(Published in BDNews24 online, November 26, 2010)
Scandal and sensation is part of everyday life anywhere in the world. Like an epidemic, it has occasional flare-ups and then subsides into a subliminal mutter, all set and waiting to erupt once again into a storm that hits headlines in print, on television and over the Internet. Over the past few weeks, an epicenter has been India, a land-building scam vying for public attention with one focusing on the telecommunications industry and many others just waiting for their share of the media spotlight. It is all about high level politics, contacts, licenses, permits and, obviously, a great deal of money. With that quantum of power comes a lot of privilege, many perquisites and even more permissiveness, at least in the local ethos. And all along, though everyone knows, nothing can be proved or used in a court of law. Not so much because it is not useful and useable evidence, but because the process of untangling it all would be too time-consuming, too messy and just too complicated to deal with on a fast-track basis.
Transparency International’s latest ranking of 178 nations by their perceived level of corruption indicated that India had fallen three places, with most Indians being labeled “utterly corrupt”. Congress President Sonia Gandhi recently said that the fast pace of economic growth in India was happening at the cost of a “moral universe” that was “shrinking”. The biggest noise was perhaps made at the Commonwealth Games, which concluded not too long ago in Delhi, and was coloured a darker hue by the taint of corruption in places that should, ideally, have been clean and whitewashed, with no hint of anything that was not above board and honest. And, as the latest nail in the ethical coffin, Ratan Tata, a very respected industrialist with a huge and immensely successful conglomerate to his name, told the story of how he was asked for a bribe by a government official when he was thinking about starting a new domestic airline.
In everyday life too there is a great deal of wheeling and dealing, some of it astonishingly underhanded. There is corruption everywhere, from the parking lot attendant taking a little something to find you a good space ahead of the waiting line of cars to a minor minion at the local municipality office who wants to be “induced” to expedite signatures so that you can buy your new home. We have all faced it and are usually so inured to it that we do not find it strange, let alone dishonest, any more. I am as much part of this cycle of a little bad-tinged good as anyone. When I was just 14 years old I got a driving license that stated that I was 18, just by handing over a surprisingly small amount of money to the official at the local authority office. When I was rather older, living alone in a city that was not mine, Delhi, I was asked blatantly for some money to escape dealing with a court appearance when I took a right turn against the sign, never mind that the sign was nicely hidden in a tangle of leafy branches of an overhanging tree, thus giving me no indication that what I was doing was not allowed. Since then, life has not been all honest either – most recently, we gave a traffic policeman a little pourboire to let us off the offense of jumping an unexpected red light at a crossroads. All in the urgency of getting somewhere to get something done without the wait and accompanying hassle.
The current news focuses on much larger instances of wavering morals. There is no traffic policeman to bribe or government minion to coax into granting favours. Huge amounts of money are involved and people in positions of greater power are part of the scenario. From the Commonwealth Games, where the issue of accountability was clouded by accounts that were fudged on a massive scale, to the Adarsh housing society, where premium apartments were built ostensibly for war windows but bought at extraordinarily low rates to less needy souls, to under-quoting and over-charging bidders for a new-generation telecommunications service, the dirt is flooding into the public domain and the figureheads who were supposed to maintain a code of conduct and the dignity of their post are falling off their self-attained pedestals, fast. And as each scandal is unearthed, rodents who were part of the tangled web woven around it desert the fast-sinking ship, ratting, as it were, on their superiors whose orders they were merely following. Who takes the blame? Who accepts the responsibility? Who pays the price of these shortcuts to a better life for themselves? Who knows!
But life is not all murky in these parts. We do have honest officials, politicians who are not corrupt and a great number of ordinary citizens who will not resort to the easy route to wherever they are going. It all takes a little longer to get there, that is all. If you have the time, honesty is still, after all, the best policy.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The great divide
(Published in BD News Online, Bangladesh, November 19, 2010)
Once upon a very long time ago God created man and, of course, woman. One school of thought maintains that woman – let’s call her Eve, since that would be more convenient and comprehensible – was formed from a bone from the ribcage of the man – Adam, again for more convenience. A Greek myth says that Pandora, the first woman, was a gift given to men by Zeus to punish them for having received fire, stolen from Prometheus. Zeus – oh, wise man! – commanded the creation of the first woman, a ‘beautiful evil’, destined to give birth to descendants who would torment the race of men. That was, perhaps, one of the last instances of men acting with wisdom and foresight. And it did, just to even out the points, give women the power to deal with men and men the possibilities of telling really bad and chauvinistic jokes.
Be that all as it may, the fact of the matter is that in Asia the woman has to live with a strange balance of power. In many parts of India, for instance, like in some clans in Kerala and certain communities in the northeast, the woman reigns supreme in a society that is still matriarchal and matrilineal. In the bustling commercial capital of Mumbai a tiny proportion of the female population fight battles like the glass ceiling and gender equality, while in the rest of the teeming metropolis, there are bigger wars to face, from everyday and startlingly casual sexual abuse to exploitation, poverty, hygiene, health…name it and the woman must arm herself to conquer it. Driving buses through the crowded streets, steering trains along the maze of the commuter network, working on construction sites, directing films, catering lunch services - today there is little that women do not generally aspire to, frequently struggle towards and usually manage to do better than their male counterparts. There is almost always a male bastion to breach, an age-old barrier to clamber over, with sari, high heels, make up and all. In the process, an aggression builds up, slowly evolving into a core of steel and fire, hiding a tiny kernel of softness and sensitivity.
Mythology that stretches its legends across the world have examples a-plenty of a woman’s life not being an easy one. Consider Draupadi, daughter, princess, wife, warrior, heroine of the Mahabharata. She had to deal with not one husband, but five, all because of a thoughtless command from her mother-in-law to her husband – share your prize with your brothers, said Ma-in-law to Arjun, the prince who had shot the arrow that won the hand of the princess. A literal translation of the command into action gave Draupadi five men to be wife to – some interpretations see it as various aspects or face of the same man. Along the way, the poor woman had to deal with poverty, deprivation, manual labour, humiliation and, as the ultimate insult, sexual abuse, where she was stripped in front of a full court of gawking men. But she won, with a little divine intervention, and is now considered a paragon among women.
And there was Sita, wife of Lord Rama, hero of the Ramayana. She went from being a foundling in a field to being a pampered princess and then the wife of a princeling revered as the Ultimate Man. But there was more to Sita than most people who are told the story as children usually think about. She was taken from a safe, happy, luxurious home with promises of being the queen of a kingdom. And within a short time of being married, she found herself living in a forest, surrounded by wild animals and wilder demons, and then was whisked away by an amorous man with an amazing ten heads to his island in the south. One deadly war later, she found herself back with her husband, all ready to resume life as his queen, at the closing of a full circle of adventure. But a tiny voice – a male one, the ancient texts say – demanded proof of Sita’s virtue and the unfortunate lady had to go through trial by fire, at which point she decided she was fed up of men trying to run her life and walked away to a more bucolic existence with her sons.
And somewhere along the way, a different consciousness stirs…
Women like myself, an admittedly privileged lot who do not need to worry about the next meal, a roof overhead or clothes to wear, have seen their mothers and seniors fight the battle and, for the most part, win. Our paths have already been cleared and made ready for our stiletto heels to tick-tock along. We have decided to focus our energies not on waging that ancient war, but using the hard-won territory to make ourselves more comfortable as we fight newer, more relevant battles, whether to find new territories to conquer or mould those we already own to suit our particular situations. Today we see what is traditionally considered ‘male power’ as a sort of convenience for women – go ahead, guys, tote that luggage because it is too heavy for us, we would rather not get calloused palms; go through that door first because anything nasty out there can get you rather than us; sit on that lone free seat in the train, we do not want our nicely laundered clothes to collect the leftovers of the previous commuter; get that promotion at work, we will fix all the messes you make when we take over and come out smelling of roses. Go ahead, be men. We are happy being who we are: women.
Once upon a very long time ago God created man and, of course, woman. One school of thought maintains that woman – let’s call her Eve, since that would be more convenient and comprehensible – was formed from a bone from the ribcage of the man – Adam, again for more convenience. A Greek myth says that Pandora, the first woman, was a gift given to men by Zeus to punish them for having received fire, stolen from Prometheus. Zeus – oh, wise man! – commanded the creation of the first woman, a ‘beautiful evil’, destined to give birth to descendants who would torment the race of men. That was, perhaps, one of the last instances of men acting with wisdom and foresight. And it did, just to even out the points, give women the power to deal with men and men the possibilities of telling really bad and chauvinistic jokes.
Be that all as it may, the fact of the matter is that in Asia the woman has to live with a strange balance of power. In many parts of India, for instance, like in some clans in Kerala and certain communities in the northeast, the woman reigns supreme in a society that is still matriarchal and matrilineal. In the bustling commercial capital of Mumbai a tiny proportion of the female population fight battles like the glass ceiling and gender equality, while in the rest of the teeming metropolis, there are bigger wars to face, from everyday and startlingly casual sexual abuse to exploitation, poverty, hygiene, health…name it and the woman must arm herself to conquer it. Driving buses through the crowded streets, steering trains along the maze of the commuter network, working on construction sites, directing films, catering lunch services - today there is little that women do not generally aspire to, frequently struggle towards and usually manage to do better than their male counterparts. There is almost always a male bastion to breach, an age-old barrier to clamber over, with sari, high heels, make up and all. In the process, an aggression builds up, slowly evolving into a core of steel and fire, hiding a tiny kernel of softness and sensitivity.
Mythology that stretches its legends across the world have examples a-plenty of a woman’s life not being an easy one. Consider Draupadi, daughter, princess, wife, warrior, heroine of the Mahabharata. She had to deal with not one husband, but five, all because of a thoughtless command from her mother-in-law to her husband – share your prize with your brothers, said Ma-in-law to Arjun, the prince who had shot the arrow that won the hand of the princess. A literal translation of the command into action gave Draupadi five men to be wife to – some interpretations see it as various aspects or face of the same man. Along the way, the poor woman had to deal with poverty, deprivation, manual labour, humiliation and, as the ultimate insult, sexual abuse, where she was stripped in front of a full court of gawking men. But she won, with a little divine intervention, and is now considered a paragon among women.
And there was Sita, wife of Lord Rama, hero of the Ramayana. She went from being a foundling in a field to being a pampered princess and then the wife of a princeling revered as the Ultimate Man. But there was more to Sita than most people who are told the story as children usually think about. She was taken from a safe, happy, luxurious home with promises of being the queen of a kingdom. And within a short time of being married, she found herself living in a forest, surrounded by wild animals and wilder demons, and then was whisked away by an amorous man with an amazing ten heads to his island in the south. One deadly war later, she found herself back with her husband, all ready to resume life as his queen, at the closing of a full circle of adventure. But a tiny voice – a male one, the ancient texts say – demanded proof of Sita’s virtue and the unfortunate lady had to go through trial by fire, at which point she decided she was fed up of men trying to run her life and walked away to a more bucolic existence with her sons.
And somewhere along the way, a different consciousness stirs…
Women like myself, an admittedly privileged lot who do not need to worry about the next meal, a roof overhead or clothes to wear, have seen their mothers and seniors fight the battle and, for the most part, win. Our paths have already been cleared and made ready for our stiletto heels to tick-tock along. We have decided to focus our energies not on waging that ancient war, but using the hard-won territory to make ourselves more comfortable as we fight newer, more relevant battles, whether to find new territories to conquer or mould those we already own to suit our particular situations. Today we see what is traditionally considered ‘male power’ as a sort of convenience for women – go ahead, guys, tote that luggage because it is too heavy for us, we would rather not get calloused palms; go through that door first because anything nasty out there can get you rather than us; sit on that lone free seat in the train, we do not want our nicely laundered clothes to collect the leftovers of the previous commuter; get that promotion at work, we will fix all the messes you make when we take over and come out smelling of roses. Go ahead, be men. We are happy being who we are: women.
Book review
THE CHAPEL AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
by Kirsten McKenzie
Conflict is often a route to miracles, a time when unlikely friends are made and bonds forged that could last a lifetime. Many stories like this one emerged from the darkness of World War II. This book is a gently written, vaguely disconnected and very readable fictionalised record of one of these wonderful tales. Once upon a real time, when battle raged across what used to be Europe, a group of soldiers taken prisoner during the war came together to create something that exists even today – a small chapel on a hill on a small and desolate island in Orkney, where the PoWs are stationed. They built it from salvaged material, nuts, bolts, scrap found in the mud, and home-concocted paint. And they learned how to see faith as not some kind of saviour, but as a way to be thankful for what they found within themselves.
The story begins when the artistic Emilio and Rosa, childhood sweethearts and just formally engaged, are separated by war. He, along with others from his unit, are trudging through the desert, weakened by heat, a lack of water and proper food, and are taken captive. As PoWs, they are shipped off to Lamb Holm, on a tiny island which seems like the edge of the world. There they learn to live with each other and, in essence, with themselves. Emilio finds friends in Paolo, Romano, Bertoldo and others, sketching everything and everyone inside and outside the small hut they call home. A priest takes a small makeshift mass, but it is not enough for Emilio, who longs for a real church, one with an altar and a picture of the Madonna framed by elaborately patterned arches.
Suddenly, it all becomes possible. Italy surrenders to the Allies and is out of the war. So the prisoners are no longer prisoners, but men free to live as they wish. But there is no one who tells them how to go home. So they make lives for themselves on the island and, soon, a small place from where they can speak to God. Emilio designs a chapel in abandoned Nissan huts, making it beautiful, artistic, simple, with all the devotion and skill that he, the artist, has in his soul.
Meanwhile, back in Italy in her little village on the banks of Lake Como, Rosa becomes embroiled in the local resistance movement. She finds diversion in Pietro, in the excitement of subterfuge and the attempted escape of Rachele and her father, Jews who attempt to flee the persecution they face. And, of course, there is Heinrich…
Both stories, forming a whole by virtue of the connection between the two protagonists, have their moments of drama, of grey dullness, of suffering. At the end, which is actually where the book starts, the married couple are visiting the island – Emilio is not all there in his mind, while Rosa tends him with all the devotion but not quite all the love that she has. Bertoldo is still young, his memories of trauma buried either too deep to be felt, or felt to deeply to be shown. And all that really matters is the small chapel at the edge of the world.,,
by Kirsten McKenzie
Conflict is often a route to miracles, a time when unlikely friends are made and bonds forged that could last a lifetime. Many stories like this one emerged from the darkness of World War II. This book is a gently written, vaguely disconnected and very readable fictionalised record of one of these wonderful tales. Once upon a real time, when battle raged across what used to be Europe, a group of soldiers taken prisoner during the war came together to create something that exists even today – a small chapel on a hill on a small and desolate island in Orkney, where the PoWs are stationed. They built it from salvaged material, nuts, bolts, scrap found in the mud, and home-concocted paint. And they learned how to see faith as not some kind of saviour, but as a way to be thankful for what they found within themselves.
The story begins when the artistic Emilio and Rosa, childhood sweethearts and just formally engaged, are separated by war. He, along with others from his unit, are trudging through the desert, weakened by heat, a lack of water and proper food, and are taken captive. As PoWs, they are shipped off to Lamb Holm, on a tiny island which seems like the edge of the world. There they learn to live with each other and, in essence, with themselves. Emilio finds friends in Paolo, Romano, Bertoldo and others, sketching everything and everyone inside and outside the small hut they call home. A priest takes a small makeshift mass, but it is not enough for Emilio, who longs for a real church, one with an altar and a picture of the Madonna framed by elaborately patterned arches.
Suddenly, it all becomes possible. Italy surrenders to the Allies and is out of the war. So the prisoners are no longer prisoners, but men free to live as they wish. But there is no one who tells them how to go home. So they make lives for themselves on the island and, soon, a small place from where they can speak to God. Emilio designs a chapel in abandoned Nissan huts, making it beautiful, artistic, simple, with all the devotion and skill that he, the artist, has in his soul.
Meanwhile, back in Italy in her little village on the banks of Lake Como, Rosa becomes embroiled in the local resistance movement. She finds diversion in Pietro, in the excitement of subterfuge and the attempted escape of Rachele and her father, Jews who attempt to flee the persecution they face. And, of course, there is Heinrich…
Both stories, forming a whole by virtue of the connection between the two protagonists, have their moments of drama, of grey dullness, of suffering. At the end, which is actually where the book starts, the married couple are visiting the island – Emilio is not all there in his mind, while Rosa tends him with all the devotion but not quite all the love that she has. Bertoldo is still young, his memories of trauma buried either too deep to be felt, or felt to deeply to be shown. And all that really matters is the small chapel at the edge of the world.,,
Amitava Das - Interview
(Published in the Hindu Sunday Magazine, 14th Nov, 2010)
There are two aspects of Amitava’s show, currently on at the Sakshi Gallery in Mumbai, that strike a viewer: the amorphous, almost Rorschach-ian forms on the canvas and the general mod of pain. His works are home to bright splashes of colour, to near-fluorescent hues, to light-reflective gold and silver, to what seems to be the occasional sequin (but is actually a kind of paint cleverly used), but there is an anguish that seeps into the air as you stand in front of Tamra and the Wounded Tree, or Inflicted Wounds or even the diptych titled Wounded Earth, without really looking at the names neatly placed alongside. As the canvas reveals its various facets, you start seeing, understanding, where the darkness is, where the tears come from: Small strips of medical sticky-tape, carefully placed on the paint, centred by a red blotch, a wound given rudimentary first aid. There is nothing specifically delineated, but much that is felt, unsaid, emanating from the thought that has created the work. And in the gentle wash of pain, there are small stars of celebration, of joy, as in Vivaho, where the couple stand shyly separated by a dividing line, the red sprays perhaps of the flowers in the garlands that will soon make them one…
Delhi-bred and based Amitava Das, a Bengali in accent, appearance and sensibility (even though he avers, albeit with a smile, that the people of Kolkata need to grow out of an obsession with Tagore and Rabindra Sangeet), showed in Mumbai after a hiatus of six years. “I have shows in other places,” he says, “it is not possible to show only in one place all the time!” He refuses to classifies his work, insisting that “When I work, I do not work from a particular point of view saying it belongs to a particular style or phase or school. It is up to the viewer or anyone who can appreciate my work to classify it; I don’t believe in doing so – a true work of art doesn’t belong to any school or anything else.”
A graphic-cum-exhibition designer by professional, Amitava studied at the Delhi College of Art even as he worked on various shows, mainly designing pavilions for India in major trade fairs and events abroad. “The last project I did before I quit (exhibition design) was to design the India Pavilion for the Cannes Film Festival. That was the year Devdas was the official Indian entry.” It began many years earlier, but the true importance of this field and his contribution to it came in 1984 – “I did a show that gave me a space of 23,000 square meters – it was the Hanover Industrial Fair, and India was a partner country. The next day, they stopped showing India of the past and started showing modern India - that is the impact that we had!” Amitava remembers that “in 1989, the same thing happened. Trade through fairs is the new culture, the way of thinking - that is why there are so many art fairs today. India has slowly become a global partner in almost every field, especially in the visual arts.” He believes that this is evident in “the fact that Hollywood actors want to act in Bollywood these days!”
Indian art is fast gaining a position of great respect in the international realm. However, “Many people try to showcase their work from their point of view, which is wrong. We should try and showcase our work from our cultural point of view, from the Asian or Indian point of view,” Amitava insists. “We have to act according to international terms – this is something that India should try and change, so that our point of view is recognised. We should be able to make art from this region be seen and acknowledged and recognized the world over as having a unique cultural identity. We should not have a complex about that. We should feel that we are strong, that this is our/my art.” This, he feels, is hardly a simple issue to deal with. “The problem is that we do not have the right promoters. Also, we do not have good art writers, or the right backing – not government backing, since the government should not interfere, but should merely provide support. Otherwise red tapism and bureaucracy will not allow art to grow.” In this, though, self-promotion, is not a player, since promotion is “not my job – that is what the galleries or art writers and promoters should do.”
With many years of experience backing him and his own feeling of satisfaction in helping younger artists, Amitava has some advice to give. “Young artists should work sincerely and consciously and with respect for art and for their own culture. I cannot advise them on how to promote themselves. But, of course, the whole world has become far more transparent now, with the Internet, and there is a great revolution happening in communication. Facilities are available, and now younger artists have to have a different way of presenting their work, but they should always remember that the mind is far more important than the information that is available to it. Too much information has to be matched by a point of view.”
So what is the magic formula to find success, especially internationally? The painter explains his perspective that “Certain artists have been recognized, but there are so many more who are good but do not have promotional avenues and ways of being seen and noticed internationally. If you want to participate in a biennale, for instance, you have to do a certain kind of art – multimedia or installation, perhaps. That should not be a factor in selection, though it tends to be. I don’t accept it.” How does he manage to keep ahead in this kind of environment, especially since competition is, to put it mildly, cut-throat? “I paint, I draw, but I don’t do installation art or sculpture – after all, I have done that on a very large scale in exhibition designs! And my work was more architectural then. I do not feel like doing it now since I have already done it, though with a different purpose! In Moscow some years ago I was given a huge glazed wall to work on, wonderfully brightly lit by the sun. I did a tapestry mural with the help of 250 women from Mehrauli village, through an NGO, and they wove my design on canvas with felt to show a Krishna Leela.” Amitava makes it clear that “I am not against installation art – I appreciate it greatly, but feel that it is a greater organizational feat than an individual one. Many works of this kind today are not original, but derivative to a great extent.” And, to make it worse, “Many younger artists are confused about it and so do all sorts of things to grab attention.”
Inspiration for the veteran artist comes from many sources, “film, music, poetry, anywhere”. Many years ago, “I divided my attention into study work and my own work ever since I was in art college. By the fourth year I had a successful one-man show.” Family support comes, even though “My father originally wanted me to study commerce, be a CA, have a career. So after school I joined the commerce course, but quit soon enough. At the time I never took art as a subject since I did not like the way it was taught. I would visit shows, read, watch others – that is how I learned enough to get into college.”
Commerce and art need not be separated, Amitava says, since “Ultimately, artists need to survive. Why should they keep the old image of the jhola-carrying struggler? They should have the best of whatever is available, a good life and lifestyle, so why not aim to sell?” But intentions as an artist should be clear, “You should not play to the gallery. That’s why I never depended on anyone – I was independent, worked for my living and did art, since it was my passion.”
There are two aspects of Amitava’s show, currently on at the Sakshi Gallery in Mumbai, that strike a viewer: the amorphous, almost Rorschach-ian forms on the canvas and the general mod of pain. His works are home to bright splashes of colour, to near-fluorescent hues, to light-reflective gold and silver, to what seems to be the occasional sequin (but is actually a kind of paint cleverly used), but there is an anguish that seeps into the air as you stand in front of Tamra and the Wounded Tree, or Inflicted Wounds or even the diptych titled Wounded Earth, without really looking at the names neatly placed alongside. As the canvas reveals its various facets, you start seeing, understanding, where the darkness is, where the tears come from: Small strips of medical sticky-tape, carefully placed on the paint, centred by a red blotch, a wound given rudimentary first aid. There is nothing specifically delineated, but much that is felt, unsaid, emanating from the thought that has created the work. And in the gentle wash of pain, there are small stars of celebration, of joy, as in Vivaho, where the couple stand shyly separated by a dividing line, the red sprays perhaps of the flowers in the garlands that will soon make them one…
Delhi-bred and based Amitava Das, a Bengali in accent, appearance and sensibility (even though he avers, albeit with a smile, that the people of Kolkata need to grow out of an obsession with Tagore and Rabindra Sangeet), showed in Mumbai after a hiatus of six years. “I have shows in other places,” he says, “it is not possible to show only in one place all the time!” He refuses to classifies his work, insisting that “When I work, I do not work from a particular point of view saying it belongs to a particular style or phase or school. It is up to the viewer or anyone who can appreciate my work to classify it; I don’t believe in doing so – a true work of art doesn’t belong to any school or anything else.”
A graphic-cum-exhibition designer by professional, Amitava studied at the Delhi College of Art even as he worked on various shows, mainly designing pavilions for India in major trade fairs and events abroad. “The last project I did before I quit (exhibition design) was to design the India Pavilion for the Cannes Film Festival. That was the year Devdas was the official Indian entry.” It began many years earlier, but the true importance of this field and his contribution to it came in 1984 – “I did a show that gave me a space of 23,000 square meters – it was the Hanover Industrial Fair, and India was a partner country. The next day, they stopped showing India of the past and started showing modern India - that is the impact that we had!” Amitava remembers that “in 1989, the same thing happened. Trade through fairs is the new culture, the way of thinking - that is why there are so many art fairs today. India has slowly become a global partner in almost every field, especially in the visual arts.” He believes that this is evident in “the fact that Hollywood actors want to act in Bollywood these days!”
Indian art is fast gaining a position of great respect in the international realm. However, “Many people try to showcase their work from their point of view, which is wrong. We should try and showcase our work from our cultural point of view, from the Asian or Indian point of view,” Amitava insists. “We have to act according to international terms – this is something that India should try and change, so that our point of view is recognised. We should be able to make art from this region be seen and acknowledged and recognized the world over as having a unique cultural identity. We should not have a complex about that. We should feel that we are strong, that this is our/my art.” This, he feels, is hardly a simple issue to deal with. “The problem is that we do not have the right promoters. Also, we do not have good art writers, or the right backing – not government backing, since the government should not interfere, but should merely provide support. Otherwise red tapism and bureaucracy will not allow art to grow.” In this, though, self-promotion, is not a player, since promotion is “not my job – that is what the galleries or art writers and promoters should do.”
With many years of experience backing him and his own feeling of satisfaction in helping younger artists, Amitava has some advice to give. “Young artists should work sincerely and consciously and with respect for art and for their own culture. I cannot advise them on how to promote themselves. But, of course, the whole world has become far more transparent now, with the Internet, and there is a great revolution happening in communication. Facilities are available, and now younger artists have to have a different way of presenting their work, but they should always remember that the mind is far more important than the information that is available to it. Too much information has to be matched by a point of view.”
So what is the magic formula to find success, especially internationally? The painter explains his perspective that “Certain artists have been recognized, but there are so many more who are good but do not have promotional avenues and ways of being seen and noticed internationally. If you want to participate in a biennale, for instance, you have to do a certain kind of art – multimedia or installation, perhaps. That should not be a factor in selection, though it tends to be. I don’t accept it.” How does he manage to keep ahead in this kind of environment, especially since competition is, to put it mildly, cut-throat? “I paint, I draw, but I don’t do installation art or sculpture – after all, I have done that on a very large scale in exhibition designs! And my work was more architectural then. I do not feel like doing it now since I have already done it, though with a different purpose! In Moscow some years ago I was given a huge glazed wall to work on, wonderfully brightly lit by the sun. I did a tapestry mural with the help of 250 women from Mehrauli village, through an NGO, and they wove my design on canvas with felt to show a Krishna Leela.” Amitava makes it clear that “I am not against installation art – I appreciate it greatly, but feel that it is a greater organizational feat than an individual one. Many works of this kind today are not original, but derivative to a great extent.” And, to make it worse, “Many younger artists are confused about it and so do all sorts of things to grab attention.”
Inspiration for the veteran artist comes from many sources, “film, music, poetry, anywhere”. Many years ago, “I divided my attention into study work and my own work ever since I was in art college. By the fourth year I had a successful one-man show.” Family support comes, even though “My father originally wanted me to study commerce, be a CA, have a career. So after school I joined the commerce course, but quit soon enough. At the time I never took art as a subject since I did not like the way it was taught. I would visit shows, read, watch others – that is how I learned enough to get into college.”
Commerce and art need not be separated, Amitava says, since “Ultimately, artists need to survive. Why should they keep the old image of the jhola-carrying struggler? They should have the best of whatever is available, a good life and lifestyle, so why not aim to sell?” But intentions as an artist should be clear, “You should not play to the gallery. That’s why I never depended on anyone – I was independent, worked for my living and did art, since it was my passion.”
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Cubicle connections
(The Times of India Crest Edition, November 6, 2010)
Make friends, influence people and move on. That is the story in today’s get-ahead-fast world, where changing jobs is fairly easy, the after-effects of the recession notwithstanding. Once upon a time a career was all about staying with the same organization for years, even decades, steadily slogging on in a job that was about stability and loyalty rather than rapid advancement and incremental salary jumps. Now it means being on the constant look-out for a better opportunity, a better paycheck, a better position, even a better commute to work. With each experience, there is a take-away, be it a store of memories – some good, some entirely forgettable – or a higher visibility in the field. Then there are the friends made at work. These ‘office friends’ are special, a non-sexual yet intimate relationship with people who share the work experience, personal and professional angst, often the same boss and, almost always, lunch. But there comes a time when the dabba with a BFF yields to a cup of coffee with a headhunter and, soon, a new job. Everything changes, from the work itself to the boss to the location of the office, with new friends, new gossip circles and new timings. Keeping in touch with that BFF is suddenly more difficult and meeting, even more so. Lunch dates become increasingly infrequent, telephone calls gradually peter out and then, startlingly, those same close friends are seen more as other people’s Facebook buddies. But some are lucky and manage to keep in touch with friends from various jobs. Networking sites and modern communications make it easier, they say, albeit sometimes with a tiny tinge of regret at the sweet sorrow of the parting when a job hop was done.
“I fly solo,” says Arun Katiyar, who now works as a consultant in the content and communication space, “no office, no colleagues, no politics, no back biting”. He “changed jobs on average every two years between 1982 and 2007 when I worked for others. But in that period, I worked 18 years for the same company, my assignments and job profile changing almost every two years.” He does not make friends quickly, “But I have been often told I have a big smile by everyone other than my wife. Obviously, even a small smile at work and with colleagues does wonders.” He has been fortunate enough to work with people who are “young and have the energy to stay in touch with me. Often, when I travel, even to places like San Jose, past colleagues turn up to accompany me for dinner or a drink. The world is kind and forgiving place!”
Indu Prasad, producer of an auto website, has changed jobs “as often as the next phase of life happens”. She does not make friends easily, but needs that “special click that happens only with a few people”. Former colleagues are still part of her life and she manages to keep in touch “all the time - they are some of my closest friends”. As she explains, “You spend more than half the waking hours in office and they become your buddies, a surrogate family of sorts.” But she admits that the contact “has decreased. You have your work, life, love, universe and some people do fall off your planet. And the level of interaction that you have when you are in the office is not there. Keeping in touch over chat or phone is not the same.” But for Prasad, “It's part of moving on. But the important thing is we still make time for each other whenever possible. That might be once in three months instead of every week, but that is not bad either. Facebook and Twitter have changed the timelines of keeping in touch. It also helps when you call each other once in two months to take up conversations instantly, since you already know what's happening with the other person.”
For Alok Bhatnagar, a senior digital professional, changing jobs has been “purely circumstantial”. He makes friends very easily, he says, and “I keep in touch with my peers from my former offices - less so with seniors and juniors, but I do talk enthusiastically if anyone from there calls me.” He has a degree of equanimity when it comes time to move on. “I think that I have resigned myself to the fact that one needs to leave behind office friends when one changes jobs. I always promise to be in touch and somehow do manage to do so one way or the other.” Social networking helps; “My contact level has increased thanks to everyone now joining FB. And the feeling of missing them is completely gone!” But he has another bond that is stronger, since “With some of my office friends, I have had a deeper relationship than only work. In fact, I have a set of friends (former colleagues) with whom I try to do at least one annual outstation holiday trip. Our families are also closely integrated.”
According to psychiatrist Harish Shetty, “Office friendships have a range of variables – there are different networks established: trust, wherein you trust your colleagues with personal matters; expertise, where you learn from colleagues, go to them when you have work problems; love, when the person is more than a friend but less than a lover; guru – a papa figure, or godfather, who becomes a lover sometimes; and buddy, the person who is always around, to keep you company or give you money when you need it or take you to the hospital when you have a crisis.” Some of these may overlap, while others remain as they are, no matter what happens.
Aligned to friendship and bonding is a level of competition at work. Vying for the same position, for a higher annual increment, even for a better work-station or desk near a window can cause some friction in the closest relationship. As Katiyar remembers, “There was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left, we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends, but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work on assignments together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between then and now, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets!”
Bhatnagar admits that “There has been competition at work, but the feeling goes when one quits. There can be exceptions here, especially if there has been negativity in the relationship. However, those are people whom you would not call office friends.” He believes that “Friendship can never be forced. It comes when you realise that the other person is temperamentally compatible. I do not think any of my friendships in office were a matter of propinquity.” And, along the career path, if he comes across those people again, “Yes, I am open to work with most of my office friends again.”
Prasad, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the two worlds apart where some of her former ‘office friends’ are concerned. Parting made no major difference, as “Some people you miss because your friendship was beyond office lunches, parties, shopping, bitching, etc. They become your friends without the constraints of geography or time zones. Some others you miss because they made the job fun. You realise that your learning curve was better while working with some people than with others. And yes, there are more that are lunch / dinner / drinking / shopping / travelling buddies and, thank God, those things can still be done even if you are not working together, only, not as often!” For her, “Our friendships have evolved beyond the work place and I like that space.”
Katiyar “knew I'd stay in touch with some of them and that felt good. Even more importantly, many of them expressed the fact that they would like to work with me in the future.” But there is a faint feeling of regret sometimes, “Sometimes I do feel bad when I hear about major developments in their lives from others. Recently, an ex-colleague and now a friend who runs a restaurant with a business partner took over his partner's share of the business. I heard about it from another friend. I felt a twinge.” He does also miss some people “for the conversations and the many common things we shared. When I think back to those subjects/ discussions, I wish I could ping them, just for old time's sake. Friendships with some people who were not part of the office I worked in, but were in the organization, have endeared despite the fact that we did not share any ‘closeness’ of office space. I think it was more that we shared some views of life, shared something deeper than proximity.”
And did competition play a role in the relationship? He says, “Yes, there was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets.” For Katiyar, even as one door opened, another was firmly shut. “I don't think I want to work with them again. I'd rather have them as friends. You know the funny thing about life? Office colleagues can become friends, but friendships can be easily destroyed by an office environment.”
As Shetty explains, “Even when you change jobs, you still maintain some relationships across the board. Most young people today have no loyalties towards establishments and infrastructures,” he says, “the brand is yours alone, resume is yours. Networks stretch across borders of jobs; companies may compete, but your friendships endure. There is a crisscross of friendships that does not break and does not come in the way. Young people are clear about what they want from a friend.” He feels that “These are fantastic friendships, with no workplace loyalty but more bonding to peers, so there is a lot of acceptance, along with a lot of bitching at times, a lot of forgiveness, and connectivity always. The interactions may be short, in bursts, but it is beautiful.”
Make friends, influence people and move on. That is the story in today’s get-ahead-fast world, where changing jobs is fairly easy, the after-effects of the recession notwithstanding. Once upon a time a career was all about staying with the same organization for years, even decades, steadily slogging on in a job that was about stability and loyalty rather than rapid advancement and incremental salary jumps. Now it means being on the constant look-out for a better opportunity, a better paycheck, a better position, even a better commute to work. With each experience, there is a take-away, be it a store of memories – some good, some entirely forgettable – or a higher visibility in the field. Then there are the friends made at work. These ‘office friends’ are special, a non-sexual yet intimate relationship with people who share the work experience, personal and professional angst, often the same boss and, almost always, lunch. But there comes a time when the dabba with a BFF yields to a cup of coffee with a headhunter and, soon, a new job. Everything changes, from the work itself to the boss to the location of the office, with new friends, new gossip circles and new timings. Keeping in touch with that BFF is suddenly more difficult and meeting, even more so. Lunch dates become increasingly infrequent, telephone calls gradually peter out and then, startlingly, those same close friends are seen more as other people’s Facebook buddies. But some are lucky and manage to keep in touch with friends from various jobs. Networking sites and modern communications make it easier, they say, albeit sometimes with a tiny tinge of regret at the sweet sorrow of the parting when a job hop was done.
“I fly solo,” says Arun Katiyar, who now works as a consultant in the content and communication space, “no office, no colleagues, no politics, no back biting”. He “changed jobs on average every two years between 1982 and 2007 when I worked for others. But in that period, I worked 18 years for the same company, my assignments and job profile changing almost every two years.” He does not make friends quickly, “But I have been often told I have a big smile by everyone other than my wife. Obviously, even a small smile at work and with colleagues does wonders.” He has been fortunate enough to work with people who are “young and have the energy to stay in touch with me. Often, when I travel, even to places like San Jose, past colleagues turn up to accompany me for dinner or a drink. The world is kind and forgiving place!”
Indu Prasad, producer of an auto website, has changed jobs “as often as the next phase of life happens”. She does not make friends easily, but needs that “special click that happens only with a few people”. Former colleagues are still part of her life and she manages to keep in touch “all the time - they are some of my closest friends”. As she explains, “You spend more than half the waking hours in office and they become your buddies, a surrogate family of sorts.” But she admits that the contact “has decreased. You have your work, life, love, universe and some people do fall off your planet. And the level of interaction that you have when you are in the office is not there. Keeping in touch over chat or phone is not the same.” But for Prasad, “It's part of moving on. But the important thing is we still make time for each other whenever possible. That might be once in three months instead of every week, but that is not bad either. Facebook and Twitter have changed the timelines of keeping in touch. It also helps when you call each other once in two months to take up conversations instantly, since you already know what's happening with the other person.”
For Alok Bhatnagar, a senior digital professional, changing jobs has been “purely circumstantial”. He makes friends very easily, he says, and “I keep in touch with my peers from my former offices - less so with seniors and juniors, but I do talk enthusiastically if anyone from there calls me.” He has a degree of equanimity when it comes time to move on. “I think that I have resigned myself to the fact that one needs to leave behind office friends when one changes jobs. I always promise to be in touch and somehow do manage to do so one way or the other.” Social networking helps; “My contact level has increased thanks to everyone now joining FB. And the feeling of missing them is completely gone!” But he has another bond that is stronger, since “With some of my office friends, I have had a deeper relationship than only work. In fact, I have a set of friends (former colleagues) with whom I try to do at least one annual outstation holiday trip. Our families are also closely integrated.”
According to psychiatrist Harish Shetty, “Office friendships have a range of variables – there are different networks established: trust, wherein you trust your colleagues with personal matters; expertise, where you learn from colleagues, go to them when you have work problems; love, when the person is more than a friend but less than a lover; guru – a papa figure, or godfather, who becomes a lover sometimes; and buddy, the person who is always around, to keep you company or give you money when you need it or take you to the hospital when you have a crisis.” Some of these may overlap, while others remain as they are, no matter what happens.
Aligned to friendship and bonding is a level of competition at work. Vying for the same position, for a higher annual increment, even for a better work-station or desk near a window can cause some friction in the closest relationship. As Katiyar remembers, “There was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left, we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends, but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work on assignments together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between then and now, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets!”
Bhatnagar admits that “There has been competition at work, but the feeling goes when one quits. There can be exceptions here, especially if there has been negativity in the relationship. However, those are people whom you would not call office friends.” He believes that “Friendship can never be forced. It comes when you realise that the other person is temperamentally compatible. I do not think any of my friendships in office were a matter of propinquity.” And, along the career path, if he comes across those people again, “Yes, I am open to work with most of my office friends again.”
Prasad, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the two worlds apart where some of her former ‘office friends’ are concerned. Parting made no major difference, as “Some people you miss because your friendship was beyond office lunches, parties, shopping, bitching, etc. They become your friends without the constraints of geography or time zones. Some others you miss because they made the job fun. You realise that your learning curve was better while working with some people than with others. And yes, there are more that are lunch / dinner / drinking / shopping / travelling buddies and, thank God, those things can still be done even if you are not working together, only, not as often!” For her, “Our friendships have evolved beyond the work place and I like that space.”
Katiyar “knew I'd stay in touch with some of them and that felt good. Even more importantly, many of them expressed the fact that they would like to work with me in the future.” But there is a faint feeling of regret sometimes, “Sometimes I do feel bad when I hear about major developments in their lives from others. Recently, an ex-colleague and now a friend who runs a restaurant with a business partner took over his partner's share of the business. I heard about it from another friend. I felt a twinge.” He does also miss some people “for the conversations and the many common things we shared. When I think back to those subjects/ discussions, I wish I could ping them, just for old time's sake. Friendships with some people who were not part of the office I worked in, but were in the organization, have endeared despite the fact that we did not share any ‘closeness’ of office space. I think it was more that we shared some views of life, shared something deeper than proximity.”
And did competition play a role in the relationship? He says, “Yes, there was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets.” For Katiyar, even as one door opened, another was firmly shut. “I don't think I want to work with them again. I'd rather have them as friends. You know the funny thing about life? Office colleagues can become friends, but friendships can be easily destroyed by an office environment.”
As Shetty explains, “Even when you change jobs, you still maintain some relationships across the board. Most young people today have no loyalties towards establishments and infrastructures,” he says, “the brand is yours alone, resume is yours. Networks stretch across borders of jobs; companies may compete, but your friendships endure. There is a crisscross of friendships that does not break and does not come in the way. Young people are clear about what they want from a friend.” He feels that “These are fantastic friendships, with no workplace loyalty but more bonding to peers, so there is a lot of acceptance, along with a lot of bitching at times, a lot of forgiveness, and connectivity always. The interactions may be short, in bursts, but it is beautiful.”
Book review
(The Hindu Literary Review, November 7, 2010)
DAYANITA SINGH
Penguin Studio
231 pages
Rs4799
This is an unusual book. Eponymously named, it features the work of photographer Dayanita Singh and writing by Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani, as well as a set of emails from Mona Ahmed. Taken as a whole, rather than each of its parts, it is not a book about photography, or a book of writing on photography, but a synergy between the two, where the writing complements the photography and the photography offsets the writing, with each illustrating the other. The volume is divided into ‘stories’, in turn with the obvious classification of ‘writing’, which tells stories with words, and ‘pictures’, which tell their own versions of the stories with light and shade.
The introduction itself tells the story of the photographer and how she became one. The “fall off the horse”, as it is described, when she realised what she was going to be, came when Singh was just 18, taking pictures as part of an academic project for her first year at the National Institute of Design. At a concert by tabla maestro Zakir Hussain, she was stopped from taking photographs and protested with a vow of “one day I will be a famous photographer and then we will see.” It is incidents of this kind, personal, intimate, that make the academic tenor of the writing more digestible. And it is indeed academic in writing style, well-researched, lucid, erudite and occasionally tough going for the average reader of ‘coffee table’ books - which this is very likely to be seen as by most people.
Sunil Khilnani speaks of the holy city of Kashi in What To See In Benares, the lead-in to I Am As I Am. The setting, the mood, the dirt, even the sounds and smells of piety and how they are all, strangely enough, captured on film (or pixels) are suddenly left behind at the stone walls of the Anandmayi Ashram. At that point, the images take over. And there is an overwhelming sense of serenity, of acceptance of simplicity, of innocence and gentleness. The same kind of cloistered feeling comes in Singh’s Ladies of Calcutta, of which Aveek Sen writes in Fiction in the Archives. There is a sense of travelling back in time, to a place where life is slow, studied, purposeful and all feminine. The women and their accoutrements pose – their images are slowly and deliberately taken apart and as carefully put together again in evocative prose.
Sen’s A Distance of One’s Own, and its accompanying set of photographs in Singh’s Go Away Closer, is not as obvious and easy to understand. There is an eerie emptiness, a desolation that comes with the images, and, as Sen says, “Departure and arrival become mysteriously inseparable”. The writer’s The Eye in Thought which goes with Sent a Letter explains the progression of images in a “diary-like” set that grew from the way in which Singh’s mother Nony presented her own work. Like any book worth owning, it can be seen, savoured, put away and then looked at again with a new pleasure, the essay and the images forming a coherent unit.
Blue Book, prefaced by Sen’s A Land Called Lost, bursts suddenly, shockingly, into colour after a series of black and whites. The ‘leaving behind’ is complete, the objects pictured are abandoned, but there is also a feeling of anticipation, of waiting, of knowing that something urgent, eventful, will happen not too long hence. Dream Villa is, as Khilnani writes, India by Night, its colour, light and mood weird, spooky, a story being told even as something lurks behind the door at the edge of horror…or could it be overweening joy? The last piece in the book is Sen’s Difficult Loves, writing that is sheer poetry, even as it fairly pragmatically discusses Singh’s work and its intent.
But all this apart, perhaps the most moving story in this book is Myself Mona Ahmed, three emails from Mona Ahmed to ‘Mr Walter’ (Keller). She talks of her life and her own evolution, as a child in a fairly stable home, her castration, her adulthood as a eunuch, her small joys and large griefs, her love, her isolation. It is touching, the images bringing on tears at times, the writing even more. Her words in 2000, “Suddenly I felt better, maybe it was the magic of the old woman, or the gods took pity on me” could be the bon mot of the entire volume – there is magic in the words, enchantment in the pictures.
DAYANITA SINGH
Penguin Studio
231 pages
Rs4799
This is an unusual book. Eponymously named, it features the work of photographer Dayanita Singh and writing by Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani, as well as a set of emails from Mona Ahmed. Taken as a whole, rather than each of its parts, it is not a book about photography, or a book of writing on photography, but a synergy between the two, where the writing complements the photography and the photography offsets the writing, with each illustrating the other. The volume is divided into ‘stories’, in turn with the obvious classification of ‘writing’, which tells stories with words, and ‘pictures’, which tell their own versions of the stories with light and shade.
The introduction itself tells the story of the photographer and how she became one. The “fall off the horse”, as it is described, when she realised what she was going to be, came when Singh was just 18, taking pictures as part of an academic project for her first year at the National Institute of Design. At a concert by tabla maestro Zakir Hussain, she was stopped from taking photographs and protested with a vow of “one day I will be a famous photographer and then we will see.” It is incidents of this kind, personal, intimate, that make the academic tenor of the writing more digestible. And it is indeed academic in writing style, well-researched, lucid, erudite and occasionally tough going for the average reader of ‘coffee table’ books - which this is very likely to be seen as by most people.
Sunil Khilnani speaks of the holy city of Kashi in What To See In Benares, the lead-in to I Am As I Am. The setting, the mood, the dirt, even the sounds and smells of piety and how they are all, strangely enough, captured on film (or pixels) are suddenly left behind at the stone walls of the Anandmayi Ashram. At that point, the images take over. And there is an overwhelming sense of serenity, of acceptance of simplicity, of innocence and gentleness. The same kind of cloistered feeling comes in Singh’s Ladies of Calcutta, of which Aveek Sen writes in Fiction in the Archives. There is a sense of travelling back in time, to a place where life is slow, studied, purposeful and all feminine. The women and their accoutrements pose – their images are slowly and deliberately taken apart and as carefully put together again in evocative prose.
Sen’s A Distance of One’s Own, and its accompanying set of photographs in Singh’s Go Away Closer, is not as obvious and easy to understand. There is an eerie emptiness, a desolation that comes with the images, and, as Sen says, “Departure and arrival become mysteriously inseparable”. The writer’s The Eye in Thought which goes with Sent a Letter explains the progression of images in a “diary-like” set that grew from the way in which Singh’s mother Nony presented her own work. Like any book worth owning, it can be seen, savoured, put away and then looked at again with a new pleasure, the essay and the images forming a coherent unit.
Blue Book, prefaced by Sen’s A Land Called Lost, bursts suddenly, shockingly, into colour after a series of black and whites. The ‘leaving behind’ is complete, the objects pictured are abandoned, but there is also a feeling of anticipation, of waiting, of knowing that something urgent, eventful, will happen not too long hence. Dream Villa is, as Khilnani writes, India by Night, its colour, light and mood weird, spooky, a story being told even as something lurks behind the door at the edge of horror…or could it be overweening joy? The last piece in the book is Sen’s Difficult Loves, writing that is sheer poetry, even as it fairly pragmatically discusses Singh’s work and its intent.
But all this apart, perhaps the most moving story in this book is Myself Mona Ahmed, three emails from Mona Ahmed to ‘Mr Walter’ (Keller). She talks of her life and her own evolution, as a child in a fairly stable home, her castration, her adulthood as a eunuch, her small joys and large griefs, her love, her isolation. It is touching, the images bringing on tears at times, the writing even more. Her words in 2000, “Suddenly I felt better, maybe it was the magic of the old woman, or the gods took pity on me” could be the bon mot of the entire volume – there is magic in the words, enchantment in the pictures.
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