The Dignity of the Art of Recitation
Can recitation
be called an art? On the 22nd of April, 1978, at Rabindra Sadan, in a programme
organized by Raskoli, the legendary playwright Shambhu Mitra himself answered
this question. He said: just as in music, where a lyricist composes words, a
composer sets them to tune, and a singer delivers them before the audience — in
the same way, recitation too is an art. If a singer is to be called an artist,
then why should we hesitate to accept the reciter as an artist, when he
presents a poet’s words before the listener with equal artistry? This
unassailable reasoning of Shambhu Mitra elevated the very stature of recitation,
granting it the dignity of a performing art.
And yet, owing to the perceived lack of depth and expanse, the patrons of the more established art forms still refuse to acknowledge recitation as an art in its own right. In schools and colleges today, cinema is taught as the “youngest art form.” Postmodernism, however, has expanded the horizon: photography, recitation, fashion design, digital art, mime — all these have been granted the honour of art.
Recently, I had the opportunity to converse with some digital artists at the Academy of Fine Arts. They said: in Germany, Italy, France — just when the triumph of digital artists began, at that very moment, Indian digital artists were denied their rightful recognition. To the orthodox, to the guardians of traditional art forms, they remain outcasts. The charge is flung at them: “You don’t need colours, you don’t need brushes — the computer paints for you. Where then is your role?” Those who utter such words are often critics, sometimes artists themselves. Yet if we look at modern painting, do we not see all around us headless, bewildering canvases — works difficult to comprehend? Or from older times: the woman with a pitcher on her shoulder, the shepherd boy under a tree. Art, through abstraction, has given birth to new languages of image, but here in our land abstraction has become a cloak for weak artists to hide behind. Those who understand nothing of colours, palettes, or the dimensions of canvas, daub random lines, stage exhibitions, and even receive reviews in newspapers. Such painters, in their pride, think they have introduced novelty to art, and yet these very people refuse to recognize new forms like digital art.
The same disdain extends to still photographers. Even today, many balk at calling Raghu Rai an artist. Can a cameraman be an artist? Yet postmodern thought has already conferred upon photography the honour of being one of the most promising arts of the future. Truth and illusion — their greatest record and testimony can only be given through photography. To deny it as art would be akin to suicide. The same may be said of fashion design, or even architecture. Did Michelangelo paint only on canvas? On the 10th of May, 1508, Pope Julius II entrusted him with the monumental task of designing and adorning the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. His Last Judgment, his Creation of Adam — these immortal works are not canvases hung in galleries, but frescoes carved into the very walls and ceilings of a church. Will we then deny him the title of artist and call him instead a mere house painter? Fashion designer Gucci, in Italy, is accorded the same honour as a writer or a painter.
When the poet Baudelaire returned from exile and walked upon the boulevards of Paris, he once entered an auditorium. There he saw a young man reciting his poems before an enraptured audience. The hall was filled with applause. The reciter’s name is now forgotten, but the incident remains immortalized in Baudelaire’s biography. In ancient Rome, a large part of dramatic performance was recitation — reading out prose or verse passages. Even the public announcers of Roman administration, who proclaimed senatorial decrees to the people, did so in rhythmic, recited form. The role of recitation in bringing poetry to the masses is undeniable. Rabindranath himself encouraged it. At Santiniketan, one of the cherished performing practices of students was recitation. Children recited, and the poet listened. From childhood, through school and college, recitation has been embedded in our cultural marrow. Yet even now, the term “recitation artist” has not become common. We say “reciter.”
Think of it: if in writing we call someone a “storyteller” or a “prose writer,” the author feels slighted. A great author is called an artist — kathashilpi Sharatchandra, the artist of narrative. The one who sings is a singer, and if famous, a music artist. The one who dances is a dancer, but also a dance artist. Then why must Abul Kashem Rahimuddin be called merely a reciter, and not an artist of recitation?
The first thought that comes to me when people debate whether recitation is art or not is this: many poets, in glorifying their own medium, end up diminishing the art of recitation. There exists a subtle tension between the written poem and its recited form. A good poem is meant to be read in solitude. Poetry reading, in truth, is a laborious act. Many confuse poetry-reading with recitation. Yet the truth is: poems that are great as poetry, in 95 out of 100 cases, do not remain great as recitation pieces. Recitation requires a special selection — poems with overt or latent rhythm, poems that strike swiftly at the mind of the many. Recitation arrests the listener’s consciousness in the moment; poetry, on the other hand, when read and re-read, sinks one into reflection, melancholy. In that sense, recitation is more physical — it stirs the blood, it ignites the consciousness, it calls to rebellion. That is why the reciter must choose his poem with discernment. A great poem reveals inexhaustible beauty when read, awakening the sense of eternal truth; a recited poem, on the other hand, must kindle protest, flame, immediacy.
And so, a true poem, rich in its poetic essence, may fail to reach listeners when declaimed upon the stage. Yet poets themselves often insist on reading their own verses aloud, merely to display their presence. On the stage, a genuine recitation artist shines with intelligence, with smartness of craft; beside him, the poet reciting his own work appears awkward, foolish. Personally, I oppose poets reading their own poems aloud. I stand in favour of the recitation artist reciting poetry.
Placed in the hands of different reciters, the same poem takes on different heights, evokes varied emotions in the audience. Just as a Rabindra Sangeet, sung by Suchitra Mitra or by Geeta Ghatak, opens distinct horizons of consciousness in the listener, so too does a poem, recited differently, spread diverse resonances. Hence we may boldly declare: recitation is art. To take a well-chosen poem, to breathe into it the fire of feeling, to animate it, to carry it to the hearts of the common multitude — no medium achieves this better than recitation. Like any art, it has its grammar, its style of expression, its methods of practice, its techniques of performance. Only when these are understood, mastered, and infused with an artistic soul, can one become a true recitation artist.
Perhaps recitation stands midway between poetry and music. Just as music feels intolerable amid noise and commotion, so too recitation. As poetry demands solitude, recitation demands the hush of a darkened auditorium, the collective silence of rapt listeners, the dedication of recitation artists who risk livelihood and life itself for their craft. But when business motives creep in, when commercial circles form around recitation, the art suffers. Time and again, performing arts have been damaged by commercial exploitation. The learned who still hesitate to grant recitation the dignity of high art often point to this businesslike vulgarization. And indeed, those who use recitation for quick profit, who reduce it to an ornamental footnote in variety shows — I too hesitate to call them artists.
And yet, owing to the perceived lack of depth and expanse, the patrons of the more established art forms still refuse to acknowledge recitation as an art in its own right. In schools and colleges today, cinema is taught as the “youngest art form.” Postmodernism, however, has expanded the horizon: photography, recitation, fashion design, digital art, mime — all these have been granted the honour of art.
Recently, I had the opportunity to converse with some digital artists at the Academy of Fine Arts. They said: in Germany, Italy, France — just when the triumph of digital artists began, at that very moment, Indian digital artists were denied their rightful recognition. To the orthodox, to the guardians of traditional art forms, they remain outcasts. The charge is flung at them: “You don’t need colours, you don’t need brushes — the computer paints for you. Where then is your role?” Those who utter such words are often critics, sometimes artists themselves. Yet if we look at modern painting, do we not see all around us headless, bewildering canvases — works difficult to comprehend? Or from older times: the woman with a pitcher on her shoulder, the shepherd boy under a tree. Art, through abstraction, has given birth to new languages of image, but here in our land abstraction has become a cloak for weak artists to hide behind. Those who understand nothing of colours, palettes, or the dimensions of canvas, daub random lines, stage exhibitions, and even receive reviews in newspapers. Such painters, in their pride, think they have introduced novelty to art, and yet these very people refuse to recognize new forms like digital art.
The same disdain extends to still photographers. Even today, many balk at calling Raghu Rai an artist. Can a cameraman be an artist? Yet postmodern thought has already conferred upon photography the honour of being one of the most promising arts of the future. Truth and illusion — their greatest record and testimony can only be given through photography. To deny it as art would be akin to suicide. The same may be said of fashion design, or even architecture. Did Michelangelo paint only on canvas? On the 10th of May, 1508, Pope Julius II entrusted him with the monumental task of designing and adorning the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. His Last Judgment, his Creation of Adam — these immortal works are not canvases hung in galleries, but frescoes carved into the very walls and ceilings of a church. Will we then deny him the title of artist and call him instead a mere house painter? Fashion designer Gucci, in Italy, is accorded the same honour as a writer or a painter.
When the poet Baudelaire returned from exile and walked upon the boulevards of Paris, he once entered an auditorium. There he saw a young man reciting his poems before an enraptured audience. The hall was filled with applause. The reciter’s name is now forgotten, but the incident remains immortalized in Baudelaire’s biography. In ancient Rome, a large part of dramatic performance was recitation — reading out prose or verse passages. Even the public announcers of Roman administration, who proclaimed senatorial decrees to the people, did so in rhythmic, recited form. The role of recitation in bringing poetry to the masses is undeniable. Rabindranath himself encouraged it. At Santiniketan, one of the cherished performing practices of students was recitation. Children recited, and the poet listened. From childhood, through school and college, recitation has been embedded in our cultural marrow. Yet even now, the term “recitation artist” has not become common. We say “reciter.”
Think of it: if in writing we call someone a “storyteller” or a “prose writer,” the author feels slighted. A great author is called an artist — kathashilpi Sharatchandra, the artist of narrative. The one who sings is a singer, and if famous, a music artist. The one who dances is a dancer, but also a dance artist. Then why must Abul Kashem Rahimuddin be called merely a reciter, and not an artist of recitation?
The first thought that comes to me when people debate whether recitation is art or not is this: many poets, in glorifying their own medium, end up diminishing the art of recitation. There exists a subtle tension between the written poem and its recited form. A good poem is meant to be read in solitude. Poetry reading, in truth, is a laborious act. Many confuse poetry-reading with recitation. Yet the truth is: poems that are great as poetry, in 95 out of 100 cases, do not remain great as recitation pieces. Recitation requires a special selection — poems with overt or latent rhythm, poems that strike swiftly at the mind of the many. Recitation arrests the listener’s consciousness in the moment; poetry, on the other hand, when read and re-read, sinks one into reflection, melancholy. In that sense, recitation is more physical — it stirs the blood, it ignites the consciousness, it calls to rebellion. That is why the reciter must choose his poem with discernment. A great poem reveals inexhaustible beauty when read, awakening the sense of eternal truth; a recited poem, on the other hand, must kindle protest, flame, immediacy.
And so, a true poem, rich in its poetic essence, may fail to reach listeners when declaimed upon the stage. Yet poets themselves often insist on reading their own verses aloud, merely to display their presence. On the stage, a genuine recitation artist shines with intelligence, with smartness of craft; beside him, the poet reciting his own work appears awkward, foolish. Personally, I oppose poets reading their own poems aloud. I stand in favour of the recitation artist reciting poetry.
Placed in the hands of different reciters, the same poem takes on different heights, evokes varied emotions in the audience. Just as a Rabindra Sangeet, sung by Suchitra Mitra or by Geeta Ghatak, opens distinct horizons of consciousness in the listener, so too does a poem, recited differently, spread diverse resonances. Hence we may boldly declare: recitation is art. To take a well-chosen poem, to breathe into it the fire of feeling, to animate it, to carry it to the hearts of the common multitude — no medium achieves this better than recitation. Like any art, it has its grammar, its style of expression, its methods of practice, its techniques of performance. Only when these are understood, mastered, and infused with an artistic soul, can one become a true recitation artist.
Perhaps recitation stands midway between poetry and music. Just as music feels intolerable amid noise and commotion, so too recitation. As poetry demands solitude, recitation demands the hush of a darkened auditorium, the collective silence of rapt listeners, the dedication of recitation artists who risk livelihood and life itself for their craft. But when business motives creep in, when commercial circles form around recitation, the art suffers. Time and again, performing arts have been damaged by commercial exploitation. The learned who still hesitate to grant recitation the dignity of high art often point to this businesslike vulgarization. And indeed, those who use recitation for quick profit, who reduce it to an ornamental footnote in variety shows — I too hesitate to call them artists.
But the recitation artist, who loves his art, who approaches it as a creative process, fashions through his voice a noble work of art — just as the poet fashions his poem.
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