The entry point of Chittrovanu Mazumdar’s exhibition. Picture by Amit Datta

What does one make of a work of art that is not framed, does not hang from a wall, comprises several large canvases in two rooms, meanders into darker chambers, where heliotrope squares and pinpricks of light like a host of glowworms stand out against the black walls, gives on to a larger space where clusters of bulbs lie on the floor like a biggish squid, and if you are alone there, you get the distinct feeling that someone is out there to get you?

Seagull hosts a one-person exhibition by Chittrovanu Mazumdar, who is showing after a long interval in this city, on premises on Lansdowne Road. Mazumdar has a liking for large, dramatic space. Earlier, he has held exhibitions in the Victoria Memorial Hall and all over the grounds of a bungalow, where Astad Deboo had danced at the opening. Drama comes quite naturally to Mazumdar.

Those of us used to seeing his large works painted with a flourish may at first wonder if he is gradually giving up such traditional tools of an artist like paint and brush. Many are not aware that in between exhibitions in Calcutta, Mazumdar has been experimenting with installation art. We have caught glimpses of this at group shows of at least two city galleries. But entire shows never.

So now we get an opportunity to see Mazumdar’s work as it unfolds and seems to lead us into the dark recesses of his mind. Of course he has not eschewed painting and he is still in control of the craft. But one must hasten to add that he has embraced with equal ease technology that allows him to body forth turbulent impulses in a way that would not have been possible with paint and brush alone.

The large canvases give a clue to the impulses that Mazumdar are his driving force. These are monochromatic – yellow, blue and white – and the dominant image is that of a young woman, apparently in undress, with an expression writ large on her faces that could be variously interpreted as fear or heightened sexual excitement. The surge of energy that must have gone into the application of paint borders on violence, as if the canvases are being ripped apart with the stabs and thrusts of his brush. The red squares of acrylic sheets contain fragments of verse, prose and female faces. One tiny frame is quite explicitly erotic.

The inner chambers have each an individual identity of its own. The muffled growls and moans floating through the darkness seem to take visible form around the points of blue light. The rows of small red bowls look like they contain fresh blood. But it would be wrong to describe each component individually for viewing this work is a deeply sensuous experience that expects a certain amount of receptiveness from the viewer.