Kishore Singh: Dysfunctional surrealism

The other day, at a panel discussion, the young minister Jyotiraditya Scindia used the term “chiaroscuro” leaving me dumbfounded. Why was he trying to steal my lines? Wasn’t I the one who was supposed to talk about “spatial movements” and “painterly quality” and an artist’s “inner eye”? To introduce things I had been cramming, such as the “hegemony of colours” and “artistic intent”, casually into a conversation, or mention “the troubled diatribe of conflicting emotions” in my writings?

I was musing over these things as I snapped my weary fingers at an assistant who happened to be passing by, and said, “I’ll have a glass of champagne, now,” failing to note the scorn with which he served me a glass of water instead. I was in the process of hanging up a show and was discovering that in the apparently glamorous world of art, everything happened pell-mell, or last minute, or not at all, and no, the bubbly was in short supply.

True, bad wine is part of the art trade because sponsors tend to push stale supplies hoping the community will not understand the difference, but failing to realise that in their studios, artists store their paintbrushes in containers in which bottles of the finest single malt are packed and which they haven’t bought off the kabariwallahs but by the case and intent to soak up their contents. Perhaps it is this that accounts for their debilitating ability to tell night apart from day, on account of the “intoxicating quality” rather than “painterly quality”, that could be why some of them call late at night to discuss a painting, or idea, or even colour, leading to an “interior domestic quality” that is in severe danger of wrecking my marriage.

So here I was, worrying whether the show should be assembled in some linear construct, or chronology; whether the objective was to achieve a dramatic staging or be tonally matched; but all that the assistants who had been provided for the purpose seemed to do was push measuring scales and sticky tapes, hooks and hammers. I had imagined myself as someone who would orchestrate the event, so why were my hands grubby and full with bubble paper and nylon twine instead? “Where are you?” my wife called suspiciously to check. “Putting together the show,” I started to complain, only to have her sigh, “Having a good time, I see, while I do all the dirty work at home.”

Previous late nights had been spent in convivial company, but this one seemed destined to be more colourful than most. One of the assistants present questioned everyone else’s relationships with their mothers and sisters; another proved to be an exhibitionist and when prevented from taking off his shirt, insisted on rolling it up to his chest, leaving a rather unsavoury, and hairy, paunch bare. They wanted me to share their tea and samosas — for the record, the discreetly discarded samosas you’ll probably find in the eighth pot from the entrance, the one with the dieffenbachia, and the tea I forced myself to sip, well, I had to surreptitiously throw up after a dash to the lavatory.

As I viewed the result, I had to admit the show didn’t appear qualified by either “magnificent restraint” or characterised by a “minimalistic soliloquy”, that the quality — if any — was probably “dysfunctionally surrealistic”, and that if I had to do it all over again, it would need the support of generous quantities of the sponsor’s bad wine. But at least it was done, and when, in the evening, people showed up in their silks and solitaires, I hope they appreciated the champagne. I know I did — it had been hard-earned.