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

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 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
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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 Interna-
tional 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 Per-
sian words occur in a range of contexts, from court
chronicles to epigraphic Qurʾanic verses. In order
to attain consistency we have chosen the translit-
eration conventions established in the Internation-
al Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. Geographical
names are rendered according to current scholarly
convention not pronunciation, for example, Isfa-
han instead of Esfahan. Names and terms, such as
Hassan or Sufism, that are commonly used in the
English language, have been rendered without dia-
critical 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 Bal-
chand, 1618 17
1.1 Mashhad, Qibla iwan at the Mosque of Gawhar
Shad in the Shrine complex of Imam Riza, com-
pleted 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 door-
way 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 signa-
ture of master architect Ustad Muhammad Sul-
tan 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’l-
aḫbār 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, Al-
Athar 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, Otto-
man lands, 1594–95 108
4.9 The Prophet Muhammad’s celestial ascension,
Nizami, Khamsa (Quintet), probably northeast-
ern 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
­ 6.6 Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah of
­Afghanistan, 1415–16 113
ix
4.11 Detail of Figure 4.10, showing the Prophet Muham-
mad’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, Raw-
dat al-Safa (Garden of Purity), Shiraz, Iran, ca.
1585–95 118
4.15 Detail of Figure 4.14, showing a vocative inscrip-
tion 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 Baha-
dur 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
Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19 155
x List of Figures
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
8.2 The Funeral of Jalal al-Din Rumi 191
8.3 A samāʿ during the Leadership of Rumi’s Succes-
sor, 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: State-
craft, Shiʿism and the Architecture of Conviviality in
Early Modern Iran (Edinburgh: University of Ed-
inburgh 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 For-
est 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 Univer-
sity Press, 2018), for which she received the sah/­
Mellon Author Award. Her earlier work was pub-
lished 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 Pennsylva-
nia. He is the author of numerous publications on
a broad range of subjects relevant to the medieval
and modern Islamic world. His books include Ai-
sha’s Cushion: Religious Art, Perception and Prac-
tice 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 Writ-
ing ­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 aes-
thetics 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 Li-
brary 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 Fulbright-
Nehru program, the American Council of Learned
Societies, the Huntington Library and the Gulben-
kian 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 his-
tory of textiles in Mughal South Asia.
Kishwar Rizvi
is Associate Professor of Islamic Art and Archi-
tecture at Yale University. She is the author of
The Transnational Mosque: Architecture and His-
torical 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 pub-
lications 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 Founda-
tion 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 Lan-
guages & 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 Per-
sian 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 medi-
eval and early modern Islamic art in general and
the arts of the book (especially Persian illustrated
manuscripts) in particular. Her professional ca-
reer 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 Cura-
tor 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
­ through closer study of personal diaries, portraits
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 al-
lusions and references, and through the material-
ity 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 histo-
rian 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 attribu-
tion and connoisseurship. Thus we now may un-
derstand 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 func-
tioned. 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 spac-
es and objects were used. Questions about recep-
tion and intentionality, as well as about audiences
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_002
and their responses, remain to be fully addressed
and chancellery documents. The goal of this an-
thology 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 evalua-
tion, 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 es-
tablishing 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 impres-
sion 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 evalu-
ation in the fifteenth-century.3 The pages are mas-
sive (680 × 500 mm) requiring at least two hands
1 The work of David Roxburgh is seminal in the study of al-
bums 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).
2 Rizvi
to turn a single page. They comprise mostly of cal-
ligraphy 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 pre-
modern 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.
Figure 0.1
Timurid Album Page, mid-15th c.,
(Topkapi Saray Museum, H. 2152).
within it, but also those that encountered the
object through visual and tactile means. In its gi-
gantism, the album overpowers the senses of the
beholder, especially if considered in the context
of illustrated manuscripts, which were often de-
signed to be intimate objects, primarily (though
not ­exclusively) for individual reading and view-
ing. Monumental calligraphy, of which there are
also examples in the album, would have been less
unexpected, given that elite calligraphers were of-
ten commissioned to design architectural epigra-
phy. 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 Per-
sian 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 pro-
duction of the album mean in terms of the chang-
ing 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 chal-
lenged 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 Judg-
ment, 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 si-
lence. 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 Muha-
mad ibn ʿAli, listen and submit (samīʿ wa matīʿ) to
Zayn al-Abdin, for he is the Proof of God.” The un-
cle 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 mi-
raculous 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 ex-
egesis 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 Nation-
al Library in St. Petersburg (Dorn 312), which was recop-
ied 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 cop-
ies 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.
4 Rizvi

Figure 0.2 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 embodi-
ment both as a practice and process of representa-
tion. 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.
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 emo-
tions 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 court-
ier, Mirza Shah Husayn, is described in contempo-
rary 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 Isfah-
an, a post Husayn held until 1519. A European visi-
tor 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 dep-
uty that Husayn built the Harun-i Velayet shrine in
Isfahan (completed in 1513), a monument mark-
ing 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 histo-
rian 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.
5
Durmish Khan’s deputy at the time.9 The recogni-
tion 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 iden-
tity as a loyal servitor of the court and an imple-
menter 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 pos-
sessor of great wealth and authority, with property
in Isfahan and Kashan.10 According to the histo-
rian 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 architectur-
al 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 recep-
tions for Shah Ismaʿil there. Ghiyas al-din Muhammad
Husayni Khwandamir, Habīb al-siyar, Tehran, 1334. Vol-
umes 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 pe-
riod (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 architec-
tural counterpoint not to its own dome, but to that of
the Harun-i Velayet shrine located diagonally across
the street.
6 Rizvi
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 inscrip-
tion, dedicated to Ismaʿil (see Fig. 0.3). In a sig-
nificant 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 for-
tune 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 splen-
dor (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 ar-
chitect (the builder of great mosques) and as a bu-
reaucrat loyally serving his king.14
Mirza Shah Husayn was assassinated in 1523 by
a jealous rival, yet he is included in the antholo-
gies 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 po-
ets 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 Hu-
mayunfarruk, ed. Tehran: Ilmi, n.d).
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 per-
sonal 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 ascrib-
ing 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 Mirza Shah Husayn’s career, while extraordinary, was
not unique. Earlier, in the fifteenth century, archi-
tects 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 par-
ticular 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 them-
selves. In addition, governors such as Allahverdi Khan
and Hatim Beg were important patrons of architecture,
both having overseen the construction of their respec-
tive 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).
16 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.).
7
Selfhood from Petrarch to Descartes,” one would
be remiss is assuming either the uniqueness of the
“Western self” or even of ascribing strict distinc-
tions 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, ques-
tions 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 em-
pires, an increasingly popular genre to explore was
the autobiography. Life stories had certainly been
penned before, under the rubric of saintly hagi-
ographies, 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 or-
ganized 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, in-
secure about being intimate with his wife. In con-
trast, 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 mad-
ness, 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 Peter Burke, “Representations of the Self from Petrach
to Descartes,” in Roy Porter, ed. Rewriting the Self: Histo-
ries from the Renaissance to the present, (London; New
York: Routledge, 1997).
18 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 Rizvi

Figure 0.4 Babur greeting a visitor, Bāburnāma, c. 1590 (Metropolitan Museum of Art 67.266.4).
Introduction
Two aspects of Babur’s biography are of particu-
lar relevance. The first is the externalization of
the author’s feelings in a way that makes them
familiar and universal. The second is the unprece-
dented 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 in-
spirations 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 per-
son 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 inter-
esting works of literary biography, but a fascinating
corpus of visual material. Priding his own connois-
seurial 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 “dream-
19 Shah Tahmasb, Tazkira-i Shāh Tahmāsb, Abd al-Shukur,
(Berlin-Charlottenburg), 1343 (1964).
20 On the Baburnama, see also, Azfar Moin, “Peering
through the Cracks in the Baburnama: The Textured
Lives of Mughal Sovereigns,” Indian Economic and So-
cial History Review, 49: 4 (2012): 493–526; Taymiya R.
Zaman, “Instructive Memory: An Analysis of Auto/Bio-
graphical Writing in Early Mughal India,” Journal of the
Economic and Social History of the Orient, Vol. 54, No. 5
(2011): 677–700.
9
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 inter-
play 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 (Ja-
hangir), 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 rul-
ers relied on Christian symbols (such as the imag-
ery of the lion and the lamb) “in search of suitable
ideas and symbols to broaden their image as uni-
versal 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 For example, Juan Cole, Sumathi Ramaswany, Ayesha
Ramachandran, Beach, et al.
22 Ebba Koch, “The Mughal Emperor as Solomon, Maj-
nun, and Orpheus, or the Album as a Think Tank for
Allegory,” Muqarnas 27 (2010): 277–311; 288.
23 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 Jas-
per C. von Putten, “Jahangir Heroically Killing Poverty:
Pictorial sources and pictorial tradition in Mughal al-
legory and portraiture,” in The Meeting Place of Brit-
ish 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
an early age. Jahangir gave him the sobriquet, “Na-
dir 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, Em-
peror of India. Translated, edited, and annotated by
Wheeler M. Thackston (Washington, d.c.: Freer Gal-
lery 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.
Rizvi
Figure 0.5
Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas, c 1600-30
(Freer Gallery of Art, F1945.9).
innovations and particular style of painting be-
stowed on them a singular position in the history
at art itself?25 Jahangir was well aware of such con-
cerns, 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 emulat-
ing 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.
Introduction
well as concepts.26 The act of making was a perfor-
mative response to history, and the artist was one
who replicated and perfected earlier models.
Portraits served to narrate the social and politi-
cal status of the person depicted, often the ruler,
through similitude or suggestion.27 Commoners
and courtiers were also subjects for documenta-
tion, as the eye of the artist moved towards the
quotidian, sketching dervishes as well as elite gov-
ernors. 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 Hin-
davi, and he is said to have known Arabic, Sanskrit,
and Portuguese.”28 He was also a renowned states-
man and poet, credited with expressing himself
in both Persian and Hindavi and patronizing po-
ets 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, po-
ets as well as painters were gathered, to write on a
range of topics, from Perso-Islamic literature to re-
tellings 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 Discussed also in David Roxburgh, “Kamal al-Din Bi-
hzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,” Muqar-
nas 17 (2000): 119–46.
27 “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.
28 Corinne Lefevre, “The Court of Abd-ur-Rahim Khan-i
Khanan as a Bridge between Iranian and Indian Cul-
tural Traditions,” in Culture and Circulation: Literature
in motion in early modern India, Thomas de Bruijn and
Allison Busch, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 2014); 75–106.
29 For a discussion of Abdur Rahim’s atelier, see John Se-
yller, Workshop and Patron in Mughal India: The Freer
Rāmāyaṇa and other illustrated manuscripts of ʻAbd al-
Raḥīm, (Zürich, Switzerland; Washington, d.c.: Artibus
Asiae Publishers: Museum Rietberg in association with
the Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, 1999).
11
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 calligra-
phy. His involvement is apparent in the inscription
on the painting, running sideways on the left-hand
side, which reads, “Likeness (ṣūrat) of Abdur Ra-
him 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 Metropoli-
tan 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 rec-
ognize 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 acu-
men 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
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 di-
verse 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, Safa-
vid, and Mughal courtly milieu were evinced in the
Rizvi
Figure 0.6
Portrait of Abdur Rahim, 1608 (Yale
­University Art Gallery, 1983.94.11).
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 experi-
enced. Capital cities, such as Isfahan and Istanbul,
were not only conceptualized as seats of religious
and imperial power, but were thriving metropo-
lises 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 schol-
arship has indeed questioned the ­ universality
Introduction
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 po-
litical changes occurred in the world.31 Thriving
­cosmopolitan cities, from Isfahan to Venice, sup-
ported the movement of people and trade, bring-
ing 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).
13
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 subse-
quently transferred to the National Trust).
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 em-
broidered 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 Uni-
versity Press, 2008).
14
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 particu-
larities of the early modern period is the cross-pol-
lination 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 mean-
33 Parallel examples are given in Claire Farago, “On the
Peripatetic Life of Objects in the Ear of Globaliza-
tion,” 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).
Rizvi
ings at this time were mutable and contingent on
location and the particular perspective of the ob-
server, 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 at-
tracted 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 Synthe-
sis of ­Ottoman Arts and Architecture,” Suleyman the
­Magnificent and his Time, ed. G. Veinstein, (Paris:
­Documentation francçaise), 1992.
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 in-
dividual (often a beautiful young man) who tra-
versed 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,” Com-
parative 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 Otto-
man 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).
15
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 hetero-
topic and polyglot, where men (and sometimes
women) came together in complex and interde-
pendent ways. Seen through such a lens, early mo-
dernity 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
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: world-
making was nothing less than establishing an ideal
world order, understood in metaphysical, scientif-
ic, theological, and eventually, in political terms.”36
From the perspectives of the Ottomans, Mu-
ghals, 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 dy-
nastic ambitions. In Iran, for example the ques-
tion 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 architec-
ture 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, Inay-
at Khan, by the artist Balchand poignantly high-
lights 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 introspec-
36 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.
Rizvi
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-expand-
ing sense of the world; contact and exchange
­heightened these experiences that would be re-
corded 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 com-
merce were as essential as religion and culture in
defining political ideology. Equally potent changes
were taking place in social, theological, and cultur-
al practices, and in literature and the arts. The es-
says gathered here are linked by a deeply historical
approach to understanding the early modern peri-
od, 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 inten-
tionality 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 im-
plications of artistic authority. In Chapter 1, Sus-
san 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 iden-
tity 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.
 Introduction
17

Figure 0.10 Portrait of a dying Inayat Khan, attributed to Balchand, 1618 (Museum of Fine Art, Boston, 14.679).
18
Marianna Shreve Simpson enumerates how some
markers of identity were distilled into the medium
as seen in the ways in which painters and callig-
raphers 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 composi-
tion; 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 person-
hood, began to appear thus in spaces of sociabil-
ity and encounter. It was simultaneously personal
and public, the signature reflecting a moment in
a person’s life and his need for achieving poster-
ity. Using the manuscript was also conceptualized
as dialogic, the painter/calligrapher ­hiding clues
for the viewer/reader to find. The revelation en-
hanced the experience of encountering the manu-
script, 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 iden-
tified 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, illu-
minators and illustrators, were idealized and non-
specific in terms of physiognomy; instead they were
identified by the “tools” of their respective trades,
pens and brushes, for example. The constructed-
ness 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 an-
notated 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 ques-
tions 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. Icono-
philia as well as iconophobia, she argues, both
provided impetuses for the intentional and unin-
tentional 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 discuss-
ing 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 connois-
seurship 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 im-
pact 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 bestow-
ing 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 consider-
ation of the Mughal city, Delhi, as it was trans-
formed over the course of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. Chanchal Dadlani argues
that the cityscape, predicated on the influx of mi-
grants 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,
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 in-
habitants. 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, metaphor-
ically and physically, within the city.
The spectacular merged with the sensuous, as
seen in the following chapter, in which Sunil Shar-
ma 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 multi-
tudes 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 metaphys-
ical 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, sub-
jective 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 speci-
ficities of time and place. Utilizing representations
of Mevlevi Sufis in textual sources as well their vi-
sual counterparts, Elias provides case studies that
demonstrate the complexity in trying to work
productively through historical material. He sug-
gests 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-
19
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 senti-
ment; mobility and encounter; transregional con-
nections and the circulation of objects and ideas.
Historically rooted, these studies have nonethe-
less pushed the boundaries of traditional Islamic
art history. Focusing still on questions of material-
ity 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, lit-
erature and architecture.
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Mirza Muhammad Taqi in Safavid Royal Patronage
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Salman Rushdie. New York: Modern Library, 2002.
Beach, Milo Cleveland. “The Mughal Painter Abuʾl
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Burke, Peter. “Representations of the Self from Petrach
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Doss, Erika. “Affect,” American Art, 23/1 (2009): 9–11.
Farago, Claire. “On the Peripatetic Life of Objects in
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ed. Mary D. Sheriff. Chapel Hill [N.C.]: University of
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Jahangir, The Jahangirnama: Memoirs of Jahangir, Em-
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Khwandamir, Ghiyas al-din Muhammad Husayni.
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Koch, Ebba. “The Mughal Emperor as Solomon, Maj-
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Lefevre, Corinne. “The Court of Abd-ur-Rahim Khan-
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Moin, Azfar. “Peering through the Cracks in the Babur-
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­Indian Economic and Social History Review, 49:4
(2012): 493–526.
Neçipoglu, Gülru. “A Kānūn for the State, a Canon for
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Putten, Jasper C. von. “Jahangir Heroically Killing
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 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
­ tects of the epoch.”2
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 archi-
tect’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 (architec-
ture 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 expecta-
tions 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 Ba-
bur, the founder of the Mughal dynasty. Further-
more, 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 Shi-
razi 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 Wil-
ber, “Qavam al-Din ibn Zayn al-Din Shirazi: A Fifteenth-
Century Timurid Architect,” Architectural History 30
(1987): 31; Sussan Babaie, “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Archi-
tect to the House of Tamerlane,” in The Great Builders, ed.
Kenneth Powell (London: Thames & Hudson, 2011), 29.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_003
of the age and the reference point for the archi-
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 im-
portant 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 “sub-
jectivity” 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 Ta-
merlane,” 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, deco-
ration 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 commis-
sioned essay “Qavam al-Din Shirazi: Architect to the House
of Tamerlane,” 29–33.
22
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 refer-
ences to him or in attributions by epigraphic sig-
natory 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 archi-
tect Sinan (c. 1489/90–1588); alongside his own
autobiographical writings, this praise paints a
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.
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).
compelling picture of the historical emergence of
a cultural/architectural disposition in sixteenth-
century Ottoman territories.6 Given Sinan’s sta-
tus 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
6 Gülrü Necipoğlu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture
in the Ottoman Empire (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2005), 127–52.
Chasing after the Muhandis
the last decades of the twentieth century.7 Com-
parative 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 out-
side Europe ends up reflecting on the centrality
of Europe instead of its marginal position in pre-
modern 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.
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 left-
hand side of the iwan opening, completed 1418.
(Photo © B. O’Kane / Alamy Stock Photo).
to examine whether the integrated architectural
culture that Necipoğlu documented for Sinan’s
time could teach us something about the Renais-
sance and its architects who have always been un-
derstood 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 stud-
ies tend to collapse the social and cultural practices
of vastly different periods across the entire heart-
lands 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
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 architect-
builders 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 pre-
modern “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 Mar-
shall 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 great-
est practitioners were named, evaluated, and their
works were recorded in history from the very be-
ginning – a proper art-historical awareness and
discourse, if one existed, since the eighth century.
This evolution constitutes the core argument, the
10 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. Anto-
ny Eastmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2015), 230–48.
11 Marshall G.S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Con­
science and History in a World Civilization, vol. 1 (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 471–72; vol. 2,
3–11, 510, 539–42.
12 This holds true even for school-child exercises in Per-
sian 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.
Babaie
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. Contempo-
rary 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 for-
mulation of a general assumption, even a firm be-
lief, 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 ad-
mitting 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, simi-
larly to painters and other artists, practiced their
professions differently in time and place. For ex-
ample, 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 Jonathan Bloom and Sheila Blair, Islamic Arts (Lon-
don: 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.
14 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 Im-
ages of the Prophet,” in Newsweek 9 January 2015; ac-
cessed 20 July 2016 http://europe.newsweek.com/
koran-does-not-forbid-images-prophet-298298?rm=eu.
Chasing after the Muhandis
the royal patron and his vizier, one of the highest-
ranking 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 situated-
ness and his position on a silsila, a chain of pro-
ductive dialogues like learning, emulating and tak-
ing 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 pa-
tron 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, trans-
historical and intergenerational markers of pres-
ence and belonging are ­frequently encountered
even in a single spot. Inside the famous muqar-
nas-filled western iwan of the Friday Mosque of
Isfahan, sixteenth-century interventions in the
tile-and-brick decorations bear the names of sev-
eral 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 de-
sire 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.
25
to a father whose name must have been recogniz-
able as a master (see Fig. 1.3).16 One of them, Ustad
Ibrahim ibn Ustad Ismaʿil Bannaʾ Isfahani, fore-
grounds his and his father’s master architect sta-
tus; 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 sig-
natory 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 mean-
ings, master-pupil networks and their related cul-
tural 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 histori-
cal 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 fe-
tishizing of the signature by suggesting that “sig-
natures” were not actually signifiers of the person
as an individual with inalienable rights to self-
expression, 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.
26
Even terms such as “architect” have acquired their
significance from European tradition and usage.
Therefore, it is important to acknowledge the in-
adequacy of a single term to designate a myriad of
skills that need not have been specialized, as has
been common understanding. The term “archi-
tect” 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 defini-
tion 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.
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).
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 associ-
ated with the construction of edifices.18 The term
18 Golombek and Wilber treat the various terms as dis-
tinct 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 bi-
ography 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
Chasing after the Muhandis
“bannāʾ” could be understood as a builder, a ma-
son, 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, build-
er, mason, or even the overseer of a building. The
term has also been used interchangeably along-
side muhandis and bannāʾ.19 So much for any fix-
ity 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 re-
garded 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 per-
ceived 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 fre-
quency and prominence as never before anywhere
across the cultures of Muslims in the Arab and Ot-
toman Mediterranean. While frequency may not
age, the chief of the epoch’s ingenious men, the Euclid
of the century and all times, the architect of the sultan-
ate and the imperial master architect;” Necipoğlu, The
Age of Sinan, 138, 147.
19 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; Rob-
ert McChesney, “Four Sources on Shah Abbas’s Build-
ing of Isfahan,” Muqarnas 5 (1988), 123.
27
denote elevated status or the subject-position of
the architect/builder, I want to suggest the con-
junction 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 ma-
jor façades in mainly early modern “Iranianate”
urban landscapes. Such evidence animates this
recasting of the signatory marks in visually situ-
ated conditions; they do not acquire meaning for
being large or small, prominent or not, or even
self-deprecating in tone. Although all these fea-
tures 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 encoun-
ters. As such, signatory marks suggest the poten-
tial for greater nuancing of the separation be-
tween 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 bifurca-
tion of the building arts into presumably brainless
manual labor and triumphantly brainy hands-off
design processes seems to have little basis in ac-
tual 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 cer-
tain normalcy in “Iranianate” spheres for practitio-
ners 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 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-condi-
tioned 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 Shi-
razi, the architect who signed as the plasterer at
the Friday Mosque in Mashhad, the greatest out-
pouring 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 fre-
quency and prominence of the builder/architect
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
Babaie
signatory marks is also extraordinarily complex
in terms of their visual rendering, or of the op-
portunities 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
Modern Iran (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2008), 65–112.
22 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
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 builder-
architect 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 Masjid-
i 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 read-
ing 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.
29
which are built, so to speak, into the text and con-
text, both in discursive and in pictorial terms (see
Figs. 1.4 & 1.5). The principal foundation inscrip-
tion 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 commis-
sioned 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 re-
turn 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. Lu-
tfallah 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 Sussan Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” in Slaves
of the Shah: New Elites of Safavid Iran, Sussan Babaie,
Kathryn Babayan, Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe and Mus-
sumeh Farhad (London: I.B. Tauris, 2004), 80–113.
24 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.
25 Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” 80–113.
26 Mollā Jalāl-al-Din Monajjem, Tāriḵ-i ʿabbāsi yā Ruz-
nāma-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 Ab-
bas’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 high-
ranking 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.
Chasing after the Muhandis
donor to the mosque after the monarch and super-
vised its construction. In 1614, when the main en-
dowment for the royal mosque was set aside, Shah
ʿAbbas tasked the same Muhibb ʿAli, in his capac-
ity 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 reso-
nance 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 entangle-
ment assumes a new meaning for the architect, ʿAli
Akbar Isfahani. All the other elements – the mani-
festations of presence and visibility as celebrated
individuals for the patron and the supervisor or
the calligrapher – are unsurprising from a histo-
riographic point of view. The architect’s manifes-
tation, 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-
­ graphic content and the representational program
ily trade must have been well known to the deni-
zens 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, gain-
ing 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.
31
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 bod-
ies. Within these schemes, the pictorially fore-
grounded 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 fa-
çade 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 com-
plexity of entangled visual and textual content.
The poetic couplet in Persian contains the names
of the patron and his deputy-architect in tile pan-
els above the double doorway and stands as the
base of a triangular arrangement whereby the
patron, Shah Ismaʿil, occupies the apex. The epi-
in this instance coalesce on the façade into com-
plex 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 Babaie, “Launching from Isfahan,” 109.
31 Sussan Babaie, “Epigraphy (iv.) Safavid and later in-
scriptions,” Encyclopaedia Iranica, 15 December 1998,
accessed 20 July 2016, http://www.iranicaonline.org/
articles/epigraphy-iv; Robert Hillenbrand, “Safavid Ar-
chitecture” 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 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 archi-
tect 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 extraordi-
nary 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
Babaie
visual intervention. The fact that the calligrapher
is not named in this loaded epigraphic and picto-
rial 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 decora-
tive schemes of the main façade of a building par-
ticular 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 po-
tential for insinuating his place, as in a subjective
concept, may not have been generated by the ar-
chitect himself but as a result of the calligrapher’s
design choices. On the other hand, the calligrapher
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 architect-
builder 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
33
­ 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 calligra-
phers and architects whose signatory marks crowd
the epigraphic program, both interior and exte-
rior, of the Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, the
extraordinarily complex domed single chamber
mosque built for the private use of the royal fam-
ily 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
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 unexpect-
edly, 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 design-
er of the inscriptions (using the katabahu, “writ-
ten by” formula) but also as the one who designs
33 For the building projects, see Babaie “Isfahan and its
Palaces,” especially Chap. 3.
Babaie
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 con-
tributions 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 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 compo-
sition 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  archi-
tect 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 unex-
pected visual and spatial situations, is not unique
to the context of Isfahan, although the greatest
concentration of evidence survives from this city.
35
In Kerman, the governor Ganj ʿAli Khan employed
ʿAli Riza ʿAbbasi, the calligrapher of the Shaykh
Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque, for the epigraphic pro-
gram on the entrance complex of his caravanse-
rai, 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 en-
trance 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 ad-
dition, 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
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 cal-
ligrapher on the main façade of the caravanse-
rai, seems to have been equally prominent (see
Fig.  1.12). The four-iwan courtyard of the cara-
vanserai is extensively decorated with fine figural
35 Sussan Babaie, “Sacred Sites of Kingship: The May-
dan 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.
Babaie
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 paint-
ings in the rooms behind the iwan and fine deco-
rations 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 vault-
ing appears the phrase ʻAmal-i Ustād Muhammad
Sulṭān Miʻmār-i Yazdī, spelling out the role of the
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 vault-
ing of the iwan is emphasized in a similar fram-
ing 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 instal-
lations 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
37
of the visual clusters of loaded meanings pertinent
to the architect’s place in the larger scheme of pa-
tronage and production.
Such evidence of visibility is rarely accompa-
nied 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 “self-
hood” 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 subject-
positionality. In that regard, the most complex
representation is illustrated by the otherwise oft-
dismissed 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 ar-
chitect 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 ­Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art.”
framing devices two smaller framed inscriptions
are contained: the right hand panel states that the
writing of the inscription was accomplished in Au-
gust/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 Compassion-
ate 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
Chasing after the Muhandis 39

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 architec-
tural 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 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 appropria-
tion of Shiʻite precepts and practices; Kishwar Rizvi.
only was this mosque appended to, literally con-
joined, 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 re-
alized 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 val-
ue, denoting the fixed social condition of the archi-
tect 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 el-
evated 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 ar-
chitect’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 monu-
mental 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 mon-
arch 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 contin-
ues with words extolling Gawhar Shad as the pure
one who excels “in extreme justice and great firm-
ness of faith,” laudatory expressions ordinarily re-
served 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 re-
ceiving 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 inscrip-
tion ends in ordinary fashion with the name of
the scribe who, as scholarship has shown, is usu-
ally also the designer of the whole epigraphic pro-
gram. In this case, the calligrapher/designer was
Baysunghur, the son of Gawhar Shad and Shah
40 O’Kane, Timurid Architecture in Khurasan, 123.
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 espe-
cially significant for what it implies about the
­relationship between Gawhar Shad and Qavam al-
Din. 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 situ-
ating 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 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.
42 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 princi-
pal patrons of monumental architecture.
41
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 fascina-
tion 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 in-
novations 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-à-
vis the place and the idea of a mihrab, would have
necessitated the decorative motifs and epigraphic
content to be closely integrated into the overall ar-
chitectural 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 lo-
cation 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 read-
ing 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 al-
Din 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 hier-
archies of status. His humility would have been ap-
propriate 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 self-
identification 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 deco-
ration, which includes the epigraphic bands; this
would be an intriguing way of thinking about fa-
çades and planar thinking on space which begs to
be revisited in a future essay.
Therefore, in conceptual terms the stated mod-
esty belies on every level the accepted and actual
significance of the architect’s work in realizing an
extraordinary building at a site of profound sanc-
tity, a building intended to stimulate transforma-
tions 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 court-
yard 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 vi-
sual 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 princi-
pal 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 compa-
ny 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 intri-
cacy 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 build-
ings 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.
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the House of Tamerlane.” The Great Builders, ed.
­Kenneth Powell, 29–33. London: Thames & Hudson,
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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
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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
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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,
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chitecture of Iran and Turan. Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1988.
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ostān-i Eṣfahān. Isfahan, 1965.
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 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
∵ homage to their patron Sultan Ibrahim Mirza in
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 re-
search on the deluxe volume of ʿAbd al-Rahman
Jami’s Haft awrang [Seven Thrones] commis-
sioned by the Safavid prince Sultan Ibrahim Mirza
and nowadays commonly known as the Freer Jami.
As revealed in that study, the manuscript’s produc-
tion 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 Stu-
dio, 1987), n.p. This children’s book features cut-out illus-
trations of various creatures in camouflage, each intro-
duced with a little ditty that ends: “Who’s hiding here?” In
the one quoted here, a frog and a snake hide among mot-
tled 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.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_004
Herat) over at least a nine year period (1556–1565).2
These artists meticulously documented their indi-
vidual 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 partic-
ular city where he was working. Several also paid
lofty terms and colored script.
While the amount of specific information con-
tained in the Freer Jami’s various colophons may
exceed the norm for Persian manuscripts, the fact
that its scribes signed their work follows accept-
ed 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 Sixteenth-
Century 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 His-
tory 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 Iskan-
dari. 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 ac-
count 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 Mit-
teilungen 11 (1999): 51; Sheila S. Blair, Islamic Calligraphy
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), pages
219–20.
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 paint-
ings. 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 il-
luminated heading or sarlawḥ featuring a central
gold cartouche, presumably reserved for its indi-
vidual 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 Zu-
laykha 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 (illu-
minated by ʿAbdullah of Shiraz).5
One of the illustrations to the Yusuf and Zu-
laykha poem in the Freer Jami depicts the infant
witness testifying to Yusuf’s innocence on the
terrace outside Zulaykha’s palace. The build-
ing’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 fu-
ture 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 Irani-
ca 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 Safa-
vid 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 inconspicu-
ous 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 profes-
sional standing, workshop practices, and relations
both between artists and between artists and their
patrons. It also introduces more evidence for hid-
den 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 Re-
naissance 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? 47

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.
48
There is, of course, considerable scholarly litera-
ture on signatures in Islamic art, including impor-
tant 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 signifi-
cance 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 Notable examples are cited in Blair and Bloom, “Signa-
tures on Works of Islamic Art,” nn.1 and 3.
10 Blair and Bloom, “Signatures on Works of Islamic
Art;” Sheila S. Blair, “Place, Space and Style: Craft-
men’s ­Signatures in Medieval Islamic Art,” in Viewing
­Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World,
edited by Antony Eastmond (New York, ny: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2015); 230–48; Sheila S. Blair,
“­Signatures as Evidence for Artistic Production in the
Islamic Lands,” in Geschichte der Vier Erdtelle / Art His-
tory of the Four Continents, edited by Matteo Burioni
and Ulrich Pfisterer (Munich: Wissenschaftliche Bu-
chgesellschaft, forthcoming). These studies distinguish
between formal and informal signatures on works of
art, with the latter being those written in inconspicu-
ous places and casual script. For other important
­insights about the authority and status of artists’ sig-
natures 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 Cul-
ture 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
Simpson
Before enumerating additional hidden sig-
natures, 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 conceal-
ment 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 signa-
tures, in which case the former tend to be those
of its scribe or scribes and the latter of other art-
ists, 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 colo-
phons 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 differ-
ent 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 Renais-
sance paintings, that will be taken up in a longer ver-
sion of this essay, now in preparation. For the moment,
see Goffen, “Signatures.”
11 Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang, Figs.
9–16.
Who’s Hiding Here? 49

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 whim-
sically, 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 Manuchi-
hr 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 monumen-
tal 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 an- Figure 2.2 Masʿud Ahmad, “Afrasiayb on the Iranian
other Tahmasb Shahnama enthronement scene Throne.” Shahnama for Shah Tahmasb, folio
(see Fig. 2.2).13 105a. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of
Arthur A. Houghton, Jr., 1970, 1970.301.16.
Finally, Persian artists often employed a par-
ticular script style and/or color scheme to cam- (two to three millimeters). Thus an illuminator
ouflage a nano signature (one millimeter high) named ʿAzud signed the headpiece in a Divan of
or to draw attention to a mini or micro signature ­Khusraw ­Dihlavi, attributable to Shiraz circa 1490–
1500, within a very narrow band decorated with a
12 Dubai, The Farjam Collection. Martin Bernard Dickson
and Stuart Cary Welch, The Houghton Shahnameh, 2
vols. (Cambridge, ma: Harvard University Press, 1981) further evidenced by a well-known painting entitled
1: Figs.  37–38; 2: pl. 47. See now also Sheila R. Canby, “The Meeting of the Theologians” (Kansas City, Nelson-­
The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasb: The Persian Book of Atkins Museum of Art 43–5). The composition’s cen-
Kings (New York, n.y.: The Metropolitan Museum of tral ivan is inscribed in perfectly legible script with
Art, 2014), page 109. the name of the Uzbek sultan and patron ʿAbuʾl-Ghazi
13 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 1970.301.16. ʿAbd al-Aziz Bahadur Khan. A closed book in front of
John Seyller, “Scribal Notes on Mughal Manuscript Il- the kneeling figure closest to the ivan’s right side bears
lustrations,” Artibus Asiae 48 (1987):, 251 n.24; Canby, a signature in a teeny-weeny hand: ʿAbdullah muṣavvir /
The Shahnama of Shah Tahmasb, page 143; http://www ʿAbdullah the painter. My appreciation to Nelson-­
.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/452125?sort Atkins colleagues Kimberly Masteller and Stacy Sher-
By=Relevance&ft=1970.301&pg=2&rp man for providing a close-up digital image of the
p=20&pos=31. That high resolution, digital pho- signed book. Priscilla S. Soucek, “ʾAbdallāh al-Bokārī,”
tography nowadays can greatly assist in confirming Encyclopeadia Iranica 1 (1985): 193–95 has identified
the presence and decipherment of nano signatures, is this artist as ʿAbdullah al-Bokhari.
50
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 continu-
ous design to insert his name in white nano script
and then bracketed it with a kind of interlaced mo-
tif, thereby making his signature as inconspicuous
as possible by matching it to the band’s overall dé-
cor14 (Figs. 2.3A and B). By contrast, the sixteenth
14 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Supplé-
ment persan 636, fol. 1b. Francis Richard, “La signa-
ture ­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 per-
sanes: Manuscrits du XIIe au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Biblio-
thèque nationale de France, 1997), page 94 and cat. no.
Simpson
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 sig-
nature in bold, black naskh across the two halves
of the manuscript’s illuminated frontispiece punc-
tuating 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
74; Francis Richard, Catalogue des Manuscrits Persans.
Bibliothèque nationlale de France, Département des
manuscrits: ii: Le Supplément Persan. Deuxième par-
tie, 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.
15 Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library H. 1500. The two-part
signature on folios 1b–2a reads: zahhabahu al-ʿabd al-
zayif al-muhtaj-ilaih rahman | rabbuhu al-vahib Ruzbi-
han 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 tran-
scription 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 Cen-
tury Shiraz Manuscripts (Istanbul: İş Bankası Kültür
Yayıları, 2006), page 162 and Figs. 112–115.
16 The signatures discussed here form part of a growing
corpus that is the subject of on-going research.
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 Ja-
layirid ruler Sultan Ahmad. As is well known, the
illustration depicting the consummation of Hu-
may’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 impor-
tant 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 Per-
sian 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 Per-
sian 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.
51
be ranked at most as a mini, and would not be
­mentioned here at all but for the fact that it pro-
vides what seems to be the terminus post quem
for the Persian artistic practice of signing paint-
ings, 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 al-
Sultani and dated 820/1417, and did the same with-
in 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 Sul-
tan, son of the Timurid ruler Shah Rukh and gov-
ernor 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
positioned his name in the Shahnama manuscript
immediately below that of his patron. And while
his signatures, again like that of his Jalayirid pre-
decessor, are definitely more visible than invisible,
their appearance in manuscripts with princely pa-
tronage 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 Khwa-
ju 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 Bay-
sunghur, who ruled portions of Iran, including
Fars province, from 1446–51.19 Its text opens with
a headpiece featuring a lower panel illuminated
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 super-
intendent 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: Ibra-
him 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 begin-
ning of Nasr al-Sultani’s signature inscription on folio
16b, and to Sheila Blair for identifying its script style.
19 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, illumina-
tion and inscriptions that follow here. For his own pre-
liminary remarks see David J. Roxburgh, “‘Many a wish
has turn to dust:’ Pir Budaq and the Formation of Turk-
men 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.
Simpson
in a gold and gold technique and surrounded by
a band of floral cartouches and a pair of very nar-
row gold framing lines. These continuous and par-
allel 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 be-
loved.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 de-
scribe the purpose or rather the ultimate reward
for the poet’s work.21 He concluded this lengthy
and seemingly painstaking demonstration of min-
ute 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 al-
Rustamī (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, incorporat-
ing the identical couplet by Saʾdi on the top and bot-
tom sides and his signature on the left (Fig. 2.3B):
20 More specifically, and again according to Roxburgh
(personal communication, April 2014), the verses “fo-
cus on the writer’s absence from the beloved by em-
phasizing the exaggerated perception of temporal du-
ration, 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 ap-
pears in the colophons of other Persian manuscripts,
including at least one 15th century volume. My appre-
ciation to Mohsen Ahstiany for pointing out that these
particular Saʾdi verses are often quoted in Persian lit-
erature and culture as a kind of poetic trope or artistic
tag, highlighting the work of art (or other creative en-
deavor) as a permanent memorial in a transient world.
Who’s Hiding Here?
al-ʿabd al-faqīr ʿAzud al-Muzahhib ʿāfīya-ʿanhu
(the poor servant ʿAzud the illuminator, may he be
forgiven). And while he identified himself some-
what differently in these two Divan manuscripts,
the artist’s repeated disguise, on the one hand, and
display of poetic acumen, on the other, as mani-
fest 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 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 Mu-
hammad 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 illumi-
nated sarlawhs (Tehran, Gulistan Palace Library, ms no.
708); Iranian Masterpieces of Persian Painting (Tehran:
Museum of Contemporary Art, 2005), page 85. Mean-
while 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 Maq-
sud ibn Uzun Hsan (r. 1493–97). The artist’s biography,
including his association with other late fifteenth cen-
tury artists and patrons, remains to be corroborated.
23 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 introduc-
tions, see Thomas W. Lentz and Glenn D. Lowry, Timur
and the Princely Vision: Persian Art and Culture in the
53
Less scholarly attention has been paid to the work
of the Bustan’s illuminator, who embedded his
nano signature in several places within the man-
uscript’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
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, “Ka-
mal al-Din Bihzad,” page 140 n.6 also discusses the four
paintings with Bihzad’s names as well as the manu-
script’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 Manu-
script Project in Cairo.
24 The signature on folio 3b can be just barely made out
with the help of a magnifying glass in the color repro-
duction 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.
25 V. Minorsky, trans. Calligraphers and Painters: A Trea-
tise 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 (Cam-
bridge, ma: The Aga Khan Program for ­Islamic Archi-
tecture, 1989), page 362 (quoting Mirza M ­ uhammad-
Haydar 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 al-
bums, including those assembled for prince Bah-
ram 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 set-
tings – “Discussion in the Court of a Qadi” (folio
30a also adding the year 894/1499) and “The Seduc-
tion 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 Paint-
ers (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 al-
bum, 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 stu-
dent 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 complicat-
ed 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 al-
Din 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 observa-
tion about the Bustan as a whole is that it contains
the full gamut of artist signatures: written in stan-
dard size nastaʾliq by the calligrapher Sultan ʿAli al-
Katib, 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 pre-
viously 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 medi-
eval 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 re-
mains practically invisible, again demonstrating the
difficulty of reproducing such minute signatures, see
Blair and Bloom, “Signatures,” tafel 12(a), and Rox-
burgh, “Bihzad and Authorship in Persianate Painting,”
Fig. 13 and page 140 in which the artist’s name is charac-
terized 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 Univer-
sity Collections, edited by Christiane Gruber (Bloom-
ington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press,
2010), pages 78–115. I am grateful to Sheila Blair for
Who’s Hiding Here?
­ erfectly legible script – which the Mamluk chron-
p role in directing the Tahmasb Shahnama project,
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 Safa-
vid 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 fif-
ty 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 pic-
ture fits on the end of a grain of rice.”33 Hyperbolic,
perhaps, but still telling.
Returning again to Bihzad, art historians gener-
ally 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, Ara-
bic 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 Honor-
ing 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.
55
hid his signature in one of its illustrations, as not-
ed 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 This manuscript looms large in the literature on Per-
sian painting, and its exact patronage has been de-
bated. 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 (es-
pecially pages 56–64 for Sam Mirza’s role in the manu-
script’s production.).
36 The “Tavern Scene” (also called “Allegory of Drunken-
ness” and “Worldly and Otherworldly Drunkenness”) is
jointly owned by Cambridge, ma., Harvard Art Muse-
ums (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 His-
tory 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 Simpson

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.
Who’s Hiding Here?
s­ ignature in the Bustan painting of “King Dara and
the Herdsman” to its central character and Sul-
tan Muhammad on the “Celebration of ʿId” to its
central character, that is, both artists place them-
selves 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, dur-
ing the first half of the sixteenth century, also in-
corporated signatures of various sizes into their
paintings and illuminations. Thus a certain Saʾd
al-Din signed his name – katabahu Saʾd al-Din mu-
zahhib (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 no-
tion retains a firm hold on modern scholarly interpre-
tation 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 excep-
tions 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.
57
of roundels containing the names of the twelve
imams in a Khamsa of Nizami, copied by the cal-
ligrapher Murshid al-Din Muhammad in Shiraz in
918/1512-13.40 Likewise, an illustration of “Iskan-
dar 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 small-
est 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 domin-
ion of Shiraz in 1549).42
The present focus on these examples of hidden
signatures is thanks to the magnificent detailed re-
productions 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 art-
ists’ signatures, employing the verb forms kataba-
hu (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 Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library, H. 770, folio 242a. Uluç,
Turkman Governors, pages 85–86 and Figs. 40–41.
41 Istanbul, Topkapi Saray Library, H. 758, folio 383a. Uluç,
Turkman Governors, page 150 and Fig. 100–02. The man-
uscript’s scribe seems to be a different Murshid from
the one who copied the 918/1512-13 Khamsa.
42 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 compo-
sition and included the date: ʿamal-i ʿAbdullah
muzahhib 972 (work of ʿAbdullah [the] illumi-
nator ­1564–65).44 He repeated the same formu-
laic inscription seventeen years later – so 989 or
1581/82 – in the double-page frontispiece compo-
sition of a court scene in a volume of Hilali’s Sifat
al-ashiqin copied by Muzaffar Husayn al-Sharif al-
Husayni 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 de-
ceased) 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 al-
Muzahhib, sanat 99[0] (Lord. On this stone the
painter has written that the world lacks constancy,
therefore be happy. Work of Abdullah the illumi-
nator, 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 Aw-
rang, page 421.
46 Toronto, Aga Khan Museum (formerly collection
Prince Sadruddin Aga Khan) AKM282, folio 23a.
Simpson
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 spir-
it 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 Di-
van 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 manu-
scripts 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 Souda-
var, “The Patronage of the Vizier Mirza Salman,” Muqa-
rnas 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 illumi-
nator. 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? 59

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.
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 sig-
natures currently in process, but the sample pre-
sented here allows for some preliminary conclu-
sions 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 illuminators-
cum-­painters working in Shiraz or who hailed from
Shiraz, judging from their names or recorded biog-
raphies. 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 empiri-
cally objective.
Next, hidden signatures appear most frequent-
ly in manuscripts with colophons recording the
names of their scribes and in manuscripts created
for royal, princely or courtly patrons. Here the in-
vestigative terrain becomes more subjective. That
calligraphers signed their work conspicuously and
in expected places (i.e., the colophons) and illumi-
nators 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; Sou-
davar, “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 Wash-
ington Press, Seattle and the Chester Beatty Library,
Dublin, 2012).
Simpson
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 al-
Din, Sultan Muhammad, Mir Muṣavvir, ʿAbdullah
and Shaykh Muhammad were actually signaling
epigraphic or calligraphic virtuosity with their dis-
plays 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 Sul-
tan Husayn Bayqara’s Bustan, that such a place-
ment 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 illustra-
tion of “The Beggar refused Admittance to the
Mosque,” may be understood as a clever refer-
ence to Bihzad’s principle role as a master of the
book arts.52 The formulaic inscriptions with which
Sultan Muhammad surrounded his signature car-
touche 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 Ra-
madan.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 be-
tween 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.
Who’s Hiding Here?
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 particu-
lar 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 equiva-
lent 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 art-
ist 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 contin-
ued to preoccupy poets, painters and princes dur-
ing 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 Lit-
erature i: General Introduction of Persian Literature, ed-
ited by J.T.P. de Bruijn (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009), pages
314–30.
56 Maria Subtelny, “A Taste for the Intricate: The Per-
sian 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 microgra-
phy and muʾamma).
61
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 Ibra-
him 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, how-
ever much art historical fantasy or projection,
also might lie behind Shaykh-Muhammad’s hid-
den 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 competi-
tion 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 di-
verse 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 manu-
script may have had significant, personal meaning for
the prince, judging from both its first and final illustra-
tions on the theme of marriage.
62
­literature such as Layla and Majnun and empha-
size the role and function of the secret in its rep-
resentations of the self, self-other relations and
subjectivity. According to these studies, secrecy
is deployed in romances chiefly for rhetorical rea-
sons, because it invites or generates revelation.59
Or to put in another way, a defining trait of se-
crecy 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 immedi-
ate historical and cultural relevance is the criti-
cal 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 Ruqayya Yasmine Khan, Self and Secrecy in Early Islam
(Columbia, s.c.: University of South Carolina Press,
2008), pages 95–99.
60 Windfuhr, “Riddles,” page 321.
61 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 Amir-
Moezzi, “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.
62 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 Mysti-
cism, Messianism and the Construction of Religious
Authority in Islam, edited by Orkhan Mir-Kasimov
Simpson
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. Interesting-
ly, his signed pictures are all album paintings or
single figure studies, as opposed to manuscript il-
lustrations.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 oth-
ers of the 1590s, shows Riza’s growing interest in
personality and, it now would seem, in subjec-
tivity.65 Although there are other examples of dis-
crete signatures within later Safavid manuscripts,
as well as similar ones in Mughal and Qutb Shah
(Leiden: Brill, 2014), page 370. For the connection be-
tween 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 Draw-
ings 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 increas-
ingly supplanted by full transparency. Who’s hid-
ing here? I AM.
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Timurid History and Art. Cambridge, MA: The Aga
Khan Program for Islamic Architecture, 1989.
Al-Tirazi, Nasrallah Mubashir. Fihris al-Wasfī liʾl-
Makhtūtāt al-Farsiya al-Muzayina biʾl-Suwār waʾl-
Makhtūtāt bidār al-Kutub. Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 1968.
Thompson, Jon and Sheila R. Canby, eds. Hunt for Para-
dise: Court Arts of Safavid Iran 1501–1576. Milan: Skira
Editore, 2003.
65
Thackston, Wheeler M. Album Prefaces and Other Docu-
ments 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 Manu-
scripts. 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 Litera-
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2009.
Wright, Elaine Julia. The Look of the Book: Manuscript
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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 composi-
tions, emphasis on ceremonial and an unchanging
“order of the world” (niẓām-ı ʿālem) seem to point
to the opposite: an impersonal, official represen-
tation of history.1 Such narrative images of cer-
emonies 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 indi-
viduals as their main actors and depict events that
take place in specific places, at known times, the
specificity appears geared towards creating im-
ages of a timeless and unchanging Ottoman or-
der. That, in turn, does not seem to leave room for
individualization.
Yet, when one looks closely at some of the his-
tories created during the sixteenth century, indi-
viduals start to appear in the cracks of the official
façade, so to speak. The creators of these manu-
scripts (authors, painters, scribes and illumina-
tors) 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, “Le-
gitimacy 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.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_005
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 fac-
tors 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 cre-
ating 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 histori-
cal literature, a phenomenon with roots in Timurid
practice but with more consistent and concen-
trated occurrences in the sixteenth century.3 Bio-
graphical 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 Man-
tran, “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 Documenta-
tion 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
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
The unprecedented autobiographies of the Otto-
man 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 rar-
ity 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 biographi-
cal 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 his-
torical 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 sixteenth-
century 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
67
literary products of the age display signs of inter-
est 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 par-
ticipates in that tradition.9 A number of ­Ottoman
historians have discussed the “relationship be-
tween 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 po-
ets of the period. An emphasis on a­uthorship,
­individuality and s­elf-presentation is easily and
amply discernible in Ottoman poetic and histori-
cal writing of the period.11 It should come as no
activity and the increasing levels of linguistic and ar-
tistic 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 early-
modern 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 Piter-
berg, 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
68
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 de-
cline’ from the Ottoman point of view).”12 This
unease brought about new literary genres includ-
ing 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 phenom-
enon. 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 represen-
tations 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 ar-
chitect Sinan, for example, is pictured in a h
­ istory
(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 con-
text of individuality and sexual identity, and the role
of the individual poet in Ottoman society of the early-
modern period.
12 Kafadar, “Self and Others,” 125–26.
13 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 emo-
tional instability of that time in his A History of Muslim
Historiography (Leiden, 1986), 175.”
14 For the relationships between author/supervisors and
painters, see Fetvacı, Picturing History, 59–78.
15 Aslı Niyazioǧlu, Dreams and Lives in Ottoman Istanbul:
a seventeenth century biographer’s perspective (London,
New York: Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group, 2017)
Fetvacı
from 1579, overseeing the construction of his pa-
tron 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 (ex-
traordinary) 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 counter-
parts.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 un-
usually 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 discern-
ible, as the proliferation of various first-person
narratives, as the relative shedding of the inhibi-
tion to write of ‘what befell this poor one’ indi-
cates, then this process was not at all exclusive of
embeddedness in larger organisms such as an or-
der 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 ac-
cepted 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 Archi-
tecture,” 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
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
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 col-
lective or institutional rather than individual. Other
important studies of course include Stephen Green-
blatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning from More to Shake-
speare (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 Vi-
sual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the
Artist (New Have and London: Yale University Press,
1998).
69
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).
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 Medi-
cine: 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
70
often accompanied works where the biography
of the author was incorporated, and the portrait’s
­inclusion was based on an understanding of physi-
ognomy, 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 compo-
nent 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 por-
traits 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 paint-
ings 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
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.
21 Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 15.
22 Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 16.
23 Hoffman, “The Author Portrait,” 16–17.
24 Priscilla Soucek, “The Theory and Practice of Portrai-
ture in the Persian Tradition,” Muqarnas 17 (2000):
97–108, esp. 104–05. For a survey of Timurid paint-
ing, 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).
Fetvacı
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 be-
tween 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 Col-
leagues 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 cen-
tury, on the other hand, began to depict events
anchored in everyday life as well as courtly cer-
emonial, 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 Chro-
nology 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 po-
ems of the last Timurid ruler Husayn Bayqara, the
29 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.
30 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.
71
Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī (dated 1492, Figures 3.2 and 3.5).
These are simultaneously author portraits and im-
perial 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 Badiuz-
zaman 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 manu-
script 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 court-
iers seated before him, both of whom have a book
or portfolio in front of them. One of them is pre-
senting 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 there-
fore more than an ex-libris, I would suggest, and
derives from the physiognomic concepts men-
tioned 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 con-
tents of its text. This is partly due to the inflection
brought upon this kind of imagery by the interven-
ing princely portraits and the relationships they
suggested between owner and contents of manu-
scripts, and partly because of the greater role ac-
corded to the painting and calligraphy (or, if you
will, materiality) of the codex. The Timurid valua-
tion 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. Sou-
davar, 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 Mash-
hadi, 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 Ta-
briz 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 con-
temporary 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 ex-
ample dates to ca. 1496: the Dīvān (Collected Po-
ems) of Ahmed Pasha, a courtier of Mehmed ii
and Bayezid ii, contains three paintings that fea-
ture 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 well-
received at court.36 The second and third images
show the same figure conversing with others.37
The fifteenth-century Ottoman examples fea-
ture the author as part of a narrative scene in
the middle of the text, and not as a frontispiece
33 Venice Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana Cod. Or. xc (57)
fol. 131a. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 31, Fig. 6. St Pe-
tersburg 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.
34 Ayşin Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts in Ot-
toman Luxury Book Production, 1413–1520,” Ph.D. diss,
New York University, 2002, 442–50.
35 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 33–34.
36 Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts,” 444–45.
37 Yoltar, “The Role of Illustrated Manuscripts,” 445–46.
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period 73

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 are of course also images of the poet.39 As such,
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 il-
lustrated 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 Dīvān-
i 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 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 61, Çaǧman, “The Minia-
tures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni.”
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 land-
scape to the fifteenth.
Early Modern Ottoman Author Portraiture:
Making the Book
The early-modern author portraits from the Ot-
toman context derive to a certain extent from
39 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 59–61, Fig. 29.
74 Fetvacı

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 illus-

trated 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, par-
ticularly 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 Inter-
twined 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 rec-
ognized 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 paint-
ing, 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, Selîm-
nâme, 4–6.
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
­ rivileging of the author – placing him at the cen-
p The accounts of Selim i’s rule from the early
ter and above the scribe and painter – is in keep-
ing 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 connec-
tions 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 mak-
ers of this book. The figures are actively engaged
in the production of the work, Şükrü is compos-
ing 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 ac-
count to further his career, which is a characteris-
tic he shares with other Ottoman historians who
are pictured in their own works. He presented
the work to Sultan Süleyman with the interven-
tion of grand vizier Ibrahim Pasha, and received
payments from both figures.46 The group portrait
was part of a strategy to ascertain further patron-
age 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 alle-
giances could be played out.47
46 Argunşah, Selîm-nâme 6–7. Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Paint-
ing, 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.
75
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 con-
sciously by the state meant that historians would
have a more privileged social status.
The rising importance of historians at the Otto-
man 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 remi-
niscent of its distant predecessors from the thir-
teenth 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 fi-
nal 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 See Çıpa, The Making of Selim.
49 tsmk H 1597–98, fols. 12b–14b, and Argunşah, Selîm-
nâme, 4–6.
50 Hoffman, “Author Portraits,” 13–15.
51 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 62–63, and Çaǧman,
“The Miniatures of the Divan-ı Hüseyni,” 245, Fig. 3.
76 Fetvacı

Figure 3.5 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).
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period 77

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 illus-
trated 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, art-
ists and calligraphers, and the focus of the paint-
ing 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. Howev-
er, the existence of two copies of the manuscript, Figure 3.6 Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman, Osman and
one for Ibrahim Pasha, and the other for the sul- Sinan, Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān, 1571–1581
(Topkapı Palace Museum Library A 3595,
tan, suggests that he sought patronage from more fol. 9a).
than one potential protector.54 The influential (Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe).
and lucrative position of court historian or boon
companion was precarious, and the uncertainty of social status, historians needed to become more
these positions meant that despite their i­ mproving visible if they wanted to retain their proximity to
the ruler and his intimate circle. Incorporating
52 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 61. one’s own portrait into a work one presented to
53 Serpil Baǧcı, “A New Theme of the Shirazi Frontis-
piece Miniatures: The Divan of Solomon,” Muqarnas 17
(1995): 101–11. Baǧcı writes about the emergence of this Istanbul and Beyond: The Freely Papers, vol. 1, ed. Rob-
theme as a frontispiece image beginning in the 1480s, ert Ousterhout (Philadelphia: The University of Penn-
in Turkman and Safavid painting not Timurid. On page sylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology,
101 she writes that frontispieces prior to this incorpo- 2007), 6–21 discusses how Lokman, a later Ottoman
rate patrons or princely figures. court historian constantly sought to reaffirm his pa-
54 Fetvacı, Picturing History, 66, and Emine Fetvacı, “The tronage relationships by submitting versions of the
Office of Ottoman Court Historian,” in Studies on same work to different patrons over time.
78
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 produc-
ers further attests to the rising interest in the his-
tory of the book arts, the very impetus for perusing
the older manuscripts at the palace. Artistic pre-
cedence 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 ar-
tistic ­tradition – came together to create the per-
fect 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 pro-
vided by rulers of the same name.57 ­Additionally,
55 For the Topkapı treasury as a lending library, see
Fetvacı, Picturing History, 29–37.
56 tks A. 3595.
57 See Gülru Necipoğlu, “Word and Image: The Serial Por-
traits of Ottoman sultans in comparative perspective,”
Fetvacı
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 Süley-
manic 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 nu-
merous drafts.60 Like the Selīmnāme of Şükrü, the
Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān too was written by one court-
ier based on the recollections of another, more se-
nior, 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
in Selmin Kangal, ed. The Sultan’s Portrait: Picturing the
House of Osman (Istanbul: Iş Bankası, 2000), 22–61, esp.
34–35.
58 Cemal Kafadar, “The Myth of the Golden Age: Otto-
man historical Consciousness in the Post-­Süleymanic
Era,” 37–48 in Halil Inalcık and Cemal Kafadar, Sü-
leymân 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.
59 Emine Fetvacı, “The Production of the Şehnāme-i Selīm
Ḫān,” Muqarnas 26 (2009), Fig. 42.
60 Fetvacı, “Production.”
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
most of the reign of Murad iii.61 The group por-
trait, the first and most noticeable image in the
book, helps Lokman to claim a scholarly status for
himself, in the company of the renowned histori-
an, 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 be-
side him, whose turban is of the same size and
style.
Lokman appears in two images illustrating the
introduction, underlining his authorship of these
61 Fetvacı, “The Office of Ottoman Court Historian.”
79
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).
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 commis-
sion, 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
62 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 affilia-
tions) 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 ver-
sion. 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. In-
deed all these individuals are named in the intro-
duction. 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 de-
tailed 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 be-
come valuable, in the final analysis, by the place
they occupy in the social pyramid of the court.
An earlier, unfinished, draft of the manuscript Figure 3.8 Selim ii watching the Imperial Council;
makes this even more explicit with a rather com- below the author, artists and scribes of the
­manuscript Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān ca. 1571
plex painting (see Fig. 3.8).64 The lower frame de-
(The British Library Or. 7043, fol. 7b).
picts Lokman, Osman, Sinan and the illuminator in (© The British Library Board).
the presence of Karabagi. Superimposed onto this
frame is a smaller one representing the first exam- artists, scribes, and author.65 The first example of
ple of painting presented by Osman and Lokman to painting incorporated here, moreover, reminds us
the palace for approval. Here, the visualization of of the importance to the Ottoman producers and
the production process of the manuscript doubles viewers of this manuscript of the visual aspects
as a visualization of the relationships between the of this work. The fact that examples of painting
makers of the book, pictured at the bottom of the were not only presented to the ruler for approval
page, the Imperial Council pictured in the middle but also incorporated and discussed in the final
register, and the sultan above them all, in the top version of the manuscript attests to the impor-
register. The ruler represented by his lieutenants, tance of the visual for conveying messages, and
who in turn are represented in the book by the to the awareness of the Ottoman makers and

63 This is explained in detail in Fetvacı, “Production.” 65 See Fetvacı, Picturing History, 3–4 for a more detailed
64 bl Or. 7043. 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 partici-
pating.66 This self-consciousness in production
sets early-modern author portraits apart from ear-
lier 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 practi-
tioners 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 cen-
tury 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
­ his death, and the accession of his son Selim ii.
­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 Manu-
scripts,” Ars Orientalis 40 (2011): 243–66.
81
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 un-
changing and impersonal state are actually subjec-
tive personal accounts by those individuals who
make up that state and have a stake in its conti-
nuity. 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 en-
gaged in the campaigns, the first two as secretar-
ies, confidantes and advisors, and Asafi as an ac-
tive warrior.
The Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār (Chron-
icle of the Szigetvár Campaign) by Feridun Ahmed
is the earliest illustrated version among numer-
ous surviving accounts of this campaign. The text
recounts Sultan Süleyman’s Szigetvár campaign,
The author appears in a number of the paintings,
­because he was the secretary of Sokollu Mehmed
Pasha, the grand vizier of Süleyman, and accom-
panied Sokollu on this campaign. The most strik-
ing of the images depicts Feridun Ahmed Beg and
Sokollu Mehmed Pasha privately mourning the
death of Sultan Süleyman (see Fig. 3.9). The im-
age has the grand vizier as its focus, which makes
sense not only because he is the more senior fig-
ure, but also because the manuscript was present-
ed 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 sym-
bolizes their actual isolation with the secret they
69 For details see Fetvacı, Picturing History, 108–22.
82
Figure 3.9 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
Fetvacı
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 perfor-
mance. 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 depic-
tion of the grand vizier while crying enhances his
characterization as the perfect servant who loved
his master. Feridun Ahmed’s mere presence along-
side the grand vizier, in a painting where there are
no other figures, is quite extraordinary. The “ex-
cuse” 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, under-
scoring 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 at-
tention 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. Fer-
idun 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 his-
tories of the Ottoman house had become well en-
trenched.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 prow-
ess, 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 Süley-
man 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 con-
nection 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. Ad-
ditionally, 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.
83
c­ onfidant, and of the close relationship between
the two men.
Feridun Ahmed is certainly not alone in self-
consciously supervising the illustration of a his-
torical 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 Pa-
sha’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 gen-
eral, as a tool for shaping one’s destiny. That con-
viction 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 con-
nected 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 in-
serting autobiographical information and anec-
dotes 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 ana-
lyzes Âli’s “intellectual orientation and his approach to
history.”
73 Fetvacı Picturing History, p. 267, Mustafa Âli, Künhüʾl-
Aḫbār, (Süleymaniye Mosque Library, ms. no. Nuruos-
maniye 3409) fol. 226b.
84 Fetvacı

Figure 3.10 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 fre-
quent 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 turn-
ing inwards and self-examination, which in turn
stimulated the recording of individualized experi-
ences. 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 aware-
ness of genre and method. The introductory sec-
tion 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 writ-
ing 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 Kafadar, “Self and Others,” p. 137, Tietze, Counsel, 2:174–
220 (translation on pp. 48–92) In many ways the Coun-
sel 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.
75 As amply demonstrated by Fleischer, Bureaucrat and
Intellectual.
76 He was appointed by Murad iii to supervise the pro-
duction of the imperial copy. It is clear from his criti-
cism 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 sul-
tans, 60–62. See also Fetvacı, Picturing History, 66.
85
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 vi-
sual allegory for the events that the book describes.
The painting incorporates a portrait of the astron-
omer conspicuously placed in the margin, outside
of the frame. This painting, placed where an au-
thor 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 histo-
rian, Âli signals his interest in his own craft, and
his understanding of the illustrated book as a con-
struct. 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 interpreta-
tion of the painting as a metaphorical author por-
trait, 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 re-
cipients 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 com-
posing 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 con-
struct. And it is in the bounds of such a construct
that identities were also fashioned for the protago-
nists and the makers of the books.
86
The inclusion of these letters and of Âli ­himself
in the manuscript visually, as well as verbally,
closely mirrors Feridun Ahmed’s insertion of him-
self 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 posi-
tion in the Ottoman hierarchy is indicated by their
physical placement on the page, in relation to
their superiors.
Fetvacı
Figure 3.11
Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme 1584 (Topkapı
Palace Museum Library H 1365, fol. 5b).
(Photo Hadiye Cangökçe).
These examples demonstrate a certain aware-
ness 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 protag-
onists in their accounts. There is also, of course, a
certain pride in the products themselves, undoubt-
edly linked with knowledge of their place in a cer-
tain 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 posi-
tioning, 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 87

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).
88
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 ex-
plains 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 manu-
script also gives an account of Asafi’s own adven-
tures as he was briefly captured by the Safavids and
78 There are two copies of the text: iul, T. 6043, and
tpml, R. 1301.
Fetvacı
released. Sixteen out of the seventy-five illustra-
tions 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 writ-
ing (see Fig. 3.13). Asafi writes in the preface that
he is hoping that when the sultan sees his linguis-
tic and military skills through the account he has
composed, he will deem Asafi worthy of being
appointed commander to a front.79 These paint-
ings celebrate him as a military hero rather than
a writer. ­Perhaps more than any other manuscript,
however, this one shows us that the Ottoman mili-
tary elite and the class of writers, or historians,
increasingly overlapped as the sixteenth century
approached its end.
Equalizing the Pen and the Brush
This overlap eventually resulted in the court his-
torian 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 tpml, R. 1301, fol. 4b: İnşāʾāllah teʿālā bu nīde-i kemter-
lerinüñ ʿilm-i naẓm ve inşāʾda biżāʿati ve fenn-i şemşīr
ve şecāʿatde ṣanʿātı belki bir cānebe serdār idüb gönder-
mege liyāḳatını müşāhede buyurdıklarında ümidvārem
ki bīlāsebeb elimden alınan Kefe beglerbegilügünden
daḫī güzīde bir beglerbegilük ʿināyet buyurulub serhadd-
i iʿdāya irsāl ḳılalar.
80 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, Pictur-
ing History, 215–17.
81 Woodhead, “Taliqizade Mehmed.” http://ottomanhis
torians.uchicago.edu/sites/ottomanhistorians.uchi
cago.edu/files/mehmed en.pdf (accessed November
25, 2014).
Ottoman Author Portraits in the Early-modern Period
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 au-
thor’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 por-
trait of the author, inserted among the final verses
where he prays for the future of the Ottoman dy-
nasty, and states his hopes that the book will be
82 Türk Islam Eserleri Müuzesi (tiem), ms. no. 1965.
83 tiem 1965, ff. 3b–12b.
89
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).
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 illus-
trating this book is a very strong reminder that the
84 tiem, 1965, fol. 119b.
90 Fetvacı

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 capaci-
ties 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 appoint-
ed 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 lik-
ens 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, night-
ingales would start singing at its sight; and if he Figure 3.15 Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a scribe at
work. Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān early 17th c.
painted Leyla’s long neck, many a lover would lose (Topkapı Palace Museum Library H 1609,
his mind over it.87 The painting shows Talikizade fol. 74a).
seated across from the artists and scribe, suggest- (Photo Hadiye Cangökçe).
ing a hierarchical relationship between the three
where Talikizade is the most senior one. And with- Hasan was appointed as a vizier to the imperial
in the bounds of the book project, as the author, council, and would thus rise to positions more se-
he would have been. Yet later on, in 1605, Nakkaş nior to that of court historian.88
The painting is a visualization by Nakkaş Hasan
of the verbal description by Talikizade of Nakkaş
85 For Nakkaş Hasan’s career, see Fetvacı, “Enriched Nar- Hasan’s skills in painting. Thus it is a pictorial
ratives,” and Tülay Artan, “Arts and Architecture,” in rendition of a verbal account of pictures just like
Suraiya N. Faroqhi, ed., The Cambridge History of Turkey:
itself, an illustration to an ekphrasis. It is also a
The Later Ottoman Empire, 1603–1839 (Cambridge and
pictorial account of the making of the very book
New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 408–81,
esp. 411–12. For Talikizade’s career see Woodhead,
“Taliqizade Mehmed.”
86 tpml H. 1609, fol. 74a. 88 See Fetvacı, “Enriched Narratives,” and Artan, “Arts and
87 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 183–84. 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 un-
noticed 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 au-
thor 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 el-
evated courtly positions that these men held, com-
bined 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 sta-
tus 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 Baǧcı et al., Ottoman Painting, 183–84.
90 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 Otto-
man court, however, has a trajectory that begins earlier
than the Mughal one, as shown in the previous pages.
91
Conclusion
The awareness that the books examined here
display about the craft of writing and illustrating
history are clear indicators of their makers’ aware-
ness of the constructed nature of identity which
distinguishes early modernity in so many schol-
arly 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 transi-
tional 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 report-
ing facts, but rather as artworks created by spe-
cific 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 Ot-
toman Empire.91 The makers of manuscripts are
usually depicted in courtly contexts, and often in
the company of esteemed courtiers, as a way to sig-
nal 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 early-
modern period. The representation of the “institu-
tional” 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 ris-
ing 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 country-
side, 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 ear-
ly-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 competi-
tive 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 achieve-
ments are routinely compared with the achieve-
ments 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 po-
litical and religious identities. By pointing to these
parallels I do not mean to suggest that the two por-
traiture 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
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 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 behav-
ior at an auction of manuscripts, which he sub-
sequently 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 pro-
ceeded to destroy its painted figures. Horrified by
this brutish behavior, Evliya Çelebi cursed him as a
philistine (zalim) and bemoaned his act of vandal-
ism 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.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_006
his knife, or rubbed out their faces with a shoe-
sponge,” thus rendering the manuscript valueless
and robbing him of his sales fee. The offender was
given a punishment by the qadi of Bitlis: he re-
ceived 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 ‘mon-
key’ [maymun]. It was a comical sight!”2
This anecdote is illuminating for several rea-
sons. First, it reveals that, within an early mod-
ern 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 like-
minded individuals, the cultivation of knowledge
was thought to be achieved through an appre-
ciation of literature, its production in manuscript
form, and its illustration through figural images.
Manuscript paintings in turn demanded protec-
tion 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 regard-
ing 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.
96
painting within Islam.3 Indeed, as this historical
episode makes clear, in early modern Ottoman
lands at least, official efforts were exerted to pre-
serve 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 Is-
lamic traditions, the exact mechanisms of – and
material evidence for – viewers’ affective behav-
iors 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” destruc-
tive acts within paintings solely because figural de-
piction was deemed prohibited, or out of fear that
a representational image might come alive? Could
individuals respond both emotionally and physi-
cally 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 in-
dividual, 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 purpose-
ful 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 in-
clude 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 pe-
riod, 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 manipula-
tions attempt to neutralize the perceived agency
of the depicted opponents, in the process reaffirm-
ing the power of the intact and integral image of
the beloved.
At other times, evidence of physical transac-
tions 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 per-
tinent to early modern Safavid and Ottoman cul-
tural 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 tradi-
tions 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 mate-
rial damage raises important questions about eth-
ics, agency, and intent.5
In early modern Turco-Persian lands in particu-
lar, 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 Bart-
holeyns, Dittmar, and Jollivet, “Des raisons de détruire une
image.”
5 Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,” 477.
In Defense and Devotion
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 adjudicat-
ing 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 repre-
sentations also highlight the fact that iconoclasm
and iconophilia are not always mutually exclusive.
Instead, and more significantly, they often are co-
present and co-constitutive within the domain of
figural representation.
In Defense
Evidence of viewers’ physical interjections into
images can be found in Persian manuscript paint-
ings 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 histo-
ries, 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
97
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 communi-
ty, 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 bon-
fire, 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 stand-
ing, 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 polythe-
ist Arabs, particularly members of the Banu Jumah
tribe, although Rashid al-Din refers to the tortur-
ers 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.
98
Figure 4.2 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 pa-
per 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 integ-
rity 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.
Gruber
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 strate-
gic parts of the image functions in essence as an
­image-driven form of salvation – that is, a pro-
tection of the Muslim community along with its
exculpation from sin and damnation.
Similar intrusions into other paintings like-
wise 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 ac-
companying text, Rashid al-Din describes the tor-
tures committed against the black slave Bilal, who
converted to Islam and served as the first ­caller to
prayer in ­Islamic congregational ­practices. Histori-
ans such as Ibn Ishaq and Rashid al-Din pay care-
ful 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.”
In Defense and Devotion
­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 Mu-
hammad and praise [the Arabian pagan gods] al-
Lat 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 trans-
action, 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, partic-
ularly his knee and elbow (and perhaps his hand
as well). The beholder here launched an a­ ttack
against the abuser’s “corporeal sites of commu-
nication 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.
9 That is, Umayyah b. Khalaf b. Wahb b. Hudafah b.
Jumah, of the Banu Jumah tribe.
10 Ibn Ishaq, Muhammad, trans. Badawi, 247; and Rashid
al-Din, Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Iran wa Islam), 968–69.
11 Borland, “Unruly Reading,” 111.
99
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 discrimi-
nating 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 emotional-
ly 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, interac-
tive 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 me-
dieval 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 injunc-
tions as emanating from an escalatory sequence,
beginning with verbal admonishment, which,
if not heeded, is followed by physical action or
12 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).
100
­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 re-
spect, 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 dis-
obeyed, verbal warnings can escalate to threats of
decapitation and corporeal punishment.
In forbidding evil, al-Ghazali and other theolo-
gians 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 in-
stead disapprove of a person or thing by personal
thought and emotion. Al-Ghazali notes that con-
demnations of the heart can be made manifest
through angry and reprobatory facial expressions
as well as through the active avoidance of offen-
sive individuals or objects.18 This practice of tak-
ing 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 See the detailed discussion of al-Ghazali in Cook,
F­ orbidding Wrong in Islam, 27–43.
16 On al-Ghazali recommonding the destruction of bath-
house images, see Cook, Forbidding Wrong in Islam, 31.
17 Cited in ibid., 30.
18 Ibid., 37.
Gruber
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 im-
permissible by al-Ghazali. Through this purpose-
ful 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 fig-
ural 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 emo-
tions 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 “norma-
tive” 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 prin-
ciple 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 On the image as an autonomous active agent and its ca-
pacity 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.
20 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 in-
clude similar traces of viewers’ interjected emo-
tions. 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 subjectiv-
ity within the matrix of inter- and intra-faith poli-
ticking in the early modern Turco-Persian world.
Like the Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh, the Ilkhanid illustrat-
ed manuscript of al-Biruniʾs Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan
al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronology of Ancient
Nations), completed in 1307 ce, includes illustra-
tions that were subjected to symbolic destruc-
tion 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 ma-
nipulated by viewers, include the two final paint-
ings, 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 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.
22 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 re-
fused 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 al-
bayt) 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 se-
verely disfigured. Energetic lines of defacement
cut across the paintwork in sharp diagonals, tar-
nishing skin-colored pigments and lacerating fa-
cial 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 particu-
lar performance of iconoclasm must be interpret-
ed 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 appear-
ance of the ahl al-bayt, the “sinless” figureheads of
Shiʿi Islam whose elevated status is promoted vi-
sually 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 (“Mu-
hammad 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.”).
102 Gruber

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-Biru-

C Qurʾanic verse (5:3) warning that: “This day those
ni’s illustrated history takes on much clearer sectar-
ian 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 lead-
er 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.
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 ma-
nipulations, 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 shoul-
der in a clear gesture of selection and delegation.
In Defense and Devotion
S­urrounding this heroic pair are three other
­figures, whose faces were coarsely extricated from
the composition at an unknown date. Left in tat-
ters, 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 embodi-
ments 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 pos-
sibility is during the Safavid period, at which time
103
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.
Shiʿi practices of ritually vilifying this “triumvirate
of cursed ones” (malaʿin thalitha)26 became insti-
tutionalized, with professional preachers special-
izing 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 evis-
ceration of enemies by recasting an otherwise
narrative depiction into a permanently visible
­
maledictory ideogram.
26 Calmard, “Les rituels shiites,” 122.
27 Stanfield-Johnson, “The Tabarraʾiyan and the Early
Safavids.”
104
Further pictorial evidence supports a ­Safavid con-
text 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 precur-
sor, the ­Safavid painting is undamaged. The three
male figures surrounding Muhammad and ʿAli re-
main 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 al-
ʿAbidin, who personify the extension of Muham-
mad’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
Gruber
Figure 4.5
The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Khumm, al-Biruni, Al-
Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya (The Chronol-
ogy of Ancient Nations), Isfahan, Iran, 1647. Sepahsalar
Madrasa, Tehran, ms. 1517, folio 287r.
new visual contraposition is offered to viewers, in-
viting 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
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, espe-
cially 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
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.
facial features and obscured white beard, yielding
a rather unsteady result.
This triad of paintings depicting the appoint-
ment 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 rash-
idun, three of whom appear to have been mutilat-
ed 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 sym-
bol 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
106
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 contesta-
tions, 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 opposi-
tional 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 pos-
tures 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 iconoclas-
tic 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 oc-
curred around the same time, perhaps, as Michael
Camille has suggested, due to the growth of a “pru-
rient mentality,” the emergence of “authoritar-
ian 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 gen-
erated similarly regimented scopic regimes and
affects, although such a hypothesis remains open
to debate.
During the early modern period, Ottoman com-
mentaries upon, and manipulations of, Persian
paintings occurred, as well. For example, both
Ilkhanid and Timurid Miʿrajnamas (Books of As-
cension) and Shah Tahmasd’s Shahnama (Book
28 Latour, “What Is Iconoclash?” 27–28.
29 On ideo-affective postures, see Tomkins, Exploring
A
­ ffect, 168.
30 Camille, “Obscenity Under Erasure,” 151–54.
Gruber
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 inser-
tion 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 Safa-
vid 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 bi-
ography of the Prophet Muhammad, based on al-
Darir’s Turkish-language Siyer-i Nebi (Biography
of the Prophet), whose text was originally com-
posed 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 elabo-
rate 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 These Ottoman a posteriori facial veils, added to the
depiction of the Prophet Muhammad within the Ilkha-
nid 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 Cen-
tury,” especially 363 (Fig.  1) and 370 (Fig.  5). For their
current (restituted) state, see Gruber, The Ilkhanid Book
of Ascension.
32 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.”
33 See Tanındı, Siyer-i Nebî; and Garrett Fisher, “A Recon-
struction of the Pictorial Cycle of the Siyar-i Nabi of
Murad iii.”
In Defense and Devotion 107

The emotional power of the visual mode is fur-

ther enhanced by the viewers’ interactions with
the painted scenes contained within the Siyer-i
Nebi. In one depiction, Muhammad’s lifelong ad-
versary, 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 paint-
ing, where pious viewers’ repeated and heavy-
handed 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 Mu-
hammad to achieve his prophetic destiny. Here,
Figure 4.7 Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the Prophet Muham-
the iconoclastic urge seems driven by a wish to mad, al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the
apprehend the culprit speedily and definitively, Prophet), Istanbul, Ottoman lands, 1594–95.
rather than catalyzed by an apprehension of fig- Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, H. 1222,
ural imagery. As such, the interjection is nothing folio 366r.
less than a preemptive strike that protects and
preserves the visual likeness and integrity of the occurred immediately before the Prophet rid the
prophetic corpus. Kaʿba of its idols (of pagan Arab deities) in order
Another painting in the Siyer-i Nebi highlights to reconsecrate it in honor of the One True God
some of the key problems with figural representa- (Allah).
tion in Islamic cultural settings. In this example, In a vengeful responsorial act, Ottoman view-
the Prophet is shown with his Muslim follow- ers smudged both idol and idolater, in the process
ers, standing at the Kaʿba while a member of the aligning themselves with the Prophet’s entourage
Quraysh bows down before leaders of the tribe to and message.35 Here, the prostrating pagan has al-
worship a statuette of a pagan god (see Fig. 4.8). most entirely lost his face, and his inclined body
In the text that accompanies this image, al-Darir has been sliced in half by a voluminous smudge
informs his readers that this pagan prostrated be- running across the horizontal. Moreover, the
fore his idol, calling upon his deity to make a fool standing gold statuette – itself the crowned object
of Muhammad for having said that believing in an of the idolater’s devotional affection – has been
idol (sanem) is superstitious/ignorant (batıl) and scrubbed in dynamic verticals, its facial features
that paying devotional obeisance (ʿibadet) to one annihilated. Through such ruinous acts, the view-
is an error (hata).34 This contentious exchange, in ers, much like the Prophet Muhammad himself,
which an idolater seeks revenge upon Muhammad repudiate idolatrous superstition and the pagan
through the invoked sculptural image of his deity, past in order to symbolically establish a new, and
strictly monotheistic, era. The idol and its idolater
34 Al-Darir, Siyer-i Nebi (Biography of the Prophet),
­Istanbul, 1594–95 ce, Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, 35 Idols are similarly smudged in European manuscripts;
H. 1222, folio 371r (author’s English translation). see Borland, “Unruly Reading,” 102.
108
pictorially embody the Jahiliyya, a period of pre-
Islamic literalism and “ignorance” that the Muslim
community is challenged to overcome and tran-
scend. In this image, a new Muslim world order
evidently is not imaginable without some collat-
eral damage.
The Ottoman viewers of these two Siyer-i Nebi
paintings clearly envisaged themselves as share-
holders and custodians of the prophetic tradi-
tion through their physical acts of visual calum-
niation and extermination. Once performed,
such acts became permanent indexical marks of
the paintings’ handling, invitations to further de-
facement, and essential iconographic elements
within the works themselves. Fervent and assidu-
ous, 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-
Gruber
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.
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 Tur-
co-Persian world therefore did not constitute the
prerogative solely of theology and jurisprudence.
Rather, the social creation and codification of af-
fect 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 Reac-
tions,” 457.
In Defense and Devotion
As these examples of iconoclastic manipula-
tion in early modern manuscript paintings un-
derscore, 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 tran-
scend 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 artic-
ulate 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 diver-
gent from – rather than similar to – other global
artistic cultures. The net result of this classifica-
tory 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 engage-
ments with figural images.
In Devotion
By far and large, Islamic forms of iconoclasm have
been described as emanating from the fear or ha-
tred of images. While in some instances this may
indeed be the case, in others the viewers’ antipa-
thies are directed toward the depicted enemies
38 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?.
39 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 en-
mity and ire. As a consequence, such visuals in-
vite us to ask what iconoclasm creates rather than
what it destroys.40
Affectionate or devotional responses to rep-
resentations should not be surprising, as human
­beings operate within a common spectrum of af-
fects regardless of religious, ethic, or civilizational
affiliation. And yet viewers’ emotions of reverence,
desire, and love have been almost entirely over-
looked in scholarly discussions of Islamic paint-
ings. The time is thus ripe to ask more probing
questions, including whether deteriorated paint-
ings were the objects of repeated pious handling
rather than the targets of willful destruction. In
other words, could certain images that sustain al-
terations and damage point to iconophilic practic-
es, 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 man-
uscript paintings suggest answers in the affirma-
tive: the representational arts indeed formed part
of the devotional life-worlds of their human inter-
locutors, and scholars have failed to take this phe-
nomenon into proper consideration because of
the image-shunning urges that purportedly char-
acterize 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 Proph-
et as included at the beginning of Nizami’s Khusraw
and Shirin, a book (kitab) that forms part of his Khamsa
(Quintet).
110 Gruber

Figure 4.9 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 sym-
bolic 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 charac-
teristically 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 eas-
ily 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.
In Defense and Devotion
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 him-
self, 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 hy-
pothetical, 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 Mu-
hammad 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 num-
ber 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 interre-
lated 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 Cited in Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,” 461 and 486n8.
44 See Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics; Gruber, “A Pious
Cure-All,” 130–37; and Flood, “Bodies and Becoming,”
471.
45 These types of water-contact relics and traditions an-
tedate 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).
111
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 foot-
print and mantle. These illustrations at times are
accompanied by how-to manuals instructing their
pious viewers to rub and kiss the illustrations in or-
der 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 depic-
tions 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 On the theme of material mediation and ingesting the
sacred, see Flood, “Bodies and Becoming.”
47 On these Ottoman how-to manuals instructing view-
ers to rub and kiss devotional and amuletic images,
see ­Gruber, “‘Go Wherever You Wish, for Verily You Are
Well Protected.’”
48 Topkapı Palace Museum, inv. no. 21-640; reproduced in
Aydın, Pavilion of the Sacred Relics, 120.
112
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 Muhammad-
centered Ottoman piety. Based on these many
­indicators, it is important to explore pictorial dam-
age 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 fin-
gers 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 mod-
ern periods Christian devotees interacted with il-
lustrated devotional manuscripts in a number of
physical ways. One form of tactile interaction was
pious kissing, also known as devotional oscula-
tion.49 Over time, viewers’ cultivation of close and
loving relationships with sacred images, expressed
through osculatory actions, resulted in unintend-
ed damage – or what Michael Camille identifies as
the “obscuring osculum.”50 As a result, some im-
ages of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary demon-
strate “a user’s volitional destruction of selected
images caused by repeated ardent handling.”51
Christian prayer books with “damaged” illustra-
tions provide glimpses into their viewers’ affects
and behaviors, while their patterns of wear reveal
rituals and habits of affection that include the so-
matic practice and material residuum of the kiss.
Thus, they reveal that in some instances overzeal-
ous 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 Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 2.
50 Camille, “Obscenity Under Erasure,” 141.
51 Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 30.
Gruber
Christian iconophilic practices. While devotional
osculation draws attention to one point of com-
monality in this regard, another can be found in
the Safavid and Ottoman practice of camouflag-
ing Muhammad’s facial features by painting a
white veil or adding a layer of gold paint to Ilkha-
nid and Timurid paintings. Some manuscript im-
ages 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 ate-
lier.52 The textual glosses and pictorial alterations
found in manuscript images of Muhammad speak
to Safavid and Ottoman devotional practices of in-
teractions 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 Istan-
bul 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 For an in-depth discussion of the subject, see Tanındı,
“Additions to Illustrated Manuscripts in Ottoman
Workshops.”
53 On this and related illustrated historical manuscripts,
see Grube and Sims, “The School of Herat from 1400
to 1450,” 148–50; Ettinghausen, “An Illuminated Manu-
script 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.”
In Defense and Devotion
A painting from this manuscript that depicts Mu-
hammad 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 Proph-
et’s battles as included in Ilkhanid illustrated cop-
ies of Rashid al-Din’s Jamiʿ al-Tawarikh (Compen-
dium of Histories) of 1307–14 ce.55 Almost without
exception, Ilkhanid and Timurid manuscript
­illustrations depict the Prophet with visible facial
54 The painting is also illustrated in Tanındı, Siyer-i Nebî,
11.
55 See Blair, A Compendium of Chronicles, 69–70; and
­Hillenbrand, “Muhammad as Warrior Prophet.”
113
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.
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 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/20-
2008). 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.
57 For an overview of the development of prophetic ico-
nography, see Gruber, “Between Logos (Kalima) and
Light (Nur)”; and Gruber, “Images.”
114
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 man-
uscript 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.
Gruber
Figure 4.11
Detail of Figure 4.10, showing the Prophet Muham-
mad’s facial features overlaid with gold paint.
of the fourteenth century to match the expecta-
tions and practices of image-making during and
after the sixteenth century. This type of handiwork
highlights the shifting norms of depicting Muham-
mad in early modern Turco-Persian lands, in the
process challenging scholars to properly identify
the ever-shifting evolution of prophetic represen-
tation within Islamic artistic traditions.
Like other illustrated texts held in the Ottoman
royal library, this Timurid manuscript includes
Ottoman inscriptions transcribed on the manu-
script’s original folios. These textual insertions are
written in red ink at the top of each folio that con-
tains 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 Muham-
mad’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 115

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.
116 Gruber

Figure 4.13 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.
In Defense and Devotion
case, ʿAli’s ­facial features remain visible and in-
tact 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 exam-
ples suggest that the addition of gold veils consti-
tuted 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) devi-
ates from Ottoman explanatory norms in a most
intriguing fashion. While the first line of text iden-
tifies 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  il-
edir).  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 un-
noticed, and possibly unique note is highly valu-
able, as it reveals the potential impetus behind
pictorial practices of dissimulating the Prophet’s
facial features. As explained in the gloss, the addi-
tion 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 mod-
ern Ottoman tradition.
The addition of facial veils to depictions of
­Muhammad in Islamic manuscripts recalls simi-
lar 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 manu-
script pages to cover these sacred images. In some
manuscripts, the textiles remain; in others, rows
117
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 im-
age 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 vi-
sual mysteries through the devotee’s kinetic en-
gagement, 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 manu-
script 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; oth-
ers 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 prac-
tices of ritually rubbing depictions of facial veils.
Such is the case for a late sixteenth-century Safa-
vid painting depicting the Prophet and ʿAli break-
ing 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 See Rudy, “Kissing Images,” 10–15, and Fig. 8 for a sur-
viving curtain; and Sciacca, “Raising the Curtain on the
Use of Textiles in Manuscripts.”
60 Elsner, “Iconoclasm as Discourse,” 369.
61 On Safavid illustrated copies of Mirkhwand’s Rawdat
al-Safa, see Melville, “The Illustration of History in
­Safavid Manuscript Painting,” 168–71.
62 On the Shiʿi walaya, see Takim, “From Bidʿa to Sunna.”
118
Figure 4.14 The Prophet Muhammad and ʿAli break the
idols at the Kaʿba in Mecca, Mirkhwand, Raw-
dat 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.
Gruber
beholder’s “touching faith” could be ʿAli – and not
Muhammad.
After-Effects
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 man-
ner, the pictorial debris hint at an unwritten rule
about how images were to be viewed and re-
ceived, providing critical evidence in the absence
of articulated doctrine. While destructive acts
were launched against depictions of pagan as-
sailants, 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. Ad-
ditionally, 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 over-
painted figures enshrine empathic and aesthetic
behaviors that appear particular to the early mod-
ern Turco-Persian world.
Viewers of images display diametrically op-
posed urges, including the drives to protect or de-
stroy, 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.
In Defense and Devotion
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 col-
lective 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 see-
ing 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” (inten-
tionalité 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.
119
­ 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 in-
teractive and projected outward, toward an object
or image.68 They also establish a relational bond
between a painting and its beholders, creating af-
fective communities across the centuries.
67 Kantor, “The Psychology of Feeling or Affective
­Reactions,” 457.
68 Van Alphen, “Affective Operations of Art and Litera-
ture,” 23.
120
Figural images are not merely the passive recip-
ients of human action, however. In their physically
manipulated and altered states, they, too, can sub-
stantiate moral positions and conclusions as well
as control and monitor the feedback process.69
In other words, figural representations can func-
tion 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 in-
serted within a figural depiction. Thus, in asking
what pictures want, how they behave, and what
powers they hold over us,70 we should be mind-
ful 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 rad-
ically 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, be-
gotten by positive rather than negative reactions
to images, underscores the fact that the differen-
tial 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 contem-
porary 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 im-
age beholders who lived, loathed, and loved with
pictures during the early modern period.
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 chapter 5
Sentiment in Silks
Safavid Figural Textiles in Mughal Courtly Culture
Sylvia Houghteling
Around 1630, a court poet in the state of Golcon-
da (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 ap-
peared 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 ex-
change is counterintuitive today. Fabrics are
thought to be decorative or ornamental and even
when splendidly crafted, their status as commodi-
ties 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 narra-
tives and textual inscriptions that were woven into
1 Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka va Badīula Jamāla, trans.
Rājakiśora Pāṇḍeya and Muḥammad Akbaruddīn Siddīqī
(Hyderabad: Dakkhinī Sāhitya Prakāśana Samiti, 1955).
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_007
luxury cloth, gave textiles both material and meta-
phorical potency in early modern painting, litera-
ture and courtly life.
The sensory, imaginative and emotional prop-
erties 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 ad-
ditional 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 mak-
ing 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 in-
quiring into the very personal, sensory relation-
ships that existed between historical personages
and things, this kind of historical project illumi-
nates 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
2 Leora Auslander et al., “ahr Conversations: Historians and
the Study of Material Culture,” American Historical Review
114 (2009): 1356.
Sentiment in Silks
of ­imperial statecraft during Akbar’s reign.3 With-
in gender studies, historians have found in narra-
tives 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 dur-
ing the seventeenth century.5
Yet it can be difficult to determine the corpo-
real presence in Mughal art, even in studies of ar-
chitectural sites, which remain, to some degree, in
situ. Stephen Blake’s account of Shahjahanabad,
while exhaustive in its recovery of the city’s so-
cial 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 His-
tory, 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 Cen-
tury Mughal India” Journal of Persianate Studies 4 (2011):
86–108. Afshan Bokhari’s history of Shah Jahan’s daugh-
ter, 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 im-
perial 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 sty-
mied by silences in the historical record and the
inaccessibility of the emotional and sensory expe-
riences of the past. There seems to be something
particularly challenging about writing a subjec-
tive, 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 rep-
resents a continuation of the textile medium’s im-
portance in affective exchange and long-distance
communication in medieval Muslim societies.
Medieval textiles that circulated throughout Is-
lamic lands were adorned with woven and embroi-
dered inscriptions, called ṭirāz, that were used by
royal courts for political, religious and m­ ercantile
6 Stephen Blake, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mu-
ghal India, 1639–1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1991).
7 Ebba Koch, Mughal Art and Imperial Ideology: Collected Es-
says (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001).
126
reasons: the ṭirāz identified that a textile or gar-
ment had come from the monarch or a royal work-
shop; the inscription often included a blessing that
could protect the garment’s patron and its even-
tual 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, benedic-
tion and pride in workmanship to far-off realms.
At the same time, the more quotidian mandīl, or
handkerchief, bore tender messages between lov-
ers.9 An intimate textile used for blowing noses,
drying faces or cleaning hands, in addition to cov-
ering 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 me-
dieval 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 love-
sickness 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 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.
9 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 (Univer-
sity Park, Penn.: Pennsylvania State University Press,
1988): 33.
10 Rosenthal, “A Note on the Mandīl,” 94.
Houghteling
With its pliable texture, easy mobility and inti-
mate 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 emo-
tions at long-distances required different vehicles,
a role that fabrics came to fill. Stuffed with fragrant
flowers, and, at times, woven with messages of ad-
oration and faith, textiles bore a lover’s, a parent’s
or a ruler’s embrace. These were cloths, as one fab-
ric’s inscription states, that had been “woven from
the soul.”11
This chapter first shows how the Mughal impe-
rial 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 possibili-
ties 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 romanc-
es in seventeenth-century literary fiction and how
poets deployed textiles to forge connections be-
tween figures in faraway places and to conjure im-
agery of the future and the past. Textiles were also
actors in political life. As the final section demon-
strates, 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 exhi-
bition 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: Tex-
tile Museum, 1987).
Sentiment in Silks
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 sub-
set 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
127
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 re-
quired 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 dur-
ing 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 cre-
ate 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 trou-
sers, bolster pillows, quiver covers and saddle blan-
kets. When Shah ʿAbbas i established a monopoly
over the silk industry, figural silks woven in Iran
became important diplomatic gifts.17 Sir Robert
12 Carol Bier, “Pattern Power: Textiles and the Transmis-
sion of Knowledge,” Textile Society of America Sym-
posium Proceedings (2004): 144–53. See also Michael
Meister, “The Pearl Roundel in Chinese Textile Design,”
Ars Orientalis 8 (1970): 255–67.
13 Rahul Jain, “The Indian Drawloom and its Products,”
The Textile Museum Journal 32/33 (1993–1994): 50–81.
14 Carol Bier, ed. Woven from the Soul, Spun from the Heart:
Textile Arts of Safavid and Qajar Iran, 16th–19th Centu-
ries (Washington, d.c: Textile Museum, 1987).
15 Arthur Upham Pope, ed. with Phyllis Ackerman, A
Survey of Persian Art from Prehistoric Times to the Pres-
ent (London and New York: Oxford University Press,
1938–1939): 2079–90.
16 Mary Anderson McWilliams. “Prisoner Imagery in Sa-
favid Textiles,” The Textile Museum Journal 26 (1987):
4–23.
17 Willem Floor, The Persian Textile Industry: In Histori-
cal Perspective 1500–1925 (Paris: Société d’histoire de
128
Figure 5.2 Textile Panel: Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian
Captives. Silk, metal wrapped threads; lampas;
mid-16th century, 120.7 × 67.3 cm. The Metropoli-
tan 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 Kronolo-
giske Samling, 1995).
Houghteling
him by Shah ʿAbbas, and was captured for poster-
ity in a painting by Anthony van Dyck.18
A Court of Cloth Connoisseurs: Early
Mughal Textile Collecting
The Mughal emperors of India and their increas-
ingly-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. Al-
though 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 As-
sam.19 When Akbar annexed Kashmir in 1586, he
gained access to its historical sericulture industry
that was based in the region of Lesser Tibet (Baltis-
tan) around the city of Gilgit.20 The beginning of
18 See Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renais-
sance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (New York:
Cambridge University Press, 2000), 56–57.
19 Stephen F. Dale, “Silk Road, Cotton Road or … Indo
­Chinese Trade in Pre-European Times,” in Expand-
ing 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 seven-
teenth 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 Tex-
tiles: Technical Studies Monograph no. 3 (Ahmedabad:
Sarabhai Foundation, 2013), 8, 13–17.
20 Irfan Habib, “Indian Textile Industry in the 17th Centu-
ry” in Essays in Honour of Professor S.C. Sarkar, ed. Dip-
tendra Banerjee et al. (New Delhi: People’s Publishing
House, 1976), 186; Irfan Habib, An Atlas of the Mughal
Empire (Oxford University Press, 1982), 8.
Sentiment in Silks
the seventeenth century also saw a considerable
increase in sericulture in Bengal.21
Even with access to raw silk, however, the tech-
nology 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 inven-
tion 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 cen-
tury, but it was not used in many artisan commu-
nities.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 of-
ten 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 pro-
vided 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 Habib, “Indian Textile Industry,” 186; Hamida Khatoon
Naqvi, “Some Varieties of Indian Silken Stuffs in Per-
sian 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.
22 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: Pat-
kas: 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).
129
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 fledg-
ling 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 sophisti-
cated 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 tex-
tiles 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 mar-
ketplace. 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 Muhammad Arif Qandhari, Tarikh-i Akbari, trans. Tas-
neem 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.
24 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-travel-
lers, able to recognize quality products, were wonder-
struck.” 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.
25 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1:88.
130
al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband, is significant in demon-
strating 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 collec-
tions they were used both in elaborate, public
displays and also, as the records of Akbar’s reign
suggest, in intimate and personal settings. A de-
scription of a 1572 celebration held at the Agra pal-
ace 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 proces-
sional to the wazir’s palace: “The entire passage,
measuring two thousand yards, from the royal
­palace up to his residence was decorated with vari-
ous 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 Paint-
ing: 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 wo-
ven by the hands of noted weavers – and fifty master-
pieces 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 spread-
ing 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
Houghteling
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 bro-
cade 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 bro-
cade and velvet inside, was fixed there. The floor
of brocade, velvet and silk was further decorated
with rugs from Khurasan and Iran, with incompa-
rable refinement.”29 Once inside the palace, the
scene was brilliantly magnificent, as “the walls
were polished white with lime so those were shin-
ing 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, stud-
ded 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.
Sentiment in Silks
o­ rigins in their ṭirāz inscriptions, so too did Em-
peror Akbar take time to recognize and document
the individual localities from which his gifts had
traveled.
The quantity of possessions is almost unimagi-
nable. Seven years after this festival, Arif Qanda-
hari ­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 cano-
pies), khargah (large and small tents), brocade
and velvet curtains, atlas, silk, satin, and colourful
embroidered cloth and varieties of carpets. The es-
timated loss was up to the tune of one crore (one
million) rupees. The emperor, however, did not
notice it.”31
A loss of nearly one million rupees would imply
that there were thousands of textiles in the deco-
rations storehouse (the farrashkhana). The em-
peror’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. Con-
sumption on this scale would seem to imply that
the Emperor could not pay attention to the partic-
ularities 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 de-
scended 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-
31 Qandahari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 282.
32 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 91
131
ment in Kashmir and North India described ear-
lier in the Aʾin-i Akbari.
Emperor Akbar also had a subtle sensory aware-
ness of cloth. He described the varying degrees of
softness achieved in different woolen shawls. He
was concerned with the smell of textiles, and re-
ported 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 tex-
tiles in his collection. Through the Aʾin-i Akbari, we
glimpse the emperor wearing, designing, coloring
and smelling textiles. We learn that rather than be-
ing 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.
Figured Cloth and the Layered
Mughal Painting
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 metaphori-
cal potential. Textiles adorned with figural scenes
became bearers of subjective experience in paint-
ings from the Mughal imperial atelier. Figural tex-
tiles do not appear in every Mughal painting. Only
seven of the forty-four illustrated folios that com-
prise the Windsor Castle Padshahnama contain
33 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 83.
34 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 il-
lustrated paintings like the Padshahnama, textiles
with human or animal patterns emerge as a recur-
rent 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 cen-
tral portrait out into the border frame. The figural
scenes become a “gloss” on what is unspoken or
Houghteling
only subtly suggested in the painting.35 In a por-
trait 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, dis-
rupting the narrative of the painting in humorous
ways. In an early seventeenth-century painting at-
tributed to Manohar of Emperor Jahangir Weigh-
ing 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 plat-
form. 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 Cer-
emonial Crown, a figural textile draped over the
windowsill seems to be a digression from, rather
than an amplification of the imperial glorifica-
tion 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 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 Univer-
sity Press of New England, 2008): 107–39.
36 See Barbara Brend, “The Weighing of Khurram Mīrzā,”
Oriental Art 28 (1982–83): 346–58.
Sentiment in Silks 133

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).
134 Houghteling

known that the cloth was a costly import or a dip-

lomatic gift from Iran. In a painting of Jahangir,
held in the Musée Guimet, a subtler figural textile
appears below the opened window. In this paint-
ing, 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 reign-
ing 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 paint-
ings to destabilize the distinction between illu-
sion 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,
Figure 5.5 Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremonial crown. a daydreaming lady in a s­ ensuous pose could be
Ink, opaque watercolor and gold on paper, circa contemplating an image of a real figure, her earth-
1620; Sheet: 32.5 × 18 cm; 11.2 × 7.5 cm; British ly lover, or the figure on the pillow could introduce
Museum, 1974,0617,0.21.3.
(© The Trustees of the British Museum). a more mystical metaphor for the loving relation-
ship that seventeenth-century Sufi mystics pro-
is a portrait of the reigning emperor. Jahangir is posed having with the divine. In these paintings,
rendered in profile to avoid any distortion that the figured pillow, along with the mirror and the
might occur if he were painted frontally or in wine cup, permit a portrait to move between the
­three-quarters’ view. His body occupies a three- earthly and the heavenly.
dimensional space, suggested by his arm that is The textile’s power to unsettle the naturalism
poised just outside the window. In the bottom half of a painting does not depend upon the fictional-
of the painting, by contrast, Bichitr has painted a ity of the cloth. Even if we know that a textile in a
pattern of figures so flat and lacking in individual- painting has a silken prototype, the fabric still has
ity that their bodies are cut in half by the careless the capacity to undercut the realism of the paint-
drape of a striped cloth. ing. When silk, cotton and wool textiles lose their
The inclusion of the cloth also gestures to pe- materiality upon being inserted into a p ­ ainting,
culiarities of portraiture from Jahangir’s time.
­Jahangir innovated the use of a cloth or carpet hung Painting: Themes, History and Interpretations; Essays
over the jharokha window in his portraits, and the in Honour of B.N. Goswamy, ed. Mahesh Sharma and
fabric thus signaled a new innovation in Jahangiri Padma Kaimal (Mapin Publishing: Ahmedabad, 2013)
iconography.37 Viewers of the painting would have 52–64.
38 Sheila R. Canby, The Rebellious Reformer: The Drawings
37 Jeremiah Losty, “The Carpet at the Window: a Euro- and Paintings of Riza-yi ʿAbbasi of Isfahan ­(London:
pean Motif in the Mughal Jharokha Portrait” in Indian Azimuth Editions, 1996), 168–69.
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.: Pur-
chase – Charles Lang Freer Endowment, F1937.8.
(© Freer|Sackler Collection).
they begin to compete with the painted forms rep-
resenting actual human beings. This can be seen in
the case of a sixteenth-century Persianate paint-
ing 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 Sa-
favid wars in the Caucasus.39 Yet the painting does
39 Mary Anderson McWilliams, “Prisoner Imagery in Sa-
favid Textiles,” The Textile Museum Journal 26 (1987):
4–23.
135
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 actu-
ally a tree that has been woven into the textile. The
rope tied to the prisoner’s neck extends uninter-
rupted 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. Al-
though 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 in-
cluded figural textiles in his paintings more fre-
quently 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 por-
tray these fabrics. By the author’s count, Bichitr depict-
ed 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 Houghteling

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 pro-
vide suggestive material for how figural textiles op-
erated 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 quiv-
er cover or a bolster pillow. Despite their loss of
prominence, figural textiles always introduce a
second fictional space within the painting, occu-
pied by a second, woven set of figures.
Bichitr comprehended the unsettling effects
that emerged from juxtapositions between paint-
ed human beings and painted figured cloth. Some-
time 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, Bi-
chitr has depicted the Ottoman Sultan Bayazid i
(who was defeated by Timur) and King James i of Figure 5.7 Emperor Jahangir preferring a Sufi Sheikh to
­England. At the bottom, dressed in a saffron-col- kings from the St. Petersburg Album. Bichitr,
ored robe and red turban, is a bearded man whom Margins by Muhammad Sadiq. Opaque
watercolor, ink and gold on paper; circa
scholars have identified as the artist, Bichitr. He
1615–1618, ­Image: 25.3 × 18 cm; Freer Gallery of
holds a painting framed in red that depicts an el- Art and ­Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian
ephant and a white horse. Scholars have marveled ­Institution, Washington, d.c.: Purchase – Charles
at the fictionalized array of people in this painting, Lang Freer Endowment, F1942.15a.
as the meeting of the sheikh, the fourteenth-cen- (© Freer|Sackler Collection).
tury sultan, the king of England, the artist and the
emperor could never have taken place. seems to hang flush with the picture plane, flatten-
Yet these are not the only fictions introduced by ing the scene into a tight, two-dimensional space.
the painting. A haloed Jahangir, rising like the sun Bichitr has woven the hour-glass shape of Jahan-
against a crepuscular sky, appears to float. Below gir’s throne throughout the ornamentation of the
him is a green, velvety dais that is suspended on cloth. Corn-colored curling leaves and tendrils
top of an enormous hourglass. Two small angels interlace on the carpet. Small, fleshy men with
that resemble European putti watch the falling bare torsos rise leglessly out of green leaves. In
sand intently, their noses pressed to the hourglass. their hands, they carry gray, flaming torches. Like
A textile that combines the deep blue color used the hourglass throne, which tapers to an impos-
in paintings of Persianate carpets with European sibly thin center before bulging outwards again,
grotesque patterns from architectural decoration these muscular torsos are suspended on delicate
provides a backdrop for the bottom portion of the curlicues.
painting. The textile is not naturalistically ren- Bichitr cleverly links the decorative pattern to
dered. As in many Persianate paintings, the carpet the individualized portraits within the painting,
Sentiment in Silks
slightly confounding the distinctions between ac-
tual 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 fig-
ures 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 picto-
rial ordering of the painting to underscore this Sufi
message visually. By inverting human presence
and decorative content, Bichitr upsets appearanc-
es and allows decorative figures the same degree
of presence as historical kings.
In a work painted ten to fifteen years later, Bich-
itr would revise his style and his approach to fig-
ured silk. In 1630, Bichitr, now working under Shah
Jahan, painted Shah Jahan Receives his Three Eldest
Sons and Asaf Khan During his Accession Ceremo-
nies (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 “un-
paralleled ­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.
137
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 tech-
nique 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 artis-
tic and political, that were promoted in the Pad-
shahnama. It is a work of precision, order and bal-
ance. Yet in the middle of the painting, just inside
the golden railing that demarcated the highest po-
litical appointees from the noblemen, stands a fig-
ure 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 pow-
er. 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-broth-
er, two cousins and two nephews – in order to
clear the way for Shah Jahan to become emperor.
The ascension ceremonies took place almost im-
mediately 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.
138 Houghteling

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, Pad-
shahnama, RCIN 1005025.k, fol. 50b.
(Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2016).
Sentiment in Silks
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 perspec-
tive, 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 remind-
er of all of the other bodies that Reza Bahadur de-
stroyed 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 fig-
ural 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 decorat-
ed with interlaced composite figures – young
couples clasping one another around the waist,
apes, ­leopards, deer, bearded men and modestly-
dressed women. Composite figural scenes oc-
cur 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 el-
ephant grows out of the elegant bodies of female
musicians. Similar to the robe that is peopled
43 Quoted in Hadi Hasan, Mug̲ h̲al Poetry: Its Cultural and
Historical Value (New Delhi: Aakar Books, 1952), 41–42.
44 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 Shah-
jahan and Aurangzeb” (PhD Diss., Aligargh Muslim
University, 1987), 137.
45 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: Sa-
favid Figural Silks and the Display of Identity” (master’s
thesis, San Jose State University, 2007).
139
with humans and animals, these composite paint-
ings 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 con-
templation, the garments turn the insides out-
wards, bodying forth wondrous scenes from the
figures’ ample robes. That the young man in the
Bukhara painting holds a notebook for writing po-
etry reinforces the unique relationship between
literature, painting, and figural textiles. For paint-
ers, figural textiles provided access to a second or-
der of significance, invoking mysticism, romance
or anguish in an otherwise silent portrait. Figural
textiles also became a convenient device for writ-
ers 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 Persian-
language poets used similes to describe their craft,
they would liken their work to weaving. One early
poet described his work as a: “silken robe/ com-
posed 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 biogra-
phy of Akbar, also drew upon imagery of weaving
and the figured robe to describe his historical writ-
ing. He borrowed the metaphor from Sharaf al-
Din 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 sto-
ries 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 writ-
ing 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 dig-
nified 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” him-
self, 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, Ghi-
yath al-Din ʿAli-yi Naqshband, united the profes-
sion 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 hav-
ing quipped:
“The gentleman sees more in the bear;
Each person sees the image of himself”48
As Robert Skelton has written, the response sug-
gests 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.
47 Qandhari, Tarikh-i Akbari, 18.
48 Skelton, “Episodes in the Life,” 258.
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, di-
vine 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 fab-
ric 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 bro-
cade, 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 por-
tal to an amorous future.
In the case of Saif ul-Mulūk that began this
chapter, a textile also links the present and the fu-
ture, 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 com-
posed within a courtly culture that was deeply in-
fluenced 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 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.
50 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.
Sentiment in Silks
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 ul-
Mulūk 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, ab-
sorbed 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 un-
folds the garment, revealing a picture (taṣvīr) that
catches him in astonishment.54 Saif ul-Mulūk be-
51 Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka va Badīula Jamāla, trans.
Rājakiśora Pāṇḍeya and Muḥammad Akbaruddīn
Siddīqī (Hyderabad: Dakkhinī Sāhitya Prakāśana Sami-
ti, 1955), 44–45.
52 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 bun-
dle.” 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 Fans-
uri. 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.
53 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.
54 Ghavasi, Saiphula Mulūka, 47. The term taṣvīr is the
same term used by Akbar’s historian, Abuʾl Fazl, to
141
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, Ghava-
si 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 interrupt-
ed 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 prin-
cess. 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 re-
gional ­Rajput ruler in Bikaner to solidify a relation-
ship and impart affection.
The tailored garment is the only surviving wo-
ven 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 sup-
port of the textile weavers made possible. See fn. 24.
55 Ibid.
56 Ibid., 55.
142 Houghteling

silk and indigo blue. Now, it is faded, but the in- This robe represents a softer side of the his-
credible figural pattern on it is still visible. The wo- tory of khilʾat. As mentioned earlier, Jahangir’s
ven scenes depict two lovers. They are staggered father, Akbar, knew the various flowers that could
in pairs by the weaver, seeming to pine for one an- be stuffed into the pockets of robes to give them
other from kitty-corner open windows. The robe a wonderful scent.60 Akbar’s biographer also re-
was given as a khilʾat, a robe of honor, by Prince counts the satisfaction the emperor took in see-
Salim (the soon-to-be Emperor Jahangir) to Raja ing that his clothes fit the bodies of his recipients.
Rai Singh of Bikaner. Raja Rai Singh was one of a Abuʾl Fazl wrote: “I must mention, as a most cu-
group of Hindu, Rajput rulers from northwestern rious sign of auspiciousness, that His Majesty’s
India whose predecessors had allied with the Mu- clothes becomingly fit every one whether he be
ghals and adopted Persianate practices in their tall or short, a fact which has hitherto puzzled
courtly culture. Rai Singh was well-versed in the many.”61 Abuʾl Fazl partly claimed this elasticity
protocols of the Mughal court and the tropes of for ­Emperor Akbar’s clothes as a way of asserting
Persian poetry. the divinity of the sovereign. However, the state-
Past studies have presented the Islamicate prac- ment also contains a deeply human aspect as it
tice of khilʾat, or the giving of robes of honor, as a ponders the shortness or tallness of Akbar’s sub-
means of communicating authority: the giver of jects who received the emperor’s clothing. Abuʾl
the khilʾat, a figure with religious or political pow- Fazl ­remarks that the clothing not only fits “ev-
er, bestowed a robe of honor upon his or her sub- eryone” but fits them “becomingly,” flattering the
ordinates.57 In putting on the khilʾat, the recipient idiosyncratic shape of each body. Emperor Akbar
accepted the authority of the giver, and signaled imagined the clothing that he distributed as cer-
his or her allegiance to the ruler. The object itself emonial khilʾat as it would snugly fit the bodies of
was primarily a marker of authority, but at times his vassals. For the Mughal court, the giving and
the materiality of the khilʾat was important as well, receiving of textiles was not always a superficial,
as when it was made of luxurious fabric. At the Ot- symbolic act, or a mercenary transfer of wealth,
toman court, the value of the gold woven into the but was sometimes a practice imbued with cor-
fabric of the khilʾat would sometimes be embroi- poreal messages, sensual intention and emotional
dered onto a tag sewn into the garment, making the warmth.
robe of honor into a form of currency that could be In the case of the Bikaner robe given by Prince
exchanged for cash at the treasury.58 A recent ar- Salim, an adjoining farman, or imperial letter, that
ticle has explored instances of “killer khilʾat,” when is thought to have accompanied the robe in 1597
rulers sent infected or poisoned robes to their en- suggests that the khilʾat was given for a very s­ pecific
emies who, by the dictates of imperial protocol, purpose: to secure Raja Rai Singh’s finest hunting
were obligated to don the malicious garments.59 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 Univer-
sity 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, 60 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 83.
2015), 111–38; “Introduction: Ibn Battuta and a Region 61 Abuʾl Fazl, Aʾin-i Akbari, 1: 90.
of Robing” in Gordon, ed. Robes of Honor, p. 28, note 47. 62 Hermann Goetz, The Art and Architecture of Bikaner
59 See Michelle Maskielle and Adrienne Mayor, “Killer State. (Oxford: Published for the Government of Bikan-
Khilats, Part 1: Legends, of Poison ‘Robes of Honour’ in er State and the Royal India and Pakistan Society by B.
India,” Folklore 112 (2001): 23–45. Cassirer, 1950), 122–23.
Sentiment in Silks
(November, 1597) begins with a formula of enco-
miums 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 impe-
rial 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 dis-
position” 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 de-
rived from the extensive imperial storehouse of
generic khilʾat, but from the Prince’s own collec-
tion. 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, rela-
tions had become strained because of Rai Singh’s
63 Rajasthan State Archives, A Descriptive List of Farmans,
Manshurs, and Nishans Addressed by the Imperial Mu-
ghals to the Princes of Rajasthan (Bikaner: Rajasthan
State Archives, 1962), appendix, 8.
143
extended absence from the imperial court at La-
hore. 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 cor-
poreal 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 emper-
or 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 stun-
ningly 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 live-
being underneath. The weaver evokes the tropes
of nakedness that recur in the story of Khusrau
64 Ibid., 19.
65 Metropolitan Museum of Art, 46.156.7; Yale Univer-
sity 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.
144
and Shirin, and Sufi ideals of the difference be-
tween 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 re-
fers to both a portrait and an actual face, further
blurring the line between the artistic representa-
tion 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 illusion-
istic skill, but radiant with life itself. The figural im-
agery 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 mes-
sage of the gift and deepened the sentiment ex-
pressed 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 king-
ly 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 Shab-
nam Rahimi-Golkhandan for her further assistance
with the translations via email, 7 May, 2014.
Houghteling
Conclusion
It is difficult to recover the fleeting facial expres-
sions, the furtive caresses and well-disguised
jokes that communicated emotion in early mod-
ern Muslim courtly life. As in any moment, peo-
ple 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 transmit-
ting 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 experi-
ence 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 sump-
tuous 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 grasp-
ing 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.
Sentiment in Silks
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).
145
in giving us a sense of what it would have been like
to don his robe.
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 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, accom-
panying 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 Muham-
mad 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 accompany-
ing 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 Taraqqi-
i 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, “Mu-
sic 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 Uni-
versity Press, 2006), 64–71; and Abhishek Kaicker, “The Co-
lonial Entombment of the Mughal Habitus: Delhi in the
Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries” (ma Thesis, Uni-
versity of British Columbia, 2006).
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_008
khwān) to noblemen known for their patronage
of the arts. Its narrator also recounts his experi-
ences at innumerable poetry readings (majlis) and
musical soirees (mehfil), which range from the re-
fined 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 ac-
tivity 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 sev-
enteenth century. From the moment that Shahja-
hanabad, the Mughal capital at Delhi founded by
the emperor Shah Jahan (r. 1627–58), was first in-
augurated 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 boule-
vards of the city, Chandni Chowk and Faiz Bazaar.
All subsidiary roads led to one of these two ave-
nues. Thus all roads led to the emperor; the experi-
ence 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 (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 191–204; Ste-
phen Blake, Shahjahanabad: The Sovereign City in Mughal
India 1639–1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1991); Gülru Necipoğlu, “Framing the Gaze in Ottoman,
The City Built, the City Rendered
order shifted dramatically. Spaces outside the
walled city of Shahjahanabad became increasing-
ly 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 teem-
ing, 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 re-
placed 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 ur-
ban 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, Aes-
thetics, and Urbanism in the Late Mughal Empire” (Har-
vard 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. Johnson-
Roehr, “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 Educa-
tion 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 pe-
riod 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 succes-
sion between 1707–1719 – one for only one year –
and imperial authority was undermined by the
machinations of high-ranking nobles.6 Muham-
mad 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 encoun-
ter with the city that was less constrained by the
monumental and the monolithic. Far from reject-
ing 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 resum-
ing. 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 promi-
nently in ­Dargah Quli’s narrative of city life.
150 Dadlani

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 pre-
cincts of dargahs. In other words, the major imperi-
al 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 architec-
tural shifts of the time were felt. As I demonstrate,
an architecturally-revised Delhi both embraced
and enabled new ways of relating to the city, articu-
lated in the built and literary record alike.

New Architectural Projects and the

Changing Cityscape
Two areas that became central in the reconfigura-
tion of greater Delhi were the neighborhoods sur-
rounding 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 monu-
mental 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 comple-
tion 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 mid-
eighteenth century, marble burial enclosures in
the precincts of Chishti shrines emerged as the
preferred form for royal Mughal funerary archi-
tecture. This practice had its roots as early as the
grave of the emperor ʿAlamgir-Aurangzeb, locat-
ed 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,” En-
vironmental Design 9, 11 (1991): 18–29.
The City Built, the City Rendered
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 eigh-
teenth 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 no-
table 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.
151
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 Sultan-
ate 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 vis-
ited upon his entry into Delhi in 1526.11 But other
than this instance, there is little evidence of impe-
rial Mughal activity at the shrine during the six-
teenth 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 Subcon-
tinent (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 dur-
ing 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 Architec-
ture, 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.
152
Figure 6.3 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 move-
ment 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 eighteenth-
century 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 three-
domed, 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
14 Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 294; R. Nath, Mon-
uments of Delhi: Historical Study (New Delhi, Ambika,
Dadlani
enclosure houses the cenotaphs of several eigh-
teenth- and nineteenth-century emperors, in-
cluding Ahmad Shah, Shah Alam ii, and Akbar
Shah. It is composed of solid marble and lattice-
work (jali) panels with cusped arch motifs sur-
rounding 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
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.
15 Carr Stephen, The Archaeology and Monumental Re-
mains of Delhi (Ludhiana: Mission Press, 1876), 103.
The City Built, the City Rendered
context had clear associations with spiritual pu-
rity.16 The result is an immersive space that bal-
ances 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 mar-
ble 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 recon-
figuring spatial experience within it: the extended
marble screen, culminating in two gateways medi-
ating 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 inscrip-
tions 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 pro-
claims 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 fir-
maments for his slaves,
Round the grave of the chief of the faith and the
pole star of the nine heavens, about whose mauso-
leum 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.
153
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. Rath-
er 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 expe-
rienced 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 ad-
dition, patronage at the shrines connected the
present emperors to their own, collective impe-
rial past, allowing them to appropriate the legacy
of the Mughal empire itself as a source of legiti-
macy. 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 patron-
age 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 histori-
cal subjectivities.
17 Zafar Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 2, 46.
18 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.
19 Asher, Architecture of Mughal India, 295.
154 Dadlani

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.
The City Built, the City Rendered 155

The extensive patronage at this shrine heralded

its renewed importance as a site within the sym-
bolic 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 nine-
teenth. The construction of a majlis khāna (assem-
bly 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 assem-
blies 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,
Figure 6.6 Gateway and screen of Farrukhsiyar, dargah
of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, c. 1713–19.
located as it was in Mehrauli, indicates that spaces
Photograph by author.

Figure 6.7 Burial enclosure of the Nawabs of Loharu, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, Delhi, 1802.
Photograph by author.
156 Dadlani

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 seven-
teenth century.
This urban re-ordering was also effected
through the renovation and augmentation of an-
other 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 Shah-
jahanabad than the shrine of Bakhtiyar Kaki, the
dargah of Nizam al-Din was still notable for draw-
ing urban crowds outside of the precincts of the
walled capital.
Historically, the shrine had been the site of ex-
tensive building activity during the Delhi Sultan- Figure 6.8 Burial enclosure of Muhammad Shah, dargah
ate period (1206–1526), particularly in the four- of Nizam al-Din, Delhi, 1748.
Photograph by Suzan Yalman.
teenth and fifteenth centuries. During the Mughal
period, the dargah of Nizam al-Din continued to
be a significant site of patronage and pilgrimage, foster brother Atgah Khan in 1566–67, which lies
in marked contrast to that of Bakhtiyar Kaki. In the just yards away from the tomb of the saint.21 Per-
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Mughal em- haps the most prominent Mughal project in the
perors and the nobles in their service sponsored neighborhood of the shrine was the monumental
renovations and additions to the shrine, from the tomb and funerary garden of Humayun (r. 1530–
rebuilding of the tomb over the saint’s grave (turn- 1543, 1555–1556), commissioned by the emperor
ing it into a domed structure with a stone lattice Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and completed in 1562–71 by
screen), to the construction of the tomb of Akbar’s the architect Mirak Mirza Ghiyas and his son.22

20 Hussein Keshani details the development of the Nizam
al-Din dargah through the Sultanate and Mughal peri-
ods 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 Subconti-
nent, 27–29.
21 See Keshani, “Building Nizamuddin,” 164–74.
22 For more on the tomb of Humayun see Asher, Archi-
tecture 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);
The City Built, the City Rendered
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 Ba-
hadur Shah. The gateway follows a typology es-
tablished by the monumental pishtaqs of imperial
Mughal mausolea, from Humayun’s tomb to the
Taj Mahal. Its miniaturization allows for its inte-
gration into the intimate space of the shrine, even
as it invokes the grand tradition of imperial Mu-
ghal tombs. A cusped, vaulted arch features muqa-
rnas niches and netting, and deeply carved flower
and Ruggles, “Humayun’s Tomb and Garden: Typolo-
gies and Visual Order,” in Gardens in the Time of the
Great Muslim Empires: Theory and Design, ed. Attilio
Petruccioli (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 173–86.
157
and vine motifs unfold on the spandrels. The re-
mainder 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, visi-
tors to the shrine would come into constant con-
tact 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 ex-
perience; to visit one grave is to visit all three. This
spatial configuration demonstrates that impe-
rial 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 ur-
ban 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 Cen-
tury Mughal India,” Marg (September 2008), 52–61.
158
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 north-
facing Kashmiri Gate. Subsequently, Qudsiyya Be-
gum, the wife of the emperor Muhammad Shah,
would build a garden complex not far from here
24 Dadlani, “‘Twilight’ in Delhi?” Chapter 2; Stephen, Ar-
chaeology and Monumental Remains, 157; and Zafar
Hasan, Monuments of Delhi, Vol. 1, 183.
Dadlani
in the late 1740s, beyond the city walls.25 Such
eighteenth-century building activity in the Kash-
miri 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 pa-
trons and builders succeeded in forming multiple,
intimate, and alternative spaces in Delhi.
The newly fashioned urban zones of eighteenth-
century Delhi were the very spaces that were fre-
quented 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.”
The City Built, the City Rendered 159

a­rchitectural priorities of the time and reveal- production of first-person narratives in the Indo-
ing just how critical and current the eighteenth-­ Persian world, including both travel narratives and
century imperial interventions were. autobiographies, which offered new, alternative
viewpoints.28
Yet with its interest in urban depiction, the
The Muraqqaʿ-i Dihlı and Urban Depiction Muraqqaʿ relates to other forms of Persian litera-
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 pro-
text, 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 taz-
first 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-­
Persian Travels; idem, “Discovering the Familiar.”
Quli begins by describing its major spaces.
27 Juan Cole addresses Indo-Persian writers encounter- In this respect, the text engages with a third
ing Great Britain and British-controlled India in “Invis- Persian literary tradition, that of the shahrāshūb
ible Occidentalism: Eighteenth-Century Indo-Persian poem. Translated literally as “city disturber,” the
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, fill-
nineteenth century, see idem., “Mirror of the World: ing the space of the city with his energy and beau-
Iranian ‘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 oc-
41–60. For travelers from Qajar Iran writing about
voyages to Europe, see Monica Ringer, “The Quest for cupied, so that by the seventeenth century, major
the Secret of Strength in Iranian Nineteenth-Century
Travel Literature: Rethinking Tradition in the Safar- 28 See Mana Kia, “Contours of Persianate Community,
nameh,” in Iran and the Surrounding World: Interactions 1722–1835” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2011), espe-
in Culture and Cultural Politics, eds. Nikki Keddie and cially Chapter 2 where Kia discusses the self-reflexive
Rudi Matthee (Seattle: University of Washington Press, aspect of tazkira literature in eighteenth-century India.
2002), 146–61; and Nagmeh Sohrabi, Taken for Wonder: 29 Marcia Hermansen and Bruce Lawrence, “Indo-Persian
Nineteenth-Century Travel Accounts from Iran to Europe Tazkiras as Memorative Communications,” in Beyond
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).For the related Turk and Hindu: Rethinking Religious Identities in Islam-
topic of 19th-century Urdu writing related to travel, see icate South Asia, eds. David Gilmartin and Bruce Law-
Daniel Majchrowicz, “Travel and the Means to Victory: rence (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 2000),
Urdu Travel Writing and Aspiration in Islamicate South 149–75; and Kia, “Contours of Persianate Community,”
Asia” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2015). esp. 256–64.
160
cities in the eastern Islamic lands had poems dedi-
cated to them.30 In Islamicate India, there were
poems eulogizing individual architectural proj-
ects, to topographical poems that provide sweep-
ing “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 as-
pects of these various genres to provide an animat-
ed, 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 encom-
passes 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 re-
ligious 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 exten-
sive 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 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.
31 Ibid., 74–76.
Dadlani
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 be-
gins 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 ac-
counts, 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 major-
ity of his narrative, however, concentrates on de-
scribing 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, Dar-
gah Quli does offer occasional remarks on archi-
tectural details or edifices that especially impress
him. At the dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, for example,
he praises the jali screen commissioned by Far-
rukhsiyar, 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 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.
33 Ibid., 51.
34 Ibid., 54.
The City Built, the City Rendered
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 in-
terested in the activities – religious and ­otherwise –
that take place at the shrines and in their immedi-
ate 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 ex-
ample, after visiting the Bakhtiyar Kaki d­ argah,
people would take excursions to the surrounding
meadows and springs, as they would to the gar-
dens 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 Chi-
ragh 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 re-
marks 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 Ibid., 55.
36 Ibid., 52, 54–55.
37 Ibid., 53, 54.
38 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.
39 Ibid., 54–55.
161
that range from semi-public to private affairs. As
the narrative develops, we see an ongoing inter-
est in moments of spectacle, pleasure, and even
transgression, alongside remarks about the recon-
figuration of the social order and mixing of social
classes.
The major public avenues of Shahjahanabad
are depicted as vibrant, slightly chaotic city cen-
ters 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 ex-
quisite 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 glitter-
ing 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 func-
tions not only as a major traffic artery and com-
mercial 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 Ibid., 61. My thanks to Wheeler Thackston for his help
in translating this passage.
41 Ibid., 61–62.
42 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 Califor-
nia Press, 2001).
162
acquisition, but rather lingers on the pleasure he
derives from visual consumption. The commercial
vibrancy of the city is inextricably linked to the vi-
sual 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 Dar-
gah Quli takes in handsome young men dancing,
crowds of people idly milling about, and fortune
tellers seated on wooden chairs, whom he com-
pares to maulvis on the pulpits. This comparison
alludes to the Jamiʿ Masjid steps away, and is apt
given the constant blurring of the boundary be-
tween religious and secular social spaces. His fas-
cination 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 descrip-
tions of objects and people to the city’s commer-
cial zones. Instead, there is a similarity between
these and his observations of sacred spaces. His
writing suggests a permeability of spatial bound-
aries between religious and secular zones and
speaks to the reconceptualization of social spaces
that characterized eighteenth-century Delhi’s ar-
chitectural 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 Shahja-
hanabad. There are colorful flowers and beauti-
ful women with porcelain bottles of perfume, the
43 Dargah Quli Khan, 60–61.
Dadlani
smell of ambergris fills the air, perfume is sprin-
kled 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 Bas-
ant festivities are celebrated in a different shrine
for the first five days and culminate in the resi-
dences 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 cat-
egories of “religious” and “secular.” An explicit
example of a single space that retains both a re-
ligious 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 boat-
ing 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 reli-
gious services.46
At times, the lack of delineation of religious
spaces, and concomitant deregulation of sanc-
tioned behavior, slips into moments of true trans-
gression, often invoked by the presence or absence
of the muhtasib (censor of morals). Whereas tak-
ing an evening stroll in the gardens surrounding
a shrine is viewed as an acceptable form of diver-
sion, 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 an-
other instance, Dargah Quli speaks of a residen-
tial quarter that is so crime-ridden and dangerous
that even the muhtasib avoids it. And at the grave
44 Ibid., 71–73.
45 Ibid., 66.
46 Ibid., 90, 91, 94, 100, 101.
47 Ibid., 58.
The City Built, the City Rendered
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 develop-
ment 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 par-
ticularly 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 musi-
cians.49 At the eclectic mehfils held by the noble
and poet Jaʿfar ʿAli Khan Miran, high-ranking no-
bles 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 break-
down of social hierarchies. The courtesan Nur Bai,
we are told, lives in a house full of the types of ob-
jects 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 Muham-
mad 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 Ibid., 92.
49 Ibid., 94, 98.
50 Ibid., 73.
51 Ibid., 104.
52 Ibid., 70.
53 Two examples are the crowds in attendance at the Qa-
damgah of ʿAli during Muharram and at the weekly as-
semblies at the dargah of Nizam al-Din, ibid., 52–55.
163
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 fun-
damental shift in the meta-ordering of the space
of the city.
These destabilizations also relate to imperial
patronage. The patronage and presence of roy-
alty 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 associ-
ated with the shrine that is the focus of his nar-
rative. 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 fash-
ioning 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 so-
cial 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 courte-
sans and dancers who have moved from the impe-
rial 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 perfor-
mances attended by a wider population in ­contrast
to former times, when their company was forbid-
den 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 Ibid., 54.
55 Ibid., 95.
56 Ibid., 109–10.
164
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 pas-
sage is the invasion of Nadir Shah. While schol-
arship 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 bud-
get suffered and his mehfils grew more subdued.58
57 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 fo-
cused 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 Jah-
an: Empress of Mughal India (New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1993); Ruby Lal, Domesticity and Power in the
Early Mughal World (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity 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 Eu-
ropean 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 Or-
phans in Early Colonial India,” Journal of Imperial and
Commonwealth History 31, no. 1 (2003): 1–28.
58 Dargah Quli Khan, Muraqqaʿ, 70–71.
Dadlani
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 plea-
sure, undoubtedly reflects Dargah Quli’s particu-
lar 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 narra-
tive reflect his personal concerns. For ­example,
Dargah Quli’s Shiʿi identity might have influenced
some of the narrative choices he makes: he in-
cludes 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 el-
egies), 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 in-
struments 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 spa-
tial organization and use were firmly established
in Delhi. In each of the urban snapshots and in-
dividual profiles he provides, Dargah Quli empha-
sizes urban activity. When writing about a dargah,
he concentrates less on the visual elements of the
59 Ibid., 91.
60 Ibid., 86–89.
61 On the Muraqqaʿ as a source for music history, see Bar-
low and Subramanian, “Music and Society in North
India”; Chenoy and Shekhar, xxxiii; and Butler Brown,
“Dargah Quli Khan’s Strange Vision.”
The City Built, the City Rendered
space and more on the people he encounters and
their interactions. In portraying individuals, he of-
ten describes them in the context of large, public
and semi-public gatherings, from religious festi-
vals 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 narra-
tive, visiting a specific series of sites within Delhi
is the means to accessing the people and excite-
ment 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 cen-
tury, once been the defining anchor of urban expe-
rience and organization, this ceased to be the case
in the eighteenth. New imperial Mughal build-
ing projects, particularly at Chishti shrines, were
among those that embodied changing sensibilities
about the city and its configuration. These build-
ing interventions were of an intimate scale, were
spatially coincident with areas of lively assembly,
and were part of a broader shift in which small-
scale architectural projects, sponsored by patrons
of various status, proliferated throughout and be-
yond 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 sa-
cred 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,
165
he certainly had exposure to the Red Fort. There-
fore, his concentration on life outside the impe-
rial 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.
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 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 tradi-
tional 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 represen-
tation of women in a variety of social settings, pro-
vide ways to understand and bridge several literary
and artistic developments in eighteenth and nine-
teenth 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 po-
ems, 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,
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_009
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 con-
stantly negotiated and new forms and channels of
sociability were nurtured” in various locales in cit-
ies. Additionally, public spaces “were forums that
diminished social and cultural distances between
different groups and in which the boundaries be-
tween elite and non-elite were continuously trans-
gressed, 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 lit-
erature 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, specifi-
cally the world of Fāʾiz Dihlavī, which was a time
when bazaars and other public spaces appeared as
the setting for scripted social intercourse, especial-
ly 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).
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
as seen in new forms of representation in literary
texts and images.5
From Fāʾiz’s Urdu poetry it appears that gather-
ing places such as the communally used well (pan-
ghat), 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 po-
ems about these public spaces marks a shift from
describing exclusively courtly venues such as the
palace and garden in earlier Mughal Persian poet-
ry. While Fāʾiz’s Persian poetry remained connect-
ed to the classical tradition, in his vernacular po-
etry he innovatively combined Persian and Indic
poetic systems in a distinctively Mughal Persian-
ate form. The increase in representations of public
spaces, whether as a background of royal proces-
sions or of daily life from a strongly ethnographic
gaze that appear from the late seventeenth centu-
ry 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 repre-
sented themselves and were viewed by others, as
well as the poet’s and artist’s sense of subjectiv-
ity vis-à-vis his life in a city and community.6 This
transformation also aids in mapping the itinerar-
ies 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
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 His-
torical 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 Uni-
versity Press, 2011), 240–56. For gardens, see Garden and
Landscape Practices in Precolonial India: Histories from the
Deccan, edited by Daud Ali and Emma Flatt (New Delhi
and London: Routledge, 2011).
6 See Walter Hakala’s useful discussion of eighteenth-­
century vernacular modes of cosmopolitanism and Urdu
literary culture in “A Sultan in the Realm of Passion: Coffee
in Eighteenth-Century Delhi,” Eighteenth-Century Studies
47/4 (2014): 371–88.
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 re-
sponded 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 multi-
lingual literary center in the late seventeenth and
early eighteenth century, especially in the transi-
tion from a largely Persian to a more Persianate
culture. Literary production in eighteenth century
North India in a range of languages such as Per-
sian, 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 art-
ist became more inclusive of new forms of repre-
sentation. 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
Linda Leach, Chapter iv, “Mughal Paintings from 1658 to
1760,” 479–85; After the Great Mughals: Painting in Delhi
and the Regional Courts in the 18th and 19th Centuries, ed.
Barbara Schmitz (Mumbai: Marg, 2002), especially Terence
McInerney, “Mughal Painting during the Reign of Muham-
mad Shah,” 12–33; and Malini Roy, “The Revival of the Mu-
ghal Painting Tradition during the Reign of Muhammad
Shah,” Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi, 1707–1857, ed.
William Dalrymple and Yuthika Sharma (New York: Asia
Society, 2012), 17–23.
170
expanded the traditional canon.8 Due to the in-
creased patronage away from Mughal imperial
centers, chiefly by Hindu-Rajput rulers and nobles,
princely nawabs, and the newly arrived British, lo-
cal and non-courtly idioms of textual and visual
representation in hybrid forms began to predomi-
nate 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 ver-
nacular 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 per-
sonal style that is frequently surrealistic or bizarre
throughout his long life” and worked in the im-
perial 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 bour-
geoisie clientele where he participated in “the al-
ready well-developed eighteenth century fashion
for illustrating women’s activities.”10 The poems
by Fāʾiz that I discuss below also have a distinc-
tive style and are part of a widespread interest in
the representation of women, especially in public
8 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 Transi-
tion, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard (Leiden: Brill,
2011), 61–85, and “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 Alli-
son Busch (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 247–77.
9 Linda Leach Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from
the Chester Beatty Library (London: Scorpion Caven-
dish, 1995), 685.
10 Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the Chester Be-
atty Library, 685.
Sharma
spaces, as well as in the upholding of ethical and
moral standards in the face of momentous po-
litical and social changes that were transforming
Mughal society and South Asia at large in the eigh-
teenth century.
Nawab Sadruddīn Khān Fāʾiz was a descen-
dant of the renowned Safavid general, ʿAlī Mardān
Khān, who defected to the Mughal side during the
siege of Qandahar in 1638. Fāʾiz’s father Muham-
mad Khalīl Zabardast Khān served as governor
of various Mughal provinces under the emper-
ors ʿĀlamgīr, Bahādur Shāh and Farrukhsiyar. Al-
though it is not clear whether Fāʾiz had an official
position at the Mughal court, his unpublished let-
ters indicate that he had close relations with sev-
eral 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 li-
terati 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 larg-
er 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 A partial list of his works are described in C.A. Sto-
rey, Persian Literature: A Bio-bibliographical Survey
(­London: Luzac & Co., 1972), 1/2, 1093.
12 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 pub-
lished 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).
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
Apart from ghazals – that are not in then fashion-
able sabk-i Hindī or tāza-gūʾī style – the poems that
stand out as unusual comprise several masnavīs
on topographical and topical themes. Fāʾiz’s po-
etry is a celebration of Delhi and the Mughal Em-
pire, and also provincial cities such as Lahore and
Ajmer. In various poems, Fāʾiz mentions actual
bazaars in Delhi such as Dariba, Guzrim, Nakh-
khas, 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 topog-
raphy 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 con-
structed buildings, praise of the beauty of places
and people was particularly in vogue during the
reign of the emperor Shāh Jahān.13 Fāʾiz’s contri-
bution was the transference of the topographical
themes and topoi popular in earlier Persian litera-
ture to a vernacular tradition, with the infusion
of new themes such as the attention to women
and everyday life. The likely apocryphal verses at-
tributed to the legendary Indo-­Persian poet Amīr
Khusrau lent a symbolic authority of tradition to
this poetic genre. Therefore, since he played a sig-
nificant 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 Poet-
ics 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.
171
Given the somewhat complex and confusing
cultural history of his times, it is not surprising that
the poetry of Fāʾiz Dihlavī, which straddled the pe-
riod when Persian continued to be the dominant
court language and early Urdu literary culture pre-
dating 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 reg-
ister 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 influ-
ence 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 Del-
hi.” Fāʾiz’s poems, however, may predate the recep-
tion 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 A survey of this early period of Urdu literary produc-
tion in Delhi is provided by Muhammad Sadiq, “The
Delhi School of Urdu Poetry,” A History of Urdu Litera-
ture (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.
15 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).
16 Imre Bangha writes that “The existence of this kind
of poetry in north India before 1700 suggests that the
172
texts are revisited or even discovered, we will gain
a better understanding of the particular multilin-
gual 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 lan-
guage 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 trans-
late 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 sari-
clad damsel (apchharā, from the Sanskrit apsarā)
making the whole setting the court of the Hindu
deity Indra (Indar-sabhā). One of them particu-
larly catches his eye, and in place of the conven-
tional head to foot description (sarāpā), the poet
provides a poetic ethnography of her:
“Ghadā sar par khadī thī rāh ūpar / yaqīñ Yūsuf kī
jā hai chāh ūpar
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.
17 I have cited the original text from the 1965 edition, Fāʾiz
Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 230–31.
Sharma
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 differ-
ent poetic traditions indulging in an aesthetic of
cross-gender hybridity. The beautiful woman com-
plains 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”
“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 sim-
ple Brahmin ate beef!’
By Lakshman, I’ll never come back here.’”
At the end the panghat becomes the Sinai of beau-
ties 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 repre-
sents 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
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
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 Khus-
rau, 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 Hin-
davi verses, but whether this is a question of influ-
ence 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 effort-
lessly combines Persianate and Hindavi allusions:
“Nāchtī gāgāke hūrī dam ba-dam / jiyūn sabhā In-
dar 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 refer-
ences 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 Heidi Pauwels, “‘The Woman Waylaid at the Well’:
A  Folk Theme Appropriated in Myth and Movies,”
Asian Ethnology 69/1 (2010): 1–33.
19 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.
20 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 231–32.
173
the male beauties (ghilmān) of paradise (ghilmān
bantī haiñ Hindniyāñ-i hūr-ʿain) and cites the Ara-
bic 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 dat-
ed 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 de-
scribing 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 cbl 6.319, Mughal and Other Indian Paintings from the
Chester Beatty Library, 684–85.
22 Prominent examples of visual representations of Mu-
ghal 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 Tops-
field, Paintings from Mughal India (Oxford: Bodleian
Library, 2008), 50.
23 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 232–33.
174 Sharma

Figure 7.1 Women celebrating Holi. cbl In 11B.16.

© The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin.
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
“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 de-
scribed 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.”
And further:
“Do joban se sīna hai gulshan sakal / lage jis meñ
pistāñ se amrit ke phal”
“Her two breasts make her chest a complete rose
garden,
with nectar fruit growing from them.”
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 In-
dia 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:
175
“[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:
“Vahāñ ashnān jab kartā hai ʿālam / subah aur
shām tab kartā hai ʿālam”25
“When the world bathes there,
day and night another world is a spectator.”
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 sa-
mandar 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, includ-
ing some in the Mughal atelier and those con-
nected 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.
176
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 aes-
thetic feature of this voyeuristic depiction. The
fascination with the practice of bathing in pub-
lic 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 some-
what 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), flower-
seller (gulfarosh), pan-seller (tanbolī), sweet-seller
(halvāī). The collocation of trades people and so-
cial types comes from the use of the Persian genre
or topos of shahrāshūb, especially in earlier Safa-
vid and Mughal poems which zoom in on one in-
dividual 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 The Late Shah Jahan Album has two paintings of wom-
en 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.
27 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 234–37.
Sharma
to emphasize the inclusion of commoners in rep-
resentation 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, Hin-
dus, 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 cus-
tomers, 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 meta-
phorical (majāzī) love.
With his cycle of five masnavī poems on women
of various social or religious groups Fāʾiz more di-
rectly 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 moon-
faced 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 In Ottoman Turkish there is at least one cycle of poems
in the shahrāshūb/şehrengiz genre that describes a fe-
male-centric world; The Age of Beloveds, 43–46. Among
Mughal Hindi (Brajbhasha) poets, there is a seven-
teenth-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 ve-
hicle 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.
29 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 237–38.
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems 177

Figure 7.2 Women bathing in a lake, Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, d.c.: Gift of Charles
Lang Freer, F1907.238.
178
singing bird (koyal) to shame. She is unique in here
beauty:
“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 par-
ticular to this period and Fāʾiz’s poem is in keeping
with this trend.32 Whereas Amīr Khusrau’s Persian
30 https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/
objects/50291/Yogini_in_a_Landscape.
31 Ahmad Gulchīn-Maʿānī, Shahrāshūb dar shiʿir-i Fārsī,
2nd ed. (Tehran: Rivāyat, 1380), 38.
32 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, “Repre-
sentation of Social Types in Mughal Art and Litera-
ture: Ethnography or Trope?” Indo-Muslim Cultures in
Sharma
poem figures a male jogī, Fāʾiz’s choice of Urdu al-
lows the shift of gender.
Kāchan (18 lines)33
In his description of the female vegetable and fruit-
seller, Fāʾiz is particularly fascinated by her breasts
which he calls jīvan supārī (betelnut of life). Her
cry to attract customers almost becomes a reli-
gious 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 po-
ems 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”
T
­ ransition, ed. Alka Patel and Karen Leonard (Leiden:
Brill, 2011), 17–36.
33 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 239.
34 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 240.
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems 179

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.
180
“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 bi-
dukān 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 na-
ture 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 (mind-
stealer), kanchan-baran (gold-bossom), hūrīn-laqā
(houri in appearance). By selling bhang to lovers,
she is even more cruel than the conventional be-
loved who drives them mad with her coquetry.
She is the true disturber of the city: “She was the
35 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.
Sharma
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 In-
dia. 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.””
37 Fāʾiz Dihlavī aur Dīvān-i Fāʾiz, 244–45.
38 Such mixing of literary allusions was a regular feature
of the Dakhni register of Urdu poetry; for an intro-
duction to the topic, see David J. Matthews, “Dakani
Language and Literature 1500–1700,” PhD dissertation,
soas, 1976.
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
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 curd-
seller, 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 be-
loved’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 im-
perial structures, and none that are comparable to
the poems about the spectacle of daily life and var-
ious 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 prais-
es 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 lik-
ens 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 ba-
bannā u miʿmār-i ū
39 Her response and another phrase in a spoken register
are in a garbled form in this poem.
40 For his Persian dīvān, I have consulted the manuscript
at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, Bodleian Ms. 1177.
181
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 re-
turn 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 canoni-
cal boundaries well beyond other classical Urdu
poets.”41 His poetry is largely about “the texture
and pleasures of everyday life” where the com-
mercial backdrop of the bazaar plays a significant
role. In contrast, Fāʾiz’s focus is more on the come-
liness of people in public spaces and their moral-
ity 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 (Con-
gratulatory poem on the occasion of the Bena-
zir 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 dedi-
cated to the great patron of learning and the arts,
Nawab Kalb ʿAlī Khān (1865–87), is a courtly pan-
egyric that describes a public celebration at the
Benazir palace and garden. The illustrated man-
uscript of this work held by the Raza Library in
Rampur has been published in facsimile.42 Of the
41 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.
42 Also described in Barbara Schmitz and Z.A. Desai, Mu-
ghal and Persian Paintings and Illustrated Manuscripts
182
sixty-three paintings done in a popular style typi-
cal for this period, the majority are depictions of
female dancers and singers, acrobatic performers,
male performers, as well as the topographical set-
ting 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 com-
munity experience and generic types, not particu-
lar 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, ethnograph-
ic 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 de-
riving 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:
in the Raza Library, Rampur (Rampur: Raza Library,
2004), 304.
43 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 “active-
ly 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.
Sharma
“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 mind-
ful of the evolving nature of bilingualism or multi-
lingualism 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 aes-
thetics of poetry and art. Parallel developments
in painting allow us to generalize about the aes-
thetic 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 transforma-
tions in patronage, power, and cultural practices.
A significant point that emerges in the context of
eighteenth-century Urdu literary culture is the dis-
covery or invention of the canonical Indo-Persian
poet Amīr Khusrau’s vernacular compositions in
44 Kulliyāt-i Valī, 378.
45 In eighteenth century Turkish society, “a new dispo-
sition 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 promi-
nently as the site of this transformation.
Fāʾiz Dihlavī’s Female-Centered Poems
an age that witnessed the rise of new forms of rep-
resentation and expression but with some anxiety
about not wanting to make a clean break with clas-
sical traditions. More specific comparisons across
textual and visual forms, as well as across linguis-
tic traditions – Urdu, Persian and Hindi – and also
with other polities such as the Ottomans and Sa-
favids, would be a fruitful area of future research
to further explore the cultural landscape of early
modern South Asia.
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 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 Persian-
ate 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 travel-
ers in the Islamic world, and images of such Sufis
enjoyed a notable audience in the colonial pe-
riod. The varied contexts in which Sufi individu-
als 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 representa-
tion 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 par-
ticular aspects of biography in ways distinct from
the original work, and the Ottoman Turkish trans-
lation of that abridgment which gained popular-
ity 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 under-
standing of emotion. My exploration of the sub-
ject 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 di-
rectly on claims to the universality of emotion and
affect.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���8 | doi 10.1163/9789004352841_010
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 soci-
ety 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 promi-
nent role in Ottoman literary and artistic life. They
were therefore both painters and subjects of paint-
ings; in addition, their prominence in Istanbul and
the distinctiveness of their whirling meditational
dance (semaʿ) resulted in them being frequently il-
lustrated 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 asso-
ciated 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 con-
cerned with identifying analytical models that al-
low one to talk about emotions in vastly d­ ifferent
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 em-
ploy 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 sev-
eral related points concerning the study of  emo-
tion 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 ex-
pression 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 un-
derstanding 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.
Elias
(“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 reflec-
tive 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 pre-
scriptive 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 Uni-
versity 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, Per-
ception, and Practice in Islam (Cambridge, ma: Harvard
University Press): 139–62.
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
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 ei-
ther that descriptions of mood or emotion are in-
dicative 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 emotion-
ally 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 consid-
ered 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 emo-
tions, such as awe or wonder. As Bynum has ar-
gued 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 wonder-
ment but about ­phenomena – acts, objects and
­language – that are known to or intended to pro-
voke w­ onderment. To paraphrase Bynum, finding
emotion-words and emotion-images is easy; find-
ing emotion is far more complicated.6
Thus the issue is not so much of evoking emo-
tions or encouraging participants and audiences
of religious and social practices to be emotional,
have emotions or to embrace them, but of treat-
ing 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.
187
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 de-
scription 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 as-
tronomer, 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 al-
ʿārifīn 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 Civiliza-
tion: 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 as-
sociation with the Mevlevis, but he was devoted to Ulu
188
Aflaki c­ommenced writing the Manāqib al-
ʿārifīn 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 chronologi-
cal structure, with the first chapter devoted to Ru-
mi’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 relation-
ship with his teacher, friend and muse, Shams al-
din-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 pre-
vious 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 lack-
ing 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.
Elias
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 dur-
ing 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 of-
fices of the courtier Zeyrek Ağa to present a par-
tial 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 accom-
plished 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 comple-
tion. 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 il-
lustrated copies were also produced in Konya, the
hereditary seat of the Mevlevi order.10
9 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).
10 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: Sourc-
es, doctrines, rituals, turuq, architecture, literature
and fine art, modernism, ed. A.Y. Ocak (Ankara: Türk
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
As it is, Mevlevis appear in a range of visual
works in addition to this famous hagiography.
These include paintings in historical works depict-
ing Sufis engaged in activities, portraits of famous
Sufi figures by themselves or with dignitaries,
iconic representations of Rumi (and the Mevle-
vis 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 Mu-
rad iii (r. 1574–1595) into the reign of Mehmed iii
(r. 1595–1603), the period from which the illustrat-
ed 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 re-
sponses: “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 Mev-
levi 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), Mev-
levilikte Resim, Resimde Mevleviler (Ankara: Türk Tarih
Kurumu Yayınevi).
189
clouds (ʿanān) of heaven their sighs (ʿanʿana-hā)
along with chants arousing lamentation and min-
gled 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, puzzle-
ment, fear, grief, etc.). We can therefore assume
that the man with his face to Rumi’s feet and an-
other 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 illus-
trating Rumi’s death (see Fig. 8.2) provides a more
vivid e­ xample of how emotion and affect are nei-
ther 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 tur-
ban) 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 expression-
less. In contrast to this group, at the bottom of the
painting one sees four men who appear animat-
ed; three of them are bareheaded, and two have
12 Aflaki: 580, O’Kane 405–06.
190 Elias

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.
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 recog-
nizably 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 exter-
nalities 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.
191
Many cultures characterize such emotional states
by loss of control and erratic movement, but con-
ventionality 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 bot-
tom 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 pos-
tures 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 expres-
sions 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,
192 Elias

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.
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 ap-
parent 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 Manu-
scripts (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları).
193
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 acces-
sible 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 idiosyn-
cratic. Anyone who recognizes the representation-
al 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 repre-
sented visually but not knowing what emotion it
is implies a lack of understanding of the significa-
tion of the visual representation itself. Emotion
lies at the very heart of these images, and it war-
rants focused reflection not as a peripheral aspect
of visual representation but as its subject, travel-
ing 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 claim-
ing 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 point-
ing out shortcomings in some methods of study-
ing 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 his-
tory, 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: Rout-
ledge): 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 ob-
jects themselves. As is readily acknowledged in a
number of fields such as museum studies, or ma-
terial 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 amputat-
ed 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 gram-
matical system of representation that lends itself
to such systems of interpretation.16 Other methods
of understanding objects and things, see Rose Mu-
ravchick (2014), “God is the Best Guardian: Talismanic
Shirts from the Gunpowder Empires,” PhD Disserta-
tion, 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 comprehen-
sible through a process in which something akin to a
Elias
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 bio-
graphical association with human beings (or other
biological life), recentering the focus on the ob-
ject 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 under-
stood as a sign that points to something else.19 The
grammar or bilingual dictionary enables us, first, to re-
cord 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 sym-
bolic and existential stability as a new thing.
17 For a detailed critique of the biographical model of
studying objects, see Hans Peter Hahn and Hadas
Weiss eds. (2013), Mobility, Meaning, and the Transfor-
mation of Things (Oxford: Oxbow Books). On the bio-
logical 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 Materi-
ality,” Archaeological Dialogues 14(1): 1–16.
18 David Fontijn, epilogue in H.P. Hahn and H. Weiss eds.,
Mobility, Meaning, and the Transformation of Things: 192.
19 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 Es-
sential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, vol. 2,
1893–1914, edited by the Peirce Edition Project [Bloom-
ington: 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 Anthro-
pological Theory [Oxford: Clarendon Press]: 27).
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
visual object might resemble an intended proto-
type, but it may also indicate something directly
or by association. For example, a fire alarm indi-
cates fire, emergency, and the need to exit a build-
ing equally well and, by association, it may evoke
feelings of anxiety or security. What the index ac-
tually indicates is something that cannot be taken
for granted, and no straightforward system of de-
ductive 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 com-
munication or translation – explains a material
object’s agency in the world.20 The emphasis in
such a model falls on the phenomenon of object-
agency and, only consequently, on the dynamic re-
lationship of human beings to the object. Abduc-
tion 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 re-
gard 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 re-
lationships between text or image and message,
but of changing human understandings and be-
haviors.21 However, it remains unclear whether
objects from the past themselves have retrievable
20 Gell: 13–14.
21 Gell: 6.
195
meanings or even if objects have a corporeal integ-
rity such that they can be held, possessed, contem-
plated and understood. The stability and intrinsic
nature of meaning in objects is especially relevant
to our ability to judge the representation of emo-
tion 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 associa-
tions; thus recentered as an object, the emotion be-
comes encoded with meaning. Once emotion has
been recognized as an artifact, where by ­“artifact”
we mean a specific kind of object of human manu-
facture – like a building perhaps, or a bridge – one
can then make emotion (rather than the context
of its appearance – the book or painting) the lo-
cation 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 par-
ticular, beyond an arbitrarily constructed context
of 14th to 16th century hagiographical traditions
and into the sphere of 19th and 20th century pho-
tography, 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’ ac-
counts 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 Naviga-
tions 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 dra-
matically 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 gé-
néral de lʾEmpire Ottoman written and published
in 1788 by a Catholic Armenian in Istanbul named
Muraga D’Ohsson. This work contains a substan-
tial chapter on the Sufi orders; the accompany-
ing 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 or-
ders 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 Lon-
don: Yale University Press); and Klaus Kreiser (1995),
“Die Derwische im Spiegel abendländischer Reiseb-
erichte,” in Istanbul und das osmanische Reich: Derwis-
chwesen, Baugeschichte, Inschriftenkunde (Istanbul: Isis
Verlag): 1–20.
23 Baron Ignatius Muradgea d’Ohsson (1791), Tableau gé-
néral de lʾEmpire othoman, divisé en deux parties, dont
lʾune comprend la législation mahométane, lʾautre,
lʾhistoire de lʾEmpire othoman, 4 vols. (Paris: Imprim-
erie de Monsieur); Günsel Renda (2002), “Illustrating
the Tableau Général de lʾEmpire Othoman,” in Sture
Theolin, ed., The Torch of the Empire. Ignatius Mourad-
gea d’Ohsson and the Tableau Général of the Ottoman
Elias
It was during the 19th century, right around the
time when photography became an important
medium of representing the Islamic world in Eu-
rope, 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 cen-
ter 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 repre-
senting 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 Eu-
ropean representations of the Mevlevi ritual were
based.26 Van Mour’s Mevlevis danced in a circle
Empire in the Eighteenth century (Istanbul, Yapı Kredi
Yayınları): 65–66, 72; Zarcone (2013): 47–48.
24 “Derviches tourneurs,” Magasin pittoresque (1839): 71,
from Zarcone: 51.
25 Zarcone (2013): 51–52. There is an Austrian painting
by an unknown artist alleged to date from 1654 (repro-
duced 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).
26 For more on Jean-Baptiste Vanmour and his paint-
ings 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 sup-
plicative posture of the two individuals in the fore-
ground, 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 art-
ist is found in Jean Frederic Bernard and Ber-
nard 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, be-
liefs and social customs of Arabs, Iranians and
Turks. Bernard’s text provides a history of Islam
starting with Muhammad and also includes trans-
lations of the Qurʾan. The treatment of Islam and
Muslims in this work is nuanced: the religion is
presented in comparison to Christianity, and Mu-
hammad vacillates between being a social hero
and a false prophet. Bernard and Picart’s work is
a notable exercise in a particular form of human-
ism: 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: West-
ern Artists in Arabia, the Sahara, Persia and India [New
­Canaan, ct: Laynfaroh Publishers]: 286–89).
197
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 inter-
esting, 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 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 Ber-
nard’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, Documen-
tation, and Self-Reflection in Jean Frederic Bernard
and Bernard Picart’s Representations of Islam,” in Ber-
nard 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 Ori-
entales (1686). Authors such as these were underwrit-
ten 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.
28 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 prac-
tice 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 Europe-
an artists (Peter Paul Rubens among them), collected
and copied Islamic miniature paintings.
198
Figure 8.5 Jean-Baptiste Vanmour, Whirling Dervishes, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, SK-A-4081.
achevant de tourner” by Jean-Baptiste Gérard Sco-
tin (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 musi-
cians 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).
Elias
there is an audience which, though a less promi-
nent 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 Van-
mour’s painting, and perhaps a semāʿzen bāşı, or
master of the semāʿ) is expressionless and obser-
vant. One is strongly tempted to read emotional
and quasi-emotional states into the scene, includ-
ing 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 im-
age 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 inten-
tionally represented, it is clearly understood by
observers. Cultural, societal and personal expec-
tations and biases play a large part in determining
what we will see in the expressions and actions of
the image’s subjects.
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
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 be-
gin 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 be-
tween 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 Image-
Music-Text, trans. S. Heath (New York: Hill and Wang):
45.
199
purpose of even the most ubiquitous of amateur
photographs, the selfie, which screams out the fac-
tual 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 repre-
senting 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.
200
the invention of portable photography, the pho-
tograph 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 gov-
ernments, 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 monu-
mental 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 associ-
ated with ideologies of power and dominance;
a system of exoticization and caricaturization;
and a multi-nodal dynamic network involv-
ing 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 Oriental-
ist 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 Min-
nesota Press); and Lynne Thornton (1985), Women as
Portrayed in Orientalist Painting (Paris: acr Edition).
Elias
them.33 And although European photographers
played a major role in the emergence and popular-
ization of such photography, Ottoman, Iranian and
Indian photographers were themselves active par-
ticipants in the new, compelling visual medium.34
In the 1840s, several European photographers
opened studios in Istanbul. Their customers in-
cluded 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 popu-
larity of photography in the Ottoman Empire was
only to grow with the emergence of local photo-
graphic studios.
Ottoman photography is linked with European
photography in a number of ways: it is techno-
logically dependent, in the sense that the ­earliest
33 Ali Behdad (2013), “The Orientalist Photograph,” in
Photography’s Orientalism: New Essays on Colonial
Representation, ed. A. Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los An-
geles: 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 Photogra-
phy 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 (Chica-
go: University of Chicago Press); and Nissan N. Perez
(1988), Focus East: Early Photography in the Near East,
1839–1885 (New York: Harry N. Abrams).
34 For a discussion of the positivist character of photog-
raphy 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 Ori-
entalism: New Essays on Colonial Representation, ed. A.
Behdad and L. Gartlan (Los Angeles: Getty Research
Institute): 33–52.
35 Catherine Pinguet and Pierre de Gigord (2011), Istan-
bul, photographes et sultans: 1840–1900 (Paris: cnrs Edi-
tions): 47–48, and 111–16; Zarcone: 49–50.
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
studios were established by Europeans, and sub-
sequent 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 Pal-
ace where portraits of the royal family and visit-
ing 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 im-
perative that the photographs to be taken in this
instance do not insult Islamic peoples by show-
ing them in a vulgar and demeaning light.”36
He commissioned 51 album sets containing pho-
tographs 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 pho-
tography, see Engin Çizgen (1987), Photography in the
Ottoman Empire 1839–1919 (Istanbul: Haset Kitabevi);
and Michelle L. Woodward (2003), “Between Oriental-
ist Clichés and Images of Modernization: Photographic
Practice in the Late Ottoman Era,” History of Photogra-
phy 27:4 (Winter): 363–74.
37 “Abdul-Hamid ii collection of photographs of the Ot-
toman Empire,” lc control no. 2003652945, Library of
Congress, Washington dc; Akcan (2013): 95. For more
on Abdülhamid ii’s albums and the Ottoman use
201
photography were of domestic concern as well,
serving both as a disciplinary gaze showing the
omnipresence of the state and as an index docu-
menting the extent and nature of the permissible
and impermissible in the realm.38 Largely to these
ends, the Sultan assembled the Yıldız photograph-
ic 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 natu-
ral 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
of photographic images, see Nancy C. Micklewright
(2000), “Personal, Public, and Political (Re)Construc-
tions: Photographs and Consumption,” in Consump-
tion 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 Pho-
tographic Albums,” Journal of Turkish Studies 12: 1–269.
38 The concept of disciplinary gaze was developed in John
Tagg (1988), The Burden of Representation: Essays on
Photographies and Histories (Basingstoke, uk: Macmil-
lan). The use of photography in service to the Ottoman
state has been studied (among others) by Wendy Shaw
(2003), Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeol-
ogy, and the Visualization of History in the Late Otto-
man 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.
39 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).
202
characterized by type, including sexually sugges-
tive 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 substan-
tial 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 Otto-
man world in general.41
40 Examples of such catalogs include Sébah and Joaillier,
Photographes, Catalogue général des collections des
vues photographiques de Constantinople, Brousse, Adri-
anople, 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: Rep-
resentational 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.
41 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 Cos-
tumes 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 or-
ganizers of the exhibition and by the Ottoman Sultan
Elias
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 mod-
els, 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 in-
struments, especially the reed flute [ney]), while
others could easily have been pulled out of the cu-
rio cupboard of a studio specializing in Oriental-
ist photographs: a carpet, or a book which might
­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 Rob-
ert Ousterhout, eds. (2011), Osman Hamdi Bey and the
Americans: Archaeology, Diplomacy and Art (Istanbul:
Pera Müzesi).
42 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).
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion 203

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 glar-
ing 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 rep-
resentations of piety, gravity, respect and so on in
posed portraits of Sufis. It is easy – as commen-
tators 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 repro-
duced here (and many others like them) have been
criticized on account of the contrived poses of the
204
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 as-
sumptions concerning the defining characteris-
tics of Mevlevis, or of Sufis in general. To consider
whirling to be the essential characteristic of Mev-
levi 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 sub-
jects 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
Elias
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 subor-
dinate 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 re-
maining 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
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
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 rela-
tionships (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 pho-
tography 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 along-
side 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 as-
pects of the relationship: that of book learning rep-
resented by the cloaked man and boy kneeling with
a book between them, and of ritual and medita-
tion, 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 au-
thority, master and discipleship relationships, and
demonstrations of piety. What makes a particular
scene transcend the generic representations of
Sufis and become successfully and specifically rep-
resentative of the Mevlevis is the posture (rather
than the act) of whirling, and the presence of musi-
cal 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 emo-
tion and affect textually and visually from medi-
eval 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 significa-
tion 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 focus-
es overwhelmingly (and, in my opinion, errone-
ously) on affect as an almost empirically verifiable
phenomenon.
205
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 reason-
ing that do not presume straightforward relation-
ships 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 treat-
ing the texts or images in which emotions are rep-
resented as satisfactory signs or indexes, an issue
taken up below.
In my discussion of emotion, I am not pretend-
ing that one can see a continuum of visual indica-
tors 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 re-
sponse to visual and textual description, and the
understanding of emotional response itself. The
subject of emotional response and its comprehen-
sion have been dealt with in a number of disci-
plines, 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 cultur-
al 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 em-
pirically 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, cor-
poreal beings with subliminal, visceral reactions
and responses, and that these pre-cognitive affects
are primary, whereas rationally and subjectively
206
determined responses are somehow ideologically
determined. By way of example, Massumi, one of
the most influential affect theorists, refers to af-
fect 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 affec-
tive resonances with the source of the message.”44
Although affect theory has grown greatly in
breadth and sophistication over the last two de-
cades and few would argue for a simplistic and
regressive notion of visceral reaction, there is still
a tendency among some theorists to minimize dif-
ferences 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, prima-
ry emotions or their universality, a study of how
one should understand the representation of emo-
tions 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 semiot-
ics. 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 func-
tion more or less stably for everyone who knows
43 Brian Massumi (2002), Parables for the Virtual: Move-
ment, Affect, Sensation (Durham, n.c.: Duke University
Press): 28. For more on this topic, see Elias (2018), espe-
cially chapters 2 and 3.
44 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].
Elias
their shared, conventional meaning. In contrast,
indexes (as well as icons) bear some form of re-
semblance 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 sym-
bols 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 dif-
ferent people.
Herein lies a problem central to the represen-
tation 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 un-
ambiguously. 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 laugh-
ably 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, respective-
ly. The combination of two distinct approaches into a
larger field – which has subsequently experienced sev-
eral 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 representa-
tion. In the present context, I am simply attempting to
provide a attenuated demonstration of how seemingly
Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion
Visual representations of emotion might seem
less obviously problematic, but that is not the
case. An immediate problem impacting the satis-
factory 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 ex-
plain the ways in which emotions are understood
is through a notion of “interpretive communi-
ties” first suggested by Peirce. He argues that “not
only do humans understand things using both the
eyes and the brain, we also understand things us-
ing 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 encounter-
ing 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 in-
terpretation 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 interpre-
tants for the word /dog/ could be puppy, bitch,
uncomplicated representational relationships are any-
thing but straightforward.
46 C.S. Peirce (1955), Philosophical Writings of Peirce, ed. J.
Buchler (New York: Dover): 255–57. See also C.F. Del-
aney (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), “Ab-
duction: A Theory of Visual Interpretation,” Communi-
cation Theory 6:2 (May): 167–87.
47 Peirce (1955): 99 (from Moriarty: 177–78).
207
hound, faithful companion, or even frankfurter.
Each further interpretation elaborates on the con-
cept and makes it richer, that is, it extends the in-
terpretation 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 compli-
cated and much more reliant on the existence of
an interpretive community. The relationship be-
tween a dog and a particular kind of sausage in a
bun is only clear when one is familiar with the cul-
ture in which the association is located, which is to
say when one belongs to its interpretive commu-
nity. 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 con-
cept 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 de-
tached fragment of his nation.”49 In such a notion
of an index, the focus shifts from one on objects
48 Moriarty: 177–78; T.A. Sebeok (1991), A Sign is Just a Sign
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press): 18–20.
49 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 pre-
vented 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 af-
ter Alfred Gell (New York and Oxford: Berghahn). Along
with a number of excellent essays that develop dispa-
rate 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).
208
­themselves – much less style, history or reception –
to a conceptual or theoretical construct, that of
the “social relations in the vicinity of objects me-
diating 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 hand-
kerchief 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 paint-
ings from the same era with other people hold-
ing 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, emo-
tion, 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 hand-
kerchief that enacts emotion, but it is the presence
of emotion that is enacted in the man and his hand-
kerchief. The focus on the agency of emotion, and
more specifically on enacted emotion as an object,
50 Gell: 7.
Elias
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 interac-
tive audiences such as ourselves.
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Ottoman Empire in the Eighteenth century, ed. Sture
Theolin. Istanbul, Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2002.
Rizvi, Kishwar. “Persian Pictures: Art, Documentation,
and Self-Reflection in Jean Frederic Bernard and
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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate figures.

ʿAbbasi, Ali Riza Safavid context for historical 88, [The Chronology of Ancient
Ganj Ali Khan Caravanserai 88, 91 Nations] (1647) 104
­(Kerman) 35–37, 36, 37, 38 Ahmad, Masʿud, Shahnama for Shah Ottoman context and 104–5
Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Tahmasp, Afrasiayb on the Iranian Safavid context and 103, 104
Shah) 28, 29, 29–31, 30 Throne 49, 49 Al-Biruni 111, 186–87
Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque Ahmed, Feridun 81–83, 82, 84, 86, 91 See also Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
(Isfahan) 29, 33–36, 34, 35 Ahmedi 72, 75, 78 Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology
ʿAbbas, Shah [i] (Isfahan) Ahmed Pasha 72, 73, 78 of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)
cultural contact and exchange and  Akbar, Emperor Albums (muraqqas) 1–2, 2
14 biography of 129, 130, 131, 139–40, Al-Darir, Abu Jahl hurls a rock at the
“Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas” 142 Prophet Muhammad, Siyer-i Nebi
(painting) 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25) collecting textiles and 130–31, 130 (Biography of the Prophet) 106–7,
Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i (nn. 27–28)   107, 108
Shah) 29, 31 corporeal practices with textiles and  Al-Daylami, Malik 40, 53 (n. 25), 55
politics of figural textiles and  124–25, 142 Al-Din, Burhan 150–51, 188
127–28 dargah of Nizam al-Din and 150 Al-Din, Rashid See Jami ʿal-Tawarikh
Safavid figural textile woven for 140 Humayun tomb sponsorship and  [Compendium of Chronicles]
Shaykh Lutfallah Chapel-Mosque  150, 156, 157 (Rashid al-Din)
33 politics of Safavid figural textiles Al-Din, Saʾd 57
signatures in manuscripts under  and 124–25 Al-Din Muhammad, Murshid 57
63 portrait in Safavid figural textile of  Al-Ghazali 99–100, 110–11, 111 (n. 45)
ʿAbbas, Shah (ii) 31 134, 134 Al-Haytham, Ibn 186
Abduction process, and emotions 195, sensory experiences with textiles Âli, Mustafa 81, 83, 85, 85 (n. 74), 85
205 and 131, 142 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88, 91
Abdülhamid, Sultan (ii) 201 textile production and 128–30, 129 Ali Yazdi, Sharf-uddin 139–40
Affect (n. 24), 141 (n. 55) ʿAli, Muhammad 31
art as 3–5, 3 (nn. 5–6), 4 Akbarabadi, Nazir 181 ʿAli, Muhibb 40, 58
in Turco-Persian manuscript paint- Akbar Shah 152, 155 ʿAli, Shir 52
ings 18, 95–97, 96 (n. 3), 109, 118–20 Akbar Shah ii 155 ʿAli Akbar (al-)Isfahani 27 (n. 19), 29,
See also defense of religious beliefs, Al-Abdin, Zayn (ʿAli bin Husayn) 3–4, 30, 31
and Turco-Persian manuscript 3 (nn. 5–6), 4 ʿAli b. Abi Talib (son-in-law of
paintings; devotional damage; ʿĀlamgīr, Bahādur Shāh 150, 157–58, Muhammad)
devotional damage, and image of 169, 170 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir
the Prophet Muhammad; ­devotional Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
practices, and Muslim image-­ al-Khaliya [The Chronology of Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology
making; emotions as affect Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) of Ancient Nations] (1560) 
Aflaki-i ʿArifiji, Shams al-din Ahmad-I  defacement of Turco-Persian   104–6, 105
187–88, 187 (n. 8), 189 ­manuscript 101, 102, 105 The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir
Afrasiayb on the Iranian Throne Ilkhanid context and 104 Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
[Shahnama for Shah Tahmasp] The investiture of ʿAli at Gha- Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology
(Ahmad) 49, 49 dir Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)
Agency ʿan ­al-Qurun al-Khaliya [The [1307] 101–3, 103
affect in Turco-Persian manuscript Chronology of Ancient Nations] The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir
paintings and 96, 99–100 (1307) 101–3, 103 Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
Ottoman author portraits context The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology
for historical 81–83, 82, 84, 85–91, Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)
  85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88 ʿan al-Qurun al-Khaliya [1647] 104
212
ʿAli b. Abi Talib (cont.)
The Mubahala (Day of Cursing),
Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-
Khaliya [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  emotions in 82, 82
25, 38–39
calligraphy and 24, 24 (n. 12),
32–33, 40–41
comparative studies and 22–23, 23
(n. 8)
identity and 21, 24, 25, 37–38, 37
(n. 36), 42
Iranian context for 27, 32, 38, 40,
41, 42
“Islamicate” context for 23–25,
38–39
patron and artist relationship and  70, 91
30–31, 40–41
Persian context and 19
signatures and 41–42
Sinan oversees the construction
of Süleyman’s mausoleum  Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman,
  68, 69
subjectivity and 21, 24, 27–28, 27 n
30, 32, 37–38, 40, 42
textual references for 21, 22
See also architect-builder; signature
of architects
ʿArif Chelebi, Ulu 187, 188
Artists/artworks
early modern 1
in pre-modern period 23, 25
signatures in 25 (n. 15), 48 (n. 10),
67, 67 (n. 7)
See also architect-builder; architects’
social status; and specific artists and
artworks
Asafi (Dal Mehmed Çelebi) 81, 88,
88, 91
Asafiji battling Safavids. Şecāʿatnāme  Sokollu Mehmed Pash’s Council
88, 88, 91
Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme  subjectivity and 66, 81, 91
85, 86
Ateliers for artists 135–36, 137, 169
Author portraits
Safavid context and 77 (n. 53), 88,
88, 91
Timurid context and 70–71, 71, 71
(n. 31), 73, 77
Author portraits
Ottoman 18, 91–92
Astronomer Takiyüddin. Nuṣretnāme  Ottoman 67, 68, 68 (n. 13), 83
85, 86
biographies and 66–67, 69–70, 71,
83, 91, 92
Dīvān (Ahmed Pasha) 72, 73, 78
Dīvān-i Ḥusaynī 71, 71–72, 71 (n. 31),
73, 75, 77, 78
Governor of Kars Yusuf Beg presents
booty to Lala Mustafa Pasha.
Nuṣretnāme 86, 87
Index
historians (court historians) and 
68–69, 69, 75, 77–80, 77 (n. 54)
historical agency in Ottoman author
portraits and 81–83, 82, 84, 85–91,
  85 (n. 74), 85 (n. 76), 86, 87, 88
historical context for 69–75, 71, 71
(n. 31), 73, 76, 77–81
identity and 67, 68–69, 68 (n. 19),
Iskendernāme (Ahmedi) 72, 75, 78
Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed
Pasha in Sultan Selim ii’s audience
(Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 79, 79–80
Osman and Sinan (Şehnāme-i
Selīm Ḫān) 77, 78, 78–79
Şehnāme-i humāyūn (Talikizade) 
88–91, 89
Şehnāme-i Meḥmed Ḫān 90
Selim ii watching the Imperial
Council … (Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 
  61 (n. 66), 80, 80–81
Selīmnāme’s frontispiece 76,
78, 91
Sinan oversees the construction of
Süleyman’s mausoleum 68, 69
social status and 68–69, 69, 78–81,
91–92
Sokollu Mehmed Pasha and Feridun
Ahmed Beg Mourning the death of
Sultan Süleyman 81–82, 82
 
83, 84
Sultan Selim Hunting and Courtly
Assembly [Selīmnāme image] (Şükrü
Bidlisi) 74, 74–76, 74 (n. 42),
  75 (n. 46), 78
Talikizade, Nakkaş Hasan and a
scribe at work. Şehnāme-i Meḥmed
Ḫān 90, 90–91
urban spaces and 92
Autobiographies 7, 8, 9, 12, 16, 22
See also biographies
Aydun, Hilmi 111
ʿAzud: 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
identity and 52–53, 53 (n. 22)
size of signature of 54
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)  Loharu, dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki  Color schemes
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)  Map of Delhi highlighting Shahjah-
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
  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
anabad, 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  cenotaphs as models for 150–51
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)
213
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
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
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  Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
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  of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)
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  Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 97,
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    202–3, 203, 204–5
95–96, 96 n 3
The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir
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
[1647] 104
The Mubahala (Day of Cursing),
Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun al-
Khaliya [The Chronology of Ancient
Nations] (al-Biruni) 101–2,
  101 (n. 24), 102
The persecution of Muslims, Jami
ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of
  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 ʿal-
Tawarikh [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)  Devotional practices, and Muslim
photographs of 202–5, 203, 204
Index
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 Turco-
Persian manuscript; devotional
damage; Muhammad (Prophet)
Devotional osbulation (kissing) 96,
109, 111, 112, 117, 186–87
image-making 95–96, 96 n 3,
  109, 120
Index
See also defacement of Turco-
Persian 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
Early modern period 1, 14–16, 15
See also pre-modern period
Emotions
abduction process and 195, 205
defense of religious beliefs in manu- Female context See women; women in
script paintings and 99, 100, 101,
  107, 107, 108, 108, 120
index model for 190, 194–95, 194
(n. 19), 201, 205, 206, 206 (n. 45),
207–8
as object 194–95, 194 (n. 16),
194 (n. 19), 202–3, 203, 204, 204–5
Ottoman author portraits and  Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi
82, 82
and representation in text and
­image 185–87, 189, 190, 191, 191, 192,
  193, 193
Robe fragment of silk (textile panel)  [attrib.]) 132, 133, 134
144–45, 145
semiotics and 186, 193, 206–7, 206
(n. 45)
textiles and 125, 126, 126 (n. 11), 142
Emotions as affect 3, 5, 195, 198, 205–8
in manuscript paintings 96, 97,
118–19, 120
Mevlevi Sufis and 191, 192, 193, 193
performative affects and 190, 191,
192, 193, 193
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
Epigraphy by architects See signature of
architects
Eroticism, in literary texts and images  131–32, 132, 133, 134, 134–37, 135, 135
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 manu-
script 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
Fatima (wife of Muhammad) 101–2, 101
(n. 24), 102
Fazl, Abuʾl 129, 129 (n. 24), 130 (n. 27),
131, 141 (n. 55), 142
Dihlavī’s poetry
Festival of Holi 172, 173, 174
Figural textiles, Safavid 18, 124–28, 126
(n. 11), 144
ateliers and 135–36, 137
Emperor Jahangir holding a ceremo-
nial crown (Bichitr) 132, 134, 134
Shaikh to Kings (Bichitr) 136,
  136–37
Emperor Jahangir Weighing Prince
Khurram in Gold (Manohar
interiority in paintings with 139,
139 (n. 45), 144
in literary fiction 124, 139–41,
140 (n. 49), 141 (nn. 52–53),
141 (nn. 52–54), 144
mirror images in 127, 127
paintings with 131–32, 133, 134,
134–37, 135, 135 (n. 40), 136,
138, 139
Persian context for 135, 136, 136–37
in politics 141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145
Prince with a falcon 132
Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian
Captives (textile panel) 127, 128
215
Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest
sons and Asaf Khan during his acces-
sion ceremonies (Bichitr) 137, 138,
  139, 139 (n. 44)
subjectivity in paintings and 
(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)  Muslim image-making practices
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  al-Khaliya [The Chronology of
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
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
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
Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) [1307]  portraits of 125
  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
Index
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
Shah-Jahan receives his three eldest
sons and Asaf Khan during his acces-
sion 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  languages and 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 170
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  Gold 132, 133, 134
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)  Masjidi Jadid-i ʿAbbasi (Masjid-i Shah)  Bahadur Shah 152, 152–53,
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)
(n. 12), 171–72, 171 (n. 16), 181, 183
love in 168–69, 178, 180, 182
Mevlevi Sufis in 187–89, 187 (n. 8)
Mughal Delhi 149 (See also
Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”]
(Dargah Quli Khan))
in Ottoman Turkish context    202–3, 203, 204–5
182 (n. 45)
Safavid figural textiles in 124,
139–41, 140 (n. 49),
141 (nn. 52–54), 144
in Urdu 181, 182, 183
Lodge (Mevlevîhâne), and Mevlevi Sufis  photographs of 196, 199, 202–3,
196–97, 202–3, 202 (n. 42), 203,
204–5
See also Mevlevi Sufis
Lokman, Seyyid 77, 78, 79, 79–80, 80
Lokman and Sokollu Mehmed Pasha in
Sultan Selim ii’s audience
(Şehnāme-i Selīm Ḫān) 79, 79–80
Love, in literary texts 168–69, 178,
180, 182
Mandīl (handkerchiefs) 126
Manohar (attrib.), Emperor Jahangir
Weighing Prince Khurram in
Manuscript workshops 50 (n. 14), 51,
51 (n. 18)
See also defacement of
­Turco-Persian manuscript;
­devotional practices, and ­Muslim
image-making; signatures in
­manuscripts; Turco-Persian
­manuscript paintings, and affect
Map of Delhi highlighting
Shahjahanabad, Nizamuddin, and
Mehrauli [Delhi: A Thousand Years
of Building] (Peck) 150, 150
Masjid-i Hakim (Isfahan) 31
28, 29, 29–31, 30, 33
Masjid-i ʿAli mosque (Isfahan) 5–6, 5
(n. 12), 6, 6 (n. 13), 7 (n. 15)
Mehmed iii 81, 189
Mehrauli, Mughal Delhi 150, 150, 151,
151 (n. 10), 155–56
Melā (Dihlavī) 176
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 119
Mevlevîhâne (lodge) 196–97, 202, 202
(n. 42), 203
See also Mevlevi Sufis
Mevlevi Sufis 185
217
emotions as affect and 191, 192,
193, 193
emotions as object and 195, 203,
204–5
ethnographic gaze 196, 197
Head of Mevlevi lodge in Galata with
Mevlevis… (Sébah & Joaillier)
in literary texts 187–89, 187 (n. 8)
lodge (Mevlevîhâne) and 196–97,
202–3, 202 (n. 42), 203, 204–5
paintings and pictorial representa-
tions of 188, 189, 190, 196
203, 204, 204–5
pre-modern period representation
of 197
A samāʿ during the Leadership of
Rumi’s Successor, Husam al-Din
[Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah]
(Dede) 191, 192
See also Rumi; Sufism
Mimār (architect-builder) See
architect-builder (mimār)
Mirkhwand, Rawdat al-Safa 117–18,
118, 119
Mirror images in Safavid figural textiles 
127, 127
Mīr Yār ʿAlī Khān (Jān Sāhib) 181–82
Mirza, Sam 6, 55
Mirza, Sultan Ibrahim
Divan of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza 58,
59, 60, 61
Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami) 
45–46, 58, 61, 61 (n. 58)
Mosque of Gawhar Shad (Mashhad) 
21–22, 22, 23, 28, 38–42
Mosques, and Mughal Delhi 151, 152,
152, 152 (n. 14), 153, 157–58
See also specific mosques
Moti Masjid and burial enclosure of
  152 (n. 14), 153 (n. 16)
The Mubahala (Day of Cursing),
Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-Qurun
al-Khaliya [The Chronology of
Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni) 
  101–2, 101 (n. 24), 102
Mughal context
artists in 1
autobiographies in 7, 9
in early modern period 16
female-centered narratives in court-
ly culture and 125, 125 (nn. 4–5)
218
Mughal context (cont.)
paintings with figural textiles and  (Dargah Quli Khan) 148, 148 (n. 1),
141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145
portraits in 9, 11, 11–12
signatures in manuscripts in  architecture in urban spaces in  Orientalism, and photographs
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 al-
Qurun 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
Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”]
  149, 150, 158–59
ʿAli’s shrines and 160, 164
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  autobiographies in 67, 68,
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  See also author portraits, Ottoman;
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
Index
Nüzhetüʾl-aḫbār der sefer-i Sīgetvār
[Chronicle of the Szigetvár
Campaign] (Ahmed) 81, 86, 91
199–202
Osman Pasha, Özdemiroǧlu 77, 78, 80,
80, 83, 88
Ottoman context
artists in 1
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 al-
Qurun 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)
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
Patrons, and Mughal Delhi 151, 153,
155, 156, 157, 163, 165
Performative affects 190, 191, 192,
193, 193
See also emotions as affect
The persecution of Muslims, Jami
ʿal-Tawarikh [Compendium of
Chronicles] (Rashid al-Din) 97,
  97–98
Persian context
architect in 19, 26
artists in 1
Emperor Jahangir Preferring a Sufi
Shaikh to Kings (Bichitr) 136,
  136–37
eroticism in literature and 175
Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”]
(Dargah Quli Khan) and 159
parchin kāri (hard stone) inlay
­technique and 14
poetry and 24 (n. 12), 55, 168,
169, 182
for Safavid figural textiles 135, 136,
136–37
signatures in artworks and  141–45, 143 (n. 65), 145
48 (n. 10), 67, 67 (n. 7)
signatures in manuscripts and 45,
45 (n. 1), 46, 49, 50–51, 52 (n. 21),
55 (n. 35)
women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  Jahangir’s court and 11,
168, 169, 172, 178, 180, 181, 182,
182 (n. 43)
Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”)  11 (n. 30), 16
135, 135
See also defense of religious beliefs,
and Turco-Persian manuscript
paintings; devotional practices,
and Muslim image-making; Turco-
Persian manuscript paintings,
and affect
Photographs
dervishes 202–5, 203, 204
ethnographic gaze in 182
of Mevlevi Sufis 196, 199, 202–3,
203, 204, 204–5
orientalism and 199–202
Picart, Bernard, Ceremonies et Coutumes
réligieuses de tous les Peuples du
Monde (Bernard and Picart)  in Muslim world 24
  197–98, 197 (nn. 197–98), 198
Pietra dura (hard stone) inlay technique  69–73, 71, 71 (n. 31), 73
14
Pilgrimages to dargahs 150, 156, 157,
157, 160, 161
Placement of signatures in manuscripts  Prisoner imagery
48–49, 58, 60
Plan of dargah of Nizam al-Din  Captives (textile panel) 127, 128
157
Plan of the Dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki,
Zafar Mahal Palace, Moti Masjid and
burial enclosure of Bahadur Shah
  151, 151
Poetry: languages and 169–70,
170 (n. 8)
in Persian context 24 (n. 12), 55,
168, 169, 182
rekhta 169, 170, 172, 181, 182
Safavid figural textiles and  The Prophet Muhammad rides into the
124, 140–41, 140 (n. 49),
141 (nn. 52–54), 144
shahrāshūb genre and 159–60, 162,
176, 176 (n. 28), 182
in Urdu 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171, 172,
178, 180 (n. 38)
See also Dihlavī, Fāʾiz, and poetry;
women in Dihlavī’s poetry
Politics
Safavid figural textiles and 124–25,
textiles and 126, 127–28
Portraits
Jahangir embracing Shah ʿAbbas
(painting) 9–10, 10, 10 (n. 25)
11 (n. 30)
of Jahangir’s courtiers 11,
Portrait of Abdur Rahim 11, 12
Portrait of a dying Inayat Khan
(attrib. Balchand) 16, 17
Portrait of Karabagi, Lokman,
Osman and Sinan (Şehnāme-i
Selīm Ḫān) 77, 78, 78–79
Portrait of Sir Robert Shirley    23, 28, 38–42
13–14, 14
self-representation in 16, 17
“suggestive” portraits and 11,
11 (n. 27)
Pre-modern period
artworks in 23, 25
Iranian context and 2
Mevlevi Sufis images and 197
Ottoman author portraits in  Recueil de cent estampes représentant
in Turco-Persian world 97
See also early modern period
Prince with a falcon 132
219
Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian
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
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,
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
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)  Saif ul-Muluk 124, 140–41, 141 (n. 52), 144
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)  Savāqib-i manāqib-i -i evliyā Allah
  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    80, 80–81
28–29
self-representation in architecture  frontispiece 76, 78, 91
5, 6, 6 (nn. 13–14), 7 (n. 15)
signatures in manuscripts in 48,
49, 55, 55 (n. 34), 62–63
Safavid Courtiers Leading Georgian
Captives (textile panel) 127, 128
Safi, Shah (i) 31
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
(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  The investiture of ʿAli at Ghadir
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),
Selīmnāme
Sultan Selim Hunting and Courtly
Assembly (Şükrü Bidlisi) 74, 74–76,
  74 (n. 42), 75 (n. 46), 77, 78, 81
Index
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 al-
Qurun al-Khaliya [The Chronology
of Ancient Nations] (al-Biruni)
[1307] 101–3, 103
Khumm, Al-Athar al-Baqiya ʿan al-
Qurun 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)
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 (Ker-
man) 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  (n. 26), 55, 60
30–31, 40–41
Qurʾanic verses in 6, 40, 42
Safavid Isfahan signatory marks and  Sinan 22, 23, 37 (n. 36), 67, 68, 69
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  Sokollu Mehmed Pash’s Council 83, 84
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  architects’ social status and 21, 24,
58, 59, 60
Haft awrang of Jami (Freer Jami)  Mughal courtly culture and 125
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  Sufism
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
See also signature of architects;
signatures in artworks
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  Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste 149
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
Status, and signatures in manuscripts  in Iran 127–28, 129, 130, 132, 134,
46, 52–53, 53 (n. 22), 57, 58,
59, 60, 62
See also architects’ social status
Subjectivity
27–28, 27 n 30, 32, 37–38, 40, 42
Ottoman author portraits and 66,
81, 91
221
in paintings with Safavid figural
textiles 131–32, 133, 134, 134–37, 135,
  135 (n. 40), 136, 138, 139
urban 150, 157, 165
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
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)
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)  in Mughal Delhi 160–61, 162–63
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 Turco-
Persian 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; Turco-
Persian manuscript paintings, and
affect; Turco-Persian world
Index
Urban spaces daily life activities and 168, 169,
cultural contact and exchange in  170, 176, 176 (n. 28), 181
12–14, 13, 14, 17 eroticism and 168, 175, 178,
in early modern period 14–16, 15 180, 182
Isfahan and 34, 34 (n. 34) ethics and 170, 180, 181
ethnographic gaze and 169, 172
Ottoman author portraits and 92 fairs and 169, 172, 176
self-representation in 14–15, 15 female ascetic ( jogan) and 176,
sensory experiences of 160, 162–63 178, 178 (n. 32), 179
See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi festival of Holi and 172, 173
Urban subjectivity 150, 157, 165 Gujri (poem) 180–81
See also cityscape of Mughal Delhi; Hindavi and 171
Muraqqaʻ-yi Delhi [“Delhi Album”] Indian context 168, 169, 171,
(Dargah Quli Khan) 171 (n. 16), 180, 182, 182 (n. 39),
Urdu 182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45)
literary texts in 181, 182, 183 Jogan (poem) 176, 178
women in Dihlavī’s poetry and  Kāchan (poem) 178
169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171, 172, 178, 180 language and 170, 170 (n. 12),
(n. 38) 171, 181
Urdu literature 171, 172, 178, 180 (n. 38), love and 168–69, 178, 180, 182
181, 182, 183 Melā (poem) 176
Ustad Ibrahim ibn Ustad Ismaʿil Bannaʾ Persian context 168, 169, 172, 178,
Isfahani 25 180, 181, 182, 182 (n. 43)
publications 170, 170 (n. 12), 181
Valī, Mahmūd Amīr 175, 182 public spaces and 169, 172–73
Valī Dakhnī 171, 171 (n. 16) rekhta poetry and 170, 172,
Van Dyck, Anthony 128 181, 182
Vanmour, Jean-Baptiste shahrāshūb genre and 176,
Recueil de cent estampes représent- 176 (n. 28), 182
ant différentes nations du Levant  Sufi shrines and 172, 180
  196–97, 198 Tanbolan (poem) 178, 180
Whirling Dervishes 198, 199 Taʿrīf-i Holī (poem) 173
Veils 96, 106, 106 (n.)31, 117–18 Taʿrīf-i Nahān Nigambod (poem) 
174, 175–76
Whirling Dervishes (postcard)  Taʿrīf-i Panghat (poem) 172–73
202, 204 topographical themes and 171,
Whirling Dervishes (Vanmour) 198, 199 181, 182
Whirling meditational dance (semaʿ)  tradeswomen and 172, 176,
185, 196 178, 180–81, 181 (n. 38),
Women 182 (n. 39)
female-centered narratives in Urdu and 169–70, 170 (n. 8), 171,
Mughal courtly culture and 125, 172, 178, 180 (n. 38)
  125 (nn. 4–5) woman bathing and 173, 175–76,
in Mughul Delhi social system  176 (n. 26)
163–64, 164 (n. 57) See also Dihlavī, Fāʾiz, and poetry
in Ottoman Turkish context 168, Woven and embroidered inscriptions
182 (n. 43), 182 (n. 45) (tiraz) 125–26
Women bathing in a lake (painting) 
175–76, 177 Yari Haravi 53–54, 53 (n. 25),
Women celebrating Holi (attrib. 54 (n. 26)
Kālān Khān) 173, 174 Yogini in a Landscape (painting) 
Yogini in a Landscape (painting)  178, 179
178, 179 Young prince (“Muhammad Haravi”) 
Women in Dihlavī’s poetry 135, 135
Bhangedan-i Dargāh-i Qutb (poem)  Yusuf ibn Taj al-Din Bannaʾ Isfahani 
180 25