|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
A calendar print and pichhwai make one wonder
if works of commercial When nations grow old, the arts grow cold and commerce settles on every tree. — William Blake The purpose of commercial art is not to get people to think or feel. It doesn’t care if it changes the world or makes a profound statement about humanity or nature. All it wants to do is get people to buy. — Melissa Donovan
Over a period of time, they have kept on being painted: some devoted to festivals, others to seasons, still others to shringara. In nearly all of them, the figure of Krishna appears, receiving homage in his divine but static form as Shrinathji: a black marble image showing him standing, left hand raised in the act of lifting the Mount Govardhan, right hand on hip, lotus-large eyes with their gaze turned downwards as if to shed grace upon anyone, who approaches him with love. But there are others in which he appears differently: with his companions, delighting them with playing upon his flute; leading the cows back to their pen in the hour of cow dust; dancing the circular raas dance with the gopis: "Cowherdess and Nanda’s son, alternatively,
Like a dense cloud and lightning all round; The dark Krishna, the fair Braj women, Like a gold and sapphire necklace." And so on. There are other themes that are seen in these pichhwais: the family tree of the acharyas of the sect, for instance; the topography of the Vraja region to which the devotee can go on a mental pilgrimage; flocks of peacocks gathering together in lush surroundings. But Krishna is never far from anyone’s thoughts. It is a world of pure delight that the painters were inviting people to enter. In this very collection, however, are also a few pichhwais that startle one a bit, for they are neither printed nor embroidered, but made of lacework and produced on a machine. The surprise is that they were made neither in Nathdwara nor in Udaipur but in Germany or Belgium, using an old handicraft referred to as netznadelarbeit: literally, net-needle-work. The themes are related to Krishna, as in the painted pichhwais of Nathdwara. The pichhwais that is reproduced with this piece is quite delicately worked: domed pavilions set in the midst of elegant groves; a lake with two boats from which a bevy of maidens has just disembarked; sakhis still standing in water but huddling around a nimbate companion, almost certainly Radha. A frieze of cows surrounds the scene; flower vases are disposed along the border. One can see that the aim, taking off from an Indian painting, is to build an air of anticipation, of the quiet festivity that will ensue when Krishna comes. Technically, it is all very neat, very orderly: every leaf in place, every line perfectly formed. The point, however, is whether there is any feeling in the work. Or is it that, without being excessively concerned with that question, someone sitting there in Europe, some company with an access to the latest technology, guessed that in India there will be an avid market among the followers of the sect for this? The second thing: Not long ago while staying at Kochi at the wonderfully appointed place of a friend, Abhishek Poddar, I happened to see on one of the walls a framed picture, an oleograph, which looked very familiar. Rama seated on a throne, flanked by Sita and Lakshmana, with the great devotee, Hanumana, seated on the floor, kneeling in homage: the ‘Rama Darbar’ in other words. One sees the ‘scene’ everywhere: on pavements where shiny calendars are sold in all towns, inside wayside shrines, placed on mantelpieces in homes: a Raja Ravi Verma imitation. But this image looked rather old and I began to look at it with some care. Slowly, despite some fading, it revealed itself. All around the image was a broad border placed within which, at regular intervals, were little vignettes: coats of arms, logos featuring eagles and lions and prancing unicorns, images of some European buildings, factories perhaps. Above, in the centre, was a circular medallion showing a gateway with tall towers in the midst of which appeared the letters "IG" twined into a pattern. In another medallion, just a little way off from it appeared the letters "A.G.F.A." All collectors of popular art, perhaps, aficionados of textile labels and old matchboxes, know this well and volumes have been devoted to calendar prints of this kind: Christopher Pinney’s Photos of the Gods, for instance, or Kajri Jain’s Gods in the Bazaar. But I did not know what "IG" stood for. It was not difficult to find out, however. It was an abbreviation for I.G. Farbenindustrie, a German chemical conglomerate formed in 1925 soon to become the fourth largest company in the world. This ‘Rama Darbar Calendar’ was evidently produced by this company, exported to India in massive quantities, and given away free perhaps as an advertisement for its products. Again, someone, sitting in Europe, without the least amount of feeling for its contents, had thought of and produced ‘a work of art’ for which there were takers in India. Does all this say
something? I do not know, but I do remember that the very first
fountain pen I had was given to me by my father when I entered the
fifth standard in my school. On the clip of the pen was engraved the
word ‘Krishna’, and on its body appeared the words: "Made in
Germany".
|
|||
|
|
|||
