Plinth

The child artist and his brother are shown as keen explorers, as they traverse the natural spaces of Bangladesh. He is sometimes alone but rarely appearing to be lonely, usually shown engaging with the world around him. His figures are characteristically pared back to their key shapes, yet they retain a strong sense of personality even with these limited forms. As they grow, they are shown awkwardly standing with their arms covering their hips, or with skinny legs sticking out of boxy shorts. In ‘Two Boys on a Log’ (2017) the pair huddle closely together on a giant branch that sits high above a turbulent body of tumbling water. The boys and log are painted in clear focus, but the scene falls apart around them, with wild brushstrokes rendering the water almost abstract. As in many of his works, the role of memory and a child’s perspective come into question here. Are the two boys comfortably sitting this high up, or is the scale indicative of how gigantic the position might have felt to their young eyes at the time? Is the scene around them falling away because the artist’s memory has not granted it as much detail as the figures themselves, or is this moment hazy because it never really happened?

This play with fantastical scale and expressive marks is used to similar effect elsewhere. In ‘Banyan (Two Boys)’ and ‘Banyan (Girl)’ (both 2024), the minute figures of children – the first pair assumed to be the artist and his brother – are depicted high up into a monumental tree. The large scale of the canvas means the human figures are situated above the viewer’s eyeline, and it is as though we look up into the branches to find them. This tree also seems to dissolve into the space around it, with long drips of paint running down the canvas and a thick trunk comprised of a rich selection of vertical strokes in brown, black and green. The banyans evoke the wild imagination of children and the illustrations of fantasy narratives, in which the natural world takes on a magical life of its own.

These overwhelmingly wondrous trees also serve to contrast with the starkly rendered specimen in ‘Mother and Child (Tree, Epping Forest)’ (2024). Representing the artist’s later move back to the UK (he was born in Bradford before the family relocated to Bangladesh), the depiction of this tree humorously but subtly captures how he may feel about this place. The trees are undoubtedly less impressive in London than Bangladesh. But are his more mature eyes – he is depicted calmly standing in this tree with his older mother on the ground, as opposed to the playful scampering in his earlier paintings – also seeing the world through a slightly more realistic lens? Again, the audience is invited to consider a host of perspectives, plundered from the memory of someone who has changed location and grown wiser to the world.

While the artist’s parents are not visible in many of the younger paintings, their role within the world is woven throughout. Their work as Christian missionaries can be observed in the background of many of the early life images – there is a repeated motif of the Last Supper, often returning as an artwork hanging on the wall within a painting – and gradually comes more to prominence throughout the exhibition. After many paintings situated within nature, one room takes the viewer inside, to Christian ceremonies and classrooms. The viewer is suddenly surrounded by groups of young men; women swathed in white cloth; and a profusion of crucifixes. The artist leaves his own experience of his parents’ religion open to interpretation. The text at the beginning of the show explores his position as the mixed-race son of an Indian mother and white British father, and their role as Christian missionaries raises further questions around the impact of empire and colonialism within the region of his early years.

He draws upon a plethora of inspirations in his work, confronting the western narrative of art history with an eclectic approach. Gwen John’s soft melting together of forms can be witnessed in his paintings, but he also looks to the Buddhist renderings of the Ajanta caves and the South Asian miniature tradition. The artist moves effortlessly between scales. A series of postcard-sized works in the first room appear to be quick and impulsive, as though split-second memories rendered in half-remembered form. These works invite close attention, drawing the viewer into an intimate exchange, while his larger paintings create enticing scenes. In the third room, a series of loose works of paper are stuck to the wall, appearing to be contents pulled instinctively from the mind; pink flushed babies faces sit alongside images of boys climbing or sitting alone in trees. Images melt down or across the page, as though they could wash away at any second.

There are many such moments of melting, falling and immersion throughout the show. Figures plunge themselves into jewel-like blue swimming pools, which could just as easily be read as a submersion in the depths of the mind as literal water. The artist’s fluid use of paint often causes the image to blend out of focus. This renders many of the works slightly beyond reach, as though the viewer is getting a momentary view onto something that might be taken away. This evokes a palpable sense of loss, reminding us of the slippery nature of memory and the inability of ever fully returning to the past, even though the mind allows us to get part of the way there. This exhibition presents a time full of possibility and the richness of human connection. But it has passed. It is not coming back. Despite in many ways being a deeply personal and specific show, it connects on a universal level, evoking the transience of life and the love we find along the way.

By Emily Steer

Cover image: Matthew Krishanu, Boy Swimming, 2023. Image courtesy of Jhaveri Contemporary, Mumbai.