What inspired your initial focus on the beauty and nature of Kashmir before the major shift in your themes?

Kashmir’s landscape has always been an artist’s dream. The interplay of light, the changing seasons, and the deep connection people have with their surroundings made nature an inevitable subject. But over time, as the reality around me changed, so did my themes. I remember the first painting that I made. It was the portrait of a man with a bandaged head. The bandage was slightly stained with blood near the temples. It was inspired by an incident of stone pelting that I witnessed as a child in the 1960s.

The outbreak of militancy in 1989 marked a significant turning point in your life. How did it affect you and your art?

That period was chaotic, filled with uncertainty and fear. Art, at that time, became a tool of expression for all sides, and I found myself caught in a moment where even posters held deep political weight. In 1977, I started teaching art at Fine Arts College in Rajbagh. At the same time, I opened a letterpress in Hazuri Bagh to design logos and photographs for magazines. It was the only letterpress in the Valley at that time. I was approached by militants to design posters. The fear of retribution forced me to close the letterpress, which used to be my office as well. In 1993, it was gutted in a fire and I lost all my work. It was a lesson in how art can be both powerful and dangerous, how imagery can shape narratives.

Your shift towards themes of conflict, pain, and agony is profound. What was it like to capture the harsh realities of Kashmir through your paintings?

It was painful but necessary. I couldn’t detach myself from what was happening around me. Every artist reflects their time, and in Kashmir, that meant painting grief, exile, and resilience. I wanted to document what words often failed to convey — the silent suffering. You can’t notice beauty when there’s violence around. I have painted a series of paintings portraying bloodshed and violence because I have experienced all this in the last 30 years. My paintings received recognition when the late Kashmiri-American poet Agha Shahid Ali chose one, A Peep Out of The Past, for the cover of his much-acclaimed poetry collection, The Country Without A Post Office.

You’ve also depicted the Pandit exodus in your work. What compelled you to explore this theme, and what do you hope viewers take away from these paintings?

The exodus of Kashmiri Pandits is one of the most tragic chapters in our history. I couldn’t ignore it. In Lonely Sharika, I captured the desolation of a once vibrant temple on Hari Parbat through the sole presence of a soldier’s helmet with agarbatti stuck in it. My paintings on this theme are not about taking sides but about acknowledging loss. I hope viewers see them as an appeal to remember, to heal, and to imagine a future where divisions do not define us.

How did the 2008 street protests and the state’s response impact your creative expression?

Those years were filled with raw emotions — anger, helplessness, and a desperate need to document. The imagery of young boys blinded by pellets, of mothers grieving, of silent streets — it all found its way onto my canvas. My work became darker, but it also became a witness, refusing to let these events be forgotten.

How do you choose the imagery for your work, and what role does symbolism play?

Symbolism is crucial. A lone chinar leaf, a half-closed window, an abandoned kangri — all of these carry meaning beyond their physical form. Kashmiris understand the language of symbols because so much of their history has been about saying things without speaking directly. My imagery is chosen instinctively, but it is always rooted in lived experiences.

Besides paintings, there are some literary works to your credit. Please tell us about them.

My collaboration with Irish poet Gabriel Rosenstock has been a profoundly enriching experience, blending poetry and painting to create works that transcend boundaries. Walk with Gandhi (2019) is a tribute to the Mahatma, where Rosenstock’s evocative verses and my water colour paintings come together to explore his life and philosophy. Boatman: Take These Songs from Me (2023) is another collaboration and its subject was grief. It was a perfect blend of my painted reliefs embodying human suffering and the visceral struggle and Rosenstock’s ekphrastic tanka poems on sacrifice, longing and freedom. Both works are an attempt to create a dialogue between art and literature, offering a unique sensory and emotional experience.

You lost your letterpress and later, in the 2014 floods, you lost your paintings. How did you find the strength to rebuild and continue creating?

It was heartbreaking. Years of work, gone in a matter of hours. But art is not just about what is created; it is about resilience. Losing those paintings taught me that creation is ongoing. I started again, because stopping was never an option.

Are you currently working on any new projects?

Last year, our third collaboration A Love Letter to Kashmir (2024) was published. A combination of my water colours and Rosenstock’s haiku brings together sensibilities about a shared tradition of recreating homelands wrecked by violence. Right now, I am exploring a series titled Vitasta. Vitasta is all about the history of Kashmir. The major portion is paintings on 13th century Kashmiri mystic poet Lalla Ded’s vakhs.

What do you see as the future of art in Kashmir?

Art in Kashmir has always been a form of survival. The future of art here will depend on how much space is given to voices that challenge. Artists in Kashmir have grievances and desires – they desire to have an art gallery in Kashmir and wish to have space for art activities.

For the past three years, I have been working on Samanbal, an artist residency. This residency will act as a confluence of artists from outside and inside Kashmir. But one thing is certain — art in Kashmir will endure. It always has.

Bilal Gani is an independent writer. He teaches Politics at Government Degree College, Beerwah.