalpur appear as if they are chapters of a novel about a great revolutionary character.
This mixture of intimacy, idealism and authenticity makes the story of Ali Imam a strong narrative and he emerges out of the pages of book, with his charming smile, immaculate dress sense, ever-present pipe and active mind --speaking and sharing his thoughts with great passion.
People who had the good fortune of meeting Ali Imam -- a leading personality of Pakistani art who contributed through his art, teaching, gallery, writing, lectures and friendships -- can sense his second coming in the book.
The second part of the novel focuses on the artists of Imam’s time. It provides a rare occasion to read decent and insightful prose about the artists of Pakistan. At the same time, the patchwork of various artists’ descriptions somehow betrays a need to mention everyone who was around Ali Imam. Thus one gets to know intimate accounts of A. J. Shemza, Ahmed Pervaiz, Tassaduq Suhail, Bashir Mirza, Sadequain and others.
If, in the first section of the book, the figure of Ali Imam is composed of real and imaginary elements, in the second the author makes an appearance as Ain Ali, the journalist friend of all these artists. Her interaction with these painters is honest, loving and lively. One cannot decide whether the book is a biography, novel, history or a collection of anecdotes till the last page but it is simply unputdownable. Much like Ali Imam who was difficult to categorise but one enjoyed his company.