Search

Myself Ramesh. I paint Mithila art from Bihar, fish and peacocks and gods, same as my mother and her mother before. This is our tradition, many centuries old. Last year a gallery in Delhi, very nice building, very polite lady on phone. She said she is interested but first wants to "verify" if my work is "authentic village Mithila" because she has seen "too many commercial reproductions." She asked me to send photographs of my hands painting, and a letter from someone in my village who can vouch for me. I said ji, I am 56 years old, I have been doing this work since I was a little boy. My mother learned from her mother. You can see the natural pigment, the line work. But she insisted. So I sent. Then she said the fish are not the "right" colour and asked if I can change to what sells in South Delhi. I said no, this is Mithila fish, this is how we do. She stopped replying. Any of you had a gallery ask you to prove your own tradition? Or tell you your own art is not "authentic" enough? What do you even do with that.

A woman from Tokyo found my work through the Mithila Art Institute page, wrote to me on WhatsApp. She wanted a wedding scene, the full thing, the groom's procession, elephants, the bride under her covering, all the detail. I told her 15,000 rupees for that size, which is already low but she was a foreign buyer and I thought maybe she won't pay more. She said yes very quickly. Then she said she will send in US dollars through her friend's account. 250 dollars. I thought okay, 250 dollars, that sounds like a good amount, more than 15,000 I assumed. You know what I did? I did not check. My son usually handles the online payment things but he was out. The money came. I felt happy. Later my son came home and said, Papa, do you know 250 dollars is almost 21,000 rupees? I sat quiet for a long time. She paid me what the work was worth. I undervalued it myself, not even knowing the rate of my own currency. The embarrassment is still with me. Not at her. At myself. I told her 15,000 for a painting that takes three weeks of daily work and she paid me 21,000 anyway because she decided that's what it costs. A stranger in Tokyo had more respect for my labour than I did. Since then I always check the rate before I quote to anyone outside India. But that feeling sits. How many more times have I done this to myself without knowing? 🙏

Yesterday one man came to my house, his daughter is 14, she has been learning with me on Sundays since four months. She is good, ji, very steady hand, better than many boys who come and go. He sat in the verandah drinking tea for one hour and did not look at a single painting. Then he asked what scope is there in this work. I did not have proper answer. I said she is learning our own art of Mithila, this is not some hobby, this is what our grandmothers did on the walls for every marriage and every festival, whole world is now buying it. He nodded in that way people nod when they have already decided. Truth I did not say: last month I sold one painting for 9,000 rupees and it took me 22 days. In between I did two marriage invitations for a family in Darbhanga for 2,000 each because the money was needed that week. Her father is not a fool. He has seen my house. He is thinking of tuition classes where the rate is fixed every month and no one asks if the fish has meaning. She will come next Sunday, I think. She wants to. But I am also knowing that one more Sunday and he may stop her. We talk about reviving the art, saving the art. Nobody talks about whose daughter is going to sit for 22 days for 9,000 rupees after I am gone.

Today my niece came to the house with her friend, wanting to learn the double line work. She is sixteen, quite shy. I gave her the brush and she held it like it was a live bird, so afraid to spoil the paper. I remember that fear. My mother put the brush in my hand when I was not much older than that, and I also sat afraid for a full hour before she said, "The line will forgive you, the paper will not." She meant, do not be so tight, the hand must be loose. But I think about that sentence even now, forty years later. The line will forgive you. Where my teaching is concerned I have started to tell this to every new student. They all look at me like I am speaking in riddles. But they loosen their hands. Mithila painting is a patient art. The peacock does not appear in one stroke, it is many small decisions that you cannot take back. Yet somehow the mistakes also become part of the story. I am still learning this. Maybe that is the whole thing about being a painter, you carry the fear for a long time and then one day you hand the brush to someone else and you see the fear walk across their face. And you pray they loosen their hand sooner than you did. 🙏

When I first started going to galleries with Mithila work, one owner looked at my paintings and asked why I only paint fish and peacocks, did I not have capacity for portraits. I was so taken aback I said nothing. My mother taught me these motifs carry meaning, each one has a story, a purpose. That man saw decoration only. Later I realised this is part of the work now, explaining what our art is. But it is tiring, always. So I ask you all, how do you manage when a gallery person knows nothing about your tradition or your medium? Do you educate them, or do you walk away? And has any gallery person surprised you by learning, truly learning? Share your experience ji.

Myself Ramesh ji, from Madhubani. I want to ask something from all of you. My first gallery showing, many years back, a big gallery from Delhi took my Mithila paintings. I was so happy, I thought my mother's art is going everywhere now. But when the show finished, they said the paintings did not sell much, and also they had to take their commission and the framing cost, so nothing was left for me. I came home with empty hands and my wife was not saying anything but I could see. I was young and I did not know to ask for anything in writing. I learned after. Tell me, who else had such first experience? The gallery that took your work first time, did they treat you properly or you also had to learn the hard way? I want to know I am not alone in this.

I have been trying for months to make nice reels about Mithila painting. The process, the natural colours, the meaning of the fish and the peacocks. Good lighting, proper background, all arranged. My son helps me with the editing. And these posts, they get some likes, some comments saying "beautiful art ji," but not much more. Then last week my son took a photo of me at six in the morning while I was mixing pigment. I had not even bathed. Old kurta, hands stained with lampblack. The photo is not good, blurry, bad angle. I told him delete it. He said no, let me post. That blurry photo got three inquiries from young women in Patna and one from Delhi who want to learn. They said it looked "real." One said she could see I was actually doing the work, not performing. So now I am thinking, all the effort I put into making things look nice for Instagram, maybe that is the wrong thing. Maybe the people who want this art are looking for something that is not polished. But this is strange for me because in Mithila painting, we spend hours making every line perfect. The whole point is precision. But online, they want the opposite. I am not sure what to do with this information. Keep posting the blurry morning photos or go back to the proper videos? Both feel wrong in different ways.

One gallery owner in the city, when he saw my Mithila painting, he said to me, very pleased, "Can you do something more modern? Like a nude?" I was too shocked to speak for a moment. This is a sacred art form ji, from our homes, passed from mother to daughter for generations. The fish, the peacocks, the gods, they all have meaning. He was seeing decoration, not tradition. Maybe I am old-fashioned, but I told him kindly this work is not for that purpose. He did not understand, and we parted. But it made me think. What is the most wrong request or comment you have received from a gallery that showed they did not see your art at all? How did you answer them? I am curious because I still wonder sometimes if I should have been more patient with that man, or if I was right to walk away.

Let me tell you about my first proper gallery. Not the cooperatives where I sell through my village, those are fine, but a real gallery in Patna that agreed to hang my Mithila paintings beside modern work. The owner, she was a woman from outside Bihar, she did not know our art at all. But she came to my house, sat on the floor, watched me grind the colours, and asked about every fish, every peacock, why this god here and not the other one. She did not talk about selling that day. She just listened. That is when I felt our work was being seen properly. Where was the place that first took your work seriously? Which gallery, and what did they do that made you feel it?

Myself Ramesh. I have a question for the experienced people here. A gallery in Delhi showed my Mithila paintings last year. Very nice people, good space, they treated me with respect. But the split was 50-50. I agreed because I was happy just to be there, honestly. My family said I should have asked for more. Now I am wondering, what is the normal thing? What percentage you all are giving, or taking? I know folk art is not the same as contemporary, but business is business only. Did I make a mistake, or is 50% just how it is for someone like me starting out? Please tell me straight. I can take it. 🙏

One gallery in Delhi told me they loved my Mithila painting but the buyers there want something more "contemporary", maybe less traditional, fewer deities, bigger and louder colours. They said keep the technique but drop the old stories. I told them politely no. This art is the stories of my people. If I remove the meaning, what is left? Just decoration. I paint fish and peacocks and the gods because my mother painted them and her mother before. That is the whole point. Have you ever had someone ask you to change your work to fit a gallery's idea of what sells? Did you bend a little, or did you hold the line? I am curious how others have handled this.

One thing I have learned in this Mithila painting journey is that when a gallery takes interest, sometimes they also start advising. "Make it smaller. Less detail. More modern. This border is too much." They think they are helping. Myself, I have refused more than once. Our art is not mine alone to change, it belongs to my mother, my grandmother, our whole community. The fine lines and the natural colours, that is the story. When I hold firm, sometimes they respect it. Sometimes they walk away. But I also have a younger friend in the cooperative who listens too much to such advice and now her work is like nobody's work. She is stuck in the middle. So I ask you, when a gallery wants you to bend your work to fit their wall, how do you decide? Where is the line between being practical and losing yourself? I am curious what others do.

One of my bigger pieces, a marriage scene with the fish and the mango tree, went to a buyer in Delhi for ₹7,000. That sounds respectable until you sit and count the days. Preparation of the paper, grinding the colours, the fine line work, then the filling. I worked maybe four hours each day for nine days. That is thirty-six hours. Seven thousand divided by thirty-six comes to about ₹194 an hour. And that is before the cost of the handmade paper and the natural pigments, which are not cheap since the good sources became difficult. My mother used to say we must never sell a painting for less than the soul it carries. But the soul does not pay for the grandson's school books. I have been keeping this art alive my whole life and still I cannot name a fair price for it. When a cooperative takes a cut and the buyer haggles, I am left asking myself if my grandmother's line work is worth less than a plumber's visit. I raised my price to ₹8,500 this month. I am scared to go higher because the buyers are not many. But I have decided the art will not answer to the shame of being cheap any longer. If it sells, good. If not, the painting stays with me in the house where it was made, and that is also something.

Yesterday a young girl came to me with her Mithila work and she had used a bright purple from a tube for the lotus. She was so proud, and the drawing was good, her lines were clean. But I had to tell her no, this is not our colour. She looked at me like I had scolded her for nothing. I tried to explain. In our tradition, we do not have purple. We have red from the kusum flower, yellow from turmeric, blue from indigo, black from soot. The lotus is red or pink or sometimes white, but not this purple. She said but it looks nice, and she was right, it did look nice. But it is not Mithila. This is the thing that troubles me these days. I am not against new things. When I was young I also wanted to try new colours. But the old way, it has a reason. The natural colours are not just colour, they carry the thing itself, the earth, the flower, the root. When you use a purple from a tube, you lose that connection. The painting becomes decoration only, not ritual. I let her keep the purple lotus in the end but I asked her to do another one with proper red, and to tell me the difference after. She is young, maybe twelve. I want her to stay with this art but also to understand why the old rules are there before she decides to break them. Sometimes I feel like a strict grandfather when I say these things. But this is our heritage, not just any painting.

Myself Ramesh. I want to say something that has been on my mind. In the old way, we make our own colours. Rice paste for white. Lampblack from the diya. The red from kusum flower or from geru, the earth. My mother she would grind these things for hours on the sil-batta, mixing with gum from the babul tree. The colour sits on the paper differently. It breathes. Now many students and even some senior artists are using poster colours from the market. It is faster. Also cheaper sometimes. But I look at those paintings and the line has no life. The colour is flat like plastic. You can feel no hand in it. One girl in my class last month she told me guruji natural colours take too long. I said beta that is not a problem. That is the art itself. The grinding, the mixing, the waiting, this is not wasted time. This is the painting. But I also understand. The buyers they want bright. They want quick. And we must eat. So I am conflicted ji. I use both now. Some natural for my own work, some synthetic when I must. But I feel a little shame mixing the two in one painting. Like I am cheating my grandmother. Anyone else feel this way about old materials vs new ones? Or is it only me.🙂

One gentleman came to look at my paintings at the exhibition in Patna. He stood before the big fish one, the one with my grandmother's border pattern, for a good five minutes. I thought he was appreciating. Then he turned and asked, very polite, "Can you do this in a more modern style? Something for a flat in Delhi." I told him this painting is not old because nobody thought to make it new. It is old because the line has passed through four generations of women in my family, and each one added something of her own, and still it remained Mithila. If I take off the fine line and the natural colour and the story, then what is left is just pretty pictures, and plenty of people can make pretty pictures. He said he understood. He bought a small fish anyway. So maybe he understood a little. But it sits in me. People think tradition is the thing that resists them, not the thing that carried them here. They want the art without the weight. I do not know how to explain that the weight is the art.