THE directions were simple enough: cross the old stone colonial bridge, make three consecutive rights and keep going until you see a large gate emblazoned with the Pakistan flag. Driving past pushcarts selling food from steaming cauldrons, I turn a corner into a narrow lane lined with tiny shops, ending abruptly before the large, painted metal gate that swung open to reveal the Commune Artists’ Colony. An eclectic mix of colonial-era buildings stretch along the wide, tarmac road, some vans and pickups disgorging their cargo into cavernous godowns.

Out of the shadows steps Kamran Hamid who had guided me as precisely as he holds the tools of his trade: a hammer and chisel used to hew shapes and patterns out of huge blocks of local sandstone. I had recently seen Hamid’s exhibition, ‘Wasli to Stone – Homage to Miniature Painters’, at the V.M. Art Gallery, a non-commercial entity dedicated to promoting the arts. Its airy space was an ideal venue for the large sandstone slabs bolted on to pristine white walls, depicting the sculpted likenesses of racing horses, camels with elaborate trappings looking as though they were stepping out of the pages of a miniaturist’s album, a mahout atop his charge, thin stick in hand — all the drama and surprise of a centuries-old story unfolding in stone, the paintbrush having been replaced by the chisel.

Leading me now through a small storeroom stacked with used furniture, Hamid gestures towards the large stone slab lying on the earth floor and taking up nearly all standing room in the tiny, makeshift studio space. Chippings of stone and heaps of fine dust coat my feet. The space has been loaned to him rent-free by the owner of the Commune, Yusuf Bashir Qureishi, a fashion designer and patron of the arts.

Sculpture is a hard sell in this country and this commission — a Van Gogh-esque tribute to the great master — is a welcome diversion, the delicate petals of the flowers starting to take shape under the watchful eyes of the teacher as his two young students, Rashid Amin and Tariq Rajan, coax fine outlines out of the stone. It is challenging, and the three work together closely. Hamid has been working in this medium for 10 years and is proud of a huge, commissioned relief — a direct result of his networking skills — that hangs in the lounge of the Sindh Assembly building.

Hamid graduated from the Central Institute of Arts and Crafts, Karachi, as a communications designer, though he has never worked in the field. Sculpture is his passion and as an experienced teacher who has taught in some of this city’s foremost institutions, he wants to pass on the skill and techniques. “It is a neglected profession,” he laments, “taboo, because of a lack of arts education and Islamisation.” Hamid says that conservatives abhor the depiction of the human figure and there have been attacks on artists who have attempted this. “In this climate of fear, a sculptor automatically self-censors,” he explains — this is why his latest exhibition paid tribute to miniaturists and animals, not people.

He believes that this mindset took root after the promulgation of the Hudood Ordinance, enforced in 1979. “Society changed,” he explains. “And then Talibanisation followed.”

Though this first exhibition harks back to a traditional theme, Hamid says he is a modern sculptor. “Sculpture is neglected,” he reiterates. “It’s a language, making things symbolically to connect with people.” He believes art in this country to be very nascent and says people have been experimenting these past 70 years. He wants to go mainstream but then pauses in frustration: “But there is no mainstream because there is no infrastructure. No museums, so no education for the public. People don’t understand art.” He decries the absence of art education in schools. “Every child has a visual language but it is not developed,” he says, adding that the government should have a proper policy for the arts. But despite all the roadblocks, Hamid is convinced about the feelings this medium evokes: “Art is like the perfume of flowers. You can’t stop it, it will permeate.”

Hamid shows me some contemporary pieces he has created, organic forms inspired by nature. He is planning his next exhibition, to be called ‘Peace’. For this, he will be casting the familiar shapes of destruction: shells and grenades, and on them, clinging on tight, will be trailing flowers — symbols of peace, saying ‘enough is enough.’ This will be his comment on Islamic militancy and his intense desire for it to end.

Hamid chose stone as his medium because it is a “challenge” — a physical and mental challenge, using chisel and hammer and power tools for negative spaces. The stone requires scaling, he explains, “and then imagine with your ‘third eye’ if it is possible to coax what you want out of that stone.” He buys the stone wholesale in Manghopir, selecting the boulder and guiding the cutter before using huge wooden rollers — “like they used to move stone blocks for the pyramids,” he half jokes. It is a labour of love. Despite his palpable frustration, Hamid is not daunted: “I have good hopes to improve this space,” he says. And then, with a piercing intensity that sums up his passion, his sculptor’s hands moving expressively, he explains both his vocation and his frustration: “There is a fire inside us — we are burning inside.”

Published in Dawn, April 23rd, 2017