Cholamandal is a well-ordered and domestic environment at the ripe old age of 50, not a bohemian wilderness of crazy creativity. As I wander about, I come across what is more of a bourgeois housing community than a tumultuous artist hamlet, and the vibe is one of middle-aged contentment and ease. The Madras School’s philosophy of art has also been remarkable for supporting line above abstraction and weathering heated discussions about the distinction between art and craft.

The artists in Cholamandal today acknowledge this fact in a manner that is somewhat self-deprecating and partially laughing. However, it is also understood that artists do not need to toil in a garret to create their best work and that having some stability can foster a sense of security, which can be a great source of comfort for people in creative professions.

This is exactly what led K. C. S. Paniker, the then-principal of the Government School of Arts and Crafts in Madras, to strive for a self-contained commune where artists could follow their inspiration without being constrained by the whims of patronage or government funding, both financially and intellectually. Paniker persuaded a number of artists to buy land and raised Rs. 40,000 to purchase ten acres. The artists’ village came into existence when thirty people did it (15 members of the original cohort are still there today).

We are browsing through a big album while standing at the museum’s reception desk, under the aristocratic gaze of Paniker’s portrait. It contains newspaper clippings and black and white photographs of the first group of pioneer artists standing around in a desolate area with pieces of thatched space. The pictures of smiling tourists and batik saris and stoles are grainy. The early settlers earned a living by selling handicrafts to compensate for the far less common sale of art. The artists remember creating matchbox covers for 60 paise apiece and saris for Rs. 90. Paintings would not sell in the 1950s and 1960s for even Rs. 100150 apiece. The late artist Gopal’s wife recalls that the family made a living from sales during the tourist season; “we sold nothing in summer,” she says. During that initial, challenging ten years, Cholamandal was kept afloat by its craftsmanship.

The artists sit in a casual circle, and I listen as they share tales of the early days. “There was no electricity or roads,” Senathipathi says. From Adyar Signal, where Grindlays Bank is currently located, we would go by jutka (horse carriage) or on foot. We would occasionally hitchhike on sand trucks to get here,” Nandhan says of how he moved into the village in 1979, when he rented a hut for Rs. 3 until his sister bought the plot on which he built his house for Rs. 500. Gopinath remembers how musicians would assist fishermen in bringing in their catch in exchange for a little fish. Paniker’s memory is a warm quilt that covers all of their stories. Paniker seems to have imagined the area with the same foresight and enthusiasm as he would have created a work of art.

Additionally, it is a fantastic location that is completely managed and owned by the artists, with no financial help from the government. In India or anywhere else, it doesn’t appear to have a comparable. The Arts Acre in Kolkata and the Elm Hod in Israel are both run by the government, whereas the Kalagramam in Kerala is. The MacDowell Colony in the United States is supported by a private endowment. The model is most likely represented by the 126-year-old Worpswede in Germany, which is currently a tourist destination with a few government-funded residences. Most artist communities, however, are transient, depending on the seasons and grants.

Today, the location is a well-run commune, complete with a guest house, a well-planned museum with a souvenir shop, a new exhibition space, a studio and living space for artists in residence, and a tiny room where there are biweekly film screenings on art.

The first thing I see while strolling through the museum is Nandhan’s magnificent stone Buddha. Later, in his house, he tells me the idea behind its creation. He was creating a terracotta piece when he was invited for tea, at a time when his studio was a thatched hut. He quickly set a clump of clay on top of the work and left. The form he had been searching for was thrown into the picture by some trick of the setting sun when he went back and went inside. The mass was formalized, and the renowned Nandhan Buddha came into being. These vignettes stay with you: Nandhan’s front yard, where granite is brought to life in a casual manner; the sketchpads in Gopinath’s cupboard, each a vibrant flipbook of images; and Selvaraj’s conversation about how his years of dance training transformed into the motion and imagery of his paintings; the enthusiasm in the voices of the new generation as they discuss carrying on the dream.

Paniker himself doesn’t appear to have had any such aspirations, telling reporters that he would be happy if Cholamandal lived for a single generation. It has endured three. The artist describes in an early letter how he lives harmoniously among a family of painters, saying, “… so long as they don’t allow philistines to get into their midst. “