Laxman Shrestha - An (Un)Pause

Laxman Shrestha is a name even the most casual observers of the Indian art world encounter repeatedly, and know well. My first brush with the artist was at the once venerable Jehangir Art Gallery. I was not yet ten years old, and I was surveying his abstracts distractedly, unable to make much sense of them. He came up to me, asked me what I thought of them, and I said I liked the colours - an answer that sounded silly even to my pre-teen self. 

It's been some time since then, and I've had the pleasure of renewing my acquaitance with the artist's work at the Jehangir Nicholson Gallery's two part retrospective of his career. Curated by Ranjit Hoskote, the first part of the exhibition traces Shrestha's work from the 1960s to the late 1980s, and explores his evolution and concerns while also providing the context of his peers' expressions of abstraction. It's a compact, concise show that has depth, with paintings interpreted through excellent curatorial notes and a particularly informative interview with the artist. 

I'd like to think, though, that even in their absence, I'd find it within myself to appreciate Shrestha's work beyond the colours. The exhibition starts out with tight wedges of colour on small canvases - paintings that are crammed but composed, dense with textural detail. By the 1970s, something shifts and begins to uncoil - planes become larger, details become more dextrous, and forms become more fluid and organic. At one point, the works are described as 'explosive.'  

Explosive isn't the wrong word to use in the context of Shrestha's canvases. But isn't quite the word that occured to me, either. What came to mind was a word I hadn't used in a while - 'roil.' Think of a thick, mysterious liquid stirred quickly in a glass and then photographed, mid-swirl and mid-settle. The works put me in mind of the moment right after an explosion, with elements caught mid-motion, mid-momentum. This has to do with the fact that they aren't exuberantly energetic or violent - there's a contained vitality to them, the reds, blues, greens and beiges expanding but also poised. 

Does this sense of something that is, but also isn't balance come from the artist's interest in music, particularly jazz? Is it part of his quest for the Source? And if it is, why isn't it as silent and still as the solitude and silence that he describes as the Truth? And is that oddly energetic sense of pause ruptured by a clutch of works from the 80s, whose bisecting, geometric lines seem to jar? 

It's so very interesting. I can't wait to see what comes next, because I feel I am seeing it all for the first time. 

A Walk Among Lines

I've always loved looking at line drawings. Maybe it was all the art lessons I spent putting pencil, crayon, and much later, charcoal to paper, the scraping and the smudging, the sooty fingertips and wrists, the fact of creating something with a well-timed or ill-advised stroke, I'm not sure. There were moments when I enjoyed this, and equally there were moments when I resented the betrayal of my lines. Sometimes there was (what seemed to me) an insurmountable gap between what I wanted to draw and what actually took shape, at other times the shape and form were right, but the lines themselves looked hesitant and tentative instead of being liquid and fluid. I'd flip through all the instructional art books my father had collected, and each of them held drawings that seemed impossibly perfect - a few lines, drawn energetically and elegantly, putting together a picture that was no less than a painting. I wanted for my drawings to have that spirit and verve, but there was no getting around it - lines and line drawings were a rite of passage, and the only way to push past the limitations of my lines was through regular practice. Woe betide the inconsistent art student! A few days away from pencil and paper, and my lines would flag. 

Couple - II Lovers by Jogen Chowdhury

I've lost track of when exactly I stopped taking weekly art lessons but whenever I've gone back, I start by drawing lines. And at the risk of repeating myself, you only have to tell me about a line drawing exhibit and I will find a way to be there. There's something magical about line drawings - they represent an idea in evolution, they have the quality of an artistic fingerprint, they can span the continuum from simple and spare to vivid and sensuous. As with the best verse, there's little room for obfuscation - the line is art at its most transparent, a reliable 'tell' of artistic talent and sometimes, artistic intent. Lines are, simply put, hard taskmasters.   

Lantern by Bikash Bhattacharjee

Don't believe me? Do? Either way, visit the Jehangir Nicholson Gallery for a look at 40 odd line drawings curated by none other than Sunil Patwardhan. Called "Taking the Line for a Walk," (a name borrowed from Paul Klee's famous quote), the show is altogether excellent. The great Indian modernists, and their successors, are  each shown engaged in their own particular trysts with the line. Whether it is Tyeb Mehta, who would much rather work without lines but has a distinctive style irrespective; or Ara, whose 'Nude,' composed entirely of charcoal and smudges, has a sensuous, smooth quality; Paritosh Sen, whose 'Gorilla,' composed of deft charcoal strokes, is all muscle and bristle and snarl; Jogen Chowdhury, whose creamishly thick squiggles collapse perspective while retaining coherent form, but who is equally adept with the delicate, multi-layered cross-hatchings that lend texture and weight but also lightness to large figurative bodies (look at Couple - II Lovers); Arpita Singh, whose scenes of discreet domestic disquiet have an almost stippled quality; Bikash Bhattarchjee, whose 'Lantern' is a masterpiece in subtle charcoal technique; Sadanand Bakre's limpid and monumental forms; Nikhil Biswas's angry, whirling pen and ink swirls. There are so many gems of works and almost-works in this exhibition. But my favourite is the last work I saw - a young girl in pigtails by Lalu Prasad Shaw. Square, solid and sad and rendered with an expert, economical expressiveness. And I haven't even mentioned V.S. Gaitonde, Ganesh Pyne, Raza, Souza yet.  

If you're at all interested in what poetry, calligraphy, scribbles, shadow, solidity and delicacy look like when set in motion by a few flicks of an accomplished artist's wrists, look at line drawings. Anywhere works, but this show could be a nice place to start.    

Amrita Sher Gil - Personality and Painter

The NGMA's retrospective on Amrita Sher Gil has its flaws, but the artist shines through, regardless. Sher Gil burnt bright in her 28 years, painting prolifically, living fashionably and scandalously, winning admirers, awards and critics, denouncing the 'cheap sentimentality' that she felt was the stock-in-trade of too many of her Indian peers, dying quickly and restlessly. She was equal parts society swan and serious artist, sparkling and melancholic, bold and self-conscious. She inhabited a uniquely personal intersection between the European and the Indian, and she interpreted both Indian and European Modernism in that light. 

Organized chronologically, the exhibition allows a viewer to map the evolution of the artist's style. The first section on the ground floor consists of portraits, nude studies and some still lifes painted during the early 1930s. These are paintings bristling with energy, with thick brush strokes adding up to portray subjects as robust, sitting solid and square with expressions that are challenging, if not defiant. The feminine body is everywhere strong, unyielding, almost muscular. Although these are all different people, there is a bit of a sameness to them, as if the artist's personality had held greater sway during the sitting than the subject's. 

It is in the second section that her style begins to visibly mature. Sher Gil describes herself as an explorer of the sensuality of the line, and it is here that the sensuality comes into play most prominently. The portraits are more nuanced, the brush strokes less urgent, the people behind the painting make themselves a little more felt - whether coquettish, weary, clever or curious. There are many, many women here and they are vital - long limbed, large eyed, lush lipped. When nude, their bodies are painted with a matter of factness that renders their nudity almost besides the point and lets their personalities manifest. 

And of course there are many self-portraits of Sher Gil herself, painted at different times and in different moods - Amrita undressed (or undressing), Amrita in furs, laughing, languorous. Two of these, done in an almost Impressionist style, are the ones that I liked best - breezy and both of them showing her in her element, at work. There's also a small clutch of paintings made in Hungary - flat and almost cubist in their dimensions and interesting as a marked departure from her recognizably animated style.  

The third and last section is the one in which Sher Gil's craft becomes most refined, with the influence of Indian miniature painting and the frescoes and sculptures of Ajanta and Ellora becoming clearer. This is where the paintings become stylized, the lines fine, the use of space much, much cleverer, so much so that some of the oil paintings here have the quality of water-colours. Although a few of these paintings have a somber Gauginesque quality, most of them are sensitive and delicate portrayals of village life and (mostly) village women that play with perspective, pulling planes out and folding them back in. Although the iconic "Three Girls," "Brahmacharis" and "The Bride's Toilet" loom large, the images I still have with me are those of "Village Girls," "The Swing," "Ancient Storytellers" and "Elephants." All four are simultaneously angular but soft, flat but textured, full of that indefinable quality of mood. Sher Gil had said that she wanted to transcend the 'merely sentimental' with these paintings, and while there is romance here there is also dignity.  

Who knows what else this tempestuous, opinionated and polarizing artist would have done in the course of a longer career? She was flamboyant, she was politically incorrect, she was singular in times when it would have been much more convenient not to have been. Amrita Sher Gil was so entirely alive that she was never exactly a mystery. It's odd, but also true, that this is precisely what makes her all the more compelling. 

Petition for a New NGMA

I went to the Amrita Sher Gil retrospective at the NGMA, Mumbai, this morning. And had an experience that was disconcerting, to say the least. How is possible for one exhibition to leave me curious and interested, and incredibly annoyed, all at the same time? Here's how.  

The mounting of this show reveals a complete absence of imagination on the part of the curatorial team. Somewhere along the line, someone said (or thought) the following, and set events in motion accordingly. "Let's find a sparkling, provocative personality and a significant artistic influence and pay tribute to her. Let's structure her prodigious body of work chronologically because what other approach is there? Let's only have the most turgid, textbook curator-speak typed out on posters at the beginning of each section, and let's not include any other notes that may help give a viewer a perspective on the work or the artist as they walk through those sections. Let's use the same high-intensity lighting for all the works, so that some of them cannot be seen clearly, no matter what the angle. And right at the end of the show, to make up for the absence of detail along the way, let's gum up massive print outs of photos from the artist's life and quotes from her letters. Let's not worry about the fact that these print outs are unevenly pasted and ripping from the excess glue and would be approximately 10 times more interesting in context to, maybe, a painting." 

Just last weekend, I was so excited when I heard about this retrospective. Firstly, because I wanted to see more of Sher Gil's work, and secondly, because I was hoping it meant that the moribund NGMA, Mumbai was scraping its way back to relevance. As it so happens, this show is entirely in keeping with almost everything else the NGMA has served up under Rajeev Lochan's Delhi-based stewardship. Gone are the ambitiously mounted shows, the collaborations with international museums and galleries, the weekend and holiday art workshops for kids, the guided tours and the crowds. What we have instead are shows that pass through the city on their way across the country, interspersed only by repeated rearrangements of the institute's existing collections and virtually zero public engagement.  

Photo Credit: www.buzzintown.com

If this sounds like a rant, that's because it is. I remember how the NGMA used to be when it was run by Dr. Sarayu Doshi - collections by the great Indian modernists, the city's first brush with Picasso, with Egyptian exhibits from the British Musuem, with Italian post-modernism, with Fluxus, the sense that something new was happening here every month. Post the Cowasjee Jehangir Hall's restoration and inauguration, the NGMA was where many people in the city had their first brush with international art, with public exhibitions and with careful, thoughtful curation. Prior to this, the only themed multi-artist exhibitions I had seen were the RPG sponsored annual shows at the Jehangir Art Gallery. 

The NGMA Mumbai's decline since Dr. Doshi's departure has been steep and has remained unchecked in spite of some publicly aired misgivings. In the last five years, I can count the number of interesting shows I have seen here on the fingers of one hand - the TIFR's collection of modern Indian art (2011), a Bollywood and film themed exhibition celebrating a 100 years of Indian cinema (2012), and the Rabindranath Tagore and Homai Vyarawalla retrospectives (2013 and 2011 respectively). Most of these exhibitions were launched in Delhi and passed through Mumbai as a matter of form. Even the TIFR show can be attributed to the energies of the that institute's director, and not to any lapse into initiative at the NGMA. Girish Shahane made many of these points in a trenchant post written about 3.5 years ago. Since then, little has changed.

This is just not good enough for what is supposed to be a premier art space in the country's financial capital. Across the way, the stately Prince of Wales museum has reinvented itself. The Bhau Daji Lad has also been consistently and imaginatively engaging with the city's community since its overhaul. 

It seems the NGMA has witnessed the appointment of a new Director for Mumbai, a Mr. Shivaprasad Khened. But Mr. Lochan's shadow must loom large, because any signs of a new dispensation and new energies are conspicuous by their absence. Mumbai needs more cultural spaces and museums, but the present NGMA is doing us a disservice, occupying prime real estate and consuming public resources and giving back very little in return, other than subsidized rentals for theater groups during the Kala Ghoda Festival. I don't know who's paying attention, and I'll wager nobody is, but since the new government claims to be coming in with cleaning supplies and a big broom, maybe I'll drop them a tweet. Or two.  

Paintings, Prints and Ports

It isn't just me. Over the past year or so, the CSMVS (formerly the Prince of Wales Museum) has significantly upped its game, hosting events, exhibitions, lectures and meet-and-greets with a frequency that is quite surprising to anyone familiar with its history as a worthy, but deeply sleepy institution. 

This morning, the first Sunday of the New Year, saw me at the Premchand Roychand Gallery, which is hosting "Flemish Masterpieces From Antwerp" till the 6th of February. Interestingly, it's a show presented by the Port of Antwerp in collaboration with the city's museums. Not the other way around. 

The curatorial intent is intriguing - an exploration of the intersection between ports and art, the unwitting role of wealthy merchants and traders in creating currency and cachet for an artist or a style, the popularization of art through innovations in print-making, the Biblical and religious underpinnings of 17th century landscape and still-life works. This is a lot of ground to cover, and the show works best if approached as a sort of 'tasting menu' of Flemish art. It provides just enough exposure to portraiture, genre paintings, still life(s) and the celebrated artists Rubens, Van Dyk and Brueghel to whet the appetite. 

The paintings attest to the ability of Flemish artists to work with light and with lush, sensuous brush-strokes. But linger over the prints, most of which are simply outstanding. Print-making and etching are incredibly demanding and unforgiving endeavors. Artists and craftsmen have to labor hard and long, and there is little room for error. I've always thought of a great print - one filled with texture, depth and movement - as something of a marvel. I'd wager that many of the prints in this exhibition (done after Rubens) match or possibly even outdo the original paintings and drawings. There are hunting scenes swirling with lions, crocodiles and a hippopotamus, families in repose, scenes of drunken debauchery and a luminous (yes, in print form) portrait of a grandmother and grandson holding a candle. 

Keep an eye out for an easy-to-miss nobleman's portrait, one whose flamboyant lines and bold lack of detail from the neck down are nothing short of provocative, given the time in which it was produced. Last, but not the least, spend some time with Gonzales Coques and Daniel Segher's 'Portrait of a man in a garland.' Hundreds of years later, the flowers in that garland look beautiful and vibrant enough to break off and take home. 

So don't let the unimaginative title of the show dissuade you. You'll come away impressed by the art, and dare I say it, by the Port of Antwerp.  

The Polymath As Painter

It is difficult, if not impossible, to visit the 'Last Harvest,' an exhibition of over 200 of Rabindranath Tagore's artworks, with a truly open mind. After all, one is talking about India's greatest polymath, a man equal parts poet, playwright, philosopher, cultural ambassador, educator, writer and humanist. His genius is authentic and undisputed. One hundred and fifty years after his birth, his ideas continue to resonate, his large body of work continues to move and to inspire. Surely, his paintings and sketches can be no different, even if the man himself was modest and diffident about them, describing his skill as limited and his interest as more of an indulgence, an infatuation? And so, one approaches the exhibition in a spirit of respectful curiosity. Critique is superfluous.

But I do have my opinions, and my overriding impression is that Rabindranath Tagore was not a great artist, but an interesting and significant one, although I would contend that at least some of the significance derives from the fact that Tagore was, well, Tagore. 

He started out making idiosyncratic doodles - forms in the margins of books, attempts to convert unseemly jottings and scratchings in his writing into larger patterns. His friend Victoria Ocampo encouraged him to pursue this fledgling interest and he eventually exhibited publicly in Paris in May 1930. His work was acclaimed,and travelled to other countries before being shown in Calcutta in 1931. 

This idiosyncrasy is evident in the first part of the exhibition - an aggregation of softly sinuous or severely angular forms rendered in pen, ink, pastels and watercolours. These are mostly fantastical creatures, monsters, flights of fancy that seem vaguely Asian or Polynesian, the substance of ancient art and old stories, simultaneously strange and familiar. The second part of the exhibition, devoted to inky landscapes, left me cold. The third and fourth parts - drawings of people, group scenes and faces - were the most rewarding. Tagore had a profound and sensitive understanding of character, drama and gesture and it's no surprise that all of the figures and faces in the exhibition express and emote. The women with their baleful eyes and elongated heads leave an indistinct, hazy impression, although there a couple of pen and ink drawings that are  so cleanly delineated and whimsical that they could almost have been drawn by another hand. 

Overall, the dark colour schemes, the smudgings, cross-hatchings and soft lines all combine to make you feel like you have wandered into a part of Tagore's mind where things are ideas are still suggestions and forms unresolved. Tagore spoke of his painting and sketching as having a rhythm and meaning that didn't require explanation. I'm not sure about the meaning, but there is a rhythm here - sibilant, soft, slow, serious and very occasionally, lilting. 

In his art, as in other spheres, he was modern before his time and by some accounts he catalyzed modern Indian art. When I look at his work I am reminded forcefully of KG Subramanyan's, and Subramanyan was himself a pioneer. Tagore was a titan before he picked up the paintbrush in his late sixties. And while his art does not build his genius, it does burnish it. 

Two Saturday Mornings, Mostly Well Spent

It's been a promising few weeks for art in Bombay. The art world's equivalent of a rockstar making his debut in the city, a festival of photography, more shows previewing than I could keep count of and several populating the weekly must-do/must-see lists of lifestyle magazines. As always, there was more that I wish I had seen than I could actually make the time for.

A Photograph is Not an Opinion - Contemporary Photography by Women

Curated by Sunil Gupta and Veeranganakumari Solanki, featuring multiple artists

March 14th - 27th, Terrace Gallery (at Jehangir Art Gallery)

Many photographers, many concerns - disease and death, the environment, the body, the passage of time and meaning, a woman's right to physical autonomy in public spaces, the burdensof conflict and loss that women bear, longings and explorations, the constitution of family, socialization, repression and coming of age, desolation and its conceits. Some works were overtly feminist, some less so, some perhaps not at all. There was a lot to see and to process. Multiple themes jostled together and what one eventually got was a glimpse of an artist's work rather than an articulation of a narrative, process or aesthetic. Full marks for breadth and for bringing a few lesser-known names (to me, at least) into the spotlight. But none too many for depth.

A Village in Bengal

Chirodeep Chaudhari

March 14th - 26th, Project 88

I'd seen one of Chaudhari's photographs from this exhibition in my morning newspaper. It struck me enough to have me venture out in the afternoon sun to see the complete show. Anyone who's been in Bombay over the last few days will acknowledge that that's no mean feat for a badly reproduced photograph to accomplish.

Chaudhari's show consists exclusively of images of the Durga Pujo his extended family celebrates in their ancestral home in rural Bengal. Taken over a span of 12 years, the pictures are an attempt to capture his family's history as it evolves, takes on new forms and transforms completely. It is also a story of the photographer's own acquaintanceship with a place that is significant, but not, a place that is not quite home, but not quite away. If you visit, flip through the accompanying coffee table book - A Village in Bengal - and read the artist's essay, which describes his process much more eloquently and clearly than I have.

Looking at the show does feel a little bit like looking at a family album, but in the best possible way. Intimate without being intrusive, these images are vividly personal and particular but also instantly recognizable, each evoking a mood or a moment the viewer could have experienced in a completely different context. And they're beautiful - fine-grained and detailed in a way a lot of photography no longer seems to be. Ripples, creases, gestures and pauses are all captured with skill, deliberation and without mawkishness. Craft that doesn't crumble under the weight of concern might be old-fashioned, but it will always get my vote, and this show has plenty of it.

Anatomy of Silence

Rakhi Peswani

11th February - 9th March, Guild

I never know quite what to make of the Guild. I can't predict what I'm going to see - works that are angry and shrill, confusing, thought-through or simply well-intentioned. Rakhi Peswani's show checks the last three boxes, some more vigorously than others. It's an interesting idea - the exploration of the hand-made and its associations with art, myth or more appropriately in this country, labour. As a supposedly evolving consumption society, we exoticize and fetishize the hand-made but do not often enough investigate its origins in the repetitive and exploitative. What price do we - or does someone - pay for our crafts? The best works are those that bring light to bear on the unnoticed and unacknowledged 'handmade-ness' of the mundane - handkerchiefs, washcloths, mattresses. The least effective are the quotes embroidered on limply hanging sheets of gauze/ chiffon/ something ethereal.

Poems I Used To Know

William Kentridge

6th February - 20th March, Volte

What can I say about this show that hasn't already been said? Kentridge is much celebrated and lauded, and anyone who pretends to have even the most cursory interest in contemporary art has been hot-footing it to Volte over the past few weeks. The show has been heralded as a coup for the gallery and the city and for once, the heralds seem to have gotten it right.

I haven't seen enough of Kentridge's work or its staging to be able to compare this show with his other triumphs, but the art is indisputably interesting and good. I am not me, the horse is not mine is the centerpiece. Part collage, part film, part performance, part text, it's ultimately a work about the absurdity of disavowal and the conditions that make it necessary. What gestures and words does one employ to distance oneself from one's own gestures and words? It's ultimately a futile exercise but one that produces interesting and amusing theater when performed on a large enough scale.

There's enough and more to see and lots of technique on display - hand woven wool, ink and charcoal drawings on pages torn from the Oxford Universal Dictionary, sculpture, lithographs, smaller sets of films. I didn't expect to have fun, but I did, especially when watching 'No, IT IS' (2012), a triptych of flipbook films. I suppose it's because I really enjoy looking at sketches and pen and ink drawings, and Kentridge has a lightness and deftness of touch that I wasn't expecting.

So go, make sure you look at everything, and come away feeling that you've spent your time well.

In Praise of Parsis

PARSIS

Sooni Taraporevala

March 6th - April 6th, 2013

I've studied for 12 years in a school run by a Parsi trust, been taught by Parsi teachers, grown up around Parsi friends, done the chicken-dance at Navjotes, attended accounting and French lessons in baugs and in the course of so doing, acquired the art of navigating said baugs while avoiding eye-contact with their resident eccentrics. I was taught Hindustani classical music for several years by a wonderful Parsi teacher named Zarine. She was already in her 70s when I started studying with her. But she didn't let her age, or the fact that she had been blind virtually her entire life, dissuade her from wearing floral printed saris and garas, pearls, perfume and a glittering colour-coordinated sari pin to every single lesson. She taught us entirely by ear and I cannot remember her repeating a single sari although of course, she must have. 

All of this is an extremely long-winded way of saying that I know Parsis, at least a little bit. And that I like them, a lot. So in visiting Sooni Taraporewala's exhibition, I thought - portraits of Parsis, what's not to like?

Plenty of paeans have been sung to this city's Parsis, all richly deserved, and this exhibition is an addition to the chorus. A community whose members are equal parts irascible, cantankerous, orderly, gregarious, boisterous, insular, sophisticated and crude; whose mighty contributions to Bombay and India are out of all proportion to its tiny numbers; increasingly lamented as dwindling in size and influence, but continuing to thrive regardless. I've realized that the rest of us think of Parsis affectionately, but in terms of stock 'roles' or 'types' - the flamboyant eccentric, the chic ingenue, the mummy's boy, the elegantly wasted, the pernickety store-owner, the protector and preserver of all-things-automobile, the piner for past (imperial) glories, the punter at the races, the teacher/ tormentor, the titan of art and industry. All of these characters are very much in evidence in the photographs, but so are others - mickey mouse boys, piano tuners, grandparents, pickle-purveyors, ladies catching up at street-corners in their big-print dresses. The exhibition, for me, is a pleasant pause - a reminder of a different (and better) city. 

It's all very pleasant and likeable. Though sometimes I wonder if we're doing Parsis a disservice by imbuing them with our nostalgia a little too soon, even though we can agree that the city and its other communities would be much the poorer without them. 

And for all the conversations I've been hearing lately about who is really from this city and when a person becomes of this city - here's one simple, innocuous question  that could help settle matters - do you know Parsis? Do you have a story about them? To qualify as a true-blue Mumbaikar, one with real roots here, you must. It almost goes without saying.  

Shilpa Gupta's Someone Else: Concern Meets Circuitry

Shilpa Gupta: Someone Else
Chemould Prescott Road
21st January - 16th February, 2012

This was a show about identities, boundaries, conventions and struggles, about lines that are drawn but must be crossed, about selves that are hidden, made and unmade, about compromises that are imposed on individuals. It was coherent and cohesive, with each art-work clearly articulating these themes.

But it was more interesting when read as a show about technique in the service of expression, about science and technology enabling art. Whether it was an interactive installation ordering the viewer to move backwards, forwards and stop! along a brick line facing a blank wall; whether it was a book heated to several hundred degrees Celsius and emitting a warning red glow; an airport flap-board asking tricky questions on loop -  neither of these works would have been as effective without all the wiring underpinning them.

The centre-piece of the show was an eponymous work comprising a hundred stainless-steel books, hollowed out with only the covers left behind. These covers were replicas of literary classics, with one small intervention - an explanation of why the author chose (?) to assume a pseudonym or camouflage some aspect of their selves. It's sobering to think of the price we continue to pay to be able to express an opinion or even a talent. The work I responded to most was 'Singing Cloud,' a massive form constituted of over 4000 microphones emitting a single sing-song lament. It loomed, exuding an energy of its own. And it must have taken a substantial amount of effort and skill to build and suspend.  

A show where concept met concern met circuitry. I left lugging a soap-bar embossed with the legend 'THREAT.' It now sits innocuously in my home, which is of course the point.  

  

Making Amends: Several Shows, Scattered Recollections

First, the caveats: This post is an attempt to make good on the commitment that I would engage more frequently with art and that I would document that engagement. I have forgotten more than I remember about all the shows discussed here. But having seen them, I still have something - tentative, succinct, partially accurate or otherwise - to say.

Atul Dodiya: 'bako exists. imagine'

Chemould Prescott Road

10th September - 20th October, 2011

Atul Dodiya is almost impossible to dislike. He is intelligent, sensitive, talented, willing to experiment, but also self-deprecating, humorous and approachable. A critic's artist, a collector's artist and a viewer's artist.

bako exists. imagine was one more in a long line of successful shows for Dodiya. It covered familiar ground but was also animated by ongoing personal concerns. There were cabinets jam-packed with references, almost like puzzles waiting to be put together; elements of autobiography; a recognizable visual style. There were also illustrations of Gujarati poet Labhshanker Thacker's fictions in which a young boy called Bako dreams of Mahatma Gandhi, fondly referred to as Bapu. There was something surreal about these visuals - renderings of renderings - and they weren't easy to navigate. The viewer felt removed, twice-over. But then, so too was Dodiya, who was examining his inner landscape as refracted through Thacker's work. The whole show was oddly discomfiting, but maybe that is to be expected when a real-world artist sets out to explore a fictional character's dreams of a defining historical figure.  

Balaji Ponna: 'Looking is not Seeing'

The Guild, Mumbai

September 8th - October 3rd, 2011

This was ostensibly a show about sub-text, in which words would intervene between the viewer and the work - creating a momentary disconnection, but ultimately framing the audience's interpretation of the work. In foregrounding sub-text, an artist essentially calls on the viewer to be conscious and aware of his or her responses, to look out for cues and contradictions. When a show hinges on semantics it's important that neither the words nor the work are literal. They cannot stand in for each other, they have to create space for (mis)interpretation.

But Balaji Ponna's works were the kind that left no room for doubt - either about his opinions or the intended meaning of the painting/sculpture/installation. One example would be paver blocks embossed with forms of sleeping men, meant to represent urban India's burgeoning homeless population. The work was entitled 'New Designs for our Country's Pavements.' When the substance is this apparent and overt, the sub-text is rendered irrelevant.    

Sudhir Patwardhan (Curator): The Art of Drawing

The Guild, Mumbai

October 2011

Drawing is the foundation for artistic skill. Most art students spend hours sketching, diligently seeking out scenes, subjects, angles, perspectives. Drawings also illustrate art-making, telling us where an artist comes from, how he sees, and why he ends up going where he does with his work. Drawings and scribbles are fascinating, and museums abroad mount special exhibitions dedicated to them. But they have fallen sadly out of fashion, particularly in Bombay's contemporary art 'scene.'

I must confess that I was happy just to see drawings in a gallery. There's something reassuring about pen and ink, just as there is something reassuring about making things with one's hands after hours spent tapping away at a keyboard or moving a mouse.

Because drawings are so intimately linked to an artist's process, it goes without saying that all drawings are different and that some work better than others. Gieve Patel's clouds, for instance, were ruminations. Sudhir Patwardhan's views of a street were definite but not beautiful - part of an exercise. Krishan Khanna's and Tushar Joag's sketches were cohesive, almost complete; others dream-like and disjointed. Whether these drawings succeeded as works depended almost entirely on how interested the viewer was in the artistic process, and what kind of process he sympathized with.  

Yardena Kurulkar: 'Transcience'

Gallery BMB

11th August - 7th September, 2011

Death and Life are part of a single cycle, each is meaningless without the other. It's interesting that we prefer to think of them as being distinct, apart: life is impermanent, uncertain, precious; death is the given we prefer not to contemplate. These were Kurulkar's concerns: not unique, but definitely weighty. In juxtaposing death and life, she had given herself the opportunity to convey something important and significant. 

Unfortunately, Kurulkar's works seemed less about exploring these juxtapositions and more about describing decay. Mottled heads and limbs, rotting bodies; black lines fading into whiteness and then nothingness - this was a show that emphatically reminded its viewers that not only is death inevitable, it also leaves us looking rather the worse for wear.

Sheeba Chhachhi: 'Luminarium: A Prelude'

Volte

13th June - 1st August 2011

Sheeba Chhacchi's works glowed. Sophisticated, complex, layered, drawing on current affairs, myth and history, they were a delight to decode. Looking back, I realize that what was most interesting about her show was not the visual detail nor the multiple references or even the technology - it was the pace of the installations.

Each installation moved at a certain speed, and in order to 'see' and 'understand,' viewers had to make associations and align themselves to the movement of birds across a landscape. This reorientation, facilitated by a specially designed soundtrack, yielded its own rewards. People slowed down, they looked closely, they took their time. There really was no other way to satisfactorily experience Chhachhi's show. It takes a special kind of skill and attention to detail to merit that kind of effort. Chhachhi's success lay in getting viewers to look and linger.

Mumbai Gallery Weekend: More Hit, Less Miss

Mumbai Gallery Weekend

Taj Land's End

31st March - 1st April, 2012

Nine galleries, a few dozen artists and several people one doesn't get to see at the SoBo openings. Some compelling work mixed with art that had a been-there-done-that quality. My favourite works were by the Pakistani artists represented by Lakereen. Imran Quershi's art was compact and delicate - all fine lines, simple colours and forms that were precise but undeniably organic. Atif Khan had created a larger canvas called the 'Flying Carpet' - a beautiful rendering of flowers and ants designed for geometric effect. I also enjoyed Ranbir Kaleka's 'Chimerical Entrapment.' I liked the way he negotiated multiple milieus using a single object, in this case, a vase of flowers. Kaleka will allow the buyer to nominate someone to be incorporated into the mixed-media work - a quaint personal touch from an artist who is otherwise known for operating with decidedly cutting-edge tools.

And then there were: Reena Saini Kallat's large web of identity-endowing stamps; Manjunath Kamath's charming mixed media musings on the little and the commonplace; splashes of red and charcoal; tongue-in-cheek observations on the Krishna Leela; plastic bags and foil spun into sculpture; glass hammers reposing in glass cases; bonsai works by Charwei Tsai; Priyanka Choudhary's visceral mash up of wax and kitchen knives; and a Damien Hirst. What was interesting was the presence of several works that privileged technique and craft, that deliberately set up tensions between material, form and content. 

But other themes were repetitive, almost predictable - anxieties about scientific interventions in supposedly 'natural' realms, questions about identity and caustic takes on convention and consumerism. Not surprisingly, the ensuing art seemed to lack depth and investigation - whether it was a 3D representation of genetically engineered fruit, or the tale of the three monkeys related through photos of children. And there was a certain confusion and lack of context that came from having different works by different artists share a fairly small space. There was no breathing room, and  no apparent rationale for why thing were grouped and organized the way they were.  

More of a collector's event than an exhibition for the general public. Even so, the MGW  made for an afternoon well-spent.

Advertising as Art: An Argument

Most of us like to think that we’re entitled to our opinions, and most of us articulate our opinions in keeping with this spirit of entitlement. We’re quick to legitimize what we like, dismiss what we dislike and to oppose competing points of view. And when it comes to art and advertising, people – here I speak of the somewhat informed many, not the well-informed few - tend to have distinct associations and defined points of view. In the popular imagination, Art is pure, born of ideal and idea, untainted by commerce. Great art is something the world is always in need of. Advertising, on the other hand, is glorified salesmanship. Ads are eyesores, frequently crude, unabashedly commercial. Ads are the siren call of capitalism. Always taken with a pinch of salt, they’re something the world could do without.

Art and advertising. We’re somehow convinced that the twain will never meet. 

Except that they have, and do.

There are numerous examples of art masquerading as advertising. Both BMW and Mercedes have sponsored art, with the caveat being that their cars are used as the canvas. Skoda has launched a prize for emerging Indian artists. Levi’s and Dewar’s have recently collaborated with painters and performing artists, commissioning either graffiti or music depending on how they want their brand identity to translate into artistic forms. Louis Vuitton has commissioned sold-out collections by maverick Japanese artist Takashi Murakami, and Absolut has elevated artistic collaboration into an art form of its own, commissioning pieces by Warhol, Basquiat, Subodh Gupta, Keith Haring, RoseMarie Trockel and several others. These works form part of traveling exhibitions and there are concrete plans to establish an Absolut Museum in Stockholm. 

It’s evident even from this very limited set of examples that artists and advertisers have been striking bargains for some time now. The artist gains an opportunity to interact with new audiences and engage with new forms. The brand acquires cultural currency and legitimacy – extremely valuable in an age where more and more brands like to think of themselves as purveyors of content, not products.

Authors have also pointed out the structural similarities between the markets for art and advertising. In Renaissance Italy, for instance, artists and patrons drew up contracts specifying the size, content, color schemes and the date of completion of paintings. These contracts often codified minutiae, with artists specifying just how much time they would spend on the work, as opposed to the time spent by apprentices. Often, patrons would demand that a certain quantity of indigo or gold leaf be used in the work, and the artist would correspondingly have to account for purchases, weights and produce proofs of payment. Knowing this, the art markets of today - crowded with auction houses, per-square-foot rates and artists who are less personality and more ‘brand’ – seem like an evolution rather than a departure from (or betrayal of) the past. And both kinds of art markets – past and present – bear a startling similarity to the agency-client relationship.

Parallels have been also been drawn between the motives of Renaissance patrons and present-day advertisers. According to game theorists, patrons in Italy used commissions to ‘signal’ status and make statements regarding religious and political affiliations. Art was an investment, made with a view towards building a personal and familial reputation. This reputation could then be drawn on to facilitate business and social relationships and to tide families over crises caused by slander or scandal. In a sense, both the 15^th century Italian noble and the modern-day brand owner are pursuing the same ends – both seek to create a distinct identity and build equity. They are signaling certain attributes towards long-term ends.

Having established that art and advertising have more in common than one would assume, I’d like to propose a rather more controversial thesis. If art and advertising can be used collaboratively, to fulfill similar ends, is it possible to think of advertising as art? 

Which brings us to the question – what is art?

The answer to this question is constantly evolving. Developments in science and technology, shifts in ideology and society have conspired to consistently challenge ideas about what constitutes art. Contemporary art is digital, video, performance-based, mixed-media, installations, typographical, abstract. The conventional markers of art – paintings, frames, clearly defined sculptures and identifiable themes – are increasingly difficult to find. We are living in the age of art as idea, concept and engagement.

And what, then, is advertising?

Advertising  too is changing – going viral, becoming high-tech, aspiring to become embedded in lives and conversations, aiming for ‘shareability,’ blurring the lines that separate ‘creativity’ from ‘commerce’ and ‘consumers’ from ‘companies.’ We are living in the age of advertising as content and experience creation with a view towards building brands and driving sales through engagement.  

This overlap - the pursuit of engagement - between art and advertising mirrors another seismic shift which raised questions about the nature of art and the legitimacy of new artistic forms – the emergence of photography and film. I find it useful to reference Walter Benjamin’s seminal essay discussing the impact of mechanical reproduction on art

According to Benjamin, art had always derived its ‘aura’  from tradition and ritual – after all, many great works of art started their lives as cult or religious objects. Moreover, their power lay in their authenticity and uniqueness – being one of a kind, being original. But photography liberated art from this need for authenticity – after all, any number of prints could be taken from a single negative. Who was to say that one print was more authentic and therefore invested with more power than the other? 

Films went one step further. They were art forms created for popular, rather than individual consumption, allowing audiences to experience motion, images and sound. Through the use of mechanical equipment, films created mass illusions that seemed real.

Cumulatively, photography and film divorced art from the ritual and the personal. I propose that advertising in its current form takes art full-circle, bringing it back into the realm of the ritual and re-establishing a personal relationship between the object and the audience.

Why do I say this? Firstly, because irrespective of our preoccupation with reach, numbers and ROI, advertising is ultimately personal. While all brands seek approval from the many, the basis for this approval is personal engagement, built with individual consumers who then make choices about sharing/ embedding the brand within their social contexts.  The brand might ultimately address a large audience, but this journey begins by winning over a few influencers, one handful at a time.

Secondly, advertising endows an object (in this case the product or the brand) with ritual qualities. Ads spin narratives around products and brands. These narratives are intended to shape perceptions, elicit emotional responses and evoke meaning and feeling. The ultimate aim is to make the product or the brand an indispensible part of the individual's routine and personal schema. It is just that the rituals in question are of a different order - not traditional religious rites but everyday contemporary behaviours - drinking a favorite brand of coffee, staying at a particular hotel, investing with a specific mutual fund, working with a certain organization, even day-dreaming about being able to buy the 'IT' bag.

It is advertising and branding that endow these decisions with significance. After all, in a world in which one can assume a base level of quality and product parity, what is the difference between drinking Lavazza or Nescafe? The difference is that by choosing between them, a consumer is buying into different promises, different experiences. And when this selection is made on a regular basis, the product or brand becomes part of the consumer's personal schema - the framework of thoughts and behaviors through which she negotiates the world. And isn't that precisely what rituals help us do?

I'm making some bold and contentious claims, and I'm aware that my argument is far from water-tight. But it's also time to look at advertising in the eye, see it for everything that it is. Yes, advertising is always creativity in the service of commerce. But it is also culture, ritual, story-telling and object-making. Advertising can tell us about where the world is going, help us distinguish ourselves from one another, aid us in making our decisions. It is creativity put to work. There's no denying that advertising is problematic, complicated, frequently irresponsible (occasionally manipulative) and aesthetically questionable. But it is undeniably a product of its times - an imperfect art, speaking to imperfect people, in an imperfect world.

The Thinking Mumbaikar's Museum

Jeejamata Udayan, Bombay's rundown, ramshackle zoo, is no place for a museum. But in a city that works in mysterious and baffling ways, the zoo is precisely what the Bhau Daji Lad Museum calls home. And if location weren't enough of a disadvantage, it is also commonly acknowledged that the Prince of Wales Museum (situated in the heart of Bombay's tourist district) houses a far more impressive collection, in a structure that's considerably larger and better taken care of.

So what, if anything, does the BDL have going for it? A sense of its place in history, and a vision for its role in the city's development.

Established by Lord Elphinstone, the museum was meant to be a storehouse for industrial products, arts and crafts. Ransacked during the 1857 Mutiny, it was resurrected by a committee of prominent citizens, given its present home, and refurbished with donations from the government and the public. With India being absorbed into the British Empire, in true colonial fashion, the museum was named after Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert.

Over the years, though, the V&A Bombay, fell into disrepair and was almost totally neglected. Its restoration was a protracted affair, requiring the combined efforts of an unusually enterprising director, an unprecedented public-private partnership, and several craftsmen and experts. Once restored, the museum was re-named after the founder who had most ardently championed its cause. Today, the modestly-sized BDL looks sumptuous, saturated as it is with color and intricate detail. Columns soar to the ceilings, tiles gleam, and light fills the building. 

The collection remains largely unchanged from the one seen by millions at the Crystal Palace in 1851. It consists of artifacts -  textiles, lac work, daggers, vases, brass platters and even carved coconut shells - from across the country, products traded by neighboring states, and dioramas constructed by students from the (then) Bombay School of Art. 

This was a collection designed to convey the diversity of India and the capabilities of its craftsmen. But it also pandered to the sensibilities of the average 19th century Briton. Indians were presented as curiosities, and the Indian village, as a harmonious but dangerously rustic idyll. The colonial government was also preoccupied with the classification of Indians into 'types,' which would explain the presence of numerous figurines representing meticulously delineated sub-communities such as 'Bhatias' 'Amdavadi Banias' 'Prabhus' and 'Surti Bohras.' Pay special attention to the maps - each one is unique, created to fulfill different purposes and answer to different interests - a telling comment on the contentiousness of boundary-making and the covetousness of ownership.

In and of itself, the collection merits one, or possibly two visits. But it is elevated by a spirit of inquiry. The collection is simultaneously two things - a celebration of craftsmanship and the city, and a deliberate, self-conscious investigation into the construction of history and the museum's own past. This self-consciousness is lent weight through collaborations with contemporary artists such as Chintan Upadhyay and Jitish Kallat.

Jitish Kallat's ongoing interventions at the BDL are thought-through and remarkably successful. Whether it's the true-to-scale scaffolding, intertwined with animal sculptures, or a massive wrought-iron stove representing destruction and sustenance, the works draw inspiration from Bombay's colonial-era architecture and its elaborate Gothic flourishes. 'Anger at the Speed of Fright' is a deceptively commonplace diorama. It's easy for a visitor's gaze to slide over the work - but if one is paying attention, one will notice dozens of figurines in two glass cabinets, poised to hurl, maim and hurt - an interesting contrast to the demure goddesses and peaceable citizens that form part of the permanent exhibit.

There are other interventions designed to question the linearity of time and the coherence of space - old-school Roman numerals illuminated by ghastly florescent light, and a single photograph composed using multiple shots taken over time. A particularly elegant intervention involves the projection of a You-Tube 'loading' symbol onto a relief map - an appropriate signifier for a city that is moving too fast to come to grips with itself. My personal favorite is a large waxy looking heart, which on closer examination reveals itself to be an inverted flyover congested with traffic - a tongue in cheek commentary on Bombay's clogged arteries.

Each work has its own integrity but retains a strong and, more importantly, valid link to the museum. The interventions 'belong' - which might be why they are so easy to miss. This kind of dialogue - between artist and museum, between an individual's concerns and an institution's history - allows the collection to transcend itself. I don't expect all the planned interventions to be equally effective, but each will likely have a perspective to offer, and will cast a different light on the objects and artifacts, drawing visitors back again and again.

Unlike the Prince of Wales, which is content with showcasing the past, the BDL seems intent on questioning and challenging itself. School students are invited to attend workshops, study-sessions and walkthroughs, and there are plans to create more educational content, design interactive kiosks and offer full-fledged diplomas. Few Indian museums question their legacy as part of their contribution to their communities. If this doesn't merit a visit to the zoo, I'm not sure what will.

Note: Wanted to rectify a couple of  factual errors:  the museum was renamed in 1975, and has interacted with Sudarshan Shetty, Nikhil Chopra and Jitish Kallat (not Chintan Upadhyay). Many thanks to Varsha R. for the corrections.

Nature and the Cosmos - Observations from a Lapsed Art Lover

Is it just me, or are there more shows on in Bombay right now than one can possibly hope to keep up with? The last few weekends seem to have slipped right past me, taking with them a host of shows that I was very keen to see - Manjunath Kamath at Sakshi, young curators at Art Loft, Iranian art at the Guild, Zuleikha Chaudhari at Project 88 and Maya Burman at Art Musings. 

There's probably a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe what the art lover needs is an iron will, the ability to resist the temptation to eat, nap, shop and watch movies in a quest to see every exhibition in town. It is safe to say that I lack this strength of character, and that I remain undecided about whether it must be cultivated. 

Nostalgia, Pride and Fear

Gallery BMB, Fort

9th March - 9th April 2011

I remember visiting 'Nostalgia, Pride and Fear,' at the BMB early last month. An exploration of humanity's relationship with nature and science, the gallery brought together a diverse group of artists working with different media, but addressing similar concerns. Alison Kundla's petri-dishes and oxygen cultivating devices highlighted the somewhat hazy distinctions between what we define as 'natural' and 'artificial.' What happens to these definitions when natural processes are replicated and re-enacted in laboratories? Is the end product   - pure oxygen, in this case - natural? Tatiana Musi, from Mexico, questioned our common definition of a 'garden.'  Is it something we co-create with nature or is it an imposition and intervention of sorts? Is a garden necessarily beautiful and orderly? Can paintings of nature and scenery constitute an attempt to create a garden? 

The other works - Ratna Gupta's latex moulds of tree barks, Teresa Gruber's tree portraits, and Soazic Guezzenec's insect/human collages - didn't strike me as being particularly compelling. It probably didn't help that the works seemed to have been exhibited without much thought or effort. I had to 'find' some of the smaller pieces for myself, and the nook right at the back of the gallery had been clumsily closed off. 

BMB makes a habit of hosting a number of exhibitions- most of which run for a month or 3 weeks. I like the fact that there is something new and fresh to look at whenever I visit. But I've said it before, and I will say it again - their shows are uneven, and it wouldn't hurt for them to be put together with a little more finesse. 

Jitish Kallat - Stations of a Pause

Chemould Prescott Road

March 22nd - May 21st, 2011

Everyone's been talking about this show - particularly a massive, 750 part work entitled 'Epilogue.' In Epilogue, Kallat charts the course of his late father's life by depicting all the moons he witnessed during his 63 years. The moons, and their waxing and waning, are represented by photos of partially eaten (or intact) rotis - the essential component of an everyday Indian meal. It's easy to speculate on the significance of the rotis as moons - do they represent fullness, emptiness, cycles of life, the unvarying nature of basic human needs? Kallat himself has articulated the conjunction of the cosmic and the microscopic in this work - we can use the moons to locate ourselves and our chronologies, and the rotis, unsurprisingly, symbolize a pan-Indian mode of sustenance. 

As I walked through Epilogue, however, I was reminded of nothing so much as filing cabinets of the old-school Godrej variety that one still sees in government offices. Much like a mottled file in a cardboard folder, Epilogue records the details of a single human life using a handy metric. It's a little disconcerting to think that no matter how unique and rich our personal histories seem to be, the minutiae of human existence remain universal and even banal and can be boiled down to an average of three meals a day, a new moon and a full moon every month. 

There are also a number of paintings depicting men at Bombay's train stations - looking  expectant, patient, resigned; their belongings packed into small duffel bags; their hair tousled into strange shapes that on closer examination reveal themselves to be parts of the city's landscape. These men are waiting, always waiting, and it looks like the city - including its paan stains and socio-economic fault-lines - has infiltrated their beings, if not their dreams. I particularly like the gilded gargoyle heads that crown each painting - a nice, gothic, Bombay University inspired touch. 

The video 'Universal Trail of a Grand Banquet' ostensibly depicts galaxies, universes, large cosmic bodies. What we are really looking at, however, are microscopic x-rays of everyday food items - another juxtaposition of the cosmic and the microscopic. I must confess, though, that I watched this video (also described as an immersive experience) 3 times over, and failed to grasp its significance. Sometimes what the viewer really needs is just an explanation. 

Kallat's interviews reveal that he has taken on large themes with this show - the cosmic, the microscopic, birth, death, life, time. He is a quality artist, and his works are, without a doubt, competent and interesting. I wasn't moved by anything I saw, but that may be a function of the concerns he has chosen to address - it's not easy to translate the cosmic into something personal and felt. Epilogue does it best. 

India, in Images

Homai Vyarawalla: A Retrospective

NGMA, Mumbai

25th February - 10th April 2011

Children everywhere are schooled in a certain version of their country’s past. They are taught to look at leaders as heroes, at events as epic, at struggles as noble. The present tends to be seen as a betrayal of everything that led up to it. Then these children grow up, and if they are still thinking, and learning, and looking about themselves, they realize that the past is less pristine and more complicated than it has been made to seem. The makers of that past, too, are no more than mortals – their motives as murky and as questionable as ours.

We know this, because we’ve been through it. We have inherited a post-modern, ‘glocal’ world in which everything is relative and all isms are passé. I, for one, know that photography has often been used to construct reality rather than to depict it. That shots that have been heralded for their spontaneity, have often been carefully composed. That in India, in particular, photography has had a chequered history – it has been used to ‘survey’ local populations, to romanticize an outpost of an empire, and, immediately before and after Independence, to create a national consciousness, to document rituals and events, and to foster a certain ‘idea’ of India. Early Indian photography charts the course of our collective imaginings, and retains great academic importance.

Knowing all this, I should have left Homai Vyarawalla’s retrospective at the NGMA feeling informed, rather than moved. But images work in unexpected ways.

Most of Vyarawalla’s photos are interesting, as one would expect – they capture interesting people living in enormously interesting times. Some of them are amusing – shots of British revellers in drag at Gymkhana parties and women giggling as they participate in air raid drills. Others have an odd ‘textbook’ feel to them, that their captions further emphasize – ‘A Day in the Life of an Indian Farmer,’ and ‘How Parsis celebrate Navroze,’ are two photo-essays that come to mind.

But several images – crowds milling around Parliament House to celebrate India’s first Independence Day, people running behind the train carrying Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes to Allahabad, members of the Congress voting on Partition, a young Dalai Lama crossing over into India in full ceremonial dress – are compelling. We’ve seen these pictures, and we know the stories, but they retain their power nonetheless.

I tend to respond to photographs, largely because they tell us how things used to be. We know the past was not a simpler time, but which one of us hasn’t been tempted to cast it in that light? After all, if we were to accept that things were always as convoluted as they are now, it would be difficult to believe in the possibility of a better future.

It was in this spirit that I responded to some of Vyarawalla’s pictures. Was there really a time when Sanjay Gandhi was just a boy who liked frosted cake? When prime ministers took carousel rides? When the Bhakara dam heralded progress? When Delhi and Bombay were beautiful, tree-lined and spacious? When photographers were invited to presidential parties and ‘teas’ and were sent hand-written thank-you notes?

There is also Vyarawalla herself to consider – a young lady from an orthodox Parsi family, who travelled around the country taking her pictures while dressed in a sari. She was India’s first woman press photographer, was close to all the leaders (particularly the Nehrus) and was fittingly referred to as ‘Mummy-ji’ by tyros. A compelling woman who took some compelling pictures, and influenced how we remember our past. Which made me wonder who was busy chronicling this country’s present, and fervently hope that there were men, women, and moments worth the effort.  

Art in, and as, Bottles

I've discussed the ineffability of cool elsewhere.

Cool might be difficult to describe, but it is  easy to recognize. A few weeks ago, it manifested itself in the guise of the Absolut Art Tour featuring Subodh Gupta. A show as tight and enjoyable as anyone could have asked for. Whether it was Absolut Britto, bright and cartoon-like; Absolut Secret/ Dubufeet, red-white-blue and geometric; Absolut Indiana, all signature lettering; Absolut Fairhurst; flecked with plastic shopping tags; Absolut Vautier, Absolut Marischal;  Absolut Warhol - the works were just plain fun. Of course there's no ignoring Absolut Subodh Gupta - a vodka bottle crafted in his signature style. This was my first 'up close and personal' encounter with Gupta's work. Though I knew what to expect, it was still interesting to see commonplace steel vessels lose their everyday identities and assume a wholly different, collective form.

I realize, now, that it is, in fact, possible for art to come together with marketing and result in something engaging. Or is this show just the exception that proves the rule? Either way, somewhere in Stockholm, there is an Absolut Art Museum ticket with my name on it.