Warring Actors, Warring Art

Google served me with the expected lot of artworks when I looked up artworks from conflict zones, fascist regimes, and episodes of impending war—those which criticised wars, mourned innocent blood, expressed pathos, inspired pity. Soon after, I was served with the unexpected when the web search brought me to a realisation that in conflict zones, fascist regimes, and episodes of impending war, the art that flourishes is but an attack on those factors.

It was not the grey drawings of humans and animals devastated by this world’s violence in the Guernica, neither the disintegrated canine faces in The Wolves that Franz Marc painted amidst the violence preceding World War I, nor the poignantly horrifying blank stare—the ‘two thousand yard stare’—of an emotionally defeated war soldier, which worked its intended influence at that time. Far more influential were posters convincing people that feeling a certain way, taking certain decisions and believing what they are being told is best for them and their country. There were posters from the World Wars telling people that serving in the army is the best they can do in their lives, picture of Rosie the Riveter from America during World War II telling women to become ‘strong and capable’ by manufacturing war weapons, a poster counting casualties of the Bataan Wars in the Philippines and calling Filipinos to ‘stay on the job’ until every Japanese ‘is wiped out’, a North Korean poster for school children to take up respectable professions which can contribute towards killing Americans, are only a few examples.

The Guernica, now famous as an icon of anti-war art, was then displayed only in fancy galleries of the globe where few people could visit it and even fewer could have taken it to heart. The common people, who needed this anti-war impetus, could not access it let alone be influenced by it. The posters, however, were published to occupy all the public spaces frequented by people and obviously had more power over their minds.

Reflecting on my own times and trying to establish a pattern, I wonder if there is any painting in some fancy art gallery of my own city, which can powerfully tell people to stop killing other people but will do so only after it’s too late. I close my eyes to imagine what that painting might look like, but as soon as I open my eyes, I see instead a movie advertisement on a huge hoarding. The poster keeps changing, sometimes lauding a powerful leader to make him more powerful, sometimes boasting about the nation’s ability to kill, sometimes celebrating our hatred for the neighbouring country, or sometimes rhyming along hate speech directed at our own people. These days, it is always a movie poster I see and it is always lecturing people what sentiments they should have and what opinions they should not have about their country. I see those promotional posters every day and I think of people who saw the other propaganda posters in the same way; the huge boarding blocks my view as well as the sunlight which used to fall on my window and I understand how people living during wars are persuaded to live under blinding darkness.

Yet, when I think of artists during disturbed times, I innately think of them as more enlightened than their people, thinking of only those guided by conscience not commission. My mind conjures an image of an artist working in the quietness of her room with the utmost calmness that boosts the precision of her skills. I think more about her calm and precision such that she stands out against the clamour and chaos of that reality outside of her room. I imagine a moment when the growing disturbance outside interrupts her process and her distress over the state of affairs distracts her; yet, at large, the distress is what drives her. So, for the moment, she shuts her windows to keep the noise out and gets back to her silent rebellion, and sunlight filters in through the glass panes, though blunted by clouds of dust. That is how I imagine Guernica and the like of it were made.

Warring Actors: Narendra Modi’s selfie with mainstream Bollywood

But I actually see artists of my time raising their voices to join the cries of trouble-makers, bringing out high-end audio equipment from their recording rooms to add to the cacophony of loudspeakers on the streets. I encounter puppet shows where glamorous puppets perform and propagandists stand ventriloquizing the scripts from behind. I see them play it out in dark, packed rooms where people not only get trapped willingly but also celebrate their shackles by stirring up a bedlam of claps and cheers from time to time. Every time I see my surroundings transforming into one of those rooms, and the noise becomes unbearable, I quietly wish there exists another room—where the noise is shut out but sunlight filters through the window panes, though blunted by clouds of dust. I wonder where that room is, I wonder about the artist who is working to create her individual rebellion amidst the disturbing forces, and I wonder how much at loss with the state of affairs she also feels; but I also wonder if she has suffered any loss in the state of affairs, I wonder if she has been troubled enough in the safety of her privileged room, and I wonder if her rebellion would speak up only after it’s too late.

Written by Eshna Gupta

Edited by Shriya Kotta
Featured Image is a crop from a propaganga poster from 1942

An Anthology of my Personal Literatures: and an addition

I am always very slow with my paintings, as my mother and people who have worked with me have always complained. My mother also complains that I boil the chai for too long and can’t cook in time. I take forever to conceive an idea for a new painting, brew it inside my head and then finally start working on it. I take even longer to finish it. I simply do not know when to stop; I cannot decide when a painting, or anything else I create, is actually completed.

I recently completed a painting and the process of its completion continued long after I put in my final strokes, going beyond the canvas surface. I still do not know if it is complete. Nevertheless, the process came to project the idea that had inspired it. It was not pre-designed but I should have guessed: the art I make is one of the forms of my creative expression and since the painting was about the culture of my personal creative expression, the painting was not only a representation of it but also one of its components.

The painting depicts me engrossed in my journals in which I generally write and sketch against a backdrop of a grid of tiles. The one journal in my hands can be recognised by someone who knows me very closely and some others scattered around me on the floor constitute the foreground; the 3×3 square grid that makes up the backdrop can be recognised by anybody. The room-like structure where I’m seated is painted in a rough likeness of my Instagram profile. The tiles on the wall have some posts from my own profile and some others that are typical of Instagram, such as Terribly Tiny Tales and chat stories.

The painting is a culmination of written and visual compositions I draft for my own pleasure, which I term ‘personal literature’. The composition consists of images and words, as these are deeply inter-twined elements of my sense of expression. The written note that accompanies the painting was not complementary or obligatory; it aptly represents the interdependence of my word and my visuals, making it more complete. Yet, if it was complete then, writing this column issue about the very same painting somehow makes it even more complete. When would it be finally complete—if it would ever be—and how do I decide?

The journals I have painted are very personal but I might allow selective sneak-peaks to some people. On the contrary, my social media space is easily accessible to everybody but I might also put up posts and captions that are entirely decipherable only to me. This painting, its elements, and my choice of what to include is not entirely decipherable to everyone and I don’t know where to place it on the spectrum between my private journals and my social media profile. I do know though, that the journals, the painting, and the profile belong to the same spectrum.

While the painting was still in process, I would carry it back from college at the end of each day and the curios frowns on unfamiliar faces were often followed by nods as if the painting told them something they hadn’t known before; during the exhibition, some strolled past it, some stopped to show appreciation some left written comments below it; when it was later posted on Instagram, the process of display didn’t start anew but was resumed and repeated. In many aspects, the painting is as much like my journal, or one sketch of it, or my entire social media profile, or one post of it; I composed it to be a representation of my personal culture of creative expression but it is also ended up being a component of it; I titled it ‘An Anthology of My Personal Literatures’ but it also ended up being a Chinese-box of it.

Written by Eshna Gupta

Edited by Shriya and Sukriti
Artwork by Eshna Gupta

What’s Art Around You?

I wonder about a day when haats and exhibitions will have ‘authentic’ graphic tees and denim jeans put up in stalls, and visitors might look at them with awe and walk past it. It doesn’t seem that unlikely to me, especially after my recent tour of Dilli Haat.

Of all the things we see around us, most are deliberately crafted works of art—be it an ordinary wooden door, your favourite piece of clothing, or the logo of any popular brand. We barely acknowledge all the visual elements we encounter, let alone recognise the specific functions which they are designed for. Art need not refer to visual adornment alone. Art need not carry heavy visual details even if it does. Art need not be dedicated to abstract ideas. Yet, certain articles are more explicitly labelled as ‘art’ than others.

My mother’s favourite bandhej (tie and dye) saree is much like any ordinary printed tee-top; each is a composition of fabric with a set of dyes combined together into visually pleasant patterns through a planned arrangement of colours. Yet, of the two articles, one is more likely to be recognised as ‘art’ than the other. Both serve the same function as clothing for humans; each differs in the way it is adorned. It is not the intricate design, however, that earns one the label of ‘art’ over the other; It is its status of antiquity.

Many such weaves and embroideries employed laborious techniques, which must have been the most efficient for their times. Now however, the time and labour are not necessary, yet the techniques are preserved—not for superiority, but for authenticity. Now, they are produced for their own sake. Now, their utility as clothing is a secondary function. Now, they are almost a cultural relic.

I wonder about a day when the process of printing graphic tees or weaving denim will become tedious and out-dated, like the process of tying and dyeing is today. The definition of convenient clothing will change, tees and jeans will lose their current popularity, and a day may come when these are but relics of a fading culture. I wonder about it all and I see a day when ‘authentic’ graphic tees and denim jeans would be put up on display at haats and exhibitions for visitors who would look on, exclaim, “Exquisite!” and walk past it.

I had often seen the kani shawls and chanderi dupattas at stalls at Dilli Haat, but never this way. During my last visit, I saw something different. I saw boxes of kar-i-munaqqash, a Kashmiri papier-mache handicraft dating back to the 14^th century.

At a distance, artist Syed Ajaz Shah sat working on one of the boxes, with his wrinkled hands and his keen eyes. He sat there to give us a truer picture of his art, truer than what was visible on the boxes; of how he did it and how he lived it. He described the entire process of making a box, tedious and time consuming as it is. Each box is intricately painted, some are detailed with gold. The finesse of details can’t be attained with the regular brushes available in market. He collects the hair dropped from his cat’s fur, sews them into the shaft of a hawk’s feather and makes his own brushes. Painting an average box can take up to twenty days; the practice diminishes the artist’s eyesight over the years; the process is demanding but the product doesn’t pay. Creating this art demands skill; living it in these changing times demands strength.

He told us how he has lived his art through these years. He was awarded with the National Award in 2008 but soon after, close to the brink of poverty, he had to resort to driving auto-rickshaw to make ends meet. The beautiful boxes barely make 200 rupees per day, while his auto earns him 600-800 per day.

His forefathers, as far as he can trace, have been munaqqash artists. He said that when he paints, he holds the brush but it is driven by some other force on its own; the experience is spiritual for him. Yet, neither the legacy nor the magic compels him to pass it on to his next generations.

“I’ll die doing this,” his tone was prophetic, with an odd mixture of sadness and pride in it, “but my sons will never do it.” The second statement was not painful, rather assertive. His assertion had a tinge of relief in it, an acceptance of the inevitability of an end.

It’s not a matter of aesthetic superiority that makes something the trend of the day or elevates it to the status of art. The intricate designs of munaqqashi were used to decorate furniture and household items back in the day; posterity might look back at false eyelashes as antiquity. It’s a matter of evolution. The functional element would remain the same, but the aesthetic element would be always replaced by something new. Yet, certain articles are more likely to be labelled ‘art’. What is the cost of that label? Does it come with being culturally endangered? Is it the reward of representing a lost past?

Written by Eshna Gupta

Edited by Shriya Kotta
Photographs provided by Eshna Gupta