Glyn Jones explains how the Rangoli patterns of Kerala inspire his work.
The first 20 years of my life were cultured by the enclosed world of the deepest part of the Rhondda Valley. A world alive with conflicting political and religious values. My influences mainly came from the teachings and values of a Welsh Baptist home. At the age of 21, after four years of study at Cardiff College of Art, I left to study at the Slade. In London I discovered many new things which seemed to reinforce my ambition for painting. For example through my upbringing I already understood the meaning of Paul Klee’s experience “that the visible is only an isolated case and other truths exist latently and are in the majority” I too had an ambition to make ‘visible the invisible’ and now saw paintings which did this for me. In the late 1950’s I saw the work of Mark Rothko and Ad. Reinhardt. Their large, self referential, canvases existed without a narrative or obvious subject, they were only what one saw on the canvas but became deeply felt spiritual experiences. I returned to Wales in 1972 as Head of Fine Art at Cardiff, bringing my acquired cosmopolitan experience to a very new Welsh context.
But where does India, or more particularly the rural State of Kerala fit into this? Why am I drawn back to a land and culture so unlike my own, or is it? The Rhondda of my youth had been formed by mass immigration during the industrial revolution with an influx of people, many from outside of Wales, bringing new, often contradictory and conflicting ideologies and practices. Kerala is also full of contradictions. It has an established Communist Administration, a respected Royal Family which has a cultural influence but no political role and a deeply superstitious or religious population. This is mainly Hindu attending numerous temples but with a very large Catholic constituency with its own impressive churches in competition. Alongside these you have a sizable Muslim population with its elegant, formal mosques and even some small Salvation Army and Pentecostal churches. This mix reflected in a population of millions which has been cultured to view life as a transitory experience where the expectation of rebirth or a home in Paradise is a reality. All this existing within a materialistic ‘left wing’ context which reminded me of the many contradictions and tensions permeating through the Rhondda of my youth.
Indian culture has given us many examples of ‘mystical’ or ‘spiritual’ works of art, often serving a religious or transcendental purpose. In literature, the poems of Tagore which sometimes reflect his liking of Japanese haiku or Old Testament psalms. In music, particularly Raga or chants. What seems to tie many of these experiences together for me is the way in which they initially rely on a defined structure which becomes a foundation for an improvised, multi layered aesthetic/spiritual experience, which does not tie me into a predictable outcome. The ‘sensation’ remains open ended because however complex and rich it cannot be defined, it just exists, it is only what it is but is so much more than it first appears.
I had previously been aware of a number of claims that the Celtic and Vedic cultures had much in common. Claims that the earliest Celts were Caucasian and not European originating in Kazakhstan? That the Druids were Celtic Brahmins? Some of these claims are based on fact but many on theory. However already feeling at home in Kerala they encouraged me to look for such relationships in the visual arts.
Initially I thought I would find some visual links in the writhing, kaleidoscope of colour and form which decorates Hindu temples and there were some. But to my surprise I found the most exciting and obvious visual link in a popular art form practised mainly by women called Rangoli or Kolam depending on the part of India in which it is practised. They have been referred to as “painted prayers” and often decorate walls, courtyards or places of worship. In a Brahmin area of Trivandrum, Kerala’s capital, I saw numerous linear designs drawn in chalk or white rice on the doorsteps of the small neat houses. Many of these designs are similar to Celtic patterns which have led some to claim that they reinforce the cultural link previously mentioned. In earlier work I used complex Celtic Knot patterns as a way of initially structuring a ‘field’ on large canvases. I then continued to improvise freely allowing numerous layers of colour and marks to slowly allow a ‘sensation’ to evolve which reflected my state of mind. I continue to develop this way of working but now combine the colours and marks of popular Indian crafts with numerous layers of Rangoli designs. These provide the initial formal and informal structures which allow me to improvise, usually over a long period, until an image and a ‘sensation’ appears which has meaning for me.
I met Ceri Richards at the Slade where he taught part time. He once told me that he could tell that I was a Welshman. When I asked why his reply surprised me. He said that it was because I gave ‘line’ a particular importance in my work. He identified this as a characteristic of a Welsh sensibility. Admittedly I was and still am, fascinated by the similarities between some Celtic art and that of India as seen in these Rangoli patterns. I admire the direct and yet controlled way in which the women draw the designs using chalk or rice, sometimes brightly coloured using flower petals or dye when used for temple festivals or national competitions. These images are made to please the deities who, it is believed, appreciate things of beauty. But additionally I am moved by the transitory nature of these images which are destroyed by the elements or deliberately so at the end of a ceremony. Because of their fragility the doorway images are regularly replaced. This process of renewal often leaves faint traces of the earlier pattern unintentionally creating depth and subtlety. Combine this with the vitality, colour and seemingly instinctive designs of the popular crafts, wall hangings, bedcovers etc. and one has a wealth of stimuli to work with.
I have been privileged to appreciate aspects of this vibrant culture which contradictorily creates sublime spiritual states in a manner difficult for ‘Westerners’ to appreciate. You only have to attend a Temple Festival where horns bellow, drummers beat in frenzy and fireworks explode, to understand that every sensory experience is inevitably going to be OTT, over the top to a ‘Westerner’. Yet beneath this popular outpouring of sound, colour, shape and smell there is an underlying purpose and structure which evolves into an unique blend of joy, sophistication and worship. Perhaps my memory of Baptist Ministers preaching in the ‘Spirit’ and of the religious oratorios fervently sung by large choirs somehow relates to this human experience. Countless “inner lives” collectively and individually allowing the ‘invisible to become visible’ through ritual and art.
But where does India, or more particularly the rural State of Kerala fit into this? Why am I drawn back to a land and culture so unlike my own, or is it? The Rhondda of my youth had been formed by mass immigration during the industrial revolution with an influx of people, many from outside of Wales, bringing new, often contradictory and conflicting ideologies and practices. Kerala is also full of contradictions. It has an established Communist Administration, a respected Royal Family which has a cultural influence but no political role and a deeply superstitious or religious population. This is mainly Hindu attending numerous temples but with a very large Catholic constituency with its own impressive churches in competition. Alongside these you have a sizable Muslim population with its elegant, formal mosques and even some small Salvation Army and Pentecostal churches. This mix reflected in a population of millions which has been cultured to view life as a transitory experience where the expectation of rebirth or a home in Paradise is a reality. All this existing within a materialistic ‘left wing’ context which reminded me of the many contradictions and tensions permeating through the Rhondda of my youth.
Indian culture has given us many examples of ‘mystical’ or ‘spiritual’ works of art, often serving a religious or transcendental purpose. In literature, the poems of Tagore which sometimes reflect his liking of Japanese haiku or Old Testament psalms. In music, particularly Raga or chants. What seems to tie many of these experiences together for me is the way in which they initially rely on a defined structure which becomes a foundation for an improvised, multi layered aesthetic/spiritual experience, which does not tie me into a predictable outcome. The ‘sensation’ remains open ended because however complex and rich it cannot be defined, it just exists, it is only what it is but is so much more than it first appears.
I had previously been aware of a number of claims that the Celtic and Vedic cultures had much in common. Claims that the earliest Celts were Caucasian and not European originating in Kazakhstan? That the Druids were Celtic Brahmins? Some of these claims are based on fact but many on theory. However already feeling at home in Kerala they encouraged me to look for such relationships in the visual arts.
Initially I thought I would find some visual links in the writhing, kaleidoscope of colour and form which decorates Hindu temples and there were some. But to my surprise I found the most exciting and obvious visual link in a popular art form practised mainly by women called Rangoli or Kolam depending on the part of India in which it is practised. They have been referred to as “painted prayers” and often decorate walls, courtyards or places of worship. In a Brahmin area of Trivandrum, Kerala’s capital, I saw numerous linear designs drawn in chalk or white rice on the doorsteps of the small neat houses. Many of these designs are similar to Celtic patterns which have led some to claim that they reinforce the cultural link previously mentioned. In earlier work I used complex Celtic Knot patterns as a way of initially structuring a ‘field’ on large canvases. I then continued to improvise freely allowing numerous layers of colour and marks to slowly allow a ‘sensation’ to evolve which reflected my state of mind. I continue to develop this way of working but now combine the colours and marks of popular Indian crafts with numerous layers of Rangoli designs. These provide the initial formal and informal structures which allow me to improvise, usually over a long period, until an image and a ‘sensation’ appears which has meaning for me.
I met Ceri Richards at the Slade where he taught part time. He once told me that he could tell that I was a Welshman. When I asked why his reply surprised me. He said that it was because I gave ‘line’ a particular importance in my work. He identified this as a characteristic of a Welsh sensibility. Admittedly I was and still am, fascinated by the similarities between some Celtic art and that of India as seen in these Rangoli patterns. I admire the direct and yet controlled way in which the women draw the designs using chalk or rice, sometimes brightly coloured using flower petals or dye when used for temple festivals or national competitions. These images are made to please the deities who, it is believed, appreciate things of beauty. But additionally I am moved by the transitory nature of these images which are destroyed by the elements or deliberately so at the end of a ceremony. Because of their fragility the doorway images are regularly replaced. This process of renewal often leaves faint traces of the earlier pattern unintentionally creating depth and subtlety. Combine this with the vitality, colour and seemingly instinctive designs of the popular crafts, wall hangings, bedcovers etc. and one has a wealth of stimuli to work with.
I have been privileged to appreciate aspects of this vibrant culture which contradictorily creates sublime spiritual states in a manner difficult for ‘Westerners’ to appreciate. You only have to attend a Temple Festival where horns bellow, drummers beat in frenzy and fireworks explode, to understand that every sensory experience is inevitably going to be OTT, over the top to a ‘Westerner’. Yet beneath this popular outpouring of sound, colour, shape and smell there is an underlying purpose and structure which evolves into an unique blend of joy, sophistication and worship. Perhaps my memory of Baptist Ministers preaching in the ‘Spirit’ and of the religious oratorios fervently sung by large choirs somehow relates to this human experience. Countless “inner lives” collectively and individually allowing the ‘invisible to become visible’ through ritual and art.