TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 150

 In the Studio of Memory: A Tribute to the Court Artists of Travancore

This write-up is based on an interview (2006) with my Periyappan, late Sri Thankaswamy Achari, 

artist (my mother's elder sister's husband), who, through recollections of his association 

with old school artists, had inspired me to research on the court painters of Travancore.

Artist Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari,
portrait painted by his son R. Haridas (1969). Private Collection.

A small boy of hardly ten years once lost his way in the meandering corridors of a vast palace complex. It was his first visit to the town and the Valiya Kottaram in the Fort, Thiruvananthapuram, and as he walked from one room to another, he felt guilty for not listening to his grandfather. 

His grandfather, a humble caretaker of the Maharaja’s ‘Golden Chariot’, had asked him to remain in the old Radhapura (the chariot house). However, the young boy’s innate curiosity got the better of him and he quickly slipped out of his grandfather's sight. He peeked into one of the rooms in a nearby building; the room resembled a dark tunnel with a rectangular pocket of light on the other side. He walked towards the light. One room led to another, and finally, after he had tried in vain to return to his grandfather, the young lad entered a room that was, like the others, dark. 

Standing in the dark, he scrutinised the surroundings. When his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, he noticed the shadowy images on the walls. Now what? He cursed himself for straying away from his grandfather. He felt an urge to run, to escape from the clutches of the apparitions in the room. At one end of the room was diffused light coming from an unknown space. He jumped across the high thresholds, racing towards the comforting light. A well-lit room was now visible. When the fearful thoughts loosened its clutches, he could make out the image of a man, dressed in white, seated before a strange ‘equipment’. The boy’s heart was pounding, and he was sweating profusely as he approached the room. Surprisingly, the ‘man in white’ had not noticed his presence; he was busy leaning over a table cluttered with glass bottles and several brushes. 

The boy noticed that a few brushes had fallen off the table and were lying scattered on the floor. Now it became clear that the strange three-legged ‘equipment’ was an easel, and on it was a picture, painted in glowing colours. The little boy stood behind the door, silently observing the actions of the 'man in white’. Suddenly, he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder; a cold shiver went down his spine. He was sure that it was the ghostly apparitions that caught him. However, as he turned around, he saw the smiling face of his grandfather! “Now you don’t pester him with your mischief,” his grandfather said. It was only then did the 'man in the white’ notice the unexpected visitors at his door. "Ah, Kesavan, so you finally made it to my studio!” he said. “And who is this boy? Is he your grandson?” he asked. Kesavan pushed the little boy to the front. “Yes, he is my grandson. Sorry if he disturbed you.” The little boy who braved the dark corridors was now shy to face his grandfather’s friend. “Come here, my boy,” the man in white said. “He was exploring the palace on his own,” Kesavan said. Reluctantly, the boy looked at the man’s face. He was smiling. “So, did you see the paintings by Raja Ravi Varma? If you haven’t, let me show you around.” Without another word, the ‘man in white’ caught hold of his hand and walked towards the dark rooms. 

The dark rooms were not the same anymore. The ghostly apparitions, which the boy saw clearly, were images of people adorned in state robes and beautiful ornaments. The boy had never in his life seen such beautiful pictures! In the other rooms, he came across several fascinating artefacts. Little did he realise then that he was in an art gallery! 

The ‘man in white’, after he had shown around the place, walked with his visitors to the nearby Radhapura. “My grandson has an aptitude for drawing. It will be a blessing for him if he can learn drawing under your instruction,” Kesavan said. By this time, the boy had gathered that his grandfather’s friend was an artist and that he was employed at the royal art gallery. “Why not? He can come to my home whenever he wishes to,” he said. Before they left, Kesavan directed his grandson to get the artist's blessing. The boy touched the artist’s feet. “My blessings will always be with you,” the boy heard these words ringing in his ears. 

It was many years later that I had the fortune to sit beside Thankaswamy Achari - the ‘little boy’- who was then in his early sixties, and record a detailed narration of his first encounter with his master. The setting for the first meeting was also spectacular; the art gallery the boy had unknowingly entered was the famed Ranga Vilas Art Gallery, maintained by the Travancore royals. The ‘man in white’–Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari - the boy later came to know was one of the most respected artists in the erstwhile Travancore Princely State.

Artist Thankaswamy Achari

Note:
Thankaswamy Achari (d. 2006) was my mother’s elder sister’s husband. His guru, Manacaud K. Ramakrishnan Achari, was my paternal great-grandfather.

A portrait (oil on canvas) by Thankaswamy Achari.

A group portrait (oil on canvas) by Thankaswamy Achari.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 149

Fragments of a Forgotten Atelier: Early Works of Raja Ravi Varma

Despite the considerable corpus of research on Raja Ravi Varma and his oeuvre, relatively little is known about his early career in Travancore, particularly during his tenure as Court Painter under Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal. Due to the scarcity of surviving records from this period, one of the few ways to trace the evolution of his artistic sensibilities and technique is through a close study of the works he produced during those formative years.

However, a significant impediment to such inquiry is the limited accessibility of Ravi Varma’s early paintings to art historians and researchers. Most remain in private collections, often undocumented and unseen by the wider public. The documented phase of his artistic career is typically said to begin with the commissions he received in the 1870s from Kizhakkepat Krishna Menon, a Sub-Judge based in Thalassery.

In the course of research for my forthcoming book, I encountered several early works by Varma from the period when he served as a dedicated painter in the royal atelier. Today, I wish to introduce one such painting: a portrait dated to around 1880, depicting Nagan Narayana, also known as Nanoo Pillai (1827–1886), who served as the Dewan (Prime Minister) of Travancore from 1877 to 1880.

Dewan Nanoo Pillai, painted by Ravi Varma c.1880.

Ravi Varma, then a young but already accomplished artist, was widely praised for his ability to capture a striking and often flattering likeness of his subjects. In this portrait, he renders Nanoo Pillai’s face with finesse, attending closely to the rich embroidery of the turban and the detailed textures of the Dewan’s attire. Yet, as the viewer’s gaze moves away from the face, it is drawn to a striking anomaly — a disproportionately elongated arm, with unnaturally long fingers hanging downward.

This curious flaw stands in contrast to the otherwise meticulous execution of the work, offering a glimpse into the complexities and evolving practices of the artist during his early years.

Another noteworthy detail in this painting is the subtle and ingenious way in which Ravi Varma incorporates his signature. The Dewan is depicted holding a small piece of paper—presumably a letter—and inscribed upon it, facing the viewer, are the words: “Wishing you all happiness, I am Yours Very Sincerely, Ravi Varma.” This discreetly embedded signature suggests that the painting may have been intended as a personal gift from the artist to the esteemed minister, whose tenure concluded in 1880, shortly after the passing of Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal.

It is important to note that 1880 marked a pivotal moment in Ravi Varma’s early career. The death of Ayilyam Tirunal, under whom Varma had enjoyed patronage and prominence, heralded a shift in the court's artistic climate. With the accession of Maharajah Visakham Tirunal Rama Varma, whose disapproval of Ravi Varma was reportedly well known in courtly circles, the artist's position within the Travancore court became increasingly uncertain. This transitional phase thus adds a layer of poignancy to the painting, which may be read as both a farewell gesture to a valued patron and a quiet reflection on changing fortunes at court.

In the 1940s, G.R. Natham, an artist based in Nagercoil, was commissioned to retouch the Dewan’s portrait. What renders this episode particularly noteworthy is that, fully aware of the painting’s provenance, Natham chose to inscribe his own name on the restored work.

Far from being an act of irreverence, this gesture may be interpreted as a conscious assertion of artistic agency. Like many followers and imitators of Raja Ravi Varma, Natham positioned himself within the extended lineage of the master’s legacy—an attempt, perhaps, not merely to restore a revered artwork, but to participate in its ongoing history and to claim a modest place within its narrative.

Sharat Sunder R

21.04.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 148

 Between Two Courts: Art, Identity, and an Unfinished Story

The Kerala Museum @keralamuseum in Edapally houses a distinguished collection of paintings by contemporaries and key followers of Raja Ravi Varma. Among these, one artwork that is particularly compelling is a portrait of a matriarch from the Cochin royal family.

This painting is frequently misattributed as a portrait of Kalyanikutty Ammachi of Nagercoil Ammaveedu, consort of Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal of Travancore. However, it is, in fact, the work of Mangala Bayi Tampuratti, the younger sister of Raja Ravi Varma. A fine example of Mangala Bayi’s refined artistic sensibilities from the early 1900s, the painting depicts Ikku Amma Tampuran (Subhadra Tampuran), a distinguished scholar and prolific composer in Sanskrit and Malayalam.

Ikku Amma Tampuran, portrait by Mangala Bayi Tampuratti,
Kerala Museum Collection.

Ikku Amma Tampuran (1844–1921) was the daughter of Kunjipilla Amma Tampuran and Kunju Namboothiripad of Koodalattupuram Illam. While the precise circumstances surrounding the commission remain unclear, this portrait—along with another of Ikku Amma’s daughter, Manku Tampuran (held in a private collection), painted by K.R. Ravi Varma (Mangala Bayi’s son)—suggests a close relationship between the Kilimanur and Cochin royal families.

An old group photograph from Ravi Varma’s studio further highlights this connection. It features Ikku Amma Tampuran seated at the center, with her daughters on either side (Manku Tampuran seated to her left) and her two sons standing behind her. Among them, the young man positioned behind her to the left is Kerala Varma VII, popularly known as Aikya Keralam Tampuran, the Maharaja of Cochin (r.1946–1948). A visionary ruler, he was a leading proponent of the unification of Kerala, advocating for the merger of British Malabar, Cochin, and Travancore into a single state for Malayalam-speaking people.

 Ikku Amma Tampuran with her sons and daughters, c. 1915
© The Diary of C. Raja Raja Varma, OUP.

Despite these connections, one question remains: why did Ravi Varma, the most celebrated artist of his era, never paint a single portrait of the Cochin royals? Was his formal affiliation with the Travancore court as the ‘Court Painter’ a constraint that prevented him from accepting commissions from the Cochin royals? Or was there another, unknown reason lost to history?

Sharat Sunder R

07.04.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 147

 A Hidden Gem: Uncovering Forgotten Photographs

In 2013, I received a precious gift—an album of old photographs—from a descendant of a Travancore court painter. Moved by my passion for researching the legacy of the old-school painters, she entrusted me with her dear father's papers and documents, believing that they would be safe in my care. The album was a true treasure, filled with images of Travancore landmarks, portraits of the late artist’s family, and several Buddhist archaeological sites from Sri Lanka. Yet, while the photographs themselves were captivating, only a handful of pages bore any annotations—brief, notes that merely mentioned the name of a building or location.

With considerable effort, I identified some of the buildings and sites, only to discover that many of these images were far more significant than I had first realized. For example, the previous owner’s connection to the royal atelier meant that several photographs had come from the royal collection itself. One such gem was a photograph taken by Elayarajah Chatayam Tirunal—an amateur photographer and the nephew of the Maharajah of Travancore. This discovery was nothing short of a revelation.

I have many stories to share on how I identified some of the photos and the stories behind those images, but today, as I was glancing through the pages, I was reminded of a stunning 'discovery' I made in 2020. Fortunately, I made a note of it in my journal.

28.07.2020: "Today, as I was going through the individual pages of the album, I noticed that the last page was much thicker and stiffer than the others...saw that the two pages had been stuck together... Gently pulled away the outer leaf and to my surprise found that there was a beautiful photograph (titled 'Beach Palace' (Shangumugham), and dated '29.11.1929') hidden inside!"

It wasn't until much later that I came to realize the photograph had remained unseen for the past fifty years, hidden away in time's shadow.

Note: On the far left of the image, a group of anglers can be seen hauling in their catch from the sea.

13.01.2025.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 146

 Echoes of Renaissance: The Influence of 'Madonna Litta' on Raja Ravi Varma's 'Mother and Child'

'Madonna Litta,' a fifteenth-century painting by Leonardo da Vinci, has always been one of my personal favourites. While the enigma of the Mona Lisa often captivates many, I have always been drawn to the tender, motherly gaze of the Madonna as she looks down at the chubby infant Christ, who suckles at her breast. 

The intimate connection between the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ in Leonardo's masterpiece evokes a similar sentiment found in another painting by an artist close to my heart. Raja Ravi Varma's 'Mother and Child' (also known as 'Nair Lady with Her Child') shares a striking similarity in its composition, with both works evoking the universal bond of motherly love. The mother's gaze in both paintings radiates protection and deep emotional connection, reinforcing the sanctity and beauty of motherhood.

However, the purpose of this write-up is not to merely compare the similarities between the two artworks. It is more likely that, during his formative years at the Travancore court, Ravi Varma studied copies and prints of European Renaissance masterpieces in the royal collection. While his work reflects certain elements of Madonna Litta, Ravi Varma successfully reinterprets these influences to align with the aesthetic sensibilities of the native Travancoreans in the late nineteenth century.

The 'Mother and Child' is undoubtedly a masterpiece from Ravi Varma’s early years in Travancore, when he served as a court painter to Maharajah Ayilyam Tirunal. Evidence for its attribution to this period comes not from the painted surface itself, but from the verso of the canvas, which contains valuable information in the form of a handwritten note. This note provides the title of the painting as well as the date it was completed or added to the royal collection.

The title, or rather the legible portion of the note, reads as follows: 

“A Sudra Lady with an infant in her hands……with her sister…………….of the child”

By Ravi Vurmah

Koil Thambooran

23rd July 1877.

TALES FROM THE CAPITAL CITY – 145

Unveiling Misattribution: The True Identity of the Subjects in the Kuthiramālika Palace Double Portrait

The misattribution of old portraits can often be traced back to a lack of detailed records or documentation surrounding the identities of the sitters and the artists who painted them. In many cases, these portraits have been passed down through generations or displayed in collections with little to no supporting information, leading to confusion about their true subjects.

A significant example of this issue is the double portrait in the Kuthiramālika Palace collection (Fort Palace complex, Thiruvananthapuram), which has been mistakenly identified as depicting Swathi Tirunal Rama Varma, the Maharaja of Travancore, and his younger brother Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma. For years, this portrait was associated with the royal family of Travancore due to their prominence and the likeness to known portraits of the two brothers. However, further research has revealed that the artwork, by F.C. Lewis, a European itinerant painter, actually depicts Sri Padmanabhan Tampi and Sri Nilakantan Tampi, sons of Maharajah Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma, from Nagercoil Ammaveedu.

Colonel Heber Drury, a famed botanist and a British army officer stationed in Travancore, provides a valuable glimpse into the private life of the Maharajah in his book ‘Reminiscences of Life and Sport in Southern India,’ where he describes his meeting with the Maharajah and his children. Drury, like many Europeans of the time, mistakenly identifies the children of the Maharajah—who are simply ‘Tampis’, ‘Tankachis’, or ‘Kochammas’—as ‘Prince’ and ‘Princess’. He writes, “A messenger was forthwith despatched [by the Maharajah] to the nursery to ask mamma [Nagercoil Ammachi, consort of Maharajah Uthram Tirunal Marthanda Varma] to let the little ones come down, and in a few moments the small fry made their appearance. I may say without exaggeration that I seldom met a more interesting-looking youth than the eldest boy, a lad of about ten years old. He is very fair, with an intelligent countenance. He seemed so good and amiable, and talked English exceedingly well. He was dressed in a scarlet frock, embroidered with gold lace, on his head was a brocaded cap, beneath which his jet-black hair made a striking and beautiful contrast with his charming features. The next was a boy about four or five years younger, and the third, a little girl, in whom papa [the Maharajah] seemed to take especial interest and pride.”

The successful identification of the subjects in the portrait can be traced back to the careful examination of another painting (in the same collection) by F.C. Lewis—his large canvas depicting the reception of Queen Victoria’s presents by Maharajah Uthram Tirunal (more on this later). In this grand work, the sons of Maharajah Marthanda Varma, namely Sri Padmanabhan Tampi and Sri Nilakantan Tampi, are prominently featured, alongside the royals and other distinguished courtiers.

The proper identification of the sons of Maharajah Marthanda Varma, after all these years, not only gives a face to figures who were prominent in the social and political circles of their time but also restores their rightful place in historical narratives.

10.02.2025