THERE
COMES A time in the life of each man when he must stand up and be counted. When
he must pit his convictions against his priorities and check their current
fusion. When he must stand shoulder to shoulder with his peers and assess their
once and forever dreams. When he must break out of the mould of comfort and
take a shy at destiny.
To
Balan Nambiar ~ sculptor, enamel artist, painter, photographer and researcher
into ritual performing arts of the Indian west coast ~ that time is now.
Or
else, why would Bangalore’s
best-known contemporary sculptor stride beyond the distinctive, often
monumental, works that are his hallmark, to comment on the national state of
mind today? Why would he explore the realms of science in a sculpted statement
at one of the city’s premier scientific institutions? And, through an
installation in New Delhi,
why would he juxtapose the past and the present in a turbulent continuum that
begs an answer?
Because,
to Balan, 1995 has so far been a year of re-assessment, of seeking his roots
anew, of re-aligning what he is and what he wants to be. In defining the artist
as an individual, as much as a social being.
For
in his life, rooted deeply in the Kannapuram soil that he tilled till the age
of 18 in Kerala, myth and make-believe coalesce in the magical act of creation.
Whether in a career strewn with more than 120 sculptures in metal,
cement and stone that are over six feel tall, or paintings rich with geometric
and Tantric symbols. Or in the iridescent enamels in which colours play in a
crucible of ideas through wondrous vitreous hues fused onto copper plates. Or
in more than 9,000 slides and 150 hours of recorded music of 28 folk performing
art forms, over 70 per cent never documented before.
Balan’s
creative spark was fanned when, as a shy young lad, he secretly opted for art
lessons in lieu of the shorthand course his uncle as guardian had approved of.
Later, he briefly taught art at a village high school. Soon, a stint as a draughtsman
in the Indian Railways took him to Madras (now Chennai), where K C S Paniker,
then principal of the Government College of Arts and Crafts, took a keen
interest in his paintings, which had bagged prizes at exhibitions. It was
Paniker who gave him the courage to give up his secure job for the muse.
Braving fate, Balan entered the second year at the college directly at 27. And
art became the leitmotif of his life, thus recognised by the Lalit Kala
Akademi’s National Award in 1981.
Candid
and charismatic in conversation, Balan harks back constantly to his rites of
passage and the atavistic lode that enriches him, resulting in a senior
fellowship of the Ministry of Education, followed by a Nehru fellowship from
1983 to 1985 to research ritual performing arts. Of the experience, he wrote in
a recent issue of the India International Centre quarterly, “I have been
wandering all over South Kanara and Kerala during the last 20 years ~ the 1960s
and 1970s ~ attending all-night festivals of yakshagana, bhuta, teyyam,
tira, mutiyettu, kaliyuttu, kathakali, kutiyattam and other performances
without a notebook or camera in my hand… At that time, many of my creative
works, both paintings and sculpture, were often influenced by the motifs of the
ritual arts. Once in 1976, I was narrating my experiences to a gathering of
writers, which included eminent Malayalam writer and thinker M Govindan and
Prof. G Sankara Pillai, when I was persuaded to record my experiences…” The
result? Two articles in a book on Teyyam
by the Kerala Sangitha Nataka
Academy.
Drawing a mask |
Since
then, he has shared his research through periodicals like Marg, Geo, Namaskar, Sudha, Deccan Herald, Dharma
Yug and Gente Viaggi, among
others, besides chapters in books in German, Italian and English. He often
disseminates folk colours through slide-based lectures.
Balan,
who came to Bangalore from Madras in 1971, nurtured aesthetics through
an art club he conducted for seven years. His first one-man show of paintings
was at Trivandrum in 1966, while his first solo show of garden sculptures was
at the Hotel Ashoka in Bangalore in 1975 ~ the latter proved to be a landmark
in his career
As
for enamelling, it was a skill he mastered at the Padova studio of his
father-in-law, Paolo de Poli, considered the 20th century’s greatest
Italian enamel artist. Of enamelling Balan, ever the cerebral debater, says,
“Perhaps I have rarely exhibited my oil and acrylic paintings since the
mid-1980s because, in enamels, I found an alternate means of expression through
colours. Enamelling is a combination of a glass-manufacturer’s technology, the
precision of a clock-maker, an artisan’s skill and an artist’s creativity. When
you apply colour to a metal plate and put it in a kiln at a certain
temperature, you can hear your own heart beat. Until it is brought out in a
near molten stage, there is a terrible anxiety…”
Both
the terrors and the triumphs of the artistic life are familiar to him. Whether
as a practitioner, a traveller through the art museums of Europe or, as a
member of the purchasing committee of the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA)
in New Delhi.
“I
feel that the cactus, a recurring motif in my work, strongly reflects my
personality,” 58-year-old Balan says
with intensity. “Its life is almost my autobiography. It is a plant that
thrives or asserts its right to exist in an uncongenial atmosphere. Throughout
my life, I’ve faced this kind of an atmosphere.”
In a
recorded conversation sparked by his work this year, Balan traverses the inner
spaces of his life as a sculptor, delves into the science of art, and evaluates
the national art scene. Excerpts from the interview:
Why does
sculpture play a special role in your creative life?
(Smiling) Sculpture has always been
something distinctly personal because one creates with one’s own ten fingers.
It is very personal for a sculptor to conceive an idea and give it shape with
his fingers.
Even
as a child, before I could write alphabets, I’d make clay toys and exchange
them with my playmates for gooseberries or ripe mangoes. At school, I was good
at drawing and mathematics. During my first year at college, I had to work in
sculpture class for a week each month. It was so easy, so natural to me, to
sculpt. I chose subjects related to my childhood experiences.
The
very first clay sculpture I made was converted into concrete. It soon reached a
point when none of my sculptures were illustrative in the common sense. They
didn’t deal with a story or narrative.
How did your
life as a sculptor progress from these first steps?
Every
medium has its limitations and possibilities. It is easy to make a cantilever
form in metal, not so easy in clay. For granite sculpture, one needs an
extremely solid base. Understanding how to handle these different media is
important for any creative person. For a sculptor, his mastery in manipulating
material is important.
You
see, there are two types of sculptures. In relief sculptures, the frontal view
is from one side. But a three-dimensional work should be installed in such a
way that spectators can see it from all around. I think a good sculpture should
lead the eye by its line, contours and compositional values.
I’ve
worked on both site-specific and subject-specific commissioned sculptures. Whether working on works suited to a
landscaped space or architectural ambience, or dealing with a subject a sponsor
wants, I’ve been fortunate enough to have the final say in each case.
I
first began with clay, which is an excellent medium. But these works are
difficult to exhibit unless turned into terracotta or converted into a mould,
from which it can be cast in cement or, as is usually done, in plaster of
Paris. At college, I converted five or
six large clay works into concrete. A sculpture I did during my second year is
now in the Madras
Government Museum
complex. While a student, I had an opportunity to experiment at the metallurgy
department of the local Indian Institute of Technology for five months, welding
sculptures from scrap metal with help from their technicians.
I’m
familiar with traditional bronze casting as practiced in Swamimalai, as well as
at the foundries of Italy. My free-standing bronzes, not more than a
metre high, are all three-dimensional. Sixteen of them were done at the Foundry
Bonvicini in Italy,
where Dali, Miro, Manzu and Matta cast their work. One goes through an amazing experience while
bronze-casting. First, the wax sculpture is drained out by heating, creating a
cavity to be filled with molten metal. Until the bronze is poured in, there’s a
vacuum within me that’s like a pang.
At
the outset in Bangalore,
a watch factory asked me to do a sculpture with time as the symbol. I did a
steel piece 9 feet high, which had 60 per cent scrap metal and 40 per cent
metal plates and rods bought from the open market, which I cut to required sizes
after getting some portions shaped by the lathe. From 1973 to 1975, it was a
fantastic experience. I did nearly 30 sculptures between 1.8 to 6 metres high.
That’s when I had my exhibition of 24 garden sculptures, the smallest of which
was taller than six feet ~ that’s my height. I sold twelve of those works
during the exhibition. Five of those
sculptures were eventually acquired by the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi.
While
travelling in Europe in 1977, a German plant
offered me a commission to try glass-fibre reinforced cement (GRC) ~ which was
then at an experimental stage ~ for a sculpture. It is seven times stronger
than traditional cement. It was so easy and quick for me that, from a single
sculpture, they extended the facilities so I could do six. One of my GRC works
was a 2.5 metre high Valampiri Shankha, which is a rare conch with a clockwise
spiral (normal conches spiral anti-clockwise).
In
that cold January in Germany,
I was totally immersed in my sculpture. Almost in a trance, I chanted the Devimahatmya stotra while I worked on a
3.5 metre sculpture of the mother goddess as depicted in Teyyam! These works
are at various locations in Germany.
I’ve
so far done over 100 sculptures in metal, cement and stone that are taller than
me. My two largest works in steel are 6 metres tall.
Mirror Idol of Mother Goddess |
Are there any
symbolic keys that open the doors to your work?
I
come from a farmer’s family in Kerala. The growth of a rice plant, the sowing
of paddy, the sprouting of seeds, the first blades of grass, have always
fascinated me. I’ve used the growth of a rice plant as a symbol often because,
in a farmer’s life, the planting of rice is a ritualistic activity. That
experience is very close to me.
Besides,
like the cactus, I’ve asserted my rights in the art field, within the present
socio-political situation, in my dealings with bureaucracy or other
organisations. The cactus motif often recurs in my creative life.
I
also use the symbols of cosmic forms. Solar spectrums. The flames. The sun and
the lotus. Then, hyperbolic-parabolic forms, symbols from geometrical
principles, often based on Vedic altars. I’ve always been fond of
iconographical and architectonic motifs. I am not a mathematician, but I am
fond of mathematics; I am not a musician or a performer, but I am fond of music
and the performing arts. These subjects inspire me.
Poetry in Architecture |
Could you share
more about your three major works in 1995?
I
believe a modern sculpture should be a balanced composition, and should convey
its meaning without explanation, even without a title.
This
year, I’ve done two solid, free-standing sculptures and one installation. First, I was asked to do a work at a given
space at the new Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for Advanced Scientific Research (JNC)
in Bangalore.
They didn’t give me a subject, but hinted at a link to science, which I regard
highly. I used mathematical principles to incorporate elements like diagrams,
energy, the bindu, all analysed from
the point of view of a Tantric. Besides, I used the concept of leverage. Remember,
Galileo said it was possible to lift even the earth with a lever and a fulcrum?
I had
just a month for the sculpture, so I depended on machines at a granite factory,
where the owner kindly offered the material partly as a gift to JNC. Each of
the pieces in five colours of polished granite had to be of transportable size
~ some were 800 kg. in weight, one sphere was two feet in diameter, polished to
a glass finish. I had to conceptualize the composition clearly in my mind, as I
couldn’t group it in advance but had to assemble it on the spot. Some pieces
were embedded in the wall, while the remainder are free-standing. It was
satisfying that it worked in the end.
Soon
after, I attended an international artists’ workshop on ‘Art and Nature’ at the
Max Mueller Bhavan, New Delhi.
I asked the director if I could work on a subject that had been haunting me for
long. (With conviction) For The monument to the Assassinated, I
chose an incident from our puranas where
Vali (Bali) of Kishkinda became the first forest
king to be assassinated in our cultural history. Perhaps the treaty between his
half-brother Sugriva and Dasarathi was the first politically motivated one of
ancient times.
There
are hundreds of shrines in northern Kerala dedicated to Vali, who is deified
and worshipped as a Teyyam. Besides, the question Vali asked of the assassin,
hiding behind seven sal trees, has still not been properly answered: “In the
name of what dharma have you tried to
justify killing me?”
I’m
quite familiar with this episode from the Adhyatma
Ramayana, the Ram Charit Manas,
the Valmiki Ramayana and the Kamba Ramayana. I used the tree motif ~
not common at all ~ to arrive at an appropriate composition. I just recreated
the myth in a modern sculptural form to comment on our present socio-political
scene.
I
chose to work in Kota
stone, a natural material of the limestone family. I personally went to the
quarry of the Associated Stone Industries at Kota to manually help the workers to excavate
the stone slabs. I finally used slabs 2.5 metres high for the trees, held by an
armature of steel on a base of granite jelly. The completed work is 5.6 metres
long and 1.8 metres wide, made up of 21 pieces of Kota stone, with footprints representing the
assassin and a smashed boulder the assassinated.
Others
at the workshop were busy at the Buddha
Jayanti Park
in Delhi, where
I chose to do an installation, The
Resurrection of Janaki. It is about how Sita was related to Mother
Earth. She was found in a furrow by King
Janaka, while ploughing. Though brought up as a princess, she faced humiliation
and hardship throughout, until she returned to the womb of the earth she was
born of.
I
wasn’t allowed to plough the field to resurrect Janaki as Janaka, so I had to
forego the ‘happening’ of creating art. Instead, I made a groove 18 feet long,
two to three feet deep, using an isolated tree as part of my composition, with
a boulder-edged, oval-shaped boundary as a symbol of the womb. By it were seven
stone slabs on which small pebbles were placed to represent the saptamatrikas ~ Brahmi, Vaishnavi,
Maheshwari, Indrani, Koumari, Vairahi and Chamundi ~ to witness the possible
resurrection of Janaki.
I was
trying to raise another question through sculpture. How would women today
respond to such a situation? What role would Janaki play if she were
resurrected amidst the present generation? How would they react to Janaki’s
husband? Would they vote for him?
'Taking Off', in mild steel, 3.5 metres high, 1975 |
What does it
mean to you as an individual to be a sculptor?
(Passionately) I’m jealous of writers. You
never sell your original work. You have no big investment on raw material, no
storage or transport problem. You don’t need a large working space. Sculptors
really have a problem with all these. But what is most disturbing is that when
I sell a work, it is like parting with a portion of me.
During
an artist’s camp at the SAARC conference in Bangalore in 1986, I made a simple
architectonic form in pieces of granite, Memorial
to a Monument. The works, co-sponsored by the South Zone Cultural Centre,
were left at the local Chitrakala Parishad, where they were done. God knows
where that work is now. It’s probably been discarded or destroyed. (With anguish) A pity! I feel as a parent
would when their child is kidnapped or lost.
When
there’s only one original, it’s very disturbing to part with it. Besides, to do
monumental sculpture, one needs patronage, the right opportunity and an
appropriate location to install it in. That’s a real problem.
Monumental
sculptures, once completed, become the property of society. They no longer
remain the private property of the sculptor, unlike jewellery or small
sculptures.
(His brow creases) In 1975, the Emergency
was numbing. I wasn’t able to do anything creative, nor comment on the
situation through my work. I remember discussing the experience with writers
like Gopalakrishna Adiga and M Govindan. They reacted similarly. I felt the
same after the disturbing events of December 1992. One of my major works is a
response to that incident.
(Softly) My creative works definitely are
more expressive than my vocabulary. So, I feel I should react to recent
happenings in India
and the world through my work.
I’d
like to sell my work to an accessible place where, if I need to see it again, I
should be able to. And it should be with
an institution that will protect it. My sculptures are not well looked after at
the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA). Nor are the ones acquired by the
Corporation of Bangalore. Even if a connoisseur at a decision-making level
acquires it, his successors often treat it with indifference. It’s a pity
there’s no law in India
to protect works of art in public spaces.
Have there been
any major influences on your sculpture? And your life?
There’s
no shying away from the fact that in college I was much influenced by Kanayi
Kunhiraman, who’s my contemporary in age, though my senior at college. I’ve gone my own separate way since. I’d consider him and Sarbari Roy Chowdhury
the best among living Indian sculptors today.
Kunhiraman’s thinking is uninfluenced by any predecessor. He can do
realistic, as well as highly symbolic, compositions ~ of any size or dimension.
He’s totally dedicated and principled; he’d rather not do any work than
compromise.
(Wistfully) The late M Govindan guided me
through discussions we shared, often at my residence in the 1970s. He had an
amazing capacity to identify talent in creative youngsters, including artists,
filmmakers, writers and theatre people.
Though my
acquaintance with Kamaladevi Chattopadhyaya was limited, the occasions when I
interacted with her were unforgettable. Her concern for artisans and folk
performers was overwhelming.
Dr. Kapila
Vatsyayan, the great scholar, encouraged me in my creative efforts and research
pursuits ever since I met her in the 1960s. She is an exceptional individual,
who is familiar with almost every creative person and scholar in the world of
humanities.
Stainless steel sculpture for Timken, 6.2 metres high, 2004 |
Are there basic
inter-relationships between your work?
Most
of my paintings and enamels have a quality of sculpture. The surety of my drawing
and the form of solidity are evident in both.
Some seem like a painting of a sculpture. I’ve tried to avoid this
quality because a painting should be a painting, but there’s nothing wrong if
it also shows a sculptural quality. After all, I’m a sculptor.
In my
enamels, I’m very conscious about colour. I think of all the coloured media
used in creative work, enamel is the most durable. Its colour is
permanent. (Pausing) But in an enamel sculpture, I’m able to combine both
colour and form. Recently, I’ve done three-dimensional enamels and relief work,
which is closer to sculpture than painting.
What do you
think of the current state of Indian art today?
I
think Indian art has its own strength, like the subject matter and technical
proficiency. We’ve excellent teachers in some institutions. Our work is on par
with other countries, though perhaps the percentage at a high standard is more
limited than in Europe, where trend-setting
works are often meant to shock. (Quizzically)
Like the blowing up of a newly constructed bridge at the Kassel Documenta. Or
exhibiting a mentally retarded girl at the Venice Biennale, which was
eventually withdrawn.
But
during the three meetings I attended as a member of the NGMA purchasing
committee in 1995, I found 80 per cent of the work submitted was derivative.
After all, only some works will stand the filtering of time. Of those making
waves now, many may not last in art history beyond a generation. Not more than five per cent of those who
emerge from art institutions make a mark at a national level after, say, 20
years.
How would you
like to shape the future?
I visualise doing
a series of works combining materials such as granite and marble, stainless
steel, brass and copper, probably incorporating enamel in one composition. This is possible only if I find a sponsor.
I’d
like to explore the sculptural element in architecture. To me, the great temple
architecture of India
is a work of environmental sculpture.
(Reflectively) I’d like to do at least one
work which will occupy over a hectare of land, and ultimately build up a huge
sculptural complex. You could enter the sculpture at one point and come out of
it at another. But in the end, it should be one unified composition, made of
coloured granite and different metals. That is my dream.
Wonderful interview! The pictures compliment the text beautifully. Please caption the sculpture in the park -- it's mindblowing.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Asha! Just did that. That image was from a show of open-air sculptures at Hotel Ashoka. The sculpture is now with a private foundation in Bangalore.
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