A CEREBRAL vibrancy. That’s
the first impression communicated in a conversation with Achuthan Kudallur. His
mind is restless, darting from Rabindranath Tagore to Picasso, delving into the
microcosm of abstract art. His is a ceaseless search for raison d’etre. He adheres to a fundamental honesty, intolerant of
cant. He speaks in muted cadences. Even in anger, he retains an inner quiet.
Born in Kerala in 1945,
Achuthan’s desire for self-expression originally took the shape of Malayalam
short stories. Opting for art in 1972, his self-taught medium has since run the
gamut from landscapes and portraits through blazing abstracts to infinitely
detailed drawings. Change, to him, seems intrinsic to life.
Achuthan’s earlier work
summons up images of nudes that are raw, tantalizing, seething with urgency and
a certain edge of courage. Blazing across outsize canvases, insistent upon
attention, they intermingled poignancy and contemplation equally ~ despite
still seeking footsure colour equations, despite the tentative quality of the
drawing. From 1976 onwards, the imagery took on overtones of melodrama, sifted
rather self-consciously, and shades of surrealism crept in.
But the ache of abstraction
is at the core of Achuthan’s existence today. Shunning geometry, bypassing
naturalistic representations, he has chosen to unravel the secret life of
colours on canvas after canvas, as if caught in an irresistible continuum.
Unlike practitioners of portraiture or figurative art, he compares the very lack of discernible patterns in abstract
art to the strains of Indian classical music, dependent more on tapestries of
sound than on lyrics.
An abstract artist, Achuthan
emphasizes, can execute realistic interpretations with ease, and does not
consider his choice an escape from weak drawing or painting skills. The
evidence? The sheer range of magazine and book jacket illustrations to the
artist’s credit. Why else would Achuthan once try to capture the final moments
of Kazantzakis’ Zorba the Greek, as
the protagonist in the novel looks at the mountains beyond his window, his
nails digging into the ledge, before he breathes his last? But realistic
renditions failed to evoke the emotion he felt.
Though his one-man show at
the local Max Mueller Bhavan in 1977 featured primarily figurative work, he
felt stifled by the monotony of placing a figure or two against balanced
spatial backdrops. Today, intuition guides him through his abstracts. If the
feedback from the canvas proves negative, the artist often abandons his
pursuit. And tries afresh, riddled with the anxieties of charting his course
through the unknown, away from the security of formulaic paintings.
His room, at a lodge in Madras’s bustling
Royapettah area, reflects the man. An array of drawings cascade over the bed,
offering images both private and primordial. Abstracts paintings in vivid oils,
varied in hue and size, vie for space with earlier realistic compositions.
Books on philosophy, literature and art are piled high on a shelf. Some crop up
singly on window-sills and chairs. An abundance of creative talent assails the
eye.
Achuthan’s present job in a
government department allows him a means to his vital other life ~ in the realm
of the paint, brush and canvas. One day, he knows for sure, he will be living
his life in art full time. For that is his dream, his vision, his passion. He has both the will to wait for this dream
to be realized and the willingness to let life unwind to its own tune.
In Achuthan, a critic in Madras noted one who
“enters into calm discussions of serious (pictorial) problems.” So he does,
even in excerpted eloquence:
What drives you to engage with art?
I started sketching at a very
young age. While teaching me the alphabet, my father drew a face and I copied
it. I used to caricature all the people I knew. In my high school days, I
didn’t have any colour sense, actually. My passion was literature. There was
some discussion of literature in our household, and poets were revered.
Naturally, I took to writing.
Perhaps like venom in a
snake, it was somewhere within me, because when I started painting again in my
twenty-seventh year, I found I was being dragged to the medium by its own
power. I think my mood is better suited to painting than to writing because I
can’t plan anything.
(Thoughtfully) Because I can’t be serious about two media at the
same time, I can now say I have settled down to painting. Without art or any
other creative activity, I may even commit suicide. I do not exist.
I am not saying this for
effect. I have been doing this out of dire necessity. Even now, death and sex
bewilder me a lot. So far, I have no answers to certain questions of life. So,
I can even say art is an excuse. It is an escape from these questions.
How would you define a modern artist in
today’s context?
I am against schools and
granting a particular group of artists a particular label. It is the critics
who demand such labels.
One can define a modern
artist as one who searches for his own identity. As the world retina is looking
at you, it’s important to belong to humanity, not to a nationality. I do not
believe in patriotism and all that.
Are there any artists whom you admire in
particular?
I can say I have a great love
for Henri Rousseau, especially for his Sleeping
Gypsy. I think that painting is a very great work. If I grow rich and if I
can afford it, I will buy that work. There are also some very brilliant works
by Paul Klee. And Chagall I like.
Pablo Picasso was a great
disturbance because he touched everything and took it to an extreme, thus
rendering most of his contemporaries derivative.
Rabindranath Tagore’s
paintings came purely from the instinct of a highly sensitive mind. In a way,
he revolutionized existing norms. For years, artists were governed by the rule
of the Golden Section and the principles of harmony. But Tagore’s compositions
stand out in a very different way. He was a not a dandy twiddling with his
brush. I have seen the same freedom in the works of Sailoz Mukherjee.
Ravi Varma was a great
misfortune in Indian art. His contemporaries just sat back and watched the
royal man. He spoilt our concept of gods and goddesses by dressing them up in
Kanjeevaram sarees and pearls.
Do you ever feel indebted to other
artists?
I am terribly indebted. It is
not a direct influence. I must thank all those who took the brush before me.
When I take the brush, they must be turning in their graves. (Shyly) It is a great feeling to think,
when I pull out a line, that the line has been taken by so many of my
ancestors.
How do you feel about art in the social
context? And censorship?
Art has no direct purpose. I
don’t remember any work of art influencing the public. Art is not supposed to.
It gives a brighter light. You start seeing better. But the world can do
without art. You know, in China
and Russia,
you can’t find any modern art.
In fact, we are very
fortunate to have freedom (in India).
So, without being inhibited by anybody’s presence, I can create… (Passionately) I don’t understand why art
is censored when there is uncensored science. No one censors the Theory of
Relativity.
Actually, I’m anxious about
whether I can exist in a changing society. If India veers to the left, and all
abstract, modern work is censored, how much will my work be worth in a
junkyard? I used to think it would be no more significant than a floor-tile
removed from a mansion. I used to cry, thinking of that horror.
Can you justify the system of exhibiting
art?
Fundamentally, I used to
question the gallery-oriented system. It has become a ritual ~ hiring gallery
walls and inviting some people, who are genuinely indifferent to my art. The
critics come and write something. Then, bringing all the works back and turning
them against my walls… For art, this is not required. I might as well paint in
my room and keep quiet.
Yet, after I paint for two or
three years, I exhibit for just five days. It is only for these five days that
the paintings are alive. When I keep them in my room, they are totally dead
even to me because I don’t remember painting them.
Do you have a strong stance on pricing a
work of art and exhibiting to sell?
There is something unethical
about selling. The pricing of a painting pains me. I can put on a price tag. If
somebody buys the painting, I can get money to buy canvas and to meet part of
my expenditure. But I can never impress myself by saying, “This is a good work.
You take it.” Because it is something I have done for my own pleasure. There
are some works I cannot bear to part with. There are others I don’t want to
keep. If I sell these, a question arises ~ if I don’t like them, how can I sell
them to others?
Somebody else may ask, “After
all, it is four annas worth of paper. Why are you selling it for Rs. 400?” I
reply, “It is the first time this is being impressed upon the human retina. For
that alone, the work is worth a huge amount.” But in order to appreciate these
things, one must belong to a visual culture.
How do you feel about the organised art
set-up, especially the Lalit Kala Akademi? Is it a boon to artists?
The Lalit Kala Akademi began
with great intentions, but it has become a degenerate body. It can annihilate
isolated art activities in the country by collective neglect. It has never got
to the grassroots. (Angrily) In a
democracy like India,
even now Mussolini’s children are living in the Akademi set-up. They are
unapproachable. If you write, they will not reply. If you protest, they will
send you a regret letter.
Its annual exhibition in Delhi is a major thing.
Once you exhibit your work there, you are put on an electoral roll for their
general council, exhibition committee, purchasing committee. In such
circumstances, manipulation of the voter’s list gains more importance than the
country’s art.
Personally, I have not
benefited (from the Akademi). You might misinterpret this and say I am talking
out of vendetta. But even if I am given an award, I will always be critical
because, in the end, all academies pollute the set-up.
Why does the public response to art in India tend
towards apathy?
I do not blame the public.
The education system is to be blamed for this. At school, I studied Moghul
history at least five times. Instead, if they had introduced one lesson on art
or artists, it would have been helpful. Here, people talk about plastic heroes
and film stars in daily conversation. No one talks of a painter.
Is art criticism and art writing
relevant to your world?
Personally, no artist is
benefited by criticism. In fact, the critic is a great nuisance, a peeping Tom.
But when he writes well about me, I’m happy about it. (Laughing aloud) It affects my ego. When he writes adversely or
ignores me, I think he is a ridiculous fellow. However, even when he praises
me, I fear he is consecrating a particular approach to my art. I don’t want to
be contained by any canon or dogma.
In the long run, certain
critics have been helpful in creating a movement. And how would we know about
the art being done in other parts of the world without writing on art?
Critics are always talking
about technique. They can only see what is happening on the surface of an
artist’s world. When a man pours out red on his canvas, it may be due to some
personal tragedy. When the land under his feet erodes, something very vital
happens to his art. This is dictated by the very source of his life, not by any
external agency. The critic will never be able to understand the biological
processes behind art.
(Reflectively) A funny thing happened last year. I was planning to
write about my experiences as an artist. I wrote quite a lot. Then, I came
across what Wassily Kandinsky had written on art. I found that 50 years ago, he
had written all that I wanted to say. So, I tore up all I had written.
Do you consider your own work inspired?
Because I didn’t study under
any particular teacher, I think all my works are inspired. I’m very lucky that
I didn’t study anywhere. I have no regard for fine art being taught, and a
degree being awarded for it. Fine art cannot be taught, though that may be
required for other disciplines.
Would you like to talk about your recent
series of symbolic drawings?
It is always a great test,
how to control a thin line. In drawing, you cannot bluff. In painting, you can
always do some patchwork. But a line is a very honest thing. (Intensely) It is something like your
signature. You can’t correct it. You have only the strength of your line to
guide you.
In the meantime, a lot of my
dream images have surfaced. If I render my dreams as drawings, they will be
just illustrations. I have tried to substitute a sense of order through
stylization. If you see five or six scattered images, you immediately want to
form a relationship between them. They form a certain pattern. The rhythm is
always there. As I draw, forms emerge. I love these forms.
When I was young, I used to
dream of a reptile that looked like a hydra. I do not know where these
primordial memories came from. For years, it haunted me. But slowly I refined
it. I trimmed it as a child trims paper patterns. Then, it resembled a reptile
one could love.
What does this abstract phase in your
work mean to you?
In 1977, I was working on a
large canvas. I sketched the main figures. But when I was filling up the blank
spaces with an eye to a beautiful composition, it came to me too easily. There
was no feedback, except a whitewasher’s delight in covering up a surface.
I was at a loss. Then, life
gave me a catharsis. I found myself entering an argument with colour. I
followed my instinct, the need of the hour, pouring out reds and mauves and
blues. I started talking to myself in small, inaudible whispers. That was the
beginning of my abstract phase.
By abstraction, I don’t mean
spoofing reality. (Pausing to think)
The world and semblances are all forgotten. I worshipped at the shrine of
colour. When one goes to the essence of colour, one enters the fringes of
light. I tried to tame this light.
At one stage, I felt a
feedback like a fish nibbling at a bait. You can pull in the cord, the fish and
bait, all intact. But you can never hold the live fish in your hand. Either you
tear its mouth or you set free the fish, the hook and the bait. Such is
abstraction.
The best abstracts are never
painted. They are held in the painter’s vision, casting a spell on all that he
sees. In a painting, abstraction is a great ideal. I repeat myself till I am
tired, like a great tree gone mad with flowers. A tree doesn’t count its
flowers.
When I took to abstraction, I
found that by a juxtaposition of certain colours a new harmony comes to the
canvas. People point out that it doesn’t refer to anything. Then, what is the
norm? In fact, there is no norm in abstraction. Abstraction is but a total
disembodied reality. That is because painting is a very autonomous thing. It
exists for itself. If it comes to a question of what guides me, I reply: my
total visual sense.
But from the moment I took to
colour, like a mighty river entering a gorge, I have felt the fullness of life
within me. If I were asked to stop painting completely, I would sprinkle colour
on a mountain stream and watch it flow.
(Indian Express, Madras/ Chennai, 1980)
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