Amol K Patil

Amol K. Patil

Residues of Voice

On view at Volkshaus Basel (Old Cellar)

Rebgasse 12–14, 4058 Basel

Amol K. Patil presents a group of recent works, including bronze sculptures, oil paintings, and video and sound installations, reflecting the multidisciplinary nature of his practice. Rooted in personal and collective histories, Patil explores the lived realities of labour, migration, and social exclusion, particularly in relation to the caste and class structures that shaped his upbringing in Mumbai's BDD chawls. Drawing on the legacies of his grandfather, a Powada poet, and his father, an avant-garde playwright, he approaches artmaking as a means of preserving and reactivating overlooked histories.

At the centre of the presentation is “Burning Speeches” (2025), first shown at the Sophiensäle during the 13th Berlin Biennale. A radio broadcasts a continuous speech while gradually dissolving into clouds of smoke. Historically, radio served as a vital channel for dissent and underground communication, circumventing systems of censorship and control. Patil connects this history to the Dalit tradition of Powada performance, a form of public storytelling and protest whose presence in public space remains contested today. Near the installation, “Is it a Failure to Fail Life?” (2025) is projected onto a large wooden desk, showing hands repeatedly typing a poem on a typewriter. The persistent act of writing becomes a reflection on the relationship between language and action, asking whether words alone can transform reality. In a corner, two bronze hands hang suspended from ropes, illuminated by a single light bulb.

In the next room, the installation "A shadow of Lustre X" (2024) extends these concerns. A plain white cotton kurta lies on a table beneath a single light bulb. Bronze hands emerge from and around the garment, suggesting an absent body marked by labour. Words by B.R. Ambedkar are projected onto the fabric, appearing softly like a breath intermittently, interrupted by moments of pause.

The four paintings from the series “Who Is Invited to the City?” (2025) continue these reflections through nocturnal scenes of groups moving through the darkness, illuminated only by handheld torches. The beams of light reveal fragments of bodies—bare feet, hands, denim-clad legs—while faces remain absent. The city itself is never depicted directly, appearing instead as a distant horizon shaped by aspiration, displacement, and unequal access. The title refers to the uncertain journeys that have long accompanied working-class and caste-based migration.

Transcript of speech from radio:

My dear friends, brothers, and sisters in struggle

Today, I do not speak as a performer. I do not speak as a mere citizen. I stand before you as a voice—one of many voices—carrying the pain, the pride, and the power of the Dalit movement.

We had planned to sing. That’s all.We had written songs—not with ink, but with our blood, our wounds, and our unbreakable will. We were ready to take the stage—not for fame, not for fortune—but to remind this city, this country, that we too are its soul.

But the government says no.No permission. No platform. No performance.Why?

Because truth frightens them.Because the rhythm of resistance makes them uneasy.Because a song sung by a Dalit is not just music — it’s history, it’s rebellion, it’s the sound of a people who refuse to be erased.

From the lanes of Worli to the chawls of Dharavi, from the mills that fed this city to the gutters where our ancestors were forced to live — every street of Bombay knows our story. And yet, when we try to sing it, we are silenced.

What are they afraid of?

Are they scared that our songs will awaken more hearts?That a beat on the dholki will echo the words of Babasaheb Ambedkar louder than their empty promises?That our performance will remind people that caste did not end with the Constitution — it just learned to hide in housing societies, offices, police stations, and yes, even in permission letters?

Let me tell you this:

You can deny us a microphone, but you cannot deny us our voice.You can stop a concert, but you cannot stop a movement.We have marched without shoes. We have studied without support. We have risen without permission.

So today, even without the stage, we will sing.In every alley, in every basti, in every heart that knows what it means to be treated less than human — we will sing.And we will keep singing until the walls of caste fall down.

This is not just about a performance. This is about the right to tell our truth.And no government, no authority, no force on earth can take that away from us.