There are some painters who capture what they see, and then there are those rare souls who breathe what they paint — Swagata Bose belongs to the latter. It was a pleasure to attend her exhibition st the Taj Bengal , and her canvases touched my heart as if carried by the winds that travel from the Sundarbans to every heart that listens.

In her works on the Sundarbans — the half-broken boats, the weary fishermen, the sky trembling with monsoon — I could almost smell the salt, the damp wood, the ancient breath of mangroves. Her brush does not merely depict poverty or endurance; it translates their quiet heroism into poetry. The waters seem to move within the frame, and the river itself seems to pause, humbled by her gaze.

Then, Rishikesh — in her hands — is not a place but a state of grace. The light she paints is meditative, the stillness of the Ganga almost audible. Every hue, every reflection feels like a prayer rising from water to sky.

And her nudes — how tender, how unafraid. They are not bodies but truths, unadorned, complete in their humanity. The lines are honest, the tones reverent; there is no voyeurism here, only the pure dialogue between form and feeling.

Swagata’s art makes me ache with admiration — for its realism, for its lyricism, for its sincerity. Though I cannot attend all her exhibitions, her paintings linger within me like remembered fragrance — of rain, of skin, of devotion. She reminds us that art, when honest, needs no distance to be felt. It finds you, wherever you are.
UMA ROYCHOWDHURY