How do you escape the non-stop movement of a metropolis like Mumbai, while living in it?
Well, finish that Sunday brunch of yours and head out to Dadar’s verdant Parsi colony area for a countryside-like experience, ironically, in the centre of Mumbai city. Dotted with tree-lined pavements, the colony is more than a hundred years old, and is seen as a “paradise” of the endangered Parsi community; a fading remnant of its glorious past.
In 2015, the colony made it to the news as its residents protested an official onslaught on their heritage, which would have cluttered this pristine area with hawkers and street stalls. The plan was soon withdrawn.
The exclusivity of this enclave, where around 10,000 Parsis live, has remained intact. In 2009, its residents won a six-year-long lawsuit that restrained a builder from selling flats to non-Parsis.
When compared to the rest of an over-crowded and polluted city, the Dadar Parsi colony appears unreal and suspended in time; its old-world charm fragile in its existence. The threat of hawkers and an urban redevelopment is part of the existential crisis confronting Indian Parsis today.
“Locally, this central urban enclave is everything that this great Indian city [Mumbai] is not: low-rise, languorous, its 25 acres embracing 14 gardens, its roads lined with pavements and 30 species of trees including the rare mahogany and ebony. Bird-call triumphs over traffic-honk. Most exceptionally, it is untouched by Mumbai’s signature slums…but for how long can this urban idyll remain?” wrote Bachi Karkaria, a Parsi, in The Guardian.
The Indian Parsis owe their ancestry to Zoroastrian refugees, who fled Iran due to the Islamic persecution and arrived on the western coast of Gujarat around 8th century. The Indian census of 2011 put their number to less than 60,000, from more than 100,000 before the independence. Mumbai has the largest concentration of Parsis in India, and according to some estimates they are numbered around 45,000 in the city. Parsi colonies are located in different parts of the “Town”, as it is popularly called; some enclaves are also situated in suburban areas such as Andheri and Goregaon.
A review of the latest exhibition at DAG Modern, New Delhi – ‘Group 1890: India’s Indigenous Modernism’
The genesis of the 20th century India modern art, as with others form of modern art in West a century earlier, lay in challenging the existing order of artistic expression. In India, then, local artists were beginning to question the dominance of art forms, mainly done in realistic portrayals in oil on canvas, which were introduced by the colonialists. The struggle for a new, indigenous vocabulary and identity in 20th century Indian art took the form of several art movements and collectives, including Bombay’s ‘Progressive Artists’ Group’, and Calcutta’s ‘Santiniketan’ and the Bengal ‘school’.
One of the significant, but short-lived, collectives was ‘Group 1890’, formed in 1962 by a group of 12 artists, led by Marxist-leaning J. Swaminathan. The group got its name from the venue of their first meeting – House No. 1890 – in Bhavnagar city of Gujarat state. ‘Group 1890’ held its only – and highly successful – exhibition in 1963 in New Delhi. It was inaugurated by then Prime Minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.
None of their works were sold, and not long after the group faded into oblivion for ever. However, given the radicalism of their works, beliefs and pronouncements on art, they gained much attention and left a legacy that gave fresh direction to Indian modernism.
The daring artistic imaginations of ‘Group 1890’ is the subject of the latest show at New Delhi’s DAG Modern, previously called the Delhi Art Gallery, which boasts of being “one of the largest repositories of Indian modern art anywhere in the world”. The exhibition at this gallery follows last year’s retrospective ‘The Art of Santiniketan’, which is associated with Bengali artists Rabindranath Tagore, Nandalal Bose, Ramkinkar Baij, and Benode Behari Mukherjee.
The current show, according to the gallery, is the first ever commemorative on ‘Group 1890’. It seeks to re-examine their story, historical significance, and traces their importance through Indian art practices and the positions they advocated. “The group rejected any artistic belief system behind its formation save the creation of a vibrant, new art. Many of the artists worked in the abstract mode,” wrote curator Kishore Singh of DAG Modern in an article.
For example, in their quest for a new artistic idiom, Gujarati artists Himmat Shah and Jeram Patel attacked the very foundation of art-making by using singed paper, often done by a lit cigarette, and, in the latter’s case, burning sheets of plywood or puncturing it with holes. Despite its transience, artworks of ‘Group 1890’ symbolised a kind of methodical madness that seems to suggest, in their experimentation, a limitlessness of form and achievement.The exhibition, on view until Dec. 14 in New Delhi, showcases works by 10 of the 12 artists of ‘Group 1890’.
Shimla-born Swaminathan returned to painting much later in life, despite being trained in it, thanks to his disenchantment with politics – he was an active member of the Communist Party of India in the post-independence period.
He was the first Indian modernist to explore “tantra-inspired” imagery, which comprises of staple such as the triangular, squarical and circular shapes. He deploys idioms of folk and tribal art; in one artwork he adds ritual graffiti seen on village walls, juxtaposing it with brown colour and dribbling the canvas with paint. During the 1960s, he moved to study Indian (Pahari) miniatures after experimenting with tantric art: in the “Colour Geometry of Space”, he juxtaposed earthy colours with geometric shapes.
His “Bird, Tree and Mountain” series, which held his creative interest for a long time, is known for its visual delight in the form of its “chromatic brilliance”. Eventually, the artist moved to a simple, abstract style, using water colour on paper, marking a return to his early style.
Born in Maharashtra, Ambadas pioneered the non-representational style of the post-independence Indian art, in which colour played a significant role. His works are redolent of the “earth process”, and by implication he uses earthy tones. And he shows what appear to be geological movements, involving the soil, wind, water, and maybe the tectonic plates. He works in the abstract mode; but his individualistic brushstrokes arrange themselves to give the semblance of an image. In the 90s, however, he returned to his early love – water colours. This shift brought a fluidity and lightness to his canvas, a dramatic departure from the subterranean worlds of his earthy tones.
Gujarat’s Bhatt had a versatile training in art. He studied painting at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Baroda. In Rajasthan, he learnt mural and fresco painting. He went to Naples, on the Italian government scholarship, to study printmaking. It was in Italy that he first encountered abstractionism.
Under the influence of his teacher N. S. Bendre, he created flattened representation of still life in the cubist trope, which was a strong element in his early pictorial vocabulary. Faces and human profiles are a recurrent motif in his oeuvre; he works with them in different styles, sometimes repeating them in rhythmic pattern in a single work. In other “Faces” works, he stylistically inserts into them imageries or calligraphic forms such as Urdu words or Tibetan text. He does his human profiles in the Indian miniature mould, or the Egyptian painting trope. This graphic printmaking technique is also seen in his magnificently intricate work “Remains of the Old Bungalow”, which shows rich pictorial construction that seems to convey the artist’s commentary on themes of life, society and self in a disarray.
Contrary to some of his fellow artists in ‘Group 1890’, Sheikh, who was also a fine arts graduate from Baroda, rejected the abstract for a more socially relevant art form that was closely linked to the concerns of people. He was more interested in exploring the visual language instead of working under a particular style or ‘ism’. His “socialist” sensibilities can be seen in “Speechless City” that eponymously highlights the surreal disquiet of an ordinary existence.
A prominent feature of his works is also the depiction of horse-driven chariots from his town of Sundernagar in Gujarat, probably fueling the inspiration to paint more horses in his landscape art.
The geometric paintings of Allahabad-born Bowen, inspired by the theory of “constructivism”, stand out in the Group’s search for pushing the boundaries of modern art-making. With the minimalist layout of lines in a grid, he creates intense patterns of blacks, blues, whites and browns that often invoke spiritual and tantric overtones.
A graduate of Sir J. J. School of Art in Mumbai, Patel changed the Indian art landscape of the 1960s by formulating a new visual identity and method abstraction through deliberate distortion of form and imagery. He enriched the then contemporary art with unusual and fascinating works done through blowtorch (a portable device that produces hot flame) on wood; and ink drawings (some of them in black and white) that stood out for their startling content charged with imageries of eroticism, sickness, decay and death. In his amoeba-like works, he also attempted “surrealist doodling” that Gulammohammed Sheikh likened to “foetal darkness”.
In his search for a novel expression, he attacked the surface an artist would normally work on, by burning it with acetylene (a combustible gas) torch, hammering down nails on it, or puncturing wood surfaces with a network of small holes.
For Shah, who also studied at Sir J. J. School of Art (Mumbai) and M.S. University (Baroda), the journey towards an indigenous route of modern art began where he was born. The terracotta available in Gujarat’s Lothal village, which was one of the Harappan civilisation sites, has engaged him extensively throughout his career as a sculptor of “sublime perfection”. So much so that it is a preferred medium for him, seen in the vast sculpture series “Heads”, for example. He also created conventional round pots, urns, bottles and abstract sculptures.
While he saw himself primarily as a sculptor, he was a versatile artist, having interacted with European modernism during his stay in Paris for two years under a French government scholarship. He experimented across forms and medium, besides the sculpture, creating collages through burnt paper or cut-outs of printed text; monumental murals; and ink drawings of brilliant workmanship as well.
He developed the technique of the “singed paper” as he sat idle in an office waiting for a friend to arrive. All he needed was a cigarette and a paper; the pale brown marks of the burnt paper pleased him. Perhaps it offers an insight into his disinterest in the conventional styles of modern art-making.
Redappa Naidu (1932 – 1999)
For the Hyderabad-born artist, the definition of the modern in the Indian context was derived from reworking the Hindu Gods and Goddesses through different styles and perspectives, mostly rendered in free lines and dry brush strokes. That explains his series on epic mythologies Mahabharata and Ramayana in the mid-1970s. In his characteristic style of dry brushstrokes and free lines, he also painted a tableau of musicians on stage, which was part of a series. The annual December season of Carnatic music festival probably inspired the ‘Musicians’ series.
The other two artists that the exhibition showcases are Raghav Kaneria (1936) and Rajesh Mehra (1932). Gujarati sculptor Kaneria experimented with a lot of junk material and welding technique. An untitled bronze sculptor (image below) at DAG Modern shows a thin column rising from what appears to be a lingam as if to suggest energy flowing outwards from a small ellipsoid-looking form sacred to Hindus.
In the 1960s, Delhi-based artist Mehra embarked on a phase of calligraphic abstraction using letters of Urdu alphabet and geometric shapes on quasi-spiritual themes. It was an experimentation adopted by his colleagues (like Jyoti Bhatt) in ‘Group 1890’. S.G. Nikam and Balkrishna Patel, who are not part of the show, were also members of the collective.
(Raghav Kaneria, untitled bronze sculpture)
One of the inescapable takeaways from this exhibition is the influence of Western modernism on Indian artists who sought to break away from an artistic idiom imposed by foreigners, including the colonisers. There is little insight in the show about whether these artists looked at this conflict with irony or dilemma, and what effect did it have on the larger politics of the Indian modern art movement. This is because the artists travelled a lot, in Europe and United States, which had already begun to witness significant artistic churning in the form of movements that questioned tradition.
He must be about ten years old and going by his turban he could be from the deserts of either Rajasthan or Gujarat, among India’s bigger states. With his jeans and jacket, the turban didn’t look all that out of place.
Standing in a corner he played with a thread-and-bead toy. Next to him was placed a bioscope, a colourful mock matinee box that contains pictures, videos from films and TV shows, and some background music.
A tall man bargained with him, insisting on a discount of ten rupees for a toy he bought for his son.
Two women stood behind the turban boy, sharing a quick meal and probably unaware of his existence. But he continued to flash his toys for people who were mostly busy eating. After all, there were 60 food items being offered at the festival that celebrated the multiculturalism of Delhi through its local cuisine.
He was at the periphery, really. There was so much to eat. He must have felt tempted, this child, as a throng of visitors fussed over an extra bowl of rice or a snack not warm enough or less spicy. There were kebabs, chicken and mutton curries, all kinds of beverages and sweets.
It’s quite possible the boy couldn’t afford to eat there. The cheapest snack cost around 50 rupees, that’s barely his daily income, I assume. But he must have learned by now, for he looked somewhat grown up, what he could get and couldn’t.
But he was not that grown up as compared to, say, other shopkeepers in the vicinity, who sold beautiful, velvety and expensive Pashmina shawls from Kashmir, part of India’s vast Himalayan region. They sat equally idle, with not much business to transact.
So who was this little vendor, who probably should have been reading in a classroom or having a good time in a play field? What was his name? Where did he live and what were his parents? Was he filling in for them?
I didn’t ask him these questions. I took his photo and moved on to the next shot. It didn’t occur to me to talk to him. So what if I wasn’t interested in his toys or that bioscope.
The boy was among a minority of faceless vendors who looked bored, at best, during the Delhi street food festival. Like this man, who also wore a turban, and sold beautiful puppets showing men, women, and horses:
And this girl here, she sold these little musical instruments called damroo. She looked at everyone who walked past her stall. She was curious, perceptive and unassuming too. The women sitting with her couldn’t be bothered with the crowd. Behind them a priest hurled abuses at someone who took a bucketful of water from the shrine he worked for.
Did you ever notice and then un-notice someone because that person was of no use to you?