Artist Devi Seetharam, born in the southern state of Kerala in India, recently had two of her works from the series Brothers, Fathers and Uncles (2020–present) travel to Los Angeles for a group exhibition titled Three Steps of Land, celebrating her home state at the Rajiv Menon Contemporary Art Gallery. Titled Mulla Poov (Jasmine) IX and X, these life-sized acrylic on canvas paintings depict men in a white “mundu,” a traditional garment in Kerala, which has multiple variations in India and other countries of South Asia.
As a Sri Lankan, I encounter the country’s version of the mundu everyday, from the white ceremonial one worn by the newly elected President at his swearing-in ceremony to the striped ones worn by male family members in their leisurely element at home. Devi’s experience and my experience with the garment are different—yet we both resonate with the garment’s symbolism of the patriarchal power structures that govern our sociocultural existence as women in South Asia. I cannot help but be fascinated by Devi’s brave exploration of the male body and twisting of the male gaze by depicting figures of headless, unidentifiable men “gawking” in public wearing the mundu in Brothers, Fathers, and Uncles.
In this conversation, Devi and I talk about clothing, identity, patriarchy, home, and most importantly, taking subject matter that is incredibly personal to the public, whether in Los Angeles or elsewhere.
Pramodha Weerasekera: What is special about the white mundu for you? What is its relationship with your home state Kerala?
Devi Seetharam: I have moved around the world my entire life, and when I moved from the United Arab Emirates to Australia in 2016, it was my first time living in a primarily Caucasian country as an adult. As I was trying to settle in, I started becoming more aware of my sense of identity and what it meant. While I attempted to orient myself as a brown person from India, I also became particularly aware of my discomfort with the patriarchy there and how it was perpetuated in Kerala, my home state in India. I wanted to try and articulate my relationship to home and this particular unease.
The original concept was born from the term “vayinoki,” a word in Malayalam (the regional language of Kerala), which means to gawk, to stand around and stare (at women). That was the seed of what I initially wanted to visually articulate. The visuals came quite instinctually––I wanted to portray men in public spaces, owning or rather feeling entitled to space as they gawked.
I imagined the visual of men wearing mundus, a traditional garment that is worn by all communities in Kerala, whether Christian, Hindu, Muslim, across class and caste. The mundu is a very common piece of clothing. Everyone from the laborer to the politician wears this garment daily. The white mundu with “kasavu” (gold thread border) is for more ceremonial or formal occasions. We also have the plain “kara,” which is a dyed cotton thread woven through as a border. I thought this garment was a fair representation of the section of society that I was depicting. I feel there is a fair bit of posturing that comes with this white garment. It veils other behavioral, characteristics and social structures that are in place.
PW: Wearing traditional garments for example, for political campaigning is something that happens in Sri Lanka, too. In 2022, when we had a very powerful family regime thrown out, people started thinking about what politicians wear and what socio-cultural nuances these garments hold.
DS: Yes, a garment draws from a region’s identity, long history, evolution and perhaps resistance or resilience towards various external influences along the way. It also resonates with a sense of belonging, of being rooted.
PW: It all comes back to power, and how people wield it. Even a simple thing like a garment, which is a basic need that is merely supposed to help us cover ourselves, can perpetuate power dynamics steeped in patriarchy. You add more to this discourse by drawing your imagery from a photographic archive of men wearing mundus in public spaces. You also mentioned earlier that you want to “other” them. I think that is a brave act for a woman artist to do––especially in South Asia. To paint men as the primary subject matter of a series of artworks.
DS: Many people have actually reached out to me asking where the women in the frame are. That is, in fact, the primary point of this body of work, Brothers, Fathers and Uncles. The omission of women from the frame is crucial. In my eyes this series is centered around women without women in the frame. I have also been asked whether I have thought of making similar work with women inside the frame. It is a well-meaning question. I have had a series brewing in my head for the past six years, which has visuals of women figures, but I am concerned about not giving them as much agency as required, as there is also a long history of the problematic depiction of women in the arts. I want to tread carefully so as to not risk minimizing the role of the woman in society.
About “othering”––I other the men in my works by withholding their identifying markers. I do not want the audience to be given details that make the men more relatable or identify with one character over another. I want to homogenize them, to make them a part of a “collective,” perhaps a “collective consciousness.”
PW: I don’t think I have ever seen a woman wear a white sarong in Sri Lanka. But I feel like there is a similarity between how you see the white mundu and how I see the white sarong, something that is gendered, which follows the patriarchal systems we have in South Asia.
DS: In Kerala however, women do wear the white mundu. Originally, it was a two-piece without the blouse. And then over time, it has also morphed and become a single piece, a saree. It is very commonly worn, both for day to day and formal or auspicious occasions.
But yes, there is a fair bit to unpack about the cultural and gendered psyche of Kerala. The mundu is part of a larger narrative of masking and veiling for men, aided by its white flag-like appearance. I come from a subsection of society that belongs to a Hindu caste, called Nair, which is matrilineal (but confuses the same for matriarchy). This misconception is proudly touted all the time, and I grew up with that rhetoric. However, it is disconcerting that even this apparent matrilineal community upholds and perpetuates patriarchy.
PW: The notion of masking and veiling is present both in the gendered notion of the mundu and your artistic process. You have a photographic archive of men in public wearing the white mundu, and you draw from it when developing your works. But, in the final works, the faces of these real men are absent, because they are only depicted below their waist.
DS: I have built up an extensive archive of men draped in mundus. I have photographed hundreds of men in public spaces, I have asked strangers, friends and family to model the white mundu. The modeled photoshoots are for me to capture the nuance of movement and angles of the drape and body language. I take these images, then digitally strip away their backgrounds. After that, I take each figure, I “play” with them to create a composition that I think is seemingly natural, where the body language has a seamless flow. With this archive, I am mimicking what I have grown up seeing around me. The reason I crop the frame from the waist down is because I feel any additional information will take away from the intent of this series.
PW: How long does it take to make a piece, keeping in mind that they are almost life-size, too?
DS: It takes many months. I layer about ten coats of acrylic paint on primed canvas. I then draw these figures and then use a reductive technique. My painting is entirely pre-planned before I begin because of this. I tape up my fingers and apply a certain amount of pressure as I scrape away paint. That is how I get the folds of the fabric. What you see as white or highlights in the drape is actually the primed canvas. It is an incredibly laborious process.
PW: There are flora in the paintings which they are named after. What makes these floral elements integral to the pieces?
DS: I wanted to capture the passing of time. The local flora shown in my work is meant to act as vanitas. Some are still buds, some are fully bloomed and some are wilting. I want to depict a continuum and not just a particular moment; a visual that holds true for generations past, present, and yet to come.
As for the choices of flowers, a lot of them are nostalgic for me personally. Jasmine, for example, is something we pluck in the evenings and make into a string, which we then put in our hair, to scent it. We also use them as offerings at the temple. Some works have the Indian Laburnum, a bright yellow flower which is associated with our new year. It’s such a bright yellow that it resembles gold and is an auspicious flower meant to signify prosperity. Another work has a banana flower. You can suck on their nectar pods, and taste sweet honey.
PW: The series has been shown in France, Germany, India and now in 2024 it has traveled to Los Angeles in the U.S. shortly after Sydney, Australia. How have these widely different continents of audiences interacted with the series?
DS: In India, some people have brought up the notion of the dark skin tone being that of a lower caste and whether casteism is integral to my concept. I honestly did not intend the pieces to be depictions of caste differences. In fact, I made these pieces positioning myself in a Caucasian space, trying to take ownership of my own skin tone. Then, I have also had people tell me that different skin tones might make the series more “inclusive,” but I feel that would distract from my messaging about patriarchy. Such specificity would introduce various other power dynamics into each frame.
These responses of all these audiences have been incredibly validating for me as an artist. Although my depiction places my work in Kerala, India, it has been gratifying that audiences from other parts of India, as well as overseas, have been able to resonate with the theme and messaging. It goes to show that this seemingly culturally niche and steeped visual also translates to other cultures and spaces.
PW: It has been part of the culture in South Asia––this obsession with skin color and identity dynamics that are born out of it, so I am not surprised about that response.
DS: Yes. It has also been interesting to see the pieces travel and having audiences bring their own vantage points and positions. This I absolutely adore. From conceiving the work to what it has become over five years––having started in Australia, then largely showing it in India, and then the US. It gives me more to think about, and helps my processing of my own work.