With Gul, artists Ritu and Surya Singh, the creative force behind the Jaipur-based studio Wolf, invite us into a reimagined charbagh (four-part garden), guided by the spectral voice of the 18th-century poet Mir Taqi Mir. This immersive exhibition transforms burnt copper wire, discarded X-rays, and scrap metal into a sanctuary that is as much a political statement as it is a poetic retreat.
Founded in 2013, Wolf has carved a unique niche in the contemporary art world by rejecting the boundary between “high art” and traditional craft. Ritu and Surya, self-taught artists who transitioned from hospitality to full-time practice, have built a philosophy around seeing “beauty in brokenness.” Their work is a testament to the power of collaboration, weaving together the hands of generational craftspeople with an uncompromising vision of ecological stewardship.
In this interview, we walk with the duo through the four quadrants of Gul, exploring how they navigate the delicate tension between nostalgia and resistance, the “slow life” of their studio practice, and why, in a world increasingly marred by ecological grief, they still choose to dream of paradise.
Q. The Gul exhibition reimagines the traditional char bagh through the lens of contemporary environmental and political concerns. Can you walk us through how you arrived at this particular garden framework for this body of work? What drew you specifically to Mir Taqi Mir’s legacy as a poetic anchor?
We chose to stay in the charbagh and speak through it as it was created with the intent of a safe space for leisure, pleasure, poetry, and politics. It allows conversations and encourages us to question, but above all this, it allows us to dream of paradise. Holding Mir’s hand in this garden, for he represents seeking beauty in a hardened world, endurance through distressing times, and was known as the romancer of Delhi. Since we knew this show was to be exhibited in Delhi, we came to woo the city with his words.
Q. The exhibition is structured around four quadrants—the inner garden of the self, the physical garden of the world, the ideal utopian garden, and the garden of verse. How did you conceptualize these distinct spaces, and what does each section reveal about your artistic process?
While working on this show, we wanted people to feel like they were walking in a garden. To ensure that it represents the charbagh, we created the physical aspects—the waterbody, the flowerbeds, and the pavilion. Then there was the idea of our garden and what it holds—roses in rebellion, a garden watered with our tears. Of course, one quadrant for Mir since it is in the soil of Mir’s verse that this garden grows, and finally the inner garden—the altars as the space for hope. When we started working on the show, it wasn’t with the idea of different quadrants but the garden as a whole. However, it unfolded in this manner, wherein each quadrant emerged quite distinctly. It was simply allowing instinct to lead and slowly but surely the puzzle pieces came together.
Q. Several pieces in Gul reference historical moments like the Kishangarh painting tradition, Babur’s homesickness, and the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb. How do you navigate the fine line between using history as resistance versus nostalgia? What does “cultural preservation” mean within this explicitly contemporary context?
Learning from the past and looking to the future, these references point to the coming together of ideas, tastes, and textures, and the growth of culture, which can only happen when there is stimuli—culture cannot grow in isolation. These references remind us that harmony is possible; they encourage acceptance of the good and affirm that culture is living—to allow growth.
Q. Your reliance on recycled and post-industrial materials is described as both stylistic and political commentary. Can you elaborate on how specific materials—burnt copper wires, discarded X-rays, scrap brass jewelry—functioned in Gul? Did certain materials emerge as metaphors for particular themes?
Scrap and discards have been the choice of material from the beginning of our practice to highlight the idea of finding beauty in brokenness. Each material thereafter further adds to the narrative—for example, the burnt copper wires speak of our burnt-out state today but also signify that copper heals and that through collective consciousness, we can move toward healing. X-rays represent the notion of looking deeper within, and the scrap brass jewelry, full of floral motifs, makes the garden come alive.
Q. The transformation of waste into beauty appears central to your philosophy. In practical terms, where do you source these materials from, and how does the process of collecting and curating “waste” inform your studio practice? Is this a meditative process for you?
It is more scrap than waste since most of the materials are purchased. We forage in forests and gardens to find treasures like the wood roses in this show, which work so beautifully for beauty in a hardened world. We are always looking out for post-industrial metal scrap from factories around Jaipur; of course, scrap yards and flea markets are always treasure hunting grounds. The materials come into the studio, and sometimes it’s years before they find their way into an artwork. More than meditative, I think it’s about intuition and trusting the eye.
Q. Several pieces employ textiles—damaged Kashmiri shawls, discarded zari saris. What conversations are these fabrics having within the installation, particularly given India’s complex relationship with textiles as markers of cultural identity and economic disparity?
In textiles, we are always looking for hand-worked pieces in all forms of disrepair—scraps, bits—all of it. We look for complex relations in general, not limited to just textile narratives.
Q. The Gul catalog lists extensive collaborations—craftspeople specializing in metal insects, lac and mirror work, embroidery, sanjhi art (paper cutting), and welding. How do you navigate the relationship between your conceptual vision and the specialized expertise of these craftspeople? How has your studio evolved to accommodate these collaborations?
Collaborations are key in our studio; the more hands that come together, the richer the narrative becomes. It starts with a seed which is sown by us, but then it grows—sometimes slowly. Tear Fed took over four and a half years, sometimes going quite wild, and then we need to trim it to make sense. Much of our learning has come from generational craftspeople, and their involvement in making art (where the stories are always shared with them) makes them see their own work differently too.
Q. Working with artisans like Abrar Hussain (embroiderer), Jeetram Gadia (metal insects), and the Kumartuli clay hands from Kolkata suggests deep engagement with traditional craft lineages. How intentional is this choice to collaborate across regions and craft traditions? What dialogue are you facilitating through these partnerships?
The choice to collaborate is intentional. As we keep searching for different skills, beauty, and generational artisans, we continue working with our favorites like Awaz Mohammad, whom we love and keep finding ways to incorporate his work within ours. Whenever he comes to the studio, he comes not only with works but always with poetry. The audio in the show features his voice along with that of Azimuddin, our Tazia craftsman. We hope we are facilitating a dialogue between the old and new, hand skills and narratives—and above all, that together we’ll make better—both their stories and ours.
Q. The work explicitly engages with ecological grief and environmental loss. Yet unlike some environmental art that risks being didactic, Gul maintains ambiguity and beauty. How do you maintain this tension? What do you believe art can communicate about ecological devastation that journalism or activism cannot?
The world around us is breaking down, but it seems every generation would have seen destruction and devastation. How do you endure this? Through beauty and poetry—how do you make people feel? By putting out what is in our hearts and hoping that it resonates. To not be preachy but to question and hope that we can find the answers together.
Q. Your body of work spans public art (permanent installations at Jaipur Development Authority, Neemrana Hotels), institutional work (collaborations with HCL’s Habitats Trust, Mahindra & Mahindra), and gallery exhibitions. How does the context change your practice? Does creating for a gallery like Method differ fundamentally from public art interventions?
Presenting a show in a gallery is a deep dive; it’s years of thoughts and ideas coming together through many works, all connected. It is baring our souls and sharing with the world what lies within us. Public art commissions for museums are individual works more in tandem with others, unlike a solo show which is our universe entirely.
Q. Wolf was founded in 2013, initially as an eclectic art hotel concept at The Farm before evolving into a studio and residency space. Can you take us back to that moment of transition—what prompted the shift from hospitality to full-time artistic practice?
The hospitality venture started in 2008 with us trying to create a unique language, which then became the studio practice by 2013. The artist residency started around 2016—all moving organically yet snowballing at the same time. By 2018, it became clear to us that we must pursue beauty through storytelling and handwork. Srila was instrumental in the shift—after our first show with her in Mumbai in 2017, where she insisted we make works that people can take home, before which it was larger installations and scenography, spaces that we took over. Then Srila entered our world and is holding our hand still. Many shows together in Mumbai and now Delhi.
Q. You describe yourselves as “self-taught artists.” In a contemporary art context increasingly shaped by MFAs, residencies, and institutional validation, what does working outside formal training mean for your practice? How has being outside that system informed your approach to materials, collaboration with traditional craftspeople, and your resistance to neat categorization?
We have learned by doing, and believe that holds greater ground. We are constantly learning through the generational craftspeople who work with us, through the artists who come for residencies with us (so many of whom tell us how they are still unlearning what was taught at their BFAs/ MFAs). We don’t have rules to follow or boxes to tick. We know what we make moves people and, at the end, that’s what really matters—if you are able to present a perspective which makes people think.
Q. You’ve recently exhibited internationally—Fort Tryon Park in New York, Asian Art Week in London, the Kochi-Muziris Biennale. How does your work translate or shift across different cultural contexts?
Forests and gardens remain anchor, muse, and inspiration. Belief in the slow life, the creative life leads us. We follow our intuition and it always helps us bridge different cultural contexts. People may be different, yet they are very much the same. If we let beauty save us, heal us, lead us, we are on the same path together and then there are no differences.
Q. Looking forward, what conversations remain unfinished for you? Are there materials, craftspeople, historical narratives, or environmental themes you feel compelled to explore but haven’t yet? What does the evolution of Wolf look like beyond Gul?
The conversations are starting up—we hope they lead us towards a more humane world. Many materials to be explored, many many craftspeople to learn from, and histories to be heard from the other side too! We hope the seeds sown by Gul grow into great trees.
Q. What advice would you give to young artists and creative practitioners who are just starting out, especially those interested in sustainable practices and collaborative work? How can they navigate challenges while staying true to their vision?
Firstly, don’t use ‘sustainability’ as a catchphrase; live it because we need that. We need people truly being sustainable, not just using the word. When collaborating, don’t tell craftspeople what to do—they have been at it since they were still in their mothers’ wombs and know their materials, craft, and skill better than you ever will. Use their knowledge and skill along with yours and see the wonders that come to life. Nobody ever said it’s going to be easy—but hard work never goes to waste. Finally, there is no way out of hard work—at first, it may be bitter, but soon it will bear the sweetest fruits.
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