Shadows of Breath is an exploration of the intimate relationship between paper and the invisible, yet visceral, experience of inner life. This collection of works begins with a simple premise: that paper can serve as an effective analogy for the ephemeral body, a material that's both fragile and resilient, recording presences and absences.
Through the meditative and gestural process of pulp painting, each piece becomes a vessel, holding the haptic imprints of touch, texture, and pressure. These works embody the dual presence of what is there and what is absent, transforming paper from a mere surface into a porous, vulnerable body itself. The title refers to the fleeting, subtle marks—the shadows—left by the internal rhythms of life—the breath.
The relationship between paper and language is age-old. Here, however, instead of text appearing on paper, the paper itself transforms or merges with the text, thereby converging the metaphors of body and language. Language is treated as a skin, as well as the very trace of a thought, a whispered presence, or a held silence. The words we use, the stories we tell, and the silence we keep are all layers of a material that carries the spectral yet weighty essence of our identity.
In this exhibition, the fragility of paper, the echoes of the body, and the weight of language all coalesce into a conversation about the unspoken and the internal in the human experience. Ultimately, Shadows of Breath presents paper as an invocation of the enduring interplay between our physical form and the ethereal nature of our inner world.
Essay by Dr Arnika Ahldag
For Ravikumar Kashi’s solo exhibition at Gallery Threshold
Shadows of Breath
Alternatives: Fleeting Presences, Unfolding Silences
In Ravi Kashi’s studio, in a residential neighbourhood of Bangalore that seems to be celebrating one festival or another at all times, with densely built houses and the smell of freshly cooked food in the air, paper takes on unexpected lives. Dripped, draped, seemingly woven, folded, skin-like in its thinness, appearing fragile, yet in its form remarkably resilient and enduring. These art works, born of pulp dripping onto thin polyester sheets, are a projection of the artist’s mindspace, each undulation and crease recording a rhythm of attention, of thought, of gesture. To watch these works emerge is to witness writing performed not with pen or brush, but with the body itself: hands controlling, releasing, repeating, returning to stillness.
Ravi Kashi is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice spans painting, sculpture, photography, and installation, with paper emerging as a defining medium in recent years. Alongside his studio practice, he has written extensively on contemporary art in Kannada and taught in art schools, bridging critical discourse with pedagogy.
Over the last decade, paper has become central to his practice. As Ravi often remarks, “I work with paper, not on paper,” signalling his approach to paper as a sculptural and expressive medium rather than a mere surface. His paper works, which range from delicate, patterned flat forms to robust sculptures, challenge the traditional perception of paper as fragile or insubstantial. By manipulating paper pulp, often incorporating different plant, textile fibres, and PLA filament, he creates intricate textures.
Paper, in Ravii’s hands, is never inert. It carries memory as much as it carries form, its fragility paired with a stubborn endurance. It is porous, intimate, and tactile, a body and a trace at once. What is paper, and when is it paper? His works unsettle this question. By layering pulp, letting it dry into delicate, semi-transparent membranes, or dripping it into script-like marks, he tests its limits, making the medium generative and expressive, an active participant in the work itself.
Ravi’s work is deeply connected to his mother tongue: Kannada. In a city where the language is often contested politically, his attachment is intensely personal. It is not a matter of pride, but of belonging, of kinship, of memory. Family stories, early readings, poetry, and everyday conversations are all in Kannada, and they resurface in his work in ways that are sometimes legible, sometimes elusive, sometimes vanishing entirely. Letters and words appear as presence more than message, less as inscription than as a reminder of a relationship. Language, in this sense, becomes a companion: a friend to be nurtured, remembered, and held close even as it shifts or eludes.
A recurring theme in his recent body of work is the connection between language and its visual manifestation, interwoven with the visceral aspects of the body. Ravii transforms script into sculptural forms, dissolving its readability to focus on its material presence and gesture. In his current series, largely titled “We Don’t End at Our Edges,” letters and words are crafted into three-dimensional structures where paper, normally a surface for writing, becomes text itself. In this approach, form, content, and material merge, emphasising the fluidity of meaning and matter.
The colours Ravi uses belong to Bangalore: deep rusts echoing government buildings, muted greens recalling gardens and parks. What at first seems like a map of the city also suggests veins, a living network that mirrors the body, connecting memory, place, and presence. These colours are not descriptive; they are recollective. They are fragments of a city remembered and held, glimpsed in moments of quiet reflection. Imagine walking through a large park, tilting your head back to see the sky through the treetops, feeling the light filter through leaves and branches, the colours, the shadows, the fleeting glimpses of movement become an index of memory, a way of holding place in the body.
Presence, too, is relational. Across his oeuvre, one finds echoes of other artists, such as Krishna Reddy or Akbar Padamsee, appearing not as homage or illustration but as companions in an ongoing conversation. These references are gentle, hints of friendship, reminders that art is never made in isolation.
A striking feature of these works is the way they invoke imagery of the body, membranes, and cellular structures. Language itself becomes a membrane, a metaphorical identity for the self, porous and breath-like. The delicate nature of the paper echoes the vulnerability of both body and language, reinforcing the idea that “we don’t end at our edges.” The breathability of the material, its fibrous structure, and the movement of letters and forms all foreground this intimacy, emphasizing connection and permeability rather than closure.
At first glance, Ravii’s works may seem to resist grasp. Each time one approaches comprehension, meaning slips away. They speak in suggestion, in connections felt more than understood, in hints rather than statements. This elusiveness is intentional, a reminder that nothing lasts forever. Cities transform, languages fade, paper frays, and the body ages. Ravi’s works inhabit this same terrain of impermanence, asking us to stay with it, to linger in the ephemeral rather than attempt mastery over it.
Loss, though quiet, threads through the work: the loss of language, of heritage or the city itself, of people, of time. Ravi holds these fragments in the same careful, attentive way that we, as viewers, attempt to hold on to the works themselves. There is a discipline in this act of remembrance: not to recover what is gone, but to make room for its presence, however fleeting, in the here and now. The works are delicate, ephemeral, yet in their fragility lies resilience. Their endurance is in their very capacity to yield, to shimmer, to hover.
Books, notebooks, and pages are central to this practice. Ravi’s innumerable idea notebooks are not merely preparatory; they are sites of origin, of accumulation, of exploration. Diagrams, sketches, words, and gestures coalesce into works that spill beyond the notebook into the gallery, into installations that cannot be fully contained. A book may act as a key, linking works, forming networks, and generating possibilities. The work is never truly singular; it is relational, expansive, and responsive.
Taken together, the works in this exhibition offer themselves as second skins: fragile, porous, intimate, and close to the body, bearing the weight of memory while remaining delicate enough to breathe. They do not seek permanence but remind us of the beauty of what passes, what changes, what refuses to be fully held. Like shadows of breath, they linger in the space, in the mind, and in memory, offering the possibility of presence precisely because they are ephemeral. They are reminders that transience itself can be a form of endurance, that fragility can carry its own quiet strength, and that intimacy is often found not in grasping, but in attuning.
To encounter these works is to learn patience, to dwell in suggestion rather than certainty, to experience memory as layered, relational, and porous. The works do not hand over meaning on a platter—they unfold it, coax it, and leave spaces for reflection, reverie, and gentle wonder. Paper becomes more than paper. Words become more than words. Colour, gesture, and form become carriers of presence, intimacy, and thought. And in the gallery, as in the studio, the works breathe, shimmer, and persist—not as monuments, but as companions, traces, and second skins: fragile, ephemeral, yet indelibly present.
Walltext
Curatorial Note
In Ravi Kashi’s Bangalore studio, paper takes on unexpected lives. Draped, woven, folded, it recalls cloth, skin-like in its thinness, appearing fragile, yet in form remarkably resilient. These works, born of pulp dripping onto thin polyester sheets, are traces of the artist’s mindspace: each undulation and crease recording a rhythm of attention, gesture, and thought.
For over a decade, paper has been central to Kashi’s practice. “I work with paper, not on paper,” he says, highlighting his engagement with the medium as sculptural, expressive, and generative. Letters and words, often in Kannada, appear less as messages than as companions—friends to be nurtured, remembered, and held close. Script dissolves legibility, foregrounding form, material, and gesture; paper becomes text, text becomes form, creating a multisensory experience that emphasizes the fluidity of meaning and matter.
Kashi’s works evoke the body, membranes, and cellular structures. Language becomes a porous identity for the self, and paper mirrors the vulnerability and breath of body and word alike. Colours drawn from Bangalore, deep rusts and muted greens, act as recollections, fragments of place held in memory. Presence, too, is relational: echoes of Krishna Reddy or Akbar Padamsee appear as companions in ongoing dialogues, hinting at the continuity of artistic practices.
These works inhabit impermanence. Meaning slips, language fades, paper frays, and yet in their fragility lies endurance. Books, notebooks, and pages act as keys, linking works into networks that are relational and expansive.
Shadows of Breath invites viewers to linger in the ephemeral, to dwell in suggestion rather than certainty, and to experience intimacy through attunement. Fragile yet resilient, porous yet present, these works are second skins: companions, traces, and fleeting presences that endure precisely by yielding.
To be used across the gallery with corresponding works:
"I work with paper, not on paper."
Paper, in Ravi Kashi’s hands, is never inert. It carries memory as much as it carries form, fragile yet remarkably resilient. By layering pulp, folding, draping, or dripping it into script-like marks, he transforms paper into a living, expressive participant in the work itself.
To watch these works emerge is to witness writing performed not with pen or brush, but with the body: hands controlling, releasing, repeating, returning to stillness. Each undulation and crease records a rhythm of attention, thought, and gesture.
Ravi’s work is deeply connected to Kannada, his mother tongue. Letters and words appear as presence more than message, as reminders of memory, relationship, and belonging. Language becomes a companion, intimate and porous, shifting yet always held close.
These works are delicate, ephemeral, yet in their fragility lies resilience. Their endurance is in their capacity to yield, shimmer, and hover—reminders that transience itself can be a form of strength. They offer themselves as second skins: fragile, porous, intimate, and close to the body. They do not seek permanence but linger like shadows of breath, carriers of memory, presence, and quiet wonder.