K. Benita Persial on art, faith, bodies and seeds

This exhibition opens a window into your studio space and your collection there. Does this fill any gaps that may have existed in previous exhibitions of your work?

In a certain sense this is true. At my last exhibition I was not able to show all the objects that reference my work. The dots have connected in the current show, which represents my practice more broadly. The stories told by the works of art are fragmented, but they have a thread. This thread is obvious here. Each segment of the show is in dialogue with the next.

You collect animate and inanimate objects that people throw away or throw away. Is this a sign of caring?

It’s almost a ritual, a daily practice that connects me to my art. For me, my home and studio are the same space: if I don’t go to my studio, I’ll do the same thing at home. Collecting is also a kind of obsession.

Your work is like a temple, built with care, love and reverence. How do your personal experiences influence the art you create?

My friend Manoj read a lot. He loved music and food. I had a special relationship with him. I was shocked when he passed away. I remember everything that Manoj told me, all his conversations about the books he read. When creating art, I start with fragments like these. During the creation process they are collected into different layers.

I’m never in a hurry. I let it all leak out; even at the last minute of completion I could come up with something. I could just sit in the studio for 10 days or more. I will come to the studio with a packed lunch and tea, clean the studio, and watch the bats in the evening. My work evolves over time: there is often no obvious connection between different things happening at different times, or between how I understand them at different times. But when they come together in a work, they become an assemblage.

Earlier you spoke of your practice as a ritual of faith. Please comment.

At first glance, faith can be understood as belief. But very often it is not faith; what you don’t believe in is also faith. And then faith after some time can become unbelief. On a superficial level, we see it as faith and want to restore it. A sign that is already present before restoration, this line is true faith. Actually it is consciousness. But we tend to put him on a pedestal.

In this context, can you explain the use of Christian imagery with all the broken bodies in your work?

Here is my exact question: Do we worship an image or an idea? If the image is damaged, we do not repair it; we are replacing it. What happens after this?

How does all this affect your work?

There are different layers here. Sometimes I’ll make a portrait, put it aside, then make a box, maybe I’ll remember something from a book I read, maybe I’ll take it up. All this can happen at different times. Someday I will put them together into a story. It’s a kind of calling. I only do one or two jobs a year. I don’t want to put pressure on myself.

You use natural materials of different textures and temperaments. You can combine wood with something fragile or something that might disappear. Can you tell us about these nuances?

Our body has strong and sensitive elements. Together they make up the body. So in my art I can use tree resin or fabric, even dirt. When they come together, they are transformed. Each element will be itself as long as it exists, and after that time it will change.

When I cast from natural materials, they deform as they dry. Later they return to form again. This is an interesting process, how the surface is disfigured and how restoration occurs from the inside. Scores from each application are saved. It is these notes, which I did not add intentionally, that give the finished meaning to the work. This is my experience working with natural materials.

How do you perceive the body in your work?

What keeps me alive is interacting with my body. At some point I felt ashamed of this, but I overcame this shame. Only through my art could I talk about what was happening inside me. When I live, breathe, touch or hold something, I am talking to my body. This is conveyed through my work in an unspoken language. Small gestures bring a decade or a period of time to life. It’s these little gestures that I like to work on.

In your work you have used the image of a seed, as well as many times real seeds. What is the value of the seed?

In my early years as an artist, I created my own language for things I couldn’t talk about. That’s how I started using seeds. Seeds are everywhere. If there are so many of them, why don’t we have a forest, I asked myself. It’s because we don’t have space. When I realized that many seeds are in an environment where they cannot be themselves, they became an important metaphor for me. I started collecting seeds that were stuck in places where they couldn’t germinate. Winged seeds scatter and disappear when they do not have a place where they can germinate. I continue to use these seeds.

How do you internalize and respond to space? Especially in the context of organizing an exhibition.

When I get into a space, I try to talk to it. I expect others to do the same. Moving from one place to another is not easy for me and I need to prepare. This is also because I am very comfortable in my own space.

I want to create a space that is not only for me, but also for you. We must create spaces where viewers don’t feel alienated. The work I display in the gallery helps me connect with others.

Do you consider your work an act of resistance?

In a certain sense, yes, of course. But very often we don’t write everything down, right?

What new idea is brewing inside you?

At my brother’s school in Tiruvannamalai, I want to create a reference space by organizing a lot of accumulated things for the children. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time.