The Way It Was: Tricks the eyes play
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
The four minarets of the Taj, which should recede inwards towards the dome of
the royal mausoleum, remain adamantly perpendicular. This is achieved by
constructing the minarets to lean away from the dome so they appear straight
Once you are through defiles of the Karakorams, car engines have to be revved up
to make the final ascent to the top of the Khunjrab Pass, which is at an
incredible height of about 14000 feet. You don’t have mountain peaks of that
height in most countries. The famous Matterhorn in the Alps in Europe is around
4478 metres which is about 15000 feet. If you are coming straight from Gilgit,
it is advisable not to get out of your vehicle and saunter around surveying the
scenery. At that height the rarefied atmosphere is short in oxygen and likely to
make you dizzy and cause a severe headache.
After crossing over the Khunjrab Pass the road casually starts descending into
China and soon approaches the Pamir Mountains. Unlike the narrow gorges and
forbidding mountains of the Karakoram Range colliding into each other like mad
bulls, the road now passes through a broad valley, flanked by gracious hills and
mountains, which have been tamed by blizzards and dust storms. There are long
flat tracts, where the road runs straight converging to a point in the far
distance. The telephone poles, pacing along the road also successively diminish
in size. I have always wondered why distant things look smaller. Why is the eye
so easily deceived into believing what is not true?
In early Mughal miniatures all objects are their usual actual size, but a sense
of space is suggested by dividing the painting into several horizontal sections.
The top section represents the farthest distance, the middle section represents
the middle and the bottom section the foreground. This is the method followed by
the paintings of Dastan e Amir Hamza and the Akbarnama.
At the end of the fourteenth century, Filippo Brunelleschi laid down the
mathematical laws of linear perspective, which made it possible for artists to
create a convincing illusion of three-dimensional space on a flat surface. From
a fixed point all lines would converge to a single point, known as the vanishing
point on the horizon. The objects were placed one behind the other in depth,
proportionate to how they would appear to the viewer if he stood fixed at a
point. Elements receded in depth to create an illusion of distance.
The Mughals on the contrary suggested distance by making the eye move from the
bottom upwards or the other way round. That is why their paintings were designed
in horizontal panels. They cleverly established a sense of distance rather than
an illusion of depth. It also enabled the artist to present activities and
incidents simultaneously occurring at different places and sections of the
painting.
Later Mughal paintings also assimilated the Brunelleschian method of depicting
space. They however did not practice it with the same boring mathematical
precision as for instance Antonio Pollaiuolo and others did in Florence. In the
Renaissance Brunelleschi’s perspective became a toy in the hands of many
artists, who loved playing around with it. Some Renaissance architects also
employed it to create dramatic illusions.
The Mughal architect also employed the laws of perspective but with a different
intention. His object was to correct visual distortions that appeared to the eye
while seeing objects in space. The Taj Mahal is a good example. At the red sand
stone entrance to the Taj a visitor is ushered in through blue and white
calligraphic panels, which frame the tall gateway. Because of the height of the
entrance, the horizontal top panel of the gate should appear smaller in size
than the two panels flanking it. Similarly, the two perpendicular panels should
progressively narrow in breadth as they proceed upwards. Amazingly the panel
does not appear any narrower as it reaches the top. The size of the panel and
the calligraphy are exactly the same near the top as they are at eyelevel.
The Renaissance painter used the linear perspective to create an illusion of
depth; the Mughal architect employed it to correct visual distortions of the
naked eye seeing objects in space. They proportionately increased the size of
elements as they rose above eye level. This method is applied to both the
structural design as well as geometric and floral decorations with which the Taj
is so sparingly embellished. One never notices unless it is specifically pointed
out that the four minarets, which should appear to recede inwards towards the
dome of the royal mausoleum, remain adamantly perpendicular. This is achieved by
constructing the minarets to lean away from the dome so that they may appear
straight to the eye, at a perfect right angle.
In Italy the linear perspective enabled the Renaissance artist to create
limitless illusion of depth on a wall or a small canvas. Linear perspective
encouraged foreshortening of human limbs and acute angles of vision that
dramatised action and lent a sense of urgency to the viewer. The viewer was
transformed to a spectator.
In previous paintings an episode was presented to the viewer but now he was made
to feel part of the event. In order to depict depth, human limbs were
foreshortened that necessitated employment of the chiaroscuro technique, the use
of light and shade. Light invaded the picture in order to create shadows and
lend roundness to objects.
With the invasion of light a whole new chapter opened up in painting. The
element of light is not merely the great giver of life but is perhaps also the
greatest instrument for creating a visually convincing illusion of life and
nature in a painting. With time, the chiaroscuro of Micheal Angelo melted into
the vivid colours and chaste hues and tones of Giorgione, Titian, Veronese and
other Venetian artists. One can detect early perception of these elements by
Leonardo in his rendering of a landscape in the far distance behind the Mona
Lisa.
However there is not one but many different ways of cooking a dish. There are
several ways of reaching a viewer’s mind and heart and deluding his eye.
Colour according to a Chinese master is a matter of the imagination. This had
never occurred to me but I find it from my experience pertinent. Rolls of
canvases and canisters of red, yellow and orange paint have been squandered over
the decades to portray the American autumn and yet rarely has any one succeeded
in capturing the colours of autumn. Just because an artist has squeezed flaming
pigments on his canvas does not mean that he is on his way to capturing autumn.
It was only after this realisation that I discovered that many Chinese Bamboo
and scrolls depicting mountains and cliffs with pines tenaciously growing out of
their rocky flanks, peonies and still-life objects ranging from shrimps to
persimmons, were not rendered in colour but with grades of black or brown inks.
Each grade of ink, ranging from a breath of silver to black velvet, somehow
appeared to me as a shade of colour. It seems something had touched my
imagination, luring my mind into actually perceiving colours.
Great artists and writers instead of just depending upon their own creative
faculties and descriptive power, often rely on the feelings and perceptions of
readers and viewers, alluring their imagination to conjure up colour, smells and
images. In the context of the theatre this has been termed ‘willing suspension
of disbelief’ by the audience.
Let me end this by narrating a story, leaving you to ponder over which is the
better course to take. The famous Greek artist Zeuxis was a great naturalist
painter. Once he rendered grapes so realistically that finches flew down from a
nearby tree and pecked at his painting. How amazing? What skill and sense of
observation he must have possessed?
Many of our children’s book illustrators today can’t even draw a rabbit. But
any way, there was another artist, a Chinese Taoist who painted a crane on a
tavern wall, which had been plastered with dung. The picture was done in payment
for the wine he had imbibed. The story goes that after he had completed the
painting he suddenly jumped on the bird’s back and flew off into the blue sky,
leaving the wall as blank, they say, as the tavern keeper’s face. How is that
for a painting? Would you rather sit and eat grapes or take a flight into the
unknown with a one-way ticket?
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist