Crafts activists and organisations have pointed out that the collection cannibalises Sanganeri prints which have a Geographical Indicator
Illustration/Uday Mohite
For many years I did not know that the fabric I bought as chheent in small, unfashionable markets like Bhogal, was the same as chintz, a fabric I constantly encountered and wondered about in Georgette Heyer novels. Sabyasachi Mukherjee reminded me of this recently as I read his many PR produced statements responding to the critiques of his new line for H&M.
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Crafts activists and organisations have pointed out that the collection cannibalises Sanganeri prints which have a Geographical Indicator. They also remove the Indian artisan from the story while weaving vague narratives about Indian aesthetic heritage. Sabyasachi responded with: “This is not Sanganeri, but a hybrid “inspired by the aesthetic of the sanganeri block print, the French toile, chintz prints and so on.” Oh, Sabya, such a global aesthete, yaar.
I found a cute graphic called The History of Chintz on Pinterest. In the 17th century, it says, Indian chintz fabrics became a rage in Europe. This made European textile manufacturers insecure. They asked for a ban, which happened. Then, says the graphic, in the 1850s, the Industrial Revolution enabled the mass production of chintz. Arre wah—all we needed was a machine, and everyone could revel in the beauty of Indian crafts, just like with Sabyasachi’s Wanderlust collection?
Well, just like big fish eat little fish, so big stories sit in the stomach of small stories. Here’s one.
In 1734, a French naval officer, M de Beaulieu, who was stationed at Pondicherry, India, sent home letters with actual samples of chintz fabric to a chemist friend detailing each stage of the dyeing process. In 1742, another Frenchman, Father Coeurdoux, also supplied details of the chintz making process to folks at home. English and the French mills learned to produce chintz. Voila, the ban was lifted. Chintz no longer came from India and became ‘accessible’.
Is this theft? Or is it simply, inspiration? The line is fine, finer than fine print, of where one bleeds into the other. Only ethics can find the sweet, honest spot. But one thing we do know. The story of fabric is covered in the sly print of colonialism and of the way it created categories like ‘folk’ and ‘native’ to dye the art, intellectual, emotional and market practices of colonised societies as primitive or not of modernity, and so, easy to take from. Indian markets and crafts were embedded in ideas of community. Communities also evolve unique aesthetic languages— that this is considered a community language acknowledges that much of human culture is collectively birthed.
Colonialist-capitalist practices on the other hand, thrive on the idea of the individual as the font of original creation, in the service of imperialist-capitalism, tied to a restrictive and rigged economy of contracts and intellectual property rights. It is expressed through language where brands claim to propel social change and individuals present their personal progress as being ‘on behalf of every one out there’. As Sabyasachi presents his individual dream and progress as great for India, it’s worth remembering that Sabyasachi himself is bullish about IPR and known to have approximately a thousand copyrights for his designs. In a large market like India, much can be done to make crafts accessible to diverse publics as much as to wealthy patrons. Sabyasachi is not obligated to do it. He just needn’t dress up his self-interest as altruism.
Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at paromita.vohra@mid-day.com
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