Alighiero Boetti: Game Plan (Reina Sofia, Madrid)

Thomas Calvocoressi travels to Madrid to see woven masterworks. The exhibition has just transferred to Tate Modern in London.

In 1971, the Italian artist Alighiero Boetti set foot on Afghan soil for the first time. It was the culmination of his growing fascination with faraway cultures and how they could participate in his work. Perhaps Boetti didn't intend his trip to be anything other than a fulfilment of a hippie wanderlust; but it became the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the country, shaping much of his best-known work - in particular the Mappa, his series of large, intricately woven maps. Boetti opened, and stayed regularly in, a small hotel in Kabul, which he named the One Hotel, a base from which he planned many of his works and did business - via middlemen - with the craftswomen whose identities would become so interwoven with Boetti's own.

In the extensive retrospective of Boetti at the Reina Sofía in Madrid - occupying an entire floor of the grand former hospital, if anything it's little too vast - these maps are pivotal. But Boetti's origins as an artist lie in the Italian arte povera movement and his subsequent rejection of it. Early pieces show a characteristic playfulness and humour as well as the use of lowly, workaday materials. Informed by his industrial home town, Turin, where he was born in 1940, he creates pieces that become far more than a sum of their simple parts: a cylindrical tower that's made of rolled-up cardboard but looks like turned wood; a metal cube containing zigzagging shelves of stripy municipal deckchair fabric; grouped-together bundles of coloured kindling wood or plastic tubing; and Colonna (1968), a striated classical column that looks like it's hewn from rough marble but is made up of thousands of glued-together paper doilies - a single-finger salute at the hushed world of Italian design.

In 1969, Boetti rejected the arte povera label and became interested in exploring his identity, reconfiguring himself as the twins Alighiero e Boetti (Alighiero and Boetti). Much of his work from this period reimagines the self-portrait - two brass commemorative plaques display the dates 2040 (100 years after his birth) and 2023 (poignantly, the projected year of his death: he died in 1994). Surprising in their delicate beauty are his 1969 self-portrait Xeroxes: his face a faint image on the paper, hands spelling out the title, Autoritratto, these ghostly images seem to owe something to the celebrated shroud of Boetti's birthplace.

Subsequent rooms are arranged thematically, much of the work reflecting Boetti's interest in travel and war zones. In the time-honoured tradition of the artist's atelier, he explores the concept of the artist as conceiver but not ultimate creator, giving clear instructions to craftspeople or artists - whether weaving women in Kabul or anonymous jobbing student artists. He creates ordered, intricate patterns only to revel in these patterns being broken, either intentionally or by miscommunication.

His 1980s Order and Disorder pieces are great examples of both this chaos within pattern and his forays into Afghan craft. Made of multicoloured squares of embroidery, each letter is picked out in a different colour chosen by the weaver. Every now and again, the colour of thread will have run out or a spelling mistake has been made. While meticulous in his instructions, once out of his hands it seems Boetti loved surrendering his work to chance and error, the fallibility of the weaver intrinsically important to the final piece.

To my mind the most wonderful room contains Boetti's biro works, including Putting the World into the World (1973-75) and The Six Senses (1974-75) - and the humble ballpoint pen is not what first springs to mind on entering. Hung on all four walls of a large room in Reina Sofía, these are huge expanses of deep, rich blues and greens with gradations and patterns within them. They recall a stormy ocean or an inky night sky and are punctuated - literally - by white commas, which encode signature Boetti words. They also have a tapestry-like appearance. In fact, they're sheets of minutely scrawled coloured biro: each section executed to a set of instructions by a nameless student whose fingerprints are all over it. Each one is different but all are unified by Boetti's vision.

In a work from another series, entitled Aerei, Boetti takes children's book drawings of many different types of plane and scatters them on blue-ink backgrounds. They are skies crammed full of aircraft - multiplying like viruses, showing order and chaos, speed and stillness, at once exhilarating and terrifying - a boundless world above ground in contrast to his ordered world maps below.

So back to Afghanistan and the Mappa pieces. Each one depicts a map of the world; each country consists of its respective national flag woven across it. Boetti would prepare the templates in Italy using up-to-date borders and flags but everything from thereon in was in the hands of the Afghan weavers and each piece would take up to five years to complete. They are exquisite pieces of craftsmanship and collaborative art as well as a geopolitical documentary of the changing world order from the middle of the cold war until the fall of communism. In the final map, the red Soviet bloc is suddenly peeled away to reveal many different new nations. Most remarkable is the colour of the sea. In most pieces, the weavers have rendered the oceanic expanse in hues of blue but now and again there is green, even pink. Living in a landlocked country, these were women who had perhaps never seen the sea; their choice of thread colour is both utterly pragmatic and wonderfully unruly.

“Alighiero Boetti: Game Plan" is at Tate Modern until 27 May 2012

Thomas Calvocoressi is Chief Sub (Digital) at the New Statesman and writes about visual arts for the magazine.

This article first appeared in the 13 February 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Boris vs Ken

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Why hasn’t British Asian entertainment built on the Goodness Gracious Me golden age?

It is 20 years since the original radio series of Goodness Gracious Me aired. Over two decades, the UK media portrayal of Asians hasn’t used its success to evolve.

Save for a handful of special one-off episodes, Goodness Gracious Me hasn’t occupied a primetime TV slot for nearly two decades. Yet still it remains the measuring stick for British Asian comedy.

The sketch show, which transitioned seamlessly from radio to screen (it started as a BBC Radio 4 series in 1996), has stood the test of time and is as much a staple of modern British Asian culture as Tupperware or turning up an hour late.

What Goodness Gracious Me did so expertly was to take a set of serious issues facing first, second and now, I suppose, third generation migrants, and turn them on their heads. 

In making light of the pressures of academic expectation or family drama, Goodness Gracious Me wasn’t playing down the poignancy of such concerns; it was raising awareness and combatting their uglier side with humour.

It offered resonance and reassurance in equal measure; it was ok to have an embarrassing uncle who insisted he could get you anything much cheaper, including a new kidney, because other people like you did too.

That Goodness Gracious Me was broadcast on a mainstream channel was also a victory for minorities; it made us feel integrated and, perhaps more importantly, accepted. Against the backdrop of Brexit, what wouldn’t we give for that treatment now?

Really, though, the jewel in Goodness Gracious Me’s crown was its willingness to recognise diversity within diversity. It is a relic of a departed era when discourse on TV around Asians was different, when the broad church of that term was truly represented, rather than reduced to one catchall perception of British Muslims.

Goodness Gracious Me offered insight into the experiences and idiosyncrasies – religious or otherwise – of Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans and even English people. It’s what made it so accessible and, in answering why subsequent programmes have failed to reach similar heights, this is a good starting point.

Without the flexible sketch format, the modern Asian sitcom Citizen Khan has struggled to cover multiple topics, and, by being specifically about a Muslim family, it leaves many non-Muslim Asians wondering: where’s ours?

I hasten to add that I feel plenty of sympathy for the British Muslim community, hounded by tabloid headlines that attack their faith, but it would be disingenuous to suggest that non-Muslim Asians are sitting pretty in 2016 and don’t need a similar level of support in terms of positive public perception.

The current volume of British Asian media products is fairly good. The BBC has its dedicated network, The Good Immigrant essay collection was one of the outstanding reads of the year, and we still have champions of comedy in Romesh Ranganathan and Nish Kumar.

But I think ultimately it comes down to the broadness of appeal, rather than the quantity of products. Goodness Gracious Me was not only able to engage the full spectrum of British Asia; it transcended its target audience and was on terrestrial TV.

The British Asian media on offer now is up against it, released as the country’s attitude towards foreigners completes a full circle back to the same suspicion my grandfather encountered in the Sixties.

Fewer outlets are willing to explore the stretch of what it means to be Asian, either by denying it due consideration in mainstream shows or by peddling their own monolithic observations. The BBC Asian Network, for example, is laudable in its existence, but does little to engage the young Asians who aren’t into techno spliced with Bhangra.

The mainstream representations of Asians in Western film and television that are commissioned, meanwhile, are irritatingly limited and sometimes inaccurate. In an article for the Guardian last year, Sara Abassi lamented the disproportionate appetite for “gritty post-9/11 films about conservative Pakistani families”, and that the researchers of American series Homeland failed to realise that the national language of Pakistan isn’t Arabic.

When I interviewed the actor Himesh Patel for the No Country for Brown Men podcast, he suggested that the answer to re-establishing Asians in mainstream media, both here and in America, was three-fold. The first challenge to overcome was for outlets to acknowledge that not all Asians fit the same religious or cultural profile; the second was to be open to placing Asians in non-Asian specific products to better reflect their presence in society.

Patel, who is best known for his portrayal of Tamwar Masood in the soap opera EastEnders, made his third recommendation based on this role. He felt that characters should be written with only their personality in mind, making the ethnicity of the actor who plays them incidental. Tamwar’s awkwardness but underlying kindness, Patel said, was what defined him – not his skin colour.

Goodness Gracious Me, though a primarily Asian show and a comedy at that, actually taught some salient lessons about representation. It succeeded in providing a window into a multiplicity of cultures, but at the same time wasn’t a total slave to the politics of identity – several of the 100-plus characters needn’t have been Asian at all. It was reflexive to the times we lived in and a perfect advertisement for empathy. That is why we still talk about it today.

Rohan Banerjee is a Special Projects Writer at the New Statesman. He co-hosts the No Country For Brown Men podcast.