What did a super-quick trip to the Biennale reinforce? The belief that we should first viscerally absorb art for what it is!
Visitors watch a movie in a flooded theatre at the Kochi Biennale. Pic/Mayank Shekhar
What is the downside of success? The inevitability of future failures. Does this anxiety loom far more strongly over artists/creators of all sorts—including sport, which is after all, a performance art? Evidently. For one, the highs of creative success are dizzy. Two, that supposed magic, regardless of all the work you put in, fails to produce the same results, forever—or even beyond a short period of time, when you mystically shone. After the unexpected, unprecedented success of her non-fiction travelogue Eat, Pray, Love (2006), writer Elizabeth Gilbert had to contend with the possibility of her best work being already behind her.
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She had only touched 40, with as many years left to go. And she'd been writing for 25 years before that. Struck by the 'curse of the bestseller', Gilbert sat down to decode creativity instead. Or how it unnecessarily debilitated the artist, while it was only with the Renaissance, that the individual had been placed at the centre of creativity in the first place—producing pressure of (being a) "genius", that had (literally) been killing artists, for over 500 years! In her brilliant 2009 TED talk, Gilbert bore out how the greatness of her work (let alone its reception) wasn't quite a personal triumph, and that she just ought to chill, and chiefly show up to work regardless (simply honouring her part of the deal). Humans had always considered "creativity as a divine, attendant spirit that came to human beings—from a distant, noble source; and for distant, noble reasons."
Ancient Greeks called this spirit, 'daemon'. Ancient Romans called it "genius", which visits us, rather than who we are! Likewise, centuries ago in North Africa, when professional moonlight-dancers, in extremely rare moments, achieved "transcendence", crowds were known to chant, "Allah, Allah, Allah," ascribing the moment to God. With the North African (Islamic/Moorish) invasion of Spain, this chant transformed to "Ole, Ole, Ole," something you still hear at high points during Spanish bull-fights, to indicate the ethereal. Couldn't agree more with Gilbert; more so because it liberates the (supposedly successful) artist to freely pursue first what she desires; rather than always second-guess/perspire over its probable outcome as stakes go higher. Also, it delineates works of creativity from the greatness of the singular individual behind it.
Or the narcissism that naturally follows. Which is exactly the kind of 20th Century—mainly capitalistic/market-led, all-pervasive—culture of creating gigantic halos, and unquestionable cults around select few individuals that I used to find most off-putting about the art world, in general. There's max cynicism in the late teens. And I was equally struck by it, especially if you consider modern/abstract art—the commentary around which is so loaded with exclusionary jargon that the pressure of liking it almost follows the fact of not being considered philistine as a result! I'm basically talking about consensus among self-righteous aesthetes killing joys of self-discovery, for most. This is quite different from the content-delivery conundrum—or art disguised as accessible entertainment, which makes consumption by millions worth the pain of creating it, after all.
And so the first time I ever went to a proper arts museum (during college)—Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York—as with the last time—Guggenheim, in the same city—I followed the same strategy, solely aimed towards serendipity, that works rather well. I just walk slowly, along the corridors, choosing to stop at points only when my eyes (or feet) naturally do. Are those works one stops at, already lauded among global connoisseurs? Often, yes. Sometimes, no. And I don't read the context, its history, or creator's bio, until much later, when it feels like the piece of art is naturally doing something to me—the way it is, without any other background info messing with what's a very visceral response. Both MoMA and Guggenheim, unlike most major museums, are easily navigable within couple of hours.
Which is not the same as the 108-day, makeshift Kochi Biennale, spread over 10 venues—multiple, massive halls, galleries, warehouses—showcasing paintings, sculptures, photographic exhibitions, gigantic installations (along with long and short videos)…. You need a minimum week to truly absorb the Biennale at Fort Kochi, a charming district that should by itself be declared a living museum! I had a couple of hours. What to do? Definitely not take a guide. Seriously avoid literature/intricacies of agit-prop (agitation/propaganda) art placed all over, around the theme of marginalised classes in general, centred on feminism, in particular.
Gawk at huge truck-tyre hanging from porch; observe a flooded theatre; walk around a dark hall with loud messages emanating from old microphones facing down at sharp objects holding pieces of prose/poetry; check into a room with dead crows and the cooing sound enveloping the air… This feels like a strangely mind-expanding experience. Words will kill such description. Besides that, after sometime, you feel more in sync with the intended (or unintended) beauties surrounding you at large. I look at this lovely doll at an arts café. Watch it intently from afar. Oh, it just smiled. That was actually a cute baby—not an installation!
Mayank Shekhar attempts to make sense of mass culture. He tweets @mayankw14 Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
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