Daswanth the mysterious Mughal painter

Indian painting of the Mughal school blossomed in the late 16^th century during the reign of Akbar, grandson of Babur (whom you will recall was not fond of jackfruit.) It was particularly influenced by two Persian masters, Mir Sayyid Ali and Abd as-Samad, who were in charge of the imperial atelier. In 1597, Akbar’s biographer Abu’l Fazl drew up a list of the best painters of the period. The two Persians were placed respectfully at the top, but surprisingly, third place went to a low-born painter named Daswanth (or Dasavanta), who some twelve years earlier had succumbed to madness and taken his own life.

To be placed third was no mean achievement – there was some amazing talent in Akbar’s stable of artists, most of whom didn’t even make the list. Below for example is an illustration from the Hamza-nama (The Adventures of Hamza) which is attributed to two of these artists, Shravana and Madhava Khurd. It depicts an episode where the giant Zumurrud Shah and his followers escape on flying jars with the help of wicked sorcerers. Neither of these artists made the list, even though the work is quite delightful – look at the playful structure and the energy bursting off the page. 

More of this on the Smithsonian website at www.asia.si.edu/exhibitions/online/hamza/hamza.htm and hopefully in a subsequent post.

What did Daswanth have to match this? As a young artist, he too contributed to the Hamza-nama but some of his finest mature works were said to be the illustrations to Akbar’s copy of the Razm-nama (the Persian adaptation of the Mahabharata). This is owned by the Jaipur royal family and has been locked away from public view for decades. No-one knows why – is it something as mundane as a legal dispute between the heirs of the last Maharaja? That hasn’t prevented access to other works though.

I first encountered Daswanth in an article by the art historian Milo Cleveland Beach which included some blurry monochrome images from the Razm-nama. In the one below, depicting a night assault on the enemy camp, a huge ghoul wearing a necklace of heads (upper right) rises out of the corpse of the slain warrior Sikhandin (lower right). Dating from the early 1580s, shortly before the painter’s death, it’s tempting to see in this some hint of the dark thoughts which led to his demise.

Further research led me to a massive four-volume catalogue entitled Memorials of the Jeypore Exhibition by Thomas Holbein Hendley, published in 1883 (if you request this in the British Library, be prepared to wheel it in a cart to a special table where photography is banned!). Volume 4 contains a full set of images taken from the Jaipur Razm-nama, in monochrome only but giving a pretty good idea of the range of Daswanth’s work. There is a stunning double-page picture of a maze comprised of rows of soldiers, into which the hero Arjuna’s son was lured and killed. Hendley praises the intense colours in this painting – sadly we can only imagine this for ourselves.

At least Daswanth’s skills may be appreciated in the Hamza-nama, for example in the image below depicting the messenger Umar slaying a dragon. The wonderful colours of the dragon, and the way the nervous onlookers at the top seem to be almost tumbling over the rocky cliff, may help to explain Abu’l Fazl’s high regard for Daswanth. But until we see the full glory of the Jaipur Razm-nama, we may never know for sure how great an artist he was.

Strong women and revolting aunts in 10th century China

This large dish or charger in the famille verte style dates from the Kangxi period (1661-1772), Qing dynasty. It sold at Bonham’s recently for a nice £25,000, well above the estimate. While I’m not a big fan of the green tones of famille verte, I was intrigued by the catalogue note stating that: “It depicts a legendary moment during the Northern Song Dynasty when, after all the men had been slaughtered by the Khitan invaders, the women of the Yang family took up arms and bravely galloped out to meet the enemy.”

Some readers may mutter “Oh, the Yangs”, and indeed they are an important strand in Chinese popular culture, but I had never heard of them. Their story is a mix of truth and legend (mostly the latter), complicated by re-telling in plays, operas, films and television.

There is historical evidence of a distinguished military family named Yang, led by General Yang Ye, who came to prominence under the great Northern Song emperor Taizong (r. 976-997). Wilt Idema in his book Generals of the Yang Family: Four Early Plays cites an 11^th century tomb inscription which praises the Yangs’ military prowess. He also notes repeated references in popular tales such as the Judge Bao stories (13^th-15^th century).

But the Yang legend really gets going in the 16^th century through two sets of fictional tales detailing their exploits against the Khitan invaders. It is from here that stories of the Yang women warriors begin to proliferate, the most famous being Mu Guiying who defeated one of the Yang sons in battle and then proposed marriage to him. According to legend, her strategies later played a key role in breaking the Khitans’ hitherto undefeated Heavenly Battle Array.

The Yang family did not lack for strong women however, many of them being widows of Yang menfolk killed in war. Mu’s mother-in-law She Saihua was famously feisty, and in one version, actually led the women into battle herself at the age of 100 (perhaps as illustrated on the Qing dish above). In a more recent TV version cited by Khoo Poh Cheng in a paper at MIT, Mu even has to deal with a revolt by senior aunts who question her authority as military leader. What would PG Wodehouse have made of that? Did they bellow like mastodons across the primeval swamp?

While the exploits of the Yang women were almost certainly fictional, their role as a cultural and political symbol in China has been very real. A key example is Women Generals of the Yang Family (Yangmen Nijiang), a staple of the Beijing Opera’s repertoire. Based on an earlier play, the opera was created around 1960 at a time when political and economic changes opened up opportunities for women in China. During the Cultural Revolution, the opera was banned by Mao Zedong’s powerful wife Jiang Qing, citing some guff about it being contrary to Mao’s views. After the fall of Jiang’s Gang of Four, the opera was gleefully restored and lauded for showing the right spirit of female dedication to political life. I’m still kicking myself for missing the performance at Sadlers Wells last winter (see below).

The depiction of the Yang women on Qing dynasty ceramics is not particularly rare: a few have come up at auction in recent years. One could go on about the various manifestations of the Yang women (I’d like to see The 14 Amazons, a 1970s Hong Kong flick starring Ivy Ling Po), but the final word must go to Mu Guiying, who has even had a crater named after her on Venus (see below). A very elegant one too.