Art Vs Artist

I was browsing through some Indian art blogs I hadn't seen before when I encountered this article. The article itself was quite sensible, doling out advise I often echo myself - "Art is something personal. You have to develop an interest in it, you have to do so with  a [sic] passion – not just to make money and definitely not for a [sic] short-term." Bad grammar aside, this is good advice - so many clients/collectors will spend ridiculous amounts of money for something they don't even like. I remember in particular a lady who came by the gallery I used to work in, asking if we had any pieces by a particular artist. We did, but it wasn't his best work - indeed, my respect for the artist in question had somewhat diminished when I first saw the piece this lady was shown - the work was lazily executed, lacking the intellectual depth and sensitivity of the artist's other work. It was with a heavy heart that I unwrapped the artwork we had left for our guest.

The lady, obviously a wealthy wife, was determined to 'shop' for some art before heading back to her home in Mumbai. Casting aside an initial flicker of disappointment, she set about trying to ascertain that the piece was indeed by the artist she sought. She then proceeded to bargain down the price, bashfully confiding that her husband was very particular about the way she spent her money. The next few weeks were spent authenticating the work, producing certificates to substantiate that this was an original Mr. X artwork, and negotiating the price. The work was sold. Honestly, she would've found something similar at a construction site.

Is the rush for collecting artists compromising the quality of their art? Its not an original thought or question, but its one I have been pondering over for some time now. While the boom in the contemporary art market has brought prestige and honour to those who practice art, one wonders if it makes sense to subsidize their lives quite so generously. Successful contemporary Indian artists live lavishly, building designer homes, wearing designer labels and jet setting off to 'hot' destinations all over the world. I do not resent their success (more power to them!) but wince at the hypocrisy of the situation - these are the same people who will berate consumerism and elitism in the cold, sterile light of a gallery installation.

But perhaps I speak too soon - the Modern and Contemporary "Indian Artist Survival Rating Map" may point to an altogether different story. In fact, the article citing this map never once alluded to the cruelty or even the absurdity of the existence of such a map. Despite exalted reviews in the New York Times, inspite of his/her millions, an artist's reputation can wax and wane with the tide of public opinion and spending. How very bourgeois.

Face-to-face

I saw my parents for the first time since I left Brazil yesterday...on Skype. I am a big fan of Skype, having learnt how to use it only a few months ago. I love how the video chat function instantly brings home to me all the familiar features and gestures of the people I love - my father's quizzical eyes, my mother's alert, amused look, my sister's playful asides...

The funny thing about Sykpe though, is that we often spend more time looking at ourselves than at each other. That little box in the corner is far too fascinating to ignore. I often catch myself glancing down at the box at the end of a sentence, surprised by the way I look when I say something. While chatting with my mom yesterday, I noticed her peering down at her reflection, checking for stray crumbs from the toast she'd been having. My sister once got ready to go out for lunch during a Skype chat - the video, it seems, was even better than a mirror.

One may see these actions as narcissistic, and perhaps they are...to an extent. It is human nature, after all, to be a little preoccupied with oneself - right from the moment when we first recognize our mirror image in childhood, the journey towards self-absorption and representation begins. After all, who doesn't look for themselves first in a group picture or blush bashfully at a compliment? 

In the context of Skype, I actually find this 'checking out' of oneself endearing and intimate - it makes me feel, even more, that I am there with the people I love. But maybe I'll try closing the little box next time.

Borat - a review (of sorts)

I finally did it - I went and saw Borat. Against my better judgement, I might add. What possessed me to fight my instincts and go watch it? Well, peer pressure (from friends back home who fear they won't get to see it themselves) and curiosity (because of the rave reviews it got in practically every reliable newspaper/magazine here).

I went off, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. Was Sacha Baron Cohen going to come up with anything more inventive than his staple "lets pull a fast one on this presumed religious bigot"? In all honesty, I can't say he really did manage to come up with anything surprising. Sure, there were some funny bits - but I found myself laughing mostly because I had paid money to laugh - I expected to have a good time.

The only surprising thing I took away from the experience, was the reactions of the audience around me. After all, 'Borat' is as much a spoof on Kazakhstan (or Romania, depending on how you look at it), as it is a critique of contemporary America and its people. So, why was everyone laughing?

A few weeks ago, while watching the Bill Maher show, Maher and his guests were discussing the implications of the Senate elections. Did the Democratic victory imply that the US was not as conservative as everyone thought it was? Or did it point to a liberalism inherent in the country, that was finally making its presence felt? It seems like a terribly fine point to debate over, but the point was made (even if there was no consensus on what the election ultimately meant).

As I heard the chuckles and guffaws around me that evening, I asked myself the same question. Of course, anyone who willingly went for the movie was open to being scandalized and laughed at. I couldn't help but feel, however, that maybe these popcorn munching, coke-sipping Californians around me were, somehow... not quite in on the joke.

Indeed, what is comic or funny? How does comedy work? I was asked these questions years ago, by my decidedly humourless Belgian French teacher, who was trying to deconstruct 'La Cage Aux Folles' (the Bird-Cage). She made the observation that comedy strives to push its audience's buttons, prodding us to laugh at ourselves, while ostensibly, laughing at something outside of ourselves.

Could this explain the hype generated in the US about 'Borat'? Was watching the movie some kind of cathartic experience for liberal, open-minded Americans, many of whom habitually claim to feel embarrassed (and even ashamed) of their citizenship? Or does 'Borat' operate on a sense of camaraderie, its audience distancing itself from identification with Borat's 'victims' just long enough to laugh and jeer at 'their' foolishness?

Perhaps the answer is a combination of all of these factors. Perhaps Americans are more liberal than we give them credit for. Perhaps we are all, American or not, implicated in some larger scheme of Cohen's.

The Straight Story

There is no such thing as 'normal' - as a wise madwoman/ philosopher on a bus said the other day, "Normal is a setting on a wash cycle". As someone living in what is known as 'the gay mecca' of the world, I have come to understand 'how the other half lives', in a way I had never been able to before.

Which makes me sympathize greatly with a high-profile signature campaign being staged in India, aiming to get rid of Article 377 of the Indian Penal Code that considers sodomy (and, in effect, homosexuality) a crime. But, while I agree that a law that criminalizes homosexuality is misplaced and wrong, the gay community are not the only victims of India's middle-class morality - we all suffer from it.

Anyone who has lived in New Delhi for even a few months knows that women do not have it easy there. Venturing out alone after dark is an absolute no-no in India's (rape) capital, and sexual crimes - be it eve-teasing or actual rape - take place in broad daylight. Added to this are the jeering stares young couples often get. PDA is not taken lightly in Delhi - at best, you can get away with a crowd of at least 20 people staring at you if you so much as hug a member of the opposite sex. Young couples often resort to cuddling beneath overgrown trees in parks, or furtively holding hands in restaurants. Anything more, and you come across as a "loose character".

I also remember an occasion when a family friend was relating to us how he caught the daughter of a colleague of his holding hands with her husband on their honeymoon. He then went home and called the girl's father (his colleague) to report his daughter's 'disgusting' behavior in detail.

I would like to believe that these interfering individuals honestly think that they are benefiting someone when they take on the role of being society's moral policemen/women. But schadenfreude is intrinsic to most Indians. Its a crying shame coming from the land of the Kamasutra, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.

Back to Blogging

Hello all! I'm back after a two month hiatus, during which I wondered (amongst other things) how and when to resume my bloggerly ways. And then, eureka - I found it! LudaKrishna and Vikram MC - the sweetest thing to hit the stage since mango chutney! I'm glad its attracted some bloggers (including the notorious HFP).

I've moved to the US and have been trying to adjust to the move ever since. In some ways, its great to be here - after all, I am living in the city they call the Paris of the USA. It really is a gorgeous city - quaint, colorful houses, undulating streets which make for sudden spectacular views of the bay...and it has the best second-hand bookshop I've ever been to. By the time I leave here, I'll have an enviable book collection...

The people here are easy on the eye too. Most of them look like they've stepped out of some glossy magazine. Seriously, if you walk down Fillmore (one of the swankier neighborhoods in town), you'll start to wonder how on earth anyone came up with the notion that Americans have weight problems. At practically any time of the day, you'll come across at least three people jogging up or down a street. It doesn't sound like much, but think about it - its pretty weird.

What I love about this city is that the streets sparkle. Not all the streets - just the sidewalks downtown. They're mixed with these little glittery chips that reflect the light and so they look all sparkly and twinkly. What a simple way to beautify concrete.

What do I not like about being here? Well...I'll spare you for today and talk about that some other time. For now, I'll walk down a glittering path to the glittering bay.

The revenge of the toilet-paper snatchers


Eight years ago, my father was posted to a country in East Africa, renowned for its natural beauty and relative political stability.

Although I was living in the 'heart of darkness', there was little to engage and mystify me in the 'dark continent' - people are just people anywhere in the world. Except for one odd couple who visited us during our stay.

Hailing from good ol' England, this couple was as English as you can get. The woman, a quintessential horsey Brit, looked strikingly similar to her Majesty the Queen (to whom she was distantly related), while the husband looked like any typical artistocratic fop, with his ruddy cheeks, limp brown hair and slightly cock-eyed, inebriated look. What with their royal lineage and Oxbridge education, you would hardly expect them to be anything other than the perfect (if ever so slightly condescending) guests.

Alas, it was not to be. Although the couple were perfectly charming during dinner and tea, they were hiding from us a dirty secret, which we would have never known had it not been for our Sri Lankan maid, Darshani, who was put in charge of cleaning their room. Darshani, I must add, was the very antithesis of our guests - she was loud, her English was a thing of her own invention, and she was undiplomatic to the core. She was pretty much the queen of faux-pas.

The first faux-pas occured while we were all sitting around the living room after dinner on the second night of their stay, sipping on coffee and liqueur like perfectly civilized people. Darshani strode in to clear the cups, her silver anklets tinkling noisily.

"Oh Dur-shi-nie", the horsey woman spoke up, "Could we have another roll of toilet paper in our bathroom?"

"But I am putting already!" Darshani exclaimed, adding "You are already using?". The woman's thin crimson lips twitched uncomfortably, and my mother quickly intervened, instructing Darshani to add another roll of toilet paper immediately. Darshani turned away, muttering something we could not comprehend.

The next afternoon, our lovable lady drew Darshani aside and asked for another roll of toilet paper. Darshani knew better than to say anything to her, although she couldn't resist mentioning this to my mother, who was surprised by her friend's request. "Another one!?" she asked rhetorically, then worrying that their stomachs were upset. "Maybe the spices in my food irritated their bowels", she mused disconsolately, deciding to cook something blander for the evening.

My mother needn't have worried - no one could have conceivably consumed as much toilet paper as they did over the 8 days of their stay with us. We calculated that they must have used about one and a half rolls every day. And my mom's food ain't that spicy. Poor Darshani struggled to contain herself.

When they finally left, we all wandered into their room in curiosity, trying to figure out where all that toilet paper went. Had they been creating some massive papier-mache sculpture to surprise us with? Were they trying to wall-paper the room?

The room bore few answers, as did the bin. Indeed, when the trash was taken out, there was no trace even of those cardboard rollers on which the toilet paper is hung!

The case of the toilet-paper snatchers has remained intriguing and unsolved. We have tried, over the past years, to figure out what happened. How on earth could someone consume so much toilet-paper? Where did it go? What was it used for? The only thing we can come up with is that maybe they just really (and I mean REALLY) liked the quality of the paper. If only we had paid more attention to the shape of their bags when they were leaving, looking out for certain cylindrical shapes or curious grooves. As of now, I don't know what happened....its an enduring mystery.

What do you think?*

* [the most creative answer will get special mention on my blog, apart from satisfying my curiosity].

Going to America

Exactly one month from today, I am going to go to the country everyone hates to love (or loves to hate) - The United States of America. Yes, I am going to be one of those Indians.

Over the past couple of years, I have seen many close friends and family (my sister, Kitty Kate) go off to the States, ostensibly to study but really, to start a whole new life there. Before they all left (weirdly enough, they all left the same year, within a few months of each other), I recall one evening when KK (my sister) and a friend (Mr. Prissy Pants) were hanging out in our apartment, talking about what it was that we were looking forward to about the States. All of us came to one unanimous subject - the food.

Now, I know this sounds odd. After all, we all know that American food is hardly of the Cordon bleu variety. When I told Veronica about this, she wrinkled up her pert little nose and said "My country has the shittiest food in the world - everyone knows American food sucks!"

I suppose our fascination with American food comes more from Hollywood than from actual experience. I always wondered, for example, how it would feel to casually eat out of those oh-so-hip Chinese take-out boxes. Hollywood stars always handle their chopsticks with such panache.

The other thing me and my friends ached to do, was to eat one of those "floppy pizzas" (as we termed them). You know the kind - the ones that are so huge and thin that they flop over when you pick them up (think Joey in Friends). And we had to do the bucket-of-ice-cream-in-front-of-the-TV-thing. I love how these svelte, gorgeous women casually open their gigantic freezers and take out a generous bucket of ice-cream (they would never scoop it out, oh no), settle into a couch and eat it with an absent-minded, languorous air (spoon poised tantalizingly mid-air). Sheer heaven (and envy)!

The final thing-to-do on our agenda, was to buy a hot-dog from a hot-dog stand. This was the only thing I didn't do last summer (when I visited my sis). But hey - there's always this summer. Which brings me back to the start. Summer. Ice-cream. Hot-dogs. Floppy pizzas. And its all only a month away.