Anindita Sengupta

The National Gallery of Modern Art (or Manikyavelu Mansion as I think of it) is one of my favourite places in the city for some obvious reasons — art, trees, a building made for stories. I was there again about a week ago, noticing the way things are framed: the building by trees, the sculptures on the lawn by the gigantic fountain, the fountain by the even more gigantic tree behind it. Perhaps the eye naturally travels to this because one is in an art gallery and predisposed to seeing in a certain way.

I stared at the sweeping woman in front of the fountain for longer than deemed polite. It just seemed miraculous somehow, this tiny figure caring for all this, tiny and orange in the foreground. A little orange miracle.

In the lobby, the watchman’s chair was empty. I don’t know where he was but the emptiness of the chair in that long corridor, framed by the opening and the tree, made me think about him more than if he had actually been present.

The place is full of gigantic trees and because the mansion is only two storeys high, they tend to be easily visible. Two large rooms on both floors of the mansion hold the contemporary art collection. There are tall windows in the corners outside which the trees lean and sway, a natural sweep up to the sky. Upstairs, smaller rooms house works by the Tagores, Nandalal Bose, Ram Kinkar Baij, Amrita Shergill and Jamini Roy,  These rooms are flanked by generous verandahs and the views are lavish. See the plum tree’s post on the trees at Manikyavelu Mansion. I came across her post when I googled the Mansion in hopes of finding something on its history. (I didn’t find anything so helpful links are most welcome.) Her pictures bring home the fact that trees really are the central attraction in this place of art.

This reminds me of a bit in WG Sebald’s Austerlitz where he talks about the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, about how its design and hugeness intimidates and frustrates the visitor. There, according to Sebald, the largeness of the towers make one uneasy, even frightened. At Manikyavelu Mansion, we have to deal with largeness but of a different kind, that of nature.  And it is interesting that for the most part, largeness in nature — the sea, mountains, tall trees — tend to be relaxing rather than threatening.

I took pictures of the mansion in colour and changed some of them to greyscale on the computer. It’s interesting to see how it immediately looks more somber. All shadows and reflections. It also looks older. Is that because one associates black & white with old pictures? Or is it because some of the things that contrive to make it look less old, like new paint, are not as obvious?

To the side of this structure, there is a small cafe which reminded me of a school canteen — very functional, no frills. Tea, coffee, some soft drinks, packets of biscuits and chips. In large supermarkets, I tend to feel dazed and bewildered, even annoyed, by the surfeit of choices. The limited choices here made me feel simple, content. As if the act of choosing something to eat or drink had been restored to its natural proportions.

I sat there and drank a Mirinda and watched the building, its giant driveway and its verandahs, and wondered about the noise and life it must have contained once when some large family lived in it.

Unlike some art galleries, this one is very quiet especially on a weekday afternoon.

And there was a red door with a Banyan tree in the foreground which I photographed because it seemed mysterious, a little like something I had imagined, something from a childhood story that would lead god knows where.  Probably only to the inner workings of the place. Still, it was red. It was behind a tree. There are things to be said for that.