When I was growing up, handloom and handicraft exhibitions were one of our favourite places to go. My mother introduced us to the wonders of Indian artistry and we had an early appreciation of the great variety and the exquisite handwork that was before us. Going to these exhibitions, which usually took place in open maidans on uneven ground, was something everyone in the family seemed to love.
By extension, one bought gifts at Cottage Industries or in the various state emporia which were then full of wonderful products and found in almost every Indian city. My favourite among these was Gurjari, with its gorgeous fabrics and those folders we all wanted to carry to college and joothis and jholas.
And then "ethnic" became fashionable, around the time I was in college or a little later. From initially meaning that the exhibitions were a little more crowded, it came to mean the gentrification of "ethnic" products. First, the boutiques came up. Small stores run by entrepreneurs who would travel and source lovely little knick-knacks. Then, some of them grew into large stores. And finally by the early 1990s, the big "ethnic" chains came up. FabIndia is one example but so are places like Good Earth. "Ethnic" became a little unrecognizable to old-timers like me and also, unaffordable.
Thank god for Dastkar and Dilli Haat. But I never seem to make it to Dastkar exhibitions any more and on my last trip to Dilli Haat, apart from the great canteen section, it was hard to distinguish many stalls from the ones in INA market across the street or Sarojini market a little further away.
We can see this in Hindi movies and serials where the very poor, have empty canisters (but lovely, shiny designer brass ones definitely not purchased four generations ago from the village store) but designer curtains, "ethnic" furniture and very nice clothes. (Take a look at this song.)
Yesterday, after a very long time, a couple of hours opened up on my schedule and I visited two handloom/ handicraft exhibitions. The first was by Poompuhar (or rather, the Tamil Nadu handicrafts commission). It had large metal sculptures and small ones (very poorly cast), Kondapalli toys (actually the prettiest part), a few sarees, tacky jewellery and agarbatti (which I bought out of sympathy and was quite nice!). I was the sole visitor. In a large hall, full of objects, I was the sole visitor. The staff were torn between eagerness and hopelessness. Someone walking in, casually clad in a salwar-kurta, wearing little jewellery, is not going to purchase a large Nataraja or a Kanchipuram silk. I felt really sorry for them but I have to say: there was nothing there that would tempt a middle-class window shopper. There was a lack of functionality in the displayed objects; what was there was not terribly well-made and the display was... uninviting.
Poompuhar once had really good quality metal craft. But apart from the mythological and the religious, they also had small useful things like the little paperweights with hamsa and lion that I have bought and gifted so many times. Now the variety is less and so is the quality of the craft work.
The second exhibition I stopped at was worse. It was a pop-up of traveling small retailers. There is little that is 'handicraft' or 'handloom' about nighties, for instance. There were many tables of really dubious semi-precious jewellery (something I have bought a great deal of in such spaces). There were the obligatory Odisha pattachitra stalls. Again, I was the only customer and vendors literally chased me around the hall saying, "You walked past my stall." I felt very sorry for them but I really cannot afford endless pity purchases. So I walked briskly out and left them, waiting once again, for the customers who are unlikely to come and buy.
I admit it is also a life-stage thing. The things I like, I have already purchased for myself by this point in my life. But the life-stage part also means I can see a genuine decline in quality. And the lack of imagination and learning is mind-boggling. You make wooden pen-stands that are attractively painted on the outside. However, the barrel can hold two or three pens. The stand is so skinny it looks unstable. Most of all, the inside is un-glazed so that if a pen should leak, it cannot be cleaned. That is just one example.
Do not read this as a denunciation of any effort to bring India's incredible treasury of craft to our rapidly changing cities. We need an aesthetic corrective, bringing back our beautiful, colourful crafts into our everyday life and work. Our tradition--in any part, any region of India--integrates form and function, beauty and utility in every moment of every day. (The best place to gain an appreciation of this is the Raja Dinkar Kelkar museum in Pune.) We need to bring that back.
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| Purchased at a craft exhibition when I was 15 or 16! |
My desk--where I really live--is full of beautiful little objects that I would photograph if it were not so full and cluttered right now. I have little brass paperweights. I have mugs and pen-holders, some of which were purchased at these exhibitions. I have handloom zip pouches that hold every pen drives and chargers and head-phones. My Kindle cover is crafted with Kantha embroidery. I am proud and happy to flaunt our crafts and I cannot do it enough. But the official bodies charged with this have to do as well as the flourishing "ethnic" businesses in ensuring the quality of form and utilitarian function.
I walked over from the Poompuhar exhibition to the neighbouring FabIndia where the crafts on display are impeccably made and functional but I have to strategise the purchase. The joy of walking in, broke, falling in love with something small and buying on impulse while squelching guilt, is elusive in stores like these. Nice to see and ironically, great for impulse control!
As I work hard to retire and free up time, I want to spend some of that time in the old way, wandering aimlessly through handicraft exhibitions, letting the beauty of our crafts replenish my soul and buying the small, useful and pretty things I can bring back with joy to my home. But officials have to find a way to bring to the craftspeople they work with a sense of what is actually useful and to encourage them to work towards finesse rather than maybe "Quickly make me so many pieces."
Our daily lives in India are an illustration of how beauty has never been a monopoly of the rich. The wall paintings and kolams of our traditional homes. The beauty of our pottery. The vivid variations of our textiles. The gorgeous lacquer bangles that have disappeared from these exhibitions (and that I hoped to find and buy yesterday). All of us could afford them.
Until we bring that imagination to how we manage these state-run cooperatives and corporations, perhaps we are doomed to visit dusty, desolate exhibitions with desperate, despairing sales staff.
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