The Baksa Project

Crafts

Picking up the threads: How we can help sustain artisan communities in the absence of craft markets in a post-pandemic world

Crafts, Ethical Fashion, Vocal for Local9

Includes a list of websites to buy from and funds to donate to.

One of my life’s earliest memories is of this little cantonment town named Nasirabad in Rajasthan. In the year 1995, while my father, an Indian Army officer was on field serving his country, my mother was serving her creative avocations right in the heartland of Indian crafts. She personally oversaw the making of her precious collection of wooden furniture and decor pieces adorned with miniature Kishangarh paintings. She carefully handpicked exquisite Rajasthani hand-embroidered clothes, bags, and juttis from tiny boutiques in narrow lanes of Ajmer. The starry-eyed five-year-old me fell in love with it all. 

Growing up, we moved towns every two years, and travelled extensively. One of the greatest perks of this life of constant movement and change was an early exposure to unique Indian crafts and cultures. Visiting local craft melas became a customary summertime activity. It was the perfect destination to shop, eat, socialise or quite simply marvel at the exquisite handiwork of artisans from across various pockets of the country. 

In India, the presence of melas and haats spansacross several centuries, and, over time, they have become highly effective distribution channels for traditional crafts. While melas are often held seasonally, annually, or around religious festivals, haats are more regular in nature. These open markets offer a great platform for buyers (especially tourists) and artisans to connect directly, often resulting in long-term associations. 

To a great extent, the popularity of these traditional craft distribution formats lies in the buying experience. The ability to touch and feel a product, to learn first-hand about its making process and to see the hands that intricately crafted it — all of it adds to the charm of owning something handmade. 

The e-commerce boom over the last decade has helped craftsmen take their creations to audiences across wider geographies. Websites like Jaypore, Gaatha and The India Craft House work directly with artisans specialising in varied craft forms from different parts of rural India. The online format seems to benefit both, craftsmen looking for a steadier income source and diverse markets to sell, as well as global consumers with no easy access to traditional Indian crafts.

The impact of the ongoing COVID-19 crisis on the Indian craft industry has been extremely severe. Already having borne the brunt of demonetisation and the imposition of GST, the industry, comprising mostly of small-scale producers, is among the worst hit by the pandemic. In an article published in The Wire, Laila Tyabji, founding member and chairperson of Dastkar, a Delhi-based NGO working towards supporting craftspeople and the revival of traditional Indian crafts, points out that a major change in how Indian crafts are marketed is underway. “The future of traditional crafts markets and bazaars is bleak. Going online is inevitable”, she affirms. 

In the visual world we live in today, platforms like Instagram have worked wonders in unfurling compelling stories about traditional crafts and craftspeople. The India Craft Project is one such account that presents visual features of unique Indian craft forms and the artisans sustaining their legacy. In October last year, Google Arts and Culture, Incredible India, and the Dastkari Haat Samiti launched a digital exhibit called, Crafted in India. It is a virtual repository of visually delightful and emotionally rousing stories on crafts and craftsmanship. The platform gives us an authentic, almost lifelike experience of India’s cultural and artistic diversity. In times like now, such outlets serve as a window into the magnificent world of Indian craft — at least until our much-adored melas and haats are back in full swing. 

Many Indian craft forms have been dying a slow death for a while now, and the pandemic, if anything, has only aggravated the situation. Now, more than ever, it’s imperative that we revisit the ideals of Swadeshi that our nation was built on. Without us empowering our artisans, without them raising a new generation of craftspeople, we are at the risk of losing our glorious heritage and artistic legacy — the very essence of “Incredible India”.

Let’s all do our bit to support our artisan communities. Let’s all be Vocal for Local crafts.

Here is a list of e-commerce websites to support Indian crafts and craftspeople:

Here is a list of funds to support Indian artisans:

Kindly note: These are not exhaustive lists. Please do share the names of other brands and funds to help support artisans in the comments below.

Crafting Resistance: How Contemporary Craftivists are Using Their Handiwork to Voice Dissent

Craftivism, Crafts, Politics, Pop Culture5

“Spin. Spin with full understanding. Let those who spin wear khadi. Let those who wear khadi compulsorily spin. Full understanding means the realisation that spinning symbolises non-violence. Reflect on it. It will become apparent.” – Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Sevagram, March 28, 1945

Back in the early 1920s, in pre-independence India, MK Gandhi had devised a sartorial strategy to non-violently revolt against the colonial rule. Spearheading the Swadeshi movement was the understated khadi, and, the charkha (wheel), that spun khadi, became the nation’s symbol of unity, self-reliance, empowerment, and liberation. It represented the end of dependence on foreign material, and khadi became “the livery of India’s freedom”, in the words of Jawaharlal Nehru.

Gandhi’s politicisation of craft — using it as a mode of protest against British imperialism, was instrumental in unifying Indians in their fight for freedom, both in form and spirit. This was perhaps our country’s earliest known forms of ‘craftivism.’ 

Craftivism: Then and Now

Coined by writer Betsy Greer in 2003, the term craftivism “promotes the symbiotic relationship between craft and activism”. As a concept, craftivism isn’t new, even though the term may have garnered mainstream recognition only since the turn of the 21st century. In the early 20th century, British suffragettes used handiwork techniques like embroidery, fabric appliqué and collages to create decorated banners amplifying   powerful messages about feminist issues. In the latter half of the century, Argentinian women started a campaign to protest the disappearance of their children during the military dictatorship that started in 1976. The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo (Madres de Plaza de Mayo) wore white head scarves embroidered with the names and the date of births of their lost children; the shape of the scarf symbolising baby diapers, and the colour white symbolising peace.

Today, craftivists all around the world stand to challenge the politics of capitalism, social injustice, terrorism, fast fashion, climate change, and misogyny, using creativity as a weapon of peaceful resistance. 

In the United States, the 2017 Women’s March saw a sea of protesters wearing pink hats as a symbol of solidarity against Donald Trump’s sexist and offensive comments on women. Started by Krista Suh and Jayna Zweiman, the Pussyhat Project movement called on knitters, crocheters, and sewists to craft pink “pussyhats” that went on to become a  major material cultural phenomenon across America.

In Makassar, Indonesia, artist Fitriani Dalay is well-known for her work in yarn-bombing — an art form that involves decorating objects or structures in public spaces with knitted or crocheted yarn or fiber. She uses her art as a tool for political commentary, focussing on concerns like women’s safety and consumerism. 

Recently, the Anti-CAA and NRC protests held across India, had protesters use the traditional Indian art form of rangoli to design messages resisting the discriminatory laws. Some protesters painted calligraphy of revolutionary poetry on scarves.

In Melbourne, Australia, artist, researcher, craftivist, and community development worker, Tal Fitzpatrick, runs multiple community craftivist projects around the themes of “social, political and environmental justice”. She uses the techniques of quilting and patchwork as modes of rebellion. 

These are some of the many ways in which craft — an activity traditionally dismissed as a trivial pastime for lonely women, is being used to spark important, meaningful, and actionable conversations for a better, more equal world.

The Effectiveness of Craftivism as Tool of Dissent and Action

During the second-wave of feminism, several women rejected domestic crafts like knitting and sewing, for being “apolitical, conservative, and mundane.” Craft scholar, Kirsty Robertson, in her essay titled, “Rebellious Doilies and Subversive Stitches,” in Extra/Ordinary: Craft and Contemporary Art, points out how craft’s role in the history of activism is “often trumped by a need to quash still-perpetuated, gendered, stereotypes of crafting.” She further argues that craftivism is often criticised not just on the level of gender, but for also being passive and futile.

The ethos of craftivism are that of “gentle resistance”, but that doesn’t mean the efforts are ineffective. In the U.K., in 2015, Sarah Corbett and her community of craftivists at Craftivist Collective presented the board members of Marks & Spencer personalised, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, urging them to pay their staff a living wage. Moved by the campaign, within less than a year, M&S had made an announcement to fairly pay its workers.

In several parts of the world like India and Palestine, the slow craft movement intrinsically helps preserve a region’s culture and heritage, while also providing employment and financial opportunities to many skilled artisans. It resists the paradigm of mass-production that hugely contributes to environmental damage and labour exploitation. 

One of my earliest encounters with the craftivist movement was in the summer of 2018, right about the time I had decided to give up fast fashion for good. It was then that I came across the wonderful work of Bryony Porter, popularly known by her Instagram handle, Tickover. Her work focusses on “exposing the fashion industry” through embroidery as a medium. She tells me that she believes embroidery to be an effective means of activism because it is tangible. “Thread has a rich history of conveying messages, and it’s as quick as picking up a needle and immortalising what you stand for. It carries with it emotion, love, care, and anger. It’s a political act that doesn’t demand perfection, that is inherently human. It contradicts the fast and unappreciative nature of social media, and has depth in its ability to raise awareness by sparking thought and conversation.”, says Porter.

In the current turbulent political climate globally, people are widely protesting for correction and justice. From the Black Lives Matter movement in the West to protests against the discriminatory conduct and policies of India’s ruling political party, it stands to reason that this is the era of dissent. The message is loud and clear — “We will not be silenced!”

But if one is still struggling to find their voice, craft might be the tool they’ve been looking for.

Some more craftivists and craftivist groups you must know about: Chawne Kimber, Hannah Hill, The Yarn Mission, Cat Mazza, Gina Adams, Badass Cross Stitch, Coronavirus masks and craftivism

A Stitch in Time: Lessons in Sustainability From India’s History

Crafts, Sustainable Fashion10

My love affair with clothes started early. 

I don’t exactly remember when, though I do remember the first garment I was deeply enamoured by. It was my mother’s shiny black velvet kurta that was adorned with bugs embroidered in gold zari and iridescent sequins. She always wore it with a dull-gold raw silk Patiala salwaar and looked nothing short of a vision. This kurta, that was so dear to my mother, only saw the light of day once a year on New Years eve. It was her version of the loyal, timeless, and ever-flattering little black dress.

As much as I loved seeing this exquisite outfit on my mother, I yearned for the day the kurta would be handed down to me. Growing up, hand-me-downs constituted a substantial portion of my wardrobe. From my elder brother’s baggy sweaters that he’d outgrown, to my aunt’s flowy old dresses, my current eclectic aesthetic is a product of the mishmash of prints, patterns and styles that I grew up wearing. 

I have never known to look at clothes as disposable commodities. In my home, as in most Indian households, clothes that wore out were cut up into kitchen towels and wipes, used for dusting and mopping. Clothes that were in decent condition, but which no one wore anymore found their way to people in need. 

This was my first experience of ‘sustainability’ years before I even knew and understood what the word meant.

Sartorial sentimentality: Emotional significance of clothes in the Indian culture

Historically speaking, ours is a country where our relationship with clothes is largely driven by emotion rather than function alone. For centuries, major cultural events such as religious festivals and life-cycle rituals have been associated with gifting and wearing new garments, thus rendering them sentimental value. During the Swadeshi movement, the khadi became an emotional symbol of national assertion against the British Raj. During partition, the clothes that people carried across the border, became few of the only tangible memories of their homeland. 

In her book, Recycling Indian Clothing, Global Contexts of Reuse and Value, author Lucy Noris establishes how Indian wardrobes are largely made up of “rarely worn wedding saris, piles of unworn gifts, favourite clothes that are past their best, and unsuitable and unwanted garments” owing to the emotional attachment the wearer has with these garments.

Patching pieces of the past: The art of repurposing textiles in India

Much before the Hindi term jugaad became the buzzword that it is today, Indian women had mastered the quintessential desi art of frugal reinvention — of ‘upcycling’ old clothes into exquisite, one-of-a-kind new textiles. For a long time, the act of recycling and repurposing old clothes has been a means for Indians to preserve their history while also being thrifty. Furthermore, many Indian states have made a thriving business out of repurposing old clothes using craft techniques unique to their culture. 

In the eastern Indian states of West Bengal, Assam, Orissa, and Bihar, the technique of kantha embroidery is used to patch together old bits of textiles, and turn them into unique furnishings and wearables. Various tribes across the states of Gujarat and Rajasthan use the techniques of patchwork, embroidery, and mirror work to create vibrantly adorned works of wearable art using old fabrics. In Jammu and Kashmir, the nomadic Bakkarwal and Gujjar tribes embroider old felt blankets using acrylic yarn and convert them into colourful rugs. They also make intricately embroidered caps, bags and accessories using old fabrics. The  famous hand-stitched Godhadi patchwork quilts of Maharashtra and Goa are made using old sarees and dhotis.

Spotlight on sustainability: Fashion’s green agenda

Sustainability is now a crucial point of discussion and focus for the fashion industry, with discerning consumers increasingly demanding brands to be kinder and fairer to their workers and the planet. In wake of the coronavirus pandemic, even as fashion brands are struggling to stay afloat, sustainability will remain an important agenda. A recent Business of Fashion article quotes global luxury group, Kering’s Head of Sustainability, Marie-Claire Daveu. “In times of crisis, it’s more and more important to show you can run a good business and at the same time protect people and the environment for the long run. Profit and purpose are not fighting.”, says Daveu.

Critics of sustainable fashion bash it for being an elitist idea that the common man cannot buy into, both literally and metaphorically. However, if history is proof of anything, it is that our ancestors have been great proponents of reusing and repurposing — the pillars of conscious consumption. This was a way of life for them long before it became fashionable. They have taught us to make the best of what we have, and, in doing so, have helped us discover and retain bits and pieces of our own past. 

In 2018, when I married and moved out of my family home, my mother sent with me a large trunk of gorgeous heirloom garments — clothes that belonged to her, my grandmother and my great grandmother. I searched eagerly in it for that velvet kurta, but couldn’t find it. I immediately asked my mom, and she told me she hadn’t seen it in a while, and would look for it. 

I still haven’t been able to get my hands on that precious kurta, but I am happy to wait for it. 

Of all of my mother’s clothes that are now bequeathed to me, that will be the most special. It reminds me of the reason I fell in love with clothes. It was never about the trends or the labels; it was about feeling and emotion. It was about beauty and wonder. It was about creativity and expression. 

And these are really the things that money can’t buy — they’re priceless.

Hanging by a Thread: The Lost Art of Making (and Making Do)

Crafts, Slow Fashion6

As society looks at most objects as easily replaceable and disposable, the act of making and mending helps us appreciate the value of the things we own.

A couple of months ago, my husband and I were talking about what our respective lives in school were like. Amidst the banter about (him) giving teachers sleepless nights and (me) messing up grades in pursuit of first love, we came to talk about craft classes, aka SUPW. My husband joked about the pointlessness of the subject, whereas I was of a completely different view. I used to adore those classes! They offered a much-needed breather from the anguish math lessons caused me. They allowed me to use my newfound skills to make pretty things I could proudly claim sole ownership over. They often even let me colour outside the lines and create stuff that was offbeat and whimsical. 

My love for ‘making’ stemmed from a habit that I cultivated very early on in life. Thanks to my mother, at the start of every summer vacation since my 8th birthday, I was presented with the task of completing a creative project by the time holidays ended. Sometimes, it was cross-stitch embroidery, sometimes, stained glass paintings — you’d often find me holed up quietly in a corner with my head bent over for hours on end, intently focussed on bringing this thing of beauty to life. My mother also taught me basic hand mends. By age 11, I could masterfully sew on buttons, fix holes in my Barbie’s dresses and do some rudimentary embroidery that would go on to adorn the walls of our house.

Over the years, I succumbed to the changing ways of the world where hustle culture leaves little room for  one to revel in leisure activities like slow handwork. I began losing touch with my creative universe that once brought me so much joy. I could no longer get myself to sit in one place and indulge in slow craft — there were more important, more ‘productive’ things to do.  

It appears that for a lot of people, self-worth is tied to busyness and hustle. According to a 2017 research paper published in the Journal of Consumer Research, “a busy and overworked lifestyle, rather than a leisurely lifestyle, has become an aspirational status symbol.” As such, the art of making things for the sheer sake of pleasure is dying out. Furthermore, the consumerist society we’re in has made the purchasability and subsequent replaceability of things so easy that the idea of making things by hand seems unnecessary.

In his book titled, ‘The Case for Working with Your Hands’, author Matthew Crawford brings to light the aforementioned shift in our relationship with things — the things “people once made, they buy, and what they once fixed for themselves, they replace entirely.”, argues Crawford. The latter part of Crawford’s argument especially holds true when it comes to fast fashion fuelling a rampant culture of disposability. Last year, fashion and beauty writer, Esther Adams Achara, wrote a personal essay for Vogue.com where she narrated an incident where her 5-year-old daughter tore her new jeans while playing and responded with a nonchalant — “Never mind, mom. You can just buy a new pair on your laptop.”

Activities like sewing, embroidery, knitting, crocheting, and darning that were once considered essential life-skills, and were passed down through generations, are today looked at as unique art forms only known and practised by a few. Art and craft subjects that require kids to channel their creative energies and work with their hands are on the verge of disappearing from school curriculums worldwide.

It may seem that handiwork is losing its relevance in this day and age, but there is plenty of evidence in its favour. Last year, an article published in The New York Times reported a sharp decline in the manual dexterity of medical students and residents, attributing it to their over-dependence on technology rather than handiwork that helps develop fine-motor skills. Researchers have also found the psychological benefits of working with hands as it helps “engage the brain and alleviate anxiety.” 

A year and a half ago, fresh out of fashion school and bursting with ideas, I decided to start working on a  slow fashion project that helps me reconnect with my family’s material memory and my love for making. This is how The Baksa Project came into being. 

Working with my hands, I have come to realise, is a calming, almost meditative experience for me. It’s when I feel the most in control and absolutely free at the same time. Most importantly, as the throw-away society we’re in looks at objects as easily disposable commodities, the slow and intricate act of making makes me value and (re)love the things I have all the more!