Emami Art, a space for contemporary art in Kolkata, India, is currently presenting A Thousand Years of Dreaming, a solo exhibition by Debashish Paul, an Indian artist from Nadia district in West Bengal. The show is on view from September 6 – October 26, 2024, and is curated by Mario D’Souza, director (programs) at Kochi Biennale and co-artistic director and curator, HH Art Spaces. The exhibition centres around the short film Hazaro Saalon ka Sapna (2024), which translates to the exhibition’s title, and includes various costumes, mixed media works and sculptures that appear in or are inspired by the work. A Thousand Years of Dreaming is Paul’s first solo show at the gallery and offers a jarring and surreal look at the repression and hope that typify the romantic and sexual lives of queer Indian men. STIR visited the show at Emami Art, where it caught up with Paul for an interview that sheds light on his articulation of queerness, and how he positions his work vis à vis the queer art being created in the West.
A Thousand Years of Dreaming is a film in two parts and is brutal and beautiful in equal measure. The work is halfway between an autobiography and a fantasy. In its first section, Paul, who lives in Benaras—considered a holy city and frequent site of pilgrimage for India’s Hindu population—is in the process of marrying his lover in an imagined ceremony on the banks of the Ganges. However, their sexual preference makes the men pariahs, so they cannot partake in an imagined communion on the livelier stretches of the riverbank. Instead, the artist has chosen an empty, desert-like patch to stage the wedding. As a note by the curator indicates, this is a clear reference to Paul’s societal othering. The artist and his lover make the most of their circumstances, and their ceremony is attended by two members of a wedding band and a horse, a far cry from the huge celebrations marking many Indian marriages. The protagonists are simultaneously near-naked and heavily adorned in the artist’s costumes, which resemble second skins made of latex and are covered in cowrie shells, colourful rope, beads, and other temple ephemera. The ghunghats (veils) are made from motorcycle helmets and hide the protagonists’ faces entirely. Paul and his partner are struggling to move, slowed by the weight of their costumes.
The second segment of the film features Paul shedding his costume like a second skin and heaving from the sense of release. He lies in the waters of the Ganges, prompting us to wonder if he is cleaning himself in the literal sense, or cleansing himself in response to the internalised shame that so many of India’s LGBTQIA community members are forced to experience. Or—perhaps more optimistically—the contemporary artist may be cleansing himself of that very shame. Many of the artist’s actions in this sequence are open to interpretation. As the film ends, we are left with the powerful image of Paul and his lover intertwined in a shallow grave amidst the sands.
Supporting works in A Thousand Years of Dreaming extend the artist’s vision for his psychedelically vibrant costumes. Paul’s sculpture art is also created in latex and is richly adorned with painting and drawing work and temple ephemera. The Ancient Dream 2 (2024) is particularly captivating, for it stares back at the viewer from a mass of painted eyes. Paul discusses this slightly unnerving work, telling STIR, “This sensitive skin keeps staring at the world…sometimes looking for acceptance and sometimes in fear also.” He recalls being a very feminine child, for which he was bullied in school. However, these eyes signify more than Paul’s earthly journey. The artist makes a spiritual connection here, linking the eyes to the performance practice of Kathakali, where performances often draw on stories from Hindu mythology. “When we exist within spiritual stories, then living becomes much easier,” says Paul. He finds a transformative power within these stories, leading to a sense of liberation.
Paul’s queerness is as layered as his costumes and sculptures. He tells STIR, “My portrayal of queerness carries a complexity. I carry the culture I lived in during my childhood…My family migrated to India from Bangladesh. I come from a lower middle-class background. I carry that identity as well…The Indian belief in god is also a part of everything that creates my identity. Internally, it is all very fluid, but outwardly, the body is resistant.” Paul admits that he still feels very hesitant to speak of his sexuality openly, but his growth as an artist and his continued commitment to seeking out precedents for queer identities in mythological and spiritual texts are bringing him closer to his dream of creating a new archetype of love and beauty. Paul makes an important distinction here. In his words, “We can learn from the West, but should not copy it.” He wishes for his expression of queer love to be uniquely Indian, and to carry the nation’s rich history and culture with it.
The artist identifies a distinct difference between his work and that of queer contemporary art being created in the West. He explains that queerness is far less direct in his practice, and tells STIR that he usually creates an overlapping of textures that simultaneously serve to hide and reveal his presence in the work. The sense of veiling that Paul is referring to typifies a nation where vast swathes of its society are still coming to terms with queer sexualities. As India gains greater sensitisation towards queerdom, one can expect this veil to slip, presenting a generation of queer people who, like Paul, will breathe a sigh of relief at the weight that is shed.