How Pooja Singhal deconstructs the pichvai

At Pooja Singhal’s GallerySke showing, discover spiritual paintings shorn of religious iconography, and get a peek into ‘collective creativity’ at ateliers

October 11, 2019 02:57 pm | Updated 02:57 pm IST

Over the past decade, designer Pooja Singhal’s work with pichvais has turned out to be an experiment with finding a contemporary language for a traditional art form. At an exhibition opening at GallerySke in Bengaluru today, titled A Tale of Two Ateliers (it also shows the works of Bikaner-based Diwiks, which restores old radios), she will showcase a series of works from her atelier, Tradition and Beyond. They are in the distinct style of the spiritual paintings that are mainly identified with temples in Nathdwara, near Udaipur, Rajasthan — but stripped of their religious context.

Gallerist Sunitha Kumar Emmart, in fact, would rather not even refer to them as pichvais in the context of the exhibition, which concentrates on the process of work creation. “It would be a great disservice to only think of it as pichvais ; this show is really about the atelier... why they set up these spaces, how their process works in terms of ideas, the question of authorship, the model they work with versus what a traditional atelier was,” she says.

The show is an important point in Singhal’s journey with the pichvai art form, which she is credited with reviving and creating a market for within the contemporary art community. Here, she directly takes on a question that is frequently thrown at her: the anonymity enforced upon the artists who paint at her atelier.

Deleting religion

The pichvai (‘ pich ’ meaning ‘behind’) derives its name from its function. These rich paintings on textile were made to hang behind the idol of Shrinathji, the seven-year-old form of Lord Krishna. They narrate the rituals and mythology surrounding his worship; the darshan and shringar (decoration) especially are painted in traditional canvases.

At her residence-cum-office, in an apartment complex at The Lodhi in New Delhi, Singhal pulls out several pichvais , some that were part of her earlier shows at 24 Jorbagh and Bikaner House, and others that are works in progress. They have a narrative of their own, of an attempt to give it a more contemporary outlook. Typically, in the traditional works, the deity would be at the centre, being worshipped by priests, and making up the border could be 24 swaroops or panels showing Shrinathji in different shringar , or even scenes from the Krishna Lila .

For the works being shown at Ske, however, “we’ve removed the religious iconography,” she says. Some have retained only the priests, leaving the space of the deity blank. In the paintings of temple maps, the doors and windows that give darshan are kept shuttered, making it more of an architectural work. “Actually, rather than remove religion from the paintings, these make it all-embracing. You find your own God in them,” she says.

Deconstructing tradition

It was in 2009 that Singhal — born into the family of an industrialist from Udaipur, and who later started a clothing label called Ruh — ventured into reviving the declining art form. By this time, she found the quality of the artwork had dropped, several artists sought a better living painting furniture or selling vegetables, and the younger generation was losing interest in learning the skills. So she set up her atelier, which employed several pichvai artists, and also some Mughal miniature painters.

She started with replicating old paintings. Interventions began by employing miniature styles: from ‘shrinking’ large p ichvais , to including floral motifs in backgrounds. She and her design team also started “deconstructing” them. One painting would be divided into several, so the point of focus shifted in each. Then came the erasure of colours; subtle black-and-whites dominate the Ske show. These quiet tones clearly reflect Singhal’s personal taste in art; the wall behind her couch is reserved for the subtle works of Zarina Hashmi.

One of the biggest challenges she faced, though, was the resistance from the artists. “They are not cerebral people. They are trained in a skill set. Once you start throwing ideas at them, they are nonplussed,” she says. But they understood a purely visual language. So, her design team started to create prototypes of the work they wanted on the computer and passed them on to the artists to make.

Identifying the artist

But whose works are they? “It is a collective,” says Singhal. For one, they are not entirely original works. Her interventions continue to be made on old, unsigned compositions. Then, each work is the result of team work — from one person mixing the colours, to several painters contributing to the creation of a single work. Singhal, in fact, prefers to call them skilled artisans rather than artists.

“Much like the more traditional atelier, the vision and collation of work is done by an individual, whose imprimatur is central to the creative process. The ‘work’ involves, therefore, an enormous number of skilled craftspeople, but like, say in the case of architecture, the final output is ultimately recognisable as the creation of the maestro,” says a note by GallerySke on the exhibition. Singhal is the ‘master’ here. But she knows that her ‘interventions’ don’t give her the right to a singular signature on the works.

A Tale of Two Ateliers will show at GallerySke, Bengaluru,tillNovember 16. Details: 080 41120873

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