The real Sadequain may be alive in the psyche of common people because he painted their pain, but when it comes to a legacy that young Pakistani artists could follow, there is little to clutch on to. The situation does not add up; after all, Sadequain’s aura seems to grow with time as he is perhaps among the very few, if not the only artist, regarded as a national icon. Thousands try and imitate Sadequain, but where are those who follow his artistic muse?

Art critic and writer, Salwat Ali, argues that Sadequain’s legacy cannot be revived by merely copying him. “Only a contemporary re-reading of Sadequain’s concerns and anxieties can connect the past with the present, and open avenues for deconstructing and reinventing his artistic endeavours,” she says.

But what shaped Sadequain’s angst and alarm?

“His close friendship with writers and intellectuals in the ’50s, ’60s and early ’70s shaped his world view and inspired his content,” says Salima Hashmi, who co-curated the most comprehensive retrospective, Sadequain: The Holy Sinner 1954-1987.

Imitation might be the highest form of flattery, but where does the vision of a faqir stand in a contemporary, commercialised artscape?

Many of these writers and intellectuals belonged to a small but significant left-wing at the time, which was primarily concerned with issues of social disparity and injustice. Sadequain’s humble and empathetic connection with the working classes translated and shaped his unique creative journey.

Rahat Saeed, an old friend of the artist and torch-bearer of the Progressive Writers’ Movement, recalls Sadequain’s close relationship with Jon Elia and other writers. “He [Sadequain] always used to have a paper and pen in hand; knowing his worth, he would gift his artwork to friends and tell them that it would benefit them in future,” says Saeed.

“Sadequain’s art was deeply steeped in the traditional culture of the subcontinent especially Urdu literature, poetry, history and philosophy — all of which fashioned his visual vocabulary,” says Akhtar Hilal Zuberi, a senior artist and art educator. “Among all these influences, the role of Urdu poetry is the greatest as someone commented famously that if Josh Malihabadi called Urdu a londi at his doorstep, Sadequain treated the language as a lady on whom his artistic muses came to wait.”

Salwat Ali argues that while Sadequain was a modernist, his brush and pen pulsed to the rhythms of philosophical musings steeped in Indo-Persian traditions.

With such sophistication in his armoury, surely there was a great heritage to be explored and taught? The most compelling inspiration for researchers, historians and curators who have contributed towards the discourse on his art, must undoubtedly have been the intensity of the human spirit in him; the artist’s unyielding quest to expose his innermost vulnerabilities and to seek the truth.

But Sadequain’s legacy disappeared from Pakistani academia altogether following his demise. The man and his philosophy were gradually stripped off his artwork.

“Sadequain’s lack of affiliation with any arts school meant that his philosophy and approach to making art was never to be institutionally passed on to those who would be carrying the mantle in the future,” contends Abdullah Qureshi, an art critic, curator and artist.

“In Pakistan, art schools play a major role in passing on artistic legacies. For instance, at the National College of Arts, we can look at Shakir Ali or Zahoor ul Akhlaq or we can look at Anna Molka Ahmed at the Punjab University,” he says. “But in Sadequain’s case, he received immense state patronisation, where his work became part of key buildings ensuring a large audience, but when it comes to art schools, the situation is different. I believe that this is a major reason why, stylistically as well as experientially, Sadequain’s influence has never reflected majorly within our arts.”

Indeed, here was an artist who related to the social context of which he was a part and with which he conversed. This is the spirit and the passion which inspired students around Sadequain, particularly in Karachi during the 1960s and 1970s, when the artist would sit and draw among students of the Arts Council, or visit the sculptor Rabia Zuberi’s Karachi School of Art at the far end of the city. There are countless stories narrated by art students who later became well-known artists, of seeing Sadequain sitting on the floor of the school and drawing away.

But as Rabia Zuberi explains, Sadequain’s level of devotion and loyalty to art was exemplary. “Nowadays, art has become commercialised. This is the main reason why Sadequain’s legacy has not been followed in letter and spirit, ”she says.

More than the art community around him, Sadequain is perhaps better understood among writers, who shared his pain at seeing social injustice around them. But a strained relationship with the Urdu language, a booming art market of fakes, and a dealers’ culture centred in the affluent areas of Karachi or in the global market of biennials, fairs and more art fairs in the garb of ‘contemporary discourse’ has no real room for the vision of the “faqir” that was Sadequain.

The late Murtaza Razvi also mentioned that in his write up on Sadequain, “… There was no sense of physical ownership that he had about his possessions, be it his art, poetry or wealth. He was enviously endowed with all three. For himself he only kept the muses, a frugal dawat-i-Shiraz meal and a potion of the forbidden — and promised — liquid, to feed on ...”

and Razvi also wrote that “… Children, when they asked him for a bottle of fizzy drink, always got enough to buy a bottle of the adult variety. Smiling, he would say apologetically: Bhai, botal to itne hi mein aati hai.

No wonder, he was the favourite uncle to all the nephews and nieces from around the family and friends alike ...”

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, February 8th, 2015

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