Blog Posts 2026
Paan and Kung Fu Movies
When I was young, typically my mum worked on Saturdays. On those mornings, my dad would sometimes take my sister and me to Bury Park. For those unfamiliar with Luton, Bury Park is a culturally dense area with a large South Asian community — a place where shop signs, languages, and smells layered over one another.
One of our regular destinations was Usha’s video shop. My dad would head straight for the Indian films, scanning the covers for familiar stars and melodramatic plots. I would make for the Kung Fu section — a habit that, years later, I learned had been much to my sister’s annoyance. My dad liked the Kung Fu films too; a quiet point of crossover. On those shelves, Bollywood and Kung Fu movies sat side by side — a diasporic archive of global cinema housed in a modest shopfront in Luton.
At the counter, after paying for the tapes, my dad would often ask the person serving for a paan. For those unfamiliar with it, sweet paan (meetha paan) is a traditional Indian after-meal mouth freshener and digestive: betel leaf filled with gulkand (rose petal jam), fennel seeds (sometimes sugar-coated), coconut, candied fruit.
To me, as a child, the request always felt faintly illicit.
The man behind the counter would reach down beneath the till and retrieve a metal tin, hidden from view. When he opened it, inside lay neatly stacked betel leaves. He would take one and lay it carefully on a square of foil. With a small spatula (or maybe his finger?), he smeared the leaf with a vivid red paste, almost alchemical in colour, before sprinkling on the various sweet fillings from a compartmentalised paan box. Then came the deft folding — the leaf transformed into a tight green triangle — wrapped neatly in foil and handed across the counter to my dad.
It felt like a coded exchange. A ritual performed in plain sight, yet somehow concealed.
I would always have a paan when we visited the shop. I usually ate it in the car on the journey home, an explosion of textures and tastes, that sometimes stained my tongue red. At the time, it was simply a treat — something special that accompanied the ritual of choosing films. I did not yet understand that it was also inheritance. Taste as transmission. A small, portable homeland wrapped in foil.
Recently, while visiting an exhibition in Wales, I encountered an artist reflecting on nostalgic fragments from their own youth. It prompted me to think about those Saturday trips — about the video shop, the Kung Fu films, the hidden tin beneath the counter. It made me realise how culturally specific nostalgia can be.
For some, childhood memory might be framed by corner shop 10 pence mixes, or Saturday morning wrestling on television. We had that too. For me, it is also framed by the the taste of paan, and poorly dubbed martial arts movies. My nostalgia is rooted in a British Indian experience — shaped by migration, hybridity, and the quiet rituals that take place in overlooked spaces.
What once felt ordinary now feels precious. The video shop was more than a place of rental; it was an unofficial archive. The paan was more than a sweet; it was a gesture of continuity. And those small Saturday excursions, are markers of belonging — reminders that identity is often formed in the most unassuming of places, under the counter, wrapped in foil, carried home in the car.
One of our regular destinations was Usha’s video shop. My dad would head straight for the Indian films, scanning the covers for familiar stars and melodramatic plots. I would make for the Kung Fu section — a habit that, years later, I learned had been much to my sister’s annoyance. My dad liked the Kung Fu films too; a quiet point of crossover. On those shelves, Bollywood and Kung Fu movies sat side by side — a diasporic archive of global cinema housed in a modest shopfront in Luton.
At the counter, after paying for the tapes, my dad would often ask the person serving for a paan. For those unfamiliar with it, sweet paan (meetha paan) is a traditional Indian after-meal mouth freshener and digestive: betel leaf filled with gulkand (rose petal jam), fennel seeds (sometimes sugar-coated), coconut, candied fruit.
To me, as a child, the request always felt faintly illicit.
The man behind the counter would reach down beneath the till and retrieve a metal tin, hidden from view. When he opened it, inside lay neatly stacked betel leaves. He would take one and lay it carefully on a square of foil. With a small spatula (or maybe his finger?), he smeared the leaf with a vivid red paste, almost alchemical in colour, before sprinkling on the various sweet fillings from a compartmentalised paan box. Then came the deft folding — the leaf transformed into a tight green triangle — wrapped neatly in foil and handed across the counter to my dad.
It felt like a coded exchange. A ritual performed in plain sight, yet somehow concealed.
I would always have a paan when we visited the shop. I usually ate it in the car on the journey home, an explosion of textures and tastes, that sometimes stained my tongue red. At the time, it was simply a treat — something special that accompanied the ritual of choosing films. I did not yet understand that it was also inheritance. Taste as transmission. A small, portable homeland wrapped in foil.
Recently, while visiting an exhibition in Wales, I encountered an artist reflecting on nostalgic fragments from their own youth. It prompted me to think about those Saturday trips — about the video shop, the Kung Fu films, the hidden tin beneath the counter. It made me realise how culturally specific nostalgia can be.
For some, childhood memory might be framed by corner shop 10 pence mixes, or Saturday morning wrestling on television. We had that too. For me, it is also framed by the the taste of paan, and poorly dubbed martial arts movies. My nostalgia is rooted in a British Indian experience — shaped by migration, hybridity, and the quiet rituals that take place in overlooked spaces.
What once felt ordinary now feels precious. The video shop was more than a place of rental; it was an unofficial archive. The paan was more than a sweet; it was a gesture of continuity. And those small Saturday excursions, are markers of belonging — reminders that identity is often formed in the most unassuming of places, under the counter, wrapped in foil, carried home in the car.
Paan cast in bronze (work in progress)
response to the Robert clive statue in london
Following the toppling of the Statue of Edward Colston in Bristol in 2020, renewed public scrutiny was directed toward monuments commemorating figures associated with Britain’s colonial past. In response to growing calls for removal, the UK government developed a “Retain and Explain” policy, advocating contextualisation rather than dismantling. In practice, this approach has most commonly resulted in the addition of modest interpretive plaques positioned adjacent to contested statues.
Robert Clive — widely regarded as a principal architect of Britain’s formal colonisation of India — is commemorated by a statue in Whitehall overlooking St James's Park. Despite the profound and enduring consequences of his actions, the monument currently lacks any substantive on-site interpretation. In response to this absence, and moving beyond the limitations of a static plaque, I sought to develop a more expansive and subjective form of interpretation.
With support from Immersive Arts, I developed a digital response to the Clive monument, collaborating with Domingos Studios to produce both Virtual Reality (VR) and Augmented Reality (AR) experiences. The VR work re-situates the statue within a layered narrative environment, creating space for historical reflection and contemporary dialogue. The experience can be accessed via the following link.
The VR environment can be viewed using Google Cardboard on iOS devices or through a Meta Quest headset. It remains accessible on mobile and desktop platforms, where users navigate the virtual space through a click-and-hold joystick interface.
The AR component remains in development; preliminary still images are included here to document the process and emerging visual language of the work.
Robert Clive — widely regarded as a principal architect of Britain’s formal colonisation of India — is commemorated by a statue in Whitehall overlooking St James's Park. Despite the profound and enduring consequences of his actions, the monument currently lacks any substantive on-site interpretation. In response to this absence, and moving beyond the limitations of a static plaque, I sought to develop a more expansive and subjective form of interpretation.
With support from Immersive Arts, I developed a digital response to the Clive monument, collaborating with Domingos Studios to produce both Virtual Reality (VR) and Augmented Reality (AR) experiences. The VR work re-situates the statue within a layered narrative environment, creating space for historical reflection and contemporary dialogue. The experience can be accessed via the following link.
The VR environment can be viewed using Google Cardboard on iOS devices or through a Meta Quest headset. It remains accessible on mobile and desktop platforms, where users navigate the virtual space through a click-and-hold joystick interface.
The AR component remains in development; preliminary still images are included here to document the process and emerging visual language of the work.
TBC
Blog Posts Related to a Tiger in the Castle
The Spirit of the Tiger
I’ll never forget Khitish telling me that there were members of tribal groups in India who could turn into tigers (Khitish was one of the hosts on the RI/ACE Arts and Crafts Exchange to Odisha I attended in 2013). He was adamant that this was the case, and talked about the sacred knowledge held by the Adivasi (indigenous communities). My rational brain struggled to accept what he was telling me but he made a long and impassioned argument that at least had me questioning the limits of my knowledge.
The tiger has held the fascinations of people and culture for thousands of years. It has a particularly important place in the religions, cultures and mythologies of Inida, and Asia more widely. However, the tiger also managed to weave itself into the Western imagination and can be seen in many medieval bestiaries. The following is an extract from The Bodley Bestiary produced around the middle of the 13th century.
The tiger has held the fascinations of people and culture for thousands of years. It has a particularly important place in the religions, cultures and mythologies of Inida, and Asia more widely. However, the tiger also managed to weave itself into the Western imagination and can be seen in many medieval bestiaries. The following is an extract from The Bodley Bestiary produced around the middle of the 13th century.
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The tigress, when she finds her lair empty by the theft of a cub, follows the tracks of the thief at once. When the thief sees that, even though he rides a swift horse, he is outrun by her speed, and that there is no means of escape at hand, he devises the following deception. When he sees the tigress drawing close, he throws down a glass sphere. The tigress is deceived by her own image in the glass and thinks it is her stolen cub. She abandons the chase, eager to gather up her young. Delayed by the illusion, she tries once again with all her might to overtake the rider and, urged on by her anger, quickly threatens the fleeing man. Again he holds up her pursuit by throwing down a sphere. The memory of the trick does not banish the mother's devotion. She turns over the empty likeness and settles down as if she were about to suckle her cub. And thus, trapped by the intensity of her sense of duty, she loses both her revenge and her child.
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MS Bodl 764. Depiction of tiger 13th Century
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Tipu Sultan known by the British as the ‘Tiger of Mysore’ famously used the symbol of the tiger as his personal emblem. Tipu would have been aware of the syncretic religious and cultural environment in which he was operating. The relationship between the power of divine beings which was claimed and exercised by kings and rulers was important during the time Tipu ruled.
Tiger head centrepiece made for Tipu Sultan’s octagonal throne. Part of the Royal Collection Trust.
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Steel sword associated with Tipu Sultan part of National Trust Collections
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In the Muslim tradition this power is represented by the Sufi warrior Gazi Pir who lived in the 12th or 13th century and was credited with spreading Islam in Bengal. His life is shown in the Gazi scroll (a series of 54 paintings) held by the British Musuem. He was known for his power over dangerous animals and controlling the natural elements. Villagers living in the Sundarbans worship Gazi Pir to ask for protection from tigers.
In the Hindu tradition this power is represented by the warrior divinities Durga and also Kali. The tiger is the principle vehicle (vahan) of the Hindu goddess Durga who uses her power to combat the evil that threatens peace and prosperity. She is also a liberator for the oppressed, and uses destruction to empower creation.
The use of the tiger by Tipu Sultan essentially represents the activation of divine power.
In the Hindu tradition this power is represented by the warrior divinities Durga and also Kali. The tiger is the principle vehicle (vahan) of the Hindu goddess Durga who uses her power to combat the evil that threatens peace and prosperity. She is also a liberator for the oppressed, and uses destruction to empower creation.
The use of the tiger by Tipu Sultan essentially represents the activation of divine power.
An image of Pir Gazi and his tiger in the Sundarbans drawn around 1800 CE.
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18th-century painting of Durga slaying the buffalo demon Mahishasura
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In Fragments from a Crtical Dictionary of South East Asia, Ho Tzu Nyen suggest that following the ecological and cosmological massacre that British colonial rule brought in Malaya, Weretigers were exiled to the realm of folklore. However, he goes on to suggest that the tiger undergoes ceaseless reconfiguration to haunt the region in the form of resistance, first by Japanese General Tomoyuki Yamashita (The Tiger of Malaya) and then by the Malayan Communist Party.
‘To embark upon the trail of the weretiger is to follow through with its line of perpetual metamorphosis – an anthropomorphic, yet non-anthropocentric line that is at once materialist and metaphorical’.
What is palpable for me is that the spirit of the tiger endures and continues to manifest itself as a symbol of resistance and liberation, as seen in the following works.
Remembering a Brave New World was Tate Britain’s Winter Commission for 2020. Artist Chila Burman installed neon lights onto the neo-classical façade of Tate Britain referencing Indian mythology, popular culture, female empowerment, political activism and colonial legacy. One of the neon images she chose was that of a Bengal Tiger, a remembered image from her father’s ice cream van. The commission also coincided with Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. Placing these counter cultural memories onto a Western art façade creates a certain tension, perhaps highlighting the need for dialogue and conversation. The festival is about the light at the end of the tunnel, about good over evil.
The title of the works draws its inspiration from Aldous Huxley’s dystopian novel, A Brave New World. Unlike Huxley’s dystopia, Burman suggests that inspiration can be found in the past offering a sense of hope for the future and faith for a brave new world.
‘To embark upon the trail of the weretiger is to follow through with its line of perpetual metamorphosis – an anthropomorphic, yet non-anthropocentric line that is at once materialist and metaphorical’.
What is palpable for me is that the spirit of the tiger endures and continues to manifest itself as a symbol of resistance and liberation, as seen in the following works.
Remembering a Brave New World was Tate Britain’s Winter Commission for 2020. Artist Chila Burman installed neon lights onto the neo-classical façade of Tate Britain referencing Indian mythology, popular culture, female empowerment, political activism and colonial legacy. One of the neon images she chose was that of a Bengal Tiger, a remembered image from her father’s ice cream van. The commission also coincided with Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. Placing these counter cultural memories onto a Western art façade creates a certain tension, perhaps highlighting the need for dialogue and conversation. The festival is about the light at the end of the tunnel, about good over evil.
The title of the works draws its inspiration from Aldous Huxley’s dystopian novel, A Brave New World. Unlike Huxley’s dystopia, Burman suggests that inspiration can be found in the past offering a sense of hope for the future and faith for a brave new world.
Chila Burman – Neon Tiger part of Remembering a Brave New World (2020)
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Zadie Xa – Tiger Mask part of House Gods, Animal Guides and Five Ways 2 Forgiveness (2023)
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Zadie Xa’s work, House Gods, Animal Guides and Five Ways 2 Forgiveness currently showing at the Whitechapel Gallery is an installation comprised of sculptures, textiles and paintings. Korean mythology and folklore permeate the work providing a narrative framework to explore systems of power, home and belonging.
Various animals are present throughout the work. ‘The artist perceives animals as avatars; embodiments of ecological, political and cultural shifts within our world’.
In fables across the world, animals are often protagonists who help instruct society or highlight power structures and moral quandaries. The presence of the tiger in Xa’s work reflects her exploration of the ‘trickster’ archetype within folklore: it represents a disruptive outsider whose presence provokes and inspires change from dominant social and cultural orders.
Although I may never believe that there are people that can turn into tigers (as much as I would like to), I sense that the spirit of the tiger lives on. Symbolically, the tiger still holds power which can be harnessed and drawn upon by individuals, as it has done throughout history.
Various animals are present throughout the work. ‘The artist perceives animals as avatars; embodiments of ecological, political and cultural shifts within our world’.
In fables across the world, animals are often protagonists who help instruct society or highlight power structures and moral quandaries. The presence of the tiger in Xa’s work reflects her exploration of the ‘trickster’ archetype within folklore: it represents a disruptive outsider whose presence provokes and inspires change from dominant social and cultural orders.
Although I may never believe that there are people that can turn into tigers (as much as I would like to), I sense that the spirit of the tiger lives on. Symbolically, the tiger still holds power which can be harnessed and drawn upon by individuals, as it has done throughout history.
References
1. Bodleian Library MS. Bodl. 764https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/objects/ecf96804-a514-4adc-8779-2dbc4e4b2f1e/surfaces/0f7fc8ff-7493-4101-a292-49da644b6a13/
2. The Power of Tipu's Tiger. An Examination of the Tiger Emblem of Tipu Sultan of Mysorehttps://www.jstor.org/stable/312813
3. the critical dictionary of south-east asia (cdosea.org)
4. Interview | ‘Blinged-up but razor-sharp’: Chila Kumari Singh Burman on her Diwali-inspired Tate Britain commission (theartnewspaper.com)
5. https://www.whitechapelgallery.org/exhibitions/zadie-xa-house-gods-animal-guides-and-five-ways-2-forgiveness/
1. Bodleian Library MS. Bodl. 764https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/objects/ecf96804-a514-4adc-8779-2dbc4e4b2f1e/surfaces/0f7fc8ff-7493-4101-a292-49da644b6a13/
2. The Power of Tipu's Tiger. An Examination of the Tiger Emblem of Tipu Sultan of Mysorehttps://www.jstor.org/stable/312813
3. the critical dictionary of south-east asia (cdosea.org)
4. Interview | ‘Blinged-up but razor-sharp’: Chila Kumari Singh Burman on her Diwali-inspired Tate Britain commission (theartnewspaper.com)
5. https://www.whitechapelgallery.org/exhibitions/zadie-xa-house-gods-animal-guides-and-five-ways-2-forgiveness/
Powis Castle as a site of learning, social cohesion and healing
I am writing this blog post during South Asian Heritage Month and am going to start with its conclusion. Given the lack of formal education surrounding colonisation and empire in schools, Powis Castle, particularly the Clive Musuem, and other heritage sites of a similar nature become critical sites of learning and disemination. There is a social and moral obligation to ensure that colonial history is told, both from the perspective of the coloniser and colonised. In doing this, Powis Castle has the potential to become a site of social cohesion.
When I visited Powis castle in 2021, I realised how little I knew about the origins of the colonisation of India. My knowledge of the East India Company was limited and I only had a general awareness of Robert Clive’s significance. I also knew very little about Tipu Sultan.
After this visit, the learning began but the process all felt a little distant, academic and objective. What I really wanted was a better understanding of the ramifications of the historical actions and how they interacted with the present day. I wanted a bridge from the colonial past into the present.
Having learned more about the historical events, informed by post colonial theory and following some reflection, I felt more confident to follow strands of the past into the present. I became interested in how the privileges and oppressions of empire played out historically, continued through time, and in some cases into the present day. I also became interested in the relationship between my family history and the actions of Robert Clive, the East India Company and the subsequent colonisation of India.
During my visits, I also became interested in the interpretation within the Clive Museum and whether it presented a skewed narrative. It certainly doesn’t feel balanced. The interpretation has changed over time and is still in the process of being developed. For me, it still feels a little distant, objective and impersonal. I would like to see more South Asian voices, more personal voices. I feel it is critically important that the voice of the coloniser and colonised are equally represented. I’d also like to see a stronger bridge built between the past and the present within the interpretation. What are the the ramifications of Robert Clive and the East India Company’s actions?
During my visits to the Clive Museum I was intrigued to hear the conversations between volunteers and members of the public. Increasingly, I have thought about how critical a role these volunteers play in conversations about colonialism and empire. With the lack of formal education around empire mentioned earlier, these volunteers become important informal educators.
I delivered a talk to staff and volunteers. It was interesting to hear about how they handled tricky conversations around colonisation. It was clearly difficult for volunteers because there wasn’t necessarily a definitive position from the National Trust surrounding the collection. e.g. should cultural artefacts within the collection be repatriated? The knowledge, training and support that these volunteers receive seems to be of paramount importance. I heard from the volunteers that holding potentially emotionally charged conversations in the wake of a polarised media was no easy task.
When I visited Powis castle in 2021, I realised how little I knew about the origins of the colonisation of India. My knowledge of the East India Company was limited and I only had a general awareness of Robert Clive’s significance. I also knew very little about Tipu Sultan.
After this visit, the learning began but the process all felt a little distant, academic and objective. What I really wanted was a better understanding of the ramifications of the historical actions and how they interacted with the present day. I wanted a bridge from the colonial past into the present.
Having learned more about the historical events, informed by post colonial theory and following some reflection, I felt more confident to follow strands of the past into the present. I became interested in how the privileges and oppressions of empire played out historically, continued through time, and in some cases into the present day. I also became interested in the relationship between my family history and the actions of Robert Clive, the East India Company and the subsequent colonisation of India.
During my visits, I also became interested in the interpretation within the Clive Museum and whether it presented a skewed narrative. It certainly doesn’t feel balanced. The interpretation has changed over time and is still in the process of being developed. For me, it still feels a little distant, objective and impersonal. I would like to see more South Asian voices, more personal voices. I feel it is critically important that the voice of the coloniser and colonised are equally represented. I’d also like to see a stronger bridge built between the past and the present within the interpretation. What are the the ramifications of Robert Clive and the East India Company’s actions?
During my visits to the Clive Museum I was intrigued to hear the conversations between volunteers and members of the public. Increasingly, I have thought about how critical a role these volunteers play in conversations about colonialism and empire. With the lack of formal education around empire mentioned earlier, these volunteers become important informal educators.
I delivered a talk to staff and volunteers. It was interesting to hear about how they handled tricky conversations around colonisation. It was clearly difficult for volunteers because there wasn’t necessarily a definitive position from the National Trust surrounding the collection. e.g. should cultural artefacts within the collection be repatriated? The knowledge, training and support that these volunteers receive seems to be of paramount importance. I heard from the volunteers that holding potentially emotionally charged conversations in the wake of a polarised media was no easy task.
Talk to staff and volunteers
For me, engaging with the Clive Museum at Powis Castle has been a personal journey of investigation, discovery, and self-reflection. Even though I have become more aware of many of the darker episodes of colonial history, and the difficulties that come with that, I have also gained some sense of empowerment from better understanding this part in my origin story. It is from this personal position I advocate that Powis Castle has the potential to be a space for social cohesion. Even though Powis Castle finds itself in the cross fire between what appears to be two opposing camps of the culture wars, I sense that framing the site as one of social cohesion or anti-racism can help it to step out of this dichotomy; surely no one could object to this? This is also in line with the Anti Racist Wales Action Plan which asks public bodies to fully recognise their responsibility ‘for setting the historic narrative, promoting and delivering a balanced, authentic and decolonised account of the past – one that recognises both historical injustices and the positive impact of Black Asian and Minority Ethnic communities’.
Previously, I used to think that communicating the whole story only benefitted those from marginalised communities. However, more recently I think that in giving everyone the opportunity to engage with the full colonial conversation, it can narrow some of the divisions we see in society. For those from marginalised positions, it gives a greater sense of self awareness, self esteem, belonging and potentially empowerment. For others, it offers a better understanding of how and why our society has developed in the way it has, why we all belong in society, and perhaps helps to dispel myths and misunderstanding.
I continue to reflect on what it might take for it to become a site of social healing. Even though there may have been some level of empowerment for me, inidviduals process historical events differently and I sense Powis Castle could be potentially traumatising and difficult for others, particularly those of Indian descent. I sense that those privileges and oppressions that descend from Powis Castle’s colonial links with India would need to be addressed before there can be a sincere attempt at healing.
Previously, I used to think that communicating the whole story only benefitted those from marginalised communities. However, more recently I think that in giving everyone the opportunity to engage with the full colonial conversation, it can narrow some of the divisions we see in society. For those from marginalised positions, it gives a greater sense of self awareness, self esteem, belonging and potentially empowerment. For others, it offers a better understanding of how and why our society has developed in the way it has, why we all belong in society, and perhaps helps to dispel myths and misunderstanding.
I continue to reflect on what it might take for it to become a site of social healing. Even though there may have been some level of empowerment for me, inidviduals process historical events differently and I sense Powis Castle could be potentially traumatising and difficult for others, particularly those of Indian descent. I sense that those privileges and oppressions that descend from Powis Castle’s colonial links with India would need to be addressed before there can be a sincere attempt at healing.
Do the descendants of Robert Clive owe my family reparations?
De-mystification, disentanglement and reconstruction - the search for an origin story and resolution.
Warning: this article contains an example of offensive historical language.
This has been a difficult post to write with several layers of obfuscation. Trying to figure out what has not been said, or what has been omitted, has been partly a process of investigation, but also one of deduction, personal interpretation and creative leaps.
I have woven personal family history into a narrative arc from the imperial past into the privileges and inequalities of the present. Linking disparate temporal elements together, I feel naïve not to have made some of these connections earlier.
For me, the collection of South and East Asian artefacts displayed in the Clive Museum at Powis Castle is the quintessential colonial collection. It was assembled by two generations of the Clive family: Robert (who became known as Clive of India), his son Edward Clive and Henrietta Clive, wife of Edward. The National Trust acknowledge that it is not always clear whether items were purchased, received as gifts, or ‘the spoils of war’. In his book, The Anarchy, William Dalrymple describes the collection at Powis Castle as loot (1) (deriving from the Hindi word “Lut”, meaning the spoils of war). The collection is currently being re-examined with research centring on the nature in which the objects in the Clive Collection were acquired.
This has been a difficult post to write with several layers of obfuscation. Trying to figure out what has not been said, or what has been omitted, has been partly a process of investigation, but also one of deduction, personal interpretation and creative leaps.
I have woven personal family history into a narrative arc from the imperial past into the privileges and inequalities of the present. Linking disparate temporal elements together, I feel naïve not to have made some of these connections earlier.
For me, the collection of South and East Asian artefacts displayed in the Clive Museum at Powis Castle is the quintessential colonial collection. It was assembled by two generations of the Clive family: Robert (who became known as Clive of India), his son Edward Clive and Henrietta Clive, wife of Edward. The National Trust acknowledge that it is not always clear whether items were purchased, received as gifts, or ‘the spoils of war’. In his book, The Anarchy, William Dalrymple describes the collection at Powis Castle as loot (1) (deriving from the Hindi word “Lut”, meaning the spoils of war). The collection is currently being re-examined with research centring on the nature in which the objects in the Clive Collection were acquired.
The collection cannot be understood properly without contextualisation to the actions of Robert Clive in India.
Starting his career as a junior mercantile agent, Robert Clive rose to become Governor of Bengal and Commander-in-Chief of the East India Company's (EIC’s) army. Despite no formal military training Clive successfully led numerous campaigns, the most famous being the Battle of Plassey, 1757. It was also Clive who extracted territorial control for the Company as a result. For himself, he took a vast fortune in gold, silver and jewels from the treasury of the defeated Siraj ud-Daulah as spoils of war. (2)
Through Clive, the Company deployed its armies to forcibly invade and conquer the Indian subcontinent exploiting and financially profiting from the wealth and rich natural resources of India’s southern regions. This began the British Empire in India, meanwhile ensuring a fortune for Clive. (3)
As well as being honoured, Robert Clive was also vilified in his lifetime. He earned the monikers, Madras Tyrant and Lord Vulture for his asset stripping of Bengal (4) . Robert Clive continues to be a polarising character, perhaps largely dependent on your perspective on Britain’s colonial past. Somewhat controversially there is still a statue of him outside the Foreign Office in London and more locally to Powis Castle, in Shrewsbury town centre, which has received continued calls for its removal.
Starting his career as a junior mercantile agent, Robert Clive rose to become Governor of Bengal and Commander-in-Chief of the East India Company's (EIC’s) army. Despite no formal military training Clive successfully led numerous campaigns, the most famous being the Battle of Plassey, 1757. It was also Clive who extracted territorial control for the Company as a result. For himself, he took a vast fortune in gold, silver and jewels from the treasury of the defeated Siraj ud-Daulah as spoils of war. (2)
Through Clive, the Company deployed its armies to forcibly invade and conquer the Indian subcontinent exploiting and financially profiting from the wealth and rich natural resources of India’s southern regions. This began the British Empire in India, meanwhile ensuring a fortune for Clive. (3)
As well as being honoured, Robert Clive was also vilified in his lifetime. He earned the monikers, Madras Tyrant and Lord Vulture for his asset stripping of Bengal (4) . Robert Clive continues to be a polarising character, perhaps largely dependent on your perspective on Britain’s colonial past. Somewhat controversially there is still a statue of him outside the Foreign Office in London and more locally to Powis Castle, in Shrewsbury town centre, which has received continued calls for its removal.
These are some of the more significant personal outcomes for Robert Clive that resulted from his actions in India.
• He became one of the richest men in Europe. Following the Battle of Plassey in 1757, Clive was appointed Governor of Bengal, and received the equivalent of £234,000 (£23 million today) in cash instantly making him one of the richest self-made men in Europe.5
• He was ennobled as the 1st Baron Clive of Plassey in the County of Clare, in the Peerage of Ireland. He was subsequently knighted in 1764.
• He expended large sums of cash to ensure a seat in Parliament6. He became MP for Shrewsbury in 1761 until his death.
• He paved the way for his son Edward Clive to marry into the Britsh nobility. Edward married Lady Henrietta Herbert, daughter of the 1st Earl of Powis, in 1784. Essentially, the groom was able to pay of the considerable debts of the Herberts and Powis castle, and ultimately inherited the title Earl of Powis after it became extinct on the death of his brother-in-law.
• Throughout his life Robert Clive struggled with mental health and ultimately took his own life aged 49. Following his death, the writer Samuel Johnson wrote that he ‘had acquired his fortune by such crimes that his consciousness of them impelled him to cut his own throat’.
Through his role in the East India Company, Robert Clive was one of the key individuals involved in the early subjugation of India by the British. Although he may or may not have been the architect, he certainly was a key protagonist that paved the way for the formal colonisation of India by the British state in 1858. Therefore, to my mind, not only does Robert Clive bear responsibility for what happened during his tenure at the EIC, but also in some part for what subsequently followed under the mechanics of Empire.
We know huge sums of money were extracted under Empire. In 1600, when the East India Company was founded, Britain was generating 1.8% of the world’s GDP, while India was producing 22.5%. By the peak of the Raj, those figures had more or less been reversed: India was reduced from the world’s leading manufacturing nation to a symbol of famine and deprivation (7).
• He became one of the richest men in Europe. Following the Battle of Plassey in 1757, Clive was appointed Governor of Bengal, and received the equivalent of £234,000 (£23 million today) in cash instantly making him one of the richest self-made men in Europe.5
• He was ennobled as the 1st Baron Clive of Plassey in the County of Clare, in the Peerage of Ireland. He was subsequently knighted in 1764.
• He expended large sums of cash to ensure a seat in Parliament6. He became MP for Shrewsbury in 1761 until his death.
• He paved the way for his son Edward Clive to marry into the Britsh nobility. Edward married Lady Henrietta Herbert, daughter of the 1st Earl of Powis, in 1784. Essentially, the groom was able to pay of the considerable debts of the Herberts and Powis castle, and ultimately inherited the title Earl of Powis after it became extinct on the death of his brother-in-law.
• Throughout his life Robert Clive struggled with mental health and ultimately took his own life aged 49. Following his death, the writer Samuel Johnson wrote that he ‘had acquired his fortune by such crimes that his consciousness of them impelled him to cut his own throat’.
Through his role in the East India Company, Robert Clive was one of the key individuals involved in the early subjugation of India by the British. Although he may or may not have been the architect, he certainly was a key protagonist that paved the way for the formal colonisation of India by the British state in 1858. Therefore, to my mind, not only does Robert Clive bear responsibility for what happened during his tenure at the EIC, but also in some part for what subsequently followed under the mechanics of Empire.
We know huge sums of money were extracted under Empire. In 1600, when the East India Company was founded, Britain was generating 1.8% of the world’s GDP, while India was producing 22.5%. By the peak of the Raj, those figures had more or less been reversed: India was reduced from the world’s leading manufacturing nation to a symbol of famine and deprivation (7).
The process of extraction extended from goods to labour. Following the abolition of transatlantic slavery, Britain struggled to find a labour force to replace the former enslaved Africans across its empire. Following various failed attempts to find replacement workers, the powerful plantocracy lobbied the government for help. Sugar plantation owner John Gladstone (father of later Prime Minister William Gladstone) wrote to the Colonial Secretary and was anxious to obtain ‘a supply of Hill Coolies from Bengal’ to be imported as indentured labourers.8 Subsequently, Gladstone was promptly granted permission by Order in Council to recruit indentured labourers from his agent in India.
My 91 year old Guyanese grandfather proudly refers to himself as a ‘coolie’. The now pejorative term was used to refer to Indian indentured labourers (unskilled workers) in the 18th century. It was his ancestors that would have been transported from India to British Guiana under the indentureship system. The hardship of indentureship is perhaps hard to imagine.
My 91 year old Guyanese grandfather proudly refers to himself as a ‘coolie’. The now pejorative term was used to refer to Indian indentured labourers (unskilled workers) in the 18th century. It was his ancestors that would have been transported from India to British Guiana under the indentureship system. The hardship of indentureship is perhaps hard to imagine.
With few exceptions the workers were treated with great severity. Their accommodation was either too confined or disgustingly filthy, or none was provided for them, and in cases of sickness there was the most culpable neglect. Life on the estates was hard and miserable. They lived in the old slave barracks the nigger yards, in little rooms with no privacy or cooking facilities. They had to use the bush for latrines. Water supplies were often polluted, and the food was dull and below standard. (9)
On visiting the Clive Museum at Powis Castle I had wrongly assumed that the all of the contents were owned by the National Trust. It transpires that at least some of the collection is owned by the current Earl of Powis along with many of the other items that fill Powis Castle. For clarity, the current Earl of Powis, John Herbert is a direct descendent of Robert Clive, as elucidated on the backpage of the National Trust’s Powis Castle guidebook. Among others, John Herbert inherited the title Baron Clive of Plassey, alluding to one of Robert Clive’s most decisive victories in India against the last independent Nawab of Bengal, Siraj ud Daulah.
There are numerous privileges that have passed down through generations from Robert and Edward Clive to the current earl; the Powis estate and inherited artefacts being just some of them. By contrast, what is the legacy for the descendants of; colonised people (my paternal family), indentured workers (my maternal family), and the numerous victims of imperial ambitions. Where is their privilege?
In 2004, descendants of Robert Clive put 5 items from the Clive Collection up for auction at Christie’s. These items, once part of the royal collection at the Imperial Court in Delhi, comprising a jade bottle flask, dagger, jade bowl, agate fly whisk and huqqa set realised a sale price £4.1m for the family. This is not an isolated example, more recently Robert Clive’s silver Durbar set was sold.
There are numerous privileges that have passed down through generations from Robert and Edward Clive to the current earl; the Powis estate and inherited artefacts being just some of them. By contrast, what is the legacy for the descendants of; colonised people (my paternal family), indentured workers (my maternal family), and the numerous victims of imperial ambitions. Where is their privilege?
In 2004, descendants of Robert Clive put 5 items from the Clive Collection up for auction at Christie’s. These items, once part of the royal collection at the Imperial Court in Delhi, comprising a jade bottle flask, dagger, jade bowl, agate fly whisk and huqqa set realised a sale price £4.1m for the family. This is not an isolated example, more recently Robert Clive’s silver Durbar set was sold.
The current Earl of Powis has stated he is an anti-imperialist (10). But what does this mean in practice, especially when you are still a direct beneficiary of empire in multiple ways. In line with many prevailing debates, might I suggest some form of reparation or restorative justice. To be anti-imperialist is surely a verb and not just a noun. For me, reparations are not necessarily about financial compensation but are about acknowledgement, truth telling and apology. I sense it is also taking an active role in helping to reduce the inequalities that still exist as a result of the historical injustices of empire. The Earl of Powis may well be involved in these activities, however I could find little evidence to support this online.
It can often be difficult to unravel the complexities of empire and its lasting impact. However at Powis Castle, some of those privileges of Empire are writ large. I sense that the Herbert family have perhaps been able to avoid direct calls for reparations sitting behind the veil of the National Trust; a trusted household name that looks after ‘nature, beauty and history for everyone, forever’. I’m curious to know the details of the arrangement and relationship between the National Trust and the Herbert Family. Despite the National Trust’s positive work on its Colonialism and historic slavery report, I wonder if that relationship re-inforces any privileges of empire?
I’m also curious to know who owns what within Powis Castle and also within the Clive Collection. This is perhaps one of those layers of obfuscation that I referred to earlier.
In a recent Guardian article (11), it suggested that the debate around reparations and restorative justice in relation to slavery and colonialism are likely to intensify. Perhaps the Earl of Powis and the other descendants of Robert Clive might should enter into a constructive dialogue to establish what form these reparations or restorative justice might take.
The optimist in me senses a corner is being turned slowly but surely, and I am reminded of the following quote ‘the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’
1. Dalrymple, W (2020) Anarchy, The Relentless Rise of the East India Company. Bloomsbury.
2. https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/discover/history/what-was-the-east-india-company
3. https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/wales/powis-castle-and-garden/the-clive-museum-collection-at-powis-castle
4. Robert Clive was a vicious asset-stripper. His statue has no place on Whitehall | William Dalrymple | The Guardian
5. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/mar/04/east-india-company-original-corporate-raiders
6. https://juliaherdman.com/?s=robert+clive
7. https://www.theguardia8n.com/commentisfree/2020/jun/11/robert-clive-statue-whitehall-british-imperial
8. https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/a-new-system-of-slavery-the-british-west-indies-and-the-origins-of-indian-indenture/
9. Mukesh Kumar, Malaria and mortality among indentured indians: a study of housing, sanitation, and health in british guiana (1900-1939), Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, Vol. 74 (2013), pp. 746-757
10. https://www.theguardian.com/media/2021/nov/19/clive-of-india-statue-in-shrewsbury-should-be-removed-says-descendant-channel-4
11. More than money: the logic of slavery reparations | Slavery | The Guardian
NB. Increasingly I am calling into question some of the assertions and conclusions made by William Dalrymple.
2. https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/discover/history/what-was-the-east-india-company
3. https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/wales/powis-castle-and-garden/the-clive-museum-collection-at-powis-castle
4. Robert Clive was a vicious asset-stripper. His statue has no place on Whitehall | William Dalrymple | The Guardian
5. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/mar/04/east-india-company-original-corporate-raiders
6. https://juliaherdman.com/?s=robert+clive
7. https://www.theguardia8n.com/commentisfree/2020/jun/11/robert-clive-statue-whitehall-british-imperial
8. https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/a-new-system-of-slavery-the-british-west-indies-and-the-origins-of-indian-indenture/
9. Mukesh Kumar, Malaria and mortality among indentured indians: a study of housing, sanitation, and health in british guiana (1900-1939), Proceedings of the Indian History Congress, Vol. 74 (2013), pp. 746-757
10. https://www.theguardian.com/media/2021/nov/19/clive-of-india-statue-in-shrewsbury-should-be-removed-says-descendant-channel-4
11. More than money: the logic of slavery reparations | Slavery | The Guardian
NB. Increasingly I am calling into question some of the assertions and conclusions made by William Dalrymple.
On seeing a tiger skin at Powis Castle
I was totally unaware of the Clive Museum at Powis Castle until I attended a series of seminars at the Glynn Vivian Art Gallery. Amassed during the British colonisation of India, ‘the collection of artefacts from India displayed in the Clive Museum is the largest private collection of this type in the UK’. ‘The museum includes ivories, textiles, statues of Hindu gods, ornamental silver and gold, weapons and ceremonial armour’. However, on visiting Powis Castle it was the tiger skin hanging high up on a wall that drew my immediate attention. For me, I find the display of tiger skins to be highly problematic; they are an anachronism, an uncomfortable relic of a bygone era.
On seeing the tiger skin at Powis Castle, I was immediately caught by the awkward articulation of the full taxidermied head against the flattened and flayed body. Perhaps the most unnerving element was the fully alert glass eyes that sat in contrast to the dead body. Without any meaningful interpretation on display, I felt that this apex predator had simply been relegated to a decorative object.
But what else does this tiger skin represent?
On seeing the tiger skin at Powis Castle, I was immediately caught by the awkward articulation of the full taxidermied head against the flattened and flayed body. Perhaps the most unnerving element was the fully alert glass eyes that sat in contrast to the dead body. Without any meaningful interpretation on display, I felt that this apex predator had simply been relegated to a decorative object.
But what else does this tiger skin represent?
Perhaps the easiest and most obvious answer would be the preservation of a kill, or a mere hunting trophy. If this is the case - I’m curious to know who killed this particular animal, and in what circumstances; perhaps the castle have this information on record.
Another insight is given in a book published in association with the National Trust called Treasures from India: The Clive Collection at Powis Castle (1987). In the chapter entitled The British as Collectors and Patrons in India, it explains that ‘collecting’ was regarded as a highly serious activity in 16th and 17th century Europe; an essential part of a learned and cultivated life. Ostensibly, it was an intellectual attempt to understand the nature of the universe by assembling ‘natural’ and ‘artificial’ objects, a model of universal nature made private.
For me the tiger skin takes on a greater meaning when considered within the context of the colonial collection at Powis Castle. The Clive Museum is named after two generations of the Clive family.
For those who may be unaware (or like me were not taught colonial history at school), Robert Clive was a key figure in the East India Company (EIC). Primarily through force, the EIC financially profited from the wealth and natural resources of India and ultimately laid the foundation for the formal colonisation of India by the British in 1858.
The following journal entry offers a potential reading of the tiger skin within a colonial context. In 1864, the British Army Officer Walter Campbell wrote ‘Never attack a tiger on foot—if you can help it. There are cases in which you must do so. Then face him like a Briton, and kill him if you can; for if you fail to kill him, he will certainly kill you’. By mimicking the exploits of Mughal emperors, the British were seeking to position themselves as the new Mughals. Tigers represented for the British all that was wild and untamed in the Indian natural world. Sramek (2006) postulates ‘Precisely because tigers were dangerous and powerful beasts, tiger hunting represented a struggle with fearsome nature that needed to be resolutely faced "like a Briton," as Campbell put it. Only by successfully vanquishing tigers would Britons prove their manliness and their fitness to rule over Indians’.
One of the greatest adversaries of British rule in India was Tipu Sultan whose personal emblem was the tiger. Many of Tipu’s personal possessions are decorated with a tiger motif, including one of the finials from his throne which can be found within the Clive Museum (there is another one in the V&A museum in London).
Symbolically, does the tiger skin at Powis Castle represent the defeat of a key enemy, the defeat of a nation, and a fitness to rule over Indians?
Another insight is given in a book published in association with the National Trust called Treasures from India: The Clive Collection at Powis Castle (1987). In the chapter entitled The British as Collectors and Patrons in India, it explains that ‘collecting’ was regarded as a highly serious activity in 16th and 17th century Europe; an essential part of a learned and cultivated life. Ostensibly, it was an intellectual attempt to understand the nature of the universe by assembling ‘natural’ and ‘artificial’ objects, a model of universal nature made private.
For me the tiger skin takes on a greater meaning when considered within the context of the colonial collection at Powis Castle. The Clive Museum is named after two generations of the Clive family.
For those who may be unaware (or like me were not taught colonial history at school), Robert Clive was a key figure in the East India Company (EIC). Primarily through force, the EIC financially profited from the wealth and natural resources of India and ultimately laid the foundation for the formal colonisation of India by the British in 1858.
The following journal entry offers a potential reading of the tiger skin within a colonial context. In 1864, the British Army Officer Walter Campbell wrote ‘Never attack a tiger on foot—if you can help it. There are cases in which you must do so. Then face him like a Briton, and kill him if you can; for if you fail to kill him, he will certainly kill you’. By mimicking the exploits of Mughal emperors, the British were seeking to position themselves as the new Mughals. Tigers represented for the British all that was wild and untamed in the Indian natural world. Sramek (2006) postulates ‘Precisely because tigers were dangerous and powerful beasts, tiger hunting represented a struggle with fearsome nature that needed to be resolutely faced "like a Briton," as Campbell put it. Only by successfully vanquishing tigers would Britons prove their manliness and their fitness to rule over Indians’.
One of the greatest adversaries of British rule in India was Tipu Sultan whose personal emblem was the tiger. Many of Tipu’s personal possessions are decorated with a tiger motif, including one of the finials from his throne which can be found within the Clive Museum (there is another one in the V&A museum in London).
Symbolically, does the tiger skin at Powis Castle represent the defeat of a key enemy, the defeat of a nation, and a fitness to rule over Indians?
My final reading of the tiger skin is both an economic and ecological one.
During the colonial period there was a commonly held belief that colonisation was primarily a civilising mission - The White Man’s Burden. This was essentially a pretence for what was first and foremost a process of extraction. For me, the following statistic starkly reinforces this fact: at the start of the 18th century India’s share of the world economy was 23%, when Britain left in 1947 it was around 3% (Tharoor 2017).
Under colonisation, British planters forced Indian famers to grow commercial crops on their land, such as tea, poppies (for opium production) and indigo. Cultivation on the scale required to make significant profits required the clearing of wild habitats for agricultural use. Tigers were an animal to be eradicated in order to extend agricultural land. Although tiger hunting began as a sport, it switched to become an economic imperative under colonial rule.
To intensify activity the British declared tigers (as well as lions, cheetahs and leopards) as vermin and offered a bounty for every predator killed. According to one popular estimation, 80,000 tigers were killed between 1875 and 1925 and were nearly hunted to extinction under British colonial rule. According to the last census in 2018, there are only 2967 tigers living in India today.
The exact cost of historic habitat destruction, bio-diversity loss and the introduction of invasive species to India under colonial rule is perhaps impossible to calculate. I feel that the environmental damage caused under colonialism is often overlooked, even though it is readily visible within colonial collections.
As a person of Indian descent living within Wales, my reading of the tiger skin hanging at Powis Castle is likely to differ to others. Within the context of the Clive Museum at Powis Castle, for me, the tiger skin represents a domination over nature, Indians and Otherness - the ramifications of which continue to play out economically, culturally and environmentally to this day.
What does it mean to approach this work as a Welsh artist?
POWIS CASTLE (home of the Clive Museum Collection)
I was asked what does it mean to approach this work as a Welsh artist? This seemed like a curious question to me so I wanted to unravel it a little. I struggle somewhat with the limitations of tying myself to a particular nationality, but for the sake of this post lets just say that I am a Welsh artist of Indian descent.
I moved to Wales shortly after devolution. Although I wasn't involved in the arts at that time, looking back at some key publications (Certain Welsh artists, Here + Now, Imaging Wales) it seems many artists in Wales at the time were addressing concerns relating to politics, language, post-industrialisation, mythology and the land. There seemed to be a general redefining of the Welsh identity, as distinct from a wider British identity. If Wales was England's first colony (as suggested in Imaging Wales) it could perhaps be said that many of the artists at the time were involved in a process of cultural decolonisation.
The following quote by Gwyn A William comes to mind - The Welsh as a people have lived by making and remaking themselves in generation after generation, usually against the odds, usually within a British context. Wales is an artefact which the Welsh produce. If they want to. It requires an act of choice.
However, looking back at these publications, I get a sense that certain artist voices were minoritised (although I'm happy to be proved wrong). Where were the Black, Asian and other ethnically diverse artist voices of Wales? I wonder if these minoritised voices essentially represented the colonised voice within the colonised, and were therefore at a double remove from the table. Perhaps the environment wasn't fertile enough for those voices to emerge, or, that the re-assertion of a unique Welsh identity was too narrow at the time.
On a more progressive note, I sense the environment has changed. I feel that books like Welsh Plural (Essays on the Future of Wales) are helping to carve and shape the identity of a far more pluralistic and inclusive Wales than previously envisioned. I also think intersectionality as a framework offers an opportunity to think about how oppressions are linked, and are not necessarily in conflict with each other. Although I may still represent a marginalised voice, I sense a change in the environment, that people are more receptive to the conversation I want to explore. In part, I think there is a contextual understanding because of Wales' historic relationship to England and what it might mean to have your cultural history misrepresented or erased.
I moved to Wales shortly after devolution. Although I wasn't involved in the arts at that time, looking back at some key publications (Certain Welsh artists, Here + Now, Imaging Wales) it seems many artists in Wales at the time were addressing concerns relating to politics, language, post-industrialisation, mythology and the land. There seemed to be a general redefining of the Welsh identity, as distinct from a wider British identity. If Wales was England's first colony (as suggested in Imaging Wales) it could perhaps be said that many of the artists at the time were involved in a process of cultural decolonisation.
The following quote by Gwyn A William comes to mind - The Welsh as a people have lived by making and remaking themselves in generation after generation, usually against the odds, usually within a British context. Wales is an artefact which the Welsh produce. If they want to. It requires an act of choice.
However, looking back at these publications, I get a sense that certain artist voices were minoritised (although I'm happy to be proved wrong). Where were the Black, Asian and other ethnically diverse artist voices of Wales? I wonder if these minoritised voices essentially represented the colonised voice within the colonised, and were therefore at a double remove from the table. Perhaps the environment wasn't fertile enough for those voices to emerge, or, that the re-assertion of a unique Welsh identity was too narrow at the time.
On a more progressive note, I sense the environment has changed. I feel that books like Welsh Plural (Essays on the Future of Wales) are helping to carve and shape the identity of a far more pluralistic and inclusive Wales than previously envisioned. I also think intersectionality as a framework offers an opportunity to think about how oppressions are linked, and are not necessarily in conflict with each other. Although I may still represent a marginalised voice, I sense a change in the environment, that people are more receptive to the conversation I want to explore. In part, I think there is a contextual understanding because of Wales' historic relationship to England and what it might mean to have your cultural history misrepresented or erased.
Links to other artists who have made work in response to Powis Castle
Nisha Duggal
(993) Artist Talk: Nisha Duggal - YouTube
NISHA DUGGAL - In a Welsh castle, boxed treasures from home /...
Hassan Vawda
https://www.roots-routes.org/%D8%AC%D8%A7-%D9%85%D9%90is-wineglass-the-national-trusts-powis-castle-and-the-clive-of-india-collection-by-hassan-vawda/
Nisha Duggal
(993) Artist Talk: Nisha Duggal - YouTube
NISHA DUGGAL - In a Welsh castle, boxed treasures from home /...
Hassan Vawda
https://www.roots-routes.org/%D8%AC%D8%A7-%D9%85%D9%90is-wineglass-the-national-trusts-powis-castle-and-the-clive-of-india-collection-by-hassan-vawda/
A re-writing of The Tiger who Came to Tea
This was one of my favourite books when I was young. However, on a recent re-reading of it I couldn't help but think that the tiger in the story stands in for a somewhat exotic 'outsider'. Somehow I managed to relate to the tiger, perhaps because I imagine it to be an Indian tiger - and I do have a big appetite. But in the story the tiger never comes back - and we never find out why. Essentially he is the 'bad immigrant' lol. breaking all the customs, eating all the food and never returning. Somehow, I was prompted to re-write the text from the tigers point of view to explain why he never returns.
Tea at Sophie’s house
It was a strange set of circumstances that bought me to this place, but the people in this place were perhaps stranger still and stories of their peculiarities could fill the many pages of a book.
But I would like to tell you the story of one particular afternoon.
A certain house drew my attention. The front door was painted red. Don’t you know, all the best houses have red doors.
I extended my paw and pressed the bell.
At that moment I wondered who might live inside that house, with its red painted door.
Perhaps a friendly old woman,
or a young couple in love,
or maybe a family with many wild and rambunctious children.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
As the door opened a wonderful smell of food drifted through the air and reached my tender tiger nostrils.
I was reminded of how hungry I was.
It was a polite young girl who had opened the door, wearing a purple dress with a blue ribbon in her hair.
‘Hello, my name’s Sophie’ she said
‘Excuse me, I’m very hungry, do you think I could have tea with you?’ I replied
Sophie’s mummy said
‘Of course, come in’.
I made my way into the house. The house was very small and my head nearly touched the ceiling.
I sat down at the table where Sophie and her mummy were having tea.
Sophie’s mummy said to me ‘Would you like a sandwich?’
I’d never eaten a sandwich before. Nor had I eaten food in the shape of triangle.
But they looked delicious. I was so hungry I swallowed them all in one big mouthful.
Owp!
I was still hungry and luckily Sophie passed me the buns.
I ate the first bun, it was sticky but delicious. I then decided to eat all of the buns, and then I ate all of the biscuits, and then all of the cake – until there was no food left on the table.
Sophie’s mummy then said
‘Would you like a drink?’
She handed me this peculiar little cup. It was too small and dainty for my big furry paws.
This simply wouldn’t do. I had no choice but to drink all of milk in the milk jug and all of the tea in the teapot.
I was still quite hungry, and Sophie and I hunted around the kitchen for something else to eat.
There was some wonderful supper cooking in the saucepans on the stove – which I decided to eat.
I then ate all of the food in the fridge.
And then all of the packets and the tins in the cupboard.
I then drank all the milk,
All of the orange juice,
All of Daddy’s beer
And … all the water in the tap.
Not wishing to out stay my welcome, or to forget my manners
I said ‘ thank you for my nice tea, I think I’d better go now’.
If only all the people in this strange place were as wonderful as Sophie and her mummy I might have decided to stay.
But with trumpet in hand, I decided to move on.
It was a strange set of circumstances that bought me to this place, but the people in this place were perhaps stranger still and stories of their peculiarities could fill the many pages of a book.
But I would like to tell you the story of one particular afternoon.
A certain house drew my attention. The front door was painted red. Don’t you know, all the best houses have red doors.
I extended my paw and pressed the bell.
At that moment I wondered who might live inside that house, with its red painted door.
Perhaps a friendly old woman,
or a young couple in love,
or maybe a family with many wild and rambunctious children.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
As the door opened a wonderful smell of food drifted through the air and reached my tender tiger nostrils.
I was reminded of how hungry I was.
It was a polite young girl who had opened the door, wearing a purple dress with a blue ribbon in her hair.
‘Hello, my name’s Sophie’ she said
‘Excuse me, I’m very hungry, do you think I could have tea with you?’ I replied
Sophie’s mummy said
‘Of course, come in’.
I made my way into the house. The house was very small and my head nearly touched the ceiling.
I sat down at the table where Sophie and her mummy were having tea.
Sophie’s mummy said to me ‘Would you like a sandwich?’
I’d never eaten a sandwich before. Nor had I eaten food in the shape of triangle.
But they looked delicious. I was so hungry I swallowed them all in one big mouthful.
Owp!
I was still hungry and luckily Sophie passed me the buns.
I ate the first bun, it was sticky but delicious. I then decided to eat all of the buns, and then I ate all of the biscuits, and then all of the cake – until there was no food left on the table.
Sophie’s mummy then said
‘Would you like a drink?’
She handed me this peculiar little cup. It was too small and dainty for my big furry paws.
This simply wouldn’t do. I had no choice but to drink all of milk in the milk jug and all of the tea in the teapot.
I was still quite hungry, and Sophie and I hunted around the kitchen for something else to eat.
There was some wonderful supper cooking in the saucepans on the stove – which I decided to eat.
I then ate all of the food in the fridge.
And then all of the packets and the tins in the cupboard.
I then drank all the milk,
All of the orange juice,
All of Daddy’s beer
And … all the water in the tap.
Not wishing to out stay my welcome, or to forget my manners
I said ‘ thank you for my nice tea, I think I’d better go now’.
If only all the people in this strange place were as wonderful as Sophie and her mummy I might have decided to stay.
But with trumpet in hand, I decided to move on.
Blog Posts (2025 and previous)
From Guyana to England
My mum moved from Guyana to England in 1963 when she was 11 years-old. I spoke to her about this experience in her garden - a place where her creativity flourishes - her pride and joy. I also took inspiration from Alice Walker's text in Search of our Mothers' Gardens suggested to me by fellow artist, Jade Montserrat.
7 Things I Unlearned at Art School
Not all educational experiences are equal. The negative ones can scar you, but the positive ones have the ability to transform you. I was lucky enough to go to university twice, first to study Geology at Imperial College and secondly Fine Art at Swansea College of Art.
As a mature student going to Art School, I thought my life experiences might give me a certain edge, but it turns out that it was quite the opposite. As I was to find out, the knowledge I had gained through formal education was built on some fairly insecure foundations.
For most of my education I had been a passive recipient of knowledge and not the constructor of it. It seems I had to dig down and repair the foundations before I could rebuild. Before I could learn, I had to unlearn.
What follows are some of the unlearning episodes that I experienced at Art School.
1.Possibilities, not answers
Throughout my school education I was taught that there are right and wrong answers. Even when there appeared to be room for interpretation on an exam paper, there was still clearly the right interpretation or the wrong one. At Art School I was taught to dismiss these two positions from the outset. For example, it is simply incorrect to say there is a right interpretation of a piece of art and a wrong one; instead, subjectivity reigns supreme. Art is at its most comfortable when there is a lack of resolution. It seeks possibilities, not answers or clarification.
2.Deconstructing the binaries
An education system built on right and wrong answers might explain a prevalence of binary thinking in my adult life. This binary thinking is reinforced by the media which seems to polarise complex arguments; Brexit is a case in point - you either wanted in or out.
Simple categories are constructed 'on our behalf' whether we like it or not. Immigration is another example. We are often asked to choose between us and them; but who is ‘us’ and what exactly do we mean by ‘them’? The conversation becomes a little more uncomfortable when you realise, that depending on the conversation, you might fall into the ‘them’ category.
Art School encourages us to interrogate these categories which are often the constructs of power. Once these boundaries are deconstructed, new fertile ground for thinking and operating emerges. Rather than positioning ourselves on one side of the debate or the other, it is possible to occupy new positions previously unthought of.
3.Removing the lenses
The way I view the world is a cumulation of the formative processes in which my background plays a significant part. My gender, race, religion, class and parental upbringing all have a bearing on my thought processes. Art School teaches us to identify or at least acknowledge the lenses through which we see the world and consider their validity. Through considering these lenses our perspective can often shift and we are open to new possibilities of seeing the world.
4.Alternative histories
The scaffolding that we learn in our formal history education seems to be the logical place to assimilate new information, but what happens if this scaffolding is fundamentally incorrect and needs to be rebuilt? The old adage ‘history is written by the victors’ seems to hold sway, with the western version of history being typically an imperial one. Art School teaches us to pay attention to alternative histories, to those of marginalised groups; to the victims rather than the victors; and to those who seem to fall outside the norm. Rather than a futile exercise in revisionism, such an exercise opens up new ways of contextualising the present and potential ways to re-boot the future.
5.Question the question
As an adult we are required to answer questions that come to us in a variety of official formats; typically we dutifully conform. The questions we are asked are rarely neutral and are often posed from a specific position or perspective. Often the design of these questions generates a limited set of answers; this is useful for the quantitative data analysers but does not give the whole picture. Art School teaches us to think about who is asking these questions and how they are phrased. Are the questions appropriate ones to be asked, and should we be answering them so obligingly?
6.Trampling across disciplines
I was educated to believe that progression in a given subject involved studying it at a deeper level. Any subject can be broken down into specialisms, and then even further into micro-specialisms; this seems to be where the majority of research takes place. However, these rarefied niches are not the only place where knowledge can be constructed. Art School encourages us travel sideways across disciplines; to find their natural intersections or better still to create new ones. By connecting what may appear to be extraneous fields of knowledge, new solutions, conversations and possibilities emerge.
7.It is not all about the outcome
In formal education it is the end result or product that is celebrated, this often drives processes and behaviours. Thinking back to my education - I was taught to the test and how to pass exams (memories of practice papers and rehearsed answers). By contrast, Art School places as much value on the ‘process’ as it does on any final product or outcome. An artist learns to value the process from which any number of given outcomes or possibilities may subsequently emerge.
I'm incredibly grateful to all of the lecturers who taught me and would like to thank them, including Tim Davies, Craig Wood, Sue Williams and Harold Hope.
Honours and the arts
In 1919, the Indian poet and polymath Rabindranath Tagore returned his knighthood to the British crown following the tragedy at Amritsar during which British military personnel shot unarmed civilians. The official death count was 379, however this number is heavily contested and could be as much as 1000.
Tagore wanted to distance himself from the British Empire under whose name this tragedy had occurred.
The time has come when badges of honour make our shame glaring in the incongruous context of humiliation, and I for my part, wish to stand, shorn, of all special distinctions, by the side of those countrymen who, for their so called insignificance, are liable to suffer degradation not fit for human beings. - Rabindranath Tagore
Over recent years the rate of people declining honours or returning them has steadily increased. The personal reasons given by individuals for declining and returning honours varies widely.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be for a Black or Asian person to accept an honour given their explicit relationship to empire e.g. CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire), OBE (Officer of the Order of the British Empire) and MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire). It must be bittersweet knowing you have earned your place at the table but aware that it is still tainted by the remnants of empire.
Tagore wanted to distance himself from the British Empire under whose name this tragedy had occurred.
The time has come when badges of honour make our shame glaring in the incongruous context of humiliation, and I for my part, wish to stand, shorn, of all special distinctions, by the side of those countrymen who, for their so called insignificance, are liable to suffer degradation not fit for human beings. - Rabindranath Tagore
Over recent years the rate of people declining honours or returning them has steadily increased. The personal reasons given by individuals for declining and returning honours varies widely.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be for a Black or Asian person to accept an honour given their explicit relationship to empire e.g. CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire), OBE (Officer of the Order of the British Empire) and MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire). It must be bittersweet knowing you have earned your place at the table but aware that it is still tainted by the remnants of empire.
Honour Returned
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Perhaps one of the most public rejections I can remember was by the poet Benjamin Zephaniah who stated ‘I get angry when I hear that word "empire"; it reminds me of slavery, it reminds of thousands of years of brutality, it reminds me of how my foremothers were raped and my forefathers brutalised’.
But what about white people? In an age of allyship in line with the Black Lives Matter movement should they too be thinking twice about accepting honours. The honours system represents the greatest level of public recognition one can receive in the arts in Wales. However, it is also widely acknowledged that the arts in Wales is not as diverse and inclusive as it should be, with arts organisations working towards greater levels of inclusivity. So, here’s the rub; how do you encourage diversity on a ground level when public recognition at the top of the arts is synonymous with a relationship to empire? Perhaps a different recognition system is needed or maybe there needs to be whole scale overhaul of the current honours system - I certainly wouldn’t be the first person to advocate for this. It may feel that I am making an argument that is rooted in history, however the legacy of empire still looms large especially in those countries that were colonised. Even in Britain, the negative effects of Empire is not too difficult to find. At the time of writing there are still members of the Windrush generation who are waiting to receive compensation from the British government having been wrongly deported or denied the opportunity to work. |
I certainly do not hold it against anyone that may have accepted an honours, after all they have been clearly earned. However, I can’t help but feel deep respect for those who declined or returned their honours based on moral conscience.
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For a historical perspective of empire could I suggest Shashi Tharoor’s book, Inglorious Empire: What the British did to India.
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For a historical perspective of empire could I suggest Shashi Tharoor’s book, Inglorious Empire: What the British did to India.
Review of Undo Things Done (Sean Edwards)
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Contemporary artists have always sought to use the most appropriate materials for their concepts. Ever since Marcel Duchamp proposed that a urinal could be a piece of art, not only was the readymade legitimised but he also opened up further conversations relating to the use of materials within art. In fact, whole movements have been centred around the use of particular materials; Arte Povera is an example with their emphasis on the use of commonplace materials such as earth, rock, paper, clothes and rope. Authenticity matters when it comes to materials and concepts; striking a balance between the two is perhaps the real challenge of artists.
The selected title for the 58thVenice Biennale exhibition is May You Live in Interesting Times. Such a title evokes a sense of challenge for the selected artists to go beyond simplification in order to represent the complexity of our times. As expected, many artists have chosen to tackle major contemporary concerns; such as, climate change, migration and fake news. Notably, other conversations have fallen off the table, with feminism seemingly taking a back seat this time. This year the artist chosen to represent Wales in Venice was Sean Edwards. |
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Sean Edwards proposition for Wales in Venice is an autobiographical one and takes as its starting point the artist’s experience of growing up on a council estate in Cardiff in the 1980’s. There is an inherent danger is presenting autobiographical work which can often appear self-indulgent on the part of the artist; this was an accusation levelled at Tracey Emin in the early days. However, what quickly becomes apparent in Edwards’ work is that it opens up wider conversations related to class and social mobility. In the artists own words he is interested in capturing and translating the notion of growing up ‘not expecting much’.
Edwards takes a number of approaches in translating his experience into language. The font from the masthead of The Sun newspaper can be found in a number of works, including his whole cloth quilts and ‘confessional’ MDF screens. The Sunwas banned in his household as a child with the left leaning Daily Mirrorbeing the newspaper of choice. During his studies in London, Edwards bought The Sun as an illicit daily ritual in order to inform his practice. We learn from interviews that Edwards attributes The Sun with having many negative influences on society. |
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Click Using the aforementioned font, Edward exhibits a poster that simply says ‘Free School Dinners’; this is a reference to his experience at school where those entitled to free school meals had to endure the social stigma of standing in a different queue from those parents whose parents could afford to pay.
Edwards’ work is situated in a particular time and place and may be more accessible to some audiences then others. However, this sense of distance is diminished in a piece of work called Refrainthat Edwards has created in collaboration with National Theatre Wales. At 2pm every day, the exhibition is activated by the voice of Edwards’ mum who reads a live radio play that is directly transmitted from her flat in Cardiff. The radio play was scripted by Edwards and explores notions of place, politics and class through narrations of his mums own experiences of growing up mixed with his own recollections and found text (Duchamp again). |
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Although not part of the exhibition, Edwards’ social media activity acts as an extension of the dialogue; in one particular instance he re-tweets a post by the charity Arts Emergency ‘For the past forty year with no change, young people from privileged backgrounds have been over 5 times more likely to attend University, and 4 times more likely to make it in the creative industries. 40 YEARS NO CHANGE. Take that in. All the money spent, all the talk. Amazing’.
As a counterpoint to the above, Edwards’ exhibition is staffed by curators and early career artists as part of the Arts Council of Wales Invigilator Plus programme. All of the invigilators have been given accommodation and are paid a living wage allowing the opportunity to be accessible to all, perhaps change is on the horizon after all.
All in all, what Edwards’ manages to achieve perfect blend between materials and concept. His work maintains honesty through the authentic and competent use of materials. After all, what can really be more authentic than a mother’s voice? It is through Edwards’ personal histories we are led into a poetic enquiry of place, politics and class. Whereas other artists in the Biennale have tackled concerns at a macro level, Edwards’s work is distinctly rooted. To use Barthe’s term, it is this rootedness that acts as a punctumand has the ability to pierce or cut through.
Among the grandeur of Venice we are reminded that class and social mobility is still an issue; it is a conversation that should never have fallen off the table. While Edwards may have been able to transcend the circumstances relating to his upbringing, we are reminded that there are many more who are not able to do so.
Undo Things Done was curated byMarie-Anne McQuay in conjunction with lead organisation Tŷ Pawb and commissioned by the Arts Council of Wales. The exhibition runs from May 11 until November 24 at Santa Maria Ausiliatrice, Venice.
As a counterpoint to the above, Edwards’ exhibition is staffed by curators and early career artists as part of the Arts Council of Wales Invigilator Plus programme. All of the invigilators have been given accommodation and are paid a living wage allowing the opportunity to be accessible to all, perhaps change is on the horizon after all.
All in all, what Edwards’ manages to achieve perfect blend between materials and concept. His work maintains honesty through the authentic and competent use of materials. After all, what can really be more authentic than a mother’s voice? It is through Edwards’ personal histories we are led into a poetic enquiry of place, politics and class. Whereas other artists in the Biennale have tackled concerns at a macro level, Edwards’s work is distinctly rooted. To use Barthe’s term, it is this rootedness that acts as a punctumand has the ability to pierce or cut through.
Among the grandeur of Venice we are reminded that class and social mobility is still an issue; it is a conversation that should never have fallen off the table. While Edwards may have been able to transcend the circumstances relating to his upbringing, we are reminded that there are many more who are not able to do so.
Undo Things Done was curated byMarie-Anne McQuay in conjunction with lead organisation Tŷ Pawb and commissioned by the Arts Council of Wales. The exhibition runs from May 11 until November 24 at Santa Maria Ausiliatrice, Venice.
Visit to Agastya International Foundation
In February 2019 I had the opportunity to visit Agastya International Foundation in Andhra Pradesh, India. Agastya's mission is to 'spark curiosity, nurture creativity and instil confidence' in economically disadvantaged children and government school teachers by bringing innovative hands-on science education, project based and peer-to-peer learning to schools, towns and villages across India. It was a truly inspirational visit and I was fortunate to have the opportunity to deliver Creative Learning training to some of their staff. Below is a few snippets from the training and some reflections from the participants.
Creative learning: a journey on many levels
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Creativity is an essential skill for young people in the 21st century; governments and think tanks all point towards its importance for economic growth. However, to focus solely on the economic imperative for creativity would be a shortcoming. Creativity has a positive impact on wellbeing; the act of creation and realisation is often accompanied by a sense of personal empowerment and agency. Even though many of the Lead Creative Schools projects happened over just a few months, I have seen young people undergo transformative journeys; ones that broaden their horizons, shift their perspectives and ultimately change their destinations.
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The Lead Creative Schools scheme has been about teachers as well as pupils. Many teachers have been reinvigorated by working alongside creative practitioners which has often brought about a shift in their teaching practice. When commenting on the Welsh education reform journey, the OECD said that the new curriculum will need a different type of teaching professional. It feels that those who have adopted creative learning into their practice are embodying some of this difference.
I am delighted that the Welsh Government have decided to continue working with the Arts Council of Wales to fund a second phase of the creative learning through the arts programme. It is an exciting time to be working with schools and teachers as they prepare for a transformative new curriculum.
I am delighted that the Welsh Government have decided to continue working with the Arts Council of Wales to fund a second phase of the creative learning through the arts programme. It is an exciting time to be working with schools and teachers as they prepare for a transformative new curriculum.
A journey is more than a simple act of travelling from one place to another: it is an act of transformation, a process of change. With the start of any journey there can be that sense of trepidation but this is often surpassed by the anticipation of adventure and reward. Our social encounters with others can often energise and propel us forwards, so can a sense of doggedness and persistence. However, occasionally it feels good to linger, to take things in slowly, to move at our own pace. During these reflective moments, perspectives shift as internal connections are formed, as such, what we once perceived as our destination can often change.
For the last four and a half years I have worked for the Arts Council of Wales on the Lead Creative Schools scheme, part of the wider creative leaning through the arts programme. The scheme has involved creative practitioners such as, animators, actors, architects, dancers and musicians working with teachers to nurture creativity in young people. Teachers and pupils have experimented with the enquiry methods, processes and approaches that creative practitioners use in their everyday practice and applied it to their learning; this unique approach has been about far more than a simple exchange of technical art skills.
For the last four and a half years I have worked for the Arts Council of Wales on the Lead Creative Schools scheme, part of the wider creative leaning through the arts programme. The scheme has involved creative practitioners such as, animators, actors, architects, dancers and musicians working with teachers to nurture creativity in young people. Teachers and pupils have experimented with the enquiry methods, processes and approaches that creative practitioners use in their everyday practice and applied it to their learning; this unique approach has been about far more than a simple exchange of technical art skills.
Return to The Jungle
In late 2016, the migrant camp known as The Jungle was cleared of inhabitants. Many of the migrants who had made The Jungle their home had been transported to alternative camps across France, but what happened to the others? I started to wonder think about the migrants I had met the previous year (see earlier blog post), where were they now? Even though I knew the site was closed, I somehow felt compelled to return.
For many of the Calais locals, the migrant camp had been a blight; an unlikely home for thousands of migrants and an unwelcome attraction for the world's media. The town seemed to be undergoing a period of growth and repair. There was more conversation, more vigour, and a general lightness to the town. You had the feeling that the migrant camp represented a point in history that the people of Calais would rather forget, or erase entirely.
I headed towards the site of the former camp on foot; retracing the steps I had taken 18 months earlier. Last time I did this journey I passed scores of migrants; this time I did not pass a single one - they had gone, all of them! As I neared the site I came across occasional traces; old bottle tops, discarded lighters, and an abandoned sleeping bag. The road bridge that demarcated the former entrance to The Jungle beckoned. I walked under the bridge and emerged on the other side but rather than the sea of activity I witnessed last time, I was presented with a vast expanse of emptiness. The sandy soil stretched into the distance, occasionally carved by the deep tracks of a bulldozer. The site had been completely cleared, all of the people had gone and their dwellings removed; not a single one remained.
I headed towards the site of the former camp on foot; retracing the steps I had taken 18 months earlier. Last time I did this journey I passed scores of migrants; this time I did not pass a single one - they had gone, all of them! As I neared the site I came across occasional traces; old bottle tops, discarded lighters, and an abandoned sleeping bag. The road bridge that demarcated the former entrance to The Jungle beckoned. I walked under the bridge and emerged on the other side but rather than the sea of activity I witnessed last time, I was presented with a vast expanse of emptiness. The sandy soil stretched into the distance, occasionally carved by the deep tracks of a bulldozer. The site had been completely cleared, all of the people had gone and their dwellings removed; not a single one remained.
The inside of the road bridge still hosted Banksy's mural of Steve Jobs; it somehow felt tired and without purpose, mirroring the spent fires and discarded belongings littered around its base. It also served as a reminder that the spotlight that once shone on this place has moved on and sought a new spectacle elsewhere.
As I walked across the site, the remnants of the camp and its former inhabitants were still visible on the surface; blankets, toothbrushes, tampons, cutlery, food cartons, tablets - all of the essentials needed for a very basic mode of living. Among the debris there were also some cogent reminders that the camp also housed children; toy cars, LEGO blocks, colouring books and jigsaw pieces.
Perhaps the playing was not reserved just for children, there were also dominoes, scrabble pieces, playing cards and deflated footballs among the debris; a way to pass the time for those in an extended state of limbo. There were numerous empty lager cans and bottles littered across the site. I thought about why these may have been drunk; was it a way to socialise with new found friends, a drink at the end of a long day or perhaps a way to forget, just for a while?
Perhaps the playing was not reserved just for children, there were also dominoes, scrabble pieces, playing cards and deflated footballs among the debris; a way to pass the time for those in an extended state of limbo. There were numerous empty lager cans and bottles littered across the site. I thought about why these may have been drunk; was it a way to socialise with new found friends, a drink at the end of a long day or perhaps a way to forget, just for a while?
As I wandered across the site, I came across six people in fluorescent jackets. They were in the process of forensically cleaning the site. This was more than a simple cleansing operation; it was a process of total erasure. Before long all physical traces of the migrant camp would be gone, I was told that they wanted to return the site to nature. The nature had already started to return to the site and you could hear a variety of birds chirping in the nearby bushes; the sound seemed somewhat discordant in this vast empty space. An even more unlikely return to nature was represented by a small patch of the site where some onions had been discarded. In an improbable turn, a handful of these onions had actually managed to take root and were starting to grow; this seemed poignant somehow.
Humans always leave traces and despite the efforts to erase the physical remnants of the site a discernible presence remains. This is a place that is traumatised, one that is psychologically scarred. The makeshift dwellings that once stretched towards the sky in supplication were destroyed in the most brutal manner; the beacons of hope and aspiration flattened. I wonder if the bulldozers even hesitated when they razed the rudimentary mosques and church to the ground.
Places hold memories and this is a place that can never forget.
Places hold memories and this is a place that can never forget.
Elysium Gallery: A wildly Confident Teenager (Review)
There is nothing worse than visiting a gallery that has had a former heyday and is now in decline; that moribund feeling simply clings to you. In contrast to these galleries are those that are on the rise; they pulse and beat, imbuing you with a feverous energy. Their incandescence works its way into the imagination, giving rise to stratospheric ideas. These galleries have an emerging identity, like a wildly confident teenager who is willing to take risks; there are moments of utter brilliance, a prodigy in the making perhaps. Naturally there are also those moments to reflect upon, but where others would dwell, the wildly confident teenager simply moves on. It’s a fast paced ride, but one that you, and others, can’t help being drawn into.
Elysium is an example of a wildly confident teenager. A relatively young artist led organisation, Elysium are embarking on their most ambitious project yet, the opening of a 4000 sq. foot venue in Swansea City Centre. A former nightclub seems to be the perfect match for such an organisation. The new venue consists of two exhibition spaces, a test bed area, a workshop space and a café bar. Perhaps the exceptional part of the story is the way that the project is funded.
Over the last 12 years, Elysium has worked with local landlords and housing charities to renovate vacant premises within the city centre and turn them into artist studios. Elysium now occupies four buildings in the city centre and represents the largest studio complex in Wales; 83 studios and counting... Elysium’s new venue will be funded by rent from their studio complex and sales generated in the café bar; no more waiting for hand-outs from the bank of Mum and Dad, this teenagers got themselves a job.
With a diverse artist community (and those who have come along for the ride) ideas are never a shortcoming at Elysium; many are enacted, and quickly. The new venue has gone from conception to realisation within just 6 months.
Elysium is an example of a wildly confident teenager. A relatively young artist led organisation, Elysium are embarking on their most ambitious project yet, the opening of a 4000 sq. foot venue in Swansea City Centre. A former nightclub seems to be the perfect match for such an organisation. The new venue consists of two exhibition spaces, a test bed area, a workshop space and a café bar. Perhaps the exceptional part of the story is the way that the project is funded.
Over the last 12 years, Elysium has worked with local landlords and housing charities to renovate vacant premises within the city centre and turn them into artist studios. Elysium now occupies four buildings in the city centre and represents the largest studio complex in Wales; 83 studios and counting... Elysium’s new venue will be funded by rent from their studio complex and sales generated in the café bar; no more waiting for hand-outs from the bank of Mum and Dad, this teenagers got themselves a job.
With a diverse artist community (and those who have come along for the ride) ideas are never a shortcoming at Elysium; many are enacted, and quickly. The new venue has gone from conception to realisation within just 6 months.
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Images from the opening exhibition, Good Morning Midnight by Ruth Murray
Another example of ideas being turned into reality can be seen in BEEP (biennial exhibition of painting). Initiated in 2012, BEEP represents the only prize in Wales exclusively for painting. From humble beginnings, the last manifestation of BEEP, attracted 550 entries from 10 countries, with selected works shown across five partner venues. It is anticipated that 2020 will represent the largest BEEP ever with 7 partner venues across the UK already committed to being involved.
It’s not all plain sailing, the teenage years never are, Elysium face many of the perennial problems that other galleries do. Dare I say it – how do you widen your audience? Perhaps some Google Analytics or Facebook analysis – yawn. Elysium’s solution to this problem is refreshingly simple – the creation of a mobile gallery. Perhaps as adults we overthink, making things more complicated than they need to be. Converted from an old demonstrators van, the mobile gallery has been used to take Elysium’s work out into the community. The mobile gallery seems typical of Elysium’s ‘do and see’ approach with its purpose in a positive state of flux; it has already been used for learning and engagement work, but also doubles up as a low-fi, but highly visible method of marketing and publicity.
I’m not sure if I want Elysium to grow up, its all to easy to imagine the quick decision making and the ‘do and see’ approach disappearing into a quagmire of bureaucratization as it grows. Maybe its course will be very different, and it will remain the perpetual teenager. For now, it’s time to simply enjoy its youthful energy.
It’s not all plain sailing, the teenage years never are, Elysium face many of the perennial problems that other galleries do. Dare I say it – how do you widen your audience? Perhaps some Google Analytics or Facebook analysis – yawn. Elysium’s solution to this problem is refreshingly simple – the creation of a mobile gallery. Perhaps as adults we overthink, making things more complicated than they need to be. Converted from an old demonstrators van, the mobile gallery has been used to take Elysium’s work out into the community. The mobile gallery seems typical of Elysium’s ‘do and see’ approach with its purpose in a positive state of flux; it has already been used for learning and engagement work, but also doubles up as a low-fi, but highly visible method of marketing and publicity.
I’m not sure if I want Elysium to grow up, its all to easy to imagine the quick decision making and the ‘do and see’ approach disappearing into a quagmire of bureaucratization as it grows. Maybe its course will be very different, and it will remain the perpetual teenager. For now, it’s time to simply enjoy its youthful energy.
What does it take to make the Artes Mundi shortlist?
Review of Just Between Us (Thomas Williams )
Engagement with others is not always an easy task, especially when it extends across differences in race, religion, language and citizenship status. Just Between Us is an exhibition that explores active engagement across physical thresholds as well as these metaphorical boundaries.
The Trinity Centre acts as an important hub to asylum seekers and refugees located within the city of Cardiff; situated just a few hundred metres away is the contemporary art gallery, G39. Despite sharing a close physical proximity, the two sets of users of these institutions rarely, if ever mix. Just Between Us chronicles Thomas Williams attempt at reaching out from the G39 gallery to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Thomas' primary medium for the exhibition is text, which is projected onto the wall of the Unit #1 space at G39. The text exposes the artist's difficulties in attempting to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Principally, the exhibition is an acknowledgement of ‘failure’ by the artist. We read that on one particular occasion, Thomas had made cakes with the intention of attempting an exchange with members of the community at the Trinity Centre,
'I had paper and felt tips as well so people could give me something in exchange for the cake'.
The Trinity Centre acts as an important hub to asylum seekers and refugees located within the city of Cardiff; situated just a few hundred metres away is the contemporary art gallery, G39. Despite sharing a close physical proximity, the two sets of users of these institutions rarely, if ever mix. Just Between Us chronicles Thomas Williams attempt at reaching out from the G39 gallery to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Thomas' primary medium for the exhibition is text, which is projected onto the wall of the Unit #1 space at G39. The text exposes the artist's difficulties in attempting to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Principally, the exhibition is an acknowledgement of ‘failure’ by the artist. We read that on one particular occasion, Thomas had made cakes with the intention of attempting an exchange with members of the community at the Trinity Centre,
'I had paper and felt tips as well so people could give me something in exchange for the cake'.
With further reading, we learn that Thomas was unable to make the exchange as his overwrought sensitivity manifested itself,
'I'm a man and I made cake. You are men and you are playing sport'.
Unable to bring himself to make the exchange, Thomas took the cakes home,
'so much cake to eat'.
In a separate episode, we read that Thomas had arranged a series of walks for members of the Trinity Centre as a way of introducing them to the local area and promoting social cohesion. But, despite the artist texting them all the night before, 'nobody showed up'. Once again, the artist's anxieties came to the fore, and he asks himself, 'why would you want to go on a walk with a stranger?'
'I'm a man and I made cake. You are men and you are playing sport'.
Unable to bring himself to make the exchange, Thomas took the cakes home,
'so much cake to eat'.
In a separate episode, we read that Thomas had arranged a series of walks for members of the Trinity Centre as a way of introducing them to the local area and promoting social cohesion. But, despite the artist texting them all the night before, 'nobody showed up'. Once again, the artist's anxieties came to the fore, and he asks himself, 'why would you want to go on a walk with a stranger?'
From a socially engaged perspective, the entire volume may rightly be considered a ‘failure', a difficult to wield but critical tool in the artist’s armory. However, the artist employs another important tool in their armory, that of ‘resilience’. This is acknowledged in a soliloquy by the artist, who asks himself, 'now to work out how to use this new episode of failure in a creative and useful way?'.
Looking beyond the parameters of socially engaged practice, Thomas' work is more effective and articulates the essence of human engagement across boundaries and its potential pitfalls; we are able to recall our own psychological pain in similar situations. His work reminds us of the difficulty in active engagement and the potentially debilitating effect our sensitivities to others might have in this process.
Thomas delivers work that requires active consumption rather than a passive form of spectatorship. It is the artist’s commitment to his cosmopolitan imagination that engenders a sense of ethical and social responsibility, despite adversity that should be noted for its ability make us question our own relationship to others with/in the world.
Looking beyond the parameters of socially engaged practice, Thomas' work is more effective and articulates the essence of human engagement across boundaries and its potential pitfalls; we are able to recall our own psychological pain in similar situations. His work reminds us of the difficulty in active engagement and the potentially debilitating effect our sensitivities to others might have in this process.
Thomas delivers work that requires active consumption rather than a passive form of spectatorship. It is the artist’s commitment to his cosmopolitan imagination that engenders a sense of ethical and social responsibility, despite adversity that should be noted for its ability make us question our own relationship to others with/in the world.
calais: where worls collide
Having seen the news coverage of the migrant camps in Calais I felt a compulsion to see them with my own eyes and hear first hand about the lives of people living there.
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t slightly apprehensive about going and wondered whether it would be a safe place for me to visit. However, this apprehension was counterbalanced by a pressing need to know more about the situation there.
On arriving at the ferry port I got a bus into the town centre. On route, I passed several groups of migrants. It was as if two separate worlds had collided, with holidaymakers travelling in one direction and migrants seeking to travel in the other.
I set off on foot towards The Jungle (the name adopted by the residents of the largest migrant camp in Calais). I noted that some parts of Calais had seen better days as I passed abandoned buildings and run down hotels. However, on the outskirts of Calais I passed through what seemed like a fairly affluent housing estate; surely I was in the wrong place. The houses ended and I entered an industrial park. A long road ran through the industrial park with a trickle of migrants passing in both directions. I followed the road away from the town and gradually saw an increasing number of migrants. As I passed under a road bridge I emerged into The Jungle.
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t slightly apprehensive about going and wondered whether it would be a safe place for me to visit. However, this apprehension was counterbalanced by a pressing need to know more about the situation there.
On arriving at the ferry port I got a bus into the town centre. On route, I passed several groups of migrants. It was as if two separate worlds had collided, with holidaymakers travelling in one direction and migrants seeking to travel in the other.
I set off on foot towards The Jungle (the name adopted by the residents of the largest migrant camp in Calais). I noted that some parts of Calais had seen better days as I passed abandoned buildings and run down hotels. However, on the outskirts of Calais I passed through what seemed like a fairly affluent housing estate; surely I was in the wrong place. The houses ended and I entered an industrial park. A long road ran through the industrial park with a trickle of migrants passing in both directions. I followed the road away from the town and gradually saw an increasing number of migrants. As I passed under a road bridge I emerged into The Jungle.
There were people everywhere. All of the photographs I had previously seen didn’t prepare me for the physical experience of standing within the camp.
I felt some migrants watching me as I entered the camp, it seemed the they were just as apprehensive about me as I might have been about them, and with good reason. Not everyone that enters The Jungle has come with good intentions. I learned later about the far-right groups who had previously visited the site and assaulted a number of migrants. I also learned about the brutality of the French police, a story corroborated by numerous migrants and also my friend who visited three days later and told me about their presence on site with pepper spray in hand. And of course, there are the people smugglers, attempting to extort money from these desperate individuals.
As I wandered further into The Jungle I realised I wasn’t in any danger. I struggled to imagine what distress some of these individuals must have experienced to make them want to cross continents in search of a safe haven; they were not looking for trouble. I felt guilty at my initial thoughts of apprehension.
A circuitous road runs throughout the camp from which tents stretch out in all directions, spilling over into the dunes and wooded areas. The tents vary in size, dimension and construction; perhaps an indication of how long the inhabitants intend to stay in The Jungle. Most of the tents were inhabited but some appeared abandoned, presumably by those who had successfully made their journey to the UK or elsewhere.
I felt some migrants watching me as I entered the camp, it seemed the they were just as apprehensive about me as I might have been about them, and with good reason. Not everyone that enters The Jungle has come with good intentions. I learned later about the far-right groups who had previously visited the site and assaulted a number of migrants. I also learned about the brutality of the French police, a story corroborated by numerous migrants and also my friend who visited three days later and told me about their presence on site with pepper spray in hand. And of course, there are the people smugglers, attempting to extort money from these desperate individuals.
As I wandered further into The Jungle I realised I wasn’t in any danger. I struggled to imagine what distress some of these individuals must have experienced to make them want to cross continents in search of a safe haven; they were not looking for trouble. I felt guilty at my initial thoughts of apprehension.
A circuitous road runs throughout the camp from which tents stretch out in all directions, spilling over into the dunes and wooded areas. The tents vary in size, dimension and construction; perhaps an indication of how long the inhabitants intend to stay in The Jungle. Most of the tents were inhabited but some appeared abandoned, presumably by those who had successfully made their journey to the UK or elsewhere.
I was struck by one particular tent surrounded by potted plants and flowers. Did these flowers and plants give a sense of normality or perhaps dignity to their residents amidst the chaos?
To call The Jungle a ‘camp’ is perhaps an overstatement and suggests a purpose built facility. In reality, it is disused piece of wasteland that has been increasingly inhabited by migrants.
To call The Jungle a ‘camp’ is perhaps an overstatement and suggests a purpose built facility. In reality, it is disused piece of wasteland that has been increasingly inhabited by migrants.
There is very little infrastructure within The Jungle apart from one enclosed compound (right). The French authorities provide one meal a day for the residents from this compound and offer accommodation to a small number of women and children there. About 95% of the residents within The Jungle live outside of this compound.
Apart from this limited infrastructure and a handful of portable toilets there are very few other facilities within The Jungle; life remains rudimentary.
Apart from this limited infrastructure and a handful of portable toilets there are very few other facilities within The Jungle; life remains rudimentary.
I saw several migrants collecting or carrying wood, presumably to make fires to cook on. I was acutely aware that these fires would soon be needed for warmth as the winter months approached.
The lack of infrastructure was clearly starting to cause problems and rubbish had started to accumulate at various points across the camp.
In this photograph, migrants are wheeling canisters of water back to their tent that they have filled from a mains pipe that runs through the camp.
The necessary enterprising of migrants is evident throughout the camp. This makeshift shop had been built by one of The Jungle residents and is one of many that can be found on site. The vendor had previously been a shop owner in his home country of Syria. Although this makeshift shop tells the tale of innovation in a desperate situation it worryingly suggests a sense of permanence.
As well as individual enterprise, there are also strong notions of community and cooperation throughout The Jungle, as demonstrated by this church built by its residents; a mosque has also been built on the site. the varying backgrounds, languages and religions within the camp, you might expect there to be problems between its various residents. From what I could see, this was simply not the case, a sense of solidarity and camaraderie was palpable.
In the photograph to the left, migrants are gathered around an electricity supply charging their mobile phones.
Fortunately there were those within the camp who were trying to make life more bearable for its inhabitants. Medicins du Monde had a First Aid tent on site which also served as an information point.
Medicins du Monde also offered Art lessons as a form of therapy to residents within The Jungle. They told me that many residents found these Art lessons extremely beneficial as a form of escapism from their everyday concerns. Furthermore, they acted as a useful instrument to help migrants learn new language skills.
Fortunately there were those within the camp who were trying to make life more bearable for its inhabitants. Medicins du Monde had a First Aid tent on site which also served as an information point.
Medicins du Monde also offered Art lessons as a form of therapy to residents within The Jungle. They told me that many residents found these Art lessons extremely beneficial as a form of escapism from their everyday concerns. Furthermore, they acted as a useful instrument to help migrants learn new language skills.
Clearly, there was some hostility within the town towards the migrants, especially by those who ran businesses. However, there were many other residents that were willing to help. In the image below a local Calais resident is delivering wooden pallets to The Jungle and is distributing them as fairly as he can amongst the migrants.
Despite the harrowing circumstances which surround them I found the residents I had met in the Jungle to be friendly and amiable and extremely appreciative of those willing to help them. For the most part, they retained high spirits and the drive and determination to search for a better life despite the obstacles in their way. Several even managed to make light jokes about their current situation, dire as it was.
I spoke to individuals from Eritrea, Sudan, Syria and Pakistan many of which kindly shared their personal stories, including the reasons why they had left their home countries and their hopes and aspirations for the future. It seems that world affairs, which can often seem so remote and abstract, took on concrete meanings through the personal stories of the residents in The Jungle.
I spoke to a man from Parachinar located on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border who had left his village after ISIS had invaded. As a male nurse, he had seen the mutilated bodies lying within the hospital following an ISIS attack. He told me that he had no option to leave his village, fearing for his life. I asked him why he wanted to travel to the UK and he told me that he had heard that asylum seekers would be well received and given a place of sanctuary. I wish I could have told him that this was categorically the case.
I spoke to individuals from Eritrea, Sudan, Syria and Pakistan many of which kindly shared their personal stories, including the reasons why they had left their home countries and their hopes and aspirations for the future. It seems that world affairs, which can often seem so remote and abstract, took on concrete meanings through the personal stories of the residents in The Jungle.
I spoke to a man from Parachinar located on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border who had left his village after ISIS had invaded. As a male nurse, he had seen the mutilated bodies lying within the hospital following an ISIS attack. He told me that he had no option to leave his village, fearing for his life. I asked him why he wanted to travel to the UK and he told me that he had heard that asylum seekers would be well received and given a place of sanctuary. I wish I could have told him that this was categorically the case.
Cynefin Conversation Cards
Cynefin (pronounced kuh-NEV-in) is a Welsh word with no direct English equivalent. It broadly denotes a deep sense of place, belonging, and embeddedness. It describes the condition of being rooted within a landscape, community, history, and network of relationships — not simply where one resides, but where one is of. Although often understood primarily in geographical terms, I approach Cynefin as a concept that also encompasses emotional, cultural, linguistic, and ancestral dimensions.
In collaboration with Amgueddfa Cymru, I developed a series of digital Cynefin Conversation Cards (available here). Each card draws upon an image from the national collection and is accompanied by reflective prompts that invite participants to consider questions of belonging, identity, heritage, and connection. Designed for use within small group settings, the cards function as dialogical tools — creating structured yet open-ended spaces for shared reflection and exchange.
In collaboration with Amgueddfa Cymru, I developed a series of digital Cynefin Conversation Cards (available here). Each card draws upon an image from the national collection and is accompanied by reflective prompts that invite participants to consider questions of belonging, identity, heritage, and connection. Designed for use within small group settings, the cards function as dialogical tools — creating structured yet open-ended spaces for shared reflection and exchange.
