I started telling you about the Bollywood dance project I worked on last year. And the people I met while I was doing it. Some I did not meet, but enjoyed talking to. And a few were difficult enough for me to abandon the idea of speaking to them, after a whole lot of tries over the phone and else-how. In the process of collecting the information that I needed, I came across characters that I will include in a novel, if I ever wrote one, that is. They had their quirks, their madness, their passions and their manners, all in the places that they belonged, and had no compunctions about displaying any of it to me, a stranger who had wandered into their lives and was asking questions about everything.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Friday, April 30, 2010
As I was saying…
I started telling you about the Bollywood dance project I worked on last year. And the people I met while I was doing it. Some I did not meet, but enjoyed talking to. And a few were difficult enough for me to abandon the idea of speaking to them, after a whole lot of tries over the phone and else-how. In the process of collecting the information that I needed, I came across characters that I will include in a novel, if I ever wrote one, that is. They had their quirks, their madness, their passions and their manners, all in the places that they belonged, and had no compunctions about displaying any of it to me, a stranger who had wandered into their lives and was asking questions about everything.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Among the participants that I spoke to was one that was not easy to get through to, a young woman who had her walls and defenses firmly in place and seemed more wary of me than I was of her. But she soon became a favourite that I rooted for, a strong, sharp, determined woman with a surefire need and drive to become the best. I had seen her on television and was very impressed with her acting talent. Reviews I had read of her work in a big screen production made me increasingly curious about her, about why she, of all people, would choose to be part of a dance reality show, something that could count as being frivolous when compared to the kind of work she was so good at. She was Shilpa Shukla, the intense lead in a TV drama who was the Godmother, a female don who held her own in a male-biased world. She had that kind of face – the determination burned in those strong lines and firm chin. And then you looked at the eyes, dark, strangely soft and shy, almost asking for approval as they surveyed the world from behind a screen of reluctance to show more and, in that, showing a lot more than she would have believed. In a way, I am glad she was eliminated, though I wish she had not been, since she is worth so much more than just a waggle of the hips and the portrayal of a character developed within a three-minute span to loud music on a set. I have been looking for her since then, on television, in films, on the stage, anywhere that she could bring her talent to. I look forward to seeing her again and, of course, her work.
As I do many of the others. There was a group of young choreographers who spoke to me eagerly, wanting to talk about their work and their lives. There was Javed Sanadi, who was teamed with Monica Bedi (of her, more later), who keeps in touch occasionally long after the interviews are done. There was Nishant Bhat, Shilpa’s choreographer, who wept almost as much as she did when they had to do a dance-off and were finally out of the contest. There was Himanshu Gadani, paired with the tempestuous Gauhar Khan, who was brought in after a few episodes and brought out some of the best in his student. There was Deepak Singh, well aware of the problems and strengths that his partner Parul Chauhan, star of a popular Hindi soap opera, had to deal with, and managed to bring out the best in her and change her sari-clad and sindoor-smeared image. And there were many more.
Again, for another day, another blog.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
’Tis the season!
It’s starting all over again now. After a seemingly endless dose of cricket that mercifully came to a rather eventful climax with controversy dogging its last staggering steps, it is now time for the television reality shows to start their new editions. American Idol is almost over, with just six people left to sing their way into an enviable contract and more promotion than they could ever expect otherwise. The Indian shows are airing promos between any other programming and even as you watch a soap or a crimi (which is what the one-corpse-is-never-enough-for-a-self-respecting-detective-to-figure-out serial would be aptly called in Germany) or even a food-based show, you are bombarded with bytes featuring popular faces wriggling various portions of their anatomy to garner votes and stay in the game. My favourites are the dance contests, from Zara Nachke Dikha to Nach Baliye to even the less polished Saas vs Bahu. Dance India Dance is just over and Indian Idol is just getting into the groove, which makes it all a lot of fun for a viewer like me who prefers these to the average soap and is always grumbling at the end of watchable dramas like Bones, Criminal Minds and, soon, it is rumoured, Psych.
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
’Tis the season!
It’s starting all over again now. After a seemingly endless dose of cricket that mercifully came to a rather eventful climax with controversy dogging its last staggering steps, it is now time for the television reality shows to start their new editions. American Idol is almost over, with just six people left to sing their way into an enviable contract and more promotion than they could ever expect otherwise. The Indian shows are airing promos between any other programming and even as you watch a soap or a crimi (which is what the one-corpse-is-never-enough-for-a-self-respecting-detective-to-figure-out serial would be aptly called in Germany) or even a food-based show, you are bombarded with bytes featuring popular faces wriggling various portions of their anatomy to garner votes and stay in the game. My favourites are the dance contests, from Zara Nachke Dikha to Nach Baliye to even the less polished Saas vs Bahu. Dance India Dance is just over and Indian Idol is just getting into the groove, which makes it all a lot of fun for a viewer like me who prefers these to the average soap and is always grumbling at the end of watchable dramas like Bones, Criminal Minds and, soon, it is rumoured, Psych.
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
But I have a reason to like these dance competitions on the boob tube. A very special reason that verges on the personal. Last year, as I contemplated the lack of any feasible employment that could be remotely interesting, I was offered a book project by Random House, Delhi. It was to present Bollywood dance to the layperson, with the peg of a reality show to hang the whole shebang on. And even though the remuneration was pathetic and the entire deal not really worth the travel hassles I would need to go through, it would be fun, I knew, and a very charming editor at the publishing house completely sold me on it. So between her niceness and my interest and involvement with dance, any kind of dance, I decided I would do it. And it was perhaps the most fun I have had in a long time.
I have written about this before, but perhaps without too many specifics. It was not the time to talk about it then and I really did not want to, except that I was pretty excited about meeting some really fun people, some of them regrettably only over the phone. I enjoyed talking to most of them and got a little annoyed at those who acted pricey and refused to call back or even accept my calls. But on the whole it was a very positive experience, with many talking far longer than I needed, some keeping in touch even today, many months after I have done with the project and wait for it to be published. The show concept was fairly simple – a group of celebrities were trained to dance by a matching set of choreographers and judged for their dancing abilities, their charisma, their growth as dancers and their hunger to do more.
I started with the easiest part of the assignment: meeting the celebrities at a rehearsal. It took me a long drive to get there. And once I did, I needed to sort out faces and foibles as I tried to get the information I needed out of their tired heads. My first glimpse was promising. They sat in an exhausted pile of people in a cushioned corner of a room but greeted me with friendly waves and smiles – after all, this was publicity, right! I spoke to quite a few of them at the venue, saving the rest for later via telephone. There was my favourite, Hard Kaur, rapper and musician, who told me about her life in England, her current love and her relationship with her mother. There was her choreographer, Savio, a smiling gentleman who knew exactly what he had to do to challenge his student to give her best. There was soap star hunk Karan Singh Grover, his young trainer Nicole and their youthful banter; a few months later, when I told a class of would-be journalists that I had met him and, orchestrated by a collective feminine sigh, that I had spoken to him for a while, they clamoured for his phone number and wanted to know more about him than about how to write for a magazine!
And there were lots more. But if I told you all about it now, there would be nothing left for my next blog!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The road ahead
It’s been a long and winding road – whoever did that song, I hate the concept! – for me for some years now. Occasionally, just once in a rare while, it gets to me, as it is doing right now. Of course, I could always go stand under a cool shower and bawl until the knot in my head dissolved, but that would get me nowhere except on the trail of foolproof undereye depuffing and de-dark-circling gunk which never does the right trick anyway, so why bother! Of course, I could always eat, but then that would reverse the hard-won benefits of a year-long gym regimen that has me actually believing what my former physiotherapist would say when he was doing something particularly agonizing to my legs: ‘no pain, no gain’.
Or I could shop, except that I have put myself on a budget stricter than any financial planner would do during crunch-crisis time. So no more shoes – and right after I decided that, I was pushed into buying two new pairs, since the sandals I was wearing at the time, both times, suddenly gave up being footwear and morphed unexpected into strips of leather that were totally useless for my needs at that moment. Luckily, the restaurant I was headed into just accepted my bare feet as an eccentric accessory of a fairly frequent customer and the people I met seemed resigned to the fact that a creative mind mandates a quirk or more along the way. I may not have bought the pair of shoes and the sandals that got added to my shoe closet on those occasions, but having been pushed into that specific corner, I must admit the takeaway was not a bad choice. But it was not a choice I would have made right now.
I could go gallery hopping, of course, to beat the blues, if that is what this is. There are lots of decent art shows on in the city and I could probably even find something to write about if I could find somewhere that would publish it. And, of course, eventually pay for it, which they do not do that easily, that quickly, or that happily. But the art is often interesting, frequently amusing and once in a while even worth the longwinded drive into town to see it. I have made friends of various artists that way, from the prolific and articulate Jitish Kallat to the newer talents on the Mumbai scene like Sonia Jose (“spoken” to only online, I must confess) to some pushy publicity seekers who cannot be counted as ‘friends’ but can be relied on to provide a suitable quote when required to.
Of course, perhaps the easiest way to dispel the low mood is to cook, for me at least. I could whip up a culinary storm with my famous sinful chocolate cake, except for that I need to go out and get chocolate and flour and…well, you get the idea. I have a fridge full of food that needs to be eaten, but none of it – or at least very little – is of the conventional variety and would be instantly recognized by anyone with less exotic and esoteric tastes. I recently revived an old favourite recipe of mine for a deep, dark and very sinful chocolate cake that used four egg whites and lots of chocolate. But I am now told that those with a compulsive need to eat chocolate are most likely depressed, which is in part caused by the chocolate that they crave. Not really craving chocolate but more than willing to eat some if it is given to me, I navigate myself out of those waters for now…
I could, of course, figure out what I am feeling low about and get around to fixing it. It could be the result of watching too much late night television with the sound off so as not to disturb the rest of the family, or it could be due to the fact that it is very hot and sweaty and I am not happy about that. It could, indeed, come from the fact that I should get around to working again and I want to but do not know how to go about finding something to do and I feel terribly guilty about not being as involved in doing so as I should perhaps be. Convoluted? Yeah. True? Yeah. Unsolvable? Nah. Let me just pull myself out of the trough of not-quite-despond and labour onwards, along the long and winding road that I hate traveling but can’t seem to find a way off of. Until then, I smile and tell the world just how happy I am. And I actually am!
Or I could shop, except that I have put myself on a budget stricter than any financial planner would do during crunch-crisis time. So no more shoes – and right after I decided that, I was pushed into buying two new pairs, since the sandals I was wearing at the time, both times, suddenly gave up being footwear and morphed unexpected into strips of leather that were totally useless for my needs at that moment. Luckily, the restaurant I was headed into just accepted my bare feet as an eccentric accessory of a fairly frequent customer and the people I met seemed resigned to the fact that a creative mind mandates a quirk or more along the way. I may not have bought the pair of shoes and the sandals that got added to my shoe closet on those occasions, but having been pushed into that specific corner, I must admit the takeaway was not a bad choice. But it was not a choice I would have made right now.
I could go gallery hopping, of course, to beat the blues, if that is what this is. There are lots of decent art shows on in the city and I could probably even find something to write about if I could find somewhere that would publish it. And, of course, eventually pay for it, which they do not do that easily, that quickly, or that happily. But the art is often interesting, frequently amusing and once in a while even worth the longwinded drive into town to see it. I have made friends of various artists that way, from the prolific and articulate Jitish Kallat to the newer talents on the Mumbai scene like Sonia Jose (“spoken” to only online, I must confess) to some pushy publicity seekers who cannot be counted as ‘friends’ but can be relied on to provide a suitable quote when required to.
Of course, perhaps the easiest way to dispel the low mood is to cook, for me at least. I could whip up a culinary storm with my famous sinful chocolate cake, except for that I need to go out and get chocolate and flour and…well, you get the idea. I have a fridge full of food that needs to be eaten, but none of it – or at least very little – is of the conventional variety and would be instantly recognized by anyone with less exotic and esoteric tastes. I recently revived an old favourite recipe of mine for a deep, dark and very sinful chocolate cake that used four egg whites and lots of chocolate. But I am now told that those with a compulsive need to eat chocolate are most likely depressed, which is in part caused by the chocolate that they crave. Not really craving chocolate but more than willing to eat some if it is given to me, I navigate myself out of those waters for now…
I could, of course, figure out what I am feeling low about and get around to fixing it. It could be the result of watching too much late night television with the sound off so as not to disturb the rest of the family, or it could be due to the fact that it is very hot and sweaty and I am not happy about that. It could, indeed, come from the fact that I should get around to working again and I want to but do not know how to go about finding something to do and I feel terribly guilty about not being as involved in doing so as I should perhaps be. Convoluted? Yeah. True? Yeah. Unsolvable? Nah. Let me just pull myself out of the trough of not-quite-despond and labour onwards, along the long and winding road that I hate traveling but can’t seem to find a way off of. Until then, I smile and tell the world just how happy I am. And I actually am!
Friday, April 23, 2010
The meaning of art
Over many moons of watching the whimsical world of art from a distance and at comfortably not-too-close quarters, of meeting and speaking with artists, of wandering about museums and galleries, of writing about shows and gazing with great puzzlement at some works, there is one clear-headed and much-amused conclusion that I have come to. Art is a lot like fashion. Or history. Or even the seasons. What goes around invariably, inevitably, comes around again before long. And if there is something that arouses argument, debate or, best of all, protest with a degree of violence, it is considered to be not just successful art, but path-breaking, significant and, perhaps most importantly, saleable. Along the way, there have been many occasions where I have had to call some artist or the other and ask about the ‘latest trends’ in art, a question that is surpassed in banality only by that masterpiece of mundane mumbling: ‘Who do you think will be the artist to watch?’
Today, art and its makers have changed. There is indeed a trend, one that veers towards alternate professions and adventuring. A recent show in Mumbai that I saw had a number of women artists who were better known – or perhaps more visible – as illustrators, architects, fashion designers, graphic designers, photographers, or other fields that are indeed art-related, though not from the obvious, conventional perspective. This is in keeping with the trend to more experimentation in art. From the maverick MF Husain’s Shwetambari many years ago, where pieces of white cloth and shreds of newspaper scattered the floor of a large gallery space all covered in white, to the more recent model of a water tanker (Aquasaurus) made of bones crafted from resin by Jitish Kallat to an esoteric display of experimentation in fashion by Shilpa Chavan (aka Little Shilpa) at a current show, art has slid off the canvas and into spaces that are still being explored. At each stage, of course, there has been a degree of shock greeting the display – Husain’s work was reviled by many, but lauded by ‘those-who-should-know’, of the ilk of Akbar Padamsee and Tyeb Mehta, whom you would think would be a better judge than the average Joe. Kallat’s bones aroused curiosity and a certain morbid fascination that his eloquence did much to dissipate. And Little Shilpa’s hats have taken the fashionista audience by such a great storm that the arterati have got carried, perforce, along with it.
In all this artistic adventuring, even the averagely-talented creative expressionist has gone global. Many claim fame with local self-sponsored shows and citations from ‘foreign’ names decorating invitations, along with a resume that includes exhibitions in various parts of the world that they may have traveled to. Some of these exhibitionists – in the literal sense of the word - of course, are genuinely talented and gradually find inclusion in reputed collections and support from enviable fund-pundits. A few become international celebrities, trotting frenetically around the globe from show to show, working hectically to keep pace with demand and, somehow, pulling off the coup of always remaining creative, inspirational, lauded and coveted - again, Kallat is a case in point. And one or two think beyond their own careers as artists to become support systems for others and curators of the kinds of shows they themselves want to see, like Krishnamachari Bose, for instance.
Along the way, the medium has become, in a strange way, the message. The use of video and audio clips is more popular now. Often, painting melds with photography and can become part of an installation that includes sculpture, with a few bytes of sound and moving pictures thrown in to complete the sentence. That sentence is meaningful at various levels – to the artist as an individual, to the viewer as an unconnected passer-by and to society at large as an audience that needs to be made aware of something, from child abuse to contemporary forms of suffrage to political rot. A work by Sonia Jose that impressed me recently had a white rag rug lettered in black reading ‘so much to say’ – the message could be anything, the directions of thought countless and the mood an entire spectrum from dark and deadly black to a clear, joyous white. It left the viewer to decide, even as it hinted of a deeper mental process for that same viewer to decode and debate.
Perhaps the best part of art today is that it gives the person looking at it, feeling it, experiencing it, something to do. It is not interactive in that you need to get hands-on and fiddle with buttons and knobs and listen to beeps and whistles like with a video game, but it provides a sense of freedom of interpretation. There is something serious going on, but it’s all left up to you to decide what that something could be. And that, methinks, is really what art should be about!
Today, art and its makers have changed. There is indeed a trend, one that veers towards alternate professions and adventuring. A recent show in Mumbai that I saw had a number of women artists who were better known – or perhaps more visible – as illustrators, architects, fashion designers, graphic designers, photographers, or other fields that are indeed art-related, though not from the obvious, conventional perspective. This is in keeping with the trend to more experimentation in art. From the maverick MF Husain’s Shwetambari many years ago, where pieces of white cloth and shreds of newspaper scattered the floor of a large gallery space all covered in white, to the more recent model of a water tanker (Aquasaurus) made of bones crafted from resin by Jitish Kallat to an esoteric display of experimentation in fashion by Shilpa Chavan (aka Little Shilpa) at a current show, art has slid off the canvas and into spaces that are still being explored. At each stage, of course, there has been a degree of shock greeting the display – Husain’s work was reviled by many, but lauded by ‘those-who-should-know’, of the ilk of Akbar Padamsee and Tyeb Mehta, whom you would think would be a better judge than the average Joe. Kallat’s bones aroused curiosity and a certain morbid fascination that his eloquence did much to dissipate. And Little Shilpa’s hats have taken the fashionista audience by such a great storm that the arterati have got carried, perforce, along with it.
In all this artistic adventuring, even the averagely-talented creative expressionist has gone global. Many claim fame with local self-sponsored shows and citations from ‘foreign’ names decorating invitations, along with a resume that includes exhibitions in various parts of the world that they may have traveled to. Some of these exhibitionists – in the literal sense of the word - of course, are genuinely talented and gradually find inclusion in reputed collections and support from enviable fund-pundits. A few become international celebrities, trotting frenetically around the globe from show to show, working hectically to keep pace with demand and, somehow, pulling off the coup of always remaining creative, inspirational, lauded and coveted - again, Kallat is a case in point. And one or two think beyond their own careers as artists to become support systems for others and curators of the kinds of shows they themselves want to see, like Krishnamachari Bose, for instance.
Along the way, the medium has become, in a strange way, the message. The use of video and audio clips is more popular now. Often, painting melds with photography and can become part of an installation that includes sculpture, with a few bytes of sound and moving pictures thrown in to complete the sentence. That sentence is meaningful at various levels – to the artist as an individual, to the viewer as an unconnected passer-by and to society at large as an audience that needs to be made aware of something, from child abuse to contemporary forms of suffrage to political rot. A work by Sonia Jose that impressed me recently had a white rag rug lettered in black reading ‘so much to say’ – the message could be anything, the directions of thought countless and the mood an entire spectrum from dark and deadly black to a clear, joyous white. It left the viewer to decide, even as it hinted of a deeper mental process for that same viewer to decode and debate.
Perhaps the best part of art today is that it gives the person looking at it, feeling it, experiencing it, something to do. It is not interactive in that you need to get hands-on and fiddle with buttons and knobs and listen to beeps and whistles like with a video game, but it provides a sense of freedom of interpretation. There is something serious going on, but it’s all left up to you to decide what that something could be. And that, methinks, is really what art should be about!
Paying the piper
When I was a small child, I was told the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. It was only many years later when I grew up a bit that I understood the significance of the fairytale and learned how life is all a fairly balanced equation of give and take. The plus matches the minus, the debits and credits add up to a nice zero and the yeas and the nays must find a neat middle ground. Over time I found that I had a lot to give that people wanted to take and gave of it freely and willingly, without even thinking of what I got in return. But now it seems that it is time for that little calculation to be done: I need to get back.
Getting back is not about debt, not for me. There are people whom I owe more than I can even begin to think about, be it Father or my best friend or just the lady at the back desk at the bank we have been with for generations who never hesitates to jump in to sort out forms and files without ever losing her cool or her charm – it is not her particular job or her duty as a bank employee to help us, since she is busy with her own work, she just does it when she is needed. We all do that a lot of the time; we set aside what protocol dictates we should be doing and dive in to where we can be of use to someone, just because we are in a position to do so and do not consider it a kind of IOU that needs to be repaid. Most of us do it without thinking, as part of that unspoken deal that comes in the guise of ‘friendship’.
But once in a rare while I start feeling put upon. There have been occasions that I have given unstintingly, of myself, of my talents, of my resources, of my heart and mind. There has never been a moment when I have felt that I should get something in return, since it does not matter that much, perhaps that potential feeling is even satisfied by a knowledge that somewhere along the line karma and dharma play a role and that, in the end, that great Power that is will give me my due. Who knows what the reason or the motive is; the help is available, it costs me little, I give it. If the label ‘friend’ is attached to the person I am giving to, then there is no question about the giving, it is done with joy and optimism. And people who take know what they are taking and value it as they should. In that, I get the thanks I deserve without asking for it, without even wanting it, because that friendship means more than any payback could.
Right now I feel a little taken for granted, in a way used. No, there is nothing too negative in this feeling, nothing that can be fixed either, by anyone’s apologies or actions. I am not losing anything by the giving and would probably be willing to keep on giving if the other person wants me to. But that sense of wariness, of caution, of almost calculation has now entered the equation for me, which is fatal to not just the giving, but the relationship itself. I still have plenty to give and can still give it, but now I am feeling a reluctance to give without getting. I am not asking for money, for privilege or for even a word of acknowledgement, but for a hint of awareness that it is becoming strained as a balance, that the taker now needs to give back. Maybe what I want is a certain accountability, a sense of responsibility that allows questions to be asked, that gives answers even without those questions being asked, that provides information in exchange for encouragement and support and, yes, information given.
Do I want to explain all this in simpler terms? No. Do I want to say what it is all about and who is involved? No. They know. I know. And if they become aware of what I think of the situation, which I have in fact expressed on an earlier occasion, that does the job for me. Do they read this? Yes. Will they do anything about it? Probably not. If they were the kind of person who would repair the situation, if they were conscious of the fact that it is happening, they would never have allowed it to happen at all. They, like me, would know what friendship means. And it is not about saying sorry or not, it is about not needing to.
Getting back is not about debt, not for me. There are people whom I owe more than I can even begin to think about, be it Father or my best friend or just the lady at the back desk at the bank we have been with for generations who never hesitates to jump in to sort out forms and files without ever losing her cool or her charm – it is not her particular job or her duty as a bank employee to help us, since she is busy with her own work, she just does it when she is needed. We all do that a lot of the time; we set aside what protocol dictates we should be doing and dive in to where we can be of use to someone, just because we are in a position to do so and do not consider it a kind of IOU that needs to be repaid. Most of us do it without thinking, as part of that unspoken deal that comes in the guise of ‘friendship’.
But once in a rare while I start feeling put upon. There have been occasions that I have given unstintingly, of myself, of my talents, of my resources, of my heart and mind. There has never been a moment when I have felt that I should get something in return, since it does not matter that much, perhaps that potential feeling is even satisfied by a knowledge that somewhere along the line karma and dharma play a role and that, in the end, that great Power that is will give me my due. Who knows what the reason or the motive is; the help is available, it costs me little, I give it. If the label ‘friend’ is attached to the person I am giving to, then there is no question about the giving, it is done with joy and optimism. And people who take know what they are taking and value it as they should. In that, I get the thanks I deserve without asking for it, without even wanting it, because that friendship means more than any payback could.
Right now I feel a little taken for granted, in a way used. No, there is nothing too negative in this feeling, nothing that can be fixed either, by anyone’s apologies or actions. I am not losing anything by the giving and would probably be willing to keep on giving if the other person wants me to. But that sense of wariness, of caution, of almost calculation has now entered the equation for me, which is fatal to not just the giving, but the relationship itself. I still have plenty to give and can still give it, but now I am feeling a reluctance to give without getting. I am not asking for money, for privilege or for even a word of acknowledgement, but for a hint of awareness that it is becoming strained as a balance, that the taker now needs to give back. Maybe what I want is a certain accountability, a sense of responsibility that allows questions to be asked, that gives answers even without those questions being asked, that provides information in exchange for encouragement and support and, yes, information given.
Do I want to explain all this in simpler terms? No. Do I want to say what it is all about and who is involved? No. They know. I know. And if they become aware of what I think of the situation, which I have in fact expressed on an earlier occasion, that does the job for me. Do they read this? Yes. Will they do anything about it? Probably not. If they were the kind of person who would repair the situation, if they were conscious of the fact that it is happening, they would never have allowed it to happen at all. They, like me, would know what friendship means. And it is not about saying sorry or not, it is about not needing to.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
A woman's work
(Published in Crest, April 3, 2010)
It’s a woman’s world, for sure. Even as an annually tom-tommed Women’s Day brings with it its ephemeral share of promises of reforms and more, the woman knows her place. Silently, powerfully, determinedly, she goes about her work to the best of her personal ability, never mind the support the government, society and family may or may not give her. And, like all those anywhere, everywhere, who know why and how they are strong and essential, what she does may not be seen, heard or acknowledged, but it rarely remains undone. Which makes her indispensible; her work never done.
Tapping into that truth is Bose Krishnamachari, curator of a two-part art exhibition: Her Work is Never Done. At Gallery BMB, Mumbai, the first part opened earlier in March, while the second began March 26. It showcases the work of a number of young, not-often-seen women, most involved in more everyday careers, be it architecture, graphic design or fashion. There is no unifying style or concept, just a deeply felt and sometimes quirkily expressed creativity that cannot be categorised or classified, but which says a great deal about feeling, sentiment, society, environment, a global culture and an oddly exciting message about freedom and the will to succeed. The artists include Aishwarya Laxmi, Atmaja Manidas, Charmi Gada Shah, Dia Mehta, Divya Thakur, Koumudi Patil, Nisha Ghosh, Parvathy Nayyar, Poorna Rajpal, PS Jalaja, Puja Puri, Remen Chopra, Sakshi Gupta, Siji R Krishnan, Suchitra Gahlot, Nandini Valli, Leena Kejriwal, Parul Thakker, Nivedita Deshpande, Shilpa Chavan, Sukanya Ghosh, Shaina Anand and Lavanya Mani.
Bose, who brought these diverse sensibilities together under a loosely encapsulating title, explains that he has been looking at exploring this for a while now. “When I was looking at Indian contemporary art, traveling around, talking to people doing good work, people associated with different art practices, I found that there is a constant exchange – architects are always interested in creating sculptural works, graphic artists experiment with poster making, for instance.” He believes that “Young girls, more in cities, are dedicated and talented, capable of doing future art. They have multiple interests, each being an extension of what they normally do - which makes them complete artists, expressing themselves in so many ways.” And it made sense for him to bring these talented individuals together into one space.
Sonia Jose, showing carbon pigment diptychs on paper and a handwoven shag rug, says, “Bose chose work that he thought would fit into the show; the decision was largely his, but he also discussed it with me. The works shown, I had already done; I had them in my studio but I hadn’t yet exhibited them.” The diptychs need study, but the rug has a more direct message, though its significance has to be explained. “I made the work at a time when I was looking for solutions to calm my mind. Friends suggested meditation. Through the ages and across cultures, forms of repetition have been widely used as a tool for meditation. I chose the words ‘so much to say’ hoping that repeating and playing with them might slowly eclipse my need/desire/compulsion to have anything to say. But the work wasn’t about the words, or the finished rug, but the process, which was very cathartic,” Jose explains. Spread on the floor, the piece invites a lie-down and the viewer is drawn to do so…and then the words take over, the whiteness stops any advance. “The text on each strip is legible, but appears noisy as a whole. The rug appears soft and inviting, but it is also white and sterile-looking making it intimidating to touch, walk over or lie on. The idea of displaying it as a rug was a formal and conceptual decision that came during the process of making the work.”
According to Nisha Ghosh, a Bangalore-based architect, “Bose has seen my earlier work exhibited in Mumbai and allowed me the freedom to do what I felt was appropriate for this show.” Her sculptural piece has a stainless steel mesh in the company of lacquered wood in egg shapes, all imbued with a somehow cool and calming effect. Her deconstructed fish, which “has its own story, was made a while ago, but was put together recently in response to a ‘thought jotting’. The work happens always in bits across time, sometimes stitched, sometimes collaged, to talk about an idea.” And what, in this case, is the idea? Ghosh days, “There are clues in the form, clues in the materials used and clues in the composition that may be obvious…” Or perhaps not. But then she provides another clue: “It is in one sense also a tight-lipped, tongue-in-cheek frustration at an environmental apathy that can mutate things out of normal course.”
Perhaps most directly apropos to a woman’s work, especially in this country, is Shilpa Chavan’s mannequin with some rather extraordinary baggage attached to it (her?). Often called the “hat lady” with a considerable amount of awe and respect flavouring the nickname, Chavan is best known as Little Shilpa, her fashion moniker, and creates some of the most fantastical and, indeed, interesting headgear and accessories seen on the ramp – Indian and international – today. Her work stands tall; a mannequin for which “the title of the show was the inspiration. I wanted to revolve it around the woman and what she uses around the house and in everyday life.” The figure is decorated with rubbish scoops, tea strainers, rubber slipper straps and other utilitarian objects familiar to any woman who knows how her home functions. The mosquito netting skirt holds moon-like lights, with babies inside, the head has wheels turning. “She multitasks, making babies, working in the house, her brain is always functioning. And with all this, she holds a mirror, she is always thinking of being beautiful.” Whimsy makes for art with a message conveyed not with a sledgehammer, but with wit and that little twist that makes it fun. Chavan says, “When I do fashion shows, it is art. When I do art, it is more like fashion. I am in an in-between phase, which I am okay with. The fashion world interprets it in their way; the art world sees it in their own way.”
Hair is the bon mot of Nandini Valli Muthiah’s work, “for lack of a better title”. For the original set of photographs, created for another time, place and show, “I had originally planned to shoot as many women as would have been willing, but ended up with shooting only about eight, myself included. The brief wanted the artist to explore sexuality and I thought about how hypocritical our society has become about sex, considering that our temples have imagery that might state otherwise.” It took time and introspection before inspiration struck, and Valli “came up with what flowers really represent in our culture, mostly southern Indian culture, since I’m from the South. Flowers for the hair are worn by women of all walks of life, irrespective of caste and class, even some sects of South Indian Muslim women. They are used to show that the woman is fertile; you will never find a widow wearing flowers in her hair. That is the conditioning that the society has done to us. Flowers are a significant part of traditional Indian attire of the sari for almost every Hindu,” especially for a dress-up occasion. The four images on show have women, two married, two not, who come from two distinct classes - the middle class and the lower class (who work as maids or cooks). The complete series represents women from all walks of life from the lower to the upper class. They sit, dressed up, bejeweled and wearing flowers in their hair, with their backs to the camera, proud, beautiful and powerful.
And there are plenty more. Dia Mehta’s photographs, imbued with the olde worlde charm of Lala Deen Dayal, create elaborately staged and posed royal tableaux, with the women being not real people, but mannequins, which could be a rather telling statement about their status in that society, or even a more modern time. Aishwarya Laxmi shows portraits of Brazilian transgender individuals, with elaborate makeup and disturbing additions to the pictures of garish jewels, brilliant flowers and more. Jasmeen Patheja of the collective Blank Noise documents street violence and even teasing in a video installation, while Nivedita Deshpande’s installation captures the spirit of the feminine with shadows and light and ordinary materials used in a very un-ordinary way.
Some of the works on display are recent, Bose says, while others have been in the making and planning for a while now. “Some have not been seen much, or not been recognized the way they may want. I wanted younger artists, newer ideas, to make meaning out of an association. I am never interested in thematic projects, but in the talent of the artist – how much potential, how interesting, how creative, etc, they can be.” He has also explored the concept of arte povera, or using very cheap, very ordinary, everyday materials to create art. “I find it very interesting, the mediums, the process, and so on.” It is all a work by various women in progress, one that will change and evolve and grow with time and situation. After all, a woman’s work, she knows well, is never done!
It’s a woman’s world, for sure. Even as an annually tom-tommed Women’s Day brings with it its ephemeral share of promises of reforms and more, the woman knows her place. Silently, powerfully, determinedly, she goes about her work to the best of her personal ability, never mind the support the government, society and family may or may not give her. And, like all those anywhere, everywhere, who know why and how they are strong and essential, what she does may not be seen, heard or acknowledged, but it rarely remains undone. Which makes her indispensible; her work never done.
Tapping into that truth is Bose Krishnamachari, curator of a two-part art exhibition: Her Work is Never Done. At Gallery BMB, Mumbai, the first part opened earlier in March, while the second began March 26. It showcases the work of a number of young, not-often-seen women, most involved in more everyday careers, be it architecture, graphic design or fashion. There is no unifying style or concept, just a deeply felt and sometimes quirkily expressed creativity that cannot be categorised or classified, but which says a great deal about feeling, sentiment, society, environment, a global culture and an oddly exciting message about freedom and the will to succeed. The artists include Aishwarya Laxmi, Atmaja Manidas, Charmi Gada Shah, Dia Mehta, Divya Thakur, Koumudi Patil, Nisha Ghosh, Parvathy Nayyar, Poorna Rajpal, PS Jalaja, Puja Puri, Remen Chopra, Sakshi Gupta, Siji R Krishnan, Suchitra Gahlot, Nandini Valli, Leena Kejriwal, Parul Thakker, Nivedita Deshpande, Shilpa Chavan, Sukanya Ghosh, Shaina Anand and Lavanya Mani.
Bose, who brought these diverse sensibilities together under a loosely encapsulating title, explains that he has been looking at exploring this for a while now. “When I was looking at Indian contemporary art, traveling around, talking to people doing good work, people associated with different art practices, I found that there is a constant exchange – architects are always interested in creating sculptural works, graphic artists experiment with poster making, for instance.” He believes that “Young girls, more in cities, are dedicated and talented, capable of doing future art. They have multiple interests, each being an extension of what they normally do - which makes them complete artists, expressing themselves in so many ways.” And it made sense for him to bring these talented individuals together into one space.
Sonia Jose, showing carbon pigment diptychs on paper and a handwoven shag rug, says, “Bose chose work that he thought would fit into the show; the decision was largely his, but he also discussed it with me. The works shown, I had already done; I had them in my studio but I hadn’t yet exhibited them.” The diptychs need study, but the rug has a more direct message, though its significance has to be explained. “I made the work at a time when I was looking for solutions to calm my mind. Friends suggested meditation. Through the ages and across cultures, forms of repetition have been widely used as a tool for meditation. I chose the words ‘so much to say’ hoping that repeating and playing with them might slowly eclipse my need/desire/compulsion to have anything to say. But the work wasn’t about the words, or the finished rug, but the process, which was very cathartic,” Jose explains. Spread on the floor, the piece invites a lie-down and the viewer is drawn to do so…and then the words take over, the whiteness stops any advance. “The text on each strip is legible, but appears noisy as a whole. The rug appears soft and inviting, but it is also white and sterile-looking making it intimidating to touch, walk over or lie on. The idea of displaying it as a rug was a formal and conceptual decision that came during the process of making the work.”
According to Nisha Ghosh, a Bangalore-based architect, “Bose has seen my earlier work exhibited in Mumbai and allowed me the freedom to do what I felt was appropriate for this show.” Her sculptural piece has a stainless steel mesh in the company of lacquered wood in egg shapes, all imbued with a somehow cool and calming effect. Her deconstructed fish, which “has its own story, was made a while ago, but was put together recently in response to a ‘thought jotting’. The work happens always in bits across time, sometimes stitched, sometimes collaged, to talk about an idea.” And what, in this case, is the idea? Ghosh days, “There are clues in the form, clues in the materials used and clues in the composition that may be obvious…” Or perhaps not. But then she provides another clue: “It is in one sense also a tight-lipped, tongue-in-cheek frustration at an environmental apathy that can mutate things out of normal course.”
Perhaps most directly apropos to a woman’s work, especially in this country, is Shilpa Chavan’s mannequin with some rather extraordinary baggage attached to it (her?). Often called the “hat lady” with a considerable amount of awe and respect flavouring the nickname, Chavan is best known as Little Shilpa, her fashion moniker, and creates some of the most fantastical and, indeed, interesting headgear and accessories seen on the ramp – Indian and international – today. Her work stands tall; a mannequin for which “the title of the show was the inspiration. I wanted to revolve it around the woman and what she uses around the house and in everyday life.” The figure is decorated with rubbish scoops, tea strainers, rubber slipper straps and other utilitarian objects familiar to any woman who knows how her home functions. The mosquito netting skirt holds moon-like lights, with babies inside, the head has wheels turning. “She multitasks, making babies, working in the house, her brain is always functioning. And with all this, she holds a mirror, she is always thinking of being beautiful.” Whimsy makes for art with a message conveyed not with a sledgehammer, but with wit and that little twist that makes it fun. Chavan says, “When I do fashion shows, it is art. When I do art, it is more like fashion. I am in an in-between phase, which I am okay with. The fashion world interprets it in their way; the art world sees it in their own way.”
Hair is the bon mot of Nandini Valli Muthiah’s work, “for lack of a better title”. For the original set of photographs, created for another time, place and show, “I had originally planned to shoot as many women as would have been willing, but ended up with shooting only about eight, myself included. The brief wanted the artist to explore sexuality and I thought about how hypocritical our society has become about sex, considering that our temples have imagery that might state otherwise.” It took time and introspection before inspiration struck, and Valli “came up with what flowers really represent in our culture, mostly southern Indian culture, since I’m from the South. Flowers for the hair are worn by women of all walks of life, irrespective of caste and class, even some sects of South Indian Muslim women. They are used to show that the woman is fertile; you will never find a widow wearing flowers in her hair. That is the conditioning that the society has done to us. Flowers are a significant part of traditional Indian attire of the sari for almost every Hindu,” especially for a dress-up occasion. The four images on show have women, two married, two not, who come from two distinct classes - the middle class and the lower class (who work as maids or cooks). The complete series represents women from all walks of life from the lower to the upper class. They sit, dressed up, bejeweled and wearing flowers in their hair, with their backs to the camera, proud, beautiful and powerful.
And there are plenty more. Dia Mehta’s photographs, imbued with the olde worlde charm of Lala Deen Dayal, create elaborately staged and posed royal tableaux, with the women being not real people, but mannequins, which could be a rather telling statement about their status in that society, or even a more modern time. Aishwarya Laxmi shows portraits of Brazilian transgender individuals, with elaborate makeup and disturbing additions to the pictures of garish jewels, brilliant flowers and more. Jasmeen Patheja of the collective Blank Noise documents street violence and even teasing in a video installation, while Nivedita Deshpande’s installation captures the spirit of the feminine with shadows and light and ordinary materials used in a very un-ordinary way.
Some of the works on display are recent, Bose says, while others have been in the making and planning for a while now. “Some have not been seen much, or not been recognized the way they may want. I wanted younger artists, newer ideas, to make meaning out of an association. I am never interested in thematic projects, but in the talent of the artist – how much potential, how interesting, how creative, etc, they can be.” He has also explored the concept of arte povera, or using very cheap, very ordinary, everyday materials to create art. “I find it very interesting, the mediums, the process, and so on.” It is all a work by various women in progress, one that will change and evolve and grow with time and situation. After all, a woman’s work, she knows well, is never done!
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