Chiselled in place
- chet kamat
- Apr 10
- 3 min read
Updated: Apr 18
There’s something magical about finding a sculpture when you’re not expecting one. That’s what I wanted for our garden—not grand installations placed front and center, but quiet discoveries: a carving half-covered in vine, a motif catching late light around a corner.
The idea began nearly four years ago. I had been reading about veeragallu—South India’s hero stones—memorials carved into boulders to honor those who died in battle. They were powerful, rooted in history, but marked loss. I wanted to tap into that sculptural tradition without the shadow of death hanging over it. See this post.
Instead, I drew inspiration from Hampi—a place I’d visited as a photographer and where I’d spent hours with my lens, absorbing the rhythm and detail of Vijayanagara carvings. I wanted to bring some of that spirit—of joy, movement, reflection—into our garden. And I wanted the boulders already part of the landscape to hold the work.
The first piece—a playful illusion of an elephant and a bull sharing a single head, based on a panel at the Airavateshwara temple—was done easily enough. It was carved into a low, flat rock using mostly hand tools. We were off to a good start.
But that smooth beginning gave me a completely false sense of how feasible this idea really was. The sculptor moved on to an extended temple project, and what followed was a string of stalled starts. Several sculptors came, admired the concept, discussed timelines, and even committed. But then—nothing. Some never returned. One showed up, worked a day, then left his tools and vanished. Not one explanation.
People around me said it was a sign. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I should just stop. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wasn’t even sure what was going wrong—I just knew I wasn’t done with the idea.
Eventually, the sculptor I’m working with now came on board. And watching him closely was when I finally started to get it. Until then, I hadn’t understood what I was asking of these sculptors. This wasn’t just carving a design—it was turning a completely immovable object into a canvas, often at awkward angles and in open weather, with stone that wasn’t meant for fine carving.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand along the way:
Sculptors usually choose their stone. They pick material that responds well to carving—stone that isn’t too hard, that holds detail. In this case, they have to work with what’s already there, whether it’s ideal or not.
Gravity is usually on their side. Studio work is done with the surface facing up. With these boulders, many surfaces are vertical. That means every tool—a chisel, a hammer, even a drill—has to be lifted and held in place without any help from gravity. It’s exhausting.
Tools aren’t standard. Softer stones can be worked with chisels alone. The dense rock we have often needs heavy-duty drills and specialized bits—not tools most sculptors are used to.
There’s no way to reposition the work. In a workshop, you can raise or rotate a piece. Out here, the sculptor has to move themselves to reach every edge and line. And they do it in full sun, in the rain, on rough, uneven ground.
None of this is predictable. You can’t accurately estimate time or effort until you’re deep into the work. That makes planning—and pricing—a guessing game.
The second piece was carved into a shaded rock partly tucked behind foliage—an endless knot based on entwined vines. The rock was harder so the entire work was completed using power drills and took much longer. I think it looks stunning - just what I was hoping for.
The third is currently in progress — an annapakshi, the legendary bird with a peacock’s crest and feathers, and the body and beak of a swan. It’s being carved about eight feet off the ground on a particularly hard rock. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but even then, it seems like it will take at least twice the expected time and energy. Still, the sculptor keeps at it, carving bit by bit, powering through.
And I’ve changed, too. I no longer see this as a project I can "complete." I see it as something unfolding at its own pace. There are seven works planned. Two are done. One is in progress. The rest will come, slowly, one by one.
Looking back, I knew very little when I started. I assumed that once I had a design and a willing artist, the rest would follow. But the real story is in everything I’ve learned since: about stone, about patience, about staying with something even when it’s unclear how—or when—it’ll come together.
Like the sculptures themselves, this journey has been full of surprises. And that, I’m realizing, is part of the joy.
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