RIDI VIHARE: THE FLOWERING OF KANDYAN ART

‘Ridi Vihare, or ‘The Silver Vihare’, has its origin during the early days of Buddhism in Sri Lanka,   Heir to a tradition which dates back to the early Anuradhapura period, its beginnings are shrouded in myth and legend.  Over the centuries the vihare has become a veritable treasure trove of Sinhala art: oainting, architecture, sculpture, ivory carving and metalwork.  This work traces the art and history of the temple from the 2^nd Century BCE to 1815 CE.’ 

The above is part of a general description on the inside of the dust cover of ‘Ridi Vihare: the flowering of Kandyan Art’ by SinhaRaja Tammita-Delgoda, a narrative decorated by photographs from Studio Times, illustrations by Saroja Dharmadasa, and plans and drawings by Ineke Pitts and Kapila Ariyanada.

It is apt, considering the moment of narration, the first years of the 21^st Century, that the author has framed this history with an observation by Ananda Coomaraswamy:

In the words of Blake,

When nations grow old,

The Arts grow cold,

And commerce settles on every tree.

In such a grim fashion has commerce settled in the East.

Indeed, we live in times when commerce has captured tradition and much else besides, what with organ-trade and the trading of polluting-rights.  It has come to a point where all nations, old and new, have commerce-laden trees.  It took time with us, but we’ve learned fast, it seems.  The intrinsic worth of anything, be it artifact of pageant, exorcism or ritual, giving (dana) or devotion, has given way to commercial potential.  King Market rules, decides and dispenses. 

And so, we name and attach price-tag, forgetting often that certain things resist valuation and categorization.  Therefore we find that value-attachment is reduced to the quantifiable and the play of demand and supply.   It is in this context that one has is stopped-in-track by the amazing disclaimer: ‘No one who has worked on this book has asked for or received payment of any kind; all royalties have been donated by the author to the Ridi Vihara’.  That’s giving. Truly.

As great a gift is the book itself.  It is a scholarly study of a kind one does not associate with the dust, foreboding, pedantic and exclusive typical of history books.  Sure, throw in a lot of pictures and you get enough color to drive out the dismal and turn out a page-turner.  These are often better ‘histories’ than some texts which do not reach scholarly benchmarks in terms of standards and sweep  but still see mediocrity getting doctorate and professorship, one must acknowledge.  They also tend to be less ideology-burdened than much of the ‘history’ that is churned out by quacks masquerading as historians.  Even if all this weren’t true, as far as the ordinary (i.e. non-academic) reader is concerned, they are far more readable narratives. 

‘Ridi Vihare’ is not a collection of pictures with captions empowered by exceptional talent at turning a phrase, though.  Here the illustrations and photographs enhance rather than gloss over text, excuse poor scholarship or boost marketability, which is common in picture-history books.  It is not just because the subject is both history in general as well as the appreciation of art-evolution, which naturally make illustration-insertion sensible.  Tammita-Delgoda’s exercise is more wholesome and appreciative of a range of influencing strands that saw the Ridi Vihare move from what it was to what it is. 

It is the historian in him that locates Ridi Vihare in historical context, across the centuries, as well as in the fascinating narrative of temple art, in particular the rock and cave wall painting that our ancients have so generously endowed over the centuries.  It is the embeddedness of an author in his society and as part product of transformations over time that gives body to the narrative.  Such conscious ‘affinity’ would scar objective gaze over the subject, one might argue, but then again it is also true that the neutral gazer is inescapably bound by his/her own locations and histories.  There is always indulgence even though the indulgent might protest innocence.  What is perhaps the more sensible and all things considered, the more scientific, approach would be to resist both grip and discard, and seek ‘caress’ in the appreciation of what is before the scholar’s gaze.  That would be a kind of Buddhist Historiography or let’s say ‘Buddhistic’ historiography.  ‘Ridi Vihare’ has that tender, touching-but-not-touching touch in narrative. 

Tammita-Delgoda offers a careful and exhaustive study of the ‘Ridi Vihare’ complex, i.e. the several caves as well as the structures built on two rocky hills, in the village of Ridigama in the Kurunegala District.    The work introduces to us a comparatively poorly studied temple (of the hundreds of temples that warrant study, one might add) with an excellent foreword about Kandyan art and scholarship related to it. 

The archival research has clearly been exhaustive.  The author must have spent countless hours pouring over all chronicles to seek out references and use these to trace the relevant history.  He tells us multiple stories, some of the folk tradition included by the Mahawamsa chronicler (who appears to have understood the legitimacy of folk narratives long before Gayatri Spivak and others coined the term ‘Subaltern Studies’) as well as the hard-evidence stories.  He gives name and date, details that are so important to those who believe history is a pure science and for others who, even though they are not as fixated, nevertheless like to know who did what and where. 

So we are taken from the 2^nd Century through the many upheavals after the European invaders set foot here to the time of the Kandyan kings.  Woven in is the long and complex conflict between the Theravada and Mahayana traditions of Buddhism, which although portrayed as a bitter political duel, nevertheless demonstrated contestations framed by an agreement to coexist and focus on ideological push and pull.  The tenuous relations between king and Buddhist Order, or Sangha, is similarly referenced to give a fuller picture on the historical canvass. 

The political ups and down naturally left traces on all things, culture included.  Temple renovation is then a part of that story. Patronage too inscribed signature.  Tammita-Delgoda takes us along these sub-plots, interjecting tastefully and appropriately the relevant ideological and philosophical underpinnings.  

‘Ridi Vihare’ then, is not just a description of some monastic or religious complex, but a window on the political changes that took place, changes which are one way or another marked on the narrative of the site. 

From here he proceeds to dissect.  The chapter, appropriately titled ‘Anatomy of a Temple’, is largely descriptive.  The attention to detail is noteworthy.  Each key element of the complex has been subject to a thorough examination and full documentation.  It show not just an enumerators fascination but an art students natural tendency for comparison and contrast.  

Paintings have warranted separate explication, and fittingly too, considering their historical and artistic worth.  Tammita-Delgoda, in delving into this element, tells us about that time and how the politics of that time impacted the fascinating and yet simple paintings which reflected both period as well as general philosophy-driven ways of the Sinhala people.  He has brought in his deep understanding of Buddhist art as well as Buddhist philosophical tenets to enrich the narration of history. 

‘Ridi Vihare’ is unique.  It is not unrelated to the other examples of exceptional Buddhist art.  This book points to the work that needs to be done to document the undocumented, mis-documented and the semi-documented.  Tammita-Delgoda’s pains also indicate a new way of writing history, a manner that makes it accessible to the common reader.  There are, after all so many more ‘vihares’ some made of silver, metaphorically speaking, and some not, but all replete with countless lines, curves and textures that help us rediscover who we are, where we came from and perhaps show us where we ought to go and how we can get there.  That ‘pointing’, so to speak, deserves applause.  But then again, the exercise and the excavator here, by proclamation, have said ‘thank you, no’.  That’s in line with belief system embedded in the artifacts that were examined.  Makes sense.  

[Published in the 'UNDO' Section of 'The Nation', September 9, 2012]

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The Lithic Saga of Sri Lanka

‘It is our story and we are the ones telling it!’

It was first an exhibition.  An effective and infuriating teaser.  The book came later, much later than anticipated.  The work, however, was neither exhibit nor text; it was a civilizational story etched in artifact and clearly resident in the heart of a chronicler who not only knew ‘point and click’, but when to point and what to point at before clicking.  All that is eloquent.  So too that other text, the one with words, that accompany, complement and even elevate the work of a self-effacing patriot who walked the talk and let his lens say all the things he had to say. 

'Eloquence in Stone,’ as I said, was first an exhibition.  It gave us a glimpse of the book that eventually came out some years later.  This is a note about that book, by the same name.  ‘Eloquence in Stone’ is not just a collection of photographs.  It is, as claimed, an account of the lithic saga of the island of Sinhale, whose name evolved into ‘Sri Lanka’. 

There are many ways to write a history.  One can collate the various chronicles, the stories of the heroes, the kings, queens, princes, princesses and other royalty, the years marked by ascension, death and disposing, the critical wars that altered the political landscapes, or the ideological sweep that marked the end of an era and the beginning of another.  One can gather history, also, by recording the unwritten, those hidden narratives bypassed by chronicler but resident nevertheless  in folk tale and folk song, or scripted into dance and drama.  In all this there is interpretation, for such texts are soft and pliant in the hands of a reader armed with privileging intent.  And then there’s stone, yes, also amenable to reading, but nevertheless more obdurate when facing history-twister. 

One thing is certain.  For all the stories that got edited out, for all the multiple interpretations pregnant in artifact, for all the decay courtesy the elements, for all the desecration and vandalism, there is something splendid in these stones, these lithic remnants of vibrant, glorious and tragic centuries.  It is by no means complete, for archaeology is a relatively recent fascination and there is probably more under the earth than the unearthed.  ‘Eloquence in Stone’ is a chronicle of the unearthed, and what’s seen, even as it speaks of splendor, hints at a past that is probably far more magnificent than evidenced by the excavated.
 

It’s not a story that begins with Vijaya or the arrival of Arahat Mahinda. It is a record that covers artifacts from centuries before all that.  It takes us from one age to another, dynasty to dynasty, one seat of power to another.  The narrative gaze lingers on canal, dam and other irrigational elements, all speaking of an economy, a way of life, an ethic in interacting with the natural world, a benign and complementary rather than a violent and destructive engagement.  It’s an eye that takes in and gives out architecture, that pertaining to state-craft and to the other, more abiding and culture-defining lines, curves and crafting that is and of faith, as majestic but made for the kind of reflection that marked the civilizational ethos and runs as thread through the centuries. 


There is beauty and charm in all this.  The aesthetic was never made to play second fiddle to the ‘pragmatic’ shall we say of the state, the ‘demands’, shall we say of the economic.  That was what life was and still is in places that are as unbelievable as those of the past captured in these photographs: life was and is art and there was and is cross-reflection.  You find this in ornament and stairway, moonstone and sluice gate, the dam and the spill, the stupa and the altar, the sakman maluwa and the monastery.    


‘Eloquence’ is a page turner, as all good photography books are, but it’s page-turning power has to do with the elegance of text as well.  Sinharaja Tammita-Delgoda’s descriptions move seamlessly among the photographs and are an intrinsic part of the overall textural weave of photo-strand and word-strand.  It is an introduction and a nutshell version, a gentle guide and a chronicle which only someone gifted with word, love of land and skilled in the instruments of historiography can produce.  Tammita-Delgoda is clearly attributed with the requisite tools.  He has not disappointed.  

This is not the first time I got my hands on ‘Eloquence’.  Each time I flip through the pages, or just turn to a random page and read, there’s a thought that invariably interrupts:

‘We are blessed to have been born in and to this land.  We are the product of the tenderness and drive of our ancestors and we better do justice to their efforts.  This country is a treasure trove, every square inch of it.  The world may have many wonders, but the wonders of my land await my visit and I know that I don’t have the years and decades necessary to partake of it all, or at least that which is visible as of now.  This book is the only “tourist guide” this country ever needed.  This book is to be read and it is to be travelled.  Every page, every photograph and every descriptive line is an invitation to explore.  It empowers.  It inspires.  It settles the furies and unearths dormant energies.  It makes me love my country like I’ve never loved it before.’

Tammita-Delgoda recounts a conversation with Nihal Fernando, the man who had the legs and heart, the patience and discipline to capture this history: 

‘I want to tell the story of this country and its people.  I want to make people think about our past and what we are doing to it before it is too late.’

Nihal was and still is acutely conscious of what the marriage of greed and ignorance can yield.  He knows firsthand that the unearthed is not just vulnerable to the ravages of wind, rain and sun, but more terribly the fingering of human beings.  He has, I know, a deep enough understanding of the human condition as well as the political economy that often frames, limits and provokes violence, to predict possible outcomes.  As such, ‘Eloquence’ is a letter to the conscience of relevant authorities, academics and most of all, the citizens of this country who, if robbed of heritage would be easier prey for the kinds of vandals who have mutilated this land for centuries. 

I believe therefore that ‘Eloquence’ is a must-have for every school library, every Government institution that has a library, every politician and every academic.  And ideally, it should be available in Sinhala and Tamil too. 

These are breathtaking, meditation-inviting, inspiring pictures.  The black-whites, especially, shows what a master Nihal Fernando is when armed with lens.  His is not, clearly not, point-and-click photography.  He is a composer who is conscious of light and shadow, the movement of wind and the relevance of time and timing.  He knows angle too.  One gets the sense that he is a perfectionist who might even lament that he is yet to take his best photographs. 

The collection includes the work of those who have learnt from him, among whom are some who have gone on to develop their own styles and specialities.  Anu Weerasuriya, Luxshmanan Nadaraja, Christopher Silva, Devaka Deneviratne and Roshan Perret probably share the love Nihal has for this land and most likely enough of his work ethic.     

As I mentioned, it is words too, not just visual and exceptional quality of page and book design.  So I believe it is best to let the co-narrator, Sinharaja Tammita-Delgoda have the last word for it is as much about ‘Eloquence in Stone’ as it is about us, i.e. you and I and all of us and even those whose feet will touch the good earth that gave us a land, a history, a heritage, a civilization and a tomorrow that can very well be ours:

‘Eloquence in Stone’ is a voyage through Sri Lanka as it was and as it is, it seeks to inquire and to question, to understand and appreciate, to reflect and perhaps inspire.  An image of ourselves, it muses on our past, our present and may be our future.  This is why we have called it “The Lithic Saga of Sri Lanka”.  It is a story which deserves to be told, for it is our story and we are the ones who are telling it.’

[Published in 'The Nation', June 24, 2012]

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