Why preserve art when nothing lasts forever?
Conservators seems to strive to make every artwork last forever. Yet the Buddhist tenet of impermanence bears closely and profoundly on our field, as we work to preserve art that is both sacred in character and fundamentally fragile in nature.
I work with the preservation of thangka, which in its traditional form is a picture panel surrounded by a textile mounting. Used as meditation guides, thangka depict religious imagery such as buddhas, bodhisattvas, and mandalas, the elaborate palaces where these figures reside. Traditional thangka are complex and three dimensional; the central picture may be painted, woven, or printed, and its textile surroundings can contain textile, wood, leather, and metal.
This centuries-old art form has changed over long periods of geographical and cultural migration, and it continues to change rapidly as contemporary artists no longer have access to traditional materials and incorporate digital technology. The discipline of conservation has also changed with the increased use of sophisticated analytical and digital tools. As a conservator, I endeavor to recover and preserve the original art form, while also striving to facilitate its evolution to a virtual form that can be accessed by current and future generations.
To have one foot in original tradition and the other in contemporary science, to feel allegiance to the monastery and the museum, poses a challenge, in part because many conservators—myself included—want to do their work perfectly, especially when working with Buddhist treasures.
I asked Mingyur Rinpoche, an eminent teacher with knowledge of both older traditions and newer cultures, for counsel on finding a balance between the conservation of thangka paintings and their impermanence. He said:
It is good to preserve thangka, and one should try one’s best to do so. However, results will vary, for sometimes things will turn out well and sometimes they will not. Moreover, in the end all things are indeed impermanent. One simply has to accept reality, even as one does something one hopes will be beneficial.
Some people lean toward eternalism, wanting everything to last forever—it may be that many conservators land here. Others fall to the opposite extreme: nihilism. The nihilists ask why we preserve anything. After all, impermanence makes a mockery of such efforts. But conservators are not trying to make things last forever for the sake of it. Rather we hope to preserve sacred treasures for future generations. We want them to have the opportunity to encounter and be nourished by these remarkable works of art that convey and perhaps even embody the sacred dimensions of our lives.
The Artist’s Intent
Conservators must do their best to understand the intent of artists, whether painters and workshops of the past or contemporary artists. Since 1970 I have researched and documented changes in traditional Buddhist art forms. I have interviewed and learned from master painters who are both respected Buddhist teachers and lineage holders. Such artists—a category that includes several of the Karmapa lamas and the Eighth Khamtrul Rinpoche (1931–1980)—create a specific, unusual kind of thangka. They hope their artwork will survive in order to inspire future generations on the path of meditation and compassion.
Keeping this intent in mind, the conservator can then ask: How much treatment would the artist regard as appropriate? This allows the conservator to be guided by the artist rather than imposing technology and priorities alien to the artist’s intent. This is particularly important when a Buddhist master creates an image representing a visionary experience with the intent of conveying that experience to contemporary students and those not yet born.
From Yak Glue to Digital Pixels
Traditional artists used methods and materials that served the unstated goal of ensuring the longevity of their creations. The painting and its textile mounting were meant to survive repeated rolling and unrolling, regular travel on the backs of livestock, display in stone monasteries that endured annual monsoon rains, earthquakes, fires, floods, and political change. Over the course of a thangka’s life, the mountings would be replaced when the damaged textile could no longer support the painting. In the face of such vicissitudes, the paintings were intended to embody the iconography of a specific sacred principle as well as hold the spiritual influence and power with which they had been imbued.
Today when traditionally trained artists create commercially popular contemporary Buddhist art, they often address impermanence directly or referentially in their choice of iconography, methods, and materials. As this innovative, personal style has emerged, I have asked such artists how they wrestle with the impermanence of their work. How do they reconcile the creation of new art with the doctrine of impermanence that lies at the core of the Buddha’s teaching?
Some consciously choose to use nontraditional materials with a relatively short lifespan to convey spiritual, artistic, and political statements. Examples include art installations made of earth, mixed media with digital video, melted PVC plastic, burned paper, and more. Yet one artist said that if he could use paint prepared by traditional apprentices using cooked and filtered yak hide glue and mineral pigments, his paintings would last for hundreds of years. The paints available to him now, he suspects, will crack, peel, and fade in sixty years or less. The impermanence of contemporary creations troubles him deeply.
Some traditionally trained thangka painters and Buddhist devotees now use digital media to make purely “digital thangka” combined with other materials. Looking ahead, the challenges in conserving these developing art forms will be formidable.
Stabilizing Fragility
In the cultures of origin, sacred artifacts have not been restored to the level of cosmetic perfection that we find today in art dealers’ showrooms. As modern and usually Western restorers travel through the Buddhist diaspora teaching nontraditional methods of cleaning and repainting, something odd is happening, something at variance with the deep convictions of the older traditions, something that appears to be an attempt to perfect the surface of a work of art.
In nearly fifty years of work and research in the monasteries of Asia, I have occasionally seen a thangka bearing a patch or brocade replacement, but I have never seen severe “cleaning” or painting over the original. From the advice of Buddhist teachers I have interviewed, and from years of hands-on conservation experience, I have learned that stabilizing fragility in a painting or a textile mounting—rather than invasive, irreversible cosmetic extremes—is in accordance with the wishes of most monastic institutions and museums. Otherwise such objects might be too fragile to be used ceremonially or displayed on museum walls.
For monasteries, museums, and collectors, preventing damage every day with safer storage, display, and handling, as well as with risk assessment and disaster planning for the future, are crucial. A clear understanding of custodial impermanence is also essential.
This leaves us to ponder the profound impact of the impermanence that Buddhist tradition takes as its point of departure, particularly in light of the prevalent outlook of art conservation to protect and preserve the original to whatever degree is possible. For Buddhists, impermanence is fundamental, and for all of us change is inevitable, even in the life of a treasured thangka.
About the Contributor
Ann Shaftel is at the forefront of thangka conservation worldwide. Since 1970 she has worked in the conservation of Buddhist art for museums, monasteries, universities, dharma centers, and private clients, including the Rubin Museum of Art, American Museum of Natural History, UNESCO, and the governments of India and Bhutan. Shaftel’s international work in Treasure Caretaker Training won the prestigious Digital Empowerment Foundation’s Chairman’s Choice Award. She has published widely on thangka scientific research and conservation methods.
Image Credit
All images courtesy of Ann Shaftel
Ever grateful to Ann Shaftel for her work in preserving many of the treasures of Tibet. Without her tireless efforts, many great works of art would be lost.
The Rubin is a very special place I always visit when in New York. Thank you for your support!
Fascinating! Food for thought and a unique perspective.
It was seeing the thangka posters for the first time that originally kindled my curiosity about Tibetan Buddhism. Because I treated them first as just more ‘60s decoration for my walls, I was slow to even suspect their sacred qualities. Looking back now the thangka images have served as my life long companions, subtly illuminating a spiritual path forward, usually without me even noticing. Maybe that’s part of the inherent power of these “silent teachers”.
Ann Shaftel is a genius in that she understands how to work with the old sacred objects and repair them in such a flawless and respectful way one could have a hard time seeing that there was any repair made at all. She is in a league all her own. Thank you for a magnificent and informative article.
Wonderful article. Uncovering the creator’s intent must be a journey in and of itself. Impressive LACK of the use of technical terms (thank you, though “decorrelation” got in there). I thought it might have been fun to start to restore a piece and if it had been restored hundreds of years before, to unravel how that restorer dealt with the same issues. Thanks for this article.
Thank you, Ann, for your expertise and commitment to restoring and protecting sacred Tibetan thankhas over so many the years. A gift to those who experience them purely as art, and to others who also draw from the content in a practical, spiritual way. I am also inspired by the balance of your understanding of impermanence and non-attachment in the arts, as well as your openness to the evolution of the this particular art form.
Excellent article by Ann Shaftel. An important discussion on the philosophy concerning thangka conservation, saving the art and the impermanence of everything. Also the artists’ viewpoint is given. Great read!
Ann Shaftel’s remarkable work, dedication, and knowledge are a wonderful resource and very inspiring.
Ann Shaftel’s work is extraordinary and this articles reflects her deep commitment to the thangka preservation. It captures with so much clarity the complexity of conservation decision-making and the deep philosophies that sit behind the decision of how best to preserve such beautiful material.
Thank you so much for this illuminating and thoughtful article.
I very much enjoyed (and learned a lot from) the the essay “Sacred Threads” by Ann Shaftel. I thought the article effectively illuminated the central dilemma of conservationists (i.e., how to how to preserve works of art that are by their very nature impermanent). I visited the Ruben Museum of Art on my last trip to NYC and found it to be an absolute delight. I hope to visit it again on my next trip, and to spend more time viewing its collection of thangkas if they are on display.