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Last summer, I spent some time chatting with a doctor who works with patients with mental disabilities and learning issues from marginalised sections of society. I had proposed the use of art as a therapeutic tool for his recovery programme. We agreed there was substantiation to suggest that those traumatised by instances of childhood violence were better able to address their emotions through art. Follow-up meetings with the NGO team, however, soon petered out. The programme remained still-born.
Does art heal? Evidence would point towards that, and it seems the chain hospitals are taking cognizance of it — though the mostly inane prints of flowers and landscapes in their endless corridors are too mind-numbing to contemplate. Some serious thought needs to be provided to the choice of art in medical institutions, as well as of colours that are considered curative by healers. This is as true of offices where banal, thoughtlessly collated works of “art” should make way for those that are provocative, help you think, are relatable, even aspirational.
As more and more people become homebound in the wake of coronavirus, I am thankful to be surrounded by art that is contemplative, thoughtful and challenging — and, yes, even decorative. I find myself looking up often from where I am sitting and writing this to look at a wall with abstract paintings — Bimal Dasgupta’s eerie, surreal landscapes, Rajendra Dhawan’s poignant, evocative renditions, Natvar Bhavsar’s pigment-laden work, Gopi Gajwani’s floating colours. Elsewhere, I can spot figurative paintings by Jamini Roy, G R Santosh or Gogi Saroj Pal, and gifts from artist friends who wanted to share a little bit of their selves with me. The eyes of Jayasri Burman’s Durga penetrate across the length of the room, bringing succour in this time of anxiety. M F Husain’s painting of an open palm and a chakra symbolising Ashoka’s wheel of dharma that forms part of the national emblem, seems to mark a historical legacy. I can watch Netflix, or gaze endlessly at an editioned torso by Ravinder Reddy, with equal interest. Rabin Mondal’s drawing of a caricatured king made to resemble a helpless clown is a reminder of these difficult times in which we find ourselves powerlessly marooned.
Untitled, by Bimal Dasgupta
Art appeals to us at an intrinsic level, touching our hearts, or minds, with its message. Some prefer sacred works, others different forms, or genres, or styles of painting and sculpture. Whatever the choice, and whether we choose the aesthetic or the intellectual, what we select to surround ourselves with says as much about us as a biography. S H Raza’s bindu serigraph exercises as much power as Sohan Qadri’s ribbed and dotted watercolour. Manu Parekh’s tantric exploration is as hypnotic as Satish Gupta’s zen-like art. When all appears lost, one can escape into Avinash Chandra’s early landscapes, or take flight with Chameli Ramachandran’s pigeons, or find solace in Meite Delteil’s soporific idylls. As with books, art helps forge lifelong friendships.
Meanwhile, out there, it is a topsy-turvy world where one no longer knows what sense to make of it. The Sotheby’s auction of Indian art in New York went off without a hitch, established new benchmarks, and was a success, while Christie’s postponed its sale, so we’ll have to wait and watch what comes next. Other auctions in India appear on schedule — but who is to know. Exhibitions are being cancelled, often at the last minute. Every day brings more messages of art fairs and large events being shelved. Galleries and museums are going online. Instagram fills our vicarious need for art in the time of virus. It also provides a healing touch.
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
