Kishore Singh: Art's no mirage here

My son has a list of people he wants me to meet in Dubai, friends of his, or family of friends, or friends of friends — clearly, his social skills are better honed than mine. I don’t know anyone in Dubai I can go cold-calling on, besides it’s not Dubai I’m going to over the weekend, I remind him, it’s Abu Dhabi. “Oh, that’s so boring,” he says, “why don’t you cancel your trip and I’ll take you to the movies instead?” It’s not an option, I tell him. “Where’s Abu Dhabi?” my daughter asks, showing an ignorance of geography that has always shocked my wife. Now my wife explains to her, “It’s where the money is.”

Everyone, of course, has an opinion on money, if not Abu Dhabi, even people who live or work here, and who say it is like living in a washing machine. “Er?” I grapple with this existentialism. “Arre,” they explain, “it’s where your black money gets laundered and becomes clean.” I don’t have black money, I point out, but they already know that. In Abu Dhabi, money is like a perfume, and it attracts the similarly perfumed.

And yet, I’m in Abu Dhabi not for the money but for the culture. “Go ahead, laugh,” I mock my wife, who’s collapsed into a fit of giggles when I tell her this. “Oh sure,” she stifles her laughter, “you’re going there for the sand castles.” It’s ironic she should say this, because local business magazines are replete with opinions that Abu Dhabi’s fortunes aren’t built on sand, but are more solid than Dubai, where the sand castles have disappeared like so many fairytale castles.

But it’s true, local businessmen say, Abu Dhabi is more stable than Dubai, and also the royal family wants to develop it now not so much as a financial centre as a cultural centre. Already, a Grand Prix circuit has been unveiled in the city, and soon it will have a Ferrari World theme park. That grabs my son’s attention enough for him to tell his girlfriend he’ll call her back — they’ve been gabbing non-stop about arranging passes for some festival in Goa — and now he says, “Wow, that’s, like, serious,” he’s taken to speaking in pauses these days, “maybe, I, should, come, with, you.”

“Or not,” I say. Besides, he might not be as charmed by the Guggenheim, or the Louvre, both of which will open in 2012, though the former has already made ingress and its collection is sharing a platform with an incredible spread of art fairs running simultaneously in the city.

My son rolls his eyes. He thinks we live in an art gallery. He’s been known to state his preference for posters of pin-up girls to an unsympathetic parental audience. My visit now stands unopposed.

But friends, it seems, have as many views as suggestions. I could, they point out, try and pick up an apartment now that prices are low.

For what purpose? “Investment,” it’s suggested, incredibly, so what if everything has crashed, “it’s still foreign”. “I think not,” I say.

“Okay, but at least bring back dates,” they sigh at my implied foolishness, “if you can’t buy condominiums, at least buy some condiments — ha-ha.”

I’m not a keen shopper any more, so I’m not sure even about that, besides where’s the time in a schedule packed tight with visits and sightseeing and even a day out in Dubai — though I refrain from telling my son this, should he attempt once more to subvert it into an endless day of pointless greetings. Meanwhile, my daughter looks up from Facebook to ask, “Where can I tell my friends you’re going to instead of Abu Dhabi, they say only smugglers ever go here.” Ouch!