Last Monday, after a boiling sky discharged a wilderness of electricity, and the tension of traffic drooped into one long aimless scene of hooting horns on the street, I trampled through the early monsoon slush and ducked into the Grandeur Gallery, Karachi. It was rather like sailing into a grotto on the Isle of Serendip. Spread before me was a beguiling display of 42 canvases.

A few of the names were old hat. The rest were straight out of central casting — though, as the famous author would have put it, some were more equal than others.

I was told that the pictures were culled from private collections where the owners wished to remain anonymous. I nodded sagely, trying to give the impression that selling paintings from private collections was quite respectable. After all, who isn’t cash strapped these days, what with the dollar costing a hundred rupees, and prices rising by the week?

Each of the paintings had at some time or other been temporarily latched onto the walls of an art gallery, hotel lobby or museum. However, I had never before come across many of the canvases that were exhibited, and so for me they were new. There were a few hoary old chestnuts that I could recognise anywhere. Like the representational work of Shakil Siddiqui, the quintessential Pakistani realist, who excels in pictorial minutiae and detail. Though he has had an occasional crack at nudes, most of his work focuses on objects inside a room — tables, chairs, an open window, a pair of worn jeans, a folded newspaper and a crushed can.

The soft, ever-so-delicate yet precise stroke play of Hajra Mansur, was very much in evidence. There was also a Mansur Aye who became obsessed with Chinsey eyes and who at times was utterly predictable and predictably utter. And the warm exuberance of Wahab Jaffer who is never dull and produces compositions that generate their own energy. I spotted a Rs130,000 Maqsood Ali which I thought was a little pricey.

It would have been nice to review the work of all the artists that were represented, but shortage of space inhibited this. From the point of view of sales Abrar Ahmad and Hajra Mansur were the most successful. There were many other painters, some of whom certainly merit special mention. I rather liked Mehtab Ali’s voluptuous dancing girl in shades of turquoise, which is very modestly priced.

The composition of a horse by Asif, meticulously stitched together with thousands of infinitely small strokes, is a remarkable offering and well worth the price. It looked a little out of place in the midst of all that female flesh, but a discerning buyer like the Turkish consul general would probably pick it up if he sees it. I am a little wary of seeing women with pigeons and therefore gave Zakir’s composition a wide berth.

Then there was the nude of Mashkoor Raza, kneeling on a block of stone and done in sepia. What an artist! What incredible talent! Discovering his picture was pure serendipity. His painting was stunning and ethereal without being the slightest bit vulgar. And, finally, the desert landscape of Sajjad, where a mud coloured fort looks down on a clutch of camels and camel drivers, the kind of landscape that would have warmed the heart of Sir Charles Napier.