Artist Tom Vattakuzhy: 'If There Is Value In What I Do, It Will Reach People In Its Own Time'
· Free Press Journal
Tom Vattakuzhy is a known name in the art world. However, this is his first time in Mumbai after displaying his works across the world for a couple of decades. Where Words End is a curated show of 55 of Tom’s works on canvas. Distinctive use of colours is his USP. His works will be on display at ICIA, Kalaghoda till May 17th.
Excerpts from the interview:
Visit afrikasportnews.co.za for more information.
Why did it take you so many years to come to Mumbai, finally? Despite Mumbai being an artist's dream
I had heard about Mumbai as a kind of dream destination for artists from quite an early age, especially during my time at Kerala Kalapeedom in Kochi in the 1980s. Back then, it was very common for artists to leave their native places and move to cities like Mumbai in search of better opportunities. Even Raja Ravi Varma spent an important part of his career here, apart from places like Baroda and Mysore. Over time, many artists have made Mumbai their creative home. So when one asks why it took me so long to hold a show in Mumbai, my immediate response is that time moves differently for different people. Each artist follows a distinct path. After completing my Master’s in Baroda in 1998, I chose not to migrate like many of my contemporaries who were seeking better fortunes as practicing artists. Instead, I returned to Kerala, despite being advised otherwise and took up different jobs to meet my pressing financial needs and chose to regard my art practice as an inner necessity rather than a profession. My years at Santiniketan had a strong influence on me. I was fortunate to be closely associated with artists like Somnath Hore and K. G. Subramanyan. I was inspired by how they sustained their art without being dependent on it for livelihood, keeping it free from outside pressures. It may sound like a romantic idea today, but that was the path I chose. I have always tried to follow the idea of Nishkama Karma—to focus on the work itself without attachment to results. I felt that if there is any value in what I do, it will reach people in its own time. So perhaps the delay is simply because I don’t believe in forcing things to happen quickly. I prefer a slower, more organic growth—like a tree that becomes stronger by enduring over time.
Quite a few of your canvases are like expressions, scars of the community. Why did you choose to show the scars and sorrow?
I wouldn’t say I “chose” sorrow in a deliberate way, as if selecting a theme from outside. It is more that these traces—of unease, loss, or quiet tension—are already present in the world we inhabit, in the socio-political fabric of our society, and they gradually find their way into the work. When I paint, I am often responding to what I sense around me rather than illustrating an idea. The so-called “scars” of a community are not always dramatic or visible; they can exist in silences, in pauses, in the way people occupy space or withdraw from it. I am interested in those subtle residues of experience—the emotional undercurrents that don’t easily surface in everyday conversation. Showing them is not about emphasizing sorrow for its own sake. If anything, it is an attempt to acknowledge what often goes unnoticed or unspoken. I feel that when these quieter, more fragile aspects are given form, they open up a space for reflection. Viewers may recognize something of their own lives in them, and that recognition can be contemplative rather than heavy. So perhaps it is less about depicting scars, and more about listening carefully to what they carry, and allowing that to emerge with a certain stillness and serenity.
While you show sorrow, the choice of colours is often white or red or a brighter hue... how do you manage that and why?
That contrast, or the presence of opposing elements, is quite important to me. I wouldn’t say that I arrive at it very consciously every time—it often emerges naturally in the work. Perhaps it comes from my interest in the interplay between opposites: presence and absence, hope and despair, light and dark, the physical and the psychological. The presence of sorrow or melancholy in the work does not necessarily mean that everything around it has to be muted or dark. In fact, I often feel that certain colours—like white, red, or even brighter hues—can hold and intensify these emotions in more complex ways. White, for instance, is not merely emptiness or absence. For me, it carries silence, pause, and a kind of charged stillness. It allows space for the image to breathe, and for the viewer to enter it without being overwhelmed. Red, on the other hand, has a very different energy—it can suggest life, intensity, vulnerability, or even an underlying disturbance. When placed within a quieter context, it begins to resonate more deeply. So, the use of colour is not about illustrating emotion directly, but about creating a certain balance or tension within the painting. Brightness does not cancel sorrow; rather, it holds it, and at times even amplifies it. I am interested in that delicate relationship—where light and colour coexist with fragility, and where the image remains open, rather than closing in on a single mood.
What prompted you to paint Death of Gandhi?
The painting Death of Gandhi came from a sense of unease that I had carried within me for some time. I felt that many narratives surrounding Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination tend to oversimplify or even distort the event, flattening the complexity of the realities that led to that moment. For me, it was not about recreating a historical event in a literal sense. Rather, it was an attempt to respond to what that moment continues to mean in our present context. Gandhi’s death is not just an isolated incident from the past; it continues to resonate within the socio-political fabric we inhabit. The painting emerged as a way of engaging with that discomfort—almost as a quiet act of reflection. I was interested in holding that moment with a certain stillness, perhaps echoing the contemplative quality of Lamentation (Giotto), allowing space for reflection rather than dramatization. In doing so, I hoped to create a space where viewers could pause and reconsider not just the event itself, but the values, tensions, and contradictions that surround it. So, in a way, the work is less about the “death” as an end, and more about what it continues to evoke—both historically and in our collective consciousness.
What made you choose paints on canvas after lithographs, etchings and sometimes even charcoal for quite some time?
I was interested in painting from quite early on. However, during my studies, I chose to take up printmaking, as the medium had already aroused a deep curiosity in me. I still remember seeing a set of etchings by artists of the Madras School at an exhibition held at Kerala Kalapeedom in Kochi. I was deeply drawn to their textural quality, especially the raised ridges left by the zinc plate around the print. When I joined Visva-Bharati University at Santiniketan, I felt it was the ideal place to pursue printmaking—thanks to its well-equipped studio and the presence of senior artists like Somnath Hore, along with teachers such as Pinaki Barua, Suranjan Basu, and Sanat Kar. Financial constraints also played a role in that decision, as printmaking was relatively economical to study—most of the materials were provided by the studio, and I only had to purchase the printing paper. However, after completing my studies, I found that there were very limited studio facilities available outside such institutions. That practical limitation gradually led me back to painting. At the same time, I began to feel the need for a more direct and immediate engagement with the image. Painting on canvas offered a different kind of freedom—both in terms of scale and fluidity of expression. Unlike printmaking, which often involves a certain distance between conception and the final image, painting allows me to respond more intuitively in the moment. There was also a shift in the kind of images I wanted to explore. The psychological and atmospheric spaces I was becoming interested in seemed to demand a medium that could hold a certain openness and subtlety, especially in terms of light, gesture, and presence. Canvas gave me that flexibility.