Their Own Private Vishnus
By Lee Lawrence
One of the instantly
recognizable icons of Indian art is the dynamic figure of Shiva, matted
locks fanning from his head like so many snakes, left leg raised as he leaps
through the cosmic dance of life and destruction, right leg landing firmly
on the demon dwarf of ignorance. This iconic image took shape in the
early part of the Chola Dynasty, which ruled South India from the ninth to
the 13th centuries. Great patrons of the arts, their rule saw an explosion
in temple building, poetry writing and the making of portable bronze images
used in an ever-growing number of religious festivals. Beautifully
conceived, delicately sculpted and masterfully cast, these bronzes have
garnered acclaim in the West since the 1800s. Yet there has never been an
American exhibition devoted to them.
Here to redress the situation is "The Sensuous and the Sacred: Chola
Bronzes From South India," on view at the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery through
March 9, 2003. The 70 sculptures range in height from 2 feet to 5 feet
and depict powerful gods, sensuous goddesses and broad-shouldered saints.
Traditionally, these statues never appeared in public without first being
ritually bathed and dressed, a practice that continues today. In the 19th
and 20th centuries, however, some bronzes began to be seen as "art" and were
displayed in museums undraped, the better to highlight their aesthetic
qualities. These days, when anything that smacks of "colonialism" is
considered anathema, this approach has come under fire for imposing a
Western aesthetic perspective on these works and dismissing their religious
significance. At the same time, the educational role of museums has steadily
grown and with it the number of shows devoted to exhibiting works in
context.
In this exhibition, curator Vidya Dehejia takes us down a middle road
between these two perspectives. A video and photographs illustrate the
religious context in which these objects originally functioned, and one
Nataraja appears dressed, offerings of flowers at his feet. At the same
time, she has grouped the sculptures by such subjects as Shiva as husband
and father, Vishnu as Rama, and the Great Goddess. Because this arrangement
allows for stylistic comparisons within a given category, it emphasizes an
aesthetic appreciation of each object. Context is a fine thing, the curator
seems to be saying, but it shouldn't get in the way of our contemplation of
masterpieces displayed on pedestals or in cases, softly illuminated from
above to bring out the delicate carving, the sensuous forms and the patina
of time.
What comes through in this installation is the unexpected variety of
these objects. In the gallery devoted to saints, some stand solemnly,
palms pressed together in reverence, while others strike more casual poses,
one hip outthrust. A superb statue by an 11th-century artist from Pandi Nadu,
the southernmost region of India, depicts the child saint Sambandar ready to
leap into a joyful dance, while a contemporaneous image of Karaikkal, the
saint who sacrificed her beauty to Shiva, exaggerates her emaciation by
elongating her waist and adding knobs to her shoulders.
All the depictions of Vishnu, on the other hand, epitomize good posture:
straight back, shoulders relaxed and, if standing, feet parallel. And while
they all carry a conch and discus -- Vishnu's identifying symbols --
differences nonetheless abound. One has thick, well-defined lips,
slightly flaring nostrils and pencil-thin limbs, while another has
exaggeratedly broad shoulders and wears a garment that hangs in ribbed folds
over his throne.
The show could have married context and aesthetics even more -- by
lighting the statues from beneath as they might appear in the glow of temple
oil lamps, for example. But in the end, this "middle way" does the work
justice. After all, why would artists have lavished such attention on
these statues if they did not value their beauty? And how can any aesthetic
appreciation overlook the green patina that tells us that priests buried the
statue to protect it from an advancing enemy, or a face worn almost
featureless by repeated ritual cleansings and the caresses of its devotees?
Source: Wall Street Journal
