Dayanita Singh’s ‘Museum of Tanpura’ is a rumination on time, music, and the ephemeral nature of human connection. Singh, who dismantles traditional hierarchies of photographic display, invites us into a space where the photograph is no longer a static object but a living, breathing participant in the act of remembering. Her works confront us with the question: How do we hold onto moments that are, by nature, impermanent?
At the centre of this reflection stands the ‘Museum of Tanpura’, with its three pillars—solid, steady, yet somehow resonant with the unseen vibrations of the tanpura’s drone. The structure, like the tanpura itself, becomes a metaphor for continuity, an anchor amidst flux. As we walk in, Singh extends her meditation by placing the tanpura itself on a stage, transforming the act of looking into an almost devotional engagement with sound and form. The tanpura is no longer merely an object of observation; it becomes an instrument of resonance, inviting viewers to imagine its unstruck melody.
The ‘Musicians’ Bus’ series, spread across a long wall as five panels of contact sheets, is a testament to Singh’s early years spent travelling with North Indian classical musicians between 1981 and 1986. These images—captured in Kolkata and beyond—offer more than documentation; they reveal an intimate world of artistry and camaraderie. Singh doesn’t just photograph the musicians; she listens, absorbs, and internalises their ethos. The series captures the quiet moments between performances: the tabla maestro Zakir Hussain preparing his instrument, musicians resting in the back of a bus, or a post-concert conversation under a streetlamp. Here, Kolkata serves not just as a backdrop but as a living, breathing character—a city that hums with its own rhythms, a place where art and life collide in an unending raga.
The ‘Zakir Hussain Maquette’ complements this ethos, encapsulating the dynamism of rhythm itself. It is a homage to the tabla maestro, whose collaborations with Singh in the 1980s formed part of her foundational artistic experiences.
But it is the ‘Rashid Khan Pillar’ that strikes the deepest chord. Singh creates it as a memorial for her late friend, the celebrated vocalist Rashid Khan, whose passing marked a profound personal loss. The pillar stands solitary, a symbol of loss yet also of permanence. It is both monument and memory, inviting us to ponder the ways in which art outlasts the artist. This is Singh’s gift: her ability to make us confront the paradox of presence and absence, to see how something as ephemeral as sound—or a life—can be rooted in the solidity of a pillar.
The accordion book Kishori Tai continues this interplay of presence and absence. Its small, intimate format evokes the tactile and personal, inviting viewers to imagine the act of touch as if the book were a surrogate for the person herself. It reflects Singh’s belief in the importance of the physical and mutable, drawing attention to the intimate scale of human connection. Like the tanpura, it is an object that demands close engagement—not through literal contact but through an intimate encounter with its presence, form, and narrative.
Dayanita Singh is a chronicler of relationships—between people, places, and the objects that bind them. In dismantling the frames of museums and galleries, she democratises photography, asking us to see it not as a luxury but as a living archive. The ‘Museum of Tanpura’ is a space of quiet resistance against the commodification of art, a testament to Singh’s defiance of static categorisation.
Her work offers a lesson for us all: to listen closely, to hold lightly, and to remember that art—like music, like life—is always in motion. The question Singh leaves us with is not how we view art but how we live with it, let it seep into our days, and carry its echoes forward.