An egg tray on a snowy day inspired Skarma Sonam Tashi’s work at sā Ladakh Biennale

Skarma Sonam Tashi is a chronicler of Ladakh. His works, rooted in documenting the land’s local architecture and fragile ecology, often come in a tie-dye palette of rammed earth, egg-shell grey, ochre, and maroon.

Now, he is gearing up for the world’s highest art biennale (held at 3,500 metres above sea level), sā Ladakh Biennale. But this time, it is not an elaborate installation reminiscent of the matchbox homes cocooned in dusty-brown landscapes of the region. It’s a flag. Titled ‘Transient Mountains’, the flag is created as part of Museum in Progress’ ‘Raising Flags’ project, which invites artists to present flags as artworks, where they’re not symbols of national identity but vehicles for reflection, ideas, and dialogues.

Tashi’s flag, which will be installed in Lamayuru, a village known for its dry, moon-like terrain, serves as a symbol of the rapidly changing landscape in the Himalayan region. On the flag is be an image that he photographed in 2022. “Buffeted by the winds, the flag transforms a personal memory into a reflection on impermanence, ecological fragility, and belonging,” he explains. “The work speaks about disappearing glaciers, changing climates, and how memory can preserve what nature cannot.”

Tashi’s is not the only work. Art and installations at the third edition of sā Ladakh Biennale, held this month and curated by Vishal K Dar and Tsering Motup Siddho, engage with themes of climate awareness and ecological change and will be on display across various sites along the Leh-Kargil route.

For Tashi, who grew up in Sapi, a small village in the Kargil district of Ladakh, sustainability was a way of life much before it became a global concern. The 29-year-old artist’s earlier installations—including ‘Echoes of Home’, which was recently exhibited at the 61st Venice Biennale, or ‘My Homeland 3’, for which he won the National Award—offer portraits of the high-altitude cold desert where settlements are precariously stacked on top of one another or perched on mountain slopes. Rather than reinforcing the popular, romanticised view of Ladakh, his oeuvre invites the viewers to look more closely at the landscape’s shifting palette and the region’s environmentally attuned traditional architecture.

He works with unconventional, often overlooked materials—egg trays, castaway cardboards, wastepaper, organic glue, salvaged wood, stone, and clay—to further conversations around recycling, sustainability, and preservation of natural habitats.

Ahead of the sā Ladakh Biennale, The Nod spoke with the artist about ‘Transient Mountains’ and the new possibilities for Ladakh’s future. Excerpts:

What inspired ‘Transient Mountains’?

This particular work originates from a photograph I made during a residency at the Ladakh Arts and Media Organisation (LAMO) in 2022, when I experienced my first snowfall after returning from West Bengal and being away from Ladakh for six years. While playing in the snow, I placed an egg tray onto its surface. The tray briefly moulded the snow into mountain-like forms before it melted away. I photographed this fleeting moment. Four years later, the image returns as a flag.

This specific installation is different from your earlier works, which reimagine traditional Ladakhi architecture. What are you communicating through it?

Unlike my sculptural works inspired by traditional Ladakhi architecture, this installation focuses on memory embedded within the landscape. The image records the imprint of an egg tray in fresh snow, creating forms that resemble mountains. The snow disappeared within hours, but the photograph preserved the moment.

The work reflects how landscapes change over time and becomes a metaphor for rapidly melting glaciers and ecological loss. It invites viewers to consider how memory can outlast physical forms.

Flags often symbolise identity and community, belonging, borders, resistance, and protest. What do you hope your flag installation communicates?

Personally, I relate the flag to Buddhist prayer flags. In our tradition, prayers printed on prayer flags are carried by the wind, spreading wishes of peace, compassion, and well-being to all sentient beings.

My flag carries the memory of snow that has long since melted. It draws attention to glaciers and snow in the Himalayas, which are vital sources of water for millions of people. Through this work, I hope to encourage reflection on climate change, ecological fragility, and our shared responsibility toward the environment.

While the work is not a direct response to the student protests or political movements, it does resonate with broader questions of education. Addressing the climate crisis requires being educated in environmental awareness, sustainable ways of living, and having a stronger culture of reuse and care. In that sense, the work indirectly speaks to the importance of education in shaping a more responsible future.

How does your installation fit into the larger curatorial theme, ‘Signals from Another Star’?

The word sā (‘soil’ in Ladakhi) has always resonated with my practice, because soil and earth are fundamental to my materials and ideas. For me, ‘Signals from Another Star’ suggests messages travelling across time. This installation brings back an image I made four years ago and allows it to speak again in a new context.

The contrast between the image and its surroundings is important. The flag carries the memory of snow into a landscape dominated by rock, dust, and wind. That visual contrast invites viewers to think about changing climates, disappearing snow, and the ecological transformations taking place across the Himalayas. The work does not document one specific site. Instead, it connects different landscapes through memory.

Papier-mâché techniques with discarded paper, clay, and recycled egg trays sit at the core of your practice. What draws you to such raw materials that carry with them imperfections, markings of time, and memory of the hand?

Traditional Ladakhi homes are built from materials found in nature and are continuously repaired by reusing what already exists. This philosophy of care, repair, and reuse deeply influences my work.

I prepare my own papier-mâché using discarded paper along with a traditional binder made by boiling tamarind seed powder and lime (chuna) in equal proportions. I also use natural clay pigments collected in different hues. These methods draw from sustainable craft traditions practised in different parts of India.

The materials I use in my work, too, absorb time—they crack, soften or dissolve due to humidity or rise in temperature. I don’t see these changes as damage but as part of the cycle of life. This impermanence suggests that shelter, safety, and belonging are living processes. My artworks age and respond to their environment, much like landscapes and cultures adapting to ecological and social change.

Collecting these materials is an important part of my practice. It allows me to transform what is often considered waste into something meaningful.

This process reflects the traditional Ladakhi approach of repairing, reusing and extending the life of materials rather than discarding them. By giving these objects a new form, I hope to encourage us to reconsider our relationship with consumption, waste, and sustainability.

Do you think the biennale’s geographic location pushes artists to think differently? 

Absolutely. Creating work in Ladakh requires artists to respond directly to its landscape, climate, communities, and culture rather than simply transporting ideas from elsewhere. The biennale also creates an important international platform for Ladakhi artists, allowing local knowledge, traditions, and environmental concerns to be presented within a global contemporary art context.

Do you see yourself documenting a disappearing way of life or imagining new possibilities for Ladakh’s future?

I see my practice doing both. It documents the knowledge embedded in traditional Ladakhi architecture and sustainable ways of living while also imagining how these values can inform the future. Rather than looking at tradition as something fixed or nostalgic, I see it as a living source of ideas for responding to contemporary environmental challenges. For instance, traditional Ladakhi homes are built using local materials, such as earth, stone, wood, straw. These materials are reused over generations, making the buildings naturally sustainable. I’m interested in the values this reinforces—repair, reuse, adaptability and living in balance with the environment.

Tashi’s participation is supported by Museum in Progress, the Austrian Embassy, Gujral Foundation, and the Quiet Art Movement. The 2026 sā Ladakh Biennale will run from August 1 to 10 across multiple sites following the Leh-Kargil route. The biennale is free and un-ticketed. More information can be found here