Not long ago I attended a formal dinner at a college belonging to one of Britain's most ancient and prestigious universities, and was introduced to the institution's head of house as someone engaged in researching the music of Benjamin Britten. ‘Really?’ came the Master's reply. ‘There's not much point to the Aldeburgh Festival now that Britten and Pears are both dead, is there?’ Before I could respond, the Master had moved swiftly down the line, presumably to impart another morsel of wisdom in whatever subject-area was appropriate to the next guest. After dinner, I sat next to the wife of a senior fellow and was introduced in a similar manner. ‘Well,’ she said as she sipped her coffee thoughtfully, ‘I'm afraid I find Britten's music just too aggressively homosexual, don't you?’ This time I managed to issue a sophisticated rejoinder (the single word ‘Why?’, if I remember rightly), upon which she rapidly changed the subject.

The persistence of such bigoted views on Britain's most internationally successful and respected twentieth-century composer seems scarcely credible as the century draws to a close, and it remains an uncomfortable fact that – in his native country, at least – a small but vociferous body of commentators still seeks to denigrate Britten's self-evidently significant artistic achievements. Britten was himself no stranger to such negativity, and the seeds of an incipient critical malaise were sown as early as the 1930s when he was making a name for himself as a precocious newcomer armed with a formidable compositional technique embodying a resourcefulness and flexibility never before encountered in British music.

During the 1930s under the visionary leadership of John Grierson, the film units of two government agencies, the Empire Marketing Board (EMB) and the General Post Office (GPO), produced documentary films of interest and quality – and occasionally of innovation. While the EMB's earliest films had been ‘silents’, the acquisition of sound-recording equipment by the GPO Film Unit led to some deliberate experimentation in the sound film, and striking results were achieved. Pett and Pott and The Song of Ceylon, both with music by Walter Leigh, are possibly the most fascinating examples of the GPO Film Unit's earliest consciously experimental sound films and evidently provided useful role-models for the youthful Britten when he arrived as a new member of Grierson's team in May 1935.

Although Britten was first engaged to write a through-composed twenty-minute score for The King's Stamp, a documentary tracing the history and production of postage stamps, he was soon seconded to a more challenging and controversial project: a social documentary examining the conditions prevailing at the time in the mining industry. While The King's Stamp possessed some experimental qualities, it can hardly be claimed they extend to its soundtrack or musical score – whatever their respective merits overall. Britten's next film score, however, shows a remarkable grasp of many experimental techniques; having demonstrated to his colleagues at the Unit what he could achieve in conventional circumstances, Britten was now chosen for Coal Face, from the outset a highly experimental production.

The plateau region in the centre of peninsular India, known as the Deccan, is one of the country’s most mysterious and unknown regions in terms of artistic heritage. Few scholars, Indian or foreign, have worked extensively in the Deccan, which remains little visited and surprisingly unexplored. In consequence, many sites of outstanding historical and architectural significance, whether urban mosques and tombs or remote mountain citadels, lack adequate documentation and publication. A further problem is that in the past relatively few works of art were given a Deccani attribution. An increasing number of miniature paintings, textiles and inlaid metal objects are now assigned to this region. This means that the time has come for a reassessment of the Deccan as a dynamic centre of patronage for architecture and the fine arts.

Before considering individual monuments and works of art, it is important to stress the remarkably high quality of Deccani architecture and art. Courtly and religious buildings, miniature paintings, textiles and metal objects from this region are among the finest the subcontinent. And much of Deccani art is rare, far rarer than Mughal art. It is likely that the painting workshops in the Deccan were always smaller than those of North India. Rarity increases the risk of oblivion and makes research and publishing all the more urgent. Furthermore, the emotional content of Deccani art is unique. Whereas Mughal art has a generous dose of logic and verisimilitude behind its glamour, especially in its classic phase under the patronage of Jahangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb in the seventeenth century, Deccani art revels in dream and fantasy.