Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

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Volume 12 Number 3, December 2011

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Mahabalipuram: Mythography and the Aesthetic

By

Jane Duran

University of California Santa Barbara

The rock-carved temples and reliefs at the site known as Mahabalipuram in southern India are among the most magnificent works from that large and generous tradition.   They are mentioned in almost any compilation with respect to the art of India, and the reliefs typically lend themselves to various levels of commentary, since the sinuosity of the carvings and the importance, from a cultural standpoint, of the icons depicted both stand out as elements upon which an art historian might be called to comment.1

Although one might want to address this site from any one of a number of perspectives, the comparative lack of understanding of the Hindu mythology involved—at least insofar as it informs art historical comment—is a topic unto itself.   This is not to say, of course, that art historians do not allude to Hindu beliefs, but it is to say that a great deal of the commentary on this site, as is the case with much of the rest of the Indian art canon, seems to be informed by a sort of strong Eurocentrism that may well prevent the critic from seeing what is at the heart and core of the work.  In this paper I will argue that the site is best understood from a mythographical standpoint (particularly the set of reliefs known as ““The Descent of the Ganges””), and that much of the criticism of the site fails to exhibit a grasp of its importance.

I

Rowland refers to the site now known as Mahabalipuram, and formerly known as Mamallapuram, as a set of “remarkable rock-cut temples”:2

The greatest achievement of the Pallava sculptors was the carving of an enormous granite boulder on the seashore with a representation of the Descent of the Ganges from the Himalayas.  To the give the reader an idea of the scale of this gigantic undertaking, it may be pointed out that the scores of figures of men and animals, including those of the family of elephants, are represented in life size.3

Because this site represents such an important element of Indian art history, it is tempting to think of it almost entirely in straightforwardly aesthetic terms.   Indeed, the skill of the carving and the difficulty of carving relief in granite seem to demand such analysis:  one of the ways in which the reliefs might be analyzed is in terms of line, for example.  On this sort of analysis, one could easily make the claim that a variety of the figures—the nagas or serpents, the elephant—are exemplars of the very notion of form articulated in the early part of the twentieth century by Clive Bell.4   Margolis, for instance, in expounding Bell’s main theses, succinctly notes that “The nature of art, what it really is…[according to the formalists] is a unique combination of certain elements (the specifiable plastic ones) in their relations.”5  The sheer virtuosity of line, alone, in the Mahabalipuram reliefs might easily be thought to lend itself to this sort of analysis. 

But tempting as it may be to employ standard art historical categories in the analysis of the art of India (or of a number of non-European cultures), a significant counterargument can be made that the works are best viewed in a more holistic manner, and one that alludes to mythology and symbolic import.  For this, one needs to employ the work of commentators whose sensitivity to the cultures in question is not in doubt—for the work of India, commentary by, for example, Heinrich Zimmer or Ananda Coomaraswamy might be employed.  Initially, however, we need a further examination of the usual mode of deploying Eurocentric art historical concepts to discuss this site.

II

In noting that concepts such as form and line are often used to make points about the reliefs near Madras, it is important to be specific about how this assessment is made.  The situation is made more intriguing by the fact that a great deal of what Bell had to say actually addressed the notion of the “primitives”:  he flatly stated that “As a rule, primitive art is good…for, as a rule, it is also free from descriptive qualities.”6  In other words, Bell seems to think that he is on secure ground with regard to the indigenous because he thinks of most of their creations as non-representational.

In the case of the art of India, standard portraiture of the European variety, although not unknown, is indeed rare.  Rather, with respect to much of what is done in the Hindu tradition, the question of the representation of symbolic and mythological figures arises—but then one could argue that this begs the question.  Since so much of what has achieved canonical status within the Hindu tradition is clearly either non-representational, or a depiction of symbolic figures and beings, analyses such as Bell’s seem to be on sure ground.  Again, Rowland remarks of “The Descent of the Ganges” that “This vast, densely populated composition…is no longer confined by any frame or artificial boundary, but flows unrestrained over the entire available surface of the boulder….”7

It is obvious that Rowland is moved by line and form here, and that the representational elements, such as they are, have dropped out.

In coming to some conclusions about how the art historians approached works on the subcontinent, it is important to be aware of the overriding considerations that frequently drove British observers when they first began to take notes on the sites they were visiting.  First, it is clear from later recapitulations of their efforts that sheer size was often a factor in how a site came to be regarded as canonical.  In addition, subject matter was of overwhelming importance to most European observers:  sites such as Khajuraho and Konarak, with what was regarded at the time as their monumental eroticism, were simply beyond the categorizing capacities of most European travelers.  Faced with the double conundrum of size and subject matter, the British in particular had to fall back on something familiar in order to make sense of the situation.8  (Interestingly, “Descent of the Ganges” has few overtly erotic components—unless, of course, one sees an implicit eroticism in the nagas.  But then that leads to another line of analysis, precisely the one we hope to employ.)  Since so much of what they saw was obviously not representational in anything like a standard sense Anglo art historians and cultural commentators tended to focus not only on line, but on concepts such as “plasticity” of carving, even when it is clear to the observer that the objects under consideration are primarily devotional and have little to do with “art” as the term is ordinarily used in Western societies.

What is intriguing, however, is to create an even minimal contrast between the mythological and the art-oriented, in terms of critical analysis.   The primary rock relief at Mahabalipuram has as its topic how the river Ganges came into being, thanks to the charity and goodness of Shiva.  As Stella Kramrisch writes in The Presence of Siva:

Siva…danced, assuming cosmic dimension, and revealed himself to the rsi [rishi] as Time and Death and impeller of all….  When Siva steps out of his mansion in the cosmic north, the empyrean, he expounds, under the shady branches of his fig tree, music, yoga, gnosis, and all the arts and sciences to the sages.9

More specifically, Heinrich Zimmer has a fairly lengthy section of his Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization devoted to this very topic.   Trying to convey some sense of what must have driven those who were involved in the carving of the rock face, he writes:

In the…relief, the Descent of the Ganges is represented according to a convention which art-historians currently call “continuous narrative.”… A giant serpent king, covered by the torrent, is moving upward, his powerful serpent body undulating with slow movements…he greets the water, rejoicing with rapt devotion….  Overlooking minute traits and details, this work of art aims to convey attitudes….10

In even this brief excision from Zimmer’s work, as translated by Joseph Campbell, a different attitude toward the carvings can be seen.  It is important to articulate the point that Zimmer, sensitive to modes of inquiry, does actually mention the art historical enterprise, but he foregrounds the important—indeed, crucial—expression of concepts central to Shaivite devotion and to the Hindu worldview as a whole.   In other words, painting in broad strokes, one can either view the relief and the surrounding temples as exercises in sculptural virtuosity (and Rowland is tempted to do this), or one can view them in a manner perhaps more similar to the way in which they were seen by their creators.  To attempt to do the latter involves a change in attitude, and one of the alterations has to do not only with what is depicted, but the way in which what is depicted is itself related to the set of concepts involved.  Then the plasticity and sinuosity of the nagas speaks, as Zimmer notes, of “devout rapture and pious bliss”; the curvilinear nature of the carvings marks the fact that the “entire universe is alive.”11

What is noteworthy is that Zimmer is not, of course, an art historian.  But the reader of his work is moved in a way that the typical peruser of art historical commentary is not, and this is a central fact about the art of India and the way in which it is often presented to the student or would-be interpreter.

III

A mythographical account of the reliefs at Mahabalipuram would emphasize not merely form, but the way in which form functions as an outlet for the expression of a deeply-held worldview.  If sinuosity and the curvilinear are pronounced elements of “The Descent of the Ganges”—and almost all observers seem to agree on this—then one way of articulating the importance of these rock-carvings is to try to tie together the various strands of story and myth that underscore life and vitality.  For the Shaivite or those trained in the tradition of Shaivite devotion, this is not difficult to do.

Although Shiva may be referred to popularly, especially by Westerners, as the “Destroyer,” those familiar with the ritual and practice of Hinduism know that, in an essential sense, he is the most important figure in the Hindu scheme.  In her monumental The Presence of Siva, Kramrisch notes:

Siva should be thought of in a fourfold manner, and perceived as the cause of existence, existence itself, the cause of liberation, and release.  As the cause of existence, Siva had prepared the seed of existence for the Lord of Generation, and was born as existence from the Lord of Generation….  Siva was a yogi holding within himself the power of life, the power of creativity.12

Because an older, pre-Vedic version of Hinduism has a Shiva-like figure, Rudra, much can be made of the primacy of his force, and of the power of Shiva-androgyne, or Siva/Parvati.

Now the generosity of Shiva in allowing the Ganges to descend to the multitude from the crown of his head takes on a deeper significance, and pushes us to look at the relief in a new way.  Here Zimmer is superb as a source, placing emphasis on form and line in a way that subsumes them under larger rubrics:

 In this wonderful relief…the rock transforms itself into a telling procession of animated figures, drifting by, fleetingly passing, like a rock of luminous clouds.  The anonymous, undifferentiated substance manifests every kind of being. The figures produced and animated by the divine essence, the mirage-personages of the cosmic dream of the god, are radiant with a blind delight in life, the enchantment or the spell of Maya.13

When he writes of the rock “transform[ing] itself,” Zimmer lets us know that, he, too, understands the difficulty faced by the sculptors as they worked with the recalcitrant stone.  But our appreciation of this site is deepened by the foregrounding of the explanatory tale in a way that no mere recounting of form alone can do.

Where Rowland writes of “an appropriately abstract canon of proportions,” we can begin instead to think in terms of what the properties in question might have meant in the given culture.14 This is not to assert, of course, that art historians are not aware of what works in a canon such as that of India might mean—it would be impossible to do any sort of theoretical work, art historical or otherwise, in such a cultural context without minimal knowledge of the relevant metaphysics and cosmogony.  It is just that it is easy to drive a wedge between the typical art historical concerns and those that move a commentator such as Zimmer, and the careful analyst begins to note that part and parcel of the difference is that the art historian still retains a desire to employ Eurocentric concepts, even if it is understood from the outset that some of the concepts are not really useful.  Line is important at Mahabalipuram (indeed, it may seem overwhelming) but a more astute account of the work focuses less on line and more on content, or even impact. 

To cite Zimmer one more time, the origin of the Ganges is an act of grace on the part of the cosmos.  As Zimmer comments:

[T]he kingly saint [Bhagiratha] asked the god to let Ganga descend to the earth.  Brahma was agreeable, but declared that it would be necessary to gain the grace of Shiva.  For if the mighty river of heaven, with her gigantic weight of water, should fall directly onto the ground, the tremendous torrent might cleave the earth and shatter it.  Someone would have to break the fall by receiving the full weight of the cataract on his head, and there was no one but Shiva capable of such a deed.15

Seen in this light, form and line take on new meaning.  It is not mere plasticity that holds the viewer’s attention—it is the viewer’s implicit awareness that a dramatic tale is being recounted, and that that tale has an overwhelming significance for the average viewer in the Hindu context.

IV

I have been arguing that the most plausible way to view some artifacts of the Indian tradition is through a mode that highlights their cultural and mythological significance, rather than foregrounding such stalwarts of the Western art historical tradition as form.  Nevertheless, this would not be the issue that it is for the art of India—or, for that matter, any other non-Eurocentric tradition—were it not the case that, as indicated earlier, Bell and others took “indigenous” art as the primary set of examples from which to make a number of points.

When Janet Wolff reminds us of how canons come to be constructed, she is helping us to see not only the straightforwardly social elements of such construction, but the chief categories employed by the socializers.   Within the tradition of India, it became important at an early point to try to conceptualize the stupendous reliefs and striking temples in ways sense-making to the European visitors involved.  Thus the Mannerist tradition is invoked by Rowland to address some of the attributes of Rajput miniatures, despite the fact that a straightforward assessment of what falls under the rubric of Mannerism insofar as the Renaissance and the immediately following period are concerned has a great deal to do with portraiture.16

Bell actually goes so far as to say that those whom he has labeled as “primitive” are “untempted, or incompetent, to create illusions, [and] to the creation of form they devote themselves entirely…”17  It is unlikely that the sculptors and carvers of “The Descent” would be labeled “incompetent” to create illusions, since it is clear that the Shaivite story is part of the spell of the carving.  But there is no question that to the original British observers, “creation of form” became a handy rubric for examining the somewhat puzzling nagas and the other figures crowding the tableau.  The observer of the reliefs at Mahabalipuram will be struck, no doubt, by the much-lauded plasticity and by the size, scope and lifelikeness of the figures.  But the visitor has not really begun to appreciate such a relief unless she views it in the light in which it was originally created.  To learn more about such motivation, the new viewer must turn to sources, such as Zimmer, that are not primarily art historical.  And to make such an assertion says something profound about the differences between the art historical traditions of Europe and South Asia.