The Padshahnama
As a graduate student in New York City in the 1990’s, I was working hard (on occasion) and hard up for money. Thus the Met, because free, became a place of frequent respite. And loafing, sure; the presence of so much history and concentrated aesthetic energy made something reverent out of my indolence.
And so, sometime back in November of 1997 (it would’ve been, according to this NY Times article), I happened upon this exhibit: all the illuminations from the Padshahnamah. I knew nothing of their history or context. And I admit, I was first drawn to them because of their flashing, saturated colors.
And so, sometime back in November of 1997 (it would’ve been, according to this NY Times article), I happened upon this exhibit: all the illuminations from the Padshahnamah. I knew nothing of their history or context. And I admit, I was first drawn to them because of their flashing, saturated colors.
But, lured by the colors, I found myself staying for the scenes of concentrated life they depicted.
They were commissioned in 1636 by the great Mughal Emperor, Shah Jahan, to commemorate the first 10 years of his reign.
Shah Jahan, who reigned thirty years, was one of four sons who competed for the throne following the death of their father, the Emperor Jahangir. Shah Jahan prevailed and had his brothers put to death. Following his own death in 1658, he left four sons of his own to compete for his crown.
He married (famously) Mumtaz, daughter of an aristocratic Persian family. And it may have been a political marriage, but it was one that stirred a great architectural passion, at least: upon her early death he commissioned the Taj Mahal to be built.
Shah Jahan oversaw other works of Mughal architecture, which flourished during his reign. In addition to the Taj Mahal, a building born of love, he had built the Red Fort in Delhi, a building designed to embody and create power.
Mughal painting of the period focused on miniatures, book illumination, bound into books. Colorful detailed worlds contained between book covers; the eye is massaged by such jewel-like colors, expressive faces, moments in a narrative of a closed and exquisite world.
The paintings here can remind me a little of the works of Jean Baptiste Pater, a painter active a couple of generations later and a world away. Faces as perfect as gems, set vividly against the hazy backdrop of human experience.
In 1799, The Nawab of Oudh in northern India sent the Padshahnama, to King George III of England. And, a couple of hundred years later, they came to me.
Late, lamp lit nights. In the late 90’s I was finishing up my dissertation. Like a dilletante Wotan, I gave up a little of my sight for the terribly important enterprise, and I eventually got my first prescription for glasses.
But in the meantime I was hunched over the gray and gray screen of some old grayscale Mac. Lean back in my chair and, eyes closed, press my fingers to my eyelids until bursts of purple scarlet blossomed beneath them. I’d need to look at anything other than a screen.
On my desk was a set of postcards, each a small reproduction of one of the pages of the Padshahnama. (If any prints had been available, I’d certainly been unable to afford them, postcards a better fit with my budget).
Preoccupied, my mind elsewhere, I’d let my eyes run over the jewel like faces, the fanciful animals, the flat, luminescent patterns of color.
I'd see scenes of war.
I'd see scenes of war.
And pleasures of the court:
And the garden of the world:
It was like some kind of magical eyewash. The aches behind my eyes would subside, my vision freshen and clear. Line and color drew my gaze, over, in and out of those paintings. I’d look away, my view of the world renewed.