Artistic reflections, a necessary act of art practice

                                                Scare craw, left in cold, watercolour on paper, 2016

Every human relationship is shaped by two critical elements of comprehension: appreciation and understanding, both rooted in love. In appreciation, shortcomings are often hidden or overlooked, while in understanding, we accept those flaws, make room for them, and move forward. To sustain a more profound connection in any relationship, one must evolve from mere appreciation to a genuine understanding. This growth is what distinguishes romance from love. Many people I've encountered struggle with this distinction, expecting understanding within the space of romance and seeking appreciation for what should be understanding. They fail to realize that as a relationship matures from romance to understanding, love transforms into a practice of acceptance and tolerance.

Many marriages falter because of this misunderstanding. From my early days in art, I observed a similar dynamic in the relationship between art, the artist, and the viewer. To appreciate art, indulgence suffices, but truly understanding art with love requires a more profound, sustained connection to the art, the artist, and their process. In romance, everything appears flawless; in understanding, everything seems imperfect. In romance, separation often breeds vengeance, while in understanding, it leaves one in pain and a genuine sense of loss. In art, accepting imperfections usually fosters genuine love for the work. Unfortunately, today's art world offers few opportunities to access the artist's inner world due to the market-driven obscurity surrounding the practice.

Many separation layers have been constructed between the artist and the viewer, from exhibition statements and gallery flyers to curatorial notes, media reviews, academic theories, and historical interpretations. These barriers distance the viewer from the artist's process, making it nearly impossible to understand how a piece of art was conceived or evolved. As a result, the viewer is confined to the surface level of appreciation, unable to go beyond it. Market forces and galleries further restrict meaningful interaction between artists and their audiences.

In this romanticized, shallow world, where reflection and research are neglected, artists are often trapped in their own illusions. As an art and design teacher, I recognized this issue early in my career. There is a lack of resources available to help us explain to students how an artist arrives at a particular work. We are left with the fabricated narratives created by galleries, the media, and curators—like romantic love letters aimed at selling art. But we all know that the evolution of art, like life, is far from a bed of roses.

In this context, it is more valuable for artists who articulate their experiences than those who remain hidden in the obscurity of the market. In the name of appreciation, art history and theory often indulge in superficial commentary rather than genuine insights into the artistic process that defines a practice. This is a tragedy. Every artist should articulate their thoughts and reflections, fostering a deeper connection with their audience by allowing them to engage with both the artist's successes and failures. This openness allows for a relationship grounded in acceptance and understanding. Many may falter in this effort, but some relationships will endure—and that's how meaningful connections, personal and close, are formed.

Trapped in the fleeting infatuations of a shallow, romanticized world of obscurity, It's said that artists are elevated and discarded weekly in the New York art market. But it's not about being the most significant or successful artist; it's about cultivating a relationship that allows one to experience life through art, where the artist is seen not just as a money-minting machine but as a human being with emotions and depth.

Artist in the middle of market

In 2005 or 2006, I came across a newspaper clipping that featured a Japanese artist—if my memory serves me correctly—walking the streets of Ahmedabad, particularly in the Teen Darwaza area, with a mirror strapped to his back. The image of encountering one's reflection amidst the bustling market, captured in the long mirror, struck me as profoundly poetic. The concept of artists using walking as an element in their art was not new, as the founder of Arte Povera, Giovanni Anselmo, along with British artists Hamish Fulton and Richard Long, had been integrating walking into their work extensively since the 1960s.

However, this performance piece by the Japanese artist resonated with me profoundly and philosophically. It evoked the story of Buddha, who, after attaining enlightenment, entered the marketplace—a world absorbed in materialism—much like the sentiment expressed by Sage Kabir in his later poetry. In the mirror, one is forced to rediscover oneself, emerging from the Concealment of the crowd.

One of the most intriguing aspects of human nature is our obsession with Concealment. When you reflect on it, it's evident that much of our human effort is dedicated to concealing and revealing. Just as we craft clothes to cover our bodies, we engage in Concealment in nearly every area of life. We design doors and windows for our homes, often adorning them with curtains to add another layer of cover. We fashion metal skins for machines, dials for watches, bed sheets for beds, and covers for cushions. We apply paint to surfaces, makeup to faces, lids to pots, and passwords to our computers and phones. The list of items created to conceal could go on endlessly if we took the time to catalogue them.

In essence, the facades we create in our lives, the physical appearances we put on, serve to hide our actions and intentions. These "skins" reveal lives hidden behind intentional concealment layers. Throughout the development of societies, this act of hiding became a powerful tool used by those in power to control, accuse, and discriminate against others. These facades took the form of class differences, social hierarchies, traditional clothing, elaborate uniforms, and cultural celebrations—effectively hiding the more profound act of concealment underneath.

To gain a better understanding, let's consider the design of our modern urban homes. We hide our houses from the street and connect our drawing rooms with doors. We conceal the wires that bring electricity to our homes, hide the water pipes that supply water and the drainage pipes that connect to the public sewage system. We conceal everything essential to our lives to fit into our class consciousness, hygiene, or customary security threats.

Metaphorically, the cloth, with its capacity to conceal, becomes big in front of us - Very Big.

Interestingly, Concealment as an act is primarily relevant to our sense of sight; it is essentially an act of visual manipulation. Without the ability to see or without the presence of visuals, a piece of cloth holds no significance in terms of Concealment. In fact, with vision in place, it carries more meaning than its intended purpose of hiding or covering.

Ahmedabad is well known for its heritage walks, where organizations guide people through the city's 600 years of history, often through the old Ahmedabad "pol" areas. In 2006, after leaving NID, I had the opportunity to walk with a visually challenged individual from the pole area, letting him guide me along the route typically covered in these heritage walks. We started our walk from Teen Darwaza, and right after beginning, he pointed out a stone protruding on the footpath, advising me to be cautious. Although I had walked that same pavement hundreds of times, I had never noticed that stone. A few steps later, he mentioned that on the left was Nirav Bhai's sweet shop, where I could get some good sweets, and next o it was Karim Chacha's tea stall, selling the best tea in the market. These details had also escaped my notice all those years. A little further on, he informed me that an elderly woman usually sat near an electric pole and that if I could spare a few rupees, it would greatly help her, as she was the sole breadwinner for her bedridden husband. I had never noticed her either.

Different from the usual heritage walks that focus on showcasing the area's architectural heritage and the historical significance of buildings, this hour-long walk with my visually challenged guide was filled with details I had never noticed despite having my sight. My eyes were wide open, yet I could not see the humane stories he could see so clearly with his lack of eyesight.

After that walk, the concept of Concealment took on a new meaning for me, gaining a profound philosophical dimension. In 2009, when I resumed my studies at the newly formed Humanities Department at CEPT with my late friend Hansil Dabi, we created a performance art installation called Burn Doors. The project sought to explore and understand the notion of Concealment and the symbolism of cloth. This installation was also influenced by my earlier explorations of cloth as both material and metaphor, particularly in my attempts to grapple with themes of persecution.

In this art installation, we were covered in layers of cloth and sat on a white platform surrounded by burned textbooks and a closed door. From morning until evening, we remained silent, observing the passers-by or viewers.

Our silent performance art encouraged viewers to become active participants. Initially, they approached the installation as mere spectators, but as their curiosity grew, they became integral to the artwork. Whether they accepted or rejected the concept we presented, their engagement made them a part of the unfolding narrative. While the artists remained still and silent, the viewers' discussions, judgments, and reactions brought the piece to life, transforming it into an exploration of concealment and revelation. The interaction highlighted vision as an act of passive and deliberate observation, prompting reflection on the boundaries between what is hidden and what is revealed.

The cloth became a metaphor, defined by passive or conscious observation.

Burn Doors – First Performing Art Installation

Venue:

Faculty of Arts and Humanities,

CEPT University,

Commerce six roads,

Navrangpura,

Ahmedabad.

Date: 02.02.2009

Time: 10.30 am to 6 Pm

Participants: Narendra Raghunath, Hansil Dabhi

There are two types of gods that exist in our world: one that demands worship and another that requires understanding.

 There are two types of gods that exist in our world: one that demands worship and another that requires understanding. The first god commands faith, belief, and an unquestioning acceptance of divine superiority, accompanied by the rituals and commitments of devotion. The second god invites critical inquiry, analytical scrutiny, and a philosophical examination of its existence. The first is the religious god; the second is the spiritual god. The path to the first is through bhakti (devotion) and surrender, while the path to the second is through intellectual inquiry and philosophical exploration. The difference lies in ritualistic devotion versus the pursuit of knowledge.

The first option offers surrender and peace, while the second provides understanding and heightened consciousness. Greek gods were of the first kind, while Greek philosophers sought the second. Hindu Mīmāṃsakas represent the first, while Vedantins embody the second. Allah in Hadith reflects the first, while Allah in philosophy means the second. Jesus in the Church aligns with the first, while Jesus in philosophical inquiry belongs to the second. Ritualistic Buddhism (Tibetan kind) aligns with the first, and Mahayana Middle path aligns with the second. This duality continues across cultures.

It is ultimately a struggle for power—the politics of education, a battle between practice and theory, the craft of ritual versus the craft of critical thinking. The divide between religion and spirituality isn't just about faith. Throughout history, human civilization has performed this conflict: one group believes that rituals (the craft) leading to faith (the art) are the way forward, while another group believes that knowledge (critical thinking) leading to faith (the art) is the way forward.

Then came a third path, introduced by bhakti saints and Sufi mystics, who sought to break the rigidity of criticality and ritual through love. They claimed one could still achieve the ultimate purpose by transcending the animosity between these two approaches. In contemporary art, what is needed is this third approach—one that can dissolve the dominance of both ritualistic craft and critical methods that currently rule the art world.

(the quest for religious gods and critical artistic forms are no different as yet )

So, dear empiricists, hold back your class consciousness. 😊]

In one of my classes with engineering and management students, we discussed how humans are increasingly becoming operators of machines and technologies. I asked them a simple question during the conversation: "What are the basics?" Specifically, I wanted to know their understanding of mathematics. Initially, there was complete silence. Eventually, a few students mentioned basic arithmetic operations like addition, subtraction, and division. I pointed out that these were merely operations and didn’t fully answer my question. On the board were calculus formulas from the previous class, so I asked, “What is calculus?” Their response was “differentiation and integration.” Again, I explained that these were methods of operation, not the essence of calculus itself. The room went silent, and confusion spread. These were students who had excelled in mathematics and science to secure admission into engineering programs.

The problem doesn't lie with the students. It stems from an education system that often prioritises teaching methods and operations over the fundamental understanding of a subject. This creates a generation of students skilled in applying formulas and techniques but usually need more profound insight. This issue is not limited to technical fields; it also exists in art and design education. High-scoring students frequently mistake tools, techniques, and applications for the subject itself. Additionally, there is a hierarchy of disciplines in Indian universities, with mathematics and science considered the pinnacle, followed by management and commerce, humanities and design, and finally, art at the bottom.

Whenever I teach at non-art and design colleges, I frequently hear faculty from other disciplines referring to art and design students as “lesser” or dismissing their courses as hobbies. They overlook that, in the end, all subjects—whether science, math, or art—seek to explore form with historical and theoretical foundations, critical analysis, patterns, symmetry, prototypes and models. These are all part of what we call the study of aesthetics. Unlike the rigid empirical approach of science and math, art and the humanities also engage with culture, which is essential to human society as a living tradition.

Art, design, math, science, and the humanities are not so different after all. None should be placed on a higher pedestal than the others. They all examine the aesthetics of form.

As our discussion continued, I asked the students why they add, what they add, why they subtract, and what they subtract. Their immediate response was that they add or subtract numbers, and they do it to calculate the total sum.

To push their thinking further, I jokingly asked, “What if I remove the equal sign (‘=’) from the addition (+), subtraction (-), multiplication (x), and division (/) symbols? What would happen to your calculation?” As expected, they were left in silence.

A mathematical equation reflects the belief that every action (cause) results in a proportional outcome (consequence) or that for every consequence, there is an equivalent cause. Essentially, a mathematical equation is our faith in the old-school religious concept of causality.

Mathematics operates on the assumption that the universe is static and that truth is represented by the result on the right side of the equation. Whatever happens on the left side must balance with the truth on the right. In this way, mathematics suggests an unbreakable balance between cause and effect. Moreover, mathematics only allows for increase (addition, multiplication) or decrease (subtraction, division) as possible actions in maintaining this balance. This is reminiscent of the religious concept of a static, unchanging "God" as the ultimate truth. Similarly, the law of conservation of energy in science draws on a comparable idea of unchanging, absolute truth.

In other words, despite its empirical facade, mathematics and science present a deterministic worldview where cause equals consequence, much like religious doctrines.

It may sound surprising, but the reality is that art—often dismissed by empiricists due to class consciousness—is the only human activity that challenges this deterministic worldview. In their exploration and experimentation, artists are not morally or ethically bound by the results. Art is the only domain of human life that does not engage in balancing cause and consequence. As such, art represents the liberty of the human mind—our free will.

So, dear empiricists, hold back your class consciousness.

(continued)

Faith and footwear

 

Faith and footwear share a complex narrative in India. My father used to tell me that in the early 1950s when he was an undergraduate, only one boy in his class wore shoes. The nation was just emerging from colonial rule. Today, almost everyone wears footwear. Yet, people still remove their shoes when entering religious sites, homes, and certain pristine exhibition spaces. A furniture designer friend once mentioned that one of the first pieces of furniture purchased by an urban middle-class or upper-middle-class family in India is a shoe rack to be kept at the entrance.

Footwear also holds symbolic importance in Indian culture. In the Ramayana, Bharata ruled the kingdom by placing Rama's sandals on the throne to symbolise his reign. In many ashrams and Sufi dargahs, devotees worship their guru's footwear. You can even find "ahimsa" sandals in Khadi shops, made from the skin of animals that died naturally rather than being killed for leather. With the advent of new, innovative materials, traditional leather shoes have largely disappeared from the lower-priced market.

Despite being a crucial part of hygiene, footwear in India often retains a sense of "unholiness." Sociologists offer a caste-based explanation for this, though it is far-fetched. My father's observation—that only a few wore shoes in India 70 years ago—leads me to think that footwear still feels foreign to many Indians, not fully integrated into their religious and cultural practices. It seems like an "insider versus outsider" migrant issue where footwear is still seen as a cultural outsider (!). Before returning to my hotel today, I saw crowds walking barefoot, seeking divine blessings. On social media, Bollywood actor Kajol yelled at a person wearing footwear on a pooja pandal—yet another reminder of the complex relationship between Indians and their shoes.

Do you believe in God? Why or why not?

My former student, Param Patel, asked me a genuine question in response to my post about my interview with a Swami in Tiruvannamalai: "Do you believe in God? Why or why not?"

Although God has never been the central focus of my inquiries, faith and belief certainly are. I hesitate to offer a definitive answer because I don't consider myself an authority on the subject. Yet, the concept of God frequently enters the picture as I explore the dynamics of faith and belief, so I'll attempt to explain my engagement with the idea from the perspective of my art research and exploration.

Param, it's not easy to confirm or deny the concept of God. God is, after all, one of the oldest and longest-surviving ideas in human history. Naturally, the body of knowledge that has evolved around this concept is immense. The idea of God has been approached from a wide variety of perspectives: community, faith, belief, spirituality, religion, politics, sociology, culture, history, genealogy, empiricism, aesthetics, and metaphysics. This diversity of exploration highlights God's profound influence on intellectual pursuits and its implications for society and politics.

Many ethical and moral principles, such as justice, fraternity, freedom, and liberty, are rooted in the idea of God. Even community and culture often arise from faith and belief systems centred around God. Interestingly, political ideologies that reject the concept of God still revolve around it as a central point of contention.

Language, art, and aesthetics are often seen as representations of deeper meanings, and they, too, borrow their structural systems from the structures of faith and belief in God. Even the empiricism of scientific consciousness, grounded in logic and evidence, has its roots in the epistemological developments surrounding faith and belief in God. The structures of political power and social hierarchies often trace their origins to religious institutions, with the concept of God at their foundation. The idea of value, manifesting in economic systems, similarly reflects the influence of spiritual and divine structures.

In both art and science, the metaphysical and physical triads—such as the relationship between art, artist, and artwork or observer, observed, and observation—can also be linked to the philosophical underpinnings of God. As I mentioned earlier, given the immense body of knowledge that has grown around this concept over the longest period in human history, it's no surprise that the footprints of God are visible throughout all aspects of human life.

For some, God embodies omnipotence, omnipresence, omniscience, eternity, immutability, and absolute transcendence. God is viewed as a creator, a protector, a saviour, and a source of love and compassion. For others, the concept of God represents structures of exploitation, irrationality, and the root of human catastrophes.

What's fascinating about the concept of God is that life goes on whether one believes or not. In contemporary society, faith in God has become a political framework, and individuals can politically choose to accept or reject this belief. Democratic constitutions, like India's, grant the right to reject God, while in other countries, denying God can be punishable under blasphemy laws. In a way, the protector is protected by constitutional principles.

When you look at temples, churches, mosques, religious towns, pilgrimage sites, religious artefacts, and related infrastructure, they collectively represent one of the largest economies in the world, sustaining trillions in wealth and supporting billions of people in life.

As an artist, faith and belief are central inquiries in my life, and the concept of God—whether or not I believe in it—remains inseparable from my exploration. Yet, when you witness people waging wars, committing atrocities, and perpetuating discrimination in the name of that same faith, you can't help but wonder, where is this God?

Is there anything wrong with it? Probably not

Since the beginning, my artistic explorations have centred on the relationship between body and context. Growing up, I wasn't among the 'smart' or high-achieving types but instead leaned toward being contemplative and introspective, which shaped my ordinary life in meaningful ways.

While others often defined success by external achievements, for people like me, reconciliation held greater significance. Their pursuits were driven by the thrill of desire, while ours were shaped by the quiet fulfilment of contemplation.

Naturally, the vivid spectacle of desire results in tangible accomplishments, overshadowing the quieter process of contemplation that often involves restraint or withdrawal—traits that, in popular perception, are viewed as lacking leadership qualities. Yet, those who were contemplative could slow down and challenge the frenzied pace set by the 'smart' ones in the majority. For every high achiever, thousands of contemplative individuals questioned the meaning of that success.

Fortunately, we lived in a different era. Unlike today, where every child is expected to be a prodigy in performance and leadership, we grew up in a time that allowed space for less aspirational people. I'm not talking about a century ago, but just thirty years back—before the internet, computers, and cell phones transformed the world and made it an entirely different nation.

Today, everyone sees themselves as potential leaders, with the internet, social media, and smartphones as tools to validate their sense of entitlement—luxuries unimaginable thirty years ago. Change is inevitable, and each change in history fulfils a socio-cultural and political need. The most significant shift brought about by the internet and computers is that even the contemplative, slow-paced thinkers have become captivated by the allure of success stories and the thrills of online spectacles, finding joy in their newfound mastery over the digital world. The once-clear divide between the 'smart' and the contemplative no longer holds.

Print media, which was the domain of the contemplative in the 1980s, has now faded into obscurity. And despite having the world seemingly at our fingertips, the world feels more tragic, divided, and conflicted than ever—or at least seems to be regressing into darker times. Despite this sense of control, many find themselves lost in an existential crisis, unable to find joy in their accumulated material wealth.

Take, for example, a famous phone brand that recorded $560 billion in sales from 2014 to 2024, with 70% of its customers reinvesting in upgraded versions released twice or thrice a year. According to a study, an average user from 2014 would have spent 6 to 10 lakh just to keep up with these upgrades. Thirty years ago, this price, paid for the novelty of innovation, was the annual salary of the President of India! Ironically, those once-contemplative individuals are now among the biggest consumers of this material indulgence. This is just one story of material pleasure—millions of such brands are available for people to associate with, which become symbols of success.

Is there anything wrong with this development? Perhaps not. For the 70% of the world's population dependent on branded chemicals as medicines for survival, the prevalence of brands and products is an accepted reality.

From medicine to hospitals, food, clothing, careers, finance, education, housing, vehicles and bathroom essentials—brands now define our individual existence. There's nothing inherently wrong with this, as these brand identities define our body and its context today.

At my previous college, Srishti Institute of Art, Design and Technology, I taught a "Body and Context" course for foundation students. In one exercise, I asked them to count the number of contacts on their phones—an average of 300 to 900. When asked how often they used these contacts, it turned out that 99% had never been used. The same was true for the apps they had installed—they essentially carried a garbage bin in their pockets. Most of the innovations they paid for amounted to this digital garbage.

Our bodies, too, have become garbage bins—filled with non-essential things accumulated to boost our entitlements and privileges with these brand identities. Our current way of life has resulted in this accumulation of waste, and we take pride in it as our personal achievement.

As we accumulate more and more waste, nature has begun its response to climate change. Nature no longer wishes to tolerate our relentless pursuit of garbage accumulation. While we walk around, taking pride in our roles as living garbage bins, the climate has started quietly stripping away those possessions, one at a time.

Is there anything wrong with it? Probably not.

Yet, if we still need to lose touch with contemplation and reconciliation, there is still a chance for us to attain it. The only question is whether we should reconcile with our fate or embrace the promise we owe to future generations. The choice is ours.

Photo: from the class on design thinking at Vidya Shilp University

Art and the Tears It Rarely Shed

(Vincent on a Kerala vacation - ai art project)

For much of history, art seldom moved us to tears. It wasn't until the advent of technology—when Islamic fundamentalists began to exploit image-making for propaganda—that art in Islamic traditions began engaging with emotions beyond awe and reverence. Before this shift, the finest Islamic craftsmen created intricate patterns and artefacts, masterpieces of skill but devoid of emotional depth.

Indian art followed a similar trajectory. Its Buddhist, Hindu and Jain sculptures and images often relied on themes of devotion, eroticism and sensuality, masquerading as love, but rarely delved into universal human emotions like pain or longing. These works celebrated beauty and form but lacked the emotional resonance that could stir the soul. Mughal or other Indian miniatures, for instance, were delicate displays of stylized love or power—elegant yet emotionally flattened.

European art was the same until the Renaissance of the 15th century. Before then, it was dominated by the church and royal patrons, who reduced art to a vulgar display of authority and lust cloaked in craftsmanship. These expressions failed to evoke basic human emotions. They didn't make us cry, laugh, or ache with empathy. Instead, they inspired awe, devotion, or, at best, sensual pleasure.

The story was similar across African, American, and Southeast Asian art traditions. Despite their cultural richness, these artistic expressions seldom invoked tears—one of the purest emotional responses that binds humanity together. At its core, pain stands as the most universal human experience. It transcends ego, unlike romance, and gives love its enduring power. Love born out of pain—shaped by the fear of loss—is love at its most profound and lasting.

The Renaissance marked a turning point in European art. Humanism taught patrons to value emotions, and with it came a seismic shift in artistic expression. Suddenly, art began telling stories of pain and tragedy that resonated with universal human experiences. The lives of artists themselves became tales of sorrow and struggle, their pain immortalized in their works. This emotional awakening made their art legendary, capable of touching hearts across generations.

However, the 19th and 20th centuries—especially the post-war world—ushered in an era of cold intellectualism in art. The raw humanity of earlier works gave way to sterile, conceptual pursuits. Stressed of its emotional core, visual art became a commodity, catering to the clinical gaze of critics and traders. The spark of human emotion flickered briefly in the works of abstract expressionists, but postmodern theorists and their "manufactured" artists extinguished it, replacing the heart with intellectual and textual profanity.

Today, as humanity faces the mounting crises of climate change and cultural fragmentation, art must rediscover its emotional essence. Pain, laughter, and the shared humanity they evoke are needed more than ever. Perhaps it's time to bring these humane expressions back into the sterile white cubes of galleries and museums. To breathe life into the art world once more. Perhaps.

(Recently, when I published an AI-generated piece titled "Van Gogh's Travel Diary in Kerala," a few of my friends asked me, "Why Kerala?" I chose not to reveal my reasoning to them. But in truth, the choice was deliberate—in my view, Kerala art brims with intellectual profanity than elsewhere in India. So, i was exploring the journey of this poster boy of tragedy in art world in that landscape )

Vermeer moved away from Baroque

 

In the history of Western art, few artists have captured the subtle beauty of windows and their manifestations in human life as masterfully as Johannes Vermeer. Though he never achieved great success during his lifetime, Vermeer is now celebrated as one of the most brilliant artists of his era. Among the 34 authentic paintings he has known, 20 feature windows as a key element, through which a soft, diffused light illuminates his subjects.

Unlike his Baroque contemporaries, who portrayed characters emerging from darkness into light toward the artist or viewer, Vermeer’s subjects appear as though the light is gently arriving at them, leaving both the artist and viewer in shadow. Standing before his works, we find ourselves in the dark corners of the rooms he depicts, quietly admiring his figures. His women, though not as conventionally beautiful as the idealized portraits of the Baroque, are transformed into enigmatic, lasting beauties through the subtle, subdued light that enters his studio windows.

Vermeer’s use of windows is precise and poetic; he captured three distinct types in his paintings, along with two types of floor tiles—ceramic and marble—to create a deep perspective. The light always enters the scene at a right angle from us, illuminating his characters. As we sit in the shadows of his studio, appreciating these quietly radiant figures, we are enveloped in a silence that invokes a deep, contemplative longing, as if we, too, are seeking something lost or distant.

To see the paintings, please visit https://www.essentialvermeer.com/vermeer_painting_part...

Dark in impressionism

 നിറങ്ങളും അതിന്റെ നിഴലുകളും വെളിച്ചം വിതറി വീഴുന്നതാണെന്ന് കരുതിയ ഇമ്പ്രെഷനിസ്റ് കലാകാരന്മാർ വാൻഗോഗിന്റെ സൂര്യകാന്തിയെപ്പോലെ സുര്യനെയും പകലിനെയും സ്നേഹിച്ചു നടന്നപ്പോൾ, അവരിൽ ചിലർ ഇരുളിൽ വീഴുന്ന വെളിച്ചത്തിന്റെ നിഴലുകളെയും സ്നേഹിച്ചിരുന്നു. പകൽ വെളിച്ചത്തുലുറങ്ങി രാവിന്റെ നിഴലുകളിൽ പതുങ്ങിയിരിക്കാറുള്ള പ്രേതങ്ങളെ അവർ ഭയന്നിരുന്നില്ലെന്നു തോന്നുന്നു. മോനെയുടെ La Rue Montorgueil, Paris, Festival of June 30, പിസ്സറോവിന്റെ The Boulevard Montmartre at Night (1897), വാൻഗോഗിന്റെ The Starry Night (1889) and Café Terrace at Night (1888), ദേഗാസിന്റെ The Café Concert പോലുള്ള ഒട്ടു മിക്കവാറും ചിത്രങ്ങൾ, വിസിലറിന്റെ Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket (1875), അങ്ങിനെ ഇരുളിൽ സുര്യനെ മറന്നു പോയ ചില അപഥ സഞ്ചാരങ്ങളും ഇമ്പ്രെഷനിസത്തിൽ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു.

While the Impressionist artists cherished sunlight and believed that colours and shadows were beautifully dispersed by light embraced the day fondly reminiscent of Van Gogh's sunflowers, some also found allure in the shadows cast by light in the dark. They seemed unafraid of the ghosts that lingered in nighttime shadows, just as they were fearless in capturing the brightness of day. Works like Monet's La Rue Montorgueil, Paris, Festival of June 30, Pissarro's The Boulevard Montmartre at Night (1897), Van Gogh's The Starry Night (1889) and Café Terrace at Night (1888), Degas's The Café Concert, and Whistler's Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket (1875) reveal that some Impressionists ventured into the depths of night. In these nocturnal journeys, some seem to have left behind the sun's warmth, exploring the mysterious beauty of darkness instead.

"This artwork is a statement, and the statement is false", 2016 (borrowed from Liar's paradox)

A tribute to Kurt Gödel, the brilliant mathematician who overturned Bertrand Russell and Alfred North Whitehead’s monumental work, Principia Mathematica. They aimed to prove that mathematics could be entirely grounded in logical principles, presenting it as the universe's fundamental structure. Gödel's groundbreaking theorems, however, showed that such a foundation was impossible, revealing that no formal system could prove all truths in mathematics. Since then, mathematics has had to be reimagined, embracing structures beyond logic alone. So was art, with the adaptation of this premise by René Magritte for his work "This is not a pipe"

Why Are Indian Institutes Adopting Curricula That Have Led to the Decline of Art and Design Schools in Europe and the US?

If you search for "art schools are disappearing" online, you will likely find numerous articles, reports, and essays. Some express anxiety, others frustration, and a few provide a measured analysis of the issues driving this crisis. A recurring concern is that art and design institutes increasingly function as academic centres rather than as spaces for hands-on practice. Instead of focusing on media and material exploration, art and design are often taught primarily as theoretical or textual subjects.

Over the years, I observed several leading art and design institutes in India hosting prominent scholars from European and American academia to advise Indian faculty on curriculum design. Ironically, similar approaches have contributed to the decline or closure of many art and design institutions in the West over the past 20 to 30 years. While one does not wish to overly criticise these influential figures or their contributions, as they failed to address the decline of art and design institutes in the West, it is crucial to reassess whether their academic approach suits the emerging Indian art and design education.

To start, let's clarify the difference between academia and teaching in the educational realm.

Academia in education: Academia focuses on advancing knowledge through research, scholarship, and critical inquiry. Academics contribute new theories, insights, and discoveries to their fields, often through journal publications, conference presentations, and books. Research is the primary emphasis, particularly within universities and research institutions, where academics are required to publish regularly, attend conferences, and secure research funding.

Academic evaluations largely depend on research output, citation impact, and contributions to the field. While teaching is a component of their roles, research accomplishments typically carry greater weight. The intended audience for academic work is primarily other scholars, specialists, and professionals aiming to push the boundaries of a specific discipline. Academics usually work in universities, research institutions, or think tanks, balancing teaching responsibilities with research duties. Professional growth is driven by publications, research grants, and tenure, with ongoing learning achieved through specialisation, conferences, and continued research.

Teaching in education: In contrast, teaching centres on knowledge transmission and student learning and Teachers focus on helping students understand concepts, develop skills, and cultivate curiosity. Research is minimal, emphasising direct instruction and classroom management rather than research or publication.

Teacher evaluations are based on their ability to engage students, promote learning, and achieve measurable outcomes. Success is often gauged through student performance, classroom observations, and feedback from students and parents. Teachers typically need metonymy in curriculum design and methods, especially in standardised systems, as they follow structured lesson plans and timetables. With limited time for research, teacher growth focuses on pedagogy, classroom management, and educational tools, often achieved through workshops, training sessions, and certifications designed to enhance teaching skills.

In summary, academia and teaching serve distinct but equally important roles, each requiring unique approaches and skill sets, especially within art and design education.

The Confused State of Indian Art and Design Institutes:

Closely examining curriculum design in Indian art and design institutes reveals significant confusion. Some institutes have taught art and design since independence, whereas others have emerged more recently.

This confusion can be categorised into two main areas:

1. The distinction between undergraduate and graduate programs.

2. The difference between academia and media-material teaching.

As mentioned, academia primarily focuses on research, targeting scholars rather than clients or viewers. Just so you know – the benchmarks for accomplishments in this context are defined accordingly. In other words, an academic program—whether in art, design, or other humanities—centres on text-based knowledge production rather than material exploration and expression.

If art and design institutes fail to differentiate clearly between academically focused and media/materially focused tracks in their graduate and undergraduate programs, they risk leaving students frustrated. Those interested in academic study or hands-on media practice may engage in areas that need to align with their goals or passions. Historically, art and design education has succeeded in nurturing students capable of excelling in either field, yet current practices often need to be revised between student interests and program offerings.

My experience with graduating students from various institutes shows that many need more confidence upon completing their programs. This is mainly due to the institutional confusion between academic and media/material approaches. Today, many students graduate with a strong focus on theoretical knowledge rather than practical skills, often landing in a nebulous position—not fully academic scholars but not entirely media/material practitioners either. Given the significant financial investment required for art and design education, it won't be long before Indian students and parents seek more practical career paths, wary of the disillusionment that follows years spent in an unfocused Art and Design programs.

The second area of confusion involves the distinction between graduate and undergraduate programs. Many art and design institutes in India offer postgraduate programs as alternative tracks for students wishing to diverge from their undergraduate specialisations or provide a condensed two-year version of what would typically be a four-year curriculum. Those familiar with art and design education recognise that neither approach effectively fosters academic or media/material practice. Ideally, postgraduate programs should be structured as academic pursuits that enable students to generate knowledge through their practices.

These two areas of confusion pose severe challenges to art and design institutes worldwide. Many European and American institutions are looking to Indian and Chinese students for their survival despite maintaining a fee structure that racially discriminates against Asian and African students.

Increasing studies from Europe and the U.S. have highlighted the shortcomings of an exclusively academic model in undergraduate and postgraduate programs. This has led to widespread student disillusionment with art and design education, resulting in a shift away from these fields in favour of disciplines like engineering. A critical evaluation of this situation is necessary. Adopting these approaches, which have contributed to the decline of numerous art and design institutes in the West, as a model for programs in Asia and Africa requires careful reconsideration.

Lastly, a post-colonial approach is becoming essential in India's art and design education today. Numerous studies indicate that we must avoid reinforcing a colonial mindset that perpetuates racial discrimination embedded in globalisation. Instead, we should empower the next generation of art and design students and practitioners with a more inclusive and critical perspective that addresses our regional needs and requirements.

A Monk who doesn't acknowledge Sanyasa and his concept of Consciousness

After finishing my interview with a young Hindu monk from Uttar Pradesh at Yogi Ramsuratkumar Ashram, I saw Palaniyappan again near the Ramanashramam turn, chain-smoking in his saffron robe. Although the interview was insightful, I won't be able to use it in my thesis because the monk refused permission to mention his name, believing that nothing of his reference should remain in this world once he is gone.  Out of respect for his idealism, I decided to share it here for what it's worth (otherwise, It wouldn't have been possible still under thesis guidelines, which prevent me from disclosing research details publicly before concluding the research) and also share the story of another intriguing character, Palaniyappan.

Let's refer to the monk as Swami. Swami was born and raised in a village near Allahabad. After completing his MPhil in Physics from Allahabad University, he pursued another Master's in Philosophy from the same institution. A life-changing event occurred during this period—a chance encounter with a young Hindu woman monk from France, a scholar of Asian philosophical traditions. At that time, Swami was filled with aspirations to make a mark in the world, and he found it shocking that this highly educated, young, and beautiful woman from another culture was abandoning all bodily comforts and pleasures to seek a meaningful life in a foreign tradition.

After several conversations with her, Swami was deeply moved. He packed his bags and followed her wherever she went for the next two years. Both travelled lightly, each with just a single cloth shoulder bag, and she carried her passport and visa. Together, they journeyed across India, meeting saints, gurus, and spiritual leaders. She worked on her book while Swami awakened to a new wisdom he had never known before. By the time she returned to her country, Swami had undergone a complete transformation into a Hindu monk.

I met him at Sheshadri Swami Ashram, sitting outside his room on the same cement bench as me. I was immersed in my observational drawings, jotting down notes as usual. Beside me lay a half-finished copy of Ways of Walking: Ethnography and Practice on Foot, edited by Tim Ingold and Lee Vergunst. After a while, he asked if he could look through the book. I agreed, and as I continued with my notes and sketches, I noticed that he had read more than I had managed in the next two hours in an entire week.

While preparing to return to my room, he asked if he could borrow the book after I finished reading it. He even offered to bring it back and hand it wherever I wanted. I told him it was a university library book and also quite expensive.

We finally agreed to meet this morning at Yogi Ramsuratkumar's Ashram, with the understanding that he would share his thoughts on the book. Unfortunately, his decision to remain anonymous ruled out that possibility. Below is the transcript of our conversation.

Conversation:

Swami: "Since we've agreed that you won't use my name or refer to me anywhere, let's begin our conversation."

Me: "Okay. How old are you?"

Swami: "I'm 35."

Me: "Why did you become a Sanyasi?"

Swami: "No, I didn't 'become' a Sanyasi. In fact, I didn't become anything. I'm still the same person. What changed is my perception of life."

Me: "Can you elaborate on what you mean by perception?"

Swami: "Theoretically, perception can be approached as either an objective exploration or a subjective inquiry."

Me: "I'm still unclear."

Swami: "Let me simplify it. One can live life with ideas and aspirations, working toward them in a controlled, goal-oriented manner—that's the objective approach. The other is to let life flow through you, allowing experiences to shape your journey. You no longer control your life; instead, you're like a wave in the ocean, inseparable from the sea. Many spiritual teachings glorify this as an enlightened state, particularly in religion. But philosophically, both approaches—objective and subjective—are essentially the same. They differ only in our perception. In Advaita, this confusion is referred to as Maya. To illustrate this, Shankara used the famous analogy of mistaking a rope for a snake."Me: "Why do you say it's allegorical? Shankara's entire philosophy of Advaita, especially against Nagarjuna's 'dependent origination' and 'Shunyata Vada,' hinges on this concept."

(He fell silent for a few moments.)

Swami: "You promised this conversation would only last 30 minutes, so let's avoid delving into philosophical debates. Let me clarify my earlier statement: I didn't become a monk; I changed my perception. To truly become a Sanyasi, one must transcend this confusion. You can have goals and subjective experiences, but a Sanyasi is someone liberated from the need to control them. They're free from both objectivity and subjectivity."

Me: "Can you explain that a bit more?"

Swami: "Think of a river. People expect it to flow toward the ocean, but the river doesn't choose that. Gravity pulls it to the lowest point. Along the way, the river carves its path, gathers water, and creates subjective experiences. But its 'goal' of reaching the ocean is simply gravity at work.

"Now, consider that rivers and oceans are both just water. So why do we differentiate between them? One flows through land, driven by gravity, and is called a river; the other remains a body of water held by gravity and called the sea. It's all the same force acting on water. Similarly, death is like the ocean—where life is ultimately headed, propelled by time. Life is like a river, full of experiences, but both are part of the same flow. Once you understand this, you see that a Sanyasi isn't separate from the material world. Except for their understanding of what drives change—whether they call it time, God, or universal consciousness—a Sanyasi is like everyone else. Ignore those who roam in saffron robes—they're often just trying to survive. A true Sanyasi understands this truth about life and remains detached from objective and subjective experiences while still living them."

Me: "Thank you for your time and this insightful conversation on life, perception, God, time, and consciousness. Will we meet again? How can I contact you if I need to?"

Swami: "There's no need. We're done. We had this interaction because of the book, and now that's over. You're free, and I'm free."

I thanked him and left the ashram, reflecting on our discussion. As I left, I noticed Palaniappan waiting for me, wearing the same saffron robe that our friend Swamy wore and pretending to be a Sadhu, as usual, for the 20 rupees I give him each day. He's not an evil man—just another character navigating this world. He was born into a life of poverty, and I was fortunate enough to be born into slightly better circumstances. Palaniappan and the Swamy had the same looks, and if I had not had the conversation, they both would have been beggars to me.

As Swami mentioned, we realize we are all part of the same consciousness when we shift our perspective. Some of us are like raindrops, while others become pools, streams, rivers, or oceans—depending on where we find ourselves or how we position ourselves in the flow of life in time.