Indigo Art
And there I was, waiting for the old Indian lady to go to the exhibition with her. I had had the impulse to phone her and tell her I coulnd’t go anymore more than once, but curiosity had kept me from doing it.
Devi arrived on time. She had told me she had been named after the Hindu goddess who manifests herself as all other goddesses. This appearently useless information would often come to my mind after that moment; I didn’t not know what to do with it then, I just found it another charming thing about her.
So we entered the small but modern building where the exhibit was held. The name of the painter was almost as exhotic as Devi’s: Kinvarra Todepp. We entered the permanent collection room of the museum: colorful sculptures sharply contrasted with the immaculate whiteness of the walls. I’m no art expert, but the names of the sculptors were all unknown to me, I was quite sure I had never heard them before ; this made me think that the place must have been full of local art.
Why had Devi come all the way from India just to see Canadian local art? And why had she insisted I should go with her so much? In spite of all this speculation I was anything but eager to see Kinvarra Todepp’s works.
I was ready to see Saskatchewan’s landscapes but Kinvarra’s paintings were nothing of the sort. Powerful might be the right adjective to define them. Kinvarra had certainly found her own style, her own voice among the noisy world of painter wannabes, and it was a powerful one. There was something in her paintings that made you realise you were in front of the work of a true artist, not in front of somebody who thought of themself as an artist.
The subjects of Kinvarra were extremely varied. Portraits, religious scenes, imaginary landscapes. I would have liked to spend more time in front of each work to try and understand it better, enjoy it, analyse the technique but Devi wanted to meet the painter and asked me to go and look for Kinvarra with her.
It turned out Mrs.Todepp was indeed there at the museum and we were able to identify her. There was nothing unexpected about her: she had brow hair, brown eyes, a nice smile. I have to admit I was a little disappointed. I was hoping to meet an extravagant lady wearing unconventional clothes, you know, someone who would fit the stereotype of the damned and beautiful artist. But Mrs. Todepp was a perfectly normal, boring woman. I soon lost interest in what she was saying about how wonderful the people in charge of the organization of the exhibit had been. As I was letting my sight wonder once more on the amazing paintings hanging on the walls, I heard her say she would call Kinvarra immediately. I turned my head to see her march off the room and come back with a little girl who might have been no more than eight years old. Kinvarra.
