While in India

Farewell Dear India

2012-02-16T08:39:00.000-08:00

Tumeric in Bangalore

I have fallen in love with India. Each day brought fresh new experiences of lush density, pushing crowds of light limbed and lean women gliding in saris, ankles and wrists jingling with gold, and men in lunghis or dotis, their heads wrapped in plaid scarves, always a sense of moving forward, the press of people, an inwardness. The children curious, waving, calling out, practicing their English, wanting to touch and know the outsider. The inside of people’s homes, the rituals of hospitality, tea mam? Please take some, please be seated, please have more. And gifts, pressed into my hands, at the temple where the twin girls danced, because I was with Bhagya and Ajai, we were given the first row of seats, the priests heaped us with scarves, flowers, gifts of sweets, pictures of the deity, more flower garlands, more scarves when asked to come up on the stage and be honored for Aagnika’s amazing 20 minute long classical dance, and Ajai for all he does in the community. So not only do I experience 2 hours of fantastic dancing, I am treated like a queen simply because I am their friend. My association with Bhagya and Ajai brought me an ocean of goodwill, doors opened, gifts offered, plenty was demonstrated over and over.

Mysore

And each adventure without Bhagya and her family, my trip to see Agra, the days visiting temples with Vijaya Rao and with Anande and Naveen, moving through the streets of Bangalore with Madhan, getting to Sanskritti and spending a week there in the company of other artists who were also exploring Delhi, having the great good fortune to dine with Bani Abidi, to see Sumakshi Singh at the Art Fair and again at her opening, to meet Ruchin Soni and Nidhi Khurana and see their studio and to swim in the Sufi current at the Nazruddin’s Tomb with them, to be invited into people’s homes both in the rural villages and in the city, to be fully embraced.

Sari Shopping in Delhi

And shopping too, to learn how to negotiate a price, understanding that the price is rarely the price and to feign reluctance or indifference and to shrug off flattery (hard for me!). Also the autorikshas, where I would be quoted double or triple the actual price than if the meter is used, and my pride and confidence when I was able to dismiss the overpriced offers until I found one willing to take me for the right price. Never knowing where I was, hurtling through the streets, blindly trusting the driver would get me there, which he always did. The deft and hair raising turns, squeezing through impossibly narrow spaces, throngs of motorcycles, huge busses, hundreds of other autorikshaws clogging the streets, honking, all driven by men.

My experience of Indian culture was largely through men, especially the boys in art school. Men driving, men outside walking at night, the closeness of men, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders or holding hands, their physical intimacy. The students always wrapped around each other, arms linked, a public tenderness. The smiles of men and boys when I looked at them, a gladness for the simple fact of my foreigness. The care, please mam, this way, being guided. A sense of safety and belonging even as an outsider, the ever ready willingness of Indians to help.

Everywhere food being cooked, fruits and vegetables displayed, sugar cane ground into juice, watermelons and many other fruits beautifully cut up and sold on the street, roasted peanuts in their shells, fresh chick peas on green leafy stalks, tender coconut sucked from a straw from a freshly hacked open fruit, the men’s wiry arms expertly wielding the hatchet-like knives, one, two, three, four wacks at the most. The neutral expression, the tiny amounts of rupees exchanged for such abundance. 20 rupees, mam. The stacks of white and saffron colored flowers sewn together on a string, 50 rupees for a meter, you show how much you want by extending your arm. 30 rupees, mam. No one ever has change, ever. Tiny begging children who run alongside, their thin dirty hands outstretched, they never speak English, they are frail and weightless, with habitual expressions of need, mam…I imagine they are beaten if they do not produce enough rupees for the adults who control them. I imagine their lives are not improved even slightly by my donations. My Indian friends scold me if I give to them, “it only encourages them!” But I watched the Swamiji give, he pulled the money out of his wallet calmly and blessed it on his forehead first before he handed over the 5 or 10 rupee note. He gave without judgment or fear.

Svravanabelagola Priests

And singing. Prayers were sung, the art students sang, old and young sang together, the Sufis sang, the Sikhs sang, the Muslims in their mosques sang at dawn and at each prayer time, and amplified it to the outside, the Hindu priests sang and chanted, horns were blown, tablas intensified or maintained the rhythm. Bhagya sang classical songs with her music teacher on Saturdays, her children played piano. Even I sang the Carole King song, You’ve got a friend, although I only remembered half, at the insistence of the students at the Art Camp.

Over and over people gave to me, flowers, snacks, meals, tea, advice, company, long patient explanations in broken English, a hand made wallet, a little carved box, a magazine, an invitation to their home, time, smiling greetings, enthusiasm for my work. I was in the newspapers in Mysore and Bangalore five times and on TV in each place. I loved merging with them, disappearing while remaining absolutely conspicuous as a white skinned westerner.

Now, back in Chicago, how to maintain the delicious openness and flow, the ease and lightness of limb, the feeling of sun on my skin, the odors of sandalwood, healthy body sweat, fabric dye? Opening my heart also seems to open up time, a fleeting sense of life without boundaries.

India, I shall return!

Last Days in India

2012-02-11T22:49:00.000-08:00

Art Camp in Mysore and Back to the Village

CAVA Students at Art Camp

Bhagya arranged an Art Camp, an Indian phenomenon in which a number of artists are invited to get together for about a week to make work that will then be exhibited and sold to raise money for a cause. As some previous plans had fallen through, Bhagya decided to invite 12 of her CAVA students to participate for a three-day art camp.

We began by piling into two vehicles and driving to a village about an hour from Mysore, to meet with 4 or 5 Sanghas of women that had gathered to meet with us and share their stories. I was curious to see if my experience would be any different in the company of the students, who were in high spirits and primed for the adventure. This time I was familiar with the ritual prayer/song/lamp lighting ceremony, and the gifts of flowers and fruit from the women, a rose and a lemon for each of us, solemnly offered. Also the way I am placed in a position of authority, seated in a chair while the women are on the floor, in neat rows. And the way I am asked to speak to them, greeting them and authenticating the procedures of gathering together. And finally, the amazing feeling of giving, when I am asked to officially hand over gifts from the NGO to the women, in this instance suitcases with accounting ledgers for the sanghas to keep track of their accounts and cricket bats for the school children.

Sanghas gathered

Students listening to the women

Relating a Sangha Story

Women laugh in response to Nanjappa's speech

suitcase and ledger books

giving the suitcase

the women give gifts of roses and lemons to each of us

We were invited into one woman’s home, painted bright green and the few material possessions neatly stacked or rolled into small spaces. We saw the smokeless stove with its ventilating pipe preventing many cases of illness and the new toilet, one of the first in the village.

Smokeless Stove

Wedding Puja Painting

We passed the school and the children swarmed to greet especially me, the foreigner. They were so excited to have guests, my hand was covered by their small ones, eager to touch and to be seen by me. What’s your name, M’am? Your father’s name? Your mother’s name? It was lovely to be among them and see their small eager upturned faces.

prehistoric carvings scattered about the school yard the upraised hand is a symbol for victory

We stopped for lunch at a nearby prosperous farm, owned by a “multi-purpose worker”, which is what men who help administer to the sanghas in their district are called. The farmer had drilled a well and consequently his 7 acres were green and thriving. I asked about seeds and pesticides, and heard that some seeds are heritage, but more and more are hybrids purchased yearly because the “yield is better.” Also that pesticides are regularly used, except on their personal vegetables. While it was hard to get specific information about it and my concerns about the pesticides and hybrid seeds were brushed off, it was very pleasant to sit in the cool shade of the house and eat lunch together.

International Human Upliftment Development Academy Office

On the way back to Mysore, we stopped to see a 2000 year old temple in the village of one the student’s grandmother lived, Sri Lakshmi Kanta Temple Kalale Nanjanjadu. Although the door was locked, the priest let us in. He took water from a stone well inside the temple—the first traditional well I have seen in use here. We all bent over the rim to see into its black recesses. One student thought he recognized a turtle, but it turned out to be a coconut. The priest gave us puja, a ritual lamp fire blessing of the black stoned deity in the far recesses of the dark temple. I felt the power of its blackness and reticence and the magnetism of the circle of fire as the priest waved his lamp and chanted. He then anointed us, pouring spoonfuls of holy oil and fragrant flower blossoms into our cupped hands.

Deity

Deity with puja

Painted deity for festivals

Festival elephant

800 year old temple drum

After the blessing, the students showed me how to scramble up the steep blocks jutting out from an interior wall to walk on the roof of the temple, an utterly thrilling experience for me. They showed me how to throw five stones into a small round stone opening to make a wish.

Bhagya lodged us at the Mysore cancer hospital in cottages for visitors and provided all with ample meals, tea, coffee and all desired supplies. After the inauguration (lamp lighting, sung puja and a ritual signing of a blank canvas), the students lost no time in gathering materials and starting to work. They were hugely productive, finishing four, five and six canvases in two days. Unsettled about what I wanted to do, I settled on gouache portraits.

Nightly Art Camp fire

Feet keeping time to singing

inaugural painting

At night, we gathered around a fire and two of the students sang so beautifully. I only wished I understood Kanada, so I could get the jokes that were clearly flying around.

Singing and Drawing

We were all feeling quite fond of one another by the end of the three days, so the following morning, when Bhagya dropped me off in town for my last walk around before heading back to Bangalore, I was delighted that one of the students, Sunil was able to come with me to the Post Office and help navigate getting postcard stamps which had to be individually hand glued, a sticky, messy process.

Sunil gluing stamps

I said goodbye to the cooks, especially Nagama, who quickly learned to brew my green tea to perfection and always beamed at me whenever I walked into the kitchen to deliver my empty plate after eating one of her excellent meals.

Nagama

I gave a presentation on my work to a very tiny audience at one, Shanti Rd in Bangalore that evening and met the artist Biju Boze, who was really interested in how I was working with underground currents in earlier projects. He told me about the Indian concept, Vatsu http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vastu_shastra, which I hope to explore further by returning to India and researching a project that will involve sustainable agriculture and the spiritual relationship of architecture to the land.

Delhi

2012-02-05T05:28:00.000-08:00

The north is different, people are physically different, a bit sturdier in general and the clothing tends towards more solid colors. Men wrap their heads in woolen scarves and their clothes are thick to ward off the cold. Many have adopted western garb and there are many western-style clothing stores. I was really pleased to buy a fitted short wool jacket that they tailored to fit me beautifully.

Art Fair

Bhagya, Ajai and Anjali arriving at the fair

Although there was much to see and experience at the Indian Art Fair, my main experiences were with people I met and former students and SAIC grads I was able to see, like Bani Abidi, who had a fantastic new book launch with Raking Leaves, and Sumakshi Singh, whose installation at Religare was a walk-in illuminated manuscript she had painted and folded so that it only worked dimensionally through a video camera lens, which projected the “correct” perspective and included the viewer as part of the image.

Sumakshi Singh's installation at Religare

I was disappointed that I missed Bani’s talk about her book at the British Council, having got the wrong time. But Courtney Ziegler, another former SAIC student who is currently in Delhi and I had a delightful time having tea in a small side street, in a café that probably never had women in it, but tolerated us because clearly we were foreigners. The dim light softened the old cracked tiled walls and cast a golden glow on the rosy brick skin color of the handsome young man who served us. We bought samosas to snack on the way out. Bani invited us to join her and about a dozen friends for dinner afterwards in a nearby restaurant where the waiters seemed to descend by the dozens, heaping yet more food on our plates. Bani’s friends were a humorous and witty bunch. I had to listen carefully to get the good natured teasing that flew around the table.

Dinner with Bani and friends

Another highlight was a studio visit with the Raqs Media Collective, a three person collaborative group that has worked together for 20 years. They described their daily routine to me of meeting over endless cups of tea in their studio and discussing while recording and emailing on their laptops, maintaining an ever growing archive of their thoughts and activities. Particularly interesting to me is their practice of requiring any dissenter to propose an alternative to a plan, thus rendering any negative immediately useful and positive.

Nidhi Khurana and Ruchin Soni

On another night we were at the Sheridan Hotel the reception for Meerha Mukherjee sculptures from the 50’s. After viewing the exhibition, I sat down and started drawing a Sikh man wearing a turban when Nidhi and Ruchin approached me, curious to see what I was drawing. As they were artists and former students of Sumakshi Singh’s, we exchanged information. I had a wonderful studio visit with them as they are both deeply immersed in preparing for a March exhibition in Mumbai.

Sanskritti

Such a beautiful spacious place, the buildings built harmoniously with the land and trees, quiet despite the proximity to MG road’s dense traffic and the Metro. There were only a small handful of other artists in residence, all of them women, most my age or older, three other Americans, two Australians, one Swiss, and one Latvian. Each artist has a private spacious 2 floored apartment for sleeping and working, with balcony and front and back entrance open to the grounds. I frequently saw peacocks on the grounds, as well as many other birds I did not recognize, and monkey families paroled the road into the grounds.

It was slow going for me in the studio. A looming deadline combined with so much stimulation from the fair, meetings and travels through the city presented a big challenge to focus. It wasn’t until my last day that anything started to happen.

Akshay Raj Singh Rathore

Flora and Zephyr

A few days into my stay, a Delhi based artist, Akshay Raj Singh Rathore, began working on a month long “architectural dig”. Two men were engaged in digging a 15 x 10 foot pit, six feet deep, in which Akshay will install his clay modeling of contemporary everyday objects. Akshay and his wife Flora are planning a major farming restoration project, including the distribution of heritage seeds and the planting of indigenous trees in his childhood village. We spent a few afternoons discussing some of India’s severe environmental issues, including monoculture agribusiness, the effects of Monsanto, endemic malnutrition, lack of clean water and the explosion of new construction. Delhi based Khoj Foundation, which is supporting his village project, has been programming a number of workshops for artists, activists and intellectuals who wish to actively engage with India’s environmental challenges.

Sufi Singing at Nazruddin’s Tomb

At the entrance to Nizamuddin's Tomb

Buying Puja Offerings

Ruchin and Nidhi took me to hear the Sufi singing at Nizamuddin Auliya’s Tomb. We drove in dense traffic from the Saket Metro, where they picked me up, for some time in dense traffic, laughing as I practiced the Hindi swear words they taught me. The narrow lanes and white interior alleys of the Temple grounds were lined with vendors and beggars. Right before the entrance to the Tomb, Ruchin bought several plates of flowers and incense as offerings. Only men are allowed to enter into the tomb interior, but many women sat just outside the entrance, reverentially touching the surrounding architecture, where many sacred strands hung as prayer offerings. We waited quite a while for the singing to begin, seated on two facing carpets with an opening between them, where we were were joined by their friends.The singers, a group of around 8 men, were seated facing the tomb. Two played the harmonium, one percussion instrument, and all of them sang. The eldest collected the money offerings from the seated listeners, and also found places to sit for latecomers he seemed to know. He sang also, in a high sweet melodious tone.

Ruchin and Nidhi

Nidhi

The songs were quite long, perhaps 20 minutes or more each, and verses seemed to repeat, with new improvisational flourishes each time. The percussionist played complex rhythms that sped up, climaxed and quieted. Nidhi translated a few of the lyrics for me, which throbbed with longing for ecstatic love for God. I really wished I could have sung with them, carried by the full bodied sound.

Sikh Temple

Bunty and me

Courtney and I met at Rajiv Chowk Metro Station to do some shooting. Almost immediately we were befriended by a Sikh gentleman, Bunty, who decided to take us under his wing. We were never sure if he was taking commissions from the shops he took us to, as he never asked us for money. He said his day job is teaching children but they were on holiday that day. He really wanted to take us to his temple and though we were a bit grumpy from bargaining with shopkeepers and I was chafing to get back to the studio, but we relented, and took a bike rickshaw, the three of us adding to the burden of the older gentleman who propelled us forward. We were so glad we did. The Temple is a lovely white marble structure surrounded by greenery. After you check your shoes (for free, which includes shoe shine) and wash your hands and feet you mount the steps to the vast, cool interior. Amplified live prayer music flowed, singing and percussion by three men at the central shrine, or tomb, opulent in gold leaf. Believers streamed into the temple and prostrated themselves before it, making money offerings into several locked coffers. Bunty took us upstairs where readers kept the text alive by volunteering to read aloud the giant sacred texts.

Bunty then led us outside to the courtyard and beautiful pool for ritual bathing and back indoors to a vast cafeteria where people sat in neat rows on the floor eating from metal trays. Bunty explained that everyone ate for free, no matter how rich or poor, that the Sikh belief was that all are equal and that sitting in straight rows best demonstrated equality. We then were led into the cavernous kitchen, where vats of food, dahl and mixed vegetables, were ladled into serving basins. Women sat on dais, on one side patting the dough into round patties for chappati, on the other at the grill where they flipped them effortlessly into huge plastic baskets to be distributed in the cafeteria. The music was constant and lent all their actions a sense of ritual.

Afterwards we drove for a long way looking for an open restaurant and found one near Jain University, which was about to close at 11 pm, where we joked and laughed and ate udipi style dosai.

Shopping with Swamiprobuddhananda

On my last day at Sanskritti, a Vedanta retreat took place. Feeling really torn between spending some last hours painting, knowing I needed to go back into the city to shop for gifts and wanting to spend time talking to Akshay and his wife Flora about their upcoming project, I decided to forego the retreat. To my great surprise, Swamiji and I had a chance to talk at the end of the day, after the retreat, and were soon laughing heartily together. He was interested in going shopping also, so he and two other monks from his ashram took a bone shaking taxi together into the city. I was quite giddy in his company (how often does one go shopping with a Swamiji?) but he was a clear headed and resourceful shopper, guiding me to the right shops for my purchases.

Jan. 30

2012-02-05T04:29:00.000-08:00

Savanarabelagola, Belur and Halebid

Pooja and Grafittee

I spent a long, delightful full day driving and sightseeing to Savanarabelagola, Belur and Halebid with Anande and Naveen, two art students from CAVA in Mysore. One of my favorite moments was stopping from breakfast at a “hotel” as small restaurants are called, chosen by our driver, who dazzled me by promptly inhaling two full breakfasts. The boys and I had delicious potato dosai. I needed to use the loo and was directed to the very back of the hotel, through a vast, dark kitchen crowded with men sitting on the floor preparing foods while giant grinders whirled away on tilted axis. The food and the whites of the men’s eyes glowed, jewel like in the dim, smoky light. I felt quite sure that I was the first western woman to ever walk through that place, and certainly that morning I was the only woman in the place. The men pretended to ignore me, perhaps because I was in the company of three men, and probably I would have been stared at more openly without their companionship.

The students were great company. Naveen, the younger of the two, let Anande talk as he was quite absorbed in shooting hundreds of photographs. Anande, a grad student who grew up in a village 60 kilometers outside of Mysore, knows a great deal about the myths and history of the sites and an extraordinary breadth of understanding about art and culture. I was really interested in hearing about his social projects like working with blind students to make drawings.

We drove returned to Bangalore on the 23^rd to prepare for our trip to Delhi, where, after being interviewed for Bangalore TV about the exhibition, Bhagya and I spent some time at the Gallery of Modern Art. It was really helpful to me to see the post Independence development of Indian contemporary art, shaped by the Tagore family and their desire to shape an art that was free of western influence. Instead, the primacy of Indian religion and myth in their modern art can’t be exaggerated.

Sightseeing around Mysore

2012-01-25T22:51:00.000-08:00

Vijaya Rao, a professor at CAVA, kindly offered to take me to Tupa Sultan Summer Palace, xxx and three rivers. Vijaya, a soft spoken sculptor, was a thorough and knowledgeable guide.

We drove and drove through rural villages, passing many farmers walking slowing along. I think people here are so graceful in their bodies, slender and agile. The Tupa Sultan Palace, our first stop, is a lovely wooden building carved and painted on every surface with lovely, water based patterns. We only had access to the first floor, but just that was a plethora of murals depicting victorious Sultan’s battles. Vijaya explained how the paintings were executed on dry plaster and then coated with linseed oil, giving them a soft sheen.

Tupa Sultan Summer Palace Paintings

Tupa Sultan Summer Palace Paintings and Carvings

Tupa Sultan Summer Palace Paintings and Carvings

Our second stop was a ghat, a sacred place where three rivers meet, Sangama, lovely and open, with huge, gnarled old trees and clusters of little shops, with bored vendors who made very half hearted attempts to sell to me. The sell is much less hard when I am in the company of Indian friends, thankfully. It’s still a challenge for me how to respond, as I feel rude according to my standards. Pretending they don’t exist is seems to work best. We sat down for tea at one of the shops, run by a teenage boy. Vijaya carefully explained that I wanted “black tea” but when it was handed to me, it still was milky, and then Vijaya made him wash out the pots, and the second cup, flavored with masala, was delicious. Vijaya laughs easily and it was fun to joke about things both American (his wife and son are respectively working and studying in the US) and Indian with him.

Vijaya at the Temple

Vijaya at Sangama

Sangama

Vijaya ordering tea

making tea

Sangama

We then drove to the carved Kesava temple, where Vijaya, a sculptor, really lit up. We lovingly lingered over many of the carved passages of elephants, horses, battles, courtesans, narratives of the deities, poked our fingers into impossible crevices behind figures, each row a variation of intricate bas relief carving.

Children greeting me, the foreigner

Kesava

It’s really not possible to know how it will feel to be in a place despite seeing pictures and hearing descriptions. I spent Sunday mostly fretting about how I would visit Belur, Halebid and Svrananabelagola the following day. I scoured online sources, which all pointed to KSTRC, the Indian government bus tour system, but none of the listed phone numbers worked, except one office, where the phone rang and rang but appeared to be closed on Sunday. I tried Vijaya Rao, a professor at CAVA who had been my guide the day before. But nothing was available except Bhagya arranging for a driver through their Mysore hospital. She also arranged for two students to accompany me, Anande and Naveem.

Anande and Naveem Dejeuner Sur L'herbe

Later that day, Bhagya, Ajai and I drove to the twins’ dance teacher’s home where he was conducting a long rehearsal for the following Sunday performance that none of us could attend since we would all be in Delhi. Outside his home, a two-storied, airy building of recent construction in a middle class neighborhood, lay a sea of sandals. There were over a hundred girls and a handful of boys dressed in their dance school uniforms, and various parents. The dance teacher is tall and broad with a booming voice and malleable face, and wide eyes which flash a parade of expressions. Charismatic and radiating energy, he commands the full attention of the room.

The Dance Teacher

Asmitha's yoga asana

Aagnika (left) performing

It was great to watch them rehearse the various dances, some more classical hindi dance and others like musical numbers. The young men dance robustly, flinging themselves, stomping and catapulting, mustering vigor and drama. Agnika danced effortlessly, with grace and poise, completely assured and at ease.

After the rehearsal, which lasted a few hours after we arrived (and we arrived hours later than starting time), we were invited upstairs into the dance teacher’s home, where he lives with his wife, mother and two children and served tea and snacks, including fresh popcorn. As the dance teacher speaks little English, a long conversation took place in Kanada, an experience I am now used to, as most seem to forget that I don’t understand and fall into speaking their natural language, without the effort of English. But then his wife spoke English to me, and I immediately wanted to know her better. A former professional classical singer, her voice was full of warmth. She went to fetch a painting she had made to show me, a very fine and precise watercolor she had painted during a time she was unable to talk, suffering from a polyp on her vocal chord. The experience left her without the ability to sing the full range required for classical singing, so she now teaches. I admired how she relayed this story simply, without self-pity or regret.

First Bus, First Train, First Tourist Action

2012-01-20T07:12:00.000-08:00

Jan. 20
We completed the Bangalore University workshop yesterday. I was pleased to see five completed projects, one from each collaborative group. One group burned the edges of their book, as a metaphor for man’s encroachment of nature, serving up a sooty, pungent experience. It’s been a challenge for them to conceptualize working collaboratively. Most projects settled on agreeing on a theme and a form, but maintained their individuality by painting separate pages. One group managed to cooperatively paint each page, but one student in that group proceeded to sign his name on nearly every page, and had difficulty understanding why I called attention to it.

Everyone at Bangalore University

Man and Nature Collaborative Artist Book

Creators of Man and Nature

Student collaborative Book Projects

A huge old banyan tree on BU campus

Bus to downtown Bangalore

I was pretty excited to take my first bus ride in Bangalore yesterday, with Madhan as my guide. We sat in the back and bounced our way over the deeply jutted University roads. Yet again I was humbled by the generosity of India, leaving Bangalore University with an unexpected wallet full of rupees, a thank you from the art department, and having Madhan insist on paying my bus fare. It was a hot and dusty ride into the heart of the city. Since the bus was not direct to our destination of HCG Hospital, we got off near the city markets, where hundreds of running children were let out of school for the day. Probably Madhan and I made an unusual looking pair- Madhan with his African style knit cap and tattoo covered arms, jeans and sneakers and a small pack and me with my very white skin and gray hair. He has been a cheerful, loquacious and constant companion for the whole Bangalore University workshop, and a great pleasure to spend time with walking through the crowded markets on our way to the hospital. Many times children rushed to shake my hand and practice a word or two of English, or they hung out of auto rickshaws waving and laughing and calling out “hi!”.

One of the Rajs

The Palace Library (only scholars can look at the books)

On the train to Mysore

Mysore Train Station

This morning Mahdeva, the family driver, took me to the train station and held my hand through the ticket buying process (new to him as well as he usually takes the bus), making sure I filled out the form correctly and had the right ticket, and buying a platform ticket to make sure I was safely on the train. He didn’t leave until he peered through the window and saw me at my seat. I just learned from Umesh, the gentleman seated next to me on the train who had spent time studying in the US, that at crowded railway stations like Bangalore, people like to go to the train station to hang out, and so selling platform tickets (4 or 5 rupees each) bring in additional income.

Finally I visited Mysore Palace! I mistakenly went to the wrong entrance near town and a 13 yr old boy convinced me to ride in his ponga, or horse drawn cart, to the other entrance. I admit it was a lot of fun, and breathtaking the way he bade his horse canter and quickly turn in front of buses and onrushing traffic. He kept slapping the horse with his reins and I begged him to be nice to the horse. I had avoided riding in the pongas previously because the horses are so slight and seem too fragile to bear the burden of passengers and cargo they cart around. Plus they are forced to run on the hard pavement, which must be jarring to their slender legs.

Mysore Palace

The Mysore Palace really is fantastic. I was surprised that there were so few westerners in the crowds of tourists. There were a couple of Tibetan monks who were having a high time getting people to photograph them with various types of people, like school girls in uniform seated on the ground and turbaned, bearded muslim men. Despite the quantity of people that work at the Palace, it is quite informal. You can wonder about at your own pace. The wooden house, behind the palace, is wonderfully shabby. Walls are covered amazing paintings, photographs of the rajs and scrawled with graffiti signatures. Despite the ban on cameras, cell phone photos are ok, so everyone is busy snapping away and of course I joined in.

Graffiti on the Palace walls

Near closing I nearly had the place to myself. One of the guards asked me if I wanted to photograph the “beautiful swords madam” (not really) and then did I want him to photograph me in front of them, which meant allowing me behind a thick rope barrier. So I complied, and then it became clear (ok, I’m slow) that he was angling for a tip and was happy with the ten rupee note I offered him.

Bangalore Installing and Workshopping

2012-01-18T03:20:00.000-08:00

Jan. 17

We hung the wallpaper installation today. It was great to have the hospital carpenter and three other men helping. They worked quickly and efficiently. In the afternoon we return and find the wallpaper up, only I see I have made a mistake about which panels go where and it’s too late to make the change. I struggle to be at peace with my mistake. Alas, the area that feels most unresolved and overworked ends up in a crowded corner. I am full of apprehension about how the portraits will look installed with the painted wallpaper. Also, the five sixty-inch panels are six inches short of the long wall, so I have an unanticipated gap to fill, which I will have to paint on site.

I have a lot of anxiety about this project, questioning its worth and its level of completion. Painting the panels turned out to be quite challenging, especially because it was hard to find enough space to lay them out, even in the Ajaikumar’s giant house. They were incredibly accommodating, letting me take over both Anjali’s bedroom while she was in Bangalore and the upstairs hallway mezzanine.

I was very happy to see Prumilla, one of the girls whose portrait I painted today, especially since she seems to have come back for the reception.

Bhagya invited Mr. Gopalappa, a geologist, to “measure” the underground waterways beneath the gallery floor. He has a very cool instrument that measures breaks in the rock formations, which tell him the location of the water lines. He was kind enough to discuss his findings with me, and seemed completely unfazed that he was asked. Since this happened only yesterday, I can only use the information nominally in the installation.

Mr. Gopalappa, geologist

Bhagya and I are spending three days at Bangalore University, where we are conducting the second collaborative group artist book workshop. BU doesn’t have an undergrad visual arts program, and its graduate program spearheaded and administered by Jayakumar, is only 6 years old. Yet the complex of studios surrounding a tiered outdoor courtyard is very pleasant.

Yes, Felix Gonzalez Torres sited at Bangalore University!

The students have very strong drawing skills and usually work from imagination. Several of them have shared their individual work with me. They seem to be pleased to work collaboratively, a new experience for them. There is some installation work taking place, but more usually the tradition of symbolic narrative painting dominates.

There are five collaborative book groups working together. One has been especially enthusiastic. With smiling persistence, they demand both a binding and a painting demonstration from me, and I comply, because it is so much better than waiting for other groups to be ready to discuss their work with me.

They want me to tell them about art in America and about the differences. I tell them Indian art tends to be more sincere than American art, where irony and inside references to art history abound.

It’s difficult to adjust to the Indian sense of time. “Five minutes” could mean a half an hour. We habitually arrive up to 45 minutes late for everything, so I am getting a lot of practice in letting go. The students and teachers alike arrive late and take long lunch breaks. So different from the States, where we rush to work as hard and as long as we can, to be full of accomplishment.

a conversation with Jayakumar and former MFA student Madhankumar about the importance of understanding ones choice of materials

Frequently we sit stalled in traffic for long stretches of time, another opportunity to try my hand at letting go.

sitting in Bangalore traffic

The Village Women

2012-01-14T22:15:00.000-08:00

With an entrepreneurial couple in Begur

A woman transporting her wares in Begur

I have spent a couple of days with Bhagya visiting villages to interview women who participate in Self Help Groups, or Sanghas, that meet weekly, usually at someone’s home. IHDUA (International Human Development and Uplift Academy, founded in 1991 by Bhagya and her husband Ajai Kumar) helps train members to keep accounts and deposit funds.

Nanjappa, our guide and head administrator and passionate advocate for IHDUA, and helpers preparing to extend a loan check

The three of us were treated with great ceremony (Bhagya of course, because she founded the ngo that supports them, and Nanjappa, who is the administrative head). I felt like a celebrity, although all I did was show up.

Nanjappa was our host, an expert of 30 years in the field, and he explained more about the situation than I was able to glean from the interviews, as it quickly became clear that my questions did not translate culturally. The individual perspectives or stories I had hoped to learn were relayed as group experiences or generalities. The communal is primary here.

IHDUA has grown exponentially to include 495 self-help groups in over sixty villages with 10 to 15 members each. Most of the groups are comprised of women, but there are increasingly men’s groups are forming.

It was a radical initiative that has fundamentally changed the culture of village life. Women now have control over their own money and substantially contribute to the financial well being of the household. They buy cows, sheep, land, repair homes, learn trades such as tailoring, sewing saris and uniforms for neighbors, start beauty shops, or local small general provision shops, and buy cars to provide transportation to other villagers. For most, their efforts are with for one common goal: to provide for the education of their children.

Women entrepreneurs in Kamarhally Village

A small shop in Kabballi village

A recipient of a sewing machine and her two daughters in their kitchen

A proud owner of a new beauty shop

The women I met glow with grace, health and energy, and are beautifully dressed in saris, their hair shining. There was a great sense of ceremony, the group gathered together to listen intently, curious about my presence in their homes. The houses I entered have few belongings or furniture. Mostly, people sit on the floor on mats.

Family cows live alongside people in their homes

The women’s days are long, most beginning with milking cows and taking animals outside (the animals live inside their homes), washing floors, preparing meals, which still includes grinding the grains with stones, and perhaps working in the fields. They are solely responsible for all the cooking and cleaning and caring for the children. A number of them, if they have trained in tailoring, will sew custom sari orders, school uniforms or festival costumes in the afternoon.

Most work is still done by hand with instruments that have not changed in many centuries, like these beautiful grinding stones and mortar and pestle.

Studio Visit (Backtracking a bit)

2012-01-12T18:09:00.000-08:00

On New Years Day, a group of us staying at my hosts’ home were invited to visit the studio of Suchinder Pingley on the outskirts of Mysore. Although he said it was “close”, it seemed we ventured quite far out into the countryside. Our driver had to stop repeatedly to negotiate ruts in the road. There were very few other cars, but occasional bullock carts and people of foot who regarded us with curiosity.

Suchinder’s studio, which he designed himself, is brand new, simple, spacious and elegant. Best, it is nearly empty, free of clutter, emanating stillness. He showed us an amazing watercolor he had just completed after a month of work. It is a miniature and exact examplar of characters from 19^th century India, both native and British, rendered in sepias. I love that he works on a tiny glass table inches off the polished stone floor, where he sits by the window.

Suchinder made us delicious lemongrass tea, collecting the plant to steep just outside his door, and we sat on the floor and looked at photographs of previous work, each one of them in a private collection.

a small library sitting room off the main studio

Franck Bartholemy with Suchinder Pingley perusing an anthology of Indian artists

Outside, he showed us his banana plantation and a number of single fruit trees he planted in the red, red soil of this region. The banana trees grow incredibly fast, producing a new crop of fruit every six months. The large leaves make a soft whirring sound in the breeze.

CAVA

2012-01-08T18:31:00.000-08:00

Jan 9

Bhagya in front of CAVA entrance

Drinking Tender Coconut

On Saturday, CAVA (The Chamarajendra Academy of Visual Arts), the school here in Mysore where Bhagya teaches, students helped to put up a show of my gouaches. The building reminds me of the building the grad students used to work in at the University of Iowa, old and shabby and charming. I was really amazed at how my framed gouaches (18 pieces framed) looked on the mottled cream white walls that haven't been painted in eons. Like they had been waiting to be hung there.

The students are very sweet, shy and enthusiastic to have a guest. They seem to appreciate my work and are eager enough to participate in assigned collaborative group artist book projects. The whole painting department consists of several rooms where students work during the day. Instead of chairs, or in addition to them, they spread patterned rugs on the floor.

Students have to leave by 4:30 pm and some of them have a commute, so with classes and exams, they don’t have a lot of studio time.

After spending the day there, Bhagya and I walked through town (I begged not to be driven, which is luxurious, but makes me feel so cut off from the world), and we had a great time chatting away as we shopped for tops and buying things like roasted peanuts in recycled paper cones and fresh garbanzo beans still on the stalk from sidewalk vendors and. The whole day was quite nice. After dinner, with Bhagya and three of her kids, Ardash, Agnika and Asmita, we watched a bollywood movie. So kitschy but fun to watch.

Portrait Painting

2012-01-06T17:00:00.000-08:00

On our way back to Mysore after a very full three days working in the hospital, painting portraits of oncology patients. I was shepherded through the chemo wards by Mala, a lovely young woman who anticipated my needs (fresh water for painting, a stool or chair to place my supplies, a pen for portrait sitters to give me their information), whose presence was light and comforting. Whenever she led me into the wards, which are small and crowded with beds and family members, I felt a kind of flowing energy, surrounded by women of all ages in saris, clusters of hospital employees, some wearing sari uniforms, some in more western white garb. When she led me to a patient, sometimes the person was too groggy to be painted, other times they feared I might bring germs.

The patients were both curious and shy at my presence. Those that agreed to have me paint them were very willing to sit still for up to an hour, patiently and silently watching me work. Onlookers would gather around, photographing and sometimes videoing the process with their cell phones.I was keenly aware of the priviledge of being allowed into their lives at such a vulnerable time. Even the several older Muslim men I painted, with their fierce whiskers and furrowed brows, returned my occasional smiles with soft and humorous expressions. One Muslim man, wearing a red and black stocking hat with the improbable word Cute embroidered on its rim, invited me to his home “on the road to Hampi.”

I struggled with feelings of inadequacy towards my sitters, wanting to do them justice for the honor they extended me. I found when judgment arose, my paintings became stiff and overworked. Really I only felt good about half of them. Especially moving to me was the children’s optimism, lack of self-consciousness, vulnerability and endurance for the lack of privacy and the mysteries of what was happening in their bodies.

January 2

2012-01-02T05:58:00.000-08:00

One week later, I am on my way back to HCG, Health Care Global, my hosts’ central oncology hospital in Bangalore (one of 22 in India), this time to paint portraits and a wallpaper installation at Swasti, Bhagya Ajaikumar’s gallery in the hospital lobby where works are sold to raise money for HCG Foundation that provides support for patients in need. My wallpaper patterns are based on portraits of oncology patients. Responding to both their stories and their clothing. I am using pigments procured at the Mysore market mixed with gum arabic, a traditional Indian painting method.

On the day of New Year’s Eve, we drove to the Chamudi Hills, to run up the hill to the Temple with a giant bull statue. I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to run as long as I did. Ajai, a practiced runner, pulled ahead while Bhagya and her friend Shan Re, engrossed in conversation, dropped back, so that when I reached the summit, crowded with buses of Indian worshippers, I made the error of turning back down the way we came, where I believed Ajai had gone before me. But I didn’t meet any of my companions on the long descent, nor were they waiting for me at the car. Fearing my hosts were in a panic looking for me, I started back up the hill. About an hour had passed by this time, and my relief was considerable when I recognized Ajai’s brother Amar, who is training for a marathon, having left the house hours before us came running towards me. Happily he had both a cell phone and a car to take me back to the house.

Later, nine of us piled into the car to go to the market, where I was swept up in the crowds of vendors and shoppers. Stacks of bananas, apples, mangoes, and many other fruits I did not recognize, piles of flower garlands, spices, pigments for ritual and decoration, everywhere a profusion of abundance and diversity, ingeniously displayed in tiny stalls. I love moving through the dark, rich spaces with Franck, who is completely at home in Indian culture. An enthusiast by nature, he is an epicurean guide, bringing my attention over and over to some delight I may have missed. And young men with trinkets hovered, trying to guess where Franck, a Frenchman, and I were from. Perhaps our identity was less obvious since we were with our Indian hosts and their friends.

The women spent a long time in a jewelry stall, looking at hundreds of bangles to wear for the New Year’s Eve party that night. Continually, I have to remind myself to make the conversion to dollars to remember how little everything costs. Then, in several scarf shops, we created hills of scarves, fingering silk, wool, and pashmina, each one shimmering and beckoning in its own way. As Anjali remarked, even though one store may have literally hundreds of variations, of nightgowns, for example, no other shop would sell exactly the same merchandise. I return to the house with two silk scarves, six bracelets, and bags of pigments for my wallpaper project.

Bullocks, cows, water buffalo, horses and dogs, some tied up, some wander freely beside a busy and dangerous highway, where commuters on foot dressed in saris, dhotis, and more western wear mingle with bicycles, motorcycles, carts, the tiny open air auto rickshaw, trucks, buses of all degrees of quality, most painted in brightly colored patterns and devotional images. The drivers continually honk and flash their lights at one another, playing a game of chicken as they vie for right of way and speed on roads that display skull and crossbones as warning signs.

Everywhere there is new construction, some of it seems to have been started and abandoned half way through. Amazingly, even some of the higher end structures are shored up with bamboo scaffolding, lashed together with some kind of twine.

I have seen very few westerns since my arrival. Maybe four.

The ability to beautifully and efficiently stack anything, whether straw, coconuts, fruits or tires, often in balance defying combinations, whether carried on someone’s head, or in a cart or spread on a brightly colored cloth on the ground beside the road, is delightful to behold.

My first walk downtown

2011-12-26T22:32:00.000-08:00

My first day out solo, I venture a long walk to shops to buy shampoo, looking for a shop recommended by my hosts. The streets are hot, dusty and crowded, and there are almost no other westerners so I attract quite a bit of curiosity. I return tired but pleased with my small but successful adventure.

The stores are frequently quite small and specialize in rices and legumes or shoes or saris.

I have been awake since 2:15 am, and read, happily immersed, many hundreds of pages from Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, recommended by Joan Livingstone. It's an entangled tale of many characters swept up in the madness of the 1830's Indian opium trade.

All through the night, the four dogs who live here in the compound bark sporadically, as well as neighbor dogs and the wild ones, who set up a chorus of howling sometimes between 3 and 5 am. Also at 5, lovely, dissonant harmonies from a nearby mosque and the scent of onions frying for an early breakfast.

When I finally go downstairs at around 8 am, the 11 year twins are dressed in their green and gold school uniforms and are having their shining dark hair brushed and braided.

I eat with Bhagya and Anjali a delicious, abundant breakfast of dosais and flavorful vegetable cream of wheat.