Between 2015 and 2016, I was commissioned by The Hindu’s Mumbai edition to write a weekly column on art. The columns
ranged from expositions on local exhibitions in Mumbai, to thoughts on experiencing everyday art, to social media and how it
encourages a culture of visual literacy.
I’m not looking for sympathy here, but I feel compelled to say this: art and culture writers have tough jobs. Finding worthy leads to follow is not the demanding part; neither is reviewing, which you can learn on the beat. But getting artists to talk about their work? That’s a different story. It is easier to chat up random strangers in the street, than get some of our artists to sing about the thoughts and processes that govern their output.
As an art writer for a few years now, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t actually afford to own a lot of high art. Or any, for that matter, if I were to apply the conventional definition of a canvas painting or an installation sourced from a gallery with the help of a dealer.
Last week, two excellent exhibitions at the Bhau Daji Lad (BDL) Museum reminded me of why Mumbai’s oldest museum remains my favourite in the city. One was ‘Silver Magic: Vintage Photographs of the Golden Age of Hindi Cinema’, portraits by J.H. Thakker, curated by Ram Rahman, who recently put together a retrospective from Sunil Janah’s formidable body of work for the National Gallery of Modern Art.
A couple of weeks ago, I chanced upon an opinion piece written by a columnist who I frequently fangirl over, even if I don’t always agree with his views. In his commentary, the writer had spoken about how impressed he was with Chinese dissident artist Ai Weiwei’s defiant political work and rued that artists closer home didn’t take up such themes, even though there was no dearth of inspiration in this country.
I’ve often walked the fragrant ‘avenues’ of Maker Maxity in Bandra Kurla Complex, taking a peek through the buffed glass doors at the artworks the building is famous for. The exhibit that I have always had mixed feelings for is one that is suspended from a high ceiling in a building that accommodates international financial firms. It’s titled ‘Planet Bombay’ (2008).
Earlier this week, the Turner Prize was presented amid a predictable whirlpool of chatter and bewilderment. The annual award given out to a British artist under the age of 50 years, is the rough equivalent of the art world’s Oscars, complete with a parallel, Razzie-style spoof prize, the Turnip.
Until earlier this year, I’d routinely scoff at Instagram as the resort of duck-faced narcissists whose knowledge of geometry was limited to top angles. Naturally, I wasn’t actually on Instagram. As a proud Information Age-Luddite and human to a slow (but adored) three-year-old Nokia Lumia 710, I had no choice but to steer clear of the social media platform.
