AMITY-UNESCO RESULT
Answer: (Jarawa in Andaman, Lepcha in Sikkim,Jaunsari in Uttarakhand, Kondh in Orissa,
Bodo in Assam, Khasi in Meghalaya, Gond in Madhya Pradesh, Gaddi in Himachal Pradesh,
Rabari in Gujarat, Bhil in Rajasthan)
Italy, 1914
My eyes narrowed as I stepped into the dim attic. How could anyone paint here? If a room reflects its owner’s mind, then Amedeo Modigliani’s mind must’ve been a bleak one. I had been a muse for many artists. Yet none truly painted me, only a figure that looked like me. Over time, I developed a strange sensitivity: I could almost hear the voices hidden inside paintings. Isn’t that why people create art? To express what the world often forgets.
But as I sat before Modigliani, I heard nothing. His brush moved quickly, and his eyes were lost in a trance, but they were too empty for someone who painted emotion. Even his name felt unsettling, Modigliani, so close to maudit, the French word for ‘cursed’. A feeling of unease grew inside me.
In the corner lay an incomplete painting, covered in dust. It showed a pale, blonde woman with a sad expression. The uncoloured irises made the eyes appear hollow, yet they seemed to hold meaning.
Hours passed before he finished my portrait. Light fell on it, but something still felt incomplete. “It’s an impressive piece,” I said, forcing a smile. “But… where are my eyes?” He looked at me, tired and distant. “When I understand your soul,” he said, “I will paint your eyes.”
***
July 24, 1918
Nervously, I walked through the exhibition, searching for my portrait. And there it was ‘Beatrice Hastings, 191’. People paused, but none truly connected with it. Even I felt no story, no emotion…just silence.
A crowd had gathered around another painting beside mine. My heart skipped. The woman’s once-empty almond-shaped eyes were now painted. They seemed alive and glowing, as if they were speaking. I recalled a line by Leonardo da Vinci: “Art is never finished, only abandoned.” Her portrait proved this.
“Who is the muse?” The crowd, curious just as I was, asked. Amidst the murmur, the artist revealed that it was his wife, the woman who grounded him, who gave his life meaning. For years, he had left the painting incomplete because he wanted to know every bit of her, in the minutest of detail. Finally, he felt he had come to know her and understand her. “With true feeling, even distorted art becomes beautiful. Without it, everything falls apart,” Modigliani said.
And in that moment, I understood why my eyes were left unpainted. To him, my soul had not yet spoken. But it also meant that our journey together - as muse and artist - had just begun.
After the blur
Poem
Shambhavi Sharma, AIS PV, XII F
Looking for meaning; there is none
Blithely, expectantly, and deliriously
In swirls of frocks, in shrouded nights
Hiding and laughing in veils I can’t see
Behind words I do not seem to conquer
There’s one painting which isn’t a blur
Prying and prodding till it falls apart
I attempt to inject thoughts into words
Perhaps it’ll show pity, maybe mercy
And surround me like a flock of birds
But hope taunts me, healing undone
As I remain plagued with starvation
The painting was in my hospital room
Strokes of my youth, devoid of pain
I did not comprehend its value then
How strength drenched me like rain
Careless strokes rough at the edges
Now on my horizon unease stretches
For I fell victim to the sands of time
My health drained, suffering reigned
I imagine it jeer at my naivety today
Laughing at how I cornered it once
Until I saw it whole, its true form
And now I must brave the storm.
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