Why has Hazaribagh evolved as the new home to Dhaka’s art scene?
A growing number of Dhaka’s prominent artists and architects are now anchoring their practices in the former industrial hub, drawn by a rare confluence of accessibility and the luxury of expansive, affordable space
As a neighbourhood, Hazaribagh, literally translating to the "garden of a thousand flowers", has held a heavy contradiction to its name for decades.
Instead of fragrant flowers, the area was long defined by the sharp, metallic stench of rawhide and the chemical byproduct of an entire city's leather industry. It was an industrial lung so thick with pollution that for years, outsiders only entered if they absolutely had to.
Even in 2022, five years after the tanneries officially moved out, the air and those abandoned factories remained a challenge.
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When Bishwajit Goswami, the founder of Brihatta Art Space, first visited the third floor of the old Mukti Tannery on repeated requests from a student, he had to cover his nose just to walk through the building. Given those grim, suffocating beginnings, today's Brihatta, an expansive, breathing hub for art, feels like something salvaged from the very edge of imagination.
Yet, Bishwajit is not a solitary pioneer in this shift.
Beyond his initiative, a growing number of Dhaka's prominent artists and architects are now anchoring their practices in Hazaribagh. They are drawn by a rare confluence of accessibility and the luxury of expansive, affordable space. The neighbourhood's industrial bones — high ceilings and rugged, functional interiors — altogether offer a scale for creation that is increasingly becoming a rarity elsewhere in the city.
Finding these studios, however, is a challenge. If you do not have Google Maps open, you would never know they were there. Even with a place like Brihatta, there is not a single sign on the street or a nameplate on the building to give it away.
You could walk through the alleys, stand at the entrance, or even wander up to the second floor and still have no clue. Usually, it is the locals, the people sitting at the tea stalls or just walking by, who notice you looking lost and point you in the right direction.
Following their lead, you will pass a small garment factory of gloves on the ground floor and a hollow, empty warehouse on the second. It is only when you reach the stairs to the third floor that you see a jute-thread installation, the first real sign of the art space. Once you step past a small iron gate, the atmosphere shifts entirely.
You will have a similar experience if you are looking for Studio Bhaskarmee, Daagi Art Garage, or Artycall Studio. They are tucked away across a field from Mukti Tannery, hidden somewhere near Gajmahal Road between rickshaw garages and the remnants of old tanneries.
Here, too, there are no signboards. You just have to wait for the men working in the garages to spot your confused face; they already know what you are looking for and will point you toward the right gate.
"We moved here as a group back in 2020, right in the middle of the pandemic," says Manuj Paul, the founder of Artycall Studio.
"At the time, we were all cooped up at home and desperately needed a place to work together. With the economy being what it was, we had to be careful. When we stumbled upon this place, the sheer scale of it, the open air, and the affordable rent made it the right fit. We've been here ever since."
It is a shared ecosystem behind that one gate. Along with Artycall, the space houses Studio Bhaskarmee — where sculptors Rupom Roy and Sayed Tareq Rahman work — and the studio of interdisciplinary artist Murshed Jahangir. Also sharing the premises is Daagi Art Garage, a space run by a collective of visual artists. One of its co-founders, Rasel Chowdhury, recently held an exhibition there.
Interestingly, Manuj and his group had originally scouted the third-floor space that Brihatta now occupies. But for a group of artists dealing with heavy, industrial materials, the logistics of a third-floor studio was not suitable. They chose the ground floor instead, settling into the grit and the space that Hazaribagh offered.
Hazaribagh was once a landscape defined entirely by its leather and tannery industries. In 2017, due to the pollution of the Buriganga, these factories, some standing for over 50 years, were relocated to the banks of the Shitalakshya in Savar.
On Fridays, the children from the nearby madrasa come by to wander through or sit down to draw. "This only happened because we gave them the freedom to see the space in their own way. Now, those kids and the neighbours know that Friday afternoon is their time to be here, and they just show up on their own," says Bishwajit Goswami, founder of Brihatta Art Space.
Left behind in the area were empty buildings with high ceilings, where nothing but trash began to accumulate. Eventually, the tannery owners started selling off these factory spaces at relatively low prices. During and after the pandemic, small factories and warehouses began moving into these buildings, and alongside them, a handful of artists.
Sculptor Tejosh Halder Josh, a recent recipient of the Ekushey Padak, has his studio in Mahtab Tannery on Pragati Tannery Lane — a 3,200-square-feet space on the ground floor. His previous studio was in Lalbagh, a crowded residential area that never quite fit his needs.
"I work with heavy metal," he says. "There's the constant roar of machinery and the use of chemicals. In Lalbagh, I was always uneasy, feeling like an intruder in a living space. Here, the industrial history of the neighbourhood means I don't have to look over my shoulder."
Bishwajit sees the very bones of these buildings as an asset. "The structural design here is unique," he explains. "You could spend a fortune elsewhere in the city and still never find a space this much open. These buildings were engineered to withstand the weight and vibration of heavy industrial loads. That gives me the confidence to push the boundaries of my work, using heavy materials and massive scales that just wouldn't be possible anywhere else."
Beyond the physical height of the ceilings or the lower rent, Hazaribagh possesses a specific, raw character that has begun to pull at the artist community. Tejosh points out that the location itself — nestled deep in Old Dhaka near the Buriganga — is a practical goldmine for an artist.
"Being so close to the river and the old city makes sourcing materials effortless," Tejosh explains. "But it's more than that. This area has its own vocabulary of materials, leather scraps from the tanneries, discarded fabrics, and industrial waste. Over the last few years, I've realised that Hazaribagh hasn't just inspired my thoughts; these local materials have physically found their way into my work, becoming a part of my art in one way or another."
Bishwajit, on the other hand, has forged a rare connection between Brihatta and Hazaribagh. This is evident in everything from the garden outside his studio to his philosophy and individual projects. He had no intention of stripping Mukti Tannery of its soul to create an elite, sanitised gallery. Instead, he sought to create a dialogue between the building's history and Brihatta's presence.
"I didn't want to come here and turn Mukti Tannery into some elite gallery with an 'aesthetic' that felt alien to the area and its community," Bishwajit says. "Instead, I wanted to keep the tannery's identity intact and find a way for Brihatta to coexist within it."
He is also quietly building a community with the local residents, though he refuses to be heavy-handed about it.
"I've tried to build a community with the people here, but I've been very careful not to force it. I wanted to give it time, to let the locals walk in on their own terms. To me, the greatest achievement is that a university professor, a famous international artist, and a local rickshaw puller can all occupy this space at the exact same time. Brihatta is built on the belief that art and aesthetics don't belong to any single class or group."
In the early days, people from the neighbourhood would simply peek through the door. The artists never chased them away, nor did they try to pull them in by force. Slowly, those curious glances turned into footsteps inside.
"Eventually, they started coming in to actually look at the work," Bishwajit recalls. "Some expressed an interest in working with us. Some even wanted to invest, or they'd offer me advice on how I could make the space more business-successful."
On Fridays, the children from the nearby madrasa come by to wander through or sit down to draw. "This only happened because we gave them the freedom to see the space in their own way. Now, those kids and the neighbours know that Friday afternoon is their time to be here, and they just show up on their own."
Tejosh and Manuj have had similar experiences with the neighbourhood. "The people here are incredibly helpful," Tejosh says. "There's a genuine interest — some even talk about business ventures or wanting to invest in what we do. Ultimately, we feel a deep sense of accountability to the people and this area. I am currently trying to figure out how to take the local industrial waste and turn it into the primary raw material for my sculptures. If I can make that work, the reuse of that waste will be my way of giving back to this place."
The shift taking place in Hazaribagh is not about scrubbing the area clean or hiding its industrial scars behind white gallery walls. Instead, it is a slow, unforced dialogue between the people who stayed and the artists who arrived.
