Exactly 144 years ago, artist Jatindra Kumar Sen was born in Darbhanga district, Bihar.
An academic degree from an art college was simply not in his destiny.
Faced with the pressing need to secure a livelihood quickly, he wrapped up his studies there and ventured out in search of work.
But what could he do? It was only natural for him to seek work in drawing—the one thing he excelled at.
However, freelancing with sporadic illustrations here and there could only take him so far.
Relief came through Parashuram, the pen name of the celebrated writer Rajshekhar Basu.
At the time, Basu was a high-ranking official at Bengal Chemicals, where Jatindra eventually found employment, most likely through Basu’s courtesy.
At Dr Prafulla Chandra Roy’s renowned institution, Jatindra was entrusted with various responsibilities, including designing packages and labels for medicine vials and cosmetic bottles.
Alongside this, he was tasked with illustrating all of Bengal Chemicals’ advertisements.
His professional journey began there in the very first year of the last century.
From those early days, he became a master craftsman of advertising layout and design.
Not only that, but, having been directly involved in the craft, he was uniquely positioned to observe how the entire advertising landscape was rapidly transforming.
We are well aware of his masterful illustrations that accompanied Rajshekhar Basu’s writings.
Iconic drawings from Hanumaner Swapno to Mahesher Mahajatra, or those in Bhushundir Mathe and Girindrashekhar Basu’s Lalakalo, remain deeply etched in our collective memory.
Yet analytical studies or discussions regarding the distinct characteristics of his advertising illustrations are rarely found.
One thing, however, can be stated with certainty: when a man of such calibre writes an essay dissecting the nuances of advertising presentation, true connoisseurs of art are bound to devour it eagerly.
In 1950, at the age of sixty-eight, he did indeed pen an entire piece dedicated to advertising.
Written with a touch of wit reminiscent of Shibram Chakraborty—a style he was always naturally fond of—Jatindra Kumar sought to capture the core essence of what advertising truly represents.
He even categorised advertisements into three distinct types: Static (Achal), Dynamic (Sachal), and Stealth (Chorai).
To him, Static advertisements comprised text, posters, and pictures—the very subject we are discussing.
Dynamic advertisements were embodied by a priest draped in ritualistic shawls (Namavali) or a doctor with a stethoscope slung around his neck.
Stealth advertising referred to the “reprehensible” act of surreptitiously pasting bills on people’s houses without permission.
Despite creating countless advertisements himself, Jatindra Kumar realised that illustrated dynamic advertisements were often saturated with sheer affectation (‘ন্যাকামি সর্বস্ব’).
He cited an example from a hair oil advertisement: “Oh, are you listening? On your way back from the office, please bring six bottles of ‘Golden Hair Oil’ from ‘New Chemical’.
Buy them by the dozen to save.
My hair, as well as our daughter’s, is falling out completely.
Your hair is thinning, too.
They say it is a medicated hair oil.
Applying it will make your hair as thick as monsoon clouds.” Here, Jatindra Kumar was taking a direct dig at the copywriter, finding the advertising language utterly melodramatic (‘ন্যাকামি সর্বস্বই’).
Nevertheless, copywriters of that era had to cater strictly to the customs, manners, and speech patterns of conventional middle-class Hindu Bengali families.
I use the word “Hindu” deliberately because any discerning observer would notice the glaring absence of non-Hindu faces in both the visuals and text of the mainstream Bengali brand advertisements of that time.
This was ironic, considering that many founders of the major brands that gained popularity back then belonged to East Bengal, and their consumer base was by no means exclusive to Hindus.
Consequently, advertising visuals repeatedly depicted dhoti-clad Bengali men and saree-clad Bengali women.
On the other hand, the presence of non-Hindus in advertising art was strictly confined to occupation-based depictions, such as a Muslim artisan painting a wall in a paint advertisement, or a tailor at work.
This is a subject I intend to analyse separately in the future.
Strangely enough, Jatindra Kumar did not delve much into the illustrative aspects of advertising in his text.
This omission is rather surprising.
However, his use of the phrase “utterly affectation-driven” (‘ন্যাকামি সর্বস্ব’) was undoubtedly a bold and daring observation for its time.
It remains a fact that contemporary hair oil advertisements carried an air of distinct artificiality, or affectation.
Yet these were far from crude presentations; rather, the opposite was true.
There were exceptions, of course.
Artists working for reputed advertising agencies were far more sophisticated, crafting modern, artistic advertisements with professional finesse for hair oils, perfumes, soaps, and other cosmetics.
It is common knowledge that there was once an immense demand for hair oil among Bengali women.
Kolkata's M.L.
used to advertise their product Laxmibilas Taila in bold, prominent layouts.
Naturally, while illustrating these advertisements, artists had to sketch women.
One such advertisement read: “If you feel uneasiness in the head, a burning sensation during summer nights that disrupts sleep, or if clumps of hair come out while combing, you must immediately purchase Laxmibilas Oil.” One particular advertisement depicted a woman combing another woman’s hair, a visual that vividly recalls Jibanananda Das's poetic line, “Her hair was like the dark night of ancient Bidisha” ([‘চুল তার কবেকার অন্ধকার বিদিশার নিশা।’]).
In the advertisement, referencing Kalidasa’s Meghadūta, the possessor of the tresses, comparable to the darkness of Bidisha city, claims, “Such beautiful hair is only possible by applying Laxmibilas.” Interestingly, the woman combing the hair is shown in a saree and chemise, while the woman showcasing her hair is drawn in a way that makes the artist's brush appear almost “voyeuristic.” Instead of a contemporary blouse, the artist chose to dress her in a kanchuli (an ancient bustier).
The reason behind this choice is obvious: it was not merely to beautify the frame, but to make the advertisement infinitely more alluring.
Is this not a clear influence of Hemen Mazumdar? Artists like Hemen drew inspiration from classical iconography to portray voluptuous Bengali women, layering them with masterful brushwork.
That advertisement for Laxmibilas oil blended European influence with a distinct subcontinental sensibility.
However, that element of artificiality stands out starkly when viewed through a modern lens today.
Nonetheless, this advertisement remains an invaluable chronicle of grooming in Bengali society, the expansion of Swadeshi enterprises, and the fine draftsmanship of contemporary line art.
The intricate ornaments worn by the women, the patterns on their sarees, the flowers tucked into their hair, and the serene grace of their physical forms instantly evoke the traditional ethos of the “Bengal School of Art.” This particular artwork bears no artist's signature or initials.
As mentioned earlier, while some forgotten advertising artists could be identified by their brief signatures, they operated independently of advertising agencies.
This Laxmibilas oil advertisement graced the pages of Kolkata’s periodicals during the 1930s, an era when calendars adorned with Hemen Mazumdar’s paintings had become immensely popular.
Advertising artists were well aware that they could....
