There were no requiems, no hosannas, when Keshav Malik walked away into the sunset one last time. His death last week has remained largely unsung. The art fraternity, which increasingly spends a large part of the torrid Indian summer in Europe, probably didn't even notice he'd gone. Many in the capital who received text messages failed to put in an appearance at his funeral.
In his prime, Malik had been a force majeure whose writings could make or break an artist's career. Perhaps that is too dramatic a generalisation, but his approval was eagerly awaited, his disapproval rankled. This was a time when art had not yet become the commodity it is today, and serious reviews were eagerly awaited. Some artists engaged in public opprobrium with letters to the editor reproaching his understanding or ability to judge art (similar commendation was never reserved for complimentary reviews) - most famously a spat with G R Santosh when he shifted from his figurative phase to launch the neo-tantra movement, and with whom Malik established an uneasy but unresolved peace thereafter.
Malik was a product of his time. He followed in the footsteps of Rudy von Leyden and Walter Langhammer in Mumbai, and Richard Bartholomew in Delhi, worthies who wrote their reviews based on learning and insight, though it was often based on Western percepts. Mulk Raj Anand had a deeper knowledge of Indian philosophy, its cultural principles and art. Here, Malik was uniquely served, being well read, a poet - and as brother of that famously acknowledged scholar, Kapila Vatsayan. Perhaps for that reason, his erudition could prove unsettling. Had he said the work was good - or bad? As long as it didn't seem negative, the artist in question was happy he had been spared Malik's elegant but caustic tongue.
Some while back, we shared a dais on the "disappearance" of art criticism. I disagreed with that premise, pointing to the plethora of media opportunities today. But this too is a product of its time, when artists are stars and more likely to appear in society and feature pages than in serious fora. There is a reason why they might prefer this, since there is little pressure to respond to thoughtful criticism, about which they remain as sensitive as their predecessors.
While it is true that art writers today are disingenuously uninformed and often need to be "fed" what they dutifully regurgitate by way of writing, I cannot but wonder how Malik would have made sense of much that passes for contemporary art today. Is it even possible to begin to understand that virtuosity without an encyclopaedia by the side? One that details the activist nature of the art but neglects to address everyday concerns about its aesthetic?
There's no gainsaying that modern art probably attracted the same kind of flagellation that contemporary art does today. But what assured its longevity was the quality of its aesthetic, which was unimpeachable. It might appear dogmatic given our dependence on computers, but how many contemporary artists even know how to draw well enough, leave alone well? The tools of a craft are only as good as the hands of the person in whom they are held.
Eventually, this leads to a loss in markets and value. In auction after auction, the contemporary art market appears stuck in a recessionary dive. Only a few contemporaries can rejoice at the thump of the gavel against their lot numbers. One cannot help but notice that those who walk away with a portion of the spoils are those whose artistic merit is their strength. Would that others had paid heed to Malik's advise on the difference between design and art.
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
