Wednesday 25 November 2015

Reframing Focus

I remember my first home, mostly because of it's bare walls. After graduating from college with my BA degree, I had about six paintings, plus the one I had given Rahul as a birthday present, and a ton of clay work that I had no possible way of displaying. I remember the pressure as a young couple of having art work on the walls to make our space into a home. Every Crate & Barrel catalog and Pottery Barn store had things we could simply not afford in those early years. We bought cheap Ikea frames and stuffed whatever finished work I had from my college days into them and slowly filled up the spaces. Later, I began to box frame all my canvases and that took away the need for professional framing, making it cost effective to hang up more work. And although there is no substitute for well framed work, this was the next best thing, especially since an empty wall was, well, just, simply unacceptable.

Over the years my way of creating and presenting art has changed. The art I enjoy looking at has changed too. And all this makes sense because I am not the same person I was at twenty-one.  I feel really lucky that I don't have to live with the same work that I had on my walls all those years ago, because, while that was honest and truthful to my taste and mind-space at the time, it no longer holds the same weight for me now. Fresh work always helped clarify my point of view, changed the way I looked at something, affected the objects and people around it by activating the space, and it showed me in a concrete way how I was and still am evolving as a person and an artist. There have been several times when simply moving some paintings around made me feel fresh, and my living space feel new. This made me wonder, how many people were living with art that they had collected years and years ago? Whether received as a gift, or bought from a small village in Bali, at a bargain price or at a museum store? Or maybe people were living with it because more money was spent on framing it than the cost of the painting itself!

I'm going to share a tip with you, because I don't think anyone should live with art that holds no value to them. Take those paintings out of their frames. Save your frames, and put new work into them. Ask artists if they have work to fit your expensive frames, or even better commission them to make you a painting that holds value for you. Use your frames to accentuate architectural details of interest in your home instead, or use them to frame wall sculpture. Collage your frames to make interesting installations on your walls. There are many things that one can do with pieces of wood that don't involve holding up a piece of cloth you no longer find value in seeing. Ask me, I know all about it! 

Monday 27 July 2015

A Necessary Merlion

It was 10am on a winter morning when we stopped by the cable company to drop off our cable box, the last errand we ran on the way to the airport. We were leaving Chicago. The taxi waited outside the building spewing plumes of frosty air from it's exhaust pipe. An hour later I had eaten my last Cosi sandwich and been shuffled, air frisked and scanned by airport security. I was still sore about having to abandon my brand-new, 2 litre can of Turpenoid by the garbage shoot. The movers had refused to pack it. Inflammable, they said, got to leave it here. Varnish, spray on fixative and gesso had all joined the Turpenoid in its dark, smelly spot behind the door that said 'Refuse'. I secretly hoped that they would be rescued by some art sensitive soul. It broke my heart to leave them, but I had to. We were moving to Singapore.  
It was New Year's eve when we got here, in addition to the usual disorientation of an over-seas flight, I had to contend with a country I had never seen before, jet lag, and a dramatic weather shift. I knew nobody in Singapore, save an aunt that I hadn't met in years.
I am not really sure how we got over those first few days, but I do know a trip to Mustafa Shopping Centre (apparently it is the ground zero of shopping), was involved; after all, we had to stock our tiny one bedroom service apartment with food and necessities. We realised that the buses, although well connected and comfortable- much better than any other buses we had previously known- would not stop for us unless we expressly 'hailed' them down. We missed many buses this way in the early days. In the first three months I became very good at lip reading, but not so good at ordering over the phone. I was frustrated by the slow pace of walking on the streets. And then I understood why. I was the only sweat drenched, crazy-eyed, red faced, power-walker out there in the mid-day sun, while petite, fresh faced women, clad in various shades of pastel colours, would walk by me in their tick-tocking heels, not one long straight hair out of place. 
I cried when my cupcake batter, already made and poured into moulds did not fit into my tiny oven. I cried harder when the same oven tripped repeatedly rendering my second cake mix useless in the same day. Ounces, grams, litres, quarts, fahrenheit and celsius!!!! I wanted to tear my hair out. I never wanted to cook again. And when my freshly bought apple tart grew fungus over-night, I made a vow to store everything in the fridge forever. That was about the same time I seriously considered the possibility that Singapore as a nation, might benefit from central air conditioning- like the entire nation, united under a common dome, for a common cooling- it was time to save all apple pies, everywhere.
Somewhere along the Ice-Kachangs and Mango Sago, Kopi-C and red bean paste buns, I was schooled by some 'uncles' and 'aunties'- I developed a liking for condensed milk and put on weight. I became vegetarian, drank soy milk and ate bean curd pudding. I read a local rendering of The 3 Little Pigs and their 'makkan' time. I saw a Mosque, a Hindu Temple and a Buddhist Temple on the same street, and across them, a Church. It warmed my heart. While nobody held doors open for me, many taxi uncles helped me load and unload my groceries and art work. Like old grandfathers, they gave me advice and waited in their cabs till I got through the front door of my condo. They returned my phone when I dropped it in the back seat of their taxi, and my daughter's stroller, which we happily forgot in their boot one day.    
I decided that I love Singlish! I 'die die must try' to talk it as often as I can. Phrases like 'stupid sotong' crack me up. What lah, can lah, can lay, no lor, aaanh, whaaa, must lay, so how; this list of punctuation and expression is endless! 
I remember my 10 years in America vividly, however my 8 years in Singapore are slowly catching up. It has been like floating on a lazy (man-made)river, on a sunny day, eyes half closed, occationally bumping into the bends and curves of the banks, barely noticing the ride as it comes full circle time and again, year after year. And now you celebrate 50 years of independence, Singapore! I am glad I spent the last 8 years trying to understand you in whatever way I could- Majulah Singapura, Island nation, little red dot, home. 

Thursday 23 July 2015

Tonight, in my head I'm walking down the hill from the monastery to the city below. There are grape vines on my right, and cherry trees to my left. As tempting as they are ruby red I colour, they are equally tart in the mouth- I eat them, but it's like they have the last laugh after all. 
The little vein that leads me down has found the outskirts of the city. Old lace hangs in silent windows, with dried flowers in recycled glass bottles. I take pictures; memories of memories forgotten behind the lace. Even more fragile is the sun's unrelenting gaze that is momentarily vanquished by passing clouds in an arrhythmic flow . 
I count seven little roads but I can only walk down one. So I pick one and walk down it...
In my head.


*photo copywrite of Maya Bhalla 2015.

Sunday 26 April 2015

The space between our feet and the earth

It is interesting how my mind works like water. I try to change direction, block flow, stop the pace of movement, and yet, somehow, it finds a way to engage me, it seeks me out, draws me into a conversation in unexpected ways. It's a blessing and a curse, and perhaps the reason why I am seldom bored. 

This past week, I was supposed to be resting, relaxing on the sands of Krabi with a book in hand. I was supposed to be feasting on delicious Thai curries, lots of ice-cream, coconut water, preferably together in some combination, and, I suppose I did do all that. Even though I carried a sketch book and note pad, I did not use it even once. My camera, now that is a different story. The more I used it, the more I noticed things, the more engrossed I became, the more I shot, the more the photos began to tell a story, the more I searched for proof of my burgeoning hypothesis....

I have always been interested in little things. Small pieces of things fallen by the way side, relics of things used, the unwanted junk of the day, remnants of occupation. The beach with it's incoming and out flow of tides is a perfect stomping ground for my brand of interests. Everyday something new is washed up and in exchange, something is taken away. It is a metaphor for life- with endings and beginnings on a minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day basis, whether we choose to accept it or not. Flow in, flow out. 

At some point amidst my macro shots of gorgeous beach debris I found myself questioning what exactly I was shooting, and while up until that moment, things that seems so delicately beautiful to me, were now speaking a more important message, their fragility became their strongest message, and the formal beauty of their structures became symbols of corruption- our corruption of them.

Pieces of rock chipped off of the heritage hills behind, empty clam shells, skeletons of crabs devoid of their fleshy insides... 

At sunset on the first evening, I walked along the edge of the low tide mindful of the hermit crabs and other fish stranded in the shallow tide pools. With the sharp cliff of limestone to my left and camera in hand, I planned to shoot all I could before the sun set. Unlike the daytime rush of waves, that sounded clearly over all else, it was quiet at dusk. My love for macro shots had me inching closer and closer to the rocks and cliff walls. Much to my sheer delight and surprise those walls were thriving with life- they were literally buzzing with life...clicking, ticking, popping sounds from every inch of them. Unreal! Suddenly, my perspective shifted, the rocks changed me and I changed how I looked at them-  from inanimate to animate, from simply a thing to a home, from background to foreground, from merely landscape to essential, from disposable to critical.

Oil mining on the ocean bed, the newest, most exotic hotels in 'one can only access it by speed boat' locations, snorkelling and deep sea diving, oil spills from tiny motor boats looking for that one of a kind spot to sell to tourists looking for an extra special getaway, plastic and non-biodegradable waste, dynamite fishing, soil erosion, bleaching of the coral reefs that makes for bits of broken  sea shells and deathly white coral skeleton that wash up on the beach. And me, with my camera, all I can do is photograph it.

The irony is not lost on me, after all I was on vacation too. The truth is, as human beings we need time away from our lives, we need to recharge. There is so much beauty in nature and solitude is rejuvenating. Connecting to the Earth by immersing  myself in nature periodically connects me to my humanity, as I am sure it does for so many of you. I would never say do not spend time in nature for it is essential that we all do, but I will say that we do it as gently as possible, so we have something to connect to for as long as possible.

* Note: All images are copywrite of the artist Maya Bhalla and may not be reproduced without permission.



































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Friday 10 April 2015

Remembered Beginnings

We had no television when I was six. Afternoons were spent reading, collecting flowers from my grandparent’s roof top garden. At six, that roof seemed to span the world. Not only did it provide lemon grass for my grandfather's tea, but also okra, mint, tomatoes and holy basil. It was magical. In the afternoons I would sit by the steps leading up to the roof with my books and read.  And because we lived near the water, I would wait, even in the heat of the Indian summer afternoons for the blessed sea breeze in the evenings. 

For me, stringing jasmine flowers on sewing thread with a needle was afternoon fun. Just like sitting with my 4-B graphite pencil and rough sketching paper drawing the hibiscus that had just fallen from the plant in the corner of the roof garden, while the adults slept through the lazy afternoon. 


Yes, we had no mobile phones, no television and the radio was reserved for when my grandmother would listen to oldies from the 1920's and 30's on All India Radio. But, I learnt to entertain myself- I did things, made things, thought things. In some ways, I created my own eco-system- a sustainable one, with an never ending flow of ideas, mainly because I did it for myself. As an adult, I never pass by a green space without feeling a connection with it, for I know they nurture and grow more kinds of things than just plants.

Thursday 22 January 2015

A Matter of Material

It was the sound of Paresh Maity's bells that welcomed me to Art Stage at the Marina Bay Sands. It set the tone, if you will of what was to come. It was almost as if those bells mirrored my excitement, ringing frequently, almost urging me on down the escalator to the lower levels. The persistent ring of bells gave way to an engineering feat, a marvel, something that made my sweet husband, not from the art world at all, say, 'Wow, that's almost like science!' And yes, it was. Zulkifle Mahmod's sound based installation using glass laboratory equipment was incredible. Not only was it delicate as it was made of glass, it was gentle in motion, glass tapping on glass, animated and robotic, yet beautiful to look at. 

Almost immediately, the idea of materials and how they lend themselves to the art work came to mind. Instead of simply reading images, one also needs to 'read' materials. In many cases, it becomes another layer of meaning one can use to understand the artist's point of view. As I walked through the booths, (and I didn't even cover half of them!), it was the shear plethora of materials that caught my eye. If Mahmod's sound installation didn't drive home the point, then Contini Art's Enzo Fiore definitely did with his piece entitled 'Genesis'. This piece consisted of a portrait of Andy Warhol made entirely out of organic materials and resin. 




From the earthy to the sublime, materials can create an atmosphere of wonder, sometimes bordering on theatrical. Sometimes, technical expertise becomes art, and artists become master manipulators of material. 


Illusory clouds on sheets of glass, images somewhat magically appearing in mirrors, metal sheets and glasses of water; impermanent things used to illustrate the impermanence of things. This is when materials matter.


That being said, I cannot ignore the tactility of matter, my own back ground as a ceramic artist almost insists that I touch things. It is part of how I learn. Some of the work at Art Stage just begged to be touched. Solidified globules of gold, a multitude of coloured fibres and threads, carefully crafted paper busts that extend like elastic and return to their original position of classical beauty when done. Like I said, I was a kid in a candy store! If you haven't already, do go. I've been, but I'm going again tomorrow!