Kṛṣṇa Consciousness... Another Kind of Gallery Exhibition?

Spending my childhood mostly with books—and above all, their illustrations—I was naturally drawn to observe and examine the world around me through drawing. In trying to depict what I saw superficially, I discovered a universe filled with astonishing detail and design—much of which goes unnoticed by most people, lost in their consumer-driven greed. (It's amazing how often the spiral appears in both the cosmos and the microcosmos!)

Nature offers incredible forms, colours, and intricate filigree to be found both in profound beauty and in profound ugliness.

Even as a perverted reflection of the spiritual world, this material world is so captivating to the senses of the conditioned soul that hardly anyone wants to leave it.

Not knowing anything beyond this, I—then a student at the art academy—strived to capture the moods and modes that material nature forces us to follow, expressing them graphically. I attempted to "put it all in one picture", only to end up depicting my own mind and subjective perception... as every artist ultimately does.

Affiliated with other artists, I visited many exhibitions of their work and gradually began to sense that the essence of their so-called genius and uniqueness was, in truth, a selfish striving for distinction. It often culminated in vain attempts to duplicate or imitate what had already been created far more perfectly—by God.

Who can honestly deny the existence of the Supreme Being when observing creation itself?

Feeling more and more like a mediocre imitator and duplicator—and witnessing the vanity and envy so often dominating those I knew (all “artists of a specific kind”)—I gradually became estranged from this club of “unique ones”. Eventually, I became simply an “ordinary devotee of Śrīla Prabhupāda”, the one who showed me how truly unique and supremely genius the Supreme Artist, God, actually is.

Simply glorifying God—His endless beauty and power—gave me far greater satisfaction than trying to depict my own mind and sensual perceptions ever could.

Those who once saw me as a promising artist, possibly an established book illustrator (I’ve always been fascinated by the connection between the written word and image), were shocked by how quickly I disappeared from the art scene. I had become a dancing, ecstatic monk, distributing Śrīla Prabhupāda’s books day and night.

Joining a movement that, through Śrīla Prabhupāda’s presence, was entirely dedicated to the publication and distribution of his books and the Holy Name—a movement where the leaders were the front-line men, fiercely challenging the demoniac principles of material society—I was swept up by the enthusiasm of my godbrothers in 1972, taking to the streets of Kali-yuga cities, leaving a trail of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s books for all to read.

Years passed. Śrīla Prabhupāda left in his vapu form, and I witnessed many of my godbrothers become what I had once feared becoming myself: institutionally established “senior Vaiṣṇavas”, having lost the original fire of preaching enthusiasm that Śrīla Prabhupāda had so powerfully instilled in us by his personal example. Many became dignitaries in their own right, surrounded more and more by disciples who were less and less focused on preaching—reconfirming their lifestyles, pious at best, hedonistic at worst.

Those who followed that path became to me—and to many others, including some of their own disciples—nothing more than pictures on the wall. Framed on an altar, to whom bhoga is offered daily, merely to support a life of eating, sleeping, and occasional pious reproduction.

More and more, I felt like I was walking through the same galleries I once visited long ago—rooms filled with portraits of people no one truly knows, admired by those who aren’t even interested in finding out who these “framed men” actually are, yet still offering superficial respect simply because the pictures “give them a good feeling.”

I don’t like galleries. I don’t like those silent, grand buildings where everyone is left to be victimised by their own subjective sensual perception.

Just as most of my artist friends gave up their individualistic vision to become order carriers (yes, even painting commercial advertisements!), I saw many of my godbrothers similarly become, for good remuneration, servants of the expectations of a mundane public—one that desires instant entrance into God's kingdom... without God.

The principle Śrīla Prabhupāda gave—“First serve, then deserve”—was gradually perverted into, “First serve yourself, and then you can serve God.”

As any artist eventually becomes a servant of his audience (or goes truly mad), one may quickly become established in the public’s eye through populist preaching. Of course, such popularity never lasts long, as the sentimentally and sensually driven public may soon change its preferences.

In this way, the guru becomes a dancing dog on the leash of his disciples (Śrīla Prabhupāda’s expression), and initiation becomes a farce.

No, I don’t go to galleries anymore—nor do I visit the tombs of those who became nothing more than pictures on the wall.

I joined Śrīla Prabhupāda’s movement in 1972 to gain life and stay alive—not to become a petrified image of myself, worshipped by those who never want to see me, who want only to hear what they already like, or who don’t want me to say anything at all.

Thanks to Śrīla Prabhupāda, we have so much to say.
Thanks to Śrīla Prabhupāda, we receive what we need to hear, not just what we want to hear.
Thanks to his books, we can again and again find new inspiration to oppose hypocrisy and hollow institutionalism and to expose the deceit that often festers within religious institutions.

Thanks to Śrīla Prabhupāda, we gain the intelligence and strength to confront our own shortcomings—and the power to rectify them.

Thanks to Śrīla Prabhupāda, we may find those rare few who also don’t want to become dead pictures on a wall—but who desire to remain alive, invigorated, and ecstatic preachers of Kṛṣṇa Consciousness, regardless of their life situation. Inspired in this way, they transcend the boundaries of their varṇa or āśrama, their genetic inheritance or institutional roles—not by rejecting these things, but by purifying them through uncompromising preaching for the benefit of humanity.

Let’s not become framed portraits in the galleries of dead men.
Let’s become vibrant, living beings.