I think I got touched in the head with the surfeit of art all around. In addition to the cultural kumbh, as someone called the India Art Fair, are collateral events that are making me want to scream.
I love, like, breathe art and what I know about the art world would be the envy of the FBI and the CBI put together! And perhaps even give the Interpol a run for its money! But you know, darlings, I still want the taps of the city to
carry water and not blood, so I’ll only tell it little by little! Vive a live aqua!
The city is full of hustlers ((more have descended for the art fair) who want a piece of the art action one way or another. All of them want to showcase art that is weirder than the last stall you saw and all kinds of 3-D, 5-D, video art, installations — basically anything that was not known as art until a few years ago and can’t be hung in your drawing room is called art these days.
And all the organisers and gallery aunties are calling it the hugest success! Wonder who is buying all this and what are they doing with it?
There was this one hustler! Dealer wanted his share of the cake so he decided to have a collateral art show. Now, our friend is quite a dish by the way, and is even well connected. His mother is an interior designer and knows all the right people, my sweetie pies. So off he went to that gallery aunty who knows his mother to propose the show.
Poor dear! Gallery aunty was not interested in his art, guess what! Only him! Only he didn’t want even his Momma to know that he was closet gay!
Rather presumptuous of him to want to latch on to the gallery system to sell his art and, instead of waiting for them to come to him, deciding to go to them. Poor thing didn’t know what not to do, tsk, tsk!
To begin with, all the gallery aunties claimed to be travelling when he called, even though they were right here in sweaty Delhi, counting crows! In spite of the fact that our friend was no naïve jhoolawala, but knew how to slather on the sophisticated urbane Dilliwala charm, when he ran to the next art aunty, she informed him pompously that her calendar was booked till 2025. And only if he was a good boy, she would let him have four whole days in the first week of 2026.
Poor dear was on a trip to make quick money, so he decided to rent a gallery. Off he went to red-bricked gallery in the heart of town, which was supposed to be this hot shot venue for art sales.
First the director/curator made him wait while she finished talking to her publisher, who was throwing a fit as her ghost writer had not delivered the manuscript in time, (you mean you are naïve enough to think that she did her own writing? Now you know!)
Just as he was about to grow creepers around his pedicured feet, she arrived. Viola!
Her black spaghetti top held together by sheer will power and a safety pin as it threatened to burst open and reveal the contents that were well past use. Then the art aunty devoured him inch by inch with her heavily kohled eyes, lingering dangerously on the most interesting parts — his eyes of course! What did you think? Tsk, tsk, dirty mind! And guess what, she too was booked all 365 days for the next five years. 1,825 days in all.
Phew!
Who was the curator, asked kohl eyes. Sexy eyes mumbled one of the more respected names of the art world. Aunty looked at him in complete shock and amazement. You mean he had the temerity to come into her durbar and appoint someone else as a curator? Of course there was no gallery availability! But wait! All was not lost. Spaghetti aunty was open to negotiations. She was willing to “adjust” some dates to his liking in the next two weeks only if she was appointed curator. Not a bad deal, thought dishy eyes, even if meant a
couple of lakhs down the drain!
Happiness and joy was in sight. Sexy eyes went home happy, dreaming of mega bucks in sales. Dates were sorted out and the next day he excused himself from respected curator’s book. But just when he was
going to get the invites printed, the artists whose dates got jostled around decided to play spoilsport and not take it lying down.
They marched en masse to kohl eyes’ boss, demanding action. Now this was new — kohl eyes was reaching for smelling salts for no one but no one dared tattle against her. But too bad, the damage was done.
And when last heard, kohl eyes had to inform her boss about every “adjustment” in triplicate and sexy dreamy eyes had managed to bat his curly eyelashes at burly, bicep-flexing gallery owner in Goa to hold that art show over the Christmas week, with all the feni happy potential buyers dancing attendance. What do mean when — this year of course!!!!

Alka Raghuvanshi is an art writer, curator and artist