BY SRIMATHI SAKUNTALA THAMPI

I am writing this article in the hope that it may communicate something of my uneasiness, and touch the conscience of people of my own age and bring with it, perhaps, a suggestion of the light. The Modern Age has witnessed a revolution in Art,-the result of the resistless forces of the age, the silent revolution of time. Some think that this revolution has come on us like a thief in the night. It has been coming for centuries, inevitable, irresistible and quite observable. It is we who are to be blamed, for we have fostered and encouraged this state of things, and the change has been speedy and dramatic. India, through generations, has been in the slow travail of evolution and the present-day revolutionary ideas are momentous and far-reaching. Some of us who have not given Indian culture and India's art a passing thought have wakened up to find that much of the Occident is slowly merging into the Orient,

and a new set of conditions is taking the place of neither the one nor the other. This confusion of ideas has much to do with the mechanised age we live in. I shall divide this sketch roughly into three periods: the Buddhistic, Moghul and Modern, and, from a study of these remarkable ages you will agree with me that the Buddhistic and Moghul in comparison to the Modern is a flight from the sublime to the chaotic.

Let us begin with Ajanta, a name which will endure in the records of artistic culture for all time. It stands for all that is creative and educative in the aesthetic instincts of our people during the zenith of India's renaissance. In that great and glorious age which has left its mark on the civilization of the world, a community of artist-monks produced their paintings undisturbed by the ebb and flow of political agitation or the progress of civilization around them. I question if there is any period in the world's history which gave to posterity, a more magnificent specimen of art than India at the close of the seventh century. Criticism being the plaything of the prejudiced, has battered on the walls of India's art at the expense of artist and architect, but the name of Ajanta has persisted while the sincerity and piety of greater names have been forgotten. In the study of that extraordinary period of achievement, these works stand symbolic of an expression of religious zeal and of great artistic skill almost amounting to genius, and reached degrees of sculpture together with painting unequalled in the recorded page. Buddhism being the prevailing religion, all Asia looked to Buddhist India for inspiration; nevertheless, it is still a matter for some surprise how these ascetic monks have succeeded in compelling recalcitrant matter to serve their purpose with inadequate lighting and primitive tools. Here you will find a quality of art, not before observed, with its happy interplay of ideas. Imagination has poured out its colours and shapes into oddly surprising beings never carved in wood or stone before. These artist-monks in their isolated caves seem to have had a fuller and correct view of the outside world and its doings although bounded by the stone walls of their cloisters. Perhaps there were festive days when worshippers from the country around crowded in through these halls in gala clothes, and the monks so susceptible to the beauty of the human form, copied every line and curve, eloquent of the vision of those by-gone artists. Here lived a society of people, simple and sensitive, passionate and kind, among whom art grew to a perfection. These ancient artists gained merit for a future life by hard toil and sacrifice, and the more lasting the work, the surer was Nirvana; and, what is more lasting than work in solid rock? It is said that European art seems but the creation of yesterday in comparison to the Ajanta frescoes. Most of the work is carried out in one bold line and a few pleasing colours that do not clash. The expression is to be seen in the eyes and in the poetry of the human form,–piquant faces and graceful carriage all imbued with the joy of living, as if their souls had grown lyrical in their happiness. The central figure is that of Lord Buddha, calm, abstract, beautiful to the point of loveliness, wholly passive and indifferent to the flow of beauty below and the ogres and demons above,–one marvels how the saintly Buddha in the face of so much distraction was not tempted to shake off his determination to pursue Nirvana. Asceticism is deeply set on the entire figure but it does not mar the sweetness of his expression that speaks of purity and love. This is just what the master-mind intended to convey. The great European masters with their wonderful colour-effects and perfect composition, could not have put more expression than in this gigantic work. Once you set foot within these walls, you find yourself in just a dream-land of enchantment, infinitely entertaining and revealing the spirit of the age. For, though ages have passed, there is still the bloom on the lotus, and lustre sheds a ray on the most remote work amply compensating for what they may lack in force and scope. Here these ancient monks spent their days in concentrated thinking and self-denial within the sanctuary of their cloisters, where they piled up their experiences and fancies and ideas into one colossal, shining work, inspired by the saintly life of Lord Buddha, and dedicated it to his followers in the long years to come.

The "Moghul Period" has expressed itself in gigantic works of architecture, the outstanding being the Taj-Mahal. This was an age of many emperors and many artists. The emperors had the money and the inclination to encourage the artists. The artists, true to tradition, were not slow to take advantage of their opportunities. Not to see so marvellous a poem in marble is not to prove worthy of existence. It is the most simple, beautiful, pathetic monument in the whole world, and the most wonderful specimen of architecture belonging to the Mohammedan conquest. Tagore has rightly described it: "An eternal teardrop on the azure blue of the heavens." If I remember right, towards the north of India there is nothing that can be spoken of with equal truth, respect and admiration. It seems to convey a message to the soul as no other work fashioned by human hands, and is the touching dream frozen in stone of an emperor's love for a remarkable wife. The romance of these royal lives, the poetry of affection and their dramatic end fill the soul with pity, love, and sympathy. When one gazes on this magic in marble one is filled with the shadow of its perfection, and often, one's senses are stirred a little; looking at it on a moonlit night when quiet reigns everywhere and the tall cyprus shadows fall full length, a feeling of strange significance steals like a benediction bringing with it the idea that time has rushed by for ever, and we are already at ease in Eternity. Pleasure, admiration like so many chords of music, strike the mind and fill the soul with harmony, and one dreams of the immortality of love and the transience of life. It is a glorious tribute to a blameless Eastern life calling forth across five centuries the respect and admiration of the nations abroad.

At last we come to the "Modern-Age",–an age as confusing as it is interesting. From evidences that may be observed, the East is approximating much to the West. A careful scrutiny of the recent innovations, evolution of manners, thought, art, and even of our philosophy, will reveal that the process of revolution and transformation are rapidly at work. In spite of all our mysticism, our philosophy, and the warnings of the great Mahatma, the revolution of India's art continues its onward progress, and will, in time, be a riot of the three different ages combined. In a stroll along the Marina, or, in the homes of even our middle-class people, the westenisation of the East is observed. The common inscription everywhere is English and it is ludicrous to see two people of the same community leaving their own language for a foreign one. The average South Indian student has thrown off the dignity of his Angavastram and Dhoti for coats of the latest tailoring, and with his trousers creased, he has the proverbial ‘patent leather hair.’ Amongst our fashionable Indian ladies the growing influence of Western fashion is often seen,–the high-heel shoe, the no-sleeve blouse, strips of silk taking the place of. beautifully woven sarees of noble colors; many of our most educated and enlightened women are ‘Parisienne’ to their finger-tips; while bank-clerks and Indian typists go bravely ahead with knife and fork rejoicing in their new-found culture! Has not Europe copied our brocades, displays of jewellery, bright colors, flowers decking the tresses and long full skirts? In many of the receptions given in the most aristocratic homes both in Europe and America, one observes the introduction of a great deaf of Indian dancing; the dress and movements are reminiscent of Rajaputana, Ajanta, and the South Indian temples. In our Literature and Art the Western influence is keenly in evidence; and, in our architects and weavers the tendency of the age is marked. Conceit has taken the place of culture; gilded vanity screeches at the gates of refinement, and lets itself loose in startled highways, and in our modern homes where different examples of art grow in beauty side by side. But I will not say literally that they fill one’s home with glee. Everywhere there is hustle and bustle–the hoot of cars and buses, and jazz gramophones and loud speakers creating an atmosphere difficult for art to exist. There seems to be everywhere a dislike for things essentially Indian in the soul of modern life, for conditions are becoming less and less favourable to it, little though it asks. The appearance of so much westernization marks the decline of India's culture and the steady rise of the mechanically-minded generation. We are wandering amongst entangled ideas and chaotic dreams and the spirit of India's art hanging far beyond our reach. Let us try to destroy imitation and convince others that imitation is as great an evil as suicide. We should eliminate every indication of the degeneracy of taste, set beauty back upon her pedestal, the beauty of Indian art, the beauty of our villages, graceful architecture, our decorations and designs, and make life a cultivated and gracious exercise. Let us touch our new cities, glamourous of western garishness, with things essentially Indian, so that our peoples, houses and furniture, gardens and public places may be as easy on the eye as the lapis lazuli skies, and the green of the country-sides. Above all let us not allow the ‘Will-o’- the Wisp’ of modernization mislead and mockingly escort us into the wilderness, but let us set up the "Culture of India's Art" as an ideal.

This discourse may be as antiquated as a palm-leaf umbrella, might break down and lead to nothing but a desert. Nevertheless by aiming a little wildly at the sun, a beam may fall, and bring with it a re-awakening.

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