Thinking of Somnath Hore my memory goes back to the early years of the decade of 1960 when he was teaching at the art department of the Delhi Polytechnic. I must have met him in 1962 when his coloured etching The Birth of a White Rose got the National Award since I too had received the National award for my painting ‘Chase’ that year. I was quite intrigued by the process of colour etching despite having some acquaintance of the complex technique that Krishna Reddy employed. Somnath’s etching however charted a different course with its unusual theme. I recall meeting him in Delhi during the USIS sponsored printmaking workshop conducted by the San Diego printmaker Paul Lingren. It was my early attempt at using aquatint in etching so I was gratified when he expressed his appreciation when he saw my print titled ‘Unmoolan’. What deepened my engagement with his work was his series of what we used to call ‘blind’ prints since they were relief imprints of the etching plate without the use of colour. This series titled ‘Wounds’ were made around 1971. Pranabranjan Ray seems to locate the origin of these in the very process of etching : ‘The deep furrows etched by acid into the virgin bodies, of the metal plates … began to bear, for Somnath, resemblance to stab wounds ..’ I learnt later that these pulp prints were taken from ‘moulded cement matrices (moulds are taken from originals made in clay)’ (ibid)*. Technicalities apart what they conveyed were deeply disturbing indictments against the bloodshed in the context of the birth of Bangladesh. The terracottas of K.G. Subramanyan which portrayed the brutalities of the same war were also made around the same time.

Continuing to meet him and observe his works in various fora I learnt more about his politically left orientations and a continued sense of resistance to all forms of oppression. The deep humanity of many of his works stirred a whole generation.

I remember meeting him some days before he passed away in his Santiniketan residence. He was the same old, kind and loving self with the spark of an indomitable spirit, despite the frail body and words spoken like whispers. 

I have an etching print he had gifted me, as a treasured memor

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