Souza defanged

Writing on August 17, 1960, Raza is scathing about Souza's need for "self-publicity"

Letters allow us a fascinating glimpse of history, particularly when exchanged between peers fortunate in finding a privileged foothold in society. While their documentation in political biographies has provided a lively source of information, they have been less used in business memoirs perhaps on account of discretion, and even more negligibly when it comes to artistic archives. And yet, what an exciting source of material they provide of droll commentary, rumours, and first-hand accounts - however pejorative.

Reading the exchange of letters over 45 years between S H Raza and Krishen Khanna (published by the Raza Foundation and Vadehra Art Gallery), one experiences it all: zealousness and jealousy, camaraderie and friendship, debates and discussions on art, markets and, quaintly, prices. What's more significant from a documentation point of view are the popular perceptions of the day. It is nobody's case, for instance, that F N Souza could be pugnacious and revelled in an irreverent notoriety, but his work from the late 1950s and more particularly, the early '60s, is now widely regarded as his best.

Yet, that was hardly the opinion of his fellow artists from that period. Consider, for instance, this letter from Khanna to Raza written from London on June 29, 1959: "I went to see Newton [Souza] and, quite honestly, I was terribly depressed. I had expected great things - fire and fury and compulsive paint, but found a terribly repetitive and safe formula… Terribly disappointing stuff," he continues excoriatingly, rounding off with the philosophical view, "I suppose it is a quality of success that it corrupts the lesser man."

Writing on August 17, 1960, Raza is equally scathing about Souza's need for "self-publicity". "Everything is based on falsehood, unassimilated influences; his desire to make an impression is nothing but a sign of weakness." Raza alludes to an article written by Souza for The Illustrated Weekly of India which he is in disagreement with, but which he somewhat unfairly likens to the artist's showing in Paris that year for which "'mediocre' is a generous word", he writes. "I went on the last day. The prices were pretty low and not one painting sold."

A half century later, one is forced to wonder whether these perspectives might have been prejudiced in the wider context of Souza's legacy. The letters - private, personal letters, it must be emphasised - throw light as much on Souza as on the two correspondents, for there are also deprecatory allusions to other peers. "A letter of apology from Avinash Chandra," Raza dismisses him in his eminently elegant style, "If he only knew how little I care." Or, later, wittily: "In Paris I met Husain who dashed off a huge decorative panel in three days" - presumably on the Dandi March, since he also guffaws, "Gandhiji took more time."

It might appear tempting to dismiss these exchanges as mere gossip, but the letters - chauvinism apart - serve to inform us about the practice of art at the time, even more than academic tomes, especially given the poor documentation of modern art. Thus far, letters have served us poorly, with only Amrita Sher-Gil and, more recently, Chittaprosad's published correspondence aiding these artists. If that means visiting Souza's heritage and golden years, it can hardly be a poor thing, because it also dwells on the artists themselves, as this letter from Raza in 1987 so beautifully illustrates: "The small red canvas is staring at me. But the Gods are absent. You won't believe it, but I cannot work without the presence of divine forces. They are tangible and real. I have to pray before I start working." What better understanding of his muse and practice could an art-historian ever hope to provide.

Kishore Singh is a Delhi-based writer and art critic. These views are personal and do not reflect those of the organisation with which he is associated