(Ah, a byline after ages...!)
“I was unsure if international artwork will find takers,” Gaurav Assomul is reported to have said in December last year, when his Marigold Fine Art took a show of European art to New Delhi. There was no reason to worry, he found, when the entire exhibition was sold out on the opening night. And with the battalion of buyers clamouring for more, the Marigold gallery in Mumbai hosted paintings, lithographs, prints and sculptures by familiar names like Salvador Dali, David Kracov, Stéphane Cipre, Jorg Doring, Arman, Andy Warhol, Serge Mendjisky, Franck Tordjmann, Patrick Hughes and Pablo Picasso last month, signed, numbered and certified works available at prices between Rs3,00,000 and Rs30,00,000. Both signed Picasso lithographs and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory were snapped up, while other pieces found enthusiastic buyers.
There may have always been an audience for art of this kind, with non-Indian signatures, but gallery showings and sales in this country of these works have not been frequent. With the growing awareness of international artists and their talent and the increasing ability of Indians in India to access and buy their creative productions, it would seem logical for them to be made available locally. But as one aficionado - (who prefers not to be named here) who has counted Modigliani in his list of haute-buys and has hobnobbed socially with the likes of Lucien Freud – says, “What you would get here would not be the ‘name’ pieces, but mainly prints, lithographs and perhaps certified replicas of the originals. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the ‘real’, original melting watch by Dali, for instance, rather than something that you know is not ‘the thing’?” He, obviously, seems to prefer to look, smile and shop elsewhere.
But there is a growing market for international signatures, judging by sales at shows. Galerie Mirchandani + Steinruecke, for one, is familiar territory for the work of non-Indian artists in Mumbai. Gallerist Ranjana Mirchandani-Steinruecke believes that “It would be exaggerated to call it a ‘market’, but there are a few collectors interested in looking at and buying art that’s not Indian. And actually the prices of non-Indian artists of similar calibre have been less than those of their Indian counterparts.” She sees the market developing “with the younger generation of Indian collector. Today, by and large, as always, the intelligentsia takes the lead and others follow.”
Ashish Nagpal, gallerist, art entrepreneur and promoter agrees that there is a market in India for international art, but “This is the wrong time, considering the meltdown,” for sales to be brisk. But the awareness is obviously growing, with people becoming more educated about art and artists. “They know art is an investment. I would see a market for prints of senior and more expensive artists and originals of the younger and more affordable ones.” However, “A person who has not bought Indian art will probably not buy international art – the education is important. Dali and Picasso rule the roost, and Damien Hirst and Anish Kapoor – I know a lot of Indian collectors are dying to lay their hands on his work, for instance,” are eagerly looked for, Nagpal says.
There are some who are not yet ready to venture into ‘foreign territory’. As Dadiba Pundole of the Pundole Art Gallery says, for him, “So far the focus has been Indian art. It took a long hard time getting Indian art where it is today. I am not sure if my involvement with my primary concern is over. At the same time, one is not closed to ideas.” As to what he believes will sell, “It comes down to quality and not just financial propositions.
Unfortunately, most people buy art for the wrong reasons, so individual perceptions will dictate the market.”
Neville Tuli, Founder Chairman - Osian's, commenting on the market, current or potential, for works of international contemporary and modern artists in India, says, “First, let the markets for the Indian arts strengthen and deepen. But it is absolutely a good idea to bring international art into India and start that process of exchange.”
And where snob values are concerned, does an international name hold a more coveted cachet for a local buyer than an Indian signature on a work of art? Assomull seems to think so, reportedly asking: "If you can own three original Dalis for the price of one Hussain, what would you buy?" Mirchandani-Steinruecke has a different take on that debatable issue, saying, “No, we are happy with our desi ghee.”
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ooh, aah, ouch!
Last week I took a break from the gym. It was my first since I joined up and more or less enforced by my trainer, the gym manager and my own anatomy. You see, many years ago I hurt my knee badly enough to need fairly drastic surgery and have needed to exercise (ha ha) a certain amount of caution ever since. Of course, that does not stop me rushing about in my usual pell-mell manner on perilously sharp and high heels, occasionally pitching into doors, up stairs and down sidewalks with not-too-happy results, but I have never worried about my ‘bum’ knee since it was fixed. Not that I worried too much about it before it was fixed, since I had no clue that it needed any fixing! But a couple of weeks ago it started hurting with the slightest movement and, after a few days of tottering across to the gym and gingerly going slower and slower on the treadmill, I finally admitted defeat. And took a few days off the exertion.
It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.
Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.
My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.
Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….
It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.
Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.
My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.
Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….
Monday, May 25, 2009
Long time no write!
It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Long time no write!
It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.
So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.
Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!
At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.
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