My parents wanted me to soak up culture and the arts right up from a young age, so they had enrolled me at a local art school, way back in '02. It was run by Tinku da, a resident of the housing campus where I spend most of my childhood. It was (and still is) called "Chitrankan". I still remember the very first day, my mom had packed crayons, a couple of pencils, an eraser, a sharpener, and a big art book. I was always the hyper-active kid, and I raced to Tinku Da's house. The first day, I was taught to draw basic shapes, and to identify the different colours on the crayon set.
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| Courtsey: Stock Photo |
As the course advanced, I learnt the different types of colours, my motor skills were honed, and the different effects brought upon by the varied use of different materials. At this point of time, I actually hated the course. Because it felt silly to sit for 3 hours and contemplate, design, draw, and colour pictures. We had theory classes too, where we had to analyze the multivariable styles of different artists, famous, infamous and not-so-famous paintings. Personally, I would have been happier to spend that time playing football (Sometimes I did). I drew like shit, coloured like shit, and was always the impatient kid. Somehow the calm and quiet environment felt outlandish; this wasn't the playground, it felt like I was held back at a place surround with painting and psuedo-intellect (I was horribly wrong).
