It Hurts when You Hit, but Remember the Wounded Never Forgets

“Contemporary art scene needs critics, but unfortunately not criticism.”- David Rimanelli

Noted art critic and a regular contributor to the Art Forum Magazine David Rimanelli made this comment while responding to a question on the role of art critic in contemporary art scene, put to him by the author and art dealer Adam Lindemann. Perhaps, Rimanelli’s comment comes from his experiences as an art critic working from the US. However, I find this comment quiet interesting and pertinent to the Indian art scene also. Though I know that there are so many people who read my art critical writings with some kind of enthusiasm, there are several other people who take interest in me as a bait and as an entertaining critic. Perhaps, it is not my criticism that they want, but my presence as a ‘critic’ (not even as a person); a critic who would eventually write ‘something’. In the market economy nothing comes for free. Then am I selling my ‘criticism’ or my role as a ‘critic’? Time will only tell.

During the last few years I have been having this great opportunity of meeting so many interesting people who function in the contemporary art scene. Some of them are gentle souls and some of them are out there to vilify the art critics. While this latter group derives a great pleasure in wounding the art critics, the former group takes healing these wounds as its mission. I would like to write about a few people who have been wounding me and healing me for a long time, all in the name of art! My bottom line is simple- any artist, however great works of art he/she does, who does not show and uphold humanitarian values in general conduct, is a bad artist.

Money and power are the two contentious issues that bring the artists and critics on loggerheads on a material level. Having said that I should reiterate that a work of art and the criticism based on it face each other on a spiritual level, where other materialistic considerations come to be nullified. There was a time when critics held more power and even more money than artists. It was a time before the art market boom when the artists aspired only for critical acclamation. When market happened in India as a part of the global revolutions in market economy, the tables were turned. Now artists are muscled both in fame and fortune. Critics have become a lot that got caught up in a maze made of works of arts, artists, gallerists, dealers, art consultants, collectors, buyers, museums etc. If you are an art critic, then there is no escape route. Only way to avoid insult is to shun the field completely and become a gas welder, stuntman, journalist, a serial actor or a serial killer. Now the existential problem is an exclusive realm for the critics.

Recently, I met Jyothi Basu, an erstwhile existential angst ridden artist. He has this peculiar tendency to insult art critics. In his ‘spirit-ual’ high he told me, “Look, there was money lying right in front of the artists and art critics. Artists knew how to take it and you did not know how to pick up money.” I just wanted to remind him of his yester years when he used to sit with his innumerable existential drawings, smoking weed, licking on the wounds inflicted on his body and soul by his girl friend, third rate studio sets done for a private television channel and contemplating on suicide. He had then requested me to find some buyer for his drawings in Delhi. Bose Krishnamachari and Shibu Natesan proposed his name to some of the galleries in Mumbai while the art market was showing signs of improvement and things happened in his life since then. Jyothi Basu, as an artist has easily forgotten this history. Now even he refers to his skin color, “Look, Johny you are black and I am fair.” What should I call him, a racist or a bad artist, or both? But that does not prevent me from writing about his works, because I am an art critic.

Somu Desai is not a well known artist. He lives in Baroda. When I told him that I would like to come and see the Baroda artists, he immediately offered me his home, car and cook at my disposal. A day before I was supposed to leave for Baroda, I got a call from him. On the previous day, his brother-in-law had met with a freaky accident and died on the spot. I was shocked. I did not know how to console him. Sensing my discomfiture he said, “Johny, I have left Baroda and now I am in Vapi (Maharashtra). But my house, cook and car are there for you. You will be picked up from the airport by a friend.” I spent two days at Somu’s house in Baroda and was treated like a king. He was constantly calling and asking me whether I needed any other assistance or comforts. And what did he want from me? Nothing. And how long we know each other? Fifteen days; we were together for five days in a camp held in Rajasthan. I saw his works, his efforts to prove his worth as an artist. I saw the experiments that he did with the materials and process. Now I want to write about them because that would be my human response to his love and affection. Interestingly, I know Jyothi Basu for the last 22 years.

Familiarity, going by the lore, breeds contempt. At the same time, it can result in liking also. My long association with the Indian contemporary artists has resulted in both contempt and liking. Shibu Natesan had been a long time friend who turned into a full time foe thanks to the contempt that he developed for me over a period of time. However, I am sure that I am the only person walking on this earth who can reveal the secrets of Shibu’s life and art. Chintan Upadhyay has been a junior to me in college and when we hit it out after the long years of struggle we became good friends. Bose Krishnamachari, senior to me by a few years shows a lot of affection by providing me with materials to read and some times with other materials to survive. Subodh Gupta and Sunil Gawde too have developed some kind of affection for me though they do not stand by my arguments all the times.

Jagannath Panda was a friend and when he did not know English, I had formulated several things for him. Later he started talking to me in British accent and now even he vilifies me in the same accent. While Jitish Kallat, Baiju Parthan, N.S.Harsha and so on appreciate my works, artists like Murali Cheeroth (this surname was made legitimate by my efforts as he used to be Murali CK and desperately wanted to sound good with two names) call me a ‘ruffian’ (Recently in Bangalore, he came to me and apologized for whatever happened). Riyas used to send me his works for my appreciation when he was just Riyas ‘Who?’ Happy I am that he remains a friend even after he became Riyas ‘Komu’. T.V.Santhosh, for a complete year refused to take my calls or respond to my emails and sms (Valsan calls sms, SM Mess as most of them are messy) as he was not sure whether I was a friend or a foe. But he remains to be a friend forever.

Sometimes I find it really strange that erstwhile friends show a very cold face for the reasons unknown to me. Anita Dube is one among them. The amount of Old Monk Rum that we together consumed at her Tara Apartment house is directly proportionate to our harangue on the bourgeoisie class in India that splurges on consumerism. But soon Anita became silent on this as she started participating in the very same bourgeoisie class interests. Now she acknowledges me with just a nod. No words are spared between us anymore.

I am lucky that I have wonderful friends like Manjunath Kamath, G.R.Iranna, Pooja Iranna and a whole lot of youngsters from amongst the artists’ community. They all heal me most of the time I get hurt but don’t get retired. And there are many who hurt me quite regularly and I owe them a lot. When they inflict pain on me, I get stronger, my words get sharper and brain gets keener. So anybody wants to hurt an art critic, you are welcome for I am of that sort who see things clearly through the lense of tears and remember sharply through bleeding wounds.