What to Call a Woman Artist?

There was a time in Indian art, especially between 2005 and 2013, when group exhibitions were cited as “ten Malayalis and two artists’ exhibition.” The participation of a minimum of ten contemporaries of Kerala origin was a must, and anything above that could be artists from other parts of India. Nobody took offense. It was a norm.

People used to tell me, “Hey, you promote only Malayali artists.” They were right because the galleries that assigned me to curate shows wanted this particular line-up. So I used to respond with a smile, “Why me alone? Look at all my contemporary curators. They too go by the same list. Only the locations change.”

Trans-artists were coming up then. It was much before Queer and LGBTQ were mainstreamed, and Maina Mukherjee took the lead in curating them in Delhi. We did not know how to address these artists. They were as touchy as the feminist artists. Some blanketed enemies, and some others were selective in choosing their “ideal” enemies. I do not discount the fact that Ram Rahman and Sunil Gupta were here much before. But they moved easily amongst the dicked ones.

Then came the question: how to qualify an artist who belonged to the female gender? Call her “a woman artist” or “artist”—both offended them because they hated being identified as women with feminine qualities. Look at the catalogue essays of feminist artists; it would be difficult to find words like femininity or feminine. It should have been feminist/ic.

Parallelly, actresses became actors. No problem. Personally speaking, I do not have any issues in talking about women artists as “artists” only. But then comes our training in post-colonialism, post-structuralism, and all the other -isms that preceded and followed. You look at a work of art and you see a lot of “gender” things present there. So, to talk about them, you have to say that the artist is a “female” artist! To apply any theory, you have to look at the gender.

You look at the abstraction of Raza and that of any other female artist. You could see the “feminine” thing in their works. How do you overlook that? If nothing is there to take you to the gender qualifications, then the medium, material, and technique scream from the rooftop that they are the handiwork of a woman artist. Look at the works of Subodh Gupta and Bharti Kher. Look at Surendran Nair and Rekha Rodwittiya. Look at Atul Dodiya and Anju Dodiya. How do you talk about them without qualifying the latter group as women artists, not because they are “women” in the biological sense but are “females” in the ideological sense?

But look at the works of the dicked ones. Cool. You don’t know whether they are done by a male or a female. Women critics, at some point, used to go to that extent where anything vertical in a work of art was dubbed as “phallic.” So I prefer to call the male artists “dicked ones.” Bad taste, I know. But what to do? I am a human being with normal follies. I prefer to see people as humans before I see them as gendered beings. But then they are different from me, a dicked one. I understand that.

What to do? When a woman artist insists that she is to be called an “artist,” I do not think that any level-headed human being, with or without a dick, would challenge it. Yes, a woman artist is an ARTIST. No doubt. She should be called an “ARTIST.” But when we talk about the content, medium, material, technique, and intended meaning, how shall we shun the word female?

Brother, I am in a dilemma. I read a lot of literature of my liking, as there is no universal liking for any literature, just as it is with art. I can discern a woman writer’s writing from a dicked one’s writing. Everything about her writing is different. Okay. Now she is not called a “woman writer” but a “writer.” However, both in journalistic and academic parlance, she would eventually be qualified as a “woman writer,” not to underline that she has a vagina but by virtue of having one, she is different from the dicked ones’ output, perhaps much better.

Damien Hirst and Tracy Emin are artists. But they really do male and female art that comes under the general category of art. Critics pick up the pros and cons of both parties and, perhaps due to a lack of jargon, they are qualified as artist and female artist—not always, but whenever such distinctions are demanded. There is no other way. But ah, there is a way: passing a bill in Parliament that bans any mention of gender while writing art criticism.

JohnyML

 

When an Exhibition Designer Turns a Vandal

 Prima Kurien, that is not a good designer act...

On Saturday, I went to Bikaner House and from there to Travancore House, where Bhuwal Prasad’s solo exhibition, 'Perpetual Drift', was inaugurated. My connection with the show is through the catalogue essay I wrote.

At the gallery, I noticed that the entire text had been reproduced on the wall outside the hall—something that, I felt, was unlikely to be read by anyone. Generally, a wall text is a blurb or a condensed version of the catalogue essay, running to no more than three or four short paragraphs.

What made me curious was the defacement of the text with some scribbles. I had already been handsomely paid, so I thought, “To hell with it. Who cares?” But curiosity got the better of my restraint. I asked the artist why there was graffiti on the text. He told me that the exhibition designer, Prima Kurien, had asked him to do it.

Well, Prima Kurien—or anybody, for that matter—does not have the right to do that. As an exhibition designer, she might have thought that only graffiti could draw some attention to a text that is so long and has been printed in its entirety in a vertical format, touching the ceiling. But that thought itself is pedestrian. She could have asked the printer to cut the text into different sections and placed them in each hall beside the works.

Now I have doubts about Prima Kurien’s design sense. Or was she trying to settle a score with me because of my earlier criticism of one of her shows?

Either it is overthinking on her part or outright cheapness.

JohnyML

Making of New Delhi- A Swapna Liddle History

From now onwards, I will not be able to see ‘Pandara Road’ or ‘Pandara Park’ as they are. Historian Swapna Liddle, with her book Connaught Place and the Making of New Delhi, has changed a few of my perceptions regarding the city of New Delhi, which has been my home for the last three decades.

I am an ardent metro rider. Khan Market is my favourite station, as it can take me to various art centres such as Bikaner House, IIC, IIC Annex, India Habitat Centre and so on. I often come out of the metro at the Pandara Road opening. And now Swapna Liddle says that it was a clerical error. It was supposed to be ‘Pandava’, and while writing it down in the file, someone wrote ‘Pandara’, turning the ‘v’ into an ‘r’, with nobody then or later bothering to correct this clerical error.

In 1911, during the Delhi Durbar held by King George V and Queen Victoria of England on the shores of the Yamuna, he also laid the foundation stone for ‘New Delhi’, a new city that was to become the new seat of imperial power in East India. Old Delhi had too much history to handle and was beyond conversion. So they thought of acquiring land outside the city limits, starting from Malcha and ending with Purana Qila. In between were the Raisina Hills. The original idea was to align Malcha with Jama Masjid in Old Delhi and Purana Qila, along with all those monuments that lay in between.

The Raisina Hills stood in between, and it was difficult to cut through them, so the Malcha idea was abandoned and the project was pushed towards the hills. Today, we see the erstwhile Government House, Viceregal House and today’s Rashtrapati Bhavan standing tall on the hills. Four main architects were involved in the making of New Delhi and other landmark buildings around it: Herbert Baker, Edwin Lutyens, Swinton Jacob and Robert Russel.

Swapna Liddle brings out the story and history behind each building and how they came to be called what they are. The garden city idea of the early twentieth century in Britain was effectively employed in Delhi; therefore, we have a good green cover today. Thanks to over-familiarity, we see most of these buildings and places as mundane, except on ceremonial days. But beneath them are old villages, different lifestyles, occupations and establishments.

New Delhi was an administrative city meant for the British and their native staff. The founders of the city did not know that World War II was going to change the complexion of the world, including that of New Delhi. People started migrating to the new city. As the population grew exponentially, they had to be accommodated. Then New Delhi started expanding, and, as we say today, ‘New’ Delhi is NCR, which includes parts of both Uttar Pradesh and Haryana.

A city with its sanitation plants in Defence Colony and Lajpat Nagar has today grown to a different dimension, with these places becoming upmarket real estate, pushing the new migrants further to the outskirts, which, in fact, are in other states. Delhi Dur Ast — Delhi is still afar — is true even now, but in a different sense. People in the NCR have started saying that they are ‘going to Delhi’ rather than going to the city because New Delhi has grown beyond its capacity.

In Swapna Liddle’s book, history enthusiasts can read and see how this city came into existence, through stories and anecdotes. I am sure that once you read this book, New Delhi is not going to be the same again in your eyes.

JohnyML

 

I am Warli by Sanjay Parhad

 

When Zahir Khan of Bikaner House Galleries sent me an invitation to attend the opening of Mein Warli Hun — “I am Warli” — by Sanjay Parhad, I did not know that it was an invitation to a wonderful world. I could not attend the opening of the show. Somehow, I felt that I needed to reach out to Zahir and tell him that I would definitely make it before it was over. Yesterday, the 28th of September, was the last day of the show, and I rushed to Bikaner House. I realised how poor I would have remained had I missed it.

Presented by Jas Karan Gupta of Indian Arts Corner and curated by Chaavi Jain, Sanjay Parhad’s exhibition was a great experience. Parhad’s works are made along the traditions and canons (if any) of Warli painting. Hailing from Palghar in Maharashtra, Parhad is an environmental and Adivasi rights activist and a farmer who works in the field every day. He learnt Warli painting from his grandmother. In these works, he portrays the world of the Warli philosophical system as well as the folk mythologies in which Mahadev and Gauri play a great role. Bagh Dev, the tiger god, also appears in many paintings, protecting the daily life of his people in the village.

Warli paintings move between a set grammar and a loose structure. The grammar comes out of mindless repetition, as Warli painters (and, in that case, all folk painters) are not trained “formally”. They learn through observation and repetitive practice from their elders. As they do not have a model of perfection (as in the case of the Greco-Roman models in the academies), they improvise without straying far from their internal ritualistic and normative practices. This gives Warli art a sort of grammar, but the loose structure is an outcome of the artistic imagination of those who are much more daring and have developed a personal approach to their cultural expressions and existence.

Parhad is an innovator without straying away from Warli traditions. But his fine imagination and polished craft make the general Warli style into something extremely sophisticated. While the stick figures with inverted triangles as their bodies and the employment of multiple perspectives are intact in Parhad’s paintings, he converts folk stories that he listened to in his childhood into complex visual narratives, with the same figure appearing several times in different spaces within the painting. It is like the hunting scenes in a Mughal miniature painting, where a tiger appears a few times as it is pursued and hunted down.

For instance, the curator of the exhibition, Chaavi Jain, explained the story of a smart rat whose tail was accidentally cut by a barber while removing a thorn stuck to it. This smart rat takes a pair of scissors as compensation from the barber and exchanges them with a basket weaver for a bamboo basket. Through a series of exchanges, this rat even gets a bride, then a drum, and finally meets his accidental death in a freakish fall from a tree. Hilarious — but what a wonderful way Parhad has painted it.

In one of the paintings, Parhad depicts Delhi, the city. We recognise the painting instantly because of the unmistakable presence of the monuments. The curator tells me that the artist paints people in pairs when he paints a city, but when he paints the stories of his village, he paints people in groups or in chains, symbolic of their mutual dependence or connected lives. So is the case with the flora and fauna in the villages. They also do not have a separate existence. There is a painting of a set of migratory birds coming in concentric circles and making the painting vibrate with the flapping of their wings.

Parhad, in his imagination and rendering, goes back and forth between the past, the present and the future. He paints the future of humans, where one can see the word “Danger” written large in a few places. Parhad prepares his pictorial surface using a rough cotton cloth smeared with cow-dung paste mixed with fine mitti, or soil. Rice flour is used for creating the white figures, and some areas are fine-tuned with acrylic paint, charcoal, lal mitti and ash. He uses a bamboo stylus and commercially available brushes to make his paintings.

A wonderful show. What I liked was the pleasant approach of the curator and the gallerist, who enthusiastically walked me through the show even after I told them that I could handle the works myself. But the curatorial explanations made all the difference. Great, and thank you.

JohnyML

In Search of Travancore’s Forgotten Craftsmen

In the 1970s, during our visits to Palkulangara in Trivandrum, where many of our relatives lived, I used to spend a lot of time in one of my maternal aunt's home, gazing at the wooden almirahs with glass doors that showcased many artistic wonders: gods, goddesses, elephants, and tigers fighting with snakes, exquisitely carved in ivory and wood. I craved them as toys, but only got some half-done miniature elephants in teak wood. My mother told me that my uncle had a business in carved ivory and wooden items.

When I was looking for a book titled The Forgotten Atelier by the Trivandrum-based young conservation architect Sharat Sunder Rajeev, I came across another book by him, about which I had never heard before. Titled The King's Craftsmen: History of the Ivory Carvers of Thiruvananthapuram, this book was published by the Kerala Council for Historical Research (KCHR) in 2016. I did not think for a moment before ordering it from Amazon because I thought I could get some leads into my childhood experiences, besides feeding my interest in art history.

I have to tell you this: a history book cannot be more of a page-turner than this one. Though the production quality is not as good as the other history tomes from established publishing houses, this 300-page book is laid out in the best way possible, making the complicated history of the ivory carvers of erstwhile Travancore eminently readable.

In Sharat, I found a great storyteller, like another young historian obsessed with the yesteryears of Travancore, Manu S. Pillai. As an aside, Manu has a love-hate relationship with the descendants of the former kingdom for his ruthless takes on the palace revolutions and conspiracies of the 19th century, while Sharat has been a darling of the palace and its current members. More interestingly, these two brilliant young historians collaborate whenever possible to walk into the nuances of the architecture, culture, and politics of Travancore. You may see their collaborations on YouTube.

The Viswakarmas functioned as guilds, and they were invited from the 18th century onwards from both the north and south of Travancore. Even before that, artisans from various guilds were making slow inroads into power centres where they could find patrons and material conditions that allowed their crafts to flourish and helped them eke out a sustainable livelihood. In Sharat's book, we find the northern influx into Attingal along with the adoption of princesses from Kolaswarupam, and the influx of southerners from various parts of present-day Tamil Nadu, such as Tanjore, Madurai, and Kanchipuram.

It is difficult to review the chronology of these craftspeople, mainly because there are several overlaps of patronage as well as guilds through locational shifts and marriages. There were also schisms between them based on their preferred language of communication. The northerners spoke Malayalam and the southerners Tamil. The latter felt they were better and the former felt they were superior, only to remain divided for a long time. But slowly, they started moving closer through work, guild participation, apprenticeship, patronage, business ventures, marriage, and even through legislation in the mid-20th century.

Through a thorough examination of palace documents, gazettes, and published as well as oral histories, Sharat narrates the social and material conditions that made the artisanal castes lose their early 'Brahmin-hood' and later regain it through patronage and proximity to the power centres. Material conditions determined the hierarchies from within, as the goldsmiths thought they were highly placed on the caste ladder compared to those who worked in wood, stone, and metal. But when ivory came onto the scene, we see the craftsmen crossing borders, employing their skills, reinvesting their talent, and altering and redeploying their tools for the new and expensive medium of ivory.

Sharat gives us a picture of ivory art in India and the origins of the ivory trade through various ports of India. By 1977, ivory works were banned and dealing in ivory became a punishable offence. Artisans migrated to various other mediums such as sandalwood and expensive and durable woods in general. They brought the same finesse of their ivory works into these alternative mediums and created wonderful works of art. When patronage weakened and the demand for oil paintings and portraiture increased with the advent of Raja Ravi Varma in Travancore, many erstwhile craftsmen became portrait painters, commercial artists, backdrop painters for film studios, cut-out artists for advertisements, and finally formal art directors.

What amused me was something that I read between the lines. Sharat studies the number of artisans working in ivory craft and their castes, and elaborates that there were craftspeople from other castes, both the high and lower castes, like the Ezhavas. But their numbers were very small. Sharat underlines how the Viswakarma and Ezhava were two castes that stood together, often lived in mutual proximity, and came together during times of distress. Ezhavas too entered ivory and craft practice and business as they apprenticed themselves under Viswakarma masters. But it is to be noted that the Viswakarma masters, who were the heads of guilds/kudis and had been reluctant to impart craft secrets and generational knowledge to other castes, started responding to the changing times and embraced artistically inclined youngsters from other communities to impart the craftsmanship.

Something interesting happened when Ravi Varma became prominent as an artist and the number of painters from other communities started increasing, especially in the Ravi Varma school/style of painting. The list that Sharat gives has mostly artists from the upper castes, especially from the Nair community. This happened mainly because they could get direct access to oil painting techniques, thanks to the proximity they had to the artists who constituted the inner circle of Ravi Varma's friends and disciples. With Ravi Varma leaving Travancore, as Visakham Tirunal showed scant respect for him, the upper-caste artists became prominent in Travancore. Definitely, they couldn't really outdo the Viswakarma painters in numbers or quality. Unfortunately, the former got documented and the latter got scattered beyond recovery. But I am sure Sharat has done his best to recover them from oblivion in his second book, which I am yet to read.

Trivandrum Fine Arts College is the last form of what started off as a Danta Appis (Dental Office or Office for Ivory Works). We see all the Viswakarma masters and craftsmen becoming the early gurus, guides, and teachers in this establishment, which grows into the Shri Moolam Shashtyabdi Memorial Institute, then a technical school, then the earlier form of an arts and crafts school, and finally the Fine Arts College. I find something that perhaps Sharat did not see in this evolution. In the mid-70s, ivory was banned in Kerala, and it was during the same time that the strike for upgrading the technical art and crafts school into a fine arts college started and eventually succeeded.

An eminently readable book for those who are interested in the general history of Travancore and the particular history of its art scene and the makers, movers, and shakers of it.

JohnyML

Contemporary Baroque and the Craft of Painting

A work of art makes a camera out of a human. It makes him move closer, farther away and around it to get a better grasp of the form, theme and technique that have been employed in creating it. Often, one moves through three different distances when there is a large painting on the wall. From far away, he gets an overall feel and narrative (if any) of the work. From the middle distance, he sees the volumes of the images and hints of textures. And from the close or closest ground, he can see the breadth, depth and variety of textures and techniques. This, in fact, changes a figurative/narrative painting into an absolute abstract.

Walking into the LTC Gallery of Bikaner House, where ‘Odyssey’, a solo exhibition of Poonam Bhatnagar, curated by Uma Nair, opened yesterday, in the first hall itself, from the above-mentioned third distance I saw the image of Lord Hanuman giving a head massage to a young girl/boy sitting on the ground. Frantically, I rambled through my knowledge of stories from the epics and found nothing to match the subject of the painting. I walked to the middle ground to take a better look and, lo, I saw that the monkey god, in his avuncular avatar, was not giving a head massage but blessing the young ascetic in the Indian way, by placing both hands on his/her head. I heaved a sigh of relief and apologized to my own self for making a humongous misinterpretation in the beginning.

Yes, art could deceive the viewer with its own craftiness, or the lack of it. Poonam Bhatnagar has a well-developed technique of using acrylic paints in various densities on the canvas in order to create the textural surface that, in turn, becomes the contributing unit of the intended narrative. Bhatnagar has been experimenting with this textured style for almost two decades, exhibiting less and working more, initially using the mehndi dispensing cone as her primary device to employ colour, later to be replaced with direct application from the tubes and other contraptions that she herself has developed for the purpose.

Together, these colours and textures make very visually ‘rich’ paintings, with an assortment of themes such as landscapes, imaginary scenes from the Mauryan period, the theme of enlightenment pivoting on Buddhist lore as symbolic representations, and Hindu mythological stories, besides having a set of sublime landscapes. As I said, they are visually rich and give away an impression of embroidery work done on silk, or perhaps that was my first impression, besides the misadventure with Hanuman ji. To put it in other words, it is a variety of paintings that shows craftswomanship more than painterly qualities. These paintings of Bhatnagar, in this sense, are well-crafted pictorial relief works made on well-primed and well-framed canvases.

Is it a negative judgement? Not at all, but it is a kind of painting where the textural build-up functions as pixels of a digital image. This laborious and time-taking working process needs patience and personal involvement from the artist, which, interestingly, hinders the practice of having studio assistants who could ‘fill in’ the gaps, take further the notations or develop the cues given by the artist. I do not think that Bhatnagar uses an assistant to make her works. Without making any effort to say whether having an assistant is a wrong practice and not having one is something commendable, I proceed to say that Bhatnagar’s works belong to a decorative category of painterly craft, which demands individual involvement, meditation and overall personal evolution.

Let me put this seemingly condescending view into perspective. Painting has, in a way, become a collective, contributory and collaborative process for many artists who use painting as a conceptual practice rather than an individual spiritual creative pursuit. But there are many other artists who are lone wolves of the genre and still hunt alone and howl alone in the moonlit nights of creativity. They do not allow any kind of collaboration or assistance from outside, though at times they use mechanical devices in executing the works. Such singular pursuits have now become a ‘craft’ or a protected practice whose secrets are never imparted through teaching or apprenticeship.

Bhatnagar belongs to this tribe of artists who pursue a lonely path. In the days of technological revolution such as ours, with the time given for Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) to take over human endeavours, and also at a time when moderation and slow pacing are demanded by the industry leaders who work on the same technology, the art practice of Bhatnagar and her ilk would slowly turn into a ‘craft’ that needs protection and preservation. This will be a dying form of art soon, like ivory carving. When AGI is able to do anything that a human does, art done by an individual artist will become a ‘rare’ product, even negligible in the context of AGI.

I could see Bhatnagar’s works as crafted paintings not just because of the AGI doomers’ attitude but also because she fails, in a way, to choose the right ‘subject’ for her paintings. This may sound a bit confusing because she has chosen, to the best of her understanding, a range of topics that have been the flavour of the time for the last fifteen years or so. She de-historicizes history by making it look beautiful and without any conflict, like a straw painting, but preciously executed with a smattering of gold and silver colours and all the possible colours of precious stones.

Bhatnagar neutralizes the historical conflicts that have existed between Hindu mythologies and Buddhist ideas since ages and flattens them under the general aspect of personal spirituality. That clearly shows that the artist is like a craftsperson without any inclination towards the political or historical understanding of the times in which her art is produced. She repeats the craft of relief painting that she has successfully created for her purpose in subjects that have different historical and political quotients. When that is overlooked, these works become ‘beautiful’ and ‘interesting’ and ‘fabulous’ paintings, which we, the art historians, call contemporary baroque.

One word to the curator. A curator is never a compere or an anchor of an exhibition opening that she curates. She should stick to her brief, as in explaining her curatorial take on the works and a little bit about her personal affinities with the artist in question and her works of art. When a curator like Uma Nair goes into compere mode, the artists who commission curators will think that compering is a part of curating, which obviously is not. Curators should not become comperes and programme anchors. Even if they do, they should limit it to the generic, ‘Welcome to the dignitaries... and when I chose to curate this artist...’

JohnyML

‘Vision & Landscape: Aquatints of India’ by Thomas and William Daniell

 

Yesterday I visited ‘Vision & Landscape: Aquatints of India’ by Thomas and William Daniell, the uncle-and-nephew duo who travelled across India between 1786 and 1793. Presented by DAG at the Ballroom of Bikaner House, the exhibition brings together 144 aquatints developed from the paintings, drawings and watercolours they made during their travels.

The makeshift gallery space has been spruced up adequately with lights and panels, and the display is elegant and erudite. My only problem was with the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—part of the heritage paraphernalia of Bikaner House—which shed more light than necessary and made photography rather difficult because of the reflections on the glass. Now, is it a problem of the glass frames or a problem of the chandeliers? Either way, it is a minor distraction from an otherwise excellent show.

Calcutta was the capital of British India at the time, and itinerant artists generally arrived there first before undertaking journeys into the rest of the country, often with a retinue of servants, elephants and soldiers.

Travel was slow and arduous. Emile Eden, who came to India almost half a century after the Daniells, noted in letters to her sister in London that their maximum mileage in a day was around twenty miles—and that too if they started before sunrise. Depending on the terrain, the journey could involve boats, palanquins, elephants, horses and walking, with the day divided into schedules to avoid the intense noon heat.

The Daniells followed a similarly demanding route: from Calcutta through the northern plains, Bihar, Delhi, present-day Uttar Pradesh and Himachal, and then west and south through the Maratha, Mysore and Madras presidencies.

What emerged from these journeys is an extraordinary visual record of late-18th-century India.

The 144 aquatints in this exhibition were laboriously and meticulously developed from the paintings, drawings and watercolours the Daniells produced on their travels. Their subjects range from monuments, temples—often described by them as ‘pagodas’—and forts to administrative buildings, Mughal landmarks and medieval architectural remains.

The Daniells had an eye for detail. They did not merely record what was architecturally or aesthetically impressive. Their works contain information that is topographical, historical, military and demographic. Soldiers who accompanied them for protection appear in some works, as do the labourers who carried their equipment.

There are also wonderfully self-reflexive moments. At Ellora and Elephanta, for instance, one can see one of the Daniells making an on-the-spot drawing while the other depicts the scene from another vantage point. The act of looking, recording and representing becomes part of the image itself.

But the detail that stayed with me most is from Mahabalipuram in Tamil Nadu.

The magnificent rock-cut panel depicting Bhagiratha’s penance to bring the Ganges down from the heavens contains, almost inconspicuously in one corner, a cat imitating the penance of the sage.

And the Daniells noticed it.

That tiny cat is perhaps a perfect reminder of what makes these works so fascinating. They were looking at monuments, landscapes and histories, but they were also attentive to the little things that made those places alive.

If you are interested in history, architecture, art, travel and India’s topography in the late 18th century, this is a show worth spending time with.

‘Vision & Landscape: Aquatints of India’ — Thomas and William Daniell

DAG, Ballroom, Bikaner House

JohnyML