As the rustling sound of dried bamboo leaves gave a call for the setting autumn, my heart too felt heavy and colourless with the fall. Undoubtedly, people wait for this season to drape themselves in hues of chocolate latte, but my days were endlessly monotonous like a desert, no oasis in sight, not even a mirage to delude me. I tried to paint or crochet, to give myself a sense of fulfilment as time passed like a chaste Victorian lassie.
As an art enthusiast, I have always been interested in visiting art exhibitions in the city. Though I am no virtuoso of art, I pursue self-learning when it comes to the diverse forms of art. I say this with full memory of that one time when I enrolled in an art school, three months in and I was done. It felt like prison.
By the end of October [2023], I planned to visit another art exhibition, ‘Queer Objects 1.0’, which was curated by Rishav Thakur, whom I met at another queer art exhibition in Guwahati. The theme of ‘Queer Objects 1.0’ was rather different – it sought to highlight the queerness of artists, performers, and thinkers through their engagement with objects and narratives around small things.
My first visit to the exhibition was a solo date as I prefer being a solitary observer. My walk into the Gauhati Artists’ Guild gallery was relaxed. My heart felt alive as I stood in front of every art piece, easily finding relatability and acceptance. Every piece had something beautiful to offer, and some of the offerings came in tragic ways.
As soon as I stepped into the gallery, a silver utensil with a note caught my attention. Written on it was the word kerahi, which is Assamese for wok. Though it was unusual to have such a daily-use object displayed as art, I was not astounded. It was a utensil, a wedding gift received by the person who lent it to the exhibition. The note by the curator read: “Y had always found men’s biceps attractive but did not have the conceptual resources, support or exposure to think about his gender or sexuality. In the 1980s, there was little to no discussion about queerness. Following life’s course, he married a woman in the mid-90s. This marriage lasted for some years till Y separated from his wife due to various incompatibilities. Over the years, Y has slowly allowed themselves to be their queer self.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Isn’t life a process of metamorphosis? The thing that astonishes me the most about any art is that every person sees it from their own lens. An art piece can be unfolded into a million different interpretations based on the viewer’s perception. In Sigmund Freud’s language, art becomes the ‘projection’ of the viewer’s inner desires, whatever we project onto the art. But then, did I also change as I navigated through such art?
I moved forward, incomprehensibly gathering serotonin with all the unexplored curiosity that the gallery held. Even as I was admiring a series of paintings by Rudra Kishore Mondal, a Kolkata-based artist, my attention was captivated by a mix-media piece by Kheya Barai from Nagaon. This piece had a man’s white cotton vest with two crepe bandages placed where the breasts are located. The bandages belonged to a trans masculine person who had used them as a chest binder. The accompanying note explained that such DIY binders can cause chronic injury to the tissues surrounding the chest. It is a depressing reality though that not many trans masculine persons can afford proper binders to deal with their gender dysphoria. The artist successfully depicted this deep sense of tragedy through their artwork.
As I continued my exploration, I came across photographs, clothing, paintings, mix-media pieces, and poems. Every piece stood out on its own.
I walked my way to the second hall, discerning my own artworks. A few months ago, Rishav had collected a bralette, which I had crocheted, for this very project of ‘Queer Objects 1.0’. There they were, the photographs of my crocheted bralette worn by me. Beautiful doodles by artist A. Roy embellished the pictures, giving them a brilliant artistic look (see adjacent photograph). The curator approached me, enquiring if it was to my liking. Such serendipitous collaboration was delightfully astounding.
It took me a few moments to realize that the exhibition not only emphasized queerness in sexuality, but also sought to give space to other marginalized aspects of a queer person’s life, whether it be their tribal identity, caste oppression, or their religion. One such enactment was found in Mwdai’s performing art setup. As much as I could understand from secondary sources, Mwdai uses conversations as their medium of art. Sitting in a designated area, covering their face with their mother’s mekhela, they narrated their story to the exhibition visitors and conversed with them, whoever was interested. Perhaps the anonymity provided a sense of relief. At the same time, it might have given Mwdai and the participants an immense sense of power to be able to talk about things that had deeply impacted them. Unfortunately, Mwdai had to leave the city before I could meet them in person.
The space for Mwdai’s durational performance titled Chrome remained unoccupied and almost lifeless for a day or two. Rishav explained that anyone willing could assume the role of a living queer (art) object and sit in Mwdai’s place to continue the performance in their own unique way. Perhaps this was the oasis I was looking for? I sat down where Mwdai had sat. I was enveloped in sweat, counting backwards to relieve myself of anxiety. I have this habit of getting irrationally anxious in foreign situations. I had brought my crochet threads and hooks. I tried to sit down comfortably behind Mwdai’s screen, her mother’s mekhela (see main photo). Though the level of interaction with the visitors was entirely up to me, my anxiety started taking a toll right from the first few minutes. As I started chaining the thread while yarning over the hook, each loop felt different.
I was expecting visitors and viewers to be curious, drowning me with questions. The concept behind this performance was to provide a platform for individual narratives, to celebrate the multiplicity of voices within the queer communities, and to foster a sense of unity, of individual as well as shared histories. With the minutes turning into hours, I had several curious viewers standing in front of me, trying to decipher the activity I was engaged in as I sat in the seat that Mwdai had occupied. A few asked about the activity, while others were curious as to why I had chosen to be behind a screen. I used limited words to answer them. After sitting in that spot for almost two hours, I stepped out, leaving the space for the next volunteer.
On my way back home, I reflected on the experience. That day, I realized the power that a conversation holds. I was happy that I had pushed myself out of my comfort zone. The monotony of the fall was somehow changing. I could not visualize the oasis clearly, but perhaps I had caught a glimpse of one.
Maybe life is all about finding an oasis, and all the small moments give us a glimmer of hope that the oasis does exist. Maybe these moments are what make up the oasis. We never know. Nonetheless, das glück der kleinen dinge – the happiness of small things – is what I claim to live by, and this experience was an immersive one for the realization of my oasis.
The first article in this series written by Assam-based freelance digital artist Mekuriiko can be read here – Editor.
About the main photo: The author prepares to present a demonstration of her crocheting art at the ‘Queer Objects 1.0’ exhibition. Photo credits: Bhaskar Rabha
Indeed, all marginalized people need some kind of oasis to preserve their mental health.