Embracing The Unavoidable - A Profile of Ruby Chishti

Looking at the stitched, doll-like figures crafted by Ruby Chisthi, you may imagine as I did, that she would be as ample-bodied as her textile sculptures. Consider then my surprise, when she emails her photograph and I find myself glancing at this slightly built, almost waif-like woman.

In our subsequent email correspondence and conversations, she emerges from within the slits and folds of her sculpted forms, as expressive and candid. Born and educated in Pakistan, Ruby migrated to the U.S. seven years ago where she now lives in Brooklyn, New York. This physical location is not of much consequence to her and therefore her art practice, through which she expresses primarily the trials and trauma of being a woman and life in Pakistan. Her displacement evokes a sense of loss and also liberation for she feels that once you’ve left your ‘home’ then the whole world is yours and there is such freedom, for “no-body knows, no-body watches” and you do not have to live up to social and cultural expectations. To be free; unfettered by constraints to discover, express and be; is what she relishes.

Born as the fourth daughter to Safia Begum and Khushi Mohammed, in the Jhung district of Multan in Punjab, in 1963; her paternal grandmother once told the young Ruby that they were expecting a second son and cried in disappointment when she was born. This created a tremendous impact and each year thereafter “on the blessed night of Ramadan” she “prayed to become a boy”. In ‘My birth will take place a thousand times no matter how you celebrate it’, she seats five women in a circle, their arms hugging their heads, dropped in despair onto their ample laps.

She makes a statement about the grief of being born a woman and the attitude faced in giving birth to one, without expressing resentment and violence for her own predicament as a consequence of this prejudice. By presenting women who lament the birth of a girl child, she brings out the irrational domination of perception that distorts a woman’s view towards her own gender, re-enforcing the paradoxical nature of the circumstance, where a woman decries her own birth.

The choice of materials and how she crafts the figure highlights the plight of these women. The use of stitch, recycled fabric carelessly stuffed with straw, coupled with an indifference towards the survival of the created artefacts, are powerful in evoking the predicament that compels them to decry the birth of a girl child, even as she states that ‘she’ will be born a thousand times. Through the gesture of needle piercing the fabric she enunciates the process of repeated wounds, where the fabric becomes ‘skin’ ; and through the act of joining fragments she links the experiences of subjugation and rejection, expressed as despairing forms, crafted fragile yet resilient .

Presenting herself as well worn, soft and supple; tired and exhausted but still capable of being moulded again and again at will, through the nature of textiles whose warps are well known to endure the rigours of time, is evocative. The rounded form she uses is culturally associated with feminine passivity and accommodation and the figures are dependant on anatomical resemblances, not analogies; evoking rural rather than urban influences. Her father, a civil engineer employed with the government of Pakistan worked on developing highways, which involved a lot of travel for the family, with spartan living in villages Travelling frequently, Ruby remembers the charpai, as the only constant loaded onto trucks each time they left a particular destination. The ephemeral nature of a life lived in transit from these early years is reflected in the artist’s selection of material.

This is further emphasized in her installations such as ‘Altar’ and ‘Sketch’, where she collects twigs from the location of the gallery or site of exhibition and attempts to incinerate the memories, burning the installations at the end of each showing. The wood turns to ash but she admits that the memories remain in her consciousness. Burning may be deemed an act of violence in itself, but Ruby does not burn effigies of hate, she sets alight her pain and in the case of ‘Sketch’, a sculpture created of her deceased mother.

Ruby has lived close to death; witnessing the debilitation of disease and early demise of her brother aged 27 and father who was 47 yrs old. Both died of cancer. She then spent 11 years nursing an invalid mother when she was unable to make art. She also recounts living in perpetual fear of death by bomb blasts and murder in the dictatorship regimes of Pakistan. Listening to Ruby Chisthi speak is a touching encounter. She draws you into the ambit of her experience for the simplicity with which she speaks of prejudices and practices that underlie the thread of life in the sub-continent. These come alive not as ‘issues’ but as a very personal story, compelling you see it as such. She communicates without hesitation, welcomes any question and answers spontaneously without rancour. In recounting her memories of the days after Bhutto was hung, she says that newspapers were heavily censored; each column had patches of white, often after every two to three words, eliminating whatever was deemed offensive. She speaks of how a ‘hatoda’ gang was invented, spreading news of their exploits in the daily papers to put fear into the populace, so that the government was unhindered in their plans. She says it was impossible to sleep at night, as this gang supposedly inserted a pipe through the window, gassed entire families and then bashed their brains out with a hatoda.

The picture is gruesome, but Ruby Chishti’s work is generous in spirit despite the angst and her attempt to burn memories. We are informed of the pain where the artist in her rebels, but she also embraces it as unavoidable without hatred and repugnance; a wisdom that few of us have the capacity to adopt. Life has put her through unimaginable rigour. As an artist, she prizes the liberty to express and believes that what she has experienced as her life is what she brings to this world and what she wants to share with us. Her work inspires. We live in troubled times, everyone feels persecuted for something or other; leading to the burgeoning terror situation which is a constant threat across the globe. Many artists of the subcontinent are obsessed with violence and terror, but Ruby invokes this element not merely as a means to “comment upon the changing world in our surroundings, it is also a way to deal with her own situation – of a de-situated citizen.” What you cannot escape is what you must reconcile with; is her message, where life as a series of circumstance defines who we become. Chisthti accepts this, rather than rejecting herself as a consequence of experiences that have left an indelible mark. She transcends through her art.

Graduating with a BFA from the National College of Arts in Lahore, Pakistan in 1988, Ruby was drawn to sculpture, but allergic to the materials she graduated instead with a thesis in painting. Her current practice employs material that is non-permanent such as straw and twigs and also used fabric, collected over the years. As a child she made dolls with cloth and later sewed her own clothes but discovered cloth as a medium for her sculpture only in 1999 when she found a connection between the “exhausted cast-offs and the frail body of an inert mother.” In the tradition of the sub-continent she stitches them, not as quilts or decorative assemblages, but to make dolls, neither miniature nor life-sized, employing a diminutive scale; she aptly reflects the status women have been accorded in her cultural environment.

Chisthi’s work has been exhibited in U.K., U.S.A, Hong Kong, Canada, Australia Pakistan and India. She has been awarded a fellowship from Vermont and has attended numerous residencies and workshops across the world. Her work is well received and the common denominator is the response that everyone wants to hug the women she creates. What I find inspiring and admirable is that she expresses uninhibitedly despite the social constraints she grew up with, but with a certain humbleness that evokes empathy and sympathy rather than making the viewer recoil in horror; for she accords the view a place as it surely has, while stating her own emotively, but not as an emotionally distraught and defensively violent statement.

Her rendition of the buffalo conveys her sentiment well. “A symbol of abundance, sustenance and earth energy” Ruby identifies with them as she says “I feel very close to this creature called buffalo. As woman, mother, Mother Nature always giving, struggle has been planted into her deeply that it has penetrated her bone marrow. She has been betrayed and defeated so many times by injustice that defeat has no meaning to her, after each hardship she gathers more energy and make herself stand on her feet so that she can walk again even without the promise of gods” Stuffing them with straw, she felt she was filling their empty stomachs but despite this, they were fashioned as tired, lost, drained of energy, almost of their own volition. Thereby Ruby speaks for both the predicament of the buffalo and herself too, recounting her early days in the U.S where she worked as a mail sorter in a corporate mail centre for 12 hours a day; lifting heavy trays weighing 30lbs to 50lbs. As part of an assembly line, she felt that anybody could take her place anytime, that she was no more than a replaceable spare part – a ‘purza’’.

Life has immeasurable value for anyone who has lost so many loved ones, who has witnessed brutal killings, and so Ruby creates ‘Armour’ expressing the belief held by women in Pakistan that giving birth to a child secures them from threats of survival they may otherwise face. Using cast sanitary napkins and thread, she fashions a sleeping baby suspended from the ceiling like a ghost or ethereal being. Chishti herself does not subscribe to this view. She and her husband have consciously opted not to have children and they are constantly subjected to scrutiny by well-meaning compatriots. Here ‘’Armour’ then takes on another meaning, where the sanitary napkin denoting menstruation and therefore the non-creation of the foetus could be considered ‘armour’ for those who choose not to bring a child into this world, where life is not cherished and nurtured as they would like it to be.

This material is unusual but appropriate for Chishti who does not follow any rules. She confesses not knowing many sewing techniques, often hindered by this, but determined to sew: if she imagines something, it will be made. Cloth here then becomes emblematic. It speaks of wounds, of memories, violence and politics. It is both a challenge and a triumph for the artist. She uses it in an effacing way to serve as a figure or code or concept, wherein the fabric itself becomes nothing and yet it is also everything - the fulcrum of Ruby Chisthi’s emotive narrative.

The Raku Mistress - A Portrait of Manisha Bhattacharya in Clay

Manisha Bhattacharya, affectionately named the ‘Raku’ mistress by her friends is a potter who goes beyond the restrictive qualities of pottery. She does not define herself merely as a potter, nor does she see herself as designer; but considers her work  more in the realm  as that of an artist-craftsman. She is not bound by pottery conventions even though her work does not necessarily break free of them either. A self-confessed ‘addict’ of working on the wheel, the vessel forms the basis of most of the objects she creates, but she treats the surface of each vessel like a canvas. Working primarily in black and white, she manipulates the smoke on her pots, like a painter paints with a brush.

Pottery is an ancient craft of the Indian subcontinent and archaeological evidence dates its practice as far back as 4000 BC. Writing on the industrial arts of India in 1880, with reference to the potter, Sir George Birdwood has commented, that: “He is, in truth, one of the most useful and respected members of the community, and in the happy religious organization of village life there is no man happier than the hereditary potter, or kumhar.”

He supplied the entire village community, as well as the traveller, with pitcher, cooking pans and jars for storing grains, spices and salt. In addition he also made bricks and tiles.
 

A potter in ancient India is said to have enjoyed the dignity of certain ceremonial and honorific offices and earned enough through his work to be classified as rich. Many religious and political revolutions came and went as did the Greeks, Scythian, Afghans, Mongols, Portuguese, Dutch, English, French and Dane, but the religious trade union villages remained virtually unaffected. The village potter sat at his wheel which was of the “simplest and rudest kind”, amid all these shocks and changes, “steadfast and inchangeable for 3,000 years”.

  

Mechanization, electricity and modern industrial practices, have provided the consumer with more durable products available off-the-shelf, to overtake the business which was once monopolized by the local potter. Development has eroded the pride of place craftsmen held in the social and industrial hierarchy and hand-crafted produce has ‘novel’ and ‘exotic’ connotations today, as opposed to being considered the necessity they once were. While the village potter whose work has thus been devalued, makes do with a frustrated and frugal existence; the studio potter is perhaps finding a way to combat and overcome the blows dealt to the tradition of hand-crafting. Studio pottery is relatively new to India: pioneered by Sardar Gurcharan Singh of Delhi Blue Pottery in the 1920’s, ceramic artists are slowly finding awareness and appreciation for their work through exhibitions and retailing through designer stores.

At one level, a potter is a potter so what sets apart a potter like Manisha Bhattacharya from the local kumhar? Is it her education? Is it her world exposure? Is it the challenge of our times? Can Manisha and other contemporary potters really provide an alternative to the local kumhar or has the tradition of pottery undergone such a sea of change that we cannot turn the wheel to recast that mould?

Manisha is aghast at the sheer audacity of the idea, that studio potters could ever replace the local kumhars. She says that other than the medium and the love and feel that they have for it, their paths do not even cross. Each caters for a completely different niche market, with its own sense of aesthetics, sensibilities and needs. Bengali by birth, brought up in a ‘liberal’ environ, in North Delhi, Manisha represents a generation that does not bear the hallmark trauma of partition; or the identity ridden angst of those who grew up with a desire to define Indian as being apart from the rest of the world, as a rebuttal to years of colonization. She is as much at ease in the Sunder bans as she is in New York City or elsewhere in the world. This is reflected in the vessels she creates, in the marks she makes and those she chooses to leave out of her canvas of clay.

She says she is lucky to be Bengali, for art was revered in the environment she grew up in and one of the games she and her siblings played was to identify whether a painting had been painted by Botticelli or Caravaggio etc. Her siblings are all involved in the arts in some form or another, even if it’s a second profession or hobby and these criteria all sum up to give her considerable moral support to invest precious energy in a field of art that is yet marginalized from the mainstream and may perhaps never quite be on par with painting, is the way that Bhattacharya perceives the work she does.

Being close to Mother Nature keeps her rooted. Working with clay, is like Vipassana for her; where with a little music – no words, with a single minded focus, she meditates as she kneads the clay. An essential and integral part of being a potter, it is perhaps the most boring aspect but leads to the making of the pot where Manisha comes into her element. Awakened to the power of her hand and her fingers; of how a push and a shove can completely alter or create a form in clay, there is a sense of fulfilment and completion, replete with a sense of being which is difficult to articulate. She is at home with clay. She revels in the turning of the wheel but she truly comes alive when she works with the glaze. Here Raku is the mistress.

Raku is essentially a traditional Japanese firing technique, which has intimate connections with the Japanese tea ceremonies. Tea masters found that the Zen principles of harmony, simplicity and restraint, which were integral to the tea ceremony, were best reflected in the style of pottery made by a Korean potter Chojiiro, whose parents had migrated to Japan. The characteristics of the Raku tea bowls as pioneered by Chojiiro , are their exclusive use of monochrome black or red glazes. 

 

Traditional Raku-wares are hand-formed rather than thrown on the wheel. Hand-forming increases the potential for modelling and allows the spirit of the artist to speak through the work with directness and intimacy. Through negation of movement, decoration and variation of form, Chojiiro went beyond individualistic expression to manifest an abstract spirituality, as works which represented a ‘monochromatic silence’. The term ‘Raku-yaki’ or Raku ware is derived from ‘Jurakudai’, which denotes architecture of the Momoyama period (late 16th century). 400 years later, the issues of spirituality and artistic consciousness as addressed by the pioneer of Raku are as valid and relevant as they were then, but Raku then and now has undergone a vast change.     

Although Raku has its antecedents in 16th century Japan, what Manisha does is called American Raku (even in Japan!). She has not had a ‘Japanese experience’ in Raku, so far, but what she has learned is not deemed by her to be second hand either. Its practice in the western world began when Bernard leach had his first encounter with Raku firing at a Raku party in Japan in 1911;later taken to great heights of popularity by Paul Soldner in the U.S. in the 1960’s. This practice however is not without its share of prejudice and controversy. Some believe that Americans cannot do Raku as the Emperor has not given them the permission to do so. But beyond the realm of philosophy, there is a technical difference. In Japan, after firing, the pots are dunked in water, while in the west; they are smoked in sawdust or other combustible material. The first employs oxidization and the other reduction. Manisha uses the latter, reducing her pots in sawdust.

 

Her Raku journey began in 1992 while working with Jane Hamlyn in U.K. It was the first time that she had seen Raku work of various artists and was deeply moved. Her present working in the black and white genre is done much along the lines of Dave Roberts’ technical style, with deeper influences by Wayne Higby, both artists whom she interacted with on this visit to the U.K. and whose work she admires immensely. But that was not where it all started. Manisha’s tryst with clay began 18 years ago

 

In the absence of institutional teaching in ceramics, most artists in India begin learning under practicing ceramic artists who also accept students. Manisha began her studies, in 1984 with Nirmala Patwardhan who in turn had trained under Bernard Leach and Ray Finch. Then in 1989 she went to study with Ray Meeker and Deborah Smith of California, who established the Golden Bridge Pottery in Pondicherry 25 years ago. She says that the two years she spent at Golden Bridge left a strong imprint “as one absorbed their Japanese influences, aesthetics and approach”. 

 

Her focus on Raku began in 1993. A yet uncharted style in India, she worked boldly: built a portable fibre kiln for herself and despite the missing guidance of a master, persisted by trial and error, taking inspiration from the works of those she admired, to evolve a style that we recognize unmistakably as the work of Manisha Bhattacharya. With her subtle expressions in black, white and grey she is in a league all of her own. 

 

For potters, their lineage and its roots can be traced as far back as 4000 BC. This, along with personal experience and exposure to practices that have influence in philosophy, style and technique from Japan to the United States, U.K. and Pondicherry, Manisha could well be over-awed or overwhelmed but contrarily, she has managed to bring together all those elements, including her own Bengaliness into being, to complement rather than dwarf her progress. It is difficult to identify where one starts and the other ends. Her work can hold its own anywhere in the world, for it speaks in a global voice. Manisha represents through her work, the contemporary artist whose roots are within the parameters of an ancient practice, but with appropriate references to and from the rest of the world. Unlike a painter, she has not cast aside the crafting tradition, what has changed is the way the work is perceived.

 

The work of Manisha Bhattacharya and other contemporary studio potters is no longer about providing for the essential needs of the community. Contrarily, their work is a luxury that few can afford. It straddles the realm between art and craft, between decoration and function. The entire tradition of pottery has come a long way away from the local kumhar who held position of pride in the local community, neither the studio potter nor the kumhar have the standing in society the traditional potter once did.

 

Manisha’s work uses a primarily ‘functional’ form, deliberately eliminating its ‘functional’ purpose to use the form as mere decoration. The inherent paradox is reflective of the predicament of a potter, whose inherited psyche is attuned to function, re-born in a world that perceives the mould as ornamental rather than functional. The understated, subtle and sophisticated artistic statement, which encompasses vast issues of debate with restraint and refinement of expression, is one of the most charming attributes of her work. The Japanese is influence evident. Even if the experience of making has not been tutored by a Japanese master; her aesthetic sensibility reflects the minimalist qualities embodied in the philosophy of Zen that deemed Raku appropriate for the ritual tea ceremonies in Japan. It is this that sets her apart from the otherwise ‘Indian’ influences with their predictable, emotionally led, exuberant and often overwhelmingly decorative qualities.

                                                          

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Ecce Homo - Behold the Man!

Ecce Homo - Behold the Man!
A retrospective exhibition of Satish Gujral
At the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi

Ecce Homo exclaimed Pontius Pilate the Roman governor of Judaea, just before presenting Jesus Christ to the high priests, after the flagellation and the crowing with thorns (New Testament). Santo Dutta, curator of the retrospective exhibition of Satish Gujral at the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi; likens the torture and death of Jesus with the dark shadow fused in much of Gujral’s work, essentially referring to the Image of Man in the art of Satish Gujral. Thus the exhibition is entitled with Pilate’s cry: Ecce Homo – Behold the Man!

When I went to interview the artist, I went with a million questions and some reservations too. There were many incongruities I could not reconcile with. It was in meeting the man, rather than the artist, that I found some answers. He touched my soul with his poignant thoughts and charming eloquence despite his hearing impairment and hesitant speech. I encountered a very special human being. His art only exemplifies this, but to understand its diversity and contradictions, it is not art history that one turns to but one’s humanity.

The word “genius” was used by Charles Fabri in 1952 for Gujral’s “deep-felt humanity” in his portrayal of suffering and sorrow in the famous Partition series of paintings. The story of Partition, Gujral concedes was evocative of his own anguish and that if Partition had not happened; if he had not been witness to those atrocities, he would have invented another theme to depict this. From his studio in Lahore, he could see the movement of the first waves of refugees, and as the impetus for Partition grew, it became his responsibility to physically transport refuges, abandoned women and children to camps set up in border areas.

The horror and violence of what he witnessed were perhaps some of his worst experiences and in portraying this he also exorcised some of the disbelief and horror of losing his own hearing at the age of eight, in an accident while on holiday in Kashmir. The stark reality of this enforced silence, he says, was “terrible” and subsequently shaped his whole being. Painting, for him became a means by which he tried to substantiate his existence, for as he says: “what proof you have when you cannot hear the sounds around you that you really exist?”

A retrospective allows us to see the way an artist has evolved. When viewing the work of Satish Gujral the journey unfolds in leaps and bounds. A young and emotional Gujral is evinced in the brutal, anguished strokes that define the harrowing portraits of Partition. The colourfully passionate collages are evocative of his Mexican sojourn and its re-defining influence. While the political portraits speak of his proximity to power; other drawings are infused with light-hearted folksy patternings which speak of his search for an identity rooted in this ethos. The majestic phase of working with wood, which gave us some of his finest work, is well represented and there are also works in metal and stone; some brilliant individualistic expression in architecture (photographs) and then more canvasses where some light-heartedness emerges at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. The progression is not slow and neither is there a definitive pattern of evolution.

 Each phase is complete in itself; not an adjunct to some other media or phase of his working. This can be disconcerting if you look at it from a narrow, orthodox perspective, but seeing it from this artist’s viewpoint of being inside a train in transition, where the constant changes allowed him to ‘break’ the otherwise stifling silence; one realizes that we take so much for granted and that in our stereotyped expectations of artists and their creative endeavour, we tend to lose track of the human being. How, when, where and why do we separate the artist from the man?

 “Artists are not men of ideas, they are men of feeling”, says Satish

Gujral. Their responses to the world are governed by feelings of joy, of inadequacy, of pain and more and this is what they express as they paint or sculpt. When Gujral saw wood turn to cinder, he determined that he wanted to work in wood. He didn’t have any idea what he would do but he knew that he wanted to work with burnt wood; with the same passion that Van Gogh had expressed to his brother Theodore, which as Gujral recollects he wrote : “I want to paint red. I want to paint red. I want to paint red; with all of my heart I want to paint red,” pointing out that he does not say what he wants to paint with/in the colour red. This is the kind of impetus Satish Gujral felt with every change of medium he undertook: a heartfelt passion.

The burnt wood phase was a consummate one that excluded any painting whatsoever and lasted some 10-15 years. Large-scaled works, some of them 60” x 40”, have endured the artist’s passion and responded with a lyrical movement, belying the rigid nature of wood, evocative of a handling of material with deceptive ease. This is the genius in Gujral that has been able to make any medium respond to his being; expressing through it his passion, his pain and anguish. Wood and gold leaf dominate in these works, with a minimal use of leather thongs, glass and ceramic beads. It is the scale; the starkness in the absence of detailing; subtle but emphatic utilization of texture, along with the contradictory use of burnt cinder with gold leaf that draw the viewer into the sensual folds of their wooded but not wooden embrace.

Satish Gujral is a man full of stories and anecdotes. For each question, he has a story to tell. In each of his works the stories are there to be read but perhaps few have the privilege to meet the artist and understand some of what underlies the ideas he has shared through his creative work. However, this becomes a valuable insight in any attempt to understand and evaluate the work. If it falls short of our expectations, is it because we do not know enough?  Does the onus of making it explicable to us, lie with the artist?

In our world today where time is at a premium and everyone in a hurry to get somewhere, it is not possible to grasp the depth of an artist such as Gujral is. The haunting hollows and bulbous forms seem intimidating in their traumatic rendition, but it is in these works that one also finds the essence of the man who has the courage to face himself and his pain. His preoccupation with this made Fabri, the art critic who incidentally also ‘discovered’ the artist in him, comment that “Life is like a round pillar with both the dark and the light sides of it” but that Satish Gujral “seemed to be obsessed with darkness only”. The artist penned his reply to the Editor of the Statesman (1956) saying: “Life is no doubt like a round pillar with both the dark and the light sides, but no individual can see both sides at the same time. If ever I come around to the light side, I will depict it.”

Many shades were passed through. One definitive phase in Gujral’s work and evolution as an artist was the time he spent on a scholarship in Mexico (1952-54). His association with the muralists Riveria and Siqueiros opened up a whole new world of ideas and materials. There also lay a parallel in the political and economic restructuring of the early 50’s in Mexico, with the same in India after years of Imperial rule. Gujral found greater empathy with the Mexican artists’ search to assert a cultural identity, rather than the ideology of the Progressive Artists’ Group he had encountered during his years at J.J School of Art in Bombay; for their quest focussed on the inner rather than the outer being. It has been this that has defined his search, where he may have touched upon ideas that emanate from the Indian miniature tradition and folk art but always returning to ideas rooted in himself rather than his ‘Indian’ identity .

Gujral’s work, stretching over five decades, is defined by a marked individualistic adisciplinarity. Every change of material and form, however passionate the approach, also evoked some difficulty of reception. His eclectic training at Mayo school, Lahore; where he was exposed to carpentry, clay moulding, wood carving, drawing and design and his training with the muralists in Mexico did however, facilitate the process. His architectural work is approached with “complete lack of historical inhibitions” and without following any dictated ‘ism’ of the time. He has worked on numerous building projects which include the Belgian Embassy in New Delhi, for which he was honoured with the “Order of the Crown” by the Belgian Government. The sculpted quality of this building, composed of brick dome vaults and skylights, created a whole new architectural vocabulary. Of this Gujral has said: “I just designed it through some kind of instinct and when I had finished I still did not know what I had done.”

In Satish Gujral, it is the spirit that triumphs and this is his greatest success. Whether it is grappling with a deafening silence, painting on canvas, working in wood, stone, metal or designing buildings, it is the spirit behind it all that shines through. A spirit of survival: an inspiration to emulate.

 And yes, he did begin to see the lighter side of life. The canvasses done at the turn of the century testify to this. Taking their cue from his early works, the forms remain sculptural, the lines are more sensual and colours turn vibrant. Reconciling with the nature of life, the colour of emotion has changed and so has the texture. The figure has evolved with a distinctive character, its anguish predictably blunted by success and the maturing intellect; reflected in the texture that forms the base for all the canvasses which absorbs rather than highlights strokes of the paint brush. However, one does not find in them quite the passion hitherto characteristic of the work of Gujral. The eye seeks this reassuring evidence of the ultimate triumph of the spirit, which celebrates in reconciliation, without trace of lament for the struggles or for what has not been achieved. In the latest canvasses on view: the Game series, one is particularly aware of a return towards a lament. As the hues darken once again, they seem to say:

“We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught .....”