From the 15th February to the 30th March I was invited by Khoj International Artists’ Association to participate in the International Performance Art Residency 2007.
This is what was facilitated:
Artists, some performers and some working with “the performative”, from different parts of the world
An apartment in South Extension part II, New Delhi; this is where they all resided
6 weeks
A studio space for every artist at Khoj Studios in Khirkee Village in the thick of New Delhi
Springtime
The support of The Khoj Team and their frequent visitors
The platform to perform/present ideas at various points and also at the end of the 6 weeks to conclude the residency.
(Imagine our brains to be big stew pots filled with lukewarm stock and all these ingredients are then thrown into it and brought to a bubbling boil.)
In this report I will recall events, situations, and ideas that have developed as a result of conversations and observation while at Khoj. I will present letters, and notes written for Dr. Gbadamosi’s article performance art; Dr Gbadamosi was a resident artist.
Recollection I
At the end of their journey from Bombay, Sir Raja III, The Blind Man and Yog Raj Chitrakar’s first encounter in Delhi was with Monty Breaker, Rosco, The Monkey, Raimi and Dr. Gbadamosi, the ambassador of the Republic. “Gentlemen, my name is Yog Raj. I make drawings. I draw what I see.” Introductions were carried out and the lot went for dinner to the nearest dhaba. In spite of the scuttling cockroaches and rats they polished of their rajma and shahi paneer, talking non-stop, like reunited old friends. In conversation, they revisited The Under ground café in Tel Aviv, the pomp of Lagos, South Africa, London, Dubai, Bombay, Mumbai and the Himalayas. So euphoric was this union that the group paused together and wondered, “With every high comes a fall, what then will be The Great Depression?” The winds of good spirit brought with them Ni Jun, the Bleeding Bride from Shanghai, Atieq (Attack) Listyowati, The Javanese Bride and her entourage, and the Indonesian Chicken Head Cutter. Relationships were soon established and the unit was now complete, and in the words of Rosco, “Relationships; they go up, up and up. We love relationships!”
Letter 1
18th March 2007
Dear family and friends
I am at a performance art residency in Delhi with Khoj and have been having a wonderful time. The final open studio day presentation is on the 28th. For those who will be able to make it to I look forward to seeing you!
Please look through pictures on the link below. They are from a live performance we put together on the 16th. Sir Raja III, a fictitious character I play, visited Khowaja Press in Old Delhi. The press resides across from Jama Masjid a 17th century mosque built by Emperor Shah Jahan.
While wandering through the back lanes with Hemant of Khoj we came to an old Urdu printing press. I got into a wonderful conversation with, Asif Fehmi, its owner. I went back and recorded the conversation we had about the history of Din Dunia House, the building the press now resides in. He talks of how the building was built by the Nawaab of Bhopal to accommodate his daughter who was having an affair with her tutor. He also talks of his great grand father and their press in Meerut, a town some 300 km from Delhi. They were active during the Mutiny of 1857, India’s first struggle against the British Empire. The press printed material supporting the Mutiny.
I transcribed this discussion and we had Khowaja Press print all this rich narrative in their own press for people to take free with them at the performance. Sir Raja III made a drawing from observation as his document, presented it to Asif Fehmi and left as he has arrived; in an auto rickshaw back to New Delhi.
Link: http://khojworkshop.org/fgallery/577
Love
Nikhil
For Dr. Gbadamosi
23rd March 2007
There are four days to go and 41 have passed. Five artists have hashed out every morning over eggs, toast, oatmeal, honey and jam- just about every thing from politics, religion, and ass fucking to racism, love and the Delhi Metro. They have arrived at crucial conclusions. For example, having to pay Rs. 600 for a foreigner to see the Taj Mahal instead of Rs. 30 that Indians have to pay is a sign of brutal racism and discrimination. I have the privilege to be one of the Breakfasteaters. I am soaking in all the nutrition. I am churning, boiling, burning, beating, bursting, bulging and beaming. I realize, like never before, that I am an organism, ever changing.
When are we not performing? And what is the art of performing? We artists are all here under the umbrella Performance Art Residency. Therefore there is an expectation.
The Breakfasteaters will now take their presentations from the dining table to the open studio day; still flip flopping between performer, presenter and audience. There are no prizes; this is the prize. The lights will go up, the moment will unfold, an exchange will have happened and our understanding of what role we play as people will have broadened.
The Chronicle of Yog Raj Chitrakar
28th March 2007
I am in a room, seated still on a stool with a brown paper package under my arm. Around me are a bench, table, mirrors, stool, jug with water, glass, soap, basin, hand towels and brown paper packages tied up with string in neat piles. All the furniture lies draped in white fabric. I am dressed in a tweed jacket, plus fours, tie, socks and polished shoes. My beard is trimmed and mustache tweaked. People stare into the room from its window frames and door and I feel their anticipation. I break my stillness. I open the package under my arm. In it is a painting made by my grandfather. The landscape painting is of Phalgham in Kashmir. My grandfather would spend from April to October every year in their house on the Liddar River in Pahalgham. We would visit them every year as children. Memories of picnics under the cherry tree, running down the meadow into Higgins Valley as a boy are very vivid. The panorama of the Sheshnag Peaks leaping out from behind Bisaran haunts me. I look at this painting and lean it on the floor.
The small brown packages are piled in the two far corners of the room. I open these packages. In them are sticks of charcoal. I begin to draw from my grandfather’s painting on the far wall. With 25 feet of wall to cover, I build pace. The audience is captive to watching an image slowly take form. The room transforms. I pause, wash and seat myself at the table. I look at myself in the mirror. Though I am not interacting with the audience directly, I am acutely aware of my as well as their gaze. I open a package on the table that reveals to me hair clippers and a shaving kit. I begin to cut my beard and mustache and proceed to give myself a clean shave. Still looking at myself in the mirror I start to undress down to my briefs, as if I were unwrapping myself. I open packages stacked on the bench. I react to the contents of the packages by wearing them: a skirt, blouse, scarf, stockings and high heels. I strut around the room. My walk and manner are affected. The room begins to take on the look of a boudoir with clothes and hair strewn. I seat my self on the table. A make up kit is unwrapped. I apply foundation, eye shadow, eye line, mascara, blush and lipstick, and wear a wig. The audience closes in on me, testing the fine line that is separating them from the performance. I look at my self in the mirror from head to toe. My heart is racing. I am in the image of a woman.
I continue the drawing on the wall. My new mask brings with it its own restrictions. I work to bring closure to the drawing. The din from the chatter in the room is egging me on. I put down my charcoal stick, put on white gloves and coat and proper myself in the mirror. I walk over to the stool and seat myself on it; still and silent. The lights go out. The work is done.
Letter 2
6th April 2007
Hi Nikhil,
Before you came back and we get to sit with you and discuss the performance, I thought to set down some thoughts from the performance:
I don’t know whether you remember Tara ’s first reaction when you came out to meet us after the performance, which was to say, very simply, “Nikhil, that was special”.
And special it indeed was. For four hours, we sat rooted, transported.
Having missed on the previous performances, we have had to make do with building up our own interiorized vision of how they play out. Of course this is merely dreaming castles in the sand. Until we were actually sitting, sweating, smelling, laughing, cringing, in the moment it was not possible to accurately gauge the impact your performances impart on an audience.
It occurred to me fairly early on in the performance that the lines of similarity between your art form and modern theatre are fairly slim. First and foremost the degree of improvisation and the lack of the spoken word create the need on the part of the viewer to activate his/her own creative sensibility to build up narratives around the ongoing tableaux. This gives way to a critical examination of the performance that requires tools more similar to looking at 2D & 3D works of art than theatre. By this, I mean to say that the viewer is least concerned with your acting skills, but rather how you, as the character you have become, function within a given space. This critique of the ‘composition’ of the performance was a revelatory experience.
If there was a comparison to be made between acting and your performance, I would be tempted to suggest early Elizabethan drama and the improvisational techniques of actors for whom parts were very specifically written. To the extent that you and only you could be the character portrayed, so too one looks at those comics and heroic actors for whom Shakespeare would write in characters that would exemplify characteristics that the audience had come to know and love in each of the actors.
And this leads me to my next observation: the nature of audience interaction. Because of the space that you performed in, the audience had to negotiate the windows, walls and, for the brave, the interior of the studio itself. This revealed interesting moments when, for instance, one chap feeling rather bold entered into the studio whilst you were applying make-up and plunked himself down directly behind you. We could all see that the moment you got up, he would have been directly in your path and the evil looks that he got from all and sundry soon shifted him! These moments made me realize that the audience, in the context of your performance, were less passive onlookers and much more like backstage staff- it was looking pulling theatre inside out and forcing the audience to travel with you in your journey through the performance. Another moment that exemplified this was the duration of your applying make-up; I remember looking over to see Tara and Minam in animated conversation about the manner and quantities of make-up being applied. Equally, during shaving there were many who were visible wincing as cuts and nicks appeared on your hands and face. Again, this reminded me of Elizabethan drama and the idea of the stage co-mingling with the audience, where shouts, gasps and guffaws were mandatory.
The sheer labour involved in the performance was mind-boggling – we really enjoyed wandering how the wall drawing was progressing and which portion was going to be attacked next. Of course the most interesting aspect of the drawing was how you approached the execution of the work as a man and then as a woman. Your movements changed so dramatically, that the space seemed utterly transformed from the first half to the second half of the performance. Whereas as Yog Raj, I think we believe that we are in a bachelor pad/ hunting lodge: it is very masculine. In the second half of the performance, I think we are in a boudoir, bedroom: it is very, very feminine. And then of course then there is the liminal point when you are in the process of transforming yourself. If there was a moment when ‘acting’ became noticeable, I suppose it was here. The delicate, almost imperceptible changes in facial expression and body movements were really quite beautiful.
So Nikhil, thank you for all these experiences: it was an afternoon we will treasure for a very long time to come.
All our love
Mort/Tara
Chatterjee & Lal
First Floor Bilva Kunj
14 Pandita Ramabai Road
Gamdevi Mumbai 400 007
Maharashtra INDIA
Recollection II
Yog Raj would spend many nights in his studio. He would wake up early, unzip himself from his sleeping bag and in the crisp morning air, filled with bird song, sip his hot cup of chai in the courtyard. The hours before the building was buzzing with activity, he would spend drawing in meditation. Listening to his charcoal stick scrape against the wall and feeling his body stretch, bend and shake, he would attempt to make a picture on a wall. Mr Popo, the resident parrot would play for hours in the bush outside his window, gnawing at the twigs.
The Great Depression
With the end of one journey, another is already set into motion. Sir Raja III has been invited to London where he will present himself this July (http://www.grosvenorgallery.com/exhibit_view.asp?id=1278) Yog Raj Chitrakar is preparing to set out on an expedition that will take him through all of India’s 28 states and 7 Union Territories where he will travel from village to village and town to town collecting wares and stories and will make drawings to chronicle the romance that he associated with India. The Blind man who was healed by Rosco, the Southern Preacher at the Lizard Lounge has all of sight and the beauty of vision to explore.
The end was abrupt and the good byes were brief. At this time the unit paused again and pondered, “Is this the Great Depression?” The unit parted. They took with them records, photographs and videos of themselves as friends, lovers and actors, of their agreements, disagreements and public presentations.
NAVAJBAI RATAN TATA TRUST
