Diary from Goa
Martin Ålund
Studies on Transformation
It is inevitable to at least consider a postcolonial perspective when, as a privileged white Westerner, I want to visit and study a poor world. And why should I paint, draw, and photograph this world? Observing color and form—does that mean disregarding the social and political perspective, and doesn’t that disregard itself become a political stance? An exoticizing, aestheticizing, reality-avoiding gaze?
But poetry can be subversive. Art can be an act of resistance as well as an opening, a possibility. Could it be an act of resistance to contemplate colors and paint nature, the place? A resistance against an oppressive, violence-embracing madness?
The seemingly meaningless act of studying a number of palm trees and painting them. It yields no direct return, it is essentially unproductive. It is about something entirely different. Beyond or within what we call society, world, and meaning.
Just like this—the privilege of being able to stroll and observe alone. Is the world truly free for everyone to wander around in?
But I also find myself in a child’s situation, with the eyes of a child. I suddenly remember how it was when I started painting. How I discovered the colors around me. I look in amazement and (re)discover the world, the light, and the colors. And in amazement, I see how my hand meets the watercolor and the painting conjures images that seem intertwined with the being in front of me.
So let me talk about painting and the image. The light. What inspired me? What did I discover? Back to photography, but close to the real light. The photograph doesn’t capture the gaze. Not a chance.
Sitting in Goa, surrounded by the light in Goa, I choose to paint from a photo and suddenly understand how I can use the photograph. It becomes apparent how inferior it is to the gaze, and I let the photo be a dry fact bank to choose from. The colors around me lead me right. The colors in the photo lead me wrong.
Think—in the Middle Ages they knew how vision works. What was important was magnified. And surrounded by a meaning-bringing atmosphere. But also field painting. How I choose a place to sit. Take out the painting materials and shut myself out from the world to come even closer to it.
Watercolor is mobile. And at the same time fragile. A kind of control in the body is required. As if I’m dancing. Here, sitting still. The movement of the hand requires such presence. The paintbox can fall. And the color can slip. And the dogs in Goa that come up and growl.
I behave differently. Apparently, I should not sit down. I should just walk by. I’m just a human being, and everything, everything in Goa is dogs’ territory.
So—painting: how I choose to exclude and bring forth parts of reality. The painting seemed to come to me and the outer world took possession of me. I turned my gaze outward.
The watercolors led beyond the obviously visible and made me see what lies behind—what is carried forward. There was another light with new color chords. Chords that I also brought with me from home.
A discovery. The inner light that I had studied for years and painted revealed itself in the outer here in Goa.
But here: perhaps the humidity and heat create a filter that makes the colors so special? Regardless—the color tones lingered for so long. Rolled like echoes over the visible. The colors want to hang on. And nature seemed to be right in front of me. It penetrated into me. One step into the jungle and I disappear. Or do I find home?
Nature asked to be painted. I could do nothing else. As if I was driven to paint by an external force or by entering into nature, the place, and the light.
Watercolor works differently depending on humidity and heat. Different places provide different possibilities. I found a certain delay in how the colors dried. Despite the heat, because of the humidity. I could also wipe off color in a different way. Moistened a sponge and wiped off a surface and repainted. As if yet another layer of reality would be uncovered. Now when I look at the paintings afterward: what a difference it is compared to photographs. The stories become completely different. Articulated, so to speak. And they feel so grounded, so immediate. Yes—I want to paint more. Where will this lead me? I am curious.