For the time being, for all of us

Time of India

3 days ago

As curator of the sixth Kochi-Muziris Biennale, Nikhil Chopra faces a formidable task: restoring the dynamism of the international art event, which had diminished post-Covid. He promises a 'blood and bones, skin and flesh, mud and stick' edition—low on screens and tech, rich in tactile materials. The Biennale will feature more women artists than men, and Chopra, one of the country's leading durational performance artists, states that there is no avoiding politics. Excerpts from an interview:
You are one of the few endurance performance artists in the world who has performed in Kochi Biennale in 2014. In Kerala, we have ancient traditional art forms like Theyyam, where the performer endures intense physical pain before transcending into a divine state. As an artist who interweaves different art forms, how would you describe a duration performance?
A durational performer creates a situation, goes through trauma and pain and emerges from it to express oneself. In this process, the art itself is taken to a different level. It breaks the conventions of what an art exhibition is expected to be. You have to break the white walls and make them disappear.
Theyyam is an art form on an entirely different level; I can't even describe the experience of watching it. While performing, endurance and trauma form the very foundation of the work. Art gives us the opportunity to engage with pain, pleasure, joy, or melancholia — using these emotions as material to complete the work. What we experience as trauma often leads to transformation. One has to pass through this channel of incineration and what emerges on the other side is a better version of yourself. You should be able to transcend the ordinary and discover an extended you — a super-you!
Of course, the presence of an audience is very important. It's about anticipation and desire. In the long-duration performance I did in Mumbai in 2007, I created a 5,000 sq ft skyline of the city — a 72-hour performance. I don't even know where the energy came from. During that time, I endured pain and trauma, but I was able to draw every significant building in the landscape.
I had a camera placed on top of the building, which worked like a telescope to give me a 360-degree view of the city, and I used that image as the reference for the drawing. A lot of preparation goes into these performances. I even dress up in costume to embody the character. In Mumbai, I had transformed myself into Queen Victoria. I rode on that experience and built a career on it.
At the Kochi Biennale, I presented a 60-hour performance. I imprisoned myself in one of the rooms in the Director's Bungalow. I started by painting the walls black and then added white stripes to give the feeling of being inside a prison.
Through whatever I could see from the windows of Aspinwall House, I painted those scenes into the white spaces of the stripes. I kept wondering what lay beyond those walls.
Eventually, I staged an escape from the prison—as a Spanish conquistador, a Vasco da Gama-like figure. I depicted him weeping as he escaped, disappearing into the distance while waving a red handkerchief. It was almost like demanding an apology from the colonizers—for what they had done and for all they had taken from us.
How has your journey been from participating as an artist in the 2014 Kochi Biennale to taking on curatorial role for the 2025 edition?
I'm not a newcomer to Kochi. My engagement with this town goes back decades — beginning with a brief but vivid encounter when I was seven years old. I studied at Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan school after my father was posted here as the manager of Grindlays Bank in the late 1970s. Moving from Shimla to Kochi was a cultural shock. It was the first time I had seen crows. At school, children came without shoes and we ate meals served on a thali with round rice and sambar. Years later, I returned to Kochi, this time as an invited artist.
More recently, I came back as part of HH ArtSpace, which I run with my partners, to curate a project featuring nine live artists from South Asia. This time, I return in a different role — jointly curating the Kochi Biennale, in collaboration with HH ArtSpace.
How many artists are part of this edition? Have local artists also been invited?
We have a total of 70 artists participating — 30 international, 30 national and 10 from Kerala. Among the international artists, a significant number is from South Asia. In addition, 28 artists are currently doing site visits.
What makes this group particularly interesting is that many of them have never travelled outside their home countries and some are visiting India for the first time.
I've intentionally reached out to artists who don't need to be pre-empted — those who will respond instinctively to the patina on the walls, who won't be troubled by debris, a falling roof, or damage on the surfaces. We've managed to get them genuinely excited about being part of the Biennale.
We sent out 70 invitations, thinking we might hear back positively from 60. But to our surprise, every single artist said yes. The Biennale holds a special place in their hearts because it's rooted in the geopolitics of Kochi — in a region like Kerala, where people are deeply engaged with politics, and where public opinion matters.
When you bring work to this place that is politically charged, you know you will get to hear opinions. You don't have an exhibition of this calibre, significance or ambition anywhere else in this region — not in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka.
The Kochi Biennale Foundation will be announcing the list of participating artists soon. Many of the Indian artists we've invited have never exhibited before — we've gone deep into the interiors of the country, far from the big Metros, to find fresh voices.
We also have more women artists than men this year, many of them working from places like Baroda, Chandigarh, and from marginalized communities.
We're also giving significant space to artists from Kerala. One of the most renowned artists will be exhibiting in the same space as a young Malayali woman artist. Similarly, international artists will be placed alongside local ones. I'm deeply interested in creating these kinds of dialogues.
Why did you choose 'For the Time Being' as the title for this edition?
We just played on the word. Art is a physically fleeting and intoxicating experience. Kerala is abundant and ecologically explosive. If you throw something, it grows. Forests have flourished and you have a colonialization that grew on pepper.
To what extent will political themes be explored in this edition of the Biennale?
We don't want to be didactic or serve it to you. At the same time, we do not want to shroud everything in mystery. Our aim is to make the experience readable, immersive, physical, and intellectually engaging. We are artists — we use our material to express our politics.
I don't invite artists based solely on the political positions they hold. We are interested in their social commitment. This edition includes voices from places like Kyrgyzstan, Sulaymaniyah and Palestine — regions marked by complexity and struggle.
Art wants to generate dialogue. We can use its framework to navigate difficult conversations. But we want you to get there, rather than forcing the narrative. We're not going to serve you a cup of tea and say, 'Let's talk about Palestine.' Instead, we aim to create a safe space where you feel comfortable discussing politics and having difficult conversations.
In today's climate of political backlash and online attacks—often leading to censorship of artistic expression, whether in art or cinema—do you believe in the idea of self-censorship?
What seems to be poetic is often political — there's no running away from politics. I am ready to do whatever it takes to defend the artists I'm bringing to the Biennale. Art holds a mirror to the world.
If you don't like what you see, that's not the artist's fault. At the same time, it's essential to understand the parameters within which we're working. Self-censorship is extremely important for the artist to know where the canvas ends, and the wall starts.
As an artist do you have to draw your boundaries?
The success of the Biennale lies in all of us coming out better than we went in. I trust we cannot do a Biennale anywhere else in this region. There is no place more open or liberated than Kochi for such an event.When I speak to artists, I don't drive socio-political points to them. But I do make them aware of the contexts and complexities we face in India. I'm not calling artists who will take to the streets with protest banners. I'm inviting those who might choose to sing a song in their studio when they're feeling to do so. It's up to you, the audience, to connect it with Gaza, Africa, South America, or North America. It is a mess—we live in a political mess. And yet, most of the artists are speaking a language of love, camaraderie and friendship.
When the Biennale first launched in 2012, it was embraced by the local community as something of their own—a source of pride and ownership. Do you still feel that same sense of connection and local engagement today?
While walking through the streets or doing site visits, it brings me great joy to tell people that we're part of the Biennale. We make it a point to say we're not tourists — we invite them to be part of the event. At every shop and café, the Biennale is seen as a baton of hope. There's genuine anticipation because livelihoods are linked to it; it boosts local businesses and the economy. You can clearly see that the Biennale has become an integral part of the city.
Did you face any budgetary constraints and did they affect the scope or scale of the Biennale?
This is a blood and bones, skin and flesh, mud and stick Biennale. There will be very little digital and video work and less reliance on high-end tech. This is a Biennale of metal, wood, mud, earth, terracotta, textiles, tactile materials. I think the eight lakh people coming to Biennale will connect with the artists. Money is important and I have had to do the brutal work of saying 'No'. But behind every 'No', is a larger 'Yes' We have had hitches and regrets , but it is important to focus on success and strengths.
Is there still uncertainty about whether Aspinwall will remain the main venue for the Biennale?
We've identified 15 venues for the Biennale, and Aspinwall is one among them. However, final discussions are still under way and a decision is expected soon. That said, we're excited about the inclusion of several new venues this year. We've been conservative with the number of sites due to budget considerations, but I wouldn't call this a smaller Biennale. There's a great deal of physicality and volume in the works and the experiences will be deeply engaging.
There is a criticism that art is for the intellectual elite? Do we need art literacy?
People already have a kind of art literacy—whether it's through traditions like rangoli, pookkalam, or the incredible makeup and ritual of Theyyam. Someone from Finland may not fully grasp the context of Theyyam, but they will still understand the art. I think it's a bit condescending to assume people need art to be explained to them. To me, there's no such thing as a truly 'white' space. Every space is alive and constantly evolving.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.