Rethinking the Value of Production in Manufacturing and Art at Carnival Campus

Production is the act of transforming raw materials into something of value, serving either practical needs or deeper human expression. In Trinidad and Tobago, “production” is a national watchword. But what does “production” mean in a society where the invention of the steelpan is rooted in resistance and Carnival is an exported cultural experience? How do we define the value of production in the context of economic development, industrial output, and self-sufficiency? 

While manufacturing feeds economies, creating art feeds culture. So what happens when we compare them, not to compete, but to reveal the different kinds of value they create? I’ve worked within the rigid, safety-bound structures of manufacturing floors and created art from my bedroom, inside the walls of a bank, in public and within a live on theatre set. From the factory to the studio and stage, each space offers a distinct way of transforming ideas into experiences and producing meaning. I’ve come to see these different modes of production not as opposites, but each as parts of a larger creative and cultural ecosystem. Participating in Carnival Campus challenged me to rethink the value of production in the context of mas: where it happens, how it happens, and what we choose to value in the process.

Across the globe, the tension between culture and commerce plays out in diverse ways. In Brazil, Rio’s samba schools balance community identity with corporate sponsorship. In Japan, the government recognizes traditional crafts as intangible cultural heritage, ensuring artisanship is protected regardless of market trends. Meanwhile, Mexico’s Día de los Muertos illustrates how sacred ritual can be commodified once global attention turns cultural meaning into aesthetic. These global examples reflect the question: how do we define, protect, and sustain cultural production, not just as output, but as a process of meaning-making, memory, and innovation?

What Are We Producing?

In traditional industrial terms, production means standardized processes, efficiency, quotas, and tangible outcomes. It’s measured in numbers: units per hour, dollars per output, exports per GDP. But does art function that way? At Carnival Campus, we constantly explored the tension between these two paradigms. Artistic production is rarely linear. It’s exploratory, emotional, and deeply human. In some cases, the process is the product. How do we protect and sustain this kind of value? How do we ensure that creative labor and cultural expression benefit the people and places they originate from?

One panel discussion on intellectual property, featuring Clover Consultancy Ltd, opened up exactly this dilemma. Even our national instrument had to be folded into the frameworks of production, licensing, and IP protection. The steelpan once shaped in backyards by tuners is now subject to international demand, manufacturing rights, and commercial potential.

In a Clover news article “Patently Misunderstood – Who Owns the Steelpan?”:

“The steelpan has gained popularity in Japan. Japanese people are learning to play the instrument and steel orchestras have been formed in Japan… The steelpan is a national treasure of Trinidad and Tobago. It has not been ‘stolen,’ but the pan in the traditional form cannot be ‘owned’ in any meaningful sense. What can be ‘owned’ are improvements to elements of the steelpan. Local inventors should consider familiarising themselves with patent law if they wish to commercialise their research in this area.”

In the complex relationship between cultural invention and global commodification, it’s not just about ownership. It's about ensuring the originators of cultural products remain visible, respected, and economically included.

In the context of mas, we must ask: How do we hold space for authenticity and innovation in a system built for replication? How do we protect the spirit of invention while navigating the realities of production, intellectual property, and scale?

Carnival as Convergence: Art Meets Industry

The Carnival Campus course, particularly the Production & Pricing session with Renée Pouchet - Production Manager at the Tribe Group, explained how mas at Tribe sits at the intersection of artistic imagination and industrial execution. Designing a costume may begin with a sketch or a mood board, but the reality of producing it requires budget planning, procurement of materials, labor coordination, and customer satisfaction. I had the opportunity to learn the language of both creativity and logistics. In our class discussions, Renée masterfully balanced perspectives and gave me tools not only to manage the create-manufacture duality, but to honor both sides equally. Communicating with a collaborator, a seamstress, a wire bender is all part of realizing a design. Without communication, there is no collaboration. Without collaboration, there is no costume. Without community there is no innovation.

Though manufacturing often divides labor, specialization increases output. However, this human resource model can also distance the worker from the whole. In contrast, artistic production is often holistic. The labor is deeply embodied and personal, even when collaborative. Still, both require skill, training, and innovation, just deployed differently.

Similarly, where engineers have an appreciation for gravity, artists dream of flight. And it’s only through the combination of both that we achieve things like airplanes, wingsuits, or other inventions that give humans the sensation of soaring. The iconic Inflatable Man, previously “tall boy”, was brought to life through collaboration by mas man Peter Minshall , Arieh Dranger, an aeronautical engineer, and Doron Gazit, an industrial designer and inflatable artist for the  1996 Summer Olympics. Their combined expertise made its existence possible beyond sketches.

From Prototype to Production: Barriers to Sustainable Mas

While many materials used in Carnival are imported as commodities, they’re assembled locally. Production here isn’t limited to factories. It thrives in studios, living rooms, mas camps, and community hubs. Through sewing classes with Petra Moore-Best, and design sessions with creatives like Atiba Borde, Sean Dhanraj, and JP Richardson, we saw firsthand how much of Carnival production is rooted in local hands.

Sean Dhanraj, for example, showed how he repurposes everyday objects like plastic spoons and artificial fingernails as design elements when time, budget, or supply chains fall short. Though it is possible to use repurposed materials in prototypes, the final costumes for sale are often reproduced using new materials. This raises an important question: How can we extend sustainable practices beyond the prototype? How do we promote recycling in the full cycle of costume production?

My time in manufacturing has made me aware of the byproducts that are routinely discarded. But in mas, I see potential in what’s left behind. Could factory byproducts in Trinidad and Tobago be reimagined and repurposed for costume design? Could there be a system that redirects surplus industrial materials to mas makers—offering them not just raw goods, but creative possibility? 

These small acts of reuse move us toward a circular economy in which Carnival becomes a space for sustainable innovation and creative reinvention. They demonstrate how art and the Carnival industry can breathe new life into materials that mainstream production might discard. In fact, traditional mas has always been rooted in repurposing; the culture and community are embedded in choices of fabric, wire, and embellishment. While large bands like Tribe operate with commercial precision and global reach, smaller community bands carry the weight of cultural memory and neighborhood pride. But does this influence how we value cultural labour in personal and national contexts? For both models to thrive, sustainable development must support the entire ecosystem, not just the commercial tier. Carnival Campus provided tools, insights, and collaborative opportunities that directly benefit community-based creators. Carnival Campus broughts together participants from diverse artistic and entrepreneurial backgrounds, including community creators and those working in kiddies Carnival and traditional mas. The program fostered an environment where cross-disciplinary learning helped build technical, conceptual, and business skills that can strengthen smaller bands and support the sustainability of grassroots mas traditions.

It’s not always easy to find spaces that balance artistic integrity with financial value. In many creative circles, conversations about money still feel taboo. But Carnival Campus approached it differently. Discussions led by Valmiki Maharaj, Creative Director of The Lost Tribe, offered a refreshing and empowering lens: one where business supports creativity, rather than stifling it. There was open dialogue and a welcoming learning environment where all participants felt encouraged to share. Valmiki’s sincere focus on the growth and development of the Carnival industry, was free of gatekeeping and full of insight.

Kinetic Culture: Where Art Meets Utility

The Carnival Campus experience has shifted the way I value my work as an artist from the ways I design for my audience to the joy and freedom the process brings me. Having studied mechanical engineering I have always been interested in designing for movement. Now, I find myself equally captivated by how bodies move in costume. The Carnival costume became for me a kind of kinetic sculpture: a piece of art that is only completed when worn and set in motion. To design a costume is to design for freedom, for play, for reclaiming space through movement. Mas, to me, is art is motion. This course demonstrated how a designer can give joy a function: how we can intentionally create experiences that inspire freedom, self-expression, and celebration. Costume design becomes a craft not only of aesthetics but of emotional engineering. As I continue to merge my engineering mind with my artistic spirit, I no longer see them as opposing forces. They are different dialects of the same creative language. 

As Trinidad and Tobago pushes for more local production, economic diversification, and creative innovation, it’s crucial that we don’t recreate hierarchies that place industry above art. Both are essential. To truly support local innovation, we must expand our definition of production to include cultural meaning-making, not just material output. And in a world oversaturated with products, perhaps meaning is the most valuable thing we can make.