On Kasturba Road, abutting Cubbon Park, is a set of three adjacent buildings that feature in every “Things To Do In Bengaluru” list. The first, if you are heading down from Queens Road, is a nondescript rectangular structure, with an actual Marut – the first Indian-developed jet fighter, conceived and manufactured at Hindustan Aeronautics Limited in the 1960s – in its front lawn, which houses the exciting, interactive Visvesvaraya Industrial and Technological Museum (VITM). The second, whose name and purpose elude many Bangaloreans, is the magnificent neoclassical structure designed by Col Richard Sankey in 1877 and painted an eye-catching Pompeiian red (psst, that is the Government Museum, which contains many priceless historical artefacts, and is currently under renovation).
The third, a plain modernist building set back from the road and originally designed to stand in the middle of an artificial island, is the Venkatappa Art Gallery (VAG), established in 1975 primarily to house the works of one of the most celebrated artists of the erstwhile Mysore state. Many Bangaloreans believe that the red building is in fact the VAG, but that kind of mix-up is less likely to happen going forward; last week, as part of its golden jubilee celebrations, a swank, state-of-the-art VAG, renovated by the Brigade Foundation, reopened to the public in the same location.
But what do we know of the eponymous artist? By all accounts, K Venkatappa (1886-1965), one of the foremost students of Abanindranath Tagore, was variously irascible, eccentric, independent-minded, litigious, and an extraordinary painter, sculptor and veena player.
His artistic talent – he came from a long lineage of Chitrakaras, court painters patronised by the Mysore kings – was spotted early, by the Maharaja of Mysore, Nalvadi Krishnaraja Wadiyar, who urged the lad to hone his skills at the Government School of Art in Calcutta. Arriving in Calcutta at 23, Venkatappa spent the next seven years studying under Tagore, alongside peers like Nandalal Bose, the pioneer of modern Indian art, and Asit Kumar Haldar, one of the major artists of the Bengal Renaissance.
Like other artists of his generation who grew up in the ferment of nationalism, Venkatappa strove to create a new paradigm of art that was resolutely “Indian”. But his reluctance to align himself with any artistic school, his rejection of important commissions that did not, in his estimation, compensate him adequately, or interfered with his artistic style (he preferred working in watercolours, when oils, inspired by Raja Ravi Varma, were all the rage in Mysore), and his habit of frequently neglecting his art for his music saw him produce far less work than his contemporaries. He may have faded into obscurity were it not for the Irish poet and theosophist James Cousins (famously responsible for nudging Kannada poet laureate Kuvempu into writing in his mother tongue after the latter solicited Cousins’ feedback on his collection of poems in English), who, taken by Venkatappa’s talent, recommended him to Nalvadi’s brother, the Yuvaraja, in 1924.
A royal commission followed soon after – a series of bas reliefs for the Mysore Palace, with a studio in the palace thrown in as a bonus. Venkatappa accepted, but he was by then so deep into his “Ooty watercolours” phase (during which he produced some of his finest work) that delivery of the reliefs was inordinately delayed. With the death of Nalvadi in 1940, Venkatappa lost his most loyal patron. The new king, Jayachamarajendra Wadiyar, summarily dismissed the artist and evicted him from the palace. Furious, Venkatappa sued the Palace, but in vain. He produced no more new work until his death in 1965.
That the state government should have, despite everything, set up a gallery for his work 50 years ago, is clearly a testament to K Venkatappa’s relevance and impact as an artist. But go visit the VAG, and judge for yourself!
(Roopa Pai is a writer who has carried on a longtime love affair with her hometown Bengaluru)