The
Lebanese Vision – A History of Painting by John Carswell
If one is to
grasp the significance of this exhibition, with its kaleidoscopic
diversity of style and content, it has first to be appreciated as
a mirror of a very special society. Lebanon is a highly complex
mixture of peoples and beliefs, held in delicate balance since the
state attained its independence in 1943, and tragically rent asunder
during the past decade; the forces which have destroyed Lebanon
as it was, have proved more powerful than the dynamism born of this
equilibrium. But this is to anticipate, and in order to understand
the present artistic heritage it is necessary to look carefully
into the past. Lebanon is unique in another sense, for it has never
existed in a vacuum, and its relationship to Western society and
the whole hinterland of the Middle East is the key to its special
character.
Although the
Phoenicians has contacts with the western Mediterranean, European
consciousness of the Middle East began during the Roman Empire and
crystallized with the Crusades. In the post-Crusading era, pilgrimage
to the Holy Land continued and there was an increasing economic
interest through trade. Later on, the area became of strategic importance
because it lay between Europe and lands of greater commercial interest
- Persia, India and the Far East. The Portuguese managed to leave
the Middle East out of this equation by circumnavigating Africa,
a manoeuvre later emulated by the Dutch, and then the colonial British.
With the growth of the Ottoman empire and its expansion in the sixteenth
century throughout Syria, Egypt and North Africa, the European powers
had even less inclination to tussle with the new political entity
unless, as in Eastern Europe, in self-defense. But trade was another
matter, and with the caravan routes from Central Asia and the Middle
East converging on the eastern Mediterranean, there were mechanisms
for goods to flow freely in both directions. As the French traveler
Tournefort put it, “all the Commodities of the East were made known
in the West, and those of the West serve as new ornaments for the
East”.
What were these
goods? From the East came silk, porcelain, cotton, pepper and all
sorts of spices. By the seventeenth century, the goods brought back
from Europe made a formidable list; they included cloth, brocades,
looking-glasses, Venetian glass, rosaries, false pearls, amber,
paper, spectacles, watches, clocks, enamels, knives, buckles and
needles. There was an increasing awareness of the products and inventions
of European civilization in the three great empires of the Ottomans,
the Safavids and the Mughals. Oddly enough, it was a Christian minority,
the immigrant Armenian merchants of Persia operating from the New
Djulfa in Isfahan, who were largely instrumental in moving merchandise
in both directions. With the monopoly of the silk trade from Persia,
and with emissaries stationed all the way from Amsterdam to the
Far East, they effectively controlled a large part of the international
market.
No unnaturally,
they were among the first to appreciate the novelty of Western painting,
and in the seventeenth century commissioned a Dutch artist to decorate
their newly founded churches in Isfahan, Shah Abbas I, their protector,
was intrigued by this new style of painting, so different from the
Persian tradition, and wall-paintings in his palace, the Chihil
Sultan, are evidence of this. There are records of “John, a Dutchman”
who was employed by the Italian traveler Pietro della Valle in the
early seventeenth century and subsequently worked for Shah Abbas,
who at one stage sent him back to Italy and France to seek other
western painters to work for him. Persian artists were influenced
by the western style, and the most famous of all, Muhammad Zaman,
studied in Italy before returning to Persia and then finding employ
at the Mughal court in India. Another channel of Western influence
was the illustrated Bible, decorated with engravings, examples of
which were brought by Christian missionaries.
In the Ottoman
Empire the contacts were even more direct. Istanbul and Venice were
in symbiotic relationship to each other through trade, and it was
no coincidence that following an invitation to the Venetian Senate
by Sultan Mehmed II, the painter Gentile Bellini spent more than
a year in Istanbul, painting the famous portrait of the Sultan (now
in the National Gallery in London) and generally exercising his
art and his influence. Bellini presented Mehmed with an album of
his father’s drawings, which still survives in the Louvre, and which
contains many architectural drawings and other designs. It can be
no coincidence that from about this period, Turkish miniature painting
shows an awareness of everyday life and an attempt at verisimilitude
which is quite novel, distancing itself from the poetic fantasy
of the Persian miniature tradition.
To what extent
this westernizing influence was felt in the Ottoman provinces is
a matter of conjecture. In Lebanon, by the early seventeenth century
Fakherddin II had brought the whole of the country under his rule;
and tradition has it that as a result of his previous sojourn at
the Medici court in Florence, he brought with him a whole Troup
of Italian masons and craftsmen to build himself a palace in Beirut
in the Italianate style. The emerging merchant class also added
a new dimension. From the seventeenth century, throughout the Levant,
a successful and affluent bourgeoisie introduced another kind of
patronage. This is first of all to be seen in the kind of houses
they built for themselves; in Aleppo, Damascus, Tripoli, Beirut,
Tyre, Sidon and Jerusalem, mansions sprung up everywhere. With a
wealth of carved stone decoration and pretty painted interiors,
they were a natural setting for all sorts of ornament. Chinese and
Japanese porcelain set on inlaid wooden tables, silk cushions and
embroidered velvets, copper trays and silver utensils created an
opulent setting for the merchants, provincial governors, local prince
lings, landowners – and their womenfolk. Lebanon was no exception;
the palace of the Shihabs at Bayt Al Dine in the mountains of the
Chouf was a marvel of carved stone and cut ornament, in a style
which can only be classified as Mamluk Revival.
Indeed, architecture
always seems to have been one step ahead of the other arts when
it came to innovation. In Lebanon, modern architecture was introduced
and appreciated long before modern art was ever heard of. The classic
example is the St George’s Hotel, designed by Antoine Tabet, himself
a pupil of Auguste Perret, and built in 1929. This structure was
among the first to use precast concrete components in its design,
and right up until the time of its destruction in the seventies
had a simple, contemporary elegance which set it apart from many
more recent structures.
During the Ottoman
Empire Lebanon was divided into different vilayets or administrative
districts. Partly because of its inaccessibility, a range of precipitous
mountains slashed by deep valleys and torrential rivers, deep in
show at the summit and looking down on the narrow, fertile coast,
Mount Lebanon has always retained a strong sense of individuality,
a feudal and religious isolation. To the east, the dividing line
of the mountains of Anti-Lebanon provides a kind of psychological
barrier. In Lebanon, it is easy to stand back from the Mediterranean
and view both eastern and western cultures with a somewhat Olympian
detachment. What sort of art could flourish here?
It was an art
of imagery, the creation of icons, an expression fundamentally religious
but also with a strong hieratic flavor, The monasteries and churches
are full of such icons, simple statements of religious faith which
stylistically have their parallels worldwide at this period – in
provincial Europe, all over South America and throughout Asia, indeed
wherever Christianity had to be manifest in pictorial form. The
Madonnas and Saints are declamatory rather than spiritual; those
in the churches and monasteries of Lebanon are in direct lineal
descent from the iconography of the ancient Near East. But they
are not lacking in magic, and the supernatural is implicit in the
penetrating, staring eyes. The same hypnotic vision can be seen
in early Coptic paintings – and also in Fatimid art, as far west
as Sicily. Technically, the paintings are inept; but that, in a
way, is not the point; if you are making a statement for a visually
unsophisticated audience, it is irrelevant. It is the statement
itself which is important, and this is an attitude which has much
bearing on the later development of painting in Lebanon.
In the nineteenth
century, Lebanon knew a quiet prosperity which led to what might
now consider its golden age, a period of awakening. The ports of
Lebanon – Tripoli, Beirut, Tyre and Sidon – were the gateway to
Syria and Palestine. For the first time, pilgrims were replaced
by tourists, a new breed. The first hotel in the Middle East was
created for them – the Grand Hotel Bassoul in Beirut (ironically,
like the St Georges, also a victim of recent events), an investment
by a successful dragoman Nicola Bassoul, who led tours to Syria
and the Holy Land. Mulberries were cultivated in the hills above
Jounieh, which became a successful centre for growing silkworms
and the manufacture of silk. East-West trade continued to prosper,
and along with economic development came a parallel development
in education. The nineteenth century saw the transformation of the
monastic system and the beginning of secular education. This was
reinforced by the creation of two universities in Beirut for higher
education, by the French and the Americans.
As far as Art
is concerned, the religious paintings in the churches became even
more accomplished, and the iconography expanded to include the clergy.
Now Bishops and other prelates figured alongside the Madonnas and
Saints. The style is more assured, and often the accoutrements more
important than the subjects. Holy talismans, signs of office, religious
and secular medals and insignia are more in focus than the person
they adorn. In one memorable painting in the exhibition, the ecclesiastical
regalia are so sharply defined that the face above fades into the
shadows.
But there is
another new and identifiable element. The nineteenth century led
to an acceleration of European (and American) interest in what the
land of the Bible actually looked like; this resulted in a swarm
of topographical artists descending on the Middle East, to identify,
quantify and pictorialize those sites most likely to interest a
captive audience. Many of the artists, like David Roberts, had already
exhausted the commercial potentiality of Europe – Gothic cathedrals
in France and Belgium, and romantic Moorish monuments in Spain.
Although only marginally interesting as far as the West was concerned,
Lebanon did have Tyre and Sidon, Baalbek and the Cedars, and was
so worth a detour. Some detoured more than others, and W.H. Bartlett
left an exceptional record of many minor aspects of the country;
Edward Lear also painted some sharply focused views. As for the
Lebanese, they were singularly unaware that anyone was interested
in what artists thought their country looked lie; except that this
is not quite true.
Objectivity
was not entirely the prerogative of painters. By the middle of the
nineteenth century, photography had become a highly successful competitor
with topographical painting, and Beirut had become the home of one
of the most famous photographic families of them all. Felix Bonfils,
his wife Lydie and son Adrien arrived in Beirut in 1877, and the
family set up a studio in the middle of town. The Bonfils were indefatigable,
and became the most prolific image-makers of the Middle East of
all time. There was no corner of Syria, Palestine and Egypt, no
topographical, religious, ethnic, social or incidental aspect of
everyday life that was not grist to the Bonfils mill. Nowadays the
academic interest of the photographs is obvious, but they were also
highly charged emotive images as well. It is only during the past
decade or so that this pictorial record of the Middle East in the
late nineteenth century has been credited with the importance it
merits. Besides Bonfils, there were others; in Beirut, Sarrafian
and Saboungi were rival establishments, and in Jerusalem the American
Colony produced its own series of photographs of the Holy Land.
Also in Jerusalem, the Armenian Patriarch was himself a leading
amateur photographer; and in Lebanon, the Maronite Bishop Emmanuel
Phares El-Ferkh used his own photographs on his fund-raising lecture
tours.
What was happening
in the commercial world of photography was noticed by the painters,
and a photographic way of looking at the world began to impinge
on their own work. It is not too difficult to trace the impact of
photography on the portraits of such painters as Daoud Corm and
Khalil Saleeby. The photographic image helped to reinforce the potency
of their paintings. Topographically, an extraordinary view of Beirut
from the sea, each building delineated like the architecture in
the background of some Italian primitive, can also be traced in
origin to the inspiration of a monochrome Bonfils photograph. The
painting, more than a meter wide, used to hang in the salon of the
Grand Hotel Bassoul; it disappeared, alas, during the fighting and
the gutting of the hotel, but a photograph of it survives.
Detail of a painting previously located in the Bassoul Hotel,
Beirut. Anonymous, c. 1870
When one considers
what was happening in France in the second half of the nineteenth
century, it is odd that there appears to have been no influence
of Impressionism on Lebanese painting. Although there were social
and economic contacts, this did not lead to immediate cultural influence,
as far as art is concerned. And yet this was not true for architecture,
fashion, or language and literature. Why should the Lebanese have
been unaware of pictorial developments in Europe? An explanation
can perhaps be sought if we see the question in a wider context.
In Russia and America this was a crucial moment, when artists decided
they wanted to establish their own cultural and national identity
and break away from the European tradition. In all of these countries,
there was a Europeanizing academic tradition to be rejected. In
Lebanon, with no academic tradition of this sort and no formal academy,
there was nothing to renounce.
For a society
to create and nurture an artistic tradition, there are two requisites;
first, there must be the artists themselves; and second, there must
be a public to support them. Artists seem to be a phenomenon which
can turn up at any time or place on our planet; their existence
is as predictable as an unfamiliar type of butterfly. An appreciative
public is less easily created, unless – as in the eighteenth and
nineteenth century in Lebanon – the art is tied into some religious
or otherwise acceptable background. The innate conservatism of the
general public made it very difficult for artists to find a place
in Lebanese society.
The artist,
having decided on his vocation, is faced with some choices. If he
is secure in his genius, he needs no further instruction, but this
is so rare that it is as exceptional as genius itself. Most artists
are aware that they need to pick up a trick or two to help to express
themselves more effectively. This means art education, and in Lebanon
initially the choice was either to study with someone more established,
or to jump into the deep end and study abroad, mainly in Paris and
Rome. Because France seemed to be the non plus ultra, Paris was
ideal. Generations of young Lebanese painters beat the way to the
capital, and absorbed ideas and styles which were more – or less
– appropriate to them. But just as Paris was losing out to New York
as the ultimate centre of the art world, more and more Lebanese
painters set out for France. Nothing wrong in that, but they arrived
after the stable door was open and all the horses had run away.
There were other
places. A few discovered that you could learn about art in the United
States, and those who did acquired a detachment which made it hard
for them to fit into the Lebanese scene. In the States, nationality
counted for nothing; in Lebanon, it was all. Perhaps one could find
oneself in America and then return as a champion? Fine, but who
was going to appreciate the novelty of this? Lebanese painters in
Paris, after all, could play it both ways, one famous example returning
every year to sell vastly to his Beirut public, in order to subsidize
his life where he really wanted to be – in Paris.
What if you
stayed at home? From 1937, you could study at the Lebanese Académie
des Beaux-Arts, where there was the opportunity to acquire the necessary
technical skills, and many of the artists in this exhibition studied
there. From 1954, there was another alternative, when the American
University of Beirut opened its Department of Fine Art. The brainchild
of President Penrose, who was to die tragically shortly afterwards,
a couple of American artists were imported from Chicago. Maryette
Charlton and Georges Buehr both had close ties with the Art Institute
of Chicago, and brought with them many of its pedagogical principles.
First and foremost, the teachers had to be seen to be active, practicing
and exhibiting artists in their own right. Second, no-one was to
be excluded from the process of making art – anyone, and everyone,
was encouraged to try. Third, art should be taught according to
formal, not stylistic principles; this was the legacy of the Bauhaus.
Perhaps the most innovatory contribution was a public program of
lectures, demonstrations, and opportunities for anyone to try their
skill. You got a sheet of paper, a piece of charcoal, or a paintbrush,
a demonstration, and then you were on your own. These classes, called
Art Seminars, had a dynamic impact; totally democratic, anyone could
enroll. The first lady of Lebanon, Mme Zelpha Chamoun, became a
fervent advocate. In the regular classroom, students at the University
could take a class as viable elective. Some cynically, thought that
it would be an easy way to pick up a credit or two; nothing could
have been further from the truth. Perhaps one of the most interesting
social innovations of these classes was the use of students as models
for life classes. The administration probably never knew that for
years the students posed for each other in the nude, with the utmost
decorum.
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