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.

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.

Famous Last Words

My father has a whole storehouse of maxims, which he draws from when he needs to either nag me (the natural duty of every parent) or commiserate when life hands me its lemons. When I was a teenager, the most common refrain was "MTV will rot your mind" - ok, so that's not a maxim exactly, but it should be - its every parent's national anthem. Another one (related when I am in need of sympathy) is "the man who has nuts has no teeth; the man who has teeth has no nuts". Its a proverb and really needs so explanation, does it?

But the most distasteful for me, a late sleeper, is - "no one who ever achieved anything woke up later than 7 O' Clock". Ok, so this also is not exactly a maxim - but in our household, it has been given the status of one.

You should now have a fair sense of my father, no sergeant by any stretch of the imagination but something far worse - the product of a South Indian boarding school. Which is why he believes in waking up at 6 am...or that when you ask JNU to mail you your transcripts, they will actually be mailed.

Although the serpentine path to registering and de-registering from JNU have taught me better, I nevertheless expected that my final transcripts would have at least been put in an envelope by now, four months after we took our final MA exams. It turns out that I must be more like my father than I realized - the transcripts appear to not even have been printed yet!

This news comes right after I had a dream (I kid you not) where I was back in the offices of my department, getting ready to (alternately) cajole and chastise the impassive bureaucrats to get moving on my papers. In my dream, I was trying to look as assertive and reasonable as possible, while standing in front of the stocky little paper-pusher we all came to hate. I was just about to begin my speech about wanting to speed up the process for handing out our degree (which usually only follows 2 years after the course is completed) when Mr. Grumpy smiled a rare and ominous smile, chuckling as he jeered - "2 years? Don't you know it takes 5 years now!?" - at which point, I woke up screaming, covered in sweat. Ok, not exactly. I did wake up at that point though (at 10 am).

And considering that we have a case of unprinted transcripts on our hands...or rather, not in our hands, the 5-year plan doesn't seem all that unlikely.

Which brings me to a public art project hosted by JNU last year. One of the art projects was all about people...their hopes, their dreams...their inner beauty... Yes, I thought it was cheesy too. But it gave me and my cynical friends many opportunities to snicker at the people who were interviewed and photographed for the project, one of our primary targets being - you guessed it - Mr. Grumpy himself. A photograph of his square, cruel face was mounted up on a tree, with a few lines expressing his fundamental beliefs printed below. Here is the gist of what he said:
"When I wake up in the morning, I always have the same thought - how can I best serve the people in my community? I always try to be kind and good to everyone."

Right, service with a smile, eh? Or beauty with a purpose? If I didn't know any better, I'd think Mr. Grumpy was practicing for the question-round of 'Mr. JNU' (yes, there is an actual Mr. JNU competition and one of our classmates had won the title in 1999).

But the question that remains is - what time does Mr. Grumpy wake up? I wonder where my father would start with him.

A Confession

Yes I know - its been about 2 months since I wrote anything new. My friends keep asking me what happened; my sister (ever the optimist) still checks my blog everyday and turns away in disgust when she sees the same old entry from July. I have tried several times to write something new...but...(and here's the confession, so brace yourselves...) - this city just ain't that funny. There, I said it.

When I started my blog, I had no real plan but one guiding philosophy - that it was going to be funny, or at least anything but depressing. But, surprisingly, I've found that its been a struggle to come up with anything funny to write about here...I mean, sure, I could write about the soliloquies of the homeless, or what its like to find myself living with my parents again...but neither of those things are really funny. And no sooner would I begin writing about one or the other, then I would stop and gaze unhappily at the words I had written, watching my sentiments descend into whiny complaints - and that, as I'm sure you'd agree, is never funny.

And so here I am, with my confession...and with a proposal - to travel back in time. To travel back to a happier, funnier place, where nothing ever happened the way you wanted it to...where thoughts of murder crossed your mind almost daily...where getting a signature was a triumph worthy of a meal that cost more than a dollar...but where you smiled your way through it all, content in the knowledge that it would make for great ammunition to write about one day. Yes, we're going back to JNU.

The coolest thing to come from India since mango lassi! YENJOY!