A Kochi Drenched With Art

A local 100-day event showcases the organisers and performing artists’ sincere efforts to maintain our classical traditions.

Cochin, or Kochi as it is more commonly called, is a city on the cusp of past and future. A trip more than a decade ago had left fond memories of this big town with multicultural ethos and an unending splendour of art, literature and artists. Another, more recent, trip a year ago left me agape at the transformation the coastal town had gone through. Huge multi-storeyed “lifestyle apartments” had mushroomed on the Marina and a number of swanky malls boasting of every possible brand — Indian and international — had opened its doors to the upwardly mobile generation. I was almost sure that all that cherished memory of a quaint art loving mega-town, will remain just that — a memory.

But thank God, the apprehension was short-lived. A visit just a fortnight ago restored my spirits to see the nooks and corners that had endeared this place to me, not merely survived. They were there just as I remembered them. In those corners, nothing had changed.

I was happy, but there was a tinge of disappointment too. All that made this city unique was being left to chance while the ‘me too’ add-ons were getting all the attention and glory. But isn’t that what has happened, all along?

This time, my visit to Cochin had a purpose. It was to explore how traditional art forms and artists survive in rapidly commercialising environs.

I step into the city as it is rounding up its mega art event, Cochin –Muziris Biennale, 2014-15. This 100-day event is organised with the help of some really devoted art enthusiasts and with cheque-book philanthropy of a long list of corporate companies opening up their purse strings to support visual and performing arts as part of their mandatory CSR coffers.

The Biennale is in its second edition, with city’s skywalks announcing art events and its walls covered with some stunning hand-painted abstracts. Even the auto-rickshaw drivers are tuned in. “Have you been to Aspin’s Wall? It’s the hub of all Biennale activities,” says Peter, an auto driver on finding out I was keener to explore old Kochi and its art nooks. “I worked for the Biennale too,” he proudly announces, noticing my enthusiasm for the event. He apparently distributed pamphlets and stuck some posters across the town during the first few weeks of the event.

“The Biennale is not limited to artists. That there is so much happening across the city has also created a curiosity and awareness among the people who otherwise have no interest in arts — visual, performing or any other form,” says Bandhu Prasad, one of the programme directors of the Biennale. He is happy that almost one-fourth of the audience visiting film screenings and art installations under the canopy of the Biennale are first timers and former fence-sitters. This, even without spending a penny on advertising! They simply could not afford billboards or print advertisements or even radio jingles.

The thing that has worked in their favour is the buzz in the environment created by hundreds of events taking place almost simultaneously and a relentless effort put in by a small but devoted group of young volunteers. “We hope the number of ‘unintended audience’ will rise with the next edition,” he smiles. His smile is one of satisfaction, yet there is a bit of uncertainty lurking in the corners, “We already have a negative balance — a running debt of over Rs. 1.5 crore, but it is better than last year. Earlier we could not pay salaries to the staff for three months.”

And with this comes out the basic question: How does art survive in the overly commercialised world? Bandhu Prasad is among the optimists. “Why must an artist live in penury? Why can’t we find commercial avenues for the skills and crafts of an artist?” he questions. He believes art curatorship and management can be a profitable stream for a new breed of artists, but laments the lack of institutional support. “There is no management school in India that imparts such courses,” he says, armed with an exposure to such disciplines, thanks to the recent scholarships abroad. Well, this did seem a good approach, but one which will take a few years, if not decades, in getting the reckoning it needs.

Munching on this thought, I walk around the famed Aspin’s Wall with its historic lawn strewn with art installations and many makeshift galleries showcasing a variety of artists. What catches my eye was a small stall with a thoughtful child painted in black-and-white in the background. I am introduced to a late child prodigy, Clint. Clint was one month short of seven years when he died in 1989. But what he left behind is a treasure trove — hundreds of vivid colourful paintings, belying his age. One can’t help but get mesmerised.

It is the art of these little known masters that sets the city apart. A short walk down from Aspin’s Wall is the Synagogue Street, also called Jew Street. The street derives its name from the old synagogue that every travel guide will ask you to keep on your ‘must visit’ list. But more fascinating is the very street. What you find here is a heady combination of art, craft, food and comfort, a cocktail that the shopkeepers here have concocted to aid their survival.

Mansoor, a shop assistant, asks me as soon as I step in to take a closer look at one of the water colours displayed in the shop, “Are you looking for an art residency?” My curiosity arises and I promptly sit down with a cool lemonade and samosas that he claims his mother freshly made. So, what is common about samosas and art here? Availability. The art residency is nothing but cheap lodging for artists who would like to have some quiet time ruminating over their craft. Ranging between Rs 6,000 – Rs 8,000 a week, these residencies can accommodate about 15 artists at a time. As per Mansoor, many budding painters from Bengal, Odisha and Karnataka generally take up residence here for a period ranging from a couple of weeks to three months at a stretch.

These quaint shops suffice as art galleries as well as cafes to attract visitors. “Invariably those who walk in for a sip look around and see the paintings. Some get interested and buy,” a shopkeeper says. No, these shops don’t sell what you call the top artists, but the small and unknown ones, who cannot afford to be sold in classy art galleries. “Some of the works are really outstanding,” claims Janice Wall, a Swiss collector on her third visit to the city. She picks up cheap art work and antiques from here to be sold in her country. “You need to have an eye for the right thing and a lot of patience,” she says as she picks up some dried leaf paintings depicting Kathakali dancers.

Talking of Kathakali, some time during my observant walk, one of the cafes makes me buy a ticket to an evening performance by a local mandalam. “You must watch it, Madam. It is very good,” the shop owner insists. I could have missed the little lane with low rooftops housing a few rabbits and a turkey walking a few paces ahead of me. Tibetan food menus in bright colours hung from doorframes and painted on the white-washed walls of what looked like old rickety houses could have fooled me to believing this place was anything but an oasis of art and culture. However, the wafting fragrance of sandalwood incense sticks tickles my nose and has me moving ahead. At the curve of the lane is a quaint, traditional house with a welcoming lamp lighting the tiny courtyard. A handwritten placard hung from a tree branch announces I had reached my destination for the evening, Kerala Kathakali Centre.

It is these nondescript corners that the traditional art and culture is fighting a desperate battle to survive. At this centre run by VijayanKalamandalam with his 16 member group, Kathakali is performed every day for the past two decades. “Whether there is one member in audience or 100, we perform,” says Suchindran Kalamandalam, a group member, with conviction. Not only this, for the past few years this group has also come up with some novel ideas — yoga with music and morning raga for healing. “Ragas have healing properties and, if performed as per our Vedic prescriptions, they can cure many of our lifestyle illnesses and de-stress the body and mind,” claims Suchindran, a trained Carnatic vocalist. So, for Rs 200 you can have an exclusive live raga recital for an hour to de-stress yourself and for the same amount can have a yoga session coupled with rendition of flute and beats of the table.

Kathakali here is performed in a small but well maintained auditorium that can seat a maximum of 100, but sees a turnout of average 20 odd enthusiasts per day. “It is mostly foreigners who come; Indians are more interested in new malls and beach,” says Suchindran with a rueful smile. And, to cater for this audience, their pamphlets, describing the story being performed, are printed in German and French as well. What more, before the performance, they not only allow you to see the elaborate make up being put on by artists, but the group also takes time to explain each and every mudra, rasa and various intricacies of the performance. “We want the audience to not only enjoy the performance but understand the art form,” says Vijayan.

However, for the hard effort groups such as these put in, returns are meagre. They hardly find the means to sustain, let alone prosper. There is hardly any support coming by. The new generation is too engrossed in grooves of film music and pelvis-thrusting dance moves to appreciate or learn the traditional arts. “Kathakali is a devoted discipline, it takes a minimum of six years to learn the tala or laya that goes with it, almost a similar amount of time and patience is needed to master eye or wrist movements or even the make up. The schools are not interested to invest that much time,” laments Suchindran.

It is a tough battle indeed. Art is almost always run down by commerce. But it is the zeal of some people like the ones I met in Kochi whose sincere efforts evoke some hope. Yes, it is difficult, but survive they must!