In Conversation with Nahusha K, Creative Disruptor
In the intricate intersection of art and theory, the journey of this artist unfolds as a profound dialogue between intuition, social critique, and intellectual rigour. Beginning from a place of childhood shyness and immersion in nature, his early encounters with art were marked by a fusion of spontaneous creativity and the search for meaning in everyday experiences—often driven by the absence of structured stimulation. What started with simple comic drawings evolved into a complex engagement with abstraction, humour, and cultural history, influenced by an academic environment that encouraged exploration beyond conventional mediums. As he navigated through the intense worlds of theatre, visual arts, and advertising, his work began to challenge not only traditional aesthetics but also the very structures of meaning-making itself. Drawing upon a wealth of diverse influences—from Marxist theory to surrealism, and even agricultural labour—he confronts the complexities of contemporary existence, questioning the boundaries between the human and the natural, the personal and the collective. His creative process, characterised by a deliberate disruption of linear progression, mirrors the evolving methods of postmodern thought, where abstraction is not merely a formal exercise, but a philosophical act of deconstruction. In a world where the artist is both a creator and a critic, his work is a meditation on the limits of representation, the absurdity of identity, and the existential tension of being in a world perpetually on the edge of collapse. This is art that seeks not only to represent but to destabilise, interrogating the politics of visibility and the ethics of creation in the contemporary moment.
Srinath : How do your early experiences of isolation and childhood shyness inform the development of your visual language, particularly in relation to the use of abstraction and humour? In what ways can this personal narrative be seen as both a reflection of and a response to broader socio-cultural frameworks?
Nahusha : My early experiences of isolation and childhood shyness have been crucial in shaping my visual language. As an artist, it's essential to be comfortable within yourself, to observe and interpret the world through your own lens. This solitude gave me the space to develop a unique inner world, which later became the foundation of my art. Being alone, I often sought refuge in nature—spending hours in the forest, climbing trees, and exploring the lakes. These natural environments became my first "canvas," where I observed the world closely and developed a sense of deep connection to it. This solitude allowed me to refine my ability to look inward and translate those experiences into visual language.
As I grew older, my involvement in theatre helped me explore different perspectives, but the core of my creativity always stemmed from my solitary childhood. That sense of quiet observation—of being an outsider in the world around me—led me to see and represent things in a way that wasn’t influenced by external pressures or group dynamics.
This personal narrative finds expression in the abstraction used in my paintings, as well as the humour that often accompanies them. For example, in one of my paintings, I portray a man entering the forest and hunting in a way that highlights humanity's alienation from nature. The abstraction is not just visual, but also philosophical. The painting reflects a broader discourse on the human impact on nature and our often misguided sense of control over other creatures.
Similarly, in a more recent piece featuring a monkey eating a packet of chips, the humour at first glance masks a deeper social commentary. While it might seem amusing at first, the image speaks to a much larger issue: the impact of globalisation. A monkey eating a bag of chips, a product imported from far away, becomes a metaphor for how modern consumer culture infiltrates even the most distant corners of the natural world. It's a comment on the absurdity and consequences of globalised consumption. The image is both humorous and unsettling, capturing the contradictions inherent in our relationship with nature and culture.
Ultimately, these early experiences of isolation have influenced how I approach both abstraction and humour in my work. Through these elements, I try to respond to broader socio-cultural frameworks—especially how we relate to nature, to each other, and to the larger forces of globalisation and consumption. My work is a reflection on these issues, using abstraction and humour as tools to invite deeper reflection on the complex dynamics that shape our world.
Srinath : Your early artistic endeavours, such as caricature and comic strip reproduction, engage with and critique visual culture. How do these formative practices lay the groundwork for your later use of political satire and abstraction? Can we consider this transition as a form of "visual deconstruction" of mass media tropes?
Nahusha : My early artistic endeavours, such as drawing caricatures and recreating comic strips, were deeply rooted in engaging with and critiquing visual culture. I started by copying Kannada comic strips that I liked, and through that, I discovered my natural skill for drawing and an ability to absorb colours. This led me to create satirical comic strips for magazines, based on whatever I understood at the time. One of the strips, if I remember correctly, was a satire about a cricket match being broadcast as entertainment—almost like a spectacle, with commentators adding absurd commentary. This kind of humour and critique was central to my early work, and I started to realise how powerful humour could be in highlighting the absurdity of the world around me.
In my formative years, I was also a huge cartoon geek, always watching anime and other animated shows, and I still carry that passion with me today. My love for anime, manga, and pop culture informed much of my approach to art, especially in terms of colour, composition, and exaggeration. The way these cartoons often blended humour with critical social commentary influenced my thinking and helped shape my style.
I later joined the advertising world, where I honed these skills even further. Advertising taught me to observe and manipulate visual elements—colours, lines, and symbols—to communicate ideas quickly and effectively. I began to pay attention to the way visuals are used in mass media, whether in movie posters, street art, or even temple paintings and Rangoli designs. I didn’t just look at these visuals passively; I absorbed their essence, using these observations to inform my colour choices and visual language in my own work.
This foundation of humour, observation, and engagement with popular culture laid the groundwork for my later use of political satire and abstraction. In many ways, my transition from comics and caricature to more abstract political commentary can be seen as a form of "visual deconstruction" of mass media tropes. I began to deconstruct these familiar visual symbols, breaking them down and reassembling them in ways that exposed their inherent contradictions or absurdities. By doing so, I aimed to challenge the dominant narratives promoted by mass media and offer alternative perspectives.
Through abstraction and satire, I started to question and subvert the conventions of visual storytelling that are often used in advertising, entertainment, and politics. This process of visual deconstruction allowed me to reimagine how we perceive and engage with the world, creating work that both critiques and transforms the visual language of mass media.
Srinath : How does your work situate itself within the intersection of art and activism, particularly in relation to global political events like the Iran War? To what extent does your use of humour function as a critical tool for subverting hegemonic narratives and offering alternative frameworks of resistance?
Nahusha : When I think about the political aspect of art, I don't believe anyone can completely separate art from the political sphere. To observe and reflect on the world through art is, in itself, a political act. However, I don't want to limit myself by labelling my work as strictly "activist art." I think the very process of creating and exhibiting art is inherently political—it's a commentary on society. Art doesn't need to be explicitly political to have an impact. But what I aim to do is not to preach or impose a message, but rather to explore and engage with subjects that I find interesting, often with deeper implications than they may initially appear to have.
For example, one of my recent works addresses the harmful chemicals used in farming. Through research, I discovered just how much toxic chemical is used in agriculture—particularly in rice fields. I had spent five years practicing organic farming, observing the practices of other farmers, and I was shocked by the extent of chemical use. Even when certain chemicals are banned, companies simply rebrand them under a different name. This is an example of the kind of systemic issue that I want to highlight in my work, without necessarily positioning myself as a political activist. It's about raising awareness and prompting reflection, rather than advocating for a particular agenda.
Similarly, I worked on a project related to the city of Bombay. The city itself is a human-made creation, with soil dredged from the sea to connect seven islands into a sprawling metropolis. This unnatural transformation of the landscape is something I find fascinating, and I wanted to explore that quirky, almost absurd aspect of how urban spaces are shaped. This project allowed me to take a critical look at how cities evolve, often with little regard for the natural world, and to bring attention to the environmental costs of such development.
Humour plays a critical role in my work as well. It's not about making light of serious issues but about using humour as a way to engage with complex political and social themes. Humour allows me to subvert dominant narratives and offer alternative perspectives. It can make difficult or uncomfortable topics more approachable, inviting the viewer to question the status quo without feeling preached to. By using humour, I create a space where people can reflect critically on global issues—whether it's environmental destruction, political corruption, or social inequality—without being burdened by the heaviness of the subject matter. Humour, for me, becomes a tool of resistance, challenging established power structures and offering new ways of thinking about the world.
Ultimately, I don't see myself as a traditional activist, but I do see my work as a form of quiet resistance. It engages with political issues, but more through observation and critique, rather than direct action or advocacy. Humour is one of the tools I use to challenge dominant narratives, creating space for alternative ways of seeing and understanding the world.
Srinath : Given your background in both fine arts and theatre/performance, how has this dual engagement informed your conceptualisation of space, time, and narrative in your visual practice? How do you negotiate the boundaries between the physical, psychological, and temporal in your work?
Nahusha : My involvement in theatre was one of the most significant influences on my artistic development. It opened me up to a wider world, exposing me to diverse people, places, and experiences. We didn’t just perform theatre in one location; we traveled to rural villages, like one in North Karnataka, working with children and engaging with different communities. These experiences had a lasting impact on me, both as an artist and as a person.
This exposure to theatre led me to experiment with different forms of expression in my visual work. For example, I created puppet-based art pieces, performed puppet shows, and even experimented with performance art, some of which are recorded and available online. These experiments shaped my artistic process and helped me develop a broader, more fluid approach to creating art.
Recently, I’ve come to realise the importance of experimentation in the artistic journey. This idea was reinforced by Maggie Hambling, an artist I admire, who mentioned in an interview that her teacher encouraged students to experiment endlessly. It’s the same advice I received from my own teachers—only through constant experimentation will you truly discover your voice. It may take years, and the process may be slow, but this approach prevents you from getting stuck in one style or approach too early on. While I’m not sure if it's the “best” practice, for me, it has been incredibly valuable.
Theatre, in particular, deeply influenced how I think about space, time, and narrative in my visual practice. For example, in paintings like Happy Birthday, the characters are not just static figures; they are performing actions, evoking a sense of movement and theatrics. The figures in the painting are quirky and somewhat theatrical, which reflects the theatrical elements I absorbed from my theatre background.
Through theatre, I learned how to create a sense of narrative, even within still images. The way I approach space and time in my paintings is often influenced by how a scene would unfold in a performance: the dynamics between characters, the tension between moments, and how the viewer's gaze moves through the space. This perspective allows me to negotiate the boundaries between the physical, psychological, and temporal in my work. My paintings often convey a sense of movement or change, even if they’re visually static. There’s always an underlying sense of something unfolding—just as it would in a performance.
So, my dual engagement with fine arts and theatre allows me to treat my visual work like a stage, where space, time, and narrative are constantly in flux. This fluidity between mediums allows me to explore the boundaries between the physical world, the psychological states of the figures, and the temporal shifts that occur within the narrative of each piece. It’s a way of thinking about art that is both dynamic and layered, just as a live performance would be.
Srinath : Your transition from fine arts to commercial advertising is often described as a tension between artistic integrity and market-driven visual culture. How do you reflect on the ethical implications of this exposure to commercial art, and how does it shape your approach to visual communication, particularly in terms of manipulation and representation?
Nahusha : My experience in advertising taught me a valuable lesson about the functionality of visual communication. One of the key differences I learned between art and communication is that in advertising, the primary goal is functionality—whether it’s a poster or any other form of visual communication, the message has to be clear and convey its purpose effectively. As artistic as you can be, if the design doesn’t communicate its message, it misses its objective. This is a fundamental rule in advertising, and it helped me sharpen my understanding of how visuals can be used to convey specific messages.
In advertising, I also learned about the importance of branding—the way a brand is represented and the reasoning behind that representation. Ultimately, advertising is about selling a brand, and every decision made in the process, from visuals to messaging, is geared towards building and communicating the identity of that brand to the consumer.
In contrast, when I create art, I am not selling a product or a brand; I’m conveying an idea or an observation. The goal isn’t always about clear communication. Sometimes it’s about sharing a memory, a feeling, or a personal reflection. There’s more freedom in art, in that it doesn’t always have to be immediately understandable or marketable. It’s a dialogue between the artist and the viewer—a give and take. In advertising, however, the communication tends to be more one-sided. You’re creating something to sell to the consumer, and once that message is delivered, the transaction is complete. There’s little reflection or ongoing dialogue after that.
While my work in advertising was more transactional and focused on a specific end goal, my experience there shaped how I think about visual communication more broadly. It’s not that I feel conflicted about my commercial experience, but I do recognise the ethical implications of working in a field that often relies on manipulation and representation to shape consumer behaviour. Advertising can sometimes play on emotions or use persuasive tactics that can be seen as manipulative, especially when it comes to idealising products or creating desires in consumers.
This exposure has influenced my approach to visual communication in my art. While I don’t see my work as manipulative in the same way advertising is, I am conscious of how visuals can influence perception and evoke certain responses. In my art, I aim to question and critique these mechanisms, especially when it comes to representation and the power of images to shape ideologies. In some ways, I approach my art like a counterpoint to the strategies I learned in advertising—offering alternative perspectives, challenging narratives, and questioning the assumptions behind commercial visual culture. My work doesn’t aim to manipulate, but rather to provoke thought and dialogue, using the tools of visual communication to explore deeper, often unspoken truths.
In this way, my time in advertising has shaped my understanding of how visuals function in society and influenced my approach to manipulating those very same tools, but with a more ethical, reflective, and critical lens.
Srinath : Your creative process is often described as 'non-linear,' characterised by spontaneous responses to everyday encounters. How do you reconcile this organic, improvisational approach with the intellectual demands of critical art theory, particularly in relation to abstraction, semiotics, and deconstruction?
Nahusha : My creative process is often described as non-linear, and I think that's because I don’t follow a strict, predetermined plan when creating my work. Unlike many artists who might begin with detailed sketches or concepts, I usually start with the title of the piece. The title often comes to me first, and then I build the visual around it. This approach feels natural to me, and I’ve gotten used to this method over time. Once I have the title, I think about how to translate it visually, but the process of constructing the artwork itself is much more improvisational and fluid.
Rather than starting with a clear, fixed concept, I take many photographs of potential subjects that resonate with me in some way. These images, often captured on my phone, serve as a visual reference. Sometimes, I also turn to the internet for additional elements if needed. I don’t sketch or plan in a detailed way beforehand; instead, I let the visual develop as I go, building it directly onto the canvas. It’s an ongoing, back-and-forth process—an organic evolution of the piece that changes and adapts as I work on it.
Reconciling this spontaneous, improvisational approach with the intellectual demands of art theory is definitely a challenge, especially when considering concepts like abstraction, semiotics, and deconstruction. In many ways, my work is driven by instinct and immediate response to the world around me, but it is also rooted in a critical awareness of how signs and symbols function in visual culture. While I may not plan everything out from the start, I am still consciously engaging with these intellectual frameworks as I work.
For instance, even though I’m not adhering to a linear, pre-defined structure, I am always thinking about how to deconstruct the meaning of certain images or symbols, how abstraction can challenge conventional interpretations, or how semiotics play into the way we read visual language. My improvisational approach is not without its theoretical grounding—it's more like a dialogue between instinct and theory.
This tension between spontaneity and critical theory allows me to explore new ways of using abstraction to subvert dominant narratives or question visual tropes. I don’t see these two aspects—organic creation and intellectual critique—as being in conflict. Instead, I think they complement each other. The spontaneity of my process allows me to respond to the world in a fresh and personal way, while the intellectual framework provides depth and context, helping to give meaning to the visual language I create.
Srinath : The concept of 'unfinished' or 'incomplete' work recurs in your practice. Does this notion serve as a philosophical critique of traditional ideals of representation and completion, especially in the context of postmodernity's interrogation of fixed meaning and temporality? How might this 'incompleteness' reflect a broader epistemological stance on knowledge and subjectivity?
Nahusha : The idea of 'unfinished' or 'incomplete' work is something that naturally arises in my practice, and I think it’s inevitable for every artist at some point. For me, if a piece doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, and I’m okay with that. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of discarding it and moving on. This process is a part of the journey, and I don’t see it as a failure—just as part of the flow of creative work.
However, when it comes to my choice of style, particularly in contrast to more realistic painting, the notion of incompleteness takes on a deeper meaning. Over time, I deliberately chose not to pursue hyper-realism in my work. This decision was shaped by years of experience and reflection on art itself. I am drawn to a style that embraces flatness—one that’s almost like a cutout or graphic design. While I could easily create the same effect digitally, I purposefully choose to do it by hand. The act of putting in the effort and labor is an important part of the process, one that digital tools simply can’t replicate.
This conscious decision to embrace a certain 'incompleteness' in the work challenges traditional ideals of representation and completion. In classical art, there was often an emphasis on achieving a perfect, polished result—an ideal form of completion. But in my work, the process of adding imperfections, leaving things a little "rough around the edges," reflects a broader philosophical stance. It resists the idea of a final, fixed representation, which aligns with postmodern critiques of fixed meaning and temporality.
The 'incompleteness' in my work isn’t a flaw but a philosophical stance on the fluidity of meaning and knowledge. It reflects the understanding that knowledge is not fixed, and subjectivity is always in flux. Just like how our perceptions and experiences evolve, the work itself remains open-ended, inviting the viewer to engage with it in an active, ongoing way. In this sense, incompleteness becomes a critique of the idea of finality or perfection in art. It reflects the epistemological view that meaning, truth, and understanding are always provisional, always in the process of becoming, rather than ever fully resolved.
By leaving things "unfinished" or open, I challenge the traditional notions of completion in art. It’s not about reaching an endpoint, but about acknowledging the constant flow of interpretation, subjectivity, and experience that defines both the work and the viewer's engagement with it.
Srinath : How do you navigate the tension between personal experience and collective memory in your work, particularly in relation to how individual subjectivity intersects with larger socio-political narratives? In what ways does your art engage with, critique, or contribute to a collective discourse on identity, history, and power?
Nahusha : In my work, I believe that memory is not solely an individual experience—it is inherently collective. Memory, for me, is something shared by all of us, a common thread that connects each person to the broader human experience. When I select my subjects, I’m always thinking about this intersection of personal memory and collective experience.
For example, if you look at my painting Waiting, the two people sitting and watching TV, it carries a deep sense of nostalgia. The image of the old TV, the stillness of the scene, represents a kind of stasis—a sense of giving up, where the characters are just passing their days. The quiet resignation in this painting contrasts sharply with another piece, like Happy Birthday, where the act of counting days becomes a celebration, a waiting for something to look forward to. These two extremes—the mundane passage of time versus the anticipation of a celebration—reflect how memory is built not just on personal experience but also on how we collectively engage with time, life, and our circumstances.
Another example is my Badhra River painting, where I explore the transformation of a place I’ve visited since childhood. The river, once surrounded by forests, has now seen those forests cut down to make way for rice paddies, which in turn are being replaced by aquaponic farms. The geography has changed, but so has the underlying socio-political landscape. The shift from rice cultivation to Arecanut farming is not just a change; it reflects broader shifts in global economies, demand cycles, and the impact of these forces on local cultures and environments. The agricultural landscape itself becomes a metaphor for how global politics and economics shape and reshape our identities, livelihoods, and environments.
This way of thinking about memory and transformation reflects a tension between personal experience and collective memory. My art doesn’t just document my own experiences—it connects those personal narratives to larger social, political, and economic forces. Through my work, I critique and engage with how these forces shape identity, history, and power. By exploring both personal and collective memory, I aim to invite viewers to reflect on their own experiences while also considering the broader societal contexts in which those experiences take place.
Through this process, my art becomes part of a larger discourse on identity, history, and power. It critiques the ways in which global forces and local histories intertwine, challenging the viewer to reconsider how the personal is always political and how collective memory is shaped by these ongoing socio-political dynamics. Ultimately, my work invites a reflection on how individual subjectivity is inseparable from larger narratives of change, identity, and power.
Srinath : In your work, abstraction serves not only as an aesthetic form but as a philosophical inquiry into societal constructs. How do you conceptualise abstraction as a tool for interrogating identity, power structures, and violence, particularly in the context of postcolonial discourse and globalised forms of domination?
Nahusha : In my work, abstraction isn't merely an aesthetic choice; it's a means of engaging with deeper philosophical questions about societal constructs, identity, and power. While I wouldn't strictly call my work abstract, there are certainly abstract elements woven throughout it. I draw inspiration from a wide range of cultural references, such as the vibrant, flat designs found in traditional calendars we grew up with or the mix of miniature and warli styles I incorporate. These influences help me create a visual language that feels both familiar and unnervingly unnatural, especially in the use of bold, non-natural colours.
When I think about abstraction in relation to themes of violence and power structures, I often turn to specific pieces that confront these issues directly. Take, for example, the painting Bali (sacrifice), which depicts a festival in my village where goats were slaughtered as offerings to the goddess Mari. At first, I wanted to paint the violence in a very graphic, brutal way, reflecting the shocking sight of the blood-soaked field. However, as I began to paint, I chose to subvert that violent imagery. Instead of rendering the scene in a harsh, direct manner, I used a white canvas with only the blood depicted in red, and the goats and figures drawn with thin, delicate lines. This contrast creates a strange sense of violence and beauty at the same time, shifting the viewer’s perception and adding layers of meaning to the work.
The abstraction of violence in this way is important for me because it reflects the duality and complexity of societal issues. It's not just about depicting violence but about creating a space where violence can be examined from different angles. The work becomes a kind of poetic metaphor for how violence, power, and identity intersect—often in ways that are both grotesque and beautiful, disturbing yet compelling.
In the context of globalised domination, I also consider the political implications of the materials and actions involved in the production of violence. For instance, in the work Which One Killed the Cow, I explore the politics of products like Roundup, Ekalux and Endosulfan. These brands are banned in some parts of the world, yet continue to be sold in developing countries, reflecting a kind of postcolonial economic logic. The painting traces this global connection—from one bottle of pesticide back to multinational companies—revealing how the structures of power and domination are woven into seemingly everyday products and actions.
This approach to abstraction allows me to map these complex relationships between identity, power, and violence in a way that feels visceral yet indirect. It's about creating a layered space where these issues are not presented in a simple or obvious manner, but where the viewer is invited to dig deeper, to question the systems at play, and to confront the uncomfortable realities hidden beneath the surface. In that sense, abstraction becomes a tool for interrogating the hidden mechanisms of power and violence, particularly in the context of postcolonial and globalised discourses. Through abstraction, I can distance the viewer from a direct confrontation with violence, while still forcing them to engage with its underlying truths.
Srinath : Humour and absurdity are central to your practice. How do these elements function as modes of critique against the 'seriousness' of institutional art discourse and academic theory? In what ways can humour be understood as a subversive force that challenges dominant cultural and political ideologies, especially within the context of postcolonial India and its contemporary global positioning?
Nahusha : Humour has always been an integral part of my practice, something I picked up early on through caricatures and comic strips. However, its significance really became clear to me during my time at the university. The course itself was very serious, with everyone deeply immersed in theory and research. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the same inclination to dive into one specific subject or undertake deep academic research. It was during this time that I began to understand how humour could function as a powerful tool in my work. I realised that humour is essential, not just in art, but in any creative field, whether it’s literature, film, or theatre. It's almost like a coping mechanism—without it, the discourse becomes too heavy, too rigid, and risks losing its life.
Humour acts as a kind of antidote to the overwhelming seriousness that often dominates academic and institutional art discourse. It disrupts conventional ways of thinking and encourages a more open-ended exploration of ideas. It challenges the “high seriousness” that institutions tend to impose on art, and in doing so, it becomes a form of critique. For me, humour is a way to question the very foundations of art and its role in society. It’s a method of making the viewer think critically while also offering them some relief from the weight of that critical inquiry.
Take, for example, the absurdity we often see in films and popular culture. I find it both hilarious and tragic how sometimes, as a society, we take these things too seriously. A great example is from the web series Mirzapur, where a character is thrown into jail because his satirical poetry, which addresses people's standards and societal norms, offends the sentiments of many. It’s a humorous situation, yet it also speaks to deeper societal issues. This kind of absurdity—finding humour in what seems to be a serious or tragic situation—reflects the kind of critique I want to bring into my art.
Humour, for me, isn’t just about laughter; it’s about creating a space to question dominant cultural and political ideologies. In the context of postcolonial India, where histories of oppression and colonial legacies still inform contemporary power structures, humour becomes a subversive force. It allows me to challenge these systems without directly confronting them in a “serious” way. Instead, I use absurdity and irony to highlight the contradictions within these ideologies and expose the absurdity of certain cultural norms.
Humour thus becomes a mode of resistance. It’s not just about poking fun; it’s about undermining the dominant narratives, particularly those related to power, colonialism, and globalisation. By injecting humour into my work, I make space for alternative viewpoints, for ambiguity, and for critical engagement with the world. It allows me to challenge the status quo while keeping the conversation open and accessible—rather than closed off by the heaviness of academic or institutional discourse.
