The trajectories of tuberculosis (TB) and opera met in the mid-nineteenth century most notably with the production of La Traviata in 1853, and then La Bohème near the century’s end. With eminent scholars Linda and Michael Hutcheon, we talk about how these trajectories converged and how these resulting two operas then brought attention to the medical effects of the infection and the sociocultural influences on its spread. We also discuss how the discovery of germ therapy during the time between the staging of these operas affected the way social behaviors changed accordingly, that is, from understanding TB as hereditary to understanding it as infectious. We play audio clips from parts of the operas pertinent to perspectives provided. 

A big thanks to Drs Linda and Michael Hutcheon who in addition to providing their expertise and perspectives during the podcast, also contributed ideas for the production. 

Links
– The combined bio for Linda and Michael Hutcheon.
– The New York Metropolitan Opera on-demand video service where you can get access to high-quality video productions of La Traviata and La Bohème among many other operas and performances. (There could be a 7-day free trial available).
– Homer Simpson performing as Rudolpho in La Bohème singing Oh Dio! Mimi!
– We covered the effects of TB as an aesthetic ideal of beauty during the nineteenth century as represented in paintings earlier in episode 5.

Audio Credits
La Traviata
Preludio (National Philharmonic Orchestra; Richard Bonynge cond London Records 1979)
Prendi, Quest’È L’Immagine (Orchestra of the Opera House, Rome; Tullio Serafin cond; Victoria de los Angeles (Violetta); EMI Records Ltd 1960; digitally remastered 1992)

La Bohème
O Soave Fanciulla (Berlin Philharmonic; Herbert von Karajan cond; Mirella Freni (Mimi); Luciano Pavarotti (Rudolfo); Rolando Panerai (Marcello); London Records 1972)
Si. Mi Chiamono Mimi (ibid)
Mimi È Una Civetta (ibid)
Mimi È Tanto Malata! (ibid)

La Bohème photo from wikicommons

Tooker depicted waiting for a more specifically governmental bureaucracy in his painting, “The Government Bureau.” In that painting, the waiting people are reproduced several times to emphasize their anonymity, and the multiple bureaucrats peer out from frosted windows with only their eyes and noses visible — bringing to mind the concept of the “medical gaze” promulgated by the French philosopher,  Michel Foucault.

In another Tooker painting, “Ward,” he renders patients’ anonymity and a sense of abandonment in the hospital setting–with government bureaucracy invoked by the American flags hanging on the wall.

Image Credit
The Waiting Room, George Tooker, 1959. Collection of the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Image used for educational and critical commentary purposes.

George Tooker documentary videos from Columbus Museum

In the throes of the early AIDS crisis, people began stitching panels to remember their loved ones. The panels were joined in quilts, and the quilts were joined with each other until they became bigger than a tennis court, bigger than a football field. So unwieldy it became, the giant quilt had to be broken into pieces in order to be manipulated. Chunks would tour on display. It now has a virtual existence too and is curated by the National AIDS Memorial.

In 1989, Robert Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman made Common Threads, a 79-minute documentary, narrated by Dustin Hoffman. Based on the AIDS Memorial Quilt, their film traced the stories of five people who had died through the words of their grief-stricken friends and family. The survivors describe the solace that they had derived from quilting memorial panels for their loved ones. They also refer to milestones in the disease history: the president who would not utter the word; the movie star who acknowledged his own disease only after 15,000 had already died. The five divergent tales serve to emphasize the awesome scope of the tragedy: each panel and each name must recall an equally unique and cherished life cut short. In their final scene, the AIDS quilt lies on the Mall in Washington as names of hundreds of loved ones are read by grieving families and friends.

As the drone-less but steady camera slowly pulls back high above the patches of color in the evening light, I was reminded of the famous, expanding scene midway through, Gone with the Wind, as Scarlet O’Hara picks her way through the waste of Civil War wounded and dead. Common Threads is equally political, and it too is a love story. It won the 1989 Academy Award for Best Feature Documentary. I cannot help but imagine that the quilt and the film helped to generate the protections against discrimination of people living with HIV/AIDS provided by the Americans with Disabilities Act, signed into law in 1990.

Stitchery, knitting, embroidery, macramé and crochet have long been significant components of occupational and art therapy for mental and physical health (Leone 2021; Youngson 2019). But they have been marshalled into numerous anti-war, anti-discrimination, pro-environment causes with remarkable aplomb, talent, and humor. Remember the pink Pussyhats from the Women’s March in 2017? Patterns for them still abound on the web. The possibly antediluvian origins of crafting protest are featured in history and fiction: recall Charles Dickens’s knitters at the foot of the guillotine (Tale of Two Cities, 1859); or Margaret Atwood’s Zillah who makes art from dryer fluff, calling it “naive surrealism with a twist of feminist lemon” (Cat’s Eye, 1988); or even Peggy Erhart’s more frivolous parking-meter protest in small-town America (A Dark and Stormy Knit, 2024).

Self-described “craft nerd,” Betsy Greer coined the word “craftivism” in 2003. She wrote Knitting for Good (Roost Books, 2008) and edited an anthology that goes well beyond knitting to other techniques and contexts (Craftivism, Arsenal Pulp Press, 2014). Scholars have noticed (e.g., Moreshead and Salter, 2023; Vachhani et al, 2025). The diffuse movement has even found critics who challenge its “white, feminist appropriation of graffiti,” and seek to empower it to “evolve and become a more intersectional” practice (Close, 2018).

References 
Close, Samantha. Knitting activism, knitting gender, knitting race. International Journal of Communication 12 (2018): 23-23. 
Leone, Lauren. Craft in Art Therapy. Routledge, New York and London, 2021 
Moreshead, Abigail, and Anastasia Salter. Knitting the in-visible: data-driven craftivism as feminist resistance. Journal of Gender Studies 32.8 (2023), 875–886.
Vachhani, Sheena J., Emma Bell, and Alexandra Bristow. The Affective Micropolitics of Craftivism: Organizing social change through the minor gesture. Organization Studies 46.4 (2025): 525-547. 
Youngson, Bel. Craftivism for occupational therapists: finding our political voice. British Journal of Occupational Therapy 82.6 (2019): 383-385. 

Web image by Medhum.org

Egon devotedly cares for his sick wife despite her warning, “You will get it from me” (p111). Soon she is unresponsive. As Egon listens for a heartbeat with his ear against Edi’s motionless chest, he can only auscultate the distant, faint beat of his unborn child’s heart that is quickly silent. He tragically describes Edi’s corpse: “Her body being both cradle and coffin, within a minute” (p128). Egon feels compelled to make multiple sketches of his dead wife. 

Before long, Egon experiences harsh bouts of coughing, fever, and chills. He becomes remorseful about the drawings he made of Edi and burns them in the kitchen stove. Egon gazes at the fire, knowing he too will die shortly but aware that he will be survived by all his other artwork. 

This short story imagines the final days of Austrian painter Egon Schiele and his pregnant wife Edith. He died at age 28, just three days after she passed away, both victims of the 1918 influenza pandemic. 

A stunning and sorrowful re-creation of what the end of life might have felt like for a young husband and his expectant wife during the 1918 pandemic. The tale highlights the risk of love, the inescapable weight of dread, and the connection between creativity and illness. 

Primary Source 
Blank Pages and Other Stories (pp105-138) 

Publisher 
W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2022: 34 pages 
A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database.
Web image by Medhum.org

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Dégas’ brilliant rendering of perspective pulls the viewer into the mystery of what has taken place in what appears to be a woman’s bedroom. At the foot of the single-width bed, a coat is thrown over the metal bedpost frame. In the right foreground a bearded man leans against a closed door. His shadow looms behind him, large against the door. His shadow is generated by the single small lamp set upon a small round table near the center of the room. On the floor next to the table lies a piece of cloth or clothing (said to be a corset, p.674 of reference below). 

Turned, bent away from the man, partially kneeling on the floor at the other side of the room, is a young woman whose left shoulder and upper back are bare. The short sleeve of her white dress (nightgown?) hangs off her shoulder. She clutches to her body a blanket or drape. In contrast to the man, who stands in semidarkness, the woman’s back is bathed in the light of the nearby lamp. 

Clothing strewn on the floor and the looming man posted against a door suggest an assault. Although early 20th century critics did indeed perceive the painting as depicting the aftermath of a rape, that interpretation is not a foregone conclusion. The Philadelphia Museum of Art notes that Dégas referred to this work as “my genre picture” (a picture showing everyday life). The museum states further that “an annotation in a notebook used by Degas in this period provides a clue as to his intentions: ‘Work a great deal on nocturnal effects, lamps, candles, etc. The fascinating thing is not always to show the source of light but rather its effect.’ ” For another discussion of this painting, see Body, Place, and Self in 19th-Century Painting, by Susan Sidlauskas (Cambridge University Press, 2000). 

Web image from wikicommons

Demon Copperhead is nothing if not a novel centered on social concerns. It tells the story of a child born to a drug addicted mother in an oxycontin-ravaged community in western Virginia. He is delivered inside an intact amniotic sac, an anomaly that foreshadows a life-long fixation to see the ocean, any ocean. His mother has abysmal taste in men and repeatedly chooses to live with men who abuse her and physically threaten Demon. When she dies of a drug overdose, Demon is placed in foster care and forced to work countless hours as a virtual slave under horrible circumstances, without any consideration for his safety, by the person who is supposedly responsible for his wellbeing. He runs away and has a miserable encounter on the road with a streetwalker who entraps him and steals the hard-earned money that he has secretly saved and stashed away. Against all expectation, Demon reconnects with his dead father’s family, and they place him in a much more stable and secure environment – the home of the venerated coach of the local high school football team.  

The coach takes a liking to Demon. He recognizes Demon’s hidden strengths and talents and encourages Demon to try out for the football team. Much to his surprise, Demon achieves star status as a tight end, no longer a faceless hillbilly from the back country of mobile homes. But true to the trajectory of the novel, Demon suffers a major injury to his knee. He refuses surgery and tries to tough it out. Pain medication is key to this strategy and, of course, this being Appalachia in the late 1990s, oxycontin is too easily prescribed by doctors and too accessible to patients. A painful decline into addiction and despair ensues. Many of Demon’s peers fall victim to the oxycontin plague. But unlike them, Demon is resilient. He is a talented artist, and from early childhood he would draw cartoon-like sketches to escape from his desultory life.  

With the help and support of an art teacher who takes him under her wing during high school, Demon creates a comic strip that dramatizes life in the backwoods of Virginia and that gains regional notoriety. As the novel nears the end, there is a dramatic passage in which Demon confronts his social nemesis on a mountain ridge during a windswept rainstorm. It evokes a climactic episode in Kingsolver’s earlier prize-winning book, The Poisonwood Bible, where the life of a key character is threatened by an attack of army ants in the middle of the night. Ultimately, Demon enters drug rehabilitation, perseveres through the rigors of withdrawal, and gets clean. Against all expectations, Demon finds love and redemption. The woman of his dreams has been there all along, but when it happens, you cannot help but smile as you watch the two lovers acknowledge their feelings for one another. 

The title of the novel is a dead giveaway of who inspired it and Kingsolver acknowledges her debt to Charles Dickens in the postscript. Like her Victorian predecessor, Kingsolver is writing to protest the neglect and abuse that people, but especially children, living in post-manufacturing America have been forced to endure at the end of the 20^th century and into the next. In her vision, the grim experiences of people like Demon and his family, whose lives are attached to the land, are profoundly different from city dwellers. After their land was stripped of its natural resources, the rural communities in states like Virginia and Tennessee were left to languish economically and fall victim to predatory pharmaceutical companies which promoted the use of drugs that the proprietors knew would increase dependence and addiction.  

There is a relentlessness to this story and Kingsolver’s voice in many respects echoes the Biblical prophets. For some readers, the book is almost too depressing. But I think that fails to give enough credit to her Dickensian style and outlook. The sequence of episodes in different locations and with a revolving cast of characters is reminiscent of the publication of Dickens’ novels in serial installments that can almost stand alone. The narrative pulsates with non-stop action and there is an optimism that Demon will always pull through. He is an engaging character, blessed with emotional reserves and intellectual gifts that enable him to overcome his baleful surroundings. In that sense, his story, like Dickens’ novels, may strike some as unrealistic. Perhaps that is the most effective way a writer can successfully enlist readers to rally to her social cause, by offering a vision of personal triumph over social and cultural adversity. 

Coming back to the question I asked at the outset, can a novel inspired by social protest survive its era and outlive the conditions that spurred the author to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard? Novels like David Copperfield and The Grapes of Wrath are affirmative answers. I predict that the artistry of Demon Copperhead will ensure that it will still be read long after the environmental damage incurred by the coal mining industry and the human devastation of the opioid epidemic recede into history. Demon’s voice is so alive, his character is so engaging, and his tale is so moving that I am confident that the book will be on bookshelves or in data storage tools in a hundred years. It may be necessary to add notes to explain the ins and outs of the coal mining industry and how oxycontin was approved and marketed to an unsuspecting population, but those will be details that will not obscure the deep humanity of the book.  

Oprah In Conversation with Barbara Kingsolver

DEMON COPPERHEAD 
Barbara Kingsolver 
Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 2022, 548pp 

Web photo by George Hiles 

Pusey, a talented and enthusiastic guide, provides the backstory to Coram’s project. Coram, a man with a history of supporting good causes, is shocked by seeing the multitude of abandoned children on his visits to London. Parents who are unable to care for their (mostly out-of-wedlock) babies have few options; as many as a thousand of these children a year are left in the streets. While other European cities have well-established institutions supported by the Catholic Church, many Londoners initially believe that caring for them is tantamount to condoning sin and debauchery. In 1737 Coram petitions the King to support the construction of a “hospital” (not in the contemporary sense of the term, but more like an orphanage). His persistence finally pays off, and he even manages to turn his idea into a fashionable cause that receives the support of London society.  

Something that is unique about the Foundling Hospital is that Coram also allies from the start with many of the leading artists of the day. These include artist William Hogarth and composer George Frideric Handel. Hogarth, motivated perhaps by his own impoverished background, becomes a Governor of the Hospital and is active to the extent that he and his wife even foster several foundlings. He executes a portrait of Coram which he donates, and encourages other artists to do the same, so that in due course “the hospital [becomes] England’s first public art gallery and establishe[s] itself as a ‘destination venue’ for fashionable Londoners” (Foundling Museum: An Illustrated Guide, p. 16).  

Because I am a classical music fanatic, I cannot wait to see the famous Handel scores and artifacts that the museum is known for. There is a precedent for a composer to ally himself with a charity; Antonio Vivaldi’s career is deeply linked to Venice’s Ospedale della Pietà, a convent, orphanage, and music school. Handel becomes involved when he is invited to conduct a benefit concert in 1749 to raise funds for the completion of the Hospital chapel. For the occasion, he composes the Foundling Hospital Anthem, which proves to be his last piece of English church music. The text, adapted from Psalm 41 and the Book of Job, begins “Blessed are they that considereth the poor and needy: the Lord will deliver them in time of trouble, the Lord preserve them and comfort them. They deliver the poor that crieth, the fatherless and him that hath none to help him. The Lord will comfort them.” Since Handel is the most famous composer in England, his name ensures there will be a capacity crowd paying high prices for tickets. The following year, Handel conducts a benefit concert of his Messiah in the chapel. The event is so successful that Handel is made a Governor, and performances of Messiah become annual events. When Handel dies, he bequeaths orchestral parts for Messiah to the Hospital in his will so that the tradition can continue. Handel’s will is now on display in the top floor of the Museum. During the London Blitz, the precious document was removed by the curator’s wife who put it in her purse and left the building. When she returned, the room holding the will had been destroyed by a bomb.   

An equally impactful group of artifacts is on display on the first floor of the Museum, along with the following description:

The Foundling Hospital was relocated outside of the city in the 1920s. The earlier site was eventually turned into a children’s playground called Coram’s Fields. Gradually, as Britain moved away from the institutionalization of children and towards adoption and foster care, the Hospital closed. The Museum occupies a building in the same neighborhood as the 18th-century original and incorporates some of its interiors and architectural details. The magnificent Court Room, where the Governors conducted their business, is one of the best surviving Rococo interiors in the city.  

The spirit of the Foundling Hospital endures in the charity now known as Coram, one of the foremost voluntary adoption agencies in the UK. The Hospital’s tradition of receiving support from artists also continues. The Museum’s temporary exhibitions and commissions provide a space for contemporary artists to “enter into a dialogue with their eighteenth and nineteenth-century forebears” (ibid, p.81). Lastly, the establishment of Foundling Fellowships named after Coram, Hogarth and Handel (the recipients of which have included such illustrious artists as Julian Lloyd Webber and Emma Kirkby) ensures that the legacy of the institution will live on.  

References: 
https://medicalmuseums.org
This site contains a wealth of information about London’s medical museums, including the Foundling Museum, as well as information about Richard Pusey’s medical history tours.

From the closest bus stop, the shift in focus is immediately apparent. A walk along the Avenue de la Paix (Peace) takes one past sculptor Daniel Berset’s monumental broken chair statue, conceived to encourage a multi-national ban on anti-personnel mines and cluster munitions. In the background, stands the European headquarters of the United Nations in the beautiful Palais des Nations (originally built in 1929 to house the League of Nations). A bit farther on, a statue of Gandhi greets passers-by, adorned one recent day with tributes to the late Russian political activist and prisoner, Alexei Navalny.  

The Red Cross/Red Crescent museum itself sits at the foot of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) headquarters, a large white building atop a hill. A modern glass and steel structure houses the collection where visitors are invited to learn more about the organization’s origins, as well as the long-standing alliance between individual Red Cross and Red Crescent national societies that provide humanitarian relief around the world. 

While the organization of exhibits in the museum’s permanent collection is not strictly chronological, a sculptor’s dramatic all-white rendering of Henri Dunant seated at a desk—and accompanying text—explains the Geneva resident’s role in the founding in 1863 of what is now the International Red Cross. Dunant, who was first inspired to create a relief effort to alleviate the suffering of soldiers after witnessing the 1859 battle of Solferino, Italy, also participated in the framing of the original Geneva Convention of 1864. On display in a nearby case, copies of that document contain language that reflects the authors’ optimism, “Ambulances and military hospitals shall be recognized as neutral…Wounded or sick combatants, to whatever nation they may belong, shall be collected and cared for.” Subsequent versions that expanded on the protections outlined—thereafter referred to as the Geneva Conventions—were drafted respectively in 1906, 1929, and 1949, with the lattermost document still remaining in effect.  

To safeguard both those providing care and wounded soldiers, the Convention “established a universally protective symbol: a red cross on a white background.” (There has been some debate about whether the white cross on the emblem was intended to carry religious significance or was simply chosen as a readily recognizable symbol, i.e., the inverse of the Swiss flag.) A little more than a decade later, use of the red crescent—a symbol more readily recognizable to Muslim soldiers—was initiated, with formal adoption of this symbol in 1929. Today, the red crystal emblem is used by allied societies in regions where the population does not identify with the cross or the crescent.  

Throughout the museum, the response of the Red Cross and the Red Crescent to humanitarian crises around the world is documented through a variety of materials including photographs, artifacts, and facsimiles of official records. The experiences of survivors in more recent conflicts and natural disasters are brought to life through additional media, including music, graphic representation, and recorded testimony. A striking example is found in the Hall of Witnesses where visitors can sit face-to-face with greater-than-life-size videos of survivors describing their experiences—among them, a former child soldier, a civilian who lost his legs but now works with other amputees, and a woman who experienced multiple displacements from her home country. 

The youngest victims of conflict come into focus in a haunting display of photographs posted along the wall of a nearby room; the accompanying text explains that the children portrayed are survivors of the 1994 Rwanda Genocide. Separated from their relatives at such an early age many did not know their family identities, or even their own names, making reunification difficult and sometimes impossible.  

Fortunately, there is hope to be found as well. In the Restoring Family Links section of the museum, more testimony may be viewed and heard, describing instances in which families separated by conflict have been reunited by the Red Cross and Red Crescent. Stories of recovery and resilience, even among individuals who might have given in to despair, amaze and inspire. 

In another gallery, a display of artwork crafted by prisoners and made primarily from found materials serves as testament to the desire for creative expression among those who have yet to attain their freedom. Among these works: a locomotive made by a French prisoner in Germany in 1941; a set of playing cards drawn by a Moroccan prisoner held by the Polisario Front (a group seeking independence in the Western Sahara) in 1998; and a miniature palace put together by Lebanese prisoners in Israel in 1999. (A book of this artwork is available in the museum shop.) 

With not all threats to human dignity stemming from civil wars, nationalist movements, repressive governments and militia, the Red Cross and Red Crescent also work to prepare vulnerable populations for natural disasters. A small area of the museum is devoted to this work, while a newer threat, cybersecurity is addressed at the Data Detox bar, where a pick-and-choose your own cocktail metaphor is used to provide “…steps you can take to control your digital privacy, security, and wellbeing”; cards that summarize this information are available to take home. 

Leaving the exhibits behind, in the lobby of the museum, the departing visitor is reminded of the power of literature and art to communicate our moral obligation to alleviate human suffering, as well as our capacity to do so. A quote from Dostoevsky that runs along one wall recalls our universal responsibility to one another, while nearby, observers are invited to add their own bit of weaving to artist Zahrasadit Hakim’s tapestry-in-progress, an example of how the cumulative efforts of many changes, supports and enhances the whole. 

The Museum of the International Red Cross and Red Crescent
https://redcrossmuseum.ch/
Av. de la Paix 17, 1202 Genève, Switzerland.  

Photo of the Red Cross/Red Crescent museum from wikicommons

Then one day Dymov develops diphtheria, evidently contracted by “sucking up mucus through a pipette from a boy with diphtheria. And what for?  It was stupid… just from folly.”  Dymov soon becomes seriously ill and then dies. Suddenly, Olga is overcome with guilt and grief. Too late, Olga realizes that her husband was a hero.

Chekhov based this story on the real-life love affair between his good friends Isaak Levitan, a well-known (and married) artist, and Lika Mizinova, a young unmarried teacher, who had for many years been infatuated with Chekhov while he toyed with her affection.  In this interpretation, Chekhov bases the character of Dymov largely on himself, portrayed as a dedicated and disciplined worker who has no time to spare for frivolous romance. However, in reality, Chekhov had playful relationships with many women, but eschewed commitment until late in life. 

Another way of looking at the story is the dramatic tension between practicality (science, public health, and social consciousness), as exemplified by Dymov; and emotion (art, adventure, romance), as exemplified by Ryabovsky.  Olga at first chooses the latter, but Dymov’s death turns the tables.  After he becomes a martyr to science, she suddenly finds him more interesting and mourns her loss.  Was his death the result of a foolish mistake?  Did her infidelity play a role, perhaps by distracting him while he was aspirating the pus?  Or might Dymov have deliberately performed the foolish procedure, realizing that the infection would cause his death?  

The Wife & Other Stories. The Tales of Chekhov. Volume 5, New York, The Ecco Press, 1985.
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett.  
Shelby Foote (Ed.) Chekhov’s Later Short Stories. 1888-1903, New York, The Modern Library, 1999.
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett.  

A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database (Litmed).

Reviews of Chekhov’s Stories

Cold Eye, Warm Heart: Medicine and Anton Chekhov  

Jack CoulehanAug 6, 2025

An Awkward Business by Anton Chekhov 

Jack CoulehanJun 11, 2025

The Grasshopper by Anton Chekhov

Jack CoulehanMay 11, 2025

Ionych by Anton Chekhov 

Jack CoulehanMar 11, 2025

A Doctor’s Visit  by Anton Chekhov 

Jack CoulehanMar 11, 2025

Ward No. 6 by Anton Chekhov

Jack CoulehanMar 11, 2025

A Nervous Breakdown by Anton Chekhov 

Jack CoulehanFeb 11, 2025

Enemies by Anton Chekhov

Jack CoulehanJan 11, 2025

Unni–Dr Unnikrishnan Pulikkal–was my classmate and dorm-mate during the medical course. He had a keen interest in the arts right from his student days during MBBS, our undergraduate medical course, and was a wonderful painter. He told me about his switch to photography, though he continued to paint and make sculptures and other artistic creations. And In addition to creating art, he has created venues to display art; Unni, who hails from Kodakara in Thrissur district of the southern Indian state of Kerala, has started two museums in his hometown, in close proximity to the town’s hospital.  

The Art Museum of Love is one of the few museums in the world devoted to representations of love in art. When I said I wanted to visit, Unni gave me precise directions about reaching the place; it is located at the Azhakam service road about a kilometer from Kodakara town. The early December afternoon was hot. The climate has become warmer over the last three decades; temperatures over 40 degrees Celsius are now common during the summer. Climate change has hit Kerala hard.  

The art museum is delightfully air conditioned. I interacted with the two ladies managing the reception desk who told me that before I went in, I had to take off my shoes. I liked the design of the museum. Plenty of planning and thought had gone into the layout and the display rooms. The rooms are small and provide you with an intimate experience; the lighting is superb and highlights the exhibits. There are also spaces to sit and relax. You can read and reflect. The display boards provide detailed information about the exhibits, which were tastefully designed.  

Various types of love are addressed. Most of us are very familiar with romantic love. The love of a family, love between siblings and love between parents and their children and love of an extended family and society are also explored. Spiritual love is common in the Indian tradition. I could see a few of Unni’s paintings and photographs on display. Other art forms were also included in the exhibit. There were river stones sculpted by nature and others carved by skilled human hands on display. The driftwood sculptures fascinated me; in Nepal, I had a good friend, Dr Awate, who was fond of collecting driftwood as he hiked the hills of western Nepal. He mentioned that with some tender loving care some of these can become works of art.  

Ancient India had a liberal approach to romance and love. Traditional paintings had strict rules and regulations. Within these boundaries you were free to explore your creativity. Depictions of the Hindu God Krishna were prominent in the museum. Different traditional art forms from South Asia depicting Lord Krishna were on display. Artists consecrated their work to the lord, and Lord Krishna has been depicted in art forms and styles of painting throughout India. The diversity of these art forms makes them an interesting area of study. Tanjore paintings from Tamil Nadu are renowned for their rich colours and extensive use of gold foil. These have more detailed and regal patterns. Madhubani paintings from North Bihar (the Mithila region) use earthy colours and are usually done in geometric patterns with bold outlines (I was gifted a Mithila painting by Darbhanga Medical College in Bihar, India; the painting still hangs in my old office in Nepal). Rajput paintings are known for their opulent colour.  

Pattachitra is a vibrant art form that originates from the holy place of Jagannath Puri, Odisha, in eastern India. It is also extensively practised in West Bengal. Traditional Warli paintings– the Warlis are a tribe in Maharashtra near the border with Gujarat–of Lord Krishna were also on display as were Gond paintings of love.. Looking at these paintings I was struck by the cultural unity within diversity in India.  

The art museum has two floors and also has a section on erotic art that has a warning about the explicit nature of the material on display at the entrance door. Till today the public has been very accepting of this section of the museum. The museum also has a community space at the side where events can be organized. Several events have used this space; for example, the museum held a competition for letters and poems expressing love to be sent to the museum’s postal address, and some of the winning entries were on display. The Art Museum of Love has created Instagrammable objects and locations for selfies and social media postings. The website of the museum (Sneha Museum in Malayalam, the native language of the southern Indian state of Kerala) is https://lovemuseum.life/. The museum is also on various social media. 

I went with Unni to another museum he curates and manages. Photomuse is the museum of photography. Photomuse was inaugurated by Herbert Ascherman Jr., a renowned US photographer who mainly works in black and white and the rare art of platinum photography. He is the mentor and guide of Dr Unni and has contributed several pieces of his work to the Art Museum of Love and to Photomuse. This museum was in operation at a different location for a few years and in early 2024 shifted to a permanent location at Mattathur near Kodakara. The website of the museum, which has multiple features and offerings (including collections mainly devoted to cameras and photo equipment, a journal, programs, and a gallery showcasing various exhibitions previously mounted at the museum, among others), is https://photomuse.in/. During my visit the first gallery was hosting an exhibition titled “Silence & Chaos.” The exhibition had photographs by different photographers, some depicting silence and others depicting chaos. The major gallery hosts cameras and photographic equipment from various generations and time periods. The old pin hole camera, bellows camera, the auto focus film cameras, polaroid camera and SLRs using film are all on display. Each camera has a small descriptive note providing more information about the object. The pride of the collection is the large format Vageshwari cameras that were manufactured in India and were among the best field cameras in the world. My friend Sanjay Mhatre, an architect, had introduced me to large format cameras and these always fascinated me. The extensive collection is also documented online at https://photomuse.in/index.php/collections 

The museum holds exhibitions of photo collections periodically and these can also be accessed online. Photomuse has a good collection of old photographs; the museum has 1,765 antique prints in its collection. There are a few depicting the birth of independent India. I was intrigued by the photo of the old Cochin Forest tramways, which operated from 1907 to 1963 and enabled the transport of wood from the Parambikulam forest to Chalakudy town. The museum also publishes a journal both in print and online at http://journal.photomuse.in/  

The small town of Kodakara near the Thrissur-Ernakulam highway has two museums that are cultural icons and social gathering places. Dr Unni also has created an open-air art gallery on the premises of the hospital he runs in the same location. Unni, through his arts initiatives, reminds us of the close connection between art and medicine. There are several educational institutions around Thrissur and health students can learn about the close interplay between art and medicine at the museum. These museums and galleries have put Kodakara on the international arts map. So, the next time you visit Kerala, which some have called God’s own country, please do plan a trip to Kodakara. The place is not difficult to reach. The museums are open from 10 am to 6 pm Tuesday to Sunday (closed Mondays). In an increasingly bitter and divisive world, come discover the gentle and healing power of the arts and of love!  

Interview with the Uber-Talented Unnikrishnan Pulikkal, MD

Ravi Shankar Aug 6, 2024

Dr. Unni, a medical practitioner and artist, discussed his rural upbringing, passion for painting and photography, founding PhotoMuse, and balancing art with medicine.