Uncovering the work of Sayan Chanda at Commonage Projects
by Suzanna Petot
Installation view of the exhibition They Speak in a Hundred Ways (2022), Commonage Projects, London.
The recent exhibition, They Speak in a Hundred Ways, at Commonage Projects in Bethnal Green, London offered a rare moment for contemplation and quiet in contrast to the bustle of city life. Commonage is a project space that occupies part of the basement of a building shared with a cafe and architecture studio. I was not sure what to expect as I hastily walked down the narrow staircase and squeezed past the cafe staff, waiting patiently to run food up to the hungry customers above. Walking into the brightly lit white room, Sayan Chanda (b. 1989, Kolkata, India) had transformed the small gallery space into a mystical chamber occupied by otherworldly beings and their futuristic tools.
Chanda’s textile pieces from his ‘Bohurupee’ and ‘Bhuta’ series reference Bengali folk masks, with carefully placed slits and holes to evoke eyes, mouths or portals to other realities. Chanda splits premade Kantha quilts into strips, hand dying them to then weave and stitch into new forms. Some of these woven beings have untied, fluffed threads that frame their ‘faces’ with adorning veils of flowing hair. His hand formed ceramic pieces, referred to as ‘Shapeshifters’, shimmered with the slightest hint of iridescence. Small spoon-like protrusions formed around their edges called for sacred liquids to fill their cavities. The stark white walls, close proximity of the objects to the body, and the low ceiling amplified the charged energy of the room. It felt like I had crossed through a threshold into a vision of an ancient tomb, where the objects around me waited patiently to be activated and reveal their secrets. The exhibition left me feeling rested and recharged as I made my way back up to the busy cafe, and with the desire to see what curious beings Chanda would create next.
I had the opportunity to speak to Chanda about this show, his first solo presentation in London, and his practice as a whole.
Installation view of the exhibition They Speak in a Hundred Ways (2022), Commonage Projects, London.
Hi Sayan, thank you for taking the time to speak with me. Can you tell me a bit about your practice and how you started using textiles?
I'm from Kolkata, India and my background is in textile design. After graduating with a bachelors in design from the National Institute of Design in India in 2013, I worked as a designer with traditional artisans and weavers in India to make wearable textiles. I did this for around six years, but after a while I began to feel very limited. I wanted to make a conscious shift towards using textiles in a more personal way, a more artistic than functional way. After shifting to London, I thought of getting into a Fine Art course to understand how the field works, and I have been based here since. I thought that the experience would be quite similar to studying design, but a lot is different and learning about the mechanics of the art world over the past few years has been such an eye-opening experience. It has been a big learning curve for me. Quite a lot happened in the last two years: I finished my Masters in Fine Art from Camberwell College of Art in 2021, received gallery representation with Jhaveri Contemporary, and had my first solo show. Things are becoming clearer and clearer every day, but I'm still understanding and learning.
Let’s take a second to appreciate that's a huge achievement to come out of your degree and receive gallery representation. Congrats! It's interesting that you worked in wearable textiles, and then felt the desire to transition into fine art. What pushed that change?
Bohurupee 7, 2022, 158 x 46 cm, Cotton cord, metallic yarn.
Weaving is at the core of my practice, which I fell in love with during my studies in design. At the National Institute of Design, we learned everything from weaving, printing, to dyeing…I fell in love with the whole process. However, I found working in the studio overwhelming due to the amount of calculation required for the designs and the rigidity of the making process. I think that rigidity is something I particularly wanted to break away from. I have a loom at home here in London, but I've adapted my practice in a way now where I don't have to rely on a loom all the time. Even though I am still weaving, I've managed to remove the tools which made the process inflexible for me earlier. My process is much more organic now. I add or subtract threads depending on how I feel, which is quite different from the way I used to work as a designer because everything was planned out in advance. There would be pages and pages of specification sheets, which made the whole process quite dry and impersonal. Only now I feel I can use textiles as a vehicle for personal expression.
This new way of weaving also translates into the way I work with ceramics. Working with ceramics is relatively new to me, though it is something I’ve always wanted to do. The process is more intuitive, and I can make it as organic and as personal as I want to. It is also the case that all of the artists who have inspired me have been fibre artists and actually, I'm always drawn to work by women and the apparent organic and personal qualities of their work.
I was going to ask you about this actually, so I'm glad that we're getting into this. Who are some of your influences and inspirations?
When I saw works by Cecilia Vicuña, Magdalena Abakanowicz and Mrinalini Mukherjee, it felt like “yes okay, I can do these things too”. Their work inspired me and helped me to feel validated in my use of cotton or making on a grand scale, pushing me to experiment with my practice and try things that I have not done before.
Even four or five years back, it felt a little strange to be working in this medium. Many people would tell me that it is a hard fight to be working in textiles and weaving. Sculptors don't look at textiles as sculpture, nor do painters look at weaving as painting. I don't call my work ‘painting with threads’ or ‘sculpture’. It's just a tapestry, and I'm fine with that. I don't feel the need or desire to subscribe to any classification or school of thought. Therefore, it feels liberating that I can just make what I want and that there are people who are interested in seeing this kind of work.
You’ve mentioned that you wanted to move away from design to be able to express something more personal in your weaving. What are you trying to convey in your work?
Growing up in Kolkata, there are shrines and little temples everywhere. I have always been drawn towards these kinds of places and rituals, even though I don't consider myself religious. For example, if you smear a stone with vermilion powder or turmeric, this act transforms it into a divine object, something to be worshipped and venerated. I liked this idea of taking an object and transforming it into whatever I want it to be.
Ksetrapala 1, 2022, Glazed stoneware, jute, 43 x 34 x 8 cm.
As a kid, I liked to just sit quietly in the temple we had in our house. My grandmother and my father used to tell me all the stories around how certain folk goddesses are worshipped and the associated objects in the rituals. When I moved to London, this part of my life felt so far removed. With the distance, I realised how important these objects are to me and I naturally began to create forms from my memories, whether that be the memory of a folk performance I witnessed as a child from my balcony or the memories of holding these ritual objects between my hands. They have helped me investigate and understand how human sentiment is materialised in objects and the power they can hold. We often look at objects around us in a very sort of light touch way, but for me, objects become a sort of receptacle for my memories and thoughts.
For example, the ceramic objects I make all function as relics whereas the big tapestries act as portals or vessels. When I am working on a piece, I'm processing that particular memory or that particular incident related to the object. It can only be finished once I feel I have processed that particular memory or thought and only then can I move on to the next one.
It's interesting that you refer to the tapestries as vessels and not the ceramic objects as such.
I always try to make the ceramic objects as if I just found them, I want them to feel like I have just uncovered them from an archaeological site. The past has always fascinated me.
You mentioned that you have only just started working with ceramics in the past year or so. What draws you to clay?
I am drawn to the immediacy of working with clay. I can quickly make whatever I want more or less whenever I want. That sort of immediacy in making forms and seeing the result of your labour when working in ceramics is very hard to achieve with textiles. Weaving takes a long time, for instance a large tapestry might take me a month or two. Ceramics give me that satisfaction of realising the intended forms quickly.
Ksetrapala 2, 2022, Glazed stoneware, 40 x 35cm.
That's a really interesting point to make about the different time frames of working with the different media, ceramics versus textiles. Your point about the immediacy of ceramics is something that isn’t largely discussed. Artists who work primarily in ceramics seem wrapped up in the multiple stages of firing and glazing, and the time it takes to perfect approaches. However, as you say, compared to the process of weaving, especially with a loom, you get the result a lot quicker or at least you see the form at an earlier stage.
Yes, I mean, of course the drying, firing and glazing takes time, but the making of forms is so much quicker. Because I am not trained in ceramics, I don’t have that baggage of knowledge when working with clay.
I like to sketch a lot and working with clay is almost like sketching to me, it's an enjoyable experience. If I can talk about having fun while making, then I do enjoy making the ceramic pieces more than weaving which can feel harrowing at times due to the amount of time it takes before you get the result. The return, the satisfaction in the process is so much quicker with ceramics than working in textiles. People often say how meditative it is to weave. I don't agree with the meditative part but I do agree with the fact that you fall into a rhythm, which sometimes can be quite calming.
Images of Gomira, a folk tradition practised in West Bengal. Courtesy of the artist.
Looking over the glazing details over your ceramics, they are very metallic or geological. Why did you want this effect?
It's because of my fascination with a material called Ashtadhatu, which is an alloy of eight different metals that is used to make divine idols. For me, pitol or brass idols and ritual objects were the closest to Ashtadhatu. I always enjoyed looking at them and understanding how they were made. Before, I mentioned that I want my ceramics to look like something else, I like that the objects pretend to be made of that alloy through my use of the metallic glazes which conjures these familiar objects.
I still have a large collection of these folk clay items and traditional masks that are sold in local fairs in Kolkata and different villages around Bangalore. I remember being fascinated by the crowns that adorned the heads of idols and masks, a repeating motif in my work. I loved collecting these items, I created my own games with them and they became a part of me, something I could relate to. Once I moved to the UK, I realised that who I am is intrinsically connected to these objects. They remind me of my childhood and certain memories…it’s enjoyable to trace these moments back through the objects.
Yes, absolutely. That makes sense that the lack of these objects’ presence in your everyday surroundings has amplified their significance. You are referencing objects that are so colourful, yet your works at Commonage Projects are monochrome and limited to a small number of hues. Can you talk more about the colour palette of your tapestries and ceramics?
I've restricted my work to red, black, yellow, and the metallic glazes. I was surrounded by these colours growing up in West Bengal. The red comes from vermilion powder, the yellow comes from turmeric, the black comes from ash and clay of the Ganga river. Even though it might not be apparent, I like the colours and the materials I use or the textures I'm trying to create to be informed by a conscious reference. I lose interest quite quickly if I am doing something just for the sake of it. I try to stay within what I know, rather than use something which doesn't make sense to me personally, which is why I use colours and materials that are culturally relevant to me.
For my tapestries, I use kantha quilts which are layered quilts traditionally made by women using repurposed saris and discarded clothing scraps. My grandmother and my mother used to make these quilts, we had quite a lot of them at home. I’ve found a source for kantha quilts in India and my process involves dyeing the quilts, tearing them into yarns, and then weaving the yarns into something new. It is a painstaking process, but I do it because it allows me to embed someone else's memory into the piece and to play with the idea of ownership. Since the quilt was originally made by somebody else, I will never fully understand the narrative behind the quilt. When I am unpicking the quilt, taking it apart, dyeing it, weaving it, and reconstructing it again…this process allows me that distance with my piece. I like the fact that I'll never really get to know the tapestry fully.
It relates to what you were saying about the transformation of objects and the question of ownership once these objects are transformed or activated.
I was actually going to ask you about if you had any textile tradition within your own family. You mentioned that your mother and your grandmother have made quilts. Do you think that influenced your decision to pursue textiles?
I guess I've always been drawn to the idea of the feminine, or whatever that means in 2023. I've always been drawn to materials like textiles because of seeing kantha quilts being made or the kind of locally woven saris women in my family were wearing and would leave out to dry outside. These visuals are vivid in my memory and I have internalised them, which is why I think after joining design school, I was drawn towards textiles. My father used to love making too actually. He wanted to be an artist but wasn’t allowed to pursue it. Nevertheless, he loved making clay idols of goddesses. My practice is a continuation of these familiar experiences.
Detail of Bohurupee 8, 2022., Cotton cord, vintage quilt, gamchha (traditional towel), jute, 208 x 100 cm.
What about the voids, slits and holes in the tapestries? I find them really intriguing, they add mystery to the tapestries and further their ominous presence in the gallery.
I feel my tapestries need a certain height for the eye to go vertically when taking them in, they usually need an expanse of space around them. This was not possible though at Commonage Projects due to the small space and especially the low ceilings, but that is what drew me to the space. I thought that it would be interesting to create a sort of shrine within the gallery. When you enter, you feel as if you have eyes on you, that something is looking at you while you are looking at it. Until this show, l was always trying to keep the tapestries away from you to look at it and take them in. I like when the tapestries look as if they have symbols which work when you are further away from the piece. Whereas here at Commonage where you are very close, I wanted the environment to feel more intense and powerful - replicating the feeling of being surrounded by deities in this underground temple.
As you mentioned in some tapestries, I have employed holes or gashes to make them look like masks. I have always been drawn to masks because they are a bridge between what we don't understand and what is real. They allow you to become something else or hide your identity. Similar to when a performer wears a mask or a wig, there is a new energy that possesses and empowers you, but vanishes the moment the costume or mask is removed.
Watching traditional dance performances in Kolkata, I am familiar with these masks and their power and thus try to recreate them in my tapestries. In my larger works, gashes and holes evoke something completely different. In Kolkata, old houses like the one I grew up in have louvred windows with wooden shutters. I remember sitting by the window for hours, looking out to the street through these shutters, especially during monsoons. Thus, everything that I've seen or observed outside the house was always slitted. When I make an object, I feel as if I'm still looking through that kind of window.
These gashes or slits bring such a different element to the overall form. The works would have a very different presence in the room if they didn't have these holes. You can easily go into the endless theories about the ‘void’ in art, how it is a comment on absences and presence, our existence…etc. However, I like that these aspects of the tapestries are so powerfully linked to specific memories and experiences from your childhood that you are trying to recreate for the viewer.
Yes exactly, I think two years back this is what I started reading a lot about in art history and art theory. It got to the point though where I felt I had enough. I still love reading about art and other perspectives or ways of meaning, but it didn’t relate to me or my experiences. I realised then it just made sense for me to communicate what I know and what my reality is, rather than try to make something else out of it.
Detail of Yaksha 1, 2022, Glazed stoneware, 25 x 10cm.
What are you working on now? What projects do you have coming up?
I just finished working on a large tapestry, the largest one I have made until now, which will be shown at an art fair in March. I am exploring faux hair from Bengal which is made from Jute and is used as tresses on clay Goddess idols. It is a new material for me to work with. As a child, I would observe how the idol maker would carefully fix them to the idol's head and I would see the same tresses floating in the Ganga river after the idols would be ritually immersed in the water. I recently stumbled upon the material again and it reminded me how my sister, who is a Kathak dancer, would wear something similar as part of her head adornment for performances. Again, this material is related to my experiences and memories. Hopefully, by the end of the year, I can scale up and make a tapestry that is probably four times larger than what I have made before.
I am also looking forward to a residency at Thread, run by the Josef and Anni Albers Foundation in Senegal. I was awarded residency before the pandemic, which was of course postponed, so I am finally going over in September. It is well timed as I am trying to develop my drawing practice. It is just a preparatory stage of my work now. Being away from what I am used to for a while and to have the space to explore other ways of working through this residency will be a welcome change of pace for my practice.
They Speak in a Hundred Ways was on view at Commonage Projects, London from 22 November 2022 - 22 January 2023.
Sayan Chanda will be featured in the upcoming exhibition Actions for the Earth: Art, Care & Ecology produced by Independent Curators International, New York that will tour around the United States later this year.
Follow @sayanchanda @commonageprojects
All images © Sayan Chanda, 2022. Courtesy of Commonage Projects. Photo: Reinis Lismanis