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Approaching India: French Fragments.

A CERTAIN IDEA OF INDIA", THE TITLE OF THE ITALIAN WRITER ALBERTO Moravia's account of his trip to the country in 1961, accompanied by his friend, the poet and would-be filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini, is how one might also qualify the different facets of the French encounter with the subcontinent in the decades following independence from British rule. "I think that we both went to India without any particular project in mind," Moravia observed in retrospect. "It is India that is 'particular', a country that forces the traveller to take a position." (1)

For some travellers, however, the decision to desist from taking a "position" was a way of not being overwhelmed by what they saw, as in Louis Malle's unblinkered vision of India in his documentary Calcutta (1969) and in the seven films he made for French television called L'Inde fantome (also 1969) (figures la and lb). From over 30 hours of footage (shot over a period of six months), Malle retained more than eight hours, and one has the impression that the films could go on indefinitely, so riveting is his immersion in a reality framed without artifice or a prior mise-en-scene. The street-level view of India does not flinch from the overwhelming poverty and squalor that Malle encountered. There are long sequences without commentary, and when there is a voice-over, it is sober, matter of fact and in the first person, the very understatement being an indication of the degree of self-control in the filmmaker's determination to be undeterred by squeamishness. Yet the frequent avowals of incomprehension in the face of what the camera eye/I was recording suggest that Malle's films are finally about self-discipline inasmuch as they evince the near impossibility of vanquishing the subjective: they are as much about the encounter with a painful reality as they are about their maker's efforts to be equal to the task of filming it. It is no wonder that the first film is titled The Impossible Camera and that the subtitle of the sequence as a whole is Reflections on a Voyage. The documentaries are perhaps a limit-case of an attitude that sets out "to live things in the present without trying to understand them", which may explain why Malle chose Phantom India as the overall title for a cycle that is the outcome of the generic objectivity, the will to equanimity, underlying his documentary stance. (2)

That India could be a purely phantasmal object, an imaginary projection, an abstraction or a conceit is borne out by India Song, the film based on Marguerite Duras's own screenplay, which she made in 1975. Although the setting is the French consulate in Calcutta in 1937, the India of the title is no more than a notional allusion to "Les Indes", the French colonial designation for the region extending from the Indian subcontinent to the French Indo-China of Duras's childhood. This is the territory that Duras contracts to a chamber drama centred on the enigmatic figure of the French ambassador's wife and her lovers: their (voice-over) soliloquies structure the film's narrative in a recursive framework that is a quintessentially Durassian mannerism. The ineffable past, and the burden this represents for consciousness, is her subject of predilection; the repetitive, incantatory style, the non-synchronization of the visual and the aural, are her preferred formal means. But somewhere along the way, "India" and "Song" become out of sync, literally, in that the dirge of the beggar woman who haunts the gardens of the consulate is heard off-screen, and it is this invisible alterity that frames Duras's resolutely European romance, her stylized jeux d'esprit of erotic dalliance and death. Within the consulate, time stands still at the cocktail hour: languid gestures, undeclared motives, meaningful looks and silences, slow waltzes and a recurring musical leitmotif; beyond it is an abstraction called India, a generic otherness: the inferred presence of the monsoon, heat, torpor, the Ganges, luxuriant vegetation, famine, leprosy. The contrast with Malle's unwavering look at the lepers on the streets of Calcutta is eloquent, but then L'Inde fantome is a documentary whereas India Song is a fantasy.

Duras's film could more usefully be contrasted with a work made 25 years earlier, Jean Renoir's The River (1951)--his first film in colour--based on the novel by Rumer Godden and shot entirely on location near Calcutta. For all the differences in style, temperament and worldview that separate Renoir, the maker of The Rules of the Game (1939), and Duras, the author of the screenplay for Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959), their "India" films can nevertheless be juxtaposed in terms of the narratives that are voiced--specifically, the nature of the voice-overs deployed. The mesmerizing repetition of words (and the ponderous silences that punctuate them) is a Durassian device or tic for creating an atmosphere: a species of mantras for translating the inertia and languor of an erotic endgame in a supposedly tropical setting; the world outside, "an overpopulated city on the banks of the Ganges", exists only as a spectral presence, an inchoate sound--the morose wail of the errant beggar woman. The voice-over in The River, in contrast, belongs to another narrative regime. It speaks from the pages of the journal of one of the protagonists in the film, and in the tradition of the novelistic recounting of events, tells the story of an English family living in Bengal: "It is the story of my first love, about growing up on the banks of a wide river", is what we hear in the opening section. "First love might be the same in any place. It might have been in America, in England, in New Zealand, or in Timbuktoo ... But the flavour of my story would have been different in each, and the flavour of the people who live by the river would have been different." (3) The function of the voice-over is to signal the specificity of the Indian setting--the backdrop to both the narrator's coming of age and the drama of death and regeneration. The river is evidently the metaphor par excellence for this life-cycle, and, by extension, for the unobtrusive humanism of Renoir's filmic genius. Cinematically, poetically, he gets India right (and one can see what Satyajit Ray learnt from the French master's gift for capturing a civilizational ethos, a gift shared by Renoir's younger contemporary, the great photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson); the reefs, such as they are, emerge periodically in Rumer Godden's screenplay--not only in the self-consciously literary tenor of the voice-over but especially in the speech of the one Anglo-Indian protagonist in the scenario. But perhaps this is jarring only to an Indian ear.

For an example of the writer as a roving consciousness abroad, as irreverent about himself and where he comes from as he is about the "elsewhere" to which he has elected to travel, we must look to Henri Michaux and his barbed, bemused account of his stay in India, written in the 1930s and first published in 1945. Given his heightened sense of the absurd, Michaux could well have called his idiosyncratic text "Impressions of India" in the spirit of Raymond Roussel's novel Impressions of Africa : both books put a spoke in the wheel of Western rationalism and logical causality. Michaux's scepticism about the West and its civilizational certitudes was surely spurred by the impending catastrophe of the Second World War. His book, for all its witticisms and wayward quirky reflections on diverse aspects of Indian life and culture, is titled A Barbarian in Asia. "Knowledge does not progress with time. Differences are overlooked. You compromise. You come to an understanding. And you cease to come to conclusions. This fatal law acts in such a way that the permanent residents of Asia and the persons who are most thrown together with the Asiatics are not at the exact point where a focus vision can be retained, whereas a passerby, with his innocent eye, is able sometimes to lay a finger on the centre." (4) Nothing "barbarian" about these thoughts, although it is Michaux who voices them. The book's jocular tone is probably a way of temporizing with a world that has not yet taken the measure of what he presciently announces in his preface as "the coming planetary civilization".

Renoir's film was made in a newly independent India--Nehru's India, committed to an idea of the modern, as envisioned by him. It was Nehru who commissioned Le Corbusier, the most famous architect in the world, to conceive and build the capital of the Indian part of the province of Punjab in the wake of the partition of the country by the British. Le Corbusier was given carte blanche to plan the city of Chandigarh: "At this moment in the evolution of modern civilization India represents a quality of spirit, particularly attractive," he observed in 1950. "Our task is to discover the architecture; to be immersed in the sieve of this powerful and profound civilization and the endowment of favourable modern tools to find it a place in present time." (5) Chandigarh was to be a city of the future: spare, rational, utilitarian, marking a radical break from both the vernacular of traditional Indian architecture and the colonial legacy. But for all his claims of starting from a clean slate, Le Corbusier was hardly oblivious to the grandeur of imperial Mughal architecture or to the grandiosity of Edwin Lutyens' palace for the Viceroy in New Delhi completed in 1931, as is amply borne out by the palatial scale of the Capitol Complex that he designed for Chandigarh. The path to modernity was paved with good intentions and reinforced concrete (not to mention grids and sectors), but some of the ambivalence in the reactions to Le Corbusier's Indian magnum opus surely lies in the architecture's willed separateness from the rest of the city fabric: its newness was estranging, and not only formally--witness the monumental emptiness of the central square, the very opposite of the agora that the architect originally intended it to be. Alain Tanner's film, Une ville a Chandigarh--Le Corbusier en Inde, made in 1965, the year of the architect's death, contains valuable footage on the building work that was still in progress, while John Berger's accompanying commentary dwells on the social vicissitudes of an undertaking of this magnitude. In the 50 years since its completion, the city has been reclaimed by succeeding generations of Indian citizens, in their own idiosyncratic way.

Modernist spatiality as a civilizational blueprint was part of the architectural hyperbole or working illusion of Le Corbusier's master plan (figure 2). But despite all the rough concrete, Chandigarh remains something of an abstraction, a concept or an idea. It photographs beautifully in black and white, notably through the lens of Lucien Herve, whose images dramatically underscore the sculptural and graphic qualities of Corbusian architectonics. (6) (Herve's modernist eye was no less captivated by the abstract, archetypal forms of the jantar mantars, the 18th-century observatories in Delhi and Jaipur.) While the sharply defined geometries created by the play of light and shade make for the aesthetically pleasing surface designs of the photographs, the buildings had, in reality, to reckon with the harshness of the blazing sun, dust storms and rain during the monsoon, climatic factors with a direct bearing on daily life in India that Le Corbusier was not quite able to dominate. For a complex that succeeded in adapting to the vagaries of the Indian climate and being a major formal architectural statement, we must look to the masterpiece that is the Indian Institute of Management (1961) in Ahmedabad, designed by Le Corbusier's great American contemporary, Louis Kahn.

An example of architecture that, alas, never saw the light of day, is the temple that Constantin Brancusi was commissioned to design, in the late 1930s, by Yashwant Rao Holkar of Indore, probably the most Europhile of Indian maharajas. "The Temple of Deliverance", as it was called, was envisioned on the banks of the Narmada river in Maheshwar, and its notable features included a subterranean passage and a water basin, with sculptures--Birds in Space--placed around it. Brancusi had been greatly impressed by the fountains, water tanks, underground corridors and staircases at the fort in nearby Mandu, which he visited while he was a guest of the maharaja in 1937. (7) The unrealized project was a great missed opportunity, given what the exceptional nature of the commission might have produced. Unlike most of his fellow rulers in colonial India, Holkar was seduced by contemporary European architecture and design: his palace in Indore, Manik Bagh, designed by Eckart Muthesius, was a stunning example of Modern Style in an oriental setting, an Art Deco gesamtkunstwerk replete with furniture, light fixtures, carpets and accessories bearing the signatures of the pre-eminent modernist designers of the time: Jacques-Emile Ruhlmann, Marcel Breuer, Eileen Gray, Charlotte Perriand, Le Corbusier, Pierre Jeanneret and Emil Leitner, among others. From the air-conditioning (entirely novel in India at the time) to the indirect lighting system to the colour schemes of the walls, everything was designed to keep the interiors cool and protected from the oppressively hot climate of the region. A tour de finesse of functionality, elegance and understated luxury, the palace was the opposite of the ornate ostentation that was the usual hallmark of princely abodes in India.

Judging by the fairly rudimentary drawings made by Brancusi, his temple would have been a more unworldly pendant to the spare sumptuousness of Muthesius's Manik Bagh, in keeping with the refined abstraction and pristine forms of his Birds in Space that were to be the presiding "deities" of this place of contemplation. Holkar had bought the first of these (in polished bronze) on a visit to Brancusi's studio, and then commissioned two others, in black and white marble respectively. The acquisition of these sculptures led the maharaja to imagine their installation in a temple complex. Brancusi then thought of adding a fourth element, a monumental sculpture in wood called Spirit of the Buddha, which, much later, after the project had been definitively renounced, was renamed by him as The King of Kings. The idea of including this imposing multi-tiered totem, so different from the purified shapes of the Birds in Space, and whose formal configuration, moreover, harks back to an earlier phase of Brancusi's work marked by his dialogue with African tribal art, is enigmatic in the context of the Temple of Deliverance, even if some commentators have seen the lotus-like crown on the "head" of the figure as an allusion to a recurrent motif in Buddhist iconography. (8) Perhaps this is yet another instance of Brancusi's abiding interest in the symbolic resonance of forms, in the circulation and migration of symbols and the numinous complexion of their imaginative confluence. He was hardly a stranger to ancient Asian art, assiduous visitor to the Musee Guimet that he had been in earlier times. But whether the schematic shapes evocative of birds in flight in the aquarelle (that was a preparatory study for the fresco in the temple) have any conscious connection with similar forms in tantric art (to Indian eyes the resemblance is striking) is, of course, as open a question as the form his project in Indore might have taken.

A monumental statue of a seated Buddha (it is unclear if this was an original or a cast) held sway in the garden of a sculptor who was keenly interested in Indian art, Brancusi's illustrious older contemporary, Auguste Rodin. Its presence was impressive enough for it to be remarked upon by Rainer Maria Rilke and by the many visitors who called upon the master in his studio in Meudon. "Down there, in front of my window, a gravelly path rises to a small hillock," wrote Rilke. "There reigns a fanatically silent Buddha, who, under the sky of nights and days, forever dispenses the ineffable mystery of his attitude." (9) The statue's subsequent disappearance (along with several smaller seated Buddhas that were placed indoors) is shrouded in mystery. A more tangible indication of Rodin's engagement with Indian art is the suite of lyrical meditations he wrote on 11th-century Chola bronzes representing Shiva. He was commenting on photographs of the magnificent sculptures in the Madras museum, possibly taken by his friend Victor Goloubeff who, prior to becoming an archaeologist, had explored the caves of Ajanta, and would go on to found a review called Ars Asiatica. "The Dance of Shiva", as Rodin's article written in 1913 is titled, focuses on the deity in his Nataraja pose--that miraculous instance of supernal equipoise--and is very much a sculptor's appreciation of the vitality of plastic form and expression. He scrutinizes it almost "in the round" (the photographs show frontal and profile views of the cosmic dance), remarking on the mysterious energies welling up in the gracefully slender body arrested in movement. (10)

Rodin's generous encomium to a masterpiece of Chola art is, at the same time, an affirmation of some of the very tenets on which his own sculptural practice was hinged, notably the premium on surface and the play of light. "That Rodin thought the surfaces to be important in the viewer's encounter with a work is evident from even the most atmospheric photographs he had done of his sculptures," writes Alex Potts in his magisterial account of the sculptural imagination. "The light glancing on a resistant surface gives definition to the sculpture's occupancy of space--not as inert lump but as actively defined volume. Particularly as one becomes aware of the subtle effects of light suffusing it, the surface takes on a certain flow and flexibility.... The close apprehension of surface, Rilke suggests, is the ground of one's sense of what the sculpture is, just as it is the ground of the artist's process of creating it." (11) It is this double sense of ground as pre-eminently a function of surface that is the focus of Rodin's meditations on the photographs of the Chola bronze (photographic images make salient the surface of forms and the play of light and shadow, something that Rodin and especially Brancusi understood very well). But what of the "depth" that Rodin also speaks about and which Rilke singled out as the other major trait of his work? For the poet, this feature is inextricable from a paradox of stillness and movement: "This, he implies, is how we see Rodin's sculptures when we cease to envisage them as actors caught up in a drama, and find that the represented movement of the figures is absorbed by a 'circulation' of movement in the surfaces that has a certain undisturbed 'calm' and 'stability'." (12) Alex Potts' further gloss on this paradox turns out to be tantalizingly apposite as a formal description of the metaphysics of spiritual equipoise emblematized by Shiva's cosmic dance in the very Chola sculpture that elicited Rodin's penetrating reflections: "To be immersed in a close viewing of these sculptural modulations of surface is not to be swimming in an unstable flux of sensation. It is also momentarily to sink into an almost inhuman calm--a still state of absorption at odds with the restless animation of the anxieties and drives rendered by the drama depicted in much of Rodin's work." (13)

The sustained scrutiny of examples of classical Indian sculpture might have spurred Rodin to acquire, in 1914, an ensemble of south Indian wood-carvings, but dating from a much later period (the 17th and 18th centuries) and plastically of a rather less exalted provenance--generic sculptural embellishments on the lintels, cornices and pillars of Hindu temples, or on the massive wooden chariots bearing flower-bedecked deities that were dragged in procession through the streets on the great feast days of the gods. Vernacular or idiomatic expressions of an ancestral savoir faire, more robust than refined, these carvings depicting figures from the usual roster of Hindu divinities, have, nevertheless, a surface vivacity unabashed by the pronounced material obduracy of the teak wood in which they are wrought and a kind of compacted bodily fullness, and perhaps therein lay their appeal to Rodin (the compression exerted on figures by the very material in which they have been modelled is a singular trait of Rodin's sculpture). As for the most striking Indian pictorial work in his collection--an 18th-century Mughal miniature of two women in an erotic embrace--its allure was surely linked to the many variations on this Sapphic theme that the sexually voracious Rodin had explored in his drawings and watercolours from 1900 onwards. He does not seem to have made any studies after Indian sculptures, but an Indian model apparently did pose for him, a dancer called Dourga. In her correspondence with Rodin (between 1910 and 1916), she refers to herself intriguingly as his student, and a photograph of her in Indian dancing regalia inscribed to the master sculptor is in the Rodin archive. (14) This may well have been a publicity image of her dancing in a production of Lakme at the Opera-Comique in Paris in 1916. Had Rodin not died the following year, might he have gone on to draw or paint her in the spirit of the exquisite suite of works he made of the Cambodian dancers who had so dazzled him 11 years earlier?

Rodin's interest in Indian art was awakened at a late moment in his life as a sculptor, which is probably why his work was unmarked by it. More enigmatic is the case of Alberto Giacometti, given that one hardly associates his work with anything remotely Indian. Yet, like Rodin at an advanced age, he was moved to respond to Indian art, but in a way that was inscribed in what had been a longstanding preoccupation of his--namely, the practice of the "copy". In the introduction to the book Les Copies du Passe on which he collaborated with the Italian art critic and historian Luigi Carluccio during the last six years of his life and which was published in 1967, two years after his death, Giacometti affirmed the pleasure he had always taken in copying works of art that had moved him or had particularly aroused his interest and enthusiasm. "I began copying even before asking myself why I did it ... but for many years now I know that the fact of copying is the best way for me of taking account of what I see, like the way this happens in my own work." (15) However, for a sculptor for whom reality (synonymous for him with "appearance" and "likeness") was the absolute condition of his creative existence, it is intriguing that Giacometti showed a marked preference for making copies after reproductions in the art books and albums in his personal collection rather than in front of the works themselves. From the thousands of copies made after works of art, the ones that he chose to feature in the book were all based on reproductions and this fact alone points to a suggestive parallel with Andre Malraux's idea of a "musee imaginaire" composed entirely of mechanically duplicated images. A clue perhaps lies in the special sense in which, from the late 1950s, he came to employ the word in relation to his later practice: "Giacometti," writes David Sylvester, "became increasingly obsessed with the idea that all he was trying to do was to copy his sensations--'simply to copy, so as to take account of what one sees'." (16) Copying what he saw and copying works of art were for him the same, and the particular act of "mimesis", in each case, was perforce provisional, irresolute, open-ended. So it is that Giacometti's drawings--networks of wiry, ravelled lines in ballpoint or pencil--after some of the great masterpieces of classical Indian art, were made in the spaces adjacent to their black-and-white reproductions in the catalogue accompanying an extraordinary exhibition devoted to these works that was held at the Kunsthaus of Zurich in 1959 (figure 3a). The copies after the superlative examples of Gupta, Gandhara, Mathura, Chandella and Chola sculptures (standing figures all) joined the vast cortege of his copies after Egyptian and Oceanic art, Byzantine mosaics and Greek sculpture, paintings by Albrecht Diirer, Giotto, Jan van Eyck, Paul Cezanne, Henri Matisse. A summarily delineated standing female nude in the archives of the Giacometti Foundation awaits the identification of the Gupta sculpture on which it is supposed to be based (figure 3b).

It was only three months before his death in 1965 that the identification between copying works of art and copying reality was undone in favour of the latter. In the last of the three individual texts intended as a preface to the book that compiled an important selection of his copies, Giacometti wrote: "The distance between any work of art and the immediate reality of no matter what has become too great, and in fact only reality interests me now and I know I could spend the rest of my life in copying a chair." (17) As Sylvester insightfully observes, "Everyday, familiar, near things aroused a yearning in him like that with which Romanticism searched for the indefinable, boundless ultimate beyond things." For these too offered a confrontation with the unknown: "the distance between one side of a nose and the other is like the Sahara, boundless.... The Romantic search for the ultimate in far-off exotic places was transferred to the nearest available object ...: 'If the glass there in front of me astounds me more than all the glasses I have seen in painting, and if I even think that the greatest architectural wonder of the world couldn't affect me more than this glass, it's really not worthwhile going to Les Indes [India] to see some temple or other when I have as much and more in front of me'." (18)

All these "documents" form part of a "museum-without-walls", to borrow Malraux's famous idea of an archive henceforth accessible to everyone because it is based on technologies of mass reproduction--Le musee imaginaire (1947) that succeeds the Ajaib Ghar, or "the Wonder House as the natives call the Lahore Museum", with which Kipling begins Kim. The deterritorialized archive or museum would include Malraux's own hectic rhetorical flourishes that characterize the reminiscences of his passage to the subcontinent in the late 1950s, as recorded in his Antimemoires (1967) and the luminous pages devoted to India in that great masterpiece of autobiography as anti-travelogue, Claude Levi-Strauss's Tristes Tropiques (1955), unsurpassed as a lament for lost civilizations.

NOTES

(1) The present text is a considerably condensed version of an essay published in the catalogue accompanying an exhibition exploring the place of India in the Western imagination that I curated with Dirk Vermaelen at the Palais des Beaux Arts in Brussels. See Deepak Ananth, "Approaching India", in Indomania, Brussels and Antwerp: Europalia and Ludion, 2013.

Translated by the present writer from the French edition: Alberto Moravia, Une Certaine Idee de l'Inde, Ida Marsiglio (trans.), Paris: Arlea, 2007, p. 156; Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Scent of India, David Price (trans.), London: Olive Press, 1984.

(2) Official vigilance by the Indian censor board about films failing to show a "positive" image of India ensured that Malle's films were (and still are) banned from Indian screens.

(3) Voice-over in Jean Renoir's The River (1951); author's transcription.

(4) Henri Michaux, A Barbarian in Asia, Sylvia Beach (trans.), New York: New Directions, 1986, pp. 68-69.

(5) Quoted in Kenneth Frampton, Le Corbusier, London: Thames & Hudson, 2001, p. 185.

(6) See Lucien Herve, L'Oeil de l'Architecte, Brussels: civa, 2005, pp. 42, 43, 59, 79, 85, 117, 120.

(7) See Margit Rowell (ed.), Constantin Brancusi 1876-1957, Paris: Gallimard/ Centre Georges Pompidou, 1995, pp. 268-75. I thank Mme Marielle Tabart warmly for her generosity in sharing her documentation on Brancusi's temple project in Indore.

(8) Ibid., p. 274.

(9) Quoted in Auguste Rodin et al., Rodin et l'Extreme Orient, Paris: Musee Rodin, 1979, p. 103; author's translation.

(10) Auguste Rodin, "The Dance of Shiva", in Adrian K. Locke, Chola: Sacred Bronzes of Southern India, London: Royal Academy of Arts, 2007, pp. 146-49. These reflections were first published in Ars Asiatica, Vol. in, Brussels and Paris, 1921. The other contributors to this issue were Ananda K. Coomaraswamy and E.B. Havell.

(11) Alex Potts, The Sculptural Imagination, Figurative, Modernist, Minimalist, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000, pp. 91, 97. See also Rosalind Krauss, Passages in Modern Sculpture, Cambridge, Mass. and London: The MIT Press, 1989, pp. 26-31.

(12) Potts, The Sculptural Imagination, pp. 99-100.

(13) Ibid., p. 100.

(14) See Rodin et al., Rodin et l'Extreme Orient, p. 103.

(15) See the "Publications" section of the Fondation Alberto and Annette Giacometti, Paris, for an announcement of this book (http://www.fondation-giacometti.fr) and for the quotation; author's translation.

(16) David Sylvester, Looking at Giacometti, London: Pimlico, 1994, p. 157.

(17) Ibid., p. 158.

(18) Ibid., pp. 159-60.

Please Note: Illustration(s) are not available due to copyright restrictions.

Caption: 1a. Things Seen in Madras: Still from Episode 2 of Louis Malle's Phantom India, 1969. Courtesy Shanay Jhaveri.

Caption: 1b. A Look at the Castes: Still from Episode 5 of Louis Malle's Phantom India, 1969. Courtesy Shanay Jhaveri.

Caption: 2. Chandigarh: The Governor's Residence, Le Corbusier, 1952. Pencil drawing and gouache. Courtesy Fondation Le Corbusier. [c] FLC.

Caption: 3a. Pages of the catalogue of an exhibition of Indian sculpture held at the Zurich Kunsthaus in 195. Collection of the Fondation Alberto and Annette Giacometti, Paris.

Caption: 3b. Drawing by Giacometti after an Indian sculpture. Collection of the Fondation Alberto and Annette Giacometti, Paris.
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Author:Ananth, Deepak
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Date:Sep 1, 2017
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