A recent exhibition in Calcutta on Riten Mozumdar (1927-2006) allowed a glimpse into his spectacular and deeply-moving works, which are also stunning in their range. They make us think about what we are doing to our folk art and traditions, and, in the process, to ourselves.

Mozumdar was a painter, designer, mural artist and textile artist. The exhibition, organized by Emami Art in collaboration with Chatterjee & Lal, and curated elegantly by Ushmita Sahu, displayed a representation of Mozumdar’s fine drawings, rugs, wall hangings and textile works — the last included his signature giant bindi that dominates a rectangular geometric pattern, a motif that is still replicated endlessly in our bedcovers; and dresses that were among the earliest FabIndia designs. He transformed the Namdah, the Kashmiri carpet, with tie-and-dye and other print and calligraphy elements into pieces that could also be hung on the wall. A Delhi hotel had been relieved to cover up an ungainly wall with an 80-foot Riten Mozumdar mural.

Nestled among the many works at the exhibition was a small article on Mozumdar based on an interview with him. It spoke about the functional value of his designs, his distinguishing mark. The artist himself made no distinction between “design” and “fine arts”. “... a successful vase is sometimes more difficult than a piece of sculpture, because it is the utility value of the vase that makes the design more complex,” he is quoted as saying.

The utility value is inseparable from the aesthetic. Mozumdar is brilliant in explaining this by talking about the mirror work in Kutch huts.

Decades before things came to such a pass, he felt we were killing some of our folk art quite successfully: “You can’t dabble with any folk art: it’s so much in harmony with villages and rural life, you cannot transport it wholesale to the glossy interiors of five-star hotels and night clubs.”

In the desert, the interiors of Kutch huts are covered with mirrors. It makes for a dazzling craft, but it has a purpose: in the closed huts the mirrors reflect the light from the windows and bring to the room a soothing glow. “Now if we jazz up our restaurants in cities with mirrors from Kutch and then add two large floodlights to create an effect” it will be appreciated as beautiful art, but the whole point is missed, says Mozumdar.

Converting folk art into interior decor can be vile.

On Nababarsha, the Bengali new year’s day, one wonders what Mozumdar would have made of contemporary Bengali aesthetic, art and design. The mind boggles at how he would have looked at Santiniketan, where he received his early education at Kala Bhavana, in its current form.

What would he have thought of Baul singers performing at evening soirées at luxury resorts that look like deep dystopian LED fantasies? Baul music has been Santiniketan’s biggest export after Tagore himself for some time. But the state of Baul music now would have been unimaginable even two decades ago. With its complex mysticism that works through earthly metaphors, but defies easy interpretation, even as it promises love and freedom, from the restrictions of religion, caste and class, Baul music is obviously charming for a group of guests getting drunk by the swimming pool of a five-star resort. But in this setting the music appears even more perverse than the displaced mirror work. Baul philosophy, central to Tagore’s thoughts, is a spiritual quest. To make the music pleasure people on an easy weekend is an act of desecration.

As for the famous Saturday market in Khoai: it does not transport folk art and crafts to glossy hotels; it transports Gariahat to Santiniketan. We do not even have to look at the rest of Santiniketan or Tagore. As Bengalis, we must keep congratulating ourselves on the fine job we are doing of killing the best things that we had.