‘My attempt is to create movement in stillness for silence amid the noise of the world’: Artist Satish Gupta
Artist Satish Gupta, whose retrospective is on in Ahmedabad, on sculpting shunya, light and cosmic consciousness
Working across multiple mediums, artist Satish Gupta’s practice reflects his deep engagement with concepts of Indian metaphysics, cosmology and nature. His retrospective titled ‘A Haiku of a Still Mind: Continuum · Consciousness · Coherence’, currently on view at Bespoke Art Gallery in Ahmedabad, brings together works that explore these ideas. In this email interview, he reflects on the luminous surfaces of his sculptures and his desire to seek stillness, movement and spiritual resonance through his work.
Your works often engage with ‘shunya’ and emptiness as generative. If you could reflect on this representation.
For me, Shunya is not a void. It is the womb of all creation. When I was younger, I tried to remove forms from my canvases to arrive at emptiness. Later I realised that emptiness and fullness are one; form emerges from Shunya and dissolves back into it. In my sculptures, the space within the form is as important as the metal itself. The work must appear to breathe. If the life-force, the Chi, does not flow through that inner space, it remains inert. My attempt is to create movement in stillness — so that the viewer experiences silence, vastness, and a calm centre amid the noise of the world.
Your references have included both ancient cosmology and contemporary astrophysics. If you could reflect on these interconnections, and the association between myth and science?
I do not see a separation between myth and science. The ancient seers spoke of the universe as vibration, energy and interconnectedness. Today, quantum physics tells us that matter is not solid — it is energy in motion. When I weld thousands of small copper squares onto a sculpture, I feel I am working with cells, with particles, with galaxies. The micro and the macro mirror each other. Our myths expressed these truths symbolically; science expresses them analytically. Both are ways of approaching the same mystery — the unity of existence.
Many of your sculptures weigh hundreds of kilograms, yet they speak of lightness and impermanence. Is this tension deliberate?
Yes, very much so. Physically the material is heavy, but philosophically everything is transient. Even what appears solid is only a temporary arrangement of energy. I try to dissolve the sense of weight through rhythm, flow and the play of light on the surface. The form should feel as if it could lift, breathe or dissolve into space. Ultimately, both the sculpture and the sculptor will return to the five elements. When this awareness enters the work, heaviness transforms into a feeling of lightness.
Copper is central to your sculptural language. What does copper allow that bronze or stone does not? You also use gold and silver leaf to create a luminous field. What attracts you to these reflective grounds?
Copper is a noble and living metal. It is both strong and sensitive, and it develops a beautiful patina with time—it records the passage of life. My technique of welding thousands of small copper pieces allows me to create a skin that has movement, like flesh, like waves. Bronze and stone have their own dignity, but copper allows me to work intuitively, directly, at full scale.
Gold and silver attract me not for their opulence, but for their light. I often mute their shine so that they glow rather than glitter. Light has a spiritual presence — it creates an inner radiance, a sense of the timeless. I am interested in that quiet luminosity which suggests eternity.
You’ve said, “I can’t work with all sorts of rules and regulations. Through the years, I have constantly demolished rules.” What rules did you have to unlearn first?
The first rule I had to unlearn was the fear of stepping outside a defined style. Once an artist becomes known for a certain image or technique, it becomes a prison. I did not want to repeat myself. Each work demands its own medium, scale, and language.
I also let go of the academic process of always working through small models and fixed plans. I prefer to work directly at the actual scale and allow the work to evolve. I try to become a medium rather than a controller.
Creativity begins when you trust the unknown. When you are open, the work tells you what it wants to become, and that is where the real magic happens.
Working across multiple mediums, artist Satish Gupta’s practice reflects his deep engagement with concepts of Indian metaphysics, cosmology and nature. His retrospective titled ‘A Haiku of a Still Mind: Continuum · Consciousness · Coherence’, currently on view at Bespoke Art Gallery in Ahmedabad, brings together works that explore these ideas. In this email interview, he reflects on the luminous surfaces of his sculptures and his desire to seek stillness, movement and spiritual resonance through his work.
Your works often engage with ‘shunya’ and emptiness as generative. If you could reflect on this representation.
For me, Shunya is not a void. It is the womb of all creation. When I was younger, I tried to remove forms from my canvases to arrive at emptiness. Later I realised that emptiness and fullness are one; form emerges from Shunya and dissolves back into it. In my sculptures, the space within the form is as important as the metal itself. The work must appear to breathe. If the life-force, the Chi, does not flow through that inner space, it remains inert. My attempt is to create movement in stillness — so that the viewer experiences silence, vastness, and a calm centre amid the noise of the world.
Your references have included both ancient cosmology and contemporary astrophysics. If you could reflect on these interconnections, and the association between myth and science?
I do not see a separation between myth and science. The ancient seers spoke of the universe as vibration, energy and interconnectedness. Today, quantum physics tells us that matter is not solid — it is energy in motion. When I weld thousands of small copper squares onto a sculpture, I feel I am working with cells, with particles, with galaxies. The micro and the macro mirror each other. Our myths expressed these truths symbolically; science expresses them analytically. Both are ways of approaching the same mystery — the unity of existence.
Many of your sculptures weigh hundreds of kilograms, yet they speak of lightness and impermanence. Is this tension deliberate?
Yes, very much so. Physically the material is heavy, but philosophically everything is transient. Even what appears solid is only a temporary arrangement of energy. I try to dissolve the sense of weight through rhythm, flow and the play of light on the surface. The form should feel as if it could lift, breathe or dissolve into space. Ultimately, both the sculpture and the sculptor will return to the five elements. When this awareness enters the work, heaviness transforms into a feeling of lightness.
Copper is central to your sculptural language. What does copper allow that bronze or stone does not? You also use gold and silver leaf to create a luminous field. What attracts you to these reflective grounds?
Copper is a noble and living metal. It is both strong and sensitive, and it develops a beautiful patina with time—it records the passage of life. My technique of welding thousands of small copper pieces allows me to create a skin that has movement, like flesh, like waves. Bronze and stone have their own dignity, but copper allows me to work intuitively, directly, at full scale.
Gold and silver attract me not for their opulence, but for their light. I often mute their shine so that they glow rather than glitter. Light has a spiritual presence — it creates an inner radiance, a sense of the timeless. I am interested in that quiet luminosity which suggests eternity.
You’ve said, “I can’t work with all sorts of rules and regulations. Through the years, I have constantly demolished rules.” What rules did you have to unlearn first?
The first rule I had to unlearn was the fear of stepping outside a defined style. Once an artist becomes known for a certain image or technique, it becomes a prison. I did not want to repeat myself. Each work demands its own medium, scale, and language.
I also let go of the academic process of always working through small models and fixed plans. I prefer to work directly at the actual scale and allow the work to evolve. I try to become a medium rather than a controller.
Creativity begins when you trust the unknown. When you are open, the work tells you what it wants to become, and that is where the real magic happens.
