Iranian Cinema

Acquaintance with cinema and the first steps of filming and filmmaking in Iran

1277 to ca. 1285 AS / 1899 to ca. 1907 AD
(second version)

SChahryar Adlehahryar Adle (1944-2015)
to Farrokh Gaffari and Jamal Omid

The initial version of this article, written on the occasion of the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema, was distributed during the opening ceremony of the exhibition Antecedents and Beginnings of Iranian Cinema, held on the evening of September 17th 2000 in the Chadorkhaneh of the Golestan Palace. It was published as a batch of pamphlets that was soon expired, making a reprint necessary. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I began preparing a refreshed version in which typographic mistakes and some errors in the orientation of some illustrations were corrected, and I also added newly discovered facts. The partial identification of the first Iranian film, shot a hundred years ago by Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi at the Battle of Flowers in Ostend, is the most notable among these discoveries and it is introduced here together with a new documented description and history of the first filmed scene, shot in the same Belgian port. As all the films of the Qajar period identified to the present (late autumn 1379 / 2000) at the Golestan Palace are now being copied and studied, our knowledge of this cinema has greatly progressed and it is repeatedly undergoing change. I hope that the future versions of this text will keep the amateurs of history and cinema informed of any other changes brought about by new discoveries.
1277 AS / 1899 AD is the year in which Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah first issues an order concerning the acquisition of a cinema camera and projector, and 1285 AS / 1907 AD is that of his death. Thereafter, in the turbulent Constitutional Period and after it, several changes, including a growing number of theaters and cinema halls, occur in the evolution of Iranian cinema a thorough study of which requires a different entry.

Iranian cinema turned one hundred and Iranian photography reached the age of 158. No one remembered to celebrate the 150th anniversary of photography, but fortunately the centenary of Iranian cinema is being commemorated by the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization and the Golestan Palace—custodian of the treasury of early Iranian films—, alongside the Museum of Cinema, the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, and other organizations and cinema lovers A multitude of cinema lovers contributed to the realization of this commemoration, but the following institutions and organizations must at least be mentioned by name; the cinema affairs and the artistic affairs vice-directorates of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Farabi Cinema Foundation, the Iranian National Film House, the Cinema House, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, the social vice-directorate of the Municipality of Tehran, the Surah Cinema Development Foundation, Visual Media Co., Film monthly…. Today’s Iranian cinema is famous across the planet, but in the past photography enjoyed a more elevated status and could appear among the best in the world during the reign of Nasser-ed-Din Shah. Today the Album House of the Golestan Palace, the major part of which dates back to that period, houses a collection whose sole rival in terms of uniformity and age is perhaps the material preserved in the Royal British Collection. The author long wondered why only three years separated the introduction of daguerreotype photography in Paris in 1839 / 1254 AH / 1218 AS from the first photography made in Iran in mid December 1842 / mid Ziqa‘deh 1258 / late Azar (Qows) 1221 by Nikolai Pavlov Upon Mohammad Shah Qajar’s request, the Russian and British governments sent daguerreotype apparatus to Iran. The Russian set, a present of the Czar, arrived earlier. Nikolai Pavlov, the young diplomat trained for the purpose, brought it to Tehran and took the first photograph recorded in Iranian history in presence of Mohammad Shah on the date mentioned. No mention of these yet unknown events is made either in the extensive article on the beginnings of photography in Iran which I wrote with the assistance of Yahya Zoka’, or in other articles on the subject, but I have amply delved into the matter in an article under preparation. For this article, see Adle Ch., “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire; I. Les premiers daguerréotypistes, c. 1844-1845 / 1260-1270”, in the list of sources and references at the end of this article., whereas half a century later, according to recently discovered documents, it was five years after the introduction of the cinema in Paris in 1895 / 1274 AS that the first film was shot in an Iranian environment—in Europe at that. This delay can be attributed to the weakness of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s rule, to his natural nonchalance, and to the people’s indifference and lack of sense of responsibility. Undoubtedly, had Nasser-ed-Din Shah not been assassinated in 1313 / 1896 / 1274, cinema film and cameras would have reached Tehran in the same year, causing this art to grow faster from the very beginning, but this was not to be. As concerns the creation date of the first Iranian film, the commendable classification of the Album House of the Golestan Palace, begun some three or four years ago, on one hand, and the recently begun review of the documents preserved at the Golestan Palace on the other, have deeply changed our knowledge about the beginnings of this art in Iran. The date of the arrival of the first cinema cameras to Iran has been pushed back, the early Iranian cinema has acquired a new visage, and its evolution has adopted a new path. Of course, access to some of the films preserved at the Golestan Palace, which will be mentioned, and more importantly, the understanding, even if limited, of the importance of these films, were gained some eighteen years ago within a project that is now coming to fruition, but slow progress was made until recently. In this brief article, hastily prepared in view of the commemoration of the centenary of Iranian cinema, two points are emphasized: the arrival of the first cinema equipment to Iran, and; the creation of what can be considered the first collection of films, particularly “cinema films”, in Iran.

One
The first cinema spectator and the first cinema theater in Iran.Arrival of the first cinema cameras and projectors.
1. The first Iranian cinema spectator (1314 AS / 1897 AD / 1276 AS) and the first Cinématographe theater in Iran: Ramazan 1321 / 21 November to 20 December 1903 / 30 Aban to Azar 1282.

As such eminent scholars as Farrokh Ghaffari and Jamal Omid have shown in the past, an Iranian’s initial acquaintance with the cinema is first mentioned in Ebrahim Sahhafbashi’s memoirs.
Ebrahim Sahhafbashi (Mohajer) Tehrani was born around 1237 AS / AD 1858 and died in 1300 / 1921 or 1301 / 1922, at the age of 63, in Mashhad His full name has been copied from a note of his reproduced below his portrait in Name-ye Vatan, and his birth and death dates are approximations provided by his son, Abolqassem Reza’i. See text below and the list of sources at the end of the article.. He was fascinated with new technologies and inventions and his trade of eastern Asian goods took him several times across the world. He was a liberal-minded modernist and rather nonconformist in his clothing. Undoubtedly, following the first cinematographic representation in Paris in 1895, and soon after that in London, Iranians living in Europe at the close of the nineteenth century were able to see various films, but since no writings from them have remained—or come to light—, the first spectator (as he is called today) must be considered to have been Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, in London, seventeen months after the first public representation in Paris. On Friday 25 Zelhajjeh 1314 AH, he writes in his memoirs:
“Yesterday, at sunset [Thursday 24 Zelhajjeh 1314 / Wednesday As it appears, a one-day discrepancy occasionally occurs in converting dates from the lunar calendar to the solar calendar and vice versa, which does not necessarily indicate an error. Nonetheless, texts written about the history of the cinema in Iran and abroad contain numerous errors regarding their notation of dates in the lunar and solar Hegira calendars and the conversion of these into the Christian calendar, on which we shall not elaborate in this brief article. Here, on the contrary, all the dates are given with a precision that may appear tedious to the ordinary reader. Several mistakes I had made in the first version have also been corrected. 26 May 1897 / 5 Khordad 1276], I took a walk in the public park… [In the evening] I went to the Palace Theater. After song and dance performances by ladies [… and a show of acrobatics, etc., I saw] a recently invented electric device by which movements are reproduced exactly as they occur. For example, it shows the American waterfalls just as they are, it recreates the motion of marching soldiers and that of a train running at full speed. This is an American invention. Here all theaters close one hour before midnight.” Travel account of Sahhafbashi, pp. 39-40.

Sahhafbashi was mistaken as to the cinema’s country of origin, perhaps because the film he saw was American, as his reference to the Niagara Falls seems to indicate. There is no reason to believe that Sahhafbashi’s interest in cinema, during his first encounter with it, went beyond that of a mere spectator, but it is also probable that the thought of taking this invention to Iran crossed his mind, although this is never mentioned in his writings.
According to sources known to the present, he was the first person to create a public cinema theater in 1321 AH / AD 1903 / 1282 AS, eight years after the invention and public appearance of the cinema in France, six years after Sahhafbashi’s seeing the cinema in London, and three years after the arrival of cinema equipment to the Iranian court.
Sahhafbashi perhaps held glass plate shows (akin to present-day slide shows) before making his career in the cinema. These were performed with the lanterne magique, known as cheraq-e sehri in Iran. In good shows of this kind, a succession of black and white—or, even better, color,—glass plates depicting a story (as in today’s comic strips) was projected on a screen. The lanterne magique was used in Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s court and a couple of such color plates have been identified in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. Viewing was effected with one or another type of jahan-nama, including the stereoscope, in which a pair of almost identical pictures were used to achieve a three dimensional view. It consisted of a small (or large) box equipped with two viewer lenses and a slot in which the glass plates bearing the image pairs were inserted. Examples of this type of jahan-nama, for example of Verascope brand, existed in Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s court and in the hands of private individuals, because I have seen glass plates of this type, both processed and unprocessed, in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. Another type of jahan-nama, the Edison Kinetoscope, was completed in 1270 AS / AD 1891. It was a large, hefty machine in front of which the viewer stood to watch a very short cinema-like film through a pair of lenses on its top. Other types of jahan-nama, namely Mutoscope, Kinora and Théoscope, also existed, in which cinema-like moving pictures could also be seen. The Théoscope, for example, was small and could readily sit on a footed stand Ample books and documents concerning these apparatus are extant. For example, see issues 91A to 103 of Images et magie du cinéma français, or E. Toulet, Cinema is 100 Years Old, p. 38, where a theater equipped with a Kinetoscope is shown. The picture Jamal Omid has reproduced on page 49 of Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1 is also that of a Kinetoscope.. A sort of local jahan-nama known as shahr-e farang, in which a roll of pictures was moved behind viewing windows on the front of the machine, was made in Iran and was more or less current until the late 1340s AS (1960s AD), being carried on an ambulant operator’s shoulders Ja‘far Shahri, in his Tarikh-e Ejtema‘i-e Tehran, v. 1, p. 387, note 1, briefly but adequately describes the shahr-e farang. Also see Ghaffari, Jam-e Jam – Fanoos-e Khial…, p. 42.. Today a shahr-e farang is exhibited in the Cinema Museum of Tehran.The best shahr-e farang specimen, belonging to the film center(filmkhane), existed in the ex-Ministry of Arts and Culture.
As concerns lanterne magique shows, Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani writes in his Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian,: “The (lanter majik) cheragh-e sehri appeared in Tehran in the sixth year of the reign [of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah]”, which corresponds to 1320 / 10 April 1902 – 29 March 1903 / 21 Farvardin 1281 – 9 Farvardin 1282 Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, 1984 edition, v. 1, p. 656. In the previous version of this article, I had mistakenly set the sixth year of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s reign as 1313 AH, because he accessed to the throne near the end of that year and the year 1314 AH must be considered the first of his reign. Hence the sixth year of his reign was 1320 AH.. What Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani means by “(lanter majik) cheragh-e sehri” is unclear. If he means the kind of shows current at the time, which consisted of projecting a succession of various scenes depicting a story (as in today’s comic strips), these had certainly “appeared”, even if they had not yet achieved wide popularity, before this date. But, if he means the onset of private and semi-private film viewing with the lanterne magique and then the jahan-nama, then the date does not conflict with that of Sahhafbashi’s film screenings in 1321 AH / AD 1903 / 1282 AS (see next paragraph). It is conceivable that, following the warm welcome given at the court to various types of lanterne magique, jahan-nama and Cinématographe (see next paragraph), and perhaps after a second travel to the West in 1281 AS / AD 1902, Sahhafbashi brought together a collection of such devices, together with X-ray equipment, electric fans and probably phonographs, etc., which he sold to the rich or used to hold shows. Therefore, Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani’s allusion to him—whom he says he knew well and with whom he was involved in underground political activity Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (edition of 1346, v. 1, p. 51; edition of 1362, v.1, p. 291), or events of Wednesday 14 Zelqa‘deh 1323 / 10 January 1906 (edition of 1346, v.1, pp. 120-121; edition of 1362, , v. 1, pp. 360-361).—, points directly to Sahhafbashi and his first public lanterne magique, jahan-nama and later Cinématographe shows. It was not rare at the time to refer to the Cinématographe as lanterne magique, and Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi, at the age of fifteen (1286 AS / AD 1907), heard his father say that Russi-Khan had “brought a lanterne magique… which showed moving pictures” to Arbab Jamshid’s residence.
The first reference to a theater (public cinema) is found in the absorbing memoirs of Nasser-ed-Din Shah’s protégé, Malijak Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.. He wrote about the evening of Sunday 2 Ramazan 1321 / 22 November 1903 / 1 Azar 1282: “I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop. On Sundays he holds simifonograf shows for Europeans, and in the evening for the public. When I arrived there was no one; just me, a secretary of the Dutch embassy and a few of Taku’s personnel.” Taku was a European goods shop on Lalehzar Avenue. Apparently, on this occasion Malijak went to see a session for Europeans, because he adds: “It was two and a half hours past sunset when I called for a landau. Accompanied by the supervisor [his teacher], I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop to watch the Cinématographe.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 533. Taking the season into consideration, the cinema session began around eight o’clock PM. Malijak was interested by the cinema, because he again went to a session on the next evening. He wrote in his memoirs; “I called for a landau and we went to watch the simifonograf. Having watched for a while, we returned home.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 534. This was probably no more than one or two days after Sahhafbashi had begun holding public film shows, because, had other films been shown earlier, Malijak would have certainly paid a visit or made an allusion to it in his memoirs. The study of Malijak’s memoirs clearly shows that, fortunately for the history of Iranian cinema and photography, he truly was a full-fledged professional sloth. From morning to night he paid visits to the court and the houses of different people, poked his nose into shops or wandered in the streets. Malijak’s life and the style of his memoirs, particularly concerning everyday events, hunting, music, gambling, …, and social visits, are such that it is hardly conceivable for a public film show to have taken place without him noticing it. Moreover, in those early years of the twentieth century, Malijak was also keenly interested in photography and music. He took piano lessons and was well aware of the existence of the Cinématographe. He had seen films at Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s court at least as early as 1320 AH / AD 1902 / 1281 AS, a year before the first public cinema was created Malijak, v. 1, p. 330. (see text below). Although opposed with his political views, he was acquainted with Sahhafbashi and had paid him visits even before seeing films, mentioning the novelties he had seen in his memoirs. At first Malijak misjudged Sahhafbashi as an ignorant liar, but after seeing his X-ray equipment at work on the next day—Tuesday 13 Moharram 1320 / Thursday 22 May 1902 / 1 Khordad 1281—he wrote extensively about it Malijak, v. 1, pp. 203-205.. Fifteen days later he spoke of an electric fan (charkh-e barqi) given to him by Sahhafbashi Malijak, v. 1, p. 217. Elsewhere he writes at the end of the same year: “I went to Sahhafbashi’s shop. He had no new gadgets” (Malijak, v.1, p. 369).. Unfortunately, as Malijak’s memoirs begin on 10 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 20 March 1903 / 29 Esfand 1282, they hold no indication concerning the first four years of filmmaking in Iran (see following paragraphs).
The first Iranian cinema, or tamasha-khaneh See the notice concerning the sale of Sahhafbashi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorabian’s Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 692 and Film monthly, no. 258, p. 17, line 2. in Sahhafbashi’s words, was located in the yard behind his shop on Lalehzar Avenue Malijak writes (v. 1, p. 204): “We moved along Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue and reached Toopkhaneh Square, wherefrom we went to Lalehzar Avenue, straight to Sahhafbashi’s shop.” He used to go there via Mokhber-od-Dowleh Avenue as well (v. 2, p. 1272). and spanned four vaults See the notice concerning the sale of Sahhafbashi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorabian’s Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 692; Film monthly, no. 258, p. 17, and; several lines lower in the present article.. In more precise terms, in the words of Sahhafbashi’s elder son, Jahangir Qahremanshahi, it was situated at present-day Mohanna Crossroads (“between Crystal Cinema, on Lalehzar-e No, and Arbab Jamshid Avenue”) The exact address of Sahhafbashi’s son is given by his son (Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15, based upon Ghaffari’s text) and it agrees with Malijak’s writings.. Jamalzadeh writes about Sahhafbashi’s estate: “He had a building at the crossroads and avenue known as Comte, on the northern stretch of Lalehzar, on the left hand side, and he and his wife had transformed their home into a hospital… [and] they had [also] built a functional water cistern on the street side of their garden …” Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 129.. The type of goods that Sahhafbashi had in his shop indicates that his customers came from among the aristocracy (such as Atabak and ‘Ala’-od-Dowleh) The names are given by Jahangir Qahremanshahi in Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15, based upon Ghaffari’s text., and on this basis it is conceivable that they too frequented his cinema. Among the films shown there, Qahremanshahi mentions one in which a man “forced more than one hundred [?] men into a small carriage and had a hen lay twenty eggs.” Such comical or extravagant films (see paragraph 2C) were very popular at the time and lasted about ten minutes, as most other films made in that period. The history of the activity of Sahhafbashi’s cinema must be limited to the month of Ramazan and the day of the ‘Eid-e Fetr of 1321 (21 November to 20 December 1903 / 30 Aban to 29 Azar 1282), because Malijak makes no other mention of its activity, Sahhafbashi having apparently traveled to America in the meanwhile (see text below). The month of Ramazan, which occurred in autumn in that year, was undoubtedly chosen on purpose, because spectators could easily use the long evenings to go to the theater after breaking their fast. Financially, Sahhafbashi’s venture seems to have been rather unsuccessful. For example, as we saw, only a few spectators were present at the first session attended by Malijak. And this was probably why Sahhafbashi moved his cinema to a new address on Cheragh-e Gaz (later Cheraq-e Barq, and now Amir Kabir) Avenue after returning from America around 1905 (1284 AS)—not later than 1908 (1287 AS) in any case.
If this change of address actually took place, it was not any more successful, and this time Sahhafbashi’s theater closed its doors for good.
The only document on Sahhafbashi’s travel to America is a bust photograph that shows him in European attire and which was reproduced by Jamal Omid together with the caption “[The picture] shows Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan Sahhafbashi (Mohajer) Tehrani [in] San Francisco – early 1283).” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 124. Of course, the picture does not bear the date “early 1283”, and if any date does appear on it, it is given following either the Muslim or the Christian calendar, and if the conversion is correct, taking into consideration the distance involved, one must conclude that Sahhafbashi was away from Iran at least during 1283 AS / AD 1904, and that the reopening of his cinema can therefore not have taken place before 1284 AS / AD 1905.

The reopening of Sahhafbashi’s theater is obscure and no contemporaneous written source concerning this event and the subsequent activity of this theater has yet come to light. As the present article does not intend to enter a long discussion on this reopening, we limit ourselves to a description of it as it was narrated by the late ‘Abdollah Entezam, who attended Sahhafbashi’s theater in his childhood, and another by Jamalzadeh, which may be related to the same cinema. Neither Entezam nor Jamalzadeh gives any date, but Farrokh Ghaffari’s inference from Entezam’s description was that it was situated around 1905 (1284 AS) “Around 1905” is the date that Ghaffari gave in his first text on Entezam’s words (“Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8), but later on, in view of his studies, he became more inclined toward the year 1904, and the same inclination is reflected in Jamal Omid’s writings. In the author’s opinion, since Sahhafbashi was in America in that year, as attested to by Omid himself (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 124), given that Malijak makes no mention of Sahhafbashi’s theater being reopened, and as Entezam was born in 1895 / 1274, a date around 1905, say 1906 or 1907, when he was older, is more likely than 1904. Concerning entezam, see Azimi, “Entezam”, in the list of sources., and Shahrokh Golestan—the familiar figure of Iranian cinema and its history—understood from Jamalzadeh’s words that he had gone to the cinema shortly before leaving Tehran near the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS). One of Jamalzadeh’s sentences in his colloquy with Golestan also attests indirectly to this fact See text below. Jamalzadeh has said repeatedly (including in “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, Rahnama-ye Ketab, p. 131, and “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”) that he left Iran in spring 1908, but he is apparently in error, because, again in his own words, he had spent the Nowrooz [Iranian New Year, beginning on the first day of spring] holidays of 1908 in Istanbul (“Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 48). Therefore, he was in Iran at least until the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS).. If this assumption is wrong, then Jamalzadeh went to the cinema between 1905 and the beginning of 1908 (1283-1286 AS), because he had come to Tehran at the age of thirteen Inference from a letter of Jamalzadeh to a friend. See “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 49. In his own words, Jamalzadeh was born on 22 or 23 Jomadi-os-Sani 1309 / 23 or 24 January 1892 / 3 or 4 Bahman 1270 (“Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 45).. Since, as we shall see, Sahhafbashi’s business also floundered before 1908 (1287 AS), Entezam’s and Jamalzadeh’s observations refer to anterior dates. In 1905 Entezam was ten and in 1908 Jamalzadeh was fifteen.

Entezam recounted his memories of Sahhafbashi’s cinema to Farrokh Ghaffari in Bern, Switzerland, in October and November 1940 (autumn of 1319 AS). To his relation of this event to the author, Ghaffari added that Entezam had repeated these words in Tehran in 1949-50 (1328-29 AS), in presence of the late Mohammad-‘Ali Jamalzadeh and himself, and that Jamalzadeh had confirmed them. Jamalzadeh himself has been more cautious in his interview with Shahrokh Golestan, believing it “very, very likely” that the cinema to which he had gone in his childhood was Sahhafbashi’s, and adding that he could no more be sure about it See the full text of Jamalzadeh’s account, reproduced a few lines below.. He also spoke of Sahhafbashi’s house on Lalehzar Avenue in a brief article he wrote on him in 1357 AS / AD 1978 on the occasion of the reiterated notice of the sale of his chrome plating factory and theater equipment Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, in Rahnama-ye Ketab. See the list of sources at the end of this article., but made no mention of the theater’s reopening on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue or its connection with Sahhafbashi. Neither have Sahhafbashi’s son, Jahangir Qahremanshahi, or Malijak, that professional sloth, ever mentioned any such reopening. Despite these obscure points, doubting the reopening of Sahhafbashi’s theater on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue is not justifiable either, and for the present, in view of Entezam’s solid testimony, the reopening in question should be considered as having taken place, and Jamalzadeh’s memories of going to that cinema should be taken into consideration. Of course, it is much more probable that Jamalzadeh visited another, lesser, cinema on the same avenue. During the chaotic days of Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s reign, others had begun setting up cinemas. They included Aqayoff, whose film shows were also held on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue but in the coffee-house of Zargarabad, and Russi-Khan, who had contrived a small cinema next to his photo shop.
As Entezam has recorded, Sahhafbashi’s cinema was located on the southern side of Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue, near Toopkhaneh Square; [in Ghaffari’s opinion, perhaps opposite a street running off the northern side of the avenue that was called Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Ghaffari’s belief originates from the fact that, having gone to a coffee-house near Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street to shoot a sequence of Jonoob-e Shahr in 1337 AS (AD 1958) (this coffee-house appears in Jonoob-e Shahr in a sequence where a street bully listens to a dervish’s story), his cameraman, Nasser Raf‘at, and his assistant, Zakaria Hashemi, told him that the owner of the coffee-house opposite the street said that “a cinema was said to have existed long ago around here on the street front”, and that films used to be shown on the lower floor of his own shop in ancient times.
According to ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffar’s map, Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street, or Barbari-ha Street under Nasser-ed-Din Shah, stemmed off Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue and ran between Tekie-ye Barbari-ha and the Cheragh-e Gaz (lighting gas) plant (later Cheraq-e Bargh), joining Bagh-e Vahsh (Ekbatan) Avenue at the curve on the south of Zell-os-Soltan’s Park (the present site of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization). (Also see Ja‘far Shahri, Gooshe’i az Tarikh-e Ejtema‘i-e Tehran-e Qadim, pp. 124-125.) Thus, the southern part of present-day Mellat Avenue is probably none but Sar-takht-e Barbari-ha Street.]. The cinema showed films in the evenings during the month of Ramazan [ca. 1905] and its tickets were worth one, two, three and five qerans. Its entrance was a corridor or hall in which several Edison jahan-namas were exhibited. [Later Entezam told Ghaffari: “They weren’t jahan-namas, they were shahr-e farangs.” In Ghaffari’s, and the author’s, opinion, Entezam meant an Edison Kinetoscope rather than a stereoscopic viewer, mentioned above. Jamal Omid has recorded three jahan-namas (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23), but Ghaffari, quoting Entezam, says “several”. The number of the jahan-namas is also unclear in the previous edition of Ghaffari’s book: Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8. Ghaffari used to believe that jahan-namas were a kind of stereoscopic viewers (Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 227), and the same view is reflected in Omid’s text, already mentioned.] Various lemonades and foodstuff were sold inside the cinema. The spectators on the front sat on straw mats and the others used benches [this is true, because these benches are mentioned in the theater’s sale notice]. Sahhafbashi was present in person, wearing a long black cloak [this is also true; Sahhafbashi wore that cloak as a sign of mourning for the country Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (edition of 1346, v. 1, p. 51; edition of 1362, v.1, p. 291). Jamalzadeh gives a more complete description of this attire, but not in the cinema, in “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 128.]. At times when the spectators did not sit still, Sahhafsbashi would say in a loud voice: “Shame on you. Go back to your places. Hey, you one qeranis, go back to your places.” [Apparently, the cinema’s audience had widened and Sahhafbashi’s calls for his one qeran ticket customers to leave the benches and regain their straw mats shows that it was no more restricted to the aristocracy.] The late Entezam remembered two films. One showed a man sweeping a street. A steam roller would arrive and crush him thin. Then someone standing on a stool would hit him on the head with a mallet, turning him into a short fat man this time Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8. The words ‘fat’ and ‘mallet’ appear as chaq and tokhmaq, respectively, in Omid’s text, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23, and Ghaffari agrees with them.. The second showed a terror-stricken hotel cook watching skeletons and spirits pouring out of his kitchen’s haunted cupboard Based on Ghaffari’s words to the author, as well as his text, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, and Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23. Ghaffari says that the late Entezam had probably seen Georges Méliès’ La cuisine infernale.! Newsreels on the Transvaal war were also shown. Of course, Entezam means the films of British military operations in southern Africa, which ended in the defeat of the Dutch inhabitants of southern Africa in 1902 (1281 AS). In Ghaffari’s opinion, part of these were reconstituted newsreels, and as he and Jamal Omid believe, most of them, whether narrative or informational, were imported into Iran via the Russian ports of Odessa and Rostov Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8; Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 227, and; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 23.. In the author’s opinion, this may have been true in the case of the films screened later by Russi-Khan and others, but as the court was in direct contact with European firms for its cinematographic matters, and as Sahhafbashi himself had British and Indian connections (see text below), the small number of newsreels then available concerning the war in Transvaal must have been primarily imported from Europe, or perhaps India, but not yet from Russia. It should be borne in mind that even the films of the Russo-British war of 1905 AD / 1284 AS were popularly attributed to the British ‘Ali Javaher-Kalam’s memoirs, quoted by Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 28.; an attribution that was probably justified, because the Russians were severely defeated by the Japanese, and, in the Iranians’ mind, belittling the Russians by showing these films benefited British power.
On 14 March 1992, at the age of one hundred, Jamalzadeh thus recounted to Shahrokh Golestan how he first went to the cinema when only fifteen, or a little younger, in Tehran (the words in straight brackets belong to the author and are added for the sake of continuity.)

“When we settled in Tehran, my father swiftly rose in rank, and his friends, who were in danger in Esfahan, under the oppression of Zell-os-Soltan and Sheikh Mohammad-Taqi Aqa-Najafi, also gradually moved to Tehran. One of them was Sayf-os-Zakerin. He was a good man, but a preacher.

One day, in Tehran, while strolling in a street—a street that was later called Cheragh-e Barq; I don’t know how they call it today; the famous street wagons of Tehran ran along it, going to [somewhere]—, I saw Sayf-os-Zakerin, turban and all, sitting on the ledge in front of a shop, before its still closed wooden shutters, behind a table. I approached and wished him a good day. [He said] “Ho Hey, Mamal”! I was not Jamalzadeh at the time; family names didn’t yet exist in Iran. “Hey, Mamal”! I was Mohammad-‘Ali, so my father called me Mamal. “What are you doing here?” I said, “I’m taking a walk.” He said, “Would you like to go to the cinema?” I said, “What’s a cinema?” He said, “Right here, the tickets are at two qerans; you… here, I’m giving you a free ticket.” He took me by the hand and ushered me into a dark, dark shop. It was as dark as in a warehouse, but he had a lamp. He told me, “Sit down here. Come to me when it’s finished.” My good sir, in I went, into the dark! Up on a wall, I saw a man sweeping a street! I was amazed at seeing somebody sweeping a street on a wall! Then I realized that it wasn’t a man, but rather the image of one. Yet, he was just as a living man, moving like a [he does not say what]! Then, while he was busy sweeping, a [pause] cart-like carriage appeared and ran him down. He lay on the ground like a smashed cardboard box, with his legs and arms like this [Jamalzadeh had mimicked the sprawling man]! All those sitting there in the dark made “Oh! Oh!”, and I made “Oh! Oh!” But in the meanwhile someone holding a ma[chine] appeared and began reviving the man with it. Little by little the man came back to life, and then rose up and began walking! The cinema was finished. In my estimate, the whole cinema did not last more than a quarter of an hour, and that was the first time [stressing the ‘first time’] that I saw a cinema anywhere in the world, and it is very, very [stressing the ‘very, very’] probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was [employed] by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge. I came back [home] running. Breaking the news, I said, “Aqa-Jun, I went somewhere; Sayf-oz-Zakerin was there; it’s called ‘cinema’!” My father, who hadn’t even heard the name, said, “Tell me!” I did. He said, “It’s strange! It’s strange! How did they resuscitate that man on the [ground?]?! Shahrokh Golestan’s interview with Jamalzadeh on 14 March 1992 in Geneva, broadcast in part in the Fanoos-e Khial series of the Persian service of the BBC on 1 October 1993. In his unfinished sentence, Jamalzadeh on the one hand stresses the ‘very, very’, but on another adds that he is not certain of what he is saying. He says, “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was … by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge.” The texts already published of this interview have been completed as follows, without any mention of its flaw: “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was employed by Sahhafbashi; of those things I had no knowledge.”, Jamalzadeh, “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, p. 45; in another text, published without Shahrokh Golestan’s authorization, the same sentence appears in this blatantly erroneous form: “it is very, very probable that this Sayf-oz-Zakerin was none but Sahhafbashi; but I had no knowledge of such things.”! Gharavi, Fanoos-e Khial, p. 13.

As already mentioned, although Jamalzadeh cautions about the accuracy of his memory—yet suggests that Sayf-oz-Zakerin may have been in Sahhafbashi’s employment—, comparing his account with Entezam’s clearly shows that they both saw the same film in their childhood, but not in the same theater (unless one of them, or both, incorrectly described the locale). The cinema to which Jamalzadeh had gone was a shop, and not a hall, as Sahhafbashi had seen. Jamalzadeh saw two more films, one in a school and the other in a cinema on Nasseriyeh (Nasser Khosrow) Avenue Jamalzadeh, “Yad-ha’i az Koodaki va No-javani”, pp. 51-52..

As already noted, the eventual closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater had financial causes, and later allusions to religious reasons or a mixture of courtly and religious issues have remained mere unfounded “narratives” In his writings, Jamal Omid has given two versions, and not documented proof, about the causes leading to the closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater. According to the first version, “… with the protest of some people who considered the creation of Sahhafbashi’s theater on Cheragh-e Gaz Avenue anti-religious, Sheikh Fazlollah Noori began preaching against cinema, and Sahhafbashi had no recourse but to close his cinema.” The second version is that, because Sahhafbashi was an activist in the Constitutionalist ranks, his problems at the court in this regard, compounded by the current protests against cinema, gave the courtiers pretext enough to have it closed down (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1, pp. 51-52 & note 14; ibid. p. 23 & note 24. N.B. The notes are unrelated to these two versions). Hamid Nafissi, quoting Sahhafbashis’ second wife through her son, only authenticates one—the first—of Jamal Omid’s versions, writing that Sahhafbashi’s cinema was closed because “the famous cleric Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri had proscribed cinema.”) In another article, this author absolutely, indeed historically, authenticates this point on the evidence of his previous text. He writes: “According to a report, in 1904 (1283 AS), Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri, the influential leader of the day, after going to a public cinema in Tehran, proscribed cinema and brought about its discontinuation” (Tanesh-ha-ye Farhang-e Sinema’i dar Jomhuri-e Eslami, p. 384). Sahhafbashi’s wife has been quoted as having said that Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah ordered Sahhafbashi to close his cinema because he feared the power of the clergy (Tahaminejad, Rishe-yabi-e Ya‘s, p. 14), but this recent assertion of hers appears equally unfounded. On the contrary, Abolqassem Reza’i’s statement that his father (Sahhafbashi) had “very close relationships with the court and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah” is rather exaggerated (Interview with Golestan in Fanoos-e Khial; Shahrokh Golestan, Fanoos-e Khial, edition of Kavir Publishers, p. 14), quite the contrary having been most probably true, particularly as regards the court (cf. The famous event of the Shah being presented with a request written in his name at Amir-Bahador’s house: Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, edition of 1346, v. 2, p. 120).. In particular, Sheikh Fazlollah Noori’s alleged proscription of cinema See previous note. is not only unfounded, but refuted by evidence to the contrary: Russi-Khan—then a cinema owner himself—told Farrokh Ghaffari, in Javad Farifteh’s restaurant in Paris, that “the famous Sheikh Fazlollah Noori came to Darvazeh Qazvin to see his films, following which he declared them blameless.” Farrokh Ghaffari’s conversations with the author and Gaffary, F., Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran, p. 229. Ghaffari writes in this concern: Russi-Khan “opened a new theater at Darvazeh Qazvin (Bazarche-ye Qavam-od-Dowleh). Sheikh Fayzollah (sic), the famous religious leader, sent Russi-Khan a message telling him that he wished to see his cinema, and a special session was therefore organized for the Sheikh and his entourage” (“Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 5). As for Mr. Tahaminejad’s assertion, quoting Farrokh Ghaffari, that Russi-Khan claimed that the Sheikh intended to extort money from him, Ghaffari wrote to the author, on 6 February 2001, “I don’t remember, but it’s quite possible.” Jamal Omid has briefly recorded the latter event in the third person form (“It is said that…”), writing that it bears no mention of Sheikh Fayzollah response (Tarikh-e Sinema, p. 37, note 43). For Ghaffari, the Sheikh’s satisfaction was inherent in the sentence recorded and that no additional stress was needed.
Javad Farifteh—Ahmad Shah’s cook, as we were told in our youth—was the owner of the “Tehran” Iranian restaurant near the Place de l’Étoile, on rue Troyon, in Paris, to which, commixing with the grown-ups, we used to go for a chelo-kabab lunch on Sundays some thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago, in the good old times. Ghaffari met three thrice with Russi-Khan, notably twice in that restaurant, on 30 May 1949 and 29 October 1963, obtaining ample information from him particularly during the meeting of 30 May 1949 (Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 5, note 2). This information was published by himself in his early articles, and by Jamal Omid in his Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran. Ghaffari—whose notes were stolen—cannot remember the exact dates of his subsequent meetings with Russi-Khan, but he agrees with what he has told Jamal Omid and has been published by him, with the difference that the first meeting took place in 1940 and not 1943 (see note 30, p. 36, in Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, or note 1, p. 67, in Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1), because Ghaffari lived in Grenoble in 1943. In fact, neither Sahhafbashi possessed the capital needed to constantly attract a few well-off spectators by regularly importing new, unseen films, nor did a large enough audience exist in the closed, pre-industrial Iranian society to make an increase of screening days profitable. The gradual widening of the Iranians’ frame of mind under Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, the dynamic, modernistic and liberal atmosphere prevailing during the Constitutional Revolution, and the technical progress achieved by the cinema, which made it possible to make longer films, brought about new social and economic conditions that led to the rebirth of cinema halls around 1325 AH / 1907 AD / 1286 AS, this time for good. This did not happen in the case of filmmaking—on which we shall elaborate—and its beginnings in Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s court, upon his personal orders, eventually succumbed to the Shah’s greater fondness for photography and the government’s declining authority. The reasons of this failure must be sought mainly in the composition of the Iranian society and the capitalistic situation at the time: filmmaking required that enlightened wealthy individuals unrelated to the court or the government invest in it, and that a wide spectrum of spectators be available, whereas none of these conditions were (are?) fulfilled in Iran. The wealth of land owners and aristocrats consisted of their lands, but cash money was mainly in the hands of tradesmen and usurers—particularly in the bazaar—who were not inclined toward factory building, let alone filmmaking. Of course, the legal insecurity and financial instability reigning in the country also prevented long-term investments to be made.

The first closure of Sahhafbashi’s theater was due to his travel to America. The second, and last, came about because around Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1324 / June 1906 / late spring-early summer 1285, perhaps following the installation of a chrome plating factory, Sahhafbashi became so short of funds that he was imprisoned when proven unable to repay a debt of twelve or fourteen thousand Tomans to Arbab Jamshid. With the intervention of the clergy, his sentence was commuted to a one-year confinement in the house of Sharif-od-Dowleh, the director of foreign judicial courts, during which he was to repay his debt. His efforts at procuring funds appear to have been unsuccessful, because he eventually “relinquished” his properties, perhaps minus his shop, to Arbab Jamshid at an undetermined date between the winter of 1286 AS / 1908 and the summer of 1288 AS / 1909 No source refers to this matter, but as, according to his son, Sahhafbashi’s “garden and building” (Jamalzadeh, “Dar Bare-ye Sahhafbashi”, p. 129) were located between present-day Crystal Cinema and Arbab Jamshid Avenue (Safarname-ye Ebrahim Sahhafbashi, preface, p. 15), one may conclude that Sahhafbashi “relinquished” his garden and building to Arbab Jamshid, after whom the avenue was renamed. The term “relinquish” is from Nazem-ol-Eslam, who knew Sahhafbashi very well, but here he does not mention Arbab Jamshid and leaves the issue unresolved (Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, edition of 1346, v. 2, p. 193). The shop was perhaps exempted by court order. See text below.. On 23 Jamadi-ol-Avval 1326 AS / 23 June 1908 / 2 Tir 1287, the parliament house came under cannon fire and Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s Minor Dictatorship began, lasting one year, until 27 Jamadi-os-Sani 1327 / 16 July 1909 / 25 Tir 1288. At an undetermined date, but probably after the bombardment of the parliament house and the beginning of this period, Sahhafbashi left Tehran with his “sinemotoqlaf”, eventually reaching Astarabad (present-day Gorgan) in mid July 1908 (late Tir 1287). He rented a place at the post office there and began showing “eight screens of moving images each evening”. He had “links” with the subordinate personnel of the British consulate, who were naturally on the side of the Constitutionalists following their government’s policy, and they formed part of his audience Maqsoodloo, Mokhaberat-e Astarabad, v. 1, p. 56. During WWI, Sahhafbashi also joined the British army in Iran. See text below.. Sahhafbashi later returned to Tehran and as his situation was still dire he decided to emigrate. He had a notice printed for the sale, possibly to the highest bidder, of his “chrome plating factory and theater ancillaries and belongings”. Besides the factory and its equipment, the items listed in that censored (or self-censored) notice—which smells of sorrow and in which he bemoans “the people” not being yet “aware”—, include a “machine for seeing the bones of the body [X-ray unit], electric fans, a sinemotograf with numerous screens [films]… lamps, curtains and benches”, and it concludes stating that the items on sale can be viewed “as from the first of Ramazan to its end”, and that “in case no buyer is found within a month, they will be put on auction wholesale in the afternoon of Friday 11 Shavval”. The year is not mentioned in the notice, but calendar calculations show that he meant the first to twentieth of Ramazan 1326 and Friday 11 Shavval of the same year, which corresponds to 27 September to 26 october 1908, that is 5 Mehr to 4 Aban 1287 and Friday 6 November 1908 / 15 Aban 1287. The sale did not take place on those dates, because Sahhafbashi had earlier rented (or sold?) the shop and left Iran to live for a while in Haydarabad, in the Deccan peninsula, in India. There he published a periodical entitled Name-ye Vatan, which “stood for the consultative assembly of Iranian expatriates”, and which, on this evidence among others, must have been published during the Minor Dictatorship, i.e., from the summer of 1287 AS / AD 1908 to the summer of 1288 AS / AD 1909. He printed a portrait of himself wearing his famous black cloak on its front page The portrait on the front page of Name-ye Vatan was reproduced by Jamal Omid on page 125 of Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran. No date appears on this page, but he gives its publication date as 1286 AS (1907), which does not agree with what we saw, being one year early.. On Wednesday 21 Rajab 1326 / 19 August 1908 / 28 Mordad 1287, two months before the downfall of the parliament and two or three months before the date set for the sale, Malijak wrote about it: “I came to Mokhber-ed-Dowleh Avenue, to Sahhafbashi’s shop, which Arsalan-Khan’s brother Siavash-Khan has now bought and [with which he] is busy earning money. He has also brought in a girl from Europe and is selling various items such as photographic cameras, large viewing lenses and haberdashery.” Malijak, v. 2, p. 1272. Of course, it is not certain that Siavash-Khan had rented the shop from Sahhafbashi himself. He could have rented it from a new owner (Arbab Jamshid?). As the lazy and inquisitive Malijak’s precise recording indicates, the shop must have been rented only a short time earlier. After the victory of the Constitutionalists, Sahhafbashi returned to Iran, settling and starting a trade in Mashhad. He joined the British army as an interpreter during WWI (1914-18), and he died in 1300 or 1301 AS (1921 or 1922) Memories of Abolqassem Reza’i, Sahhafbashi’s younger son, compiled by Jamal Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 24, and Shahrokh Golestan’s interview with Reza’i in Fanoos-e Khial (Golestan, Fanoos-e Khial, edition of Kavir Publishers, pp. 14-15).. His contacts with the British, whether in Astarabad or during the war, can depict him differently from his hereto published image as a liberal patriot in the mind of the suspicious reader, but in fact no judgment can be pronounced in this regard for want of documented evidence and, given of our scarce knowledge of the matter, these contacts may not have been necessarily negative.

As we saw, in his description of Sahhafbashi’s activities, Malijak speaks of photographic cameras and viewing lenses but does not mention the Cinématographe by name, raising the question of what happened to those apparatus and benches. At present there is no clear answer to this question, but one can assume that some of the first films shown in the early days of Ahmad Shah’s reign came from that source, perhaps with Siavash-Khan still operating the projector. And Jamal Omid’s assumption that Sahhafbashi’s Cinématographe came into the possession of Ardeshir-Khan (Artashes Patmagrian), who opened Tajaddod Cinema (soon followed by Modern Cinema) in 1291 AS / AD 1912, is not improbable either J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 37, note 48, & pp. 27-28.. Concurring with Jamal Omid, it should be borne in mind that, according to the evidence he presents, not only did Ardeshir-Khan’s projector appear old, but he also held lanterne magique shows of color pictures J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 28., while it was Sahhafbashi who had first promoted the lanterne magique and held jahan-nama shows alongside cinema screenings in his theater. Therefore, perhaps Ardeshir-Khan’s projector and color plates were also part of Sahhafbashi’s belongings that had come into his possession.

Four years before the opening of Ardeshir-Khan’s cinema in 1291 AS / AD 1912, new theaters had begun showing films in Tehran: initially, beginning from 1 Ramazan 1325 / 8 October 1907 / 16 Mehr 1286, in Russi-Khan’s photo shop, and later in a more appropriate locale See Russi-Khan’s advertisement in Habl-ol-Matin, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavval 1325 / 14 November 1907 / 23 Aban 1286, p. 4; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 25. Also see text below in paragraph C.; then in Zargarabad Coffee-house, on Cheraq-e Gaz (Amir Kabir) Avenue, by Aqayoff, who also shortly moved to a better place Advertisement in Soor-e Esrafil, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, no. 26, p. 8; Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 27., followed by Ardeshir-Khan and Esma‘ilioff, who became his rivals J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 27. Esma‘il Qafqazi, alias George Esma‘ilioff, was accountant at the Ministry of War (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 26)., and later ‘Ali Vakili, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi and others who also chose to become cinema owners.

2. Arrival of the first cinema cameras and projectors.

a. Curiosity of the Shah, as a photographer, about motion pictures; acquisition of the first Cinématographe.

In Iran, the news of the Lumière brothers’ invention and their first representation on the 28th of December 1895 in the basement of the Grand Café, No. 14, Boulevard des Capucines, must have reached Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah a few weeks, or at most two or three months, later. Yet, no information about his reaction is available. Just as his father, but not quite as assiduously, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah was a keen photographer himself. He possessed numerous cameras and was constantly watchful of new inventions: from cars and trucks and steam engines for irrigation pumps to printing presses to telephones, to gramophones and X-ray devices. The date at which he first became interested in the Cinématographe is unknown, but newly found documents show that in February 1899—Bahman-Esfand 1277, that is over one hundred years ago—he commissioned the famous photographer Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh For his biography, see Y. Zoka’, Tarikh-e ‘Akkasi, pp. 75-78, and Ghaffari’s article to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture (see the list of sources at the end of this article)., who was in Paris at the time, to buy him a Cinématographe equipment. Sani‘-os-Saltaneh bought three complete sets and sent them to Tehran. The Shah inspected the equipment on Sunday 10 Shavval 1317 / Tunguz-Yl [the Year of the Pig] / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278.

The document of this acquisition is preserved in the archives of the Golestan Palace under Code No. 1, Folder 51, Envelope 3 This unique document on the Iranian cinema is among those preserved at the Golestan Palace, which were first generally classified by Mr. Ahmad Dezvare’i, the director of the Treasury of the Golestan Palace, and then submitted in part to a team directed by Mr. Nader Karimian in view of a more detailed recording. In 1999, while reviewing the work of this team, Mr. ‘Ali-Reza Anissi, the director of the Golestan Palace-Museum, noticed this document and informed the author of its existence.. It lies within the pages of a European lockable booklet bound in a light green leather cover with gilded and amber-studded corner pieces. This booklet is 200mm high and 130mm wide. At present it contains four folios, of which two pages, i.e., the verso of folio one and the recto of folio two, bear written information. The booklet originally contained more folios, but some ten of them were torn off long ago and part of the writings on the recto of folio two have been clumsily erased. According to an inscription dated 19 Sha‘ban 1317 / 23 December 1899 / 2 Dey 1278 at the beginning of the booklet, the items bought for Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah in Europe were to be recorded on a folio at the right hand end of the booklet, and those arriving from Europe through other sources opposite it (on the left). Today, if indeed this recording was continued, nothing except the above-mentioned two folios remains from that list. On the recto of folio one, one reads: “He is the Supreme God / The list of goods and objects ordered in European countries will be written in this booklet, and continued on a new page whenever one is filled. 19 Sha‘ban 1317.”, followed by “From Paris, from Yamin-os-Saltaneh”. Thus, Aqa Yamin-os-Saltaneh, the Iranian plenipotentiary in Paris, is instructed to have the items listed below sent to Iran: broadcloth, ribbons and buttons for the royal horse-carriage attendants, paper and envelopes to be printed with individual and group portraits of His Majesty, and “two cameras were ordered in Paris / Monday 6 Ramazan 1317 (8 January 1900 / 8 Dey 1278)”. Here, of course, a photographic camera is meant, rather than a cinema camera. On the left hand side, on the next folio (2R), first comes a list of items ordered by the Shah in London and delivered, including a fountain pen (stylo), entrusted to the care of the rakht-dar (garments chamberlain), and “cast iron kitchen utensils […] which […] may be installed in two separate rooms. 5 Shavval al-Mokarram [6 February 1900 / 17 Bahman 1278], Tunguz-Yl […] now enter the andarun” The importance of these apparently worthless documents should not remain unnoticed by those studying modernity in Iran and the evolution of the history of its instruments of penmanship, cookery, etc., followed by a document which interests us here, and which reads:

“Complete with their large baudruche (covers?), the three si-no-fotokraf [cinématographe] sets, that is the electric moving lanter majik [lanterne magique] machines which His Majesty had ordered one year ago in Paris and had been brought in His illustrious presence on Sunday 10 Shavval al-Mokarram Tunguz-Yl 1317 [11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278], are in compliance with the description and bill of sale submitted by Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and preserved by E‘temad-Hozur. The entire equipment is now the property of the Exalted Photographic House.”

It is noteworthy that three of the seven items listed belong to photography and cinema, and, as already mentioned, this indicates Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s keen interest in photography. Almost every page of the Shah’s accounts of his travels to Europe also bears allusions to photography. In such an atmosphere, it is only natural that, after the appearance of the cinématographe in Iran, films were both shown and made here, although nothing is known of such works. The positive trend of affairs became well apparent in the following months and, as we shall describe, six months later Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi As I was recently informed by Farrokh Ghaffari, Mirza-Ebrahim must still be assumed to have been born in Rajab 1291 (13 August to 12 September 1874 / 23 Mordad to 21 Shahrivar 1253) in Tehran, and that the date of his death must still be considered to have occurred in “1333 AH (1294 AS / 1915 AD)” in Chaboksar. Several of Farrokh Ghaffari’s writings concern his biography and their essence appears in Jamal Omid’s Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, pp. 22-24 (the dates mentioned in this book will be corrected in its next printing). These abstracts were published in Film monthly’s special issue on the centenary of Iranian cinema (p. 21), and the old date of 1333 still appears in his text in Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. I, p. 719, which must be corrected. Ghaffari has also recently written an article that will appear in the collection The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, under preparation in London by the Iran Heritage Foundation under P. Luft’s and my own supervision. Also see Yahya Zoka’, pp. 113-116.—the son of Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh—began making films in Ostend, Belgium.

The type of apparatus sent to Iran is recorded as “cinématographe” Even the first part of the word “cinématographe” had entered Farsi through the French “cinéma”. A Persian description of its operation was published in 1325 / 1907 / 1268, some ninety-nine years ago, by Mirza-‘Ali-Mohammad-Khan Oveissi in Baku, and reproduced in Film Monthly, on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema. See list of sources and references, under ‘Ali-Mohammad-Khan Oveissi. I am indebted to Behzad Rahimian for this information., but one should note that, at the time, this specific term—originally applied to the French Lumière brothers’ invention—had more or less become a generic appellation, so that the equipment in question could have included items other than the Lumière brothers’ Cinématographe. The number of sets bought is also debatable. The Persian digit “3” appearing above the letter sin in the word si-no-fotokraf can be interpreted as a vocal mark of that letter and not the number of sets involved, although the tradition of marking the digit “3” in documents is used to stress upon the word seh (three), and not si (thirty) as in here. The digit “3” appears above the letter sin in an advertisement of Omega watches in the middle of the mute film Haj-Aqa Cinema Actor.. If this assumption is correct, then the number of apparatuses bought decreases to one. In the description of the equipment, there is another unclear word that I have read as “ru-kesh” (cover). The Cinématographe was carried around in a sack of thick canvas or leather bag (saccoche in French). Perhaps the writer, who was unfamiliar with this name, has recorded it as such. In any case, both words—ru-kesh and saccoche—mean the same thing. Also, being unfamiliar with the Cinématographe itself as well, the writer has further on omitted the “n” in lanterne magique. In fact, no great mistake has been committed; he has only recorded a popular inaccuracy. Just as the Shah (see paragraph B), or Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani in his Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, he has transliterated lanterne magique as “lanter majik”.

It should be borne in mind that, on the eve of the cinema era, the Cinématographe could equally function as a film camera and a film projector See Oveissi’s description of the operation of the cinema, mentioned in previous note.. In other words, the Shah came into possession of as many film cameras as he bought Cinématographe projectors. In these conditions, it is quite improbable that, from 10 Shavval 1317 / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 onward, no filming (not filmmaking; see below) took place at the court. And this was six months earlier than any known filming (see below). Also, the first Iranian professional filmmakers and film-showers were most probably Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi and his father, Mirza-Ahmad-Khan Sani‘-os-Saltaneh, because the devices, or device according to the document, were “the property of the Exalted Photographic House”, which was in the custody of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah must be considered the first Iranian amateur filmmaker, because he was a photographer and he certainly tried his hand at film cameras. The document concerning the filming of a lion, which we shall examine further on, also adds weight to this assumption.

If one admits that three cameras were bought, one can wonder why Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah would order three identical units. This may be justifiable as a precaution against the risk of parts breaking down, but a more likely explanation is that three different types of cameras were bought. Perhaps one of these was a 35mm Pathé, which was an imitation of the Cinématographe. During my classification of the photographs and plates of the Golestan Palace, I identified several French films with central perforation, and as this type of films belongs to the early period of the cinema, they can perhaps be considered relics from that initial acquisition. At present, no conclusive opinion can be expressed in this regard, and the author needs to carry out further studies.

b. Infatuation period and second acquisition of the cinématographe

Two months after coming in possession of his three, or one, Cinématographe(s) on Sunday 10 Shavval 1317 / Tunguz-Yl / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah began his first travel to Europe on Thursday 12 Zelhajjeh 1317 / Friday 13 April 1900 / Farvardin 1279 AS, in the company of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and his son, Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 3, 10. Although the Shah did not write these lines himself and only dictated them for others to write, as he indeed points out, it is obvious that, on the whole, he must be considered their writer and the others his scribes., and returned to Tehran on Sunday 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / Azar 1279 Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 255..

Numerous photographs were made along the Shah’s travel, but since no mention of the cinématographe is made in his travel account before his arrival in Europe, one must conclude that no cinématographe camera was taken along. In the evening of Wednesday 15 Safar 1318 / Thursday 14 June 1900 / 24 Khordad 1279, the Shah alighted in Contrexéville Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 80. The mineral water springs of this French town help curing renal diseases and gout. The Shah resided in the Hôtel/Pavillon de la Souveraine (Graux, pp. 8, 17), which should not be confused with the Palais des Souverains, his residence in Paris. See following pages., and on the next evening he paid a visit to the “tiatr (theater)”, “which they now build here”, and wrote “We admired. They have built a very good building. It seats almost one hundred and fifty spectators.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 81. By tiatr he probably meant the theater of the town’s casino, in which a particular loge had been built for him (Graux, p. 9). The Shah was very fond of theater and went to see as many plays as he could every time he traveled to Europe. Because he was not versed in languages (he only understood and spoke some French Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 178, 193.), and because his nature preferred burlesque plays, acrobatics, prestidigitation and light music to the opera of Faust “The music [Faust] did not appeal much to His Majesty’s taste”, p. 84 of Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, compiled by a Corilin (?) Corilin had collected press excerpts concerning Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s travel to Europe that were translated by Nayyer-ol-Molk and later published under the supervision of Vahidnia (see list of sources). The Shah probably saw The Damnation of Faust by Hector Berlioz, but Ghaffari believes that he more likely saw Charles Gounod’s Faust. Of course, other composers had also created operas on Goethe’s dramatic poem, but any reference to those seems improbable in this case., he more often attended such shows. He never saw plays of Racine or Victor Hugo, but he did see Alexandre Dumas the elder’ The Three Musketeers on stage and often went to Sarah Bernhardt’s theater Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 84 and second voyage, p. 131.. On Tuesday 21 Safar / Wednesday 20 June / 30 Khordad, only five days after returning to Tehran, the Shah wrote in his travel account: “I have sent Sani‘-os-Saltaneh [to Paris] to select engraving and printing equipment for newspapers and the like, which, God willing, he will buy and carry to Iran.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 85, and the final part of this section concerning Savage Landor’s writings. It was with this very equipment that the Shah’s travel account, which is one of the sources of the present article, was printed and its illustrations were engraved Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 1, 255, and engravings printed in this book.. This order makes no mention of a Cinématographe and it is not clear whether the Shah had inadvertently omitted it or not yet ordered one. The second option seems more probable, because, as we shall see, it appears that it was not until he saw the films sent by Sani‘-os-Saltaneh to Contrexéville and those shown at the international exposition of Paris that he decided to buy cinema appliances, being still attached to photography, as he ever remained.

Meanwhile, Mirza-Ebrahim continued making photographs Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 91.. On Monday 25 Safar 1318 / Sunday 24 June 1900 / 3 Tir 1279, the Shah went to see the Jahan-nama Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 88., another device used to see pictures. Eleven days after Sani‘-os-Saltaneh’s departure to Paris, the Shah received the camera he had asked for and made photographs, having “several glass plates developed” by Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi (Friday 1 Rabi‘-ol-Avval / 29 June / 8 Tir) Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 92.. Two days after receiving the camera, that is on Sunday 3 Rabi‘-ol-Avval / 1 July / 10 Tir, “after his lunch” the Shah “called for Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi”, sent him to join his father in Paris and “he was instructed to buy several photographic cameras.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 93. After the ‘Akkas-bashi’s return from Paris, he did not go back to Contrexéville. “Instead he sent a white-bearded photographer to deliver the photographic equipment (cinématographe) to the Shah, and this demonstration resulted in the issuance of strict orders to the ‘Akkas-bashi to acquire a cinématographe Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah does not describe the person who brought him the Cinématographe, but recognizes him three weeks later among the photographers gathered to make portraits of him, and notes the fact. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 136 (3 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 31 July 1900 / Mordad 1279).. On Sunday 10 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1318 / 8 July 1900 / 17 Tir 1279, the Shah wrote in his memoirs:

“In the afternoon I told the ‘Akkas-bashi to have the person who had brought back from Paris the sinemofotograf and lanter majik on behalf of Sani‘-os-Saltaneh prepare the equipment for us to see. He went and brought him back near sunset. I inspected both devices. They are well-made novelties. They reproduce the pictures of most places (exposition) in an astonishingly vivid manner. We saw most of the landscapes and monuments (exposition), the falling rain, the flow of the Seine, etc., which We have seen in Paris, and ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to buy the entire set.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 100-101.

The musician ‘Ali-Khan Zahir-od-Dowleh, who accompanied the Shah to Paris, has described this demonstration; “On Sunday the tenth at Contrexéville we were watching the cinématographe near sunset.” ‘Ali-Khan Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarname-ye Zahir-od-Dowleh, p. 201. I am indebted to Farrokh Ghaffari for the information on Zahir-od-Dowleh. The term exposition refers to the international exposition of Paris in 1900, which was laid out on both banks of the Seine and included the Eiffel Tower. Iran also had a stand in the exposition and its director was Mr. Ketabchi-Khan Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 130, 135-136.. Here the Shah makes no mention of three or one cinématographe(s) which he had received five months earlier in Tehran and it is not clear what difference could have existed between these two orders.

From Contrexéville, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah set out on an official journey to Russia and no occasion presented itself for the subject of the cinema to be raised before he returned to western Europe. In the afternoon of Saturday 30 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1318 / 28 July 1900 / 6 Mordad 1279, the Shah arrived in Paris on an official visit Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 129.. Photographic activity flourished: at times Sani‘-os-Saltaneh would bring a group of photographers Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 133., at others the ‘Akkas-bashi would take pictures of the Shah Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 135., and occasionally the Shah would buy new cameras (3 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 31 July / 9 Mordad) Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 138..

In these circumstances, on Monday 8 July 1900 / 2 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 8 Mordad 1279, upon the arrival of the news of the assassination of the Italian king, Umberto I, the Shah’s program was changed and the official audience of the ambassadors residing in Paris, which was to take place in the afternoon, was postponed. Instead, “on that afternoon His Majesty spent his time listening to music and examining the siminematograf which He wanted to buy…” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 48. During his stay in Paris, the Shah resided at the Hôtel des Souverains (see Graux, p. 11), at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne—today Avenue Foch (Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 43 and the letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirza-Ebrahim further on). This building was later demolished. “The next day, 3 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 31 July / 9 Mordad, He acquired photographic equipment and some devices and cameras, etc.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 138., no mention being made of a Cinématographe, but in the evening of Friday 3 August / 6 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 12 Mordad, having returned to his residence after reviewing a maneuver of French troops at Vincennes and having lunch in the fort of this city, the Shah began “viewing sinomatograf pictures among which were scenes of His Majesty’s own arrival to Paris.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 68.

The most valuable and most interesting cinematographic representation took place at 21:00 hours the following day, Saturday 7 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 4 August 1900 / 13 Mordad 1279, when Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah visited the international exposition. The news of this visit elicited a brief echo in Le Figaro in the following terms:

“… A highly novel and pleasant representation had been prepared at the exposition in view of His Imperial Majesty’s visit. At nine o’clock in the evening, His Imperial Majesty set foot in the sal der fet [read Salle des Fêtes] and his entire entourage was present. Initially His Imperial Majesty was seated on a chair in the sal and, on the side opposite the royal loge, sinomatograf scenes were shown for his attention that were quite original.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 69.

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s own description is more extensive and Zahir-od-Dowleh gives valuable information about this representation. The Shah writes: “We went to the exposition and its hall of festivities, where the sinemofotograf, which is moving pictures of objects, was shown.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 146. The film representation at the Salle des Fêtes and the enthralling shows at the “iluzison” (read Illusion) building took place one after the other and in separate places. The Shah continues:

“We went to the iluzison building (Palais des Illusions), where the following took place. First We entered the special door of this building. It was sunset time and the lights of the exposition were burning[.] Upon entering the Salle des Fêtes, We were very impressed. Truly, it is a superb building. It is twice as large as the Tekie-ye Dowlat, and also round, with a roof of painted glass. Around it two tiers of red velvet-covered seats are installed for people to sit on and the sinemofotograf is shown in this hall[.] A large screen was raised in the middle of the hall and the sinemofotograf pictures were projected on it[.] Many things were shown, including African and Arab travelers crossing the African desert on camels, which was most interesting[;] We also saw the exposition, the bustling streets, the Seine and the movement of boats and other floating objects on it, which was most interesting[.] We have ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to buy all kinds of it and have them carried to Tehran, where, God willing, they will be set up and shown to Our nokars [.] We watched some thirty screens and after the show [of films] at the Salle des Fêtes We went on to the iluzison building.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 146-147. Illusion shows were created with mirrors and light effects.

Because, as we saw, the Shah had earlier ordered the acquisition of motion picture devices, this renewed order must be considered a reconfirmation of orders to buy various types of the cinématographe; perhaps a lapse had occurred during the Shah’s travel to Russia which made it necessary. As for the intended spectators of the cinématographe, the Mongol term nokar refers to the Shah’s entourage and courtiers, not ordinary servants in its present-day sense. And Si-shardeh is a reference to thirty short stories, or, rather varied anecdotes, often filmed separately and lasting a few minutes each owing to technical limitations. As already mentioned, a good, vivid complementary description is supplied by Zahir-od-Dowleh, who writes:

“We entered this room together with His Majesty and the others. It was an especial reception. No one had come uninvited. There were no more than a hundred Iranians and Europeans. A number of seats equal to the guests’ had been put on one side of this area. We all sat down. On the side facing us a white cloth nailed on a frame measuring seven or eight zar‘ in length and width hung from the ceiling. Five or six minutes after we were seated, all the lights suddenly went out and only that white cloth was visible in that darkness. The director of the room came forth and announced that we would be viewing the best and latest cinématographes of Paris. We all stared at the clear screen. A barren arid desert appeared in which several strings of laden camels were approaching from afar. The camels’ bells could also be faintly heard and the more they approached the stronger their bells’ sound became, to the extent that the camels and their drivers’ shouts, whom I was seeing, seemed to be in the room. Whoever had made the pictures of the caravan on its way also had a phonograph. While the images of its progression were recorded, the phonograph had captured its sounds and voices. When these are replayed simultaneously, the listener and viewer both sees it and hears its sounds. Two, three other screens were also shown. Once we had spent almost an hour watching, the room was lit and we arose.” Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarnameh, pp. 245-246. Zahir-od-Dowleh and the editor of his text go misspell both the cinema’s address and its name. “Shan de Mari… meaning Mary’s Square” should read “Shan de Mars… meaning Square of Mars, the God of War”, and the museum’s name “Grévin” instead of “Krivan”.

At least one film—the arrival of the caravan—was a talkie, in the sense that, together with its projection, a phonograph (of which an advanced variety known as gramophone, or graphophone, became popular in Iran) reproduced the sounds corresponding to the different scenes. Of course, this was only feasible with the short films of the time, but even then synchronizing the sound with the images was fraught with difficulty. Consequently, mute films retained their monopoly on the international market until the late 1920s, when the first true talking films appeared. And a little later, in winter 1312 / 1934, the mute film Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor was defeated, at least financially, by the talking Lor Girl.

Although unrelated with cinema, the schedule of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s travel on the next two days, Sunday 8 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 5 August 1900 / 14 Mordad 1279 and Monday, was not without affecting Iranian art then and now. First, on Saturday, Mirza-Mohammad-Khan Kamal-ol-Molk Naqqah-bashi went to see the Shah, who wrote: “Our Naqqash-bashi, Mirza-Mohammad-Khan Kamal-ol-Molk, whom we sent some time ago to Europe to perfect his art, was seen in Paris on these two days [the Saturday on which Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah had attended a film representation and the Sunday after it]. He has truly worked well.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 149. On Monday the Shah visited the Louvre Museum. The events that took place behind the scenes during this visit, and of which he never became aware, constitute a matter apart, but he himself wrote: “We saw the museum of Shush [the galleries dedicated to items unearthed during excavations carried out at Susa]. There was [and still is] a very large column capital there. A painting had also been done by Kamal-ol-Molk that truly bore no difference with the original. He has done an excellent work.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 149. Apparently, the occurrence of Kamal-ol-Molk’s easel on the Shah’s path during his visit of the Louvre was a theatrical arrangement. See Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 74. See Paoli, pp. 107-108, concerning the events behind the scene during the Shah’s visit of the museum, which I have briefly mentioned in note 29 of my article on Khorheh in Farairan 3/4. These statements express two meaningful points forgotten today or which many do not want to know: firstly, Kamal-ol-Molk and his ancestors, and of course Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi and his father (and beyond them high class art), had benefited from royal and aristocratic patronage and their characters were quite different from the ones depicted in today’s Iranian cinema; secondly, artistic vision and taste had fallen apart both technically and conceptually from traditional Iranian perception and, as noted, the Shah’s words indicate that he has become inclined towards visual reality in the western sense, so that a superb painting is equaled to a superb copy. Thus, Kamal-ol-Molk, who would have been an ordinary or good orientalist painter if he were living in Europe, has become an idol whose work nobody dares question, let alone criticize.

On Tuesday 10 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 7 August 1900 / 16 Mordad 1279, in the Russian stand at the international exposition, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah saw “a panorama of an Iranian road” in his own words, and, in Nayyer-ol-Molk’s interpretation, “a world atlas comprising a sequential string of landscapes of the road from Badkubeh [Baku] to Tehran which filed past the viewer’s eyes and showed its scenery as in a film. Himself a photographer, the Shah noticed that the artist had worked from photographs; He raised the matter, and the artist acquiesced.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 150; Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 77-78. The Shah himself writes about this panorama: “We went to the upper floor hall [of the Russian pavilion], where a panorama of the road of Aryan had been made, actually represented, as though We were Ourselves moving along the road from Badkubeh to Gilan, going on to Qazvin, reaching Tehran, crossing the gates, proceeding past the Ministry of the Court’s garden and residence, eventually entering Our own palace and going in the museum hall. The entire panorama has been drawn by a painter who had come to Tehran in general Korapatkine’s company. We have not traveled across Gilan, but We have seen the road from Qazvin to our capital, Tehran. Truly, he has done a good job[.] In fact, today, in a mere two hours, We have visited the entire island of Madagascar and the desert of Siberia [the pictures of which Shah had earlier seen in the exposition] and traveled to Tehran, to Our own museum hall, and returned to Paris. One cannot realize how it is until one has seen it with his own eyes.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 150. This panorama still exists, and will be described on another occasion.
On Thursday 12 Rabi‘-os-Sani / 9 August / 16 Mordad, the Shah was shown other movies, but was apparently unimpressed, because he made no mention of them in his travel account. However, Zahir-od-Dowleh wrote in his memoirs: “At dusk His Majesty called for me and I went. A cinématographe, that is a moving picture device, had been brought. The representation was done in the same building. It was mediocre.” Zahir-od-Dowleh, Safarnameh, p. 253. “The same building” refers to above-mentioned residence of the Shah. In fact, the Shah had seen “cinématographe scenes of various guns being fired” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 86. at the fort of Vincennes, during his review of a maneuver mentioned above.
From Paris Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah went to Ostend, Belgium. In the morning of Tuesday 14 August 1900 / 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 23 Mordad 1279, as he had expressed the desire to go on a ride in an automobile, which was a great novelty. Xavier Paoli, responsible for the Shah’s security in France, writes about the Shah’s relationship with cars and charming ladies: “One day in the Bois de Boulogne, on the outskirts of Paris, seeing an attractive scene, he stopped to take a few instantaneous pictures (vues instantanées). A group of very handsomely dressed ladies were strolling around, oblivious of our presence. Upon seeing them, the Shah told me: “Ask them to come forth that I may take pictures of them.” The ladies were astonished at the invitation, but gladly accepted it. Once the pictures were made, the Shah told Paoli: “Paoli, these ladies are most lovely and beautiful. Ask them if they are willing to come to Tehran with me.” Paoli adds that he somehow evaded the issue, replying that women were not “pianos, Cinématographes or automobiles” that one could just pick and take to Tehran! Paoli, p. 100. Relatively free translation except in quotation marks. In Ostend, charm, automobiles and cinema merged to make the first Iranian film.

In the morning of Tuesday 14 August 1900 / 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 23 Mordad 1279, “Madame Kron Comtesse de Bylant,” who was highly competent in this domain [automobile driving]”, volunteered to “take the Shah on a tour in her own automobile, a steam engine Stanley.” Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 101. The Comtesse de Bylant/Bylandt, daughter of Comte de Bylant, was the wife of Georges Grön de Copenhague, the representative of Stanley automobiles on Belgian soil Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article.. The Shah did not ride in a car himself, but ordered his minister of finances to take his place. At the end of the demonstration, held on the beach in front of the Shah’s hotel of residence, “as this automobile was most novel and had innumerable qualities”, directions were given to have two models of the same, one with four seats and the other with three, ordered to the manufacture Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 101-102.. Undoubtedly, Madame la Comtesse’s beauty and driving abilities had deeply impressed the Shah. A large crowd had gathered in front of the hotel, including Princesse Clémentine, the daughter of the Belgian king Leopold II, “in all beauty and charm”, who freely went here and there and incessantly took pictures Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 102.. The next morning, on Wednesday 15 August 1900 / 18 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 24 Mordad 1279, Madame Grön once again demonstrated her skill in driving around curves in the Shah’s presence, who told her: “The excellence of the automobile is now established, on the evidence that it is so docile in your small delicate hands as to allow you to drive it whichever way you wish.” The charm proved effective, and the deal of the cars was sealed. The Shah was pleased with his experience with automobiles on that day and, in order to preserve its memory, he had Madame Grön stand on his left hand side and “a series of moving pictures were taken with the Cinématographe,” following which the Shah went out on the beach Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 104. Writings on the history of Iranian cinema, which all make direct or indirect use of Corilin’s translated text, erroneously mention a French lady who made films, or a Madame Kron who actually shot films. These are incorrect and the story in Corilin’s text is none but the one related..

In this translation of Nayyer-ol-Molk, it is unclear by whom the photographs were taken, and it appears that the film of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and Madame Grön was taken first, before the Shah’s stroll on the beach, whereas in Belgian records the reverse is true, and the photographer is known Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article, and Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, pp. 104-105.:

“Le Chah s’est ensuite dirigé vers la plage en descendant la rampe qui se trouve devant le Palace et il s’est fait ramasser quelques échantillons de coquillages. Après une promenade d’une demi-heure environ… a donné ordre à son photographe particulier de prendre une vue cinématographique du groupe. Après quelques minutes d’attente, sur un signe du photographe, SMI suivie de son entourage s’est avancée lentement et la scène a été prise… [Le Chah] a fait appeler Mme Grön et l’a prié de se placer à sa gauche afin de figurer sur la vue cinématographique”.

Thus, the first documented Iranian film was made by the Shah’s personal photographer, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi, on the sandy beach in front of the Hôtel Palace of Ostend, of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Madame Grön and their entourage on the morning of Wednesday 15 August 1900 / 18 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 24 Mordad 1279. Unfortunately, this film has not been found. It will be noted that it was shot three days before the one made at the floral carnival (see a few lines below), which we had thought to be the first historically documented Iranian film and accordingly adopted its date as the anniversary of Iranian cinema. Another notable point is that the floral carnival scene was that of an event and could therefore be considered documentary or informational, whereas the beach scene was somehow prearranged, because some stage setting was done before and during the shooting (see paragraph 4). In other words, the movement of the cast was effected in view of the filming, and not the opposite; therefore the film was not just “taken”; even if primitively, it was “made”.

The second filming took place in the afternoon of Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 18 August 1900 / 27 Mordad 1279, during a floral carnival, again in Ostend. Unlike the previous, it was planned in advance and therefore constitutes the first film of its kind in the history of Iranian cinema. Furthermore, even if it is a souvenir, it is also the first Iranian documentary film owing to its preplanned nature and especially its subject. Yet, it is not a documentary news report, because it was never publicly screened. After “His Imperial Majesty” (Sa Majesté Impériale) ordered the ‘Akkas-bashi to film the floral festival, the itinerary of the flower throwers’ carriages and chariots was surveyed in advance. The Villa des Familles, which had a balcony overlooking Longchamp-fleuri, along which the caravan was to proceed, was chosen as the best site for the camera, and the location of the loge in which the Shah was to sit was determined. Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article. Perhaps wishing to reap “honor” (honneur) from its privileged location, the owners of the house had the Shah’s loge built almost exactly opposite it. That balcony truly offered ‘Akkas-bashi’s “interesting work” the best view of the avenue on the dyke, where the carnival was to proceed (c’était du reste le meilleur point de vue de la digue pour cet intéressant travail) Belgian sources. See list of sources at the end of the article..

At 15:00 hours on Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 18 August 1900 / 27 Mordad 1279, greeted by the cheering crowd, the Shah and his entourage appeared in the royal loge and, after he was presented with three flags, the carnival began Corilin, Badaye‘-e Vaqaye‘, p. 108..

The Shah wrote about that day in his memoirs:

“Today a floral carnival is being held and We have been invited to attend[.] We went to attend[.] His Excellency the prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs were also in attendance[.] It was a very picturesque feast[.] The entire carriages were invisible and ladies rode them past us with flower bouquets in their arms and the ‘Akkas-bashi was busy taking sinemotograf pictures[.] Some fifty carriages [laden] with flowers were proceeding in a neat file[,] and music was being played[.] A huge crowd had gathered and when the carriages reached Us flower bouquets were thrown towards Us one after the other, so that a tall pile of flowers appeared before Us[.] We in turn threw about a kharvar [300kg] of flowers towards their carriages[.] In Europe these festivities are also called Flower Feast and Flower Battle Translation of the French “bataille de fleurs”, an expression which the Shah himself uses elsewhere (Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 80) and which Farrokh Ghaffari found to be the equivalent of Corso fleuri. See Ghaffari, 20 ans de cinéma en Iran, pp. 179-195., and they are [regularly] held. It was most picturesque[;] We had a very good time[.] And the horses of Our carriage were all excellent and bedecked with flowers. They were very well decorated and made a truly superb sight[.] We returned to our residence at sunset[.] A group of Zoroastrians were brought into Our presence…” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 160-161.

I had found part of this film eighteen years ago (1361 AS / AD 1982), with the assistance of the personnel then in charge of the section at the Golestan Palace (Shahindokht Soltani Rad, Elaheh Shahideh and Hassan ‘Ala’ini), and other fragments were recovered in the course of the classification of the Album House of the Golestan Palace by Javad Hasti, assisted by Farida Qashqa’i, but the definitive identification of their contents eventually came on 13 Aban 1379 / 3 November 2000 in Paris, thanks to the data which Mlle Marion Baptiste and M. le Baron Michel de Radiguès collected for me in Belgium. Some of these films were copied under the supervision of Akbar ‘Alemi in 1362 / 183 at the IRIB, and later on used (in part: 2’ 26”) in the video known as Makhmalbaf’s, but none of us actually knew anything about their actual contents In this concern, also see Section 3, 2.. Today (5 January 2001 / 16 dey 1379), 71.80 m of these films (corresponding to the 2’ 26” mentioned) have been identified on ‘Alemi’s copies, and the originals are preserved in laboratory conditions and being prepared for copying at the Centre National de la Cinématographie in France. As these 35mm nitrate—hence self-destructive—films are stuck together and very brittle, it is not yet known what length of them will be saved for a time, and how much of it will be positive or negative.

Among the films copied in the past, one first sees the arrival of the Shah’s carriage escorted by Belgian mounted gendarmes and guards wielding nude swords. The horsemen wear fur caps like those of British royal guards. The police being in charge of order, a policeman is visible beside the flower-bedecked loge of the Shah. Then the carriages covered with flowers begin moving; the ladies riding the carriages throw flowers at the Shah, and he at them. A little girl runs towards the Shah; she is stopped. The Shah orders her to be allowed forth and embraces her; then someone carries her away. The rain of flowers continues and eventually the Shah leaves the loge towards his carriage. At this moment, noticing that the flags presented to the Shah have been forgotten, someone picks up the—apparently two, and not three—flags and carries them away. The Shah leaves, followed by his escort of mounted guards.

At first glance, it appears certain that Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi was filming from within the stand with the Shah’s and his own camera, but this was probably not the case: On 20 August 1900 (Monday 23 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1318 / 29 Mordad 1279), that is two days after the floral carnival, Gaumont Co. sent a letter to the ‘Akkas-bashi in Ostend, informing him that the photographic material he had requested had been delivered in Paris at the date he had indicated, that the two film cameras he had ordered were being delivered (apparently to himself, together with the letter), and that a cameraman from that company then posted in Ostend would be at his service with a complete photographic equipment. Even if it took two only days for the letter and cameras to reach him, he did not receive them earlier than 22 August, that is four days after the floral carnival and a week after the beach scene. Therefore, Mirza-Ebrahim had no camera before 22 August, and the Shah only mentions Mirza-Ebrahim’s film shooting in Ostend, and not elsewhere; for these reasons, quite probably, no such event had taken place earlier during this trip, and Mirza-Ebrahim did his filming in Ostend with the camera of the photographer sent by Gaumont. Of course, he had become acquainted with these devices and learned film processing when buying the cameras, and it may therefore be assumed that he thereafter was in possession of a camera, which he later took with himself to Belgium. This is possible, nevertheless, taking into consideration the Shah’s meticulousness in recording matters related to pictures, one would expect him to also mention Mirza-Ebrahim’s filming elsewhere, whereas this does not happen. In fact, it appears that, even before receiving the letter and the cameras from Gaumont Co. on 20 August, ‘Akkas-bashi had borrowed that company’s camera from its representative since the day of the car ride. The managers of Gaumont. Co., perhaps notified by their photographer, welcomed the event and put the photographer and his camera at the disposition of ‘Akkas-bashi, with no mention being made of the past events. Of course, the proposition to use the instruments did not necessary require the knowledge of the managers of Gaumont Co. about the filming, and they could have made such a proposition to a prospective client on their own. Unfortunately the original letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirza-Ebrahim is in French and has not been published. This document, as well as two brief notes and a bust photograph of Mirza-Ebrahim, were uncovered by Farrokh Ghaffari, and have now been lost, perhaps forever In 1329 AS / 1950, through her husband, Dr. Siavash Shaqaqi, Moluk-Khanom, one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s three daughters handed over documents to Farrokh Ghaffari that includes the following: the letter of Gaumont Co., two letters concerning films shot by Mirza-Ebrahim on the Shah’s orders (see text below), and a bust portrait of Mirza-Ebrahim that has been published by Jamal Omid (Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 116). Some of these documents are first mentioned in note 1 of Farrokh Ghaffari’s article, “The first cinematographic endeavors in Iran”, in ‘Alam-e Honar of 26 Mehr 1330, but general information was supplied to the author by Farrokh Ghaffari himself. Ghaffari’s collection disappeared during the events of Bahman 1357 / February 1979. One can perhaps hope that, just as some of his books eventually found their way to the Central Library of Tehran University, these documents will some day be identified among the belongings of this or that foundation, or elsewhere.. Fortunately, Farrokh Ghaffari had put the photograph, the text of both notes and the Persian translation of the letter at the disposition of Jamal Omid, who had them published, compensating to a certain extent for the loss J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 34, note 7.. Ghaffari himself had also given a translation of the letter, which differed only in one point that did not affect its meaning. The point in case was the word “roll”, the anglicized from of the French “rouleau” (spool), which could not have appeared as such in a letter written in French. It has been added in straight brackets in Ghaffaris’ version, which appears here:

“Ostend, Belgium, His Excellency Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan, Photographer of His Imperial Majesty the Shah of Iran,

As per your instructions, I am sending you the 35 and 15 millimeter film cameras you had ordered. We have delivered fifteen cases [rolls] at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne The residence of the Shah, mentioned above. on the day you had determined. In order to avoid any confusion between the two cases that were to be delivered earlier and the thirteen others, they have been painted black. One of our cameramen is in Ostend and his filming equipment and himself are at the disposition of the Shah of Iran. We are also able to inform you that the company of the Baths of Monaco has granted us the exceptional authorization to offer the positive strips of the annual cinematographic competition of the year 1899 to His majesty if such is His wish.” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 34, note 7. Following this note, one reads: This competition, which attracted great attention at the time, was rewarded by prizes of ten thousand and five thousand Francs and numerous two thousand and one thousand Francs prizes. One of these was a film of Dr. Doyen performing a surgery, which Léon Gaumont offered to present to the Shah.

Positive strips refer to ordinary films that can be shown with a projector, the 15 millimeter Gaumont apparatus is probably the 1900 model chronophotographe, or perhaps the chronophotographe with the Démeny system of 1897. Such great figures as Alice Guy and George Méliès utilized it and it was still in use at the Gaumont studios fifteen years after its invention. It appears unlikely for Jamal Omid to have later added the word “rouleau” on his own, and perhaps Ghaffari’s unpublished text includes typesetting omissions, particularly that the remains of raw films brought to Tehran a century ago have now been identified and classified at the Golestan Palace, which attests to their large original number The remains of these films are scarce and have not yet been entirely classified and identified. The proof that they are over a hundred years old is that, besides 35 millimeter films, they include narrow centrally perforated films, and among the unprocessed photographic plates I have found none dated earlier than 1899 or with an expiry date later than 1906.. On another hand, it is quite conceivable that the fifteen cases delivered did not contain only films, and that photographic equipment, various types of films and processing chemicals were also included. Otherwise, one must admit that, just as the Shah used to buy different photographic cameras on various occasions, he could buy photographic plates, cinema film and even cinematographic equipment from other manufacturers, for example Pathé, at other times.

One of the film cameras he bought, which was neither necessarily a Gaumont nor probably mentioned in this company’s letter, was seen by Henry Savage Landor at the Golestan Palace in Tehran in 1901 (1280 AS)—give or take one or two months. In a derogatory tone evocative of Morier’s Haji Baba, Landor writes:

“… Adjoining this room is a boudoir, possessing the latest appliances of civilisation. It contains another grand piano, a large apparatus for projecting moving pictures on screen and an ice-cream soda with four taps, of the type one admires—but does not wish to possess—in the New York chemists shops! The Shah’s however lacks three things: the soda, the ice and the syrups.” Henry Savage Landor, Across Coveted Lands or a Journey from Flushing (Holland) to Calcutta, Overland, London, 2 vols., London, 1902 (US ed. New York, 1903). It has been written (see, e.g., J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22) that, while visiting the Golestan Palace, Henry Savage Landor saw a “large Gaumont Cinématographe”, but, as we saw, the author does not mention a Gaumont Cinématographe. Further on, in the same derogatory tone, Landor also mentions the Shah’s modern printing press (p. 238), meaning the magnificent machine bought in the same year, during the Shah’s first travel to Europe, by Ahmad Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and installed in the Golestan Palace under the supervision of Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi (see Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], pp. 1-255). The photographs I have seen of the operation indicate that the machinery was installed on the ground floor of the southeastern corner of the White Palace, facing the garden. The Shah’s accounts of his first two travels to Europe were among the books that were typeset and printed with this equipment.

Further along his travel, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah left Ostend for the mineral water springs of Marienbad, then in Austria and now in the Czech republic. Eighteen days after the floral carnival, on Wednesday 9 Jomadi-ol-Avval 1318 / Tuesday 4 September 1900 / 13 Shahrivar 1279, the ‘Akkas-bashi probably showed him the readied films of those events. The Shah wrote in his memoirs: “The ‘Akkas-bashi had prepared the cinématographe and until half an hour before midnight we spent the time partly conversing and partly viewing our own pictures.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 178. From Marienbad the Shah went to the Austrian capital and, on the last day of his stay in Vienna, on Monday 28 Jomadi-ol-Avval / Sunday 23 September / 1 Mehr, “Sani‘-os-Saltaneh arrived from Paris and was given audience. It turned out that our orders had been correctly executed and reached home.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 196. These “orders” quite probably included the above-mentioned printing equipment and the fifteen cases of photographic material referred to in the letter of Gaumont Co. The filming cameras were in the cases, because, from Ostend to the end of the journey in Tehran, while he repeatedly mentions photography, and even notes that he spent some time annotating photographs Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 191., he utters not a single word about filming, and it appears that the film representation in Marienbad was made with a machine other than the ones the Shah had bought.

Returning from Europe, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah reached Tehran on 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / 4 Azar 1279, and on 29 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 8 April 1902 / 19 Faravardin 1281, he once against set out towards Europe. During his stay in Tehran, he had had at least from three to five cinema cameras at his disposition: either one or three from the first acquisition, and at least two from the second. No report on the output of this equipment, whether concerning filming or film showing, is available, and no clear picture can be formulated before the films at the Golestan Palace are analyzed. Of course, films must have been made in this period (see below), although these cinematographic activities could not compare with the popularity of photography, which, besides being the hobby of the king, was also well established outside the court. The continued supremacy of photography over cinema is clearly perceptible in the Shah’s memoirs of his second voyage to Europe. In this travel account, the Shah makes scores of allusions to photographs and various types of photographic cameras, as well as picture taking by different people, including himself and Mirza-Ebrahim Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], pp. 19, 29, 45, 53, 68, 70, 72, 78, 98, 133, 136 & 151. The acquisition of two, certainly photographic, cameras at Lucerne, Switzerland, on Tuesday 18 Safar 1320 / 27 May 1902 / 6 Khordad 1281 (p. 54) and a photographic camera and an X-ray unit (p. 60), dispatching the ‘Akkas-bashi to Germany to buy the “newly invented photograph” (p. 63), instantaneous photography (p. 66), dispatching the ‘Akkas-bashi to “carry out some orders’ (p. 104), which consisted of buying a photographic camera (p. 106), the painting of a portrait of the Shah, the arrival of ‘Abdollah-Mirza Qajar—the famous Iranian photographer—to take pictures (p. 111), use of a magnesium flash (p. 126)., whereas cinema is mentioned only four times, moreover only from the viewpoint of a spectator and not that of a buyer of its equipment. In early September1902 / mid Tir 1281, the Shah had seen the cinématographe in Karlsbad [now in the Czech Republic], but had not written a single word of the event in his memoirs, having probably found it uninteresting. This representation is mentioned in the description of the evening of Friday 3 Jomadi-ol-Avval 1320 / 8 August 1902 / 17 Mordad 1281 at Contrexéville. The Shah wrote: “The cinématographe is here[.] We saw it to be a panorama like to the one we had seen in Karlsbad[.] We would not have gone had we known [.] There was also a small billiard [pool table] there, as well as several small jahan-namas…” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 107. Before that, in his memoirs of Friday 17 Rabi‘-os-Sani / Thursday 24 July / 2 Mordad in London, the Shah also writes about cinema, this time in more appreciative terms, particularly for having seen the film of his own visit. He writes: “We came home, recited our prayers and ate supper[.] After supper the cinématographe was set up and we went downstairs[.] There, the pictures of our visit with His Majesty the King [Edward VII], our visit today of the armory, the previous evening at the theater and the flow of the river were all projected by electric lamps on the screen[,] exactly as though it was ourselves in motion[.] We admired.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 119. “The flow of the river” refers to a representation he had seen on the previous evening, in which water was shown to flow until it covered the scene. Ten days later, in Paris, before noon on Sunday 26 Jomadi-ol-Avval / 31 August / 9 Shahrivar, the Shah refused a projector, perhaps of a new type and offered to his attention for sale, following an unsuccessful demonstration. His attention was also drawn probably for the first time to the magnesium flashlight. He writes: “A cinématographe was brought which had a lamp at its back and appeared as though one were leafing through a book[.] In the meanwhile, His Excellency the Atabak-e A‘zam arrived[.] We tried to show him[, but the device] failed, so that even its owner was unable to repair it.] We gave the apparatus back[.] Then a photographer came who made photographs at night[.] He had the curtains drawn and the room filled with smoke and then made a portrait of Bassir-os-Saltaneh and Nasser-ol-Molk.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 126. For the last time, in the evening of Sunday 3 Jomadi-ol-Akher 1320 / 7 september 1902 / 16 Shahrivar 1281, in the course of his second European tour, during which, apart from photography, he was more attracted by the phonograph and automobiles than by motion pictures, the Shah went to see films and the jahan-nama in Paris. He wrote in his memoirs: “The ‘Akkas-bashi had also brought a cinématographe[;] we watched for an hour[.] We then spent another hour watching the jahan-nama[.] Our nokars were also there[;] we conversed[;] then we went to bed.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 131.

c. The decline

No information is available about what happened between Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s arrival to Tehran on Friday 20 Rajab 1320 / 23 October 1902 / 1 Aban 1281 and his last European tour in 1323 / 1905, but as photography was still part of the scene and the ‘Akkas-bashi and his father were present during these 29 months, one may assume that the same was more or less true about cinema activities at the court. Malijak’s memoirs attest to this. After breaking his fast, on Tuesday 15 Ramazan 1320 / 16 December 1902 / 25 Azar 1281, he went to the court, and later wrote: “We stayed for two hours at the house [Golestan Palace]. Simon the ‘Akkas-bashi had brought a telegraph and was showing it to the Shah.” Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

The Shah left Tehran on his third voyage to Europe on Sunday 2 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1323 / 7 June 1905 / 15 Khordad 1284 and returned to his capital before Ramazan of the same year / 28 November / 7 Azar Departure date in Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, pp. 298, 397 & Malijak, v.1, p. 767; return date in Malijak, v. 1, p. 836.. Apparently no account of this travel, which is said to have taken place in not quite satisfactory conditions, is available A relatively complete illustrated account of this part of the voyage, which took place in France and belgium from 22 June to 31 August 1905 (2 Tir to 10 Shahrivar 1284), appears in Graux and Daragon’s rare book printed in only 300 copies. See European sources, under Graux, pp. 16-33. The Cinématographe is not mentioned in this account (see in particular p. 23)., but albums of photographs made during it by Mirza-Ebrahim and others are preserved in the Album House of the Golestan Palace. After his third voyage, given the restive mood of the society and the king’s sickness, to which he succumbed one year later, on 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285, any cinematographic activity at the court during that year could not have been dazzling; and the sloth Malijak does not mention the cinema.

The Constitutionalists’ movement and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s inclination towards seeing himself as the “guardian” rather than the “master” of his people resulted in his proclamation of the Edict of the Constitution on 14 Jamadi-as-Sani 1324 / 5 August 1906 / 14 Mordad 1285. Had it occurred in an industrialized society, this era, which witnessed the opening of schools and the creation of newspapers, and which, after the Shah’s death, became the scene of revolutions and combats waged by freedom fighters, could have brought prompted the creation of at least unique documentary films. But, in the absence of filmmaking outside the court, this did not happen. Mirza-Ebrahim, the ex-courtier, had lost his patron, and as he was not fully professional, as for example ‘Abdollah-Khan Qajar in photography, he busied himself with other occupations and even sold a cinema camera to the photographer Russi-Khan! Apparently only the photographer Russi-Khan, who was acquainted with Mohammad-‘Ali Shah, made some eighty meters of film of the ‘Ashura ceremonies of 1327 / 1 February 1909 / 12 Bahman 1288 with a camera he had bought from Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi Russi-Khan had told Farrokh Ghaffari that “he had bought a camera from the son of Sani‘-Hazrat, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi, in 1909…” (F. Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, p. 27 & J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 26, in brief). Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi was Sani‘-os-Saltaneh and Russi-Khan meant his son, Mirza-Ebrahim, but his attribution of the camera to Sani‘-Hazrat’s son, who was neither a photographer nor the Shah’s ‘Akkas-bashi, is erroneous. Sani‘-Hazrat’s sole connection with photography was that he assassinated Mirza-Javad-Khan, the constitutionalist photographer. This mistake, which had remained uncovered to the present, was perhaps due Russi-Khan’s despotism and support for Mohammad-‘Ali Shah. Concerning Mirza-Javad-Khan’s assassination and Sani‘-Hazrat, see Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, part 2, p. 484; Y. Zoka’, Tarikh-e ‘Akkasi, pp. 284-285, and; Dakho (‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhoda), who derisively likens Sani‘-Hazrat’s marching at the head of his platoon to General Korapatkine, whose panorama was mentioned (Soor-e Esrafil, Thursday 11 Zelhajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, p. 6). Sani‘-Hazrat was hanged by the revolutionaries on 11 Rajab 1327 / 29 July 1909 / 7 Mordad 1288, Malijak, v. 3, p. 1579 & illustrations in v. 3, pp. 1580-1581.. He sent the film to Russia for developing. It was shown there, but when it arrived to Tehran, the downfall of Mohammad-‘Ali Shah (Friday 27 Jamadi-al-Akher 1327 / 16 July 1909 / 25 Tir 1288) and the looting of Russi-Khan’s shop by the “governmental troops” (i.e., the constitutionalists) Malijak, v. 3, pp. 1550, 1557. on the same day prevented it from being ever seen. It was plundered, together with 200,000 meters of other films F. Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, v. 3, pp. 1550, 1557. Ghaffari’s text reads “two hundred thousand meters”, but, as he has advised the author, the correct figure must be 2,000 meters, or perhaps 20,000 meters., and nothing is known of its fate. As noted at the end of part One, Russi-Khan had become a cinema owner since 1 Ramazan 1325 / 8 October 1907 / 16 Mehr 1286 and possessed three cinema projectors at the time Inference from J. Omid’s writings, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 25.. Russi-Khan’s acquisition of cinema cameras and projectors and his screening of films taken in Russia clearly indicate that he intended to begin producing financially profitable films; hence, he must be considered the unsuccessful originator of private filmmaking for the public in Iran. Moreover, having films developed in Russia itself indicates the decline of cinematographic techniques in Iran after the death of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, because the existence of unused positive and negative 35 millimeter or centrally perforated narrow films at the Golestan Palace (see below) suggests that such operations were indeed carried out in the country, at least in the case of narrow films, during his reign. Although Mirza-Ebrahim-Khan ‘Akkas-bashi’s works lacked the printing quality of the great photographers active under Nasser-ed-Din Shah, it is hardly credible that he—who was able to run a relatively large printing house—could not develop a cinema film.

Two
The fate of the royal film cameras
Of the scores of photographic and cinema cameras bought successively by Nasser-ed-Din Shah and Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, nothing but a fragment of matte glass mounted on a lacquered wooden frame remains today in the Golestan Palace. It is to be hoped that the classification and review of the documents preserved at the Golestan Palace will some day reveal the sad fate of these devices. For the time being, the author believes that this collection disappeared at an undetermined date after Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s death, during the suspension of the Golestan Palace ensemble, which lasted until around 1340 AS (AD 1960). Unfortunately, unlike the books transferred during the reign of Reza Shah to the National Library or Iran-e Bastan Museum, these cameras were transferred without any record being made, or having come to light to the present. One of the cinema cameras is said to be have been sold on auction under Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, but the date stated for this sale by Alec Patmagrian to Jamal Omid can only be erroneous or incorrectly converted from a Christian or a Lunar Islamic one. As recounted by Alec Patmagrian to Jamal Omid, in 1283 AS (AD 1904), during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi had come into possession at an auction sale held at the Tekie-ye Dowlat of the Gaumont camera bought by the ‘Akkas-bashi in France in 1900 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 38, note 67.. Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi himself had no recollection of the date of the sale or the origins of the Gaumont camera put on auction at the Tekie-ye Dowlat, except that he had once seen several cinema cameras of the Gaumont type at the Tekie-ye Dowlat and been able to buy one for the price of one hundred Tomans J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 38, note 67.. As Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi was born in 1271 AS / AD 1892 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30., it is highly unlikely for him to have attended an auction sale at the age of twelve, bought a Gaumont camera for one hundred Tomans, remembered the price, but forgotten entirely when he acquired what must have been an unforgettable masterpiece for a child of twelve! Moreover, how could Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, who was in love with photography and cinema, have resigned himself to putting on sale a camera he had bought only four years earlier? The very fact of an auction sale during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, particularly at the Tekie-ye Dowlat, is quite improbable. One can hardly admit that a Shah who never missed his daily religious duties and, even when in France, diligently participated in araba‘in and ta‘zieh ceremonies Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [first voyage], p. 83., would hold an auction sale of his cameras at the Tekie-ye Dowlat—built by his father had in view of Moharram ceremonies. And the price of one hundred Tomans appears too expensive for the time. In the author’s opinion, Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi bought this camera at an auction sale held at the Tekie-ye Dowlat long after his return from Europe in 1295 AS / AD 1916 J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30., during the reign of Ahmad Shah according to one source Jamal Omid, speaking of the shooting of Abi va Rabi, this time probably quoting Mo‘tazedi, writes (Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 58, note 26) that the auction sale took place under Ahmad Shah, but, as we shall see a few lines lower, this too is incorrect., and most probably under Reza Shah This is now certain, because Mr. Asghar Mahdavi told the author on 20 Shahrivar 1379 (10 September 2000) that the auction sale, which was also attended by the late Aqa-Seyyed-Jalal Tehrani, was held during the late Taymurtash’s tenure at the Ministry of the Court. Mr. Mahdavi’s words will be reproduced in their entirety at another opportunity.. It is improbable for Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi to have done professional work with this camera. He must have considered it more of a “curiosity” than a working instrument. His working instruments were the cameras and devices he had brought with himself from France Concerning the list of these instruments, which included one (?) Gaumont cinema camera and its ancillaries, see Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 30.. Jamal Omid—quoting Khanbaba Mo‘tazedi?—writes that he had done the shooting of Oganians’ Abi va Rabi with the same Gaumont camera of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 58, note 26.. This is improbable, because the film in question was screened in Tehran on 12 Dey 1309 / 2 January 1931, thirty years after Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s cameras were manufactured, and one has to admit that either the camera bought by Mo‘tazedi was not Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s or he had shot Abi va Rabi with the Gaumont camera he had brought back from France in 1295 AS / AD 1916.

In 1288 AS / AD 1909, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi sold another camera, of unknown brand and specifications, to Russi-Khan, who, as noted above, used it to make some eighty meters of film Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 2, ‘Alam-e Honar, 4, p. 28.. Nothing justifies attributing royal origins to this camera, which may have belonged to Russi-Khan from new, but the possibility cannot be dismissed; it is conceivable that it had remained in his possession since Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time and that he now saw no reason to keep it any longer.

3

The films
The documents related to films fall in two categories: written and pictorial. The written documents include a description of the ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming and two brief notes; the pictorial documents are the films themselves, the study of which will begin once their restoration is completed.

1. Written documents about the beginnings of filming
The oldest document is the description of Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming of the floral carnival at Ostend during the summer of 1900 / 1279, which will be described in detail. Thereafter, besides two documents whose loss was mentioned, no others have been found. These documents belonged to Moluk-Khanom Mossavver Rahmani, one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s three daughters, and had been donated in 1329 / 1950 to Farrokh Ghaffari by her husband, Eng. Ebrahim Shaqaqi, together with a bust portrait of the ‘Akkas-bashi and the letter of Gaumont Co. to him, the text of which we saw. None of these documents was dated and a brief description of them based upon the words and writings of Farrokh Ghaffari and Jamal Omid follows:

Document 1: On filming the ‘Ashura ceremony at Sabzeh Maydan, Tehran, the first Iranian documentary film, Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s filming of the mourning ceremonies of Moharram at the Sabzeh Maydan, Tehran, attributable to Tassu‘a 1319 / 29 may 1901 / 8 Khordad 1280.

The text of this document notifies the ‘Akkas-bashi of the Shah’s orders to film the mourning processions, particularly the flagellation with swords, during the month of Moharram at the Sabzeh Maydan in Tehran. In view of its contents and style, the Shah’s order to Mirza-Ebrahim was necessarily written by someone in his close entourage. It reads:

“Our beloved brother, His Holiest Imperial Majesty the Shahanshah, may our souls be offered to him in sacrifice, has ordered you to take the Cinématographe early in the morning to the Sabzeh Maydan, where you will take pictures of all the processions, the flagellation with swords, etc.” J. Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22. In Ghaffari’s unpublished text, “arvahena laho-l-fada” appears as “arvahena fadah” and in his first mention of this document its content is summarized as: “Early in the morning take the Cinématographe to Sabzeh Maydan and shoot (“biandazid”) pictures of all the flagellants’ processions.” (Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, original handwritten text; the printed version contains the same text as in “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 5, with “biandaz” instead of “biandazid”)

This letter bears great importance, because it includes the order for the first Iranian documentary film to be made. Neither the name nor the title of the ‘Akkas-bashi appears in this text, but since the document was in his daughter’s possession, it is conceivable that it was addressed to him. The Shah’s order was not necessarily carried out and the author has not yet been able to identify such a film. But this cannot negate the possibility that the film in question was shot, particularly that, in view of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s deep attention to Moharram ceremonies and the tears he shed on these occasions Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, p. 131: “He was fond of ta‘ziehs… fervent at weeping.”, the author believes that it did take place. The order of this filming is undated and, at first glance, taking into account the arrival of the first cinématographes to Iran, one is tempted to consider the month of Moharram of the years 1318 to 1324. In Moharram 1318 / 1900 and Moharram 1320 / 1902, the Shah was either on the road or touring Europe, and Moharram 1325 / 1907 corresponded to his downfall, so these dates cannot be envisaged. What remains is Moharram of 1319, 21, 22, 23 and 24. Future studies of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s schedule in the month of Moharram in these years will help delimiting the date of this filming, but in view of the novelty of the cinema after his first travel to Europe in 1319 / 1901, it may not be unrealistic to believe that the order of filming the ceremonies was issued on the Tassu‘a of 1319 / 29 May 1901 / Khordad 1280 and that the filming itself took place on the ‘Ashura of the same year (30 May 1901 / 9 Khordad 1280. The spelling of the word sinémofotograf is also more indicative of 1319 than later years, because, as we saw, after the Shah’s second European tour in 1320 / 1902 / 1281, the correct spelling of sinématograf replaced it. With this historic seniority, the film of the ‘Ashura ceremonies can be considered the first Iranian documentary film, but it also has a memorial character and was shot outside Iran.

Document 2: On filming a lion at Dushan-tappeh, the oldest Iranian fantastic film, attributable to the second half of the winter and the early spring of 1900 / around Esfand 1278 and Farvardin 1279, or more probably from the winter of 1318 / 1900 / 1279 to before the spring of 1320 / 1902 / 1218.

This order too is undated and unsigned, but Farrokh Ghaffari notes that it was written by the Shah himself, on the official crown letterhead paper of “Dushan-tappeh Palace” Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 5. The word “crown” does not appear in the printed version of Ghaffari’s text, but existed in his manuscript.. It reads:

“’Akkas[-bashi,] tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotgraf camera with two, three rouleaux for Us to take pictures of the lions.” Handwritten text of “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, Ghaffari. In the printed version of “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, the spelling of sinemofotgraf has been changed into sinemofotograf. Apparently writing hastily, the Shah’s had even omitted the bashi postfix. Jamal Omid has published the original text as follows: “’Akkas-bashi, tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotograf camera with two, three rouleaux for Us to take pictures of the lions”, Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran –1, p. 36, and Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 22.

As the paper and text of this document indicate, it was written by the Shah himself, during a stay at Dushan-tappeh. The lions were kept in the Lion House at Dushan-tappeh, under the supervision of Rajab. The Lion House also housed leopards, which still lived in the wild on the mountains east of Dushan-tappeh, and captive leopards even bore cubs Malijak, Diary, v. 1, pp. 224, 581. Malijak describes the zoological garden of the Dushan-tappeh Palace, called “Bagh-e Shir Khaneh” (Lion House Garden), which had a separate entrance.. The type of letterhead paper to which Ghaffari refers still exists in the hands of some individuals and even in unwritten form at the Golestan Palace, and examples of it were exhibited during the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema held at the Golestan Palace in the summer of 1379 (2000).

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s notes are undated, but they were necessarily written either after the arrival of the film equipment of the first order on 10 Shavval 1317 / 11 Fevrier 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 and before the Shah’s departure on his first European tour on 12 Zelhajjeh 1317 / Friday 13 April 1900 / 24 Farvardin 1279, or between his return on 2 Sha‘ban 1318 / 25 November 1900 / 4 Azar 1279 and 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285, the date of his death. No clues to the exact date at which this order was issued exist, but if the Shah’s eagerness to have films made can be attributed to his recent acquisition of a new unknown device, and particularly if one takes the spelling sinémotgraf as a milestone, then the earlier dates must be envisaged accordingly. Another reason is that the Shah has spoken of “lions”, while only one lion existed at Dushan-tappeh on 13 Safar 1320 / 22 May 1902 / 1 Khordad 1281 Malijak, Diary, v. 1, p. 224., and the order was therefore issued at an earlier date. One can assume that more lions were later brought in, but those familiar with the history of this period know that, as Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s downfall and the advent of the constitutional era drew near, the disarray of the government reached such proportions that one wonders whether the lions and leopards were regularly fed, let alone increased in number. On another hand, lions had become extinct in Iran in that period, and one can hardly believe someone to have thought of, or succeeded in, capturing an extinct, or rare, lion in Fars or Khuzestan and sending it back to Tehran.

This document also shows that the Shah considered himself part of the filming process (“…for Us to take pictures of the lions.”) and that he had certainly held the camera in his own hands, which justifies his appellation of first Iranian amateur filmmaker. Unfortunately, no trace of these moving pictures, which were certainly made, and which could have provided visual evidence of the Iranian lion, exists either.

2. Preliminary survey of the earlier films in the Album-House of the Golestan Palace
An in-depth examination of the films preserved at the Golestan Palace will have to wait until their restoration, now under way (winter 1379 AH / AD 2001), is completed. Restoring and reconstituting these motion pictures are not easy tasks and require time and earnest study. As already mentioned, a large part of the films were identified in 1361 / 1982 Thanks to an introduction by Dr. Mehdi Hojjat, then vice-director in preservation affairs at the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education, the Ministry of Finances and economic Affairs’ General Office of Estates responded favorably to a request on my part to be allowed to study the photographs of the Album House of the Golestan Palace (request and authorization no. 3492 of 25/8/1361, recorded in the registry of the General Office of Estates). That was the beginning of my ongoing research at the Golestan Palace., and a number of them that were less damaged were hurriedly copied in 1362 / 1983 The story is a long one, but Dr. Akbar ‘Alemi, who was in charge of the copying, has given a brief account of it. See his article “Hekayati no az in no-javan-e sad-saleh…”, note 1. Perhaps owing to a typographic error, the years in which the films were copied are erroneously recorded as 1365 and 1362 instead of 1361 and 1362, respectively. And, of course, the monarch related to these films was Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, and not Nasser-ed-Din Shah.. Thereafter these films were exhibited, unclassified, in a small area and part of them were recorded in a video cassette known as Makhmalbaf’s Tape, after its creator, the film director Mohsen Makhmalbaf, which a few have seen. Also, sequences of these films were masterfully composed, albeit not always in conformity with the individuals’ characters—including Mirza-Ebrahim ‘Akkas-bashi’s—and the outlook and atmosphere at the time of the films’ production, by the same film director in his famous Nasser-ed-Din Shah Cinema Actor and successfully shown to the public. A smaller part of the films—which had remained intact in the form of very short, incomplete rolls and bits of films—were also meticulously collected at the Golestan Palace during the past two, three years and put under safe guard in the Album House of the Golestan Palace With the backing of Seyyed Mohammad Beheshti (director of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization) and ‘Ali-Reza Anissi (director of the Golestan Palace), and with the assistance of Hassan-Mirza-Mohammad ‘Ala’ini and particularly Javad Hasti and other responsible persons in the various sections of the Golestan Palace., alongside the films previously copied, which had reached an advanced stage of analysis. The films being extremely fragile and adherent, no attempt at fully unrolling the originals was made and only the first images of each were recorded in the inventory of the Golestan Palace. Following elaborate studies, the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization and the Golestan Palace decided to have the films sent to France, in the framework of Franco-Iranian Cultural Relations, in view of their restoration and reconstitution within possible limits and their copying. The films were sent in early summer 1379 / 2000 to the Centre National de la Cinématographie in France. This center has 131,000 films in its archives, some 10,000 of which are anterior to the outset of World War I in 1293 / 1914.

In a preliminary, general examination, necessarily based mainly on the films already copied, two categories of films were distinguished in terms of their origins (Iranian and foreign), and five in terms of their themes. The creation dates of the films were also approximately determined. It was investigations of this kind that eventually justified the commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema, which had been contemplated since around three years ago at the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization, because prior to that, on the evidence of whatever was known or had been acquired by deduction, any commemoration had to be one of the 100th or 101st anniversary of “filmmaking” in Iran rather than that of “Iranian cinema”. The author did not initially wish to raise the matter and, in communion of mind with the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization, was more interested in salvaging the films than entering this type of discussions, but this spring (1379 / 2000) Shahrokh Golestan objected to the title “Hundredth Anniversary of Cinema” on the same premise, and pointed to the fact—remained unnoticed to the present—that filming should not be confused with filmmaking, noting that what the ‘Akkas-bashi had done in Ostend was filming and not filmmaking, and that we should commemorate the hundredth anniversary of Iranian filming rather than that of Iranian cinema. Following his perspicacious criticism, he was submitted a descriptive explanation demonstrating that filmmaking was indeed done in Iran during the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah. Yet, disregarding that the hundredth anniversary of cinema in the world, commemorated in 1995, was based upon Louis Lumière’s Sortie des Ouvriers, which was not “made” either (see text below), since failing to present convincing proofs could cause this discussion to be raised anew (as it was! See Hooshang Kavoosi’s article, “Thomas Edison, baradaran-e Lumière, asoodeh bekhabid, ma bidarim!” The author makes no mention of the books and articles left behind by the pioneers of cinema history and even denies the validity of some sources and documents they have published with authentic references (“totally untrue”, p. 107!) Apparently, the first version of this article did not come into his hands either.), I preferred to state these reasons. Before that, three points noted in the preceding lines are briefly discussed:

A. The films’ dates: The oldest films belong to the reign of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and the latest to Reza-Khan’s final days as Sardar Sepah and early days on the throne. It shows the inauguration of the Iranian pavilion at the international exhibition of Philadelphia on 14 Mehr 1305 / 6 October 1926 (see lines below).

B. The films’ origins: The films are mostly Iranian or French, but the film of the inauguration at the exhibition in the USA is American.

C. Preliminary classification and subjects of the films: The films can be divided into five categories: fantastic, memorial, documentary, informational and narrative; always a difficult task, particularly between memorial, documentary, informational and, to some extent, thriller films. In fact, the films then produced to thrill the spectators and have them come to the cinema, for pure pecuniary reasons in many cases, have now become documentary films.

1. Fantastic films: These films mostly belong to the early days of the Cinématographe and emphasize motion, which discriminated it from photography at that early stage. This feature was so strong that cinema is still also called “moving pictures” in the English language, but in France this appellation (“images animées”, not to be confused with “dessins animés”) is no more used. Typical examples of these fantastic films show trains in motion (particularly locomotives approaching and maneuvering), and the most famous film of this series is Louis Lumière’s “Arrivée d’un train en gare de la Ciotat / Arrival of a Train at a Station”). The Iranian counterpart to these films must be considered the “Arrival of the Shah ‘Abd-ol-‘Azim Smoke Engine to the Gart-e Mashin [Gare des Machines]”, which shows the train reaching its terminus at the old railway station and the veiled ladies rushing to board it. Just as most early moving pictures, this film was probably be filmed by Mirza-Ebrahim himself. It is not unlikely that he was directly inspired by the “Arrivée d’un train en gare de la Ciotat” or other films inspired by it. Another Iranian film with a similar structure shows the “donkey-back race of Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s private servants in a tree-planted street”. This film features the “famous star” (please disregard the author’s extravagances; see text below) ‘Issa-Khan. Of course, as much as the first film could be considered a documentary film—because the scene filmed, that is the arrival of the train, was real—, the second may rather be classified as a narrative film, the donkey-back race having taken place for the purpose of being filmed, and a production having thus been involved.

Another film at the Golestan Palace, which is French, narrow and centrally perforated, as in the Chrono de poche “ElGé” type, shows the arrival of the “Ship from Le Havre to Cherbourg” (“Le Bateau du Havre à Cherbourg”). A somehow similar Iranian film is the “Riders Fording a River”. This narrow film was identified on 25 Tir 1378 / 16 July 1999 and three similar films—all four are extant in their original labeled tin cases—plus a loose film were identified on 5 Shahrivar 1379 / 26 August 2000 at the Golestan Palace. The three labeled films are:

1. “Schoolchildren Leaving the School” (“Sortie d’écoliers”), which recalls the first film of the history of cinema, “La sortie de l’usine” (“Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory”), even by its name (see next paragraph); 2. “Geese” (“Les oies”); 3. “Woman with Poultry” (“Femme aux volailles”); and, 4. an unlabeled film which I have called “Lad Smoking” (“L’adolescent qui fume”) In 1286 AS / AD 1907, Russi-Khan screened a film in which “a man smoked a cigarette and the smoke of his cigarette was visible on the screen.”, Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran, p. 36, note 34 (in Omid, Tarikh-e Sinema-ye Iran – 1, p. 69, the word dood (smoke) appears as khod (self), but this has been corrected in the subsequent edition). In view of Russi-Khan’s connections with Mohammad-‘Ali Shah’s court and the identity of their subject, one can assume that the same film is involved, but this is improbable, because Russi-Khan’s was almost certainly a 35mm film, and not a centrally perforated 15mm one.. Although these are nitrate films, which rarely last a hundred years in good conditions, they have remained almost intact on the whole. Each is about 4.5 meters long. Such centrally perforated films were certainly shot in Iran as well, because tin boxes containing unprocessed positive and negative rolls of them have been identified and collected at the Golestan Palace. Yet, no shot film has been found to the present.

2. Memorial films: The first recorded film in the history of Iranian cinema, i.e., Mirza-Ebrahim’s sequence of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and Madame Grön at Ostend, was shot as such (see part One, paragraph B). The same intention was involved in the second film, the Floral Carnival at Ostend, although it actually constitutes a documentary.

3. Documentary films: These films are mostly European (almost entirely French) and show Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah visiting various places, but another film, which shows him inspecting a parade and artillery maneuvers, must be British. Another film, which I have recently identified, shows Ahmad Shah, wearing a boater, attending a competition staged in his honor at Biarritz by the pelota world champion Chiquito de Cambo around 1920. Among the Iranian films, those of the Floral Carnival at Ostend and the Coronation of Ahmad Shah are notable. Identifying the latter was not easy, and more investigation remains to be done. The Shrine of Hazrat Ma‘sumeh (pbuh) in Qom, a street in Tehran, a military parade, or the sumptuous arrival of an ambassador to the Golestan Palace, are other attractive fragments.

The film of the Shrine of Hazrat Ma‘sumeh (pbuh) in Qom must be one of Mirza-Ebrahim’s early works (around 1900-1901) and it bears the greatest value in clarifying the relation between emerging Iranian cinema and religion. As I have repeatedly noted with regards to painting and photography, and as we saw in the case of Sahhafbashi’s and Russi-Khan’s cinema and is also clearly visible in this film, these arts, including the newborn cinema, were in no way considered at odds with religion. Such hasty conclusions appear to be rooted in an opposition between a westernized view and other outlooks prevailing in the artistic and social studies of the Iranian world.

4. Infomational films: The film of the inauguration on 14 Mehr 1306 / 6 October 1926 of the beautiful Iranian pavilion at the international exhibition of Philadelphia by Seyyed-Hassan Taqizadeh falls in this category. The exhibition was held to commemorate the 150th anniversary of American independence and the majestic Iranian pavilion, built at a cost of 100,000 dollars, emulated the Mother of the Shah’s Mosque in Esfahan. During the exhibition, following his nomination by Dr. A. C. Millspaugh, himself an American and financial advisor to the Iranian government, Taqizadeh was elected commissioner of the Iranian delegation Taqizadeh, Zendegi, pp. 205-206.. This was one year after Ahmad Shah’s dethronement on 31 October 1925 / 13 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1344 / 9 Aban 1304 and ten months after Reza Shah’s accession. This film, which can also be considered a documentary, is American.

5. Narrative films: These films have either European or Iranian origins. The European, mostly French, origins come as no surprise, but no Iranian narrative films had come to light to the present. Among the European narrative films, all of which are apparently incomplete, just as the others, two are more conspicuous: one, which must not belong to the early years of the cinema, shows a couple in a French restaurant, and the other is a different interpretation of “L’arroseur arrosé” (“The Sprinkler Sprinkled”), one of the earliest films of the Lumière brothers and dating back to the first years of the cinema, i.e., 1895 / 1274. It was made after their first film, “La sortie de l’usine” (“Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory”). Of course, “La sortie de l’usine” is of the experimental, fantastic and documentary genre and it was “taken”, whereas “L’arroseur arrosé” was “made”, and is therefore a narrative film in a sense (see text below). In the short film of the Golestan Palace, a gardener sprinkles a couple of lovers with his hose. The boy comes to hands with him, and the girl in turn picks up the hose and sprinkles the gardener who runs away.

Another category of European films attributed to the reign of Mozaffer-ed-Din Shah comprises pornographic films. It is recorded that, “Being a very weak and perverse individual, when returning from Europe, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah had (also) brought back some erotic European films (he had bought) which he showed in Tehran for his own and his courtiers’ pleasure. These shows may also be considered the first Cinématographe shows in Iran. Several years later the whole batch of these vulgar, erotic (pornographic) films was sold on auction.” These allegations were made in Ghaffari’s presence, who recorded them in Ghaffari, “Avvalin Azmayesh-ha-ye Sinema’i dar Iran” – 1, p. 8, but disagreed with them. The differences between Ghaffari’s manuscript and his printed text are indicated in parentheses. Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s buying pornographic films in Europe is not surprising, but I have never come across a single frame of these, neither in the past twenty years, nor in the course of my earlier meticulous investigations at the Golestan Palace. On the contrary, the statement “Several years later… was sold on auction” is most perplexing: how can one believe that, in Iran, the government would think of organizing such a sale, let alone actually holding it. Auction sales are public, notorious events by nature, even when they are not related to such a subject! One can perhaps accept that these films—if they existed—were sold unnoticed among the photographic and cinematographic equipment sold at an auction under Reza Shah, leaving behind no traces. No other possibility exists, because Reza Shah strongly abhorred pornography and, had he suspected the existence of such films, he would have had them destroyed. His photographer, Mohammad-Ja‘far Khadem, had told Yahya Zoka’ that the Shah had the negative glass plates of Qajar pornography spread in front of the Marble Throne, at the Golestan Palace, and that he personally crushed them to pieces under his boots.

Four

First Iranian “filmmaking” and its “first films”

Produced around 1900-1901 / 1279-80 AS

It is when the filming and its related tasks are done, particularly but not imperatively, on the basis of a story (scenario) and that (also not necessarily) professional individuals assume other people’s roles (yet again not necessarily) in it, wearing their clothes and performing their parts, usually under the supervision of a film director, in an environment (setting) created to reproduce the intended surroundings that it becomes an important foundation of filmmaking. These conditions are realized in a still undetermined number of the film fragments of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time at the Golestan Palace (undetermined because we are unaware of the contents of the fragile film rolls, which have to be unrolled in laboratory conditions). The original number of exposed films and the brief subjects filmed at the time (a length of a few minutes being a technical restraint then) are also unknown for the same reason. Apart from one exception (“Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah Shooting with the Camera”), all the films identified to the present are of the “burlesque” type and their chronological sequence remains to be determined. On the whole, what sets these films apart from filmmaking in its wide sense, whether in the course of time or at present, is that narrative films are usually made in view of financial (and sometimes political) gains and with public screening in mind, whereas these Iranian films were made for the Shah and his entourage, indeed by themselves, without any financial or political gains being contemplated. From this point of view, the early Iranian cinema is comparable to the first fifty years of photography in this country, and to a large extent to its high class painting in the same era, both of which were courtly and aristocratic. The slow pace at which these arts permeated the (almost nonexistent) middle classes and the population at large, and their ensuing lack of financial support of arts, can be considered to have largely obstructed the development of these arts, which has been the greatest difference between the Iranian and western societies in this domain.

What can be termed the first collection of Iranian cinema films presently consists of 7676 frames (frames 7226 to 15902 of copy reel No. 3). The film fragments copied have a total length of approximately 200 meters and a viewing time of around 10 minutes. If, with slight exaggeration, an identity card is written for this presently disheveled film collection, or, in today’s terms, a “bande d’annonce” is prepared for it, this is what the viewer will read: producer: Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah; scenario writer and director: ‘Issa-Khan; cast: ‘Issa-Khan, Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari, Malijak, Mahmood-Khan and other intimates of the Shah; a release of the royal studio. The same “annonce” can be repeated for the “donkey-back race of Mozaffar-ed-din Shah’s private servants in a tree-planted street”, and particularly for “The Shah searching for hunting game through looking glasses”—to which we shall return—, but in the latter the main actor is the Shah himself in his own role.

Date of the film: As Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah and his intimates, particularly ‘Issa-Khan and Abolqassem Ghaffari, appear in these fragments, they must have been shot between the arrival of the film cameras to Tehran on 11 Shavval 1317 / 11 February 1900 / 22 Bahman 1278 and the Shah’s death on 23 Ziqa‘deh 1324 / 18 January 1907 / 18 Dey 1285. In view of the country’s situation in the last years of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s reign (third European tour in 1323 AH / 1905 AD / 1284 AS, grant of the constitution in 1324 AH / 1906 AD / 1285 AS) and the receding novelty of cinema to the benefit of the Shah’s greater interest for photography, these burlesque films must be attributed to a time closer to the date of the arrival of the cameras, probably to after the Shah’s first voyage, around 1900-1901, i.e., 1279-80 AS. The exactness of this dating can be ascertained by the fact that the idle Malijak, who was an accomplished hunter, appears in a film with his gun, but never mentions the shooting sessions in his memoirs. Rather than an omission on his part for whatever reason, this lack is due to the fact that he began writing his memoirs at a later date, on 10 Zelhajjeh 1319 / 20 March 1903 / 29 Esfand 1282.

Style and content: As already mentioned, almost all these films are of the “burlesque” type, then popular and in the leading position across the world. For anyone, the most familiar scene of these films is the “pie fight”, in which two or more people throw creamy pies at each other. Asides from its popularity, the main reason for the adoption of this style in the early period of Iranian filmmaking was its appeal to the Shah. In fact, probably no choice was even made. The Shah’s inclination towards funny things attracted a clown such as Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari or a couple of court eunuchs—‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan—to his private quarters, so that, when it was decided to make a film, this style was naturally adopted. Friend and foe agree that Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah was good-natured and cared for the people, as his granting of the constitution symbolized. But, on the other hand, in the words of Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, who was not one of his supporters: “He was exceedingly candid, gullible, moody, facetious, easy-laughing, ill-tempered in private and affected.” Nazem-ol-Eslam Kermani, Tarikh-e Bidari-e Iranian, v. 1, p. 131. His “facetious, easy-laughing” character appears even more clearly when reviewing the pictures at the Golestan Palace, and there are photographs that can be considered in bad taste today. Forgetting that these pictures belonged to the private quarters of the Shah and were not intended for us to see, they can even be considered unbefitting his royal rank. On the whole, paying attention to Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s writings or looking at the photographs taken by himself or upon his orders, we discover a poetic spirit alongside the buffoon-fond Shah. As a proof to this claim, a few quotations from him appear below, which show that, just as some of his sentences represent, justify and somehow constitute the scenarios of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s burlesque films, others make up the foundations of refined and poetic films (sometimes accompanied with impish wit). Unfortunately, finding any fragments of this type of films appears hopeless.

Recounting his second European tour, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah writes: “We reached a plot of land entirely covered with tiny yellow and violet flowers, as though a multicolored fabric had been spread on the ground… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 25. The moon was beautifully setting behind the forest, so that no painter except the divine hand that has made a painting as this in the sky can depict as beautifully on his canvas… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 35. We passed several hamlets and towns. The entire road ran amidst gardens and a lake was also visible. They said that it had unsalted water in which trout lived… Often perennial broom flowers had blossomed here and there in the mountains and it was very pretty… Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 51. [In Florence] … We returned to our room, washed Our hands and face with soap. We then went to the upper gallery of the winter garden, where an English couple was sitting. Indeed, the man smoked twenty cigarettes in that one hour. There was also another man writing postcards. We were conversing with Nezam-od-Dowleh Malkam-Khan. We then came down. Near this hotel there was a woman’s house in which numerous excellent paintings were kept. We admired. The woman spoke a lot, but the collection of paintings was very good… We then went to the building and gallery of the Office [the Uffizi], where premium paintings are kept… We saw several paintings by the famous painter Raphael… Raphael had made the portrait of his own beloved as though it was alive and speaking.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 52. A few pages further, after narrating the story of an unfaithful lover transformed into stone by his beloved, the witty Shah adds: “If [in our time] men were to be transformed into stone for being unfaithful to women, no man would remain and the world would become a sea of stones.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 81. And finally, at the end of a visit to the Palace of Fontainebleau, which witnessed the downfall of Napoleon, he wrote: “These buildings that now remain thus without a proprietor bear admonition, yet man’s disposition is such that he will not take heed. Man ought to see how these buildings erected by such men have now fallen into ruin.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 133.

Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s words, which may evoke burlesque films, refer to ‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan, who appear repeatedly beside Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari in the trivial photographs at the Golestan palace. ‘Issa-Khan and Mahmood-Khan were two dwarf eunuchs very intimate with the Shah. ‘Issa-Khan had dark features and a wiry body, while Mahmood-Khan was pale and fat. Both, particularly ‘Issa-Khan, were humorous and impish. Abolqassem Ghaffari, who was not a eunuch, was no less talented, but his sex prevented him from being always close to the Shah and entering his harem In the collection of beautiful and useful photographs of Ganj-e Payda, recently published by Bahman Jalali concerning some photographs at the Golestan Palace, the name of Agha-Mohammad is attributed to two eunuchs, one erroneously. The dwarf introduced on many pages (including pp. 104 & 105) as “Agha-Mohammad-e khajeh, ma‘ruf be Faqir-ol-Qameh” or “Agha-Mohammad” is in fact ‘Issa-Khan, Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s companion since his days as heir to the throne, who later came to Tehran with him. The other is “Agha-Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qameh”, and not “Faqir-ol-Qameh”, one of Nasser-ed-Din Shah’s most important eunuchs and confidants (see E‘temad-os-Saltaneh, Khaterat, Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sani 1310, p. 839). A few photographs of Agha-Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qameh exist in the Album House of the Golestan Palace, one of which was printed by Bahman Jalali on page 59, top photo, left hand side. the book also comprises a few photographs of Mahmood-Khan, whom it does not identify, e.g., on pages 110, 143 and 167.. Abolqassem Ghaffari was the half brother of Mehdi Vazir-Homayun Ghaffari, entitled Qa’em-maqam, and Farrokh Ghaffari is a relative of his. Slenderness or corpulence, as major factors in the early burlesque films of up to forty or so years ago, did not remain unnoticed by the Shah, who wrote: “We went to the seaside [of Mazandaran]. There we gathered some seashells, then we fired some rifle shots. There was a large barrel like Mahmood-Khan’s belly. While speaking with ‘Issa-Khan, we referred to it as Mahmood-Khan.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 25. Also: “Reaching a place nearby the railway where the slope was steep, we wished Mahmood-Khan and ‘Issa-Khan were there for us to roll Mahmood-Khan down.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 36. Then: “As we were moving along, we saw a short man. He was very small. Smaller than ‘Issa-Khan. He had a long beard and was very funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 36. And finally, he writes about two comic scenes at the theater: “… A boy bit another boy on the thigh. He [the victim] shouted and wept and kept rubbing his thigh to the wall. It was very funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 73. And: “This evening we went to the theater… one was riding a donkey while speaking amorously to it. It was funny.” Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah, Safarnameh [second voyage], p. 83.

In the Golestan Palace film fragments copied to the present, three or four short comic anecdotes are depicted. For the time being, these films can be tentatively called: 1) “Donkey riders fighting with a club-wielding pedestrian”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Mirza-Abolqassem Ghaffari (‘Issa-Khan is a wiry dwarf with a dark complexion and Abolqassem Ghaffari is wearing a conical hat); 2) “Caning of the Dwarf and the Black Slave”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Malijak (holding a gun); 3) “Showdown with an Arab”, and; 4) “The Dwarf Carried Piggyback by the Arab”, featuring ‘Issa-Khan and Mirza-Abolqassem. As already mentioned, the chronological sequence or indeed the relatedness of these film fragments is unclear, but they are much the same and it is therefore possible that all or some of them depict a single story in several episodes. Without any relationship being involved, this style was continued thirty years later in the first commercial Iranian film, Abi va Rabi, directed by Ovannes Oganians, and it can even be seen to a certain degree in “Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor”.

Another film fragment preserved at the Golestan Palace, which is not burlesque, shows the installation of a large camera (in the true sense, not a photographic one) on its tripod, followed by Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s arrival and his shooting of a few scenes. At first glance, this film appears to be a documentary work—which it is today—, but in fact this fragment is a short narrative film, because it was “made” and not filmed while the Shah was performing a real action; instead, the Shah has played the role of a cameraman in his own palace—a place ill-suited to the operation of a massive camera—, rather than in a landscape.

It appears that no other notable film was created in Iran until thirty years after those “made” in Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s time Around 1924-25 / 1304-05, the Germans were making a documentary-like film in Iran and, failing to find an indigenous actress, they had Marie-Louise Adle—the British born wife of the late E‘temad-ol-Vezareh—assume the role. The author’s knowledge in this concern is scarce and he hopes to be able to provide further explanation in the future., and the reasons of this decline were mentioned above. Although Russi-Khan’s work (‘Ashura) represents the onset of profit-oriented (documentary and not narrative) film production in Iran, even that attempt came to a short end with Russi-Khan’s departure from Iran. As noted above, the first film to appear on the screen after this long period of darkness was Ovannes Oganians’ Abi va Rabi, initially shown in Tehran on 12 Dey 1309 / 2 January 1931. Although Ovannes Oganians was a Russian Armenian migrant, he had adopted the Iranian nationality— just as Russi-Khan before him—and, all in all, his film can be considered Iranian. Its notable distinction from those made in the forgotten past was that it was commercial rather than courtly (governmental), but it involved no great evolution otherwise. It not only adhered to the burlesque style, but also lacked a strongly built scenario, to a certain extent as the films of Mozaffar-ed-Din Shah’s era, and consisted of short sketches more or less welded together. This weakness also appeared, albeit to a much lesser degree, in his Haji-Aqa Cinema Actor, but it was overcome in ‘Abd-ol-Hossein Sepanta’s and Ardeshir Irati’s Lor Girl, particularly owing to its “talkie” quality, and thereafter another period with ups and downs of its own began.

Endnotes

1 A multitude of cinema lovers contributed to the realization of this commemoration, but the following institutions and organizations must at least be mentioned by name; the Cinema Affairs and the Artistic Affairs Vice-directorates of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Fârâbi Cinema Foundation, the Iranian National Film House, the Cinema House, Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, The Social Vice-directorate of the Municipality of Tehran, the Sure Cinema Development Foundation, Visual Media Co., Mâhnâme-ye Film…
2 Upon Mohammad Shâh Qajar’s request, the Russian and British governments sent daguerreotype apparatus to Persia. The Russian set, a present of the Czar, arrived earlier. Nikolaj Pavlov, a young Russian diplomat trained for the purpose, brought it to Tehran and took the first daguerreotypes recorded in Iranian history in presence of Mohammad Shâh on that date. No mention of these yet unknown events is made either in the extensive article on the beginnings of photography in Iran which I wrote with the assistance of Yahyâ Zokâ’, or in other articles on the subject, but I have amply delved into the matter in a book under preparation. For the article in question, see under Adle, “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire …”, in the final bibliography.

3 His full name has been copied from a note of his reproduced below his portrait in Nâme-ye Vatan, and the approximate dates of his birth and death are based on information given by Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i his son, see text below and the final bibliography.

4 A one-day discrepancy occasionally occurs in converting dates from the lunar calendar to the solar calendar and vice versa. It does not necessarily indicate an error. Nonetheless, texts written in Iran and abroad about the history of the Iranian cinema contain numerous errors regarding their notation of dates in the lunar and solar Hegira calendars and the conversion of these into the Christian calendar and vice versa. Here, in this rather concise text, I cannot not elaborate on this matter, but instead, all the dates will be given with precision despite the fact that they may appear tedious to the ordinary reader. Several mistakes I had made in the first version of this paper have also been corrected.

5 Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, pp. 39-40.

6 Ample books and documents concerning these apparatus are extant. For example, see notices 91A to 103 of Images et magie du cinéma français, or E. Toulet, Cinema is 100 Years Old, p. 38, where a parlor equipped with Kinetoscopes is shown. The picture Jamâl Omid has reproduced on page 49 of Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1 is also that of a Kinetoscope.

7 Ja‘far Shahri, in his Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân, v. 1, p. 387, note 1, briefly but adequately describes the shahr-e farang. Also see Ghaffâri, Jâm-e Jam – Fânus-e Khyâl…, p. 42.

8 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 656. In the previous version of this article, I had mistakenly set the first year of Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s reign as 1313 AH; however, because he accessed to the throne near the end of that year, 1314 AH must be considered the first of his reign. Hence the sixth year of his reign would be 1320 AH.

9 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (ed. 1346, v. 1, p. 51; ed. 1362, v.1, p. 291), or events of “ Wednesday 14 Zelqa‘de 1323 / 10 January 1906” (ed. 1346, v.1, pp. 120-121; ed. 1362, , v. 1, pp. 360-361).

10 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, p. 69; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 36, note 34. Arbâb Jamshid was acquainted with the cinema, if only for the large sum that Sahhâfbâshi owed him. See rest of text.

11 Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.

12 Malijak, v. 1, p. 533.

13 Malijak, v. 1, p. 534.

14 Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

15 Malijak, v. 1, pp. 203-205.

16 Malijak, v. 1, p. 217. Elsewhere he writes at the end of the same year: “I went to Sahhâfbâshi’s shop. He had no new equipment” (Malijak, v.1, p. 369).

17 See the advertisement concerning the sale of Sahhâfbâshi’s belongings in Hossein Abutorâbiyân’s Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 692 and Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, p. 17, line 2.

18 Malijak writes (v. 1, p. 204): “We moved along Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue and reached Tupkhâne Square, wherefrom we went to Lâlezâr Avenue, straight to Sahhâfbâshi’s shop.” He used to go there via Mokhber-od-Dowle Avenue as well (v. 2, p. 1272).

19 See the advertisement concerning the auction or the sale of Sahhâfbâshi’s belongings in Abutorâbiyân, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 692 and in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, p. 17 as well as several lines lower in the present article.

20 The exact address of Sahhâfbâshi’s shop is given by Jahângir Qahremânshâhi his son (Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15, based upon Gaffari’s text). That address agrees with Malijak’s writings.

21 Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 129.

22 The names are given by Jahângir Qahremânshâhi in Safarname-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15, based upon Gaffari’s text.

23 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 124.

24 “Around 1905” is the date that Gaffari gave in his first text on Entezâm’s words (“Avvalin Azemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8), but later on, in view of his studies, he became more inclined toward the year 1904, and the same inclination is reflected in Jamâl Omid’s writings. In the author’s opinion, since Sahhâfbâshi was in America in that year, as attested to by Omid himself (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 124), given that Malijak makes no mention of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema being reopened, and as Entezâm was born in 1895 / 1274 AS, a date around 1905, say 1906 or 1907, when Entezâm was older, is more likely than 1904. On Entezâm’s biography see Azimi, “Entezâm”, in bibliography.

25 See text below. Jamâlzâde has repeated several times (including in “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, p. 131, and “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni, p. 47”) that he left Iran in spring 1908, but he is apparently in error, because, again in his own words, he spent the Nowruz [Iranian New Year, beginning on the first day of spring] holidays of 1908 in Istanbul (“Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 48). Therefore, he was in Iran at least until the end of the winter of 1908 (1286 AS).

26 Inference from a letter of Jamâlzâde to a friend. See “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 49. In his own words, Jamâlzâde was born on 22 or 23 Jamâdi-os-Sâni 1309 / 23 or 24 January 1892 / 3 or 4 Bahman 1270 (“Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 45).

27 See the full text of Jamâlzâde’s account, reproduced a few lines below.

28 Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, in Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb.

29 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, pp. 61-62; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25; Ghaffâri, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8.

30 Gaffari’s belief has its origin in the following event. He went to a coffee-house opposite Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street to shoot a sequence of Jonub-e Shahr in 1958 / 1337 AS (this coffee-house appears in Jonub-e Shahr in a sequence where a street bully listens to a dervish’s story). There, his cameraman, Nâsser Raf‘at, and his assistant, Zakariâ Hâshemi, reported to him that the owner of the coffee-house has been telling them that “a cinema was said to have existed long ago around here on the street front”, and that films used to be shown on the lower floor of his own shop in the past.

According to ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffâr’s map, Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street, or Barbarihâ Street under Nâsser-od-Din Shâh, stemmed off Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue and ran between Tekie-ye Barbarihâ and the Cherâgh-Gâz (lighting gas) plant (later Cherâgh-Barq), joining Bâgh-e Vahsh (Ekbâtân) Avenue at the curve on the south of Zell-os-Soltân’s Park (the present site of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization. Also see Ja‘far Shahri, Gushe’i az Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân-e Qadim, pp. 124-125). Thus, the greater part of the southern section of the present-day Mellat Avenue can be identified to Sar-takht-e Barbarihâ Street.

31 Jamâl Omid mentions three jahân-namâs (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23), but Gaffari, quoting Entezâm, maintains “several”. The number of the jahân-namâs was also left vague in Gaffari’s writings (see Ghaffâri, “Avvalin Azemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8). Gaffari used to believe that jahân-namâs were a kind of stereoscopic viewers (Gaffary, “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 227), and the same view is reflected in Omid’s text, already mentioned.

32 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, events of Monday 12 Safar 1323 / Tuesday 18 April 1905 (ed. 1346, v. 1, p. 51; ed. 1362, v.1, p. 291). Jamâlzâde gives a more complete description of this attire, but not in the cinema (“Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 128).

33 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8. The words ‘fat’ and ‘mallet’ appear as châq and tokhmâq, respectively, in Omid’s text (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23), and Gaffari agrees with them.

34 Based on Gaffari’s words to the author, as well as his text, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8, and Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23. Gaffari says that the late Entezâm had probably seen Georges Méliès’ La cuisine infernale.

35 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8; Gaffary, F., “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 227, and; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23.

36 ‘Ali Javâher-Kalâm’s memoirs, quoted by Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 28.

37 Shâhrokh Golestân’s interview with Jamâlzâde on 14 March 1992 in Geneva, broadcast in part in the Fânus-e Khiyâl series of the Persian Service of the BBC on September 1992. In his unfinished sentence, Jamâlzâde on the one hand stresses the ‘very, very’, but on another adds that he is not certain of his assertion. He says, “ it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was [employed] by Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing.” Without any mention of its flaw, the texts already published of this interview have been completed as follows : “it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was brought in by Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing.” (Jamâlzâde, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, p. 45); and in another text, published without Shâhrokh Golestân’s authorization, the same sentence appears in this blatantly erroneous form: “it is very, very probable that this Seyf-oz-Zâkerin was none but Sahhâfbâshi; of those things, I heard however nothing”! Golestân, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Gharavi’s text, p. 13.

38 Jamâlzâde, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, pp. 51-52.

39 Jamâl Omid writes himself that he gives two “versions”—not two evidences —on the causes leading to the closure of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema: “According to the first version… some people considering the creation of Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema on Cherâgh-Gâz Avenue anti-religious, vilified it. Sheykh Fazlollâh Nuri proscribed cinema on religious basis and Sahhâfbâshi was forced to close his cinema down.” The second version is that Sahhâfbâshi being a Constitutionalist activist, had problems with the Court. The ill-speaking of people on his cinema gave the courtiers pretext enough to have it closed down (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, pp. 51-52 and note 14; idem, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 23 and note 24. N.B. The notes are unrelated to these two versions). Hamid Nafissi, quoting Sahhâfbâshis’ second wife through her son and while Nuri’s name is omitted in their sayings, only authenticates one—the first—of Omid’s versions. Nafissi writes that Sahhâfbâshi’s cinema was closed because “the famous cleric Shaykh Fazlollâh Nuri had proscribed cinema.” In another article, this time omitting the reference to Omid, Nafissi gives even a date and finalizes his point only on the evidence of his own previous text and writes: “According to a report, in 1904 (1283 AS), Shaykh Fazlollâh Nuri, the influential leader of the day, after going to a public cinema in Tehran, proscribed cinema and brought about its closing” (Taneshhâ-ye Farhang-e Sinemâ’i dar Jomhuri-e Eslâmi, p. 384). Sahhâfbâshi’s wife has been quoted as having said that Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh ordered Sahhâfbâshi to close his cinema because he feared the power of the clergy (Tahâminejâd, Rishe-yâbi-e Ya‘s, p. 14), but this assertion of hers made long after the events appears equally unfounded. In the same way but the other way round, Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i’s statement that his father (Sahhâfbâshi) had “very close relationships with the court and Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh” seems in its turn rather exaggerated too (Interview with Golestân, see Golestân, Fânus-e Khiyâl,

Kavir Publication, p. 14). The contrary must have been probably more true, particularly as regards the Court (cf. The event of the Shah being presented with a petition attributed to Sahhâfbâshi at Amir-Bahâdor’s house; see Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1346, v. 2, p. 120).

40 See previous note.

41 Farrokh Gaffari’s conversations with the author and Gaffary, “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, p. 229. Gaffari writes in this concern: Russi Khân “opened a new place at Darvâze Qazvin (Bâzârche-ye Qavâm-od-Dowle). Sheykh Fayzollâh [sic., printing error, read Sheykh Fazlollâh], the famous religious leader, sent Russi Khân a message telling him that he wished to see his cinema, and a special session was therefore organized for the Sheykh and his entourage” (“Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 5). As for Tahâminejâd’s assertion, quoting Farrokh Gaffari, that Russi Khân claimed that the “Sheykh intended to extort money from us”, Gaffari told me, on 6 February 2001: “I don’t remember, but it’s quite possible.” Jamâl Omid has briefly recorded the latter event in the third person form (“It is said that…”), adding that it bears no mention of Sheykh Fazlollâh’s response (Târikh-e Sinemâ, p. 37, note 43). For Gaffari, the Sheykh’s satisfaction was inherent in the sentence recorded and that no additional stress was needed.
Javâd Farifte—Ahmad Shâh’s cook, as we were told in our youth—was the owner of the “Tehrân” Persian restaurant near the Place de l’Étoile, on rue Troyon, in Paris. Commixing with the grown-ups, we used to go there for a chelo-kabâb lunch on Sundays some thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago, in the good old times. Gaffari met thrice with Russi Khân, notably twice in that restaurant, on 30 May 1949 and 29 October 1963, obtaining ample information from him particularly during the meeting of 30 May 1949 (Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 5, note 2). This information was published by himself in his early articles, and by Jamâl Omid in his Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân. Gaffari—whose notes were looted after the revolution—cannot remember the exact dates of his subsequent meetings with Russi Khân, but he agrees with what he has told Jamâl Omid and has been published by him, with the difference that the first meeting took place in 1940 and not 1943 (see note 30, p. 36, in Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, or note 1, p. 67, in Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1), because Gaffari lived in Grenoble in 1943.

42 No source refers to this matter, but as, according to his son, Sahhâfbâshi’s “garden and building” (Jamâlzâde, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, p. 129) were located between present-day Crystal Cinema and Arbâb Jamshid Avenue (Safarnâme-ye Sahhâfbâshi, preface, p. 15), one may conclude that Sahhâfbâshi “relinquished” his garden and building to Arbâb Jamshid, after whom the avenue was renamed. The term “relinquish” is from Nâzem-ol-Eslâm, who knew Sahhâfbâshi very well, but here he does not mention Arbâb Jamshid and leaves the issue unresolved (Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 2, p. 193). The shop was perhaps left out of the deal because it was hired out. See text below.

43 Maqsudlu, Mokhâberât-e Astarâbâd, v. 1, p. 56. During WWI, Sahhâfbâshi also joined the British army in Persia. See text below.

44 The portrait on the front page of Nâme-ye Vatan is reproduced by Jamâl Omid on page 125 of Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân. No date appears on this page, but he gives its publication date as 1286 AS (1907), which does not agree with what we saw, being one year early.

45 Malijak, v. 2, p. 1272. Of course, it is not certain that Siyâvash Khân had rented the shop from Sahhâfbâshi himself. He could have rented it from a new owner (Arbâb Jamshid?).

46 Memories of Abo’l Qâssem Rezâ’i, Sahhâfbâshi’s younger son, apud., Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 24, and Shâhrokh Golestân’s interview with Rezâ’i in Fânus-e Khiyâl (Golestan, Fânus-e Khiyâl, ed. Kavir Publishers, pp. 14-15).

47 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 37, note 48, and pp. 27-28.

48 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 28.

49 See Russi Khân’s advertisement in Habl-ol-Matin, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavvâl 1325 / 14 November 1907 / 23 Abân 1286, p. 4; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25. Also see text below in section C.

50 Advertisement in Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, no. 26, p. 8; Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 27.

51 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 27. Esmâ‘il Qafqâzi, alias George Esmâ‘ilioff, was accountant at the Ministry of War (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye

Irân, p. 26).

52 For his biography, see Y. Zoka’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 75-78, and Gaffari’s article to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture (see bibliography at the end of this article).

53 This unique document on the Iranian cinema is among those preserved at the Golestan Palace, which first went through a general classification thanks to Mr. Ahmad Dezvâre’i, the director of the Treasury of the Golestan Palace, and then submitted in part to a team directed by Mr. Nâder Karimiyân Sardashti in view of a more detailed recording. In 1999, while reviewing the work of this team, Mr. ‘Ali-Rezâ Anissi, the director of the Golestan Palace-Museum, noticed this document and informed the author of its existence.

54 The importance of these apparently worthless documents should not remain unnoticed by those studying modernity in Iran and by those having interest in the history of instruments of penmanship, cookery, etc in that country.

55 As I was recently informed by Farrokh Gaffari, Mirzâ Ebrâhim must still be assumed to have been born in Rajab 1291 (14 August to 12 September 1874 / 23 Mordâd to 21 Shahrivar 1253) in Tehran, and that the date of his death must still be considered to have occurred in 1333 AH (1915 / 1294 AS) in Châboksar. Several of Gaffari’s writings concern his biography and their essence appears in Omid’s Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, pp. 22-24 (the dates mentioned in this book will be corrected in its next printing). There is also a recent article by Gaffary in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film’s special issue on the centenary of Iranian cinema (see bibliography) and a notice in Encyclopaedia Iranica, v. I, p. 719. Gaffari is currently writing an article on Mirzâ Ebrâhim that will appear in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, under preparation in London by the Iran Heritage Foundation and edited by P. Luft’s and my own supervision. Also see Zokâ’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 113-116.

56 Even the first part of the word “cinematograph” had entered the Persian language through the French “cinéma”. An explanation of the way the cinematograph operated accompanied by a descriptive drawing was published in Persian in 1907 / 1325 AH / 1268 AS, some ninety-nine years ago, by Mirzâ ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi in Baku, and reproduced in Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, published on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Iranian cinema. See bibliography under ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi. I am indebted to Behzâd Rahimiyân for this information.

57 For instance, the digit “3” appears above the letter sin in an advertisement of Omega watches in the middle of the silent film Hâji Âqâ Cinema Actor.

58 See ‘Ali-Mohammad Oveyssi’s description of the operation of the cinematograph, mentioned above in note 56.

59 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 3 and 10. Although the Shah did not write these lines himself and dictated them for others to write, as he indeed pointed it out himself for his both journeys to Europe, it is never the less obvious that, on the whole, he must be considered the writer of his memoirs and the others his scribes.

60 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 255.

61 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 80. The mineral water springs of this French town help curing renal diseases and gout. The Shah resided in the Hôtel / Pavillon de la Souveraine (Graux, pp. 8, 17), which should not be confused with the Palais des Souverains, his residence in Paris. See following pages.

62 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 81. By theater, the Shah perhaps meant the theater of the town’s casino, in which a particular stand had been built for him (Graux, p. 9).

63 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 178 and 193.

64 “The music [Faust] did not appeal much to His Majesty’s taste”, p. 84 of Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, compiled by a (Korilan?). Korilan had collected press excerpts concerning Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s travel to Europe. These were translated by Nayyer-ol-Molk and later published by Vahidniyâ (see bibliography under Korilan). The Shah perhaps saw The Damnation of Faust by Hector Berlioz, but Gaffari believes that he more likely saw Charles Gounod’s Faust. Of course, other composers had also created operas on Goethe’s dramatic poem, but it seems improbable that they are referred to here.

65 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 84 and Second Journey, p. 131.

66 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 85, and the final part of this section concerning Savage Landor’s writings.

67 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 1, 255, and plates printed in this book.

68 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 91.

69 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 88.

70 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 92.

71 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 93.

72 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh does not describe the person who brought him the cinematograph, but recognizes him three weeks later among the photographers gathered to make portraits of him, and notes the fact. Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 136 (3 Rabi‘-os-Sâni 1318 / 31 July 1900 / Mordâd 1279).

73 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 100-101.

74 ‘Ali Khân Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnâme-ye Zahir-od-Dowle, p. 201. I am indebted to Farrokh Gaffari for the information on Zahir-od-Dowle.

75 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 130, 135-136.

76 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 129.

77 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 133.

78 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 135.

79 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 138.

80 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 48. During his stay in Paris, the Shah resided at the Hôtel des Souverains (see Graux, p. 11), at 43 Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, today Avenue Foch (see Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 43 and the letter of Gaumont Co. to Mirzâ Ebrâhim further on). This building was later demolished.

81 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 138.

82 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 68.

83 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 69.

84 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 146.

85 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 146-147. Illusion shows were created with mirrors and light effects.

86 Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnâme, pp. 245-246. Zahir-od-Dowle and the editor of his text misspell both the cinema’s address and its name. “Shan de Mari… meaning Mary’s Square” should read “Champs-de-Mars… meaning Square of Mars”, the God of War, and the museum’s name “Grévin” instead of “Krivan”.

87 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 149.

88 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 149. Apparently, the occurrence of Kamâl-ol-Molk’s easel on the Shâh’s path during his visit of the Louvre was prearranged. See Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 74. See Paoli, pp. 107-108, concerning the events behind the scene during the Shâh’s visit of the museum, which I have briefly mentioned in note 29 of my article on Khorheh in Farairan 3/4.

89 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 150; Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 77-78.

90 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 150.

91 Zahir-od-Dowle, Safarnameh, p. 253. “The same building” refers to the above-mentioned residence of the Shah.

92 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 86.

93 Paoli, p. 100. Relatively free translation except in quotation marks.

94 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 101.

95 Belgian sources. See bibliography at the end of the article.

96 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 101-102.

97 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 102.

98 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 104. Writings on the history of Iranian cinema, which all make direct or indirect use of Korilan’s translated text, erroneously mention a French lady who was filming, or a Madame “Kron” who was performing the same action. These are incorrect and the story in Korilan’s text is none but the one related.

99 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article; and Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, pp. 104-105.

100 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article.

101 Belgian sources, see bibliography at the end of the article.

102 Korilan, Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘, p. 108.

103 Translation of the French “bataille de fleurs”, an expression which the Shah himself uses (Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 80)

and which Farrokh Gaffari found to be the equivalent of Corso fleuri, see Gaffari, “20 ans de cinéma en Iran”, pp. 179-195.

104 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 160-161.

105 In this concern, also see Section 3, 2.

106 In 1950 / 1329 AS, thanks to Dr Siyâvash Shaqâqi, his stepmother Moluk Khânom Mossavver-Rahmâni, one of Mirzâ Ebrâhim’s three daughters, handed over documents to Farrokh Gaffari through her husband Eng. Hassan Shaqâqi. These documents included the following: the letter of Gaumont Co., two notes concerning films to be shot by Mirzâ Ebrâhim on the Shâh’s orders (see text below), and a bust portrait of Mirzâ Ebrâhim that has been published by Jamâl Omid (Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 116). Some of these documents are first mentioned in note 1 of Farrokh Gaffari’s article, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân (1)”, in ‘Âlam-e Honar of 26 Mehr 1330, but general information was supplied to the author by Farrokh Gaffari himself. Gaffari’s collection disappeared during the events following Bahman 1357 / February 1979. One can perhaps hope that, just as some of his books eventually found their way to the Central Library of Tehran University, these documents will some day be identified among the belongings of this or that foundation, or elsewhere.

107 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 34, note 7.

108 The residence of the Shah, mentioned above.

109 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 34, note 7. Following this note, one reads: This competition, which attracted great attention at the time, was rewarded by prizes of ten thousand and five thousand Francs and numerous two thousand and one thousand Francs prizes. One of these was a film of Dr. (Doyen?) performing a surgery, which Léon Gaumont had advised to be offered to the Shah.

110 The remaining films are limited and they have not yet been entirely classified and identified. The proof that they are about a hundred years old is that, besides 35 millimeter films, they include narrow centrally perforated 15mm films, and among the unprocessed photographic plates I have found none dated earlier than 1898 or with an expiry date later than 1906.

111 Henry Savage Landor, Across Coveted Lands, v. 1, p. 233. It has been written (see for instance Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22) that, while visiting the Golestan Palace, Henry Savage Landor saw a “large Gaumont cinematograph”, but, as we saw, the author does not name the cinematograph. Further on, in the same derogatory tone, Landor also mentions the Shâh’s modern printing press (v. 1, p. 238). He means the magnificent machine bought in the same year, during the Shâh’s first journey to Europe, by Ahmad Sani‘-os-Saltane and installed in the Golestan Palace under the supervision of Mirzâ Ebrâhim ‘Akkâs-bâshi (see Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], pp. 1-255). The photographs I have seen of the operations to install the machineries indicate that they were placed on the ground floor of the southeastern corner of the White Palace. They were facing the garden towards the East. The Shâh’s accounts of his first two journeys to Europe were among the books that were typeset and printed with this equipment.

112 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 178.

113 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 196.

114 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 191.

115 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], pp. 19, 29, 45, 53, 68, 70, 72, 78, 98, 133, 136 and 151. The acquisition of two, certainly photographic, cameras at Lucerne, Switzerland, on Tuesday 18 Safar 1320 / 27 May 1902 / 6 Khordâd 1281 (p. 54), a photographic camera and an X-ray unit (p. 60), dispatching the ‘Akkâs-bâshi to Germany to buy the “newly invented photograph” (p. 63), instantaneous photography (p. 66), dispatching the ‘Akkâs-bâshi to “carry out some orders” (p. 104) which concerned a photographic camera (p. 106), the painting or drawing of a portrait of the Shah, the arrival of ‘Abdollâh Mirzâ Qâjâr—the famous Persian photographer—to take pictures (p. 111), use of a magnesium flash (p. 126).

116 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 107.

117 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 119. “The flow of the river” refers to a representation he had seen on the previous evening in which water was shown to flow until it covered the scene.

118 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 126.

119 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 131.

120 Malijak, v. 1, p. 330.

121 Departure date in Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, pp. 298, 397 and Malijak, v.1, p. 767; return date in Malijak, v. 1, p. 836.

122 A relatively complete illustrated account of this part of the voyage, which took place in France and Belgium from 22 June to 31 August 1905 (2 Tir to 10 Shahrivar 1284), appears in Graux and Daragon’s rare book printed in only 300 copies. See bibliography in other languages than in Persian, under Graux, pp. 16-33. The cinematograph is not mentioned in this account (see in particular p. 23).

123 Russi Khân had told Farrokh Gaffari that “he had bought a camera from the son of Sani‘-Hazrat, Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi, in 1909…” (F. Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 27 and J. Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 26, in brief). Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi was Sani‘-os-Saltane and Russi Khân meant his son, Mirzâ Ebrâhim. Sani‘-Hazrat was neither a photographer nor the Shâh’s ‘Akkâs-bâshi. His sole connection with photography was that he assassinated Mirzâ Javâd Khân, a Constitutionalist photographer. The misattribution, which has not been noticed to the present, was perhaps due to Russi Khân’s being for despotism and his support for Mohammad-‘Ali Shâh. Concerning Mirzâ Javâd Khân’s assassination and Sani‘-Hazrat, see Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, part 2, p. 484; Y. Zoka’, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi, pp. 284-285, and Dakho (‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhodâ), who derisively likens Sani‘-Hazrat’s marching at the head of his group to that of General Korapatkine, whose panorama was mentioned, in front of his troops (Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 11 Zelhajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, p. 6). Sani‘-Hazrat was hanged by the revolutionaries on 11 Rajab 1327 / 29 July 1909 / 7 Mordâd 1288, Malijak, v. 3, p. 1579 and illustrations in v. 3, pp. 1580-1581.

124 Malijak, v. 3, pp. 1550 and 1557.

125 F. Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 27. Gaffari’s text reads “two hundred thousand meters”, but, as he mentioned to the author, the correct figure must be 2,000 meters, or less probably 20,000 meters at most.

126 Inference from Omid’s writings, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 25.

127 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 38, note 67.

128 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 38, note 67.

129 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

130 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [First Journey], p. 83.

131 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

132 Jamâl Omid, referring to the shooting of Âbi va Râbi, this time probably quoting Mo‘tazedi, writes (Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 58, note 26) that the auction sale took place under Ahmad Shâh, but, as we shall see a few lines lower, this too is incorrect.

133 This is now certain, because Mr. Asghar Mahdavi told the author on 10 September 2000 (20 Shahrivar 1379) that the auction sale, which was also attended by the late Âqâ Seyyed Jalâl Tehrâni, was held during the late Teymurtâsh’s tenure at the Ministry of the Court. Mr. Mahdavi’s words will be reproduced in their entirety at another opportunity.

134 Concerning the list of these instruments, which included (one?) Gaumont cinema camera and its ancillaries, see Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 30.

135 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 58, note 26.

136 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, p. 28.

137 Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22. In Gaffari’s unpublished text, “arvâhenâ laho-l-fadâ” appears as “arvâhenâ fadâh”. In Gaffari’s first mention of this document, its content is summarized as: “Early in the morning take the cinematograph to Sabze Meydân and shoot (“biandâzid”) pictures of all the processions of those who flagellate themselves with knives.” (Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, original handwritten text; the printed version contains the same text as in “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 5, with “biandâz” instead of “biandâzid”)

138 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 131: “He was fond of ta‘zies… fervent at weeping.”

139 Gaffari, “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 5. The word “crown” does not appear in the printed version of Gaffari’s text, but existed in his manuscript.

140 Handwritten text of Gaffari’s “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân”

· 1. In the printed version of “Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8, the spelling of sinemofotgrâf has been changed into sinemofotogrâf. Apparently writing hastily, the Shâh had even omitted the bâshi postfix. Jamâl Omid has published the original text as follows: “‘Akkâs-bâshi, tomorrow morning swiftly bring the sinemofotogrâf camera with two, three rolls in order that we take pictures of the lions”, Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân –1, p. 36, and Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 22.

141 Malijak, v. 1, pp. 224 and 581. Malijak describes the zoological garden of the Dowshân-tappe Palace, called “Bâgh-e Shir-khâne” (Lion House Garden), which had a separate entrance.

142 Malijak, v. 1, p. 224.

143 Thanks to an introduction by Dr. Mehdi Hojjat—then vice-director for Preservation Affairs at the Ministry of Culture and Higher Education—the Ministry of Finances and Economic Affairs’ General Office of Estates responded favorably to a request on my part to be allowed to study the photographs of the Photothèque of the Golestan Palace (request and authorization no. 3492 of 25/8/1361 AS, recorded in the registry of the General Office of Estates). That was the beginning of my ongoing research at the Golestan Palace.

144 The story is a long one, but Dr. Akbar ‘Âlemi, who was in charge of the copying, has given a brief account of it. See his article “Hekâyati now az in no-javân-e sad-sâle…”, note 1. Perhaps owing to a typographic error, the years in which the films were discovered and then copied are erroneously recorded as 1365 AS [1986] instead of 1361 and 1362 (for the copying), respectively. Obviously, the monarch related to these films was Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, and not Nâsser- od-Din Shâh.

145 With the backing of Seyyed Mohammad Beheshti (director of the Iranian Cultural Heritage Organization) and ‘Ali-Rezâ Anissi (director of the Golestan Palace), and with the assistance of Hassan Mirzâ-Mohammad ‘Alâ’ini and particularly Javâd Hasti as well as other responsible persons in the various sections of the Golestan Palace.

146 See Hushang Kâvusi’s article, “Tomâs Edison, Barâdarân-e Lumiere, Âsude bekhâbid, mâ bidârim!” The author makes no mention of the books and articles left behind by the pioneers of the history of Iranian cinema. He even denies the validity of some sources and documents they have published with undeniable references (he qualifies them as “totally untrue”, p. 107!). Apparently, the first version of this article did not come into his hands either.

147 In 1907 / 1286 AS, Russi Khân screened a film in which “someone smoked a cigarette [and] the smoke of his cigarette was visible on the screen.”, Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, p. 36, note 34 (in Omid, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân – 1, p. 69, the word dud (smoke) appears as khod (self), but this has been corrected in the subsequent edition). In view of Russi Khân’s connections with Mohammad-‘Ali Shâh’s Court and the identity of their subject, one can assume that the same film is involved, but this is improbable, because Russi Khân’s was almost certainly a 35mm film, and not a c†††††entrally perforated 15mm one.

148 Taqizâde, Zendegi, pp. 205-206.

149 Gaffari reports (“Avvalin Âzemâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 1, p. 8) what he has been told, but he told me that he disagrees with them. The differences between Gaffari’s manuscript and his printed text are indicated in parentheses.

150 Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniân, ed. 1362, v. 1, p. 131.

151 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 25.

152 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 35.

153 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 51.

154 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 52.

155 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 81.

156 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 133.

157 In the collection of fine and useful photographs of Ganj-e Peydâ, recently published by Bahman Jalâli on some of the Golestan Palace’s photographs, the name of Âghâ Mohammad is attributed to two eunuchs, one erroneously. The dwarf introduced on many pages (including pp. 104 and 105) as “Âghâ Mohammad-e Khâje, ma‘ruf be Faqir-ol-Qâme”, or “Âgha Mohammad”, is in fact ‘Issâ Khân. He was Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh’s companion since his days as heir to the throne and later came to Tehran with him. The other is “Âghâ Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qâme”, and not “Faqir-ol-Qâme”, one of Nâsser-od-Din Shâh’s most important eunuchs and confidants (see E‘temâd-os-Saltane, Khâterât, Saturday 21 Rabi‘-os-Sâni 1310, p. 839). A few photographs of Âghâ Mohammad-e Qasir-ol-Qâme exist in the Photothèque of the Golestan Palace, one of which was printed by Bahman Jalâli on page 59, top photo, the man on the left hand side. The book also comprises a few photographs of Mahmud Khân, whom it does not identify, e.g., on pages 110, 143 and 167.

158 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 25.

159 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 36.

160 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 36.

161 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 73.

162 Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh, Safarnâme [Second Journey], p. 83.

163 Around 1924-25 / 1304-05 AS, the Germans were making a documentary-like film in Iran and, failing to find a Persian born actress, they had Marie-Louise Adle—the British born wife of the late E‘temâd-ol-Vezâre—assume the role. The author’s knowledge in this concern is scarce and he hopes to be able to provide further explanation in the future.

Bibliography and Sources in Persian
· ‘Abd-ol-Ghaffâr, Naqshe-ye Tehrân dar Sâl-e 1309 H.Q. (1891), reproduction, re-ed. Sahâb, 1363 AS.

· Abutorâbiyân, Hossein, “E‘lâmiye-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, 20th year, Âbân-Dey 1356 AS, nos. 8-10, pp. 691-692.

· Adle, Chahryar, “Khorheh, Tali‘e-ye Kâvosh-e ‘Elmi-ye Irâniyân”, Farairan, no. 3/4, Persian and English text, Spring-Summer 2001, pp. 226-265.

· ‘Âlemi, Akbar, “Hekâyati Now az in Now-javân-e Sad-sâle. Sinemâ-ye Irân Sad-sâle va Jahâni Mishavad”, Doniyâ-ye Sokhan, 16th year, no. 90, Esfand 1378 and Farvardin 1379, pp. 64-69.

· ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveyssi (Mirzâ), “Sinemotogrâf”, Haqâyeq periodical, Baku, no. 1, Safar 1325 [16 March – 13 April 1907 / 25 Esfand – 24 Farvardin 1286], pp. 14-16. Mirzâ ‘Ali-Mohammad Khân Oveissi’s article is published in Film monthly, no. 258, Shahrivar 1379, special issue on the centenary of the cinematograph, p. 26. It is also exhibited in color reprography at the Cinema Museum in Tehran.

· Belgian sources: Information gathered for the author by his Belgian Ph.D. course ex-student, Miss Marion Baptiste transmitted to him on the phone just before this version went to print. The research had started earlier in Ostend but time limitation did not allow these works to be completed. This will be done in the future, alongside studies on the early history of the introduction of automobiles in Persia.

· Corilin, see Korilan.

· Dakho (i.e. ‘Ali-Akbar Dehkhodâ), “Charand Parand”, Sur-e Esrâfil, Thursday 11 Ze’l Hajjeh 1325 / Wednesday 15 January 1908 / 25 Dey 1286, no. 20, pp. 5-8.

· E‘temâd-os-Saltane, Mohammad-Hassan Khân, Ruznâme-ye Khâterât, ed. Iraj Afshâr, 4th printing, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Gaffari, see Ghaffâri.

· Ghaffâri, Farrokh, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân”

· 1, ‘Âlam-e Honar, no. 3, 26 Mehr 1330 and the original handwritten text, which the Cinema Museum made available to me thanks to Behzâd Rahimyân.

· Idem, “Avvalin Âzmâyeshhâ-ye Sinemâ’i dar Irân” – 2, ‘Âlam-e Honar, no. 4, 10 Âbân 1330 and the original handwritten text, which the Cinema Museum made available to me thanks to Behzâd Rahimyân.

· Idem, “Jâm-e Jam – Fânus-e Khiyâl – Sâye va Kheyme-shab-bâzi

dar Irân”, Film va Zendegi, no. 5, pp. 40-42.

· Idem, “Mirzâ Ebrâhim Khân-e ‘Akkâs-bâshi, Nakhostin Filmbardâr-e Irâni”, Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 258, Shahrivar 1379, special issue on the centenary of the cinematograph, pp. 19-21.

· Idem, an article containing recent information, under publication and kindly put at the author’s disposition.

· Idem, Farrokh Gaffari’s conversations with Chahryar Adle, aggregate of Farrokh Gaffari’s discussions with the author on Iranian arts, particularly painting, photography and cinema, during the past twenty years. All his quotations in the present article were last reviewed with him on 6 February 2001 (18 Bahman 1379).

· Golestân, Shâhrokh, interview with Jamâlzâde on 14 March 1992 (23 Esfand 1371) in Geneva, broadcast in part on 1 October 1993 (9 Mehr 1372) in the 2nd part of Fânus-e Khiyâl series by the Persian Service of the BBC.

· Idem, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Sargozasht-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, 6 cassettes, series broadcast by the Persian Service of the BBC which started on 2 Mehr 1372 (24 September 1993), BBC, London, 1994.

· Idem, Fânus-e Khiyâl, Sargozasht-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, from the beginning to the Islamic Revolution as seen by the BBC, altered version published without Golestân’s permission of the series broadcast by the Persian Service of the BBC in 1373 AS, edited by Gharavi, Kavir Publications, Tehran, 1374 AS.

· Idem, discussions with the author in Paris about the history of Iranian cinema. Last exchange of views: 2 Dey 1379 / 21 December 2000.

· Habl-ol-Matin, “E‘lân”, advertisement of Russi Khân’s cinematograph, no. 161, Thursday 7 Shavvâl 1325, 28 Âbân 839 Jalâli, 14 November 1907, p. 4 (if the Hegira lunar calendar is converted , 7 Shavvâl corresponds in fact to Wednesday 13 November 1907 / 22 Âbân 1286 AS, but in the Christian calendar the newspaper’s 14 November corresponds to 23 Âbân).

· Jalâli, Bahman, Ganj-e Peydâ, a collection of photographs of the Golestan Palace-Museum, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Jamâlzâde, Seyyed Mohammad-‘Ali, “Dar bâre-ye Sahhâfbâshi”, Râhnomâ-ye Ketâb, 21st year, Farvardin-Ordibehesht 1357 AS, no. 1-2, pp. 128-131.

· Idem, “Yâdhâ’i az Kudaki va Nowjavâni”, Chashmandâz, no. 19, spring 1377 AS, Paris, pp. 45-52.

· Kâvusi, Hushang, “Tomâs Edison, Barâdarân-e Lumier, Âsude Bekhâbid mâ Bidârim!”, Mâhnâme-ye Sinemâ’i-ye Film, no. 259, 18th year, Mehr 1379, pp. 106-110.

· Korilan, (compilation of articles by), Badâye‘-e Vaqâye‘-e Nakhostin Safar-e Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Orupâ, tr. Rezâ-Qoli ebn-e Ja‘far-Qoli Khân Nayyer-ol-Molk (minister of sciences), ed. Vahidnyâ, Tehran, winter 1349 AS.

· Maqsudlu, Hossein-Qoli Maqsudlu Vakil-od-Dowle, Mokhâberât-e Astarâbâd, ed. Iraj Afshâr and Mohammad-Rasul Daryâgasht, 2 vols., Tehran, 1363 AS.

· Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh Qâjâr, Safarnâme-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi [First Journey to Europe], Matba‘e-ye Khâsse-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi [Imperial Printing House], Tehran, 1319 AH. This book was offset in Tehran by ‘Ali Dehbâshi (2nd printing, winter 1361 AS).

· Idem, Doyyomin Safarnâme-ye Mobârake-ye Homâyuni, [Second Journey to Europe], text edited by Fakhr-ol-Molk, Matba‘e-ye Mobârake-ye Shâhanshâhi, Tehran, 1320 AH. This book was offset under the title Dovvomin Safarnâme-ye Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Farang by Kâvosh Publishers and printed in Tehran in autumn 1362 AS.

· Nâzem-ol-Eslâm Kermâni, Târikh-e Bidâri-ye Irâniyân:

· ed. ‘Ali-Akbar Sa‘idi Sirjâni, 3 parts in 3 vols., Tehran, 1346 AS.

· ed. ‘Ali-Akbar Sa‘idi Sirjani, 3 parts in 2 vols., Tehran, 1362 AS.

· Nafissi, Hamid, “Taneshhâ-ye Farhang-e Sinemâ’i dar Jomhuri-e

Eslâmi”, Irân-nâme, 14th year, no. 3, summer 1375 AS, pp. 383-416.

· Najmi, Nâsser, Dâr-ol-Khelâfe-ye Tehrân, 2nd printing, Tehran, 1362 AS.

· Omid, Jamâl, Târikh-e Sinemâ-ye Irân, 1279-1357, 2nd printing, Tehran, 1377 AS.

· Russi Khân: see “E‘lân”, in Habl-ol-Matin.

· Sahhâfbâshi: see “E‘lân” in Sur-e Esrâfil of 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 AH.

· Sahhâfbâshi, Ebrâhim, Safarnâme-ye Ebrâhim-e Sahhâfbâshi, ed. Mohammad Moshiri, Tehran, 1357 AS.

· Shahri, Ja‘far, Gushe’i az Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân-e Qadim, Tehran, 1357 AS.

· Shahri (Shahribâf), Ja‘far, Târikh-e Ejtemâ‘i-e Tehrân dar Qarn-e Sizdahom, 6 vols., Tehran, 1367-68 AS.

· Sur-e Esrâfil, no. 26, Thursday 21 Rabi‘-ol-Avval 1326 / 23 April 1908 / 3 Ordibehesht 1287, “E‘lân” (advertisement) on page 8.

· Tahâminejâd, Mohammad, Rishe-yâbi-e Ya’s, special issue on cinema and theater, no. 5-6, Dey 1273 AS (unfortunately this interesting article was not entirely available to me when this paper was being written).

· Taqizâde, Seyyed Hassan, Zendegi-ye Tufâni: Khâterât-e Seyyed Hassan-e Taqizâde, ed. Iraj Afshar, Los Angeles, 1990.

· Zahir-od-Dowle, ‘Ali-Khân, Safarnâme-ye Zahir-od-Dowle hamrâh bâ Mozaffar-od-Din Shâh be Farangestân, ed. Mohammad-Esmâ‘il Rezvâni, Tehran, 1371 AS.

· Zokâ’, Yahyâ, Târikh-e ‘Akkâsi va ‘Akkâsân-e Pishgâm dar Irân, Tehran, 1376 AS..

Bibliography in languages other than Persian
· Adle, C., “Khorheh, The Dawn of Iranian Scientific Archaeological Excavation”, Farairan, no. 3/4, Persian and English text, Spring-Summer 2001, pp. 226-265.

· Idem, in collaboration with Y. Zoka’, “Notes et documents sur la photographie iranienne et son histoire; I. Les premiers daguerréotypistes, c. 1844-1845 / 1260-1270”, Studia Iranica, vol. 12, fascicule 2, 1983, pp. 249-280 and 2 pls.

· Azimi, F., “Entezâm, 1 ‘Abd-Allâh”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. VIII, pp. 461-462.

· Graux, L. et H. Daragon, S. M. Mozzafer-ef-Din Schah in Schah en France, 1900 – 1902 – 1905, Paris, 1905.

· Gaffary, F., “Coup d’oeil sur les 35 premières années du cinéma en Iran”, Entre l’Iran et l’Occident, Paris, 1989, pp. 225-234, and in particular pp. 226-227.

· Idem, “20 ans de cinéma en Iran”, Civilisations, vol. XXVIII, no. 2, 1990, pp. 179-195.

· Idem, “‘Akkâs-bâshi”, Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol. I, p. 718.

· Idem, article on Mirzâ Ebrâhim ‘Akkâs-bâshi, to be published in The Qajar Epoch, Arts and Architecture, ed. C. Adle and P. Luft, Iran Heritage Foundation, London.

· Image et magie du cinéma français, 100 ans de patrimoine, Exhibition organized by the Centre National de la Cinématographie and the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, Paris, n.d. [1995].

· Naficy, H., “Iranian Writers, the Iranian Cinema and the Case of Dash Akol”, Iranian Studies, vol. 28, no. 2-4, Spring-Autumn 1985, pp. 231-251.

· Paoli, Xavier, Leurs Majestés, Paris, 1912.

· Savage Landor, Henry, Across Coveted Lands or a Journey from Flushing (Holland) to Calcutta, Overland, 2 vols., London, 1902 (US ed., New York, 1903).

· Toulet, E., Cinema is 100 Years Old, London, 1995.

«Artification and the Aesthetic Regime of Art


Aleš Erjavec

Source: http://www.contempaesthetics.org/

Abstract
The author discusses “artification” and attempts to ascertain whether some common features can be found between artification and Jacques Rancière’s aesthetics, especially his notion of the “aesthetic regime of art.” The author argues that Rancière’s project of “art become life” can be employed as a common denominator of both theoretical frameworks, that of artification and that of the aesthetic regime of art. Nonetheless, the art to which Rancière’s notion primarily applies is different from art in the traditional sense, which seems to form the empirical basis of the notion of artification.

Key Words

aesthetic regime of art, “art become life,” artification, art-like, play

1. Introduction

This article is divided into three parts. I first discuss “artification” and some issues arising from and around this term, and then present Jacques Rancière’s notion of the “aesthetic regime of art” and some related themes. Finally, I bring together artification and the aesthetic regime of art in order to ascertain whether we can find some common conceptual and theoretical terrain, or at least some compatibility, between them or only dissimilarity and incompatibility. In this closing part, I also discuss whether the two notions, in spite of what appear to be insurmountable differences, are, or could be, of significance to each other and to the theoretical framework supporting each of them, or that they arise from completely different theoretical and even practical positions, suppositions, and dispositions, and therefore do not have anything in common.

Before I dwell on these issues, let me explain that my frame of reference will be both recent (modernist) and contemporary art, the main feature of which appears to be indeterminacy of its expressive, creative, institutional, and aesthetic attributes. At the same time, this is also art that, in its post-colonial instances, is a formation and creation of nineteenth-century European culture and its emerging social and cultural institutions. The two pivotal but opposed philosophical authors articulating this strand of thought on art and its philosophical reflection are, of course, Kant and Hegel. Contemporary art furthermore encompasses non-European art. An unlikely aesthetic source, André Malraux, observed in 1957 that around 1900 Europeans ceased to regard “primitive” artifacts as ethnographic curiosities and began to look at them as “art”:

The metamorphosis of the past was first a metamorphosis of seeing. Without an aesthetic revolution, the sculpture of ancient epochs, mosaics, and stained glass windows would never have joined the painting of the Renaissance and the great monarchies; no matter how vast they might have become, ethnographic collections would never have surmounted the barrier that separated them from art museums.[1]

This signifies that since at least a century ago, Western art, together with its indigenous and non-Western similes, has been preparing the stage for the current situation, where all forms and instances of art coexist within a myriad of art worlds. These art worlds themselves exist and coexist in a temporal and cultural flux in which only the general term ‘art’ retains its permanence. Today, once a work is designated as art, it hardly ever loses this designation. This then means that an enormous, universally acclaimed although perhaps also ignored archive of past art exists in various art and culture institutions. At the same time, contemporary and recent art exists in our perception as “art,” but is devoid of the same artistic permanence that traditional (representational) art has enjoyed. In contemporary art, it is increasingly the “process,” or the “event” of the artistic act, including its contextual placement, that makes a work into a work of art. In contemporary art, modern and contemporary aesthetic and artistic criteria apply.

Therefore, the perception today is that we may no longer speak of the aesthetic experience of art but of an overlapping aesthetic and artistic experience, with the “artistic” being essentially linked to “political, moral, and ethical judgments [that] have come to fill the vacuum of aesthetic judgment in a way that was unthinkable forty years ago.”[2]

2. Artification

Let me turn to artification. If I understand the term correctly, ‘artification’ covers the broad terrain of artifacts, events, and processes that are initially not regarded as art but may acquire such designation, to a greater or smaller degree, at a later time by appropriating or acquiring some art-like features. This, I hope, at least partly sums up Ossi Naukkarinen’s and Yuriko Saito’s description of the term in the introduction to this volume. They write: “The neologism refers to situations and processes in which something that is not regarded as art in the traditional sense of the word is changed into something art-like or into something that takes influences from artistic ways of thinking and practicing.”[3]

This programmatic description raises three interrelated issues:
(a) The first (to which I will return in the third part of this essay) concerns “art in the traditional sense.” In my view, this is essentially or primarily art that can be recognized as such, that is, representational art. This may mean that the term does not include art that is non-representational, and most certainly not art that is art only in its “becoming,” in the sense that it is attempting to broaden the existing agreement and understanding of what counts as art. Here I am referring to art that is still attempting to be recognized as art in the institutional sense. It seems that the phrase “art in the traditional sense” intends to limit art primarily to institutional art so as to avoid situations where just about anything could be regarded as art.

My dissenting opinion would be that what is interesting in art is precisely the “excess” of art in its becoming art, in contrast with art that is already art and has been assimilated into the institution called “art.” This idea is also the dominant position of any avant-garde art, be it that of the classical avant-gardes or neo-avant-gardes, with the theory of the avant-garde of Peter Bürger in his Theorie der Avantgarde (1974), along with that of Jean-François Lyotard. These represent perhaps the most obvious instances of philosophical theory highlighting the nature of such “becoming” and the transformation of non-art into art. This tradition, or project, emerged first with anarchism and then continued in the avant-garde activities of the twentieth century. Accordingly, a “theorist of anarchism understands art as an experience. . . . He struggles for a spontaneous ‘art en situation’ that depends on the moment and place (Proudhon).”[4]

An important strand of the philosophy of art during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries thus interprets art as authentically art only as long as it is still striving to attain the status of art, thus paradoxically losing its nature of authentic art once it is relegated into the cultural archive called the museum and art history. Or in anarchist terms and later avant-garde ones, “The artistic act is more important than the work itself.”[5]

(b) Contemporary art is most frequently not concerned with the intentions of the artist. A work, just like any commodity, acquires its own life and intent, which is why the import of a work is on the side of consumption and not creation/production. If some of the crucial questions of art fifty years ago were, “What does the work mean?” and “What did the artist/author with his/her work intend to say?,” then after the death of the artist or author and the deconstruction of his or her status as a Cartesian subject, such issues seem to have become redundant, also due to numerous other poststructuralist and postmodern claims. It is now as if the work itself speaks. If this was not the predominant case today, then the issue of artification would be best qualified as an issue about creation/production as approached and (re)solved by various theories of creativity linked to anthropological Marxism, on the one hand, and to the tradition of la poïétique as developed half a century ago by the French theorist and artist René Passeron, on the other.

We find ourselves now in the middle of the second issue that emerges from the description of artification as related to the “influences from artistic ways of thinking and practicing.” In the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, creation was essentially represented by art and thus was opposed to repetitive and non-creative manual work associated with the industrial epoch. Today we no longer regard art as an exclusive or paramount form of creativity; with the development of the post-industrial society and its individualized forms of work, the issue of creativity has, at least for the time being, lost much of its relevance. This, of course, does not relate to “art in the traditional sense of the word,” which retains its nature and, it has to be underlined, import for society. I want to note here the important but often insufficiently known successful efforts and practices in Finland to integrate art into education and art education into a general project of human well-being.

The presupposition emerging from the programmatic description of artification described above is that “artistic ways of thinking and practicing” are somehow different from the non-artistic ones. Such a statement would be true if we did not proceed from a general notion of creativity, wherein artistic creativity would be but a specific form of creativity, which also encompasses everyday activities and all those that can, with some measure of evidence, be called creative. Probably the greatest commodification of creative practices emerged in the United Kingdom in the 1980s with “creative industries.”

If we were to use the notion of creativity and creativeness as something typical of art and of describing “artistic ways of thinking and practicing,” then this would facilitate the integration of art into a general theory or philosophy of creativity. We would then be able to regard art as the paramount instance of creativity, with its other forms being seen as its lesser instances. Of course, such a viewpoint primarily concerns an artwork regarded from the position of its author. But does it really? Is this not a case of “art in a traditional sense of the word,” for it requires the link between the artist, the artwork, and the audience (the public)? This viewpoint depends on the supposition that “creative” art is art that is appreciated by the public. It is a position that, at first sight, is very distant from contemporary art and its art worlds, although also presupposed by them, and accords with the positions and practices of modern art during the first half of the twentieth century when it was the dominant artistic form.

(c) There is also the reverse side of the issue of artification: “Something that is not regarded as art in the traditional sense of the word [and] is changed into something art-like” can also appear under other kinds of conditions and circumstances. Consider the tradition of British “Arts and Crafts” started by workshops initiated by William Morris in the middle of nineteenth century and which advocated reverting back to medieval craftsmanship.


Screen, John Henry Dreale (designer), Morris & Co (manufacturer), 1885-1910

Think, too, of the later Jugendstil (Art Nouveau, Liberty Style), which followed a similar utilitarian aesthetic tradition, or of the introduction in Germany, at the turn of the century, of innumerable workshops that followed in the steps of that tradition in Great Britain. (British success was so astounding that in 1896 “the Prussian government sent the “cultural spy” Hermann Muthesius to England on a six-year mission to study the secrets of British success. Upon his recommendation, workshops were introduced at all Prussian handicraft schools and modern artists appointed as teachers.”[6])


Alfons Mucha – F. Champenois Imprimeur-Éditeur (1897)

The aim of such activities was the “cooperation of art, industry, and crafts in the ennoblement of commercial activity.”[7] It was also from this tradition that the Bauhaus arose. Related cases of art willingly accepting a utilitarian function are those of Russian constructivism[8] and, to some extent and in a different way, of Italian Futurism.


Agitprop poster by Mayakovsky (1919).


Gino Severini 1912, Dynamic Hieroglyphic of the Bal Tabarin, oil on canvas with sequins, 161.6 x 156.2 cm (63.6 x 61.5 in.), Museum of Modern Art, New York

3. Rancière’s “aesthetic regime of art”

Jacques Rancière’s notion of the aesthetic regime of art is of interest here. The dominant schema, explained in his numerous works, is that a new “regime” of art, namely the “aesthetic” one, emerged with romanticism and Friedrich Schiller, although sometimes he mentions authors who predate romanticism, like Vico or Winckelmann. Rancière argues that this regime of art is still continuing, thereby supplanting both modernism and postmodernism, since both are purportedly theoretically insufficient. In his view, modernism is problematic, first, because it lumps together such disparate authors and works as Adorno and Futurism, and second, because it “wants to hold onto art’s autonomy but refuses to accept the heteronomy that is its other name.”[9] He finds postmodernism problematic because it purportedly only reverses the logic of modernism, offering (through Lyotard, one of the main adversaries of Rancière) the sublime and the unpresentable as the two main features of postmodernism.[10]

Instead of notions of modernism and postmodernism, Rancière introduces the notion of an “aesthetic regime of art.” Its purpose is to replace both modernism and postmodernism, which Rancière considers obsolete and erroneous terms. In his opinion, “The aesthetic regime of the arts, it can be said, is the true name for what is designated by the incoherent label ‘modernity’.”[11]

In the aesthetic regime, the criterion of art is no longer technical perfection, as in the representative regime, “but is ascribed to a specific form of sensory apprehension.”[12] Furthermore, the aesthetic regime of art resembles Fredric Jameson’s “cultural dominant,” for although it is purportedly the dominant regime in the last two centuries, it is admittedly not the only one to exist in this epoch, for it is supplemented and often in conflict with the previous two regimes, the “ethical regime of images,” and especially the “representative regime of art” which immediately precedes the aesthetic regime. What is also typical of the aesthetic regime of art is that it is “the regime that strictly identifies art in the singular and frees it from any specific rule, from any hierarchy of the art, subject-matter and genres.”[13]

As we can see, Rancière’s agenda is to offer his “regimes” as a novel taxonomy that is intended to supersede the present dominant one of the tandem modernism and postmodernism, something that is without doubt an ambitious project. Rancière’s open-endedness of the aesthetic regime primarily implies the obsolescence of the “end of art” theories. In this it somewhat resembles Friedrich von Schlegel’s revolutionary attempt to bring into competitive proximity two art formations of his own time, namely classicism and romanticism, with the latter seen as a continuing process. Romantic art was to strive towards ever higher accomplishments, a view at odds with the recent and dominant viewpoints on the decline or even end of art, such as those of Hegel, Heidegger, and especially Arthur Danto. Rancière’s non-Hegelian view allows for no temporal closures of various regimes and for no totalizations.

One of Rancière’s points of departure is Aristotle, with his claim that man is “political because he possesses speech, a capacity to place the just and the unjust in common, whereas all the animal has is a voice to signal pleasure and pain. But the whole question, then, is to know who possesses speech and who merely possesses voice.”[14] This is the point where politics is brought into Rancière’s philosophy. Democracy is the possibility and the practice of making oneself heard. By making ourselves heard we become political beings: “Politics consists in reconfiguring the distribution of the sensible which defines the common of a community, to introduce into it new subjects and objects, to render visible what had not been, and to make heard as speakers those who had been perceived as mere noisy animals.”[15] The distribution and redistribution of the sensible are also accomplished by art. In the realm of art similar mechanisms as those used in politics are at work, for they are “two forms of distribution of the sensible, both of which are dependent on a specific regime of identification. There are not always occurrences of politics, although there always exist forms of power. Similarly, there are not always occurrences of art, although there are always forms of poetry, painting, sculpture, music, theatre and dance.”[16]

Throughout Rancière’s oeuvre, Friedrich Schiller is singled out as one of the pivotal references for his political philosophy and aesthetics. It is the concept of “play” or play drive (Spieltrieb) that is especially important here, for it brings together “art of the beautiful” and “art of living.” In Schiller’s view, which developed also as a critique of the French Revolution, play is of special importance. As he explains toward the end of the fifteenth letter in his On the Aesthetic Education of Man, “Man plays only when he is in the full sense of the word a man, and he is only wholly Man when he is playing.”[17]

According to Rancière, play “is any activity that has no end other than itself, that does not intend to gain any effective power over things or persons.”[18] “Play” is a new form of distribution of the sensible, an activity with no purpose except itself and with no intent to exert power over others. An artwork is “given in a specific experience, which suspends the ordinary connections, not only between appearance and reality, but also between form and matter, activity and passivity, understanding and sensibility.”[19]

It is not my intention to discuss Rancière’s philosophy and its various themes in detail. I have touched on only a few issues that could be relevant to our topic. Let me end this part by observing that, in Rancière’s view, artistic autonomy and heteronomy are always intertwined, with the aesthetic experience being autonomous and the creation of art heteronomous. In a way, Rancière’s theory, like that of some of the Romantics, echoes the ancient Greek conflation of art and community, that is, the organic consubstantionality of art and the life of the polis.

4. “Art become life”

In an exhibition in the spring of 2011, in the entrance hall of the Research Center in Ljubljana, where I work, one of the works consisted of a canvas over which the statement “Public Art is for the Birds” was written in big letters. The sentence, of course, brings to mind the artist Barnett Newman who, in a statement made famous, exclaimed that “Aesthetics is to the artist as ornithology is to the birds.” Since its enunciation around 1952, this claim has been reiterated on innumerable occasions. Its original addressee was Susan Langer, and its intent was to denigrate attempts to introduce semiotics and linguistics into art criticism and aesthetics. It was also often interpreted as criticism of the beautiful on the part of Newman and his embracing of the sublime, although its most frequent interpretation was that of a criticism of aesthetics as such. Be that as it may, for Newman aesthetics obviously was not relevant for art and did not aid in establishing its significance. This, of course, drastically changed in the decades that followed, for today authentic art appears essentially dependent on theory.


Barnett Newman

But in the 1950s this was not the case, nor is “public” art usually considered “authentic art” today. Instead, in the eyes of some or perhaps many, public art is nowadays often regarded as a type of art, if not “semi-art.” Proper or authentic contemporary art is assumed to be that which is radical, in the sense of subversive and critical of society or of previous art. In both instances, it is the modern and modernist tradition that questions public art and continues to do so, in spite of many well-known instances of modern and postmodern public art, such as that of Henry Moore, Richard Serra, and Anish Kapoor.


Anish Kapoor, World

If our vantage point is radical art, then, in our opinion, public art today may well be left to the birds and their multifarious activities on pieces of public art. In the eyes of the creator of the work exhibited in Ljubljana, public art may best be left to the birds, for it is not an authentic form of art that would be of genuine artistic concern. From this perspective, public art today may thus very well be seen as a form of artification, that is, an integration of mostly site-specific works into natural or urban ambiances. This was always a feature of public art, but today it is also such art that appears somewhat inauthentic. And this is the essential problem with artification, that people may regard it as inauthentic, especially if it is interpreted as something “art-like.” In the Western tradition, kitsch is something that pretends to be art-like; it aspires to be art-like, but that is as far as it gets. It is fake art. As soon as it crosses the border into the realm of authentic art, leaving fake and kitsch behind, art re/distributes the sensible. It offers something new: it “speaks” instead of being mute and without a voice.

By gaining a voice and starting to speak and express oneself, an authentic artist effects a redistribution of the sensible and broadens the borders of what is perceived and sensed. It is a new “voice” to be heard or seen, in short, experienced, which is another way of designating the mechanism whereby a person becomes an artist and the work an artwork.


Richard Serra’s Tilted Spheres in Terminal 1 Pier F at Toronto’s YYZ airport


Henry Moore, standing next to his sculpture Working Model for Oval with Points (1975)

Of course, art that is happy with its subordination to another purpose or agency cannot attain its proper purpose, which is one of the reasons why artification encounters difficulties when grappling with art’s assimilation. Only by “playing,” by having a purpose without a purpose, is a man “wholly man.” We may assume that such “play” and its creations are appreciated by the artist as well as by the public, although the relationship is by no means a stable and a predetermined one.

There are numerous cases when a work causes great satisfaction, in the sense of “play,” to the artist but very little to the public. Amateur works are frequently of such nature. There is also the opposite situation, such as when an acclaimed artist makes a simple sketch, which for him is mere amusement, while for the public at large it represents a little masterpiece. Which is it? On the other hand, in modern art there are innumerable cases of art that was art for the artist as well as for the public. This is even more the case in representational art. There, the “quality” and artistic value are relatively easily defined. As we see, art is given various kinds of reception, and especially today our “imaginary museum” is filled with very disparate objects and phenomena. Nonetheless, a salient feature of modern art is not only its variety but its semantic openness and its faith that it is the public that should accommodate the work of art and not the other way around.

Why is it necessary for art to be accommodated by the public? Because (and in this we can follow Adorno) authentic art and culture require effort to overcome the resistance made to it. “Culture, in the true sense, did not simply accommodate itself to human beings; but it always simultaneously raised protest against the petrified relations under which they lived, thereby honoring them. …Cultural entities typical of the culture industry are no longer also commodities, they are commodities through and through.”[20] Interestingly, in instances where art attempts to imitate creations made according to the demands of the public, such fake art remains authentic art, just the opposite of kitsch. Take, for example, the project of Komar & Melamid’s “Most Wanted,” where the two artists created a series of paintings based on a survey of public preferences of the motifs, formats, and colors of individual paintings.[21] In spite of formally following the procedures of the market, the works actually functioned as any other authentic works of art. This illustrates that while artification as a transformation of art into non-art, or of non-art into “something art-like,” may well work as an abstraction, it depends, in fact, on a variety of other factors.


Komar & Melamid’s “Most Wanted,”‌ USA


Komar & Melamid’s “Most Wanted,” Italy


Komar & Melamid’s “Most Wanted,” China

Still, it appears that there are times when non-art may turn into art and the other way around, without endangering the artistic and aesthetic status of art, but the contrary. I refer to examples of what Rancière calls the project of “art become life.”[22] The project is consubstantial with the aesthetic regime of art. It already inspired, in their dreams of artisanal and communitarian Middle Ages, the artists of the Arts and Crafts movement. It was taken up again by the artisans of the Art Deco movement, hailed in their time as producers of “social art,” as it was by the engineers and architects of the Werkbund and the Bauhaus, before again flowering into the utopian projects of situationist urbanists and Joseph Beuys’ “social plastic.”[23]


Wekbund, 1914 exhibition poster


Herbert Bayer, Postcard No. 11 for the Bauhaus Exhibition in Weimar, summer, 1923


Joseph Beuys, In difesa della Natura. Exhibition view at the Venice International Performance Art Week (2014). Photograph by Samanta Cinquini.

Although artification is said to concern “art in the traditional sense,” it would appear that while some of the movements mentioned above produced works of craftsmanship and thus probably belong to that gray area between the realms of utilitarian production and its aesthetic features, there is no obvious contradiction between the two. In these instances, utilitarian and aesthetic functions and features are conflated seamlessly, even opposing and thus relativizing the old aesthetic belief that a utilitarian object must lose its practical function if it is to attain an aesthetic one. Art Deco or Bauhaus chairs, lamps, architecture, and cutlery are practical and aesthetic; they are non-art (having a practical function) merging with art (having an aesthetic function). Instances of such utilitarian aesthetic works can also be found in Russian constructivism and productivism; in Italian Futurism, with objects ranging from the “anti-neutral clothes” of Giacomo Balla to the architectural sketches of Antonio Sant’Elia; in the “paper architecture” of Lajos Kassák and the more recent “architecture of nothing” by Gábor Bachman; and in the coffee cups, passports, and armbands of the Slovenian artist collective Neue Slowenische Kunst.


Giacomo Balla,anti-neutral clothes


Antonio Sant’Elia


Gábor Bachman, Architecture of nothing


Neue Slowenische Kunst

In brief, the conflation of art and non-art, or the passage of non-art into utilitarian aesthetic and artistic objects, occurs all the time and, as the cases just mentioned illustrate, it is definitely not limited to art in the traditional sense but is as often created by avant-garde artists. In such a context, the issue of subordination of art doesn’t arise; form usually follows function. It is this terrain that could also be relevant to artification.

Before the advent of the aesthetic regime of art, that is, the period of artistic modernity and postmodernity, Mimesis separated out what was art from what was not. Conversely, all the new, aesthetic definitions of art that affirm its autonomy in one way or another say the same thing, affirm the same paradox: that art is henceforth recognizable by its lack of any distinguishing characteristics—by its indistinction. . . . In short, the specificity of art, finally nameable as such, is its identity with non-art.[24]

It is this problematic statement that serves as the conclusion of this essay because it reveals the limits of Rancière’s otherwise useful and important enterprise. Theories of modernism and postmodernism point out certain essential characteristics of the art of the last two centuries, a task as yet not accomplished by the “aesthetic regime of art” that lumps together art of impressionism with abstract art and Duchamp’s projects. Put differently, the art it highlights and comprises is even more disparate than Adorno and Futurism. My reservations are directed also towards some of the other tenets of Rancière’s theory, for the aesthetic regime of art is an interrelated notion within his philosophical framework. Nonetheless, I think that this criticism does not weaken the argument that the project of “art become life” remains valid, both in Rancière and elsewhere, when referring to artification and utilitarian creations of certain traditions and endeavors, in addition to aesthetic avant-garde movements and their related radical projects.

Aleš Erjavec

Ales.Erjavec@zrc-sazu.si

Aleš Erjavec is Research Professor in the Institute of Philosophy, SRC SASA, Ljubljana, and Professor of Aesthetics in Ljubljana University and University of Primorska, Koper, Slovenia. His main interests are aesthetics, contemporary art theory, critical theory, and philosophy of culture. He is currently preparing a book on “aesthetic revolutions.”

Published on April 5, 2012.

Endnotes

[1] André Malraux, La Métamorphose des dieux (Paris: NRF, La Galerie de la Pléiade, 1957), p. 27.

[2] Claire Bishop, “Antagonism and Relational Aesthetics,” October 110 (Fall 2004), 51-79; ref. on p. 77.

[3] Ossi Naukkarinen and Yuriko Saito, “Introduction,” Contemporary Aesthetics, Special Volume 4, 2012.

[4] André Reszler, L’esthétique anarchiste (Paris: P.U.F., 1973), p. 6.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Magdalena Droste, Bauhaus 1919-1933, (London: Taschen, 2006), p. 10.

[7] Quoted in Bauhaus 1919-1933, p. 12.

[8] See, for example, Christina Kiaer, Imagine No Possessions. The Socialist Objects of Russian Constructivism (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2005); Maria Gough, The Artist as Producer. Russian Constructivism in Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); and Benjamin H. D. Buchloh, “From Faktura to Factography,” October, Vol. 30 (Autumn 1984), 82-119.

[9] Jacques Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, trans. Steven Corcoran (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2009), p. 68.

[10] See, for example, Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics, trans. Gabriel Rockhill (London: Continuum, 2004), pp. 28-29 et passim. Rancière frequently uses “modernism” and “modernity” synonymously.

[11] Ibid., p. 24.

[12] Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, p. 29.

[13] Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics, p. 23.

[14] Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, p. 24.

[15] Ibid., p. 25.

[16] Ibid., p. 26.

[17] Friedrich Schiller, On the Aesthetic Education of Man, trans. Reginald Snell (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 2004), p. 80.

[18] Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, p. 30.

[19] Loc. cit.

[20] Theodor Adorno, “Culture Industry Reconsidered,” in The Adorno Reader, ed. by Brian O’Connor (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), p. 232.

[21] See Painting by Numbers. Komar and Melamid’s Scientific Guide to Art, ed. by JoAnn Wypijewski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998).

[22] Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, p. 38. Of course, the project of “art become life” carries another meaning, namely the unity, or mutual support, of artistic revolutionary and social (political) revolutionary projects.

[23] Rancière, Aesthetics and Its Discontents, p. 38.

[24] Ibid., p. 66.

Art, Artists and Activism– 1930s to Today


Victor Arnautoff, “City Life” mural, Coit Tower, San Francisco, 1932

Art Hazelwood
Source: http://www.artbusiness.com/artists

Often a question arises when I am talking about my work… it might be hostile or just as often, simply curious. “Do you really think that art can change the world?” Because my art is broadly political, the implication is political art is somehow not effective in the real world. It’s a question that political artists are often confronted with and it is a question, I believe, most are already asking themselves, sometimes in frustration and sometimes in despair. But history and current examples show that it does have an effect. For all political artists the big question should be not whether political art is effective, but how it can have a bigger effect in the world.

There’s a history here that is helpful for political artists to be aware of today. The effectiveness of past and present political artists in organizing, in advocating, in building solidarity in movements and in retaining a history that is often suppressed by the mainstream is essential. For American art, that history can best be viewed as it developed from the Great Depression of the 1930s to today. The lessons from these past actions can help contemporary political artists be more effective.

What differentiates “art for art’s sake” from political art is that political art intends to have an effect on the world. That doesn’t sit well with many who believe art must stay in its place and especially that art should never sully itself with mundane reality… especially with politics. Artists in the 1930s did sully themselves and their artwork with political content. They had solidarity with the 99% against the ruling elites who had increasingly monopolized the wealth of that period. Artists had that solidarity with workers and poor people because they saw themselves as workers and poor people.

In fact, in the 1930s the federal government treated artists as workers. The federal government through the New Deal programs of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt hired artists to create art. That act alone showed an incredibly different approach to artists. Today, a poor artist would be offered “life training skills” and job placement counseling… but certainly not asked to make art at a basic living wage with no restrictions on what was produced and no goal for how the work would be used, which is what the New Deal did for artists. And cut free of the competitive gallery system that had died of economic collapse, artists suddenly turned in large numbers to politics.

Political art rose in the 1930s then fell in the period between World War II and the late 1960s; a marginalized group of artists kept the flame burning during this conservative period before it blossomed again. Sputtering somewhat through the 1990s, it has blossomed yet again in recent years under the twin hammers of endless war and economic injustice.

Organized Artists, Anti-Lynching, Right Wing Responses

The Great Depression was the first time in US history that a widespread movement of artists began to address politics. They actively found ways to influence society through exhibition and distribution of their work. Artists organized exhibitions around social and political themes such as poverty, lack of affordable housing, anti-lynching, anti-fascism and workers strikes. They organized conferences. They actually unionized. They contributed to leftist publications such as the Daily Worker, New Masses, Art Front, all of which had large numbers of subscribers and emphasized artwork as a regular part of their content.


Picasso Guernica, 1937

Many artists of the time joined and organized for political objectives and in 1936, the American Artists’ Congress was formed as part of the Popular Front of a united Left against fascism. The Artists’ Congress represented the height of artists’ political involvement in the 1930s. Hundreds of artists joined the group at the beginning and hundreds more came to the conventions. They organized exhibitions, including the important show, Against War and Fascism. They raised money for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade fighting the Fascists in Spain, and they were responsible for bringing Picasso’s painting Guernica to New York where it remained until the death of the dictator Franco. They pressed the US Congress to establish a permanent Bureau of Fine Arts.


Pele deLappe, Transients, 1938

In 1934 the Federal government was just starting to get involved in the arts. The Coit Tower murals in San Francisco were the first mural project of the Roosevelt Administration. The murals faced media and politicians’ calls for their destruction due to controversies over several Communist references. The San Francisco Chronicle branded them “red propaganda”. At the same time the dockworkers went on strike on the waterfront. Artists in San Francisco supported the waterfront workers when they went on strike against low wages, long hours and terrible working conditions. Many artists such as Victor Arnautoff, Adelyne Cross Eriksson and Louise Gilbert commemorated the events that led to the 1934 General Strike, and some artists like Pele deLappe were working on sign painting and cartooning from the moment the waterfront workers went on strike.


Cross Eriksson Adeline, Grovarbetare

This proliferation of groups, publications and activities among artists represented a tremendous amount of organization on a broad range of social and political themes. One example of how artwork was created and used for political ends can be seen in two rival anti-lynching shows that were staged in New York City in 1935. Lynching was an issue that a wide range of artists responded to in the 1930s. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) organized an exhibition to draw attention to lynching and to encourage the passage of a federal law banning it. While the House of Representatives passed several different bills in the 1930s, Senators always filibustered and stood in the way. No federal law against lynching was ever passed. It wasn’t until 1968 that the Federal Government prosecuted a lynching case under civil rights statutes.

The Communist Party through the John Reed Club organized an alternative lynching show to the one organized by the NAACP. The show included 43 pieces by Hugo Gellert, William Gropper, Louis Lozowick and others. The Communists saw the futility of working within the political system and sought to build a movement of racial solidarity against the divisions imposed by capitalism with its vast differentiations in wealth. Both exhibitions sought to bring attention to the scourge of lynching. Their efforts drew attention to the cause and had echoes through to the Civil Rights era.


William Gropper, Uprooted

An example of another approach to political art is Giacomo Patri who in the 1930s was a newspaper illustrator, the same trade as the main character in his 1938 book of linoleum cut prints, White Collar. In this novel, with only images and no text, Patri tells a story of the increased political radicalization of the central character. The novel reflected the economic despair that white-collar workers shared with blue-collar workers during the Depression. At the beginning the main character dreams of the road to success but his hopes are repeatedly dashed along the way. As the economic forces of the Depression pull him and his family down, he begins to see that he is part of a wider community of workers. The series of events, the Stock Crash, job loss, health problems, foreclosure, is a litany of the insecurities faced during the Depression. The family moves from home to apartment to shelter until they finally are forced to move into a tent city. His belief in capitalism shattered, he envisions himself joining an army of the dispossessed marching in revolution.
End of the 1930s Experiment in Democratic Art

In a widely cited quote by Abstract Expressionist Arshile Gorky, the powerful political art of the 1930s was dismissed as “poor art for poor people”. The elitism fueled by a reinvigorated art market and the hero worship associated with it was once more in evidence as the economy recovered sufficiently from the Great Depression. Many art world luminaries, curators, gallery owners and artists shared in the strong disdain for political art, a mirror image of the solidarity of 1930s artists.

An improved economy, changing art world trends, a revived commercial art market, fatigue with politics, and even a sense of the futility of political art, have all been offered as reasons for its demise. But among the most sinister forces were the anticommunist witch hunts of the Cold War era. These intimidated many political artists and discouraged a new generation from making political art. Many lost jobs, faced deportation or had their passports revoked on suspicion of Communist sympathies.

In 1938 the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC), claimed that the Federal Arts Project, especially the theater and writers projects were, “a hotbed of communists”. Their investigations were given extensive press coverage. This pressure contributed to a reorganization of the WPA, weakening it substantially. World War II redirected most projects remaining to the war. The WPA was formally ended by presidential order in 1942.


Anton Refregier Mural, 1947

Anton Refregier’s Treasury Section mural at the Rincon Center in San Francisco is titled “The History of California.” Refregier won the commission at the beginning of World War II, which had delayed the project, making it the last project of all New Deal art programs. By the time it was completed in 1949 the political climate had turned very conservative and Refregier was forced to repaint parts that were found offensive to the tastes of the new era. The mural was vehemently discussed and denounced as it progressed. Government officials responsible for the mural did not allow him to include a portrait of FDR. While painting, he was threatened by angry groups that gathered to harass him.


Anton Refregier Mural, Chinese part, 1947

The mural tells the history of California without the usual positive angle that most New Deal murals presented. Controversial issues of vigilante justice, anti-Chinese violence, and the battle over whether California would be a slave state or not were boldly portrayed.


Anton Refregier, Mural, Vigilante, 1947

In another example of the rising tide of right wing bullying, Rockwell Kent, who had been one of the best known artists of the 1930s had his passport revoked by the US State Department, which refused to issue passports to Communists and their sympathizers. Rockwell Kent’s case went to the Supreme Court. He opposed the State Department’s claim of authority to revoke passports based on political association. The case was decided in Kent’s favor in 1958 on free speech grounds. But the message was clearly sent against artists who had leftist leanings.
Artist-Worker Alliances

One model for artists and activists to work together in a politically engaged environment was the California Labor School in San Francisco. A Communist and Union school that included courses for union organizing, trade skills and culture, it was accredited for college level work, and was active from 1942 to 1957. It was shut down as a result of the anticommunist purges of the Cold War. The Graphic Arts Workshop print studio, spun off from the Labor School, survives to this day as its only vestige, now located on Third Street in San Francisco. Before it was shut down, the Labor School art department attracted a wide range of local and international artists with a strong connection to Mexico and the populist art traditions there. Pablo O’Higgins, an American who lived in Mexico and co-founded the collective printmaking workshop Taller de Gráfica Popular (T.G.P) in Mexico City, briefly taught at the Labor School. Mural artists Victor Arnautoff and Anton Refregier also taught at the Labor School. For a time, Giacomo Patri was the head of the art department.

Most of the artists in the San Francisco Bay Area that kept political art alive during this postwar period were somehow connected with the Labor School and the Graphic Arts Workshop. Some of them are better known than others, but the names of these artists have mostly been written out of the standard narrative of Bay Area art. Emmy Lou Packard, Pele deLappe, Richard Correll, Frank Rowe, Victor Arnautoff, Irving Fromer, Stanley Koppel. The FBI harassed all these artists; some were blacklisted, and most were dismissed by the art world. One powerful artist among these was Frank Rowe, a World War II veteran of the 101st Airborne Division who fought at the Battle of the Bulge. Like Scott Olsen who served in Iraq only to come home and discover, when the police stormed Occupy Oakland, that the Bill of Rights does not necessarily apply in America, Frank Rowe returned to the US to find that the rights he had believed he was defending in war were being taken away. He was fired from teaching at San Francisco State University and blacklisted for refusing to sign a loyalty oath. The loyalty oath was later found unconstitutional, but not until Rowe had been hounded by the FBI and forced to move from job to job to survive. He continued to make his powerful political artwork and carry the ashes of struggle to another generation when political consciousness and political art was revived in the late 1960s.


‌ Frank Rowe

Activism Takes New Forms

An example of the resurgence of political art and organizing is seen in the struggle around the I-Hotel (International Hotel) in San Francisco. With the postwar prosperity of the late 1940s, redevelopment and urban renewal became the focus of cities around the country. The federal government gave tax incentives that aided in the demolition of neighborhoods and the displacement of huge numbers of poor people. Minorities made up 75% of people displaced nationwide due to urban renewal projects. From Atlanta to Kansas City, from Pittsburgh to Boston, a series of infamous urban renewal projects destroyed poor communities. In 1953, San Francisco’s Western Addition became the target of one of the largest urban renewal projects in the West, encompassing hundreds of city blocks and impacting close to 20,000 residents. By the late 1960s people were fed up with the arbitrary manner of these schemes.

In 1968 plans were made to destroy the International Hotel or I-Hotel in San Francisco, home to fifty elderly tenants, one of the last remnants of the Filipino community known as “Little Manila.” Hundreds of people rallied to the defense of the I-Hotel. Many artists joined in this struggle.


Hotel I, San Francisco, 1968

Between 1975 and 1984, the San Francisco Poster Brigade designed hundreds of political posters. Though they called themselves a “brigade”, there were no more than a few artists involved. Rachael Bell (now Rachael Romero) was the principal artist of the Poster Brigade. She created woodcuts that were later produced as offset posters, distributed at marches and put up on the street. They created several posters to protest the demolition of the I-Hotel. People organized to fight the demolition from 1968 until 1977 when, ultimately, 400 police in full riot gear stormed the building. The builder who evicted the tenants went bankrupt and the lot remained undeveloped for over 20 years. In a bittersweet victory, a new building called I-Hotel Manilatown Center has been constructed at the site.


Hugo-Gellert, Primary-Accumulation, The-Money Lender

Mission Grafica was founded in 1982 by artists Jos Sances and Rene Castro. In the early years Mission Grafica created hundreds of screenprint posters with artists from around the world. One of their major focuses was on Central American solidarity with the struggles going on there against US sponsored right wing governments and paramilitary groups. These posters were distributed widely and sent to many other countries. Mission Grafica is one of the largest of the print poster workshops from that era and it continues today, though without the volume of production and without the international scope it once had. But it continues to serve as an incubator for political artist groups that spin off and create their own workshops and political actions. One such group, started in 2000, is the San Francisco Print Collective.
Following in the tradition of the San Francisco Poster Brigade, the San Francisco Print Collective (SFPC) was founded by a group of artists with the purpose of using graphic art to support social justice organizing. The first campaigns of the SFPC focused on the gentrification of the Mission. Again the displacement of poor people became a rallying cry for artists. The SFPC allies itself with various activist organizations to create work and also to help the activists create work that speaks to their struggles. The SFPC uses screenprint posters, banners and murals created in collaboration with organizations including the Coalition on Homelessness and the Mission Anti-displacement Coalition. In 2006, they worked with Northern California War Tax Resistance to create a poster campaign that focused attention on federal spending priorities in a time of war.

We’ve seen a revival of politically oriented art over the last ten years, especially in reaction to the run up to the Iraq War. A lot more artists have created political art. Well-known artists such as Richard Serra and Fernando Botero who rarely touched on politics have made work. But aside from the famous, many other artists threw themselves in with dedication, feeling that they had to do something.

Sensing the need for something to unify these many artists, New York artist Stephen Fredericks and I put together a group of shows to try to give support to these various actions. Our project was called Art of Democracy. We linked up over 50 shows nationwide and distributed more than 100 posters designed and printed by artists all over the country. We had shows in red states and in blue, in museums and in cafes, all at the same time in the run up to the presidential election of 2008. Artists in each of these shows did outreach through events on the street, political actions, billboards, etc. Art of Democracy activated many artists and encouraged them to make political work. Some work was like a cry in the night, a scream of rage, some was simply a call for common sense, and some was sophisticated political commentary. Our inspiration was print shows organized in the 1930s such as Art Against War and Fascism, which took place in multiple cities at the same time.

Another approach to political art is a show I organized with artists Francisco Dominguez and Doug Minkler. The exhibition is called New World Border. Artists were invited to create posters and prints about the border wall that the US is building on the US/Mexico border. The exhibit is set up to travel easily with lightweight artwork ready for hanging. The work has been shown at community centers, high schools, galleries and colleges. Many of the venues have connected the art show to their own programming about the border wall and other border issues. Some of the participating artists are significant figures in Bay Area political art over the last forty years, including artists associated with the Chicano Poster Movement– Malaquias Montoya, and Juan Fuentes; with the Black Panthers– Emory Douglas; with the Kearny Street Workshop– Nancy Hom, as well as younger artists focusing on political issues such as Favianna Rodriguez and Imin Yeh.

Art and Homelessness

In 1979 Ronald Reagan rode to power along with the rise of conservative politics and the dismantling of safety net programs that had originated in the 1930s. Reagan immediately set about destroying New Deal programs. Naturally his first targets were poor people and the mentally ill. In a slow motion repeat of the Great Depression, poverty and homelessness again became visible in cities across the US as public housing was defunded and mental institutions were emptied. By the mid 1980s, emergency homeless shelters were opening across the country. Those emergency shelters remain open today, nearly three decades later. By the late 1980s activists were organizing and artists were starting to respond to the crisis.


Jos Sances, Street Sheet Shining Light

The San Francisco Street Sheet is the oldest continuously published newspaper about homelessness in the US. It began in 1989 as a publication of the Coalition on Homelessness. The American Friends Service Committee has published the Street Spirit based in Oakland, California since 1996. Both papers have always used paintings, cartoons, woodcuts, screenprints and drawings to address issues of economic justice and homelessness.
The papers draw attention to the struggle for dignity and human rights by low-income and poor people facing eviction, homelessness, psychiatric treatment and other issues. They report from the shelters, soup kitchens and SRO hotels, places the mainstream press rarely visits. Homeless vendors sell the papers, of which there are now twenty-three in various US cities. All these papers have access to a shared Internet archive of artwork that addresses homelessness, another way to broaden the reach of imagery.

In 2006, the Western Regional Advocacy Project (WRAP) produced Without Housing: Decades of Federal Housing Cutbacks, Massive Homelessness and Policy Failures, a report that pointed out the policies the federal government has pursued since the early 1980s to sharply reduce funding for affordable housing. The report uses artwork to portray the statistical data. I organized artists to illustrate the messages of this report. I also created a poster used in the report that represented the dwindling funds for public housing as ever-shrinking buildings, while the rise in homelessness is represented by larger and larger human figures.

WRAP brings together grassroots groups in the Western US to address wider issues of federal and state policies that affect homeless people. Many of the homeless rights groups are too busy dealing with local issues to have time for the bigger picture. WRAP is an example of an organization that seeks to bring artists into activist realms. It is a mutually beneficial union– artistic imagery can help educate and build the emotional commitment of members and of the public. In turn, by working with these organizations, artists gain a deeper understanding of the issues. The relationship also provides artists with a wider audience for their messages.

Because of my connection with homeless rights groups over the last seventeen years, I have learned of the activities of many artists to address issues of homelessness and have encouraged others to make art about this issue. In 2009 I curated an exhibition at the California Historical Society called Hobos to Street People: Artists’ Responses to Homelessness from the New Deal to the Present. This show has been traveling since then and will continue for another year to museums around California and in Colorado. For me the act of curating is an extension of art and organizing. Museums are generally slow to respond to current events. Hobos to Street People is one of the few shows (if there are others, I am unaware of them) that deal with the affects of our economic system on society.

While the exhibition was on display in San Francisco, I counted several fashion shows at the big museums, but nothing on the economic dislocation we were all feeling. Of course since that time, museums have had time to react to the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression… and they have given us more fashion shows. This last month, the book I authored to accompany Hobos to Street People was published by Freedom Voices press. The text and images tell the story of the parallels and differences between the 1930s and today. A clear similarity is the artists who have embraced their role as participants in this political struggle for an equitable and just society.


T‌he exhibition: Between Struggle & Hope

Understanding this period of time, and some of the actions that artists took and continue to take, can help political artists to shape how they act in the world. They can form both artist alliances and alliances with activists. By building relationships, artists can keep the resilience needed for the long haul, because there are and will be forces arrayed against you. The truth and justice of a cause will be opposed by the most stunning variety of forces, many you never imagined would oppose you. What seems like a completely rational solution will be the target of vicious attacks from entrenched interests. You will be vilified; you will be shunned. Fellow artists will demonize you. Curators will mock you. Newspapers will dismiss you as a joke. Industry front groups will portray you as a stooge of other industry front groups. To fight back you’ll need allies. The independent heroic artist is a figment of the art marketplace; work with others to build a movement.


This Camera Fights Fascism, David Bacon & Francisco Dominguez
This brings us back to the question posed at the beginning of this article– does political art have an impact on the world? The right wing response is to say art never stopped a war, art didn’t stop lynching, art didn’t save the I-Hotel nor did it end repressive attacks on homeless people. But art does not exist in a vacuum. It is a part of culture. And political art that stands up to the repressive forces of society is a part of the culture of change. Political art does have effects in the real world, it is clearly part of the force, not the only force, but part of the force that keeps the human spirit alive. It keeps the flame of justice burning. It keeps memory alive. It moves with the struggles and moves those struggles forward.

***

Art Hazelwood is the author of the newly released book Hobos to Street People: Artists’ Responses to Homelessness From the New Deal to the Present and has curated three shows currently on display at the de Saisset Museum at Santa Clara University: the traveling show, Hobos to Street People, as well as Between Struggle and Hope: Envisioning a Democratic Art in the 1930s, and This Camera Fights Fascism: The Photographs of David Bacon and Francisco Dominguez.

“In order to Create, One must First Destroy”/An Interview with Parvaneh Etemadi

Parvaneh Etemadi in an interview with Parviz Barati from Sharq Newspaper

Translated by Roya Monajem

Parviz Barati- According to Parvaneh Etemadi, she has acquired Bahman Mohassess’ taste and Jalal Al-Ahmad’s courage. She is Frank. Yet, frankness is just one of her personality. She challenges the current form of knowledge and cognition and expresses far-fetched concepts with new modules, which provokes positive and negative reactions to her approach. Last year, her name appeared on the 11th list of 500 artists of the world together with four other Iranian artists, Farhad Moshiri, Reza Derakhshani, Ali Banisadr and Shirin Neshat. Each year in October FIAC – International Contemporary Art Fair in Paris – together with Art Price – the most important source of art market in the world- publish a report which is a criterion for analysis of the situation of contemporary global art from economic and artistic point of view. In the last Tehran Art Auction, one of Etemadi’s ‘untitled’ works was sold for 240 million Toumans. Etemadi usually shuns interviews. However, all this together with a more important pretext of the fiftieth anniversary of her artistic career was the motivation for the present interview, thanks to Shokoufeh Malek-Kiani.

Parvaneh’s Studio

Barati (B)-One of the less known angles of your work is the painting classes you held for 25 years starting from 70s. When did these classes actually start and from where?

Etemadi (E)- They were first held in a studio in Khaneqah alleyway in Saidi Street. My workshop has always been my home, but at that time, considering myself as a professional painter i set up a painting studio which later became my workshop. What i mean is that those interested in learning painting or buying my works came directly to me.

B- Why there?

E- By sheer accident. An acquaintance let me use his property which was an old printing house as a studio. He was a fair person, as I had no income at that time. So our contract was a painting in return to each month’s rent. When he decided to sell his property, I moved to here in Yusefabad district where i had two desks, five easels and that was all. I guided my pupils in the way they were and not in the way i was. Some loved my colored pencil paintings so much that they just wanted to paint like me. I advised them to at least make their copies more meticulously. They were free to use any material. I just observed them and helped them in practice. I taught them the technique of ‘seeing,’ noticing similarities and differences, shifting the phenomena to another place and another time in their minds and how art is a continuous course of discovery and invention. In order to practice that we sometimes looked at the objects upside down to liberate ourselves from habits and instead take other things into account.

B- So in fact you established an “anti-art-college”…

E- Where I was, no matter what you call it was not an academy, but rather a workshop where anybody with any amount of knowledge and any vision could work and evolve, and it was these inner changes which fulfilled and encouraged them. No doubt, their good exercises were exhibited at Seyhoun gallery and in this way they could pay their tuition, their working tools and material, it was like a booty. In this way they were acquainted with the various ways of becoming professional. I did not teach art history, because i thought that would add to their expectations and would dissuade them in the sense that they would imagine they are not talented enough. They approached art masters like saints, as though they had come from another world for creating such masterpieces. In addition, when there is all this confusion and misunderstanding between the artwork, artist and interpreters, how could I be sure of my own interpretations.

I was happy with my pupils. Every day I would see the world from their points of views and was amused. A few of them who did well later, like Avish Kherbreh-zadeh who won the gold medal of Venice Biennial or Reza Danshmir or Sadeq Tirafkan and a couple of others taught me as well. I reflected upon their questions. I had to be familiar with their beliefs, feelings and views to be able to walk with them and reach some conclusions. They too were happy working with me, but there was no reason to stay with me, instead they had to depart with love to pursue their own individual way.

B- Apparently, it was not easy to get into your studio…

E-Yes, there was an entrance exam.

B- How did you test them?

E- The way they dressed themselves was important for me. Nobody had to look better than others. It was not a competition in ostentation. Honesty with a simple smiling dialogue, mutual trust and even the sweetness of the food they made was the test.. In short, personal pupils are tested constantly in an individual way. Some arrived with a reactionary mind wishing to learn painting. They would say we have studied drawing, and now we have come to learn painting.

I talked to them about how the scope of drawing extends to food, fashion design, and a lot of other things… It was only then that they took the point. Sometimes I was forced to assess the degree of their creativity by asking them to instantly make a dish of celery, potato and onion. If Picasso could not make fried eggs, he had to eat his art.

B- How long did they continue their training?

E- 25 years, but of course not all of them. To tell you the truth, they could stay as long as they liked, but for 25 years I carried out all this work with them shoulder to shoulder.

B- Did you give them a certificate?

E- No. They achieved financial and spiritual success. That was the best and sweetest certificate possible.

B- Did they attend art college simultaneously?

E- Again, to tell you the truth, I did not accept art college students, because they expected too much of art, whether of their own or Art per se. I tried to choose the less experienced and younger ones.

B- They came to you when very young?

E- They were of any age. For example, there was a middle-age woman with her husband who owned a factory.

B- How old were Reza Daneshmir or Avish Khebreh-zadeh when they started their lessons with you?

E- Ms. Khebrehzadeh was 13. Her father brought her here. There was also a 12 years old girl who came with her mother and they both worked. Daneshmir was at that time studying architecture at the university.

Qandriz, Qandriz Hall

B- Before setting up your own studio at Sadi street, you were active at Qandriz Hall?

E-That goes back before Qandriz. That was when I was studying at College of Art and Architecture. I remember one day when I went to the university and Ms. Behjat was our teacher, she told me, you better leave the college as soon as you can and pursue your own path. Of course, she had a good point there. The Art college ruined one’s taste. I used to fail or just pass the exams, while my works were regarded exceptional, hard to compare with the works of others. I left the university and joined the painters at Qandriz Hall, which was the opposite pole of Tehran University. I was proud that I was the only female member of the Hall. To make it short, in search of real art i worked with them shoulder to shoulder, and maybe even harder than them. Whenever an exhibition was postponed, I would try to fill the gap and compensate.

B-Analyzing the artistic changes of 60s and 70s shows that three paradigms of Nationalism, Leftism and Traditionalism played a significant role in general development of Iranian Contemporary Art. From this perspective, the relation of Qandriz Hall with the left trends was noticeable. Qandriz Hall was somehow against the general nationalist policy which was one of the most fundamental doctrines of Pahlavi Rule, particularly Secular Nationalism which was an important component of Pahlavi era. Don’t you agree?

E- Your question reminded me of Romantic films of the Resistant forces against French Fascism and Nazis, the forces which were made up of Partisans and Artists with Romantic Revolutionary relations…Dear Mr. Barati, when I was working at Qandriz Hall, we would talk all nights about conceptualism and if any energy was left was spent on analyzing the materials of Carlos Fontana and Wassail Kandinsky, finally going home exhausted, but fulfilled. The next session could be showing our works to each other, their meticulous dissection and critique…

B- Why was Qandriz Hall against Saqakhaneh Movement?

E- To tell you the truth, I never liked Saqkhaneh Movement. If there were such a thing as Saqakhaneh School, what it was doing was copying compositions on magic, superstition and… having enchanting visual effects, appearing very native and original in the eyes of foreigners. If we work in a contemporary way, what have we to do with superstitious or traditionalist traditions?! Unless we are producing works which tourists would love.

B-Qandriz members used to say that they are looking for a revolutionary art, is it true?

E- Basically, an artist is a revolutionary, revolution lies in the artist’s essence. Revolting against old structures, modifying them in the hope of reproducing them. Certain arts have a consumption period and are gradually overthrown by the passage of time and the change of circumstances.

B- Were you still connected to Qandriz Hall, when you founded Parvaneh’s Studio?

E-Two years before the revolution, Qandriz moved from Jomhuri to Bucharest Street, Argentine Square, and I became the manager because others were too busy. I convinced others that we needed to sell works and use the percentage on the expansion of our activities. The Hall lasted two years, but we decided to close it down during the martial laws enacted before the revolution.

Differentiation of Art and Creativity?

B- You differentiate Art from Creativity?

E-Yes.

B- Did you believe in that when you taught children?

E- With children, there are other pedagogic methods. 8-12 years old children with whom I worked, needed to learn and know about their natural surroundings before they could learn what Art can be. I used that to teach them, just to stimulate their personal curiosity, holding their interest through practical amusements. After going through this training, as their mothers usually informed me, those kids had developed an deeper interest in Natural Sciences. Even if those kids did not become Artists, they were at least attracted to another world. Many carry the name of artist, and produce so-called artistic works. There are clients which buy beautiful works to decorated their homes with, but we do not know whether these works are by a creative artist or a sly artisan. That is where the art professional plays the role of using his/her technical skills to make the distinction. A creative person develops an obsession toward the object of her/his inquiry, which will not leave him/her alone until getting somewhere.

B- Why did you close your studio?

E- I was tired. I taught as much as I could and went on my own way, making my colleges of “The Dowry of Fairy Princess.” I used the bad prints of my colored pencil works, as my material, turning all those colors and forms into the figures in outfits dancing in the wind, and held an exhibition in Niavaran Cultural Center, and some were sent abroad.

B- The variety of media used in your works, from colored pencils to video and cement has a significant role. Did you advise your pupils to do the same?
E- Ah, yes. I always have regarded and regard animation as the future of painting. I sent a couple of them to the Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults to work with Nafiseh Riahi to learn the techniques. Avish has integrated animation in her solid drawings very well. They have surely worked in other fields and media too. In my class, to become a painter was not the imperative.

B- Wasn’t it really necessary to become a painter?

E- No matter in what they were most talented, they displayed its artistic aspect.

B- Weren’t you interested in multiplying yourself?

E-(with a laughter) I don’t even know what to do with myself.

B- Your son Mehrdad, was he in your studio from the beginning too?

E-Yes, he was grown up among them.

B- Did you publish any “call” for your classes?

E- There was no need for that, because i did not have time to go to the Ministry of Culture for permission. After a few years of work, the ministry sent me a first degree certificate which is still in one of the drawers there. In other to join my classes, the recommendation of an acquaintance was enough.

B- How much was your tuition fee?

E- From 800 to finally 10,000 Toumans per month.

B- Did you give any certificate to your pupils?

E- (with laughter) Do I have any certificates, myself? Certificates do not produce real sportsmen or artists.


In the Presence of Bahman Mohassess

B- You were Bahman Mohassess’ pupil. Had he the same approach in teaching?

E- I had given him this role. I always told my pupils that it is you who learn. I don’t teach you anything. Without having any receptors for something, one can not learn. One always learns from one’s own abilities. The teacher reminds one of something and the rest is collected in one’s mind. When Mohassess had classes with me, he would sometime bring a friend or a company and while i was drawing, they talked. True that my hands were busy, but my ears were not idle either! Later he would laugh and say, when he received the envelop containing his tuition fee, he always went to Naderi Cafe with his company and spent it there.

B- Where did Mohassess live?

E- In the second floor of his mother’s house in Safi Ali Shah district. He came to our house to teach.

India, Mohassess and Mysteries

B- When did you first discover India?

E- At 18 or 19, after reading two or three books, I fell in love with India. One of them was Nehru’s “Glimpses at the World History,” and the other I don’t remember its name. The first time I landed in India, I felt the smell once stepping out of the airplane. A blow of humidity, sugarcane, cotton and spices hit my face and my feet sank down. Colored starched turbines and Java tree which had purpled the air, kept me there. In those trips to India, I came to know the world of Indian artists and we carried out some joint paintings, which turned out to be very successful.

Painting with Colored Pencils

B- How did you discover colored pencils?

E- Bahaman Mohassess used to say there should be an easel and a box of 6 colored pencils in every studio. Even if the artist works on the floor, on a desk, wherever. In my studio, there already were colored pencils and i began to work with them, and playing with them was pleasurable and calming. My old pupil, Mehdi Jadali too worked very well with them and had successful exhibitions in Tehran and Dubai. I don’t think anybody else would have the courage and perseverance to work with them anymore.

B- Did you sell your works to art galleries?

E-No, at the beginning there were actually no art-galleries. Later, anybody who got bored would open a gallery in their garage. I sent my colored pencils works to Abi Restaurant in Chalus Road, letting them to hand there for a while, but I sold them in my studio.

B- What do you think of art at present?

E-The world is changing and art is changing with it. As the Indians say: it is the age of Kali’s Resurrection, the goddess of destruction and creativity. No doubt, a renaissance will emerge out of all this demolition and ruin, carrying a bag of discoveries, innovation and creativity on its shoulder.

Source: Sharq Newspaper, 16 April 2017

What Art Can Do/Alexander Kluge and Hans Ulrich Obrist


Alexander Kluge, Schiffsuntergänge und Meeresdramen, 2016.

The following conversation took place between Alexander Kluge and Hans Ulrich Obrist on January 1, 2017.

Source: E-Flux Journal #81 – April 2017

Hans Ulrich Obrist: It is the beginning of 2017. What will happen?

Alexander Kluge: It has been one hundred years since the Russian Revolution. Five hundred years since Martin Luther. Be careful of Silicon Valley. They’re the flower children of 1968, so to speak. Which they heavily ignore. That is, the power of it.

HUO: Ignore in what sense?

AK: Rejuvenation. In evolution there are living beings that don’t become fully grown but procreate in their youth and thus survive. And so they’re in the position to say, we can control technology in the world, and we can control the platforms, but we can’t simultaneously control the content. If you do that, it gets difficult. You can only control two of these three things.

We have to alter our communication between the arts. Every single battleship, as we know, is sunk in war. So we have to form the convoys. And they can’t be separated from music, from film, from visual art. The collaborations that you encouraged with Kerstin Brätsch and Adele Röder show how valuable this is. This auratic anchoring that’s possible in visual art: film can’t do this. It gets difficult if it departs from what it can do. Conversely, auratic art can’t really move. The aircraft carrier is missing.

Sometimes only visual art can be seen. The images of Thomas Demand, for example, have a tremendous pull on me. Precisely because nobody can be seen at work. They portray an almost dust-free other nature. And so you imagine the “impure” of reality. An entirely new, self-sufficient form of aura, which isn’t based on autonomy but, on the contrary, on absorption into the other nature. From whose parallel reality we see reality.

And that’s one of the great functions of the aura. We don’t want to immortalize Christian martyrs or paint articles of faith. Cranach paints Luther and the religions. If films respond to this now, then they do some good. But if they just pretend to make art, then it gets difficult and sometimes tedious, that is, esoteric. But films can take up themes outlined by Kerstin Brätsch, by Kiefer, by Demand. Film can create surroundings. Proceeding from an oasis, it can comment like a work of art.

HUO: The thing about the oasis brings us back to the gardens.

AK: Building oases. In a world where there’s too much silicon in the form of chips, it’s very good to have oases. Because too much silicon means the desert.

HUO: You’ve called for a garden of cooperation in an information jungle.

AK: Right. And sometimes jungle, sometimes canal-digging. There are many forms of imaginary gardens.

HUO: There are many possible imaginary gardens.

AK: The paradise garden is an old motif. It means something enclosed against the world, that also contains the world. That’s what art can do.

HUO: The question that arises in connection with these experiments is that of the Gesamtkunstwerk.

AK: The authorial principle that’s still there in the Gesamtkunstwerk is very imperial. The orchestra is hidden. The Gesamtkunstwerk is created by a single artist, a single spirit. And with the power of united individualities, this world has set up so many minefields in the meantime, so much dead work, that is, machinery. There is so much work done and piled up that you can say it’s like lava flowing over the individual. If you want to make the Gesamtkunstwerk today, you’ll become impotent. If you want courage, the opposite of impotence, you have to make alliances. And how do you make alliances while retaining the principle that something responsible, new, and authentic can only come from within? Something that makes no compromises, so to speak? That’s one of Leibniz’s themes. The monad, that’s the artist. It’s also the viewer, who has something to do with the artist.

HUO: Each human being is a monad.

AK: Every person is a monad. A person’s individual capacities, the eyes, the ears, the soles of their feet, are organized monadically. They are hermetically isolated when they produce from the world. And yet a pre-stabilized harmony comes about. This means that all monads together can form a counterworld, the merely technical world.

HUO: All the monads can create a counterforce. A twenty-first-century artwork would possibly be a monadology.

AK: A monadology, with which it permeates the pores of reality, and then counters reality’s systemic terror by forming connections of its own. So connection is one category, monad is the other. Creation remains, as in Romanticism, as in the Renaissance, with the individual. Nothing happens without the individual. But within the individual there are forces cleverer than the individual. It’s like a crystal. We have to develop the dragonfly eye. And it’s true that at first everything goes through one’s inner self. You’re cleverest if you sit on the toilet in the morning uninfluenced by anyone else, just being with yourself.

Consider the role of introspection in questions of love. Introspection is the only authority from which you can obtain advice. You can’t ask the internet what you love. You can either notice this yourself or not. You can only do it through introspection. And so it fundamentally remains with the individual. But if the individual is very strong, very self-aware, then they can lower the ego barrier. Immanuel Kant says it. He turns the subjective and the objective around.

HUO: Kant kind of flips the verb.

AK: He turns it around. When someone understands something and concentrates to create something—like a craftsman, intensively involved with the details—at that moment he’s being with himself. He’s utilizing all the power he has.

HUO: When craftsmen work on the details, they are by themselves. It’s subjective.

AK: It’s subjective. And when someone says, “Today I feel the weather,” this is very individual. In this sleet I have a feeling that runs through me, and my leg twitches, and I even notice my age. When Peter Handke talks about himself, he says he’s the object of his distresses, inside or outside. He doesn’t say that it’s subjective. He has to collect himself first. That’s interesting. That’s the tool, so to speak, with which the ego barrier can be lowered, with which you can also be cooperative, because you’re self-aware. If you’re firmly anchored in your inner self, you have particularly good preconditions for cooperation.

HUO: Let’s talk more about cooperation.

AK: Cooperation doesn’t diminish the intensity of self-will.

HUO: Cooperation doesn’t diminish the intensity of the I.

AK: But cooperation don’t happen between Gesamtkunstwerks, but between the elements that make them up.

HUO: One such example of cooperation is the ballet The Rite of Spring, which was produced by Diaghilev, with compositions by Stravinsky and costumes by Goncharova and Picasso.

AK: But if you take Goncharova’s Angels and Aeroplanes, that’s a painting of aircraft carriers that sometimes look like angels and sometimes like aircraft carriers. And then, like Ben Lerner, I can counterpoetize. I can take a verse from his counterpoetry and write a story. Another instance of cooperation. And now, with this painting by Goncharova as a guiding aura, a navigation sign, a lighthouse, we can evolve our own expression quite individually.


Natalia Goncharova, Mystical Images of War [Voina: misticheskie obrazy voiny], 1914. Lithograph, 10 x 13 in. University of Notre Dame, Hesburgh Library, the Department of Rare Books and Special Collections.

HUO: I’d be very curious about the cooperation between you and Ben Lerner.

AK: I was sent The Lichtenberg Figures by one of my staff. That’s a sequence of sonnets by Lerner in German and English. I took some lines from it. “The sky stops painting and turns to criticism”—that’s critical theory—“we envy the sky its contradictions.”

Then I wrote a story to this verse, about the eastern sky of Aleppo, the Aeos, which Homer described as coming from the east, and which is very colorful in the Middle East. It’s in The Epic of Gilgamesh. The dawn is more colorful than in Poland, Germany, or Russia, where it’s misty. And from this wonderful play of color, which was so magical to Caspar David Friedrich, come silver dots. And they turn out to be airplanes, which are now dropping bombs. And so I develop the idea into stories like that. There’s a verse by him that fascinates me: “In medieval angelology, there are nine orders of snow.”

HUO: It’s snowing now.

AK: I don’t think I can say what the angelic nature of snow is. But I was thrown onto the nine orders of snow. When I step before the face of God, I burn. Burning is actually the quality of the angels. They’re creatures of flame. And here they’re interpreted as snow. And so I come into a variety which before had neither an impression, nor an angel, nor art, but only a general idea [die weder Ausdruck, noch Engel, noch auf die Kunst, auf eine generale Idee hätte].

I made a film about Chernobyl. It’s a silent film with a soundtrack on which Svetlana Alexievich is talking to her translator, Tietze. She talks about “the wife of the machinist.” In Chernobyl, during the first few hours, an electrician was responsible for the safety of the mains, and he didn’t want a second, conventionally caused catastrophe to occur, so he went into the contaminated zone and disconnected all the cables. A hero. And his body was completely destroyed. A head like a melon. He was so contaminated and his body radiating so much that the doctors didn’t enter his room anymore. And his wife took care of him. She injected him with two liters of vodka. She slept with him regardless. Svetlana relates this, and then she asks, “What is Tristan and Isolde” next to this story, “the wife of the machinist”? And now, if you like, we’re back to your Gesamtkunstwerk.


An original photograph of the Kinraide negative documents a “filiciform discharge” also known as the “Lichtenberg Figures.”

HUO: I see it as a triad. There’s Studs Terkel, Svetlana, and you. In all three cases, world literature comes about through the form of conversations. All three of you turn the interview into literature.

AK: This can happen as long as there is orality, like the communication of early tribal societies that didn’t have writing. Trust comes from the tone. Trust in the dialect. In your tone I hear whether you’re lying or speaking the truth. As long as there’s this orality, there isn’t only one single reality. There’s always a pleonasm. There are always many realities.

HUO: It’s what Carlos Fuentes told me about the novel. The novel is a polyphony of truths.

AK: That’s true. And they chafe at each other, and each one would no longer be true. There’s no element without context and correlation. And without the element there’s no connection. That’s a radical modernity. We want to answer Walter Benjamin after all. I have the same problem that he rightly diagnoses, namely, that film has no aura and doesn’t produce one, because it blows the aura away. It may be that someone’s fascinated and gripped by a single image, but that’s the function of film; it’s what makes the self-activity of the viewer so strong. Now we have the problem that these films can’t be brought into exhibitions in the conventional curatorial way.

HUO: It’s a conundrum.

AK: We can boldly say in film-historical terms: inability.

HUO: Harald Szeemann did an exhibition in Vienna at the end of his life, in which his attempted solution was to take three-, four-, five-, six-, seven-minute excerpts, and the public could only see these clips.

AK: That comes near to the MoMA chamber of horrors, where they screen art films. The movie theater has to be dark, or people won’t pay. In the theater, film has to keep pace in a particularly modern way with depictive realism, with all forms of art. It has to be pre-chewed, the whole plot. Manufactured film is pre-chewed food. There’s no ideal of authenticity anywhere. I’m not talking about Murnau; I’m not talking about Godard. I’m talking about the few who work differently. Even my favorite, Fritz Lang, is manufactured. He’s unsuccessful in this. There are elements of genius in it, but he had to take the films apart. But Szeemann’s right there, when he only takes the authentic scenes from the Doctor Mabuse films, the ones pervaded by Fritz Lang’s temperament. If we only had these moments, we’d have a wonderful impression of film history continuing. But this impression is weakened in a strong context. If you’ve seen it once, you think you’ve understood it and don’t need to repeat it. Everyone thinks he knows what the Doctor Mabuse series is, and forgets the details. You should rather emphasize the details and the overall history.

HUO: You could pick out singularities.

AK: The concept kills the particular. But the particular is the real heart of art. You have to do something or other. I’m not saying you should make blind art but that you have to form convoys. The minesweeper has a different task from the submarine and the aircraft carrier and the GPS guiding the fleet.

HUO: With Svetlana and you and Studs Terkel, it’s about listening. Can one function of art be to make people listen?

AK: You can’t dictatorially say, “You should listen.” Art needs to open itself up. Luther says that seeing and the worker’s hands are worldly, while hearing is a matter for God, which is one-sided. And mildly dictatorial.

But this is true of all forms of communication. It’s true of the tribal society that could only speak and couldn’t write. It’s true of writing, which begins with the Mesopotamians and goes from accounting to literature and can record something. It’s true of the sphere of Gutenberg, who can print everything and deliver us from handwriting. And it’s true of the digital revolution, which really is a revolution of all these elements except orality, which hardly occurs in the digital world.

In each of these phases there is a human habit and a refusal. Criticism, for example, is a defense mechanism that comes about because of the inflation of writing in human society. Criticism only comes about after Gutenberg. And finally it leads, in the three volumes of Immanuel Kant, to what we can’t or shouldn’t or wouldn’t like to know. These are defense mechanisms against the too-much.

People react against it. They defend their earlier forms of communication. The solitary writing of the monk. The level of personal trust in the tribe. They defend it against this modernity of Gutenberg. I can’t read everything, so I look for a reason to reject everything. It’s the Trump effect. Yeah?

HUO: It describes one part of the Trump effect.

AK: One part. The other is the principle of the charisma of the drunken elephant. Namely, that I’m not allowed. I’m sitting in the Rust Belt, in the Bible Belt somewhere in the US, and I’m being disciplined. Reality is torture, but I don’t cross the boundaries. Now, if somebody ostentatiously and successfully tramples down the boundaries all at once, then half of my soul, the part that isn’t suppressed and disciplined, says: I want to be like that. Max Weber saw it. That lack of self-control, along with even lying and propaganda, belongs to the charisma of the dictator. The lack of self-control of the controllers. The fat Göring, who stole so many paintings in Europe.

If you show a lack of self-control, you’re forgiven. And in the Bible Belt there’s an additional Calvinistic element. Because God has preordained everything and is cruel, I can only ascertain the mercy of God in successes, like a scout. And if against all probability one person has such a vigorous effect, then it can only be God’s will. That’s the fine print of the writing on the wall. Those are the instructions for reality.


Alexander Kluge, The Artist in the Circus Dome: Clueless, 1968. 1′ 43”

HUO: So you’ve always loved elephants?

AK: Yeah, always loved elephants. My grandparents were simple peasants. As a child, I saw two elephants in the circus. What I do isn’t art. It’s recording something through the optics of art as a lens.

HUO: That means that art in this sense isn’t autonomous. It becomes a tool instead.

AK: A very respectfully used tool. It’s as if the image emerges from the material. Alienation is unnecessary here. It’s only used on things that contain their own cliché.

HUO: So it’s interdependence.

AK: Interdependence, yes, and you must not do it extremely exactly. It should be free so that you can choose.

HUO: You can see it again and again. It’s like a painting. You can see it again.

AK: It’s not linear montage.

HUO: Circular montage.

AK: Someone wants to invent gold and discovers porcelain. A good alchemist. We don’t have the luxury of also wanting to do everything right. In the face of Silicon Valley and the reality principle of this massive objective reality that almost kills everything, our mistakes are just as important as the things we do right.

HUO: But they have to be present.

AK: The main thing is for them to be personal. I mean, the Trump election is a kind of mistake. If I look at why such mistakes occur, I can suggest a different mistake to this root, and so we could grope forward together. Art is a navigational aid here. But to go back to the circular montage. It can link the aura of an artwork. Film can do this.

HUO: You combine two things, if you like, that otherwise aren’t combined.

AK: Exactly. The more you stay with film and don’t pay attention to art, the better you can combine the elements of the artwork. I noticed that Okwui Enwezor’s exhibition “Postwar: Art Between the Pacific and the Atlantic” at the Haus der Kunst, which I think is great, doesn’t contain music. If I count from 1945 to 1965, the greatest piece of music was written for an opera, Die Soldaten (The Soldiers), by Bernd Alois Zimmermann. It’s the greatest work of the twentieth century. It isn’t present. Even if you only played three minutes of it over the loudspeaker, the work would be present. Around the same time, Arno Schmidt was writing his novel Zettels Traum (Zettel’s Dream), a continuation of Joyce, and there’s nothing of it in the exhibition. He and Bernd Zimmermann were both at the TV channel WDR. They must have worked together. They ought to have worked together. Museums should actually enable cooperation.

HUO: Just like the encounter between Joyce and Eisenstein.

AK: It took place in 1929, in the same month as Black Friday. And we shouldn’t let go of 1929. And if the project they discussed was never completed, then you have to realize it.

HUO: It remained an unrealized project, the film version of Ulysses.

AK: That kind of thing needs a place in the world. It can’t be commercial cinema, which is covered with the lava of producers’ intentions. Film history doesn’t progress that way. Michael Haneke would belong there, or Edgar Reitz, but they’re only really visible at festivals.

HUO: So it’s about the realization, then, of this unrealized project, not as part of commercial cinema, but by doing this nine-hour film on Capital. In this context you describe yourself as an archaeologist.

AK: Yes. In archaeology there’s the good image where we have to ride away. In the archives of the past we’ll find the future.

HUO: And that’s even more important in the current dystopian moment.

AK: Absolutely. It’s very comforting. We can do it. Parallel with a reality that’s becoming more and more crazy. You can dig tunnels, alternative mines. There’s nothing else you can do.

HUO: How can you do Eisenstein’s unrealized film of Marx’s Capital now? A few years ago you said that our time could be read with a false map, but it remains a false map, because it isn’t the map of our time. How can we read the present era via this matrix?

AK: If you read Marx, Benjamin’s Arcades Project, and critical theory, then you can choose the principle of antagonism, which is the human reaction when people are injured and adversely affected by reality. And thus you deselect civilization under the condition that it is a component of reality. Only civilization isn’t only anchored in the reality principle but also in dreams and the libido. So civilization is more richly anchored than we think. It’s as Blumenberg said: we’ve embarked on a sinking ship.

HUO: It’s not that here is you and here is the raft. You’re on the raft. And Sloterdijk then also says that a lot of ships no longer have captains in the Anthropocene age.

AK: That’s right. On the art side there are enough people who know and say that, and are also trained in navigation. But curators of exhibitions sometimes seem foolish or delayed to me. There are brilliant people too, whom I admire very much, but I’m surprised that this transformation of viewing sites into production sites, this remedial maintenance …

HUO: These are places of observation transformed into places of production. And that’s of course what Cedric Price says with his unrealized Fun Palace, which we’re now recreating with Tino Sehgal. It was never realized. That’s similar to Eisenstein with the film on Capital. There’s this big unrealized project by Cedric Price. Not only can we learn from the past but also from unrealized projects.

AK: You’re coming to the point where there’s a fascination, an aura, in the arts. And then you can depict Caspar David Friedrich’s The Wreck of Hope and then vary it until hope looks out. You would build a raft from this wrecked ship. And by some means you have to reach the North Sea and a harbor. Not “ta-da, we’ve reached the sea,” but rather “we’re on shore again.” That’s one task of the convoy, which can counter Silicon Valley to a certain extent, and is thus able to cooperate with Silicon Valley. We’re on equal footing if we use content on equal footing.

HUO: You said in an interview last year that human beings are not interested in reality. They have wishes.

AK: They’re creatures of illustration. It’s what Nietzsche says the whole time. We are trained for illustration purposes, otherwise we couldn’t bear it. And by mistake we can still think, and as a by-product we can be political for a moment. Then we poison Socrates once again. When we’re really political, it’s never for long. And with these barren means, this dearth of mutations, the human creature is suitable neither for predation nor peace. Originally the human being is a scavenger who can only walk. The gazelles are much faster. We’re neither quicker nor can we bite better than other animals.

But it’s repeating today. People are in a pre-objective world shot through with minefields, in which we can actually predict that things can only go awry. We shouldn’t imagine building a Noah’s Arc and then bringing on the animals—no way. We have to build an entire fleet of boats with trunks of writing in the holds. All of literature, all the tomes have to go in. The pictures that move us. On the scale of Demand and Kiefer, I need both. I need the reductive image, which omits and thus has an antirealist effect. And antirealism, which has to do with inner forces that don’t just consist of wishes but continually want to supplement something. You see something, and there’s something missing, and you have the desire to complete it.

HUO: The way Adorno pushes Bloch up against the wall and demands that he finally tell him what utopia is and Bloch says: “Something is missing.”

AK: I can enter this “something missing” with my imagination. This basic principle of the playful element in the human being.

HUO: There was a good interview with Judith Butler in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung the day before yesterday, where she quotes Adorno to the effect that she can’t lead a good life in a bad world.

AK: But we have to. There’s no right life in the wrong one. But because we have nothing other than the wrong one, it’s a matter of navigation in the wrong one. In the middle of the shipwreck, we’re called upon to repair the ship.


Illumination detailing the hierarchies of angels as found in the book The Passional of Abbess Kunigunde (1312–21).

HUO: That leads us to the principle of resistance. Lyotard did an exhibition at the Musée Immateriaux. It was the first exhibition in which he raised the issue of the internet. And then much later, when he was much older, he wanted to do a second exhibition, which was never realized. It was called “Resistances.” The interesting thing is that he wanted to do a group exhibition. He said that the problem with exhibitions is that they take place and then come apart. Lyotard said that he would like there to be a ubiquitous aspect to this group exhibition, as in a film, which you can show anywhere.

AK: And projects should come about from the exhibition. Connections between people. And then they collaborate. Every exhibition is a cooperative context that goes on working.

HUO: And that’s the project we are trying to resurrect. It will be the first exhibition in the history of art curated by a dead philosopher. Lyotard couldn’t do it anymore, so we’re doing it with Philippe Parreno and Daniel Birnbaum at the LUMA Foundation.

AK: Great idea. If you can imagine the 1905 revolution in Russia—it wasn’t very much, but it whipped up feelings. It wasn’t guilty of anything, because it didn’t have the opportunity. We wouldn’t be celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the Russian Revolution now if it weren’t for the one in 1905, without which the one in 1917 wouldn’t have happened. We should reassess the 1905 revolution. A group of people, and then those that came after them, worked continuously and tirelessly starting in 1905 to eventually bring about the revolution of 1917. That gives us hope. That’s resistance in reality. There is no resistance in the moment of despair.

HUO: Resistance is not the moment of despair, but hope.

AK: In 1928 I could have created conditions with eight hundred thousand teachers that would have prevented me from sitting powerlessly in a basement in 1945. I can start now to solve the problems of 2026, which my children will live to see. And if we set up this working group now, it’s better than only doing it in 2036, in mourning for what went wrong in 2026.

HUO: With all the catastrophes of 2016, there’s the question of what can art do.

AK: It can’t do anything in 2016. Aleppo can’t be liberated through art. But in 1918–21, when Syria was founded, it could have. With preparation, they could have set the course differently at every fork in the road. And art can’t do what I’m telling you, but it can celebrate and orient, so that you have a sense of possibility. This is why we need curiosity cabinets again—science and art.

Art doesn’t collect. It has gravitation. Science and art together are something strong again. Now they need to play. Play is not a matter for children. Freud says play is quite serious.

HUO: And Robert Louis Stevenson says that art is like play, but with the seriousness of children playing.

AK: Exactly. What else does Anselm Keifer do but play, albeit with the seriousness of children? All these things require a change of thinking in these little oases that we call museums.

HUO: So we have to rethink our oases.

AK: Modernity doesn’t consist in an imaginary future or in today’s obsessive will to reform. Time is past and a new one is coming. That’s Alexandria and the Museion. The last authentic departures from the Museion are the scholar artists from Byzantium in 1453. They are banished and go to Tuscany and cofound the Renaissance. It wasn’t the banker sons and the bankers themselves. It was infection by the scholars. And musicians are involved as well, and all the others.

HUO: You talk about rethinking the museum, turning it into a production site, a laboratory.

AK: A laboratory—and it shouldn’t just make the products themselves but do development work.

HUO: A laboratory that does a kind of R&D.

AK: At the beginning of this development there should be a combination of people who know each other. At best they should fall in love with one another. Now we’ve come to the Platonic symposium.

HUO: It’s a wonderful combination: the combination of people who fall in love with each other. It’s the museum, it’s the laboratory; like what J.G. Ballard said: it’s junction-making. A creation of connections.

AK: You’re a specialist there. The way you sent Sarah Morris to me. That was such a nice day.

HUO: I sent her to visit you in Munich because she rang me, and then she told me for about ten minutes what she wanted to do. And when she talked, I interrupted her. I said it’s absolutely obvious. You and Alexander can do it. It was just so obvious that you two have common ground.

AK: And this itself is a work of art—to put brains or senses together. How do you call this? Fingertips; fingertips of two persons belong together.

HUO: That’s what happened at Black Mountain College.

AK: Yes, exactly, and we need an imaginary Black Mountain College. Yeah?

HUO: And how could it work, an imaginary Black Mountain College?

AK: Like you do.

HUO: So we do an imaginary Black Mountain College by intensifying the junction-making; that’s a nice motto for the new year.

AK: That’s a perfect motto for the year. Reality is only accessed via museums, not via the stock exchange.

HUO: One last question: I’m continuing to work against the disappearance of handwriting. We’re putting out a sentence, a doodle, every day on Instagram. Jane Goodall, who works with animals—she’s now working in Tanzania—says that by working together we make this a better world for all. Not just for people but for all living beings. Or Etel Adnan: the world needs togetherness, not separation. Love, not suspicion. A shared future, not isolation. I wanted to ask if you could write something down for the beginning of the year.

AK: [writes] Not to make yourself stupid from the power of others and not from your own powerlessness.

×

Alexander Kluge is a German author, philosopher, academic, and film director.

Hans Ulrich Obrist is a Swiss curator and art critic. In 1993, he founded the Museum Robert Walser and began to run the Migrateurs program at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris where he served as a curator for contemporary art. In 1996 he co-curated Manifesta 1, the first edition of the roving European biennial of contemporary art. He presently serves as the Co-Director, Exhibitions and Programmes and Director of International Projects at the Serpentine Gallery in London.

© 2017 e-flux and the author

The obscure religion that shaped the West

Joobin Bekhrad

Source: Payvand.com
Talk of ‘us’ and ‘them’ has long dominated Iran-related politics in the West. At the same time, Christianity has frequently been used to define the identity and values of the US and Europe, as well as to contrast those values with those of a Middle Eastern ‘other’. Yet, a brief glance at an ancient religion – still being practised today – suggests that what many take for granted as wholesome Western ideals, beliefs and culture may in fact have Iranian roots.

It is generally believed by scholars that the ancient Iranian prophet Zarathustra (known in Persian as Zartosht and Greek as Zoroaster) lived sometime between 1500 and 1000 BC. Prior to Zarathustra, the ancient Persians worshipped the deities of the old Irano-Aryan religion, a counterpart to the Indo-Aryan religion that would come to be known as Hinduism. Zarathustra, however, condemned this practice, and preached that God alone – Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Wisdom – should be worshipped. In doing so, he not only contributed to the great divide between the Iranian and Indian Aryans, but arguably introduced to mankind its first monotheistic faith.

D407XP Portrait of the Zoroastrian prophet Zarathustra

Zoroaster likely lived between 1500 and 1000 BC, but some scholarship suggests he may have been a contemporary of Persian emperors Cyrus the Great and Darius I (Credit: Alamy)

The idea of a single god was not the only essentially Zoroastrian tenet to find its way into other major faiths, most notably the ‘big three’: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The concepts of Heaven and Hell, Judgment Day and the final revelation of the world, and angels and demons all originated in the teachings of Zarathustra, as well as the later canon of Zoroastrian literature they inspired. Even the idea of Satan is a fundamentally Zoroastrian one; in fact, the entire faith of Zoroastrianism is predicated on the struggle between God and the forces of goodness and light (represented by the Holy Spirit, Spenta Manyu) and Ahriman, who presides over the forces of darkness and evil. While man has to choose to which side he belongs, the religion teaches that ultimately, God will prevail, and even those condemned to hellfire will enjoy the blessings of Paradise (an Old Persian word).


Zoroastrianism may have been the first monotheistic religion, and its emphasis on dualities, such as heaven and hell, appear in Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Credit: Alamy)

How did Zoroastrian ideas find their way into the Abrahamic faiths and elsewhere? According to scholars, many of these concepts were introduced to the Jews of Babylon upon being liberated by the Persian emperor Cyrus the Great. They trickled into mainstream Jewish thought, and figures like Beelzebub emerged. And after Persia’s conquests of Greek lands during the heyday of the Achaemenid Empire, Greek philosophy took a different course. The Greeks had previously believed humans had little agency, and that their fates were at the mercy of their many gods, who often acted according to whim and fancy. After their acquaintance with Iranian religion and philosophy, however, they began to feel more as if they were the masters of their destinies, and that their decisions were in their own hands.

Though it was once the state religion of Iran and widely practised in other regions inhabited by Persian peoples (eg Afghanistan, Tajikistan and much of Central Asia), Zoroastrianism is today a minority religion in Iran, and boasts few adherents worldwide. The religion’s cultural legacy, however, is another matter. Many Zoroastrian traditions continue to underpin and distinguish Iranian culture, and outside the country, it has also had a noted impact, particularly in Western Europe.

Zoroastrian rhapsody

Centuries before Dante’s Divine Comedy, the Book of Arda Virafdescribed in vivid detail a journey to Heaven and Hell. Could Dante have possibly heard about the cosmic Zoroastrian traveller’s report, which assumed its final form around the 10th Century AD? The similarity of the two works is uncanny, but one can only offer hypotheses.

CP59C3 Iran – Yazd. The Temple of Zoroaster (Atashkade).

Zoroastrians worship in fire temples, such as this one in Yazd, Iran – they believe fire and water are the twin agents of purity and necessary for ritual cleansing (Credit: Alamy)

Elsewhere, however, the Zoroastrian ‘connection’ is less murky. The Iranian prophet appears holding a sparkling globe in Raphael’s 16th Century School of Athens. Likewise, the Clavis Artis, a late 17th/early 18th-Century German work on alchemy was dedicated to Zarathustra, and featured numerous Christian-themed depictions of him. Zoroaster “came to be regarded [in Christian Europe] as a master of magic, a philosopher and an astrologer, especially after the Renaissance,” says Ursula Sims-Williams of the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London.

AC2G5W Zoroastrian Tower of Silence at Chilpyk (Karatou) near the Uzbek town of Nukus in Karalkapakstan.

Towers of Silence, such as this one in Chilpyk, Uzbekistan, are where Zoroastrians would leave the bodies of the dead to be consumed by birds (Credit: Alamy)

Today, mention of the name Zadig immediately brings to mind the French fashion label Zadig & Voltaire. While the clothes may not be Zoroastrian, the story behind the name certainly is. Written in the mid-18th Century by none other than Voltaire, Zadigtells the tale of its eponymous Persian Zoroastrian hero, who, after a series of trials and tribulations, ultimately weds a Babylonian princess. Although flippant at times and not rooted in history, Voltaire’s philosophical tale sprouted from a genuine interest in Iran also shared by other leaders of the Enlightenment. So enamoured with Iranian culture was Voltaire that he was known in his circles as ‘Sa’di’. In the same spirit, Goethe’s West-East Divan, dedicated to the Persian poet Hafez, featured a Zoroastrian-themed chapter, while Thomas Moore lamented the fate of Iran’s Zoroastrians in Lalla Rookh.

It wasn’t only in Western art and literature that Zoroastrianism made its mark; indeed, the ancient faith also made a number of musical appearances on the European stage.

In addition to the priestly character Sarastro, the libretto of Mozart’s The Magic Flute is laden with Zoroastrian themes, such as light versus darkness, trials by fire and water, and the pursuit of wisdom and goodness above all else. And the late Farrokh Bulsara – aka Freddie Mercury – was intensely proud of his Persian Zoroastrian heritage. “I’ll always walk around like a Persian popinjay,” he once remarked in an interview, “and no one’s gonna stop me, honey!” Likewise, his sister Kashmira Cooke in a 2014 interview reflected on the role of Zoroastrianism in the family. “We as a family were very proud of being Zoroastrian,” she said. “I think what [Freddie’s] Zoroastrian faith gave him was to work hard, to persevere, and to follow your dreams.”

Ice and fire

When it comes to music, though, perhaps no single example best reflects the influence of Zoroastrianism’s legacy than Richard Strauss’ Thus Spoke Zarathustra, which famously provided the booming backbone to much of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. The score owes its inspiration to Nietzsche’s magnum opus of the same name, which follows a prophet named Zarathustra, although many of the ideas Nietzsche proposes are, in fact, anti-Zoroastrian. The German philosopher rejects the dichotomy of good and evil so characteristic of Zoroastrianism – and, as an avowed atheist, he had no use for monotheism at all.


Raphael’s The School of Athens, finished in 1511, includes a figure, seen in this detail from the larger work, many historians think is Zoroaster, holding a globe (Credit: Alamy)

Freddie Mercury and Zadig & Voltaire aside, there are other overt examples of Zoroastrianism’s impact on contemporary popular culture in the West. Ahura Mazda served as the namesake for the Mazda car company, as well as the inspiration for the legend of Azor Ahai – a demigod who triumphs over darkness – in George RR Martin’s Game of Thrones, as many of its fans discovered last year. As well, one could well argue that the cosmic battle between the Light and Dark sides of the Force in Star Wars has, quite ostensibly, Zoroastrianism written all over it.

BEGANT Freddie Mercury of the British Rock Band Queen. Image shot 1980. Exact date unknown.

Freddie Mercury, the legendary lead singer of Queen, drew inspiration from the Zoroastrian faith of his Persian family (Credit: Alamy)

For all its contributions to Western thought, religion and culture, relatively little is known about the world’s first monotheistic faith and its Iranian founder. In the mainstream, and to many US and European politicians, Iran is assumed to be the polar opposite of everything the free world stands for and champions. Iran’s many other legacies and influences aside, the all but forgotten religion of Zoroastrianism just might provide the key to understanding how similar ‘we’ are to ‘them.”

Farairan suggests two sources for further reading: Paul Kriwaczek, In Search of Zarathustra, (2003) & Khoobchehr Keshavarzi, A New Approach to Persepolis, which was published in 2015 (Behjat Publishing, Tehran), with a chapter of it in English found at: /Articles/ArticleDetailEn.aspx?src=159&Page=1

What to Make of MoMA’s Stand on Trump’s Travel Ban/A closer look at what the rehang actually means.

Source: ArtNet News

By Ben Davis, February 2017


A couple looks at artwork by Parviz Tanavoli, “The Prophet, 1964” at The Museum of Modern Art. Courtesy of Angela Weiss/AFP/Getty Images.

This week, New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) rehung its prized Modern galleries, swapping out works by greats like Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso for works by artists from the Muslim-majority countries affected by President Trump’s travel ban.
It’s not exactly as if MoMA has draped itself in a “Muslim Lives Matter” banner. Still, this rapid response, conceived by curators Ann Temkin, Jodi Hauptman, and Christophe Cherix over the weekend of cresting outrage over Trump’s executive action, stands out as an unusually direct statement on current events for a major art institution—appropriately enough, since this is an alarming time. The Art Newspaper reports that the curators plan to integrate still more works in coming weeks.


A man looks at artwork by Iranian artist Tala Madani’s Chit Chat (2007) at The Museum of Modern Art on February 3, 2017 in New York City. Courtesy of Angela Weiss/AFP/Getty Images.

The first wave of new artists are all either of a generation of post-war modernists—the Iranians Siah Armajani (b. 1939), Marcos Grigorian (1925-2007), Parviz Tanavoli (b. 1937), and Charles Hossein Zenderoudi (b. 1937), plus the great Sudanese painter Ibrahim El-Salahi (b. 1930)—or more contemporary figures: the architect Zaha Hadid (1950-2015), the painter Tala Madani (b. 1981), and the photo-conceptualist Shirana Shahbazi (b. 1974).
Consequently, their artworks are technically out of place where they appear, in MoMA’s Modern galleries, which are mainly devoted to the earlier part of the 20th century. Chronologically, the works should either be in the galleries opposite Andy Warhol and James Rosenquist, or displayed with the more recent art.
The logic of their placement lies in the need to make a statement: The Modern galleries are where MoMA keeps the crown jewels. Inserting the new works alongside the museum’s foundational treasures gives a certain kind of symbolic weight to the inclusion. It interrupts business as usual.
I might, in a different mood, have questions about the curatorial choices made. For instance, Madani is known for small paintings depicting scenes of patriarchal brutality. Her hand-painted two-minute animation, Chit Chat (2007), installed opposite expressionist canvases by Chagall and Kirchner, depicts two of her characteristic subjects—balding Middle Eastern men, cyphers of a more general patriarchal authority for her—conspiratorially arguing, overseen by a devilish figure. At certain points, they puke yellow onto each other, as if literally overflowing with nastiness.

Lobbing such a work into the debate over the Muslim ban seems odd, since it could easily be used, out of context, to illustrate some ugly stereotypes about Iranians.
On the other hand, consider another of the added artworks, Shirana Shahbazi’s [Composition-40-2011] (2011), a large photo of three colored spheres on a black background, inserted into the galleries normally devoted to Marcel Duchamp. The connection, it seems, is that Shahbazi’s work shares a heady puzzle-character with the Frenchman, which seems apt.


Shirana Shahbazi’s [Composition-40-2011] (2011) on view next to Marcel Duchamp’s To Be Looked at [from the Other Side of the Glass] with One Eye, Close to, for Almost an Hour (1918). Courtesy of Ben Davis.

Shahbazi’s earlier series of photos, titled “Goftare Nik / Good Words,” had a more direct documentary feel, depicting modern life in Iran. Yet she was already blurring the line between documentary and set-up photos, and wrestling with the stereotypes a Western audience projected onto Iranians (“It seems to strike people as a very touching or moving matter that a woman with a veil should be smoking,” she said of the reaction to one picture. “I wasn’t aware of how touching it could be for a Westerner to see that. To me it is completely normal.”) I’ve always read her later, willfully inscrutable style of work, including the one inserted here, as a reaction to this, an attempt to frustrate her viewers, to force them to see themselves trying to make sense of a picture.
In other words, Shahbazi’s photo-conceptual work can be interpreted as representing a distrust in the Western audience’s ability to distinguish the nuances of representation—the same nuance that the inclusion of Madani’s grotesque animation demands.

In the end, it seems obvious that MoMA’s gesture is a blunt one because it is responding to a blunt, unrefined discourse. The statement is: You want to devalue people from Muslim countries? Well, we value them! The curators acted fast because the conversation was urgent. That seems worth applauding.
I do think, however, that there’s more to say about this act, and the history behind it.
The story that MoMA was built to tell is the story of Euro-American modernism. All by itself, this story is very much one of immigrants and refugees: Duchamp hopped the Atlantic to get clear of WWI; Willem de Kooning came to the US as a stowaway; Josef and Anni Albers fled the Nazis to the US; Arshile Gorky was a refugee from the Armenian Genocide; the list goes on.
Yet this is a story of mainly white European immigration. And one of the unintended side effects of MoMA’s emergency rehang is to remind you that there are other, non-Western modernisms, which have only been imperfectly incorporated into the story it tells.

Which brings me to the artists I was most excited to see here, El-Salahi, and the cluster of Iranian artists who found their creative voices in the early 1960s.


Ibrahim El-Salahi, The Mosque (1964). Courtesy of Ben Davis.

Seeing them highlighted is terrific, even if the way they are deployed doesn’t do them full justice. El-Salahi’s small black-and-white canvas, The Mosque (1964), is placed in the Picasso galleries, intended to play off of the Spanish artist’s interest in African art. But the lone, small work gives only a hint of the scale of El-Salahi’s achievement or his vision, the proximity to better-known Cubist masterpieces only accentuating the relative scarcity of familiar aesthetic context for his work.
Similarly, the Iran-born Charles Hossein Zenderoudi appears via a large work on paper in the Matisse galleries, which is meant to make sense because of the Fauvist great’s interest in Islamic decorative art. But the mellow tones of Zenderoudi’s K+L+32+H+4. Mon père et moi (My Father and I) (1962) look a little muted next to the famous exuberance of Matisse’s The Dance, one of the world’s most iconic paintings.


Visitors look at K+L+32+H+4. Mon père et moi (My Father and I), 1962 by Iranian painter and sculptor Charles Hossein Zenderoudi at the Museum of Modern Art on February 3, 2017 in New York City. Courtesy of Angela Weiss/AFP/Getty Images.

Like I said, it’s all better than nothing. But in a different world, giving the full due to these artists could make a truly vital point right now.
El-Salahi was one of the fathers of the Khartoum School in the Sudan (along with Ahmed Shibrain and Kamala Ishag). They brought a modernist freedom to the canvas, but self-consciously welded it with Islamic imagery and local vernacular culture, including decorative patterns, Quranic verses, and Sufi poetry.

“We had a problem then that separated the contemporary artist from the local public,” El-Salahi recalled in a previous interview. “I personally felt that a bridge had to be built to close that gap between the two parties.”
Zenderoudi, Tanavoli, and the other Iranian figures here are generally known as part of the Saqqakhaneh movement. The term “Saqqakhaneh” refers to Shi’ite shrines, small alcoves with a water dispenser where people leave religious offerings, decorated with various kinds of metalwork and devotional objects.


Parviz Tanavoli’s The Prophet (1964), with Umberto Boccioni’s Unique Forms of Continuity in Space (1913) in the background. Courtesy of Ben Davis.

Their mission was to create a strain of indigenous Persian modern art, welding the vitality of Islamic folk culture with various experiments. Indeed, if Zenderoudi’s color scheme doesn’t attain the unfiltered sensuality of Matisse, that is because, as Hamid Keshmirshekan has argued, it is very deliberately meant to evoke the characteristic tones of Iranian religious folk art: gold, green, ochre, orange, and red.
Both the Khartoum School in Sudan and the Saqqakhaneh movement in Iran would pioneer a turn towards “calligraphic modernism,” finding in calligraphy a tradition that could be organically developed into new forms of abstract art. More than that, though, what they shared was the spirit of region-wide ferment in the 1960s era, what Iftikar Dadi calls this the “heroic age” of “nationalist modern,” rejecting the idea that they had either to reiterate static tradition or be imitators of European innovations.

In Dadi’s words:
“The new culture was to be individuated, yet collective; it was to be completely modern in the sense of being in dialogue with artistic production in the industrialized world, yet it was also mandated to represent local histories and lived practices that were hitherto suppressed; and, above all, the new culture was to be emblematic of national specificity.”

The point is this: These artists are important as examples not just because they are very accomplished figures who also happen to be from Muslim-majority countries. Given its proper historical context, their art rebuts the “clash of civilizations” stereotype of Islamic culture as chained to a past that is innately hostile to being integrated into the present.

We can’t have enough of those examples now. MoMA has started a conversation. It seems more urgent than ever not to leave it there.

Farairan’ Note: You can read the first news of this important exhibition at the following link: http://farairanonline.com/News/NewsDetailEn.aspx?src=24480

Iranian Voices


Bahman Mohassess, Untitled. Lithograph, 1971.

British Museum is holding a small display of works by Iranian artists . The modern and contemporary art of Iran tells a multiplicity of stories. Made by Iranian artists of different generations, the works in this display include a variety of media from collage to artist books and photography. The narratives highlight an engagement with Iranian history from the legendary tales of the Shahnameh or Book of Kings (an epic in verse written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi in about AD 1010) to insights into the politics of recent decades. Between them, they present a series of vivid snapshots of the art and preoccupations of some of Iran’s most significant artists:
Bahman Mohassess, Parviz Tanavoli, Mitra Tabrizian, Parastou Forouhar, Ahmad Aali, Nahid Hagigat, Mohsen Ahmadvand, Shahpour Pouyan, Afsoon, Fereydoun Ave, Ali Akbar Sadeghi, Shideh Tami, Bahman Jalali, Ali Banisadr, Tarlan Rafiee & Yashar Samimi Mofakham. (British Museum Website)

Below is an article by Lizzy Vartanian Collier on the exhibition of Iranian Voices, which appeared at Payvand.com


Bahman Jalali (b.1945) Image of Imagination (Zurkhane Series), C-print 2012

Bringing together past and current generations of Iranian artists through works on paper

A small section in the middle of the lower ground floor of the British Museum has a beautiful red carpet laid out, and surrounding walls adorned with a selection of recent acquisitions of works on paper by Iranian artists from both inside and outside Iran. The works – collages, drawings, artist books, and photographs – fill three glass cases standing on both sides of the carpet. Of the two walls devoted to the exhibition, the entirety of one has been given over to a series of collages by the late modernist Bahman Mohassess. A notable work entitled Pour Munch is a nod to Edvard Munch’s 1944 The Scream, in which a grotesque, animal-like figure mimics the Norwegian original. Similar misshapen figures are present in the other works by Mohassess, complete with twisted and warped visages. His figures can be described as bestial, as they certainly do not appear human. To the right-hand side of Mohassess’ collages is the artist’s own portrait, taken by Ahmad Aali, often referred to as the father of fine art photography in Iran. The black-and-white image shows Mohassess seated in front of one of his mythical artworks, facing away from the camera. He looks pensive, and seems far more serious than the artworks the photograph has been placed beside.


Bahman Mohassess (1931–2010), Kuseh (Shark) and Pour Munch collage 1991.

Directly opposite Aali’s image is a composite photograph that has been put together by Mitra Tabrizian. Surveillance depicts three different time zones in one image moving from left to right in a non-chronological order. Firstly, she shows the 1953 coup d’état, then the Iran-Iraq War of the 80s, and lastly, the Iranian Revolution. Women are at the forefront of Tabrizian’s image; they take centre stage in front of a crowd that looks to be full of men.


Mitra Tabrizian (b. 1959), Surveillance, Lightjet print, 1990

At the end of this particular wall hang two more images focusing on women by New York-based artist Nahid Haghighat, who reveals a woman removing her headscarf in Escape, a 1975 aquatint.


Nahid Haqiqat (b.1943), Surveillance, Aquatint, 1977

Nestled in-between Tabrizian and Haghighat’s work – dark, monochromatic images – lie a series of red and green digital prints by Parastou Forouhar. While Forouhar’s work is more colourful, the sentiment it conveys it less so. In the accompanying wall text is a quote by the artist from 2002, which reads:
All surfaces are covered with vibrations of patterns. They represent the harmony of the world … But this untouchable harmony can only be appreciated from a distance, as it conceals a great potential for brutality.


Parastou Forouhar (b.1962) Red is my name Green is my name 2008

While these words were quoted six years before Red is My Name, Green is My Name was made in 2008, they perhaps couldn’t describe the work on show at the Museum more perfectly. At first glance, Forouhar’s work could be seen as containing beautiful fabric patterns, covered in geometric shapes. However, on closer inspection, the viewer is faced with contorted figures who have become devoid of identity as a result of their faces and eyes having been covered with their hands or black bandaged strips.


Ali Akbar Sadeqi (b.1937), The Sun King & Boasting, animation, celluloids, 1975

The subject matter is somewhat lighter in the two vertical glass cabinets at either end of the exhibition space. In a move away from politics, a number of pieces heavily influenced by the Shahnameh (Book of Kings) of Ferdowsi are on display. The works of Ali Akbar Sadeghi, Mohsen Ahmadvand, and Shahpour Pouyan have revived the Shahnameh for 21st century audiences. Sadeghi has done this in the form of animation, ‘modernising’ Ferdowsi’s epic through movement, while still keeping his characters clothed in traditional dress.


Mohsen Ahmadvand (b.1982) Rostam from the series Revolution, colored pencil on paper,

Ahmadvand, however, has given the hero Rostam a millennial-style makeover, showing him wearing a t-shirt and jeans beneath the helmet he made of the skull of the White Div (devil) of Mazandaran. Ahmadvand’s trendy Rostam has been placed against a blank background, as though truly having walked out of antiquity into the present. Pouyan, however, goes a step further than Ahmadvand by eradicating Rostam completely, as he’s done with figures in a series of modified Persian miniatures by the likes of Kamaleddin Behzad and others. Displayed beside a 16th century miniature depicting the famous scene of Rostam slaying the White Div, Pouyan’s After Rostam Slaying the White Div shows a near-identical image in which a blank space replaces Rostam. By doing this, Pouyan creates a cavity forcing the viewer to look at the surrounding imagery and away from the narrative.


Shahpour Pouyan (b.1980) After Rustam Slaying the White Div, Mixed Media 2015

At the other end of the gallery, opposite the Shahnameh-inspired pieces, is a case filled with collaborative works by artist couple Tarlan Rafiee and Yashar Samimi Mofakham in the form of silkscreen prints with heavy, black calligraphic outlines. The images reference classical works of Western art such as the Venus de Milo. Mofakham’s figure, however, has been beheaded, while her breasts have been censored and covered by Iranian stamps celebrating the anniversary of the Iranian Revolution. Rafiee’s works, while visually in the same vein as Mofakham’s, are a little less politically charged in their colourful depictions of pop icons such as Googoosh, which have been made to reinforce the notion that Iran is about more than just the politics reported on in the West.


Tarlan Rafiee (b.1980) and Yashar Samimi Mofakham (b.1979), Thirty Years, Silkscreen, 2015

The case resting on top of the red carpet plays host to a series of works displayed flat. Amongst these are portraits by Afsoon, whose subjects have come from old family photographs. The sentimental collages look like linocut prints with their heavy use of black and the odd pop of red and blue accessories. The artist has said that the images were created to stretch her heart, in reference to the Persian expression ‘My heart has shrunk for it’/Delam barayash tang shodeh ast.


Afsoon (b.1972) Verbal Nostalgia, Collage 2005-2006

Afsoon’s figures have been cut off below the shoulders, and likewise, bodiless portraits have been made by Shideh Tami. Tami’s handmade artist book displays two heads side by side, both depicted against golden backgrounds with the artist’s poetry written around them. These verses discuss light and darkness, the left-hand image being composed of a black calligraphic outline and the opposing right-hand figure being completely white.


Shideh Tami (b.1962) Handmade artist’s book in mixed media, 2004

Beside all the work on paper, sculptures by master artist Parviz Tanavoli have also been included in the exhibition. These are shown in the form of a small bronze medal depicting a hand holding a bird, as well as one of his famous Heech (‘nothingness’ in Persian) sculptures. Beside the medal is an illustration made by the artist, inspired by a page of a book (Ghazvini’s The Wonders of Creation and the Oddities of Existence) Tanavoli had found in a flea market. The inclusion of the sculptural work has perhaps been included to remind audiences that drawings, while often overlooked, frequently serve as the beginnings of subsequent pieces. With Tanavoli being one of the most important contemporary Iranian artists around, the addition of his pieces is even more noteworthy.


Parviz Tanavoli (b.1937), Man and Sculpture II, Wonders of the World Series)


Fereydoun Ave, Persian Miniatures 1, photography, 2003


Ali Banisadr (b.1976) 4M, mixed media on paper, 2010

Iranian Voices, while small, covers many subjects, styles, and disciplines. The two commonalities of the artists’ Iranian ethnicity and their having made works on paper has allowed for diversity to come together in the centre of the British Museum’s Addis Gallery to form an intriguing and memorable display. With works on paper usually receiving less attention than their canvas and photographic counterparts, Iranian Voices provides a unique and novel look at how generations of Iranian artists, past and present, have been utilising a simple, yet powerful medium to tell their stories.

‘Iranian Voices’ runs through April 2, 2017 at the British Museum.

“Uncertain States – Artistic Strategies in States of Emergency”

 

Source: Akademie der Künste, Berlin

In times of uncertainty, art and culture become free spaces to transform cultural differences and political conflicts. “Uncertain States”, the Academy’s main autumn programme, opens up a space of artistic resistance to the loss of cultural memory, and to violence and xenophobia.

This artistic research, which relates the present dramatic situation of refugees to the historical experience of flight and exile between 1933 and 1945, focuses on the fragility of individual and societal conditions triggered by wars, poverty and terrorism. Approximately 50 selected objects and documents from the Akademie der Künste archives of Walter Benjamin, Bertolt Brecht, Hanns Eisler, Valeska Gert, Lea Grundig, Lilian Harvey, Heinrich Mann, Bruno Taut, Kurt Tucholsky and others are juxtaposed with and related to contemporary art works reflecting today’s experiences of crises and flight, instability, violence and loss. The works on show are by 32 artists including Francis Alÿs, Reza Aramesh, Ayşe Erkmen, William Forsythe, Mona Hatoum, Isaac Julien, Sigalit Landau, Marwan Kassab-Bachi, Maziar Moradi, Graciela Sacco, Nasan Tur, Micha Ullman and Arkadi Zaides.Selected objects and documents from the Academy archives of, among others, Walter Benjamin, Valeska Gert, Heinrich Mann and Kurt Tucholsky, find their equivalent in the current experiences of crisis and flight reflected in 35 contemporary artistic positions, including works by Francis Alÿs, Ayşe Erkmen, Mona Hatoum, Isaac Julien and Arkadi Zaides.

Uncertain States is an exhibition which investigates the significance of memory and narrative within processes of social and cultural transformation through art. By combining an experiential space created from objects found in the Academy’s archives with an exhibition of contemporary art and lectures it creates a thinking space (Denkraum) for scholars, activists and artists.

In an era of grave uncertainty fuelled by the destabilising state and social order in the eastern Mediterranean region as well as terrorism and new forms of nationalism and racism in Europe, artists take up the responsibility for the “History of the Other”, for communicating in an open and differentiated way where our own artistic position is located in relation to the other.

The fragility of individual, societal and political conditions, triggered by wars, poverty and terrorism, are the focus of an artistic investigation, in which the currently dramatic situation surrounding the refugee movement makes reference to historical experiences of flight and exile between 1933 and 1945.

This involves dealing with such concerns as collective traumatisation, the loss of identity, empathy and the attempt to understand, and the experience of profound precariousness. Through their works, visual artists offer a platform not just for sharing and exchange, but also with the potential to transform experience. For this reason, the exhibition is structured around two equally essential elements – political, social and cultural studies research and debates as well as a series of remarkable documents and objects from the Akademie archives presenting artists’ memories during conditions of states of emergency in Germany between 1933 to 1945. Together, in the media of film, video, photography, sculpture and painting, these elements create an interplay of discursive, documentary and narrative contributions.


Revolver owned by Kurt Tucholsky, after 1926; photo: Nick Ash


Passport issued to Walter Benjamin, Berlin Grunewald, 10 August 1928; photo: Nick Ash


Heinrich Mann’s pocket calendar, February 1933; photo: Nick Ash


Ammunition box with personal documents from Ella Jonas-Stockhausen, no date; photo: Nick Ash

In this short compilation of this great event, we will deal only reproduce what is said in the catalogue about the two participating Iranian artist. For more information visit the website mentioned at the end of the page)


Maziar Moradi, from his 1979 series

Maziar Moradi is particularly interested in people and their search for identity – a search which can falter in the face of radical societal and political turmoil. His series 1979 traces the blows of fate suffered by his family during the Iranian Revolution and the subsequent Iran-Iraq War (1980–88). Here, many of Maziar Moradi’s family members are exemplary for the fractures and dramatic change experienced by nearly all Iranian families in these troubled years. Maziar Moradi has elaborated key re-enactments from those scenes which his family described, and then captured images of the scenes with the people involved as the performers in their own stories. In conversations held over months, he researched the details of individual experiences. Photographs taken in Iran show family members re-enacting these experiences – images that become ciphers of a family now scattered across the globe by political and cultural upheavals.


Maziar Moradi, from his 1979 series


Maziar Moradi, from his 1979 series

Born in 1979 Iranian artist Maziar Moradi’s photo series 1979 comprises 37 works reconstructing the life journey of his family who fled their home in 1985 during the Iran-Iraq War. To create the series, Moradi, who based his work on intensive research with those involved, decided to use staged photography at the original sites of the family’s escape. Through his method of personal, authentic re-enactment, he has not only created impressive photographs in the service of memory, but also triggered a process of working though the trauma of flight. The images become symbolic codes for a family that today, due to political and cultural upheavals, are scattered across the globe. Moradi’s works is on show in the section called Cultural Memory as Resistance.


Action 117. Viet Cong Prisoner, Thuong Duc, January 23rd 1967, 2016

The Iranian artist Reza Aramesh adopts a similar strategy in his monumental triptych Aktion 117 (2011) in which the gesture of the suppressed is projected into a black-and-white photograph of the baroque interior of Louis XIV’s Versailles. In all his works the artist demonstrates a profound knowledge of the history of art, film and literature of both the orient and the occident. The mass media images from war zones and photographic reportages form the raw material for his numbered series of silhouetted figures. The actions 175–179 are generated from decontextualized snapshots of prisoners in crisis regions across the world, but this abstract outline remains in a subordinate position that is completed by photo prints of landscape images. The constant representation of violence in the mass media can induce a sense of fatigue as we move as voyeurs among the group of silhouettes, encountering our own mirror image. Aramesh’s anonymous figures become protagonists in his exploration of the mechanisms of violence. His works is on show on the section called Narration as an Act of Decolonisation.


Between the Eye and the Object Falls a Shadow (2008)

Born in 1970 in Ahwaz, Reza Aramesh is a painter, photographer and sculptor. He takes his war photography motifs from archive documents, as well as press, Internet and social media reports on the conflicts in Vietnam, Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan and Korea. But instead of bloody bodies and violence, Aramesh shows invisible human suffering, with his works often recalling the poses of martyrs. In its sheer monumentality, the triptych Aktion 117 creates a direct connection to the image narrative in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles – but orchestrated with refugees. In this way, Aramesh creates several often contradictory associations: poverty and wealth, the beauty of the body and of the space, intimacy and public space, Versailles as the epitome of absolutism in Europe set against colonialism and its long-term consequences. (for more information about Reza Aramesh, see Reaz Aramesh featured artist at Farairan-online)


Walking in the darkness of a promised light (2011)

In addition, a series of lectures and special events will address current political questions on themes such as neo-colonialism, the causes for flight and migration, and the new rise in nationalism in Europe, posited from within the context of cultural and artistic positions. A thinking space will be created through lectures, debates, concerts, film presentations, performances and theater, turning the “Uncertain States” into a thinking and action space in which artistic positions are linked to current discourses.

The speakers in the “Discourses” lecture series include Nikita Dhawan, Natasha A. Kelly, Grada Kilomba, Claus Leggewie, Michael Lüders, Katharina Lumpp, Norman Manea, Chantal Mouffe, Jochen Oltmer, Gesine Schwan and Rita Süssmuth and Armin Nassehi, the German-Iranian sociologist.
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Born in Tübingen in 1960, Armin Nassehi is one of the most prominent Sociologists in Germany. The 1960 born son of a German and an Iranian questions the so-called ‚traditional society’. In his speech he will focus on the chances that can result from the society’s “disintegration“, triggered in part by both forced and voluntary migration.

His research primarily focuses on the sociology of culture, knowledge and politics. Aside from his work in the university context, Professor Nassehi is also active as a journalist, speaker and consultant. Since 2012 he has been the editor of the cultural journal Kursbuch.

DISKURSE, a series of lectures and discussions, addresses today’s key issues. Europe is facing challenges such as xenophobia, Islamophobia and anti-Semitism. What are the causes of this new fundamentalism? How can the growth of right-wing populism and racism be curbed and overcome? How can immigration policies be improved? And what role does art have to play in coping with the crisis?

“Uncertain States’ exhibition and Events which opened on 15 October 2016 will run until 15 January 2017.

For more information see: http://www.adk.de/de/projekte/2016/uncertain-states/pdf/Uncertain-States_Booklet.pdf

Towards the New Realism

Boris Groys

Source: Journal #77 – November 2016


Vija Celmins, Desert, 1975. Lithograph on paper. 315 x 416 mm. Copyright: Vija Celmins

Recently we have seen a growing interest in realism, which for a long time seemed historically passé. But the notion of realism is not as obvious as it seems. One often understands “realism” to mean the production of mimetic images of “reality.” One can of course agree with this definition. However, the question remains: How do we initially meet reality? How do we discover reality in order to become able to make an image of it? Of course, we can speak about reality as everything that presents itself to our “natural,” uninformed, and technologically unarmed gaze. Traditional icons seem to us to be nonrealistic because they seek to present the “other,” normally nonvisible world. And artworks that seek to confront us with the “essential core” of the world or with a particular artist’s “subjective vision” are usually not recognized as realistic either. We would also not speak of realism when looking at pictures produced with the help of a microscope or telescope. Realism is often defined as the readiness to reject religious and philosophical visions and speculations, as well as technologically produced images. Instead, realism usually involves the reproduction of an average, ordinary, profane view of the world. However, this profane vision of the world is not especially exciting. The desire to depict and reproduce this profane image of the world cannot be explained by its alleged “beauty,” which it obviously does not have.

We initially discover reality not as a simple sum of “facts.” Rather, we discover reality as a sum of necessities and constraints that do not allow us to do what we would like to do or to live as we would like to live. Reality is what divides our vision of the imaginary future into two parts: a realizable project, and “pure fantasy” that never can be realized. In this sense reality shows itself initially as realpolitik, as the sum of everything that can be done—in opposition to an “unrealistic” view of the conditions and limitations of human actions. This was the actual meaning of nineteenth-century realist literature and art, which presented “sober” and elaborate descriptions of the disappointments, frustrations, and failures that confronted romantic, socially and emotionally “idealistic” heroes when they tried to implement their ideals in “reality.” From Flaubert’s A Sentimental Education to Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, European literature of the time described the failure of all attempts to merge “art and life.” As a result, one could see that nothing that the heroes desired or planned could be realized—everything that they aspired to was demonstrated to be “nonrealistic,” pure fantasy. The best consequence of this realist tradition was formulated by the movement of 1968: be realistic, demand the impossible. Thus, the object depicted by realist literature and art was not reality itself—as described by the natural sciences—but the human psyche suffering from the shock of a failed reality test. Nineteenth-century realism was, in actuality, psychologism. Reality was understood not as a place of “objective” scientific investigation but as a force of oppression that endangered or even crushed the hero.

Modern and contemporary art are, by contrast, products of the long history of depsychologization that many critics—for example, Ortega y Gasset—experienced as a history of dehumanization. Avant-garde and post-avant-garde artists wanted their art to be not realist but real—as real as all the other processes taking place in the world. The artwork was understood as being a thing among other things—like a tree or a car. This did not mean that avant-garde artists did not want to change the world—on the contrary, they radicalized this desire. But they did not appeal to the psyche of the reader, listener, or spectator to achieve this goal. Rather, they understood art as a specific kind of technology that was able to change the world by technical means. In fact, the avant-garde tried to turn art spectators into inhabitants of the artwork—so that by accommodating themselves to the new conditions of their environment, these spectators would change their sensibilities and attitudes. Speaking in Marxist terms: art can thus be seen as either part of the superstructure, or part of the material base. In other words, art can be understood as either ideology or technology. The radical artistic avant-gardes pursued the second, technological way of world transformation. This was pursued most radically by the avant-garde movements of the 1920s: Russian Constructivism, Bauhaus, De Stijl.


Liubov Popova, Textile Design, 1923-4. Gouache on paper, 115 x 92 mm.

However, the avant-garde never fully succeeded in its quest for the real because the reality of art—its material side, which the avant-garde tried to thematize—was permanently re-aestheticized; these thematizations were subjected to the standard conditions of art representation. The same can be said for institutional critique, which also tried to thematize the profane, factual side of art institutions. Like the avant-garde, institutional critique remained inside art institutions. However, this situation has changed in recent years—due to the internet, which has replaced traditional art institutions as the main platform for the production and distribution of art. Now the profane, factual, “real” dimension of art is thematized by the internet. Indeed, contemporary artists usually work using the internet—and also put their works on the internet. Artworks by a particular artist can be found on the internet in the context of other information about the artist one finds there: their biography, other works, political activities, critical reviews, personal details, etc. Artists use the internet not only to produce art—but also to buy tickets, make restaurant reservations, conduct business, etc. All these activities take place in the same integrated space of the internet—and all of them are potentially accessible to other internet users. Here the artwork becomes “real” and profane because it is integrated with information about its author as a real, profane person. Art is presented on the internet as a specific kind of practical activity: as documentation of a real working process taking place in the real, offline world. Indeed, on the internet art operates in the same space as military planning, tourist business capital flows, etc. Google shows, among other things, that there are no walls in internet space.

The word “documentation” is crucial here. In the wake of recent decades, the documentation of art has increasingly been integrated into art exhibitions and art museums—alongside traditional artworks. However, art documentation is not art: it merely refers to an art event, or exhibition, or installation, or project that we assume to have really taken place. On the internet, art documentation finds its legitimate place: it refers to art as its “real,” external referent taking place in “reality itself.” One can say that avant-garde and post-avant-garde art has finally achieved its goal—to become a part of “reality.” But this reality is not one with which we are confronted, or in the middle of which we live. Rather, it is a reality of which we are informed. In the contemporary world we are de facto confronted not with art but with information about art. We can follow what is going on in art milieus the same way we follow what is going on in other spheres of social life: by using contemporary social networks like Facebook, YouTube, and Instagram.
It is this positivist facticity of contemporary art that produces a nostalgia for realism. If art becomes a real practice—a legitimate part of reality—then discontent with reality turns into a discontent with art and all its institutions: the art market, exhibition practices, etc. And this discontent, this conflict with reality, calls for a new description: the New Realism. But why can such a description only be an artistic description? The answer to this question is obvious: discontent with the reality—insofar as it does not manifest itself through violent protest or revolutionary action—remains hidden, and is thus always under suspicion of being fictional. If I hate my job but nevertheless do it, there is no possibility to objectively prove my discontent with the reality of my existence. This discontent remains “fictional.” As such it can be described by literature and art, which have traditionally been regarded as domains of the fictional, but it cannot become a subject of serious scientific study.

For a very long time the origin of a given artwork was sought in the psyche of the artist who created it. This was the time of psychological realism in literature, art, and the humanities. The revolt against nineteenth-century psychologism, which determined the fate of art in the twentieth century, was provoked by a very obvious methodological observation: the origin of an artwork cannot be found in the psyche of its creator because it is impossible to access this psyche. An external spectator cannot penetrate an artist’s subjectivity—but nor can artists themselves discover their inner psychic life by means of introspection. It was concluded that the “psyche” itself is purely fictional—and as such cannot serve as an explanatory term for cultural history. Accordingly, art and literature began to reject psychologism. The human figure came to be dissolved in the play of colors and forms, or in the play of words. The reality of image and text became autonomous from representations of psychology—be it the psychology of the author or the psychology of his or her characters. Of course, this strategy of depsychologization seems perfectly legitimate. Indeed, the psyche cannot be accessed and scientifically investigated. However, this does not mean that the assumption that there is a psyche—i.e., that there is an internal discontent with the reality that cannot be diagnosed externally—can be rejected as purely fictional.

This becomes clear when one goes back to Hegel’s description, in The Phenomenology of the Spirit, of the moment when self-consciousness—and the assumption of the self-consciousness of the Other—initially emerges. In this moment we experience the other as a danger—even as a mortal danger. Of course, we are subjected to many “natural” or technologically produced dangers. But these dangers do not aim at us personally; we experience them as accidental. However, we cannot experience as accidental somebody’s attempt to kill us—by, for example, shooting us. We tend to ask ourselves why someone would want to do this to us, and our attempt to answer this question produces a series of fantasies, conjectures, and projections concerning the psyche of the potential killer. These projections never lead to any final result, but at the same time they seem unavoidable. Today, we can observe this phenomenon almost daily when the media offers psychological explanations and speculations regarding this or that terrorist act. In other words, post-factum, after the violent terrorist excess has happened, external observers are ready to accept the assumption that the subject of this violent act lived in a state of discontent with the reality of his everyday existence—even if at the same time the news coverage almost always stresses that this subject seemed quiet and satisfied with his social environment. In other words, before the violent act happens, the inner psychological discontent seems fictional, but after the act takes place, it becomes retrospectively “real.” Time and again in his novels, Dostoyevsky made fun of these retrospective attempts to psychologize a crime. But these very novels present nothing less than Dostoyevsky’s own attempts to do the same. The entirety of psychological literature is basically crime literature. It treats human beings as especially dangerous animals—dangerous precisely because they are “psychological” animals.

The return of realism means a de facto return of psychology and psychologism. And, indeed, one can see this return in the new popularity of the psychological novel, psychological cinema, psychological theater, and, in a small circle of contemporary art, the increasing presence of photography and video works that thematize the psychology of the artist who created them and/or the protagonists who inhabit them. The reason for this return is obvious. The interpretation of art as techne was closely connected to the expectations of avant-garde and many post-avant-garde artists that art would give a certain direction to technological progress, leading it towards a utopian telos, or at least compensating for its destructive aspects. In our time, these hopes seem to have been dashed. The dynamic of technological progress has resisted attempts to impose any kind of control on it. It is this resistance to being controlled by any “subjective” artistic project that has made technological progress into “reality.” It is very telling that contemporary post-Deleuzian, neo-Dionysian, accelerationist, and “realist” admirers of technological progress explain their admiration in exclusively psychological terms: as the ecstasy of a self-annihilation that produces extreme intensities in their psyche.


Helena Almeida, Untitled, 1975. Acrylic on photograph. Photo: Filipe Braga. Copyright: Fundação de Serralves, Porto.

Realism describes reality not “as it is” but as it is psychologically experienced by artists. That is why Marx, and Lukács after him, liked Balzac and other French authors of the realist school so much. Whereas science described social, economic, and political reality as a “system,” these writers described it “psychologically” as the place of antagonistic conflicts and despair. In this sense they thematized the revolutionary potential of the psychological discontent produced by capitalist society—a discontent that was covered up by “objective” statistical data and that had not yet broken through the surface of everyday life. Fiction becomes reality when it enters reality—when the psychological conflicts described by art lead to revolutionary action. Before this revolutionary moment, “realist fiction” remains a fiction.

Thus, the return of realism is the return of the psychological—and the return of a discontent with reality experienced as an oppressive force. Let me make one last remark here. Realism is often misinterpreted as an art form that depicts the realities that lie beyond the art system—“simple people,” or the “working class.” However, the art system, as previously noted, is already part of reality. Realism is needed not for its description of the outside of the art system, but for the revelation of the latter’s hidden inside—of the discontent with the realities of the art system that its protagonists experience. Only when writers and artists begin to feel like failures in their conflict with reality will they ask themselves what it means to conform to reality, to live a simple life like everybody else allegedly does. An inner, psychological problem is projected towards the outside. In his A Confession, Tolstoy wrote that he was curious why “simple people” do not commit suicide but instead go on living, even when they must know that life has no meaning or goal. This question led him to take an interest in the way of life of people living beyond privileged literary and intellectual circles. Here one can ask, of course, if this assumption that “simple people” are internally, psychologically in conflict with their way of life and experience their life as meaningless is not a pure fiction—Tolstoy’s projection of his own inner conflicts onto the psyches of others. However, the violent explosion of the October Revolution posthumously confirmed Tolstoy’s diagnosis. Thus, writers and artists, if they want to be realist, have to learn to live with the suspicion that their descriptions of the human psyche are pure fiction—until history confirms the realism of their work.

Boris Groys (1947, East Berlin) is Professor of Aesthetics, Art History, and Media Theory at the Center for Art and Media Karlsruhe and Global Distinguished Professor at New York University. He is the author of many books, including The Total Art of Stalinism, Ilya Kabakov: The Man Who Flew into Space from His Apartment, Art Power, The Communist Postscript, and, most recently, Going Public.