Vishvesh Kandolkar
(With
thanks to R. Benedito Ferrão for his critical input.)
On one of my first visits with the
octogenarian artist Vamona Ananta Sinai Navelcar in 2015, he gave me a book of
Portuguese poetry by Fernando Pessoa. I happened to mention to him that I had
taken up a beginner’s course in Portuguese. At first, I thought Navelcar’s
message was only a literary one, to not just study a language but, rather,
relish it through its poetry. Later, I realised, there was much more to the
artist’s gesture. It was an implied message from this fellow-Goan, hinting that
Pessoa is also a part of Goa’s history, and therefore learning about the
Portuguese poet would only enrich my understanding of our past. Navelcar’s art,
though, is far more specific in conveying similar meaning in being a wonderful
reflection of Goa’s complex global connections. The Portuguese poet Pessoa is
one of Navelcar’s many muses, which include Christ, Rabindranath Tagore, and
Mozambiquan women. Navelcar’s fascination with Pessoa, however, signifies
something far more profound. Pessoa is not just a muse and an inspiration to
Navelcar. Rather, their lives bear remarkable similarities.
Just as a young Pessoa had left the
shores of his homeland Portugal and moved to South Africa in the 1890s,
Navelcar too had to leave his home in Goa to study art in Portugal in the 1950s
upon receipt of a scholarship. That Navelcar subsequently worked as an art
teacher in Mozambique, further marks the similarity in career trajectories
between the artist and his poet-muse in the continent of Africa. In his
article, ‘Vamona
Navelcar as Performance Artist’ (Muse
India, Jul-Aug 2013), R. Benedito Ferrão writes, “Navelcar’s very life, in
its historical and geographical entanglements, cannot be separated from the
artistic labour it has inspired”. Each of the figures in Navelcar’s work are a reproduction
of his global exposure. Pessoa’s emblematic formal attire is in glaring
contrast to the artist’s depiction of other figures. Navelcar often exaggerates
the poet’s thin bodily frame, dressed typically in a fato, a bow tie, a hat, and with his signature round spectacles on
his nose.
Navelcar’s working methods also
seem to mirror those of his muse. Pessoa is known to have been hooked to
writing, as he often jotted poems on whatever writing surface was on hand, be
it books, loose sheets or scraps of paper, used envelopes, and even receipts. Navelcar
demonstrates a similar trait as his choice of canvas seems to be
inconsequential: the backs of pages of calendars, bits of cardboard, and pages
of magazines have all been the recipient of his artistry. He even drew a sketch
of Pessoa on the inside cover of the book he gave me.
The book, Poesia de Árvaro de Campos, is now witness to another common trait demonstrated
by both these figures of the Lusophone world: their use of pseudonyms. While
Pessoa wrote this book under the fictitious name of Álvaro De Campos, Navelcar signed
his sketch of the author with the name Ganesh, which he adopted in memory of
his deceased brother. The use of a local deity’s name, though, is not random,
as it reflects a more ‘authentic’ version of the Hindu local names that are popular
in Goa. Vamona on the other hand, is such a Portuguese name, in that in Konkani
it would be Vamon. One wonders if the choice of pseudonym Ganesh is a desperate
measure by Navelcar to gain recognition in his native land. In tandem with
India’s move to the far right, Goa’s support of cultural production reveals its
religio-nationalist biases, and is to the exclusion of an artist like Navelcar
whose art incorporates Christian and African themes among others. That such
remarkable talent and hard work like Navelcar’s goes unrecognised speaks to the
lack of imagination of the State and the ways in which it seeks to limit how
Goa itself can be imagined through the art of its visionaries.
Pessoa left behind trunks full of
writing, many pieces of which are still awaiting publication. Similarly, many
of Navelcar’s works also lie unseen in multiple portfolios and have not been
archived or exhibited. Without State or institutional support, Navelcar has to
make a living by directly selling his work, which is a huge loss to the Goan
public, as only select audiences enjoy his art. The tragedy is that recently
many of the artist’s works have fallen prey to white ants, that endemic scourge
of Goa. Setbacks, though, have not dimmed Navelcar’s enthusiasm to produce art, as he
continues to paint every day.
It is remarkable that Navelcar’s
experience of Portugal, during his time of study there in the 1950s, is emblematized
by his portrayals of the figure of Pessoa who was not as popular in his
homeland then. This is especially because, during that era of the dictatorial
regime of António de Oliveira Salazar, the Portuguese State was actively
promoting the classic seventeenth century poet Luís de Camões, as a part of
their nationalistic propaganda, while ignoring modern poets like Pessoa, who
died in 1935. Nations generally look for ‘authentic’ symbols to represent the country. Pessoa did not fit the
bill because “his first writings were in English with a South African
tincture” and “he turned to Portuguese only in 1910” (George Steiner, ‘A Man of Many
Parts’ The Guardian, June 3,
2001). For the Salazarian regime,
the diasporic Pessoa did not possess the commensurate amount of “Portugueseness”
in the fashion that de Camões did. It is also easier to use “heroes” from
antiquity as symbols, because those in power tend to manipulate the politics of
these deceased legends. Pessoa’s writing was not nationalistic enough, whereas
de Camões was useful to the State precisely because his works are in the epic
tradition and speak to the glories of the Portuguese empire. Perhaps
Navelcar relates the side-lining of Pessoa by Portugal to his own mistreatment
by the State of Goa – a ‘postcolonial’ Goa that has deemed Navelcar to be not ‘authentic’
enough to be officially recognised.
What the post-‘Liberation’ State
fails to realise is that Navelcar’s life in Goa, Portugal, and Mozambique, is
often a reflection of a Luso-specific trend of migration that is common to many
Goans of a past era. Navelcar is aware of this complexity and therefore remains
proud of his multiple experiences of places across continents. He claims to be
at once European, African, and Goan, just as many other Goans of his generation
might. Navelcar’s art, as much as his
life, is emblematic of Goa’s global connections, which is why Ferrão refers to
him as a “performing artist” (Muse India).
The State does not seem to embrace Navelcar because to do so would undermine
their nationalist politics, which is contrary to what the artist and his art
represents in embracing multiplicity. Nevertheless, the figure of Navelcar is a
powerful one: he is a living bridge between histories, states, and empires.
This is the poetry of his art. And his downfall.
[This article was first published on Joao Roque Literary Journal on 9 May 2017]
