It’s time for art to be political

Indian art has always been well behaved, determinedly steering clear of politics. But if artists create works of political art, will we see their idealism or will we see only sacred cows?

Let’s be honest: aesthetically, Siddhartha Karawal’s ‘Divine Bovine’ is not the most noteworthy bovine in the annals of Indian art. It is, however, perhaps the most manhandled one.

Last month, at the Jaipur Art Summit, Mr. Karawal’s ‘Divine Bovine’, consisting of a cow made of styrofoam and a balloon, made the news. It was floating above the Pink City, minding its own business. Unfortunately, this offended some people. So the cow was hauled away by the local police. Who the offended were and whether they were feeling offended on behalf of cows in general or Mr. Karawal’s styrofoam cow in particular remains unclear. We can only presume they’re the same people who garlanded and worshipped the once-floating, now-grounded, cow once it was in police custody, and that its bovine honour was restored when the worshippers yelled “Gau mata ki jai!”

Deepanjana Pal

As it turned out, all those outraged by ‘Divine Bovine’ were mistaken in their assumption that Mr. Karawal was poking fun at sacred cows. ‘Divine Bovine’ was supposed to be a critical comment on the way we mistreat cows in cities. Mr. Karawal wasn’t challenging anyone with ‘Divine Bovine’. If anything, he and the cow brigade were actually saying the same thing: show the cow some love.

What this ridiculous episode served to underscore is that an artist may create a work of art, but it is the viewer who completes it. If the one who sees it will not or cannot recognise the artist’s intention, then it’s hopeless.

Politically bland

Around the world, contemporary art is used to seeming incomprehensible. To perplex is almost a basic requirement — it’s the first step to ending up as thought-provoking. In addition, most modern and contemporary Indian art is politically bland and determinedly steers clear of politics. Still, the ability to perplex may have saved some of our more talented artists.

Back in 2002, artist Shilpa Gupta peddled little bottles filled with red liquid on the streets and local trains of Mumbai. The bottles were labelled ‘Blame’ and carried this inscription: “Blaming you makes me feel so good, so I blame you for what you cannot control — your religion, your nationality.” The curious performance was her way of responding to the U.S.-led ‘war on terror’. By the time she was ready with her little bottles of ‘Blame’, the Godhra riots had happened and ‘Blame’ felt more pertinent than ever.

In 1994, Bhupen Khakhar painted a watercolour in which a seated man was cradled by another. The one who comforts the seated man is mostly blue-skinned. He has many arms, and in one hand there dangles a garland of marigolds. In another, he holds a lotus that is rising out of a discarded, green shirt. The painting is titled ‘How many hands do I need to declare my love to you?’ It’s an exquisitely gentle and tender painting, glowing with sensual intimacy. However, a homophobe may be disgusted by it and if the person viewing ‘How many hands…’ is itching to manufacture outrage, they can go blue in the face claiming Hinduism has been insulted.

Fortunately, few know of these works of art and fewer have actually seen them, which means both the art and the living artists are safe. Since Indian contemporary art has cultivated a reputation for being elite and its audience is at best described as niche, few see or talk about it. Net result: the chances of being misinterpreted are low. Add to this the deplorably outdated collections of modern art in most Indian museums.

Usually, Indian artists become topics of conversation when a work that almost no one in India has seen goes on to earn a record amount at an international auction. Or if their name is Maqbool Fida Husain.

When Husain was first accused of obscenity and disrespecting Hinduism because he had painted Hindu goddesses as nude figures, it must have sounded like a joke. If traditional temple art is to be believed, these divine ladies aren’t particularly fond of covering up, after all. But the ridiculous turned first into embarrassment, and then miserable shame.

Court cases were filed against the artist. Violent protests, led by right-wing political activists, would mushroom every time his paintings were shown. There were numerous cases of serious vandalism, led by thugs believed to have right-wing political connections. The fear inspired by the anti-Husain brigade was so piercing that one gallery hid the fact that an upcoming exhibition included a portrait of his. It wasn’t even a painting by Husain. It was just a photograph of him.

Husain had his share of supporters, particularly in the art world, but outside, the detractors swarmed public opinion. People said Husain was courting controversy in the hope of staying relevant. None of them paid heed to the fact that he didn’t need religious sectarianism to stay in the news. If anything, the political ‘activists’ who led the charge against Husain were the ones riding on the coat-tails of his fame and reputation.

The Supreme Court would eventually dismiss the cases against Husain in 2011, but by that time, the damage had already been done. The eagerness with which Husain was maligned would make many in the Indian art arena less inclined to wave their aesthetic fists in the right-wing’s face. If media-savvy Husain, with his charm and fame, couldn’t make himself heard, then what chance did others have? Galleries couldn’t afford to have their premises vandalised. Artists couldn’t afford long-standing court cases. The Husain experience suggested that the well behaved world of Indian art needed to add caution to its bag of tricks.

Idealism in art

And yet, despite being studiously apolitical, Indian art has also been unwaveringly idealistic. It was born out of the Progressives’ burning need to develop a distinctively modern, indigenous artistic identity. Since then, the art may be exhibited in cocoon-like galleries. It may be bought and sold by an elite group that is frequently disconnected from average Indians. Still, within the private monologues and debates that charaterise Indian contemporary art, our artists have also questioned social attitudes and criticised the establishment. Only, they did this subtly, with neither them nor their gallerists making any noise about the politics.

Sometimes the protests and idealism would be meshed in artistic imagery, like in the works of Navjot Altaf and Vivan Sundaram. Repeatedly, we’ve seen artists rally together to create collectives like Sahmat, Open Circle and KHOJ, which have offered insightful socio-political commentary. Sometimes the questions would be tangled in the dense but beautiful works made by the likes of CAMP and Desire Machine Collective. Performance artists such as Inder Salim and Tejal Shah have long perplexed many with their strange and fantastic ways of exploring political issues. Recently, 400 artists signed a petition supporting the writers who returned their national awards. Before you ask why they didn’t return anything, check how many Indian artists have been chosen for state honours. It’s a disappointingly tiny number.

Perhaps it is time for Indian artists and art to become less polite and more political. Perhaps it is time to abandon subtlety. But that’s only half the work done. If they voice their protests, will we hear them or the cacophony? If they create a work of political art, will we see their idealism or will we see only sacred cows?