The stories of the men and women who inspired Ravi Varma
Summary
The divine figures in Raja Ravi Varma's celebrated paintings were real people—often his own family, a fact we rarely consider today
In February 1906, the 10-year-old rani of Travancore was taken to the upstairs window of an old palace. Standing below in the courtyard were two boys, one a college-goer, the other his teenaged younger brother. As she studied them, the rani was asked to select the one she liked. Her mother was keen on the older candidate—a good-looking, “very strong" fellow—as were others at court. Indeed, the boy was so handsome and well-proportioned that the artist Raja Ravi Varma had had him model as Lord Rama for his painting, Sri Rama Vanquishing the Sea. But the rani selected the younger boy, elevating him from life as a country aristocrat into the seat of royal consort, and in the 1920s he would wield much power when his wife succeeded as Travancore’s ruler. As for the older sibling, Rajaraja Varma, life had other plans: he finished college, joined the Travancore police, and spent his career in khaki shorts.
Few today who admire the paintings of Raja Ravi Varma—whose birth anniversary occurred last week—think of the men and women who feature in some of his most famous paintings. His models were often just family members. In the 1890s, for example, Ravi Varma had his 20-year-old daughter pose in different ways with her baby son for the camera, using these images to produce his celebrated There Comes Papa.
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In 1893, this portrait of a Malayali mother, who lived in the most orthodox settings in Kerala, was viewed by audiences in faraway Chicago, as one of 10 works her father sent for an exhibition. Mahaprabha, the daughter, was deemed a great beauty in her day, and according to the artist’s descendants, Ravi Varma modelled the faces of several of his goddesses on her. She looked a bit too regal, though, so he did soften her demeanour for canvas; Ravi Varma’s devis are more delicate than formidable.
Another well-known composition by Ravi Varma depicts the Ramayan scene where Ravana is in the process of abducting Sita, when Jatayu the vulture attacks him. As the villain of the tale cuts off Jatayu’s wing, a distraught Sita is shown looking away, her palms covering her face. Finding a model for Ravana was not complicated—a rather forbidding-looking cousin of Ravi Varma’s fit the bill, and he came to be known in family circles as “Ravanan ammavan" (Uncle Ravana). Sita too, according to lore, was played by a niece.
Ravi Varma asked Kunjukutty to pose with his Ravana; the latter put an arm around her waist and raised the other dramatically, triggering giggles from children nearby. An embarrassed Kunjukutty is said to have covered her face shyly at this moment. This pose struck Ravi Varma, and he chose to depict Sita the same way. Except in the painting, it is horror not bashfulness that the gesture communicates.
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Students and disciples also posed for the artist when needed. K.N. Parameswaran Pillai, whose own oil paintings reportedly hang in the government museum in Chennai, was one such model. Pillai had a tremendous moustache and rather strong features, which made him an appropriate candidate to pose as Lord Siva for Ravi Varma’s Descent of Ganga.
Prints of this work were among the most popular produced by the artist’s press in the 1890s and early 1900s, and exist in various collections across India. Again, most people who bow their heads before this rendition of the god are unaware that the human being in the picture was a colonial-era artist in his own right, described in 1909 as a favourite portraitist of south Indian businessmen. As one grandee wrote after Ravi Varma’s death, Pillai was “the best artist now available in South India for figure subjects".
Models were also acquired for a fee, though this was often challenging. In a picture titled At the Bath, we see a woman who has accidentally strayed to the wrong bathing ghat, and quickly covers herself up when confronted by the male gaze. The composition is believed to be based on an actual incident at Ravi Varma’s ancestral home. Yet the model who helped bring the image to life was not a temple attendant, as in the original story.
Instead, it was a sex-worker from Hyderabad who modelled for this painting in 1902. As the artist’s brother wrote, “Myself and some friends picked up… prostitutes to select a model from." They liked a Muslim woman “with a very charming face", though it was with “great difficulty" that she was persuaded “to come to our studio". “These prostitutes," the man finished, “readily come if called for immoral purposes, but when required for posing they raise great objections."
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There was also some degree of stereotyping. For The Miser, Ravi Varma obtained the services of a Jewish man. “We secured a Jew to sit" for the picture, diarised the artist’s sibling, adding that he had a nose that was a bit too “crooked at the tip". But that aside, “he is a fine specimen". He was paid a rupee and a half for each day of work, and unlike the Hyderabadi “prostitute", was apparently a pleasure to deal with; “a good and steady model".
In Udaipur, Ravi Varma had to improvise. Asked to do a portrait of the long-dead Maharana Pratap, he obtained a “tall Rajput" as model, had him decked out in armour “like a true knight of old", and then used existing miniatures to give the figure the historical figure’s face. In the end it worked out well, and his patron was pleased.
But perhaps what is most interesting is that Ravi Varma—aided by the camera—himself posed on certain occasions. An early 20th century photograph shows the artist bare-chested and with a mundu around his waist. He grasps a sword in front of him, and an attendant stands behind, holding a parasol. At a glance the image seems to depict Ravi Varma as the feudal lord he was—master of thousands of acres of land, and head of a prominent clan.
Yet a comparison with his 1905 painting Victory of Meghanada reveals Ravana depicted in a strikingly similar pose. There are minor differences: the parasol-bearer is female in the painting, while the photograph shows a man.
In its own way, it is amusing to think that when viewers over the last century have gazed at this picture and seen the wicked king of Lanka, they have really been looking at a version of Raja Ravi Varma.
Manu S. Pillai is a historian and author, most recently, of Gods, Guns and Missionaries.
