Facing East: Comparing Calligraphic Practices and their Relationships to Mizrah, Ad Orientem, and Qibla
Over millennia, the Abrahamic traditions occupy the same space, steal and trade, fight, create alliances, and plait together over time, building a braided history in which the three religions are inextricably intertwined. In this essay, I will demonstrate how calligraphy reinforces the idea of "facing east"– or toward God– within Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. This practice, connected by their Abrahamic roots, is identified in each religion as Jewish mizrah, Christian ad orientem, and Islamic qibla.
Beginning with Judaism, the essay analyzes mizrah and its relationship to Shiviti micrography, the role of words as border and object, and Hebrew text/scripture as place. These practices and a Shiviti or mizrah manuscript's placement on the eastern-most wall direct the worshiper physically and spiritually toward Jerusalem and the Lord.
Following this section is ad orientem in Christianity. While ad orientem in Catholic mass refers typically to the priest's positioning, whether when offering the eucharist they face the congregation, versus populum, or ad orientem. However, in another, more theological sense, this term can mean facing toward the Lord. Throughout all sects of Christianity, the symbol of the cross is the focus of meditation in public services. However, numerous non-liturgical books and manuscripts that mark a tradition of turning one's thoughts to God are in the form of calligraphy within illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages. This essay will focus on the role of historiated and anthropomorphized text, illuminated initials as windows, and personal devotionals' as ad orientem.
Finally, I compare various qibla compasses, prayer rugs, and manuscripts, all geographically tied to the Fertile Crescent, dated between 1650 - 1900, and all marked with the same destination– the Ka'aba in Mecca. Through this comparison, the essay focuses on Arabic word and scripture as it adds value to the compass, calligraphy as an indication of regional origin, and the intertwined relationships between scripture, the hajj, and the compass. Each of the three sections ends with an American artist (or artists) that engage with calligraphy and image within their traditions. The totality of this essay will address the combined relationship of image and word and how calligraphy binds the two together.
✡
Figure 1. Shiviti Amulet Manuscript, India, 20th c.
Figure 2. Anthropomorphized Initial Word, The Golden Haggadah, British Library, 1320-30
The Shiviti is a Jewish, religious manuscript often placed on the synagogue's eastern-most wall (mizrah). This manuscript aims to serve as a meditative point for God's many names, also known as the Tetragrammaton, with the words of God forming the shape of a menorah/tree. Most commonly, the Shiviti starts with an excerpt from Psalms 16:8 that reads, "I have placed the Lord (יהוה) always before me."
In terms of its relation to calligraphy, I read the Shiviti in its ability to address hierarchy. Arabic calligraphy illustrates this idea, which makes sense as Arabic and Hebrew are Semitic-rooted languages/cultures. However, because Hebrew has the most varied calligraphy functions, there is far more play with the idea of space and object. When addressing Arabic, I will focus more on the shapes of letters and how that lyricism affects language. I have divided this first part of the essay into two sections; the first will analyze Hebrew and image relationships. And the second, the Kabbalist Tree of Life as it relates to the Shiviti and Hebrew.
Much like historiated initials in Christian manuscripts, Hebrew uses capitalization to divide multiple books in the Jewish Bible's medieval pages. Because of the expense of creating books, printers would eliminate the spaces between paragraphs. However, instead of a single initial, the entire first word of any section is made larger as there are no capital letters in the Hebrew language. (Figure 2). Initial words exist in illuminated Haggadahs and other texts separate from the Tanakh.
Not only does Hebrew traditionally not have capitalization, but manuscripts often lack punctuation and notation of vowels. All Hebrew words (and Arabic for that matter) are read from right to left and derived from a three-letter root. Depending on the vowels–nekkudot– noted and associated with the root word, the meaning will change. For example, the word melech ("me-le-ch," מֶלֶךְ ) means "king." Its three-letter root is mem, lamed, kaff, and is noted with two short "e" s as the connecting vowels. Similar to this word is "malach" ("ma-la-ch," מָלַךְ), meaning "to reign." With the same three-letter root, this variation is noted with a short "a" followed by long "a."
Because of the oral traditions surrounding Judaism and Hebrew, most manuscripts contain only consonants. This lack of specificity sometimes makes translating Hebrew problematic, relying on additional information to parse through text. With the previous example of מלך, someone translating could figure out the word intended with the context clues of the story or sentence. Or, if the time and place origin is known, other related manuscripts can function as a key. (Endnote 1).
It is essential to understand this history of Hebrew because it reflects community and storytelling's cultural value. With most Jewish people already knowing the Tanakh stories, the need for specificity in written documents is not high. Even contemporary Hebrew functions the same way. A word gains meaning in the context of a sentence. Alone, a term may have multiple definitions of meaning, but the word becomes realized in a sentence. The Hebrew language, as discussed in the Zohar Chadash, is understood in two sections– the body and the soul. The letters, representing the body, hold this potential of meaning. With its paired 'soul,' or vowel, the word becomes actualized.
This microcosm of the Hebrew word building context through collectiveness is a parallel and foil to hierarchy. The same patterns occur in English, Arabic, and numerous other languages. Still, I want to contextualize this idea with that of Kabbalist thought and cosmic order. This type of mysticism holds God's word as the foundation for 'all that is' and understands the letters of the Hebrew language with a certain gravity.
Figure 3. Carmina Figurata, end of Deuteronomy, France, 1861
Figure 4. Kabbalist Tree, copied by James Hepburn, Bodleian Library, Oxford, 1606
To build off the understanding of Hebrew architecture, I will discuss the word's role as an object. Carmina figurata –or "shaped poem" in Latin – is an example of Hebrew artistry that pushes this idea to its furthest extent—literally transforming words into an image. Not all, but the majority of carmina figurata creates forms that are related to the story being told. These shapes are often simplified and look like a separate piece of marginalia was granted its own space, centered on the page. I will discuss this further toward the end of the essay when comparing the Arabic traditions of calligrams. As you read carmina figurata, the viewer meditates on both the meaning of the text and its relationship to the abstracted image. For the Shiviti, the role of scripture and its relationship to the menorah extends to Jerusalem (mizrah) and God.
There are rules about letters and formation in virtually all forms of symbolic or artistic calligraphy and text. In the included Shiviti, we see several repeated motifs of the menorah. When writing a page in the same font and script format across the surface, space is no longer present, and therefore no hierarchy of space exists. (figure 1).
Alchemy, language, and mysticism go hand in hand throughout the Middle Ages, whether it be Jewish, Christian, or Islamic forms. Jewish mysticism, or Kabbalah, is historically bound to calligraphy by two important ideas. First, the Hebrew alphabet is a code that helps an alchemist concoct elements. Second, the alphabet is a cipher that dissects secret or Gnostic information, ensuring one's place in the afterlife.
The history of Jewish mysticism holds a particular role in the preservation of Hebrew at its core. Kabbalists, who practiced in small, insular sects, traveled nomadically through northern Africa, the Mediterranean, and Europe. Throughout the Jewish diaspora timeline, Kabbalists carried their knowledge interacting with other Abrahamic forms of mysticism. Peculiarities in practice are forgotten over time. However, the relationship between word and asceticism is stressed within all information that does remain.
The connections between Hebrew and the Jewish diaspora extend past that of Kabbalah and bring me back to the Shiviti. Jewish followers treat the Hebrew language with a high level of preciousness. From laws that dictate the careful replication of text to the way religious books are stacked on a shelf. The Shiviti manuscripts' role as a focal point not only allows one to focus on God but, when included in prayer, it can become 'place.'. While mizrah faces east toward Jerusalem, the temples of the past are no longer present. As a substitute, the Shiviti represents illustrations of the ark and the second temple. The next page demonstrates an example.
Figure 5. Shiviti and the Temple, Asher ben Menachem Hirschhorn, Vienna, lithograph, 49.7 x 65.3 cm, 1897
Figure 6. Kabbalist Shiviti
This meditated space is both individualized and shared. As an event, the diaspora connects the followers of Judaism while allowing personal interpretations to exist independently. It is important to note that those unfamiliar with Judaism understand that Kabbalah stands off from the mainstream of Jewish belief. It is notably different in its Gnostic knowledge, parallel to Christian mysticism, and adopted duality and hierarchy. Overall, the descendants of both Greek, neo-Platonists, and Plotonists greatly influenced its formation. (footnote Alphabetic Labyrinth).
Most recognizable of Kabbalist faith is that of the Sepherotic or Kabbalist Tree of life. Illustrating the meditative path toward enlightenment is the ten sephirot, representing God's many names and attributes. The Kabbalist tree, depicted in figure 4, runs the full length of the manuscript. The tree begins with the earthly realm at the bottom, working up to the top's heavenly kingdom. Along this line are multiple intersections between additional 'branches' and circles that they connect, placed underneath the entire page–shaped like a temple. These colorful circles and the words within them are the sephirot. I chose to identify the Kabbalist tree as it reflects the spiritual importance of intense meditation on Hebrew text. And in the same tradition, it is depicted with tree-like shapes and menorahs as a focal point of prayer.
Micrography, while practiced in all Abrahamic religions, is known to be intimately tied to the Hebrew language. Referring back to figure 1, we can follow the text's continually changing direction. The reader slows their eyes into a more contemplative pace, tracing the poem around the form of the tree. This marriage of word and image creates a vibration, literally between the lines, as the story becomes an object.
Above (figure 6), we see an example of a more structured menorah shaped like a rainbow. Placed in the center, this representation of the menorah is almost like a response in prayer, mirrored to God's covenant with man. Paired next to this are hands mimicking the menorah branches that collectively create a scene reaching up to the heavens. What is of particular interest to me are the instances in which word becomes both subject and border. Once again, figure 1 represents this duality of object and framing device. The calligraphy is standard throughout the document, without altering font or size. Other than the name of God, no one area takes precedence over the other.
The intent here is not to definitively connect the Kabbalist tree with other forms of micrography but to illustrate the repetitive and important role that word plays in the Jewish faith. Kabbalist systems' purpose is to magnify the vastness of God. That with our limited consciousness as human beings, we cannot comprehend the Lord, whether visual or by description. As mentioned before, the Tetragrammaton is a phrase used to substitute the word 'God,' also called the Ain-Soph, which means infinite and boundless. YHWH ( י yod, ה heh, ו vav, ה heh). (Endnote 2).
In Judaism, the soferet, or one who writes the Torah, spiritually connects practice and the Hebrew language. The Torah–Pentateuch–is written by hand and presented to newly opened synagogues. To practice this form of calligraphy, one must be familiar with the laws associated with scribing and letters. American soferet, Julie Seltzer, describes the process of writing as highly meditative. As a student of Hebrew myself, I find the structure of words and sentences fascinating. Much of the translation process requires prolonged attention and excitement for problem-solving. The practice itself can become encompassing, and in that consumption, I connect translation to spirituality. I find it to be of particular significance in a 2011 interview with Seltzer, where she describes the practice of kavanah. This term describes the process for a scribe writing the word of God, which must first be read aloud, with intention or kavanah, before registering it upon the page– similar to the Islamic bismillah.
Suppose a mistake is made during the production of a scroll. In that case, a soferet can go back and correct the word subtractively. Editing is a gift at times to the soferet due to laws invalidating scrolls that have errors. Because of this careful and purposeful attention when copying the Pentateuch, I find parallels in papercutting's material specificity. Originating from the German scherenschnitte traditions, Jewish paper cutting creates delicate symmetry and necessitates a deliberate hand. On the next page is an example created by American Phillip Cohen. Tiny American flags mount the tops of the temple on either side, what I would attribute to proto-Zionist thought, the entirety of which is placed on a cobalt blue page.
Figure 7. American Papercut Shiviti, Phillip Cohen, Skirball Cultural Center, 1861
Figure 8. The Ascension, initial (cutting) from an antiphonary, vellum, 110 x 80 mm, 1350-1400
✝
Ad orientem–to the east–has multiple definitions. In one sense, it means to face east, but in another, more theological understanding, Christians face toward the Lord. Within the context of calligraphy and Christianity, I find the role of the historiated initials to represent the Christian, text-iconographic relationship. Many illuminated manuscripts reflect this connection in the calligraphy. In this essay, I will focus on historiated initials and their importance as private devotionals and the initial as a window or portal to God.
The development of English calligraphy, much like Arabic and Hebrew, reflects the history of religions and trade in any one area. After the fall of the Roman empire, the scribe's role dropped out of the secular arena and into the Christian church. Thus, the importance of the monk's role as a scribe fell into practice for a large portion of the Middle Ages. As technology slowly advanced, material upgrades such as developments in paper made calligraphy and illumination more prevalent. The invention of printing both sped reproduction while relocating the creation of books, at least partly, back into the secular sphere. This movement between sacred production and lay is also seen in the history of the qibla compass, as I will discuss later.
As a reader of the 21st century, this essay's florid calligraphy can be challenging to read. Much attention is required to parse through and determine particular letters, in addition to the means it takes to read a full text. The accurate understanding of these manuscripts relies on the eye's ability to follow the endless turns and knots to recognize and understand these pages. Johanna Drucker, the author of the Alphabetic Labyrinth, points out that this inhibition to access the text may not be exclusive to an audience distanced by as much time as the contemporary student. Drucker explains that many readers would have experienced this confusion at the time of their production as well. Many Christian monks of the Middle Ages, although literate in English, were not always educated in Latin. The Vulgate, an early Latin-word Bible, was often transcribed by monks that understood the visual presence of letters more than a comprehension of the text. Many hand-written manuscripts that exist have misspelled words, irregular margins, and odd spacing due to not understanding the language. Because of that illiteracy, scribes–monastic and lay–would have engaged with biblical text similar to those of their community. I bring this to the point because there is a consistent, cyclical relationship between reader and text. On the one hand, the viewer is problem-solving through reading and visually analyzing ornamentation. On the other hand, it is the reader's comprehension of the text. The time that separates these two points is a spiritual relationship in constant motion: spiritual Knowledge informing literate knowledge and vice versa.
Figure 9. The start to Tuesday, Devote ghetiden vanden leven ende passie Jhesu Christi, 1483
Throughout the Middle Ages, shifts of power within the Church and a growing merchant class resulted in more individualized lay Christianity practices. This move from the public, liturgical services toward a more intimate, devotional worship gave rise to the Book of Hours. What ended up being the most highly published set of books throughout the Middle Ages, the Book of Hours provides hourly meditations as a supplement for those without the direct guidance of the Church. These books began strictly as canonical assistants and quickly became intimate and personalized devotional objects. As the Middle Ages became reacquainted with decoration, religious manuscripts made several transformations that demonstrated medieval piety's surprising flexibility.
Historiated initials transform from knotted, Latin iterations to windows illuminated with a single-point perspective. The printing press's invention cemented the initial as an entity that demands rumination, separate from the text. When creating a book, printers in the late Middle Ages would have begun by publishing the text first, taking careful note of margins and space– mis en page. Once completed and delivered to the illuminator, the manuscript is filled with ornamental figures, including the historiated initial and other marginalia. In addition to windows, these emphasized initials exist as markers in the text to determine the start of chapters. Jewish manuscripts created during that time had the same practical function of the letter as a marker. However, because Hebrew does not distinguish capital letters, the initial-word takes its place. (figure 2).
Figure 10. Dutch Book of Hours, ca. 1470, with illuminated miniatures attributed to the Masters of the Zwolle Bible
As decorating and personalization became more prevalent in publishing, the relationship between the word of God and illumination created a symbolic clash of ad orientem. A prescriptive, printed and set literature representing the church and autonomous images/editions reflecting the people. Without surprise, movement away from the word of God left those in the church aggravated and emboldened. The Cistercian, St. Bernard in the 12th century, attacked decorated letters as being "frivolous," claiming that they were without meaning or value and were a waste of scribes' time. In St. Bernard's view, the word and meaning of text take precedence over any material form. This tension is a relationship that art historian Anna Dlabacova refers to as an "image-text diptych" in their article Religious Practice and Experimental Book Production. This term describes the pairing of an image with text to deepen emotional and religious experience. This increasingly visual relationship directly preceded the sweeping abolition of images in the Reformation of the 16th century.
I continue to refer to the initial as a window. And by that, I mean it as a transformative portal that connects the reader to the Creator. In some instances, the window functions to transform larger, illuminated painting to the text. The historiated initial acts as this portal on its own by framing an image much like a traditional painting. Even religious texts created for lay parishioners greet viewers with large, open initials. Many of which look like eyes or open wounds. (Figure 9). By the end of the Middle Ages, a wealthy patron could purchase a Book of Hours, paid by the initial, with specifications on what saints and prayers to include.
In the more extravagant Book of Hours, the initials seem to function more as a metamorphic tool, helping the viewer move from a larger image through the initial into the text. (Figure 10). It is in these transitional moments that the historiated initial is essential. In the examples provided above are illustrations of the ascension. (figures 8 & 9). The tiny group of apostles, cramped into the bottom of each scene, look up for a glimpse of Jesus' feet and robe. I chose these examples to be a bit cheeky in that the apostles face the Lord, and as a reader, we face the image, mimicking the gesture.
The idea of windows in relation to text is not a unique perspective. Nicolas Zinzendorf, a German-American immigrant and spiritual leader of the Brudergemeine (later, Moravian) community, emphasized Christ's passion, particularly that of the wounds. Located in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, Moravian wound worship focuses on the five wounds of the passion almost as a rosary. They are advocating its presence as a portal or window and a place of shelter, healing, and rebirth.
Figure 11. Moravian Devotional Cards
Figure 12. Mariane von Watteville. Watercolor and embroidery on card stock. 16 cm x 11 cm.
In the image above, we see an example of Moravian devotional cards. These images were created and gifted within their communities as a means of strengthening faith and increasing fellowship. Some cards illustrate the door of the home as a wound. This wound behaves like a mezuzah. This item contains a scroll of the Decalogue and is placed on the front door frame of a Jewish home. A reminder that you are to remember God when exiting into the world through the wound.
Above, these seitenhohlchenkarten or 'side-hole wound cards' relate to multiple medieval iconographic traditions. They resemble windows of the heart seen in medieval manuscripts and relate to side-hole worship of the Middle Ages. (figure 14). These cards are small and intimate, acting as tiny representations of the 'room' one builds inside the body of Christ. In some cases, this work resembles that of mouths with words written on the lips. Or eyes, red from crying. Many feminist reads exist substituting the wound for a womb– particularly that of images illustrating parishioners passing through the opening. (figure 12). Overall, what is of particular interest in these readings are the cases in which Christ's body becomes feminized– or stereotyped as such– a presence that is open, passive, and suffering.
Figure 13. Qibla Compass, Ottoman Turkey, 18th c., 19.7 cm diam.
Figure 14. Christ’s Side Wound, Jean le Noir, Psalter and Prayer Book of Bonne de Luxembourg, circa 1330.
☪
Arabic calligraphy presents an almost never-ending expression of cultural diffusion that maps regional specificity and history. In its many forms, Arabic highlights vast differences in the shape of letters. Some styles of calligraphy are for specific religious purposes, and other types their ornamentation. Some fonts exist for clarity and ease of reading, others a reflection of regional isolation. (figure 15). The letters themselves have far more fluidity in representation, unlike Hebrew and English, both rigidly, block-type, and uncial. Overall, Arabic calligraphy has multitudes of intersections with the faith and economy of the Muslim world.
The connections to religious objects and calligraphy are many, including but not limited to, amulets, mosques, signatures, clothing, prayer rugs, and the primary topic of discussion–the compass. All items inscribed with Arabic take on protective properties. A large part of this is due to Arabic being synonymous with Islam. Even if the believer speaks a different language, they know Arabic as the 'holy writing.'
Figure 15. Types of Script, Muslims.sg
Much of the qibla compass is about the specificity of place and lineage. I find this interesting because the history of calligraphy holds many of the same concerns and documentation. Like the other Abrahamic religions, large sections of the Koran commit to listing lineage. Many Islamic relics have the name of their maker inscribed and some list by whom it was commissioned. This tradition is unlike the anonymity seen in Judaism and Christianity. Not all religious objects have these details; in particular, I think of lay instruments. But even without the authorship signed, a portion of information can be gleaned from the calligraphy and other minute details.
For example, figure 16 displays a beautifully painted compass that contains an image of the Ka'aba. A small cube nestles inside a wreath of faceted, cardinal directions. On either side sit the indications of Mecca and Medina, both integral in the hajj. Below is a spread of cities leading one to the Ka'aba placed in a grid-like formation. Inside the tiny boxes are names of towns along the journey, written in reqaa script. With this information, historians can trace the list of cities and calligraphy back to the compass's geographical place of creation– the Ottoman Empire.
Figure 16. Ottoman qibla compass, Turkey, 19th c., 4.7 cm. Diam.
Not all compasses contain engravings with such detail. However, these compasses' production overlapping the newly forming merchant class creates an increased overlap between economy and religion. Islam is not alone in this relationship. A medieval book of hours was very similar in that advances in printing allowed for more personalization and a certain autonomy level– correlated with wealth. As seen below, this illustrious qibla compass was commissioned for Grand Vizier Yegen Mehmet Pasha. Upon opening the door's flaps, this marbled device centers two large circles connected with the tiniest of compasses. The top vignette illustrates the Ka'aba and the second frame shows Mecca with its relation to the surrounding geography.
Figure 17. Qibla compass, Baron or Baruth, Constantinople, 84.8 x 40.5 cm, 1783
While vastly different in design, each of these compasses includes most of the same features, notably; cities important to the hajj, inscriptions such as poems, and the maker's signature. The qibla compass as an object represents a symbol of faith, a relic of nomadic/hajj importance, and a reflection of Muslim integration of mathematics and astronomy. Out of all three Abrahamic religions, the exactness of facing east is of most importance in Islam. This precision and technical advancement in mapping are essential in the yearly hajj. The continuous cooperation between the Middle East and China developed this technological exchange. It led to a culture that created these beautiful and unique objects.
The compass is complemented by the prayer rug, both in its symbolism and directionality. It temporarily activates a sacred space upon prayer, and like the compass, both are portable. This portability and the proximity to one's face make both objects incredibly intimate. This intimacy is intensified as both items are used multiple times a day, similar to a Book of Hours. The rugs vary in size but are large enough for an adult to remain on the textile surface while kneeling, toes grounded, and forehead touching the rug's head, perpendicular to Mecca's direction. As a devotional object, the prayer rug is present for all Islamic believers, regardless of class or gender. Predictably, as we look toward the more decorative rugs or those made with silk, we find connections with wealth and newly opened trade routes to the Silk Road. No matter the material or craftsperson, these rugs' weaving processes use a series of knots, creating a gridded format similar to that of an embroidered cross-point. This process creates a textile that is exceptionally durable and ready for daily use. At the same time, ornamentation varied greatly in creating these rugs. A standard framing device that often functions as decoration is the outline of a mihrab.
Figure 18. Kirman prayer rug, Qasitli, Persia, 241 x 147 cm., circa 1900
Figure 19. Footprints of Muhammad, A Genealogy of the prophet Muhammad and Other Religious Works, Morocco, 20.6 x 15.7cm, 18th c.
Various amulets and manuscripts use the art of calligraphy to sanctify objects and claim authorship or lineage. In the two items above, calligraphy is used as a prelude to the spiritual experience. On the left is a Persian prayer rug at the head of a cartouche with the signature "Qasitli," and directly below are verses written in nastaliq. This script is specific to Persia and dates its creation back to the 13th century. Within the rug's concentric rectangles is a mihrab's shape, filled with the flowers of a tree of life. When approaching this rug for prayer–salah–the posture would greet the cartouches first before beginning. To the right is a side-by-side Moroccan illumination of the footprints of Muhammad. The iconography of Muhammad's footprints follows a similar outline of the mihrab as if each step brings you closer to God. Each footprint separately names Mecca and Medina. The cities connected with the hajj, all of which precludes the Genealogy of the Prophet Muhammad and Other Religious Works. (figure 19).
I've previously mentioned the art of carmina figurata, and in the same vein, is that of the calligram. In the 1969 film Amentu Gemisi Nasil Yurudu, Turkish calligraphers/filmmakers created a short film (3 min) using the art form to depict the word's role and divine love of God, the source for which 'powers' or animates the text and narrative. Each of the figures is filled with religious properties of 'the word.' Letters that undulate and pulse with the rhythm of the story. Islamic calligrams can take any form and can either symbolize the story attached or create poetic comparisons.
Figure 20. Stills from Amentu Gemisi Nasil Yurudu, Turkey, 3 min., 1969
American artist, Salma Arastu, creates calligraphic work to build love, understanding, and community in a post-9/11 country. An Indian immigrant, Aratsu, was exposed to Islamic calligraphy practices while visiting Iran later in life. Because of her more expressive techniques, Salma and other artists that use the Arabic language more freely are referred to as artists participating in the hurufiyya movement. These works of art range in mood and intent, but an often common thread is the Islamic language’s connection to spirituality. “It freed my line,” she said. “It became more lyrical. In one stroke, there is a meaning, and it is connecting to God. That line becomes a divine line.” In 2006, the British Museum held a show of 90 contemporary hurufiyya titled Word Into Art. Curator Venita Porter describes the universality captured from the exhibit; “The script itself is so beautiful that artists, whether they are trained in calligraphy or not, can do wonderful things with it...Sometimes you can read real words in the art, but sometimes it is not about the word but about the shape of the word. They are rooted in tradition but then they do elaborate and virtuosic things.” While not all Muslims agree with the use of language, Aratsu embraces the Arabic history of language and blended cultures. In connection to the American landscape, Aratsu’s work finds a comfortable place acknowledging Christianity, Hebrew, Sanskrit, and a myriad of other languages that create a symbolic ‘mixing pot.’
Figure 21. Photograph of Salma Arastu, Jana Asenbrennerova, Los Angeles Times, 2019
Between all three Abrahamic religions lies the connections between word, image, and spirituality. Although most of the examples in this paper are antiquated, contemporary believers still interact with the practice of calligraphy. As I write this, it is the second day of Chanukah in 2020. Between this essay and the holiday, Sam and I could reconnect and share our thoughts on these manuscripts. He explains that you could easily go into a middle-class Jewish home and see a gallery wall with a Chagall print, a hamza, and Shiviti. "On one hand, the work is mundane. On the other hand, an easily recognizable artwork distinctively Jewish and distinctively connected to Kabbalah and therefore our collective culture and spirituality." Although removed from some of these objects' history, Jewish believers still identify these visual objects as reminders of their faith.
More abstractly connected to calligraphy is my friend Korkut Akacik, an artist and illustrator pulling influences from the Arabic styles. Born and raised in Turkey, Korkut was unaware of what a qibla compass was. I explained, "Qibla compass? There's an app for that." The majority of Muslims no longer use such devices unless in prayer. Not surprising as we now have GPS and cell phones, but the knowledge of these devices seems to slip away.
Although unaware of the compass, Korkut has a far more intimate connection to calligraphy and notes how that culture influences the line quality of his illustrated work. In a video titled 'Oriental,' we see his brush dance fluidly with the music. In connection with music, the process is meditative and allows one to lose themselves in the process–a spiritual moment.
As a middle class, white American raised in a conservative Christian upbringing, I question my understanding of calligraphy, community, and Christianity. In my youth, the only time I interacted with a bible was to cite sources in church. 'Jesus said in this verse such and such online/verse whatnot.' Then you go back to listening and, once completed, tuck the book away until next Sunday. Staunch republicanism has tainted the idea of spiritual connectedness in my rural community. This marriage creates a culture of isolation and exclusivity. In part due to its Protestant roots, most homes, including my own, don't even have a cross, let alone religious art. This lack of objecthood then begs the question, 'What visuality does extremist Christianity have?'. In my experience, contemporary Evangelist and Baptist congregations focus on the visibility of fraternity and charity, both of which require the gathering of people. However, I don't find these gatherings or events as spiritual in any way. That sense of connectedness to other Christians or even other humans is lost without shared writings or images. Instead, it seems to be a culture that fetishizes the theatrics of religion.
As time goes on, the spiritual relationships with word and image change. In some ways, Calligraphy has exploded into the realm of painting, finding its way into galleries. Others keep its practice as a devotional tool. Anymore, a westerner interacts with typography as the forefront of printed and reproduced text, hiding calligraphy under a sad, capitalist shadow. With more people finding a secular life, I wonder how these spiritual relationships can evolve into a new iconography. Or how believers can reacquaint themselves with the history of those before them.
Endnotes:
1.
Figure 7. Greek Orthodox Tree of Life
Within the Greek Orthodox branch of Christianity, traditions of representing Christ in the tree of life differ from that of other iconographic images. Greek Orthodox belief rests in the prefiguration, meaning that the tree of life is an early form and substitution of the cross. Much like the Kabbalist tree, branches overlap and suspend circular formations. Framed inside are the apostles placed in hierarchical formation, with Peter and Paul on either side of Jesus. These circles double as halos, creating a constellation and framework similar to Kabbalist models. Eastern Orthodox prayer–hesychasm–is already a mystical practice, as are many of its other traditions. These overlapping occurrences of art and practice are a testament to the braided influences Abrahamic traditions had on each other.
Bibliography
Atwood, Craig, “Little Side Holes: Moravian Devotional cards of the Mid-Eighteenth Century,” Journal of Moravian History, 2009, No. 6, pp. 61-75, Penn State University Press
Atwood, Craig, “Zinzendorf’s ‘Litany of the Wounds’,” Lutheran Quarterly, Vol 11, 1997
Christie’s Auction House, “Qibla Compass: Constantinople Second Half 18th Century,” Auction 6814, Lot 40, London, 2003, https://www.christies.com/en/lot/lot-4160748, accessed Nov. 12, 2020
Dlabačová, Anna, Religious Practice and Experimental Book Production: Text and Image in an Alternative Layman’s “Book of Hours” in Print and Manuscript, Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art, 9:2, 2017
Drucker, Johanna, The Alphabetic Labyrinth, Thames and Hudson, London, 1995
Hamburger, Jeffrey, Nuns as Artists: The Visual Culture of a Medieval Convent, University of California Press, California, 1997
Hamburger, Jeffrey, “The Iconicity of Script,” Word & Image, Vol. 27, No. 3, 2011
Hann, Michael, Symbol, Pattern & Symmetry: The Cultural Significance of Structure, Bloomsbury Press, 2013
Khatibi, Abdelkebir and Mohamed Sijelmassi, The Splendor of Islamic Calligraphy, Thames & Hudson, London, 2001
MacDonald, Elizabeth, “Lighting the Way: How Illuminated Initials Guided Medieval Readers through Books,” Europeana.com, 2019, https://blog.europeana.eu/2019/01/lighting-the-way-how-illuminated-initials-guided-medieval-readers-through-books , accessed Nov. 1, 2020
Stein, Wendy, “The Book of Hours: A Medieval Bestseller,” Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000
Winston, Kimberly, “With canvas and Quran, one artist aims to make Islamic calligraphy a universal language,” Los Angeles Times, Feb. 2020, https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/story/2020-02-11/islamic-calligraphy-art-salma-arastu
https://medium.com/@eleanor.lerman/hebrew-manuscripts-journeys-of-the-written-word-the-british-library-87161e865a25
Comments