On January 31, 2010, The Lalit Kala Akademi on Copernicus Marg, New Delhi, witnessed the opening of an exhibition by three artists well on their way to being called established. To the casual observer there was nothing unusual about this opening; it was a Sunday evening, all the characters were in place, there were the three artists, er, two artists and one sculptor to be precise, the chief guest being played by a Supreme Court judge, family and friends who'll always make the right noises but never really buy anything, and the odd arty farty type, the sort who spend a little too long staring at canvases, their unashamed stare leaving even the most confident work of art feeling a little uncomfortable.
Nothing out of the ordinary, right? A very typical start to my first exhibition after eight long artless years. BUT! (cue climatic music) But, what if you now find out that none of the three artists I mentioned above were me? That's right, my first exhibition after many, many years was one where my name could not be found anywhere.. not on the brochure, the invitation and not even on the wall below the actual works themselves. Unbeknownst to almost everyone, especially to the good folk at the Akademi, stood two of my latest works.
What happened was this... The headline artist for the exhibition was a lady who also happens to be the mother of one of my closest friends. So about a week before the actual opening, and about a month after all invitations and brochures had been printed, I happened to mention to my friend that I had started painting again. Before I knew it, I had an invitation to display my work alongside those of his mum and another couple of artists. But because my name was not on any of the literature surrounding the event, the Akademi officials would not have let me in through official channels. Hence the secrecy. As long as I didn't tell the four members of the Akademi who came to the opening, that the paintings in the corner are mine, I could feel free to try and peddle my creations to the highest bidder.
The whole experience of trying to whore out my art left me feeling a bit strange, kind of like a pimp and not the cool kind of pimp that 50 Cent was talking about in his song, but one of those shady characters that jump out of dark alleys accompanied by a young girl high on crack, whenever they see some frustrated looking chump walking by. Or even like that old lady who frequents certain dingy bars in Vasant Vihar, going up to all stag tables with photo albums of young Eastern European women.
But after much self deliberation, I have come to terms with the fact that the best appreciation that anyone can show my work would be in monetary form. Talk is cheap!
