Beneath Layers: Raj Shahani's 'Mukhowta' Reveals Human Emotions

Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung has defined "persona" as a "layered version of human personalities projected to others as opposed to their true selves." Perhaps, sculpture artist Raj Shahani was also dealing with a similar dilemma (between his masked and authentic version) before he came out as a queer at the age of 37. This acceptance of self as who he was also led Shahani to ponder over the interplay between human consciousness and ego, prompting him to materialise his thoughts via artistic pursuits. At 57, he enrolled in an art school in New York to learn sculpture art.As someone who grew up in Mumbai and lived between the Middle East and the United States, Shahani's travels made him see renewed possibilities. Transitioning from being a product designer to an artist, he was keen to portray the varied human emotions through sculpting. "I was interested in the play between material as metaphors of human subconsciousness and ego manifesting in beauty," he told OT.His recently concluded exhibition, "Mukhowta," a series of woodworks crafted into a forest, inspired by the sacred snake groves of Northern Kerala, reflects the duality of human emotions using bronze, copper, gold and exotic woods handpicked from Mumbai's Lakda Bazaar, known for selling the ruins of the demolished heritage buildings."My works arrive from a deep inherent need to express myself and mirror contemporary life under layers of material. Materiality and beauty are essential to my practice as a sculptor. Therefore, I use old reused wood and embellish it with precious metals." For Shahani, "that shining metal is our alter ego, our Mukhowta, the mask we don to hide our authentic, beautiful selves in wood." From Burma wood to Kerala's Malabar Coast, these artworks serve as visual retreats, drawing inspiration from human experiences and ensuring sustainability.Excerpts from the interview: "Mukhowta," your series of woodworks, creates a forest of antique wooden corbels with metal coverings. How does this combination reflect on our alter egos?I place pieces of Burma teak behind shining plates of metal—copper, gold, silver, panchayats, bronze, tin, brass and steel, that remind us of the ethereal presence of materials used in sculpture. Still, it also hides something valuable behind a veneer of shining metal. That shining metal is our alter ego, our "Mukhowta," the mask we wear to conceal our authentic, beautiful selves in wood.The curator of the show, Sumesh Sharma, suggested the title in Hindi, as the word 'Mukhowta' has a more dramatic imagery than "masks" because it conceptually encapsulates complex psychological and social contexts. The play between wood and metal seeks an equilibrium of nature and consciousness. I attempt with this showing of sculptures called "Mukhowta" or masks.The play between material as metaphors of human subconsciousness and ego manifesting in beauty is fascinating. Can you elaborate on how this idea influences your artistic pursuits?My works arrive from a deep inherent need to express myself and mirror contemporary life under layers of material. Materiality and beauty are essential to my practice as a sculptor. Therefore, I use old reused wood and embellish it with precious metals. I had been making ballet dancers, and during a recent solo showing last year at Bikaner House, I made a series of Apsaras that were broken, and I repaired them with bronze; this act of fixing was a process of improving myself as we all suffer from anxiety of accepting ourselves. On a visit to the Metropolitan Museum in New York, I came across the Apsara, or the Celestial Dancer from the 11th Century from Madhya Pradesh, which captivated my attention. The word 'Apsara' in Sanskrit means 'Stem from'. Apsaras are feminine forms from the clouds and the waters, and their role is not well defined as either celestial or of the mortal world. They are there to entertain, but the objective of their lives is often open-ended, and we do not see the point of the narrative. We know that they constitute the forms and modes of the natya shastra or 'ways of dancing' — India's ancient treatise on dance and learn their names — Urvashi, Rambha, Tilottma and Menaka, among others. But we know very little of them.In our society, a Queer friend, family or colleague is someone we take time to accept and then find roles that don't allow them to feel complete. Statues of Apsara's across the museums in the world are broken, with mutilated limbs, heads and bodies. I feel an urgent need to complete those delicate poses from the Natya-shastras. So that these statues feel complete, adorning their role. Growing up in Mumbai and later living between the Middle East and the United States, how did your diverse travels and cultural experiences influence your transition from product design to sculpture, especially starting at age 57?I grew up in Mumbai and lived between the Middle East and the United States since 1982. Coming out as Queer at the age of 37, I began to break away from my career as a product designer to more artistic pursuits until I started making sculpture at the age of 57, having enrolled myself into the Art Students League of New York. I was interested in the play between material as metaphors of human subconsciousness and ego manifesting in beauty. I had my first solo show in 2019, Caesura/Continuum, and then in 2023, 'Old Fires Keep on Burning!' at the Jehangir Art Gallery, Mumbai. In November 2023, I had a solo presentation at the Centre of Contemporary Art, Bikaner House, with a show titled 'Colour, Stone, Chintz, Grain and Statue '. In 2022, I had a solo show at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in New York and the Caelum Gallery in Chelsea, New York. I held my first solo showing at Mumbai's Jehangir Art Gallery. I feared ridicule and scepticism because they were Degas-like decorative couples engaged in ballet dance. Facing criticism for them being decorative, I began reflecting on why I made art, and at an auction of Indian antiquities in London, a pain in the form of a deep void manifested in me. Even though made in stone, the stunning, decorative and delicate sculptures were being auctioned far away from their home. That is when I decided to work on making statues inspired by the Apsaras and embrace decoration.What initially sparked your interest in searching for exotic woods for your sculptures in markets like Lakda Bazaar?I was pained to see expensive Burma teak wood being scraped off their carving and used for construction. Also, the demolition of heritage buildings in Bombay is tragic. I have lived for decades in New York and continental Europe, where these elements of architecture are preserved by saving these corbels. I saw my contribution as preserving this tangible heritage. Today, the city's Heritage Committee is busy protecting old Neo-Gothic stone buildings that enterprising realtors often axe through corruption. In contrast, these old wooden mansions fall and disappear daily without notice. Demolition contractors sell their magnificent beams and brackets to the 'Lakda Bazaar' or the used wood market near the red light district of Kamathipura. Here, they are stripped off their decoration to be made into planks for new-age IKEA-inspired furniture. I was searching through these markets for exotic woods for his sculptures when I came across a section of Corbels heavily carved from Kalbadevi, which had been part of a Jain temple and was now converted to marble. They had been damaged during demolition. I decided to repair them by interlacing one material with a more precious counterpart to project an acceptable persona to a society that often forgets the ravages of time and age. It terms you 'Khandit' or broken, unusable and unnecessary. I mask them with a shining metal or pretence and acceptability. In a society that sometimes overlooks the effects of time and age, how do you believe your work addresses the perception of the term 'Khandit' (broken, unusable, unnecessary)?We are all emotionally broken, 'Khandit', and always try to fix ourselves. At school, I would make elaborate experiments with papier-mache, cardboard and paste, fashioning human bodies my sisters would then steal to play with as dolls. Years later, having settled in New York, I would come across Apsaras in the Metropolitan Museum. These divine bodies had broken arms pillaged from India for the antique trade by colonial adventurers. I would want to repair them, return them to their environments at home, and allow the rain, dust, soot and vermillion of India to settle on them. Then, as an artist at the Art Students League of New York, I began sculpting dancers at ballet first until the Apsara started to reappear.I fashioned apsaras in stone, drawing my images for sculpture from visits to Mahabalipuram, Ajanta-Ellora, Konark Sun Temple, Elephanta Caves and Khajuraho. I visited the studios of Sthapathis in Mahabalipuram and Bhubaneswar, asking them to give me sculptures that had faults or had been abandoned due to mistakes whilst sculpting. I rescued sculptures from Chattarpur, Delhi, an abandoned lot in New Bombay, and Pindwara, Udaipur, where they make 'Apsara' like statues for Jain Temples. A broken sculpture, according to Shilpa -Shashtra — the Indian treatise of the sculptural arts is called 'Khandit'. 'Khandit' loosely translates to 'fragmented' or 'broken' in English from Sanskrit. For years, I dealt with my sexuality in secret, unsure and unaware, but my coming out healed years of self-doubt and harm. But self-repair is also damning; we put ourselves out to be judged by an unforgiving society. An openly gay man is ridiculed in a profoundly homophobic patriarchal society. A person who decides to accentuate their persona by plastic surgery, now more commonly known as 'body-sculpting', is often laughed at by people who think they aren't supposed to look the way they feel. Sumesh Sharma sees my process as a slow grassroots approach to conceptual aesthetics, words I don't know, and I am unaware of art history terms. I see my artistic process as a deeply therapeutic exercise I want to share with my audience. What inspired you to mask the damaged Corbels with shining metal or pretence and acceptability?I repair wooden makaras or traditional Indian corbels with bronze, brass, copper, panchaloha, silver, gold, steel and aluminium embellishments that are functional, minimal and simple but made of shining metal. They contrast with the wood but attract the eye due to their luminosity, much like the clothes we wear to hide our bodies and distract the eye with brands so as not to reveal ourselves.We fear ourselves for the traumas we hold, the years we spend with our body in life's journey, but the scars we hide are like the patina and textures the wood takes upon itself with ageing. The beauty of old wood lies in its weathering and not the polish. Taking two long, worn-out logs of teak, I make facsimiles of the dents, breakages and fissures in bronze and copper. I display them in the alcoves of the courtyard in the Bikaner House, the real wood hiding behind the metal.Your sculptures at Delhi's Bikaner House blend Rajput-Mughal influences with functional formalism. What inspired you to choose this location for your artwork?The Bikaner House in Delhi has an interesting melange of architecture that marries Rajput-Mughal influences with early 20th-century functional formalism. Within the main building near the Darbar Hall or the reception room, face two circular Mughal courtyards called the 'Rotundas' on adjacent sides. Each Rotunda has a marble Mughal water fountain reminiscent of Alhambra in Andalusia. The Rotundas are open to the air and were made to bring in light; each has a set of alcoves, perhaps made for seating or to install sculptures.Choosing them as a site for my sculptures along with the curator Sumesh Sharma, I intended to change the place into a grove of wood. We forget that wooden beams and brackets were once mighty forests that Colonisers across Africa, Asia and South America exploited for their wood to be used for palaces and institutions of the imperial state. The denudation of these forests is now a legacy we inherit with the climate crisis and the Anthropocene challenge it leaves us post-colonial nations facing.The Theyyam dancers in Northern Kerala perform as nature spirits in sacred coves. How does this traditional performance art influence your work, especially in the context of Masks and Mukhowta?In the districts of Malabar in Northern Kerala — Theyyam is a calling of nature spirits by shamanistic characters who dwell in a sacred cove called the Kavu, where snakes of fortune from the Nagaloka inhabit as protectors of the forest. The Theyyam dancers dance through the night's wake, enthralling an audience into ecstasy. The dancers wear masks, masking their identity to represent the Godly; the performers are lower caste individuals who are revered for the period by upper caste individuals in a reversal of social hierarchy. I travelled to Kannur with Ritam Banerjee, the famed photographer from Mumbai, assisting him on a photography project where he was going to document the 'Theyyam', an ancient esoteric night-long performance of rituals that were derived from an ancient tradition of Animism that predates Hinduism. I was enthralled by the dance form and was drawn into the performance spiritually and emotionally. Many folk deities such as Bali, Mutthappan, Veeran, Bhagvathi, Kuttichathan, Guligan and Amma, played by performers from subaltern castes, wore complex masks that brought them alive. These were made from banana bark, banana flowers, palm flowers, textiles, jewellery and weapons made of bronze and make-up. In the morning, they became oracles, accurately prophesying our futures.

Beneath Layers: Raj Shahani's 'Mukhowta' Reveals Human Emotions

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