WINTER 2025 EXHIBITION

PLENTY
by MICHELLE SINDHA THOMAS

Opening reception: Sunday, February 2, 7-9p
On view: February 2-April 2025 at Michelle Thomas Fine Art Gallery + Studio

Artist Statement

The India I inherited feels abundant, lush, brimming with plenty. I refuse the mantle of famine and poverty imposed upon my culture, the aesthetic of primitivism rewarded in contemporary artists of South Asian origin working in the West. These reflect an India, I suppose, but not my India: Shah Jahan and the Ajanta Caves, Mango Duets and slices of Cassata ice cream, my Nani’s jasmine-scented rooftop parties, Papa’s rock shows competing with torrents of monsoon rain. 

At 15, I first addressed the cognitive dissonance between the image of a plagued East presented by Western media and the material abundance I experienced in reality, best illustrated by the sheer volume by which my family bought rice. Sure, I wanted to be “just a girl,” but when my parents made the choice to raise children in the US, I became an Indian girl. Whether I like it or not, I represent India from the moment I answer the question, “What are you?” phrased with varying degrees of affection and delicacy (And if one doesn’t see race, well, that’s a problem, too.).

If I represent India, then let it be the India I know from summer vacations and my Uncle Honey’s hilarious cocktail hour stories, the fecund India Marco Polo approached, India with a craft and design canon of untold depths—exemplified by the sophistication of Buddhist art from ancient times on, the architectural achievements of the Mughal emperors, Tropical Art Deco, the world of fashion that is Sabyasachi—let it be the India of an intellectual history that includes the birth of chess and early mathematics, let it be the wisdom and sass of the queens of Travancore, the classical sitar of Ravi Shankar, but also the swinging Bombay Jazz Age. 

India contains literal multitudes. My India has the confidence of Shah Rukh Khan and pities the self-loathing of Mindy Kaling and the characters she writes. My India is a main character, often a best friend, but never an audience. My India has the swagger of M.!.A., the incisors of Fareed Zakaria, the wit of Salman Rushdie. The family history, photographs, and art objects that are my personal inheritance influence my artistic production, which waves off the narrative of scarcity and suffering while reclaiming leisure, abundance, and cheer. 

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