The Long Haul Artist: Abish Mathew on Building, Breaking, and Becoming

From radio gigs in malls to hosting some of India’s most iconic comedy talk shows, Abish Mathew has carved out a distinct space in the world of entertainment — one marked by self-deprecating humor, unexpected vulnerability, and an undeniable flair for performance. In this candid Q&A, Abish speaks about the art of comedy, the curse of efficiency, and the strange, liberating pull of impending death as creative fuel. Buckle in — this one’s got jokes, truth bombs, and a whole lot of heart.

AB: How long have you been performing? All my life, really. I’ve always been uncomfortable in my own skin, so performance was a way out. But professionally? I think it started with a fancy dress competition in Class 2 — that was my first stage. Then came a gig as a mall MC before radio — my first paid performance. Dignity was bought and sold that day.

AB: What is art to you?

Art is the state of your heart and mind, imprinted on whatever medium you’re using — jokes, songs, Excel sheets even. It’s not about good or bad. We judge craft, not art. You can’t evaluate someone’s soul by one piece of work. You look at the journey.

AB: What’s your creative process like? In one word: inefficient. I’ve been sharpening my tools — my craft — without using them for real expression. Lately, I’m trying to let myself feel again and turn that into something. Right now, I’m more skill than soul, but I’m working on it.

AB: Any cool tricks or hacks you’ve learned in your career?  Yes — two things:

1. Troubleshoot as you go. Don’t wait till you’ve “learned everything.” Learn just enough to start, then fix things as they break.

2. Finish things the day you start them. Even if it’s rough, finish it. You can always come back and make it better. But don’t let the excitement die before the piece is done.

AB: What’s missing from the Indian art scene today?

We’re in a moment where virality defines value. Some forms of art have exploded, which makes them look like the “right” path — but in that race, a lot of true artists remain invisible, while craftsmen rise to the spotlight. I consider myself a good craftsman — I can pick up a skill, learn it, refine it. But an artist? That’s someone who pours emotion into their work without worrying whether it’s “good” or not. They just feel, and then they create.

The magic lies in the intersection — having an artist’s heart and a craftsman’s dedication. That’s the sweet spot. But very few people get to exist there, and even fewer are seen. Mostly because we’re all trying to impress some unknown audience. Who are we even creating for?

Back in school, if you were trying to impress someone while playing basketball, you’d go harder — more trick shots, more flair — because someone was watching. You had an audience. That clarity of purpose is what artists need. Create with intention. Know who you’re trying to reach — even if it’s just yourself.

If you're a craftsman, develop your inner world. If you’re an artist, learn your tools. And if what you’re chasing is virality — fine. But know that popularity without intention is hollow. If there’s honesty in what you’re making, even the roughest piece of art can have that one line, that one moment that stays with you.

The magic lies in the intersection — having an artist’s heart and a craftsman’s dedication. That’s the sweet spot. But very few people get to exist there, and even fewer are seen. Mostly because we’re all trying to impress some unknown audience. Who are we even creating for?

AB: What’s it like managing the financial side of being a comic? And how much of an investment does someone need to make just to start?

A: I ask myself this question all the time — if stand-up never became a career, would I still be doing it? And the answer is: Hell yeah. I'd still be at every open mic. Maybe I’d have a day job — at an ad agency, a radio station, even a call centre — but I’d always find a way to write a joke, get on stage, post a sketch, or tweet a one-liner. That urge to create? It doesn’t go away.

Ideas are like water in a river — they’ll keep flowing. But your passion is the pressure behind it. That’s what pushes through the pebbles in your path. And once that’s in place, the money just becomes a tool. You think, “Great, now I can buy a better camera,” or “Cool, I’ll hire a team.” As long as you keep reinvesting in your craft without compromising your vision, you’ll keep building something meaningful. Just don’t let money shift the reason why you’re doing it. Because at the end of the day, art is individual.

Q: Should artists learn to manage themselves before bringing on management? Honestly, I think it’s the other way around — managers should only work with artists who already get the basics of running a business.

Here’s my weird metaphor: artists are like strippers. We bare our insecurities on stage, wondering if people like us. Sometimes we get paid, and we’re not even sure why.

But if you walk into a room and say, “Hi, I’m a stripper and my rate is ₹2,000,” and they say it’s too much, you negotiate. That’s how you learn your value — by knowing what you offer and what it’s worth.

The manager’s job is to let you be creatively naked while they wear the suits. But that only works if you understand the dance. So yeah, artists should strip (metaphorically). Let the suits do their job — but know enough to choose the right ones.

Q: What’s missing in India’s artist management space today?  I think the management industry is great — but super overworked. One person is often managing ten artists, which means they’re just executing, not growing the artist.

The best managers find time to say, “Hey, your Instagram’s too polished — show something real.” But that kind of feedback barely happens because they’re chasing payments and emails all day.

Ideally, each artist should have one solid manager and several agents. The manager should know the artist deeply — what’s short-term money and what’s long-term vision.

Sometimes, a manager has to be the one to say, “Cut the money. Be broke. Make art. I’ve got you.” That’s rare — but it’s what protects the artist’s craft, not just their career.

Q: Should artists experiment early or master one thing first?  Depends on the person. I have to experiment. I don’t want to be a one-trick pony. If you throw me into something new, I’ll figure it out and get better — not best, but better than I was before.

If I had Andy Samberg’s success on Brooklyn Nine-Nine, I’d still need to move on eventually. If you’re only doing one thing, then you’re just chasing validation. That’s not enough for me.

I treat every year like it might be my last. I want to make everything I’ve ever dreamed of — even the weird stuff no one watches. Just so it exists.

Success comes and goes. I’ve had highs, dips, and plateaus. But like Warren Buffett said — play the long game. I don’t want to go viral for a day. I want to matter for a decade.

I don’t want to be a one-trick pony. If you throw me into something new, I’ll figure it out and get better — not best, but better than I was before.

Q: How do you know when to stop a new format or keep going? A: Set an end date before you start. Son of Abish is always eight episodes. Even if Shah Rukh Khan calls after that — it’s done.

A finish line lets you pause and ask, “Did I enjoy this? Do I want more?” Every format can eventually “work” — people come around, or you improve. But success is easy. The hard part is asking: do I want to keep doing this?

And when you’ve put in too much, your ego won’t let you quit. So I always recommend: do a short run, take a break, then decide. Right now, Son of Abish is between seasons — and I’m thinking, maybe it’s time to evolve or end it.

It’s not failure. Just one chapter closing.

Q: How should new stand-up comedians market themselves without a big following?  A:  It’s not really a Catch-22 — it’s a cycle. If you don’t have numbers, maybe you’re not ready yet. If you were that good, either someone would’ve discovered you or even one fan would start spreading the word.

Maybe you’re good at writing but bad at delivery — cool, then work on delivery. Once you’re confident, you’ll say, “Let me do 10 shows, even if I lose money.”

When that happens, ask friends for help. And if you’re really good, people will promote you for free. I’ve done that — I’ve shared people’s work because I believed in it.

But you’ve got to earn that. Be so “you” in your art that people admire it. That’s how it starts.

Q: What do you hope for the future of the arts?  You know when you’re doodling while listening to music, and the drawing just grows on its own — from lines to flowers to creepers to colour? That’s what I want for the arts.

I don’t want the arts to become anything. That’s limiting. Let it become what it wants — without plans or expectations.

Sure, goals are great. But real art sometimes comes from doing something for no reason. Just because it brings you joy. And doing it again and again, no matter who’s watching.

The moment we define the arts too much, we stop being artists. We become craftsmen, making versions to sell.

And that’s okay too — but let’s keep room for the wild, unplanned stuff. That’s where the magic is.