This Substack is a little headier than usual, but stick with it.
So: One of the things that struck me the most when I lived in Nepal during the early 1980s was the split between the kind of art I was seeing and creating (I identified mainly as a visual artist at the time) and the vivid spiritual art that surrounded me on every corner of Kathmandu.
In 1985, my first book set in Nepal (Mr. Raja’s Neighborhood) was published. That same year, I wrote what I still think is one of the clearest explanations of the basic differences between Eastern and Western art — between, say, a meditating Buddha and an abstract sculpture by Brancusi. The article was published in a Bay Area ‘zine called Metier. Here, in about 300 words, is the gist of it:
In Nepal, there is virtually no such thing as “contemporary art.” Beautiful paintings, sculptures and wood carvings abound, but every work has an ancient, specific devotional purpose. Sometimes the things are beautiful because of their purpose — like the brilliantly colored, block-printed prayer-flags that festoon hillsides and monasteries. Sometimes the art is beautiful in spite of its purpose — like the sumptuous idols at Dakshinkali, scarlet with the blood of sacrificed goats.
The most perfect art, to the Nepalese, is the re-creation of perfected formulas. No attempt is made to realign (much less shatter) the age-old symbolic infrastructure. It isn’t necessary; if you can comprehend the symbol at its deepest level, the image — of a Buddha or a Krishna or a mandala — can hike your valence just as effectively as a work by Anselm Kiefer, Ai Weiwei or Kara Walker.
It’s the difference between “yogic” and “athletic” art. Artists in the west work by bending the banister and hoping that anyone sitting on it will slide into the mainstream. Our art, objective and non-objective alike, flexes its muscles and pushes. It’s no surprise that contemporary artists have, through the ages, encountered resistance and even scorn. Theirs is the burden of dragging the public, kicking and screaming, toward a new awareness of form and self. The art object in the west is not a final destination: it is a place marker in uncharted territory, a piton hammered into the face of a mountain of indeterminate height.
In Nepal, traditional art is believed to already contain the highest level of understanding possible. Thangkas and dances, bronze Buddhas and ritual bells, all take their shapes from tested formulas, proven guidelines firmly anchored in enlightenment.
The responsibility of the artist is to faithfully express these formulas. There is no need to shock the audience, or quest after individual style. The ego of the artist is completely beside the point - which is to provide the viewer with visual cues that will facilitate the deepest communion with the gods.
My recent visit to Kathmandu turned those views on their head. I found myself dizzied and dazzled by the number of contemporary Nepali artists — old and young, male and female, Hindu and Buddhist — who are now using the symbolism and iconography of Nepal’s ancient culture to express very personal ideas about the spiritual.
Great examples of this recent trend fill the four-year-old Museum of Nepali Art (MoNA): a large, ultra-modern space in the former subterranean parking garage of the legendary (now mostly razed) Kathmandu Guest House. And a short walk from there, across a grassy courtyard, is the Kathmandu Art House: a three-story building that serves as both studio and gallery for a number of lucky artists.
Here are some examples of work that I enjoyed: Erina Tamrakar’s colorful, simple abstract faces; Manish Dhoju’s exquisite charcoal sketches; Roshan Dangol’s intimate portraits of gods and goddesses…
Many Nepalis take very seriously the gods, goddesses, demons and bodhisattvas depicted in their sculptures, tangkas and temples. I was curious about pushback from devout Nepalis about creating this kind of non-traditional work.
“I haven’t faced any pushback so far, because I always make sure to respect our heritage and culture.” That’s what Manish Dhoju, a young hyperrealist artist told me. “ However, I feel that if someone goes too far outside traditional boundaries, there’s always a chance of criticism.”
I wondered if Nepalis themselves, in addition to western art collectors, buy contemporary work. “Yes,” Dhoju said. “In fact, most of my clients are from Nepal, which has been really encouraging for me as an artist.”
Please encourage this artist (i.e., me) by becoming one of my beloved paid subscribers!
On my penultimate day in Kathmandu, I re-visited the MoNA and the Kathmandu Art House with my fellow travelers Jules and Dave. Both had been both participants in this year’s Himalayan Writers Workshop, and my campmates at the Black Rock Tea Company at Burning Man. As we were leaving we spied at an outdoor table our new friend Jen Maharjan, the General Manager of MoNA, whom we’d met on our first visit to MoNA two weeks earlier.
Jen was drinking masala chai, Nepal’s aromatic milky tea, with a few of her colleagues. They were discussing the very recent (and frankly obscene, in my opinion) piece by Maurizio Cattelan: an installation consisting of a single ripening banana duct-taped to a wall. The piece had just sold at auction to Chinese crypto founder Justin Sun for $6.2 million. (The average per capita income in Nepal is about $4,500.) Sun ate the banana at a press conference, which might be the most brazen example of narcissism I’ve ever seen.
One of the four people at Jenisha’s table was Rajan Sakya, 52, the swarthy CEO of what’s shaped up to be a minor empire: the KGH Group of Hotels, Travels & Investments.
Readers... I realize that quite a few of you already know my “origin story” with Nepal, and — since Rajan’s family had built the old Kathmandu Guest House — I thought I would share it with him, too.
“Forty-five years ago,” I explained, “in July of 1979, I arrived in Nepal for the first time. I’d crossed India by 2nd-class rail from Mumbai to Patna, then took an overnight bus to Kathmandu. A bicycle rickshaw took me and my backpack to the Kathmandu Guest House...”
“Which is mostly gone now,” added Rajan. “It was impossible to retrofit after the earthquake in 2015; but we’ve maintained 25% percent of the original building to remind us where we started from. And as you can see, we’ve expanded the garden.”
“Well, after dropping off my backpack in a $2 a night room,” I continued, “I went into the garden and ordered chai.” I raised my cup. “My little table faced a painted Buddha statue; I looked at its serene expression, and instantly felt something I’d never felt before. I opened my journal, and wrote ‘Welcome home.’ ”
“Rajan would have been seven years old at that time,” I calculated. “And the man I interacted with at the front desk — who I got to know pretty well during subsequent visits over the coming years — was Karna Sakya, your father.”
There was a small moment of silence at the table, then Rajan spoke. “And the Buddha you communed with,” he said, gesturing with his head, “is right behind you.”
I looked at him with disbelief. Slowly I turned around. There it was, in a small garden patch, unmistakable: The Buddha that had inspired, directly or indirectly, the last 45 years of my life. Jules, Dave and I walked up to it. It sat in bhumisparsa mudra: right hand touching the ground, the left upraised in its lap. This was “Calling the Earth to Witness,” the central pose I’d written about in Shopping for Buddhas. I placed my hand in its upraised palm, and found myself in tears.
Because, dear Reader, here is the thing: One of the biggest questions on my mind during the Himalayan Writers Workshop (and my add-on days at either end) was whether or not, given the progression of my Parkinson’s, I’d visit Nepal again. Last year’s HWW was challenging; this year’s, even more so. Walking the kora around the dome of Boudhnath, climbing the 365 steps to Swayambhu temple, standing on my feet long enough to give a talk about the Tibetan Wheel of Life mandala — all were difficult in a way I hadn’t experienced in 2023. And as for the 22-hour flight...let’s not go there.
But that warm November afternoon, standing in the expanded garden of the old Kathmandu Guest House, Nepal pulled one of its old tricks: It brought my life full circle. Holding the hand of my old friend, I felt an immediate sense of closure. If I make it back to Kathmandu in 2025, it will be wonderful. And if I don’t – well, there is no more perfect way to end that story.
Beautiful story, Jeff, and I love that picture of you and “your” Buddha! I hope you do return next year, and I’m also glad you had this lovely closure this year too.
Your old friend Buddha — that’s amazing! Only in Nepal… ❤️🙏🏽❤️
Beautiful story, Jeff, and I love that picture of you and “your” Buddha! I hope you do return next year, and I’m also glad you had this lovely closure this year too.