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May 13, 2004
Rogue or real?
The consistent deterioration in Lollywood’s iconic glory has hit the city’s billboard artists with many a blow, writes Maria Amir
A long time ago I learnt the difference between “people” and “person” courtesy Mr Jerry Lewis in a ’60s Hollywood classic Cinderella. The film defined the difference between those who “make it” and those who are always on the verge of “making it”. Yes, we are all equal but some of us are more equal than others and reality must prevail. The same principle applies to art.
Modern art is defined by the painter and not the painting; it is characterized by its market value and not its emotive content. Moreover it has become another excuse for the lame power struggle and competitive rut we have all drowned ourselves in. I am generalizing but my purpose is to simplify the canvas as it exists for the myriad of colloquial artists and professionals that are grouped under a convenient label of “street artists”, “amateurs” and harmless nuisances in the “bigger picture”.
The ultimate irony lends itself to the fact that most such individuals who can be found sitting in dingy street corners and pavements have dedicated their lives to this field; on average they have painted every range of emotion on a daily basis for a minimum wage. The smile, the frown, the grin, the growl, the pout, the glare and the laugh — each has been portrayed and each has been disregarded with a convenient layer of whitewash when the piece outlasts its welcome. Here we define the age-old custom of “disposable” art.
When I began researching this article on the lives of billboard painters and artists, working in Lahore’s Royal Park, Laxmi Chowk, the first thought to occur was our ignorance and its finality. Lahore as it is —and as it was — still prevails within these walls, with its people and with its own culture. “We” are aliens in our own country, simply because we have managed to forget that the variety of Lahore’s people does not lie within our tiny fanciful bubble of convenient reality. Instead it lies with the everyday rusty-rustics and within their simplistic existence.
We are constantly trying to define a people that require no definition; many of these grossly maltreated artists define what we call our “culture” yet they have been the easiest people for us to completely disregard in our acknowledgements.
An artist painting an average of one portrait in two days earns approximately Rs500 and is endorsed merely as a nuisance factor: a catalyst in wrecking the aesthetics of Lahore. Why is that so? Perhaps because he uses more paint, or the fact that his art has a variable life span, perhaps because the unconventional drawing of caricatures and film star portraits day in and day out is not an accredited occupation.
On the other hand, a reputation in certain “circles” merits another artist 25,000-plus rupees for a single painting procured after months of deliberation. There is no comparison, but this does not mean that one of these artists surpasses the other in skill, talent or vision. Whatever happened to “good old artistic freedom and expression”? Art is art and requires no stamp of approval or condemnation to render it with or without merit.
The consistent deterioration in Lollywood’s iconic glory and manifesto has hit this group of struggling artists with another blow. Many artists claim that if 10 men were previously found painting billboards and posters for the industry, only three are left lingering now.
One major vehicle for this development has also been an increased mechanization and spurt in the use of computer software; machines are adept at replacing human hands with less effort and increased proficiency. Who would have thought that even the artistic canvas would prove unable to withstand technology? That keyboards and mouse clicks would conveniently override the consuming process of compiling billboards previously assembled through wood, tin sheets, and several coats of revamped paint?
As I wander through the complex web of whitewash stains and garish film sights, of slogans and colour, I realize a world within itself. Poverty is nothing new in our part of the world, and the cares and worries of a billboard painter probably don’t amount to much in the “larger picture”, yet the prevailing certainty is palpable; it is vivid and distressing.
There are droves of young and old men working amidst swirls of colour and sound, completely devoid of enthusiasm and lacking joy. As idealists and NCA graduates, we conveniently harp on about the joys of “creativity”, “vision” and “talent” yet we disregard talent when we see it head on. While they may be taunted for their lack of skill and professional training, the fact that most of these painters sustain themselves through their art is commendable. In fact it is a paramount compliment to their talent that they render distinguishable likeness of countless faces without the benefit of professional training.
Before leaving I sit and have a soft drink with William Artist, and marvel at his skill and at his circumstance. He is definitely more than 55 years old and an excess of 35 years of painting has not got him off the streets. He tells me that he washed his hands off Lollywood posters five years ago “They’re all cheats,” he says. “They buy my paintings on credit and never come back, so I stick to my posters and advertisements. It’s easy money for me and anyway, what else is there? An artist’s work is finished, now we’re all just painters.”
Ten minutes later I walk back to my car, switch on the AC and drown out the echoes of Rangeela Re booming through an old tape deck. I turn my back on the throng of colour and as I pass by mammoth sized billboards practically jumping out at me with Maula Jutt, Bala Gujjar and Jungle Queen I think of a simple old painter who has no care for fame or glory, no care for politics and money mongering and who still calls himself William Artist because he loves what he does.
I smile as I move back to my version of reality, but it is comforting to know that Pakistan has not lost its culture. There are still those select few who are proud of who they are and what they do without a care for a connoisseur’s opinion as to how it “ought” to be done.
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