Impassioned Rage in Civilised Dress

Art is a window to a culture’s soul, so is it any wonder I should have sought out a flagship piece upon moving to Dhaka several years ago? 

It’s daring. It’s brash. It’s bold.  The poster, ‘Goriber Chele, Boro Loker Meye’ or ‘The Poor Family’s Son, the Rich Family’s Daughter,’ in English, is simultaneously an art piece that is undeniably contemporary in outlook and yet without reticence in its clever allusions to tradition.  Without doubt a virtuoso accomplishment at the cutting edge of the twenty-first century Bengali nihilist collectivist pop art postmodernist movement, within the post-contextual stream, it is an artwork not to be underestimated.  Or at least, without being an art expert per se, that’s what I’m thinking.

To begin with, in its unusual print-on-paper poster format of bright colours and in its audacious collage arrangement of busy, engaging imagery, ‘Goriber Chele’ is a work that isn’t in need of a polite introduction in order to draw in the attention of the viewer.  Rather, it screams to be looked at.  That is surely why when carrying it home from the framers by rickshaw people on the street were laughing to see it and calling out their approval. 

And ‘Goriber Chele,’ the poster, upon having captured our attention, surely has little potential to disappoint.  Not least, the plastering of multiple editions of the work at one time across the city was surely an appeal for artwork for the masses, and as an artistic achievement, even Warhol must have admired it.  But what is it exactly that makes ‘Goriber Chele’ so memorable? 

For a start it’s in the detail, such as the sunshine in the hair of the woman portrayed in the top right of the piece.  With her sunlit hair strands almost reminiscent of freshly cut rice hay, there is clear allusion to the countryside and to nature.  The contrast with her unmistakably urban attire, with her make up and hair style clearly creatures of the city, is masterful, bringing one to wonder at the conflict between modern urban living and the natural environment.  It is after all within the natural world that our urban lifestyles must continue to exist.  And one is led to consider, is it modernity that made her slightly but pleasingly crooked smile or rather the warmth of the sunlight on her hair?  Like the Mona Lisa before her, we ask, what is it she is smiling about?

Meanwhile her male consort, who the artist Someone-or-Other has chosen as the focal point of the piece, looks intently into the distance, as if to survey the future not only for himself but for her too, and possibly the whole of society.  While his gold chain might signify that the present is not too bad, his expression and the fact that he hasn’t had time to brush his hair speaks of risk and danger in the coming days and years.  Surely Someone-or-Other has made a deliberate decision to not have him look directly into the eye of the viewer, giving us to understand that it is not the current society around him that is of primary concern.  Indeed, we are mere distraction.

Another subtlety to admire is the angle of the gun he carries.  It’s pointing skyward in what may well be a further concession to nature.  We cannot deny that it’s an angle which must be perfect for shooting wild ducks.  It’s all about survival.  Is that the message?

Also in the primary images of the man and woman are small yet significant symbols of Bengali culture, in the hand printed pattern of his bandana and in her delicately painted folk jewellery.  There can be no question that the artwork here conveys a sense of continuity, that whatever tensions he views in the future, whatever it actually is that is making her smile, the future will regardless occur within a Bengali cultural paradigm.  Bangladesh forever is what it says.  Bangladesh will survive.

Below the primary images, the male and female in the piece are reproduced, this time with the fellow holding a lathi or stick, and the woman in a more distressed state perhaps because her thumb is caught in her hair.  The joining of hands here gives purpose and strength to the pair and can it be that the two are battling the crowds and traffic in order to complete their Eid shopping in time?  It’s an image that’s relatable.  It’s an image that’s very much ‘now’.  And from the blood on his forehead we are given hectic, stressful and even barbaric: the full array of adjectives for the Eid shopping experience.  And another question looms unanswered: did they find the right sari for Aunty?

An artist of lesser talent may have stopped there, but Someone-or-Other was not content.  In the bottom left we meet two other portraits, of a business-suited bespectacled man aiming a pistol and another gentleman in a yellow jacket with a Munch-esque, horrified, shrieking expression, quite possibly conveying the important social message that things don’t always go well at the hairdressers’.

The pistol-toting gentleman meanwhile wears two rings, like taps in red and blue, hot and cold, which may point to the perennial changing of seasons or perhaps to the coexistence of extremes that we face while living in this mega city.  His is a gaze of greater intensity than that of the principal figure; and that expression of rage when combined with his suit and tie once again returns to us the idea of extremes, with impassioned rage in civilised dress, which is, not accidentally, a possible description of Dhaka itself.  And what is he aiming at?  Well he’s almost aiming at us, isn’t he?  His Dhaka includes and consumes and menaces us too.  That’s what it says.

As if all of that were not enough for us to take in, Someone-or-Other has taken the pains to illustrate the scene of burning cars in the background, which may be a plea for consensus on key issues or it might represent the feelings of enflamed frustration aroused in drivers and passengers while locked in the jam.  Perhaps it is up to us to decide which particular interpretation the artist has intended?

Lastly, worth mentioning, is the inclusion of the artwork’s name in bold, striking font at the bottom left.  Here again we must consider the work’s pop art foundations and there would seem to be overtures to business marketing in it, to branding and enterprise, a subtle statement that in the environment of the current century, even an artwork of this stature must have a capitalist purpose beyond its perplexing, philosophical array of themes and sub-themes.  It is not merely an intellectual feast extraordinaire, but also, almost, some kind of advertisement.

It has been a great privilege to have work of quality such as ‘Goriber Chele’ hanging on the wall at my house for the last several years.  It’s an art piece that invites critique from all comers, and in particular has brought a warm and welcome smile to some of the tradesmen who have reason to arrive, time to time.  And as much as it is a work to be enjoyed everyday, so its value as an investment cannot be overlooked.  With an initial purchase price of zero, when the cinema manager first gave it to me, I am convinced a work of such magnitude cannot but appreciate, and must be worth at least three times that amount within the next several years. 

It's a work that invites critique.

Thinking Chinese art is a river is more to your liking?  Or maybe vampire crafts are more your thing? Or sit back by the campfire and light the nights with a violin...




This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Impassioned Rage in Civilised Dress












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A Concise History of Cinema

The Ranjit Talkies, photo courtesy of Hotel The Hadoti Palace, Bundi

 
And…rolling! They barely touched in the days of Twinkle Khanna’s debut, the hero and the heroine, as they sang and danced and sensually raised eyes to one another on their way through their love story.  Even with machine guns while fighting the bad guys on the roof of a moving train there was time to dance.  For the most part the choreography stemmed from the little yellow flowers in the sublime fields of the rolling hills which were otherwise not part of the setting.  Heroines wore full saris back then; it was before the cost cutting on cloth. Cut!

Scene two: for young western backpackers in Rajasthan a tour could not be complete without a visit to a cinema hall.  There should be an introduction with at least one Kajol or Madhuri Dixit figure.  Fades out…

When my mother was about twenty-five what they called the picture theatre was an entertainment hub in the small town of Coonabarabran, the only spot on the map for the most of one hundred kilometres in any direction, on the edge of the Australian outback.  People gathered of a Wednesday and Saturday evening to touch base with Debbie Reynolds and Elizabeth Taylor.  It was in the days when the hero and heroine barely touched and before the cost cutting on cloth.  With less than four thousand people in the town a night at the pictures offered a view to the world beyond sheep stations and wheat fields.  The word ‘film’ is generally considered to have two syllables in Coonabarabran: fil-em.  Zooms in on wheat field…

Scene four: Bundi in Rajasthan is not a large town, about eighty thousand people, and amongst its attractions is a solid cinema hall, the Ranjit Talkies.  It’s difficult to pass by.  The scene was of a crowd that covered most of the area in front of the building, vaguely forming two snaking queues on the day we tried to pass.  There was the excitement of anticipation.  With curiosity and spare time to lead us to a close encounter with Bollywood, we joined the queue.

It wasn’t long before heads started turning and there were whispers.  It’s not every day there are foreigners in Bundi and it must be even rarer for them to attend the Ranjit Talkies.  The queue seemed to have hardly any life to it but for us it didn’t matter as somebody plucked us out and took us directly to the small window at the counter.  We were guests.  I believe it cost ten rupees, each ticket, and we’d not realised that those were the most expensive seats available.  We were guided like two of the Khans to mid-centre in the front row of the gallery. 

With the crowd filling the seats in the hall below and despite the full-volume continuing chatter, the fil-em was about to start.  Add dramatic background music…

In the Doris Days of my mother’s trips to the picture theatre my father had just arrived on the scene.  He’d come from Sydney as an engineer to partake in the building of Coonabarabran’s water supply dam.  Many years later when the river suffered from seasonal algae blooms and the water used to come out of the taps a green colour I used to say to my grandmother, ‘you should call your son-in-law and ask him why the water from his dam is green.’ 

And how mother met father well, in brief it’s not unlike a 1960s Hollywood plot.  There was a scene at a dance at the Buckley’s Woolshed in Tooraweenah, and it can’t be said of all couples that they first saw each other in a barn.  And there were picture theatre evenings in the plot, with Vivien Leigh in re-runs and Julie Andrews singing and dancing, although her dance sequences lacked the syncopated Bollywood troops appearing from nowhere to further enliven the moment.  Fades out…

Scene seven: in the Kim Basinger and Dan Akroyd years as kids in Sydney we were more worldly, preferring serious documentaries like ‘E.T.’ and ‘My Stepmother is an Alien,’ and although there were instances of small round chocolates called jaffas taking advantage of the sloping wooden floor, with the sound of jaffas rolling adding a kind of ten-pin bowling ambience to the cinema near my place, we didn’t talk through fil-ems.  When the lights would dim the audience would hush. 

In Bundi the fil-em lasted a monumental three hours plus intermission, Bollywood usual, and it was not as passive an experience as in Sydney.  People talked unashamedly which was good because the local guy beside me was able to discuss the on-screen events to ensure I was following the families-don’t-agree-to-the-match-but-it-happens-anyway storyline.  It was particularly caring that during the scene when the hero was wrestling a tiger he reassured that I should not be worried as it was only acting.  It helped me understand why in some shots a large wooden pole could be spotted protruding from the tiger’s back and why its limbs didn’t seem to move.  Cut to shot of tigers prowling…

And when to make conversation I tried to explain that in Australia a movie ticket would cost the best part of ten dollars my cinema companion became Amitabh angry.  He’d understood the Ranjit Talkies’ management had overcharged us, ten dollars, and was on the verge of leaping out of his seat to heroically run off downstairs to have it out with them in the foyer.  Guests were really to be looked after at the Ranjit Talkies; fortunately I could clarify before the action scene started.

It wasn’t only my father who had taken interest in my mother, so the plot continued.  There was also a pharmacist.  My grandmother was concerned about my mother’s reputation so she told her, in front of my father, to make a choice and see only one of them.  ‘I agree with your mother,’ my father chimed in, ‘and it should be me.’  Well, my mother: she only could’ve done what Audrey would’ve done.  Cut to close-up of heart-broken pharmacist…

In Bundi the projector had a problem and at various moments the film burst into flame, the projector would shut down and the lights would be turned up.  There was nothing for the audience to do while the Ranjit management fiddled about fixing things so they all turned around to focus on that other spectacle: the foreigners.  They were waving and calling hello.  Well, we only could’ve done what Shah Rukh would’ve done. We waved back, and I believe they applauded before the fil-em re-started.

With tickets available at the Ranjit for just a few rupees we appreciated the importance of cinema: providing escape from the materially difficult lives that many in the audience presumably lived.  Just as in Coonabarabran it was at the picture theatre where something beyond the routine of small town life could be enjoyed.  In the world’s largest democracy across religions and languages Bollywood unites; and in Australia in the 1960s, in a cameo role, one mother and one father the Hollywood pictures helped unite.

As would later occur in Eritrea after a wedding, on the following morning in Bundi as we walked down the street someone called from across the road, ‘did you like the film?’  Yes, we very much had, although there rightly should’ve been a song and dance routine to accompany our answer.  That’s a wrap!




Please note: the above concise history does not consider Bangladeshi cinema due to the constraint which arises from its being 'concise'.  Nor does said article cover that Eritrean wedding or a lovely river in China on account of it being about 'cinema.'


This article also published in Star Magazine, here: A Concise History of Cinema



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