| TheWayTheWorldLives:
Eclectic Dreamer
(print version) Samant's Space. By Swapna Vora The rather large studio, this open space, that he calls home. Birds twitter, light pours through a large skylight, illuminating paintings and life in a soft natural light. Forty years ago, Mohan Samant came to New York, in search of America and his own soul, his own wit. There was a new world, there was wonder, the talents of Pollock, Koons and Nauman Barnet were all around him. India was still being instructed in the correct way to paint by colonial masters, horrid water colors and patronizing sketches of natives. These would, of course, later grace the drawing rooms of those who appreciated colonialism and had no time for the spirit of India. Meanwhile America had found its vigor, its own genius in the fifties. Europe was still recovering from the world war but America had found herself - "such as she was, such as she was to become". Mohan Samant arrived here and knew eventually that this is where his genius, rooted in Hindustan, would flourish. This apartment will one day be a historical spot, a space perhaps where a passer-by will see the road and know this is where Mohan Samant created his lyrical, passionate and thoughtful work. All words are old, the art of painting even more ancient; however here the clarity of colors, the freshness, the scent of water, the felicity of drawing the human form are there to still experience anew. Mohan Samant is an old man, sitting in his chair, waiting for whatever an artist waits for. What is it older people wait for? I'll never know till I get there. The bustle of the golden energy that is New York moves around his feet. Every street looks the same, ordered, logical, with beautiful expensive trash, filled with hopelessly non biodegradable useful products. There are trees, clumps of bright hybrid flowers, where salvias look like petunias and begonias like double roses, where the chill wind comes and makes the bones of New York rattle once more. Nearby is Gramercy Park with a glorious autumn about to burst again. An artist sits, dreaming of the beaches of Goregaon. The fields of rice, the joint family, his art school and returns home, home to America. His apartment is large, mating air and light. There are paintings against walls, there are musical instruments as he is a skilled sarangi player and Jill plays the viol. And both share a deep love for classical music, hers being for early European music. Two emotions make him, love of music and a fine feeling for art. No three, the steadfast support of his wife, a Saraswati, without whom an artist may not create for long. The knot in my throat disappears when I see the soft and lyrical work by Mohan - an Indian genus, an American genius. Clear interplay of colors, soft water colors splish splash and direct and order our feelings. Elaborate wire sculpture of mythological figures while larger than life heroes stride across prepared backgrounds. His mastery of water colors, his skill at producing human movements, the intense knowledge of the human body, the resonance of multi perspectives are seen on his canvases and in his home. Simply stated, his work delights me. Canvases stacked high, we discuss occasional memories of the monsoons of Hindustan when he sees the gleaming flood lit streets of New York covered with unreasonable, unseasonable rain; where does a man's flight of fancy turn? Forty years ago he left home but he knew his direction even if he did not know the way and today we see what his eyes and hands learned, what his mind envisaged. This home is where he lives with his wife Jill and his works of art. Art after all is the one step on life's staircase that does not make you trip, that does not protest and howl, "Falsehood" as we crawl up. Art is perhaps the only true mirror of life, of the creator's impulse that has dropped into the hands and eyes of a few men that we too might share the spanda, the creative expressive impulse and spirit. You walk down his street to a small inconspicuous doorway between elegant restaurants and an establishment selling some expensive looking something or the other. The wide pavements are drenched with torrents of rain, gleaming, heavy with water. We ring number nine. Being New York, the front door cannot be opened till the resident lets you in and then you wait for him to activate the lift. We rise to the top and find ourselves in a large, wide rectangular space, a huge airy room with long windows on both sides, while light pours in through the central skylight. The rain has stopped and there is clear autumn sunshine. There is a sense of brightness, space, almost like being high up, closer to the sky. Illusions, like most things. The floor is old fashioned wooden, soft and worn to a dull patina. The living room is a large single space, a place for musical events where Pandit Jasraj and other giants have sung. A place even for a small walk after dinner... His private space, his bedroom are not photographed. After all his private spaces are already depicted on paper and canvas. An artist's abode. An all knowing chilli eating parakeet, another transplanted Indian long before quarantines and visas stopped the free flow of humanity. Jars of flowers, spices and perfume. Furniture made by Samant from old headboards. A collection of skulls, of Thai puppets, of the Empire State building viewed from his window. Birds twitter and flash across the atrium foliage, an urban jungle in the centre showing our longing to be outdoors and also indoors simultaneously. The centre of this long room is a greenery filled space with ferns, creepers, a fragrant night queen, while lots of love birds, tiny yellow canaries and budgerigars flit among the plants. It is almost like finding a small jungle and it is most welcome after pounding on city pavements, concrete streets and touching the plastic walls and corridors of modern life. "Arr," says the parakeet and looks cunningly at you. Arr, you reply back politely. Behind the plants is the kitchen filled with necessities of modern life - black trash bags, dishwashers, pizza cutters, wooden spoons with big holes, balsamic vinegar. New York has food from all corners of the world and the terribly chic and modern worship food. However in this household, Mohan does most of the cooking and makes a variety of Indian meals. Next to the column of plants is an old carved glass topped dining table with white plastic chairs Somehow it all goes together. There are delicious looking preserves, china, cutlery, masala chai. This is where friends, photographers, musicians sit down and eat the lunch cooked by the eighty year old artist. All around on every wall are stacks and stacks of papers, canvases, wooden hangers, a couple of contraptions and wires to shift paintings - sort of like the aerial trolleys one sees in the Alps. With a deft click of his eighty year old wrist, Mohan moves huge canvases across and aside to let us admire a painting behind six others. The careful intellectual wirework, the lingering vibrations of the viol, Elmer's glue, masking tape, knives, contraptions to move paintings, slabs of clear glass are all around him. Towards the far end is a day bed, a bookshelf weighed with books, paintings, small animal skeletons which are clean and white, like the ivory carvings next door. The collection of miniature paintings is a curious part of his progress. Samant says that when he was studying painting at the J.J. School, during colonial times, the only encouraged style was colonial realistic work while the Americans resident in India insisted on their beloved Grandma Moses. It was deemed appropriate to keep on copying non threatening Rajput miniatures. Mohan Samant found the atmosphere stultifying but he did learn the art of water colours. This was to be part of his signature always. Also the multi perspectives that he observed in miniatures, seeing the same scene from many view points in one picture, were to appear in his own work later. An old worn out Gray's Anatomy lies on a bookshelf. Sumerian art, the Lascaux caves, low relief work based on Mohan's early adventures in Egypt are all parts of the inspiration that moves him. Pollack and De Kooning were contemporaries and influences. Mohan wanted to live in the cultural ferment, the raw golden energy that is New York where immigrants even today kiss the earth when they land here. The only country that has people from every part of the earth with wide ranging influences, rich cultural institutions, and a variety of art materials: the paints the knives, the wires, the glues that all make life easier for the artist. Seen heaped in a couple of corners are the tools of his trade: assorted brushes, palettes, paint smeared rags, jars of mysterious glues, lengths of pliable wire, tacks, Most of the furniture has been put together by Mohan from the bits left behind by a German warehouse. The old fashioned heavy Germanic furniture, with marquetry in pale blond woods and dark patches, was made into lovely beds and sofas and glass cabinets by him. The fabrics are unobtrusive, soft,well worn and used Indian fabrics like you might finding in any Indian home. Jill has a neat, modern office behind the Thai puppets, flooded with words, papers, computer manuals. Does anyone know ALL that any computer can do? I wonder. |
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