A pramāṇika chitrakālākāraḥ - a traditionally grounded muralist – Shri Krishna Swami draws inspiration from the classical idioms of Chozha, Pallava, Early Pandya, and Ajanta art, translating the sculptural language of these periods into intricate linework. His compositions are rooted in the scriptural canons of Āgama, Chitra Śāstra, and Śilpa Śāstra, and are painted using techniques from the Kerala mural tradition.
While professionally engaged in the IT industry for over a decade, Krishna Swami has simultaneously nurtured a parallel life of sādhanā, approaching art as kainkaryam — a devotional offering. His art is not only an aesthetic rendering, but also involves sacred visualizations informed by precise textual sources and a living lineage of temple art. From a re-imagined Dhwaja Pata for the Melkote Brahmotsavam to a monumental Sudarshana Narasimha Yantra inspired by the Parameśvara Saṁhitā, his art is both ancient as well as scholarly.
In this interview, we delve into his journey, the principles that guide his art, and his vision for transmitting this timeless tradition to future generations. Shri Krishna Swami will be conducting a workshop in Banglore on May 10, in collaboration with the Heritage Trust and INDICA.
How is the Chitra Sūtra tradition preserved or interpreted in Tamil Nadu's art heritage?
India has always been culturally diverse, with dynasties and art guilds shaping regional visual languages as holistic ecosystems aligned with tradition, as the Viṣṇudharmottara describes, emphasizing the interdependence of arts like sculpture, painting, and dance. For instance, Chola bronzes, temple murals, and dance forms in Tamil Nadu are interconnected, reflecting the Viṣṇudharmottara’s focus on the unity of arts in temple contexts. Similarly, Pattachitra in Odisha mirrors its sculptural and dance traditions, and early Pandya and Chera murals align with their sculptures. While the Chitra Sūtra isn’t preserved as a manual in Tamil Nadu, its spirit - the syntax of form, rasa, and bhava - persists in regional practices. However, current traditions are fragmented: sculptors often follow śilpa-śāstra without natya understanding, and painters lack iconometric grounding. This holistic tradition has weakened but can be revived with renewed integration.
Can you trace your artistic lineage or training back to any guru-śiṣya paramparā or temple sthapati traditions?
While I haven’t trained under one continuous guru-shishya parampara, I owe much to the traditional lines I have studied through. I learnt Kerala mural painting under Sri Sasi Edavarad (2016-2018) and continue to practice it with śāstric intention.
I studied Kerala mural painting under Sri Sasi Edavarad (2016–2018) and continue to practice it with śāstric intention. I also trained in classical sculpture drawing at KPJ Prabhu Artisans Training Institute (2016–2017) and studied Dravida temple architecture and iconography under Sri Manoj Gundanna (2019–2020)
I hold deep reverence for Sthapati Dr. Sri Gnanananda, who, although not a direct teacher, has guided me with texts and directions. He once explained the difference between “Raja Ravi Varma” paintings and Sri Siddhalingaswamy traditions – the former humanizes the divine, while the latter follows pramāṇika roots. His words profoundly influenced me.
I also regularly study the works of Sri V. Ganapathi Sthapati. Though I never met him, his writings are foundational to my understanding of pramāṇas. In this way, my training is interwoven with the lineage of temple sthapatis and muralists.
Dhanvantari
Is there a difference between how śilpa-śāstra and chitra-śāstra are approached in Tamil Nadu's temple ecosystem?
Tamil sthapatis still largely follow the śilpa-śāstra, but they are often not initiated into natya-śāstra or the inner logic of bhanga (posture), bhāva, or mudrā, leading to rigid or static poses in new mūrti-s. Similarly, painters today often study “painting” as a technical craft, isolated from śāstra, bhakti, or rasa, diluting the wholeness of Indian aesthetics. The Viṣṇudharmottara emphasizes that an ideal artist should be trained in music, dance, and other arts to fully grasp bhāvas and rasas, an integration that the Chitra Sūtra also points to. This holistic approach is what I aim to reweave through my work, ensuring that mudrā, iconography, proportion, śruti, and śāstra are unified in the creative process.
How do you see the connection between visual art and Śaiva-Vaiṣṇava temple rituals?
They are inseparable, as the Viṣṇudharmottara underscores in its emphasis on temple-building and image worship as meritorious acts that bring happiness. In traditional Tamil Śaiva-Vaiṣṇava practice, painted images are not just symbolic - they are treated as devatā-s. For example, dhvaja pata-s (ceremonial flags) are created following precise tāla-pramāṇa from the āgamas and are worshipped during temple restoration or samprokṣaṇa, temporarily housing the divine until the kumbhābhiṣeka. In Kutrālam’s Chitrasabhai, the mural itself receives full upacāra-s, including abhiṣeka (performed on a mirror in front). Similarly, Odisha’s Anasāra Pata during Ratha Yatra exemplifies the divine presence in painted form. This usage, as the Viṣṇudharmottara suggests, is not relic-based but living and ritual, facilitating devotion through the Bahir Vedi of image worship.
Garuda Dhvaja, designed per Īshwara Saṁhitā of Pāñcharātra Āgama in Chozha art style, traced for Vairamudi Brahmotsava 2025 at Melukote
Do you consider your work to be a continuation of the ancient sthapatis and muralists of the Chozha and Nayaka periods?
Short answer is no, not yet. I see it as one of my life purposes. However, I still have many years of study, sādhanā, and pramāṇika refinement ahead. I strive toward that standard, but do not claim it yet.
How are stories from the Tēvāram, Tiruvilayāḍal Purāṇam, or Āḷvār Divya Prabandham represented in your art?
This is a space I revere deeply, but have not yet engaged with fully. These texts are not just literature – they are bhāva-granthas. Representing them requires deep understanding of the rāga, rasa, and īśa-bhakti inherent in them. I hope to do justice to them in future works, after more personal exploration and sādhana.
Many temple murals in Tamil Nadu are now fading. Do you see your work as part of a revival effort?
Absolutely. Art must be preserved in people, not just museums. The western lens often seeks to preserve “ancient civilization” in glass cases. But our art is living. That’s why we redraw kolam daily, why the Jagannatha Ratha is rebuilt anew, and why mūrtis are installed in rituals. I hope to serve this tradition by creating works that are ritually relevant, and by mentoring students in this path.
The Viṣṇudharmottara Purāṇa speaks of an ideal artist as one trained in music, dance, and philosophy. Do traditions reflect this expectation?
Yes, as the Viṣṇudharmottara outlines in Adhyāya 2, where Mārkaṇḍeya advises Vajra that an ideal artist should be trained in music, dance, and other arts to understand bhāvas, mudrās, rasas, and nāṭya-hasta-s. Without these, the lines lack movement, rasa, and sādhana. Tamil traditions once embodied this synergy - fictional works like Sivakamiyin Sabadham capture this, with Ayanar, the sculptor, inspired by his daughter Sivakami’s dance. However, this holistic training has become rare in modern Tamil practices, where interdisciplinary understanding is often lacking. This absence of integrated training is what has caused later Indian paintings to lose the charm of classical murals like those of Ajanta and Chozha, which were imbued with a deep understanding of rasa, bhāva, and movement, creating a timeless spiritual resonance. This is exactly what I aspire to revive through my work—bringing back that synergy so my lines can truly dance and reflect the depth of our classical traditions.
Does the concept of Aham (inner sanctum) and Puram (outer form) resonate with how art should be conceived?
The concepts of Aham (inner sanctum) and Puram (outer form) deeply resonate with the artistic and philosophical principles outlined in the Viṣṇudharmottara. King Vajra inquires about attaining happiness in both this world and the next, to which Mārkaṇḍeya explains two paths of worship: Antar Vedi (inner altar, representing devotion and sacrifice) and Bahir Vedi (outer altar, involving the construction of temples for the gods). This duality mirrors the Tamil Aham and Puram. The Bahir Vedi aligns with Puram - the external form, such as the temple’s gopuram, which guides the devotee inward. The Antar Vedi corresponds to Aham - the inner sanctum or garbhagṛha, a space of inner stillness and divine connection. Mārkaṇḍeya further emphasizes that building a temple (Bahir Vedi) is a meritorious act that brings happiness through the worship of a deity’s image, while the inner devotion (Antar Vedi) fosters a deeper spiritual realization. In temple architecture and art, this is reflected in the journey from the outer structures to the garbhagṛha, where the artwork - be it murals, sculptures, or icons - serves to guide the devotee from the external form (Puram) to inner contemplation (Aham), embodying both ritual and philosophical dimensions.
Are there unique methods for proportioning deities or landscapes in temple art that align with or differ from Chitra Sūtra norms?
Yes. Different traditions use different models. Chitra Sūtra gives the 9 tāla (~112 aṅgula) Pañca-Puruṣa system. Mānasāra and Mayamata describe a leaner 10 tāla (~124 aṅgula) Uttama Puruṣa. Chola bronzes clearly reflect this leaner system. Proportional differences are tied to dynastic and regional schools. It’s like different code stacks built on the same śāstra core. The landscapes in Chola murals are rich, but I’m still studying whether they align directly with Chitra Sūtra descriptions.
Murals often use rich natural colors. Do you follow traditional methods like kāvi, turmeric, indigo?
Not yet.
- The cost of natural colors is a barrier.
- Kerala murals use laterite stone for red/yellow, herbal pigments for green, and lamp soot for black.
- Pattachitra and Thangka use different opaque or mineral pigments.
- I mimic Kerala mural palettes using acrylics adjusted to resemble early Chera tones – which visually align with Chozha murals that lack strong blues, and instead use red, ochre, and sap green tones.
Can you talk about the use of symbolism like certain mudrās, animals, or motifs in your art?
Symbolism in Indian sacred art is not decorative – it is spiritual language. Every mudrā, āyudha, color, and vāhana has scriptural significance. As described in the Viṣṇudharmottara Purāṇa, these elements are treated as hetus - indicators of tattva, function, and bhāva. These lists are vast and diverse.
For instance, in the Viṣṇudharmottara,
- Cakra = Sun, Time, Order (Viṣṇu, Vāsudeva)
- Śaṅkha = Sky, Auspiciousness (Viṣṇu, Lakṣmī, Varuṇa)
- Gadā = Moon, Power of Rule (Kubera)
- Kamandalu = Creative Waters (Brahmā)
- Akṣamālā = Tapas, Scripture (Sarasvatī)
- Hamsa = Discernment (Sarasvatī)
- Gaja = Wealth and Strength (Lakṣmī, Dharma)
- Makara = Fertility, Joy (Varuṇa)
These are expressive frameworks rooted in śāstric principles, where meanings shift with context, rasa, and dharmic alignment (auchitya).
This symbolic language is echoed across texts like the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (12.11), which maps the Mahāpuruṣa’s limbs to cosmic principles - His arms as Indra, chest as Dharma, feet as Pṛthivī -and the Viṣṇu Purāṇa (1.22.66–90), where Viṣṇu’s astras and bhūṣaṇas reflect guṇas and divine functions. In my work, I draw on these meanings, letting śāstra guide my lines so that each symbol resonates with its inner significance, infused with bhakti-rasa.
The art thus becomes a Bahir Vedi - a sacred external altar, as described in the Viṣṇudharmottara -mirroring the Antar Vedi of inner contemplation, where the devotee’s vision deepens. This echoes the spirit of sacred creation, as beautifully expressed in both Sanskrit and Tamil traditions.
A śloka captures this:
“Ārādhayāmi hṛdayakeśavaṃ ātmagehe
māyāpure hṛdayapaṅkajasaṃniviṣṭam,
śraddhānadī vimalacittajalābhiṣekaiḥ
nityaṃ samādhikusumairapunarbhavāya”
(“I worship Keśava in the home of my heart, seated in Māyāpur, on the lotus of my heart -bathed with the waters of clear intention flowing in the river of śraddhā, and offered daily the flowers of samādhi for liberation beyond return.”)
Similarly, Periyāḻvār in the Thirumozhi (4.5.3) sings:
“mArvam enbadOrkOyil amaittu mAdavan ennum deyvattai nATTi,
ArvamenbadOr pooviDavallArkku aravataNDattil uyyalumAmE”
(“if one is able to build a beautiful temple in the heart, consecrate the unparalleled ‘MADHAVAN’ and offer Him the flowers of bhakti, he will be saved from the miseries of Yama.”)
My art aspires to embody this spirit—not just as a visual form, but as a consecrated space, inviting the viewer to enter the temple of the heart, where the divine is both seen and experienced. In the light of the Upanishads’ wisdom—draṣṭavyaḥ द्रष्टव्यः (to be seen), nididhyāsitavyaḥ निदिध्यासितव्यः (to be contemplated)—it invites one to gaze upon the form with devotion, for through profound contemplation, the heart awakens to true seeing, unveiling the eternal truth within.
