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| Vol. 4, Issue 2 February 2012 |
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Arts & Reviews |
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Feature |
Up from the Totem Poles
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| Does community art matter? |
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COURTESY: HARIKRISHNA KATRAGADDA |
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| As part of the Hello to the Hauz! installation a Buraq, a winged-horse with a woman’s face, floats on the waters of the Hauz-i-Shamsi.
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HE SUN HAS DIPPED into the horizon. Evening slips in. The storm has subsided but wayward branches of trees rustle wildly with every burst of wind. We walk through the bylanes of Mehrauli. The stench of poultry mixes with the scent of muskmelon and genda phool. The effect is nauseating. |
We walk past a row of open-air shops selling gaudy clothing and spices until we finally stumble upon the ruins of the once-opulent Jahaz Mahal, a palace built in 15th-century Delhi. We’re on the lookout for a Buraq, a mythical winged-horse—the creature on whose back the Prophet Mohammed is said to have ridden to heaven. We were told it would be floating on the waters of the Hauz-i-Shamsi, the reservoir adjacent to the Mahal.
About 800 years ago, Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish had a dream in which the Prophet appeared on a winged-horse. The Buraq struck the earth with its hooves and water began to gush out. The Prophet then instructed the Sultan to dig a reservoir at that exact spot. The next morning, the Sultan found the hoof print he had seen in his dream etched into the earth. In 1229, the digging work commenced and the reservoir came to be called the Hauz-i-Shamsi. It single- handedly solved the water problem that had persisted in that region for years.
The hauz isn’t half as resplendent as it must have been centuries ago. The water is laced with algae, and garbage floats over the murky surface. Though built to supply water to the region, today the surrounding neighbourhood has to rely on water tankers for its daily requirements.
The stink of urine and rotting garbage is strong. We clench our noses. After minutes spent scanning the putrid surface, we spot the imitation Buraq, floating on the other side of the bank. We’re enthused, but a middle-aged man, wearing a banyan and a lungi, a resident of the neighbourhood, is amused by our sense of wonder and curiosity.
“What is that?” we ask him, feigning ignorance.
“Some kind of computer part,” he says as he spreads his freshly-washed clothes against the railing that fences off the lake.
“Who comes to see it?”
“People from outside. Tourists.”
“What is there to see in it?”
He points to a white-washed building on the other side of the bank and says, “On climbing that building, you have to dial a number. You can do it from here, too, but it’s a better sight from the top of the white building.”
“Have you ever dialled the number?”
“How can I dial it? I don’t have a phone.”
We go over to the other side of the bank to get a better view of the floating Buraq. As instructed, we dial the number (9873562911). It rings. There is silence on the other end. I say, “Hello.” Suddenly, the fairy lights strapped to the placid, three-foot high structure light up. The neighbourhood kids who’d been following us race toward the railing to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. The longer we speak, the longer the lights glow. When we run out of things to say, we urge the kids to sing into the phone.
By now, they are convinced this is magic. They had heard about the glowing Buraq, but this was the first time this set of kids had seen it glow. We had read about the mechanism that triggers off the ‘magic’ act, yet, in that hour of twilight, amid the heat and dust of Mehrauli, we couldn’t contain our sense of wonder, either.
Conceived and designed by 35-year-old artist Vishal Rawlley, the imitation Buraq functions on software that makes use of graphical programming language. A circuit is activated via cellphone and the software detects the decibel level of the voice input. Accordingly, a computer sends the sound information through a wireless radio frequency transmitter to a receiver on the Buraq. Presto! The lights, made up of Chinese, water-proof LED strips, come on.
Those who can’t make it to Mehrauli have the option of calling the Buraq over Skype (“hauz-i-shamsi”) and watching the spectacle unfold via a webcam, on their computer.
The installation is titled Hello to the Hauz!, and is part of an ongoing project, Beam Me Up, organised by the Swissbased Xcult.org that co-produces and curates Internet art. In his introduction to the project, Anand Vivek Taneja describes part of Rawlley’s process:
He floats on an inflated inner tube, and pedals with his hands and legs… He has to go bathe in Dettol every time he comes out of the lake. This in itself, the mucky part of the artistic process, attracts a large audience, rede- fining notions of ‘performance art.’ Young students at the local madarsa, old local landholders, local housewives out on their morning and evening walks, the cricket-players, the shopkeepers, all flock to the banks of the lake. Buraq has become familiar, but is still enthrallingly strange.
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Khoj’s Telephone Pyaar was a fictional audio project comprising telephonic conversations between young lovers. |
Once the installation was ready, pamphlets were distributed among local residents explaining the simple procedure involved in accessing it: dial a number and watch the Buraq light up. Since then, at least 30 to 35 people have been calling in every night. There is talk about a possible radio show, or singing contests, the idea being to encourage people to call in so the Buraq glows on a regular basis, and through this audio-visual interface brought about by the innovative use of technology, there could be a renewed consciousness about the historic and ecological value of the hauz.
This installation is one of the most creative instances of community art in India recently because of the intricate manner in which it has managed to involve the residents of the neighbourhood. Instead of going door-to-door preaching about the dying water, the artist chose to prod the community to re-examine its relationship with the pond. Each time a visitor stops by, to dial the Buraq and watch it glow, residents are forced to look at their neighbourhood from the perspective of an outsider. The familiar suddenly becomes strange as the eye scans all the filth and the garbage and other elements that make the place dirty and unsafe. Another bystander, a resident, confessed that he wouldn’t really encourage visitors to come here at night. “It’s very dangerous. People bring alcohol and sit here,” he said, apologetically.
There is the possibility that the novelty could soon wear off. The Buraq could just as easily lose its magical aura and, like the lake upon which it floats, become prone to neglect and disrepair. Like the man in the lungi and banyan said just as we were about to walk towards the sculpture, “It’s in fashion now. Made for the Games.”
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