Jamal Mecklai: Fear and loathing in the art market

MARKET MANIAC

The market for Indian art remains hysterically pumped up, as a result of which artworks are appearing, as if by magic, from everywhere. Nearly 1,000 works will have been auctioned between September and the end of the year, which begs the question: where is all this art coming from?

One rather shocking answer is that, even though auctions are all conducted by "reputed" houses, there are a mind-blowing number of fakes doing the rounds. A few months ago, I was in Kolkata, where a couple of senior and very well-considered artists told me""separately""that they were getting calls EVERY DAY from people they didn't know and had never heard of, asking them to authenticate their works. In 100 per cent of the cases (that I was told of), the works were fakes. On two occasions, the artist was asked to authenticate his signature""here too, they were fakes. One of the artists bemoaned what was happening, saying, "I don't feel like painting again. I just can't deal with these charlatans".

Of course, an artist is an artist and has no choice but to paint, but with serious, senior artists backing away from the circus, the door remains opens to fakes of dead artists. Dead men tell no tales and this may explain the huge number of Souzas, Aras, Gaitondes and even lesser-known (dead) stars like Sultan Ali that, in pristine condition, are doing the rounds.

Another source of the huge supply is the dozens of genuinely mediocre artists, who are churning out stuff, delighted in the belief that they are, indeed, great artists""simply because their price has risen from Rs 45,000 to Rs 12 lakh in a couple of years. Many of them were pure and committed just a few years ago, but, having been seduced by fat dealers (perhaps in more ways than one), now believe their own press. They believe they have a lot to say and that the world is paying attention.

Any piece of shocking news becomes worthy of their inspired brushes. If the moral police are getting too tough, let's do art about freedom of speech. If there is a sati in Rajasthan, let's do art about women's rights. If there is news about new sauchalyas being built, let's do art about well ... you know.

Now, these works are not technically fakes. But neither are they really art. What some of these eager beavers have yet to learn is that art needs no context. In fact, quite the reverse. Art in a context is merely journalism with a paintbrush. To create real art, you have to assimilate your experiences, let them burn through you, make you sick, change who you are""and then let them out from your heart. Not your head.

The only great artwork I can think of that has a loud and overt context is Guernica, Picasso's masterpiece about the Spanish civil war. That's it. No other. Granted, I'm hardly an authority on the matter and I dare say there are other works that directly reflect an event or a happening AND communicate on a visceral/spiritual level. But I ain't seen too many.

Great art catches your heart, your soul. It makes it difficult for you to think""it clouds your mind, it makes no sense. It is almost""no, completely""religious.

So, while I am all for the need to build art infrastructure and enhance the quality of art appreciation, all of it becomes redundant before, say, Monet's water lilies. I have sat for hours in front of one painting in that corner room in the (old) Museum of Modern Art in New York. And I've been back months and, then, years later and sat there for hours""again.

The Rothko chapel, in Houston, Matisse's swimming pool, (again) at MoMA in New York, Rodin's sculptures, anywhere""there are others, of course, but these come to mind immediately as great works of art, which move you, make you forget who you are, make you insane.

And, of course, there are a few artists in India who do that to me as well: Atul Dodiya's show about Sarbari, a bit player in the Ramayan, for instance. Being fully uneducated about the Ramayan, the title and the imagery meant nothing to me""fortunately. But the work was, somehow, so entrancing that I found myself unable to leave the room. I kept walking around and around the exhibit and I almost ended up missing a flight.

Sudarshan Shetty's recent show called Love was another time I could feel myself getting lost in the exhibit. Perhaps it was the hypnotic gong. Perhaps it was the arcane disconnect between the hardness and softness of the works. I don't know, but it was, again, hard to leave the gallery.

And then there's Sudhir Patwardhan. Straight, simple, just what it is. It's remarkable but there's nothing remarkable about his imagery and yet I can look at his paintings again and again and again. Of all the paintings I own, the one by him is by far the one I look at most. Perhaps it's the honesty or the guilelessness or the gentleness. I don't know. Again.

Of course, these are just examples of art that work for me, that give me""very personally""great value. Which, of course, has nothing to do with price, and all this hoopla about auctions and art funds and what have you has nothing whatever to do with art.