This edition of post Presents was part of the 2023 C-MAP Seminar: Transversal Orientations III. The 2023 C-MAP Seminar was organized by Nancy Dantas, C-MAP Africa Fellow, Inga Lāce, C-MAP Central and Eastern Europe Fellow, Wong Binghao,
C-MAP Asia Fellow, Julián Sánchez González, Cisneros Institute Research Fellow,
Elena Pérez-Ardá López, C-MAP Coordinator, and Rattanamol Singh Johal, Assistant Director, International Program, with support from Marta Dansie, Department Coordinator, International Program, and Jay Levenson, Director, International Program. It was presented in collaboration with the Patricia Phelps de Cisneros Research Institute for the Study of Art from Latin America at MoMA.

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Akram Zaatari’s mixed-media installation Letter to a Refusing Pilot (2013) was first presented in the Lebanese Pavilion at the 55th Venice Biennale in 2013. The pavilion was housed in one of the Arsenale’s warehouse-scale galleries. At one end, a large projection looped a thirty-five-minute digital video, while at the other, a 16mm film was projected onto a vertical slab rising from the floor. Oriented toward the latter was a single spotlighted cinema seat, which was upholstered in an inviting, deep red. Eight circular flat-topped stools were scattered around the space. Containing remnants of both the cinema house and the media gallery, the installation’s carefully conceived architecture signaled the breadth of Zaatari’s influences and references. Its construction and configuration drew on the history of cinema as well as the now widespread phenomenon of projection-based works made for gallery spaces, placing it within a genealogy of expanded media practices that marked a historical break from cinematic illusionism. In this brief text, I explore the installation’s citation of multiple media apparatuses and the conceptual implications of its archival and narrative engagements while contextualizing it within the trajectory of Zaatari’s artistic practice.

Arguably the core of the installation, the projected video opens with the whir of a motor and a blurry image that soon comes into focus, seemingly the feed from a camera attached to a drone that lifts off the tiled roof of a modernist building and rises well above what appears to be a Lebanese city, most likely Beirut or Saida. A series of disparate images and materials are presented one after another, including the opening pages of Le Petit Prince by Antoine Saint-Exupéry and photographs from the artist’s personal and family albums. The latter offer glimpses into Zaatari’s childhood years in Saida, where he spent a considerable amount of time in the gardens of the Saida Public Secondary School for Boys, which his father founded. The titular narrative of the “refusing pilot” involves an Israeli Air Force pilot who, during the 1982 invasion of Lebanon, defied orders to bomb a building in Saida that he recognized from the air as either a school or hospital. Another pilot sent to complete the mission bombed the school a few hours later. This anchoring story evades explicit narration until the very end of the video, though Zaatari offers clues and alludes to it through archival fragments and aerial views, images, and sounds.

Letter to a Refusing Pilot stages a negotiation between rumor, memory, evidence, and the archive, revealing a tenuous and temporally extended process of revisiting and reconstructing a past that has consistently evaded official historical record and is increasingly being reinterpreted and represented through imaginative acts of artistic mediation. Zaatari’s installation needs to be read in tandem with the larger body of work he has produced since the 1990s, which engages questions of materiality, methods of assembly, and modes of display while working with archival media and documentary forms. Zaatari studied architecture in Beirut and media studies in New York before returning to Lebanon and working for a television network (Future TV) owned by former Lebanese prime minister Rafiq Hariri, who was assassinated in 2005.¹ This early engagement with television significantly shaped his thinking and artistic formation. In the context of an early work All Is Well on the Border Front (1997), Zaatari discusses the case of Lebanese resistance fighters and former political prisoners whose accounts were often manipulated and broadcast on television as pictures of patriotic heroism that entirely ignore the enormous psychological and physical damage inflicted upon their subjects.² 

Born in 1966, Zaatari grew up in a middle-class family in the southern Lebanese city of Saida while it was under Israeli occupation. He was sixteen and already a keen photographer when the Israeli invasion of 1982 took place. Standing on the balcony of his family’s apartment, he recorded the sounds of fighter planes flying overhead, and photographed smoke rising from the hillsides surrounding his hometown as Israeli bombs struck. A selection from this series of photographs, which he plucked from his personal albums, was composited to create Saida June 6, 1982 (2006), a work that depicts numerous explosions around Saida over an extended period of time in a single frame. These photographs were then transferred onto 16mm film to create the filmic component in Letter to a Refusing Pilot. In the projected video across the gallery, other materials from Zaatari’s personal archive appear, including a text entry from his brother’s diary, dated July 2, 1982, which, accompanied by a newspaper cutout of an image of an Israeli jet, reads, “Today my father took us to visit the school, which was damaged during an airstrike, and Akram took a few pictures.”³ In the video’s closing moments, an Israeli news broadcaster tells of the bombings of Ain El-Hilweh camp, a stronghold of the Palestinian resistance located adjacent to the school.

Zaatari grew up with various versions of the refusing pilot’s story. He recalls hearing from his uncle of a former Lebanese Jew turned Israeli pilot who had attended school in Saida and refused to bomb his alma mater, instead dropping the explosives into the sea. In fact, the school was bombed, purportedly by another pilot sent to complete the mission abandoned by his colleague. Yet the rumor—a touching tale of wartime empathy, childhood attachment, and a somewhat naïve expression of peaceful coexistence in the Levant—persisted. Zaatari recounts the tale in A Conversation with an Imagined Israeli Filmmaker Named Avi Mograbi (2010–12), the published script of a staged public conversation between him and Mograbi, two real filmmakers assuming fictional identities in a bid to overcome the seeming impossibility (both logistical and conceptual) of conversing openly across enemy lines.⁴ Seth Anziska, then a doctoral candidate in International History at Columbia University conducting research on the 1982 occupation, found himself flipping through the pages of Zaatari’s new book at the Arab Image Foundation, an organization co-founded by the artist in 1997 that seeks to, “collect, preserve and study photographs from the Middle East, North Africa and the Arab diaspora.”⁵ As he reached the section where Zaatari mentions his uncle’s telling of the refusing pilot story, Anziska was immediately reminded of a research interview he had conducted in Jaffa, Israel, two years before.⁶ The subject was an architect named Hagai Tamir—a pilot in the Israeli Air Force during the bombing campaign in question—who told of his own refusal to carry out a mission when he recognized (based on his professional training) that the target was a school. Stripping the rumor of the flourishes it had acquired during the course of its decades-long circulation, including the pilot’s Lebanese Jewish heritage and personal attachment to the school in question, it matched Tamir’s telling perfectly, setting off a chain of events that connected Zaatari to Tamir and catalyzed the making of Letter to a Refusing Pilot.

The multimedia work’s reference to both cinema history and the capabilities of digital video are palpable and deliberate, specifically a combination of montage and editing techniques that allows multiple views and times to be compressed and displayed in a single frame. The lone cinema seat, the whirring projector, and the grainy images from Zaatari’s personal archive–deliberately transferred to 16mm film–evoke the cinematic apparatus, while occupying a larger installation that moves away from nostalgia and commemoration toward an incisive inquiry into the image itself. An influential figure in this regard, and a recurring reference for Zaatari, is French-Swiss filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard (born 1930), whose ambitious Histoire(s) du cinéma (1988–98) is a fitting culmination to a practice that has straddled both film and video, traversing the traditionally distinct genres of narrative, avant-garde, and documentary.⁷ Godard’s 2004 film Notre Musique explicitly addresses questions of violence and its cinematic representation, making reference to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the following terms: “In 1948, the Israelites walked in the water towards the Promised Land. The Palestinians walked in the water to drown. Shot and reverse shot. Shot and reverse shot. The Jewish people join fiction. The Palestinian people, the documentary.”⁸

Godard uses the language of mainstream commercial film editing to compare the historical fates of two peoples affected by a state of constant conflict. Ultimately, fiction is the idiom of victors and documentary that of the oppressed. Overturning this hierarchy, a political gesture in its own right, is where Zaatari and Godard intersect. In Zaatari’s work, the coalescence—of private and public, records from both sides of the border, mainstream media accounts, the archives of the Arab Image Foundation, personal photographs, recollections, and possessions—and the corresponding subversion of victor and victim archetypes are orchestrated through mixed-media constructions that engage in historical speculation and perform an archaeology of rumor, one that has only recently been verified as fact.

On a related note, the negotiation between analog and digital formats, in the contexts of storage, preservation, and use, finds some reflection in Zaatari’s changing view of the role, priorities, and modus operandi of the Arab Image Foundation. A decade ago, he proposed that the Foundation digitize its collection and then return the photographs to the contexts they originally inhabited (a family album, a bedroom wall), where they may ultimately meet their end.⁹ This proposal, rejected by the Foundation’s current members, reflects a preoccupation with de-fetishizing the photograph as a collectible to be preserved for its material qualities and perishable nature. Instead, the proposed digital archive would continue to provide material with which to work, its critical potential resting on gestures of juxtaposition, montage, and the creation of new constellations of image, text, sound, and storytelling located at a strategic distance from the dominant narratives rehearsed and replayed by the mass media. Zaatari’s installation profanes every apparatus it engages—cinema, television, radio—rendering their constitutive elements as tropes within the space of the installation.¹⁰ In this, the work unseats the unproductive and facile binary between “passive” and “active” spectatorship, the former associated with cinema and the latter with a multimedia installation that prompts movement.¹¹ The composite media installation in a darkened room—itself an interstitial space between “black box” and “white cube”—with its challenge to both conventional cinema and the ideologically inflected gallery, is the setting in which Zaatari’s work is sited and experienced.

T. J. Demos’s arguments in The Migrant Image—The Art and Politics of Documentary during Global Crisis (2013) acknowledge recent artistic innovation in the face of a formidable “challenge [to] traditional documentary conventions, in order to investigate what political value accrues from those innovative strategies that negotiate the limits of representation yet nevertheless bring visibility to those who exist in globalization’s shadows.”¹² Demos’s discussion of the exhibition Out of Beirut, held at Modern Art Oxford in 2006, is particularly useful in laying out the specific conditions within which the post–Civil War generation of Lebanese artists employs a poetics of the image, straddling their “fictional and conflictual aspects,”¹³ in engaging with a traumatic and unresolved history while resisting a “state-sponsored amnesia.”¹⁴ In a political scenario marked by constant conflict, destruction, and loss, the task of re-creating history through the interpretation and study of fragmentary visual and textual information becomes a pressing concern for the artist. Mark Godfrey, in his 2007 essay “The Artist as Historian,” theorizes the origins of this trend and addresses—among other things—the work of Zaatari’s contemporary and occasional collaborator Walid Raad (Lebanese, born 1967), whose Atlas Group, a fictional collective that he conceived and cites as the author of many of his works, has engaged in the creation of a fictional archive of the Lebanese Civil War in an effort “to represent historical experience more adequately.”¹⁵ If Raad’s frequent inclusion in exhibitions and biennials has allowed his ideas around fiction and the political potential of the image’s questionable truth claims to gain traction within the spaces and discourses of contemporary art, Zaatari’s work with images and objects has emerged in a different vein. In many of his works, Zaatari relies on the study and presentation of shifting constellations of found elements, using them to uncover individual behaviors and personal experiences within the conditions produced by major historical events. In the work of both artists, fabrication plays a significant part—ranging from the invention of fictional accounts, individuals, and institutions (Raad) to the bringing together of disparate materials and narratives into multilayered assemblages (Zaatari). 

The awareness of and interaction with multiple media apparatuses in the gallery space and the modes of spectatorship they produce is undoubtedly informed by the now canonical early experiments of artists like Paul Sharits (American, 1943–1993), Michael Snow (Canadian, born 1928), and Bruce Nauman (American, born 1941), with their revelation of the screen-reliant installation’s “phenomenological, psychic, institutional and ideological effects.”¹⁶ However, as curator Chrissie Iles pointed out in an October roundtable discussion following her important 2001 Whitney Museum exhibition Into the Light: The Projected Image in American Art, 1964–77, there was a reappearance of narrative in the work of experimental filmmakers and artists in the late 1970s and ’80s, marked by a move in the direction of “increasingly complex narratives and away from structural ideas, or process-based explorations of space.”¹⁷ Another participant in the roundtable, the early pioneer of projection-based works Anthony McCall (American, born England 1946), reiterated Peter Wollen’s thesis about the two avant-gardes and argued that the Godardian legacy that “stressed not material, but signification” has returned in the last decade “albeit in a new context—the art world.”¹⁸

Nearly two decades after this discussion and the accompanying exhibition took place, the regime of images and information is evermore subject to the insidious mechanisms of control exerted by both political actors and corporate behemoths. Within these conditions, Zaatari’s work uses multifarious apparatuses configured into an elaborate media architecture to present archival fragments and historical vignettes that underscore the politics of the image, and engage the dialectic between reception and distraction, awareness and immersion, art and documentary.¹⁹

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Reports by trip participants

Tagore in Bangalore

By Sarah Suzuki

Sprawling and choked with traffic, though lushly verdant, Bengaluru (formerly Bangalore) is likely best known as an international IT hub. So perhaps it is a bit surprising to discover that the city is also a rising artistic center. It is home to Suresh Jayaram’s No. 1 Shanthi Road, a multifunctional art space and residency program that just marked its tenth anniversary. Not far away, Sunitha Kumar Emmart oversees the eponymous Gallery SKE, one of India’s most innovative contemporary art galleries, which is housed in a fairy-tale cottage with gingerbread trim. And in 2000, Bengaluru was selected as the site for the third location of the National Gallery of Modern Art, joining branches in Delhi and Mumbai. In 2009 the former Manickyavelu Mansion, a colonial-style manor built in the 1930s and sited on several green acres, opened following a renovation of the existing building, and an addition to house supplementary gallery space and an art reference library. In the airy, domestic-scale spaces of the historical building, I found a surprisingly rich display of works by three members of the esteemed Tagore family: Rabindranath (1861–1941), and his nephews Gaganendranath (1867–1938) and Abanindranath (1971–1951). Each of these artists made a distinct and exceptional contribution to India’s modernist tradition, but it is quite rare to find examples of their work to study in person.

A brilliantly talented polymath who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913, the poet Rabindranath was credited with reviving Bengali literature and music, and charted a new pedagogical course for artists at Kala Bhavana in Santiniketan, where students were encouraged to loosen the tight reins of studio academicism in favor of observation and a life integrated with nature. His own work tended toward studies of vaguely mysterious figures. Abanindranath was a founder of the Indian Society of Oriental Art, and sought to incorporate traditional Eastern methods, materials, and ideals into contemporary practice. In creating what would come to be known as the Bengal School, Abanindranath sought to rediscover nationalist themes and subjects that predated the colonial period. His brother Gaganendranath was interested in a similar kind of synthesis, but he pushed his formal experiments toward a Cubist syntax, with fractured facets and partial planes, in a visual style that was uniquely his own. The Tagore name echoes throughout any study of India’s recent history of art, and in Bengaluru, one can discover the many moods and moments of its artists’ oeuvres.

North_West_South_East

By Rattanamol Singh Johal

In my new role as MoMA’s C-MAP fellow for Asia, which I assumed in January 2016, my first assignment was to plan the annual group trip to India and Bangladesh—with only a couple of weeks to organize travel for a group of seven people from six museum departments (Media and Performance Art, Architecture and Design, Drawings and Prints, Painting and Sculpture, Library and Archives, International Program). The nearly two-week itinerary was to include visits to artist studios, museums, galleries, the India Art Fair, and the Dhaka Art Summit. Though I am tempted to offer a blow-by-blow account, I trust that the collective publication of the group’s individual reports on post will achieve that end. This, then, is a collection of short snippets—highlights, if you will—from each city.

New Delhi, India’s capital, is also arguably the country’s busiest hub of art-world activity. The city’s network of institutions range from the imposing state-run museums and academies to prominent galleries dealing in modern and contemporary art, small nonprofit spaces, and a range of cultural activities supported by foreign embassies and foundations. In the midst of this, there is also a private museum founded by Kiran Nadar, which is housed in a largely unoccupied (in terms of commercial establishments) shopping mall. It is here that Dayanita Singh had set up her Museum Bhavan, or “Bureau of Museums” (bhavan loosely translates as ‘building,’ but often connotes an institutional site for the activities of state bureaucracy). The artist’s intervention took place through a series of specially designed wooden structures—boxes, columns, screens—that housed selections of black-and-white images from her vast photographic archive. These “mini-museums,” which she constantly arranged and rearranged as she conversed with invited interlocutors, appeared thematically organized along a logic largely governed by subject-matter associations—for example, the “museum of little ladies,” the “museum of chairs,” etc. Over the course of the afternoon we were there, the “museum of erotics” slowly emerged as the result of a dialogue between Singh and Shanay Jhaveri, observed by a small group composed primarily of art-world insiders.

Our next destination was Goa, known for its extensive coastline dotted with beautiful beaches and its lush hinterland scattered with sleepy villages. The current state of India’s metropolitan areas, riddled with issues of uncontainable population growth, pollution, astronomical living costs, and insufficient infrastructure, has pushed many artists, across different generations, to relocate either full-time or for part of the year to Goa. Indeed, one wonders how long Goa can sustain this inflow, given its already bustling tourist economy, but for now it offers a lifestyle that is scarcely available elsewhere in India. Nikhil Chopra, whose career I have been following for nearly a decade, chose to relocate here from Bombay with his family. This shift has transformed his practice significantly, adding to it something of the roles of a mentor, pedagogue, catalyst, and institution builder (though he would probably never label himself as such!). Chopra, along with Madhavi Gore and Romain Loustau, transformed a Portuguese-era hotel into the Heritage Hotel: Art Spaces, a residency-cum-exhibition space for young and emerging artists working in performance. This is an important initiative for a number of reasons, not least of which are the region’s sparse landscape for performance-art pedagogy and residencies as well as the unusual event (at least in India) of an established, mid-career contemporary artist’s devoting substantial time, attention, and resources to nurturing a younger generation.

Bangalore, a city that has grown exponentially over the past two decades owing to a booming information technology industry, is also home to an alternative art scene with strong leanings toward experimental film, media, sound, and photography. Our relatively brief visit here introduced us to number of unfolding trajectories, beyond the practices of well-established artists such as Sheela Gowda and Pushpamala N., emphasizing the need to return when we have more time on our hands. I found it particularly useful to understand the sustaining influence of Srishti—a private institute of art, design, and technology—which was set up in 1996. A number of artists experimenting across media, including Ayisha Abraham, Shai Heredia, and Abhishek Hazra, currently teach at this relatively young institution. Here, again, it seems that a platform for interaction among different generations of practitioners has been incredibly generative.

The final stop on our trip had us flying east to Bangladesh whose capital city was once again playing host to the biannual Dhaka Art Summit. This platform promised to bring together art and artists from across the subcontinent and farther afield, presenting a very ambitious series of exhibitions (six at my last count), panel discussions, a writing workshop, and a film program on the premises of the Shilpakala Academy (the state academy of fine art). The consolidation of all the summit’s activities across one venue allowed visitors to easily engage with most of the programming offered. One exhibition that stands out in my mind, titled Rewind, was curated jointly by Sabih Ahmad (Asia Art Archive), Amara Antilla (Guggenheim Museum), and Beth Citron (Rubin Museum) with Diana Campbell Betancourt (the Summit’s artistic director). The small show presented a gathering of little-known late-modernist works from across the region, revealing diverse engagements and interests in textiles and tapestries (Rashid Choudhury, Monika Correa), painting (Zahoor ul Akhlaq), printmaking (Krishna Reddy, Safiuddin Ahmed, Anwar Jalal Shemza), photography (Lionel Wendt), and projected image (Nalini Malani, Akbar Padamsee). A research publication or catalogue would have greatly enhanced the understanding and reception of the exhibition’s historical implications (and, undoubtedly, also bolstered the marketability of the works/artists included). As a broader observation, it seems that almost every exhibition at the Summit contained the kernel of an extended presentation in a museum-like setting accompanied by a publication and programming. In its current format, with a limited three-day run (we are told the next one will go ten days) and the need to move works and people across tense international borders, this is understandably both logistically and financially difficult. That said, the research outcomes, speculations, and possibilities for further exploration laid out by each of the exhibitions are rich and compelling.

Art-Driven Adaptive Reuse in Several Indian Cities

By Jennifer Tobias

During recent C-MAP visits to Mumbai, Delhi, Goa, Bangalore, and Kochi, I noticed how artists and gallerists are adapting neglected and abandoned structures for use as studio, exhibition, and performance spaces. This caused me to wonder about preservation policies in India, and artists’ unofficial role in relationship to them.

I learned that various public and private institutions address preservation, but also that there’s no national mandate for buildings less than one hundred years old. At the city level, initiatives vary. As a result, preservation and adaptive reuse are often the results of enlightened self-interest as much as organized planning. And that’s where the art community comes in. Several examples encountered during 2015 and 2016 C-MAP visits to India are discussed below.

Along Mumbai’s Marine Drive I noticed beautiful Art Deco buildings in various states of repair (Mumbai is said to be second only to Miami, Florida, in its number of Art Deco buildings).¹ Regarding their preservation, it seems that in Mumbai, as in many cities, public initiatives and private developments form what is a patchy safety net. At the international level, the district was proposed for UNESCO World Heritage site status in 2013 (Delhi’s Old City was chosen instead),²while on the local level, artist groups are starting to incorporate Deco preservation into their missions.³

New Delhi has its own architectural identity, and adaptive reuse patterns reflect it. Yet like Mumbai, economic growth and a swelling urban population are driving much of the demolition and rebuilding, often destroying significant modern architecture in the process. A case in point is the planned demolition of the Hall of Nations and Nehru Pavilion by Raj Rewal and Mahendra Raj at Pragati Maidan (1972). Recent efforts to save these endangered icons of Indian modernism demonstrate complex social and legal forces at work.⁴ As a representative from the Indian National Trust for Art and Cultural Heritage (INTACH) put it: “More than the fact that there is difficulty in wrapping one’s head around the idea of modern architectural heritage, it is the bureaucratic apathy that is causing trouble.”⁵

The C-MAP group also visited Bangalore, a thriving, tech-driven city. One writer claims that the city has more alternative spaces than traditional galleries, positing that “in the absence of government infrastructure or commercial enterprise, artists and art students have taken on the responsibility of leading Bangalore’s art scene.”⁶The group visited an exuberant example: 1Shanthiroad, a collective founded by artist and historian Suresh Jayaram and designed by architect Meeta Jain.

In Goa, the group visited the Heritage Hotel: Art Spaces, a one-hundred-year-old Portuguese-style villa turned hotel turned artist residency space founded by artists Romain Loustau, Madhavi Gore, and Nikhil Chopra. Artists from all over the world come here to share seven studios, several bedrooms—and a cat. Pleasant shared spaces have been adapted to facilitate interaction among residents but also with the community beyond, which is invited to visit during the program’s regular open studio days.

Of all the sites visited, the Kochi-Muziris Biennale, an ongoing project to integrate architecture of the past into the city’s present and future, is the most expansive example of artist-driven adaptive reuse. Kochi is a historical port town on India’s tropical southwest coast. Long a center for international trade (especially of spices), the built environment strongly reflects the city’s heritage, especially in its Portuguese, Dutch, and British colonial architecture. The biennale is sited within historic venues in or near the Fort Kochi heritage area, from the maritime warehouses known as “godowns” to public parks to former military barracks to empty houses. To visit is to feel thoroughly oriented in place and time, and to experience art in ways that strongly resonate with it.

Aspinwall House, built in the 1860s as a waterfront warehouse and now serving as the biennale’s anchor space, makes this immediately apparent. In this context, Sheela Gowda and Christoph Storz’s installation Stopover (2012) is especially resonant. The pair collected and installed more than one hundred wet-grinding stones in a central, symmetrical room that opens onto a small pier. Such stones were once used domestically to grind spices and other ingredients for cooking. Usually embedded in the floor, they were standard fixtures in Indian homes built well into the early twentieth century, but are now being abandoned.

As an installation the stones represent once unmovable objects set in motion by irresistible global forces. One is left to guess at the next site for the stones, the fate of the building, and the future of the biennale as a global force. In this way Stopover and Aspinwall House vividly manifest the spirit of art-driven adaptive reuse that is bringing new life to historic but marginalized structures in Indian cities.

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