Arabic Calligraphy in West Africa: Yelimane Fall at the Krannert Art Museum

I found these eye-popping canvas hangings in the permanent collection of the Krannert Art Museum at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. In Senegal, a small country, the farthest west in Africa, many roads have crossed throughout history. Slaves were traded between Africa and the West from Dakar's Goree Island. And here, too, local religions were penetrated by Islam in the mystical form of Sufism, little known elsewhere in Black Africa.

Yelimane Fall, Seven Lines from Jawartu, 2003-2004. Acrylic on canvas.

Krannert Art Museum and Kinkead Pavilion, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign 

Art Acquisition Fund 2007-16-1.2/1.3/1.5/1.6

Surat al-Fatiha. Islamicartdb.com

These paintings are the work of Yelimane Fall, an eminent Senegalese calligrapher and follower of Cheik Amadou Bamba, a saint of Senegalese Islam and a secular hero who led non-violent resistance to French rule in the early twentieth century. The work is surprising on several levels. Certainly the first is its contemporary interpretation of Arabic calligraphy. In Beauty and Belief,  the outstanding survey of Islamic art that I reviewed in January '13, the many examples of Arabic calligraphy demonstrated the values of exquisite control over ethereal forms. The tradition is virtually angelic in its lightness, intricacy, and restraint. The look of Fall's work is far from those traditions in the boldness of its forms and colors, the lack of framing around the designs, and the relentlessness of its determination to catch your eye and hold it. They are the opposite of evil-eye protection; they stare you down.

Courtesy graffitimuseum.com

In fact, these hangings are so brave and contemporary in color, complex in composition and letter-form, that they seem more related to graffiti and tagging than to traditional Arabic calligraphy. While the artist doesn't mention such urban associations, in excerpts from recorded interviews from a residency at University of Illinois, Fall speaks directly to the great difference in aesthetics. The Arabic tradition is indeed about the beauty of the letters, which the calligrapher transforms, raising them up. But he is a Black African, and Arabic is not the language of his country or region. He does not understand his mission to lie in transforming the letters. In another film elsewhere online, he reminds his Senegalese interviewers that his language is Wolof, a tribal language spoken around Dakar and St. Louis, in the north of the country: Arabic is a foreign language to most Senegalese, and has very specific, religious use only. 

Fall, thus, is concerned that his viewers "feel, read, understand, think" in local terms. Though he uses the sacred language of the Koran, his calligraphy is thick, colorful, and made to look slower-paced than calligraphy in traditional styles: "Everything moves back to Earth. Even when my work flies, I bring it back to Earth." In this he sees himself work in what he feels is an African mode. His color, forms, and speed are native and significant to those who view it, who connect with the sacredness of texts meaningful but not necessarily legible.

Yelimane Fall,Seven Lines from Jawartu, 2003-2004.

Acrylic on canvas.Krannert Art Museum and Kinkead 

Pavilion, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign 

Art Acquisition Fund 2007-16-1.2/1.3/1.5/1.6

The series of four on display at the Krannert Art Museum are not Koranic texts, but refer to Jawartou  a twenty-nine line poem written by Cheik Amadou Bamba.

The translation provided for the first panel, shown at the left, is: "May I only know the joys given by the Sublime One Who Offers Benedictions, until my entry to Paradise."

This, like the others in the series, looks to me like a fabulous puzzle, or even like magically colored marquetry, so precisely formed and laid down are the strings of writing within the large shapes of black and blue. Fall calls his wooden writing instrument a kalam, which allows precise shaping.

Without great knowledge of Islam, I am still excited about the many levels of activity in this painting. While there are neither shading nor any apparent color placements that would create volume, I nevertheless feel that something is constantly moving in or out of my peripheral vision. The combination of small forms among the big ones; the curls that end in circles, and the fluidity of those long lines of script keep the surface in constant flow. There is no background; it feels like the foreground constantly recreates itself. 

Yelimane Fall, Seven Lines from Jawartu, 

2003-2004. Acrylic on canvas.

Krannert Art Museum and Kinkead Pavilion, 

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign 

Art Acquisition Fund 2007-16-1.2/1.3/1.5/1.6

"Through love and the words 'there is no God but God,' may He hide my well-guarded secrets." This second hanging is quite different in look, appearing as forms laid out on a yellow surface with very little overlap. The illusion of depth or movement isn't great, but the sinuous sensuousness of separated shapes provide a tense excitement in themselves. 

Central in the composition is a large, blue numeral 7 (we remember that our numbers are from the Arabic writing system). Glancing back, and at all the paintings, 7s abound. The title of the four-part work is Seven Lines...

In the taped interview that accompanies this exhibit, Fall informs the viewer that the number 7 has important mystic meaning. It represents the double function of the key, which both closes and opens. The Koran opens with seven verses, the Fatiah, but, he says, "wherever you go in Muslim mysticism, 7 guides you." 

The spirituality of his work derives from Fall's allegiance to Bamba, founder of the Brotherhood of Mourides who, even more than other Sufis, attempt to live close to God. Bamba claimed to have met Muhammed in a dream, and Fall recounts having met Bamba in a dream as well. The mystical content of his work, then, is very convinced and follows deep rivers of religious tradition.

Yelimane Fall,Seven Lines from Jawartu, 2003-2004

Acrylic on canvas

Krannert Art Museum and Kinkead Pavilion, 

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign 

Art Acquisition Fund 2007-16-1.2/1.3/1.5/1.6

Of the twenty-eight Arabic characters, fourteen are of light and fourteen are dark, Fall explains in his interview. The first seven are fire; the second seven are water. The seven following are air, and the last are earth. The colors, too, have assigned significance. Red, for instance, is fire; black stands for earth; air is white and water is green. The language, then, is not merely one of letters, but of colors, and a world of esoteric meanings non-believers would not dream of connecting to other than aesthetically. 
 fall in what order, or if he has colored the fire letter red or green. This leaf is translated as: "Through His grace for my profession of faith, may God keep me from all slander." 

I tend to follow art to conclusions that may end being either surprising or intuitive. In general, I trust that if the work moves me, the artist has invested what is most important into making it excellent. I think of art inspired by any faith as having a reverential aspect, a controlled fervor that reaches for the ineffable through symbols. 

Courtesy graffitimuseum.com

Islamic art uses text literally and symbolically at the same time. The word is treated literally, as the vessel for expression and feeling. In Fall's series of paintings I see both faithfulness to that tradition and ecstatic departure that asserts everything earthy and African, brilliantly contemporary and urban.

Wax Cloth and Textile Designs on the Street in St. Louis, Senegal

 
 On a recent visit to the northernmost city of Senegal, St. Louis--located near the border of Mauritania, where the Senegal River meets the North Atlantic--I had a few hours to watch people come and go downtown. The Senegalese are touchy about being photographed, so I've found it frustrating in my travels there to get photos of the vivid daily dress that I so admire. My hostess assured me though, that from our balcony, snapping photos in the interests of fashion would be fine, so I invoked the spirit of Bill Cunningham in the interest of art journalism.

My hostess in St. Louis is my new Congolese sister-in-law, a woman whose wardrobe exhibits her impeccable taste and insistence on first-quality materials. She is the mother of five daughters (the youngest is twenty), all of whom are tres chic. One hosts and produces a twice-weekly television program in Dakar on subjects that include current fashion.

In this family, the women move naturally between traditional dress and contemporary Western dress. The sisters tell me that they tend to save African garments for formal occasions. During the two weeks we were together, though, they did indeed enjoy the comfort of casual, capacious African garments.

Madame wears nothing Western. The difference between her day-to-day attire and her ensemble for the wedding of our children left no question, though, about which was which. The difference was materials, the latter being made of fabric shot through with gold thread and her headdress of lavish design being yet more radiantly golden. Day to day, she is usually in wax.

Wax cloth is decorated with wax resist processes, the best known techniques in the West being batik and tie-dye. Both  are ubiquitous, and, like nearly all fabrics I've seen in Senegal, they are brightly colored.

Few of the fabrics worn in Senegal originate there. Some are made England and the Netherlands exclusively for the African market. But many come from Mali, Nigeria and Cameroon; all carry the mark of their nation of manufacture. Quality varies: Some bleed and shrink when laundered; the best are very stable.

The batik and tie-dye processes help trace the origins of wax cloth back to Indonesia, which was a Dutch colony in the 18th century. Through Dutch trade and manufacture, the fabric and processes were imported to Africa.

The other highly popular form of wax is printed (machine or block-printed) resist designs, from simple to elaborate. These are, again, nearly always bold and bright, in colors of great intensity. Some of these designs clearly require five or six printings, their designs have so many layers of interlocked designs.

The pictures below are selections from my pleasant morning of fashion-watching above a busy commercial corner in St. Louis, on a 85º morning in December. From time to time a car rapide, the cheapest form of local and inter-city transportation will drive through, each with its own painting and personality, reflecting the exuberant approach to color and decoration that mark life in West Africa.

 

The Values of Craft: Hand Made in Dakar

In the New York Times on December 2, 2011, Alice Pfeiffer writes about The Return of the Artisan to the Art World  . "Dedicated...university programs are contributing to the renewed recognition of these trades..while also providing young artists with marketable skills." A young English artist, chosen as an example, makes works that "comment on consumerism, using traditional techniques." She comments that people, used to factory production, now "long for a maker's mark on an object;" and she notes that highlighting craft expresses concerns over sustainability and local production, while being cheaper. 

wax cloth from Senegal and Mali

In short, this artist voices a Western notion about artisanship that is so taken for granted that it barely merits a second thought. Hand-made is de facto better than factory-made because it is filled with ethical values and a connection to the human spirit that elevates it into the world of art. A time-honored debate is waged among us about the status of crafts, whether they should be counted as "real art" or not. This is a question that can be raised only when it's a close call, with plenty of evidence on the pro side.

Preparing to travel for the second time to Dakar, Senegal in West Africa, the position of crafts in the hierarchy of arts is of poignant interest to me. Dakar is a city of people who make things. The fertility of imagination and the fecundity of hand there are almost unbelievable by American standards. Lacking manufacturing, and with an unemployment rate approaching 50%, people have to live. How else to get by in the city than by making and selling things? 

In the contemporary Western world, craft is a matter of choice. It is a luxury. A weaver, a glassblower, or woodcarver understands that there are more efficient ways to get things done, yet chooses to practice the craft for the satisfactions of the materials, time, and creativity. Crafts are traditional: They are rarely necessary for keeping warm, having something to sit on, or glazing windows, but we honor our connections with the past through emulating them. Crafts are taught by skilled practitioners, in art schools or specialized courses.

These rattles are among the hand-made items I brought back from my first trip to Senegal. Dakar is one of the world's music capitals, and though talking drums are for sale everywhere, these were unique in my experience of the city. They are made of large seed pods, attached by enough nylon cord that they rest between the thumb and forefinger both for shaking and knocking together. Nails secure the ends.

The rattles were sold to me by the craftsman, who stood by the path, demonstrating the sounds made by several different sizes of pairs, setting passersby in happy motion as he did. He himself was the most crippled person I have ever seen. His legs appeared to have no muscles; they were crossed and intertwined like a puzzle. He moved by pulling himself with his elbows. But he was in business, making his living by his craft—which was a matter of ingenuity, necessity, and survival. Tradition? There is certainly a deep tradition of percussion instruments in West Africa, but it is not a fixed one: anything that will make a sound will do. Reverence for materials isn't required; only creativity—openness to possibilities is required.

The hardwood serving utensils came from a small market run exclusively by artisans who considered themselves artists and who segregate themselves from the larger, busy markets where anything can be sold, whatever the quality. These utensils combine two types of hardwood, are carefully shaped, carved with traditional patterns, and were oiled to a lovely shine. At this market, all the artisans ply their crafts in the stalls from which they sell; it is important that their clients understand that they are not churning out indifferent tourist goods. 

     

In their minds they are doing something significantly different from the fabricator of this ashtray that a friend gave me--another cherished gift. The clay used for this small item is essentially mud. I doubt that the artist purchased anything in order to make this; the animal hair is likely to have been trimmed from one of the many work horses around the city. Perhaps here we can make distinctions: Artisans from hand-crafters? Workers from dedication from those who labor from necessity? Levels of talent? I find it difficult to judge as lesser whoever fashioned this comfortable and colloquial old man. It's a different voice in different materials.

The horns of cows supply an inexpensive and beautiful material for the creative entrepreneurs of West Africa. I first encountered cow horn in the form of bracelets. Since the horn is conical, it can be sliced into many bangles of various widths, and of diameters from the tiny (toward the tip of the horn) to the large, heading farther toward the juncture with the skull. The bracelets are decorated with brown and black inks. No two are quite alike. They are beautiful but it's clear that little skill is required to make them.

Horn is translucent, and can be used in genuinely artistic ways that feature the qualities of the material. A friend honored me with this exquisite small vessel, carved from horn in several thicknesses and, like the bangles, decorated with ink.

Senegalese artisans use natural materials: Horn, mud, gourds, seeds, seashells, wood, and hair are all very common. Jewelry is commonly seen for sale on the streets and on the beaches, and most is made from something that could be collected and strung, or something that could be fashioned into beads, like seed pods. The baobab tree has round, variegated brown seeds of about an inch in diameter, which are lovely as earrings or as an element in necklaces.

I was given a necklace and earrings in Dakar that are not made of natural materials, but recycled ones. The beads of the necklace are made of recycled beer bottle glass. The earrings are beads made from green bottle beach glass, roughened up in the surf. Beach glass and beach detritus are common, useful elements for Dakar artisans.

Hand-made goods certainly reflect an economy in which individuals have to find their own ways to make money, and the goods they make reflect openness to resources and ideas of what works. This painting, a sign—or shingle—to mark a general practice doctor's office, reminds us that in Senegal there remains a genuine, active relationship with pre-industrial ways. Many people still live in tribal villages and tribal languages are spoken widely, even though French is the official language. Though written in French, this sign indicates in pictures that the doctor will treat every sort of malady, from stomach and lungs and bones through venereal diseases. It's a hand-made sign, presumably for the office of a purveyor of remedies to people whose ideas about health are more traditional than scientific.

Neighborhood tailor shop displaying samples

Dakar is famous for its abundant and excellent tailors. The central fabric market covers acres in the center of the city, and no neighborhood lacks several competing tailor shops. Hand-made clothing is the rule rather than the exception, even for common people.

wax cloth samples

The boubous (two-part dresses) pictured here are of polished cotton and other high-end fabrics, but most women wear wax cloth, a very durable cotton printed in dazzling colors and designs. A lot of this is manufactured for the African trade in England and Holland, but it is also made in West Africa, in Mali and Nigeria. Tie-dye, batik, and block-prints are the fashion.

A tailor who sewed for me worked entirely without patterns, having been trained as an apprentice in his village. The most skilled tailor can be shown a picture of any garment and will reproduce it without further instruction. Ornamentation is highly prized. Tailors embroider on the sewing machine. The embroidery on the golden garment, right, was done free-hand for me by the same village tailor.

The idea of craft, precious in the West, has little of the reverential in Senegal. Craft is vital and day-to-day. Even when it's made for tourists, it's bouyant, unique, and provides the livelihood of it's untrained maker. The urban crafts of Dakar are rooted in necessity and functionality. The best of them can reach the level of art, but the ones I have seen—made from personal invention and fashioned from cow horn, seeds, and beach glass—don't approach the gasp of Do Not Touch or You Broke It, You Bought It.