Vivan Sundaram was art world royalty, as close to being a dynast as you could get—grandson to the aristocrat-photographer Umrao Singh Sher-Gil and nephew of painter Amrita Sher-Gil, both of whom would feature prominently in his rearranged, archival images that are now part of museum collections and par for the course in contemporary auctions.
He strode like a colossus through the vagaries of the art world as a painter, scholar, writer, editor and as an artist whose installations impressed you with their ability to cock a snook at the collectorate. Who, after all, would want to take home trash, or mannequin limbs and other parts in the name of art?
Vivan’s strength lay in his ability to not give a damn. Educated at Doon School, he trained in art in the then-nascent Faculty of Fine Arts in Baroda, and then at the Slade School in London where, as part of the counterculture movement, he became part of a commune. Back in India, he set up, with his wife, the art historian Geeta Kapur, the Kasauli Art Centre where, from 1975 to 1986, intellectuals and participants from the fields of art, literature, theatre and cinema populated discourses that are still remembered with an intellectual yearning that is missing in art circles today.
He organised protests during the Emergency. He was a gatekeeper to his family’s legacy, but he was also generous to a fault in sharing knowledge, though he suffered fools a little less gladly. His installation at the first Kochi-Muziris Biennale was typical of him, a huge boat filled with the detritus of people’s lives as they moved from one shore to another—so reminiscent of the recent misfortune of migrant workers during the pandemic.
Vivan, who passed away on March 29, belied his age because of his boyish features that lent him a rakish charm. Outpourings of remembrance, nostalgia and affection poured over social media, but what I recall most of all is Vivan’s easy ability to laugh at himself. He often reminded me of a heading I gave to an article reviewing his exhibition: ‘GAKAWAKA: Making Strange’ called Stepford Wives, Part II. “Why would you call it that?” he would laugh, genuinely interested.
An intellectual of serious merit, he amused me when joining a bunch of artists who were painting on a canvas to mark the conclusion of a DAG exhibition titled ‘Continuum’ dedicated to the Progressive Artists’ Group, he dipped his brush into a pot of red paint and wrote, “Will Souza teach me to draw” before drawing a straight line from top to bottom, and then inscribed on its side: “to a straight line”.
He was not questioning the ability to paint lines straight or jagged, merely pointing out the ephemerality of fame and success. Having signed his name in red beside it, he insouciantly embedded his immortality while laughing at its transience. This was quintessential Vivan, who is probably shaking hands with Souza somewhere as they go about rattling the heavens with their opposing views on art, life and death in no particular order.
Singh is an art writer and heads the content team at Delhi Art Gallery