Fountainhead of Arts: Keshav Malik
Gargi Seth
Gargi Seth walks down memory lane and reminisces about her moments spent with Keshav Malik,who was not only a perfect gentleman but also had deep aesthetic objectivity clubbed with experience.
Where does art originate? Where does the mind break out from the mundane and allow the mulch of time and pondering to work on the seed of abstract thought? Where do the inherent aesthetics and the flights of spirit converge? Surely, the fountain of art springs only where the simplest of hearts, by a random stroke of nature, gets to be born with the sharpest of minds. For, without the incisive mind, wouldn’t a golden heart just as well belong to any lovable person? Yet, bereft of a simple loving heart,wouldn’t the most incisive of minds be anything but dry, cold intellect? Keshav Malik was such a comingtogether, if we ever know one. Sharp, but kind and accepting; generous and yet uncompromising on his standards. No wonder he was a fountainhead of arts. Keshav ji began his artistic trajectory long before most of India woke up to art criticism in it’s true sense, and remained aloft his high position, literally till his dying day! Before and beyond art criticism, though, he was a poet par excellence. Literature, in his own words, ‘is the king of all arts’. Indeed it may be argued that his lyrical, poignant, yet razor sharp literature also acquainted two generations of art lovers with the art of art ppreciation. When I first met him in 1999, I was a literal art novice, a young art entrepreneur with not much more than the most rudimentary of art knowledge, lots of enthusiasm and uncertainty on my side while wading the unknown waters of the Indian art scene. Keshav ji was a pillar for me at that time and onwards.
Just as he was to countless artists, as I later found out. Over time, though I had more opportunity of knowing him closely, as I compiled his official Home Page on Indian Art Circle, and then over many of my exhibitions as a producer-curator. I remember, he had written the foreword for the art catalogue of my first outing as a curator, magically weaving together all the participating artists’ known strengths as well as a commentary on the works in question. Such was the dexterity of his prose that suddenly, every work in the collection seemed to fall in place and belong to a collective identity. Novice that I was, I remember we had changed what seemed to be a wrongly placed word or a comma in the final publication, thinking of them being a result of typing on a rickety typewriter. These he noticed instantly and was very upset about –for tampering with his work of art! He would never once asked for his fee though, and would even try to brush off the question when it was brought up. His towering presence would immediately add sparkle to the evening of vernissage, tall, thin, handsome, with long grey hair, and the quintessential kurta; and the baritone voice to match the easy eloquence. I’d love walking an exhibition with him, his stories and anecdotes related to artists and the astute comments on the artworks on display were an effortless mentoring experience for me, as I gradually realized. There would sometimes be long gaps between my visits though, and I would then feel shy to call upon him. He would be always welcoming though, never once hinting on the long absence. Often,I would walk into a drawing room already having other guests, artists, young and old, some just walking in without prior appointment and nonetheless welcome.
