‘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

The Grammar of a Life: Kanchan Chander’s Artistic Journey

 

“When you come, remind me to give you a copy of the book,” Kanchan Chander said while chatting on WhatsApp. She was inviting me to her solo exhibition, The Grammar of the Self, presented by Gallery Ragini and curated by Kishore Singh at the LTC Gallery, Bikaner House, New Delhi. As usual, the devil in me typed the answer: “When you see me in the gallery, please remember that you are supposed to give me a copy of your book.”

A pause. Then came the answer: “I am seventy. Sometimes I forget. I want you to have the book.”

Kanchan Chander, seventy years old—my God, I thought. I have seen artists whom I met in their prime turn grey, then white and fragile. Then I realise that I, too, am growing older. I couldn’t believe that she had turned seventy, or was about to, because when I met her for the first time, thirty-one years ago, she already had grey hair and a mature way of conducting herself in the art scene.

Kanchan has been around in the art scene for nearly half a century, it seems. She entered the art world from East Germany, where her diplomat father was posted. During the Emergency in 1975, as a young girl, she joined the Delhi College of Art. Soon after, her father was posted to Chile, which took her to Santiago University, where she pursued art studies for three years before returning to Delhi and graduating. A scholarship took her to Paris, where, at the École des Beaux-Arts, Kanchan studied printmaking and got married. The marriage did not last. She brought up her son, Palav Chander, himself an artist of some repute in the art scene.

Nobody leaves the gallery without asking, “Where were these works, Kanchan?” And she has a stock answer for all: “In the drawers, safely stashed away, only to be found now.”

For many, like me, Kanchan is an artist who makes “torsos” in various forms, formats and mediums. It has exasperated many, and when she switched to the sequined immortals, such as Madhubala and Marilyn Monroe, art lovers felt good. I think the reason was that nobody knew the trajectory of her artistic development. Many thought that she drew those torsos because she did not know how to draw.

Anyone who speaks conceptually, especially after the success of the Raqs Media Collective, is often met with the assumption that “yeh banda ko drawing nahi aata” (“This guy does not know how to draw”). When Kanchan explained her torsos with some inclination towards feminist theories, as she was keeping company with some firebrands in the genre, we all thought perhaps theories would help her eventually, the way Nalini Malani or Zarina Hashmi were “saved”, despite our lack of visual information regarding their formative years and exhaustive drawing experiences.

With The Grammar of the Self, we encounter a different Kanchan, whose open-ended torsos now fall into place as we see the archival material drawn from her stock of early drawings, prints, paintings and printmaking matrices. All of this is exhibited in one “look back in fondness” exhibition, given an appropriate curatorial shape by Kishore Singh.

Perhaps the exhibition should be called The Autobiography of the Self, but then anything said about the self is autobiography. So the alteration does not stand, but the meaning of the intent does. The show as a whole provides the topographies of aesthetics and craft that the artist has travelled through over the last fifty years.

From the earliest drawings of family members to the self-portraits of sudden self-awareness, one could understand how the young artist knew she was worthy of her chosen vocation. The more she drew, the more she archived. Tragedies, personal and familial, altered her images but never her focus. She found a special camaraderie with her mother, which she expressed through drawings and etchings. After her brother’s accidental death, her father became a loner, and she witnessed his weariness and pain through her works. She held on to these works for a long time for us to see, and they are now part of the exhibition.

Chance encounters with Bhuta Aradhana of the tribals at an exhibition held at the Delhi Crafts Museum brought a different thrust to her work, as she began experimenting with raw divinities in their frontal forms. Before that, her Parisian experiences had turned her into a caricaturist of sorts, transforming faces into noses growing out of faces and frames, giving them a comic, phallic presence. For her, these were symbols of nosey people and also of those who keep their noses up in the air to show their superiority. But autobiographically, it was also a take on the nose of her own spouse.

Kanchan painted and printed loneliness in the way Käthe Kollwitz had done. Her ideal in the beginning was Henry Moore, whose voluptuous sculptures found resonances in the bodies familiar to her. The motherliness of a round body and the genetic transference of the same to her may also have indirectly led her to portray her protagonists as well-endowed women, but drowned in sorrow and loneliness.

That does not mean that Kanchan has portrayed only sad women and men. After a certain stage, she moved from the representational aspects to the techniques of representation in various graphic mediums, which she has perfected, as the works in the exhibition demonstrate.

There is a conscious avoidance of the torso series, though an experimental row of works is presented, in which the female body turns into a horse-like torso, with suggestions of a spine—something that reminds one of the works of Atul Dodiya.

The exhibition is accompanied by a book, mentioned at the outset, which includes an interview with Kanchan by the curator himself, apart from his introductory curatorial essay, recognisably carved out of the interview. Senior artist Waswo has written about the lonely female figures, while Lina Vincent has detailed the techniques Kanchan has used in her works. There is also an article titled “Body as Archive” by Anita Jung.

The show closes on 18 September.

JohnyML

Chronicles of the Unseen: Labour, Rust and Vanishing Worlds

 

After an overdose of familiar modernism at the overground galleries of Triveni Complex, I always prefer to have an antidote at the Art Heritage Gallery in the basement, where good shows are often showcased with less glamour and glitter. The latest one, which opened yesterday (where I was an accidental visitor, as I generally avoid openings), is by Avijit Dutta, a young artist from Howrah, Kolkata, with a to-the-face title, Chronicles of (Un)seen Labour(er).

Avijit is a confident young artist whose style reminds the viewer of Mexican murals, a bit of Sudhir Patwardhan and, more so, Vikrant Bhise, the Jai-Bheem-themed-fame artist who prefers to wear upper-class linens and paints in Ambedkarite blues—very close to the sartorial philosophy of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, who retorted to the skeptics with the jibe, “Mr. Gandhi had clothes to shed, my community didn’t have anything.”

Hailing from Howrah, known as the Sheffield of the East during the colonial years, Avijit takes the din of this hub of small-scale industries, where working-class men and women are mired in dust, dirt and sweat. He paints them on paper using locally available materials such as iron dust, brick powder and local mitti (soil), all amply laid on a surface carefully created with acrylic colours. He creates grids with iron dust, showing a rusting landscape and the general dilapidation of hopes. But people still work on these sites, oblivious to the changes taking place all over the world, without even thinking once that they may be rendered redundant in the coming days of technological innovations that would replace them with skilful bots.

Generally, we do not see the milling workers who walk among us, as we are also busy in our own worlds of reels, news, untruths, half-truths, desperations, pains and ambitions. Draped in rag-like scrubs, their existence is so marginalised that even their body odour is no longer felt. In the shrinking locales of small-scale industries, these men and women toil day in and day out, only to eke out a meagre living and endure long-lasting ailments. But Avijit sees them, chronicles their unsung sagas and gives them the dignity of existence through his works.

The choice of paper as his pictorial surface should be much thought about, I should say. There are chances of these works getting oxidised because of the ferric pigment that he amply uses to build the images. It may be a subconscious decision to make the works performative in nature and with nature, through slow deterioration. But the curator assures us that they are well layered with chemical varnish treatment to preserve their initial quality and ensure long-term endurance.

The animals and humans are shown as animated characters, with their limbs in motion through multiple representations, as in a playful take on cubism and kinesthesis-ism, giving them “life” amidst hardships. Avijit must also be thinking about the multi-limbed goddess Durga, made in various parts of Kolkata (primarily in Kumartuli) and displayed, all decked up fabulously, during the Durga Puja days. He transmogrifies the lowly humans into divinities who could perform the impossible in the direst of times.

All these characters of Avijit are seen hoodwinked by a plastic bag called Thonga. It is a sort of autobiographical reference because his father mass-produces these plastic bags for local use and local import. When the heads are not covered with these plastic bags, Avijit deliberately obfuscates the eyes of the protagonists in order to protect their individuality, which otherwise seems insignificant in the eyes of the people around them.

Avijit creates his works amidst the din of these unseen and unsung small-scale industries, which would soon be replaced by sophisticated machinery and robotic workforces. In every industry, there is always a clarion call for upskilling of labourers, but we all forget the fact that there are several skills that have become second nature to many workers through prolonged years of working—skills that cannot simply be upskilled or downskilled.

Caught in the limbo of tumultuous technological changes, these workers would slowly become like floppy disks, handcarts and man-pulled rickshaws. If not in the near future, then in the distant one, perhaps these chronicles will remain only in Avijit’s works.

A show worthy of your weekend outings.

JohnyML

The Many Lives of Cubbon Park

 

“When someone has a few hours in hand before their flight, they call me to have a walkthrough at Lalbagh, and I oblige. It has become a routine now,” says Suresh Jayaram, a well-known art historian and the botanical historian and chronicler of Bengaluru. Suresh wears many hats; he is an art and culture columnist, a crusader for environmental protection and, above all, the founder-director of 1ShantiRoad, a famous address in the Indian art scene, which is at once an idea lab, residency and exhibition space.

Cubbon Park: Citizens’ Perspectives and Many Visions for the Future is Suresh’s second outing with Bengaluru’s botanical gardens as its central theme. He published a book on Lalbagh, Bangalore’s Lalbagh: A Chronicle of the Garden and the City, in 2021. If that book was about the botanical variety of Lalbagh and its history, the present book on Cubbon Park is built around conversations he had with twenty-six Bengaluru citizens, including a gardener, whose lives have been intertwined with Cubbon Park, hailed as one of the lungs of the Silicon Valley of the South.

Suresh comes from a family with a horticultural tradition. He imbibed stories about Bengaluru’s flora from the stories told by his grandmother, and when he established 1ShantiRoad after his art history studies in Baroda, he became a regular at Lalbagh, befriending other regular morning walkers, joggers, officials, gardeners, lovers and many others. He did not know when he had turned himself into a self-assigned tour guide of Lalbagh. “It happened when people from all over the world and India started coming to 1ShantiRoad. I took them to Lalbagh for morning walks and started telling them about the botanical life and history of the park. Sooner than later, I became an ‘unofficial’ storyteller of the park,” Suresh smiles.

Cubbon Park is a different story, rather more conscious, politically oriented and socially concerned. Established by the British in an undulating stretch full of bamboo groves and water bodies, the history of Cubbon Park goes back more than three centuries. Slowly and steadily, institutions of governance such as courts, assembly halls, hospitals, colleges and roads grew in and around it, each time the park adjusting to the demands of a growing city, in effect collapsing the ecological balance.

According to Suresh, as he reveals in this book, Cubbon Park has been a haven for those socially ostracised for their sexual orientations, as well as for sex workers, destitute people, beggars, tired people, loners, protesters, students, lovers, reel makers, joggers, morning walkers, yoga practitioners, amateur photographers, art students, theatre artists, poets, hawkers and dreamers. One could always see a cross-section of Bengaluru’s urban demography at Cubbon Park.

Things have been changing for many years now. Governments have been making demands on the park’s land, initially by restricting human activities and later through forced constructions. Suresh sketches out how this park has been abused through constant surveillance and restrictive measures. He highlights these issues through twenty-five interviews and shows how each interview has contributed towards the protection of the ‘rights of Cubbon Park’ as a people’s park.

While reading the views of Arvind Narrain, Madhu Bhushan & Shakun Doundiyakhed, Ekta Mital & Angarika G, Dilip Da Cunha, Sheela Gowda, Viswanath Srikanth, Akkai Padmashali, Leo Saldana, Pushpamala N, Vijay Thiruvady, Sneha Visakha, Suneetha Kumar, Nanjappa, Kavitha Krishnamoorthy, Rachel Lee, S Umesh Kumar, Oman Eappen, Surekha Sharada, Naresh Narasimhan, Jasmeen Patheja, Bimal Desai, Janaki Nair, Chiranjiv Singh, Indu & Gautham Krishnan, Priya Chetty and Ankit Bhargava, we come to know that a park is not just a park but a microcosm of the world, with varying issues that need urgent addressal with concern and care.

This book is a must-read for those who love their ‘parks and gardens’ and protected greenery. This book is also a must-read for the Chief Minister of Kerala, Mr. V. D. Satheesan, who has taken a decision to relocate the historic Trivandrum Zoo from its present location to a remote river shore.

JohnyML

Art Travels Before Time: Bhupen Khakhar and Salman Rushdie's Portrait

(The Moor by Bhupen Khakhar)

Recently, while watching Margaret Hoover’s Firing Line interview with Salman Rushdie, I was struck by something that had little to do, at first sight, with what Rushdie was saying. He spoke at length about Knife, the film and book dealing with the 2022 assassination attempt on his life, and also about the continuing tragedy of Israel and Palestine. But what held my attention was the camera angle.

Rushdie was shown in three-quarter profile. His damaged right eye was covered by a tinted lens, while his good left eye appeared behind an ordinary transparent lens. The effect was strangely theatrical. For a moment, he looked almost comically like a pirate. Yet that dark piece of glass was impossible to ignore. It became a constant visual reminder of the stabbing in 2022, of the eye he lost, and of the violence that had permanently altered his face.

And suddenly I thought of Bhupen Khakhar.

Khakhar, a close friend of Rushdie, painted the celebrated portrait Salman Rushdie (‘The Moor’) in 1995, around the time of the publication of Rushdie’s The Moor’s Last Sigh. The painting is now part of the collection of the National Portrait Gallery in London. What struck me, looking back at it after seeing Rushdie on television, was the extraordinary prominence—and disappearance—of the right eye.

Khakhar paints Rushdie in left profile, almost like a Mughal prince. His body is frontal enough to give the painting presence, but his face is turned decisively to the left. He holds an obscure object in his right hand, folded across his chest, while wearing a waistcoat. The profile is conventional, almost courtly. The right eye is completely invisible.

At the time Khakhar painted it, this was simply a formal decision. But after the events of 2022, the absence acquires an uncanny charge.

Khakhar was perfectly capable of painting frontal faces. His paintings often contain eccentric, theatrical and deliberately constructed characters. In this work too, there is a peculiar figure on the right, almost clerical in appearance, holding a cat on a leash. The image has the absurdity characteristic of Khakhar: an animal as famously headstrong as a cat being subjected to the indignity of a leash. One could read the scene as a comic meditation on authority, discipline and religious power. The absurdity of attempting to control a cat has its own strange resonance when placed against the extraordinary attempt to control Rushdie's life through a religious decree.

But Khakhar hides something more in the painting.

On the right side, there is an artist apparently working on a portrait of Rushdie. We see the sitter in right profile on the small canvas. And here, too, the eye becomes interesting. From the distance at which the little painting is represented, the eye appears almost like a dark slit.

This creates a curious doubling. The large Rushdie in the centre is apparently the sitter, while the small Rushdie on the canvas is the portrait being made by the artist within the painting. The painting therefore becomes a meditation on the act of portraiture itself—a portrait containing another portrait, and a sitter who is simultaneously present and represented.

Art history has given us many such games of representation. Vermeer, Velázquez and Rembrandt, among others, repeatedly complicated the relationship between the person being represented, the artist making the representation and the viewer looking at both. Khakhar's device belongs to this larger history, but his version is unmistakably his own: theatrical, ironic and slightly unsettling.

What fascinates me is what happens to that little eye after 2022.

Was Khakhar unknowingly prophetic?

Of course, he could not have known that Rushdie would one day be attacked and lose his right eye. To claim otherwise would be to turn coincidence into clairvoyance. But perhaps a work of art can become prophetic without its artist having predicted anything. Perhaps prophecy can occur retrospectively.

The painting has not changed. Our knowledge has.

Before the attack, the invisible right eye was simply a consequence of profile. After the attack, that same absence becomes loaded with an entirely different meaning. We look at the painting knowing something that Khakhar could never have known. The old image begins to absorb the future.

This is what fascinates me about art. It sometimes seems to travel before time. It leaves behind forms and signs whose significance may not become apparent until history catches up with them.

Rushdie's own Knife, his autobiographical account of the attack, makes this connection even more uncanny. The book's visual language of the slit and incision recalls the brutal physical wound inflicted on his body. One cannot look at a slit in a painted surface after such an event without thinking of the vulnerability of the body beneath the surface.

This brings to mind Lucio Fontana, whose famous Concetto Spaziale paintings were violently cut and slashed. Fontana's cuts are not merely representations of wounds; they are actual wounds inflicted upon the canvas. The surface is opened. The painting becomes a body that has been violated.

Rushdie's damaged eye and Fontana's slashed canvas belong, of course, to completely different histories. Yet the visual metaphor is difficult to resist: the slit as wound, the wound as image, the image as a record of violence.

And this is where Khakhar's portrait becomes unexpectedly disturbing.

In 1995, the invisible eye was merely an invisible eye. In 2022, it became something else. We can now look backward and see in that absence a strange prefiguration of the damaged face Rushdie would eventually carry into the world.

Perhaps that is one of the mysteries of portraiture. A portrait does not merely preserve a person at a particular moment. It also preserves possibilities of looking that may not yet have occurred. The future can enter an old image without ever having been placed there by the artist.

The camera on Firing Line did something similar. By placing Rushdie in three-quarter profile, with one eye behind a dark lens and the other visible, it unintentionally produced a living counterpart to Khakhar's painted figure. The television image seemed to complete something that had been left unresolved in the painting decades earlier.

For a moment, the two Rushdies—one painted in 1995, one sitting before a television camera in 2026—seemed to look at each other across time.

The painter could not have foreseen the knife.

But perhaps art does not have to foresee the future to travel into it.

Sometimes we are forced to think.

Art travels before time.

JohnyML

 

Lady in Blue: Time to Celebrate and Ask a Few Questions

 (Tschabalala Self with her Lady in Blue)

Lady in Blue, a sculpture by Tschabalala Self installed on the fourth plinth of Trafalgar Square in London, has caught the imagination of the cultural world. She is a woman who breaks conventions simply by standing there. She is Black, she is plump, and she carries her body and her dress with complete confidence. Her stride is firm, her posture upright, her head held high. There is neither apology nor hesitation in her presence. According to the artist, the blue lady is stepping into the future, exercising her free will and professionalism.

Perhaps that is precisely what makes her presence on the fourth plinth so significant. Black women have so often been represented in subordinate positions: as workers, servants, objects of desire, or bodies upon which other people's ideas of race and gender are projected. Even in societies that speak endlessly about the dignity of labour, certain kinds of bodies and certain kinds of labour continue to be assigned lesser dignity. The body remains political, and complexion remains an uncomfortable currency.

In the Western world, colour has mattered for centuries. Even feminism has not escaped the fractures produced by race, class, body, and beauty. The supposedly universal woman has rarely been universal. She has usually had a particular colour, a particular body, a particular class position, and a particular relationship to beauty.

The Lady in Blue disrupts that order.

She stands on the plinth as if she has already arrived from the future. Her body is not asking permission to exist. Her clothes are not an apology for her size. Her stride suggests movement, ambition, and self-determination. She becomes a figure to whom others literally have to look up. And behind her, almost ironically, stands the colonial paraphernalia of history, reminding us of the structures that once decided whose bodies could occupy the centre and whose bodies had to remain at the margins.

There is, of course, a larger cultural movement behind this image. Representation has been changing, sometimes slowly and sometimes with startling speed. Christopher Nolan's recent portrayal of Helen of Troy as a Black woman is one example of how even ancient cultural icons can be reimagined through contemporary questions of race. Ryan Coogler's Black Panther offered another kind of rupture, placing an almost entirely Black cast at the centre of a global cinematic spectacle. The possibility of a Black James Bond has been debated for years. In television, popular culture, and politics, Black figures have moved increasingly into positions of visibility and influence, from Oprah Winfrey and Michelle Obama to Kamala Harris.

Blackness is no longer something the cultural mainstream can conveniently place at the margins and forget.

Even in a caste-ridden society like India, the aesthetics of Dalit existence have increasingly entered public discourse. The old hierarchies of beauty, purity, and cultural legitimacy are being questioned. Brahmanical ideas of whiteness, refinement, and superiority are encountering bodies and voices that refuse to remain invisible.

But what exactly is changing?

Is this a genuine transformation, or merely a sophisticated form of tokenism? When the attention is concentrated on the sculpture, the artist, the spectacle of representation, where do the deeper questions go? Is the West's social, political, cultural, and economic life mature enough to recognise Black existence not merely as a category of representation, but as an equal and constitutive part of the world?

Perhaps one thing has already changed: Black existence has become undeniable.

The elephant in the room is no longer something that can be politely ignored. It has acquired a body, a colour, a voice, and a place on the plinth. One has to address it. One has to negotiate with it.

Self's sculpture, however, does not feel tokenistic to me. It does something more complicated. It offers an image of possibility to women across racial boundaries. The Lady in Blue is not simply a Black woman being inserted into an established system of representation; she seems to question the system itself.

That is where the sculpture becomes particularly interesting.

Her body confronts the enormous machinery of the contemporary beauty industry: the multi-billion-dollar fashion business and its many satellites—cosmetics, healthcare, fitness, weight loss, body enhancement, beauty care, and the countless industries that teach us how a body ought to look. For decades, these industries have produced and circulated a narrow vocabulary of desirable bodies. Thinness, youth, symmetry, whiteness, smoothness, sexual availability, and discipline have been turned into commodities.

The Lady in Blue refuses to speak that language.

Her presence creates another vocabulary of beauty. She does not necessarily overthrow the existing system, but she rearranges its furniture. She makes it possible to imagine that beauty can inhabit another body, another colour, another scale, another posture.

She is not the demure, docile, complacent white woman of conventional representation. Nor is she the hypersexualised Black woman, the predator, the supposedly uncontrollable body, the stereotype that has so often accompanied the representation of Black female sexuality. She is neither saint nor seductress, neither victim nor object.

She is simply a character in herself.

And that may be her greatest act of rebellion.

She throws conventions to the wind and walks, almost whistling, towards a destiny she appears capable of creating for herself.

Yet there is another question lurking behind that confident stride.

What kind of future is she actually walking into?

We are entering a period in which artificial intelligence is beginning to challenge the very idea of human labour, intelligence, creativity, and professional identity. Industry leaders such as Elon Musk and Sam Altman, along with futurists and doomsday prophets of various kinds, have repeatedly speculated about the arrival of artificial general intelligence within the coming years. If machines eventually perform not only manual labour but intellectual, artistic, administrative, and even creative work, what happens to all our carefully constructed identities?

What happens to the professional woman?

What happens to the Black woman?

What happens to the white woman?

What happens to the human body itself when intelligence no longer needs a body?

Perhaps this is where the Lady in Blue becomes more than a sculpture about race, gender, or beauty. She becomes an image of the human being insisting on her presence at the very moment when the definition of the human is beginning to change.

She stands there, high above the square, surrounded by the monuments of empire and the traffic of contemporary civilisation. She is Black. She is large. She is confident. She is moving forward.

But forward into what?

Perhaps that is the question the sculpture leaves us with.

Not simply who gets to stand on the plinth today, but who will still be standing when the future arrives.

JohnyML

Collecting Baroda: Freedom, Form and the Making of a History

'Freedom to Form - Baroda Modern' at DAG, New Delhi, is an enthusiastic survey show of the 'Baroda School' of art, mainly culled from the vast collection of DAG itself. From N S Bendre to Rekha Rodwittiya and all those artists falling in between, one could see this exhibition not only as a cross-section of the kind of art that Baroda had produced during its formative years through to the maturing years of the 1980s, but also as evidence of the collector's taste, here, in the case of DAG, that of Mr. Ashish Anand.

When it comes to exclusive collections from one particular region, one cannot expect that the collector had meticulously collected the works during the times of their production/creation. A collector and a collection always work from the middle or end and then work in reverse order. He or she must have collected some interesting works in the 1980s, and that gives the prompt and inspiration to collect backwards. Hence, whether the collection be that of DAG or KNMA, one could see the collector's intention to connect the dots rather than to create a linear history. Definitely, armed with money and consultants, a good collector could work in a reverse fashion and comb other collections in order to fill in the blanks. In a sense, we see this 'collectorial' approach in this DAG exhibition.

An acrylic work of N N Rimzon, who had passed out from Baroda during the mid-80s, stands out in its subdued greenish graphic lines that together make three different landscapes with architectural suggestions that had defined the caste-regimented society of Kerala or India. This is comparatively a new work compared to the other works, such as the paintings of Vivan Sundaram from his 'narrative' period, something that he had discarded towards the end of the 80s to start off a journey of conceptual installations.

A silk scroll by the late Mrinalini Mukherjee seems to be a revelation, as she is often identified with her iconic Mother Goddess installations using hemp as the medium. One of the early feminists who chain-smoked her way to an assertive aesthetic, here she is seen at her playful best as she poses herself as a skimpily clad vamp, an innocent village belle whose curves are seen through her wet clothes - a take on the stereotypes of feminine representation. To complement this work, one could see two paintings from the next-generation artist Rekha Rodwittiya, depicting an iconic young woman ready to take on the world, boldly returning the gaze.

G R Santhosh is famous for his Neo-Tantric works, but he definitely had a narrative expressionist phase where he painted perhaps like Husain. There are Shanti Dave's works that we need the labels to identify, as many have not seen those works from those early days of his artistic journey. If you want to revel in eroticism, you just need to look at the works of Laxma Goud, the ace printmaker, sculptor and painter. In his works, the open vulvas and erect penises are abundant, as if the world is doing nothing but fornication. But when thinking of it, one could say that they were young and sex was in the air (perhaps only in the air, and painting it was one way of appeasing the hunger for it), and one couldn't have escaped depicting it.

The much-maligned artist, Latika Katt, seems to be getting her respect due posthumously, as in at least three shows currently in Delhi, her works are being exhibited. In DAG, there are a few paper-pulp casts of Katt, which tell us that she was one who walked ahead of her times. There are portraits and self-portraits of Himmat Shah, and interestingly, one could see a self-portrait in bronze, complete with the miniatures of his own works (abstract heads) flanking the bust. Jyoti Bhatt's prints are now abundant in the art market, but in this exhibition there are a few works that were done during the early days of his career.

This is a worth-visiting show for the historical nuances it carries; however, it has the collector's whims as the organising thread rather than the pursuance of a critical history, as it is internally curated with no acknowledgement of the experts involved in making the show. But this deficiency is compensated through a well-produced volume which has well-researched essays by scholars from different parts of the world. In the case of scholarship, the motto has always been the whiter the better. However, it must bring a whiff of fresh air, as the DAG productions had been literally written single-handedly in the previous years. DAG volumes always have a high production quality, and the price is also sky-high. Perhaps, that is one way of controlling knowledge from going all over and, in the process, getting vulgarised. That is a debatable issue, though.

JohnyML