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M E L A N I E P O C O C K Possibilities For a Non-Alienated Biennale: Experiences of Conditions of Production in The Kochi-Muziris and Singapore Biennales l d ı v a n 46 — DECEMBER / 2019 The title of this essay is both a tribute to and rewording of the theme of the 2018 Kochi-Muziris Biennale, Possibilities for a Non-Alienated life. In her curatorial note for the exhibition, artistic director Anita Dube identifies “virtual hyper-connectivity” as the primary cause of human beings’ current alienation “from the warm solidarities of community.”1 Feeding this alienation, Dube suggests, is a fundamental lack of empathy for people whose socio-economic, material (and invariably virtual) conditions differ from our own. In order to mitigate our increasing estrangement from others, Dube advocates pursuing “a politics of friendship,” whose interdependent relationships would make us more aware of the circumstances which shape different communities’ lived experience.2 To quote Dube, “If we desire a better life on this earth… we must in all humility start to reject an existence in the service of capital. Through the potential of social action, coming together, we ask and search for … critical questions, in the hope of dialogue.”3 This search for dialogue with communities and contexts surfaced throughout Dube’s Biennale, in projects whose materials and logics of assembly drew on Kochi’s coastal environment. Nowhere were these materials and logics more apparent than in Ecoside and the Rise of Free Fall (2018), an installation by Bangladeshi artist Marzia Farhana, composed of broken household furniture, appliances and objects. Bound with heavy-duty rope and strung across multiple rooms of one of the Biennale’s main venues, the refuse had been collected by Farhana from parts of Kerala (the Indian state where Kochi is located) which had been affected by flash floods in August 2018.4 Through its archive of battered objects, Ecoside and the Rise of Free Fall not only reminded viewers of the immense damage caused by the floods (which resulted in the deaths of more than 360 people and the displacement of one million),5 but the ethical imperative of the Biennale’s artists to address them. By using remnants from the floods as her work’s content, Farhana also highlighted the very real material conditions which shape artistic production. Such preponderant, and at times precarious conditions of production have affected the Kochi-Muziris Biennale since its inception. Founded in 2012 by artists Bose Krishnamachari and Riyas Komu,6 it has striven to establish optimum conditions for participating artists and audiences, despite operating in a country in which the majority of art institutions are poorly funded and driven by partisan agendas.7 But if South India’s tropical climate and uneven arts infrastructure make staging a large-scale event like a biennale tough, Kerala’s unique differences from other Indian states create interesting opportunities to tackle these challenges. With a long history of migration, and more recently communist politics, Kerala is one of the most culturally diverse and literate states in the country: a situation which has nurtured some of India’s greatest artists and writers.8 Thus, while there may be few precedents for contemporary art in Kerala, its vibrant culture and engaged communities provide fertile ground for a biennale to take root.9 Kerala’s unique heritage and culture can be seen in Kochi’s historical buildings, which are used as exhibition venues. The distinctive architecture of these buildings, built in a combination of colonial and vernacular styles, provides artists with indelible sources of inspiration. But for all their charm, these buildings’ dilapidated infrastructure also creates significant logistical issues. Their lack of climate-controlled rooms, electricity and water (in earlier editions), for example, have made installing sensitive and technically complex works difficult. Infrastructural issues have also caused delays in the installation of artworks and the exhibition opening. Several critics (myself included) have commented on such delays, highlighting them as intrinsic parts of the “Kochi Biennale experience.”10 47 — DECEMBER / 2019 M E L A N I E P O C O C K Why critics have felt compelled to comment on such logistical aspects deserves some scrutiny. If such delays appear to contravene the principles of public events (which are usually expected to open as scheduled), they also diverge from the ostensibly seamless organisation of other large-scale biennales, such as Gwangju or Sydney. Famed for their ability to bring together staggeringly large groups of artworks, these biennales look from the outside like neoliberal powerhouses, capable of producing exhibitions of a consistently high (and frequently expensive) standard. Yet underneath this impression often lies a messier reality, in which curators and participants find themselves buckling under the pressure of ambitious scopes and insufficient resources.11 Considering these models, did my own criticism of Kochi’s delays reflect what I perceived to be its organisers’ struggle to execute a similar kind of exhibition, under equally pressured conditions? Living in Singapore—a country which is well-known for its own Biennale—provides an interesting context from which to consider this question. Established in 2006, the Singapore Biennale has earned a reputation as one of the most impressive large-scale biennales in Asia, with a roster of artists that regularly totals more than fifty to ninety participants.12 Endowed with a generous budget from the cultural ministry, it benefits from the streamlined efficiency of its home country, whose robust transport, economic and arts infrastructure has made staging such a large-scale event both plausible and desirable.13 For many artists, the Singapore Biennale’s generous resources and well-equipped, air-conditioned venues are a dream, because they enable the production of ambitious works largely unconstrained by climatic limitations. The negative side of Singapore’s organised infrastructure, however, is its frequent protocols which can limit artists’ creative possibilities, especially their use of public sites.14 Equally limiting can be restrictions on artistic content deemed illicit or taboo by national institutions and the government.15 In past editions, works such as Welcome to the Hotel Munbar (2011) by Simon Fujiwara,16 and Unwalked Boundaries (2016) by S. Chandrasekaran17 have either had to be reconfigured or closed due to their “sensitive” content. This essay considers the ways in which conditions of production and presentation have affected artists in the Kochi-Muziris Biennale and Singapore Biennale. How have their different visions of affected the artists’ scope? What spatial and conceptual constraints do their sites impose? How does financial support for artists differ between them? My motivation to examine these subjects comes from my work as a curator, which often involves negotiating with artists various aspects of artistic production. It is also driven by the current lack of writing on biennales which focuses on the perspectives of artists. While tight budgets and short timeframes are considered key pressures for organisers, they are less recognised as challenges for artists, despite the latter’s frequent role as both production coordinators and creative directors.18 Understanding how such pressures vary between biennales is crucial; a variability which makes comparing Kochi and Singapore an interesting case study. If the latter is seen to represent the high end of Asian biennales, Kochi reflects the artist-driven and self-organised biennale which has become a defining feature of Asia’s arts ecology.19 Having experienced both over the past few years, I have heard first-hand how their different parameters influence artists’ processes and the works they produce for them. A number of artists who I have spoken to highlight Kochi’s artist-led methodology as one of the most pleasurable aspects of participation, because of the way in which it places artists at the heart of its execution. The fact that the artistic director has always been an artist also invariably reflects the KMB’s core aim to embody the conditions of artists.20 l d ı v a n 48 — DECEMBER / 2019 Possibilities For a Non-Alienated Biennale: Experiences of Conditions of Production in The Kochi-Muziris and Singapore Biennales NEGOTIATING SITES: HERITAGE BUILDINGS, PUBLIC SPACES AND THE MUSEUM One of the most interesting conditions attached to artists’ participation in both the Kochi and Singapore Biennales has been the creation or adaptation of works for specific sites.21 Listed heritage buildings—Kochi’s historical venues, for example—are considered especially dynamic among artists because of their material vestiges and in-built history. Balancing the character of these sites with the distinctive qualities of one’s own work, however, can create tensions. Reflecting on her experience of creating her installation, The Tuning Fork of the Mind (2008) for the 2008 Singapore Biennale, Shubigi Rao explains, The experience [was] crazy, frustrating and consequently exhilarating as the work [had] to mutate according to the dictates of the site. I love that random, freakish evolutionary process, where the work is never as important as the venue, or the event, and can consequently slip its moorings of having rigid artistic pretensions, and just be a more gleeful, self-ingesting experience.22 The “self-ingesting experience” of Rao’s work came across in its museum-like display of archives, artefacts, machines and videos which sought to demonstrate the unique activity of the brain while looking at art.23 While the pseudo-scientific premise of the work evoked contemporary societies’ frequent need for empirically proven theories of art, it also suggested art’s right to ambiguity, and the ways in which such ambiguity can elicit curiosity as much as confusion. Intrinsic to the work in equal measures were its wit and artifice, the latter seemingly veiled by its archival display.

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