Nandan Purkayastha on faith, form and the fluid language of myth
As he gears up for his upcoming solo exhibition Continuum at Mumbai’s Jehangir Art Gallery, presented by Sanchit Art Gallery, from November 5 to 10, 2025, contemporary artist Nandan Purkayastha opens up to Indulge Express about his artistic journey. Born in Assam in 1986, Purkayastha’s earliest encounters with creativity began in the idol-makers’ workshops of his hometown, where he watched clay transform into divinity. A self-taught artist, his works draw deeply from mythology, folklore, and regional traditions while reflecting a modern visual sensibility. Through painting, drawing, and sculpture, he explores the continuum between memory, material, and imagination.
Having grown up around idol-makers, do you see the artisans of Kumortuli or Mumbai’s Ganesh workshops as sculptors too? Why do you think they’re not seen as part of the same artistic circle?
Yes, absolutely. They are sculptors in every sense of the word. What they do carries centuries of technique, devotion, and cultural memory. The difference lies in context, not in artistry. In traditional idol-making, the purpose is ritual. In contemporary art, it’s reflection. But both arise from the same impulse — to give form to belief. For me, those artisans shaped my earliest understanding of what it means to create with faith.
Your art moves between myth and modern life. How do you decide what becomes a painting and what turns into a sculpture?
It happens instinctively. Some ideas arrive as forms that demand physical weight — they need to be touched, carved, or built. Others come as gestures, lighter and more fluid, meant to flow through paper or pigment. The sculptures often carry the physical memory of tradition, while paintings allow me to explore the emotional residue of those stories. I think of them as two sides of the same conversation — while one is solid, the other is transient. Both are part of the same continuum between memory and material.
The gods and myths in your work feel personal. Do they reflect your beliefs, or are they mirrors of your own inner world?
The gods I depict are not distant figures — they live within us, in memory, instinct, and emotion. I don’t approach mythology as devotion, but as language. Each form becomes a metaphor for what I’m feeling or observing — strength, vulnerability, transformation. When I reimagine Durga or Narasimha, I’m not recreating divinity; I’m translating human energy through myth. In that sense, the gods become mirrors — reflections of our inner states.
You work across so many materials — canvas, granite, wood, brass. What draws you to a surface or texture before you begin?
The surface often decides the mood before the idea even arrives. Each material carries a history — granite holds silence, wood remembers touch, brass radiates warmth. When I start, I listen to what the surface can offer; it tells me how far I can push or how softly I must work. My process is less about imposing form and more about discovering what already exists within that texture. The medium shapes the work as much as I do.
If someone walked into Continuum knowing nothing about mythology, what feeling or idea would you want them to leave with?
I would want them to sense continuity — that art, like life, is an unbroken flow of memory and emotion. It isn’t about knowing the stories but feeling the pulse behind them. Whether it’s a gesture in clay or a stroke of ink, the essence is the same — something ancient finding new form. I hope viewers leave with the sense that everything — past, present, human, or divine — remains connected, evolving, and alive within us.
