Images With(In) Books

The scriptorium workshop exercise we did on Wednesday was a great first-hand recreation of what it would be like to actually work in a scriptorium. At first, I expected it to be relatively easy. In all honesty, creating a historiated letter can be as easy or as hard as the person doing it decides. Initial outlines can be very easy and fast to do. However, I found that, with the more detail I added to the letter, the more time it would take to complete the illumination. After doing this exercise, I now fully understand the commitment that had to be made by the illuminators in making the manuscripts.

Furthermore, the Gregorian chants that we listened to during this exercise actually helped. I found that I got really into the historiated letter I was making and became extremely focused. But with this focus came a want for perfection. I realized that I felt an urge when coloring to fill each outlined space precisely, and not go over any lines or leave any white space visible. This required even more focus and discipline. On top of this, I also found myself choosing between various choices when it came to deciding what color to use and where to put the gold leaf. Overall, the experience of the scriptorium workshop was a very cumbersome one. However, I now fully understand the extent of detail and work that was done in the crafting of illuminated manuscripts.

The scriptorium workshop absolutely made my day! I always love working with watercolors and painting – it really forces you to slow down and acknowledge what you are doing. Moreover, the exercise really made me appreciate the patience that one must have to create wonderful artistic works like an illuminated manuscript. The Gregorian music transported me to a different time and place, and I could picture how ethereal painters of manuscripts must have felt at the time of their creation. I struggled with the gold leaf – I think as a result of the paper- but it still is a nice touch. I really appreciated this day and have a lot of respect and admiration for the artists who created the manuscripts. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been just to acquire the tools to create a manuscript, let alone create one.

The scriptorium workshop was a great opportunity to really understand the work of a miniaturist. Spending the hour and fifteen minutes working on our illuminated letters made me more conscious of the amount of time it would take to make a page like the ones in our Book of Hours. We were using large paper, which was much easier to work with than having a page the size of a Book of Hours, and while I didn’t put a large amount of detail into my painting, it still took the whole class period to only complete part of my image. The amount of detail that went into a miniaturist’s illuminations is astounding, especially considering the small sized paintings they made. The focus and precision necessary to make these illuminations requires a lot of talent and patience. I also appreciated listening to the Gregorian Chants, which gave our workshop more of the atmosphere of a scriptorium. The time passed very quickly and it was nice to get a chance to have a hands-on chance to use what we’ve been learning about in class to make our own letters.

This week, the scriptorium workshop allowed me to reconnect with my somewhat artistic side. I have always enjoyed working with and manipulating colors, but unfortunately, my ability to execute is subpar. However, that is beside the point because despite my sad attempt at an illuminated letter, I did learn a lot about the process. While deciding which letter I wanted to make, I was able to consider many of the aspects of what we have discussed thus far including geometry, patterns, and the meaning of what surrounds the letter. Interestingly, I found it difficult to even determine which letter was depicted in many of the examples I looked at due to the intricate design surrounding the letter. That being said, I saw some truly unique examples of illuminated letters while perusing the online resources. Just like the illuminations themselves, it is clear that the letters often have unique features of style. I certainly learned a lot about illumination in the scriptorium, but I also gained a new appreciation for the process.

During our class exercise in illumination, I was able to understand why these illuminations took so long. In class, I was able to finish about half of an illuminated letter in an hour. The intricacy and attention to detail in my letter paled in comparison to the examples we have seen in various manuscripts, not to mention I was making a letter several times the size of the typical manuscript example. I now understand why these manuscripts took so long to make. Not only does it require time to create something so perfectly detailed, but using particular colors wasn’t as easy as reaching for the set of watercolors sitting next to you. Looking back on our discussions in class thus far, I feel as though The Secret of Kells did an excellent job portraying the difficulty of illumination and all that goes with it. The scriptorium workshop was an opportunity to do what we have been speaking about all semester, and it was a truly “illuminating” experience.

It was so nice to work with watercolors again, and I throughly enjoyed the workshop in class. I have not used them in over two years since my AP Studio Art days in high school, and it took awhile to get use to them again. The water to pigment ratio drastically changes the richness of the color, as well as the mixing of other colors such as black. Some people complain there are not a lot of color options on a watercolor palette, but if you are creative, a variety of shades can be conjured. The biggest adjustment was the time constraint of class, and realizing that it was not about finishing, but enjoying the process. Of course, I had to remind myself to not get too caught up in the flowing designs of my illuminated letter while working with the felt pen, otherwise I never would have started on the watercolor. I did not finish the piece in class but I look forward to working on the piece later this week and incorporating the gold leaf.

So how does this workshop relate to the readings we have been doing in class? It has given me a new appreciation for miniaturists. We have color at the touch of our fingertips, and with a little bit of water, the possibilities are endless, and that doesn’t even include other types of paint. Paintbrushes are manufactured in countries far away in a fraction of the time, for a fraction of the cost, compared to medieval methods. While it required lot of labor for miniaturists to produce the materials, it was part of the process that made it so special. It’s also important to remember miniaturists had a lot more tim, than say a college student, to make their tools. I’m slightly jealous that miniaturists could spend the entire day working on their art. I wish I could have stayed working on my letter all day instead of being called away to another class. Even though I had to leave, at least I can look forward to working on it more in the future.

I really enjoyed our scriptorium workshop on Wednesday. It was great to be immersed in a creative/artistic project for a full class period and, of course, having coffee at 8:30 AM was very much appreciated. In my opinion, it’s always beneficial for class material to transcend readings and verbal discussion alone; working hands-on with the subjects we study in class creates a deeper understanding and appreciation for the material. Especially when dealing with historical material—in this case, medieval illuminated manuscripts—it’s easy to feel that the material comes from a world so distant and intangible that it sometimes begins to feel far less relevant than the aspects of contemporary culture that surround us. The hour and fifteen minutes flew by for me, and I completed far less of my illuminated letter than I’d expected. This experience helped me to understand the reverence for illumination depicted in The Secret of Kells. Illuminating is tedious—and my experience, using pre-packaged water color paints, gold leaf, brushes and pens, didn’t even include the complex and meticulous process of making paints from natural materials and using real, old-fashioned gold leaf. After weeks of viewing many, many illuminated manuscripts, which at times almost seemed to blend together, this hands-on workshop restored my initial appreciation for illumination and manuscripts.

The central tension of eastern and western art in My Name is Red extends to the question of representation and whether or not it is sacrilegious, but also to the desire the viewer feels towards art. One of the reoccurring motifs in the love story between Shekure and Black is the painting wherein Shirin gazes upon- and falls in love with- the painting of Hüsrev. It wasn’t until after I had finished the book that the obvious western counterpart to this tale occurred to me: King Henry VIII commissioned a portrait of Anne of Cleves, whom he was considering for a bride. Legendarily, he fell in love with the painting and took Anne for his wife. Though doubtless there were much less romantic political intercessions prompting marriage, perhaps in both love stories, the tale of people falling in love through representation is clearly part of the fabric of many cultures. Olive’s desire to see himself depicted in portrait is paralleled in the tale of Narcissus, who alike was led to his demise by the vain desire to look only upon himself. In all of these cases, the representational form becomes an intercessor or intermediary in a love affair by the mere act of looking. The gaze, which we think of as being interrupted or one-sided in the act of looking upon art, suddenly becomes completed when it meets the lover’s face.

The act of looking is imbued with power; a line from the accompanying poem found in the Khamsa of Nizami relates “the whole world became invisible to her” as Shirin examines the portrait of her beloved (Shirin Examines the Portrait of Khusraw, State Hermitage Museum). I hadn’t read any of the poem until after I finished My Name is Red, but I found this passage to be particularly evocative of the blindness that befalls the righteous miniaturist who has exhausted his sight in imitating the world through the eyes of Allah. Master Osman and Black alike wish to go blind staring at certain paintings in order to have those works of art be their last impressions of the visual splendor of the world. Black confesses that he would want to go blind staring at the painting of Shirin staring at Hüsrev. The doubling of vision and blindness is so well-crafted in this image: Black desires to lose his sight staring at the artwork he most loves, in which a woman loses her sight for everything except the portrait of the man she loves. Art is desired. Both the subject of the representation and the representation itself become objects of desire as sight and blindness both work to fix the image in memory.

When Black visits Head Illuminator Osman, the great master tells him that there are three questions he would ask to find out how genuine a painter is. The last one is blindness: “Blindness is silence. If you combine what I’ve just now said, the first and the second questions, ‘blindness’ will emerge. It’s the farthest one can go in illustrating; it is seeing what appears out of Allah’s own blackness.” (pg. 60) I was fascinated by this quote but it reminded me of something in the beginning of the book, way back on page 26: “Near the ‘Burnt Column,’ I saw some bothersome beggars dressed in rags huddling together as the smell of offal coming from the chicken-sellers wafter over them. One of them who was blind smiled as he watched the falling snow.” (26) I remember re-reading that line several times at first to try to understand it, but I could not. Now I think I might – now I see the beggar as an illuminator. Because he only sees blackness, he must have to imagine everything he remembers seeing, and I think he smiles because he appreciates everything so much more. He no longer gains happiness from what he sees around him, so all his happiness has to come from within him and his own imagination. This is similar to a genuine painter in Osman’s eyes, who must be inspired from what appears in the blackness. It’s such a unique concept and makes Pamuk’s writing all the more stunning for me.

This chapter is so meta (that’s so meta = new sitcom about psychic liberal arts students struggling with the everyday pitfalls of aesthetic discernment?), especially considering today’s modern printmaking industry. In fact, all of the chapters in this book narrated from the perspective of drawings have incredibly meta undertones.

Consider this: A drawing of a tree speaks to us from its position on a piece of parchment.

First level: A drawing bluntly postulates, criticizes, and yearns with human intensity. This drawing has, in other words, become its own autonomous entity, an organism with emotions and perspective.

However, this tree “thanks Allah” (51) that he has not been drawn in the Frankish style, a style that allows viewers to “correctly select” one particular tree out of many. He is relieved to have been depicted in a uniform way, and is sad to have been ripped from the pages of a book–an action that calls attention to his individuality on display–but “secretly takes pride” (47) in the thought that men will prostrate themselves before his uniqueness.

Despite his embarrassment for wanting individuality, he has certainly achieved it. The tree is its own being, come to life through artistic expression. Our ability to listen to this internal struggle proves his autonomous, individual thought.

This could possibly be a comment the individual nature of all drawings. Despite the fact that several master illuminators worked to paint the Tree in a disjunct, interrupted manner (the way illuminators divide work in their professional workshops), and from memory, the Tree has achieved an individual flair. The divided composition of this drawing, meant to dissuade prideful illuminators from adding personal flair to their creations, has nevertheless produced an individual being. Does this comment on the impossibility of removing individuality from artistic expression? We know from Master Osman, for example, that even the best illuminators make mistakes, and that these mistakes become signatures (253).

Second level: In many of my literature classes at Hamilton, we’ve discussed the voyeuristic qualities of book reading. The readers watch delightedly as a series of events unfold, completely invisible to the actors and judge the episodes of the plot privately. Observers enjoy this same voyeuristic perspective when viewing images, be it in art galleries, or at home on the sofa.

But this Tree, with all of its individuality, speculates about his own creation, observes his several different owners, and even speaks to the reader/viewer. He converses with us:

“My request is that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?”” – p. 49

The tree watches us. Who is the reader, and who is the read? The tree also watches itself:

“I am a tree and I am quite lonely. I weep in the rain. […] At this moment, there are no other slender trees beside me, no seven-leaf steppe plants, no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a man and no coiling Chinese clouds. Just the ground, the sky, myself and the horizon.” – p. 47

Is the tree reading itself to produce this ekphrasis? When we describe ourselves, are we not describing the image of the self, and also performing ekphrasis? Are we the readers of our own books?

This level reinforces the individuality of the tree and calls into question our own role as readers.

Third level: The tree’s existence comments on the relationship between words and pictures.

The tree is a drawing, but expresses itself with words. We associate it with a picture (it is an image) His existence encompasses thought (words) and the pictoral realm. If this tree is an individual with human thoughts, does this quandry extend to our own existence? Are we all both drawing and text?

Fourth level: Although I’m uncertain, I assume that the parchments of the Ottoman empire (including the one on which the Tree is drawn) were made from animal skin. However, Orhan Pamuk most certainly did not expect My Name is Red to be printed on animal skin. That adds another interesting layer.

…technically this whole book is a tree. The drawing is a Tree, but what we hold in our hands is material from a living, breathing thing. No one tree is just like the other. Trees are unique, but also imperfect; “looking at a drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a tree” the Tree notes on page 49. Therefore, each printed book will be slightly different from another copy of the same edition.

This has probably been the most frustrating level for me to ponder, and the following quote the most intriguing:

“I don’t want to be a real tree, I want to be its meaning.” (51)

What do you think it means? (inside or outside of the context of this post)

Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red brings up a fascinating conflict between the traditional Eastern illumination style and the European style that so disturbs the miniaturists.  I find the concern for idolatry fascinating; it extends to the point where developing one’s own style is seen as being too prideful.  The miniaturists are so concerned about deviating from the old masters that they are constantly tormented by their work.  Enishte Effendi outlined how miniaturists go about their work consumed by guilt for fear that they are committing sin and stepping on Allah’s toes as creators.  Meanwhile, there seems to be hardly a hint of such concerns in the western illuminated manuscripts given that such manuscripts were generally created by monks.  Effendi’s fascination with the venetian masters seems to be where Orhan Pamuk tries to outline his commentary on the two styles.

The eastern style portrays a scene in a top down perspective, in a way, displaying everything in a scene at once.  There are no shadows and all the figures tend to have the same faces.  What disturbs the traditional miniaturists and even Effendi about the western style is that it renders each figure distinctly and unique.  Each individual is unique and each artist seeks to distinguish himself by creating his own style.  Some argue that this rendering of the individual as unique and special is arrogant, tantamount to idolatry or worship of the self.  There’s an argument to be made for those rich men that commission portraits of themselves, but Pamuk presents it as not being such a terrible thing.  It is not an awful thing to wish to distinguish oneself.  In fact he seems to suggest that the reason the old masters are so scared of the venetian style is because they fear it will become more popular and attractive to people than the traditional styles because of its lifelike depictions.  Pamuk doesn’t necessarily reject tradition, but he doesn’t believe it should stop people from embracing new things.

The chapter I Am Red has also set me to thinking about the implications of color and I am currently trying to decide which ones I will want to employ on Monday…