Mouneer Al Shaarani was born in the central Syrian city of Salamiyah in 1952, later moving with his family to Homs, where he first studied art. He began practising as a professional calligrapher before enrolling at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Damascus in 1971, from which he graduated in 1977 with a poster project entitled Oppression and Military Rule.
In this interview, I attempt to delve more deeply into his life, uncovering childhood memories and learning about the foundational stages of his artistic education, as well as the teachers and fellow artists that constituted his world. We discuss his major exhibitions and the reaction of the public – especially the non-Arabic reading public – to his work, and his perspective on Al Hurufiyya movement. Finally, we address the central question of his philosophy and his approach to his work – one which makes his art so distinctive. Al Shaarani encourages us to draw a clear distinction between calligraphy as a profession, Al Hurufiyya movement, and calligraphy as an art form in itself, which sees the letter form as a generative source of aesthetics, composition and meaning.
Mouneer Al Shaarani while working on his graduation project in 1977
NA: You were born in Salamiyah, a city where, especially at that time, life was challenging. What prompted your first interest in art? Was there any kind of cultural or intellectual atmosphere at home that encouraged you to enter the world of art? Did your surrounding as a child – the architecture, say, or nature – leave any impression on you that might have found its way into your work?
MSh: The year I was born, drought and general poverty had begun to supplant the ease and abundance that had always made Salamiyah a pulsing centre of life. For instance, it was home to the country’s first agricultural college, to which students came from all over Syria and abroad; there were two sporting and cultural social clubs, as well as two cinemas, not to mention the private gatherings where political debate was a daily occurrence. These things and others constituted the environment in which I was raised. I still remember our life there and the way the city was before the drought took hold and we moved to Homs, where my father worked as an office clerk. He had been bankrupted by a fire at the general store he managed every afternoon in Salamiyah. It was the first shop to supply paper, school stationary, sewing and tailoring supplies, clothing, what electrical tools and goods were then available as well as equipment for extending power lines to your house. Plus more!
By the time I left Salamiyah, I could read and write, my handwriting was good, and I was clearly artistically inclined. The credit for this goes first and foremost to my parents, then to our local Quran instructor, a woman called Mizayyen, and finally to the kindergarten established by Dr. Sami Al Jindy. Culture was all around in Salamiyah – the love of literature and art and, above all, of poetry – and it was quite normal to memorise a few lines of poetry or a story full of morals and virtuous deeds, either at home with your family or at family gatherings where one heard it from the mouths of one’s relatives, who were storytellers. It was the norm to have family and friends offer me comments, encouragement and praise for my childhood drawings and my early attempts at writing stories – and even for my handwriting. My mother, who came from Homs, had studied the applied arts at Maktab Anbar preparatory school in Damascus, and would encourage me and give me advice. My father might not have been a calligrapher, but he had a beautiful hand and was an educated lover of the arts. They had fallen in love and married against my maternal grandfather’s wishes, but with the support of her two uncles, the famous pro-independence journalist Rachid Al Mallouhi and the poet and inventor Abdel Muin Al Mallouhi, who was also a passionate advocate of Lenin’s theory that the best way of propagating culture through society was to make electricity available to all. Indeed, the poet moved his family from Homs to Salamiyah for that very purpose. All of this contributed to the circumstances in which the seed was first planted inside me. In Homs, this seed was watered. I discovered Sindbad magazine at the stall of a pavement bookseller and was captivated by Hussein Bicar’s illustrations. They made me want to write and draw even more, so I borrowed a pile of them from the bookseller and started reading the stories and copying the drawings with the encouragement of my parents, relatives and their friends.
I then discovered the cultural centre. Initially, an employee said I couldn’t go in because at the time I wasn’t yet of school-going age, but when they saw I could read they allowed me into to the children’s library every day. There I read lots of books and magazines, like the series Aowladuna, and Al Maktaba AL Khadraa editions for which Bicar did most of the illustrations. The stories and pictures made a profound impression on me, and Bicar’s drawings, and the themes they dealt with, connected with my deepest artistic instincts and became my guide. I found out that the director of the centre was none other than our neighbour Abdel Muin Al Mallouhi, a friend of my father, and my mother’s uncle. He would support me and lend me books that he kept for his own children. I’ll never forget his generosity and the way he treated me, and I remember in particular three principles he held that played their part in shaping my values and my cultural proclivities: you must always insist on what is right, even to your closest friends; that anyone worthy of it has the right to be given an opportunity; and that nepotism must always be rejected because it impedes the progress of both individuals and society as a whole. In addition to my parents’ support and the way they made it possible for my talent to evolve, it is to these two men – Abdel Muin Al Mallouhi and Hussein Bicar – that I am most indebted to for shaping my artistic and moral views and for guiding my first steps down this path.
I would add, too, my first encounter with the positive aspects of Syrian history, both in terms of material objects and values. Materially, I got to see the internal and external architectural of the historic bathhouse in Salamiyah, where my mother used to take me. I enjoyed bathing in its waters and sliding on my knees over the huge slick stone slabs of the floor, my nose and chest filled with the pristine tang of its vapours. Then there was the old city of Homs, which used to enchant me with its buildings, neighbourhoods and markets, the Orontes river and its pastry shops, and the sweet spirit of its inhabitants. What I learned of values, I picked up from the stories I was told or that I read, such as the tales of Hatim Al Tai, or the story of He Who Sets The Fallen Straight, and the tales of virtue and honour which I read during my Arabic classes or by myself at home.
So Salamiyah was the seed and the first shoot, and in Homs it was fed and took root. The years we lived in Homs coincided with the short years of unity with Egypt and the dreams and popular enthusiasm that accompanied it – and then its failure. It had an effect on me at the time, and its influence has been reflected in my subsequent beliefs. But it was in Damascus, where we ended up staying, that this seed truly grew and sprouted and flowered. I was dazzled by the city’s beauty and sheer size, all the trees and greenery that, at that time, punctuated its buildings and streets, and the river that branched out through its lovely neighbourhoods – this was before concrete replaced the greenery, and before the river’s tributaries were covered over and its waters fell. I was astonished by the charm of the city’s various specialised markets in the area around the great mosque, where the merchants’ signs and shopfronts appeared like a gallery of master calligraphers. In Damascus I joined the third year of primary at a school whose headteacher was an artist and taught us art and crafts. She used to give me the highest marks even though her own son was in my class and could draw well himself. She was the one who discovered my talent, when she saw my imitations of calligraphic titles in our textbooks. I copied the letters in pencil because I hadn’t yet been given a calligraphic pen. She told me to ask my father to take me to an instructor, which he did, and I began to study calligraphy, which soon became my great passion thanks to my teacher, Badawi Al Dirani. He didn’t just teach me calligraphy, but many other qualities as well, which had n huge impact on my professional and intellectual development – these included patience, deliberation, precision and perfectionism, as well as a respect for tradition without fetishising it or fearing to criticise it or move beyond it once one had fully mastered its forms.
Damascus was very different back then. The education one received and – society in general – was nothing like today, and people were much more involved with public affairs and events, whether local, regional or international. The streets were always packed with people protesting some policy or other, for instance after the break-up with Egypt, or in solidarity with Palestine (something that Syrians regarded as a personal issue), or in support of the Algerian revolution, and all manner of just causes. People used to volunteer their time and energy: women would knit jerseys and make clothes to be donated for what was then called ‘Winter Aid’.
Calligrapher Badawi in his office with the ink maker Mir Abdul Hakim Al-Afghani and one of his students
NA: You were already a professional calligrapher by the time you enrolled at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Damascus, where you were part of the first year to study at the newly-opened design department. Talk to us about your time there: the techniques, specialisations and theoretical subjects that you engaged with. Also, what about your relationship with your professors there, such as Abdul Kader Arnaout (1936–1992), Mahmoud Hammad (1923–1988), and Helmi Habbab (1909–2000), and the people you studied with? Tell us also about the project you graduated with in 1977, whose subject matter was brave and scathingly critical?
MSh: I was 10 years old when I started studying calligraphy with Badawi Al Dirani, who was the innovative and forward-thinking head of the Syrian school. I became a calligrapher, then turned professional when he passed away five years later. While he was still alive, I was too shy to sign my name to the work I did for printing presses, advertisements and street signs. I studied painting, engraving and sculpture at the Ismail Adham Institute then passed my secondary school exams with the intention of going on to study fine art. I took the entrance exams in 1971, and was one of the first to be accepted. After two preparatory years, I chose to specialise in graphic or ‘commercial’ design, as it was called then. Today it’s known as ‘visual communications’, which luckily enough was available for the first time that year after the design department was split in two: ‘graphic’ and ‘interior’. We studied general theory connected to art and culture, with a particular focus on things like design, technique and material technology.
We also took two practical subjects: painting (which everyone had to take regardless of their specialisation, and which was taught by Fateh Moudarres) and then design and special projects. These include, for example, advertising art, which covered everything from posters to signage, the design of slogans and commercial logos, book and magazine production, and then a million other things like designs for packaging, postcards, invitations and even postage stamps: anything to do with graphic design. Back then, however, the design department lacked a specialist teaching staff, with the exception of the great Syrian pioneer of graphic art, Abdul Kader Arnaout, the director of our department who set our projects for us. This lack of specialist staff might be why the students didn’t receive practical or applied instruction on the techniques themselves of graphic design. We didn’t visit a single printing press in our time there, nor were we told about the different kinds of printing or the necessary steps to prepare material for printing, or the processes for the printing itself. Instead, we studied some aspects on a theoretical basis plus a few practical lessons, such as silkscreen printing under the tutelage of the Egyptian professor, Farouk Khalifa, who taught material technologies. Thanks to calligraphy and my work as a calligrapher I’d had an early introduction to the printing press, so I knew about printing and had a fair bit of experience in the different types and techniques (such as manual and mechanical typesetting, mechanical reproductions of images and zincographs, colour separation and mixing, preparing the plates, letterpress, etching and offset printing), all of which helped me in my projects at the department and in my graphic design work and typeface design.
Unfortunately, Arabic calligraphy was covered only in theory in a single weekly lesson during the first two preparatory years, taught by the calligrapher Helmi Habbab. He would write on the blackboard and ask students to copy his lettering onto paper, but I was excused from attending when he saw my work and learned that I’d been taught my hand by Badawi. We developed a good relationship, and Habbab used to ask my opinion about the students he was teaching and their proficiency. As specialists, Professor Abdul Kader Arnaout set us a project designed to give us an idea of how calligraphy was used in titling and pamphlets, but this still wasn’t much, so the majority of the students enrolled at the calligraphy courses I offered at the Institute for Popular Culture.
Mouneer Al Shaarani, cover of “Studies in Arabic Music (Iraqi Music)” - Dr. Shahrazad Qasim Hassan, Arab Foundation for Studies and Publishing - 1981, cover of the novel “A World Without Maps” by Jabra Ibrahim Jabra - Abdel Rahman Munif The Arab Foundation for Studies and Publishing - 1982, cover of “Stray Rooms” by Walid Khazindar, Dar Al-Fikr - 1992, all signed with Al-Shaarani’s pseudonym at the time: Imad Halim.
Muneer Al Shaarani, an exercise in Al-Diwani Al-Jali calligraphy, 1975
In those days, the Faculty of Fine Arts was known for its convivial atmosphere and the democratic nature of the relationship between students and teachers. This was in large part thanks to the faculty’s head, Mahmoud Hammad. He was a decent and affectionate man, and he ran the affairs of the faculty, its staff and administrators and students, in a manner both firm and flexible, brotherly and paternal, showing concern for each and every person there. His example was reflected in the relationship between staff and students, encouraging them to interact as friends and colleagues. Professor Arnaout would joke with us, telling us the latest witticisms about people with a stammer, of which he was one. I’ll never forget the back-and-forths I had with him before he gave us the results for our projects. He would always give me top marks, and I used to make calligraphy a central element in many of them. These interactions between us over Arabic calligraphy and design and the fonts that he designed were characterised by a fresh and open spirit, and something of this same spirit found its way into the relationships between the students.
The best students from the higher years would freely pass on their advice and experience to those in the years below, supplementing the work of the staff. I owe much of the knowledge I gained in these foundational years to a then contemporary of mine, who has since passed away – Bahij Arbash. This positivity in our relationships was perhaps ideally suited to my nature and the values I had learned, and I helped many other students understand the subjects and techniques we studied and applied in our projects, either providing the calligraphy they needed for their projects or training them in it and teaching them its intricacies. This of course expanded the circle of my acquaintances and elevated the nature of our friendships and this spirit of friendship and friendly rivalry still endures among many of us.
We supported each other when doing our projects, sharing everything from tools and paints and paper to food and drink at the faculty canteen on the roof of the building, where our voices and laughter would rise up, singing the songs of Sheikh Imam and Nass El Ghiwane and others together, or listening to a girl singing Fairuz, or a boy playing the guitar. On a board on the wall, we’d pin scraps of paper covered with ideas and jokes and caricatures, and sometimes we might be joined by members of staff. This was all before the 1976 strike in which the majority of the students from all five years participated. It forced out the committee of the student union and elected another supervisory committee in its stead. I was a member of this committee, alongside Youssef Abdelke, Rabie Al Akhras and Samar Mousa Basha others.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with the Syrian sculptor Nizar Alloush at one of the college exhibitions in the seventies
The environment in the faculty also had a positive influence on my career as an artist. Members of staff who played an important role in my development included Mahmoud Hammad, who, though he never taught me directly, was always a model of fairness and modesty and used to encourage me. I have no idea how he managed to keep track of what I did, but he never hid his admiration of the way I made calligraphy central to my work, and when we talked about the subject, he wouldn’t speak to me as a teacher, but as someone who genuinely sought my opinion. Arnaout, too, was interested in my work and would discuss it with me, and supported me and enthusiastically encouraged me to pursue my initial idea for a graduation project, which was to create a new type designed for printing and other uses. He treated me as a friend and a colleague even though I was just starting my career as a graphic designer. Another teacher I’ll never forget was Milad Al Shayeb, an important and beloved teacher and father figure who instructed his students in how to draw faces, anatomy and movement, light and shade, and the principles of academic draughtsmanship. Then there was Salah Kamel, the Egyptian who encouraged talent and developed it through guidance and criticism. Fateh Moudarres was more artist than teacher, but I benefitted greatly from his critical comments and observations on the projects which he set for us, and from his affectionate nature, his freedom, and his dedication to his work. He was supportive of the ideas and choices I made for my projects, and at the end of my third year he even allowed me to submit a series of projects after the set deadline, after learning that I’d failed to hand them in because of my father’s death in a car accident. This was unheard of. He graded the work himself, and it was because of him that not only did I not fail the year, I even scored a distinction.
I wasn’t the only calligrapher during my time at the faculty. There were many calligraphers scattered over the five years and across different departments, including Ghassan Zarzour, Hani Lotf, Mohammed Ghannoum and Walid Al Agha. Some of them worked professionally, but they treated it as a traditional handcraft, quite separate to the arts which we studied. They believed that calligraphy was fully evolved and could not develop into an artform in its own right. But I saw Arabic calligraphy as an art based on abstraction and distinguished by its structure, its graphic qualities, and a visual appeal that permitted the calligraphic artist to develop it and produce work that was entirely distinct from other applied arts and crafts in terms of appearance and classification. I developed this perspective through a deep theoretical and visual study of calligraphy’s aesthetic evolution, a historical process that came to a halt during a period of cultural decline. I attempted to employ calligraphy in an evolved fashion, a foundational component of many of my projects and tasks, such as posters and advertisements, tissue boxes and book covers, formal invitations and logos. This met with the approval and support of the teaching staff, none more so than Arnaout, who was most enthusiastic about my idea for a graduation project, which was to design a new typeface for print and other purposes. Indeed, I had already experimented with typeface in certain projects over the preceding years, so I submitted my idea and it was accepted. However, in keeping with my position on recent political developments and the entry of Syrian troops into Lebanon, I decided to change my project to a series of posters entitled Oppression and Military Rule. Of course, this meant starting from the beginning with a completely different subject that called for completely different techniques and treatment. If my new idea was accepted, it would also mean delaying graduation until the next round of exams.
I prepared my submission and attached a request to change the project and delay my graduation until March 1977. Arnaout and Elias Zayyat, who was deputy director of the faculty, both attempted to dissuade me, worried about potential consequences for me, but I insisted, on the basis that the faculty’s process stipulated that students had the right to select a theme, which the staff would then debate and evaluate. With his disarming stutter, Arnaout said to me, “Do y-y-you w-w-want to get us thrown in p-prison?” Of course not, I said, it’s me they would imprison! “G-g-g-go and destroy your l-l-life, then!” he said, jokingly. He added that he was extremely keen on the new typeface project, because he believed I would create something unique and distinctive, beneficial not just for me but for Arabic typesetting in general, and which might encourage others to engage with the field. Once his attempts to dissuade me had failed, Zayyat recommended that at least I add the words ‘…In the World’ to my suggested title, to which I responded, “Sure, because in this case the generalisation is in service of the particular!” and he laughed with evident affection and let me be.
The project was to be a series of political posters. The initial aim was to make at least six, though I ended up submitting 19. The majority were based on photographs and were divided into three groups: the first reworked documentary images, the second blended documentary images with photographs I had taken myself for the purpose, and then a third group, larger in size than the first two (which consisted of 100 x 70 cm posters) using photographs I had taken. The images were all developed in black and white, and though the photograph was the central element of each poster I used a halftone printing technique, being careful to preserve the full grayscale range by combining the screen with the offset image produced from the negative. The aim was to create a sense of realism, as though the images had been enlarged from a newspaper. In other posters, I used silk-screen printing, retaining the grid-like feel of the image, or simply reproduced it without regard to grid or grayscale. The titles I added in red gouache, using a specially-developed simplified naskh script. Ihsan Anataby, who had recently joined the department and been appointed as my supervisor, declared himself very happy with the work, which had been completed at the faculty despite the lack of a workshop with any basic equipment such as a darkroom, basins to develop and fix the images, or an enlarger. They therefore permitted me to use the bathroom and kitchen for my work. I covered the windows and at my own expense I equipped the rooms with everything I required, some of which I left to the faculty after my graduation. I was forced to develop the larger images in the bathtub.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with Mouneer Habab and Adnan Jaafar before the Jury of the graduation project in 1977
On judging day, not only were friends and family forbidden to enter the faculty, but the students were barred from the judging hall, even though the judges’ discussions were regarded as an important part of the training for younger students. When I presented my project to the panel, one of the staff asked me a provocative question, not about the artistic value of the work, but about its political content. Mahmoud Hammad stopped him and reminded him that the judges’ task was to question the student on the artistic and technical aspects of the work and the degree to which they had met their brief, regardless of whether or not the panel approved of the submission. Things calmed down, I answered the questions they asked me, then the panel gathered and there was a fierce debate between those who wanted to give me low marks, either because my subject matter alarmed them or on the pretext that my project contained no figurative painting, and Arnaout and Hammad, who told them: “For the five years you’ve had this student, he’s achieved distinctions in draughtsmanship and other subjects, and this project isn’t in a figurative specialisation, so he can use the techniques and approach that he regards as best.” The objectors failed to influence my final score and I graduated with the highest marks in that group, with 85 out of 100. Maybe the political nature of my project, as well as those of Youssef Abdelke and others in that group and the following one (whose high marks gave them the option to return to the faculty as assistants or pursue their studies abroad), were the reason that assistant teaching positions and foreign study grants stopped being given to the best students. Thenceforward, these privileges were reserved for party members and staff decided the subject matter of the students’ graduation projects.
NA: Tell us about your first solo exhibition and which exhibition you regard as a turning point in your career and development as an artist.
MSh: The first was an exhibition of my graduation project in Salamiyah that same year. The head of the city’s cultural centre, Abdel Karim Al Dahhak, invited me to put it on when he heard it had been forbidden in Damascus. The exhibition was accompanied by a well-attended discussion of the work and its themes, and the event was a great success with those that attended the centre.
But my first important solo exhibition, from the standpoint of my career and my ambition to renew and develop Arabic calligraphy as an art form, would have to wait another 10 years. I spent the decade doing compulsory military service in Syria, then fleeing persecution by moving first to Lebanon, where I worked for three years, followed by another three years in Cyprus, where I was forced to go under the assumed name of Emad Halim. During this time I experimented with ideas around modernising calligraphy and enriching it in terms of aesthetics and design, whether for typesetting, book covers, or commercial use. Then I moved to Cairo, where I was able to relax at last, and saw my name restored for my first experimental exhibition, held at the Artists’ and Writers’ Atelier.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with Mahmoud Hammad and Abdel Qader Arnaout during the discussion of the graduation project 1977
I exhibited a selection of my work and distributed a small pamphlet that contained a summary of my views: a brief proto-manifesto for what I hoped to achieve in the exhibition in particular, and, more generally, in the wider field of calligraphic painting. Despite this, I prepared myself for any debates and confrontations that might take place either with conservative calligraphers who regarded traditional calligraphic forms as something that could not and should not be superseded, or with artists and critics who viewed calligraphy as one of the traditional Islamic arts, quite separate from contemporary artistic practice. The widespread acceptance and admiration I received from the public, calligraphers, artists and senior critics took me by surprise. This response was reflected in comments that were left in the exhibition’s visitors’ book and the high attendance and engagement of audiences at the talk which was held to discuss the work, chaired by the graphic artist Mohieddin Al Labbad. There were also the reviews and responses in the press by artists and critics such as Kamal El Goweily. Most important was the response of the great Hussein Bicar, whose praise left me blushing when he wrote that I was the last of a dying breed of artists. I was also stunned by the engagement and enthusiasm that Hassan Suleiman showed in what he wrote, and it made me very happy indeed to have won the admiration of the greatest living teacher of calligrapher, Mohammed Abdel Kader. Abdel Kader encouraged the staff and students at the school of calligraphy to attend the exhibition, and then explained, debated and discussed the work with them and the way I was adapting the art to my own ends. The same was true of the preeminent calligrapher of his day, Sayyid Ibrahim. Though over 90 years old, he attended the exhibition supported on his daughter’s arm and left remarks in the visitor’s book.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with the artist Mohieddin Al-Labbad during the symposium accompanying his first exhibition, 1978
The exhibition was a turning point. It opened new horizons for me and spurred me to further develop fonts and to pursue and complete the tasks I’d set for myself. I was always inviting others to join me in this ongoing project, to which I gave the broad title ‘restoring Arabic calligraphy to its rightful place among the fine arts’. Such an ambition is impossible to realise without a foundation of profound practical knowledge. This includes the aesthetic philosophy from which it springs, the principles of its structure, and the theoretical and visual history of its evolution. They work to release it from the golden cage in which it had been confined since the Ottoman period, not to mention the conservatism that left it to stagnate when once it was a thriving art form and a common denominator across all the arts of Arabic civilization and culture, whether sacred or secular – similar to the place of portraiture, sculpture and architecture in the West. This was what I promoted in my calligraphic work and graphic designs, whose forms are determined by principles that are shared across the spectrum of the fine arts. It is also present in the art theory that I developed, in which regard I have had great success planting the seed of modernisation among young calligraphers through the letter forms that I developed, updated, revived or invented, and by renovating the calligraphic image in line with developments in other artistic fields. The same is true of my commercial design, typefaces, and other aspects of graphic design.
My first exhibition after my return to Syria also meant a lot to me. It was held at Atassi Gallery in Damascus, and I was heartened by the great crowd of artists, friends and art lovers who attended and the warm welcome which they gave me. I felt that I had come back to the city where I should have exhibited my experimental work all those years ago, that first exhibition that I instead had to put on far away in Salamiyah. The experience left me with many overlapping feelings: a sense of success for having achieved what I had begun there years before, of having triumphed over the obstacles presented by tyranny and oppression, and a renewed spirit that I would take forward into my later work.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with calligrapher Muhammad Abdel Qader and artist Hassan Suleiman in his first exhibition in 1978
NA: In the 1970s, Al Hurufiyya was at its height in the Arab World, an abstract art movement based on the letter form, the word as a visual symbol and, though less frequently, references to Quranic text. However, Arabic calligraphy as an art form might offer greater freedom for imagination and play with the image than the act of reproducing words. Perhaps this is due to its inherent connection to the meaning of a phrase and the Arabic language as concepts; its aesthetic and artistic link to a heritage of Arabic poetry and proverbs and their figurative density. What is your view on Al Hurufiyya and how it differs from calligraphy?
MSh: I have great respect for those pioneers whose work drew inspiration from the Arabic letter (as a symbol connected with its function as writing as opposed to its calligraphic, aesthetic forms). It was part of a quest for an Arabic artistic identity, whereas previously artists had only valued a Western art education. I believe that these artists all had very different approaches to the letter and never referred to themselves as Hurufiyyi artists . They were followed by another wave of artists whose intentions and artistic production was completely different: these artists used Arabic letter forms and calligraphy to fill newly-built palaces in the oil-rich Gulf, where figurative representation was forbidden.
There was a trend for richly coloured canvases based around calligraphy and arabesque patterns, often with a religious content, produced using various techniques and approaches. Artists like Wajih Nahlé, and others, produced work that belong more to the applied arts than either representational art or the calligraphy that it superficially references. I noticed that their work was popular in the Gulf, but also among pan-Arab nationalists, some of whom elevated it to the status of an Arab nationalist art movement. The third wave was started in Europe by diasporic calligraphers and artists. They had a passing acquaintance with calligraphy and made work that was well-received by a public influenced by the Thousand and One Nights, and inclined to regard anything that needs to be read from right to left as somehow magical. They were promoted by influential figures in the art world, and so the wave began to wash eastwards, first to the Gulf, where some artists and calligraphers who saw its popularity with a largely uncultured public jumped on the bandwagon. Some calligraphers began to write brightly coloured letters and words in traditional scripts which were gathered on (or scattered across) canvases and marketed as calligraphic art. I don’t mean to detract from the value of what some truly talented artists have made inspired by letter forms, say, or incorporating newspaper text into their work. They were classified as Al Hurufiyya by hacks masquerading as critics, who promoted Al Hurufiyya as a new movement and lumped together works that really had nothing in common – unless we regard the presence of letters or calligraphy to be a single basket into which we can toss whatever we like. I have always objected to the idea of Al Hurufiyya as a catch-all for anyone who works with letter forms or calligraphy, or that it was somehow modernising calligraphy and its artistic applications. I see nothing innovative in any work in which a calligrapher has simply filled his canvas with coloured script without regard to composition, as though it were the background for an unfinished painting, and there has been a lot of that in recent years.
Mouneer Al Shaarani with Hussein Bikar at Al Shaarani’s first exhibition in 1978
Apologies if I am going on too long, but this business of Al Hurufiyya being a movement and reinvigorating Arabic calligraphy annoys me, just as it annoys me to be considered a Hurufiyyi artist myself. Unfortunately, this is something I have grown exhausted trying to refute. I regard myself as an innovative calligraphist whose trajectory starts with what has already been achieved and moves towards the open horizons of a form which contains artistic value in its essence, its formal structure. The evolution or modernisation of any art is meaningless if it isn’t working from the visual and structural principals of that art to build something new. In my opinion, evolution and modernism in calligraphy are based on revival, evolution, innovation and aesthetic adornment, in all aspects of the letter’s multiple and mutable forms, changing the way in which it joins to the other letters and lending a visual harmony to the whole: how the letters work together and apart, how they follow one another, the extent to which they can extend and move on the horizontal and vertical planes. It is a question of how to dispose them to achieve these ends, shaping them in non-cliched, non-traditional ways. Anything else, no matter how well done, is simply being good at your craft: it is part of the tradition, not innovation; no different to what the conservative and traditionalist calligraphers do. Sometimes, it is simply a case of applying, or deploying, the innovations of your forebears, making tame work that has no identity of its own; the best you might be able to say of some works is that they belong to another artistic tradition altogether. I have expressed this view of mine in many different texts and articles, in recordings and lectures and debates. Just to be clear, I don’t think an artist should be called a Hurufiyyi artist when letters – whether printed or calligraphic – constitute only one element of an artwork. These works must be treated critically on their own terms. Anyone whose work is calligraphic should be called a calligrapher, and their work judged on that basis.
NA: The meaning of words plays an important role in your work, which is obvious from the phrases you choose. However, your work has a distinctive quality, somewhere between the skill of professional calligraphy and the aesthetic sensibilities of artistic composition. Could you talk about the way you construct your canvas and the visual principals you employ? Also, the way in which the nature of calligraphy lends it an artistic richness. As is well known, many civilisations from around the world have refined, adorned and aesthetised the letter, but no calligraphic tradition ever reached the heights it did in Arabic.
MSh: In any of the languages it is used in, Arabic calligraphy is no different to other scripts in that it is principally concerned with the word. However, Arabic script and those of the Sino-Japanese family have been elevated to an art form. Each have their own distinctive forms, techniques and aesthetic, but the dynamism of Arabic calligraphy lends it a limitless potential for development because it has fully superseded the phase of figurative symbolism – of disconnected letters if you will – to become a fully abstract letter-based script, evolving structurally, aesthetically and artistically in such a way as to elevate its function from a basic communicative tool to that of art.
Arabic calligraphy contains and generates possibilities that are simply not accessible to other scripts that are based on a sequence of similar-seeming autonomous letter-units, such as, for instance, Roman or Slavic. These lack expressive qualities in their basic structure that leave them reliant on other art forms to introduce artistic value to any work that includes words or letters. The early innovators of the Arabic script unlocked its potential rapidly and on multiple fronts during the first florescence of their civilisation, a visual evolution that aestheticised its basic structure and made it a potent source for the calligraphic innovators that followed.
An excerpt of excerpts from the poem “La Tusaleh” by Amal Dunqul. Mouneer Al Shaarani chose it, wrote it, printed it at his expense, and distributed it as a gift for the victory of the Palestinian Intifada in 1988
The script’s potential derives from the rise and fall of the letters, the variety of different forms each can take depending on its place in the word, and the aesthetic context of its place in the sequence of letters. Add to that the fact that some letters join and others don’t, and there is the option to extend elements of a letter, to stack them on top of one another or entangle them. One can develop horizontal and vertical structures, and there is flexibility and harmony between vertical elements and the various forms of declivities, and of all this while retaining legibility. There are also the different forms that dots and other diacritical marks can take, another aesthetic and rhythmic enhancement which responds to and plays with the structural and visual imperatives of artistic creation.
I may be talking too much here, but before I turn to the point I intend to discuss, I want to cover a few things that, due to the absence of studies on the visual and artistic aspects of Arabic calligraphy are poorly understood. Arabic calligraphy, then, is an art based on the word, which in turn is made up of letters. This means that it is based on abstraction, rather than representation or figuration. However, this is an elevated form of abstraction that conveys meaning. If it is to be treated as an art, this requires the innovative calligrapher to have both a profound understanding of and considerable skill in dealing with – the qualities and potential which I mentioned above, plus an ability to reconcile these with the general principles that inform all fine arts.
This is what I have attempted to achieve in my work: to unite the aesthetics of meaning and form and harmonise them with the maximum possible visual concision and efficiency of meaning, while at the same time taking care to balance the relationship between the internal spaces of the design, the letter groups, and the surrounding space. I also make sure to select a script that goes with the spirit of the phrase or word. For instance, I would avoid the more rigid scripts when writing something about love. Though I might write the same phrase in a number of different scripts, I do not want to compromise or be tempted to form a word in a script that doesn’t suit it simply because it would be more convenient. I have always been as careful as I can be that the work be balanced and harmonious both visually and in terms of meaning, and very strict about precision and accuracy in an art form that calls for – and is known for – contrast and perfection.
From the beginning, then, I have worked with a limited palette, because I found that too much colour not only adds nothing to the work, but it also weakens its impact, turning it into a kind of visual chatter. I concluded that a single colour, like black, will take on different hues in the mind of the beholder based on what the work’s form and meaning suggest to them. I paint diacritical marks in a contrasting colour (usually red) and distribute them to create a parallel composition that harmonises with the main phrase: a visual rhythm that catches the eye of the viewer and allows the work to enter more deeply into their mind and soul. When I do use colour, it is because I think it contributes something on a symbolic level. It goes without saying that I avoid pointless filler or using ornamentation as a crutch, as traditional calligraphers do when dealing with blank space. They regard it a defect without realising that space, if properly employed, is an effective part of the composition as a whole.
Mouneer Al Shaarani working
NA: You have travelled and worked in a number of Arab countries, like Lebanon and Egypt for example. Do you think that the art scenes in the major Arab capitals have something in common, that they are extensions of each other, or does the different context of each country make them different?
MSh: Those whose perspective has been skewed by pan-Arabist sentiments tend to believe that the modern art scenes in different Arab countries have more in common with one another than they do with those of other countries, that artistic production in the Arab world is so homogenous that it is possible to talk of a pan-Arab ‘Arab art’. I don’t look at it that way. It was never the product of a natural evolution of the arts we knew in these countries during those periods when we were culturally unified on many levels, with the arts being at the forefront. It was a time when we were united in our diversity, before the centuries-long regression and civilisational decline under Ottoman rule. This decline cut the Arab world off from engaging in developments in the arts and drew it back into tradition and imitation, something that caused the pioneers of Modern art in the region (and I mean pioneers in the literal sense of the word: as explorers) to turn to Western schools of art, without attempting to build bridges to those arts whose development had been stalled. This took place in an environment dominated by cultural conservatism.
Egypt was freed from Ottoman control by Mohammed Ali’s ambitious vision, and this, combined with the cosmopolitanism that prevailed in its two main cities, meant it was the first to adopt easel-painting. The Egyptian pioneers of easel-painting, through a variety of methods and approach, produced work that was Western in its technique and influenced by Western schools of art, but much of it dealt with subjects and scenes derived from their local environment and scenery. This lent their painting a local specificity that distinguished it from other Arab countries where easel-painting was adopted relatively late. In Iraq, an active artistic movement with distinctive local characteristics later emerged, and another movement in Sudan produced a group of artists who shaped its local character by founding the Khartoum school, which was able to bring modern art to a large, non-elite public. In Syria, which at that time incorporated the Lebanese state, the pioneering modern artists had very different visions and approaches and could not be said to have acted as a single movement.
This lack of a united vision meant that those groups which did form, did not last. The only place in the Maghreb which saw the emergence of a distinctive Modern art movement was in Tunisia, and that was under French colonial rule. Initially, there were only a few prominent names working in Morocco and Algeria. Their adherence to Western art led pioneers there to make a complete break with their Arab artistic legacy, something that renders any resemblance of style and unity of technique and approach essentially superficial – unless we regard participating in protests as an artistic criterion.
The art scene in Egypt was of a different nature to that of other Arab countries, but that’s not to say that in recent years there haven’t been things in common, as artists from different countries work to foster a collective consciousness around issues central to Arab artistic heritage and modern art. For instance, things like perspective, composition, painting techniques, abstraction of forms, visual languages and colour, geometrical patterns and calligraphy. Some of these artists have been really successful in working from geographical and cultural localism, liberating themselves from Western hegemony in their techniques and approaches and making their influence felt through the arts in the Arab region. This has been helped by an increase in the number of galleries, exhibitions and events, and the ease with which people can view art and communicate through the Internet and social media.
Mouneer Al Shaarani, In the Levant is the mirror of my soul, poetry by Mahmoud Darwish, 2013
NA: What is the state of Arabic calligraphy in Syria today, and more broadly in the Arab world as a whole?
MSh: Unfortunately, calligraphy in Syria is still dominated by a traditional Salafist mentality, and despite there being many very talented traditional calligraphers, very few are innovative. This is for a number of reasons, primarily because there is little official interest in the subject, starting with it being omitted from the curriculum at a theoretical and practical level at all levels of the education system, the lack of a dedicated calligraphy department in the Faculty of Fine Arts, with instruction confined to a few underfunded centres run by the Ministry of Culture.
There is a largely useless theoretical course at the Faculty of Fine Arts, and a department at the Institute of the Applied Arts that uses traditional methods and equipment but confines its lesson to a limited number of scripts and associated arts (without making any structural connection between them and it). The department’s curriculum does not encourage true innovation and experimentation and the material does not help educate the students in the history, aesthetics, or the structural and visual aspects on which calligraphy is based and which has made its evolution possible. They do not learn about how its distinctive aesthetic qualities are related to art, nor study materials that might give them a wider cultural education and broaden their artistic and creative horizons. This is not to mention the complete failure of the Artists’ Union to play any kind of positive role in promoting calligraphy. It tends to be judged using the most basic criteria, completely inadequately if we compare it to how other art is evaluated.
The second general reason is the traditionalist mentality that the majority of calligraphers possess, and the success of certain Gulf-funded bodies and Islamicist institutions in getting them to participate in their competitions, winning prizes for traditional calligraphic work where the proportions, words, tools and paper are all stipulated by the organizers and follow the Ottoman school. The advisors are all Turkish calligraphers or their students. These competitions are overseen by the IRCICA (Research Centre for Islamic History, Art and Culture), a subsidiary of the OIC (Organisation of Islamic Cooperation).
The third reason is the precarious financial situation that compels many calligraphers to take any work they are offered. Clients show no respect to the wealth of talent that exists throughout Syria’s cities and villages and will often dictate how the work is to be done. This need to make a living is maybe the main reason why truly innovative calligraphers dedicate the bare minimum of their time to their creative projects. For this, they require money and time, often using techniques and approaches that are less marketable.
We must also not forget the unfortunate restrictions placed on voluntary work in the field on the pretext of security concerns or bureaucratic procedure. When I returned to Syria after 25 years spent abroad because I was wanted for political reasons, I personally offered to help the Faculty of Fine Arts run a series of classes for interested students in designing commercial signage using calligraphy and creating Arabic typefaces. I offered my services for free, and the head of the faculty and the dean both welcomed the idea, but then it was shelved. I have no idea why! I also prepared my studio to host a monthly seminar where specialists in various fields could re-examine the theoretical and visual history of Arabic calligraphy, away from the framings of Orientalism and religious and calligraphic conservatism. I also wished to offer workshops and sessions in the design of signage and Arabic fonts for those calligraphers interested in moving beyond traditional approaches to calligraphy. I was unsuccessful, however, because I would have had to obtain permission for each and every gathering and discussion from the Arts Administration. These are just examples; there were many more.
For a long time now, calligraphy in Syria has been in a wretched state, as infirm as the country as a whole. Those artists that have been able to achieve something despite it all can be counted on the fingers of one hand, and I don’t regard Letterism of certain Syrian artists, regardless of their talents, as an achievement on either an artistic or calligraphic level. And when it comes down to it, things are no better in the rest of the region, though of course the resources available, official interest, and the number of opportunities vary from country to country. The fact that in some countries there are biennales and exhibitions and events and competitions for calligraphy doesn’t necessarily mean that they are successfully fostering an interest in developing and modernising calligraphy as an art form specific to our culture. Imitation is still the dominant mode, and religious and calligraphic conservatism is the hegemonic mindset. Prizes are handed out to those who meet these criteria, and there is no clearer evidence of this than the names given to these competitions. It is deeply peculiar that the Letterism of some calligraphers be taken as a sign of innovation and modernity, while true innovation and creativity in the fundamentals of calligraphy is resisted on the grounds that the art had reached its apogee under the Ottoman school.
Mouneer Al Shaarani, One Hundred Characteristics of Women, developed Square Kufic
NA: You have shown your work in many non-Arab countries, and the exhibitions were a success. How would you describe the reception of your work by a non-Arabic-speaking public?
MSh: It always gave me great pleasure to see foreigners at my exhibitions in Egypt, Tunisia, and other Arab countries, and to see them buying my work. I used to assume they were learning Arabic or were interested in Arab culture or influenced by the Arabists and Orientalists who appreciated the Arab arts, even though I believed that my work was a form of abstract art, unique but still based on abstract principles of composition and form. That was until my first solo exhibition outside the region, which I put on in the Museum Rietberg in Zurich in 1998. At the museum’s request, I held some workshops for children, and at the end of each session I held a competition where the children had to try and find individual words in the calligraphic work on display, using a wordlist I gave them written in standard handwriting. The results surpassed my wildest expectations. What was most bewildering to me, was that I’d done the same in Cairo and Tunisia, yet the children in Zurich were much better at it.
The reason for this – indeed the reason as to why foreigners seemed to enjoy my work and buy it – I discovered in the actual museum of Modern art next to the exhibition space. Every day, I would wander over to spend some time there, and every time I went, I saw groups of children roaming through the museum with their teachers and guides. They would talk about what they were looking at and debate it without being corrected or interrupted by the adults. In other words, the reason was that their eyes, and their taste, were trained by repeated visits to museum collections. I was so happy to think that so much of my work had found a home with people who had been raised to appreciate art in this way: freely, without direction or categorisation of any kind. This isn’t to say that the meaning of the actual words in the work they buy is irrelevant: the majority of foreigners who bought my work would assess the content of the works (the words) they were interested in before their choice.
To learn more about Al Shaarani’s artistic career, refer to the following new publication:
Smitshuijzen Abi Fares, Huda and Samir, Nagla, Mouneer Al-Shaarani, Against The Grain: Exploring the scope of the Arabic letter, Khatt Books, 2024
Mouneer Al Shaarani's artworks are available on his official social media accounts:
https://www.instagram.com/mouneer_alshaarani/
https://www.facebook.com/MouneerAlshaarani
All photo rights are reserved to the artist Mouneer Al Shaarani