A new book frames artists in their studios

Portrait of an Artist is the latest title to delve into the workspaces of creative practitioners. Conceptualised and shot by Rohit Chawla, the book features the studios of 68 artists, ranging from modern to contemporary. It contains text by writer-curator Kishore Singh besides contributory essays by Ina Puri and Girish Shahane. Among many striking images, three frames stand out—there is a closeup of the late Akbar Padamsee with his eyes closed. If this image is about looking inwards, the one that follows is that of revelation. Padamsee doesn’t just open his eyes but those of the reader as well to the sanctuary that is his studio space. You can see examples of his “spiritual innerscapes”—some on the wall and others on easels—even as portraits lie on the floor. The artist himself makes a quiet appearance by the window. In the next image, he closes his eyes again as if bidding the reader adieu after this rare glimpse of his studio. With the artist’s passing in 2020, this series of images becomes an important archive of the art ist’s symbiotic relationship with the space that he inhabited and worked out of.

It was a conscious decision to shoot black-and-white portraits, adding a certain minimalism to the images. Chawla calls it a privilege to be a part of the artists’ private worlds, shot candidly over years without much ceremony. The images represent a flash of an artist’s persona—of creative ferment in some cases, organised chaos in others, and some marked by contemplation—captured for posterity. “In the world of fashion and advertising that I come from, I found it theatrical the way portraits were manufactured. There was always a battery of stylists, make-up teams, digital retouchers on standby… And in the middle of it all, the subject was performing not just for the camera but to create their own myth.” Through this compilation published by the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art and Mapin, Chawla wanted to create an “honest record” of the artists’ inner selves and the creative workings of the minds, ultimately leaving it to the reader to respond to what they consider enigmatic, emotional, pragmatic or creative.

In her foreword, Kiran Nadar, founder, KNMA, states that the timing of the project makes it poignant. “Several artists featured here—Ram Kumar, Tyeb Mehta, Manjit Bawa, Bhupen Khakhar—have since passed away, making their inclusion not just documentation but memorial. Their studios (are) now silent, these portraits and conversations preserve something essential about how they worked and thought,” she writes.

The book has been in the works for years now, the starting point being the Free-Da photo series (2014 onwards) featuring Anjolie Ela Menon, among others. “Getting into a creative workspace requires a certain degree of trust and courtesy that the artist chooses to bestow on another creative practitioner—a photographer in my case,” says Chawla. Some of his earliest subjects were modernists like S.H. Raza, Krishen Khanna and Ram Kumar. He found the painters of that generation to be imbued with an inherent generosity of spirit. For Chawla, some of those conversations with the masters linger long after the images were taken. “Krishen Khanna reciting Chaucer diligently without pause at 100 or singing a bit of Soni-Mahiwal was pure art too,” he remembers.

In his text, Singh addresses the impor tant question of what a studio really is. For some like Claude Monet, the expansive outdoors were his working space, unfettered by the boundaries of a room. Is the studio then a physical space or something that one carries in one’s mind? “It is both a space of experimentation and of wonder, the dress rehearsal before the performance,” writes Singh. “...where art is slowly, excitingly—fearlessly, fearfully—brought to life; given shape and provided form; stripped of pretence, layered by reality, contoured by fantasy… A studio is both: a place of infinite freedom and a lifelong prison; dream and nightmare; paradise and hell.”

It is only natural that images showcase the myriad forms that a studio can take. In some cases, the domestic world silently intrudes into the creative space as seen in Madhvi Parekh’s studio in Delhi, who paints outside her kitchen. Even as the artist sits beside canvases featuring fantastical worlds, anthropomorphic creatures and totem-like structures, an idli cooker perched on a shelf nearby comes into view. Arpita Singh’s book shelf acts as a partition between the studio and the home in Delhi’s Nizamuddin East, with the shelves populated with a range of titles by the likes of William Dalrymple and Namita Devidayal. For others like Mithu Sen and G.R. Iranna, studios are separate spaces to be guarded zealously, allowing for ideas to be shaped, abandoned and then reinvented without any intrusion. Accompanying essays mention how music runs like a leitmotif in each of these spaces, with strains of Bhimsen Joshi or Kumar Gandharva forming the background score to Goa-based Subodh Kerkar’s creativity; or Carnatic and jazz resounding through Manjunath Kamath’s studio in the leafy south Delhi neighbourhood of Vasant Kunj.

Every image captures the underlying energy of the space. It feels like the artist’s emotional state has manifested itself into the physical realm, creating an indelible connection between the two. Veer Munshi’s studio in the National Capital Region is marked by a spirit of coexistence—it is where his interests in gardening, cooking and art come together. It is also a space inhabited by craft and imprints of com munity from his homeland of Kashmir. In this studio in exile, Munshi works like a rafoogar, darning and repairing ruptures caused by violent conflict. The studio thus becomes a space of healing. Painter-printmaker T. Venkanna’s workplace in Hyderabad, on the other hand, is a charged space. It has something to do with the large canvases on display, situating deeply private moments into the public realm. The vivid imagery often fea turing nudes, devoid of desire, evokes a sense of hostility. The studio features his sketchbooks, printmaking machine and a board featuring proofs to allow him to make adjustments to his large-scale works.

In images of Ram Kumar in his studio, the reticence of the artist is palpable. He looks away from the camera, allowing his gaze to focus solely on the painting on the easel. You can feel the sense of control in Jayashree Chakravarty’s studio in Kolkata. It represents a living breathing field, one where the artist is completely in sync and comfortable with her inner self. “Being with myself is the most interesting thing,” she is quoted in the book. Besides a few strays, she calls herself her own best friend. Though she has a large studio to work on installations, featuring layers and layers of fabric and papers stuck together to take on anthropomorphic forms, and a smaller one to finish her sketches, you can find her drawing anywhere and every where. “And that is why you don’t want to accept her dinner invitation, unless you’re willing to settle for a takeout. Because she’s likely to ruin it or burn it, while she’s drawing right beside it,” reads the accompanying text.

Mithu Sen’s workplace in Surajkund, Haryana, creates an “un-studio”, much like the “un-language” that she weaves together in her paintings and performances. Her studio is really a series of open rooms, with one melting into one another, and each featuring an assortment of objects of curiosities. In this labyrinth, the artist creates a museum of thoughts, an archive of objects that she has hoarded over the years, be it dolls, mugs, toys, wires, mermaid skeletons, dried leaves and keepsakes. This “un-studio” can be packed up into suitcases to be ferried along with Sen wherever she goes.

In his studio in Patiala, Punjab, Kulpreet Singh creates poetic protests around issues of the land, ranging from farmers’ rights to stubble burning. In his workspace, you can find dried gourds hanging from the walls, timber and hay resting in corners, and a tractor parked on the side. “In his studio, Kulpreet adheres to no discipline, day and night morphing into one another when the creative urge strikes,” reads the text. He sometimes works alone and at other times with assistants when creating large scale installations. “At these times, the shabds or kathas he likes to listen to are dispensed with as the process of executing projects is one of detachment… It is the act of conceptualisation, which happens in the mind that forms the creative process. The labour required for completing it does not involve any emotion—it is just work,” states the text.

One of the most poignant photos is of Paramjit Singh, who is known for his vivid landscapes that play on colour and light. It is in these images that the power of black and white really shines through. The works, which when viewed in real life are pulsating with colour, acquire a different feel—the expression of the lines really comes through. This absence of colour also puts the focus firmly on the artist, who is framed by his canvases in one of the images. His studio runs parallel to his wife, Arpita Singh’s. The latter often calls out to him to squeeze paint out of tubes; at other times he can be seen making her a cup of coffee, “so her own journey as an artist is undisturbed. It is a rarely seen side of this giant of an artist—and a touching one,” states the essay. It is these softer moments that often slip through the crevices when artists get caught up in gallery and museum shows that the book seeks to spotlight.