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Back to jealousy

“Such talent at such a young age.” Indeed, I did concur. I watched the paintings close up, from afar, then up close again, moving methodically from one to the next. And I was suffused with approbation for the work this man “at such a young age” could produce.

Yet the admiration belied a much more terrible and sinister sentiment, one that ate up what my eyes took in and digested it, churning and churning in never-ending envy.

His name was Anil Bridgelal. He was 29 years old, and on his nth solo exhibition at The Gallery at Fine Art on Tuesday. He was handsome, affable and buff, and fitted better than I ever could in the exact pair of jeans I almost bought a week ago were it not for my buddy’s warning, “they make your legs look skinny.”

It was a good show: by the end of the night most artwork had red dots below their frames. I liked the pieces, but also found flaws. The colour was too whimsical, the tree branches arched too wildly…

Yet the more flaws I found, the more I found I liked the pieces, which made me hate them even more.

Although it wasn’t really “them” I hated, or even him.

Dreadful retrospection

The close of every year is a thrice difficult time for me. I suffer through my birthday, Christmas and New Year’s (and we all know what happened to me last New Year’s—you, me, the Arrive Alive crew and a host of policemen).

Dealing with the stress of the season (is it just me or are there suddenly 100,000 more cars on the road?), the outrageous spending, the subsequent debt, it’s all enough already than having also to deal with getting older, looking back and dreading to look forward on a birthday and a New Year’s.

“He has a lot of potential,” I overheard a woman say, “that’s why I say buy them up now because in a few years, the price will go sky high!”

At one time, I used to say that I thrived on competition; it challenged me, made me exceed my boundaries. But On Campus readers would recall my experiences with Dara and Zara and the concomitant decline of the A and rise of the B.

Surrounding myself with people successful and proficient in various provinces has been, in part, a purposeful move. I am a firm believer that, save for the most doughty among us, our environment makes us who we are. We can’t help but be influenced by the people closest to us, so I choose to be encircled by people whose lives and examples I can strive to emulate. They pose challenges to me to be better—a nicer/principled/ethical person, more intelligent, more goal-oriented and, well, better looking.

But therein lies the quick. One sometimes cannot help but to develop a psychosis of inferiority and inadequacy when surrounded by people who are more intelligent, who are wealthier, who are better looking, who have more friends, who have more ambition, who are more talented, who are, simply, better—in some way or another.

I gulped my third glass of red wine, glancing at Anil being celebrated by his “fans” through the corner of my eye. He was all smiling humbly and speaking softly. What a bitch.

After 26 years, what have I accomplished? What a falling off.

I went for a fresh glass.

Time passes

Virginia Woolf writes that when time passes, everything around us changes, grows, disintegrates, but we inherently remain the same. Why is that?

It truly is a blow to the ego and ambition when one looks back and sees how time has passed and how much more could have been done and was supposed to have been accomplished.

It’s a terrible, sickening feeling. It reminds me of a line from the Oscar-winning American Beauty: “You’re ugly, and you’re boring—and you know it.”

It’s no wonder people usually refuse to do such introspection and retrospection. It’s one of man’s most deep-seated beliefs—that we are worthy and good enough—so when faced with a reality or perception that says otherwise, it shakes us to the core.

Sharon, the curator, made the rounds with dizzying rapidity. She smacked red dots on the walls, one for here, one for over there…

I couldn’t help but notice it, just as I can’t help but notice where I fall short. And therein, perhaps, lies my problem.

I was talking to a friend from the UK the other day, and we realised that we both cogitate over our shortcomings more than the average Joe: that we’re ever so cognisant of our flaws and handicaps—consumed by them when presented with a friend or acquaintance or lover who has everything we want and need—so as even to prevent us from taking a step to get there.

And in this land, today, of so much wealth and prosperity and successes and development, it really can’t be a unique feeling of mine.

I stood dumbly in front of a painting called Caura Valley. Anil said it was his favourite. It was beautiful, whimsical, mysterious, engaging.

I tried to feel happy for him. I really tried.