V Ramesh: “Any love story is incomplete without dark shades”

Is Love Stories a departure from your preoccupation with faith, renunciation and the conventions of devotional practice? Or do you see love as a prerequisite of faith? 

In my journey towards discovering a language for devotion, through the extensive reading of Bhakti poetry and other forms of literature, I’ve realised that love in its most intense form is a manifestation of devotion. Most devotional poets, including men, speak of love. Even male poets portray themselves as the naika (heroine) and God as the hero, building a connection between the devotee and the Divine as lovers. So, perhaps, the idea of painting these love stories was, unconsciously, an extension on a more realistic plane to express affection, love, and human emotions. Human love serves as a metaphor for our devotion and love towards the divine. For instance, I’ve created works based on oleographs of Raja Ravi Varma, where Krishna is not physically present, but his presence is implied. The most exquisite poetry one can find in Bhakti poetry is Jayadeva’s Ashtapadi, which has erotic, physical descriptions of love. This love serves as a means for humans to comprehend divine love. Thus, by symbolising the love between a man and a woman, we express our deep devotion towards the divine.

The series pays homage to calendar paintings and bazaar art. How did you balance their vibrant aesthetics with the underlying emotion of love portrayed in your paintings in order to create a visual language that transcends mere representation?

 Bazaar or popular paintings have always fascinated me. During my postgraduation in Baroda, I did my MA dissertation on popular paintings in India, including cinema hoardings, calendar paintings, and signboard art. Nowadays, these painters seem to have vanished with the advent of digital printing. They approached their craft with seriousness and a keen eye for aesthetics. The way they worked always intrigued me: bold brush strokes, bright colours and heightened emotions. One would also be affected by the emotional intensity portrayed in these hoardings.

The oleographs and calendar prints I collected over time became part of my pandemic collection. I discovered about a dozen of them that had romantic depictions of historical and religious couples. Their simplicity moved me. Initially set aside for future use, the pandemic prompted me to reinterpret them, retaining their vibrant colours and simple compositions. These painters, likely illiterate, possessed skill and a desire to transform their work into calendars. While Raja Ravi Varma made a significant national impact, inspiring subsequent artists, many calendar painters remained anonymous. I don’t even know the people who painted these images, which I have used for my work. By painting them, I aim to acknowledge, in my own way, these unsung artists who laid the aesthetic framework for middle-class society and shaped our visual culture.

The series captures couples drawn from mythology and history in romantic postures. How did you work on their landscapes?

 Before I started painting, I did a bit of research on most of these couples whom I was painting. Radha and Krishna was taken from the oleograph of Raja Ravi Varma. I remember reading the love story of Prithviraj Chauhan, the Rajput king, and Samyukta, the daughter of Jaichand, the King of Kannauj — it is one of India’s most popular medieval romances. Similarly, the other stories are also somewhat known. The important aspect in all these paintings was the central image of the couple around which a landscape was built. This was precisely what I aimed to achieve with the couples in my work. To build the emotional landscape depicting love, you use lines, colours, and textures — there’s no other way.

 One had to tentatively go forward to see whether the landscape was suitable for a love story. There was a lot of trial and error. Each painting was worked and reworked and washed and rewashed until I arrived at a stage where I felt that it worked. In terms of composition, they are all very simple. The only complicated work was of Prithviraj Chauhan because he is on a horse. So, I didn’t have to wrack my brains as much. Moreover, I didn’t deviate much from the actual compositional values of the prints I was depicting, except when it came to painting and colours. Then, I let my imagination soar and saw how best I could play around with colours and visibility.

How did watercolour wash and silk screen printing techniques contribute to the texture you wanted in these works?  What led you to partially erase and redact original images in your paintings?

 I started using watercolour in 2008. I realised that with watercolours, I can play around more efficiently than I can with oil. When one applies watercolour on paper, it’s like a stain. If you pour a mug of water over it, it washes away, but it leaves behind a memory of what it was. This memory can be strong or light depending on when you wash it. If you wash it after one week or for a few days, the stain becomes stronger. If you wash it immediately, it’s just a faint stain. So, there was the idea that even these images were actually, in a way, memories — memories of something else which has passed by. I’ve used the technique of erasing and reusing because, in a way, these images and the emotions come to us through a filter of time and lost memories. We don’t know under what conditions these images were painted. We can only assume. We call it love stories because it comes to us through a haze of memory and nostalgia.

Screen printing — which I use with watercolours — allows me greater freedom and flexibility to work with lines and textures and create amazing areas of visual interest. One prints with watercolours, washes it, retains some of them. It creates a wonderful blend. This is one way of discovering a form of language for a certain kind of emotion. To me, the technique is not so important. The technique is the way one talks or uses a language. Every time, it’s a new thing. One has to use one’s brain to see how best one can depict something; in each new work, one has to devise new ways of using methods of working. These are the things which one does. There are no set of rules to follow. And there are no special techniques. Each work demands that it be treated in a specific manner. And how I should treat it is not something I know. Once I start working, I slowly begin to comprehend how best I can use certain images — textures or palettes — in a particular manner so that what I’m trying to say comes out more effectively.

Duhshashana and Draupadi seem to be the only odd pair in the series. What made you include them in the collection, which is all about a sacred emotion and what it affords those who are in love?

 It was not meant to be a part of the series because the rest of the images are of lovey-dovey couples. This I missed somehow. And then suddenly I discovered that there was this image.  I started thinking that this could perhaps be a very dark painting. Dushasana is, after all, Draupadi’s brother-in-law. In the image, he is pulling her garment when she’s in a very vulnerable state of being. His brother, Duryodhana, was in love with her and wanted to marry her, but he never won her. So, maybe, there was some kind of unrequited love. Any love story is incomplete without the darker aspects; violence, subjugation, humiliation — all these feelings are experienced in the romantic relationship. It also questions that love need not always be rosy; it also has aspects of dark shades.

How did you work on the lightness of touch in your paintings to capture the essence of different ways one could fall in love?

 In our lifetimes, we all fall in love hundreds of times. And that’s what makes life so much more interesting and intense. That’s what makes us fall in love with life itself. In spite of every hazard or trouble we face every time, we still look forward to living. It’s because we are constantly falling in love and falling out of love. To hold on to that feeling of love — for everything in life — was lightness itself when I was working on the series. And so I was not really burdened by what message I was giving. There is no message, really. I thought people would just look at these paintings, smile, get selfies with them, and praise them. These paintings can work — and be equally valid and important — at that level as my earlier work whose visual language forces one to stand before the work, contemplate it, wonder what is happening in it or ask the artist why this is happening. The love series does not enforce such a thing on the audience. It is visually delightful, purposefully. I hoped that by looking at these, people could experience elation or recollect moments of love. They would not have to exercise their grey matter, but just enjoy the pleasures of colour and the feeling of love which they depict.

Shireen Quadri is the editor of The Punch Magazine Anthology of New Writing: Select Short Stories by Women Writers.

Visakhapatnam-based artist V Ramesh’s latest series, Love Stories is an ode to calendar art, and the idea of love. The series that was displayed at the Threshold Art Gallery’s booth at the India Art Fair portrays a range of couples including Chandrapida (the moon god) and Kadambari, Radha and Krishna, Prithviraj Chauhan and Samyukta, Shantanu and Matsyagandha, and Sudhanwa and Prabhavati, among others. Here, he talks about the series and about love.

Is Love Stories a departure from your preoccupation with faith, renunciation and the conventions of devotional practice? Or do you see love as a prerequisite of faith? 

In my journey towards discovering a language for devotion, through the extensive reading of Bhakti poetry and other forms of literature, I’ve realised that love in its most intense form is a manifestation of devotion. Most devotional poets, including men, speak of love. Even male poets portray themselves as the naika (heroine) and God as the hero, building a connection between the devotee and the Divine as lovers. So, perhaps, the idea of painting these love stories was, unconsciously, an extension on a more realistic plane to express affection, love, and human emotions. Human love serves as a metaphor for our devotion and love towards the divine. For instance, I’ve created works based on oleographs of Raja Ravi Varma, where Krishna is not physically present, but his presence is implied. The most exquisite poetry one can find in Bhakti poetry is Jayadeva’s Ashtapadi, which has erotic, physical descriptions of love. This love serves as a means for humans to comprehend divine love. Thus, by symbolising the love between a man and a woman, we express our deep devotion towards the divine.

The series pays homage to calendar paintings and bazaar art. How did you balance their vibrant aesthetics with the underlying emotion of love portrayed in your paintings in order to create a visual language that transcends mere representation?

 Bazaar or popular paintings have always fascinated me. During my postgraduation in Baroda, I did my MA dissertation on popular paintings in India, including cinema hoardings, calendar paintings, and signboard art. Nowadays, these painters seem to have vanished with the advent of digital printing. They approached their craft with seriousness and a keen eye for aesthetics. The way they worked always intrigued me: bold brush strokes, bright colours and heightened emotions. One would also be affected by the emotional intensity portrayed in these hoardings.

The oleographs and calendar prints I collected over time became part of my pandemic collection. I discovered about a dozen of them that had romantic depictions of historical and religious couples. Their simplicity moved me. Initially set aside for future use, the pandemic prompted me to reinterpret them, retaining their vibrant colours and simple compositions. These painters, likely illiterate, possessed skill and a desire to transform their work into calendars. While Raja Ravi Varma made a significant national impact, inspiring subsequent artists, many calendar painters remained anonymous. I don’t even know the people who painted these images, which I have used for my work. By painting them, I aim to acknowledge, in my own way, these unsung artists who laid the aesthetic framework for middle-class society and shaped our visual culture.

The series captures couples drawn from mythology and history in romantic postures. How did you work on their landscapes?

 Before I started painting, I did a bit of research on most of these couples whom I was painting. Radha and Krishna was taken from the oleograph of Raja Ravi Varma. I remember reading the love story of Prithviraj Chauhan, the Rajput king, and Samyukta, the daughter of Jaichand, the King of Kannauj — it is one of India’s most popular medieval romances. Similarly, the other stories are also somewhat known. The important aspect in all these paintings was the central image of the couple around which a landscape was built. This was precisely what I aimed to achieve with the couples in my work. To build the emotional landscape depicting love, you use lines, colours, and textures — there’s no other way.

 One had to tentatively go forward to see whether the landscape was suitable for a love story. There was a lot of trial and error. Each painting was worked and reworked and washed and rewashed until I arrived at a stage where I felt that it worked. In terms of composition, they are all very simple. The only complicated work was of Prithviraj Chauhan because he is on a horse. So, I didn’t have to wrack my brains as much. Moreover, I didn’t deviate much from the actual compositional values of the prints I was depicting, except when it came to painting and colours. Then, I let my imagination soar and saw how best I could play around with colours and visibility.

How did watercolour wash and silk screen printing techniques contribute to the texture you wanted in these works?  What led you to partially erase and redact original images in your paintings?

 I started using watercolour in 2008. I realised that with watercolours, I can play around more efficiently than I can with oil. When one applies watercolour on paper, it’s like a stain. If you pour a mug of water over it, it washes away, but it leaves behind a memory of what it was. This memory can be strong or light depending on when you wash it. If you wash it after one week or for a few days, the stain becomes stronger. If you wash it immediately, it’s just a faint stain. So, there was the idea that even these images were actually, in a way, memories — memories of something else which has passed by. I’ve used the technique of erasing and reusing because, in a way, these images and the emotions come to us through a filter of time and lost memories. We don’t know under what conditions these images were painted. We can only assume. We call it love stories because it comes to us through a haze of memory and nostalgia.

Screen printing — which I use with watercolours — allows me greater freedom and flexibility to work with lines and textures and create amazing areas of visual interest. One prints with watercolours, washes it, retains some of them. It creates a wonderful blend. This is one way of discovering a form of language for a certain kind of emotion. To me, the technique is not so important. The technique is the way one talks or uses a language. Every time, it’s a new thing. One has to use one’s brain to see how best one can depict something; in each new work, one has to devise new ways of using methods of working. These are the things which one does. There are no set of rules to follow. And there are no special techniques. Each work demands that it be treated in a specific manner. And how I should treat it is not something I know. Once I start working, I slowly begin to comprehend how best I can use certain images — textures or palettes — in a particular manner so that what I’m trying to say comes out more effectively.

Duhshashana and Draupadi seem to be the only odd pair in the series. What made you include them in the collection, which is all about a sacred emotion and what it affords those who are in love?

 It was not meant to be a part of the series because the rest of the images are of lovey-dovey couples. This I missed somehow. And then suddenly I discovered that there was this image.  I started thinking that this could perhaps be a very dark painting. Dushasana is, after all, Draupadi’s brother-in-law. In the image, he is pulling her garment when she’s in a very vulnerable state of being. His brother, Duryodhana, was in love with her and wanted to marry her, but he never won her. So, maybe, there was some kind of unrequited love. Any love story is incomplete without the darker aspects; violence, subjugation, humiliation — all these feelings are experienced in the romantic relationship. It also questions that love need not always be rosy; it also has aspects of dark shades.

How did you work on the lightness of touch in your paintings to capture the essence of different ways one could fall in love?

 In our lifetimes, we all fall in love hundreds of times. And that’s what makes life so much more interesting and intense. That’s what makes us fall in love with life itself. In spite of every hazard or trouble we face every time, we still look forward to living. It’s because we are constantly falling in love and falling out of love. To hold on to that feeling of love — for everything in life — was lightness itself when I was working on the series. And so I was not really burdened by what message I was giving. There is no message, really. I thought people would just look at these paintings, smile, get selfies with them, and praise them. These paintings can work — and be equally valid and important — at that level as my earlier work whose visual language forces one to stand before the work, contemplate it, wonder what is happening in it or ask the artist why this is happening. The love series does not enforce such a thing on the audience. It is visually delightful, purposefully. I hoped that by looking at these, people could experience elation or recollect moments of love. They would not have to exercise their grey matter, but just enjoy the pleasures of colour and the feeling of love which they depict.

Shireen Quadri is the editor of The Punch Magazine Anthology of New Writing: Select Short Stories by Women Writers.