Thought Forms (2)
anonymous Śiva lingam painting, 20th century
‘An Egoless Practice’, an article in ‘The Paris Review’ about a book called Tantra Song, is introduced with a description: ‘rendered by hand on found pieces of paper and used primarily for meditation, the works depict deities as geometric, vividly hued shapes and mark a clear departure from Tantric art’s better known figurative styles’. The writer goes on to remark that ‘they also resonate uncannily with lineages of twentieth-century art - from the Bauhaus and Russian Constructivism to Minimalism - as well as much painting today’.
Franck André Jamme, the late French poet, goes on to tell the colourful story of how he came to collect the Tantric paintings that are included in the book. He made several unsuccessful visits to India in search of them, eventually finding his way to practitioners and painters in Rajasthan, who provided, over subsequent years, copious new examples of the drawings and paintings he had been trying to find. Jamme never revealed the identity of these ‘Tantrikas’, explaining that the paintings were used for their personal meditation, and that they were only occasionally given away to friends and family. In another essay, however, he admitted that some of the painters were professional, and that he was given permission to to sell their work, as long he didn’t make excessive profit on the transactions.
Jamme first exhibited a selection of works from his collection in 1994 in Paris; The Drawing Center in New York showed them a decade later in an exhibition called ‘Field of Color’, and in 2008 a substantial number of his ‘Śiva linga’ paintings were also exhibited in New York, this time at Feature Inc., an offbeat semi-commercial gallery. These and other paintings have since appeared in several shows and exhibitions, becoming increasingly well-known, and the first edition of Tantra Song, which appeared in 2011 and is now in its fifth printing, sold out in a matter of weeks. It is probably true to say that much of their popularity has been due to a peculiar combination of exoticism and supposed familiarity. As a reviewer of ‘Field of Color’ pointed out in ‘The Washington Post’, ‘it's unnerving to walk into the Drawing Center in New York and see 30 small pictures, done in matte gouache paint on letter-size paper, that look like works by Kazimir Malevich, Jean Arp, Agnes Martin and other heroes of modern art. And then to find out that the pictures, though made recently, belong to a tradition of abstraction that dates back many hundreds of years. And that they come from Rajasthan’.
It is often helpful and revealing to make connections between disparate ideas and experiences, but further reflection may loosen their association. How relevant is it to relate Tantric images to the work of Western modernist artists? Is it fruitful to view them from a wide or subjective perspective, or should we only approach them within their own ideological and aesthetic context? The former is the more attractive option, because it isn’t easy to understand the meaning of these paintings. They are inherently ambiguous.
Jamme, in his texts, offers some guidance to interpretation, explaining that their background lies in Hindu Tantrism, and that the deities are usually Śiva and his consort Śakti, who is often manifested as the black goddess Kali. The images, he writes, contain references to various dualities, including the masculine Śiva and the female Śakti, day and night, and creation and destruction. Some elements in paintings represent Kali’s red tongue, others her sex, or yoni. Spirals signify energy; the colour blue denotes consciousness. Groups of three elements symbolize the ‘gunas’, the essential qualities of existence, but they may refer to three states of consciousness or the three prongs of Śiva’s trident. Although black is typically the colour of Kali, it is also used to depict ‘Śiva linga’, symbols of the god’s phallus. It might be added, too, that the dominant forms in the ‘Śiva linga’ paintings are related to ovoid stones, considered sacred, that are gathered annually from the muddy banks of the Narmada river; although the lingam is masculine, the stones are connected to Brahmanda or Hiranyagarbha, the cosmic egg, which has female characteristics. Similarly, many of the circular shapes in the paintings recall Shaligram stones, also collected from river banks, but this time from Gandaki in Nepal, which are supposed to represent the god Vishnu. Sometimes, however, as in these paintings, they are associated with Śiva. Everything is changeable.
There is ambivalence, too, in the old paper, usually marked or stained in one way or another and occasionally patched, which is the paintings’ standard support. Despite an agreeable visual contrast between the graphic austerity of the principal elements in the paintings and the paper’s characterful informality, it is unlikely to be intentional, as deliberate juxtapositions of this kind are not common in Indian art. In recent years, on the other hand, old and antique paper has been used in India to give an impression of age to contemporary work, and it should be remembered that Indian craftsmen and artisans, trained in traditional styles and techniques, continue to produce new artifacts for sale. Is it possible that at least some of these paintings and drawings are innocent copies, neither intended to deceive nor produced solely for devotion or meditation? And, if so, does it matter? The answer to this question depends on whether or not we consider their value, both aesthetic and financial, to be related to their origins and intended use - or, put differently, to their ‘authenticity’.
In any case, their resemblance to modernist artwork is slight. Ethnographic art is typically inspired by religion, myth, nature, sex, and death, and commonly has a functional or social purpose; modernist art in the West is generally self-referential. To interpret the former in terms of the latter does not always lead to understanding and clarity, but if archetypal shapes, colours, textures, and symbols have cross-cultural meaning, as may be the case, we might choose to trust our intuition.
Much remains to be learned about these enigmatic images, especially in relation to their history. It is significant that at least a few can be attributed to particular painters; a selection by Badrinath Pandit was exhibited in 2014 at Joost van den Bergh’s gallery in London in conjunction with some anonymous pieces, and with signed works by Acharya Vaykul, who is said to have been a student of Badrinath. There may be other identifiable painters in this tradition who have not yet become widely known.
For further exploration:
The Paris Review: https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2012/04/03/an-egoless-practice-tantric-art/
‘Field of Color’ pamphlet: https://issuu.com/drawingcenter/docs/drawingpapers50_fieldofcolor
Review of ‘Field of Color’: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/style/2004/11/28/tantric-message/c3608577-60db-444e-850c-0ae2dac15d84/
Pamphlet for exhibition at Joost van den Bergh Gallery: https://www.joostvandenbergh.com/tantric-drawings-cat
anonymous Tantric painting, 20th century