One of the best-kept secrets in Georgetown appears to be the National Gallery of Art, Castellani House. The building comes alive when there are exhibition openings, film screenings, and other rare events that may fill the grounds with sounds and sights. In the middle of the day, however, it is a quiet gem, and a space to escape the busyness and noise of the Georgetown streets because very few enter. The honking horns on Vlissengen Road are barely perceptible when one is lost in the workings of the human mind and heart expressed in painted or sculptural form.
On a recent visit to Castellani House, I encountered a delightful gem. Tucked in a corner of the small first-floor gallery was the portrait of an attentive youngster. The warm golden flecks on his skin gave way to red tones then brown. His head was tilted to his right. I imagined he was keenly observing other boys at play. The sadness of the boy’s eyes and his lips made me wish I could sit and ponder his story. I could not; seating was not there. Nonetheless, there was much more to see and become excited by. I stopped before Walter Gobind’s graphite drawing of pavement dwellers. I looked to learn from his technique but I also looked to be affected by the work. I felt their sadness, heard their exchange, and wondered about their next meal.
But alas, my excitement gave way to mounting irritation. Once upon a time, one might have visited Castellani House and found they had run out of catalogues pertaining to the exhibition being presented. These days there are none; this occasion and a more recent display of selections from the National Collection of Art were cases in point. My scientist mother with a penchant for the arts asked after we visited one of the recent exhibitions, ‘why do you suppose those particular works were presented?’ Alas, no catalogue meant no informed answer. Thus, one could presume the works were hung to cover the white walls and give folks a reason to venture past the man with the big gun who opens the gate to allow one entry into the compound. One could just as easily presume that the selection was made to give the artworks some fresher air than that in storage or to suggest to those who care, that all is well at Castellani House. Catalogues matter! They offer the viewer an entry into the selection on display – why the particular works were selected or how they relate to each other, thereby offering a logic to the exhibition. Sometimes what is written can offer justification for enhanced valuation and appreciation of specific works. Well-written catalogues can therefore serve as aids in understanding artwork.
I recall an artist-friend telling me of a certain chap who would go to exhibitions, look at work, not speak to the artists, and write about their work. I know she was offended by his mode of operation, so I empathised. Nonetheless, I also go to exhibitions and prefer not to speak to the artists. If I am moved substantially, I might. My aspiration for conversation is with the work and not the artist. The artist’s words may be illuminating but can just as easily be a distraction, compromising value and appreciation. So outside of the work, a well-written catalogue is valuable in offering perspectives into the works being presented – perhaps there is a shared theme or a shared time span of production that may point to a multiplicity of concerns by artists or maybe suggest a limited set of ideas that offer insight into the times.
On my most recent visit to Castellani House (perhaps two weeks ago), I noted that more works from the National Collection were on display with no tag beside them giving the name of the artist or the name of the artwork. I spoke with one of the Gallery’s staff. I was informed that they did not have mounting tape and were awaiting this basic item from the ministry with responsibility for their operations. Oil money. Oil revenue. Billions. And no mounting tape to add a label to tell the curious what they are looking at. Disappointing! I understood the hesitancy of staff to purchase this item from their personal funds when it was further explained that cumulatively thousands had already been spent from personal funds without refund.
Where are we headed? Seems as though while we are claiming to be getting richer because of “de oil money” we are getting poorer with an erosion of standards and an increasing and palpable nonchalance towards this particular cultural institution. How is it possible that with increasing wealth this singular kind of cultural institution in the country has reduced staff from what was already an inadequate complement? No secretarial staff, reduced numbers of cleaners, and an acting curator despite a substantive curator not being at the post for nearly a decade. We have a National Collection, paid for with taxpayer dollars, and donated to by artists and private individuals, that is not fully catalogued. Furthermore, the collection has undergone the barest minimum of research and a substantial lot more needs to be done! Why can’t young, enthusiastic, and capable researchers with a background in art be employed at this venue to do the long overdue work? Philip Moore, when alive, was proud to say he had donated 400 pieces to the National Collection. Where are they? Why can’t we see these works in a publication that is grounded in robust research? In the recent exhibitions from the National Collection, works were signed by artists whose names are little known. Research needs to be done on them also. With such a large and diverse collection one acting curator is insufficient! Furthermore, where is the public programming to disseminate information about the collection to the wider Guyanese public? I hear of roads to go to new housing developments (50,000 house lots they say) and I wonder if we are expected to drive these new roads to our new homes and continue to consume culture from overseas. This seems to be the goal. “We deh good!”
Akima McPherson is a multimedia artist, art historian, and educator.
