Nida Bangash: The Story of an Artist
When did you realize that art was something that you wanted to pursue seriously?
That’s an interesting question, as a child, I started drawing secretly. My dad was a surgeon, and he wanted me to become a dentist similar to many South Asian parents. My art studio was literally under my bed and on top of the bed was my bio, chemistry, and physics books. As a pre-medical student my brain and attention span would hinder my ability to retain the curriculum. I had a teacher since middle school who encouraged me to attend the National College of Art in Lahore, Pakistan. I knew that’s where I needed to be and where I would flourish.
How has your technique changed, or preference in media, in comparison to when you first started pursuing art?
That's also a very good question. I am a miniature painter, my practice was focusing on South Asian and Persian art. When I got my masters, I noticed the limitation of the medium. The need for what I had to say was not technique based, I changed my technique to performance, installations, drawing, painting, dancing performances — sometimes I use my physical body to express what I have to say. My practice is like when one door closes, it opens to another, the journey is not linear.
What common themes, if any, come up in your work?
Since I started practicing, it's been about personal identity and the experiences to investigate complexities of immigration, colonialism, culture, and race. My practice investigates the domestic as a charged political space. My practice unfolds and draws parallels between a domestic life and how we see that resonate in the bigger picture. It’s about how our bodies are trained to uphold white supremacist structures no matter what.
What driving force inspires you to speak out in aid of the Palestine people through your artwork?
This book, “I am a Tree,” has been 10 years in the works. In the book “My Name is Red” by Orhan Pamuk , the tenth chapter title, “I am a Tree,” comes from the reference to Palestine and the olive trees. The body of work began from a naive place, starting off with drawing the bottlebrush tree from when I was growing up going on walks with my father. Every year when I would add more to the painting, it turned into the direction of identity, erasure, loss and impermanence. The narrative shifted, and the trees became more grounded. It started from a tree that I had personal identities with to a tree that’s lost those personal identities. I learned about Palestinian trees being cut down and how the violence is equivalent to the violence that is committed on the Palestinian people. A tree can represent resilience and to tell the story of people.
I wanted to teach my children that whenever you're lost, look at the trees, that they will show you resilience and plant yourself when you have a strong community. The thing that makes trees grow is manure and learning how to process shit, or manure, it can help you grow. The more shit you have in your life, the stronger potential for growth. That meaning really resonated with me, trying to navigate being born Irani, moving to Pakistan, and coming to the US. Looking at the trees really helped me through that.
In times of doubt and despair, how do you keep yourself grounded and faithful to continue creating art?
That’s a hard question. Seeing how students, teachers, artists are being treated right now that we’re being silenced for telling our truths. Seeing how the only thing that talks is money and power that artists don’t have in the same way to make instant and immediate change. I know from history that the change we will bring will be slow, which means that we must have faith. As a woman of color teaching in a white institution, I feel like I'm a “pretty bow” on these institutions. We talk about inclusion, diversity, and representation. It’s okay to talk about it but not act or protest. We are too in it and I’m full of doubts right now. However, I do have faith in our young generation, more than art or creativity. They show us how change is made and true bravery by putting their bodies on the line. I don't know how, but I continue to have faith.
By Anna Salazar