Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture [1 ed.] 2017037319, 9789004340473, 9789004352841

Table of contents :
Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgements and Note on Transliteration
List of Figures
Notes on Contributors
Introduction: Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in the Early Modern Period
1 Chasing after the Muhandis: Visual Articulations of the Architect and Architectural
Historiography
2 Who’s Hiding Here?: Artists and Their Signatures in Timurid and Safavid Manuscripts
3 Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
4 In Defense and Devotion: Affective Practices in Early Modern Turco-Persian Manuscript Paintings
5 Sentiment in Silks: Safavid Figural Textiles in Mughal Courtly Culture
6 The City Built, the City Rendered: Locating Urban Subjectivity in Eighteenth-Century Mughal Delhi
7 Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems and the Representation of Public Life in Late Mughal Society
8 Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion in the Arts of the Ottoman World
Index

Citation preview

Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires

Arts and Archaeology of the Islamic World Edited by Marcus Milwright (University of Victoria) Mariam Rosser-Owen (Victoria and Albert Museum) Lorenz Korn (University of Bamberg)

VOLUME 9

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/aaiw

Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture Edited by

Kishwar Rizvi

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: “Ascetic in meditation,” c. 17th c. artist, Mu’in Musavvir (1617–1697). The Vera M. and John D. MacDonald, b.a. 1927, Collection. Courtesy of the Yale University Art Gallery. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov lc record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2017037319

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2213-3844 isbn 978-90-04-34047-3 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-35284-1 (e-book) Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Acknowledgements and Note on Transliteration vii List of Figures viii Notes on Contributors xi Introduction: Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in the Early Modern Period 1 Kishwar Rizvi 1 Chasing after the Muhandis: Visual Articulations of the Architect and Architectural Historiography 21 Sussan Babaie 2 Who’s Hiding Here? Artists and Their Signatures in Timurid and Safavid Manuscripts 45 Marianna Shreve Simpson 3 Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period 66 Emine Fetvacı 4 In Defense and Devotion: Affective Practices in Early Modern Turco-Persian Manuscript Paintings 95 Christiane Gruber 5 Sentiment in Silks: Safavid Figural Textiles in Mughal Courtly Culture 124 Sylvia Houghteling 6 The City Built, the City Rendered: Locating Urban Subjectivity in Eighteenth-Century Mughal Delhi 148 Chanchal Dadlani 7 Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems and the Representation of Public Life in Late Mughal Society 168 Sunil Sharma 8 Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion in the Arts of the Ottoman World 185 Jamal J. Elias Index 211

Acknowledgements and Note on Transliteration Affect, Emotion and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New studies in Ottoman, Safavid and Mughal art and culture first took shape as a symposium in the History of Art Department at Yale University in Spring 2014. Funding for the symposium and this book were provided by the Edward J. and Dorothy Clarke Kempf Memorial Fund from the MacMillan Center for International and Area Studies at Yale University. The editor gratefully acknowledges their support, without which this publication would not have been possible.

In this book, Arabic, Urdu, Ottoman and Persian words occur in a range of contexts, from court chronicles to epigraphic Qurʾanic verses. In order to attain consistency we have chosen the transliteration conventions established in the International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. Geographical names are rendered according to current scholarly convention not pronunciation, for example, Isfahan instead of Esfahan. Names and terms, such as Hassan or Sufism, that are commonly used in the English language, have been rendered without diacritical marks or italics.

List of Figures 0.1 Timurid Album Page, mid-15th c. 2 0.2 Zayn al-Abidin and the Black Stone, History of the Immaculate Imams (Tārīkh-i āima-yi māsumīn) of Veramini, 1526 4 0.3 Masjid-i ʿAli, Isfahan (completed c. 1523) 6 0.4 Babur greeting a visitor, Bāburnāma, c. 1590 8 0.5 Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas, c 1600–30 10 0.6 Portrait of Abdur Rahim, 1608 12 0.7 Portrait of Sir Robert Shirley, c. 1622 13 0.8 Tomb of Jahangir, detail, Lahore (1627–37) 14 0.9 Chahar Bagh Avenue, Isfahan, c. 1718 by Cornelis de Bruyn 15 0.10 Portrait of a dying Inayat Khan, attributed to Balchand, 1618 17 1.1 Mashhad, Qibla iwan at the Mosque of Gawhar Shad in the Shrine complex of Imam Riza, completed 1418 22 1.2 Mashhad, Qibla iwan at the Mosque of Gawhar Shad in the Shrine complex of of Imam Riza. One of the two foundation inscription panels 23 1.3 Isfahan, western iwan of the Friday Mosque 26 1.4 Isfahan, Masjed-i Jadid-i Abbasi (Masjed-i Shah, or royal mosque). Entrance iwan complex, 1611–1638 28 1.5 Isfahan, Masjid-e Jadid-e Abbasi, view toward the principal foundation inscription above the doorway of the entrance iwan 29 1.6 Isfahan, Masjid-e Jadid-e Abbasi, detail from the inscriptions above the doorway of the entrance iwan complex 30 1.7 Isfahan, Harun-i Velayat Shrine, entrance façade, dated 1513 32 1.8 Isfahan, Harun-i Velayat Shrine, detail of the foundation inscription above the doorway of the entrance façade 33 1.9 Isfahan, Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, the entrance façade 34 1.10 Isfahan, Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, view of the mihrab signed by the architect Baqir Bannaʾ 35 1.11 Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai on the east side of the Maydan of Ganj ʿAli Khan 36

1.12 Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai. View toward the iwan on the east side of the courtyard 37 1.13 Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai. The iwan on the east side of the courtyard with the signature of master architect Ustad Muhammad Sultan Miʿmar-i Yazdi 38 1.14 Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Hammam (public bathhouse) 39 2.1 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Headpiece to Yusuf u Zulaykha. Haft awrang of Jami, folio 84b 47 2.2 Masʿud Ahmad, “Afrasiayb on the Iranian Throne.” Shahnama for Shah Tahmasb, folio 105a 49 2.3A ʿAzud, Headpiece. Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi, folio 1b 50 2.3B ʿAzud, Headpiece. Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi, folio 1b, detail 51 2.4 Sultan Muhammad, “Celebration of ʿId.” Divan of Hafiz 56 2.5 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Frontispiece. Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, folios 1b–2a 59 2.6 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Frontispiece. Bustan of Saʿdi, folio 2a 59 3.1 Sinan oversees the construction of Süleyman’s mausoleum, Ẓafarnāma, 1579 69 3.2 Frontispiece of Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī, 1492 71 3.3 Sultan Selim hunting and courtly assembly, ­Divan-i Selimi, 1515–20 73 3.4 Frontispiece of Selīmnāme, 1597–1598 74 3.5 Final image of Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī with the artists, 1492 76 3.6 Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman, Osman and Sinan, Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, ca. 1571–81 77 3.7 Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Sultan ­Selim ii’s audience, Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, ca. 1571–81 79 3.8 Selim ii watching the Imperial Council; below the author, artists and scribes of the manuscript. Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, ca. 1571 80 3.9 Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun Ahmed Beg Mourning the death of Sultan Süleyman, Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār, 1568–69 82

List of Figures 3.10 Sokollu Mehmed Pasha’s Council, Nüzhetü’laḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār, 1568–69 84 3.11 Astronomer Takiyüddin, Nuṣretnāme, 1584 86 3.12 Governor of Kars Yusuf Beg presents booty to Lala Mustafa Pasha, Nuṣretnāme, 1584 87 3.13 Asafi battling Safavids, Şecāʿatnāme, 1586 88 3.14 Talikizade. Şehnāme-i humāyūn, 1596 89 3.15 Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a scribe at work, Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān, early 17th c. 90 4.1 The persecution of Muslims, Rashid al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles), ­Tabriz, Iran, 1314 97 4.2 The torturing of Bilal, Rashid al-Din, Jamiʿ ­al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles), T ­ abriz, Iran ca. 1350–1400 98 4.3 The Mubahala (Day of Cursing), al-Biruni, AlAthar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Tabriz or Maragha, Iran, 1307 102 4.4 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, al-­ Biruni, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al- K ­ haliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Tabriz or Maragha, Iran, 1307 103 4.5 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, al-­ Biruni, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al- K ­ haliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Isfahan, Iran, 1647 104 4.6 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, al-­ Biruni, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al- K ­ haliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Ottoman lands, ca. 1560 105 4.7 Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muhammad, al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), Istanbul, Ottoman lands, 1594–95 107 4.8 The Prophet Muhammad witnesses an idol-­ worshipper prostrating to his idol, al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), Istanbul, Ottoman lands, 1594–95 108 4.9 The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension, Nizami, Khamsa (Quintet), probably northeastern Iran, ca. 1475–1515 110 4.10 The Prophet Muhammad rides into the Battle at Badr, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day ­ ­Afghanistan, 1415–16 113

ix 4.11 Detail of Figure 4.10, showing the Prophet Muhammad’s facial features overlaid with gold paint 114 4.12 The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i ­Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day Afghanistan, 1415–16 115 4.13 ʿAli storms the Fortress at Khaybar, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day Afghanistan, 1415–16 116 4.14 The Prophet Muhammad and ʿAli break the idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca, Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-Safa (Garden of Purity), Shiraz, Iran, ca. 1585–95 118 4.15 Detail of Figure 4.14, showing a vocative inscription on Muhammad’s facial veil and the loss of paintwork on ʿAli’s facial veil 119 5.1 Textile fragment, signed by “Ghiyath” (Ghiyath ­al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband), 1600–1700 127 5.2 Textile panel: Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian Captives, mid-16th century 128 5.3 Prince with a falcon, circa 1600–1605 132 5.4 Emperor Jahangir weighing his Son Khurram in Gold, circa 1615 133 5.5 Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremonial crown, circa 1620 134 5.6 Young Prince, mid-16th century 135 5.7 Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Sheikh to Kings, circa 1615–1618 136 5.8 Shah-Jahan Receives His Three Eldest Sons and Asaf Khan During His Accession Ceremonies (8 March 1628), Padshahnama, 1656–57 138 5.9 Textile panel of silk, late 16th century 145 6.1 Map of Delhi highlighting Shahjahanabad, Ni­ zamuddin, and Mehrauli 150 6.2 Plan of the Dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Zafar Mahal Palace, Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah, Delhi, 14th–20th centuries 151 6.3 Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah, Delhi, 1709 152 6.4 Gateway of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19 154 6.5 Screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19 154 6.6 Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19 155

x 6.7 Burial enclosure of the Nawabs of Loharu, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, 1802 155 6.8 Burial enclosure of Muhammad Shah, dargah of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 1748 156 6.9 Plan of the dargah of Nizam al-Din, ­Delhi, 13th– 20th centuries 157 6.10 Dargah of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 13th–20th centuries 158 7.1 Women celebrating Holi 174 7.2 Women bathing in a lake 177 7.3 Yogini in a Landscape 179 8.1 Rumi meets with his disciples for the last time 190

List of Figures 8.2 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi 191 8.3 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Rumi’s Successor, Husam al-Din 192 8.4 Dogs in a Market 193 8.5 Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, Whirling Dervishes 198 8.6 Bernard Picart, La Danse des Dervis 199 8.7 Photograph of the head of the Mevlevi lodge in Galata, Istanbul, with posing Mevlevis in the background 203 8.8 Postcard of Whirling Dervishes 204

Notes on Contributors Sussan Babaie is the Andrew W. Mellon Reader in the Arts of Iran and Islam at the Courtauld Institute of Art, L­ ondon. She is the author of Isfahan and its ­Palaces: Statecraft, Shiʿism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh Press, 2008), and Persian Kingship and Architecture: Strategies of power in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis, co-­edited with Talinn Grigor (I.B. Tauris, 2015). Chanchal Dadlani is Assistant Professor of Art History at Wake Forest University. Her research, which focuses on Mughal visual culture, has been supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Getty Research Institute, Fulbright-Hays, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. She is the author of From Stone to Paper: Architecture as History in Eighteenth-Century Mughal India (Yale University Press, 2018), for which she received the sah/­ Mellon Author Award. Her earlier work was published in Ars Orientalis, Artforum, and Art History. Jamal J. Elias is the Walter H. Annenberg Professor in the ­Humanities and Professor of Religious Studies and South Asia Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. He is the author of numerous publications on a broad range of subjects relevant to the medieval and modern Islamic world. His books include Aisha’s Cushion: Religious Art, Perception and Practice in Islam (2012) and Alef is for Allah: Childhood, Emotion and Visual Culture in Islamic Societies (2018). Emine Fetvacı is Associate Professor of Islamic art at Boston ­University. She is the author of Picturing History at the Ottoman Court (Indiana University Press 2013), and the co-editor, with Erdem Çıpa of Writing ­History at the Ottoman Court (iup, 2013). She is

c­ urrently writing a monograph on an album made for Ahmed i (tsk B. 408). Her book considers aesthetics and album-making in seventeenth-century Istanbul and examines relationships between court life and popular culture as well as Ottoman art and the art of Iran and Western Europe. Christiane Gruber is Associate Professor of Islamic Art in the History of Art Department at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Her research focuses on depictions of the Prophet Muhammad and Islamic ascension texts and images, about which she has written two books and edited a volume of articles. She recently finished her third book entitled The Praiseworthy One: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images. Among other topics, Gruber also pursues research in Islamic book arts, having authored the online catalogue of Islamic calligraphies in the Library of Congress as well as edited the volume of articles entitled The Islamic Manuscript Tradition. Sylvia Houghteling is Assistant Professor in the Department of History of Art at Bryn Mawr College. From 2015–2016, she held the Sylvan C. Coleman and Pamela Coleman Memorial Fund fellowship in the Department of Islamic Art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her research has been supported by the FulbrightNehru program, the American Council of Learned Societies, the Huntington Library and the Gulbenkian Museum. Her research and teaching examine intercultural exchange, the decorative arts and sensory experience in the early modern period. Her forthcoming book project focuses on the history of textiles in Mughal South Asia. Kishwar Rizvi is Associate Professor of Islamic Art and Architecture at Yale University. She is the author of The Transnational Mosque: Architecture and Historical Memory in the Contemporary Middle East

xii (­University of North Carolina Press, 2015), which received the 2017 Charles Rufus Morey Book Award from the College Art Association. Her earlier publications include The Safavid Dynastic Shrine (2011) and the anthology, Modernism and the Middle East: Architecture and Politics in the Twentieth Century (2008), which was awarded a Graham Foundation publication grant. She is currently working on a new book on the Safavid ruler Shah Abbas and global early modernity. Sunil Sharma is Professor of Persian & Indian Literatures at Boston University’s Department of World Languages & Literature. He received his Ph.D. from the ­University of Chicago’s Department of Near ­Eastern Languages & Civilizations. He has held prestigious fellowships at various institutions and is the author of several books and articles. His ­research interests are in the areas of Persianate literary and visual ­cultures, translation, and travel

Notes on Contributors

writing. He currently serves on the editorial board of the Journal of Persianate Societies, Studies in Persian Culture (Brill), and Murty Classical Library of India. Marianna Shreve Simpson is an independent scholar of Islamic art, and has published, taught and lectured widely on medieval and early modern Islamic art in general and the arts of the book (especially Persian illustrated manuscripts) in particular. Her professional career has included administrative and curatorial positions at the National Gallery of Art, Freer/ Sackler Galleries and Walters Art Museum, and numerous visiting professorships throughout the us. Most recently, she served as President of the Historians of Islamic Art Association, Guest Curator at the Princeton University Art Museum, and a Visiting Scholar at the University of Pennsylvania (2012–present).

Introduction: Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in the Early Modern Period Kishwar Rizvi Artists working in the imperial ateliers of the Safavids, Mughals, and Ottomans were keenly ­ aware of their role within the art historical ­canon. Genealogies were constructed of great artists (calligraphers and painters) and albums were compiled of their works. The artist displayed his mastery over pen and brush, utilizing his tools to show his knowledge of older precedents while at the same time creating that which transformed them entirely. The past, present, and future were mobilized through a mark on the page, through allusions and references, and through the materiality of the ink, paint, brush, and paper, themselves. By looking closely at the traces left by the artists, be they painters, poets, or architects, the art historian may gain insight into the cultural production of these great empires of the early modern period. Over the past thirty years scholars of Islamic art and architecture, in keeping with trends in art history more generally, focused on the social and historical contexts of the works they studied. Issues of patronage and politics were foremost among the concerns of art historians. This was a shift away from the formalist roots of a discipline that had earlier focused on questions of attribution and connoisseurship. Thus we now may understand the motivations behind great works of art and architecture, the ways in which they were funded, and the roles they played within their broader political and religious contexts. Less work has been done on how those objects and buildings were received and, in some case, how they functioned. For example, despite the use of the term “Islamic” as a descriptor, there remains much to be known about devotional practices in the early modern period or the manner in which ritual spaces and objects were used. Questions about reception and intentionality, as well as about audiences

and their responses, remain to be fully addressed through closer study of personal diaries, portraits and chancellery documents. The goal of this anthology is to further this discourse and contribute new research that expands our understanding of art and culture in the Persianate Islamic world. In the early modern period, the arts of writing and depiction were intertwined with the social practice of connoisseurship. Modes of evaluation, by kings and courtiers, were tabulated in the prefaces of poetic and literary texts, as well as the emerging genre of art historical collecting in the form of albums, or muraqqas.1 The album preface became an important site for setting forth rationalizations for creating certain works and establishing standards for appreciating the arts of writing and depiction. Calligraphic exercises were juxtaposed next to sketches by master draftsmen and artists. The traces of the artists’ hands were indexed through physical gestures and the impression made by a brush loaded with ink or a reed sharpened to perfection.2 The massive folios collectively known as the Timurid Workshop Album provide opportunities for examining the criteria for judgement and evaluation in the fifteenth-century.3 The pages are massive (680 × 500 mm) requiring at least two hands 1 The work of David Roxburgh is seminal in the study of albums and their prefaces. Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image: The writing of art history in sixteenth-century Iran, (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2001). 2 On calligraphy, see David J. Roxburgh, “‘The Eye is ­Favored for Seeing the Writing’s Form’: On the Sensual and the ­Sensuous in Islamic Calligraphy,” Muqarnas, 25 (2008): 275–98. 3 Topkapi Saray Museum, H 2152. As examined in David Roxburgh, The Persian album, 1400–1600: From dispersal to collection, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_002

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Rizvi

Figure 0.1 Timurid Album Page, mid-15th c., (Topkapi Saray Museum, H. 2152).

to turn a single page. They comprise mostly of calligraphy exercises, as well as hand-drawn sketches and preparatory drawings (see Fig. 0.1). Together they lend credence to the idea of “the albums’ unique potential as sources for the study of how art history and aesthetics were theorized in premodern Iran.”4 The album also requires us to think of the embodied experience of art and what that meant not only to the makers of the artworks 4 Persis Berlekamp review of The Persian Album, in caa. Reviews, June 19, 2006. http://www.caareviews.org/re views/858. Accessed June 21, 2015.

within it, but also those that encountered the object through visual and tactile means. In its gigantism, the album overpowers the senses of the beholder, especially if considered in the context of illustrated manuscripts, which were often designed to be intimate objects, primarily (though not ­exclusively) for individual reading and viewing. Monumental calligraphy, of which there are also examples in the album, would have been less unexpected, given that elite calligraphers were often commissioned to design architectural epigraphy. Yet what s­ paces – physical and intellectual – would the large sketches of animals, lovers, and

Introduction

warriors, have occupied? What was it about the Timurid period that inspired such a breathtaking object, in which works referencing other artistic traditions (European and Chinese, for example) were collected alongside other examples of Persian drawing and calligraphy? What was being represented through these enigmatic sketches, preparatory drawings, poems, and to whom were they directed? And importantly, what did the production of the album mean in terms of the changing status of the artist? Questions such as these occupy the authors in this volume, who address the personal and the political, the affective and emotional, and what these inquiries imply for an expanded history of art that breaks away from its traditional disciplinary parameters.

Art as Affect

There is a story in the Dalāʾil al-imāmah (“Signs of the Imamate”) of Abu Jafar Muhammad al-Tabari (d. 923) that centers on the fourth Shiʿi imam, ʿAli bin Husayn, “Zayn al-Abdin.” After the death of Imam Husayn in Karbala, his young son returned to Madina, where his divine authority was challenged by his uncle, Muhammad Ibn al-Hanafiyya. In order to find a fair judgment, the two sides agreed to consult the Ḥajjar al-aswad, the black stone embedded on the side of the Kaʻba which was believed to “present itself on the Day of Judgment, with eyes and lips, to bear witness.” They repaired to Mecca and upon arriving at the Kaʿba, the uncle addressed the stone first. There was silence. Next Zayn al-Abdin asked of the stone, “Oh Ḥajjar al-aswad …, if you know that I am the Proof of God (ḥujat-i khudā) speak to us so that my uncle renounces his claim.” The stone spoke, “Oh Muhamad ibn ʿAli, listen and submit (samīʿ wa matīʿ) to Zayn al-Abdin, for he is the Proof of God.” The uncle listened and submitted, and the black stone fell silent, having testified to Zayn al-Abdin’s imamate. The encounter of Zayn al-Abdin with the black stone is the subject of a painting from the ­History of the Immaculate Imams (Tārīkh-i ʿaima-

3 yi māsūmīn) of Veramini of 1526, which illustrate stories from the lives of the imams (see Fig. 0.2).5 The scene is centered on the Kaʿba; on one side the Imam is shown gesturing towards the stone, his hand raised in a manner indicating conversation or communication. On the other side of the stone stands a bearded man, his uncle. The black stone is shown as a gaping void in the Kaʿba, like an open mouth or an oracle. As if in response to the miraculous event of the stone’s oral response, a group of men standing and kneeling on the opposite side of the page raise their hands and eyes in prayer. An image such as this does something more than simply illustrate a story or provide visual exegesis on an important episode from Shiʿi h ­ istory.6 By calling attention to the authority of the black stone, the image also draws attention to its own materiality. It invites the viewer to consider what the affective as well as instructive role of the work of art may be. It should be noted that the image is part of a series of such visual narrations throughout the manuscript. The paintings were meant to act as corollaries to the text but also to evoke in the reader a pious response. Focusing on ­miraculous events, the images reveal the goal of visual exegesis. In early sixteen-century Iran the cult of Shiʻi imams was patronized by the ruling Safavid elite and, as with the popular hagiographies of Sufi shaykhs, were centered on the spiritual and ­miraculous power of the chosen. Buildings, books, 5 This is a fifteenth-century text, now in the Russian National Library in St. Petersburg (Dorn 312), which was recopied and illustrated around 1526, two years after the death of Shah Ismaʿil, the founder of the Safavid dynasty. The manuscript is a large codex and consists of seventy-eight chapters and thirty-nine paintings, although some pages have curiously been left blank. Two richly illustrated copies were compiled in the early sixteenth century and kept in the library of the Safavid dynastic shrine in Ardabil. 6 Certainly it highlights the Safavids’ ideology – writ large on the folds of the kiswa fabric draped on the Kaʻba which professes not only the oneness of God and his messenger, Muhammad, but also the favored status of Imam ʿAli, the walī Allah, a common theme in Safavid art and ideology.

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Figure 0.2

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Zayn al-Abidin and the Black Stone, History of the Immaculate Imams (Tārīkh-i āima-yi māsūmīn) of Veramini, 1526 (Russian National Library, Dorn 312).

and objects were all called upon to bear witness to the charismatic power of the imams and, by extension, their Safavid descendants. These works of art were believed to be affective testimonials of the religious and imperial power embodied by the Shah. Thus, seemingly inanimate objects came to life, imbued with Divine vision and the capacity to impart knowledge. The affective response, in a case such as this, would be one that represents feelings of piety, fear,

and hope – among others – and illustrates how “discourses of personal and public experience shape and structure cultural meaning.”7 In doing so they require imaginings that move away from the faculty of sight alone, and employ embodiment both as a practice and process of representation. That is to say, one may consider affect to be a physical or mental response to artistic and cultural 7 Erika Doss, “Affect,” American Art, 23/1 (2009) 9–11; 9.

5

Introduction

productions that are themselves manifestations of personal, social, and communal experiences. The essays in this volume consider the issue of affect as performative as well as responsive to certain emotions and actions, thus allowing us insights into the motivations behind the making and, in some cases, the destruction of works of art. They also consider the impact that these actions may have on individuals and their communities. Self-representation Identities in the early modern period were fluid and expansive. A figure such as the Safavid courtier, Mirza Shah Husayn, is described in contemporary chronicles as an architect-builder (mimār). He began his career in Isfahan (c 1503–4) and was soon appointed clerk of the imperial divan. The darughā (governor) of the city was Durmish Khan Shamlu, a Qizilbash amir, who chose to stay at court with Shah Ismaʿil and thereby nominated Husayn to be his vazīr and naʾib (deputy) in Isfahan, a post Husayn held until 1519. A European visitor to Isfahan at the time, Gil Samoes, described Husayn as a young man who was versed in many languages, a skill that no doubt served him well in the multi-confessional and multi-ethnic milieu of early modern Iran.8 It was during his tenure as Durmish Khan’s deputy that Husayn built the Harun-i Velayet shrine in Isfahan (completed in 1513), a monument marking the Shiʿi proclivities of the newly established empire. The patron and builder are named in a ­cartouche below the foundation inscriptions of the shrine, which reads, “With the attention of Khan Durmish, the powerful, this ­memorable edifice (bina) was made possible by Husayn.” The historian Qazi Ahmad Qummi includes this couplet in Husayn’s death notice in his Khulāsat al-Tawārīkh, thus identifying “Husayn” as Mirza Shah Husayn,

8 Roger Savory, “Principal Offices of the Reign of Ismaʾil (907-30/1501-24),” bsoas 24, (1960): 91–105; 98.

Durmish Khan’s deputy at the time.9 The recognition on the façade of this ­important edifice is in keeping with Husayn’s modest beginnings and his peripheral status in Ismail’s court – a position that would change drastically over the next decade. The construction of the Harun-i Velayet brought the young courtier to Shah Ismaʿil’s attention. By building an important shrine in the heart of the city, Mirza Shah Husayn was displaying his identity as a loyal servitor of the court and an implementer who had access to the most desirable site in the city, off the Maydan of the Great Mosque of Isfahan. The shrine project would prove to be Husayn’s introduction into Shah Ismaʿil’s inner circle. At the height of his power he was the possessor of great wealth and authority, with property in Isfahan and Kashan.10 According to the historian Khwandamir, his “threshold became a resort of the great and powerful and his magnificence increased as the Shah’s favor shone on him.”11 As a sign of his closeness to the imperial household, in 1528 Husayn was made the guardian (lālā) of the future Shah Tahmasb. It was at about this time that he undertook another important architectural project, the renovation of the Masjid-i ʿAli, also in his hometown, Isfahan. The small Masjid-i ʿAli is located a few steps opposite the Harun-i Velayet shrine.12 The ­portal 9

Qazi Ahmad Qummi, Khulāsat al-Tawārīkh, 2 vols. ed. Ehsan Eshraqi, (Tehran, 1359–1363); 79. 10 The Kashan property was awarded to him by the king, and it is often noted that he held many lavish receptions for Shah Ismaʿil there. Ghiyas al-din Muhammad Husayni Khwandamir, Habīb al-siyar, Tehran, 1334. Volumes 3 and 4 translated by W. Thackston, Jr. as Habibu’s Siyar, Tome Three: The reign of the Mongol and the Turk, (Cambridge, ma: nelc, Harvard University, 1994). 11 Khwandamir, Habīb al-siyar, 565–66. 12 The mosque, which was built during the Seljuk period (supposedly by Sultan Sanjar), consists of a small arcaded courtyard one side of which leads into the domed prayer area. The most striking feature of the building is its old minaret, which acts as an architectural counterpoint not to its own dome, but to that of the Harun-i Velayet shrine located diagonally across the street.

6

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Figure 0.3

Masjid-i ʿAli, Isfahan (completed c. 1523). Photograph © Rizvi.

of the mosque is covered in intricate glazed brick and tile mosaics, and the inscriptions extol the greatness of Shah Ismaʿil. In brown mosaic are select Qurʾanic verses referring to the leadership of Ismaʿil, thereby conflating the prophet and the Shah.13 Overlaid in white is the foundation inscription, dedicated to Ismaʿil (see Fig. 0.3). In a significant divergence ffom the epigraphic program of the ­inscriptions on the shrine, those on the Masjid-i ʿAli focus on the builder. Certainly, Shah Ismaʿil is praised as the holder of the keys of fortune and he is equated with the Divinely chosen imams; nonetheless, it is Mirza Shah Husayn who is equated with the revered Shiʿi imam, Husayn, and portrayed as a pious believer and builder of sacred mosques. He is named fully, as the splendor (kamāl) of the ­empire, “Mirza Shah Husayn, 13

Such as (19:54) “And mention Ismaʿil in the Book; surely he was truthful in (his) promise, and he was an apostle, a prophet.”

long last his protection of justice over the east and the west.” The anonymity of the builder (merely Husayn) witnessed at the Harun-i Velayet is now complemented by the characterization of a grand courtier, who is proud to display his skill as an architect (the builder of great mosques) and as a bureaucrat loyally serving his king.14 Mirza Shah Husayn was assassinated in 1523 by a jealous rival, yet he is included in the anthologies of poets and artists and in every important court chronicle written in the sixteenth century, attesting to the breadth of his influence and the complexity of his persona. Interestingly, in his ­eulogistic death notices Husayn is described first as a notable architect and second as an important 14

The Safavid prince, Sam Mirza, in his anthology of poets and artists, devotes a long section to Husayn, who he writes was possessed of a most delicate nature. Sam Mirza Safawi, Tazkirā-i tuhfa-yi sāmī, (Rukn al-Din Humayunfarruk, ed. Tehran: Ilmi, n.d).

7

Introduction

courtier.15 It becomes clear that for men like him, the designation was an important status symbol, one that also provided an avenue toward social and political mobility. The myriad ways in which he is described also provide insights into the ways in which identity was constructed in the early modern period, through institutions as well as personal ambition. Mirza Shah Husayn’s is an example of how an individual in sixteenth-century Iran could fashion his public persona.16 The examples in this volume demonstrate that the construction of identity and its multiple representations were not uniquely ­European or derived from the humanist traditions associated with the Italian Renaissance. Recent scholars have shown the shortcomings of ascribing singularity either to the definition of selfhood or that of the early modern period. It is i­ nteresting, thus, to consider parallel developments in the fields of art and architecture and the history of ideas within a broader, more global, context. As Peter Burke notes in his essay, “Representations of 15

16

Mirza Shah Husayn’s career, while extraordinary, was not unique. Earlier, in the fifteenth century, architects had risen to prominence in the Aq Qoyyunlu and Timurid courts, such as Aga Kamal al-din Musibi the grandfather of the historian Qazi Ahmad Qummi, who had moved from Iraq to Qum during the reign of Shahrukh Mirza and was later an architect under Uzun Hasan. Musibi was the builder of many edifices, in particular the imperial harem in Qum which was used by the Safavid family. A century later, during the reign of ʿAbbas I, court o­ fficials such as Mirza Muhammad Taqi (Saru Taqi) built palaces for the royalty and for themselves. In addition, governors such as Allahverdi Khan and Hatim Beg were important patrons of architecture, both having overseen the construction of their respective tombs in the shrine of Imam Reza in Mashhad. See Sussan ­Babaie, “Building for the Shah: The Role of Mirza Muhammad Taqi in Safavid Royal Patronage of ­Architecture,” in ­Safavid Art and Architecture, S. Canby, ed. (British Museum Press: London, 2002). Comparisons may be found in Joanna Woods-­Marsden, “Self-Fashioning in Life and Art,” Renaissance Self-­ portraiture: The visual construction of identity and the social status of the artist, (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1998.).

Selfhood from Petrarch to Descartes,” one would be remiss is assuming either the uniqueness of the “Western self” or even of ascribing strict distinctions between temporalities, such as the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Instead, he points us to what may be understood as common concerns in the Muslims empires as well, namely, questions of self-knowledge; the uniqueness of the individual; and an inquiry into the mechanics of self-consciousness.17 For the literati of the early modern Muslim empires, an increasingly popular genre to explore was the autobiography. Life stories had certainly been penned before, under the rubric of saintly hagiographies, imperial chronicles, or anthologies of famous poets or theologians, but in the sixteenth century, the personal memoir began to take shape. Among the most well-known of these is that of the founder of the Mughal dynasty, Zahir al-din Babur (d.1530), who wrote the Bāburnāma, a remarkable account of his own life and times. The book is organized chronologically, giving it the impression of being a court history. However, the voice of the author dominates the narrative, from his astute impressions of people to his likes and dislikes of certain types of food. Early in the book, Babur gives the account of his first marriage, when he was a shy and quiet young man of seventeen, insecure about being intimate with his wife. In contrast, he writes of his love for a boy from the camp, who Babur couldn’t bear to look in the eye, filled as he was with bashful desire. He writes that “in the throes of love, in the foment of youth and madness, I wandered bareheaded and barefoot around the lanes and streets and through the gardens and orchards, paying no attention to acquaintances or strangers, oblivious to self and others.”18 17

18

Peter Burke, “Representations of the Self from Petrach to Descartes,” in Roy Porter, ed. Rewriting the Self: Histories from the Renaissance to the present, (London; New York: Routledge, 1997). Zahir al-din Babur, The Baburnama: Memoirs of Babur, prince and emperor, translated, edited, and annotated by Wheeler M. Thackston; introduction by Salman Rushdie (New York: Modern Library, 2002); 89.

8

Figure 0.4

Rizvi

Babur greeting a visitor, Bāburnāma, c. 1590 (Metropolitan Museum of Art 67.266.4).

9

Introduction

Two aspects of Babur’s biography are of particular relevance. The first is the externalization of the author’s feelings in a way that makes them familiar and universal. The second is the unprecedented representation of the author, which allows entrance into a world (whether true or contrived) that Babur alone had access to. Interestingly, the Bāburnāma was among the most popular and heavily illustrated texts of its time, appreciated not only as a document marking the foundation of the Mughal Empire, but as a ­self-representation, a portrait of the founder and a worldview (see Fig. 0.4). Similar autobiographies would be penned by Babur’s neighboring ruler, Shah Tahmasb (d. 1577) of Iran, who wrote of his dreams and inspirations in his Tazkira.19 Babur’s grandson, Prince Salim, would also leave us with one of the most insightful biographies, the Jāhangīrnāma, a chronicle no doubt inspired by the Bāburnāma.20 In all these examples, the self-representation is presented as intimate and reflective, the first person voice allowing the reader a view into what appear to be the lived experiences and innermost thoughts of the writer.

The Portrait

Jahangir left behind not only one of the most interesting works of literary biography, but a fascinating corpus of visual material. Priding his own connoisseurial abilities, he supported an inventive cadre of artists, who merged allegory and story-telling with new visual tropes gleaned from other visual cultures, such as Christian devotional art. Thus for example, the sequence of so-called “dream19 20

Shah Tahmasb, Tazkira-i Shāh Tahmāsb, Abd al-Shukur, (Berlin-Charlottenburg), 1343 (1964). On the Baburnama, see also, Azfar Moin, “Peering through the Cracks in the Baburnama: The Textured Lives of Mughal Sovereigns,” Indian Economic and Social History Review, 49: 4 (2012): 493–526; Taymiya R. Zaman, “Instructive Memory: An Analysis of Auto/Biographical Writing in Early Mughal India,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, Vol. 54, No. 5 (2011): 677–700.

pictures” that were illustrated by the court artist and khānazād (a term used for those brought up in the court) Abul Hasan reveal the complex interplay of allegory and illustration. Based on dreams described by the emperor, Abul Hasan’s paintings have a strange intimacy to them, as though the artist has gained access into the subliminal hopes and fears of the king. In “Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas,” the two early modern rulers are seen clasping each other closely, Jahangir looming over his Iranian counterpart (see Fig. 0.5). They stand on the backs of a lamb (Shah ʿAbbas) and lion (Jahangir), calmly resting on a globe showing Europe, Africa, and Asia. Recent scholars have interpreted this ­image through the lens of race and gender dynamics, as well as the cartographic obsessions of early modern artists and rulers.21 Allegory, as a particular attribute of early seventeenth-century imperial iconography, has also been explored most recently by Ebba Koch, who writes that Mughal rulers relied on Christian symbols (such as the imagery of the lion and the lamb) “in search of suitable ideas and symbols to broaden their image as universal rulers with yet another deifying element.”22 These issues are prominent in the image, but they can also overshadow the unique vision and ability of the artist, Abul Hasan.23 According to the king, Abul Hasan was born as khānazād, the son of an artist-courtier, whose talents were nurtured from 21 22

23

For example, Juan Cole, Sumathi Ramaswany, Ayesha Ramachandran, Beach, et al. Ebba Koch, “The Mughal Emperor as Solomon, Majnun, and Orpheus, or the Album as a Think Tank for Allegory,” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 277–311; 288. Abul Hasan is the focus of Milo Cleveland Beach, “The Mughal Painter Abuʾl Hasan and Some English Sources for His Style,” The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, Vol. 38 (1980): 6–33. For a more recent study, see Jasper C. von Putten, “Jahangir Heroically Killing Poverty: Pictorial sources and pictorial tradition in Mughal allegory and portraiture,” in The Meeting Place of British Middle East Studies, Amanda Phillips and Refqa Abu-Remaileh, eds. (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009). However, the focus of the two essays is on the sources of influence for Abul Hasan’s style, rather than a broader contextualization of his oeuvre.

10

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Figure 0.5 Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas, c 1600-30 (Freer Gallery of Art, F1945.9).

an early age. Jahangir gave him the sobriquet, “Nadir al-Zaman” the “Wonder of the Age” and wrote of him that he had no rival or equal.24 What would a title such as “Wonder of the Age” mean in the context of seventeenth-century India? Was it simply a form of praise or did it come with professional recognition at the imperial court? Did the issue of time, central to the title, place Abul Hasan within a lineage of great masters, whose 24

Jahangir, The Jahangirnama: Memoirs of Jahangir, Emperor of India. Translated, edited, and annotated by Wheeler M. Thackston (Washington, d.c.: Freer Gallery of Art, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, 1999); 267–68. Also quoted in Beach, “The Mughal Painter Abuʾl Hasan,” 19, and von Putten, “Jahangir Heroically Killing Poverty,” 112.

innovations and particular style of painting bestowed on them a singular position in the history at art itself?25 Jahangir was well aware of such concerns, as would have been his artists, who actively sought to insert themselves into the rhetoric of image-making. This was done either through the manipulation of earlier models (that is in emulating the works of past masters) or through literally including themselves in the image. Authorship in the early modern period was a complex issue, in which artists and compilers of albums viewed the history of art as a chain of transmission, of skills as

25

Indeed, Jahangir wrote that Abul Hasan could only be surpassed by previous Timurid masters, Bihzad and Abdul Hayy. Jahangirnama, 268.

11

Introduction

well as concepts.26 The act of making was a performative response to history, and the artist was one who replicated and perfected earlier models. Portraits served to narrate the social and political status of the person depicted, often the ruler, through similitude or suggestion.27 Commoners and courtiers were also subjects for documentation, as the eye of the artist moved towards the quotidian, sketching dervishes as well as elite governors. One such image is that of the renowned Mughal courtier, Abdur Rahim (1556–1627), who was brought up in the court of Akbar. He was a polyglot, “proficient in Turkish, Persian, and Hindavi, and he is said to have known Arabic, Sanskrit, and Portuguese.”28 He was also a renowned statesman and poet, credited with expressing himself in both Persian and Hindavi and patronizing poets who wrote in both languages. According to a biography he commissioned towards the end of his life, Rahim established important ateliers in cities that he was sent to govern, such as Thatta, in Sindh, and Burhanput, in the Deccan. Here, poets as well as painters were gathered, to write on a range of topics, from Perso-Islamic literature to retellings of Hindu classics, such as the Ramāyāna.29 Textual records provide important insights into Rahim’s patronage, his ambitions, his interests and abilities. However, visual sources were also 26

27

28

29

Discussed also in David Roxburgh, “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 119–46. “A ‘suggestive’ portrait, [is] one in which attaining a physical likeness was secondary to portraying the ­attributes of the king.” Kishwar Rizvi, “The Suggestive Portrait of Shah ʿAbbas: Prayer and likeness in a 1605 Safavid Shahnama (Book of Kings),” The Art Bulletin 94/2, (June, 2012): 226–50. Corinne Lefevre, “The Court of Abd-ur-Rahim Khan-i Khanan as a Bridge between Iranian and Indian Cultural Traditions,” in Culture and Circulation: Literature in motion in early modern India, Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 2014); 75–106. For a discussion of Abdur Rahim’s atelier, see John Seyller, Workshop and Patron in Mughal India: The Freer Rāmāyaṇa and other illustrated manuscripts of ʻAbd alRaḥīm, (Zürich, Switzerland; Washington, d.c.: Artibus Asiae Publishers: Museum Rietberg in association with the Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, 1999).

called upon to represent the man. In a single-sheet painting from a dispersed album (now at the Yale University Art Gallery), Rahim is shown in profile, wearing a modest tunic of white cloth specked with gold; the waist is cinched with a patkā fabric belt, while mauve pāi-jāmā trousers hug tightly at his calves (see Fig. 0.6). A cap woven with white and gold thread sits on his head as Rahim gazes intently into the distance. Jahangir was fond of having his courtiers and close associates painted by his favorite artists, and those images would be collected in his albums of painting and calligraphy. His involvement is apparent in the inscription on the painting, running sideways on the left-hand side, which reads, “Likeness (ṣūrat) of Abdur Rahim Khan-i Khanan 1017 (1608).”30 The inscription appears to have been penned by Jahangir himself, in a hand that is identifiable to ones on other single-­sheet paintings collected in the Shah Jahan Album, such as the portrait of Maharaja Bhim Kanwar, by the artist Nanha, now at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jahangiri’s handwritten inscriptions run along the side of the painting, lending an intimacy to the image. He took great pride in his ability to recognize and nurture artistic talent, and it is clear from his biography and the works themselves that he was closely involved in their production. But what of Abdur Rahim; how do we “find” him in this image? Does the painting reduce and mask his achievements, restricting him to the role of “Jahangir’s courtier?” Certainly, his representation is less opulently adorned in the accoutrements of power; there are no jewels, no sword hilt or grand headgear. Rather, Rahim stands in obeisance, his hands folded at his waist. Nonetheless, his acumen and vision is seen in the intensity of his gaze, which is at once serene and perceptive. A poet and a warrior, Rahim personified early modern Mughal India, surrounding himself with figures of different religions and linguistic and cultural 30

Jahangir’s handwriting was first identified on this page by Ebba Koch when she visited the gallery in March 2011. She speculated that the page is likely from a late Shah Jahan album, for which it was resized with new margins and marginalia.

12

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Figure 0.6 Portrait of Abdur Rahim, 1608 (Yale ­University Art Gallery, 1983.94.11).

backgrounds. His ideas and likenesses circulated widely, influencing the courtly milieu of which he was an intrinsic part. That an individual such as Rahim could deploy or be a part of such diverse representations, points to the multiplicity of m ­ edia ­available to early modern audiences and the complex manners in which they were brought together.

Mobility and Temporality

The aspirations of chroniclers, poets, architects, and artists that that were part of the Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal courtly milieu were evinced in the

composition of autobiographies as well as in the emphasis on verisimilitude and portraiture. New technologies affected architectural ­ production, and a broadening social sphere changed the way in which urban spaces were described and experienced. Capital cities, such as Isfahan and Istanbul, were not only conceptualized as seats of religious and imperial power, but were thriving metropolises that were home to diverse populations and a range of public institutions. The art, architecture and urbanism witnessed in this period was part of global trends, and we would be remiss to think of Iran, Turkey, and ­India in geographic or temporal isolation. Recent scholarship has indeed questioned the ­ universality

13

Introduction

Figure 0.7 Portrait of Sir Robert Shirley, c. 1622 (Petworth House, The Egremont Collection (acquired in lieu of tax by hm Treasury in 1956 and subsequently transferred to the National Trust).

of ­definitions such as “Renaissance” and “early ­modern” as well as their physical location. Thus one may look to the intertwined histories of people, culture, and works of art to understand how some of the most important social and political changes occurred in the world.31 Thriving ­cosmopolitan cities, from Isfahan to Venice, supported the movement of people and trade, bringing silks and ceramics to E ­ uropean households and ­illustrated print c­ulture to the Middle East 31

Take for example, Daniela Bleichmar and Meredith Martin, eds. “Objects in Motion in the Early Modern World,” a special issue of Art History 13/4 (September 2015).

and South Asia. Such exchanges are visible in a range of media, from the dress of courtiers and merchants to the ornament on imperial mausolea, such as the Taj Mahal. Thus a painting of Sir Robert Shirley shows the ­British envoy from Shah ʿAbbas to the courts of Europe dressed in Safavid silks embroidered with opulent figural and floral designs (see Fig. 0.7).32 The coat and cape are draped in a way to give full view to the textiles, ­representing well the skill that went into their making. It was an ­appropriate costume for a man negotiating 32

Reproduced in Nicholas Troumans, ed., Lure of the East: British Orientalist painting, (New Haven, ct: Yale University Press, 2008).

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Figure 0.8

Tomb of Jahangir, detail, Lahore (1627–37). Image courtesy of MIT/Archnet: IHP0064.

economic and political ties between England and Iran. Similar “cross-dressing” took place in other media, such as Safavid ceramics embellished with Ming designs (and exported to Europe as Chinese ware) or Mughal architecture revetted in precious stones using the Italian pietra dura (hard stone) inlay technique, known in Persian as parchīn kārī (see Fig. 0.8). Whether driven by ­aesthetic choice or technological inspiration, among the particularities of the early modern period is the cross-pollination seen in these examples.33 Together they demonstrate how works of art and architecture were intrinsically linked to cultures of contact and appropriation. They also reveal that social mean33

Parallel examples are given in Claire Farago, “On the Peripatetic Life of Objects in the Ear of Globalization,” in Cultural Contact and the Making of European Art Since the Age of Exploration, Mary D. Sheriff, ed. (Chapel Hill [n.c.]: University of North Carolina Press, 2010).

ings at this time were mutable and contingent on location and the particular perspective of the observer, the consumer, and the maker. Shah ʿAbbas’ Isfahan competed with other great capitals of the time as an important center for trade and commerce in the early modern period (see Fig. 0.9). The Ottomans were at the height of their glory following Sultan Sulyeman’s victories, which increased Istanbul’s status as the religious, ­bureaucratic and artist center of the empire.34 Similarly, Akbar’s capitals in Lahore and Agra attracted missionaries and merchants from all over the world, their legendary wealth represented in deluxe objects and recorded in the diaries of ­travelers. The early modern city was the site of 34

Gülru Neçipoglu, “A Kānūn for the State, a Canon for the Arts: Conceptualizing the Classical Synthesis of ­Ottoman Arts and Architecture,” Suleyman the ­Magnificent and his Time, ed. G. Veinstein, (Paris: ­Documentation francçaise), 1992.

15

Introduction

Figure 0.9

Chahar Bagh Avenue, Isfahan, c. 1718 by Cornelis de Bruyn. (Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscripts Library, Yale University).

novelty and adventure, where chance encounters and secret trysts provided opportunities for love and romance. The titles of such poetry – shahr asūb, city destroyer – signaled the role of the individual (often a beautiful young man) who traversed the city, turning it upside-down along with the hearts and minds of those who encountered him.35 Such encounters happened often at dusk, 35

For the Indian context, see Sunil Sharma, “The City of Beauties in the Indo-Persian Poetic Landscape,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East. xxiv, no. 2 (2004): 73–81. For the Turkish one, see Selim Kuru, “Naming the Beloved in Turkish Ottoman Gazel,” in The Ghazal in World Literature ii From a Literary Genre to a Great Tradition: The Ottoman gazel in context, Angelika Neuwirth, et al. eds. (Wurzburg, 2006).

after the setting of the sun. ­Isfahan, like Agra and ­Istanbul, was imagined as a ­nocturnal city, where the ­culture of coffeehouses took over once the call to prayers died down. Urban spaces, like artistic ateliers, were heterotopic and polyglot, where men (and sometimes women) came together in complex and interdependent ways. Seen through such a lens, early modernity describes a way of imagining the world in its totality. It was evident in the obsession during this time with mapmaking and the competition to gain supremacy over land and sea. With the rise of cartography, Europeans as well as those in the great empires of Asia, especially the Ottomans, performed their imperial and economic ambitions in competition and dialog with each other. Yet it would be incomplete to characterize the period

16

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as simply a response to scientific and geographic discoveries. As Ayesha Ramachandan has written, “Because of its explicit interest in recreating the world – visually, philosophically, and politically – world-making forced early modern thinkers to confront complex theological and metaphysical dilemmas, as their own act of intellectual creation and ordering seemed to parallel and rival God’s original creation of the world. To imagine and create the world in early modernity was thus to express something more profound than a desire for imperial and commercial dominion: worldmaking was nothing less than establishing an ideal world order, understood in metaphysical, scientific, theological, and eventually, in political terms.”36 From the perspectives of the Ottomans, Mughals, and Safavids that are the subjects of this volume, imagining the world was concerned with finding their place within it. For the rulers, it meant to validate and explain their own dynastic ambitions. In Iran, for example the question was how to merge Shiʿism with the language of messianism and spiritual authority in order to ­establish a new rhetoric of statehood. How would tribal norms give way to new cadres of loyalty to the ruling family; how would earthly governance cohere with changing dogma; and relevant to the art historian, how would works of art and architecture be mobilized in propagating this new vision? Yet alongside imperial desires were the ­passions of individuals, whether they were the rulers or the ruled. Such concerns were shared across the great Muslim Empires. Thus while Tahmasb’s ­biography reveals the desire of a man trying to define himself in succession to his charismatic father, the portrait of ­Jahangir’s close companion and courtier, Inayat Khan, by the artist Balchand poignantly highlights the f­utility of a man s­ uccumbing to excess (Figure 0.10). ­Jahangir ordered his artists to sketch the ­drug-addicted Inayat Khan as he lay dying, an image that was at once documentary and poetic, expressing the pathos of life itself. The introspec36

Ayesha Ramachandan, “A War of Worlds: Becoming ‘Early Modern’ and the Challenge of Comparison,” in Comparative Early Modernities: 1100–1800, David Porter, ed. (New York: Palgrave, 2012): 15–46.

tion and curiosity to understand the inner self merged with the ­scientific need for precision and tabulation. Similarly, expressions of self-hood overlapped with knowledge of an ever-expanding sense of the world; contact and exchange ­heightened these experiences that would be recorded in books and on buildings, inscribed on paper and etched on walls, transforming the world and its very conceptualization.

Structure of the Book

The focus of this anthology is on the three Muslim empires, but Europe and China, the Americas and Africa, whisper in the shadows. Trade and commerce were as essential as religion and culture in defining political ideology. Equally potent changes were taking place in social, theological, and cultural practices, and in literature and the arts. The essays gathered here are linked by a deeply historical approach to understanding the early modern period, yet each author approaches questions of time, tradition, and identity very differently. Whether through the lens of affect or visuality, or through considering poetic texts or portraiture, the authors contribute unique ways of studying issues of intentionality and subjectivity in Islamic art and culture. Among the most visible signs of authorship are the traces of one’s hand, one’s name, and one’s portrait. The first three essays address these issues in detail, highlighting the social and political implications of artistic authority. In Chapter 1, Sussan Babaie considers the ways in which architects in the early modern period – their titles fluid and mutable – negotiated identity within their courtly milieu and how that identity could be brought to bear on their social and economic status. In the case of Mirza Shah Husayn, for example, that identity was made manifest through his architectural “signatures,” something that modern-day readers may associate with a brand or design. Yet for men such as Husayn, the title “architect” was itself the marker of social and artistic hierarchy. Their status was made manifest on the façades of the buildings they designed and in the chronicles documenting their achievements.

Figure 0.10

Portrait of a dying Inayat Khan, attributed to Balchand, 1618 (Museum of Fine Art, Boston, 14.679).

Introduction

17

18 Marianna Shreve Simpson enumerates how some markers of identity were distilled into the medium as seen in the ways in which painters and calligraphers embedded their names within the image or text itself. Annotations and signatures were sometimes concealed and barely legible, hidden in the corners of a page, the folds of a dress, or written on the cornice of architectural composition; sometimes they were confidently ­declarative, emblazoned as foundation inscriptions, adding a forceful coda to the name of the patron and builder. A name, the primary indicator of personhood, began to appear thus in spaces of sociability and encounter. It was simultaneously personal and public, the signature reflecting a moment in a person’s life and his need for achieving posterity. Using the manuscript was also conceptualized as dialogic, the painter/calligrapher ­hiding clues for the viewer/reader to find. The revelation enhanced the experience of encountering the manuscript, the moment of discovery as ephemeral and delightful as a knowing wink exchanged between friends or co-conspirators. The issue of artistic identity and agency is brought to the fore in the third chapter, in which Emine Fetvacı focusses on author portraits in ­Ottoman manuscripts. As in the case of Mughal ­India a little later, writers and illustrators were identified on the opening pages of the historical and poetic anthologies they composed, thus a­ sserting their role in the production process. That is to say, they were no longer simply executors of a patron’s will, but active participants in the codex’s making. The representation of the authors and artists, illuminators and illustrators, were idealized and nonspecific in terms of physiognomy; instead they were identified by the “tools” of their respective trades, pens and brushes, for example. The constructedness of identity was a marker of this period, in which selfhood was encoded through typologies of merit which merged the personal with the official. Owners of books and albums sometimes annotated them, leaving marginal notes or drawings that provided commentary on the text/image. In her chapter on effacement and mutation of ­images, Christiane Gruber raises important questions about the ways in which people interacted

Rizvi

with images after they were made. The affective use and misuse of images must be understood as complementary and related phenomena. Iconophilia as well as iconophobia, she argues, both provided impetuses for the intentional and unintentional defacement of paintings. Images were manipulated, sometimes centuries after their making, through complex acts of devotion as well as destruction. For example, whereas some might kiss an image until it was damaged, others might purposefully obliterate or mutilate it. Sylvia Houghteling’s study of Safavid figural textiles in Chapter 5 brings to the fore issues of subjective experience within the framework of Islamic material culture. In addition to discussing the production and dissemination of silk, the author studies the trade networks and cultures of exchange within which textiles circulated in the early modern period. She studies the objects themselves, but also their representations in visual and textual sources of the time, thereby revealing what she calls a “period sensorium.” The connoisseurship and collecting of textiles was practiced in the Mughal court where many of the Safavid silks were bought by imperial men and women, who evaluated the materials for their aesthetic impact and the craftsmanship used to achieve it. The poetry and paintings studied by Houghteling add another dimension to understanding the use and appreciation of textiles, which were called upon to bring comfort and pleasure, all the while bestowing prestige upon their owners. The early modern period is exemplified not only by the global exchange of commodities, but also the mobility of people. Chapter 6 returns to the subject of architecture through a consideration of the Mughal city, Delhi, as it was transformed over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Chanchal Dadlani argues that the cityscape, predicated on the influx of migrants as well as foreign travelers, changed the way people encountered urban spaces. Interestingly, places that were once at the center of urban life, such as the imperial fort and palace, were replaced by Sufi shrines and gardens. Needless to say, these were sites with greater accessibility for a wider swath of society, crossing gender, socio-economic,

19

Introduction

and religious boundaries. The multiple sites also allowed for heterodox urban experiences, as seen in the famed Muraqqaʻ-yi Dilhi, a poetic text that described and extolled the grand city and its inhabitants. The texts and spaces together point to a new urban awareness at this time, one which led in turn to new ways of locating oneself, metaphorically and physically, within the city. The spectacular merged with the sensuous, as seen in the following chapter, in which Sunil Sharma discusses the experience of urban subjectivity, understood through the lens of late Mughal poetry. His focus is on the eighteenth-century figure, Faʾiz Dihlavi, whose Urdu poetry is novel in the manner in which it merges traditional Persianate tropes with Indic forms. The poet describes the multitudes promenading in the city, and the different religions and social classes; yet his focus is on the women he encounters and the desires they evoke in him. Love is here uncoupled from the metaphysical adoration of God, to focus on more sensual, earthly desires. Women’s bodies are displayed and described, ethnography is overlaid with eroctica, to reveal a voice filled with longing, yet in control of his subject – the poem. Individual experience, subjective and independent, takes precedence over imperial representation, a marker of the changing social and ideological norms of the times. Chapter 8 is an exploration of the methods employed by historians, whether of religion or art history, when they attempt to tackle the issue of emotion and subjectivity. Jamal Elias suggests that emotion be viewed not as a universal, but as a cultural artifact, constructed through the specificities of time and place. Utilizing representations of Mevlevi Sufis in textual sources as well their visual counterparts, Elias provides case studies that demonstrate the complexity in trying to work productively through historical material. He suggests that gestures and postures provide semiotic clues to decoding the meaning rooted in certain representations. The final essay is a useful coda to the anthology, as it provides a broadened context, temporal and theoretical, for considering issues of emotion and affect in the early modern period. The papers in this volume take as a starting point the mandate to move beyond traditional for-

malist or social art historical methods to study the early modern Muslim empires of the Ottomans, Safavids, and Mughals. Thus, they raise questions of authorship and reception; affect and sentiment; mobility and encounter; transregional connections and the circulation of objects and ideas. Historically rooted, these studies have nonetheless pushed the boundaries of traditional Islamic art history. Focusing still on questions of materiality and production, they ask us to think of what those mean in a world transformed through the solidifying of imperial boundaries, technological innovation, and travel. They give us insights into the ambitions of architects, artists, and poets, who make use of their skills to represent themselves and their world through the mediums of art, literature and architecture. Bibliography Babaie, Sussan. “Building for the Shah: The Role of Mirza Muhammad Taqi in Safavid Royal Patronage of Architecture,” Safavid Art and Architecture, ed. S. Canby. British Museum Press: London, 2002. Babur, Zahir al-din. The Baburnama: Memoirs of Babur, prince and emperor, translated, edited, and annotated by Wheeler M. Thackston; introduction by Salman Rushdie. New York: Modern Library, 2002. Beach, Milo Cleveland. “The Mughal Painter Abuʾl Hasan and Some English Sources for His Style,” The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, Vol. 38 (1980): 6–33. Berlekamp, Persis. Review of The Persian Album. CAA. Reviews, 19 June 2006. 21 June 2015. http://www .caareviews.org/reviews/858. Bleichmar, Daniela and Meredith Martin, eds. “Objects in Motion in the Early Modern World,” Art History 13/4 (September 2015). Burke, Peter. “Representations of the Self from Petrach to Descartes,” Rewriting the Self: Histories from the ­Renaissance to the present, ed. Roy Porter. London; New York: Routledge, 1997. Doss, Erika. “Affect,” American Art, 23/1 (2009): 9–11. Farago, Claire. “On the Peripatetic Life of Objects in the Ear of Globalization,” Cultural Contact and the Making of European Art Since the Age of Exploration,

20 ed. Mary D. Sheriff. Chapel Hill [N.C.]: University of North Carolina Press, 2010. Jahangir, The Jahangirnama: Memoirs of Jahangir, Emperor of India. Translated, edited, and annotated by Wheeler M. Thackston. Washington, D.C.: Freer ­Gallery of Art, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, 1999. Khwandamir, Ghiyas al-din Muhammad Husayni. Habīb al-siyar. Tehran, 1334. Koch, Ebba. “The Mughal Emperor as Solomon, Majnun, and Orpheus, or the Album as a Think Tank for Allegory,” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 277–311. Kuru, Selim. “Naming the Beloved in Turkish Ottoman Gazel,” The Ghazal in World Literature II From a Literary Genre to a Great Tradition: The Ottoman gazel in context, eds. Angelika Neuwirth, et al. Wurzburg, 2006. Lefevre, Corinne. “The Court of Abd-ur-Rahim Khani Khanan as a Bridge between Iranian and Indian Cultural Traditions,”. Culture and Circulation: Literature in motion in early modern India, eds. Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Moin, Azfar. “Peering through the Cracks in the Baburnama: The Textured Lives of Mughal Sovereigns,” ­Indian Economic and Social History Review, 49:4 (2012): 493–526. Neçipoglu, Gülru. “A Kānūn for the State, a Canon for the Arts: Conceptualizing the Classical Synthesis of Ottoman Arts and Architecture,” Suleyman the Magnificent and his Time, ed. G. Veinstein. Paris: Documentation francçaise, 1992. Putten, Jasper C. von. “Jahangir Heroically Killing ­Poverty: Pictorial sources and pictorial tradition in Mughal allegory and portraiture,” The Meeting Place of British Middle East Studies, Amanda Phillips and ­Refqa Abu-Remaileh, eds. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009. Qummi, Qazi Ahmad. Khulāsat al-Tawārīkh, 2 vols, ed. Ehsan Eshraqi, Tehran, 1359–1363. Ramachandan, Ayesha. “A War of Worlds: Becoming ‘Early Modern’ and the Challenge of Comparison,” Comparative Early Modernities: 1100–1800, David Porter, ed. New York: Palgrave, 2012: 15–46. Rizvi, Kishwar. “The Suggestive Portrait of Shah ʿAbbas: Prayer and likeness in a 1605 Safavid Shahnama (Book of Kings),” The Art Bulletin 94/2, (June, 2012): 226–50.

Rizvi Rizvi, Kishwar. “Between the Human and the Divine: Majālis al-ushhāq and the materiality of love in early Safavid art,” in Ut pictura amor: The Reflexive Imagery of Love in Artistic Theory and Practice, 1400–1700, ­Walter Melion, Joanna Woodall, and Michael Zell, eds. Leiden: Brill. 2017. Roxburgh, David. Prefacing the Image: The writing of art history in sixteenth-century Iran. Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2001. Roxburgh, David. “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 119–46. Roxburgh, David. “‘The Eye is Favored for Seeing the Writing’s Form’: On the Sensual and the Sensuous in Islamic Calligraphy,” Muqarnas 25 (2008): 275–98. Roxburgh, David. The Persian album, 1400–1600: From dispersal to collection. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005. Safawi, Sam Mirza. Tazkirā-i Tuhfa-yi sāmī. Rukn al-Din Humayunfarruk, ed. Tehran: Ilmi, n.d. Savory, Roger. “Principal Offices of the Reign of Ismaʾil (907–30/1501–24),” BSOAS 24, (1960): 91–105. Seyller, John. Workshop and Patron in Mughal India: The Freer Rāmāyaṇa and other illustrated manuscripts of ʿAbd al-Raḥīm. Zürich, Switzerland; Washington, D.C.: Artibus Asiae Publishers: Museum Rietberg in association with the Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, 1999. Sharma, Sunil. “The City of Beauties in the Indo-Persian Poetic Landscape,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East. XXIV, no. 2 (2004): 73–81. Tahmasb, Shah. Tazkira-i Shāh Tahmāsb. Abd al-Shukur, Berlin–Charlottenburg, 1343 (1964). Thackston, W. Jr. Habibu’s Siyar, Tome Three: The reign of the Mongol and the Turk. Cambridge, MA: NELC, Harvard University, 1994. Troumans, Nicholas, ed., Lure of the East: British Orientalist painting. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008. Woods-Marsden, Joanna. Renaissance Self-portraiture: The visual construction of identity and the social status of the artist. New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1998. Zaman, Taymiya R., “Instructive Memory: An Analysis of Auto/Biographical Writing in Early Mughal ­India,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the O ­ rient, Vol. 54, No. 5 (2011): 677–700.

chapter 1

Chasing after the Muhandis

Visual Articulations of the Architect and Architectural Historiography Sussan Babaie The name of Qavam al-Din Shirazi (1410–38) is associated with the Great Mosque of Gawhar ­ Shad at the Shrine of Imam Riza in Mashhad and with patrons in Herat. It also appears in Tazki­ rat ­al-shuʿaraʾ, a biographical dictionary of poets completed in 1487 by Daulatshah Samarqandi.1 The reference offers a rare glimpse into an architect’s social place. Daulatshah refers to Qavam ­al-Din as “one of the four luminaries of the court, a master in muhandisī (engineering or geometry), ṭarrāḥī (design or drawing) and miʿmārī (architecture or building).” Other contemporaries report that he devised an almanac as a New Year gift to appease his royal patron Shah Rukh (1405–47) after the ruler, reportedly, banished the architect from court for having failed to meet his expectations for an unnamed building. Although this may be a trope, it was Qavam al-Din’s high profile that ensured the  spread of this anecdote by Babur, the founder of the Mughal dynasty. Furthermore, Khwandamir, the early sixteenth-century ­historian, situates the architect in what can be understood as an art ­historically-informed context when he states that “Master Qavam al-Din the Shirazi architect [was] the exemplar of the engineers

1 Dawlatshah Samarqandi, “Tadhkirat al-shuʿara,” in A Cen­ tury of Princes: Sources on Timurid History and Art, trans. Wheeler M. Thackston (Cambridge, ma: The Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture, 1989), 21; Donald Wilber, “Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi: A FifteenthCentury Timurid Architect,” Architectural History 30 (1987): 31; Sussan Babaie, “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House of Tamerlane,” in The Great Builders, ed. Kenneth Powell (London: Thames & Hudson, 2011), 29.

of the age and the reference point for the architects of the epoch.”2 However, a pair of epigraphic panels on the ­qibla iwan of the Great Mosque of Gawhar Shad in Mashhad is most unusual. They bear the date of the building’s completion as well as the name of the architect accompanied by a self-effacing title that must have been deliberately chosen by him, as will be discussed below (see Figs. 1.1 & 1.2).3 The location of the “signatory” panels on this important building, the relationship between the royal patrons and the architect, and the culturally specific tenor of that visibility, articulated in visual and spatial ­decisions and in the choice of words, inform this essay’s reading of the architect’s partic­ ipatory presence within the frameworks of “subjectivity” and “expressions of personhood.”4 While the architect’s name appears only once more on a  building (it was added posthumously at a ma­ drasa at Khargird, 1438–44, for Ghiyath al-Din), the ­appearance of his name at such a prominent place 2 Babaie, “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House of Tamerlane,” 29; Ghiyas al-Din b. Humam al-Din M ­ ohammad Khwandamir, Habib al-siyar, ed. J. Homai, 4 vols. (Tehran: Khayyam Publishers, 1333/1954), vol. 4, 14–15. 3 All documents on the building, plans, elevations, decoration etc. have been studied in Lisa Golombek and Donald N. Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan (Princeton, nj: Princeton University Press, 1988), vol. 1 190–91; vol. 2, illustrations 241–50; Bernard O’Kane, Timurid ­Architecture in Khurasan (Costa Mesa, ca: Mazda Publishers in association with Undena Publications, 1987), 123–26. 4 I explored the topic preliminarily for the short commissioned essay “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House of Tamerlane,” 29–33.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_003

22

Babaie

Figure 1.1 Mashhad, Qibla iwan at the Mosque of Gawhar Shad in the Shrine complex of Imam Riza, completed 1418. (Photo © May Farhat).

on such an important building as the mosque in Mashhad surpasses anything encountered until the beginning of the fifteenth century.5 The visibility of Qavam al-Din in textual references to him or in attributions by epigraphic signatory marks seem meager compared to other celebrated examples, often cited as exceptions. For example, much praise has been lavished in contemporary chronicles on the Ottoman architect Sinan (c. 1489/90–1588); alongside his own autobiographical writings, this praise paints a

compelling picture of the historical emergence of a cultural/architectural disposition in sixteenthcentury Ottoman territories.6 Given Sinan’s status as the chief architect of imperial works under three sultans, his role in the professionalization of architecture, and his influence through students, followers, and his principal building designs, mostly still extant, it is not viable to juxtapose Sinan with the Western European and Byzantine craftsmen-architects of the Middle Ages as the great architectural historian Spiro Kostof did in

5 Wilber, “Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi,” 33, 35; O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 211; Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 190, 192.

6 Gülrü Necipoğlu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 127–52.

Chasing after the Muhandis

23

Figure 1.2 Mashhad, Qibla iwan at the Mosque of Gawhar Shad in the Shrine complex of of Imam Riza. One of the two foundation inscription panels with the name of Qavam al-Din Shirazi the architect is seen at the lower lefthand side of the iwan opening, completed 1418. (Photo © B. O’Kane / Alamy Stock Photo).

the last decades of the twentieth century.7 Comparative studies, such as Kostof’s, were pioneering in their time and have become de rigueur in the era of “global” or world art histories. But in nearly all instances the urge to include whatever lies outside Europe ends up reflecting on the centrality of Europe instead of its marginal position in premodern history.8 On the contrary, it is necessary 7 Spiro Kostof, “The Architect in the Middle Ages, East and West,” in The Architect: Chapters in the History of the P­ rofession, ed. Spiro Kostof (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 62–63. 8 It is assumed that the emergence of “the modern” dates from the nineteenth century, albeit not necessarily in Europe.

to examine whether the integrated architectural culture that Necipoğlu documented for Sinan’s time could teach us something about the Renaissance and its architects who have always been understood within an exclusively European context blinkered towards Rome, Venice, and Florence.9 It is also worth digging deeper into f­ ield-specific scholarship of the “Islamic” side. Generalized studies tend to collapse the social and cultural practices of vastly different periods across the entire heartlands of Islam – from Andalucia to India – into a dominant “Islamic practice.” Little ­consideration 9 For his study of medieval architects Kostof had relied on L.A. Mayer, Islamic Architects and Their Works (­Geneva: A. Kundig, 1956).

24

Babaie

is given to ways in which the architect-builder would have indicated his person or profession beyond “signatures,” in the way practitioners of other, more prominent fields – calligraphy above all – are understood to have done. In other words, scholarship on the social status of architectbuilders hinges on the manner and prevalence of “signatures.” Unsurprisingly, within such cultural parameters and in comparison to calligraphy this practice is treated as insignificant.10 Signatory traces of personhood and subjectivity have indeed dominated the discussion of architects in the premodern “Islamicate” context or else have rendered the subject practically a non-subject on account of the absence or scarcity of signatures. Across the lands under the cultural spell of practices of Islam – the “Islamicate” world of Marshall Hodgson – artful writing has occupied the place of honor.11 After all, writing was and remains the manual expression of the spiritual weight of the revelations, the “Word,” for which the Prophet Muhammad was the Messenger.12 Writing evolved into an art form of the highest order and its greatest practitioners were named, evaluated, and their works were recorded in history from the very beginning – a proper art-historical awareness and discourse, if one existed, since the eighth century. This evolution constitutes the core argument, the 10

11

12

Sheila S. Blair, “Place, Space, and Style: Craftsmen’s Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art,” in Viewing Inscrip­ tions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. Antony Eastmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 230–48. Marshall G.S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Con­ science and History in a World Civilization, vol. 1 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 471–72; vol. 2, 3–11, 510, 539–42. This holds true even for school-child exercises in Persian poetry with reed pen and ink. I had to do these exercises sitting on the carpet and not on my little desk, as my father thought that otherwise I would not learn the correct hand gestures, placement of the tip of the pen onto the paper, and angle at which the pen were to glide on the paper.

foundational premise of what has been described as “Islamic” arts.13 Since calligraphy was foregrounded as the art form that captures the “essence” of the arts of ­Islam, it became an impediment to a fuller, more expansive understanding that could inform the general public, Muslim or otherwise. Contemporary artists of/from the regions where the cultures of Islam remain dominant disturbingly claim that their practice is utterly devoid of anything of the local histories of the arts because it has nothing to do with the calligraphics of “Islamic” arts. The ­narrow definition of “Islamic” arts and the marginalization of their practitioners in the ­historiography of art have contributed to the formulation of a general assumption, even a firm belief, that in Islam everything is about the “Word” and writing, figural images are forbidden, and the architects or artists other than the calligrapher lack serious social standing and are incapable of exercising agency or expressing personhood.14 The problem cannot be tackled without admitting that there is no single phenomenon of “­Islamic art” just as there is no such a thing as “­Islam” in the singular. It is perhaps pedestrian to the learned reader to argue that architects, similarly to painters and other artists, practiced their professions differently in time and place. For example, in fourteenth-century Mamluk Cairo the name of the architect was deliberately excluded in favor of the patron’s name; in sixteenth-century Safavid Isfahan the architect was named alongside 13

14

Jonathan Bloom and Sheila Blair, Islamic Arts (London: Phaidon Press, 1997), 10; Barbara Brend, Islamic Art (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1991), 33–34; Robert Hillenbrand, Islamic Art and Architecture (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1999), 8–9. Recent discussions and publications on this debate are numerous, especially surrounding the massacre of the staff at Charlie Hebdo in Paris. See for instance, Christiane Gruber, “The Koran Does Not Forbid Images of the Prophet,” in Newsweek 9 January 2015; accessed 20 July 2016 http://europe.newsweek.com/ koran-does-not-forbid-images-prophet-298298?rm=eu.

25

Chasing after the Muhandis

the royal patron and his vizier, one of the highestranking imperial officials. The discussion on the signatures of architects or other practitioners would not have been raised if it were not for the “accusation” that arts in the lands dominated by the cultural norms of Islam did not allow social space for “individuality,” in the sense claimed for the European Renaissance. In large part, “Islamicate” practices may indeed have been less about foregrounding individuality and more about the individual’s social situatedness and his position on a silsila, a chain of productive dialogues like learning, emulating and taking things to a new stage, built upon models such as master-pupil, patron-client or past-present; in all such models, the humility of the pupil, the client or the present vis-à-vis the master, the patron or the past is considered as a positive trait for the new to emerge safely and compellingly from the old.15 Such multiplicity of intertwined, transhistorical and intergenerational markers of presence and belonging are ­frequently encountered even in a single spot. Inside the famous muqarnas-filled western iwan of the Friday Mosque of Isfahan, sixteenth-century interventions in the tile-and-brick decorations bear the names of several practitioners, among them two bannāʾ, each claiming the work using the Arabic term for ʿamal-i (the work of) and identifying himself by reference 15

Scholarship on the subject is well developed in the context of religious studies, Islam, philosophy, history and literature. For “Iranianate” examples closer in date and genre to this essay’s topic, see Paul E. Losensky, Welcoming Fighānī: Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal (Costa Mesa, ca: Mazda Publishers, 1998), especially Chaps. 3–6. In painting, Roxburgh’s attempt at dismantling the scholarly desire for signatures for the great artist Bihzad suggests similar ideas, although less on the level of a dialogue with the past; David J. Roxburgh, “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 119–46; David J. Roxburgh, Prefacing the Im­ age: the Writing of Art History in Sixteenth-Century Iran (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 150.

to a father whose name must have been recognizable as a master (see Fig. 1.3).16 One of them, Ustad Ibrahim ibn Ustad Ismaʿil Bannaʾ Isfahani, foregrounds his and his father’s master architect status; the other assumes a self-deprecating position, bi ʿamal al-faqīr (the work of the poor), Yusuf ibn Taj al-Din Bannaʾ ­Isfahani. Inspired by the first signatory mark, local lore has named this iwan as the Ivan-i Ustād, matched across the courtyard by the Ivān-i Shāgard, i.e. the work of that master’s pupil. Ignoring such localized complexity of meanings, master-pupil networks and their related cultural posturing of humility before the past and its masters is frequently made as a defect, a case of arrested progress, or morass, in the march toward the inevitability of European modernity and its concept of the human as master of personhood, a problem in historiography this volume aims to redress. The point ought to be articulated in terms of specificities of social practice in specific times and places and not in all the cultures of Islam or at all times. This exercise in the recovery of historical persons does not aim at creating biographical snapshots of individuals. Such a project is nearly impossible for most pre-modern architects and artists. Instead, the argument questions the fetishizing of the signature by suggesting that “signatures” were not actually signifiers of the person as an individual with inalienable rights to selfexpression, a feature also largely absent from o­ ther cultural worlds in the pre-modern era. Rather, the chase after the muhandis or architect is in fact a chase after a social practice into which the traces of the architect are made visible in the context of urban experiences of buildings and their spatial significance to the pedestrians, the denizens who visited the mosques, shrines, and madrasas and to whom presences such as that of the architect are rendered visible by way of associative insignia of social significance. 16

Lutfallah Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān: āṯār-i bāstāni wa alwāḥ wa katibahā-ye tāriḵi dar ostān-i Eṣfahān (Isfahan, 1965), 94–95.

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Babaie

Figure 1.3 Isfahan, western iwan of the Friday Mosque. Tiled inscription marks one of the many Safavid additions to the complex ­decorative scheme to this well-known muqarnas iwan, dated 938 AH/1530-31, ‘signed’ by Yusuf ibn Taj al-Din Bannaʾ Isfahani. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

Even terms such as “architect” have acquired their significance from European tradition and usage. Therefore, it is important to acknowledge the inadequacy of a single term to designate a myriad of skills that need not have been specialized, as has been common understanding. The term “architect” imparts meanings more exclusive than the Arabo-Persian terminologies of miʿmār, muhandis, and bannāʾ, for instance.17 Miʿmār, the Arabic term for architect, is in fact not as “specialized,” fixed, or universal a terminology as a dictionary definition might indicate; what could be said about a fifteenth-century practitioner in Mashhad may 17

Andrew Petersen, Dictionary of Islamic Architecture (London: Routledge, 1996), 187.

not be the same as for a tenth-century Cairene or an eighteenth-century Istanbulite. In the Persian language – the cultural ambit of this study – the building terminology captures the array of skills and their interchangeable or shared parameters that are encompassed in the professions associated with the construction of edifices.18 The term 18

Golombek and Wilber treat the various terms as distinct but not clearly as different ranks in a hierarchy of crafts; Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 66. Sinan was praised in a biography as a “wise architect” and a “learned engineer.” In an endowment deed he was eulogized as “the eye of the notables of engineers, the ornament of the pillars of foundation-layers, the master of the masters of the

27

Chasing after the Muhandis

“bannāʾ” could be understood as a builder, a mason, or an architect but also as a workman on the construction site; a muhandis is a geometrician (from the Arabic handasa) but also someone who measures the land, is an engineer (of subterranean aqueducts, bridges, and roads), and an architect. The term “miʿmār” references an architect, builder, mason, or even the overseer of a building. The term has also been used interchangeably alongside muhandis and bannāʾ.19 So much for any fixity of terminology! Nor is there evidence of social status ranking beyond what the historiography of architecture and art has assumed – certainly not in terms of prominently named professionals. I am not aware of any persuasive evidence that, when names appear on buildings, categories such as “the builder” or “the architect” were either highly regarded in comparison to others in that profession or were lowly, either in the abstract or in relational terms. Instead, I wish to suggest that the named architect/builder/engineer, regardless of his nis­ bat (professional epithet) as a bannāʾ or a miʿmār, assumes a role in insinuating a space within his own socially and culturally determined concept of subjectivity. In it, the professional is not perceived as an individual with conscious agency but as a subject engaged with a social activity within networked relationships where his status can be articulated. Named architect-builders begin to appear in buildings across greater Iran from the fifteenth century onwards and they do so with such frequency and prominence as never before anywhere across the cultures of Muslims in the Arab and Ottoman Mediterranean. While frequency may not

19

age, the chief of the epoch’s ingenious men, the Euclid of the century and all times, the architect of the sultanate and the imperial master architect;” Necipoğlu, The Age of Sinan, 138, 147. In relation to Ali Akbar al-Isfahani, McChesney notes the different descriptions of miʻmar muhandis/ustad and treats them as different terms although he does not think he can prove any concrete distinctions; Robert McChesney, “Four Sources on Shah Abbas’s Building of Isfahan,” Muqarnas 5 (1988), 123.

denote elevated status or the subject-position of the architect/builder, I want to suggest the conjunction of two elements is significant: frequency and detail on the one hand, location and manner of design on the other. What is most compelling in the visual evidence of architect names is their location across major façades in mainly early modern “Iranianate” urban landscapes. Such evidence animates this recasting of the signatory marks in visually situated conditions; they do not acquire meaning for being large or small, prominent or not, or even self-deprecating in tone. Although all these features need to be taken into consideration as well, but as integral elements of a design that is laden with situated meanings in the ways denizens saw and read them in their urban quotidian encounters. As such, signatory marks suggest the potential for greater nuancing of the separation between the architect/builder, who presumably held craft-based status (bricklayer, plasterer, or stone mason), and the calligrapher, who designed the epigraphic programs. Indeed, this sort of bifurcation of the building arts into presumably brainless manual labor and triumphantly brainy hands-off design processes seems to have little basis in actual practice in the larger Iranian world and at the very least does not seem to have been defined by the same sharp division as we tend to assume; such an assumption misleadingly derives from an over-zealous “genius-of-the-architect” discourse. Evidence in textual sources, biographical compila­ tions (tazkira), and chronicles as well as in visual examples, on objects and buildings, suggests a certain normalcy in “Iranianate” spheres for practitioners of the arts, as much in poetry as in pottery, in architecture as in painting, to have claim to or be recognized for multiple roles and skill sets in the arts. It is not uncommon for the architect to assume responsibility for an edifice where he signs as a naqqāsh (painter) or signs a ceramic vessel as the miʿmār (architect).20 This fluidity should alert 20

Golombek and Wilber explain how “artisans” were trained to work in different media and that architects, as in the case of Qavam al-Din, might have designed

28

Figure 1.4

Babaie

Isfahan, Masjed-i Jadid-i Abbasi (Masjed-i Shah, or royal mosque). Entrance iwan complex, 1611–1638. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

us to the potential ­complexity of socially-conditioned practices of making and seeing in contexts where ­subjectivity is understood differently than a straightforward signature might indicate. Setting aside for the moment Qavam al-Din Shirazi, the architect who signed as the plasterer at the Friday Mosque in Mashhad, the greatest outpouring of signatory marks clustered in a major early modern Muslim imperial city appears to be in Safavid (1501–1722) Isfahan, the imperial capital from 1598 to the collapse of the dynasty.21 The frequency and prominence of the builder/architect

signatory marks is also extraordinarily complex in terms of their visual rendering, or of the opportunities for seeing them. They are invariably counted as part of the foundation inscriptions (often concluding with the date of inscription and the name of the calligrapher, his signature, so to speak) or else are included into epigraphic bands that are visually integrated and achieve maximum legibility of a social relationship – and hence an articulated status.22 Focus here diverts from the

not just the building but also the tilework; Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 65–66. 21 Sussan Babaie, Isfahan and Its Palaces: Statecraft, Shiʿism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early

22

Modern Iran (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008), 65–112. The best overviews of the foundation inscriptions and their contents are in Sheila S. Blair, Islamic Inscriptions (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 29–42, and especially Sheila S. Blair, “Place, Space, and Style: Craftsmen’s Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art,” in

29

Chasing after the Muhandis

Figure 1.5

Isfahan, Masjid-e Jadid-e Abbasi (Masjed-i Shah, or royal mosque). View toward the principal foundation inscription above the doorway of the entrance iwan. (Photo © Babaie 2005).

historiographic primacy given to the calligrapher and spotlights the way the decorative program of a prominent façade places emphasis on the builderarchitect within a complex scheme designed to be seen repeatedly as one entered or passed the building; in other words, these names are constitu­ ent parts of the visual threshold of an edifice. The epigraphic program of the Safavid Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah, or royal mosque), completed between 1611 and 1638 for Shah ʿAbbas i (r. 1588–1629) and located on the south side of the Maydan-i Naqsh-i Jahan in Isfahan offers the most complex and also the most challenging reading of the architect/builder phrasing and also of the ­entangled and multitasking possibilities Antony Eastmond, ed., Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 230–48.

which are built, so to speak, into the text and context, both in discursive and in pictorial terms (see Figs. 1.4 & 1.5). The principal foundation inscription across the portal was designed by the famous calligrapher ʿAli Riza ʿAbbasi who was also tasked with designing several other imperial epigraphic programs, including that of the Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, on the east side of the maydān (public square). He was also recruited to design the façade of the caravanserai in Kerman commissioned by Ganj ʿAli Khan, governor from 1596 to 1624, as part of a maydan urban development for which Ganj ʿAli Khan’s patronage closely followed the scheme of Shah ʿAbbas i’s Isfahan.23 I will return to Kerman for a consideration of the architect later in the article. The inscription of Isfahan’s Masjid-i Jadid-i ʿAbbasi records Shah ʿAbbas’s donation of funds from the royal treasuries and states that its purpose was the spiritual benefit of his grandfather Shah Tahmasb.24 A second inscription band designed by Muhammad Riza Imami, another well-known calligrapher of the age, refers to Muhibb ʿAli Beg Lala as the supervisor (sarkār) of the construction and also a major donor to the endowments of the mosque (waqf) (see Fig. 1.6).25 Here too appears the name of the muhandis, ʿAli Akbar Isfahani. Lutfallah Honarfar and later Robert McChesney have isolated two architects in relation to the mosque: the first is known as Badiʿ al-zaman-i Tuni, an ustād (master) and miʻmār (architect) presumably associated, according to the historian Jalal Munajj­ im, with the early stages of the mosque’s design.26 23

24

25 26

Sussan Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” in Slaves of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran, Sussan Babaie, Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and Mussumeh Farhad (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004), 80–113. Sheila S. Blair, “The Inscriptions on the Maidān-i Shāh in Iṣfahān,” in Calligraphy and Architecture in the Mus­ lim World, eds. Mohammad Gharipour and İrvin C. Schick (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), 13–28. Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” 80–113. Mollā Jalāl-al-Din Monajjem, Tāriḵ-i ʿabbāsi yā Ruznāma-ye Mollā Jalāl, ed. Sayf-Allāh Vaḥidniā (Tehran,

30

Babaie

Figure 1.6

Isfahan, Masjid-e Jadid-e Abbasi (Masjed-i Shah, or royal mosque). Detail from the inscriptions above the ­doorway of the entrance iwan complex. The name of the architect, ʿAli Akbar Isfahani appears right after that of the supervisor and just below the larger script in turquoise blue naming the reigning monarch, Shah ʿAbbas I. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

However, the inscription mentions only one ­architect, ʿAli Akbar Isfahani, whose name comes in a phrase worth repeating (in its Persianized Arabic): “and in architecture, who is like engineers in execution [of the plan], he is the unique of the age, Ustad ʿAli Akbar al-Isfahani” (wa bi- miʿmārīya 1987), 412; Lutfallah Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān (Isfahan: Saqafi Publishers, 1344/1965–66), 429; Blair, “The Inscriptions on the Maidān-i Shāh in Iṣfahān,” 13–28; McChesney, “Four Sources on Shah Abbas’s Building of Isfahan,” 123; Sussan Babaie, “Isfahan x. Monuments (3) Mosques,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, 5 April 2012 (originally published 15 December 2007), accessed 7 May 2015, http://www.iranicaonline.org/ articles/isfahan-x3-mosques.

man fīʾl-ʿamal kaʾl-muhandisīn wa huwa al-nādir al-zamāni i ustād ʿAlī Akbar al-Iṣfahānī).27 The architect and his exalted status as the “unique of the age” is further highlighted by the appearance of the phrase right after the mention of the name of Mohibb ʿAli Beg Lala, the highranking office holder in Safavid administration who was not only the tutor of the young ghulāms but also the “supervisor of the royal buildings in Isfahan” (sarkār-i ʿimārat-i khassa-i sharīfa-i ṣifahān). He was also the second most important 27 Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān, 429; Blair, “The Inscriptions on the Maidān-i Shāh in Iṣfahān,” 13–28.

31

Chasing after the Muhandis

donor to the mosque after the monarch and supervised its construction. In 1614, when the main endowment for the royal mosque was set aside, Shah ʿAbbas tasked the same Muhibb ʿAli, in his capacity as supervisor of the royal building projects, to choose a suitable site in the Armenian quarter of New Julfa for a cathedral church and to take royal architects (miʿmārān-i khassa-yi sharīfa) to survey the land, draw a plan, and bring the blueprints on wood panels and paper (ṭarḥ -i ānrā dar takhta va kāghaz kishida) to be inspected by the shah. Then the masters [builders] could begin their work (ustādān shurūʿ dar kār karda …).28 The New Julfa story, in which the triangulation between the royal patron, the supervisor, and the architects is so clearly spelled out, has a visual resonance on the façade of the Masjid-i Jadid-i ʿAbbasi. In this building and in a location close enough to the viewer to be pictorially legible, the entanglement assumes a new meaning for the architect, ʿAli Akbar Isfahani. All the other elements – the manifestations of presence and visibility as celebrated individuals for the patron and the supervisor or the calligrapher – are unsurprising from a historiographic point of view. The architect’s manifestation, on the other hand, is seen as i­nsignificant within the socially constructed t­errain that is the façade of the mosque although his name is neither minutely rendered nor ­ marginalized. Furthermore, the architect’s name and fam­ ily trade must have been well known to the denizens of Isfahan and the city’s prominent patrons of architecture. His son Muhammad ʿAli was the ­architect of the second largest Safavid mosque in the city, the Masjid-i Hakim (completed in 1662/3), so named after its patron who was a physician at the courts of Shah Safi i and Shah ʿAbbas ii and who left for the ­Mughal court of ­Awrangzeb, gaining in India enough fortune to supply the funds for the large mosque built in his name in Isfahan.29 28 Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” 80–113. 29 Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān, 612–21; ­Babaie, “Isfahan x. Monuments (3) Mosques,” Encyclo­ paedia Iranica.

This exercise is not about accumulating named architect/builders; the roster could be drawn with more names from Isfahan or Kerman, for ­instance. The point I wish to draw out here is about the ­entangled sinews of visually naming architect/builders and their accolades alongside royal ­patrons, their surrogates, or sub-imperial agents of the commissioning and funding bodies. Within these schemes, the pictorially foregrounded nature of such representations, where the ­architect-builder has earned a place, and the range of possibilities or permissible readings are most compelling. The representations underscore the social perception of the muhandis or miʿmār as having risen to a degree which can no longer be easily dismissible. Another compelling case, also in Isfahan, dates to the earlier decades of the sixteenth century and focuses on the epigraphic decoration on the façade of the Shrine of Harun-i Vilayat (dated 1513; see Figs. 1.7 & 1.8).30 My earlier reading of the main façade’s visual and epigraphic scheme followed Robert Hillenbrand’s but detected greater complexity of entangled visual and textual content. The poetic couplet in Persian contains the names of the patron and his deputy-architect in tile panels above the double doorway and stands as the base of a triangular arrangement whereby the patron, Shah Ismaʿil, occupies the apex. The epigraphic content and the representational program in this instance coalesce on the façade into complex conceptual agenda, a particularly Shiʿa notion of kingship made visually tangible.31 In the first two epigraphic bands – the couplet above the door and the foundation inscription band – the three principal names are positioned 30 31

Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” 109. Sussan Babaie, “Epigraphy (iv.) Safavid and later inscriptions,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, 15 December 1998, accessed 20 July 2016, http://www.iranicaonline.org/ articles/epigraphy-iv; Robert Hillenbrand, “Safavid Architecture” in Peter J. Jackson and Laurence Lockhart, eds, Cambridge History of Iran Vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 761–64.

32

Figure 1.7

Babaie

Isfahan, Harun-i Vilayat Shrine, entrance façade, dated 1513. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

on a triangle with Shah Ismaʿil’s at its zenith and those of Durmish Khan, the governor-patron, and his architect Husayn flanking the base. Rising from the earthly dominion of the patron and the architect is the semi-sacred zone where Shah Ismaʿil is eulogized alongside the saintly Harun –  the Old Testament prefiguration of Imam ʿAli, with the names of the Fourteen Infallibles appearing in the tympanum and embracing a pair of peacocks, evoking the image of the “birds of paradise.” The name of the reigning monarch Ismaʿil appears in a complex visual and conceptual reading as the intermediary link between the earthly and the heavenly realms, like Imam ʿAli; he is the rightful deputy of the Prophet on earth. The extraordinary point here is the presence of the architect, named Husayn after the son of ʿAli, in this august company without the benefit of a calligrapher’s

visual intervention. The fact that the calligrapher is not named in this loaded epigraphic and pictorial space but instead the architect occupies such a prominent position in the visual scheme has been noted in scholarship but not problematized or analyzed with regards to the social position of the architect and the prevailing practices of seeing and knowing through the epigraphic and decorative schemes of the main façade of a building particular to the Iranian context. On the one hand, given the primacy accorded to the calligrapher in cultures of Muslim peoples, it may be argued that the visually complicated articulation of the architect’s name and the potential for insinuating his place, as in a subjective concept, may not have been generated by the architect himself but as a result of the calligrapher’s design choices. On the other hand, the calligrapher

33

Chasing after the Muhandis

Figure 1.8

Isfahan, Harun-i Vilayat Shrine, detail of the foundation inscription above the doorway of the entrance façade. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

in the cases noted here is not a member of that visual neighborhood of names and claims; rather, the socially constructed space for the architectbuilder assumes a particularly compelling visual presence in the prominently located epigraphic bands which lie above the doorway into the sacred spaces of the Masjid-i Jadid ʿAbbasi and the Shrine of Harun-i Vilayat. In both cases, the architect is named at the threshold. He is not alone but he is certainly present and prominent enough not to be ignored either. Prominence of named builders may be secured by virtue of being situated on major façades and in the company of the founders, supervisors, and reigning monarchs. It is equally important to reiterate the observation on the fluidity of

­ omenclature and the fact that key practitioners n in the building works may also operate in other skills, putting on display and claiming – or being credited with – a masterful work. A case study may be built around the multiple named calligraphers and architects whose signatory marks crowd the epigraphic program, both interior and exterior, of the Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, the extraordinarily complex domed single chamber mosque built for the private use of the royal family on the orders of Shah ʿAbbas i between 1602/3 and 1618/19 (see Fig. 1.9).32 Among the names of 32 Honarfar, Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān, 401–15; Blair, “The Inscriptions on the Maidān-i Shāh in Iṣfahān,” 13–28.

34

Babaie

Figure 1.9

Isfahan, Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, the entrance façade. The foundation inscription includes the name of the architect under whose tutelage the building was completed in 1618/19. (Photo © Babaie 2005).

v­ arious ­calligraphers and architects appear those of ʿAli Riza ʿAbbasi, the famed calligrapher of the age, as expected, but also, and rather unexpectedly, of Baqir Bannaʾ, Baqir the Builder, on the epigraphic band that frames the mihrab inside the mosque (see Fig. 1.10). This may indeed be an especially complicated teaming up of esteemed practitioners of the arts in Isfahan during the first decades of the massive building projects Shah ʿAbbas had set in motion.33 As it were, the builder/architect signs as the designer of the inscriptions (using the katabahu, “written by” formula) but also as the one who designs 33

For the building projects, see Babaie “Isfahan and its Palaces,” especially Chap. 3.

the extensive calligraphic program of the interior wall surfaces, which includes poems by Shaykh Bahaʾi, the great philosopher, mathematician, and learned Shiʿi scholar whose role in devising the great plan of new Isfahan remains to be properly explored.34 For now, note should be made of the fluidity of claims to roles, skills, and masteries of both crafting and conceptualizing of seemingly incompatible skill sets. The architect is here the 34

On Shaykh Bahaʾi’s biography, see Rula J. Abisaab, Con­ verting Persia: Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004). His interventions or contributions to the built environment of Isfahan remain to be studied but Isfahani lore attributes the entire scheme of the maydan to his genius.

Chasing after the Muhandis

Figure 1.10

35

Isfahan, Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, view of the mihrab signed by the architect Baqir Bannaʾ. 1602/3-1618/19. (Photo © Babaie 2005).

calligrapher, working side-by-side with the most famous calligrapher of the age, but also perhaps laying an indirect claim to the remarkable composition of tall shallow arched units which articulate the transition from the square chamber up to the round base of the dome without a ­single ­visible hesitation in structural matters. ­Baqir  the  architect is all over the interior of the domed chamber even though his name is not associated with the structural-architectural matters of that edifice. Such fluidity in transference of and claim to skills, or to specific aspects of buildings, or else the ascribed credit for a building in unusual and unexpected visual and spatial situations, is not unique to the context of Isfahan, although the greatest concentration of evidence survives from this city.

In Kerman, the governor Ganj ʿAli Khan employed ʿAli Riza ʿAbbasi, the calligrapher of the Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, for the epigraphic program on the entrance complex of his caravanserai, part of a public-square-and-public-amenities project that is closely modeled after Shah ʿAbbas’s maydan in Isfahan (see Fig. 1.11). However, the entrance iwan of the caravanserai gives no indication of the complexity of this entire urban scheme, for which a ḥammām (public bathhouse), a mint and a cistern were also built. Ganj ʿAli Khan had, in addition, a little, jewel-like mosque built next to the caravanserai in which his status and loyalty to the king takes the shape of a single-domed chamber structure singing, if the analogy can be used here, the same tune as that of the Shaykh Lutfallah in

36

Babaie

Figure 1.11

Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai on the east side of the Maydan of Ganj ʿAli Khan. Entrance iwan with the foundation inscription designed and signed by ʿAli Riza ʿAbbasi. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

Isfahan; a private quasi-royal mosque to reference the private royal mosque.35 The architect of the buildings of Ganj ʿAli Khan, although not mentioned alongside the calligrapher on the main façade of the caravanserai, seems to have been equally prominent (see Fig.  1.12). The four-iwan courtyard of the caravanserai is extensively decorated with fine figural

35

Sussan Babaie, “Sacred Sites of Kingship: The Maydan and Mapping the Spatial-Spiritual of the Empire in ­Safavid Iran,” in Persian Kingship and Architecture: Strategies of Power in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis, eds. Sussan Babaie and Talinn Grigor (­London: I.B. Tauris, 2015), 193.

tiles, g­eometric-patterned bricks, and elegantly executed epigraphic bands. The finest work, in architectural design and decoration, is found on the east-side iwan, the one ­facing directly the entrance into the caravanserai. I have discussed elsewhere the “royal” significance of the entire complex, especially with reference to wall paintings in the rooms behind the iwan and fine decorations that accompany that p ­ articular high seat. Here, I wish to direct attention to the presence of the architect in this same iwan as evidence of the heightened attention, or space of honor, he was afforded. On tiled star-shaped panels embedded into the recessed segments of the muqarnas vaulting appears the phrase ʻAmal-i Ustād Muhammad Sulṭān Miʻmār-i Yazdī, spelling out the role of the

37

Chasing after the Muhandis

Figure 1.12

Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai. View toward the iwan on the east side of the courtyard. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

master architect Muhammad Sultan from Yazd (see Fig. 1.13). The fact that the architect was indeed a key figure and his role was significant enough to have been advertised as one looked up into the vaulting of the iwan is emphasized in a similar framing of his signature above the entrance doorway of the public bathhouse on the south side of the maydan (see Fig. 1.14). Ganj ʿAli Khan’s hammam is among the most important architectural installations of b­ athhouses from the Safavid period and the only one to survive more or less intact. It must have been the architect’s true masterwork and his signatory presence. His visibility is situated right above the foundation band, where Ganj ʿAli Khan himself is celebrated, and is yet another example

of the visual clusters of loaded meanings pertinent to the architect’s place in the larger scheme of patronage and production. Such evidence of visibility is rarely accompanied with a “biographical” corpus of information making it unlikely for us to ever reach notions of architect-personalities.36 It may be argued that such biographical packaging of personalities in architecture is culturally unnecessary in local and historical contexts where notions of “selfhood” and individuality are anachronistic. On the other hand, the visual and architectural evidence 36

This is of course notwithstanding the stardom of S­inan,  thanks to the remarkable work by Gülrü Necipoğlu.

38

Babaie

Figure 1.13

Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Caravanserai. The iwan on the east side of the courtyard with the signature of master architect Ustad Muhammad Sultan Miʿmar-i Yazdi embedded in a tiled star and fitted into the muqarnas decoration of the iwan. (photo © Babaie 2003).

brings forth compellingly the observation on the architect/builder as through the lens of subjectpositionality. In that regard, the most complex representation is illustrated by the otherwise oftdismissed signatory mark of the architect Qavam al-Din Shirazi. The pair of epigraphic panels in tile mosaic on the lower, dado level of the façade of the sanctuary iwan of the Mosque of Gawhar Shad in Mashhad offers the earliest example, as far as I know, of such sophisticated planning for the visibility of the architect in an “Islamicate” and “Iranianate” context (Figures 1.1 and 1.2).37 Within the larger rectangular 37

Wilber, “Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi,” 33; ­ abaie, “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House B

framing devices two smaller framed inscriptions are contained: the right hand panel states that the writing of the inscription was accomplished in August/September of the year 1418, giving the date of the completion of the building. The other, on the left hand side, reads: “The work of the poor weak slave, who needs the mercy of the Compassionate Ruler, Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi, the plaster mason.” The inscription panels, their of Tamerlane,” 32; see also the less lofty role attributed to the craftsman status of Qavam al-Din in Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol.  1, 67; O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 124; and Blair, “Place, Space, and Style: Craftsmen’s ­Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art.”

Chasing after the Muhandis

Figure 1.14

Kerman, Ganj ʿAli Khan Hammam (public bathhouse). View toward the upper zone of the muqarnas-filled entrance iwan. The hammam is located on the south side of the maydan. The wall paintings are probably of 19th century date. The architect’s name, the same Ustad Muhammad Sultan Miʿmar-i Yazdi, appears directly above the epigraphic band that celebrates Ganj ʿAli Khan’s patronage. (Photo © Babaie 2003).

l­ocation on the façade, and their content are so ­unusual that make their occurrence an architectural event in the history of Islam: the mosque was built next to the Shrine of Imam Riza and within the sacred precinct of the second most important pilgrimage destination for Shiʻite Muslims.38 Not 38

39

The building history of the shrine is studied by May Farhat in her doctoral dissertation; May Farhat, “­Islamic Piety and Dynastic Legitimacy: the Case of the Shrine of ʻAlī B. Mūsá al-Riḍā in Mashhad (10th–17th ­Century),” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2002). More recently, Kishwar Rizvi has explored the M ­ ashhad shrine in light of the politics of Safavid appropriation of Shiʻite precepts and practices; Kishwar Rizvi.

only was this mosque appended to, literally conjoined, with the holy shrine of the eighth-century burial site of the Imam, more importantly, it was commissioned as the principal congregational mosque of the city of Mashhad, a bold move realized on a monumental scale with far-reaching political and economic implications for the city as well as the entire region. Building a congregational mosque at the behest of the reigning family was an obligation for Muslim rulers. To build that mosque at this important shrine, indeed to enhance the significance of the shrine by such an addition, The ­Safavid Dynastic Shrine: Architecture, Religion and Power in Early Modern Iran (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011).

40 represents an especially potent political gesture. And it was constructed on the initiative of Gawhar Shad, the wife of the Timurid ruler Shah Rukh, the successor to Timur himself and the most powerful and influential member of the dynasty. On the façade of the Mosque of Gawhar Shad, the architect’s expression of humility, “the poor weak slave, who needs the mercy of the ­Compassionate Ruler,” has been taken at face value, denoting the fixed social condition of the architect as a presumably lowly craftsman/artisan and making the signature a mere factual detail in the historiography of Timurid period architecture.39 The dismissal of the architect’s role as anything socially competitive, at least in some contexts, ignores cultural practices specific to the Iranian world at the period. In contrast, the visually and spatially articulated presence of the architect in name evinces the socially constructed and legible relationships within which the status of a subject may be insinuated. In such a situated scheme, the self-effacing posture of humility would instead appear as an appropriate social measure of the elevated place of the architect and his work. In order to reread the façade, the viewer has to consider the signatory panel not only as a bearer of facts but also, and perhaps more importantly, as an integral component of a larger visual system, in this case of the qibla iwan façade. The epigraphic contents of the two signatory panels read in two directions: from right to left as is the direction of reading the Arabic script, and from the right panel upwards and along the main epigraphic band that runs around the iwan and frames it as a pointed arched opening. That reading direction comes back down, so to speak, to land at the left-hand-side panel where the architect’s name and title appear. Furthermore, the two rectangular signatory frames crown a “tree”

39 O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 124; Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 67.

Babaie

motif that, as suggested by Bernard O’Kane among other scholars, belongs to the representational ­repertoire of the “Tree of Life” motif. The tree ­motif is further integrated, as we shall see, into the elements of the visual and content-rich aspects of the façade’s decorative scheme. Significantly, the termini of the most monumental of the epigraphic bands framing the iwan rest above the two architect and date signatory panels. The main text of the iwan-framing band begins on the right hand side and ends on the left, directing the viewer to read (or to hear, as hired readers were and still are employed at holy shrines) a most extraordinary declaration of the conceptual link between celestial intervention and sovereign authority. Contrary to the standard formulae, in which the name of the reigning monarch appears at the central position alongside a long Quranic quotation (often from the Throne verse), here the inscription opens with a passage from the Quran and a reference to a hadith (saying of the Prophet), which together establish the very sanctity of the act of building a mosque for the sake of God and the legitimacy bestowed on the patron of such a mosque.40 The band then continues with words extolling Gawhar Shad as the pure one who excels “in extreme justice and great firmness of faith,” laudatory expressions ordinarily reserved for the ruler and not his wife. Furthermore, the inscription adds that the source of funds for the building was Gawhar Shad’s own and that she supported this exalted task with the hope of receiving God’s mercy on the Day of Judgment. It is only toward the last quarter of the text band that the reigning monarch, Shah Rukh is mentioned with his royal titles and blessings. The inscription ends in ordinary fashion with the name of the scribe who, as scholarship has shown, is usually also the designer of the whole epigraphic program. In this case, the calligrapher/designer was Baysunghur, the son of Gawhar Shad and Shah 40 O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 123.

41

Chasing after the Muhandis

Rukh, a highly respected artist-calligrapher and a patron of some of the most exquisite examples of calligraphy and manuscript painting of the early Timurid period.41 The extraordinary assembly of royal patrons and artists in this dedicatory inscription is especially significant for what it implies about the ­relationship between Gawhar Shad and Qavam alDin. One could and should focus on the queen’s life through this and other of her projects. But here, I am especially interested in the fact that the epigraphic façade design is important for situating the architect as a “favorite,” one of the few “luminaries of the court” indicated by Daulatshah Samarqandi at the opening of this essay. Gawhar Shad had consistently and exclusively employed Qavam al-Din, entrusting all of her considerable architectural projects to him. Suffice it to say for now that her building projects were superior to any of her husband’s projects and indeed on par with the most monumental and elaborate that Timur himself had commissioned.42 Similar to the buildings in Isfahan, the design of the epigraphic program in Mashhad indicates the presence of a court luminary as the architect. Qavam al-Din’s role in this collaborative enterprise would be hard to ignore and would place him at the same drawing table, so to speak, as Baysung­ hur, the prince-calligrapher, and most likely queen Gawhar Shad herself, a situation unimaginable if he is perceived as a mere craftsman. It is beyond 41

42

For Baysunghur’s patronage, see Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 1989), 110–15. For Timur’s patronage, see Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 59–61; for Gawhar Shad’s patronage, see Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 62; O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 119–30. No study has been dedicated to the patronage of Gawhar Shad, testifying to how fixated scholarship has been on dynastic categories and the role of monarchs as principal patrons of monumental architecture.

the remit of this essay to venture deep into the ­architectural innovations of Qavam al-Din; his new kite-shaped vaulting scheme introduced an innovative solution to the ever-evolving fascination of Iranian architects with the challenge of transitions from the square chamber below to the circular base of a dome above.43 However, it is important to briefly underscore his vaulting innovations in the Mashhad mosque as pertains to the way the main qibla iwan façade reads. Here, the architect devised a design solution whereby he was able to transfer to the whole qibla iwan the ­appearance of a mihrab leading without any visual impediments to the actual mihrab deep inside the sanctuary. Such an architectural intervention, that created the formal hierarchies of the façade vis-àvis the place and the idea of a mihrab, would have necessitated the decorative motifs and epigraphic content to be closely integrated into the overall architectural impact of this principal iwan. In other words, I like to imagine Gawhar Shad, Baysunghur, and Qavam al-Din consulting on the designs! It is also worth considering Qavam al-Din’s signatory panel from the point of view of its location vis-à-vis the larger, royal epigraphic band. This “zone” of operation mediates between the Tree-of-Life foundations of the larger epigraphic content and the main inscription emphasizing the life-giving powers of building a mosque in such a sanctified location. Even at a simple reading of the visual, spatial, and textual nexus of the program, a much larger conceptual profile for the architect emerges, a profile which we have rarely been willing to consider. Baysunghur designed the epigraphic program; it would have been perfectly in line with the station of the architect to suggest the smaller scale of the script in his panel and its language of humility.

43

Golombek and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture of Iran and Turan, vol. 1, 192; O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 119–23; and in summary, Babaie, “Qavam alDin Shirazi: Architect to the House of Tamerlane,” 32.

42 Finally, in identifying himself as the al-ṭayyān (plaster mason) and not the ustād (master) in muhandisī (engineering), ṭarrāḥī (drawing or design), and miʿmārī (architecture), as he was ­recognized by his contemporaries, Qavam al-Din was further underscoring the cultural significance of the socially constructed value systems and hierarchies of status. His humility would have been appropriate to that sort of social relationship. In this instance, the architect is not only the poor weak servant seeking royal compassion but he is also implicitly appealing to his Lord, as the phrasing of the compassionate ruler adapts a Quranic formula for the Compassionate God. In this light, his selfidentification as al-tayyan, one who works with the basest of the materials of construction, may be read as an allusion to the Quranic statement that God created man from clay. Michael Rogers, in conversation, has suggested that the reference to plaster may also allude to the use of plaster for the tracing of the main plans and the façades, with their complex composition of segments of decoration, which includes the epigraphic bands; this would be an intriguing way of thinking about façades and planar thinking on space which begs to be revisited in a future essay. Therefore, in conceptual terms the stated modesty belies on every level the accepted and actual significance of the architect’s work in realizing an extraordinary building at a site of profound sanctity, a building intended to stimulate transformations in the political, religious, and economic life of the city. In the multivalent relationships drawn out through the visual schemes and epigraphic content, we can search for the positioning of social constructs, where the place of the architect is to be read within urban ­practices of seeing. Prominent façades embedded themselves into the daily life of denizens as they entered from the mosque’s courtyard into the qibla iwan, from the shrine’s outer space into its sanctified inner zone, or from the public maydan into the congregational mosque. In all these cases, the architect may or may not have

Babaie

been the instigator of the visual schema but his presence represents a bold subjective positioning of architectural “personhood.” The complexity of the epigraphic and visual network of meanings hangs on one of the ­major thresholds into these buildings. There the architect/builder emerges into visibility by ex­ ploiting the potentialities of the representational system in the foundation inscription. This is only partly epigraphic or logo-centric in its implied hierarchies. In Qavam al-Din’s signatory marks, similarly to those at Isfahan’s Harun-i Vilayat and Masjid-i Jadid-i ʿAbbasi, the composed assembly of words and images relies on the condensation of the visual power of epigraphy onto the principal façade and on the treatment of the façade as the blank slate to graphically and epigraphically articulate the syntax of power and its hierarchical social armature but also to emplace the architect within that cultural matrix. “Signing” in such verbal constructs made the architect inexorably intertwined with the company of his royal and elite patrons; “signing” in such visually complex and spatially prominent sites made him inescapably visible. The practice of “signing” gained momentum and conceptual intricacy from the time of Qavam al-Din Shirazi’s early fifteenth-century mosque in Mashhad, to Mirza Kamal al-Din’s early sixteenth-century shrine ­ in Isfahan, and into seventeenth-century buildings in Isfahan, Kerman, and elsewhere in Iran. ­Chasing this evidence suggests that the architect’s “signature” constituted subtle visual insinuations of architectural p ­ ersonhood in “Iranianate” urban culture. Bibliography Abisaab, Rula J. Converting Persia: Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire. London: I.B. Tauris, 2004. Babaie, Sussan. “Epigraphy (iv.) Safavid and later inscriptions,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, 15 December 1998.

Chasing after the Muhandis Babaie, Sussan. Isfahan and Its Palaces: Statecraft, Shiʿism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008. Babaie, Sussan. “Isfahan x. Monuments (3) Mosques,” Encyclopaedia Iranica. 5 April 2012. Babaie, Sussan. “Launching from Isfahan.” Slaves of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran, eds. Sussan ­Babaie, Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and ­Mussumeh Farhad, 80–113. London: I.B. Tauris, 2004. Babaie, Sussan. “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House of Tamerlane.” The Great Builders, ed. ­Kenneth Powell, 29–33. London: Thames & Hudson, 2011. Babaie, Sussan. “Sacred Sites of Kingship: The Maydan and Mapping the Spatial-Spiritual of the Empire in Safavid Iran.” Persian Kingship and Architecture: Strategies of Power in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis, eds. Sussan Babaie and Talinn Grigor, 175–217. London: I.B. Tauris, 2015. Blair, Sheila S. Islamic Inscriptions. New York: New York University Press, 1998. Blair, Sheila S. “Place, Space, and Style: Craftsmen’s Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art.” Viewing Inscrip­ tions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. Antony Eastmond, 230–49. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Blair, Sheila S. “The Inscriptions on the Maidān-i Shāh in Iṣfahān.” Calligraphy and Architecture in the Mus­ lim World, eds. Mohammad Gharipour and İrvin C. Schick, 13–28. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013. Bloom, Jonathan and Sheila Blair. Islamic Arts. London: Phaidon Press, 1997. Brend, Barbara. Islamic Art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Farhat, May. “Islamic Piety and Dynastic Legitimacy: The Case of the Shrine of ʿAlī B. Mūsá al-Riḍā in Mashhad (10th–17th Century).” PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 2002. Golombek, Lisa and Donald N. Wilber. The Timurid Ar­ chitecture of Iran and Turan. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988.

43 Gruber, Christiane. “The Koran Does Not Forbid Images of the Prophet.” Newsweek. 9 January 2015. Hillenbrand, Robert. Islamic Art and Architecture. New York: Thames and Hudson, 1999. Hillenbrand, Robert. “Safavid Architecture.” Cambridge History of Iran Vol. 6, The Timurid and Safavid Periods, eds. Peter J. Jackson and Laurence Lockhart, 759–842. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Hodgson, Marshall G.S. The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974. Honarfar, Lutfallah. Ganjina-ye āṯār-i tāriḵi-i Eṣfahān: āṯār-i bāstāni wa alwāḥ wa katibahā-ye tāriḵi dar ostān-i Eṣfahān. Isfahan, 1965. Khwandamir, Ghiyas al-Din b. Humam al-Din Mohammad. Habib al-siyar, ed. J. Homaʾi, vol. 4, 4 vols. Tehran: Khayyam Publishers, 1333/1954. Kostof, Spiro. “The Architect in the Middle Ages, East and West.” The Architect: Chapters in the History of the Profession, ed. Spiro Kostof, 59–95. New York: ­Oxford University Press, 1986. Lentz, Thomas W. and Glenn D. Lowry. Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fif­ teenth Century. Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 1989. Losensky, Paul E. Welcoming Fighānī: Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal. ­Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1998. Mayer, L.A. Islamic Architects and Their Works. Geneva: A. Kundig, 1956. McChesney, Robert. “Four Sources on Shah Abbas’s Building of Isfahan,” Muqarnas 5, (1988): 103–34. Monajjem, Mollā Jalāl-al-Din. Tāriḵ-i ʿabbāsi yā ­Ruz-nāma-ye Mollā Jalāl, ed. Sayf-Allāh Vaḥidniā. ­Tehran, 1987. Necipoğlu, Gülrü. The Age of Sinan: Architectural Cul­ ture in the Ottoman Empire. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005. O’Kane, Bernard. Timurid Architecture in Khurasan. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers in association with Undena Publications, 1987. Petersen, Andrew. Dictionary of Islamic Architecture. London: Routledge, 1996.

44 Rizvi, Kishwar. The Safavid Dynastic Shrine: Architecture, Religion and Power in Early Modern Iran. ­London: I.B. Tauris, 2011. Roxburgh, David J. “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 119–46. Roxburgh, David J. Prefacing the Image: the Writing of Art History in Sixteenth-Century Iran. Leiden: Brill, 2001.

Babaie Samarqandi, Dawlatshah. “Tadhkirat al-shuʿara.” A Century of Princes: Sources on Timurid History and Art, trans. Wheeler M. Thackston. Cambridge, MA: The Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture, 1989. Wilber, Donald. “Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi: A Fifteenth-Century Timurid Architect,” Architectur­ al History 30, (1987): 31–44.

chapter 2

Who’s Hiding Here?

Artists and Their Signatures in Timurid and Safavid Manuscripts Marianna Shreve Simpson “Among the leaves of gold and green Someone hopes he can’t be seen. Who’s hiding here?”1

∵ Prelude This essay on acts of artistic concealment – and more specifically on disguised or secret signatures in early modern Persian manuscripts – grows out of discoveries made many years ago during research on the deluxe volume of ʿAbd al-Rahman Jami’s Haft awrang [Seven Thrones] commissioned by the Safavid prince Sultan Ibrahim Mirza and nowadays commonly known as the Freer Jami. As revealed in that study, the manuscript’s production was protracted and peripatetic, and involved the transcription of its seven masnavi poems by at least five Safavid court calligraphers (Muhibb ʿAli, Malik al-Daylami, Shah Mahmud al-Nishapuri, Rustam ʿAli, ʿAyshi ibn ʿIshrati) based in at least three different Safavid cities (Mashhad, Qazvin, 1 Yoshi, Who’s Hiding Here? (Natick, ma: Picture Book Studio, 1987), n.p. This children’s book features cut-out illustrations of various creatures in camouflage, each introduced with a little ditty that ends: “Who’s hiding here?” In the one quoted here, a frog and a snake hide among mottled leaves. I read the book to my young son not long after finding my first hidden signature in an illustrated Persian manuscript, as described below, and its conceit and title have stuck with me through the years.

Herat) over at least a nine year period (1556–1565).2 These artists meticulously documented their individual contributions to the volume in distinctive colophons at the end of separate sections of the Haft awrang text, with each giving his name and completion date, and in four instances, the particular city where he was working. Several also paid homage to their patron Sultan Ibrahim Mirza in lofty terms and colored script. While the amount of specific information contained in the Freer Jami’s various colophons may exceed the norm for Persian manuscripts, the fact that its scribes signed their work follows accepted practice in the Islamic world from at least the late tenth century.3 Similar respect for traditional artistic protocol evidently explains the lack of recognition for the many other artists, i­ncluding 2 Washington, d.c., Smithsonian Institution, Freer Gallery of Art, F1946.12. Marianna Shreve Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang: A Princely Manuscript from SixteenthCentury Iran (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), pages 28–33 and 317–29; and Marianna Shreve Simpson, “The Making of Manuscripts and the Workings of the Kitab-Khana in Safavid Iran,” in Studies in the History of Art 38: The Artist’s Workshop, edited by Peter M. Lukehart (Washington, d.c.: National Gallery of Art, 1993): 105–21 for a summary discussion. The Freer Jami lacks its final text folio ending the masnavi of Khiradnama-i Iskandari. Had that masnavi concluded with a colophon, it is possible that additional documentation would have been recorded. Hence the qualified “at least” in the present account of the manuscript’s scribes, cities and dates. 3 Sheila S. Blair and Jonathan M. Bloom, “Signatures on Works of Islamic Art and Architecture,” Damaszener Mitteilungen 11 (1999): 51; Sheila S. Blair, Islamic Calligraphy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), pages 219–20.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_004

46 i­lluminators and painters, who clearly worked on Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft awrang following the text transcription and who were responsible for its hundreds of lavishly decorated folios and more than two dozen beautiful miniature paintings. Yet two artists involved with this complex ­collaborative project chose to break tradition by inserting all but invisible signatures into their compositions. Each section of the Freer Jami opens with an illuminated heading or sarlawḥ featuring a central gold cartouche, presumably reserved for its individual masnavi title, set within a broad ­rectangular field and enframed with colored bands.4 While the cartouches in manuscript’s other headpieces are empty, the one at the start of Jami’s Yusuf and Zulaykha contains two independent verses extolling the masnavi written in small, but perfectly legible, nastaʾliq script (see Fig. 2.1). Directly underneath this poetic cartouche and within a rubbed-out portion of the narrow green framing band, there is a much smaller inscription, measuring about one millimeter high and bracketed by a pair of Xs, which reads: zahhabahu ʿAbdullah al-Shīrāzī (illuminated by ʿAbdullah of Shiraz).5 One of the illustrations to the Yusuf and Zulaykha poem in the Freer Jami depicts the infant witness testifying to Yusuf’s innocence on the terrace outside Zulaykha’s palace. The building’s central archway, or ivan, is surrounded by a frame of beige brickwork and inscribed in orange nastaʾliq with a verse that, like the couplet within the same masnavi’s headpiece, is not from the Haft awrang, and that comprises a panegyric to the future prophet Yusuf. To the lower left of this poetic inscription there is yet another, much more easily overlooked, line of writing nestled inside a brick no more than two millimeters square and reading:

4 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pages 51–52 and Figs. 31–37. 5 Priscilla S. Soucek, “ʾAbdallāh Širāzī,” Encyclopaedia Iranica 1 (1985); Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pages 34, 300 and 402 and Figs. 32 and 203.

Simpson

katabahu Shaykh Muḥammad muṣavvir (written by Shaykh Muhammad the painter).6 By definition a signature is a written name, which, in the case of a work of art, manifests its creator’s presence and attests to his agency, that is, authorship for the composition on which the signature is written.7 So if ʿAbdullah al-Shirazi and Shaykh Muhammad – who by the time of the Haft awrang’s production were already mature Safavid court artists – wanted to claim full or partial responsibility for the heading illumination and inscribed cartouche at the start of the Yusuf and Zulaykha masnavi and for the subsequent Yusuf illustration, respectively, as autograph works, why did they inscribe their names in such inconspicuous places and in such minuscule hands?8 The following discussion represents an initial attempt to place that question within a broader line of inquiry, including signatures as markers of individual and authorial identity, social and professional standing, workshop practices, and relations both between artists and between artists and their patrons. It also introduces more evidence for hidden signatures, in the form of selected examples drawn from Persian manuscripts dating from the late fourteenth through late sixteenth ­centuries. 6 Marianna Shreve Simpson, “Discovering Shaykh-­ Muhammad in the Freer Jami,” Ars Orientalis 28 (1998): 104–14. 7 Rona Goffen, “Signatures: Inscribing Identity in Italian Renaissance Art,” Viator 32 (2001): 303–04. David J. Roxburgh, “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Classical Persian Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 141 n.6 suggests, however, that that “the term ‘signature’ as it is commonly used is a bit misleading.” For further specifics, see below, nn.27 and 29. 8 Simpson, “Discovering Shaykh-Muhammad,” did attempt to address the artist’s motivation and the meaning of his concealed signature by focusing on the fact that he used both a verbal form that signifies writing – katabahu – and a noun exclusively associated with painting – muṣavvir – to indicate that he was explicitly proclaiming a dual role in this Haft Awrang illustration as both the writer of the palace inscription and the painter of the Yusuf scene in folio 120a. But that still begs the question of his signature’s obscure placement and minute size.

Who’s Hiding Here?

Figure 2.1 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Headpiece to Yusuf u Zulaykha. Haft awrang of Jami, folio 84b. Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, d.c., Charles Lang Freer Endowment Fund, F1946.12.84.

47

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There is, of course, considerable scholarly literature on signatures in Islamic art, including important compendia and indices, usually relating to specific media or collections, and reconstructions of the oeuvres of particular artists with careful documentation of their signatures.9 Analytic or synthetic overviews regarding the cultural significance of artists’ signatures are rare, however, with the exception of a series of articles by Sheila Blair and Jonathon Bloom, who have raised some of the same issues under consideration here, albeit in the context of Islamic art history writ large.10 9 10

Notable examples are cited in Blair and Bloom, “Signatures on Works of Islamic Art,” nn.1 and 3. Blair and Bloom, “Signatures on Works of Islamic Art;” Sheila S. Blair, “Place, Space and Style: Craftmen’s ­Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art,” in Viewing ­Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, edited by Antony Eastmond (New York, ny: Cambridge University Press, 2015); 230–48; Sheila S. Blair, “­Signatures as Evidence for Artistic Production in the Islamic Lands,” in Geschichte der Vier Erdtelle / Art History of the Four Continents, edited by Matteo Burioni and Ulrich Pfisterer (Munich: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, forthcoming). These studies distinguish between formal and informal signatures on works of art, with the latter being those written in inconspicuous places and casual script. For other important ­insights about the authority and status of artists’ signatures in Persian painting, see Roxburgh, “Kamal ­al-Din Bihzad;” A ­ bolala Sodavar, “Le Chant du monde: A Disenchanting Echo of Safavid Art History,” Iran 46 (2008): 253–62; Francis Richard, “Signer et transmettre lʾimage: Riza ʿAbbāsī et ses modèles,” in Écrits et Culture en Asie Centrale et dans le Monde Turco-Iranien, Xe–XIXe Siècles, edited by Francis Richard and Maria Szuppe (Paris: Association pour lʾAvancement des Études Iraniennes, 2009), pages 403–17; Amy S. ­Landau, “Man, Mode, and Myth: Muhammad Zaman ibn Haji Yusuf,” in Pearls on a String: Artists, Patrons and Poets at the Great Islamic Courts, edited by Amy S. Landau (Baltimore: The Walters Art Museum, 2015), pages 177–78. For a focused study of minuscule, and often deliberately concealed, signatures on medieval Persian coins, see Luke Treadwell, Craftsmen and coins: Signed dies in the Iranian world (third to the fifth centuries ah.) (Vienna: Verlag des Ö ­ sterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011). There are a number of relevant

Before enumerating additional hidden signatures, there are a few preliminary points to be made that have a bearing on the conundrum of why ʿAbdullah Shirazi and Shaykh Muhammad did what they did and that lay the groundwork for certain hypotheses to laid out at the end of this essay. The first point is that, while signature concealment was definitely not just the idiosyncrasy of two particular Safavid artists, any study of the phenomenon turns out to be at best a hit-or-miss proposition. It is, after all, only by accident – or to put it more positively, by good fortune – that one chances upon such hidden inscriptions, given that they were evidently meant either to be undetected by the uninitiated viewer or (as shall be proposed later) to be searched for and claimed as prizes in the equivalent of a codicological treasure hunt. Secondly, the same manuscript may contain both perfectly visible and virtually invisible signatures, in which case the former tend to be those of its scribe or scribes and the latter of other artists, typically painters and illuminators. Once again, the Freer Jami is a leading indicator of this seemingly prevailing practice. As previously mentioned, the manuscript contains eight colophons written by five different calligraphers – all of whom signed and dated their work clearly and often very ­artfully.11 Their Haft awrang colleagues ʿAbdullah Shirazi and Shaykh Muhammad, on the other hand, deliberately chose to disguise their handiwork. The next point is that the same artist, whether illuminator or painter, can sign his name in different places and in different sizes within the same manuscript. The latter is a quantitative and thus a purely relative distinction. All such signatures ­ ublications on the form, function and meaning of p signatures in European art, particularly within Renaissance paintings, that will be taken up in a longer version of this essay, now in preparation. For the moment, see Goffen, “Signatures.” 11 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, Figs. 9–16.

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Who’s Hiding Here?

are small, but some are smaller than others and still others are smallest. This gradation may be ranked as mini, micro and nano or, more whimsically, as tiny, teeny and teeny-weeny. In terms of actual dimensions, these range upwards from one to three millimeters in height. Interestingly, even the smallest signed inscription is visible to the naked eye, assuming, of course, that either the viewer knows where to look for it or has been lucky enough to win the game of artist hide and art historian seek. Yet such nano signatures generally defy normal photographic reproduction. A case in point appears within the illustration of Manuchihr enthroned in the Tahmasb Shahnama of circa 1525, where the Safavid court artist Mir Musavvir wrote his name on the hatband of one of the royal attendants. Had not Dickson and Welch pointed to the signature’s precise location in their monumental study of the manuscript, it might have gone unrecognized by scholars with access only to the illustration’s published reproduction.12 Similarly, it is only thanks to the eagle eyes of John Seyller that we now can make out the name of Masʾud ­Ahmad on the inventory scroll being recorded in yet another Tahmasb Shahnama enthronement scene (see Fig. 2.2).13 Finally, Persian artists often employed a particular script style and/or color scheme to camouflage a nano signature (one millimeter high) or to draw attention to a mini or micro signature 12

13

Dubai, The Farjam Collection. Martin Bernard Dickson and Stuart Cary Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, 2 vols. (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1981) 1: Figs.  37–38; 2: pl. 47. See now also Sheila R. Canby, The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasb: The Persian Book of Kings (New York, n.y.: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2014), page 109. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 1970.301.16. John Seyller, “Scribal Notes on Mughal Manuscript Illustrations,” Artibus Asiae 48 (1987):, 251 n.24; Canby, The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasb, page 143; http://www .metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/452125?sort By=Relevance&ft=1970.301&pg=2&rp p=20&pos=31. That high resolution, digital photography nowadays can greatly assist in confirming the presence and decipherment of nano signatures, is

Figure 2.2 Masʿud Ahmad, “Afrasiayb on the Iranian Throne.” Shahnama for Shah Tahmasb, folio 105a. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Arthur A. Houghton, Jr., 1970, 1970.301.16.

(two to three millimeters). Thus an illuminator named ʿAzud signed the headpiece in a Divan of ­Khusraw ­Dihlavi, attributable to Shiraz circa 1490– 1500, within a very narrow band decorated with a

further evidenced by a well-known painting entitled “The Meeting of the Theologians” (Kansas City, Nelson-­ Atkins Museum of Art 43–5). The composition’s central ivan is inscribed in perfectly legible script with the name of the Uzbek sultan and patron ʿAbuʾl-Ghazi ʿAbd al-Aziz Bahadur Khan. A closed book in front of the kneeling figure closest to the ivan’s right side bears a signature in a teeny-weeny hand: ʿAbdullah muṣavvir / ʿAbdullah the painter. My appreciation to Nelson-­ Atkins colleagues Kimberly Masteller and Stacy Sherman for providing a close-up digital image of the signed book. Priscilla S. Soucek, “ʾAbdallāh al-Bokārī,” Encyclopeadia Iranica 1 (1985): 193–95 has identified this artist as ʿAbdullah al-Bokhari.

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century illuminator Ruzbihan Shirazi ensured that his discrete presence would not be missed in a Shahnama manuscript of circa 1560, which he signed twice in a mini (as  opposed to macro or nano) hand, positioning both inscriptions in similar places but using different scripts, wording and designs for each. Ruzbihan wrote his first signature in bold, black naskh across the two halves of the manuscript’s illuminated frontispiece punctuating the mid-points of the lower and fairly wide (again these sizes are relative) gold interlaced framing bands and further enhancing his double insertion by setting it off with a white arabesque scroll. He signed himself more succinctly and in nastaʾliq script on the Shahnama’s illuminated headpiece (folio 15b), adding a gold cartouche with delicate white leaf scrolls to the middle of the illumination’s bottom blue framing band.15

Some Hidden Signatures in Timurid and Safavid Manuscripts16

The earliest, recorded signature by a Persian painter appears in the celebrated Divan of Khwaju

Figure 2.3a ʿAzud, Headpiece. Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi, folio 1b. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, supplément persan 636.

t­ypical cross and dash design in white on a dark blue ground. The artist interrupted this continuous design to insert his name in white nano script and then bracketed it with a kind of interlaced motif, thereby making his signature as inconspicuous as possible by matching it to the band’s overall décor14 (Figs. 2.3A and B). By contrast, the sixteenth 14 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Supplément persan 636, fol. 1b. Francis Richard, “La signature ­discrete dʾun doreur persan à la fin du XVe s. Mir ʿAzod al-Mozahheb,” Revue des Études Islamiques 61–62 (1993–1994): 99–109; Francis Richard, Splendeurs persanes: Manuscrits du XIIe au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1997), page 94 and cat. no.

15

16

74; Francis Richard, Catalogue des Manuscrits Persans. Bibliothèque nationlale de France, Département des manuscrits: ii: Le Supplément Persan. Deuxième partie, 525 à 1000 (Rome: Istituto per lʾoriente c.a. Nallino, 2013), pages 839–90. Richard attributes the manuscript to the Aq-Qoyunlu workshop in Shiraz. ʿAzud’s work and signature will be discussed further below. Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library H. 1500. The two-part signature on folios 1b–2a reads: zahhabahu al-ʿabd alzayif al-muhtaj-ilaih rahman | rabbuhu al-vahib Ruzbihan al-Muzahhib / illuminated by the weak servant in need of God’s mercy | his lord is the giver Ruzbihan the illuminator. (My appreciation to Lale Uluç for the transcription of the signature on folio 2a, and to Wheeler Thackston for pointing out the internal rhyme.) That on folio 15b: tadhhib-i Ruzbihan Shirazi / illuminated by Ruzbihan Shirazi. Lale Uluç, Turkman Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors: Sixteenth Century Shiraz Manuscripts (Istanbul: İş Bankası Kültür Yayıları, 2006), page 162 and Figs. 112–115. The signatures discussed here form part of a growing corpus that is the subject of on-going research.

51

Who’s Hiding Here?

Figure 2.3b ʿAzud, Headpiece. Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi, folio 1b. detail. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, supplément persan 636.

Kirmani copied by Mir ʿAli ibn Ilyas al-Tabrizi in ­Baghdad on Jumada i 798/March 1396, for the Jalayirid ruler Sultan Ahmad. As is well known, the illustration depicting the consummation of Humay’s marriage to Humayun was painted by the leading court artist Junayd who cleverly worked his name into the stucco window grill just below the band inscribed in Kufic with royal titles. The signature reads: ʿamal-i Junayd-i naqqāsh-i sulṭānī (work of Junayd, the royal painter).17 On the scale proposed above, Junayd’s signature might 17

London, British Library, Add. 18113, folio 45b. This painting has been frequently published. For important discussions within thorough examinations of the Khwaju Kirmani manuscript as a whole, see Yves Porter, “The Illustration of the Three Poems of Khwājū Kirmānī: A Turning Point in the Composition of Persian Painting,” in Écrits et Culture en Asie Centrale et dans le Monde Turco-Iranien, Xe–XIXe Siècles, edited by Francis Richard and Maria Szuppe (Paris: Association pour lʾAvancement des Études Iraniennes, 2009), pages 359–74; Sheila S. Blair, Text and Image in Medieval Persian Art (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), pages 172–75, 200–03, 205–09 and Figs. 5.1, 5.9 and 5.16; and Hamidreza Jayhani, “Bāgh-i Samanzār-i nūshāb: Tracing a Landscape, Based on the British Library’s Masnavī of Humāy u Humāyūn,” Muqarnas 31 (2014): 99–121.

be ranked at most as a mini, and would not be ­mentioned here at all but for the fact that it provides what seems to be the terminus post quem for the Persian artistic practice of signing paintings, in contrast to the centuries-old tradition of scribal signatures in manuscripts. Furthermore, and as shall become clear, both the formulation and placement of Junayd’s signature turn out to be not uncommon for Persian painters. Some twenty years later, the Timurid artist Nasr al-Sultani penned his signature in muḥaqqaq at the bottom of the illuminated opening folios in a lengthy poetic anthology copied by Firuzbakht alSultani and dated 820/1417, and did the same within the outermost frame of one of the double-page illuminations that precedes the beginning of the text in a well-known illustrated copy of Firdausi’s Shahnama from c. 1430. Like their placement, the wording of these signatory inscriptions is similar: zahhabahu Nasr al-Sulṭānī (illuminated by Nasr al-Sultani). Furthermore, both manuscripts signed by the artist open with dedications to Ibrahim Sultan, son of the Timurid ruler Shah Rukh and governor of Fars province, and both are accepted as coming from Shiraz.18 Like Junayd, Nasr al-Sultan 18

Anthology dated 820/1917: Istanbul, Turkish and Islamic Museum, ms 1979, folios 1b–2a. Francis Richard, “Nasr

52

Simpson

positioned his name in the Shahnama manuscript immediately below that of his patron. And while his signatures, again like that of his Jalayirid predecessor, are definitely more visible than invisible, their appearance in manuscripts with princely patronage and Shiraz production anticipate artistic practice under similar circumstances and on an increasingly smaller scale in the decades to come. The earliest truly hidden signature discovered to date occurs in a volume of the Divan of Khwaju Kirmani copied by Shir ʿAli in Ramadan 856/ September to October 1452. This manuscript was commissioned by yet another Timurid prince and grandson of Timur, Sultan Muhammad ibn Baysunghur, who ruled portions of Iran, including Fars province, from 1446–51.19 Its text opens with a headpiece featuring a lower panel illuminated

19

al-Soltani, Nasir al-Din Mozahhib et la bibliothèque dʾEbrahim Soltani à Širaz,” Studia Iranica 30 (2001): 93–100 (identifying Nasr al-Sultani as Nasir al-Din Muhammad Muzahhib, who was appointed superintendent of Ibrahim Sultan’s kitabkhana in 1432 and extolled in the appointment decree for his excellence in calligraphy, illumination and painting) and Fig.  1. Shahnama of circa 1430: Oxford, Bodleian Library, ms Ouseley Add. 176, folios 16b–17a. Firuza Abdullaeva and Charles Melville, The Persian Book of Kings: Ibrahim Sultan’s Shahnama (Oxford: The Bodleian Library, 2008), page 54 and Fig. 29; Barbara Brend and Charles Melville, Epic of the Persian Kings: The Art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh (Cambridge: The Fitzwilliam Museum; London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), pages 104–05. The published reproductions show folio 17a only. I am grateful to Alasdair Watson for confirming the beginning of Nasr al-Sultani’s signature inscription on folio 16b, and to Sheila Blair for identifying its script style. Topkapi Saray Library, E.H. 1637, folio 2b. Fehmi E. Karatay, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi. Farsça Yazmalar Kataloǧu (Istanbul: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi, 1961), cat. no. 648. I am indebted to David Roxburgh for the details about the manuscript’s patronage, illumination and inscriptions that follow here. For his own preliminary remarks see David J. Roxburgh, “‘Many a wish has turn to dust:’ Pir Budaq and the Formation of Turkmen Arts of the Book,” in Envisioning Islamic Art and Architecture: Essays in Honor of Renata Holod, edited by David J. Roxburgh (Leiden: Brill, 2014), page 178 n.11.

in a gold and gold technique and surrounded by a band of floral cartouches and a pair of very narrow gold framing lines. These continuous and parallel lines contain a series of superimposed, nano inscriptions by ʿAzud, the same illuminator who concealed his signature in the c. 1495–1500 Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi mentioned in the final point above. The minute, paired inscriptions in the 856/1452 Divan of Khwaju Kirmani include, at top and bottom, two sets of poetic couplets, together composing a rubaʾi and thus far unidentified, in which a lover laments his absence from the beloved.20 ʿAzud continued writing within the twin framing lines on the right side of the headpiece, adding another pair of verses that come from the end of the preface to Saʾdi’s Gulistan and that describe the purpose or rather the ultimate reward for the poet’s work.21 He concluded this lengthy and seemingly painstaking demonstration of minute penmanship on the illumination’s left side, inscribing the author’s name in the inner framing line and his own in the outer: ʿamal-i Ustād Kamāl dar īn qalam / harrarahu ʿAzud al-Muzahhib alRustamī (the work of Master Kamal in this style / outlined by ʿAzud al-Rustami the illuminator). ʿAzud took the same epigraphic approach in the nano inscriptions he wrote in the headpiece frame of the later Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi, incorporating the identical couplet by Saʾdi on the top and bottom sides and his signature on the left (Fig. 2.3B): 20

More specifically, and again according to Roxburgh (personal communication, April 2014), the verses “focus on the writer’s absence from the beloved by emphasizing the exaggerated perception of temporal duration, trading in the measurement of years, months, days and hours.” 21 Richard, Catalogue des Manuscrits Persans, p. 840, transliterating the Saʾdi bayt and noting that it also appears in the colophons of other Persian manuscripts, including at least one 15th century volume. My appreciation to Mohsen Ahstiany for pointing out that these particular Saʾdi verses are often quoted in Persian literature and culture as a kind of poetic trope or artistic tag, highlighting the work of art (or other creative endeavor) as a permanent memorial in a transient world.

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al-ʿabd al-faqīr ʿAzud al-Muzahhib ʿāfīya-ʿanhu (the poor servant ʿAzud the illuminator, may he be forgiven). And while he identified himself somewhat differently in these two Divan manuscripts, the artist’s repeated disguise, on the one hand, and display of poetic acumen, on the other, as manifest in both performances, suggest that this was his preferred mode of self-expression, in other words, his particular “signature achievement.”22 Just as one artist can conceal his presence in multiple manuscripts, so multiple artists can hide themselves in a single volume. The Bustan of Saʾdi made in Herat for the last Timurid ruler Sultan Husayn Bayqara and copied by Sultan ʿAli al-Katib in Rajab 893/June 1488 offers a perfect example of such collective artistic concealment. The contributions to this celebrated manuscript by the painter Bihzad are renown, specifically the four text illustrations that bear his unobtrusive ­signature, ranging from mini to micro in size.23 22

23

Richard, “La Signature discrète dʾun doreur persan,” pages 102–03; Richard, Splendeurs persanes, cat. no. 74; Richard, Catalogue des Manuscrits Persans, page 840 identifies ʿAzud al-Muzahhib as Mir ʿAzud Bukhari, an illuminator and calligrapher from Shiraz, whose name appears, together with those of the scribe Sultan Muhammad Nur and the painter Bihzad, in the colophon to an illustrated Zafarnama dated 1528–29, and who has been credited with the manuscript’s two illuminated sarlawhs (Tehran, Gulistan Palace Library, ms no. 708); Iranian Masterpieces of Persian Painting (Tehran: Museum of Contemporary Art, 2005), page 85. Meanwhile Roxburgh, “‘Many a wish has turned to dust’,” page 178 n.11 has suggested that ʿAzud may have been affiliated with the Aq-Quyunlu ruler Rustam ibn Maqsud ibn Uzun Hsan (r. 1493–97). The artist’s biography, including his association with other late fifteenth century artists and patrons, remains to be corroborated. Cairo, Dar al-Kutub, Adab Farsi 22. Notwithstanding its fame, the manuscript has never been fully published and its shelf mark often cited incorrectly as 908. For a catalogue description, see Nasrallah Mubashir al-Tirazi, Fihris al-Wasfī liʾl-Makhtūtāt al-Farsiya al-Muzayina biʾl-Suwār waʾl-Makhtūtāt bidār al-Kutub (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1968), page 21. For art historical introductions, see Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the

Less scholarly attention has been paid to the work of the Bustan’s illuminator, who embedded his nano signature in several places within the manuscript’s first two lavishly-illuminated openings. On folios 2b–3a the inscriptions appear within the diagonal ornaments in the lower right and lower left of the facing illuminated folios, and on folios 3b and 4a within the four quadrants of the gold background to a small black and gold medallion at the right and left corners of the second framing band. They read: ʿamal al-ʿabd Yārī al-muẓahhib (work of the servant Yari the illuminator).24 This artist is likely to have been Yari Haravi, variously described in primary sources of the Safavid period as among the masters of Shiraz, as a contemporary of Bihzad, and as accomplished at illumination, outlining and composing verse.25 Other examples

24

25

Fifteenth Century (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art; Washington, d.c.: Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, 1988), cat. no. 146; Ebadollah Bahari, Bihzād: Master of Persian Painting (London and New York: I.B. Tauris Publishers, 1996), pages 98–112. Roxburgh, “Kamal al-Din Bihzad,” page 140 n.6 also discusses the four paintings with Bihzad’s names as well as the manuscript’s double-page frontispiece and its inscription with a long-erased artist name. I owe the manuscript’s correct shelf mark, catalogue reference, folio numbers and the critical details about its artists’ signatures that follow here to Jake Benson, formerly at the Thesaurus Islamicus Foundation and the Dar al-Kutub Manuscript Project in Cairo. The signature on folio 3b can be just barely made out with the help of a magnifying glass in the color reproduction in Michael A. Barry, Figurative Art in Medieval Islam and the Riddle of Bihzad of Herat (1465–1535) (Paris: Flammarion; New York, ny: Rizzoli International, 2004), page 190. Al-Tirazi, Fihris, page 21, adds the word min before ʿamal. V. Minorsky, trans. Calligraphers and Painters: A Treatise by Qadi Ahmad, Son of Mir-Munshi (circa a.h. 1015/a.d. 1606) (Washington, d.c.: Freer G ­ allery of Art, 1959), page 188; Wheeler M. Thackston, A ­Century of Princes: Sources on Timurid History and Art (Cambridge, ma: The Aga Khan Program for ­Islamic Architecture, 1989), page 362 (quoting Mirza M ­ uhammadHaydar Dughlat [d. 1550], Tarikh-i Rashidi about Yari who surpassed his teacher Mulla Wali and “whose

54 of his work appear in various sixteenth-century albums, including those assembled for prince Bahram Mirza in 1544–45 and for Amir Husayn Beg, treasurer to Shah Tahmasb, in 1560–61.26 Bihzad employed the same formulation as Yari for all four of his surviving signatures: ʿamal al-ʿabd Bihzād (work of the servant Bihzad). He integrated two of these within his paintings’ a­ rchitectural settings – “Discussion in the Court of a Qadi” (folio 30a also adding the year 894/1499) and “The Seduction of Yusuf” folio 26a27– thus emulating, albeit on an even smaller scale, Junayd’s signature in the o­utlining was even better than his illumination”); Wheeler M. Thackston, Album Prefaces and Other Documents on the History of Calligraphers and Painters (Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill, 2001), page 21 (quoting Malik al-Daylami in his preface to the Amir Husayn Beg album, compiled in 958/1560-61, about Yari as a student of Muhammad-Qasim Shadishah) and 34 (quoting Wasfi in his preface to the Shah Ismaʾil ii album, completed in 984/1576-77, about Yari as a master of Shiraz and Kirman). Another album preface, dated 990/1582, mentions the artist Yari al-Bukhari as a student of Mawlana Mir-ʿAli (Thackston, Album Prefaces, page 36). The identity of these various artists named Yari remains to be sorted out. See, for instance, Adele T. Adamova and Manijeh Bayani, Persian Painting: The Arts of the Book and Portraiture (London: Thames and Hudson, 2015), page 368. 26 Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image, page 22 n.25; David J. Roxburgh, “Disorderly Conduct?: F.R. Martin and the Bahram Mirza Album,” Muqarnas 15 (1998): 51 and Fig.  18; David J. Roxburgh, The Persian Album, 1400– 1600: From Dispersal to Collection (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), pages 222 and 269 and Fig. 145. Yari is also credited as the illuminator in the colophon of a Khamsa of Nizami with a complicated production and post-production history spanning the Timurid and Safavid periods. Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image, page 144 n.109; Zeren Tanındı, “Additions to Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Workshops,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 160 n.29. 27 Bahari, Bihzād, Figs.  51 and 52. Roxburgh, “Kamal alDin Bihzad,” page 140 n.6 takes issue with these as signatures since they are part of the compositions’ epigraphical décor, whereas Soudavar, “Le chant du monde,” page 255 comments on Bihzad’s skill at rayhan script in folio 52b.

Simpson

Khwaju Kirmani manuscript illustrated a century earlier.28 These are Bihzad’s mini signatures. His other two are microscopic. The first of this pair is on the lower part of the king’s quiver in “King Dara and the Herdsman” folio 10a and the other on the left-hand side of the book held by the man seated at the upper left side in the scene of “The Beggar refused Admittance to the Mosque” folio 26a.29 In short, Bihzad took credit for his work in formulaic fashion, but was very strategic as to where he took credit – that is, where he placed himself – within the four Bustan compositions, an issue to be taken up in a moment. At this point the main observation about the Bustan as a whole is that it contains the full gamut of artist signatures: written in standard size nastaʾliq by the calligrapher Sultan ʿAli alKatib, in small and smaller naskh by Bihzad, and in smallest script by Yari. The nano size of Yari’s hand in the Bustan, as well as that of ʿAzud in the Divan manuscripts previously discussed, would seem to qualify as naskh-i ghubār, the minuscule, so-called dust script said to have been invented for messages to be carried by pigeon post and used by calligraphers in medieval and early modern Iran for amulets, talismans and miniature Qurʾans.30 That this diminutive but 28 Blair and Bloom, “Signatures,” pages 58–59. 29 Bahari, Bihzād, Figs. 49 and 50. For a black and white detail of folio 10a, in which Bihzad’s signature still remains practically invisible, again demonstrating the difficulty of reproducing such minute signatures, see Blair and Bloom, “Signatures,” tafel 12(a), and Roxburgh, “Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Fig. 13 and page 140 in which the artist’s name is characterized as having been “inscribed” rather than signed. On the other hand, Abolala Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts: Selections from the Art and History Trust (New York, ny: Rizzoli, 1992), page 109, refers to folio 26a as signed by Bihzad. 30 Blair, Islamic Calligraphy, page 481; Heather Coffey, “Between Amulet and Devotion: Islamic Miniature ­ Books in the Lilly Library,” in The Islamic Manuscript Tradition: Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections, edited by Christiane Gruber (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2010), pages 78–115. I am grateful to Sheila Blair for

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­ erfectly legible script – which the Mamluk chronp icler and chancery secretary Qalqashandi called ghubār al-ḥilya, meaning for secrets, and whose letters measure less than 3 millimeters and often as small as 1.3 mm in height31 – was also used for copies of Persian poetry is confirmed by the Safavid calligrapher and Freer Jami contributor Malik al-Daylami in his well-known preface to the Amir Husayn Beg album where he signals out Shaykh Mahmud Zarin qalam, a student of Jaʾfar Tabrizi, as having written a Khamsa in ghubār script.32 Microscopic drawing and illumination were also admired in the Safavid period, and in his Tarikh-i Rashidi Muhammad Haydar extols several artists with such skill, including Baba Hajji who drew fifty semicircles “not one was larger or smaller by so much as a hair’s breath,” and Darvish-Muhammad who painted a rider spearing a lion: “the entire picture fits on the end of a grain of rice.”33 Hyperbolic, perhaps, but still telling. Returning again to Bihzad, art historians generally tend to associate him first and foremost with the last Timurid court, but he did have a second career as head of the royal Safavid kitābkhāna in the early part of the sixteenth century.34 Thus, it is hardly surprising that Mir Muṣavvir, who played a confirming this association (personal communication, April 2014). 31 Annemarie Schimmel, Calligraphy and Islamic Culture (New York and London: New York University Press, 1 1984), page 13; Blair, Islamic Calligraphy, pages 259–60, 351 (with the literal translation for ghubār al-hilya as “dust of the decoration”), and 558; Adam Gacek, Arabic Manuscripts: A Vademecum for Readers (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), page 113. 32 Thackston, Album Prefaces, page 21. 33 Thackston, A Century of Princes, page 362. 34 Bahari, Bihzād, pages 179–80 and 184–87; Thompson and Canby, Hunt for Paradise, page 80; Marianna S. Simpson, “Bihzad’s Second Career at the Safavid Court,” in Collected Essays of the International Congress Honoring Kamal al-Din Behzad, ed. Behnam Sadri (Tehran: Farhangestan-e honar, 2005), pages 69–80. Whether Bihzad’s service was to the first or second Safavid shah depends on one’s interpretation of his appointment decree.

role in directing the Tahmasb Shahnama project, hid his signature in one of its illustrations, as noted above. Likewise, Sultan Muhammad, another leading Safavid painter, seems to have followed Bizhad’s lead in the way he asserted authorship for two paintings in the now-dispersed Divan of Hafiz long associated with Shah Tahmasb and his brother Sam Mirza.35 Both paintings are inscribed “ʿamal-i Sulṭān Muḥammad-i ʿIraqī ” within the architecture and architectural decor: the “Tavern Scene” in the cartouche over the side doorway, and the “Celebration of ʿId” within the central medallion on the front of the throne, beneath the seated ruler, generally regarded as a depiction of Shah Tahmasb (see Fig. 2.4).36 Admittedly, Sultan Muhammad’s ­signatures here are larger than that of Mir Muṣavvir in the Tahmasb Shahnama and more conspicuous than even the mini ones that Bihzad inserted into his Bustan buildings, so they really may not “count” as hidden signatures. There is, however, a similar relationship of Bihzad’s 35

36

This manuscript looms large in the literature on Persian painting, and its exact patronage has been debated. For recent evaluations, see Blair, Text and Image, pages 239–42; and Abolala Soudavar, Reassessing Early Safavid Art and History: Fifty Years after Dickson and Welch 1981 (Houston: Soudavar, 2016), pages 42–64 (especially pages 56–64 for Sam Mirza’s role in the manuscript’s production.). The “Tavern Scene” (also called “Allegory of Drunkenness” and “Worldly and Otherworldly Drunkenness”) is jointly owned by Cambridge, ma., Harvard Art Museums (1988.460.2) and New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Celebration of ʿId” (also called “The Sighting of the New Moon after Ramadan”) is on long-term loan to Washington, d.c., Smithsonian Institution, Arthur M. Sackler Gallery (lts 1995.2.42) from the Art and History Collection. The ʿId painting has been the subject of considerable analysis in recent years: Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, cat. no. 59; Eleanor Sims, Peerless Images: Persian Painting and its Sources (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), cat. no.  55; Assadullah Souren Melikian-Chirvani, Le chant du monde. Lʾart de lʾIran safavide (Paris: Musée du Louvre and Somogy Editions dʾArt, 2007), pages 62–66 and cat. no. 37; Blair, Text and Image, page 240 and Fig. 6.10.

56

Figure 2.4 Sultan Muhammad, “Celebration of ʿId.” Divan of Hafiz. Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, d.c., Long-term loan from the Art and History Collection, lts 1995.2.42.

Simpson

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s­ ignature in the Bustan painting of “King Dara and the Herdsman” to its central character and Sultan Muhammad on the “Celebration of ʿId” to its central character, that is, both artists place themselves in a subservient position vis-à-vis the royal personage in their paintings.37 In contrast, they differ in the way they “name” themselves. In all four of his Bustan paintings Bihzad calls himself al-ʿabd (the servant or slave), a traditional modesty trope, whereas Sultan Muhammad dubs himself with a geographic nisba, “Iraqi” referring to the provinces of central Iran.38 These different modes of nomenclature suggests a shift, and not such a subtle one at that, in artistic self-perception or self-consciousness. Whether this is a personal or a period development is an issue that merits future investigation. In the meanwhile, it is worth noting that Sultan Muhammad surrounded his signature on the “Celebration of ʿId” with formulaic and panegyrical phrases, written in a similarly discrete hand, clearly addressed to his enthroned patron: fatḥ bād, ʿomr bād, nuṣrat bād, fīrūzī bād, daulat bād, furṣat bād (May there be conquest, long life, support, victory, fortune and opportunity).39 Artists working outside the Safavid dynastic and courtly milieu, and specifically in Shiraz, during the first half of the sixteenth century, also incorporated signatures of various sizes into their paintings and illuminations. Thus a certain Saʾd al-Din signed his name – katabahu Saʾd al-Din muzahhib (written by Saʾd al-Din the illuminator) – in a teeny white hand within the last of a series 37

Blair and Bloom, “Signatures on Works of Islamic Art,” pages 59 and 63; Blair, “Text and Image,” page 240. See also Blair, “Place, Space and Style” for further thoughts on the issue of artistic humility and servitude. The notion retains a firm hold on modern scholarly interpretation of artists’ status, as witness the dedication in Bahari, Bihzād, title page verso: “To all the great Persian painters who often in their humility did not sign their work.” This essay is an initial attempt to explore exceptions to that supposed rule. 38 Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, page 200, n.67. 39 Melekian-Chirvani, Le chant du monde, page 63; Blair, Text and Image, page 240.

of roundels containing the names of the twelve imams in a Khamsa of Nizami, copied by the calligrapher Murshid al-Din Muhammad in Shiraz in 918/1512-13.40 Likewise, an illustration of “Iskandar before Shadad’s Tomb” in a Khamsa copied by Murshid al-Katib al-Shirazi in 945-47/1538-40 contains the micro signature in white naskh and date of its artist to the left of a formulaic doorway inscription: mashaqahu Husayn Muzahhib sanat 947 (copied by Husayn [the] illuminator, the year 1540).41 Two years later the same artist identified himself again in white and this time in the smallest possible hand – i.e, a nano signature – within the lower blue framing band decorated with a white cross and dot design of the left-hand page of the illuminated frontispiece of a Shahnama manuscript copied by Muhammad katib in Shiraz in 956/1549. In this inscription Husayn reveals that he too was working in Shiraz: muzahhib Ḥusayn ibn Muḥammad ba dar al-mulk Shīrāz fī 959 (the illuminator Husayn ibn Muhammad in the dominion of Shiraz in 1549).42 The present focus on these examples of hidden signatures is thanks to the magnificent detailed reproductions in Lale Uluç’s important ­monograph on Shiraz manuscripts, in which she interprets the signatures within the illustrated Khamsa manuscripts of 1512–13 and 1538–40 to signify that both Saʾd al-Din and Husayn were simultaneously painters and illuminators and responsible for the entire compositions that contain their names. The particular and precise formulations of these artists’ signatures, employing the verb forms katabahu (written by) and mashaqahu (copied by) rather than, for instance, ʿamal (work), suggests instead a two-fold artistic and art historical ambiguity that remains to be resolved. 40 41

42

Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library, H. 770, folio 242a. Uluç, Turkman Governors, pages 85–86 and Figs. 40–41. Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library, H. 758, folio 383a. Uluç, Turkman Governors, page 150 and Fig. 100–02. The manuscript’s scribe seems to be a different Murshid from the one who copied the 918/1512-13 Khamsa. Istanbul, Turkish and Islamic Museum, 1984, folios 1b– 2a. Uluç, Turkman Governors, page 150 and Fig. 103–04.

58 No such ambiguity surrounds ʿAbdullah Shirazi, by far the most prolific producer of variably-sized signatures,43 whose nano inscription within the illuminated headpiece to the Yusuf and Zulaykha poem, completed by Muhibb ʿAli in 964/1557, in the Haft awrang made for Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, served as the point of departure for this essay. Several years after his Freer Jami work, ʿAbdullah signed a painting of an old man in a landscape, evidently once part of a double-page composition, which at some point was inserted into another Jami manuscript. Unlike his previous signature, ʿAbdullah wrote this one quite prominently at an angle on a rock at the left side of the composition and included the date: ʿamal-i ʿAbdullah muzahhib 972 (work of ʿAbdullah [the] illuminator ­1564–65).44 He repeated the same formulaic inscription seventeen years later – so 989 or 1581/82 – in the double-page frontispiece composition of a court scene in a volume of Hilali’s Sifat al-ashiqin copied by Muzaffar Husayn al-Sharif alHusayni that has been attributed to the patronage of the Safavid vizier Mirza Salman.45 The next year Abdullah greatly expanded his signature within a copy of the Divans of his former (and by then deceased) patron Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, inscribing it on a stone in the foreground of a text illustration: Huwa. Dar sang-i chunīn navasht naqqāsh dunyā mīkunad vafāʾ khvūsh bāsh. ʿAmal-i ʿAbdullah alMuzahhib, sanat 99[0] (Lord. On this stone the painter has written that the world lacks constancy, therefore be happy. Work of Abdullah the illuminator, the year 158[2]-8[3]).46 It is noteworthy that on all these paintings, ʿAbdullah chose to register 43 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pages 300–07. 44 Lisbon, Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, la 159, folio 101a. Simpson, Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, Fig. 207. 45 Washington, d.c., Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, lts 1995.2.63, folios 1b–2a, on long-term loan from Art and History Collection. Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, cat. no. 90a; Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, page 421. 46 Toronto, Aga Khan Museum (formerly collection Prince Sadruddin Aga Khan) AKM282, folio 23a.

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his name for perpetuity by engraving it, as it were, on a rocky surface and to reinforce that, perhaps ironically, on the 99[0]/158[2] example with a kind of carpe diem adage. Furthermore, and in the spirit of constancy, he consistently presents himself in these compositions as an illuminator, while at the same time leaving no doubt as to his responsibility for the paintings (see Fig. 2.5). Given this self-identification, it is perhaps not surprising that, during the same period, ʿAbdullah continued to hide his nano signature within the narrow blue framing lines of various illuminated frontispieces, using the same white ink as the surrounding check and dot designs. Examples of the artist’s deliberate self-effacement appear on the opening folios to Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Divan dated 99[0]/158[2],47 a Bustan of Saʾdi dated 987/1579,48 and a Divan of Hafiz dated between Ramadan 989/October 1581 and Rabi i 994/March 1586.49 Interestingly, the 1579 and 1581–86 manuscripts were copied by the same scribe, Sultan Husayn al-Tuni, suggesting some kind of artistic ­collaboration or shared workshop – or both (see Fig. 2.6). On the other hand, these works were

­Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, Fig. 205 and page 421. 47 Toronto, Aga Khan Museum (formerly collection Prince Sadruddin Aga Khan), AKM282, folios 1b–2a: ʿamal-i ʿAbdullah al-Muzahhib al-Shirazi sanat 990 / work of ʿAbdullah the illuminator from Shiraz, the year 1582–83. Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, Fig. 204 and page 421. 48 Houston, E.M. Soudavar Trust Collection, folio 2a: ʿamal-i ʿAbdullah al-Muzahhib al-Shirazi / work of ʿAbdullah the illuminator from Shiraz. Abolala Soudavar, “The Patronage of the Vizier Mirza Salman,” Muqarnas 30 (2013), page 214 and Fig. 2. 49 Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library, H. 986, folio 6a: ʿamal-i ʿAbdullah al-Muzahhhib / work of ʿAbdullah the illuminator. Filiz Çaǧman and Zeren Tanındı, “Remarks on Some Manuscripts from the Topkapi Palace Treasury in the Context of Ottoman-­Safavid Relations,” Muqarnas 13 (1996): 134–35 and Fig.  4; Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, page 421.

Who’s Hiding Here?

Figure 2.5 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Frontispiece. Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, folios 1b–2a. The Aga Khan Museum, Toronto, AKM282.

Figure 2.6 ʿAbdullah Shirazi, Frontispiece. Bustan of Saʿdi, folio 2a. E.M. Soudavar Trust Collection, Houston.

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60 commissioned by two different Safavid courtly patrons: the 1579 Saʾdi by Mirza Salman, and the 1581–86 Hafiz for the bureaucrat Sultan Suleyman, as identified in the manuscript’s final colophon (fol. 210a).50 Conclusions There are a number of other examples belonging to the developing corpus or survey of hidden signatures currently in process, but the sample presented here allows for some preliminary conclusions to follow the four points made at the outset. First, signature concealment through size and placement seems to have occurred most frequently among illuminators or illuminatorscum-­painters working in Shiraz or who hailed from Shiraz, judging from their names or recorded biographies. Thus this city – distinguished for having the oldest and most continuous history as a center of deluxe manuscript production in Iran51 – seems the most likely place of origin for this self-effacing practice. While this proposition requires further evidence, for the moment it appears to be empirically objective. Next, hidden signatures appear most frequently in manuscripts with colophons recording the names of their scribes and in manuscripts created for royal, princely or courtly patrons. Here the investigative terrain becomes more subjective. That calligraphers signed their work conspicuously and in expected places (i.e., the colophons) and illuminators and painters signed their inconspicuously and in unexpected or at least less expected places seems to confirm the long-standing assumption 50

Soudavar, “The Age of Muhammadi,” pages 62–65; Soudavar, “The Patronage of Vizier Mirza Salman.” 51 Uluç, Turkman Governors; Elaine Wright, The Look of the Book: Manuscript Production in Shiraz, 1303–1452 (Washington, d.c.: Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, in association with the University of Washington Press, Seattle and the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, 2012).

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about calligraphers in Iran and other Muslim lands: namely, that their status was more elevated than other practitioners of the book arts. Or does it? Perhaps Bihzad, Yari, ʿAzud, Husayn, Saʾd alDin, Sultan Muhammad, Mir Muṣavvir, ʿAbdullah and Shaykh Muhammad were actually signaling epigraphic or calligraphic virtuosity with their displays of mini, micro and nano signatures. Timurid and Safavid scribes may have perfected their skill at nastaʾliq; illuminators and painters mastered the equal (and perhaps even greater) challenge of naskh-i ghubār. The relationship between artist and patron, as revealed in hidden signatures, would seem to be similarly multivalent. On the one hand, for an artist to inscribe his name on a royal quiver or throne certainly may have been intended as a gesture of humility or subservience. Blair and Bloom also have proposed, with reference to Sultan Husayn Bayqara’s Bustan, that such a placement might have been intended as a kind of visual pun, through which Bihzad alluded to his other work for the Timurid court atelier, specifically in the decoration of quivers and other leatherwork. Likewise signing a book, as in the Bustan illustration of “The Beggar refused Admittance to the Mosque,” may be understood as a clever reference to Bihzad’s principle role as a master of the book arts.52 The formulaic inscriptions with which Sultan Muhammad surrounded his signature cartouche in the Hafiz manuscript, on the other hand, could have been conceived as a way for the artist to privately and discretely convey good wishes to his patron during the feast marking the end of Ramadan.53 So these mini and micro signatures may 52

Blair and Bloom, “Signatures,” pages 59–60; Blair, Text and Image, page 202 (discussing visual puns in the Bustan frontispiece). 53 Blair, Text and Image, pages 240–41 and Blair, “Place, Space and Style,” page 238 also sees the relation between artist and patron in this painting as a visual pun. Roxburgh, “Kemal al-Din Bihzad,” page 142 n.15 wonders if the addition of an artist’s name or signature resulted from a contractual stipulation between artist and patron.

61

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combine deference with a bit of self-promotion or braggadocio. As for more covert and disguised, that is, nano, signatures, such as those that ʿAbdullah Shirazi inserted into various headpiece and frontispiece illuminations, it seems likely that the artist was challenging the various patrons of those particular volume to seek out and find his name, similar to the way the venerable graphic illustrator Al Hirschfeld (1903–2003) teased readers of the New York Times and other publications during his long career. In Hirschfeld’s case what he hid was not his name but that of his daughter, Nina, and he would often add a number after his signature as a clue to the number of Ninas in a given illustration.54 ʿAbdullah gave Sultan Ibrahim Mirza the equivalent of a clue or sign in the poem he wrote within the heading to the Yusuf and Zulaykha masnavi in the prince’s Jami manuscript, a clue that the artist perhaps intended as the visual equivalent of muʾammā, those riddles in verse form containing hidden and enigmatic letter or word allusion and requiring complex solutions.55 The composition of muʾammā was all the rage at the court of Sultan Husayn Bayqara. Thus it was a poetic genre that might have inspired Bihzad and Yari during their work on the ruler’s Bustan, and one that continued to preoccupy poets, painters and princes during the following century.56 Safavid practioners included ʿAbdullah’s very patron Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, praised by Qadi Ahmad as peerless in the art of metrics, rhyming and puzzles (muʾammā), 54 Al Hirschfeld, Hirschfeld On Line (New York and London: Applause, 1999), pages 7–8, 14, and 31–32. 55 Gernot Windfuhr, “Riddles,” in A History of Persian Literature i: General Introduction of Persian Literature, edited by J.T.P. de Bruijn (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009), pages 314–30. 56 Maria Subtelny, “A Taste for the Intricate: The Persian Poetry of the Late Timurid Period,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 136 (1986): 56–79; Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image, pages 28, 50, 84–85 n.5 and 179; Blair, Islamic Calligraphy, page 451 (commenting on the relationship between micrography and muʾamma).

as well as gifted in calligraphy, painting and other book arts.57 What better game could ʿAbdullah ­devise for such a talented and discerning patron than a bit of artistic hide and seek at the start of the Yusuf and Zulaykha masnavi, perhaps setting it up, as it were, so as to be on hand when Ibrahim Mirza first read the poetic inscription, let his gaze drift downwards, to the illuminated band below, and then let out a great Eureka! when he spied ʿAbdullah’s signature. Such a scenario, however much art historical fantasy or projection, also might lie behind Shaykh-Muhammad’s hidden signature within the Yusuf scene illustrated five quires later in the same section of the Haft awrang.58 Shaykh-Muhammad expected Ibrahim Mirza to read the ivan inscription on folio 120a and doubtless counted on the attentive prince, perhaps already alert to the possibility of visual tricks, to then spot the artist’s signature angled into the nearby brick. Shaykh Muhammad also may been cleverly mimicking ʿAbdullah Shirazi and/or indulging here in a bit of artistic competition or one-upsmanship, flaunting his own, even greater, prowess at miniaturization and enigma – his signature achievement – in anticipation of even more approbation from their shared patron. Coda In addition to being acts of artistic concealment, minuscule and hidden signatures are also acts of secrecy. There is an old tradition within Islamic cultures, recently explored with regards to diverse Arabo-Islamic discourses, in which secrecy is identified as a marker of the self. These texts include early Arabic ʿUdhri romances or love 57 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, page 235. 58 As proposed in Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pages 114–15 and 335, this section of the manuscript may have had significant, personal meaning for the prince, judging from both its first and final illustrations on the theme of marriage.

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­literature such as Layla and Majnun and emphasize the role and function of the secret in its representations of the self, self-other relations and subjectivity. According to these studies, secrecy is deployed in romances chiefly for rhetorical reasons, because it invites or generates revelation.59 Or to put in another way, a defining trait of secrecy is that is always accompanied by revelation. (Indeed, muʾammā are another manifestation of this conceal-and-reveal dialogue, since finding riddles in the first place is actually more difficult than solving them.60) Of perhaps more immediate historical and cultural relevance is the critical role of secrecy or dissimulation, designated by terms such as taqiyya and kitmān, that forms one part of the dichotomous inward (bāṭin) – outward (ẓāhir) vision within the doctrine of Shiʾite Islam in Safavid Iran.61 It remains to be seen if these tenets can be applied to the visual arts or to what extent the ­phenomenon of hidden signatures in fifteenth and sixteenth century manuscripts was grounded in or informed by such constructs.62 But 59

60 61

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Ruqayya Yasmine Khan, Self and Secrecy in Early Islam (Columbia, s.c.: University of South Carolina Press, 2008), pages 95–99. Windfuhr, “Riddles,” page 321. Etan Kohlberg, “Some Imami Shiʾi Views on Taqiyya,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 (1975): 395–402; Etan Kohlberg, “Taqiyya in Shiʾi Theology and Religion,” in Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions, edited by H.G. Kippenberg and G.G. Stroumsa (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pages 345–80; Mohammad ʿAli AmirMoezzi, “Shiʾite Doctrine,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, www .iranicaonline.org/articles/shiite-doctrine The much older concept of muʾammā already incorporated such ­mystical “unveiling” of what is hidden and concealed. Windfuhr, “Riddles,” page 330. Followers of Nuqtawi Shiʾism in Iran and India were said to include artists and artisans. Interestingly, some came from or lived in Shiraz. ʿAbbas Amanat, “Persian Nuqtawīs and the Shaping of the Doctrine of ‘Unusual Conciliation’ (sulh-i kull) in Mughal India,” in Mysticism, Messianism and the Construction of Religious Authority in Islam, edited by Orkhan Mir-Kasimov

it is tempting to speculate that ʿAbdullah Shirazi, for one, regularly and deliberately concealed his name so that his artistic self as a master of “secret writing” might be surprisingly revealed to Sultan Ibrahim Mirza and his other patrons. To end on firmer art historical ground, Shaykh Muhammad seems to have hidden his signature – that is to say, hidden himself – only once, namely in the Freer Jami. He did, however, sign other works, including qitʾa or calligraphic samples, and always in a place and size that is fairly visible. Interestingly, his signed pictures are all album paintings or single figure studies, as opposed to manuscript illustrations.63 A few of these are dated, including a tinted drawing of a “Man Holding a Cup,” which is inscribed: ṭarḥ -i Mawlānā Shaykh Muḥammad va qalam-i Aqa Riza 1000 (design of Mawlana Shaykh Muhammad and pen of Aqa Riza, 1591–92). So this was a collaborative effort between a by-then aging artist and a rising star, who seemingly wrote the inscription.64 In her seminal study of Riza, Sheila Canby discusses Shaykh Muhammad’s influence on his younger colleague and draws attention to the way this particular drawing, as well as others of the 1590s, shows Riza’s growing interest in personality and, it now would seem, in subjectivity.65 Although there are other examples of discrete signatures within later Safavid manuscripts, as well as similar ones in Mughal and Qutb Shah

(Leiden: Brill, 2014), page 370. For the connection between artisans and mystics during the reign of Shah ʿAbbas i, see Kathryn Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs: Cultural Landscape of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, m.a.: Harvard University Press, 2002), pages 446–47. 63 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, pages 310–15 and 423–25; Simpson, “Discovering Shaykh-Muhammad.” 64 Sheila R. Canby, The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi Abbasi of Isfahan (London: Azimuth Editions, 1996), repro. page 44 and page 181, cat. no. 14. 65 Ibid, page 45.

Who’s Hiding Here?

manuscripts,66 it appears that during the reign of Shah ʿAbbas, artistic opacity was being increasingly supplanted by full transparency. Who’s hiding here? I AM. Bibliography Abdullaeva, Firuza, and Charles Melville. The Persian Book of Kings: Ibrahim Sultan’s Shahnama. Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2008. Adamova, Adele T. and Manijeh Bayani. Persian Painting: The Arts of the Book and Portraiture. London: Thames and Hudson, 2015. Amanat, Abbas. “Persian Nuqtawīs and the Shaping of the Doctrine of ‘Unusual Conciliation’ (sulh-i kull) in Mughal India,” in Mysticism, Messianism and the Construction of Religious Authority in Islam, ed. ­Orkhan Mir-Kasimov, 367–92. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Amir-Moezzi, Mohammad ʿAli. “Shiʾite Doctrine,” Encyclopaedia Iranica. www.iranicaonline.org/articles/ shiite-doctrine. Babayan, Kathryn. Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs: Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran. Cambridge, M.A.: Harvard University Press, 2002. 66

Windsor, The Royal Library, ms 1005014, folio 320b. B.W. Robinson, The Windsor Shahnama of 1648 (London: Azimuth Editions, 2007), cat. no. 69 and Figs. 28 and 34; Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, W.624, folios 1b, 42b, 90b and 174b. John Seyller, Pearls of the Parrot of India: The Walters Art Museum Khamsa of Amir Khusraw of Delhi (Baltimore: The Walters Art Museum, 2001), pages 119–23 and Figs.  48–51; Hyderabad, Salar Jung Museum, ms. 153, folio 3b. Laura Weinstein, “Variations on a Persian Theme: The Dīwān of Muhammad-Quli Qutb Shah and the Birth of the Illustrated Urdu Dīwān,” in The Visual World of Muslim India: The Art, Culture and Society of the Deccan in the Early Modern Era, edited by Laura E. Parodi (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2014), page 181 and Fig. 8.1. It is worth noting that the smallest of the disguised signatures in the Walters’ celebrated Mughal manuscript is in the hand of an artist who hailed from Shiraz and that manuscripts produced in the Qutb Shah kingdom of Golconda also had strong Shiraz connections.

63 Bahari, Ebadollah. Bihzad, Master of Persian Painting. London and New York: I.B. Tauris Publishers, 1996. Barry, Michael. Figurative art in medieval Islam and the  riddle of Bihzâd of Herât (1465–1535). Paris: ­Flammarion-Pere Castor, 2004. Blair, Shelia S. “Place, Space, and Style: Craftsmen’s Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art.” in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. Antony Eastmond, 230–49. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Blair, Shelia S. “Signatures as Evidence for Artistic Production in the Islamic Lands,” Geschichte der Vier Erdtelle / Art History of the Four Continents, eds. Matteo Burioni and Ulrich Pfisterer. Munich: ­Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, forthcoming. Blair, Sheila S. Islamic Calligraphy. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Blair, Shelia S. Text and Image in Medieval Persian Art. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014. Blair, Sheila S., and Jonathan M. Bloom. “Signatures on works of Islamic art and architecture.” Damaszener Mitteilungen 11 (1999): 49–66. Brend, Barbara, and Charles Melville. Epic of the Persian kings: the art of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010. Canby, Sheila R. The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi Abbasi of Isfahan. London: Azimuth Editions, 1996. Canby, Sheila R. The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasb: The Persian Book of Kings. New York, N.Y.: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2014. Çaǧman, Filiz and Zeren Tanındı. “Remarks on Some Manuscripts from the Topkapi Palace Treasury in the Context of Ottoman-Safavid Relations,” Muqarnas 13 (1996): 132–48. Coffey, Heather. “Between Amulet and Devotion: ­Islamic Miniature Books in the Lilly Library,” in The Islamic Manuscript Tradition: Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections, ed. Christiane Gruber. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2010. Dickson, Martin Bernard and Stuart Cary Welch. The Houghton Shahnameh, 2 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981.

64 Gacek, Adam. Arabic Manuscripts: A Vademecum for Readers. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009. Goffen, Rona. “Signatures: Inscribing Identity in Italian Renaissance Art,” Viator 32 (2001): 303–70. Hirschfeld, Al. Hirschfeld On Line. New York and London: Applause, 1999. Jayhani, Hamidreza. “Bāgh-i Samanzār-i nūshāb: Tracing a Landscape, Based on the British Library’s Masnavī of Humāy u Humāyūn,” Muqarnas 31 (2014): 99–121. Khan, Ruqayya Yasmine. Self and Secrecy in Early I­ slam. Columbia, S.C.: Univ of South Carolina Press, 2008. Kohlberg, Etan. “Some Imami Shiʾi Views on Taqiyya,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 95 (1975): 395–402. Kohlberg, Etan. “Taqiyya in Shiʾi Theology and Religion,” in Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions, eds. H.G. Kippenberg and G.G. Stroumsa, 345–80. Leiden: Brill, 1995. Landau, Amy S. “Man, Mode, and Myth: Muhammad Zaman ibn Haji Yusuf,” in Pearls on a String: Artists, Patrons and Poets at the Great Islamic Courts, ed. Amy S. Landau, 157–94. Baltimore: The Walters Art Museum, 2015. Lentz, Thomas W., and Glenn D. Lowry. Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the ­Fifteenth Century. Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art; Washington, D.C.: Arthur M. S­ ackler Gallery, 1989. Melikian-Chirvani, Assadullah Souren. Le chant du monde. Lʾart de lʾIran safavide. Paris: Musée du Louvre and Somogy Editions dʾArt, 2007. Minorsky, V., trans. Calligraphers and Painters: A Treatise by Qadi Ahmad, Son of Mir-Munshi (circa A.H. 1015/A.D. 1606). Washington, D.C.: Freer Gallery of Art, 1959. Porter, Yves, “The Illustration of the Three Poems of Khwājū Kirmānī: A Turning Point in the Composition of Persian Painting,” in Écrits et Culture en Asie Centrale et dans le Monde Turco-Iranien, Xe–XIXe Siècles, eds. Francis Richard and Maria Szuppe, 359–74.

Simpson Paris: Association pour lʾAvancement des Études Iraniennes, 2009. Richard, Francis. “Signer et transmettre lʾimage: Riza ʿAbbāsī et ses modèles,” in Écrits et Culture en Asie Centrale et dans le Monde Turco-Iranien, Xe–XIXe Siècles, eds. Francis Richard and Maria Szuppe, 403– 17. ­Paris: Association pour lʾAvancement des Études ­Iraniennes, 2009. Richard, Francis. “Nasr al-Soltani, Nasir al-Din Mozahhib et la bibliothèque dʾEbrahim Soltani à Širaz,” ­Studia Iranica 30 (2001): 93–100. Robinson, B.W. The Windsor Shahnama of 1648. London: Azimuth Editions, 2007. Roxburgh, David J. “Disorderly Conduct?: F.R. Martin and the Bahram Mirza Album,” Muqarnas 15 (1998): 32–57. Roxburgh, David J. “Kamal al-Din Bihzad and Authorship in Classical Persian Painting,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 119–46. Roxburgh, David J. “‘Many a Wish Has Turned to Dust’: Pir Budaq and the Formation of Turkmen Arts of the Book.” in Envisioning Islamic Art and Architecture, 175–222. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Roxburgh, David J. The Persian Album, 1400–1600: From Dispersal to Collection. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005. Schimmel, Annemarie. Calligraphy and Islamic Culture. New York and London: New York University Press, 1984. Seyller, John. “Scribal Notes on Mughal Manuscript Illustrations,” Artibus Asiae 48 (1987): 247–77. Simpson, Marianna Shreve. “Bihzad’s Second Career at the Safavid Court,” in Collected Essays of the ­International Congress Honoring Kamal al-Din Behzad, ed. Behnam Sadri. Tehran: Farhangestan-e honar, 2005. Simpson, Marianna Shreve. “Discovering ShaykhMuhammad in the Freer Jami,” Ars Orientalis 28 (1998): 104–14. Simpson, Marianna Shreve. “The Making of Manuscripts and the Workings of the Kitab-khana in ­Safavid Iran,” in Studies in the History of Art 38 (1993): 104–21.

Who’s Hiding Here? Simpson, Marianna Shreve. Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang: A Princely Manuscript from Sixteenth-­ Century Iran. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997. Sims, Eleanor. Peerless Images: Persian Painting and Its Sources. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002. Soucek, Priscilla S. “ʾAbdallāh Širāzī,” Encyclopaedia Iranica 1 (1985): 193–95. Soudavar, Abolala. “Le Chant du monde: A Disenchanting Echo of Safavid Art History,” Iran 46 (2008): 253–62. Soudavar, Abolala. Reassessing Early Safavid Art and History: Fifty Years after Dickson and Welch 1981. Houston: Soudavar, 2016. Subtelny, Maria. “A Taste for the Intricate: The Persian Poetry of the Late Timurid Period,” Zeitschrift der  Deutschen Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 136 (1986): 56–79. Tanındı, Zeren. “Additions to Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Workshops,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 147–61. Thackston, Wheeler M. A Century of Princes: Sources on Timurid History and Art. Cambridge, MA: The Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture, 1989. Al-Tirazi, Nasrallah Mubashir. Fihris al-Wasfī liʾlMakhtūtāt al-Farsiya al-Muzayina biʾl-Suwār waʾlMakhtūtāt bidār al-Kutub. Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1968. Thompson, Jon and Sheila R. Canby, eds. Hunt for Paradise: Court Arts of Safavid Iran 1501–1576. Milan: Skira Editore, 2003.

65 Thackston, Wheeler M. Album Prefaces and Other Documents on the History of Calligraphers and Painters. Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill, 2001. Treadwell, Luke. Craftsmen and Coins: Signed Dies in the Iranian World (Third to the Fifth Centuries AH). Vienna: Verlag des Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011. Uluç, Lale. Turkman Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman Collectors: Sixteenth Century Shiraz Manuscripts. Istanbul: İş Bankası Kültür Yayıları, 2006. Weinstein, Laura, “Variations on a Persian Theme: The Dīwān of Muhammad-Quli Qutb Shah and the Birth of the Illustrated Urdu Dīwān,” in The Visual World of Muslim India: The Art, Culture and Society of the Deccan in the Early Modern Era, ed. Laura E. Parodi. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2014. Windfuhr, Gernot. “Riddles,” in A History of Persian L­ iterature I: General Introduction of Persian Literature, ed. J.T.P. de Bruijn, 314–30. London: I.B. Tauris, 2009. Wright, Elaine Julia. The Look of the Book: Manuscript Production in the Southern Iranian City of Shiraz from the Early-14th Century to 1452. Washington, D.C.: ­Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, 2012. Yoshi. Who’s Hiding Here? Natick, MA: Picture Book ­Studio, 1987.

chapter 3

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period Emine Fetvacı Ottoman paintings, which most famously appear in illustrated histories of the sixteenth century, are hardly the first things that come to mind when one thinks of subjectivity in the early modern world. On the contrary, their formal and static compositions, emphasis on ceremonial and an unchanging “order of the world” (niẓām-ı ʿālem) seem to point to the opposite: an impersonal, official representation of history.1 Such narrative images of ceremonies or battles from historical manuscripts are quite formal in their compositions, reflecting the rule-bound nature of the events they depict. Although these paintings involve specific individuals as their main actors and depict events that take place in specific places, at known times, the specificity appears geared towards creating images of a timeless and unchanging Ottoman order. That, in turn, does not seem to leave room for individualization. Yet, when one looks closely at some of the histories created during the sixteenth century, individuals start to appear in the cracks of the official façade, so to speak. The creators of these manuscripts (authors, painters, scribes and illuminators) become increasingly visible on the pages that they produce in the early-modern period. The books display increasingly obvious vestiges of their own making, and visually acknowledge, or present, a class of practitioners concerned with their role in the production process. These images fall into two categories: author portraits and group images where the artist and 1 Emine Fetvacı, Picturing History at the Ottoman Court (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013), 9, 80 for niẓām-ı ʿālem. See also Gottfried Hagen, “Legitimacy and World Order,” in Legitimizing the Order: The Ottoman Rhetoric of State Power, eds. Hakan T. Karateke and Maurus Reinkowski (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 55–84.

calligrapher also appear. Author portraits are greater in number, but both kinds of images reach a critical mass towards the end of the sixteenth century. This essay, in addition to surveying these portraits, will attempt to explore the multiple factors that come together to enhance the presence of the makers of manuscripts on the pages of their own books. The writing of contemporary histories (or creating an archive of the present moment) became something of an obsession among the Ottoman ruling classes during the sixteenth century.2 The Ottoman situation was part of a larger movement: historical and biographical writing had become more widely practiced in the Perso-Islamicate world starting with the late fifteenth and the early sixteenth century. David J. Roxburgh reminds us that this increase also included a rise in art historical literature, a phenomenon with roots in Timurid practice but with more consistent and concentrated occurrences in the sixteenth century.3 Biographical compendia of artists and calligraphers multiplied in number and breadth as the sixteenth century progressed, and began to be illustrated.4 2 Cornell Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the ­Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Âli (Princeton, nj: Princeton university press, 1986), 242–43, and Robert Mantran, “L’historiographie ottomane à l’époque de Soliman le Magnifique,” in Soliman le Magnifique et son temps: Actes du colloque de Paris, Galleries nationales de Grand Palais, 7–10 Mars 1990, ed. Gilles Veinstein, (Paris: La Documentation française, 1992) 25–32 discuss this “historiographical explosion.” 3 David J. Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image: The Writing of Art history in Sixteenth-Century Iran (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 46–51. 4 Ottoman examples include Esra Akın, ed., Muṣṭafa Alī’s Epic deeds of artists: a critical edition of the earliest ­Ottoman text about the calligraphers and painters of the

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_005

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

The unprecedented autobiographies of the Ottoman court architect Sinan (d. 1588), dictated to the poet-painter Mustafa Saʿi Çelebi in the late 1580s are a case in point.5 Gülru Necipoǧlu points out that “the literary genre of autobiography was a rarity in the late-sixteenth-century Ottoman world, and there is no precedent in the Islamic lands for an architect’s biography.” She demonstrates that Saʿi drew upon other genres such as the biographical memoir (teẕkire) and the treatise (risāle), and conceptually built upon the short biographical entries in contemporary biographical compendia on the lives of poets, calligraphers and painters.6 In the Persian context, artists began to sign their works with greater regularity at this time.7 While such signatures in Ottoman manuscripts are rare, the greater visibility, both in court circles and also on the pages of books, of artists of the book are a different manifestation of this phenomenon. The sixteenth century project of chronicling the present moment appears to have created space for greater personal expression too. The individual’s voice is prominent in Ottoman poetry and historical writing during the sixteenth century.8 The Islamic world (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2011), Hatice Aynur and Aslı Niyazioǧlu, eds., Âşık Çelebi ve Şairler Tezkiresi Üzerine Yazılar (Istanbul: Koç Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2011). For illustrated ones see Aslıhan Erkmen, “Müellife Övgü: Musavver (Resimli) Tezkirelerde Yazar Portreleri,” Sanat Tarihi Yıllıǧı 23 (2014): 1–21. 5 Gülru Necipoǧlu, “Preface,” in Howard Crane and Esra Akın, eds and trans, Sinan’s autobiographies: five sixteenthcentury texts (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2006) p. vii, and Gülru Necipoǧlu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire (Princeton University Press and Reaktion, 2005), 127–52. 6 Necipoǧlu, “Preface,” p. ix. 7 Roxburgh, Prefacing the Image, 48, suggests that the rise in occurrences of artists signatures might be connected to the popularity of single-page painting, drawing or calligraphy. 8 Selim S. Kuru, “The Literature of Rum: the Making of a Literary Tradition (1450–1600),” in The Cambridge ­History of Turkey vol. 3: 548–92. Sooyong Kim, “Minding the Shop: Zati and the Making of Ottoman Poetry in the First Half of the Sixteenth Century.” PhD diss., University of ­Chicago, 2005, 6–55 emphasizes the relative autonomy of literary

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literary products of the age display signs of interest in form and genre, which are indicative of an awareness of artistic tradition and practice, as well as a concern for the way the author himself participates in that tradition.9 A number of ­Ottoman historians have discussed the “relationship between history writing and identity formation, both on individual and community levels.”10 Cornell Fleischer and Kaya Şahin, by focusing monographs on individual Ottoman historians of the sixteenth century, have shown the self-conscious manner in which these authors wrote, similar to the poets of the period. An emphasis on a­uthorship, ­individuality and s­elf-presentation is easily and amply discernible in Ottoman poetic and historical writing of the period.11 It should come as no

activity and the increasing levels of linguistic and artistic consciousness in the first half of the sixteenth century. Walter Andrews and Mehmet Kalpaklı, The age of beloveds: love and the beloved in early-modern Ottoman and European culture and society (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005) analyze the relationship between poetry and lived experience during the earlymodern era. Kaya Şahin focuses on the voice of the historian Mustafa Celalzade in Empire and Power in the Reign of Süleyman: Narrating the Sixteenth Century O ­ ttoman World (Cambridge University Press, 2013) as well as “Imperialism, Bureaucratic Consciousness, and the Historian’s Craft: A Reading of Celālzāde Muṣṭafā’s Ṭabaḳātüʾl-Memālik ve Derecātüʾl-Mesālik” in H. Erdem Çıpa and Emine Fetvacı, eds. Writing History at the ­Ottoman Court: Editing the Past, Fashioning the Future (Indiana University Press, 2013), 39–57. 9 Kuru, “The Literature of Rum,” 568–75 discusses how poetic forms become poetic themes. 10 Şahin, Empire and Power, p. 159. Cemal Kafadar, ­Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, Gabriel Piterberg, An Ottoman Tragedy: History and Historiography at Play (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 11 Cemal Kafadar, “Self and Others: The Diary of a ­Dervish in Seventeenth Century Istanbul and First Person ­Narratives in Ottoman Literature,” Studia Islamica, 69 (1989): 121–50 and Özgen Felek, “(Re)creating Image and Identity: Dreams and Visions as a Means of ­Murad iii’s Self-Fashioning” in Özgen Felek and Alexander D. Knysh, eds, Dreams and Visions in Islamic ­Societies

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surprise then that the first images of “artists” to appear are of the historians themselves who also often composed poetry. The second half of the sixteenth century was also a period of political and social unease in the Ottoman Empire, characterized, in Kafadar’s words, by an “all pervasive perception of rapid social change and dislocation (‘disorder and decline’ from the Ottoman point of view).”12 This unease brought about new literary genres including self-narratives by “foster[ing] a process of self-­consciousness and observation at the levels of both the person and the social order at large.”13 The rise of author portraiture can be understood as the visual manifestation of this wider phenomenon. The images discussed here express a desire to claim one’s work for one’s self. The portraits of authors are not self-portraits, but almost all of the images discussed below appear in manuscripts whose production was overseen by the author himself, giving them ultimate artistic control.14 Thus my topic is also closely linked with representations of the self in the Ottoman context. The individuals that appear through these texts, and in the images discussed below, are first and foremost defined by their social roles and their relationships to the society around them.15 The architect Sinan, for example, is pictured in a h ­ istory

12 13

14 15

(Binghamton; suny Press, 2012), 249–72 turn to other kinds of documents. Andrews and Kalpaklı’s Age of B ­ eloveds also discusses the role of language in the context of individuality and sexual identity, and the role of the individual poet in Ottoman society of the earlymodern period. Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 125–26. Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 125–26, and see also page 149, n. 61 where he encourages us to compare this ­moment with the “connection that Rosenthal makes between the relative abundance of autobiographic works during the time of the Crusades and the emotional instability of that time in his A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1986), 175.” For the relationships between author/supervisors and painters, see Fetvacı, Picturing History, 59–78. Aslı Niyazioǧlu, Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul: a seventeenth century biographer’s perspective (London, New York: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group, 2017)

from 1579, overseeing the construction of his patron Süleyman’s tomb, with a measuring stick in his hand (see Fig. 3.1). The portrait is inserted into a narrative image that allows us to identify the chief architect and understand his relationship to his deceased patron, thereby grasping his (extraordinary) place in society and especially among the Ottoman elite. His autobiographies mentioned above, while creating a mythology around him, also privilege his relationship with his patrons, underlining his place in a courtly hierarchy. They praise his buildings in comparison to older ones, situating him in an architectural tradition where he is to be viewed in relation to his earlier counterparts.16 The architect’s tomb, inserted later into the corner of the Süleymaniye complex, also marks his relationship with his most exulted patron, claims the complex as his own work, and signals his unusually privileged position.17 Kafadar points out that self-narratives also map social relationships: “If the demarkations of the self were indeed re-drawn in the post-Süleymanic age and a process of individualization is discernible, as the proliferation of various first-person narratives, as the relative shedding of the inhibition to write of ‘what befell this poor one’ indicates, then this process was not at all exclusive of embeddedness in larger organisms such as an order or a career group.”18 The increased visibility of the Ottoman author/artist should not be equated with an unproblematic and well-defined rise of the individual self, a phenomenon no longer accepted in such straightforward terms even in the scholarship on the Renaissance.19 The portraits examines an early seventeenth-century biographical dictionary from just such a perspective. 16 Gülru Necipoǧlu, “Challenging the Past: Sinan and the Competitive Discourse of Early-Modern Islamic Architecture,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 169–80. 17 Necipoǧlu, The Age of Sinan, 150–52. 18 Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 150. 19 Peter Burke, “Representations of the Self from Petrach to Descartes,” in Roy Porter, ed. Rewriting the Self: ­Histories from the Renaissance to the present, (London; New York: Routledge, 1997): 17–28 surveys recent ­approaches and points to the fact that the identities

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Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

Figure 3.1 Sinan oversees the construction of ­Süleyman’s mausoleum, Ẓafarnāma, 1579 (Chester Beatty Library, T. 413, fol. 115b). (© The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin).

of the artists examined here emphasize above all else membership in the Ottoman elite, and the ­celebration of artistic tradition.

supported by many Renaissance portraits were collective or institutional rather than individual. Other important studies of course include Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning from More to Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980) and for the art historical context Joseph Leo Koerner, The Moment of ­Self-Portraiture in German Renaissance Art (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1993), Joanna Woods Marsden, Renaissance Self-Portraiture: The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the Artist (New Have and London: Yale University Press, 1998).



Historical Roots of Ottoman Author Portraits

Although it became a theme as early as the tenth to the twelfth centuries, the tradition of author portraiture in the Islamic world reached the height of its popularity in the thirteenth century, as Eva Hoffman has demonstrated.20 The portraits 20 Eva Hoffman, “The Author Portrait in Thirteenth-­ Century Arabic Manuscripts: A New Islamic Context for a Late-Antique Tradition,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 6–20. See also Moya Carey, “Al-Sufi and Son: Ibn al-Sufi’s Poem on the Stars and Its Prose Parent,” Muqarnas 26 (2009): 181–204; Oya Pancaroǧlu, “Socializing Medicine: Illustrations of the Kitāb al-Diryāq” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 155–72, and Jaclynne J. Kerner, “Art in the Name of Science: The Kitāb al-Diryāq in Text and Image,” in

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often accompanied works where the biography of the author was incorporated, and the portrait’s ­inclusion was based on an understanding of physiognomy, which posited a link between a person’s appearance and their deeds, and consequently, life.21 Biography enjoyed its greatest moment, ­according to Hoffman, in the mid-twelfth to the thirteenth century, the same time period that saw the rise of the author portrait, the visual component of the biographies.22 While many of these portraits were attached to books related to the late-antique scientific and philosophical tradition, the concept of the author portrait soon expanded to include the portraits of rulers.23 The tradition of author portraiture seems to have waned after the thirteenth century, but portraits of rulers abound in fourteenth and fifteenth century manuscripts, especially Timurid ones.24 Whether in historical accounts like the 1436 Ẓafarnāma that portray Timur and members of his family in narrative scenes, or in frontispiece paintings that depict Prince Baysunghur hunting or feasting in the countryside, the visual depictions of Timurid princes were important components of the projection of their public identities. Just as the

21 22 23 24

Arab Painting: Text and Image in Illustrated Arabic Manuscripts, ed. Anna Contadini (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 25–39. For a discussion of portraiture in the Islamic context, see Priscilla Soucek, “The Theory and Practice of Portraiture in the Persian Tradition,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 97–108, and David J. Roxburgh, “Concepts of the Portrait in Islamic Lands, c. 1300–1600,” in Dialogues in Art History, from Mesopotamian to Modern: Readings for a New Century, ed. Elizabeth Cropper, (Washington, d.c. and New Haven: National Gallery of Art and Yale University Press, 2009), 119–37. Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 15. Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 16. Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 16–17. Priscilla Soucek, “The Theory and Practice of Portraiture in the Persian Tradition,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 97–108, esp. 104–05. For a survey of Timurid painting, see Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the F­ ifteenth Century (Los Angeles and Washington d.c.: Los Angeles County Museum of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989).

inclusion of an author’s portrait in his own work implied a connection between the appearance, and hence character, of the author and his deeds (or words), so frontispieces with the portraits of Timurid rulers suggested that there was a link between the ruler portrayed and the contents of the books. Baysunghur’s portrait included in wisdom literature might suggest his having internalized lessons such as those discussed in the book, or his coupling with the Shāhnāma might imply that he was a hero akin to Shāhnāma characters.25 The ruler or patron’s portrait, too, was predicated upon a perceived connection between appearance and nature and, by extension, deeds. Author portraits in Timurid works, however, are rare. Occasional portraits of writers exist to be sure, but these images are not attached to texts or paintings by the same figures.26 There are two exceptions which bring together the image of an author with his words: “Nasiruddin Tusi and Colleagues at work in the Maragha Observatory,” from a scientific anthology made in Shiraz around 1410,27 and the portrait of Nizami in his Chahār Maqalā (Four Discourses) illustrated in 1431, and both were in Ottoman collections.28 Timurid painting of the late fifteenth century, on the other hand, began to depict events anchored in everyday life as well as courtly ceremonial, and quotidian and contemporary details appeared in paintings that previously seemed 25 Roxburgh, “Concepts of the Portrait,” and idem ­“Baysunghur’s Library: Questions Related to its Chronology and Production,” Journal of Social Affairs (Shuun I­ jtimaiyah) 18.72 (2001): 11–41/300–30. 26 Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 284, cat no 156, for a portrait of the poet Hatifi; and Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 287, Fig. 97 for the painter Bihzad’s portrait. See David J. Roxburgh, The Persian Album 1400–1600: From Dispersal to Collection (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 196–212. 27 Istanbul University Library, F 1418, fol. 1b. Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 148, Fig. 47. 28 Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art 1954, Eleanor Sims, “Prince Baysunghur’s Chahar Maqaleh,” Sanat Tarihi Yıllıǧı 6 (1976): 375–409, Roxburgh, “Baysunghur’s Library.”

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

Figure 3.2

Frontispiece of  Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī, 1492 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library E.H. 1636, fols. 1b–2a). (Photo courtesy of Topkapı Palace Museum).

to depict a ­timeless and perfect universe.29 This change coincided with increased interest in the present moment and its recording in historical and biographical texts. Concurrently, poems by living poets were illustrated in large numbers.30 Portraits of the author appear in the collected poems of the last Timurid ruler Husayn Bayqara, the 29

30

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For the increased interest in portraiture at this time, see Soucek, “Theory and Practice of Portraiture,” 106. Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 290. See, for examples of illustrated poetic works by Sultan Husayn and Ali Shir Navai, David J. Roxbugrh, ed. Turks: A Journey of a Thousand Years, 600–1600 (London and New York: Royal Academy of Arts and Harry N. Abrams, 2005) 427–28, cat nos. 201–07. Abolala Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts: Selections from the Art and History Trust Collection (New York: Rizzoli, 1992), 117–19, cat nos 40 and 41.

Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī (dated 1492, Figures 3.2 and 3.5). These are simultaneously author portraits and imperial depictions. The Ottoman painting tradition builds in many ways on the Timurid one. According to Filiz Çaǧman and her co-authors, the beautifully ­illustrated Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī was brought to the ­Ottoman lands by Husayn Bayqara’s son Badiuzzaman Mirza when he took refuge at the court of ­Selim i (r. 1512–20).31 The frontispiece (see Fig. 3.2) 31

Serpil Baǧcı, Filiz Çaǧman, Günsel Renda and Zeren Tanındı, Ottoman Painting (Ankara: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Publications and Banks Association of Turkey, 2010), 56–61. The manuscript is Topkapı Palace Museum Library ms. no. E.H. 1636. See also Filiz Çaǧman, “The miniatures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni and the Influence of Their Style,” in

72 shows ­Sultan Husayn conversing with two courtiers seated before him, both of whom have a book or portfolio in front of them. One of them is presenting a book to the ruler, presumably the very volume in which the painting appears. Roxburgh interprets this painting as a visual ex-libris, a mark of ownership.32 By that interpretation, the portrait helps to claim the manuscript as a physical object, rather than its contents, for the patron. Yet the patron who owned the illustrated copy is also the man who wrote the poems. The portrait is therefore more than an ex-libris, I would suggest, and derives from the physiognomic concepts mentioned above that posit a link between a person’s appearance and deeds (or words). The author portrait thus re-emerges at the very end of the Timurid tradition. However, the Timurid frontispieces have a more active role in the manuscript than earlier medieval depictions. The author portrait now links the physical object of the book one holds in one’s hands with the contents of its text. This is partly due to the inflection brought upon this kind of imagery by the intervening princely portraits and the relationships they suggested between owner and contents of manuscripts, and partly because of the greater role accorded to the painting and calligraphy (or, if you will, materiality) of the codex. The Timurid valuation of the arts of the book affects the way author Fifth International Congress of Turkish Art, ed. Geza Fehér (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó 1978), 231–59. Soudavar, Art of the Persian Courts, 118 suggests that rather than Timurid Herat, this manuscript was produced in Turkman Tabriz for an Ottoman clientele. However, given the signature of the calligrapher Sultan Ali Mashhadi, and the dedication to Sultan Husayn, regardless of its actual locus of production, the manuscript would have been received as a Timurid work at the Ottoman court. The cultural and artistic milieu of Akkoyunlu Tabriz had extremely porous boundaries with the Timurid scene, and many artists and works of art crossed these putative boundaries. See Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 244–46, and Roxburgh, Turks, cat. no 215, page 430 for examples. I am grateful to David J. Roxburgh for bringing this attribution to my attention. 32 Roxburgh, Turks, cat. no 201, pp. 240 and 427.

Fetvacı

(and artist and calligrapher) portraits function within the manuscripts. Many late Timurid works were appreciated and collected at the Ottoman court. The i­llustrated Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī was only one example of contemporary Timurid works arriving in Istanbul soon after their production. However, Ottoman author portraits begin even earlier, with Ahmedi’s Iskendernāme dating to ca. 1460 where the author is depicted in an internal painting as he informs his beloved on stars and planets.33 A second example dates to ca. 1496: the Dīvān (Collected Poems) of Ahmed Pasha, a courtier of Mehmed ii and Bayezid ii, contains three paintings that feature the poet.34 Both of these works are somewhat idiosyncratic. In the first case, the Venice copy of Ahmedi’s Iskendernāme, according to Serpil Baǧcı, favors portrait depictions to narrative scenes throughout the manuscript, which may explain the inclusion of the narrator’s portrait with his beloved.35 The Dīvān of Ahmed Pasha contains the poetry of a high-ranking courtier who may have commissioned the copy himself. As such, the author portraits here (as in the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī) double as the portraits of a prominent courtier, or as court scenes common in Dīvān paintings. Ahmed Pasha is depicted in front of a sultan in the first painting, which comes directly after a poem where he mentions being happy to see the face of the exalted one once again, and grateful to be wellreceived at court.36 The second and third images show the same figure conversing with others.37 The fifteenth-century Ottoman examples feature the author as part of a narrative scene in the middle of the text, and not as a frontispiece 33

34

35 36 37

Venice Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana Cod. Or. xc (57) fol. 131a. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 31, Fig. 6. St Petersburg Institute of Oriental Studies C-133, fol. 140b, dated 1470, also has a version of this scene. For this see Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 31 Fig. 7. Ayşin Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Luxury Book Production, 1413–1520,” Ph.D. diss, New York University, 2002, 442–50. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 33–34. Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts,” 444–45. Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts,” 445–46.

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

Figure 3.3

Sultan Selim hunting and courtly assembly, Divan-i Selimi, 1515–20 (Istanbul Üniversitesi Nadir Eserler Kütüphanesi, F 1330, fols. 27b–28a). (Photo courtesy of Istanbul University Library).

­ ortrait, not clearly differentiating the author’s p portrait from textual illustration. The same lack of differentiation is to be found in the Dīvān of Selim i (ca. 1515–20), made around the same time as the illustrated Dīvān of Sultan Husayn Bayqara reached Istanbul (see Fig. 3.3).38 Filiz Çaǧman argues that the illustrated Dīvān of Selim i (the only Dīvān of an Ottoman sultan to be illustrated before the eighteenth century) was modeled on the Dīvāni Ḥusaynī. Selim’s Dīvān contains images of the ruler engaged in courtly activities such as hunting or reading poetry with other courtiers, but these

38

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Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 61, Çaǧman, “The Miniatures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni.”

are of course also images of the poet.39 As such, the manuscript replicates, albeit at a more refined level, the same kinds of narrative illustrations as in the Dīvān of Ahmed Pasha. With author portraits doubling as narrative scenes in the running text, the early sixteenth century presents a similar landscape to the fifteenth.

Early Modern Ottoman Author Portraiture: Making the Book

The early-modern author portraits from the Ottoman context derive to a certain extent from 39

Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 59–61, Fig. 29.

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these late-medieval images, but are qualitatively different with their emphasis on making and their exultation of the makers of manuscripts. An extraordinary portrait from the early years of Süleyman’s reign stands at the head of this new tradition. The image in question is a frontispiece showing the author, scribe and painter of Şükrü Bidlisi’s Selīmnāme (see Fig. 3.4).40 The figure on the left is identified as the painter of the work in the inscription on the piece of paper he holds, and the figure on the right is identified as the scribe in similar fashion.41 The figure at the center holds a sheet with text praising Selim, suggesting that he is the author.42 A piece of paper on the floor has the first line of the text.43 If we follow Roxburgh in considering the frontispiece to the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī as an ex-libris, then this painting can be thought of as a visual colophon, albeit one that comes at the beginning of the manuscript.44 Here instead of the handwriting of the scribe, his image 40

Two illustrated copies survive: the undated one illustrated here (tsmk H 1597–98, fol.1a) and one dated May 1527 in Jerusalem National Library Yah. Ar. 1116. See Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 62–63. The Jerusalem copy does not contain an author portrait. 41 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 62–63. “Nakkaş-ı Selīmnāme,” “kātib-i Selīmnāme.” 42 Mustafa Argunşah, Selîm-nâme (Kayseri [Turkey]: ­Erciyes Üniversitesi, 1997), 20, interprets this as the image of Süleyman with the scribe and artist, but the iconography makes it clear that the central figure is not the ruler but the author. The text in his hands reads: “Şah-ı şīr efgen Selim nāmdār hem zemāne şah idi hem şehriyar.” (Instead of şah idi Argunşah, Selîm-nâme, 20 reads küşad-ı ebedī.) Moreover, the facial features, particularly the beard of this figure is remarkably different than that of Süleyman as depicted on folio 9b. See also Zeynep Tarım Ertuǧ, “The Depiction of Ceremonies in Ottoman Miniatures: Historical Record or a Matter of Protocol,” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 251–75, esp. 252. 43 “Bāşlāyālım sözni bismillah ile.” Argunşah, Selîm-nâme, 20 points this out. 44 For pictorial colophons in Mughal painting, see Yael Rice, “Between the Brush and the Pen: On the Intertwined Histories of Mughal Painting and Calligraphy,” in Envisioning Islamic Art and Architecture: Essays in Honor of Renata Holod, ed. David J. Roxburgh (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 148–74.

Figure 3.4

Frontispiece of Selīmnāme ca. 1527 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1597–98, fol. 1a). (Photo courtesy of Topkapı Palace Museum).

is recorded; and instead of a signature by the artist, we have a self-portrait, incorporated into a group image. With its placement at the very beginning of the manuscript, this p ­ icture guarantees that the efforts of the author, artist and scribe are recognized in a way that makes them stand out from the rest of the book. The book itself is supposed to be a vehicle for conveying the heroic history of Sultan Selim i, but with the addition of this painting, the reader is reminded that it is also a vehicle for conveying the skills of its author, calligrapher and painter. The preface does not discuss the process of producing an illustrated copy, but rather that of ­ textual composition.45 The painting’s clear 45

tsmk H 1597–98, fols. 12b–14b, and Argunşah, Selîmnâme, 4–6.

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

­ rivileging of the author – placing him at the cenp ter and above the scribe and painter – is in keeping with the emphasis of the text, yet the image goes beyond the words. Şükrü’s depiction in front of a nicely d­ ecorated tent, seated cross-legged on a textile, as if he were a ruler or commander, with assistants seated below, at work as if they were court secretaries, present him in a courtly light. The golden sky behind him enhances the connections between this image and those in the main body of the text that depict his patrons. However, the image does more than aggrandize the author. With its composition and iconography, the group portrait helps to boost the image of all of the makers of this book. The figures are actively engaged in the production of the work, Şükrü is composing poetry, and the other two are putting pen to paper. While their actions help to identify these ­individuals, and may be interpreted merely as serving that purpose, the active engagement also simultaneously exults the arts of the book. The Selīmnāme’s author Şükrü was using his account to further his career, which is a characteristic he shares with other Ottoman historians who are pictured in their own works. He presented the work to Sultan Süleyman with the intervention of grand vizier Ibrahim Pasha, and received payments from both figures.46 The group portrait was part of a strategy to ascertain further patronage for the author. The preface describes how the book was based on the descriptions of first one courtier and then re-written to reflect the version favored by another courtier. This suggests that the Selīmnāme was also a partisan document, and the pages of the book were perceived as a stage on which the game of political patronage and allegiances could be played out.47 46 Argunşah, Selîm-nâme 6–7. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 62–63 suggests that the Selīmnāme manuscript in Jerusalem was the sultan’s copy, and the illustrated one in Istanbul was Ibrahim Pasha’s. 47 On Selīmnāme accounts see Hakkı Erdem Çıpa, The Making of Selim (Bloomington and Indianapolis: ­Indiana University Press, 2017), 62–111 on the S­ elimanme authors as a faction in Ottoman court politics.

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The accounts of Selim i’s rule from the early days of his son Süleyman’s sultanate are among the earliest Ottoman instances of a strategic use of history to change perceptions of the past, with an eye towards positively influencing the image of the present ruler.48 The deliberate way in which history is written to serve specific ends is made evident by the preface’s description of the writing of the book. History now being employed so consciously by the state meant that historians would have a more privileged social status. The rising importance of historians at the Ottoman court partly explains this aggrandizing image of Şükrü, but the use of models and precedents is also an important factor here. The author explains in the introduction that Şehsuvaroǧlu Ali Beg, in whose service he was, told him that Sultan Selim was an even greater ruler than Alexander, and therefore he should write a history of Selim’s rule similar to Ahmedi’s Iskendernāme.49 The mention of Ahmedi’s Iskendernāme tells us without a doubt that it served as a model. The author portraits in both accounts are linked with the snippets from the biography of the author incorporated into the history. In this way, the painting is also reminiscent of its distant predecessors from the thirteenth century.50 Like the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī,51 this image acts as a linchpin between the contents of the text and the physical object that communicates the story of ­Selim i to the viewer. In the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī, the final painting shows the author, the Timurid ruler, in an architectural setting that features four balconies with an artist, illuminator or scribe in them (see Fig. 3.5). Three of the figures are working on paper, while a fourth one is conversing with the ruler/ poet. ­According to Baǧcı et al, the Dīvān of Selim i and the Selīmnāme are illuminated and illustrated

48 49 50 51

See Çıpa, The Making of Selim. tsmk H 1597–98, fols. 12b–14b, and Argunşah, Selîmnâme, 4–6. Hoffman, “Author Portraits,” 13–15. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 62–63, and Çaǧman, “The Miniatures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni,” 245, Fig. 3.

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Figure 3.5

Fetvacı

Final image of Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī with the artists, 1492 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library, E.H. 1636, fol. 123a). (Photo courtesy of Topkapı Palace Museum).

77

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

in the same style, perhaps by the same artists.52 It is thus not surprising that the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī would have influenced the production of both of these works. At the same time, the Selīmnāme image (Fig. 3.4) is significantly different than its ­models because its focus is on the making of the illustrated m ­ anuscript. While the final image from the Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī may have indeed inspired this painting, the artisans in the Dīvān are, in some ways, like the ruler’s attributes. Husayn Bayqara was renowned as a ruler who supported poets, artists and calligraphers, and the focus of the painting is him, rather than the artists working at his court. This is in keeping with Timurid precedent.53 The Selīmnāme image, on the other hand, does not feature the ruler/protagonist, but focuses solely on the producers of the codex in hand. With the use of inscriptions on the papers in front of these ­figures, their specific roles are made evident. This extraordinary image highlights the specific circumstances at the Ottoman court that gave rise to the increasing visibility of authors, artists and calligraphers in historical works. The prominence of history writing meant that Şükrü could rise through the ranks of the social hierarchy with the strength of his historical (not lyric) verses. However, the existence of two copies of the manuscript, one for Ibrahim Pasha, and the other for the sultan, suggests that he sought patronage from more than one potential protector.54 The influential and lucrative position of court historian or boon companion was precarious, and the uncertainty of these positions meant that despite their i­ mproving 52 53

Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 61. Serpil Baǧcı, “A New Theme of the Shirazi Frontispiece Miniatures: The Divan of Solomon,” Muqarnas 17 (1995): 101–11. Baǧcı writes about the emergence of this theme as a frontispiece image beginning in the 1480s, in Turkman and Safavid painting not Timurid. On page 101 she writes that frontispieces prior to this incorporate patrons or princely figures. 54 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 66, and Emine Fetvacı, “The Office of Ottoman Court Historian,” in Studies on

Figure 3.6

Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman, Osman and Sinan, Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, 1571–1581 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library A 3595, fol. 9a). (Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe).

social status, historians needed to become more visible if they wanted to retain their proximity to the ruler and his intimate circle. Incorporating one’s own portrait into a work one presented to

Istanbul and Beyond: The Freely Papers, vol. 1, ed. Robert Ousterhout (Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, 2007), 6–21 discusses how Lokman, a later Ottoman court historian constantly sought to reaffirm his patronage relationships by submitting versions of the same work to different patrons over time.

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Fetvacı

the ruler or to the grand vizier can be understood as a part of this quest to remain central. The painting is also made possible because of the presence of a repository of images and texts that must have been available to the author as he was overseeing the production of the luxury illustrated copy in the Topkapı. This depository would be the treasury of the palace, which also contained manuscripts that circulated among the inhabitants of the Topkapı. Court artists and historians had access to many of these works.55 The Iskendernāme, and possibly the Dīvān of Ahmed Pasha would have been housed here. We know for certain that the illustrated Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī was here. The ­consulting of such earlier works is evident in the textual contents of the book. Moreover, the frontispiece documenting the production of the codex, and exulting its producers further attests to the rising interest in the history of the book arts, the very impetus for perusing the older manuscripts at the palace. Artistic precedence and the specifics of the Ottoman court – its ad-hoc ­patronage relationships that constantly needed to be affirmed, the increased centrality of historical writing, and an emergent interest in artistic ­tradition – came together to create the perfect conditions for the appearance of an image such as the frontispiece of the Selīmnāme. And once that image was created, it would open the door of possibility for equally daring depictions. This painting most definitely was on the minds of the court historian Lokman and his frequent collaborator the painter Osman as they worked on the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, the account of Selim ii (r. 1566–74)’s reign.56 The name shared by the two rulers must have encouraged them to look to Şükrü’s work for ideas. We know that the Ottomans were interested in patterns set or precedents provided by rulers of the same name.57 ­Additionally, 55 56 57

For the Topkapı treasury as a lending library, see Fetvacı, Picturing History, 29–37. tks A. 3595. See Gülru Necipoğlu, “Word and Image: The Serial Portraits of Ottoman sultans in comparative perspective,”

the reign of Murad iii (r. 1574–95) was very much a time when Ottoman intellectuals viewed the age of Süleyman as a “golden age”; authors and patrons alike emphasized their connections to the Süleymanic era on a regular basis. Thus modeling a book of history on one from the reign of S­ üleyman would have been a similar act of self-presentation for the author, the artists, and the patrons of this work.58 And so those working on the account of the reign of Selim ii consulted the accounts of the reign of Selim i, and the Selīmnāme’s frontispiece provided a prototype for the author and a­ rtists’ painting one can find in the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān (see Fig. 3.6).59 By consulting an earlier work the makers of the second Book (of Kings) of (Sultan) Selim placed themselves into a history of practice, a tradition of book making. The painting resulted from the events detailed in the introduction of the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān. As Lokman explains, the project went through numerous drafts.60 Like the Selīmnāme of Şükrü, the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān too was written by one courtier based on the recollections of another, more senior, courtier (in this case Lokman, based on the notes of Şemseddin Ahmed Karabagi, a prominent historian of his time), and the book was presented to the son of the ruler whose reign is detailed in the text. Lokman too was trying to demonstrate his skill as a historian and poet. And through his constant appeals to various patrons, he succeeded in ascertaining continuing patronage at court for

58

59 60

in Selmin Kangal, ed. The Sultan’s Portrait: Picturing the House of Osman (Istanbul: Iş Bankası, 2000), 22–61, esp. 34–35. Cemal Kafadar, “The Myth of the Golden Age: Ottoman historical Consciousness in the Post-­Süleymanic Era,” 37–48 in Halil Inalcık and Cemal Kafadar, Süleymân the second and his time (Istanbul: Isis Press, 1993) and Douglas Howard, “Ottoman Historiography and the ­Literature of ‘Decline’ of the Sixteenth and ­Seventeenth Centuries,” Journal of Asian History 22, no. 1 (1988): 52–77. Emine Fetvacı, “The Production of the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān,” Muqarnas 26 (2009), Fig. 42. Fetvacı, “Production.”

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

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Figure 3.7 Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Sultan Selim ii’s audience, Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, 1571–1581 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library A 3595, fol. 13a). (Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe).

most of the reign of Murad iii.61 The group portrait, the first and most noticeable image in the book, helps Lokman to claim a scholarly status for himself, in the company of the renowned historian, depicted in the process of consulting books. He is distinguished from the artists of the book seated across from him by his green cloak pointing to his descent from the Prophet’s family (also noted in his name, Seyyid Lokman) and his large turban, signaling his affiliation with Karabagi, seated beside him, whose turban is of the same size and style. Lokman appears in two images illustrating the introduction, underlining his authorship of these

words, and situating him in the company of august figures like the sultan, the grand vizier, and other courtiers. The second image is also intriguing, as it shows him and the grand vizier in front of the sultan, but the accompanying text does not detail such an audience (see Fig. 3.7). Lokman simply writes “My situation was presented to the sultan.”62 The event depicted does not directly relate to the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, either, and instead records how Lokman was given his first imperial commission, a previous work. Departing somewhat from the issue at hand, this image shifts the focus to Lokman’s career. The introduction functions very much as a liminal space in which the voice (and

61

62

Fetvacı, “The Office of Ottoman Court Historian.”

tsk A 3595, fol. 13a: Shud aḥvāl-i man ʿarż-i sulṭān-i dīn.

80

Fetvacı

image) of the author comes through, authorship is claimed in an insistent manner, and the individual (complete with his social and occupational affiliations) becomes visible, indeed highlighted. The introduction to the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, unlike that of the Selīmnāme, is highly detailed about the process of not only composing the text but also about the creation of the illustrated version. Thus the depiction of the artist (Osman), the scribe (Sinan), and the illuminator, alongside the author Lokman and Karabagi are consistent with the spirit of the text, and point to an intensifying interest in the visual aspects of historical works. Indeed all these individuals are named in the introduction. The introduction, in turn, also discusses the social hierarchy of the Ottoman court, and makes it very clear how important that hierarchy was to the success of the ruler whose reign is detailed in the book. In a way, then, the illustration of the making of the book is in keeping with the overall theme of the introduction, and indeed the whole book: a ruler whose success depends on the courtiers around him. And those courtiers very much include the ones who would record his deeds in word and image.63 All of these figures become valuable, in the final analysis, by the place they occupy in the social pyramid of the court. An earlier, unfinished, draft of the manuscript makes this even more explicit with a rather complex painting (see Fig. 3.8).64 The lower frame depicts Lokman, Osman, Sinan and the illuminator in the presence of Karabagi. Superimposed onto this frame is a smaller one representing the first example of painting presented by Osman and Lokman to the palace for approval. Here, the visualization of the production process of the manuscript doubles as a visualization of the relationships between the makers of the book, pictured at the bottom of the page, the Imperial Council pictured in the middle register, and the sultan above them all, in the top register. The ruler represented by his lieutenants, who in turn are represented in the book by the 63 64

This is explained in detail in Fetvacı, “Production.” bl Or. 7043.

Figure 3.8

Selim ii watching the Imperial Council; below the author, artists and scribes of the ­manuscript Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān ca. 1571 (The British Library Or. 7043, fol. 7b). (© The British Library Board).

artists, scribes, and author.65 The first example of painting incorporated here, moreover, reminds us of the importance to the Ottoman producers and viewers of this manuscript of the visual aspects of this work. The fact that examples of painting were not only presented to the ruler for approval but also incorporated and discussed in the final version of the manuscript attests to the importance of the visual for conveying messages, and to the awareness of the Ottoman makers and 65

See Fetvacı, Picturing History, 3–4 for a more detailed discussion of this painting.

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

c­ onsumers of these books of the importance of the artistic tradition in which they were participating.66 This self-consciousness in production sets early-modern author portraits apart from earlier models. It is important to note that these portraits of painters, calligraphers and authors appear during the same period in which the arts of the book – be it calligraphy, illumination or painting – had also become more widely practiced by courtiers in the Perso-Islamic cultural sphere, merging the contexts in which such books were made and enjoyed.67 This in turn meant that the practitioners of the book arts could now interact with high-ranking courtiers with greater ease, probably leading to their increasing visibility. This trend becomes more obvious in the late sixteenth century Ottoman court, where painters like Selim ii’s boon companion Nigari, or Mehmed iii’s courtier (and Ahmed i’s grand vizier) Nakkaş Hasan ­Pasha populated the privy chamber of the Ottoman ­ ­sultan.68 The increased visibility of artists of the book on the pages of manuscripts thus correlates with their rising social and political importance. The images allow these authors to be depicted as members of the ruler’s entourage, in courtly contexts, whether in embellished tents as in the Selīmnāme image, or in palatial settings as in the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān.

Authors as Historical Actors

The visibility of authors in later sixteenth century Ottoman histories is not limited to frontispieces or reason for writing (sebeb-i telif ) sections, but 66

The image was incorporated as a stand-alone picture in the final manuscript but has since disappeared. Its inclusion both in the draft and the final manuscript points to its significance. See Fetvacı, Picturing History, Fig. 2.05. 67 Roxburgh, Persian Album, 181–243. 68 Emine Fetvacı, “Enriched Narratives and Empowered Images in Seventeenth-Century Ottoman Manuscripts,” Ars Orientalis 40 (2011): 243–66.

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a­ ctually pervades the verbal and visual contents of the books, making it evident that these works which seem from afar to be representing an unchanging and impersonal state are actually subjective personal accounts by those individuals who make up that state and have a stake in its continuity. The three authors I examine here, Feridun Ahmed, Mustafa Âli and Asafi are all presented as historical agents that are participants as well as observers of the events they narrate. Their books are ostensibly about the commanders they served, but word and image alike depict them actively engaged in the campaigns, the first two as secretaries, confidantes and advisors, and Asafi as an active warrior. The Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār (Chronicle of the Szigetvár Campaign) by Feridun Ahmed is the earliest illustrated version among numerous surviving accounts of this campaign. The text recounts Sultan Süleyman’s Szigetvár campaign, his death, and the accession of his son Selim ii. The author appears in a number of the paintings, ­because he was the secretary of Sokollu Mehmed Pasha, the grand vizier of Süleyman, and accompanied Sokollu on this campaign. The most striking of the images depicts Feridun Ahmed Beg and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha privately mourning the death of Sultan Süleyman (see Fig. 3.9). The image has the grand vizier as its focus, which makes sense not only because he is the more senior figure, but also because the manuscript was presented to him (or perhaps directly commissioned by him), and he is the real hero lauded by the entire book.69 The grand vizier had just learned that the great sultan he had been serving had died in his tent. ­Sokollu and Feridun Ahmed, depicted here with his pen case, were among the three people who knew this important fact. And they had to keep it that way, since they were on campaign with the army and away from the capital. The isolation of the two men against this very sparse background symbolizes their actual isolation with the secret they 69

For details see Fetvacı, Picturing History, 108–22.

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Figure 3.9

Fetvacı

Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun Ahmed Beg mourning the death of Sultan Süleyman. Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār 1568–69 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1339, fol. 41a). (Photo courtesy of Topkapı Palace Museum).

must keep, and the weight of their responsibility. The composition overall reflects the sadness and loneliness of the two men. The markers of these emotions are not to be found in the interactions of the figures, or their facial expressions, but rather their attributes and pointed gestures that look as if they have been coded to give the proper messages. The black handkerchief in Sokollu’s hand acts as an obvious symbol of his grief, making his tears more visible to the viewer, and making sure that no mistake is made in the reading of this image, lest his down-turned eyes are not enough to tell the viewer that he is crying. Although Sokollu and Feridun occupy the same space, they seem lost in

their own thoughts, their gazes not meeting each other, resisting any kind of dynamism. We turn the page having no doubts that the two men were deeply saddened at the sultan’s death. The painting contributes to the invention of public identities for Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun Ahmed. It is a self-conscious depiction of emotions to serve political, careerist, ends. The image makes a private experience public, and in doing so reminds us that individuality is a performance. The separation between what is felt by an individual and how it is depicted, as well as what ends that depiction could serve, is what makes this painting interesting, and points to a rather mature understanding of the idea of a public persona and of image, and indeed, identity creation. The depiction of the grand vizier while crying enhances his characterization as the perfect servant who loved his master. Feridun Ahmed’s mere presence alongside the grand vizier, in a painting where there are no other figures, is quite extraordinary. The “excuse” for the privileged treatment of the author here might be the piece of paper the grand vizier holds in his other hand, probably the message to be sent to Prince Selim giving him the news of his father’s death and asking him to meet up with the army. The pen and ink case lying on the floor next to Feridun Ahmed suggest he may have composed that message on behalf of the grand vizier, underscoring the fact that he was Sokollu’s right hand man, and thus actively involved in the smooth transition of rule from one sultan to the next. The painting underscores both men’s allegiances to the deceased sultan, and posits them as loyal, devoted servants. Despite the sparse painting, the men are depicted in a way as to underscore their social roles. What at first appears to be the image of Sokollu mourning is actually an image of Feridun being at the center of important events, and having a role in influencing history. When examined with attention to the author, the text of the manuscript appears as a testament to Feridun Ahmed Beg’s skills as historian and litterateur, showcasing his command of the high-Ottoman prose style. Feridun Ahmed was not only a historian, but also a member of the Ottoman ruling elite, a man in line

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

for the office of chancellor, and he surely wanted to enhance his prospects with this project. His writing of history may even have been intended to demonstrate his suitability for the position of chancellor, as in the mid-sixteenth century the assumption that chancellors would compose histories of the Ottoman house had become well entrenched.70 The fact that this account is in high Ottoman prose, the language and style of official correspondence and record-keeping, strengthens the possibility. In addition to demonstrating his verbal prowess, the book advertises Feridun Ahmed’s value to the Ottoman dynasty. One sign of this is evident in his discussion of a decree issued by Sultan Süleyman just before his death. According to Feridun, the decree addressing the grand vizier read: “Your secretary Feridun should get a promotion (teraḳḳī) for his income (zeʿāmet [fief]) and be elevated to the corps of elite officers of the palace (dergāh-ı ʿāli müteferriḳası).”71 The inclusion of the decree in the book posits Feridun Ahmed as a living connection with the age of Süleyman, suggesting he should be valued precisely because Süleyman had deemed him worthy. A number of other images from the manuscript depict Feridun Ahmed Pasha, underscoring the author’s personal involvement with the events, perhaps helping to authenticate the contents of his text, but surely also emphasizing his presence. In the image of Sokollu Mehmed Pasha holding audience the day after Süleyman’s death, Feridun Ahmed is right next to him, taking notes, recording the event (see Fig. 3.10). His proximity to the grand vizier underscores his high position. He wears a bright blue costume which makes him even more visible, and is, along with the grand vizier, slightly larger than the other figures in the painting. Additionally, Sokollu and Feridun Ahmed are clearly looking at each other in the painting, an exchange which reminds us of Feridun Ahmed’s role of 70 Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, 242–45, and Şahin, Empire and Power. 71 Kātibüñ Feridūn zeʿāmetine teraḳḳi ile dergāh-ı ʿāli müteferriḳalarından olsun.

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c­ onfidant, and of the close relationship between the two men. Feridun Ahmed is certainly not alone in selfconsciously supervising the illustration of a historical text that would demonstrate his skills as a writer, showcase his relationships at court, and feature him as a historical agent. The Nuṣretnāme (Book of Victory) of 1584 does this as well, and also stands out for its focus on the craft of writing.72 The author Mustafa Âli’s awareness of the role of historical writing in making and breaking careers is documented well by his comments elsewhere on the historical account of the Yemen campaign of 1569–71. Âli claims that the grand vizier Koca Sinan Pasha commissioned a deceptive account of the campaign as an act of revenge for Osman Pasha’s withdrawal of his troops during a key battle. He explains that those who know the truth would understand that the book was a scam, but those who did not know the truth would be deceived by it.73 In this brief anecdote, Âli makes clear that he viewed the writing of history, or writing in general, as a tool for shaping one’s destiny. That conviction is also clear from the numerous instances where he presented his works to the Ottoman palace with the hopes of being appointed to one position or another. This awareness of the uses of writing for careerist purposes is very closely connected with the use of writing in order to present the self in a certain light. Kafadar reminds us of the frequency with which Mustafa Âli wrote about himself in the introductory sections of his works, usually titled “the reason for writing” (sebeb-i telif), taking the sixteenth-century trend of inserting autobiographical information and anecdotes into such introductory sections to a whole other level by including in his Counsel to the S­ ultans a narrative of his life that ran to a few pages, ­intended to prove his suitability for various 72 Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, 235–307 analyzes Âli’s “intellectual orientation and his approach to history.” 73 Fetvacı Picturing History, p. 267, Mustafa Âli, KünhüʾlAḫbār, (Süleymaniye Mosque Library, ms. no. Nuruosmaniye 3409) fol. 226b.

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Figure 3.10

Fetvacı

Sokollu Mehmed Pasha’s council. Nüzhetü’l-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār 1568–69 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1339, fol. 41b). (Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe).

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

­government posts.74 The manuscript and its frequent depiction of the author must be understood in the context of Âli’s larger oeuvre. The numerous depictions of Âli in the Nuṣretnāme could be seen to lend strength to Kafadar’s suggestion that the acute decline consciousness of the late sixteenth century might have created the impetus for turning inwards and self-examination, which in turn stimulated the recording of individualized experiences. Âli was one of the most prolific and bitter critics of what he perceived as the changing social order of the ­Ottoman state.75 In addition to his bitter disposition, Âli was also highly interested in his craft, and the Nuṣretnāme is replete with visual and verbal allusions to the process of writing, which demonstrates an awareness of genre and method. The introductory section relating the writing of the book is particularly rich in this respect. The fact that the illustrations play a large part in fostering this narrative of writing must be due to the fact that the author Mustafa Âli closely supervised the illustration process.76 The first illustration depicts a comet that passed over Istanbul in 1577 (see Fig. 3.11). Âli quotes from the royal astronomer Takiyüddin (d. 1585), whose predictions deemed the comet a positive augury for the ­Safavid campaign recounted in the Nuṣretnāme: its passing toward the east would cause ­commotion in the lands of the Safavids, and 74

75 76

Kafadar, “Self and Others,” p. 137, Tietze, Counsel, 2:174– 220 (translation on pp. 48–92) In many ways the Counsel for Sultans and the same author’s Mevaid-ül Nefais Fi Kavaid-Ül Mecalis deserve to be analyzed in tandem with Castiglione’s Book of the Courtier, these three works display similar interests in self-presentation as well as courtly behavior. As amply demonstrated by Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual. He was appointed by Murad iii to supervise the production of the imperial copy. It is clear from his criticism of the wasteful use of gold by imperial artists in Künhüʾl-aḫbār, fol. 421a that he followed the artists and illuminators with great attention. Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, Tietze, Mustafā Ali’s Counsel for sultans, 60–62. See also Fetvacı, Picturing History, 66.

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meant victory for the Ottomans. By including this in the introduction, Âli presents the comet as a metaphor for the whole campaign. Its illustration in the beginning of the Nuṣretnāme works as a visual allegory for the events that the book describes. The painting incorporates a portrait of the astronomer conspicuously placed in the margin, outside of the frame. This painting, placed where an author portrait would normally be found, suggests a parallel between Takiyüddin and the author of the Nuṣretnāme. It is, in other words, a metaphorical author portrait. Just like Takiyüddin watched and recorded the comet, so Âli watched and recorded the campaign, as demonstrated by the book in our hands. By encouraging the reader to ­contemplate the similarities between astronomer and historian, Âli signals his interest in his own craft, and his understanding of the illustrated book as a construct. He shows us how he came to create this highly polished work by sharing his field notes and campaign correspondence in the text of the book. The few folios that precede the painting describe Âli’s appointment as secretary and detail why he was fit for the job, how he composed the work and which sources he used, supporting my interpretation of the painting as a metaphorical author portrait, and of Âli’s contemplation of his craft. The next three images simultaneously illustrate Lala Mustafa Pasha’s preparations for war, and the efficacy of Âli’s pen, as the images show the recipients of the letters composed by Âli, and sent by Lala Mustafa Pasha to various local rulers. The paintings underline the usefulness of letters as tools – both for the commander as he prepared for the campaign, and for the author as he was composing the book. This double layering of meaning in all four paintings illustrating the Nuṣretnāme’s introduction points to a keen awareness, on the part of those producing the manuscript, of the separation between events themselves and their narration. They clearly show an awareness of the illustrated book (or simply the book) as a construct. And it is in the bounds of such a construct that identities were also fashioned for the protagonists and the makers of the books.

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Figure 3.11 Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme 1584 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1365, fol. 5b). (Photo Hadiye Cangökçe).

The inclusion of these letters and of Âli ­himself in the manuscript visually, as well as verbally, closely mirrors Feridun Ahmed’s insertion of himself into the narrative of the Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār. Âli, too, just like Feridun Ahmed, is featured in a number of the paintings in the Nuṣretnāme. One example depicts the governor of the Kars province presenting booty and severed heads to Lala Mustafa Pasha (see Fig. 3.12). Âli is singled out by the book in his hands, similar to how ­Feridun Ahmed is identified by his pen case and paper. Both authors are represented visually by the tools of their trade, and their official position in the Ottoman hierarchy is indicated by their physical placement on the page, in relation to their superiors.

These examples demonstrate a certain awareness among Ottoman producers of books of the use of their craft and of their role as fashioners of identities-for themselves as well as for the protagonists in their accounts. There is also, of course, a certain pride in the products themselves, undoubtedly linked with knowledge of their place in a certain historical tradition. I have already mentioned how Feridun Ahmed wanted to be appointed as chancellor, and modeled himself after Celalzade, the great chancellor and historian of Süleyman’s reign. Âli, with his slightly later historical positioning, was mimicking both Feridun Ahmed and Celalzade in this vein.77 77 Fleischer, Bureaucrat and Intellectual, 214–31.

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

Figure 3.12

Governor of Kars Yusuf Beg presents booty to Lala Mustafa Pasha. Nuṣretnāme 1584 (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1365, fol. 43b). (Photo Hadiye Cangökçe).

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released. Sixteen out of the seventy-five illustrations feature Asafi and his adventures, ­bolstering the ­author’s claim that he is as well trained in the arts of swordsmanship and bravery as that of writing (see Fig. 3.13). Asafi writes in the preface that he is hoping that when the sultan sees his linguistic and military skills through the account he has composed, he will deem Asafi worthy of being appointed commander to a front.79 These paintings celebrate him as a military hero rather than a writer. ­Perhaps more than any other manuscript, however, this one shows us that the Ottoman military elite and the class of writers, or historians, increasingly overlapped as the sixteenth century approached its end.

Figure 3.13

Asafi battling Safavids. Şecāʿatnāme 1586 (­ Istanbul Üniversitesi Nadir Eserler Kütüphanesi T 6043, fol. 119b). (Photo courtesy of Istanbul University Library).

The Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār and the Nuṣretnāme are outdone by the the Şecaʿātnāme due to the bluntness with which its author explains how he wrote the text in order to advance his career. This account of Özdemiroǧlu Osman Pasha’s exploits in the Safavid wars from 1578 to 1583 is by Dal Mehmed Çelebi (Asafi), who had served as secretary to Osman Pasha.78 The manuscript also gives an account of Asafi’s own adventures as he was briefly captured by the Safavids and 78

There are two copies of the text: iul, T. 6043, and tpml, R. 1301.

Equalizing the Pen and the Brush

This overlap eventually resulted in the court historian being selected from the rank of military secretaries rather than poets, as had been the earlier practice.80 The last official court historian to produce illustrated works was Talikizade, who had spent the majority of his career as a scribe and secretary.81 The earliest image of Talikizade comes at the end of his account of the Ottoman 79

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tpml, R. 1301, fol. 4b: İnşāʾāllah teʿālā bu nīde-i kemterlerinüñ ʿilm-i naẓm ve inşāʾda biżāʿati ve fenn-i şemşīr ve şecāʿatde ṣanʿātı belki bir cānebe serdār idüb göndermege liyāḳatını müşāhede buyurdıklarında ümidvārem ki bīlāsebeb elimden alınan Kefe beglerbegilügünden daḫī güzīde bir beglerbegilük ʿināyet buyurulub serhaddi iʿdāya irsāl ḳılalar. Christine Woodhead, “From scribe to littérateur: the career of a 16th-century Ottoman katib” Bulletin of the British Society for Middle Eastern Studies 9/1 (1982): 55–74, Christine Woodhead, “An experiment in official historiography: the post of şehnameci in the Ottoman empire, c.1555–1605.” Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 75 (1983): 157–82, and Fetvacı, Picturing History, 215–17. Woodhead, “Taliqizade Mehmed.” http://ottomanhis torians.uchicago.edu/sites/ottomanhistorians.uchi cago.edu/files/mehmed en.pdf (accessed November 25, 2014).

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Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

Figure 3.14 Talikizade. Şehnāme-i humāyūn 1596 (Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts tiem 1965, fol. 119b). (Photo courtesy of the Museum of ­T urkish and Islamic Arts).

grand vizier Sinan Pasha’s Hungarian campaign (see Fig. 3.14).82 Though it is titled the Şehnāme-i humāyūn (Imperial Book of Kings), it centers on the commander’s exploits. Similar to the examples discussed so far, this book too begins with the author’s account of his own career and explanation of how he joined Sinan Pasha’s 1593–94 Hungarian campaign.83 The third and last image in the book is a portrait of the author, inserted among the final verses where he prays for the future of the Ottoman dynasty, and states his hopes that the book will be 82 83

Türk Islam Eserleri Müuzesi (tiem), ms. no. 1965. tiem 1965, ff. 3b–12b.

well received.84 The author is depicted among books, perhaps in his own library, or in one of the palace libraries, with a book under his arm, and his hands raised in prayer. He is engaged in the very activity that he describes in the colophon: praying for the future of the Ottoman dynasty. The portrait thus presents a picture of him as first and foremost a loyal servant. Compared to the Şehnāmes that came before it, Talikizade’s Şehnāme-i humāyūn is a very sparsely illustrated, humble manuscript. That the portrait of the author is one of only three paintings illustrating this book is a very strong reminder that the 84

tiem, 1965, fol. 119b.

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makers of manuscripts were concerned to show vestiges of the production process, and leave traces of themselves as artists and creators. This is made possible because not only is the author the official court historian who had served in different capacities at court for a very long time, but also because the artist of the paintings, Nakkaş Hasan, was not a regular member of the corps of artists working for the palace, but rather an insider at the sultan’s privy chamber who would eventually be appointed vizier.85 The book is created by two men who are involved in the sultan’s everyday life, and work at the center of power rather than producing in a workshop outside the palace. They are also, with their presence in the privy chamber, members of an intimate circle of insiders. This intimacy is reflected in the personal traces they could dare to leave in the manuscript. Finally, Nakkaş Hasan himself is depicted in the last image on the last folio of the Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān, with Talikizade and an unnamed scribe (see Fig. 3.15).86 In the text, Talikizade likens Hasan to the legendary painter Bihzad, and credits his images with bringing vitality to the words that he himself had composed: if Nakkaş Hasan painted the sun, it would warm the person gazing upon it; if he painted a rose garden, nightingales would start singing at its sight; and if he painted Leyla’s long neck, many a lover would lose his mind over it.87 The painting shows Talikizade seated across from the artists and scribe, suggesting a hierarchical relationship between the three where Talikizade is the most senior one. And within the bounds of the book project, as the author, he would have been. Yet later on, in 1605, Nakkaş 85

86 87

For Nakkaş Hasan’s career, see Fetvacı, “Enriched Narratives,” and Tülay Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” in Suraiya N. Faroqhi, ed., The Cambridge History of Turkey: The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603–1839 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 408–81, esp. 411–12. For Talikizade’s career see Woodhead, “Taliqizade Mehmed.” tpml H. 1609, fol. 74a. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 183–84.

Figure 3.15

Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a scribe at work. Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān early 17th c. (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1609, fol. 74a). (Photo Hadiye Cangökçe).

Hasan was appointed as a vizier to the imperial council, and would thus rise to positions more senior to that of court historian.88 The painting is a visualization by Nakkaş Hasan of the verbal description by Talikizade of Nakkaş Hasan’s skills in painting. Thus it is a pictorial rendition of a verbal account of pictures just like itself, an illustration to an ekphrasis. It is also a pictorial account of the making of the very book

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See Fetvacı, “Enriched Narratives,” and Artan, “Arts and Architecture.”

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period

that it is placed into, and simultaneously a more generalized image of manuscript production at the ­Ottoman court. According to Baǧcı et al this portrait depicts Nakkaş Hasan in the process of producing a specific painting for the Siyer-i Nebī manuscript project.89 This six-volume illustrated biography of the Prophet Muhammad was begun for Murad iii, but finished in 1595 and presented to his son Mehmed iii. Nakkaş Hasan not only painted for it, but most likely supervised the entire production. Such a monumental project must have been an important milestone in his career, and the visual allusion to it here would not have gone unnoticed by those in the know – the intimate circle around the sultan who were the main audience for a book such as this. It is while addressing this already initiated audience that the individual author or artist comes through, visible to those able to read between the lines. The self emerges most visibly to those in his own courtly circle. Courtier and artist come together in the person of Nakkaş Hasan, just as scribe/secretary and historian come together in the person of Talikizade. The more elevated courtly positions that these men held, combined with their multiple roles, meant that they could be more visible as individuals. As a result of their personal successes and relationships, the positions of author and artist that they also filled became more exulted, too. A comparison between this image and the depiction of the unidentified artist in Fig. 3.4 highlights the newly enhanced status of Ottoman painters. While the Ottoman series of authorial portraits begin with the frontispiece image in the early sixteenth century, they end, at the end of the century, with Talikizade and Nakkaş Hasan’s portraits that accompany the colophons at the ends of their manuscripts.90 89 90

Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 183–84. These colophon images come at the very same time that such images also appear in Mughal manuscripts, examined by Rice, “Between the Brush and the Pen.” The history of author and artist portraiture at the Ottoman court, however, has a trajectory that begins earlier than the Mughal one, as shown in the previous pages.

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Conclusion The awareness that the books examined here display about the craft of writing and illustrating history are clear indicators of their makers’ awareness of the constructed nature of identity which distinguishes early modernity in so many scholarly accounts. The authors and artists depicted in these manuscripts remind us that the official façade of Ottoman historical manuscripts was constructed from personal, subjective viewpoints such as Lokman’s, Feridun Ahmed’s, Mustafa Âli’s, Talikizade’s, or Nakkaş Hasan’s. While the end product emphatically maintained the appearance of neutrality, and the language of verbal and visual representation disguised the subjectivity of the author in the body of the manuscript, in transitional moments like the end or the beginning of the book, the makers, authors, artists, and scribes made themselves visible. In a handful of examples, like the Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār, the Nuṣretnāme, and the Şecaʿātnāme, the author’s individual perspective is signaled throughout the body of the work, and his likeness is incorporated into the paintings. These books were made to bolster the careers of their authors, but also helped to shape their identities as scholars, historians, or poets. As the foregoing survey demonstrates, the number of depictions of the artists of the book increased steadily through the sixteenth century. This trajectory points to a growing awareness of these books not as anonymous creations, with the author almost hidden because he is simply reporting facts, but rather as artworks created by specific individuals. Emphasis in these images is on social roles and group identity, which seem to be the dominant themes in self-narratives and other biographical materials form the early-modern Ottoman Empire.91 The makers of manuscripts are usually depicted in courtly contexts, and often in the company of esteemed courtiers, as a way to signal their belonging to the ruling elite. The p ­ ortraits 91

See again Kafadar, “Self and Others.”

92 simultaneously document and enhance the rising social status and aspirations of these figures. There are intriguing parallels between the visual and verbal presentation of the self in the ­Ottoman and the western European contexts in the earlymodern period. The representation of the “institutional” or “collective” self is only one aspect of these parallels. Peter Burke points to urbanization as a factor that inspired s­ elf-­assessment, and to the rising status of the artist and an interest in biography as two reasons behind the rise of self-portraiture in the Renaissance.92 Overwhelming urbanization is very much an Ottoman reality of the sixteenth century with massive migration from the countryside, and the rising status of historians discussed here undoubtedly allowed for author portraits to appear. The interest in biography in both contexts has to do with shared concepts of history going back to the classical tradition inherited by the early-modern ­Mediterranean, and of course the rise of portraiture has much to do with the respect for the ancient science of ­physiognomy also shared by Ottomans and Italians alike. A ­ nother aspect shared across the Mediterranean is the competitive ethos of the early-modern ­period discussed by Necipoǧlu, a time of looking back at the past and trying to surpass the ancients.93 If one’s achievements are routinely compared with the achievements of actors past, then the self also comes into sharper focus, even if it is as part of a tradition. Despite these parallels, however, the two visual traditions diverged significantly, not least because the Ottomans were careful to cultivate and retain a distinct visual idiom intended to signal their political and religious identities. By pointing to these parallels I do not mean to suggest that the two portraiture traditions are dependent upon each other, but rather that similar circumstances seem to have led to conceptually if not stylistically similar visual practices. 92 Burke, “Representations of the Self,” 17–28. 93 For the architectural manifestations of this, see Necipoǧlu, “Challenging the Past.”

Fetvacı

Bibliography Akın, Esra, ed. Muṣṭafa Alī’s Epic Deeds of Artists: A Critical Edition of the Earliest Ottoman Text About the Calligraphers and Painters of the Islamic World. Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2011. Andrews, Walter and Mehmet Kalpaklı. The Age of Beloveds: Love and the Beloved in Early Modern Ottoman and European Culture and Society. Durham: Duke University Press, 2005. Argunşah, Mustafa. Selîm-nâme. Kayseri, Turkey: E ­ rciyes Üniversitesi, 1997. Artan, Tülay. “Arts and Architecture,” The Cambridge History of Turkey: The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603– 1839, ed. Suraiya N. Faroqhi, 408–81. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Aynur, Hatice and Aslı Niyazioǧlu, eds. Âşık Çelebi ve Şairler Tezkiresi Üzerine Yazılar. Istanbul: Koç Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2011. Baǧcı, Serpil. “A New Theme of the Shirazi Frontispiece Miniatures: The Divan of Solomon,” Muqarnas 17 (1995): 101–11. Baǧcı, Serpil, et al. Ottoman Painting. Ankara: Republic of Turkey, Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Publications and Banks Association of Turkey, 2010. Burke, Peter. “Representations of the Self from Petrach to Descartes,” Rewriting the Self: Histories from the ­Renaissance to the Present, ed. Roy Porter, 17–28. ­London; New York: Routledge, 1997. Çaǧman, Filiz. “The miniatures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni and the Influence of Their Style,” Fifth ­International Congress of Turkish Art, ed. Geza Fehér, 231–59. ­Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1978. Carey, Moya, “Al-Sufi and Son: Ibn al-Sufi’s Poem on the Stars and Its Prose Parent,” Muqarnas 26 (2009): 181–204. Çıpa, Hakkı Erdem. The Making of Selim. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2017. Erkmen, Aslıhan. “Müellife Övgü: Musavver (Resimli) Tezkirelerde Yazar Portreleri,” Sanat Tarihi Yıllıǧı 23 (2014): 1–21. Ertuǧ, Zeynep Tarım. “The Depiction of Ceremonies in Ottoman Miniatures: Historical Record or a Matter of Protocol,” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 251–75.

Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period Felek, Özgen. “(Re)creating Image and Identity: Dreams and Visions as a Means of Murad III’s ­Self-­Fashioning” Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, eds. Özgen Felek and Alexander D. Knysh, 249–72. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2012. Fetvacı, Emine. “Enriched Narratives and Empowered Images in Seventeenth-Century Ottoman Manuscripts,” Ars Orientalis 40 (2011): 243–66. Fetvacı, Emine. Picturing History at the Ottoman Court. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013. Fetvacı, Emine. “The Office of Ottoman Court Historian,” Studies on Istanbul and Beyond: The Freely Papers, vol. 1, ed. Robert Ousterhout, 6–21. Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, 2007. Fetvacı, Emine. “The Production of the Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān,” Muqarnas 26 (2009): 263–316. Fleischer, Cornell. Bureaucrat and Intellectual in the ­ Ottoman Empire: The Historian Mustafa Âli. ­Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986. Greenblatt, Stephen. Renaissance Self-Fashioning from More to Shakespeare. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980. Hagen, Gottfried. “Legitimacy and World Order,” Legitimizing the Order: The Ottoman Rhetoric of State Power, eds. Hakan T. Karateke and Maurus Reinkowski, 55–83. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Hoffman, Eva. “The Author Portrait in Thirteenth-­ Century Arabic Manuscripts: A New Islamic Context for a Late-Antique Tradition,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 6–20. Howard, Douglas. “Ottoman Historiography and the Literature of ‘Decline’ of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Journal of Asian History 22, no. 1 (1988): 52–77. Kafadar, Cemal. Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). Kafadar, Cemal. “Self and Others: The Diary of a Dervish in Seventeenth Century Istanbul and First Person Narratives in Ottoman Literature” Studia Islamica, 69 (1989): 121–50.

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Kafadar, Cemal. “The Myth of the Golden Age: Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the Post Süleymanic Era,” Süleymân the second and his time, eds. Halil Inalcık and Cemal Kafadar, 37–48. Istanbul: Isis Press, 1993. Kerner, Jaclynne J. “Art in the Name of Science: The Kitāb al-Diryāq in Text and Image,” Arab Painting: Text and Image in Illustrated Arabic Manuscripts, ed. Anna Contadini, 25–39. Leiden: Brill, 2010. Kim, Sooyong. “Minding the Shop: Zati and the Making of Ottoman Poetry in the First Half of the Sixteenth Century.” PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2005. Koerner, Joseph Leo. The Moment of Self-Portraiture in German Renaissance Art. Chicago: University of ­Chicago Press, 1993. Kuru, Selim S. “The Literature of Rum: The Making of a Literary Tradition (1450–1600),” The Cambridge History of Turkey vol. 3: 548–92. Lentz, Thomas W., and Glenn D. Lowry. Timur and the princely vision: Persian art and culture in the fifteenth century. Los Angeles County Museum of Art; Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989. Mantran, Robert. “L’historiographie ottomane à l’époque de Soliman le Magnifique,” Soliman le ­Magnifique et son temps: Actes du colloque de Paris, Galeries nationales du Grand Palais, 7–10 Mars 1990, ed. Gilles ­Veinstein, 25–32. Paris: La Documentation française. Marsden, Joanna Woods. Renaissance Self-Portraiture: The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the Artist. New Have and London: Yale University Press, 1998. Necipoǧlu, Gülru. “Challenging the Past: Sinan and the Competitive Discourse of Early-Modern Islamic Architecture,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 169–80. Necipoǧlu, Gülru. “Preface,” Sinan’s autobiographies: five sixteenth-century texts, eds. and trans. ­Howard Crane and Esra Akın, VII. Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2006. Necipoǧlu, Gülru. The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire. Princeton University Press and Reaktion, 2005. Necipoǧlu, Gülru. “Word and Image: The Serial Portraits of Ottoman sultans in comparative perspective.”

94 The Sultan’s Portrait: Picturing the House of Osman, ed. Selmin Kangal, 22–61. Istanbul: Iş Bankası, 2000. Niyazioǧlu, Aslı. Dreams and lives in Istanbul: a seventeenth century biographer’s perspective. London, New York: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group, 2017. Pancaroǧlu, Oya. “Socializing Medicine: Illustrations of the Kitāb al-Diryāq,” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 155–72. Piterberg, Gabriel. An Ottoman Tragedy: History and Historiography at Play. Berkeley: University of ­California Press, 2003. Rice, Yael. “Between the Brush and the Pen: On the Intertwined Histories of Mughal Painting and ­ ­Calligraphy,” Envisioning Islamic Art and Architecture: Essays in Honor of Renata Holod, ed. David J. Roxburgh, 148–74. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Rosenthal, Franz. A History of Muslim Historiography. Leiden: Brill, 1968. Roxburgh, David J. “Baysunghur’s Library: Questions Related to its Chronology and Production,” Journal of Social Affairs (Shuun Ijtimaiyah) 18.72 (2001): 11–41/300–30. Roxburgh, David J. “Concepts of the Portrait in ­Islamic Lands, c.1300–1600,” Dialogues in Art History, from Mesopotamian to Modern: Readings for a New C ­ entury, ed. Elizabeth Cropper, 119–37. Washington, D.C. and New Haven: National Gallery of Art and Yale University Press, 2009. Roxburgh, David J. Prefacing the Image: The Writing of Art history in Sixteenth-Century Iran. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Roxburgh, David J. The Persian Album 1400–1600: From Dispersal to Collection. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005.

Fetvacı Roxburgh, David J, ed. Turks: A Journey of a Thousand Years, 600–1600. London and New York: Royal Academy of Arts and Harry N. Abrams, 2005. Şahin, Kaya. Empire and Power in the Reign of Süleyman: Narrating the Sixteenth Century Ottoman World. Cambridge University Press, 2013. Şahin, Kaya. “Imperialism, Bureaucratic Consciousness, and the Historian’s Craft: A Reading of Celālzāde Muṣṭafā’s Ṭabaḳātüʾl-Memālik ve Derecātüʾl-Mesālik,” Writing History at the Ottoman Court: Editing the Past, Fashioning the Future, eds. H. Erdem Çıpa and Emine Fetvacı, 39–57. Indiana University Press, 2013. Sims, Eleanor. “Prince Baysunghur’s Chahar Maqaleh,” Sanat Tarihi Yıllıǧı 6 (1976): 375–409. Soucek, Priscilla. “The Theory and Practice of Portraiture in the Persian Tradition,” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 97–108. Soudavar, Abolala. Art of the Persian Courts: Selections from the Art and History Trust Collection. New York: Rizzoli, 1992. Woodhead, Christine. “An experiment in official historiography: the post of şehnameci in the Ottoman empire, c.1555–1605.” Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 75 (1983): 157–82. Woodhead, Christine. “From scribe to littérateur: the career of a 16th-century Ottoman katib” Bulletin of the British Society for Middle Eastern Studies 9/1 (1982): 55–74. Yoltar, Ayşin, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Luxury Book Production, 1413–1520,” Ph.D. diss., New York University, 2002.

chapter 4

In Defense and Devotion

Affective Practices in Early Modern Turco-Persian Manuscript Paintings Christiane Gruber In 1655, the Ottoman writer Evliya Çelebi ­(1611–1682) traveled to the city of Bitlis in eastern Anatolia. While there, he witnessed odd behavior at an auction of manuscripts, which he subsequently described in his famous Seyahatname (Book of Travels). During the sale, a man entered the room, grabbed an illustrated manuscript of Firdawsi’s Shahnama (Book of Kings), and proceeded to destroy its painted figures. Horrified by this brutish behavior, Evliya Çelebi cursed him as a philistine (zalim) and bemoaned his act of vandalism with the following harsh words: “Painting being forbidden according to his belief (tasvir haramdır deyüb), he took his Turkish knife and scraped the narcissus eyes of those depicted, as though he were poking out their eyes, and thus he poked holes in all the pages. Or else he drew lines over their throats, claiming that he had throttled them. Or he rubbed out the faces and garments of the pretty lads and girls with phlegm and saliva (balgamı ve tükrükiyle) from his filthy mouth. Thus in a single moment he spoiled with his spit a miniature that a master painter (üstad) could not have completed in an entire month.”1 As the text continues, Evliya Çelebi describes the auctioneer complaining to the sultan about this iconoclast, who “poked out the eyes or cut the throats of all the people in the pictures with

1 Dankoff, Evliya Çelebi in Bitlis, 294–95; Ruggles, Islamic Art & Visual Culture, 56; Flood, “Between Cult and Culture,” 645; and Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought, 328–29.

his knife, or rubbed out their faces with a shoesponge,” thus rendering the manuscript valueless and robbing him of his sales fee. The offender was given a punishment by the qadi of Bitlis: he received seventy lashes, was ordered to pay a hefty fine, and then “everyone followed him out of the camp, throwing stones and shouting, ‘He got what he deserved.’ They turned this fellow into a ‘monkey’ [maymun]. It was a comical sight!”2 This anecdote is illuminating for several reasons. First, it reveals that, within an early modern Turco-Persian literate milieu, iconoclastic impulses were at times considered savage acts of vandalism caused by uncultured men who were analogized to primates. For Evliya Çelebi and likeminded individuals, the cultivation of knowledge was thought to be achieved through an appreciation of literature, its production in manuscript form, and its illustration through figural images. Manuscript paintings in turn demanded protection from those who might consider such images prohibited in Islam, potentially alive, and hence requiring symbolic murder in all forms – from the excision of the eyes and cutting of the throat with a knife or pen to the smudging of facial features with a sponge or spit. Additionally, this episode succinctly highlights conflicting sensitivities and worldviews regarding the figural arts by capturing contemporaneous viewers’ disparate urges: to destroy and to preserve representational images. At times such tensions were expressed by concurrent cultural actors who held contradictory opinions on the lawfulness of 2 Dankoff, Evliya Çelebi in Bitlis, 298–99.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_006

96 painting within Islam.3 Indeed, as this historical episode makes clear, in early modern Ottoman lands at least, official efforts were exerted to preserve the physical integrity (and hence financial value) of valuable artistic products. While there exists a substantial body of research on manuscript painting and figural imagery in Islamic traditions, the exact mechanisms of – and material evidence for – viewers’ affective behaviors and responses toward painted images (as in the case recorded by Evliya Çelebi) remain largely uncharted terrain. Many questions remain to be posed; for example, did viewers “perform” destructive acts within paintings solely because figural depiction was deemed prohibited, or out of fear that a representational image might come alive? Could individuals respond both emotionally and physically to figural images for other affective reasons? Were some following an urge toward punishment and revenge? Could destructive acts be intended to safeguard and show reverence to a depicted individual, who may have been considered saintly or blessed? And, finally, are signs of effacement and mutilation indications of the contradictory urges documented by Evliya Çelebi – to destroy and to preserve a depicted entity? Although textual sources tend to remain silent on these issues, a number of Persian and Turkish manuscript paintings made between 1300 and 1600 ce bear evidence of a variety of purposeful actions that offer potential answers to these questions. The medieval and early modern figural images that sustain the most evident “damage” are those belonging to illustrated historical and biographical texts with pictorial programs that include depictions of the Prophet Muhammad and his followers in a variety of difficult and dangerous circumstances, including persecution and warfare. In such cases, tactile interventions by viewers were 3 For a discussion of this topic during the early Islamic period, see Creswell, “The Lawfulness of Painting in Early Islam,” which argues for a Jewish influence on the Islamic tendency to “shun” images.

Gruber

clearly intended to destroy the representations of abusers and enemies of the faith. Such manipulations attempt to neutralize the perceived agency of the depicted opponents, in the process reaffirming the power of the intact and integral image of the beloved. At other times, evidence of physical transactions in the picture plane suggests that painterly deterioration could be the unintentional result of intense handling. Much as in late medieval and early modern European manuscripts that bear the traces of devotional kissing and rubbing, as well as the addition of sewn-in veils, the performance of pious acts within Islamic religious paintings could have resulted in unintended damage over time.4 This phenomenon appears especially pertinent to early modern Safavid and Ottoman cultural spheres, at which time older Ilkhanid and Timurid paintings appear to have been defaced – and ­facial veils added to depictions of the Prophet ­Muhammad – in particular. As a result, these types of ruination of figural imagery not only provide proof of iconoclastic tendencies in Islamic traditions but also, seemingly to the contrary, serve as the material remains of their viewers’ pietistic and protective urges toward visual likenesses. Some engagements with and manipulations of figural representations thus appear to have been spurred by devotional – and not iconoclastic – drives. As Finbarr Barry Flood has noted, this type of material damage raises important questions about ethics, agency, and intent.5 In early modern Turco-Persian lands in particular, emotional responses to images appear to have been catalyzed in defense of and devotion to the Prophet Muhammad and the Muslim c­ ommunity, 4 See in particular Freedberg, The Power of Images, 378–428; Rudy, “Kissing Images”; Sciacca, “Raising the Curtain on the Use of Textiles in Manuscripts”; Camille, ­“Obscenity Under Erasure”; Borland, “Unruly Reading”; and Bartholeyns, Dittmar, and Jollivet, “Des raisons de détruire une image.” 5 Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,” 477.

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Figure 4.1

The persecution of Muslims, Rashid al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles), Tabriz, Iran, 1314. Edinburgh University Library, Arab Ms. 20, folio 48v.

a fact that disrupts the facile yet flawed dictum that individuals of the Islamic faith cannot hold figural images dear. Just as importantly, the visual data offers new means of tracking and adjudicating the emotions of affection and animosity as they intersect with visuality and materiality in the pre-modern Turco-Persian world. Collectively serving as a barometer for both viewers’ love and their hate, these manipulations of pictorial representations also highlight the fact that iconoclasm and iconophilia are not always mutually exclusive. Instead, and more significantly, they often are copresent and co-constitutive within the domain of figural representation.

In Defense

Evidence of viewers’ physical interjections into images can be found in Persian manuscript paintings produced from around 1300 ce onward. The manipulated images typically illustrate episodes from the life of the Prophet and from early Islamic history, and they often form part of universal histories, such as the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles) penned by the Ilkhanid vizier Rashid al-Din (d. 1318 ce). An illustrated copy of Rashid al-Din’s text made during the early fourteenth

c­ entury includes a depiction of the persecution of a group of early converts to Islam (see Fig. 4.1). In the painting, new members of Muslim community, dressed in modest white garments, are rounded up by two groups of men who push and torture them – including by yanking on their beards – as they forcefully lead the poor souls toward a bonfire, no doubt to be burned alive unless they reject Muhammad and forsake Islam. Beyond the red-hot flames sits an enthroned ruler with his standing entourage. This individual is a man of high standing, perhaps a pagan Arab chief belonging to the Banu Jumah tribe. In his Sirat al-Nabi (Biography of the Prophet), Ibn Ishaq (d. 768 C.E.) records the persecution of new converts to Islam by polytheist Arabs, particularly members of the Banu Jumah tribe, although Rashid al-Din refers to the torturers simply as disbelievers (kafiran). Moreover, both Ibn Ishaq and Rashid al-Din note that these infidels imprisoned, starved, burned, and tortured the Muslims; some were forced to apostatize from Islam under such insufferable conditions, while others withstood these chastisements.6 Viewers of this agonizing scene did not leave the painting untouched. Instead, they were moved 6 Ibn Ishaq, Muhammad, trans. Badawi, 246; and Rashid ­al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Iran wa Islam), 968.

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Figure 4.2

Gruber

The torturing of Bilal, Rashid al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Chronicles), ca. 1350–1400. Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, H. 1654, folio 62r.

into dynamic action. They targeted the tormenters, smudging their faces and even excising that of the seated chieftain. In the latter case, the loss of paper was caused either by targeted cutting – itself a radically intrusive act – or by persistent ­defilement over time.7 Without a doubt, this instance does not represent a simple act of iconoclasm directed toward figural imagery defined broadly, as in the case recorded by Evliya Çelebi. To the contrary, these targeted disfigurations must be considered a means of countering or even punishing enemies of pious Muslims: that is, as a strategic damnatio memoriae that symbolically protected the figural wholeness of the religiously righteous. Indeed, the paintwork used to depict converts to the Islamic faith is left pristine, their unsullied purity, one might posit, a reflection of the unblemished integrity of the faithful. The defilement of the torturers’ facial features therefore must be understood as 7 On the cutting out (découpage) of figures in medieval European manuscripts, see Bartholeyns, Dittmar, and ­Jollivet, “Des raisons de détruire une image,” 6; and on the potential use of a sharp tool to deface figures, see Borland, “Unruly Reading,” 104.

material evidence for the viewers’ sense of moral indignation as enacted through materially reified aspersions, the ultimate goal of which was the preservation of virtue, personified and visualized. In this case and others, the destruction of strategic parts of the image functions in essence as an ­image-driven form of salvation – that is, a protection of the Muslim community along with its exculpation from sin and damnation. Similar intrusions into other paintings likewise seek to preserve good and eradicate evil. For ­example, a later copy of the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh also includes a scene of beating (see Fig. 4.2).8 In the accompanying text, Rashid al-Din describes the tortures committed against the black slave Bilal, who converted to Islam and served as the first ­caller to prayer in ­Islamic congregational ­practices. Historians such as Ibn Ishaq and Rashid al-Din pay careful attention to Bilal’s ordeals. They tell us that this “man of authentic Islam and of pure heart” was ­severely persecuted by his owner – Ibn Umayyah, one of the chiefs of the Quraysh tribe – for ­having 8 Inal, “Some Miniatures of the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh in Istanbul.”

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­embraced Islam.9 The wicked man would strip him, take him outside at noontime under the scorching sun, throw him to the ground, and beat him, all the while exclaiming, “You will stay like this until the day you die or until you reject Muhammad and praise [the Arabian pagan gods] alLat and al-Uzzah!” Bilal refused, and even ­under such duress steadfastly proclaimed God’s all-­ encompassing singularity (“Ahad/Ahad! ”). Rashid al-Din further relates that, upon witnessing such tortures, Abu Bakr approached Ibn Umayyah and asked, “Are you not afraid of God for what you do to this poor man?” The pagan chief dared Abu Bakr to save Bilal; Abu Bakr agreed and then offered his own, more muscular, non-Muslim black slave in exchange. Not long after this transaction, Abu Bakr decided to manumit Bilal and six other slaves.10 The painting efficiently synopsizes this series of events and exchanges. In the composition’s center, Bilal has fallen or been pushed to the ground. He is about to be beaten by a man – most likely Ibn Umayyah – who wields a club, as Abu Bakr, clad in a green robe, observes the slave’s maltreatment. While Abu Bakr appears immobilized, his palms upraised as if he were pleading with the abuser to stop, one of the painting’s viewers decided to take matters into his own hands. His interference ­included the sullying of the opponent’s facial traits as well as strategic strikes against his joints, particularly his knee and elbow (and perhaps his hand as well). The beholder here launched an a­ ttack against the abuser’s “corporeal sites of communication and motility”11 – his face, eyes, feet, and perhaps hand. The strike punishes past actions and thwarts further attacks, serving as revenge, obstruction, and a means of halting the believer’s physical and spiritual pain.

Images that depict the persecution of the early Muslim community by pagan Arab aggressors and sustain conspicuous damage may have been altered by Safavid or Ottoman viewers during the sixteenth century, as related visual evidence discussed below strongly suggests. Early modern Turco-Persian viewers were engaged and discriminating participants in painted scenes, on behalf of which they undertook punitive measures to correct wrongs committed against members of the early faith community.12 These viewers’ acts indubitably function as retribution for cruel ­impiety – and this form of retribution is both ­figural and figurative. As David Morgan has noted, such “violence of seeing” aims to extirpate an ­image or figure perceived as competition.13 This emotionally charged form of instrumental ­iconoclasm is not intended to destroy figural representations due to fear that they are prohibited or might come alive; instead, it ensures their survival in an acceptably altered form.14 Thus, such interventions function as visual curse-acts that p ­ ositively reassert the devotional power and moral validity of the image within the religious worldview of pious, interactive beholders. A punitive gesture exerted inside a pictorial composition echoes a number of Islamic legal and doctrinal texts that recommend particular courses of action for removing offending objects or punishing wrongdoers. For instance, the medieval theologian and jurist al-Ghazali (d. 1111 ce) informs his readers that evil can be forbidden in a number of ways, most especially with the tongue and hand. He considers the duty of issuing injunctions as emanating from an escalatory sequence, beginning with verbal admonishment, which, if not heeded, is followed by physical action or 12

9 10 11

That is, Umayyah b. Khalaf b. Wahb b. Hudafah b. Jumah, of the Banu Jumah tribe. Ibn Ishaq, Muhammad, trans. Badawi, 247; and Rashid al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Iran wa Islam), 968–69. Borland, “Unruly Reading,” 111.

Bartholeyns, Dittmar, and Jollivet, “Des raisons de d­ étruire une image,” 9. 13 Morgan, The Sacred Gaze, 122. 14 Flood, “Between Cult and Culture,” 646. For paintings whose figures are smudged by a wet substance (water or spit) and symbolically decapited by lines of black ink, see ibid., 646 (Fig. 4) and 648 (Fig. 6).

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­corporeal chastisement.15 As for punishment by the hand, al-Ghazali opines that objects can be removed or discarded manually, as is the case for musical objects, which can be broken; liquor that can be poured out; and images at the entrances to bathhouses, which can be destroyed (unless they are too high to reach).16 Additionally, an individual can be easily removed from a particular place by being dragged out by the arm – but not, out of respect, by the foot or beard – and threatened orally with warnings such as, “Stop that, or I’ll break your head!”17 If the offender refuses to leave, physical violence can be inflicted upon him by kicking, punching, or beating with a stick. In sum, if disobeyed, verbal warnings can escalate to threats of decapitation and corporeal punishment. In forbidding evil, al-Ghazali and other theologians also make recourse to the heart (qalb). This practice is essentially a cognitive and affective one, in which an individual who does not possess the legal authority to forbid and punish can instead disapprove of a person or thing by personal thought and emotion. Al-Ghazali notes that condemnations of the heart can be made manifest through angry and reprobatory facial expressions as well as through the active avoidance of offensive individuals or objects.18 This practice of taking recourse to the heart in essence belongs to the field of affect insomuch as it involves emotional responses and their related physical pulsions. Thus, the heart is deemed intimately involved in the articulation of what we might call the domain of “affective ethics” within Islamic traditions. The visible results of affective ethics are on full display in the two paintings discussed above. In both instances, artists created, and viewers reacted to, figural images with their own respective modes of iconography and codes of conduct. Within 15 16 17 18

See the detailed discussion of al-Ghazali in Cook, F­ orbidding Wrong in Islam, 27–43. On al-Ghazali recommonding the destruction of bathhouse images, see Cook, Forbidding Wrong in Islam, 31. Cited in ibid., 30. Ibid., 37.

the depiction of the persecution of Muslims, for instance, the artist rendered opponents of the ­Islamic faith dragging believers by their beards, a method of forceful displacement considered impermissible by al-Ghazali. Through this purposeful visual strategy, the painting’s artist placed the spotlight on a particular kind of immoral and ­injurious behavior undertaken by adversaries of the faith community. For their part, viewers responded to these figural depictions in highly haptic ways. While they may also have uttered verbal castigations, whose sound traces unfortunately do not remain today, viewers certainly rebuked depicted opponents through physical and visual manipulations, most especially by defacement and the breaking of joints via intensive, repeated smudging. To some extent, the erasure of facial features is equivalent to a virtual decapitation, or, to borrow al-Ghazali’s fitting expression, the implemented caveat, “Stop that, or I’ll break your head!” Begotten by the emotions of the heart, these iconoclastic acts aim to stem the perceived efficacy of certain areas of the image as autonomously existent and thus capable of energetic action.19 Just as significantly, pictorial acts of ethical affects that are emotionally felt and physically asserted shed light on what must have been deemed the necessary and hence “normative” response to a range of offenses, even those that could be sensed only qua image. In the end, the viewers’ intrusions have as their ultimate goal enjoining right and forbidding wrong, a bifold principle at the very foundation of Islamic ethics and law.20 Such actions thus fall within the larger orbit of ethico-emotive responses, which evidently did not exclude the realm of pictorial representation. 19

20

On the image as an autonomous active agent and its capacity to emanate a dynamic energeia, see Bredekamp, “The Picture Act,” 4 and 23; and, for a more in-depth discussion of “picture acts,” see Bredekamp, Theorie des Bildakts. For mentions of enjoining right and forbidding wrong (al-amr biʾl-maʿruf waʾl-nahy ʿan al-munkar) in the Qurʾan, see Q3:110, 104, 157; and Q9:71.

In Defense and Devotion

A number of other manuscript paintings include similar traces of viewers’ interjected emotions. These studious acts of erasure target Christian adversaries, as well as figureheads of a particular branch of Islam, rather than pagan Arab persecutors – suggesting that figural arts in Islamic cultural spheres could serve as a religious ­battleground for Muslims and other “peoples of the book” (ahl al-kitab), or as tangible vestiges of intra-communal debate and vilification between Sunni and Shiʿi Muslim groups. In other words, abrasions in a number of manuscript paintings also should be understood as emotionally and physically enacted postures of religious subjectivity within the matrix of inter- and intra-faith politicking in the early modern Turco-Persian world. Like the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh, the Ilkhanid illustrated manuscript of al-Biruniʾs Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), completed in 1307 ce, includes illustrations that were subjected to symbolic destruction by later viewers.21 Among them, two reveal a clear Shiʿi bias, perhaps an early indication of Sultan Öljeytü’s conversion to the faith in 1309 ce. Episodes in the manuscript that are particularly significant in Shiʿi terms, and that have been manipulated by viewers, include the two final paintings, depicting the Mubahala, or Day of Cursing, and the investiture of ʿAli at the Pond of Khumm (Ghadir Khumm), at which time, according to Shiʿi narratives, the Prophet Muhammad appointed his son-in-law the rightful leader of the Muslim community.22 In the painting of the Mubahala, the Prophet Muhammad is shown engaged in a doctrinal disputation with the Christians of Najran (see Fig. 4.3). During the confrontation, the Christians 21

22

See Hilllenbrand, “Images of Muhammad in al-Biruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations”; Soucek, “An Illustrated Manuscript of al-Biruni’s Chronology of Nations”; and Soucek, “The Life of the Prophet,” 198 and 205–06. For a preliminary discussion of the Ghadir Khumm scenes, see Gruber, “Questioning the ‘Classical’ in ­Persian Painting,” 16–21.

101 asked Muhammad to submit to their faith; he refused and rejected the beliefs that God had a son and that Jesus died on the cross.23 While some texts, such as Ibn Ishaqʾs sira, describe the event as a Christian-Muslim debate, others take a more sectarian approach to the narrative. For example, inspired by Shiʿi narratives of the event, al-Biruni argues that Muhammad’s superiority over the Christians is vindicated by the presence of his wife, Fatima, his son-in-law, ʿAli, and their sons, Hasan and Husayn.24 The Ilkhanid painting shows Muhammad with his family on the right and the Christians of ­Najran on the left. Although Fatima’s mouth (or facial veil) seems to have been damaged (or removed), the members of the Prophet’s household (ahl albayt) remain largely intact, their protected status marked by the clouds swirling above them. While the facial features of these protagonists appear untouched, the three Christians have been severely disfigured. Energetic lines of defacement cut across the paintwork in sharp diagonals, tarnishing skin-colored pigments and lacerating facial features. The painting’s viewers have maimed and injured the depicted Christians, who are left mutilated by acts of censure and thus reduced to a distorted jumble. Without a doubt, this particular performance of iconoclasm must be interpreted as a visual castigation of enemies of the faith along with their malevolent gaze and intentions. The Christians’ pictorial remains – decayed and ­corrupt – are juxtaposed with the pristine appearance of the ahl al-bayt, the “sinless” figureheads of Shiʿi Islam whose elevated status is promoted visually as an immaculate defense against physical harm. While the Mubahala scene advocates for a (Shiʿi-inclined) Muslim religious ascendancy over 23 Ibn Ishaq, Sira, trans. Guillaume, 270–77. 24 Sachau, The Chronology of Ancient Nations, 332 (“Muhammad installs Hasan and Husain in the right of sons of his, and Fatima in the right of his wives, and ʿAli b. Abi Talib he made his intimate friend, complying with the order of God in the verse of the cursing.”).

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Figure 4.3

The Mubahala (Day of Cursing), al-Biruni, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronology of ­Ancient Nations), Tabriz or Maragha, Iran, 1307. Edinburgh University Library, Arab Ms. 161, folio 160r.

­ hristianity, the second altered painting in al-BiruC ni’s illustrated history takes on much clearer sectarian meanings. It depicts Muhammad appointing ʿAli as his intimate friend at the Pond of Khumm during his farewell pilgrimage (see Fig.  4.4).25 This e­ pisode is considered pivotal to Shiʿi Islamic ­history – according to sources of a Shiʿi bent, it is at this time that the Prophet named ʿAli the executor of his will (wasi) and his successor (wali) as leader of the Muslim community. At times, pro-Shiʿi texts also note that only Muhammad and ʿAli were present at the pond, and that God revealed the 25

On Ghadir Khumm within Shiʿi-Sunni debates, see Kohlberg, “Some Imami Shiʿi Views on the Sahaba,” 153–55.

Qurʾanic verse (5:3) warning that: “This day those who disbelieve have despaired of [defeating] your religion (dinikum); so fear them not, but fear Me. This day I have perfected for you your religion and completed My favor upon you and have approved for you Islam as religion.” Within Shiʿi exegetical thought, this verse is heralded as proof that ʿAli embodies the din, or religion, of Islam against disbelievers – whoever they might be. Through its initial composition and later manipulations, the manuscript painting of Ghadir Khumm offers an even clearer statement about the diametric opposition of faith and disbelief. The scene features Muhammad, clad in his black cloak (burda) and placing his hand on ʿAli’s shoulder in a clear gesture of selection and delegation.

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Figure 4.4 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, ­al-Biruni, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun ­al-Khaliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Tabriz or Maragha, Iran, 1307. Edinburgh ­University Library, Arab Ms. 161, folio 162r.

S­urrounding this heroic pair are three other ­figures, whose faces were coarsely extricated from the composition at an unknown date. Left in tatters, this mistreated triad most likely represents the first three of the four rightly guided caliphs ­(rashidun): ʿUmar, ʿUthman, and Abu Bakr. Only the fourth caliph – ʿAli – has not been expunged from the picture. One can thus surmise that the mutilations of the painting served to solidify a ­sectarian binary, in which the central embodiments of religion are Muhammad and ʿAli while the three other caliphs are seen as personifying disbelief. Although it is impossible to know when the three caliphsʾ faces came under attack, one possibility is during the Safavid period, at which time

Shiʿi practices of ritually vilifying this “triumvirate of cursed ones” (malaʿin thalitha)26 became institutionalized, with professional preachers specializing in anti-Sunni execrations and disavowals.27 In addition to serving as a pictorial counterpart to this Shiʿi rhetorical battering, the iconoclastic mutilation of the figures depicted in the I­ lkhanid painting seeks to promote the sectarian evisceration of enemies by recasting an otherwise narrative depiction into a permanently visible ­ maledictory ideogram.

26 27

Calmard, “Les rituels shiites,” 122. Stanfield-Johnson, “The Tabarraʾiyan and the Early Safavids.”

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Figure 4.5 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, al-Biruni, AlAthar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronology of Ancient Nations), Isfahan, Iran, 1647. Sepahsalar Madrasa, Tehran, ms. 1517, folio 287r.

Further pictorial evidence supports a ­Safavid context and viewership. For example, it appears that the Ilkhanid illustrated manuscript of al-­Biruni’s text was available in the Safavid book atelier of Isfahan, where a duplicate copy was produced in 1647 ce (see Fig. 4.5). Unlike its Ilkhanid precursor, the ­Safavid painting is undamaged. The three male figures surrounding Muhammad and ʿAli remain impeccable, even radiant, in their beardless youth. These three boys are certainly not the adult rashidun whose faces have been excised from the antecedent painting. Instead, the young figures most likely represent Hasan, Husayn, and Zayn alʿAbidin, who personify the extension of Muhammad’s leadership via ʿAli and the imamate. The sectarian act of excision enacted on the Ilkhanid painting is thus repaired in the Safavid version; a

new visual contraposition is offered to viewers, inviting them to piously contemplate the unspoiled figureheads and genealogical line of Shiʿi Islam. Here, then, a violently extractive form of pictorial découpage is corrected through visual insertion, converting an iconoclastic act into an iconophilic one. The peregrinations of the Ilkhanid manuscript do not halt here. Another copy seems to have reached Ottoman lands, where a triplicate version was produced around 1560 ce (other copies may have existed, as well). It, too, includes a painting of the contested scene (see Fig. 4.6). In the Ottoman composition, the three individuals accompanying Muhammad and ʿAli are prominently depicted. All three are the size of adult males and bear visible facial features, and at least two have thick beards

In Defense and Devotion

105

Figure 4.6 The investiture of ʿAli at ­Ghadir Khumm, al-Biruni, Al-Athar ­ al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The ­Chronology of Ancient Nations), Ottoman lands, ca. 1560. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Ms. Arabe 1489, folio 87r.

indicative of their maturity and adulthood. It is quite likely that the Ottoman painting is based on the Ilkhanid original, or a copy closely related to it, as evidenced by the many elements (such as the landscape and the cloud) that have been faithfully copied. However, if the Ilkhanid painting arrived in Ottoman lands already in a mutilated form, the painter responsible for its subsequent iteration had to fill in the gaps caused by the loss of paint and paper. This scenario seems plausible, especially because one of three rashidun is rendered beardless in the Ottoman painting. This individual is probably Abu Bakr, who in the Ilkhanid version seems to have been depicted with a white beard that is now almost entirely lost. It is thus likely that the Ottoman painter attempted to fill in the lost

facial features and obscured white beard, yielding a rather unsteady result. This triad of paintings depicting the appointment of ʿAli at the Pond of Khumm reveals a chain of destructive and restorative contributions to ­images from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century. On the one hand, the Ilkhanid painting couches the event as pro-ʿAlid yet framed within the context of the ecumenical presence of the rashidun, three of whom appear to have been mutilated and excised during the Safavid period, at which time a new copy of the painted scene appeared, depicting members of the ahl al-bayt as a symbol of the imamate inserted in their stead. When the Ilkhanid painting was copied in O ­ ttoman lands around 1560 ce, the four champions of the

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Prophet’s Sunna were pictorially restituted, most likely in order to counter overtly pro-Shiʿi readings of the event. In each instance, the pictured scene finds itself in the nexus of Sunni-Shiʿi contestations, in the process generating an “iconoclash” in early modern Persian and Turkish lands.28 The painting’s value thus lies in its ability to provide an invitation to viewers to abuse and destroy oppositional icons or, conversely, to symbolically revivify revered founding figures. These acts of reception, destruction, and restitution highlight the fact that beholders of images engaged in ideo-affective postures vis-à-vis figural representations, chiseling expressive forms of doctrinal polarity along the way.29 Although it is impossible to know exactly where and when these paintings were manipulated, both Evliya Çelebi’s account from 1655 and the visual evidence strongly suggest that iconoclastic interjections constitute Turco-Persian image-­ viewing ­practices of the sixteenth and ­seventeenth ­centuries, an era of increasing contact with Europe as well as internal wrangling for power b­ etween the Safavid and Ottoman polities. In ­ Europe, ­similar mutilations in manuscript paintings occurred around the same time, perhaps, as Michael Camille has suggested, due to the growth of a “prurient mentality,” the emergence of “authoritarian scopic regimes,” and the policing of the gaze that became a hallmark of modernity.30 Within Ottoman lands, a nascent cosmopolitanism and crystallization of Sunni orthodoxy may have generated similarly regimented scopic regimes and affects, although such a hypothesis remains open to debate. During the early modern period, Ottoman commentaries upon, and manipulations of, Persian paintings occurred, as well. For example, both Ilkhanid and Timurid Miʿrajnamas (Books of Ascension) and Shah Tahmasd’s Shahnama (Book 28 29 30

Latour, “What Is Iconoclash?” 27–28. On ideo-affective postures, see Tomkins, Exploring A ­ ffect, 168. Camille, “Obscenity Under Erasure,” 151–54.

of Kings) of around 1525 ce arrived in the royal ­Ottoman book atelier in Istanbul, where they were consulted and altered. White veils were painted over the Prophet’s face in the Ilkhanid Book of Ascension;31 and the Timurid Miʿrajnama and the Safavid Shahnama were expanded via the insertion of Ottoman textual glosses. As Ünver Rüstem has demonstrated, in the case of Shah Tahmasd’s Shahnama, such annotations tend to “reread” the Persian texts and images within an overarching Sunni worldview.32 It is thus clear that both Safavid and Ottoman audiences – patrons, writers, and artists alike – engaged in intrusive handlings and reinterpretation of manuscript images during the early modern period. Within Ottoman realms, in 1594–95 ce Sultan Murad iii ordered a multivolume illustrated biography of the Prophet Muhammad, based on alDarir’s Turkish-language Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), whose text was originally composed in 1388 ce.33 Commissioning this lavishly illustrated manuscript was a pious act that served to reassert the prophetic paradigm and legacy for members of the Ottoman ruling family. An elaborate cycle of paintings depicts the Prophet from his birth to his death, bringing Muhammad’s life story in close proximity to the manuscript reader. 31

32

33

These Ottoman a posteriori facial veils, added to the depiction of the Prophet Muhammad within the Ilkhanid Book of Ascension, were subsequently removed by conservators at the Topkapı Palace, Istanbul. For these Ilkhanid images of Muhammad with added Ottoman facial veils prior to their removal, see Ettinghausen, “Persian Ascension Miniatures of the Fourteenth Century,” especially 363 (Fig.  1) and 370 (Fig.  5). For their current (restituted) state, see Gruber, The Ilkhanid Book of Ascension. For the Ottoman glosses and inserts in the Timurid Miʿrajnama, see Gruber, The Timurid Book of Ascension, 339–44; and on the Ottoman glosses added to Shah Tahmasd’s Shahnama, see Rüstem, “The Afterlife of a Royal Gift.” See Tanındı, Siyer-i Nebî; and Garrett Fisher, “A Reconstruction of the Pictorial Cycle of the Siyar-i Nabi of Murad iii.”

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The emotional power of the visual mode is further enhanced by the viewers’ interactions with the painted scenes contained within the Siyer-i Nebi. In one depiction, Muhammad’s lifelong adversary, Abu Jahl, is shown attempting to kill the Prophet by hurling a rock during prayer at the Kaʿba in Mecca (see Fig. 4.7). In al-Darir’s text, Abu Jahl’s plot is described as miraculously foiled by God, and the act is similarly halted in the painting, where pious viewers’ repeated and heavyhanded maneuvering has obliterated the image of Muhammad’s nemesis in flagrante delicto. Caught and arrested in this punishable act, Abu Jahl is disfigured and mangled, as well as subdued and expunged from divinely decreed history. Like the hand of God that miraculously averts the enemy’s interference, the viewers’ hands have enabled Muhammad to achieve his prophetic destiny. Here, the iconoclastic urge seems driven by a wish to apprehend the culprit speedily and definitively, rather than catalyzed by an apprehension of figural imagery. As such, the interjection is nothing less than a preemptive strike that protects and preserves the visual likeness and integrity of the prophetic corpus. Another painting in the Siyer-i Nebi highlights some of the key problems with figural representation in Islamic cultural settings. In this example, the Prophet is shown with his Muslim followers, standing at the Kaʿba while a member of the Quraysh bows down before leaders of the tribe to worship a statuette of a pagan god (see Fig. 4.8). In the text that accompanies this image, al-Darir informs his readers that this pagan prostrated before his idol, calling upon his deity to make a fool of Muhammad for having said that believing in an idol (sanem) is superstitious/ignorant (batıl) and that paying devotional obeisance (ʿibadet) to one is an error (hata).34 This contentious exchange, in which an idolater seeks revenge upon Muhammad through the invoked sculptural image of his deity, 34 Al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), ­Istanbul, 1594–95 ce, Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, H. 1222, folio 371r (author’s English translation).

Figure 4.7

Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muhammad, al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), Istanbul, Ottoman lands, 1594–95. Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, H. 1222, folio 366r.

occurred immediately before the Prophet rid the Kaʿba of its idols (of pagan Arab deities) in order to reconsecrate it in honor of the One True God (Allah). In a vengeful responsorial act, Ottoman viewers smudged both idol and idolater, in the process aligning themselves with the Prophet’s entourage and message.35 Here, the prostrating pagan has almost entirely lost his face, and his inclined body has been sliced in half by a voluminous smudge running across the horizontal. Moreover, the standing gold statuette – itself the crowned object of the idolater’s devotional affection – has been scrubbed in dynamic verticals, its facial features annihilated. Through such ruinous acts, the viewers, much like the Prophet Muhammad himself, repudiate idolatrous superstition and the pagan past in order to symbolically establish a new, and strictly monotheistic, era. The idol and its idolater 35

Idols are similarly smudged in European manuscripts; see Borland, “Unruly Reading,” 102.

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Figure 4.8 The Prophet Muhammad witnesses an idol-worshipper prostrating to his idol, al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet), Istanbul, Ottoman lands, 1594-95. Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, H. 1222, folio 371r.

pictorially embody the Jahiliyya, a period of preIslamic literalism and “ignorance” that the Muslim community is challenged to overcome and transcend. In this image, a new Muslim world order evidently is not imaginable without some collateral damage. The Ottoman viewers of these two Siyer-i Nebi paintings clearly envisaged themselves as shareholders and custodians of the prophetic tradition through their physical acts of visual calumniation and extermination. Once performed, such acts became permanent indexical marks of the paintings’ handling, invitations to further defacement, and essential iconographic elements within the works themselves. Fervent and assiduous, the pictorial censures of Abu Jahl and the idol-­worshipper showcase the viewers’ emotions propelled as irruptive physical behavior, which translate a “­desired sensory report into the ap-

propriate motor trajectories.”36 In return, once the images were permanently damaged – and thus, in the eyes of their Ottoman beholders, properly rectified – their altered states came to influence the feedback process, evoking a set of emotional responses that over time become inescapable, reiterated, and thus normative. Ethical thinking, feeling, and acting within the early modern Turco-Persian world therefore did not constitute the prerogative solely of theology and jurisprudence. Rather, the social creation and codification of affect also included techniques of visualization that combined aesthetic behavior with moral action, thereby ­yielding a number of picture-based “habit activities”37 among elite audiences. 36 Tomkins, Exploring Affect, 454. 37 Kantor, “The Psychology of Feeling or Affective Reactions,” 457.

In Defense and Devotion

As these examples of iconoclastic manipulation in early modern manuscript paintings underscore, Safavid and Ottoman viewers’ urges to destroy figural representations in Islamic works are much more varied than previously supposed. These altered paintings invite scholars to transcend hackneyed discourses about Islamic an­ iconism and iconoclasm to pose more nuanced questions about the many reasons and results of destructive behaviors as performed through and within the figural arts.38 Moreover, as Oleg Grabar cautioned, the type of visual evidence presented here forces scholars to avoid the tendency to articulate a differential “Muslim attitude” or “Muslim social ethos” toward image-making practices.39 ­Suppositional and oversimplifying, this urge aims to identify and articulate what makes Islam divergent from – rather than similar to – other global artistic cultures. The net result of this classificatory process has been no less than a ghettoizing of Islamic art and culture as essentially “other” – despite the fact that the destruction of paintings emerges from universally shared human affects (including contempt, scorn, and anger) that are also detectable in Christian iconoclastic engagements with figural images.

In Devotion

By far and large, Islamic forms of iconoclasm have been described as emanating from the fear or hatred of images. While in some instances this may indeed be the case, in others the viewers’ antipathies are directed toward the depicted enemies 38

39

There exist numerous studies on Islamic aniconism and iconoclasm. Among the most noteworthy are: Creswell, “The Lawfulness of Painting in Early Islam”; Arnold, Painting in Islam; Hodgson, “Islam and Image”; Hawting, “Idols and Images”; King, “Islam, ­Iconoclasm, and the Declaration of Doctrine”; Paret, “Textbelege zum islamischen Bilderverbot”; Van Reenen, “The Bilderverbot, A New Survey”; İpşiroğlu, Das Bild im Islam; and Naef, Y a-t-il une “question de l’image” en Islam?. Grabar, “Islam and Iconoclasm,” 51.

109 of the faith rather than the figural mode as such. Moreover, viewers also appear to have performed other physically intrusive behaviors, which seem begotten from love and affection rather than enmity and ire. As a consequence, such visuals invite us to ask what iconoclasm creates rather than what it destroys.40 Affectionate or devotional responses to representations should not be surprising, as human ­beings operate within a common spectrum of affects regardless of religious, ethic, or civilizational affiliation. And yet viewers’ emotions of reverence, desire, and love have been almost entirely overlooked in scholarly discussions of Islamic paintings. The time is thus ripe to ask more probing questions, including whether deteriorated paintings were the objects of repeated pious handling rather than the targets of willful destruction. In other words, could certain images that sustain alterations and damage point to iconophilic practices, such as ardent rubbing and kissing performed by viewers of manuscript images? And have such practices escaped notice thus far because we have been so blindsided by dominant discourses on ­Islamic iconoclasm? A number of early modern Turco-Persian manuscript paintings suggest answers in the affirmative: the representational arts indeed formed part of the devotional life-worlds of their human interlocutors, and scholars have failed to take this phenomenon into proper consideration because of the image-shunning urges that purportedly characterize Muslim subjectivities. One may take as an example a late Turkman or early Safavid painting of the Prophet that sustains heavy paint and paper damage (see Fig. 4.9).41 Here, ­ Muhammad is shown embarked on his 40 Rambelli and Reinders, “What does Iconoclasm ­Create?” 20. 41 Robinson, Persian Paintings in the India Office, 25, nos. 86–133. The painting is reproduced in ibid., 26, Fig. 86, and accompanies a series of praises (naʿt) to the Prophet as included at the beginning of Nizami’s Khusraw and Shirin, a book (kitab) that forms part of his Khamsa (Quintet).

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Figure 4.9

Gruber

The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension, Nizami, Khamsa (Quintet), probably northeastern Iran, ca. ­1475–1515. British Library, London, India Office ms. 387, folio 4v.

­celestial ­ascension (miʿraj) as he sits astride Buraq, his human-­headed flying steed. He is surrounded by angels, one of which pours gems onto him from a gold platter while another wields a large banner with a pro-Shiʿi inscription praising Muhammad and ʿAli. For his part, the Prophet is depicted as a prayerful monotheist: he points upward, toward God, with his right index finger in a gesture symbolic of the shahada. An excessive amount of smudging has so compromised the depiction of his face that a circular segment of the underlying paper has been entirely lost. Although it is clear that Muhammad was depicted with his characteristically long black tresses and a white turban,

it remains uncertain whether he was originally shown with visible facial features or a white facial veil – or possibly both, added either concurrently or over time. The damage to the paint and the paper loss easily could be explored through the lens of Islamic iconoclasm, a method of explication that I ­myself have previously adopted in addressing damaged figural representations.42 Indeed, perhaps a later viewer found the pictorial representation of the Prophet so taboo that he decided to “prohibit 42

Gruber, “Between Logos (Kalima) and Light (Nur),” 230, Fig. 1.

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evil” by taking the matter into his own hands, as al-Ghazali recommended. However, the Prophet is not an offending item or individual in and of himself, prompting the more pressing question: could Muhammad’s facial features have been repeatedly rubbed or kissed, leaving the abraded pigments and moistened paper to wither away under the pressure of viewers’ devotional interactions? While answers to this query remain largely hypothetical, textual and visual evidence highlights the centuries-old tradition of kissing, rubbing, and prostrating before images of the Prophet. For instance, al-Biruni states that, if a picture of Muhammad were shown to an uneducated man or woman, “their joy in looking at the thing would bring them to kiss the picture, to rub their cheeks against it, and to roll themselves in the dust before it, as if they were seeing not the picture, but the original.”43 Through mental picturing and visual simulacra, the Prophet consistently remained the pivot of his devotees’ love and affection. Extant material evidence also points to a number of picture-centric practices that resulted in what one might call “devotional damage.” While it remains unknown when and by whom certain paintings were disfigured, a number of interrelated factors suggests an early modern or ­modern Ottoman viewership. From the sixteenth to the nineteenth century in particular, members of the Ottoman royal elite cultivated Prophet-centered devotional practices that involved the kissing, rubbing, and washing of his relics, which were housed within the Pavilion of Sacred Trusts in Topkapı ­Palace.44 Much like other liquids that came into contact with the Prophet,45 the water 43 44

45

Cited in Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,” 461 and 486n8. See Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics; Gruber, “A Pious Cure-All,” 130–37; and Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,” 471. These types of water-contact relics and traditions antedate the fifteenth century. For example, al-Ghazali reports that during Muhammad’s lifetime parents sent their children to seek out prophetic baraka by drinking water from his ablutions vessel (al-Ghazali, Book xx of al-Ghazali’s Ihyaʾ ʿUlum al-Din, 35).

that was used to wash his footprints and mantle was considered especially blessed. It therefore was preserved and added as droplets to ritual drinks consumed during the month of Ramadan as well as stored in vials to be used as curative potions for the sick within palace quarters.46 In addition to this evidence for rubbing and kissing object stand-ins for Muhammad, Ottoman illustrated prayer books also include amulets and images of the Prophet’s relics, including his footprint and mantle. These illustrations at times are accompanied by how-to manuals instructing their pious viewers to rub and kiss the illustrations in order to unleash their latent powers, which include the curing of ills, protection from the plague, and safeguarding from other calamities, both natural and man-made.47 Last but not least, at least one heavily chafed gold-painted Ottoman depiction of the Prophet’s footprint reveals telltale signs of devotional rubbing. As Hilmi Aydın has suggested, the abrasions inside the footprint may have been caused by Ottoman devotees who rubbed their foreheads against the image.48 Without a doubt, this tactile practice of image-driven piety aimed to pay tribute to the Prophet Muhammad while also activating the dormant powers of his blessed traces. Taken together, textual reports of the kissing of Muhammad’s portrait and the washing of his relics, manuals that instruct viewers to kiss depictions of prophetic relics, and images of his vestiges that sustain devotional damage strongly suggest that early modern and modern Ottoman viewers engaged in highly tactile encounters with objects and images of the Prophet that were placed under their pious custodianship and gaze. It thus stands 46 47

48

On the theme of material mediation and ingesting the sacred, see Flood, “Bodies and Becoming.” On these Ottoman how-to manuals instructing viewers to rub and kiss devotional and amuletic images, see ­Gruber, “‘Go Wherever You Wish, for Verily You Are Well Protected.’” Topkapı Palace Museum, inv. no. 21-640; reproduced in Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, 120.

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to logic to ask whether pictorial representations of the Prophet that were produced in, or made their way to, the Ottoman palace in Istanbul also were subjected to physically enacted devotions that formed part of a particular brand of Muhammadcentered Ottoman piety. Based on these many ­indicators, it is important to explore pictorial damage as resulting not only from iconoclastic drives but also from pietistic ones. Returning to Figure 4.9, visual evidence ­suggests that the depicted face of the Prophet Muhammad may have been rubbed and kissed, the wet saliva of pious devotees causing the dampened paint and paper to disintegrate under affectionate fingers and lips. This emotional urge to kiss blessed ­images and icons is not without precedent or ­parallel. As Kathryn Rudy and other scholars have demonstrated, during the medieval and early modern periods Christian devotees interacted with illustrated devotional manuscripts in a number of physical ways. One form of tactile interaction was pious kissing, also known as devotional osculation.49 Over time, viewers’ cultivation of close and loving relationships with sacred images, expressed through osculatory actions, resulted in unintended damage – or what Michael Camille identifies as the “obscuring osculum.”50 As a result, some images of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary demonstrate “a user’s volitional destruction of selected images caused by repeated ardent handling.”51 Christian prayer books with “damaged” illustrations provide glimpses into their viewers’ affects and behaviors, while their patterns of wear reveal rituals and habits of affection that include the somatic practice and material residuum of the kiss. Thus, they reveal that in some instances overzealous image veneration results in nothing less than image destruction. It is possible that Ottoman viewers of blessed images and objects may have been influenced by 49 50 51

Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 2. Camille, “Obscenity Under Erasure,” 141. Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 30.

Christian iconophilic practices. While devotional osculation draws attention to one point of commonality in this regard, another can be found in the Safavid and Ottoman practice of camouflaging Muhammad’s facial features by painting a white veil or adding a layer of gold paint to Ilkhanid and Timurid paintings. Some manuscript images that display pictorial manipulations were taken by or given to the Ottoman princely elite via military conquest or diplomatic Safavid-­Ottoman exchange. Indeed, from the sixteenth century onward a great number of Persian illustrated ­ manuscripts made their way to the Topkapı Palace library, where they were conserved, refurbished, completed, commented upon, overpainted, and rebound by artists working in the royal book atelier.52 The textual glosses and pictorial alterations found in manuscript images of Muhammad speak to Safavid and Ottoman devotional practices of interactions with images, acts which display notable parallels with Christian traditions. One illustrated manuscript that arrived in ­Istanbul is Hafiz-i Abru’s Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), made in Herat in 1415–16 ce.53 The Timurid royal manuscript most likely was transferred to the Topkapı Palace treasury sometime in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Like other illustrated texts, once it arrived in Istanbul it was subjected to a number of manipulations, including the addition of explanatory Ottoman figure captions. Other alterations, including the addition of gold paint camouflaging the Prophet’s face, most likely were undertaken in the Ottoman book atelier, as well. 52

53

For an in-depth discussion of the subject, see Tanındı, “Additions to Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Workshops.” On this and related illustrated historical manuscripts, see Grube and Sims, “The School of Herat from 1400 to 1450,” 148–50; Ettinghausen, “An Illuminated Manuscript of Hafiz-i Abru in Istanbul”; Inal, “Miniatures in Historical Manuscripts from the Time of Shahrukh in the Topkapı Palace Museum”; and Inal, “Some ­Miniatures of the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh in Istanbul.”

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Figure 4.10 The Prophet Muhammad rides into the Battle at Badr, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The ­Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day ­Afghanistan, 1415–16. Topkapı Palace Library, ­Istanbul, B. 282, folio 154r.

A painting from this manuscript that depicts Muhammad galloping on horseback while fighting at the Battle of Badr is particularly illuminating in this regard (see Fig. 4.10).54 This Timurid depiction is clearly indebted to earlier paintings of the Prophet’s battles as included in Ilkhanid illustrated copies of Rashid al-Din’s Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compendium of Histories) of 1307–14 ce.55 Almost without exception, Ilkhanid and Timurid manuscript ­illustrations depict the Prophet with visible facial

54 55

The painting is also illustrated in Tanındı, Siyer-i Nebî, 11. See Blair, A Compendium of Chronicles, 69–70; and ­Hillenbrand, “Muhammad as Warrior Prophet.”

features;56 the white veil and other techniques of abstraction (such as the gold bundle) emerged in ­Turco-­Persian figural arts only after 1500 ce.57 A close examination of ­Muhammad’s face, however, 56

57

For a Jalayirid depiction of the Prophet’s ascension, in which Muhammad’s facial features are fully visible and unaltered, see David Collection, Copenhagen, inv. no. 20/2008 (http://www.davidmus.dk/en/collections/ islamic/cultural-history-themes/muhammad/art/202008). This painting serves as the opening praise to Muhammad in Nizami’s Makhzan al-Asrar (Treasury of Secrets), within a copy of the Khamsa (Quintet) made in 1388 ce. For an overview of the development of prophetic iconography, see Gruber, “Between Logos (Kalima) and Light (Nur)”; and Gruber, “Images.”

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Figure 4.11 Detail of Figure 4.10, showing the Prophet Muhammad’s facial features overlaid with gold paint.

reveals an unusual combination of skin-colored pigments overlaid with gold paint (see Fig. 4.11). Underneath the gold, the Prophet’s black beard, the white shamla (turban fabric) wrapped around his neck, and hints of his facial features can be discerned. All of the other paintings in the manuscript display similar manipulations, as can be seen in the depiction of the Prophet at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca (see Fig. 4.12).58 In this instance, too, Muhammad’s black beard and long tresses, as well as his pinkish flesh, can be detected beneath the flecking paint of the gold veil. These details indicate that the gold overlay is an a posteriori addition to a Timurid image depicting the Prophet. Whether the gold paint was added when the manuscript was in Safavid or in Ottoman hands is unknown, but it is clear that this pictorial maneuver had as its primary goal the obfuscation of the Prophet’s facial traits. Quite significantly, this hands-on operation altered a painterly document 58

This painting is reproduced in Lentz and Lowry, Timur and the Princely Vision, 138–39, 166, cat. no. 46.

of the fourteenth century to match the expectations and practices of image-making during and after the sixteenth century. This type of handiwork highlights the shifting norms of depicting Muhammad in early modern Turco-Persian lands, in the process challenging scholars to properly identify the ever-shifting evolution of prophetic representation within Islamic artistic traditions. Like other illustrated texts held in the Ottoman royal library, this Timurid manuscript includes Ottoman inscriptions transcribed on the manuscript’s original folios. These textual insertions are written in red ink at the top of each folio that contains an illustration. By far and large, these lines of Ottoman Turkish text succinctly summarize the Persian-language text while also functioning as f­ igure captions of sorts. Such is the case for the caption to Figure  4.12 (which describes Muhammad’s discussion with the leaders of Mecca upon his conquest of the city) as well as the caption in the top right corner of a folio with an image that depicts ʿAli lifting the gate and storming the ­Fortress of Khaybar (see Fig. 4.13). In the latter

In Defense and Devotion

Figure 4.12

The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day Afghanistan, 1415–16. Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, B. 282, folio 171r.

115

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Figure 4.13

Gruber

ʿAli storms the Fortress at Khaybar, Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh (The Collection of Histories), Herat, modern-day Afghanistan, 1415–16. Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, B. 282, folio 169r.

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case, ʿAli’s ­facial features remain visible and intact while those of the Prophet (who sits astride his horse in the lower left corner) have once again been covered by a layer of gold paint. These examples suggest that the addition of gold veils constituted a Sunni Ottoman, rather than Shiʿi Safavid, practice, intended to visually elevate Muhammad above ʿAli, who was not infrequently depicted with a white facial veil in Safavid paintings. Moreover, the caption at the top of the painting that depicts the Battle of Badr (see Fig. 4.10) deviates from Ottoman explanatory norms in a most intriguing fashion. While the first line of text identifies the painted scene as Muhammad and his followers at the Great Battle of Badr, the second line provides the ekphrastic statement “and his blessed, felicitous face is covered out of respect” (ve mübarek vech-i saʿadetleri taʿzimen nikab  iledir).  Here, an Ottoman learned commentator describes Muhammad’s facial features as blessed and felicitous – and hence necessitating a facial veil (nikab), a visual symbol of the viewer’s piety and reverence (taʿzim). This rare, heretofore unnoticed, and possibly unique note is highly valuable, as it reveals the potential impetus behind pictorial practices of dissimulating the Prophet’s facial features. As explained in the gloss, the addition of a facial veil over Muhammad’s visage is an act of respect and obeisance to the Prophet; not driven by a prohibition against or fear of figural imagery. Moreover, both the textual note and the accompanying visual evidence strongly suggest that this reverential practice of adding gold veils to the Prophet’s face as undertaken in preexisting Persian manuscripts was most likely an early modern Ottoman tradition. The addition of facial veils to depictions of ­Muhammad in Islamic manuscripts recalls similar practices of camouflaging representations of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary in late medieval ­Christian devotional books. As Kathryn Rudy and Christine Sciacca have shown, small curtains made out of fabric (often silk) were sewn into manuscript pages to cover these sacred images. In some manuscripts, the textiles remain; in others, rows

of needle holes and remnants of thread provide evidence for a now-lost fabric covering.59 These curtains enhanced the mystery of the obscured images, acting as protective barriers between the viewer and the icon. The visual impact of the image is further heightened when the reader lifts the veil, a dramatic ritual act that symbolically mimics divine revelation. Consequently, these icon-veils played an important role in Christian liturgical and devotional practices of reading and seeing. Such practices involved an active unveiling of visual mysteries through the devotee’s kinetic engagement, itself suggestive of a medieval ­Christian theological perspective on the power of visual epiphanies.60 Devotional images in post-medieval Christian Europe were actively cultivated through kissing, candle-lighting, dressing, framing, covering, and unveiling. As we have seen, Turco-Persian manuscript paintings of the Prophet were also subject to active expressions of affection and manipulations of various sorts during the early modern period. Some of these images and relics were kissed – and thus damaged – by the moist lips of devotees; others were rubbed, the paintwork compromised or abraded; and still others were later encrusted with reverential veils executed in white or gold paint. Further pictorial evidence hints at Islamic practices of ritually rubbing depictions of facial veils. Such is the case for a late sixteenth-century Safavid painting depicting the Prophet and ʿAli breaking the idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca (see Figs. 4.14 & 4.15).61 In this pro-Shiʿi narrative and illustration, ʿAli grabs a monkey-shaped idol from the roof of the Kaʿba, which is covered in a kiswa bearing the Shiʿi proclamation of the faith, or walaya.62 While Muhammad’s facial veil is covered with a ­vocative 59

60 61

62

See Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 10–15, and Fig. 8 for a surviving curtain; and Sciacca, “Raising the Curtain on the Use of Textiles in Manuscripts.” Elsner, “Iconoclasm as Discourse,” 369. On Safavid illustrated copies of Mirkhwand’s Rawdat al-Safa, see Melville, “The Illustration of History in ­Safavid Manuscript Painting,” 168–71. On the Shiʿi walaya, see Takim, “From Bidʿa to Sunna.”

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beholder’s “touching faith” could be ʿAli – and not Muhammad. After-Effects

Figure 4.14

The Prophet Muhammad and ʿAli break the idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca, Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-Safa (Garden of Purity), Shiraz, Iran, ca. 1585–95. Museum of Islamic Art, Berlin, I.44/68.

inscription calling his name (Ya Muhammad!) in gold ink, the white pigment of ʿAli’s facial veil has been rubbed so thoroughly and repeatedly that no paint remains whatsoever.63 These clean and circumscribed abrasions insinuate that the ­viewers targeted only ʿAli with a fervor that was reiterated over time. Thus, in an early modern Shiʿi Persian cultural context, the prime object of the 63

For other examples of facial veils that might have been lost due to devotional rubbing, see Gruber, “Between Logos (Kalima) and Light (Nur),” 242, Fig.  8, and 245, Fig. 10.

These many paintings serve as palimpsests that document shifting affective engagement and changing subjectivities in early modern Persian and Turkish cultural spheres. In a material manner, the pictorial debris hint at an unwritten rule about how images were to be viewed and received, providing critical evidence in the absence of articulated doctrine. While destructive acts were launched against depictions of pagan assailants, sectarian opponents, and embodiments of idolatrous philistinism, they simultaneously reified the moral validity of the image as a locus for devotional imagination, especially as it seeks to protect and prolong the prophetic legacy. Additionally, these altered images provide pictorial arenas for the physically enacted emotions of love and affection, whose remains comprise a form of devotional damage. Thus diagnostic of an emotive field in which animosity and affection conjoin and collide, these manipulated, mutilated, and overpainted figures enshrine empathic and aesthetic behaviors that appear particular to the early modern Turco-Persian world. Viewers of images display diametrically opposed urges, including the drives to protect or destroy, laud or excoriate, and eternalize or expunge. Such urges accentuate the fact that the love and fear of images are closely intertwined – indeed, as noted by David Freedberg, they represent “two sides of the same coin.”64 As the material trace of emotional kinesthesia, figural damage also bears witness to affective antiphony, especially as it touches upon ethical questions. In this regard, of paramount importance to the concept of morality is human compassion – that is, a “feeling with” – and in their altered states a number of figural paintings indeed enshrine their viewers’ irruptive 64 Freedberg, The Power of Images, 405.

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Figure 4.15

Detail of Figure 4.14, showing vocative inscription on Muhammad’s facial veil and the loss of paintwork on ʿAli’s facial veil.

“empathic vision.”65 Combining morality, emotion, and movement, these forms of damage act as collective embodied responses and reveal, to borrow Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s expression, the ­“motor intentionality” of image-beholders as they actively engage in the psycho-physical phenomena of seeing and judging.66 Combining aesthetic behavior with moral action, this type of activity encompasses and 65 Term borrowed from Bennett, Empathic Vision. 66 On Merleau-Monty’s “motor intentionality” (intentionalité motrice), see Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, 137; and on Merleau-Ponty’s expression and Edmund Husserl’s related concept of “kinaesthetic consciousness,” see Bredekamp, “The Picture Act,” 27.

­ emorializes a range of habits through which m viewers see and act with feeling.67 According to Ernst van Alphen, this more energetic dimension of the visual experience includes “intensities” that drive cognition and emotion, in turn begetting a physiological impact. Consequently, affects are interactive and projected outward, toward an object or image.68 They also establish a relational bond between a painting and its beholders, creating affective communities across the centuries.

67 Kantor, “The Psychology of Feeling or Affective ­Reactions,” 457. 68 Van Alphen, “Affective Operations of Art and Literature,” 23.

120 Figural images are not merely the passive recipients of human action, however. In their physically manipulated and altered states, they, too, can substantiate moral positions and conclusions as well as control and monitor the feedback process.69 In other words, figural representations can function as energetic entities that transmit affects and hence influence viewers in dynamic ways. This is particularly the case if an emotional response in defense of or devotion to a depicted individual happens to have been calibrated and forcefully inserted within a figural depiction. Thus, in asking what pictures want, how they behave, and what powers they hold over us,70 we should be mindful not to overlook the material and visual after-­ effects of their altered physical structures, which in turn energetically induced the emotional states of a succession of viewers who came to behold them. In the end, these altered images invite us to radically rethink received scholarly paradigms so that evidence that is most frequently interpreted as a form of Islamic iconoclasm may, at least in some instances, provide clues to Islamic iconophilic practices instead. After all, acts of affectation – ­including those performed on pictures by Muslim viewers – per force must encompass the entire spectrum of human emotions, which cannot be limited to fear and hatred alone. Broadening our methods and scope of scholarly inquiry to allow for a discussion of picture-based acts of love w ­ ithin Islamic religio-cultural spheres is therefore both logical and appropriate. On the one hand, making room for these types of ethico-affective acts, begotten by positive rather than negative reactions to images, underscores the fact that the differential character of Islamic pictorial traditions has tended to be hyperbolized.71 On the ­other, it also 69 Tomkins, Exploring Affect, 455. 70 For these three questions, see Mitchell, “What Do ­Pictures Want?”; Bredekamp, Theorie des Bildakts; and Freedberg, The Power of Images. 71 As in the case of James Noyes’s discussion of contemporary Islamic iconoclasm in The Politics of Iconoclasm, 166–79.

Gruber

enables us to identify and track viewers’ ­intimate engagements with paintings and thus to better grasp the various emotions of Turco-Persian image beholders who lived, loathed, and loved with pictures during the early modern period. Bibliography Arnold, Thomas. Painting in Islam: A Study of the Place of Pictorial Art in Muslim Culture. Oxford: Clarendon, 1928. Aydın, Hilmi. Pavilion of the Sacred Relics: The Sacred Trusts, Topkapi Palace Museum, Istanbul. Istanbul: Kaynak Kitaplığı, 2004. Bartholeyns, Gil, Pierre-Olivier Dittmar, and Vincent Jollivet. “Des raisons de détruire une image [Why Destroy an Image?].” Images re-vues: histoire, anthropologie et théorie de l’art 2 (2006): 1–20. Bennett, Jill. Empathic Vision: Affect, Trauma, and Contemporary Art. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005. Blair, Sheila. A Compendium of Chronicles: Rashid al-Din’s Illustrated History of the World. Nasser ­ D. Khalili Collection of Islamic Art, ed. Julian Raby, vol. 27. O ­ xford: Nour Foundation and Oxford University Press, 1995. Borland, Jennifer. “Unruly Reading: The C ­ onsuming Role of Touch in the Experience of a Medieval ­Manuscript.” In Scraped, Stroked, and Bound: Materially Engaged Readings of Medieval Manuscripts, ed. Jonathan Wilcox, 97–114. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013. Bredekamp, Horst. Theorie des Bildakts. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2010. Bredekamp, Horst. “The Picture Act: Tradition, Horizon, Philosophy.” In Bildakt at the Warburg Institute, ed. Sabine Marienberg and Jürgen Trabant, 3–32. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014. Calmard, Jean. “Les rituels shiites et le pouvoir. L’imposition du shiisme safavide: eulogies et ­malédictions canoniques.” In Études safavides, ed. Jean Calmard, 109–50. Paris and Tehran: Institut français de recherche en Iran, 1993. Camille, Michael. “Obscenity Under Erasure: Censorship in Medieval Illuminated Manuscripts.” In ­Obscenity: Social Control and Artistic Creation in the

In Defense and Devotion European Middle Ages, ed. Jan Ziolkowski, 139–54. Leiden: Brill, 1998. Cook, Michael. Forbidding Wrong in Islam: An Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Cook, Michael. Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Creswell, K.A.C. “The Lawfulness of Painting in Early Islam.” Ars Islamica 11–12 (1946): 159–66. Dankoff, Robert. Evliya Çelebi in Bitlis: The Relevant ­Section of the Seyahatname. Leiden: Brill, 1990. Elsner, Jas. “Iconoclasm as Discourse: From Antiquity to Byzantium.” The Art Bulletin 94, no. 3 (September 2012): 368–94. Ettinghausen, Richard. “Persian Ascension Miniatures of the Fourteenth Century.” Convegno di Scienze Morali Storiche e Filologiche, Symposium on Orient and Occident during the Middle Ages, May 27–June 1, 1956, 360–83. Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, 1957; republished in his Islamic Art and Archaeology: Collected Papers, ed. Myriam Rosen-Ayalon, 244–68. Berlin: G. Mann Verlag, 1984. Ettinghausen, Richard. “An Illuminated Manuscript of Hafiz-i Abru in Istanbul, Part I.” Kunst des Orients 2 (1955): 30–44. Flood, Finbarr Barry. “Bodies and Becoming: Mimesis, Mediation, and the Ingestion of the Sacred in Christianity and Islam.” In Sensational Religion: Sensory Cultures in Material Practice, ed. Sally Promey, 459– 93. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014. Flood, Finbarr Barry. “Between Cult and Culture: Bamiyan, Islamic Iconoclasm, and the Museum.” The Art Bulletin 84, no. 4 (December 2002): 641–59. Freedberg, David. The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1989. Garrett Fisher, Carol. “A Reconstruction of the Pictorial Cycle of the Siyar-i Nabi of Murad III.” Ars Orientalis 14 (1984): 75–94. Al-Ghazali. Book XX of al-Ghazali’s Ihyaʾ ʿUlum alDin [Revival of Religious Sciences], trans. Leon Zolondek. Leiden: Brill, 1963. Grabar, Oleg. “Islam and Iconoclasm.” In Iconoclasm: Papers Given at the Ninth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Birmingham, March 1975, ed. Anthony Bryer and Judith Herrin, 45–52.

121 ­Birmingham: Centre for Byzantine Studies, University of Birmingham, 1977; republished in his Constructing the Study of Islamic Art. Vol. 1, Early Islamic Art, 650–1100, 43–56. Aldershot and Burlington: Ashgate Variorum, 2005. Grube, Ernst, in collaboration with Eleanor Sims. “The School of Herat from 1400 to 1450.” In The Arts of the Book in Central Asia, 14th–16th Centuries, ed. Basil Gray, 147–78. Boulder: Shambhala; London: ­U NESCO, 1979. Gruber, Christiane. The Ilkhanid Book of Ascension: A Persian-Sunni Devotional Tale. London: I.B. Tauris and British Institute for Persian Studies, 2010. Gruber, Christiane. The Timurid Book of Ascension (Miʿrajnama): A Study of Text and Image in a PanAsian Context. Valencia, Spain: Patrimonio Ediciones in collaboration with the Bibliothèque nationale de France, 2008. Gruber, Christiane. “‘Go Wherever You Wish, for Verily You Are Well Protected’: Seal Designs in Late ­Ottoman Prayer Books.” In Visions of Enchantment: Occultism, Spirituality, and Visual Culture, ed. Daniel Zamani. London: Fulgur, forthcoming. Gruber, Christiane. “Images.” In Muhammad in History, Thought, and Culture: An Encyclopedia of the Prophet of God, ed. Coeli Fitzpatrick and Andrew Walker, 286–94. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 2014. Gruber, Christiane. “Questioning the ‘Classical’ in ­Persian Painting: Models and Problems of Definition.” Journal of Art Historiography 6 (June 2012): 1–25. Gruber, Christiane. “A Pious Cure-All: The Ottoman Illustrated Prayer Manual in the Lilly Library.” In The Islamic Manuscript Tradition: Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections, ed. Christiane Gruber, 117–53. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009. Gruber, Christiane. “Between Logos (Kalima) and Light (Nur): Representations of the Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Painting.” Muqarnas 26 (2009): 1–34. Hawting, Gerald R. “Idols and Images.” In Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾan, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe. Accessed on February 12, 2015, via Brill Online: http://referenceworks.brillonline.com.proxy.lib. umich.edu/entries/encyclopaedia-of-the-quran/ idols-and-images-EQSIM_00207.

122 Hilllenbrand, Robert. “Muhammad as Warrior Prophet: Images from the World History of Rashid al-Din.” In The Image of the Prophet between Ideal and Ideology: A Scholarly Investigation, ed. Christiane Gruber and Avinoam Shalem, 65–75. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014. Hilllenbrand, Robert. “Images of Muhammad in alBiruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations.” In Persian Painting from the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson, ed. Robert Hillenbrand, 129–46. London: I.B. Tauris, 2000. Hodgson, Marshall. “Islam and Image.” History of Religions 3 (1964): 220–60. Ishaq Ibn. Muhammad. Translated by ʿAbd al-Rahman Badawi. 2 vols. Beirut: Editions Albouraq, 2001. Ibn Ishaq. The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah. Translated by Alfred Guillaume. Lahore and Karachi: Pakistan Branch, Oxford University Press, 1967. Inal, Güner. “Miniatures in Historical Manuscripts from the Time of Shahrukh in the Topkapı Palace Museum.” In Timurid Art and Culture: Iran and Central Asia in the Fifteenth Century, ed. Lisa Golombek and Maria Subtelny, 103–15. Leiden: Brill, 1992. Inal, Güner. “Some Miniatures of the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh in Istanbul, Topkapı Museum, Hazine no. 1654.” Ars Orientalis 5 (1963): 163–75. İpşiroğlu, Mazhar Şevket. Das Bild im Islam. Ein Verbot und seine Folgen. Vienna and Munich: Schroll, 1971. Kantor, J.R. “The Psychology of Feeling or Affective Reactions.” The American Journal of Psychology 34, no. 3 (July 1923): 433–63. King, G.R.D. “Islam, Iconoclasm, and the Declaration of Doctrine.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and A ­ frican Studies 48 (1985): 267–77. Kohlberg, Etan. “Some Imami Shiʿi Views on the ­Sahaba.” In Belief and Law in Imami Shiʿism, ed. Etan Kohlberg, 143–75. Aldershot: Variorum, 1991. Latour, Bruno. “What Is Iconoclash? Or Is There a World beyond the Image Wars?.” In Iconoclash: Beyond the Image Wars in Science, Religion, and Art, ed. Bruno Latour and Peter Weibel, 14–37. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002. Lentz, Thomas, and Glenn Lowry. Timur and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the Fifteenth

Gruber C ­ entury. Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 1989. Melville, Charles. “The Illustration of History in Safavid Manuscript Painting.” In New Perspectives on Safavid Iran: Empire and Society, ed. Colin Mitchell, 163–97. London: Routledge, 2010. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Translated by Colin Smith. London: Routledge & ­Kegan Paul, 1962. Mitchell, W.J.T. What Do Pictures Want?: The Lives and Loves of Images. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2005. Morgan, David. The Sacred Gaze: Religious Visual Culture in Theory and Practice. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Naef, Sylvia. Y a-t-il une “question de l’image” en Islam?. Paris: Téraèdre, 2004. Noyes, James. The Politics of Iconoclasm: Religion, ­Violence, and the Culture of Image-Breaking in Christianity and Islam. London: I.B. Tauris, 2013. Paret, Rudi. “Textbelege zum islamischen Bilderverbot.” In Das Werk des Künstlers: Studien zur Ikonographie und Formgeschichte: Hubert Schrade zum 60. Geburtstag dargebracht von Kollegen und Schülern, ed. Hans Fegers, 36–48. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1960. Rambelli, Fabio, and Eric Reinders. “What does Iconoclasm Create? What Does Preservation Destroy? Reflections on Iconoclasm in East Asia.” In Iconoclasm: Contested Objects, Contested Terms, ed. Stacy Boldrick and Richard Clay, 15–33. London: Ashgate, 2007. Rashid al-Din. Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Iran wa Islam), ed. Muhammad Rushan. Tehran: Miras-e Maktoob, 2013. Robinson, Basil. Persian Paintings in the India Office: A Descriptive Catalogue. London: Sotheby Parke Bernet, 1976. Rudy, Kathryn. “Kissing Images, Unfurling Rolls, ­Measuring Wounds, Sewing Badges and Carrying Talismans: Considering Some Harley Manuscripts through the Physical Rituals they Reveal.” Electronic British Library Journal (2011): 1–56. Ruggles, D. Fairchild. Islamic Art & Visual Culture: An Anthology of Sources. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011. Rüstem, Ünver. “The Afterlife of a Royal Gift: The Ottoman Inserts of the Shahnama-i Shahi.” Muqarnas 29 (2012): 245–337.

In Defense and Devotion Sachau, C. Edward, ed. and trans. The Chronology of Ancient Nations: An English Version of the Arabic Text of the Athâr-ul-Bâkiya of Albîrûnî or “Vestiges of the Past.” London: W. H. Allen & Co., 1879. Sciacca, Christine. “Raising the Curtain on the Use of Textiles in Manuscripts.” In Weaving, Veiling, and Dressing: Textiles and Their Metaphors in the Late Medieval Ages, ed. Kathryn Rudy and Barbara Baert, 161–90. Turnhout: Brepols, 2007. Soucek, Priscilla. “The Life of the Prophet: Illustrated Versions.” In Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World: Papers from a Colloquium in Memory of Richard Ettinghausen, Institute of Fine Arts, New York University, 2–4 April 1980, ed. Priscilla Soucek, 193–218. University Park: Penn State University Press, 1988. Soucek, Priscilla. “An Illustrated Manuscript of al-­ Biruni’s Chronology of Nations.” In The Scholar and the Saint: Studies in Commemoration of AbuʾlRayhan al-Biruni and Jalal al-Din al-Rumi, ed. Peter ­Chelkowski, 103–68. New York: New York University Press, 1975.

123 Stanfield-Johnson, Rosemary. “The Tabarraʾiyan and the Early Safavids.” Iranian Studies 37, no. 1 (March 2004): 47–71. Takim, Liyakat. “From Bidʿa to Sunna: The Wilaya of ʿAli in the Shiʿi Adhan.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 120, no. 2 (2000): 166–77. Tanındı, Zeren. Siyer-i Nebî: İslam Tasvir Sanatında Hz. Muhammedʾin Hayatı. Istanbul: Hürriyet Vakfı Yayınları, 1984. Tanındı, Zeren. “Additions to Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman Workshops.” Muqarnas 17 (2000): 147–61. Tomkins, Silvan. Exploring Affect: The Selected Writings of Silvan S. Tomkins, ed. Virginia Demos. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Van Alphen, Ernst. “Affective Operations of Art and Literature.” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 53–4 (Spring–Autumn 2008): 20–30. Van Reenen, Daan. “The Bilderverbot: A New Survey.” Der Islam 67, no. 1 (1990): 27–77.

chapter 5

Sentiment in Silks

Safavid Figural Textiles in Mughal Courtly Culture Sylvia Houghteling Around 1630, a court poet in the state of Golconda (in present-day southeastern India) wrote a poem of 14,000 verses about the maritime quest of an Egyptian prince named Saif ul-Mulūk who had fallen in love with a foreign princess of the East.1 At the root of the story was a textile: Saif ul-Mulūk first encountered his beloved princess as a silken portrait embroidered on cloth. Though the poem is mythic, the placement of a picture on fabric is resonant of a phenomenon singular to the seventeenth-­century maritime trade. In the time of the poet, whose name, Ghavasi, means “the diver,” it was entirely plausible that a foreign gown bearing figural embroidery would have appeared at a royal court in Egypt. It is thus possible to historicize the fantastical premise of this poem, exploring the affective ties that were created when such figural cloth traveled throughout India and the broader world. That textiles participated in sentimental exchange is counterintuitive today. Fabrics are thought to be decorative or ornamental and even when splendidly crafted, their status as commodities has led to their exclusion from art historical studies that deal with visual expressions of thought and emotion. Yet the materiality of cloth – the way that it retains scent, the texture of satin or crepe as it wraps around the body, the rustling sound of silk taffeta – surpasses other media in the intimacy of its use and its direct address to the senses. These physical qualities, coupled with the visual narratives and textual inscriptions that were woven into

luxury cloth, gave textiles both material and metaphorical potency in early modern painting, literature and courtly life. The sensory, imaginative and emotional properties of textiles emerged in unexpected places. This essay gathers diverse evidence of textiles in seventeenth-century South Asia. It draws upon words  – textual accounts of the production and use of cloth, and literary metaphors that play on the textile’s warp and weft – but it also draws upon objects themselves whose fragile weaves, saturated colors and enigmatic patterns yield additional meanings. As such, it seeks to reconstruct the properties of softness and lightness that are often lost in accounts of Mughal courtly life. As Leora Auslander writes, “Whether it is in the making of things or in their using, people use [things] differently from words to create meaning, to store memories (or enable forgetting), to communicate, to experience sensual pleasure (or pain).”2 By inquiring into the very personal, sensory relationships that existed between historical personages and things, this kind of historical project illuminates forgotten private and social sensibilities of early modern South Asia. Recent scholarship on Mughal courtly culture has come to include more bodily histories of the imperial state and the social world of the court. The work of political historians has shed light on the corporeal practices of Emperor A ­ kbar (r. 1556– 1605) and his imperial servants, yielding a more socially-­inclusive, locally-inflected understanding

1 Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka va Badīula Jamāla, trans. Rājakiśora Pāṇḍeya and Muḥammad Akbaruddīn Siddīqī (Hyderabad: Dakkhinī Sāhitya Prakāśana Samiti, 1955).

2 Leora Auslander et al., “ahr Conversations: Historians and the Study of Material Culture,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 1356.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_007

Sentiment in Silks

of ­imperial statecraft during Akbar’s reign.3 Within gender studies, historians have found in narratives written by Mughal women a way to return a sense of “flesh and blood” to the better-known court histories of the Mughal emperors.4 Studying the historical presence of the physical body has yielded a richer and more nuanced understanding of political formations and gender relations during the seventeenth century.5 Yet it can be difficult to determine the corporeal presence in Mughal art, even in studies of architectural sites, which remain, to some degree, in situ. Stephen Blake’s account of Shahjahanabad, while exhaustive in its recovery of the city’s social and economic geography, rarely captures the presence of a bodily figure moving through space. When Blake does mention the body, it is ­presented

3 Rosalind O’Hanlon, “Kingdom, Household and Body History, Gender and Imperial Service under Akbar,” Modern Asian Studies 41 (2007): 889–923. 4 Ruby Lal, Domesticity and Power in the Early Mughal World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 60. Lal contrasts the corporeal, feminine realm with the male world of disembodied state ideology. She describes the harem as a space of physicality, marked by marriage, birth and death. It is only by writing a history that is inclusive of these female personages, and of the “contradictions, human volition and unexpected departures” revealed in their world, Lal argues, that we can understand the “stuff of human history.” Lal points out that these moments of human history often involve physical, or “homosocial” (to use Lal’s gloss) interaction, such as when Jahanara saves a dancing girl who had caught fire by wrapping her in her arms (Lal, 46). 5 Afshan Bokhari, “Imperial Transgressions and Spiritual Investitures: A Begam’s ‘Ascension’ in Seventeenth Century Mughal India” Journal of Persianate Studies 4 (2011): 86–108. Afshan Bokhari’s history of Shah Jahan’s daughter, Jahanara, draws out the voice and body of Jahanara from her religious treatises and various building projects. As Bokhari writes, “Jahanara Begam’s Sufi treatises and ­architectural commissions create spaces where spiritual authority and temporal power intersect and embody a powerful and ‘palpable’ presence of the princess as a pir” (Bokhari, 89).

125 as part of the cosmic ordering of the city.6 The same irony pervades the genre of portraiture. Ebba Koch has shown that although the Padshahnama is replete with portraits of Shah Jahan and his imperial servants, the purpose of the paintings is not principally to give a sense of the portrait subject’s interiority, but to communicate the hierarchical ordering of the court.7 The methodology for writing more enlivened art histories remains unresolved. Writers are stymied by silences in the historical record and the inaccessibility of the emotional and sensory experiences of the past. There seems to be something particularly challenging about writing a subjective, embodied history of Mughal courtly life. Is it the long history of Mughal decline or the literal dismemberment of the Mughal material world in the eighteenth century that makes its historical figures feel ghostly and hard to grasp? Or is it the sophisticated metaphorics of the imperial court that make real physical and emotional presence so elusive? If it is the latter, and the literary and artistic practices of the court stand in the way of accessing lived experience, is it necessary that we, as historians, push beyond the riddles to get to the real bodies? In other words, if we seek to take Mughal culture on its own terms, is it justifiable to write an intimate art history of a courtly world that does not seem to want to be touched? Unlike more exalted forms of art, textiles provide a unique opening onto the corporeal and affective experiences of early modern South Asia. This represents a continuation of the textile medium’s importance in affective exchange and long-distance communication in medieval Muslim societies. Medieval textiles that circulated throughout Islamic lands were adorned with woven and embroidered inscriptions, called ṭirāz, that were used by royal courts for political, religious and m ­ ercantile 6 Stephen Blake, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India, 1639–1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 7 Ebba Koch, Mughal Art and Imperial Ideology: Collected Essays (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001).

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reasons: the ṭirāz identified that a textile or garment had come from the monarch or a royal workshop; the inscription often included a blessing that could protect the garment’s patron and its eventual owner; at times, the ṭirāz also named the site of a fine textile’s production.8 As a result, textiles with ṭirāz bands communicated honor, benediction and pride in workmanship to far-off realms. At the same time, the more quotidian mandīl, or handkerchief, bore tender messages between lovers.9 An intimate textile used for blowing noses, drying faces or cleaning hands, in addition to covering food or wrapping gifts, a mandīl could refer to a modestly-sized piece of cloth made from any type of fabric, from humble linen to silk brocade and even the downy feathers of the phoenix. It was in its use for drying a ­lover’s tears or wiping one’s lips after drinking wine, however, that the mandīl gained its prominence in emotional exchanges. Franz Rosenthal uncovered compilations of medieval romantic verses that were intended for mandīls, either to be embroidered into the cloth or stamped in gold. Often, the verses were written in the voice of the mandīl itself, describing the lovesickness of its owner. One tenth-century text read: “I am the mandīl of a lover who never stopped/ Drying with me his eyes of their tears./ Then he gave me as a present to a girl he loves/ Who wipes with me the wine from his lips.”10 When given as a gift between lovers, the mandīl carried indices of feelings – the dampness of tears and the stains of the lips – across space and time. 8

9

10

Louise W. Mackie, Symbols of Power: Luxury Textiles from Islamic Lands, 7th–21st Century (Cleveland: The Cleveland Museum of Art, 2016), 84–127; Patricia Baker, Islamic Textiles (London: British Museum Press, 1995), 53–63. Franz Rosenthal, “A Note on the Mandīl,” in Four ­Essays on Art and Literature in Islam (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 63–99. See also Lisa Golombek, “The Draped ­Universe of Islam,” in Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World, ed. Priscilla Soucek (University Park, Penn.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1988): 33. Rosenthal, “A Note on the Mandīl,” 94.

With its pliable texture, easy mobility and intimate usage, cloth thus provided both medieval and Mughal subjects a means of expressing a range of human sentiments from humor and romantic love to mystical rapture and friendly affection. These categories of emotion were communicated in the short range through facial expressions, intimate touch or ecstatic behavior. To express these emotions at long-distances required different vehicles, a role that fabrics came to fill. Stuffed with fragrant flowers, and, at times, woven with messages of adoration and faith, textiles bore a lover’s, a parent’s or a ruler’s embrace. These were cloths, as one fabric’s inscription states, that had been “woven from the soul.”11 This chapter first shows how the Mughal imperial court developed a connoisseurial knowledge of textile production in late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century South Asia that led to textiles’ being imbued with complex meaning. The second section explores how textiles opened up possibilities for productive distraction and for meanings that were superfluous to, or in excess of, the stated imperial mandate of Mughal portraiture. The third section demonstrates how cloths ignited romances in seventeenth-century literary fiction and how poets deployed textiles to forge connections between figures in faraway places and to conjure imagery of the future and the past. Textiles were also actors in political life. As the final section demonstrates, a silken robe created a material symbol of an alliance between the Mughal Emperor Jahangir and a regional, Rajput prince. The robe of honor gave weight to airy expressions of allegiance that were written in text. In its sumptuous materiality and sophisticated visuality, the cloth participated not only in the politics, but also in the sentimental poetics, of courtly exchange.

11

This poetic phrase was also used as the title of an exhibition and publication: Carol Bier, ed. Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart: Textile Arts of Safavid and Qajar Iran, 16th–19th Centuries (Washington, d.c: Textile Museum, 1987).

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t­extiles depicted Greek gods and goddesses early in the first millennium, and Sasanian, Byzantine and Chinese textiles that travelled on the Silk Road shared a language of pearled roundels with griffins, elephants and double-headed eagles.12 ­ The technology to produce such elaborate woven patterns emerged with the introduction of the drawloom, itself an embodied machine that required a small “draw boy” to perch on the top of the loom, nimbly lifting up the required heddles to create the woven pattern.13 Silk brocades and compound fabrics reached their apex in Iran during the Safavid Empire and Persian silks became some of the most coveted and expensive textiles in the world.14 Weavers made the limitations of the loom’s repeated patterns into an asset and would flip a pattern of a dreamy youth to place the young man in conversation with his mirror image (see Fig. 5.1).15 For the wildly popular “prisoner’s silk,” the weaver situated the figures at diagonals to create a narrative movement of prisoner and guard through sparse woods (see Fig. 5.2).16 Figural silks were sewn into robes of honor, but also into trousers, bolster pillows, quiver covers and saddle blankets. When Shah ʿAbbas i established a monopoly over the silk industry, figural silks woven in Iran became important diplomatic gifts.17 Sir Robert Figure 5.1 Textile fragment. Signed by “Ghiyath” (Ghiyath al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband). Silk; triple cloth; 1600–1700, 41.5 × 22.6 cm. Yale University Art Gallery, Hobart and Edward Small Moore Memorial Collection, Gift of Mrs. William H. Moore, 1937.4626. (Photo credit: Yale University Art Gallery).

All of this was particularly true of a small subset of luxury silk cloths that had figural imagery woven into their patterns. The pictures on the ­textiles, often based in Persian romance poetry, became allegories of faith and affection that were understood across distinct courtly spaces. Figural silks, or silk cloths with depictions of humans and animals, have existed since ancient times. Coptic

12

13 14

15

16

17

Carol Bier, “Pattern Power: Textiles and the Transmission of Knowledge,” Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings (2004): 144–53. See also Michael Meister, “The Pearl Roundel in Chinese Textile Design,” Ars Orientalis 8 (1970): 255–67. Rahul Jain, “The Indian Drawloom and its Products,” The Textile Museum Journal 32/33 (1993–1994): 50–81. Carol Bier, ed. Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart: Textile Arts of Safavid and Qajar Iran, 16th–19th Centuries (Washington, d.c: Textile Museum, 1987). Arthur Upham Pope, ed. with Phyllis Ackerman, A Survey of Persian Art from Prehistoric Times to the Present (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1938–1939): 2079–90. Mary Anderson McWilliams. “Prisoner Imagery in Safavid Textiles,” The Textile Museum Journal 26 (1987): 4–23. Willem Floor, The Persian Textile Industry: In Historical Perspective 1500–1925 (Paris: Société d’histoire de

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him by Shah ʿAbbas, and was captured for posterity in a painting by Anthony van Dyck.18

A Court of Cloth Connoisseurs: Early Mughal Textile Collecting

The Mughal emperors of India and their increasingly-powerful Rajput allies, imported yards of woven silk from Iran, China and Europe. Unlike the rulers of the other “Gunpowder Empires” – the Safavids and the Ottomans – the Mughal emperors who arrived in India in the sixteenth century did not encounter a well-established silk industry. Although sericulture (silkworm cultivation) and silk weaving had been practiced in India for millennia, silk production existed at the peripheral edges of Mughal territory in the northeastern region of Assam.19 When Akbar annexed Kashmir in 1586, he gained access to its historical sericulture industry that was based in the region of Lesser Tibet (Baltistan) around the city of Gilgit.20 The beginning of 18

19 Figure 5.2 Textile Panel: Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian Captives. Silk, metal wrapped threads; lampas; mid-16th century, 120.7 × 67.3 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Purchase, Joseph Pulitzer Bequest, 1952, 52.20.12 (www.metmuseum.org).

Shirley, an ­English adventurer who traveled to the Safavid Court, was sent home to Europe in a figural robe of honor that was said to have been gifted to l’Orient, 1999); Rudolph Matthee, The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran: Silk for Silver, 1600–1730 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Sheila R. Canby, Shah ʿAbbas: The Remaking of Iran (London: British Museum Press, 2009); Carol Bier, The Persian Velvets at Rosenborg (Copenhagen: De Danske Kongers Kronologiske Samling, 1995).

20

See Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 56–57. Stephen F. Dale, “Silk Road, Cotton Road or … Indo ­Chinese Trade in Pre-European Times,” in Expanding Frontiers in South Asian and World History: Essays in Honour of John F. Richards, eds. Richard M. Eaton, Munis D. Faruqui, David Gilmartin, and Sunil Kumar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 73. Rahul Jain has recently posited that sophisticated ­ drawloom silk weaving was practiced in the regions of Assam and Koch-Bihar in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but these products were patronized by local Vaishnav Hindu kings and were consumed by Buddhist monastic establishments in nearby Tibet and Bhutan. Rahul Jain, Indian Lampas-Weave Silks in the Collection of the Calico Museum of Textiles, Woven Textiles: Technical Studies Monograph no. 3 (Ahmedabad: Sarabhai Foundation, 2013), 8, 13–17. Irfan Habib, “Indian Textile Industry in the 17th Century” in Essays in Honour of Professor S.C. Sarkar, ed. Diptendra Banerjee et al. (New Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1976), 186; Irfan Habib, An Atlas of the Mughal Empire (Oxford University Press, 1982), 8.

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the seventeenth century also saw a considerable increase in sericulture in Bengal.21 Even with access to raw silk, however, the technology for the production of complex weaves was not in widespread use in sixteenth-century South Asia. The prevailing weaving technology in Iran, China and Europe was the drawloom, an invention of either Central Asia or China, that allowed weavers to create sophisticated patterns through the manipulation of the warp and the addition of supplementary, multi-colored wefts. India had ­access to this technology before the sixteenth century, but it was not used in many artisan communities.22 Instead, South Asian textiles were marked by a tendency towards embroidery, rather than loom-patterned goods, suggesting that when silk floss and satin cloth became available, it was often more cost-efficient and visually satisfying to draw upon the well-established artisan group of embroiderers. To stimulate the production of sophisticated silk textiles, Emperor Akbar actively reorganized the textile industry. As one of his biographers, Arif Qandahari, wrote: “The king is an expert in dealing with and solving tough problems … He has provided training in the art to expert masters (ustād), consequently these craftsmen now produce such stuff, much superior to those of Iran and Europe. They do the design works and coloring [dyeing] in such a manner that even if Mani were present, he 21

22

Habib, “Indian Textile Industry,” 186; Hamida Khatoon Naqvi, “Some Varieties of Indian Silken Stuffs in Persian Sources c. 1200–1700” Indian Journal of History of Science 18 (1983): 115; Sushil Chaudhury, “International Trade in Bengal Silk and the C ­ omparative Role of Asians and Europeans, circa. 1700–1757” Modern Asian Studies 29 (1995), 375. Rahul Jain, “The Indian Drawloom and its Products” The Textile Museum Journal 32/33 (1993–1994): 50–81 (52); also Rahul Jain, “The Mughal Patka: A Technical Overview,” in B.N. Goswamy, Indian Costumes ii: Patkas: A Costume Accessory in the Collection of the Calico Museum of Textiles, Vol. vi: Historic Textiles of India (Ahmedabad: Sarabhai Foundation, 2002); Rahul Jain, Rapture: The Art of Indian Textiles (New Delhi, Nyogi Books, 2011).

would put his finger to his lips in amazement.”23 Arif Qandahari portrays the emperor as an active presence in the textile ­industry, shaping a fledgling craft to be able to compete with the textiles of Iran, China and E ­ urope. Akbar is credited with having established weaving centers in Lahore, Ahmedabad, Fatehpur Sikri and Kashmir that were patronized by the imperial household.24 Despite these efforts, the demand for sophisticated woven silks was still largely met by imported goods. Akbar’s Aʾin-i Akbari reveals the prices of various cloths and the deep knowledge held at the Mughal court about the variety of silk textiles available on the market for purchase. These records show that Akbar and his successors were not simply waiting for such textiles to arrive by way of diplomatic envoys and their requisite gifts; they were instead active consumers on the marketplace. Abuʾl Fazl credits Akbar’s reign with bringing in enough fine quality silks to lower the prices and make them more common. Abuʾl Fazl writes, “… The prices became generally lower. Thus a piece woven by the famous Ghiyath [al-Din ʿAli-yi] Naqshband may now be obtained for fifty muhurs, whilst it had formerly been sold for twice that sum; and most other articles have got cheaper at the rate of thirty to ten, or even forty to ten.”25 The mention of the Safavid court weaver, Ghiyath

23

24

25

Muhammad Arif Qandhari, Tarikh-i Akbari, trans. Tasneem Ahmad (Delhi: Pragati Publications, 1993), 63; quoted also in Irfan Habib, “Akbar and Technology” in Irfan Habib, ed., Akbar and His India. (New Delhi: ­Oxford University Press, 1997), 132. As Abuʾl Fazl writes, “In the imperial camp and the cities of Lahore, Agra, Fatehpur [Sikri], Ahmadabad and ­Gujarat different kinds of figures (taṣvīr) patterns (naqsh), and weaves [lit. knots (girah)] and w ­ onderful designs (t̤arḥ-hā), gained currency, and world-travellers, able to recognize quality products, were wonderstruck.” Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, ed. Henry ­Blochmann 2 vols. (Calcutta: Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1873), i: 88; translation in Irfan Habib, “Akbar and Technology” in Akbar and His India, ed. Irfan Habib (New Delhi: ­Oxford University Press, 1997), 132–33. Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1:88.

130 al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband, is significant in demonstrating how well-attuned Emperor Akbar was not only to the domestic textile markets, but also to the Safavid production for Shah ʿAbbas. Ghiyath was a master weaver and poet of the city of Yazd, famous for its velvet and brocade fabrics. Not only was he was the head of the Yazd weaver’s guild and likely a master-weaver for Shah ʿAbbas’s own royal workshops but Ghiyath was also a central figure in the artistic and cultural life in Safavid Iran.26 To buy his cloth was also to access the metaphorical world that the poet Ghiyath had built around his woven work.27 When foreign textiles entered Mughal collections they were used both in elaborate, public displays and also, as the records of Akbar’s reign suggest, in intimate and personal settings. A description of a 1572 celebration held at the Agra palace of one of Akbar’s wazirs gives a sense of the scale at which textiles were used in royal festivities. Arif Qandahari describes Emperor Akbar’s processional to the wazir’s palace: “The entire passage, measuring two thousand yards, from the royal ­palace up to his residence was decorated with various cloths such as zarbaft, Chinese silk, ­European velvet, at̤las and kamk̲h̲āb-i Yazdī ­[brocade from Yazd] for the emperor’s steps.”28 Qandahari writes 26

Robert Skelton, “Ghiyath al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband and an Episode in the Life of Sadiqi Beg,” in Persian Painting: From the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson, ed. Robert Hillenbrand (London: I.B. Tauris, 2000): 249–65. 27 In the Akbarnama, Abuʾl Fazl recounts the arrival of the Safavid envoy to India who brought with him: “choice mares (qisrāq), one of which was valued at 5,000 rupees. There were 300 pieces of b­ rocade – all woven by the hands of noted weavers – and fifty masterpieces of Ghiyath Naqshband, and wonderful carpets, which cost in Persia 300 tumāns a pair.” Abuʾl Fazl, The Akbarnāma of Abuʾl Fazl: History of the Reign of Akbar Including an Account of His Predecessors, trans. Henry Beveridge 3 vols. (Kolkata: Asiatic Society, 2010), 3: 1113. 28 Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 175. This practice of spreading silk cloths for the monarch’s horse to step over was part of the custom of payendaz, which meant “for the feet to step on” and was a gesture of respect. See

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that, “the way was ornamented by the royal feet on it,” suggesting that the emperor’s footprints outweighed in significance the fine textures of the brocade, velvet, and satin cloths that he has described. The palace that the emperor approached was also cloaked in imported textiles that replaced the permanent architecture with hanging cloth. “From all sides, the edifice was canopied with brocade and velvet … silken-curtains and coloured pillars with the entire ground … covered with the golden cloth by the decorators (farrashans). A large tent, made of felt cloth outside and brocade and velvet inside, was fixed there. The floor of brocade, velvet and silk was further decorated with rugs from Khurasan and Iran, with incomparable refinement.”29 Once inside the palace, the scene was brilliantly magnificent, as “the walls were polished white with lime so those were shining like [a] mirror.” The sounds were heavenly with male and female musicians playing “the Khurasani music in the Hindustani style.” The air was fragrant with “frankincense and aloe-wood in gold and silver fireplaces” and “… the breeze full of ambar and musk.” Of the gifts presented to the emperor, Arif Qandahari passes quickly over the “gold and silver articles” and enumerates: “the finest pieces of cloth such as zarbaft of Rum, velvet of Europe, kamk̲h̲āb-i Yazdī, at̤las-i k̲h̲at̤āʼī of Bukhara, studded dupaṭṭā and turbans, Deccani jeweled boxes, golden thread of Gujarat and the royal muslin of Sunargaon.”30 The brocade comes from Ottoman lands, the velvet is European, the richly-woven cloth is from Yazd, the at̤las-i k̲h̲at̤āʼī refers to the silk of China, but is made in Bukhara. From within the realms of the empire, Akbar received golden zarī thread from Gujarat. His “royal muslin” had travelled from the small town of Sunargaon in Bengal. Just as medieval textile consumers showed their appreciation for their textiles’ far-flung Nurhan Atasoy, İpek, the Crescent & the Rose: Imperial Ottoman Silks and Velvets (London: Azimuth Editions Limited, 2001), 31. 29 Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 176. 30 Ibid. 177–78.

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o­ rigins in their ṭirāz inscriptions, so too did Emperor Akbar take time to recognize and document the individual localities from which his gifts had traveled. The quantity of possessions is almost unimaginable. Seven years after this festival, Arif Qandahari ­reports the massive destruction of the same decorative cloths that he described in 1572: “In the first part of Rabi-ul-Akhir, A.H. 987 (by the end of May, 1579 a.d.) a terrible fire broke out in the premises of farrashkhana at Fatehpur Sikri. It engulfed the imperial shamiana (imperial canopies), khargah (large and small tents), brocade and velvet curtains, atlas, silk, satin, and colourful embroidered cloth and varieties of carpets. The estimated loss was up to the tune of one crore (one million) rupees. The emperor, however, did not notice it.”31

ment in Kashmir and North India described earlier in the Aʾin-i Akbari. Emperor Akbar also had a subtle sensory awareness of cloth. He described the varying degrees of softness achieved in different woolen shawls. He was concerned with the smell of textiles, and reported to Abuʾl Fazl that the kewrah flower, which has a scent like rose but with a fruitier tone, “… smells even after it is withered. Hence people put it into clothes, [where] the smell remains for a long time.”33 The perfume of zabād (from the civet cat), according to Akbar, was also useful for giving scent to clothes and the body because “the smell will remain a long time in the clothes, and even on the skin.”34 Despite the grand scale on which Emperor Akbar and his successors collected, therefore, ­ these examples suggest that he also maintained an awareness of the sensual properties of the textiles in his collection. Through the Aʾin-i Akbari, we glimpse the emperor wearing, designing, coloring and smelling textiles. We learn that rather than being the undifferentiated trappings of his splendor, textiles were understood for their exact derivation (the looms of Ghiyath, the village of Sunargaon), appreciated for the precision of their colors, the subtle variations in their weight and density, and for the enduring scents that clung to their fibers.

A loss of nearly one million rupees would imply that there were thousands of textiles in the decorations storehouse (the farrashkhana). The emperor’s reported indifference to the loss suggests that these thousands of textiles in Fatehpur Sikri were only a fraction of the emperor’s combined holdings in Agra, Lahore and elsewhere. Consumption on this scale would seem to imply that the Emperor could not pay attention to the particularities of each textile, but the accounts of Abuʾl Fazl and Arif Qandahari suggest otherwise. In Abuʾl Fazl’s Aʾin-i Akbari, Emperor Akbar is portrayed as a connoisseur of cloth. Each textile in his imperial wardrobe received a ranking based on the auspiciousness of its day of entry, on the weight of the cloth (lighter cloth was ranked more highly than heavier cloth) and on its color. Abuʾl Fazl listed over thirty different colors; the order descended from ruby, apple, hay and water-colored, to a blue like China-ware, and the less illustrious colors of mango and musk.32 Many of the colors referenced flora and fauna of the local environ-

If Akbar had a connoisseur’s eye for the material and visual properties of textiles, the artists that surrounded him had a sense for their metaphorical potential. Textiles adorned with figural scenes became bearers of subjective experience in paintings from the Mughal imperial atelier. Figural textiles do not appear in every Mughal painting. Only seven of the forty-four illustrated folios that comprise the Windsor Castle Padshahnama contain

31 Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 282. 32 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 91

33 34



Figured Cloth and the Layered Mughal Painting

Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 83. Ibid., 80.

132

Figure 5.3 Prince with a falcon. Opaque watercolor, gold, and ink on paper; circa 1600–1605, Sheet: 14.92 × 9.53 cm; Image: 14.29 × 8.57 cm; Los Angeles County Museum of Art, From the Nasli and Alice Heeramaneck Collection, Museum Associates Purchase, M.83.1.4. (Photo © Museum Associates/ LACMA).

images of figured silk. Yet within an album of illustrated paintings like the Padshahnama, textiles with human or animal patterns emerge as a recurrent trope. They do not retreat as ornament, but engage in a continuous relay, carrying meaning in and out and across the seemingly static portrait. Figural cloths are like the figural borders of album pages that create what Elaine Wright has called a “multi-layered narrative,” extending from the central portrait out into the border frame. The figural scenes become a “gloss” on what is unspoken or

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only subtly suggested in the painting.35 In a portrait from Akbar’s time of a prince holding a falcon, for instance, woven deer leap across the prince’s coat to expand upon the theme of hunting (see Fig. 5.3). The textile amplifies, and in some ways, animates, the more static content of the portrait. At times, figural decorations go further, disrupting the narrative of the painting in humorous ways. In an early seventeenth-century painting attributed to Manohar of Emperor Jahangir Weighing Prince Khurram in Gold, the figures on a red, Persian carpet bring a layer of playful intimacy to what is otherwise a ritual of public display (see Fig. 5.4). Beneath the young prince, who sits to be weighed, three women dance in a decorative cartouche.36 The female figures are miniaturized and thus subordinate to the living figures, but their upraised hands and the tops of their heads still touch the bottom of Prince Khurram’s platform. In a painting of all men, the textile brings the real Prince Khurram into contact with the woven dancing women who seductively reach out their arms to the imperial heir. In Bichitr’s painting, Jahangir Holding a Ceremonial Crown, a figural textile draped over the windowsill seems to be a digression from, rather than an amplification of the imperial glorification taking place in the portrait (see Fig. 5.5). The cloth was almost certainly an import from Safavid Iran, and the images of standing men and kneeling women with their drinking glasses and wine flasks resemble actual textiles made at this time. The two categories of figures in this painting – the solitary emperor and the patterned people on the cloth – have no interaction. If anything, they are at odds with one another. In the top half of the ­painting 35

36

Elaine Wright, “The Late Shah Jahan Album, c. 1650– 1658,” in Muraqqa: Imperial Mughal Albums from the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin, ed. Elaine Wright and Susan Stronge, eds., (Hanover: Distributed by University Press of New England, 2008): 107–39. See Barbara Brend, “The Weighing of Khurram Mīrzā,” Oriental Art 28 (1982–83): 346–58.

Sentiment in Silks

Figure 5.4 Emperor Jahangir weighing his son Khurram in gold. Attributed to Manohar. Ink, opaque watercolor and gold on paper, circa 1615; Sheet: 44.3 × 29.5 cm; Image: 30 × 19.6 cm; British Museum, 1948,1009,0.69. (© The Trustees of the British Museum).

133

134

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Figure 5.5 Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremonial crown. Ink, opaque watercolor and gold on paper, circa 1620; Sheet: 32.5 × 18 cm; 11.2 × 7.5 cm; British Museum, 1974,0617,0.21.3. (© The Trustees of the British Museum).

is a portrait of the reigning emperor. Jahangir is rendered in profile to avoid any distortion that might occur if he were painted frontally or in ­three-quarters’ view. His body occupies a threedimensional space, suggested by his arm that is poised just outside the window. In the bottom half of the painting, by contrast, Bichitr has painted a pattern of figures so flat and lacking in individuality that their bodies are cut in half by the careless drape of a striped cloth. The inclusion of the cloth also gestures to peculiarities of portraiture from Jahangir’s time. ­Jahangir innovated the use of a cloth or carpet hung over the jharokha window in his portraits, and the fabric thus signaled a new innovation in Jahangiri iconography.37 Viewers of the painting would have 37

Jeremiah Losty, “The Carpet at the Window: a European Motif in the Mughal Jharokha Portrait” in Indian

known that the cloth was a costly import or a diplomatic gift from Iran. In a painting of Jahangir, held in the Musée Guimet, a subtler figural textile appears below the opened window. In this painting, Jahangir also holds a portrait of his father, Akbar. Through the layering of fictitious f­igures – from the woven, Persian men and women, to the painting of a deceased father, to the real-life reigning emperor – the painter is allowed to experiment with ideas of absence and presence. This work highlights the ability of a painting to unify figures from different realms. Sheila Canby has suggested that the painter ­Riza-yi ʿAbbasi of Isfahan juxtaposed animate, living figures with inanimate woven figures in his early seventeenth-century Safavid paintings to destabilize the distinction between illusion and reality.38 Actual woven brocades with single, ­ non-repeated figures were rare, if not unheard of, in early seventeenth-­ century Iran, suggesting that they were Riza’s own invention. Their frequent appearance in paintings initiates a ­mystical-philosophical inquiry. On one level, a daydreaming lady in a s­ ensuous pose could be contemplating an image of a real figure, her earthly lover, or the figure on the pillow could introduce a more mystical metaphor for the loving relationship that seventeenth-century Sufi mystics proposed having with the divine. In these paintings, the figured pillow, along with the mirror and the wine cup, permit a portrait to move between the earthly and the heavenly. The textile’s power to unsettle the naturalism of a painting does not depend upon the fictionality of the cloth. Even if we know that a textile in a painting has a silken prototype, the fabric still has the capacity to undercut the realism of the painting. When silk, cotton and wool textiles lose their materiality upon being inserted into a p ­ ainting,

38

Painting: Themes, History and Interpretations; Essays in Honour of B.N. Goswamy, ed. Mahesh Sharma and Padma Kaimal (Mapin Publishing: Ahmedabad, 2013) 52–64. Sheila R. Canby, The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi ʿAbbasi of Isfahan ­(London: Azimuth Editions, 1996), 168–69.

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Sentiment in Silks

Figure 5.6 Young prince. Signed “Muhammad Haravi.” Opaque watercolor and gold on paper; mid-16th century, Afghanistan, Herat, 34.1 × 24 cm. Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, d.c.: Purchase – Charles Lang Freer Endowment, F1937.8. (© Freer|Sackler Collection).

they begin to compete with the painted forms representing actual human beings. This can be seen in the case of a sixteenth-century Persianate painting made in Herat (see Fig. 5.6). In the painting, a willowy youth tilts his head contemplatively, a wine cup in his hand. This calm figure wears a cloak made of figural silk with the “prisoner” motif that was popular in sixteenth-century Safavid Iran. Many fabric fragments with this pattern remain. Mary McWilliams has written convincingly that the prisoner-themed silks may have evoked the contemporary capture of prisoners during the Safavid wars in the Caucasus.39 Yet the painting does 39

Mary Anderson McWilliams, “Prisoner Imagery in Safavid Textiles,” The Textile Museum Journal 26 (1987): 4–23.

not become less uncanny because we know about contemporary events and existing textiles. Instead, the painted textile acts in strange ways that upset the peacefulness of the painting. The pattern on the robe does not conform to the contours of the young man’s body. Above the youth’s right arm, a soldier leads his bare-headed prisoner across the shoulder of the cloak. While on first glance, the dark, vertical line separating the captive from his captor appears to be a shadow, signaling the break between the youth’s torso and his arm, it is actually a tree that has been woven into the textile. The rope tied to the prisoner’s neck extends uninterrupted across the young man’s arm and body. The artist has sacrificed a naturalistic representation of the young man’s body to maintain the integrity of the narrative on the cloak. In effect, two narratives are taking place within this painting. The violence of the youth’s cloak contrasts with the peacefulness of his pose. The sweet delicacy of the man’s white hand holding a wine cup is thrown into relief by the anguish of the prisoner in green just below his left elbow. Although a sixteenth-century courtly viewer would comprehend that the scenes occurring on the man’s robe derived from inanimate, woven silk, this difference in the medium has been flattened and there is little to separate the silken figures and the flesh-and-blood youth. Moreover, the drama of the prisoners cries out more loudly, demanding more attention than the moon-faced adolescent with his wine cup. The Mughal painter, Bichitr, seems to have included figural textiles in his paintings more frequently than his contemporaries.40 Bichitr worked

40

It is also possible that paintings have been attributed to Bichitr over time because they include figured textiles, inflating the number of works in his oeuvre that portray these fabrics. By the author’s count, Bichitr depicted figured textiles in six of the thirty-eight paintings that are attributed to him. For a comprehensive list of Bichitr’s signed and attributed works, see Som Prakash Verma, Mughal Painters and Their Work: A Biographical Survey and Catalogue (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994), 104–09.

136 in the imperial ateliers of both Jahangir (r. 1605– 1627) and Shah Jahan (r. 1628–1658). Because his renderings of textiles changed over time, they provide suggestive material for how figural textiles operated in paintings during the very different reigns of these two emperors. While “personage fabrics” are draped at the center of Jahangiri paintings, in works made during Shah Jahan’s reign, they are often more discreet, slipping onto a robe, a quiver cover or a bolster pillow. Despite their loss of prominence, figural textiles always introduce a second fictional space within the painting, occupied by a second, woven set of figures. Bichitr comprehended the unsettling effects that emerged from juxtapositions between painted human beings and painted figured cloth. Sometime between 1615 and 1618, Bichitr painted his most famous painting, Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Sheikh to Kings (see Fig. 5.7). In this group portrait, Emperor Jahangir hands a book to Sheikh Husain, the religious leader of the Chishti shrine in Ajmer. Along the left-hand margin of the painting, Bichitr has depicted the Ottoman Sultan Bayazid i (who was defeated by Timur) and King James i of ­England. At the bottom, dressed in a saffron-colored robe and red turban, is a bearded man whom scholars have identified as the artist, Bichitr. He holds a painting framed in red that depicts an elephant and a white horse. Scholars have marveled at the fictionalized array of people in this painting, as the meeting of the sheikh, the fourteenth-century sultan, the king of England, the artist and the emperor could never have taken place. Yet these are not the only fictions introduced by the painting. A haloed Jahangir, rising like the sun against a crepuscular sky, appears to float. Below him is a green, velvety dais that is suspended on top of an enormous hourglass. Two small angels that resemble European putti watch the falling sand intently, their noses pressed to the hourglass. A textile that combines the deep blue color used in paintings of Persianate carpets with European grotesque patterns from architectural decoration provides a backdrop for the bottom portion of the painting. The textile is not naturalistically rendered. As in many Persianate paintings, the carpet

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Figure 5.7 Emperor Jahangir preferring a Sufi Sheikh to kings from the St. Petersburg Album. Bichitr, Margins by Muhammad Sadiq. Opaque watercolor, ink and gold on paper; circa 1615–1618, ­Image: 25.3 × 18 cm; Freer Gallery of Art and ­Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian ­Institution, Washington, d.c.: Purchase – Charles Lang Freer Endowment, F1942.15a. (© Freer|Sackler Collection).

seems to hang flush with the picture plane, flattening the scene into a tight, two-dimensional space. Bichitr has woven the hour-glass shape of Jahangir’s throne throughout the ornamentation of the cloth. Corn-colored curling leaves and tendrils interlace on the carpet. Small, fleshy men with bare torsos rise leglessly out of green leaves. In their hands, they carry gray, flaming torches. Like the hourglass throne, which tapers to an impossibly thin center before bulging outwards again, these muscular torsos are suspended on delicate curlicues. Bichitr cleverly links the decorative pattern to the individualized portraits within the painting,

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Sentiment in Silks

slightly confounding the distinctions between actual personhood and repeating pattern. To the left of Jahangir’s throne, Bichitr has composed a dense arrangement of things and people. The gesture of the grotesque, its arms spread over its head, is repeated in the strange composite stool beneath it. To the left, King James i holds his pink-clad left arm away from his body. With his flaring skirt and his extended arm, he becomes an echo of the figures in the cloth. Although the human portraits are painted with a softer brush, giving their faces a powdery naturalism, in reality, the distinct media of human flesh, woven woolen textile, carved ivory stool and imagined, ethereal putti collapse in the painting into a single surface. The inscription on Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Sheikh to Kings alerts the viewer to the instability of sight, suggesting that while Jahangir appears to keep kingly company, he directs his gaze inward and prefers dervishes. Bichitr has used the pictorial ordering of the painting to underscore this Sufi message visually. By inverting human presence and decorative content, Bichitr upsets appearances and allows decorative figures the same degree of presence as historical kings. In a work painted ten to fifteen years later, Bichitr would revise his style and his approach to figured silk. In 1630, Bichitr, now working under Shah Jahan, painted Shah Jahan Receives his Three Eldest Sons and Asaf Khan During his Accession Ceremonies (see Fig. 5.8). This painting, which became part of the illustrated Padshahnama, depicted an event that had occurred just two years earlier in 1628. Ebba Koch has written of this painting, with its rigid symmetry, single vanishing point and “unparalleled ­harmony” as potentially the site where “the schema [of Shah Jahan-era painting] was laid down for other painters to follow.”41 Bichitr had

41

Ebba Koch, “Shah Jahan Receives his Three Eldest Sons and Asaf Khan During his Accession ­ Ceremonies” in King of the World: The Padshahnama: An Imperial ­Mughal Manuscript from the Royal Library, Windsor Castle, ed. Milo Cleveland Beach (London: Azimuth Editions, 1997), 167.

become the paradigm of the controlled painter of classical hierarchies during Shah Jahan’s time. Yet it was not only through composition that Bichitr showed his worth as a painter to Shah Jahan, but also through his ability, as Koch writes, to convey “with intense precision the sumptuousness and splendor of court life … Bichitr also had the technique to describe almost clinically the abundant and complicated textile patterns that enlivened Mughal ­ceremonies.” The attention to detail did not come at the expense of order, however. “While no surface was undecorated, the effect was one of clarity and perfect balance.”42 Koch presents this work as a summa of the principles, both artistic and political, that were promoted in the Padshahnama. It is a work of precision, order and balance. Yet in the middle of the painting, just inside the golden railing that demarcated the highest political appointees from the noblemen, stands a figure that Koch has identified as Reza Bahadur. He wears a robe made of figured silk woven on a gold ground. He is the only figure in the crowd wearing a gold robe and when the painting was first made, the gold leaf of his garment must have made it shine more brightly than any other painted textile. To a contemporary viewer, however, the figure of Reza Bahadur would have stood out because of his sinister role in Shah Jahan’s ascension to power. Reza Bahadur, also known as Khidmat Parast Khan, was a nobleman in Shah Jahan’s court. He was also the emperor’s chief assassin, responsible for the beheading and strangling deaths of five of Shah Jahan’s relatives in Lahore – one half-brother, two cousins and two nephews – in order to clear the way for Shah Jahan to become emperor. The ascension ceremonies took place almost immediately after Reza Bahadur returned to Agra with the news that he had killed all five men. Shah Jahan’s biographer, Haji Muhammad Jan ­Mashhadi Qudsi, hinted at the uncomfortable knowledge that all those present must have held of Reza ­Bahadur’s acts: “And when Khidmat Parast Khan brought to Lahore the warrant for their ­execution/ 42

Ibid., 168.

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Figure 5.8 Shah Jahan receives his three eldest sons and Asaf Khan during his accession ceremonies (8 March 1628), Bichitr. Opaque watercolor, ink and gold on paper; circa 1656–67. Book: 58.6 × 36.8 cm; Royal Collection Trust, Padshahnama, RCIN 1005025.k, fol. 50b. (Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2016).

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How that statesman executed the warrant – I know that you know. Why say what he did?”43 On a purely documentary level, the figured ­Iranian silk that Reza wears may have been a costly gift given to this high-ranking nobleman in recognition of a critical intervention.44 From an artistic perspective, the detail of the robe, painted by an artist with an interest in absence and presence and in the interaction between real and fictional figures in a painting, is an uncanny, even chilling reminder of all of the other bodies that Reza Bahadur destroyed in Agra. The flattened, neutralized figures adorning his robe are like a necklace of skulls. The painted depiction of a cloth with figural patterns has revealed a killer’s soul. A famous set of paintings from Bukhara in the early seventeenth century suggests that figural garments could also expose the imagination of the sitter, disclosing interiority and internal ­vision.45 The paintings depict a seated man and woman who are engrossed in their thoughts. Both wear colorful overrobes that are decorated with interlaced composite figures – young couples clasping one another around the waist, apes, ­leopards, deer, bearded men and modestlydressed women. Composite figural scenes occur in Persian painting and in the sculptural and painted arts of South Asia. In a painting from the seventeenth-century Deccan, the form of an elephant grows out of the elegant bodies of female musicians. Similar to the robe that is peopled 43 44

45

Quoted in Hadi Hasan, Mug̲ h̲al Poetry: Its Cultural and Historical Value (New Delhi: Aakar Books, 1952), 41–42. Reza Bahadur seems to have also ascended in rank from Mir Tuzuk (masters of ceremony) to Mir Atish (in charge of the artillery) in the period from 1627–1630. Muhammad Afzal Khan, “Iranian Nobility under Shahjahan and Aurangzeb” (PhD Diss., Aligargh Muslim University, 1987), 137. A recent thesis makes a related argument that the use of figural silk robes was a means by which wealthy wearers in Safavid Iran could reveal their interior piety. See Nazanin Hedayat Shenasa, “Donning the Cloak: Safavid Figural Silks and the Display of Identity” (master’s thesis, San Jose State University, 2007).

with humans and animals, these composite paintings forge a “multi-layered narrative,” that leads away from the stated subject of the painting. The scenes on the robe in the Bukhara painting emerge from the man and woman’s rapturous silence. If the center of the painting is inward-looking contemplation, the garments turn the insides outwards, bodying forth wondrous scenes from the figures’ ample robes. That the young man in the Bukhara painting holds a notebook for writing poetry reinforces the unique relationship between literature, painting, and figural textiles. For painters, figural textiles provided access to a second order of significance, invoking mysticism, romance or anguish in an otherwise silent portrait. Figural textiles also became a convenient device for writers of poetry and literature that could be used to open up an alternate register of visual reality for their audience.

Seventeenth-Century Poetry and the Figural Language of Textiles

Within literature of the early seventeenth-century, textiles gave poets access to mysticism, humor, metaphors and flights of fancy. When Persianlanguage poets used similes to describe their craft, they would liken their work to weaving. One early poet described his work as a: “silken robe/ composed of words, that eloquence designed.” He drew its, “its warp and woof/ From deep within myself.”46 In these verses, similes and metaphors are likened to the threads of silk recovered from deep within the poet’s soul. Arif Qandahari, the author of the early biography of Akbar, also drew upon imagery of weaving and the figured robe to describe his historical writing. He borrowed the metaphor from Sharaf alDin ʿAli Yazdi, the fifteenth-century author of the ­Zafarnama of Timur: 46

Jerome W. Clinton, “Image and Metaphor: Textiles in Persian Poetry,” in Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart, 8.

140 “The extraordinary qualities of the king are greater than anything we can imagine. When I found the dress woven with my praises too small for his lofty stature, then I resolved to prepare a dignified robe for His Majesty out of the warp and woof of stories of kings. I shall start by relating the story of the birth of the King, that is to say, how the sun of the empire rose.”47 The poet conceives of his earliest attempt at writing Akbar’s history as a dress “woven with my praises” that is yet too small for the greatness of the king. The writer begins again, to “prepare a dignified robe” of words that is woven from the “warp and woof” of the “stories of kings.” Unlike the poet who wove his silken robe from “deep within” himself, this historian has looked to the great legacy of “stories of kings” for the materials from which to craft his all-enveloping account. The famous Safavid weaver-poet of Yazd, Ghiyath al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband, united the profession of the weaver and the writer in his textiles and his poetry, bringing the metaphorical relationship between poetry and cloth into reality. He is famous for having woven a velvet cloth with imagery of a bear for the Safavid emperor Shah ʿAbbas i. When someone praised the figured bear depicted in the gold-ground brocade, Ghiyath is recorded as having quipped: “The gentleman sees more in the bear; Each person sees the image of himself”48 As Robert Skelton has written, the response suggests that what one sees in the textile is more of a commentary on the viewer than on the content of the image. Ghiyath makes the cloth an active part of contemplation, and gently teases the man, Abu Qardash, who praised the imagery of the bear for finding in it a reflection of himself.

Houghteling

Figural textiles held importance in the plots of many classical Persian romance texts. In Jami’s tale of Yusuf and Zulaikha, a story of the pious, divine slave and his enamored owner, Yusuf sees his future with Zulaikha in the imagery woven into a carpet. Burning with love for the pure and celibate Yusuf, Zulaikha has ordered fictitious scenes of their lovemaking painted onto every surface of her palace and has had them woven into all the fabric coverings. Through the imagery, she hopes to arouse Yusuf’s ardor. When Yusuf looks down on the carpet and sees his body woven together with hers, the two embracing on a couch of golden brocade, he is at first repelled by the image.49 But the scenes on the carpet also presage the pair’s later love when Zulaikha has found a purer path. At this moment in the narrative, the textile is a visual portal to an amorous future. In the case of Saif ul-Mulūk that began this chapter, a textile also links the present and the future, and brings faraway spaces into proximity. The story of Saif ul-Mulūk, was written in Dakhani for the Qutb Shahi court in Golconda.50 It may seem remote from the romances of Jami, but it was composed within a courtly culture that was deeply influenced by Safavid Iran, and that had access to a cosmopolitan material culture, including Persian, Chinese and Southeast Asian trade objects. The story begins when Saif ul-Mulūk’s father, the Shah, holds a festival during which he bestows upon Saif ul-Mulūk a “splendid” brocaded fabric (zarzarī khūb zarbaft), along with a signet ring and

49

50

47 Qandhari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 18. 48 Skelton, “Episodes in the Life,” 258.

As Alexander Rogers somewhat archaically translates the scene: “Down on the carpet as his eye he brought/ He saw his form with hers together wrought/ Thrown on a couch of silk and gold brocade/ The two in close embrace together laid.” In Jāmī, The Book of Joseph and Zuleikha, trans. Alexander Rogers (London: Cooper Pub. Co., 1910), 140. Christopher Shackle, “The Story of Sayf Al-Mulūk in South Asia” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 17 (2007): 115–29; Annemarie Schimmel, Classical Urdu Literature from the Beginning to Iqbāl (Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 1975), 144–45.

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a horse.51 The Shah explains that these precious belongings were given to him by the ancient king Solomon, and he now bestows them upon his son. In the following scene, after drunken friends have stumbled home in the moonlight, Saif ulMulūk is left alone with his gifts. The poet Ghavasi plays with the words he uses for alone, writing that Saif ul-Mulūk is “ekat,” for “ek,” meaning one or only, but also possibly referencing ikat, the Malay word for tie-and-dye fabric.52 When Saif ul-Mulūk is left alone, his heart is captured by the cloth, absorbed in a search for it, even though it sits there unapproachable (bemisl) and silent (khamāsh).53 Saif ul-Mulūk opens the lid of the box and unfolds the garment, revealing a picture (taṣvīr) that catches him in astonishment.54 Saif ul-Mulūk be51

52

53

54

Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka va Badīula Jamāla, trans. Rājakiśora Pāṇḍeya and Muḥammad Akbaruddīn Siddīqī (Hyderabad: Dakkhinī Sāhitya Prakāśana Samiti, 1955), 44–45. The term for the ikat textile comes from the Malay word, ikat, to “tie” or “bind,” which may share origins with the Telugu “katta,” which also means to “tie a bundle.” Ikat-ikatan was also the name that Hamzah, the most prominent Malay Sufi poet of the period, gave to his poetry in which he “tied words together.” Vladimir I. Braginsky, “Towards the Biography of Hamzah Fansuri. When Did Hamzah Live? Data From His Poems and Early European Accounts.” Archipel 57 (1999): ­135–75. Golconda, the coastal state where Ghavasi lived, ­maintained close trading ties with Southeast Asia, and Malay traders would have had a strong presence even in the capital of Hyderabad. For these reasons, G ­ havasi, who repeats the word “ekat” twice, may also have been referencing the dreamily patterned cloth. I also thank Professor Frances Pritchett for her help with this text and for her suggestion about the use of wordplay in this context on 2 April, 2014. Ghavasi Saiphula Mulūka, 46. Shackle has translated the description of the gift as a “picture wrapped in cloth,” while Schimmel interprets it as “the picture of a beautiful girl embroidered in the new robe.” I have followed Schimmel’s interpretation. See Shackle, “The Story of Sayf Al-Mulūk in South Asia,” 116; Schimmel, Classical Urdu Literature, 145. Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka, 47. The term taṣvīr is the same term used by Akbar’s historian, Abuʾl Fazl, to

comes possessed, insane, fanatical with love and passion. He kisses the face on the textile and cries. In the final, rhyming couplets of the scene, Ghavasi describes Saif ul-Mulūk in the total darkness of his small room, his prison cell; again, Ghavassi writes that he is alone (ekat) and rhymes ekat with the words “ho nipaṭ”. Saif ul-Mulūk has reached an extreme (nipaṭ) because of a cloth (ekat). At this point in the narrative, Saif ul-Mulūk has become possessed by a textile.55 A few days later, Saif ul-Mulūk’s father, the Shah, is seated in his throne-room when he is interrupted by a flurry of peris who explain to the Shah that the cloth bears a picture of Badī ul-Gamāl, who is the daughter of the king of the mythical gardens of Iram.56 Upon hearing this, Saif ul-Mulūk sets off on a journey that takes him to Istanbul, Senegal, China and finally to Iram where he finds his princess. The textile has both propelled Saif ul-Mulūk into the world on his adventure story, but has also made the world smaller for this Egyptian prince: an object from far away has touched his innermost feelings.

“A Private Cloak” Made of Figured Silk

Textiles brought humor, longing and moral ­judgment into Mughal paintings. They created fantastical connections between characters in the literature of the early-modern Persophone world. But what of the actual objects themselves? This final section engages with a figural silk robe that was sent from the Mughal imperial center to a regional ­Rajput ruler in Bikaner to solidify a relationship and impart affection. The tailored garment is the only surviving woven figural silk with a secure Mughal provenance. It is still held in Bikaner’s Ganga Golden Jubilee Museum. In the 1960’s, it was vibrant with lac-red ­describe the new “figures” in textiles that Akbar’s support of the textile weavers made possible. See fn. 24. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid., 55.

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silk and indigo blue. Now, it is faded, but the incredible figural pattern on it is still visible. The woven scenes depict two lovers. They are staggered in pairs by the weaver, seeming to pine for one another from kitty-corner open windows. The robe was given as a khilʾat, a robe of honor, by Prince Salim (the soon-to-be Emperor Jahangir) to Raja Rai Singh of Bikaner. Raja Rai Singh was one of a group of Hindu, Rajput rulers from northwestern India whose predecessors had allied with the Mughals and adopted Persianate practices in their courtly culture. Rai Singh was well-versed in the protocols of the Mughal court and the tropes of Persian poetry. Past studies have presented the Islamicate practice of khilʾat, or the giving of robes of honor, as a means of communicating authority: the giver of the khilʾat, a figure with religious or political power, bestowed a robe of honor upon his or her subordinates.57 In putting on the khilʾat, the recipient accepted the authority of the giver, and signaled his or her allegiance to the ruler. The object itself was primarily a marker of authority, but at times the materiality of the khilʾat was important as well, as when it was made of luxurious fabric. At the Ottoman court, the value of the gold woven into the fabric of the khilʾat would sometimes be embroidered onto a tag sewn into the garment, making the robe of honor into a form of currency that could be exchanged for cash at the treasury.58 A recent article has explored instances of “killer khilʾat,” when rulers sent infected or poisoned robes to their enemies who, by the dictates of imperial protocol, were obligated to don the malicious garments.59

This robe represents a softer side of the history of khilʾat. As mentioned earlier, Jahangir’s father, Akbar, knew the various flowers that could be stuffed into the pockets of robes to give them a wonderful scent.60 Akbar’s biographer also recounts the satisfaction the emperor took in seeing that his clothes fit the bodies of his recipients. Abuʾl Fazl wrote: “I must mention, as a most curious sign of auspiciousness, that His Majesty’s clothes becomingly fit every one whether he be tall or short, a fact which has hitherto puzzled many.”61 Abuʾl Fazl partly claimed this elasticity for ­Emperor Akbar’s clothes as a way of asserting the divinity of the sovereign. However, the statement also contains a deeply human aspect as it ponders the shortness or tallness of Akbar’s subjects who received the emperor’s clothing. Abuʾl Fazl ­remarks that the clothing not only fits “everyone” but fits them “becomingly,” flattering the idiosyncratic shape of each body. Emperor Akbar imagined the clothing that he distributed as ceremonial khilʾat as it would snugly fit the bodies of his vassals. For the Mughal court, the giving and receiving of textiles was not always a superficial, symbolic act, or a mercenary transfer of wealth, but was sometimes a practice imbued with corporeal messages, sensual intention and emotional warmth. In the case of the Bikaner robe given by Prince Salim, an adjoining farman, or imperial letter, that is thought to have accompanied the robe in 1597 suggests that the khilʾat was given for a very s­ pecific purpose: to secure Raja Rai Singh’s finest hunting cheetah.62 The timing also followed soon after Rai Singh married his daughter to the future Emperor 57 Stewart Gordon, ed. Robes of Honour: Khilʾat in Pre-­ Jahangir. The farman, dated to the 29th  of Azar Colonial and Colonial India (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003). 58 Gordon, 28. See Amanda Phillips, “Ottoman Hilʾat: Between Commodity and Charisma,” in Frontiers of the Ottoman Imagination. Studies in Honour of Rhoads Murphey, ed. Marios Hadjianastasis (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 111–38; “Introduction: Ibn Battuta and a Region of Robing” in Gordon, ed. Robes of Honor, p. 28, note 47. 59 See Michelle Maskielle and Adrienne Mayor, “Killer Khilats, Part 1: Legends, of Poison ‘Robes of Honour’ in India,” Folklore 112 (2001): 23–45.

60 61 62

Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 83. Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 90. Hermann Goetz, The Art and Architecture of Bikaner State. (Oxford: Published for the Government of Bikaner State and the Royal India and Pakistan Society by B. Cassirer, 1950), 122–23.

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(November, 1597) begins with a formula of encomiums praising Raja Rai Singh as the “choicest of the grandees of the stable Empire,” the “leader of the nobles” who is “worthy of overwhelming regard and deserving of unrestrained boons.” As a “token of affection,” Rai Singh had been granted an imperial edict requesting that he either send his sons to the imperial court, or aid in a current military campaign so that Rai Singh, the “right hand of the Empire,” could receive from the emperor a high military ranking that would come with monetary and land rewards. From this elevated language, the farman descends into the details of hunting. It remarks that, “the exalted mind and elegant disposition” of Prince Salim (Jahangir) “is generally inclined to ‘Cheetah’-hunting.” “Taking this into consideration” Raja Rai Singh “should send (us) as many of the best ‘Cheetahs’ as available.” Jahangir then singles out the cheetah named “Nilkanth” and asks that this cheetah be sent to court with the messenger who has brought the farman. As though to make up for the loss of a prized cheetah, the farman then states that a “­private cloak ­” has been sent with the messenger.63 The farman moves between the strict protocols of imperial language and the personal desires of the imperial prince, who has a particular liking for the cheetah named Nilkanth. Moreover, while we are accustomed to think of the giving of khilʾat as an impersonal ceremony done by rote without the special consideration of the emperor, this gift of a robe seems more deliberate. It comes with the descriptor “private,” suggesting that it has not derived from the extensive imperial storehouse of generic khilʾat, but from the Prince’s own collection. This language of the “private” garment also appears in a 1607 farman sent from Jahangir to Rai Singh, in which the previous usage of the garment by Jahangir is explicitly mentioned. By 1607, relations had become strained because of Rai Singh’s

63

Rajasthan State Archives, A Descriptive List of Farmans, Manshurs, and Nishans Addressed by the Imperial Mughals to the Princes of Rajasthan (Bikaner: Rajasthan State Archives, 1962), appendix, 8.

extended absence from the imperial court at Lahore. The 1607 farman that reiterated a request for Rai Singh’s attendance was accompanied by a “private shawl often used by us” that is given for Rai Singh’s “elevation and honour.”64 In this brief descriptor, the shawl is explicitly given the corporeal lineage that all khilʾat in theory, but few in practice, are supposed to have. In other words, this shawl truly did warm the shoulders of the emperor and Rai Singh is now invited to partake in that same warmth. The robe sent to Bikaner with the 1597 farman was also what is known as a “speaking object” with self-referential inscriptions woven into the fabric, adding yet another layer to the narrative of the cloth. This was not uncommon among textiles of the period, and often, the inscriptions were stunningly apropos to the meaning and content of the textiles themselves. For example, a crimson textile woven in Iran contains textual cartouches that are interspersed with imagery from the story of the lovers Khusrau and Shirin:65 “The splendor of your figure [comes] from beauty. It has given life to this outer cloak; There has never been a garment of such beauty. One might say it has been woven from the threads of your soul.” The text addresses the materiality of the cloth, ­suggesting that the silk is not an outer garment, but an embodiment of inner feeling. While it may appear lavish, its “splendor” comes from the livebeing underneath. The weaver evokes the tropes of nakedness that recur in the story of Khusrau 64 65

Ibid., 19. Metropolitan Museum of Art, 46.156.7; Yale University Art Gallery 1937.4625; The Textile Museum 3.280. See Carol Bier, ed. Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart: Textile Arts of Safavid and Qajar Iran 16th–19th Centuries (Washington, d.c.: The Textile Museum, 1987), 184–85. The poem is based on the opening lines of Farrukhi Sistani’s elegy: I left Sistan in a caravan of clothiers / With a robe spun from my heart and woven from my soul.

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and Shirin, and Sufi ideals of the difference between appearance and reality; although the cloth is luxurious, it is, in actuality, a manifestation of spiritual and emotional fervor, an outer garment spun from the inwardness of the soul. The text on the Bikaner robe also proclaims the animacy of the robe, stating that “it is as if life has been blown into this image.”66 The poetic text may refer to the images of the young man and woman on the robe, attesting that their love is alive and palpable in the cloth. The word used for image (sūrat) also occurs in Ghavasi’s description of the embroidered portrait of Badī al-Jamāl. Sūrat refers to both a portrait and an actual face, further blurring the line between the artistic representation of young lovers and their living origins. The smooth faces of the lovers on the Bikaner robe are not just animate because of the weaver’s illusionistic skill, but radiant with life itself. The figural imagery on the robe, combined with the woven text, reminds the recipient of the khilʾat that such gifts were not inert commodities, but “flesh and blood” vehicles of royal affection. In its use as khilʾat, this figural robe activated a second layer of narrative that expanded the message of the gift and deepened the sentiment expressed in Prince Salim’s farman. With its imagery of pining lovers and elusive text, it created a trail of romance that led away from expected tropes of political exchange. In its closeness to the body, the soft silk robe was invested not only with kingly power, but also with a kingly embrace. While the khilʾat arrived alongside a letter of a­ ffection, the garment’s materiality, its supple texture and its sweet smell was perhaps what transmitted warmth of feeling across spatial and political distance.

66

I thank Dr. Abdullah Ghouchani for his assistance with translations. Email communication with Dr. Abdullah Ghouchani, 26 March, 2014. Many thanks also to Shabnam Rahimi-Golkhandan for her further assistance with the translations via email, 7 May, 2014.

Conclusion It is difficult to recover the fleeting facial expressions, the furtive caresses and well-disguised jokes that communicated emotion in early modern Muslim courtly life. As in any moment, people exposed their interiority and subjectivity in ephemeral gasps and glances and in the intimacy of domestic quarters. As an historical project, and particularly as an art historical project, it is nearly impossible to conjure these moments that were never made material in the first place. In the seventeenth century, however, figural cloths shouldered some of this burden of transmitting feelings across long distances, and between courtly cultures separated by geography, but also by political differences, cultural orientations and religious beliefs. They did the work, in Auslander’s words, “to create meaning, to store memories (or enable forgetting), to communicate, to experience sensual pleasure (or pain).”67 Textiles were mobile, travelling from Persian looms to the backs of Rajput princes. As the story of Saif ul-Mulūk makes clear, it was often through these personal, tactile objects that individuals came to grasp the enormity of the outside world. But can they help us as historians to catch the slippery moods of past people? A final possibility can be found in a fragment of cloth cut along the seam that attached the arm to the body of a robe, the seam that would have clung to the underarm of the man who wore the sumptuous satin jacket from which this fragment was cut (see Fig. 5.9). It is a late sixteenth-century cloth and it is therefore discolored, but the discoloration is precisely where the man, perhaps nervous about a political exchange or a new love, would have been perspiring. Here, we catch him in the midst of a feeling. It is not the most elegant way of grasping this one man’s historical emotion, but it is rare 67

Leora Auslander et al., “ahr Conversations: Historians and the Study of Material Culture,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 1356.

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Figure 5.9 Textile panel of silk; damask satin; 93 × 40 cm. Yale University Art Gallery, Hobart and Edward Small Moore Memorial Collection, Gift of Mrs. William H. Moore, 1937.4628. (Photo credit: Yale University Art Gallery).

Atasoy, Nurhan. İpek, the Crescent & the Rose: Imperial Ottoman Silks and Velvets (London: Azimuth Editions Limited, 2001). Auslander, Leora et al. “AHR Conversations: Historians and the Study of Material Culture,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 1355–404. Baker, Patricia. Islamic Textiles. London: British Museum Press, 1995. Bier, Carol. “Pattern Power: Textiles and the Transmission of Knowledge,” Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings (2004): 144–53. Bier, Carol. The Persian Velvets at Rosenborg. Copenhagen: De Danske Kongers Kronologiske Samling, 1995. Bier, Carol, ed. Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart: Textile Arts of Safavid and Qajar Iran, 16th–19th Centuries. Washington, D.C: Textile Museum, 1987. Blake, Stephen. Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India, 1639–1739. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Bokhari, Afshan. “Imperial Transgressions and Spiritual Investitures: A Begam’s ‘Ascension’ in Seventeenth Century Mughal India,” Journal of Persianate Studies 4 (2011): 86–108. Braginsky, Vladimir I. “Towards the Biography of Hamzah Fansuri. When Did Hamzah Live? Data From His Poems and Early European Accounts.” Archipel 57 (1999): 135–75. Brend, Barbara. “The Weighing of Khurram Mīrzā,” Oriental Art 28 (1982–83): 346–58. Canby, Sheila R. Shah ʿAbbas: The Remaking of Iran. London: British Museum Press, 2009. Canby, Sheila R. The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings and Paintings of Riza-yi ʿAbbasi of Isfahan. London: Azimuth Editions, 1996. Chaudhury, Sushil. “International Trade in Bengal Silk and the Comparative Role of Asians and Europeans, circa. 1700–1757” Modern Asian Studies 29 (1995): 373–86.

146 Dale, Stephen F. “Silk Road, Cotton Road or … Indo ­Chinese Trade in Pre-European Times.” In Expanding Frontiers in South Asian and World History: Essays in Honour of John F. Richards. Edited by Richard M. ­Eaton, Munis D. Faruqui, David Gilmartin, and Sunil Kumar, 72–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Fazl, Abuʾl. Aʾin-i Akbari. Edited by Henry Blochmann. Vol. 1. Calcutta: Asiatic Society of Bengal, 1873. Fazl, Abuʾl. The Akbarnāma of Abuʾl Fazl: History of the Reign of Akbar Including an Account of His Predecessors. Translated by Henry Beveridge. Vol. 3. Kolkata: Asiatic Society, 2010. Floor, Willem. The Persian Textile Industry: In Historical Perspective 1500–1925. Paris: Société dʾhistoire de lʾOrient, 1999. Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka va Badīula Jamāla. Translated by Rājakiśora Pāṇḍeya and Muḥammad Akbaruddīn Siddīqī (Hyderabad: Dakkhinī Sāhitya Prakāśana Samiti, 1955). Goetz, Hermann. The Art and Architecture of Bikaner State. Oxford: Published for the Government of Bikaner State and the Royal India and Pakistan Society by B. Cassirer, 1950. Golombek, Lisa. “The Draped Universe of Islam.” In Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World. Edited by Priscilla Soucek, 25–38. University Park, Penn: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1988. Gordon, Stewart, ed. Robes of Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture. New York: Palgrave, 2001. Habib, Irfan. “Akbar and Technology.” In Akbar and His I­ ndia. Edited by Irfan Habib, 129–48. New Delhi: ­Oxford University Press, 1997. Habib, Irfan. An Atlas of the Mughal Empire. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1982. Habib, Irfan. “Indian Textile Industry in the 17th ­Century.” In Essays in Honour of Professor S.C. Sarkar. Edited by Diptendra Banerjee et al., 181–92. New ­Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1976. Hasan, Hadi. Mug̲ h̲al Poetry: Its Cultural and Historical Value. New Delhi: Aakar Books, 1952. Jain, Rahul. Indian Lampas-Weave Silks in the Collection of the Calico Museum of Textiles, Woven Textiles: Technical Studies Monograph no. 3. Ahmedabad: Sarabhai Foundation, 2013.

Houghteling Jain, Rahul. Rapture: The Art of Indian Textiles. New Delhi, Nyogi Books, 2011. Jain, Rahul. “The Indian Drawloom and its Products.” The Textile Museum Journal 32/33 (1993–1994): 50–81. Jain, Rahul. “The Mughal Patka: A Technical ­Overview.” In Indian Costumes II: Patkas: A Costume Accessory in the Collection of the Calico Museum of Textiles. Edited by B.N. Goswamy Vol. VI: Historic Textiles of India. Ahmedabad: Sarabhai Foundation, 2002. Jāmī, The Book of Joseph and Zuleikha, trans. Alexander Rogers. London: Cooper Pub. Co., 1910. Jones, Ann Rosalind and Peter Stallybrass. Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Khan, Muhammad Afzal. “Iranian Nobility under Shahjahan and Aurangzeb.” PhD Diss., Aligargh Muslim University, 1987. Koch, Ebba. Mughal Art and Imperial Ideology: Collected Essays. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. Koch, Ebba. “Shah Jahan Receives his Three Eldest Sons and Asaf Khan During his Accession Ceremonies.” In King of the World: The Padshahnama: An Imperial Mughal Manuscript from the Royal Library, Windsor Castle. Edited by Milo Cleveland Beach, 167. London: Azimuth Editions, 1997. Lal, Ruby. Domesticity and Power in the Early Mughal World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Losty, Jeremiah, “The Carpet at the Window: a ­European Motif in the Mughal Jharokha Portrait.” In Indian Painting: Themes, History and Interpretations; Essays in Honour of B.N. Goswamy. Edited by Mahesh Sharma and Padma Kaimal, 52–64. Mapin Publishing: Ahmedabad, 2013. Mackie, Louise W. Symbols of Power: Luxury Textiles from Islamic Lands, 7th–21st Century. Cleveland: The Cleveland Museum of Art, 2016. Matthee, Rudolph. The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran: Silk for Silver, 1600–1730. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. McWilliams, Mary Anderson. “Prisoner Imagery in Safavid Textiles.” The Textile Museum Journal 26 (1987): 4–23. Meister, Michael. “The Pearl Roundel in Chinese Textile Design” Ars Orientalis 8 (1970): 255–67.

Sentiment in Silks Naqvi, Hamida Khatoon. “Some Varieties of Indian Silken Stuffs in Persian Sources c. 1200–1700.” Indian Journal of History of Science 18 (1983): 115–29. O’Hanlon, Rosalind. “Kingdom, Household and Body History, Gender and Imperial Service under Akbar.” Modern Asian Studies 41 (2007): 889–923. Phillips, Amanda. “Ottoman Hilʾat: Between Commodity and Charisma.” In Frontiers of the Ottoman Imagination. Studies in Honour of Rhoads Murphey. Edited by Marios Hadjianastasis, 111–38. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Pope, Arthur Upham, ed. with Phyllis Ackerman, A Survey of Persian Art from Prehistoric Times to the P­ resent, 2079–2090. London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1938–1939. Qandhari, Muhammad Arif. Tarikh-i Akbari. Translated by Tasneem Ahmad. Delhi: Pragati Publications, 1993. Rajasthan State Archives, A Descriptive List of Farmans, Manshurs, and Nishans Addressed by the ­Imperial Mughals to the Princes of Rajasthan. Bikaner: ­Rajasthan State Archives, 1962. Rosenthal, Franz. “A Note on the Mandīl.” In Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam, 63–99. Leiden: Brill, 1971.

147 Schimmel, Annemarie. Classical Urdu Literature from the Beginning to Iqbāl. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrasso­ witz Verlag, 1975. Skelton, Robert. “Ghiyath al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband and an Episode in the Life of Sadiqi Beg.” In Persian Painting: From the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson. Edited by Robert Hillenbrand, 249–65. London: I.B. Tauris, 2000. Shackle, Christopher. “The Story of Sayf Al-Mulūk in South Asia” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 17 (2007): 115–29. Shenasa, Nazanin Hedayat. “Donning the Cloak: Safavid Figural Silks and the Display of Identity,” Master’s thesis, San Jose State University, 2007. Verma, Som Prakash. Mughal Painters and Their Work: A Biographical Survey and Catalogue. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994. Wright, Elaine. “The Late Shah Jahan Album, c. 1650– 1658,” Muraqqa: Imperial Mughal Albums from the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin. Edited by Elaine Wright and Susan Stronge, 107–39. Hanover: Distributed by University Press of New England, 2008.

chapter 6

The City Built, the City Rendered

Locating Urban Subjectivity in Eighteenth-Century Mughal Delhi Chanchal Dadlani In the late 1730s, a young noble from the Deccan named Dargah Quli Khan visited Delhi, accompanying Nizam al-Mulk Asaf Jah i of Hyderabad. He would remain in Delhi until 1741, recording his observations about the city and its inhabitants in a work known as the Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı (“Delhi Album”).1 The Muraqqaʿ profiles prominent figures in Delhi’s urban life, from poets, musicians, and dancers to Sufis and reciters of elegies ­(marsiya 1 This text is adapted from the Risalah-i Salar Jang, ­British Library, Asian and African Collections, Add. 26, 237. This title was first devised in 1926 when it was edited by Mirza Muzaffar Hussain. See Shama Mitra Chenoy and Chander Shekar, Muraqqaʿ-e-Delhi: The Mughal Capital in Muhammad Shah’s Time (Delhi: Deputy Publications, 1989), xviii, which includes an English translation of the Muraqqaʿ. The text was twice published in Persian with an accompanying Urdu translation. Nur al-Hasan ­Ansari, ed., Muraqqaʿ-i D ­ ihlı (Delhi: Delhi Urdu University, 1982); and Khaliq Anjum, ed. Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı (Delhi: Anjuman-i Taraqqii Urdu, 1993). The Muraqqaʿ might be excerpted from a larger work which narrated political events in Delhi. See Muzaffar Alam and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, ­“Discovering the Familiar: Notes on the Travel-­Account of Anand Ram Mukhlis, 1745,” South Asia Research 16, 2 (1996): 140. The Muraqqaʿ has been valued by musicologists because of its descriptions of various styles of ­musical performers, as well as its biographical notes on specific performers. For example see Jon Barlow and Lakshmi Subramanian, “Music and Society in North India: From the Mughals to the Mutiny,” Economic and Political Weekly 42, no. 19 (2007): 1779–87. Recent scholarship has also explored this work in relation to social histories, as in Katherine Butler Brown, “If Music Be the Food of Love: Masculinity and Eroticism in the Mughal Mehfil,” in Love in South Asia: A Cultural History, ed. Francesca Orsini (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 64–71; and Abhishek Kaicker, “The Colonial Entombment of the Mughal Habitus: Delhi in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries” (ma Thesis, University of British Columbia, 2006).

khwān) to noblemen known for their patronage of the arts. Its narrator also recounts his experiences at innumerable poetry readings (majlis) and musical soirees (mehfil), which range from the refined to the debauched. Most significantly, these encounters and experiences are framed through visits to a range of architectural monuments and public spaces, such as shrines (dargahs), mosques, bazaars, and boulevards and squares (chowk). Roughly half of the work is devoted to describing urban spaces and sites of assembly. What emerges from this account is a distinctly urbanistic view of the period, in which city life is characterized by activity in public and semi-public spaces. Though the “public” space in question was male and elite, this perspective represents a subversion of the established spatial hierarchies of the seventeenth century. From the moment that Shahjahanabad, the Mughal capital at Delhi founded by the emperor Shah Jahan (r. 1627–58), was first inaugurated in 1648, conceptions of space in the city had centered on the person of the emperor and his symbolic presence in the imperial palace-fortress, the Red Fort. The axes emanating from the main entrances of the Red Fort formed the main boulevards of the city, Chandni Chowk and Faiz Bazaar. All subsidiary roads led to one of these two avenues. Thus all roads led to the emperor; the experience of urban space was dictated by the imperial presence, and the sense of hierarchy and limited access that the regimented space of the Red Fort created.2 Beginning in the early 1700s, this urban 2 Catherine Asher, Architecture of Mughal India (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 191–204; Stephen Blake, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India 1639–1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Gülru Necipoğlu, “Framing the Gaze in Ottoman,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_008

The City Built, the City Rendered

order shifted dramatically. Spaces outside the walled city of Shahjahanabad became increasingly important as centers of urban activity, identity, and growth. Delhi witnessed the construction of a new madrasa, several gardens, a series of small neighborhood mosques, and an astronomical observatory, as well as the renovation of several dargahs.3 Together with these architectural shifts, the idea of Delhi, as represented in literary texts, also underwent a transformation. When the French merchant Jean-Baptiste Tavernier had visited ­Delhi in 1676, most of his attention was focused on the Red Fort. Tavernier’s account of his visit to the city describes the palace-fortress and its strict ceremonial in great detail, while mentioning other parts of the city only in passing.4 Sixty years later, when Dargah Quli Khan visited the Mughal ­capital, his interest was drawn by the very spaces and activities that Tavernier bypassed: the teeming, vibrant public spaces of the city beyond the palace walls. Thus the older social and urban order of the seventeenth century, which was dictated by the centrality of the imperial palace-fortress and its symbolic representation of the emperor, was replaced by a city configuration in which suburban and non-royal spaces played a greater role in both the urban experience on the ground and in an urban imaginary elaborated in literary texts. ­Safavid, and Mughal Palaces” Ars Orientalis 23 (1993): 312–17; Ebba Koch, Mughal Architecture: An Outline of Its History and Development (Munich: Prestel, 1991), 106–14. 3 Chanchal Dadlani, “‘Twilight’ in Delhi? Architecture, Aesthetics, and Urbanism in the Late Mughal Empire” (Harvard University, 2009), Chapter 2; Hermann Goetz, “The Qudsia Bagh at Delhi: Key to Late Moghul Architecture,” Islamic Culture 26, no. 1 (1952): 132–43; Susan N. JohnsonRoehr, “The Spatialization of Knowledge and Power at the Astronomical Observatories of Sawai Jai Singh ii, C. 1721– 1743 ce” (PhD diss., University of Illinois, 2011); Ebba Koch, “The Madrasa of Ghaziuʾd-Din Khan at Delhi,” in The Delhi College: Traditional Elites, the Colonial State, and Education Before 1857, ed. Margrit Pernau (New Delhi: Oxford ­University Press, 2006), 35–59. 4 Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, Travels in India, V. Ball trans. ­(London: Macmillan and Co, 1889), 96–101.

149 These developments took place during a period of marked political upheaval in Mughal ­India. Economic, military, and political power was ­redistributed across the empire, with significant ­repercussions for the imperial capital at Delhi.5 Three different emperors ruled in quick succession between 1707–1719 – one for only one year – and imperial authority was undermined by the machinations of high-ranking nobles.6 Muhammad Shah’s (r. 1719–1748) accession brought some stability back to the court, although it was during his reign that Delhi would be invaded and sacked in 1739 by the Iranian Nadir Shah (r. 1736–1747).7 This essay explores this dynamic moment in Delhi’s urban history. It shows how, as imperial ­authority diminished, new types of spaces and buildings opened up the possibility for an encounter with the city that was less constrained by the monumental and the monolithic. Far from rejecting this new urban order, the Mughal emperors 5 Alam, Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and the Punjab, 1707–48 (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998). 6 These were Bahadur Shah (r. 1707–1712), Jahandar Shah (r. 1712–1713), and Farrukh Siyar (r. 1713–1719). This period of instability is detailed in Richards, The Mughal Empire, 253–73. 7 On the artistic climate in Delhi during the reign of ­Muhammad Shah, see William Dalrymple and Yuthika Sharma, Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi (New H ­ aven and New York: The Asia Society and Yale University Press, 2012). For a fuller discussion of events surrounding the ­Nadir Shah invasion, see Alam, Crisis of Empire, 50–53; and Satish Chandra, Parties and Politics at the Mughal Court, 1707–1740 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002), 280–92. ­Because of the extent of the massacre and the ­monumental losses to the imperial treasury, which was essentially drained, the Nadir Shah attack has been portrayed in understandably catastrophic terms. At the same time, historians have also pointed out that the city appears to have continued to function, with the city’s economy quickly recovering and cultural activity resuming. See Chandra, “Cultural and Political Role of Delhi, 1675–1725,” in Delhi Through the Ages: Selected Essays in Urban History, Culture and Society, ed. R.E. Frykenberg (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993), 106–18. While the Muraqqaʿ acknowledges the Nadir Shah invasion and ­alludes to its impact, this episode does not figure prominently in ­Dargah Quli’s narrative of city life.

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themselves capitalized on it. Imperial Mughal building projects highlighted the importance of highly trafficked public spaces, specifically dargahs. Whereas earlier emperors had been buried in monumental mausolea set in extensive funerary gardens, such as the tomb of Humayun (1562–71), the later Mughal emperors were buried in marble screen enclosures that were integrated into the precincts of dargahs. In other words, the major imperial monuments of the period came about in relation to a newly emerging urban subjectivity, defined here as a way of being in and perceiving the city, both as a place and as an idea. It is this very sense of urban subjectivity that permeates Dargah Quli Khan’s text, showing how profoundly the architectural shifts of the time were felt. As I demonstrate, an architecturally-revised Delhi both embraced and enabled new ways of relating to the city, articulated in the built and literary record alike.

New Architectural Projects and the Changing Cityscape

Two areas that became central in the reconfiguration of greater Delhi were the neighborhoods surrounding the dargahs of the Chishti saints Nizam al-Din and Qutb Sahib Bakhtiyar Kaki (see Fig. 6.1). In earlier Mughal times, these spaces had been visited by the emperors, but had never been truly central in the urban order. In the sixteenth century, Babur included stops at these two shrines on his ceremonial visit to Delhi. Two generations later, Akbar concentrated his attention solely on the dargah of Nizam al-Din, sponsoring a monumental mausoleum for his father Humayun in the vicinity of the shrine. Subsequently, in the seventeenth century, the tomb of Humayun itself became a pilgrimage destination for the Mughal emperors, eclipsing the Nizam al-Din dargah. The shrines remained important sites of popular pilgrimage, and lower-ranking Mughal officials continued to sponsor small building projects at the Nizam al-Din dargah, but neither was a site of imperial patronage. And with the completion of the walled city of Shahjahanabad by the

Figure 6.1

Map of Delhi highlighting ­Shahjahanabad, Nizamuddin, and Mehrauli. After Lucy Peck, Delhi: A Thousand Years of Building, 218.

­ id-­seventeenth century, the extramural spaces m of Nizam al-Din and Mehrauli became peripheral in the imperially-proscribed symbolic order than emanated from the city.8 This situation changed substantially in the eighteenth century. The later Mughal emperors concentrated patronage at these shrines, which were transformed into increasingly prominent, central spaces in the urban order. By the mideighteenth century, marble burial enclosures in the precincts of Chishti shrines emerged as the preferred form for royal Mughal funerary architecture. This practice had its roots as early as the grave of the emperor ʿAlamgir-Aurangzeb, located at the shrine of Burhan al-Din in Khuldabad, Aurangabad, while the form of a marble lattice 8 Ebba Koch, “Shah Jahan’s Visits to Delhi Prior to 1648: New Evidence of Ritual Movement in Urban Mughal India,” Environmental Design 9, 11 (1991): 18–29.

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Figure 6.2

Plan of the Dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Zafar Mahal Palace, Moti Masjid and burial ­enclosure of Bahadur Shah, Delhi, 14th–20th centuries. From H.C. Fanshawe, Shah Jahan’s Delhi, 280.

screen surrounding a burial site was seen as early as the 1640s in the Taj Mahal, with the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan.9 But this type of imperial Mughal burial expanded in the eighteenth century, so that such burial enclosures were combined with gateways, long processional screens, and mosques. Moreover, such intimate mausolea took the imperial presence beyond the walls of Shahjahanabad, integrating it into more highly trafficked zones. The dargah of Qutb Sahib Bakhtiyar Kaki (d.  1235) in Mehrauli enjoyed a particularly notable resurgence at this time. Though a venerated site since the medieval period, the dargah turned into a major center of Mughal patronage in Delhi over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A disciple of Muʿin al-Din Chishti, 9 Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 260.

Bakhtiyar Kaki had been sent to Delhi in the early thirteenth century. He lived in Mehrauli on the site of the later dargah; after his death, the site grew into a popular religious shrine during the Sultanate and Lodi p ­ eriods.10 Prior to the eighteenth century, the shrine does not seem to have been the focus of Mughal patronage, although Babur visited upon his entry into Delhi in 1526.11 But other than this instance, there is little evidence of imperial Mughal activity at the shrine during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Patronage was instead focused on other sites, such as the tomb of Selim Chishti in Fatehpur-Sikri and the dargah of Muʿin al-Din Chishti at Ajmer.12 It was only with the building projects of the early 1700s that the Mughal emperors ushered in a sustained period of architectural development around the shrine of Bakhtiyar Kaki. At the core of this dargah is the grave of the saint. In the spaces surrounding it, additional graves have been added, along with mosques and assembly halls, enclosure walls, and a series of gateways, dating from the fourteenth to nineteenth centuries (see Fig. 6.2).13 These later insertions do not appear to follow a strict sense of order or clear organizational logic; for example, graves from a particular time period are not all concentrated 10

See Annemarie Schimmel, Islam in the Indian Subcontinent (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1980), 14, 24–25, and 37. The location of the shrine in Mehrauli, in the vicinity of the Qutb Minar complex, makes sense given that this was the religious center of the Delhi Sultanate during the reign of Sultan Iltutmish (r. 1210–1236), when Bakhtiyar Kaki had come to Delhi. The shrine’s importance during the Lodi period is attested by the story that before defending Delhi against Husain Sharqi of Jaunpur, the Lodi Sultan Buhlul (r. 1451–1489) went to the tomb of Bakhtiyar Kaki and prayed there all night, standing on foot. 11 Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 293. 12 Ibid., 56–58, and 174–78; and Koch, Mughal Architecture, 64–66, and 120–21. 13 The dome covering the grave and marble balustrade surrounding it are nineteenth century additions; until then, the grave remained uncovered and unadorned. Zafar Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 3, 49.

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Figure 6.3

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Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah, Delhi, 1709. Photograph by author.

in one specific area, nor does a sense of ­axiality ­govern the arrangement of buildings or movement through the entire space. Instead, in keeping with the spatial economy of shrines, proximity to the grave of the saint was clearly the main ­priority in the development of the dargah over time. This concern was reflected by the early eighteenthcentury Mughal emperors, whose additions were adjacent to the grave of Bakhtiyar Kaki. One such insertion is the small mosque and tomb complex just to the west of the dargah, sharing its exterior wall (see Fig. 6.3). The threedomed, marble mosque, one of several known as the Moti Masjid, or Pearl Mosque, dates to 1709, during the reign of Bahadur Shah.14 The burial

enclosure houses the cenotaphs of several eighteenth- and nineteenth-century emperors, including Ahmad Shah, Shah Alam ii, and Akbar Shah. It is composed of solid marble and latticework (jali) panels with cusped arch motifs surrounding a group of marble cenotaphs, and is entered through a doorway on the southern wall of the mosque courtyard.15 The scale is intimate, the transition between mosque and tomb almost immediate, and the ensemble is unified through the materiality of marble, which in the Mughal

14 Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 294; R. Nath, Monuments of Delhi: Historical Study (New Delhi, Ambika,

15

1979), 65; and Zafar Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 2, 32. It is possible that a member of the imperial family or a deputy of Bahadur Shah was responsible for the mosque. Carr Stephen, The Archaeology and Monumental Remains of Delhi (Ludhiana: Mission Press, 1876), 103.

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context had clear associations with spiritual purity.16 The result is an immersive space that balances the experience of personal devotion with the possibility of assembly and congregation. This same, diminutive sense of scale and the use of marble were continued in the imperial projects of the subsequent emperor, Farrukh S­ iyar (r. 1713–1719), who commissioned two small marble gateways at the shrine, as well as a long marble screen demarcating the space around the grave of Bakhtiyar Kaki (see Figs. 6.4 & 6.5). While the mosque and burial enclosure discussed above are still technically outside of the dargah, the Farrukh Siyar additions were more directly integrated into the area of the shrine, and had the effect of reconfiguring spatial experience within it: the extended marble screen, culminating in two gateways mediating movement into the space of the saint’s grave, introduced an element of procession and axiality into the space of the shrine, formalizing entry and delineating a clear boundary between sacred and secular space (see Fig. 6.6). The first gateway is a slender marble structure, a simple pointed archway with a series of inscriptions on its upper half. Inscribed across the top are the names of God, the Prophet, and the four caliphs; underneath this is an inscription that proclaims an imperial presence at the shrine: “By the order of the emperor of the world, the king of the people Farrukh Siyar, who is the emperor having nine firmaments for his slaves, Round the grave of the chief of the faith and the pole star of the nine heavens, about whose mausoleum mankind and angels walk

16

The Mughal historian Lahauri (d. 1654), for instance, describing the architecture of the period, wrote that “sky-touching mansions of marble were built which reflect like the mirror of Alexander and are pure like the heart of spiritual persons.” Quoted in Ebba Koch, Complete Taj Mahal (London: Thames & Hudson, 2006), 216.

A beautiful and well-arranged enclosure was built which is as exalted as Qibla and as sacred as Kaʿba.”17 The inscription explains that Farrukh Siyar was responsible for the marble enclosure surrounding the grave of the saint. Moreover, it underscores a new modality of articulating urban space. Rather than anchoring a city or neighborhood with a monumental building, the Mughal emperor now exalts the grave of this saint and surrounding shrines areas, folding the imperial presence into a highly charged space of spiritual devotion and congregation. Given the dramatic loss of political power experienced by the Mughal center at this time, a­ ccessing alternative means of legitimacy was ­imperative. By building at the Bakhtiyar Kaki dargah, the ­Mughal emperors emphasized their h ­ istorical associations with the Chishti order, drawing on the spiritual authority afforded by such an affiliation.18 In addition, patronage at the shrines connected the present emperors to their own, collective imperial past, allowing them to appropriate the legacy of the Mughal empire itself as a source of legitimacy. The gateway of ­Farrukh Siyar, for example, has been interpreted as a quotation of the forms comprising the mosque sponsored by Shah Jahan at the dargah of Muʿin al-Din Chishti at Ajmer.19 This would visually link the patronage of Farrukh Siyar at the Bakhtiyar Kaki dargah to the patronage practices of his predecessors, and in particular, Shah Jahan at Ajmer. The additions thus mediated between the legacy of the Mughal past and the context of the present, linking urban and historical subjectivities.

17 18

19

Zafar Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 2, 46. Asher raises this point with reference to patronage at the dargah, Architecture of Mughal India, 293, also citing Matsuo Ara, Dargahs in Medieval India (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Toyo Bunka Kenkyujp, 1977), 179–80. Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 295.

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Figure 6.4

Gateway of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19. Photograph by author.

Figure 6.5

Screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19. Photograph by author.

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The extensive patronage at this shrine heralded its renewed importance as a site within the symbolic landscape of Delhi. Later in the eighteenth century, the Mughal emperors Ahmad Shah, Shah Alam ii, and Akbar Shah were interred alongside Bahadur Shah. In the nineteenth century, noble families, such as the nawabs of Loharu, even built self-contained, dynastic graveyards near the tomb (see Fig. 6.7). Additionally, the nineteenth-­century Mughal emperors Akbar Shah ii and Bahadur Shah Zafar constructed and expanded a palace, known as the Zafar Mahal, to the immediate west of the shrine. This heightened building activity suggests an increase in the use of the space over time; the shrine must have become a more frequented zone during the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth. The construction of a majlis khāna (assembly hall) at the site in the eighteenth century also indicates that gatherings were held here during the period. While it is likely that there were assemblies at the site prior to this time, the majlis khāna points to the formalization of such a practice. The growth in the popularity and status of this shrine, located as it was in Mehrauli, indicates that spaces

Figure 6.6

Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19. Photograph by author.

Figure 6.7

Burial enclosure of the Nawabs of Loharu, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, 1802. Photograph by author.

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outside of the Shahjahanabad city walls became increasingly important in the eighteenth century, resulting in a broader delineation of city limits and subverting the urban order that was established under Shah ­Jahan and that held sway in the seventeenth century. This urban re-ordering was also effected through the renovation and augmentation of another key shrine in the city, the dargah of Nizam al-Din (d. 1325). Like Bakhtiyar Kaki, Nizam al-Din Awliya was a sufi of the Chishti order. While alive, his khanqah was a vital center of religious learning and contained a jamaʿat khāna (residential hall) for his followers. Upon his death in 1325, Nizam al-Din was buried not far from his khanqah; his grave serves as the core of the present dargah.20 In 1748 the emperor Muhammad Shah was buried in a white marble screen enclosure similar to that of Bahadur Shah (see Fig. 6.8). While closer to Shahjahanabad than the shrine of Bakhtiyar Kaki, the dargah of Nizam al-Din was still notable for drawing urban crowds outside of the precincts of the walled capital. Historically, the shrine had been the site of extensive building activity during the Delhi Sultanate period (1206–1526), particularly in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. During the Mughal period, the dargah of Nizam al-Din continued to be a significant site of patronage and pilgrimage, in marked contrast to that of Bakhtiyar Kaki. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Mughal emperors and the nobles in their service sponsored renovations and additions to the shrine, from the rebuilding of the tomb over the saint’s grave (turning it into a domed structure with a stone lattice screen), to the construction of the tomb of Akbar’s 20

Hussein Keshani details the development of the Nizam al-Din dargah through the Sultanate and Mughal periods in his m.a. thesis “Building Nizamuddin: A Delhi Sultanate Dargah and its Surrounding Buildings” (m.a., University of Manitoba, 1992). For a discussion of the earliest building activity at the site, see especially 48–50. See also Schimmel, Islam in the Indian Subcontinent, 27–29.

Figure 6.8

Burial enclosure of Muhammad Shah, dargah of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 1748. Photograph by Suzan Yalman.

foster brother Atgah Khan in 1566–67, which lies just yards away from the tomb of the saint.21 Perhaps the most prominent Mughal project in the neighborhood of the shrine was the monumental tomb and funerary garden of Humayun (r. 1530– 1543, 1555–1556), commissioned by the emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and completed in 1562–71 by the architect Mirak Mirza Ghiyas and his son.22 21 22

See Keshani, “Building Nizamuddin,” 164–74. For more on the tomb of Humayun see Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 43–47; Brand, “Orthodoxy, Innovation, and Revival: Considerations of the Past in Imperial Mughal Tomb Architecture,” in Muqarnas 10 (1993): 323–34; Koch, Mughal Architecture, 43–44; Neeru Misra, Garden Tomb of Humayun: An Abode in Paradise (New Delhi: Aryan Books International, 2003);

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Figure 6.9

Plan of the dargah of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 13th–20th centuries From H.C. Fanshawe, Shah Jahan’s Delhi, 236.

Entered through a small gateway, the white marble enclosure of Muhammad Shah is a more restricted and formalized space than that of Bahadur Shah. The gateway follows a typology established by the monumental pishtaqs of imperial Mughal mausolea, from Humayun’s tomb to the Taj Mahal. Its miniaturization allows for its integration into the intimate space of the shrine, even as it invokes the grand tradition of imperial Mughal tombs. A cusped, vaulted arch features muqarnas niches and netting, and deeply carved flower and Ruggles, “Humayun’s Tomb and Garden: Typologies and Visual Order,” in Gardens in the Time of the Great Muslim Empires: Theory and Design, ed. Attilio Petruccioli (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 173–86.

and vine motifs unfold on the spandrels. The remainder of the enclosure is composed of simple, rectangular jali panels with a carved ornamental parapet. In using these forms, the burial enclosure forms a contiguous structure with the pre-existing burial enclosure of Jahan Ara (d. 1681), the daughter of Shah Jahan, which is similarly constituted of white marble jali screens and a decorative parapet.23 These white marble structures stand out from their immediate surroundings and clearly mark an imperial presence at the shrine. In turn, visitors to the shrine would come into constant contact with the enclosures, as they are situated mere steps away from the tomb of Nizam al-Din, with no structures placed in between the royal graves and that of the saint (see Figs. 6.9 and 6.10). Therefore, the tombs of Jahan Ara, Muhammad Shah, and Nizam al-Din are part of a continuous spatial experience; to visit one grave is to visit all three. This spatial configuration demonstrates that imperial Mughal patronage at the Delhi Chishti shrines only grew more visible as the shrines became ever more popular over the course of the century. Collectively, these imperial burial sites reveal the inversion of an older, seventeenth-century urban order, in which the spatial configuration of the city radiated from the restricted, private zone that was the imperial Red Fort. Instead, eighteenth-­ century emperors responded to and reinforced an urban subjectivity rooted in spaces that were not only visible but accessible – including, but not limited to, shrines. Small neighborhood mosques also multiplied at this time, often built by the nobility, such as the Fakhr al-Masajid, or Pride of the Mosques (1728–29), sponsored by Fakhr 23

On Jahan Ara and her relationship to the Chishti order, see Afshan Bokhari, “Gendered ‘Landscapes’: Jahanara Begum’s Patronage, Piety and Self-Representation in 17th Century Mughal India” (PhD diss., University of Vienna, 2009); and “The ‘Light’ of the Timuria: Jahan Ara Begum’s Patronage, Piety, and Poetry in 17th Century Mughal India,” Marg (September 2008), 52–61.

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Figure 6.10

Dargah of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 13th–20th centuries. Photograph by Suzan Yalman.

al-Nisa, a woman whose husband had served the emperor ʿAlamgir.24 While in form these small mosques echoed Mughal imperial monuments – in this case, the reference was the Friday mosque of Shah Jahan – they subtly undermined imperial order as well. Mosques such as this formed the nuclei of neighborhoods that grew commercially and socially autonomous, and that drew urban activity away from the former city center. In this instance, the mosque is located far north of the Red Fort, just short of the city walls and its northfacing Kashmiri Gate. Subsequently, Qudsiyya Begum, the wife of the emperor Muhammad Shah, would build a garden complex not far from here

24

Dadlani, “‘Twilight’ in Delhi?” Chapter 2; Stephen, Archaeology and Monumental Remains, 157; and Zafar Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 1, 183.

in the late 1740s, beyond the city walls.25 Such eighteenth-century building activity in the Kashmiri Gate area brought it into play spatially, and it would become a major urban site in later years, particularly for the British: this is where the British Residency would be located, as well as St. James’ Church. Thus through scale and location, new patrons and builders succeeded in forming multiple, intimate, and alternative spaces in Delhi. The newly fashioned urban zones of eighteenthcentury Delhi were the very spaces that were frequented and celebrated by Dargah Quli Khan in the Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı. In its representation of urban space, this text reveals the excitement of ­Delhi’s myriad spaces, from its vibrant shrines to its mesmerizing marketplaces and lively literary and musical gatherings, further illuminating the 25

Dadlani, “‘Twilight’ in Delhi?” Chapter 2; Goetz, “The Qudsia Bagh.”

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a­rchitectural priorities of the time and reveal- production of first-person narratives in the Indoing just how critical and current the eighteenth-­ Persian world, including both travel narratives and autobiographies, which offered new, alternative century imperial interventions were. viewpoints.28 Yet with its interest in urban depiction, the Muraqqaʿ relates to other forms of Persian litera The Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı and Urban Depiction ture as well, such as tazkiras. Often generically Lying between multiple genres that focus on space characterized as “biographical dictionaries,” these and place, the Muraqqaʿ stands out as an unusual are actually multi-dimensional texts. Besides protext, offering information about the urban cul- viding biographical information about poets or ture of the city not found in other sources. It is, saints (among the most common subjects of tazfirst and foremost, a Persianate travel narrative kiras), these texts also shed light on social lineages (safarnāma), part of a large corpus of texts that and networks as well as the courtly and urban attest to the circulation of people between and spaces occupied by these groups.29 Echoes of this within India, Iran, Central Asia, and the Ottoman genre, both in terms of format and content, can be domains in the early modern period, and that seen in the Muraqqaʿ. This is perhaps most clear have received increasing scholarly attention in in the latter part of the work, which comprises a recent years.26 In the eighteenth and nineteenth catalog of poets, musicians, and entertainers of century, the scope and orientation of such travel various kinds. But the earlier part of the work, narratives changed, as travelers moved across the too, seems influenced by the logic and structure globe with increasing frequency.27 Linked to this of t­ azkiras, though amended: the text opens with development was the dramatic increase in the a catalogue of the major shrines of Delhi, so that the text is organized not by a list of people, but of places. In order to describe life in the city, Dargah 26 For example see Alam and Subrahmanyam’s Indo-­ Quli begins by describing its major spaces. Persian Travels; idem, “Discovering the Familiar.” In this respect, the text engages with a third 27 Juan Cole addresses Indo-Persian writers encounterPersian literary tradition, that of the shahrāshūb ing Great Britain and British-controlled India in “Invispoem. Translated literally as “city disturber,” the ible Occidentalism: Eighteenth-Century Indo-Persian Constructions of the West,” Iranian Studies 25, no. 3/4 shahrāshūb mode originally celebrated the beauty (1992): 3–16. On Iranian depictions of India in the early of a city-dweller engaged in his craft or trade, fillnineteenth century, see idem., “Mirror of the World: ing the space of the city with his energy and beauIranian ‘Orientalism’ and Early 19th‐century India,” ty. Over time, such poems increasingly focused on Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 5, no. 8 (1996): the qualities of the urban centers these figures oc41–60. For travelers from Qajar Iran writing about cupied, so that by the seventeenth century, major voyages to Europe, see Monica Ringer, “The Quest for the Secret of Strength in Iranian Nineteenth-Century Travel Literature: Rethinking Tradition in the Safarnameh,” in Iran and the Surrounding World: Interactions in Culture and Cultural Politics, eds. Nikki Keddie and Rudi Matthee (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2002), 146–61; and Nagmeh Sohrabi, Taken for Wonder: Nineteenth-Century Travel Accounts from Iran to Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).For the related topic of 19th-century Urdu writing related to travel, see Daniel Majchrowicz, “Travel and the Means to Victory: Urdu Travel Writing and Aspiration in Islamicate South Asia” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2015).

28

29

See Mana Kia, “Contours of Persianate Community, 1722–1835” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2011), especially Chapter 2 where Kia discusses the self-reflexive aspect of tazkira literature in eighteenth-century India. Marcia Hermansen and Bruce Lawrence, “Indo-Persian Tazkiras as Memorative Communications,” in Beyond Turk and Hindu: Rethinking Religious Identities in Islamicate South Asia, eds. David Gilmartin and Bruce Lawrence (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 2000), 149–75; and Kia, “Contours of Persianate Community,” esp. 256–64.

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cities in the eastern Islamic lands had poems dedicated to them.30 In Islamicate India, there were poems eulogizing individual architectural projects, to topographical poems that provide sweeping “verbal panoramas” in verse. These praised the cities of the southern Deccan region to the northern Mughal capital city of Agra.31 The vivid descriptions found in these poems are echoed by those found in the Muraqqaʿ. Indeed, the richness of the Muraqqaʿ relates to its hybrid quality: it draws on and combines aspects of these various genres to provide an animated, urbanist-minded window onto the city. The Muraqqaʿ suggests that there was a marked and fundamental transition taking place in the social and cultural order, and that the spaces of the city both enabled this shift and were transformed by it. Rather than focus on major monuments such as the Red Fort or Jamiʿ Masjid, Dargah Quli engages in a conceptual mapping of the city that encompasses a multitude of spaces, especially those that emerged as imperial priorities in the eighteenth century. The structure of his narrative is based on his experience of the city, and the elements of religious and non-religious congregation, recreation, entertainment, transgression, and experiment that contributed to that experience. Throughout, it is space that enables experience. Even when profiling individuals, Dargah Quli seems unable to resist reflecting upon and representing space. His portrayal of the wealthy noble and patron Mirza Abdul Khaliq Varasta turns into an extensive description of his haveli; his account of the poet Hazeen includes a section detailing the way in which the courtyard of his house is set up for 30

31

Sharma, “The City of Beauties in Indo-Persian Poetic Landscape,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 24 (2004): 73–74; idem., “‘If There Is a Paradise on Earth, It Is Here’: Urban Ethnography in Indo-Persian Poetic and Historical Texts,” in Forms of Knowledge in Early Modern Asia: Explorations in the Intellectual History of India and Tibet, 1500–1800, ed. Sheldon Pollock (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011), 240–56. Ibid., 74–76.

performances.32 Thus his chronicle of poets and patrons equally functions as a catalog of spatial and sensory experience. In his descriptions of architecture and space, there is a marked emphasis on shrines and shrine culture, matching the architectural concerns evinced by imperial builders. Dargah Quli begins the narrative by first focusing on five of the major religious centers in Delhi: a Qadam Sharif shrine, or shrine of the Holy Footprint, dedicated to ­Muhammad; a shrine housing the footprint of ʿAli; and then the shrines of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Nizam al-Din, and Chiragh Delhi. In most of these accounts, Dargah Quli begins by first locating the site in terms of its distance either from the Red Fort or the Purana Qila, suggesting that the nucleus of Delhi remained Shahjahanabad even as a greater cityscape grew around it. He then goes on to speak of the sanctity of the site in question, extolling Muhammad and ʿAli and eulogizing the saints buried in each of the three dargahs. The majority of his narrative, however, concentrates on describing the activities taking place at each of these shrines. Highlighting moments of high traffic, he notes on which days pilgrims converge on each of these spaces, such as the busy Thursdays at the ­Qadam Sharif shrine, when the path of the pilgrim is “filled with a thousand obstacles.”33 Though he is not primarily concerned with describing the architecture of the shrines, Dargah Quli does offer occasional remarks on architectural details or edifices that especially impress him. At the dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, for example, he praises the jali screen commissioned by Farrukhsiyar, speaking of the “elegance” (nazākat) of the lattice work and the transparency (shafāfi) of the marble (sang-i marmar).34 Besides remarking on the architecture, Dargah Quli also perceives that the shrines serve as centers of urban growth. 32

33 34

Dargah Quli Khan, Muraqqaʿ, 79, 83. These and other citations in this section refer to the published Persian text edited by Anjum, see f.n. 1. Translations are mine. Ibid., 51. Ibid., 54.

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In the case of the Qadam Sharif of Firoz Shah, many have chose to be buried in the environs, while at the shrine of Nizam al-Din, those who work at the shrine reside in its vicinity, resulting in the growth of the neighborhood. In turn, this neighborhood is supported by the heavy traffic that the shrine attracts.35 But for the most part, Dargah Quli is far more interested in the activities – religious and ­otherwise – that take place at the shrines and in their immediate surroundings. Reflecting on the commercial aspect of these sites, he speaks of the shops and traders at the Qadamgah of ʿAli and at the ­dargah of Nizam al-Din.36 In addition, his observations also suggest that visits to the shrines were linked with trips for recreation and pleasure. For example, after visiting the Bakhtiyar Kaki d­ argah, people would take excursions to the surrounding meadows and springs, as they would to the gardens surrounding the dargah of Nizam al-Din after pilgrimage to that site.37 Pleasure is also afforded by musical performances, as at the dargah of Chiragh Delhi where Dargah Quli enjoys the sounds of the moor chang and pakhawaj.38 When he does portray religious activity, Dargah Quli focuses on the spectacular, favoring depictions of important holidays or festivals and offering evocative images and sounds. In his relation of the ʿurs ceremonies at the dargah of Nizam al-Din, for instance, he remarks on the throng of devotees and the qawwals who sing through the night, which “channels the sheikhs and sufis to a state of ecstasy.”39 After portraying the city’s shrines, Dargah Quli goes on to describe myriad other public spaces, including boulevards, squares, and bazaars, and from there, performances and literary readings 35 36 37 38

39

Ibid., 55. Ibid., 52, 54–55. Ibid., 53, 54. Ibid., 55–56. Steingass states that Pakhāwaj was the name of a celebrated Indian musician; here, the term refers possibly to music performed in his style, or an instrument he popularized. Moor chang might refer to a type of harp. Ibid., 54–55.

that range from semi-public to private affairs. As the narrative develops, we see an ongoing interest in moments of spectacle, pleasure, and even transgression, alongside remarks about the reconfiguration of the social order and mixing of social classes. The major public avenues of Shahjahanabad are depicted as vibrant, slightly chaotic city centers where a variety of goods are available, people of different backgrounds intermingle, and striking tableaux present themselves to the casual observer moving through the streets. Dargah Quli describes Chandni Chowk, the boulevard running from the Lahore Gate of the Red Fort: “Of all the marketplaces it is the most colorful, and of all the streets, the most bedecked. It is the place of recreation and house of spectacle for pleasure-seekers. In its shops are goods of all sorts, and merchandise of every kind are displayed for customers. Rarities wink from its corners and exquisite things beguile from its nooks.”40 Goods for sale in the many stores lining Chandni Chowk assault Dargah Quli’s senses: as he breathes perfumes and essences from the shops of attars wafting out on to the street, he beholds glittering rubies and luminous pearls, glistening swords and daggers, exquisite glass and porcelain wares, gilded huqqas and wine cups.41 This walk along Chandni Chowk reveals that the boulevard functions not only as a major traffic artery and commercial center, but also as a space of visual display and sensory consumption.42 Dargah Quli does not speak of the goods for sale in material terms of 40 41 42

Ibid., 61. My thanks to Wheeler Thackston for his help in translating this passage. Ibid., 61–62. The scene recalls the figure of the flâneur in the French context. See Vanessa Schwartz, Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-De-Siècle Paris (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); and Lisa Tiersten, Marianne in the Market: Envisioning Consumer Society in Fin-De-Siècle France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001).

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acquisition, but rather lingers on the pleasure he derives from visual consumption. The commercial vibrancy of the city is inextricably linked to the visual pleasure it affords. But people, as much as things, attract Dargah Quli Khan’s attention. The description of Chowk Saʾadullah Khan, which extends from the eastern gateway of the Jamiʿ Masjid to the Delhi Gate of the Red Fort, suggests that not only is there an equally dizzying variety of wares available in its bazaars, but that the city streets also act as a theater for viewing the people of the city.43 Dargah Quli takes in handsome young men dancing, crowds of people idly milling about, and fortune tellers seated on wooden chairs, whom he compares to maulvis on the pulpits. This comparison alludes to the Jamiʿ Masjid steps away, and is apt given the constant blurring of the boundary between religious and secular social spaces. His fascination with the people encountered in these public spaces is linked to poetic conventions of the time, especially the shahrāshūb mode discussed above. M ­ oreover, the same encompassing view that brings together urban space and city dweller is found in the inscriptional record. We recall that in the gateway of Farrukhsiyar, the inscription, besides naming the emperor as the patron of the marble screen, celebrates the beauty of the people who frequent the shrine. Dargah Quli does not restrict such vivid descriptions of objects and people to the city’s commercial zones. Instead, there is a similarity between these and his observations of sacred spaces. His writing suggests a permeability of spatial boundaries between religious and secular zones and speaks to the reconceptualization of social spaces that characterized eighteenth-century Delhi’s architectural culture. For instance, Dargah Quli’s description of the six-day Basant celebrations at the various shrines of Delhi is replete with details that recall his portrayal of the chowks of Shahjahanabad. There are colorful flowers and beautiful women with porcelain bottles of perfume, the 43

Dargah Quli Khan, 60–61.

smell of ambergris fills the air, perfume is sprinkled over the pilgrims, and qawwals perform to an enraptured audience; in short, the vibrancy that characterizes the atmosphere of Chandni Chowk and Chowk Saʾadullah Khan is found once again in the shrines during Basant. Furthermore, the Basant festivities are celebrated in a different shrine for the first five days and culminate in the residences of the emperor and high-ranking nobles on the sixth day. Thus this religious celebration crosses from religious to secular spaces, moving from shrines to palaces and mansions.44 There are other instances of social practices that occur across the seemingly contained categories of “religious” and “secular.” An explicit example of a single space that retains both a religious and recreational function is the residence of Majnun Nanak Shahi, an ascetic who is said to have Hindu and Muslim followers. While disciples visit him for ostensibly pious reasons, Dargah Quli informs the reader that this is also a popular boating spot.45 Similarly, just as the city’s shrines are the site of large congregations on specific, set days, popular musicians host standing performances in their residences, with the same regularity as religious services.46 At times, the lack of delineation of religious spaces, and concomitant deregulation of sanctioned behavior, slips into moments of true transgression, often invoked by the presence or absence of the muhtasib (censor of morals). Whereas taking an evening stroll in the gardens surrounding a shrine is viewed as an acceptable form of diversion, Dargah Quli Khan notes the impropriety he witnesses near the grave of Bahadur Shah at the shrine of Bakhtiyar Kaki, where the amorous and the debauched fail to heed the muhtasib.47 In another instance, Dargah Quli speaks of a residential quarter that is so crime-ridden and dangerous that even the muhtasib avoids it. And at the grave 44 45 46 47

Ibid., 71–73. Ibid., 66. Ibid., 90, 91, 94, 100, 101. Ibid., 58.

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of Mir Musharraf, in a garden near the dargah of Nizam al-Din, lovers fall under the spell of flowers and fragrances so sweet that Dargah Quli claims they would intoxicate even the muhtasib. These disruptions to decorum are matched by disturbances to the social hierarchy, a development with ramifications for urban space and its experience. In his narrative, Dargah Quli reveals a hierarchical system that underlies and governs the patronage of the arts, the attendance at specific events, and even the possession of objects, all of which are connected to the status both of patrons and of artists. For instance, Baqir Tamburchi, a particularly gifted musician, is accorded importance because of his position as an imperially-­sponsored musician.48 When describing the musicians Shah Nawaz Sabuche and Shah Daniyal, Dargah Quli lists their talents and makes the point that wealthy people in particular hold mehfils to hear the musicians.49 At the eclectic mehfils held by the noble and poet Jaʿfar ʿAli Khan Miran, high-ranking nobles are seated in a separate section, demarcated by fine carpets, and are served special fruits and wines.50 But other moments in the text suggest a breakdown of social hierarchies. The courtesan Nur Bai, we are told, lives in a house full of the types of objects usually kept in the homes of nobles of high rank,51 and the mehfils of the noble Latif Khan, a high-ranking mansabdar at the court of Muhammad Shah, are reportedly so popular that even the elite are not guaranteed admission.52 Many times, whether discussing a mehfil or a shrine, Dargah Quli makes a point of stating that a mixed public, comprising those of high rank as well as a more general population, frequent the space or event.53 48 49 50 51 52 53

Ibid., 92. Ibid., 94, 98. Ibid., 73. Ibid., 104. Ibid., 70. Two examples are the crowds in attendance at the Qadamgah of ʿAli during Muharram and at the weekly assemblies at the dargah of Nizam al-Din, ibid., 52–55.

While this “public” did not encompass all social classes, Dargah Quli’s narrative still indicates a broadening of social strata at attendance in any given urban space, and more importantly, a fundamental shift in the meta-ordering of the space of the city. These destabilizations also relate to imperial patronage. The patronage and presence of royalty at the dargah of Nizam al-Din is invoked as a sign of the shrine’s importance, as Dargah Quli celebrates the space as attracting even emperors and kings (salāṭīn va khawāqīn).54 At the same time, his description of this space is not driven by a history of royal patronage or attendance; rather, it is the lively spiritual and social activity associated with the shrine that is the focus of his narrative. The Muraqqaʿ ultimately suggests that by the eighteenth century, while imperial patronage remained significant, it was not the sole or even primary means of lending a space importance. Moroever, Dargah Quli suggests that the more open, less regimented social spaces had given rise to an experimentation with forms and the fashioning of new tastes. Performers in the imperial service are characterized by their older musical styles (qidman pasand), which did not appeal to new, younger audiences.55 Thus spaces where social codes were more strictly observed were also the spaces where a classical style was preserved. The transformation of the social order is made most explicit when the narrator discusses courtesans and dancers who have moved from the imperial court to the city. Both Kamal Bai and Pamna, courtesans who had formerly been attached to the court of Muhammad Shah, are said to hold performances attended by a wider population in ­contrast to former times, when their company was forbidden to anyone but the emperor.56 ­Dargah Quli states that since Muhammad Shah suspended ­mehfils at court after the invasion of Nadir Shah, these women were forced to seek employment ­outside 54 55 56

Ibid., 54. Ibid., 95. Ibid., 109–10.

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of the imperial court, which they found with ease. These observations not only point to divergences between activity at court and in the wider city, they also provide an all too brief glimpse into the ways women figured into the changing social system. In his references to other imperial court performers, as in the examples cited above, Dargah Quli simply states that they were affiliated with the court and therefore held in high esteem. Here, Dargah Quli uses the language of control, commenting on the “accessibility” of these women.57 The other issue Dargah Quli raises in this passage is the invasion of Nadir Shah. While scholarship has posited this event as a major turning point in the patronage of the arts at the imperial court, in the Muraqqaʿ, it appears to have less of an impact on the cultural life of the city. Overall, the references to Nadir Shah are few and far between. At one point, Dargah Quli cites a noble who had to contribute to Muhammad Shah’s tribute to Nadir Shah, with the result that his entertainment budget suffered and his mehfils grew more subdued.58 57

58

Little is currently known about women in Mughal India outside the imperial family circle or ranks of nobility, and it is only relatively recently that scholars have focused on elite women in Mughal India. Studies include Bokhari, “Gendered ‘Landscapes’” and “The ‘Light’ of the Timuria”; Gavin Hambly, ed., Women in the Medieval Islamic World: Power, Patronage, and Piety (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998); Ellison Banks Findly, Nur Jahan: Empress of Mughal India (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993); Ruby Lal, Domesticity and Power in the Early Mughal World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and D. Fairchild Ruggles, ed., Women, Patronage, and Self-Representation in Islamic Societies (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000). Durba Ghosh examines women across different strata of society in the context of late-eighteenth-century north India, specifically those who co-habited with European men, in Sex and the Family in Colonial India: the Making of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). Also see Ghosh, “Making and Un-Making Loyal Subjects: Pensioning Widows and Educating Orphans in Early Colonial India,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 31, no. 1 (2003): 1–28. Dargah Quli Khan, Muraqqaʿ, 70–71.

At another moment, he alludes obliquely to the invasion. Yet his very next sentence asserts that nonetheless, singing and entertainment last all night until the morning.59 To a certain extent, this portrayal of a vibrant urban culture, abounding with unusual sights and seemingly unparalleled opportunities for pleasure, undoubtedly reflects Dargah Quli’s particular point of view. The vivid portrayal of the sights and experiences of Delhi have as much to do with Dargah Quli’s fascination with the city as with what was actually there. Besides his demonstrated interest in urban life, other aspects of the narrative reflect his personal concerns. For ­example, Dargah Quli’s Shiʿi identity might have influenced some of the narrative choices he makes: he includes the shrine of ʿAli in the opening pages of his text, inserting it between the Qadam Sharif shrine of Muhammad and the three major Sufi shrines in the city. Moreover, his account of the most renowned performers in the city includes a lengthy section on marsiya khwāns (reciters of elegies), who recite in commemoration during the month of Muharram.60 Many of his descriptions, too, are filled with details concerning music. He comments on the variety of musical styles artists perform, such as Dhruvapad, and the assorted instruments they play, from the dholak to the rebab to the pakhawji.61 Yet even though it reflects Dargah Quli’s unique concerns, it is clear that by the time the text was written between 1738/39-41, new patterns of spatial organization and use were firmly established in Delhi. In each of the urban snapshots and individual profiles he provides, Dargah Quli emphasizes urban activity. When writing about a dargah, he concentrates less on the visual elements of the

59 60 61

Ibid., 91. Ibid., 86–89. On the Muraqqaʿ as a source for music history, see Barlow and Subramanian, “Music and Society in North India”; Chenoy and Shekhar, xxxiii; and Butler Brown, “Dargah Quli Khan’s Strange Vision.”

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space and more on the people he encounters and their interactions. In portraying individuals, he often describes them in the context of large, public and semi-public gatherings, from religious festivals to performances and literary readings. The image that emerges from these pages is of a city of highly populated and frequented urban spaces, spaces that allow for a multifaceted experience of urban life. Within the structural logic of the narrative, visiting a specific series of sites within Delhi is the means to accessing the people and excitement of the city. Concomitantly, buildings and spaces, though often significant because of sacred or historic associations, acquire special meaning when understood as spaces of congregation and interaction. Over the course of the eighteenth century, a new urban subjectivity developed in Delhi, expressed in urban space and through literary texts. Whereas the imperial Red Fort had, in the seventeenth century, once been the defining anchor of urban experience and organization, this ceased to be the case in the eighteenth. New imperial Mughal building projects, particularly at Chishti shrines, were among those that embodied changing sensibilities about the city and its configuration. These building interventions were of an intimate scale, were spatially coincident with areas of lively assembly, and were part of a broader shift in which smallscale architectural projects, sponsored by patrons of various status, proliferated throughout and beyond Shahjahanabad. Formerly peripheral areas north and south of the walled city figured more prominently into the cityscape, its walls no longer delineating its limits. As these former boundaries dissolved, so too did hierarchies between royal builders and the urban elite, and between the sacred and the secular. This shift was inescapable by the time Dargah Quli Khan arrived in Delhi. His narrative reveals the rich range of spaces, stages, and backdrops that all played a role in shaping the visitor’s perception of the city. Since Dargah Quli traveled to Delhi as part of the retinue of Nizam al-Mulk Asaf Jah,

he certainly had exposure to the Red Fort. Therefore, his concentration on life outside the imperial palace-­fortress reflects something more than a lack of access. Such omissions, in favor of the type of varied urban depictions analyzed above, instead speak to the new urban order that firmly governed life in Delhi by the time of Dargah Quli Khan’s visit, and contributed to the constitution of a new sense of the self in relation to the city. Bibliography Alam, Muzaffar. Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and the Punjab, 1707–48. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998. Alam, Muzaffar and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Discovering the Familiar: Notes on the Travel-Account of Anand Ram Mukhlis, 1745,” South Asia Research 16, 2 (1996): 140. Anjum, Khaliq, ed. Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı. Delhi: Anjuman-i Taraqqi-i Urdu, 1993. Ansari, Nur al-Hasan, ed. Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı. Delhi: Delhi Urdu University, 1982. Ara, Matsuo. Dargahs in Medieval India. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Toyo Bunka Kenkyujp, 1977. Asher, Catherine. Architecture of Mughal India. ­Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Barlow, Jon and Lakshmi Subramanian. “Music and ­Society in North India: From the Mughals to the Mutiny,” Economic and Political Weekly, 42, 19 (May 12–18, 2007): 1779–87. Blake, Stephen, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal India 1639–1739. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Bokhari, Afshan. “Gendered ‘Landscapes’: Jahanara Begum’s Patronage, Piety and Self-Representation in 17th Century Mughal India.” PhD diss., University of Vienna, 2009. Bokhari, Afshan. “The ‘Light’ of the Timuria: Jahan Ara Begum’s Patronage, Piety, and Poetry in 17th Century Mughal India,” Marg, September (2008): 52–61. Brand, Michael. “Orthodoxy, Innovation, and Revival: Considerations of the Past in Imperial Mughal Tomb Architecture,” in Muqarnas 10 (1993): 323–34.

166 Brown, Katherine Butler. “If Music Be the Food of Love: Masculinity and Eroticism in the Mughal Mehfil.” In Love in South Asia: A Cultural History, edited by Francesca Orsini, 64–71. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Chandra, Satish. “Cultural and Political Role of Delhi, 1675–1725,” Delhi Through the Ages: Selected Essays in Urban History, Culture and Society, ed. R.E. Frykenberg, 106–18. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993. Chandra, Satish. Parties and Politics at the Mughal Court, 1707–1740. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002. Chenoy, Shama Mitra and Chander Shekar, Muraqqaʿ-i Delhi: The Mughal Capital in Muhammad Shah’s Time. Delhi: Deputy Publications, 1989. Cole, Juan. “Invisible Occidentalism: Eighteenth-­ Century Indo-Persian Constructions of the West,” Iranian Studies 25, no. 3/4 (1992): 3–16. Cole, Juan. “Mirror of the World: Iranian ‘Orientalism’ and Early 19th‐century India,” Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 5, no. 8 (1996): 41–60. Dadlani, Chanchal. “‘Twilight’ in Delhi? Architecture, Aesthetics, and Urbanism in the Late Mughal Empire,” Cambridge: Harvard University, 2009. Dalrymple, William and Yuthika Sharma. Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi. New Haven and New York: The Asia Society and Yale University Press, 2012. Fanshawe, H.C. Delhi: Past and Present. London: John Murray, 1902. Findly, Ellison Banks. Nur Jahan: Empress of Mughal I­ ndia. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. Ghosh, Durba. “Making and Un-Making Loyal Subjects: Pensioning Widows and Educating Orphans in Early Colonial India,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 31, no. 1 (2003): 1–28. Ghosh, Durba. Sex and the Family in Colonial India: the Making of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Goetz, Hermann. “The Qudsia Bagh at Delhi: Key to Late Moghul Architecture,” Islamic Culture 26, no. 1 (1952): 132–43. Hasan, Zafar. Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 2. Hermansen, Marcia and Bruce Lawrence. “IndoPersian Tazkiras as Memorative Communications.” In Beyond Turk and Hindu: Rethinking Religious Identities in Islamicate South Asia, edited by David

Dadlani Gilmartin and Bruce Lawrence, 149–75. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 2000. Johnson-Roehr, Susan N. “The Spatialization of Knowledge and Power at the Astronomical Observatories of Sawai Jai Singh II, C. 1721–1743 CE.” PhD diss., University of Illinois, 2011. Kaicker, Abhishek. “The Colonial Entombment of the Mughal Habitus: Delhi in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries.” MA thesis, University of British Columbia, 2006. Keshani, Hussein. “Building Nizamuddin: A Delhi Sultanate Dargah and its Surrounding Buildings” M.A., University of Manitoba, 1992. Koch, Ebba. Complete Taj Mahal. London: Thames & Hudson, 2006a. Koch, Ebba. Mughal Architecture: An Outline of Its History and Development. Munich: Prestel, 1991a. Koch, Ebba. “Shah Jahan’s Visits to Delhi Prior to 1648: New Evidence of Ritual Movement in Urban Mughal India,” Environmental Design 9, 11 (1991b): 18–29. Koch, Ebba. “The Madrasa of Ghaziu’d–Din Khan at Delhi,” The Delhi College: Traditional Elites, the Colonial State, and Education Before 1857, ed. Margrit Pernau, 35–59. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006b. Kia, Mana. “Contours of Persianate Community, 1722– 1835.” PhD diss., Harvard University, 2011. Lal, Ruby. Domesticity and Power in the Early Mughal World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Majchrowicz, Daniel. “Travel and the Means to Victory: Urdu Travel Writing and Aspiration in Islamicate South Asia.” PhD diss., Harvard University, 2015. Misra, Neeru. Garden Tomb of Humayun: An Abode in Paradise. New Delhi: Aryan Books International, 2003. Nath, R. Monuments of Delhi: Historical Study. New ­Delhi, Ambika, 1979. Necipoğlu, Gülru. “Framing the Gaze in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Palaces” Ars Orientalis 23 ­ (1993): 312–17. Ringer, Monica. “The Quest for the Secret of Strength in Iranian Nineteenth-Century Travel Literature: ­Rethinking Tradition in the Safarnameh.” In Iran and the Surrounding World: Interactions in ­Culture and

The City Built, the City Rendered Cultural Politics, edited by Nikki Keddie and Rudi Matthee, 146–61. Seattle: University of ­Washington Press, 2002. Ruggles, D. Fairchild. “Humayun’s Tomb and Garden: Typologies and Visual Order.” In Gardens in the Time of the Great Muslim Empires: Theory and Design, ­edited by Attilio Petruccioli, 173–86. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Ruggles, D. Fairchild, ed. Women, Patronage, and SelfRepresentation in Islamic Societies. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000. Schimmel, Annemarie. Islam in the Indian Subcontinent. Leiden: Brill, 1980. Schwartz, Vanessa. Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-De-Siècle Paris. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Sharma, Sunil. “The City of Beauties in Indo-Persian ­Poetic Landscape,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 24.2 (2004): 73–81.

167 Sharma, Sunil. “‘If There Is a Paradise on Earth, It Is Here’: Urban Ethnography in Indo-Persian Poetic and Historical Texts.” In Forms of Knowledge in Early Modern Asia: Explorations in the Intellectual History of India and Tibet, 1500–1800, edited by Sheldon Pollock, 240–56. Durham: Duke University Press, 2011. Sohrabi, Nagmeh. Taken for Wonder: Nineteenth­Century Travel Accounts from Iran to Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Stephen, Carr. The Archaeology and Monumental Remains of Delhi. Ludhiana: Mission Press, 1876. Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste. Travels in India, V. Ball trans. London: ­Macmillan and Co., 1889. Tiersten, Lisa. Marianne in the Market: Envisioning ­Consumer Society in Fin-De-Siècle France. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001.

chapter 7

Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems and the Representation of Public Life in Late Mughal Society Sunil Sharma The extensive and often underutilized archive from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in north India reveals poets and artists infusing traditional forms and idioms with a new cultural ethos and subjectivity as they attempted to make sense of their changing world, specifically with respect to urban spaces no longer restricted to the court. In this paper I discuss the poetry composed by a now almost forgotten Mughal nobleman and man of letters, Fāʾiz Dihlavī (d. 1738), whose oeuvre and observations on daily life, especially the representation of women in a variety of social settings, provide ways to understand and bridge several literary and artistic developments in eighteenth and nineteenth centuries India. Fāʾiz wrote in traditional genres of Persianate poetry, as well as in prose, but his gaze took in a lot more. He viewed his world from a perspective that was different from his older contemporaries, especially the poets who served as professional poets at the Mughal court in the seventeenth century.1 In this regard, his poems, read along with representative images from the period, show the emergence of a transformed urban subjectivity that complements the world of the writer discussed in Chanchal Dadlani’s essay in this volume.2 1 For an insightful analysis of the literary milieu of the early eighteenth century, including the interactions between Persianate and Hindi poetry, see Heidi Rika Maria Pauwels, Cultural Exchange in Eighteenth-Century India: Poetry and Paintings from Kishangarh (Berlin: eb-Verlag, 2015), 37–49. Pauwel’s discussion of the public sphere in the context of this paper is particularly relevant. 2 Chanchal Dadlani studies the Muraqqaʾ-i Dehli, a prose work in Persian dated 1741 by the courtier Dargāh Qulī Khān that describes the sites of Delhi, mainly Sufi shrines,

Recent scholarship on early modern Ottoman Turkish society makes note of the increased use of public gardens and other spaces by both elites and non-elites. Shirin Hamade explains that “the limits of the normative sphere of urban life were constantly negotiated and new forms and channels of sociability were nurtured” in various locales in cities. Additionally, public spaces “were forums that diminished social and cultural distances between different groups and in which the boundaries between elite and non-elite were continuously transgressed, through new social patterns, habits, and aspirations, by an urban society in search for new forms of distinction.”3 Gender also enters into the picture here, as scholars of Ottoman Turkish literature Walter G. Andrews and Mehmet Kalpaklı have demonstrated with the introduction of the term “Age of Beloveds” to highlight the particular focus on love for both male and female beloveds in the nexus of writing poetry, display of power and particular social institutions and practices.4 These observations provide a fruitful beginning for a comparison with late Mughal society since both shared a Persianate cultural orientation, specifically the world of Fāʾiz Dihlavī, which was a time when bazaars and other public spaces appeared as the setting for scripted social intercourse, especially as arenas for expressions of love and eroticism, as well as actual poets, musicians, singers, and courtesans, who are all named and described. 3 The City’s Pleasures: Istanbul in the Eighteenth Century ­(Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2008), 138. 4 The Age of Beloveds: Love and the Beloved in Early-­Modern Ottoman and European Culture and Society (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005).

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as seen in new forms of representation in literary texts and images.5 From Fāʾiz’s Urdu poetry it appears that gathering places such as the communally used well (panghat), steps leading down to a river (ghāt), and fairs (melā), were spaces that were frequented by young men or nobles looking for amusement and dalliances with women or other men. Writing poems about these public spaces marks a shift from describing exclusively courtly venues such as the palace and garden in earlier Mughal Persian poetry. While Fāʾiz’s Persian poetry remained connected to the classical tradition, in his vernacular poetry he innovatively combined Persian and Indic poetic systems in a distinctively Mughal Persianate form. The increase in representations of public spaces, whether as a background of royal processions or of daily life from a strongly ethnographic gaze that appear from the late seventeenth century onwards in Indo-Persian literary texts and visual sources speaks of the loosening of the rigid social system and a shift in the way the Mughals represented themselves and were viewed by others, as well as the poet’s and artist’s sense of subjectivity vis-à-vis his life in a city and community.6 This transformation also aids in mapping the itineraries of the mobile literati and artists who began to leave Delhi for regional centers of patronage and culture after the sack of Delhi by the Iranian Nādir

169 Shāh in 1739, an event that took place a year after the death of Fāʾiz. After the reign of the emperor Shāh Jahān (r. 1628–58) whose court had been a brilliant stage for the production of literary and artistic projects, the age of Aurangzeb, crowned as ʿĀlamgīr (r. 1658– 1707), and his successors is often considered to be a period during which the court was no longer a significant center for the creation of poetry and paintings. However, the Mughal atelier under the emperor Muhammad Shāh (r. 1719–49) continued to actively employ artists who were responsible for innovations in the subjects of paintings and depiction of individuals and social spaces that responded to changing patterns of patronage in this period.7 Therefore, the Delhi court still remained active in patronizing literature and art, at least for a significant portion of the eighteenth century, but scant attention has been paid to its role as a multilingual literary center in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, especially in the transition from a largely Persian to a more Persianate culture. Literary production in eighteenth century North India in a range of languages such as Persian, Urdu, and Brajbhasha Hindi follows similar trends in striking ways to paintings in illustrated manuscripts and albums that were produced in the same cultural milieu. This suggests that in this period the aesthetic repertoire of the poet and artist became more inclusive of new forms of representation. Although Persian continued to be used widely, a whole range of works in Hindavi ­poetry – in the various registers such as rekhta, Urdu and Hindi – broadened the poetic parameters and

5 For the bazaar and city as setting in Indo-Persian poetry, see Sunil Sharma, “‘If There Is a Paradise on Earth, It is Here’: Urban Ethnography in Indo-Persian Poetic and Historical Texts,” Forms of Knowledge in Early Modern Asia: Explorations in the Intellectual History of India and Tibet, 7 Developments in late Mughal painting are discussed by 1500–1800, edited by Sheldon Pollock (Durham: Duke UniLinda Leach, Chapter iv, “Mughal Paintings from 1658 to versity Press, 2011), 240–56. For gardens, see Garden and 1760,” 479–85; After the Great Mughals: Painting in Delhi Landscape Practices in Precolonial India: Histories from the and the Regional Courts in the 18th and 19th Centuries, ed. Deccan, edited by Daud Ali and Emma Flatt (New Delhi Barbara Schmitz (Mumbai: Marg, 2002), especially Terence and London: Routledge, 2011). McInerney, “Mughal Painting during the Reign of Muhammad Shah,” 12–33; and Malini Roy, “The Revival of the Mu6 See Walter Hakala’s useful discussion of eighteenth-­ ghal Painting Tradition during the Reign of Muhammad century vernacular modes of cosmopolitanism and Urdu Shah,” Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi, 1707–1857, ed. literary culture in “A Sultan in the Realm of Passion: Coffee William Dalrymple and Yuthika Sharma (New York: Asia in Eighteenth-Century Delhi,” Eighteenth-Century Studies Society, 2012), 17–23. 47/4 (2014): 371–88.

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expanded the traditional canon.8 Due to the increased patronage away from Mughal imperial centers, chiefly by Hindu-Rajput rulers and nobles, princely nawabs, and the newly arrived British, local and non-courtly idioms of textual and visual representation in hybrid forms began to predominate in this period. Fāʾiz’s poetry is of interest for two reasons: one for the language and two for his unusual poems on women and observations of the everyday, which suggests a direct engagement with local and vernacular literary forms and genres of literature. In comparing textual and artistic production, his oeuvre can be better understood in the context of the work of two of his contemporaries: Mīr Kālān Khān, a prolific artist who had a “pronounced personal style that is frequently surrealistic or bizarre throughout his long life” and worked in the imperial Mughal studio before moving to Lucknow around 1750;9 and Muhammad Faqīrullāh Khān, another artist from Muhammad Shāh’s atelier who later gained popularity among Lucknow’s bourgeoisie clientele where he participated in “the already well-developed eighteenth century fashion for illustrating women’s activities.”10 The poems by Fāʾiz that I discuss below also have a distinctive style and are part of a widespread interest in the representation of women, especially in public 8

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Coming from the other side, i.e., Hindi poets using a Persianate/Urdu register and relationship to Valī, there is the case of the Rajput prince Sāvant Singh “Nāgrīdās,” on whom see Heidi Pauwels, Cultural Exchange in Eighteenth-Century India ; also, “Literary Moments of Exchange in the 18th Century: The New Urdu Vogue Meets Krishna Bhakti,” Indo-Muslim Cultures in Transition, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 61–85, and “Culture in Circulation in EighteenthCentury North India: Urdu Poetry by a Rajput Krishna Devotee,” Culture and Circulation: Literature in Motion in Early Modern India, ed. Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 247–77. Linda Leach Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Beatty Library (London: Scorpion Cavendish, 1995), 685. Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Beatty Library, 685.

spaces, as well as in the upholding of ethical and moral standards in the face of momentous political and social changes that were transforming Mughal society and South Asia at large in the eighteenth century. Nawab Sadruddīn Khān Fāʾiz was a descendant of the renowned Safavid general, ʿAlī Mardān Khān, who defected to the Mughal side during the siege of Qandahar in 1638. Fāʾiz’s father Muhammad Khalīl Zabardast Khān served as governor of various Mughal provinces under the emperors ʿĀlamgīr, Bahādur Shāh and Farrukhsiyar. Although it is not clear whether Fāʾiz had an official position at the Mughal court, his unpublished letters indicate that he had close relations with several members of the Mughal nobility, such as the imperial paymaster (mīr-bakhshī) Amīr al-umarā Samsām al-Daula Khān Daurān Khān Bahādur, and the first nawab of Awadh, Nawab Saʿādat ʿAlī Khān Burhān al-Mulk Bahādur, as well as with literati such as the Iranian émigré poet Muhammad ʿAli Hazīn (d. 1766). Among Fāʾiz’s works were a treatise on gardening, astronomy, farriery, and an account of famous ministers.11 Fāʾiz’s Urdu dīvān, and it would be more correct to call his language rekhta or Hindavi, has been published,12 while his Persian dīvān, which is larger than his Urdu one, is still unpublished. There are several manuscripts of the combined Persian and Urdu kulliyāt in Indian and British manuscript collections, but there is no complete edition yet. 11

12

A partial list of his works are described in C.A. Storey, Persian Literature: A Bio-bibliographical Survey (­London: Luzac & Co., 1972), 1/2, 1093. An edition was prepared by Sayyid Masʿūd Hasan Rizvī and published by the Anjuman-i Taraqqi-i Urdu in 1946 as Shumālī Hind meñ Urdū kā pahlā sāhib-i dīvān shāʿir Navvāb Sadruddīn Muhammad Khān Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur uskā dīvān and again in 1965 as Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz. A selection of his poetry was published as Intikhāb-i Kalām-i Fāʾiz by Muhammad Hasan (Delhi: Urdu Academy, 1991). A brief work on the poet with a selection of his poems was published recently: Fāʾiz Dehlvī by Kausar Mazhari (Delhi: Urdu Academy, 2007).

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Apart from ghazals – that are not in then fashionable sabk-i Hindī or tāza-gūʾī style – the poems that stand out as unusual comprise several masnavīs on topographical and topical themes. Fāʾiz’s poetry is a celebration of Delhi and the Mughal Empire, and also provincial cities such as Lahore and Ajmer. In various poems, Fāʾiz mentions actual bazaars in Delhi such as Dariba, Guzrim, Nakhkhas, Mughalpura, and Qāzī Hauz, as well as other places such as the Pul-i mitha and the Nigambodh ghāt. The literary tradition of praising the topography of Delhi in Persian goes back to the writings of the medieval poet Amīr Khusrau (d. 1325), who was constantly referenced by Mughal historians who reused these verses in describing Delhi in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries such as Ahmad Amīn Rāzī, Chandarbhān Barahman and Sujān Rāʾe Bhandārī. Poetry about newly constructed buildings, praise of the beauty of places and people was particularly in vogue during the reign of the emperor Shāh Jahān.13 Fāʾiz’s contribution was the transference of the topographical themes and topoi popular in earlier Persian literature to a vernacular tradition, with the infusion of new themes such as the attention to women and everyday life. The likely apocryphal verses attributed to the legendary Indo-­Persian poet Amīr Khusrau lent a symbolic authority of tradition to this poetic genre. Therefore, since he played a significant role in the formation of the literary ethos of the eighteenth century, it is useful to read some of Fāʾiz’s poems in tandem with those that go by Amīr Khusrau’s name. 13

The courtly genre of building poetry in the Mughal empire is discussed by Paul Losensky in his paper, “‘Square Like a Bubble’: Architecture, Power, and Poetics in Two Inscriptions by Kalīm Kāshānī.” Journal of Persianate Studies 8/1 (2015): 42–70; also see his paper on poetry on Safavid architectural projects and public celebrations in the seventeenth century, “‘The Equal of Heaven’s Vault’: The Design, Ceremony, and Poetry of the Hasanābād Bridge,” Writers and Rulers: Perspective on Their Relationship from Abbasid to Safavid Times, ed. Beatrice Gruendler and Louise Marlow (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2004), 195–216.

Given the somewhat complex and confusing cultural history of his times, it is not surprising that the poetry of Fāʾiz Dihlavī, which straddled the period when Persian continued to be the dominant court language and early Urdu literary culture predating the age of the canonical poets such as Shāh Hātim, Mīr Taqī Mīr, and Muhammad Rafīʿ Saudā, is largely unstudied.14 Fāʾiz’s language and poetics are closer to Dakhni used in the Muslim courts of the Deccan, or to an earlier northern Hindavi register which was in use before a host of Indic words and poetic images and tropes that were deemed unsuitable for Urdu were purged from the language in favor of a more Persianate one. The question of a literary connection between Valī Dakhnī (d. ca. 1720), the so-called father of classical Urdu poetry and one who is credited with bridging the archaic Dakhni-style poetry with the new northern idiom, to Fāʾiz is a complicated one. According to Helmut Nepital, “It may be that Valī’s greatest direct influence was on the Delhi poet Fāʾiz, whom we may regard as the most important representative of the second period [1700–1720] of literary Urdu in Delhi.” Fāʾiz’s poems, however, may predate the reception of Valī’s poems in Delhi for he compiled his collection in 1715 c.e. and then revised it in 1729 c.e. Nepital goes on to say, “On the other hand, Fāʾiz is also a representative of late Hindavi as it was used in the preceding period, for instance by Jaʿfar Zatallī.”15 Fāʾiz’s poetic language would seem to suggest that something akin to Valī’s register of Urdu was already in use in Delhi.16 As more literary 14

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A survey of this early period of Urdu literary production in Delhi is provided by Muhammad Sadiq, “The Delhi School of Urdu Poetry,” A History of Urdu Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), 96–105; also see Shamsur Rahman Faruqi, Early Urdu Literary Culture and History (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001), especially Chapter 5. Helmut Nepital, “The Development of Literary Urdu in Delhi in the 17th & 18th Centuries with regard to Changes of its Language Structures,” Tender Ironies: A Tribute to Lothar Lutze (2003). Imre Bangha writes that “The existence of this kind of poetry in north India before 1700 suggests that the

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texts are revisited or even discovered, we will gain a better understanding of the particular multilingual nature of eighteenth century literary culture. A cycle of poems by Fāʾiz, each in a different meter, classified in the published Urdu dīvān as masnavīyāt-i rekhta, offer vignettes on public life in various spaces and are in the vernacular language of Delhi, with some of them containing a few lines of Persian and Arabic in keeping with the definition of what rekhta originally meant. All the poems in this series have women at the center: two poems on gathering places in his Delhi, two on the festival of Holi and a fair at a Sufi shrine, and five directly about various tradeswomen. I will translate and offer a close reading of some of the lines from these poems below.

Taʿrīf-i Panghat (19 lines)17

Fāʾiz likens the panghat, a community well where women draw water for domestic use, to a rose garden (gulzār), where there is found an army of female water carriers (panhār). Each one is a sariclad damsel (apchharā, from the Sanskrit apsarā) making the whole setting the court of the Hindu deity Indra (Indar-sabhā). One of them particularly catches his eye, and in place of the conventional head to foot description (sarāpā), the poet provides a poetic ethnography of her:

Gagariyā chhuʾī uskī maiñ adā kar / daiyā karne lagī voh muñh chhupā kar” “She was standing with a pitcher on her head; surely it was Joseph at the well. I flirtatiously touched her pot, Covering her face she began to cry out.” Comparing the female beauty to the male figure of Joseph here, and one who is the standard of beauty in Persian literature, Fāʾiz mixes two different poetic traditions indulging in an aesthetic of cross-gender hybridity. The beautiful woman complains to her female friend (sakhī) about the poet: “Lagī kahne sakhī sun muñh phulākar / madodī bhauñh añkhiyāñ kuñ phirākar Ke ab chhuʾī turk ne ye gagariyā / le jāʾūñ ghar meñ kyoñkar āj daiyā Ajhūñ tak is kūeñ āʾī so āʾī / na leyūñ panghat kā phir maiñ nām māʾī Masal hai bhole bāmhan gāʾe khāʾī / jo ab phir āuñ to lachhman duhāʾī”

“Ghadā sar par khadī thī rāh ūpar / yaqīñ Yūsuf kī jā hai chāh ūpar

“In a huff she began to tell her girlfriend with knotted eyebrows and eyes rolling around, ‘The Turk touched my earthen pitcher. Alas, how can I take it home today? Until now I came to this well, but now I’ll never even think about it. The proverb goes: ‘With his guard down, the simple Brahmin ate beef!’ By Lakshman, I’ll never come back here.’”

f­ashion for Persianised Hindavi that Vali brought to Delhi did not create Rekhta poetry in north India but rather displaced the pre-existing fashion for mixed language poetry.” “Rekhta: Poetry in Mixed Language, The Emergence of Khari Boli Literature in North India,” Before the Divide: Hindi and Urdu Literary Culture, ed. Francesca Orsini (Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan, 2010), 82. I have cited the original text from the 1965 edition, Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 230–31.

At the end the panghat becomes the Sinai of beauties for the poet. The playful activities at the neighbourhood well, or panghata-līlā, is a “peculiar theme of Hindi and Sanskrit poetry,” about which Heidi Pauwels writes, “In the folk domain, this represents a scenario of eve-teasing of a rustic belle in a traditional rural environment. […] The theme is drenched with a certain nostalgia for an idealized simple rural life where relationships between men

17

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and women can be playful and straightforward, unencumbered by the complexities of city life.”18 These wells also existed in urban neighborhoods especially in villages on the outskirts of cities. Fāʾiz’s poem is thematically related to the oft-sung Hindavi qawwali verses attributed to Amīr Khusrau, bahut kathin hai dagar panghat kī (“The path to the well is difficult”). In some other poems of Fāʾiz too, there is an echo of Amīr Khusrau’s Hindavi verses, but whether this is a question of influence or the attribution to the earlier poet of verses composed by a poet in the eighteenth century is complicated by the oral culture of transmission in the case of Khusrau’s vernacular poems.19

Taʿrīf-i Holī (14 lines)20

The ecstatic celebration of the festival of colors, Holi, in the form of frolicking of female beauties is described in a poem in which Fāʾiz again effortlessly combines Persianate and Hindavi allusions: “Nāchtī gāgāke hūrī dam ba-dam / jiyūn sabhā Indar kī dar bāgh-i Iram” “Every moment the houris dance and sing, As if in the court of Indra in the paradisal garden Iram.” The somewhat surprising juxtaposition of references to houri, Indra and Iram, images from the Indic and Perso-Islamic traditions, enhances the pleasure of listening/reading to these lines. At the  end of the poem Fāʾiz likens the women to 18

19

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Heidi Pauwels, “‘The Woman Waylaid at the Well’: A  Folk Theme Appropriated in Myth and Movies,” Asian Ethnology 69/1 (2010): 1–33. On the problem of the authorship of Amir Khusrau’s Hindi poetry, see Paul Losensky and Sunil Sharma, In the Bazaar of Love: The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau (New Delhi: Penguin, 2011), xxxi–xxxiv. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 231–32.

the male beauties (ghilmān) of paradise (ghilmān bantī haiñ Hindniyāñ-i hūr-ʿain) and cites the Arabic phrase: sach hai “dunyā jannatun li-kāfirīn” (“Truly, The world is a paradise for non-believers”). This vignette that Fāʾiz sketches is strongly visual and corresponds to many such paintings in this period, both in Mughal and Rajput styles, on the celebration of Holi by women, especially one dated 1760 that is ascribed to the Mughal painter Mīr Kālān (see Fig. 7.1).21 Similar to the poem that does not have any specific setting, this vibrant painting depicts an assembly of women in a sylvan locale that could be a forest or a private garden. Details such as the flora and fauna seem familiar from Raj­put painting. Rather than actually playing Holi, the women celebrate the festival with music and perhaps also dance, along with the accoutrements of a courtly gathering. In contrast to other Mughal ­visual representations of the festival, there is no central male figure, usually the emperor or the ­divine Krishna, present here.22

Taʿrīf-i Nahān Nigambod (19 lines)23

From the carnivalesque Holi, Fāʾiz moves to describing fair-skinned beauties bathing in the Jamna river at the Nigambodh ghat, which is a functioning holy spot in Delhi for bathers – and cremations – to this day:

21 22

23

cbl 6.319, Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Beatty Library, 684–85. Prominent examples of visual representations of Mughal emperors playing holi are: Govardhan’s painting from ca. 1635, “Jahangir Celebrates the Hindu Festival of Holi,” Minto Album, cbl 3.14, Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Beatty Library, 382; and closer to this time, “Muhammad Shah plays Holi with his ladies,” ms. Douce Or. b. 3, in Andrew Topsfield, Paintings from Mughal India (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2008), 50. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 232–33.

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Figure 7.1 Women celebrating Holi. cbl In 11B.16. © The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin.

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And further:

“[T]he Hindus man and woman, great and small, rich and poor go to the banks of the river and without shame, cloak or modesty mix together and rejoice in the sound of the bell and perform their useless ceremonies, while thousands of vagabonds and capricious persons stand on the bank with hopeful, enthusiastic hearts and watch them.” Mahmūd adds, “Really, it is not surprising that in this nice landscape with so many beautiful women, the feet of Muslims slip and their purity is broken by the stones of their beauty.”24 Closer to Fāʾiz’s own time, the poet Valī’s poem in masnavī form praises the city of Surat, a work that almost certainly must have been familiar to our poet, and also includes a description of bathers at the river, but of both sexes:

“Do joban se sīna hai gulshan sakal / lage jis meñ pistāñ se amrit ke phal”

“Vahāñ ashnān jab kartā hai ʿālam / subah aur shām tab kartā hai ʿālam”25

“Her two breasts make her chest a complete rose garden, with nectar fruit growing from them.”

“When the world bathes there, day and night another world is a spectator.”

“Kare dil ko pānī har ik Hindnī / nazar padtī pānī ūpar chandnī” “Every Hindu woman melts my heart. She appears like moonlight on the water.” The viewing of the bodies of these damsels is described in erotic tones: “Dikhātī haiñ chhātī naval-jobnāñ / kalas sone-rūpe kī dekho ʿayāñ” “The nubile women show their breasts – they appear like gold and silver cupolas.”

But then he stops when things get a bit too explicit: “Kahūñ āge kyā sharm kī bāt hai / ke amrit kā chashma ba-zulmāt hai” “I’ll say further but it’s embarrassing: The water of life is found in the darkness.” The erotic gaze on Hindu female bathers has a somewhat long genealogy in Persian literature. A century or so before Fāʾiz, the Central Asian visitor Mahmūd Amīr Valī travelled in North India from 1624–31, describing his experiences in a travelogue that forms an appendix (Khātima) to a longer work, Bahr al-asrār fī manāqib al-akhyār, a world history written for Nazr Muhammad Khān, the ruler of Balkh. Richard Folz has written about Mahmūd’s “personal fascination with Indian women” and “wet-sari voyeurism” in the scenes where the traveler describes the ritual bathing in the Jamna at Raja Man Singh’s temple in Mathura:

and again later in the poem: “shahr bhītar jo āve nahān kā din / Hindū kī qaum ke ashnān kā din har ik jānib dekhūñ main fauj dar fauj / tajallī ke samandar kī uthe mauj” “It is the bathing day in the city the day for ritual bathing for the Hindu community. I see an army of people on all sides, A wave from the sea of brilliance cresting.” In the eighteenth century, several artists, including some in the Mughal atelier and those connected to Company art, painted such scenes of

24 Richard Foltz, “Two Seventeenth-Century Central Asian Travellers to Mughal India,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 6/3 (1996), 370. 25 Kulliyāt-i Valī, ed. Nur al-Hasan Hashmi (Lucknow: ­Uttar Pradesh Urdu Academy, 1981), 377–79.

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women bathing in rivers or ponds (see Fig. 7.2).26 An urban inhabitation looms in the background of one such painting, but the bathing scene in the foreground is again a female-only space, except for a small male holy figure in the left background who is seated on the bank of the river. As in Fāʾiz’s poem, the women’s breasts are an important aesthetic feature of this voyeuristic depiction. The fascination with the practice of bathing in public can be explained by the fact that in Persianate ­societies, where the hammam was an important indoor homosocial space, the public display of the body would have been an exotic and even somewhat bizarre practice.

Melā (53 lines)27

The poem on the Bhata fair is the longest one of this cycle, describing a bustling and noisy public spectacle on the banks of a river. Women (nisvān) and tradesmen (ahl-i hirfa) are major participants in this event, but there also groups of devotees (bhagtī), astrologers (nujūm), dancers (kanchanī), bards (bhānd), acrobats (nat), opium addicts (bhangī), wine-sellers (sharāb-farosh), flowerseller (gulfarosh), pan-seller (tanbolī), sweet-seller (halvāī). The collocation of trades people and social types comes from the use of the Persian genre or topos of shahrāshūb, especially in earlier Safavid and Mughal poems which zoom in on one individual or describe a whole class of people while celebrating the multiple groups that make up the social fabric of the city. In his description of the fair, Fāʾiz repeatedly uses the word razal (rabble) 26

27

The Late Shah Jahan Album has two paintings of women bathing; one is attributed to Payag, of eight women bathing, cbl 3.60, Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Beatty Library, 446; Leach states, “The carefree ladies bathing in the pool who would become a stock motif of eighteenth century painting were still a somewhat unusual subject within the conservative Mughal tradition when this miniature was painted,” 450. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 234–37.

to emphasize the inclusion of commoners in representation of the public spectacle, among whom are men drinking and getting high on drugs. The multitude is composed of people representing a diverse population: “Zoroastrian, Christian, Hindus, and Muslims walk together hand in hand in the bazaar” (gabr, tarsā, hunūd, Muslim sāth / phirte bāzār meñ pakar kar hāth). The prostitutes (qahba) who have many admirers are shameless in their behavior and as they leave with their customers, the show comes to an end. The last section of the poem is a prayer to God, with two lines in Persian, in which he exhorts his readers to focus on the real/divine (haqīqī) rather than the metaphorical (majāzī) love. With his cycle of five masnavī poems on women of various social or religious groups Fāʾiz more directly employs the Persian shahrāshūb genre, but here he subverts the traditional gender restriction of exclusively describing male beloveds,28 which is allowed by his use of the vernacular language.

Jogan (21 lines)29

Fāʾiz encounters a female ascetic (jogan) in Banaras, a city he calls a monastery (dair) of moonfaced beauties (mahrūyān). Seated on a deer skin, like a female serpent (nāgin), her bun (jūdā) the ball of Krishna, she sings a raga that would put the 28

29

In Ottoman Turkish there is at least one cycle of poems in the shahrāshūb/şehrengiz genre that describes a female-centric world; The Age of Beloveds, 43–46. Among Mughal Hindi (Brajbhasha) poets, there is a seventeenth-century work by “Abdurrahīm Khānkhānan ʿRahīm,” Nagarshobhā (Ornament of the City), which is a catalogue of around seventy women from different social groups and trades; Allison Busch explains that this work “can similarly be approached as both a vehicle for Persian sensibilities and a sincere attempt to participate in local culture,” “Poetry in Motion: Literary Circulation in Mughal India,” Culture and Circulation: Literature in Motion in Early Modern I­ ndia, ed. Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 196. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 237–38.

Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems

Figure 7.2 Women bathing in a lake, Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, d.c.: Gift of Charles Lang Freer, F1907.238.

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singing bird (koyal) to shame. She is unique in here beauty:

poem figures a male jogī, Fāʾiz’s choice of Urdu allows the shift of gender.

“na parī thī na hūr voh jogan / rākh meñ ek shuʿla-i joban”



“Neither fairy, nor houri, the jogan is a youthful spark in the ashes.” This description is strikingly similar to a Mughal single-page painting, “Yogini in a Landscape” (see Fig. 7.3), that shows a female ascetic seated serenely by a river.30 When Fāʾiz’s jogan takes a dip in the water, she drives him crazy to the point of also becoming an ascetic (bairāgi). Reading these verses recalls another poem attributed to Amīr Khusrau on a jogī, which in all likelihood actually dates from the eighteenth century:31 “jogī pisare nishasta dar khākistar / laylī rūyī buvad valī majnūn sar az khāk fuzūn shavad jamālash / āʾīna zi khāk mīshavad raushantar” “The young jogi boy was sitting in the dust, face pretty as Lailā’s, head mad as Majnūn’s. His beauty was really enhanced by the dust: a mirror is brighter when polished with grit.” Images of jogis proliferated in Mughal art, as well as some short lyrical poems on them, but the ­popularity of images of the female jogan is particular to this period and Fāʾiz’s poem is in keeping with this trend.32 Whereas Amīr Khusrau’s Persian 30 31 32

https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/ objects/50291/Yogini_in_a_Landscape. Ahmad Gulchīn-Maʿānī, Shahrāshūb dar shiʿir-i Fārsī, 2nd ed. (Tehran: Rivāyat, 1380), 38. Deborah S. Hutton discusses portraits of yoginis and the Sufi symbolism in them, Art of the Court of Bijapur (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 83–96; for yogis in Persian poetry see, Sunil Sharma, “Representation of Social Types in Mughal Art and Literature: Ethnography or Trope?” Indo-Muslim Cultures in

Kāchan (18 lines)33

In his description of the female vegetable and fruitseller, Fāʾiz is particularly fascinated by her breasts which he calls jīvan supārī (betelnut of life). Her cry to attract customers almost becomes a religious call: “When she calls out, ‘Buy some fruits,’ Rama and the other gods are ready to serve her” (Jab bole pukār leyo mevā / sevā kareñ uskī Rām o devā). Fāʾiz plays on the profession of the woman at the conclusion of the poem: “Dil bāgh-i jamāl kā huā mālī / karne lagā sair dālī dālī Us husn kā dekh tāza gulzār / Fāʾiz huā ʿishq meñ giriftār” “My heart became the gardener of beauty’s garden, It flits from branch to branch. Seeing the fresh rose garden of that beauty, Fāʾiz has fallen in love.” The garden image appears frequently in these poems as the metaphoric space of dalliance between lover and beloved. In this regard, these last lines are particularly Persianate in tone.

Tanbolan (13 lines)34

In the poem on the female betel-leaf seller, Fāʾiz deploys the same erotic imagery as in the previous ones: “Mirig se us hūr-laqā ko the nain / uskā huā ʿishq mujhe farz-i ʿain”

33 34

T ­ ransition, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 17–36. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 239. Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 240.

Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems

Figure 7.3

Yogini in a Landscape, ca. 1760. Opaque watercolor on paper, sheet: 11 3/8 × 7 7/8 in. (28.9 × 20.0 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. George Dupont Pratt, 40.368.

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“The houri-faced one had eyes like a doe. My eyes were obliged to fall in love with her.” Her breasts too are the betel-nuts of life. Once again, these verses are reminiscent of a short poem on a young male pan-seller that is attributed to Amīr Khusrau: “tanbolī-i man dūsh ʿayyāri kard / khush khush bidukān barg-shumārī mīkard ū barg bi-khalq mīsipurd u hama kas / dar pīsh-i dukānash jān-sipārī mīkard” “Last night my pan-seller was up to his tricks as he slowly prepared pan leaves in his shop. As he gave the people in his shop their leaves, in return they surrendered to him their lives.” In Khusrau’s poem, the gender of the beloved is, of course, not apparent due to the ambiguous nature of pronouns in Persian, but the default gender would be male.

Bhangedan-i Dargāh-i Qutb (52 lines)35

This poem is in praise of a female bhang-­seller at the Dargah-i Qutb, the popular shrine of Q ­ utbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki in Delhi, near the Qutb Minar.36 The beloved is described in the usual mixture of Indic and Persianate images: man-haran (mindstealer), kanchan-baran (gold-bossom), hūrīn-laqā (houri in appearance). By selling bhang to lovers, she is even more cruel than the conventional beloved who drives them mad with her coquetry. She is the true disturber of the city: “She was the Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 241–44. This poem was translated into French prose by the nineteenth-­century Orientalist, Garcin de Tassy, Histoire de la littérature hindouie et hindoustanie (New York: Burt Franklin, 1968), v. 1, 436–38. 36 The popularity of this shrine in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries is discussed in Chanchal Dadlani’s paper in this volume.

novelty of the assembly, a wondrous tumult; her beauty was a calamity for the masses” (turfa-ye majlis thī ʿajab hangāma / husn se thī vo balā-ye ʿāma). As all sorts of lowly fellows gather around her, a brawl breaks out and ends tragically: “Chand tan ākhir hue chūtiyā shahīd / maut kutte kī mue kīte palīd” “A few rascals became martyred, dying like filthy dogs.” Fāʾiz ends the poem exhorting himself to stay away from bad people and to only keep company with the good. Ironically, the disorder occurs in the space of the Sufi dargāh but this is also a timely reminder of the sacredness of the shrine.

Gujri (20 lines)37

The milk or curds-seller is another woman who was part of everyday life in early modern North India. In comeliness she is compared to the heroine Lailā (māhrūyāñ ke bīch Lailā hai) and the apsarā Tilottamā (husn meñ hai Tilotamā sūñ ziād), two legendary beauties, one from the ­Perso-Islamic and one from Indic literary traditions.38 Her charm is in her movements and cries as she sells her product: “Sar matkiyā dahī kī kahtī matak / le dahī le dahī parī sī latak” “With a pot of curds on her head she sashays like a fairy, calling out, “Buy curds.””

35

37 38

Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 244–45. Such mixing of literary allusions was a regular feature of the Dakhni register of Urdu poetry; for an introduction to the topic, see David J. Matthews, “Dakani Language and Literature 1500–1700,” PhD dissertation, soas, 1976.

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In a fit of passion the poet touches her arm but she shrugs him off with a warning.39 Not surprisingly, this is another poem that is similar to a rekhta verse attributed to Amīr Khusrau: “Ay gujrī dar husn-i latāfat chu mahī / degh-i dahī bar sar-i tu chatr-i shahī Az lab-i laʿlat shīr u shikar mīrīzad / chu begūʾī dahī leojī dahī” “Gujri, you shine bright in your charm and beauty, that curd pot on your head, a royal parasol. Sweet sugar seems to trickle from your two lips whenever you shout, “Curds for sale, buy my curds.”” Strikingly, this poem is addressed to a female curdseller, the one exception to the unwritten rule that Persian poems of this type are about male beloveds. Persian is the language the poet uses to communicate with his audience, while the beloved’s cry, “Curds for sale, buy my curds,” is in the vernacular language. Fāʾiz’s Persian dīvān includes topographical verses too, but chiefly on courtly spaces and imperial structures, and none that are comparable to the poems about the spectacle of daily life and various social groups at the melā or the women in his rekhta collection. In a series of Persian poems in masnavī form,40 reminiscent of those composed by the court poets in Shah Jahan’s reign, Fāʾiz praises Shahjahanabad in Delhi, Lahore, the Ajmer fort, a garden, mosque and bathhouse, but these short poems do not seem to be woven into a connected longer work. In the panegyric to Lahore, Fāʾiz likens the city to the garden of paradise (iram) and is particularly effusive about its bazaars: “Bih az shahr-i Chīn ast bāzār-i ū / ba-nāzam babannā u miʿmār-i ū 39 40

Her response and another phrase in a spoken register are in a garbled form in this poem. For his Persian dīvān, I have consulted the manuscript at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, Bodleian Ms. 1177.

Dakākīn pur ast az nafāʾis tamām / barad mālik-i ān girifta maqām” “Its bazaar is better than the country of China; I take pride in its builder and architect. Its shops are all full of choice delicacies; the owners do well for themselves.” After giving his readers a snapshot of the city, in the last line of the poem he tells himself to return to Delhi (ba-shau Fāʾiz aknūn bi-Dihlī ravān), which still held its place as the heart of the empire. In terms of attention to public life and use of a colloquial language Fāʾiz’s poems anticipated the poetic oeuvre of the Urdu poet, Nazir Akbarabadi (d. 1830), who though popular was excluded from the classical canon for his unorthodox and often sexually explicit poems that “stretched canonical boundaries well beyond other classical Urdu poets.”41 His poetry is largely about “the texture and pleasures of everyday life” where the commercial backdrop of the bazaar plays a significant role. In contrast, Fāʾiz’s focus is more on the comeliness of people in public spaces and their morality rather than on the commercial networks that form the background of their activities. His poems are closer in spirit to the nineteenth century Urdu work, Musaddas-i tahnīyat-i jashn-i be-nazīr (Congratulatory poem on the occasion of the Benazir celebration), by Mīr Yār ʿAlī Khān “Jān Sāhib” (1810–86), first active at the court of the nawabs of Lucknow and then of Rampur. His poem dedicated to the great patron of learning and the arts, Nawab Kalb ʿAlī Khān (1865–87), is a courtly panegyric that describes a public celebration at the Benazir palace and garden. The illustrated manuscript of this work held by the Raza Library in Rampur has been published in facsimile.42 Of the 41

42

Aditya Behl, “Poet of the Bazaars: Nazir Akbarabadi, 1735–1830,” A Wilderness of Possibilities: Urdu Studies in Transnational Perspective, ed. Kathryn Hansen and David Lelyveld (New Delhi: oup, 2005) 220. Also described in Barbara Schmitz and Z.A. Desai, Mughal and Persian Paintings and Illustrated Manuscripts

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sixty-three paintings done in a popular style typical for this period, the majority are depictions of female dancers and singers, acrobatic performers, male performers, as well as the topographical setting of the event. Many of the people are named in the poem and identified by inscriptions in the paintings, while Fāʾiz’s poems are about the community experience and generic types, not particular individuals. In this regard, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries also witnessed the beginning of other forms of cataloguing and depicting social types in various visual and scientific projects in the form of albums, Company paintings, ethnographic surveys, and later, photographs, which taken together provide the larger cultural backdrop for an ongoing transformation of literary and artistic choices and tastes in society. Fāʾiz combined female-centered aesthetic deriving from Indic poetry with Persian literary forms and conventions, chiefly in an innovative use of the shahrāshub type of love lyric43 and delighted in the use of the vernacular that allowed him to eschew the homoerotic gaze of classical Persian poetics. In another part of the subcontinent, Fāʾiz’s contemporary the poet Valī also asserted the claim of the female element in a poem, asserting a bias towards the Indic poetic system:

43

in the Raza Library, Rampur (Rampur: Raza Library, 2004), 304. Here again there are similarities with the Ottoman Turkish case in the eighteenth century: “women began to assume a more consistent presence in divan poetry, and one highly symptomatic of the changing world that poetry reflected and addressed,” Hamade, The City’s Pleasures, 163. Hamade discusses women “actively partaking of the garden experience,” whereas in the Indian cultural context, they are found in the bazaars. A useful paper for the Safavid context is Rudi Matthee, “Prostitutes, Courtesans, and Dancing Girls: Women Entertainers in Safavid Iran,” Iran and Beyond: Essays in Middle Eastern History in Honor of Nikki R. Keddie, ed. Rudi Matthee and Beth Barron (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2000), 121–50.

“Bharī hai sīrat o sūrat suñ Sūrat / har ik sūrat hai vahāñ anmol mūrat Khatam hai amradāñ ūpar safāʾī / vale hai bīshtar husn-i nisāʾī”44 “Surat is filled with [fine] reputations and faces, every face there is a priceless idol. Purity reaches its perfection in the beardless boys, but, the beauty of the women is greater!” Fāʾiz’s rekhta poems challenge the canons and assumptions about two traditions: Indo-Persian and classical Urdu.45 Privileging the study of the Urdu ghazal has resulted on the one hand in the neglect of other literary genres and forms such as the masnavī, and on the other in not being mindful of the evolving nature of bilingualism or multilingualism of the literary culture of the eighteenth century. As spaces were opened up in this period to allow for the interaction of people of all social classes and backgrounds, linguistic and gender spaces also allowed for an expansion of the aesthetics of poetry and art. Parallel developments in painting allow us to generalize about the aesthetic shifts and focus on the arts in general in this period, in an attempt to retrieve what Andrews and Kalpaklı term “undocumented emotional ­histories” embedded in these works. Many of the innovative elements in the arts in the period came about as a negotiation of the subjectivity of the poet or artist with the larger historical transformations in patronage, power, and cultural practices. A significant point that emerges in the context of eighteenth-century Urdu literary culture is the discovery or invention of the canonical Indo-Persian poet Amīr Khusrau’s vernacular compositions in 44 45

Kulliyāt-i Valī, 378. In eighteenth century Turkish society, “a new disposition for creative innovation beyond the bounds of a given canon was emerging in the rapidly changing social environment of the Ottoman capital,” Hamade, The City’s Pleasures, 153; Hamade explains this in the context of a “new conception of gardens” whereas, again, in Indian society bazaars feature more prominently as the site of this transformation.

Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems

an age that witnessed the rise of new forms of representation and expression but with some anxiety about not wanting to make a clean break with classical traditions. More specific comparisons across textual and visual forms, as well as across linguistic traditions – Urdu, Persian and Hindi – and also with other polities such as the Ottomans and Safavids, would be a fruitful area of future research to further explore the cultural landscape of early modern South Asia. Bibliography Ali, Daud and Emma Flatt, eds. Garden and Landscape Practices in Precolonial India: Histories from the Deccan. New Delhi and London: Routledge, 2011. Bangha, Imre. “Rekhta: Poetry in Mixed Language, The Emergence of Khari Boli Literature in North India,” Before the Divide: Hindi and Urdu Literary Culture, ed. Francesca Orsini, 21–83. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan, 2010. Behl, Aditya. “Poet of the Bazaars: Nazir Akbarabadi, 1735–1830,” A Wilderness of Possibilities: Urdu Studies in Transnational Perspective, eds. Kathryn Hansen and David Lelyveld, 192–222. New Delhi: OUP, 2005. Busch, Allison. “Poetry in Motion: Literary Circulation in Mughal India,” Culture and Circulation: Literature in Motion in Early Modern India, ed. Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch, 186–221. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Faruqi, Shamsur Rahman. Early Urdu Literary Culture and History. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001. Foltz, Richard. “Two Seventeenth-Century Central Asian Travellers to Mughal India,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, Third Series (1996): 367–77. Gulchīn-Maʿānī, Ahmad. Shahrāshūb dar shiʿir-i Fārsī, 2nd ed. Tehran: Rivāyat, 1380. Hakala, Walter. “A Sultan in the Realm of Passion: Coffee in Eighteenth-Century Delhi,” Eighteenth-­Century Studies 47/4 (2014): 371–88. Hutton, Deborah S. Art of the Court of Bijapur. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006. Kulliyāt-i Valī, ed. Nur al-Hasan Hashmi. Lucknow: ­Uttar Pradesh Urdu Academy, 1981.

183 Leach, Linda. Chapter IV, “Mughal Paintings from 1658 to 1760,” 479–85. Vol. 1. Art Media Resources, 1995. Losensky, Paul. “‘Square Like a Bubble’: Architecture, Power, and Poetics in Two Inscriptions by Kalīm Kāshānī,” Journal of Persianate Studies 8/1 (2015): 42–70. Losensky, Paul. “‘The Equal of Heaven’s Vault’: The Design, Ceremony, and Poetry of the Hasanābād Bridge,” Writers and Rulers: Perspective on Their Relationship from Abbasid to Safavid Times, eds. Beatrice Gruendler and Louise Marlow, 195–216. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2004. Losensky, Paul and Sunil Sharma, In the Bazaar of Love: The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau. New Delhi: Penguin, 2011. Matthee, Rudi. “Prostitutes, Courtesans, and Dancing Girls: Women Entertainers in Safavid Iran,” Iran and Beyond: Essays in Middle Eastern History in Honor of Nikki R. Keddie, ed. Rudi Matthee and Beth Barron, 121–50. Costa Mesa: Mazda, 2000. Matthews, David J. “Dakani Language and Literature 1500–1700,” PhD diss., SOAS, 1976. McInerney, Terence, “Mughal Painting during the Reign of Muhammad Shah,” After the Great Mughals: Painting in Delhi and the Regional Courts in the 18th and 19th Centuries, ed. Barbara Schmitz, 12–33. Mumbai: Marg, 2002. Nespital, Helmut. “The Development of Literary Urdu in Delhi in the 17th & 18th Centuries with regard to Changes of its Language Structures,” Tender Ironies: A Tribute to Lothar Lutze, eds. Dilip Chitre, Günther-Dietz Sontheimer, Heidrun Brückner, Anne Feldhaus & Rainer Kimmig, 285–307. Tübingen and Würzburg, 2003. Pauwels, Heidi Rika Maria. Cultural Exchange in E­ ighteenth-Century India: Poetry and Paintings from Kishangarh. Berlin: EB-Verlag, 2015. Pauwels, Heidi Rika Maria. “Culture in Circulation in Eighteenth-Century North India: Urdu Poetry by a Rajput Krishna Devotee,” Culture and Circulation: Literature in Motion in Early Modern India, ed. Thomas de Bruijn and Allison Busch, 247–77. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Pauwels, Heidi Rika Maria. “Literary Moments of Exchange in the 18th Century: The New Urdu Vogue

184 Meets Krishna Bhakti,” Indo-Muslim Cultures in Transition, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard, 61–85. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Pauwels, Heidi Rika Maria. “‘The Woman Waylaid at the Well’: A Folk Theme Appropriated in Myth and Movies,” Asian Ethnology 69/1 (2010): 1–33. Roy, Malini. “The Revival of the Mughal Painting Tradition during the Reign of Muhammad Shah,” Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi, 1707–1857, ed. William Dalrymple and Yuthika Sharma, 17–23. New York: Asia Society, 2012. Sadiq, Muhammad. “The Delhi School of Urdu Poetry,” A History of Urdu Literature, 96–105. New York: Oxford University Press, 1984. Schmitz, Barbara, ed. After the Great Mughals: Painting in Delhi and the Regional Courts in the 18th and 19th Centuries. Mumbai: Marg, 2002.

Sharma Schmitz, Barbara and Z.A. Desai. Mughal and Persian Paintings and Illustrated Manuscripts in the Raza Library, Rampur. Rampur: Raza Library, 2004. Sharma, Sunil. “‘If There Is a Paradise on Earth, It is Here’: Urban Ethnography in Indo-Persian Poetic and Historical Texts,” Forms of Knowledge in Early Modern Asia: Explorations in the Intellectual History of India and Tibet, 1500–1800, ed. Sheldon Pollock, 240–56. Durham: Duke University Press, 2011a. Sharma, Sunil. “Representation of Social Types in Mughal Art and Literature: Ethnography or Trope?” ­Indo-Muslim Cultures in Transition, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard, 17–36. Leiden: Brill, 2011b. Tassy, Garcin de. Histoire de la littérature hindouie et hindoustanie. New York: Burt Franklin, 1968.

chapter 8

Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion in the Arts of the Ottoman World Jamal J. Elias Sufis are frequent subjects in paintings, etchings, photographs and other illustrations in the Persianate Islamic world (Bengal to the Balkans). They appear individually and in groups, as primary subjects as well as in the background. Along with the varied significations they enjoyed in Islamic culture, Sufis and so-called “dervishes” captured the imaginations of European artists and travelers in the Islamic world, and images of such Sufis enjoyed a notable audience in the colonial period. The varied contexts in which Sufi individuals are represented signifies a variety of messages concerning the status of Sufis relative to other ­members of society, each other, as well as societal notions of what being a Sufi implies. My intention here is to focus on the representation of emotion in biographical and other works dealing with the Mevlevi Sufi order. The material analyzed here is of a variety of types, including a non-illustrated biographical text in Persian, an abridgment of that text which emphasizes particular aspects of biography in ways distinct from the original work, and the Ottoman Turkish translation of that abridgment which gained popularity in the form of an illustrated book. I focus on some theoretical issues and problems concerning how emotion can be represented and understood across genres, in a past where there are no living human emotional actors to explain their understanding of emotion. My exploration of the subject is enriched as well as complicated by studying images produced in Islamic civilizational contexts as well as in European ones, since varied cultural contexts and their rules of representation bear directly on claims to the universality of emotion and affect.

The choice of these artifacts from the Mevlevi order is a conscious one, since Mevlevis serve as an excellent subject for such a study because of the performative and emotive aspects of their ritual lives, their appeal to European and Islamic audiences, and the ways in which they have been represented across time in a variety of media. This Sufi group was highly influential in Ottoman society from early in its development right until the end of the empire in the first quarter of the 20th century. In addition to functioning as shaykhs and religious advisors, Mevlevi figures played a prominent role in Ottoman literary and artistic life. They were therefore both painters and subjects of paintings; in addition, their prominence in Istanbul and the distinctiveness of their whirling meditational dance (semaʿ) resulted in them being frequently illustrated by European artists. By focusing on varied representations of Mevlevis in paintings and other media, I attempt to shed light on the aesthetics of representing Sufis as well as to demonstrate how such representations provide information on the place of Sufis in the collective social imagination.

Emotion and Its Study

My goal in this essay is to highlight problems associated with identifying emotions across temporal and cultural boundaries through an examination of their representation in text and image. I am not questioning that attempts to represent emotion occur or that audiences perceive emotion in such works or emote on encountering them; I am concerned with identifying analytical models that allow one to talk about emotions in vastly d­ ifferent

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186 contexts without regressing into a discussion of universal or basic emotions. Theories of affect bear directly on the topic but space does not allow a sustained discussion of the substantially different trends that affect theory has taken in recent decades.1 In my use here, I employ the term emotion as interchangeable with “feeling,” and consider affect to be a discernible trace or residue of emotion. This is distinct from the way the term is used by key figures in what has come to  be known as affect theory, but arguably a use that makes discussion across fields more productive. Before starting my analysis, I need to make several related points concerning the study of  emotion in human life at an individual and societal level. First, I consider emotion (as distinct from a pre-cognitive biological stimulus response)  to  be culturally determined; emotion exists in its expression and description, be it in spoken or written language, or a bodily enactment of it, or a visual representation. Each of these discernible emotive actions or affects is distinct from others, in the sense that an emotion (such as desire) described in the words of a love poem is not identical to the desire one human being feels for another, or to its representation in a painting. Furthermore, our expression and comprehension of that emotion at both individual and social levels is inseparable from the broad, undefinable, and ever changing emotional ecosystem in which we are embedded. And second, expressions of emotion must rely on semiotic systems and conventions of shared understanding for them to possess meaning. This holds true for simple expressions of emotion 1 I discuss issues concerning affect and emotion in visual culture in my book, Alef is for Allah: Childhood, Emotion and Visual Culture in Islamic Societies (Berkeley, University of Callifornia Press 2018). For an overview of the history of affect theory as it relates to emotion, see Jan Plamper (2015), The History of Emotions: An Introduction, translated by Keith Tribe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); an important critique of some dominant trends in affect theory is found in Ruth Leys (2011), “The Turn to Affect: A Critique,” Critical Inquiry 37(3): 434–72.

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(“I feel happy”) in much the same way as it does for performative expressions of emotion such as those one might find in South Asian dance or in early modern Persian miniature painting. I should emphasize that emotions, as described in medieval texts, are prescriptive more than they are descriptive, in the sense that emotions are actively evoked, either through teleologically constructed sensory regimes or through reflective or contemplative practices. Within an Islamic context, al-Kindi (d. 870 ce) in his Risāla fī ajzaʾ a­ l-mūsīqī (“Treatise concerning the informative parts of music”), described how specific colors and color combinations can elicit specific emotions.2 Ibn al-Haytham (d. ca. 1040) wrote at length about visual factors that make up beauty, and al-Farabi (d. 950) conducted experiments on the impact of musical notes on human moods.3 At the same time, medieval works have prescriptive conceptions of emotion. In a Byzantine Christian context, there were very specific ways in which a worshipper was expected to react upon seeing an icon or relic. Similar displays – normally involving crying, but also rolling on the ground, rubbing, caressing, and so on – are also mentioned as appropriate Islamic responses. For example, in furthering his claim that the distinction between worshipping an abstractly embodied deity and a materially embodied one is a matter of education, not religious affiliation, al-Biruni (d. 1048) claimed that if uneducated Muslims were presented with a picture of the Prophet, or of the Kaʿba, “Their joy in looking at the thing would bring them to kiss

2 H.G. Farmer [1957], “Al-Kindī on the ‘Ethos’ of Rhythm, Colour, and Perfume,” Transactions of the Glasgow University Oriental Society, Years 1955 to 1956, in Honour of the Rev. James Robertson Buchanan, ed. C.J.M. Weir [Hertford: Stephen Austin and Sons for Glasgow University Oriental Society] 16: 29–38. 3 For more on the discussion of beauty and its relationship to emotion and psychology in medieval Islamic thought, see Jamal J. Elias (2012), Aisha’s Cushion: Religious Art, Perception, and Practice in Islam (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press): 139–62.

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the picture, to rub their cheeks against it, and to roll themselves in the dust before it.”4 However, it would be misleading to assume either that descriptions of mood or emotion are indicative of how emotions were actually expressed in society, much less of how they were understood by those experiencing them since, as al-Biruni rightly notes, the majority of the population would be uneducated (but they would still be emotionally active beings). Just as it is impossible for us to establish the reality of medieval aesthetics in the sense of knowing the precise nature of what was considered beautiful by the living people of a time long since past, we cannot engage in a simple study of emotion to know exactly what writers meant by specific emotions or notions of what one might call quasi-emotional states or second order emotions, such as awe or wonder. As Bynum has argued for the case of medieval Europe, we do not have the right to assume a “Darwinian universal emotion” readable each time we see “depictions of people with open mouths and raised eyebrows or to think that emotion-behavior is so culturally constructed as to exist only where we find words for it.”5 Emotional reactions such as wonder (or delight and pleasure) do not occur of themselves but are evoked. As such, textual sources give us information not about the nature of wonderment but about ­phenomena – acts, objects and ­language – that are known to or intended to provoke w ­ onderment. To paraphrase Bynum, finding emotion-words and emotion-images is easy; finding emotion is far more complicated.6 Thus the issue is not so much of evoking emotions or encouraging participants and audiences of religious and social practices to be emotional, have emotions or to embrace them, but of treating emotions as illustrative states of being whose 4 Sachau (1888, rpt. 2005), Alberuni’s India, Elibron Classics (Boston: Adamant Media): 1: 111. 5 Caroline Bynum (1997), “Wonder,” American Historical R ­ eview vol. 102:1 (February: 1–26): 14. 6 Bynum: 15.

recording or publicizing does not necessarily constitute an ontological description of specific ­emotions that are extractable from the particular contexts in which they appear.

Emotion and Its Textual Representation

The first work of relevance not just for the description of emotion in a Mevlevi context but for the early history of the Mevlevi Sufi order is the Manāqib al-ʿārifīn.7 Very little reliable information is available on the life of its author, Shams al-din Ahmad-i Aflaki-i ʿArifi (d. 1360), beyond what he volunteers in this work. He does not mention his date or place of birth, nor having spent any part of his childhood in Konya where Rumi lived and established the Mevlevi order. Even Aflaki’s name is of undetermined provenance: perhaps it refers to a recognized metaphysical or spiritual talent (inasmuch as aflākī means “of the horizons” or “of the finite world”). However, it could also refer to his being trained as or being a practicing astronomer, although there is no written evidence to support such a hypothesis. On one occasion in the Manāqib al-ʿārifīn someone refers to Aflaki as a pharmacist (ʿattār), but it is not clear if this is a reference to his profession or a metaphorical use of the term. Indeed, information about Aflaki starts with the prime of his career as a prominent disciple of Rumi’s grandson, Ulu ʿArif Chelebi (d. ca 1320), at whose behest he wrote the Manāqib alʿārifīn and whom he accompanied on ʿArif’s travels through Anatolia and Azerbaijan.8 7 Shams al-din al-Aflaki al-ʿArifi (1976), Manāqib al-ʿārifīn, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı, 2 vols. (Ankara, Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları); English translation by John O’Kane (2002), The Feats of the Knowers of God, Islamic History and Civilization: Studies and Texts, vol. 43 (Leiden: E.J. Brill). 8 Aflaki mentions that he studied with a Masnavī-khwān (a formal reciter of Rumi’s magisterial poem the Masnavī-yi maʿnavī) named Siraj al-din and with two other figures named Nizam al-din-i Arzanjani and ʿAbd al-Muʾmin-i ­Toqati. There is no date given for the beginning of his association with the Mevlevis, but he was devoted to Ulu

188 Aflaki c­ommenced writing the Manāqib alʿārifīn in 1318. He allegedly completed a first draft within a year and entitled it Manāqib al-ʿārifīn va marātib al-kāshifīn. He continued to revise and expand the work, however, until it was officially completed shortly before his death, probably in the early 1350s. Aflaki’s work follows a chronological structure, with the first chapter devoted to Rumi’s father, Bahaʾ al-din Valad. The second, shorter chapter is about Sayyid Burhan al-din, a disciple of Bahaʾ al-din who took over as Rumi’s spiritual guide after his father’s death. Chapters 3 and 4 ­focus squarely on Rumi’s adult life and his relationship with his teacher, friend and muse, Shams aldin-i Tabrizi. The third chapter comprises almost half the book; in the fourth, it is the charismatic Shams who almost serves as the primary character, not Rumi. The next three, relatively short chapters deal with three of Rumi’s successors, Salah al-din Zarkub, Husam al-din Chelebi, and Rumi’s son Sultan Valad. The eighth chapter on Aflaki’s own master Ulu ʿArif Chelebi is especially interesting since it recounts many events for which the author serves as an eyewitness. Individual anecdotes in this chapter are often longer than those in the previous ones, with a level of detail not encountered earlier. Interestingly enough, the ninth and final chapter (there is actually an appendix as well) on Ulu ʿArif’s successor Amir ʿAbid – for whom Aflaki was also a disciple and witness – is brief and lacking in the textured detail he provides in Chapter 8. Aflaki’s Manāqib al-ʿārifīn was abridged by ʿAbd al-Wahhab ibn Muhammad Hamadhani into a book emphasizing the miraculous elements of ­Rumi’s life and, to a much lesser extent, in those of his immediate disciples. This work, entitled Manāqib-i savāqib, was subsequently translated into Turkish by Mahmud Dede (d. 1602), a ­masnavi ʿArif for the entire period of the latter’s leadership of the nascent Mevlevi order and, following his death (ca. 1320), Aflaki attached himself to the leader ʿAbid Chelebi (d. 1338) and subsequently to Amir ʿAdel Chelebi (d. 1368). Upon his own death on June 15, 1360, Ahmad-i Aflaki was buried in Konya.

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reciter at the main Mevlevi shrine in Konya.9 The introduction to the work relates that Mahmud Dede came to Istanbul from Konya in 1589 during the reign of Murad iii. The Sultan was known for his Sufi interests, and especially for his affinity for the Mevlevis, and Mahmud Dede used the offices of the courtier Zeyrek Ağa to present a partial translation of Hamadhani’s work to the Sultan. Murad iii is claimed to have instructed Mahmud Dede to return to Konya and translate the entire book into Turkish, a task Mahmud Dede accomplished some time before the Sultan’s death in 1595. Mahmud Dede entitled his translation the Savāqib-i manāqib-i evliyā Allah; two illustrated copies of the work are known to survive, both dating from very shortly after the work’s completion. The first, held in the Topkapı Palace Library in Istanbul (MS R1479) contains 22 miniatures and has a colophon stating that it was copied in 1007/1598–99. The second, arguably more ornate copy, is held at the Morgan Library in New York (MS M.0466) and probably dates from the same time. This manuscript does not have a colophon and contains 29 miniatures in a similar style to those in the Istanbul manuscript. Although there is no documentary evidence to this effect, given that both manuscripts date from approximately eight years after Mahmud Dede returned to Konya to complete his translation, it is likely that the illustrated copies were also produced in Konya, the hereditary seat of the Mevlevi order.10 9

10

For a critical edition of the Persian text, see ʿAbd al-­ Wahhab Hamadhani (2011), Sawāqib al-manāqib-i awliyaʾ Allah, ed. Arif Naushahi (Tehran: Markaz-i pizhūhishī-yi mirās-i maktūb). A modern Turkish translation with miniatures reproduced from the Topkapı Museum manuscript of the work is found in Bekir Şahin, editor (2006), Sevâkıb-ı Menâkıb (Konya: Rumi Yayınları). F. Çağman and Z. Tanındı (2005), “Illustration and the Art of the Book in the Sufi Orders in the ­Ottoman ­Empire,” in Sufism and Sufis in Ottoman Society: Sources, doctrines, rituals, turuq, architecture, literature and fine art, modernism, ed. A.Y. Ocak (Ankara: Türk

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As it is, Mevlevis appear in a range of visual works in addition to this famous hagiography. These include paintings in historical works depicting Sufis engaged in activities, portraits of famous Sufi figures by themselves or with dignitaries, iconic representations of Rumi (and the Mevlevis in general) in the form of the conical Mevlevi hat (sikke), paintings and engravings by European ­artists, as well as in photographs from the 19th century. For their part, Mevlevis were themselves painters, to the point that there may even have been a distinct Mevlevi dergah style of miniature painting during the second half of the reign of Murad iii (r. 1574–1595) into the reign of Mehmed iii (r. 1595–1603), the period from which the illustrated copies of the Savāqib-i manāqib date.11

Describing Emotion

Textual representations of emotions appear with such frequency in the Manāqib al-ʿārifīn that it is not feasible to describe them in detail in this context. Aflaki’s lengthy account of Rumi’s death provides several descriptions of emotional responses: “When they brought forth Mowlana’s corpse, all the great and small bared their head. Absolutely all the men, women, and children were present and they raised a tumult which resembled the tumult of the great Resurrection. Everyone was weeping and most men walked along naked, shouting and tearing their clothes.” In addition to Muslims, Christians, Jews and Rum (i.e. Greeks) all lamented at Rumi’s death, and “… the Koranic readers (moqrīyān) of sweet breath raised to the Tarih ­Kurumu): 501–27; A.S. Ünver (1959), “Birleşik Amerikaʾda Mevlevilik Hatıraları,” Anıt Dergisi, Konya Mevlana özel sayısı 4(25): 8–10. 11 F. Çağman, (1979), “xvi. Yüzyıl Sonlarında Mevlevi Dergahlarında Gelişen Bir Minyatür Okulu,” i. Uluslararası Türkoloji Kongresi. Istanbul: 651–79 plus plates. For a catalog of images of Mevlevis as well as art works produced by them, see Ş. Uzluk (1957), Mevlevilikte Resim, Resimde Mevleviler (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınevi).

clouds (ʿanān) of heaven their sighs (ʿanʿana-hā) along with chants arousing lamentation and mingled with grief.”12 Illustrated copies of the Savāqib-i manāqib also ostensibly depict sadness and grief in the events surrounding Rumi’s death. In the first example (see Fig. 8.1), Rumi sits in what is presumably a final formal meeting, surrounded by his disciples and possibly by a dignitary (seated with an attendant to the left). The disciples are of various ranks and ages (as evident primarily from their headgear and facial hair), and three women are looking on (two from a window and one from a balcony, and the person passing food from behind the curtain might be female although it is more likely to be a boy). Two of the disciples are holding blue handkerchiefs to their eyes – a gesture that is recognizable as one of crying to the modern viewer. As such, one can legitimately surmise that the two men are crying because they are sad at Rumi’s impending death, and conjecture that the demeanor of others in the scene reflects related emotions (anxiety, puzzlement, fear, grief, etc.). We can therefore assume that the man with his face to Rumi’s feet and another one, bare headed with his hands raised, are also displaying cognate emotions, although there is no reason why that must necessarily be so based on their affect. The painting from the Savāqib-i manāqib illustrating Rumi’s death (see Fig. 8.2) provides a more vivid e­ xample of how emotion and affect are neither represented nor perceived unambiguously. Rumi’s bier (at the center of the image, with his body wrapped in a patterned cloth, strapped with three colored belts, with a fourth one on his turban) has a group of men standing at its feet. They are recognizable as dignitaries and Sufis by their attire (particularly by their robes and turbans). They look solemn and somber, although one could be excused for thinking that they are expressionless. In contrast to this group, at the bottom of the painting one sees four men who appear animated; three of them are bareheaded, and two have 12

Aflaki: 580, O’Kane 405–06.

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Figure 8.1 Rumi meets with his disciples for the last time, Savāqib-i manāqib, Morgan Library, New York, ms M.466, fols. 116v, 121r.

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Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion

Figure 8.2 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi, Savāqib-i manāqib, Morgan Library, New York, ms M.466, fols. 124r.

hands to their heads. The three standard bearers and two gift bearers on the lower left are not recognizably different in their postures or expressions from similar figures in many other paintings that do not deal with issues of sadness and grief. The same holds true of the groups of women and men looking out from windows at the top. Grief, sadness and somberness in this image are represented iconographically, through the externalities of bodies, and require a familiarity with the sign value of visual cues to be recognizable. In particular, familiarity with Islamic sources (and especially with textual descriptions) informs us that male grief is displayed by being disheveled, tearing one’s garments, and going bareheaded.

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Many cultures characterize such emotional states by loss of control and erratic movement, but conventionality and universality are not the same thing. It is this prior knowledge of conventions of performance, and the narrative context of Rumi’s death, that allows us to recognize the display of grief on the part of the three characters in the bottom right. Nothing somatic is evocative of grief in a way that transcends the centuries that separate us (the viewers) from the painting. In fact, the postures and expressions of the men gathered by the bier are no different from those of people listening intently, nor are the three grievers at the bottom distinguishable from representations of ecstasy or drunkenness (see Figs. 8.3 & 8.4). Figure  8.3 depicts a scene of Sufis engaged in the ritual of samāʿ. The men in the foreground are in postures that show a lack of composure, with one individual being bare headed and another holding his hands to the front of his head. Such gestures are not – in and of themselves – different from ones that indicate grief; it is the presence of the musicians (in conjunction with the group of readers in the background) that inform the viewer that this is a scene of religious dancing, and that the men are in some state of ecstasy or excitement. Similarly, Figure  8.4 illustrates the ambiguity of the visual and performative affects of emotion. It depicts Rumi lecturing a group of men (including his disciples) on the virtues of dogs. Much of the audience is standing looking at Rumi with expressions not too dissimilar from those in the scene of his death. Others hold a hand out in front of themselves, while still others place a finger to their lips. The latter gesture is understood (from Islamic literature) to indicate amazement, and the former might represent attentiveness as well. The  two ­figures in the window seem to be paying the same attention to Rumi’s speech as the outdoor ­audience, but the figures on the balcony appear to be preoccupied with their own affairs. Many elements of this painting, including visual tropes such as witness figures at the edges of the scene or the use of bystanders, are established practices in the artistic tradition to which these works belong,

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Figure 8.3 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Rumi’s ­Successor, Husam al-Din, Savāqib-i manāqib, Morgan Library, New York, ms M.466, fols. 159r.

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Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion

Figure 8.4 Dogs in a Market, Savāqib-i manāqib, Morgan Library, New York, ms M.466, fols. 66v.

but they are not easily decipherable outside of a very specific viewership intimately familiar with the conventions of this tradition.13 In short, the emotional states of the individuals depicted in these paintings are seldom readily apparent to the modern viewer. They are represented 13

For an accessible introduction to Persianate figural painting, see Michael Barry (2004), Figurative Art in Medieval Islam and the Riddle of Bihzâd of Herât (1465–1535) (Paris: Flammarion). For more on circles of artistic patronage and appreciate in Anatolia and the Ottoman Empire, see Emine Fetvacı (2013), Picturing History at the Ottoman Court (Bloomington: Indiana University Press), especially Chapter One; and Lâle Uluç (2006), Turkman Governors, Shiraz Artisans and Ottoman C ­ ollectors: Sixteenth Century Shiraz Manuscripts (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları).

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not through their affect but through the semiotic depiction of that affect – in other words, through gesture, body posture, and sartorial details. Such representations of emotion are crucial elements of the narrative qualities of the image but they are not satisfactory signifiers of emotion, in the sense that the visual depiction of emotion is not accessible to the viewer in the same way as a bird or a flower might because both the experiencing and the observing of emotion are ultimately idiosyncratic. Anyone who recognizes the representational conventions of painting a flower can recognizes a flower, even if they do not know what kind of flower it is; the equivalent distinction between recognizing that an emotive event is being represented visually but not knowing what emotion it is implies a lack of understanding of the signification of the visual representation itself. Emotion lies at the very heart of these images, and it warrants focused reflection not as a peripheral aspect of visual representation but as its subject, traveling across time between the composition of the painting to the contemporary viewer. I am not suggesting that the books, specific manuscripts and miniature paintings discussed here are comparable objects. Nor am I claiming that the objects have recoverable or intrinsic meanings that we can analyze. I am, in part, trying to disaggregate the category of the object by pointing out shortcomings in some methods of studying material artifacts. One normally approaches curated objects such as the ones presented here assuming a set of rules concerning how the objects interact with human beings; these include issues of identity, time and history that themselves rest upon specific dialectical relationships – real as well as imagined – between us as social actors and subjects, and the material- and object-worlds that we inhabit.14 14 Donald Preziosi (2002), “Hearing the Unsaid: Art history, museology, and the composition of the self,” in Art History and its institutions: foundations of a discipline, ed. by Elizabeth Mansfield, pp. 28–45 (London: Routledge): 28. For a concise discussion of various models

194 The brief juxtaposition of the representation of emotion in paintings and texts presented above is intended to highlight fundamental problems in treating emotion as an object that derive, in part, from difficulties associated with the study of objects themselves. As is readily acknowledged in a number of fields such as museum studies, or material cultural studies, the moment an object (be it a book or a painting scanned from an illustrated book and reproduced in an article such as this one) is placed in a museum or library, it gets amputated from the dynamic range of temporal contexts (moments) in which it existed and from which and to which it imparted meaning.15 An illustrated manuscript of the hagiography of a prominent religious figure such as Rumi, with complex and changing symbolic value through the time when it enters the palace treasury in Istanbul, becomes “TKSM MS R. 1479,” containing 22 miniatures and a colophon stating that it was copied in 1007 H ­ ijri, equivalent to 1598–99 c.e. The scholar’s project then becomes restoring meaning to this thing, thereby restoring its objecthood, a process replete with pitfalls. In material culture studies writ broadly, the temptation has often been to engage in a formal analysis of representation rather than with how objects engage with people. Material culture gets analyzed linguistically as a text or even a grammatical system of representation that lends itself to such systems of interpretation.16 Other methods of understanding objects and things, see Rose Muravchick (2014), “God is the Best Guardian: Talismanic Shirts from the Gunpowder Empires,” PhD Dissertation, Religious Studies, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelpha: 36–45. 15 A. Shalem (2011), “Histories of Belonging and George Kubler’s Prime Object,” Getty Research Journal 3: 5. 16 Nicole Boivin (2008), Material Cultures, Material Minds: The impact of things on human thought, society and evolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press): 20. A related conceptual model is that of translation, which posits that the meaning and import of an object in a new cultural context or medium is comprehensible through a process in which something akin to a

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that have been deployed to make sense of objects include biographical and biological models in which the object is seen as having a life journey.17 A productive model for studying objects across time is to think not of biographies or lives, but of itineraries. Rather than use a mixed metaphor to imbue the material object with a life of its own, the concept of an itinerary dissociates the object both from its own fictive biology and from its biographical association with human beings (or other biological life), recentering the focus on the object itself.18 Such a focus is best achieved through thinking of the object as an index rather than an art or textual object, where an index can be understood as a sign that points to something else.19 The

17

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grammar or bilingual dictionary enables us, first, to record the meaning of the object in the initial context and then to understand the transferred meaning in the second. Translation promises that, once the object passes through a cross-cultural moment of crisis and is translated into its new context, the object gains symbolic and existential stability as a new thing. For a detailed critique of the biographical model of studying objects, see Hans Peter Hahn and Hadas Weiss eds. (2013), Mobility, Meaning, and the Transformation of Things (Oxford: Oxbow Books). On the biological model, see George Kubler (1962), The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things (New Haven: Yale University Press). A very useful discussion of ways in which material objects might be conceptualized is found in Tim Ingold (2007), “Materials against Materiality,” Archaeological Dialogues 14(1): 1–16. David Fontijn, epilogue in H.P. Hahn and H. Weiss eds., Mobility, Meaning, and the Transformation of Things: 192. An index can be nothing more than an indicator in the simplest sense but it has been taken to mean much more by several theorists. Peirce considered indexes to be “indicators” that “show something about things, on account of their being physically connected with them” (C.S. Peirce [1998], “What is a Sign?” in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, vol. 2, 1893–1914, edited by the Peirce Edition Project [Bloomington: Indiana University Press]: 5). For Alfred Gell the concept is a cornerstone of his argument that objects are analogous to persons in terms of their possession of agency (Alfred Gell [1998], Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory [Oxford: Clarendon Press]: 27).

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visual object might resemble an intended prototype, but it may also indicate something directly or by association. For example, a fire alarm indicates fire, emergency, and the need to exit a building equally well and, by association, it may evoke feelings of anxiety or security. What the index actually indicates is something that cannot be taken for granted, and no straightforward system of deductive reasoning assures reliable interpretation of one sign in a forest of indexes. The anthropologist Alfred Gell suggested that a process of abduction – as opposed to one of communication or translation – explains a material object’s agency in the world.20 The emphasis in such a model falls on the phenomenon of objectagency and, only consequently, on the dynamic relationship of human beings to the object. Abduction is an intentional term here, used in order to avoid falling into familiar terminological patterns or models of inference. Abduction in this context means “to abduce”; it is the form of reasoning in which we can abduce a possible – but not an actual or definite – relationship or cause. For example, if I find that today the pizza at my favorite pizza place tastes exceptionally good, I can abduce that the pizzeria has a good chef in the kitchen. However, the abduction may very well be false, since it could be that the reason the pizza tastes exceptional has something to do with the oven, the ingredients, my taste buds, or my mood, and so on. It may be more appropriate to think about the commonality of objects – particularly with regard to their representation of emotion – within a theoretical framework that givens primacy to agency, transformation, and causation, as urged in an abductive treatment of the visual. The purpose behind the representation of emotion and behind the object is not the construction of symbolic relationships between text or image and message, but of changing human understandings and behaviors.21 However, it remains unclear whether objects from the past themselves have retrievable 20 21

Gell: 13–14. Gell: 6.

meanings or even if objects have a corporeal integrity such that they can be held, possessed, contemplated and understood. The stability and intrinsic nature of meaning in objects is especially relevant to our ability to judge the representation of emotion or other aspirational messages. The key to understanding emotion might lie in shifting the focus of discussion from the things that are the texts and images in which emotions are presumed to appear, and to viewing emotion itself as the object. By centering the discussion around emotion as object one can situate the object (i.e., emotion) within its own context of associations; thus recentered as an object, the emotion becomes encoded with meaning. Once emotion has been recognized as an artifact, where by ­“artifact” we mean a specific kind of object of human manufacture – like a building perhaps, or a bridge – one can then make emotion (rather than the context of its appearance – the book or painting) the location of human meaning. As such, I would argue that we become less restricted by notions of genre and context and more able to speak about human interactions with the object. Specifically, therefore, we can carry emotions in relation to Sufis in general, and to Mevlevis in particular, beyond an arbitrarily constructed context of 14th to 16th century hagiographical traditions and into the sphere of 19th and 20th century photography, both Ottoman and European, as well as to that of European representations of Sufi dervishes in general. What matters most in such a study of emotion is our ability to maximize our knowledge of the specific social and ­representational ­contexts in which a particular emotion or emotional affect is imbricated.

Sufis in European Eyes

Sufi “dervishes,” though not Mevlevis in particular, have been described in European travelers’ accounts of the Islamic world from the beginnings of such literature, and pictorial depictions of them date from the latter half of the 16th century.

196 The oldest known examples are printed in Paris in 1568 in the Quatre Premiers Livres des Navigations et pérégrinations orientales of Nicolas de Nicolay, who had visited the Ottoman Empire in 1551–52.22 Early accounts emphasize the bizarre – rather than simply the exotic – such as the dervish propensity toward wearing skins or being naked, and of performing strange acts, including ones of self-mortification. By the 17th century – p ­ robably as a combined result of a greater e­xposure to the ­Ottoman Empire on the part of Europeans, a greater visibility of institutionalized Sufi orders, and an atmosphere of persecution toward dramatically antinomian Sufis – Europeans begin to write about, draw and paint members of more conventional Sufi orders, including the Mevlevis. Most notable among such works is the Tableau général de lʾEmpire Ottoman written and published in 1788 by a Catholic Armenian in Istanbul named Muraga D’Ohsson. This work contains a substantial chapter on the Sufi orders; the accompanying portraits of Sufis by the Ottoman court artist, Konstantinus Kyziko (also known as Constantine Kapidagi) are of particular importance because they provide never-before-seen, detailed, almost ethnographic depictions of members of Sufi orders and their rituals.23 22 T. Zarcone (2013), “Western Visual Representations of Dervishes from the 14th Century to Early 20th.” Kyoto Bulletin of Islamic Area Studies 6 (March): 44. For more on the history of European travelers in the Islamic world, see James Mather (2009), Pashas, Traders and Travellers in the Islamic World (New Haven and London: Yale University Press); and Klaus Kreiser (1995), “Die Derwische im Spiegel abendländischer Reiseberichte,” in Istanbul und das osmanische Reich: Derwischwesen, Baugeschichte, Inschriftenkunde (Istanbul: Isis Verlag): 1–20. 23 Baron Ignatius Muradgea d’Ohsson (1791), Tableau général de lʾEmpire othoman, divisé en deux parties, dont lʾune comprend la législation mahométane, lʾautre, lʾhistoire de lʾEmpire othoman, 4 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie de Monsieur); Günsel Renda (2002), “Illustrating the Tableau Général de lʾEmpire Othoman,” in Sture Theolin, ed., The Torch of the Empire. Ignatius Mouradgea d’Ohsson and the Tableau Général of the Ottoman

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It was during the 19th century, right around the time when photography became an important medium of representing the Islamic world in Europe, that one finds a substantial increase in the portrayal of Mevlevis. In an article published in 1839, a French journalist described the Mevlevis and what are probably Rifaʿi Sufis in terms of the exotic theatrical qualities of their rituals.24 The Mevlevi semaʿ in particular became an object of attraction and fascination as a mystical dance and was often represented visually, particularly as it was performed in the lodge (Mevlevîhâne) in the Galata district of Istanbul (this lodge was established in 1491 and became an important center of Mevlevi activity on account of its proximity to the Ottoman court and other members of the elite). Although European textual accounts of the ­Mevlevi semaʿ date from the 15th century, the first visual representation of it is in an engraving by Cl. Duflos (1665–1727) and published in Paris in 1671 in P. Rycaut’s Histoire de lʾétat présent de lʾEmpire Ottoman.25 The best known European painting representing the Mevlevi semaʿ is by the French artist ­Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, who spent much of his life in Istanbul and died there in 1699. First published in 1712 in the Recueil de cent estampes représentant différentes nations du Levant, and now housed in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, Vanmour’s work was to serve as the model on which several later European representations of the Mevlevi ritual were based.26 Van Mour’s Mevlevis danced in a circle

24 25

26

Empire in the Eighteenth century (Istanbul, Yapı Kredi Yayınları): 65–66, 72; Zarcone (2013): 47–48. “Derviches tourneurs,” Magasin pittoresque (1839): 71, from Zarcone: 51. Zarcone (2013): 51–52. There is an Austrian painting by an unknown artist alleged to date from 1654 (reproduced in N. Olcer, F. Çağman and P. Vidmar, eds. (2005), Images of the Turks in the 17th Century Europe [Istanbul: Sakip Sabancı Müzesi Yayınları]: 131). For more on Jean-Baptiste Vanmour and his paintings in the Ottoman Empire, see S. Gopin and E. Sint Nicolaas (2009), Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, peintre de la Sublime Porte 1671–1737 (Valenciennes: Musée des

Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion

in the Galata Mevlevîhâne, arms to the sides with one palm upward and the other down (see Fig. 8.5). The faces of the participants and onlookers are not clearly visible in Vanmour’s work, yet the swirling robes of the Mevlevis engaged in semaʿ, the supplicative posture of the two individuals in the foreground, and the clearly attentive postures of the overflowing audience, all come together to suggest a positive atmosphere. However, we are left with no real guidance as to individual emotion and mood, and must interpolate our own feelings on the scene. Perhaps the most famous pre-modern visual representations of Mevlevis by a European artist is found in Jean Frederic Bernard and Bernard Picart’s magisterial Ceremonies et Coutumes ­réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde. Volume 7 of the work, which first appeared in print in 1737, contains detailed information on the rituals, beliefs and social customs of Arabs, Iranians and Turks. Bernard’s text provides a history of Islam starting with Muhammad and also includes translations of the Qurʾan. The treatment of Islam and Muslims in this work is nuanced: the religion is presented in comparison to Christianity, and Muhammad vacillates between being a social hero and a false prophet. Bernard and Picart’s work is a notable exercise in a particular form of humanism: they were neither ethnographers nor travelers providing entertaining data (neither of them ever traveled outside Europe), but they consciously employed images and text in order to present a panoramic view of the world in which its peoples existed on a continuum (or a collage) that was not entirely subject to the hierarchies and distinctions Beaux-Arts de Valenciennes); and A. Boppe (1989), Les Peintres du Bosphore au 18e siècle (Paris: ACR Edition), especially pp. 24–25. Among later painters who were fascinated by the Mevlevi prayer ritual, one can include one by Jean-Léon Gérôme (d. 1904), whose painting is a significant departure from the model represented by Vanmour and much more in keeping with the overall characteristics of Gérôme’s well studied orientalist works (see Kristian Davies [2005], Orientalists: Western Artists in Arabia, the Sahara, Persia and India [New ­Canaan, ct: Laynfaroh Publishers]: 286–89).

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that built upon and fed religious polemics as well as colonial and imperial ambitions.27 In particular, many of the visual illustrations had no European precedents and therefore needed to be composed on the basis of Ottoman miniature paintings or costume books produced for European patrons in Istanbul.28 The possibility that a particular image was an 18th century European’s interpretation of a scene he encountered in a work produced in the Ottoman Empire for local audiences raises interesting, but unanswerable, questions concerning the translatability of emotional affect. Picart’s famous image of a Mevlevi semaʿ (see Fig. 8.6) is copied from a 1714 engraving entitled “Les Dervichs dans leur Temple de Péra, 27

28

For an overview of the book and its place in history, see Lynn Hunt, Margaret C. Jacob and Wijnand Mijnhardt (2010), The Book that Changed Europe: Picart and Bernard’s Religious Ceremonies of the World (Cambridge, ma: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press). For a discussion of the section on the Islamic world, see Kishwar Rizvi (2009), “Persian Pictures: Art, Documentation, and Self-Reflection in Jean Frederic Bernard and Bernard Picart’s Representations of Islam,” in Bernard Picart and the First Global Vision of Religion, ed. L. Hunt, M. Jacob and W. Mijnhardt (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute): 169–96. I do not mean to suggest that Picart and Bernard’s work was completely devoid of any agenda. The authors were reliant on the works of others, such as Paul Rycaut’s The Present State of the Ottoman Empire (1667), Jean de Thevenot’s Suite du voyage de Levant (1674), and John Chardin’s Journal du voyage du Chevalier Chardin en Perse et aux Indes Orientales (1686). Authors such as these were underwritten by government and business interests in Europe and were directly involved in collecting information on the Near East for their funders (Rizvi: 173–74). Such political and religious concerns are readily apparent in ­Bernard and Picart’s work, particularly in the text. Rizvi: 174, 178. Although there is no direct evidence for the use of local materials in the preparation of the images representing the Ottoman Empire, such a practice would not be without precedent: Picart is known to have copied some images from Indian manuscripts to illustrate volume 4 of the work, and several European artists (Peter Paul Rubens among them), collected and copied Islamic miniature paintings.

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Figure 8.5 Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, Whirling Dervishes, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, SK-A-4081.

achevant de tourner” by Jean-Baptiste Gérard Scotin (d. 1715) which is itself based on the painting by Jean-Baptist Vanmour and printed in Le Hay’s Recueil de cent Estampes representant differentes Nations du Levant.29 Picart’s work is faithful to the model, down to the reversed Arabic writing in the medallion on the left hand pillar and the musicians in the balcony on the top right. This engraving is striking for its attempts to convey emotion: the scene is dominated by robed men – young and old – who have their arms raised in a variety of postures, their eyes closed, and their faces tilted sideways or upward. The foreground holds two kneeling figures facing away from the audience, one hunched, the other prostrate. As in Vanmour’s painting (see Fig. 8.5), 29

A copy of this print is preserved in The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Prints and Photographs in the New York Public Library (http://digitalcollections.nypl .org/items/510d47d9-6a2e-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99).

there is an audience which, though a less prominent feature in the engraving, can still be seen – to a man – as looking straight at the robed men in the foreground. The turbaned figure to the left side (similar to the figure on the right in Vanmour’s painting, and perhaps a semāʿzen bāşı, or master of the semāʿ) is expressionless and observant. One is strongly tempted to read emotional and quasi-emotional states into the scene, including ecstasy, piety, and perhaps joy and wonder. And it is almost certainly the case that the artist intended to represent emotional affect in the way he drew the figures in the foreground of the image and by the striking use of attentive onlookers in the background. But we would be mistaken to think that just because affect is overtly and intentionally represented, it is clearly understood by observers. Cultural, societal and personal expectations and biases play a large part in determining what we will see in the expressions and actions of the image’s subjects.

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Figure 8.6 Bernard Picart, La Danse des Dervis, first printed in J.F. Bernard and B. Picart, Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde, vol, 7, 1737, collection of the author.



The Photograph and the Orient

It is with the advent of photography that the lines between European and Islamic Middle Eastern representations of Mevlevis and other Sufis begin to merge. The photograph, more so than any other visual medium, makes the positivist promise that what one sees is what is or was really there. Even film and video fail to match its promise of an unmediated view of recorded reality since, quite apart from any Barthian distinction between the “pure spectatorial consciousness” of photographic representation and the “projective, more ‘magical’ consciousness of film,”30 the film is ­dominated in the broader public’s understanding of it by its overwhelming association with fictional ­entertainment, as distinct from the documentarist 30 R. Barthes (1977), “Rhetoric of the Image,” in ImageMusic-Text, trans. S. Heath (New York: Hill and Wang): 45.

purpose of even the most ubiquitous of amateur photographs, the selfie, which screams out the factual promise “I was here!” The proliferation of photography in the modern world, its early application to Islamic subjects, and its rapid adoption in the Islamic world all require a more detailed treatment of photography than I have afforded other genres and media of representing emotion discussed above. The Orientalist photograph was not an addendum to the world of photography in the 19th century but stood at the heart of it. When introducing Daguerre’s new invention to the French Chamber of Deputies, Dominique François Arago emphasized the value of the camera to Orientalists and archaeologists and urged that the new technology be provided to the Institut d’Égypte.31 From the moment of 31

Ali Behdad and Luke Gartlan, eds. (2013), Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute): 1.

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the invention of portable photography, the photograph served the twinned purposes of defining and preserving an oriental world. The peoples and places of the various Easts were fabricated by these early Orientalist images which were taken by governments, learned societies and armchair travelers to be naturalistically representative of the Orient. The major subjects of European photographers in the Orient were either aggrandized and monumental landscapes or else diminished natives. The staged images of veiled but partially clad women or caricatured peasants and wanderers are well known, and constituted a significant portion of the stock photography of human subjects.32 By the orientalism of these images I mean several, interconnected things: an art historical term for a subject category; a discourse associated with ideologies of power and dominance; a system of exoticization and caricaturization; and a multi-nodal dynamic network involving nations, socioeconomic classes, ethnicities, audiences, artists and subjects. Orientalism is therefore not simply a system by which Europe caricatures and dominates non-Europeans, but something in which non-Europeans themselves participate in a multitude of ways. The Orientalist photograph was a construct of historical and aesthetic contingencies, in which representations of peoples and places in the East were all linked by ­ representational ideologies which sought simultaneously to exoticize and to naturalize

32

For more on the photographic depiction of women in Orientalist photographs, see Zeynep Çelik and Leila Kinney (1990), “Ethnography and Exhibitionism at the Expositions Universelles,” Assemblage 13 (December): 34–59; Irvin C. Schick (1990), “Representing Middle Eastern Women: Feminism and Colonial Discourse,” Feminist Studies 16(2): 345–80; Sarah Graham-Brown (1988), Images of Women: The Portrayal of Women in Photography of the Middle East 1860–1950 (New York: Columbia University Press); Malek Alloula (1986), The Colonial Harem (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press); and Lynne Thornton (1985), Women as Portrayed in Orientalist Painting (Paris: acr Edition).

them.33 And although European photographers played a major role in the emergence and popularization of such photography, Ottoman, Iranian and Indian photographers were themselves active participants in the new, compelling visual medium.34 In the 1840s, several European photographers opened studios in Istanbul. Their customers included a broad cross section of the social elite, including Sufi shaykhs who visited the studios to pose for portraits by themselves, with members of their families, and with other Sufis. Sometimes such group photographs (especially larger ones) were taken in the Sufi centers (tekkes).35 The popularity of photography in the Ottoman Empire was only to grow with the emergence of local photographic studios. Ottoman photography is linked with European photography in a number of ways: it is technologically dependent, in the sense that the ­earliest 33

34

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Ali Behdad (2013), “The Orientalist Photograph,” in Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation, ed. A. Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute: 11–32): 12. For more on Orientalist photography, see (among others) Eleanor M. Hight and Gary Simpson eds. (2002), Colonialist Photography: Imag(in)ing Race and Place (New York: Routledge); Anne Maxwell (1999), Colonial Photography and Exhibitions: Representations of the “Native” and the Making of European Identities (London: Leicester University Press); Christopher Pinney (1997), Camera Indica: The Social Life of Indian Photographs (Chicago: University of Chicago Press); Catherine Lutz and Jane Collins (1993), Reading National Geographic (Chicago: University of Chicago Press); and Nissan N. Perez (1988), Focus East: Early Photography in the Near East, 1839–1885 (New York: Harry N. Abrams). For a discussion of the positivist character of photography relative to other visual media, and concerning its ambivalence as a tool in the hands of European (and other governments), see C. Pinney (2013), “What’s Photography got to do with It?” in Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation, ed. A. Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute): 33–52. Catherine Pinguet and Pierre de Gigord (2011), Istanbul, photographes et sultans: 1840–1900 (Paris: cnrs Editions): 47–48, and 111–16; Zarcone: 49–50.

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studios were established by Europeans, and subsequent Ottoman photographers (several of whom were Christian) learned from them; many Ottoman photographers maintained catalogs of Orientalist images meant to appeal to European audiences; and existing styles of representation and posing shaped the expectations and tastes of ­Ottoman audiences. The Ottoman administration was acutely aware of the power of photography and sought to employ it as a propaganda weapon. Sultan Abdülhamid ii (r. 1876–1909), in particular, maintained an active interest in photography and had a photographic studio built in the Yıldız Palace where portraits of the royal family and visiting dignitaries were taken. He also promoted the use of photographs to advance a positive image of the Ottoman Empire in Europe, stating: “Most of the photographs taken for sale in Europe vilify and mock Our Well-Protected Domains. It is imperative that the photographs to be taken in this instance do not insult Islamic peoples by showing them in a vulgar and demeaning light.”36 He commissioned 51 album sets containing photographs of land- and cityscapes, modern school girls, factories, hospitals and other symbols of ­modernization, and had them sent in 1893 as gifts to foreign lands, including to the Library of Congress and the  British Museum.37 Such official uses of 36 Selim Deringil (1998), The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire, 1876–1909 (London: I.B. Tauris: 156), quoted in E. Akcan (2013), “Off the Frame: The Panoramic City Albums of Istanbul,” in Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation, ed. A. Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute: 93–114): 95. For more on the history of Ottoman photography, see Engin Çizgen (1987), Photography in the Ottoman Empire 1839–1919 (Istanbul: Haset Kitabevi); and Michelle L. Woodward (2003), “Between Orientalist Clichés and Images of Modernization: Photographic Practice in the Late Ottoman Era,” History of Photography 27:4 (Winter): 363–74. 37 “Abdul-Hamid ii collection of photographs of the Ottoman Empire,” lc control no. 2003652945, Library of Congress, Washington dc; Akcan (2013): 95. For more on Abdülhamid ii’s albums and the Ottoman use

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photography were of domestic concern as well, serving both as a disciplinary gaze showing the omnipresence of the state and as an index documenting the extent and nature of the permissible and impermissible in the realm.38 Largely to these ends, the Sultan assembled the Yıldız photographic collection consisting of 35,000 photographs in 800 albums.39 Photographs of people were staged, as a rule, using studio props that were presented as natural in scenes of conflicting natures, such as being placed anachronistically to characterize particular ethnicities or professions. Photographs of larger groups (even of paid models) had to be taken outside, but they too used elaborate staging and props. Local photographic studios maintained sales catalogs of such photographs which were

38

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of photographic images, see Nancy C. Micklewright (2000), “Personal, Public, and Political (Re)Constructions: Photographs and Consumption,” in Consumption Studies and the History of the Ottoman Empire, 1550–1992, ed. Donald Quartet (Albany: State University of New York Press): 261–88; and E.S. Gavin, Ş. Tekin, and G.A. Tekin (1988), “Imperial Self Portrait: The Ottoman Empire as revealed in the Sultan Abdülhamid ii’s Photographic Albums,” Journal of Turkish Studies 12: 1–269. The concept of disciplinary gaze was developed in John Tagg (1988), The Burden of Representation: Essays on Photographies and Histories (Basingstoke, uk: Macmillan). The use of photography in service to the Ottoman state has been studied (among others) by Wendy Shaw (2003), Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology, and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press); Micklewright (2000); Akcan (2013); and Mary Roberts (2007), Intimate Outsiders: The Harem in Ottoman and Orientalist Art and Travel Literature (Durham nc: Duke University Press); and by the same author (2013), “The Limits of Circumscription,” in Photography’s ­Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation, ed. A. Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute): 53–74. They are now housed in the Istanbul University Library (www.kutuphane.istanbul.edu.tr/albumler/a.htm), and were probably assembled by the court and military photographers Ali Sami Aközer, Bahriyeli Ali Sami, and Kenan Paşa (Akcan: 95).

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characterized by type, including sexually suggestive images of peasant women and young men.40

The Photograph and the Whirling Dervish

The Istanbul studio of Pascal Sébah (later Sébah and Joaillier) was notable for producing a series of posed photographs depicting Mevlevis. Originally established in 1857, Sébah was so successful that he also opened a studio in Cairo, with a substantial catalog of images of Ottoman life and culture. The longevity of Sébah studios – continuing in business into the 1930s – and the fact that many of their images were copied and reproduced by other photo studios in Istanbul and Europe, meant that the photographic catalog of Sébah and Joaillier had a major role in shaping visual expectations concerning not just the Mevlevis but of the Ottoman world in general.41 40

41

Examples of such catalogs include Sébah and Joaillier, Photographes, Catalogue général des collections des vues photographiques de Constantinople, Brousse, Adrianople, Smyrne, Ephäse et environs (Constantinople, n.d.), 60pp; Catalogue général des collections des vues photographiques de Istanbul, Ankara, Konia, Brousse, Adrianople, Smyrne, Ephèse et environs. Panoramas et albums (Istanbul: Imp. L. Mourkides, n.d. [c. 1880], 48–51) Ayshe Erdogdu [2002], “Picturing Alterity: Representational strategies in Victorian type photographs of Ottoman men,” in Colonialist Photography: Imag(in) ing Race and Place, ed. E.M. Hight and G.D. Sampson (London and New York: Routledge: 107–25); 107 note 4. Sébah worked on a number of official projects at a time when the Ottoman government was becoming keenly aware of the importance of photography. He also partnered with the Ottoman official and painter Osman Hamdi Bey (d. 1910) in the production of the latter’s orientalist works. Sébah photographed posed models in  idealized scenes, and Hamdi Bey used the photographs in his production of oil paintings. Sébah’s ­photographs also featured in an album called Les Costumes populaires de la Turquie produced for display at the Ottoman Exhibition in Vienna in 1873, for which Hamdi Bey had been appointed director. Sébah was awarded a medal for his photography both by the organizers of the exhibition and by the Ottoman Sultan

Photographs of Mevlevis produced by Sébah & Joaillier as well as other photographic studios in Istanbul bring home the indeterminate nature of cultural and emotional visual signifiers. Figure 8.7 reproduces a posed group photograph of the head of the Mevlevi lodge in Galata, Istanbul, Mehmed Ataullah Dede (d. 1910), with other members of his order. Taken by Pascal Sébah around 1875, the Sufis are posed in the courtyard outside the semaʿ hall of the Galata Mevlevîhâne in Istanbul. This is a group portrait of actual Mevlevis, a noteworthy point, since many such photographs featured models, as is probably the case of the postcard from sometime before 1905 bearing the greeting “Salut de Constantinople” and captioned as “Dervische tourneurs” (see Fig. 8.8).42 Both photographs rely heavily on the use of props, some of which are integral to Mevlevi ritual life (such as musical instruments, especially the reed flute [ney]), while others could easily have been pulled out of the curio cupboard of a studio specializing in Orientalist photographs: a carpet, or a book which might

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­Abdülaziz, and this moment can be regarded as the high point of an illustrious career. For more on Sébah and his studio, see Engin Özendiş (1999), From Sébah & Joaillier to Foto Sabah: Orientalism in Photography ­(Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları). On the career and importance of Hamdi Bey, see Mustafa Cezar (1987), Müzeci ve Ressam Osman Hamdi Bey (Istanbul: Türk Kültürüne Hizmet Vakfı); and Renata Holod and Robert Ousterhout, eds. (2011), Osman Hamdi Bey and the Americans: Archaeology, Diplomacy and Art (Istanbul: Pera Müzesi). Photographs featuring Mevlevis have been printed in a number of works dealing with Ottoman photography, including C. Pinguet and P. de Cigord (2011), Istanbul, Photographes et Sultans 1840–1900 (Paris: cnrs Editions): 114–15; T. Zarcone (2007), “Şeyh Mehmed Ataullah Dede (1842–1910) and the Mevlevîhâne of Galata: An Intellectual and Spiritual Bridge between the East and the West (Şeyh Mehmed Ataullah Dede [1842–1910] ve Galata Mevlevîhânesi: Doğu-Batı Arasında Entelektüel ve Dinsel Bir Köprü),” in The Dervishes Sovereignty/The Sovereignty of Dervishes: The Mevlevî Order in Istanbul (Saltanatın Dervişleri/Dervişlerin Saltanatı: İstanbulʾda Mevlevîlik) (Istanbul: İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü): 58–75; and Erdogdu (2002).

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Figure 8.7 Photograph of the head of the Mevlevi lodge in Galata, Istanbul, with posing Mevlevis in the background, Pascal and Sébah photographers, ca. 1875, collection of the author.

possibly be the Masnavi of Rumi (from which the Mevlevis draw many of their hymns directly and in translation), but which is likely to be taken by both European and Ottoman audiences as the Qurʾan. In both instances, the viewer might be struck by the static nature of the poses, particularly in the case of the figures dressed in white, whose raised arms are indicative of the whirling semaʿ that, by its very nature, is not static. The staticity is glaring when one compares these posed photographs to the European engravings reproduced above, and is only partly attributable to the technological limitations of the photography of the day, which required long exposures and still subjects. Even so, several of the Mevlevis are intentionally avoiding

the camera, which invites the viewer to speculate on their emotional attitude and state. These photographs tempt us once again to embrace a biographical model of understanding objects, and see an ongoing development of representations of piety, gravity, respect and so on in posed portraits of Sufis. It is easy – as commentators on Orientalist photography and painting sometimes have done – to speak in terms of the failures of a specific piece of work to convey the presumed reality or authenticity of a scene, or to pass judgment on its effectiveness in conveying emotion or pathos. Thus, the photographs reproduced here (and many others like them) have been criticized on account of the contrived poses of the

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Figure 8.8 Postcard of Whirling Dervishes, dated 1905, collection of the author.

Mevlevi “whirlers” and musicians, or the solemn expressions of these characters as they pose for the camera. But these criticisms are based on assumptions concerning the defining characteristics of Mevlevis, or of Sufis in general. To consider whirling to be the essential characteristic of Mevlevi visual identity or to expect Mevlevis (or Sufis in general) to have expressions depicting rapture, ecstasy, serenity or some other quasi-­emotional state is to predetermine not just what artists should choose to represent but also what Sufi subjects value about themselves. The group photograph at the Mevlevi Lodge in Galata (Fig. 8.7) illustrates this point very well. All the figures are on a carpet which has been placed outdoors, but the master of the lodge, Mehmed Ataullah Dede, is seated on a smaller carpet placed on top of the other one, on top of which there is a dark colored sheepskin, difficult to discern in the photograph here. The skin is actually red and

indicates the shaykh’s status as the pūstneshīn (lit. “one who sits on the fleece/skin”), the title of the head of a lodge among the Mevlevis and in some other Sufi orders. Two older Sufis are seated to his right, but are further behind, one at the edge of the small carpet under the shaykh and the other off it. Although they are wearing dark cloaks, the manner in which they are fastened and their felt hats (sikke) are more similar to the attire of the young Mevlevis in the back row than to that of the shaykh, all of which emphasizes their subordinate status. The musicians and reciter are to the shaykh’s left and back and they, too, are dressed in the costume of rank and file Mevlevis. The remaining men – all of whom are relatively young – are standing, six of them clothed the way modern Mevlevis are when they enter the hall to begin their semaʿ, and seven with their cloaks removed, in the dress and symbolic posture of whirling (it is likely that the numbers – seven and six – where

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decided on so that there could be symmetry, with the white robed men on the outside, but that the placement of the musicians in the tight space did not let them stand as originally intended). In short, this photograph visually demonstrates a network of relationships and authority among this Sufi group and affectively signifies emotional relationships (loyalty, respect, obedience, patronage, nurture, etc.) of foundational importance to Sufism in at least as satisfactory a manner as do images of ecstasy and rapture in other contexts. The photography in the postcard (Fig.  8.8) might be more ­contrived but it, too, is not devoid of instructive qualities as a signifier. The inclusion of boys alongside adult men indicates the Sufi group’s admission of novices as well as its system of discipleship, and the specific posing even goes so far as to signify aspects of the relationship: that of book learning represented by the cloaked man and boy kneeling with a book between them, and of ritual and meditation, signified by a similar pair in the whirling pose. One could therefore argue that the main signifiers of Sufism include bearded men in positions of authority, master and discipleship relationships, and demonstrations of piety. What makes a particular scene transcend the generic representations of Sufis and become successfully and specifically representative of the Mevlevis is the posture (rather than the act) of whirling, and the presence of musical instruments, especially the reed flute. Mevlevis are known to whirl, and so one indicates the act of whirling, not its intention or its experience. The expectation that a modern observer can recognize a coherent system of depicting emotion and affect textually and visually from medieval to modern times does more than trap us in a reductive model wherein we assume similarities of behaviors and values across time and space as well as argue for stable iconography and signification in the visual arts across time. Such a way of viewing the past also undermines our ability to recognize emotion as an object in itself and focuses overwhelmingly (and, in my opinion, erroneously) on affect as an almost empirically verifiable phenomenon.



Emotions and Their Affects

As I have argued earlier, it is more appropriate to think about the commonality of these objects – particularly with regard to their representation of emotion – in a model that emphasizes notions of indexicality and through processes of reasoning that do not presume straightforward relationships between images, textual descriptions, and the emotions they purportedly evoke. The key to understanding represented emotion lies in shifting the focus of discussion from the things that are the texts and images in which emotions are presumed to appear, to viewing emotion itself as the object. This is, in large part, due to the problems of treating the texts or images in which emotions are represented as satisfactory signs or indexes, an issue taken up below. In my discussion of emotion, I am not pretending that one can see a continuum of visual indicators of sensation and emotion across the cultural and temporal boundaries of Ottoman miniature painting and the production and circulation of European paintings, prints and photographs. I am not interested here in constructing an ahistorical sensorium nor with the history of art production and appreciation. What concerns me is the response to visual and textual description, and the understanding of emotional response itself. The subject of emotional response and its comprehension have been dealt with in a number of disciplines, most notably in recent decades by scholars of affect theory to which I alluded at the beginning of this paper. As part of this project, some cultural critics and historians have tried to synthesize scientific studies of the brain and emotion with humanistic concerns with aesthetics, psychology and politics (among other things) to argue for empirically underpinned concepts of proto- or pre-­ cognitive human reactions. Such theories are (to a large extent) based in the belief that human beings are instinctive, corporeal beings with subliminal, visceral reactions and responses, and that these pre-cognitive affects are primary, whereas rationally and subjectively

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determined responses are somehow ideologically determined. By way of example, Massumi, one of the most influential affect theorists, refers to affect as “irreducibly bodily and automatic.”43 And Eric Shouse, who is deeply influenced by Massumi, holds that the importance of affect is based on “the fact that in many cases the message consciously received may be of less import to the receiver of that message than his or her non-conscious affective resonances with the source of the message.”44 Although affect theory has grown greatly in breadth and sophistication over the last two decades and few would argue for a simplistic and regressive notion of visceral reaction, there is still a tendency among some theorists to minimize differences between individuals and groups across time, and not to acknowledge that the ideology of the perceiver often misconstrues the actual nature and locations of sociocultural differences in the past, just as it does in the present. Rather than debate the nature of affects, primary emotions or their universality, a study of how one should understand the representation of emotions must focus on problems of representation and resemblance – of emotion as it is enacted and performed – and to do so in a manner that goes beyond straightforward visual or linguistic semiotics. One methodological necessity is to view each artifact, be it a textual description of emotion or a visual object which appears to represent emotion, as a symbol or assemblage of symbols, or else as an index or icon, where an index can be understood as a sign that points to something else. In and of themselves, symbols are arbitrary and only gain meaning through convention. But once these meanings are learned, symbols function more or less stably for everyone who knows 43

44

Brian Massumi (2002), Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation (Durham, n.c.: Duke University Press): 28. For more on this topic, see Elias (2018), especially chapters 2 and 3. Eric Shouse (2005), “Feeling, Emotion, Affect,” M/C Journal 8:6 (December): http://journal.media-culture. org.au/0512/03-shouse.php, 12 [viewed August 20, 2017].

their shared, conventional meaning. In contrast, indexes (as well as icons) bear some form of resemblance to the signified object, and the stronger the resemblance the more likely they are to lend themselves to idiosyncratic interpretations. Traffic signs are perfect examples of conventional symbols in that they do not bear any resemblance to what they represent yet, once learned, they signify the same things to all drivers. In contrast, a picture of a veiled woman, playing puppies, or a crying baby is likely to be interpreted differently by different people. Herein lies a problem central to the representation of emotion both textually and visually. Textual representations of inner emotional states either rely on metaphoric speech or on somatic description, neither of which is the object itself. A textual description is actually the representation of a representation; and somatic descriptions are textual representations of affects, as is the case with descriptions of people tearing their garments at Rumi’s funeral in a presumed representation of grief. In related fashion, a statement like “A dark cloud hung over me,” as a description of a state of depression, does little to represent emotion unambiguously. Its inadequacy is obvious when one translates the phrase into another language, in the same way as an idiomatic expression like “piece of cake” (as a way of saying “easy”) becomes laughably nonsensical.45 45

The semiological relationship of objects to symbols, signs, icons and indexes is substantially more complex than space allows me to discuss here, as is the notion of a metaphor. The two figures who had a formative influence on the development of semiology, Ferdinand de Saussure and Charles S. Peirce, came to the subject from a linguistic and philosophic position, respectively. The combination of two distinct approaches into a larger field – which has subsequently experienced several decades of growth and the infusion of positions from a variety of disciplines – means that any brief discussion of semiology and resemblance necessarily simplifies problems of objects and their representation. In the present context, I am simply attempting to provide a attenuated demonstration of how seemingly

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Visual representations of emotion might seem less obviously problematic, but that is not the case. An immediate problem impacting the satisfactory functioning of a visual object as a site for the representation of emotion is the erroneous presumption that visual indexes mean the same to everyone who sees them. One tempting way to explain the ways in which emotions are understood is through a notion of “interpretive communities” first suggested by Peirce. He argues that “not only do humans understand things using both the eyes and the brain, we also understand things using internally derived information learned from experiences combined with externally based conventions.”46 Peirce posits that, when we encounter a thing (where a “thing” could be words on a page as well as a visual image), an idea is generated in our minds which stands for the thing, or else we have a thought that results directly from encountering the thing. He refers to this idea or thought as an “interpretant,” and states that it “creates in the mind of that person an equivalent sign, or perhaps a more developed sign.”47 Thoughts, therefore, are signs that necessitate an additional process of interpretation in order to become meaningful. As explained by Moriarty (after Sebeok), “the word /dog/ and a picture of the animal both stand for some idea or concept of ‘dogness.’ In addition, there are interpretations imposed on this concept of dogness based on our personal experiences and also on additional information and description that accompanies the sign. Other verbal interpretants for the word /dog/ could be puppy, bitch,

46

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uncomplicated representational relationships are anything but straightforward. C.S. Peirce (1955), Philosophical Writings of Peirce, ed. J. Buchler (New York: Dover): 255–57. See also C.F. Delaney (1993), Science, Knowledge, and Mind: A study of the Philosophy of C.S. Peirce (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press): 14; 77–81. For a succinct treatment of Peirce’s visual semiotics, see S.E. Moriarty (1996), “Abduction: A Theory of Visual Interpretation,” Communication Theory 6:2 (May): 167–87. Peirce (1955): 99 (from Moriarty: 177–78).

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hound, faithful companion, or even frankfurter. Each further interpretation elaborates on the concept and makes it richer, that is, it extends the interpretation by introducing referents that we carry within our memories.”48 Each of these interpretations is further removed from the encountered thing, in the sense that the indexical value of the interpretant is more complicated and much more reliant on the existence of an interpretive community. The relationship between a dog and a particular kind of sausage in a bun is only clear when one is familiar with the culture in which the association is located, which is to say when one belongs to its interpretive community. The index or icon, therefore, is far from being a reliable means of representation, and should not be treated simply as depicting emotions, a point I have made repeatedly in this essay. Despite its failures, however, I believe the concept of an object as index remains a productive way of thinking not just about material objects but also about emotion when it is reconfigured as an object. Here I am constructing the index in terms articulated by Gell, for whom an index was more than a sign pointing to something else or a representation of an object. It was an inseparable part of the thing, in the same way as a country’s ambassador abroad is “a spatio-temporally detached fragment of his nation.”49 In such a notion of an index, the focus shifts from one on objects 48 49

Moriarty: 177–78; T.A. Sebeok (1991), A Sign is Just a Sign (Bloomington: Indiana University Press): 18–20. Gell: 98. Gell’s influential book Art and Agency has been criticized from a number of disciplinary angles, and his predeceasing the publication of the book prevented him from engaging his critics or refining his theories. The most complete assessment of his major theories is found in Liana Chua and Mark Elliot, eds. (2013), Distributed Objects: Meaning and Mattering after Alfred Gell (New York and Oxford: Berghahn). Along with a number of excellent essays that develop disparate strands of Gell’s thought, this volume includes an important theoretical piece by him which has never been published before in its entirety (“The Network of Standard Stoppages [c. 1985],” pp. 88–113).

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­themselves – much less style, history or reception – to a conceptual or theoretical construct, that of the “social relations in the vicinity of objects mediating social agency.”50 In concrete terms, when studying the painting of Rumi’s final meeting with his disciples (Fig. 8.1), we cannot observe the man holding a blue handkerchief to his eyes and see him or his gesture as a straightforward representation or index of grief. There is no form of deduction that would allow us to draw such a conclusion, since there are no sound premises (or observable “facts”) that would lead to an inescapable conclusion. Nor can we rely on inductive reasoning to conclude the existence or nature of emotion, since we lack analogous cases from which reliably to predict our conclusion, by which I mean that we do not possess similar paintings from the same era with other people holding blue handkerchiefs to their faces and about which we know with certainty that the cloth, color and gesture are indicators of grief. It is abductive thinking that is the most fruitful in this context, for the same reason that it is the tool of choice for famous detectives of page and screen. Abduction relies on knowing as much about the context and nature of the object under observation as possible, and on making an educated guess on the basis of that observation. In the case of the painting in question, reading the prose for which the image is an illustration, knowing as much as possible about visual and textual descriptions of human beings from the sociohistorical period, knowing about a variety of subjects (art, literature, culture, emotion, etc.) more generally, and seeing the man with the handkerchief in the context of other elements of the painting, all together allow us to guess that his gesture (and the man himself) is a location of emotion. Once located, we recognize that it is not the gesture of the man or the presence of his handkerchief that enacts emotion, but it is the presence of emotion that is enacted in the man and his handkerchief. The focus on the agency of emotion, and more specifically on enacted emotion as an object, 50

Gell: 7.

demonstrates its transformative capacity with regard to the individuals who interact with the ­emotions, either as their hosts and audiences in stories, paintings and photographs, or as interactive audiences such as ourselves. Bibliography Al-ʿArifi, Shams al-din al-Aflaki., Manāqib al-ʿārifīn, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı, 2 vols. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1976. Barry, Michael. Figurative Art in Medieval Islam and the Riddle of Bihzâd of Herât (1465–1535). Paris: Flammarion, 2004. Barthes, Roland. “Rhetoric of the Image,” Image-MusicText, trans. S. Heath. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977. Boivin, Nicole. Material Cultures, Material Minds: The impact of things on human thought, society and evolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Boppe, A. Les Peintres du Bosphore au 18e siècle. Paris: ACR Edition, 1989. Bynum, Caroline. “Wonder,” American Historical Review vol. 102:1 (February 1997): 1–26. Çağman, F. “XVI. Yüzyıl Sonlarında Mevlevi Dergahlarında Gelişen Bir Minyatür Okulu,” I. Uluslararası Türkoloji Kongresi, 651–79. Istanbul, 1979. Çağman, F. and Z. Tanındı “Illustration and the Art of the Book in the Sufi Orders in the Ottoman Empire,” in Sufism and Sufis in Ottoman Society: Sources, doctrines, rituals, turuq, architecture, literature and fine art, modernism, ed. A.Y. Ocak, 501–27. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2005. Davies, Kristian. Orientalists: Western Artists in Arabia, the Sahara, Persia and India. New Canaan, CT: Laynfaroh Publisher, 2005. Elias, Jamal J. Aisha’s Cushion: Religious Art, Perception, and Practice in Islam. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012. Farmer, H.G. “Al-Kindī on the ‘Ethos’ of Rhythm, Colour, and Perfume,” Transactions of the Glasgow ­University Oriental Society, Years 1955 to 1956, in Honour of the Rev. James Robertson Buchanan, ed. C.J.M. Weir, ­29–38. Hertford: Stephen Austin and Sons for Glasgow University Oriental Society, 1957.

Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion Fetvacı, Emine. Picturing History at the Ottoman Court. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013. Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency: an anthropological theory. Clarendon Press, 1998. Gopin, S. and E. Sint Nicolaas. Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, peintre de la Sublime Porte 1671–1737. Valenciennes: Musée des Beaux-Arts de Valenciennes, 2009. Hahn, Hans Peter and Hadas Weiss, eds. Mobility, Meaning, and the Transformation of Things. Oxford: ­Oxbow Books, 2013. Hamadhani, ʿAbd al-Wahhab. Sawāqib al-manāqib-i awliyaʾ Allah, ed. Arif Naushahi. Tehran: Markaz-i pizhūhishī-yi mirās-i maktūb, 2011. Hunt, Lynn, Margaret C. Jacob and Wijnand Mijnhardt. The Book that Changed Europe: Picart and Bernard’s Religious Ceremonies of the World. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010. Ingold, Tim. “Materials against Materiality,” Archaeological Dialogues 14.1 (2007): 1–16. Kreiser, Klaus “Die Derwische im Spiegel abendlän­ discher Reiseberichte,” in Istanbul und das osmanische Reich: Derwischwesen, Baugeschichte, I­ nschriftenkunde, 1–20. Istanbul: Isis Verlag, 1995. Kubler, George. The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962. Leys, Ruth. “The Turn to Affect: A Critique,” Critical I­ nquiry 37(3), (2011): 434–72. Mather, James. Pashas: Traders and travellers in the I­ slamic world. Yale University Press, 2009. Muradgea d’Ohsson, Baron Ignatius. Tableau général de lʾEmpire othoman, divisé en deux parties, dont lʾune comprend la législation mahométane, lʾautre, lʾhistoire de lʾEmpire othoman, 4 vols. Paris: Imprimerie de Monsieur, 1791. Muravchick, Rose, “God is the Best Guardian: Talismanic Shirts from the Gunpowder Empires,” PhD ­Dissertation, Religious Studies, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelpha, 2014. O’Kane, John. The Feats of the Knowers of God, Islamic History and Civilization: Studies and Texts, vol. 43. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2002.

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Index Page numbers in italics indicate figures.

ʿAbbasi, Ali Riza Ganj Ali Khan Caravanserai ­(Kerman) 35–37, 36, 37, 38 Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah) 28, 29, 29–31, 30 Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque (Isfahan) 29, 33–36, 34, 35 ʿAbbas, Shah [i] (Isfahan) cultural contact and exchange and  14 “Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas” (painting) 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25) Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah) 29, 31 politics of figural textiles and  127–28 Safavid figural textile woven for 140 Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque  33 signatures in manuscripts under  63 ʿAbbas, Shah (ii) 31 Abduction process, and emotions 195, 205 Abdülhamid, Sultan (ii) 201 Affect art as 3–5, 3 (nn. 5–6), 4 in Turco-Persian manuscript paintings 18, 95–97, 96 (n. 3), 109, 118–20 See also defense of religious beliefs, and Turco-Persian manuscript paintings; devotional damage; devotional damage, and image of the Prophet Muhammad; ­devotional practices, and Muslim image-­ making; emotions as affect Aflaki-i ʿArifiji, Shams al-din Ahmad-I  187–88, 187 (n. 8), 189 Afrasiayb on the Iranian Throne [Shahnama for Shah Tahmasp] (Ahmad) 49, 49 Agency affect in Turco-Persian manuscript paintings and 96, 99–100 Ottoman author portraits context for historical 81–83, 82, 84, 85–91,   85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88

Safavid context for historical 88, 88, 91 Ahmad, Masʿud, Shahnama for Shah Tahmasp, Afrasiayb on the Iranian Throne 49, 49 Ahmed, Feridun 81–83, 82, 84, 86, 91 Ahmedi 72, 75, 78 Ahmed Pasha 72, 73, 78 Akbar, Emperor biography of 129, 130, 131, 139–40, 142 collecting textiles and 130–31, 130 (nn. 27–28) corporeal practices with textiles and  124–25, 142 dargah of Nizam al-Din and 150 Humayun tomb sponsorship and  150, 156, 157 politics of Safavid figural textiles and 124–25 portrait in Safavid figural textile of  134, 134 sensory experiences with textiles and 131, 142 textile production and 128–30, 129 (n. 24), 141 (n. 55) Akbarabadi, Nazir 181 Akbar Shah 152, 155 Akbar Shah ii 155 Al-Abdin, Zayn (ʿAli bin Husayn) 3–4, 3 (nn. 5–6), 4 ʿĀlamgīr, Bahādur Shāh 150, 157–58, 169, 170 Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) defacement of Turco-Persian ­manuscript 101, 102, 105 Ilkhanid context and 104 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan ­al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (1307) 101–3, 103 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya

[The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (1647) 104 Ottoman context and 104–5 Safavid context and 103, 104 Al-Biruni 111, 186–87 See also Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) Albums (muraqqas) 1–2, 2 Al-Darir, Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muhammad, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet) 106–7,   107, 108 Al-Daylami, Malik 40, 53 (n. 25), 55 Al-Din, Burhan 150–51, 188 Al-Din, Rashid See Jami ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) Al-Din, Saʾd 57 Al-Din Muhammad, Murshid 57 Al-Ghazali 99–100, 110–11, 111 (n. 45) Al-Haytham, Ibn 186 Âli, Mustafa 81, 83, 85, 85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88, 91 Ali Yazdi, Sharf-uddin 139–40 ʿAli, Muhammad 31 ʿAli, Muhibb 40, 58 ʿAli, Shir 52 ʿAli Akbar (al-)Isfahani 27 (n. 19), 29, 30, 31 ʿAli b. Abi Talib (son-in-law of Muhammad) The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (1560)    104–6, 105 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1307] 101–3, 103 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1647] 104

212 ʿAli b. Abi Talib (cont.) The Mubahala (Day of Cursing), Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun alKhaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) 101–2, 101   (n. 24), 102 shrines in Mughul Delhi of 161, 161 (n. 38), 164 ʿAli storms the Fortress at Khaybar [The Collection of Histories] (Hafijiz-i Abru) 114, 116, 117 Al-Katib, Sultan ʿAli 53, 54 Al-Kindi 186 Al-Nisa, Fakhr 157–58 Al-Rustami, ʿAzud 52 Al-Shirazi, Murshid al-Katib 57, 57 (n. 41) Al-Sultani, Firuzbakht 51 Al-Sultani, Nasr 40–41, 51–52, 51 (n. 18) Al-Tabrizi, Mir ʿAli ibn Ilyas 50–51 Al-Tuni, Husayn 58, 59 Arago, Dominique François 199 Architect as term of use 25, 26–27, 26 (n. 18), 27 (n. 19) See also architects/architecture Architect-builder (mimār) calligraphy and 34 epigraphy by architects 42 epigraphy by architects and 31, 33–34 identity and 37–38 self-representation 5 social status of 23–24, 26–27 subjectivity and 37–38 Architects/architecture builders/architects and 34, 35 history of 25, 38–39, 40 in Persian context 19, 26 self-representation in 5–6, 5 (n. 12), 6, 6 (n. 13), 7 (n. 15) Timurid context and 40–41 See also architect-builder (mimār); architects’ social status; signature of architects Architects’ social status 16 architect as term of use and 25, 26–27, 26 (n. 18), 27 (n. 19) architect-builder and 23–24, 26–27 architectural historiography and  25, 38–39 calligraphy and 24, 24 (n. 12), 32–33, 40–41

Index comparative studies and 22–23, 23 historians (court historians) and  (n. 8) 68–69, 69, 75, 77–80, 77 (n. 54) identity and 21, 24, 25, 37–38, 37 historical agency in Ottoman author (n. 36), 42 portraits and 81–83, 82, 84, 85–91, Iranian context for 27, 32, 38, 40,   85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88 41, 42 historical context for 69–75, 71, 71 “Islamicate” context for 23–25, (n. 31), 73, 76, 77–81 38–39 identity and 67, 68–69, 68 (n. 19), patron and artist relationship and  70, 91 30–31, 40–41 Iskendernāme (Ahmedi) 72, 75, 78 Persian context and 19 Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed signatures and 41–42 Pasha in Sultan Selim ii’s audience Sinan oversees the construction (Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 79, 79–80 of Süleyman’s mausoleum  Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman,   68, 69 Osman and Sinan (Şehnāme-i subjectivity and 21, 24, 27–28, 27 n Selīm Ḫān) 77, 78, 78–79 30, 32, 37–38, 40, 42 Şehnāme-i humāyūn (Talikizade)  textual references for 21, 22 88–91, 89 See also architect-builder; signature Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān 90 of architects Selim ii watching the Imperial ʿArif Chelebi, Ulu 187, 188 Council … (Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān)  Artists/artworks   61 (n. 66), 80, 80–81 early modern 1 Selīmnāme’s frontispiece 76, in pre-modern period 23, 25 78, 91 signatures in 25 (n. 15), 48 (n. 10), Sinan oversees the construction of 67, 67 (n. 7) Süleyman’s mausoleum 68, 69 See also architect-builder; architects’ social status and 68–69, 69, 78–81, social status; and specific artists and 91–92 artworks Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun Asafi (Dal Mehmed Çelebi) 81, 88, Ahmed Beg Mourning the death of 88, 91 Sultan Süleyman 81–82, 82 Asafiji battling Safavids. Şecāʿatnāme  Sokollu Mehmed Pash’s Council  88, 88, 91 83, 84 Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme  subjectivity and 66, 81, 91 85, 86 Sultan Selim Hunting and Courtly Ateliers for artists 135–36, 137, 169 Assembly [Selīmnāme image] (Şükrü Author portraits Bidlisi) 74, 74–76, 74 (n. 42), Safavid context and 77 (n. 53), 88,   75 (n. 46), 78 88, 91 Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a Timurid context and 70–71, 71, 71 scribe at work. Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān 90, 90–91 (n. 31), 73, 77 urban spaces and 92 Author portraits Autobiographies 7, 8, 9, 12, 16, 22 Ottoman 18, 91–92 Ottoman 67, 68, 68 (n. 13), 83 Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme  See also biographies 85, 86 Aydun, Hilmi 111 biographies and 66–67, 69–70, 71, ʿAzud: Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi  83, 91, 92 49–50, 50, 50 (n. 14), 51, Dīvān (Ahmed Pasha) 72, 73, 78 Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī 71, 71–72, 71 (n. 31), 52–53, 54 73, 75, 77, 78 Divan of Khwaju Kirmani 49, emotions in 82, 82 50–51, 52–53, 52 (nn. 20–21), 53 Governor of Kars Yusuf Beg presents (n. 22), 54 booty to Lala Mustafa Pasha. identity and 52–53, 53 (n. 22) Nuṣretnāme 86, 87 size of signature of 54

213

Index Babur, Zahir al-din “Babur greeting a visitor” [Babūrnāma] (Babur) 7, 8, 9 on Qavam al-Din Shirazi 21 Badā al-Jamāl 144 Badiʾ al-zaman-i Tuni 29 Bahadur, Reza (Khidmat Parast Khan)  137, 138, 139, 139 (n. 44) Bahadur Shah’s grave 152, 152–53, 152 (n. 14), 153 (n. 16), 162 Bahaʾi, Shaykh 34, 34 (n. 34) Bakhtiyar Kaki 151, 151 (n. 10) See also dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki Balchand 16, 17 Baqir Bannaʾ (Baqir the Builder) 34, 35 Basant celebrations 161 Bathing in poetry and paintings Woman 173, 175–76, 176 (n. 26), 177 Baysunghur (ruler-caligrapher) 40–41, 52, 70 Begum, Qudsiyya 158 Bernard, Jean Frederic, Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde (Bernard and Picart) 197–98, 197 (nn. 197–98),   198 Bernard and Picart ([Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde]) 197–98,   197 (nn. 197–98), 198 Bhangedan-i Dargāh-i Qutb (Dihlavī)  180 Bichitr ateliers and 135–36, 137 Emperor Jahangir holding a c­ eremonial crown 132, 134, 134 Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings 136, 136–37 Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest sons and Asaf Khan during his a­ ccession ceremonies 137, 138, 139,   139 (n. 44) Bihzad biography of 55, 55 (n. 34) Bustan of Saʿdi 29, 53, 54, 54 (n. 26), 54 (n. 27), 54 (n. 29), 55, 55 (n. 34), 57 size of signature of 53, 53 n 23, 54, 55, 57 Biographies, Ottoman 66–67, 69–70, 71, 83, 91 See also autobiographies

Builder-architect See architect-builder (mimār); architects/architecture Bukhara 130, 139 Burial enclosure of Muhammad Shah, dargah of Nizam al-Din 156 Burial enclosure of the Nawabs of Loharu, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki    155 Bustan of Saʿdi 29, 53, 54, 54 (n. 26), 54 (n. 27), 54 (n. 29), 55, 55 (n. 34), 57 Calligraphy architect-builder and 35 artist-calligraphers and 40–41 epigraphy by architects and 24, 32–33, 34–35, 40–41 exercises in 2, 24 (n. 12) Camouflaged features 112, 117 Çelebi, Dal Mehmed (Asafi) 81, 88, 88, 91 Çelebi, Evliya 95, 96, 98, 106 Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde (Bernard and Picart) 197–98, 197 (nn. 197–98),   198 Chishti, Muʿin Al-Din 151, 153 Chishti saints and shrines 150, 157 See also Nizamuddin, and dargah; dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki Cityscape of Mughal Delhi 18–19 literary texts about 149 Map of Delhi highlighting Shahjahanabad, Nizamuddin, and Mehrauli [Delhi: A Thousand Years of Building] (Peck) 150, 150 Mehrauli and 150, 150, 151, 151 (n. 10), 155–56 mosques and 151, 152, 152, 152 (n. 14), 153, 157–58 Mughal Delhi’s history and 149, 149 (nn. 6–7) neighborhoods and 148, 150, 150 patrons and 165 Red Fort palace-fortress and 148, 149, 157, 160, 161, 162, 165 Shahjahanabad walled city and  148–49, 150, 150, 151, 155–56, 160, 161, 162, 165 urban subjectivity and 150, 157, 165 See also dargahs; Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] (Dargah Quli Khan)

Collecting practices and textiles 126, 130–31, 130 (nn. 27–28) The Collection of Histories (Hafiz-i Abru) See Hafijiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh, The Collection of Histories Color schemes for signatures in manuscripts  49–50, 57, 58 Comparative studies on architects’ social status 22–23, 23 (n. 8) Corporeal practices, and textiles  124–25, 125 (nn. 4–5), 142 Cultural contact and exchange 12–16, 13, 14, 15, 17 Daily life activities and Dihlavī’s poetry 168, 169, 170, 176, 176 (n. 28), 181 La Danse des Dervis [Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde] (Bernard and Picart) 197–98, 198 Dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki  150, 151–52, 151 (n. 13) architectural details and 160 Bhangedan-i Dargāh-i Qutb (Dihlavī) and 180 Burial enclosure of the Nawabs of Loharu 155 ethical conduct near 162 Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar  153, 155 Gateway of Farrukhsiyar 153, 154, 162 Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah 152, 152–53,   152 (n. 14), 153 (n. 16) patrons for 151, 153, 155, 163 plan of 151, 151 renovation/augmentation of  155–56 Screen of Farrukhsiyar 153, 154 Dargahs 149–51 Burhan al-Din shrine and  150–51 cenotaphs as models for 150–51 of Chishtiyya saints 150 dargah of Nizam al-Din 150, 156, 156–57, 156 (n. 20), 157, 158, 161, 163 dargha of Chiragh Delhi 160, 161 dargha of Muʿin al-Din Chishti 151, 153

214 Dargahs (cont.) Mughul Delhi neighborhoods and  150, 150 patrons for 151, 153, 155, 156, 157, 163 pilgrimages to 150, 156, 157, 157, 160, 161 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi; dargah of Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki Darvish-Muhammad 55 Dede, Mahmud, Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah 188–89 Dogs in a Market 191, 193, 193 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi  189, 191, 191 Rumi meets with his disciples for the last time 189, 190 Defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript paintings 18 agency and 100 ethics and 100 Ilkhanid context for 106, 113 image-making practices and  95–96, 96 n 3 Ottoman context for 99, 106, 106 n 31, 107, 107–8, 107 (n. 35), 108, 109 the Prophet Muhammad’s images and 99–100, 110–12, 111 (n. 45) Safavid context and 99, 103, 104, 105, 109, 117 smudging and 95, 98, 100, 110 Timurid context for 96, 113, 114 See also defense of religious beliefs, and Turco-Persian manuscript paintings; devotional damage; devotional damage, and ­image of the Prophet Muhammad; ­devotional practices, and Muslim ­image-making; Turco-Persian ­manuscript paintings, and affect Defense of religious beliefs, and Turco-Persian manuscript paintings Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muhammad, Siyer-i Nebi [Biography of the Prophet] (al-Darir) 106–7,   107, 108 agency and 99–100 emotions and 99, 100, 101, 107, 107, 108, 108, 120 ethics and 98, 100, 108 Ilkhanid context and 106 image-making practices and  95–96, 96 n 3

Index The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1307] 101–3, 103 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1560] 104–6, 105 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1647] 104 The Mubahala (Day of Cursing), Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun alKhaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) 101–2,   101 (n. 24), 102 The persecution of Muslims, Jami ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 97,   97–98 The Prophet Muhammad witnesses a idol worshipper prostrating to his idol, Siyer-i Nebi [Biography of the Prophet] (al-Darir) 107–8,   107 (n. 35), 108 Shiʿism and 101–3, 102, 103 Sunni worldview and 101, 103, 106 The torturing of Bilal, Jami ʿalTawarikh [Compendium of Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 98,   98–99, 99 (n. 9) See also Turco-Persian manuscript paintings, and affect Delhi See cityscape of Mughal Delhi Dervishes Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde ­(Bernard and Picart) 197–98,   197 (nn. 197–98), 198 La Danse des Dervis [Ceremonies et Coutumes réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Monde] (Bernard and Picart) 197–98, 198 emotions as affect and 198 emotions as object and 195, 202–3, 204, 205 Head of Mevlevi lodge in Galata with Mevlevis… (Sébah & Joaillier)    202–3, 203, 204–5 photographs of 202–5, 203, 204

pictorial representations of 185, 195–96 Whirling Dervishes (postcard) 202, 204 Whirling Dervishes (Vanmour) 198, 199 whirling meditational dance (semaʿ) and 185, 196–98, 198, 203, 203–5 See also Sufism Devotional damage 111, 118 ʿAli storms the Fortress at ­Khaybar [The Collection of Histories] (Hafijiz-i Abru) 114, 116, 117 gold paint and 112, 113, 113–14, 114, 117 Ilkhanid context for 96, 112 kissing and 96, 109, 111, 112, 117, 186–87 Ottoman context for 111, 112, 117 rubbing and 96, 109, 111, 117, 186–87 Safavid context and 96, 112, 117 Timurid context for 96, 96, 106, 113, 114 veils and 96, 106, 106 (n.)31, 117–18 See also defacement of Turco-­ Persian manuscript Devotional damage, and image of the Prophet Muhammad 96, 111–12 camouflaged features and 112, 117 The Prophet Muhammad and ʿAli break the idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca [Garden of Purity] ­(Mirkhwand) 117–18, 118, 119 The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca [The Collection of Histories] (Hafijiz-i Abru) 114, 115, 116, 117 The Prophet Muhammad rides into the Battle at Badr [The Collection of Histories] (Hafijiz-i Abru) 112–14,   113, 113 (n. 54), 113 (n. 56), 114 The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension [Quintet] (Khamsa of Nizami) 109–10, 109 (n. 41), 110, 112 See also defacement of TurcoPersian manuscript; devotional damage; Muhammad (Prophet) Devotional osbulation (kissing) 96, 109, 111, 112, 117, 186–87 Devotional practices, and Muslim image-making 95–96, 96 n 3,   109, 120

215

Index See also defacement of TurcoPersian manuscript; devotional damage; Turco-Persian manuscript paintings, and affect Dihlavī, Fāʾiz, and poetry 19, 168, 170, 170 (n. 12), 181 See also women in Dihlavī’s poetry Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī 71, 71–72, 71 (n. 31), 73, 75, 77, 78 Divan of Hafiz 55, 55 (nn. 35–36), 56, 57, 57 (n. 37) Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi 49–50, 50, 50 (n. 14), 51, 52–53, 54 Divan of Khwaju Kirmani 49, 50–51, 52–53, 52 (nn. 20–21), 53 (n. 22), 54 Dīvān of Selim I 73, 75–76 Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza 58, 59, 60 Dogs in a Market [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede) 191, 193, 193 D’Ohsson, Muraga 196

Emperor Jahangir Weighing Prince Khurram in Gold (Manohar [attrib.]) 132, 133, 134 Epigraphy by architects See signature of architects Eroticism, in literary texts and images  168, 175, 178, 180, 182 Ethics affect in Turco-Persian manuscript paintings and 96, 118, 119, 120 defacement of Turco-Persian ­manuscript and 98, 100, 108 defense of religious beliefs in manuscript paintings and 98, 100 women in Dihlavī’s poetry and 170, 180, 181 Ethnographic gaze 169, 172, 182, 196, 197

Fairs, and women in Dihlavī’s poetry  169, 172, 176 Faqīrullāh Khān, Muhammad 170 Early modern period 1, 14–16, 15 Fatima (wife of Muhammad) 101–2, 101 See also pre-modern period (n. 24), 102 Emotions Fazl, Abuʾl 129, 129 (n. 24), 130 (n. 27), abduction process and 195, 205 131, 141 (n. 55), 142 defense of religious beliefs in manu- Female context See women; women in script paintings and 99, 100, 101, Dihlavī’s poetry   107, 107, 108, 108, 120 Festival of Holi 172, 173, 174 index model for 190, 194–95, 194 Figural textiles, Safavid 18, 124–28, 126 (n. 19), 201, 205, 206, 206 (n. 45), (n. 11), 144 207–8 ateliers and 135–36, 137 as object 194–95, 194 (n. 16), Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremo194 (n. 19), 202–3, 203, 204, 204–5 nial crown (Bichitr) 132, 134, 134 Ottoman author portraits and  Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi 82, 82 Shaikh to Kings (Bichitr) 136, and representation in text and   136–37 Emperor Jahangir Weighing Prince ­image 185–87, 189, 190, 191, 191, 192, Khurram in Gold (Manohar   193, 193 [attrib.]) 132, 133, 134 Robe fragment of silk (textile panel)  interiority in paintings with 139, 144–45, 145 139 (n. 45), 144 semiotics and 186, 193, 206–7, 206 in literary fiction 124, 139–41, (n. 45) 140 (n. 49), 141 (nn. 52–53), textiles and 125, 126, 126 (n. 11), 142 141 (nn. 52–54), 144 Emotions as affect 3, 5, 195, 198, 205–8 mirror images in 127, 127 in manuscript paintings 96, 97, paintings with 131–32, 133, 134, 118–19, 120 134–37, 135, 135 (n. 40), 136, Mevlevi Sufis and 191, 192, 193, 193 138, 139 performative affects and 190, 191, Persian context for 135, 136, 136–37 192, 193, 193 in politics 141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145 Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremonial Prince with a falcon 132 crown (Bichitr) 132, 134, 134 Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh Captives (textile panel) 127, 128 to Kings (Bichitr) 136, 136–37

Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest sons and Asaf Khan during his accession ceremonies (Bichitr) 137, 138,   139, 139 (n. 44) subjectivity in paintings and  131–32, 132, 133, 134, 134–37, 135, 135 (n. 40), 136, 138, 139 Sufism in paintings with  134, 136, 137 Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”)  135, 135 See also textiles Freer Jami (Haft awrang of Jami)  45–46, 45 (n. 2), 46 (nn. 7–8), 47, 48, 55, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58), 62 Friday Mosque (Isfahan) 25, 26, 28, 158 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi 191 Furgal (coat) 141, 143 Ganj Ali Khan 29, 35, 36 Ganj Ali Khan Caravanserai (Kerman) 35–37, 36, 37, 38 Ganj Ali Khan Hammam [public bathhouse] (Kerman) 37–38, 39 Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki 153, 155 Gateway of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki 153, 154, 162 Gender studies 125, 125 (nn. 4–5), 164, 164 (n. 57) See also women; women in Dihlavī’s poetry Gérard Scotin, Jean-Baptiste 197–98 Ghavasi 124, 140–41, 141 (nn. 52–54), 144 Ghiyath al-din [Mirak Sayyid Ghiyath] (architect and poet) 21, 156 Ghiyath al-din ʿAli-yi Naqshband: as court weaver and poet 129–30, 131,   140 Textile fragment 127, 127 Gold paint, and devotional damage  112, 113, 113–14, 114, 117 Governor of Kars Yusuf Beg presents booty to Lala Mustafa Pasha. Nuṣretnāme 85, 86, 87 Gujri (Dihlavī) 180–81 Hadith (saying of the Prophet) 24, 40 Hafiz-i Abru, Kulliyat-i Tawarikh, The Collection of Histories ʿAli storms the Fortress at Khaybar  114, 116, 117

216 Hafiz-i Abru (cont.) The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca 115,   116.114, 117 The Prophet Muhammad rides into the Battle at Badr 112–14, 113,   113 (n. 54), 113 (n. 56), 114 Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami)  45–46, 45 (n. 2), 46 (nn. 7–8), 47, 48, 55, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58), 62 Handkerchiefs 126, 189, 190, 208 Haravi, Muhammad, Young prince 135, 135 Hard stone inlay technique 14 Harun-i Velayet shrine (Isfahan) 5, 5 (n. 12), 6, 31–33, 33, 42 Hasan, Abul 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25) Hasan Pasha, Nakkaş 81, 90, 90, 91 Hasan (son of Muhammad) 101–2, 101 (n. 24), 102 Haydar, Muhammad 55 Head of Mevlevi lodge in Galata with Mevlevis… (Sébah & Joaillier)   202–3, 203, 204–5 Hindavi, and literary texts 169, 171 Historians (court historians), in Ottoman author portraits 68–69,   69, 75, 77–80, 77 (n. 54) Historical agency, in author portraits  81–83, 82, 84, 85–91, 85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88 History of the Immaculate Imams (Tārīkh-i āima-yimāsumīn) 3–4, 3  (nn. 5–6), 4 Holi festival, and women 172, 173, 174 Humayun tomb and garden 150, 156, 157 Husayn, ʿAli bin (Zayn al-Abdin) 3–4, 3 (nn. 5–6), 4 Husayn, Mirza Shah 5–7, 5 (n. 12), 6 (nn. 13–14), 7 (n. 15), 9, 16, 32 Husayn, Sultan 71, 71–72, 71 (n. 31) Husayn ibn Muhammad 57 Husayn (son of Muhammad) 101–2, 101 (n. 24), 102 Ibn Ishaq 97 Identity architects and 21, 24, 25, 37–38, 37 (n. 36), 42 Ottoman author portraits and 67, 68–69, 68 (n. 19), 70, 91 signatures in manuscripts and 46, 52–53, 53 (n. 22), 57, 58, 59, 60, 62

Index Ilkhanid context for defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript 96, 106, 113 for devotional damage 96, 112 Images emotions representation in 189, 190, 191, 191, 192, 193–95, 193–95 Muslim image-making practices and 95–97, 96 n 3, 109, 118–20 Imami, Muhammad Riza 29 Inayat Khan 16, 17 Index model, for emotions 190, 194–95, 194 (n. 19), 201, 205, 206, 206 (n. 45), 207–8 Indian context literary texts and 168, 169, 171, 171 (n. 16), 180, 182, 182 (n. 39), 182 (n. 45) photographs and 200 women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  168, 169, 171, 171 (n. 16), 180, 182, 182 (n. 39), 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) Interiority paintings with Safavid figural ­textiles and 139, 139 (n. 45), 144 textiles and 143–45, 143 (n. 65), 145 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1307]    101–3, 103 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1560]   104–6, 105 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1647]   104 Iranian context affect and 3 architects’ social status and 27, 32, 38, 40, 41, 42 photographs and 200 pre-modern period in 2 Safavid 130, 132, 139 (n. 45), 140 self-representation in 3, 7, 9 Sufism in 3–4 textile production in 127–28, 129, 130, 132, 134, 135, 139, 139 (n. 45), 143 Isfahan architects’ social status in 24–25

cultural contact and exchange in  12 Friday Mosque 25, 26, 28, 158 Harun-i Velayet shrine 5, 5 (n. 12), 6, 31–33, 33, 42 Masjid-i Hakim 31 Masjid-i ʿAli mosque 5–6, 5 (n. 12), 6, 6 (n. 13), 7 (n. 15) Safavid signatory marks and 28–29 Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque  29, 33–36, 34, 35 Shiʿism 39, 39 (n. 38) urban spaces and 34, 34 (n. 34) Iskendernāme (Ahmedi) 72, 75, 78 “Islamicate” context for architects’ social status 23–25, 38–39 See also Muslim (Islamic) world Ismaʿil, Shah 5–6, 5 (n. 10), 6 (n. 13), 31–32 Jahān, Shāh atelier of 135–36, 137 cenotaph for 150–51 Friday Mosque of 25, 26, 28, 158 literary and artistic projects under  169 Mughal Delhi and 148, 156 as patron for dargha of Muʿin al-Din Chishti 153 portraits of 125 Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest sons and Asaf Khan during his accession ceremonies (Bichitr) 137, 138,   139, 139 (n. 44) topographical themes in poetry and  171, 181 Jahan Ara 125 (nn. 4–5), 157 Jahangir atelier of 135–36 biography of 9, 142 Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremonial crown (Bichitr)   132, 134, 134 Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Shaikh to Kings (Bichitr) 136,  136–37 Emperor Jahangir Weighing Prince Khurram in Gold (Manohar [attrib.]) 132, 133, 134 “Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas” (painting) 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25) Mughal painting with figural textile and 141–45, 143 (n. 65) politics and 142–43

Index portraits of courtiers and  11, 11 (n. 30), 16 Tomb of Jahangir 14, 14 Jami, ʿAbd al-Rahman, Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami) 45–46, 45 (n. 2),   46 (nn. 7–8), 47, 48, 55, 58, 61,   61 (n. 58), 62, 140, 140 (n. 49) Jami ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) defacement of Turco-Persian ­manuscript and 101 The persecution of Muslims 97, 97–98 the Prophet Muhammad images in 113, 113 (n. 56) The torturing of Bilal 98, 98–99, 99 (n. 9) Jān Sāhib (Mīr Yār ʿAlī Khān) 181–82 Jogan (Dihlavī) 176, 178 Jogan (female ascetic) 176, 178, 178 (n. 32), 179 Junayd 51–52, 54 Kāchan (Dihlavī) 178 Kālān Khān, Mīr 170, 173, 174 Kapidagi, Constantine (Konstantinus Kyziko) 196 Kerman, Ganj Ali Khan Caravanserai  35–37, 36, 37, 38 Khamsa of Nizami 109–10, 109 (n. 41), 110, 112 Khilʾat (robe of honor) 142, 143, 144 Khusrau, Amīr 171, 178, 182–83 Khwandamir (Ghiyas b. Humam al-Din Mohammad Khwandamir Al-Din)   5, 21 Kissing (devotional osbulation) 96, 109, 111, 112, 117, 186–87 Kyziko, Konstantinus (Constantine Kapidagi) 196 Lala, Muhibb ʿAli Beg (Mustafa Pasha)  29, 30–31, 85, 86, 87 Languages, and literary texts 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 170 (n. 12), 171–72, 171 (n. 16), 181, 183 Literary texts emotions representation in 189, 190, 191, 191, 192, 193–95, 193–95 eroticism in 168, 175 ethnographic gaze in 182 Hindavi in 169, 171\ Indian context in 168, 169, 171, 171 (n. 16), 180, 182, 182 (n. 39), 182 (n. 45)

217 languages and 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 170 emotions as affect and 191, 192, (n. 12), 171–72, 171 (n. 16), 181, 183 193, 193 love in 168–69, 178, 180, 182 emotions as object and 195, 203, Mevlevi Sufis in 187–89, 187 (n. 8) 204–5 Mughal Delhi 149 (See also ethnographic gaze 196, 197 Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] Head of Mevlevi lodge in Galata with (Dargah Quli Khan)) Mevlevis… (Sébah & Joaillier) in Ottoman Turkish context    202–3, 203, 204–5 182 (n. 45) in literary texts 187–89, 187 (n. 8) Safavid figural textiles in 124, lodge (Mevlevîhâne) and 196–97, 139–41, 140 (n. 49), 202–3, 202 (n. 42), 203, 204–5 141 (nn. 52–54), 144 paintings and pictorial representain Urdu 181, 182, 183 tions of 188, 189, 190, 196 Lodge (Mevlevîhâne), and Mevlevi Sufis  photographs of 196, 199, 202–3, 196–97, 202–3, 202 (n. 42), 203, 203, 204, 204–5 204–5 pre-modern period representation See also Mevlevi Sufis of 197 Lokman, Seyyid 77, 78, 79, 79–80, 80 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Rumi’s Successor, Husam al-Din Sultan Selim ii’s audience [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 79, 79–80 (Dede) 191, 192 Love, in literary texts 168–69, 178, See also Rumi; Sufism 180, 182 Mimār (architect-builder) See architect-builder (mimār) Mandīl (handkerchiefs) 126 Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-Safa 117–18, Manohar (attrib.), Emperor Jahangir 118, 119 Weighing Prince Khurram in Mirror images in Safavid figural textiles  Gold 132, 133, 134 127, 127 Manuscript workshops 50 (n. 14), 51, Mīr Yār ʿAlī Khān (Jān Sāhib) 181–82 51 (n. 18) Mirza, Sam 6, 55 See also defacement of Mirza, Sultan Ibrahim Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza 58, ­Turco-Persian manuscript; 59, 60, 61 ­devotional practices, and ­Muslim Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami)  image-making; signatures in 45–46, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58) ­manuscripts; Turco-Persian Mosque of Gawhar Shad (Mashhad)  ­manuscript paintings, and affect 21–22, 22, 23, 28, 38–42 Map of Delhi highlighting Mosques, and Mughal Delhi 151, 152, Shahjahanabad, Nizamuddin, and 152, 152 (n. 14), 153, 157–58 Mehrauli [Delhi: A Thousand Years See also specific mosques of Building] (Peck) 150, 150 Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of Masjid-i Hakim (Isfahan) 31 Bahadur Shah 152, 152–53, Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah)    152 (n. 14), 153 (n. 16) 28, 29, 29–31, 30, 33 The Mubahala (Day of Cursing), Masjid-i ʿAli mosque (Isfahan) 5–6, 5 Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun (n. 12), 6, 6 (n. 13), 7 (n. 15) al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Mehmed iii 81, 189 Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)  Mehrauli, Mughal Delhi 150, 150, 151,   101–2, 101 (n. 24), 102 151 (n. 10), 155–56 Mughal context Melā (Dihlavī) 176 artists in 1 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 119 autobiographies in 7, 9 Mevlevîhâne (lodge) 196–97, 202, 202 in early modern period 16 (n. 42), 203 female-centered narratives in courtSee also Mevlevi Sufis ly culture and 125, 125 (nn. 4–5) Mevlevi Sufis 185

218 Mughal context (cont.) paintings with figural textiles and  141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145 portraits in 9, 11, 11–12 signatures in manuscripts in  62–63, 63 (n. 66) Women celebrating Holi (attrib. Kālān Khān) 173, 174 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi Mughal courtly culture 125, 125 (nn. 4–5) See also figural textiles, Safavid Mughal Delhi 18–19, 148, 149, 149 (nn. 6–7), 150, 150, 156 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi Muhammad (Prophet) Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muhammad, Siyer-i Nebi [Biography of the Prophet] (al-Darir) 106–7,   107, 108 calligraphy and 24 defacement of images of 96–97, 99–100, 110–11, 111 (n. 45) defense of images of 96 hadith and 40 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1560] 104–6, 105 Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh [Compendium of Histories] (Rashid al-Din) 113,   113 (n. 56) The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca [The Collection of Histories] (Hafijiz-i Abru) 114, 115, 116, 117 The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension [Quintet] (Khamsa of Nizami) 109–10, 109 (n. 41), 110, 112 shrines in Mughul Delhi of 160, 164 See also devotional damage, and ­image of the Prophet Muhammad Muhammad, Shaykh 46, 46 (n.)8, 61, 62 Muhammad, Sultan (painter) 55, 55 (nn. 35–36), 56, 57, 57 (n. 37) Muhammad Hamadhani, ʿAbdal-Wahhab ibn 188 Muhammad Shah 149, 149n7, 156, 157, 163, 169 Muhammad Sultan (architect) 36–38 Munajjim, Jalal 29 Murad iii 78–79, 91, 106, 189

Index Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] (Dargah Quli Khan) 148, 148 (n. 1),   149, 150, 158–59 ʿAli’s shrines and 160, 164 architecture in urban spaces in  160 bazaars and 161–62, 161 (n. 42), 162 celebrations and 161, 162 city dwellers and 160, 162 ethics and 162–63 females in social system and  163–64, 164 (n. 57) literary traditions and 159–60, 162 Muhammad the Prophet’s shrines and 160, 164 music and 148 (n. 1), 163, 163 (n. 53) patrons and 161, 162, 163, 164 Persian context and 159 public spaces and 148, 161–62, 161 (n. 42), 164–65 sensory experiences of urban spaces in 160, 162–63 social status and 148, 163, 163 (n. 53) Sufi shrines and 164 urban spaces and 160–61, 162–63 urban subjectivity 150 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi Muraqqas (albums) 1–2, 2 Musavvir, Mir 49, 49, 55 Muslim (Islamic) world 1 architects’ social status in 23–25, 38–39 defense of images of community in  96, 97, 97–99, 98, 99 (n. 9) early modern period in 15–16 image-making practices in 95–97, 96 n 3, 109, 118–20 khilʾat as political gift in 142, 143, 144 See also defacement of ­Turco-­Persian manuscript; defense of religious beliefs, and ­Turco-Persian manuscript paintings; devotional practices, and Muslim image-making Nādir Shah 149, 149n7, 163–64, 169 Nicolay, Nicolas de 196 Nizamuddin, Mughal Delhi 150, 150 dargah 150, 156, 156–57, 156 (n. 20), 161 Nuṣretnāme 85, 86, 87, 91

Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār [Chronicle of the Szigetvár Campaign] (Ahmed) 81, 86, 91 Orientalism, and photographs  199–202 Osman Pasha, Özdemiroǧlu 77, 78, 80, 80, 83, 88 Ottoman context artists in 1 autobiographies in 67, 68, 68 (n. 13), 83 daily life in 168, 182 (n. 43) for defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript 99, 106, 106 n 31, 107,   107–8, 107 (n. 35), 108, 109 for devotional damage 111, 112, 117 in early modern period 15, 16 emotions as affect and 205 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1560] 104–6, 105 khilʾat as political gift in 142 literary texts in 182 (n. 45) lived experience and poetry in 67, 67 (n. 8) photographs and 200–201 Sébah & Joaillier photographic studio and 202 urban spaces in 15, 16 women in 168, 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) See also author portraits, Ottoman; dervishes; Mevlevi Sufis Paintings ateliers and 135–36, 137, 169 emotions representation in  189, 190, 191, 191, 192, 193–95, 193–95 of Mevlevi Sufis 188, 189, 190 with Safavid figural textiles 131–32, 133, 134, 134–37, 135, 135 (n. 40), 136, 138, 139 Parast Khan, Khidmat (Reza Bahadur)  137, 138, 139, 139 (n. 44) Parchīn kārī (hard stone) inlay technique 14 Patron and artist relationship architects and 30–31, 40–41 signatures in manuscripts and 45, 51–52, 55, 57, 57 (n. 37), 60–61

Index Placement of signatures in manuscripts  Patrons, and Mughal Delhi 151, 153, 48–49, 58, 60 155, 156, 157, 163, 165 Plan of dargah of Nizam al-Din  Performative affects 190, 191, 192, 157 193, 193 Plan of the Dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, See also emotions as affect Zafar Mahal Palace, Moti Masjid and The persecution of Muslims, Jami burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of   151, 151 Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 97, Poetry: languages and 169–70,   97–98 170 (n. 8) Persian context in Persian context 24 (n. 12), 55, architect in 19, 26 168, 169, 182 artists in 1 rekhta 169, 170, 172, 181, 182 Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi Safavid figural textiles and  Shaikh to Kings (Bichitr) 136, 124, 140–41, 140 (n. 49),   136–37 141 (nn. 52–54), 144 eroticism in literature and 175 shahrāshūb genre and 159–60, 162, Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] 176, 176 (n. 28), 182 (Dargah Quli Khan) and 159 in Urdu 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171, 172, parchin kāri (hard stone) inlay 178, 180 (n. 38) ­technique and 14 See also Dihlavī, Fāʾiz, and poetry; poetry and 24 (n. 12), 55, 168, women in Dihlavī’s poetry 169, 182 Politics for Safavid figural textiles 135, 136, Safavid figural textiles and 124–25, 136–37 141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145 signatures in artworks and  textiles and 126, 127–28 48 (n. 10), 67, 67 (n. 7) Portraits signatures in manuscripts and 45, Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas 45 (n. 1), 46, 49, 50–51, 52 (n. 21), (painting) 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25) 55 (n. 35) Jahangir’s court and 11, women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  11 (n. 30) 168, 169, 172, 178, 180, 181, 182, of Jahangir’s courtiers 11, 182 (n. 43) 11 (n. 30), 16 Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”)  Portrait of Abdur Rahim 11, 12 135, 135 Portrait of a dying Inayat Khan See also defense of religious beliefs, (attrib. Balchand) 16, 17 and Turco-Persian manuscript Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman, paintings; devotional practices, Osman and Sinan (Şehnāme-i and Muslim image-making; TurcoSelīm Ḫān) 77, 78, 78–79 Persian manuscript paintings, Portrait of Sir Robert Shirley  and affect 13–14, 14 Photographs self-representation in 16, 17 dervishes 202–5, 203, 204 “suggestive” portraits and 11, ethnographic gaze in 182 11 (n. 27) of Mevlevi Sufis 196, 199, 202–3, Pre-modern period 203, 204, 204–5 orientalism and 199–202 artworks in 23, 25 Picart, Bernard, Ceremonies et Coutumes Iranian context and 2 réligieuses de tous les Peuples du Mevlevi Sufis images and 197 Monde (Bernard and Picart)  in Muslim world 24   197–98, 197 (nn. 197–98), 198 Ottoman author portraits in  Pietra dura (hard stone) inlay technique  69–73, 71, 71 (n. 31), 73 14 in Turco-Persian world 97 Pilgrimages to dargahs 150, 156, 157, See also early modern period 157, 160, 161 Prince with a falcon 132

219 Prisoner imagery Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian Captives (textile panel) 127, 128 Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”)  135, 135 The Prophet Muhammad and ʿAli break the idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca, [Garden of Purity] (Mirkhwand) 117–18, 118, 119 The Prophet Muhammad at the Kaʿba after the conquest of Mecca [The Collection of Histories] (Hafiz-i Abru) 115, 116.114, 117 The Prophet Muhammad rides into the Battle at Badr [The Collection of Histories] (Hafiz-i Abru) 112–14,   113, 113 (n. 54), 113 (n. 56), 114 The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension, Quintet (Khamsa of Nizami) 109–10, 109 (n. 41), 110, 112 The Prophet Muhammad witnesses a idol worshiper prostrating to his idol, Siyer-i Nebi [Biography of the Prophet] (al-Darir) 107–8, 107 (n. 35), 108 Public spaces Muraqqaʻ-yi Dihli [“Delhi Album”] (Dargah Quli Khan) and 148,   161–62, 161 (n. 42), 164–65 women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  169, 172–73 Qadamgah of ʿAli 161, 161 (n. 38), 164 Qalqashandi 55 Qandahari, Arif 129, 130, 131, 139–40 Qavam al-Din Shirazi Friday Mosque (Isfahan) signatory marks by 25, 26, 28, 158 Mosque of Gawhar Shad (Mashhad) signatory marks by 21–22, 22, 23,   23, 28, 38–42 Quli Khan, Dargah 148, 149, 165 See also Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] (Dargah Quli Khan) Qummi, Qazi Ahmad 5, 7 Qurʾanic verses 6, 40, 42, 102 Qutb Shah kingdom 62–63, 63 (n. 66) Rahim, Abdur 11, 12 Rai Singh, Raja 142–43 Recueil de cent estampes représentant différentes nations du Levant (Vanmour) 196–97, 198 Red Fort palace-fortress, Mughal Delhi 148, 149, 157, 160, 161, 162, 165

220 Rekhta poetry 170, 172, 181, 182 Riza, Aqa 62 Riza-yi Abbasi of Isfahan 134 Robe fragment of silk (textile panel)  144–45, 145 Rubbing, and devotional damage 96, 109, 111, 117, 186–87 Rukh, Shah 40–42 Rumi biography of 187, 188 Dogs in a Market [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede)    191, 193, 193 emotions representation in text/ paintings and 189, 190, 191, 191, 192,   193–95, 193–95 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede) 189, 191, 191 handkerchiefs as representation of emotion and 189, 190 images of death of 189, 190 literary texts on death of 189, 191 performative affects of emotions and 190, 191, 192, 193, 193 Rumi meets with his disciples for the last time [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede) 189, 190 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Rumi’s Successor, Husam al-Din [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede) 191, 192 See also Mevlevi Sufis Safavid context: affect in 3 architects’ social status in 24–25 artists in 1 author portraits in 77 (n. 53), 88, 88, 91 for defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript 99, 103, 104, 105, 109 for devotional damage 96, 112, 117 in early modern period 16 historical agency in author portraits in 88, 88, 91 Iranian culture and 130, 132, 136, 139 (n. 45), 140 Isfahan signatory marks and  28–29 self-representation in architecture  5, 6, 6 (nn. 13–14), 7 (n. 15) signatures in manuscripts in 48, 49, 55, 55 (n. 34), 62–63

Index Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian Captives (textile panel) 127, 128 Safi, Shah (i) 31 Saif ul-Muluk 124, 140–41, 141 (n. 52), 144 Salim, Prince See Jahangir Samarqandi, Daulatshah 21, 41 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Rumi’s Successor, Husam al-Din [Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah] (Dede) 191, 192 Samoes, Gil 5 Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah (Dede) 188–89, 190, 191, 191 Saying of the Prophet (hadith) 24, 40 Saʿi Çelebi, Mustafa 67 Script styles, for signatures in ­manuscripts 49–50, 57, 58 Sébah, Pascal (later Sébah & Joaillier) Head of Mevlevi lodge in Galata with Mevlevis… (Sébah & Joaillier)   202–3, 203, 204–5 Ottoman context and 202 photography studio of 202, 202 (n. 41) Şecāʿatnāme 88, 88, 91 Secrecy, and signatures in manuscripts  45, 45 (n. 1), 52, 53, 60, 61–63, 62 (n.)61–62, 63 (n. 66) Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān (account of Selim ii) Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in Sultan Selim ii’s audience 79,   79–80 Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman, Osman and Sinan 77, 78–79 Selim ii watching the Imperial C ­ ouncil … 61 (n. 66), 80, 80–81 Self-representation in architecture 5–6, 5 (n. 12), 6, 6 (n. 13), 7 (n. 15), 16 in autobiographies 7, 8, 9, 16 in Iranian context 3, 7, 9 See also identity Selim i 74, 74–75, 74 (n. 42), 75 (n. 46), 78 Selim ii 61 (n. 66), 78, 80, 80–81 Selim ii watching the Imperial Council… (Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 61 (n. 66),   80, 80–81 Selīmnāme frontispiece 76, 78, 91 Sultan Selim Hunting and Courtly Assembly (Şükrü Bidlisi) 74, 74–76,   74 (n. 42), 75 (n. 46), 77, 78, 81

Semiotics, and emotions 186, 193, 206–7, 206 (n. 45) Sensory experiences with textiles 125, 131, 145 in urban spaces 160, 162–63 Shad, Gawhar 40–42 Shahjahanabad walled city, Mughal Delhi 148–49, 150, 150, 151, 155–56,   160, 161, 162, 165 Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest sons and Asaf Khan during his accession ceremonies (Bichitr) 137, 138, 139,   139 (n. 44) Shahnama for Shah Tahmasb 49, 49, 55 Shahrāshūb genre 159–60, 162, 176, 176 (n. 28), 182 Shiʿism: defense of religious beliefs in manuscript paintings and 101–3,   102, 103, 105–6 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1307] 101–3, 103 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan alQurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1560] 105, 105–6 in Iran 3, 16 in Isfahan 39, 39 (n. 38) secrecy and 62, 62 (n.)61–62 Shrine of Imam Riza (Mashhad) as pilgrimage site for 21, 39 Shiraz, and manuscript workshops 50 (n. 14), 51, 51 (n. 18) Shiraz, ʿAbdullah: Bustan of Saʿdi 58, 59, 60 Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi 49, 50, 50 (n. 14), 51, 52–53 Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza 58, 59, 61, 62 Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami)  45–46, 45 (n. 2), 46, 46 (nn. 7–8), 47, 48, 55, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58), 62 identity and 58, 59, 60 placement of signature of 58 signatures of 46, 47, 58, 60 Shirazi, Ruzbihan 50, 50, 50 (n. 15), 51 Shirley, Sir Robert 13–14, 14, 127–28 Shrine of Imam Riza (Mashhad) 21, 39 See also Mosque of Gawhar Shad (Mashhad)

221

Index Signature of architects architect-builder and 28–29, 31, 33–34, 42 artworks and 25 (n. 15) calligraphy and 24, 32–33, 34–35, 40–41 in Friday Mosque (Isfahan) 25, 26, 28, 158 Ganj Ali Khan Caravanserai (Kerman) 35–37, 36, 37, 38 Ganj Ali Khan Hammam [public bathhouse] (Kerman) 37–38, 39 in Ganj ʿAli Khan Hammam (Kerman) 37, 39 hadith and 24, 40 Harun-i Velayet shrine 31–33, 33, 42 Iranian context for 27 in Isfahan 28–29 in Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah) 28, 29, 29–31, 30, 33 in Mosque of Gawhar Shad (Mashad) 21–22, 22, 23, 38–42 patron and artist relationship and  30–31, 40–41 Qurʾanic verses in 6, 40, 42 Safavid Isfahan signatory marks and  28–29 in Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque (Isfahan) 29, 33–36, 34, 35 social status and 41–42 Tree of Life motif in 40, 41 See also architects/architecture; architects’ social status Signatures in artworks 48 (n. 10), 67 See also signature of architects Signatures in manuscripts 17–18, 46, 48, 48 (n. 10) Bustan of Saʿdi 29, 53, 54, 54 (n. 26), 54 (n. 27), 54 (n. 29), 55, 55 (n. 34), 57 Divan of Hafiz 55, 55 (nn. 35–36), 56, 57, 57 (n. 37) Divan of Khusraw Dihlavi  49–50, 50, 50 (n. 14), 51, 52–53, 54 Divan of Khwaju Kirmani 49, 50–51, 52–53, 52 (nn. 20–21), 53 (n. 22), 54 Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza  58, 59, 60 Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami)  45–46, 45 (n. 2), 46 (nn. 7–8), 47, 48, 55, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58), 62

identity and 46, 52–53, 53 (n. 22), 57, 58, 59, 60, 62 in Mughal context 62–63, 63 (n. 66) patron and artist relationship and  45, 51–52, 55, 57, 57 (n. 37), 60–61 placement of 48–49, 58, 60 in Qutb Shah kingdom 62–63, 63 (n. 66) Safavid context and 45, 48, 49, 55, 55 (n. 34), 62–63 script styles and/or color schemes and 49–50, 57, 58 secrecy and 45, 45 (n. 1), 48, 52, 53, 60, 61–63, 62 (n.)61–62, 63 (n. 66) Shiraz workshops and 50 (n. 14), 51, 51 (n. 18), 53, 53 (n. 22), 57 signature as term of use and 46, 46 (n.)7 size of 46, 46 (n. 13), 48–50, 53, 53 n 23, 54–55, 57, 58, 60, 62–63, 63 (n. 66) Timurid context and 51–52, 54 (n. 26), 55, 60 See also signature of architects; signatures in artworks Sinan 22, 23, 37 (n. 36), 67, 68, 69 Sinan oversees the construction of Süleyman’s mausoleum 67, 68, 69 Siyar, Farrukh 153, 154, 155 Smudging, and defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript 95, 98,   100, 110 Social status Ottoman author portraits and  68–69, 69, 78–81, 91–92 signatures in manuscripts and 46, 52–53, 53 (n. 22), 57, 58, 59, 60, 62 tiraz and 125–26 See also architects’ social status Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun Ahmed Beg Mourning the death of Sultan Süleyman 81–82, 82 Sokollu Mehmed Pash’s Council 83, 84 Status, and signatures in manuscripts  46, 52–53, 53 (n. 22), 57, 58, 59, 60, 62 See also architects’ social status Subjectivity architects’ social status and 21, 24, 27–28, 27 n 30, 32, 37–38, 40, 42 Mughal courtly culture and 125 Ottoman author portraits and 66, 81, 91

in paintings with Safavid figural textiles 131–32, 133, 134, 134–37, 135,   135 (n. 40), 136, 138, 139 urban 150, 157, 165 Sufism affect and 3 emotions as object and 204 illustrations of Sufis and 185 in Iranian context 3–4 paintings with Safavid figural ­textiles and 134, 134, 136, 137 photographs and 200 shrines and 164, 172, 180 See also dervishes; Mevlevi Sufis Şükrü Bidlisi 74, 74–75, 74 (n. 42), 75 (n. 46) Sultan Selim Hunting and Courtly Assembly [Selīmnāme image] (Şükrü Bidlisi) 74, 74–76, 74 (n. 42),   75 (n. 46), 78 Sunni 101, 103, 105–6, 117 Tahmasb, Shah 9, 16, 49, 49, 55, 55 (nn. 35–36), 56, 57, 57 (n. 37) Talikizade Şehnāme-i humāyūn 88–91, 89 Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a scribe at work. Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān 90, 90–91 Tanbolan (Dihlavī) 178, 180 Tārīkh-i āima-yimāsumīn (History of the Immaculate Imams) 3–4,   3 (nn. 5–6), 4 Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste 149 Taʿrīf-i Holī (Dihlavī) 173 Taʿrīf-i Nahān Nigambod (Dihlavī) 174, 175–76 Taʿrīf-i Panghat (Dihlavī) 172–73 Textile fragment (Ghiyath al-din ʿAli-yi)  127, 127 Textile production Akbar and 128–30, 129 (n. 24), 141 (n. 54) in Iran 127–28, 129, 130, 132, 134, 135, 139, 139 (n. 45), 143 Textiles collecting practices and 130–31, 130 (nn. 27–28) in corporeal practices 124–25, 125 (nn. 4–5), 142 emotions and 125, 126, 126 (n. 11), 142 furgal (coat) 141, 143

222 Textiles (cont.) interiority and 143–45, 143 (n. 65), 145 mandīls (handkerchiefs) 126 politics of 126, 127–28 Robe fragment of silk (textile panel)  144–45, 145 sensory experiences with 125, 131, 142 tiraz (woven and embroidered inscriptions) on 125–26, 130–31 See also figural textiles, Safavid; textile production Textual references, for architects’ social status 21, 22 Timurid context architecture in 40–41 author portraits in 70–71, 71, 71 (n. 31), 73, 77 biographical writing in 66 for defacement of Turco-Persian manuscript 96, 106, 113, 114 signatures in manuscripts in 51, 52, 54 (n. 26), 55, 60 Timurid Workshop Album 1–2, 2 Tiraz (woven and embroidered inscriptions) 125–26, 130–31 Tomb of Jahangir 14, 14 Topographical themes 171, 181–82 The torturing of Bilal, Jami ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 98, 98–99,   99 (n. 9) Tradeswomen, and women in Dihlavī’s poetry 172, 176, 178, 180–81,   181 (n. 38), 182 (n. 39) Tree of Life motif 40, 41 Turco-Persian manuscript paintings, and affect 18, 95–97, 96 (n. 3), 109,   118–20 Turco-Persian world 97 See also defacement of TurcoPersian manuscript paintings; defense of religious beliefs, and Turco-Persian manuscript paintings; devotional practices, and Muslim image-making; Turco-Persian ­manuscript paintings, and affect Turkish context 168, 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) See also defense of religious beliefs, and Turco-Persian manuscript paintings; devotional practices, and Muslim image-making; TurcoPersian manuscript paintings, and affect; Turco-Persian world

Index Urban spaces cultural contact and exchange in  12–14, 13, 14, 17 in early modern period 14–16, 15 Isfahan and 34, 34 (n. 34) in Mughal Delhi 160–61, 162–63 Ottoman author portraits and 92 self-representation in 14–15, 15 sensory experiences of 160, 162–63 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi Urban subjectivity 150, 157, 165 See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi; Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] (Dargah Quli Khan) Urdu literary texts in 181, 182, 183 women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171, 172, 178, 180 (n. 38) Urdu literature 171, 172, 178, 180 (n. 38), 181, 182, 183 Ustad Ibrahim ibn Ustad Ismaʿil Bannaʾ Isfahani 25 Valī, Mahmūd Amīr 175, 182 Valī Dakhnī 171, 171 (n. 16) Van Dyck, Anthony 128 Vanmour, Jean-Baptiste Recueil de cent estampes représentant différentes nations du Levant    196–97, 198 Whirling Dervishes 198, 199 Veils 96, 106, 106 (n.)31, 117–18 Whirling Dervishes (postcard)  202, 204 Whirling Dervishes (Vanmour) 198, 199 Whirling meditational dance (semaʿ)  185, 196 Women female-centered narratives in Mughal courtly culture and 125,   125 (nn. 4–5) in Mughul Delhi social system  163–64, 164 (n. 57) in Ottoman Turkish context 168, 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) Women bathing in a lake (painting)  175–76, 177 Women celebrating Holi (attrib. Kālān Khān) 173, 174 Yogini in a Landscape (painting)  178, 179 Women in Dihlavī’s poetry Bhangedan-i Dargāh-i Qutb (poem)  180

daily life activities and 168, 169, 170, 176, 176 (n. 28), 181 eroticism and 168, 175, 178, 180, 182 ethics and 170, 180, 181 ethnographic gaze and 169, 172 fairs and 169, 172, 176 female ascetic ( jogan) and 176, 178, 178 (n. 32), 179 festival of Holi and 172, 173 Gujri (poem) 180–81 Hindavi and 171 Indian context 168, 169, 171, 171 (n. 16), 180, 182, 182 (n. 39), 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) Jogan (poem) 176, 178 Kāchan (poem) 178 language and 170, 170 (n. 12), 171, 181 love and 168–69, 178, 180, 182 Melā (poem) 176 Persian context 168, 169, 172, 178, 180, 181, 182, 182 (n. 43) publications 170, 170 (n. 12), 181 public spaces and 169, 172–73 rekhta poetry and 170, 172, 181, 182 shahrāshūb genre and 176, 176 (n. 28), 182 Sufi shrines and 172, 180 Tanbolan (poem) 178, 180 Taʿrīf-i Holī (poem) 173 Taʿrīf-i Nahān Nigambod (poem)  174, 175–76 Taʿrīf-i Panghat (poem) 172–73 topographical themes and 171, 181, 182 tradeswomen and 172, 176, 178, 180–81, 181 (n. 38), 182 (n. 39) Urdu and 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171, 172, 178, 180 (n. 38) woman bathing and 173, 175–76, 176 (n. 26) See also Dihlavī, Fāʾiz, and poetry Woven and embroidered inscriptions (tiraz) 125–26 Yari Haravi 53–54, 53 (n. 25), 54 (n. 26) Yogini in a Landscape (painting)  178, 179 Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”)  135, 135 Yusuf ibn Taj al-Din Bannaʾ Isfahani  25