collection stories

We started our journey by visiting the Prasad Tagore Palace at Pathuriaghata, established by Jatindramohan Tagore in the nineteenth century, and learned about a rich tradition of performances and plays by musicians and artists from across the colonial world that took place in that majestic house.

The ways in which Gaganendranath Tagore painted his dramatic scenes makes us aware of how frequently the family used their interior spaces as a stage for spectacles, drama and musical performances. These were driven towards an effort to create a new cultural identity that was both cosmopolitan as well as rooted in national sentiment.

Pramantha Mohun Tagore, a descendent of the family, played the sarod and told us stories about their collections, the various exchanges that took place in the house, involving musicians, writers and political personalities ranging from Michael Madhusudan Dutt to General Ulysses S. Grant and, ultimately, their continuing significance as a living museum in the city.

We started our journey by visiting the Prasad Tagore Palace at Pathuriaghata, established by Jatindramohan Tagore in the nineteenth century, and learned about a rich tradition of performances and plays by musicians and artists from across the colonial world that took place in that majestic house.

The ways in which Gaganendranath Tagore painted his dramatic scenes makes us aware of how frequently the family used their interior spaces as a stage for spectacles, drama and musical performances. These were driven towards an effort to create a new cultural identity that was both cosmopolitan as well as rooted in national sentiment.

Pramantha Mohun Tagore, a descendent of the family, played the sarod and told us stories about their collections, the various exchanges that took place in the house, involving musicians, writers and political personalities ranging from Michael Madhusudan Dutt to General Ulysses S. Grant and, ultimately, their continuing significance as a living museum in the city.

We started our journey by visiting the Prasad Tagore Palace at Pathuriaghata, established by Jatindramohan Tagore in the nineteenth century, and learned about a rich tradition of performances and plays by musicians and artists from across the colonial world that took place in that majestic house.

The ways in which Gaganendranath Tagore painted his dramatic scenes makes us aware of how frequently the family used their interior spaces as a stage for spectacles, drama and musical performances. These were driven towards an effort to create a new cultural identity that was both cosmopolitan as well as rooted in national sentiment.

Pramantha Mohun Tagore, a descendent of the family, played the sarod and told us stories about their collections, the various exchanges that took place in the house, involving musicians, writers and political personalities ranging from Michael Madhusudan Dutt to General Ulysses S. Grant and, ultimately, their continuing significance as a living museum in the city.

The building reflects a wide variety of influences, from the European clock-tower and bells, architectural features borrowed from Ottoman Turkey, to ornate motifs and texts in Arabic and Persian (as well as a legal deed in English!) presenting a complex portrait of the Shi’a Muslim community’s encounter with colonial modernity in Bengal, told entirely through built space.

Many of the frescoes are damaged but they are now being carefully restored by a group of artists led by Sumantra Mukherjee. As we traced these motifs on plaster, using the buon fresco technique, we came closer to imitating the graceful movements perfected by the anonymous painters and artisans who would have been employed to execute these designs on the walls of the Imambara.

We are often spurred by questions of absence as much as presence, whether of artists or entire traditions of art: and the Hooghly Imambara proved to be one such space which adds another fascinating detail to our stories of art, faith and patronage in (poly)colonial Bengal.

The building reflects a wide variety of influences, from the European clock-tower and bells, architectural features borrowed from Ottoman Turkey, to ornate motifs and texts in Arabic and Persian (as well as a legal deed in English!) presenting a complex portrait of the Shi’a Muslim community’s encounter with colonial modernity in Bengal, told entirely through built space.

Many of the frescoes are damaged but they are now being carefully restored by a group of artists led by Sumantra Mukherjee. As we traced these motifs on plaster, using the buon fresco technique, we came closer to imitating the graceful movements perfected by the anonymous painters and artisans who would have been employed to execute these designs on the walls of the Imambara.

We are often spurred by questions of absence as much as presence, whether of artists or entire traditions of art: and the Hooghly Imambara proved to be one such space which adds another fascinating detail to our stories of art, faith and patronage in (poly)colonial Bengal.

The building reflects a wide variety of influences, from the European clock-tower and bells, architectural features borrowed from Ottoman Turkey, to ornate motifs and texts in Arabic and Persian (as well as a legal deed in English!) presenting a complex portrait of the Shi’a Muslim community’s encounter with colonial modernity in Bengal, told entirely through built space.

Many of the frescoes are damaged but they are now being carefully restored by a group of artists led by Sumantra Mukherjee. As we traced these motifs on plaster, using the buon fresco technique, we came closer to imitating the graceful movements perfected by the anonymous painters and artisans who would have been employed to execute these designs on the walls of the Imambara.

We are often spurred by questions of absence as much as presence, whether of artists or entire traditions of art: and the Hooghly Imambara proved to be one such space which adds another fascinating detail to our stories of art, faith and patronage in (poly)colonial Bengal.

Their archive of history paintings were opened up for us and we conducted two workshops on the use of these artworks as sources for learning and teaching history in and outside the classroom. The category of ‘history paintings’ as a high artistic form in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was discussed, revealing its emphasis on dramatizing military and political events of the day—while frequently borrowing from the languages of mythology to suggest how these events should be perceived by the audience.

Peeling back the layers of singular authority that these paintings wield on their surfaces, we discovered a world of affect, humour and tragedy that becomes visible only after our third or fourth look at these artworks.

Close watching/reading reveals the cracks in history, allowing us to peek into events and sentiments that often fall between them.

Their archive of history paintings were opened up for us and we conducted two workshops on the use of these artworks as sources for learning and teaching history in and outside the classroom. The category of ‘history paintings’ as a high artistic form in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was discussed, revealing its emphasis on dramatizing military and political events of the day—while frequently borrowing from the languages of mythology to suggest how these events should be perceived by the audience.

Peeling back the layers of singular authority that these paintings wield on their surfaces, we discovered a world of affect, humour and tragedy that becomes visible only after our third or fourth look at these artworks.

Close watching/reading reveals the cracks in history, allowing us to peek into events and sentiments that often fall between them.

Their archive of history paintings were opened up for us and we conducted two workshops on the use of these artworks as sources for learning and teaching history in and outside the classroom. The category of ‘history paintings’ as a high artistic form in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was discussed, revealing its emphasis on dramatizing military and political events of the day—while frequently borrowing from the languages of mythology to suggest how these events should be perceived by the audience.

Peeling back the layers of singular authority that these paintings wield on their surfaces, we discovered a world of affect, humour and tragedy that becomes visible only after our third or fourth look at these artworks.

Close watching/reading reveals the cracks in history, allowing us to peek into events and sentiments that often fall between them.

As we arrived at the late artist Shanu Lahiri’s house in the leafy neighbourhood of Lake Town we were confronted by her passionate attempts to create new communities (of both human and non-human constituents) around her. Lahiri’s work emerged from her early years of academic training at the Government College of Art, Kolkata.

Her story was often overshadowed by the work of her male colleagues and siblings, such as Nirode Mazumdar and Kamal Kumar Majumdar. Using her academic background, she innovated new ways of employing lines, integrating natural environments, animals, cooking recipes and music into art, while curating influential exhibitions and executing public art projects across the city.

The trajectory of her life and career gave us fresh perspectives into our own collection as well. Looking at the work of her teachers (all of them male), like Ramendranath Chakravorty, it became clear how novel the sight of women students were at the art schools of India.

Lahiri belonged to the early batches of female students at the Government Art School, who were beginning to be admitted after the intervention of another teacher and Principal, Mukul Dey. What appears to us as an everyday sight of a student at work was tinged with the quality of novelty in the 1940s, allowing us to read a completely different register into this work.

As we arrived at the late artist Shanu Lahiri’s house in the leafy neighbourhood of Lake Town we were confronted by her passionate attempts to create new communities (of both human and non-human constituents) around her. Lahiri’s work emerged from her early years of academic training at the Government College of Art, Kolkata.

Her story was often overshadowed by the work of her male colleagues and siblings, such as Nirode Mazumdar and Kamal Kumar Majumdar. Using her academic background, she innovated new ways of employing lines, integrating natural environments, animals, cooking recipes and music into art, while curating influential exhibitions and executing public art projects across the city.

The trajectory of her life and career gave us fresh perspectives into our own collection as well. Looking at the work of her teachers (all of them male), like Ramendranath Chakravorty, it became clear how novel the sight of women students were at the art schools of India.

Lahiri belonged to the early batches of female students at the Government Art School, who were beginning to be admitted after the intervention of another teacher and Principal, Mukul Dey. What appears to us as an everyday sight of a student at work was tinged with the quality of novelty in the 1940s, allowing us to read a completely different register into this work.

As we arrived at the late artist Shanu Lahiri’s house in the leafy neighbourhood of Lake Town we were confronted by her passionate attempts to create new communities (of both human and non-human constituents) around her. Lahiri’s work emerged from her early years of academic training at the Government College of Art, Kolkata.

Her story was often overshadowed by the work of her male colleagues and siblings, such as Nirode Mazumdar and Kamal Kumar Majumdar. Using her academic background, she innovated new ways of employing lines, integrating natural environments, animals, cooking recipes and music into art, while curating influential exhibitions and executing public art projects across the city.

The trajectory of her life and career gave us fresh perspectives into our own collection as well. Looking at the work of her teachers (all of them male), like Ramendranath Chakravorty, it became clear how novel the sight of women students were at the art schools of India.

Lahiri belonged to the early batches of female students at the Government Art School, who were beginning to be admitted after the intervention of another teacher and Principal, Mukul Dey. What appears to us as an everyday sight of a student at work was tinged with the quality of novelty in the 1940s, allowing us to read a completely different register into this work.

As we arrived at the late artist Shanu Lahiri’s house in the leafy neighbourhood of Lake Town we were confronted by her passionate attempts to create new communities (of both human and non-human constituents) around her. Lahiri’s work emerged from her early years of academic training at the Government College of Art, Kolkata.

Her story was often overshadowed by the work of her male colleagues and siblings, such as Nirode Mazumdar and Kamal Kumar Majumdar. Using her academic background, she innovated new ways of employing lines, integrating natural environments, animals, cooking recipes and music into art, while curating influential exhibitions and executing public art projects across the city.

The trajectory of her life and career gave us fresh perspectives into our own collection as well. Looking at the work of her teachers (all of them male), like Ramendranath Chakravorty, it became clear how novel the sight of women students were at the art schools of India.

Lahiri belonged to the early batches of female students at the Government Art School, who were beginning to be admitted after the intervention of another teacher and Principal, Mukul Dey. What appears to us as an everyday sight of a student at work was tinged with the quality of novelty in the 1940s, allowing us to read a completely different register into this work.

Established in 1917, the Bose Institute is full of artworks that were either collected by Bose himself or gifted to him by friends and artists, including Abanindranath Tagore, Nicholas Roerich and Rabindranath Tagore. The living room of the Acharya Bhavan also contained murals and frescoes inspired by those at Ajanta and the Bagh caves, designed by Nandalal Bose (and executed by his student, Surendranath Kar), a reproduction of Abanindranath’s painting of Bharat Mata—where she is shown to carry symbols of faith and learning—paintings of Sir and Lady Bose, and a dramatic rendering of the scientist at work by Gaganendranath Tagore; while outside one could see a Japanese rock-garden that allowed Bose to recreate the familiar form of a landscape from his childhood full of mountains, waterbodies and plants.

The motifs of the mimosa pudica and the telegraph plant were visible on the many ornate ceilings and doors that were designed by Nandalal Bose. J. C. Bose was best-known for demonstrating these plants’ sensitivity to stimuli. The presence of several Buddhist sculptures and the nationalist architecture of the Bose Institute gave visitors a view into the personal—even emotional—world of a scientist like Bose, whose temperament was shaped by the stories and myths he heard growing up.

As the artworks in his collection seemed to suggest, Bose’s life presented a complex negotiation between the inner life of a colonized subject and a world historical figure, almost heroically attempting to mould the context of his own work. For someone who longed to push the boundaries of observable phenomena—which led him to create many of his own innovative instruments, relying on the crafts knowledge of artisans from rural Bengal—it became important over time to also find new ways of representing such views, or rendering plant noises audible, making his excursions into art a particularly human attempt at understanding and assimilating such new worlds.

Established in 1917, the Bose Institute is full of artworks that were either collected by Bose himself or gifted to him by friends and artists, including Abanindranath Tagore, Nicholas Roerich and Rabindranath Tagore. The living room of the Acharya Bhavan also contained murals and frescoes inspired by those at Ajanta and the Bagh caves, designed by Nandalal Bose (and executed by his student, Surendranath Kar), a reproduction of Abanindranath’s painting of Bharat Mata—where she is shown to carry symbols of faith and learning—paintings of Sir and Lady Bose, and a dramatic rendering of the scientist at work by Gaganendranath Tagore; while outside one could see a Japanese rock-garden that allowed Bose to recreate the familiar form of a landscape from his childhood full of mountains, waterbodies and plants.

The motifs of the mimosa pudica and the telegraph plant were visible on the many ornate ceilings and doors that were designed by Nandalal Bose. J. C. Bose was best-known for demonstrating these plants’ sensitivity to stimuli. The presence of several Buddhist sculptures and the nationalist architecture of the Bose Institute gave visitors a view into the personal—even emotional—world of a scientist like Bose, whose temperament was shaped by the stories and myths he heard growing up.

As the artworks in his collection seemed to suggest, Bose’s life presented a complex negotiation between the inner life of a colonized subject and a world historical figure, almost heroically attempting to mould the context of his own work. For someone who longed to push the boundaries of observable phenomena—which led him to create many of his own innovative instruments, relying on the crafts knowledge of artisans from rural Bengal—it became important over time to also find new ways of representing such views, or rendering plant noises audible, making his excursions into art a particularly human attempt at understanding and assimilating such new worlds.

Established in 1917, the Bose Institute is full of artworks that were either collected by Bose himself or gifted to him by friends and artists, including Abanindranath Tagore, Nicholas Roerich and Rabindranath Tagore. The living room of the Acharya Bhavan also contained murals and frescoes inspired by those at Ajanta and the Bagh caves, designed by Nandalal Bose (and executed by his student, Surendranath Kar), a reproduction of Abanindranath’s painting of Bharat Mata—where she is shown to carry symbols of faith and learning—paintings of Sir and Lady Bose, and a dramatic rendering of the scientist at work by Gaganendranath Tagore; while outside one could see a Japanese rock-garden that allowed Bose to recreate the familiar form of a landscape from his childhood full of mountains, waterbodies and plants.

The motifs of the mimosa pudica and the telegraph plant were visible on the many ornate ceilings and doors that were designed by Nandalal Bose. J. C. Bose was best-known for demonstrating these plants’ sensitivity to stimuli. The presence of several Buddhist sculptures and the nationalist architecture of the Bose Institute gave visitors a view into the personal—even emotional—world of a scientist like Bose, whose temperament was shaped by the stories and myths he heard growing up.

As the artworks in his collection seemed to suggest, Bose’s life presented a complex negotiation between the inner life of a colonized subject and a world historical figure, almost heroically attempting to mould the context of his own work. For someone who longed to push the boundaries of observable phenomena—which led him to create many of his own innovative instruments, relying on the crafts knowledge of artisans from rural Bengal—it became important over time to also find new ways of representing such views, or rendering plant noises audible, making his excursions into art a particularly human attempt at understanding and assimilating such new worlds.

The subject of traditional academic training was at the centre of this programme, since Chintamoni Kar was a Principal at the Government College of Art, Kolkata from the late-1950s. His works—ranging across sculpture, painting and drawing—presented a map of changing fashions and styles in the vocabularies of art-making across a wide swathe of time and geography, from London and Paris to India, from the 1930s to the early 2000s, reflecting the connections that were framed by our colonial and postcolonial formations of cosmopolitanism.

Suggesting there to be greater continuities between the colonial and postcolonial conditions instead of a total break, as evinced by other modernists, Kar’s early works displayed a strong trace of influence from the Bengal School, especially his own teacher—Kshitindranath Majumdar. Borrowing from the styles of influential sculptors like Henry Moore, Constantin Brancusi and Barbara Hepworth, Kar also sought to integrate his art-making with natural elements and continued to find new ways of reviving classical forms in Indian terracotta and metal sculpting—always in conversation with global trends.

What was even more revelatory was the sight of a whole gallery-worth of works left behind by the little-known artist, Amina Ahmed Kar. Her works reflected her own interest in South-east Asian art and architectural forms, the strong design elements visible in the work of De Stijl artists like César Domela, and her own experiences abroad as well as in domesticity. Some of her drawings suggested dark interior states that were arrived at through a mix of figurative realism and abstraction, often rendering the female face and body in states of distortion. Cubist planes and thick brushwork are often employed to heighten these states of anguish, even though the curation left most of her motivations or methods unaddressed. In spite of these frustrating gaps, it was a singular experience for visitors who had never seen her work before. Her oeuvre holds many clues for Indian modern art historians looking to bridge the gap between male and female presences in the evolving canons of Indian art.

The subject of traditional academic training was at the centre of this programme, since Chintamoni Kar was a Principal at the Government College of Art, Kolkata from the late-1950s. His works—ranging across sculpture, painting and drawing—presented a map of changing fashions and styles in the vocabularies of art-making across a wide swathe of time and geography, from London and Paris to India, from the 1930s to the early 2000s, reflecting the connections that were framed by our colonial and postcolonial formations of cosmopolitanism.

Suggesting there to be greater continuities between the colonial and postcolonial conditions instead of a total break, as evinced by other modernists, Kar’s early works displayed a strong trace of influence from the Bengal School, especially his own teacher—Kshitindranath Majumdar. Borrowing from the styles of influential sculptors like Henry Moore, Constantin Brancusi and Barbara Hepworth, Kar also sought to integrate his art-making with natural elements and continued to find new ways of reviving classical forms in Indian terracotta and metal sculpting—always in conversation with global trends.

What was even more revelatory was the sight of a whole gallery-worth of works left behind by the little-known artist, Amina Ahmed Kar. Her works reflected her own interest in South-east Asian art and architectural forms, the strong design elements visible in the work of De Stijl artists like César Domela, and her own experiences abroad as well as in domesticity. Some of her drawings suggested dark interior states that were arrived at through a mix of figurative realism and abstraction, often rendering the female face and body in states of distortion. Cubist planes and thick brushwork are often employed to heighten these states of anguish, even though the curation left most of her motivations or methods unaddressed. In spite of these frustrating gaps, it was a singular experience for visitors who had never seen her work before. Her oeuvre holds many clues for Indian modern art historians looking to bridge the gap between male and female presences in the evolving canons of Indian art.

The subject of traditional academic training was at the centre of this programme, since Chintamoni Kar was a Principal at the Government College of Art, Kolkata from the late-1950s. His works—ranging across sculpture, painting and drawing—presented a map of changing fashions and styles in the vocabularies of art-making across a wide swathe of time and geography, from London and Paris to India, from the 1930s to the early 2000s, reflecting the connections that were framed by our colonial and postcolonial formations of cosmopolitanism.

Suggesting there to be greater continuities between the colonial and postcolonial conditions instead of a total break, as evinced by other modernists, Kar’s early works displayed a strong trace of influence from the Bengal School, especially his own teacher—Kshitindranath Majumdar. Borrowing from the styles of influential sculptors like Henry Moore, Constantin Brancusi and Barbara Hepworth, Kar also sought to integrate his art-making with natural elements and continued to find new ways of reviving classical forms in Indian terracotta and metal sculpting—always in conversation with global trends.

What was even more revelatory was the sight of a whole gallery-worth of works left behind by the little-known artist, Amina Ahmed Kar. Her works reflected her own interest in South-east Asian art and architectural forms, the strong design elements visible in the work of De Stijl artists like César Domela, and her own experiences abroad as well as in domesticity. Some of her drawings suggested dark interior states that were arrived at through a mix of figurative realism and abstraction, often rendering the female face and body in states of distortion. Cubist planes and thick brushwork are often employed to heighten these states of anguish, even though the curation left most of her motivations or methods unaddressed. In spite of these frustrating gaps, it was a singular experience for visitors who had never seen her work before. Her oeuvre holds many clues for Indian modern art historians looking to bridge the gap between male and female presences in the evolving canons of Indian art.

The walk introduced visitors to the wide range of periodicals that are held in its collection—focusing on the evolution of printed artwork and illustrations within them. Some of the most prominent artworks produced in Bengal found life in these periodicals that were circulated regularly, making them an important resource for recreating our own artistic heritage.

The sheer range of names associated with illustrating these periodicals, and evolving new methods of printing technology, gave one a sense of their importance in churning the intellectual cultures of their day. The pioneering Bengali antiquarian Rajendralal Mitra wrote accounts of India’s architectural past that were usually illustrated by Annada Prasad Bagchi; Joseph Fayrer—a surgeon at the Calcutta Medical College—published a volume titled Thanatophidia of India: Being a Description of the Venomous Snakes of the Indian Peninsula (1872), delivering quite explicitly on the promise of the title with illustrations of the creepy-crawlies executed by students of the Government Art School.

Other famous names included Nandalal Bose, who illustrated several editions of the literary magazine Bichitra—along with Surendranath Kar, Mukul Dey and Asit Haldar. We also saw some rare early illustrations by Gaganendranath Tagore and Upendrakishore Roychowdhury—who put forth his skepticism of the Bengal School works that were being painted at the time—and some early book cover designs by Satyajit Ray as the survey took us up to the years before Independence.

The walk introduced visitors to the wide range of periodicals that are held in its collection—focusing on the evolution of printed artwork and illustrations within them. Some of the most prominent artworks produced in Bengal found life in these periodicals that were circulated regularly, making them an important resource for recreating our own artistic heritage.

The sheer range of names associated with illustrating these periodicals, and evolving new methods of printing technology, gave one a sense of their importance in churning the intellectual cultures of their day. The pioneering Bengali antiquarian Rajendralal Mitra wrote accounts of India’s architectural past that were usually illustrated by Annada Prasad Bagchi; Joseph Fayrer—a surgeon at the Calcutta Medical College—published a volume titled Thanatophidia of India: Being a Description of the Venomous Snakes of the Indian Peninsula (1872), delivering quite explicitly on the promise of the title with illustrations of the creepy-crawlies executed by students of the Government Art School.

Other famous names included Nandalal Bose, who illustrated several editions of the literary magazine Bichitra—along with Surendranath Kar, Mukul Dey and Asit Haldar. We also saw some rare early illustrations by Gaganendranath Tagore and Upendrakishore Roychowdhury—who put forth his skepticism of the Bengal School works that were being painted at the time—and some early book cover designs by Satyajit Ray as the survey took us up to the years before Independence.

The walk introduced visitors to the wide range of periodicals that are held in its collection—focusing on the evolution of printed artwork and illustrations within them. Some of the most prominent artworks produced in Bengal found life in these periodicals that were circulated regularly, making them an important resource for recreating our own artistic heritage.

The sheer range of names associated with illustrating these periodicals, and evolving new methods of printing technology, gave one a sense of their importance in churning the intellectual cultures of their day. The pioneering Bengali antiquarian Rajendralal Mitra wrote accounts of India’s architectural past that were usually illustrated by Annada Prasad Bagchi; Joseph Fayrer—a surgeon at the Calcutta Medical College—published a volume titled Thanatophidia of India: Being a Description of the Venomous Snakes of the Indian Peninsula (1872), delivering quite explicitly on the promise of the title with illustrations of the creepy-crawlies executed by students of the Government Art School.

Other famous names included Nandalal Bose, who illustrated several editions of the literary magazine Bichitra—along with Surendranath Kar, Mukul Dey and Asit Haldar. We also saw some rare early illustrations by Gaganendranath Tagore and Upendrakishore Roychowdhury—who put forth his skepticism of the Bengal School works that were being painted at the time—and some early book cover designs by Satyajit Ray as the survey took us up to the years before Independence.