I believe it was the year 2000 that I ended up in Mahabalipuram, a little tourist village south of what was then still known as Madras. Madras, now known as Chennaí is quite a big city, hot and steamy, where the scents of flowers and car exhausts mix with the sweat of the many backpackers lost in the turmoil of the traffic.
I was going there for my first time, a stopover on my way from Kathmandu to Trivandrum, to meet my Dutch colleague-in-the-arts Jan Dames, who enjoyed his time as usual with the ladies on the Kovalam beach.
In 1994, I was supposed to end up in Madras with an onward ticket from Sri Lanka, but I ended up in a hospital with a slip disc instead. So, now I could make up for my failed visit.
Besides the archaeological museum which I visited for its huge Gupta buddha art collection and dozens of war paraphernalia, I managed to see Madrassan young artists at work, who were busy creating a bas-relief of scenes from the famous Mahabarata epic. I nearly took a course, I was so impressed with the work , but the fees and visa restrictions didn't really encourage the idea.
The heat was getting oppressive and so I sought refuge in a cinema, where they happened to be showing Mrs. Doubtfire. I cried my eyes out with this tragi-comedy, as it reminded me so much of my own two darling children I had left behind in Belgium.The next day I moved on to the town of Mahabalipuram; a historic place by the seashore. Busloads of domestic tourists and backpackers, used to hang out there (and still do so today) for a few days or even weeks, clicking their cameras away or simply enjoying a evening stroll on the beach.
Mahabalipuram's beaches are kilometers long, quiet and desolate. The village was so picturesque it made me want to stay. However, most bungalows or guest houses were booked months beforehand. But, I managed to secure a room for myself and within a few days I started painting on rice paper which I had bought in Kathmandu. I used my brushes and paint like a madman, outside on the patio, where the acrylic colours dried too fast in this heat. I had to create a whole body of work for an exhibition I would stage in April in Kathmandu that same year.
Between my frantic creative spells, I went out to discover the village and its people. I loved the Indians, especially those from the South, who are so much more easy going than their northern fellow Hindus. After all, they are the aboriginal Indians (having said that, many of them do look like their aboriginal brothers from Australia), the Dravidians, (with a black complexion, a broad range of white teeth when they smile, it is only a matter of seconds to thaw a frosted westerner) who were pushed to the south by the invading Indo-Aryans from the West.
Mahabalipuram, however, was known and still is, for its carving in soap stone. It didn't take me long to realise that I could have them carve my designs out of that soft stone. I decided to create some tribal good luck charms with a shamanic appeal on paper.
Everything worked out fine although here and there I had to retouch some of my pieces with a keen interest in learning the trade.
Still, I had no idea of what exactly I was going to do with them. Until I was back in Kathmandu with about 2 dozen paintings under my arm to show in the gallery. As if everything had been planned, it dawned on me I could have cast them in metal, so I went looking for a blacksmith. I found two smithies, but neither were really interested or they were too busy to accept any order of mine. At last one young smith accepted, but he wanted money up front.
So I gave him what he wanted as a down payment. But guess my surprise, when next day he wasn't there. I had ordered one hundred pieces and he had been given eight different orignal designs in soap stone. Another day went by and still he was not at his post. I started panicking, thinking he had run off with the originals and the brass pieces. His colleagues tried to calm me down by telling me not to worry. Don't worry, no te preocupes (in Spanish), mai pen rai (in Thai) are key phrases in business to soothe anyone who wants to do business in a culture he is not familiar with.
The third day he was back with a hangover. He had spent all the money on booze and was now ready for the job.
I liked the first batch, but I still wanted more copies, this time with my name engraved at the back of the pendant. However he couldn't do that straight away, as he was caught up with more important orders. So I had to wait until after the show. It took weeks, time was running out and so was my visa. Just 2 days before I had to leave he had told me to come and pick them up the day after. I did so, but he gave no show. The last day was the day I had bought my bus ticket, and I had waited 2 hours at the smithy, alas, he never showed up.
He had my originals which were very dear to me. I suspected, he could make as many as he could and sell them to the local shops catering to tourists. How would I know? I wouldn't. I simply hopped on the bus and said Namaste Nepal, hope to see you next time.
PS: Oh, one thing more...my show was at the Siddartha Art Gallery, and despite Maoist activities I did get a large number of visitors.
Namaste
Alann
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