This wide-ranging, in-depth interview with the Modernist master — whose birth centenary is being celebrated this year — was long lost to time and has been salvaged from a reporter’s archive. It reveals his insights into art, politics, and teaching. The artist underlines the importance of experimentation, the relationship between artist and his material, and the power of art beyond formal education
2024 marks the birth centenary of Kalpathi Ganpathi Subramanyan (1924-2016), one of India’s most influential modern artists, who moved fluidly between painting, sculpture, mural art, and writing. His work, deeply informed by Indian folk traditions, mythology, and Western modernism, straddled multiple worlds, effortlessly blending the local with the global. As a professor at institutions like Santiniketan and the Faculty of Fine Arts at MS University, Baroda, KG Subramanyan also shaped the intellectual discourse of Indian art, bringing an understanding of indigenous traditions into the dialogue with modern aesthetics. His ability to fuse these seemingly disparate influences without diluting their integrity remains a hallmark of his genius. Always pushing against the limits of form and content, he rejected static notions of art, believing that it should remain in dialogue with the world. The interview was conducted in 2005 as part of a proposed book to go with a show that featured artists who traced their origins to Kerala. Though the show was a success, the book itself was never published.
Excerpts:
Manjula Narayan: Your body of work has been so extensive. What have you enjoyed doing the most?
Kalpathi Ganpathi Subramanyan: Well, if I didn’t enjoy doing all of them, I would not have done them. Whatever kind of work I engage in, I always find joy in the process. In fact, I work across various media because I see each medium as a challenge. So, to answer your question, I can’t say that I enjoy one more than the other — they all serve a purpose. Every artist, whether working within a single medium or across many, does so out of a certain compulsion, an inner need. That’s the driving force behind the work, and that’s how it should be understood.
MN: How did your time as Deputy Director at the weavers’ service centres shape your understanding of craft practices in India and influence your broader artistic journey?
KGS: My work with weavers wasn’t initially part of my artistic quest; rather, it stemmed from a desire to understand the broader landscape of craft practice in India. This is largely because I believed that the scope of art practice here was much wider than what city-bred critics typically discussed, and I wanted to experience it firsthand. Some people thought I would do a lot of good work at the weavers’ service centres, and I took on the role of Deputy Director for a while. I spent about two years and a few months there. The main outcome of that experience was that I had gained a clearer understanding of artisan practices, along with a deeper insight into the challenges surrounding craft development and education.
MN: How did the MSU Faculty of Fine Arts’ fair and your collaborations, such as with Gyarsilal Mistry, influence your creative process and lead you to explore different mediums like toy-making and terracotta?
KGS: They all came from different situations. I started making toys while teaching here. A colleague mentioned that teaching art had become too dry and repetitive, so we thought of organising a mela every year. This would not only invite the public to see our work but also offer them something accessible to buy, bringing art closer to what people could have in their homes. That’s how we started the Fine Arts fair, where the artists designed toys, calendars, puppets, and held small stage shows. However, the fair has not happened for a while; the last one I saw was five years ago. Since then, it hasn’t been held.
A painting by K.G. Subramanyan
Now, artists have become more professional. They focus on what they’re going to do today or tomorrow and are less inclined to engage in playful experimentation. Back then, art didn’t sell much, and it wasn’t talked about as extensively, so the fair was just fun. That’s when I started making toys. I had a resourceful helper in my department, Gyarasilal Mistry, a Rajasthani master mason. He’s no longer with us, but he was always willing to help with any idea I had. I would make model pieces and ask him to produce more, which he did. I also made puppets from old socks and clay toys, and working with clay led me to explore terracotta. One thing naturally led to another.
MN: So, did your terracotta work evolve from your experience making clay toys?
KGS: Yes, in a sense, the kind of terracotta work I do is rooted in the initial clay toys I made. While creating those toys, I realised that by forming a framework and placing a thin sheet of clay over it, the clay acted like skin over bones. This insight led me to think about working with clay in a more figurative way. So, one thing led to another. Apart from practice pieces, the first terracotta relief work I created was a depiction of a hunter and his trophies — like tiger skins — all made in clay. The hunter resembled those in old photographs, where they’d pose with animal skins and rupee notes poking out of their pockets. I made that piece around 1970.
After that, more incidental work followed. And a major flood hit Baroda. Not like the recent floods we’ve had here, but still quite severe. It submerged many villages around Baroda. Our faculty, teachers, and students were all very anxious to go and serve the public. So, they went to assess the damage and determine how they could be helpful. The local papers were full of photographs of bloated bodies of men and women. In fact, the Baroda papers, which hardly ever carried any photographs, were filled with them.
MN: Yeah, we do! (laughs)
KGS: Then, and of course it’s true sometimes, when a lean person gets submerged in water and bloats up, he can look healthier than he did before. In any case, one morning I saw one of these papers, which carried a whole lot of photographs showing bodies being mauled by dogs and other things. They wanted to show that the government was not idle. The Chief Minister at that time, I think, was Hitendra Desai, and they wanted to print his photograph in the corner. Unfortunately, the Press didn’t get a photograph that suited the theme, so Hitendra Desai was laughing away.
When I saw that, my theme shifted from the hunter and the trophy to how people can be quite insensitive to the suffering of others. Even when they try to help, they often think more about their own image than the distress around them. Then, at the same time, there was the Bangladesh war. So, the theme of the hunter and the trophy got projected into that context. The suffering public of Bangladesh and generals flaunting their medals and seeking fame... This whole series of events shifted from a rather innocent theme to a more loaded one. I can only work like that. Unless something specific or a special issue pushes me, I just sit back.
MN: So everything that you’ve done is connected in this…
KGS: In this sort of way, in the way of language of expression.
MN: Could you talk about the children’s books and the illustrations that went with it?
KGS: That was incidental to building up our department. In fact, when I was the dean of the Faculty of Fine Arts at MSU, we had a graphic arts department — it is still active and doing good work. Dhumal, the current Head of the Department, is married to one of my former students, who recently retired as the Head of the Department of Painting. Now, at that time, I thought one way art could influence public vision was through well-produced literature. So, I initiated a programme for well-designed book production aimed at reaching children, adults, and even the elderly through suitable literature. I had them put together a course on book production, but initially, there were no takers.
So, I went into the studio and started working on these books myself. The few books I produced also had an issue behind them. That year, Baroda experienced a communal riot after many years — though now it’s part of Gujarat’s history. I believe it was around 1969. This small riot affected many local shop owners on both sides. We decided to raise some money during a mela to help those affected. Although the amount raised wasn’t substantial, we thought it was a meaningful gesture. My first book was related to this. It wasn’t intended to be didactic, preaching that “fighting is bad, we are all brothers.”
Instead, I created a story about how, when God first made man, everyone looked alike. This led to confusion, where one person would mistake another for someone else. So, God provided them with a shop full of costumes. As they wore these costumes, their mannerisms and behaviour changed, making them different from each other. Over time, small animosities arose, leading to conflicts. The story’s moral was that while costumes may influence your actions, remembering that everyone was once the same can be beneficial. I also created books addressing issues like pollution in Baroda. I produced two or three books at that time, and although a few colleagues tried their hand at book-making, only one was particularly talented but didn’t pursue it further. Unfortunately, the department struggled to attract students, as many questioned the practical utility of designing books.
MN: But now bookmaking is an art by itself!
KGS: I know, that’s right! So… the great pity is that we always seemed to think a little too early about things (chuckles). Anyway, the whole issue is that thereafter, whenever there was a mela and I was around, they used to ask me to do one or two more books. So, I’ve done seven or eight books of that kind, and several of them have been published by Seagull Publishers. Otherwise, nobody was interested.
The children’s books… they had an exhibition and seminar here during Children’s Year. They looked at the book, and in fact, one of the people thought it should be presented to the committee there. It was Laxman’s wife who took it. She was told, ‘Oh, it has no colour, how will the children look at black and white?’ People already have certain preconceived notions, and it’s very difficult to change them. Most literature used to have black-and-white images at one time, and those stories, like Shakespeare’s, still remain.”
KG Subramanyan, Maquette for the Mural, War of the Relics, Paper cutout and gouache on paper
MN: Grimm’s fairy tales… all of them have black-and-whites images.
KGS: Yeah, but now they are more informed, so that’s what they think. This is the issue. In a sense, the idea of infiltrating these spheres wasn’t really mine. That grew with the rise of places like Santiniketan. Because the first person to create interesting illustrations for children was… well… Rabindranath Tagore wrote for children, and Nandalal Bose did those delightful linocuts for his works, which are still considered masterpieces. To some extent, I got my enthusiasm for doing this from that exposure.
But anyway, the point is, there’s so much one can do, and now one or two of our younger students are doing excellent work. In fact, Indrapramit, who teaches here at the college, has done some illustrations for an international agency. His father, Kumar Rai, is now the head of the Bahurupi theatre unit. At one time, Shambhu Mitra was, but now his assistant, Kumar Rai, leads it. Indrapramit is Kumar Rai’s son, and he has apparently done some notable work. So, there are people doing it. But in Bengal, especially, it seems that literary figures have taken it upon themselves to write for children, while artists have not taken it upon themselves to illustrate for children or to inspire them with the kind of work they can produce. Whether this is good or bad, I don’t know.
MN: In a lot of your paintings, there’s a rich use of colour… Can you talk about that?
KGS: Hmmm. That’s something I can’t comment on too much, because each person’s use of colour is, to a certain extent, related to their individual vision. In fact, at one time, most people used to say my paintings didn’t have much colour. (laughs) Back then, I probably worked a lot with what I considered ‘colourful greys.’ But people thought it wasn’t colourful enough. Later, of course, I began using colour more deliberately, experimenting with contrasts and such.
To some degree, it depends on the mood of the moment and the theme I’m working with. My colour is often notional — it doesn’t always correspond to seen reality. When I use a set of colours, I treat them like an alphabet; they come together to form their own language. As you combine them, and they gain a certain coherence, you create a language of colour. I suppose people today can understand that better, especially since now you can do all sorts of things. With computers, you can change a red image to a green one, or mix colours in different ways, and it makes sense. At one time, people felt the need to explain why Expressionists painted a green cow and a red cow together. It sounds silly now, but back then, it required justification. So, the use of colour is a kind of relative statement. Certain subjects require particular kinds of colours to heighten their emotional pitch or to bring it down. But none of this is meticulously planned — it just happens that way.
MN: In a lot of paintings I’ve seen, there are a lot of goddess-like figures with multiple hands and things like that. You know The Fairytale…Can you talk about that?
KGS: Well, I can’t talk about that in depth here because I’ve written about it before. There are two main points. One concerns what you see as a narrative. You see, at one time, people thought that when you painted, you simply captured what you saw. That means you would freeze reality, capturing it just as it is. But when you do that, reality becomes static, a mere thing. Now, suppose a writer were to describe this garden. The writer wouldn’t freeze reality in the same way. They would describe it bit by bit: the grass, the colour of the grass, the earth peeking through, the insects crawling, the water seeping in. All those little details build a narrative. Many paintings, too, are narratives of a kind — not necessarily storytelling but descriptive narratives.
Then there’s another issue: when you think about mythological figures, where does mythology come from? Mythology is born from people’s interpretations of certain experiences. For example, there’s a painting currently being shown in the United States called The Black Boy Fights With The Demons. In Santiniketan, we had a gardener who worked as a caretaker, and his daughter had a little black son. He was beautiful when he was born, and everyone admired him. But as he grew up, he began to throw stones at passing cars and run after cows — doing all the things Krishna supposedly did in myth, like throwing stones at carts, what we call ‘chakatasuravart.’ He would fight with insects and chase birds. These simple, everyday acts are often exaggerated into mythical narratives, similar to what happens in the stories of gods.
Similarly, when using the mother goddess figure, the complexity of the symbol is often overlooked. The newspapers simplify it, portraying the mother goddess as a symbol of good triumphing over evil. But it’s not that simple. One of my friends has studied the mother goddess myths in depth, and many of them verge on the macabre. The figure of the mother goddess can represent something as dark as a female figure devouring the male — like how certain insects behave. Not every mother goddess is depicted that way, though. There are other representations, like the Great Mother with many children clinging to her and her numerous breasts.
MN: Like Kali?
KGS: Kali, the mother goddess, is often associated with the charnel grounds, embodying destruction and death. Then there’s Durga, the mother goddess who, especially in Bengal, is also seen as the daughter of the household — a blend of the sensuous and the fearsome. I think I’ve written about this in an exhibition catalogue in Calcutta, on the theme of what is called Bahurupi. This Bahurupi tradition exists all over India. Certain castes dress up as either mythological or non-mythological characters and roam around. Their disguises aren’t complete; they don’t fully transform into these mythic beings. Instead, they reveal themselves as ordinary, sometimes lowly, human beings, acting out something that lies between the seen and the unseen, the ordinary and the beyond.
Whenever I use a mythological image, it’s like an act of dissection to understand what lies inside it, what the deeper meaning is. I believe that this approach can help people move beyond rigid, dogmatic interpretations — like thinking ‘Kali means this’ or ‘Durga means that,’ or even ‘Allah means this.’ These images are projections of something deeper within human beings. They reflect an awareness of one’s strengths and failings, and the attempts to create strategies to overcome these challenges. That’s where these images emerge from, at least in the way my mind works. So, that’s that.
MN: So, it’s from our… our collective consciousness?
KGS: That may be… Aaah, that’s a big word.
MN: (laughs) Also, could you talk about your reverse paintings?
KGS: There was a student of mine here, Ushakant Mehta, who might still be around somewhere. He has a house in Baroda, though he’s not seen much these days. He started collecting various glass paintings from different parts of Gujarat. This exposed me to a particular kind of painting that is immediate and spectacular, where even small things are made to look grand. That got me thinking — why not give it a try? I wasn’t entirely sure of the traditional method of glass painting, so I used gouache and backed it with oils, and it worked quite well. That’s how it all began. Since then, I’ve created all sorts of large works using this technique, though I now use transparent plastic instead of glass.
MN: You’ve worked with a wide range of materials. How do you view the relationship between an artist and the materials they work with?
KGS: Nowadays, an artist uses various media, like the multimedia work I do, and it’s not seen as a reflection on their abilities. But it was different at one time. Painters thought they had to stick to painting, sculptors believed they had to work in stone — things like that. A sculptor, for instance, wouldn’t have considered making a papier-mâché sculpture. Similarly, painters felt they should only draw and paint, and that was it. When I started using different materials, many people probably thought, ‘Is this man an artisan or an artist?’ But that’s not really the case.
In fact, even in the European art scene, Picasso was prolific in exploring this. He tried all kinds of media and discovered different avenues through them. He didn’t just impose his own approach on the material; he worked with it. For example, when he made a sculpture or worked on a plate, he understood what we might call the ‘dharma of the medium’ — what the material inherently possesses. He utilised that quality. To some extent, my use of different media is similar. Each medium has its own language, and when you use it in the right way, you get more than what you contribute. The medium becomes your accomplice. It’s not something external that you’re simply trying to master; it’s a collaborator in your creative process.
For example, a jockey’s horse isn’t just something he rides — it’s his accomplice. Likewise, for a cricketer, the bat isn’t just a tool; it’s an extension of his skill. If he doesn’t understand how to wield the bat properly, he’s not going to be a great batsman. The same applies to art. Each medium you use becomes an accomplice in your expression. Of course, it’s possible to use a medium poorly. (smiles). The point is, unlike winning a race or a match, being a painter or sculptor doesn’t have immediate consequences if you use a medium badly because no one may notice it. But if you use a medium successfully, you discover new dimensions in your work.
MN: You know many writers on art have drawn inspiration from your work as a theoretician.
KGS: Well, I don’t know if they have drawn inspiration or not. I haven’t theorised too much because I don’t want to construct a rigid theoretical framework that becomes like one of those heavy structures you have to carry around. Every time I try to explain certain issues to myself, and if I talk or write about them, they get published. It’s not a continuous theory of any kind, but if people have been influenced by what I’ve written. I suppose they have learned how to think for themselves rather than just reading books from Europe or America.
There are various things... People still talk so much about postcolonialism, but in our country, there’s still a considerable postcolonial hangover. It manifests in a deceptive way. You might be very nationalistic and talk about your country, but when thinking about where the country should move, people tend to believe it should follow the path the West has taken. So, this hangover is still very much present. It’s always worthwhile to take a close look at what we have and see if there’s another explanation. That’s where I might have influenced a few people.
One of the first things my initial book aimed to do was show that modern art in India shouldn’t be compared with modern art in Europe. It’s a different kind of growth. There are issues modern art in the West has dealt with that we don’t necessarily face in India. For instance, in the West, artists had to break away from Renaissance art, which was tied to visual reality or ‘retinal reality,’ as they saw it. This wasn’t the case in India. Even in Indian philosophy, the notion of reality as something ‘out there’ wasn’t as prominent. Indian thought has often seen what you perceive as a kind of veil for the true reality behind it.
So, if people have been influenced by me, perhaps it’s in understanding that Indian modernism has its own trajectory. As for the whole Modern-Postmodern debate, my view differs from the mainstream. To me, Modernism isn’t a style; it’s the result of cultural globalisation. When people from different parts of the world come together, encountering diverse ways of thinking, speaking, and living, they reinterpret what they already know. That’s how modernist movements, whether in science or literature, emerged — from rethinking.
In a way, modernism created a tradition of breaking tradition. Every time you use something, you ask, “Is this the right thing for me?” So there’s always a critical element. But many modern theorists believed modernism was a new dawn, a step forward in some kind of evolutionary scale, leading to a society with a more expressive language. They thought there was no going back, and the past wasn’t worth much.
Then they realised that cutting off the past wasn’t sustainable, even linguistically. Every language has a history. We didn’t invent these languages, and they come with a past. So, really, some people have started to see Modernism as an overstatement. The past has a lot to offer, but it’s never exhausted. We interpret it anew each time. Just like how Einstein built on Newtonian theory, there may still be truths in older ideas that will resurface. So, Postmodernism, to me, is about moving away from the dogmatism of Modernism. Unfortunately, many people see Postmodernism as another rigid theory.
I’ve also written about the relationship between artists and artisans. In today’s terms, we could talk about the ‘democratisation of art,’ though it doesn’t mean lowering it to the level of the common man. It means recognising that many things happening around us among the public are, in themselves, a source of art. People with limited resources still find their own ways of creating beauty, and that’s art in its own right. There’s a levelling of the language of art — it’s not always in the ivory tower, but also on the street. I’ve written about this here and there, though not in a connected statement, and also about art education, social issues, and other things. If some people have been affected by it, I’m happy.
KG Subramanyan, Polyptich 3, Watercolour and oil on mylar sheet
MN: How does being a practicing artist influence your approach to teaching art, both in theory and practice? How do you balance the two roles?
KGS: If a practising artist becomes a very serious teacher, he is committing a kind of suicide. But then, people like me, who were both practising artists and teachers, only pretended to teach. Luckily, I had behind me a whole group of teachers who didn’t believe in teaching at all. In fact, when I studied at Santiniketan, it was under the shadow of Tagore’s ideas, who believed that art cannot be taught. I mean, if there is a young person with talent, you can encourage them or place them in an environment where they can grow on their own. Tagore had this idea that an emerging artist, like a caterpillar, creates a cocoon around themselves. When they are ready, they cut the cocoon and emerge as a butterfly. That was his image of how an artist is made.
First, the artist encounters the world, then retreats into a phase of growth, and finally, emerges transformed. But another teacher, Nandalal Bose, had a different idea of what an artist is. He wasn’t as individualistic and believed that practice plays a crucial role. He thought that if you isolate yourself in a cocoon, you won’t learn enough. He had another analogy: when a village potter is working, he uses a wheel and a stick to keep it spinning. At first, the wheel wobbles, but as it steadies, the potter is able to shape something from it. Similarly, an artist must allow for some initial wobbling before reaching a steady point where real growth happens. Practice, he believed, was essential, and you have to take advantage of those steady moments.
Teaching is like that too. The most a teacher can do is give students an impetus — a sense of how serious their profession is and how they shouldn’t take others’ praise or criticism at face value. They must be their own critic. I don’t know if this still holds true today, but that was the idea. Another thing about teaching... when I was interviewed in Delhi some time ago, I recalled a Sanskrit shloka. Sanskrit contains verses for almost every occasion. The verse describes how under a spreading Banyan tree, a young-looking teacher sits with old-looking pupils, and all their questions are answered by his silence. I said I was that kind of teacher. The relationship between a teacher and a student cannot be measured by time alone.
Some years ago, when I was in London, I met Peter de Francia, who had visited India once or twice. He had been the teacher of many of my students at the Royal College of Art. We were having lunch with two of my students, Dhruv Mistry and Sheela Gowda, and Peter asked me, “How much time do you dedicate to teaching?” I told him he could ask my students. I said probably ten meetings a year. He was quite surprised. “Ten meetings a year? We’re slogging here six days a week!” I replied, “You don’t need to. In fact, what you’re doing isn’t really getting through. You’re just trying to satisfy yourself or others by showing that you’re doing a good job. But if you truly want to influence people’s thinking or their vision, it doesn’t take a lot of time. You never know when it might work. If it works, it works. Why overexert yourself?”
As far as teaching art goes, the key is having the right environment. I’ve spoken about this elsewhere, saying that an art school should be like a rainforest. You shouldn’t disturb the environment; let everything grow on its own. The environment should have educational biodiversity, where students can learn from everything around them without being forced. In a regular school, children must be trained and given the tools of perception and thinking. But in an art school, it should be more like the rainforest — organic, diverse, and self-sustaining.
MN: You’ve returned to Santiniketan so many times through your life. What was the attraction?
KGS: Actually, I haven’t returned to Santiniketan that often. I left after my studies in 1951, and between then and 1980, I only visited once or twice briefly. I was mostly away. Then the people at Santiniketan invited me back, saying, “You’ve spent so many years here; why don’t you return?” So I considered it. At the time, I was living in a growing industrial town and wanted to spend my old age somewhere halfway between a town and a village, and Santiniketan seemed like the right place. I stayed there for 25 years, but now I’ve come back to Baroda for a few reasons. Santiniketan is becoming more urbanised, and my daughter lives in Bombay, so I want to be near her. In Baroda, I also have a kind of rainforest around me, filled with my former students. They’re all older now, but they still take care of me. So that’s why I’m here. Besides, I have little to do with the town. Whenever I want, I can drive in and then return.
MN: How has your childhood affected you?
KGS: I don’t know. Everyone asks you that question. How would I know?
MN: No, how has it steered you to pick up what you have?
KGS: Ah! To be honest, if you ask anyone born in the 1920s or 1910s, none of their families wanted them to become an artist. It wasn’t that there wasn’t any artistic talent around or that people didn’t pursue it, but it just wasn’t seen as a desirable path. I was probably noticed as someone who liked to scribble and draw quite early on, even before I went to school. In fact, I started school rather late because I was apparently a sickly child. I had recurring scabies. I first joined what was called the first standard — back then, we had standards and forms.
Some of the early memories I have from my childhood are of temples, temple chariots, and the carvings on the small temples in Kerala. Then there was Theyyam, Kathakali, and similar performances. I still occasionally think in terms of their theatrics. But how much of that remains in present-day Kerala, I’m not sure. Someone did mention to me recently that it’s all still there.
KG Subramanyan, Figure Against Tapestry, Gouache on handmade paper
MN: Theyyam is still there but the context in which it is perhaps has changed.
KGS: That’s right. To what extent it is I don’t know. Then I grew up in a place called Mahe.
MN: Mahe, the French colony?
KGS: So, in a sense, it was a kind of underground in those days — underground for people who wanted to drink liquor, underground for smugglers, and underground for certain political activists whom the British government did not want around. In that way, I had that kind of exposure. When I was in school, I was already exposed to Marxist groups and similar movements, and I became involved in active politics soon after. I left school and studied at St. Aloysius College in Mangalore. Like many others, I then went to Madras Presidency College to study Economics and got involved in student politics. It was the time of the Quit India movement, and eventually, I ended up in jail.
MN: What was that like? I mean that was a time of ferment…
KGS: In fact, at that time, getting arrested was a big deal. India was on the path to independence, and there was a lot of idealism — people were ready to pay any price for it. The people who were in jail with me were probably the cream of the Madras colleges of that era. My situation was different. I had a ban from Presidency College, so I couldn’t return after being released from jail. I also had an interest in art, which eventually led me to Santiniketan. It was incidental. Yes, I wanted to paint, but many of my other friends later returned to their studies or found good jobs and held prominent positions. For instance, one of my close friends, Ravi N., became the Chief Secretary of Tamil Nadu, and Ramunni Menon, who is likely still around, was the Additional Chief Secretary of Kerala. Many others ended up in places like the International Monetary Fund and similar institutions.
Years later, I had a friend in Delhi who was the secretary to Acharya Kripalani. Whenever I visited, he would gather all these people, whom he called “goats,” and we’d have a “goats party.” It was interesting, but all that idealism is hard to find in present-day India. The reality is, it existed back then. Unless there is another wave of idealism where people are willing to do whatever they can to change the country, nothing will happen here. As I mentioned earlier, cultural globalism was the foundation of Modernism, which is a good thing, but economic globalism is rooted in exploitation. In this way, they are turning us into slaves. If the world is to be saved, the rich and the poor must come together and think in terms of sustainable prosperity for everyone. But that seems unlikely, especially given how people in the United States behave. Economic globalism and exploitation go hand in hand, and this exploitation cannot be resisted unless the resistance comes from within. It’s not like the Marxist belief that resistance will arise solely from the working class. This kind of resistance is ideological — it won’t happen just due to social circumstances. If such a vision exists among the youth and they come together, maybe there’s hope...
MN: Now studying economics and then studying art — they are totally different. Did you ever feel that your study of economics had any sort of influence on what you did later?
KGS: There’s no real connection. Honestly, I didn’t have much interest in economics. The study of economics at that time didn’t have much relevance to our country. All the economic theories — supply and demand, and so on — were there, but the question was whether we were simply subject to these forces or whether we, as human beings, could influence and monitor these balances. That’s why economics without politics didn’t make much sense to me. Back then, it was just pure economics. Even today, when you think about the people discussing economic theory, there are two groups: one consists of those who win Nobel Prizes and treat economics as a self-supporting science, and the other consists of those who think in terms of human values and the kind of system we should have. That’s why it took Amartya Sen so many years to win the Nobel Prize — he wasn’t the most favoured. So that kind of economics never really appealed to me. In fact, I was more interested in literature than economics. Of course, being interested in literature might seem a bit innocent, but if I had pursued literature, I might not have become an artist. I might have become a writer instead! (laughs).
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