Thatta Kedona

I saw many objects of love being prepared at numerous workshops that litter this part of our country {Hala}. Usually, the crafts were being either produced in a run-down plot, called the artist place, or it was being practised under open skies, open doors, and no frills. That’s the classic old-style way of doing things. People, passing by, would look — almost gawk — at the visitors, who are rare.

In fact, at most places we were the only visitors, and as soon as we would enter the artist’s domain, deep in his craft, he would raise his head, salute, smile and continue with his work. Some more business-like would stop altogether, shake hands and would start detailing the process — if asked — or else the qualities of the craft; where it came from, how long it has been here, who are the pioneers, and why this craft is now vanishing. Every time they would tell me the reason why their craft was vanishing I felt like a party to it all. After all, we, as a nation, spend millions on items bought from abroad; we like to fill our rooms with ‘Made in Europe’ items and loose out on Made in Pakistan. They would then look at me with eyes filled with anticipation, thinking that I might buy one ajrak, one stunning, blue bowl, or place an order for tiles for home; I did none of that and felt ashamed. It was one of those sad days when I had felt a party to a crime.

As one Pakistani scientist, now in Canada, reminded me, that just writing articles won’t help save our heritage much. It will take a lot of genuine effort, lot of Pakistani nationals and a lot of money, I would say, to save them from complete collapse. Already, once a booming industry, now in patch works, ‘ajrak’, the oldest patterned chador in production in this country, is fighting for survival. {Dawn}

Tags: Heritage, Arts, Pakistan

By Shaharezade Samiuddin

Familiarity can make us blind to the obvious. Veering treacherously to one side, dangerously overloaded and bustling along in all its dazzling finery, perhaps the most obvious thing that we fail to spot on our roads, except when one arm-wrestles past us, is the minibus. The other times you may pay more congenial attention to the phenomena is when you end up behind one and muse, and then amuse yourself with the heart wrenching emotions contained in the poetry on the back.

Boasting its own set of aesthetics, often featuring a cross between vibrantly speckled peacocks and outlandish Garuda birds, dramatic poetry, wise sayings, intricate filigree, and a child’s shoe (next time you’re close to a minibus look for this one, it’s there for good luck!), vehicle decoration, such as those we see on our roads today, has been entrenched in the local culture for centuries.

In the past traditional transport, such as horses and camels, has long been adorned partially because of a love for colour and splendour, partially in veneration of one’s vocation and partially to outshine the competition. The tradition transposed to buses, trucks and rickshaws when public transport came into the hands of the working classes. Thus the first buses that truly livened up our roads were those decorated by court painters who had migrated from Bhuj in Gujrat. This outstanding example of pop art, painstakingly created with repousse stainless steel, acrylic plastic and reflective tape (trucks and minibuses are fertile ground for artistic experimentation with continually evolving material) that swathes the regular minibus has just never garnered much attention.that is, from the right quarters. Rather ironic, considering that the décor of the over decorated ‘bride of the streets’ is blatantly begging for a second glance.

It was certainly more than just a second take that Pakistani truck and bus art garnered when it landed on a tram in Australia just in time for the Festival Melbourne 2006, the cultural festival of the Melbourne 2006 Commonwealth Games. Coordinated by Wajid Ali Arain, a visual artist and graduate of Karachi University’s Department of Visual Studies and executed by four chamak patti wala vehicle decorators Nusrat Iqbal, Muhammad Arshad, Muhammad Nadeem, and Safdar Ali from Allahwali who decorate the most adorned buses that ply Karachi’s longest route, the W11. The W11: Karachi to Melbourne project struck a chord with the Aussies from the word go.

Featuring a Melbourne tram plastered painstakingly with chamak patti and lighting by Iqbal and his team (who were flown to Australia for the project), this desi-style pop-art on wheels ran the streets of Melbourne to the beat of Noor Jehan’s Punjabi songs with the words, ‘Love is Life,’ candidly adorning its sides. The chamak patti tram carried more than 80,000 passengers over 12 days and won more hearts than any official drive — boasting tame fashion shows — to fashion a soft image for the country. Proclaiming its message of Love is Life, the tram traversed Melbourne’s City Circle route 120 times. On popular demand the tram continued to run once a week.

The desi-style pop-art on wheels ran the streets of Melbourne to the beat of Noor Jehan’s Punjabi songs with the words, ‘Love is Life,’ candidly adorning its sides. At the VM Art Gallery scenes from the project were displayed in the exhibition titled, ‘The W11: Karachi to Melbourne’.

At the VM Art Gallery scenes from the project are displayed in the The W11: Karachi to Melbourne exhibition. The video footage and the display of photographs taken by Wajid Ali and Kirsten Trist, a lecturer at the RMIT University in Melbourne keenly capture the capturing of Australian hearts. Scenes of exuberance and flamboyant dancing that celebrate this art on wheels have been frozen on film and mounted, befittingly with intricate chamak patti trim. Of the two films running at the exhibition one depicts the laborious making of the ‘chamak patti’ tram and the opening of the project while the other captures passenger reactions interspersed with traditional bus-style quirky verses inscribed on fate cards. By providing a vehicle (literally) to bridge barriers, reassess stereotypes at both ends and to have some fun in the process, the W11 Karachi to Melbourne tackled a host of diverse goals with one throw. That was the obvious outcome of the venture.

Less obvious was the revelation that seldom has a relationship building exercise, artistic or otherwise, had such a buoyant and cheery impact. Little about Pakistan, (including fashion shows) is associated with buoyancy and cheeriness. Indeed seldom has a more honest face of the country, gone into building its image. As it glowed with energy while plying the tracks of Melbourne, Karachi’s W11 grabbed goodwill by the tramload, not only because it radiated its message of love and peace, but also because it calmly asserted that we are like this only.

Young Aslam displays his art work (bedspreads sheets, table cloth, wall hangings, a melee of colour and an extravaganza of design) in Thatta Kedona show room at Lahore under the approving gaze of Dr. Senta Siller. Aslam needs no coaxing to display the finished pieces. As quickly as he spreads his art pieces, he rattles off the names. Persian 1, Persian 11, Masjid Wazir Khan, the palm tree, peacock palm, dancing parrots, the elephant tram and six peacocks, also naming the prestigious places where these designs are in use at the moment.

Aslam represents fourth generation of the family carrying forward the art of block printing that is at the verge on extinction. Block printing represents an age when mastery over art was the struggle of a life time of hard labour and Aslam does not seem to forget this philosophy even thought he has ambitious to innovate and diversify the art of his forefathers in a big way.

Jhando, the master craftsman exported hand painted and printed cottons and silks and velvets to agencies in London and New York. An international nomenclature some seventy years ago and now Calico Prints in Lahore is representing the family name and craft which once enjoyed international repute. Aslam is carrying the tradition further.

Indeed today Aslam with his skill of colour and stroke work, epitomizes an art technique which Jhando had carried to the pinnacle of perfection. Jhando -- the legendary great grandfather of Aslam -- was of course a figure of epic stature so to say. It was he who left to the family a collection of over twenty two thousand blocks drawn from diverse cultures like Muslim, Mughal and Punjabi cultures and Hindu mythology. The grandfather was illustrious too to be sure with his collection of awards and accolades kept zealously safe even today in velveteen cases.

Block printing is a very fine art that has matured over time. So intricate are the patterns that a single motif may need anything from two to twelve blocks to complete the details. Different block motifs cater to different colours in the same pattern. All this requires dexterity of hand to prevent them from running the other. The grand finale of course is the intricate brush work. Fashioned from local needs these indigenous brushes with all their quaintness high light of the motifs.

It goes without saying that Aslam’s exotic collection that I saw at Thatta Kedona is a treat for eye. Ironically, block printing is a cultural heritage reduced to penury under the influence of a mechanized industrial society and bulk production phenomenon. Yet one has to see it to believe the richness of this art from which even in its quaintness excels the grandeur of modern printing.

Preservation of the craft is a very noble passion but there is a difference in the preservation methodologies and objectives. “It is different to preserve the ancient cultural heritage for the sack of its perpetuation as an art and to do it for commercial purposes,” says Dr. Norbert Pintsch. Thatta Kedona is trying to patronize in order to preserve this (and many more) arts for the sack of those arts in their own original contexts.