Till the economic downturn, the art market was booming. At its peak, in 2007, Mithu Sen launched her dhamaka, Free Mithu. She offered those who sent her a love letter by post, a free work of art. Not any old art work, but an option to pick from the various genres she creates. She invited approximately 300 people to participate, although the offer was open to everyone.
By the time the free art work was given away, at an event hosted by new-arts hub, Khoj, in Delhi, over 150 had sent her their versions of a love letter. One became the text for the show, by a scholar on South Asian art, Beth Citron, who became a co-pilot. Others were mangoes, poetry and cake.
If at the beginning Mithu introduced a subversive element within the art market, the end was quite different. It was held during a sombre, low period — the February of 2009 — when most artists found their works unsold. The unplanned consequence was the shift in the idea of a free, high-value gift. Without clearly foreseeing the downturn, Mithu tried to create a buffer between the fluctuations and the prices of her work by introducing a new currency — a love letter addressed to her.
Yet, the markets couldn’t be kept out — in peak time, Mithu would likely have got many more responses, and stiffer resistance from those who previously invested in her work. The idea was itself contested. Some people were indignant at being “humbled” by a free gift they believed they could afford to buy in conventional currencies, and others horrified at the vulgar sale of love, the exclusive domain of close friends.
Put up as a display on the day of the “gifting-ceremony”, Mithu’s works and her love letters were set up in three pink rooms, the colour taunting and embracing the stereotype of love, un-sophistication and the frivolous. One where the love letters were presented on a giant screen, and the opportunity to write more letters for a lottery, made available. A second, the lottery room, with four large signature works that any of the letter writers could win. A fifth work was reserved for Shah Rukh Khan, (Mithu’s a fan), who was about to be sent the work without any expectations.
A third room followed, where the free gifts were displayed, hanging on the wall, as painstakingly wrapped packages. Each was wrapped in a frilly pink, printed pillowcase with handles, suggesting both dreams and intimacy. Inside, the works were wrapped in paper, making comparisons difficult. You couldn’t look the gift horse in the mouth.
This was Mithu’s boudoir, where visitors were welcomed, and the exchange — the currency conversion — took place. Sometimes it scarcely did because the intended recipient was pushed for time, wanted to grab the free gift and leave. A new denomination of Mithu’s currency came to light — the love letter as the minimum price for a freebie. The low market didn’t actually lower the value of her gift — it was sought out greedily, happily, perhaps buoyed by the thought of the high market likely to return.
There was nothing straightforward about the politics of shifting currencies. This act itself underscored the artist’s ownership — as the decision-maker about who gets which work, without having to explain. This stood in opposition to how art markets work. It propelled people to cynically wait for the gift, expecting a thumbnail sized something. There was sharp suspense about whether Mithu would really cold shoulder the market. There were the crossroads — to be overwhelmed at the idea of such affection. Most fascinatingly, it allowed space for recipients to relate to the wrapped work not as rightful owners but through a multiplicity of other negotiated positions.
