Hung Liu, Resident Alien, 1988, oil on canvas, 60 x 90 x 2 inches (San José Museum of Art) © 2025 Hung Liu Estate

Resident Alien is a painting that looks like paperwork. Though its large size and slightly uneven lettering announce the artwork’s handmade status, the official language, paperwork fields, and fingerprint register as a government document. Based on Hung Liu’s own resident alien card issued by the Immigration and Naturalization Service in 1984, the painting expresses a deeply personal experience awkwardly shaped and standardized by cookie-cutter bureaucracy that applies the same process to the varied and diverse lives of individuals.

Liu’s painting replicates the proportions of a green card. Dispassionate data fields for Name, DOB (Date of Birth), Alien Number, POE (Point of Entry), and Class in red identify, track, and label a living person as “Resident Alien.” Green card holders are typically eligible to apply for citizenship after a period of time. A three-quarter profile of Liu adheres more to Italian Renaissance portrait conventions than frontal ID photography. Reserved but noticeable brushwork creates tension between her handmade authorship and the institutional authority of a government ID card. In painting herself in a version of her own residency card, Liu wrests authorial control from INS that would identify her, number her, and track her. [1] “Resident Alien” is a self-portrait entangled in government bureaucracy.

Hung Liu with Resident Alien, Capp Street Project, 1988 (photo: © Ben Blackwell)

Life and education

Liu waited four years for a visa to the United States after she received admission to the University of California, San Diego in 1980. She finally immigrated in 1984. Born in 1948 in Changchung, China, Liu directly experienced much of China’s political turmoil in the 20th century. Liu’s father, an officer in the Nationalist Army, which lost the Chinese Civil War (1927–36; 1945–49), was imprisoned in a labor camp when Liu was only six months old; Liu’s mother was forced to divorce her father. Liu would not see him again until 1994. In 1968 in her early twenties preparing for medical school, the Cultural Revolution (1966–76) sent Liu and others labelled “intellectuals” to the countryside for “reeducation” on a military farm. [2]

While threshing rice, digging ditches, caring for horses, and fertilizing fields, Liu continued to sketch in secret and take photographs of the peasants she befriended with a borrowed camera. [3] In 1972 she was able to enroll at the Beijing’s Teachers College to study art, specifically art in service of the Party. Liu said of her education, “artists were expected to be tools of propaganda.” [4] In 1981 she graduated with a degree in mural painting from the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing, a prestigious art school that would later graduate artists with political and critical viewpoints.

Liu wanted to further her art education. It wasn’t easy. About getting her visa, Liu said, “At every level, they tried to stop me.” [5] Nevertheless, Liu along with artists including Ai Weiwei was part of the first generation of Chinese citizens to study abroad in the United States following the normalization of relations between the United States and China in 1979. At the University of California, San Diego she studied with Allan Kaprow, the performance artist who initiated ‘Happenings,’ alongside fellow students Carrie Mae Weems and Lorna Simpson. In the United States, Liu explored the hardships of peasants and immigrants, especially women. [6] Liu eventually settled in Oakland where she taught at Mills College from 1990 until her retirement in 2014. She died in 2021 at age 73.

Self-portrait of an Asian American artist

Liu painted Resident Alien four years after she arrived in the United States. While researching historical photographs of Chinese immigrants in 1988 during a residency at the Capp Street Project in San Francisco, she decided to include her own immigration experience. The resulting exhibition was also titled “Resident Alien”—a term Liu associated with Sigourney Weaver in the movie Alien. [7]

Hung Liu, Resident Alien, 1988, oil on canvas, 60 x 90 x 2 inches (San José Museum of Art) © 2025 Hung Liu Estate

Liu plays with the naming authority of government documents in Resident Alien. Viewers scanning details will notice that Liu put her date of birth, “DOB,” as 1984, the year she arrived in the United States and began what was, in many ways, a new life. A deliberate misspelling of immigration reading “Immignation” on the top of the green card implies the United States is a country of immigrants. In a san serif font, the Resident Alien permit identifies the card holder not as Hung Liu, but as “Cookie, Fortune.” The fortune cookie, often given gratis with the check at U.S. Chinese restaurants did not originate in China, but in California, most likely in San Francisco. “Fortune cookie” is also a pejorative racist slur objectifying Chinese women Liu heard and then turned into a symbol of existing between cultures.

Though immigrating to the United States gave Liu more liberty in her artistic career, it was not without its complications. The green card itself is evidence of the required documents, bureaucratic processes, and paperwork immigrants are obliged to undergo. [8] Liu returned to the idea of living between two cultures repeatedly throughout her oeuvre; “Resident Alien” in many ways foreshadows themes in Liu’s later work focusing on the Chinese immigrants who built railroads across the United States, picture brides, the so-called “Comfort Women” abused by the occupying Imperial Japanese Armed Forces during WWII.

Liu would continue to work with photographs, complicating their documentary qualities with the expressive possibilities of paint. In a series made shortly before her death in 2021 titled “After Lange” referring to Dorothea Lange, the photographer who documented and visualized the Dust Bowl, Liu painted migrants, many of them children, and their difficult labor conditions.

Jordan Nassar, A Mountain Looms, 2023, hand-embroidered cotton on cotton, 213.4 x 213.4 x 2.5 cm (Courtesy of Private Collection and Jordan Nassar; photo: Dan Bradica) © Jordan Nassar

Tile Panel, c. 1650–1700, stone paste and paint, 135.1 x 136 cm (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York)

In A Mountain Looms, Palestinian-American artist Jordan Nassar stitches together an abstracted image of his father’s ancestral homeland. The work comprises sixteen panels, each hand-embroidered in cotton threads of red, black, and blue. Their geometric patterns are precise and densely-packed in a manner consistent with much Islamicate decorative art, from textiles to tilework. The piece makes little use of negative space, save for the border of unembellished cotton canvas that frames each square. Our eye is drawn to the individual panels and the intricate details of their embroidery. Only from a distance do the tiles reveal a cohesive image: the silhouette of a rocky mountain set against a patterned sky.

Born and raised in Manhattan, Nassar works in the centuries-old Palestinian tradition of tatreez (embroidery) to create elaborate compositions that capture the experience of living in diaspora. Nassar created A Mountain Looms in 2023 in collaboration with Palestinian craftswomen living and working in the West Bank. This colorfully embroidered polyptych illustrates how Nassar’s engagement with the living history of Palestinian craft traditions both preserves and strengthens cultural ties across distance, displacement, and difference.

Bethlehem Moon and Feather tatreez motif (detail), Jordan Nassar, A Mountain Looms, 2023, hand-embroidered cotton on cotton, 213.4 x 213.4 x 2.5 cm (Courtesy of Private Collection and Jordan Nassar; photo: Dan Bradica) © Jordan Nassar

Tradition and contemporaneity

Nassar picked up tatreez as “a crafty, flamingly gay kid basically trying to find [his] place in a diaspora family.” [1] With no one to teach him tatreez first-hand, Nassar mastered the craft by copying patterns in handbooks. When Nassar learned that most patterns are unique to and nameable by the Palestinian village from which they originate, he began to create his own arrangements. In an interview, Nassar said, “I learned each pattern comes from a village, but I’m not from a village. I’m from New York. So I made up a bunch of patterns that look like Palestinian embroidery that don’t exist there as a way for a Palestinian in New York to participate.” [2]

Mimar Sinan, mihrab and minbar, Rüstem Paşa Mosque, Istanbul, 1561–63 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A Mountain Looms combines traditional tatreez motifs, like the Damask Rose and the Bethlehem Moon and Feather, with Nassar’s more novel additions, including distinctive blue-and-black curvilinear patterns arranged across a diagonal set of four tiles that extend from the top left corner to the bottom right. While these embroidered designs clearly recall the blue-and-white ceramic tiles that still embellish Ottoman-era mosques (such as the Rüstem Paşa Mosque in Istanbul) and palaces, they also evoke the computer-age aesthetics that Nassar frequently engages in his broader multi-disciplinary practice, comprising t-shirts, zines, and mixtapes.

Blue-and-black curvilinear design (center) with Bethlehem Moon and Feather (left) and Damask Rose (right) motifs (detail), Jordan Nassar, A Mountain Looms, 2023, hand-embroidered cotton on cotton, 213.4 x 213.4 x 2.5 cm (Courtesy of Private Collection and Jordan Nassar; photo: Dan Bradica) © Jordan Nassar

As Nassar explains, cross-stitching is “in a way, the first pixelation”: much like the pixel, the stitch is a modular unit that, when repeated, functions as a building block for a larger visual composition. [3] By drawing this comparison between the stitch and pixel, Nassar challenges the perception of Palestinian arts—and by extension, Palestinian identity—as relics of a nearly-forgotten past. Instead, Nassar demonstrates that tatreez is a dynamic and evolving practice, one that remains deeply relevant to both contemporary Palestinian culture and global contemporary art.

Cypress motif on the back of a Palestinian thobe, Traditional Dress (Thobe), early 20th century (pre-1920s), cotton, taffeta, atlas silk, and silk embroidery, 139 x 122 cm (Brooklyn Museum)

Tatreez after 1948

For generations, the tatreez stitches on a Palestinian woman’s thobe (dress) indicated her position (as a daughter, wife, or mother), her family, or her village. These patterns, some of which date to the late 18th century, were passed down matrilineally through oral transmission and hands-on learning. An individual dressmaker would often modify patterns to reflect her lived experiences, adorning her thobe with images from her everyday surroundings. One dress from the Al-Khalil area, for example, features regional variations on the popular “ears of corn” and “cypress tree” motifs, connecting the wearer to the natural landscape of her home; many of these floral or vegetal patterns also served symbolic functions, with the stately cyprus tree representing longevity and resilience.

Beginning in the mid-20th century, as the Arab-Israeli Wars dramatically reshaped Palestinian life and land, tatreez gained new political significance. In 1948, during the creation of the State of Israel, over 750,000 Palestinians were displaced from their homes, and at least another 15,000 were killed. These events, which led to the depopulation of more than 500 Palestinian towns and villages, are remembered in Arabic as al-Nakba, meaning literally “the catastrophe.” After al-Nakba, Palestinian refugees living in neighboring Lebanon, Jordan, and Syria used tatreez to stay connected to their distant homeland. During this time, dressmakers began sharing patterns that had once been specific to individual villages across different regional communities; these designs blended and evolved across the broader community of displaced Palestinians in refugee camps, resulting in a reimagining of traditional styles.

Intifada thobe, late 20th century, factory woven cloth, hand embroidered (cross stitch), 133 x 50 cm (Textile Research Centre, Leiden)

In the aftermath of the First Intifada some forty years later, women still living in occupied Palestine began embroidering their thobes with stitches of red, green, and black. Sometimes called intifada thobes, these garments became a subversive way to evoke the Palestinian flag, which Israel first outlawed in 1967 (that year, during the Six-Day War, the State of Israel claimed control over Jerusalem, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip, as well as the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt, bringing more than one million Palestinians in these occupied territories under Israeli rule). The display of the flag in public spaces was prohibited until 1993. Today, artisans continue to integrate contemporary colorways and new designs into traditional forms much in the same way that Nassar imagines new tatreez patterns for his global village of diasporic Palestinians.

Land and landscape in the diaspora

The image spanning Nassar’s sixteen panels is a simplified mountainscape. Although its craggy outline echoes the stone terraces characteristic of Palestine’s central highlands, the titular mountain does not clearly represent any specific or identifiable location. Rather, A Mountain Looms invokes an imagined Palestine, one that lives in the hearts and minds of those in the diaspora. The Palestine Nassar portrays here is reconstructed from the memories of his Palestinian-American father, which are themselves distorted by time, distance, and a sense of longing. This complex relationship to place is, as Palestinian cultural critic and theorist Edward Said notes, emblematic of the diasporic experience. He writes, “When we cross from Palestine into other territories, even if we find ourselves decently in new places, the old ones loom behind us as tangible and unreal as reproduced memory or absent causes for our present state.” [4] The centrality of place to the diasporic experience, as well as to contemporary Palestinian geopolitics, has made landscape a central and recurring subject in Nassar’s work.

A queer lineage

Nassar frequently credits fellow queer Arab artist Etel Adnan with inspiring his fondness for landscape compositions. Like Nassar, Adnan was also a part of the Arab diaspora. Born in Lebanon to a Greek mother and Syrian father, she spent much of her adult life between Beirut, Paris, and Northern California. In the 1950s, Adnan began a series of vibrant landscapes, abstracted into rudimentary shapes and often painted in just three or four colors; many featured a mountain at their center. Nassar’s tatreez works make clear formal references to Adnan’s influence, some even taking their titles from lines of her poetry. By referencing and reimaging Adnan’s mountainscapes through the medium of tatreez, Nassar positions his work within an art historical lineage that is at once Palestinian and queer.

Etel Adnan, Untitled, c. 1960s, oil on canvas mounted to board, 47 x 53.5 cm (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) © Estate of Etel Adnan

While neither Adnan’s nor Nassar’s unpopulated mountainscapes explicitly visualize a queer subject, both can be understood as objects of a queer contemporary art. In scholarship, as in many people’s lived experiences, queerness is a matter of disrupting traditional binaries and boundaries—not only in terms of gender and sexuality, but also race, nationality, ability, and identity more broadly. Similarly, these artists’ ambiguous landscapes collapse dichotomous boundaries between “here” and “there.” We can not tell, for example, if Adnan’s mountains belong to the Lebanese countryside or the California coastline. Nassar’s tatreez works also challenge art historical binaries: between craft and fine art; textile and painting; even tradition and contemporaneity. They may also be understood as traversing certain gendered boundaries, as they are created in collaboration with a community of Palestinian artisans historically made up of women.

A Mountain Looms also plays with the idea of duality on a formal level. At first glance, Nassar’s stitches appear to be just two colors: red and blue. Looking more closely, we see the subtle variations in color that lend the work its visual complexity: the threads are vibrant pink, peach, pale blue, cerulean, and even black. These tonal shifts reveal a spectrum rather than a strict binary. In this way, the work’s composition mirrors its thematic concerns, suggesting that what may seem dichotomous—in color, identity, or place—is often in fact fluid and even interwoven.

From Chamba Rumals and Kantha embroidery to Kalamkari and Kanjivaram brocades, one can find a rich repertoire of textiles that feature religious imagery across the Indian subcontinent. These textiles are used in religious rituals and ceremonies as coverings for sacred objects, offerings to God, make-shift shrines and as accompaniments to storytelling practices. In this topic, we explore how textiles serve as canvases for figural and symbolic representations of deities and how their use is embedded within rituals, traditions, and practices of worship.

Srinathji Swaroop Pichwai, 19th century, mineral pigments on cotton fabric, 199 x 173 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Imagery

South Asian textiles often depict religious imagery and narratives. Pichwais, for instance, feature Shrinathji, an avatar of Lord Krishna, and are hung behind the idol at the Nathdwara temple in Rajasthan. They incorporate diverse traditions such as block printing, painting, embroidery, and even machine-made lace. While textiles such as Chamba Rumals usually represent the Raas Leela, a mythological episode narrating Krishna’s dance of passion with the women of the village called Gopis, Pichwais illustrate tales from the deity’s childhood as a 7-year old cow-herder. The representation of Shrinathji on these textiles draws heavily from other visual art of the region, such as Rajput schools of miniature painting. As you can see in the images, Shrinathji is commonly seen with his left hand raised, to invoke a famous legend about Krishna lifting a mountain to protect the people of his village from the relentless rain. He is most often depicted in colors such as blue and black. Along with embodying unique aesthetics, Pichwais are also embedded within ritualistic practices and are an important part of Krishna worship in the region.

Thangka Depicting Mahasiddha Avadhutipa, c. 1600, distemper on cloth, 78.7 x 66 cm

Another rich source of religious imagery in the subcontinent can be found in the Buddhist Thangka scrolls of the Himalayan region, primarily Sikkim, Nepal, and Tibet. The visual representation of deities on these textiles, including hand gestures, bodily poses, and color, are carried out in strict accordance with rules laid down within ancient scriptures. These narrative scrolls also depict mythological episodes and contain motifs such as mandalas. They incorporate several complex techniques such as Gyasar brocades, appliquéd silks, satin weaves, and embroidery. Thangkas mainly serve as pedagogical tools in monasteries to guide meditative practices and teach scriptures to younger generations of monks.

Thangkas and Pichwais not only serve as containers of a rich visual culture, but also as we have seen, embody religious meanings and functions.

Portable shrines

Textiles are believed to possess sacred powers due to their material and spiritual significance in various rituals of worship. They often also serve as altars that communities revere and venerate, carrying out architectural functions such that they simultaneously embody the deity and the shrine. They contain narratives of village or tribal deities that are otherwise only preserved in oral traditions.

Mata Ni Pachedi, 20th century, cotton, natural dyes, 224 x 136 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Mata Ni Pachedis, for instance, belong to a subversive religious practice of the Vaghri community of Gujarat. These textiles were used as tent-like shrines as the community was barred from entering temples due to their lower-caste status. Hand-painted or block-printed, predominantly in shades of maroon and black, they depict the miracles performed by patron deities.

Pabuji Ki Phad, late 20th century, fabric paint, cotton, 165 x 91 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Similarly, Pabuji ki Phad documents stories from the life of Pabuji, the folk deity of the Rabari community in Rajasthan. It is said that the Phad, or the shrine cloth, gains its sacred powers once the eyes of the deity are painted onto it. This ties in with the spiritual concept of darshan, the ritual act of seeing and being seen by a deity, a potent form of worship in many religions across the subcontinent. In addition to being worshipped by the village Bhopa, or priest, the Phad is also a visual accompaniment to oral storytelling and songs that praise the deity.

This wall hanging includes the Charan Chinhas (sacred footprints) motif, as well as an embroidered inscription of the the name and title of the guru Vijenji. Wall Hanging (Puthia) Depicting the Feet of a Jain Monk, 1667, silk plain weave with silk, silver, and silver-gilt thread embroidery in couching, chain, darning, and satin stitches, 33 x 38.4 cm (Philadelphia Museum of Art)

Symbolism and allegory

Very often sacred textiles refer to spiritual concepts symbolically, instead of visually representing images of deities. In some cases, such as the Namavali textiles, the names of gods or goddesses are painted, printed, or embroidered on fabrics to imbue them with spiritual powers. Such textiles are then worn by devotees during festivals and religious ceremonies. Others have specialized motifs associated with the deity instead of bodily representations. For instance, in Jain embroidery, some gurus are represented through aniconic motifs like Charan Chinhas (sacred footprints) rather than figural forms. Additionally, the word of God directly inscribed on textiles, or recited during their making have also imbued them with protective powers.

Zardosi Temple Backdrop (Chod), 20th century, silk, cotton, gilt metal yarn, gilt metal wire, sequins, gilt metal bullion, 58 x 104 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Jain shrines also use ornamental wall hangings, known as Chods, as backdrops to deities in temples. While they are not independently worshipped like shrine cloths, they form an important part of the Jain faith as they contain symbolic imagery. Typically, they feature Surya and Chandra, the sun and moon gods, alongside floral, animal, and figural motifs. These are most commonly found in conjunction with a matching square canopy, Chandarvo, that is hung over the deity.

Darshan Dwar Phulkari, 20th century, cotton, floss silk, 208.5 x 134 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Finally, some textiles not only use motifs to symbolize deities and gurus but to also recall sacred spaces. For instance, the Darshan Dwar Phulkari of Punjab (present-day India and Pakistan) prominently features an architectural gateway motif, signifying the entrance to Gurudwaras, shrines of the Sikh community. Pieces of Phulkari embroidered with this motif are often presented as offerings to God.

In recent decades, ritual textiles such as Pichwais, Thangkas, and Mata Ni Pachedis have begun to be produced commercially. Yet, each of them remains associated with sacred meanings for the communities that create and use them. These textiles are carriers of age-old religious practices and are lasting symbols of devotion and spirituality.

Drawing from articles on The MAP Academy

Exhibition Poster of Farid Haddad’s exhibition at Contact Art Gallery 1972 (Farid Haddad archive)

Waddah Faris, Farid Haddad, 1973 © Waddah Faris

“What is this exhibition? It is not serious.” [1] With these words, a Lebanese art critic, Nazih Khater, expressed the confusion that many visitors felt during the opening of Farid Haddad’s exhibition “Hearts and Monuments” on March 7, 1972, at the newly founded Contact Art Gallery in Beirut, Lebanon. Reactions to the exhibition, and to the works he presented, created a controversy. While some art critics praised the experimental exhibition, others were confused by the sketchy nature of the signed pieces. In the exhibition’s booklet, Haddad revealed that he never thought of “finishing” a painting. For him, starting one was far more interesting.

These ambiguous works left the viewer with more questions than answers. At the same time, they also reflected the artist’s profound understanding of art and artistic creation as an endless process of exploration. Haddad confronted visitors to the show with ideas that required an effort to unpack. The multiple dimensions and possible meanings of the works required the patience to look beyond the visible. The exhibition was a challenge, but the city was ready for it.

Hamra Street in Beirut, early 1970s, photographed by Waddah Faris © Waddah Faris

Beirut the artistic center

Experimentation, openness, and fluidity characterized the atmosphere of Beirut during the 1960s and 1970s. At that time, the city, and more specifically the thriving Ras Beirut area, had developed into the cultural and artistic center of the region. Writers, intellectuals, and artists from neighboring countries such as Palestine, Syria, Iraq, and Egypt were flocking there since the 1950s and actively contributing to its vibrant cultural life, thereby creating the cosmopolitanism that was crucial for Beirut’s development into what artist Kamal Boullata once described as the “metropolis of Arab modernity.” [2] It provided a space for artistic experimentation, intellectual debate, and political contestation. Coupled with a significant influx of foreign capital and a flourishing tourism sector catering mainly to a wealthy European and Arab clientele, this period has come to be known as the “Golden Sixties.”

Farid Haddad at the famous Caves du Roy nightclub in Beirut in 1972 with Lebanese artists Aref El Rayess and Amine El Bacha, photographed by Waddah Faris © Waddah Faris

Beirut was then burgeoning with numerous art galleries, cultural centers, and modern hotels, all of which organized art exhibitions featuring local, regional, and international artists. At that time, exhibiting in Beirut, especially in one of the city’s renowned art galleries, was an important step in the career of Lebanese and other Arab artists.

Ras Beirut was also home to the Fine Arts Department of the American University of Beirut, where Haddad completed his undergraduate degree in 1969 before attaining a masters degree from the University of Wisconsin at Milwaukee. It was in this lively setting that the artist exhibited his 1972 work Untitled, featuring a heart and an arrow, as part of his exhibition “Hearts and Monuments.” This was one of the very first examples of conceptual art in Lebanon, providing a unique insight into the artist’s research process.

Farid Haddad, Untitled, 1972, gouache on paper, 62.5 x 45 cm © Farid Haddad

Hearts and Monuments

A red heart is placed in the middle of a blank white paper, and a black arrow points from the bottom of the page up toward it, establishing a relation between the two. The arrow is a symbol that carries narrative potential: its exaggerated length creates suspense and makes the heart even more important than if it were floating by itself. Both are drawn in gouache, with a single brushstroke, in a sketchy manner. There is nothing else on the surface, aside from the artist’s signature “Farid Haddad” and the year “1972” written in pencil at the bottom right. Since there is nothing else to see in the picture, pointing out the only visible pictorial element with an arrow, which cannot possibly be overlooked, creates a humorous moment.

The heart is a symbol for love, and the arrow could be read as belonging to Cupid, the god of love in classical mythology. An arrow through the heart symbolizes passionate and romantic love. By isolating these two pictorial elements, passion and love are dissociated from each other and turned into humor. Focusing on the idea rather than on the finished object, the painting resonates with the approaches of the conceptual art movement of the 1960s in the United States.

Farid Haddad, Monument, 1971, pencil (graphite) on paper, 65 x 50 cm © Farid Haddad

The exhibition also included a work entitled Monument, which shows a black rectangular shape hatched in graphite pencil. The rough square is placed in the center of the white surface with an arrow pointing from the bottom to the top, connecting the word “monument” to this shape. These elements are framed by rectangular lines to the left, right, and bottom of the page, encircling the paper, and enclosing the word “monument.” By adding the word “monument,” the artist designates the rectangular shape as such, thus conveying meaning which would have been obscured, or completely incomprehensible, otherwise. The fact that the drawing needs the help of semantics to gain meaning creates, again, a humorous moment where the artist demonstrates the representational limits of complex concepts such as a “monument.” Even the idea of what a monument looks like is subverted. Usually, a monument is a large three-dimensional work situated in an urban setting, carved in stone or cast in bronze, reminding us of someone or something, such as a famous person or a historical event. Here, it is simply a sketch depicting a very small rectangle surrounded by a lot of “empty” space.

Non-monumental monuments

The idea of a traditional “monument,” including its scale, or the amount of time it takes to conceive and execute it, is inverted in Monument. Haddad’s work asks: what is a monument? And his answer seems to be: it is simply a placeholder that refers to ideas and implications outside itself, just like the heart. Therefore, it could also be a collection of poems dedicated to someone or something, or, in this case, a series of hearts. The artist suggests that a monument does not necessarily have to be a three-dimensional physical object: it can simply be an idea.

The title of the exhibition “Hearts and Monuments” brings together two seemingly opposite ideas: the heart (which represents the organic, the vulnerable, the soft), and the monument (which represents the rigid, the monumental, and the inanimate). These associations are here amplified, but also reduced to pure form. The artist presents visual representations, but it is the responsibility of the viewer to determine the potential meanings of the work.

Different contexts, new meanings

In 1973, Waddah Faris, the organizer of Haddad’s exhibition and co-director of Contact Art Gallery, came up with a groundbreaking idea. A prolific graphic designer—in addition to being a photographer, artist, and gallerist—he replaced the advertisements in the catalogue of the XVIII Baalbek International Festival with works by contemporary Lebanese artists, creating a sort of exhibition within a publication. The festival committee welcomed this highly innovative approach as a means of spreading knowledge about art, as there was no proper documentation of art in Lebanon at the time.

From the XVIII Baalbek International Festival catalogue, 1973 (Farid Haddad archive)

Haddad’s painting Untitled was one of the works advertised in that catalogue. Placed in a completely different context, in a publication instead of a gallery, and as an illustration for the Lebanese Red Cross (Croix-Rouge Libanaise), the work suddenly generated new meanings. In addition to the visual correspondence of the colors red and black on white surface, it also resonated on a more metaphorical level: the juxtaposition of the red cross and the red heart alludes to the concepts of love and compassion, and ultimately the concept of (Christian) charity. Here, the cross became linked to the heart by the arrow, emphasizing and reinforcing their connectedness. Therefore, donating blood or money to the Red Cross, which is the ultimate purpose of this advertisement, is considered a humanitarian, loving act. At the same time, there is also the medical reference, in which the heart takes on an organic dimension, with red symbolizing the blood.

Yet another meaning emerges when considering the larger context. Farid Haddad’s work sheds light on a dynamic and exploratory artistic culture in a city on the brink of a devastating civil war (the artist left Lebanon in 1975 and has been living in the United States since). In retrospect, we can also recognize it to be of the utmost art historical importance: this is work that advanced the practice of art in a place where art was often expected to convey a conventional message or to seek its roots in one’s own cultural heritage. Haddad’s Untitled and Monument transcended local concerns, connecting Beirut with avant-garde global experiments.

Kusama’s installation of mirrors, orbs, and colorful lights simulates the feeling of ineffable vastness and infinity.

Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room—My Heart is Dancing into the Universe, 2018, wood and glass mirror room with paper lanterns, 3 x 6.2 x 6.2 m (Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Bentonville) © Yayoi Kusama. Speakers: Elise Raborg, Curatorial Associate, Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, and Beth Harris

There are many traditions of Tibetan Buddhism, and this Shrine Room represents the Kagyu.

Tibetan Buddhist Shrine Room (Kagyu tradition iteration), at the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art in New York City, 2024. The Shrine Room is supported by The Robert H. N. Ho Family Foundation, Namita and Arun Saraf, and by generous donations from the Museum’s Board of Trustees, individual donors, and members. Speakers: Dr. Elena Pakhoutova, Senior Curator, Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art and Dr. Steven Zucker

Often called the “heart of the Rubin,” the Tibetan Buddhist Shrine Room displays art and ritual objects as they would in a private household shrine—a space used for offerings, devotional prayer, rituals, and contemplation. Explore this treasure of the Museum with Senior Curator Dr. Elena Pakhoutova and Dr. Steven Zucker of Smarthistory.

The Shrine Room was on view at the Rubin until the Museum’s closing on October 6, 2024, and will open in June 2025 in a custom space at the Brooklyn Museum as part of a long-term partnership between the two institutions.

The Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art has teamed up with Smarthistory to bring you an “up-close” look at select objects from the Rubin’s preeminent collection of Himalayan art. Featuring conversations with senior curators and close-looking at art, this video series is an accessible introduction to the art and material culture of the Tibetan, Himalayan, and Inner Asian regions. Learn about the living traditions and art-making practices of the Himalayas from the past to today.

Using traditional Nepalese metalworking techniques, Sherpa creates a distinctly contemporary sculpture.

Tsherin Sherpa with Bijay Maharjan and the Regal Studio metal casting team, including Durga Shrestha, Sajal Siwakoti, and Sangita Maharjan, Muted Expressions, 2022 (Nepal), bronze, 214 x 68.5 x 61 cm; Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art; purchased with the Museum acquisition fund and additional funds by Lois and Bob Baylis, Lisa Cavallari, Noah Dorsky, Shelley Rubin, and Jorrit Britschgi; C2022.4.1 © Tsherin Sherpa. Speakers: Dr. Jorrit Britschgi, executive director of the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art and Dr. Steven Zucker

Muted Expressions was Tsherin Sherpa’s response to the devastating 2015 earthquakes in Nepal. Disembodied human hands and feet cluster together and appear as a single entity, evoking the unfortunate ones trapped under collapsed structures. The Rubin’s Executive Director Jorrit Britschgi and Smarthistory’s Dr. Steven Zucker examine the details of this powerful contemporary sculpture, which was displayed in dialogue with traditional Tibetan art in the Rubin’s Reimagine: Himalayan Art Now exhibition.

The Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art has teamed up with Smarthistory to bring you an “up-close” look at select objects from the Rubin’s preeminent collection of Himalayan art. Featuring conversations with senior curators and close-looking at art, this video series is an accessible introduction to the art and material culture of the Tibetan, Himalayan, and Inner Asian regions. Learn about the living traditions and art-making practices of the Himalayas from the past to today.

Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

A village in 20th century Iraq, showing similar construction materials to those used in Al-Sara’if, Baghdad

Many lived on the margins in modern Baghdad. Wealth remained in the hands of a small segment of society, even when a dazzling development campaign launched in the early 1950s and fueled by enormous oil revenues, was ostensibly meant to improve the lives of all Iraqis. Poverty existed within the capital itself, but it was most obvious at its periphery, especially in the areas known as Al-Sara’if, informal settlements built from readily available materials, such as mud, reeds, and palm tree fronds. In these slums, in today’s terminology, lived immigrants from other provinces, mostly peasants who sought a better life in the city.

In The Death of a Child, Mahmoud Sabri evokes such a place. The artist, up until that moment, had engaged with his immediate context, Baghdad, but he does not present an urban scene here. In the flat planes of central Iraq, the trapezoidal black form seen in the painting’s indeterminate background denotes a Bedouin tent. But other clues suggest a more agrarian setting: the shovels held by the three standing men and the two light blue structures in the middle, with their repetitive patterns, reminiscent of a hasirah mat, or perhaps a more rigid siyaj, a fence made from the stems of palm tree leaves, both used in building makeshift houses in Al-Sara’if and the surrounding countryside.

Two figures with shovels (detail), Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

But the shovels might be out to dig a grave. The painting depicts anonymous members of a community gathered after the loss of a child. The haunting work captures a human tragedy that could resonate across cultures, but it is quite particular in tackling a serious problem that plagued mid-20th-century Iraq: the plight of the destitute who were forgotten, underrepresented in both politics and art, in an otherwise affluent country. Sabri painted numerous works of peasants and workers who toiled endlessly, whether in urban centers or farming communities, the everyday people who endured wretched lives. It was in the early 1960s, however, living between Moscow and Prague, that Sabri created more ambitious works that immortalized scenes from contemporary Iraq.

Mahmoud Sabri, Three Standing Women with a Cactus, 1958 (collection of Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art)

Mahmoud Sabri photographed at his Moscow home, c. 1961

Reflecting context

Sabri, a self-taught artist, moved to the Soviet Union to pursue formal art education after the 1958 coup d’état in Iraq, which was seen by those who benefited from the old regime, the British-backed monarchy, as a devastating event. For many others, it became known as the July 14th Revolution, an uprising that ended colonialism and aimed at self-determination for the Iraqi people with the establishment of a republic. The subsequent 1963 Ba’athist-led coup, after which Sabri decided to move to Czechoslovakia, was perceived by the artist and contemporaries as a regression, jeopardizing what was accomplished under the first republic. He explored themes of popular struggle, martyrdom, and the national quest for liberation around that time; it became especially important to underline how tyranny affected those who were most vulnerable.

Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

In this somber painting, a balanced composition is roughly divided into two vignettes—indicated by an interruption in the sky, a line that continues in the edge of the background structure to the right—with two separate but contiguous groups. There is vertical repetition, as though reiterating the misery, with the dead child as the only horizontal exception. The standing figures fill each end of the pictorial space, which is anchored by the rounded shapes of the crouching figures. The scene is crowded, as though cut from a longer continuous frieze about grief. The scale of the canvas (the height of the painted adults is approximately that of life-size children) is akin to a window onto another, bleak world. In that flattened space, the figures are physically close to the viewer, about to step out. The proximity brings forward their ordeal into the space of the viewer, who becomes part of the gathering.

A chilling melancholia casts its shadow on The Death of a Child. The tones of blue in the scene echo those of the gloomy dark sky, further complemented by blacks, grays, and browns. It is a dim scene, reflecting the end of the child’s life: a twilight, literal and metaphorical. What is being regarded, Sabri conveys here, are the fringes—social, geographical, and even perceptual—known by everyone, but deliberately obscured. Not only are there no extraneous details, no ornaments or ostentation of any kind, there is also hardly any texture, making these people seem like ghosts that lack tactility and substance.

Mahmoud Sabri, Funeral, 1961, oil on canvas, 100 x 140 cm (collection of Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art)

This can be contrasted with other renowned works by Sabri from around this time, such as Funeral, with their predominantly fiery red-orange colors, which spoke to Iraq’s upheavals, and might have been incendiary, intended to provoke a public outrage. Some elicit the production of Mexican artists whom Sabri admired since the beginning of his career, such as José Clemente Orozco and Diego Rivera.

José Clemente Orozco, Zapatistas, 1931, oil on canvas, 114.3 x 139.7 cm (The Museum of Modern Art, New York)

Left side (detail), Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

Layered references

The dead child’s immediate family are likely those in the left vignette, with the rest of the community convening to console them. The woman carrying the corpse could be the mother, as suggested by a similarity in an earlier painting by Sabri, Rural Family, depicting a sick or deceased child. This woman is given prominence, as hers is the only face looking in the viewers’ direction, and by far the most expressive visage. Her glum expression betrays righteous rage, and she appears to look beyond, above the viewers’ shoulders, as though reproachfully avoiding eye contact. And unlike the otherwise gendered representations, with the women pictured as susceptible to their emotions, with heads inclined downward, hers is defiantly held up high, with a mysterious light behind, a subtle halo stressing her difference.

There are culturally specific references that would have been understood by Iraqis, and which might provide further insight into who this woman might be. Each of the men is wearing a dishdashah, apparently tied at the waist, a farmers’ custom. The two men to the right wrap a ghutrah without agal around their heads, as protection from the harsh sun while working, which suggests they took a break to be present here. The man to the left, possibly the father, is wearing an ‘araqchin, having taken off his ghutrah (it can be seen in front of his shovel), a sign of mourning over his child. Each of the women dons a plain dress, thawb, and a black shailah, with some wearing an abayah. But the more structured headdress on the woman carrying the dead child is an ‘usbah, implying this is an elder.

Group with dead child (detail), Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

The mother, therefore, is more likely the younger woman transfixed by pain, who tenderly lays a hand on the child’s chest and mirrors the position of the father. The front-facing woman lifts the child unnaturally high, presenting the corpse as though the body of a martyr, soliciting an answer for why such a calamity should occur in modern Iraq. She could be the grandmother, meant to conjure up an ancestral figure, or an archetypal mother. Her blue, lapis lazuli colored dress, the contrapposto posture, and the attention paid to articulating her exposed feet bear a resemblance to numerous portrayals of the Virgin Mary, a woman who sacrificed a son to the sins of humanity. The woman could also be an allegory for a nation senselessly losing its most precious people: its youth. Whatever had befallen the child—from a preventable disease, an accident due to the family’s difficult living conditions, or violence wrought by a callous regime—becomes immaterial, because Sabri is attempting to universalize the family’s tribulations.

Dionisius, frescos from the Ferapontov Monastery, Russia, 15th century

The Christian iconography is evoked by a reference to Byzantine art, which is characterized by its elongated figures, stiff poses, and large-eyed noble faces, all channeled through the work of medieval Russian painters in whom Sabri was admittedly interested, such as Andrei Rublev and Dionisius.

El Greco and Jorge Manuel Theotokópoulos, The Immaculate Conception, c. 1608–14, oil on canvas, 108 x 82 cm (Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid)

Sabri’s work also brings to mind the Mannerism of El Greco, with his signature attenuated bodies. It is worth underlining that this is not naturalism or strict realism: what is represented is quite stylized. It is not about a conformity to observable things, but more about an authentic vision that the artist is constructing, along with the ideas and emotions that this mode of representation helps to emphasize.

Aleksandr Deineka, Portrait of the artist K.A. Vyalov, 1923 (The Kursk Deineka Picture Gallery)

This is mostly evident in the angular volumes that underscore the dismal circumstances, and the prismatic fracturing of various surfaces, suggesting a shattered, ice-cold realm drained of comfort. The triangulation recalls some of the experiments in Cubism by avant-garde Russian artists such as Natalia Goncharova and Nathan Altman, or early works by Sabri’s teacher in Moscow, Aleksandr Deyneka.

Two women and a child (detail), Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

Georges Rouault, With broken faces forgotten in the barbed wire of the Golden City, 1930, gouache, pastel and brush and India ink on paper 34.5 x 29.5 cm (auction, 2022)

Also in the gestural brushstrokes—the base of the canvas is visible in some places, at times creating bright contour lines that separate the forms—indexical of the raw emotions the artist wanted to elicit. This brings to mind the abrasive aesthetics of Fauvism. Sabri was interested in the French artist Georges Rouault, whose work was far more elemental. There is no sense of linear or atmospheric perspective in Sabri’s work, with the figures compressed into their nondescript environment, blended into the background thanks to his choice of colors. Their flesh is painted with those morbid gray tones, accentuating their haggard, sullen faces, devoid of vitality and joy.

The face of the woman to the bottom right is petrified, closer to that of an ancient stone sculpture, or of soil. The only anomaly in the tableau is her warmly illuminated toddler, possibly another Christ-like reference, the promise of a different future or a nod to the continuous cycle of life. Light emanates from the upper left corner, where the titular child has departed. But otherwise, there is no refinement to the anatomy, scale, or spatial distribution of the figures; the uncouth articulation of the toddler’s face or the standing adolescent boy’s feet speak of a skill that was being polished. But there is formal coherence, and the overall course quality is not only appropriate for the subject matter, but also somehow serves the artist. There is an economy of means, and the painting comes across as intentionally rugged and unfinished, as though craft and perfection are unnecessary luxuries—perhaps even deceptive, just like the modernization of Iraq.

Mahmoud Sabri, The Death of a Child, 1963, oil on canvas, 137 x 196 cm (photograph by Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art, courtesy of the artist’s family)

Still, Sabri focuses on details that amplify his message. For instance, these gaunt bodies have surprisingly strong limbs. The clenched fists of the boy to the left, or the man to the far right, are menacing. The hands of the kneeling woman in the center are striking, hiding a lamenting face denied to the viewer. She gives her back to a young woman whose anguished pose, with a dejected weeping face, is equally gripping; her tense hands are pulling on her clothes, an expression of extreme sorrow in Iraq. The vigor of the painting stems from its steadfast commitment to the subject, reaffirmed through such details and the numerous layers the artist embedded in the work. But The Death of a Child must also be viewed in conjunction with others created by Sabri around this time, as if this is a series where each work completes the next.

Käthe Kollwitz, Memorial Sheet of Karl Liebknecht (Gedenkblatt für Karl Liebknecht), 1919–20, woodcut heightened with white and black ink, 37.1 x 51.9 cm (The Museum of Modern Art, New York)

Pablo Picasso, Two Sisters (The Meeting), 1902, oil on canvas pasted on panel, 152 x 100 cm (The State Hermitage Museum, Moscow)

Social commentary

In the vein of Social Realism, usually produced by leftist artists, this painting is a critique, part of a larger commentary on issues that concern the masses (not to be confused with the official doctrine of Socialist Realism, which adopted heroic optimism in depicting life in the Soviet Union). This applies to a wide spectrum of art created during the modern period, but can also be extended to works by artists who are not normally considered under this category, and yet whom Sabri appreciated, including Vincent van Gogh and Pablo Picasso. The painting equally calls forth works by artists associated with Symbolism, such as Edvard Munch, and German Expressionism, like Käthe Kollwitz, not only in their tackling of distressing matters, but also in the highly stylized visual language they devised.

This work was the result of Sabri contemplating, retroactively, the realities of his home country, while enjoying some freedom of expression in exile. He was unable to return to Iraq due to a reign of terror unleashed by the 1963 coup, which hunted down any perceived opponents, including members of the Iraqi Communist Party and their sympathizers. The artist avoided revealing whether he was affiliated with the ICP, but his influential texts published during the 1950s were clearly Marxist, addressing the relationship between art and modern modes of production, the class struggle under capitalism, and the artist’s responsibility toward the exploited, among other topics. Indeed, that was Sabri’s primary significance in 1950s Baghdad: his discourse, which challenged, and consolidated, the debates raging amongst the city’s artists, illustrated by his own artistic production.

Faik Hassan, The Desert Arabs, 1964, oil on canvas, 62 x 75 cm (sold at Bonhams, 2024)

While Sabri has been commonly evaluated as an ideological rival of Jewad Selim and Shakir Hassan Al Said, the founders of the Baghdad Group for Modern Art, which was invested in synthesizing Iraq’s heritage with modernism, their interests converged significantly. At the turn of the 1950s, Sabri joined the city’s other main collective, Société Primitive (or the SP) led by artist Faik Hassan, later renamed the Pioneers Group; its members had a loosely defined agenda generally understood to be a desire to discern Iraq’s realities and capture its landscapes, so another way of situating their artistic production locally. But given Sabri’s sometimes grating rhetoric (he wrote harsh critiques of the local art milieu), there was an irony to his specific practice: a privileged artist making a career by telling the stories of humbler classes, the proletariat, within the largely elitist—bourgeoisie, to use the artist’s own terminology—art circles.

Nonetheless, Sabri’s work mobilized art’s potent expressive capacity in acts of solidarity with those who were not as fortunate or visible. It embodies a stance of resistance, a refusal of a problematic status quo. Perhaps it was not in dialogue with fashionable tendencies at the time, but it was radical in its rejection of those conventions, and in amalgamating a unique visual syntax that solidified the role of the artist as advocate and rebel. Although he strove to create a distinctive formal approach all his own, Sabri believed that an artist was not obliged to offer anything new, but to simply create compelling art that champions the causes of social justice.

Geometric pattern (detail), Kalamkari fragment, 18th century, cotton, natural dyes, 37 x 27 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Across diverse religious beliefs and practices in the Indian subcontinent, the creation of cloth has often been linked to the creation of the universe. These interconnections are reflected most explicitly in the frequently shared vocabulary between textiles and spiritual literature. For instance, the “Sutras” that document Gautam Buddha’s sermons on transcending the cycle of life are named after Suta, the Pali word for yarn. Let’s explore other examples of how textiles have evoked the cosmos through examinations of the origins of cloth, the meditative nature of the weaving process, and the way certain materials and motifs acquire sacred meanings and functions.

At the cradle of creation: divine fibers

Several communities in the subcontinent associate the origins of fibers, the very building blocks of textiles, with the divine. Such interconnections have been encapsulated in ancient scriptures, mythological narratives, and folktales which have permeated the daily lives and beliefs of people.

Thread emerging from Vishnu’s navel. Unidentified artist, Vishnu Reclining on the Serpent Shesha, c. 1775–1800, opaque watercolor and gold paint on paper, 12.7 x 19.4 cm (The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore)

In Hindu mythology, for example, the earliest threads known to mankind are believed to have emerged from Lord Vishnu’s navel in the form of a lotus stem. It is unsurprising then that threads have gained special significance within Hindu practices. Several Hindu communities conduct a thread ceremony, a rite of passage for young boys entering adulthood, which involves tying threads across their torsos to symbolize the knowledge acquired from ancient scriptures. It’s important to note here that these rites were exclusive to upper-caste communities, and as a result these threads also served as a marker of one’s status.

Beyond this ritual, other kinds of threads are considered sacred by most Hindu communities. Devotees often tie red threads around their wrists to symbolically carry the blessings of deities, and yellow threads are used in wedding ceremonies as markers of commitment.

Another prominent creation myth, chronicled in oral traditions, narrates the birth of the indigenous silks of Northeast India. According to an Assamese folktale, a widowed mother of three children is banished to a forest. An ascetic takes pity on her and transforms her children into the three kinds of silk that are characteristic of this region—Eri, Muga and Pata. Such stories have shaped regional notions of silk-weaving, where women primarily engage in textile practices and have played a significant role in cementing the importance of textiles in spiritual literature and religious ceremonies.

Silk sari weaving at Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu, 2008 (photo: McKay Savage, CC BY 2.0)

Weaving God on the loom: meditative processes

Beyond the sacred associations of the creation of fibers, the processes of textile-making are also suffused with spiritualism. Weavers often chant religious verses while engaging in their practice. Some communities believe that their work is intrinsically linked to prana, the force of life, while others compare it to the cyclical nature of time. In fact, the repetitive interlacing of the warp and the weft has been used to describe the unfolding of day and night in ancient Hindu scriptures such as the Rigveda (c. 1500–1000 B.C.E.). The cosmic significance of the weaving process has been explored in spiritual and religious literature across centuries, a pertinent example being that of Kabir’s writings.

The 15th-century poet-saint Kabir, who was born into a Muslim weaving community in Benaras (present-day Varanasi), employed weaving as a metaphor for his devotion to God in his writings. In his poem Weaving your name quoted below, he compares the act of spiritual meditation to the process of weaving. Notice the use of phrases such as “counting God’s name,” “make my garment,” and “combing through the twists and knots of my thoughts” which draw from the images of the systematic and meditative act of interlacing the warp and the weft by hand.

I weave your name on the loom of my mind,

To make my garment when you come to me.

My loom has ten thousand threads

To make my garment when you come to me.

The sun and moon watch while I weave your name;

The sun and moon hear while I count your name.

These are the wages I get by day and night

To deposit in the lotus bank of my heart.

 

I weave your name on the loom of my mind

To clean and soften ten thousand threads

And to comb the twists and knots of my thoughts.

No more shall I weave a garment of pain.

For you have come to me, drawn by my weaving,

Ceaselessly weaving your name on the loom of my mind.Kabir, Weaving your name

Kabir’s literary visualizations linking textile-making processes with spiritual and cosmic meditation became culturally embedded. From Kangra school miniatures to Company-style painting, representations in visual art often depict Kabir working on a loom while preaching to his disciples, emphasizing the devotional aspect of weaving.

Kalamkari prayer mat, late 19th century (Machilipatnam, Andhra Pradesh for Iranian market), cotton and natural dyes, 59 x 36 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Seeking infinity through symmetry: cosmic motifs

Across different geographies, cultures, and time periods, artists have used symmetry in their work to explore and interpret abstract cosmological concepts and metaphysical questions of creation and being. From Islamic art and architecture to Hindu art forms like Kolam, one can find the use of symmetry and geometric patterns to symbolize the unity of creation and the order of the universe. In Islamic art, symmetry is achieved through the repetitions of geometric designs, giving the illusion of infinity. Revered for their seeming perfection, one can find these designs in religious textiles such as prayer mats, ritual caps, and headscarves. Within Hinduism as well, symmetric designs invoke the pattern of the cosmos since it is believed that the universe is metaphorically constructed by the intersection of the warp and the weft. Textiles with motifs like the chowk, a grid-like design, are often worn by Hindu devotees for important ceremonies.

Gharcholu, 20th century, cotton, silk, gilt metal, 394 x 124 cm (Museum of Art and Photography, Bengaluru)

Beyond influencing the design vocabulary of sacred textiles, the desire for cosmic wholeness also determines the nature of materials and costumes considered fit for ritual use. Unstitched, “whole” textiles—directly off the loom—that can be draped around the body as saris or dhotis hold religious significance in ancient Hindu scriptures since the ordered universe is envisioned as a continuous fabric woven by the Gods. As the art historian Stella Kramrisch has expressed, “Whether as a cover for the body or as ground for a painting, the uncut fabric is a symbol of totality and integrity. It symbolizes the wholeness of manifestation.” [1]

Although different communities in the Indian subcontinent interpret and engage with spirituality and cosmology in their own ways, textiles have historically been used across religions to explore the symbolic interconnections of the cosmos and the wonders of the universe. Such beliefs and practices have imbued the production and consumption of textiles with religious and spiritual meanings. They are deeply embedded in a larger understanding of divine creation and cyclical time.

Drawing from articles on The MAP Academy

Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection)

Baghdad was becoming unrecognizable. No longer a sleepy town in the withering Ottoman Empire or the dreamy center of Orientalist fantasies, the capital of modern Iraq underwent rapid development in the mid-20th century. The government spent enormous oil revenues on new buildings and massive infrastructural projects, and entire neighborhoods in the city were transformed. The stark, white, rectilinear forms—in modernity’s signature materials of concrete, steel, and glass—ushered in an imported sensibility, one that was spreading around the globe in the years following World War II, signaling dynamism, novelty, and progress.

Newly constructed buildings in Baghdad, mid-20th century (detail), Latif Al Ani, Housing Project Office, Yarmouk, Baghdad, 1962, inkjet print on Hahnemüle fine art photo rag pearl 320 gsm paper, 100 x 101.5 cm © Latif Al Ani

At first glance, Jewad Selim’s enigmatic Young Man and His Wife from 1953 appears to contradict everything that Baghdad stood for at this moment—a city where a new art scene was also evolving swiftly. Even though modernist art had by then become the norm, Selim’s work depicts a traditional, if somewhat morose, Baghdadi couple, posing within a balanced, relatively static composition. Unlike the art movements typically associated with architectural modernism, such as Cubism, Futurism, or Suprematism, with their heroic crisp geometries and exhilarating bright colors, this work is gently rendered in muted tones, suggesting a pastel drawing, although the work was painted with oil colors. Moreover, the artist’s approach diverges from Western academic realism and the local folkloric arts common at the time.

Baghdadi experimentation

There is a subtle circular motion in the painting, generated using numerous curves. Straddling figuration and abstraction, the picture plane is quite stylized: some curves blend into other elements, creating a hybrid yet cohesive composition. Rather than embodying inexplicable contradictions, this painting captures Selim’s unique artistic approach, and demonstrates the experimentation that characterized Baghdad’s modernism—as well as the artist’s leading role in articulating its intellectual project.

Portrait of Jewad Selim in his studio, c. late 1950s

The painting was completed two years following the publication of an inaugural manifesto by the Baghdad Group for Modern Art (BGMA). The collective was established by Selim, with several fellow Baghdadi artists and architects. Its Bayan, co-written by Selim with his then-student Shakir Hassan Al Said, encapsulated their aspirations: it advocated for globalism, a genuine contribution to global art which they believed could only be achieved by synthesizing the specificity of their local culture with modern representational methods. Their emphasis on traditions concealed a progressive position, wherein each local culture participates in shaping a pluralistic world.

The BGMA was one of several collectives formed in the 1950s, all attempting to negotiate the new language of modern art in relation to existing local conditions. Each group embraced a specific agenda, and they jointly accelerated conversations around artistic production and reception, creating the kind of healthy debates and competition that would catalyze Baghdad’s creative cultures. Most of these groups were born out of informal domestic gatherings, but they soon gave way to more institutional ways of assessing, displaying, and disseminating art. This painting by Selim was created within that vigorous climate, as he and fellow BGMA members strived to give form to the ideas they were then discussing.

Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection)

Disguised layers

In this painting, the cropped busts of a man and woman face the viewer, framed within a roughly symmetrical composition animated by circular geometries. The couple’s heads and shoulders are largely defined by a variety of curves. The background likewise features curves of different colors and degrees of definition, some of which resemble crescents. 

It is unclear who these people are beyond what the title suggests: a husband and wife. Nothing obvious, aside from their Baghdadi attire, discloses where in the world they are located. A small detail in the background, to the lower right of the canvas, might provide a hint: a rectangular object with a delicately inscribed round arch. Perhaps it is a wardrobe, placing the couple in a private interior setting. But this could also be an urban scene, and the object is a corner of a vernacular house with its distinctive architecture, replete with round arches. The latter is more likely because a preparatory sketch by Selim depicts foliage, as well as what seems like a palm tree to the far right, replaced in the painting by the rectangular shape.

Jewad Selim, preparatory sketch for Young Man and his Wife, 1953, pencil on paper, 12 x 18 cm (private collection)

Selim became increasingly interested in portraying everyday people, specifically those who held on to traditional ways of life. The wife’s braids and gold pendant earrings differ from how modern women in Baghdad fashioned themselves in the early 1950s, following European trends. She might be wearing an Abayah, but Selim did not paint the side to the left of her face, which could have been a compositional decision, keeping the space between the two heads lighter and more open—or perhaps an indication that this is, instead, a bridal veil. Sporting a distinguished mustache, the husband wears a Charrawiyah, an integral part of a traditional Baghdadi man’s outfit. On his shoulders is what appears to be a Bisht, worn over a white shirt, or possibly a Dishdashah. At that time, people who still donned such clothes likely continued to live in the old city, the core of historic Baghdad, and the men were usually artisans, known as Ustahs, or masons.

Left: Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection); right: Jewad Selim, preparatory sketch for Young Man and his Wife, 1953, pencil on paper, 12 x 18 cm (private collection)

Based on the same preparatory sketch, we can see that Selim removed various small details and squiggly lines to aid the viewer’s focus in the final work: to draw attention, for example, to the long rectangular necks, reminiscent of Selim’s own wooden sculptures (perhaps informed by the work of Pablo Picasso and Henry Moore, whom Selim admired); the nearly perfectly round faces; the concave and convex shoulders; and the straight noses, among other peculiarities. But the iconography also includes subtle nods to historical references, which might not be readily intelligible. For instance, the neutral facial expressions and almond-shaped eyes may refer to the ancient Mask of Warka (or Lady of Uruk), housed in the Iraq Museum. Selim worked at this institution in his youth, where he was directly exposed to the country’s antiquities.

Relief panel, probably depicting king Ashurnasirpal II and an attendant, c. 883–859 B.C.E. (Neo-Assyrian), gypsum alabaster, 234.3 x 233.7 x 11.4 cm (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York)

The pastel palette with earthy tones might have been an attempt at capturing the colors of Iraq, known for its sporadic sandstorms, which dust the landscape with an ochre hue. There were indeed discussions among modern Baghdadi artists and architects about distilling the quintessential colors and materials of their setting. The overall lack of contrast also flirted with the aesthetics of Assyrian reliefs, and with engraved copperware, a craft common in Baghdad at this time (both of which Selim had alluded to more overtly in other works).

Yahya Al-Wasiti, The Maqamat al-Hariri, 1237, ink and color and parchment, p. 127 (National Library of France, Paris; digital scans from Library of Congress)

But the colors, along with the overall flatness—there is no perspective, just a hint of depth suggested by basic juxtapositions and color gradations—equally evoke the illuminated manuscripts of the medieval Islamic period, particularly Yahya Al-Wasiti’s illustrations for Maqamat Al-Hariri, to which the BGMA’s manifesto referred. Al-Wasiti afforded viewers a rare glimpse into everyday life in medieval Baghdad, which resonated with Selim. Al-Wasiti was also a source of pride, considered an artistic ancestor whose work epitomized a Baghdadi school of painting—offering a non-Western pedigree for modern artists.

The crudeness or naivety seen in the brushstrokes is also deliberate and not necessarily in dialogue with the diverse movements of the period such as Fauvism, Expressionism, or Art Informel. Selim believed that art in the land that became known as Iraq was historically rough, never defined or decadent, so he was likely echoing that spirit in his work too (some of his portraits show that he was perfectly capable of more naturalistic depictions). Therefore, the composition disguises more layers than immediately visible.

Faces (detail), Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection)

Selim also introduces a series of captivating pictorial gestures, like the crossed red dot mysteriously perched on the tip of the black crescent, with faint zigzagging lines hatched on its body; or the quick pink brushstrokes on the wife’s cheeks; or the white contours delineating the husband’s eyes, otherwise in the same tone as his face, the red line underneath his hair, or the striped headpiece, simplifying the familiar Shimagh pattern. Selim’s signature, worn as though a badge by the man, implies that this could be a self-portrait of the artist himself, who had only recently married his wife Lorna Selim.

Parallels and precursors

During this period, Selim explored a series of intimate themes, particularly motherhood. Here, he tackles marital life, and parallels can be drawn with other art historical precedents. The work calls forth iconic portraits of (not necessarily conjugal) couples such as: Jan van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Portrait (1434), Thomas Gainsborough’s Mr. and Mrs. Andrews (c. 1750), Jean-François Millet’s L’Angélus (1857–59), Grant Wood’s American Gothic (1930), and Frida Kahlo’s Frida and Diego Rivera (1931). Selim’s portrait is as closely affiliated with Baghdad as the others bring to mind their own respective settings. His work could also be said to harken back to much earlier depictions, for instance the fresco Terentius Neo and his Wife (c. 55–79 C.E.) found in Pompeii, which focuses on the couple, with barely any context. Further back in time, within his own region, royal couples were portrayed in various reliefs and murals in ancient Mesopotamia and Pharaonic Egypt.

As for the stylized curvilinear depiction of the subject, the moon was Selim’s source of inspiration. The painting is an example of the artist’s series Al-Hilaliyat (of crescents, or crescent-based) from the early 1950s, which merged into the later series Al-Baghdadiyat, two paradigmatic bodies of work that attest to his attempts to capture, abstract, translate, and re-present elements from local heritage. In various Al-Hilaliyat works, the tapering curve outlined: body parts, birds, plants, bowls, fruits, and toys, among other things. For Selim, the crescent was both a fertile symbolic motif and a representational device.

Crescent shapes (detail), Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection)

Capturing a fragile history

Selim was not explicit about what the crescents were meant to convey, but they did evoke specific things that would have been understood by his peers. The arched sliver of light in the night sky might call forth astronomy, astrology, or even the occult, and celestial sightings signify certain cultural practices too, especially for those who embrace a lunar calendar. The delicate silhouette of a crescent moon is not just a marker of time, but also a particularly potent symbol for millions of people in the heart of the vast Muslim world in West Asia and North Africa, where crescents continue to crown the minarets and domes of mosques. For Iraqis, crescents might also bring to mind the Mashahif, or elegant gondola-like boats associated with the ancient landscapes of the country’s southern marshes. Isolated curves can equally elicit local architecture including the rounded vaults of a Mudhif in the marshes, or the arches of Sassanid Ctesiphon and Abbasid buildings, synonymous with Baghdad. For Selim, born in Ankara in modern-day Turkey to an Iraqi father who served in the Ottoman army, crescent insignia must have been everywhere, denoting the last Muslim empire.

Potent symbolism aside, it is important to underline that Selim captured here a couple who did not belong to his own social group of the Western-educated Iraqi middle and upper-middle classes, who wore Western clothing and lived in modern architecture. A sober assessment of the work can be critical, revealing how these cosmopolitan, well-to-do artists were engaged in an almost ethnographic fascination with fellow Iraqis who were less privileged, perhaps in an impulse not unlike the discourse of “primitivism” prevalent amongst European modernists fascinated with non-Western cultures or folk traditions that persisted in their own countries, especially those perceived to be on the brink of disappearance.

Jewad Selim, Young Man and His Wife, 1953, oil on canvas, 51 x 76 cm (private collection)

It may be argued that, in addition to a genuine desire to highlight aspects of local culture, Selim’s painting was also an act of preservation spurred by a sense of loss, the sudden erosion of familiar ways of living. Coming out of World War II, Iraq was still ruled by a monarchy tethered to British influence. A development agenda largely set by foreign consultants—the tyrannical rule of Western “experts” common in colonized settings—unleashed aggressive modernization campaigns that resulted in explosive economic growth, but also in extreme changes, which some in Iraqi society, including the artists, felt were alien to local sensibilities. So, while the painting can be considered a celebration of this anonymous, possibly imaginary couple, along with all that the crescent-infused traditions stood for, to understand the context is to also see an eclipse. The bewildered couple is frail, frozen in a swirling, fragmented, and fading environment.

Bahman Mohassess, Minotaur, 1966, oil on canvas, 50 x 70.5 cm (private collection; printed with the permission of the Estate of Bahman Mohassess)

In Bahman Mohassess’ 1966 artwork Minotaur, a commanding presence demands the viewer’s attention—a figure that merges human and bull elements. The background is dominated by various gray tones that serve to isolate and emphasize the figure. The Minotaur is depicted with gray-greenish hues, featuring a robust and muscular back, and a slim waist. Scattered across the figure’s body are subtle red dots that create an impression of wounds or vulnerability, almost humanizing the enigmatic creature.

Mohassess’ painting reinterprets the Minotaur. In ancient Greek mythology, the myth of the Minotaur centers around the tragic existence of a grotesque creature. Conceived through the extraordinary union of Pasiphaë, the wife of King Minos, and the Cretan Bull sent by the god Poseidon, the Minotaur finds itself imprisoned within the labyrinthine recesses of King Minos’ palace in Knossos. The labyrinth itself serves as a poignant symbol of the Minotaur’s perpetual torment—a physical manifestation of his cursed lineage and a metaphorical representation of the inescapable emotional turmoil that defines his existence. The Minotaur’s tragic fate is further exacerbated by the Athenian tribute—a harrowing practice in which seven young men and seven young women from Athens are periodically sent into the labyrinth as sacrificial offerings to quell the creature’s insatiable hunger. 

An example of Saqqakhaneh art. Faramarz Pilaram, Mosques of Isfahan (A), 1963, ink, watercolor, gold, and silver paint on paper on board, 137.1 x 97.2 cm (Grey Art Gallery, New York University Art Collection) © Pilaram Family (Ali Pilaram as Estate of Faramaz Pilaram)

Art in 1960s Iran

In the context of Iranian art during the 1960s, the incorporation of Greek mythology represented a highly unconventional choice. The prevailing artistic climate in Iran, largely shaped by the political agenda of the ruling Pahlavi regime, witnessed the endorsement of abstraction as a means to align with contemporary trends in painting. The period also saw the emergence of a localized art movement known as Saqqakhaneh. [1] This movement melded Islamic and Persian iconography with Western aesthetics, aspiring to create a distinctive art form deeply rooted in Iranian culture. The convergence of these two trends resonated with the broader strategy of the Pahlavis to reshape their image as modernized Shi’a monarchs, project authority reminiscent of the grandeur associated with ancient Persian empires, and position themselves as progressive, and open to diplomacy with the West.

Mohassess held a starkly different perspective. In contrast to many other artists, he critiqued Saqqakhaneh and steadfastly insisted that contemporary art should not be confined to the usage of local motifs and elements of the artist’s region or culture. His rejection of the prevailing artistic norms was met with resistance within the Iranian art scene. Painter-critic Ruyin Pakbaz argued that such a visual language was disconnected from Iran’s historical and cultural context. [2] Even an intellectual like Jalal Al-e Ahmad, who had initially supported Mohassess as an antithesis to the Iranian abstract painters of the time, suggested that Mohassess should adopt a hybrid approach, fusing diverse visual styles to create more authentically Iranian art. [3] However, Mohassess remained resolute in his defense of his artistic choices, asserting that essentialist notions of art were constrictive and commercial, and catered to a limited market and foreign buyers. His stance was a deliberate departure from officially sanctioned art, making him stand alone in the art scene, much like the Minotaur in his painting. [4]

Bahman Mohassess, Untitled, 1963, oil on canvas, 50 x 70 cm (private collection; printed with the permission of the Estate of Bahman Mohassess)

Why the Minotaur?

Mohassess’ use of the Minotaur from Greek mythology relates to his own experience in the Iranian art world. In a solo exhibition in Tehran, held just one year before he painted Minotaur, Mohassess made a significant stylistic shift from abstraction to figuration. At that time in Iran’s capital city of Tehran, abstraction was associated with artistic progressiveness. In embracing figuration, Mohassess was seen as less advanced—an imitator of Western masters.

Left: Lucio Fontana, Spatial Concept, 1949–50, canvas, 55 x 85 cm (Tate Modern, London) © Fondazione Lucio Fontana; right: Abstract dark marks that resemble wounds (detail), Bahman Mohassess, Minotaur, 1966, oil on canvas, 50 x 70.5 cm (private collection; printed with the permission of the Estate of Bahman Mohassess)

In Minotaur, Mohassess’ inner struggle between figuration and abstraction finds visual expression, offering insight into his artistic dilemma. Notably, the figure of the Minotaur bears marks resembling gestural strokes reminiscent of the marks and holes found in the abstract works of one of his favored Italian painters, Lucio Fontana. These abstract marks resemble wounds and infuse an element of tension and contrast into the composition, creating a dynamic interplay between the representational and the abstract. They resonate with the expressive, spontaneous brushstrokes and marks that characterize many abstract artworks from this period—such as the iconic paintings of Abstract Expressionists—while simultaneously challenging the conventional portrayal of the mythological creature.

Mohassess’ portrayal of the Minotaur distinguishes itself in several significant ways from the previous representations of this mythological figure. In contrast to George Frederic Watts‘ Victorian-era painting, which portrays the Minotaur as a malevolent creature crushing a small bird in its hand while awaiting its youthful victims, who are being brought to him on a ship with white sails visible in the background, Mohassess’ interpretation casts the creature in a more favorable light. What immediately captures the viewer’s attention is the palpable aura of nobility, emphasized by the idealized physique of the Minotaur. This quality sets Mohassess’ rendition apart from its predecessors. The background, intentionally devoid of contextual details, serves as a conscious choice to direct the viewer’s attention squarely on the central figure. The Minotaur, as envisioned by Mohassess, is a commanding presence. Its stoic expression conveys an unmistakable aura of strength and resilience. While one could certainly engage in allegorical readings of Mohassess’ Minotaur, the context and message are far less overt compared to the works of artists like Watts.

Left: Bahman Mohassess, Minotaur, 1966, oil on canvas, 50 x 70.5 cm (private collection; printed with the permission of the Estate of Bahman Mohassess); right: George Frederic Watts, The Minotaur, 1885, oil on canvas, 118 x 94.5 cm (Tate Britain, London)

Facing the Pahlavi Regime

Mohassess painted Minotaur in 1966 during a period of intensified censorship in Iran that cast a shadow on creative expression across the nation. Within this restrictive climate, the existential struggle depicted in Minotaur, a creature trapped in a labyrinth, emerged as emblematic of the broader challenges faced by Iranian artists and creative individuals grappling with the constraints imposed by the Shah’s regime. The Minotaur’s captivity within the labyrinth can be interpreted as symbolic of the pervasive constraints on social and political expression during the Pahlavi era. The regime exercised strict censorship and control over creative output, aiming to align it with the Pahlavi ideological agenda. Much like the Minotaur ensnared within the maze, Mohassess must have felt similarly confined and restricted.

The myth of the Minotaur serves as a powerful allegory for the plight of individuals subjected to situations beyond their control. While cautious with his choice of words, Mohassess critiqued the art scene in 1960s Iran. In an interview, Mohassess identified the “prevailing atmosphere of complacency,” suggesting that artists conformed to the dictates of the Pahlavi Regime. When one artist expressed gratitude to Empress Farah Pahlavi for her support of Iranian art, Mohassess interjected, stating, “It is this environment that separates the artist from the [social] issues.” [5] This statement underscores Mohassess’ belief that the Pahlavi regime’s support for certain forms of art came at the cost of artistic integrity and social engagement. For Mohassess, the oppressive environment itself emerged as the primary issue, drawing parallels to the Minotaur’s involuntary role in the labyrinth. Just as the Minotaur was trapped in a situation not of its own making, artists in 1960s Iran found themselves confined by the expectations and demands of the Pahlavi regime, unable to freely express their true artistic vision or engage with the pressing social and political issues of their time.

Minotaur (detail), Bahman Mohassess, Minotaur, 1966, oil on canvas, 50 x 70.5 cm (private collection; printed with the permission of the Estate of Bahman Mohassess)

Mohassess’ painting, therefore, can be understood as a subtle form of resistance, offering a platform for nuanced critiques and expressions of both personal and collective struggles. Minotaur by Mohassess stands as a thought-provoking work that skillfully weaves together elements of mythology, personal turmoil, and socio-political commentary. It is a testament to Mohassess’ artistic mastery and unwavering commitment to engage with the issues of his time. Simultaneously, it casts light on the intricate interplay between art and politics in 1960s Iran, where artists like Mohassess navigated the complexities of self-expression while contending with restrictions imposed by the nation’s rulers.

Red and blue organs (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

What appears as two connected organs—one red and one blue—draws us into the central space of the painting, between two headless bodies, as we meet the gaze of a woman with large horns. Above this scene, a large mythological creature is juxtaposed with a monochromatic black jet in the sky, while dancers perform all around them. What do these images and symbols mean in this small watercolor painting from 2001? Why are they brought together in this way? How can we understand what the artist, Shahzia Sikander, is trying to say in this visually complex work? What forms of pleasure could Pleasure Pillars refer to? Do the pillars represent a physical or perhaps a magical space in which this scene is taking place? 

Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

In Pleasure Pillars, Sikander uses materials and techniques of traditional Indo-Persian miniature painting, an artistic practice that draws on traditions from what is today Pakistan, India, and Iran (historically known as Persia). Sikander combines aspects of Indo-Persian miniature painting with content from the history of both Western and Asian art and contemporary references to invite us to look more closely and deeply at the world around us. 

Attributed to Bhola, Shah Jahan Honoring Prince Aurangzeb at his Wedding, c. 1640–50, opaque watercolor including metallic paints, 33.7 x 23.5 cm (Royal Collection Trust, London)

Indo-Persian miniature painting

The term “miniature” is fitting since these paintings are typically no larger than a standard piece of modern printer paper and include meticulously painted details. Widely popular by the 15th and 16th centuries, Indo-Persian miniature paintings, such as those commissioned by Mughal rulers, like the one attributed to Bhola, titled Shah Jahan Honoring Prince Aurangzeb at his Wedding, traditionally depicted a range of subjects that appealed to the ruling elite, such as courtly scenes including royal audiences and other state ceremonies, illustrated poetries, histories, myths, and hunting scenes. Rulers of South Asia from the 16th to 19th centuries, the Mughals commissioned artists to make miniature paintings that reflected their cosmopolitan tastes, drawing on the visual traditions of Persia, South Asia, and also of Europe. 

Historically, this art form was exclusively practiced by men who often inherited a workshop and trained directly with their fathers. Common materials and techniques of Indo-Persian miniature painting included hand-prepared wasli paper, made by layering thin sheets of paper together with flour paste and then burnishing (rubbing) with a hard, smooth object across the surface of the paper. Often, a conch-shell or agate (a type of gemstone) was used to burnish the paper, sealing in fibers to generate a satin-like finish. [1] The paper would then be dyed with tea before layers of watercolor paint were applied and the final details made with a squirrel-hair brush, in a process known as pardakht. [2]

Figure covered in white and gray dots (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

Shahzia Sikander and Neo-miniature painting

Born in 1969 in Pakistan, Shahzia Sikander first studied Indo-Persian miniature painting at the National College of Art in Lahore. There she began to use this traditional painting format as a catalyst for exploring contemporary subjects from the perspective of a South Asian woman. Later, in the mid-1990s while attending the Rhode Island School of Design in the United States, Sikander began to explore her new diasporan experiences in her art. In doing so, Sikander introduced the painted dots that can be seen throughout Pleasure Pillars with subjects—both past and present, South Asian and Western—generating a style known as Neo-miniature Painting (or “New” miniature painting).

South Asian female agency

Sikander made her own wasli paper for Pleasure Pillars and used a squirrel-hair brush to create a visually layered composition that speaks to her perspective as a Pakistani-born Muslim woman living in the United States in the 21st century. Sikander places a self-portrait with striped horns in the center. This figure’s eyes meet ours with striking confidence. This confidence reflects her ability to create a complex work of art that both celebrates the female body and feminine agency, while “speaking back” to the dominance of “the West” and the European tradition in art history. 

Self-portrait with striped horns (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

This horned head floats between two headless representations of the female body—the semi-nude body on the left seems to be a reference to ancient classical statues like the Venus de Milo, while the body on the right is reminiscent of South and Southeast Asian depictions of dancers. [3] Through these examples, Sikander illustrates longstanding traditions of the objectification of women’s bodies in both Western and South Asian art history. However, through this pairing, Sikander also celebrates her presence as a female artist who can create art that draws on both Asian and Western traditions of art making.

In this work of diasporic art, the headless bodies may represent states of dislocation—such as the dislocation someone living away from their homeland may feel, but Sikander explains that her use of headless female figures also represents the symbolic beheading and erasure of traditional female divinities in contemporary Pakistani culture. This act of violence—Sikander’s severing of the head from the body—points to how, for centuries, the peoples of what is today Pakistan revered female divinities prior to the arrival of patriarchal religions such as Islam (which discarded female deities). [4] And perhaps, through the juxtaposition of these two headless female bodies, Sikander introduces a connection between “the West” and Asia, pointing to how female divinities like Venus were also revered in “the West,” and that this changed too, with the introduction of Christianity.

Avatar (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Fleshy Weapons, 1997, acrylic, dry pigment, watercolor and tea wash on linen, 243.8 x 167.6 cm © Shahzia Sikander

Furthermore, Sikander often represents headless beings in her work, calling them “avatars,” many of which appear to resemble the Hindu goddess Durga with multiple arms holding weapons. However, in her 1997 work Fleshy Weapons and elsewhere, Sikander replaces the feet of the goddess with interlinked roots—roots that are not planted into the ground to draw up nourishment, but that are interconnected and self-nourishing. Sikander explains:

The beheaded feminine forms with interlinked roots of my lexicon were about my observing as a young artist the lack of female representation in the art world and the misogyny present toward women in almost all spheres of work and life. Shahzia Sikander, 2019 [5]

In Pleasure Pillars, this goddess takes on a new form, as Sikander transforms this image of the warrior Durga, abstracting the female body into a radiating circle of hummingbird-jets, an omnipresent goddess and an expression of feminine agency, located in the bottom right of the compositional space. Moreover, women dance across the top and the bottom of the watercolor, with additional arms and legs included in the composition, indicating multiple figures. These dancing women do not occupy a common ground line, but float through the composition in a manner that recalls Southeast Asian and South Asian examples of apsaras and gopis. In Pleasure Pillars, Sikander draws on the rich visual traditions of Asia—from different stages of history and different religious traditions—to compose collective gatherings of women, who appear throughout Sikander’s body of work, and through their repetition, stake a claim within contemporary global art history.

Dancing women (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

Obscurity and visibility: insights on contemporary global culture

Through Neo-miniature painting, Sikander introduces formal characteristics in a manner uncommon to traditional miniature painting to explore acts of labor, violence, and erasure. In Pleasure Pillars, Sikander employs dots of various sizes, saturation, and colors to cover areas across the sheet of paper. [6] These dots obscure content, calling attention to what is exposed and what is hidden, or hard to see through the diaphanous layers introduced by Sikander within the compositional space. Dots in Sikander’s art practice reference Islamic aesthetics, as circles and squares are often the basis for the intricate geometric patterns characteristic of Islamic art.

Dots might reference Islamic aesthetics or bullet holes (detail), Shahzia Sikander, Pleasure Pillars, 2001, vegetable color, dry pigment, watercolor, and tea on wasli paper, 43.2 x 30.5 cm (Collection of Amita and Purnendu Chatterjee) © Shahzia Sikander, courtesy: the artist, Sean Kelly, New York and Pilar Corrias, London

However, the artist also uses repeated circles because of their resemblance to bullet holes—Sikander began exploring gun violence in America and gun culture in the South as a theme in her art practices while living in Texas as a Fellow at the Glassell School of Art. [7] Over the course of three years, she spent time working at Project Row Houses in Houston’s Third Ward exploring the theme of gun violence. [8] Therefore, in Pleasure Pillars, Sikander’s dots may resemble buoyant raindrops, or luxurious pearls cascading throughout the compositional space recalling the opulence of actual pearls glued to the surface of miniature paintings, bullets, or even bombs being dropped from aircraft. [9] To the right of the jet at the top of the painting, a much larger composite creature (part human and part bird) appears ghost-like or angelic. What is this creature’s role within this space? Does the addition of the jet to Pleasure Pillars after the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center further augment its meaning? [10] Is the jet meant to signify potential destruction? And how have invasions by force, such as colonialism, impacted access to cultural knowledge and the preservation of cultural heritage in Asia?

Through the juxtaposition of various techniques and subject matter in Pleasure Pillars, Shahzia Sikander models acts of transformation—of the self, of a community, of cultures, and of history—to invite opportunities for complex readings that enable one to look more closely and critically at the world around them.

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, 2006; photo: Andrew Russeth, CC BY-SA 2.0) © Song Dong

A great number of objects of a wide variety occupy a large area of the floor. The display contains all kinds of household artifacts, from furniture and kitchen implements to used pens, pencils, and shoes. In the middle stands a skeletal structure of a house. While at first glance the scene might resemble a flea market, closer inspection reveals a level of complexity in the grouping and arrangement of the items not found in commercial displays of products. It is an installation by the Chinese artist Song Dong called Waste Not. First exhibited in Beijing in 2005, the work has since been recreated at numerous international venues.

Survival amidst tragedy

Such an expansive display of industrially made consumer products is likely to lead a contemporary Western audience to assume that Waste Not addresses the negative impact of capitalist production and consumption on the planet’s ecology and environment. Yet the primary goal of the installation is to offer an intimate look at a specific individual’s personal struggle for survival amidst a nation’s socioeconomic, political, and cultural changes and her family’s attempt to honor that struggle. The items used in the work come from the personal possession of Song’s mother, Zhao Xiangyuan, who saved literally everything she used and inherited over several decades.               

Song Dong’s grandfather was imprisoned for his loyalty to the rulers of China who were vanquished by the Communist revolution in 1949. Later, during Chairman Mao’s devastating Cultural Revolution, which attempted to radically transform all aspects of Chinese society, Song’s father was targeted as a “counter-revolutionary” and sent to a “re-education” camp until 1978. Born in 1966, the year the Cultural Revolution began, Song was primarily raised by his mother. 

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at the Barbican Centre, London, 2012; photo: Tom Page, CC BY-SA 2.0) © Song Dong

Affected by the decline of her family’s economic status during those years, Zhao saved all used household items, including containers of expended products, such as toothpaste tubes and empty plastic bottles. After Song’s father passed away in 2002, her habit of hoarding became more intense due to deep depression caused by her grief. Her accumulation, which she adamantly protected, grew exponentially in the following years. As Song has remarked, his mother’s compulsion to fill her domestic space was, in fact, a tragic attempt to fill her own emptiness.

A public expression of private life

Song, who had shifted from conventional painting to conceptual art practice, persuaded his mother to collaborate with him on an installation project using her possessions. The phrase Waste Not is a translation of a pithy expression in Mandarin underscoring the virtue of frugality. The vast number of objects in the Beijing show were grouped not by formal properties, such as color, shape, or texture; instead, drawing on the early scientific practice of classification known as taxonomy, Song separated them by type and function. Not only did such a public expression of Zhao’s private life introduce a structure and order to her personal histories and memories, but it also generated conversations with many exhibition visitors from her own generation who could relate to her entrenched obsession with frugality. The enhanced social interactions with them brought her a sense of purpose. According to Song, Zhao was the artist in the project and he, her assistant.

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at Carriageworks, Sydney, 2013; photo: Carriageworks, CC BY-SA 3.0) © Song Dong

After a brief hiatus following Zhao’s death from a tragic accident in 2009, Song continued to exhibit the work, collaborating with his elder sister Song Hui and his wife Yin Xiuzhen, herself a renowned artist. Beginning at San Francisco in 2011, over 10,000 items have been shown in the second phase of Waste Not, with occasional compositional variations in its several iterations around the world. The work has since become both a shrine honoring Zhao’s memory and a symbol of bonding for the family. 

Shoes are a case in point. Women in pre-revolution China had to wear shoes of smaller sizes because small feet signified feminine beauty. Compared to Zhao’s shoes, therefore, those inherited from Song’s grandmother are unusually small. Song’s sister’s shoes, on the other hand, are more modern but also cheaper products of the sort available during the Cultural Revolution. In contrast, the shoes worn by his niece are fancier and more expensive. The presentation of footwear thus bridges four generations of women in the family. In San Francisco, additional objects came from the other members of the family, a structure resembling Zhao’s house was introduced within the display, and photo-based works by Song addressing family ties were included.

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, 2006; photo: C-Monster, CC BY-NC 2.0) © Song Dong

The installation is based entirely on strategies of arrangement, as nothing in it, except for the frame of a house, is made by the artist. Kitchen utensils like ladles and spoons are separated from noodle-strainers; the individual items in each group are carefully placed on the floor, apart from one another, recalling displays of archeological specimens. The same strategy is evident in the organization of flattened toothpaste tubes, watches, bottle caps of various sizes and colors, and rows of markers, pens, and pencils, all in their assigned place. Bowls, pots, and pans, on the other hand, are grouped in their own area, separated from numerous flowerpots in another zone. Tied stacks of books and magazines sit next to several collapsible umbrellas, not far from an assortment of hammers and other household tools. Many pieces of fabric are neatly folded and stacked on a bed and inside a cabinet, whereas other fabrics are rolled, tied, and organized in individual rows on the floor, adjacent to a large heap of plastic shopping bags folded into triangles. A row of unmatched chairs marks one edge of the installation area, along with four television sets. With no aisles through the display, visitors can only walk along its boundaries. The itinerant character of the project is reinforced by the packing boxes stacked along the wall, displaying stuffed toys. All this constitutes a tiny fraction of the entire inventory.      

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at the Barbican Centre, London, 2012; photo: Tom Page, CC BY-SA 2.0) © Song Dong

The objects exist in an intriguing space between the domains of the private and the public, as their impersonal identity as manufactured products is compromised by the unmistakable traces of use on every single one of them; the shabby, worn-out commodities carry memories of personal touches, evoking a narrative about human resilience and survival. What is more, the appeal of the mere ordinariness of the items is holistic, since visitors move along the contours of the installation, unable to examine them individually. While such a visual experience may provoke reflections in a viewer on their own relationship with material consumption, the designs, brands, and implied functions of many of the products meant for use in China should also appear somewhat culturally distant to a foreign audience.

Engaging the archive

There is no question that Waste Not is strongly grounded in the mode of art practice that addresses the archive, not least because Song is currently developing a digital archive of the exhibits. Archives were conventionally seen as neutral repositories of knowledge that had existed for centuries. Around the 1970s, however, a revisionist approach to culture identified the archive (as well as the museum) as an artificial entity. An archive, in other words, has its own history and politics; the context of its origin is integral to the content it preserves; and due to this contingency, its structure, content, and purpose are subject to change. This new understanding led such artists as the Belgian Marcel Broodthaers, the German Hans Haacke, and the French Christian Boltanski to experiment with archival properties in their own works, paving the way for the artists of a younger generation. The Americans Mark Dion, Fred Wilson, and Sarah Sze, for instance, have employed various aspects of archival principles to address issues that have seemed urgent to them. 

Song Dong, Waste Not, 2005, materials and dimensions variable (Exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, 2006; photo: C-Monster, CC BY-NC 2.0) © Song Dong

Not only does Waste Not rightfully belong to this legacy of art practice of engaging the archive, but it reinterprets that practice in the context of modern Chinese history and culture. Constructing a spectacle out of the least spectacular, the mundane, Song Dong has made a substantial archive out of his mother’s large accumulation that redefines her history of hoarding—a socially awkward and psychologically questionable habit—into a rich site. The site enables him and his family to confront their own history, shaped through the aspirations and tribulations of modern Chinese society, and reaffirm their solidarity. 

Filled with scrolls of Buddhist mantras, this prayer wheel boosts the merit of its user.

Handheld Prayer Wheel, early 20th century (central Tibet), silver, wood, semi-precious stones, 19.6 x 5 x 4.5 inches (Rubin Museum of Art, New York). Speakers: Dr. Elena Pakhoutova, Senior Curator Himalayan Art at the Rubin Museum of Art and Dr. Steven Zucker

Rubin Museum senior curator Dr. Elena Pakhoutova and Smarthistory’s Dr. Steven Zucker take a look at an ornate handheld prayer wheel, which are ritual objects that are ubiquitous in Tibetan Buddhist culture. The action of turning a prayer wheel with conscious intent is believed to “recite” or “read” the mantras, activating and releasing them into the world for the benefit of all.

The Rubin Museum of Art has teamed up with Smarthistory to bring you an “up-close” look at select objects from the Rubin’s preeminent collection of Himalayan art. Featuring conversations with senior curators and close-looking at art, this video series is an accessible introduction to the art and material culture of the Tibetan, Himalayan, and Inner Asian regions. Learn about the living traditions and art-making practices of the Himalayas from the past to today.

Filled with detailed illustrations of figures, buildings, and medicinal plants, this painting is meant to instruct medical students in Tibet.

Lobsang Drubjam Tsering, Medicine Buddha Palace (copy of first painting from the set of Tibetan Medical Paintings from Mentsikhang Lhasa), 2012–13 (Rebgong county, Qinghai Province, China), pigments on cloth (Rubin Museum of Art, New York). Speakers: Dr. Elena Pakhoutova, Senior Curator, Rubin Museum of Art and Dr. Beth Harris

Rubin Museum senior curator Dr. Elena Pakhoutova and Smarthistory’s Dr. Beth Harris delve into a painting of the Medicine Buddha—a reproduction of the first in a set of medical paintings commissioned in the 17th century by the regent of the Fifth Dalai Lama.

The Rubin Museum of Art has teamed up with Smarthistory to bring you an “up-close” look at select objects from the Rubin’s preeminent collection of Himalayan art. Featuring conversations with senior curators and close-looking at art, this video series is an accessible introduction to the art and material culture of the Tibetan, Himalayan, and Inner Asian regions. Learn about the living traditions and art-making practices of the Himalayas from the past to today.

The Wheel of Existence expresses the cyclical nature of life manifested in various forms, all under the grip of the Lord of Death.

Wheel of Existence, early 20th century (Tibet), pigments on cloth, 81 x 58.7 cm (Rubin Museum of Art, New York). Speakers: Dr. Elena Pakhoutova, Senior Curator, Rubin Museum of Art and Dr. Beth Harris

Rubin Museum senior curator Dr. Elena Pakhoutova and Smarthistory’s Dr. Beth Harris reflect on a thangka painting of the Wheel of Life, also known as the Wheel of Existence. The painting depicts the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth (samsara) in various forms, which are in the grip of the Lord of Death, Yama.

The Rubin Museum of Art has teamed up with Smarthistory to bring you an “up-close” look at select objects from the Rubin’s preeminent collection of Himalayan art. Featuring conversations with senior curators and close-looking at art, this video series is an accessible introduction to the art and material culture of the Tibetan, Himalayan, and Inner Asian regions. Learn about the living traditions and art-making practices of the Himalayas from the past to today.

Cai Guo-Qiang, Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard (installation view at 48th Venice Biennale), 1999, clay with wood and wire frames (photo: Elio Montanari) © Cai Guo-Qiang

Imagine entering the Venice Biennial (a biannual art exhibition) and coming face-to-face with a clay sculpture of a man whose arm has fallen off, or whose nose is crumbling from his face. You may wonder if this was a mistake. Did the artist forget to fire his sculpture in the kiln? Or did you wander into a studio filled with unfinished or discarded artwork? In actuality, this degradation was a key conceptual component of Cai Guo-Qiang’s Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard, created for a section of the 1999 Venice Biennial designed to showcase the work of emerging artists. Cai’s work won the prestigious Golden Lion Award. 

Wang Guanyi and students from the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, part 1: Bringing the Rent, from Rent Collection Courtyard (detail), 1965, 114 fired-clay figures (Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, Chongqing)

Recreating an earlier sculpture

Cai’s sculpture consisted of life-sized representations of peasants paying rent to a ruthless landlord. Rather than emerging from the artist’s imagination, the figures were recreations of the most famous socialist realist sculpture from the Chinese revolutionary period under Mao Zedong—Rent Collection Courtyard. The sculpture was created in 1965 by artist Wang Guanyi and students from the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute. It consists of 114 fired-clay figures and illustrates the exploitation of the peasantry by landlord Liu Wencai.

Wang Guanyi’s sculpture was effective political propaganda for the Communist Party of Mao Zedong, who took control of China in 1949, because it testified to the oppression of the peasantry by landlords, a feudal system, which Mao sought to overturn. The suffering of the peasants is apparent through such details as a young boy being whipped, a woman being separated from her baby, and an old man struggling to push his large bag of grain towards the landlord. Typical of Mao’s utilization of visual art as an educational tool, this sculpture was made as part of a political campaign titled “longing for the sweet through remembering the bitter,” meant to encourage the populace to be thankful for the blessings of their current communist reality by contemplating the horrors of the feudal past. From the Maoist perspective, under the old system, peasants were exploited and mistreated by the bourgeois class, while under communism, they were considered heroes within a system of class struggle. However, 42 years later, Cai Guo-Qiang’s Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard was not a verbatim recreation of the original sculptural tableau. Rather, it contained important differences that opened possibilities for a new political critique.

Collective vs. artist

Under the leadership of Mao Zedong and the Communist Party in the 1960s, individual expression was suppressed in favor of collective authorship. In the realm of culture, this meant that many works of art, including Rent Collection Courtyard, were made collectively, with oversight by the three “heroes” of Mao’s revolution: soldiers, peasants, and farmers. In fact, the original tableau was purported to have been created under the supervision of the very peasants who were exploited by Liu (who by then lived in a nearby commune). As a work of socialist realism, the sculpture was meant to reflect ideal values of the socialist revolution.

Cai Guo-Qiang, Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard (installation view at 48th Venice Biennale), 1999, clay with wood and wire frames (photo: Elio Montanari) © Cai Guo-Qiang

Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard was similarly made collectively, though under the leadership of one of the most well-known contemporary Chinese artists of the early 21st century: Cai Guo-Qiang, who reports being moved when he saw the original as a child. In order to make the Venice version, Cai hired ten academically-trained artists, including one of the artists who made the original tableau, Long Xuli, as well as other well-known contemporary artists like Ai Weiwei, Chen Zhen, and Zhang Huan. Cai himself did not participate in creating the figures.

The work sparked controversy when the president of the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, Luo Zhongli, threatened to sue the Venice Biennial over copyright infringement. Though the suit was never brought, this situation raised important questions about how to retrospectively apply copyright laws to works made within a collective, communist society where private property had been abolished. It was also criticized by Long Xuli, who was angry when Cai did not share his award money with him and the other workers who created the original sculpture.

Audiences in China and abroad

In 1942, Mao Zedong, in a famous speech, clearly stated the purpose of art and literature under communism:

Many comrades like to talk about ‘a mass style.’ But what does it really mean? It means that the thoughts and feelings of our writers and artists should be fused with those of the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers. To achieve this fusion, they should conscientiously learn the language of the masses.Mao Zedong [1]

In keeping with this declaration, the original work was initially installed in the mansion of landlord Liu Wencai. The subject matter and location would have reminded the audience, “the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers,” of the abuse they had suffered under feudalism and how much better their lives had become under Mao Zedong’s socialism. A partial copy was made and exhibited in Beijing, where it was seen by half a million viewers. After this, in 1967, another plaster copy was sent to North Korea, Vietnam, Japan, Denmark, France, Albania, among other countries, in order to extol the virtues of Mao’s revolution on an international stage. Cai’s work, therefore, could be seen as one copy among many.

Cai Guo-Qiang, Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard (installation view at 48th Venice Biennale), 1999, clay with wood and wire frames (photo: Elio Montanari) © Cai Guo-Qiang

Cai was invited to create his work at the 1999 Venice Biennial by curator Harald Szeemann, who had been fascinated with the original Rent Collection Courtyard for years. The exhibition bookended a decade of exhibitions that brought contemporary Chinese art to an international audience. Many Chinese artists and critics were frustrated that the most popular contemporary Chinese artworks accepted into the Western-dominated global art market included symbols of the Cultural Revolution that invited simplistic anti-communist interpretations. They argued that artists like Cai, who had lived outside of mainland China since 1986, used these symbols not as a way to authentically express lived reality in China, but to become famous by pandering to the outsiders’ expectations of China (which were still very much influenced by the propaganda of the Mao era). As an early example of Chinese art at the Venice Biennial (China didn’t yet have a national pavilion by this point), those still living in mainland China questioned the relevance of Szeemann’s choice of Cai’s artwork to represent the contemporary art of their nation. If the original Rent Collection Courtyard remains a symbol of the values of the Chinese Communist Party to this day, Cai’s disintegrating version casts doubts on its continued relevance in the context of a country that had embraced global capitalism and accepted the accompanying social stratification.

Rent Collection Courtyard, 1974, copper over fiberglass (Art Museum of Sichuan Fine Arts Institute, Chongqing)

Materiality and performance

In the 1960s and 70s, the original Rent Collection Courtyard was remade multiple times. The first version was made with wooden frameworks covered with straw, clay, clay mixed with cotton, and glass eyes. Other clay versions of the sculptures were subsequently fabricated in cities like Guangzhou, Shanghai, Wuhan, Xi’an, and Chongqing. However, in 1964, when it was decided that a version would travel outside of China, it was made of plaster since clay was too heavy and fragile to be moved repeatedly. In 1974, the Sichuan Fine Arts Institute created a copper-plated fiberglass version, which remains in the institution’s galleries to this day.

Long Xuli sculpting a clay figure (detail), Cai Guo-Qiang, Venice’s Rent Collection Courtyard, clay with wood and wire frames, 1999 (photo: Elio Montanari) © Cai Guo-Qiang

The artists creating Cai’s version used photographs of a 1967 plaster version as a reference for their figures. Additionally, pamphlets describing the creation of the original Rent Collection Courtyard were provided to the audience for context. The figures were made with wire frameworks and filled out with clay and glass eyes. Unlike any of the original versions, in Cai’s version, the clay was not fired. In fact, Cai’s version is closer to a performance artwork than a sculpture. Throughout the opening of the exhibition, Cai and his team of sculptors built the figures before the audience’s eyes. He has said that he wanted to move away from “looking at sculpture” to “looking at the making of sculpture.” [2] By the time the team of sculptors were working on one set of figures, another was already falling apart, inhibiting the viewer’s ability to see the entire tableau at once. Therefore, the focus of Cai’s work was about process over object: first, the act of making the sculptures; next, their disintegration.

Meanings

Within the context of the Venice Biennial, one of the world’s oldest and most renowned global art institutions, the disintegration of Cai’s sculptures adds new interpretive possibilities beyond the original sculpture’s socialist message. Being included in the Venice Biennial raises the status of an artist, and with it, the price of their artwork. The ephemeral nature of Cai’s work, however, meant that it could not be sold. The original Rent Collection Courtyard represented a certainty in the power of art to express a clear and sustained political message, no matter how many times it was copied or where it traveled. Cai’s iteration, however, introduced new negations: not just a negation of feudalism (as in the original) and socialism (a common interpretation), but also a negation of modernist assumptions that artworks are closed systems of meaning that do not change within new contexts, that global biennials are always at the service of the art market, and that global capitalism (as represented by the art market) is a sustainable economic model.

Abanindranath Tagore, Bharat Mata, 1905, gouache, 26.6 x 15.2 cm (Victoria Memorial Hall, Kolkata)

Bharat Mata or “Mother India” is a powerful political symbol in South Asia, which over time has come to embody the idea of the Indian nation and its territory. Typically shown in the guise of a Hindu mother goddess, Bharat Mata first emerged as an idea and visual form in the late 19th century, when anti-colonial sentiments across the Indian subcontinent grew to new heights. In the 20th century, the symbol proved a crucial mobilizing force for the Indian national movement and was used to unify a vast and diverse population in the fight for independence from British colonial rule. Following the partition of 1947, when India and Pakistan first gained independence and statehood, Bharat Mata and her iconography have persisted as important sites of artistic and political contestation. Contemporary artists continue to look to Bharat Mata as a way to interrogate the difficult relationship of nation, gender, religion, and citizenship in South Asia.

Mother India in politics

Abanindranath Tagore’s iconic 1905 painting of Bharat Mata announced the arrival of Mother India as a political icon in South Asia. But the painting was only one manifestation of a much wider practice of picturing the territorial idea of India in the 20th century, as the symbolic personification gained greater visibility and political traction. The concept of Bharat Mata acquired powerful political valence during the Indian national movement as a sign of political liberation, self-sufficiency, and hope. An important rallying cry by the 1930s, Bharat Mata provided tangibility and tactility to a shifting national imagination and a way to unify a disjointed body politic divided by caste, class, ethnic, linguistic, regional, and religious differences. [1] 

Bharat Mata’s popularity was reinforced by political leaders of the time. Jawaharlal Nehru, a prominent advocate for Indian independence who would become India’s first Prime Minister in 1947, devoted several pages to Bharat Mata in his famed political memoir, The Discovery of India (1946). For Nehru, Bharat Mata was not just an “anthropomorphic entity” for the country, nor a reference to India’s “good earth.” [2] Bharat Mata stood more simply for “the people of India” and the political potential in their variety and collectivity. [3]

Bharat Mata sculpture, Yanam, India (photo: Dvssrinivas, CC BY-SA 4.0)

Amid this increase in Bharat Mata’s visibility and popularity as a sign of the nation came important shifts in her iconography, which would see the figure, especially in print and political paraphernalia, shed the fragile idealism of Tagore’s early painting. In these later images, Bharat Mata embraces her role of goddess of the nation with greater confidence, a transformation enabled by a deepening identification of Bharat Mata as a Hindu deity.

Bharat Mata, in this sense, is often clad in a form-fitting sari, bedecked in a crown and heavy jewels, which overwhelm her wrists, neck, and waist, foregrounding her femininity, fertility, and divinity. Bharat Mata, in these images, often holds a spear or the Indian tri-color flag in her hand, and she is sometimes accompanied by a lion, recalling the ferocity of Durga and her mount. She is often depicted as a well-armed figure riding a lion or tiger. The lion has a long association with religion and political power in South Asia beyond Hinduism. It is an important sign of royalty and power in Buddhist doctrine. It was also famously used as a royal emblem by the Mauryan kings, an early Indian empire that unified large swathes of the Indian subcontinent between 322–184 B.C.E.

Mother India in maps

Bharat Mata’s form also becomes linked to the territorial map of India and is sometimes shown hovering above, merging with, or sitting near the Indian subcontinent. In some cases, Bharat Mata’s iconography becomes interchangeable with the map of the Indian subcontinent. A notable example of this is the Bharat Mata Mandir in Varanasi, inaugurated by Mahatma Gandhi in 1936. Dedicated to Mother India, the temple houses an elaborate marble map of the Indian subcontinent which is worshipped in place of an anthropomorphized image of a deity. [4]

Marble map that is worshiped in place of a deity (detail), Bharat Mata Mandir (Mother India Temple), Varanasi, India, 1936 (photo: Manuel Menal, CC BY-SA 2.0)

Scholars have attributed these important shifts in Bharat Mata’s form in the 20th century to the growing confidence of the Indian national movement and to the political fissures that came to define and divide the fight for Indian independence.

T.B. Vathy, Message of Love, c. 1940 (Ravi Varma Press, Trivandrum)

By the 1940s, the Indian national movement had fractured along religious and communal lines, with prominent Muslim leaders, like Muhammad Ali Jinnah, calling for the creation of a separate homeland to safeguard India’s Muslim minority population. By 1947, these fractures resulted in the decision to partition the Indian subcontinent into not one, but two nation-states: the Republic of India, which would have a Hindu-majority population, and the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, which would consist of two non-contiguous territories, each with Muslim-majority populations. Announced in June 1947 and implemented by August 1947, the partition was not easy to realize. It constituted traumatic divisions and displacements of territory, people, infrastructure, and culture, with lasting and often violent consequences across the Indian subcontinent.

Bharat Mata’s new proximity to cartography altered perceptions of the Indian nation and its territorial reach. As Sumathi Ramaswamy has shown, Bharat Mata’s body was often harnessed by artists to extend India’s land mass, either by obscuring the location of India’s political and natural boundaries or by laying claim to contested geographic regions, such as Jammu and Kashmir. [5] T.B. Vathy’s Message of Love is, in many ways, emblematic of this artistic practice. Here, Bharat Mata sits confidently atop the globe, recalling the royal portraits of Mughal emperors and European monarchs. [6] Her feet are planted firmly at the center of the Indian subcontinent, which recedes backward into the horizon. The image is a powerful declaration of the triumph of Indian nationalism. With Bharat Mata surrounded by prominent Indian politicians and historic religious leaders, it positions India as a secular state and a new center of the world. It also suggests India’s territorial ambition by blurring the location of its new national boundaries, which in 1948, when this image was produced, were still highly contested with Pakistan due to the partition. [7]

Mother India in popular film

Seth Studios (designer), Mother India (1957), c. 1980s, lithograph on paper, 102 x 76 cm (Victoria & Albert Museum, London)

Following Indian and Pakistani independence in 1947, Bharat Mata maintained a prominent place within Indian popular culture. This was epitomized in 1957 by the release of Mehboob Khan’s critically acclaimed film, Mother India. The film traces the trials and triumphs of its female protagonist, a Hindu woman named Radha, who endures grave hardship and sacrifice for the well-being of her family and community. It starred famed Bollywood actress Nargis in the titular role and is widely understood to be an allegory for the struggle for Indian independence in the 20th century. [8] 

A powerful exercise in nation-building, the film capitalized on the popularity of Bharat Mata iconography in both its cinematic narrative and advertising campaigns. Later movie posters, made for the film’s re-release in the 1980s, draw their design from a pivotal moment in the film where Radha persuades her fellow villagers to stay and recultivate their lands in the wake of devastating floods, which they do to great success. The posters show Radha overcome with anguish as she suffers the weight of a manual plow. This plow becomes her lifeline in this moment, a kind of third arm, as she heals her family, village, and the land. Her body, recalling the iconography and blended effects of Tagore’s Bharat Mata, is deified amid a roaring sunset wherein her sacrifice and physical suffering become seeds for the nation’s impending prosperity. 

If Mother India reinforced Bharat Mata’s gendered vision for the Indian nation by linking land and prosperity to the body of the Indian woman, the film also raised important questions about the relationship between religion and citizenship in post-partition India. In this regard, the decision to cast Nargis, a Muslim actress, in the film’s title role of Radha, proved a salient choice and can be read as a provocation: Who can embody Bharat Mata? Who can belong to the Indian nation? “Can a Muslim be an Indian?” to borrow the words of Gyanendra Pandey. [9] These questions continue to energize contemporary interventions into Bharat Mata’s form and history. 

Belonging to mother and nation

The iconography of Bharat Mata has become an important site of cultural and political contestation in South Asia. Among the most important controversies to erupt around Bharat Mata imagery in recent decades involved the pioneering modern painter M.F. Husain and his 2005 painting, Untitled, a work commonly described today as Bharat Mata.

M. F. Husain, Untitled (Bharat Mata), 2005, acrylic on canvas, 105.4 x 85.1 cm (Estate of Maqbool Fida Husain, Apparao Gallery, Chennai)

Made in acrylic, Husain’s Untitled renders the geography of the Indian subcontinent as a nude female form. This abstracted body gazes up towards the sun as her hair stretches across the Himalayas, her right arm extends into Kashmir, her left arm reaches out towards Assam, and her knees bend around the southern coast of Tamil Nadu. Her exposed form is doused in the deepest of reds, reminiscent of blood and vermillion. This body is further etched with the names of key cities and states that tattoo the folds in her skin into a familiar topography.

The painting was displayed for a short time in New Delhi in 2006, where it was exhibited as part of a charity auction. [10] During this time, it garnered intense outrage from supporters of the Hindu right, who recast the painting as a “nude goddess” and an affront to the religious sentiments of the wider Hindu majority in India. Although he was a prominent figure in the Indian art world and a founding member of the Progressive Artists’ Group, as a Muslim artist in India, Husain was also familiar with controversy. Several of his earlier nude works, which showcased the Hindu goddesses Saraswati, Sita, and Durga, had faced similar claims of obscenity as early as 1996. [11] 

But unlike these earlier works, Untitled did not make explicit use of religious imagery. It was, in many ways, an overtly secular painting. It combined Husain’s concerted interest in the nude as a historic art form in South Asia with his interest in mining visual vocabularies of the nation. As art historians Sumathi Ramaswamy, Tapati Guha-Thakurta and Karin Zitzewitz have asserted, the controversy around Untitled proved quite unprecedented. It raised urgent questions about the limits of an artist’s right to freedom of expression in India and the uncertain place of the nude in modern Indian art, while also signaling a wider collapse of the secular, as both a political and artistic domain in India. [12] At stake in this rendering of Bharat Mata, moreover, became the wider availability of the Indian nation and its icons to a Muslim minority artist. [13]

Abanindranath Tagore, Bharat Mata, 1905, gouache, 26.6 x 15.2 cm (Victoria Memorial Hall, Kolkata)

In 1905, the celebrated Indian artist Abanindranath Tagore debuted his painting of Bharat Mata. Made from gouache, Tagore’s painting is one of the earliest renderings of the idea of “Bharat Mata,” or “Mother India,” as a political icon. The work centers on a lone female figure draped in saffron-colored robes, who stands amid a glowing landscape where earth and sun entwine in a flash of blended pigment behind her. It is clear that this lone figure is no ordinary woman, but Bharat Mata. Her divine stature is signaled by the double halo that enshrines her head, the aura of light that extends down her legs, her multiple arms, and the line of lotus flowers on the ground beside her feet. She is also identifiable from the blessings that she holds in each of her four hands. Food (shown as grain), clothing (shown as cloth), knowledge (shown as a manuscript), faith (shown as prayer beads)—these are the building blocks and promise of a healthy national future. [1]

Figure holding four blessings (detail), Abanindranath Tagore, Bharat Mata, 1905, gouache, 26.6 x 15.2 cm (Victoria Memorial Hall, Kolkata)

Tagore crafted Bharat Mata amid the fervor of the anti-colonial Swadeshi movement in Bengal, with an awareness that the image would be used to galvanize early support for anti-colonial resistance (direct British rule was imposed on India from 1858–1947, when it became independent). He initially conceived the work as “Banga Mata” or Mother Bengal, modeling the painting on the everyday Bengali woman, perhaps even his own daughter. [2] The painting, however, quickly acquired recognition as Mother India, a wider embodiment of the emerging Indian nation. Bharat Mata was copied by other artists, used on posters in Swadeshi fundraising campaigns, and republished in vernacular media. [3] In 1906, a local magazine reprinted the painting with the label, “The Spirit of the Motherland,” foretelling the prominent place the symbol would come to occupy in the Indian national movement a few years later. [4]

Making past present

Tagore’s Bharat Mata is important both for giving early visual form to this salient political icon and for the ideas the work proffered, on the whole, for the direction of modern art in South Asia. Rising anti-colonial sentiments in the late 19th century had produced a series of debates around the nature and origins of Indian aesthetics. These debates pushed modern artists, like Tagore, in search of new modes of artistic practice that could be harnessed by a burgeoning national polity in South Asia. [5]

In forging this new artistic language, Tagore regularly drew inspiration from the subcontinent’s early artistic heritage. In Bharat Mata, for instance, he compiles the figure’s iconography from visual forms common to South Asian art prior to the 20th century and which hold special significance for several South Asian religions, including Buddhism, Jainism, and Hinduism. More than simply a gesture of cultural renewal amid a period of colonial rule, Tagore’s collected iconography for Bharat Mata asserts the longevity of the subcontinent’s past and heritage through the body of an emerging national icon. It also steeps Bharat Mata in new ideas of Pan-Indian cohesion, befitting an anti-colonial national project in early stages of mobilization.

Buddha from Gandhara, c. 2nd–3rd century C.E., schist (Tokyo National Museum, photo: public domain)

A recurring form in early South Asian art, the halo was used by Indian artists across the region to imbue figures with divine power and authority. Tagore extends this practice to the figure of Bharat Mata, whose halo is a prominent feature of the composition, formed from a pair of concentric circles that radiate outwards from her body into a golden hue. Bharat Mata’s halo, perhaps foremost, recalls the early iconography of the Buddha in South Asia. As seen in early Buddhist sculpture from Gandhara, the Buddha’s enlightened status is often conveyed through circular rays of light which encircle the Buddha’s head like a crown.

Bichitr, margins by Muhammad Sadiq, Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings from the “St. Petersburg Album,” 1615–18, opaque watercolor, gold and ink on paper, 46.9 x 30.7 cm (National Museum of Asian Art, Washington, D.C.)

Bharat Mata’s halo also, however, recalls the conventions of 17th-century Mughal manuscript painting, where the halo was used to visualize new conceptions of divine kingship in South Asia. Tagore’s image, in this regard, is reminiscent of allegorical portraits such as Bichitr’s Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings and Abu’l Hasan’s Jahangir Embracing Shah Abbas. In such paintings, the halo blurs the Mughal emperor Jahangir’s body with key natural elements, such as the sun and moon, to suggest the sovereign’s kinship with nature and, by extension, his authority over his earthly political rivals.

Lotus flowers (detail), Abanindranath Tagore, Bharat Mata, 1905, gouache, 26.6 x 15.2 cm (Victoria Memorial Hall, Kolkata)

The lotus flowers that surround Bharat Mata like a throne place Tagore’s painting in dialogue with other early Buddhist monuments in South Asia, including the Great Stupa at Sanchi. The lotus flower is an important metaphor for the Buddha’s life and teachings, associated with ideas of spiritual purity, enlightenment, and devotion. Such flora is carved in abundance at Sanchi, where it imbues the site’s reliquary architecture and monastic complex with a sacred status becoming of the Buddha and his devotees. In Tagore’s painting, the presence of lotus flowers beneath Bharat Mata’s feet, like her halo, helps to underscore the figure’s ethereal difference and in turn elevate the idea of Indian collectivity. [6]

Durga slays the Buffalo Demon Mahishasura, from the north side of Mahishasuramardini Mandapa, Mamallapuram, Tamil Nadu, India, c. 7th century, granite, approximately 2.4 x 4.6 m (photo: © Arathi Menon, all rights reserved)

Bharat Mata’s many arms also potently invoke early depictions of the Hindu goddess Durga. In the Hindu pantheon, Durga is an important consort of Lord Shiva. She is worshipped for her strength and power, as both warrior and primordial mother. [7] In early Hindu reliefs such as Durga Slaying the Buffalo Demon at Mamallapuram, Durga is depicted as the embodiment of the feminine and divine force of shakti. She sits astride her lion, confidently engaged in battle against the forces of evil, with weapons bestowed from the heavens in each of her eight arms. Bharat Mata’s close kinship with such images of Durga lends Tagore’s composition a sense of strength and transcendence, important for a nation in the process of becoming. These iconographic ties also, however, point to the potential limits of Tagore’s Pan-Indian vision, anticipating the role Bharat Mata would later play as a national icon in figuring the Indian nation as predominantly Hindu, to the exclusion of other religious minorities.

Painting a national icon

Setting aside the painting’s iconography, Tagore’s Bharat Mata is also noteworthy for inaugurating the Bengal School of Art, which by the 1940s was celebrated by art critics and leaders within the Indian national movement as a true “national” art form. Pioneered by Tagore in the early 20th century, this new mode of painting was envisioned as an “Indian” counter to the predominance of British academic art in South Asia.

Academic art refers to a style of naturalistic painting and sculpture nurtured by European academies of art in the 19th century and later British art schools in South Asia. It is an artistic approach that prioritizes materials such as oil and canvas, and techniques such as linear perspective, foreshortening, and chiaroscuro to achieve strong illusionistic effects and narrative legibility.

A celebrated example of academic art in South Asia is Raja Ravi Varma’s The Galaxy of Musicians. Commissioned by the Maharaja of Mysore in 1889, the painting brings to life a diverse group of Indian women engaged in a musical performance. The painting is notable for its rich, naturalistic detail and for its allegorical use of the Indian woman to personify the geographic and cultural diversity of the Indian subcontinent.

Raja Ravi Varma, A Galaxy of Musicians, 1889, oil on canvas, 49 x 43 inches (Sri Jayachama Rajendra Art Gallery, Jaganmohan Palace, Mysore, Karnatak)

Tagore’s Bengal School of Art, in contrast with the British academic style, is interested more in harnessing the coloristic and emotive possibilities of regional materials such as tempera and watercolor, which were long central to local forms of South Asian art, including Mughal, Rajput, and Pahari painting. As seen in Bharat Mata, it is a style of painting that forsakes the bold lines, stringent linear perspective, and verisimilitude of academic art in favor of flatter picture surfaces and large swathes of blended color.

This shift in material and technique encouraged Indian artists to use painting to explore the complexities of human interiority and intimacy, with palpable ramifications for an image like Bharat Mata. The Bengal School style, in this regard, not only lends Bharat Mata a new sense of authenticity at a time when the idea of “Indian” art and culture was in flux, but also helps to ground Bharat Mata and, by extension, the idea of the Indian nation, in the realm of the personal and the everyday. In spite of her divine stature, Bharat Mata and her promise of self-sufficiency is made available and accessible to viewers.

Abanindranath Tagore, The Journey’s End, c. 1913, tempera on paper (National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi)

Tagore’s signature “wash technique” is another defining characteristic of the Bengal School approach. This form of loose brushwork, which centers color and mood, grew from Tagore’s interest in Pan-Asianism and his wider experimentation with Mughal manuscripts and Japanese ink painting. [8] In Bharat Mata, this kind of brushwork combines with the figure’s Pan-Indian iconography to produce a mythic composition of woman and nation, emblematic of a new idealism within Indian national discourse by the early 20th century.

Motoi Yamamoto, Floating Garden, 2013, salt, installed at The Mint Museum (photo: James Martin) © Motoi Yamamoto

An immaculate white vortex covers the entire gallery floor. A lace-like pattern with countless pores intermingles with supple lines. Seen from above, the enormous spiral, appearing a seamless whole, recalls many natural forms: a moving typhoon, nebulae, aerial views of geographical boundaries, and receding foamy seawater on a beach. Seen up close, however, the material used to make the pattern becomes visible: the entire image is made of salt. Made in 2013, it is one work from the series of salt constructions by the Japanese artist Motoi Yamamoto called Floating Garden.

Salt and grief

Born in Onomichi in Japan, Yamamoto is currently based in Kanazawa, where he was also trained as an artist. His work of the last three decades is rooted in a personal encounter with intense grief. The loss of his beloved younger sister to brain cancer in 1994 marked a turning point in Yamamoto’s rising career as a painter, when he turned to salt as his primary material to address birth, life, death, and memory.

Motoi Yamamoto, Utsusemi, salt, installed at the 2003 exhibition, “The First Steps; Emerging Artist from Japan,” MoMA P.S.1, New York (photo) © Motoi Yamamoto

The floor installations in salt began in 1996. In that first phase, the artist constructed architectural fragments that led nowehere: life-size tunnels that disappeared around a curve, and staircases, such as Utsusemi from 2003, which ended abruptly. In 2006, such vertical structures gave way to Labyrinth, massive drawings on the floor of dizzyingly complex site-specific mazes built by meticulously pouring salt with stunning skill and patience.

Motoi Yamamoto, Labyrinth, salt, installed in Paris, 2014 (photo: Rog01, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) © Motoi Yamamoto

The third phase emerged in 2013, when the rectilinear mazes became the fluid, organic lacework of Floating Garden. Each image of this series is shaped through several weeks of work. Yamamoto first sketches a pattern and scans it to produce a digital version of the image. It is then overlaid on a digital floor plan and adjusted to fit the space. Once the final design is drawn at the site, the artist sits on the floor, and working alone, renders the image with refined sea salt squeezed out of a nozzle, much like icing a cake. Despite the prior digital planning, the three-dimensional drawing changes as the work progresses in order to accommodate variations on the floor. A platform is often constructed in the gallery for an elevated view of a Labyrinth or a Floating Garden image.

Motoi Yamamoto, Floating Garden, 2013, salt, installed at The Mint Museum (photo: James Martin) © Motoi Yamamoto

When a common substance like salt is repeatedly used to make art, there is a risk of the artwork eventually turning into mere novelty. Yamamoto’s material and all aspects of his process, however, are grounded in profound ideas that subsume the impact of both his skill and technique, ensuring the gravity of each project.

Aside from its critical function in human and animal bodies, salt extracted from nature returns to it in various ways. What is more, it has a crucial role in Japanese culture, as an agent of purification offered at ancestral shrines, funerals, and sumo wrestling matches. To Yamamoto, salt represents the cycle of nature and continuity of culture. While he used bricks of salt to build the tunnels and stairs of the first phase, his focus later shifted to salt’s granular property. He was drawn to the symbolic potential of the resemblance of a grain of salt to the shape of the human brain and to the contrast between the translucency of individual grains and their collective opacity. He also sees the whiteness of salt as symbolic of purity and loss, triggering memories of his sister.

Motoi Yamamoto, Floating Garden, 2013, salt, installed at The Mint Museum (photo: James Martin) © Motoi Yamamoto

Salt and memory

Each grain of salt is a moment in Yamamoto’s memory, and the act of painstakingly producing an image is his engagement with the ephemerality of memory. He initially borrowed the idea of the labyrinth from European histories and myths to represent a holistic notion of memory: visually pairing the seemingly endless turns of the labyrinth was his personal journey and his hopes of “encountering” his sister. But the labyrinth motif eventually seemed inadequate because while the mazes often brought a journey back to the beginning, Yamamoto wanted to experience memory as fleeting but precious. He therefore explored his Japanese heritage to invent the more organic Floating Garden. In this series, the floor becomes powerfully evocative of the earth’s surface, where the majestic vortex symbolizes life, death, and resurrection. Its dynamism can be regarded as both centrifugal and centripetal, and its countless pores serve as bubbles representing memories of mundane moments. Especially since the passing of his wife in 2016, engagement with this pictorial strategy has allowed Yamamoto to cherish the fragments of memory while accepting its fragility.

Yamamoto does not employ assistants because for him, the rigor of his production is an exclusively personal endeavor. His process, in fact, is reminiscent of such practices as the Tibetan tradition of mandala painting with colored sand, where the visible role of a painstaking process only serves a spiritual goal. Because the intense labor, which often demands ten hours of work in a day, requires the fitness of an athlete, he sees the discipline of maintaining his body as an extension of his work. However, while Yamamoto recognizes the performative character of his meditative process, he does not want to present it as performance. Instead, a more potent form of performance is reserved for the end of a show. Since one of his goals is to translate his personal grief into a broader human experience, the artist invites visitors to scoop up the salt from an impeccably executed piece and take it back to the sea. He claims, not unlike Tibetan sand painting, that this intervention underscores the finiteness of life in the face of the ongoing cycle of birth and death.

Empowered by the profound existential questions explored by the artist, the crystalline mineral is elevated to the status of a creative agent in the connection between life and death when exhibition visitors return the substance to its natural source. And from its inception to its erasure, an entire project is thoroughly documented. Despite his respect for the transience of life and the inevitability of the loss of memory, Motoi Yamamoto ironically relies on documentation to memorize his interaction with memory.