Banaal? Bennale? Bianniel?: An Art Ignoramus’ Guide to Kochi-Muziris Biennale 2018

Last week, on invitation by the Kochi-Muziris Biennale (KMB), I landed on the shores of Fort Kochi, that promised land of Instagrammable architectural facades and hipster art cafes, where the maddening heat and heady spice market can be an intoxicating cocktail for the uninitiated. But I’ve been on these lanes before—I'm three KMB editions old, to be precise. In between scrounging for Mallu food (you’ll be surprised how rare it is in the extremely touristy Fort Kochi) and thulping down iced Americanos (from the aforementioned art cafes) to staving off sleep deprivation and lethargy, I walked the familiar—albeit long and arduous—paths from Fort Kochi to Mattancherry, entering sprawling heritage structures that have been converted into temporary art galleries.

While one must credit the KMB for bringing artistic engagement relegated to wine and cheese affairs within the spiffy white cubes of Delhi and Mumbai, on to the streets of a city that has historically never been a mainstream art centre in India, there is also a larger question of “inclusivity”. The Kochi-Muziris Biennale, since its inception, has made one thing very clear—that this space is inclusive of all art forms, regions, communities and, most importantly, a non-art audience that has always been separated by a chasm of disregard and lack of information on contemporary art. Add to that apathy of the unhealthily narrow art market in the country. (Of course, as I was entered the biennale, I couldn’t but sardonically wonder if the recent #MeToo allegations against biennale co-founder Riyaz Komu and Subodh Gupta, one of the most powerful artists in India, would add to the cynicism. But that’s a conversation for later.)

I have spent the last two editions of KMB spewing inordinate ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, and wildly making up meanings out of thin air, sometimes with strangers who’ve joined in the gasps and nods. I have sat through video projections in dark rooms, sometimes just for the AC. This time around, I observed the biennale with some reticence, weighing in on the heaviness of the theme, 'Possibilities For a Non-Alienated Life', by the foundation’s first female and queer curator, Anita Dube. And, boy, was it heavy.

Call it a jadedness acquired from my years of gallery-hopping experience and that familiar “artsy” crowd—easy to spot in their conspicuous, anti-fit cottons, doling out haiku Instagram feeds and channelling the weary detachment of a hipster hermit—but my reticence was also met with one question: Can a non-art person enjoy something like this? (An overwhelming response by non-art friends to my biennale Instagram stories suggested otherwise.)

In an attempt to be inclusive of this dazed and confused demographic—one that will wonder why a whirlpool in a hole in the ground, which took the painstaking efforts of 50 labourers, is described as “sublime”, or why a clothesline in the backyard of a venue is an art installation—I took some help from the comics collective, Brainded India, who have been frequenting the biennale too, to bring out a (somewhat) definitive guide for the art ignoramus to attending and, most importantly, surviving the biennale. Here goes:

When the KMB was announced in 2012, I admit fumbling with the word until a former senior colleague corrected me. Since then, I’ve been correcting others, without being an asshole about it, of course. It’s an Italian word, after all, and doesn’t warrant a haughty “It’s bee-yay-naah-lay, you pleb” from an Indian.

Biennially, or once in two years. Additionally, the KMB here closely references the Venice Biennale, which is kind of the OG in the international art scene and was the first one to introduce the “biennale module”, which translates to taking art out of its box and placing it in a new context. This will explain a lot of, what you may call, “imports” on the pristine Kochi soils. Don’t @ them.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. Art, for me, is best enjoyed in the absolute state of unpreparedness and, of course, a sense of humour. At the risk of sounding absolutely douchey, let me say that you find art when you’re not looking for it. Of course, here that’s a lost cause because the biennale wants you to seek art and dissect it. Additionally, every artwork comes with jargon-laden explainers, which diminishes its purpose even further. So, yes, it’s okay to not “get” it. Take this 1961 artwork titled Artist’s Shit, for example—a tin of faeces sold at a Sotheby’s auction in 2007 for around Rs 99.3 lakhs. You’re better off with your cynicism.

I suggest flouncy anti-fit dresses, a lot of silver jewellery, and kolhapuris because that’s the ensemble that goes really well with the heritage warehouses of Mattancherry and Fort Kochi, which is where the venues are scattered. What’s the purpose of the biennale if your social media feed isn’t assaulted by our own version of Coachella fashion in one of the most conservative states in India? (As if on cue, a BJP-led hartal against the Sabarimala verdict during the opening week of the biennale presented itself as a fine cultural paradox against what has been called a feminist-led festival. Irony just died a thousand deaths). Thankfully, the micro-city of Fort Kochi is visibly numbed by our wide-eyed wonder over every door, wall, cycle, sacks of masalas, men in mundus, fish markets, Communist insignias on the walls, and even goats. #SoDone.

I’m just going to leave this Brainded illustration here to answer that:

Okay, fine. Keeping my cynicism aside, I would advise you to go in with the idea that every artwork there hopes to gain a new meaning in its new context: Kochi, a heterogenous space that has historically gone through a spate of social activism movements and acts as a catalyst for further experiments and radical expressions. Which means that even though the artwork by Guerilla Girls—a feminist collective from the US—on pro-choice may appear jarring in a conservative Christian set-up of Fort Kochi, their activism around gender and race is still extremely relevant in the #MeToo movement in India. It also means that some of the well-known international names such as Barthelemy Toguo from France, Sue Williamson from the UK and Monica Mayer from Mexico have created India-specific iterations to resonate with the Indian audience. The foreign artists outnumber the Indians (with a minuscule representation of Kerala artists), but the conversations have been tailored and altered to appeal to our realities. Well, somewhat.

I hope your extremely Indian stomach is made of steel because there are mostly art cafes in Fort Kochi and Mattancherry. Kashi Art Cafe is the crème de la crème of the lot, where you will see the aforementioned artsy jungle creatures waddling in too. Thankfully, the extremely endearing and relevant food pop-up by Edible Archives at Cabral Yard is killing it in the first month of the biennale—for non-Mallus, of course; all the Mallus I know have rolled their eyes at my gush-fest.

For a truly authentic experience of Kochi, though, I would advise you to travel far and wide—away from the art crowd—and wander into the many toddy shops of Kochi, which my writer-friend Nidhi Surendranath (and here comes a shameless plug) has chronicled in her definitive guide. She further notes, “Kerala consumes every kind of alcoholic beverage with a side dish of shame and guilt, and toddy bars are traditionally exclusively male spaces; few women dare to set foot inside their dingy, sweaty interiors.” And this is where I would finally urge you to put the biennale’s utopian dreamscape—about a space for the marginalised—into practice.

Follow Brainded India on their website. All the illustrations here were made during the third edition of KMB. They will be updating their 2018 KMB report soon.

Follow Pallavi Pundir on Twitter.