Review
Art
Culture
5 min read

Matthew Krishanu: painting childhood

Portraying family, memories and counterpoints.

Jonathan is Team Rector for Wickford and Runwell. He is co-author of The Secret Chord, and writes on the arts.

a painting shows Bengali celebrants of a Eucharist.
Preaching, Matthew Krishnau, 2018.
Peter Mallet.

The Bough Breaks by Matthew Krishanu at Camden Art Centre has been described as the most significant exhibition of his work to date because, by showing the drawings and works on paper that he calls the generative heartbeat of his work as well as the works for which he is best known, the exhibition is the fullest expression to date of the expansive world of his artistic practice. 

His images are primarily personal stories told through layers of memory, imagination, and conversations with the history of painting, in atmospheric, pared-back compositions which focus particularly on his childhood years in Bangladesh growing up with his brother, and their parents who were a British Christian priest and a Bengali theologian.  

He speaks of his images in terms of an ‘I-you-them‘ axis. The work he considers his first painting, from 2005, entitled ‘Boy on a Bed’ was originally a scene of an empty room. He recalls that “late in the night before I was going to be exhibiting it, I sketched in this boy with black hair, brown skin, and a little toy car behind him”. He continues, “I knew that was me, and I knew that there was something I wanted to communicate about the inner world of that child”. In 2012, there came another “fundamental shift” in that “I wanted to paint myself and my brother”. With the first ‘Two Boys’ painting, “I remember it felt like worlds had opened up”. He explains that “when you have a single child, you can project ideas of melancholy or loneliness” but “when you have two, they outnumber the single viewer” and “I think the fact that they are clearly brothers and both have brown skin and often a very direct gaze at the viewer, holds a certain power”. 

He recalls being in a show called Painting Childhood: From Holbein to Freud where the very last room was of the ‘Two Boys’: “Having gone through room after room of European children, white children, then coming into a room where these two boys weren't othered in any way, but were taking centre stage in the narrative, was hugely important.” 

Adults are excised from the ‘Two Boys’ series “because I want the boys to be out on a limb or up on a hill, without parental supervision”. However, within the ‘Mission’ series - paintings of church life in Bangladesh - adults are seen from the perspective of children. As a result, they are in the ‘them’ part of the axis: “I see the adults in the third person. I'm constructing them as in some way other to the child's eye. This brings in the strangeness of performance and ritual, the stiffness of it too, particularly when you're used to being barefoot on the ground in Bangladesh and, suddenly, are meant to sit still and quiet. For me, it was compounded by the fact that I was brown skinned, as was my brother and mother, and my father was white skinned, and he was a priest, and he was a man, and all the power that comes with being a white man in Bangladesh; just the way he is perceived by his congregation, and even strangers on the street.”  

He recalls that: At the time I knew that wasn't right and I didn't like the depictions of God as this white man flying around the sky. As a child, you have quite a raw and immediate relationship to life and nature and spirituality and, for me, it was the religious art that was the fundamental barrier to entering the world of the church. Also, the gendering of ‘Our Father’ or Jesus, the ‘only son’. That's why, as a young teen, I decided I didn't want to be confirmed, because I didn't believe in that construction.” 

‘For me, that is where my faith is, in love, in the love of family, in all that a baby calls upon us to give it.’ 

Matthew Krishnau

In a painting like ‘Preaching’, he is exploring what it is to centre, in a congregation of brown adults and children, “the four nuns and my mother preaching with the two female candle holders and have the men on the sides”. So, “It's all about constructing a world which is both a counterpoint to the world of the two boys and nature, but also a counterpoint to the religious hierarchy we see in the church now”. The ‘Holy Family’ series, “which is of Bengali nuns, priests, and bishops” “is a deliberate response to the white depictions of Christ, baby Jesus, and Madonna”. 

He notes that: “It's part of my painting mission to offer a counterpoint on the widest possible framing of an ‘I-to-you’ axis of a brown child, which isn't seen through the lens of National Geographic or Comic Relief ‘white saviours’, but is taken and centred as the heart of a human story. And if there's any spiritual message, then it's about that; of love, of the divinity of children and babies, and the divinity of our beautiful world, the ecological world of trees, water, glorious sunsets and sunrises, and all that comes with the human form.” 

He thinks that this show has “set up a kind of a world philosophy” for him: “The core, the heart of the show, for me, is family, particularly of my late wife and my daughter. In and amongst the drawings, there are some pictures of our baby, and my late wife holding our baby or, indeed, holding the tree that my daughter is climbing. For me, that is where my faith is, in love, in the love of family, in all that a baby calls upon us to give it. That is the closest thing to divinity. I won't even use the word God because it's too masculine in our language. The closest thing to the divine, I sincerely believe, is in the eyes of children, is in the eyes of babies, particularly.” 

He concludes by saying he would love to expand his practice further in the future, noting “a figure that has really resonated in a way I haven't felt before is the Palestinian priest Revd Munther Isaac and his ‘Christ in the rubble’ sermon”. However, his art always “needs to come from a personal connection to something I've conceptually explored; it needs to have that heart first of immediate one-to-one human connection”. 

 

Matthew Krishanu: The Bough Breaks, 26 April - 23 June 2024, Camden Art Centre, London.

Review
Community
Culture
Film & TV
Monsters
7 min read

I came for the demon-fighting pop stars and stayed for the existential crisis

A Netflix kids’ film made me rethink shame, friendship, and my Spotify algorithm

Harry Gibbins  is a doctoral researcher at the University of Aberdeen. His PhD concerns the intersection between autism and Christian ministry.

K-Popm Demon Hunters lean forward wielding weapons
Rumi and friends.
Netflix.

I am not the target demographic for the hit film K-Pop Demon Hunters. My knowledge of K-pop is incredibly limited, and I’m pretty apathetic about musicals. In fact, my only real encounter with K-pop was as a youth worker, where I distinctly remember its first ‘wave.’ Suddenly, groups of mostly teenage girls were eager to tell me all about BTS, a boy band that rose to popularity the late 2010s. Their dancing was impeccably choreographed, their lyrics a mix of English and Korean; for as much as it wasn’t my thing, I got the appeal. International media finding a place within the British zeitgeist has happened before. I’m of the generation where Pokémon did an excellent job of distracting me from learning my times tables. Yet, the seven very handsome boys that made up BTS seemed to cast a spell over my young people like I’d never seen.  

Flash forward seven years. Much has changed. A global pandemic is in the rear-view mirror, and I’m trying to find my place in the north-east of Scotland. I’m sitting in the car trying to simply transport my two wonderful daughters from Point A to Point B. Many parents will know of the strange hypnotic effects of children’s songs in the car. A fifteen-year-old Harry would be mortified to know that Metallica no longer feature in the top spots of my Spotify most-played artists. Now, upon that throne sits an assortment of Disney Princesses, and they rule with an iron fist. Today is different, however. “What do you want on today?” I ask, ready for that day’s third rendition of ‘Let it Go.’ “K-Bop Bear Hunters”, replies my youngest eagerly.  

Here, my daughter is trying her best to remember the name of a song she’s heard at gym class. I work it out eventually, K-Pop Demon Hunters, amused by the swapping out of ‘Demon’ for ‘Bear.’ My wife puts it on, and to my pleasant surprise, the songs are like a breath of fresh air. I read a bit about K-Pop Demon Hunters, working out that it’s an animated film on Netflix, and I get the general gist. However, I’m surprised to hear that it’s recently become the streamer’s most-watched film ever. My wife and I decide to watch it together that night, and I’m blown away. I’m seriously not the target demographic for this film, yet it has me completely hooked.  

The film follows the three members of a K-pop girl group, Huntr/x (pronounced hun-tricks). We quickly learn that Rumi, Mira, and Zoey, use the power of music to fight off demons, many of which are based on real Korean mythology. Their singing empowers a magic barrier, the Honmoon, that keeps the demons at bay; yet, trouble emerges when a demonic boy band arrives seeking to stop Huntr/x and allow demons to take over the world. High jinks ensue, there are some cracking songs, and, of course, a surprise romantic subplot.  

As the film ends, I find myself left with an unusual feeling. Ever since I was told as a boy that the big lion in Narnia was really Jesus, I’ve been intrigued by stories that tell me something of faith. Now, to be clear, I do not think the writers of K-Pop Demon Hunters set out to create a story about Christian faith; it would be very naïve and quite inappropriate to suggest a film so heavily inspired by Korean culture was actually about Western Christian values the whole time. However, I am still personally challenged by the themes it brings up, especially considering the film’s emphasis on belonging, togetherness, and authenticity.  

‘What It Sounds Like’ 

Rumi, our protagonist for this story, hides a secret, a secret which propels the events of the film. It is established early on that you can tell a demon in disguise by the intricate patterns on their arms; sharp tattoo-like symbols that resemble lightning bolts coursing across their bodies. As Rumi gets to the bridge of the song ‘Golden,’ we see her looking at herself in the mirror. The sleeves of her jacket sloping off her shoulders to reveal that she too holds these patterns; Rumi is part demon. This all happens in the first few opening scenes of the film. The audience holds onto this secret alongside Rumi as she tries to hide these patterns from her bandmates. She believes that her job is important, crucial even. The Honmoon must be protected; the barrier to the demon world must be strong. However, Rumi’s secret becomes a thorn in her side, risking their mission. This was where I saw the potential of the story roll out in front of me. What started as a colourful, poppy, sickly-sweet kids film developed into a tale that demonstrates the power of friendship, community, and love. To try and illustrate this more clearly, I want to pick up on some of the lyrics from the song sung at the film’s climax, ‘What It Sounds Like,’ tracing Rumi’s journey as she deals with the secret she hides. 

If ‘Golden’ was to set the stage, illustrating the juxtaposition between the song’s words and Rumi's insecurities, then ‘What It Sounds Like’ is the fulfilment of Rumi’s wish. Whilst Rumi originally sang of a duty that provided her strength, “cause we are hunters, voices strong and I know I believe,” now she recognises that she relies on her friends to go her through, “I don’t know why I didn’t trust you to be on my side.” The suspicion Rumi holds that her friend won’t understand the quite literal patterns she hides has only led to division; now, through the authenticity she has learnt to value, through the support of her friends who cast away their prejudices, a new reality is found where Rumi no longer holds shame for who she is.  

I am not surprised at all to hear that queer writers have acknowledged the allegory for the shame many queer people hold around coming out. Needing to hide a part of herself, Rumi demonstrates the philosophical cornerstone that has caused this story to resonate with queer folk. This is most potent at the crescendo of ‘What It Sounds Like,’ where all three girls come together and sing as one, “why did I cover up the colours stuck inside my head? I should’ve let the jagged edges meet the light instead.” What I believe is demonstrated here is a rejection of the thin understanding that ‘Golden’ prioritised. Originally, these bandmates came together because of a responsibility that has been placed on them; demons are bad, get rid of them. Now, a more nuanced reality emerges. As the light spills out of them, meeting these “jagged edges” of life like a prism, the world no longer seems as black and white as they first believed. Rumi, being part demon, is not in conflict with their desire to love each other. 

Carrying and caring 

Fantasy writing does a good job of using a physical object to represent the philosophy of the story. The One Ring in The Lord of the Rings both represents the burden Frodo carries and is literally the burden he carries. K-Pop Demon Hunters takes a similar approach, just not physically. As Huntr/x sing of the scars they carry, of covering up things they thought would lead to discrimination, they acknowledge that they have “listened to the demons, we let them get between us.” The fight they have is with magical creatures from the underworld, yes. But these demons also represent the division between Rumi and those she cares about. However, this shame is rooted in reality; we see early on that Rumi’s friends probably wouldn’t understand her part-demon heritage. What is needed here isn’t for Rumi to simply rip the plaster off and be honest. The shame she feels might well be internal, but it is still projected upon her by the attitudes of others. Instead, as demonstrated by the lyrics, it is only through a genuine life-giving care for one another that these three friends can come together to conquer darkness.  

To summarise, K-Pop Demon Hunters spoke more to me about the human experience of community, friendship, and togetherness than most so-called ‘grown-up’ films have ever managed. I am pleased that a film that, I imagine, my children will watch over and over again holds such a comforting message. Against a backdrop of children's media that only exists to empty my wallet, K-Pop Demon Hunters—against all my assumptions—truly demonstrates the artistic value of animated films. I look forward to the enviable barrage of sequels and copy-cats. 

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