I fell in love with Avinash’s works before I met and fell in love with him. I came across his works at the house of a mutual friend where he sometimes stayed when he visited London from New York, where he then lived. This friend did his best to arrange a meeting between us, perhaps because he observed the effect his works had on me. We both knew of his efforts and something of each other via our friend. We intentionally avoided meeting, seeing no point in it. He was on a path that was totally different to mine. He was licking his wounds from the failure of his marriage, and I was appearing at the National Theatre and engrossed in the rigours of a stage life. What I saw in Avinash’s works spoke to me, reached me on a level I still cannot explain. As my dear departed grandmother would have said, “his spirit met mine”. Our paths never crossed until they did – and that is, as they say, another story all together.
Life with Avinash was never dull. Our home in Willoughby Road, Hampstead, was a magnet for writers, poets, painters, actors, pop stars and their managers and people from all walks of life. He worked hard and played hard. One of his means to relax was a game of poker that would go on through the night and into the next day. The players would rest up a while and start all over again. There was never much money involved in the game, but he would insist there should be some to “sweeten the pot”. I was seldom allowed to play, as he said I did not have the killer instinct to win nor did I take the game seriously. He was correct: I preferred to watch and observe rather than play. It was my pleasure to ply the players with suitable drinks and eats to sustain them. I joined in their whoops of joy when winning and commiserated with the losers. At a certain time, I would disappear to bed, as often I had to go to work the next day or evening.
Our favourite watering hole was The Mag, made famous by the last woman to hang for murder in UK – Ruth Ellis. Avinash rubbed shoulders with the famous and those of ill repute on equal terms. Indeed, he made such an impression on a certain element in The Mag that he was told our house would never be burgled, and it never was! This was the Avinash I knew, the great mixer who never judged, only accepted you as you were. No matter your class or faction, you were treated with the same respect. Conversely, some thought this behaviour arrogant. That he played “the grand Signor”. I think this was due to his commanding presence. But it came quite naturally to him and was not in any way false or affected.
Avinash loved to cook and he was a master chef in no uncertain terms. He was asked on more than one occasion to abandon painting and devote his talent to cooking. While he was in New York, he demonstrated his skills at a well-known cooking school, and he was called on again and again to do this. The only payment he received for this was the lashings of whiskey they plied him with and of course the joy of cooking and passing on what he knew about cooking Indian dishes, which was mostly self-taught.
When he moved to London, he missed the warm spices and flavours of northern India so he set about finding the ways and means of recreating and processing from memory the dishes of his motherland. He also added a dash of something special to every dish he created. He added this “dash” into his paintings too. To say he succeeded would be a severe understatement. He triumphed at both. In our kitchen in London, he did not have a host of willing students to chop and peel to his hearts content, he had only me. I chopped and peeled, and he created the most wonderful Indian dishes from scratch. The smells from our kitchen appeared to draw people salivating to taste his wondrous creations. “Avinash is cooking” was all the invitation one needed. Sadly, I never learnt to cook Indian dishes.
However, I was left to cover the rest of the world when it was time for him to be otherwise occupied. It was fascinating observing the process – the start of one of Avinash’s intensive work spells. Firstly, he would become introverted as opposed to his normal exuberant, extrovert self. The house would grow quiet as I met and greeted visitors at the door with the news that it was his time to work. No one minded, they knew they could come again, that it was not a brush off. There was even excitement at the prospect of viewing new works. Personally, I could hardly wait. He would become even more pensive and sombre during these phases. Then there was the music – Miles Davis – on the record player. He would literally dance around, as far as I could tell, not to the rhythm of Miles but to some other beat that played inside his head. It was almost as if he were in a trance, then the dam would explode and he would begin. He always started each piece of work with just one dot. That dot would give birth to the most wondrous piece of art. He worked at an alarming rate, at times using both hands at the same time independently of each other, but the picture he created in this way meshed together as one, complete and whole. I once saw him begin work on a large canvas from either side and meeting in the middle to create a complete picture without any apparent seams.
I all but spoon-fed him meals, for he would not, or could not, stop until his mind said it was done. Until the next time. Yes, he would shower and change at my request, no insistence. He once told me that in New York he once painted for three days non-stop after being given an injection by a well-known doctor who was later stripped of his licence to practice. At the end of the three days, he said he saw his work and the vibrant colours he had imagined was “all mud”. He destroyed each and every one of these paintings and swore he would never go down that road again. He never did. I am describing here a work spell that could last days or even weeks if the muse was upon him. But the fact is Avinash never stopped working. There would always be something on the go. His hands were never idle, not even on our so-called holidays. We would be in the most beautiful place in the world, and the first thing he would want to know is where the nearest art shop was located. Yes, I meanly made him leave all hisrt materials behind, packing only his clothes and essentials, in an effort to make him just relax. At times, I relented and packed a few of what he considered essentials. I remember once on a beach in Jamaica – Doctors Cove – the tranquil Caribbean breaking gently on the shores of this very secluded beach. We were with friends and everyone was in a relaxed mood, enjoying the day, the company, the rum and luscious picnic provided by our hotel. Avinash was restless and moody. I knew the symptoms, the ague and the cure. He needed to work. His mood brightened as I produced a drawing book and pens. When we went back to our hotel, he truly got to work. Thankfully, I had friends on the island. We returned to Willoughby Road with a small sample of the work he had done. The majority was left to take flight on the island. If you liked his work and indicated that you could not afford it, he would so often gift it to you without a second thought.
After a particular work spell, he would wind down by watching over and over again his favourite film, Casablanca, while doodling in his diary or on anything to hand.
He never minded me being at his elbow when he worked, but I knew better than to intrude. Indeed, the only one who would interrupt or make comment was his pet tabby cat. That cat ate the carpet in grief when Avinash did not return home from hospital where he died. Avinash worked in glass and mosaic as well. One of his mosaics can still be seen in Finchley, in London. This work was commissioned by a Dutch cigar company. The hammer of demolition hangs over the building’s head where it is housed.However, there is a stay of execution, and I am in negotiation to save this wonderful unique piece of art. A work in glass could not be saved at Automation House, Wembley, as we were too late in that case. The magnificent work in glass at Pilkington, St Helens, Liverpool, still stands proudly in the canteen, I am happy to say. There are other treasured pieces of glass art in private hands created by him in Amsterdam Van Tetrode Glass Works.
Luckily, I was there during the latter stages of this period. Avinash’s relationship with other artists was one of respect. Whatever the medium, or the form of art, he acknowledged the drive, or as some say, the compulsion to create. It was deep within him, and he saluted it in others. He told me that as a very young boy in the hotel in Shimla where his father was the manager, he was given a box of crayons by one of the guests. She saw him making pictures with whatever was around him. He found the colours of the crayons so exciting, he immediately began to decorate the edges of the paper menus on the tables in the dining room of the hotel.
His father saw this and was slightly amused. He encouraged his son to continue but of course he did not appreciate at the time that the artist was born. Years later when he was admitted to the Delhi Polytechnic to study architecture (his parents’ choice), he immediately switched to art. It was difficult to tell his parents, but he did. They accepted his choice and supported him throughout. He was their first-born son. They were especially proud when he graduated and the next day began work as a teacher at his own college.
At one point while we were in Willoughby Road, Avinash decided to draw together the painters around him and produce a collective body of works, along with a printed brochure for each. The brochures were printed, but the works never appeared. The group fell apart because of differing expectations, or perhaps egos. In any case, it is extremely difficult to get so many artists to work together under the same umbrella. And so, the idea crashed and burnt. He was bitterly disappointed. I comforted him during this time, reminding him it was a beautiful dream but a dream nevertheless.
I never met Souza but was aware that he and Avinash had had a good relationship in the past. As far as I am aware, it was a friendship born of mutual respect and admiration. After Avinash died, while going through his papers, I came cross a note from Souza to Avinash addressing him as “brother” and thanking him for the loan. There were also other items of their connection, which alas I no longer have. I met and maintained contact with Souza’s daughter, but lost contact over the years. I will end with another happy memory of Avinash. After he had his kidney transplant (diabetes had eaten his) and we celebrated his coming back to life, the first thing he wanted to do was paint, to continue on the large canvas I had pinned to the dining room wall before his transplant, when he was so weak he could hardly hold a brush or pen. But after, he was bursting with life and eagerness. He began painting with a passion, he finished one painting after the other. I remember them well. Many were sold at his retrospective at the Osborne Samuel Gallery. The days and weeks after his transplant we were so happy, with no more dialysis. He cooked, painted and entertained in equal measure. But it was not to last, as his body rejected the organ and my dear husband and best friend died soon after his 60th birthday party, which was a joyful occasion with friends, laughter, wonderful Indian food and of course Miles Davis resounding throughout.
Valerie Murray-Chandra, a British actress of Jamaican heritage who appeared at the National Theatre in London, is Avinash Chandra's widow.
This an excerpt from the book accompanying the DAG exhibit “Contours of Identity: Francis Newton Souza & Avinash Chandra”, on display at The Taj Mahal Palace, Apollo Bunder, Mumbai, on display till January 31.
