Society: Puritanism v/s the Puranas

(This piece was written in 2003, when a disturbing incident took place during a brilliant show of photography in Bangalore)

She stands tall and proud, 10 arms raised in battle-readiness. Despite her benign expression, each hand holds a weapon as she towers over the demon Mahishasura whom she has vanquished. Her graceful form is made of pliant clay - the goddess-in-evolution grows, then acquires drapes of silk or innovative materials.

Such scenes are common in the crowded bylanes of Kumartulli in Kolkata, where local artisans create thousands of 'protimas' (images) of the mother goddess for the annual Durga Puja, an intense, weeklong, socio-cultural celebration that transcends religion or community.

The scene is replicated at dozens of venues in Chennai, Bangalore or Hyderabad, where the Bengali community congregates to celebrate the festival to the resounding beat of the dhaak (drum), the fragrance of incense at the evening arati (puja), and the crisp rustle of handloom saris.

Images of the goddess and the rituals surrounding Durga Puja are etched on the nation's collective psyche. And over time, hundreds of photographers have documented the making of the Kumartulli images. And yet, when "The Greenroom of the Goddess" - a black-and-white photo-essay on the theme by Kolkata-based photographer, publisher, and theatre person Naveen Kishore - opened at an upmarket lifestyle store in Bangalore recently, it was forced to close within a week.

What happened? Reliable sources reveal that a dozen well-dressed men who visited the show objected to the "inadequately draped" depiction of the goddess as "offensive" to their religious sensibilities. They demanded that 15 of Kishore's 29 frames be withdrawn, effectively bringing the show to a close.

The store, which had earlier exhibited Kishore's photographs on another theme, had also displayed outstanding photographic essays by Ketaki Sheth, Dayanita Singh and Pallon Daruwala.

What does this radical reaction portend? Does it spell a throwback to the 1996 storming of the Husain-Doshi Gufa in Ahmedabad, sparked by a 20-year old rendition of Saraswati in the nude, during which 16 of the 26 M F Husain originals were burnt? Or the continuing saga of rightist morality being superimposed on contemporary Indian culture - a morality glimpsed more often in Mumbai and New Delhi than in the Indian south?

"What I feel is numbness, in the way you can hear silence in a vacuum. I feel resignation and sadness. Extreme exhaustion," says Kishore, a self-confessed amateur photographer, the spirit behind Seagull Books, known for its quality publishing.

As a photographer, Kishore sees possibilities through a camera lens: "Of fragments, of moments, of whimsies, of memories that images trigger in me on a daily basis. That's all." Of the artisan's clothing casually draped over the image. Of idols stockpiled by the riverside, recycled by urban urchins, or the debris from the immersion. Just visuals triggered when novelist Amit Chaudhuri was exploring the idea of an essay on the transformation of Kolkata during the Pujas, a few years ago.

How do creative people respond to these private intrusions into public spaces? Noted writer-activist Mahasweta Devi reacts spontaneously: "It's all part of what the establishment is trying to do. I think we should resist fundamentalism in every form."

Referring to her recent candidature for the position of President of the Sahitya Akademi, the feisty Mahasweta Devi adds, "Do you know what canards were being spread in this context? That the Akademi is being taken over by the Marxists, the communists, the leftists! I think there should be all-India protests about every infringement of our basic freedom."

Husain, amidst his 'Theorama' series that depicts nine religions and humanity at large, veers vehemently in another direction: "This has nothing to do with religious sentiments. It's all petty politics. These elements want attention. We should ignore them, just as history will."

What of others who use photography as an artistic tool? Says Bangalore-based Pushpamala N, "It's the first time this has happened in Bangalore. I think the intention behind this completely irrational act is to create an atmosphere of fear in which fundamentalism can grow. After all, it's just a year to the elections."

Seagull Theatre Quarterly's editor Anjum Katyal, who has lived in Kolkata for many years, has another view. "Immorality is an imported, perhaps Victorian, notion. Culturally, we've been traditionally very comfortable with nudity/nakedness. These images have been created in the same way for over a century, with an armature fleshed out, covered with paint and cloth. Don't these elements, who are basically ignorant of our religious practices, realize that the image is not a goddess until a puja (prayer) invests it with divine powers?"

How does Bangalore-based Balan Nambiar, a National Award winning artist and researcher into ritual performing arts of the Indian west coast, enter the ongoing debate? "Throughout history," he says, "Chola and Pallava bronzes of goddesses used for worship were depicted bare-breasted, never with a covered torso. And 'abhishekams' (worship) were conducted on these figures."

Balan adds, "In Indian mythology, even the goddess Saraswati was always depicted with her breasts bare." Saraswati symbolises learning, literature and music.

Is Puritanism, then, replacing the wisdom of our Puranas? Has Indian society lost sight of the creative latitude it once embraced, including self-portraiture through nudes that generated wide-scale public debate? Have we daubed messy fingerprints on the lens of our times?

Even as the debate over such censorship "not by the law" rages, we have a few choices. To stand up and protest. To turn away and ignore those who espouse the right of might, whether political or pecuniary. Or to form coalitions of conscience to safeguard the freedom of expression invested in each Indian individual by the Constitution.

Aren't these the fundamental norms on which Indian art thrived for centuries? Will our self-appointed moral brigade take time off to study our rich cultural ancestry? How will history gauge us in retrospect? Whether as artists, photographers, viewers or those engaged in the commerce of art, our time starts now. 

Photography: Tasveer ~ Collecting fragments of captive time

Abhishek Poddar at Tasveer

(Written in 2006)

DOES the Indian market recognise photography as an art form? The opening of Tasveer ~ a four-city gallery dedicated to photography ~ takes a wide-angle look at future prospects.

Launched in October 2006, Tasveer links Mumbai, New Delhi, Kolkata and Bangalore through a network of gallerists committed to showcasing the work of contemporary Indian photographers. Its mission statement is clear: “To encourage the buying and selling of photographs, of tasveers, as collector’s items, as art, as fragments of ‘captive’ time, of memory. To be cherished. Shared with others. Revisited ~ both privately and publicly, again and again.”

This ambitious venture opens against the backdrop of an Indian contemporary art market that often sweeps media headlines. Such as when the Swarup Group bought 125 of M.F. Husain’s work for Rs. 100 crore in 2004. Or when Tyeb Mehta’s ‘Gesture’ sold for Rs. 31 million at a December 2005 Osian’s auction in Mumbai.

In the international market, photography has long been part of the art mainstream. For instance, French master Henri Cartier-Bresson’s 11 x 14 in. prints sell for over $12,500. Prices for LIFE magazine stalwart Alfred Eisenstaedt’s signed prints are sky-high, while Andreas Feininger’s ‘Route 66’ prints have shot up from $10,000 to 35,000 within two years. A Margaret Bourke-White print could touch $21,000. A rare Ansel Adams ‘Moonrise’ print sold for $609,600 in October 2006.

Where does Tasveer fit into this overview? Its opening season from October 2006 to July 2007 has six photographers in focus: Raghu Rai, Shahid Datawala, Ryan Paul Lobo, Fawzan Husain, Saibal Das and Annu Mathew. While some of their work has been celebrated as photojournalism, is the market ready for prints in limited editions of between seven and 15, priced from Rs. 15,000 to 1 lakh, within a form where replication is the norm?

Bangalore-based Abhishek Poddar, art collector and co-initiator of the 1999-launched Cinnamon lifestyle store, is one of the brains behind Tasveer. The store, challenging traditional galleries, exhibited photography by Ketaki Sheth,  Navroze Contractor, Dayanita Singh and Naveen Kishore, though these expositions did not pan out commercially.  

Cues to Poddar’s passion for photography crop up throughout his stunning office space. His walls share images by Dayanita, Ketaki, T.S. Nagarajan, and Pamela Singh. En route to his personal workspace, you come across celebrated Canadian Yousuf Karsh’s unforgettable portraits of Winston Churchill, Nehru, Ernest Hemingway, even cellist Pablo Casals.  

What do each of the gallerists bring to Tasveer? Poddar took to collecting photography seriously about four years ago when, entranced by Dayanita’s work, he sponsored a project she was keen on. Later, when Poddar bought one of her prints, she exclaimed, “You’re the first Indian who’s ever bought my work.”  He adds, “I actually became unpopular in art circles at that time because I began taking down paintings in my house, putting up photographs instead.”

While co-gallerists Vivek and Shalini Gupta of New Delhi are dedicated collectors, Kolkata-based Kishore of the Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre has been a brilliant photographer for over 35 years. In Mumbai, Matthieu Foss and Ader Gandi will expand Tasveer’s reach through displays at the National Centre for the Performing Arts.

Signals from abroad show that Indian photography may be on a roll. Dayanita’s images have been exhibited in New York, Prabuddha Das Gupta’s in Italy, Bharat Sikka’s in Paris.

Poddar muses, “There’s some amazing work happening in India. So, I felt it’s time somebody started showing photography seriously.”

Kishore seconds that over email, “We started Tasveer with the instinct, even the hope, that this is the time to begin showing these images. The market will gradually respond. People will need to see much more over a sustained period of time before deciding that this too is ‘buyable.’ It will be a slow process, but one we are committed to. I’d say: give it ten years.”

Can Tasveer be a viable commercial proposition? Perhaps. Considering that the opening shows of  Rai’s ‘Rocks, Clouds and Nudes’ at Bangalore and New Delhi sold over 22 prints, while Datawala’s dramatic black-and-white photographs of old cinema halls seething with cultural resonances have already found 20-plus buyers in Mumbai.

More drama waits in the wings: US-based Annu Mathew’s explorations of the Indian ‘other,’ Saibal Das’s ‘Circus Life,’ Fawzan Husain’s tongue-in-cheek Bollywood, and Ryan Paul Lobo’s individualistic wedding images.

What’s Tasveer’s USP? Impeccable gallery presentations. Large-format catalogues, each with an in-depth artist interview. Dialogues with the photographer. Intelligence on how to care for vintage prints, investment potential, the import of an edition. Perhaps future engagements with images from the Lala Deen Dayal era or the Lafayette studio, even extending to video works or photographs with challenging  interventions.

Poddar explains, “Traditional art has become crazily unaffordable today. Perhaps people might shift their gaze to photography, another form of art. The best of Indian photography is still very affordable, compared to overseas prices. What we’re showing differs from the usual street urchins or village India or the Banaras ghats.”

He adds, “According to Forbes and Fortune, the photography market has recently gained more ground than the traditional arts.”

What criteria should guide a collector of this long-undervalued art? “You should buy it because you can’t live without it. Aesthetic appreciation is the only criterion I’d advocate,” Poddar says. “We’re looking at people coming for every show, buying an odd picture every now and then. As a community, this needs to grow, instead of having just five big buyers for photography.”

Within a larger framework, Tasveer promises in-depth documention and a digital archive through its galleries and future website. It also aims to help individuals, museums and corporate bodies to invest in photography and build up collections.

Will Tasveer’s act of faith redefine Indian photography by making it commercially viable for practitioners? Will it lead to a collective opening of the Indian eye? Will this gentle zoom lead to a market boom? No instamatic answers can possibly suffice.

(Tasveer can be reached at: Mumbai - 93249-16509)/ New Delhi - 26830629/ Kolkata 24556942/ Bangalore – 22128190)

(The Week, 2006)

Photography: Kanu Gandhi ~ the Mahatma as his muse

Gandhiji at a newly-installed phone kiosk at Sewagram Ashram in 1939

(This article was written in 2005)


HISTORY, whether political or artistic, often hinges upon coincidences. Perhaps the December 1992 meeting in Rajkot between Hyderabad-born, London-based artist Saleem Arif Quadri and Abha Gandhi, one of the Mahatma's "living walking sticks", was one such.

Without it, the world would have remained in the dark about the work of her husband Kanu Gandhi. The Mahatma's grandnephew and disciple, Kanu Gandhi, photographically documented the latter's life from 1938 to 1946.



What came out of the encounter? "Abha ben showed me a few photographic albums, enough to convince me that she held a private archive of treasures which deserved a wider audience," recalls Quadri in a recent fax conversation about his first glimpse of about 450 original negatives and 700 prints, including some on which time had already taken its toll. "She expressed delight at my idea of promoting an exhibition of Kanu bhai's works. From that moment, we became inspired by a common cause."

A photographer himself, Quadri stresses, "I happened to be the only Indian-born person involved in the project. As I was born in India soon after Independence, the subject moved me. I was stunned by the artistic and technical quality of the work. My eye, mind and heart interconnected with this sense of history, our history. I felt Kanu Gandhi was a sensitive, poetic, perceptive and natural person. His photographs were simply one man's vision of the main characters who dominated the Free India Movement and ultimately changed the course of history."

With Rabindranath Tagore at Santiniketan, 1940

For, in these frames, first mounted as an exhibition titled "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" at the Leicester County Council Museums from July 29 to October 1, 1995, the intimate is rendered infinite. Of the seven UK-based venues the show has touched to date, the most recent was in October-December 2002, when the public-funded Apna Arts organisation displayed it at Nottingham's Galleries of Justice. "This exhibition is still available free of charge on loan. That's apart from administrative costs like transport and insurance," states Quadri.

Funded by grants to the tune of £30,000 by the British taxpayer, including the Arts Council of England, initiated and curated by Quadri, what moments do we share through the 100 selected visuals, restored laboriously from fragile negatives, then printed over 18 months by London-based master printer Danny Chow?


Among other scenes, we watch Mahatma Gandhi and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru in deep conversation at Bhangi Niwas, New Delhi, in 1946. Or Gandhi studying leprosy germs through a microscope at Sevagram Ashram in 1939. Or the father of the nation at a newly-installed Sevagram telephone kiosk that year. Or the Mahatma with Rabindranath Tagore during a visit to Shantiniketan in 1940. Or the iconic freedom fighter raising funds with outstretched hands during a train journey. Or a rare scene of Kasturba Gandhi tenderly washing her husband's feet. Or the initiator of non-violence at Sevagram, tending to Archarya Parchure Shastri, a Sanskrit scholar who was afflicted with leprosy.

How did Kanu Gandhi (1917-1986) have access to these insider scenes? The grandson of the Mahatma's brother, this son of Narandas and Jamuna Gandhi, was just two when they settled at the Sabarmati Ashram. At 15, he was jailed for participating in the non-cooperation movement. Though he dreamt of life as a doctor, it was not to be. Instead Kanubhai joined Gandhiji's personal staff at Vardha, supervising typing, accounts and even correspondence till 1948.

It was Shivaji Bhave, the brother of Bhoodan leader Acharya Vinoba Bhave, who inspired the self-taught Kanubhai to take his initial photographs of the Mahatma, with a Rolleiflex camera and film rolls sponsored by Ghanshyam Birla. Occasional images were provided to newspapers for a fee. Kanubhai's images shot into the limelight when Amritlal Gandhi (of "Vandemataram" fame) paid him Rs. 100 for a photograph of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. From then on, Amritlal sent Kanubhai Rs. 100 monthly for his photography, whether or not he sent him images in return.

With Kanu and Abha Gandhi/ Photographer unknown

"Mahatma Gandhi granted him permission and access to be photographed on condition that he did not have to pose, the photographs would be taken by natural light, and further they would not be financed by him or the Indian independence movement," writes Quadri in his introduction to the Apna Arts show.

A further string of coincidences ensured that "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" saw the light of print. In 1993, when Quadri met Deirdre Figueiredo, Cultural Development Officer at Leicestershire Museums, she was as enthused of the idea as he was. They both travelled back to Rajkot in December 1994 for a week of intense consultations with Abha Gandhi, selecting images, interviewing her, sharing details of Kanu bhai's life.

Gopal Gandhi, the Mahatma's grandson, who happened to be posted in London then as director of the Nehru Centre, was in constant touch with Abha ben over this privately facilitated exhibition. He even visited the Leicester show.

As a follow-up, Abha ben granted Quadri written permission in January 1995 to duplicate Kanu bhai's originals in order to give the images a wider global reach. For it was their dream that the exhibition should tour India, free of cost, sharing the everyday life of an extraordinary person.


L. M. Singhvi, Indian High Commissioner in London, wrote in the Leicester exhibition catalogue in April 1996, "Through a fugitive light and in one elusive second, Kanu captured many of Gandhiji's personal and public moments. Had he lived in a different time or on another continent, he would have been regarded as an action photographer par excellence, but then he would not have had Gandhi for his subject!"

"It can truly be said that what Mahadev Desai and Pyarelal did to immortalise Gandhi through their memoirs and biographical writings, Kanu Gandhi did through his camera. He can appropriately be described as not just a photographer, but a photo-biographer of Gandhi," stresses Singhvi.

Kanu bhai once even made a three-hour movie of Gandhiji. Unfortunately, this was damaged in Bombay, according to a note that Abha ben sent Quadri.

Looking through a microscope at Sewagram Ashram, 1939

Away at Noakhali when the Mahatma was assassinated in Delhi on January 30, 1948, Kanu bhai seldom took photographs from that day onwards, feeling deeply lost without his original inspiration. Instead, he and Abha ben travelled across India, spreading the Gandhian doctrine. In 1986, Kanu bhai died of a heart attack on February 20, while on a pilgrimage in Madhya Pradesh.


Abha ben, who had seldom shared Kanubhai's photographic treasures with those beyond the family before the fortuitous meeting with Quadri, unfortunately did not live to see "Kanu Gandhi's Mahatma" open at Leicester. She died earlier in July 1995.

In an interview with Quadri in December 1994, she described the bond between the Mahatma, Kanu bhai and herself thus: "We were like three bodies but one soul."

Perhaps these historic memories, so brilliantly communicated through Kanu bhai's camera, are a legacy for all Indians. But when will we get to share these visuals on home soil? When we do, it would be Abha ben's dream come true.

(The Hindu Sunday Magazine, 2005)

Photography: The Lafayette studio

The Lafayette Studio and Princely India

 Russell Harris

Lustre Press/ Roli Books

2005, p.96, hardcover, price not stated. 

PRINCELY India must seem almost a mirage to today's photographic sharpshooters. Who were these men and women in gorgeous finery? Can a palace ever feel like a home?

Photographs and paintings offer a peek into their elegant world. A world of mind-blowing gems and outré expeditions. Of unusual allegiances and dynastic politics. Of international polo chakkars and shikar in the wilderness.


It is against this backdrop that the work of the Lafayette Studio on London's Bond Street proves riveting. James Stevenson of the Victoria & Albert Museum, where the archive is currently stored, notes in his foreword, "What makes this archive interesting for photographers is that it is entirely composed of photographic negatives. Very few contemporary prints made by the Lafayette Studio remain in existence today, so the vision of these portraits can only be achieved from modern prints. This means that the interpretation of the photograph is also dependent on the present-day printer."

Reconstructed from black and white glass plate negatives, the results are brilliant. On these pages, we make the acquaintance of an unusual assemblage of luminaries of the British Empire, each a subject at the studio of James Stack Lauder (a.k.a. Jacques Lafayette).

How did the studio enhance their luminosity? What did the lens capture for posterity? We are dazzled by the exotic regalia in which Indian rulers impressed the British court. We check out the plaster Corinthian columns and art deco nudes that appeared as props for these sittings. We are stunned by the exquisite turban jewels donned by royals from Nawanagar and Baroda, Bhopal and Pudukotta.

Among the most dramatic of these portraits is a 1902 one of Maharani Siniti Devi of Cooch Behar (1864-1932). Her perfectly coiffed hair and gentle smile are offset by an elaborate, French-designed white gown, enhanced by gold embroidery in an Empire wreath design. Juxtaposed opposite it is a 1921 shot, her beauty unruffled, her finery modified 10 years after her husband's demise.


Russell Harris — who researched this archive in depth — shares surprising nuggets of insight. The Lafayette Studio in its home city, Dublin, was so renowned that Leopold Bloom in James Joyce's Ulysses (1922) kept one of their carte photographs close to his heart! He further reveals how the studio's highly skilled lady retouchers earned upto 400 pounds sterling annually in 1895! For they not only tidied up stray hair and waistlines, but are credited with skimming 20 years off the visages of select society ladies.

Lafayette was not known for photographic innovation. Instead, its winning formula wooed its ultra-conservative clientele. As is evident in an 1899 image of the stunning daughters of Duleep Singh, the last Maharaja of Patiala. And the gallant Thakur Hari Singh, an aide to the Jodhpur regent, frozen in an 1897 stance. And an empathetic portrait of Bhopal Singh Bahadur of Udaipur, wheelchair-bound by illness.

The recent rediscovery of the Lafayette Studio was dramatic. In 1968, a foreman rummaging in a dusty Fleet Street attic pending redecoration stumbled upon images of Queen Victoria and Lloyd George in the thick of 3,500 glass plate negatives and 30,000 nitrate negatives. As Harris observes, its "list of sitters reads like a Who's Who of the British Empire, international politics and ruling families". After founding his first studio in Dublin in 1880, Lauder soon set up branches in Glasgow, Manchester and London. Rudimentary special effects photography followed. So did photo syndication to various publications.


Invited to Windsor Palace to photograph Queen Victoria, later the entire royal family, the Lafayette brand acquired leverage once recognised by the royal warrant. The fine print about these unusual portraits is summed up by its publicity: "M. Lafayette never poses his clients, but simply watches and selects some unconscious pose suggested by them that is calculated to display in a special manner elegance of figure and particular charm of drapery."

Is this volume, then, picture perfect? Almost. Except for the arbitrary introduction of pages 62 to 65 with portraits of European royals, cutting into the flow of both text and image. Couldn't designer Arati Subramanyam have thought of an alternate solution?

In our time of candid, instamatic and digital photography, this is a tome to treasure. To dip into at random for the joys of light and shade. And the distinctive signature notes of Lafayette photography.

(The Hindu Literary Review, 2005)

Art: Balan Nambiar ~ The cactus in its clime

(Note: This interview was done in November 1995)

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.

Drawing a mask

 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.

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

Ritual symbol 5: Enamel on copper

As for enamelling, it was a skill he mastered at the Padova studio of his father-in-law, Paolo de Poli, considered the 20^th 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…”

Eclipse: enamel on copper

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.