[The Kochi-Muziris Biennale, South Asia’s
biggest art show, uses interactive exhibits and live performances to help
Indians connect with contemporary art.]
By
Vindu Goel
 |
|
The crowd at the ticket
booth at Aspanwall House, the central pavilion for the
Kochi-Muziris Biennale. Credit
Atul Loke for The New York Times
|
KOCHI,
India — Clad in a simple
striped shirt and the white mundu of the city’s fishmongers, Bashir stood out
from the well-heeled throng at the warehouse galleries and tree-filled
courtyards on the first day of India’s biggest contemporary art show, the
Kochi-Muziris Biennale.
Keeping to himself, he moved from room to
room, stopping to study moody landscapes by the Delhi photographer Chandan
Gomes that were paired with imaginary scenes drawn by a girl who died at age 12.
“I don’t understand the inner meaning of the
art,” said Bashir, who uses one name and makes a living wrapping and delivering
fish. “I just like to see beautiful things.”
Bashir’s willingness to engage with the
artwork, no matter how challenging, was a victory for the show’s organizers.
The southern state of Kerala, and India as a whole, have very few public venues
to see art. So the organizers of the biennale, which runs until March 29,
strove to create an event that would appeal to everyone — from untutored day
laborers to veteran museum curators.
“We are making a cultural festival,” said
Bose Krishnamachari, a painter from Kerala who co-founded the show eight years
ago. “We have tried to penetrate to the people’s minds so that they feel that
it is their biennale.”
Performances by Oorali, a multilingual
folk-reggae band from Kerala whose tour bus opens up to become a stage, are
mixed in with more cerebral works, such as B.V. Suresh’s “Canes of Wrath,” a
dark room filled with representations of slaughtered peacocks, clattering canes
and whirling brooms designed to evoke the oppressive tactics of India’s Hindu
extremists.
The acclaimed South African artist William
Kentridge has been given space for an eight-screen video installation featuring
his famous dancing silhouettes. But the biennale’s curator, Anita Dube, also
chose to show the works of Bapi Das, a little-known artist from Kolkata, who
drives a three-wheeled taxi and sews needlepoint scenes of daily life there.
Many of the works are interactive, and on
Mondays, entry to the biennale is free, an attempt to draw in local laborers
like Bashir, who would balk at paying the entry fee of 100 rupees, about $1.40.
A satellite show supports the next generation of artists, featuring about 130
projects from students across South Asia.
The title of the biennale, “Possibilities for
a Non-Alienated Life,” reflects Ms. Dube’s effort to build connections between
communities, both in Kochi and beyond.
“In spite of our hyper-connectivity, we are
more and more alienated from each other,” said Ms. Dube, a sculptor and art
historian. “We need to think of ways that people can be together via culture.”
Kochi, a centuries-old port city formerly
known as Cochin, was at various times ruled by the Portuguese, the Dutch and
the British. It has long been a melting pot of cultures and religions.
From its first edition, the biennale has
tried to reflect that inclusiveness. For this one, Ms. Dube recruited more than
100 artists from India and 30 other countries. More than half are women, and
many, like Mr. Das, had received little previous exposure.
Shambhavi, a painter and sculptor from the
rural Indian state of Bihar, said that women who are artists had long struggled
to get the same attention as men. Her work here — a cluster of 300 sickles and
other abstract sculptures of farm life — has no distinct gender cast. “But the
farmer's world is very feminine, close to the earth,” said Shambhavi, who uses
one name professionally.
Contemporary art can be difficult for
audiences anywhere to understand, and especially so in India, a nation of 1.3
billion people with little arts education, few museums and almost no government
support for the fine arts.
Galleries and private museums have begun to
take root in some cities. The Kerala government is a major sponsor of the Kochi
biennale, which cost about $4 million.
However, India’s leaders have generally
focused on other needs, such as food and health care for the many Indians who
live in deep poverty. The art that does get funded tends to support political
goals. The government just spent about $430 million to build the world’s
tallest statue — a 597-foot monument to the independence leader Sardar
Vallabhbhai Patel by the sculptor Ram V. Sutar — in Gujarat, the home state of
India’s current prime minister, Narendra Modi. Two bigger statues, of the
ancient king Chhatrapati Shivaji and the Hindu deity Ram, are planned in other
states run by Mr. Modi’s party.
“It’s all about railways, more airports, more
roads, more high-rises, and now, the biggest statues in the world,” Ms. Dube
complained. “Culture is at the back.”
The biennale in 2016-17 drew about 600,000
visitors, and planners hope for 700,000 this time. For Kerala, devastated by
flooding from last summer’s monsoons, the show is an economic lifeline that is
expected to draw tourists from around the world, some of whom may also visit
the area’s beaches or stay on houseboats on its inland waterways.
Some artists here are paying homage to the
flood’s victims. Marzia Farhana’s installation, “Ecocide and the Rise of Free
Fall,” suspends refrigerators and books salvaged from flooded homes, in a
symbolic representation of impermanence. Oorali plans to take its bus on the
road and perform up and down the coast, entertaining fishermen who heroically
rescued many people from the rising waters.
Shanay Jhaveri, assistant curator of South
Asian art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, attended the
biennale’s opening and said he was struck by how the exhibition addresses the
political issues of the day without proselytizing.
“It’s about setting up a conversation,” he
said. “I don’t think Anita is trying to provide an answer. She is asking, ‘How
do we find a way to support each other?’”
After getting off to a slow start on Dec. 12,
the show built momentum over the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, when many
Indian businesses and schools were closed. The main venue at Aspinwall House
was crowded with families taking cellphone photos, and people flocked to “Water
Temple,” an outdoor installation by the Beijing artist Song Dong that invites
guests to make ephemeral paintings on its walls with a brush and water.
But with some exhibits, the show’s organizers
seemed to have miscalculated. The Edible Archives, a cafe across the road from
the main event, was designed to be a communal space. Visitors can sample
dishes, created by four female chefs, that feature heritage rice varieties from
around India. But the price of a rice bowl, around $2, was double what locals
would pay elsewhere, dissuading some customers.
Few Kochi visitors were stopping to study the
writing on the T-shirts flapping in the wind along Aspinwall’s waterfront,
although their political message was directed at their own history: The
exhibit, “One Hundred and Nineteen Deeds of Sale,” by the South African artist
Sue Williamson, memorialized the names, age, sex and sale prices of Kochi
residents captured by 17th-century Dutch traders and sold as slaves in Cape
Town, South Africa.
During opening week, Sharif K.M. was busy
working, rolling dozens of empty oil drums through the front door of a
warehouse onto a flatbed truck. Looming above him was a biennale mural of two
giant purple-stained hands by the Nepalese street artist Kiran Maharjan.
Covered in black grease from his boots to his
burgundy cap, Sharif, who prefers to use one name, had little time to think
about such things.
“Whatever an artist draws has its meaning,”
he said, gesturing at the mural. “But I have not understood it yet.”
Just a handful of artists at the show are
from Kerala, a sore point for Sebastian Thomas, a retiree who plays the
saxophone at a local hotel. He complained about the lack of representation for
local craftspeople who make metal mirrors, furniture and pottery.
“Working-class art is not really portrayed,” he said.
Still, as the show closed on the first day,
Mr. Thomas could not keep his hands off a weaver’s loom that had been restrung
like a sitar.
“It’s out of tune,” he declared, as he ran a
floppy-tipped wand across the strings. Yet he seemed mesmerized by the unusual
tones made by the loom, a collaboration between the Mexican artist Tania
Candiani and local instrument makers. “What kind of artist would make music
from that?” he wondered.
Shalini Venugopal contributed reporting.
