In the ancient premise of myth, existence was eternalized as an artists' metaphysics. 

The Creator's yearning to be simply as mere appearance. The world, justified purely as aesthetic phenomenon

 

Of Time as a becoming, 'as a copy of the primal unity, as the musical mirror of the world,’

- Nietzsche

 

The artist ‘as the Subject of pure will-less knowing. Of a lyrical state, the peculiar nature of song that reveals itself

The content and form of an artistic performance, infinitely beautiful and infinitely tragic,

'replayed eternally through the very being.'

 

 

Amitava's art leaves us with profound impressions. Of the many reflecons in the silent river.

Of its equanimous flow. ''Of The re-echo of the Universalia ante-rem”

 

As music and not time that looks in the mirror, eternally as her-self; as the fragmentaire' that is the world.

Bearing upon the past and upon the here-after in no particular terms.

 

And below as a machine age transpires and engraves its ever-burgeoning imprint upon the ricocheting clockwork,

he stands at its uncertain cusp, 'in a place farther away and freer.’

 

Where the heart born of wholeness must recant its ancient flow, one that goes against the grain and returns to us as a species the lost paradigms of transcendence and its poetic traditions, of traditions of invocation of 'poetic song', where an artist visualizes the unsayable utterances of his lost God, and reads into his silent mind.

 

Making audible through silence the music welling from this other-life, its unmistakable flow, it's unstranslatable order that is behind the blossoming of every silent transcendental metaphor. Of the flowers, the stones and the trees, of the breeze always blowing that wells up against life, as its worthy claimant, and of the place where the creatures of silence and the silent spirits commune but speak no words.

Of the mythical abundance of the spirits that feed our own, where we enact the eternal phenomenon of sleep and re-awakening in our momentariness, while poetic inspiration rises like the fumes of an inexhaustible wine fed upon the mythopoeic power of music.

 

For in our spiritual weathering, in our “intempiere espiritual”, “we search for the present.”

Perhaps to be found in another time that is now

 

-Ripu Daman Dogra