JOIN USLiving with a creative spirit
It is said that an artist’s work is in some form or the other, a reflection of himself. In K Rajagopal’s case, this certainly seems to fit. There are very few people you come across who possess the kind of aura that he radiates. Whether it’s the inexplicable calmness in his eyes or the benign smile that plays on his lips, he looks like nothing could possibly fluster him. “Animals love Appa. Squirrels, crows, all kinds of animals and birds have always been drawn to him,” his older daughter Uma Nilakanta says, throwing affectionate glances at him.
Rajagopal to whom art came most effortlessly, is who you’d call a gentle, beautiful man. It was at the age of 19 that he had seriously started to experiment with various forms of art — dance, sculpture, painting, art direction — and at 93, his passion for art does not seem to have dimmed at all.
At the Theosophical Society (TS) in Chennai where I went to meet him, he picks up an English daily and breezes through it. “Mine is a modern approach. But not unintelligible modern art,” he says, looking up from the newspaper. His daughter’s house in the Theosophical Society is strewn with his work, sculptures mostly, in wood, bronze and other metals. “My work is inspired by simpler things, like life in villages. I am not very fond of modern amenities,” he says, unassumingly.
Days at Kalakshetra
He spoke fondly of his early days as a dancer and art director. It was dancer Rukmini Devi Arundale who had urged Rajagopal, who was a student of hers, to join Kalakshetra Academy in Madras as an art director. “Everywhere, I saw vulgar paintings, curtains and palaces. I wanted to eliminate painted drops and bring in the three-dimensional aspect onto the stage. Using the sky as a dominant feature, I made structures, used small branches of trees and threw in shadows.” Far ahead of his time, he worked on set design in classical plays, constantly trying to innovate. Building a revolving stage manually, to give the impression of depth was another technique that he had worked on. It was after he stopped set design that he took to sculpture seriously. “When I take to sculpture, other arts go away,” he reveals.
His daughter takes out photo albums where his work spanning decades is documented. His work displays a vast diversity, but there are certain themes that are evidently close to his heart. Man-woman intimacy, the bond between a mother and child and also relationships that develop between women were thematically of interest to him. Human anatomy was certainly his forte. It’s hard not to enviously gape at the proportions of the human figures that he sculpts, their bodies so natural, the detailing so evolved.
As he reminisces about his involvement with art over the years, he narrates stories from his past, often punctuated with dreamy smiles and faraway glances. Of how when he was studying in the Madras Arts College, the principal Roy Chowdhury, a great sculptor, had encouraged his passion for art.
The story behind how he worked on the sculpture of Ramana Maharishi that sits in Tiruvannamalai. How educator Maria Montessori whose bust he did, used to call him her ‘Bambino’.
After listening to his charming stories that were all intermingled with art, I couldn’t but help be curious about what he thinks of the contemporary art world and emerging art forms. “Art is a growing thing. When I was in art school, lessons were different. We had to draw from life... everything as they are... models, flowers. Right now, we are in a transitional period. We need not understand it now. Everything has changed — food, dressing, human values. We should go with the current, not against it. We should look deep into it, see it, try to analyse it. But I don’t blame the artists. They are only moving along with the current. Soon, they’ll do something on their own. This is just another movement. Eventually, it will all settle down,” he says, reassuringly. All of a sudden his gaze shifts to my ankle. “This is also modern art,” he says, pointing to my beaded anklet, breaking into a wide smile.
During times when any interpretation of any form of art could spark off intense intolerance and even unleash bouts of violence, Rajagopal’s way of looking at the ever-changing nature of art came as a gush of mildly cool breeze, the kind that refreshes. To him though, signing on your art was a sign of arrogance. He usually never looked for acknowledgement. The sculpture of India’s last Governor-General, C Rajagoplachari, at the Parliament building is one of the only pieces that bears his name.
Of late, his work is mostly limited to forms with different kinds of metal. “When you tear a piece of paper or cloth, you get certain shapes. Those things... natural shapes.
Otherwise, it’s quick sketches,” he says, about the kind of art he currently engages with. Soon, he seems a bit tired from all the talking. As I eat lunch, I see him walking around the house, examining the sculptures that Uma’s house is filled with. He gazes at them, touches them delicately, almost as if he’s evaluating someone else’s creations.