In 19^th-century art, one finds a set of paintings with extremely detailed depictions of the East—especially the Arab world and North Africa. These lands are presented as exotic, sensual and mostly luxurious. The portrayals also appear somewhat stereotypical but the overall effect is very alluring, given the fascination with the foreign and the aura of mystery that the imagery exudes.

This type of art comes under the broader movement of “Orientalism”, that is, an analysis of the East from a Western perspective, literary or visual. [Orientalism is now mostly known via its criticisms by Palestinian-American scholar Edward Said (1935-2003) who regarded it as a position with patronising, imperialist agendas that deemed the East as static and underdeveloped.]

Nancy Demerdash of Princeton University elaborates on the background of the movement:

We also must consider the creation of an “Orient” as a result of imperialism, industrial capitalism, mass consumption, tourism, and settler colonialism in the nineteenth-century. In Europe, trends of cultural appropriation included a consumerist “taste” for materials and objects, like porcelain, textiles, fashion, and carpets, from the Middle East and Asia. For instance, Japonisme was a trend of Japanese-inspired decorative arts, as were Chinoiserie (Chinese-inspired) and Turquerie (Turkish-inspired). The ability of Europeans to purchase and own these materials, to some extent confirmed imperial influence in those areas.

She adds that the phenomenon of World’s Fairs and cultural-national pavilions (like the Crystal Palace in London) supported the goals of colonial expansion. They helped foster the notion of the “Orient” as an “entity to be consumed through its varied pre-industrial craft traditions.”

When it comes to “Orientalist” art, we do find some pre-19^th-century activity in Europe—an interest in the Moors and the Turks.  But much of the output began after the 1750s. Along with colonial and capitalistic aims of the West, the Romanticism of literary figures like Lord Byron played a role in bringing the concept to visual art. Many figures of Orientalist art were French—Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863), Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant (1845-1902), Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780-1867). Some happened to be British, Russian and German.

An article on Sotheby’s notes the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, an event that quickly made the Orient more accessible. Several artists were able to travel and interact with people from distant places and observe their lifestyles. The subject matter in Orientalist paintings has a considerable range—palaces, harems, figures with authority, ordinary locals, monuments, the desert, the market. (A few artworks are also controversial for their portrayals of slavery and the supposed sexualisation of minors.) The locations that are featured could be Cairo or Algiers or Jaffa or areas in between big settlements.

In the vast majority of Orientalist paintings, every activity (whether carpet selling or diplomatic meeting or religious instruction) and every element (be it a turban or the moon or intricate Islamic design) is presented with great attention.

An air of fantasy permeates many scenes. The women seem as though they are out of a dream. Jennifer Meagher from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York explains:

Some of the most popular Orientalist genre scenes—and the ones most influential in shaping Western aesthetics—depict harems. Probably denied entrance to authentic seraglios, male artists relied largely on hearsay and imagination, populating opulently decorated interiors with luxuriant odalisques, or female slaves or concubines (many with Western features), reclining in the nude or in Oriental dress. Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1780–1867) never traveled to the East, but used the harem setting to conjure an erotic ideal in his voluptuous odalisques. Beyond their implicit eroticism, harem scenes evoked a sense of cultivated beauty and pampered isolation to which many Westerners aspired.

Despite misgivings about the political and economic standpoints behind Orientalist art—and questions regarding the accuracy of its subject matter—it continues to enchant art lovers and is auctioned off for millions of dollars. Its immediate visual beauty remains unmistakable. And its enduring appeal lies in the way it plays out the whole theatre of being face to face with “the other”. Even though this other is not someone one fully understands, the appearance of it is engaged with in a sense of curiosity and consideration.

Regardless of any stereotype or agenda that these paintings may consciously or unconsciously perpetuate, by looking at them, the viewer can notice a genuine interest in knowing that which is different from the self. And there can be far worse frames of mind people can lock themselves in. Often when nationalisms get so aggressive that they totally refuse to acknowledge—much less encounter—the humanity, the identity, the convictions and the culture of those who come from afar, projects such as Orientalist art can remind us just how exhilarating it can be to cultivate an aspect of openness to the world beyond our domain of comfort and familiarity.  

Written by Tulika Bahadur.

Over the past few years, Los Angeles-based painter and sculptor Cleon Peterson (born 1973) has emerged as a very recognisable figure in the visual arts scene, thanks to his repetitive—and unusual—subject matter. His work, he writes on his website, is “chaotic and violent”, showing “clashing figures in a struggle between power and submission in the fluctuating architecture of contemporary society.” He depicts figures that seem human but not entirely. It is as if some sort of biological mutation or technological addition has rendered the beings more animalistic, less rational. By physique, they appear taller, stronger than the average man. Concepts from the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche come to mind: “the superman”, “the will to power”.

Peterson’s art impresses the viewer with the boldness and confidence it displays in terms of form and colour. It also unsettles you as you see more and more iterations of it and get deeper into its content. The artist says: “I’m not an advocate for violence, but I am an advocate for people being un-apathetic in the world today. I’m not a do-gooder, per se—I’m just documenting the world as I see it.”

Reactions to Peterson’s work have been varied. Some believe his art is valuable as it compels one to confront the darkness within oneself, some see it as a celebration of aggression and bloodshed. The whole body of paintings and sculptures is a suitable example of a very important issue within art—that of mere depiction versus conscious endorsement versus caution. Is a certain type of behaviour being presented neutrally as just a part of reality or it is being deliberately encouraged. Or it is serving as a warning—pointing out, “Look, this is what you’re capable of or this is the direction you could possibly go. Be careful.”? It is hard to tell.

One can say that this is an old problem. Readers of the Bible and other holy books—that often show extreme human dysfunction without adequate commentary—may also, at times, find themselves confused.

Another relevant case is that of a sculpture titled “Abduction of a Sabine Woman” by Italy-based Flemish artist Giambologna (1529-1608). Created between 1579 and 1583, this artwork is 13 feet in height and is currently placed in a building named Loggia dei Lanzi at a corner of a piazza in Florence, near the famous Uffizi Gallery. The sculpture contains three individuals—a women, followed by two men. The man in the middle is younger than the one at the bottom. He has supposedly taken the woman by force. This is a representation of an incident known as the “The Rape of the Sabine Women” from Roman mythology/the early history of Rome, during which the men of Rome—because there were few women in their own land—committed a mass abduction of females from other cities in the area.

The technical mastery of the artwork is unmistakable, and the dramatic energy intense. But again, the beauty of composition doesn’t solve the ethical dilemma it might place the viewer in. We cannot exactly say if the act of abduction is being objectively recorded or purposefully proposed as an acceptable strategy or pushed forward to instil fear in spectators.

Speaking of cinema, a recent movie that leaves behind a grey territory is the French Netflix feature Mignonnes (2020)—translated as “Cuties” about a preteen Senegalese-French girl and her life between conservative Islam and internet culture—twerking included. The director of the film has reportedly explained: “Our girls see that the more a woman is overly sexualised on social media, the more she’s successful. And the children just imitate what they see, trying to achieve the same result without understanding the meaning, and yeah, it’s dangerous.” But the manner in which pre-adolescents were portrayed in her own film to make her point left audiences perplexed as to what her original motive actually was. An article on Vox capture the controversy well: “A movie critiquing the sexualization of young girls is accused of doing the thing it criticizes.”

In cases like the above, even if the artist’s intent is good, there will always be a section of the audience that may be so attracted to the representation of a harmful behaviour that they may end up imitating it, instead of wanting to prevent it. At the same time, it is impractical to completely censor such portrayals.

Creators who wish to illustrate morally questionable elements of human nature starkly may take several steps to minimise the chances of their work being interpreted in ways that might turn out to be deleterious for the society. First, they could balance out their oeuvre with visions of peace and accord (example, artists like Cleon Peterson producing work that demonstrate people doing something productive together in harmony). They could provide footnotes or disclaimers or context (as in, those similar to Giambologna installing a note near the site of the artwork itself that makes the message clear). Also, creators may be more energetic in reaching out to the media and initiating the dialogue that they wish to generate prior to the release or unveiling of their work (this seems appropriate for films like Cuties) so that audiences are better prepared for what they are about to confront.

Such steps would result in less scandal—and, therefore, less publicity, and even a little less profit—but they will prove to be more sensible and responsible.

Written by Tulika Bahadur.

As the book opens, Asma mentions how our phobias, evolutionarily speaking, have been advantageous for human survival. They incite us to protect ourselves. The monster is the figure onto which we project our fears. Asma points out two basic ways in which the monstrous phenomenon could be understood—it is unthinkable and unmanageable. That is, it leads to a breakdown of intelligibility. When something/someone is monstrous it cannot be processed by our rationality, prompting us to question how can they do it? Like Pol Pot and his men in Cambodia. The monstrous also unleashes chaos, like the invention of Victor Frankenstein. It may not necessarily be inherently evil but it can, over time, take a turn towards malevolence. It can be dangerous to us, disturb our sense of order, peace, safety and security. 

Beyond such fundamental characteristics, the monstrous has assumed different meanings at different times, going from superficially physical to deeply spiritual. The concept has shifted in human imagination and art over the centuries. Asma explains further: “Monster is a flexible, multiuse concept. Until quite recently it applied to unfortunate souls like the hydrocephalic woman. During the nineteenth century “freak shows” and “monster spectacles” were common; such exploitation of genetically and developmentally disabled people must be one of the lowest points on the ethical meter of our civilisation. 

“We have moved away from this particular pejorative use of monster, yet we still employ the term and concept to apply to inhuman creatures of every stripe, even if they come from our own species. The concept of the monster has evolved to become a moral term in addition to a biological and theological term. We live in an age, for example, in which recent memory can recall many sadistic political monsters.”

Here are a few examples of the monster—with the meanings behind them—from each of the five parts of the book:

(1) Ancient Monsters

In antiquity, as the continents were farther away for lack of adequate transportation and communication, the sense of the “exotic” was particularly pronounced. Monsters were numerous and varied—cyclops, griffins. Many were exaggerated, embellished versions of creatures that were believed to exist in foreign lands. Other races were also considered monstrous. Example, the Greek physician Ctesias reported an umbrella-footed race of creatures “who have only one leg and hop at astonishing speed and who also lie on their back and raise their large foot to act as an umbrella against inclement weather.”

(2) Medieval Monsters: Messages from God

With the Christian worldview, monsters were recast as “God’s lackeys”. They were now part of a fallen world, originally created good by a benevolent omnipotent God. If they had taken the path of corruption out of their own will, they were even capable of redemption. They were sometimes supposed to have a specific purpose, having been made by God to teach us how to love the ugly, the repulsive and the outcast. Some monsters—like the Leviathan and Behemoth—represented the terrifying, unknowable aspect of God. Monsters, overall, were no longer random as under older pagan systems. They were imbued with more significance and purpose. The medieval mindset did lead to one particularly disturbing series of events—witch hunts. From the Inquisition of the Late Middle Ages to the New England trials of the 1690s, witches were the monsters foremost in the social imagination, deemed to be special vessels of demonic ill will.

(3) Scientific Monsters: The Book of Nature is Riddled with Typos

Allegory and fantasy slowly gave way to more objective zoology. In the early seventeenth century, the gradual turn from magical thinking to science had major implications for monsters. The English philosopher and statesman Francis Bacon (1561-1626) said: “We must make a collection or particular natural history of all the monsters and prodigious products of nature.” He argued that specimens must be amassed in warehouses of study and systematic knowledge derived from them. 

Subsequently, there were intense discussions on design, chance, mutations and teleology in nature, and the role of divine will. In the nineteenth century, we find the emergence of “freaks” (a term that would be considered very offensive today)—individuals with physical deformities due to unusual medical conditions or body modifications. The American showman and businessman P. T. Barnum (1810-1891) established his grand travelling circus, menagerie and museum of “freaks” around 1870.

(4) Inner Monsters: The Psychological Aspects

Later, with writers like Edgar Allan Poe, E. T. A. Hoffman and H. P. Lovecraft, and philosophers like Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche—and finally with Freud—monsters settled into their new abode of “human psychology”, having worn out their welcome in travellers’ tales, religion and natural history. The depth and complexity of the cosmos was, in a way, transferred to the mind. As the source of evil actions was hidden from plain view, a situation emerged wherein it was hard to detect and understand monstrous personalities. In this section, Asma gives the example of John Wayne Gacy (1942-1994), an American serial killer who raped and murdered thirty-three boys in the 1970s. Gacy, who worked part time as a clown, ensnared his victims with bogus magic tricks.

(5) Monsters Today and Tomorrow

Finally, with the world becoming more connected in the twentieth century, there was a greater awareness of differences among cultures. And we witnessed deadly conflicts over the decades—from the Holocaust to bloodbaths in Yugoslavia to the dehumanisations of the Iraq War—all revolving around the fear and hatred of “the other”. It is also interesting that Hollywood popularised the “zombie” (actually a character from Haitian folklore)—ravenous undead that blast their way through walls to devour all your resources and overpower you—with rising immigration rates in America. Academic and public discourse perpetuated ideas that magnified dissimilarities and anticipated the possibility of struggles between peoples. For instance, American political scientist Samuel P. Huntington (1927-2008) famously proposing his “Clash of Civilisations” theory about the post-Cold War new world order.

Now, with technological progress, the monster has taken new forms. Asma ends his book with notes on robots, mutants and posthuman cyborgs. Most pertinent is the discussion on “disembodied minds”, given our era of Artificial Intelligence. The specific face of the monster will continue to change with period and place, but a recurring leitmotif runs through all monsterology—the question of how we meet the threat, which is entirely up to us to decide and can evolve as well.

Written by Tulika Bahadur.