Works created during the final years of an artist often become windows to their lives. Frida Kahlo’s Viva la Vida, Watermelons celebrated her never-say-die attitude. In Wheatfield with Crows, Van Gogh’s beloved Starry Night swirls transform into waves in impasto. Jackson Pollock’s White Light represented the chaos in his mind; he was apparently suffering from a creator’s block at the time.
As simple or complex they may appear, these were more than just paintings; they held in them layered meanings, sometimes even prophetic. Closer home, Husain’s final painting comprised eight triptychs. It was titled Indian Civilisation, and the image of Ganesha stood out. Husain reasserted his Indianness till his last day, even if its undefinability is what compelled him to leave his motherland.
This motif of farewell, however, does not seem to stand true for KG Subramanyan, a modern master whose birth centenary is being celebrated this year. The works created during his final years, a collection of which was on display at Vadehra Art Gallery’s (VAG) exhibition, The Last Decade, reveal very little about the painter, at first glance.
Compared to the nuanced, layered works of the other artists, who strove to make a statement till their last stroke, Subramanyan’s pieces seem rather rudimentary. He couldn’t even be bothered to name them—a characteristic of his entire career.
Take, for instance, a small-scale painting featuring a woman with exposed breasts as the central figure, with two monkeys in the background. It is incredibly simple in its ochre-tinted background, and hasty strokes that define the subjects. This one is in contrast with his works created in his heydays. An example is an acrylic on canvas created in the 2000s during his time spent in America. Painted episodically, he divides the canvas into four parts much like a comic strip; each segment progressing to tell the story of what appears to be a mother losing her child.
The palette has dominant tones of blue and red. The DAG show, India’s Rockefeller Artists, which features the work, notes in its catalogue, “During his time in New York, Subramanyan’s work evolved significantly, influenced by the city’s vibrant art scene and constrained studio space, leading to the creation of single segmented canvases that tell a story. His experience there allowed him to blend pop art elements with mythology, producing bold and decorative paintings.”
That R Siva Kumar, who curated the VAG show, focused on Subramanyan’s last decade, which has visibly muted works that in no way seem to align with his legacy of making bold statements—in style, subjects and colour—only makes one curious. Siva Kumar answers, “At the end of a long and successful career such as Subramanyan’s, an artist tends to bring his considerable experience of the world and his life into his work. He is not driven by any ambition to secure a place for himself in the art world as he was when he was young, perhaps. For Subramanyan, ageing was not accompanied by a waning of artistic or intellectual power, but instead a sense of urgency, giving his work a new sense of freedom and expression.”
Maybe, then, is Subramanyan’s legacy his restlessness? A constant hankering for not just creating art, but new art. Sample the sheer number of mediums he worked in. Art historian and critic Bina Sarkar Ellias writes in The Big Book of Indian Art, “Mani da was like a scientist in his laboratory, experimenting with multiple mediums such as watercolour, oils, acrylic, serigraphs, stone sculpting, terracotta works, and painting murals like the façade of one of Kala Bhavan’s buildings which is testimony to his exquisite play with imagination. He also designed textiles and toys with wood and leather, illustrated books for children and was a poet and prolific writer on art…”
It appears Subramanyan detested being comfortable, even in his final years. His collages from the time are bound to remind one of the cutouts by Matisse. Think The Snail, The Clown Jazz and The Eschimo. Subramanyan’s subjects are the same—ordinary men and women—but it is the playfulness with which he puts together the velvety greens, pinks and browns, that draws you in.
Siva Kumar elaborates, “The illustrations in Subramanyan’s books for children were done in the form of collages, made by combining shapes cut from brown or coloured paper with paper over which, he squiggled with a pen or brush. These were then printed using silkscreen. This gave the images a certain formal unity while retaining the textural richness of the collage. What you call collages are digital prints made from collages drawn over with crayons in this manner.”
KG Subramanyam seemed to derive pleasure out of constantly peeling away the many layers of art, and in the process creating a versatile body of work. Unraveling his repertoire, for his viewers, is an equally joyful exercise, even if it is a hundred years later.