18. Divided Realities

At the Assi Ghat, I met Aarti once more, and Beat, a Swiss who lives here and speaks fluent Hindi. Since he was with her, I requested him to put forward my questions to Aarti. She explained that she had guided me around during Thulsi Puja to show her world, since she had felt a spiritual connection between us. She did not talk about herself nor mention her story in his presence. I joined her to Thulsi Ghat. She kept talking to me for a long time and the longer she spoke the more I could sense her vulnerability. Having seen all these men hanging around the Ghats in the dark myself, she seemed so exposed as a woman in her niche, and I could sense the source of her hurt.
    She had adopted a dog with three puppies and had prepared a corner for them with worn-out clothes. At her bedside she kept an iron pole now. At night, her only protection were the two saris covering the entrance. She offered Chai, boiled with Ganges water, but I had to decline.
    I had been sick for a week, and my stomach was still cramped, a hard knot. There are many ways to ruin the stomach in Varanasi. The time and manner spent in the upper-class world of my studio environment, in which I felt imprisoned and controlled, had given me a stomach ache, too. My hosts seemed to live in two contradicting worlds. They presented themselves as art sponsors on the one hand, and on the other they punished with contempt those who belong to the wrong circles. Manoth, the gardener, had been fired in the meantime. He had complained as they had cut his salary, and he had to leave instantly.
    The situation among us six artists who share the place as temporary guests was not easy either. We are thrown together out of very different contexts, and there is little that binds us together. As we sat one day on our maroon plastic chairs around the Formica table in our brown-beige dining room, being served with lunch by our cook Chinta, our conversation revolving around sicknesses, it all seemed absurd to me. I suddenly felt old and sick. Sharing my life with strangers who have nothing in common. The absurdity was enhanced by the fact that we, six adults aged 18 to 50, are all healthy and well looked after by servants. For them, this was not an issue. They considered it  convenient and they did not waste any thoughts on it. It struck me that we had travelled from Europe to a distant country but were kept away from the real India. This place had nothing to do with India, it could have been anywhere in the world.
    I believe the most important residency experience in a foreign culture is to relate one's life and art to the lives and ways of living and art of the locals, to engage in dialogue. Wherever I could build relationships I was able to contribute as an artist: at the school in Sarnath, through my friendship with Aarti and others, and in developing my Delhi installation. These are the most exciting aspect of my study visit. These are the experiences from which I can further develop my work as an artist. To capture these precious experiences, I had crocheted a small bundle of hair – my own hair that I had lost and collected during my stay in India. The outcome was a fist-sized bristly object, a personal saving device.

Suresh, an artist and teacher  in Varanasi, invited me to give a lecture on my art at the Benares Hindu University. Participation was overwhelming! I showed the students a selection of artworks and projects from the past 25 years, and spoke about my path as an artist. On conclusion, a student asked me what the essence, the main message of my work is. This type of question tends to take me by surprise, but nevertheless I came up with an answer: The fragility of human existence is at the core of my work.
    Three weeks later, the master students of the sculpture faculty invited me as guest of honour to their exhibition. The majority of their works were attempts with unusual materials, and to some extent with artefacts. For most of them, this show was their first installation, and I encouraged them to continue their research, to take further levels with practical experience. Their gift to me was a garland of flowers, a mala. I kept it safe and will integrate it with all other malas in my installation.

Thomas, who meanwhile had become an important companion in my project, had defined my encounter with my hosts as «Gordian knot», in reference to my knotted sari strings. This term (in German «unlösbarer Knoten») inspired me to come up with a final artwork in the Varanasi studio – a series of drawings. They are actually Red String sketches, a contemplative preparation for the Delhi installation. Drawing is my way of thinking with the hands. In this sequel I entangle three red lines of three shades. Each of the resulting knots has its unique form. But none can be untied.

I will however cut this Gordian knot, will leave and return to a different reality, to Switzerland. I will be able to leave behind to some extent the social divide that upset me throughout my stay. For the majority at the lower end of this hierarchy, the knot seems tight, and I am not sure how they can open or cut it, nor how they can shape their own destiny. So many seemed lost to me. For many, life here is very harsh, and many lives are worth nothing.
    As I drove home one evening in a Rickshaw, I heard a window shatter, and a body came flying out, landing on the pavement. This was an spindly looking kid of maybe 14 years in dirty shorts. From the inside, a shop, eight well dressed and well fed men came rushing out and thrashed the boy with feet and sticks. They were so brutal I feared the undernourished lad would not survive the beating. He had apparently thrown a stone into a windshield. That moment I became aware of my powerlessness. What could I have done to stop it? I did not have an answer.

Although I had often felt alone, I had never lost touch with my work. I had started this trip and this project Red Strings Through My Hands with a quote by Volker Adolphs, a quote that stressed the fact that participating in another world, and experiencing your own limits, was only through the body. Varanasi reminded me of my limits every day. Hence, another quote from his Going-Staying to conclude this stay seemed appropriate.
    «Philosophy has always been occupied with death and not with birth. Both are blind spots on the border to non-being, of not yet and no longer. But birth, the reason I am here, is in the indeterminable past; death is the future towards which I consciously move, inevitably and yet free. If death sets down each single and personal boundary line beyond which I must remain or override, then life can only be the movement that strives towards that boundary. To say in life that now I go or now I stay still makes sense; in this way we adapt our life, give it direction and order.»
     Soon I will take off to Delhi, together with Thomas. I have packed the Red Strings, they are ready and waiting to be disentangled for the exhibition there, to be installed in a space, to create a story in combination with the video. A story of women, of Varanasi, of connecting, and simply of being.