An artist of the subaltern. This is perhaps the most apt description of Zahid Mayo. Yet, even here, he breaks the mould in that he chooses not to ‘speak’ for any of his subjects. His interest simply lies in capturing their essence, before translating that on to canvas. This is his niche. And no one else in Pakistan’s contemporary art scene does it quite like Zahid.
I can still recall my first visit to his studio, some four years ago. Back then he was experimenting with two distinct genres. Nude females, completed during an artist residency in Europe. Voyeuristic is how I tend to remember them. And then Pakistan’s working-class, set against the backdrop of melas (or shrines). For me – it was the latter that breathed compassion.
It is the last-mentioned that take centre stage in this exhibition. And it is here that Zahid is on firmer ground. Like an animal whisper, like a shaman, like a good psychologist and healer – he understands the subaltern. With something approaching honesty he records the moments of violence and pain that comprise their historical narrative. His deliberation in identifying distinct groups while refraining from active ‘representation’ places him alongside the poet and the shaman, for this is a space they traditionally occupy.
The exhibition itself showcases eight large canvases, ranging from 3 feet by 5 to 5 feet by 5. At first glance, these appear to simply ‘appropriate’ the work of the Old Masters: from Whistler, Rembrandt, Delacroix and Michelangelo to the lesser known William-Adolphe Bouguereau. In doing this, Zahid reproduces the well-rehearsed patterns proffered by the Pakistani art scene in recent times. That is, a discernible nod to western or Mughal art before refashioning it with something distinctly Pakistani. In and of itself, this would be disappointing. Yet something far more interesting is taking place here. These transpositions tell the stories of our times. And the time has come for us to listen.
Here, I offer a detailed examination of two canvases. Firstly, by placing the protagonist centre stage. Secondly, I turn to the crowd that is positioned at each side of the protagonist as well in the background. Finally, comes a note on Zahid’s style, which I suggest we should view as palimpsest (that is, a parchment from which writing or images have ben partially or completely removed to may room for something else).
The Centre-Stage: Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People becomes Azadi Ki Devi (Godess of Freedom) with Qandeel Baloch reimagined as Lady Liberty. This is as it should be. She is placed centre stage, selfie stick in one hand, a flag in the other. Yet whereas Lady Liberty lived in a period of revolution – Qandeel lived and died during an era of extreme un-enlightenment. The contrast could not be starker. In the original, Delacroix captures a moment of unity among disparate social groups for the common cause of revolution as they prepare to take down what the celebrated intellectual Frantz Fanon termed the ‘granite block’. Today, we call this ‘the establishment’.
Qandeel, for her part, marches alone; the timid crowd quite some distance behind, a grey cloud poignantly hovering above.
In Kabul, women carry Farkhunda’s coffin from ambulance to graveyard. An outer circle sees men and women form a chain to safeguard the coffin, as well as those carrying it. Here, it is a reworking of Mossoud Hossaini’s photograph for the Associated Press. In the original, the sun’s rays can be seen ricocheting off hard concrete. Here, however, Zahid cools the temperature. The lightening of hues lends a certain tranquillity to things. Thus the scene is swiftly transformed into one befitting the burial of a martyr. For that is what Farkhunda is. Stoned to death, her body set alight and left to burn – her corporeal dignity restored finally as she is thrown into the river.
Qandeel and Farkhunda. Both find themselves cast aside by the masses to which they belong. Yet death brings them not only peace but also unity through shared notions of martyrdom. Zahid chooses these modern day female icons as his clearly identified protagonists. Yet what of the crowd?
The Crowd: The crowd remains on the edge of the canvas and thus on the margins of history. Here, there is no revolutionary moment. No optimism. Instead the violence of the subaltern is captured, even as the latter is reduced to nothing more than a mere outline of form. This is crucial to the very survival of the masses. For only by staying out of the central frame can they avoid the inherent brutality of the granite block, as they bury their dead.
Palimpsest: A brief note on Zahid Mayo’s style: Palimpsest occurs when text is written in layers, allowing traces of the one beneath to emerge and disrupt meaning. All artists rework canvases. Beginning with one image, painting it clean before reconstructing it to achieve something quite different.
Both the Dadaists and Surrealists embraced the honesty of leaving marks of the unconscious in their work. Yet canvases subscribing to this philosophy tend to be ridiculed by most leading art world figures in the Pakistani context. Collectors and galleries in Mayfair prefer fine laser points and Mughal figures. Meaning that the artist must show off his technical brilliance, whilst adding a ‘gimmick’ – something that even Zahid is not wholly immune to. Lines must be neat, the canvas well worked. That is, the artist only becomes so if he positions himself first and foremost as a craftsman.
Zahid works at his canvas like a child at a blackboard. Marking, drawing, thinking, painting, erasing, and then thinking more and erasing more. All of it offered for consumption. And then, after a day, the subject may change. Turning a tableau of the Last Supper into the story of Cain and Abel. If it were not for the demands of exhibiting his work – I wonder if he would ever complete a piece and let it just be. Zahid once told me that he knows when he is done because he feels it. Yet even then, I have visited his studio only to find a particular canvas subsequently painted over and reworked.
This pattern is visibly at play in the two versions of Adam- O- Mulk -e-Sham. Both take as their backdrop Syria’s bombed-out urban areas. The artist as a craftsman interrupts himself at different stages in the process. Yet for those of us who savour the sketchpad over the solo curated show – both feel distinctly complete. This is a glimpse of honesty most true.
And this is exactly what Zahid offers us with this exhibition. In the tradition of a true shaman – he is unlikely to be as cognisant of this as a sociologist might be. Nevertheless, it is something that resonates deeply within him as well as without. His canvases bequeath us an uncomfortable truth: that of our collective fear that the granite block will sway and crush us. They tell a story of the darkness of our times; unveiling the violence unleashed upon the subaltern as NATO bombs rain down on him; as the granite block’s bullets pierce his skin; as the violence of the crowd turns inwards.
This, to be sure, is one hell of a truth take on. But is there any better place to start? Zahid Mayo certainly thinks not.
Qalandar Bux Memon is the editor of Naked Punch Review, An Engaged Review of Contemporary Art and Thought. www.nakedpunch.com