As the day's top news stories suggest, nationality, race, ethnicity and, increasingly, religion continue to serve as pretexts for political and social strife. In a world where riots break out over religious symbols and nations are torn apart over ethnic differences, fixed definitions of identity emerge as an obstacle, rather than a solution, to meeting the needs of artists striving for representation, power and influence. As a result, art that reinforces rigid categories is less helpful than art that presents a more fluid and hybrid model of identity. And so, if identity as an art style is passé, it remains a potent force in human behaviour.

Risham Syed is a decidedly unusual figure in that she has chosen to work primarily in layered meditation on the complexities of identity. Her background includes a post-graduate degree from the Royal College of Art, London, and a residency at Cite des Arts, Paris, where she first became interested in the post-colonial discourse. Syed scrambles historical eras, willfully fuses fiction and fact, and imbues her mixed-media works with a dense array of conceptual, historical, social and political concerns that typically vault far beyond issues of craft and technical prowess. Underscoring continuities between generations (born into a prominent family of Lahore), Syed comments metaphorically on the weight of family history, sorting out an individual identity.

Here are excerpts from an interview with The News on Sunday at her studio in Lahore...

The News on Sunday: Having been brought up in a family with a strong socio-cultural background, how did it help shape your personality?

Rishem Syed: My father had always been a non-conformist towards the social norms bred by a society, the standards of achievement and the paths to be followed. Back in the 1960s and the 1970s, younger parents were trying to experiment with child upbringing by defying the notions that spawned in the post-Partition milieu. In other words they were dubious of the lines along which they had been brought up themselves. The idea was to give a child the ideal environment to grow. I remember that as children, my brother and I had enormous freedom to explore life on our own terms.

On the other hand, my mother had a more disciplined approach. She was immensely talented with a strong creative sensibility. She would take us around Lahore every Sunday without fail to explore the historical sights. She was passionate about carving out a career for me in singing and dance, and would make sure that every concert of worth was attended by us. But there was no indoctrination, nor were ideas ever imposed on us.

TNS: You grew up amid a strong tradition of 'Sangat' at home. Could you shed light on this parallel institute of learning?

RS: Sangat has been a tradition in Lahore, even at places other than our ancestral home at Jail Road. It has been a regular feature on the cultural map of Lahore, a phenomenon, so to speak, going by whatever little of it I have witnessed. I think it was back in the 1970s when a group of like-minded people decided to get together and read out classical poetry on different levels before the tradition of oral recitation had faded out completely.

As had been the tradition, politically-motivated people of the '70s congregated at our place and decided to recite poetry leading to the beginnings of Sangat. First there would be a discussion on the text and its possible interpretations, and then it would be set to music which was an integral part of the Sangat. One of the participants would play the tabla and the other the harmonium.

TNS: How did the NCA help you become an artist with a background in mathematics? Does an art institute make an artist?

RS: I don't believe that art institutes make artists but they certainly provide the opportunity of looking at things differently. The narrowness of vision gives way to openness because of the freedom such institutes offer to the natural-born artist in you.

It all started when I decided to join a group of students who would gather at Lawrence Gardens and draw from life. These sessions were not structured classes but self-devised exercises where a model would be available for drawing.

Once at the NCA, I wanted to major in miniature art but late Zahoorul Akhlaque, Head of the Fine Arts Department at that point in time, wanted me to take up painting instead because of the kind of exposure it afforded you. I learnt miniature painting, and did printmaking under Walter Crump alias Rusty.

My very first day in the sculpture studio with Talat Dabir, I was asked to get a sketchbook, across the road from Anarkali Bazaar. Having come from the sequestered atmosphere of Kinnaird College where one could not step beyond the chain near the gate, it sounded bizarre to go out of the gate on one's own. The interesting thing about the NCA is the experience of freedom that reflects in different ways of seeing and different levels of exposure.

Some believe that artists are natural-born while others believe that you grow and change to become one. The desire to change and adapt is nourished by the art institute that widens the horizon of thinking. One does have to make a conscious effort to enhance one's sensibilities otherwise the art institute becomes a mere training ground.

TNS: What was the imagery employed in your annual thesis work based upon?

RS: My thesis work stemmed from the long discussions I had with my father but when I started to translate these ideas in literal terms, I had to confront a lot of criticism. I realised that all my ideas must shine through the prism of my own personality, so I began to internalise these issues by following instinct.

My basic inspiration towards my thesis work was from newspapers and news coverage. I felt that the generation before mine was a lot more politically motivated. My own generation that grew up during Ziaul Haq's time was already benumbed by the political turmoil, so much so that no serious articulation of any political happening found its way into art.

I wanted to play up the notion that news photo-shots, even though taken from our own daily lives, become distant once they are printed in a newspaper and become someone else's tales who may or may not be connected to us. So, I decided to Xerox these images and photo-transfer them onto canvas. On top of that, I drew images mostly of figures.

The rats that you saw in my work came from the studio I was working in. They would come on a routine visit to the studio to observe the ongoing activity at a particular time of the day when everyone else was asleep. They would take a pause before following their distinct paths, and then disappear. I would find their movements interesting, and began to liken them to human beings. Aren't we all trained to follow particular paths in life? They reminded me of society's given norms.

TNS: The work that grew around female domestic activities after your return from London had overt feminist connotations. Where did that body of work come from?

RS: When I was in London, there was a desire to talk about the figure without using the figure. I made connections between Lahore and London through architecture. My initial schooling and training at a missionary school has also been a major influence on my personality. Objectively speaking, now when I look back in retrospect, I find its environment rather aggressive. We were taught to make 'baby sets' and do needlework at the mere age of six or seven. At that point we didn't know why we were made to go through it all but we were actually being trained to cash in on it 20 years later.

Years later, when I came across embroideries and lacework in London, I realised where it was all coming from – the Victorian mindset. Once I was back in Pakistan, married and settled, those embroideries made a comeback into my work. Now I was talking about political history through a domestic activity.

TNS: Tell us about the installation entitled 'The Cap' first shown at the Grey Noise show in Lahore, and then at Canvas in Karachi.

RS: The argument that karakul or Caucasian goatskin should not be used is well-established through the Animal Rights Act. Those who still wear it claim it to be synthetic when it probably is not because it is still available in the market but these are mostly old, used coats. There is only one shop in Lunda Bazaar and only one cap-maker who gets them from Germany and Central Asia. The coats I used in my work were at least 50 years old. It was, however, neither my research nor my interest to locate the source of karakul. My interest was in Jinnah cap and in karakul as a material. Eventually, when I researched more I found out how brutal the whole process was and that made it even more interesting.

My comment was on how middle-class values are rendered kosher with the help of a cap that hides brutality behind its acquisition. In my installation, I linked it with history by placing the karakul panel in the centre and other images on the sides. These were hand drawn and photographic images. There was a drawn image of a fallen plane; there were veiled women led by a man during the Lawyers' Movement; the image of a colonial picnic in Hazuri Bagh; and finally a gora saheb pointing at a map. In addition, from a portrait showing a courtesan and her maid at her feet, I enlarged the maid's profile – the maid who was not supposed to look into the eye of the camera.

I arranged them in such a way that the viewer could establish his own narrative line. I followed the hierarchy inherent in salon-style of display where the pictures deemed important would be hung at a lower level compared to the less important ones hung above. Finally, I hung a mirror at the eye level.

There are two flaws in the presentation of an otherwise brilliant exhibition held at the Indus Valley Gallery called 'Gup Shup'. The first is the name which conjures images of ennui-ridden housewives who frequent tea parties and giggle the evening away, when in fact the show comprises the output of tedious labour, demanding of huge reserves of patience, forbearance and meticulous plodding and representing hard lives interspersed only occasionally by spurts of laughter. The second is the misconception that these are works of art that hang in the gallery or over a fireplace whereas in fact, these are the embodiments of the lives and loves of courageous women.

The works on display are embroidered panels that have been crafted by Chitrali women artisans between the ages of 15 and 32. Oft heard, not so often done, we may say, though knowing full well the superlative expertise of these women in embroidery skills. But the project is a tour de force because it incorporates the process of the construction into the finished piece. The sub-text of the show "The Domestic, The Narrative, and Cups of Chai" explains how the women themselves composed the images, collaged from a plethora of sources: childhood memories, accounts of domestic chores, the changing seasons and its impact on the women, symbols and logos lifted from packaged goods of beauty products and medicines they see and use in their everyday lives. The results are a series of large hand embroidered sections on cloth that are as aesthetically ardent as they are imbued with the tears and laughter of the women who have made them.

However, the show speaks boldly of informed intervention. As much as they have tried to downplay their role, we discover that the project could not have been executed with such empathy without the involvement of two visionary women Cath Braid and Rolla Khaduri, who have dedicated the better part of the last year working with these women, providing them the tools to bring to fruition indigenous talent and the creative spirit. Cath is an Australian fashion designer and has been working in Chitral for over six years, producing textiles for accessories. Rolla, a Lebanese with a degree from Harvard has worked with women and children in Pakistan and Afghanistan for more than four years. The two designed and ran the self-financed workshops from whence this exhibition ensued.

In the beautifully designed catalogue accompanying the show, Cath and Rolla tell us of their roles in the process. The subject of portraiture was a delicate one and needed to be handled with caution and grace due to the women's traditional lifestyles. The girls were taught to use a digital camera and each of them decided to take pictures not of themselves but of the children in their households, which was less intrusive. Then Cath took the camera and had the pictures printed at the shop, at the same time enlarging and reducing portions of the images on the photocopier. With the help of pictures from magazines the women were demonstrated the marvels of collage and they learned that a picture does not have to be purely representational to be provocative and alluring. Thereafter, the women snipped and pasted and recreated images of their loved ones which they then proceeded to enwrap with stories and then embroider, weaving into it a piece of their heart. All this, while preserving the sanctity of their cloistered lives. What a magnificent way to introduce rural women to the nuances of deconstructivism, structuralism and modern art!

'Gup Shup' is an amalgamation of illustrated stories and the narratives are integral to the images as the stories are simple yet profound and speak of the wisdom of a people who live unhurried lives, subject more to natural elements, to weather and season and birth and death, than the harried revolutions of urban existence.

The stories are countless. One tells us how a girl and three of her friends were sent to the bazaar to buy niswar or chewing tobacco for an uncle and decided to be naughty and try the black stuff. She becomes dizzy and faints and wakes up to her friends peering down at her. The scene is pictured marvellously; the artisan weaves herself lying on the ground with her eyes while the shoes of her astonished friends and birds chirruping swirl in an eddy around her. Another tells of the happiness at the birth of a baby brother after many sisters and the father instructs the child to buy a chicken so that they can eat it and give some chicken soup to the mother. A hungry dog snarls at the child and frightened out of her wits, she runs home crying and angry. Another tells of a boy's obsession to grow up to become a pilot and one tale involves a teddy bear shared by a set of twins who is named "phopai" after the animated figure "Popeye".

The myriads of everyday objects embroidered by the women also gain stature with their portrayal and the inevitable tale attached to it. The PIA paper cup from a rare air journey is now used for decoration with bunches of plastic flowers in them. Prized possessions like beauty products including creams, talcum powder and surma are enjoyed by all female members and travel from the mantelpiece to the hand bang and sometimes to the bathroom. All these images and stories are commonplace to these women but it is to the credit of the two apparently empathetic and caring women Rolla and Cath that we are able to see the women of Chitral in their universality and individual glory.

The piece de resistance is the installation of hundred of buttons embroidered with the individual words of a prayer. Some women pray to be able to go to Haj, some long for their hair to become longer and some pray that their cold gets better.

The illustrated narrative as a genre is not local to our culture since we derive from the heritage of the oral tradition rather than one of imagery. However, once introduced and enjoyed, we pray, without the intent of subversion, that images can become part of the legacy of these women and their progeny.

(The exhibition will remain open till Jun 26, 2009)

A programme to remember Iqbal Bano by the Punjab Council of Arts at the Open Air Theatre Bagh-e-Jinnah last week was a rare event. One actually fails to recall any programme of merit that had been organised to pay tribute to one of the leading vocalists of our times who contributed so much to gratify both phoenician and plebeian tastes. Her career had been long and illustrious and it was expected that a series of programmes and references would be organised to bring forth the contribution of Iqbal Bano to music in the second half of the 20th century.

This apathy can be gauged from the fact that the concerned provincial minister who was supposed to be the chief guest at the programme failed to turn up. He also kept the audience waiting in expectation but the programme after a long delay got underway and ended with no word from anyone about the cause of absence of the chief guest.

In our musical tradition barsis are usually held to pay tribute to musicians. These annual affairs provide an opportunity to the musicians to gather at one point to remember the deceased in the form that he or she excelled in. This, too, now seems to be a dying tradition because a few years back more barsis were held in the various cities of the country.

The barsi of Ustad Alamgir Khan was held regularly outside Taxali Gate in Lahore and Nusrat Fateh Ali was very particular in observing the barsi of his father in Faisalabad. Of late, the barsi of Ustad Salamat Ali Khan has been held due to the efforts of his son Shafqat Ali Khan. Similarly other barsis were held that offered the opportunity to sing and perform and it was considered an honour to be asked to perform particularly if it happened to be of a great musicians. Actually barsis guaranteed the biggest congregation of musicians. Other than that, musicians got together at various urs/melas known for their musical soirees like Harballab in East Punjab or at the music conferences which were initiated by Bhathkhande about a century ago.

Besides a few speakers who spoke of her music, Nida Faiz presented some numbers of Iqbal Bano to an appreciative audience. Nida Faiz, a young and upcoming vocalist, who has been trained in the traditional style is keen to pursue her music. And she should persist for she has the talent to become a voice of the future.

Iqbal Bano had a good range and she really blossomed in the upper register but it was during the middle years that she evened out her singing on the three registers, which greatly improved her expression and also brought greater richness to her singing. In the earlier part of the 20th century, when recordings started, all the vocalists sang in the upper register in a full-throated manner. Probably the need to reach out to an audience without any amplification developed the manner of rendition but, gradually, with the intervention of technology the necessity to throw ones voice became a matter of style.

Iqbal Bano learnt to exercise restrain that helped her in executing the various nuances. She was a classic example of this switchover though her forte remained the full range of her voice that really flowered in the notes of the upper register.

It will be so much nicer if a series of programmes are held to pay tributes to Iqbal Bano. She was a very versatile vocalist and she can be commended for each one of the genres like kheyal, thumri, dadra, kafi, ghazal, and nazm and film geets. And it will be nicer still if the top and popular singers get together, sing and perform in her memory. It is not necessary that they sing her famous and virtuoso numbers as Nida Faiz did but these occasions can be celebration of music per se. This was also the spirit behind the holding of barsis where the musicians performed according to their choice. It was not limited to the music only of the person who was being remembered. As long as there is music, the musicians will be remembered -- so every occasion should be converted into an excuse for more music. It is hoped that there will be music and plenty of it in the memory of Iqbal Bano that measures up to her class and quality.

Open Air Theatre Bagh-e-Jinnah is an under-utilised facility. It has been repaired and restored and it can be put to proper use. Probably the Punjab Arts Council with its own programmes can utilise the facility rather than merely renting it out for plays and music shows.