Art: An open space for ideas

Art can be an exciting idea, not something one physically owns.  This is the spirit that drives the newly-opened Gallery SKE in Bangalore.

(This article was originally published in October 2003)

 

A shrinking community: Mahendra Sinh portrays the Parsi.

IF YOU'RE art-alienated, it's time to take a look at the new Gallery SKE, launched on October 18, an open space for ideas that could redefine Bangalore gallery trends. 

The brainchild of Sunitha Kumar Emmart, who earlier managed Sakshi Gallery, the space takes its name from her initials. Its contemporary, globally-styled area, bamboo greened beyond sheet glass, boasts of supporting wall text. The gallery opened with Mumbai-based Mahendra Sinh's black-and-white Parsi photographs that grow beyond documentation to lyrical insights.

"I learnt so much from the energy and experience of Sakshi's Geetha Mehra," says Sunitha, who'll be shuttling between Bangalore and the U.S. because that's where her American husband, Niall Emmart, runs a software company. "But while visiting private galleries in New York and London, I admired their strong, exclusive commitment to select artists."

So, Sunitha opted to focus on three artists whose work she had a gut feeling for — photographer Sinh, and Bangalore artists Krishnaraj Chonat, and Avinash Veeraraghavan. "When I moved to New York, I knew I wanted to be involved in Indian art, but I didn't know in what way. I needed a back-up space here," adds Sunitha.

Gallery SKE opens at a time when art as commerce governs media matters, when installation and innovation are replacing oil on canvas and standard sculpture, when art is defined by ideas, not conventions. "I admire Mahen for being such a stickler for detail, from the Ilford paper he prints on to the pasta he makes at home," Sunitha recalls. "He's taught me so much about photography."

What shaped her stance? "The commodification of art bothers me. With the lack of public spaces and museums here, I feel it's important for artists to have a dialogue with other people," Sunitha says. "Ten years down the line, I have a vision that younger people might want to support art, perhaps by lending transport to an international artists' camp like Khoj."

 

In a society that bypasses visual culture in daily life, how would Gallery SKE bring this about? By creating cross-strata children's workshops that unfold the secrets of colour or famous art. By staying open on Sundays, so that senior citizens can join their families en route to dinner or other destinations. By inviting the corporate sector to send its young employees to expand their art horizons. By enthusing schools to share a show, despite exam-centric pressures. By throwing open the gallery's collection of books/catalogues to art students. By organising artist juries to help young talent present work impeccably. Perhaps, even by training teenagers to curate their own virtual art shows, an idea Sunitha encountered at the PS One site, affiliated to New York's famed Museum of Modern Art (MOMA).

As a first step, Sunitha is planning 16-week annual educational modules, perhaps Sinh introducing the work of various photographers. "Art could be an exciting idea, not something you own in a physical sense," she stresses. "I joined the Young Collector's Council at New York's Guggenheim Museum. You're invited to their openings, after which the artist lectures on his/ her body of work. They even recommend books to follow up on a show."

Sunitha sketches in her approach to catalogues. Sinh's show engages us through poet-critic Ranjit Hoskote's essay, dramaturge Rustam Bharucha's response, and the photographer's own perceptions. 

In the future, she hopes to coax Canada-based novelist Rohinton Mistry to write the text for an expanded book of Sinh's Parsi visuals.

"I don't see myself as a curator, but I can identify people's potential. My skill lies in bringing talent together. I'm just the facilitator," concludes Sunitha, dreaming aloud for Gallery SKE. "People should be free to fix a time to come and discuss their ideas, whether they are finally formalized or not." 

(This article was originally published in The Hindu Metroplus, Bangalore, on October 27, 2003)

Issues: Putting exams to the test

(I wrote this in 2002)

When Manish and Harish, both class III students from Delhi, fled to Bangalore by train recently, they dramatically spotlighted the most debated aspect of the Indian education system — examinations. Can apprehension of final assessment drive two nine-year-olds to flee their homes and the safety of the familiar? Apparently, yes. For, to them, the unknown loomed as a lesser fear than the horror of examinations.

To what extent can examinations traumatise children? Dr. Brinda Amritraj, a clinical psychologist, shares the case of an exceptional standard X student, on whose shoulders the dreams of her parents and teachers rested. Faced with the preparatory exams, she suffered a panic attack and blanked out. "To think a child like that could not perform!" observes Brinda. "She felt: `I can't bear it that I have come down in my own eyes.' That's difficult. If it's only a question of others' expectations, it's easier to allocate the blame."

Through Zeitgeist (that is German for the `spirit of the times'), Dr. Brinda has been enhancing the realisation of individual potential for years. She adds: "Yet, in some ways, the pressures of our system enhance productivity and teach survival skills. Almost all children who go abroad from India are classified as gifted students. It's only when they come back that they have problems settling in."

The impact of this testing device on tender psyches emerges from conversations with a range of City-based schoolgoers, most currently in the throes of exam fever. "I like exams because I get to remember what I have learnt so far,'' says Tara Kumar, a fourth standard student of the Sacred Hearts Girls' Primary School, whose favourite subjects are Arithmetic, Moral Science, and Grammar. ''The only time I dislike an exam is when it is tough or boring." Her sister, Aditi, who's 11, seconds that with, "I don't mind exams. They are fine, but basically I don't like studying."

Prateeti Prasad, 14, of Vidya Niketan, has been subjected to exams since class V. "Why do they have exams just once a year, instead of seeing how we have done the whole year? We have only 20 marks for internal assessment, but 80 for the exams," she says.

Ten-year-old Akash Sharma, who topped the national-level under-10 chess tournament at Sangli, studies at the Kendriya Vidyalaya. He feels: "Exams are nothing very special, except that we have to spend time preparing for them." However, Akash has an interesting point, which comes as a surprise from someone of his age. He feels that the less courageous ones can be unnerved by the sheer thought of an exam. It is mostly the fear of failure, he observes.

How do parents gauge the examination syndrome? Abha Sharma, Akash's mother and the director of a software company, stresses: "Exams are given too much of importance, which is unwarranted. But I wouldn't take a drastic stance against exams. In our competitive world, how else can we assess how our children measure up? I don't think children would bother too much about exams if their parents' anxieties were not communicated to them."

Assessing today's schooling, Ms. Sharma notes: "These days, Maths Olympiads and Talent Search exams enter a child's life as early as standard IV or VI. If the child is not well or feeling off-mood during the two to three hours of an exam, is it fair for him or her to be judged not for intelligence but for failure to deliver?" she asks. "I feel sad that parents consider extra reading of so little value. Often, the child faces remarks such as `Why are you wasting time reading that book? It won't come in your exam!'" Anand Kumar, a scientist and father of Tara and Aditi, says: "I'd like my children to know their lessons in the normal course, not just for their exams. Their music and art classes are just as important as their studies. I'll never expect them to get up early in the morning to study for an exam."

Prateeti's father Guruprasad says: "We have been very relaxed parents. We don't force Prateeti to study, apart from an occasional pep talk. But she knows these are the three most important years of her school life if she wants to have her pick of college options. She's free to watch TV even during her exams."

Max Mueller Bhavan librarian, Maureen Gonsalves, whose nine-year-old daughter and 12-year-old son are at The Valley School, where examinations are introduced only at the Standard IX level, shares a different angle: "I'm not against exams per se. But I find the kind of exams we have objectionable because they only test memory or how fast a child writes. I have watched even a first standard child being tutored at home, his tennis classes and other extra-curricular activities stopped, because it is so important for parents that their child should top the class. The current board exams are both formidable and traumatic."

What are the alternatives to our exam-centric system? M. Srinivas, founder of the five-year-old Gifted Education Research (Gear) Foundation, offers another perspective. "Our exams are almost always about incapacitating the child's mind. Children emerge from them with the feeling that they have not done well. Instead, creative exams should give teachers a chance to spot a child's abilities and motivate him/ her to do better."

The Gear system, with its stress on multiple intelligence (MI), identifies and nurtures each child's special talent. Armed with a master's degree in Gifted and Talented Education from Connecticut, USA, Mr. Srinivas stresses: "We have to join hands with parents, schools, the Department of Education, and policy-makers to develop creative exams. How does it help us if fear psychosis incapacitates the child, instead of accelerating learning? We have to evolve a system that will test the child's abilities, not just memory. What do these tests prove about problem-solving or creative thinking?" Ms. Gonsalves adds in the light of her recent online exam in library science: "Open book or online exams that test understanding or application make much better sense." 

Teacher and writer Poile Sengupta, who loves children, says: "I don't like exams, but what other system of evaluation do we have for standards of information? When children sit at a desk with exam papers, their intelligence is being tested, not expressed. If only every school had a viable and equally-powerful non-testing system through which the children could express themselves, that would counteract and neutralise exams."

As the pros and cons of the debate rage unabated, Mr. Srinivas suggests: "The major problem is that our system does not provide an opportunity for feedback or discussion on the child's responses. What do these grades prove about a child's potential abilities? I would prefer a system of national descriptive evaluations instead of marks, which can be interpreted equally by all. Our system is totally irrelevant to life. If Indian education has to change, our exams have to change."

How? "If a child can express himself better through pictures than words, why can't we ask him to draw a car that might exist 50 years from now?'' Mr. Srinivas queries.

Perhaps the final word rests temporarily with Akash. "The free time we get after our exams compensates for them." Prateeti concurs: "The best part of exams is that they finally get over!"

When will policy-makers, educators, and parents take children into confidence to resolve the examination riddle, so that Manish and Harish no longer have to flee the system?

Their time starts now.

(The Hindu Metroplus, 2002)

Musings: Summer song

Summer is… the sizzle of heat through the asphalt that fries your thoughts to a crisp, as the grey swirl of smoke from the exhaust in front addles your vision, the haze of the day swathes you in a cloak that clogs your sinuses and smothers your olfactory nerves, perhaps forever. 

Summer is… the sound of your neighbour’s shower and her voice raised in old-world song, out of tune. Just the tinkle of her bangles and the trickling sound of water soothes your nerves and allows you to dwell on images of waterfalls in your smoky mind.

Summer is… the pile of watermelons piled Everest-high by the roadside, green crusted and red-bodied, waiting for the first, crunchy cooling bite. The juice dribbles down your chin and bathes your neck, just as rivulets of sweat snake their way down your back and turn your smock into a towel.

Summer is… the rattle of cooking vessels next door being scrubbed by their maid at the crack of dawn. The power cuts have eaten into the short, restless stretch of rest, and transformed the night into a nightmare.

Summer is… the whining of the baby in the cradle because the mosquitoes and flies will not let her sleep. As her tiny limbs flail and kick away her bottle, she has no inkling of the procession of summers that life has in store for her.

Summer is… when the madness of the city jars on your nerves, when every screech, every honk, every gust of hot air from the neighbourhood drain makes you want to tear your hair out by the handful. Or head for the hills for a solitary getaway.

Summer is… when you can watch your best friend’s freckles multiply by the passing hour, as sunscreens and sunblocks do little to deter the almighty sun’s determination to blot her flawless complexion.

Summer is… when coconut water spiked with lime and honey seems like nectar, a sip for celestial beings. That’s when tea seems too strong and coffee too heady, except when a Tom Collins or a Kahlua on the rocks tastes like a drink divine.

Summer is… when everybody on the street seems to be on a short fuse, ready to explode over cricket scores or examination mark-sheets or even the decibel level of your car stereo. What happened to the fun and games you all had together, you wonder, before the heat frazzled your heads.

Summer is… the call of the mountains, the gurgle of the river, the cawing of crows outside your window at daybreak. Why can’t the wretched birds sleep longer, you hiss in anger, while the air-conditioner rattles and rumbles its way through power fluctuations.

Summer is… the lapping of frothy waves at your toes, the gush of blue that smothers you waist-deep. It is the soothing cool of the sand beneath your soles, the shells that beckon you to scoop them up by the fistful. It is the ice-cream cone that drips down your elbow faster than you can lick it up ~ and is gone before you have had your fill.

Summer is… when shorts and skimpy T-shirts feel as if you have too many clothes on. And that first glorious bite of the ripe golden mango ~ luscious and juicy and sweet as a love poem.

Summer is… vacations and holiday homework and escape from the routine.

Summer is… my very least favourite season.

Would you beg to differ?

(wahindia.com, 2002)

  

Issues: Democracy for children

Image: Courtesy the Concerned for Working Children

(I wrote about this unusual initiative in rural Karnataka in 2004)

WHEN the Hosangadi panchayat in Karnataka held its first gram sabha on July 24, 2004, over 100 people crowded into a room that could barely hold them all. Apart from anganwadi workers, teachers, farmers, workers and women from self-help collectives, 10 local children formed part of the group. 

At a signal from the panchayat secretary, 12-year-old Kumari strode up, clutching a huge sheaf of papers. Her voice unfaltering, her gaze clear, she read out a list of demands that children of the community had drawn up for implementation. "We need compound walls," she said. "We need playgrounds. And electricity and water for our homes." Her list, based on surveys done by village children, was substantiated by data culled from the panchayat office. Kumari's clear-eyed vision led to the adoption of these demands by the gram sabha, following a series of ward sabhas.

Kumari is just one of 1,60,000 children in Kundapur taluk, Udupi district, whose data-based inputs are being accepted as part of the 2002-2007 five-year plan. In this novel attempt at participatory government in the taluk's 56 panchayats, children have led the democratic planning process. 

This experiment raises hard-core questions. At what level are the information and discussion inputs by Kundapur's actively involved 20,000 children and adults valid? Does this signal child-responsive governance?

The Concerned for Working Children (CWC) initiated the first steps of the process. Executive director, Kundapur-based Damodar Acharya, shares his experience from the initial five gram panchayats — Kuradi, Uppunda, Balkur, Alur and Belve — where children were allowed their say in 1995-96.

"When adults started looking into the problems raised by school going children about footbridges, drinking water, the anganwadi or the location of ration shops, they found they did not have enough data," explains Acharya in Bangalore. In Balkur, through the children's or Makkala Panchayat, 13-year-old Revathi kept asking for a footbridge over a small stream, which puzzled the gathering," Acharya narrates. Adult priorities were streetlights, pucca roads, drinking water and so on.

When Revathi took the panchayat president to the site, he realised that the waters came up to the child's neck, while an adult could wade through. So, two granite slabs were sanctioned to ease her crossing.

Ground level realities surfaced through these child interventions. Through their surveys, the adults realised that, in a 3,000-strong village, nearly 60 children stopped attending school. Faced with an adult barrage of questions about cost, population impact and so on, the CWC trained the young ones to use a picture-oriented, multiple-choice questionnaire, geared to their literacy levels. In Isloor, for instance, data collected indicated the degree of alcohol and tobacco addiction in the community, and the amount squandered on substance abuse.

In coastal Uppunda, teenaged girl children trudged nearly 15 km each way daily at 3 a.m. to Alur to collect a head load of firewood, harassed by forest officials, fording streams en route.

Discussions with the Assistant Commissioner and the Deputy Forest Officer threw up the alternative of a subsidised firewood depot. But the 14-15 year olds, fought it off. Why? Because it deprived them of a peer group outing, besides personal earnings. "They said, `If there is a depot, our parents won't allow us to step out. Instead, they'll ask us to repair torn fishing nets at home.' What measures resulted from the children's inputs? In Alur, where most parents work in tile factories or the cashew industry, older siblings sought fulltime, centrally located anganwadis to sustain their own education and curtail the school dropout rate. 

Children of 14-plus expressed their preference for cashew industry employment over domestic work, safeguarding their own vulnerability and economic independence, at Rs. 25 to 40 per day. Those under age could attend classes in the factory premises.

Was there adult resistance to the experiment? "At first, adults asked why the (1996-initiated) Makkala Panchayats needed to be taught politics," stresses Acharya, "because theirs is a parallel children's government, including their own voter's list of those from six to 18, elections with their own ballot boxes in each ward and candidates with their own symbols. Even when a candidate is unopposed, ballots are cast to find out how widely he or she is supported. It is basically about the right to vote."

In one unique instance, both the defeated and elected candidates chose to represent their constituency at the ward meeting without acrimony, for hadn't they both won some votes? That provided a new angle on democracy.

For each problem, the children listed the affected families and arrived at their own solutions, appended to the costing by the local panchayat secretary or engineer. "This is the first time adults have recognised what these rural children have achieved," notes Acharya. "Secondly, in a sense, they have become community leaders and resource people for the whole block."

These politically aware children, drawn from those at work and those at school, detailed the number of houses in a village that lacked electricity. Or their long trudge to school? Or how many girls dropped out at 13, lacking an accessible high school? Or the prevalence of child marriages?

How was their data collected? In the first five panchayats, the school blocked time for their exercise. For updates, they chalked out schedules in their own free time over weeks or months, with each child visiting three or four houses.

How do others perceive this first Indian essay into child-participatory governance? Vasant Saliyana, District Minister, Udupi, feels, "It has created a high level of awareness among the elected representatives. Even more important, it has brought to the forefront our accountability to children."

Ashok Mathews Philip, executive director of the Bangalore-based South India Cell for Human Rights Education and Monitoring (SICHREM), responds, "I believe the child has a right to express his or her views, including political participation at even a national level. But this has to be based on informing the child objectively about a particular issue. If only we listen, we will find children have the ability to give a realistic analysis of many subjects."

Will this initiative usher in a new political order? Will Karnataka choose to replicate this model State-wide? Its future hinges on the responses of adults in positions that count.

(The Hindu Sunday Magazine 2004)

Cultures: An Egyptian dervish named Hanni Amin

Hanni Amin spins his magic

(This piece was in print in 2005)

A WHIRLING dervish doesn't often dance for an audience of three. Yet, there we stand amidst the lush greenery at Hotel Atria on a sunny Friday morning, taking in the spectacular spins, swirls and moves of Hanni Amin, a traditional Egyptian dervish. Stunned by his dance as communication with the Almighty, we await his real performance at Guru Nanak Bhavan that evening. 

Hanni is central to the five-member Egyptian Al-Tannoura troupe that flew in from Cairo. Guests of the Indian Council for Cultural Relations (ICCR), their maiden Indian performance was at Bangalore.

Clad in a gold-embroidered black jacket, layered over green pyjamas and a shirt, Hanni begins slowly. His three-tiered, multi-hued skirts catch the eye of the sun as he gains momentum, begins to turn — as his accompanists sing, their cadences matched to the flute and an unusual Egyptian drum. They are clad in long white garments over loose pyjamas, crimson diagonal sashes across their attire.

Hanni balances four coloured tambourine-like pieces in his hands. He juggles them as he changes rhythm. They change formation. He twists and swoops, his arms stretch out as he tosses them away one by one.

And then, Hanni's topmost skirt begins to spin, higher and higher, at a dizzying pace. It floats about his neck, still swirling as he controls its trajectory. It rises to his crown, still a rotating whirligig of colour. We feel dizzy at the spectacle; he doesn't for a moment. Hanni's dance as an instant messaging service is stunning. A multi-pronged Sufi prayer in motion.

We long to speak to Hanni. But he speaks no English, and we have not a word of Arabic. So, we try to bridge the cultural divide through Mahmud Eissa Ahmed Ali, the Al-Tannoura delegation head.

En route to New Delhi for the Third International Sufi Festival from March 10 to 15, they are looking forward to interacting through dance song and qawwali with artistes from Morocco, Iran, Sudan and Bangladesh, besides India. But Ali is disappointed that we could not access the full glory of their 52-member, 1988-launched, government-sponsored troupe.

"You know, the darawish (or dervish) in Egypt, in Sufi culture, is the core. Like the sun, he spins in the centre. At least 15 other dervishes dance around him in a clockwise direction like the planets, like the pilgrims at the Kaaba," explains Ali, in halting English. "And yes, Sufism draws from the beliefs of Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi."

Thrice weekly, the Al-Tannoura troupe performs at Cairo's citadel of Salauddin, a spectacular sight for the local population. "The dervish is expressing the music, the words, his feelings, while communicating with Allah," stresses Ali. "He feels heavy, heavy, heavy as he dances. His outstretched arms are trying to connect the ground and the sky. He is always ready to fly... "

What does the dervish signify? "Whether he dances in solitary splendour in the desert or in the village square, his is an act of total communication and devotion. He is part of all Egyptian public celebrations, like the birthday of the Prophet," says Ali. "As he whirls, he chants Allah, Allah, Allah... "

Was his costume always so spectacular? "Not quite," Ali confesses. "Traditionally, the dervish was dressed only in pure white for zekr or the prayer dance. But this is more for the performance. By the way, the inscriptions across the red sashes of his musicians read `Only one God' in front. And `Mohammed is the Prophet' on the reverse."

Can the dervish withstand the onslaught of modernity on Egyptian society? "Of course," insists Ali. "We have 11 boys, each about seven years old, who are training to be dervishes at our institute. But that does not mean they can skip school... "

As the Al-Tannoura troupe, which has been to Japan and China, Singapore and Australia, sets its trajectory towards the US, Canada and Venezuela in the future, Ali puts the dervish in perspective, "Hanni's father and grandfather were dervishes. His son is one, too. It's a tradition that will never die out."

 (The Hindu Metroplus 2005)