Vivan Sundaram Share 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 by Natasha Ginwala
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Mousse Magazine ( http://moussemagazine.it ) Search Follow Us ESSAYS Mousse 63 In the Living Present: Vivan Sundaram Share 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 by Natasha Ginwala About halfway through Vivan Sundaram’s retrospective exhibition Step inside and you are no longer a stranger at Kiran Nadar Museum of Art in New Delhi, one enters a dimly lit room where twelve beds made from iron frames and worn-down soles of discarded shoes form an eerie meshwork. The distinctive patterns on the soles appear as an abstract geometry of organic skins. Low-voltage bulbs cast flickering shadows that assume a negative cartography—an underbelly of scavenged remains that are like bodies without organs. (https://www.perrotin.com/exhibitions/paul_pfeiffer-desiderata/6391) It is no longer clear where we are: Is this a hospital ward? A night shelter? A refugee camp? 12- Bed Ward (2004) is one of Sundaram’s iconic installation works that draws together this artist’s continuing engagement with recycled materials and the objet trouvé to investigate the grammar of structural violence, migration, and exile, as well as detritus that may be understood as the “leftovers” of a globalized neoliberal economy. This retrospective highlights more than five decades of Sundaram’s artistic practice with around 180 artworks, from early paintings made in the 1960s during his years at the Slade School, London, to recent works, such as the multipart installation and sound piece Meanings of Failed Action: Insurrection 1946 (2017), made in collaboration with the cultural theorist Ashish Rajadhyaksha and the sound artist David Chapman, which surveys the affective history of an overlooked and unresolved episode in India’s anticolonial struggle, led by sailors of the Royal Indian Navy in Bombay (now Mumbai) in February 1946. The show reveals sustained trails of collective production and an active “politics of friendship” in the manner that Jacques Derrida and Maurice Blanchot suggest between “the community without community” that corresponds through asymmetrical interventions across a disjunctive network of texts.1 For instance Sundaram’s series Bad drawings for dost (2004-2005), an homage to fellow artist Bhupen Khakhar, is hand-drawn using tracing paper and graphite, evoking fragile memories from Khakhar’s artistic oeuvre, a corporeality brimming with desire and eventually treating the drawing as a place of mourning, since “the friend speaks to the friend already from beyond the grave.”2 Earlier works in this vein include the mixed-media triptych In Memory of Krishna Kumar (1990-1992), and a recurring investigation of family archives in The Sher-gil Archive (1995) and the photomontage series Re-take of Amrita (2001-2002). The portrait appears as a site of multivalent and hybrid recasting across these works—an intercrossing of gazes—as the edges between the artist’s selfhood and the projected framing of his subjects turn increasingly fluid. We are bought up close with the Sher-Gil family’s experiences of cosmopolitan living between worlds—British India and Europe—and a collaged narrative of modernism unfolds as witnessed through a private lens. Sundaram’s investigation of the archive is a nonlinear process and involves dismantling norms of fact and fiction—retroactively reading familial ties entangled with itinerant artistic pathways and the intimate lives of heirloom objects, possessed and left behind. After studying painting at the faculty of Fine Arts in M.S. University of Baroda under seminal artist K. G. Subramanyan in the early 1960s, Sundaram joined Slade School as a commonwealth scholar in 1966 and had the opportunity to be mentored by the American artist R. B. Kitaj.3 Kitaj played a significant role in British Pop art, using techniques of Warburgian image migrations and drawing from the literature of Franz Kafka and Walter Benjamin in response to his Jewish diasporic identity, realizing works that combined abstraction and figurative expression. Sundaram was influenced by these encounters, and moreover the charged atmosphere of 1968 student protests and the anti-Apartheid movement in Britain, as evident in his paintings May 68 and South Africa (both 1968). Art historian and curator Deepak Ananth writes of the painting May 68: “The parallel coloured bands that appear as an abstract compositional device could allude to the barricades in the streets of Paris, and that seemingly decorative flourish in red partially outlined against the white cut-out shape of a head and torso describes the form of a sickle.”4 These paintings are unique in their development of geometric abstraction, quoting from kitsch and popular culture while embracing figuration and symbolic forms from the young artist’s evolving political imagination. During his years at Slade School, Sundaram took a course on the history of cinema that led to a lifelong fascination with the surrealist tableaus of Luis Buñuel, the eros, Marxist values, and transcendental realism in Piero Paolo Pasolini’s works, and the experimental cinema of Stan Brakhage. In the painting From Stan Brakhage to Persian Miniature (1968) an exploding frame confronts us, as the artist compartmentalizes the picture plane using a sensorial and dramatic mode as witnessed in the hypnotic films of Brakhage, who deployed camera movements and rapid cutting, and treated celluloid as a drawing surface to routinely disrupt as well as expand the act of perception. Famously asking, “How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of ‘green’?” Sundaram simultaneously engages with the aesthetic language of Persian miniature painting, specifically its elaborate spatial arrangements and lively action involving imperial subjects, motifs from nature, calligraphy, and Islamic architecture. Illuminated manuscripts and intricate border paintings encode the interior and exterior, while prompting a circular perspective when “reading”Persian miniatures. Strike the old flints To kindle ancient lamps, light up the whips glued to your wounds throughout the centuries and light the axes gleaming with your blood. — Pablo Neruda, The Heights of Machu Picchu, 1947 Heights of Machu Picchu (1972) assembles as terrestrial poetry, dwelling on the words of poet and diplomat Pablo Neruda—that voice of stratified civilizations, blood and soil, and those volatile memory fields where antiquity crosses over into the living present. Sundaram accompanies the lines of Neruda’s poem through the rhythm of ink drawing, and this notational form casts movement—whirls and ripples, slopes and peaks, breaks and linkages—that add dimension to the enduring arc of poetry. It is as though the artist has embarked on an expedition, in rendering drawings that are textured with the ground beneath, subterranean time, and phases of human life spent in “accumulated autumns.” They invoke the atmosphere of ancient ruins and the Third World, while still seeking something beyond—“throughout the earth let dead lips congregate”—a revolutionary language to address human-earth relations. These drawings respond to the second canto in Neruda’s epic work Canto General, first published in Mexico in 1950. Coincidentally, hung close to Heights of Machu Picchu in the exhibition is another suite of drawings that Sundaram made in Mexico during a country-wide visit there in the late 1970s, looking back to the post-Mexican Revolution era and avant-garde muralism. These works were made during a phase when Sundaram became engaged in a Marxist approach, organizing traveling exhibitions with meetings of the Student Federation of India and the All India Kisan Sabha (the peasant front of the Communist Party of India) and investigating how the evolution of human struggle interrelates with the ethical function of art in modern times. The criticcurator Geeta Kapur notes, “I believe he [Sundaram] would like his drawings to carry, ultimately, what Neruda demands of his own poetry, ‘the reek of the human.’”5 The painting People Come and Go (1981), exhibited as part of the seminal exhibition Place for People at Jehangir Art Gallery, Bombay (now Mumbai) and Rabindra Bhavan, New Delhi, in1981, brings into focus the narrative-figurative school of painters that emerged in Baroda, which included the artists Nalini Malani, Gulam Mohammed Sheikh, Bhupen Khakhar, Sudhir Patwardhan and Jogen Chowdhury, while also gesturing toward the convivial spirit beyond, through endeavors such as the Kasauli workshop initiated by Sundaram in 1976. As a key member in this dialogic process, Geeta Kapur, in her manifesto-like essay, avowed the centrality of the human image in Indian art. A sense of corporeality and the politics of place remained foundational for inventing representational strategies that emanated from a postcolonial lived experience and cultural memory.6 Sundaram’s painting plots the intimate scene of Khakhar’s living room (where Khakhar used to paint) in Baroda, seated with his longtime friends Vallabh bhai and British painter Howard Hodgkin. Against a bright blue background, its door left slightly ajar for visitors, this home-studio is denoted as a motif for recounting elective affinities and intergenerational camaraderie that underscores vital characteristics of Indian modernism. The very act of painting, here, is marked by sociality, humor, and animated discussions extending outward—from the immediate neighborhood into the world. In the early 1990s, Sundaram extended his deeply physical encounters with painting while conducting experiments with materiality and surface in Collaboration/Combines (1992) and House/Boat (1994), which