The Utter Desolation of the Handicraft/ Handloom Exhibition

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. 

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. 

The delicate thread of livelihood: A tangail from Fulia

Last week, this time, I was getting ready to go with two friends to the small weaving village of Fulia in West Bengal.

 

The expedition was planned following a casual question about saree shops in Kolkata. I am a great fan of Bengal cotton sarees. They are simple, elegant, hardy and still light enough for the hot, humid weather of cities like Bombay, Chennai and indeed, Kolkata itself. They are also always wide/ tall enough for tall women to wear comfortably, a great virtue in my family. And need I say, they last forever; out in the balcony two days ago, was a saree I had bought in 1996--worn first to outings, then to work meetings, then at home during the day by my mother and now in the night.... still going strong. (Very simple saree on the right was the first cotton saree I chose for myself at 14, and the one I wore to our school farewell party thirty-one years ago.... still good!)

Anyway, this post is not about sarees or our clothing preferences. It's about the consequences our changing preferences have for traditional artisans.

I want to share with you some photographs I took in the village, with the encouragement of my friend. I don't normally take photographs of strangers and am uncomfortable when I see tourists do that. People are not curiosities! But I want to share these pictures that I took in a weaver's shed, with the weaver's nonchalant assent. And I do mean nonchalant. He barely looked up from his work, letting the rhythm keep him focused in a way I wish I could emulate.

We had driven out in an air-conditioned vehicle and could still feel the cruel mid-day sun, past the tinted window-glass. He wove with that sun beating down his bare back.

We had gone to Fulia at least partly in search of lower prices. But travel is such a good teacher! The visit reminded me of things I knew, but don't think about.

It takes so many days' work to weave a single saree, and the work is so fine. We take one look at a saree and say, "No." Or if we are more outspoken, "Ugh!" or "Who'll buy that?" If we actually like the saree, we are likely to second guess the quoted price because we are sure that the customer is taken to be gullible. The person who really loses out is the artisan/ artist who created the saree in the first place. But we don't think of that.

If I buy a saree for Rs. 400/-, I will then make sure I have a petticoat/ underskirt that's just right and a blouse that matches. I might even have two blouses made--a dressy one and a simple one. More fabric, and tailoring, too. Depending on where I live, I might spend between 700-900 rupees to make my saree ready-to-wear, but the weaver will still get a small fraction of that. And that's the fraction affected by the habit of haggling over prices.

But if I don't even buy a handloom saree, with or without haggling, what happens? That's the point of my post, really.

In the last few years, I have seen more and more Indian women move away from handloom. The most important reason is that handloom cloth is hard to maintain. It needs to be washed separately because bright dyes may bleed. It needs to be hung out to dry separately. Handloom sarees (and salwar-kameezes) often need starching. They almost always need ironing. Who has time? Who has space in India's densely packed cities? And how many can afford even the roadside istrivala (ironing-cart) on a regular basis? Fair enough.

Handloom is also more expensive. There are inexpensive weaves but they don't last as long. And synthetic daily wear sarees are cheaper than better quality handloom cottons. Understandable.

But how about those who can? Why do Karan Johar's heroines wear chiffon where Chanderi or Maheshwari weaves can look as delicate and more gorgeous? Why are TV bahus in georgette and crepe when a Mysore silk or Paithani might work as well? What about TV anchors? And evening gowns on Indian red-carpets? These are all people who can afford the sarees and laundry.

Most of all, it is the increasing adoption of the climate-inappropriate, funereal black business suit that upsets me. This is a hot, mostly sweaty country. Why would Indian women (or men) choose to wear ghastly Western style business wear (with stockings/socks and shoes) here? Moreover, when we are talking about climate change all the time, why consciously adopt office-wear that makes it mandatory to run air-conditioning all the time?

I work with young people who freak when I suggest (in jest) that they wear a saree to our programmes. It's such a beautiful dress, at any age! Our compromise solution: the salwar kameez. Because left to themselves, they would be in western clothes. In what way are t-shirts and jeans or funereal (I repeat the word on purpose) office suits more beautiful or appropriate in India than these? And aren't other people tempted by them as I always am?

With each such choice--whether by the office-goer or the student or Manish Malhotra--the weaver's livelihood diminishes. And an important part of our heritage is lost, as this traditional art, passed on from generation to generation, dies. Change is the order of life, I accept, but why usher in change unthinkingly? Will we then wait for an outsider to come and re-discover our textile heritage, willing then to pay 4000 Rs for something we shun at Rs 400? This, of course, is the FabIndia success story.

Are you now tired of my tirade, asking: So what am I supposed to do? Here's what I would request: Buy handloom when you can. And give artisan's bazaars like Dastkar or government cooperative stores a chance, before you head out to the big department stores. Try Co-optex or Apco or Tantuja or Mrignayanee, at least occasionally. Your small detour might save someone's livelihood or life, and will definitely save a part of your heritage from disappearing.

Take a look at the following: Swati Garg, Recovery a mirage for Fulia's weavers, Business Standard, May 11, 2010.