Pablo Picasso once said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” I forged ahead in life believing that.

 

Growing up, art was not something I analysed too deeply; it was something I responded to at a visceral level. My favourites were masters of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist schools like Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, Cezanne and Renoir. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers (all eleven versions of them) had a special place in my heart. When I was posted in Delhi, the dreary winter train rides between Delhi and Chandigarh were brightened by sunflower fields that flashed past the window. The bright, sunny heads nodding wisely, always lifted my spirits. I stored these images and in moments of quiet introspection, they would ‘flash before the inward eye’ offering inspiration.

 

I was also fortunate to come face to face with Van Gogh’s originals at the National Gallery of Modern Art in London. The sunflowers looked fresh, as though the master craftsman had laid the final brushstroke just moments before. What also stood out for me was the realisation that these beautiful works were created by an artist battling severe mental illness. And yet, despite his struggles, there is such optimism, tenderness, and luminosity in his work. More than a hundred years on, these paintings still speak, quietly but powerfully, offering solace and resilience.

 

Art evolves, of course. Picasso fractured form with Cubism, Dalí bent reality through Surrealism, Pollock flung emotion onto canvas. But even as art changed, it still felt anchored in imagination, skill, and emotional resonance, whether it was the melting clocks (The Persistence of Memory) and Christ of St John of the Cross by Dali or Full Fathom Five by Pollock.

 

Yet increasingly, as I have encountered contemporary art in major museums, I have begun to wonder whether art is still meant to wash away the dust of everyday life or whether it has become an exercise in explanation, accessible mainly through labels and curatorial notes.

 

My recent visit to Tate Modern in London strengthened this tentative hypothesis.

 

As I strolled through the gallery, I came across several installations that did not align with my understanding of art as something creative, inspiring, and aesthetically engaging. One such work comprised rocks collected from around the world during the artist’s long walks, arranged in careful circles. The label explained that the installation “bridged the gap between nature and abstract human ideas.” I read the description twice. While I grasped the conceptual premise, I struggled to connect with it as an artistic experience.

 

Another exhibit employed garments and textile forms stretched across canvas. The accompanying label invoked themes of identity, memory, gender, labour, positioning clothing as a means of questioning presence and absence. It was an ambitious conceptual framework, one that would certainly appeal to scholars and theorists. I understood that but I could not engage with it as art. I turned to my husband, who had recently immersed himself in artistic practice, for pointers, but he appeared equally nonplussed.